Big Events

The past two weeks have been pretty exciting 'round here at the ol' Sebring domicile. Last week I decided that by God, Ethan was getting potty trained. I literally dragged him into the bathroom kicking and screaming several times. And I've read all the books and I know you're supposed to let them do it when they're ready and not punish them, blah blah blah, but my kid is stubborn. Obstinate to the core. So I had to punish him. I had to force the issue. I had to give him time-outs and pops on the hiney for not cooperating. When he did actually go pee in the potty, I made a huge deal. We did the dance of joy down the hallway. I gave him M&M's. I gave him stickers - one on each hand. I told everyone I've ever met. He is now going pretty regularly and even went in a PUBLIC RESTROOM at Animal Kingdom on Saturday. It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen. It's such a freeing feeling. Now, if I could just get him to stop pooping in his Pull-Ups...

Micah also had a big week. He walked! He had taken a couple of little steps, but last week he started taking 5-6 steps at a time. It helped to have his Grandma's cane to lure him. For some reason he loves that cane. He would rather walk to it than to his own mother. 

This week is birthday week. No, I did not intend to have 2 children within the same week (2 years apart, of course), but my anniversary is the end of May. Do the math. Micah's birthday was Tuesday. The whole fam-damily and some close friends came over for supper and cupcakes. Yesterday some friends met us at the train park for a picnic and more cupcakes. Today I'm taking in a special snack (Lightning McQueen fruit snacks, apple juice, and cookies) for Ethan's preschool class, and tomorrow night we are having another dinner with the family and close friends because it's Ethan's birthday. I am going to attempt to make Ethan a Thomas the Train cake. I will probably post pictures of this "cake wreck" next week. I am not crafty AT ALL (a quick confession: sometimes when I go to MOPS and I see the table set up for crafts, I break into a cold sweat and want to run away), but I'm going to try my best for my lil guy. I can't believe I planned all this partying so close together. This is compounded by the fact that Todd and I spent Sunday puking our guts up and then Monday recovering. I'm still not totally well, evidenced by the fact that I have had not one single cupcake. 

I realize that I'm rambling. That's probably because I made the coffee this morning and I always make it a little too strong. I just wanted to share with you the big events that have happened in my kids' lives since I last wrote. I can't believe that as of tomorrow, I have a 1-year-old and a 3-year-old. And that one of them is walking and one of them is going pee in the potty. Time sure does fly. Now, if any of you have any suggestions for getting them to poop in the potty...

The Consequences of Blogging While Parenting

I've written a couple of brag posts about how great my playroom is and how organized and clean it stays. We've purged and planned, making this room a space the kids can play in and clean up all by themselves. Sounds great, right?



Well....




here's how the playroom looks after Mommy blogs:

That stepstool belongs in the kitchen...I don't even know how it got in there. And our strict playroom rule is "ONE TOY AT A TIME and PUT IT AWAY WHEN YOU ARE DONE PLAYING WITH IT."

This pic was taken from my office chair, so I can see the playroom and even hear what is going on. The problem is, they realize that I'm not paying them the least little bit of attention when I get on this computer (unless one of them starts crying or screaming). Why follow the rules if Mommy isn't watching?

So, anytime you read any of my posts, here or over at Growing Great Kids, just know that I paid the price for every single post...in fact, I'm probably busy cleaning the playroom right now.

Speaking of Spilling Coffee...

I did a bad thing the other day. To be fair, it was early. I had been up since 5:20. My baby son (He heretofore shall be dubbed "O-Line," because he is big enough to be the entire offensive line for the Alabama Crimson Tide. Roll Tide! Woo-hoo!) had been screaming for the last 30 minutes/35 miles and we had just completed the first 60 miles of what was to be a 450+ mile trip, 9 hours according to Brenda, the lady who lives in our navigation system, although I'm not sure how accurate Brenda's timing is because I don't think she normally travels with 2 small children. Anyway, we stopped for a break at the Okahumpka Travel Plaza on the Turnpike. My oldest, whom I'll call "Calvin 'n Hobbes" because he is blonde and carries around a battered stuffed orange cat, was able to run off some energy and pretend to play video games. I fed O-Line some mangoes, we changed everyone's diapers and then it was time for my DH and me to get our breakfast. Have you been to this travel plaza? There's a Starbucks and a Dunkin' Donuts. Genius! We opted for DD and my DH took care of the ordering while I chased Calvin 'n Hobbes to the video games and held O-Line. DH came to get us, telling me, "We have to make our own coffee." What? What kind of a ghetto DD has you make your own iced coffee drink? I dragged Calvin 'n Hobbes away from the video game while my arm cramped from holding O-Line. DH handed me a large cup with a brown syrupy substance in the bottom. "That's your flavoring." Ugh. I proceeded to fill the cup halfway with cold coffee, then thought, "Crap! I should've put the ice in first!" I couldn't hold O-Line, hold my cup, and pull the ice lever all at the same time, so I balanced my cup under the ice dispenser and pulled the lever. As soon as the ice hit the cup, the cup flew off the shelf and coffee spilled EVERYWHERE. And what did I do? I left it. I didn't even look back to see how bad the damage was. I just calmly walked to the car, wiped down O-Line, buckled him in his car seat, and got into my own seat. My shirt, shorts, socks, shoes, underwear were soaked. At least it smelled good, unlike gas, which is what I usually spill on myself on long trips. DH and Calvin 'n Hobbes followed a few minutes later, bearing the gift of a coffee cooler from Starbucks. If I'm not banned for life from the Okahumpka Service Plaza on Florida's Turnpike, I think I'll choose Starbucks the next time I stop.

Practical or Pathetic?

Coffee spilled down the front of my shorts first thing this morning.

It's lunchtime now, and I fully intend to wear these shorts for the rest of the day.

Less washing, less waste...saving the planet the lazy way.

You can never be TOO safe. Ummm, okay.

We went on our last official adventure of the summer last weekend. We went out to River Ranch to meet up with the in-laws and cousins for lunch. I thought it was better than great but that was mostly because I didn't have to clean the house before anyone came over. (Keepin' it realz. You know you do it, too.) They have a petting zoo/barn, pony rides, trail rides, skeet shooting range, airboat and swamp buggy rides, miniature golf, an airport, regular golf course, fishing, camping, hay rides, rodeo on Saturday nights, and a nice little restaurant. There is plenty to keep the entire family busy.

I, being raised on a farm, thought it lacked somewhat. It is billed as an "authentic Dude Ranch." When your means of money making is tourism, it's a bit hard to think of it as any kind of ranch. I suppose it was awesome for city slickers. Those of us raised in the country look at these super well-trained animals as boring. I mean, where is the excitement in riding a horse that doesn't really gallop full out but practices a gated canter? That stops every time. That follows the others. It takes no skill is what I'm trying to say.

It was common to see my sister and I playing around our farm. We used to ride our sow pigs like bucking broncos. (They can really buck, too.) Or practice running up behind our horse and jump on from behind to mount like they do in the movies (that is so hard with a tall horse). I bounced off their hindquarters and landed in a heap many times. We loved to play hide and seek on our horses, sneaking up behind one another and spooking them so they would jump. Taking your horse swimming in lakes and hanging to their mane as they swim. Or setting up obstacle courses to grab flags and jump objects to see who could do it the fastest. Rigging up our saddles like trick saddles so we could stand on them while our horses were moving. You know, just having fun.

Out at River Ranch, you had to be 8 years old to go on the trail ride. What the??? I lead trail rides for novices by the time I was 8. I digress, this is a place for city slickers. I realize.

So, THE Princess is riding the ponies. I am taking her picture and telling her NOT to hold on with her hands. (Real riders don't hold on to the saddle horn, that's where your rope goes.) I am telling her to wave. And smile. Then I tell her to pet her horse while she rides. Then turn around and give his rump a pat.



She did all of it, without an ounce of fear. (She really didn't need to be fearful, these ponies seemed to have undergone lobotomies recently and they weren't going to do much.)

I look over and the other 3 sets of parents are stricken. One mom yells, "No! Don't do that! You could be killed!" Seriously. I looked at her in wonderment. "Killed" was taking it a bit far. I didn't say anything, but I am sure I rolled my eyes. I couldn't hold it in. I know, I am totally immature. As the kids were getting off their mounts, the other parents were discussing my lack of concern for the safety of my child.

So, once again I am a bad parent. As you can see from the pictures, THE Princess was totally scarred from the entire event. How will she ever make it to adulthood in one piece?



My point is, do we keep our kids too safe? I choose to let my kids take some risks. To adventure. To enjoy. Guess what? Sometimes they get hurt. But, more often than not, they have fun and learn something. Especially if they get hurt. (As the saying goes, "Even an ass doesn't bump his head in the same place twice." Unfortunately, I do. What does that make me?) I am the mom that secretly hopes that our little one-eyed-dog will nip THE Princess when she picks him up by the tail. Apparently, me telling her not to do it is not hitting home with her. Poor dog.

My husband and I find that this is our biggest disagreement in raising our children. I say let them try something even if they may get hurt. He disagrees, not wanting them to get hurt. Ever. Sometimes you scrape your knee, and I am okay with that. He says no, if they could possibly get hurt, don't let them do it.

I do shelter my kids in many ways. We don't watch TV, too much gratuitous violence and cursing. I am vigilant about them being around outside influences. Certain toys (Bratz dolls) and clothes (anything with writing across the hind end, to start with) are just not acceptable. No matter what.

So what do you think? Am I a bad parent or what? Where is the line drawn? Just wondering.

Bad Karma Lipstick: A Good Mom Gone Bad

My children are skilled shoplifters. Untrained, but skilled, nonetheless, and I have now become an accomplice.

I once had to shamefacedly return a shoe my kid snagged in a Payless. We got all the way to the other end of the mall before I realized my one-year-old was gnawing happily on a size 12 leopard stiletto...nice.

When KID 1 was 2 1/2 years old, we went to Vermont on vacation. I was six months pregnant with KID 2 at the time, our little girl. We found this neat little town (I conveniently forget the name of the town) with a cool historic district...lots of little shops, boutiques, and interesting places to eat. Just our kind of place.

The highlight of our walking tour was a little drugstore/gift shop with an amazing toy shop in its basement. We had a hard time pulling ourselves away from this store. I mean, my husband and I are really two little kids when it comes to great toys, and we're suckers for well-made wooden toys.

As Paul stood in line to pay, I pushed the stroller over to browse the biggest display of Burt's Bees products I had ever seen, including silver tubes of actual lipstick. And it was minty, just like the gloss I already liked so much.

But I resisted the temptation to buy lipstick, since we were already spending over $100 on toys...a completely and totally necessary expense--we really needed that nesting cube of building blocks and tray of wooden beads with posts and pattern cards (also wood). Priorities, you know?

Anyway, we had a great day exploring the town, but by the end, we were exhausted and bedraggled. So, in a late afternoon thunderstorm, swaddled with packages, diaper bag, and toddler, we ran with the stroller (I did that weird pregnant waddle/run/support the underbelly gracefully move) to the outskirts of town where we parked the car that morning.

We got the baby strapped into his car seat and hauled the stroller into the back. Something fell out and rolled under the car. It was a silver tube.

Apparently, our son really liked that Burt's Bees lipstick, too. Fig...that's the name of this awesome lipstick color.

I felt so guilty, but I was NOT going to walk all the way back to the other side of town in the rain to bring back the lifted lipstick. I justified this decision by pointing out 1) how swollen my feet were, and 2) how much we spent in that particular store. They should have thrown in two or three tubes of lipstick! We headed out of town.

For the last two years, I'm ashamed to admit, this lipstick has been my guilty pleasure. I'm complimented almost every time I wear this beautiful shade, plus my husband loves the minty flavor it leaves behind when he kisses me.

The irony of this situation is that I always pride myself on doing the right thing. Especially as a mom, I hold myself to a very high standard. I go to church every Sunday and teach Sunday school once a month. And now, in a moment of pregnancy-induced weakness, motherhood has turned me into a petty thief!

A few days ago, as I got ready to leave the house, I twisted up my favorite lipstick and found it bitten down to a stub. KID 2 had indulged in a little snackie while she perused the contents of my purse. I should have known that lipstick had bad karma.

And if I ever get back to that quaint little Vermont town and find that shop, I swear I'll do the right thing. But in the meantime, God, forgive me, I'm gonna keep digging my pinkie into the tube and smudging it across my lips until every minty bit of color is gone...as my punishment, of course.

Under the Big Top

The termites are gone now, and we're taking back the house. However, I thought I'd share our conversation about extermination aesthetics:

My husband, Paul: Man, that's one big tent.

Donna: Huge. I like it.

Paul: Hm?

Donna: It really brightens up the house, you know? All those cheerful stripes. It looks like a circus tent.

Paul: Very appropriate.

ON GETTING IT WRONG by Donna

The catchy phrase "When it rains, it pours" is so catchy, it's getting caught in my throat.

I kept finding piles of wings around the house (the 1928 wood frame house we bought 2 years ago) and, yes, they are termite wings. Naively, we agreed with our FOUR-AND-A-HALF-YEAR-OLD that they kinda looked like seeds. You know, the kind that dry up inside a weedy flower and blow around in the wind. When I tried to explain these "seeds" to the termite inspector, I could tell he was struggling to keep a straight face.

Apparently, these little invaders swarm in the house, get where they want to go (a nice woody spot, I guess), tear their own little wings off, make termite whoopy, and then burrow into the beautiful wood floor my husband painstakingly stripped and refinished himself.

Sadly, the children's floor was partially eaten out before we got worried enough about all the seed piles. Whoops.

Last week, right before our July 4th cookout, I was unloading the dishwasher when I realized the cabinet above me was actually pulling away from the wall. I kept hearing a cracking sound when I closed that cabinet door. I thought it was the plastic bag of flour, so I pushed it in a little further and shut the door. The door opened again, so I gave that bag of flour a good shove. That's when I realized that the cabinet was coming down. On top of me.

So there I was, holding up my cabinet and trying to close the dishwasher with my foot, shouting for my husband in my calm distressed voice. It never actually fell, thank God. We got it down and put it on the back porch where the rainstorm that afternoon soaked it and it fell apart. Gotta love pressed wood.

The kitchen cabinet just spontaneously decided to malfunction. It actually had nothing to do with the termites. We're just lucky, I guess.