DadaMama

Get Back, You!

Don't come any closer. I'm suffering from serious PMS, and I might bite your head off. Ask my kids. They did That Thing one more time, and found themselves forced out into the backyard to "play." By "play" I mean "leave-Mommy-the-hell-alone-time."

God I hate hormones.

Thanks to my hormones, I have officially blown this week's Weight Watchers points. Overall, I've been doing great and I'm down 11.5 lbs. However, my reward for reaching my first goal was fewer points. 26 points is seemingly impossible to maintain when one is PMS-ing and eating everything one can get one's hands on.

Is it Friday yet? Will this week ever end? I think not. At least I have a cute baby to help me get by:

A Reckoning

This is Day #2 of The Great Weight Watchers Bonanza. I'm calling it a bonanza because that sounds more like a party than The Great Weight Watchers Starve-a-Thon. So far, it's going ... okay. I haven't quite worked out what I can eat so I don't feel hungry all the time, and I'm also beginning to realize that my kitchen is poorly stocked for this. I can see that I'm going to have to eat waaaay more vegetables than I usually do.

My relationship with vegetables is tenuous at best. I mean, I don't have anything against vegetables--it's just that I lack any creativity in cooking them, and microwaved broccoli isn't all that interesting. Especially when I could be eating chocolate. But I've vowed to be a grown-up this year, and so I'm getting reacquainted with my greens.

Me: Hello, Greens.

Greens: Hello.

Me: So we meet again for the first time for the last time.

Greens: WORD.

I'll let you know how it goes. If Greens and I like each other, I should soon be reaping the rewards of a substantially smaller ass size.

Last night, Dashing Husband and I snuck out for a rare date night. We did something we haven't done in five years: we paid money for movie tickets. It was a sad day when my brother left town and movie tickets stopped being free. However, we were pleasantly surprised by the movie we chose to see: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

I'm a sucker for a good title, and I'd say this movie definitely has that. I had been intrigued by the previews and was even more intrigued after I did a little research into the plot. The idea that someone could truly be born old and then age backwards got me thinking. What if that was possible? What could it mean to the person born this way to be on a course so different from everyone else's?

The story was beautifully told and the cinematography was stunning. Cate Blanchett was luminous as Daisy, and Brad Pitt was believable as Benjamin Button, if a little too stoic in places. If you like slow movies with lots of character development, I think this is an excellent choice.

After the movie, I blew all my "extra" Weight Watchers points on lobster ravioli, sangria, and some kind of dessert made with brownies, Kahlua and chocolate mousse. SO WORTH IT, even though I'm going to have to spend the next seven days trying to love celery (a completely abhorrent addition to the vegetable family, as far as I'm concerned).

Variations On A Theme

I don't like New Year's Resolutions. I mean, they're so obvious. That being said, I've got a lot of things I'd like to accomplish in 2009. I hesitate to call them resolutions, because I'm hoping the things I'm about to undertake will stick.

Here's the thing: I'm going to be 30 years old on March 12. I'm not dreading leaving my 20s behind or anything, because I truly think your age is simply a number and you can behave any way you damn well please. Have you ever heard the saying, "A tool is a tool, no matter how small"? No? Well, it's true. Even though I made it up.

What it all comes down to is that I don't feel like I'm living my best life (Ed. note: This blog is in no way affiliated with Oprah). I am full of half-thought ideas and projects only begun. I'm so busy with the boys most days that I forget to take a breath and remember the things that make me happy. My fingers are itching to create things: to draw, to paint, to sculpt, to move words around the page like so many puzzle pieces.

So much of my life is devoted to my children that I've lost the girl I used to be. 2009 is the year that I will find her. She's in there, somewhere, and she's dying to get loose.

2009 is also the year that I will stop monkeying around on the keyboard in my spare time and start calling myself a writer. I've had a lot of jobs: babysitter, cashier, large animal x-ray technician, reptile wrangler (at The Gourmet Rodent, and no, I can't make this stuff up), groom on a racehorse farm, document scanner at the university (a truly riveting job, if you like to watch paper age), teacher. The one uniting factor shared by all these jobs is that I found them all wanting. The one and only thing I have done consistently, and consistently well, is writing. Strangely enough, it's also the only thing I have never gotten tired of after all this time. So. I don't know what that means yet, exactly, or exactly how it relates to this blog, but I'm going to figure it out. While I do, I'm going to write every day (though not necessarily on the internets) and read everything I can get my hands on. It's time to hone my skills and get my writing muscles back in shape.

Other goals for 2009 are:

Create as little waste as possible. We've already stopped using paper plates and the baby is almost exclusively in cloth diapers (except for when we travel). In the next couple of weeks, we're going to make the switch to cloth napkins. We're going to recycle religiously and if I can buy something used, I will. This means looking to more sources such as eBay and local consignment and thrift stores, but I think it's time to stop some of the rampant consumerism I so enjoy.

Make it myself. If I think I can make something myself, I'm going to give it the 'ole college try. Within reason, of course (I do have three children to take care of, after all). I will report back here with the results.

Get money wise. This has been a goal of mine for the past few years, but has suddenly become REALLY IMPORTANT in the light of recent economic crises and my own personal choice to be a stay-at-home mom. Besides, I want to be able to retire with my husband some day. Yunno, before we're one billion years old.

Start a vegetable garden. I think I'll start small with a square-foot garden.

Get my ass in shape. This is, like, the number one most-failed resolution, I'm sure, but I have to put it out there. I'm signed up for Weight Watchers, and I have located my yoga and pilates DVDs. I have 20 lbs left from birthing babies, and dammit, I want to wear my favorite jeans again. It will be so.

What are your goals for 2009?

Some Things I've Been Meaning to Tell You

So, I did some yoga today. Nothing makes me feel more like a schlepp than a serene, karmically-aware, namaste-wielding Gumby coaxing me into the Bent Angle pose. I especially like it when she models her torture pose for me and then gently implores me to relax. "Soften your eyeballs and your forehead," she chides. What she doesn't know is that my eyeballs and my forehead are the only things keeping me from collapsing into a defeated, trembling heap.

Yoga is not for wussies. I celebrated my workout with a double chocolate milkshake from Steak n' Shake.

Gumby mentioned something about "honoring" my body where it's at--but where's it at is sad and pathetic.  Right now I am 20 lbs heavier than I've ever been, and I have to tuck my stomach into my pants. Soon, my boobs are going to have to be rolled up at night like twin sleeping bags. Thanks, kids. Also, my husband is a lucky, lucky man.

I'm trying to be nice to myself. I mean, this broke-down hunka DID give birth to three fine boys, and is still working hard to nourish the newest. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm ready to have my body back. 

I will now change the subject. I can do that because this is my blog. I don't even need a segue.

This morning we were late getting out the door, so I had to drop Gus off in the car line at school. As I watched him get out of the car and walk into the school, I was struck by what a little man he's turning into. When he hooks his thumbs under the straps of his backpack and heads off to his classroom--my God, he could be going to a university class.  He insists on wearing a polo shirt every day as well, which only adds to his mini-adult appearance.

Five is a big year. Gus has basically learned to read, but still stumbles over sounding things out. Today he learned to ride his bicycle without training wheels. I gave him a push and he was off. It was one of the coolest parenting moments I've ever had.

How To Make Me Feel Like a Jerk: A Tutorial

Offer me the ice cream you were kind enough to buy me when you stopped at the grocery store. AFTER I pick a fight and act like a hormonal bitch.

Thoughts on Time Management

I am making cupcakes.

"But, why?!" you ask. ""9:13 pm is a ridiculous time to be making cupcakes!"

I agree. But it's like this: tomorrow is Valentine's Day, and I promised my lovelies at school that I would bring them something. There is nothing more binding than kids who are expecting a treat.

Also, I am insane. And not good at managing my time. Said cupcakes just made it into the oven, and they are going to need frosting. Good thing I drank that Cherry Coke Zero too close to bedtime, no?

See, I Told You It Was the Math

Your Language Arts Grade: 100%

Way to go! You know not to trust the MS Grammar Check and you know "no" from "know." Now, go forth and spread the good word (or at least, the proper use of apostrophes).

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Thanks, Casey! :)

As Usual, the Math Questions Got Me in the End

You paid attention during 86% of high school!

85-100% You must be an autodidact, because American high schools don't get scores that high! Good show, old chap!

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Or I'll give you a wedgie. An atomic wedgie.

I'm Not As Cool As Ya'll Think

The dreads have gone.*

I loved the way they looked, really I did, but they required more of me on some days than even my children. The waxing, the twisting, the back-combing, the re-banding and re-arranging after sleeping--it was too much. Also, it turns out I have a mild form of Hair OCD, and I cannot, cannot,  live happily without washing and brushing my hair for days at a time. Who knew?

I only wish I was a hippie. Dreads are not for me. Duh, right? I should have known because shaving my legs brings me pleasure like few other things, especially when I can do it right before slipping in between some clean cotton sheets.  I also eat un-organic things and my children have both been vaccinated and I routinely and voluntarily consume both hotdogs (gasp!) and bologna (bring on the lips and assholes!). Clearly I am not now, and have never been, completely committed to the hippie cause. Except for the peace and love thing, I still be down with that.

That last slip into white-girl gangsta speech reminds me of something that happened just the other day. Dashing Husband and I were in bed a couple of nights ago (fully clothed and engaging in no hanky panky--now go do some penance for your impure thoughts!) when Dashing Husband, after one of my wacky suggestions, told me, "That's not how I roll."

When I finally stopped giggling, I said, "You're Whitey White Boy. That's not how you roll." As if a red-headed, palefaced, conspicuously tall man of Irish descent could roll.

ANYway. Not much else happening around these parts. Gus's birthday party was a success, many robots were received, and the FUCKING DOG ate the birthday cake. You'll pardon my language, it was either use an expletive or tie her to the bumper of my car and drag her to her death.

You see, I made a fabulous yellow layer cake with chocolate chips in it. From scratch. I also made blue buttercream frosting. From scratch. And then Will woke up, and I went to soothe him back to sleep, and when I returned to the kitchen, the FUCKING DOG was standing with her paws on the counter. EATING THE CAKE. If I had been less angry I would have taken a picture because in the back of my mind I was thinking, ooh blog this!

When Dashing Husband found out what had happened (Catcher is, after all, his FUCKING DOG) he offered to buy a new cake mix and/or new cake. But I had completely lost all motivation at that point. "There were chocolate chips in that," I pointed out. I was thinking, though I did not say it, that it would be lucky if the chocolate killed the FUCKING DOG. "Let me go get some more," Dashing Husband replied. "It doesn't seem to be working."

And that, my friends, is why we're married. He read my mind, and though the chocolate did not kill the FUCKING DOG as I had hoped--well, it was something to know that Dashing Husband can tap into my psyche on such a molecular level.

*I did not shave my head. I bought the Knotty Boy Emergency Dreadlock Removal Kit, and you would never know that just a few days ago my hair was nappy!