Ironic Parenting

Today my children are full of the exuberance of Christmas.  New cousin born yesterday, cousin and uncle birthday party tonight, grandfather's birthday next week, only THREE days of school before the holiday break and 9 days left on the Christmas countdown.  Don't even get them started on the tiny amount of days left until this baby is due to be forced into the world.  It's a glorious, twinkle-light time in their young lives.

I am full of heartburn and stretching ligaments.

The two are like water and oil.  Not mixing.

This afternoon, during another rousing dance fest to the Nutcracker music, which involved cartwheels and flying elbows, I couldn't go on.  Their happy faces were killing me.  Tchaikovsky was quickly becoming my new nemesis.

So, I grounded them. 

To their DS's. 

That's right.  I said, "Okay, that's enough.  I need a quiet moment.  I want you on your beds, playing your DS's and if you get bored of that then you'd better turn on the Wii" !! 

Ironic?  Yes. 

Successful....Heck yes!

Animal Lovers

People, people, people.  People.  I don't mean to be a Scrooge, or a Grinch, or just a plain old rude butt jerk, but seriously, this obsession with your furry pets has got to end. 

Now, I get that life can be lonely sometimes and that having a furry object to love and cuddle can be a great boon to people who would otherwise be sad.  But... they are not people.  You don't need to grocery shop with them, take them to the movie theater and subject the general public to them.

The other day I saw an extremely large parrot on the shoulder of a grocery shopper while I was out.  Seriously.  No one wants to buy the orange your parrot just turded on!  Let's not even start on the trail of feathers being left behind like bread crumbs so you can find your way back to your car.  And the squawking.  Good heavens, if I wanted to be in a poop filled, screeching noise, feather strewn situation I'd be sitting at home with my kids and the feather boas that looked fun at the time!

Yesterday, while I was innocently in yet another grocery store, some fur lovin' fool parked next to me in the parking lot, apparently forgetting that sometimes people need enough room to re-enter their cars after grocery shopping.  This can be particularly stressful for those of us who are carrying a little extra in their baby belly. 

As if that wasn't bad enough, he had a giant dog in the passenger seat and had left the passenger window completely rolled down.  Not cracked.  All the way down.  This put me and Killer on eye level as a staring contest began.  See, I couldn't get in my car while he had his head sticking out of the window.  The quarters were too close and I didn't want to get my face licked, or bitten off.  I didn't know the overall mood of this dog.  I've occasionally faced similar situations where the dog was feeling protective of his vehicle and lunged at the car window when I went to get into my car.

So, take your dog along, but roll up the bloody window a bit more, please.

Perhaps my favorite dog related incident was last spring when I saw a lady jogging down a main street in my fair city pushing a jogging stroller.  As I got closer I realized that she was not pushing a human in that stroller, but rather a dog.  And this was no poodle my friends.  It was a large dog, perhaps a boxer or some such animal.  Dog was casually lounging while human did all the work.  Honestly.

Next, rodents.  Rodents such as hamsters, guinea pigs and rats are not really supposed to be hanging out at the local department store ogling strangers from the handbags of their caregivers.  It's freaky, it's wrong and, just, yuck!

What I don't understand is why we have a No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service sign on the door, but just any old Buster, Snowball or Georgie can pad on in with their tails wagging or feathers flapping and no one stops them.  You will never convince me that a hamster or a parrot is being used as a service animal.

If we're being honest, in some ways my children are like pets.  They need to be fed, sheltered and add to my overall feelings of contentment.  But they can be yappy and snarly and a distraction to other shoppers.  This is why I do my best to leave them home.


And when I do leave them in the car to wait for me you can bet I don't leave the windows down {ha}.

The Name Game

Tonight, dear reader, I pose to a question that is running rampant through the Hadley household as we are three weeks away from welcoming baby number 4 into our family. 

What's in a name?

For the most part I tend to keep expectations low.  This, as has been noted regularly in this blog, has been a very lucrative attitude for me over the years.

But, all bets are off when it comes to naming my offspring.  See, each of my children has been given their name for a very specific and sentimental reason.

Eliana Mae - It took us several years to get her here.  Eliana means "God has answered", which he did after 3 years of struggles.  And Mae is the middle name of two of her great-grandmothers and one great-great-grandmother whom were amazing women.

Cadence Marie - Hubs is a drummer.  He specifically chose her name to remind him of his love for music and a good "cadence" when playing his beloved instrument.  Marie is my middle name and also my mother's middle name.  Another passing down of names.

Joel Steven - Joel was born father's day weekend and his name is a combo of my dad and my father-in-law's names.  Joseph and Lowell squished together = Joel.  Steven is Hubs's name.  Three great men who love him and will be great examples and friends to him throughout his life.  He carries a great name. 

And now, number four.  How is a girl supposed to come up with a name story for this little guy?  All year long he'll hear tales on birthdays of how we came up with names for his older siblings and then we'll get to him in the last month of the year and he'll get a big... well, huh.  We just drew a name out of a hat.  {sniffle}.  Poor little bugaboo.

He was a surprise, so should we name him Shocker or Whoopsie?  Perhaps we could name him for the birth control pill that failed - Loestrin Hadley has a nice ring.

How about Finito, Last or, my personal favorite, Gomer which means "completed". 

I've tossed around nature names to mimic my own:  Oakes, Brooks, Cypress, Ashton.  But no dice.  Nothing is sticking.

Then, we stumbled upon a fun idea.  While gazing at our stockings hanging by the fire - each stocking has the first letter of that person's name stitched on it - someone suggested we name the baby something comprised of the first letter of the names of our family members. 

S A E C J 

So, we've spent the past few days playing a version of scrabble with that idea in mind.  Who can come up with a name out of those five letters??

And, you know what, we've done it.  We have an idea. 

And most of you will probably hate the name.  And that's okay. 

Because we can tell him - if we do use it - that we wanted to let him know that from the day he was born he was loved by 5 people who will always be part of his life.  We'll give him our names, and our love, to carry with him always.

Sounds pretty cool to me. 

The Evolution of Shaving

Whilst enjoying yet another stimulating (ie, heart pounding, breath stealing, contortionist, tear-filled eyes) leg shaving adventure I realized that while the last 20 + years of shaving have remained consistent in the actual act, that the motivation behind shaving has evolved over time.

When I was in 7th grade (summer birthday) and allowed to shave I mostly did it because it made me feel grown up and shouted my new hairless pseudo-adult status to the world.  I remember sitting in choir class with a friend's older sister and having her tell me and another friend in serious tones that we should ALWAYS remember to shave above the knee.  Failing to do so was akin to social suicide.  Those words of wisdom were carved into my head. 

Throughout junior high, high school and college I continued to shave because of peer pressure.  It was socially acceptable and I wasn't one to rock the boat.  Trust me, no one (aside from my friend J.C.) wanted to be known as the hairy girl. 

My early married years were a continuation of shaving habits.  Now it was motivated by the fact that (cover your eyes young readers) someone else would have access to my legs, and nothing is as nasty as running into stubble.  Or worse, long, soft, locks of leg hair.  Nasty.

With my first pregnancy I continued to shave because I was serious about retaining some pride and NOT sitting in those delivery stirrups with my leg hair tickling my doctor's face.  (Too much?) 

Then, motherhood set in.  Gone is my desire to be seen as an adult.  It doesn't get much more adult than early 30s with three kids, a job, a house, a minivan and the sudden addition of chin hairs (which I'm actually probably less concerned about than I should be).  Gone is my need to cave to peer pressure.  Even my peers aren't shaving as regularly.  We wear pants.  It's the new cool thing to do.  Gone is my desire for Hubs to only have contact with shining, smooth legs.  Or, as Hubs would probably say, gone is my desire.  Period. 

Only one thing seems to remain as a reason for me to continue shaving, however sporadically.  It is my last shred of pride.  I still refuse to have my leg hairs tickling someone during the delivery of my fourth baby.

What remains to be seen is, what will my motivation be after this?  There will be no more babies.  I stopped caring what my peers think a while back and, as established, I'm an adult. 

My glimmer of hope resides in the fact that one of my girlfriends told me that when you become geriatric you start losing hair on your body and don't really have to shave anymore.  Sweeter words were never spoken. 

I gently suggest to the public that you enjoy this brief reprieve of the last 30 days of my pregnancy.  After that I would suggest you avoid looking overlong at my legs, or sitting within rubbing distance.

And, Hubs could probably use a kind word or pat on the shoulder now and then, with love and compassion for the hardships he'll be facing.   

G.R.A.T.I.T.U.D.E.

What would Thanksgiving be without the "gratitude" post? 

I have to totally give The Hubs snaps because a week or so ago he came home with a stack of Post-It notes and a Sharpie marker.  At dinner each night we've gone around the table and each said one or two things we're thankful for.  Then we write them on the Post-It and slap it on an wall in our kitchen.  We've filled a wall with thankful notes and it makes me happy to focus on the positive among all the crummy stuff that can fill up your life.

This past Sunday I gave my primary girls the challenge to go home and make a list of things they are thankful for that start with the letters of GRATITUDE.  So, in order to not be terribly hypocritical over the holiday season, I will challenge myself to do the same.

Goldfish crackers - really, seriously, genius!!
Raisin-free cookies
Authors - without whom I couldn't indulge my need to read.
Toe nail clippers
IPods
Tumblers - for holding yummy drinks.
Umbrellas
Doctor Doofenshmirtz - if you don't know, you'd best find out!!
Exaggerated story telling

Now, go out and make your own list. 

The Accidental Project

Disclaimer:  Before I begin this post I must address an issue that has come to my attention.  My mother seems to be under the painful - and incorrect - belief that my blog is simply a forum for "throwing her under the bus".  I do not believe this to be the case at all.  All my stories are shared with good humor and sarcasm.  None of them are meant to be taken seriously.  (Although they DID all happen!)

Is it my fault that she provided me with many tales to share while growing up under her gentle tutelage?  I have been told tales of my grandmother and even of my great grandmother and their silly antics all my life.  I'm assuming my children will also tell tales of things I subjected them to when they become adults.  It's the circle of life. 

So, mom, buckle up....'cause here we go again...

As a child I occasionally became a victim of what I would refer to as "accidental projects".  You know, those times when, say, your mom decided to get a blanket out of the linen closet only to decide that closet was horrifyingly dirty and you suddenly found yourself cleaning.  If only mom had stayed out of the closet that day!!

The biggest and best example of this is the terrible

WAX SCRAPING FIASCO. 

Before my parents put actual tile in their kitchen they had some pretty fancy 20+ year-old linoleum type stuff designed to look like tile.  One day my mom got a wild hair and decided to get a butter knife and scrape the "grout" in this flooring.  She accidentally found out that the grout was actually white, not brown.  She figured that after 20+ years there was some serious wax build-up and that it needed to be broken down in order to make her kitchen floor sparkle again. 

She also accidentally experimented on the dead center "tile" on the kitchen floor.  Nope, she couldn't experiment under a shelf in the pantry.  She had to light up that center tile in the kitchen like a beacon of torture.  Of course, with the center tile sparkling like a Christmas tree she had no choice but to do the entire kitchen.

Thus, the most outrageous accidental project of my life.  All four of us children were recruited, given kitchen butter knives and put to work.  It took an extremely large amount of time.  Extremely large.  It was the worst, worst, worst. 

We still talk about it to this day.  I'm pretty sure it was only a year later that she got real tile. 

Slap. In. The. Face. 

This experience taught me a valuable lesson about not wanting to scratch away that dirt and to leave layers of grime well enough alone.  You don't want to know.  Trust me.  Ignorance is bliss.

Then, this morning, I apparently forgot all that and found myself involved in an accidental project.  I sat down at the top of the stairs going from my kitchen to my family room to talk with Joel about something while he was downstairs.  As I sat there I noticed that what I had heretofore assumed was kind of an off-white/cream colored railing may actually be white.  So, I foolishly grabbed a cloth, got it wet and began wiping down the railing.  Yep, it was white.

#*$(@&$(*%&)@(&$ !!!!

And now, I had one lovely pure white railing, gleaming like a Christmas tree among the other dulled, finger print and kool-aid spotted rails.  So, I hunched down and spent my morning wiping down railings.  But then the wall next to it - with it's lovely cream...oops, I guess white...wainscoting - couldn't be left alone. 

My accidental project took up most of my morning.  And I was so mad at myself for not remembering that long ago lesson.

But, hey, at least it didn't involve a butter knife!

8 years and a lotta miles

Eight years ago on this very day I became a mother.  After several years of disappointments and worry Eliana Mae changed my world.  Her delivery wasn't easy.  There was coaxing, begging, setbacks, and finally she was forced out regardless of her desire.  I went into labor with her at my grandmother's 90th birthday party the night of the 13th.   Eliana was born at 10:30 p.m. on the 14th.   Stubborn little button!!

No one can tell you until you become a mother what that word truly means.  People try.  There are quotes everywhere about having your heart walking around outside your body.  And that's true.  But no words can express the depth of emotion you feel about that child. 

No one can explain to you the way you fall in love the minute you know of their existence.  No one can tell you that those first kicks are like your first conversation.  No one tells you how some days when you're resting your hand on your swollen stomach, that you honestly feel like you can communicate and express love for that child.   That by feeling their little bum, or elbow, or heel push into your hand it's like getting to know each other.  No one can tell you....

No one can prepare you for that drive home from the hospital.  How you are suddenly aware of all the "idiot drivers" around you who never existed until your baby was born.  No one can tell you why your house will suddenly feel too hot or too cold or too noisy.  How you'll start whispering and sneaking around when you used to feel no such need.

No one can tell you about the sleepless nights, the sudden terror of a sneeze or cough, the wondering, wondering, wondering.  Are they getting enough to eat, are they sleeping okay, are they warm enough, are they happy.... do they know that I LOVE THEM!!!??

You can not understand how their heartaches will become yours.  How their successes make you want to shout for joy.  How their struggles will keep you on your knees, pleading for answers on how to help them.  How your hopes and fears for their futures will occupy your thoughts.

No one can tell you, because you wouldn't believe them.  Until you become a mother you would think they were being melodramatic or sentimental. 

It's the most amazing ride you can ever hope for. 

And I'm so grateful that my little button girl, all 6 lbs and 4 oz of her, came screaming into my world and changed it for the better.

I love you Els. 

Happy Birthday!!