Another One Bites the Dust (or, What are the Odds)

Within 5 hours of the pulling of her first tooth, Ellie experiences a second loss.  Really, it may be too much to bear for this tender five year old.  Or, "hey, mom, I know the tooth fairy brings money, so if you lose your first tooth and then your second tooth on the same day that's gotta be worth a lot.  Right?"

Ahh, capitalism.  Nice to know I'm raising her right.

Man Down! Man Down!

First tooth gone!

When asked how on earth this happened she says "I just pulled it."  I ask "Why?"  She says "I just did".  I say "When?"  She says "At school."  "Was it exciting, did it hurt, did it bleed, " I ask.  She says "Mama, you're silly." 

Apples, trees.  Something. 

Life Motto

There is no substitute for thorough preparation.  Except for being practiced in the art of bullshit.

Leggings Aren't Pants

Come on girls.  You know it.  I know it.  We ALL know it.  Stop pretending that you don't know it.  Leggings.  Are.  Not.  Pants.  I'm not talking about those stretchy running pants that sort of look like leggings but are made of some hybrid of Kevlar and Spandex.  Nor am I referring to Jeggings (although I could do a whole other post on that deal).  The item of clothing, apparel, accessory I'm targeting here are good old fashioned, no doubts about them, leggings. 

Here's what you can wear leggings with:  dresses, skirts, tunics that actually cover your ass.  Here's what you can't wear leggings with:  ANYTHING ELSE! 

Ask yourself this question:  "Self, would I wear tights with this top that I'm calling a tunic even though it hits me right around my hip bone?"  If the answer is "no you silly slut, you'd look like a slut."  Then DON'T DO IT. 

See, legging are tights with the feet cut out.  Yes, I know they may seem different.  Sometimes, they can even appear a little bit thicker, but, trust me, the minute the sun, flourescent lighting, incandescent lighting, moon beams hit your ass you can see through them the same way you see through tights.  No one else needs to know that you are down to your "day before I do the laundry panties", and if you wear leggings as if they were something they are not (pants) then that's what you will be telling the rest of the world.

Also they accentuate everything that is imperfect about your ass area.  This is true for everyone.  Not just us fluffy ladies.  If you're not perfectly svelte, you just showed your entire office that area of your body you've been willing yourself to ignore in the mirror for the past five years.  If you are perfectly svelte, well, let's just say there are parts of a skinny girl no one wants to see either.  Not to mention, any questions as to your virtue are answered right there with your willingness to walk around without pants on.

Before you try to argue "ummm, I looked in the mirror and everything looked fine," the mirror in your room cannot be trusted.  (A) The light in your room is not the same as the light outside your room (B) You just got out of bed, so you're not communicating appropriately with your mirror anyway, and (C) We know you didn't really look at your backside, you just looked at your front, that is just a lack of preparation, people.

Here's a simple test:  Put on your ensemble.  Turn around.  Bend over at the waist. Take a glance at your fanny. Do you see anything you wouldn't want to see with tights on?  Yes?  Put on some pants! 

Snuggle Bunny Sunday

What I needed to do today:

1.  Laundry
2.  Wrap copious numbers of Christmas Gifts
3.  Find at least 5 teacher gifts
4.  More laundry
5.  Clean the Kitchen
6.  Grocery Shop
7.  Work on the budget
8.  Catch up at the office
9.  That damn laundry
10. Sweep up Christmas Tree needles

What I did instead:

1.  Snuggled
2.  Co-composed a concerto comprised entirely of Sing-a-ma-jigs
3.  Watched Tom and Jerry's Nutcracker Christmas
4.  Watched Garfield Christmas
5.  Whispered the lyrics to I Want A Hippopatamus for Christmas
      a.  Into a Walkie Talkie
      b.  While said Walkie Talkies were less than a foot apart
      c.  With my five year old giggling uncontrollably
6.  Laid perfectly still under the covers to see if Harry could find us.
7.  Snuggled some more
8.  Got yelled at by DAD for not getting out of the bed
9.  Discussed the intricacies and physics of Santa coming down a ventless fireplace chimney
10.Had the best Snuggle Bunny Sunday ever.

Very Serious Stuff...with a Side of Crazy Pants

Warning.  Foul language ahead.

There is nothing all that funny about this entry, but for my own theraputic purposes I'm going to lay it all out there anyway. 

Last night, after finishing at Ellie's gymnastics class, she and I ran by Publix to grab some diapers and milk.  Then we headed to the McDonald's on Whitlock to grab her a Happy Meal.  Instead of going straight to the drive through, I pulled into a parking space to enter my Publix purchase into my phone since I did it with my check card and not cash...I'm very OCD about my check card purchases right now.

While I'm typing away a guy runs up to my car window, holds up a 9MM and proceeds to yell at me to get out of the car.  I immediately think "if that asshole thinks I'm getting out of this car without Ellie he might as well go ahead and shoot me."  I glance back at her and I'm about to yell at her to "unhook, unhook, unhook and get in the front seat with mommy" so that I could open the door and run with her when he sees her too and thinks better of what he's doing.  He jumps the retaining wall between McDonald's and the next door insurance company and takes off running.

I gather my wits (sort of) and call 911.  They catch him and his accomplice.  Apparently, I was not the only target of the evening and they've got another guy in the parking lot across the street giving them statements and descriptions.

First off, I love, love, love the Marietta PD right now.  They took care of me.  They completely wowed Ellie and they made the whole thing as un-scary as possible.  I do not remember the officer's name who dealt with us, but once I find out I am going to make sure the entire department knows that he is an asset to them and our entire community. 

Secondly, my little girl is the bravest, most unflinching soul I have ever met.  She and she alone, because my attention was elsewhere, noticed the car the guy got out of, the appearance of the driver, what color the car was, what the driver was wearing...everything.  She made sure the police officer knew as well.  She also let him know that her younger brother likes trains, chocolate Santas , sometimes hits, and she told him about her class on Italy that day and how Mt. Vesuvius destroyed Pompeii.  What attempted carjacking?

Lastly, for the record, I'm not a nervous Nelly.  As this was going on, I had my shit together.  I had a complete description of the guy.  Held it together and didn't sob uncontrollably to the 911 operator (also, by the way, fantastic public servant).  However, now that I've had some time to reflect, here is what I thought about in the ten seconds or so of sheer panic:

1.  Gotta get Ellie in the front seat!
2.  Will it hurt if he shoots me?
3.  If I just jam the door open will it hit him in the junk hard enough to make him drop?
4.  He'll shoot me in the leg, right?  Because these pants suck and I sort of like my shirt.
5.  Dammit, will he let me grab the diapers?  We're completely out.
6.  Fuck the milk.
7.  If I don't get her a cheeseburger, she's going to flip and I just know he's going to want my wallet.
8.  Maybe that's not a gun, maybe it's a Zach Morris phone.
9.  Nope, definitely a gun.
10.Damn, dude, pull up your pants.

Seriously.  I thought all of these things.  We're safe.  The bad guys got caught.  I'm still shaking.  But, I saw last tonight how fabulous and fast our police force can be.  I saw them show kindness to a freaked out mom and a little girl.  I saw them frustrated by this kind of crime in our neighborhood.  We walked away, me a little shaken and Ellie no worse for wear.  I will never stop praying in thankfulness for that fact.

Voice of the Dawgs...DGD

He has no equal.

You look out for us...you hear?

Tenacity...Thy Name is Bulldog!

How do I miss Munson?  Let me count the ways...

My favorite part is Gus' trepidation on entering the pool.  Bulldogs are not the most graceful of animal.  They are stinky, drooly and ill-mannered, but what I wouldn't do for one more couch cuddle with the Munk. 

Shock and Awe

I am not an Auburn hater.  Until recently I had a lot of respect for the program.  This, however, reminded me of why that tide turned (no pun intended) and made me damn proud to be a Dawg:

That's how you get payback.

Girls Love Me, Girls Adore Me...

Harry hanging out with his harem "friends" at school today.  Chicks dig the truck pants...

Am I 8?

Harry loves to sing to me in the car on the way to school.  Sometimes it's that "if all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops" song, but only because he likes the part where he gets to say "a-ah-a-ah-a-a-ah-a-ah-ah" really, really loud.

He's now picked up the tune to what I learned as Frere Jacques, but which doubles as:  the blessing, that days of the week song, and, of course, Where is Thumbkin.  That last one is going to get me in trouble.

For those of you unfamiliar, here's the first stanza (sung to the tune of Frere Jacque, or Brother John for the anti-French):

Where is Thumbkin (hold up your right thumb)
Where is Thumbkin (hold up your left thumb)
Here I am (make your right thumb wiggle up and down as if nodding)
Here I am (ditto for your left thumb)
How are you today sir (more right thumb wiggling)
Very well I thank you (switch to the left)
Run away (right thumb behind your back)
Run away (I'm guessing you've figured out what happens next)

Putting aside the wisdom of singing this song with movements while driving, you repeat the verse with Pointer, Tall Man, Ring Finger (yeah, that's a little much to shove into the verse, I bet there's a real lyric around somewhere), and then Pinkie.  Harry loves it.  Especially the "run away" part.  He's really cute.  I, on the other hand, am a pre-teen boy.

Everytime, and I mean EVERYTIME he gets to tall man I giggle hysterically.  Seriously, there he is, my little two year old, flicking himself off in the back seat.  That's funny right?  Right?  He thinks it's funny.  Well, he thinks something is funny, because he laughs, and does it again and again and again.  Driving to school is fun.

Start 'Em Young. Raise 'Em Right.

Saturday.  Coastal Carolina.  Big Win (woo-hoo).  Ellie bogarts my ticket and scampers off to Athens with her daddy.  She was super, super, super bummed after the loss to the cocks last week, mostly because she was deprived of the opportunity to ring the bell.  I am quite proud of the fact that she knows the bell is ONLY, and I mean absolutely ONLY rung after a win.  If you ring it before a win or after a loss you will be personally responsible for the ills that befall the Dawgs, their fans, and every resident in the State of Georgia.  She knows this.  She gets the ramifications.  She's a good little Dawg fan. 

So she was thrilled beyond all belief to get to do this Saturday:

She rang the heck out of that bell.  She told us all about it when she got home.

Meanwhile, on the back porch of 337 St. Mary's, Harry was learning a few lessons of his own*:

*Note, the beer was empty, or at least that's what Aunt Mamie says, but you know how she hates children, so....

Pretty top notch Dawg calling for a two year old.  I like that he can bark WITH a beer bottle in his mouth.  Stellar. 

He can even do it covered in spaghetti:

Ok, so maybe the barking needs a little work.  He sounds a little like a chimpanzee.  I'll take it.

Rushing The Season

Busted out the jeans today for the kids.  Ellie rocked a pair of skinnies (I stand by my earlier assertions that those things are made for 5 year olds--she looked fabulous) and a fancy pants tunic she got from the Glovers.  Harry fratted out in his whiskered blues and checked button down--monogrammed, of course.

After confirmation from my little sis that it was perfectly appropriate, I threw on the Frye boots.  Gawd how I have missed you, my precious.  I know it's going to be 90 degrees next week, but I don't care.  The seasons are in:  birds, boots, bourbon and ball (of the non-European foot variety).

Speaking of non-European football, for your viewing pleasure:

If We Lost, Why Do I Feel Like We Won?

Not a win this weekend, but I am surprisingly not mad about it.  Maybe I'm mellowing.  Maybe the presence of these two made me appreciate the good things that happened Saturday.

This was Harry's first real game.  He made it to G-Day this year, but that is not the tactical nightmare that the SEC home opener can be...and that's before you add in a five year old and a two year old.  That said, they were both fantastic.

Harry ran around the tailgate for most of the day with a Georgia helmet on.  He looked remarkably like AJ wearing his #8.  I think we've done him a disservice by naming him "Blindside" at this young age.  His skill set is improving.

Ellie somehow made it onto the Chi Phi lawn.  After I told her "no."  After I informed her that five year olds do not attend band parties.  After she sobbed on the tailgate of Mr. Berta's truck for ten minutes because mommy wouldn't let her go meet Lil' P-Nut.  "Who is Lil' P-Nut" you might ask; to which I would respond, "not really sure, I'm guessing the seven year old protege of Lil' Wayne, so clearly you understand my trepidation." 

Despite my mandate, she got there.  She came back.  She said, "umm, mommy, that wasn't as cool as I thought it would be;" to which I responded, "Chi Phi never is baby... it never is."

At the game Ellie was concerned with two things, the score and cotton candy.  We spent the day doing scoreboard math:  "they've got 28 we've got 20 we have GOT to score eight more points, wait we need nine more points, is that right, ok."  The agony she felt when they went ahead for good was epic and very charming.  She wanted to know why we let them do that.  I didn't have a good answer for her other than "Murray doesn't know when to take a sack."  That satisfied her.

The cotton candy hunt took Wes on a thirty minute scenic tour of the stadium.  Five minutes after they returned, the cotton candy vendor showed up next to us.  Timing is everything...unless you're Mike Bobo.  HEY-O.

Harry learned the cadence to "Goooooooooooooooo DAWGS!  Sic Em! OOOO OOOOO OOOOO OOOOO," and said it over and over and over and over.  He smacked all of our seat mates in the their heads, necks and backs with his pom pom over and over and over.  And he cheered at the right times over and over and over.  He said "wook, mama (or daddy) putball," several times, and he managed to stay awake, nap free, after a hard working tailgate, for the entire game with nary a tear.  Troopers--both of them.  Once back in the car, I could hear him whispering "sic em ooo ooo ooo ooo."  Never give up!

The Dawgs played better than I expected but made several bone headed mistakes that cost us the game.  They'll figure it out and we'll all simmer down and the boys will win some football games.  If not, the offseason will be interesting.  But that said, Saturday was one of those days that is burned into my memory.  My sweet babies learning to call the Dawgs, my ever patient and flexible husband and 92,000 of our closest friends.  Go Dawgs!

P.S.  Ellie may be going again next week.  She told us she doesn't want to go to anymore "big games."  They take too long and it's hard to find cotton candy.  Word.  She says she likes the "little games."  Coastal Carolina sounds perfect.  May the cotton candy be plentiful and the game be a yawner!  I'll have dinner ready when they get home.

Let's Try This Again

Not sure what to expect tomorrow between the hedges, but here's the good news:

We won't see this:

Or this:

Or, God forbid, any semblance of this:

Regardless of how things go on the field (and I'm trying to be optimistic, truly I am), we will not be visually assaulted by Nike's misguided attempt at fashion this Saturday. 

Get the picture, now, Dawgs in those red shirts, silver britches, and red helmet with the big G on the side. 

Now, if we see something that looks like this ↑ (I'm looking at you #1, whichever one of you is wearing it) I will be eternally grateful to the football gods.

GO DAWGS!

WORST. GAME. EVER.

Here's how Saturday went down:
1.  Unreasonably hot tailgate.*

2.  Unreasonably stupid ballgame.

3.  Dead car battery at midnight after said unreasonably stupid ballgame.

4.  Unreasonably long search for someone, anyone, with jumper cables.

5.  One of five gameday buddies (for the record there where originally six gameday buddies in the car, we had lost one) , while attempting to climb over Suburban seat, puts her hand through ceramic dish decorated with the Arch and fried chicken grease.

6.  Several good Samaritans come to our rescue.  Chip, without hesitation, rips off his Georgia t-shirt (now that I think about it, not that big of a sacrifice given the recent on field debacle) and applies appropriate pressure to the spurting wound.

7.  Paramedics are called.

8.  A Downtown Atlanta resident of extremely questionable gender is flagged down on Marietta Street and wheels into the parking deck in his, er her, um whatever, awesome ride to save our bacon--car is successfully jumped off.

9.  Paramedics arrive, provide some assistance and tell us to go on our merry way.

10.  We arrive at Kennestone Hospital where I sit until the walking wounded's mother comes to take over for me.  Twelve stiches to her palm later, she leaves.  I am crashed out at home by this time.

Seriously, if the South Carolina game blows this bad I'm becoming a Georgia State fan.  Seems less hazardous.

*Oh, and an unreasonably rambling and never ending walk to find the folks with our tickets because someone, and I'm not metioning any names here but it rhymes with Jes Pith, had not arranged for that little detail prior to the tailgating festivities. This resulted in the mother of all blisters on the back of my heel which is now adorably covered with a Curious George bandaid.

Yep.  GO DAWGS!

Priorities? They've Been Known to Change

I am not sure when in my life this:

Became more important to me than this:

But at this point, faced with the dilemma as to whether to get a fantastically perfect red hot biscuit from Mountain Biscuit when I am absolutely starving on a Thursday morning, or skip it and save my equally fantastic red hot shoes from the dangers of MB's full on gravel parking lot, I go with the red hot biscuit. 

Mmmmmm, red hot biscuit.

Anybody Wanna Buy a Baby?

Just kidding.  No babies for sale here.  At least not today.  But for those of you asking about the wrapping paper, here's the link:

www.sallyfoster.com

Click on the red button in the top right corner that read "Support a Fundraiser."  Ellie's seller number is 79013.  She is with Westside School.  Happy shopping!

Ready Or Not, Here I...Wait, What Was I Doing?

For your viewing pleasure, Harry's version of Hide and Wait For Me to Count To Eleventeen And Then Run Around Aimlessly:

For the record, they never did "find"  Daddy.  That may or may not be because Daddy was unaware that he was actually hiding.  Or maybe it was because no one thought to look in the basement where the beer was being brewed.

Also, is it just me or do I sound remarkably like my cousin Christy in this.  I only lived in Alabama for three years.  I swear.

A-B-C! Easy as 1-2-3!

Ellie is a kindergartner.  Terrifying.  She started a couple of weeks ago and things seem to be going well, sort of.  She's in uniforms, which is both convenient and adorable.  Exhibits A and B:

 Here's what she likes about kindergarten:  recess, lunch (as long as they're serving grilled cheese, tacos are a no-go...hard shells, boooooo!), art, PE, music.  Here's what she doesn't like about kindergarten:  getting up early, going to bed early, that mean second grader on the bus, hard shell tacos (see above), rules.

All in all, pretty reasonable.  She is getting into the swing of things, but she's never going to like mornings.  To cut down on it a little, we've incorporated sponge rollers into our nighttime routine to ease the morning prep.  I will admit, she is adorable in sponge rollers in a Frenchy from Grease kind of way:

We try to get intel out of her every night at dinner on how her day went.  Mostly she just gives a run down of who got in trouble and why, or what she needs to do to win the next prize being offered.  For instance, I know Kevin* with a "K" got his clothespin put on blue yesterday and was not able to play at recess.  That's bad.  Ellie almost got on blue, but only because she was soooooo tired from getting up so early that she couldn't listen right.  Kindergarten should start later.  But if she keeps from getting on blue the rest of the week she can get a prize out of the treasure chest.  Also, if she sells enough wrapping paper**, she gets to go in the money tank.  If she gets money in the money tank she's going to buy a new pillow pet, or maybe a puppy.

It seems to be going well or as well as kindergarten with all its minefields can go.  In the meantime, Harry went back to preschool.  It's. Killing. Me.  He did great days one through four.  On day five he clung to me.  Sobbed as I left.  Generally broke my heart.  This continued on day six and day seven.  On day eight, as soon as we pulled into the school parking lot he did this:

He was defeated.  He walked in like he was heading to the gallows.  He sat with a long, sad face and whispered "bye-bye mama."  I almost couldn't make it to work.  I was thinking home schooling might be a good option.  But, as I should have figured, yesterday he ran to his classroom and hugged the teacher.  Today, he hopped out of the car, refused to hold my hand and grabbed the first dump truck he saw upon entry.  I didn't even get a glance goodbye.  You know, home schooling might be good.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, and the not so innocent.
**Anyone need any wrapping paper?

The Open Gate

Last weekend I was heading to the office just after Wes and the kids left to run some errands.  As I'm walking out the door I was frustrated to see this:

My first instinct was to cuss my husband for his forgetfulness.  My second thought, of course, was "crap, where's Max."  Then I remembered that the big guy could not have escaped into the street because he wasn't with us anymore.

We made the decision to have Max put down on the Monday after we returned from vacation.  He'd been steadily losing weight over the past few months, and had not eaten in several days.  He was with Allen and Peggy, Wes's parents, which was a mixed blessing.  While we knew he had been well cared for and loved in his last couple of weeks while we were away on vacation, not being there when he passed out of this world was hard, especially on Wes.

Max was Wes's dog from day one.  He and I never saw eye to eye (except when he reared up on his hind legs and then we were, quite literally, eye to eye).  He tortured Munson, the most perfect dawg in the world (who, I am quite sure, was highly irritated when Max showed up a couple of weeks ago).  He shed like crazy.  He ate outdoor furniture.  He ate indoor furniture.  He "retrieved" possum carcasses for me.  He brought me a dead rat.  He refused to listen to my commands no matter how deep I made my voice.  Like I said, he was Wes's dog.

But after Munson died, Max and I came to an understanding.  If he would simmer down a little, I would rub his ears.  If I would remember to bring the outdoor cushions inside, he wouldn't eat them.  As he got older, we became friends.  While he had generally ignored Ellie after she was born, he and Harry really got along well.  I have the picture to prove it.

I'll admit it, I miss him.  I wish I had to close the gate.  I wish I had to holler for him down the driveway as he chased after some poor vermin.  We will get another dog.  That dog won't outweigh me.  But I will never have another dog that I can dance with.  Did I mention that?  Max was an excellent dancer.  He also learned to treat the furniture with respect, sort of:

Play well, Maxwell.  You were a damn good dawg.

Cute and Cuddly My Ass

I know, I know.  I'll try to be more diligent on the posting.  Onward.

We have a garden.  I like the idea of a garden.  Ellie LOVES the idea of the garden.  Wes is obsessed with the garden.  Since the garden is not a train, Harry does not care about the garden.  There.  All our bases are covered. 

Recently I have been coming home from work to find Wes forlornly holding decimated green tomatoes in his hand. Tomatoes that have not met their tomato sandwich destiny.  Instead, their spotless smooth green skins have been pierced by the fangs of some insidious garden beast.  Ellie will tell me with all the compassion of an Emergency Room doctor, touching her little hand to my shoulder and affecting a very concerned look, "Daddy found more tomatoes that have been eaten.  He's very sad."  I try to muster up the appropriate level of gravitas, but really I'm just thinking that Whole Foods has some really nice tomatoes and I've never seen teeth marks in them.  I'm also thinking did I put that wine in the fridge yesterday?  I really need some wine.  Oh, right, tomatoes.  Yeah, that sucks.

Fast forward a couple of days.  Wes has decided it's a varmint (his words, I'm not kidding, yes, I live with Yosemite Sam) that's damaging our "crop."  He sets out rat traps.  He catches something.  In my mind, moments before it fell into the trap it looked like this:

Yep.  That's a chipmunk. 

Apparently, he's got friends, so the battle wages on.  Even today.  Luckily, I think we may get some help on the front lines. 

Last Sunday our pastor gave the children's sermon on the rabbits in his front yard.  He was expressing his pleasure in watching the rabbits frolic in the yard and about how much he and his wife wanted the rabbits to feel welcome.  Midway through this discussion a little voice pipes up:  "do the rabbits eat your vegetables?"  Now, just who do you think interrupted the pastor?  I'll give you one guess.  He assures her that there are no vegetables in his front yard and the rabbits aren't hurting anything.  The sermon continues uninterrupted.  However, as she's processing out she stops, turns, walks up to Dr. Sam and says (none too quietly...not a trait she inherited) "WE DON'T HAVE RABBITS...WE HAVE CHIPMUNKS...THEY EAT OUR TOMATOES...BUT MY DADDY KILLED THEM SO IT'S OKAY." 

Dr. Sam had a hard time getting his composure back for the big kids' sermon.