tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48177682919336804812024-03-13T00:17:14.222-07:00Domestic EngineeringLofty goals meet a dose of realityDomesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.comBlogger423125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-60916172578338800742016-08-10T09:22:00.000-07:002016-08-10T09:22:08.363-07:00My life<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">After finding mystery turds in the toilet courtesy of my 6 year old for months, I have had it. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">"Addie why is it you never remember to flush the toilet? It is so gross."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">"It is called Water Conservation Mom" (Mic drop)</span><br />
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While checking our bags with the Southwest ticketing agent...<br />Addie: "Would you be able to tell if we had guns in our bag?"</div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">Addie is getting sealants on her back teeth. The hygienist was wearing a colorful mask. Addie asked, why it was colorful, the hygienist said it was just for fun.</span><br style="line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="line-height: 19.32px;">Addie: "Fun? A jumpy place is fun, not a mask. You need to have some real fun."</span></div>
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We have been watching some 80's movies with the girls.</div>
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Ella: "Did everyone back in the olden days use inappropriate language and talk about sex all of the time?"</div>
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"I was your age when I watched them and I honestly didn't notice."</div>
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Ella: "Did you have attention problems when you were my age?"</div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">Watched legally blond with my older girls tonight. Claire my 9 year old blondie said that she was "legally offended by the way blonds were represented".</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.32px;">Addie is working on thank you notes..."Dear Addison, Thank you for my fluffy Diarrhea." "Mommy, how do you spell diarrhea?"</span><br style="line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="line-height: 19.32px;">I think you mean "diary" honey.</span></div>
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Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-68252442362761641522015-11-13T13:27:00.001-08:002015-11-13T13:27:42.175-08:00The Good Kind<div class="MsoNormal">
I adore the sun, I live for the beach, and I am a redhead. As a child, one of the first scents that I recall was Sundown Sun
lotion. It was a white bottle with a
crude illustration of the setting sun. I
hated that shit, it smelled bad, and it stung when it got in my eyes. My poor mother would spend at least 10 minutes
painting me with the white sticky stuff while I complained.</div>
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Fast forward several years, the lotion smelled better and I
still religiously applied, just not as carefully. One trip to <st1:place w:st="on">Cancun</st1:place>
with my girlfriends I made the mistake of taking a few shots before applying the
SPF. I covered my whole body so well…except
for my entire right leg. Do not drink
before applying.</div>
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I have been going every six months to the dermatologist for
a skin check and assistance with adult acne. (thank you 40) Last month, my
dermatologist took one look at me, asked me to sit down and quickly biopsied a tiny
little bump near the corner of my eye. I tried not to think about it while I awaited
the results. I saw the caller ID flash
my doctor’s name and I answered. The chipper
nurse on the other line said she had some news, but I shouldn’t be overly concerned.
I have a <span style="background-color: white; color: #6a6a6a; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18.2px;">basal cell carcinoma</span>, the “good
kind” of cancer next to my eye. </div>
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This Wednesday, I will have <em><span style="background: white; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Mohs
surgery followed by reconstructive surgery. I wish I could say, I am taking this in stride, but I am freaking out. I am vain, and this is my face. I
am the girl that never got contacts because I can’t touch my eye. I am the girl
that has yet to be able to get through a glaucoma test without a full on panic
attack. I am the girl that still can’t do eye drops without hyperventilating. I
am the lucky girl with the “good kind” of Cancer, and I am scared.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-30997337196923910192015-03-11T09:29:00.003-07:002015-03-11T09:38:00.481-07:00Afternoon Shadow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Groupons are evil. I see one and think, I should try that, it is such a good deal! I have done acupuncture, facials, pedicures, and massages thanks to Groupon. Some have been great, some have been strange. Several months ago, I saw a Groupon for "One dermaplaning treatment with a hydrating or rejuvenating mask. Dermaplaning treatments exfoliate the skin (without down time) and remove peach fuzz." They had me at removing peach fuzz. The older I get, the more fuzz I get. I wanted to do something about it before I had to brush my face. Because I am brilliant, I didn't really research what the dermaplaning entails.<br />
<br />
I changed into a soft comfortable rope, climbed under a snugly blanket. Relaxed, as the gal cleansed, massaged, and moisturized my face. It was blissful until she said, "Now we are going to complete the dermaplaning". I was fine until she pulled out a butter knife looking razor and shaved my entire face. My forehead, my cheeks, my chin, my upper lip... She worked extra hard on my newly acquired chin hairs. I was assured that it is a myth that it will grow back thicker and darker. My face was glowing, it felt so smooth...<br />
<br />
I am a week out from the appointment, and I can't stop touching my face. Not because it is smooth, but because I detect a bit of stubble on my cheeks. What? Now I know, dermaplaning is a nicer way of saying close shave. For a gal who wears a swim dress to avoid extra maintenance...this is devastating. Now do I keep shaving my face or do I let it grow? When does it stop feeling like a prickly mistake? I blame Groupon, well it is easier then blaming myself for not researching the word dermaplaning. If you see me out, please don't mention my afternoon shadow, please?Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-38110447102357555522015-03-02T18:50:00.001-08:002015-03-02T18:50:15.564-08:00That KidI am the mother of "that kid", that creative, brilliant kid. "That kid" with so many ideas zooming around in her brain . "That kid" can throw her head back and belly laugh. "That kid"is kind, sweet, and loving. <br />
<br />
"That kid" loves to draw anatomically correct people. "That kid" can do an impersonation of Elaine dancing from Seinfeld without trying. "That kid" pushes me to my limit. "That kid" is mine and I wouldn't have it any other way because I love that kid.<br />
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Circa 2009<br />
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<br />Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-57333439824724956172015-02-27T12:21:00.001-08:002015-02-27T12:21:34.363-08:00Soundtrack<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can’t make me”</div>
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“Whatever Mom”</div>
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“You are so mean”</div>
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“It’s not fair!”</div>
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“Honey, where is the soap?”</div>
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“The car is a mess”</div>
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“I have no more clean socks”</div>
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“I think you are overreacting”</div>
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Always running behind, feeling guilty…until</div>
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I shimmy into my yoga pants, pull them up…but not too
high. Bend over to check my panty
line. Yank down my sports bra, shove the
girls together, throw on a tank top and get into the car. NPR is blaring, water bottle precariously
teetering in the cup holder. I whip the
swagger wagon into a compact parking space with ease, throwing the car into
park. I rummage around the floorboard
until I locate a discarded ponytail holder with a moist cheerio clinging to it. Grabbing my water, I slam the car door closed
and attempt to lock the door. No
keys. Pawing through my purse, avoiding
a sticky lollypop stick and a crusty tissue I search for my keys only to
realize I have tossed them into the passenger seat. Why am I so brilliant? I close the car door again, attempting to shove
my hair into a messy bun. The clock is ticking…</div>
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Stumbling up the stairs, slightly out of breath I walk into
my happy place. The humid air is tinged
with the ripe smell of sweat. I stand in
my spot, facing the mirror and am berated by my thoughts. “I should really wear make up. I hate my thighs. Do I have teacher arm jiggle? What am I making for dinner? What do need at HEB? If I look down I have a triple chin.”</div>
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Then I hear it… “It’s Britney Bitch”. My hips sway back and forth waiting for my
instructor to begin. With each pelvis thrust,
chest pump, cabbage patch, and Roger Rabbit my mind lets go. I am transformed into a fly girl, oozing with
sex appeal, and confidence. I start to
twerk, bouncing my booty. I am free from the pressure of attempting to be
supermom. The only pressure that I feel
is my spandex fighting to contain my sweet jiggle. This
is where I feel whole, shaking it on the dance floor. This is my therapy.</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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The soundtrack of my life is not just “I’m a little teapot”,
or the high pitched whine demanding snacks, it is Pit Bull and the pulsating
beat of Drop it Low. I can make a mean
Skinnytaste recipe, “Elsa” braid my daughter’s hair, and shake that thang. There is more to me than what you see. This mama can “Roar".</div>
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Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-60939895047148806422014-08-30T11:21:00.000-07:002014-08-30T11:21:51.181-07:00Hair is a battlefield<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My sweet little redhead,<br />
<br />
I want you to know that I love you. You keep me on my toes and give me plenty of fodder for my blog. Perhaps I overreacted a tad bit when you chose to butcher your beautiful long red hair. Wailing and screaming, it was not my greatest parenting moment. Yes, I did request that you sit in timeout with a mirror to stare at your hair. Your beautiful hair is now a "high fashioned mullet". I understand that this hairstyle has been featured in fashion magazines as of late. <br />
<br />
I hum <b>Pat Benatar</b> songs when I see you sometimes. My darling daughter...you have "Hit me with your best shot", now I am "All Fired Up". You are a "Heartbreaker". "Love is a Battlefield" and that is why this picture will be prominently displayed at your wedding because I love you.<br />
<br />
<br />
MommyDomesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-58259904211883658222014-05-12T09:21:00.000-07:002014-05-12T09:21:30.542-07:00Goodwill Hunting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love Goodwill hunting, I really do. It may have become a borderline addiction. I need to stop by every week, just to check. I don't ALWAYS buy things. My hubby gave me the gift of guilt free time away from the family for Mother's Day. I was going to treat myself to a pedicure. I was just about to pass Goodwill, but some crazy force made it impossible to pass up. I pulled in and made my way to the door. I pulled open the door, inhaling the musty smell of deals to be found. The cashier shouts, "Hey girl! Welcome Back!" I am telling you Goodwill is my own personal Cheers Bar, where everyone knows your name...or just calls you"girl". I start my usual trek around the store. I have a method, which I may or may not write in an ebook on someday. One of my last stops in my GW routine is the dresses. There I hit pay dirt, an <a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/c/alice-olivia?origin=brandindex">Alice + Olivia</a> dress in my size! (shout out to google for knowing all of the designers) This was a 230 dollar dress for 6.50, in my size! Well, hello Mother's Day gift to me. I gleefully make my way to the dressing room, nodding to Lurking Larry who is ALWAYS there. I lock myself into the dressing room, pulling the dress over my head a bit snug, but I still had my shorts on underneath. I gracefully manage pulling off my shorts, feet not touching the floor. Now all I had to do was zip this baby up, zip this baby up, zip. Yes, a bit tight, my diaphragm was being squeezed and my ribs were aching due to the pressure. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5PgQP6xJkq4qlAwuHKNHa5w6FHBCfT-kYTDmnJAkQG5_bCmHoxyK2XHyMiGazkaLsTpG3Va7etQdN27XXDtVZeS9JHZJ1bn9G-Hi3SCsdKs32PjgQjqmiLaCGfDMzFbLU8CEo9ugKhjd/s1600/IMG_20140511_124725.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5PgQP6xJkq4qlAwuHKNHa5w6FHBCfT-kYTDmnJAkQG5_bCmHoxyK2XHyMiGazkaLsTpG3Va7etQdN27XXDtVZeS9JHZJ1bn9G-Hi3SCsdKs32PjgQjqmiLaCGfDMzFbLU8CEo9ugKhjd/s1600/IMG_20140511_124725.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>That is when I came to the realization that this dress was not for me, and the designer obviously doesn't know her sizes. Gently tugging on the expensive zipper, it slowly moves down and then stops. So, I tug on it a bit more aggressively...nothing. I suck it in, envisioning my ribs shifting and yank one more time. The zipper pull comes off in my sweaty palm. I begin to panic. Sweat begins to trickle down my back while attempting to yank the dress around so I could take a look at the zipper. My sweat is not helping the situation, nor is the fact that Lurking Larry pounds on my door asking if I need any help. My God, what if I need to have Lurking Larry help me! That thought alone caused my panic to hit epic levels. Taking a shallow breath, to calm my nerves it dawns on me, I will need to channel my inner <span class="userContent">MacGyver. Seriously, WWMD? </span></div>
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The solution came to me just as I was about to pass out due to lack of air. A pen, I can use a pen! I jam the pen into the tiny hole that once held the zipper pull. I tug a bit, nothing... I yank this time cursing under my breath and it MOVES! It takes me about 10 minutes, finally freeing me of the evil vice. Free at last... 35 minutes in the dressing room, sweat glistening on my brow, and Lurking Larry's expression as I walked out...priceless.
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"This is the worst day of my entire life," my daughter sobs. Her eyes are red and streams of tears are dripping down her cheeks. My darling daughter, I hope this really is the worst day of your life. I hope your heart never hurts more than it does right now. <br />
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Today, someone adopted the last puppy we have been fostering through the Animal Shelter. Today, the big beautiful tree that shaded our front yard was taken down. Today, my daughter mourned the birds nests that she will never again watch from her window. Today, she said goodbye to her furry little friend. <br />
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In her eight years of life, this day was the first time I saw the twinkle in her eye dull just a bit. My darling girl, the road ahead will be full of twists, turns, potholes, peaks and valleys. I will be your cheerleader, your cloak, your calm in the storm. I will pick you up when you fall, dust you off, and watch as you continue on your journey. Even on the "worst day of your life", I will be there.<br />
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<br />Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-32133329154709695392014-04-11T09:31:00.002-07:002014-04-11T09:31:36.389-07:00Kicking it old school<div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few days ago I was talking to a friend about playgrounds and how "safe" they have become. We began reminiscing about the play equipment of the past. After our chat, I began to wonder, do my children really know what a merry go round is? Have they ever been on a seesaw? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thus began my quest, to discover old school playground equipment. The tall metal slides, seesaws, and merry go rounds of the past. I wanted my girls to climb up a metal ladder, going higher and higher, then sit down on top of the toasty metal and fly down the slide. Well, that is unless you have sweaty thighs and then you slowly inch your way down, your thighs squeaking and squawking as your sweaty legs skid along the hot metal. I want them to climb on a seesaw and have their bottoms raise off the seat as they are propelled into the air and then stop short with a jerk. I want them to swing their legs at the top, contemplating how to get down. They should experience a real merry go round. The kind that as a child I laid flat on my back clutching the metal bars and watched the clouds spin by.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I discovered only one in South Austin. It is in the Western Oaks neighborhood, near the Hampton Branch Public Library. My three year old had a blast. She screamed and giggled as she flew down the tall slide, over and over again. She squealed with delight when her little bum came off the seat on the seesaw. She went round and round on the merry go round until her tummy hurt. She also experience a rite of passage, flying off of the merry go round tumbling to the ground.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have you discovered any old school playgrounds in your neck of the woods?</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /></i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #282828; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Melissa, a former teacher, enjoys finding the humor in her everyday life. Thanks to her three daughters, there is never a dull moment. She has written for MomSense, Scary Mommy, and several local websites. Her blog, <a href="http://www.ceoofdomesticaffairs.com/" style="color: #069c90; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" target="_blank">Domestic Engineering</a>, helps to keep her sane. In her "spare" tie she dreams of one day becoming a spokesmodel for StarSearch.</i></span><br />
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Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-1765538029656175362014-03-21T07:02:00.001-07:002014-03-21T07:02:27.477-07:00SkankyWhen I was younger, I sort of wanted to be the chick standing next to the car at car shows. You know the one the one that poses by the car while it slowly rotates. So when I discovered the Brand Ambassador facebook group, I was excited. SXSW was just around the corner there were a ton of jobs. The one that caught my eye, was a company looking for the girl next door type for an event. I applied and then was sent a more expansive application. Headshot.... check, measurements check, photo of me in a bikini? I opted for a one piece, filled everything out and clicked send. I was feeling a bit giddy when the next day I received an phone interview. We discussed my availability, and then I was asked if I had any questions. "Umm, I just want you to know I don't do skanky." <br />
"What do you mean skanky?"<br />
"Well, you know slutty. No one really needs to see my C section scar."<br />
~ Click<br />
Needless to say I didn't get the job. I did however go to SXSW.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;">The top 5 things that I learned from SXSW:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;">5. High waisted acid washed cut off jean shorts flatter no one </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;">4. Head bands should now be called forehead bands</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;">3. Gold lamay spandex are see through, yes girlfriend I saw EVERYTHING</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;">2. Spanx as outerwear is all the rage</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333969116211px; line-height: 18px;">1. MC Hammer wants his pants back</span>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-29516744503501960812014-03-02T20:31:00.000-08:002014-03-02T20:32:16.305-08:00Full Circle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXgAxxCQ8Y3UBqycu4es2Yh2QnW94LENszmGG26RJZcNQbXYmSXnzJGyPiFXEqm2feYmvhmzJkUEL6nSAssLlGiwHUg_wkST6AKMwywPGTV5Y_SMLhYRen76b9Z_06rpwXzmM_lEHHW6-/s1600/thrift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXXgAxxCQ8Y3UBqycu4es2Yh2QnW94LENszmGG26RJZcNQbXYmSXnzJGyPiFXEqm2feYmvhmzJkUEL6nSAssLlGiwHUg_wkST6AKMwywPGTV5Y_SMLhYRen76b9Z_06rpwXzmM_lEHHW6-/s1600/thrift.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Kmart, the kiss of death for social status in Junior High. My Mother’s favorite store for deals, Kmart. My utter loathing of the store, epic. Picture this, a sweltering hot September day in Las Vegas. Our station wagon with peeling wood-grain, prominently parked in the first row of cars in the Kmart parking lot. The windows are open to allow the whisper of a breeze, not unlike the air from an oven when it is opened. I am hiding under the seat, drenched in sweat. My hair is stuffed into a ball cap to cover up my trademark red hair. I would rather have a heat stroke and literally die than be caught in a “discount” store. Looking back, I wouldn’t doubt that my Mother chose the parking spot in front, and probably extended the shopping trip by playing the slots at the store. Yes, even Kmart has slot machines in Vegas. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fast forward a decade. I am buying my makeup at the Clinique counter at Macy's. I am rocking my Gap jeans, Banana Republic shirt, and Brighton belt. Flush with cash, a 24K teaching job, and a MasterCard. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Jump ahead yet another decade, my shopping habits have now come full circle. My mother taught me at an early age the art of discount shopping. For many years, I felt scared by those lessons, literally I do have a scar, from a pen cap that was under the station wagon seat. I have evolved, moved beyond the brand. Well, that... and now I have three girls, a husband, and am living on one salary.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My name is Melissa, and I am a proud Goodwill shopper. I pull open the door, inhale the distinct odor of bargains to be found. A cashier yells, “Welcome to Goodwill...hey Red!” Goodwill has become my own personal “Cheers”. You never know what you may find. A few months ago, I discovered the holy grail of bargains. My ears always perk up when I hear the groan of a new garment rack being dragged out. I make a beeline for the rack and before my eyes is an entire wardrobe, all my size, all my favorite brands, some even with tags. My eyes may have teared up a bit as I dragged the entire rack near the dressing room and slipped on a strapless banana republic dress that was made for me. I push the rack down the crowded aisle, attempting not to take anyone out. Panting, I make it up to the cashier. She begins the task of manually entering in the 25 or more articles of clothing. While yanking one more dress off the rack, she peers up at me and asks, “Wonder what happened to this chick, maybe she died”.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My friends now affectionately call her “dead girl”. If I am wearing a super outfit, chances are if you ask what designer I am wearing, I will proudly say “dead girl”. So thank you Mom, for teaching me the thrill of finding a bargain. I look forward to teaching this lesson to my girls as well. Too bad they won’t be able to hideout in the car because anything under 5 minutes in an unattended car is child abuse. Just saying...</span></div>
Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-64915844264140253112012-08-29T19:05:00.000-07:002012-08-29T20:49:28.786-07:00Poopie Head<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0BhppWuy6lXBPcPDxw9O9o4uZ8VTQvD9nXOXSIFPuxOZxN5aakTP4DGwYpllUqJWTGCCLoIy2cCewg9hiCt6U4D3SbGOqf6gzuyBV2ohtRvx-lH6FyXgT6stWWrT8d8QxwO8IBVOklY9/s1600/laura+madole+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ0BhppWuy6lXBPcPDxw9O9o4uZ8VTQvD9nXOXSIFPuxOZxN5aakTP4DGwYpllUqJWTGCCLoIy2cCewg9hiCt6U4D3SbGOqf6gzuyBV2ohtRvx-lH6FyXgT6stWWrT8d8QxwO8IBVOklY9/s200/laura+madole+photo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I don't understand this whole sibling dynamic. My brother and I are 10 years apart, I am perfect he is not. I was an only child until I was almost ten. I loved my brother from the moment he arrived. When I morphed into a tragic teenager, he was a sweet little boy. My mother reminds me quite often that "she did it right!" Lately, I have wondered if she did in fact do it right. The dynamics in my home leave me flabbergasted. E and C argue about everything and anything. This was the fight this morning at 6:30 am:<br />
C: "Mommy! I went poop"<br />
E: "I went poop first."<br />
C: "No I did!"<br />
Me: "Who didn't flush the potty?"<br />
C: "Not me, it was E"<br />
E: "It was C, it looks like C's poop."<br />
Me: "Really how do you know what Middle C's poop looks like? "<br />
E: "She talks too much when she eats and doesn't chew her food, there were chunks. "<br />
<br />
On a positive note, Middle C has been doing well in Kinder. I had my concerns, but she has earned three super behavior stamps. When she was chatting about her day, she mentioned that today's stamp was very light
because she just barely earned it. She colored her hand black because
she wanted to look like the little girl sitting next to her.</div>
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Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-22956037698524032162012-08-27T14:20:00.001-07:002012-08-27T14:25:59.970-07:00Drama on hold ...for a few hours<div style="text-align: center;">
First day of school, done. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfV3ZVMl7IZX6kstuOo81-d2_ieEMifIQ1vl6GWZTrpRVML1LlxEhPtVUfm_R3HhJZLayltG-Hq2YK4TSXIlyxxE3hG5q8ldBStDJrob2vEmlo9TbxrFLe3GPEDQmnpxfm1NpWi2rGbAQ/s1600/1st+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfV3ZVMl7IZX6kstuOo81-d2_ieEMifIQ1vl6GWZTrpRVML1LlxEhPtVUfm_R3HhJZLayltG-Hq2YK4TSXIlyxxE3hG5q8ldBStDJrob2vEmlo9TbxrFLe3GPEDQmnpxfm1NpWi2rGbAQ/s200/1st+day.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">I
asked Middle C about her first day of kinder..."I love my teacher, she
thinks I am an awesome skipper, just not in the hall." E's comment
about 1st grade, "My teacher is nice, but she must be old like you because
sometimes she forgets things...and I heard Claire get yelled at for
skipping in the hall." OK, Miss. "One-upper". My comment about the first day of school, "</span></span><span class="st"><i>Supercalifragilisticexpalidocious , </i>almost eight hours without tattling, yelling,or complaining. Just 3.5 hours until bed time. Sweet! </span></div>
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<span class="st">Today also began my life with just one kiddo at home...</span></div>
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<span class="st">Baby A got undivided attention for the first time in... forever. Our discussion topic, panties. I felt ambitious and let her sit on the potty and put her in big girl panties. She sat on her little potty and in the time it took me to get a new roll of T.P. she managed to break the valve under the pedestal sink causing water to spray in her face. Her eyes were as big as saucers, as I screamed for hubby to turn off the water. A scurried off the potty, slipping on the wet floor, tears gathering in her eyes and ran to find her diaper. Yeah, toilet training is not in our future now. She keeps wandering over to the potty saying, "Potty, water, eyes. No Potty!" Hmmm...tomorrow we will try watching Elmo. </span></div>
Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-23999745261909695122012-08-19T19:49:00.000-07:002012-08-19T20:31:46.427-07:00"WILD" Kingdom Late Night<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In our attempt to pack in a few more
memories before sending the kid’s off to school, we decide to go to one of our
local zoo's. Our city has the zoo and the "zoo”. I actually prefer
to go to the “zoo”. It is down a few back roads littered with one or two
mattresses that may or may not have had a crime committed on them, and one
"gently mangled" sofa missing an armrest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This Zoo is tucked away between a few mobile
homes, past an abandoned storage shed, down a dirt road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You really do need a GPS to find it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was awesome that we had one in the
car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only issue was my directionally,
absolutely, 100% correct husband did not believe “Xena” our travel
warrior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched as he argued with her
and chose a different road, after a different road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Recalculating…..recalculating…..recalculating”,
the miles to the zoo went from 11 to 21.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After an extra 30 minutes and Xena expertly teaching Baby A to now say
“recalculating” we made it.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a
great time, the weather was good, and the animals stayed behind their bailing
wire and duct tape fences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I
spotted it, a Zebra that was apparently rather excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am NOT talking about old school Mutual of
Omaha’s Wild Kingdom excited, I am talking about
Discovery Channel Late Night excited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
did my best to not point it out to the kids, but I HAD to say something to the
hubby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also, because I really am not
mature, thought that I would get a photo op of Middle C standing in front of
the “huge” zebra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She glanced over and
posed for the photo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just before I
snapped the photo, someone got very camera shy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Claire looked at me after the photo and said, “Wow that Zebra turned
from a boy to a girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God can do
anything on a Sunday.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why yes, Middle C,
he can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can also give my sweet little
family the opportunity to watch yet, another Animal Kingdom Porn Scene.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Bear was having a moment with
himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not a quiet moment;
there was some loud grunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we
approached, hubby and I stopped and stared as we observed Mr. Bear committed a
fairly impressive act of personal fellatio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Baby A was giggling screaming”funny, funny,” in her high pitched voice
as Mr. Bears grunts became louder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hubby
attempted to distract the girls by mention it was snack time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girls ran off, Hubby and I just shrugged our
shoulders. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose solitary
confinement amusements are few and far between…or should I say fur and fur
between?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SHGtMzl78Oxc2MlmQmhrEwEr0PFZKmnobxAFT_Wuvg5UcAN1eVhpaUVIKti6LZNCo_Df_5_eTs7q-4Fun0YyftT0W2dzurYAITC2KXIYuilzOsGTbNbPCQg6Yg7YMEte5vujmuCDz5To/s1600/mrbear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-SHGtMzl78Oxc2MlmQmhrEwEr0PFZKmnobxAFT_Wuvg5UcAN1eVhpaUVIKti6LZNCo_Df_5_eTs7q-4Fun0YyftT0W2dzurYAITC2KXIYuilzOsGTbNbPCQg6Yg7YMEte5vujmuCDz5To/s400/mrbear.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Bear Himself</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-7008899074099625792012-08-17T20:06:00.000-07:002012-08-17T20:06:01.203-07:00Conversations <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3XtDR_eHWSi5k3kApkO-vxDikpd6N1Xt01BSfygGQuIvOMHVNquffGafEp3CTpa_o8JTSTo5QIrCG2Vh_NRQkAzlNgTZ20GuAuTCUArT7m3rF7ZteV17F2zVx-jbzdqd8IWyEbOHrK_f/s1600/P8020065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3XtDR_eHWSi5k3kApkO-vxDikpd6N1Xt01BSfygGQuIvOMHVNquffGafEp3CTpa_o8JTSTo5QIrCG2Vh_NRQkAzlNgTZ20GuAuTCUArT7m3rF7ZteV17F2zVx-jbzdqd8IWyEbOHrK_f/s200/P8020065.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<span class="userContent">Scrolled through my Facebook feed and realized that August really did provide me with a few giggles between the bickering, whining, and chaos.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">~Apparently, I have broken Middle C's heart
forever because I "forgot" to buy Strawberry Short Cake band-aids and
only have the plain ones. I told her they were twice as much money to
get the fancy ones, she replied,"Yeah, but just think of how much money
an infected cut will cost you because these plain ones don't cover as
much skin." Good Luck Kinder teachers, I will soon pass the torch to
you.</span><br />
<span class="userContent"> </span><br />
<span class="userContent">~ </span><span class="userContent">We were watching the closing Olympic
Ceremonies when George Michael came on. Without thinking I said," I
thought he was still in jail". George started singing, "Freedom". E
looked up and said ,"Obviously he likes being out of jail because he
wrote a song about it." I am just glad he didn't sing, "I want your
sex".</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">~ </span><span class="userContent">I have hit the age where a thong will no
longer be in my panty rotation. I tossed them on the ground while I was
cleaning out the drawer. I just went upstairs to the play room and
discovered that they girls seem to think they make a pretty awesome
hammocks in the Barbie Dream house.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">~ Shout out to my 5 year old for keeping it
real." Mommy, I know you have been sick, but it isn't hard to shower and
put some lipstick on." She then digs through my panty drawer and pulls
out a thong from years ago."This will make you feel much better!"</span><span class="userContent"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">~ </span><span class="userContent">The girls were attempting synchronized diving
at the pool today. Before jumping off the diving boards, they would
discuss what they would do. I overheard Middle C saying,"Ok, first you
toot, then shake your bottom, and then do spirit fingers."</span><span class="userContent"> </span><span class="userContent"> </span>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-26642262215106704972012-08-15T11:22:00.000-07:002012-08-15T13:49:59.334-07:00Glass of mommy guilt...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnD8rYPC4rIhXwU7jwJCDJ7ErttIJmI-K3P2KAzz5w14bE7doPXmqKgmq6lDrlfMqOuhoIMjZHOQ17piozyDEd36Jnyfq2UsMldVIKVLyv374wldhJ3sqp55PiziW6F-asJu4ZF5is7p4/s1600/don't+cum+in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdnD8rYPC4rIhXwU7jwJCDJ7ErttIJmI-K3P2KAzz5w14bE7doPXmqKgmq6lDrlfMqOuhoIMjZHOQ17piozyDEd36Jnyfq2UsMldVIKVLyv374wldhJ3sqp55PiziW6F-asJu4ZF5is7p4/s320/don't+cum+in.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Middle C's note for her sister</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The start of school is just two long weeks away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel guilty about saying it, but I am
ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I announced my feelings about
school to a few friends and one of them floored me when she said, I don’t want
to send them back, I am having so much fun with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will miss them so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is when I felt that little sting in my
heart that makes me wonder what the hell is wrong with me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should enjoy these last few days of
togetherness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The following day I was
determined to have “fun”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told the
girls to get on their swimsuit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simple
task, but apparently middle C “accidentally” dropped E’s swim suit in the toilet
when she was bringing it to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>E
retaliated by declaring that Middle C was wearing one of her old swimsuits that
she always thought was ugly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears and
drama ensued, but I didn’t yell I”enjoyed” the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baby A took a dump in her swim diaper two
minutes before we were about to get in the car. After the drama, and 20 minutes
of deep breaths and determination to not loose it and enjoy my kids, I loaded
all three girls into the swagger wagon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First stop the neighborhood pool, and the
sunscreen ritual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, someone is always
getting it in their eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baby A
inevitably will find the one spray bottle not locked and spray her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There will be tears, but I will “enjoy” the
moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the pool, I took the girls
to get their new backpacks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While at Toy
R Screwing us, Baby A managed to get her foot stuck in the slats of the cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was screaming bloody murder, and the
teenage employee looked confused when I asked if she had any lotion to help
grease up her chunky leg so I could pull it out of the cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried not to lose it when she said they
didn’t have lotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They sell baby diapers and baby
necessities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baby A’s foot is swelling;
my other girls are clutching their new backpacks in horror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then out of the corner of my eye, I see super
woman sprinting down the aisle clutching a bottle of baby oil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She helps me lube up baby A’s foot freeing
her from the evil shopping cart vice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
had tears in my eyes and sweat tricking down my back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked me in the eye and said, “This is
why I hired a babysitter this week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
can’t take it anymore either. On a positive note the baby will have smooth skin?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sniffed and gave her a big hug. So for those of you
mommies that are enjoying your last few days with your kiddos, bless your sweet
little hearts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For those of you mommies
that are about lose your mind from the bickering, the pouting, the whining, and
the constant pressure to make memories,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>bless your exhausted guilty hearts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pour out that glass of mommy guilt and pour a
glass of mommy glee, I won’t judge! Two weeks and counting...<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-46853833352511776962012-08-12T12:11:00.003-07:002012-08-12T18:54:03.292-07:00House of ill repute<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OfTiDeMm42sMPxFLB_cekCYcnxSBC8oSr_IjNcLsFy8gW8-wYiJhZCpQXVpFZjdrC5a-ehbXmL8oXphsVdq7HOKsAzfkHOCTLSFM26ShcLRwDUKKgWjkTOd_3KBUPffYdwNX6j8b4pPu/s1600/P8123191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1OfTiDeMm42sMPxFLB_cekCYcnxSBC8oSr_IjNcLsFy8gW8-wYiJhZCpQXVpFZjdrC5a-ehbXmL8oXphsVdq7HOKsAzfkHOCTLSFM26ShcLRwDUKKgWjkTOd_3KBUPffYdwNX6j8b4pPu/s400/P8123191.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been so busy lately that I have neglected my blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have I been busy vacationing, going on dates,
blowing money, getting a rock solid body, tanning?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Um… nope just experiencing my first summer
with three kids not in school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother
always said that she hated when summer was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just pour me a glass of mommy guilt, because
I am looking forward to sending them off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I embarrassed my oldest by performing the cabbage
patch, running man combination when I saw the “Back to School” display at
Target.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the record, I still can rock
it old school style.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Speaking of old
school, I have finally decided it was time to empty out the panty/bra
drawer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gals you know what I am talking
about, remember those totally cute, lacy numbers, the sexy thongs that you
perhaps wore when you first got married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Victoria
did have a secret and they are all jammed in the back corner of my drawer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While
baby A was napping, and the older girls were playing upstairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sorted the items from…granny with too many
holes, granny but comfy, special occasion, and “G” so not wearing that
string.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I shoved the retired panties
into a Wal-Mart bag and threw it in my closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Apparently there must have been a few renegade thongs begging to be
used.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later that day, I went up to the
playroom and found this lovely moment frozen in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Notice the clever use of the thong as it
cradles a mother mermaid and her child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Western Barbie (circa 1984) appears to be attempting a Fifty Shades Of
Gray move. The other Barbie is working on some Pilates equipment above her bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not sure what is going on with the “Sunshine
Family Dad” and the girl in the bath tub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I questioned middle C about it she said, “ Mom, that is not a boy ,
its just a girl that likes to look different and she has eczema, also her legs
fall off if I try to take off her pants.”</div>
</div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-18791123895287937122012-05-23T20:54:00.000-07:002012-05-23T20:58:22.400-07:00Urine your backyard...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTulN-5gbY32_ZfLyWe4-uiWxn8MQ0_X4w3BTNwBBe6TGLyjfYMic0aYloVvRMSpSqh7Ze1iI_7iCcQMZ9GfWrA_oIA48PysO-cZcEqiWDfeYY-49yE_8-D5y_yiy7R4CSOc22__xXs5cy/s1600/Coyote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTulN-5gbY32_ZfLyWe4-uiWxn8MQ0_X4w3BTNwBBe6TGLyjfYMic0aYloVvRMSpSqh7Ze1iI_7iCcQMZ9GfWrA_oIA48PysO-cZcEqiWDfeYY-49yE_8-D5y_yiy7R4CSOc22__xXs5cy/s200/Coyote.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I'll admit sometimes I look at Middle C and wonder where she came from, and then hubby does something and all I can do is shake my head and shrug my shoulders. Last weekend, we attended a party at our next-door neighbor's house. I had some wine and hubby had one or two beers. We came home around 8:00pm (gasp!) and put the girls down. I sat down at my computer to do some work, and hubby went to finish up some yard work. About an hour later, he waltzed in. He glanced at me in the office typing away, and proceeded to give me a bear hug. I pushed him away and wrinkled up my nose. Stinky! He started chuckling. He came in for another smelly hug, and then started laughing. I stared at him in utter confusion. Seriously? What is so funny about smelling like booty? In between laughter, he managed to relay the story of what occurred the backyard moments before. Let me clarify, that we do back up to a greenbelt with a short fence and have a sweet little burrow filled with two baby bunnies under one of our trees. Hubby was attempting to protect them from the coyotes that we hear every night. How could a six foot, four inch man, protect the sweet little bunnies...peeing the fence line of course, duh! Well, while creating a human barrier, he was looking down and managed to forget about the bird feeder we had hanging from a low branch. Yes, my brilliant hubby cracked his head on the feeder, showering him in congealed bird poop, seed, and stale rain water. He was sweet enough to hug me and play "what's that stench?" Sigh...</div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-29527065073891849942012-05-21T19:56:00.000-07:002012-05-21T19:58:54.549-07:00wax on, wax off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilh2Fw7mgQXAUxsonFHYIAfHnfEjdOc4YfzHrck3_AoLVrQTfq57_yytLoXuc0lc5aYrijNKMISPIfRGR09GA8g-9-FTya4g8wfIz_aubaVC-cfFhsV3-LdczBaGUkSbOjgXVlz0ST014o/s1600/funny-graphs-wax.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilh2Fw7mgQXAUxsonFHYIAfHnfEjdOc4YfzHrck3_AoLVrQTfq57_yytLoXuc0lc5aYrijNKMISPIfRGR09GA8g-9-FTya4g8wfIz_aubaVC-cfFhsV3-LdczBaGUkSbOjgXVlz0ST014o/s200/funny-graphs-wax.gif" width="200" /></a></div>
The other day my hubby and I had the state of our union briefing that primarily focused on the budget and spending cuts. He showed me pie-charts and graphs outlining our spending habits in the past few months. We discussed where we could make some cuts in our spending. I sat there feeling guilty at the spiking red line in the grocery spending, while sipping on box wine. Hey, I am trying. After the talk, I really needed to make some changes and there by forgoing a spa appointment that I had made. Not spa like relax, but spa as in wax. Our ten year anniversary is this weekend, and I though I would surprise hubby with some smooth skin. I chose a nice place, versus the place I get my 8 dollar brow wax for obvious reasons. I have never had anything waxed besides the brow before. Well, the budget cuts forced me to rethink my choices. After talking to a friend, she recommended doing the wax at home. So, I bought the Sally Hansen wax strip kit. The cheerful box boasted "quick and easy, works on short hair, and results lasting 8 weeks!" I waited for hubby to go out for the evening, got the kiddos to bed, and downed a glass of wine to take the edge off. I locked my bedroom door and preceded to lay out the items. I began to read the directions and then at the bottom of the pamphlet I spy the phrase, "Must have at least 21 days of growth." What?? Shouldn't that have been on the front of the box? Who lets everything grow out for 21 days? I couldn't return the box because I opened it, and I am too cheap to waste it, so I tried it despite my lack of 21 days of growth. Not the brightest thing I have done, I guess you need 21 days of fur so you don't rip off a fine layer of skin. Apparently, there are somethings that need to be budgeted for. Happy Anniversary honey...</div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-52899956624256573982012-05-15T05:18:00.001-07:002012-05-15T11:01:17.830-07:00Tinkle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSX42bozuy2p6yxNcmkwPbb0CvLGgKx38TZspVfSeb54OiJSrDCxQTudHDLBmjMhQ0SGCIx1M2ANBtbs_5Y3N9zsXj_65aO_KD3QvoryqLymgKTkiTLED0pxzzVxpuQueNyKggncUFek7G/s1600/tinkle.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSX42bozuy2p6yxNcmkwPbb0CvLGgKx38TZspVfSeb54OiJSrDCxQTudHDLBmjMhQ0SGCIx1M2ANBtbs_5Y3N9zsXj_65aO_KD3QvoryqLymgKTkiTLED0pxzzVxpuQueNyKggncUFek7G/s200/tinkle.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
Just discovered that Middle C has been experimenting with urine collection. I found a bucket in her room this morning. When I asked her about it she said,"Ummm...I am practicing being a nurse, they have to work with tinkle." I shook my head. "What? They said on TV that trying things will help me know what I want to be when I grow up. Seriously!" My response was probably not one any parenting book would suggest. "Well try being a janitor and clean this shit up" (yes I shit, it just slipped, out it was 6:30 in the morning.) Claire glared at me and stomped her foot, " It is not shit, it is tinkle AND you said a bad word." Why yes, yes I did.<br />
<br /></div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-43751323690317892282012-05-13T09:21:00.000-07:002012-05-13T09:21:30.677-07:00Lyrical Genius<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This morning Middle C age 5, woke me up with a new song that she made up.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnq5pdiYCdPxMc7YwVnI21STLoiKxT3eHlQx_4SkfPhHWvv7hBmdptrKKWzRafNGXZGW-7mnjb8FA8cTlVLPrWydKzFDHDuM6x7PKa66s78lGZ0FoN9OVoGAIXxF_ri5HmK9Xg3iBMN50Y/s1600/Madole+gals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnq5pdiYCdPxMc7YwVnI21STLoiKxT3eHlQx_4SkfPhHWvv7hBmdptrKKWzRafNGXZGW-7mnjb8FA8cTlVLPrWydKzFDHDuM6x7PKa66s78lGZ0FoN9OVoGAIXxF_ri5HmK9Xg3iBMN50Y/s320/Madole+gals.jpg" width="320" /></a>(to the tune of "I'm Sexy and I know it")<br />
Your a Mommy and you know it,<br />
You have boogers in your nose and your not afraid to blow it, blow it, blow it.<br />
When you walk in the house, this is what you see<br />
toys on the floor and you scream at me.<br />
You have stink in your pants and you aren't afraid to blow it (she then made a toot sound with her mouth and shook her booty)<br />
<br />
I am thinking she just might be the next Weird Al. Seriously, there must be some sort of scholarship for her mad lyrical skills.<br />
<br /></div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-64310960340621194732012-05-10T12:28:00.000-07:002012-05-10T12:28:04.442-07:00Cleavage Envy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTY7FDclLNL1E9ivU9U_MEajEdzQI5LNkZ_-Xnf9t9BIe7XmlazBIR2UhVXy3VyK83Pg7tsrhnbtxSMhm9U-IL4yNmT1EYwhd-geUsn6fhoCndJ3WXmyBL36que2TPCA8TZ79Rw0vuKLj/s1600/check+out+my+cleavage+dr+heckle+funny+photo+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTY7FDclLNL1E9ivU9U_MEajEdzQI5LNkZ_-Xnf9t9BIe7XmlazBIR2UhVXy3VyK83Pg7tsrhnbtxSMhm9U-IL4yNmT1EYwhd-geUsn6fhoCndJ3WXmyBL36que2TPCA8TZ79Rw0vuKLj/s200/check+out+my+cleavage+dr+heckle+funny+photo+blog.jpg" width="95" /></a></div>
If you have ever read my blog, you know that I suffer from T.T. (Tiny Tata's). T.T. has been an issue in my life for many years , however after three kiddos, I now have T.T.T. (Teeny Tiny Tata's). If you are cursed with my particular affliction you are required to wear a tank top under most of your shirts and dresses. There is not a line of clothing designed for TTT sufferers and so most clothes just hang down way too far. Last night I was going out to meet some friends, I had a dress on and a tank underneath it. I walked over to the kitchen table where E was sitting she looked up with a confused look on her face. "Mommy, why do you wear a shirt under your dress?" I told her that if I didn't, I would be showing off my bra. "Really?" she replied, "My teacher wears low things all of the time, but she doesn't wear a shirt under. I can see some of her boobie, but not the nipple. It sort of looks like a fanny crack." I explained that her teacher has something called cleavage. She looked at me confused, "So, will I have cleavage? I really want some." Sadly, I had to tell her if she has my genes she might be out of luck. Middle C was listening in on the conversation and piped up. "Yeah, well I DON'T want a fanny on my chest. I bet it would get smelly and then people would call you smelly boob". Things went down hill from there.</div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-64832549992672881482012-05-08T19:34:00.000-07:002012-05-08T19:34:13.297-07:00Roid Rage, Kentucky, and a Keg<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNBoJjILTxQXcr5z-OjidhL6Q5BgWOGGdYjCwUj535RNow3x7LL0TvW_QhH11mxO3891So1BU1f9s5Ny8JsQpzPC85xXHe6wQMuPs0NgpD2AaTbIjuq-PLo429sIl7gMx9nWHzb7ZnVtw/s1600/party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNBoJjILTxQXcr5z-OjidhL6Q5BgWOGGdYjCwUj535RNow3x7LL0TvW_QhH11mxO3891So1BU1f9s5Ny8JsQpzPC85xXHe6wQMuPs0NgpD2AaTbIjuq-PLo429sIl7gMx9nWHzb7ZnVtw/s320/party.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
Yep, that sums up my weekend...roid rage, Kentucky, and a Keg. This weekend we hosted our 6th annual Kentucky Derby party. It was touch and go before the party. I had been suffering with walking <b>pneumonia</b> and was taking steroids. I was not bitchy, not weepy, but just plain mean. I found immense pleasure crunching a beetle under my shoe and glaring at people. My poor family... Seriously not a good place to be in while getting ready for a party for 27 adults and 22 kids. Hubby got a keg, and several bottles of mint julip and he was in heaven. He taped the keg the night before the party and was giddy. It annoyed the crap out of me that he was so calm and happy. I finally gave up glaring and yelling and downloaded "Fifty Shades of Gray" on my kindle. That seemed to tame the roid rage quite well. The party went perfectly, there was betting, drinking, eating and plenty of lovely hats. The following day we had to kill the keg. Hubby was so proud of teaching the girls a new... life skill? The girls were fighting
over who could fill up our cups. Hubby would take a swig..."May I please
give you a refill Daddy?" Middle C would call out. This was usually followed by E screeching, "Hey, it's my turn. I want to do it, it's
not fair!" As far as I know, neither of the girls have gone to school bragging about their newly
acquired skill. Middle C, I'm sure is just waiting for the perfect opportunity to demonstrate her skill at her church run preschool. She has already told me she wants to be like Jesus and turn water into wine because, "Mommy sure does like wine."</div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-59354944892538436412012-05-04T22:37:00.000-07:002012-05-04T22:38:04.679-07:00Shades of Brown<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My girls have been giving me more material for my blog, unfortunately the posts are in my head and have not made it to my computer. So, I thought that I would once again reminisce about this time last year...<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<a href="http://ceoofdomesticaffairs.blogspot.com/2011/07/painting-with-poohi-mean-poo.html">Painting with Pooh...I mean Poo</a>
</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXSyU-oGSYi3E_UnCZ7CeIL-lcBetlfb0yajoC9qiVWuhr0JYGuSheV4z9imW4Fv8zFdceaW2FHD25U7nvESuiWbGQ59dYOJ8jvYDpWW1XO_38QXB6l2Mm1HkqVeLephKyFSXPd8aG3Yk/s1600/DSC00082.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXSyU-oGSYi3E_UnCZ7CeIL-lcBetlfb0yajoC9qiVWuhr0JYGuSheV4z9imW4Fv8zFdceaW2FHD25U7nvESuiWbGQ59dYOJ8jvYDpWW1XO_38QXB6l2Mm1HkqVeLephKyFSXPd8aG3Yk/s320/DSC00082.JPG" width="228" /></a></div>
I
am thrilled to announce that we have another artist in the family. Now
two of my children, have chosen an organic medium to explore. Let me
explain... It was a glorious day. My older children were out with daddy
and baby A was asleep. I was making good headway on the three baskets
of clean clothes that I had been ignoring for the past week. Sure
enough, 3/4 of the way done I heard baby A babbling over the monitor. I
figured that she was content, so I continued to fold. Baby A's babble
turned to squeals of joy, I smiled as I folded the last pair to pet shop
panties. I grabbed a basket of clothes, and trudged up the stairs. I
pushed open A's door and my olfactories were accosted by a distinct
odor. I sighed, as I quietly padded into her room. I wanted to see
what she was so happy about...that's when I saw it. A soiled diaper lay
mostly empty in the middle of her floor. Her beautiful pale pink
gingham crib bumper was now streaked with a hideous shade of bluish brown
(thank you blueberries). I gasped as soon as I saw baby A's little head
pop up. My sweet little redhead now resembled a brunette.
Begrudgingly, I peered into the crib to examine the magnitude of the
smelly mess. There it was, an amazing piece of artwork streaked across
the wall. My little avant-garde artist stared at me quizzically while I
gagged. This was not my first child to attempt to be Poo-casso. Sadly,
I have considerable experience attempting to clean a textured wall that
has been smeared with Doo Doo Brown. The irony of it is, is that the
only stuffed toy that she chose NOT to artistically embellish was Pooh.
</div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4817768291933680481.post-66663942803440722282012-05-02T20:13:00.001-07:002012-05-03T04:47:07.225-07:00My Middle C<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I adore my middle C. She has always keeps me on my toes and laughing. I was looking through a few old posts and ran across this gem.<br />
<br />
May, 2008<br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<a href="http://ceoofdomesticaffairs.blogspot.com/2009/05/you-lost-them-mommy.html">You lost them mommy</a>
</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VDy1E1t-d8WBmfHRH0Ab0ebRC9pupSmiJJAXR6jTbuOHBFWQRCOnvPqRdU5KEWSNgYA8N1foTvstz0H7L7GciCZqPp6YUP32zlRgGTo3Jd7lZqEFQsCEIgmgmW-Y7dBfDUQa4A715jvD/s1600-h/claire.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333531221250740946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VDy1E1t-d8WBmfHRH0Ab0ebRC9pupSmiJJAXR6jTbuOHBFWQRCOnvPqRdU5KEWSNgYA8N1foTvstz0H7L7GciCZqPp6YUP32zlRgGTo3Jd7lZqEFQsCEIgmgmW-Y7dBfDUQa4A715jvD/s200/claire.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 143px;" /></a>Let
me preface this by saying that my 2 year old has always been very
curious. At a very young age, she was fascinated by nipples. She
pronounced them "Nepal". Often times when she was younger, she would
ask in public places who has "Nepals". She would announce who had them,
speculate on the size of the "Nepals", and expose her own. I could
easily spin the conversation by saying...Nepal is on the other side of
the world. Not everyone has been to Nepal or is interested in
discussing Nepal. One day, her interest waned and I was thrilled. Last
week she reconnected with her burning desire to discuss them.
Unfortunately, my two year old no longer uses such cute phrases as
"Nepal". She has embraced the term "boobies". Today we stopped at the
grocery store. I was holding her and she reached down my shirt. I was
wearing a sports bra since we had just come from the gym. Ladies, as
you know the sports bra does nothing to enhance an already pitiful size
bra cup. So yes, I suppose I was looking unmmm a little prepubescent.
My adorable 2 year old is determined to solve the mystery of the
missing boobies. She announces in her tiny shrill voice, "Where did
your boobies go mommy?" I gently pulled her hand out of my shirt and
told her to not talk about boobies. That was my monumental mistake.
Had I just made something up like...Victoria's secret has the day off,
or the miracle bra is too tired, she would have probably let it go.
Instead she began to literally panic.... "Oh no mommy, your boobies are
missing, go find them mommy." There were several chuckles from the
customers in line. I was mortified. C reached down for another
investigative feel. I yanked her hand out of my shirt, no more Mr. Nice
guy. She began to howl and scream. The cashier asked if she wanted a
"buddy buck" to calm her down. She took a deep breath and took it.
"Here mommy, go buy boobies." Nice...
</div>Domesticaffairshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09484474211824111833noreply@blogger.com3