Thinking about moving? Don't do it! (A true life story from someone who did- and lived to tell the tale)

Ok, if you have to move because a job takes you elsewhere or your house burns down, then I guess you can go ahead and do it. But, if you have any choice in the matter, I am the living, breathing warning about how much it sucks and how it should be avoided if you can help it.

Can you guess what we did this summer? We did it. We moved. And, while we have owned our new house for three months now, our dining room and garage are still filled with boxes waiting to be unpacked and organized and, if I'm being honest with myself, will probably remained filled for a good, long time.

You see, moving is so much more than the day you actually transport your stuff from one place to another. It encompasses weeks and months of showings (I cleaned my house 25 times for 30 groups of people to come through- and I'm still unsure how I kept my kids and dogs from messing it up the moment I got it clean... I think I ran out the door with them and didn't return home until the showing was over).

Then there is the packing, the negotiations when you finally get an interested buyer, the fighting with the parent who sold you the house to finally get the last of their stuff out of your basement six years after you moved in (is that just me?), the moving day itself, the praying the deal doesn't fall through at the last minute, the negotiations on the house you're buying and the unpacking and organizing at the other end. I lived in a perpetual state of stress for more than seven months- realizing just how stressed out I was only after it was over and I could breathe- and sleep!- normally again.

And the funny (as in ironic, not ha ha) part is, the Pretend Husband and I are still not entirely clear WHY we moved. We gave various (truthful) answers to different people: "we need a layout that works better for us," "we ran out of projects at this house and are ready for something new" or "our lives weren't exciting enough before, so we thought we'd mix things up." It was a struggle because we didn't HAVE to move; we WANTED to. We had a perfectly good house that we had worked really hard to make our own. And it had plenty of room for us and our friends and family. But we both felt like it was time- and also had the thought that, if we didn't do it now, it would probably never happen once our boys were in school.

So, we did it. And now it's all over except the unpacking. And, while the PH and I tend to disagree (or at least debate) about EVERYTHING (paint colors, what to have for dinner, which house to buy, what gift to leave for the buyers, what show to watch together), we are in complete agreement about one important thing: we will not be moving again for a very, very long time.

My kid rocks at puking

Let's label this as yet another thing I never thought I would be talking about-- let alone bragging about-- before I had kids. But I am so proud of FunnyKid and his new puking skills that I had to share (it's the little things in life, you know?)

Up until this past weekend, FunnyKid had thrown up on two separate occasions. Both times, he was asleep in his bed when he threw up pretty much all over his face and hair, woke up crying and had to be stripped and rushed into the shower, where one parent got him clean while the other one stripped and remade the bed.

I felt awful for FunnyKid when this happened because the only thing worse than being sick is being pulled out of your bed, stripped of your clothes and being thrown into a shower when you were blissfully asleep just moments before. The poor kid would huddle under the water crying and begging to go back to bed while we explained why he was showering (multiple times in one night) and rushed to get him clean.

But that changed this weekend. We were staying at my dad's house for one night (the one fateful night). FunnyKid, who had exhibited no symptoms of not feeling well and had been running around just minutes before, was brushing his teeth when he suddenly started crying, asked for water and then began vomiting in the hallway outside the bathroom.

When he was done, he calmly asked to take a shower (he didn't need one as he had neatly avoided getting anything on himself, but I suspect he now associates puking with a shower afterward). After a nice, hot shower, we got FunnyKid into bed and prayed he wouldn't throw up all over a bed that doesn't belong to us, a rug that isn't ours and some various antiques and other nice stuff in the room he was staying in.

About half an hour later, FunnyKid called me upstairs and in a fairly calm manner told me he had to throw up again. I rushed him into the bathroom and held him while he threw up into the toilet like a seasoned pro. I denied him a shower after that round and he went back to bed and fell asleep.

Around 11:30, as the Pretend Husband and I were falling asleep, we heard FunnyKid call for us again. I met him in the hallway and again swooped him into the bathroom as he told me he had to throw up again. Another round of puking in the toilet and this time he got the shower he requested because if that's all your poor, sick kid wants, that's what he gets.

I feel like FunnyKid is growing and maturing in so many ways, and waking up to puke is one of them. Not the biggest deal, of course, but it makes for a happy mama who doesn't have to remake a bed for the fourth time and explain to a kid why he's showering at midnight.

Not my brightest parenting moment

Ah, toddlers. Who doesn't have the fondest of memories about the temper tantrums, the bedtime battles, the time your kid locked himself in the vault at city hall. Wait, what? Oh yeah, it happened.

On this fateful day, I had both boys with me as I ran into city hall for one quick thing.  As I looked at a computer, FunnyKid ran down a long (fun-looking) ramp next to me that went into the big vault full of city records. Then he ran back up and we headed to the desk to speak to an employee.

As I began speaking to the woman and FunnyBoy began fussing, FunnyKid (the 2.5 year old) saw his opportunity and took off to run back down the ramp into the vault. I picked up the baby carrier and was not too far behind him, telling him to turn around and come back. As I got to the bottom of the ramp, FunnyKid gave me a sly grin... and knocked closed a glass door at the entrance to the vault (a door with no purpose I could figure out since the vault also had one of those huge metal vault doors).

Seeing no knob on the outside of the glass door (just a keyhole), I immediately turned around and went back  to the employee I had been speaking with. "I'm really sorry, but my son just locked himself in the vault. Could you please get the key for the glass door?"

"Uh, I don't think we have a key for that door," the woman replied.

That's when I began to panic. Running back to the door, I smiled and urged FunnyKid to turn the locking mechanism on his side of the glass. Having fun playing our game, the poor kid tried to turn the lock, but wasn't strong enough. Standing there with a toy train in either hand, he watched as two different employees with two different keys each arrived and failed to unlock the door.

That's when a woman in a really nice outfit came rushing down and decided she was going to try to slide under the door (oh yeah, I forgot to mention that the glass door didn't go all the way to the top or the bottom of the door frame, making it even more useless and more confusing about what it was even there for). Despite the panic rising in my chest, that part was kind of funny because the poor, professionally-dressed woman had no chance of fitting through the couple of inches of space beneath the door, but she pressed herself to the floor and tried.

The ending of this story is a little anti-climatic: no firefighters rushing through the door for a dramatic rescue, no having to tell FunnyKid to go hide in the corner while a police officer shot through the door. Nope. Instead, we got FunnyKid to lay down on his side of the door and I reached under and slid him out.

Then we threw some more apologies around and ran out the door while the employees were making phone calls to see if anyone in city hall had a key to the door. In the aftermath, I felt ashamed that FunnyKid was able to get that far away from me and cause some mischief, but I also started to get kind of angry that a city office didn't have a key to the mystery door in its vault. I can think of a couple of (unlikely) scenarios in which that door could swing closed and need to be reopened. In any case, it's a funnier story than the battle FunnyKid and I fought over naptime this afternoon, and if I have to be embarrassed or admit some parenting failures, at least I want a funny story out of it.

Stupid nature...

We live in a fairly rural area. Rural enough that I routinely swerve to avoid deer, have seen a bear while out for a walk, had a bobcat sun itself in our backyard and had a neighbor spot a moose (a moose!) near our house just last week. I can handle all of that and even think it's very cool (I would love to see a moose in person).

But the smaller stuff gets me. And it's not just the squirrel that ran the wrong way last week and committed suicide under my car tire. Yesterday, I opened the door to let the dogs out into the backyard, looked down and spotted a bird laying on the step. Quickly getting the dogs back into the house, I assessed the situation... which basically included a rundown of every male I could call to come take care of the situation and determining they were all otherwise busy (I don't know if my former neighbor still reads the blog, but I was wishing I could have called E to come take care of it for me!)

So I manned up, wrote the Pretend Husband a text telling him how lucky he is to have a pregnant wife willing to do this stuff and carefully approached the bird with my shovel extended. Oh, and I chanted, "please don't move, please don't move" to the bird the whole time (I was barely able to deal with a dead bird and may have died if it actually moved). Luckily, the bird was dead, and it stayed that way as I maneuvered it onto the shovel and headed for the woods.

I said a quick "rest in peace" and then lovingly and reverently... flung it as far into the woods as I could. Then I went back inside to text the details to the PH and promise him to give him a little more of a send-off when his time comes.

As if that wasn't enough adventure for the week, I walked into the garage this afternoon to find two birds banging against the inside of the window trying to get out. When they wouldn't take the hint of the two open garage doors, I figured I was going to have to open the window for them. I had to reach between the birds to unlock the window and then went outside to lower the top pane. One of the birds was laying against the glass while the other tried to bang its way out.

While lowering the glass, I somehow got one of the birds stuck between the panes of glass and there was no going back because it looked like I would have decapitated it if I tried. I somehow managed to slide one of the panes out of the way without killing the bird and it flew away. The other one took some prompting (i.e. banging on the glass) for it to find its escape route.

Also, I think we may have a mouse living in our family room. But I refuse to think about it (I've already let it out the door once) and it will be up to the PH to deal with whatever encounter springs up on us next. If he won't, then I'm moving to the city.

That "Super Nanny" technique where you put the kid back into bed again and again again? It's exhausting.

Last week, for various reasons, we decided it was time to move FunnyKid out of crib and into his new, twin bed. Not only that, but he was moving out of the nursery into a bigger bedroom (where, although he was only slightly impressed, he found a train table waiting to be played with).

After a few nights of me sitting in his room for two hours putting him back into bed again and again and again and again (and again) until he wore himself out and fell asleep, I was ready to throw in the towel. I called up a bunch of my mom friends and cried, "What are we doing wrong?" And the answers were plentiful... and not at all hopeful.

Basically, they all described the transition from crib to bed as one of the worst times of their lives and all said it would take weeks of tears (mine) and sleeplessness (mine and FunnyKid's) to get it to stick. So, we pulled ourselves up by our boot straps... and decided to take a break.

We moved the crib into the new room to give FunnyKid a chance to acclimate to the new room and decided we would try the bed again next week. The best nephews in the world (and an awesome niece) are in town this week, FunnyKid turns two later this week and we just thought it was a little too much excitement to throw a bed transition into the mix.

So, FunnyKid went to bed in his crib the first night... and the second night. And the third night, he climbed into bed, yelled for about two minutes and then went right to sleep! Worried it was a fluke, I didn't have much hope for nap time yesterday, but he did it. He actually played quietly for an hour in his room then climbed into bed, pulled a blanket up over him and conked out. And last night took a minute of yelling at the gate across his doorway before he got back into bed and promptly fell asleep.

What?!? The Pretend Husband and I keep looking at each other saying, "How did we get so lucky?" We're guessing he was just ready after having some time to acclimate to his new surroundings and the idea he can get out of bed if he wants to. It's tough to declare anything truly, finally "done" with a toddler, but I'm going to venture onto a limb here and say we (and he) did it.

I'm not just writing this all out to brag (although, if I may, my kid is pretty stinking awesome!) but to give other parents hope. While every one of your friends and family members will tell you how terrible the transition is-- and it usually is-- there are always the exceptions. And you might join us in being lucky enough to be one of them (fingers crossed).

Oh Lord, when did my son turn two?!?

FunnyKid isn't actually two yet, but he sure is acting like it these days. A few examples:

- Everything is dramatic. Everything includes the need for tears and yelling and struggling against me if it's not done exactly as he wants it (which changes daily, of course). These traumatic events include having his diaper changed (thank goodness we only have to do that six times a day!), being asked to get dressed and-- although I have no idea why-- having his hands washed.

-Diapers are now a curiosity. As in, FunnyKid likes to check out what's in them and-- to put this delicately-- doesn't always leave things inside. There was an incident a week ago in which the Pretend Husband thought FunnyKid's crib was covered in blood... until FunnyKid pointed at the mess and proclaimed, "yuck!" You can guess the rest.

-Diapers also serve as practice sessions for FunnyKid's Houdini act. The other day, I heard splashing in our bay window. Thinking the kiddo was pouring the water from his sippy cup into the window where he had climbed up, I turned around... just in time to watch him finish peeing on the window and start dancing in the puddle to make it splash. I couldn't even find his diaper at first. He had shed it in the kitchen before getting up on stage for his performance.

-Nothing gets said once around here. A typical diaper change includes me saying, "FunnyKid, let's change your diaper. Come here, bud. Kiddo, time to change your diaper. Are you listening to Mommy? Let's go. Diaper change." Then I chase him through the house, bodily bring him to where his new diaper is and try to hold him down while completing the challenge. I often break a sweat before it's over. Then, just a few hours later, we get to do the whole thing again.

Oh, and today we hung out with a couple of three-year-olds. Where I learned this crazy behavior that is testing me and sometimes pushing me to my limits is not going to end anytime soon. I'm scared.

You know it's time to dye your hair when....

...the neighbor of your sister (the sister who is only 2 years younger than you) sees you holding your cute niece and says, "And this must be your mother..."

Time froze. I kind of stared at her in shock, fighting back the tears, as my sister said, "this is my sister" and the neighbor continued the conversation without an "Oh, I'm sorry" or "it's awfully bright out here so I didn't get a good look" or anything.

Because apparently getting mistaken for being in your fifties (at a minimum) when you're only 35 isn't a big deal to some people. I have a kiddo only a year older than my niece, for goodness sake. So yes, I'll be breaking out the hair dye and covering the gray this weekend. And trying not to cry while I do it.

I know telemarketers are just doing their job... but I kind of hate their job.

We recently dropped caller ID (I know, how 1990s of us!) in order to save a few bucks. Which means I have to blindly answer our home phone. Which means I've had the, uh, pleasure of speaking with many telemarketers lately.

I immediately know I'm talking to a telemarketer when they butcher our last name. Which, to be fair, it's not the easiest name, BUT, they manage to make a very French-looking name sound Italian-- now that's talent. While that's not a big deal, not taking no for an answer and being snotty to me is what gets my goat.

Last week, we got a call from the cable company we already use. They were basically trying to upgrade our service (i.e. increase their revenue) and tried to make it sound like the deal of the century. In a bored voice, the guy described how he was calling to generously offer three free months of extra movie channels.

"No thanks," I said.

"But you get blah blah blah for only blah blah a month and at the end of three months, you get a rebate of blah blah," he said.

"No thank you, we don't want any more channels," I said.

"But these are basically free," he whined.

"No. No thank you. We're not interested," I said firmly.

And he had the guts to sound hurt. You make me say no three times before you'll give up and I'm supposed to feel bad about hurting your feelings? I don't think so.

A few hours later, we got a call from a breast cancer organization (I had never heard of) asking for a donation. The woman not only called me by the Italian version of my name, but told me I sound beautiful (that's flattering, but doesn't work with me... plus, how does someone sound attractive?) As she went through her spiel and tried to get me to pledge a donation over the phone, I politely asked if she had any literature she could send me to look at.

"You're not going to send it back. Can you just make a pledge now?" she asked.

"Uh, no. I don't choose where I make donations over the phone. Do you have a Website?" I replied.

It took me asking twice more for her to give up getting my credit card info over the phone and actually give me the Website. Which, it turns out, didn't actually exist.

I might start letting FunnyKid answer the phone. He says "hi" and "no" perfectly and when dealing with telemarketers, that's pretty much all you need to know anyway.

The body in my front yard and other events in my life

I don't have enough for a full post right now, so you get snippets of what life in the FunnyGal household is like these days.

First, there's this guy....
This movie star of a son who continues to amaze me with his words (you try not smiling when he yells "Cah" like he's a lifelong Bostonite talking about the traffic or points to my coffee in the morning and calls it "ca-ca.") And he amazes me with his abilities and his kindness and the fact that he barely speaks and yet had two different people point out how funny he is today at story hour. Life is good with FunnyKid.

***

Christmas was perfect. That's all I really need to say (although have you ever known me to stop at one sentence? Yeah, me neither.) It involved grandparents so excited about watching the kiddos open their gifts that they got up early and other relatives who spent part of Christmas Day pushing a Cozy Coupe filled with cousins around the house and good food and laughter and really, what more could you ask for?

***

While I'm amazed at each of the skills FunnyKid has learned in his 16 months, I'm still surprised each time he picks up a new one. Last night, while I was making cookies, he came over and wanted to be part of the action. I put him on a stool and handed him a spoon and I'll be darned if the little guy didn't understand enough to scrape the sides of the bowl down with the spoon and not go near the mixer when it was running. He also knows where the cookies are stored and how to convince Mom he needs to eat one for breakfast, but that's another story...

***

I guess that's about it. Oh, the body in the yard? You want to hear that story? Yeah, I guess I would too. I'm still not clear on exactly what happened, but I think I've pieced together most of it. See, our house is along the route the local high school cross country team runs (I guess? Does cross country practice in January?) Yesterday, I walked out of the garage to take FunnyKid for a walk, looked up and saw a girl lying face down under a bush by the road. Startled, I stepped closer and saw... five more kids laying behind a rock wall in our yard. They didn't say anything to me (but I saw them move so my initial thought of a dead body in my yard was quickly erased) and I didn't say anything to them because it looked they were lying in wait and I didn't want to ruin their game. About a minute later, as I was getting FunnyKid in his stroller, the group of kids jumped up and started running. I didn't see it clearly, but I think someone had run by and they were surprising her? I heard one of the kids say, "Best hiding place ever" as they ran off, so perhaps it will become the norm for me to have a bunch of bodies scattered around my yard.

***

The other day, I received an email from someone I met for the second time and she complimented my personality. She said she hadn't realized from our first meeting how funny and sarcastic I am, but had enjoyed it during our second meeting. I read the email to the Pretend Husband, who proceeded to tell me I'm not funny! Like, at all. (I may have told him he's bad at his job as an illustration of how important my sense of humor is to me). He later said he was kidding, but it was too late. I had already filed for divorce by then. (Ok, I'm kidding. I'll keep the PH around-- but only if he starts laughing at my humor real quick).

Sixteen months after giving birth, I became a parent

After months of raising FunnyKid, middle-of-the-night feedings, kisses for bumped foreheads and more diaper changes than I can count, what finally earned me the title of parent? This.


The Pretend Husband and I had been patting ourselves on the back that we had finished Christmas shopping for FunnyKid and hadn't gone overboard. We had discussed getting him a Cozy Coupe, but figured we could get it for his birthday next summer. Then, while picking up some groceries at a warehouse club the other night, we spotted it. And it was cheaper than we had seen it anywhere else. And, despite my fears that having one more big gift under the tree will turn my sweet boy into a spoiled brat, we bought it.

And then I tried to assemble it. Pulling the large plastic pieces out of the box at 10 p.m., I thought, "how hard can this be?" Ha! Picture me two hours later, sweating and cursing because I'm still not finished and it's impossible to tell from the drawings which part is pictured and how does this thing fit? I had to view on-line video instructions and pull out a drill in order to get most of the way done.

It was after midnight, and long after the PH had gone to bed, when I got to the part of the instructions where you need two people to finish the stupid thing. That's when I abandoned the project and went to bed, knowing I still have a couple of days to get it done.

FunnyKid is going to LOVE the cozy coupe and I know that seeing the joy on his face is going to erase any dark memories I have of putting the stupid thing together, but remind me next year to start assembling his gifts well before Christmas Eve because they are never as easy to assemble as they look. Oh, and when you remind me, call me "Mom." I've earned it.

Me and my third world problems...

We're all familiar with my love of couponing, my insistence I get the best deal and a sense of competition I don't necessarily leave on the soccer field when the game is over, right? Well, I would hereby like to welcome myself to the frenzy known as "Parents Go Insane Trying To Get The Most Popular Toys For Their Precious Wittle Wonderful Ones (2011)." And if you think having a 15-month-old means I'm not vying for the really serious electronic stuff, let me remind you that I am a very popular aunt and intend to remain that way.

Hence, there have been some late night eBay sessions in which I put all my super secret skills to work (if the bids are climbing by 25-cent increments, I'm not above having my high bid end in .34. Oh wait, everyone does that? It's a not-so-secret strategy? Nevermind then.) And while I haven't stooped so low that I've pulled the pepper spray out of my purse and gone crazy on my competitors (uh, I mean "fellow shoppers"), I'm not above whispered conversations on my cell phone to confirm I just spotted *the* hottest toy of the season ("there's four of them. Should I buy all four?") (I didn't buy all four-- I let some old guy who claimed it was for his grandkids get in on the action).

And this is just the beginning. I have a kid at the age where he would love climbing into the box the toy came in as much as playing with the toy itself (if not more-- boxes are a big draw around here). Can you imagine what I'll be like when I'm doing it for real and the stakes are having a disappointed child shouting that he hates me on Christmas Day because I didn't get him whatever toy he and every other child in the United States wanted? Yeah, I'm kind of scared of me too.

How I almost died doing a good deed... which explains why I may never do one again

I suspect I would rarely have anything to post about if I wasn't such a moron. Case in point, the bruises and scrapes on both my knees and the scratches on my elbow (I will spare you a photo but trust me that I look like a 10-year-old who fell down on the playground).

Last night, while driving home from work at midnight, I almost hit a huge garbage can that was laying in the middle of a very dark road. I didn't really want to get involved, but the thought that the can could really damage a vehicle that ran over it made me pull over, put on my hazard lights and go get it out of the road.

As I pulled the can onto someone's front lawn, I realized I was standing on the edge of the road with my driver's side door open in the opposite lane and was wearing dark clothing... while a vehicle approached. Wanting to hurry back to my car before the truck coming up behind my car hit either me or my car, I started to run back to my car... and tripped.

It was one of those full-out, arms-pinwheeling trips that propelled me across an entire lane and sent me sprawling in the middle of the street with the truck still coming at me (in the dark with me wearing black). At that point, I wasn't as worried about my car as I was about getting run over at night a mile from home without anyone having an explanation for why I was even out of my car.

Scrambling up, I dove into my car and-- obviously-- avoided being killed. I did not, however, avoid being injured and returned home with bleeding elbows and knees to a husband who was a bit incredulous about why I had put myself into the situation in the first place. And that explains why I probably will not be doing anything nice for anyone ever again... or at least until I heal.

If he wants to push the next kiddo out of his nether regions, I'm happy to listen to him complain. Until that happens, zip it.

FunnyKid is an Eater. With a capital E. We have yet to discover a food he won't eat (except for a three day period where he wouldn't eat-- of all things-- watermelon). And when he's in his high chair, in your lap or anywhere where there's food, he wants to eat and he wants to eat now.

Let me preface the next little story by saying the Pretend Husband is an awesome father. He has one evening a week alone with FunnyKid while I work, he rushes home at the end of a busy day to make sure he gets time with FunnyKid before bed and he's very hands-on with everything from playing to changing diapers.

However, if there is one thing the PH hates, it's being interrupted when he's eating. He will spoon veggies into FunnyKid's mouth before he sits down to eat so it doesn't interfere with his meal. So, if there's any additional cutting up of food or throwing Cheerios onto FunnyKid's tray, that has fallen to me.

I'm not sure the PH even realized how harried I was during meals as I tried to grab bites of my own meal in between cutting things into little chunks for FunnyKid and keeping him well-fed. Until a few weeks ago. FunnyKid and the PH had come to my soccer game, but the grass was too wet for them to sit and watch at first. So the PH loaded FunnyKid into the car and took him out to breakfast.

On the way home from the game, I was treated to a litany of complaints from the PH. "It was so hard to eat! He kept yelling when he ran out of food so I was constantly cutting stuff up for him. I had to choke down my food in, like, 30 seconds at the end."

I think he was looking for sympathy from me, but he was looking to the wrong person. "Really? That's what it's like to eat with FunnyKid? I wouldn't have realized that, being that I feed him three meals a day and all. Cry me a river, PH, I've been dealing with this for months."

The day trip that only cost $50, my sanity and my will to ever travel again

While FunnyKid and I were vacationing at my sister's house last week, she and I decided to take FunnyKid and the two cutest nephews in the world to Baltimore's Inner Harbor for a day. We figured hauling around three kids ages 2 1/2 years, 18 months and 10 months would be a little stressful, but were willing to do it for the experience.

We had an "experience" alright.

The fun started with finding a place to park (and finding out we would be paying $23 for the privilege) and then trying to get into one of the buildings where the shops and restaurants are. Handicapped entrances, which we needed in order to get two strollers into the building, were hard to find and required a long walk to get to them. Having done this before, we were smart enough to have packed a picnic lunch rather than try to navigate a restaurant.

Because FunnyKid is still limited by crawling, I had to get used to the fact that my nephews were able to take off in two different directions with no notice. More than once, kat's lil sis went after one while I tried to head off the other with my stroller.

We adapted well. Kat's lil sis is very laid back (she has to be with two toddlers!) so it didn't bother her when the boys got soaked in a fountain and when we picked a spot on the grass to change diapers (there was no way we were going to navigate handicapped entrances again to find bathrooms). And she barely batted an eye as we walked along the water with one of her boys throwing a temper tantrum because the carousel was being repaired.

While one of the most fun parts of our trip was taking the boys on a water taxi to a different part of the city, it was also one of the most challenging. On our way out of the Inner Harbor, we had the advantage of full stomachs and cooperative kids so even having to empty the strollers of kids and bags before boarding and then begging the boat employees to help heft the strollers onto the boat didn't bother us.

The way back was a different story. Both the moms and the kids were exhausted and hot and hungry. It was a recipe for disaster. Basically, I tried to divide my time between keeping FunnyKid from throwing himself overboard and talking one of my nephews out of disappearing under the seats, while lil sis had a wrestling match her younger son to keep him in the seat, suffering multiple slaps to the head in the process (I think I had the better deal because at least FunnyKid is too little to put up much resistance).

The way home included tons of traffic and overtired kiddos who kept waking the others up. And the irony of it is that all of the boys are too young to ever remember the trip outside of looking at all the photos we took. We agreed it's going to take some time for us to forget the experience and try to take all the boys out again with just the two of us. Eight or nine years ought to do it.

All this and I'm still carrying baby weight?!?

While lots of people talk about recovering from childbirth and how physically demanding that is (and it is), there's a lot less chatter about the months and months that follow and what kind of aches and pains are associated with them. Which is where my million-dollar idea comes in: a workout based on what moms of babies and toddlers do every day.

The workout involves a lot of sitting on the floor (which isn't always as easy as it looks. As someone accustomed to sitting in a chair at work, I had to get used to the extra drop). Ok, sit on the floor with legs straight out or crossed or whatever is comfortable for you. Ok, sit, sit, sit. Now jump up and run!

Again. Sit, sit. Baby is going for the dog's water bowl! Get up and run!
Sit, sit. Baby is about to go head first down the stairs! Get up and sprint!

Are you feeling it? Are those thighs burning yet?

Oh, but we're not done yet. Back down on the floor. Ok, now get a 20-pound weight and get up off the floor without using your hands and without dropping the weight (the weight cries-- loudly-- if you do that). Do that about a million times.

Almost there. Now stand up and put the 20-pound weight on the floor between your feet. Bend over from the waist and lift the 20-pound weight up over your head, hold and return the weight to the floor. The 20-pound weight thinks this is a great game and wants to do it again! And again! Repeat at least 35 more times and be prepared for the weight to be upset when you stop.

How do you feel? Good. Only eight more hours before Daddy gets home and you can take a break!

Tomorrow, we work on stretching your arms by reaching under the couch for a lost toy and will add some resistance by having the weight flail around while you try to lift it. Now hit the showers (but only if the 20-pound weight is napping and you've finished everything else you have to do today).

Catch me on an upcoming episode...

I was always one of those people who sometimes clipped coupons, sometimes remembered to take them to the store and sometimes found I had clipped a coupon for something I would actually use. Then I watched "Extreme Couponing." And I'm hooked.

I've only watched one or two episodes of "Extreme Couponing," but I've gone on-line to read blogs about how to best use coupons, I've signed up for different Websites that allow you to print out coupons and I've convinced family members to save their coupons for me. I'm on my way.

I'm never going to be one of those extreme coupon people who pay $1.03 for $10,000 worth of groceries, but I've had my victories. Last week, I got more than $80 worth of groceries for about $50, including seven bottles of marinade for 49 cents (total, not each) and four tubes of toothpaste for free. Perhaps not television-worthy, but I'll take every penny I can save.

I won't lie to you--it's a lot of work. I spent two hours last night clipping coupons and another hour going through store circulars and matching my coupons to the items on sale. But, other than raising FunnyKid, it's my job right now and I figure every dollar I save is a dollar I earned.

Still, I'm not going to make it my full-time job, I won't be stalking store managers for inside information about upcoming sales and I will never need to rent a truck to bring home my groceries. But maybe I will put some of that money I saved toward something fun for myself. After all, I did earn it.

The joys of homeownership...

The other day, it poured all day and well into the night. We made sure we checked our basement multiple times for flooding and were grateful to find it dry as a bone.

As I headed up to bed at 10:30 p.m., I checked it one last time and found nothing. When FunnyKid woke me at 3 a.m. to eat, I figured I was being overly cautious but I went downstairs to check and make sure the sump pump was still working properly. As soon as I opened the door to the basement, I knew something was wrong by the puddle at the bottom of the stairs. (One of the worst ways to wake up your husband in the middle of the night is to tip toe into the room and lovingly whisper in his ear, "Honey, the basement is flooded"-- but it does get him out of bed pretty quick).

While the sump pump and the back-up sump pump had done their jobs in keeping most of the basement from flooding, another part that wasn't protected (and had never had problems) had somehow collected a few inches of water throughout. Which is how the Pretend Husband and I found ourselves ankle deep in ice cold water and digging trenches in the snow in the pouring rain from 3-4:30 a.m.

We were fortunate that the only things that were damaged were some empty cardboard boxes (it's not our first time at the rodeo and we've become smart about how we store things in the basement). The worst part wasn't the flooding but the fact that FunnyKid didn't get the memo about Mom and Dad spending part of their night fighting back the flood waters and woke up for the day shortly after we fell back asleep. He's lucky he's cute even when I'm running on five and a half hours of sleep!

He's lucky my self-defense skills didn't kick in!

Fact: FunnyKid tends to attract a lot of attention when we're out in public (Opinion: it's because he's so stinking cute!)

So we were at Home Depot yesterday and we actually attracted a crowd who exclaimed over FunnyKid's blue, blue eyes and his beautiful smile and those chubby cheeks that make you want to gnaw on them. Seriously, the kiddo was surrounded by three female cashiers and a male customer. (His proud mama is just telling a story and not at all complaining!)

Anyway, the male customer left, the cashiers exclaimed some more, we thanked them for their compliments and we headed out to the car. The male customer, an older gentleman, was loading his car right next to ours. Seeing us, he came over and got in FunnyKid's face to try and make him smile. Thinking the guy was going to start touching FunnyKid, I undid the strap and started to lift the kiddo out of the carriage.

That's when the guy exclaimed, "Look at that smile. He's going to be President one day!" and then... incredibly... then... unbelievably... then, he smacked me on the back! (I know he was just emphasizing his point and-- as the PH pointed out-- is from a different generation and is a guy, but it still took me completely by surprise). Apparently, I don't have to worry about people touching FunnyKid (only one person has tried), but I might need to look out for me!

My parenting advice? Just keep on keeping on...

The thing about going onto the Internet for advice about raising children is that there is SO MUCH information out there. And it all contradicts itself (and always adamantly). Baby must have their own crib! Co-sleeping is best! Pacifiers work! Pacifiers will ruin them for life! Let them cry it out! Crying it out will traumatize the child and they'll never trust their parents and won't do well in school and will end up a college drop-out living in a van down by the river!

The second night FunnyKid was home, I caved in and gave him a pacifier someone had given us as a gift (despite my decision that he wouldn't be using them). Then I went on the Internet and found several sources that said pacifiers should no way, no how be given before the baby is three weeks old because it will cause nipple confusion and they will stop breastfeeding and what-were-you-thinking-you-must-be-a-first-time-mom-what-with-such-a-dumb-mistake! I cried.

But FunnyKid spit out the pacifier within minutes of falling peacefully asleep and then kat's lil sis told me her kids were given pacifiers in the hospital and then the pediatrician confirmed that we were not actually ruining the kiddo for life by giving him a pacifier to soothe him as long as he was weaned off it by nine months old (FunnyKid weaned himself off after using it four times so no worries there).

As the months have gone on (I can't believe FunnyKid is already six months old!), I've gotten a lot better about choosing what advice works for us-- and I avoid using Google to help me decide what's best for FunnyKid. But every once in awhile-- say, in the middle of the night when FunnyKid has been crying for awhile and we are trying to get him to go back to sleep without eating because we know he's waking up out of habit instead of hunger-- it's so tempting to search the Internet to see if we're doing the right thing.

And, not surprisingly, the advice ranges from Babies cry, let them cry! to Crying it out will scar your child! Because we are now somewhat experienced that this parenting gig, we did what worked for us (and I didn't even cry). And I'm 99% sure we haven't ruined FunnyKid for life (yet).

The difference between men and women...

When I got into my car this morning, I smelled poop. After checking both FunnyKid and I (and not finding anything), and having my dad not smell anything when he got into the car a short time later, I figured it wasn't anything to worry about. Until about 20 minutes later, when I adjusted the heat and my dad started gagging. He thought the smell was more like a dead animal than poop and we theorized something crawled into the engine and died in one of the heater vents.

In a bit of a panic, I called the Pretend Husband to tell him about what happened and told him I would take the car to our mechanic on my way home from the store. That's when my dad and the PH both began mocking me, saying I could end up paying the mechanic for three hours worth of work if he had to take the dashboard apart to get to the animal. Their suggestion? Buy a couple of air fresheners to mask the smell until it goes away.

My suggestion? Paying whatever it takes so I don't have to ride around with the smell of a dead mouse in my car. But, alas, the guys won and I will be purchasing every vanilla air freshener in the store the next time I go out.