I bought a pair of these slippers the other day at Target. They are like fuzzy footie socks, with a mary jane strap that buttons across the top and non-skid circles on the bottom. Like this

Anyway, I slipped those babies on tonight as my husband was strolling by. He glanced down and shuddered, before pronouncing me "A Grandma."

Them's is fightin' words. I looked him up and down and called him Grandpa. He snorted and left me standing there in my comfortable knitted slippers, feeling pissy.

My seven-year-old walked up to me and threw her arms around my waist. "Hey, mommy!"

I decided to ask her what she thought. "Do you like my new slippers? Daddy says they look like something a Grandma would wear. "

She rocked back on her heels and made her eyes wide. "I guess he forgot who he was talking to," says my girl. "Sheesh. He does NOT want to mess with Big Mama."

It was a proud, proud moment in my parenting career, let me tell you.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 31, 2006 8:25 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (9)

We were driving over to my parents house this afternoon to eat some barbecue and relax. As we rounded a corner, my son piped up from the back of the van in his loud, Elmer Fudd-sounding accent: "Mommy! Wook! A chooch!" On our right, we passed one of the many local churches and headed out into cow country.

"Uh, yeah," I said as I finished the turn and accelerated down the deserted country road.

"What do they DO in that chooch?" my son asked. Trying to head off a big question and answer session, I tried to summarize as best as I could.

"Well, they sing, and pray, and learn about God and the bible."

My daughter piped up from her seat in the middle of the van. "And they worship Jesus!"

My son burst out from the backseat "I WOVE JESUS!"

I sort-of choked on a laugh at this rather unexpected outburst. "Oh, really? That's great, honey!"

He continued: "I love cheddar, and mozzarella, and parmesean..."

Oh...CHEESES.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 29, 2006 8:24 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (14)

When I received an email from the fantastic Jennifer Margulis, offering a chance to read her newest book, Why Babies Do That - I jumped at it. I mean, here I am, with my youngest already speeding away from the baby years, and I'm still baffled by some of the things I've suffered experienced at the sticky hands of my babies. When she sweetened the deal by sending me a copy of the award winning anthology Toddler as well, I was thrilled. Aha! Perhaps there will be some insight into some of this toddler nonsense that frequently leaves me scratching my head. Nothing rocks my world like free books. Well, okay, a few things. But free books ranks really high up there.

I recieved Toddler first, and read through it over the course of one day. And then I read it again. The stories bubbled off the pages and surrounded me. Rather than the sentimental, feel-good anthology I had expected, I found myself alternately weeping, and snorting with laughter. I saw myself in these pages, and I recognized my children (and my reactions to my children) as well. This should be required reading for parents.

I can't recommend Toddler enough - if you haven't picked up a copy yet, get thee to a bookstore!

In Why Babies Do That, Jennifer takes aim at some of the baffling behavior that babies exhibit. I remember bringing my oldest daughter home from the hospital, and feeling totally stupid. From her baby acne to her flair for holding one leg stiff while kicking furiously with the other, I was smitten, but none the wiser. My mom used to laugh at me need to know all the whys - I had to have a reason for everything.

Where was Jennifer Margulis and Why Babies Do That then? Huh? Because it would have saved me a lot of time figuring all this stuff out on my own. Sheesh.

Jennifer tackles everything from mustard poop and excessive drool to fear of dogs and strangers and reluctance to sleep. She keeps a friendly, anecdote-supported style throughout. Why Babies Do That feels like a chat with another mother who has wondered the same things, not a lecture from an 'expert.'

Each topic features a wonderful, full-color photo that illustrates the topic at hand in a charming manner. It's compact, perfect for balancing on the arm of your favorite chair as you nurse your baby and try to cram in a sandwich with the other hand. With several baby showers coming up this summer, I know that Why Babies Do That will be a welcome gift.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 26, 2006 8:32 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)

I know that I spawned these little people that share my life, but today I found myself wishing that I had something or someone else to blame for their behavior.

Alas, No. The reign of terror(s) began at 12:09, when the Circus spawnlings boiled forth from their classrooms, spewing complaints and demands. The popsicle vendor man wasn't in the park.
"Mommy, make the man magically appear with his cart full of overpriced frozen treats! Now!"
"Why can't you, Mommy?"
"Call him on his cell phone."
"You mean you have Santa's number on speed dial, but you don't know the popsicle man's number? Why? You should have it! It's important!"

On and on. Finally, we got to the van, without popsicles, and my son without one shoe. The three-year-old sent out a high frequency noise that I'm pretty sure crashed a plane over the Pacific Ocean when I attempted to place her in her safety seat with the five-point harness.

"I'm a big girl. BIIIIG! I am SIIIIIIX!"

I applied a quick elbow to her abdomen and attempted to muffle her shrieks with my shoulder as I dodged her flailing fists and knees while buckling her in. Once she was buckled, I leaped to a safe distance and staggered a bit at the electromagnetic blast of rage exploding from my van. Once my hearing returned, I noticed the other two staging a revolt.

"I sat in the back on the way here!"
"No, I did."
"No, me."
"No, ME."
"Mooooooooom!"

Sheeeeit. Let it be known that bickering makes me want to blow my diet, with all the calories coming from shots of something alcoholic. However, it was like, noon. No chance of blowing nothing, except maybe a gasket.

"You! There. You! Sit. I don't want to hear ANOTHER WORD."

"AAAAAAAH! SHE LOOKED AT ME!"

Oh my GOD. I can't believe he uncorked that little gem on me. I turned my own heat-ray beams onto the kids as the automatic door slid shut. I'm surprised they didn't have singed eyebrows or something.

At home, it was more of the same. Every thirty seconds, someone was whining or crying, or yelling "Mom!"

I made garlic bread, and the children who will not eat any bread crust were fighting over who got the most black parts on their (burned, whoopsie) slices. My youngest, fresh out of a shower, decided to adorn herself with buttery noodles as soon as I left the room.

No. Just, no. This is NOT the master plan. I specifically ordered well-behaved, mannerly children, with a good idea of which things are best to avoid, unless you want Mommy to go ballistic. Which one of you people got my nice children? Who are these monsters?

Then we tripped off, our hearts light (hah!) to Open House at the school. We visited both classrooms and held it together for the most part. I was having a hard time forgiving my oldest for her major league hissy fits until I saw her daily journal, where not one, not two but five different entries talk about how "My mom is so cool."

I am exhausted, mentally and physically. Please don't let this be a precursor of summer to come.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 25, 2006 9:02 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (17)

Today, I will accompany my son on a field trip to a local park for a nature hike with a docent. I don't know what they said about these docents, but my son keeps bringing it up as a selling feature of the trip.

"Mommy, we have to wear long pants, and there's going to be a docent! Mommy, I have to pack a good lunch. Docent!"

I have to take my youngest along for the hike, which I am told is not stroller-friendly. I mean, come on. The child is three, and totally capable of walking for miles. I just feel better if I have her strapped in so she can't run away.

Which, truth be told, is why I have to go on this trip to begin with. My son, a while back, kept running away from his kindergarten class and hiding in the (enclosed) play area, or in the teacher's supply closet, and they would be moments from calling the police when someone would stumble across him.

After repeated, heated talks about staying with the class (Oh! The heart attacks!) we decided that it would be in everyone's best interest if I attended any future trips.

So, whooooopie! Here we go.

I'll report in tonight with all the gory details - in the meantime, you can check out my playground showdown with my friend kim over at Big Slice.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 24, 2006 6:55 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

I'm on a quest to (publicly) lose 50 pounds over at my new ClubMom blog "Big Slice of Life, Small Slice of Cheesecake." In an effort to not totally embarrass myself by not losing an ounce, I've decided to try to get more exercise.

More than typing.

On Sunday, I took the husband and all three kids to the ice skating rink for their little puppies and parents session. We rented skates and lurched around the padded changing area before we stumbled out onto the ice. I've been a once or twice a year ice skater since I was a child, so basically, I can get out there and go in a straight line. When I'm feeling really saucy, I'll do that cross-over move with my legs when I go around corners, but let's face it - that's just asking for me to get my feet all tangled up and send me careening ass-first into a pack of tweens who are singing along at the top of their lungs to some song I don't know.

I'm getting old. SIgh.

Anyway, that was the case until we discovered this special skating sesson for little 'uns, which plays global folk music and classical tunes. The best part? Besides the hockey-league dads who are there with their little hockey jersey wearing sons, showing off for each other with skidding stops?

They let the kids use chairs to push around the ice. It's like an ice arena full of pint-sized senior citizens pushing around walkers. Haaaaaaa! The hockey dads take great pleasure in seating their kids on the chairs and hauling ass around the rink, skidding and spinning. Me? I like to put around pushing a chair like a grandma. It's awesome.

I busted for taking the camera out onto the rink. Aw yeah. Busted by a skate guard!

I couldn't stop laughing. My kids kept trying to skate against the flow of traffic, and my husband and I were hooting "No! Turn around! Hey! The other way!" while they ignored us, and every other child looked confused.

Photos of the fun at flickr!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 22, 2006 12:08 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

*pant pant pant pant*

I've just come of the most hectic two week stretch I can remember. I am sure there have been other Hell Weeks in my past, but I am so fuzzy after this running around like a crazy laller laller laller laller freak I can't think straight.

Let it be known that I'm in for a long couple of decades.

Here's how it went. I had daily school for the older two, swim lessons in the morning each day for my youngest, and then evening swim lessons for the other two. Add in riding lessons for me (Tuesday) and my oldest (Wednesday, sandwiched between school and swimming) and a couple of special projects due at the end of the week. Then, you add in the fact that my son doesn't want to stay in aftercare any longer, so I have pickup twice, an hour apart. We blew off music lessons and a community theatre performance because there just weren't enough hours in the day.

You know, I used to scoff at those moms who spent all day in their minivans, conducting family business by cellphone while driving from school to sports complex to ballet studio and back again. This morning, I feel like I was seriously initiated. Pulled behind the supermarket and jumped into the gang. I keep rubbing my eyes and checking the bumper of my van for the "Mom's Taxi!" bumper sticker. It's not there. But it could be.

Lucky for me, the swim lessons are over, and although next week promises to be busy (two field trips to chaperone, open house and an ice cream social) I feel like I've become accustomed to the frenetic pace. I just don't know how long I can sustain it. I might be the only parent on the planet eager for summer vacation to begin.

If you are ever, say, loading your groceries into your van, and you find yourself surrounded by a pack of PDA- wielding, coffee mug-holding moms balancing a cell phone between their cheek and shoulder, with a diaper bag on one shoulder and a duffel of sports gear on the other, it's best to just surrender. They just want to toughen you up for the gauntlet ahead.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 20, 2006 9:32 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (6)

Today, as I sat poolside watching my son splashing around with other children out of one eye, and my daughter backstroking across the pool to her instructor with the other - which is a very neat trick I'm close to mastering, by the way - I became very aware of the stillness that hovered around my blanket. My three-year-old snored in her stroller, worn out from being three all day, oh my GOD it's so exhausting. I just sat there, and gave a wave and a thumbs up everytime one of the older two kids caught my eye.

I just sat there, and yet all around me, mothers trapped squiming toddlers between their knees as they tried to apply sunscreen one more time. Mothers lay back on oversized towels, with their crawling babies rambling up and over stomachs, under bent legs, before making a dash for the place where the pavement drops off. Time and again, the other mothers leaped up, and sprinted in hot pursuit, capturing flailing, squealing little chubbers and hauling them back to the starting line. And I just sat there.

This just sitting business is still new for me. Had my three-year-old been awake, I would have been scrambling around the pavement, too. But still, she and I have started to understand each other. After her mad dash into the street and subsequent Mommy Freak Out Deluxe With Shaking And Bonus Nausea, she's aware that there are just some buttons you don't push, unless you want to have your future social life marred by a hysterical, dry-heaving mother.

So I sat. And I waved and I thumbs-upped and I admired my girl's chubby cheeks as she reclined in the stroller. All around me, the Lilliputans were giving their own personal Gullivers a friendly dose of hell, and I was just sitting there, an observer. The baby fat-rolls are gone from my children. The swirly, funny chicken hair and buddha bellies are long gone. In their places are long, tanned limbs and strong muscles, french braids and clothing not measured in months any longer.

Today was a glimpse of my future. I'm not sure I'm ready for it.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 17, 2006 11:05 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

Guess what I did today? Anyone? Anyone?

I had my first horse riding lesson! SQUEEEEEEEEE!

I planned to take photos of myself and post them for all my Wind Horse Riding Girl homies to marvel at, but let's just say that the world is not yet ready for photos of me in riding tights. Not just yet.

I'm as gushy as a little girl about it. I can't stop smiling. I made the horse (Montego!) go and stop and put the saddle on all by myself like a big girl and didn't fall off and even managed to trot a bunch. I don't remember having to work so hard at it when I was a kid, but hey! I probably won't be able to walk tomorrow, because my butt and inner legs are burning! Yay!

I'm just like Trixie Belden! An aging Trixie Belden. In riding tights instead of dungarees.

Wheeeeee!

Best. Mother's. Day. Present. Ever.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 16, 2006 1:38 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

LawerenceHallOfScienceMay72006_064, originally uploaded by mizzjenny.

It seems we can't visit a venue without leaving with swag. After our recent visit to the Lawrence Hall of Science at UC Berkeley, we had to bring home our own copy of "Dino-opoly" - where you buy fossils instead of real estate, and erect museums and go out on digs and stuff.

I mean, the box says 8 to Adult, but it neglects to mention that you can totally cheat when you are the only adult playing with two kids who aren't so clear on money. And! They totally let you have do-overs with the dice.

Dino-opoly - for the cheater in us all.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 15, 2006 11:50 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (3)

A while back, I was contacted by the lovely writer Sabrina Rubin Erdely, who told me she loved my blog. I was totally flattered when she asked to interview me for an article she was writing on large families for LIFE magazine. I was unsure if three kids really qualifies as a large family, but Sabrina assured me that it totally does. Okay, well, she didn't say "totally does." But there it is.

The article is out today, people, and I haven't seen it yet. It's killing me just a little bit, because when I spoke to Sabrina on the phone, I said many, many stupid things. Really, truly, jaw-droppingly, duuuuuuuh kind of things. I can only hope that those less-than-stellar soundbites made it into the finished piece. We'll have to see.

And THEN! I got an email from the fabulous Gloria Mattioni, author of Reckless ( the book I gave to all my girlfriends for Christmas.) Apparently, she either mentioned or quoted Three Kid Circus in this month's Elle Italia. Which is great! Except I haven't seen that one either, and I'm dying a little bit here. Why, oh why do the little regional booksellers and large corporate chain booksellers not stock Elle Italia? Why? I've got vain needs here! I want to see my name in print!

(Oh, did I say that out loud? Ignore that. I'm not vain at all. Not me. No!)

Last of all - if you haven't been by Mommybloggers - we've got a screamingly funny essay by the talented Susie Sunshine, and this weekend, we'll be featuring another Mommybloggers Q&A - just in time for Mother's Day. You don't want to miss this multiple mama cage match.

P.S. - go check out my alter-ego "Big Slice" at

ClubMom

. I'll have a fresh essay up tonight.

This is the end of this self-promoting entry. Thank you.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 12, 2006 12:16 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (8)

You know what you should do? You probably do. You should totally stay away from me this week because I've become crazy, and also boastful, and I'm fully expecting a lightning bolt to strike my smug ass any second now.

This is free advice, people. I give, because I love.

Seriously - on Saturday, the husband and I took the three kids to the pool. It was fun. There was no screaming or tantrums. The kids listened. The angels sang. Seriously.

Who snuck into my house and gave my kids good behavior juice? I mean, come on. I'm ALWAYS the mother who ends up dragging a limp, wailing kid back into the car. I'm always the one with the mouth in constant motion.

"Stop, don't run, come back, don't jump. Wait, come here. No, not there. Stop. Please, for the love of God get over here and, and, no. Get up off the cement. No, stop crying right now miss thang. Do you want to go home? Do you?"

But Saturday - it was all good. I decided to laugh in the face of danger and signed all three kids up for swimming lessons at the local swim center. The youngest has swimming in the morning, and then the older two have lessons at the witching hour before dinner. Again, I'm usually the mother who hovers at the edge of the pool.

"Get back over with your class. Listen. Listen to your teacher. Sit down. Keep your head above water. Get back on the wall. Hey! You wanna go home? Do you?"

Ah, good times. Great times! Man, am I going to miss doing that. Because get this: the kids? They are listening. They are paying attention. They keep their heads above the water and dunk on command. They blow bubbles. Even my youngest does. Holy moly. Instead of trying to keep my sense of humor while feeling the glares of the other parents burning a hole in my back, I am basking in the sun and working on my base tan.

Who are these children? And also, woooooo!

I'm sacrificing my last bar of chocolate on the altar of the parenting gods right now. Because this is too good to be true, and I'm feeling like I'm due for a heavy smiting.

Also! Get yourselves away from here, and go see my new digs on ClubMom! You'll laugh! You'll cry! You'll call me BigSlice and we'll all have a good laugh about it! http://bigslice.clubmom.com - bookmark it, and tell your friends.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 10, 2006 12:32 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

HamsterGirl001, originally uploaded by mizzjenny.

She's decided that she's not three, she's six, and she's a big girl. And also, she enjoys carrying hamsters in her bodice. You got a problem with that? Do you?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 8, 2006 9:46 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (19)

So, here I am, cheeseballing around with my weighted hula hoop, while the kids are playing in the yard. Or so I thought. Look behind the slide. That black lump on the ground? No, not my quaking torso. Behind the slide. Not my behind. The thing on the ground. Yeah. See it? Apparently, my youngest got tired of playing and put herself down for a nap.

Never mind that it's four o'clock in the afternoon. Never mind that the grass is scratchy. She's cuddled up in her Milk Factory blanket, and having a good old time. She's totally unaware that a few feet from her little nest, her mother is making an ass out of herself with an aerobic hula hoop.

I let her sleep like this for a good two hours, and then brought her inside to the couch. She continued to sleep like a log, and so I put her in bed. She slept straight through dinner, and woke up at 4 am this morning, famished and ready to be entertained. It's been a LONG DAY. But, man. Just look at that face. I can't be annoyed at that girl.

a quickr pickr post

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 6, 2006 8:29 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (10)

I should have know that I'd never change him, this husband of mine. When we first started dating, I welcomed the leisurely Saturdays spent alone, reading or shopping while he packed up his backpack full of Magic: The Gathering cards and headed down to the local comic book store to participate in tournaments with a bunch of mangy guys in their thirties, and a handful of tweens. He'd come home dejected, having had his ass handed to him by some nine year old. Once he won a teeshirt. Oh glorious victory! He still wears it.

I guess I can't spend too much time smirking, since in the quest to be all interested in his interests and stuff (ah, young love) I actually played in a few MTG tourneys as well. I had nicknames for all the mangy guys. SB - that was stinky breath. Twitcher? That was SB's brother. So on and so forth. Gah. I never won a teeshirt, and I'm totally fine with that.

Later, Ultima Online stole his Saturdays away from me. I think I can still whistle the theme music from good old UO. My intelligent, handsome husband spent hours at a time doing things like (virtually) chopping wood and (virtually) rearranging his backpacks and (virtually) decorating his house. He spent hours on some little (virtual) atoll, killing trolls or the like by (virtually) summoning, yeah, that's right - I'm down with the lingo - a dust devil or something. It was maddening.

Now, though. World of Warcraft is his new love. I'm a Widow of Warcraft, people, but I'm not going down without a fight.

In a touching display of affection, my husband named a WOW character after me. A female dwarf, to be specific. I don't get to be a statuesque babe in the game, no. I'm the character equivilent of a hacky sack. I'm flattered all to hell, let me tell you. He tells me he doesn't play her much. Again. Flattered!

He has his computer set up in the garage, and his friend frequently joins him to play World of Warhell with him. I should ask his friend if he's got a dwarf named for his wife, too. Maybe he named a troll. Wouldn't surprise me.

Actually, what suprised me is overhearing my husband talking on his nerdy little headset to the guys he was playing with that he "had to go, dudes, to prevent wife aggro."

WIFE AGGRO. Fear my dwarf wrath! I'm going wife aggro on your asses with my warhammer of righteousness! I will swing my stumpy arms up to the power strip and end this right now! You think it's annoying when the servers are down? I'll show you Widow of Warcraft Aggro, and you will know real (not virtual) fear.

Anyone want to join my guild? We can interrupt quests with summons to dinner and random household tasks to be accomplished. Sound like fun?

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 5, 2006 8:18 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (13)

With the recent string of warm, spring-like days around here, we've been spending most of the day outdoors. It seriously makes me want to break into song and dance. The balmy temperatures have a similar effect on the kids, and my yard has been ringing with the sounds of my children warbling at the top of their lungs.

Be so glad that you aren't my neighbors. Be very, very glad.

One whiff of spring breeze, and a few hours of sunlight are all that is needed to transform my children into nudito banditos once more. That, and they can't stop playing with the outside faucets, which results in mud puddles, since our lawn is actually a dirt field with scattered clumps of weeds. With the creation of mud, they become nekkid pigs in a wallow, and there is honest-to-God snorting and oinking and stuff going on. Every time I take my eyes off of them, one of them is standing on top of the jungle gym, fifteen feet in the air, sing-ing-ing-ing about love, and freedom, and spring, and chocolate, all while naked as a peeled egg. Or coated in mud. Yeah.

So all day long, I'm like this:

"Turn off the water. Turn off the water. Turn off THE WATER."
"Where are your clothes? Find your clothes. Put on your pants! Where are your pants?"
"The water needs to be off. Get out of the mud!"
"Get down from there. Shush! Get down. Get down here and put some pants back on."
"Turn the water off! Where are your clothes? You need pants on!"
"Yes, you are singing nice, but the whole neighborhood doesn't want to look at your muddy butt while you sing."
"Get. Down."
"Water Off. NOW."
"Where are your PANTS?"

Ah, spring. It is truly here. And with summer right around the corner, I'm stocking up on pina colada mix now.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 4, 2006 8:49 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (10)

A while back - okay, actually, the package that the UPS guy was delivering when my dog bit his finger - that was a couple of Math Rap CDs. My oldest has been disinterested in learning math, and while she gets the basic concepts, I figured a little benign brainwashing wouldn't hurt.

We've still got the dog, by the way. We had a trainer come out and work with her (and with us) and helped us make an action plan for keeping her from biting again. So, whew!

Okay, back to the subject at hand: Math Rap. RAP. OF MATH FACTS.

I've been playing it in the van. The other day, I dropped the two big kids off at school, and clicked off the CD with a sigh of relief. My three year old sat, staring out the window, fingers drumming along to the beat, and she protested when I turned it off.

"Noooo! Mommy! I want mooooore."

"How's about you get funky with math facts on your own, little bay-buh? Bust a rhyme!"

She stopped whining and straightened her spine, and began chanting.

"One and one is bad. Two and two is bad. Three and three is bad. But ten equals eleven."

There it is. I suspect that perhaps she will be an English major.

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 3, 2006 5:11 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (5)

It's a golden, mellow morning here at Three Kid Circus. I've got 700 things to accomplish, but I have spring fever and all I really want to do is run around in circles laller laller lallering.

Can you imagine having me as a mother? Poor kids.

I can already tell it's going to be one of those days. We got up late (6:30! Wooo!) and since we're all grumps in the morning, it took forever to get going. We didn't get to walk to school, despite my insisting to my friend Kim that "I'm totally walking, every morning. I'm just going to do it!" I should have consulted my kids first.

Of course it doesn't help matters that I stayed up late watching Texas Ranch House. Or, ahem, Sexist Ranch House. I think there is something wrong with me, because I cancelled my season pass to 24 in order to record TRH. Look at me, throwing down the abbreviations! I'm like, INTO IT. I loved it when the mom said "Hey, this was my idea, and I'm learning that it's not all about me!" I haven't watched 24, anyway, except for the first 3 episodes, and then I got sort of busy with other stuff and kept forgetting to watch it on TiVo, and all of a sudden I was 10 hours behind. No recovering from that, unless I'm going to spend an entire weekend on the couch, with my children out of viewing range.

(Note to self - this is actually an excellent idea. Build child-kennel in yard by Friday.)

I'm trying to stay optimistic about the potty training situation. Sure, I've changed three pairs of wet panties so far this morning, but the day is long, and I have many pairs of panties.

"Mommy! I have something to tell you!" My daughter just walked into the kitchen looking sheepish.
"What's up?"
"I went peeps!"
"In the potty!"
"No. On the floor!"

Well. At least she's telling me. And thank you Pergo. Another successful day of mothering already being written in the history books!

You want to know something that cracks me up, every time I see it? On the back of The Fat Fallacy book , it says FAT IS NOT THE ENEMY! in big old red letters. I so want that on a shirt.

Anyhoo...I'm still waiting to hear on my actual launch date from ClubMom (if you haven't signed up yet - It's free and you earn stuff!), but the diet is going well so far. One whole day! I'm still on it! You'll have to wait until the actual blog launches before you get the gory details of my exercise and eating and all that jazz. I know. You're holding your breath. (People, I danced along with The Wiggles for my workout yesterday - you don't want to miss reading about that. Trust me.)

Over at Mommybloggers... for the month of May, we're going to be featuring not one, but TWO fabulous featured bloggers a week. Go say hello to Kristen of Motherhood Uncensored, and check back on Thursday to see who our next victim guest will be!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 2, 2006 8:41 AM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (7)

I'm back on the trail to Diaper-Free Nirvana.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Frankly, I'm sick of buying diapers. I'm already trained to visit every restroom between point A and point B, and I'm the slightly bemused owner of 700 pairs of training panties.

And, puhleese. The child is 3 and a half. Ish. Halfish. Whatever. It is time. It is long past time.

"Hey, honey! Let's try and make peeps on the potty!"
"No. I'm busy."
"Come on, sweetie! Peeps! Quick peeps! It will be fun!"
"Go away, Mama."

Wow! This is going well! The toddler- 1, Mama- zip.

"Want some juice?"
"No."
"Want some water?"
"No."
"Jooo-oooooo-oooo-ce?" I figure singing might make it more appealing.
"No."

Great. How am I supposed to make her pee if she won't drink on command. Toddler - 2, Mama - 0.

Oh great. She just ran by with her little potty full of horses. Yes! That's a good plan! I'm really on my A game now!

<__trans phrase="Posted by [_1] on [_2]" params="Jenny%%May 1, 2006 3:31 PM"> | <__trans phrase="Permalink"> | <__trans phrase="Comments"> (4)