Me Too

Do you guys know that Meghan Trainor song, Me Too?  It’s my jam.  Love her songs.  So catchy. Every time it comes on the radio we have to immediately crank it up so I can tap my steering wheel in perfect drumbeat fashion.  I have the head bop/shoulder shimmy down perfectly.  I’ve got the rhythm.  I’ve got the moves.  I’m so white. 

I get more of a workout in listening to this song than I do in my yoga classes. 

If I could carry a tune even a little bit or had video editing capabilities I would make one of those awesome YouTube parody videos and become an Internet sensation.  But being as that I have neither of those things, I will settle for blogging. 

So every time I hear this song, I add all of my own sarcastic comments throughout.  Shocking, I know.  If you don't know it, listen to it here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RaveinO4_vs

Meghan Trainor

Me too

Who’s that sexy thing I see over there?  (That’s Ryan Lochte on my TV.)

That’s me, standing in the mirror  (Mirror’s make me want to gag myself….literally)

What’s that icy thing hanging ‘round my neck?  (Probably a booger from William)

That’s gold, show me some respect, Oh Ah (No, it’s an $8 necklace from Charming Charlies)

I thank God everyday  (Indeed I do)

That I woke up feeling this way  (No, I feel this way after millions of hours and years of gymnastics)

And I can’t stop loving myself  (It’s real easy)

And I don’t need nobody else (except for my chiropractor)

If I was you, I’d want to be me too  (Who wouldn’t want to be this?)

I’d want to be me too  (Well, it’s not ALL that great)

I’d want to be me too  (yeah, I’m done being me.  Who else can I be?)

If I was you, I’d want to be me too  (ok, I have a lot to be thankful for)

I’d want to be me too  (I’m happy to be me)

I’d want to be me too  (this song is getting boring, good thing it has a good beat)

 

I walk in like a dime piece  (don’t even know what that is.  So old.  Just so old)

I go straight to VIP (nope, I’m poor.  I work in non-profit child welfare)

I never pay for my drinks  (My husband does.  Out of our joint account)

My entourage behind me.  (and in front of me, and running circles around me)

My life’s a movie, Tom Cruise (I hate that prick)

So bless me, baby Ah-Choo (stupid line in a song)

And even if they try to they can’t do it like I do (yeah, nobody has it going on quite like we do)

 

I thank God everyday (yes)

That I woke up feeling this way (with a slight hangover from a margarita.  Damn, I’m old and a lightweight)

And I can’t stop loving myself  (still working on loving myself)

And I don’t need nobody else (except the 14 people it takes to keep my carpools going to get my kids to all of the zillions of activities I insist on having them in)

If I was you, I’d want to be me too  (depending on the day)

I’d want to be me too  (I’ve got the good life going on)

I’d want to be me too  (yeah, it IS good to be me)

If I was you, I’d want to be me too  (except for those days when it’s not good to be me)

I’d want to be me too  (like last week when I totally lost my shit on the kids)

I’d want to be me too  (but I’ve got some good stuff going on….stayin’ positive!)

 

Turn the bass up.  (I don’t know where it is in my minivan)

 

Let’s Go (I’m halfway there already)

 

I thank God everyday (yup, still do)

That I woke up feeling this way (thankful no one had a nightmare or peed the bed)

And I can’t stop loving myself (stiiiiillllll workin’ on it)

And I don’t need nobody else (I do like peace and quiet)

If I was you, I’d want to be me too (Yeah, I like being me)

I’d want to be me too  (but you should just be yourself)

I’d want to be me too (seriously, quit the single white female thing)

The Instigator

Anyone that has ever taken their children, or anyone children, to church knows the struggle.  Sadly, some weeks it can be a deterrent to even attending Mass.  Other weeks it is so clear that we all  need a little Jesus that nothing could keep us away.  Still other weeks, it is something we are squeezing into our busy life.  

We made it today.  Praise Jesus.  

William was William.  He wiggles.  He talks.  He kicks his brothers.  He tries, or succeeds, in ripping pages in the hymnal. He "reads" the book (usually upside down).  He stacks the books.  He lines them up.  He pretends they are cars and makes motor sounds as he moves them along the pew.  He sings when we are praying.  He plays with my necklace.  He stands.  He sits.  He lays down. He sucks his thumb.  He's basically every 3 year old at church or at least the churches I have been in.  

Today his Instigator came with us.  The Instigator is not a cuddly stuffed animal with a funny nickname.  Nor is it one of his brothers.  I think you know who it is.  It's his dad.  Yup, the Instigator was present today.  When the Instigator in in attendance I usually try to keep William with me.  We are all better off for it.  However after several minutes of squirming and previously identified church behaviors, Instigator decides to take over for a while.  Instigator isn't much of a whisperer.  He's more of a talk in a low man voice kind of guy.  So he "whispers" into Will's ear "You have ants in your pants."  To which William loudly says "I have ANTS IN MY PANTS?"  Followed by "I have ants in my bottom" several times throughout Mass.

So I separated Will and Instigator for a while.  Before long they were back together wherein Instigator looks over at me and non-whispers "Am I in trouble?"  No.  No 37 year old man, you are not in trouble because I am not your mother.  But for the love of all that is good and Holy, please leave that kid alone during church.  He gets into enough trouble on his own or with his brothers who poke at him the minute I get him sitting quietly for any period of time.  Of course, that is only when they can distract themselves from playing with their Fitbits and trying to scam their step counter by slyly swinging their arms back and forth as if they are walking.  

The kids measure the time in church by the songs.  "How many songs left" starts about halfway through church.  So we all made it to the last song without any additional notable events.  Time for donuts.  Everybody happily dodges their way through the crowds on the way to donuts until the Instigator denies them.  WHAT??  No donuts?  What do you mean we don't have time for donuts?  Donuts are the bribe that gets everyone ready on Sunday mornings.  They are the finish line.  The light at the end of the tunnel.  They are the end of our weekly faith journey.  They are the reward for staying sane (me).  They are the casual threat during church "Be good, or you aren't getting a donut."  So there we went.  Heads hung low, shoulders slumped, past the stairs that lead to the almighty Sunday morning sugar high.  So long sticky fingers.  So long spilled orange Kool-Aid that stains their upper lips.  We hope to see you next week.  

Addendum:

On the way home from dinner tonight we passed the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception and Instigator asked if the dome was really gold.  He said when he was young he always dreamt of flying a helicopter and stealing the dome.  It's all starting to make sense now. 

Tooth Fairy

Parenting, schmarenting.  I have my good days and I have my why-in-the-world-did-anyone-think-it-was-a-good-idea-for-me-to-be-in-charge-of-small-people days. 

I recently had one of the latter.  It involves the stupid tooth fairy. I hate that bitch.  She always comes at the most inconvenient time.  A tiny flying Tinkerbelle sort of thing that comes into a child's room at night and crawls under his pillow to steal his tooth?  CREEEEEPY!  Why?   My husband tries to tell the kids that the TF actually eats their teeth. I nearly threw up in my mouth even thinking about it.

As usual with anything that even remotely relates to parenting, I was completely unprepared.  Justin's tooth had been "super loose" for weeks.  I had stopped paying attention to anything having to do with teeth.  Except for brushing of course.  I make sure they brush their teeth.  Every-ish day. 

Anyway, his tooth falls out and we set it on the kitchen counter where all bloody former body parts belong and then we forget about it for two days.  It just sits there with all of the other crap including unpaid bills, random change, the still uncompleted school residency form for the upcoming school year, a Kohl's coupon, an empty fruit snack bag, and items that William has set aside for his "collection". 

Then comes the night that he actually remembers to stick it under his pillow for weirdo fairy witch to come take it and leave money.  Oh, MONEY???  Nope, don't have any of that.  Of course Jeremy the cash cow is at the firehouse and I don't have a single bill on me other than the unpaid ones on the counter. 

But guess who does have money?

This guy!

 

 

Right here! 

Yup, I stole from my 3 year old's piggy bank.  Parenting win! 

And have I paid those $3 back to Will's piggy bank?  Oh no I have not.  Why?  Because I am generally unethical and Will is clueless and 3 years old and he doesn't know any different and I'm really busy with a lot of other things that are more important than finding three dollar bills to stuff back in a glass pig. 

Weekend Lessons

I've learned a few things this weekend.  Or maybe a more accurate statement is that I remembered a few things this weekend.   


#1.  Shoe shopping with three boys is miserable.  I gave them the standard lecture before entering the store.  NO tag.  NO hide and seek.  NO nuthin’.  Just try on shoes and get out.  I made an initial tactical error in allowing William to walk instead of using a cart with a stroller on the front.  That lasted about 20 second.  I turned around to get a cart/stroller while Leo picks William up like a sack of potatoes and carries/drags him over to me.  We got a stroller and he proceeded to drag his feet on the floor in front of it to continually slow our minimal progress. We finally made it to the shoe department.  Our problem is either that they hate all of the choices or they just want the first one they see.  I’m walking back and forth between Will climbing out of the cart (with the broken buckle) and the boys trying on shoes.  Leo insisted on a pair of orange and blue shoes.  Ugh, Auburn colors.  I was not impressed.  He did it just to tick me off.  He hates Auburn.  William is standing in the stroller with one foot perched on a rack of shoes.  I just left him there.  He’ll figure it out.  Justin was getting hungry so he just grabbed the first red pair he could find.  Justin puts his shoes on and immediately says “they slide off my feet a little bit.”  We have a lengthy debate on buying shoes that he very clearly just said do not fit but he insists on getting because they don’t have another size and he is too hungry to try on more shoes.  I give in.  I give Leo one more chance to pick something other than Auburn shoes, but I’ve lost that battle too.  Then we get out to the car and everyone immediately puts on their new shoes.  The car was still in park when Leo says that they hurt his feet.  We.  Just.  Bought.  Them.  I am reminded that shoe shopping with three boys is miserable. 


#2.  Flexibility was never my strength.  My body is old and my flexibility is at an all time low.  I’ve taken up yoga/pilates again.  It is clear to me now that I always relied on sheer talent, strength, and determination to have whatever minimal success I did have in my gymnastics career.  Not flexibility.  No, no, no.  Not flexibility.    


#3.  My children have potty mouths.  Seriously.  It’s bad.  It’s embarrassing.  I realize this is and will continue to be a part of raising our boys.  But when one is telling a kid we just met that he “sucks balls” followed by “not the private part balls, but like a baseball” and the other one is telling peers that spelling S-H-I-T is just as bad as saying it, I would like to crawl into a hole (and scream cuss words). 


#4.  I am much better at mini-golf than everyone else in my family.  I kicked their butts today. 


#5.  Toilet bowl cleaner comes out of quilts.  A pale yellow quilt, at that.  In a moment of stupidity I left it sitting on my bed while I screamed at the top of my lungs at my children so they would stop wrestling, crying, punching, and dragging each other around the living room.  Then I got completely distracted with my discipline efforts and brought them all into the bedroom for a good ol’ fashioned lecture.  Unfortunately I forgot about the toilet bowl cleaner I had set on the end of the bed.  It had fallen over and leaked out through the quilt, sheets, and mattress cover.  Super.  Perfect way to end a long weekend. 

Movement Therapy

It’s been a rough few months for me.  After our son Zachary died this year I spent a great deal of time focusing on the joys that he brought to our life.  I had to or else it would be too easy to crawl into a ball and hide from the world.  And cry.  Lots and lots of crying. Work in particular became tough just because it’s a place where I need to keep it under control and be professional.  Actually that’s not even true.  I can keep it relatively under control but professionalism isn’t really my thing.  Sarcasm is.  And humor.  But I found myself having quite a few rough days at work in the last several weeks.  We had expected Zachary to arrive by Thanksgiving at the latest so getting over that hurdle was a major step in my grief.  On Thanksgiving weekend I was really dreading going back to work and carrying on a normal life. That is, until I had the BEST idea. 

It’s cartwheels.  Yup, cartwheels.  There is no way possible you can be sad while doing cartwheels.  So I’ve been doing them.  A lot.  At work.  Every day.  Anytime there is no one around, I do a cartwheel.  Mostly in our break room area.  Or if I think I don’t have time or the appropriate attire for a cartwheel I do full turns or split leaps.  Last week I did several fouette turns in a row because I couldn't hear anyone coming and then I got a bit dizzy and had to walk back to my office while shaking it off a bit.  Yup, I’ve just been cartwheeling and twirling and leaping all over our office and no one knows it (I think).  As of yet I don’t think I’ve been caught.  I do them while I’m making copies or when I check my mail.  Sometimes I just go to the break room to see if no one is around so I can get a quick cartwheel or leap in.  It’s just really hard to be sad and distracted after being upside down. 

Score one for movement therapy!  It’s so healing. 

Humiliatoin Day

There are two things you should know before you read this. 

#1: The weekly school email last week shared information that the school needs cardboard donations for the Global Cardboard Challenge.
#2: Now that he is in 3rd grade, Justin has a planner at school and every day he has to write down what he does throughout the day and reminders that he will need throughout the week. 

So, that's where tonight's story begins.  Actually the story begins earlier this morning when Jeremy got home from 72 hours straight at the firehouse to find a huge unkempt pile of cardboard food boxes in the kitchen.  I asked him to break them down and put them in a plastic sack for the boys to take to school.  Go me!!  Contributed to a school project.  My kids must really idolize me.  Justin will be a hero today for bringing a variety of cardboard boxes of processed foods. 

OR, maybe not.  Tonight we were "doing backpacks."  It's our nightly routine of people pulling various papers out of their backpacks and throwing them out me at astounding rates as I try to thumb through them all and see what needs to be kept, read, applauded, corrected, returned, trashed, or in tonight's case blogged. 

I have to sign Justin's planner every night.  I open it up to find this:

That's right.  Today was Humiliation Day. Or rather Humiliatoin Day.  Who knew?  It begs the obvious question.  So, ummm J, what's up with Humiliation Day?  His response was well, humiliating. 

"Oh yeah, that.  Well Max and I decided today was humiliation day because no one knew why I brought that bag of trash to school.  Mrs. Nelson said 'Uhhhhh, I don't think we need it but I guess I can check on it.'.  They just need box tops."  We asked him what she did with it and he said it was still sitting there at the end of the day. 

My kid was so humiliated that he named a day for it.  Parenting.  Fail.  Jeremy and I have not laughed this hard in a very, very long time. 

Note: I double checked the school email and they do in fact want cardboard for the schools by mid-October.  I was just ahead of the game.  Boom! 

This is Sew Jeremy

I'm a procrastinator.  There, I said it.  It took me a while to realize it.  Even longer to say it.  Even longer to blog about it.  

I let a whole year go by without sewing any new patches on Justin's Cub Scout uniform.  Now Leo's a Cub Scout therefore doubling my opportunity to be unprepared.  I had to suck it up and get both of their uniforms up to date.  I arranged for my seamstress (yes, I have a seamstress "on staff") to get all of the various little patches in their correct locations. 

Enter: Jeremy.  Ten minutes before the first Pack meeting of the year Jeremy said some very unexpected words.

"Do we have a needle?  I think I can sew." 

WTF???

Yes we have a needle and a tiny sewing kit that I'm pretty sure I got about 10 years ago in some sort of goodie bag at a social work conference.  I've used it approximately three times.  Ok, twice.  Ok, I don't remember if I've ever used it except the few times that I got the miniature scissors out to open the blueberry muffin dry mix bag for breakfast.  Or cookie dough.  I probably used it to open a bag of chocolate chips.  It sure was hell wasn't for sewing. 

Anywho, in his typical "let's not spend any money" mantra, Jeremy wants to sew all of the patches on himself.  In my typical "can't we just pay someone to do this" way of living, I insist on using the handy-dandy seamstress (shout out to Heather!). 

So I directed him to the sewing kit.  If it can even be called a sewing kit.  It's like three of the tiniest spools of thread you have ever seen, one needle, and the aforementioned scissors designed for use on the set of The Littles. 

Sooooooo, he sews.  Here he is making his first attempt at threading a needle.  Followed by "son of a....."

"I had it until I heard the click (of the camera)"

 

Followed by "UGH!!!  I almost had it!" and "We are down to our last needle."  As if I need to run out and buy some more to last us the next ten years of non-sewing. 

 

 

"Yeah, I can do this.  Do you have a thimble?"

"Oh FUCK! I just got my finger!"

 

 

"Ok this is where I get confused" (as he tries to knot it).

Here he is pictured cutting the thread with his teeth as I'm sure his fingers won't fit in the teeny tiny scissors. 

 

 

SWEET SUCCESS!  What a stud!

 

 

How ya like me now?