Hello I'am Meggan Welcome to my website.
Sacramento, CA It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of the last Reidel Wine Glass of the Ravazzolo household. The Reidel Wine Glass lost its long battle today as the “Last Nice Thing In The House” and after falling, has risen to be with its maker. Bumped from the counter while baby bottles were being washed, death came suddenly and without warning, and mercifully (for the glass) there was no pain. The Reidel Wine Glass had been a loving and beautiful member of the rRavazzolo family for two years, often seen holding Sauvignon Blanc. Preceded in death by the three other Reidel Wine Glasses from the set, the gum stained couch, the Persian rug chewed by the dog, and four of the six well soiled formal dining room chairs. Surviving the Reidel Wine Glass is owner Meggan, nine Avent baby bottles, three sippy cups, and one slightly chipped Wonder Woman coffee mug. No formal services planned.
Who knew when I started this website that so much of it would revolve around poop. I should say I am shocked, but I am not. I have been living with all boys now for several years and shock over bodily function went by the way side after our first bean burrito together. Boys (and men) love poops and farts. They love to poop. They love to fart. They love to reminisce about past poops and dream about future poops to come. They take pictures of poops, announce pending poops (often by farting) and even have colorful sayings for pooping such as, “sending logs downriver” or the classic…”dropping the kids off at school.”
When my boys read the entry about my stomach flu they were delighted beyond belief at the thought of me pooping on the rug. What I am sure were deep concerns for my health just temporarily brushed aside, the boys feverishly asked, “You pooped on the rug? NO WAY, THAT’S AWESOME….CAN WE SEE IT?” Sigh, I had to disappoint their admiring and adoring faces and and tell them it was long ago cleaned up.
I decided I should write a book, How To Bond With Your Sons and Stepsons…One Poop At A Time.
Chapter One – Poop Anywhere But The Toilet And Live To Tell About It
Chapter Two – Earn Their Respect…Photographic Evidence Of Poop A Must
Chapter Three – Break The Ice With A Good Fart
Chapter Four – Fart Jokes, The Key To Your Boys Heart
Chapter Five – The Art of Blaming It On the Dog
You might not believe me, but I am telling you it works. My stepsons and I are thick as theives and it wasn’t because I sat on my high horse, or should I say porcelain throne. So if you are having trouble with your sons or stepsons I seriously urge you to take my advice. Grab a hefty burrito, close up the doors and windows and have yourself a good fart right next to your son, he’ll laugh his ass of while you poop yours.
The above photo is my baby “sharing” his organic, locally produced, sustainably farmed, feel good about the purchase cookie with his rabbit puppet Whiskers….ahhh. My heart melted, until I realized that Lucas HATES his organic, locally produced, sustainably farmed, feel good about the purchase cookie. Lucas is actually GIVING Whiskers his cookie. It is a much different picture when I bust out the non organic, full of words I can’t pronounce, corporate produced, Gerber’s Graduates teething biscuit. Lucas loves THAT cookie. Not only would Lucas NOT be sharing thatcookie, but if Whiskers made any sudden moves for that cookie, we might have to call him just Whisker, or Whisker One Eye, or maybe just dinner.
Nothing says Happy Valentine’s Day like throwing up and then pooping on the rug. Unfortunately for me (and my husband) that is exactly how our Valentine’s Day went down.
I am sick.
Really really sick.
I have a TERRIBLE case of the stomach flu. My poor sweet husband. Valentine’s Day is ALSO his birthday and it is ALSO one of the busiest days at his bakery. It is always a bit of a challenge to try and make such a busy work time for him romantic and special for his birthday and Valentine’s Day, but I try. I am sure the farthest thing from his mind was seeing me limp (thank you still healing knee from surgery) at warp speed toward the toilet yelling, “OH NO” “OH NO” “OH MY GOD!!” while I threw up and then pooped myself. I had planned to be wearing my new Victoria’s Secret nightie, not my own bodily fluids.
It has been awful, but I have to say my husband has been wonderful. Getting me 7-up, taking care of the baby, all while keeping his business going. I am so thankful that he is so terrific, because I felt so horrible. I kept apologizing. We even had to cancel birthday dinner plans with good friends. The last thing I wanted to see coming at me was a scallop or filet. UGH! A saltine looked like heaven on a plate, and even then I was cautious. So I am recovering. Today I feel a little better and have washed every single thing we own and cleaned every surface. I am still quesy and haven’t graduated from Saltines, but tomorrow is a new d…oh shit (literally) gotta go….
I am an interpreter. I speak three languages. I speak English, Teenage Stepson, and Teenage Stepson’s Father (also my husband). I am quite proud of my abilities and my fluency, especially in the last two languages. I wish a course had been offered in speaking Teenage Stepson in college. It would of saved me and my TWO Spanish tutors a lot of grief!! Lo ciento Jose and Juan, I tried. Hugs.
If you too would like to speak Teenage Stepson and Teenage Stepson’s Father I would like to give you a few hints. Silence is the key and both languages use it quite often, but they mean totally different things. For Teenage Stepson silence always means YES. For instance, ask your teenage stepson if he got his report card….silence. That means yes he did get it, often two weeks ago. Ask your teenage stepson if he dented the car….silence. That means yes, again probably two weeks ago. Ask your teenage stepson if that cute girl he was walking next to after school is the same girl he (not so) secretly texts till 2:00 a.m……silence. That definetly means yes.
Teenage Stepson’s Father is exactly the opposite. Silence means no. For instance, your teenage stepson asks his Father for twenty dollars….silence. That means no. Your teenage stepson asks his Father to borrow the car (the same one he will return with the bumper dented) and…..silence. Again that’s a no.
As an interpreter of Teenage Stepson and Teenage Stepson’s Father one of my primary duties is to bridge the communication gap between the two parties. Often deciphering for the other what amounts to only a series of grunts and muffled slurs. Also it should be noted that a peculiar hearing loss occurs in all teenage stepsons and the Father of teenage stepsons. Before a boy becomes a teenager his hearing, as well as the hearing of his Father, seems to be just fine. However, once the teen years hit, a most odd hearing loss occurs. Don’t worry in almost all cases the day the teenage stepson turns twenty all hearing for both seems to miraculously return. That being noted, a conversation usually goes something like this.
Harrison (teenage stepson): “Wassup?”
Ettore (teenage stepson’s Father): “What?! What’s up where?”
Meggan (Interpreter de fabulousness): ”Harrison is saying hello.”
Ettore:“Pffft.” (Blows air signaling frustration) “Hello son.”
Meggan: “Your Father is greeting you back.”
Harrison: “Huh.” “Oh.” (That means thank you for picking me up from school). NOTE: Whenever you see your teenage stepson within twenty seconds of greeting each other the conversation will almost ALWAYS turn to food. “SOOO, what’s the 411 on food tonight?”
Meggan: “Harrison wants to know what we are having for dinner.”
Meggan: “Your Dad thinks we should eat at home tonight. Eating out is expensive.”
Meggan: “Harrison says, eating at home is fine.”
Ettore and Harrison: “mrrph…pfft…uh…heh.” That means I love you Dad and I love you son. You get the point. As an interpreter of both Teenage Stepson and Teenage Son’s Father you have to walk between two worlds, but trust me it is a journey worth taking.
We are not a particularly religious family, although I was baptized Catholic and my husband is a former Mormom. Slowly and steadily though we have been returning religion. I don’t know if it is the baby, wanting to feel closer as a family, or just a connection to the community, but we have been regularly attending a great Presbyterian chuch…and that’s where the funny starts.
We all try our best, but we don’t really know the ins and outs of the church service process. I shudder to think if we attended a Catholic service. All that up and down. I seem to be sitting when I should be standing and vice versa. I always felt like a Catholic service was one giant version of the arcade game Whack A Mole. You were never sure when everyone was going to pop up in their pews. You have to stay alert, stand up too soon and God bonked you on the head.
Presbyterian service is pretty straight forward though and all five of us seem to flow through the doors and take our seats without any major mishaps. It wasn’t until the donation basket made its rounds that we had our first church hiccup. As the donation basket filled with cash passed our laps my husband put a $20.00 bill in. Both the older boy’s eyes lit up.
All that money.
Reilly: (in his best inside voice – which is really an outside voice inside), “Why are they passing a basket full of cash?”
Me: “It is a donation basket for the church.”
Reilly: ”Donation for what?”
Me: “Donation to help the church function.”
Reilly: “I thought church was free.”
Me: “It is, but the money is so the church can help people.”
Reilly: ”What? Wait, I don’t get it.”
I was getting nowhere explaining to the boys in a hushed Mom whisper the meaning of the donation basket. Us, being restaurant people, I had to break it down into terms the boys would understand. Desperate, I finally blurted out , “That’s Jesus’ tip jar. We put money in to say thank you for the good spiritual service.” OOOOOOHHHHH!!! Then silence….they got it. Just as I was patting myself on the back for the break through with my step-sons Reilly’s voice asked. “If Jesus died for our sins and is in Heaven, what’s he going to do with all that money?”
Mommy’s Toddler Menu
Breakfast: Organic Fruit, Organic Yogurt, Organic Milk
Lunch: Organic Potatoes, Fresh Sliced Turkey, Organic Cheese
Dinner: Organic Pasta with Organic Vegetables
Lucas’ Toddler Menu
Lunch: Dirt and Post It Notes
Dinner: Paper Towels and Shoes
OPEN 24 HOURS – 7 DAYS A WEEK
WARNING!! If you just gave birth and haven’t lost the baby weight, if you suffer from postpartum depression, if you ever ever ever want to feel slightly attractive ever again do NOT let a fancy hair stylist take “some of the weight” out of your bangs!!!! My bangs went from pleasantly plump to down right anorexic! There was nothing left.
This was my first hair cut after delivering my baby. I was SOOO excited to be pampered. I had a good friend watch Lucas, I put on my best and least stained post pregnancy track suit, and I waddled down to the salon. I was hoping to emerge with roots that weren’t eight different shades of brown and gray and be the proud owner of an actual haircut. I wanted my hair to be blown out, because after childbirth my vagina was the only thing that had been.
Unfortunately, by the time I left I hardly had any hair at all. I had been sheared like a lamb. I wanted to look pretty and feminine. I ended up looking like some angry hipster girl who still smoked cigarettes, lived in a studio downtown, and hated “the Man.” Except I wasn’t an angry hipster girl. I was an exhausted new Mother who wore a blue velour track suit in which the pants were too short from Motherhood Maternity. I was a new Mother who had 40 pounds of baby weight to lose. A new Mother who could pee herself at any moment for no reason and had a vagina that looked like it fell on the wrong end of a weed whacker. Instead of hating “the Man” I was “the Man” who had a family and three kids to raise. It was the wrong haircut for me. I looked like shit and I was PISSED! The stylist called the bangs fringe bangs. I called them “WAY TOO FUCKING SHORT.”
I tried to play nice and hide the tears. I didn’t have it in me to go “scorned woman” on him. He tried to fix it, but you can’t really fix hair when there is nothing left. I limped out of there deflated knowing the torturous months of grow out ahead. I tell this story my friends to spare you the same fate. Weight is not all bad. Weight can be a good thing, especially when we are talking bangs.
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