8 Crazy Nights

They say time spent with family is like leftovers--after three days it just goes bad. Sloan and I spent a week in Greensboro with my family. Do the math. No, no--it wasn't that bad. Rather than like leftovers, it was a bit like bad reality television, except no one has being voted off to look forward to. You're just stuck with these people who know all your flaws, cooking and cleaning, sleeping somewhere strange, praying there's wine in the fridge. Or maybe it is like that show that used to be on MTV--The Real World. (Or maybe it is still on MTV. It's been roughly a decade since I've watched MTV.) Do you remember the tag line--"See what happens when people stop being polite and start being real." This sums up my past week. And I'm figuring that for every child under the age of 18, each day is multiplied by 2. So really, using this math, Sloan and I spent 6 days alone with my folks, roughly 8 days with Sloan's parents, brother and sister-in-law and their 3 kids, 10 days with my folks and brother's family of 4 kids, and then 24 days with my folks, brother's family and sister's family of 7 kids. So what is that? A total of 48 days with family. And it's mainly the fact that it is was us, my parents, and my siblings families and the noisy 12 grandchildren running around playing the piano and with every noisy toy on the planet that makes you nuts. Certifiably.

But even if you tally up the days to just be a week on the island, the reality of being with family is skewed. Skewed with a lifetime full of arguments, resentments, disappointments, miscommunication, burnt cranberry apple bakes, messy rooms, missed curfews, missed soccer games, driven under gates, backed into phone poles, lost keys, lost purses, and lost tempers. And it is just so danged hard to remember that since you are not the same person you were living under this roof so many moons ago, more than likely neither are your parents or your siblings. You return home and are treated like you're 12; you resent it. But by the end of the day, you're acting like you're 8. So when you lose your cell phone it becomes the perfect time for your siblings to rehash everything you've ever lost. Certainly the discussion about the vortex that is my (I mean your) life is in loving jest. But eventually, after 10 minutes of frantic walking around the house with the phone dialing my cell straining to see if I could hear my Stevie Wonder ring tone over the cacophony of laughing siblings and screaming children, I yank Sloan into the back hall of my parents' house and yell at him in hushed tones, "I hate this *%3!@ house. I hate my parents and I hate you most of all for bringing me here!"

But the truth is, I don't hate anybody. It's just that my family makes me crazy. I can't seem to remember that my identity is in Christ when I'm with these people. I take it as a personal affront when I make mac and cheese that no one says to me, "My God, Elizabeth. Did you make this mac and cheese? It is as if it were made by the Christ child Himself!"

I get together with my family, the people whom God has given me as a safe haven to be vulnerable with, and I spend most of the time defensive and pissed off. Mainly pissed off that my family isn't perfect. Which means I'm not perfect. And me not being perfect, well that just really gets me fuming. Particularly if you happen to notice. And if you dare to be imperfect near me I just might threaten to never come home again.

But you see, I have to keep coming home. Not because home is where the heart is or any other cheesy sentiment you learned while watching Christmas movies on the Hallmark channel. But because even though going home drives me bonkers--I would not know how to love were it not for these people. God has given them to me and me to them in order that we might know Him and reflect Him better. And sometimes, my childhood home is so full of His reflection that my heart breaks. I'll see my brother loving on Henry, my sister-in-law and Sloan crackin' jokes, my niece dancing like a maniac with her new Ipod, or maybe in the 20th round of Euchre, and for ever so briefly I catch a glimpse of the true meaning of Christmas.

That God took on flesh and entered into the insanity. That He left the peaceful throne room of heaven to be born in a barnfull of stinky animals so that He could live, love, and eventually die for all of our petty self-righteousness. So that one day, we might experience a REAL homecoming.

It just goes to show me that I still don't get what this whole Jesus dying for my sins and reconciling me to God and my fellow man thing is all about. If I did, I'd have a clearer picture of my own need for grace, compassion, and mercy and I'd be slower to declare my parents, siblings, and spouse as the roots of all evil. I'd see them as my allies rather than my enemies. And Jesus' actions would show me that to love someone, I have to go where it is noisy. And get dirty. And forgive. And forgive. And forgive. Until it hurts.

And forgiveness is death.

Death to being first. Death to correcting every little thing. Death to bringing up someone else's flaws when mine are mentioned. Death to my right to be right. Forgiveness doesn't mean that I have to say, "Oh, it's okay you hurt me." It means saying (and believing), "No. It is not okay. But this relationship means more to me than my right to justice. My love for you mandates I bear the pain without spewing it back at you. "

But FYI--it also means that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't bring up every little thing I've ever lost since I was 5 the next time I lose my cell phone. Maybe you should get off the couch and help me look for it. Maybe.

Only at Gigi and Papa's....

Are you given 2 spoons and a tambourine before breakfast. I'll post pics of his other incidences of "Gigi and Papa spoil me" when I can find the D60's cord. I may have left it in Richmond.

I'm a little Cliff Clavin, I know...

Henry wants to show off his interpretations of two of his favorite tunes... Frosty the Snowman.

Rudolph the Red-nosed reindeer. (He tripped and fell Nestea Plunge style into the driveway. Occupational hazard for a toddler. But he's a trooper as I think I got more upset than he did.)

And this week's Top Chef got me thinking about the carol "The 12 days of Christmas." I'm pretty sure I'd kill my true love if he gave me all that. Do you know how noisy it would be to own 23 birds, 17 women, and 33 men, particularly when 21 of those men are playing musical instruments? And just think about the mess. And the smell. No thank you. Give me the 5 golden rings and call it a day.
But in actuality, to give you a little more than you cared about Christmas trivia, the song represents the 12 days between the birth of Jesus and the traditional celebration of the Wise men's arrival--Epiphany (January 6). It dates back to the 16th century, when I suppose it was commonplace to give your love people as a present. Each day represents a church teaching, not just one songwriter's obsession with fowl. The meanings are as follows:

• 1 True Love refers to God
• 2 Turtle Doves refers to the Old and New Testaments
• 3 French Hens refers to Faith, Hope and Charity, the Theological Virtues
• 4 Calling Birds refers to the Four Gospels and/or the Four Evangelists
• 5 Golden Rings refers to the first Five Books of the Old Testament, the "Pentateuch", which gives the history of man's fall from grace.
• 6 Geese A-laying refers to the six days of creation
• 7 Swans A-swimming refers to the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the seven sacraments
• 8 Maids A-milking refers to the eight beatitudes
• 9 Ladies Dancing refers to the nine Fruits of the Holy Spirit
• 10 Lords A-leaping refers to the ten commandments
• 11 Pipers Piping refers to the eleven faithful apostles
• 12 Drummers Drumming refers to the twelve points of doctrine in the Apostle's Creed

Donny Osmond, what are you talking about?

Once again, we were listening to the golden sounds of Channel 401, Sounds of the Season. And I have a few questions about Christmas Carols.

1. Why you gotta always make the yuletide gay? Is there not an argument for the yuletide being created gay? Why can't the yuletide be straight? And why is this any of our business?

2. Is there a contractual obligation for all recording artists to record the song "Winter Wonderland"? I've heard versions from everyone from Frank Sinatra to Neil Diamond to the Cocteau Twins. And seriously, who makes a snowman and then decides to make him a preacher? (Parson Brown)

3. All songs about the 8 lb 6 oz baby Jesus and the night he was born. I'm certain that the night of the Christ child's birth was Holy. But Silent? He was born in a barn. No way. And why do song writers feel they need to make Jesus a docile baby? The miracle is that He is fully God and fully man. And babies cry. It's how they communicate to their mommies and I'm pretty certain a new born needs to say to it's Mom, "Hey you! I was warm where I was. And what's this grumbly in my tummy?" and certainly Jesus had to add, "Hey Mary! Could you swaddle me a bit tighter and maybe have the shepherds wash their hands before they adore me?"

4. Quite possibly, the most theologically rich Christmas songs are "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing," "O Little Town of Bethlehem," and "Joy to the World." But my all time favorite is still probably "O Holy Night." But I ask you, can you listen to the Little Drummer Boy and not want to chant "Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum?" It gets points for being my childhood favorite and also the favorite of most kids I know.

5. And who tells Ghost stories at Christmas? In "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" the words are "They'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long long ago." WHAT?!? Is this some tradition that my folks just didn't observe? Is this talking about your great Aunt Pat's beard? Dickens?

42 cents of validation

I just love getting Christmas cards. Like the number of my facebook friends, I see each card as a sign of my worth. The more cards I get, obviously, the more cool I am. I have each card received taped to the windows in our kitchen. Hopefully, I'll be so popular I won't see all of the leaves I've failed to rake in my backyard.

I particularly love the photo cards. So far, I have a tie between my two favorites. One is from a friend who, in addition to the pics of her kids being cute and smiling, has a photo of her son and daughter singing into a microphone. Her 2 year old son is in his pjs and holding the mic, while the 4 year daughter poses quite saucily behind him. I love this photo so much because it gives me a sense of their personalities. My other favorite card is from a friend who is pregnant. The card has three pics on it--one of the ultrasound, one of her and her husband, and one of the cat. This makes me laugh for several reasons. 1. Sloan's reaction. "Awesome. I was waiting for a picture of her uterus." and 2. I wonder if the cat will get equal billing next Christmas or will he, as I suspect, be excluded from the card. Maybe my friend can take a picture that captures what I imagine her reality to be like next year. A picture of her little one tormenting the cat. Or maybe a photo of her trying to coax her son or daughter out of the litter box.

I'm still a bit complacent about our Christmas card. I used the photo from the banner at the top of this blog. In my photo file, I have the photo titled, "hlovelylashes.jpg." It in no way captures Henry's personality. It makes him seem dreamy, contemplative, and lovely. He is lovely. But the only thing he really contemplates is which member of the creche party to dance with next. Were I to capture his personality it would look something more like this...

Or this...

But he is loving dancing to Christmas music. He has 2 new dance moves. He likes to take the baby Jesus out of the manger and then do "fast feet" and then put the baby back in the manger. I tried explaining to Henry that in order to avoid SIDS, we needed to place Jesus on his back. But most of the time, Jesus ends up face down in the manger. Or face down next to a donkey. He also does a move I like to call "Dizzy Sippy." Remember the game "dizzy bat"? Henry likes to dangle his sippy cup from his mouth and twirl around real fast. He does this until inevitably the sippy cup flies across the room and he falls down on his bum. He rolls around laughing, trying to get up to get the sippy, but is too dizzy to stand. I'm usually no help during this because I'm too busy trying not to wet my pants.

But sometimes Henry is tired of the Christmas music. We pretty much have the TV on all the time to Comcast's "Sounds of the Season." In addition to loads of traditional Christmas music, you also get to hear such classics as Faith Hill's "Where is Christmas?" and Melissa Etheridge's "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)". With alternating holiday scenes of close up photos of sugar cookies, snowy trees, and an abandoned sled, Comcast also gives us great holiday trivia such as, "In Ireland, children blacken their faces to go caroling", and "traditionally, the trunk of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree is given to the US Equestrian team to use as an obstacle." But angry that the TV was on and yet their were no moving pictures, Henry took things into his own hands. I (foolishly, I know) left Henry alone in the family room to use the bathroom. Upon my return, I heard blaring explosions coming from the family room. I found Henry sitting on the couch, remote control in hand, watching "Back to the Future III." He'd obviously turned the volume all the way up. But I had to hand it to him, it definitely was more interesting to watch than the music channel. And, because I was in desperate need of some cuddles and also because Back to the Future is such a darn good movie, we watched the rest of it. There were only 20 minutes left, but we still got to see a flying train, a car on fire, and some of the worst acting in Elisabeth Shoe's career.

Mr. Glass would love Henry*

A friend commented on how Henry might be the only toddler not afraid of Santa. And it's true. He's never really had that normal "stranger danger" fear. I attribute it to him being taken care of by so many people the first 2 weeks of his life when he was in the NICU. (And also I like to think I have exceptional parenting skills. But we all know that at best I'm an adequate mother.) Henry was neither afraid nor excited to see Santa. What he really wanted was to get at the giant "candies" and lighted Christmas trees at the mall's North Pole. He also wanted to check out the tripod the photo elf was using. And all of the cords surrounding the tripod. It is no wonder that he loves Curious George. They are kindred spirits. And I'm cool with that.

But the comment got me thinking. Is my kid odd? Peculiar? Quirky? Or is he just a weirdo? Maybe he just dances to the beat of his own drum. (But isn't that just a polite way of saying "a bit off"?)

I'll let you decide. Here are the latest things Henry does that are "unique".

• Most kids are afraid of the vacuum cleaner. Henry tries to ride it. As I use it. And when he eventually falls off, he pushes the canister around behind me.
• He kisses any pictures he sees of himself.
• He's not a big waver. But he nods at people when they wave to him--as if to say, " 'Sup?"
• He will not dance alone. You must dance with him. And he prefers to dance on the table. (College friends--yes, I know. Like mother, like son.)
• He is manipulative. (No--I know this is not unique to him. But isn't 19 months old a bit young?) Yesterday he didn't want to put on his pants. I said, "Time for pants." He said, "No." "Yes." "No." "You're putting on pants. It's December. Pay no attention to the fact that it's 70 degrees outside." Then he proceeded to start kissing me, saying "No" between each kiss. "Thanks for the kisses, Pickle. But you're still putting on your pants."
• He is an adventurous eater. He loves spicy foods--like the Bang Bang Shrimp from Bonefish grill. Last night he housed on a bowl of chili. He loves Kufta kabobs from the Mediterranean Deli. He loves salmon. And raw onion. And roast beef with horseradish sauce.
• And sometimes, I can never tell if he is saying "thank you" in sign language, blowing me a kiss, or telling me off. Contextually, it's a crap shoot.

*Mr. Glass is a character on Curious George. He's a millionaire who loves all things "unique".

Ho, Ho, Ho

Originally I had planned for Henry to wear his fancy embroidered Christmas church outfit for his Santa photo. But I put it on (a minor miracle as it has real buttons as opposed to snaps and the shirt buttons into the little plaid pants) only to realize that my son sort of looks, well, how do I put this, girly. So I dug out a hand me down Christmas tie. I did not want to immortalize Henry in his Santa photo looking like a sissy-boy.

(Note to self, Henry is now to big for fancy dancy outfits.)

But I mean, how cute is my little drummer boy in his tie? Where did my baby go? I think this is a complete turn around from the stoner look he was rockin' in his vans last year.

Also, what's with the "Season's Greetings" at the bottom of the card. Can't they just say Merry Christmas? Who takes their kids to see Santa that is offended by Christmas? Geesh, people. Michael Scott says it best---"Happy Birthday, Jesus! Sorry your party is so lame..."

Oh Tannenbaum

The prospects of our getting an awesome tree from the baseball team at James River High School being so bright, Henry and Daddy have to wear their shades. Henry has taken to wearing his sunglasses a lot. In the car. In his stroller. In the grocery store. I think it's because he's a drummer now and so he has an image to project and protect.

Over the river and through the woods, to the baseball fields we go!
Henry helps us decorate. Or mainly, he excels at re-decorating. Many ornaments were hung multiple times. Notice the spiderman ornament at his feet. This, and a scooby doo van, are his favorite ornaments and spend more time visiting baby Jesus in Henry's "Little People" Nativity than they do on the tree.

Henry helps Daddy water the tree. But it is during this time that he discovers the joy of splashing in the water in the tree stand.

And then he begins to rearrange the lights.
Henry crawls around to the back of the tree. Sloan, not seeing what Henry had done, literally asked me, "Where's Henry?" Only to hear a "Dee-a-Doo" (Henry's version of "Peek-a-boo") from the back of the tree.

So finally, we had to put the tree in prison. It's for it's own safety. But we do have "open tree" times where Henry can rearrange to his heart's content. But Mommy just can't take having to "parent" so vigilantly for longer than 30 minutes at a time.

Things that Make Me Go Hmmm....

1. Why is it called "Summer Sausage" if it is mainly sold at Christmas time?

2. What's with the Christmas song "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus?" At best, a child witnesses her parents in some sort of sexual role play. At worst, it's a song about adultery. Does anyone else have a problem with this?

Little Drummer Boy

Henry has a new favorite past time. The drums. We're talking he sat still on a stool and played the drums for thirty minutes and cried when I took him away to eat dinner at his cousin Anderson's 16th birthday dinner. All night long, if he wasn't strapped in a high chair, he was at the drums. What killed me about all of this was that he was into it. Not giggling and laughing like he is when playing with cars, but I had the sense of watching someone actually perform. He was concentrating. Had he closed his eyes to "feel it"--I would not have been surprised.

Move over Keith Moon.

Even Isabel can join in on her own set. They're thinking of opening a dueling drum bar called "Henry and Isabel's." Ladies drink for free on Tuesday nights.
But the best part, Mom, is that I can watch myself play the drums in the window.

P.S. Please no one tell my parents that Henry likes to play the drums. He does not need a set of drums for Christmas.

The Pickle vs. the Pop (or Hey, Henry, Look this Way!)

So I'm slowly learning how to use the camera. And the software that Nikon "gave me." I say gave loosely considering the price of the camera. The interface is different than Photoshop so it is taking me longer to figure out what each control is and what it does, but I'm slowly getting the hang of it. Were I to read the instructions, things would probably go a little faster.
That being said, how in the heck to I get Henry to cooperate? No matter what dance I do or sound I make, the boy won't look at me or the camera. And forget trying to get him to just sit still and smile. My friend Mollie had the great idea of a giant candy cane lollipop for Christmas card pics. Since our card lists do not overlap, I stole the idea. Cute right? But only if a)you can find the pop, and b)your child doesn't bury the pop. Initially, I could only find a medium sized pop, but it had a Santa on it. Then I went to Cracker Barrel and found a giant Lolly. However, this morning, in between the time it took me to unwrap the giant lolly, put my camera on, and get Henry out of his high chair to go outside for pictures, I lost the lollipop. I thought I'd put it in my back pocket, but it's gone. Seriously. No where to be found. So we took the medium sized lollipop outside. Where Henry proceeded to use it as a phone. So I showed him that you were supposed to lick it. He licked it, then began pretending it was a rake in the leaves. Then he threw it and then covered it with leaves.
I was hoping to get the photo done today so I could take advantage of Ritz' 5 cent developing today, but I think I'm going to have to wait until Sloan returns and I can have someone else helping me wrangle the pickle and the pop.

Henry's Merry Godbrothers

Welcome to the world, Hudson and Will! If Henry were awake he would squeal with delight and probably try to stick his finger in your sweet tiny noses!

I'm so glad you decided to wait to join us outside your Mommy's tummy, although I'm still lamenting y'all not being born on my birthday. I was planning on having a joint 35th/4th birthday party with y'all at Chuck E Cheese's. Maybe we can still share a laser tag party sometime?

And to Shannon, one of Henry's Fairy Godmothers and an original founder of the Henry Marshall Phillips Fan Club and Facebook group, you ROCK!!!! Way to make it past 36 weeks carrying over 12 pounds of baby. No wonder that beach ball you swallowed was so danged big!

I guess Henry will have to find some other blonde cougar to cuddle up to as your lap will now be taken...

Any takers?

Thank you, Ferris

Life moves pretty fast.

If you don't stop and look around once in awhile,

you could miss it.

--Ferris Bueller*

Sloan is out of town until Thursday and he only asked one thing of me while he was gone--"Just enjoy Henry." You see, I've been threatening a full on cleaning smackdown this week in preparation for Christmas decorations. And I am cleaning. Slowly. But I'm also obeying my husband and enjoying Henry. And control of the remote control. Last night I stayed up past midnight painting Henry's Christmas present (a double sided train/car landscape thingy the exact dimensions of our coffee table--I know. It's awesome and I'm smart.) and watching House. Thank you USA for running a House marathon and thank you to whomever invented DVR.

But in addition to loving my craft time, I'm loving my little man. Today, I didn't rush him across the gym parking lot like I usually do. I don't know why I rush him. We're just going home. And at home there are chores to do. But I just let Henry take the lead (ok, as much of the lead as you can take while still holding your Mommy's hand). We strolled down the ramp then came back up the steps twice. We shook people's hands and waved at people. We pulled up grass, stuck our heads through each of the empty "U's" at both bike racks, hugged trees, picked up rocks and sticks, watched people start their cars, watched people pull out, touched headlights, and even sat down and played with the velcro on our shoes a couple of times. (And by we, I'm mainly meaning Henry. My shoes have laces.) It was probably the best 15 minutes I've spent in days.

So maybe I oughtta listen to Sloan more. Seems like I've said this before...


*In college, I wrote a paper comparing Ferris Bueller to Benjamin Franklin as sorts of colloquial spokesmen for their respective generations. I got a "B" with the following comment--"Elizabeth, it is a shame you are an A student who is content to receive a B. Perhaps your next paper, in addition to being well written and humorous, will actually pertain to American literature." My next paper was on Emerson and Walt Whitman. My thesis was that these two men did not think the university system could accurately measure my worth so what does my grade really matter?

Ashton Kutcher's Got Nothing on Me...

For my birthday/Christmas/Valentine's Day/Mother's Day present, Sloan got me a new fancy dancy camera--a Nikon D60. It pretty much rocks, except for that I'm still don't quite know how to work it. The last time I took a photography class it was with actual film. It is not so much the photography part I'm worried about, it is actually what the heck are all of these buttons and levers for. And when should I put on the extra lens that the salesman said would be great for when Henry is in a play? And what the heck is this software that came with it. I wish I had Photoshop--of course, the Photoshop courses I took in Art School out in Colorado were for Photoshop 6. I think they're on version 47 now or something.

But here are a few of my favorite pics from Thanksgiving. Nothing has been done to them, seeing as I can't even figure out how to crop them. The manual says I'm supposed to be able to do this "in camera". Yeah right. Thank God it came with free passes to photog classes at "Ritz Camera University."

The J boys enjoying their bottles.

Why everyone at a little get together of my high school friends kept saying, "My, Henry sure is busy."

The naked chef. Watch out Jamie Oliver.

Henry's cousin, Gigi.

Henry loves playing in Gigi and Papa's giant tub.

All dressed up to go out for Mommy's birthday.

(Note the scratch on his face from my wedding ring.)

This Charmed Life

I spend a lot of time complaining...

I don't get to sleep in anymore. My kitchen floor needs mopping. I hate cooking and apparently I signed up for KP duty in sharpie. My hair is about an inch too short. The rain makes it a pain to get to the gym. I want to lose weight but I also want to eat my entire birthday cake by myself. I feel guilty that I'm half way to eating the cake by myself (it's my grandma's chocolate chip pound cake)! I wish Henry would sit down once in awhile. And maybe learn to change his own diaper. And brush his own teeth. And put himself to bed. My husband travels a lot. I want a baby. Specifically a pink one. Lots of my friends are pregnant. My 43 year old sister is pregnant. With her 8th kid and for some strange reason, she won't promise to give me the baby if it is a girl.

But then, God blesses me with reality. The weekend before Thanksgiving I went to a fabulous wedding. The wedding was so awesome it took 2 states to contain it--Pennsylvania and Delaware. While hanging out at our friend's house before the wedding, my friend's father asked me a question that I haven't been asked since my senior year in college.

Dr. C: So, Elizabeth. What are your dreams? Your long term aspirations?
EJ: Huh?
Dr. C: Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
(Long pause)
EJ: Well, I guess more of the same.
Dr. C: Really?
EJ: Yeah. I like my life. So just more of the same.
Dr. C: Hmm.
EJ: And maybe to have a maid come once a week to clean my bathrooms.

I'm very thankful for Dr. C's pointed, albeit awkward question because it made me realize, that when it comes down to it--I've got everything I need. Actually, I've got everything I want. I'm content.

It's a new feeling for me. Contentment. Maybe I'm growing up. I am 31 now. Seems like it's about time....

On Hiatus

Not much blogging going on. Been sick. Been to a wedding. (Which deserves an entire entry to itself because it was AWESOME!!! but I'm too tired to do it and for some reason just thinking about it makes me sing the theme to Flash Gordon.) Am at my parents house making 6 pumpkin pies. And ambrosia. And cranberry apple bake. All while Henry kisses himself in the mirrored hallway.

Am also planning to work on my book more and my blog less. So bear with me.

But for my Greensboro buds, give me a call at my parents house. They still live in the same house where I grew up.

Fun with Food

Hair design: Henry. Product used: Hot Dog grease mixed with banana. Beautiful hair with a hold that lasts.
So if I bite my tongue trying to prematurely climb into the tub, you'll reward me with a Popsicle? Cool.
Mom, this thing melts pretty fast when you dip it in the tub. This bath still counts, right?

It's always more fun when you share with everyone

Henry and I have been sharing a lot these last three weeks while Sloan has been out of town. Cuddles, chores, kisses, germs.

Henry has allergies. Like his mother. Like his Papa. Sorry, buster. The reason you get a hacking cough when you play in the leaves? It's because you and mold, and trees, and grass, will never be friends. Or maybe you can be friends but you're going to have to be high to play with them.

Let's just be thankful you're not allergic to Peanut Butter because Reece's are awesome. And if you develop an allergy to Nutrigrain Bars you will probably starve to death.

But it is at least good to know what is going on. Particularly because
"extra phlegm from the allergies"
+"extra saliva from bottom molars coming in"
+ "any milk at all"
= puking once a day for the past week.

But it wasn't like the pukes from last time. He was not puny. Rather, he'd be building with blocks, simply turn his head, vomit, and then continue on his merry way. Because of this, sometimes I wouldn't realize he'd puked until he was splashing his hands in it. And to make matters worse, I kept thinking that maybe he was just sticking his fingers down his throat (because he keeps chewing on his hands while he is teething) so I kept giving him milk. Augh. Apparently, it made more sense to me for him to binge and purge rather than just his tummy was too full of snot to handle milk.

And also for awhile I thought he had a parasite. Or maybe African Sleeping Sickness. This is because when Sloan is out of town I watch hours of House at night. I just can't seem to get enough of Hugh Laurie.

But we are on day 2 of allergy meds and so far so good. (Meaning less coughing and no puking.) I'm not going to give him milk for at least a week. And he has yet to slap me in the face when I give him his nose spray. (A face slap being standard procedure for Saline drops and the aspirator.)

But I have also shared with my son some good gifts. He is a fabulous dancer, in particular, he likes to shimmy his shoulders. My friend Robin said, "Of course he does. I wonder who he's seen doing that." But he does not like to dance alone. He's not the type of kid where you just turn on the music and he'll start breaking it down. Rather, I'll put on the music and he'll climb up on the coffee table, reach for my hands and we'll rock out to Jack Johnson. He'll shimmy, shake, nod his head, and see just how low he can go. It is a hoot. (If only I hadn't set a bad example with letting him climb on the coffee table to dance party with Mommy.)

He also is an expert tower builder. This morning, we built a tower so tall he had to stand to put the blocks on top. And he'll even put the blocks away when asked. Okay, that's not quite how it works. I have to put a block away and then say, "Oh! Good job, Mommy!" And then he'll start to toss blocks into the bin and I have to say, "Good job, Henry!" every time a block makes it in. And he also has pretty good aim. He did not get this from me.

But most of all, I have shared with him, for better or worse, my sense of humor and a strong sense of self. Henry's new bedtime issue is that he doesn't like to lay back on his changing pad while you put his pajamas on. He wants to stand and put his pants on one leg at a time like a normal person. So we stand him up and face him towards the mirror while we put on his jammies. And then Henry goes nuts. First, he smiles. Then he laughs at himself. Then he'll play peek-a-boo with himself a couple of times. Then laugh. Then wave at himself. Then clap for himself. And then finish off with a couple of kisses. That's right folks, my son kisses his own reflection in the mirror.

And it is rather difficult to put footy pajamas on someone who is making out with themselves. Just so you know.

12 minutes 32 seconds

Is approximately how long it takes....

• For my nose to start running uncontrollably on my morning run.
• For me to complete one mile.
• For saying "Where's Henry?" and then "There he is!" over and over to get old while he covers and uncovers himself with a blanket in the jog stroller.
• For my Ipod to drop on the ground a total of three times and then begin to skip.
• For me to realize that "Paint it Black" by the Rolling Stones is the best song to run to EVER. But not when your Ipod stops it suddenly and then throws you into the Beastie Boys' "Sabatauge."
• For me to wonder how the Pinball Wizard really got so good. I mean, who can play pinball with their sense of smell?
• For the arch of my left foot to begin to throb.

And then, at about 18 minutes and 12 seconds...

• I realize that I haven't looked at my watch in about six minutes. (I check to see how long I've been running.) This is a world record.
• To contemplate walking. Because now the arch in my right foot is beginning to throb.
• Henry is mad that I'm no longer playing peek-a-boo with him because I can't talk.
• I become fully aware that I'm leaning into the jog stroller and without it, I not only wouldn't be able to keep running, but probably would die. Or at the very least, fall over and have to scream, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up."
• Decide that I can keep running. I'll get home faster because now I've got to pee.

And, finally, at approximately 30 minutes and 34 seconds...

• The Beach Boys "God Only Knows" comes on. And I've just turned back onto my street. Wait a minute, I've just run 2 and a half miles. So I decide to start walking because I need to "cool down."
• Recognize that while I could run home, I can't walk. My feet hurt too much. And then there's the whole pee issue. And my calves are killing me.
• I can play peek-a-boo again. And when Henry sees our house ahead, he throws off the blanket with glee. I have to stop to pick the blanket up off the ground. I fall over. And just sit in the road for awhile. A neighbor comes to get her mail, so I make it look like I've just stopped to stretch. In the middle of the street.

Some Husbands Bring Home Bacon...

My husband brings home beans.

Sloan was given a case of Grillin' Beans when visiting the Bush plant in TN for work this week. The best part about this is he had to check the case of beans at the airport. And the airline lost his beans. His suitcase came through fine, but we still had to fill out paperwork for the beans.

The Pickle and I were standing off to the side of the luggage counter when someone said, "Are you in line for lost luggage?"

"No," I said. "They lost my husband's beans." I offered no explanation. Some things are just better left unsaid.

So at about 10pm last night, we heard a thud on our front porch and sure enough, it was Delta with a late night bean delivery. And just in time for Troop 867's canned food drive.

Bring back the fro...

Gosh I love my friends. Even, and maybe even especially, when they're so different from me. This video was made by a high school friend of mine that I re-befriended as an adult. She and her husband Rich were there when Sloan and I met. Rich was Sloan's personal beer caddy at our wedding reception and saved me from having to dance with a scary old man. And they are so liberal. (I remember watching the 2004 Olympics with them at Smith Mtn Lake and Rich wanted to give a do-over to a swimmer who had too many false starts!) And I love 'em for it.

But our friendship is a testimony to what is great about America--we can have a glass of wine and talk about politics and religion and disagree and laugh and see things from a different point of view and at the end of the night, remain friends. No shouting matches, name calling, or label giving. Just an appreciation for thought out belief systems strong enough to stand up for. And an appreciation for a good glass of wine. We musn't forget the wine.

Because nothing makes a statement quite like a squat thrust.

Someone at the gym today told me I was racist because I voted for John McCain.

It took every ounce of maturity not to yell at her, "Yeah--well you're ugly." (She wasn't.)

I'm still sort of shocked by this. For a couple of reasons. First, I'll admit that I'm overly judgemental, snobby, and sometimes elitist. But I tend to think I'm better than everybody. On the planet. And my pettiness is sinful. I recognize that and repent of it often. Because it shows me that I have an inaccurate picture of who I am, my shortcomings, and the amount of grace bestowed on me by God. That being said, I look down upon people for their clothing, behavior, parenting skills, hair-dos and the like. I don't judge people for who they are and who God has created them to be. So I take great offense to the lady in the neon running shorts telling me I'm racist.

The second reason I was offended was because I think it is insulting to Barack Obama. As if his only qualifying characteristic for the office of President is his race. I'm hopeful that even though he is not whom I thought would be best for the job, he is more than adequately qualified for the job through his service to country, leadership, charisma, and experience.

But the main reason I was offended was because it doesn't speak to the fact that no, I didn't vote for Obama, and if she really wanted to know why I would've calmly told her that I do want to "spread the wealth" but that I do that by tithing, volunteering, and donating to local charities. That I think blind charity, or government handouts, can be oppressive because how can you retain your dignity if you can't say Thank you? I also probably would've shown her the first picture I have of Henry. He is 8 cells big. And in a petri dish. And Obama co-sponsored a bill that would authorize the industrial production of embryos for use in biomedical research in which they would be killed all the while voting against using federal money in stem-cell research that does not involve the production and destruction of embryos.

But I didn't say any of these things to her. Instead, I showed my maturity, by saying "That black and red dress that Michelle Obama wore last night made her boobs look like they were on fire. And not in a good way." And then I dramatically put on my head phones and got on the leg press machine.

Henry is a stud

So we had our 18 month check-up today. (Because we wanted to make it a 3 co-pay week!) And Henry is such a stud--he didn't even cry when getting his shots! I was so proud of him. If only he'd let me read that magazine in the waiting room instead of trying to escape the well waiting room to get into the sick waiting room. But he is 34 inches tall (90th percentile), 26 lbs, 9.6 ounces (60th percentile--although I'm guessing the fact that he had a full diaper at the time could've skewed the results), and his head circumference is (do you even care?) 48 cm (just above 50th percentile). His favorite thing was playing with the head circumference measuring tape and the light button on Dr. Snowden's stethoscope. And he showed Dr. Snowden all of his awesome puzzle doing skills for most of the check-up. (And he didn't put one puzzle piece in his mouth--a minor miracle!)

I think he sensed that today was his check up as he's been carb-loading the past 2 days. (Also probably due to his cheerio, rice, and banana diet he'd been on for most of the post-puking weekend.) This morning he ate a sandwich baggie full of frosted mini-wheats while at the Polling place, then an entire banana when we got home. On the way to the airport to drop Sloan off for another business trip he ate a box of pretzels. And then for lunch he cleared his plate at Ruby Tuesday's--kids fried shrimp and french fries and then proceeded to munch on my fries as well. He also is a fan of dunking the same fry over and over into the ketchup. This is because I won't let him just dip his fingers into the ketchup. I tried explaining that condiments must go on something. Unless we're talking about Ginger salad dressing from Kabuto and then it's just bottom's up....

Bad Bunny Habit

We had made it 18 months without having to have a "friend" around. No passie. No bear. No blankie. No creepy bear-blankie combo. But since I let Henry bring down Mr. Bunny when he was sick to sit with him on the couch, Mr. Bunny has to be with us.

H and I were cleaning up my room. (OK, I was cleaning and H was trying to open the armoire so he could get at the buttons on the TV.) Then he escaped and I found him grunting and tugging at Mr. Bunny from between the slats in his crib. So, because I'm a softy, I got Mr. Bunny. Henry loved on Mr. Bunny and then brought him back to my room, sat him in his chair and then set back to work on getting at the TV. Then he dragged Mr. Bunny to play with our curtains. Then into my closet to pull out all of my shoes. He even tried putting shoes on Mr. Bunny. Interspersed with the playing, were also times he would just bury his face in Mr. Bunny, squeeze him tight and then sigh. As if to say, "Oh! Mr. Bunny! You are too wonderful for words."

This wouldn't be a problem if Mr. Bunny were a normal sized rabbit. Mr. Bunny is roughly the same size as Henry. He's huge. Augh.

No more George, either

Tonight I tried reading some prayers to Henry from this book called "Prayers for Little Boys and their Mommies." Henry wasn't having it. He was too wiggly and was really more interested in playing with my wedding ring and watch.

Am I a horrible Mom if I kind of miss him being sick? No, not that I want him to be sick, just that I miss him wanting to just hold me and cuddle up with me on the couch. Why does he have to dump out all of the Duplos, Megablocks, and Wood Blocks that I just sorted and sanitized? I even tried turning on George for some cuddle time this afternoon. He went up to the TV and turned it off.

No More Sour Pickle

Henry is doing well. He is back into everything. So much for my grand plans of watching Mary Poppins and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang yesterday. Our house smells like a hospital as I've Lysoled everything. He was excited today to finally have food that wasn't beige--macaroni and cheese. He wore it all over his face. Thanks so much for all of your prayers and well wishes.

Also, I'm thinking of going on Halloween Candy diet. The only thing I ate on Friday was Fun Size Milky Ways and Snickers Bars. Apparently, this helped me to lose 6 pounds.

THAT JUST HAPPENED!!

So three little pirates just came up to the door. We answer the door and I ask, "Does anyone have any allergies? Because I have peanut free stuff in addition to all this chocolately stuff." The little brother, with a very sweet lisp says, "Yes. I'm allergic to smoke."

I'm telling you it was only the power of Jesus in me that kept me from laughing in the kid's face. "Well, you're in luck. We're not handing out any smoke tonight, so you can have some of everything."

Pocket Full of Kryptonite

The saddest Superman ever. But I think we're on the mend as he moved from Papa's chair to the couch (to be by me) and picked up a tractor on the way. 'Cause when you're watching The Sound of Music with your Mom and your bunny, you need a tractor to butch it up a bit.

All George All the time

The second time your kid pukes on you, it is not funny.



By the third time, you're not even grossed out. You just look away, lean him over a surface that's easy to clean, and wait until he's done.



By the fourth time, you stop showering between pukes.



By the fifth time, and he's shaking, you call the doctor. At 4 am. And then you put on Curious George.



By the sixth time, the smell has left. It's nothing but Popsicle colored mucus coming up. And you want to cry, not because you are sorry for yourself, but because your child is green. And miserable. But, he is very cuddly. And you've mastered a position that keeps his head above his chest while you are laying on your side on the couch so you can sleep. Also by this time you wish there was an All George All the time TV station because you've already watched every Curious George you've TiVo'd and it also means that you have to fool with the remote every 30 minutes to load up another one. You also, by this time, tempt fate by trying to play a Veggietale and then Sid the Science Kid, only to find out that no, all we want is George.



By the seventh time, you are in the doctor's office. And you are being treated by a doctor dressed up as Snow White. And you haven't brought a change of clothes for yourself or your son. So you just stand there, with puke on your pajamas. And you take your son's PJ shirt off and just tell people he's being Bruce Lee for Halloween.



We haven't puked in 2 hours. He can only puke one more time in the next 8 hours or we have to go get IV fluids at the hospital. As it is right now, he is asleep in Papa's chair with Mr. Bunny, watching Curious George. I tried to turn the TV off, but he woke up. I have to give him 5 ccs of pedialyte every 15 minutes for 3 hours. Then 7 ccs. Then 10 ccs. If he can make it 8 hours, he can then have either 5 cheerios, 1 slice of banana, or 1 tsp of cooked rice or applesauce. Snow White also said he can have a lollipop or 2 because the sugar is good for nausea.



So pray for my boy. He is puny.



At least his Halloween costume is a pair of Superman pjs! And if he pukes on them, we have a spare--Batman pjs.

Warning: Post Rated R for language, bodily humor, and partial nudity

Hmmm....in light of my last post, I wonder what that title is going to do. But I'm serious, you oughtta be sitting down and not drinking a latte for what I'm about to spill.

This afternoon, I got some cuddles. Which is odd, because the Pickle is not a cuddler. And he seemed overly juicy, that is to say he was drooling non-stop. I peeped in his mouth to see if he was cutting some new teeth, only to find the back of his throat white and splotchy and his breath rank. (No wonder he didn't want to split that 3 Muskateers bar with me!)

So we headed to the Dr's. Not strep and no trick or treating for us as we've got a fever. I'm horribly disappointed. Henry could care less as he'd just as soon eat sidewalk chalk, but I'm totally deflated. But I digress....

So I stopped by the grocery store on the way home to pick up some drinkable yogurts, Gatorade, and more Children's Motrin for H and then hit the Ukrop's salad bar for me. The following story is why I am now eating a Mango-Mushroom-Cole Slaw-Beef Lo Mein Garlic Expressions Vinaigrette Salad.

By the time we get home, Henry is asleep in his car seat. So I rush into the house, praying I can disrobe, re-diaper, and pajama the boy all without him waking up. I leave the groceries in the car, the car door open, and oh yeah, for good measure--I leave our front door wide open too. And I'm thinking this is okay because really, how long is this bed-timing going to take. 3 minutes?

Well. The pickle wakes up, and is just barely comatose. But still, huge tears are running down his cheeks. So I change the diaper, put on footy pajamas (so I don't have to worry about socks when we head to the airport in an hour to pick up Sloan), and decide to hit him up with a couple dropper fulls of Baby Tylenol to help his throat. In hindsight, I probably should've forgone the Tylenol. Or at least not given it to him while he was lying down.

So I pick him up and begin to sing "Jesus Loves Me." And then he starts to gag. I think, ugh, I'm going to get the Tylenol spit up all over me. Wrong. He pukes on me. And then screams. And then pukes again. And again. And again. And it is grosser than gross. Think of what vomit smells like. Now add the smell of Applewood Smoked Cheddar Cheese and this is what I have all over me. What I have on my face. In my underwear. On my shoes. All over the carpet in Henry's room. (Like his room didn't smell like poop already. Come on! Do they even make enough Fabreze?)

I'm covered in orange vomit. Henry is covered in orange vomit. (How seasonal.) And I don't know what to do. "Shit!" I mumble. "Shit. Shit. Damn it, Sloan. I need you!" Because I'm standing in a pool of vomit, holding Henry, waiting for the aftershocks and I can't decide what to do first--clean Henry or clean myself. I'm afraid to move because, oh yeah, I forgot to mention, there are chunks of the smoked cheddar and bits of what I'm assuming are Whole Grain Ritz cracker (because we are high dollar snackers here at the Phillips house), and I'm fearful that if I walk I'll drip. And then Henry goes and spews chunks again. Praise Jesus his missed his crib.

Option A: I clean myself up first. But this means putting Henry down, giving him the opportunity to toddle off, dripping and chunking all over the upstairs. Option B: Clean up Henry first and ignore the fact that the smoky goodness has started to pool in my sports bra. I chose option C: stripped us both down in Henry's bathroom and plop him down in the bath. I could wash up in the sink while he soaked.

In theory, this was the only option available to me. When I took off my sports bra, there was an audible splash on the floor. And there were bits of cheese just sitting there. Smelling smoky.
I start the tub and forget to turn on the cold, so I practically burn Henry, only noticing this because he climbs up my naked body to save himself.
Well, not completely naked. I'm wearing my socks and shoes.
So I turn on the cold and wait, praying he doesn't pee on me too because then I'll just cry. And I'm reminded of a blog entry I read where a Mom is worried about choking death on a Tootsie Roll while her husband is out of town. I thought she was just being funny, but really, I could accidentally die right now. And die naked. In the bathroom. Like Elvis or something.
And to make matters worse, as I put Henry in the tub, I realize I'm standing there in the buff, bent over, with the bathroom door wide open, and I can see out into the driveway. Through the front door.

Now I have to decide if I want to be robbed while I'm naked covered in vomit or if I want Henry to drown. Because I can't close the front door without leaving Henry unattended in the tub. I compromised by closing the door to Henry's bathroom. At least if I'm robbed the thieves don't have to see me and my son's birthday suits in all their dimpled glory. (Cute on Henry, me--not so much.)

I decide I can safely wash up in the sink in Henry's bathroom because I can see him in the mirror. Except, as I'm washing my face with Lavender Baby Wash, I noticed there are dime sized chunks of cheese in my hair. I start to gag. I'm going to have to take a shower. I notice there are also chunks of cheese and cracker floating in the tub. I gag again. It just smells so smokin' bad. I may never be horny again. Ugh.

I put Henry in a diaper, put him down in the hallway, pray he doesn't fall down the steps or find a puddle of vomit to play in. Instead he stands and screams bloody murder as I scurry around to find a robe, dash down the steps, grab the groceries (not paying attention to how I'm carrying them, making my salad bar items fall out of their compartments and blob together), toss said groceries in the kitchen, shut the car door (because I forgot the first time), and then shut the front door. None of this feels good when not wearing a bra. Especially when you have sticky, stinky boobs. Now you may never be horny again. Sorry.

But I got the pickle dressed again and put him to sleep. No more medicine. I'll see if he needs some Motrin when we get back from the airport. And I'll give it to him while he is sitting up.

Shockingly, (because you haven't been shocked already), Henry didn't scream or cry at all when I put him down in his crib. Just curled up with Mr. Bunny and shut his eyes.

I think he'd seen enough.

Who you are

I've been thinking a lot about friends lately. Who mine are, how I found them, how I love them, etc. etc. Expect a post about this in the near future as I'm tossing a few ideas around. But connected to these ideas of how we make friends in the 21st century is this blog. And your part in it.

You see, I've got this little sitemeter on my blog that tells me when people are on the blog, where they are viewing the blog from, how they found the blog and the like. If this seems a little too big brother to you, recognize I'm only tracking my readers so that I can feel popular. Think of a hit as a signature in a high school year book. And well, it seems I'm getting more popular by the day. This week I've gotten 920 signatures. But I think a lot of the signatures are repeats.

I used to complain to Sloan that I had no friends. Well, I've got peeps now. I don't really know who they are--but they're there.

Or it could just be me, as I check my own blog often. (I liken this phenomena to a similar fete in the ridiculous--opening the refrigerator in hopes something new has arrived without our having shopped for it.) But using my signature metaphor, I kind of feel like a loser. Can you imagine signing your own year book over and over? Geesh.

So who are you? IF YOU COMMENTED MORE OFTEN I WOULD KNOW WHO YOU ARE. (HINT HINT!!!!) All I have to go on is your location, your referral page and/or your entry link .

I'm guessing here---- Huntsville, AL--My niece, J. Or is it you, K? I thought you were in Birmingham. Brooklyn--Hiya A. Hope the Big Apple is treating you and B. well. Huntersville, NC--hello JSC. Hopefully you won't find out about the gestation diabetes until after Halloween. Stuff your face with as much candy as you can get just in case. Greenville, SC--what up MD? Tell W that Henry says hello. We miss the double named duo. Denver--hello LK. So proud you are training for a marathon. I'm training for a 5K. (Yeah, I know--people don't really train for those things.) Delaware--hey J. SOOOOO looking forward to your wedding. Sydney, Australia--is that you, Mel? Mount Laurel, NJ--Do you work for AFR? Greensboro, NC--my hometown. Could it be my parents? Do they know how to work this interweb thing?

But the following locations baffle me--Winston-Salem, NC, Macon, GA, the ATL, St. Paul, MN, Minneapolis, Topeka, Kissimee,FL, Rock Hill, SC, Dallas, Brookings, SD, St. Petersburg, FL, Bessemer, AL, Sierra Vista, AZ, Ada, OH, Durham, NC, Indianapolis, Wichita, Summerville, SC, St Albans, WV, Stuart, FL, Salt Lake City, and Dunlap, TN. My favorite was Harvest, AL. And did you know there was a Liverpool, NY?

And I'm international. I've got regular readers in Canada, Lebanon, Germany, the UK, Ireland, Spain, and India. WHAT?!

And because sitemeter also tells me how you got to my page....A huge shout out to the best Kickapoo Princess ever for my Texas contingency. You are so getting a margarita from me the next time I'm in Austin. (And by next time, I mean the first time.) And shout out to the Lillster's buddy Nate who has posted a link to me as well.

And the google look-ups are hilarious--people meandered over here by typing in the following--"pastel de carne", "batman pumpkin pattern", "How much did Jesus weigh at birth?" (how that gets you to me, I have no idea), "blisters on my fingers", and my favorite, "do not tell my husband".

And seriously, could the person who keeps looking up the photo of my son on my Crappy Day post please stop? You are ruining the blogging experience from everyone and making me think that maybe I should stop doing this.

And some of you found me from my Facebook page. I hit 300 friends yesterday. I'm feeling pretty good about myself. But really, if you aren't my FB friend yet, you should be. FB doesn't allow me to befriend myself the way sitemeter does. So I feel that facebook is a more accurate measure of my worth.

I mean-- I AM kind of a big deal. People know me.

You've got one month...

Oh yeah-- you've got one month to find me that perfect birthday gift. I'm registered at Merry Maids and the Maid Brigade.

Daddy come home

We're on day three of Sloan's trip to Orlando for his new job with CHEP. And while I like to remind myself that I may never be the perfect Mommy but that out of all the mommies in the world God chose me for Henry so that's got to say something, but seriously, I'm a horrible single parent. Sunday night, by about 6pm, with Sloan having only been gone around 5 hours--I was done. So we did the great time killing bath. And then I put Henry to bed. At 6:45.
Yesterday, I let him just eat Cheddar Soy Crisps for lunch because I was too tired to care that he didn't touch his turkey or apple slices. (But hey, soy crisps have both protein and fiber and isn't that what the turkey and apples were for anyway?)
I've also started using drinkable yogurts mixed with milk as viable snack options.
Upon discovering that it wasn't that poopy of a diaper, I performed a poopy extraction rather than changing his diaper.
He's watched 2 Veggietales, 3 Curious George episodes, and Sesame Street. I rationalize this as being okay because during Veggietales and Sesame Street he only stops playing to watch them sing. And Veggietales is about God and Sesame Street is about letters and I want him to love both of those things. It's only during Curious George that he stops, climbs up in Sloan's chair with his cell phone, and watches the TV. And he thinks George, Hundley, Bill and the gang are a hoot. The TV is an effective parenting tool, right?
He went over to Nathan's house last night to hang out so I could go out to dinner with a friend.
I almost stopped at McDonald's tonight on the way home from the gym for a Nugget Happy meal, but decided to come home instead so he could have a "healthy" dinner. He ate an entire can of Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli, a cup of green beans, 6 Ritz crackers, and a frozen Gogurt. Chef Boyardee is healthy right?

However....I have done 6 loads of laundry, painted Sloan's new home office (and the ceiling too), hung blinds and curtains in said office, and begun setting up my new sewing room (since Sloan took over my cute pink room) in Henry's future big boy playroom (aka the finished attic where things get dumped when I'm too lazy to figure out where things should go). And I'm about eight pages away from finishing Lee Smith's The Last Girls.

All's I'm saying is that Sloan better never die cause I make a lousy single Mom.

The Book of Awesome

Saturday we set out to carve our Methodist pumpkins. I was certain Henry would be totally into it. Pulling out the gooey insides. Squishing the pumpkin pulp. But apparently, Henry did not get this memo. Mom, I'm still not getting why you put this yucky stuff at my place if I'm not allowed to eat it. It smells pretty good--but it is kind of yucky.

So I'm just going to return some voicemails and shoot out a few text messages while you and Daddy carve these things up. Let me know when you need me.
Great Mom. An H. That's my name don't wear it out. I can't believe you made me put my phone down just so you could take a picture of me with the pumpkin.
And Holy Cow, woman! Why did you turn off the lights and take away my phone. And you won't even let me touch the candle. AAAAAUGH! (Sorry for the grainy photo, I had to "auto correct" it a lot so you could see the pickle's dismay at his cell phone being taken away.)

So while Henry was not into the pumpkin carving process, Sloan made up for it in spades. He decided to carve a batman symbol. (Pattern courtesy of Mommy's time spent teaching PreK to a bunch of boys and her awesome Batman coloring skills.) While carving it, Sloan kept saying, "I'm serious. This may just be the best pumpkin ever. Just look at it. Are you freaking kidding me?" But post carving it, Sloan decided to tidy up the inside a bit (despite my warnings of damaging the bat) and broke off part of the upper wing. I almost cried. Seriously. I think if it had been my pumpkin, I would've. Right before I made us go to Wal-Mart to get a pumpkin to replace it. But Sloan just grab some toothpicks and patched it up. But he wasn't as excited about it. I said, "Are you sure you're alright about the pumpkin?" "Yeah," he said. "There hasn't been a perfectly carved pumpkin since Jesus carved pumpkins. And then all he had to do was just stare the pumpkin down and then BAM! it was carved. You know that's where Emeril gets the Bam from right. It's from Jesus carving pumpkins."

I didn't quite know what to say. He wasn't laughing at all when he said this. He didn't even look up from his pumpkin-toothpickectomy. "Where exactly in the Bible is this pumpkin carving incident?" (I was expecting him to say, "Duh! In the Book of Awesome.") Instead, he said, "Well, if you don't know I think you should just read the Bible again. It's obviously in the New Testament!"

Sloan's awesome pumpkin.

The Phillips pumpkin patch. (Notice my boring smiley face pumpkin in the middle.)

Business Lunch

Mmm....Blue

FYI...Henry's favorite color of sidewalk chalk to eat is blue.

Henry helped me do some interval training today. For starters, while pushing 50-odd pounds of toddler in a double stroller around Henry's BFF Nathan's neighborhood, Henry kept tossing his matchbox car out of the stroller. And usually when we were cresting a hill. So I'd have to put the brakes on the stroller and then sprint for the convertible PT Cruiser. Then this afternoon, while Sloan was blowing about 3000 pounds of acorns off our driveway and I was raking leaves, Henry kept tottering down the driveway, heading for Smoketree drive. So I'd have to drop the rake and sprint to save my son from the road. And sprinting while you are having a heart attack because school has just let out and there are buses and teenagers leaving high school is a workout. He also thought it was so funny that Mommy was chasing him while she and Daddy were yelling, "No! Stop! Henry this way!" But God was good and had him trip on an acorn and face plant into the driveway, bloodying his nose a bit, but at least now he doesn't run when Mommy sprints towards him.

Hey Mommy, while you and Daddy weren't looking I got up onto the porch all by myself and dragged out all of the toys. I don't really want to play with all of the toys, just drag them out so I can watch you and Daddy clean them back up. Really, I'm just into eating chalk and making messes.
And you seem to be making some sort of pile here, Mommy. Will it help you if I pick up all these leaves and throw them in the air? They don't really taste good. I tried a couple and they just don't hold a candle to blue sidewalk chalk.

Mommy, did you really think if you buried me in a pile of leaves I wouldn't find my way out and try for the road again? Silly Mommy!

The Great (Methodist) Pumpkin

We had thought about taking Henry to the Chesterfield Berry Farm to get a pumpkin so he could do the corn maze, ride a pony, and have a hay ride. It's $40 a person. So we set out to find something a little more "current economic situation" friendly. And as I was looking around, I realized that it is only the Methodist churches that have pumpkin patches. When I was a kid, it was Centenary Methodist Church. For Henry, it was Huguenot Methodist. Do the Methodists control some sort of pumpkin racket? Are there no Baptist Pumpkins--easy for dunking? Presbyterian Pumpkins--or have they already been chosen? And, while we're thinking about this--are pumpkins always Christian? Couldn't there be Jewish pumpkins? (Well, I guess Halloween did start off as a Christian holiday. So maybe not.)

Henry surveys the patch.
Daddy tries to explain to Henry that this pretty much a perfect pumpkin, but Mommy is a bit touched in the head, so we have to get three and they have to coordinate nicely together. She's making some sort of Jack-O-Lantern arrangement.
Woo Hoo! Henry loves being able to scream at the top of his lungs without being told to use his "inside voice."
Henry loves the little pumpkins.
Hey Mommy, I was wondering, why are pumpkins always Methodists? We'll have to take them home and carve them up--you know, Reform them a bit. Then they'll be Presbyterian.

Gearing it up one level

I took my first spin class this morning. Despite my expectations, I did not die. I thought about it, but, quite frankly, I didn't have the energy to do it.

Spinning is very similar to having a baby. You can't feel your legs. You keep pushing because someone tells you. There is a lot of counting involved. You have to be remided to breathe. Being hooked up to fluids would've been helpful as I've had a dehydration headache all afternoon. And you just keep praying nothing rips "down there." And the soreness in your hoo-ha lasts.

And lasts. And I even borrowed one of the gym's gel seats. There were people in the class without gel seats and I'm quite certain they have crotches of steel.

About 5 minutes into the class, I wanted to die. And all we'd done was warm up. I was certain that I wouldn't make it another 45 minutes. Beth, the instructor, tells us that there are five ways to climb this hill and we're going to do all 5. I'm confused, because I see no hill. And also we have to keep tabs on our cadence so we're going to count for 15 seconds. She tells us to be somewhere between 20 and 27 for fifteen seconds. But that we'll thank her later if we are between 20 and 24. I shocked myself by being 24 at my first cadence check. But then we "geared up one level" (aka cranked up the resistance knob) and after 2 minutes--more counting. Down to 22. Apparently, I was supposed to "commit" to that number and stick with the pace, despite the fact that I was going to "gear up" 4 more times. By that 5th hill, I was pleased to still be peddling at all and registered an 18. Oh well. My hoo-ha hurt to much to peddle any faster. And I was busy concentrating on breathing, the sweat pouring off my body, and trying to peddle with my feet parallel with the floor. I did not do a good job with the parallel thing because my toes kept going numb. And oh yeah, after class did we mind signing a release form because the gym's photographer showed up to take pictures for next season's brochure. Awesome. I'll be the sweaty one trying not to die in the back.

And sometimes I got confused about the handlebars. When you are 'running with resistance' or 'jumping' or 'really getting at that hill' you are standing up. This is great because it gives your hoo-ha a break. But apparently, you are not supposed to be using the handlebars as a fulcrum to take weight off your jello jiggly legs. Beth reminds us our hands our for balance and asks us to raise them up to check to make sure we weren't cheating. Mmmm, yeah, not so much. I could do the jumping without shifting my weight, but that was about it. (Jumping is just standing up, peddling a few times and then sitting back down. And oh yeah--sitting down is getting "back in the saddle.") And don't even get me started with the darn toe clip thingys that popped off half-way up a hill. I had to readjust them and I almost fell off the darn bike.

But all in all--I'm pretty proud of myself. I'm going to start "spinning" every Wednesday during the morning class. I may even get my own gel seat. Or some of those fancy shoes some of the others were wearing. (I just love it when sports have their own cute shoes!)

Lessons Learned at a Yard Sale

Friday night parades. Saturday morning yard sales. Does it get any more Norman Rockwell's America than this? Geesh, I live a charmed life. Or maybe I'm just easy to please. (Somewhere my husband is choking as he reads this.)

This morning I woke up at o'dark early and headed over to the house of Henry's BFF, Nathan, for the yard sale. RP is an expert yard saler, so I decided to hitch my yard sale virgin self to her wagon. I'd labeled everything and was setting it out by 6am. The things I'll do for cash. So here are the things I've learned---

1. Some people are weird. Like the old guy who approached Sloan and said, "So I'll tell you who I'm not voting for..." Sloan looked at me as if to say, "Was I in the middle of a conversation with him without knowing it?"

2. At least three people will come to your yard sale looking for guns. Am I the only one that is shocked by this?

3. Yard Sale Strategy. There are two types of yard salers--the early birds and the buzzards. The early birds come buy at 6:58am when you clearly stated on the signs the sale begins at 7. And half of your stuff is still in boxes. They are looking to purchase one of the four non-crap items that every yard sale is bound to have--furniture, yard equipment, children's items, or maybe some type of home item. And they want to purchase said non-crap item for rock bottom prices. To these people I say there is no way I'm selling my wooden mantle to you for just $10. You're the first person to show up. Be a buzzard. These are the people that come at the end of the yard sale and are frustrated that you've already sold that commercial air sweeper. But these buzzards, while they may not get the nice duvet cover, the red keens, or the oriental rug, they know a little secret... (see below)

4. By the end of the yard sale, I was willing to pay someone just to clean up and take the crap that didn't sell to Goodwill for me. Seriously, I kept saying, "Ugh, why didn't I sell that mantle for $10" as I did the "Goodwill or Craigslist" sort.

5. That thing you thought no one would buy will sell and your really great non-crap item won't. Mine were a box of plastic floral arranging dishes, which sold for a dollar and a pair of Pottery Barn Silk Striped drapery panels which didn't sell for $20 for the pair. I just couldn't part with them for $5 like everyone kept offering me. So if you want them, check Craigslist.

But all in all, we made over $60, had some fun with our friends, and also are going to get a tax write off for the rest of it we donated to Goodwill. We're planning on doing it again at our house next Spring, so if you've got any crap you'd like to donate to the cause (my wallet being the cause)--bring it on over.