Tag Archives: Me Before Kids

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.

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions

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Have you ever been in a foreign country and found yourself wondering if your cab driver might be kidnapping you? Well – this did happen to me once. And I suspect that it’s not all that uncommon (the suspicion as opposed to the actual kidnapping). I mean, with language barriers, unfamiliar scenery and standard issue paranoia – it seems like this could happen to the best of us.

Or – maybe it’s just me. Either way, here’s my story.

In September of 2000, Chris and I got married and then flew to Spain for a two week honeymoon in Andalusia. We stayed in Malaga, Marbella/Puerto Banus and Seville. And while we were in Puerto Banus, we decided to make a quick trip to Great Britain.

Yes – you read that right – we left the sunny beaches of the Costa del Sol so that we could enjoy an cool, overcast day in the city of Gibraltar. This British territory shares a border with Spain, and was just an hour drive from our hotel.

Our hotel was beautiful, but after a few days relaxing by the pool with a book, I got at little bored with my sedentary pursuits. Not the kind of bored that made me want to fly home and leave the fun filled vacation of suntanning and tapas bar hopping of course. But the kind that made me feel the need for a day trip.

So that morning at breakfast, I pulled out our trusty Andalusia book and said, “I’m tired of looking at topless German supermodels at the pool – I have to have an activity today.” And while Chris probably didn’t quite agree about the topless German girls, he was happy enough to leave the hotel to have a little adventure.

One of the reasons that we selected Gibraltar was that we would get to enjoy a drive along the coast. It was a beautiful day and the hour long cab ride felt more like minutes as we took in breathtaking views of sun sparking on sea.

Then we saw “the rock.” It’s almost shocking to see Gibraltar looming on the horizon. It is literally a giant rock under an ominous looking cloud. We immediately dubbed it, “Danger Island.”


While it’s not technically an island, it does kind of look like one as you’re driving down the coast.

I won’t go into detail about our arrival at Danger Island (where we brushed elbows with armed soldiers), or the time we spent there (purchasing hand stitched lace pillow cases and hearing jokes about Monica Lewinsky from the locals). But I will say that my only regret is that we didn’t take the cable car up to the top of the rock for a view of Africa. Oh well – maybe next time.

When departed Gibraltar later that afternoon, I was very ready to put my shopping bags at my feet and close my eyes. Between the walking and the overcast sky I was feeling rather sleepy, and within minutes of entering the cab, I had dozed off.

At some point I felt sun on my face, and peered out from under my sunglasses to see that we were in fact, back in Spain proper. But the expected view of sun sparkling on sea had inexplicably been replaced by green hillside vistas.

While groggily trying to make sense of this new scenery, I realized that my husband was engaged in an animated conversation with our cab driver. This was no surprise since he feels the need to “chat” with pretty much anyone within a ten foot radius. But the fact that we were so obviously NOT driving back up the coast, made me extremely curious. I thought that if I could hear what they were saying, I would surely be clued into where the hell we were going.

Unfortunately, I don’t speak Spanish – so I was going to have to ask Chris to translate. Right before I sat up and announced my confusion though, the city girl in me held out a cautionary hand. Something wasn’t right. I mean, we were being chauffeured by the Spanish equivalent of a gypsy cab driver, and we were obviously not taking the familiar route back.

My first thought was that it might be a short cut. But in researching our day trip, we did look at a map which clearly showed the coastal road was the most direct route. I may be map-challenged, but Chris is practically a human GPS system. So he would be aware that we were taking the long way.

I had to conclude that we weren’t going back to the hotel – or at least not directly. And the fact that Chris and the cab driver were now BFFs indicated that they had made a decision to…well, I wouldn’t know would I? Because I was asleep when said decision was made.

At this point City Girl started fuming. What the hell was Chris thinking? This stranger could be a criminal for all we knew. To let him drive us into the hills of Spanish no man’s land and to not even consult with me about it was inexcusable. I would NEVER agree to this. What if he planned to take our credit cards and passports and then leave us miles from civilization. He could be a serial killer. He could be planning to sell me into white slavery. We didn’t know anything about this guy! City Girl was irate. I was a little frightened.

So I decided to feign sleep while I worked out what could possibly be going on. And soon enough we seemed to have reached our destination. The cab pulled up to a small group of buildings and parked in what could only be described as a rural ally.

I sat up an started to ask Chris, “exactly what the hell is going on?” But I never had a chance. Within seconds, my companions were out of the car and too busy talking and laughing to give me any explanation. Chris barely glanced over his shoulder as he said something about coming in with them and that we would “only be a minute.” Whatever that meant.

City girl and I huffed as we picked up every bag in the cab and dragged them over to the big wooden gate through which the two men had disappeared. There was no way I was leaving all of my beautiful lace napkins and pillowcases in an unlocked cab with open windows.

I’m not sure what I was expecting to see when I followed them in, but I couldn’t make any sense of the scene that I encountered. I seemed to have entered a courtyard. To my right were rows of kennels and cages. Dogs barked and birds squawked at our intrusion, and flies buzzed around my head. The general effect was something like a barnyard pet store. Directly in front of me was a paddock with a huge brown horse – apparently, the source of all the flies. On the left was what looked to be the side wall of a house.

Our host had opened a door to the house and gestured for us to stay where we were, saying something that seemed to indicate that he’d be right back. Again, there wasn’t time to interrogate Chris about where we were, let alone why we were there. Before I could open my my mouth (which was already agape), the man was back, now holding a box.

He looked at me and asked Chris something in rapid fire Spanish. Chris looked in my direction, and then with a smile shook his head. He laughingly held up his hands and said something that involved the words “no” and “gracias.” I couldn’t imagine what he thought I didn’t want – but I was happy to finally hear Chris say “no.”

Then it suddenly came to me. It was so obvious what was going on, I couldn’t believe that I didn’t figure it out earlier. I gasped internally as I silently articulated to myself, “oh my god – he’s trying to sell us drugs.“

But before I could begin to puzzle out why Chris would have even agreed to this detour trip, I was being ushered back to the cab. In a cloud of unintelligible banter and every fly previously stationed on the horse’s butt, I followed.

Safely back in the car and surrounded by my shopping bags, my anxiety began to fade. City Girl was back and mapping out the tirade the Chris would hear as soon as we were alone. At this point, I was certain that we were in fact, on our way back to the hotel. And I let out the last vestige of the breath that I was holding when that sparking sea came back into view.

We finally arrived in Puerto Banus, and the minute the cab pulled away I rounded on a happily waving Chris. “What on earth were you thinking? WHY did you let him take us to that, that…whatever that place was? Did he try to sell us drugs?“

Chris just stared at me in utter bafflement and said, “What?“

Exasperated, I replied, “that weird farm-like place! What were we doing there? He came out with a box and asked you something. Then you said, ‘no.’ Was he asking you if we wanted to buy drugs?!“

Still dazed, Chris said. “He asked if you wanted a ride on his horse. And we stopped there because his radio had died and he needed to pick up another one. That’s what was in the box. I figured that you were sleeping and we weren’t in a big rush to get back, so it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t charge us for the extra time or anything.“

Oh.

Well – that didn’t sound quite so bad, the way he explained it. I may have overreacted just a little bit. But I’m still a city girl at heart, and don’t assume that I’m safe with a stranger – no matter how nice they may seem.

I doubt we would encounter a situation like this again – and now that we have kids, Chris would be far more likely to take a conservative view of friendly strangers with cars. But either way, I like to think that he would remember my feelings on the subject, and at least give me a vote the next time we’re encountered with the unknown.

We were newlyweds – and with every year of marriage, you get to know each other better. I now know that Chris is a good judge of character, and would never have put us in a situation that seemed like it could be dangerous. And Chris now knows that I prefer to be be informed of what’s going on – AND to be asked for my opinion before it is assumed.

But Chris did get one thing right all those years ago… You couldn’t have paid me enough money to sit on that fly-covered horse. Especially if it meant that I’d have to abandon my shopping bags.

I’m Not a Career Woman, but I Play One on My Resume (Part II)

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UPDATE 3/4/09: I have cut this bad boy into two posts. See below for Part I. I originally wrote it as one and then had blogger’s remorse after seeing it online and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling through it… I had no time to fix this yesterday – so my apologies (and thanks) to the nine commentors who actually read the whole thing in one sitting. Send me your addresses and I’ll mail each of you a prize for “longest attention span.” -Kate

I had already paid for a summer house at Dewey Beach (Delaware) with my friends. Making it (in my mind) a free vacation from my problems. I figured that I’d just get a job waiting tables and take a couple of months off from the serious job hunt. In the end though, my obsessive nature made it impossible for me to stop worrying about my unemployment, and my lack of upper body strength made it impossible for me to carry those heavy trays at the restaurant.

THEN something amazing happened. Well – two amazing things really. First, the Federal Government was so completely confused by my tax forms (which involved two different jobs and residences in two different states within a year), that I received a rather large tax return in July. In truth, I should have received no return. I won’t get into the boring details, but I did make several calls to try to rectify this and was informed that there was absolutely nothing I could do. The Federal Government would not take their money back – damn them! And then, one of my roommates ended up needing a temp at her office for a couple of months.

So I left the beach.

I have a friend who liked to refer to this time in my life as “that summer that Kate freaked out and moved to the beach and then freaked out and moved home.” Well…it was a bit of a roller coaster.

I finally did get a job, but not in “marketing.” It was in meeting planning. Or more accurately, association management, which included meeting planning. And then two years after that, I found a real meeting planning job and FINALLY had an actual career path. I don’t even have to use “air quotes” when I say meeting planning, because once I got that first foot in the door, I knew what this career involved and could have a clear vision of it – no more hazy montages of what I thought it was supposed to be.

But this was not a fairy tale ending (sorry – no, it’s not over – and I haven’t even gotten to my point yet).

While I basically like my current career path, I’m starting to wonder if having to work with crazy people is a requirement for every job I take. Because I have worked with CA-RAY-ZEE (and not in a good way) people.

It started with that first crazy boss experience that drove me to the beach, and continued at the association management firm where I had to work with various boards of directors. I learned that when it comes to a board, there are lots of chiefs, very few Indians and GIANT egos. At the very least, I think it’s safe to say that there is a small, Greek director at Suntrust who has a reserved seat waiting for her in Satan’s boardroom.

I can’t be specific about co-workers and contacts from my more recent positions, but at this point, I’m fairly certain that the list of accomplishments on my resume should include “significant experience in diffusing unnecessary office drama and placating egomaniacs.” I really have spent an inordinate amount of time time tip-toeing around these crazy people over the past ten years. And I have tried to leave these toxic work environments and find others that offer a better quality of life… But it appears that these boots are actually made for walking on egg shells.

So where am I going with this rambling account of the story behind my resume? Hell if I know! And that’s my point.

I think we all kind of fall into our career paths. Whether we start out with a clear vision of total global domination or with a dissociative aversion to any thoughts beyond next week – we all have to start somewhere.

Using myself as an example, I can clearly see that things eventually fall into place regardless of the chaos in which they begin. And on the flip side, things don’t always work out the way we had originally planned. In the end, there are no guarantees.

Whether you love your job or hate it, know exactly where you’re going or wander aimlessly as life pushes you along – you never really know what’s coming around the corner. So you have to be ready for anything.

There is something about the word “career” that implies a plan or a strategy. A direction taken forward. Taken up. Ideally to “the top.” But the reality is that people who decide where they are going and then get there as planned are the fortunate minority.

The rest of us get by through trial and error. We start out in advertising, then escape to the beach, then fall into a new industry that we didn’t even know existed. Then we find out that the ideal job for our industry isn’t ideal for having a family – and then we have to reassess our previous goals (oh wait – I’m talking about myself again…). And sometimes that decision is made for us – and we don’t have a choice.

Having been lost and then found several times over, I have no doubt that this will happen again. There is always opportunity out there when you look for it, and you can never be sure where you will find it. The career you currently love or hate may not be the one you will have five years from now. The only constant is you. So think of yourself as your career – not your job.

I have no idea what comes next for me, but I’m hopeful. And given my past experience, I have every reason to be (crossing my fingers for the Federal Government’s lack of math skill this year!) In the meantime, if all else fails, I hear that houses are going for cheap at Dewey Beach this summer.

I’m Not a Career Woman, but I Play One on My Resume (Part I)

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UPDATE 3/4/09: I have cut this bad boy into two posts. I originally wrote it as one and then had blogger’s remorse after seeing it online and scrolling and scrolling and scrolling through it… I had no time to fix this yesterday – so my apologies (and thanks) to the nine commentors who actually read the whole thing in one sitting. Send me your addresses and I’ll mail each of you a prize for “longest attention span.” -Kate

One of my favorite blogs, The Lil Bee has been running a guest blogger feature called Bee’s Stimulus Package (click for details). When I first expressed an interest, I thought that it was only a matter of time before I lost my job. For now though, it seems the crisis has passed, as has my reason for guest posting. But regardless of my employment status, I have no doubt that Melisa recoiled in horror when she saw how long this was. Far too long to inflict on someone else’s blog. But I can do what I like here right?

Anyway – she had some great guests (the lovely Amy from Doobleh–vay is featured this week). I highly recommend reading them.

While I’ve been wanting to write something about work for a while, I generally steer clear of the subject since this is a personal blog. But writing about work “in general” seems appropriate given the current climate (job-wise not weather-wise, both of which suck right now in the DC area).

I’m not going to talk about layoffs and unemployment. At this point, all angles of how to weather a layoff, look for a new job, and discover the meaning of life while sitting at home watching Golden Girls reruns on a Tuesday afternoon…well – they’ve pretty much been covered.

Instead, I’m writing about “career.” I don’t know about you, but I started out with a rather apathetic attitude when it came to my career. I can trace this back to eighth grade when I had to include future career goals under my yearbook graduation picture. I said, “graphic designer.” Did I know anything about graphic design? No – of course not. But I liked art and figured that “graphic designer” sounded like a real job.

Spoiler alert! I did not become a graphic designer.

Then in high school I continued to let everyday life and concerns carry me in their wake, and spent four years getting good grades in the classes I liked and mediocre grades in the classes I didn’t. Career goals? “I don’t know – maybe something in art.” Still with the art! What exactly did I think that meant?

And don’t even get me started on my college application process. The word apathetic sounds like a pep rally in comparison to my attitude toward visiting colleges and filling out applications. Now, I have to say that this is partly due to the fact that I wasn’t really ready for college (I’m a late bloomer when it comes to change – always the last one to the party). But it was also because I had no real vision of my future beyond high school graduation. There was just a hazy montage of college-life stock photos featuring classrooms, cafeterias and parties… But nothing really tangible – nothing I could honestly say I looked forward to.

I felt futureless.

Long story short on college, I started out at a small school in Manhattan because I wanted to be in the city (the ONLY thing I actually expressed an interest in), but transferred to Fordham University once I realized that I’d be happier on a more traditional campus, where I wasn’t the only student who owned a pink tank top from J. Crew. Seriously – I used to joke with my roommates that I was the alternative one. They were all wearing black and piercing things while I stood out with all of my just arrived from prep school fashion “don’ts.”

Four years later, there was another graduation and another fuzzy montage of what comes next. This one would include break rooms, cubicles and those computers that terrified me so (I’m in my mid-thirties…OKAY! late thirties…So when it came to technology, I had had more in common with Fred Flintstone than I did with college students today).

It was a bad job market in 1994 (fine – do the math – I’m old), and I was thrilled to find the crappy job that I did. It was in advertising (though not in the “graphic design” department). It wasn’t a bad place to work – I stayed for two years – but it also wasn’t a dream job. The best part of that job was that I had a great boss. I loved my boss then, and I thank god for her now since she validates that fact that when I started to encounter some of the crazies that followed her, it wasn’t me – it was them.

I guess I was good enough at what I did since a couple of other firms tried to recruit me. And I actually took one up on their offer. I mean, who says no to a promotion and a higher salary? Um – people who are smart enough to realize that they are in the wrong industry. People who know that they are not interested in what they are doing. People who once had glamorous (though vague) dreams of making it big in “graphic design.”

Unfortunately, I HATED working at that new firm. And mainly because of my new boss. I was spoiled. I had never reported to a crazy person before. It was culture shock and I didn’t last more than three months.

Then I had a mid twenties crisis (I believe the kids are calling it a “quarter century crisis” these days). I knew that recruitment advertising wasn’t for me, and I needed to change industries before I got stuck. So I was now pursuing jobs in “marketing.” Did I have any idea what that meant? Of course not! But I knew that “marketing” was similar to advertising and my entry level skill set would have a good chance of transferring over.

The more immediate problem was that I decided to quit my job in May, and NO ONE hires in the summer. They conduct interviews – sure – but decisions take months to be made due to all of the decision makers being out of town on vacation. After about a month of interviewing and sitting by the phone, I decided to get practical.

So I moved to the beach.

To be continued on 3/4/09….

Lord Almighty, I Feel My Temperature Rising

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Do you know that I got FORTY comments on my Special Needs post? That’s like twenty more than I usually receive. Who knew that I would be such a hit being all serious and stuff…

So I thought that it was only right to follow up such a triumph (which it is for those of us with only about 20 regular readers), with something just as thought provoking. Something that really speaks to the reader. Something close to everyone’s heart: tattoos and piercings.

I’ve mentioned in the past that I’m a little bit of a prude. Not a self righteous prude of course – but more of a “hoping no one will notice when I cringe every time they reference their unusual sexual preferences” kind of prude. And because I’m so hopelessly prissy, I tend to be a magnet for innuendo and embarrassing conversations with semi strangers.

Maybe it’s a primal kind of thing. Like predators sensing fear, these uninhibited types sense my prudishness and go right for the jugular. Not through malice of course – but like magnets, they are inevitably attracted to my utterly opposite nature.

Probably the best example of this was an experience I had at a wedding almost five years ago. The wedding was that of my husband’s friend from work. A very funny and intelligent guy who took great pride in his blue collar roots. He rode motorcycles and abhorred ties. His bride was a lovely girl who called herself “frou frou” and her own background “country.” She was a doll and we liked them both immensely.

And along with this colorful combination of lovebirds, came a just as colorful group of friends and family to fill the seats at the party. The party itself was planned to exclude all of the formality so common to many weddings. This was the bride’s second marriage and she claimed that as long as she got to wear a pretty white dress, her only concern was that everyone relax and just be themselves. And be themselves, they did. At least in my corner of the room.

There were uncounted tattoos peeking out of shirt collars and sleeves, jackets and ties were quickly tossed onto chairs, and Uncle Joe’s long black hair fell out of its braid and into flowing waves down his shoulders as the night progressed. As the music played and drinks were poured, the various gatherings of friends began to scatter and mingle.

Work friends with preppy haircuts talked microbrews with pony tailed biker types. And most of the women crowded onto the dance floor to join the bride as she boogied to the ubiquitous reception music play list. I’m sorry – but no matter how much of a music snob a girl claims to be (which I don’t), they all flock together when the DJ plays I Will Survive. Especially when there’s an open bar.

The event truly peaked when the 90s boy band song faded into something a little more techno though. Or at least it sounded techno at first. As the dancing women slowed their steps and glanced at each other with confusion, we all realized that the new music seemed to be the theme from 2001 A Space Odyssey. Now the DJ did look a little weird, and the suppressed laughter so obvious in his expression made this even more likely. But suddenly the tempo changed and Elvis’ Burnin’ Love blasted through the room. And then two Elvis impersonators burst through the doors, gold capes flashing as they charged onto the dance floor.

They gyrated their way through a full set of Elvis’ best loved Vegas performance numbers and ended the show to thunderous applause. There may have even been an encore. I’m not entirely sure since I think I may have passed out from laughing so hard. They weren’t the best Elvis impersonators – one was a little too tall and skinny, one was a little too short and plump – but they made up for this with enthusiasm. Oh yeah – and the best part? They were the mother and father of the the bride.

I apologize for derailing a bit and losing track of my original topic, tattoos and piercings. But I find it impossible not to talk about that night without referencing the Elvis impersonators. It was quite possibly my favorite wedding moment. Ever. As much as I’m very traditional in my own life, I thoroughly enjoy the pageantry of someone else’s wedding Elvis impersonators..

But back to the point of this scene that I’ve painted… There were a lot of characters at this event and it was fated for me to find myself in unlikely conversations with several of them.

Chris already knew many of the guests from a barbecue that he attended in the recent past, and made sure to introduce me to all of them. Chris is what many people like to refer to as, “The Mayor.” He just has to meet and greet, and is genuinely interested in everyone. So of course he’s a big hit wherever he goes. He is not a prude.

One woman we talked to for a long time had a giant scar on her chest in the shape of a snowflake. I had never seen anything like this before, and she explained that it was a kind of body art much like a tattoo. Without the ink, it appeared to be white. So really, the snowflake theme was a good choice – I mean as far as scarification goes.

Then I found myself in another long conversation with a couple. Initially, they appeared fairly conservative, him in his suit and her in her old school Laura Ashley floral. But then they started talking about their many tattoos and piercings. And I’m not kidding when I say “many.” Just like the typical tattooless person usually does, I inquired about the pain that is involved and exclaimed over how much one would have to endure for “a sleeve.” Apparently, they were willing to suffer for their body art.

It wasn’t lost on me that they were just as amused by me as I was by them. Putting myself in their shoes, I imagine that it must have been very much like talking to a sweet little old lady: “And now how many tattoos do you have dear? Gracious! You’re practically covered in flowers. It’s like a little garden on your back – how lovely.”

So we enjoyed each other’s differences as we enjoyed our fifth drink, and then the subject turned to piercings. As her husband left us to retrieve round number six, the flower covered lady leaned in conspiratorially. “Once I got bored with ink, I started experimenting with piercing,” she said. I shuddered internally as, of course, I remarked upon the pain involved in that. She claimed that it was completely worth it. Especially the one she got “down there.” She laughed, “I mean, I love my husband, but now I really love my husband…”

As I felt my entire head light up in flames, the much loved husband returned with the much needed drinks. Once he was caught up on our current topic of discussion, he admitted that he did not have much interest in piercings for himself, but was very happy with his wife’s experiments. I scrounged for something that I could contribute to this, but only came up with, “well that’s very interesting. And what is that kind of piercing called again?” [I vaguely knew it had something to do with royalty.] In unison, they responded “clitoral.”

“OH!” I sputtered, “it’s called what it is. For some reason I thought it was called something else.”

“You’re thinking of the male version – the Prince Albert,” he said.

And then I fainted dead away from mortification and had to be revived with smelling salts.

Just kidding. It was at that point that Chris walked up and asked what we were all talking about.

“Oh – we’re just corrupting your wife,” she said. And then we all laughed and then I went to get another drink.

So what was my point again? Oh yeah – I’m a prude and people like to talk to me about clitoral piercings and I might have to become an alcoholic to survive this. But I do enjoy the odd Elvis impersonator.

Vintage Rehab

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Chris’ parents were here this weekend, so there wasn’t much time for writing. I did want to get in a quick Materialistic Monday post though.

I’ve had Vintage Rehab on my Etsy favorites list for a long time. I think my friend Ainsley first introduced me to Stacey Samuel’s work.


1800s Fan Necklace

Here is a short description of Vintage Rehab that I pilfered from an old press release:

Vintage Rehab is creating a tradition of providing life and rejuvenation to heirloom pieces, transforming them into modern every day wearables. Stacey Samuels, an accomplished Interior Furniture Designer and experienced Marketing Veteran, started her jewelry business as an Estate Sale addict.

“I was looking for my niche within the custom jewelry business, so I began to attend estate sales and auctions. One thing that I noticed was that estate jewelry had lots of personality but there was something missing. Each piece I purchased seemed to scream out at me… please fix me up and give me life! So I did just that. Each piece I have created has great history, presence and has a distinctive heirloom quality. I give it even more life by choosing only the great pieces and doing a lot of work giving it layers and using only the highest quality resources.”

My long standing love affair with antique jewelry is one of the defining elements of my current design preferences. When I was a little girl, I was too young to appreciate the bigger picture of fashion and home design, but I could find beauty in one single object.


1900’s Embellished Locket Necklace

Whether it was a beautifully embroidered pillow, an ornately painted Limoges box or a filigreed gold locket – I was drawn to it. As a child, I wouldn’t have been able to explain what caught my eye beyond the fact that it was “pretty,” but I now know that it all came down to detail.


1900’s Scenic Locket Necklace

Of course, this love of detail and flourish dictated that I would inevitably become enamored with any number of over the top monstrosities during those formative years… I have a distinct memory of studying an image of Princess Diana’s wedding shoes and asking my mother she would make me a wedding dress “exactly like hers” when I got married. My genius mother said, “of course honey,” knowing full well that it was just a young girl’s daydream and not a binding agreement to spend every night for a year sewing seed pearls on lace hearts.


One of a kind design featured on the Vintage Rehab blog.

But at the core of this preference for all things “fancy” was an appreciation for detail and the workmanship involved. Most of the jewelry I received as a young girl came from antique stores and flea markets. Back in the 70s and 80s, it was possible to buy an old enamel pin for a fraction of what people now pay for “estate jewelry.” Stacey’s pieces remind me so much of my childhood and the contents of my beloved jewelry box.


1920’s Etched Circular Locket Necklace

Even now when I think about the way I want a room or an outfit to look, I start and end with the details. And vintage jewelry epitomizes this perspective.

The fan pin necklace pictured at the top of this post brought back waves of nostalgia, and I wanted to feature some images of these lovely old pieces that have been recently brought back to life by Vintage Rehab. So add this to your own Esty favorites, personal wish list, life inspiration list or any old list that seems appropriate. Stacey and Vintage Rehab are on every single one of mine.

More Random Things About Me

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As a continuation of the “Twenty Five Things About Me” post from yesterday, here are 12 more things about me:

14. I had an unfortunate short haircut in the fifth grade that made me look like a somewhat chubby ten year old boy. No photographs of me from that time exist. I think I destroyed all of them (and the negatives) when I was a vain teenager.

15. If I’m carrying boxes or bags into the house from the car, I feel compelled to do this in as few trips as possible. One trip is my goal. It is not uncommon to see me staggering up my steps with 20 grocery bags draped over my arms. (And my parking spot is about 10 steps away from my door)

16. As much as I love the internet, I still prefer flipping through magazines and catalogs to scrolling through websites.

17. My mother is my best friend. Even though I did go through a really bitchy phase in high school when I criticized her clothes. According to her, that is. I have no recollection of this, but I’ll take her word for it.

18. Sometimes I say things in business meetings and think “I have no idea what I’m talking about.” Usually people look at me like, “she really knows what she’s talking about.”

19. I love the beach – but I don’t really like swimming in the ocean (see #9 re: sharks).

20. I’m fairly certain that I have the most adorable children ever born.

21. When we were engaged, my husband and I took a dance class and I loved it. Not only did I love it – I discovered that I’m really good at it. It’s a talent that would have gone undiscovered if not for the class. Unfortunately, Chris hated it and our future as the next Fred and Ginger ended before it ever got off the ground. I sometimes have a sick little fantasy that one of my sons will be gay and take me out dancing in my golden years (gay guys do that right? I’ll have to ask one of my gay friends…)

22. I can’t remember numbers in long sequences. It requires a lot of effort on my part to memorize phone numbers.

23. I love travel – especially international travel – but I do tend to get a little nervous on planes. Unless I’m sitting in business class – then I just drink a lot of wine. Once when I was on a flight crossing the Atlantic, we had terrible turbulence. I just kept accepting the drink refills that the the flight attendants were offering and watched the first movie that appeared on my screen. It’s amazing how funny Monster’s Inc. is when you’re wasted.

24. I watched Homeward Bound with my kids about 20 times over the weekend and I always cry at the end when Shadow appears on the horizon – just when they think he couldn’t make it. In fact – I’m tearing up just thinking about it. (If you haven’t seen it before, I apologize for the spoiler.)

25. I usually fall asleep on my back with feet tucked up under my knees (like sitting “Indian style” but lying down). I think this started when I was little and so afraid of the dark that I couldn’t bear to have my feet anywhere near where the covers ended (just in case something tried to reach in). Then it probably had more to do with the fact that my feet are like ice when I first get into bed and this is the only way that I can warm them (unless my night owl husband happens to be in bed early – then I just put my feet on him). I know it looks bizarre – but for some reason I find this position very comfortable.

Not the strongest finish – but I’m having a busy day…

I’m not tagging anyone since I think EVERYONE has done this (or is ignoring everyone that tagged them). But if you haven’t been hit by the 25 Things About Me Facebook tsunami, feel free to say that I tagged you.

So What Have I NOT Told You About Myself By Now?

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Several of my friends on Facebook tagged me for “Twenty Five Things About Me” (and possibly a blog friend or two – but I can’t remember…) Anyway – I feel compelled to do this. So here it is:

Twenty Five Things About Me

1. I have never colored my hair. Not once. Not even highlights. I made the conscious decision to wait until I got older and “had to.” My grandmother once said to me, “dear – I hope you won’t color your hair…I DO think that gray hair can be awfully attractive.” I concurred with her opinion as I was expected to, but in my heart, I knew that I will never go gray. I’ll go RED!

2. I pick favorites among my children. But it changes every 30 seconds – so I figure it evens out in the end.

3. I was the only girl in my high school class who didn’t wear boxers under her uniform skirt. I thought they made me look fat. Sadly this caused a very embarrassing incident for me in The Quad one day when a big gust of Spring air gave all of nearby construction workers a view of my not fat thighs.

4. I dream of having a career that I love. But I only started thinking about this in the past few years. Prior to that I was fairly apathetic about the connection of my job to my sense of identity. Sometimes I wonder if this is a sign of a midlife crisis.

5. I have already confessed to an obsession with recorded books. I listen to plenty of current fiction, but one of my favorite authors for listening is Jane Austen. Even though I have actually read all of her books and know the stories well, I find something very soothing about hearing them read in a clipped English accent. Is it me or do days of nothing but needlepoint and gossip by a roaring fire sound really appealing sometimes?

6. I wish I knew how to do needlepoint or embroidery. I would create fabulous throw pillows and whip up Anthropologie-quality tops out of plain vintage shirts and embroidery thread. I should have learned these skills when I had the time…

7. I like being by myself and tend to treat a night on my own like a personal slumber party. After I put the kids to bed and clean up, I’m all about raiding the refrigerator for junk food, giving myself a pedicure and watching “girl movies.” Of course, my husband doesn’t travel that often – so I might have a different attitude if these personal slumber parties were more frequent.

8. I can’t stand gum. I find it revolting. The way it looks just hanging out in someone’s mouth, the sound of it snapping and even the smell of it. ESPECIALLY the smell of it if it’s fruit flavored or even worse, bubble gum. The smell of bubble gum flavored anything makes me want to pass out. Not to make light of actual torture, which is not funny and a terrible reality from which I am lucky to be sheltered…but seriously, I think you’d have to pull out a few of my molars with pliers before I’d allow you to put a piece of bubble gum in my mouth.

9. I have an incredibly high suspension of disbelief threshold when it comes to books, movies and television story lines, but I do tend to obsess over everyday details that I find a little too unbelievable. For example, I can enjoy pretty much anything from Harry Potter to Lost; but I just can’t get past how the Cosbys had all those kids and a TV in their living room, but their couch always looked so clean.

10. I’m terrified of sharks. A condition that has grown worse as I’ve gotten older. All of those news reports about shark attacks in Florida a few years back didn’t help.

11. This blog is the first real writing that I’ve ever done outside of business documents.

12. My wedding cake was the best dessert I’ve ever had in my life: chocolate cake with fondant icing and a buttercream and marzipan filling. I knew that I wouldn’t get a chance to have any at the reception, so I asked my planner to make sure that there was a large piece waiting for me in my room at the end of the night. This was quite possibly one of the brilliant ideas I’ve ever had in my life.

13. My writing style tends to be a little verbose. So “25 Things About Me” can be loosely translated into “Twenty Minutes of Your Life That You Will Never Get Back.” Therefore I will be breaking this into two posts. Check back tomorrow more for 12 more things about me!

How Mama Got Her Prude Back

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After a woman gives birth, there is great emphasis placed on “getting her body back.” People always want to know about stretch marks and broken capillaries. They speculate on whether ribs will ever go back to their original position (in my experience, the answer to this would be “no”). They even have the nerve to ask about how long it takes for an episiotomy to heal and make jokes about “the daddy stitch” (FYI – still not laughing).

But what people don’t realize – people who have never given birth, that is – is that whether we ever get that bikini-worthy body back or not (good luck with that by the way) is really of very little concern during those first few months. There are far more immediate issues at hand such as sleep and… Well truthfully – that’s the only big one. But other minor personal concerns may include the shock of how painful breastfeeding is, anxiety over letting shower water hit the more battered areas on your body, and the complete terror of attempting that first bowel movement.

You hear a lot about the “beauty” or the “miracle” of childbirth, but aside from any of the emotions involved (which you can read about elsewhere since I’m not writing about that), birth is physical. It’s messy and invasive and there is very little privacy left to a woman who does it. There is also blood. A lot of blood. And even guts if you have a c-section. So it’s inevitable that any woman who has experienced this beautiful and miraculous carnage will tend to become a bit less prissy when it comes to discussing bodily functions.

I should know, because I was quite possibly the biggest prude on the planet.

I have never found potty humor funny. I know – it’s not a popular quality, but I’m willing to admit to it. I just don’t enjoy fart jokes. I didn’t when I was in grade school and I don’t now. When I was in eighth grade, sassy little Cassie Coleman nicknamed me “Miss Sophisticated” since I apparently wandered through recess like it was a Junior League tea party.

I also don’t tend to appreciate innuendo humor. You would think that my husband would catch on to this and stop telling jokes that make me look around for the frat boy to whom he MUST be speaking…

It’s not so surprising then, that I’ve also never felt particularly comfortable with open discussion regarding sex or body parts, OR using the more graphic anatomical terminology. I would cringe over any conversation bordering on Our Bodies Ourselves related topics. I couldn’t help it – my knee jerk reaction would always be: “eeewww!” But at least I wasn’t annoying about it. I find myself drawn to strong personalities, people who speak their mind….and ultimately people who may be a little off color in their sense of humor. Generally, my potty mouthed friends thought I was cute, and tended to get a kick out of my reactions.

I should qualify the description above by mentioning that I’ve also had plenty of friends who don’t swear like sailors. But there is just something about me that screams, “I’m prissy! Torment me with dirty talk!” Or people go in the opposite direction and treat me like I might shatter if they use a four letter word.

While I can’t say that much has changed about my inability genuinely laugh at dirty jokes, I did at least for a little while, drop my aversion to what I once considered to be other unsavory topics.

Anyone who has ever gone through pregnancy and given birth – or even anyone who has just gone through fertility treatments – will admit to losing a significant amount of modesty. It’s impossible not to. Typically, we are only poked at by the gynecologist once every 365 days. But I found that pregnancy involves increasingly frequent examinations and tests – many conducted by complete strangers. The end result is that by the time we give birth, we wouldn’t bat an eye if the janitor asked if he could check our dilation.

Along with this comes the shedding of any recent squeamishness regarding icky anatomy-related words. About three weeks after my first son was born, I found myself having a rather loud conversation on my cell about my ravaged, post-delivery body. In the supermarket check out line. And the words “nipples” and “vaginal” figured prominently. While listening to myself, a small voice screamed, “who are you and why are you embarrassing me like this?!” But my post pregnancy self just shrugged and said, “whatever grandma.”

So – new ability to say “vaginal” without cringing? Check! Now what about gross out stories? OOOHHH – I’ve got some good ones!

If I had to name a few subjects that every mother can talk about at length, they would be birth stories, potty training and vomit (and I assume that adoptive parents would substitute their adoption story for that first subject).

I have given birth to all of my children, and I’m fairly certain that there will never be a time that I won’t be ready, willing and able to tell both of my birth stories – in detail, with commentary and tangents. This topic just never gets boring. Considering how unpleasant or at least how uncomfortable most of it was, even I am confounded by this phenomena. But I suspect it has something to do with “living to tell the tale.”

Then of course, I can talk about poopy diapers and potty training at length. I named “potty training” in my list since my children are past the age of exploding diapers. But really – it’s all the same thing. Every parent has their poop-related war stories. Hell – I just had one last week. I could go on and on about this – but that’s kind of my point.

Vomit is a somewhat specialized area in which some parents are experts, others have limited but memorable experience and the rest could be categorized as “the uninitiated.” These stories tend to revolve around the flu or that annoying phase in which toddlers like to jam their fingers down their throats. I think I fall somewhere between the first two levels – but I can tell you this: you haven’t lived until you’ve cleaned puke out of your child’s ears.

I like to think that much of what we do as we prepare for the arrival of our children also prepares us for this loss in modesty. I can only speak from my own experience as someone who gave birth to all of my children in the hospital. And I lost a huge percentage of my modesty during labor and delivery.

Probably the most embarrassing example from my first birth would be a conversation that I had with one of the nurses when it was time to push. Like any well seasoned priss, I was having a hard time with some of the grosser logistics involved. Once we were all on the same page regarding my disinterest in having a mirror held up so that I could view the birth (I told them that I felt I had a bit too much on my plate at that moment, thank you very much), I began to have concerns about potential issues related to the pushing. The instructions that I was given dictated that the muscles you used to push were pretty much the same ones that you would use when sitting on the toilet. So of course I had to ask, “but what if …you know…something else comes out?” Without missing a beat, the nurse said, “don’t worry honey – that just means that we’ll know you’re doing it right.” And with that, she snuffed out any remaining vestige of decorum to which I was still clinging, just like the last candle left flickering after a dinner party. The party was officially over as far as any of my personal boundaries were concerned.

For several years now (as of March 30, it will be four), I have been far less of a prude when it comes to frank discussion on “women’s issues.” If my friends want to talk about their cracked nipples, I don’t feel the need to escape their company. It just doesn’t bother me anymore. Until lately that is…

You see, I’ve recently started to feel the twitches of tight lipped expressions and the twinges of internal cringing. Stories about toddlers waking up screaming because their diaper has leaked all over the the crib evoke fewer reactions of “ooooh – poor baby!” and more of “eeewww – poor mommy!” So I think that I may just be gettin‘ my prude back on.

And I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. I mean – it’s a comfortable old role, but I’ve kind of enjoyed my freedom to say nipple without any internal struggle.

Maybe I’ll never really go back to my old way of life. Maybe I passed a point of no return. I may turn a little red when people want to provide me with lurid details about their sex lives – but I will never again turn green during a birth story. So it seems a middle ground has been offered, and I think I’ll take it.

Truth be told, I welcome my old squeamishness. It’s a part of who I am. And you know what they say, you can take the girl out of eighth grade – but you can’t take eighth grade out of the girl. At least in my case.

Home Alone: Day Four

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Day Four…and so far, no one has been voted off the island. Actually – the kids have been really good. I mean for them. So if you think that acting like something out of a Stephen King novel only 50% of the time is “really good,” then we are practically sharing a brain.

This morning George woke up at 4:30 with what I think was a nightmare, so I brought him to bed with me. It’s a guilty pleasure, having one of my tiny toddlers to cuddle in bed. Two of them is another story of course, but Eleanor didn’t follow him (for once). The big downside is that when the toddler in bed with you wakes up, there is no pretending that you can’t hear them. The direct eye contact makes that rather tricky to pull off. George opened his eyes at 6:45 and let me doze for about 15 more minutes though – so I can’t complain.

I just hope that he doesn’t start making this a habit. He is already driving me crazy with his insistence upon me holding him all the time. In fact, George’s attachment to me has now reached a level that begs the question, “is it normal for a two year old to sit on my lap while I go to the bathroom?” I would guess, “no.” But hey – it’s his future on the psychiatric couch, not mine.

Eleanor and Oliver woke up shortly after we did, and before I knew it two hours had transpired. How is it possible that time can pass so quickly when you are literally doing nothing? This was great since I had plans to bring them back to the At Play Cafe at 10 a.m. and hoped to make it back home in time to watch the 11:30 swearing in ceremony.

In the meantime, I could watch the events on the large flat screen TV while my kids played. In fact, I would have been happy enough to just stay there through the presidential address. But I had no illusions about everyone lasting that long. Eleanor was already acting like she needed a nap.

The kids found a soulmate in a two year old boy named Max who seems destined to break several spines on the football field. He was little – but he was unstoppable. While they wrestled with Max, I caught up with my neighborhood friend, Tricia (also known as Reston Mom). A good time was had by all.

Soon enough Eleanor made it clear that she was done with the At Play Cafe, and I realized that it was already 11:30! So typical that I would spend a great moment in history engrossed in c-section comparison stories… But when I looked at the TV, I saw that we still had some time. Five minutes, two tantrums, one coatless child and a rousing game of musical stroller seats later, we arrived at our car. I had Eleanor under one arm, screaming something about wanting to walk and George was busily trying to unbuckle his seat belt. Only Oliver was content to be still – and happily contributed his 55+ lbs to my one handed double stroller pushing. I’m SO ready to retake that grade school presidential physical fitness test…

The minute we arrived home, I threw something in front of them that resembled lunch and then flew down to the basement in time to see the swearing in. Seriously – it was timed perfectly. I even got to hear the very beginning of Obama’s speech without interruption. Unfortunately George and Eleanor came down to look for me and I spent the rest of the speech with my ear against the television as they fired unintelligible questions at me. I think I caught about 60% of the speech. I’ll have to read it online later tonight to fill in the gaps.

I gave up at that point and switched the channel back to Noggin. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a bit smug about seeing ANY of the inauguration. Sad really…

Like I said, Eleanor was really tired and went down for her nap without protest. George? Not so much. But at least he didn’t try to escape. Oliver and I took advantage of the quiet (aside from George’s blood curdling screams, that is) to watch Mary Poppins for the 50th time this week. I also thought this would be a great time to whip up some cupcakes.

I’ve probably mentioned before that I have very little interest in cooking. At some point I did, but since my free time has now decreased by about 99.9%, I’ve decided that I’d rather spend it outside of my hideous, tiny galley kitchen. Baking is another story though. I’m perfectly content with box cake mixes, and what’s a few minutes of mixing compared to the fun of eating two dozen cupcakes as a snack? Oliver concurred.

Now, I don’t generally keep much junk food in the house, and my kids don’t actually eat a lot of dessert beyond store bought cookies now and then. But I do tend to fall back on doling out the treats when left to my own devices. In fact, I have a long history of overfeeding small children when I’m at a loss for anything else to do. I tend to think, “hmm – what do I feel like doing right now?” The answer usually involves ice cream.

Once when I was in my early twenties, I took care of my five year old cousin, Emmett for a week while his parents were in Europe. Emmett was one of those kids who was a little on the chubby side. This all changed when he hit puberty and grew 24 inches. But when he was five, he was pretty stout. I’m sure that I got some directions about limiting his fat and caloric intake, but after a day or two of playing with action figures, I lost my mind. I won’t get into the particulars of our many visits to pizza and ice cream parlors – but it would be safe to say that by the time his parents returned, Emmett had gained 5 lbs.

I’m not sure if my kids will gain any weight this week. But I’m fairly certain I will.

Aside from eating too much, I’ve also seriously let myself go appearance-wise. Today is the first time since Chris left that I’ve even washed my hair. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Since the winter air is so incredibly dry, one would never know that I should have been a complete grease ball by now.

While I’ve enjoyed a week of fabulous hair days, my poor daughter has not fared quite as well. I’ve written before about her fine blond hair and how it has taken two years to even look like she has actual hair on her head. And in spite of it being so obviously there now, static electricity has taken it’s toll on her wisps. Her hair is now perpetually plastered to the sides of her face. The look is similar to Taylor Momson’s awful new hairstyle (that would be Jenny from Gossip Girl’s Joan Jett ‘do).

The boys’ hair isn’t as affected by the dry weather – but they are both long overdue for a trim. Right now their hair is so long that with a little styling mousse they could give Uncle Jesse from Full House a run for his money. Now that I think of it…THAT could be a fun activity (for me). My children should thank their lucky stars that I go back to work tomorrow.

Oh – so many other things to report today… From a disastrous outing to pick up pizzas for dinner to the discovery that Oliver is running a raging fever (great timing since he’s having testing done tomorrow…) But I’m not writing a diary here – and honestly, the past three days of “chronicling” have worn me out. I’m not great with blow by blow accounts. I’m far too long winded for that.

So this will be the final installment “Home Alone.” Even though it’s looking likely that I WON’T be going to work tomorrow (since daycare has that ridiculous “no fevers” rule), I’m considering today the finale of my long weekend with the kids. Chris gets back Saturday night, and while I’ll be SO glad to see him, I’ve kind of enjoyed this trial by fire. I’ve actually learned some things about my parenting (and coping) skills: It’s always best to remain calm, a little patience goes a long way, and when in doubt, indulge in an early happy hour (either wine or cupcakes – pick your poison).