Thursday, December 31, 2009

Resolutions: The Follow-Up

Because I know y'all have been dying to hear, I thought I'd post an update to how I did with my 2009 New Year's Resolutions:

1.) Stay single.

It was unbelievably difficult, and I had to fight off a torrent of outrageously handsome men who all had their own hair, no paunch, incredible emotional maturity, and extreme masculine sensitivity...but I'm proud to report that yes, indeedy, I made it to 2010 still very much single.

2.) Expand my reportoire of "breakfasts" that can be eaten out of a ziploc bag in the car on the way to daycare.

Hmm...I didn't do so well on this one, giving up the "expanding" part in favor of "just be grateful you get something--anything--to eat," which means grab a juice box, a slice of toast, and if you're lucky, some apple slices. This applies only to the kids, as I have yet to establish a breakfast habit--any breakfast habit--for myself.

3.) At least once a month, skip the gym and the treadmill in favor of curling up with a book and polishing off a half pan of brownies.

Gosh, I made a valiant effort, but there were months that I just plain forgot about the brownies. You'd think I'd have more weight loss to show for that omission...

4.) Fine tune the art of hypocrisy and take my self-righteousness to a new level by setting aside a two-minute meditation period in church each Sunday to reflect on all the ways I'm doing better than at least half the people there.

I'm really embarrassed by how extremely well I carried out this goal. In fact, I've surpassed my original expectation. I'm pretty sure that most Sundays the two minutes was more like twenty, at least. Sigh.

5.) Use my blog to regularly insult/poke fun/otherwise torture Brain Drain.

I thought this was going to be the one goal I'd have to concede defeat on. Other than hijacking his blog for the Man-icure--enjoyable as that was--I just haven't been at the top of my game in harassing Brain-Pain like I intended. As the end of 2009 drew closer and closer, I was facing the reality that my super-perfectionistic and over-achiever nature just might have to taste bitter failure.

Then, like a special little gift from heaven just for me, several things happened.

One, Brain-Stain started a new blog, chronicling his torture sessions with a personal trainer. Thanks to Google, I get regular updates on all the shame, strain, and pain. Thanks to Brain-Drain's wife, I get text messages with updates on all the new curse words Brain-Pain uses in those sessions.

Two, in a happy accident of fate, I happened to be attending a different ward the day that Brain-Pain was the assigned HC speaker, and I got to hear the Parable of the Old, Fat Man Getting In Shape firsthand. There was some slight attempt to disguise it as being a friend of a friend, or some archetypal, mythical Old Man, but those who knew the truth couldn't stop shaking with laughter. And like the gift that doesn't stop giving, I've already retold the epic tale to several friends, guaranteeing the tale's immortality, and allowing me to relive the pleasure all over again.

Third, a few days before Christmas, the kids ran down to Brain-Drain's house to collect their favorite babysitter, BP's youngest (beautiful--she gets it from her mother--, smart, talented, and amazingly patient with my rugrats) daughter who was staying with them while I went to the gym. Eric came running back and threw a heavy, wrapped gift onto my unprotected lap (I may or may not have been still in bed, under the covers). "It's for you, from Erynn's dad," he announced. I sat up groggily, muttering, "I'm scared, very, very scared." Eric ran from the room hollering, "Yeah, Erynn's dad is SCARY, SCARY, SCARY!" Maybe I meant it in a different way than he did. On Christmas morning I discovered that Brain-Drain was trying to help me in the Jane Austen Experiment, by providing a special, thrift store copy of one of the thousands of Pride & Prejudice sequels written by JA-wannabes. It just happened that the particular bodice-ripper version he chose is, um...let's be kind and call it "racy," although Barnes and Noble's website categorizes it as "erotica," and I would probably use a word that starts with P and ends with ORN.

And then I started thinking, do I really need to use my blog to mock Brain-Pain, entertaining myself at his expense? 'Cause I'm thinking he's doing a fine job of providing that entertainment even without any commentary from me.

There you have it, the 2009 update. Stay tuned for the 2010 blog-worthy goals...

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Why I Keep Them Around, Part II

For my birthday, Grace gave me a beautiful shirt, in my favorite color (green), probably a size or two smaller than it should be to comfortably fit NOW--but hey, I'm optimistically still moving down in size, so that's okay.

Today I wore said shirt to church, wincing a little at just how snugly it fit, wondering if it crossed the line into "too-tight-for-modesty."

When Grace saw it her eyes lit up, which was, after all, my primary reason for wearing it.

"Hey, you're wearing the shirt I gave you!"

She began rubbing my tummy through the shirt. I sighed. "Does it show off my fat tummy, sweetie?"

Big-eyed, she looked up at me. "No! Your tummy looks smaller in this!"

Eric joined in. "And soft. You look softer. I like a soft Mommy. You're a pretty mommy."

They may be loud, obnoxious, and crazy, but they're keepers, those kids of mine.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Letters to Santa

Dear Santa,
I want a kitty. I want a dog. I want an Ipod. I want magic. I love Santa.
love,
Mercie

Dear Santa,
2 Transformers. And Spiderman and Heroes. I like every Hero and every Transformer. The end.
Love,
Eric

Dear Santa,
I want an Ipod and magic. And um, uh, a monster truck that has a controller thing so we could do it.
Love,
Mia

Dear Santa,
I want a Barbie house and a stuffed animal.
Love,
Grace

Dear Santa,
I would like a new house, a piano, and a husband.
Love,
Wendy
PS--I'll settle for two out of three.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

If My Kids Ran the World

  • Mankind would survive on mac & cheese with hot dogs, juice boxes, and candy.
  • Putting away laundry, picking up toys, taking out the trash, and setting the table would earn valuable prizes and be accompanied by personal cheerleading squads EACH and EVERY time.
  • Mothers would have a silencer button.
  • The daily routine of every child would be equal parts playing outside/art projects/ watching Harry Potter movies.
  • Mommy would wear the hairstyles created for her by her insanely creative and gifted children out in public, preferably to church or to work.
  • Baths would happen once a year and consist of running through sprinklers.
  • Six would be the legal age to drive.
  • Hannah Montana would be our next-door neighbor.
  • Mommy would be married to Santa Claus or Uncle Dan, in that order of preference.

Friday, December 18, 2009

And...You....Are....Not....It...

Tonight at the gym I was using the track when I noticed two adorable little boys, probably around ages 8 and 10, doing their darndest to work out on the adult-size equipment, and doing an admirable job.

I also noticed a nicely-fit and relatively attractive, slightly older-than-me man running laps around me. Truly--I didn't notice in a lusting way, just in a "wow-he's-in-pretty-good-shape-for-an-older-dude" kind of way. Sometimes I notice people who are further along the fitness track than I am, and I kind of use them for motivation, and that's what I was doing with Mr. Silver-Haired Buff Guy.

Then I realized he was the Cute Boys' dad. I deduced this when I overheard the following LOUD tirade from his mouth:

"Hey! What is this??? Why aren't you exercising anymore? Come on, get going, boys. You're a couple of wimps. We came to the gym to exercise--I want to see some exercise happening. You want to be a flab-o like your mom? What are you whining about? You want me to leave right now, this minute, and go get you a hamburger because your poor stomach is so hungry you can't wait 10 more minutes? You need to get to work. It's my job as your dad to push you and teach you to stay in shape. You boys are pathetic."

no. 1: I couldn't decided whether to go out to the car and cry for those poor boys or take my fingernails to Mr. Dad-of-the-Year's face. The latter was most tempting.

no. 2: I was hoping he sure as heck wasn't married, because anyone who would say something like that about his wife, to his own sons, doesn't deserve even a lousy marriage.

Number two concern was addressed a few minutes later when Jerk Daddy fell into step alongside me and did the "so, do you come here often/hey, I haven't seen you here before" routine that happens from time to time at the gym.

I don't think I've ever shot someone down so fast.

Being in good shape is nice; being nice is better.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Then & Now

Two weeks ago--

Mia: "For Christmas I want a Hannah Montana Barbie--another one--and a camera. That's all."

Yesterday--

Mia: "For Christmas I want Santa to bring me a Wii and an Ipod Touch and a Kindle and a camera phone and an mp3 player. And a regular camera. And a scooter that goes by itself. That's all."

My little girl is growing up.

Sigh.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Why I Keep Them Around

Mia: "Why did that guy say 'hot'? What does 'hot' mean, anyway?"

Mom: "It means really, really pretty, like if someone is really beautiful, we say she is 'hot.' "

Mia: "Oh! Like Mama!"

Mom: "Eh?"

Mia: "So you are hot, right?"

I love my little schmoozers.

Saturday, December 05, 2009

Just Another Scatalogical Saturday

Eric: Mom! MOM! Come quick!

Mom: Uh, I'm kinda busy--what do you need?

Eric: I'm pooping, and it's SOOOO big! It's a HUGE poop! Come see!

Gee, tempting, but I think I'll pass...

Mom: I'm making breakfast--sorry, bud.

Several minutes pass.

Eric: MOM! I need some help here!

Mom: With what?

Eric: I need help wiping my butt!

Mom: You're a big boy; you know how to wipe your own butt.

Eric: But this is a BIG poop, and it's ALL OVER!

Sigh.

Mommy stands in the bathroom door. To observe. And guide from afar. My mantra is to teach self-sufficiency. Especially if it involves poop.

Mom: You're doing fine, Eric.

Eric: Yeah, but I really hate wiping butts. Wiping butts is so disgusting. It's so gross.

Tell me about it. Try wiping someone ELSE'S butt. Welcome to parenthood, son.

Mom: Well, it's better than NOT wiping your butt.

Silence. Eric digests this thought.

In a tone of awe suggesting that maybe, just maybe, Mommy is NOT dumber than a pile of rocks...

Eric: Yeeeaaaaaaah. That's true!

Nice to know someone out there is still awed by my brilliance.