Tunnel Of Terror

The girls love going through the car wash. LOVE.  


Not sure why I'd ever spend the money to take them to Disney World. Ten bucks buys them ten minutes of real good fun. They bounce through the car, giggling and ducking from the sprayers.

They really find this thrilling. Not sure they could even handle the excitement of Disney World - their little heads might explode.

Turns out yesterday, it was my head that nearly exploded in what will henceforth be known as the Tunnel of Terror.

I drove in and Cameron and Hadley unbuckled and took their position by the window. As Hadley plowed herself over the seat, she knocked Cameron's Gatorade with her knee and it went flying through the van. 

Cameron proceeded to cry about her empty bottle while Hadley screamed that it wasn't her fault. I could've washed the van myself with all the tears that were flowing.

I tried to distract them by pointing out the colored soap, but by this time they were too busy fighting.

Cameron decided to escape her sister's screaming by climbing on my lap. In the process she stepped on my ipod, which was laying on the console and cracked the case. Now I was angry. I sent them back to their seats and told them to get buckled. 

All the while.....well, poor Jack. 

Poor poor Jack was terrified of the car wash. Every time a nozzle swung his way, he'd scream and cover his face. I tried to calm him down, but my efforts were worthless. I'm not sure he could even hear my voice over his sister's sobs. So, I did what any good mom would do - I snapped a picture.

We pulled away with the outside of the swagger wagon looking nice and new. The inside however was filled with tears, screams, broken electronics, and gatorade.


Hope that clear coat wax lasts a good long while.....I wouldn't drive back through that nightmare if it was free.

Show and Fail

This morning, Cameron got up and started readying her Barbie for Show and Tell. Barbie needed a nice outfit, her hair combed and two matching shoes. Cameron was having trouble with the shoes - Barbie lost her shoes two minutes after being sprung from the box. 


I gently broke the news that it wasn't Show and Tell day; However, I promised her that I would find out when her next Show and Tell would be.


When I picked her up, as promised, I inquired about Show and Tell. Her teacher responded by grabbing a giant dagger and stabbing it in my gut. Today was Show and Tell, and Cameron was the only child not to bring something to share with the class.


Wow. I felt bad. Really bad. Really Really Really bad. How had I missed this? Her teacher informed me that it had been in the newsletter AND placed on the school calendar. Hmmm - really?


Middle Child Syndrome? I get it now. 


Cameron, I extend to you my apologies, and I promise to do better. I promise not to let you fall through the cracks. I promise to not take your infinite patience and easy-going personality for granted. I promise to give you the best of my attention and if all else fails,  I promise to find you the most gifted therapist money can buy. 

Jack goes for a swim...

I'm pretty sure I could rename this blog "While at Wal-Mart..." All of my action seems to happen while on the premises of the superstore. I'm pretty sure this speaks volumes about how awesome my life is.


Anyways, while at Wal-Mart, Cameron had to go to the bathroom. I would rather take my chances squatting in a patch of poison ivy than use the facilities at Wal-Mart, but Cameron was insisting that this was, indeed, a potty emergency.


So, I left my cart outside the bathroom and walked her inside while holding Jack. I was also holding my breath.


After she used the facilities, she required some assistance (aka her ass wiped) so I set Jack down. While my back was turned, he toddled into the next stall and proceeded to give himself a bath in the toilet.


I'm pretty sure Jack was more harmed by his mother's reaction (which included shrieks worthy of any slasher flick) than by the germs in his kiddie pool. I was horrified, however, there was nothing that could be done. I took him to the sink and scrubbed him with soap and water until he was sterile enough for surgery.


Had this happened to my first child, I would have taken her to the ER, insisted she be admitted overnight for observation and then taken myself to the hospital chapel to pray. So in comparison, a little shrieking and scrubbing seemed like a perfectly acceptable and tame reaction.


A few months ago, I published a post about ridiculous products that parents get suckered into buying, which included this contraption:

I would like to extend my apologizes to the makers of whatever this called. Had I purchased this product, Jack would not be on the verge of developing Typhoid Fever. 


On the bright side, if he does survive this, he might just have the immune system of a super hero. I'll let you know how he fares this winter. If he does well, you can all take your children swimming in the stalls. 

No My Pet Didn't Die. I Got A Hair Cut.

Everyone tells me not to do it but I never listen. My friends politely try to talk me out of it. My husband just flat out calls me crazy, but I do it anyways.

Every two years or so, I walk into the salon and have them lop off all of my hair. This time I had nine inches cut off. On the bright side, my hair was donated and will be made into a wig for someone with cancer. However, I now look like a mushroom. Stupid fungus. I look like a fungus. 

Looks like road kill.

The stylist did a great job. She did exactly what I asked for. I love her and the salon. The problem is my hair or perhaps my lack of styling finesse. It looked cute in the shop. It looked cute when she did it.  However, when left to my own devices, I have myself looking like a damn Chia Pet. 

Sobbing to my friends on the phone leaves them alarmed - "What Abbie? What? What happened to your pet?"

This happens everytime I cut my hair. So why? Why do I keep doing it?

I guess I'm just hopeful. Hopeful that one day I'll get it right. Hopeful that one day my haircut will be great or at the very least steer clear of the fungi-family.

Cha-Cha-Cha Chia.  Hmm - Maybe I should try bangs.
Bangs are ALWAYS such a good idea.

I've seen too many chick-flicks

While in New Orleans, Justin and I celebrated our 8th wedding anniversary. To mark the occasion, we planned dinner at a restaurant where we'd have to fancy ourselves up a bit. 

Well, that plan fell through when I realized that I had forgotten to pack my spanx. The dress I had packed was incredibly unforgiving, and I needed that spanx to hold me together. Without it, I'd walk one direction, and one would surely see my fat flying in another. Flying fat isn't exactly what I had in mind for our anniversary so I frantically dug through my suitcase trying to make another outfit work. 


Justin was getting irritated waiting on me. However, he was on his best behavior as not to pick a fight. He eventually tired of holding his tongue and told me he'd wait in the lobby. I was to meet him when I was ready.


After a few more minutes, I put together some horribly wrinkled catastrophically bad outfit and called it good.


While headed to the lobby, I thought, "This could totally be a Pretty Woman moment."


Remember? Richard Gere standing in the lobby with the the necklace....Julia Roberts wearing the red dress he had bought her.... 


Well, maybe I'd come into the lobby, and Justin would be standing there with a gown and whisk me off to the most romantic restaurant in the city.


Ummmm.....No such luck. I found him outside with a beer in a paper bag.


What??? This is NOT what Richard Gere would do! This was more like Homer Simpson...


Doh!

The Kids Made Me Fat

I was working on my blog when Hadley came up and read out loud:
"The...Kids...Made...Me...Fat."


Uh-Oh. She's literate.


"What???" she questioned. I could tell she was slightly appalled.


"Its funny." I explained. "Its kinds of like a joke."


"I didn't do it." she said.  "You made yourself fat."


My mouth dropped - yet she continued, "And....you did it to yourself three times."


My 6-year-old just called me out on my bulls*it. I love her.