"There.is.poop.in.my.hand." - Kelly

Ten years old, y'all.  Where does time go?

It has been, in the words of Mrs. Nested herself, bananas around here.

I had all week long to prepare for Eve's 10th birthday party (which involved hosting a gaggle of little girls on a Saturday afternoon).  The plan was to shop after my workouts throughout the week so I could spend Friday evening prepping games, wrapping prizes, and assembling goody bags.  This was to take place after I had leisurely done the grocery shopping, purchasing our weekly food and all the goods to make the requested homemade mac-n-cheese and the super fun Sundae-Bar-in-lieu-of-cake.  It was a fantastic plan that I looked forward to implementing.  Then our garage door was all, "Haha.  Wouldn't this just be the perfect time for me to require $211 worth of attention?"  And I was all, "WHY THE HECK DID I EVER WANT TO BE A GROWNUP?!?!" and had to scratch all those plans and wait to shop until pay day, which was, of course, the day before the party.

Thankfully I had four helpers with strong opinions on sprinkles to help me shop for ice cream toppings.  It really made the job fly by.

Brian playing Hangman with the girlies during lunch.
Not the best pic, but I didn't want anyone's kid's
face on the internets without permission. Also,
Hosanna decorated all by herself.

The party on Saturday was so.much.fun.  I seriously love my little girlie's friends.  Thirteen little girls played together for almost three hours and there was no drama.  At all.  We played two Minute to Win It games, ate gobs of mac-n-cheese, made bracelets (thank you, Pinterest), and ate our ice cream sundaes.  My Sister Wife Rachel stayed for the party and we got to hang out a bit and plan a PIG OUT AT WHOLE FOODS Trip to Whole Foods to Eat Responsibly Take Two*. (*Because remember my Summer Bucket List?  The one where I really wanted to eat at the Whole Foods buffet because the vegetarian lasagna seriously speaks to me? Like, I pass it in the store and it's all, "Duuuuuude ... I'm delicious."  And sometimes it visits me in my head at home and whipsers (don't ask why, but apprently vegetarian lasagna is quiet and gentle) "Kelly, absence does make the heart grow fonder." After I wrote out that Bucket List I ended up going to the WF's by Lauren's house and it totally sucked so I was *forced* to eat a giant peanut butter brownie instead of lasagna.  So Rachel and I are going to visit the WF on my side of town and try again.)(And again, if necessary.)(Perseverance is an admirable quality.)

On Saturday night Brian ended up doing our weekly grocery shopping while I played Sudoku on the iPad tackled household chores that had been neglected due to the party.  Sunday was Brian's birthday.  I celebrated this by waking up at 5:30 and running at the gym.  I came home in time to kiss the Birthday Boy, jump in the shower, and pile in the van for church.  I did make him an awesome dinner that included homemade pita bread and a strawberry jello/cream cheese/pretzel dessert thing he really likes.  So, I didn't totally fail in the Wife Department. (Right, honey?)

Monday was destined to be a train wreck of party let down and residual weekend sugar rush. I decided I'd better start to potty train Ezra.

(If you've read this blog long enough you know that I am nailing this parenting thing.)

(Since I'm fully ten years on the job, I think I've achieved Expert Level Parent at this point.  I mean, I've only kicked one hole in the wall, which we can all agree is a pretty good average. One hole in ten years?  Mother of the DECADE, that's what that is.)

So with all that experience under my belt, and impeccable timing, Monday was the day to teach the boy to pee in the potty. (Also on Monday? Aunt Flo arrived, sore throat flared, and official Day One of triathlon training.)

I'd already shame-bought Lightning McQueen underpants at Target because Ezra's speech therapist pulled me aside like a drug dealer and mentioned Ezra was hiding when he needed to poop, which was a sure sign the kid was ready to potty train.  I am of the parenting camp where if *I'm* not ready, neither is my kid.  (I'm sure this parenting philosophy will stand up flawlessly during puberty as well.)  So I bought the underpants and they had been living happily in the dresser drawer with all the pajamas and socks ... until Ezra discovered them and put them on every day over his diaper.  Baby steps, right?

"But Mo-om, they look so much better
over my diapers."  Also? He totally got
dressed all by himself, which explains
why is shirt is on upside down.  Take
that, Fine Motor Apraxia.

But on Monday he was going to wear them the right way.  We put on his underpants, ate breakfast, and sat on the potty for twenty minutes and not a darn thing happened.  I read books and sang songs and did squats.  Ezra told me, "All done" about fifty times before I let him off.  (A watched pot never boils, amIright?)

He ran straight from the half bathroom where we were hanging out to another bathroom across the house, slammed the door, and locked it.  This is his favorite bathroom because it's where the toothpaste lives.  In Ezra's world, toothpaste is a variety of things. It is hair gel.  It is finger paint.  It is toilet seat cleanser.  It is a food group.  It is a weapon.  I stood outside the door trying to not sound mad so I could coerce him into unlocking the door. Thankfully Mama sounded sweet and fun to be around so he unlocked the door. Well, mostly he unlocked the door because he just wanted privacy to do his business and he was done now thankyouverymuch.  I sighed and headed to the living room to change him from his urine soaked socks, pants, and underpants.

This is when I realized that all those years I spent thinking I was useless in baseball because I was scared of the ball was just wasted time, because when his underpants were stripped quickly from his body and his unexpected turd went flying, I didn't hesitate to dive for it and caught it in my hand. To save the carpet.  Because that would've been really gross.  You know, grosser than holding it myself.

So, I think it's safe to say that potty training day one was a success.

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It Was a Spy Trick

Yep. Mopping totally relaxes me.

Have I mentioned the apple juice story?  No?  Probably because the wounds are recent and have yet to completely scab over.  (Too vivid? Sorry.)

I'm beginning to believe children have a natural tendency to appreciate the beauty of a waterfall, in whatever form it may be.  They stop and stare, frozen in awe over the wonder of thundering liquid.  Which is why, I'm pretty sure, no one freaking moves when an entire half gallon of apple juice is flooding the kitchen a mere twelve inches from their hands.  The same hands that are so powerful they could reach out and upright the overturned container, effectively stopping the flow of sweet nectar that is drenching the wood table, chairs, and floor.  The only thing that breaks the spell of this aqueous wonderment is Mama, screeching like a banshee from the living room, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE PICK UP THE BOTTLE!"

The children will then spring into action, grabbing kitchen towels and throwing them haphazardly onto apple juice puddles, all the while neglecting the still flowing apple juice bottle that is fully prostrate, the outpouring turning from the roar of a deluge, to a thin, steady trickle as it offers it's bounty unflaggingly.

Mama will lunge towards the bottle and reach it as the last drop connects with the floor.  She will hold the empty container in her tightly clamped fist, gazing with disbelief between the lake of Juicy Juice to the four children staring meekly everywhere except Mama.

"Whaa... why... how come ... not one of you ... Dude."  At this Dude, the kids will wilt, knowing if Mama has been rendered speechless, it's probably just another day in paradise not a great thing.

This is when Mama will notice that there are several apple juice footprints trailing around the kitchen from the brief flutter of activity when every kitchen towel owned was tossed to stem the flow.  She will banish all her children to the couch where they are to wipe up their feet with baby wipes and not.move.a.muscle. afterwards.

Once all the apple juice towels are wrung out and the floor is left really wet and tar paper sticky, Mama will realize the dining set also needs to be addressed.  It has been coated in a layer of gorgeous stain (you can purchase at Meijer) called Juicy Juice Apple.  Also the felt pads on the bottom of the chairs that prevent the brand new-ish wood floor from succumbing to large scrapes and gashes from children dragging chairs repeatedly around the kitchen to make trains the daily wear and tear of life are completely saturated, which means they need to be scraped off and new ones applied.  She will take care of this task and leave the four chairs upside down in the family room while she gets out (this is where an angel chorus sings and a halo appears around it) the Shark Steam Mop.

After she has quickly and efficiently steam mopped the scene of the crime, Mama will feel accomplished and driven to mop the whole kitchen and laundry room as long as she already has the mop out. (Also because her children are frightfully still on the couch, waiting to see if they are in any more trouble.)(But don't worry, they are frightfully still in body only; their mouths are still fully tormenting one another about who is really to blame.  Was it Hosanna who left out the juice or Ezra who spilled it?  Was is Eve who failed to upright the bottle or Esther who made the most footprints? Mama lets them "debate" because it is a family activity.)

Once the mopping is finished, the family will get in the car and go for a long drive.  This is an excellent coping mechanism for when Mama is about to lose her d*mn mind and wants to preserve the hearts of her children even though she wants to throttle them a little.  After a solid 45 minutes the whole family will return home, peaceful and anticipating lunch time.

Spreader of juice, killer of dreams.

It will take approximately four steps on the freshly mopped floor to realize that while a thorough job was done on the floors, the lovely cloth cover that sheaths the steam mop head had initially soaked up all the apple juice, effectively making it so that the entire floor was mopped with apple juice and not steam.  Now the whole kitchen floor and laundry room are coated with a thin film of sticky deliciousness.

Awesome.

Mama might cry.  A little.

She will take a look around and decide all four chairs need to go outside on the back patio, where she can pretend they don't exist for a while.  The monstrosity of a pedestal table will need to be gently moved into the family room so the kitchen floor can be washed with vinegar and water.  This will happen with a lot of grunting and internal curse words.

Forty five minutes flies by when one is riding in the car listening to Harriet the Spy on cd, but forty five minutes spent on hands and knees washing and drying 190 square feet of wood flooring is ... well, it's sum bul-loney is what it is.

Thankfully at the end of the day, the floors will sparkle and Mama will reassess, far removed from the apex of the disaster(s), and thank the good Lord that she has brand new-ish wood floors to wash, and four sweet little sets of hands to spill juice, and a husband that will come home and not ask any questions but cheerfully go outside and wash four chairs that are still on the back patio. (Syke! That thankfulness comes next week.)

Or maybe not.  Because next week, this will happen.

Esther: (balancing on the step between the kitchen floor and the sunken family room, holding her cup from breakfast) Mama, wouldn't it be the best spy trick if I spit my orange juice into my hands and then threw it back into my mouth?!?!
Mama: (super distracted because they are running late and have to leave the house in ten minutes and is trying to change Ezra's diaper so she can get him dressed and brush his teeth.)  Yeah, honey, that'd be cool.  Be careful with your cup, I don't want you to spill.
Esther: (fully spits orange juice onto her hands, kitchen floor, and family room carpeting)(looks dumbfounded because everything is dripping.)
Mama: (maybe looking/sounding a tad like a charging T-Rex)  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Esther: (reacting to angry T-Rex, chucks the partially full cup on the kitchen floor, grabs her formerly clean hair with orange juice hands, and cries) IT WAS A SPY TRICK!

Deep breaths.  It was a spy trick y'all.

The Vicodin Diaries

"Hey Kelly, do you have any super embarrassing "first day of school" stories to share?"

Yep.

I don't know how college is for most people, since I went to Wayne State University, which was primarily a commuter school.  I missed the whole dorms/sorority/party thing, and lived the dream with my parents.  (Who still did my laundry.)(And bought my food.)(And paid my car insurance.)  It was rough.

I also majored in music.  Majoring in music is not the 24 hour jam session I imagined it to be.  There is music theory.  And music history.  And practicing music you don't particularly care for.  And conductors. (*shudder*) Also, the music school is a tiny society unto itself.  The same 75 people have the same classes together Monday through Friday.  They perform together on the evenings and weekends.  Even Gen Ed classes (where you might chance to meet someone outside the realm of melody and harmony) are taken with other music majors because you have the same breaks in your schedule.  To summarize, being a music major is exactly like being in high school.

Imagine my surprise when I showed up junior year to an evening class and didn't know anyone in the entire class.

Let me back it up a smidgen.

I spent the prior evening at work feeling really ill.  So ill, I left work and made my way to Urgent Care around 11:00 p.m.  I had a condition called PCOS that caused painful cysts to form and I just wanted some drugs to make it better the pain to stop.  The Urgent Care doctors were incredibly accommodating, and solely based on my complaint of pain sent me off with a ton of Vicodin.  (Message me for directions to the clinic.)(Just kidding.)(I'm not a middleman but could be for enough money.)(Sheesh - IT'S A JOKE, MOM.)

The funny part of this is that I was straight-edge.  Does anyone remember straight-edge?  It's what hardcore teenagers were before they turned 21.  So I was totally prepared to be handed a ton of Vicodin without any instruction. 

The next morning was the first day of classes and I had the usual music courses in the usual music building, but also the evening class.  It was held on the other side of campus in a building new to me. I was excited.  New people!  New building!  VICODIN!

I took my medicine that day when I thought I should as directed.  I started feeling nauseous late afternoon, which was a different kind of sick than the "shooting pains in my uterus" that initially led me to Urgent Care.  I am a start-to-finish kind of girl, and I really didn't want to miss the first day of class, so I decided to tough it out and attend this New Class!  with New People!  in a New Building!

The class was filled with first/second year teachers that needed continuing ed credits for their professional development requirements.  I was a lowly aspiring music teacher and the only undergrad in the class.  I settled myself firmly in the middle of the classroom.  

This class had way too many desks for the size of the room.  As people trickled in to find a seat, desks got shoved around, and when class finally started, I was wedged in pretty solidly.  I knew after class I would have to free myself from the jumble of desks, much like an icebreaker. (The ship, not the party game.)

My teacher was a no-nonsense kind of woman, the type I immediately want approval from.  She was making it a point to remember our names, paying close attention to our demeanor in class (even as we just went over the syllabus), so I made sure I was attentive and wearing my Pleasant Face.  This was getting more and more difficult as I felt worse.  Class draaaaaaaaaaaaagged on.  With 30 minutes left in class I started looking around to see if I could make a discreet exit.  There were none to be had.  At fifteen minutes left I considered jumping over desks to get the heck out of the room. At three minutes left my teeth started to water and I told myself I only had three minutes and to chill out you can make it, dude.  Besides, how rude would it be to disrupt the entire room with only three minutes to go?

Well, apparently not as rude as bolting from your desk with 30 seconds to go, making it to the door and puking everywhere.  The best part of this was that I tried to catch it in my hands.  This did not have the desired effect of containing the vomit, but only ensured that I now had no way to open the door, as my hands were covered in my own regurgitation.  

Also, since I clamored for the door before we were formally dismissed, everyone was already staring at me before the real show happened.  My teacher, who would now never, ever fully approve of me, asked, "Are you okay?"  to which I replied, "I have trouble with my intestines," which wasn't even true.  It was like the Lie Fairy took over my brain and convinced me that anything in the world would be preferable than admitting to a Vicodin overdose.  And the Lie Fairy is really quick on her feet.

In a show of mercy, someone opened the door to air out the putrid smell and I made a hasty exit, but not without first witnessing my classmates hopping over my barf to escape the room.

So, all my New Friends! in my New Class! in my Newly Christened Building! would forever know me as the Girl Who Pukes in Class.  And THAT'S why you should Just Say No to drugs.

The End.

Apparently "clean eating" has nothing to do with the Five Second Rule

This is hilarious if you know
Bear Grylls.  If not, it's probably
disturbing in view of
 my SuperNanny post.
Google Bear Grylls immediately.

Which is both disappointing and embarrassing, as I have been liberally applying the rule and claiming to "eat clean" for years.

It's all the rage for triathletes (well, I'm pretty sure all athletes, but triathletes are the people whose blogs I am currently stalking) and after about 20 billion references to "clean eating", I decided to do some research (i.e. Goggle it) and truly define what it is.

Turns out no one knows.

There are so many different ideas about clean eating my head started to spin after visiting just two pages.  Like with any idea that is simple in theory (eat only things found in nature) but hard to apply (because Nutella is delicious) people have added rules and amendments to make their struggle seem more legit.*

*which is fine, I'm not judging.  I'm all about justification and Lord knows I have eaten dozens my share of cider mill donuts on the premise that I can't let them sit on the counter and get stale. Because that would be morally wrong.

With clean eating some people focus more on unprocessed foods, some mostly on the way you view food and how and when you feed your body, some on avoiding preservatives and artificial ingredients.  The hardcore people do all three.  And more, maybe.  As I said, I actually know nothing about this.  Some tout* the benefits of veganism, while others wouldn't dream of cutting out fish, chicken, or eggs.

*random linguistic fact not at all related to this post:  "tout" actually has connotations with horse racing (like to solicit bets on a race horse) so it's kind of the most inappropriate word to use when applied to the benefits of veganism.  Which is both ironic and useful information.  BAM! - you're smarter.


I have dabbled in the thought of trying to eat clean.  And by dabbled I mean I thought, "That would be a lot healthier," as I noshed on Cracker Jack.  Also, every morning I vow to drink all eight glasses of water I'm supposed to be drinking, so there's that.  I also own wheat germ.  I'm practically the poster child for the Food Pyramid.  Not that I trust/believe in the Food Pyramid;  we all know it's totally the secret love child of Big Food and the U.S. Government.  (And THAT'S how you get put on watch lists.)

If I designed the food pyramid it would look a lot different. Like 30 40 45 percent would be International Delight Mocha Iced Coffee, 10 percent would be refrigerator oatmeal and/or Special K with red berries, and the rest would be Eat Whatever You Want because I Am Not Your Mama. (UPDATE: hubby just informed me they've gotten rid of the Food Pyramid, and it's now a plate.  As a child of the '90's, I have to say the Food Pyramid is a part of my youth of which I can not easily let go.  It's like asking me to picture Michelangelo of Sistine Chapel fame without thinking of the Ninja Turtles.)

I think my main problem with eating clean is that sometimes you just need chocolate.  And not a small square of dark chocolate filled with antioxidants.  You need a big piece of sugary milk chocolate filled with peanut butter.  Or caramel.  Or some sort of nougaty goodness.

Also?  Fast food.  Anyone who has experienced the blessed silence that descends upon the minivan after the drive-thru meal has been handed out  smell of french fries promises a delectable meal served around the kitchen table at home because we are not savages who eat in the car, understands the power of the McNugget. Fast food is not very clean.  By any definition.

So, to hijack a potentially helpful and encouraging blog entry about clean eating and healthy living from a woman who has lost some weight, let me say, thank God for processed/unclean/junk food. Because some of us are premenstrual.  Still. 


P.S. As far as the "eating foods found only in nature" part of eating clean, I'm pretty sure the Lord meant to create a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Bush, he just got distracted with kudzu, and that's why it is so out of hand today.  Which is why all you clean eaters can now add Peanut Butter Cups to your diet.  You're welcome.

Kelly's guide to Clean Eating.
I will add that anything chocolate gets an extra 5 seconds when dropped.