Tag Archives: That Man of Mine

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?*

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As a family primarily populated by small children, we’re really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say “we have three kids.” They are finally all able to understand Halloween – or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word “pumpkin” must be included in every other sentence – at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh – and if there aren’t any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:


My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a “must have” on one of our trips to Harris Teeter – LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, “what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?” Why not? Because it’s now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I’m starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately – George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother’s costume:


If I don’t hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously – we’ve had some BIG fights about that). I’ve written before about George’s tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we’ll have two Supermen this year. I don’t care – at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn’t demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is “decorating the ceiling.” What – you’ve never tried this? Well let me tell you how it’s done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time – but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can’t peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They’re like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes… And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don’t have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn’t in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:


Here is a close-up:

Now, I don’t usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons’ misbehavior. It’s all about example setting at our house.

Anyway – the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling.


But orange and black is festive for Halloween…and it makes the ceiling look old…like in a haunted house… Oh who am I kidding – it looks like crap. And I’m fairly certain that it won’t be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey – but it’s true).

So here it is October 30th, and we’re all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we’ll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn’t deviate much from everyday life a “the house of kids” – where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

EPILOGUE: It is now a year after I originally wrote that. And yes – the ceiling has of yet to be repainted. It’s like I don’t even see this stuff anymore…

*ANOTHER re post – but I do kind of love this one since it really gets to the heart of what it’s like to live in my house… And I’ve updated the pictures since back then I didn’t realize that you could select larger images OR add more than five per post (my ingenue period). Happy Halloween week!

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions

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Okay – I’m totally cheating. I wrote this a long time ago – but who remembers it right?

Since this is Moxie’s Around the Blogosphere in Five Days week, I’m trying to keep up with the writing carnivals (apparently by re-posting old material…). And I don’t have time to whip something up for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop Thursday, the theme of which is travel, moxie and superheros.” While this does deviate bit from the specific prompts, it involves both travel and a little moxie.

SO – here it is. An oldie but a goodie….

Sunny Spain, Danger Island and International Abductions
March 13, 2009

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 we 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 away 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 the divebombing 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 them.

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 encounter 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.

Oh Right – I Was Going to Write About Our Summer Vacations…

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Honestly, I kind of forgot about this.

I kind of forget about a lot of things of course… But this is such an easy one! Post a few pictures, complain about whining in the car, embarrass future adult age children with online stories about nose picking… Yet – I did forget.

For the exact same reason that people don’t write in the beautiful journals they purchase: there never seems to be time when they’re thinking about it, and they’re never thinking about it when there’s time.

Blogging for me isn’t online journaling. I don’t chronicle every day and I don’t record even 25% of the important things in my life. Partly because I can’t imagine that each and every one would be interesting to someone reading my blog and partly because I don’t have a computer keyboard permanently attached to my fingertips (remember – I forget stuff). That would be cool though, right? I mean a detachable one of course. Someone invent that please.

But back to my point. I probably had a ton of ideas for funny, touching and insightful posts regarding the two family vacations we took this summer – but they’ve left my short term memory for the moment. I hope they’ll check in from time to time, but for now it seems that we lost touch indefinitely.

So thank god for cameras!

Here are some highlights:

Rehoboth Beach, DE – July 2009





And then George (the deceptively angelic looking little guy on the right in the last picture) knocked the camera out of my hands and broke it. It’s come back to life a few times – but I can’t download anything. Sigh.

Road Trip to Long Boat Key, FL – August 2009

(using the camera option on our video camera – kind of grainy, but sometimes it looks like that was what I was going for…)














I was going to include some video clips too, but I hear Oliver’s school bus coming around the corner… Maybe another time! That is – if I remember…

This post was part of Tribute Tuesday at Mayhem & Moxie. Another founder of Moxie Media and organizer of Around the Blogosphere in 5 Days.

The Double Dutch Snap OR Punishment for a Michael Jackson Dance Party

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For anyone who thought I was an MJ basher, I have to say, I was honest when I claimed that in spite of any vacillating opinions I might have about the scandals in his life, I still love the music.

In fact, we had an impromptu Michael Jackson dance party at our house this past weekend. An experience that proved God really does choose sides. I decided to make fun of my husband’s dancing (which was a pretty stupid thing to do since he already hates dancing and rarely agrees to more than one or two slow dances at the odd wedding or event we attend…).

And almost immediately after this transgression, one of my children knocked over a full glass of wine on the dining room tablecloth. Then another child fell off the side of a couch (where he shouldn’t have been climbing, but that’s neither here nor there…). After which a general melee of confusion and hysteria ensued.

So yeah – I get it. Persecute Chris and suffer the consequences…at least I know where I stand. But in my own defense – it was too funny not to imitate. He has one signature dance move that just begs for some good natured roasting.

I wish I could show him doing it – but I fear that something truly cataclysmic would happen. Like an earthquake swallowing my entire closet, or the extinction of the cocoa bean…or Freaky Friday-like body swapping with a teenager right before midterm exams (am I the only one who still has nightmares about this kind of thing?)

BUT I do have the next best thing. I made Chris record me doing my imitation of him. I suspect that he only agreed since I look awful and have a big pimple on my chin, but he was a good sport nonetheless.

So without further ado, I bring to you, The Double Dutch Snap:

*Disclaimer: Never combine a Michael Jackson Dance Party and an early happy hour without first consulting your doctor. Side effects may include destroyed dining room tablecloths, inattention to children in peril, loss of integrity, public exposure of a bad complexion, general fate tempting, ashtoiejast[t0 shidsni[-gi90sej, skijgs0ejtr0e-atje09 sasgtehigtn snjigaejgti0e, snit0aejti0, shte0ahtei0 ashio-00jdas0era0ew0rekk and shaieta0e[ije.

BUT you could possibly come up with a kick ass new dance move to join the white man’s overbite hall of fame. Move over “lawnmower,” “sprinkler” and “shopping cart” – you’ve got competition!

Seriously – I dare you to NOT Double Dutch Snap the next time the opportunity presents itself…

What Would We Do Baby, Without Us

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Ever get a song stuck in your head and you have no idea where it came from? For me it’s currently the theme song from Family Ties (remember that one – it ends “sha-la-la-la”). Well it’s sort of driving me nuts, but it’s definitely fitting for my thoughts today.

I have a wonderful husband named Chris. We have been married for close to eight years now. And while you might not guess it to look at him – he is a slob. And he’s not just an ordinary, run of the mill messy slob who doesn’t care about his messiness. He’s a creative slob.

He doesn’t just leave things where they fall, he creates odd piles and organizational systems. It isn’t possible for him to see a clean surface area and not immediately add clutter to it. And god forbid I move the items. Then it’s all, “where did you put my DMV renewal form? I know I was keeping it in the pile under the dining room table.”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen him notice a balled up dirty sock on the floor and purposefully kick it into the corner NEXT TO THE HAMPER (“Back in the corner you go. There! Much better.“) Though I honestly think the clothes on the floor are invisible to him. He’ll walk around them for days until he sees something he wants. Then that item alone escapes the cloak of invisibility and magically appears out of nowhere! He gets very excited about this.

Unfortunately for me, the hamper is always invisible.

He also keeps things long past their expiration date. Like the pleated front pants that he never wears, or the shoes with holes so big, hobos would throw them out. One of my greatest moments of satisfaction was pointing out that there would never again be an appropriate time to wear his fraternity “a day without a buzz is a day that never wuzz” tee shirt with its visual of Calvin and Hobbes passed out around a keg.

But I think one of my favorite memories of the organized mess was one that happened shortly after we were first married. We lived in a one bedroom rented apartment with a large living room/dining room area. When you entered the apartment, the coat closet was to your right, the living room furniture was directly in front of you and the dining room table was on the far left end of the room. And our wedding was in the Fall, so within a month, it was time to pull out the coats and jackets.

Every day when he went out, Chris would take a coat out of the closet. And every day when he came back, he walked across the apartment and hung that coat on one of the six dining room chairs. I didn’t notice this immediately, but when I had the urge to start putting coats away, I recognized the pattern taking place and decided to see how it played out (I also marveled at how many coats he had).

Finally the seventh day came, and I stood expectantly, watching him walk in and take off his coat. Surely he would see that the chairs were all taken and realize what he was doing. I saw his look of surprise as the dilemma presented itself (“Huh. It seems that all of the chairs are already in use, there are none left.“) and then I saw him look around and consider his options (“Are there any other places I can put this coat?“). AND THEN I saw him carefully fold his coat in half and drape it across a clear area on THE FLOOR! That was when I had to scream, “stop the madness!” Apparently, the problem was that in the evening, our coat closet, much like our hamper, was invisible.

Don’t believe me? Here are a few pictures I took on Friday to document this:

Ever wonder what you should do with those twist ties that hold the dry cleaning hangers together?

Well if you are an ordinary slob, you will drop them on the floor – but if you are truly pathological, you will find a handy hook on the closet wall and wrap it around that. Sweet – and what do you know, it’s now invisible.

Since you ask – yes, that IS a hanging shoe organizer behind the hook. It must have confused you since it doesn’t actually hold shoes. And where do we keep those?

Here they are – in their proper jumble on the closet floor, along with a few random articles of clothing and the plastic dry cleaning bag that must have accompanied the now invisible twist tie.

Okay – here is one more bonus picture.

So where do you keep YOUR plastic bags after you unload the groceries?

Really? That makes sense, but I think our spot under a dining room chair is better.

Yes – Chris is a true original in his slob style. But he’s also unmatched in his ability to take care of his family. Shortly after I came up with some ideas for this post and took those pictures, we found out that my mother’s cancer has returned. This time, it is in her brain.

Chris found out on Saturday before I knew, and while I was sleeping that night, he booked my ticket to Key West for the following Monday. He stayed up all night worrying and talking to his family on the West Coast. And after very little sleep, he got up and spent the entire day doing everything he could to keep the kids busy while I ran errands and packed.

And when I felt like I might go out of my mind at the idea of being away from my children for a whole week, he booked a ticket for my three year old to come with me.

And when I felt like I was being weak, he pointed out that it would be a wonderful surprise for my father, to whom Oliver is very close (especially since it’s my Dad’s birthday). /

And I think he asked me if I was okay about a 100 times today.

And I’m really, really going to miss him this week.

I’ve never been one for public schmoopiness – but I really am lucky to have this man in my life. What would I do without him? Without us? Sha-la-la-la.

Originally posted on June 29, 2008. I thought this was fitting since September is our anniversary month – NINE YEARS on September 16! Visit Scary Mommy for links to more Flashback Friday Posts!

ScaryMommy

What – Are You Calling Me Fat?

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No matter what our size (the skinny girls included), we have all at some point taken umbrage to the insinuation that someone thinks we are a little fluffy, or have cellulite, or inherited the family knee pudge, or…well you get the idea. Every single one of us has once had the thought, “what are you saying – are you calling me fat?”

This doesn’t even have to be in response to a criticism. Years ago, I bumped into a girl I hadn’t seen in several months and she said “Kate! You’re so skinny – I didn’t even recognize you!” I think I may have dropped a few pounds since I last saw her…but we’re talking one dress size, not several!

This idea that I was unrecognizable implied (to me at least) that I was just HUGE the last time we met. And it’s not like I was rocking skinny jeans or anything. So yes – I would have to start out pretty large to have been altered to that degree.

You may be thinking that I’m awfully touchy since this was probably just an over the top compliment from one prone to exaggeration. And you are partly right – but not entirely. This old friend was known for her competitive nature and back-handed compliments. So I absolutely thought “what – are you saying I was fat before?”

I hate to make myself sound vain, or give the false impression that I’m super model svelte. But I have managed to stay a healthy and (I think) attractive size for a while now. And in effect I’ve become rather comfortable in my own skin. Skin that is a little saggy here and there due to childbirth and riddled with hereditary “problem areas”….but good, respectable skin nonetheless.

So I do tend to become a little miffed when someone insinuates that said skin has stretched a bit to accommodate a few extra pounds.

Enter my husband. My poor husband who “doesn’t like skinny girls.” One would think that I’d be thrilled with this preference for the curvy ladies. But no – I’m a terrible, ungrateful wife who would rather be thinner than what he likes.

I have noticed a direct correlation between my weight increasing and his advances increasing. The tighter my waistbands get, the more approving glances I get. And the better he thinks I look, the worse my self esteem. It’s just flat out wrong and I am 100% at fault.

Because I go there… The minute he says anything about me looking good… I refuse to be happy with the compliment and immediately jump to conclusions: “Oh great – so I’m getting fat.”

Sigh. I have problems.

In light of this, I was particularly interested in his most recent blog post (what – you didn’t know he had a blog too?) He saw a study on what men prefer when it comes to a woman’s size, and he was feeling pretty validated by the results:


Which girl do you think he found most attractive? And what did I think? More importantly – what do you think? Check out his post here – and give him your thoughts on the matter. I already did.

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.

Jack Black in An Orange Jumpsuit…So Yummy, So Yummy…

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As I may have mentioned before, we watch far too much television at my house – kid DVDs to be specific. I have become a regular connoisseur of pre-school entertainment. Love The Wiggles, love to hate Barney and for the love of god, someone turn the volume down when Dora is on!

I have favorite quotes from Clifford (John Ritter did a mean big red dog), shed copious tears at the end of Homeward Bound, and can pretty much learn to find some enjoyment in any of these shows that I am subjected to in my rather aggressive viewing schedule. What do they call this…the Patty Hearst Syndrome?

When my kids find a DVD they like, I can expect to watch it non-stop for weeks. We’ve almost destroyed the aforementioned Homeward Bound DVD with wear (Oliver calls that one “dogs and cat” which cracks me up since it sounds like “moose and squirrel”). If I watch Thomas and Friends one more time I think I’ll scream. And I won’t even get into the whole Milo and Otis reign of terror…

But I’m constantly surprised by how creative and dare I say it, “hip” some of this programming can be. Case in point: Yo Gabba Gabba.


We discovered Yo Gabba Gabba on Noggin a while ago and I have enjoyed many a quiet 30 minutes while DJ Lance and his unusual friends brainwash my children into drooling silence.

I have often thought that people on drugs would enjoy this show. Here is the Party in My Tummy clip (guaranteed to get stuck in your head for days on end…but you will LIKE it):

Did you watch it? For the rest of the day you’ll be singing, “so yummy – so yummy!” That was Brobee. The full cast is as follows:

DJ Lance Rock, in the orange jumpsuit
Muno, “the red cyclops”
Foofa, “the pink flower bubble”
Brobee, “a little green monster”
Toodee, “the blue cat-dragon”
Plex, “the yellow robot”

The whole premise is that DJ Lance shows up on set with his giant 80s “boom box,” then opens it to pull out these creatures and place them in some kind of diorama. Once he sprinkles a little magic dust on them, they come to life and the dance party begins.

This is trippy stuff.

The weirdest character by far is Muno:


Chris calls him “the big red dildo.” And in my search for some pictures, I discovered that this is a common observation. But I give Chris full credit since I heard it from him first.

The other characters, of course, have their own “themes” (I mean other than “sex toy character”), but the point of this post isn’t to map out the world of Yo Gabba Gabba Wikepedia-style for you.

Oh yeah – right. I actually DO have a point to all of this (don’t I always?) Which is…that I was recently asked to review Yo Gabba Gabba – New Friends. Of course I said yes. That’s a no brainer in this house. A new DVD? Send it now so I can get them off of this painful Milo and Otis kick! Plus the New Friends episode features Jack Black – so I needed no further encouragement.

Chris and I are known Jack Black fans and closet Yo Gabba Gabba fans – so we were pretty excited when the DVD arrived in the mail. This particular episode is about being thrown into a new environment with new people (or big red dildos, or whatever) and how it’s not that scary once you open up and give them a chance.

Highlights include Jack’s “dancy dance” which involves a kick ass John Travolta-Saturday Night Fever move, a montage of Jack’s good times with his new friends, and of course a magical wardrobe change into DJ Lance Rock’s orange jumpsuit and fuzzy hat. His classic line: “I can’t believe it fits!”

Here is a clip I found on YouTube:

Yo Gabba Gabba also has some animated sketches from indie cartoonists. My favorite is “sometimes you win – sometimes you lose.” Chris is less impressed by the message this one tries to convey as he is of the opinion that second place means “first loser.” Maybe my kids really need Yo Gabba Gabba for some balance…

Not surprisingly, I found this quote on Wikipedia: “The show has also become popular among young adults, with some watching under the effects of cannabis.[6]” NO – really? And they never thought anyone could surpass the stoner appeal of the Teletubbies… Yo Gabba Gabba speaks to people on so many levels…(and drugs).

But hey this is a family blog! And I can smugly say that none of my children (ages 2-4) have EVER done drugs. So no worries here.

All in all, I give Yo Gabba Gabba – New Friends a big thumbs up. It manages to appeal to both children and parents, which is a big plus in our “all kids’ programming – all the time” house.

And seriously – how could you ever go wrong with Jack Black in an orange jump suit…

So yummy – so yummy…

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.

The One Where I Kill My Husband

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Okay – so I seem to have a lot to say for someone who is supposed to be avoiding the Internet… But that will go into full effect tomorrow when I get to work. In the meantime, I HAVE to post a few pictures.

My youngest son, George has been needing a haircut for a while. I gave him one myself a few weeks ago and it was pretty sad looking. So today we decided to let the professionals fix my mistakes. And Chris was in charge of taking George since he was in need of a haircut himself.

This is what my baby looked like pre-haircut:



This is what he looks like now:

FYI: He’s not break dancing in this one. He’s falling off a bike.

Chris is a dead man.