A Lesson in Acoustics. Oh, and Sex Education.

It's rare I get one child all to myself; usually I have all four kiddos or some variation of the majority of them. So it was a pretty awesome discovery to realize that it was just Hosanna and I going to hear the Voices of Liberty inside the halls of the American Adventure at Epcot during our Disney vacation.

A quick note about Hosanna: she is by far my quietest child, but when she is alone with mom or dad the girl does.not.shut.up. It's like she's saved every scrap of every thought she has had since the last private conversation and unleashes it wildly without a breath or beat to spare. This is both precious and exhausting. It is hard for me to process so much input in such a short amount of time, which is why I concentrate on being an attentive listener, which is just a fancy way of describing how I let Hosanna deliver her monologue uninterrupted while maintaining eye contact and nodding to encourage her. (Parenting: nailing it.)

Our American Adventure Voices of Liberty date was no different. She chattered away, telling me all about the television show she had been watching recently. It was a reality show on TLC about a family who wanted children but had trouble having them because "the dad was missing something...or didn't have enough of something... (oh.my.lanta. MOVING ON) but then they found a doctor who found someone who had enough of what the dad was missing and the couple was able to have not only one baby but FIVE babies!" Hosanna told me alllllllll about this family as we waited for the a Capella group Voices of Liberty to sing*.

*Nerd Fact= I majored in music. Specifically, voice. So I may have been a little pumped to finally hear this renowned group sing in the space especially designed and known for it's perfect acoustics. What are acoustics? Acoustics are the way sound behaves in an enclosed space. Some acoustics will deaden sound, some will carry it. The acoustics in the dome of the American Adventure were designed so that a group of eight singers could sing patriotic songs without microphones and be heard perfectly all around. Translation: sound carries fabulously and vibrantly.

Voices of Liberty? Were dope. We sat right inside the domed shell and enjoyed every single note. Yeah, I found the girl that sings my voice part and yeah, I could have fit in her costume if I had boobs, so I'll definitely have that job someday. (I'm pretty sure that's how they cast those parts, right?) Hosanna kept leaning towards me to tell me something in between each song, but the flow was pretty steady, what with it only being a fifteen minute concert, so she never managed to get it out. She was almost bursting out of her skin as we listened to the final song, desperate to tell me the one last little thing that was on her mind.

She held it in as the last notes died and the applause began, and, to her credit waited until the applause stopped and I was wiping the tears of emotion from my eyes (because I love a Capella music and 'Murica) before blurting, "IT WAS *SPERM*, MOM. HE WAS MISSING HIS SPERM."

And the perfect acoustics of the perfect dome in the perfectly magical land that is Disney carried that sweet little message to everyone in the room.

You're welcome, Disney World.

If giggling over testicles is wrong, I can't be right.

Because anatomy is funny.

This is how you know you've chosen the proper Specialist to care for your chronically ill child.

I am at Hosanna's biannual allergy appointment. Dr. M (who totally reminds me of Eric Foreman from That 70's Show) and I have finished talking over the important issues like the cutting edge trials taking place to cure children of food allergies, how to heal her weeping skin and the resulting infections, and what new dietary and/or lifestyle changes need to be made to adjust to her current issues, when we move on to small talk.

We are discussing future plans, and Dr. M mentions retirement. I am shocked because I always forget he is 20 years older than me. He explains:

Dr M: I have to take my re-certification test next year, and at about $4,000 (and a lot of work) I can't imagine wanting to take the test again ten years later at 65 years old. So I'll probably just retire and go into missions.

Kelly: Yeah, my triathlon training partner is a PA for an orthopedic surgeon, and she had to help him get ready for his tests last year. It was super hard on her, so I can imagine how stressful it is on the testers. Or, not the testers, the-

Kelly and Dr. M (in unison): TEST-EES.

Kelly: *realizes what they just said* *thinks of testicles* *smirks* *smirk grows into grin* *realizes Dr. M is a mirror image of her own changing expressions* *are now both internally chanting, "Don't give in to the laughter, you are a GROWN UP," to no avail because they share a slight Beavis and Butthead giggle* *because they just pseudo shouted,"TESTES" and the idea of testicles is hilarious*

And that is how you know you've chosen the proper Specialist to care for your chronically ill child.

So You Think You Can ...

Summer break with more than one child

My three girlies and two of their friends are engaged in a riotous game of Charades. It is Hosanna's turn to act something out. She stands and starts contorting her body in a way that can only be described as a cross between a feral seizure and a person going through an exorcism. The guesses from the young audience begin flying.

"YOU'RE AN OLD LADY CHASING BEES!"

"A MONKEY TRYING TO DO A HANDSTAND?"

"SOMEONE FISHING LIKE ON A RIVER WHERE THEY THROW IT?" (I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that meant fly fishing.)

"AN OCTOPUS! FIGHTING A SHARK! OR GETTING TICKLED! BY A SHARK!"

"YOU'RE MAKING A HUUUUUUUGE PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICH AND THEN WIPING IT ON YOUR BODY!" (Yep. My kid.)

"EZRA HAVING A TANTRUM?"

This is when Hosanna, fully out of breath, pauses and indignantly says, "No guys, I'm mom dancing."

Blooper Reel - Take One

The beauty of the internet is that you can portray yourself any way you please. It's been likened many times as "displaying your highlight reel" (and is usually accompanied by the warning not to compare your own blooper reel against someone else's highlights). Thanks to this little blog I think I have been doing a stellar job of convincing everyone my daily life is as highlighted as they come. I mean, who wouldn't want to be the woman who is so good at parenting she kicked a hole in her kitchen wall? Or has the social graces to survive being conversationally accosted (*totally a real thing*) at Red Robin? 

But please know that I have my own moments. My life is so filled with gaffes that I'm beginning to see my life movie as one huge blooper reel ... without the chance for any retakes. (Which? Is pretty awesome because we can all agree that the blooper reel is the best part.) Here is one of mine from last week. You're welcome.

Scene: It is four minutes before Ezra's school begins. The lobby is pure chaos. There are about ten families milling around waiting for the teachers and aids to come claim the children for their classrooms. Ezra is standing next to me talking to his friend Cory. Cory is the youngest in the class, but also known as "the one whose DAD brings him".  (Cory's dad is infamous among the children because he works in customs and has a uniform that makes him look like a cop. He also looks a ton like a young Jason Statham, except with way more hair and tattoos.) Cory's dad is all sorts of cool and intimidates the heck out of me. This scene opens with him whispering to me as he tries to hand out invitations to Cory's birthday party.

Who is Erika? I never even knew they had a girl in their class. When did she show up? Should I invite her? Is that weird? Who is her mom?

MAMA. CORY HAS LIGHTENING.

Erika is that little girl with the blonde hair. *nonchalantly head nods* There. And that's her mom.

Cool. Thanks.

MAMA. CORY HAS LIGHTNING.

Awesome, Bud.

So this party thing. It's just a little thing at one of those jump house places. And we're celebrating after back at our house if you want to come by.

Sounds cool-

MAMA. CORY HAS LIGHTNING LIKE MINE.

Dude. That's amazing.

Oh, here's Hunter's mom. *Starts handing out the invitation* *realizes it's not filled completely out* DOES ANYONE HAVE A PEN?

I think I do-

MAMA-

Hold on, Bud. *reaches in purse*

*anxiously waiting as I root around* Yeah, any pen will do.

MAMA-

Dude. Just let me find this pen, baby.

*waiting* *waiting* *waiting*

MAMA-

Here you go *HANDS CORY'S DAD A TAMPON BY MISTAKE*







Aaaaaand I die.

End scene.

Five on Friday - Automatic Responses

Here are a few common situations I face in my life and the ways I automatically respond to them.


1. Scene: Entering Lifetime Fitness - Every time I enter the gym I see this sign on the glass in the lobby:

Automatic response: I think, "not these guns." *mentally flexes my biceps*


2. Scene: At least one child every.single.day. whines, "Mo-om! I can't find my ______."

Automatic response: I think, "It's up your butt and around the corner." You can take the girl away from the 80's, but you can't take the 80's from the girl.

A perm, a boombox, and throwing up peace signs? It's like the 80's puked allllll over this mess.
I think we can all agree the 80's were good to me.

3. Scene: Hears birds chirping before the sunrise.

Automatic response: I think of breastfeeding. This is mainly because the first time I consistently heard birds ring in the new day it was during the hellish period of adjusting to a newborn while bonding with the tiny life I'd created as I nourished her from my own body. Now it's almost a Pavlovian response.
(Now *you* will forever associate pre-dawn bird chirping with breastfeeding. I'm like the gift that keeps on giving.)


4. Brian's new favorite video - Jim Rome on Gym Guy:

Scene: I walk in the house upon returning from the gym.

Brian's automatic response: "KELLY! Hurry and get in your protein! YOU DO NOT MAKE YOUR MUSCLES WAIT FOR PROTEIN! GET THAT PROTEIN NOOOOOOOOOW."

(Don't worry - I totally did already in the car on the way home.)


5. Scene: Jason Derulo sings "Talk Respectfully* to Me" (*how this young man should speak to a SAHM mama) while I'm driving the Ford Flex.

Automatic response: My freaking hips take over my body and I become the best dancer in the entire world. There is something truly magical about Jason telling me my "booty don't need explaining" that makes me throw all caution to the wind and let it do it's thang. YOU DO YOU, BOOTY.
(Lest you think I'm exaggerating in standard Sublurban Mama form the driver of the car next to me last night totally affirmed my effort with a gigantic smile.)

See you Monday when I share the extensive report on how I enjoyed the Reese's Peanut Butter Egg I am saving for after my LEG DAY workout Sunday morning. It will keep you on the edge of your seat. (Almost like me, barely able to be on the edge of my seat after Leg Day.) Happy Friday! Happy Easter!

Linking up with Clare at Fitting It All In.

I think the answer is, "Why *wouldn't* you wear Cookie Monster underpants?"

Subtitle = A precautionary tale of a non-scale ... victory?

Everyone needs a go-to friend for discussing their unmentionables. Me, I have Sister Wife Rose. This is mostly because not only does she have extremely passionate thoughts on the subject, she also has an Expert Opinion as a cheer leading coach. (i.e. underpants are a big deal to those who move a lot in teensy little skirts.)

Since I'm entering a new phase in my fitness journey (*snort* - for Kari) I have a fresh dilemma. Namely, what does one wear while squatting? After a solid twenty minute discussion with Rose about panty lines and other things of vital importance where Major Life Decisions were made, our conversation ended something like this:

Me and Rose being photo bombed by Brian.

Kelly: ... and all I could think while dead lifting was this, "Dude. Please don't let me be wearing my Cookie Monster underpants."

Rose: What woman in her 30's (who, let's be honest, could totally pass for her 20's - editor's note) wears Cookie Monster underpants?

Kelly: I think the answer is why *wouldn't* a woman in her 30's wear Cookie Monster underpants?

Rose: *the Rose look* (if you know Rose you totally know this look)(it communicates "you are a dumb@ss" really well)


It was with that conversation fresh in my mind that I took the kiddos to the park yesterday afternoon. The FUN Park (which changes routinely depending on the whims of my children) was only a quarter mile away and was a perfect afternoon destination. Traveling with a three year old slightly affected the overall pace of our walk (haha, that's a joke because I'm pretty sure there were snails that beat us there), but we made it and it was gorgeous out and there were a ton of families and other kids to play with and life was grand.

(I kept myself occupied by practicing box jumps onto the benches that surrounded the playscape because they were the perfect height for someone 5'3.5" who is terrified of jumping onto the boxes at the gym. I felt like a Crossfit rockstar while nailing the jumps (even landing softly - Elliott Hulse would be so proud) even though I realized after the first jump that I would have to hold on to my pants because they kept sliding down. This messed with my (admittedly awesome) form a little bit, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices in order not to, I don't know, get arrested for indecent exposure.)

It was on our return trip home that I finally had the answer to the question that up until then I only knew to be rhetorical. The question, "Why *wouldn't* you wear Cookie Monster underpants?" Ready? This is why.

Sometimes, when you are trying to hurry a three year old across a busy road before the signal changes, and you pick him up in one hand, and hold his three thousand sticks and pinecones and Special Rocks collected from your quarter mile walk in the other hand, you will quickly discover that you have no hands left to pull up your pants that are now seriously sliding down your hips in celebration of your recent weight loss.

You can't throw down the child, and if you are a mom worth your merit at all, you know you can't drop ALLTHESPECIALTHINGS collected because it will ruin your child's life for at least 15 loud minutes forever. You will try to outrun the rapid descending of your pants, knowing that there are approximately fifteen cars witnessing your Parade of the Unmentionables as they wait for the light to change. You will attempt to catch your pants around your hips with broadening your running stance while simultaneously sticking out your tush, which looks as cute as it sounds. And just in case all the drivers were missing the big show because they were distracted in their cars, your nine year old will yell, "HEY MOM! I CAN SEE YOUR COOKIE MONSTER UNDERPANTS!" just to encourage everyone to check out the situation.

Safe on the other side of the road you will gently set down your child, and calmly pull up your pants like you were totally okay with flashing the world because you are secure in your choice of underpants. You should get an Oscar. (Like, the award.) (Not Oscar the Grouch underpants.) (Though I can understand the confusion this post could cause.)

And that is why, just maybe, you *wouldn't* wear Cookie Monster underpants.

Elephant Noises Optional

This poor guy spent his birthday at Urgent Care ruling out strep throat. I've since promised that we can extend his birthday as many days as he wants. I don't know exactly what that promise entails, but I'm sure I can count on the request for burritos for dinner for the entirety of the week. Also, because he's sick and I'm totally in loooooooove with the man, I will probably make him that pretzel/cream cheese/jello dessert thing he loves even though I totally already slaved away for hours over the Sara Lee frozen cheesecake we initially celebrated with.

Happy 36th Birthday, Babe. You are my favorite person in this whole world. There is no one I would rather laugh with. You've kept life fun from the moment I met you. Anyone whose first order of business as a married man is to declare we each need wrestling names (because of course there will be wrestling)(I still firmly believe you needed a sibling growing up) is a keeper in my book. Thank you for always supporting me, for being a wonderful papa to our little monsters, and for letting me spend your paycheck (#iain'tsayingsheagolddigger) being my best friend. Love, Captain Top Rope

As well as being Brian's birthday, yesterday was also another weigh in day. This was my first weigh in since adding in "lifting heavy." I did the same workout on Friday and Sunday that I did with Kemper on Tuesday. Because of Brian's work schedule, the only time I can make the gym on Friday is 4:30 a.m. This worked to my advantage as I was totally freaking out of my mind about being on that side of the gym by myself. I figured going in that early would make it a little easier. I was halfway right.

I started my workout with a five minute treadmill warm up. Since I didn't bring my iPod I could hear everything around me. Normally I am fully plugged in and channeling my inner rock star, but I didn't want to lug it around with me so I went au natural. I'm so glad I did.

This appeals to the mom side of me
so much. 

Lifetime Fitness in the evening is pretty busy. Consequently, it's a bit loud. They have music playing overhead, but you really have to purpose to hear it over the din of so many people. Lifetime Fitness at 4:30 a.m. is no where near as busy, but I was surprised to see around 30 people greeting the sunrise by breaking a sweat. There were about five men lifting on Friday. I'm calling them the Rack 'Em Symphony Chorus (SERIOUSLY?! THAT IS THE BEST DETROIT MUSIC SCHOOL NERD JOKE I'VE EVER MADE.)(I seriously had to take a blogging break because I had to make a mental list of everyone that would love that joke.)(All six of them are getting links to this post.)

The Rack 'Em Symphony Chorus is really a trio (and two quiet dudes) who are the most vocal lifters I could ever imagine. The first, obviously a bass, grunts in staccato bursts. He is not only picking the key, but keeping the beat. The second, in true baritone form, fills in with constant yells of "YEEEAAAAAHHHHH," just to keep the sound big. And the final man, my obvious favorite, is the tenor soloist who, I'm not even kidding, made sounds like an elephant.

I wished I had a program to see where they all studied.

My new mission in life is to see where I can fit in, making their trio a quartet. I think we could make big money doing weddings.

Mine are actually black
and pink. source

As far as the lifting goes, I did really well. I bought my own wrist wraps from some Crossfit type store on line and they are doing their job. My favorite part of the whole experience was when I was done waiting for the leg press, the guy who was finished attempted to take off his weights (because his mama didn't raise no dummy and taught the boy to re-rack that mess) and I was all, "That's cool. You can leave it all," because I am a rock star bad A who was lifting the same amount as him.

Then I traded all my cool points for poor form on my dead lifts, but don't worry, I youtubed dead lift form this weekend and also talked to Kemper on Monday, so I think I'm okay.

Weigh in verdict? One week "lifting heavy" - I lost FOUR AND A HALF pounds, and 1.7% body fat. Some of that is because I gained .5 pounds last week, but most of it is a solid loss earned this week. I'm a believer.

Yoga for Dummies - Part 2

If you are a teacher, you will understand when I say I've had to work all week on lapbooking, which is why I didn't post sooner. If you are not a teacher, lapbooking has nothing to do with being a stripper or the mafia. Totally don't worry if that's what you obviously thought at first. It is because of lapbooking that I needed yoga Monday. (Scrapper's Back, anyone?) It is also because of lapbooking that I missed yoga Monday. Thus the cycle of destruction continues.

I left off on my yoga tutorial (Part 1 found here) with the warm up from hell. Let's return to the current scene: fiiiiine young gentleman is leading you through the next vinyasa* (*series of movements coordinated with your breathing)(this one the "real" workout).

Fiiiiine young gentleman will lead you through some moves that you vaguely recognize from previous classes, except the intensity of his poses produce in you the inner monologue of "Dude, is he on crack?" They will be slower and broken into smaller steps so be thankful, because this slow speed is exactly what you need in order to stay with the class. You will keep your eyes trained on the neighbor to your right until fiiiiine young gentleman has you turn to face the hallway; then, with your right side neighbor out of sight you notice the person behind you (now to your left, stay with me) is a YOGA SUPERSTAR and follow her every chance you get. You will finish the flow facing forward once again.

She looks exactly like this, except slightly
more bendy. (source)

This is the time to hurry up and pat yourself on the back. You are NAILING yoga class. Congratulate yourself quickly before FYG does the whole vinyasa again but for the other side of your body. You will now need to mirror those moves you barely survived the first time around. This round will not be as smooth as the first attempt. In fact, when FYG asks you to move from triangle to a standing split without crashing to the ground you will snort a bit and get your back leg approximately eighteen inches from the ground. YOGA SUPERSTAR looks exactly like she is doing the splits in midair. (Don't worry, she probably has bad breath.)(Or punches kittens.)(Or secretly loves spam.) Ease out of standing splits into tree pose (HAHA), finish your vinyasa, and face front.

As you mentally prepare for what is next, take a moment to practice your non-panic face and review the best moves in your arsenal of free-style interpretive dance. You will need them at your disposal. Fiiiiine young gentleman will say, "Now move through that vinyasa at your own pace, using your own breathing to guide you," and everyone else will know exactly what they are doing and you will be all, "THE HECK ARE WE DOING? NO ONE IS LEADING ME." Cover nicely with some flows that say, "Do I look like I know what I'm doing? No? Well I am communicating quite adequately then because I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING." Randomly crouch into yoga-esque poses and notice, while you are glancing feverishly around the dark room to see if there is anyone you can copy, that some overachievers are actually standing on their heads. By choice.

Sublurban Mama: making Santa Clause
weird for you since 2014.
(source)

Thankfully FYG will make the rounds and correct people on their form. He will be saying super helpful things like, "Shaking just means your muscles are getting stronger and more able," and, "We don't judge our bodies here, we only observe and notice them." (He also loves redundancy and restating things using different words.) You hope perhaps he will observe and notice you are completely lost and throw you a bone and move through this with you. You see as he nears you he pauses to correct a women in tree pose. He grinds stands behind her, pulls her shoulders back and uses his leg to wrap around her leg and turn her knee out. You will immediately feel like you are in the opening sequence of a porno. Once she is "adjusted" he will tell everyone to finish at their own pace. "Finish" the vinyasa you were in the middle of choreographing, face the front, and try to breathe. My compliments to you; you have survived the ab-libbed portion of yoga.

This is how you want to do tree pose.
(source)

You are dripping sweat. You are sweating in places you did not know contained sweat glands. Your earlobes are sweating. Your fingernails are sweating. Your teeth are sweating (editor's note: we call that drool, Kelly). This is the perfect opportunity to do some work on the floor.

Since I forgot to take my camera, you'll just have to
take my word that this is pretty much what I look
like in my sports bra and yoga pants. Give or take
thirty pounds. And, you know, the mid-section of
someone with four c-sections under her belt.*
(*did you see what I did there?) (source)

Take plank position. Your forearms are covered in sweat, so slide around a bit as you seek purchase on some kind of grip on the mat beneath you. Move to side plank. Raise your top leg and stretch your arm above your head. Now you are in serious trouble. All this sweat makes you think this must be what mud wrestling feels like. It is with that train of thought that fiiiiine young gentleman will choose to come over and "help" you out. He will be in the middle of murmuring, "Really streeeeetch it out," when he attempts to grab your hand and gently puuuuuuullll, but after the initial grip he will try to pull and your sweat will allow his hand to glide completely off your palm. He will stumble a bit, and you will giggle. He is centered so he will not giggle but merely reaffirm, "Shaking just means your muscles are getting stronger and more able. Feel it." (You will probably only feel like thinking of the movie Goonies, and dwell on the realization that Data was way ahead of his time with his invention of slick shoes; you have successfully repelled fiiiiine young gentleman with the slick power of your perspiration, effectively employing the same principle that saved the Goonies from the Fratelli family.)

(source)

The last part of yoga will include frog pose. Frog pose is horrible enough on it's own, but it wouldn't be a proper yoga tutorial if I didn't prep you for what might will undoubtedly occur.

Since your sweat is still an issue, as you settle into frog pose prepare for the following sequence of events:


1. Enter frog pose. Think it must be a joke. Look around and see everyone blissfully chilling out, not at all freaking out about their knees, inner thighs, or shoulders.

2. Listen to FYG say, "We are going to spend about three minutes here. Just the duration of this song." Listen to Adele sing one of the acoustic heart-breakers from her first album.

3. Wonder WHY THE HECK can't Adele sing any faster?

4. Squirm. Get caught by FYG. Listen to him say, "Try not to fidget. Embrace the discomfort." Know it's directed at you. Wiggle your toes vehemently in protest. He's not the boss of you.

5. Realize your sweat is turning into an agent of torture against you. Your whole upper body will tense in trying to keep you stationary. It will all be in vain. As the last of your upper body strength leaves your body, embrace the discomfort as your arms slide out from under your body as you crash onto the floor. Don't worry, your chin will break your fall.

6. Knock over a candle on your way down. You will be slightly stunned from the floor burn on your chin but you will have the presence of mind to acknowledge the need to right the candle before you burn down the yoga studio. Make a sound like you are about to throw up as you lunge toward the candle. As you take hold of the candle, saving everyone from a horrific death, notice it is electric.

7. Kill FYG and Adele.* (*Sike.)(Leave Adele alone.)

Yoga will try to end on a nice note. Namely, with corpse pose for five minutes. This is normally your favorite part of yoga. It is where you zone out and relax. Fiiiiine young gentleman will ruin this when he chooses to bring out a guitar and starts singing an original tune conveying that if you ever feel like giving up, come to him, he will embrace you and be there for you. You cannot relax because you are now in awe that your yoga class was taught by someone who probably wanted to be in One Direction.

And that will be enough to get you to go back.

Aaaaaand that is my tutorial. I hope you learned a lot. The moral of the story is: if you have never done yoga, you can't do much worse than me. (Unless your studio uses real candles.)(Then you could probably burn down the whole place.)(Which would be waaaaay worse.)(But that probably won't happen.)(Because liability.)

Happy yoga-ing everyone!

For moms thisclose to losing their shizz. Like, literally. (A.K.A. Combing The Desert**)

Spaceballs - proof the '80s were good to us.

Reporting Live! from the front lines of the War on Poop (in pants).

We decided two months before Christmas to start preparing Ezra for our No Turning Back Potty Training Tour, which was scheduled to begin December 26, 2013. The highlights of this tour included an absolute NO RETURNING TO DIAPERS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE rule, and a solid week of staying at home. We said things like, "Hey Dude, after Christmas diapers are all gone," and "After Christmas you get to wear BIG BOY UNDERWEAR!"

The big day began with the fetal position and screaming. Once I got a hold of myself Ezra was upright and stopped screaming, "I WANT MY DIAPER" we were good to begin.

Day one was wet. Very, very wet. We set a timer and took little man to the potty every 15 minutes. I fulfilled my weekly squat quota in just under an hour between toilet time and laundry. (Note to self: Market a Potty Training Workout to better your booty. Then watch Shaun T struggle to come up with a more extreme alternative.)

Day two was slightly drier. We kept Ezra captive with wheat thins and the job of Master of the Television Remote. The older kiddos started saying things like, "Monsters University again?" but I held firm; anything to keep little man from total mutiny.

Day three we got the call that my GRANDfather died. The next day would be the viewing. It was 40 minutes away and would require we look presentable. (Insert evil suspense music.) We were still using the potty every 15 minutes and while it was drier than day one, keeping pee out of the underpants was still hit or miss.

At the funeral home Ezra stayed contained and acted appropriately in every manner. That's the new way I'm describing him borrowing people's phones to play Angry Birds and sneaking away to take pictures of my GRANDfather in his casket. Since the funeral home also had an indoor playscape (oh, you mean the four steps up to the next landing in the lobby that are the perfect height for jumping off while screeching "YEEEAAHH!" isn't really a playscape?) he worked out all the "I spent all morning cooped up at church, followed by a scenic Sunday drive to get to this building where everyone is somber and you are supposed to act reserved" ants in his pants throughout the visitation.

Me, Cassie, and my future SIL Natalia.
That's how you do family. BOOM.

We continued to take him to the bathroom every 15 minutes or so, which really helped me have time to connect with my out of state family. I had many deep, meaningful conversations that went something like, "Hey, my Only Brother in the Whole World! How are you? OHMYLANTA you got engaged last night?! And my future sister-in-law is standing right here with her gorgeous ring? Tell me all about the proposal. I want to hear every detail - oh, I need to take Ezra to the potty. I'll be right back. DON'T MOVE."

Ezra actually stayed dry until around 4:00. I put him in plastic pants as an extra measure of protection in case there were any accidents. This allowed a layer of protection and provided three surprise perks to the potty training process. First, it actually contained the mess when he finally crapped his pants that afternoon. Secondly, the plastic also held any body heat he generated from jumping up and down the stairs. This resulted in the following restroom conversation about a dozen times.

Kelly: Hey Dude, are you wet?
*Kelly and Ezra both feel his underpants. They are slightly damp all over.*
Ezra: No wet.
Kelly: I think you are right. I think it's just sweat.

(Of course, because we are efficient we developed a convenient shorthand:
Kelly: Wet?
Ezra: Just sweat.)

The final benefit of the plastic pants was the awesome rash that resulted from hours of stewing in his own tush sweat.

(#ParentingTip = if you want to experience extreme potty training, add a layer of A&D ointment to the diaper area of your child. Having effectively greased up your child, challenge him to stay seated on the toilet. Award bonus points for any horizontal dismount that may occur.)

Things were actually progressing better than I thought they could, given the circumstances. Even with his one accident, Ezra proved to be my favorite child ever when he finally pooped his pants during Brian's turn to take him to the potty.

Since Brian is a really good dad and believes a child should experience natural consequences for their actions, he required Ezra to carry the little blue bag we used to hold his poopy underpants. This bag was tiny, fragranced, and, most importantly double-knotted, so I had to agree this was a fair plan.

As we made our rounds to say goodbye (we thought it best to leave on our personal high note of crapping our pants and stealing all the cookies from the deli trays left out in the family area of the funeral home) I jokingly told everyone possible a few trusted individuals that Ezra was carrying a bag of poop. (This is because I value discretion and understand appropriate conversation topics at the viewing of a loved one.)(Also, poop is hilarious and "Boy, that Kelly, she's sure a hoot".)

This was amusing until we were on our way out the door and realized Ezra no longer had the blue bag of poop.

If you want to know the reason you end up at a funeral home quietly asking all your relatives if they've seen your bag of poop, this is it. And when no one can find it you will have to check with the kind staff, being as vague and diplomatic about the missing item as possible:

Kelly: May I check your office for my blue bag? My little boy had it and I wondered if he dropped it while he was in here stealing all the candy off your desk visiting earlier.
Funeral Home Worker: Sure, honey. Is that the one with the poop in it?
Kelly: *open and closed dumbstruck guppy mouth*
Funeral Home Worker: I'm sure it will turn up.

Thankfully you will find it stashed on the podium before your uncle gives the eulogy, and sneak out clutching it while pretending to be invisible. Unfortunately your invisibility skills are sorely in need of practice, because two different people will comment on your way out, "Oh good! You found it."

**The only thing that will run through your mind is a super inappropriate scene from SpaceBalls, and you will picture yourself as an African American man in the desert with a giant pick replying, "I ain't found (Holy Ghost edit)." Which? Almost redeems that part of your day.

Crazy or Awesome? #47

Scene: I am at the grocery store loading my bounty onto the belt for scanning. The two kiddos I brought with me are almost berserk with stress because I gave the go-ahead to choose a piece of candy. They repeatedly ask inane questions that show far too much thought about the decision to choose a confectionery treat. I finally say, "Dude, Girlies, I need like five seconds where nobody talks to me." The cashier laughs and says, "I have a friend who changed her name. One day she just decided that BAM! she would no longer answer to "Mom", and she changed her name. She wouldn't talk to any of her kids until they guessed her new name. And then, only if they could spell it correctly." Cashier leans in and whispers, "Try it, Rumpelstiltskin." *huge, exaggerated wink*

Is it crazy that I'm tempted? 

Don't answer that.

Then our house (almost) exploded

It was just an ordinary Sunday morning.

I was calmly and leisurely getting myself ready for church. While I chose pearls and impeccably made up my face, the children sat scrubbed and shiny in their Sunday best, reading peacefully to each other in the family room. I can't be certain, but I would wager it was fine 19th century literature they were enjoying. Brian was busy digesting the hot and delicious breakfast I'd lovingly prepared.

No? Not buying it?

So maybe what really happened is that I was frantic, because although it seems like every Sunday I fear I will be attending church in my birthday suit with my sopping hair dripping down my back, this Sunday threatened to realize that fear. We were late. Like, "MOM WHERE IS MY HAIRBRUSH / TOOTHBRUSH / SHOES / FAVORITE PACK OF MARKERS THAT I ALWAYS TAKE TO CHURCH / UNDERPANTS / SANITY" late. Also, I might add this was my first Sunday on crutches, which may have contributed to us being a bit behind schedule.

The kiddos gulped down Cinnamon Toast Crunch (Kelly crushes dreams with, "NO! We don't have time for Toaster Strudel today!" because I am the Worst Mom in the entiiiiiiiiire world) while Brian controls chaos so I could take a shower. Once I was "ready" (consisting of black skinny jeans and leopard flats *with inserts, Sarah*)(because that is what matched my crutches obviously) I switched with Brian so he could get ready. The kids were fully ready to go when Brian came and gave me A Serious Look.

"Hey, Kel? Can you come here and tell me if you smell gas?" I laughed and replied, "There is no way I am falling for that again." He gave me a sigh of exasperation (does anyone else ever feel like they are married to their mom?) and said, "No, I'm serious this time."

I went to our master bath and confirmed with my gas expert olfactory skills, "Yep. That's *totally* gas."

That's when all hell broke loose.

I guess I wasn't prepared for the seriousness of the smell of gas in the house. I was all, "Hey, that's weird," and planned to go about our day. Brian reacted more along the lines of, "OHMYLANTA THE HOUSE IS ABOUT TO BLOW UP! GET THE KIDS OUT OF THE HOUSE NOOOOOOOOOW!" as he shut off our furnace and ran outside in his pajamas.

The kids were all, "Is our house okay? My blanket is inside! Where are Dad's clothes?!" I was a picture of calm, definitely not speaking in a too bright voice while trying to make sitting in the Ford Flex in front of our neighbors house a few doors down the street seem like a fun little excursion. Brian went to get our neighbor, and these brave souls walked into our death trap of a house to check for gas.

Within five minutes Brian stood at the drivers window, a sheepish expression on his face as he stood in his jammie pants like he was ready to shop at Walmart. (Sorry, Walmart, that was completely unprovoked and uncalled for.)

"We're okay. Come on back to the house; I have to go get dressed."

I turned around and parked in the driveway. I followed him in to get the details of how we knew our house wasn't going to explode. (And to ask a few timely questions about homeowners insurance that had been tickling my brain for, I don't know, the last five minutes.)

When Brian and Don went into the house they smelled all the places you should check when you smell gas. After a thorough search it was determined that the smell of gas was isolated to the toilet. And while a few things can cause the smell of natural gas in a toilet, most of them involve a gradual breaking down of parts with a progressive onset of the aroma, and only one seemed a proper explanation for the abrupt onset of stench.

Or maybe our house is just haunted?

Apparently, sometimes leftover waste in your plumbing can release pockets of vapor as they decompose. Those vapors are as pleasant as you would imagine them to be. The general consensus is that this is what happened in our master bathroom. Which, if you break it down (a decomposition play on words?! Ridiculous!) means one thing:


Literally, our crap farted.


And *that's* how our house almost exploded.

The early worm breaks her foot falling into the sunken living room because it's too.dang.early to remember the layout of her house.

This is my "Dude, seriously?" face

Motherhood is about making sacrifices. I think a good 75% of those sacrifices involve a sleep offering.

I find that when I need some extra time I'm most productive when I wake up before the rest of the family. Sometimes I plan lessons, sometimes I do food prep, and sometimes I surf Pinterest blog. At ten years on the job, I'm pretty familiar with the sounds of birds chirping in the rising of the sun while I catch up on chores.

Sunday morning was no exception.

I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. with the expectation that I would blog a bit, go for a run, and then get ready with my family before it was time to leave for church. It all started according to plan. Then ... children.

We have a rule in our house. No getting out of bed before 7:00 a.m. It's one of the hard and fast rules we employ. Sure, there are exceptions (ain't nobody want to clean up a pee bed because it wasn't time yet to leave your bedroom and use the bathroom) but this rule remains largely unbroken. Until the kiddos are old enough to tell time, we manage this with nightlights set to timers. Every day at 7:00 a.m. a sweet little timer switches on the nightlight, signalling that it is okay to roam freely about.

I'm a huge proponent of the solitary crack of dawn start to my day, but really hate an o'dark thirty house party comprised of prepubescent guests. This "stay in your room until 7:00" plan really works for us. Well, until *someone* plays with the timer and *completely on accident* sets it for 5:45 a.m. the same day I set my alarm to go off an hour and a half early to get some work done.

So on Sunday morning as I was finally settling into my writing groove and heard the stomp-clomp-stomp of children hoofing it down the hallway accompanied by the excited cry of, "OUR LIGHT WENT ON!" I was like:

Duuuuuuuude.
No.
Way.

Maybe I stomped-clomped-stomped to the hall and cried, "WHHHHHHHHHY IS YOUR LIGHT ON?" (Because I knew everyone else was still asleep and was certainly doing my best to maintain a peaceful atmosphere for those still blessed with slumber.) "NO WAAAAAY IS IT TIME TO GET UP. GET BACK IN BED."

*Enter mass chaos*

Okay, I get it. Routine clearly dictates that when the lights come on it's game on for milk or apple juice and snuggles on the couch. And here I was, freaking out like a banshee because OHMYLANTA I WOKE UP EARLY TO GET WORK DONE AND I CAN'T GIIIIIIIIIIIVE ANYMORE HERE. (Top 5 Parenting Moment, for sure.)

This is when Brian rescued me, promising to snuggle with Ezra and Esther until it was time to get up. I left them all in the bedroom, equally thankful and pissed that Brian was going to be of service. Because while of course I'd rather be tangled up in a heap of cozy quilts and darling kiddos, snoozing an extra hour or two, I had important crap to do. (Are you hearing my Martyr Violin Concerto playing in the background?)

I stomp-clomp-stomped my way down the hallway and through the kitchen, promptly forgot we have a sunken living room, and plunged almost to my death. (Okay, that was a bit dramatic.) The truth is I stumbled fantastically down one step, pulling a kitchen chair with me to break my fall. (The kitchen chair did nothing but provide a laudable and resounding soundtrack to my spill, BTW.) I ended up on the floor, not that hurt, still a little pissed, and almost laughed because of course that just happened.

I went over to the computer and worked for an hour, thinking if I hurried I could get in a short run before I needed to be back home to do our morning routine. I tried to stand and sat back down. It.hurt.so.freaking.badly. I was at Urgent Care in less than an hour.

Guess who treated me? Remember the doctor I saw in February with the worst flu in the history of the world? I wrote about it in a post called "Um, YEAH, I totally meant my ovaries". You can read it by clicking here. I was reunited with Dr. P.

He totally didn't remember me, which both irritated me and relieved me. I had the same reaction to him as I did last time; namely, I felt like an inferior idiot who had to prove that I was really hurt. And totally not just looking for drugs like last time, you know.

Dr. P :*storms in and mumbles a question*
Kelly: *in my head, "Dude, what's with all the storming?"*
Dr. P : *stares blankly at me*
Kelly: *realizes he asked me something* Um ... what?
Dr. P : ... You hurt your foot?
Kelly: *immediately defensive because I am a smart, capable woman and not a hypochondriac which is of course what his question implies, right?* Yes, my right foot. I can't bear any weight on it.
Dr. P: *starts to probe my foot*
Kelly: *starts to panic, because I'm suddenly sure I'm just overreacting even though I can't walk and he's going to prove it with his magic doctor fingers* Also, my foot feels really hot to the touch.
*because I read once that serious injuries feel hot to the touch**and then I remember the nurse has been making me ice it while I've been at Urgent Care so I clumsily speak again*
Kelly: Except it doesn't feel hot now, because, you know, the ice. *Smoooooooth*
Dr. P: We have to do an X-ray. *leaves the room*

At this point Brian calls me and we arrange for him to bring Ezra to me so he and the girlies can go to church. I go get my X-rays done.

X-ray Tech: Could you be pregnant?
Kelly: Nope. No way. Not a chance. Just finished up my period. (Good thing I mentioned that.)(Now I feel I need to redeem myself) It's a good thing I hurt my right leg because it's the leg I chose to shave yesterday. So, that's like a gift to me and you. (Ohmylanta, really, Kel?)
X-ray Tech: *has the decency to at least laugh* I always tease my daughter because she takes such good care to shave her legs but always forgets to shave her toes. *looks pointedly at my very hairy big toe*
Kelly: *she did not just call me out on my toe hair* ....
X-ray Tech: Don't worry, it's a sign of good circulation.

I do have really good circulation.

While I was waiting for Dr. P to read my x-rays, Brian brought Ezra to my room. This is how I discovered Dr. P's kryptonite.

Dr. P is totally uncomfortable with little children. (Or, at least, children who appear out of the blue.)

I may have used this to gain the upper hand in our relationship.

Dr. P: *storms in the room* Well, you have a br-- *sees Ezra, looks confused*
Kelly: *waits patiently*
Dr. P: - a broken bone spur in your heel. We don't usually see this. It's an odd break.
Ezra: Doctor, husodhteeeefnkalfkalfkalkveeeee?
*Ezra has apraxia, and while he is getting so much better with his speech, there are times even I can't decipher what he is saying*
Dr. P: *looks desperately at me* Uuuuuummm, what, Buuuuuudy?
Ezra: DOCTOR,  hisodihfiosteeeeendslfidsoifoveeeee?
Dr. P: *giggles nervously, stares at me pleadingly* Um ... I'm not sure ....
Kelly: *that's right, ME! TO! THE! RESCUE!* He has apraxia. He's asking where the t.v. is, because they usually put us in a room with the t.v.
Dr. P: Oh. Down the hall, Buddy.

In the end, I have a broken bone spur in my heel. Sarah has doctor privileges at the treatment center where I was seen, so she pulled my x-rays and is just as confused as everyone else as to how this happened. I have been told to follow the RICE plan (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation) and to see how it feels in about a week. By then I should be able to walk on it. After I can walk I can return to biking and elliptical, but no running for about 6 weeks. No Turkey Trot this year :(

Yep. Toenails painted circa August 2013. In the background? The offending step down into the living room.

Pouty sad face.

I declined pain meds at Urgent Care because I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I sensibly chose the next best option:

740 calories of Tim Horton's goodness.
That works out to about 1 smile per calorie. Oh Happy Day.

So much crap on the refrigerator.
Iced Capp.

Timmy Ho's for pain management.

I think I just won health care.

Sex Education Level: Shart

The most needed item on your baby gift registry?
A sense of humor.
(Alternate caption: child saying, "No mama, I don't
want to pose like this. I insist you take a different
pic of me with my arms crossed like a gangster.")

I love my kids. They are a tremendous source of hilarity and joy throughout my day. My kids are awesome.

However. 

Sometimes being a mom is pretty crappy. Literally. It's literally crappy. I want the millions of teens who make up the MTV Teen Mom demographic to know just how crappy it can be before they continue the trend where a fifteen year old mom-to-be gets fame and notoriety and not, I don't know, a giant reality check. (It's been my experience that the giant reality check usually occurs at 3:00 a.m. with the realization that not only have you received zero hours of sleep so far, you won't have any other opportunity for at least another day.)(Also, there is usually puke involved.)(Which we call "yammy.")(As in, "Dude, the baby just totally yammied* all over your back.")(*a verb and a noun, apparently.)

I think we are in desperate need of a new campaign to fight against teen pregnancy. This is mostly because I don't even know if there is a current campaign. The general mentality seems to be "For the love of God, if you are a teen who happens to find herself pregnant, hurry up and at least get a Twitter account, because if you play it right there could be a book deal," and that is just not a whole lot of incentive to keep your pants on/be a bit more diligent about birth control.

"Like this, Mom. Totally gangster.
It's important people see you take me out in public with
 my pockets hanging out and a giant stain on my knee.
Also, both a toilet and a toilet paper dispenser? Pottery Barn
Kids is going to seek you out to stage their
next catalog."

So I came up with an idea.

Expose the masses to real parents. Real children. Real life situations. Let each parent make their own commercial, each with their own tagline. It should totally speak for itself.

Here is the ad for my campaign, "It Only Takes One Sperm".

A gorgeous mama of four children, let's call her Kelly, takes her brood to the public library. She watches her two youngest get out every.single.puppet in the metro Detroit area (seriously, opening the puppet drawer is like watching clowns tumble out of a Volkswagen* Beetle).(I don't mean to name drop, but there are clown passengers that include the puppet versions of Elmo, The Hungry Caterpillar, and a three foot tall Barney.)

(*my whole entire life I've been calling it "Voltswagen." Thanks, Spellcheck*, for the realization that my whole life I've been living a lie.)(*Also? Irony is spelling "spellcheck" incorrectly. Deal with it.)

It was not long before Kelly noticed a peculiar odor in the air. Some creative sniffing led her to the rear end of her darling three year old who no, isn't potty trained yet and you shoosh your mouth about it. After ripping a flailing toddler away from the mountain of his best friends (cue child yelling, "NO!!!!! PLAY WITH ELMO! PLAY WITH POOH! PLAY WITH BARNEY!") she struggles to carry the wriggling mass of boy to the public bathroom, where she can only pray will exist a changing table that supports the vast mass and length of a three year old.

Because 'Murica, the restroom sports a clean and functional changing table, complete with a fully stocked changing pad pocket. (Just kidding. That's called wishful thinking.) What Kelly finds is a changing table six inches too short for her darling child, with loose hinges requiring she balance on one leg, using the other to brace the table against the bulk slight weight of her son. This results in a flamingo like stance, if the flamingo had to bend at the knee and jut out her pelvis in order to achieve just the right angle and pressure needed to bolster the table and generate a steady surface. #Physics.

A teenager joins Kelly and her son in the restroom. She is using the restroom to leisurely wash her hands, because maybe with her disposable teenage income she bought a bagel and a coffee at the library cafe and casually ate her breakfast without any threat of heartburn because for her, smear cream cheese/chew was an "and" situation and not the "or" experience a breakfast with toddlers provides.

The teenager watches as Kelly changes the child. Mom is a magician, displaying mind-bending feats of skill and athleticism as she speedily conquers the task at hand. She is an entertainer, singing songs and playing games. This is simultaneously the peak of her mommy ability, her strongest suit, and her ultimate demise.

The teenager looks on as what was a sweet bonding moment turns to crap. Literal fecal matter. Because what undoubtedly happens next is that our Flamingo Mom, balancing on one leg in order to brace the unsteady changing table, her pelvis grinding the plastic edge like Miley on Robin, is in the worst possible position for self-defense. The muscles used to produce the peals of laughter at mom's hilarity engaged during this diaper change are the same muscles used in the force behind an expulsion of flatulence (i.e. some kiddos that laugh fart at the same time). If lucky enough, one might discover with that expulsion of flatulence the child had a bit more in the tank (i.e some kiddos that fart poop at the same time). Shart = pent up gas with an extra gift. Mom will discover this perched directly in the line of fire, while a horrified audience observes.

In my commercial this is where the camera cuts from the loving domestic scene of a giggling child getting a fresh nappy to slow motion. The following shots are shown in sequence:

1. Giggling baby begins to laugh harder, tensing in anticipation.

2. Mom's eyes widen because she is an oracle who knows what the next .5 seconds has in store.

3. The too-late parental cry of "NOOOOO" as the child does a fluffy* and she is sprayed from below with a fine mist of residual waste.

It is Parenting Level: Shart Shower.

In my commercial this is where the camera cuts from a poop-sprayed mom to the horrified teenager watching from in the mirror over the sink. The defeated poop-covered mom will meet her eyes in the reflection and say, "It only takes one sperm."

Thank you, God, for the scarf trend that allows for creative draping and bit of dignity as I leave the library in defeated shame. Also, smelling like roses.

So take heed girls. A shart shower is only one sperm away. #itonlytakesonesperm



(*Does a fluffy = In our house, farts are called "fluffy's". I totally don't know why. Imagine how delighted our children were to discover that the neighbors got a new dog and named her Fluffy. This was hilarious for days.)