Hah! A-member me? (Think Eddie Murphy doing Buckwheat.)

There are no words in the English language to convey the pace of nonstop insanity 'round these hee-yuh pahts. A lovely, lovely girl here at work has taken three weeks off to get married and go on her honeymoon, which of course makes me so jealous I could puke...Not to mention I have to cover for her, and her three attorneys, and my three attorneys...All I'm saying is, I fully expect a Porsche parked outside with my name on it when everyone else gets their little bonus checks. It's only fair.

Then of course I've got my duties to both the Parent Committee and Policy Committee at the boys' daycare. We've also enjoyed a couple of playdates (did you know bowling is all the rage in the 4-year-old set?) and been preparing to move (I'm SO OVER this damned city) and I HAVEN'T EVEN TOUCHED ON THE HOLIDAYS YET!! It really is a mad, mad world, no doubt, and I have this crazy feeling that I alone act as the axis, holding it all together by sheer will and determination. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...I think, therefore I...can. All righty, moving right along...

Thanksgiving was lovely, thanks for asking, with Grandma's own homemade gravy and my cute little butterball (the turkey was good, too) on his best behaviour and no blood spilt amongst cousins. A Thanksgiving Day miracle, really. No stovetop fires, no ruined dishes, not even any snow (a few drops struggling to be flaky, nothing more) to block the roads. Marvelous. I still feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, honestly. It just doesn't feel like a holiday without some small catastrophe.

But we've got Christmas to look forward to now, folks, the holiday that used to be magical and full of anticipation and wonder and awe...Now it feels more like going to the gas station and getting bent over. I wish it worked that way, instead of this long torturous drawn-out event where I am nickle-and-dimed to death. I wish I could just pull up to a dispenser, empty my wallet and half my bank account into one side and out of the other side would pour some crap that won't last, because that's what I'm doing, folks! I am surely making down payments on my own demise, since any Lego or block I buy will only end up underfoot in some seemingly haphazard way that I KNOW has a larger design and purpose. I'm hip to your game, my dear boys. And when I come back from the hospital, I'll be fitted with a bionic leg, the better to kick your butts with. I hope whatever scheme I can see brewing behind those innocent baby blues is worth it.

If I sound a tad cynical, I suppose I'm just feeling that I'm shouldering a little more than my fair share these days, with no one to really gripe to except you, dear Reader(s). I appreciate you having returned to read at all, given that I'm a sporadic blogger at best (do I smell a New Year's resolution?) and if you've made it thus far, bravo, and the happiest of holidays to you and yours. :)

In downtown Cleveland yesterday, there was a shooting in a high school. Apparently a multiple-weapon-slinging 14-year-old felt he had run out of options and ran amuck, shooting two students and two teachers before turning a gun on himself. Fortunately, no one sustained fatal injuries, excepting of course, the gunman (gunboy? gunchild?).

As incidents like these rise at an alarming rate, and I myself prepare to enroll my child in public schools (kindergarten next fall), I find myself feeling as helpless and upset as any parent across the country.

What if I do everything right? What if my boys grow to be angels, respectful and peaceable and loving...and just happen to be sitting in the wrong seat in the wrong classroom at the wrong time? THIS is why these incidents are OUR problem. Lay the blame for each individual incident where you will (parents? security?) but in the long run, they are society's problems (are they not society's products?) and will not be ignored.

Here is my suggestion. I propose, no, I CHALLENGE the media never to release the name(s) of the shooter(s). For this, I believe, is what the majority of them are seeking. A posthumous sort of infamy, a martyrdom, a final call for attention to what they perceive to be their insurmountable struggle. While I'm sure it does seem insurmountable to them (hell, I vividly remember the slow, cruel torture of puberty), anyone considering going out in a blaze of glory might reconsider if they knew there would be no "glory." Let us give no recognition whatsoever to those turning to guns and violence. Tell me about the victims, tell me about the families, tell me about the policy changes being enacted to prevent future tragedies...But do NOT tell me the name of the shooter. I could happily live out the rest of my days not knowing.

What do you think? This is my idea. This is just my two cents on an issue that affects us all, so please, if you have anything to add or even care to tear apart my theory, now's the time! We can write petitions, we can lobby our representatives for change...I refuse to believe we are helpless bystanders. We are the righteous majority...Let us not be cowards in the dictatorship of a brazenly immoral few.

Hark! What doth approach on stealthy feet? What foe dare draw so near with hungry mouth under brazen smile? The better to steal your youth with, my dear.

My birthday, that's what. That facade of a celebration designed for people to draw 'round and analyze the shit out of you while making witty little banter, like, Oh, but you don't look a day past (insert random number here)! And all the while, their thoughts clear as ticker-tape across their foreheads...Botox...Botox...Botox...Has no one told this poor girl about Botox...

I may be a tad bitter. Just recently, while attempting to apply eyeliner, I ran into a new obstacle...This prominent WRINKLE at the corner of my eye. Son of a bitch. I fully expect a turkey-gobble-neck and some guacamole arms to match any day now.

In an effort to stave off this alien tranformation at quite this rapid pace, I've enlisted the help of one Carmen Electra. She promises to tone and tighten while teaching me, get this, how to perform a striptease. Because nothing's sexier than rapidly aging guacamole arms wrapped around a pole.

Thank you, dear reader(s), for allowing me this, the most silly, basest of vents. I fully realize that crow's feet indicate a life filled with laughter, and am grateful. For the whole package, still intact, thank God for small favors.

As for aging, I think Forrest Gump had it right when he said with such remarkable insight...Shit happens. Indeed.

Hello, my name is Cera, and I'm a reality television addict.

What is it about these reality shows that captivates our attention? I have an idea. Methinks it may be the raw emotion captured on imperfect faces without pancake makeup (my God, look at her PORES!). These people seem blissfully ignorant of the camera (it's got to be RIGHT THERE, not sure how they're missing it) and completely engrossed in whatever competition/stunt/debacle they're involved in. These people seem, as far as I can tell, very...real. They look like people I could pass by on the street. And since they are not trained actors, whatever emotion dances across their faces is absolutely enthralling. That could be me, man.

If you're like me in this regard, you'll appreciate a little tip I have for you. The BEST displays of tearful passion may be found not on Rock of Love (although that show is WONDERFUL and Bret Michaels can still work it), or Survivor (where are they this season, Siberia?), or the Biggest Loser ('nuff said), or the Bachelor, but...drumroll please...the Pickup Artist.

The Pickup Artist follows the lessons being taught some seriously socially-challenged young men. The best part isn't that they're being instructed by a scarecrow in eyeliner (somehow I'm still attracted though...he's GOOD) or that their lessons have to do with lingerie and strip clubs. The best part of this hilarity hour, bar none, is elimination time, in which each young man inevitably tears up and they all hold hands and hug and profess their love for one another. Stellar performances, boys!

Congratulations to Cosmo, by the way, for being the cutest to begin with and then winning the whole shebang. Do I sense a Pickup Artist II on the way? It is VH1, after all. Love you, VH1!

Ya know...You try your best. You think, as a mother, what can I do to protect my children.

It's about more than just teaching Stranger Danger and putting harmful chemicals up out of reach. It's about a million tiny decisions you make during the course of an average day.

For instance, I am always shocked and appalled to hear a parent BLASTING their music with their children in the car. Unreal. Those poor little eardrums...Not to mention the choice of song. Hmm, gee, I wonder where Junior picked up that foul language. It's a mystery.

So in my crusade to make smart choices to protect my children from the world at large, I've compiled some easy listening for car trips. A little Gavin DeGraw, a little Whitney Houston, a ton of Kenny Loggins. Kenny, I love you, marry me. We could sing the kids to sleep every night, think about it. Call me.

So imagine me, riding high on my horse of parental righteousness, in the grocery store with the boys yesterday evening. They were semi-behaving, and I thought we might escape the store unscathed (silly, silly Mommy), when out of nowhere, at the top of his lungs, Spencer belts out..."I wanna feel the HEAT with somebodyyy..."

Oh my. Just when you think you've got ONE area locked down, you're on top of it, you can rest easy on ONE subject...thanks a lot, Whitney. Ya floozy.

GUESS WHAT?! Julian has...drumroll please...Gone #1 on the potty!!!!

This was a fluke, don't get me wrong, I'm not signing him up for Harvard or anything (just yet), but he did indeed use the throne for its intended use this morning!

We pulled out the little Fisher-Price(TM) kiddie potty this past weekend at the pediatrician's recommendation and set it up in its old place of honor. The idea was to get Julian familiar with the concept, and gradually ease into actually using it.

But I've never been a patient woman.

So this morning, I removed his diaper and sat him on it in the hopes that the running water of Spence and I brushing our teeth would encourage a little action on his part. And what do you know, it did!

Let's sum this up. Changes in status: Julian, High Chancellor of All He Surveys, now official proud user of An Actual Throne. Mommy, Genius Toothbrush-Water-Running Extraordinaire. Spencer, Unsuspecting Bystander, Happy Clapper.

Why do the end of short weeks seem to drag on so long? Are they chronologically obligated to feel longer?? Sweet, blessed Friday, here at last. All hail Friday!

The boys are doing well, I'm happy to report. The other day at daycare pick-up, the security guard strolled over as I was buckling my brood into their car seats and asked with raised eyebrows, "Two boys?" To which I replied, "Yup!" over the din..."God bless you, ma'am," he said, shaking his head a bit, and walked away.

What upset me most about this whole transaction was that he called me "ma'am." Apparently when children are present and obviously yours, you go from "miss" to insta-ma'am. Nice. What am I, 40?

Julian, valiant contributor to above-mentioned din, seems to be toning down the royal fits we are accustomed to, and God bless him for it. It seems as he adds to his tiny vocabulary (important words like 'poo-poo,' 'uh-uh (as in, no)' and 'mine'), his frustration at the world in general lessens. You go boy!

His classmates in his new Toddler Room at daycare aren't quite so encouraging. My poor JuJuBee has come home every day looking like the world's smallest prizefighter (what's below featherweight?). It seems as the new boy in class, he's getting a lot of attention, not all of it positive. I'd be a lot more upset if I didn't remember having gone through this exact phase with Spence. The Terrible Twos are quickly approaching, dear reader(s), and we've just barely gotten past the Ornery Ones. Fantastic.

Nathaniel's expert solution was for me to inspect each and every classmate's fingernails every morning. Once I picked myself up off the floor laughing, I suggested he could do so in his own spare time, since mine is currently all booked up.

On a parting note, I'd like to say, the Air Show ROCKS. We took the kids to see it, and while Julian was less than impressed, Spence and I had a BLAST. Those Thunderbirds are kick-ass (don't tell the Blue Angels I said that) and we sincerely appreciated each and every swoop and dive and roll and maneuver they had to throw out. Friggin' awesome. I tried my best not to embarrass the kiddos, but Spence must have noticed my 12-yr-old screaming schoolgirl act, because he asked me afterwards, "You really really REALLY like dose airplanes, don't you?" Yes, yes I do.

Well I'll be gull-durned, I've been given my first blogging award!


I'd like to thank Barb over at mom2momlounge.com for her thoughtful gesture. You're a peach, Barb!

Next on the agenda is my nomination for sainthood for the trials and tribulations endured by way of 'high-maintenance' child. Cera, patron saint of nutty moms everywhere.

Barb also tagged me for some sort of blog-tag-thingy (I do believe that's the technical term) in which I post '8 Random Facts About Me.' I'm a little behind in reading dear Barbie's blog, so please forgive me while I catch up with this fun bliggity-blog stuff.

8 Random Facts About Me
* I don't know how to create bullets on Blogger. Asterisks will have to do.
* I'm a stickler for proper spelling and grammar. My friends would say 'fanatic,' to whom I would say, 'i' before 'e' or bust, bitches! Except after 'c.' Let's not get carried away.
* I may have a touch of OCD. I feel it's important to do many things in even numbers. For instance, if I had been asked to list 9 Random Facts About Me, I would have politely declined.
* I think beauty-mark-type, tiny piercings just above the lip rock.
* I will probably never get said piercing.
* Because I am a needle-phobic. I don't mind blood, I don't mind pain (not that I'm INTO pain, you freak), but there is just something about the idea of a hollow...gag...steel...retch...Ok, moving on...
* I get a huge kick out of dressing my boys alike. It's my one solace in not having had a girl.
* I'd love to write a book. A big, fat novel that demands to be read straight through and leaves you thinking for weeks afterwards, not to mention running to the bookstore to beg to be put on the waiting list for my next book. This is my dream. Until then, a-blogging I shall be.

It's high time I wrote something substantive, don't you think?

Julian is growing in leaps and bounds. He's fairly tall and thin for his age (18 months), but has this ever-expanding Buddha belly that is hilarious to behold. Especially funny when he's running around nekky, as he does most scorchingly hot summer evenings, playing in the pool and whatnot.

Every day he improves upon his limited vocabulary and social skills (alas, still lacking the word 'share' in said vocabulary). He is better able to play with Spencer and therefore spends less time residing all up in my ass (HAAALELUJAH! HAAALELUJAH!). My ass is grateful.

JuJuBee is also better able to play by himself these days, I've noticed. For instance, he played perfectly quietly while I read a story to Spence the other night. A little too quietly, which should have been a trigger to me...The End, I say to Spence, and look up to see the Bee happily feeding our mail back out the mail slot and into the rainy evening. Lovely.

Spence, for his part, has been quite understanding as we tread these new waters of big brotherhood. As the Bee is better able to play with him, he strives to include him in his activities...and tries really hard not to be upset when Julian tires of the game and simply snatches all toys involved and takes off at a dead run. And here comes the worst part...Even though I SWORE I wouldn't be one of those parents, I find myself saying witty little things like, "Just GIVE it to him, PUH-LEEZE! Please, Spence, please, just give it to him...I'll buy you another one! You can watch cartoons on Mommy's TV, you can have a cookie, just please, for the love of God and eardrums, just GIVE it to him, NOW!"

I suck. I considered myself a fairly exceptional mother of one. As a mother of two, it turns out, I completely suck. Didn't see that one coming.

So we're moving right along, folks, can't say we're the Cleavers, but then again June never had to deal with a nekky toddler trying her patience, did she? Not to mention the Mother's Little Helpers that aren't around these days either. Aaahh, June, you should see us now. This world is a crazy one to be raising children in, that's for sure, so I suppose if your kids are a little nutty to begin with, that actually probably helps. As for myself, I shall be enjoying a glass or 6 of wine tonight, and hopefully getting into some very un-June-like naughtiness with the old man.

P.S. A big WHASSUP GIRRRL goes out to the lovely Tiff, who has passed her GRE with such high scores that schools are now afraid to accept her, for fear she will put their other students to shame. You go girl.

Well it's begun. The beginning of the end. Julian, my honey Bee, has started his transfer from the 'mobile infants' room at daycare to the...drumroll please...'toddler' room. For the first time, he's complacent and I feel like crying. Funny little role reversal there.

I fully realize I'm dragging my feet here, but I simply refuse to do otherwise. And you can't make me! Waahhh!!

Julian, you see, is the baby of the family, and as such will forever be My Baby. I'm sure that when his 45-year-old ass stops by to introduce his new wife, or whatever, I will still address him as My Baby. And probably glare at his old lady. Aren't I awful?

I wish I had more time to delve into the subject, dear Reader(s), but I fear the work is piling up around me, literally, so I must return to the trenches or suffer the consequences.

Wishing everyone a wonderful day! Enjoy the summer!!

Controversial Points of Common Courtesy:

You want to do the right thing. At least I hope you do. So what, pray tell, is the right thing under these circumstances...

Where to look when riding with others in an elevator. At your shoes? At the floor ticker display? At the other people in a futile effort to make friends? Or perhaps all of these, in rapid succession, because you're trying to establish a reputation as an eccentric madwoman. Success!

What ringtone to set your cell phone to, and how high to set the volume of said ringtone. If you're still attempting to confirm that don't-eff-with-me-because-I'm-effing-crazy reputation, or for the fun of annoying every other living being you encounter, feel free to select Rapper of the Moment/Britney Spears/reggae/salsa and crank that shit.

What to say to a parent who seems hell-bent on setting up a playdate with you. Sure, I'll call you? Maybe next millenium? Your kid seems Ok, but the jury's still out on your greasy ass?

Perhaps for Christmas, and for my own sanity, everyone will receive a little Miss Manners quick-reference guide in his or her stocking. Unless, of course, you're earnestly shooting for that devil-may-care attitude, in which case, rock on.

Walla walla walla, step right up and have a look-see at the amazing...Vivacity! New and improved, guaranteed results! But wait...there's more! No actually, that's about it. New format, whaddya think? A big THANK YOU to my html-savvy friends, check them out on the shiny new links found on the right-hand column.

I find myself on a mission, folks. Operation Mommy's Remote Is Not A Toy. It seems my one comfort in life, my one escape from the insanity that occasionally threatens to institutionalize me, that treasured connection to my revered reality shows and dramas, has been discovered, investigated, and shot down. No longer can I relax after a long day of work, coming home to more work, putting the kids to bed and then working some more...I am now forced to work to change the damn channels on the television in my bedroom.

I believe Spencer when he says, "I guess I don't know where your 'mote is, Mommy. I guess I sure don't." He is my angel-boy, and he won't soon forget the time I cried my heart out when he misplaced my ring.

Julian, on the other hand, is surely the spawn of Satan, sent straight from hell to deliver my pennance by way of long, slow, unmerciful torture. Ok, I may be exaggerating here a tad. He occasionally shows mercy.

But there is no mercy in sight in OMRINAT. He continues to appear completely innocent when asked, even cocking his head and batting his eyelashes. Oh, the facade, how complete it is. And the Oscar goes to...

I suppose this is merely an update, that there is no change in status in our household. Julian continues to reign with cruel whimsy, and if he deems it law that mommies must heretofor change their channels manually, so be it. So it is babbled, so shall it be done.

There are few moments of spoken words from mouths of babes that really grab your attention. Their first word, their first sentence, a cry for help, an exclamation of pride. There are just a few words that can really stop you dead in your tracks and make you take notice of what everyday static you had just been tuning out.

For instance, just the other day, young master Spence comes bounding down the stairs from the second floor, clearly excited, yelling, "Mommy, Mommy, I found Daddy's hooker!"

Just one of those moments when your heart takes a thoughtful pause before resuming its regular rhythm. Daddy's what now? I can't have heard that right.

"I saw it, I saw it, Daddy's hooker, just lying there on the floor!"

Hmmm. Aaalllll right, now we not only have a prostitute in my house, we apparently have an injured/unconscious/dead one as well. And here I thought it was just going to be another quiet evening at home. Silly, silly mommy.

Spencer continues his descent into the living room, around the landing, down the last two stairs and proudly runs over to show me a prize he's clutching in his little hand. Nathaniel's bungee cord.

"See? Daddy's hooker. I found it!"

Aaahh yes. Daddy's hooker. I've obviously wandered onto the set of Leave it to Beaver in the Twilight Zone. June, be a doll and fix me a drink, will you? I've got a pounding headache all of a sudden. {canned laughter}

So when you think you've heard some astonishing, gut-wrenching news, ladies and gentlemen, let's remember to take a moment and consider the source, shall we?

Oh my LAWD am I ever slacking on the bliggitty-blog-blog. Please forgive!

I have a piece of advice for those with husbands/significant others/baby daddies/whatnot. NEVER, under any circumstances, tell them any ingredient of any recipe you make, EVER.

Now I knew this rule, I did, it must have just slipped my mind during a recent kitchen escapade. Having misplaced (that sucker is GONE) my yellow cake recipe, I thought I'd go hunting through my cooking/baking magazines for something new, when lo & behold, there on the page was a recipe for Mayonnaise Cake! I was THRILLED. My mother didn't whip up too many things that tantalized my taste buds over the years, but her mayonnaise cake was always a hit. Absolutely superb.

So as my moist delicacy is baking itself into a chocolate decadence in the oven, I happen to relate to Nathaniel as he wanders by my elation over having found a recipe for Mayonnaise Cake. The man (& I use that term loosely) began clutching at his throat in a pantomime of an astronaut who just lost air pressure in his helmet.

"Mayonnaise? Mayonnaise CAKE? MAYONNAISE CAKE?!!"

I knew the jig was up. I knew this bakery snob would never let a morsel of my hard work past his lips. Eff him then, more for me (& my hips, & my thighs...this back-fired in SO many ways).

So as our little family sat down to a slice of heaven later that evening, he ever-so-politely cut himself a piece...and proceeded to eat every bit...of the icing. He continues to grumble under his breath about "trying to kill me" and therefore, dear reader(s), I must forewarn you...Never, ever, tell your old man what is in anything he hasn't eaten yet. Wait 'til afterwards.

A dear friend commenting on my last post has led me to realize...I've been spitting out the ol' blog for a year now! Good God, where has the time gone. This blog began as a way for me to begin my dream of writing, and from this platform I'm happy to say I've gone on to write a monthly column for the afore-mentioned dear friend (check out mom2momlounge.com), a weekly journal for Babycenter.com, and various articles which have actually earned me money (helium.com)! I am beyond proud to call myself a bona fide earning writer. I thank the kind people at Blogger.com who have created such an easy, affordable (read, free) website for hokey authors of nonsense such as myself to come express ourselves. And of course, for those loyal reader(s) still struggling through my rambling posts, THANK YOU.

From my last post, you will clearly see how I jinxed myself by commenting on the peaceful existence we were enjoying...I picked up Young Master Spence at daycare early yesterday after a phone call from his teacher reported a low-grade fever and persistent headache. How could I ignore the pitiful pleadings of "My bwain hurts!"? Awww, widdow boy, let's get you some ibupwofen and see if you don't feel bettew, you wascally wabbit.

So of course I pick the baby up also, who, not to be outdone, saw fit to LOSE HIS DAMN MIND. The child cried the entire drive home, through dinner, right up until bedtime. I knew I was in for it when his teacher reported only a 1/2-hour nap.

Tonight shall be spent recovering from yesterday, for all of us. And damning the Cavs for giving us such HOPE, man, it was close. So close we could all taste it, the whole city dreaming of our team making it somewhere, anywhere...It's been far too long. Happy Father's Day, LeBron, you son of a gun. You tease.

Friday, I've missed thee so. Bring on the pizza, the wings, the usual Friday fare, all things delicious and drenched in calories. Yummy, yummy calories. Let the laundry rot, let the dishes mold, it is FRIDAY and I am currently unavailable for anything resembling a chore. If you care to voice a complaint, leave your message after the beep. BEEEEP.

After much back-and-forth and a million revisions to plans, Tiff & I have in fact scheduled a meeting with my dear sister. The plan is to get to the root of her boyfriend issues, and see if she might not be happier moving back to our area, from her current residence out in North Carolina. I selfishly think it'd be nice if she lived closer (for babysitting reasons, mu-hahahaha) but I want to help her decide the right course of action for herself, period. It's hard to watch someone make mistakes or be unhappy, but all you can do is reason with them and in the end they will make their own decisions. I wish her happiness and peace.

Luckily we're going out for coffee, because I'm feeling rather droopy this afternoon. I could just lay my head down on my desk right here and make up for the sleep debt Julian so cruelly inflicted upon me this morning. Cock-a-doodle waaahhh!

In other news, Raphael, Spence's kitty, shall retain his left eye. For now. We were very concerned recently when it appeared to be dilated and protruding a bit...2 vet visits & billions of dollars later, we think it safe to assume this is either an injury or an abscess from a recent infection. All good news. My wallet thanks you, kind vet.

So the fam is doing well, I'm happy to report...We are enjoying the hell out of this sunshine with nary a runny nose in sight. Everyone's happy, everyone's healthy...And now of course I've jinxed myself by saying that & I'm sure to return home to a mess of grumpy sickies. I just haaad to be thankful for small favors, didn't I. That'll learn me.

Well dear reader(s), I must vacate this hellish deep freeze (oxymoron?) for the tropical sauna of my car & the drive home. I love that feeling of sliding behind the wheel after a posicle of a day like this one & feeling all the pores on my face open, my goosebumps finally relaxing...I'll never understand the mentality of the higher-ups with their hands on the thermostat. With all the $$$ you could save by dropping the a/c down to a comfortable level, I could collect the fat raise I desperately need! A girl can dream. Someone point me towards the suggestion box.

Oh you silly reader(s), did you think I forgot about you? Well I did. KIDDING! I've been trapped in a whirlwind, unable to do anything but cook meals & clean house & chase after little boys bent on self-destruction. The wind is dying down now...

Today is Al's birthday, & the 3rd-to-last day of school. Next year, high school, and then...the world! I cannot believe he's 15 today. I so clearly remember putting golf balls with him in his grandmother's backyard when he was a darling towhead of six. What happened??

Nathaniel's birthday is just around the corner. He's requested a little homemade cake. Wonder if he'd mind if I jumped out of it? Whatever we do, it certainly won't be a repeat of years past...I always attempt to throw a party that noone can attend (asses) or plan something, anything...The single exception to this rule was the year Tom Petty just happened to be in town exactly ON his birthday and I surprised him with his very first live concert. Freeee...free faaallin'...

I daresay I'll post tomorrow, since work has calmed down and eight legal assistants aren't calling in sick each day. Good night!

I think once you reach a certain age, your core temperature plummets out of control. Menopause, Ok, but what is a man's excuse? How is it that the powers that be have the thermostat set to "Freeze Your Tits Off" and can work perfectly comfortably in that realm all day?? Excuse the hell out of ME, but I am trying to wear summer clothes here, seeing as how it's approximately 80 degrees out today. Why a higher temperature outside equates lower and lower temperatures in the office is absolutely beyond me. At my previous employment, which was a much smaller firm and therefore subject to my unabashed silliness, I once wore a parka fastened Kenny-style and mittens to deliver their precious mail and faxes. They took the hint. They might not appreciate my subtlety here. Not that it matters; I'm pretty sure I'm frozen to my chair. Send for help.

So Sunday is Mother's Day...Wow. I've already received my first Mother's Day card, from a dear gentleman who happens to be my should-be-stepson's godfather. Very touching card, filled with his sentiments on exactly what sort of wonderful mother I am. Maybe not the best time to tell him I hit the bottle on occasion & have been known to scream, "BECAUSE I SAID SO!!"

In other news, dear JuJuBee has FINALLY begun cutting his molars on the other side of his mouth. Thank God, I see light at the end of this long dark tunnel filled with whines and cries. I'm so friggin thrilled, I want to go stand on the corner with a sandwich board proclaiming, The End Is Near!

Well dearest reader(s), wish me a fairly painless weekend. At the very least, I'll be able to control the thermostat. :)

I'm happy to report that last night's trim was a rousing success! I'm head over heels in love with my stylist, she's wonderful. She takes my incoherent babbling and turns it into exactly what I want. Beauty school must teach a course on mind reading.

I took Spencer with me because I'm an eternal optimist. I keep thinking, he won't misbehave this time. He's my angel boy. And I was mostly right, this particular outing anyways. He only scared one poor dear gentleman nearly to death by popping out from under a shampoo sink, and only said, "Watch me!" about two dozen times, physically impossible while having one's hair cut, and only spun himself off a spare swivel chair once. And I actually accomplished what I had set out to do, so...Success! Thank you, my dear boy, for the experience. Vivacity, indeed.

Just wanted to update you, in case you're wondering who that outrageously foxy lady with the new 'do is. KIDDING! I'm actually behind her and to the left, the fairly decent-looking chick in the background with the trim job. You may thank my sorceress of a stylist, that telephathic master of the mousse, the lovely Michelle.

I'm happy to report that the incomparable Mr. John Denver streamed from my kitchen speakers last night. Thank you Ebay seller of trivial crap! I think that's actually his screenname.

The baby & I danced a little jig all through 'Grandma's Feather Bed,' and you know what? His fever miraculously broke & he's been cool as a cucumber ever since. So I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that the Spirit of John Denver can, in fact, sooth the savage beast and/or bug.

Those of you who are tired of seeing me peer out from beneath this mop will be happy to learn I've got a haircut scheduled this evening. The Muppet look is so last year. I'm thisclose to pulling a Britney & shaving the whole damn thing off. It's so irritating! While I do enjoy my short 'do, I am not used to having to keep up with the constant trims that a cut like this requires. I'll never be accused of being a high-maintenance bizznitch. Nathaniel may beg to differ, but he lives in an alternate plane of reality in which I am a "nag" and he is "obsessed with cleaning." LMAO!!!! Slays me every time I hear him say that. You're right, darling, my body language does count as nagging and the tantrums in which you throw everything in your path down the basement stairs count as cleaning. Right on.

How did this turn into me ranting about my old man? Hmm. Curious.

So wish me luck tonight, as I venture off to my fairly-new stylist (she's wonderful) and leave the children with Mr. Clean. Wish us all luck.

I'm hopping on to report that we did, in fact, thoroughly enjoy our weather last weekend. It was everything the weatherman promised it would be & more. Beyond beautiful.

And as I write this, the dark clouds are rushing to gather overtop our little building here, threatening their inevitable downpour & depressing the hell out of me. I feel like that X-Men character Storm, so affected am I by the slightest change in weather. If I lived in California I'd be so damn bubbly I couldn't stand myself! Like, Oh my gosh!

I'll simply continue to curl up to my steaming cup of coffee, content to at least be inside & out of the trenches of our damnable Cleveland "spring." If I keep my coffee warm & focus on work, I won't even notice the depressing weather, right? At the very least, I won't notice the time dragging by until I can go get my boysies. Even with the baby at his moodiest, snuggling on the couch is infinitely preferred to plodding along here, without even the faintest hint of sunshine in my window. Spring, you tease, where have you gone?

I am THRILLED to report that the weather forecast is looking SUBLIME for this weekend. My patience has been truly tested with the recent unseasonal snow, and the five of us (did I mention my brothers moved out?) under each other's feet the whole damnable winter long. I think when Friday afternoon rolls around, we will spill out of the house like one of those practical joke cannisters of worms popping open. POW!

I'm convinced my girlfriend Tiff & I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, provided such a disorder does in fact exist. If so, we are definitely under its oppresive thumb. There is just such a marked change in the air when it gets above 60, something almost tangible. The scent of new blossoms in the air, warm sun on your face, animals humping each other senseless...What's not to love about spring? Bliss.

So slather on your sunscreen, break out your tank tops, & let's do the darn thing!

I just want to document something that I'm thinking I might forget in the future. I'm sure I'll look back on this time in our lives and clearly remember Julian's distinct knack for driving us all crazy, his ability to whine ceaselessly, his irritation made evident over every little obstacle, but I may not remember the sweet things. Okay, thing.

At the end of the day, when the fussing has dissipated and bedtime draws near, I perch said Crankmaster on my hip & begin our little nighttime ritual. We head to the kitchen, where I make his bottle & we discuss what sort of day we had. I use the term "discuss" loosely, seeing as how Julian has one vocabulary word, "uh-oh," which usually serves to describe his day anyway.

When the microwave dings, & the baba is ready, I hold it steady while Julian places the nipple on top. This child may be a Sir Fussalot, but he is clearly headed for some career in engineering. He loves nothing more than to screw lids on bottles, or jugs, or whatever fascinating container begs to be capped.

So he places the nipple, with ring, on the baba, and I say, "Yay! You did it! You put the lid on!" (This is my script, I dare not deviate from it.) At which point (here it is, my favorite part of the day), he grins, ear to ear, pride spelled across his little face, & then squeezes my arm sooo tightly, then releases. Just a squeeze, just a smile, but they mean the world to me. My heart melts, & whatever havoc yon bebe has wreaked during the course of the day falls to the wayside, forgotten, forgiven, as we share this moment.

I felt the need to jump on here, my little time capsule of a blog, and record the fact that Julian does have his endearing points, even if the majority of the time he's gunning for the World's Highest Maintenance Baby record. Love you, JuJuBee.

I do believe Spencer turned 14 instead of 4 last week. He's throwing attitude around like nobody's business, defying his father & me at every turn. I don't WANT to go to bed. Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! I don't WANT to go grocery shopping (although I may have said I did five minutes ago). I don't WANT pork roast for dinner. Don't wanna, don't wanna, don't wanna. Stomp, slam, you get the picture. Lord help him if he wakes up the baby, is all I've got to say.

I think it has a lot to do with vying for attention with Lord Of All He Surveys, King Julian. It's tough, folks! I'm trying my darndest here, but my #1 objective has got to be to stop JuJuBee's crying. I simply can't carry on another conversation while he throws himself at my feet, wailing and despondent. So I usually attend to him first, for peace & quiet's sake, then tackle whatever Spence has been dancing around talking about for the past fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, by the way, equates to about 2.5 years in Toddler Time. Oh the agony of having to wait until Mommy can watch me make a silly face. Or new dance step. Or whatever. ARGH!!

So, dear boys, please know that Mommy loves you, even if I may yell in frustration occasionally or make promises to sterilize your father the hard way. I'm only venting a little steam. I'm sure you understand.

Today is THE DAY. Spencer, my love, turns 4 today. FOUR YEARS OLD. This, of course, means that I myself am ancient. It wasn't so long ago that I felt quite the free spirit, flitting about, not a care or responsibility in the world. And look at us now! We're the best little family we can be. I'm extremely proud of my boys, and our family, and even if it means giving up my careless ways, so be it. They are worth any and every sacrifice. Be-bopping around wasn't so great anyways, as I remember it.

So we're venturing off to THE place for birthday boys' lunches, that most fantastic gem of an eatery, McDonald's. Although I allow Spence full reign today, on his special day, I do however draw the line at having Mickey D's for both lunch & dinner. Another plan, please, dear boy. Mommy's arteries can't take it.

And the grand finale, excluding his party on Saturday of course, is the kitten we're surprising him with when we get home! A brand-new best friend, I can think of no better present. Not to mention it'll help my sweet wussy boy to slowly overcome his fear of larger animals. We hope. Perhaps we'll get a dog by his 30th. Fingers crossed.

So, my love, my life, my Spencer, Happy Birthday, dear boy, and may this and each birthday hereafter find you in good health, great spirits, and exploring all the fabulous potential we see in you. We love you!

Let me tell you why I'm a cheeseball. A complete, hopeless, buttered-nut cheeseball.

Last night, when I told Spence he had one minute 'til bedtime, he patted my arm & said softly, "That's gonna be a looong time, Mommy." And I melted.

This morning, Nathaniel told me I looked nice today. Made my day. :)

And just now, I pulled out all the stops & did a little happy dance at having been named...Ready?...The highest bidder for some John Denver music on Ebay. Cassette tapes.

And that, ladies & gentlemen, is a rough outline of just exactly how big of a pushover, pantywaist, loser of a cheeseball I truly am. There is a word to describe me, & that word is...Nerd. Or, in the neo-slang alternative, nizzerd. Please address me appropriately.

Ah, Friday, we meet again. Tonight marks the third Family Movie Night at the boys' daycare, so we expect another peaceful evening in a quiet setting. HA!! We fully expect to once again see, key word "see," another old cartoon flick, since hearing anything but a full-out screaming contest is out of the question. You see, when children gather in large numbers, it is their civic duty to contribute to the din as much as physically possible. A tea-time soiree this isn't.

Monsters, Inc., I believe, is the feature for this evening, and I'm having a helluva time explaining to Spence the oxymoron of "friendly monsters." It's a bit over my head, too, darling. You see, these horrific creatures' job is to scare the living daylights out of small children...But it's Ok, really it is, because...Disney says so.

And so, for the sake of tradition and making nice with fellow parents, we'll pack it all up and head out to the auditorium, hoping to leave with just the slightest scrap of sanity still intact. Wish us luck.

So the old man & I went out for a little of the green swill this past weekend. I honestly can't remember when the last time was that St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday, and apparently neither could anyone else, because the bars were packed. Holy geez. Care to dance, anyone? Too bad. There's a reason sardines can't dance.

But before you get the wrong impression, let me just say that it went splendidly. My best girlfriend put together an absolutely wonderful evening, including the extremely Irish hibachi steakhouse dinner, followed by drinks at the pub where she met her new man friend (lovely man, by the way, hang on to him, Tiff, even if he doesn't sing karaoke), and the kicker was how cheap the cab ride home was! Definitely do-able. Watch out, girl, we may be crashing every get-together in the future. Who knew it was less than $20 to get schlepped from the sticks to the city?

So, although I neglected to catch The Flying Shrimp Spectaculaire when the hopped-up Asian chef dude winged it at me, and I physically could not dance (besides a rousing rendition of the Irish jig), I did manage to thoroughly enjoy myself. The old man agrees, continuing to "date" while raising children is a must in any relationship. The fundamental base of the family rests squarely on the health of our relationship, no? So, you see, it is absolutely essential to raise a glass to ol' St. Patty, that patron saint of green beer, every now & again. Cheers.

Happy Friday, dear reader(s)! It's been a very long week indeed.

Julian, I'm proud to report, has been doing splendiferously in his new room at daycare. This morning, for the first time, he even leaned towards the teacher's outstretched arms while still perched on my hip. That's fine, baby, just take your mother's heart out & stomp on it. I'm kidding, partially, I mean I do want him to be happy & comfortable with his new teachers, in his new surroundings...Could you just wait 'til I'm out of the room to profess your affection for them?? I mean really. Just call me Chop Liver.

And the Spencinator is doing fine. My current gripe with him is this nose-wiping thing. His shirt, by the end of the day, looks like a road map to Crazytown, snot and that day's lunch from wrist to elbow. Gross, honey! He is easily within a half-dozen steps from a tissue at any given point throughout the day. Why, baby, WHY?? I suppose I should be counting my lucky stars that we've steered him away from nose-picking, infinitely worse in a public scenario, but still. The nose-wiping thing has got to go.

On my own front, the office has hired an additional 2 attorneys, with no mention of their support, so I suppose I'll be juggling their secretarial needs for a while. Which is fine, I actually prefer to be busy, makes the time fly by. One attorney, two attorney, three attorneys, four. Five attorneys, six attorneys, seven attorneys more. See, it clearly hasn't affected my mental state. Not at all.

So c'mooon, weekend! This particular weekend, I'll be shoe-shopping and meeting my best girlfriend's new "man friend." My only qualifiers are that he drink socially, play board games, and sing karaoke. Should be a shoo-in.

Well, dear reader(s), I'm off. May your weekend(s) be fruitful, safe, and full of relaxation. And karaoke.

In addition to carrying out the roles of nurse, chauffer, etc., I’m considering branching out into the fashion industry. Motherhood is screaming for a new trend. Allow me to introduce…Pantaloons!

Pantaloons, which is of course baby talk for “pants,” will become all the newest rage on the motherhood circuit, you watch. These slacks come in a wide variety of colors and fabrics, and sport what every mother of a toddler desperately needs…A design into which snot and drool can blend. Now these reminders of exactly how tall your toddler is and how many times he or she hugged you around the knees that morning won’t have to be scrubbed away! Because let’s face it, they really can’t ever be wiped entirely away. Trail of Tears, indeed.

So step right up, sign here and be pre-approved for your very first pair of Pantaloons! Coming soon.

I want to go home. I want to go home and crawl under the covers and never, never come out, world be damned.

I am a conundrum...A sick mommy. Mommies, who tend all wounds and nurse all sickly babies back to health, are really not allowed to get sick. Who doctors the doctor? No-effing-body. So here I sit in my cubie, head swimming in Advil and coffee and trying not to look like I'm slumping over, which I totally am. Were it not for this workspace securely fastened to the wall, I would surely be in a heap on the floor. Not the best spot to seek a raise/promotion from. Hell, it's hard to stay employed if you get in the habit of taking naps on the job. Not a good idea. Where's the maitre'd? More coffee!

I'd be sharing all the hilarities my boys have been up to if they weren't sick themselves. It's hard to practice your Laurel & Hardy routine when The Virus Of '07 has got you down for the count. Although there are exceptions...

The baby is learning to wave. So far, that's about all he's got down, the wave. Elbow-wrist, elbow-wrist, just in time for the Mardi Gras parades. Next, we'll tackle timing, because his is seriously off. If we are, say, entering a room, I'll do my Mommy thing and put on a mini-Broadway show...HEL-LO! HI! OH, HELLO! HI THERE! Waving like a madwoman all the while. Baby appears uninterested. But in the middle of a stroll across a room where no one has entered or exited for the past 12 hours, he will spontaneously start waving. Elbow-wrist, elbow-wrist, entirely for his own benefit. Or perhaps for a little exercise. I've been meaning to talk to him about those rolls. Sheesh.

Methinks it may be time to pop another cold med. The world is coming into focus again. Ick.

Tomorrow marks dear Julian's first day in a new classroom. Big Boys 'R Us. His soon-to-be-ex teachers and I had a good cry this morning over our failure to keep him a baby forever. We tried! Lord we tried. He still takes a bottle, he still enjoys a good cuddle, but somehow he managed to grow up when we weren't looking. He walks, he talks, he slices, he dices, he can do it all. So very bittersweet, this growing up thing.

In other news, Spencer tried to murder his teacher. Ok, I may be slightly exaggerating (you're shocked, I know), but she did pull me aside yesterday at pick-up and mention her concern that he had wrapped his hands around her throat during playtime. Hmmm. I have two possible suspects as to where he's seen this behavior (I always wait to strangle his father until after the boys are asleep) - television, and/or his cousins. His cousins have heretofore offered up such gems as "dork," "idiot," and how to knock a little brother over quicker than a parent can blink. And television, well...whether it's a question of life imitating art or the reverse, it seems there is entirely too much garbage on Ye Olde Boob Tube for this momma's liking. Oh. My. God. I have become my mother. I never in a million years thought I would protest my beloved TV. But even the supposedly "safe" children's shows promote questionable content, as evidenced by dear Spence during a recent innocent cardboard box/clubhouse adventure, shouting, "You'll be trapped in there...for-evaaahhh! A-hahahahaha!"

And you wonder why I'm in no rush for my youngest to grow up.

So we'll more closely monitor Spencer's interactions. Keep your fingers crossed for both my children to remain the sweetly innocent children you've come to know and laugh at with me. I'll consider my parenting endeavor a rousing success if I can keep them out of the penal system just a little while longer.

Well ladies & gentlemen, it's that wonderful, gorgeous, happy time of year again...Second only to springtime, it's...drumroll please...TAX RETURN TIME! Yesterday, I was a poor beggar scraping up parking money. Today, I am one rich momma.

Oh, if the bill hounds could hear me now. Calm down! I fully intend to pay down (some of) that damnable debt that haunts me. But on my way there, would you really mind if I stopped off to pick up some new work digs and Spiderman socks for my little superhero? What's that, you wouldn't mind? Have a ball, you say? Go to town?? I deserve it??! L I B. You sons of bitches do have hearts. I take it all back.

It's funny how somehow the heavier your pockets are, the lighter your step is. I am un-depressable, world, so take that! You want to stand in line to pile work on my desk and fight about priority? Go ahead, you silly attorneys. If you need me, I'll be right over here glowing and counting my newfound treasure.

I can't wait to go home this evening (T to the G to the Izzy Izzy F) and...relax. I plan on reading and watching movies and hiring a cabana boy to carry me up to the bathroom every so often.

So this post is dedicated to my H&R Block guy, damned if can remember his name, a dead ringer for the "stapler" guy from Office Space. A little creepy but nice, nevertheless, and capable enough to add a couple zeroes to my return. Here's to you, buddy.

This post is dedicated to the legal assistant who walked out on the job earlier this week. I can't blame her, and yet somehow I still do. She worked for the biggest rhymes-with-sick of the office, and now guess who does. Yours truly. So...thanks.

I've discovered, however, that with a little BYOB and a lot of CYA, a generous amount of work can be crapped out over the span of 9 to 5. Ok, I'm kidding about the BYOB part, more like drink coffee 'til your head spins and you can blame any and all mistakes on dehydration and caffeine saturation.

I do want to apologize to my reader(s) for having been away so long. Please see above vent.

The latest is that we are quickly approaching dear Julian's 1st birthday. This has got my emotions running amuck. Some days, I think, we'll never be to the point where both my little geniuses can arise, grab a snack, and turn on the TV while I catch up on all the sleep I've been missing these past 4 years. Other times, I think, dear God, where did my baby go? Who can I rock in the rocking chair and nibble their cheeks clean off?? And of course, if my babies are older, that must mean I'm older, which I simply refuse to admit. I hope they don't mind if I wear a halter top and daisy dukes to their high school graduations.

So he's come a long way, this baby 'o' mine, and I'm quite proud of him, although I have noticed that he's developing quite differently than young master Spence did. It seems his gross motor skills are off the charts, but I've yet to hear him articulate much more than the random "uh oh." While Spence walked later, around 11 months as opposed to the baby's impressive 8, he had quite the vocabulary by his 1st birthday. I can only hope that they will play off of each other's strengths and weaknesses in the future, and a little friendly academic competition never hurt anyone. I'll see your 'A' and raise you an 'A+.' A mama can dream.

I also wanted to mention quickly that I've purchased an extremely cheap digital camera off of your favorite virtual garage sale and mine, Ebay, so I hope to post pictures here shortly. Expect several glamorous shots of dear JuJuBee shoving cake in his face and a few of an irritated Spencer demanding to know when it will be his birthday. Stay tuned.

My dearest sweet baby Julian has some big news to share...Uh oh! That is the news, ladies & gentleman, this is what yon bebe has waited 11 months to share with us. His very first non-word, carved forever in the annals of history, is "uh oh." He's even got the context down pat...The finger pointing at dropped object, the disappointed tone...We are thrilled. Finally, we can hit Stop and Play on his internal transcriber, which has been seemingly stuck in reverse since birth. Shortly hereafter I shall be teaching him the proper use of subjects and predicates. You can't get into Harvard with "uh oh," buddy. Let's get cracking.

Spencer, not to be outdone, piped up with, "I can say uh oh spaghetti-o's." Yes, honey. Yes you can. Sometimes I wish I had more time to devote solely to the baby, as I did when Spence was his age. On the other hand, I often wish I had more time to pay attention just to Spence, as he's had to deal with getting less than he was used to since the beeb's arrival. I try to divide my time evenly between them, and patiently await the day they will play more together, thus simplifying my job immensely. When we can all get down on a game of Chutes & Ladders or put a puzzle together, well...I may even end up having (gasp) time to myself at the end of the day. IMAGINE THAT.

So the Bee has said his first word. Let it be forever cemented in history that he did NOT in fact say, "Dada," a popular choice among the toddler set. I'm still suffering from the arrow Spence shot through my heart when he gazed lovingly at his father, addressed him as Dada, and threw all of my hard work and devotion out the window. I was even changing his diaper at the time, if I recall, and his father was in his custom-fit ass indentation on the couch. The nerve of that baby. Some day I'll forgive him. Some day when my heart heals.

Good-bye, gibberish, good-bye, formula, good-bye, jarred food, good-bye my baby. Hello my son.

We're in the single digits with the wind chill here in good ol' C-Town today, folks. You know what that means. Oblivious snot-noses and nipples that could cut glass. Every year about this time I threaten to pack up and move to Arizona, somewhere with a nice dry heat. They always say that, a nice dry heat, when describing an ideal location to you. Is tropical so bad??

Right about now I'd give anything to be anywhere, tropical, dry, whatever. Is it wrong to consider signing up for the Army because you hear it gets up to the triple digits in Iraq? A rough & tumble sauna, but a sauna nonetheless. I'm IN.

We're coming to that point, ladies and gentleman (I know there's maybe ONE out there reading this), that I spoke of earlier...The height of Mad Indoor Person Disease. We are trapped in the home of our own making, the toys underfoot and each other's clutter liable to set someone off. Then that person takes out their frustration on another, a chain reaction til the baby gets pushed down and we're all in a crying mess on the floor. Ok. It's not that bad, all the time, but SHEESH. Some days are bad. Some days I just sigh as I'm crossing the deck to get to the door and remembering when all of that was living space. I'm dying til I can say, Go play outside! And not have to worry about bundling octopi into underwear, outerwear, gloves, hat, mittens and scarves, only to hear that someone has to use the restroom. Badly. Holy abominable snowmen, Batman, please shoot me with your stun gun. Thanks.

My tired vent on the wintry weather and all it entails shall end, mercifully, with just this...In my next life, I hope to be a bear. I wouldn't mind hibernating this dreadful season away ONE BIT. Lay down, curl up, snooze, awake to the twittering of gay birdies and, what's that? I've slept the whole winter away? FAN-EFFING-TASTIC.

I've been in the most musical of moods today. Friday, thank GOD it's Friday, started off with a rousing rendition of Eye of the Tiger sung at the top of my lungs along with the radio on the drive in to work. What a tiger's eye has to do with anything, I couldn't say, but the beat, man, the beat will get even the most exhausted slug worked up to fever pitch. A great start to the day.

Then, throughout the course of my ho-hum workday, an umanned jukebox slipped discs into my head at random...Spence's #1 all-time fave, "I Like to Move It Move It," was in the mix with Beyonce's "Irreplaceable," Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely," and of course the theme song to Sanford & Son. Don't ask because I don't know.

And approximately 2.5 minutes ago, I was in the restroom on the upstairs floor, doin' ma thang, yuh know, when a law clerk wandered into my private concert and busted up laughing. I'm not sure that's a good sign of my future as a vocalist. I mumbled something about the acoustics being first-rate and shuffled out. Damn uppity law students, like you never sing to yourself? If you don't, well...I feel sorry for you. The background track to my life is ever-evolving, as am I, and I think John Denver would be proud, so suck it.

Although I usually listen to Opey & Anthony on the drive home, I'm considering channel surfing on the radio instead. I'm just so pumped, so jazzed. The baby slept through the night last night, bills have been paid, another paycheck is in my pocket and I've got a weekend stretching out before me with nary a plan in sight. I LOVE it.

Now if only there were some way to program the baby to acknowledge a weekend morning like I do the thermostat, I'd be absolutely set.

Oh my, a week since I've posted? Please forgive. I hope all of you (whom are interested) have been able to access the link to my brand-spanking-new journal, updated weekly, at babycenter.com. It's been wonderful to actually write for a reputable site! (Nothing against Blogger, you understand, but really any schmoe can create a blog, no offense fellow bloggers.)

I find myself here needing to vent, as this morning was a rather rough one.

Dear Julian,

There are no parties going on in the middle of the night that you are missing. 2:30, while technically "morning," is entirely too early for any civilized child to be rising. For a smiley momma, try 6 or so.

Love,
Momma

~~~

Dear Spencer,

I know life is a little more difficult for you than it used to be a mere 10 months ago, when you were an only child. But we can't go back, only forward with this new, quite loud bundle of joy whose internal clock frequently goes on the fritz. I do apologize for that.

However, an interrupted night of sleep does not an excuse for bad behavior make. If I want to zip your coat, LET ME. If you should feel like continuing to scream and carry on once we're in your classroom, well...Stifle it til I'm gone, then let 'er rip. Teachers are much better equipped to handle your punk arse than my sleep-deprived behind, Ok? All right? You got a lot more sleep than I did, so PUH-LEEZE. Work with me.

Love,
Mom

~~~

So dear Reader, as you can see, you're not missing much in The Chronicles of Chaos, a.k.a. Sleepless in Cleveland.

I have a dream, a dream I hold high on a golden shining pedestal. It goes like this...The entire family goes out to a restaurant. I order something for Spencer, something for Julian, place each plate in front of each little capable set of hands, and...this is going to sound plumb crazy...enjoy my own meal. Well, a girl can dream.

Someday, dear Reader, some day when I sprout wings and fly over the fence in the backyard, second star on the right and straight on til morning, some day I will have my peace and quiet and take up some hobby long lost by the wayside...Something really ambitious, something wild and crazy...Maybe I'll read a BOOK. A whole one. Right to the end. All at once. I'll have a lot of time on my hands in the funny farm, anyway.

You knew I had issues, but what you may not realize is that I have ANGER issues. Yes, I fully realize all caps constitutes yelling.

It's this thing that lives inside me called The Morning Monster. By the time I get to work, work my little 9-to-5, pick up the kids, have dinner, give baths, la la dee da, I'm fine, the comfortable old Cera/Mommy you know & tolerate. But between the hours of, say, 6:00 a.m. & whenever we rush out the door, this thing inside bubbles to the surface & TAKES OVER MY BODY. It's all very Cybil.

I awaken not to my body saying I've slept enough, not even to the alarm clock, but to WAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH, wu-AAAHHH...Which must have been broadcasting for some time, since my head is already pounding from it. It's like the baby knows which nerve to touch in my head to make me absolutely crazy, then plays it like a freaking banjo. Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum dee duuum...Doo dee doo dee doo dee doo dee dooooo...

Then I cater strictly to the baby for approximately three-fourths of the morning. Baba, check. Dipey, check. Silly baby non-words, check. But then, should I be so bold and outrageous as to expect a shower for my darn self, fugghedaboudit. WoooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! I take him w/me, close the shower door...woooAAAAAAHHHHHHH! He slides it open & stands there in the mist, bawling like just I ripped the head off his favorite teddy bear...Which is when I start fantasizing about doing just that. I think I may be pure evil.

Sleep deprivation does not look pretty on me. I am not one to bounce out of bed & whip up effing pancakes on four or five hours of sleep. Screw you, June Cleaver.

I read an article once about "sleep debt," in which it lays out a study showing how a body accumulates sleep debt. Anything less than seven or eight hours a night is recorded as a debt, which will need to be replaced at some point in time. So I'm thinking when the boys grow the hell up & move the hell out, I will stand on the front step, waving good-bye, where I will then collapse the moment the car is out of sight & sleep, right there on the porch, for approximately the next decade or so. I can't wait.