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Friday, March 30, 2012

Puff and Pterodactyls Really Have Nothing to Do With It

It's 11:22 p.m. T is finally asleep. If you were sitting here in my dark little living room with me, you would never have guessed what just went down in this house.

You would also most likely be a creepy weirdo.

I attempted the cry method (pretty sure that's not the scientific name) of putting T to bed tonight. The whole process started out great. I didn't even think I would NEED to use it at first. I gave the baby a bottle, he fell asleep and I put him in his crib. Voila.

I should have know it wouldn't, couldn't be that easy.

T has been sleeping fitfully since he was born for the past few nights. I'm almost certain it's because he's teething. Not like normal baby teething, either. More like, "Hey, I think I should get ALL MY TOP TEETH AT ONCE" teething.

This is also known as the seventh circle of hell.

It probably wasn't the greatest idea to try out a new method on an already cranky child who's been rocked to sleep every night of his 11 month existence. Yeah, rookie mistake. Or whatever comes in below rookie status. Dummy? Dolt? Blockhead? Pick one.

About five minutes after I lay him down, he starts to fuss. So I go in and pick him up and sit down in the rocking chair like I usually do. He is not cool with this plan. He starts tossing Mickey onto the floor (that's his "lovey"), slaps me in the face several time, pulls my hair, fling his arms around, fusses, does the "I'm not a baby, I'm a 2x4" thing, kicks his feet, rubs his eyes and generally carries on.

I'm finally like, "That's it, I'm laying down the law" ... and the baby.

Bad puns are a specialty of mine.

I set a timer for two minutes.

After some mild to moderate crying, I go in and calm T down by rubbing his back whilst draping my tired old self like a used dishcloth over the edge of the crib.

He settles down after five or so minutes and goes back to sleep. I leave. And the screaming begins again. This time it's amped up a little. I set another timer and go scrub my sink with baking soda.

I'm a stress cleaner. I'm also a stress eater. That could very well have been the reason those pretzels tasted like bleach.

Anyway, I finish that and go back in to "comfort" my now hyperventilating child.

He's snot having it.

Yay. Two whole puns. There is still hope for my sad, sorry sense of humor.

The hubby comes in. "What are you doing?"

"I'm, uh, I'm trying the cry method. We let him cry so he learns to go to sleep by himself."

"So he screams his head off and then magically falls asleep?"

"Um, yes."

He looks at me like I've spent a little too much time with Puff the Magic Dragon.

Sheltered? Me? Nawwww.

Confession Time: I did not know that song was about marijuana until I was 18.

Confession Time Part 2: I thought you smoked marijuana by making a nice little fire-like pile of it on a flat surface, lighting it with a match, and letting the smoke waft around you.

Confession Time Part 3: I've never actually seen marijuana. If somebody substituted it for one of my dried herbs, I'd never know. Except there's a very good possibility I'm allergic. So I might die. Other than that, I'd never know.

Anyway, the hubby does the comforting this time. Once T's asleep, we lay him back down.

Anyone wanna guess what happens?

His little eyes pop open and he stands up and says in a British accent, "You blokes officially suck as parents".

Oh wait, that's a TV show.

His little eyes pop open and he starts screaming.

There we go.

We let him scream. For five whole minutes. Then my husband is like, "This is not good. He's HYPERVENTILATING." And I'm like, "Fine. You deal with it." So he does. T falls asleep again.

We try to lay him down. And the cycle continues (if you weren't paying attention, that would be: he wakes up, he screams, we wait a few minutes, I vigorously scrub something, we attempt comfort, he achieves dream state, we lay him down, repeat.)

Every time this happens the screams get louder and longer and more horrible than I ever could have imagined.

Which leads me to briefly ponder the link between babies and pterodactyls. Perhaps the stork isn't really a stork at all, but a gigantic prehistoric creature who teaches babies to make horrific sounds that can turn their parents into mushy-brained morons ...

Behold, the face of evil.
... yup, that's definitely it.

Finally, Chance lays down with him on our bed.

T keeps wailing. I come in.

"THAT WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA," he yell-whispers.

"WELL, HE HAS TO LEARN SOMETIME," I yell-whisper back.

"HE WOULD HAVE BEEN ASLEEP TWO HOURS AGO IF YOU HADN'T DONE THAT STUPID THING."

"IT'S NOT A STUPID THING. IT'S A PSYCHOLOGICAL THEORY."

"IT'S RETARDED. EVERY TIME I TRY TO LEAVE, HE SCREAMS. HE'S TERRIFIED OF BEING ALONE NOW AND IT'S YOUR FAULT."

Consequently, my husband also has a terrible fear of being alone. He can also sound (and routinely acts) exactly like Grover, which makes the video on the right even more apropros.

But back to the whisper fight:

"NO, HE'S NOT. HE JUST DOESN'T WANT TO GO TO SLEEP."

"WHATEVER."

"WHATEVER."

Have you ever had an entire conversation in yell-whispers? It does some weird things to your vocal chords. So I go get a drink of water. Fold the laundry. Read some blog posts. Steam a bit.

And come back an hour later to find my husband and baby curled up on the bed (my side of the bed) snoring away.

I guess Daddy's going to be in charge of bed time from now on. Otherwise, mommy could do irreversible damage to the poor child's psyche.

It's all the pterodactyl's fault.

I told you they were evil.
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Wednesday, March 21, 2012

The Sheet Saga: Why Satin Sheets Should Burn With the Fire of a Thousand Suns

This is more like a novel than a blog post. You have been warned.

About two weeks ago, my husband and I went shopping together. This tends to be a very bad thing cuz I'm always like, "Ooh looky, something shiny" and he's like, "Buy it" and I'm like, "It's not in the budget" and I put it back and then he puts it in the cart anyway and we end up getting it. It's all part of his master plan to take over the world get video games because when we end up in that department he pulls the, "Well, you got your shiny thing" card and I'm like, "Hoover dam it. Fine." and we end up spending twice as much as I would have if I had just shopped ALONE.

Did you catch all that?

Anyhoo, whilst shopping, we somehow ended up in the linens aisle. Well, really I was trying to sneakily wend my way to the shoe department. Shoes are kinda like my version of crack.

All of a sudden my husband was like, "STOP THE PRESSES!"

I thought I was busted. But, no. It was worse. Much worse.

He wanted to look at sheets.

We have this problem, you see. Sometime during the night an evil alligator (named CHANCE LEE WALKER) creeps into our bed and does the macarena, causing the fitted sheet to slip off the mattress and crumple up right underneath my butt. When I get up to feed the baby I'm like, "ARRGGHHH" and I wake up the evil alligator hubby and make him get out of bed and stand there holding the screaming hungry baby while I fix it.

Of course I have never been accused of having OCD. To what are you referring?

Anyhoo, the hubby apparently doesn't like standing in his underwear holding a screaming infant for 10 minutes at 3 a.m., so he decided getting new ones would solve the problem.

And they had to be satin.

I was a little leery having never been a satin sheet owner before, but he really, really, REALLY wanted them, so we ended up buying a set.

In case you're wondering, I never made it to the shoe department.

We get them home and hubby immediately strips the bed and I'm like, "Maybe we should wash these first. They smell like the frog I dissected in eighth grade." Hubby sighs heavily, but puts the sheets in the washer.

One hour later: The sheets are washed and dried. Hubby has fallen asleep watching TV, so I end up making the bed.

The first thing I realize is that it's no easy task making a bed with satin sheets. The slippery little buggers have a mind of their own. Every time I try to put the quilt on, the fitted sheet somehow migrates to the top/side/bottom/other side of the bed. I finally figure out that if I fold the blanket into fourths, gingerly place it on the bed in the correct position, and then unfold it like it's covered with explosive foam, the sheet stays mostly in place.

After all that, I am sweaty and huffing and puffing and all I can think is, "EFF YOU, CREATOR OF SATIN SHEETS ... "

Which brings me to the first reason satin sheets are not sexy:
Making your bed should not be an aerobics workout. 
(because then you end up looking like Richard Simmons ... or maybe that obese lady in the very back)

Fast forward to 11 p.m. The bed is made, the baby is asleep, I am ugly-fied (ugly-fied [verb?]: the process of removing all makeup from one's face), and I am TIRED.

I pull back the covers and climb into bed. And promptly shriek and hop back out.

Them things are cold, peeps! It was kinda like slipping between two ginormous sardines. Without the slime and creepy eyeballs. For clarification purposes, I was fully jammified [jammified (adjective?]: the state of wearing jammies).

I get out of bed and put on two pairs of socks, a long sleeve shirt and a sweater.

And that leads me to reason number 2:
Eskimos are not sexy.

Five minutes later - I feel like I'm roasting in a pizza oven. I jump out of bed, strip off all those layers and crawl back in.

Which is reason number 3:
Heat stroke. 'Nuf said.

After a few minutes the temp regulates and I finally drift off to dreamland. I am awakened sometime later by a weird sandpaper-y feeling. I realize my not-so-fabulous feet are catching on the satin, so I groggily get out of bed and search for the socks I had previously stripped off. I find one. Better than nothing. I crawl back into bed and fall asleep again.

Reason 4:
You have to use a cheese grater ... on your feet.

By 3 a.m., the husband has managed to toss and turn so much the entire quilt has slipped off the end of the bed. He, of course, is oblivious. I'm freezing. I get up to throw it back on and hear, "WAHHHHHHHHH".

(insert long string of expletives here)

I get the baby a bottle, feed him, put him back in bed, and then get back under the covers. By this point, the fitted sheet has once again slipped off the upper corners of the mattress and is halfway down the bed.

Problem NOT SOLVED.

I am incredibly irritated by this, but so exhausted I decide to just rip the satin sheets off the bed and get under the regular blankets on top of the bare mattress.

I sleep peacefully for about 2 hours. Hooray.

The next morning, I wake up to find a big, huge, gigantic stain on my (satin) pillowcase. I must have been sobbing hysterically in my sleep about the incredible difficulty of my life, right?

Wrong.

I was drooling.

And that, my friends, brings me to reason number 6 satin sheets are not sexy:
You realize you have the saliva glands of a camel.

I theorize men think satin sheets are sexy because of racy movies. Have you noticed they ALWAYS have satin sheets, usually red?

You weren't looking at the sheets? Oh.

Unfortunately, people in racy movies don't sweat or get hot or cold or have to use a foot cheese grater and they sure as heck don't drool swimming pool-sized puddles onto their pillows. At least not in the movie, anyway.

The moral of the story? There's three.

1. Get separate beds.

2. Buy different sheets.

3. Strangle the evil alligator.

Problem solved :-)

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Wednesday, March 14, 2012

A Bit O' Green (and orange and blue)

sorry for the weird orange-y tinge. my camera is being obnoxious. also, the card was made by my aunt ...
just in case you were thinking I was a total genius or something ...
Sooo, I finally got around to putting together a shamrock garland. I'm actually pretty stinkin' proud I got it done before St. Patrick's Day.

All I did was make 10 or so shamrocks with this pattern. It rocketh.

Then I did a simple chain and slip stitched them to it.

Voila!

and this picture looks like it was taken underwater ...
ARGH, camera. why must you torment me so?
I apologize for the strange colored photographs. I think the white balance on my camera is set for florescent lighting. I attempted to fix it in the bottom photo, but that made it look like some weird blue alien landscape. Where they have crocheted shamrock garlands. Riggght.

Oh well. You get the picture. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Ya see what I did dere? :-)
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Monday, March 12, 2012

Spring Has Sprung!


Spring has temporarily sprung in Northwest Colo., and though it looks nothing like the picture above (think more mud and less green ... and no little duckling), it has been around 50 degrees! Can you believe it?

I've been feeling rather "listy" lately, so here's another one just for you. I call it, "Things To Do When It's Weirdly Warm In March".

1. Go for a walk.

2. Remove last year's toe nail polish.

3.  Repaint toe nails with a color you can live with for another six months.

4. Sit on the front porch and contemplate the meaning of life and the deliciousness of milkshakes.

5. Shave legs.

6. Buy more razors because you murdered an entire package on aforementioned fuzzy appendages.

7. See how many car accidents you can cause with your (freshly shaved) blindingly white legs.

8. Get a sunburn on the tops of your feet.


9. Pick up the dog poo.

10. Realize some of the dog poo is still frozen to the ground. Give up and hope it snows again soon.


9. Dig the aloe vera out of the back of the bathroom cabinet. Realize it has changed color and smells kinda like blue cheese. Use it anyway.

11. Get a milkshake.

Hooray for Spring!


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Thursday, March 8, 2012

From a mother to her son

Dear T Dubbs,

1. Please stop using your head as a battering ram.

2. Please stop trying to pee in my mouth when I change your diaper. Contrary to popular belief, this is NOT the baby version of skee ball.

3. Please stop doing alligator death rolls when I try to get you dressed. I would totally let you be a nudist, but that is not socially acceptable.

4. Please stop pulling daddy's armpit hair in the middle of the night (even though it's hilarious ... )

5. Please stop trying to meet all your nutritional needs with dog food.

6. Please stop getting stuck under the table/chair/baby gate. Babies do not have four-wheel drive and reverse only works occasionally.

7. Please stop trying to eat those toilet bolt cover doo-dads. Despite daily bleaching, I'm pretty sure they're not sanitary.

8. Please stop trying to escape from your walker. I don't like coming around the corner to see you dangling perilously by one foot.

9. Please stop stealing the TV remote and hiding it under the bed.

10. Please don't grow up too fast, even if it means you have to keep doing all these weird baby things.

I love you, little baby munchkin :-)
What do you mean, "Crayons are not for eating"? They taste pretty good to me.


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Wednesday, March 7, 2012

30 Day Photo Challenge ~ Day 12

Day 12 ~ Hands

T Dubbs "helping" with the love letters

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Tuesday, March 6, 2012

DIY Love Letters

Hey peeps,

Just dropping in today with a quick tute for scrapbook paper letters. They are incredibly versatile as you can choose any paper and any letter combinations!



I can spell "Love", "Vole" or even "Ole". Pretty epic, no? I bet you've always wanted to honor your favorite blind rodent or Ricky Martin with giant letters.

Make yourself a whole alphabet if you want to!

You will need:

Mod Podge OR the cheap version - a mixture of equal parts white glue and water
A paintbrush (you can also use your tongue if you like the taste of school glue ... KIDDING.)
Cardboard
Scrapbook paper
Pencil for sketching your letters
Utility knife

All you do is:

Glue/decoupage your scrapbook paper to the cardboard. Let dry completely. Sketch your letters. Cut them out.


Hang them up. (I used yarn. Those classier than I may use ribbon or other string-like substances ... )

Ole, ole, ole!




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Friday, March 2, 2012

Because I'm Actually Irish


I love March for three reasons - my birthday, the beginning of spring (which means nothing in CO, but still), and Saint Patrick's Day. I'm assuming no one wants a (really long) list of all the things I desire for the anniversary of my birth, so instead I offer some kick ants St. Patty's Day crochet patterns and a couple o' Irish proverbs:

"May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live."

"Don't break your shins on a stool that is not in your way."

And my personal favorite:

"Never bolt the door with a boiled carrot."

That may save your life one day.


Here's the links. Enjoy!


I would skip adding the handle and fill with
gold candy (so I have an excuse
to buy chocolate)

I love the shape of these; I'm planning on making
a garland with them. 

Hooray for another excuse to buy chocolate!

These would be lovely gifts.

Stick your pot o' gold nearby and use it as
an excuse to act like a stingy little green person!

The perfect amount of green for your
St. Patty's day ensemble  ... and I can think of
at least three ways it would help you
survive a zombie apocalypse.
Credit where credit is due: None of these patterns are mine. All oohing and aahing should be 
directed towards the original creators.
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