Sugarfest 2008

Our Halloween in pictures:
The beginning. Halloween morning and Claire is already begging to go Trick or Treating.
Cora's plan to scare you. Walk up to her and read Spooky on the front of her shirt.....
Then she turns around suddenly to terrify you with the marshmallow sized ghost on her back. Are you shaking in your boots yet?

And the costumes come out.
Temporarily empty baskets.
Permanently crazy kids.
And the dragon attacks.
I know, it's wear purple day. I didn't get the memo.
"Listen, I'm ready for this candy you've been bribing me with all day."

"Fine, you don't want to take me, I've got my own wheels."
Let the Trick or Treating commence.
An hour later we return, sticky, disheveled and exhausted, but still smiling. (I am fully aware Claire is in a sugar-induced coma. We are getting her help.)
One happy dragon (I might have offered/bribed her with a tootsie roll if she complied with my "say cheese" commands).
And the meltdown begins.
Butterfly down. Butterfly down.
And the loot.

Sorry for the brief details, but I have some serious candy calories to consume and very few hours left in the day.

Stop and smell the roses

Have I mentioned lately how much I love that husband of mine? He's a good man.
I woke up to some "just because" flowers this morning. Makes the day a little brighter!

Mommy loves me, she loves me not....

I have been having trouble lately finalizing a post. Good intentions and all, but the final product is a bust. For instance, I was all set to blog about my train wreck of an afternoon with my 2-year-old freak of nature, which included broken glass, a urine slip-n-slide and a need for human waste removal, but then I found her dancing naked on the coffee table, using a Barbie fishing pole to "conduct" a rousing and off-key version of "I Am a Child of God," and I forgot what it felt like to be angry with her. Post #1 out the window.

Next up was a tag that I was almost on board with (you got the almost, right?). The blogger was ordered to click on their "My Pictures" file, head directly to the fourth file, locate the fourth picture and post it, with an explanation, for the whole blogging world to enjoy. Problem being, that particular picture just happened to be of Claire's bloody entrance into this world, open uterus and all. Didn't want anyone heaving up their Frosted Flakes, so I refrained. Post #2 down the drain.

Here I am, attempt number three and I've got nothing my friends. I think this might be one of my only posts you could take a big bite out of and chew without getting a chunk of a metaphor or some personification stuck in your teeth (shoot, I just ruined it). So I'll post a few pictures I found when attempting blog idea #2, just for the sake of my reminiscing soul.
One of my favorite pictures of all times (Cora was just a few months old).
I felt this one appropriate for the upcoming holiday. Please ignore the hot pink thunder thighs. It was after I saw this picture that I renewed my gym membership.
And on the opposite end of the thunder thigh spectrum, here is my skinny mini. I thought covering the crack would make it a bit more modest (at least she kept her socks on).

And finally, what Claire has been up to while I was posting this:
It started out so small, and then I went to get the broom....
And while I was sweeping.....
this cup met its fate (2 cups in 2 days, she's on a roll). I guess that is what I get for finally giving in and letting Cora have the Barbie cereal she has been begging for, which is roughly 99.9% high fructose corn syrup.

Strange. I suddenly remember the emotions that fueled post attempt #1.

My Beautiful Disaster

Claire barks. It's what she does. She doesn't have croup and is not deathly ill. She just sounds like a seal 9 days out of 10. It has been that way since she was about 3 or 4 months old. It progressively got worse and after every medication had been exhausted and every diagnosis failed, we were sent to a specialist (she was about 8 months).

The ENT doc told us she had a hunch, but they would have to put her under and run a camera down her throat to verify. Saying goodbye to your baby before she is whisked off by kind nurses to be put to sleep is tough, even for the most emotionally stable of mothers (which I clearly am not). Every irrational fear took over and I was an internal basket case. But when the doctor came out to put our minds at ease, she had some interesting findings.

Not only was Claire suffering from severe acid reflux (although she had never shown signs of reflux, she had been on medication for it prior to rule it out as a cause, but it had done nothing to curb the barking so we took her off of it), but she had a number of other contributing factors. Her subglottis (which is the lower part of the larynx just below the vocal cords down to the top of the trachea, which takes air to the lungs) is about 60% smaller than it is supposed to be. She also has a cleft epiglottis (the flap that covers the trachea during swallowing so that food does not enter the lungs did not fully develop) which causes her to aspirate every time she swallows (regardless of whether it is liquid, solid or just saliva). In addition, the reflux had caused lesions and sores to form on her throat. The combination of all or part of the above was causing her (and still causes her) to bark.

So now that you understand the interworkings of Claire’s anatomy, when I tell you that she had a persistent cough for about 4 weeks you might judge me less harshly for not taking her to the doctor until today. I get tired of explaining away her constant bark and have gotten used to the glares I get in public from judgmental parents who assume I am dragging my croup-stricken daughter around town to infect other unsuspecting children. So in Boy-Who-Cried-Wolf fashion, when I finally took her to the doctor today I was told that she not only had Bronchitis and a sinus infection, but that she also had an ear infection too.

I know. I know. I am awaiting my Mother-of-the-Year award as I type this, but how was I to know that this time was different when she did not have a fever, was her hyper, silly self and had a normal appetite. Just makes you feel like you have a failed a bit as a mother, because, although resourceful, she couldn’t have hopped in a car and driven herself to the doctor.

On a more positive note, her doctor did say that she is his best 2-year-old talker and she is the only 2-year-old he has ever been able to reason with. Their conversation went something like this:

Dr. Hanks: Claire I need to shine my flashlight into your ear now.

Claire: Do I get shots?

Dr Hanks: No shots today.

Claire: Why?

Dr. Hanks: Because you don’t need any this time.

Claire: So no shots?

Dr. Hanks: no shots.

Claire: Okay. See my ears.

She is quite a funny girl (apparently even when she is really sick!!)!

ps. That photo is another of Pam's great shots!

Pumpkin Time!

This is the second year we have field-tripped it to a local pumpkin patch with Cora's preschool. I snapped a few shots, but Cora was too busy running wild to pause for pictures. We now have enough pumpkins in our possession to decorate our entire sub! Pumpkin pie anyone (and of course I mean YOU would have to make the pie, I'm just here to eat it!)?
Here we have Cora and Davis mesmerized by the chickens. Blame Farmer Steve for the lack of chickens in this picture, as he told her class if they stuck their fingers through the fence, the chickens would mistake them for worms and peck them off (wisely, they kept their distance!).
Claire learning the consequences of blocking the finish line to the maze.
She eventually turned herself around and made it out unscathed.
Claire inspecting the back of the chicken coop.
And a quick family shot to wrap up the day. (It has been brought to my attention that it appears I have only one leg, so please refrain from making any ridiculous pirate jokes. Thanks.)

My story

Once upon a time in a barn (um, storage shed) far away, a little girl took her first breath. Weighing in at an undetermined number of pounds (bread scales are not the most scientific form of newborn poundage identification after all), she was greeted with a giddy sister's gleeful cheers, "My sister is here, my sister is here." Small and overwhelmed, perhaps, but happy. Very happy.

That baby grew. She sprouted a mess of shockingly blond hair, skinned her knees too many times to count and chased all the 2nd grade boys around the playground. She loved spinning wildly on the merry-go-round, collecting marbles from the not-as-hot-shot-as-they-thought neighbor boys and playing British Bulldog until it was too dark to see your opponent. She swam like a fish, the Arizona sun turning her fair skin golden and the chlorine turning her fair hair green. Unaware she was poor and very aware she was a tomboy, she was happy. Very happy.

That little girl grew. She secretly met her first crush at the movie theater, played volleyball until her arms ached and stayed up late at Friday night slumber parties drinking Dad's root beer, eating Pop Rocks and allowing M.A.S.H. to determine her future. She would be a rich, fat, Shamu trainer living with Marco VanHuessen (he wore Vans after all) in a mansion in San Diego. They would have 3 kids and drive a Red Geo Metro LSI convertible. She felt insecure and over-parented, but she was happy. Very happy.

That teenager grew. She managed to avoid most of the wild high school parties, but could not avoid a horrible first kiss. She TPed houses and got straight A's, dated a rebel and attended church every Sunday. She got her heart broken by her first "true love," and began making plans to erase the mistakes of the past, unaware that mistakes would follow her like a lost, mangy kitten. She adopted the natural progression of life when, after high school graduation, she went on to college with caviar dreams and a case of Ramen. She stuffed every inch of her suitcase full of memories to keep the homesickness at bay, but realized that although lip-syncing with curling iron microphones to Mambo #5 was the beginning of a whole new set of memories, what she really missed when her head hit the pillow in their cramped apartment was her mother. She loved all the wrong boys, ate all the wrong food and made all the wrong decisions, but she was happy. Very happy.

That young woman grew. She snagged a husband, secured a good job and bought a house. She nagged that husband, quit that job and built a home to provide shelter for her two beautiful daughters. It was after the birth of those little ones that she began to understand why at 12:01 on a Friday night a mother would have the strong desire to call in every available patrol car to round up a tardy daughter, and at 12:02, ERs would be checked and double checked. Midnight did not turn riches to rags or coaches to pumpkins, nor was it the ultimate trust test as she had always believed it to be. Midnight was when a piece of you, an extension if you will, returned, making you whole again and allowing one worry to be crossed off the list for the night. Those small girls also taught her that rat traps of the glue variety make nice tap shoes when pasted to a 3-yr-old’s feet, lipstick is overrated and no matter how much you want to, you just can't get angry at your toddler for painting the walls when, in the process, they painted their eyelids shut as well. She was frazzled, carrying a few extra pounds and could not tell you the last time she had shaved both legs in one shower, but she was happy. Very happy.

That mother grew. She learned that maintaining a healthy marriage is more important than maintaining the perfect waistline. She found friends to help pick up the pieces when a particularly rough day shattered her Norman Rockwell visions. The caviar dreams were replaced with ravioli nightmares and she looked forward to the day she could pee alone, but she is happy. Very happy.

Picture pages, picture pages...

Enough with the Bill Cosby flashbacks (if you finished that song or even know where that title comes from, you get a cookie!), I have some serious pictures to share. I know I should break them up into multiple blogs, but I'm just to darn lazy and both the Office and Grey's are waiting patiently for me on DVR. So here you have pictures from 2 family visits (Mark's parents and my sisters) and Cora's gymnastics class. Enjoy!

My sister, Desi and the girls.

Cute cousins.
My sisters (sometimes it is better if you just don't ask!).

Sleepy Soren.

Mark's parents, Connie and Dale with their only grand kids.

Crazy Cora.
Concerned Claire.

Poor Connie.
Cora's teaching Connie how to ride a 4-wheeler (notice the girls had already styled her hair!).

Cora started gymnastics again at the Wings Center. Quite bendy isn't she?

The student/teacher ratio is 2:1 which Cora (an attention addict) appreciates.

So that is what we have been up to lately. It has been fun to have a full house!

Earth shattering news!!!!!!

If you were sitting in my living room a few days ago and heard the ear piercing scream, you would have believed that we either won the lottery or I had just received word that the tickets to the November 15th concert to, wait for it, wait for it....THE NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK had just been purchased. Seeing as how our savings account still hosts cobwebs, you would be right to assume that I am going to what I know will be the most amazing concert EVER!! That's right. Jordan, I'm coming!!!!!!!!!

*to all you New Kids haters, never fear. I have a zillion things I have to blog about (in-law visit, Cora's gymnastics class, etc.), so a blog for rational adults will follow tomorrow.*

I think I'll just go eat worms

When I was 15, I was riding my bike downtown with my little brother. We were killing time, hoping that a root beer float from A&W would somehow trick fall into believing summer was still in full swing and the dreaded first day of school was not on the horizon. My brother, eager to keep up, managed to run into my back tire, sending me sprawling onto the asphalt. When I stood to brush myself off, my thoughts were not on the blood spilling from my knee, but rather on the gaping hole in my brand new back-to-school jeans that allowed a clear shot of the wound.

My entire sophomore year had (quite literally) come crashing to a halt. I had spent weeks preparing the outfit I would wear as I entered the bright red doors of PHS, shook the "frosh" status and began to instigate my plan to make *Jared* (names have been changed to protect the stalked) fall at my feet by homecoming. Without those pants, I was ruined. He would never give me a second glance.

Now why am I telling this ridiculous story? Well, I feel it is important to preface this post with a story that proves how completely and utterly irrational I am (and always have been). I know what I am going to say will come across as silly, self-loathing and a pathetic cry for compliments. That is not my intention. I am just in a mood, can't get out of it and thought blogging about my irrational woes might help.

I am surrounded by women that amaze me. Talented, beautiful women. Take my friend Amber for instance. This lovely new blog layout, whipped up by her in a matter of minutes, would have taken me months of preparation, and the execution alone would have cost me my sanity (as if I ever had it). Next up we have Pam. The first family photo shoot she ever does so perfectly captures the essence of my family that I begin to question the hundreds of dollars blown through the years at portrait studios (I should probably add Krista and Angela to that brilliant photographer list too). Moving on to the witty writers (Andrea and Jen) and the singers (Edna and Ericka) and the crafters (Andrea) and the athletic volleyball players (Monica and RaNell) and the smarty pants (Treshia) and the ridiculously well organized (Joey) and the kind-hearted rock star of a fitness instructor (Rachel) and I could go on for hours (just know that because I know and love all of you, I can list your amazing qualities without wanting to toss your talented butts out a window).

In that sea of talent I occasionally feel I am drowning. I can't act, cook, sing, craft, teach, clean, spike or even spell above average. I am not brainy (for goodness sakes, after umpteen princess tea parties I couldn't even tell you what the Boston Tea Party was all about), exceptionally athletic (my post-baby coordination is nothing to write home about) or even motivated enough to improve all/any of the above listed non-talents! I often feel like a failure as a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend and an employee. I do not manage my time well, keep my bad-habits in check or believe patience is a virtue that has been bestowed upon me. I have 9 fully filled out (and addressed) thank-you notes from Cora's 4th birthday party (which was in June mind you) sitting in my junk drawer. I have 4 loads of unfolded laundry on my bedroom floor. I have a checkbook that has been begging to be balanced since 2004. And I now have a bowl full of buttery popcorn sliding down my stomach to take up permanent residency on my thighs that I have to make (break) plans to run off.

I just can't seem to get it together. Yet, my little world is perfect and just as it should be. And there you have life's biggest irony. I have little to offer, make mistakes daily, and am world's biggest procrastinator. Yet, I can't seem to think of a legitimate reason to back-up my aforementioned complaints. But I just feel like ranting anyway. So, for the sake of a therapeutic whining session, please don't tell me I'm being irrational. That is, after all, a talent that I already possess.