Happily-Ever-After-Land

To The Subscription Department of InStyle Magazine....

Dear InStyle Magazine,

These past couple years, I have regarded your magazine as the Supreme Guide to Fashion.  The one thing pulling me out of the dark abyss of "mom jeans" and stained sweatshirts.

And I tried.  I really, really tried. 

I sported the wide belts upon your insistence that they were THE "it" accessory.  I donned slouchy, 80's style boots with pride because you assured me I would not look ridiculous in them.  That, in fact, I would be considered "hip."  I even tried the "smoky eye" look, even though my poor husband had to spend the night insisting he had not just given me two black eyes before we left the house.

We had a good relationship, you and I.  Granted, you were, maybe, a tad bit bossy and opinionated about what you thought I should be clothing myself with.  But it still made me feel a little more like a woman and a little less like a frump.  And, mercifully, you did not insist that I "tone up" any part of my body, insisting I attempt a myriad of goofy squats and tricep dips every month.  You had the foresight to know that it was a lost cause, and for that I am forever grateful.

However, my Dear InStyle, circumstances have changed in Happily-Ever-After-Land, and I fear we can no longer be friends.  You see, we now reside in the middle of nowhere and live on a Navy Base that, by all accounts, is NOT filled with wives who read your magazine with the diligence that I once did.  My daily staple is an old, gray, ratty sweater that, I think, has begun to take on a life of its own.  On the rare occasion I wear heels, my calves are sore the whole next day, they have become so used to flat soled shoes.  Oh, and the only pants I seem to wear anymore have elasticized waistbands.

But seeing as I'm pregnant, some of that is understandable.  (Did I mention that I'm pregnant?  Well, I am.  And I have yet to see a "Preggo Style Guide" within the pages of your magazine.  Just sayin'.)

So in regards to your very kind notice I received the other day, informing me that my subscription is "almost up" (yeah, in, like, nine months) and that you would like to extend to me a very "special offer" (by the way, I might be a fashion idiot, but I'm not wholly unintelligent, I can see that it's the same price I paid last year), I am sorry to say that I will have to decline the invitation to continue my subscription.

If, perchance, you have a magazine devoted to mom jeans galore, I would be interested in that.  I believe you already have my address.

Sincerely,

Jennifer.

PhotoStory Friday: Monarch Madness

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

We have been seeing quite a few of these around town as of late, making the trek to parts unknown.  Which reminds me of the Butterfly Grove we visited on our trip to Monterey, California.

Such an amazing sight.  The butterflies hung themselves high up in the trees like bunches of grapes.

What is it about a butterfly that makes us pause in wonderment?  Perhaps the flash of color as they gracefully flutter by.  Or maybe the miraculous transformation it makes from unsuspecting caterpillar into such a thing of beauty.

Whatever the reason, it is a spectacular sight to see hundreds of these Monarchs fluttering about this tiny hidden grove.

Less spectacular when the poor things run head-on into the windshield of my car.

Try As You Might, You'll Never Recognize Him With His Glasses On

It seems my dad has developed a Super Power.  For reals, people, I'm totally not making it up.

My dad has acquired the ability to clean mirrors and glass to a sparkling shine using just his tear drops and spit.

I call him..... The Cleaner.

Clad in silicone (cause, seriously, who uses latex anymore?) he has a myriad of cleaning accessories stored in secret compartments all over his suit.  Except paper towels.  He's trying to be environmentally conscious, so he only carries reusable supplies.

He might even be able to do ovens, but I don't know, I haven't tried yet.

How does one procure such awesome super powers?  In my dad's case, we've recently learned that his extraordinary powers come from an increase in ammonia in his body.  Three times the legal limit, actually. 

Was it an accidental explosion in a lab?  Is he really an alien from outer space?  Did he get bit by a crazed radioactive insect?

Sorry to say it's not as dramatic as any of that.  He simply has a liver that doesn't want to function in the way good livers should.  And the human body is not built to function on blood laced with Windex.  So my father has chosen to give up his new-found Super Powers (he really wasn't into cleaning all that much anyway, and that silicone is just not breathable!) and become a regular nobody again.

A top team of military doctors and scientists are working on this ultra-classified detoxification project. 

So don't tell anybody!

In the meantime, on the opposite side of the country, I'm reading "Watchmen," which is that comic book graphic novel that the movie was based on.  Although I am only about 20% geek, and have never read a comic book graphic novel in all my life, this one sounded pretty good so I thought I'd give it a shot.  And it IS really good!  I can totally understand the escapism these geeks fans get from these comic books graphic novels.

Especially when things are a little less-than-happy in Happily-Ever-After-Land.

Speaking of supers, I bet you didn't know there's a few more Super Heroes in the family. 

There's The CareTaker - that's my sister.  She was visiting The Cleaner at his secret hide-out when the toxicity levels started to rise.  She's there now, overseeing the medical team.

And then, of course, Captain Patience and his sidekick GiggleBox.  Captain Patience, with his Broad Shoulders, has been putting up with me, hanging around in my pajamas, not doing anything but crocheting flowers on the couch, and saying nothing about my general funk and inability to do anything worthwhile.  Last night, Captain Patience made the Ultimate Sacrifice.... he watched a rerun of NCIS with me.  That's like cryptonite to my mild mannered husband.  But not Captain Patience!  And GiggleBox, with her powers of complete obliviousness, can distract even the most sullen and lighten any mood around her.

Dad's detoxification program should be completed by Saturday, at which time he will be able to return home.  He won't have Super Powers anymore.  But, personally, I liked him way better without them.

Now Making Her WebTV Debut....

My gorgeous sister!

Yes, Sissy was tapped for her beauty AND brains to give parenting tips to all the rest of you schmucks.

What makes HER so qualified?, I can already hear you shrilly exclaiming.

Well, as a matter of fact, Sissy has a Masters Degree in Social Work from Tulane, THAT'S what. 

(Not only do I enjoy boasting about how awesome my sister is, I also like to add that I was the one who got her into Tulane in the first place.  It was MY amazing editing skills on her admissions essay that cinched the deal.  Although nobody's ever TOLD us that, but, you know, I'm SURE that's how it went down.)

Oh, and she's worked with kids and parents for years, blah, blah, blah.  (I can't take credit for that one, so it's not really worth mentioning.)

And now I present to you, courtesy of qctimes.tv, the most glamorous Social Worker ever in the history of social work, my Sister!

(She's the first one talking, the hot, young babe.  Not those old biddies they wasted screen time on in the last half of the clip!)

Daddy of the Year - Snow Man?

Miss Priss FINALLY got her snowman last week, courtesy of Daddy.

He huffed and puffed and rolled three good sized snowballs, piling them one on top of the other.  Priss assisted, of course.  Because, according to her, nothing is done properly unless she has lended a hand to "help."

Papa Bear then accosted a tree to procure facial features and limbs for our frigid little person.

How do you like that ponytail? 

Finally, the Snowman was complete.  Daddy and daughter were very proud!

Of course, the part I'm not supposed to show you, the part that's hidden from all public view, is that this Snowman has a secret.  Well, TWO secrets, actually....

Yes, those are exactly what you think they are.  The conversation went something like this:

Him:  It just needs one more thing.  <grabs two handfuls of snow and smacks them onto the torso>

Me:  What are you doing?!?!??

Him: Nuthin'. 

<as he's rubbing to "smooth them out">

Me:  Is it supposed to be a SnowGirl? 

Him:  Hey, I grew up in Texas.  We didn't have snow.

Me:  Really?  Congratulations, you've finally realized your dream from puberty.

Him:  Oh, we're going to take pictures, aren't we?  Better dress up the other side.

Me: Sure.  Right.  Not taking any pictures back here.  Not a one!

So there you have it, a Transgendered Snowperson who never learned where the parts are supposed to go.  I'm not sure if we are teaching Priss tolerance, or just really, really confusing her. 

Only time will tell!

If Priss Made A Rap Album, This Would Be The Cover....

And the name of the album would be...

Miz Priss and Yo Mama
    Ain't No Crybaby

Or how about...

PinkDelicious and Mammary Glandz
    Too Dirrrty for a Baaath

Any other suggestions?  What should the title of our yet-to-be-written-or-recorded album be?

PhotoStory Friday - Snow Angels

Last weekend, Miss Priss taught us how to properly create a Snow Angel.

Who knew we were doing it wrong all this time?

First, Daddy attempted to show that old-fashioned way we'd been (erroneously) making them...

Then Priss the Diva (who flat-out REFUSED to lay herself upon SNOW) picked up her stick (yes, we are the type of idiotic parents who let their two-year-old play with a stick, so?) and showed us how to properly fashion a Perfectly Prissy Snow Angel....

Apparently, it involves whacking into the snow with your stick two times.  Then stand back, and you have this work of art...

For those who are not enlightened enough to make heads or tails of the masterpiece before you, perhaps this will help...

Voila!

Today's lesson brought to you by...
The Sequoia National Forest - Just the best darn place to find fresh snow in March!

and

Wiley Coyote - Thanks for not eating us while we were changing our clothes by the car.  So  appreciated!

What's So Wrong With Peace and Love?

If you have kids, or if you've been around my kid for any length of time, then you are aware of the current state of cartoons for the youngest set. 

They're NICE.  Everybody's nice.  Even when someone does something wrong, like, say Goofy breaks something, Mickey just says, "That's alright!  Now let's fix it!  Oh, Toodles!!!"  No anger.  No blame.  Just acknowledgment and then moving on.

So maybe it's not riveting.  Miss Priss sure does like it!

But Daddy has a hankering for The Classics.  And by Classics, I mean specifically Tom and Jerry.

I know I had watched the cat and mouse chase as a younger child, but I don't remember much of it.  By the time I was school age, I didn't like them anymore.  Even my young brain didn't enjoy watching the characters mindless violence against each other.  I'd become much more interested in the likes of "Inch High Private Eye" and "Grape Ape" and "Jabber Jaws."  (Anyone who remembers those cartoons gets a new, special level of respect from yours truly.)

But, alas, what do I find on my Tivo the other day?

"Tom and Jerry."

"What's this?" I asked the Hubster.

"I thought I'd show it to Priss and see if she likes it.  You know how she likes cats."

And that's when I began to worry that she WOULD like it.  Because once or twice a week we'll hit You Tube, type in "funny cats" and watch lots of video of cats falling off things and running into walls.  And Priss thinks it's HILARIOUS.  Especially when they fall off of counters.  So there was a very real chance that this whole Tom and Jerry thing would be a winner for her.

But then what?  She watches them smack around each other for no reason whatsoever and that's NOT supposed to rub off on her?  She mimics the dance Mickey does to call for Toodles.  She exclaims "Double Drat," a favorite expression of her little friend on "Super Why."

Still, there it was, at 7:15 this morning, dog chasing cat, cat chasing mouse, and mouse hitting cat with a hammer.

Oh, brother.

"Sooo, how'd she like it?"  I asked the Hubs, who ate his breakfast in front of the TV with her.

"Well, she didn't seem to get it.  She doesn't understand that cats chase mice.  And the dog was in both of them, and he's usually not there."

Whew!  Experiment over.  Results - total failure.

But whatever you do, do NOT tell him that Priss saw those photos of Tom and Jerry in this post and told me she wanted to watch the Kitty Cat again.  That event NEVER HAPPENED!

Who Says She Doesn't Like It?

She said, and I quote, "Dressing up your kids like that is only a step up from dressing up your pets."

Mind you, she did not say that specifically to me.  It was a friend of a high school friend of mine, commenting on Facebook the fact that our mutual friend had forgotten to put her kid in green yesterday for St. Patrick's day.

But still, I'm hurt.  Wounded,in fact.

It had never occurred to me that anyone would think Miss Priss' cutesy dress-ups were anything but adorable. 

Her very first Valentine's Day found her in a red velour onsie topped off with red heart-shaped sunglasses. 

Does this make me a monster???  Should I be at some sort of self-help group for my psychosis?  Is there a test I need to take to definitively tell me that I am a danger to my child for once in a while placing her in "thematic dressing."

Or should I be expecting a visit from Child Protective Services because the tales of Priss being periodically beaten up and negligently kept in a crib she's too big for were not as disturbing or horrid as the fact that I had  the gall to put us in identical outfits for our *Fancy Mommy & Me Day*, and one of you finally called us in.

Obviously, I'm making up for something that went terribly wrong in my own childhood.  Did Mom not dress me up at all???  No, I specifically remember she'd dress up Sissy and me in matching outfits every so often, but not to the point of nausea.  She'd even sewed up a pair of matching red plaid dresses with black velvet vests when the two of us were performing in a piano recital.  But I LIKED those dresses.  They were a little tough to get in and out of, but I thought they looked very fancy and was proud to wear it!

AHA!  So Mom cultivated a LOVE of dressing up in me.  See, it is all HER fault.

In my defense, how can this be ALL bad?  Doesn't a nice theme kind of break up the monotony?  Back in college (OK, and well after college, I'm not ashamed to admit!) my girlfriends and I would have theme nights when we'd head out to the clubs.  70's Night saw me in white knee-high boots with white shorty short shorts, a lavendar top and a wide headband.  And we totally rocked it!

Some would point out that, according to my feeble reasoning, I am only teaching Miss Priss to be a better Party Girl. 

To those people, I say PARTY ON!!!...

 

Mommy of the Year - How Much More Evidence Does a Woman Need???

Maybe I just have a hard time admitting my baby girl is growing up?

Or maybe I just like the security of knowing my little adventurer is locked up for the night.

Either way, Miss Priss is nearing two and a half years old and consistently measures up to at least the 95th percentile in height, and STILL we've got her in a crib. 

The pediatrician had been warning me since she was 18 months old, "You know, your daughter is VERY tall, so she'll probably try to climb out of her crib.  The safest thing to do is put a mattress on the floor and let her sleep on that."

Except, she never did try to climb out.  No mysterious bumps in the night.  No little person showing up at our bedside demanding breakfast at 3 am.  She's been very content in her crib.  And I've been her co-dependent.

Well, that is, until she got up from her nap the other day and I walked into her room to find this...

Can you spot what's wrong with this picture???  She's sitting on a BEACH BALL!!!  Well, actually, she was bouncing on it, and having quite a giggle fest to boot.  No, we do not let her regularly sleep with beach paraphenilia.  From what I can guess, she reached through the bars at the foot of her bed and plucked it up from the basket it was sitting atop of.

And if that wasn't bad enough, she decided to show me just how tall and limber she actually is with one of these moves...

Now, mind you, that's about as far as she can get.  She hasn't figured out the art of using her arms to pull herself up.  Yet.

But the final straw (and, regrettably, I have no picture of this for you) is when we woke up to the strangest sound we'd ever heard from her.  Was it laughing?  Was it screaming?  It didn't sound painful, but Hubster hurried into Miss Priss Lair just to be sure.  It turns out it was both.  Seems she had discovered the fun of WWE and was running and bouncing off the sides of her crib, the way an oversized wrestler bounces off the sides of the ring.

So it's really, REALLY time to get a bed.  Not just for Priss' health anymore, but for the survival of the crib.  We've got another kid coming, you know, and I think they frown on letting newborns sleep amongst splintered wood and missing bars.

But, I don't know, would it really be so bad if we put it off till Priss' feet stick out the end?