Tag Archives: Eleanor

Gone Fishing (or "Screw Friendship and Networking – Tim Gunn is Going to be There?!")

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You may have noticed that I haven’t been commenting much lately (or maybe not – but just in case you have…) Last week was my last week of work. There are a number of reasons why we decided that one of us needed to stay home for a while, but I’m guessing that they’re only really interesting to us, so if you want more detail on that, e-mail me and we can talk.

This week, I’ll be getting used to being home with the kids all day (god help me) and next week, we’ll be at the beach, so I will be taking a break from posting and commenting.

I did set up posts for Wishing True for the next two weeks, so come visit me there! I should also have a post up on DC Metro Moms at some point this week, so I’ll sneak in a quick note about that. And of course I’ll have an oldie but a goodie up for Flashback Friday at the end of the month.

AND – I’m keeping my giveaway open through the end of the month. So if you haven’t entered yet, you can do so HERE.

In the meantime, to all of my friends going to BlogHer:

1. No one will think you look fat – so don’t waste one more tear over that.
2. No one will care what you’re wearing – so just wear what you like best.
3. No one will ignore you if you smile at them or try to talk to them – so smile at everyone and talk to everyone.
4. Tell Tim Gunn I said hi – because I have come very close to slitting my wrists several times since I learned he’d be there and I was going to miss it.

Seriously – I LOVE Tim Gunn. He’s one of my favorite TV personalities (I’d say “people,” but since we’ve never met that would seem a bit familiar – of course if I was actually going to BlogHer…DAMN IT!) So many times have I been running late in the morning and imagined Tim saying, “Kate, you need to leave for work in two minutes and you haven’t even started on hair and makeup. I find this troubling…really, it’s make it work time.”

I’m even sad about missing Carson Kressley. I adored the Fab Five and Carson won me over when gorgeous Kyan was bonding with gorgeous straight guy saying, “really? People say you look like Keanu Reeves? People tell ME I look like Keanu Reeves!” And Carson said, “really? People tell me I look like Ellen DeGeneres.”

Okay – so enough about what I’ll be missing. I really do hope everyone has a wonderful time, and look forward to reading the post mortems.

Here is what I WON’T be missing (from our vacation last year):












See you in a couple of weeks!

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

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One of my favorite online friends, Scary Mommy honored me with an invitation to guest post for her this week. She said that she thought it might be fun to have “a few people post their scary mommy moments (whatever that may mean).” And apparently, I completely missed the point…

She was talking about not being perfect – those times when you feel like “bad mom.” And I went in a totally different direction. Ultimately, she’s posting something else of mine that is more along the lines of what she had in mind. But since I went to the trouble of writing this thing, I’m posting it here.

So pretend that you are over at Scary Mommy’s blog and pretend that I completely nailed her guest post theme. And then leave me comments telling me what a tour de force this is so I can feel a little less moronic about the miscommunication.

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

When Jill asked me to guest post this week, she mentioned something about “scary mommy moments.” And my immediate thought was, “where do I start?!“

I suppose that’s a universal theme of motherhood, with its never-ending firsts, challenges and fears. But along with that comes all of the triumphs, the self discovery and the great gift of testing and proving your merit as a parent. It’s a heady experience.

Being a parent is absolutely the most amazing thing that I’ve ever done. Of course it’s just as terrifying as it is thrilling. And much of the time, it also really sucks.

My initiation into the world of scary mommyhood was the complete upheaval, the world turned on it’s head, the holy crap, what the hell have I gotten myself into slap in the face, otherwise known as bringing your first baby home from the hospital.

The mystery of shell shocked new parent expressions that I had previously puzzled over was suddenly revealed. I now understood. They had just willingly signed away life as they once knew it.

And I think that’s when it starts. Truly, it’s right there at the beginning. Babies may fool you for those first few sleepy days in the hospital…but the minute they cross the threshold of their new home, they turn into mini Terminators on a mission to throw their parents’ once peaceful existence into a state of constant chaos. At least for a little while.

When sleep, something so basic to a functional life, becomes a privilege and not a right, you join the ranks of zombies so easily identified as new parents. And it really gets scary when you realize that you have no idea when the madness will end, if ever.

After one particularly taxing day with baby Oliver, I looked at my husband and said quite definitively, “I don’t know how people take care of multiples – I could never do it.“

Epilogue: 18 months later I gave birth to twins.

Another scary mommy milestone would be caring for those twins during my maternity leave. Oliver was a week late and entered this world as a healthy, nine pound bruiser. Sure, he was fussy – but nothing beyond the expected newborn hoopla.

George and Eleanor were born just shy of 37 weeks and were each under six pounds. After my first tank of a baby, I didn’t know what to make of those skinny little things. They kept their wrinkly knees pulled up in a perpetual fetal position (common with c-section babies). And they looked so fragile, that even my 18 months of first baby experience made me handle them with extra care. Their tiny boniness was so foreign to me that when I dressed them in the morning I would often think that it felt like changing kittens.

They had reflux and colic and eczema and…well, let’s just say that I spent more time at the doctor’s office in those three months than I did in the previous 18 months with Oliver.

And taking care of both of them at once! Feeding them in tandem, bathing one while the other screamed, finally getting one to settle down for a nap, only to have the other wake up…When people knowingly advised me to “sleep when the baby sleeps,” I would reply, “oh yeah? Which one?” (The Miss Manners book got thrown out the window during that period of my life…)

But of course, they too eventually learned to sit up and hold their bottles, and entertain themselves and each other. And the scary new mommy phase quietly lifted away – quite the anticlimax to its bone crushing arrival.

I also think we all experience a touch of amnesia when it comes to those early months since the screaming newborn does at some point morph into a charming, cooing infant. Love and smug admiration for our offspring will inevitably win out in the end.

But then there is always something else… Some new scary development to snap us out of our self satisfied torpor. There is no relaxing in scary mommyhood.

My oldest child just turned four, and within that time I’ve experienced the NICU, the ER, hourly wake up calls for nights on end, speech and developmental delays, biting, fighting, tantrums, teething, crying, screaming and screaming and screaming…

But I’ve also experienced peals of laughter, hand holding, I wuv yous, flashes of genius, spirited identity building, earnest honesty, sticky sweet kisses, general center of the universeness and fervent gratitude for every single day that I have with those little monsters.

They have simplified my life and brought my priorities into sharp focus. My dreams for them are infinite, while my dreams for myself drop off somewhere after “showering with the door closed.” But that’s just for now because they are a daily reminder that anything is possible. They have aged me and made me feel young again. And yes – they scare the crap out of me.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. From the very beginning, they made it clear that no matter how scary life with them can be, every day is worth it. And every day is ours.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name…

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I’m fairly certain that my neighbors think I’m an abusive parent. Or at least a raving lunatic.

Not the ones I know personally of course. They are aware of the fact that I gave birth to three children in 18 months and cut me a little slack. They’ve also seen me in action and know that I’m all about the empty threats.

Oliver! Do you want to go upstairs and take a nap!?
[Oliver hasn’t taken a nap since February 2008. Even he knows I’m bluffing on this one.]

No, I mean the ones who vaguely know me, but have never had the opportunity to meet me (i.e. the ones who walk purposefully past me and “my brood” George Costanza style, hoping that I will assume that they are very, very busy – no time to be friendly).

They hear me screaming at my children pretty much non-stop whenever we’re outside and I can only hope that they think, “well – at least she’s not beating them.”

George! Get over here! No! That is a NO-NO! Running away from mommy is a NO-NO!
[The No, No. Yes, Yes book doesn’t make quite the impact on my toddlers that one would hope.]

My poor neighbors. Every morning when we leave the house to go to work/daycare, it begins. I really do try to get everyone in the car as quickly and as efficiently as possible. But, inevitably, I have one escapee.

Eleanor! I said it’s time to GET in the car. Do NOT laugh at me, I am SERIOUS. Come over here RIGHT NOW! Do you want a spanking?!
[Eleanor is the only one whom I “spank” since she’s the only one who seems to take this seriously. Said “spanking” generally means a firm pat on her bottom. Which of course sends her into paroxysms of keening tears. She gets the shaming thing. The boys? Not so much – still figuring out what works for them…]

Since everything I yell at them outside begins with their names, it’s safe to say that anyone within a mile radius knows OLIVER! GEORGE! and ELEANOR!

And I’m not always yelling at them. Often I just “call out to them.” The yelling only comes into play when danger is involved. Or total lack of respect for my authority. Or outdoor nudity. Otherwise, I just call their names.

For example, at the grocery store. We can no longer contain them all in carts. That fun car thing on the front of “family” carts? They just climb on top of it while I’m pushing. Half the time, I’d be happy to leave them there since it means they can’t run up and down the aisles. But that kind of arrangement seems to be frowned upon by the other store patrons. And you know – I can’t stand to have complete strangers disapprove of me…

If I really need to keep them immobilized, I might throw all of them inside the cart. That way I can shove them back in when they try to climb out. But then there isn’t much room left for the actual groceries. So that only works for trips to pick up one or two items.

Plus – it is again “frowned upon” to push a shopping cart full of kids in various stages of escape. Something about the possibility of head injuries or whatever…

So nine times out of ten, I’m chasing them around the store trying to keep them in my line of sight while unloading all of the various and sundry items they fling into the cart (this ranges from cookies to boxes of Depends undergarments – they are not always particular about their choices).

I only do the serious shopping when I have Chris with me. It’s still “zone defense” but the ratio of parent to child is a little better.

The grocery store staff and other customers hear my children’s names pretty much from the minute we arrive…

Eleanor! Come back here! You have to stay where I can see you, honey…Listen to me Eleanor, that’s VERY dangerous…

…through the inevitable meltdowns…

I’m sorry George, but you are going to have to stay in the cart…NO George, don’t climb on me. I can’t carry you sweetie, you’re too big. GEORGE! DO NOT hit me! That is a NO-NO!

…to the checkout scramble (why do I NEVER remember to pick the aisle without candy?!)

No candy Oliver. I’m sorry – no. We don’t need that. Put it back Oliver. Give that to me…give it to me….OLIVER! GIVEITTOME!

There is a reason that I’m thinner now than I was before I had kids…

The general theme of all of this yelling at/calling to my children is mainly safety. So I can’t worry too much about what people think. I’d rather look like a complete bitch who yells at her kids than a frantic mother who can’t find them anywhere in the store.

And I guess at the end of the day, people are pretty understanding.

Amused even.

And often very nice.

The other day at Trader Joe’s, I had just caught up with Oliver in front of a sample display of cheese. Before I could even suggest that he stop and try some, the TJ’s staff person stationed there smiled at him and said, “Hi Oliver, can I interest you in some cheese?”

Sigh.

So yes, I think it’s safe to say that wherever we go EVERYBODY knows our names. Not so sure about the “always glad we came” part though…

The Big Reveal: Womily Cuff Links

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I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to post this, but Chris was out of town when they arrived. Then, as you know (if you’ve been reading), it’s been a rough couple of weeks.

But the day has finally arrived – the Womily Touch cuff links are here!

And they are so cool. Chris was thrilled.

If you read the “how to” post, you will remember that due to challenging conditions (i.e. having children), we were unable to get both twins to cooperate at the same time. So only Eleanor’s fingerprints were used for the links.

Here is an action shot (or what a cuff link considers “action”).


Very sharp!

And just because I’m at artist at heart (with limited photography skills), Here are some additional images with an edgy sidewalk chalk backdrop:


The links came with the suede pouch featured above (they are all about presentation at Womily). But did I mention before that engraving is included? We chose “Eleanor Hood, 2 years old.”

Here is a better shot of that:

This was a great investment for us since Chris wears a suit every day and allows himself to be a bit of a dandy when it comes to cuff links and ties. (Next up – a novelty tie featuring a textile pattern of Oliver, George and Eleanor’s faces…what no one is doing this yet? Calling my patent attorney as I type…)
Other Womily product options include necklaces (I want one in gold!), bracelets and charms. So there really is something for everyone.

While I’m here – I may as well throw in a few more visuals of the Hoods.

This is a picture of my daughter with a pig kite.


Seriously – why a pig?

This is a picture of Oliver playing out back with the hose.


Notice how he’s pressed up against the sliding glass door – we were afraid to go outside.

This is a picture of what George likes to call “R2 – time for nap!”


Sleep tight R2.

Just Call Me Fegan

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This is the first Spring that I’ve had the pleasure of watching my children literally burst out of their clothes. And I’m not talking about their tendency to run around naked (that’s a whole other post).

I mean that they all have holes in the knees of their pants. And on top of that, the rags I continue to call clothes aren’t even fitting that well anymore. Inches of wrist show at shirt cuffs and inseams are more appropriate for a flood than a sunny Spring day (the term “high waters” would be an understatement).

These days, when I look at my children, I’m reminded of Fegan’s scruffy band of pickpockets in Oliver!


I’m serious. It’s come to the point where I’m actually sending Oliver to preschool with holey pants since that’s all he has left. Eleanor’s high waters expose her mismatched socks, and George… Well with that new bald head of his, George looks like he was deloused the old fashioned way.

Any traces of color vibrancy their clothes may have had are gone. Those hideously pink outfits of Eleanor’s and the boys’ standard issue red, green and navy have now taken on a decidedly grey cast. Luckily this blends well with the grime that they bring in with them every time I let them go outside. Ever fascinated by the charcoal grill on our back deck, they can’t be left alone for a minute without getting into the ash. Carcinogens aside – the filth of this sends me into a rage (at times like these – I take my poor parenting skills to a whole new level). Street urchins indeed!

Gone are the days that I have bags of clothes to donate to friends or sell at consignment sales. I’m hoping we can make it through one more month before the bare threads become skeletal. Bottom line – my kids are sorry looking bunch of ragamuffins.


So I feel like Fegan, watching them run wild in their rags, charming all around with their guileless smiles and sticky fingers. Maybe a kindly rich stranger will find Oliver wandering around outside in his underwear while I’m inside changing a diaper…

In the meantime, I’m counting the days until warm weather takes over and chilly mornings become a thing of the past. Then I can put them all in in shiny new shorts, brightly colored tee shirts and shoes that don’t have swiss cheese soles.

That is until late September when my ragamuffins return. Then I’ll have to be on the lookout for those rich strangers. Especially the ones looking to adopt a haggard, working mom in her late 30s. Who Will Buy ME This Wonderful Morning? Just kidding of course (sort of).

Womily Touch Jewelry: Great New Gift Idea – Plus Some Bonus Nudity

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A while ago, a good friend of mine forwarded me a Daily Candy Philadelphia e-mail spotlighting her cousin’s super cool “touch” jewelry. Womily Touch Jewelry is basically fingerprints cast in silver or gold and then made into necklaces, earrings and cuff links. I thought I’d give Chris some silver cuff links for his birthday.


Since I tend to get my best ideas at the eleventh hour, I wasn’t able to have the cuff links made in time for his birthday. Instead, I gave him the kit so we could all do it together.

The original plan was to have each of the twins put a fingerprint on one of the two cuff links. There was some talk of how Oliver would be represented, and a gold pinkie ring was discussed…but in the end, we decided that Oliver had top billing on plenty of other occasions. This could be something for just the twins (plus – gold pinkie rings are a bit pricey for us in this economy).

We were all set to break out the kit last weekend, but in reading the directions, we realized that we were missing an important ingredient: baby oil. Now, one would think that a woman with three very young children would have some left over baby oil lying around. But I never used baby oil for anything. And we had to wonder – what ARE you supposed to use baby oil for – and are people really using it? It’s always stocked at the grocery store and pharmacy…so one would think so… But as it turned out, NO ONE in our baby-infested neighborhood had any baby oil on hand. Makes you wonder…


We decided to put it off until we could get to the store. In the meantime, Chris and Eleanor ate some stir fry.


By the way, Eleanor was still in the ballet costume that she had been wearing ALL DAY. Just in case you are wondering why she’s in a bathing suit – it’s actually a leotard.

SO first lesson learned in the Touch Jewelry making experience: own or buy baby oil.

We finally got our act together the following evening after the kids did their version of “eating dinner.” I swept crumbs off the table and moved as much playroom debris as possible out of the area where I’d be taking pictures (I don’t mind telling you that we live in chaos – but it’s another thing to flaunt it on film).

I’m not sure why I thought that I’d have a different photography experience than I usually do – but I didn’t. Everyone moved when I wanted them to stay still and faced in the wrong direction. They arranged limbs so that it was impossible to see the product and insisted on closing their eyes for 90% of the pictures I took. I think it’s safe to say that while I think my children are movie star beautiful, I have no hopes for their future in the modeling industry.

In fact – George refused to participate at all. He was too busy ripping off his pants and chasing Oliver around. I don’t care how that may sound – it’s what happened.

The directions were pretty simple and the kit just involved two brass “tools” (which looked somewhat like little caps), two thin discs of wax and two plastic eggs.


We put a couple of drops of the baby oil in the bottom of each tool.


Then we softened the wax under warm water for a couple of minutes.

I should say at this point that during these tasks we were expending about 95% of our energy on trying to keep the kids from playing with the baby oil and “tools” and overturning the table in the mad rush to see what was going on, as well as putting underwear back on Oliver who had just finished up on the potty. So TRULY the procedure was as easy as it gets.

Once the wax was softened we inserted it in the tools and had Eleanor make an imprint in each. We did try to grab George – but he was having none of it.

We let the wax cool for a few minutes, removed it from the tools, placed each one in an egg and then packed everything up to ship to Womily. All so simple and easy! I’m not particularly crafty – so this is my kind of project. There was only one problem:


Eleanor REALLY wanted to play with those plastic eggs, and had a bit of a hissy fit when we packed them away.

It will take several weeks to get the cuff links back, but when we do, I’ll post pictures. Until then, I will leave you with this:


Okay – so this is the nudity I referred to in my title. Sometimes I resort to false advertising to get attention. What of it?

Anyway – back to my semi-nude son… You know it’s Spring when the Hood kids start running around outside in their underwear. We’re a pretty classy group… But at least George put on some shoes. And look at those skinny white legs! I may need to break out the self tanner for that poor pasty little guy…

Becoming a Real Mom: Trial by Vomit

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So I guess I promised a 1,000+ word dissertation on puke? I’d say that I must have been drunk – but it looks like I posted that at 2:15 p.m.

I’m kidding of course! I’ve been super excited to write my gargantuan post about puke. I’ve just been really busy with work and mothering and promoting my talented friend Christine.

I also haven’t had much time to think about what I’m going to say about puke… So this should be interesting (or really boring – depends on what direction the wine is blowing – does that even make sense?)

Okay – back to the beginning… Eleanor was sick earlier in the week. Some kind of stomach flu to be specific. And there was a moment when she was puking in my hand that I realized just how far I had come in terms of a vomit comfort zone.

You see, there was a time when I NEVER, ever threw up. Ever. I couldn’t. I would lie in bed sweating through the nausea and praying for death to come quickly, but I couldn’t bring myself to just lean over the toilet and heave. I just couldn’t. I had a mental block. Sometime after age nine, a switch was flipped and I literally “couldn’t” puke.

Then I was in college and 21 years old. You are going to find this very hard to believe, but I only puked once in college. Red shots were involved, but otherwise there was nothing of note to report. Seriously – I was home for the night and my roommate held my hair back for me. Snore.

Then I turned 25. And even that was kind of quiet in that I realized what was coming early enough during the birthday celebration to head home before things got ugly in public. I didn’t quite make it into the house, but at least I didn’t soil the cab. Just the street. Which was gleefully pointed out to me by my roommates until it finally rained. Thank god for April showers…

Then I was 30. I was married and not a party animal, and visiting my friend in New Jersey. In fact it was such a low key night that we were just meeting a few of her friends out in Hoboken for Friday night happy hour. The plan was to then have dinner at a good Mexican place and go home early since Saturday would be the night out in the city (for anyone not familiar with this term, “the city” means Manhattan). I’ve written about this once before, but the short version is that I didn’t eat much, but had a few very strong margaritas that made me VERY sick. In Hoboken. In fact, all over Hoboken. And to quote the famously succinct Forrest Gump, “that’s all I have to say about that.”

Then a year later I went to China and got food poisoning (it’s part of the experience – there are whole chapters on this in the guide books). The first non-alcohol related puke since my childhood – yeah!

And finally…THEN, I was pregnant and got a stomach flu in my eighth month. My car never smelled the same again…

So that concludes my illustrious history as an infrequent puker.

Why would I feel the need to provide that history? Well – aside from that fact that I can’t write any story without at least 10 paragraphs of background information…I do think it creates a context for my limited experience with vomit.

I don’t know about any other mothers out there, but when I decided to procreate, I did not sign on for vomit. I was a seasoned babysitter, so I expected exploding diapers. I knew that there would be an ungodly amount of diapers – and that was fine. I signed on for that. I was also familiar with spit up. It’s stinky and annoying, but not too bad. And it stops as soon as the baby can sit up. I signed on for that.

But I did not consider the possibility of real puke.

Real puke is something that you never get used to. It’s not like poopie diapers. Poopie diapers are a given. You change them several times a day and very quickly become desensitized to the stench. Case in point: After about one and a half years of having three babies/toddlers in diapers, my three year old became potty trained. Since we had fewer diapers to dump, I stopped keeping the diaper pail in our play room and moved it outside. My adorably candid, four year old neighbor Jonas informed me of the improvement by saying, “Hey Kate! Your house doesn’t stink anymore!”

Awesome.

So no – I’m not exactly squeamish when it comes to my children’s bodily functions. But puking is a different story.

If something doesn’t happen on a daily basis, then it’s not familiar. And if it’s not familiar, then you don’t just “get used to it.” Therefore no one (except maybe a pregnant woman) gets used to puke.

My first experience with baby puke was during those fabulous teething months, when Oliver insisted on jamming everything in his mouth and gagging himself. In fact, it seemed like he tried to gag himself on purpose. We never did figure out the reasoning behind this bulimic behavior. But I didn’t particularly care about reasons when I had him on the changing table after his bath and he decided to stick his finger down his throat. All I have to say is thank god for the hooded baby towel. But trying to clean vomited peas and carrots out of my child’s ears over the sink was an experience I could have done without.

Since then I’ve encountered pretty much every child vomit-related situation. I’ve stood in the bathroom in the middle of the night holding a crying toddler as he or she puked all over me – over and over and over again. I’ve had to sit in rush hour traffic for 30 minutes while yelling back to a sobbing, vomit covered child that we’d be home “very soon.” I’ve watched three children throwing up simultaneously while I stood frozen for several seconds, wondering where to start first.

In any given situation, vomit is generally unexpected and unwelcome. And unlike diapers and spit up, no one actually grows out of it.

But I will say that in the past few years, I have become a very quick thinking and level headed strategist when it comes to puking children.

And the other weekend when we were out to lunch and Eleanor started making gagging noises. I instinctively held my hand under her chin to catch as much of the vomit as possible.

Then I dumped it onto her plate.

Then I asked a waiter for paper napkins and started cleaning her up.

Then I told Chris to take George with him to buy her a new outfit (we were in a mall).

Then I discreetly stripped her and covered her with Chris’ jacket.

Then I joked with our waiter and cleaned the table and the chair the the floor under the chair with a rag.

Then I told Oliver and Eleanor how good and patient they were being while we waited for Daddy.

Then I finished my soup.

Then I kept my exasperation in check when my flustered husband showed up with a summer outfit (it was chilly march) involving a onesie of all things…

Then I kept all three kids together outside of the restaurant while we waited for Chris to pay the check.

Then I spent the next hour in the kids’ play area with them even though I knew that my right hand still smelled like puke (never did get a chance to wash up).

And in the end – that’s when I finally felt like a real mom. Not when I gave birth or gave my baby his first bath (technically I didn’t – my Aunt Jan did while I sat on a bag of frozen peas) or started to get used to the sleepless nights. Because all of that was anticipated and expected (except for the frozen peas).

For me, becoming a real mom meant doing the unfamiliar and unexpected things. Facing the unknown and learning to take it in stride. Child vomit was my unknown territory – my Wild West – my own personal moon landing. “Puke: The final frontier.”

This all may sound rather silly and inconsequential, but if you think about it, vomit is terrifying. It’s a sign of weakness, illness, helplessness. And as parents, we live in fear of our children experiencing any of those traits. It doesn’t matter if a baby has a minor flu bug or decided to stick a Lincoln Log down his throat – throw up is throw up. And the primal reaction of is fear.

Parents live in fear on a daily basis. Fear of both the known and the unknown. And puking represents the unknown – that which is beyond our control. But at the end of the day, parents are responsible for taking charge of any given situation and exerting control wherever they can. I can’t make my child not puke, but I can hold out my hand to help.

So for me, that is when I stopped feeling like the teenage babysitter and instead started to claim my seat at the grownup table. I can take control of a situation. I can face the unknown with cool consideration. And dammit, I can pick up my child’s vomit and toss it onto a plate without batting an eye.

I think I’m ready for my silver star. I’m sheriff of this here family and all interlopers will have to answer to me. I’ll run vomit out of town on a rail. And if it comes to a showdown at high noon, best keep in mind that I’m the fastest draw in the West. That is when it comes to catching puke in my hand.

Sound Byte: "What the….?!?"

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It seems like I have a lot funny Eleanor stories lately… Probably because she’s such a little talker now. I typically don’t chronicle every precious anecdote – but one from this weekend really made me laugh.

Warning: There is bad language involved – but it can’t be helped since it’s kind of integral to the story.

On Saturday morning, I was sitting at the kids’ table setting up an elaborate craft project for us to all do together (translation: I was sitting at the kids’ table with my laptop reading blogs and absentmindedly talking to them about the DVD that was playing).

Eleanor – who isn’t into dolls but IS into “ballminas” (ballerinas) came over to me with a little Polly Pocket doll that someone gave her for Christmas. We have very few of these little girly items and I find it interesting that she’s the ONLY one who shows any interest in them (nurture over nature indeed! ha!).

Eleanor: Mommy? What the fuck?

Me: What?!?

Eleanor: What the fuck?

Me: I’m sorry – I must not be hearing this right…what did you say?

Eleanor: What. The. Fuck.

Me: Try again – but slowly. What are you asking me?

Eleanor: Wha….The….Fog?

Me: What the “frog?”

Eleanor: Yeah! Wha the fog?

Me: OH – you want to know where the frog is…because she’s a ballerina…which to you, is the same as “princess”….and princesses kiss frogs!!

Eleanor: [blank stare]

Me: No – it’s funny – because I thought you said… Well – never mind. One day I’ll tell you about this and you’ll think it’s really funny.

Eleanor: What the fuck?

Excessive Accessories

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My Mother in Law is world renowned for her enthusiastic application of jewelry. She is a fan of “the layered look.”

She wears so many necklaces at one time, that my Father in Law has been known to call her Mr. T.


And she’d be the first to wonder why anyone stops at one ring when the space between knuckles so clearly allows for three. Bracelets are a no brainer – to live without the constant jingling of bangles is just no life at all.

Lately, I’ve been thinking that my daughter, Eleanor has inherited this gene.

Since she doesn’t have access to real jewelry, she must be content with draping herself in Mardi Gras beads. But she finds other outlets for her preference for excess.

On Saturday morning I put a Thomas Tank Engine bandaid on one of Oliver’s boo boos, and Eleanor insisted having one too. One on her right hand turned into one on each hand which evolved into one on each hand and one on her forehead:


She would have kept going if I let her.

Then last week, she took barrette placement to a whole new level. She’s already pushing the envelope with her general insistence that she wear one on each side – but this was ridiculous:


And you can’t even see the ones she made me put in the back of her hair.

Yes – she’s just a little Mr. T. in training. And she’s thrilled with herself. She thinks she looks fabulous – and “pities the fool” who dares to disagree.