Thursday, September 27, 2007

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!

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

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.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

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.

Friday, September 07, 2007

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.