Chelsea, Savannah, and I go to the weekly open gym at our YMCA. It's just 45 minutes of free play time on the gymnastics equipment. The kids love it, obviously, but I think the moms might love it more. Everyone is so busy flopping into the marshmallow pit, bouncing on the trampoline, or swinging on a giant rope, they don't have time to whine or fight. Very much. It burns up a lot of that toddler/preschooler energy, too, so there's hope for naptime as well. Win-win!
Last week, we got a little note from one of the instructors asking for our feedback about the timing of open gym during Y Camp season this summer.
I discussed the options they gave us with Chelsea, to see what she thought.
Me: The first choice is to move the start time to 8:15am, and we'd have the gym all to ourselves. Or, it could start at 8:30, and we'd have to share the gym with the kids in Gymnastics Camp for the last 15 minutes. OR, it could start the same time it does now, at 9am, and we'd share the gym the whole time. What do you think would be the best?
Chelsea: I want to go to Gymnastics Camp!
---
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Workin' for a Living... Room
Becoming a new homeowner is kind of like becoming a new parent.
When you become a parent, you instantly take on dozens of other new jobs that you didn't prepare for. And that, sadly, you will not be paid for. You'll be a:
Nurse.
Chauffeur.
Nutritionist.
Teacher.
Child Psychologist.
Similarly, when you get your first house, you get a bunch of new jobs. A bunch of new, labor-intensive, Home Depot stock-raising, unpaid jobs, like:
Landscaper.
Plumber.
Spa cleaner. (If you're lucky? I think?)
Painter.
Carpenter.
Luckily for me, Jeremy got stuck with most of those jobs. Although I did punch the clock as Painter for a little while there. And we called in the big guns (aka Grandpa) for the difficult job of Electrician. I mostly got the awesomely easy job of Box Un-taper. And Children's Interior Designer. And Kitchen Organizer. Not too bad, as a whole. Guess I'll go update my resume now. Or not.
---
When you become a parent, you instantly take on dozens of other new jobs that you didn't prepare for. And that, sadly, you will not be paid for. You'll be a:
Nurse.
Chauffeur.
Nutritionist.
Teacher.
Child Psychologist.
Similarly, when you get your first house, you get a bunch of new jobs. A bunch of new, labor-intensive, Home Depot stock-raising, unpaid jobs, like:
Landscaper.
Plumber.
Spa cleaner. (If you're lucky? I think?)
Painter.
Carpenter.
Luckily for me, Jeremy got stuck with most of those jobs. Although I did punch the clock as Painter for a little while there. And we called in the big guns (aka Grandpa) for the difficult job of Electrician. I mostly got the awesomely easy job of Box Un-taper. And Children's Interior Designer. And Kitchen Organizer. Not too bad, as a whole. Guess I'll go update my resume now. Or not.
---
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Dear Monday
Dear Monday, April 19, 2001:
You totally sucked.
You started out kind of exciting, with a trip to the escrow office to sign loan papers. Then, someone popped in and said, "Oh, guess what? You're closing today! And also, your loan lock expires at 5pm so you better get all your money into escrow in... say... now? kthxbye!"
And then the shizzle totally hit the fizzle.
I spent over two hours trying to get Bank of America to wire my money into my escrow account. (On a related note: Dear BofA, You also totally suck.) Two. Hours. Three times through the automated phone system. Four customer service reps. One massive pile of suckitude.
Jeremy spent what morphed into a day and a half trying to get another portion of the money wired and in the end felt as though he'd been put through Count Rugen's Machine. "I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five but I really don't know what that would do to you."
Once it was finally past 5pm and there was nothing more we could do involving financial transactions, I thought you might stop sucking a little bit.
But no.
Then you handed me a four-year-old with a raging earache. An earache so painful that it was impervious to Tylenol, mother-cuddling, and Barney DVDs. And of course, as Chelsea writhed and howled in my arms, Savannah voiced her protest as only a two-year-old can: loudly.
Monday, you are already a sucky day in general. What are your redeeming qualities, exactly? (Psssst: You don't have any.)
So what business do you have adding extreme financial anxiety and sick children to your repertoire?
None, Monday. You have none.
I'm giving you six days to clean up your act, motherflipper.
No love,
Heidi
---
You totally sucked.
You started out kind of exciting, with a trip to the escrow office to sign loan papers. Then, someone popped in and said, "Oh, guess what? You're closing today! And also, your loan lock expires at 5pm so you better get all your money into escrow in... say... now? kthxbye!"
And then the shizzle totally hit the fizzle.
I spent over two hours trying to get Bank of America to wire my money into my escrow account. (On a related note: Dear BofA, You also totally suck.) Two. Hours. Three times through the automated phone system. Four customer service reps. One massive pile of suckitude.
Jeremy spent what morphed into a day and a half trying to get another portion of the money wired and in the end felt as though he'd been put through Count Rugen's Machine. "I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five but I really don't know what that would do to you."
Once it was finally past 5pm and there was nothing more we could do involving financial transactions, I thought you might stop sucking a little bit.
But no.
Then you handed me a four-year-old with a raging earache. An earache so painful that it was impervious to Tylenol, mother-cuddling, and Barney DVDs. And of course, as Chelsea writhed and howled in my arms, Savannah voiced her protest as only a two-year-old can: loudly.
Monday, you are already a sucky day in general. What are your redeeming qualities, exactly? (Psssst: You don't have any.)
So what business do you have adding extreme financial anxiety and sick children to your repertoire?
None, Monday. You have none.
I'm giving you six days to clean up your act, motherflipper.
No love,
Heidi
---
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Driving Miss Fussy
It's almost sundown. I'm driving along, westbound, Savannah in the backseat.
The sun is right in our eyes.
She whines: "No 'un! No 'un! No 'un!!!"
I say, mostly calmly: "Close your eyes."
Her, whinier: "No 'un! Nooooo 'unnnnnnn!!!"
Me, yellier: "Turn your head!"
Her, yellier to match: "NO 'UN!"
Me, extra yelly: "Hold up a book in front of your face!"
Her, super yelly: "NOOOOOO 'UNNNNNN!"
On and on and on.
We come to a stop light. The sun is blocked by a tree. I am ready for relief from the yelling.
Her: "Where 'un? Where 'un go? Where 'un?! WHERE 'UN GO!?"
Me, pointing: "It's behind that tree."
Her, whiny: "Where? Where 'un? Where 'un go?"
Me, driving again: "There it is."
Her, the rest of the drive home: "No 'un! ... Where 'un go? ... No 'un! ... Where 'un go? NO 'UN! WHERE 'UN GO?!!!" She whines it, cries it, yells it, tries out a gravelly-devil voice version of it. She even works on the "s" sound, "No zhun! Where jun go?"
I give up talking.
We turn the into our complex. She finally stops whining. Her eyes go wide.
Her, smiling: "BUNNY! I see it! Bunny hopping. Hopping! Hopping everywhere!"
She bounces her two chubby little fingers in the air: "Hopping! Hopping!"
Then just one finger: "One bunny. I see it. Hop away. Hopping everywhere!"
Sun? What sun?
---
The sun is right in our eyes.
She whines: "No 'un! No 'un! No 'un!!!"
I say, mostly calmly: "Close your eyes."
Her, whinier: "No 'un! Nooooo 'unnnnnnn!!!"
Me, yellier: "Turn your head!"
Her, yellier to match: "NO 'UN!"
Me, extra yelly: "Hold up a book in front of your face!"
Her, super yelly: "NOOOOOO 'UNNNNNN!"
On and on and on.
We come to a stop light. The sun is blocked by a tree. I am ready for relief from the yelling.
Her: "Where 'un? Where 'un go? Where 'un?! WHERE 'UN GO!?"
Me, pointing: "It's behind that tree."
Her, whiny: "Where? Where 'un? Where 'un go?"
Me, driving again: "There it is."
Her, the rest of the drive home: "No 'un! ... Where 'un go? ... No 'un! ... Where 'un go? NO 'UN! WHERE 'UN GO?!!!" She whines it, cries it, yells it, tries out a gravelly-devil voice version of it. She even works on the "s" sound, "No zhun! Where jun go?"
I give up talking.
We turn the into our complex. She finally stops whining. Her eyes go wide.
Her, smiling: "BUNNY! I see it! Bunny hopping. Hopping! Hopping everywhere!"
She bounces her two chubby little fingers in the air: "Hopping! Hopping!"
Then just one finger: "One bunny. I see it. Hop away. Hopping everywhere!"
Sun? What sun?
---
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Warning: This Post Contains Graphic and Disturbing References to Poop. For Parental Audiences Only.
Picture this: Two cute little sisters, sitting in the tub, innocently playing with their bath toys.
Parents both in the bathroom with them, using the time to review home inspection report on the house they are trying to buy.
Older child: "Daddy, what's this?" And hands him a small, brown lump.
Mother: OH MY GOD IS THAT POOP!???!!!?!?!?!?!!!
Chaos ensues.
---
I know, I know. I should count myself lucky. This is our first (and hopefully last? knock on wood/fingers crossed!) poop in the tub. And it could have been much, much worse.
At least it wasn't hot-mustard-explosion newborn poop? Right?
It was "I am two years old and hell no I don't eat any fruits or vegetables except maybe bananas if you're lucky, so I pop out mostly rabbit pellets" poop. (TMI? Sorry about that. Just keepin' it real.)
At least we have two bathrooms (for now). So we had an alternate place to wash off the poop-water covered children.
And at least I wasn't home alone. (Now I know that I wasn't just lazy, I was a genius to never give them baths when I am home alone.)
So there's that.
No photos this time. You're welcome.
---
Parents both in the bathroom with them, using the time to review home inspection report on the house they are trying to buy.
Older child: "Daddy, what's this?" And hands him a small, brown lump.
Mother: OH MY GOD IS THAT POOP!???!!!?!?!?!?!!!
Chaos ensues.
---
I know, I know. I should count myself lucky. This is our first (and hopefully last? knock on wood/fingers crossed!) poop in the tub. And it could have been much, much worse.
At least it wasn't hot-mustard-explosion newborn poop? Right?
It was "I am two years old and hell no I don't eat any fruits or vegetables except maybe bananas if you're lucky, so I pop out mostly rabbit pellets" poop. (TMI? Sorry about that. Just keepin' it real.)
At least we have two bathrooms (for now). So we had an alternate place to wash off the poop-water covered children.
And at least I wasn't home alone. (Now I know that I wasn't just lazy, I was a genius to never give them baths when I am home alone.)
So there's that.
No photos this time. You're welcome.
---
Savannese 101
A few translations, if you ever happen to be baby-sitting my youngest child:
"Webbiss" = breakfast
"Oohbiss" = goldfish (crackers)
"Eye-belly" = library
"Oy" = Chelsea (I know, this one is nuts. How you get to "Oy" from "Chelsea" is a mystery.)
"Nanna" = Savannah
"Ooh-lee-nana" = Juliana (my mom's name)
"Mamma" = Llama (she's still into them)
"My" = I (as in "MY DO DAT!")
And here's a picture of the little precious-kins on her birthday. Just because.
---
"Webbiss" = breakfast
"Oohbiss" = goldfish (crackers)
"Eye-belly" = library
"Oy" = Chelsea (I know, this one is nuts. How you get to "Oy" from "Chelsea" is a mystery.)
"Nanna" = Savannah
"Ooh-lee-nana" = Juliana (my mom's name)
"Mamma" = Llama (she's still into them)
"My" = I (as in "MY DO DAT!")
And here's a picture of the little precious-kins on her birthday. Just because.
---
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Recruit
I have joined the army.
Not THE army. Not even any actual army.
I've joined... the Zumba Army.
I have become one of the hordes of women who stand in line at my local Y on Saturday morning, grasping a tiny, numbered ticket which allows me passage into a massive gym. When the doors open, we all race in, eager to claim a spot, each of which is marked with a red star.
Once the doors close, no one else is allowed inside. The room is packed to capacity. Late-comers can only peek through the tiny windows high on the gym doors, listen to the lame apologies from the employee guarding the door, and hope to arrive earlier next week. I imagine that they eventually wander off to the weight room, where they run on the treadmill sadly, in silence.
Meanwhile, the Zumba Army warms up. Our instructor stands in front, on a raised platform. She cranks up the music and starts to dance.
Seventy women follow her lead. Our hips don't lie. We're livin' la vida loca. We'll spin your head right round (when you go down, when you go down, down).
We pound the gym floor: stomp, stomp, stomp. Our hands go numb: clap, clap, clap. We hoot and holler so loud that passers-by stop to see what's going on.
We wiggle, shake, and shimmy.
We are the sweatiest, sexiest army ever.
C'mon, you know you want to join. TEN-HUT!
---
Not THE army. Not even any actual army.
I've joined... the Zumba Army.
I have become one of the hordes of women who stand in line at my local Y on Saturday morning, grasping a tiny, numbered ticket which allows me passage into a massive gym. When the doors open, we all race in, eager to claim a spot, each of which is marked with a red star.
Once the doors close, no one else is allowed inside. The room is packed to capacity. Late-comers can only peek through the tiny windows high on the gym doors, listen to the lame apologies from the employee guarding the door, and hope to arrive earlier next week. I imagine that they eventually wander off to the weight room, where they run on the treadmill sadly, in silence.
Meanwhile, the Zumba Army warms up. Our instructor stands in front, on a raised platform. She cranks up the music and starts to dance.
Seventy women follow her lead. Our hips don't lie. We're livin' la vida loca. We'll spin your head right round (when you go down, when you go down, down).
We pound the gym floor: stomp, stomp, stomp. Our hands go numb: clap, clap, clap. We hoot and holler so loud that passers-by stop to see what's going on.
We wiggle, shake, and shimmy.
We are the sweatiest, sexiest army ever.
C'mon, you know you want to join. TEN-HUT!
---
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