breaking the new house in.

There's only one word to describe the following photo:
Charlie.

And today, after I walked in the kitchen and surveyed his latest handiwork, I said that word more like...
CHAR-LIEE!!!!

Immediately I started cleaning up the millions of tiny glass shards on the back porch. And as I emptied the dust pan into the trash, this is what I found:

It's a 3 lb. weight.
In my trashcan.

It didn't take too long for me to put 2 and 2 together.
Broken glass...heavy banging instrument thrown into the trashcan...
I know. Just call me Matlock.

After some questioning, he totally fessed up.
Readily fessed up.
Shamelessly fessed up.
And dare I say proudly fessed up?

Awesome.
Thank goodness he's cute.

thumbody is growing up

During our 4th of July festivities, Avery burned her thumb on a sparkler.

And yes, if you're keeping score, I've definitely racked up enough points to qualify for Mom of the Year. And it's only July.

I have to admit that when it happened, I thought to myself, "Hmmm... this could be the thing that keeps her from sucking her thumb long enough to break the habit." Because a true Mom of the Year looks at her child's injury as a opportunity to make her life easier.

Alright, alright, let me 'splain myself a bit:

After 3 1/2 years of observing Avery's intense affection for her thumb, I've become a little concerned; Concerned that breaking her of the habit would be horribly horrible.

Beyond horribly horrible.

Detoxing a Crack-Addict horrible.

In an effort to prepare myself for the inevitable, I talked with Dentists, consulted with other Mom of the Year Candidates, and conducted my own online investigation.

The options aren't even close to appealing.

First, there's the $68.00 thumb-guard. Which looks like a medieval torture device of some sort.

Pricey.

Scary.

And let's be honest: a little embarrassing.

Am I right?

I'll let my kid wear p.j.s to Wal-mart, but I draw the line at the thumb guard.

I've got standards, people.

Next option: Horrible-tasting sprays and/or ointments

I weighed the options.

I considered the possibilities.

They all stunk (stanked? stunked? stinked?).

Every one of them.

They all spelled t-o-r-t-u-r-e for Avery AND Mommy.

So when Avery's sparkler injury started to heal a bit, I took a look at her bandaged finger and discovered that her while the burned part of her finger had healed, the entire area that the band-aid covered was infected.

I'll be honest, I freaked out a little bit.

Warning: the following picture is not for the weak of heart.

And definitely don't enlarge it.

Unless you are a glutton for punishment.

It was time to visit Dr. Catherine.

Avery was not pleased.

She loves to visit Dr. Catherine when Charlie has an appointment. In fact, she thinks it's pretty fun.

She does not, however, think it's fun to visit Dr. Catherine when she has an appointment.

There was a lot of screaming.

Followed by more screaming.

And a little wailing.

So - Mommy of the Year brought out the bribery tools: a.k.a. a promised trip to the ice cream store.

And a trip to the Teacher Store for some stickers and a chart - so that I could prolong the bribery and attempt to break her of her habit for good.

The deal: fill up the chart and get a super-cool prize.

A Big Girl prize.

A prize worthy of a truly momentous occasion:

(photo from American Girl website)

So far, so good. I think we're almost half-way through the chart now.

Looks like a visit to the American Girl store may be in our future!

And a big 'ol trophy for Mommy of the Year.

those terrible three's

When did this little sweetness

turn into this?

There's something to be said for the rumors circulating about the terrible three's.

Don't believe me?

Ask the family of three and all of the employees of a certain sub shop that we visited for dinner last night.

Evidently, something as simple as asking a three-year-old to eat their sandwich meat can turn into World War III...Complete with weeping and gnashing of teeth, scraping of the tongue, and fake vomitting noises.

Lovely.

This is going to be a fun year.

an unwelcome guest

Look who came to visit our house this weekend.

Yep. We've got the Pig Flu.
Not everyone... just Avery.
Bless her heart.

She's doing ok. Drinking lots of liquids, taking Tylenol and Motrin, and resting a lot.

I, however, am losing. my. mind.

How many episodes of Dragon Tales does it take for a sleep-deprived, natural-light-deprived, shower-deprived Mommy to go insane?

I'm not sure, but I may find out very soon.

I've Lysol-ed everything in our house (multiple times), washed clothes and bedding, and given the bathroom a good scrubbing and bleaching. Even Avery's toys have had a nice bath in bleach water.

I'm pretty sure I have Chemical Pneumonia now.
I think I've also managed to burn off the entire epidermal layer of my hands from over-germ-x-ing.

So far, no one else in our house has the Flu (that includes little Charlie).
Although at our $50 Dr. appointment today, we discovered that he does have Double Ear Infections again.
Lovely.

Looks like we're going to have some fun times over here for the next few days...

Maybe I'll get lucky and bust out of this sicky house once David gets home from work. We seem to be running a little low on Lysol and bleach...and lattes.

If you see me wandering around the grocery store aisles, be sure to say "hi".
I'll be the unbathed, bleary-eyed chick wearing the snot covered t-shirt.

Me Time

Until Saturday, I hadn't been to a gym in 2 years.
2 years.
Just let that sink in for a bit...

I've been avoiding my return to the gym for quite awhile.
'Cause let's face it: going to the gym is just not fun.
But this belly full o' jelly has got to go. Far, far away. From me.

The sheer disgust with my "Mrs. Clause Physique" was enough to force me to push the horrifying visions of certain pain and embarrassment to the back of my mind and bravely head to my first class in 2 YEARS.

And I gotta say... it wasn't that bad.
In fact, I kind of enjoyed it.
Well...not the whole working out part - that part was pretty stinky - but the stretching thing.

As I was stretching my Jello Muscles to the relaxing sounds of pan flute music, I literally thought to myself, "Wow. No one is climbing on me. This is...awesome."

Next time, I may skip the first part of the class and go back just for the stretching part.
That's how desperate for a little "me time" I am.

Fast Forward to Monday for my dental appointment to have a cavity filled.
After my first dental cleaning in 2 years a few months ago (are you seeing a trend here?) it was revealed that I had three cavities.
Not fun.
Not cheap.
Not comfortable.

It does help that my Dentist's office is kinda fancy.
Sure, it's can't compare to my pediatric dentist's office (come on - a tree in the office? a cave that you can hide from your mom in? cool toys when you're finished?), but I like it.

He's got some nice comfy chairs, a flat screen t.v. with earphones, plenty of super-nice people asking me if I feel OK. Not to mention the "happy gas"....

Honestly, except for the drilling part and the painful shots in the gums, my dental appointment was the most relaxing moment of my week.
Really.

I'll take what I can get.

come fly with me

Because I'm a crazy person.
That's why I did it.

That's why I decided that flying with 2 kids under 3 would be a good idea.

That's why I decided that flying with 2 kids under 3 by myself would be a good idea.

Flying to Dallas seemed like a much easier option than driving 8 + hours alone.
How bad could it be? Right?

Let's review exactly how bad it could be.

First, David and I drove 2 hours to the LIttle Rock airport at midnight because the flights were cheaper from there. We arrived at a hotel at 2 am and slept for exactly 4 hours before driving to the airport to catch my flight.

The word "tired" and possibly "exhausted" comes to mind.

Upon arrival, we were greeted by this lovely lady.

Why is she life sized?
Just wonderin'.

After checking the bags, we headed to visit my dear, dear friend.

Hello, My Sweet. Come to Momma.

Avery had a little Wake Up Juice too.

Until I drank my coffee, I literally couldn't open my eyes.
Not figuratively.
Literally.

Then, we pushed Charlie and Avery to the Security Checkpoint where we were greeted by this lovely red-vested gentleman.

Actually, I think that he may have been larger than life-sized.
Creepy.

Moving on...

When we arrived at the Security Area, we saw a large bin of footies.
As soon as she saw the fancy shoes, Avery insisted on putting some on.


The (clearly) heartless Security Man informed me that we couldn't take my life-sustaining liquid through the checkpoint, so we stopped so that I could chug the rest.

Shortly after my caffeineation, David said "Goodbye".
That's when the real fun began.

People are surprisingly sympathetic when you have 2 small children to take care of at the airport.
A really nice gentleman helped me fold up the stroller and put Charlie's infant seat through the x-ray thingy. 'Cause there was just no way that I was going to get that done on my own.

With Charlie on one hip, I hoisted Avery on my other hip as we prepared to walk through the metal detector.

Just before we walked through, one of the Security people noticed Avery's teeny tiny Little Mermaid doll and said, "Honey, I have to put that through my special machine so that I can make sure her insides are O.K.".

Imagine, if you will, the response that a 2.5 year old might give to such a request.
Then magnify the volume of that response by 1.5 million decibels.

I was forced to pry the doll from her white-knuckled grip and throw it toward the belt area. As Avery shreiked at an ungodly volume and flailed like a crazy lady, I busted it to the metal detector.
Laughing, I might add.
Because that was all I could do at that point.

The Security People helped me take the gear off the belt and I finally got everybody settled in the stroller again.

As we prepared to board the plane, I tried to prepare Avery as best I could for the events that were about to transpire.
"Avery, we're going to go down a big ramp and get on a big plane.
Then we're going to sit in a seat and the plane will go high in the air. We will go up into the clouds.
You might hear a loud sound, but it will be o.k.
It might be a little bumpy, but I will be here.
It will be fun."

Evidently, I'm a HUGE liar.
Because it was anything but fun.

I managed to maneuver the kids onto the plane by myself. Thank-you-very-much.

As I entered the plane with a kid on each hip, I said (out loud), "Who's the lucky person who gets to sit next to me?"
I got a few chuckles...but only a few.

We were traveling Southwest, so we got to choose our own seats. I headed toward the back (as far away from normal people as I could get) and settled everyone in.

At first things went well.
Avery was excited.

Then, the Flight Attendant told me that she would have to sit in her own seat.
With a seat belt on.
Evidently, Avery considered that unacceptable.

Commence shreiking.
And weeping.
And gnashing of teeth.

She was totally petrified and a.n.g.r.y. that I couldn't hold her.
Charlie, true to his sweet laid-back nature, just watched his uncontrollable sister from his seat in my lap.

We had about 10 minutes of time during the flight where Avery stopped screaming and calmed down.
That's when I decided to document the experience with a few photos.
If I document the happy moments, maybe that's what I'll remember.
Right?
Right.




The Flight Attendants served Avery a Sprite - her favorite treat.
After she had a couple of sips, I tried to put it on the tray.
Again, a totally unacceptable move.

She kept saying, "it's going to fall off! it's going to fall off! hold it, mommy!"
So, I did.
And Charlie.
And my drink.
And what was left of my sanity.
Which wasn't much at that point.

Then, randomly, the screaming started up again. I tried to tell her that I couldn't hold her. That it was just like when we ride in the car and she has a seat belt on.
In other words, I tried to reason with a two year old.
Because I'm not quite right in the head.

As a result, I'm pretty sure that my hearing is permanently damaged.
And that the lady in front of me has a death wish out for me now.

We finally arrived and were met by my parents at the gate. The entire flight was only an hour or so long, yet it felt like an absolute eternity. I've never been more excited to see them in my entire life.

I made it. I did it.
I hope to never have to do it alone again.
Seriously.

But at least I have pictures of the 10 happy minutes, right?
Right.

my girl likes to potty all the time

I know. I know. I've been a little absent lately.
No time for writing blog entries.
No time for reading blog entries.
No time for commenting on my friend's blog entries.

No time for anything but chillin' with a precocious 2.5 year old, a sweet-as-pie baby boy, and this:


this:


these:


these:


and cleaning a lot of this:

Between Potty Training and the ill-fated Dave Ramsey Diapers, my couch will never be the same.

Avery's new-found independence has launched an absolute barage of I Can Do It Myself-isms.

Let me help you put on your shirt: I can do it myself
Let me help you wash your hands: I can do it myself
Let's put on your shoes: I can do it myself.
You want some lotion? I can do it myself.


(It puts the lotion on)

Not only can she potty by herself, wash her hands by herself, put on her shoes by herself, and get gobs and gobs of lotion by herself... but she can also get her own dinner. By herself.

Just in case you were wondering, Avery's idea of dinner is a generous portion of marshmallows followed by a side of fresh... marshmallows.

This potty training thing been all- consuming. Tiring. Exhausting. Frustrating. and more frustrating.

The one beautifully satisfying thing about my potty training experience has been the fact that I've used NO treats, sticker charts, bribery, or begging to achieve Avery's non-diaper status.

Before embarking on our potty training adventure, there were a couple of things that I was totally dreading. One was the whole constantly cleaning up excrement thing, and the other was the sticker chart/rewards thing. That's probably why I whined and whined about it for months before actually gettin' down to business.

I gotta tell you, I just don't get it: Treats for pooping? Seriously?

Listen, I'm not judging...If poop-treats are your thing, that's cool. In fact, I have a ton of intelligent, lovely friends who've gone that route and had success with it. It just isn't for me.

Aside from the fact that I think we live in a world that rewards kids for things for every little thing imaginable, I guess my thinking is: how does one determine the stopping point for poop-treat giving... and how do you explain that you won't be giving continuous treats for pooping? Call me crazy, but I have no intention of giving my 14 year-old a treat because she stayed dry all night.

Thankfully, Potty Training may be the only thing in life that actually works better if you procrastinate.
Turns out the longer you wait to potty train your child, the more likely they are to actually be ready to be potty trained.
No bribing necessary. I love it.

As you can tell from this post, the main reason for my bloggy absence is that all I have to write about is poop. NO one wants to read about the daily musings of a potty training mommy. No one is googling "lady who is stuck at home while potty training her kid". And if they are, I don't want to meet them. Ever.

so...
I'll be back when I have something intelligent to say.
Hopefully it won't be too much longer.

sleep is for sissies.

At this moment both of my kids are asleep in their own beds.

That's big. Real big.

Lately, we've been forced to do the whole "Family Bed" thing, and I've gotta say, it's getting o.l.d.
I'm not a fan.
I'm not a willing participant.
In fact, I would reaaally like my bed back.

I love my kids. I adore my kids. I want to eat their cute little cheekies for breakfast.
But I want to sleep in my bed alone.
With my husband.
And no one else.

We begin each night as a resolute front. David and I are a team. We're in this together. We're the adults. We're the boss (es). We will keep our pint-sized opponents at bay.

We brace ourselves for the weeping and gnashing of teeth that inevitably follows our declaration of "It's time to go to bed", and stand firm despite urgent pleas of "Just one more minute!".

We will NOT back down. Every child will sleep in his/her own bed ALL night.
Or for at least 6 hours.

David takes the girl.
I take the boy.

Divide and conquer. Victory is within view.

Our regimented routine is laid out perfectly. Deviation will most certainly equal defeat.
PJ's?
check.
Cuddles?
check.
Story?
check.
Good night.

On the Eastern Front:
David faces fierce negotiations. Agreement is made. There will be just one more bed time story.

At the West: I battle whining and lost pacis.

At the Eastern Battle Field:
David struggles to stand strong in the face of fierce opposition.

On the Western Front:
The boy's restlessness finally gives way to fatigue.

At the rendezvous point, I realize that David has not returned from his Battle Station/Thingy/Place/whatever you call it.
Despite the danger of re-entering hostile territory, I must leave no man behind.
I'm going in.

Very carefully, I nudge David.
He awakes looking grateful.
Crisis averted.
We quietly retreat to our quarters feeling quite proud of our hard won victory.

But oh how the prideful fall.

Our opponents are formidable.
And sneaky.
Bery, Bery sneaky.
(I think you underestimate the sneakiness).

Hours later, bleary eyed and un-caffeinated, we hear the enemy's battle cry.
Our defenses are weak.
We have no choice but to surrender.

Another battle lost as we sleep with toddler feet in our face and cricks in our necks.
In a FULL sized bed.

No. That's not an exaggeration. Just a slightly altered version of the truth.
The truth is much more frightening.

that's what little brothers are for.

Me:
Why does Charlie have a wipey on his head?
Avery:
I don't know.
----------------------------------------------------

Me:
(laughing) What is going on here?
Avery:
Bay Chahlie is a Bayayina (Baby Charlie is a ballerina)
Me:
Oh...
-----------------------------------------------------

Me:
Um...
Avery:
Bay Chahlie needs a ticket.
Me:
Of course he does.

---------------------------------------------------

Me:
Avery. Charlie can't have your flip flop.
Avery:
Why?
Me:
'Cause it's gross.
Avery:
Why?
Me:
Because it is.
Avery:
Why?
Me:
Because there are germs on the floor and... Never mind.

an attempt.

I just wanted one picture.

One.

So - I kept on trying...

in hopes that they would randomly BOTH look at the camera at the same time.

There are like 80 shots just like these.

Ummm...definitely not working.

Maybe another time.

By the way - you may notice how HUGE Charlie looks sitting next to Avery. That's because he weighs 16 pounds now.
16.

(Just about all 16 of those pounds are located right in those big 'ol chunky thighs!)

Avery weighs 21 pounds.

They are already wearing the same size diapers. Isn't that a hoot?! My Big Boy looooves to eat.