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Dinner Reservation For Lucas, Your Floor Is Ready

This is not what I imagined feeding a toddler would be like.  I just got over a good old fashioned gut wrenching cry.  My baby won’t eat his food…unless it is on the floor.  He also won’t wear clothes or his diaper. So what does that leave me with, a naked baby eating food off the floor.  I try so hard. 

B.B. (before baby) I was all about the pontificating.  I will have boundaries and consistency.  My baby will not learn bad behaviors because he will not be given the opportunity to learn them.  For instance, B.B. I thought if my baby throws food on the floor then lunch is over and he will just have to wait till dinner to eat again.  That way my baby will “learn” that throwing food on the floor is unacceptable.

I was sooo full of shit.

That was before I knew that a hungry baby = an angry baby complete with blood curdling screams, a continuous whining sound of waaaah – waaah – waaah, wanting up and then down simultaneously, little hands scratching my eyes out, and some no nonsense pulling of my hair.   My baby doesn’t need baby sign language to communicate, he is saying, “Fuck you!”  I don’t need $75.00 of Baby Einstein tapes to tell me my baby is pissed and wants his food…on the floor.

So I toil away in the kitchen battered and bruised, (and missing patches of hair) lovingly cutting up over priced organic fruit that I have to drive half way across town to get.  I carefully butter Lucas’ stone ground bread with organic butter from a small farm in Vermont with a picture of the “Bessie”, the family’s dairy cow, on the packaging.   Only to have Lucas throw the food on the floor…not to mention Bessie the cow’s hard work.  It’s not easy having something pull on your udders all day.  Show some respect child.

I take Lucas out of his high chair and before I can even turn around, the diaper is off and my child is scurrying around naked on his hands and knees eating his food off the floor like a child in a Save the Children commercial with Sally Struthers. 

That’s when the bawling starts, my bawling. My child has a will of his own.  He is growing up, going from baby to toddler.  All which is good….I guess…right?  It is frustrating though I have to admit.  Is true love still feeding something, despite the fact that the something you are feeding, scratches your eyes out and pulls your hair. I don’t want to turn into an inflexible Mother. “It’s the high chair or NOTHING!”  That would be horrible, but a balance between the two is something I am working on. In the meantime, dinner is served. 

See you on the rug.

Edgy…and Adorable

        

I just bought this little black and white painting at an outdoor street fair this weekend for only $15.00.  I was really taken by the painting.  To me, it represented a Mother flower bending to look over her baby flower, which was standing tall and proud.  I just love it.  So simple, yet beautiful.

The artist is a Mom, Megan Gunter, and she has a company called In Between Dreams. You can check out more of her artwork at www.inbetweendreams.etsy.com She is new to running the website, so she will be posting more artwork soon.  Hopefully she will post her Bubble Tree Painting (I love it).  It is not posted because her daughter adored it so much she has it for her room.  Not for long…

I liked the LOVE painting as well. Megan had a child’s name painted in the same way and it looked great.  An artistic take on the simple idea of putting your child’s name on the bedroom wall.  If you are interested in ordering a custom name painting then email Megan at inbetweendreams@sbcglobal.net  Megan is also willing to modify the black and white flower painting by adding more “baby” flowers.  Megan’s artwork really is something special.  It’s an edgy take on  ”peace and love”, it’s handmade, and reasonably priced.  Check it out and tell Megan, the other Meggan from www.meggansamom.com sent you.

*I did not receive a product sample or compensation for this post.  The views expressed here are my own.

Evil Knievel Jr.

Emergency Room, meet Lucas.  Lucas meet Emergency Room. I think the two of you will be getting to know each other quite well as the years go by.  I think I have a future dare devil on my hands.  This is a photo from the gym play room.  As I approached the playroom I could hear loud baby yelling and crashing noises, I knew it was my son.  They gym room attendant informed me that Lucas Evil Knievel Jr. had taken off his shoes, hopped on the tricycle,  put on that head gear, and was ramming into the wall and all the toys in the playroom.  It was totally adorable. My 16 month old future motorcross bad ass.  At least he is wearing a helmut.

Quitting Heroin Would Be Easier

 

“They tried to make me go to rehab; I said No, No, No!” – Singer Amy Winehouse

If there was a rehab for Fran’s Salted Caramels then I would refuse to go.  I am a junkie.  I am a complete crack head caramel head. As the saying goes in AA, “One is too many, 1,000 never enough.”  These babies are delicious and the best candy I have ever tasted.  They come BEAUTIFULLY packaged as well. The boxes and ribbon are very high end.  I am telling you, the thought of these salted chocolate caramels keeps me up at night, almost as much as Lucas, my baby.

My husband’s bakery started carrying Fran’s Salted Caramels off and on a little while ago.  This product is one of the very few things Ettore brings in “from the outside.”  Virtually EVERYTHING we makes at Ettore’s (his bakery) is handmade in house, from the pastries to cookies and cakes.  For Ettore to bring chocolate in it really has to be exceptional, (with the exception of Christmas when we bring in little plastic polar bears that poop chocolate covered raisins.  Tis the season).

We went to dinner last night at the bakery and as we were leaving I spotted the caramels at the register.

That gorgeous packaging.

That beautiful ribbon. I was home.

I screamed out loud (like I used to scream for Tom Cruise before he went crazy) and I snatched a box right off the counter.  Harrison, my stepson, replied with an, “OH BOY, here we go again.”  He still hadn’t forgot the last time I got my hands on some Fran’s.  I ate TWELVE in a row.  My family fell on the sword for me and finished off the box, just so I would stop. After shaking the box, just to hear the familiar chorus of the caramels chiming inside, I downed two before we even got to the car.  Harrison grabbed the box out of my hands and hid it in the glove box.

Harrison:  “WHOA THERE.  You need to pace yourself.”

Me:  “Harrison, give me that box of caramels.”  I was starting to to twitch.

Harrison:  “You can have them back after we get home, you shouldn’t eat those caramels and drive.”

Me:  “Just give me one for the road.”

Harrison:  “No.”

Me:  “Harrison, give me a damn caramel!”

Harrison gave me a caramel and we drove home.  As Harrison gently reminded me about my Weight Watcher’s points and moderation a sound as loud as a 747 rang in my ears and all it screamed was GIVE ME MY FRAN’S SALTED CARAMELS!!  When we got home Harrison forgot to take the caramels out of the glove box.  YES!  I grabbed them out of the glove box and ran inside the house and shook the box of caramels in Harrion’s face yelling, “You forgot, HA HA, you can’t stop me NOW!!”  Harrison calmly stared at me with the look of a seasoned drug counselor/Dr. Drew.  His face said silently, you’ll quit when your ready.  Well, I’m not ready.  If loving these caramels is wrong, then I don’t want to be right!

Makes a great gift.

For me.

*I did not receive a product sample or compensation for this post.  The views expressed here are my own.

Helping Mommy

I have been saying for a while now that I need more help around here.  Lucas must of heard my cries call and decided to help me with the dishwasher.  I thought I said help Mommy unload the dishwasher, he must of heard…stand on the dishwasher.  Beggars can’t be choosers.

A Lucas Original

The latest ”artwork” by my baby Lucas.  I wonder if Picasso took a pen to his Mother’s chair when she was trying to do the dishes.  Lie to me.

Faboo Little Black Dress (even if you are not so little)

 

I just bought this dress from Ann Taylor and I have to say I was pleasantly shocked by how it looked on.  Normally pleating around the waistline results in me being reduced to tears and screaming out, “how could they do this to me…WHY??!!!” I take it completely personal.  Like the desinger is out to get me and is secretly plotting MY fashion demise.  “This will show her…she thinks she can squeeze that stomach into a size 8, HA HA HA HA HA…MORE PLEATING!!”  In my mind it is like a scene from the Wizard of OZ, “I’ll get you my pretty.”   Then the designer rings his hands and throws in a coordinating fitted white t-shirt for some back fat action, just before the flying monkeys swoop in to take me away.

This dress though does an absolutely fabulous job of hiding the post pregnancy, lower belly mommy tire.  It is lined as well.  I am trying my best to get away from wearing all black, but this dress fit camouflaged unusually well and I had to buy it.  I am 5′ 10″, but it would work for women of different heights.

I wore it today to a wedding, but you could also wear it to a funeral, for some they are one in the same.

*I did not receive a product sample or compensation for this post.  The views expressed here are my own.

Break It Down

It has been a few days since I updated.  I have blogger’s block.  I can’t think of anything to write about, even though plenty has been happening.  I thought I would give a rundown of the latest days events and let the record speak for itself.

Friday:

Went to church Mommy group at local cafe, on best behavior.

Received text from Harrison, the sheriff is at their friend’s house, where the boys are visiting. The boys were “accidently” throwing water balloons at cars, boys not on best behavior.

Explain to Mommy group about text, then continue eating danish and coffee, wonder if anyone in group has the sheriff at their son’s house.   Sigh deeply, shift in chair and smile faintly.

Saturday:

Change three poopie diapers, two unexplainably smell like egg salad.

Take boys, plus one of their friends, to IKEA for new bed for Reilly. 

Break up fight between the boys in parking lot, escalator, main showroom, mattress display area, housewares, bookcases, and at the register.

Listen to husband, listen to boys, listen to baby.   Feed husband, feed boys, feed baby.  Clean up after husband, clean up after boys, clean up after baby.

Assemble new bed from IKEA with boys.  Discover Reilly was taking out garbage, as asked, just not taking it to the garbage can. 

Take boys to indoor trampoline gym, Sky High.  Wonder if I will be able to actually jump with the boys, instead of just jumping and then peeing myself…fallout from child birth.  Hopeful as I approach trampoline room.  Jump once and IMMEDIATELY get my answer.  Spend rest of evening damp, waiting for boys, and playing Ms. Pacman in the arcade.

Sunday:

House smells funkified.  Convinced there is a wet diaper loose in the house.  Crawl around on hands and knees sniffing.  No diaper discovered.

Baby spikes 103 fever.  Stay up all night rocking and soothing baby.

Wish worrying was an exercise point earning activity for Weight Watchers.  Would of earned 25 activity points worrying about baby and lost 5 pounds.

Monday:

Hold baby in arms and think about my life and past weekend. 

Realize how blessed we are. 

Love husband, love stepsons, love baby, love every second of it, despite still not being able to find stinky diaper.

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