A Recipe for a Happy Momma

1 Suprisingly Large Tax Return

1 Round Trip Ticket to New York City

4 days

0 children

0 husbands

1 dear friend to meet you at the airport

1 long run in an iconic city

2-10 large ice cold beers consumed in a beer garden (adjust according to taste and tolerance)

Several hours of gossip

1 designer knock-off handbag

1 (or more) meals at a restaurant serving food you can't find in your own town

1 visit with little sister

1 visit with sister in law and future brother in law

Unlimited hugs and laughter. 

Directions: On April 14th, mix all ingredients together until well blended.  Serve to this Momma.  Watch her get her groove back in New York, then come back to Savannah refreshed but desperately missing her husband and son.  

Only 48 days to go...but who's counting? 

This post is slightly tweaking two of Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop prompts. 

The First Lesson of Motherhood: Trust Your Gut

Something wasn't right.  I hadn't been a parent for more than 48 hours but as I held my screaming son, I knew in my gut something was wrong.

"He's just a baby. Babies scream"

"He's latching fine. He'll get what he needs".

"Don't give him a bottle, it will doom your nursing relationship forever."

I'm sure those people were right.  They were long time parents, professionals with degrees and people who had been in my shoes before.  What did I know? I listened to them while ignoring that voice in my head that kept repeating "This is not working".

The voice got louder a few hours later when my neighbor, a retired RN, stopped by to meet Max. On her first glance she stated "He's looking a little yellow.  Keep an eye on that".

The night came.  Max continued to latch, hang out there for a few minutes, pull off and start screaming again.  All night long he screamed and screamed.  We rocked, bounced, shushed, and swaddled.  We called my mother in law at 1AM to help.  I couldn't do much more than cry, feeling like I was failing him.

The next morning was his 3 day pediatrician visit. While we were getting ready, I suggested taking Max's temperature. He felt warm but I wasn't sure what was warm for a newborn. He had a mild fever. I actually felt some relief.  At least I knew that was part of the problem. I didn't know a low fever in a newborn meant an automatic hospital admission until we told the nurse at the pedi's office. I sat in shock as she wrote up orders and gave us directions on how to get to the pediatric unit.

I remained in shock at the hospital as they repeatedly poked my son, trying to find a vein for an antibiotic IV. Multiple veins were blown. Finally they gave him Pedialyte which he rapidly drank and then promptly fell asleep for the first time in hours. I started to put the pieces together.

We settled in our room and I met the lactation consultant.  I tried pumping for the first time. Not a drop.  I was devastated but I was also relieved. Things started to fall into place. My milk hadn't come in.  Max wasn't even getting colostrum to sustain him.  He was dehydrated, causing the jaundice, fever and constant screaming.  I finally had the answers needed to make him better. A rush of relief swept over me.

It was at that point, 72 hours into parenthood I realized the "experts" were full of crud. Their degrees and experience couldn't replace a mothers intuition.  The voice in the back of my head screamed "I told you so!".  It was right.  Since then, when it comes to Max, I always listen.

A Good Start to a New Year

I have always hated New Years Eve.  It's a night where you are expected to get dressed up, go to a club or a fancy party, be surrounded by strangers and have way to much to drink. All of that sounds like my worst nightmare.  Even in college, where I was supposed to be a party animal, I preferred the homebody lifestyle. It was quite refreshing this year when Facebook statuses and Twitter updates all declared the same sentiment -"I'll be lucky if I make it to midnight".  Finally, my peer group is catching up to my old lady mindset!

If my 2010 NYE celebration is any indication on how my 2011 is going to go, it's going to be a good year.

First, it was spent with my husband, son, and only a few close friends.  We all gathered at a friends house, dressed in comfortable clothes and enjoyed each others company.  No blaring music.  No drunk strangers. No seizure inducing strobe lights.  Just good conversation and lots of laughs with those I love. That sounds like a good way to spend most of 2011, don't you think?

Second, there was great food.  We stuffed our faces with various styles of fondue and things to dip into the oil, cheese or chocolate.  Good wine was also involved.  While 2011 is my year of health and weight loss, I do plan the occasional indulgence and hope the future brings many delicious meals.

Third, there were fireworks.  Technically I don't like fireworks.  They scare me and I'm always worried someone is going to blow off their hand. However, I do like excitement, surprise, inspiration and bursts of color.   I hope 2011 is full of the happy, unexpected surprise that keeps life interesting and joyful. I also hope to keep all my limbs in tact.

Finally my New Years Eve celebration involved the blessed joining of two massive forces:  New Kids on the Block and the Backstreet Boys.  My guilty pleasure sensors were on absolute overload. My Cheese-o-Meter was off the charts.  I am not ashamed to admit I loved watching the boy band-palooza. I can only hope that my 2011 is filled with more silliness, more guilty pleasures and more laughter.  Oh, and also tickets to the Atlanta BSB/NKOTB reunion tour this spring.  Please don't judge me. You know you loved it too.



If my New Years Eve celebration is any indication of how new year will go, I think I'm in for a treat.

This post was inspired by the Writers Workshop prompt: If the way you spent your New Year’s Eve is any indication of how the rest of the year will go, how would you say your future is looking right about now?




 

Deck the Freaking Halls

It started Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving.  The Twitter and Facebook updates of friends and family proclaiming their holiday shopping was complete. Pictures were posted of their house, decorated to rival the home of Martha Stewart.  Festive trees were up, stocking were hung and lights covered every inch of possible roof space.  Even bathrooms proclaimed the joy of the holiday season.  BATHROOMS. 


In the past this has caused me to panic.  How was I, the most un-crafty, design dumb , anti-Martha of them all supposed to keep up?  Can I throw the most incredible holiday shindig of the year when not all of my windows are draped with boughs of holly? This year I've accepted I am NOT those people and I can't compete.  Sure,I finally got the decorations are up but they don't match and my house doesn't have a theme (unless "A Very Merry Dollar Store Christmas" counts as a theme). 


When I've mentioned the fact I wasn't planning to go all out decorating for this Christmas, people reacted with horror.  "But it's Max's first Christmas" they would say.  "But he's nine months old and won't remember a damn thing"  I would reply.  That display of logic never just caused people to shake their head in sadness. 
Besides, we are spending Christmas out of town with my in-laws.  I'm pretty sure their house will look like Santa's workshop and it will be enough to keep Max from crying to his therapist in 30 years. "Everything sucks because Mother didn't love me enough.  She barely decorated for my first Christmas…"


So hear I sit next to the glow of our fake, spindly Christmas tree doing all my Christmas shopping via Amazon (stores this season make me look for the nearest clock tower).  And I'm happy.  This year, I'm enjoying the holidays my way- focused on my family our cozy home.  I'm not worried about the perfect gift or stressing over the lack of festive garland draped on the staircase. I'm going to relax, drink a few mugs of Weight Watchers friendly hot chocolate and enjoy the holidays instead of freaking out over creating the perfect First Christmas for my son. 


I'm dreaming of a simple Christmas.

The Brief Version of Us

First there were the emails.*

Then a phone call, which after an hour turned into lunch. 

Before lunch arrived at our table he has asked me out on a date. I said yes.

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving I stressed over what to wear.  I was meeting him directly after work and needed something work appropriate yet first date adorable. I went with a grey skirt and black knee high boots. They were great boots.

At dinner he had prime rib and I had a steak salad…with extra bleu cheese.  I love me some moldy cheese.  Following dinner we went to see Harry Potter. During the movie he grabbed my hand.  I felt like I was in high school again…and I loved it.

After the movie we chatted in the parking lot, wanting to prolong the nice evening.  But it was late and he had an early morning flight while I had one more day of work because going back to Chicago for the holiday. We said our goodbyes and he leaned in for the kiss.  He was going for the cheek while I assumed he was going for the lips. As I walked back to my car after the first awkward kiss, I tripped over those fabulous boots.

A week later, both back in Savannah , we met for burgers.  The meal ended too quickly so I joined him on an errand at the Lowes across the parking lot. We held hands as he picked out hypoallergenic air filters. Then another parking lot kiss…or three. As I drove home a nagging thought kept running through my head.  “Uh oh.  This is going to be HUGE”.  I attempted to ignore those thoughts.  We had not even had the DTR (determine the relationship) conversation.

Three days later I drove to his house after work.  Actually, it was 5 years ago today!. He made me steak and baked potatoes topped with shredded Velveeta.  He pulled a bottle of red wine out of the fridge. As a foodie and red wine lover, I didn’t even grimace.  I liked him too much. Then we had the conversation.

Him: So are you seeing anyone else?

Me: No.  Are you?

Him:  No. Wanna keep it that way?

Me: Sure.    

Five years later we have rings on our left hand and a child with his eyes and my nose is currently sleeping in a room that once held a drum kit and piano.

Those early days are some of my favorite memories.  I wouldn't mind living them again and again. 

*Of course we met online.  We’re nerds.  How else do nerds meet?

A Series of Open Letters to Several Celebrities

Dear Nickleback,
Just go away.  Please.
Signed, Laura- (On behalf of most people)

Source

Dear Mike Rowe,
You seem like a pretty awesome dude. Also, I’m a Ford girl.  Let’s go have a beer and talk cars.
Signed, Your New Drinking Pal

Dear Carl Kasell,
I would really like your voice on my home answering machine but I’m too nervous to go on the radio.  Will you do it just for shits and giggles?
Signed, I Give to Public Radio

Source

Dear Writers of the NBC Thursday night show “Community”,
Please continue to write scenes requiring Joe McHale to be in his skivvies.
God Bless You, Laura (On behalf of most women)

Dear Gwyneth Paltrow,
For the love of God, please stop singing.  First that Huey Lewis duo and now country?  My ears are bleeding
Signed, Not a fan

Source

Dear Paula Deen,
I’m so glad you’ve brought thousands of tourism dollars into this wonderful city but Mrs. Wilkes still has way better chicken. (And less obnoxious patrons)
Signed, A fellow local.

source

Dear Daniel Radcliffe,
I remember when you were a young child.  Now you’re super hot.  You make me feel like a total creep.
Signed, A Married Old Lady

Source

 This post insipred by Mama Kat an the Writers Workshop suggestion  An open letter to a celebrity.

If I Had 24 Hours...A Terrible Poem

If I had 24 hours
Where time came to stop
Would I work my butt off
And try to accomplish a lot?

If the baby wasn’t an issue
And my husband wasn’t around
Would I finally get to gym
To lose those extra pounds?

Would I pull the weeds in the flowerbed
The ones that come to my knees?
Or maybe use the mirror
And fix my eyebrows needing a tweeze

Perhaps I’d tackle the laundry
And the dirty dishes that never go away
Then I’d upload and print off the baby pictures
So it’s done before his first birthday

Would I accomplish all this
If I had a day to stop time?
“Hell no” I say to productivity
My to-do list I would not climb

Instead I’d drink a bottle of Shiraz
And take a very long nap
Then I’d catch up my Google Reader
With my computer on my lap.

I’d stand in the shower for hours
Until the hot water runs out
And never would I be bothered
By a small child’s piercing shout

Those 24 hours would be blissful
I’d truly enjoy the day
But by the end I’d miss my family
And I’d un-stop time so they could play.

Writers Work Shop: Bloggy blog blog

I’ve been reading lots of great entries from bloggers doing the SITS Girls Back to Blogging Challenge.  I’m not participating in the challenge because I feel weird getting “back to blogging” when I’ve only been at it for 5 months. However, when Mama Kat included the prompt “Write about what blogging means to you. Why do you blog? What purpose does it serve you and how have you benefited from sharing a piece of yourself online this way?” for her Writer’s Workshop, I jumped at the chance to answer the question. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I blog.  Why do I share a piece of my life on the internet?  Why do I subject myself to possible scrutiny from friends, family and strangers?  Why do I choose to write my blog, participate in various social media to promote it and spend time reading other blogs instead of doing important tasks like laundry or yard work?

I blog because I am an attention whore.

Ok, just kidding

 I blog to maintain Laura.  I blog to keep from falling down the rabbit hole where I become nothing more then “Max’s mom”. Even if I fall under the category of “Mommy Blogger” blogging helps me stay connected to who I am beyond my role of “Mother”. Blogging keeps me rooted and helps me process all these new emotions and situations that come with motherhood. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve started to write a blog about an issue or problem and by the time I’ve finished writing I have a whole new perspective on the situation. Blogging forces me to look at my experiences in a different light so I can find a way to turn them into readable words.

I have a journalism degree that has collected dust since the day I walked across that stage 7 (gulp!) years ago. Blogging helps me hone my writing skill.  I love to write but I’ve let those skills I learned in college sit dormant for too long.  Blogging presents a unique challenge in which I write about my experiences but yet make it relatable to complete strangers. It’s not a journal where I can spill my guts without back story. I don’t maintain anonymity on this blog so I have the challenge of writing on subjects that won’t get me fired from work or in trouble with family/friends.  I love that I now have a reason to write almost every day. 

Fellow bloggers also get me to blog. You’re words and stories inspire me on dull days and comfort me on tough days.  I love getting know people I might never get the opportunity to meet in person and I love to read about the different life experiences of mothers, cooks, travelers, organizers, artists, students and so much more.

Finally, I blog for Max.  I blog so one day he can have a record of what his life was like before he could remember it.  I blog so he can also see that his mom is also a person with aspirations, quirks, likes and dislikes.  That I am more than just the person that makes him food, gives him money and yells at him when he becomes a rotten teenager.  But most importantly, I hope this blog can one day show him how much I truly love him.  

Writer's Workshop: My Own Biltmore?

Everyone says that all they need is their family and a small shelter and they’ll be happy.  I feel the same way. Our modest little house is all we need. It’s filled with creature comforts and lots of love.

But.  I’ll be honest.  I like to dream.  I like to dream of a big house filled with nice things. During our tour of the ridiculously large Biltmore estate Brett and I laughed at the opulence of the 250 room mega-mansion.

Every few minutes during the tour the following conversation would occur:

Brett “You know what our next house needs?”
Me: “What?”
Brett: “A Pipe Organ in the dining room”.
We walk to the next room.

Me:  “You know what our next house needs?”
Brett: “What?”
Me: “A game room with Napoleon’s Chess Set”.

We also joked that our next house should have a breakfast room with 16th century wall tapestries, a library that contains 10,000 books and a bowling alley.

 While we don’t want or need any of those things (though a bowling alley would kind of rock) it got me thinking about what kind our house we would build if we had Vanderbilt-style money.  What would we buy if we were ostentatious millionaires?  What would be our dream home?

While I can’t speak for Brett, here are few things I would want.

-A GIGANTIC eat-in kitchen with multiple ovens, a deep freezer and enough counter space to leave out all our appliances.
-A screened in, second floor porch complete with hammock.
-A three car garage so we could actually park both cars in the garage and give Brett space to work on his motorcycle.
-A basement playroom for Max with an air hockey table
-A master bathroom with an oversized claw foot tub that would submerge me to the neck.
-A large backyard deck with a hot tub.
-A mud room where we would enter the house and not have to track dirt all over the place.
-A large living room with comfy couches perfect for a movie night or game night with friends.

Looking at the above list I realized it’s not that ostentatious. They are elements that would make for a fancy pants house, for sure, but I really don’t need gold faucets, a trampoline room, lion statues at the front entrance, or grand dining room with a table seating 33.  I can’t even dream that big.

There is, however, one thing that would turn even our modest home into my absolute dream house.
A full time cleaning and laundry staff.

That my friends, is dreaming big.

PS:  This post was inspired by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop but Blogger is being an ass and won't display the button properly. Is anyone else having Blogger issues when formatting?  I think a move to WordPress might be in my future!

Writer's Workshop: Why I hate Summer

When I lived in Chicago, summer was a blissful season.  Stuffing my face at the Taste of Chicago. Sitting on the back porch watching the fireflies dance. Napping on the hammock, waking up with a rope diamond pattern indented on legs. Towels, water toys,cowboy boots and over-sized bags of Cool Ranch Doritos stacked up on the dining room table, ready to be packed for the annual family vacation.  All those blissful memories that made me pine for summer during icy Chicago winters. And when it arrived, I was in heaven.

Now, as an adult, living in the Deep South, I hate Summer. Yes, it's heresy to some but I. HATE. SUMMER. 

Why?

Picture this...

A woman at the wheel of her gray sedan, clenching her steering wheel at the ten and two position, leaning forward trying to see lines on the road through the sheets of fat rain drops.

Her hair, which was painstakingly straightened 12 hours ago, is now pulled back into a messy ponytail; and act of surrender to the humidity which caused the straight strands to curls by 10AM. 

She utters a curse word as the local meteorologist comes on the radio and gleefully chirps that today was the umpteenth day in a row of 90+ degree weather and there is no cool off in sight. 

A huge streak of lightening cracks just above her. It's an unwelcome sight for someone who has an irrational yet debilitating fear of getting struck by lightening.  

She sniffs and grimaces when she realises that, despite only being outside for less than 3 minutes, her antiperspirant is definately not strong enough for this heat. 

And when she pulls safely into her driveway, exhausted from the long commute home, thankful her tiny son slept though the whole adventure, she sighs deeply, knowing that in this Deep South summer, this will all happen again tomorrow.

That my friends, is my every day between late May and early June.  Yankees can brag now about their warm days and cool summer nights but remember, when you are freezing your ass off in January, I won't be wearing a coat.
I consider it a fair trade.

Writer's Worshop: A Letter to my Son

Warning: This post is covers subject matter that is significantly heavier than my usual sarcastic bitching or cute pictures of my kid.  I promise tomorrow I will go back to my regular lighthearted snark.

Dear Maxwell,

After 34 long hours of labor, Jill placed you on my chest.  In that 34 hours my dream of a simple birth center delivery, with only you, me, Dad and Jill present, was shattered. I was hoping to deliver you in a calm environment, on a comfortable bed, with music playing and lights turned down. Instead, you entered this world with strangers looking on, me strapped to an awkward hospital bed, monitors beeping and a harsh spotlight on my nether regions.  I was exhausted both mentally and physically.  That instant bond I expected to have with you just didn’t happen. I planned on peaceful bonding time where you gently learned to nurse while your Dad and I looked on in amazement.  I didn’t plan on having 5 different people with their hands on me, giving me conflicting advice nursing positions.  Nor did I plan on a having a nurse step on my IV, ripping it out of my hand and requiring someone to violently stab pitocin in my thigh. I also didn’t plan on the cranky nursery nurse whisking you away from me while I received stitches.  I was too overwhelmed to fight her.  Nothing about the environment was conducive to that “magical bond” all the baby books talked about.  

The start of our time together didn’t go as planned. The next 6 weeks that followed were pretty rough too.  I’m writing this letter to apologize for not being a very good Mom during the first few weeks of you life.  I would ask for your forgiveness but your daily smiles and giggles tell me I already have it. Still, I feel the need to compose this letter.

I know the events of your labor and delivery weren’t anyone’s fault.  I never blamed you but I definitely blamed myself. The first 3 weeks of your life I obsessed over every detail. I made your Dad go over the entire 34 hours, stage by stage, hoping at some point I could pin-point where I could have changed things.  “Oh, here I could have told that Nursery Nurse to go away”  “Maybe if I never tried to relax in the shower my contractions wouldn’t have slowed down”  “I wish I told that tech to leave.  She even said the only reason she was there was because she never had a patient who didn’t know the baby’s gender.” “Maybe I should have waited a few more hours before letting my midwife know I was in labor”.  

All of those scenarios repeated in my head.  Instead of obsessing over you, I obsessed over them.  I was so upset, tired and drained I just didn’t know what to do with you.  I was relieved when other family members picked you up when you cried.  This made me feel guilty which made me more upset.  It was vicious cycle that lead me down a very scary path.

There’s a video from when you were about two weeks old.  Your Papa and I are on the front porch while your Dad is filming.  Papa is holding you, cooing, smiling, rubbing your back and looking over the moon holding his new grandson.  I, on the other hand, look completely detached.  I barely turn to you and my lips are in a thin hard line.  I almost look angry.  That video haunts me.

I spent most of your first weeks curled up in bed crying, wondering if starting family was a huge mistake. I just wanted to disappear into the bed and never come out. It kills me to say this now but I wanted nothing to do with you.  My behavior was scary for both me and your dad.  Finally with your dad’s amazing strength and the unending support from a few amazing friends, I got help.  I talked with a doctor and started to work through the guilt and sadness.  I took a tiny amount of medicine to help me get “over the hump” and  I started to see the beauty in your big eyes and tiny toes.

Then your dad had to leave the country for work. It was just you and me and I was terrified.  But during those 3 days something clicked.  There was a very real and powerful moment where I realized how much I loved you.  For the first time, I cried tears of joy, not tears of hopelessness.

So, Max, I am so sorry for those first few weeks of your life where I wasn’t much of a Mom.  I’m so sorry I spent those first few weeks handing you off to other people so I could go back to bed and be alone.   I’m sorry I didn’t want anything to do with you.  Things now are different.  I can’t imagine life without you. Your tiny smile and belly laugh brings a joy I didn’t know existed. When you and Daddy play, I watch and realize that I am the luckiest person in the world to have the two of you in my life.

I know you don’t remember any of those weeks but I still hope that you can forgive me.

Love,
Mom

Writer's Workshop: Time Out!

This week, I haven’t been Captain Happy Pants. Rather, my pants were incredibly cranky. For Example:

I’ve shouted obscenities at other drivers.


I’ve sent mean vibes to the staff at my child’s day care for parking the 18 passenger school van in the small drive during the busiest pickup time.


I gave the evil eye to the woman at Sam’s Club who’s job it is to accost you at the front door, trying to get you to switch to Direct TV.


I almost read the riot act to the guy on the treadmill next to me who kept grunting.


I made a nasty Facebook status update about the perpetually *effervescent* radio traffic lady who kept chirping “the highways are clear” when in fact I had been sitting on the highway at a complete standstill for 30 minutes.


In my head I ranted at the guy at the gym who turned the TV to Fox News when I was perfectly happy watching Oprah. He didn’t even ask, jerkface.


I mentally composed a long post about why Gisele Bundchen needs to STOP TALKING ABOUT PARENTING. Then I decided not to actually write it because I didn’t want a debate.

If Max lashed out with similar behavior, I’d put him in “time out”. Actually, I would be really impressed because he’s only four months old. Still, when he’s older and displays cranky pants behavior, time out is where he would go to cool down. For him, it would be a punishment. For me, my own time out sounds like paradise. A Mommy time out is just what I need to curb my road, gym and Sam’s Club rage.

My “time out” would not require a tropical paradise but rather, something more practical. I just need three things. A hotel room, a Jacuzzi tub and a bottle of red wine. Bliss would be a night all alone in a hotel room, sitting in that tub, drinking that wine. No offense to my husband. It’s not that I don’t want Brett there. I do. He’s wonderful. It’s just- if Brett is with me then someone else would be watching Max. And though I have many trustworthy friends I wouldn’t be fully comfortable and I wouldn’t sleep well. The goal of this “time out” is to sleep.

The hotel doesn’t have to be something fancy. Just a moderate priced room (with a Jacuzzi tub) is fine. I can compromise on the tub too. It doesn’t have to have Jacuzzi jets. It just needs to be deep. And the wine? A $10 bottle of Cabernet will suffice. I’d relax in the tub with a tabloid magazine good book and the wine. Then, at an obscenely early hour, I would crawl into bed and drift off for a full 8+ hours of uninterrupted sleep. That one night could instantly end my cranky streak.

Mommy desperately needs a time out before I verbally assault another Savannah driver.


This post brought to you by:
 

Yeah I'm doubling up on memes...what of it?

Writer's Workshop: Just Like Heaven

“How far to heaven? Just open your eyes and look. You are in heaven” -Shankar

October 4, 2008.

I love weddings.  It’s a party to celebrate two people in love.  That’s a pretty awesome excuse for a party.  Small weddings, big weddings, formal weddings, casual weddings.   All make me happy.  I’ve been to plenty of weddings.  Twelve in 2009 alone!  But of all the weddings I attended, my favorite was obviously my own.

It was a PARTY!  We had yummy southern food, plenty of drinks,  an amazing DJ and hours of ridiculous dancing. And my hair?  Totally perfect.

But, the perfection of day wasn’t just about the party (or the hair). Those were just an added bonus. The perfection was found in the love. The love I had (and have) for Brett.  The love proclaimed and blessed before God. The love flowing from the friends and family in attendance, most of whom had traveled hefty distances to celebrate with us. Being surrounded by that love, just before my very first dance with my husband, is my interpretation of heaven.

Writer's Workshop: My Favorite Collector

My Grandma didn’t collect typical “Grandma Things”.  Sure, she has figurines, pictures and crafts her grand kids made for her and maybe even a doily or two.  However, I would never classify her as a collector…except for one thing: UPC Codes.  You know, the bar codes on every product in the grocery store?  Or the thing my brother has tattooed on his leg.

Yes, honestly, that’s his tattoo.  It’s for Easy Cheese, in case you were wondering.

When I think of her kitchen, I think of the little pile of cardboard codes, cut out from boxes of cereal, sitting next to the sink. Those things were basically the currency she used to buy us little gifts. By mailing in a few codes from a Kellogg’s product and some spare change in shipping and handling you get a little random something or other brandishing a corporate logo.

With every birthday, there were always two boxes from Grandma.  One had our “regular” gift while the other came to be known as the “Fun Box”.  You knew it was the “Fun Box” because there was always a post-it note over the wrapping paper designating it as such. The fun box was filled with an assortment of things Gram had picked up.  Freebies from local stores, little inexpensive gadgets she thought we might like and the crème de la crème of the “Fun Box”, things purchased with UPC codes. As kids, we thought they were awesome while my mom probably looked at them as more things that we would leave lying around the house.

Looking back, the variety of UPC goodies is pretty amusing.  I polled my siblings about memorial “Fun Box” items and came up with following things:

-Purple Welch’s Grape Jelly Wrist Watch
-A plastic California Raisins figurine
-A collection of Model A Matchbox Cars with the Apple Jacks, Rice Krispie and Raisin Bran logos.
-A fleet of Kellogg’s Matchbox racing cars
- A Pilsbury Doughboy button up denim shirt
-An Olympic "Dream Team" warm up suit that was made of paper. 

Now all the grandchildren are over 20 and birthday gifts are morely like to be a check. The little collection of UPC's on Gram's kitchen counter are gone.  However, I know all 7 grandchildren would smile a little if with that check, a little Tony the Tiger beach towel came with it.

Oh, and this is my bad ass Grandma.

Writer's Workshop-A Happiness List

Sure, there are lots of things that make me smile after a bad day.  There are the obvious things in which everyone shares.  A hug from your spouse.  A big smile and laugh from your baby. Coffee and conversation with an old friend.  Yes, those things will put a smile on my face when I'm not happy too. However, here's a list of 10 less obvious things that really can turn a bad day good.

10) Will Ferrell Movies- My sense of humor is similar to what a teenage boy might have.  People getting hit in the junk, fart jokes, ect. I also love pop culture references. So, Will Ferrel movies tend to fall in that brilliant category of immaturity.  I can quote 90% of Anchorman.  Even love Blades of Glory.  I love all his stuff..except Land of the Lost.  That blew chunks.

9) Listening to Tom Jones's "It's Not on Usual" and doing the Carlton Dance. Seriously.  Try it (when no one is looking). It's hard not to have a good time.


8) The Chocolate Covered Orange Martini from Lulu's Chocolate Bar.  Alcohol?  Chocolate?  Oranges? In a drink?  Yes Please.

7) This clip from Mythbusters:

6) These shoes

Aren't they ridiculously hot? I saw them in a window and left my beloved grandfathers funeral luncheon to go buy them. Plus, they were a billion percent off. Gramps was a major bargain hunter so I think he were actually his doing.

5) When new people follow my blog (HINT HINT HINT)

4) Driving my car. This is my car, Louie. 

Now that I'm all parent-y and responsible, I don't get to drive it very often.  Day care is close to my work and Louie can't accommodate a car seat.  Thus, I get the family sedan most days while Brett takes my car.  I can't complain too much.  Brett did give up his fancy schmancy sports car completely. Still, on the rare occasional I am without Max and in my car, I take the long way home.

3) Joel McHale-'nuff said

2) Her cakes and desserts. So damn yummy. She's a great baker and even a better friend.

1) Sleeping for more than 4 hours in a row.  It never ever ever happens any more, but if it ever does again, I can promise you I will be a renewed, less bitchy woman. 

So- What makes you happy?

Writer's Workshop

Dear Time and Energy,

Both of you are funny things.  In order to get more of you apparently I first have to expend a good deal of you. At least that’s what the experts in all those women’s magazines tell me. With you Time, I’m supposed to carve out some of you to sit down to make a plan.  I need to make time to organize my time. Once I do that, I will have more of you to do what I please.  And you Energy, by getting up and moving around, I’m supposed to feel better, thus creating more of you.

Unfortunately in order to lose a few…ok a lot, of extra pounds I need both of you at the same time. As a working mother of a 3 month old boy, neither of you are a part of my life.  Or, on rare occasions, I might have one of you, but not the other.

For instance Time, when I have a little extra of you it’s because I used up all of Energy to get there. I’ve spent you frantically doing the dishes, changing diapers, folding laundry, answering work emails, calling my family, making dinner and fighting Max to get him to nap.  And when the stars align and all of those things have been half-assedly completed, Energy is no where to be find.  All I want to do with you, Time, is curl up on the couch with my laptop or one of the aforementioned women’s magazines.  I don’t want to spend you lifting weights and spinning on the bike.

And Energy, you are even more fleeting.  The best form of you comes when I do that weight lifting and bike riding. You know, the way that will also help me drop some poundage. However these days I prefer you in drinkable form, namely very strong coffee. Before Max, I had lots of energy.  I did lots of exercise. I was a regular at not one, but two gyms. I also was able to replenish you by sleeping eight hours or more every night.  Sleep however is no longer a part of my life. I don’t expect to get a full nights sleep for another 18 years. So that’s just another thing that zaps you right up, Energy.

So, Time and Energy, I have a request.  Lets work together, m’kay?  I don’t like these extra pounds and I don’t like not having you two together at the same time. So let’s work together. If you guys could look at your calendar and pick a few days a week where you can combine forces let me know.  I’ll look at my calendar and together we can start working as a team. 

I look forward to working with you again,
Laura

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My First Writer's Workshop

Before I was a mom.....

I took for granted getting more than 4 hours of sleep in a row

I didn't have the number for the local Chinese restaurant memorized

I drove a red convertible every day, not just when I was running an errand alone

I never thought twice about accepting an invitation to a night out with friends

I didn't know the wonders of Dreft stain removal spray

I carried a small purse

I lingered in the shower

My hair was always brushed

I only did laundry once a week

I couldn't type, eat or clean one handed

I usually said yes to a second margarita

I didn't know the words to "Rubber Ducky"

I was fully dressed before before Noon on the weekdays

I wasn't constantly recharging AA and D batteries

I didn't realize that my Mom was always right

I didn't obsess about the color of someone's poop

I wasn't responsible for someones survival (although my husband might disagree)

I only required one cup of coffee for survival

I wore a hair tie around my wrist for emergency ponytails, not to tell me which side to nurse on next

I wasn't aware that a high chair at a restaurant could be flipped over to accommodate a car seat

I didn't have sympathy for the parent of a crying child in public spaces

I didn't know my touch could calm a crying baby

I didn't know the joy of a crooked smile

I sweated the small stuff

I didn't know the words "My Family" could fill me with warm fuzzies

I didn't know my heart could be so filled with love I thought it would explode

I wasn't nearly as happy as I am today

I didn't know the love of two people could produce someone so unbelievably perfect

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