35 Years Old and NOT! Pregnant

Today, I'm 35 years old.  Just 5 years ago on this day, I was pregnant with my first child at 30 years old.  Look at my goofy face at 30, not knowing all the sh!t that was in store for me.  How that little bun baking in the oven was about tip my world upside down and then rip it apart.  I had no idea how motherhood would enable me to see through the walls of Hell and send me back shivering with regret while I would revert back deep to my introverted shell where extended friends and family would barely see me for almost three years, while I tried to hide figure out this thing called motherhood.

And even through all the moments of utter chaos where I could barely hold on to my own sanity, where I could barely hang on before I burst into tears due to the jealousy that ensued over everyone else's calm babies --  and all I wanted to do was to Fast Forward 18 years and take a nap, somehow I broke out into full-on madness and decided to get pregnant AGAIN! 2 years later.  At 32, I was pregnant again.  We all do crazy things.  32 yrs --- that was my craziest year.

I'm happy to say that at 35 I am NOT crazy nor pregnant, and planning to keep it that way for the rest of my birthdays.  Every day gets a little easier with the Ruffians.  Hell - we can even go to restaurants now and we seem semi-civilized (although I'm still traumatized and my nerves start up whenever Hubs says, "Let's go out to eat!" ------> shudder & chills.)  Things are still not perfect, and they probably never will be. I'm OK with that... anything is better than the Hell I've seen.

I'm still not at the point where I would say, "I'd do it all again, if I had to." Because although I love my ruffians so much, at this time, I still wouldn't do it all again.  I'm the person who announced, "I will never drink again!" And actually didn't! 

And my mind still occasionally wanders into my deeply introverted and anti-social thoughts where I'm convinced that society somehow tricked me into thinking that having children ---and buying a house--- was a good idea.  I sit here today with two kids and two houses.  It's a lot of stress!  And apparently I handle stress very poorly.

Then again I tell myself of course it's a good idea, Shirley!  You're just suffering with the not-knowing-what-you've-got-until-it's-gone syndrome.  And I can only back this theory up by the pit in my stomach and feeling of overwhelming sadness I feel when Hubs says, "Let's go out to eat!  and leave the boys with your parents!"  Leave my babies?!  Why don't we just order in, instead?

So today I'm 35, and it has been my first birthday in 5 years that I didn't really need or desire a nap.  Look at my face at 35, it's been through Hell and back, but I feel like I'm looking at a refined 35 yr old who almost knows her stuff now vs. the goofy 30 yr old that I was. 

So as I blew out my candles this year, I didn't have any particular wish in mind.

Because I already got what I wanted.  I got out of Hell and that stress level is almost gone, and out of those ashes I now have two little Ruffians that although still drive me crazy, they're beginning to make me laugh more. And to me, life is about laughter......

........ and long, natural nails :)  --  I finally got that this year too!

Damn, I've come a long way.

Shirley (mama-ruff)

Dear Santa: What will I do without you?!

Dear Santa,

It's been a crazy month, and I didn't get a chance to blog so many things since before Thanksgiving even.  But now that you're gone, Santa, I'm at a loss.

What will I do without you?!!!!!

Your power over my children was a godsend!  I threatened my children with coal at every turn, and the amazing thing is that they behaved every friggin' time.  I even enjoyed a stress-free dinner at a fancy restaurant WITH THE RUFFIANS at my side!  You are an amazing, jolly fat-man!  I love you!

Please stay, dude.

You're the best.  Don't leave me!  I need you.

Shirley (Mama-Ruff)

1.5 yr/old!

Tater, you're 1 & 1/2 today!
 
The other day we had a late dinner at the Outback Steakhouse and our waitress asked me if she could get you anything to drink.  At first I said no since I brought your bottle filled with water, but after realizing the tantrum that might ensue after you saw that your brother got a kid-sized Coke and you didn't - well I changed my mind!

The waitress smiled and flirted with you a bit, and then she said, "I'm not there yet, my guy is still little."

I asked her how old her "guy" was and she said, "21 months."

I furrowed my brows and said, "Oh, then your little guy is older than mine!"  I pointed to you and said, "This guy's almost 18 months!"

She was caught off guard and said very slowly (as if she was still thinking if what she was about to say was rude or not), "Oh!  He's....... a............... really.............................big boy?"

I just laughed, and said, "Yes, he's huge!" Just like his older brother, he scores in the 90th percentile for just about everything that the doctors measure. 

At 1 & 1/2, you're a big man on campus, Tater!

Other Tater Tidbits

• You say over 20 words and use them consistently
• My favorite word that you say is "Turtle".  I bought you a Turtle cup with a swirly straw.  Whenever you see the cup you point to it and say, "Tuh-tul!  Tuh-tul!," and you don't stop until I pour you something to drink in it.
• You get cranky around 9-9:30pm.  That's when I tell you it's time to sleep and to kiss everyone good night AND YOU ACTUALLY DO IT with no complaints.  I never thought I'd have a kid who goes to bed willingly, but you do!
• You also have a favorite blankie and walk around holding on to it, like kids on TV do!  Once again, I never thought I'd have THAT kid!
• There was a brief moment where you started crying during bathtime like your brother, but then I started bathing you two separately and now you're back to being a fish!
• Although you don't wear me out the same as you did last year, you still seem to have a goal of getting me off the couch at 5 minute intervals, max.  
• You still love Qori so much but lately you've gotten into a hitting phase and sometimes you pull his fur.  I yell, "Don't mess with my Qori!" a lot these days.
• I joke that you're a rock-star and I can see you trashing your hotel room when your older.  When you get mad, you grab things and throw them like an angry rock-star.
• You pretend that you don't understand when I say one word - "No".  But you immediately stop what you're doing when I say six words:  "I'm going to take it away!"
• You have a deep, raspy voice.  Perfect for imitating horse sounds, as I've come to find out.  Spot on, Tater!
• You still have a very healthy appetite and you are willing to taste-test anything, it seems
• Sometimes, you can set your brother off by just staring at him or getting too close to him.  Some people might wonder what's wrong with your brother, but we KNOW YOU Tater: you sneaky devil!  The deeper the dimples, the sneakier the Tater!

-Shirley (Mama-Ruff)

Karma

Remember when Tater beat the shit out of my eyebrow, and I threatened him with Karma?

Well, let me tell you folks: that shit's real!

I mean it's practically on his eyebrow too! 

Only this was a little different.  Tater had an existing small scratch right on that spot.  On the way home from daycare my dad's house, my dad gave Tater a little green balloon to play with in the car.  On the way home, the balloon popped in the car and scared the shit out of me!  Then there was complete silence.  A few minutes later, DD told me that his brother's face was hurt.  I freaked out for a second, remembering I hadn't heard him stir after the balloon popped.

Oh my god!  Was he unconscious!!!!!?

I called to Tater at a red light to give me some sign of life!  He moved his hand.  I couldn't see his face since he's still rear-facing, but knowing he was responsive made me feel so much better.  When I got home, I was confronted with that big ass bloody spot!

No crying, screaming, or curling into the fetal position like his wimpy Mama did the other night.  No depression.  He was still happy go lucky Tater!

I could learn a few things from this little Tater Tot! - Shirley (Mama Ruff)

Gracias Linda!

Diego and I were in the car on our way to pick up some lunch while Dada-Ruff was working hard building our new TV monument stand.  It was a hot day so we both had our car windows down.  It was also the weekend so I wasn't looking half as haggard as usual, plus I had on my sunglasses which covered most my face.

The car in front of me decided to be a bottle-neck on the street and double-parked.  I had to scoot my car over to the side, to let the car in oncoming traffic pass by me.  It was tight, so I tried to scoot some more.  And then some more.

They finally passed by me, both our windows wide open on this beautiful hot day.  It was a car full of Latin young men.  The space between our cars was so tight that the driver was practically in my car.  As our windows paralleled, the driver said,

"Gracias linda" [Thank you, lovely] and they drove away.

I didn't have enough time to acknowledge.  Not a smile or a nod because they were already behind me, probably off to some beer-filled party or something.

I turned the corner, and Diego said,

"Mama, are those your fwends???"

"Huh?  What?  Oh!... yeah sure."

Those are my fwends.... - Shirley (Mama-Ruff)

Brown Loin Cloth

 

 Happy Sunday to you! 

I could use the photo above to discuss my failure at potty training my 3-year old thus far, or to talk to you about how he's entered a stage where he'll dress down to the "full-monty" and gets a kick out of mommy's reaction when he touches his peenix.  Ew!  boys...

But instead let me tell you how I got the diaper BACK on him.  He just so happens to be really into the Disney movie "Tarzan" right now.  It's recorded on our DVR and he's ALWAYS asking for it.

So he's running around the house, full monty and laughing, causing his little brother to be running around the house with his ass-crack showing because he pulled down his pants in an effort to be nude just like his brother.

I'm chasing the two little Ruffian peenix's around the house with their diapers in my hand.  Getting nowhere, I sit down on the couch and give up for a second, and start to re-evaluate my strategy.  There he is!  Tarzan on the TV screen.

"Diego!  Are you Tarzan?"  I ask.

"YES!" he responds.

"Then you need to wear your diaper like Tarzan"

"Tarzan wears a diaper?" he asks.

"Yes, look.  Tarzan wears a brown diaper.  You need to wear your diaper too, if you want to be Tarzan."

Success!

Thank God he didn't ask for a brown diaper!  - Shirley (Mama-Ruff)

Costco Bitch

I was a total bitch the other day at Costco.  The old man probably didn't deserve my wrath (yes - I was a bitch to an old man.  WHAT A BITCH thing to do, I know.) I'll make it a point to smother him with kindness the next time I see him, because I'm ALWAYS at Costco, and I'm really not a mean person at all.

It was my own problem.  The problem was:  motherhood taking its toll on me.

I know you're asking yourself what the hell does Costco have to do with the toll of motherhood other than shopping for milk in bulk?  In my own warped head there's so much more.

It started over a year ago, when I lost my Costco card.

God damn it, I lost my Costco card!  

I needed to go get a new one, and I didn't know I'd have to take a new picture.  I thought they save that in your electronic profile somewhere.  My original pic was taken pre-motherhood, and I never had a problem with it. 

Nowadays here's the thing:  each time I go to Costco now it's after work.  I'm exhausted and not really in the mood to stand in those lines.  And when I know I'm going to Costco after work, I dress in comfy shoes which means I dress in a matching comfy outfit, which means that my hair and makeup probably match.   So when I realized I'd lost my Costco card and got in the line for a new pic.... I was presented with this pixelated monstrosity...

 

 God!  I'm so embarrassed.  WTF!  I look like an old Filipino man who forgot to put his dentures on!  No offense to old toothless Filipino men out there.  It's just not the look I go for when I wake up in the mornings.  And to any Filipino girls out there who are reminded of their fathers or grandfathers while looking at this pic:  I'm sure they were very handsome men in their prime.

So anyway, I had to look at this picture on almost a weekly basis on my regular trips to Costco.  Each time that picture taunted me.  'You could've at least done your hair or something'.  But honestly, this is a picture of a haggard mother whose last bit of energy and self worth had been drained by her two Ruffians.  This picture began to symbolize to me what motherhood had done to me.

And then, Costco started trying to sell me a membership upgrade EACH TIME I shopped there.  They'd take my toothless Filipino card, scan it, and yell "REFERRAL!" to the top of their lungs and a sales rep would be there in two seconds to explain how I couldn't lose by upgrading.  I may have said "no" about 15 times until they finally sold me, so now I'm an executive Gold member.  Hur-fuckin'-rrah.

So you know what this meant?  A new upgraded card and a new pic.  But guess what?  You guessed it, the day they convinced me to upgrade I looked like a haggard, old toothless Filipino man.  I kept saying to myself, "next time" I'll come to Costco a little more put together for my photo and I'll get my new card.  But each time I ended up at Costco, I was haggard and not photo ready yet.  So I kept using my old card, and confusing the referral process.  The fact that I was always "haggard" really weighed on my mind.  Maybe this is just me.  There's no hope.  I'm a hag and past my prime.  I should just accept it.  But I was too stubborn to give up on a good pic, knowing I'd have to look at the thing for months or years afterwards.

So the old man at Costco struck a nerve.  We had just bought a new 60" TV, a pretty big Costco buy.  The cashier scanned my old Filipino man card and yelled "REFERRAL!" and the old man was there in two seconds.  He scanned my card and said, "Oh! You're already an Executive member" and then he frowned and seemed bothered and confused.

"Yes, I am," I said.

The cashier interjected, "You should get your new card; it's a good hair day," and he smiled.  But my hair was tied back and so I defensively, but still nicely laughed and said, "No it's not!" while touching my hair in a very introverted way. 

The old man said, "It only takes a couple of minutes.  You should really get a new card." He seemed a little upset that I had wasted his time or something. 

"I will, but not today." I said.

But he kept at it in a pushy, annoyed tone and said, "Just get a new card...  It's really fast.  I'll even take you there."  all while having this concerned, annoyed face.  It's like the world was off it's balance and the only way he could get things back in order was for me to get a new card.  But I interpreted it like he was basically TELLING me what to do, and I really hate that.  Especially when I'm the paying customer.  I started to literally feel heat under my collar.

I took a moment and clearly said, "No.  I will not be taking a picture today! But thank you ANYWAY!" and I turned to my husband and did this part eye roll, part sigh thing to express my annoyed state (so mature of me).  I walked away without looking back at the old man.  I basically dismissed him with those final words.  I know - What a bitch! 

So, I'm sorry old referral man, for giving you a hard time.  You did inspire me to finally get my new card though.  It didn't turn out to be anything glam, but at least I don't think I look like an old, toothless Filipino man anymore!

I guess the world is back on its balance for now - Shirley (Mama-Ruff)

Something is going to happen to you

It took 3 years, but he finally did it.  I didn't put it together for a few minutes either.  I was on the bed with him and he made an excited noise (with no words) to get my attention.  I looked at him.  He had a HUGE up-to-no-good, Ruffian smile on his face as he stared at me.

I wouldn't have figured it out if he hadn't of finally said something.

"Yummy!" was all he said to me, with this "betcha-don't-know-what-I-just-ate" smirk on his face.

And I made a bee-line for my night table to find that my "Wednesday" pill was gone.

He ate Wednesday.

Thank God it was the placebo! 

A couple days later, I watched Bridesmaids for the first time.  Hilarious!

Even more so when "The kid who ate Saturday" scene came up.  Coincidence?  Nothing ever is.

I kept thinking about her reaction.  "Something is going to happen to you, kid.  I don't know what, but something is going to happen to you." and I imagined what would have happened to Diego had he ingested an extra dose of synthetic estrogen.  If his high-pitched screams got any higher, he'd break windows.  I don't think he could get any more emotional, and he's already such a diva!

I don't ever want to find out.  So I really need to figure out a new place for my no-more-Diego-and-Mateo pills.

Still the only estrogen in the house, whew! -Shirley (Mama-Ruff)

The Car Seat

I joke at DD's expense with his nickname: OCD-D.  But more and more I wonder if he may really have a small degree of OCD.  There are many things I walk on eggshells about when it comes to avoiding an outburst from DD, but sometimes... I forget.

And when I do, all Hell breaks loose.

For example just this week, there was an incident with a new car seat.  Since Dada-Ruff bought a new car and has been encouraging me to drive it with the Ruffians, I had to move the car seats from my car to the new car each time I drove it.  This was getting to be an extra time-consuming task, so Dada-Ruff bought one extra car seat at a local consignment shop.  He didn't have enough time yet to find and buy a second one for his new car.

So in the morning before going to work in the NEW car, I opened the back door of the car and checked out the new car seat.  It was a nice Britax car seat that matched the interior in a tan color.  The car seats in my car match my interior: gray.  So since the new tan car seat had already been installed on "Diego's side" of the car,  I just wrote it off as "Diego's" new car seat (so I wouldn't need to move it to Mateo's side).  I automatically walked to my car to grab Mateo's old reliable gray car seat to install it in the new car.  I remember installing Mateo's seat, giving it a tug, and saying, "Yep - that'll do."  Still oblivious, I brought the kids to the car afterwards.

Diego opened his side of the car door and peeked inside.  As I was buckling Mateo into his ol' reliable seat, I realized that I didn't even THINK that this new car seat could trigger an OCD episode from Diego.

"Mama, why you do that?"  he asked standing in the car facing the car seat.
"Do what?" I asked trying my best to act like I didn't understand what the big deal was.  Yet I already knew where this was headed.
"One is missing" he said.

"No," I said.  "This is the new chair for the new car." I said, hoping to leverage his fondness for the new car and transfer that fondness to the new chair.

No cigar....

"NO NEW CHAIR!!!!!!  He screamed.  MAMA!  One is MISSING!  NO NEW CHAIR!!!! AHHHHHHHH!!!!"

For a moment, I was tempted to just go to my car and get the old car seat.  But in the end I somehow buckled him in the new car seat kicking and screaming, and told him that he WOULD conform in the nicest mommy way possible.  I wasn't sure if this tantrum was OCD or just the spoiling of a child.  But I remembered my husband's words, 'In Peru, kids don't have OCD.  Just in America.'   I imagined a kid in Peru in this exact situation.  Specifically, a poor kid in Peru.  What would parents in Peru do if their kid "couldn't handle" a new car seat?  ---> They'd make him sit in the damn car seat, that's what.  So that's what I did.

And boy did he SCREAM in the car!!!

All............... the ..............................way.......................to ..............................Abuelito-Ruff's house.

I'm fortunate that Abuelito-Ruff doesn't live on a cliff because I would have jumped off it by the time I got there.

So now today, I decided to take the new car again (Do I NOT learn my lessons?).  I walked with the Ruffians to the car, and cringed a little as Diego opened and entered the car.

"Mama" he said.

"This is the new chair for the new car??????" He asked in the most inquisitive and cute way possible.

"Yes, Papito" I said.

And then HE SAT HIS ASS IN THE SEAT!

OCD cured (for now)! - Shirley [Mama-Ruff]

Gushing

I've always wondered how many cases there have been of toddlers killing their mothers because they snapped their mom's necks while jumping on them during a crazy toddler-derived acrobatics stunt.  I know these are morbid thoughts, but it has to have happened, right?  I'm too afraid to Google it.  But it's a real thought that enters my mind each time my 3-year old ruffian launches his body off the couch and onto me, usually unsuspecting, while I'm relaxing on the floor.

Snap!

As this year has progressed and 1-yr old Tater's agility has developed from learning to walk, to learning to run, to now mastering how to climb (but not how to get down), I've been preparing myself for the inevitable.

He is GOING TO GET HURT one day.  And then he'll get hurt again.  Just like his brother.

But as of today, he hasn't hurt himself enough to leave a mark.  So I continue to brace myself, knowing it's gonna happen.  Little did I know, I should have been looking out for my own ass instead!

It was all so innocent:  3-year old Brother was asleep on the couch, so Tater and I were sharing vanilla and chocolate chip ice cream in a cup together on the floor.  We were spending our special 1:1 time together, just the two of us, quiet, the birds were chirping, there were bunnies in the meadow, and rainbows were forming in the skies... Until the little bastard took the heavy-ass spoon and BASHED the fuck out of my eyebrow bone to unleash the most emotional pain that seemingly came out of nowhere.   It unleashed a deep-seeded depression as I cowled into a cocoon shape and screamed, "Leave me alone!" and started to cry out loud like a 5-year old girl.  For a few seconds, I may have stunned Tater, but at some point he decided I was either a) taking too long in my self misery, or b) I was fine and this was a game, because the then threw himself on top of the noisy cocoon and tried to climb it.

I braced myself, still crying; still hiding my face from the little terrorist.  I composed myself and wiped the tears from my face, not knowing yet that I was also wiping blood.  Other than the sleeping 3-year old, the dog and the terrorist, I was alone.  My husband wasn't there.  My husband is NEVER there!  I tried to be strong, but Tater had hit me where it hurt most both literally and figuratively.  The blow had brought out a sadness to which my husband was already condemned as the root cause.  I love the hubs, but hate that he's not around the way I need and expect in a marriage.  I needed him there at that moment - and he wasn't.  And so, the deep-seeded anguish came gushing out (along with blood) with one blow to the head with a spoon.  I probably cried on an off for the next couple of hours,  in between playing airplane and tickles. Feeling so alone.

I try to always have a brave face in front of my kids, but I'm only human.  I remember a few times in my childhood where my mother lost her composure (she never hit us) and it really made me uncomfortable.  I felt a mixture of sadness, pity, and fault to see my mother that way.  Don't get me wrong.  She cried a lot; she's a crier.  But there were only a couple of times where she really, REALLY cried.  Made me wonder as a kid if she regretted motherhood (but she didn't; she was just having a moment and was entitled to it).  I don't want to put my kids through that though.  I don't want them to think it's their fault.  It's not.

So now my brow is healing, and hopefully so will the depression one day.  In all my years of life, I've always been a pacifist and I don't think anyone has ever beat my ass before (I think I would've remembered unless I've implemented selective memory).  Leave it up to a 1-year old to take the title!  Just you wait Tater.

Karma.

Any day now.

Brace yourself - Shirley

 

 

Word of the Day

Hello Boys and Girls,

Today's word of the day is

"Tare":  noun

Definition: An allowance made for the weight of the packaging in order to determine the net weight of goods.

Often used by a pediatric nurse trying to get my 3 yr old ruffian to stand on the evil! scale during his checkup, while he is adamantly defiant and hanging and clinging for dear life onto my legs like a baby monkey about to fall into a pit of fire! 

Used in a sentence (by the nurse): "How about we allow for the tare, and we weigh you on the scale with him and then you alone, and then get the difference?"

So I maneuver onto the scale in my wedged boots with the screaming monkey still permanently attached to my legs, and judging by the cacophony of sounds that just erupted, an ember from the pit of fire must have singed the baby monkey's butt.

The nurse eventually says, "40lbs." 

40 fucking pounds....
I wish I could've just told her that instead of going through this entire song and dance!

What's that you say?  Your pediatric nurse doesn't  use the word "tare"? It's only reserved for my ruffians?

Of course it fuckin would be!

I'm grateful that the rest of the checkup went smoothly. My ruffian sat quietly with a face full of distrust and suspicion aimed at the doctor, but still he actually did everything she asked and that's what mattered most.

Look at the light
Say "ahhhh"
Breathe deep breaths. <---- his cooperation on this one stunned me the most.

And then the doc said he wouldn't need shots.

Thank God!

That meant I wouldn't need a shot of my own when I got home! :)

-Shirley

How the Ruffians did Easter

Easter puked all over back of my car and in between my couch cushions.

If I never see an open baby blue, plastic Easter egg or aluminum, pastel-colored candy wrappers  again I'd do the Happy Dance!  And if the boys never saw a patterned clip-on tie again,  they'd do the Lambada!  

The only reason I even got one picture of Diego in a tie is because I told him that you must wear ties when you hunt eggs (And he BELIEVED me, muahahahaha!).  He's gonna hate me when he figures it out.  And Mateo is going to hate me when I show his future girlfriend this plumber-butt picture.  Hahaha!  But Mateo got me back as I peered from the living room window to find him getting down and dirty in a rain puddle.  I wasn't home and had no backup outfit.  

And knowing there was rain in the forecast, I still didn't even think to bring rain boots.  I chose to put them in.......... -canvas shoes......... Mommy fail.

As for the hunt itself, the boys got a really great haul.  Diego examined each egg before he put it into his basket.  If it was a real egg, he put it back.  He only liked the fake, plastic ones (I hope this isn't a general statement about his future girlfriends).    His little brother was hot on his heels picking up the scraps (I hope this isn't a general statement about his future girlfriends.)  At one point, Tater got confused and picked up a landscaping rock and placed it into his basket.  It was far from egg-shaped. If he wasn't ONLY ONE, I'd probably get his eyes checked.  

I should probably get his stomach checked too.  I tried to dye eggs with them the day prior (there wasn't enough paper towels in the state of California to clean up THAT mess!).  Mateo figured out there was food inside the shell, and started cracking the eggs open and eating them.  Meanwhile Diego has the patience of a 3-yr old, and would say "OK, ready!" And take the eggs out of the dye as soon as he put them in.  Lesson learned.  Next year I'm dying them myself so that they stain better, and the Ruffians can put the stickers on afterwards..... and I'll probably have some pre-peeled eggs waiting for Tater's stomach.

How was your Easter? -Shirley

Easter + Divine Intervention

Make special note of the tags still on the baskets...

Happy Easter!  We are spending the day celebrating the holiday and my grandma's birthday today so stay tuned for pics.  :)


I wish I could say that I'm prepared for this holiday, but as usual I'm not up to snuff.  I tried my best to think ahead: stock up on eggs, dye, and baskets and then have fun activities prepared for my little ruffians.  That's what a cool and awesome mom would do.  But a non-cool, totally busy working mom much like myself simply falls short on that because she often falls short on time.

But that's when divine intervention and just silly luck comes in.  Like last week when my only weekend goal was to take the boys to the park on Saturday morning with the intent to tire them out for a good long nap.  On my way to the park, I saw a big flashing-sign, "Easter Egg Hunt at the park at 11am."

It was only an hour away and I just happened to have baskets in my trunk (seriously - I had just bought them the day before and didn't take them out of my car for fear that the ruffians would destroy them before Easter  -- and they WOULD!).  Then we got to the park and I ran into my oblivious friend and her son and we decided to hunt eggs together.  It's like I planned it all out!  Only I didn't....  or did I? ;)

How about we all harbor a secret lie, and let's just say that I did plan it out (for the coolness factor).  This non-cool, totally busy working mom totally planned this perfect outing weeks ago!  It's like my blog banner says; I got this motherhood thing handled....

Too cool for Easter-Shirley

Why I Love Toddlers

I created this blog due to my excitement of my boys reaching the toddler stage.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, "I never wanted to have babies; I wanted kids!"  And now that I served my time passed the baby stages, I'm full-speed ahead into the toddler years! Lovin' every minute ('cept those tantrums!)

Here's a quick video update on why I love toddlers :)

-Shirley

Bitch Games

Diego came running out of his weekly speech therapy appointment last week with a huge grin on his face and holding a brand new, unopened Angry birds game.

His speech therapist told me she would let him "borrow" it.  She did what?!  I posted the picture above on Instagram with the tagline, "I hope she knows that she's not getting this thing back in tact!"  I could only think of the previous Angry Birds game we had and how between Diego the rough ruffian, Tater the ruffian that slobbers on everything, and furry Qori, the ruffian who associates the angry birds toys with dog's squeaky toys, this new game stood no chance.  I also fast-forwarded in my mind to the next speech therapy appointment and how Diego would react when I made him give it back.  Why would the speech therapist deliberately put me in the situation where I would need to fight fire against an inevitable tantrum? 

Bitch.

As we walked away from the speech therapist I thought I heard her say, "It's a brand new game, and since he's my favorite, I let him borrow it." Suddenly she wasn't a bitch anymore.  :)  Unless I misheard her and she actually said "Since I know Angry Birds is his favorite, I let him borrow it."  Well then - she would still qualify as a bitch.  Bitch!

During the past week I've been majorly busy at work, that it's been hard to even sit down and write a quick blog post, but at least three times this week I HAVE had time to worry about how the next speech therapy session will go when Diego has to give the game back.  How the Hell was I going to handle this?!  I stewed, I worried, I didn't really have time to think about it anymore, so I put it off and re-focused my mind on what pays my bills.

Until today came.  The day to give it back.  I picked up Diego from my parent's house (who had kept the game for safe keeping against Qori the dog).  My mother had placed the game in an obscure plastic bag.  Diego didn't even know or care what was in the bag.  Problem solved! Duh! and thanks mother!!!  That's how to tell between veteran mom and a newbie like me.  Here I was, actually planning to try to teach my son a life lesson on giving things back (shiny new plastically smelling things back).  What was I thinking???!

And then Diego came running and grinning out of his most recent speech therapy appointment holding ANOTHER new game, this time it was twice as BIG! 

Bitch!

-Shirley