A Very Happy Little Meal

Alright, I admit it. I take my kids go to McDonald's. They worship at the gates of the Golden Arches, imbibe in a Happy Meal or two and play with the insanely cheap, plastic, light up toys. The nuggets that claim to be chicken and the fries that soak in grease do, in fact, enter the small and sacred temples of my offsprings' bodies. A trip to Mickey Dees is an event they look forward to and I dare confess to you here that I indulge them in the pleasure roughly once a week. Usually after swim classes at the Y on Fridays.

But, last week, I called an audible on the whole swim class idea for the foreseeable future and we became "Y-Pool Drop-Outs" (a story for another day). And while they didn't much miss the swim classes, they were pretty bummed that there would be no processed lunch served on plastic trays.

So, on Saturday, as lunchtime rolled around, Will decided we owed him one. And, before we could really think about it, Ross said ok.

Woooooohoooooooo! Lunch out! With Dad! McDonald's!

Clearly delighted, Will bolted for his coat. Then, our reality set in. We'd just had a half cord of wood delivered and dropped in our driveway leaving just one car accessible until we stacked it all behind the house. And, Bernie had a vet appointment at noon. And the vet is no where near a McDonald's. And, it just wasn't going to work.

"Sorry, bud. Lunch at home, I guess."

So, as I clipped the leash on Bernie and said I'd be back soon, I could see the disappointment in Will's eyes. Poor kid. It may be mystery meat and HandiWipes to us but to him it was a special opportunity to feel like a big kid with his own special meal, a new toy for dessert and (even better) a seat next to Dad.

I thought about Willie when I was at the vet and knew, of course, that he'd be fine. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, maybe an episode of the Berenstain Bears on Dad's lap. I knew Ross would turn it around with his usual grace and the special attention that only Dad can give. I knew Ross was good.

But, when I came home and saw the remnants of Will's lunch, I realized that Ross is more than good. Sometimes, in fact, he's great.

Ho, Ho, Who?

I suppose it was bound to happen someday.

Our Christmas card list continues to grow year over year, in part because we've moved so much but also because now we have kids and I feel the need to show the little cuckoos off. Either way, we are grateful to also receive a number of cards in return. From old friends, new friends, home friends, college friends, kids' school friends, work friends, old bosses, current bosses, etc.

But today, for the first time, it happened. We received a lovely card in the mail. Glossy photos, smiling faces, adorable little boy in front of his Christmas tree. And, I have absolutely no idea who these people are. No clue whatsoever.

And, maybe the the worst part of it all is that I feel terribly because I will not be able to send them a card in return. Whoever they are cared enough to write all of our names on the front, track down our brand new address and buy a stamp.

Who are you, sweet Warner family? Accept my apologies.

Wish I'd Thought Of That...

Miss Otis Regrets...

'Twas Christmas Walk weekend and in old Marblehead

There was Santa by boat, there was Gingerbread

The town was a twinkle with white lights galore

Trees on the roof racks and wreaths on each door

But that Saturday night there was more don't you know

We looked forward to a party Chez Matt and Chez Mo

7:30 the start time but we called the sitter that night

"Can you come a little early, so we can grab a bite?"

At just about 7 we sat down at the bar

The Barnacle, our choice -- from the party, not far.

He ordered a vodka with olives, you see

So I stepped up to the plate with an appletini

Then a second, which was clearly my downfall, I fear

I should have known better. Ross ordered a beer.

An old sot named Victor had us chatting, its true

But I wish Vic had told me "Dear, the drunk here is you."

So then off we went, down the street just a spill

Where I presented my cheese platter, then it all went downhill

"Chardonnay? Oh, yes, please. Oh yes, sure, another?

I know you from t-ball? Isn't that guy your brother?"

"Have you met my husband? He's a big Yankees fan.

Do you think that Tiger is a really good man?

What's your opinion on health care? Oh, what did you say?

I'll just stir up the pot and then saunter away."

"Have you seen my husband? He was just here, I think.

Oh well, I can't find him, wanna go get a drink?"

Well, he found me, thank goodness, not a moment too soon

And brought me directly to the food table room

Where I made an attempt at some crudite

Or some crackers, whatever, I just couldn't say

But then talking and walking it seemed was a struggle

So I leaned in and listened when Ross said with a snuggle.

"Party's over, I think. Cindy, don't you agree?

It's time to head home to two seventy-three."

I briefly protested but then acquiesced.

"Let's go," he said firmly, "You're a bit of a mess."

So, please let me say sorry to my host and hostess

For ducking out quickly, no doubt for the best

The party was fabulous, from what I recall

Good food and good friends, the event had it all.

And I am so sorry that I couldn't attend.

And hope you'll invite me, when you do it again.

True Dat

1. There is great need for Sarcasm font.

2. I can't remember the last time that I wasn't at least kind of tired.

3. Bad decisions often make really good stories.

4. Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

5. I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than have to take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

6. Was learning cursive really necessary?

7. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

8. Whenever someone says "I'm not book smart, but I'm street smart", all I hear is "I'm not real smart, but I'm imaginary smart".

9. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent some jerk from cutting in up at the front. Stay strong, my friends!

10. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you've made up your mind that you just aren't doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

11. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever technology comes after DVDs? I don't want to have to restart my collection.

12. There's no worse feeling than that millisecond when you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my document that I swear I did not make any changes to.

14. "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this ever.

15. As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers. But, no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.

16. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

17. I think it should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.

18. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

Disclosure: this list was actually not compiled by me. It was sent to me by someone who received it directly from another someone. I think the writer must be my long lost twin so I feel entitled to share it and (sort of) pass it off as my own to those of you who don't read long or carefully enough to see the end of this message. And, if she decides to come sue me for using her 18 points in my blog then so be it. I think we'll enjoy each other in the long run.

My, What Big Bulbs You Have

There are a few things I believe one should discuss with their betrothed before walking down the aisle. These include the more obvious concepts such as:

1) Do you want children?

2) Where do you prefer to live?

3) How is your relationship with your parents?

4) What's your sexual history?

I'd like to add one to the list.

5) What color are your Christmas lights?

You see, I grew up in a beautiful little town in Norman Rockwell-ian Vermont. If colored lights existed at all they hung in unseen locations but not, under any circumstances, on the fronts of the white clapboard houses with black shutters that circled the charming town green. The "local grocer" (his family will laugh that I called him that) took photos of the townspeople and hung our pictures on the trees he lovingly placed on the porch of his store. Tress that twinkled with...of course...little, white lights.

When Ross and I first moved to Marblehead together in 2001, into a very small apartment in Old Town, we had no kids and no plans to spend Christmas in our tiny new home. But, I wanted a tree and, cute boyfriend that he was, Ross went out to the local Boy Scouts stand while I was at a work event and he picked out an adorable little Charlie Brown tree, bought some lights and ornaments and decorated it on his own. It was a wonderful gesture and I will never forget how loved and happy it made me feel to walk in and see what he had done for me. I loved it. And, I may have cried. I may have even known then and there, for the first time, that he was my future husband.

But, the lights weren't white. They were colored. And (*gasp*) BIG.

Of course, I'd seen his family's trees before and he mine. But, in the light of your own living room, it's just...different. I wanted my little white lights. He wanted his big colored bulbs.

So, in the interest of marital accord, we compromised the next and all Christmas seasons since. Our tree is annually decorated with small colored lights. And, it's lovely.

As far as outdoor decoration, I insist on white lights out front, showing my deep-seeded snobbery. (What would the neighbors think?) And in the back, Ross strings giant colored bulbs along the back deck, which the kids love.

And you know what makes me laugh about it all? It came to me the other night. Our house, in the magical Christmas time of year, transforms into the home decor equivalent of a mullet.

Nice.

Will Tackles "The Birds & The Bees"

A couple days ago, Will and I are in the car on a special "Mom & me" outing. I love these time and so does Will. Just time spent away from the rugrat brother, with my undivided attention.

From the backseat of the car, he surprised me with this one:

"Hey, Mom?" As I've said before, he always waits for me to reply no matter what our proximity to each other.

"Yes, Will?"

"How come you don't love Daddy as much as you used to?"

What? Did he really just say that? I must have it wrong.

"What was that you just asked, sweetie?"

"You and Daddy? Why don't you love each other like you did when you had me and John?"

What in the world?

"But, we do, Will. We love each other as much as we always have. Why would you think that?"

"Well, you told me that babies come from when two people love each other very much..."

"Yes."

"And, then, you also told me that you and Daddy are done having babies."

"Uh...huh."

"So, you must not love each other very much anymore. Right?"

Logical little sucker, isn't he?

Superman's in Pajamas on the Couch

I know there are a lot of opinions on the Dixie Chicks and their personal, political views. Regardless, this song just floors me. And, it makes me cry and smile and it's all I can do not to wrap my little guys up in my arms and just hang on forever.

"Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)"

Dragon tales and the "water is wide"
Pirate's sail and lost boys fly
Fish bite moonbeams every night
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

The rocket racer's all tuckered out
Superman's in pajamas on the couch
Goodnight moon, will find the mouse
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

God bless mommy and match box cars
God bless dad and thanks for the stars
God hears "Amen," wherever we are
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Godspeed
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

Why I Love Snow

And, not the fluffy, cold, wet stuff. In fact, I more or less hate that kind of snow, despite being raised a Vermonter. Or maybe, I guess, because I was raised a Vermonter. But, I digress.

"Snow" in our household is an 8-inch tall, red elf with bendable legs and hat (he was named by Will last year). He arrives the morning after Thanksgiving and he sticks around until Christmas Eve. His sole job, as Santa's helper, is to WATCH each day and make sure the Schieffer boys are behaving themselves. Each night, after they go to bed, he flies to the North Pole and gives Santa his report of the day. And, each morning, they wake to find that he has relocated himself to a new perch in our house to commence the watch again.

Orwellian? Perhaps.

Ominous? Perhaps.

Threatening scare tactics? Perhaps.

Does it work? Damn straight.

My boys are perfect angels, most of the time, in Snow's company. And, if they forget he's there for a moment and lapse into pushing, shoving, shouting, whining, shrieking, complaining, pouting and other such regular behaviors, its pretty nice to simply get their attention, put a finger to my lips and say "Shhhhh...." and point to the little Man on the mantle.

This morning (a morning after what is becoming a nightly "eat your dinner" stand-off with Will) I came into the kitchen to discover him having a little conversation mano-a-mano with the elf.

"What are you doing, Will?"

"Just talking to Snow."

"What about?"

"Well....ravioli."

Ahhhh. Let it Snow, let it Snow, let it Snow.

Domestic Goddess = Me

Will's recent class assignment: bring in a copy of a favorite recipe from home. Will reported to me today that he told them he planned to bring in "my Mom's delicious cookie recipe."

Hmmm...

My cookie recipe? K.

Open package

Break apart

Throw onto cookie sheet

Bake

PTA, here I come.

It Can Help You Look Younger, Too...

Got my hair cut and colored the other day. As usual. Cut about an inch off. As usual. Left feeling rather glamorous. As usual. Then, on the very next day, looked almost like I never went. As usual.

But, this time I did think to ask for some advice on how to make my hair look less dry and my hairdresser (who never pushes anything on me) asked what shampoo I use.

Me: Ummm. Well, not really anything in particular.

C: No?

Me: No, I actually just buy whatever smells the best to me at the time.

C: At the grocery store?

Me: Yup.

C: Conditioner?

Me: Sometimes. When I'm at my mother-in-laws because there's some in the shower. Or sometimes I'll use Ross' 2-in-1 Head & Shoulders. I think that has conditioner in it.

I'm such a lost cause.

Anyway, I came home with a new bottle of shampoo and a new bottle of conditioner. Bought directly from my hair salon. $15 a pop. (Gasp!)

Ross came home that night and gave me the usual thumbs-up on the day-of hair do. I shared with him that I got some advice on my hair and was optimistic about what was sure to be my new shiny, healthy hair due to the amazing shampoo and conditioner I had just purchased. Yay, me!

Ross: Just what you need, huh? More products.

I laughed. Because, there could be absolutely no possibly way that he was serious. And maybe he was.

I'll let you be the judge.

Here below you can see my extensive collection of shower products.

Note my exciting new shampoo and conditioner. Body Wash is made by Dove, probably cost $2 and has probably been sitting in the same spot in the shower for a month because I lost the loofah. Aforementioned H&S shampoo is not mine.

And here, on the left side of the middle shelf of our medicine cabinet is my complete make-up collection. Really.

Again, note the staggering array of high-cost brands including such notables as Bonnie Bell lip gloss and Maybelline mascara. Rodeo Drive, here I come.

And finally, my additional "vanity items" - Oil of Olay, Ralph Lauren Romance perfume and Dove deodorant. Right Guard, of course, is his. Anything left of the Oil of Olay is "ours".

So, there you have it. I certainly may be high-maintenance in other ways but products?! Ha. I will not be branded with the Scarlet P. Nope. Not me.

Bring on the $15 shampoo. I think I deserve it.

I Scream. You Scream?

So, it's become clear to me that yes, I am, in fact, a screamer. I've become one of those Moms that I never really thought I'd be or at least I hoped I wouldn't be. But, nonetheless, the fact is that, when push comes to shove and the rubber hits the road and all hell is breaking loose (look at that, three coloquialisms in a row) I am...in fact...a screamer.

And, apparently you know you have entered the inner sanctum of my life when I allow you to witness the full mental breakdown that leads to the event of my banshee-esque screaming. Today, for example...

My beloved almost-five-year old (he long ago stopped calling himself four) had been out of the house almost literally all day long. School, extended for lunch and play with a new "girlfriend" (she's from Norway and Will apparently takes after his father), no afternoon nap, home for about 20 minutes then off to a swimming playdate at the Y and dinner with his best friend, CJ. And CJ's nanny who is a-w-e-s-o-m-e. I adore her. And I have total envy of my new and wonderful friend Mo, who employs Sarah's services and, therefore, exposes her children to DELIGHTFUL play on a regular basis. (As an example, Will made a pickle pizza last time he was at CJ's house. How cool is that?)

Anyway, Sarah is kind enough to allow the Schieffers to be family #2 and she helps us out as much as she can. We do regular play-dates at the park. My boys love her and can't wait for the next time we go out but they hope we DONT go out with CJ's Mommy and Daddy because that means they can't have Sarah all to themselves.

Now, fast forward to 6:45 this evening when Will arrives home. I haven't seen the kid in what seems like weeks and, as I rush to the door to greet him with visions of hugs and kisses, I realize quickly that he could, clearly, care less. Instead, he saunters past me on his way to, no doubt, ensure that his pesky little brother hasn't had any fun while he was gone and to make DAMN sure that said fun stops...now. Up the stairs goes Will. I greet Sarah who wants to discuss (god bless her) when she can take him off my hands YET AGAIN for a sleepover with CJ.

30 seconds go by. Max. John wails loudly from upstairs.

Me (medium voice): Hey guys? Play nice, ok?

Conversation continues with Sarah.

10 seconds later.

Will: NO, John, that's my Bakugan!

John wails yet again. I picture the hands on the shoulders shake Will is undoubtedly giving John.

F-ing Bakugans.

Me: Will! Stop!

Smile at Sarah. "Sorry." She understands, of course.

12 seconds? Maybe?

More cries. Louder now. Conversation with Sarah is drawing to a close. But not before she hears the quiet fraying sound of...what was that? Oh yes, my last nerve.

Me: Will Schieffer, I swear if you don't keep your hands to yourself this second I'm going to come up there and you. will. be. SORRY!

Sarah: Ok, well let's chat tomorrow.

Sometimes I wonder what differentiates the good Moms from the bad. I sure as hell hope it isn't volume.

Why I Might Go Eat a Pizza...

You know when you lose so much weight that suddenly you look in the mirror and you notice that your body has shrunk so much that your head looks HUGE?

Yeah?

Well, that's not happening to me.

Weight Watchers tells me that over the last four weeks I have lost 3 lbs and 8 oz. Or, roughly 3/4 of a pound per week. For all the g-damn cottage cheese, steamed veggies and fiber crackers? 3/4 of a pound a week?!

Annoyed.

Devil Just Come On Back, If You Ever Want to Try Again..

About nine years ago, I was a little nervous to meet an old friend of my then-boyfriend (now-husband) who I had heard a lot about. Fun stories mostly, nothing really intimidating, but he was really the last of Ross' close friends that I hadn't met and I wanted to make a good impression. We were meeting up (with others) at a bar in Fanueil Hall and while I could get myself there today, I have no clue what its name might be.

Anyway, long story short, he gave me the thumbs up. But not because I was good to Ross or because I came from a good family. He approved of me because I could sing (and did sing) every word to "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" by the Charlie Daniels Band. With that on my resume, he figured I was cool enough to hang with his buddy.

I love that song. Love it. L-o-v-e it. Preferably played very loudly.

And there have been many and various knock-offs of this classic that have all, in my opinion, fallen flat. Nothing even entered the CDB stratosphere.

Last night I watched the CMA Awards for about 15 minutes. And, to be honest, I watched them because I was bossily not going to let Ross watch another minute of Fox News in my presence. So, I pretended that I really wanted to watch the Country Music Awards when, frankly, I could care less about them.

But during those 15 minutes we were introduced to the Zac Brown Band. And we witnessed this. Then we rewound and rewatched. Again. And then again. Three times. And, now twice this morning. Just makes me smile. Awesome.

So Sue Me...

So, I've recently learned that some nincompoop parents decided to sue the Baby Einstein company because they were angry that the videos did not, in fact, make their children smarter. And these idiots won. And now we lucky parents can walk right back into our local Walmart and return these "worthless" videos for a full refund. Are you kidding me?!

I get it that, yes, the company certainly should not make such claims if they are not going to be true in all cases. The parents who decide to drop their child down in front of Baby Einstein so that they can sneak a cigarette on the back porch, share a few extra vodkas with their spouse or catch the tail end of Judge Judy will be sadly disappointed when little Charlie doesn't finish up his forty-two minutes with Baby Monet and head out to paint the next "Water Lillies." So, I'll give you that the company's claims were baseless and that perhaps there are, sadly, thousands of parents out there foolish enough to really believe that they could cross "educate" off their childcare to-do list for the day with a video. The company should never have said such things as the videos alone clearly can not teach. And, I suppose, that makes it worthy of a lawsuit.

Sigh.

But those parents who actually remain in the same room with their child while they watch and actually talk about it now and then? I believe that those parents, more likely than not, do see that these videos can expand little minds even if just a bit. I absolutely love it that when my 2-year old hears classical music he smiles and says "Einstein!" So, he doesn't recognize that it's Bach versus Beethoven, he loves it. It makes him smile.

Will picked up some sign language from Marlee Matalin on Baby Wordsworth. He gave me some giant belly laughs when we'd do "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" to Baby Da Vinci. I also got some of my best educational (yes, educational) toy ideas from these videos. Toys that were Will's that have become John's that they regularly play and enjoy together.

So, I'm pissed me off. It makes me crazy that Julie Clark now has to give back any portion of her multi-millions to these lazy-ass, lawsuit-toting morons who go after a company like Baby Einstein and call themselves good parents for doing so.

And, frankly, I hope Julie is sitting back in the palatial mansion she likely bought a few years ago (when a little, know-nothing company named Disney bought the majority stake in Baby Einstein) and laughing it all off.

Have a drink on me, Julie. I'm keeping my videos.

Mirror, Mirror on the....hmmm. Where IS that thing?

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I'm solo. Both boys are at pre-school and it's truly a great time to schedule all the stuff that's just easier to do without kids. You know...grocery shopping, maybe a pedicure, my own doctor appointments, cleaning the house, folding laundry. So, today I went to Target after drop-off. Wandered around, found what I needed (and, as usual, also found more than I needed), then stopped at Dunkin Donuts for a coffee on my way home. Came home, unloaded the car, called my friend Sara, answered email, looked at Facebook, installed a couple booster seats at the kitchen table and then, while replacing washcloths in the boys' bathroom, it happened.

I looked in the mirror.

And, I had a raisin in my hair. Right over my right ear. And it had undoubtedly been with me since I carried John into school.

WTF? I actually carried this freakin' raisin around in my hair for the last two and a half hours?! In public?

Which made me contemplate the fact that, at some point in my married / Mommy life, I pretty much stopped looking in the mirror. I mean, of course, I look in the mirror when I need to. Brushing my teeth, drying my hair, etc. But, other than that? Nah. Not so much.

We were given a beautiful tiled mirror as a wedding gift that was generously purchased by my boss from a store in Marblehead that I covet called Comina. I can't even let myself go in for fear I'll spend $100 on a napkin ring. And when we received it, it seriously may have been my very favorite wedding gift. Finally unpacking all our pictures the other night (we moved in July but whatever), Ross noticed the mirror was missing.

Me: Oh, yeah, we have that. I unpacked it a few weeks ago.

Ross: So, where is it?

Me: It's on the floor of my closet.

And, I think I probably stopped looking in mirrors somewhere around the time that I decided my go-to sleepwear was the set of polka dot pajamas I bought at the local Big Y Supermarket.

Poor Ross.

Oink

Mass hysteria or desperate times, too much mercury or no mercury, nasal spray or arm injection, presidential emergency of epidemic proportion?......

Whatev.

My little men have now officially been vaccinated for the press event known as "Swine Flu" and I, for one, am immensely relieved about it. Let all those other snot-nosed kids at their school cough and sneeze and wipe their germ-ridden (albeit adorable) little hands right on my two little sweetie pies.

We, for two, will not be getting that disease this year.

But Weight Just a Minute

I went to a beautiful wedding the last weekend in May. One of my own bridesmaids (who I'm pretty bummed to have nearly lost touch with) was getting married and I was really looking forward to her wedding. I would have liked to have lost weight for it (she went to Elon and I swear I have never met a woman who went to Elon who wasn't beautiful and/or so thin that I would likely be able to eat her for lunch...in a small bite) but I didn't. So, since I hadn't been to a wedding since last fall (you know you're getting old when...) I just decided to choose from one of last year's "fat dresses".

Tried them on for the first time two days before the big event. And they were too small. Sh*t.

Bought a tent (oops, I mean, a dress) the next day, wore it to the wedding and sadly realized as I looked around that I might just be the heaviest woman in the place. Or, at least close to it. More Chardonnay, please.

Enough. On June 1, I joined Weight Watchers, which was a successful program for me before my own wedding and I knew I was finally in the right mind set (shame is a powerful motivator) to start it up again.

And, now, a little more than four months later, I'm well on my way to becoming the next Valerie Bertinelli (without the hankering for tattooed rock stars). I've lost 23 pounds and I'm in the groove. But, the annoying thing is that I can still wear my clothes from 23 pounds ago. I mean, they certainly look a little better on me but you'd think I'd have dropped a few sizes wouldn't you? So, I'm trying to look at 23 pounds in terms of other things. Things that actually mean something to me in my stay-at-home Mom-ness.

For example, I lost the equivalent of:

roughly 23 bags of coffee beans

my Keurig one-cup coffee machine when half filled with water

4 Directv DVR/HD cable boxes

2 XL HE Gain Laundry Detergent bottles

47 Thomas The Tank Engine DVDs

9 bottles of Chardonnay

my 2 year old son's entire body weight

And, that all makes me feel a little better about the fact that I'm not entitled to a new wardrobe...well, at least not yet.

A Little "Peabody Ink"

Let me begin with the fact that I've always wanted a tattoo. But, I didn't want to be foolish about it and go get something like a butterfly or a ladybug or a Patriots logo or something that I'd be bound to not care at all about twenty years down the road. And then I'd be stuck with it.

So, now that I'm a proud Mommy of two (and there will never be three) beautiful children, I know that there is something in my life I'll love forever and ever. Unequivocally. No matter what.

I've been mulling the idea of two small blue hearts, one with a W and one with a J (my boys first initials), for a while now. On my hip / bikini line so that no one I don't care to show it to would ever know it was there. I've mentioned it to my husband and to friends but I'm pretty sure no one actually really thought I'd do it.

Well...I did it.

Made an appointment yesterday at a place called (gulp) Drastic Tattoo out near the Northshore Mall (on a friends recommendation).

Ring. Ring.

"Drastic Tattoo, this is Diamond."

Diamond? (Deep breath)

Me: Ummm, hi. I think I want a tattoo tomorrow morning, do I need an appt?

Diamond: Sure, we open at 11 am.

Me: Oh. Hmm. Well, how long will it take?

Diamond: Tell me about the kind of tattoo you want.

So I explain it. Verbose-ly.

"Well, I've always thought I wanted a tattoo and never knew what to get and now I have two boys and I think I just want two little hearts colored in and each with the letter of their first name. I'm really nervous about it. I haven't even told my husband I'm doing it. Anyway, I have to pick them up at school at 12:30 so if it's going to take a long time, maybe I'll just try to do it another day and..."

Diamond: I can open at 10 for you if that helps.

Me: Oh. You can? Well, that's so nice of you.

I shouldn't have been surprised that they open at 11, anyway. I mean tattoo places probably aren't big stops for women coming in right after pre-school drop-off. And, hell, they're probably staying open until, like 4 am or some hour I haven't seen in...well, maybe forever.

Diamond: I'll draw something up for you. See you at 10.

Me: ok

So, last night my dear husband asks me what I've got going on today and why I didn't call my cousin back who I adore and who is in the area for the week and I was probably going to see on Thursday (today). I said I didn't have anything going on and was actually probably not going to see her after all. Not sure why I didn't come out and tell him about the appointment then. I guess I didn't want to be talked out of it or offered opinions or whatever. Not to discredit his input which I value. This just sort of had to be something I was doing because I wanted to do it. For me.

Got up this morning and dropped the guys at school. Walked into their wonderful little school un-showered, in jeans and a fleece pullover. Ran into plenty of parents I should probably care about making a good impression on. But, nope. Went dirty. Came home after drop off, before my 10 am tattoo appointment and for some absurd reason I showered, put on nice black pants, a nice sweater, heeled black boots and...no joke....mascara. What in the world??? What message was I trying to send to the tattoo place? "Oh, in case you didn't know already by my psycho-babble on the phone, or my black Jeep Grand Cherokee with car seats in the back or the fact that I'm walking in with my Starbucks pumpkin spice latte in hand....just to make it extra clear to you...I'm gonna dress up for my tattoo appointment. Just so you know for sure that I'm not the kind of person who usually gets tattoos. " I swear, I'm half insane most of the time. They probably opened early for me so I wouldn't scare off the rest of their clientele.

Anyway, Diamond is there when I arrive at 9:47. The place smells so badly of patchouli I can hardly breathe. But, it's clean and bright and I think it'll all be ok. Diamond's done a sketch for me and sure enough it's two hearts with a W and a J. But they're all swirley fancy cursive Miami-Ink letters with curly-q tails and my two hearts have little twinkly star-burst things coming off them and they're all askew and really BIG. And, I'm such a goddamn mouse who is afraid to hurt people's feelings that it took all I had in me not to say "looks GREAT" and just go ahead and let the man put his insane artwork right on my body. Forever.

But, I muster up the courage and I edit. And he fixes. And it all looks good to go.

And now I'm on the table and definitely freaking out but determined. All set. I can do it.

Then right before the first outline begins, his freakin' boss arrives and strolls right into the room, takes one look at me and says with a grin "This your first tattoo?" Genius. Oh, and he has tattoos ev-er-y-where. Even on his entire bald head. And the top of his hands. And he's completely making me panic.

"Yes, my first tattoo."

"Ah. Don't be nervous. Just think about how this felt!" (pointing at his head)

I think I might throw up.

He continues. Pulls up a chair nearby. "Here, I'll just tell you about my crazy teenage daughter this morning. Sh*t man, it was f*ckin' ridiculous. Just listen to this and it'll take your mind off the needles."

Oh, please go away. Please.

But, I hear all about it and I am such an insane pollyanna, niceness nerd that I even manage to contribute a "no way" and a "oh no" and a "really?" now and then. The story takes roughly 15 minutes. The tattoo takes 19 minutes 37 seconds. Roughly.

And it's over.

I tried calling my husband on the way home and I'm pretty sure he was busy and sent my call to voicemail so I haven't even told him yet (although he'll know before I post this of course.)

So, what do you think?

Me, 9 Men & Fantasy

Get your minds out of the gutters, people. My mother reads this blog. The title is actually not referring to some seedy desire to please numerous men. In fact, it relates to my seedy desire to trounce numerous men...repeatedly, if possible. In Fantasy Football.

You see, I'm commissioner of a Fantasy Football league called First n Ten XI. "XI" as in 11 years of the league. And, I'll bet, based on that fact, most of you reading this now probably think you can presume a few things about me. And eleven years ago, I'll bet a few of your presumptions may even have been true. But three jobs, two children, four out-of-state moves later and it's sort of laughable.

As example, you probably thought "I'll bet she's a real sports fan or at least really knows her stuff when it comes to football."

1998 -- Living by myself in a Back Bay studio apartment. Knew the Pats by name, number and position. Somewhat knew football overall.

2009 -- Living in suburbia with my husband, dog and two spawn. Know the lead content of various jungle gym equipment and every word to the theme song to "Backyardigans". Somewhat know my beloved Pats (the starters, at least). Can maybe confidently place five QBs with their appropriate team but certainly no more than eight. Puh-thetic.

But, on we play.

We tried a couple times to involve other women. They were terrible. All of them. They were generally annoying chatty "post"-ers who didn't change out players during "bye" weeks. My feeling was that they sort of gave female sports fans a bad name trying to participate and being so lame. They probably wore pink Red Sox hats, too. So, they were out. Which makes me sound like a really hard core commissioner which is freakin' ridiculous because I am such a girl as commissioner I don't know how these guys put up with me sometimes.

While I insist that players pay attention to their teams (I mean, come on), I'm also all about league harmony. No joke. A harmonious fantasy football league? Please, woman. But, it's true. One of my husband's friends who played in the league a few years was unceremoniously tossed last year basically for talking back too much. Being too argumentative and mean. Creating discord. Complaining about my oh-so-diplomatic (I ask for votes...really, I do) league settings. If I could have given him a time-out and sent him to his room, I would have done it, I swear. Hell hath no fury like a female commissioner scorned.

The thing about fantasy football though is that there's really not a whole lot one has to know to be a good team manager and win the whole damn thing. This really annoys my husband who actually does know more than a little about these players so it makes him crazy that someone like me can just get lucky and win a game because I accidentally drafted Steve Smith instead of Stephen Smith (or was it the other way around?). Anyway, things like that.

My team name is the Fat Cats because when I started the league I had a big fat rescue-league cat named Ned. And that's been my name for 11 years. I highly doubt there are a lot of other commissioners out there naming their team after a tubby kitty.

So, anyway, go Fat Cats.

Go Pats.

Gotta love a little harmless fantasy.

And, No, I Still Haven't Gotten Over It

Family is a funny thing. Particularly the in-law side of the family. It's so odd to think that you can fall in love with someone and that, usually, there's a whole slew of other people that just come along with the package. And then you're expected to love (or at least act like you love), feed, house, welcome, call, write and invite them to participate in every meaningful event that takes place in your life until the day that you, or they, no longer walk the earth. Or, until you get divorced but that's another story.

I got lucky, though, and I truly married into a great family. The immediate family of my husband (his father, mother and younger brother) are really good people. I truly love them like my own family. When my father in law died unexpectedly three years ago it was, of course, horrible for my husband. But, I felt as though I lost a father, as well. He was kind, smart and funny and I miss him every day. It breaks my heart that my children won't remember "Grampy."

My mother in law is also a gift. She is generous of her time, her love and her extremely good nature (she is also quite generous with her Cabernet). She's an incredible grandmother to my boys and she would be at my door at the drop of a hat if I needed her to help in any way at all. And she would also graciously step away if I ever asked her to let me be on my own. She is, like me, an only child and she understand the need I feel on occasion to just be. left. alone. She really "gets" me and I think we're similar beings in many ways and I think much of that stems from both being only children. And, we both loved being only children. Which brings me to my acquired-by-marriage sibling -- the brother in law. If my mother in law is my yin, he is my yang.

Holy cow. Get a few glasses of wine in the two of us and you never know what might happen next. We are both highly competitive, we both pretty much always think we're right, and we differ on political views, sports fanaticism and sometimes even...gulp....child-rearing. If there's a highly-charged topic we'll tackle it after a few and it rarely ends well. But the thing is, he's smart. And he's pig-headed. And he loves my boys. And he really can make me laugh. And we have these ugly discussions that can contain a bad word or two (or twenty) and then the best part is...it's over. I love that. As an only child I really never had anyone who went toe to toe with me like he does. He goes right ahead and tells me I'm full of crap and, sometimes, he's right. (Often, he's not -- haha -- and he'll hate that I said that.)

He's a marathon runner, a bachelor and a lawyer (not necessarily in that order). Someday, he'll be a fabulous father. Oh, and for a while last year he was somewhat seriously dating a gorgeous young (and I do mean young) creature who worked as a manager for...wait for it....Victoria's Secret. Good god. Seriously??

Which leads me to my all time favorite brother-in-law conversation.

Me to B-i-L: I can't believe she works at Victoria's Secret.

My husband, unable to resist: So, does she actually wear the stuff?

B-i-L (maybe a little smug): Yup

Me: Oh, gag. And, she's how old?

B-i-L: 23

Me (smart ass): I mean, wow. Cool. Can't wait to meet her. I'll have so much in common with a woman who's the "23 year old Victoria's Secret type".

Pause.

B-i-L: Yeah, you're more like the 40 year old LL Bean type.

And it was just so quick and mean and funny. God love him. And, most of the time, I love him too. Except, maybe, when we're playing cards and then I hate him again. But only until I win.

Everything's A-O-K, Mr. President.

My own political views aside (and my husband describes me as annoyingly "apolitical"), I wonder why I was so shocked last night to actually see a main stream comedian making fun of the Obamas. What makes this president somehow immune to the late-night fodder subjected to all his predecessors? And, I'm not saying Obama deserves or doesn't deserve some ribbing but isn't it amazing that we've gone this long into his presidency without seeing this sort of stuff anywhere off FOX News ??

Michelle vs. Big Bird --- Click for Video Clip

Stop This Ride, I'm Ready to Get Off...

This is not going to be my usual chirpy, happy post. Those of you looking for a little levity should move onto your next distraction because I'm, at the moment, facing up to a little brevity. Here it is.

You remember how in some old Greek mythology there were some spiteful Gods up on Mt. Olympus who would decide to rain down a curse or two down on some poor unlucky human sucker here on Earth? They did it, sometimes, just for kicks but more often it was as punishment for something the dim-witted human had done. Something along the lines of sleeping with a swan or falling in love with their own reflection. That sort of thing. But, the curses I always hated in mythology were the ones that did something, instead, to the people the naughty human loved. Because, let's all agree that having something happen to someone you love is generally harder to handle than our own misfortunes. And, here's where I wonder where I messed up and ticked off a God or two.

Here comes the serious part.

The people that I love the deepest...as in my very close high school friend, my best work friend, best growing up friend (x2), my first serious boyfriend and even my husband....their fathers die. Unexpectedly. No pre-existing conditions. All under the age of 65.

Let that sink in because it's true. And horrible. And they don't happen a million years after I'm close to them like "Oh, she USED to be my close work friend but we moved on to other jobs and THEN her beloved father died." No, we became close friends and then it happened. My old boyfriends father died about three years into our four years relationship. My husbands father shortly after our first son was born.

It's cruel and awful and I hate it. I'm so tired of standing aside someone I love so much and aching for them as they say goodbye to their hero, their confident, their beloved Dad. And now I think my friendship should come with a warning label so there it is.

(sigh)

The 2nd part of this post comes as I think about my friend MM and her wonderful family who treated me as one of their own for 38 years. And of her beautiful Mom whose birthday was yesterday and that she spent it probably feeling little more than the terrible grief of the recent loss her husband. My own Mom sent me the new Pat Conroy book yesterday and I came across this paragraph. I both love it and abhor it but, either way, I think it's beautifully written and worth sharing.

"But fate comes at you cat-footed, unavoidable, and bloodthirsty. The moment you are born your death is foretold by your newly minted cells as your mother holds you up, then hands you to your father, who gently tickles the stomach where the cancer will one day form, studies the eyes where melanoma's dark signature is already written along the optic nerve, touches the back where the liver will one day house the cirrhosis, feels the bloodstream that will sweeten itself into diabetes, admires the shape of the head where the brain will fall to the ax-handle of a stroke, or listens to your heart, which, exhausted, will explode in your chest like a light going out in the world. Death lives in each one of us and begins its countdown on our birthdays and makes its rough entrance at the last hour and the perfect time."

Fate. God-damn.

I'm going to go hug my little men now. One is watching Wubbzy with a juicebox and the other is calling from his crib, anxious to get out of his feety pajamas and start the day. That, right now, is my fate. I'll be sure to enjoy every minute of it.

Our Dog, Bernie: a Classic Under-Retriever

AKC (American Kennel Club) Traits of a Labrador Retriever:

1) An energetic dog.

Bernie lies around a lot. As in, I think he asks to go out maybe twice a day and when he does he likes to lie down in the grass and roll around.

2) The labrador's otter-like tail and webbed paws make him an excellent swimmer.

Bernie hates the water. This includes ponds, lakes, the ocean and baths. Water the flowers and he heads for the hills.

3) A classic retriever, the labrador is known to retrieve anything from game birds to tennis balls with tireless delight.

HA! Bernie might go after a tennis ball when thrown in the direction he was already heading. But, he won't go out of his way. And he certainly sees no point in bringing it back to you. I mean, what fun is that?? You'll just throw it again, won't you? And then I might have to get it.

4) With a lush thick coat, labradors can be excessive shedders.

BINGO! Got that one. Lucky us. Good thing we got a purebred.

5) Labradors have a sweet, family-oriented personality. They are often excellent dogs for a family with small children and are dependable, loyal companions.

And, THIS, is why we love him. My classic under-retriever. So kind, so sweet, so dopey. Good dog, Bern.

WATCHDOG

GOOD DOG

Why Didn't I Think of That?

Much to my dismay, Will is determined to wear a nylon/poly-blend Spiderman costume for Halloween this year. Which bums me out because I've managed to get him into some pretty adorable Winnie the Pooh and Clifford full-fluffy, high-quality costumes in the past.

= cute

= not cute

My snob-meter is just off the charts on this one.

So, now I felt extra pressure for John's costume and refused to spend any additional money on cheap-o ugly polyester Target costumes. I've been asking around for ideas and can't believe it took me as long as it did to find someone to suggest that John be a spider to Will's Spiderman. Of course!

Found this.

Thank you, D.C., for saving my Halloween.

Thank God He Didn't Play Guitar...

One of our carpenters showed up yesterday in a pink Vineyard Vines polo shirt. Young guy, cute smile. Hmmmmm.

Welp, time to go make chicken nuggets, change a poopy diaper and, maybe even, actually find time to wash my hair. Ah, reality.

(photo is courtesy of Vineyard Vines website and NOT stealthy, stalker photography by me)

Like A Good Girl Scout I Shall Always Be Prepared

Bought Will a new book today...

Because Dori has recently mastered the art of swimming sideways. And she does a lot of lying around on the bottom of the tank.

Wish us luck.

Neither Here nor There...

I've spent the last four and a half years on a whirlwind tour of New England residency. Left Marblehead (and a full time job as an event planner at Fidelity) in July of 2005 for Vermont. "Threw it all away" with my husband and new baby in favor of "the country life." And we did it to the letter -- I even managed a small inn that was the epicenter of the quintessential New England town where I grew up. Across from the general store, down the Village Green from the post office. My husband left a successful Cleaning Services sales job in favor of insurance sales for a small agency owned by a close family friend. We loved it. Will (6 month old) thrived. He spent two days a week at daycare, two days a week with my mother and since I worked Tues - Saturday he spent one day just with Mom, one day just with Dad and Sundays were VT-freakin' perfect. Wide open spaces, pig roasts, a commute past more cows than cars. We loved it there. We also struggled to make ends meet although we both held "real jobs" full-time. We struggled to find our place between the extreme haves (multi-millionaire 2nd home trust fund beneficiaries) and the extreme have-nots who, really, are what I believe make Vermont such a fabulously special little state.

After two years of making mortgage payments but neglecting any savings whatsoever and, therefore, NOT having the second child we both wanted....we bailed. Ross got a flattering job offer in Manhattan -- back in Cleaning Services sales where he would undoubtedly flourish. And flourish enough that I could be a stay at home Mom and we could have that baby. We moved to Connecticut. You know the rest. Had the second baby and all was good. However, the Newtown to Times Square commute was somewhat rough but he did it chin up. Pregnant when we arrived and then a shut in with a late October baby for 6 months after that, I struggled to make friends. Finally signed up to be a room parent at my older son's pre-school and slowly (like about 18 months slowly) began to find my place. A few new girlfriends that could make me laugh (still not like my best girlfriends but I took it happily), all was ok. Sunny days.

And then...the offer. Open an office in Boston. We believe in you. Go. Was I up for it, he said? Move again? Third time in four years? Can we do it? "If you can land me right back in Marblehead. Marblehead - home to two of my bridesmaids. Home to three of the only six women I turned to when my Dad had a heart attack, when my Mom had a brain aneurysm, when I thought my unborn little John had Down's. If you can land me back with THOSE women..hell, yes. Move me again. I can do it."

And, I'm so glad we did. Let me preface my upcoming b*tchfest with how I know it was the right move. I live in a beautiful town, with built-in friends and I am meeting more wonderful, smart, funny women each day. They (usually) have interesting husbands, happy sweet kids and I know that my life is enviable.

But, I admit, lately I wish he was home more. Working his tail off, some late nights, Blackberry buzzing when he's home. Out the door at 5:15 am, sometimes home after John goes to bed. And, now, because he's announced he needs to go in on Saturday all day and maybe some of Sunday (and he does need to, no doubt), I reply by saying that I will, therefore, try to go home to my parents in Vermont for the weekend. He's hurt. "But, I'll be around some of the time. And, I haven't seen you and the guys all week. What about Saturday from, like, 3 pm on? And probably most of the day Sunday? You won't really go, will you?"

But, I will. And, as I tell him, not to be spiteful or mean or insensitive to the fact that he's working like a dog. But, because I simply can't face another full day of single parenting (because let's face it 5 am - 3 pm is a full day) and then a second day during which we rush around trying to do a errands and then the Giants are on (stop, world) until 4 pm and then it's time for kids dinner, baths, bed, our dinner and the weekend is over. Where did this weekend differ from my week? And, it's been a long Mommy week. So, country roads, take me home. To the place where my Mom and the ultimate "it takes a village" township will wrap my wild boys and me in their arms and ease. the. mommy. monotony.

Wah, wah, wah.

I see the other side. I do. He clearly doesn't enjoy having to work, being away from us, bearing all the pressure as the sole bread winner. He truly likes his job but it's a lot at the moment. And now his family, who he does it all for, is ditching him for the weekend. Sucky at best.

I'm an only child and, apparently, not very good at sharing my husband. Even if it's sharing him with his employer - the employer who ultimately brought me back to this town, keeps my kids in their Crocs and who is the first in a long time that I think really gets that he's good. Very good.

I'm proud of him. We're all proud of him. But, this weekend I'm pretty sure we'll all be proud of him from roughly 180 miles north west.

You C-c-c-Can't Be S-S-S-Serious

We're renovating our kitchen. It's taking what seems like a looong time (it's really not but it feels like it is). And the kitchen renovation was our excuse for not unpacking a bunch of boxes that sat in our dining room and a corner of our kitchen from July until September when we finally got the project going. I now have a room in my house that is, seriously, acting as my kitchen/dining room/playroom that happens to be attached to our living room. My kids crawl under the table, dodging an old chandelier and dog gate, to get at a couple bins of toys. I'd attach a photo if I wasn't too embarrassed by it. It's just a charming space. Yuck.

It all sort of stopped being fun (and, therefore, in any way "funny") a couple weeks back. Don't get me wrong, my contractor is truly wonderful, his "people" are outstanding each and every one of them. But, they show up (as they should) at 7:30 every morning for the last five weeks or so and I work my day around dust and plastic wrap and make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the surface of the bay window in my living room.

But then today, I met the plumber. Nice guy. Did a fabulous job. But the poor guy had a stutter. A stutter. As a plumber. I mean, seriously, think about this man's day?! W-w-w-water. P-p-pipe. W-w-wet. K-k-kitchen.

Goodness.

And so, for a brief while in my most un-PC of moments, the kitchen renovation had become, in fact, a little funny.

Ok, let's not do THAT again...

My wonderful husband, who I adore 91% of the time, is five years younger than I am. And as we grow old (gracefully) together, it seems those years are just morphing together anyway. I mean, let's be serious here. Once you have marriage, a house, the yellow lab and two crazy kids, you're all just keeping pace on the same daily treadmill anyway. If you started at 25 or 30, what's the diff?

Except when conversations like this come up that make me want to check my long-term care insurance, reach for the Exlax and call it a lifetime.

Youth: Had lunch at the Warren Tavern today.

Aged One: Cool.

Youth: You been there? (Try not to sound so surprised, R. I did actually once NOT have a small child attached to my leg.)

Aged One: (likely over zealous) Oh, yeah! The girls and I used to go there a lot when we were on the young and foolish scene.

Youth: Hmmm.

Aged: Actually, I'll always remember the Warren Tavern 'cause I was there for the OJ chase. I remember a few of us met up for a few beers after work or something. We were all huddled around the bar watching the tv. Crazy.

Youth: .......

Aged: What?

Youth: .....

Aged: What? Where were you then?

Youth: Well...we had a week off between exams and senior prom and I was...

Oh, dear God. Let's not try that again.

Reason #272 Why I Love My Husband

Each night, Ross comes home from work, changes out of his suit, plays "Monster" on the bed with the boys and then the three of them settle in (on Ross' lap) for an episode (or three, depending on the Yankees game) of pre-recorded Berenstain Bears. The singing of "Somewhere Deep In Bear Country" and the sound of my pouring a glass of chardonnay (ahhh...) are inextricably linked.

Anyway, an actual conversation tonight.

Will: Daddy? (always waits for the "Yes" even if they are basically linked by skin and clearly in earshot.)
Ross: Yes, Will?
Will: Do you know who my favorite Bear is?

Now, the true answer here is "yes". It's Sister Bear. But, Ross isn't much of a fan of that whole idea so the response goes as follows.

Ross: Hmmm. Let me think. Is it Papa Bear?
Will: No
Ross: Mama Bear?
Will: No.
Ross: Brother Bear?
Will: Nope.
Ross: Lizzy Bruin?
(I snicker quietly)
Will: No.
Ross: Farmer Ben?
Will: No.
Ross: Too Tall?
(Amazed. I'm laughing out loud now)
Will: No.
Ross: Grizzy Gran?
Will: No
Ross: Queenie?
Will: (Frustrated) DAD!!!! It's Sister Bear!
Ross: Oh, Sister. Right.

I just love my husband.

My munchkin's Munchkins

Dear Dunkin Donuts Counter Lady,

First of all, I'd like to say that that I hope you have had a good day. I know it can't be easy dealing with a mixed clientele ranging from the Preppy Handbook to the Farmer's Almanac. And, for the most part, you do it pleasantly (except when I ask you to toast my bagel, which you clearly HATE to do). Sorry.

But here's the skinny (pun intended) on something I need to clarify with you.

When I come in every Monday and Wednesday morning with two year old slung on hip, dirty hair in clip and ask for an iced coffee and TWO glazed munchkins...I actually really only want two of the glazed munchkins. Not four, not five (I know, I know .99 cents!) but two. You can even CHARGE me for five but please stop giving me more than two. You see, they're for the kiddo. He's jump-out-of-the-car seat PSYCHED bc his bossy, controlling big brother is at school and he's not. Which means that he gets this special trip with Mom where he gets a treat (TWO, in fact) that he wouldn't normally get if Big Brother (for whom a munchkin worth of sugar would result in household item breakage in no time flat) was with him.

Wait..where was I?

Oh, yes. So, dear Dunkin lady, when you put four or five or even three in the bag here's my problem. I can't give the mini man more than two munchkins. I mean, I'm all for indulging my kids now and then but I already know I'm not winning mother-of-the-year here with the munchkin trip anyway. And, lord knows I don't want to eat them (ok, well maybe I WANT to but that would pretty much mean weight watchers would allow me to eat three small pea pods for dinner). So, when I get back to my car, mini man strapped in back squawking "munchKIN, munchKIN" from the back and I reach into the bag to hand them back to him, please oh please, let there really only be two. I hate being wasteful. Don't force me to pop leftovers in my mouth. Don't force me to throw them out ("there are people starving in Africa" and all -- hmmm...are they actually still starving there?). Just give me two. Really. Two.

K?

Thanks, sistah.