Say what?

So at his 5th birthday well-visit, my little boy failed his hearing test. I didn't think too much of it at the time. I mean seriously...his sister was singing Diego in his other ear, I think the boy next door was getting 45 shots into his eyeball, and I was talking on my cell phone to someone in a tunnel trying to secure a place for him in the summer camp. So when he couldn't hear the four "tones" in his ear, I really thought another try with less distraction would yield the necessary results.

But when we went back before the office opened with no sister, no cell, and no shots and we still failed...I started to freak out.

Google...not my friend in this case.

Degenerative hearing, developmental delays, sign language, surgery...and that was just the first 100 hits...I could go on and on and on (it has been nearly 2 months you see, and I haven't been blogging because I have been googling...it has been UGLY).

My friends tried to convince me that there was no hearing loss, that he was fine, that the test was just administered improperly, but I couldn't quite buy it. You know how when you stare at those pictures long enough and you see unicorns jumping out at you. Well I was seeing deaf unicorns.

When he didn't hear me ask him to make his bed...hearing loss.
When he didn't hear me ask him to take his dishes to the sink...hearing loss.
When he spoke WAY too loud at the pool...hearing loss.

So today we went to the otolaryngologist (it is a word...just google it!) to have him properly tested. I have never been so nervous in my life. I sat outside the room trying not to throw up on the nice 80 year old woman having her hearing aid fitted and resisting the urge to stick my ear up against the door to see if he was saying "beep" enough times. Finally, the audiologist came out and told me he was fine.

What a huge wave of relief. He can hear. I guess we always knew that. So I said my thank yous, paid my $16,000 copay to see a specialist and headed home.

And as I was driving home, I realized I forgot to ask a question, "if he can hear fine, then why can't he hear me when I ask him to make his bed and put his dishes away. And why does he always seem to be yelling at me?"

And then it dawned on me...seems I didn't need to go to a specialist to learn the answer to those questions. They were answered at the first visit...his 5 Year Old well-visit. Should have googled that and I would have saved myself some time and a mortgage payment.

A birthday to remember

I really can't believe my little girl is two. Apparently she is as distraught as I am over the fact that she is getting so old. just wait until 34 girl...that really hurts.


But, again, just like her mom, nothing cheers the birthday girl up like a little Juicy Juice cocktail.

And nothing makes me laugh harder than listening to the scissor wielding father bitch and moan about how "they are going to ruin her hair if they plaster it down like this" while freeing Ariel from her container.

And if you thought she wasn't really my daughter, you are certain she is when she asks for blueberry pancakes and sausage for her birthday dinner. (yes, there are only 4 of us in the family...don't judge!)

With a Duncan Hines cupcake chaser. That's my girl.

Really, sometimes I think I could just eat her up for dinner.
Well, actually both of them when they act like this.

Happy Birthday sweet girl. For as cute as you are, you have 10 times more personality. And that is what makes you so special. We love you.

Looking for a hobby

So my husband has decided that he is going to be a biker. No, not the kind that revs their engine at 7am in your neighborhood and wears all sorts of leather apparel even when it is 100 degrees outside. The kind that wears spandex, whizes past your as you are running your measly 9 minute miles, and tip tap across the floor in Shirley Temple shoes...that kind of biker.

So, being frugal as he is, he has spent the better part of the last month on craigslist looking for the perfect bike. Only to be gazumped by someone else who understands the rules of Internet sales a little better than my husband who only started to use email in 2004. But alas, he got a bike for "a really great deal, hon!" So then he moved on to finding the perfect pair of shoes. Now this venture I can't complain about too much since he took the cranky, whining, needy, highly annoying daughter with him on Sunday morning to go buy his extra wide, purple tap shoes and they were gone for hours. No complaints here...that was money well spent.

But as he was gone, I spent the better part of the time imagining all the time that he was going to spend on his bike, alone, on the weekends, enjoying the fresh air, being by himself, getting exercise, did I mention his solitary status? By the time he got home, I was a bit worked up, and the first thing I said was, "I need a hobby too."

Sure I run, I go to the gym, I blog, I write, I cook, I eat...but I was thinking more like a hobby that would get me some well deserved solitary time outside, get me skinny with super svelte legs, and let me prance around in tap shoes like I always wanted.

And you know what he says?

Please hold onto your seats ladies and gentlemen...

"I thought manicures and pedicures were your hobby."

Uhhh...that is maintenance buddy...like getting an oil change. You don't consider getting an oil change a hobby do you?

Then he said,

"I thought facebook was your hobby."

As I slammed the door when I left the room he asked innocently, "Did I say something wrong?"

So I'll just tell you, that as he strapped on his purple tap shoes to go on his inaugural bike ride and he threw out his back and has not been able to ride his bike since.

I'll tell you what is definitely not my future hobby...sympathy.

Just so we don't forget about her

I feel like I talk about the big boy all the time with little reference to his little sister. With the boy, we took videos of him all the time and made movies, birthday tributes, and valentine's day songs...but with her...she's lucky if I light the candle for her birthday cake! Thankfully, my father got a new camera for his birthday and can now share his videos.

So without further ado...here is the little girl singing happy birthday to her brother.

Birthday Hangover

It finally happened. The big boy turned 5.

You know what happens when a boy turns 5? Nothing. Well...ok...maybe not nothing.

But did he start making his bed? no. Did he start doing the dishes? no. Did he start folding the laundry? no. But then again, it was HIS birthday, not mine.

But I swear, for an event that supposedly only lasts 24 hours this thing started about 3 months ago (when he turned "four and three-quarters) and I think it may have finally ended yesterday (5 days later). And I have no one to blame but myself.

I love birthdays, I really do. And there is no doubt that I love my kids. So put those two things together and it comes as not surprise that I tend to overdo it. Cupcakes at school. Special dinner and watching The Empire Strikes Back at night. Party two days later, followed by dinner with the whole family. And did I mention the presents? And the Star Wars theme to the whole week? Good God Darth Vader, stab me with a light saber and make the whole thing over. What was I thinking?

It was actually all good until Monday. That's when the hungover hit be over the head like 2 bottles of Merlot. In the car, on the way to the gym to work off all that naturally colored orange icing, the big boy asked me when he was going to get to see his friends that couldn't come to his party. I thought...that is so sweet, he misses them, let's invite them over. But no, that's not what he meant. He continued on to say...because I am sure they have a present for me, and I want to to get them before we go away to the beach.

Awesome...I'm so proud of that statement.

And then on Tuesday, with a straight face, he asked me how many days until Christmas.

And so you see, I thought I had a birthday hangover, but today I have a real one. Because instead of saying, "Are you fu^%*ng kidding me?" I downed a bottle of vodka.

Yes, it's true, I am in the running for mother of the year, but I haven't called them back yet because my head hurts too much!

Itsy bitsy etsy

Do you know about this site?

etsy.com

I am 100% addicted

Did you know that you can get Star Wars Lego shirts there? You can...just look (you can also get Star Wars Lego earrings for that matter, but I thought maybe that was too much for the 5th birthday party!)

Did you know that you can get embroidered/ monogrammed diaper covers there. You can...just look

Now I know, my examples are slightly limited to a 2 year old girl and a 5 year old boy...but there is more...so much more. And it is all made by people, in their homes (mostly) and sold directly from them. I LOVE it. In fact, a good friend has her artwork up here and I admire her for creating her work and selling it.

But seriously, if you need something unique, you can probably find it here. At least I can, because I have an itsy etsy problem.

And don't even DARE coming to the 5th birthday party in a Chewy Lego t-shirt. That would be SO wrong!

Pool Update

It is still there.

The county has been there.

The HOA has been there.

And the landscapers have been there. No, I'm not kidding. People that have that pool in their front yard also have landscapers that come and mow their grass. AND weed whack around the pool. We wouldn't want any weeds to grow up the sides, would we. That would make it look bad.

But it is still there.

I've been offered a pellet gun with a silencer, a hunting knife, and a bow and arrow (I live in Virginia remember, these are normal household items!) but really, I'm a pacifist and wish that thing would just go away on its own. Maybe if I throw a dead raccoon in it??

Culinary Skills, what?

I really try to be a good cook for my family. I really enjoy making meals, serving them, and I REALLY love when everyone tells me how good my food is.

So tonight we're sitting down to eat roast chicken with smashed potatoes and a garlic gravy when the doorbell rings.

What does my daughter (22 months old) say?

"Pii-ha" "Pii-ha"

That's pizza for those of you who don't speak 22 month-ese.

WTF? Thanks girl, glad you like the food.

Where have I been you ask?

I've gone MIA, I admit it. (I also think that I have started my last 10 entries the same way)

It might be because I'm starting a small business (bilingual Spanish/English preschool). I've been hosting open houses, going to conferences, and brushing up on my arts and crafts skills. So writing this blog has fallen by the wayside. After working, feeding the kids, getting them to bed, and slugging down a bottle of wine, I just can't seem to find the time to blog.

OR...

It might be because my neighbors got a swimming pool and we've been spending all of our time over there relaxing, playing, and perfecting our butterfly. I know...how awesome is that? Right next door. Can't you just picture it?

Well, that would be nice, but this is really what cropped up next door. Right in their front yard. Right in our direct line of sight. Right where my kids can skip over and drown their little bodies.

Do you see now why I need to down a bottle of wine every night? And you thought your property value went down? Just be glad you don't live next to this!

And for the record, I had to sneak out at 6am to take these pictures because they are ALWAYS in the pool. 5 of them, just hanging out, trying to swim, but constantly stepping on each other's toes, screaming and laughing and oblivious to the eyesore they have left us with. AND...we haven't gotten an invitation to swim in that germ infested, pee-bowl.

Is it just me or...

When Paul from the Fraternal Order of Police calls do you tend to be nicer to him than any other telemarketer that would have the nerve to call at 6:30pm? The other suspects would barely even get through the mispronunciation of my name before I stated my distaste for calls during the dinner hour (but really I have a distaste for them at ALL hours), but when Paul calls, I feel like I need to be polite.

It went something like this...

Mrs. Kanoo?

Uh, I guess

This is Paul from the Fraternal Order of Police (aka Telemarketing City, I get paid $5/hour to make these calls) and first we would like to remind you and your family to never drink and drive. (Especially after you have spent a night with friends from your pre-kids days, and you think that one last glass of red wine isn't going to matter and we have that road block set up right on the corner of you neighborhood.)

OK...now he has my attention.

So Mrs. Kanoo, it is in these difficult time that we really need your help.

Oh Paul, you had me and then lost me again SO quickly. We don't have any money and if we did...well, I just won't go there. But I can't just hang up on him...can I? He's from THE Fraternal Order of Police.

Paul...I interrupt...I really appreciate you calling but...I am home alone with two kids trying to wrangle them in the bath, so it is a really bad time. (a really bad time because see, really I'm downstairs enjoying a glass of wine while my husband does all the heavy lifting in the bath tonight)

Sure thing ma'am, have a nice night. (I know your address, your phone, your family statistics...don't even bother trying to call 911...we know what a freak you are when it comes to emergencies.)

Am I right, or am I right?

A follow up

My husband is wonderful. Really. I mean that. But that doesn't mean a girl can't poke some fun every once in a while. And while he doesn't exactly read my blog, enough of our family reads it and heckled him on his last feeble attempt to give me some free time that you think he might have learned his lesson.

Or not.

Last weekend, at my in-laws house at the beach, I was given two options and allowed to choose which one I wanted:

Honey, he said with a giant smile on his face how about I give the kids a bath and you can just deal with the cable guy.

And in case you are someone like say...my mom...who always gives the person the benefit of the doubt (in this case, assuming that he is trying to strike a deal to his advantage). It was QUITE clear that he thought he was doing me a HUGE favor by giving the kids a bath while allowing me to follow the cable guy around the house trying to figure out why none of the TV's worked only to figure out that the power cords on ALL the cable boxes weren't working (only in New Jersey and only with Comcast!). So you know what I said?

Thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather give the kids a bath. Wait...did I really just say that? Must be the Jersey sea air that is making me a bit crazy...and him too for that matter!

Urghh ER

We've been to the ER a fair amount of times with our boy. And let me tell you, I don't do very well when looking crisis right in the eye. I cry, I hyperventilate, then I find my husband and hope he can deal.

First, there was the time that a piggy bank mysterious feel from the sky and donked him in the head. ** He had a cut on his head, it bled...it was his head...but in hindsight I should have known that it wasn't life threatening (in fact I should have known that a good old band aid would probably have done the job). So what do I do? Yup...I called 911. And as I was talking to the nice lady on the other end of the line and getting frustrated that all she wanted to know was if I needed an ambulance while I only wanted her to tell me if the pediatrician gave stitches, I took a few breaths, stopped bawling my eyes out, and realized I was over reacting just a wee-bit.

And then there was the time that he fell at the pool and we thought he broke his leg. That was...of course...until the nurse on the phone was asking me if he could put pressure on his foot as my boy was hopping on one foot (the injured foot) around the kitchen. So, you guessed it, no broken leg either.

So this weekend, our reaction to our little girl taking a tumble should come as no surprise. Don't get me wrong, the tumble she took was no joke. Head over heals, head bumping along the way, 15 steps down, and to add insult to injury, it was on yellow shag carpeting from 1980. I can't even accurately tell you what happened from there, I just know she had a bump the size of a large egg on her head and before I could say Natasha Richardson, we were in the car to the ER. But also in typical fashion, by the time we got to the ER we recognized that we were over-reacting a bit. And as we looked a the full waiting room, we wondered just how much we were over-reacting. And by they time the got us back to a "room" to see the Doctor, I think it is safe to say we knew she wasn't really hurt. Otherwise, I can't imagine we would have been taking pictures.

Long story short, she's fine and I'm getting better.

As we were driving home, my husband applauded me for not crying. I think he just didn't see the tears streaming down my face once the whole ordeal was over.

**maybe, just maybe, the true story is that I placed the piggy bank on top of the changing table and it rolled off and smacked the poor boy right in his big fat noggin.

One more thing

I also promise to NEVER have an egg hunt for 80+ kids and not have enough eggs. And if I ever did that, I might acknowledge that something went wrong and apologize to the 40 or so parents who were trying to console their crying children because they didn't find any eggs.

What a cluster f*&^.

The first of my promises

When I have my own preschool I promise:

To NEVER make your child take home a stuffed animal, pretend he is real, brush his teeth, take him to birthday parties, and make a photo album about the experience.

Why? you ask.

Because it is a MAJOR pain in the rear-end for all involved. And embarrassing to boot.

Even the little boy was over it by the end of the first afternoon...see?

I mean seriously. My almost 5 year old carried around this mangy monkey the whole weekend and I carried around the camera in order to document everything they did together. And this weekend...lordy...what didn't we do? Birthday parties, t-ball, egg hunts, grandparents visit...and the whole time I had to pretend like it was normal for my boy to carry around a stuffed animal and for me to talk about him like he was a member of the family...it was weird. But I did it. All in the name of not being the lamest parent in preschool.

Of course, I'm probably still the lamest parent in preschool because it seems like everyone else likes to have the monkey. Me...not so much. I couldn't wait to give him back this morning. Unfortunately, I left the dirty, ant-ridden (we had a bit of an outbreak and I was once found trying to pick the ants out of his "hair"...who says I didn't care for him?) toy at home and had to make an extra trip back to school so that Max didn't miss snack.

As my son pointed out at one point this weekend (I think it was somewhere between brushing his teeth and having him rinse and spit), "it is just a stuffed animal after all."

Buh-bye Max.

It's Official

I'm going back to work. The perfect opportunity has fallen into my lap and so we have:

The Tiny Explorers

A bilingual preschool (Spanish and English) for children aged 18 months to 3 years. Learning and exploring the world through language and play.

I'm SUPER excited about all of this, so excuse the shameless self-promotion. And think of all the crazy stories I'll be able to share next year!

He wasn't the only one who learned something

This weekend we headed to the beach. A change of scenery was in order and nothing says heaven like a beach house with orange shag carpeting. It was perfect. No need to do yard work, no tball practices to go to, and no birthday parties. It was calm, it was quiet, and it was relaxing.

That is until, of course, the little boy decided NOW was the time he would learn to ride his bike without training wheels. He is four and three quarters, after all.

My husband tried for about 3.2 seconds to help the boy. A little bit of yelling, a little bit of tears, and a lot of stubborn personalities crashing in the fresh Jersey beach air, and he was out. So I stepped up to the plate.

I'm the calmer one. The more patient parent. The one who yells, "stop being such a wuss!" Uh...what...bet you didn't see that one coming, did you? It just came out of my mouth. Somewhere between "pedal faster!", "stop leaning damn it!", and "are you trying to kill me?" I swear, something jumped in my body, took over, and made me the nasty stage mom I never thought I would be. Sing louder Louise.

But a couple of deep breaths, a swig of a very strong drink, and my husband with the video camera recording every minute of the experience WITH THE VOLUME ON, I pulled myself together. And so did the little boy. And next thing I know he was off to the boardwalk to get a hoagie and a tatoo (we were in Jersey after all!)

Mission accomplished.

Obama Arms

A friend of mine from college today put on her facebook status update, "I'm working on my Obama arms."

I knew instantly what she meant. Those sculpted, toned, always in a sleeveless dress arms that make me drool and lift 10 more reps when I'm at the gym. I want those arms too.

Earlier this week I read an article by Maureen Dowd in the New York Times that brought up the idea that people thought that Michelle Obama should cover up her arms. Enough already, they said. We've seen "thunder and lightening," she should cover up already. (if you have been living under a rock for the past 3 years, her arms are quite the toned arms, the envy of many!)

Uhhh...what???? Are we not in 2009?

Michelle Obama is a mom, a Harvard graduate, a multi-tasker, the first lady, and the inspiration to millions of women around the world. Why should she cover up her arms? They are just one more reason why I love her. Many people think that her husband Barack is an inspiration to all because he allows many people believe that they too can be president one day. Well...you know what???...I'm not one of those people. I never thought or will think that I can be president.

But I look at Michelle Obama and I think...I can be that mom. A good example, a volunteer, a compassionate and supportive partner, and a hot mama...I can be her.

Michelle...you hear me...don't you dare fall prey to the critics. Don't cover up those arms. Just like the education and degrees you have worked so hard for and show with pride. Flash those puppies, wear those sleeveless dresses, and give me inspiration each time I go to the gym.

I'm off in the morning to work on my Obama arms. Are you going to join me?

Watching the World Go By

I've been doing a lot of staring out the window lately. Mostly because, until lately, it has been too damn cold to go outside and I have been dreaming about warm spring days where we all can play outside. I see visions of kids on bicycles, kites flying, scooter riding, soccer playing, dog ball throwing...and of course, me with a seasonal margarita in hand. A week ago when we had six inches of snow, an injured back, and a puking kid...the dream seemed out of reach. But you know what?? This weekend my dream came true, well at least most of it.

This weekend it was finally nice out. We opened up the doors, windows, dusted off the kids Crocs, and headed outside to get some fresh air. I got the bikes out of the garage, pumped up the soccer balls, scraped the leaves and dirt out of the swing. threw the ball to the dog, and whipped up a batch of margaritas, followed up with a martini chaser. You know what was missing? The kids.

Well...OK...the little girl was game to swing, roll in the dirt, and eat the dog's tennis ball...but we couldn't find the boy ANYWHERE. Where was he?

Then I looked out the front door again and there he was. Sitting on the steps watching the boys next door (ages 8 and 11). I asked him,

Do you want to bike? play soccer? fly a kite? walk the dog? drink my margarita?

No, no, and no thank you, was his response. (we have been reading Miss Manners around here after all)

So what do you want to do? I asked.

I just want to sit here and watch the boys next door. Maybe they'll ask me to play today.

Now, I didn't want to run the risk of watering down my drink, but I swear there were tears in my eyes. His desperation to be older, to play with the big kids, to wish time away. It made me so sad and made me swear to never wish away time again....it is already going too fast.

Need some wine to whine

I've been really struggling to blog lately. It's not that I don't have things to say...lord no...that is hardly the case. But I get in front of the computer, log in, and then I just don't really feel up to story telling. OH...I SO want to tell you about selling the damn Bronco and how my lovely husband forgot to come home from work in time to settle up with the 6'5" burly mountain man that bought the truck. How he handed my thousands of dollars in cash and then couldn't get the car to start. My husband's other car was blocking the Bronco in, and when I went to move it, its battery was dead. So I had to put it in neutral and let it coast down the driveway. Did I mention the 6'5" mountain man, beard down to his chest, gentleman in my kitchen with my two young kids? Eventually the Bronco started, the very sweet and gentle mountain man (he played star wars with the boy as I hunted for the title of the car) drove away and I threw the kids into the car and sped my way to happy hour.

On my way home from happy hour, after telling the Bronco story to all my friends...including how he arrived in a Toyota Matrix Zip car...I formed the perfect blog. Short, sweet, humorous, and memorable. But when I actually go to write it...it doesn't come out that way. I've lost my blog mojo.

My only logical conclusion is that I need wine to blog. And see...I've given it up during the week. In an attempt to lose weight, I'm trying to cut out the alcohol from Sunday-Thursday. Sure, I might be losing weight, but I'm also losing any readers out there because I have been SO BORING. So have faith people, like all great writers before me, I'm going back to the juice. It is a new beginning, a rebirth, and the day after a snow day...I'm off to Costco in the morning for a case of wine and I should be back on track by the time the kids are in bed.

One of these is not like the other

I try really hard to cook and eat well. Don't get me wrong...I have my vices, weaknesses, and secret stashes...but for the most part, we eat healthy and try to keep the junk out of the pantry. So imagine my surprise when I was in the pantry this afternoon and tucked in, all flirty and cozy with the old-fashioned oats, was a can of Spam.

I don't care that Anthony Bourdain AND Barack Obama have both been popularizing spam sushi, this item has no place in MY pantry. The nerve of it to put its moves on my whole grain and organic food, and end up spooning with the oats.

So when I confronted the Spam pimp, aka my husband, and informed him that I found his nasty Spam, his response was, "you only found one?"

Uh, what? You brought a posse?

I don't care if you are "Crazy Zesty", let me assure you, this will be a one night stand only.