Top 10 Signs You've Been Working at Home Too Long

You know, I thought I'd sit the Friday Funnies out this week. Just not feeling funny. I blame the children. After all, this little corner of the blogosphere is dedicated to droning on and on in mind-bloggling detail about their wonderfulness and silliness and don't-you-just-adore-em-ness. But these two junior contributors haven't provided any stand-out funny material, which leaves us all in a very dangerous place. I have to make stuff up.

But we have to take that risk and hope for the best because:
"Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face." - Victor Hugo

And if there is one thing I need right now, it is to DRIVE OUT WINTER from my face!

So, I present to you, the Top 10 Signs You've Been Working at Home Too Long:

1) On your way out to daycare drop-off, your two year old implores you, "Get D'essed!", and you already are.

2) You can't keep a candy tray full to save your life (or your waistline). And yes, you did single-handedly polish off the dark chocolate peanut M&Ms, and no, you're not going to divulge the timeline in which you did it.

3) If it weren't for conference calls, the laundry would never get folded or put away.

4) What business attire remains in your closet hasn't seen the light of day since the tech bubble burst.

5) And that's probably a good thing. Because even the classic Ann Taylor look doesn't last a whole decade.

6) You try bouncing ideas off the dog. She slides her nose in between her paws and tries not to make eye contact. If she could talk, you can bet she wouldn't waste her words helping you with Powerpoint slides. No indeed, first order of business, "Must tell my master that his wife is a nutjob."

7) You wander out to the mailbox a half dozen times a day, mostly during conference calls (after all the laundry is folded), even though you know the mail doesn't come until 4:00. You most likely do this because you feel frequent and compelling urges to "get out of the house for once", plus five or so times.

8) You think walking to the mailbox constitutes "getting out of the house."

9) You have memorized the dog-walking patterns and timetables for the entire neighborhood.

10) If ever a neighbor is complaining about a mystery dog poo in his yard that some rude dog owner neglected to clean up, you could totally solve the case, based on the dog-walking patterns you've committed to memory, along with forensic analysis of the size and age of the specimen. But you would most certainly outsource the forensic analysis part. After all, you are a consultant first, and a nutjob second. And any consultant worth her weight in dark chocolate peanut M&Ms will suggest that something be "outsourced" at least once a week. This applies whether you work on Wall Street or Wysteria Lane, or some extraordinarily less glamorous location such as the chair by the window where you sit with your laptop with a clear view of the dogs walking by.

Rude dog owners, beware, I'm onto you. Neighbors, you should be afraid too, but for different reasons, such as, there is a nutjob in your neighborhood, and she's home ALL THE TIME. Except for when she wanders out to the mailbox....

Hmmm...winter still on your face? Yeah, mine too. So check out Amber's place for more. I'm gonna head there too, right after I go check to see whether the mail is here yet.


There is Goodness and There is More.

A warning: To my friends in real life--who make up the vast majority of my 12 readers--I am veering way off course today--away from memorable moments and Mylestones. As is obvious from the last half dozen posts, I normally don't tackle the heavy stuff. But tonight, I feel compelled to do so. So to the self-proclaimed atheists and agnostics, to the devout Jews and the bad Catholics, each of whom I know and love, I won't be the slightest bit offended if you want to sit this one out. I trust most of you already know where I stand, and that we agree we don't have to stand in the same place for us to be friends.


At 3 a.m., Caed cried out to me, terrified. He had dreamed he was lost, and upon waking, felt convinced an alligator was loose and lurking in his room. The next morning, we talked about his fears. Like a typical four year old, he was afraid of the outlandish and harmless imaginary things. And he remained naive about the real dangers, as a four year old should be, content to let his parents protect him from the fears he hadn't yet found.

At 7:30 a.m. yesterday, a soldier's wife answered her door, her freshly fatherless child in her arms, her worst fear awakened as she glimpsed the uniform behind the glass.
Several hours later and a few streets over, another woman opened her door to the same nightmare. She would have fallen to the floor, in the very gravity that brought her husband's helicopter down, but for the two small children leaning on her legs, locking their heels with hers, not yet burdened or broken from the knowing.

Nearly five years ago, my best friend answered that same horrifying door. She turned the knob just after her 11-week-old firstborn son had drifted off to sleep. She called us to come, and we wept every inch of the way to the hospital. It took weeks before my head stopped hurting from the crinkling of my brow and the trying not to cry at the office or the grocery store. I thought of my friend without her husband, of the precious little boy without his father, of my husband without his best friend, and I welled up with tears of helplessness and doubt.

The doubt was never about whether God was powerful or in control. It was always about whether He was good. So today, when I heard from my sister about these two friends in her church who lost their husbands in the same day, these families suddenly without fathers, I cried helplessly again about His goodness; and I wondered where it could possibly be.

But this is what I am learning. I am learning that our Heavenly Father protects us from the dangers that are real. He worries over the destruction of our souls, the separation from Him, the eternal dangers that so many of us ignore like naive little children.

But He does not protect us from the living of the bad dreams and from feeling we are lost. He whispers to us through our pain that there is a life beyond the present suffering. He sits silently with us in our anguish--in the nightmares so real and heavy and terrifying, the ones that we cannot escape or blink away. He reminds us that the seemingly endless grief is but a moment that will fade in the vast expanse of the Life to come.

He promises, There is Goodness. There is More. But it is not often in this suffering world that we find it.

Please pray for these two Ft. Drum families, these mothers and their young children, who lost their husbands and fathers yesterday in Iraq. Pray that their Heavenly Father will comfort them and hold them close when they wake up lost and terrified in the night.

Romans 8:38-39: "For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

More articles about these fallen soldiers:


Everyone needs to STOP the Kung-Fu Fighting already

There's a whole lotta venting going on over at The Domestic Fringe, and I just had to chime in, because I cannot resist the opportunity to throw a public fit any more than my children can.

And Cory, if you're reading this, I still love you dearly. It's not you. It's me. It's me, after hearing your card ONE TOO MANY TIMES.

Note to Hallmark:

We have enough blasted things in this world that make noise and require batteries. Please go back to making cards that open to lovely words such as "Here's to you, Great Aunt-in-Law, on your 78th birthday, May you hair always be blue and your dreams always come true."

Please discontinue the cards that upon opening, punch you in the face, pull your finger, or play a 30-second rendition of Kung Fu Fighting.

Note to my dear friend who was so thoughtful to send me a Hallmark Card:
No matter how darling the dog is on the cover, please permanently refrain from the Kung-Fu Springer greeting card variety. I do understand the difficulty in resisting a card featuring our beloved Calliope, clothed as the Karate Kid in all her canine cover girl glory. But did you happen to open the card? Did you not, in fact, hear the part about the cats being fast as lightning? Because I have. I have heard all about the cats, in excruciating repetition. It was more than a little bit frightening.

Note to myself, for future reference:
Did it not occur to you (until now) that you could have just taken the card away from the four year old? You ARE in fact, the one in charge, when last checked. Perhaps you should spend less time whining and more time locating a better hiding place for that darned card, like maybe the trash. This is not the time to get sentimental or to save every piece of personal correspondence that arrives via snail mail. When in doubt, THROW IT OUT.

And finally, a note to the viewers of this video:
I have no explanation for the attire other than to say that if you have no kung-fu outfits of your own, apparently snow pants will do in a pinch. Also note that the spiderman mask is optional, for added mystique.


I'm starting to feel guilty about the baby doll torture, among other things

I hesitate to share this, particularly on the heels of the last post, in which Sheridan demonstrated she is not the nurturing sort. As you've figured out by now, the majority of my material comes from eavesdropping on my children. Kids say the most disturbing, I mean, cutest things, don't they?

This is what I heard:
Sheridan shouting, as she sat in her bed, resisting nap time, "NO, NO, BABY DOLL. OFFF PIMMMITTTS!" (translated "off limits")

This is what I saw:
With one hand, Dani pointed and wagged her fierce finger at the baby doll in the pink swaddle; and with the other, she waved the tortured doll's bottle high above her head. Then, satisfied that the water baby had been appropriately chastised, she popped the bottle in her own mouth like a pacifer and smirked as the spittin' image of Dr. Evil.

And this is what I learned:

1) She actually DOES hear me when I say "off limits" and knows precisely what it means.

2) She is lording power over her baby doll because she feels the need to be large and in charge.

3) She has heard me shriek "off limits" about the Baileys, or coffee, or both in my cup, perhaps one too many times.

4) I might drink too much Baileys. Or coffee. Or both.

5) I most certainly shout too much.

6) She can do a wicked awesome Dr. Evil impression, even with a bottle in her mouth.

7) She is more like me than I care to admit, except way cuter and way younger. And when she yells at her baby doll, I laugh only a little before the guilt sets in. Then I remind myself that I've never tried to put her in the fridge or the oven or any other kitchen appliance, for that matter, and I again feel smug about how I am indeed a better mother than my two year old would be.

And just to show that the parental modeling goes both ways, I do have a positive little diddy to share. In the car this morning, Sheridan said "I wuv you, Caed". (This alone is a victory, as we've been trying to get her to substitute those very words for the barrage of "no no no" that she usually says to Caed. All. Day. Long.)

In response to this rare moment of triumph, Caed brought his hands to his cheeks and with sparkling, smiling eyes, he gushed, "Oh, did you hear that, Mom! What a sweetheart her is!"

That too was an echo of what I often say, except I usually get my pronouns right. Yes indeed, because not only am I a better mother than my two year old, I speak with better grammar than my four year old. I am truly all that and more.

So what have your kiddos done or said lately that was the spittin' image of you or your words, or perhaps of Dr. Evil? I'd love to hear about it--the good, the bad, and the ugly!


I swear she didn't learn this from me

In her defense, the only reason this imaginative-play infant is getting shoved into the oven is because Dani couldn't get her to fit in the fridge. I am debating whether to get the Fisher Price Child Protective Services involved?


I'll give you the shiny moon

In countless mornings of motherhood, I wake up in a frozen fog.  If I could open my eyes wide enough to look out the window, I'd frequently find the literal patches of these ground-gracing clouds outside, brushing and blurring the horizon.  But it's the figurative fog that finds me every morning, rain or shine, and circles round my head like a vulture on those poor little brain cells that didn't make it through the night.   

Maybe I'm foggy and groggy because I stayed up too late, or the children took turns needing me all night, or we started our day before night had officially concluded, or all of the above.  You might be thinking, "Sheesh, for someone who can't think straight, you sure think up a lot of reasons why you can't think straight."  
That very thought crossed my mind too; then it veered off to the left and got lost.

This morning, still stuck in the can't-see-my-hand-in-front-of-my-face brain cloud,  I overheard this exchange:

C: "Oh, would you just LOOK at that moon.  It is soooo shiny!  Dani, you gotta come see this.  See that there, up in the sky?  Yes, that's it, baby girl, that's the moooon!"

D: "Da mooon? Mommy, I see da moooon!"

C: "Yeah, and this morning it is just so shiny I can barely believe it."

And that, my friends, was all the sunshine it took to burn straight through my frozen fog.  Right then and there I would have promised them the moon.  A really shiny one that they could barely believe.


Tales from the Snow Plow Mound

Why drive across town to the sledding hill when you have a perfectly good snow plow mound right in your very own front yard?

Besides, this way, the dog can participate too. And yes, it is possible that at least one animal was harmed in the making of this video, but only because said animal can't seem to keep her wagging tush away from the center of the action.

I have to confess I was a complete grumpy-snow-pants leading up to and during the donning of the extra ten pounds of outerwear. But my first face-plant (while attempting to demonstrate to Caed how to go down the snow plow mound head first) knocked some happy into me, and the little guy and I couldn't stop cackling.

You've heard of Milk Mustache, but have you ever seen Snow Gotee?

And finally, I'm serving up some hot cocoa (or a peppermint mocha, if that's your hot drink happy place) to the commenter with the best caption for this photo:


Note to self: No more driving with Guinness

I just had a near-ditch experience.  

I was driving along in a snowstorm with Guinness on my lap, minding my own business.  Normally, I would use a cup holder for Guinness.  But despite the fact he's a miniature Dachshund, the squeeze was just too tight. 

The roads had not been plowed AT ALL because apparently my town's department of public works believes that Sunday should be a day of rest.  Or maybe the Patriots game was on.  

It would have been fine had Guinness stayed put.  But instead, he used my lap as a springboard for exploration from the window, to the steering wheel, to the cup holders, to the other window, and back.  You should've seen that poor dog's face when he accidentally rolled the driver's side window down.  So I'm sputtering down my friend's street, to the destination where Guinness was to be safely deposited, laughing so hard I can barely see. Oh, and it's snowing like mad.  And the road is covered halfway up to the mailboxes with the white stuff.  And there is a dog doing circus tricks in the front seat.    

It's a doggone miracle we didn't end up in the ditch!


And he is s'posed to be the gentle one

Let me start by saying that Caed is not my problem child. He is not the child who was bitten at nursery school three times in the past two weeks, and he is not the child who totally had it coming (i.e. body checking various infants and toddlers who dared make a play for the Little Tykes slide). Sure, on occasion, he has been known to feign violence in order to protect his little sister, but all in all, he's the gentle one.

So when I picked him up after Sunday school this past week, it didn't even occur to me ask his teacher how he did. He always does great. He's wonderful. Such a good listener. Such a kind spirit.

After collecting my model citizen, I loitered outside the classroom for a few minutes, catching up with another mom while the kids hunted for their outerwear. I can always count on a missing jacket, hat, mitten or boot to buy me some chat time with the other grown-ups. It's one of the perks of living within driving distance of the Arctic.

Before the last mitten was located, my friend (who doubled as Caed's teacher that morning) joined the conversation. As she turned toward me, I noticed a whopping shiner underneath her right eye that seemed to be growing puffier by the second, framed by symmetrical red scrapes that might be attributed to a visit from Zorro's mini-me.

"Oh my, what happened?" I exclaimed, ready to insert a cheeky comment about Fight Club, and how maybe she couldn't talk about it.

(my jaw started to drop)
(my mouth now wide open)
(my eyes covered in horror).

Thankfully, there was more to the sentence,
"...with a toy. It was completely an accident. He was so sweet and apologetic. It's really okay."

Caed was standing near me now, and overheard my friend explaining the mishap. My sense of relief that he had not purposely smacked around his Sunday school teacher was short-lived, as he quickly piped in, "Yes, it was an accident, but guess what, I can knock my Daddy out FOR REAL. And Mommy can beat Daddy too."

He neglected to mention that he was talking about Wii boxing.

Thankfully, my friends are full of grace and haven't yet disavowed me on the grounds that I birthed a child with a brow-raising enthusiasm for beating up grown-ups.

Looking for more to laugh about? If so, check out the latest links on Friday Funnies at The Run-a-Muck.


America's Next Top (Shoe) Model

This is precisely why my mud room is always a mess.  The girl's got some mad modeling aspirations, at least as it pertains to footwear.  Thus, she spends every waking moment and shoe perfecting her strut.  I have to hand it to her, she's awfully even-footed considering she's modeling the "reversed boot" look.  


I'm a sore loser

And not even Little Debbie can comfort me now.  The official results are in from the Haiku contest at Rocks in my Dryer.  And I am not the winner, which technically makes me a loser. 

I made the mistake of telling Caed about the contest--specifically that I would win a box of "special treats" if I garnered the most votes.  Not one to forget anything, ever, he asked me today if I won enough "botes".  After surmising that he was referring to the contest and not randomly inquiring about sea-faring vessels, I answered his question.  

"Nope, Mommy didn't win this one."  

And within seconds, he was whining about how he really wanted a special treat, and not the kind that I get at the store, the kind he's NEVER HAD BEFORE.  

To which I quickly replied, "That's okay, maybe we'll treat ourselves to a box of Little Debbie's from the store!"  And I was genuinely enthusiastic about it too.  Because that was my plan all along if I didn't win.

But Caed kept whining,  "Oh, man, I am so bitter!  I wanted them to come to our house.  The store is sooo far away, and it's gonna take too long."  (It's fitting to note here that he has added "I'm so bitter" and "This is freaking me out" to his regular vocabulary.  Can't imagine where he picked that up.)

So that's the loser part.  Now for the sore part.

Last night I tried out some more poses on Wii Fit yoga.  (Are they called poses?  Maybe it's positions? Or perches?)  Anyway, being the former gymnast and current semi-exercise enthusiast that I am, the whole time I'm deep breathing, I'm thinking, "C'mon this is so lame.  I don't feel a burn.  This is doing nothing for me."  Then I did a bunch of cardio in hopes of unlocking some more exercises, but it only gave me more lame yoga stuff.   So I ran a few miles on the treadmill (thank you, Jack Bauer, for inspiring me to "do whatever it takes" in that last mile), and called it a night.

Then I woke up this morning.  And I was sore.  Not running muscles sore.  YOGA sore.  As Napoleon Dynamite would say, "ooohh BURRN."

To the Wii Fit users out there, I know of at least one sore loser that could use some encouragement.  What are your favorite exercises (the ones you enjoy, the ones that give you a good workout)?  Does it get to be easier (and more fun) as you unlock more stuff?  Will I ever make peace with the Yoga lady?


Dani's got a brand new bed

Her joy is incontainable. My girl is unrestrainable.

No longer behind bars at night, this freebird has officially traded her crib for a bed, and A BIG GIRL bed at that.

I had resolved to keep her in the crib until she exceeded the legal weight limit or started using the rails to hoist herself up onto the ceiling fan for some early morning Cirque de Soliel training.

But in a moment of weakness, I simply acquiesced to her darling request two nights ago, "No s'eep in c'ib. S'eep in Dani's bed, p'ease." Had she pronounced all of her "L"s, I might not have been such a goner. But she said "p'ease". So what can a mother do, especially one still wrought with guilt over the great pacifier deception?

So far, it's been a fairly uneventful transition. I haven't (yet) awoken to the sound of the toilet overflowing and the sight of every last wash cloth shoved into the toilet bowl. And none of my hair products have been emptied and turned into construction materials for a texturized and volumized path of destruction throughout the bathroom. Well, at least not in the middle of the night.

And speaking of hair products, Sheridan styled her hair this morning. Ironically, she used the detangler spray to tease her lovely locks. Hey Dani, Cyndi Lauper called. She wants her hair back. Um, wait, no, she doesn't? She said you can keep it. Because we all know Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. Time after Time.

But now that you're in a big girl bed, how about we keep the crazy mischief confined to the waking hours? P'ease?


Bells on Popcorn Ring

I'm making a list, but we're not going to be checking it twice.  Because if we did, we'd discover that we've got it all wrong.  It's not that we forgot the lyrics so much as we never knew them to begin with. 

1. Bells on popcorn ring, making spirits bright.  
Original: Bells on bob tails ring, from Jingle Bells
Contributor: Caed, 4 yrs old, who had the sense to at least ask me today how they could get the bells to stay on the popcorn.

2. We milk this city on Rock and Roll 
Original: We built this city on Rock and Roll, by Starship
Contributor: My SIL Betsy, when she was 8 yrs old. (Sorry, Bets, but it's too funny not to share).

3. Round young fur chin. 
Original: Round yon virgin, mother and child, from Silent Night.
Contributor: Me, when I was in elementary school.  I remember thinking, "what's a fur chin, is that like a beard?"  

And speaking of Silent Night, I can't resist sharing this discourse that went on between my niece and her mom during the holiday season:
"Mom, what's a virgin?"
"Um, it's, uh, a lady that's not married."
"No, there's gotta be more to it than that.  Otherwise our sunday school teacher wouldn't have told us to ask our parents."

Anybody else have some mixed up lyrics to share?  

And if you want more funny stuff, check out the Run-a-Muck for the latest links on Funny Fridays.


My 17 Syllables of Fame

The last time I entered a poetry contest, I was 18, and in search of a scholarship prize of $500.  I didn't win anything, except the opportunity to spend $75 on a poetry anthology that had the literary ambience of an encyclopedia.  Suffice it to say, I didn't splurge on a copy of my "published work".  Because even at 18, I was wise enough to know that if I ever needed a makeshift booster seat, I could get a phone book for free.

Fast forward many years and subtract about ten inches of height from my bangs, and I find myself engaging again in competitive iambic pentameter.  Only this time, the contest prizes include mommy gear and Little Debbies.  And nothing motivates me like an Oatmeal Cream Pie.   

Anyway, much to my surprise, my haiku about New Year's Resolutions is one of 5 finalists, and voting is going on all weekend at Rocks in my Dryer to choose the winner.   You decide, America.   And if any of you guys want to share in the loot, Little Debbies included, I suggest you get on over there and Rock the Vote.  But only if you are going to vote for this one:

Treasure fleeting hours
While little feet run the halls.
Toss the to-do list.


Blame it on the babies

I'm not sure how old a gal has to be before it becomes unacceptable to post her weight on the internet. But I'm going to go out on a limb and say Sheridan won't be offended if I share her 2 year old stats. At her appointment yesterday, she weighed in at 28 pounds and is 34 inches tall. I am also pleased to report that there was a recent sighting of her knees, just beginning to emerge from the shadows of her pudgy thighs.

I laughed when the pediatrician asked me if she puts words together. Yes, in fact, she has actually taken over writing the blog. And she has a novel coming out in the spring, entitled, "Where have all the paci's gone?"

Which brings me to my next developmental tidbit. I took her pacifiers all away, again. This is the third time, and there is nothing charming about it. Each time I've started the pacifier detox, we've run into an obstacle--like an ear infection, or traveling, or as was the case yesterday during nap, a conference call. I just needed her to stay in her crib a little bit longer, and a little bit more quietly. I knew I would pay later.

So this afternoon, I took my crutch away. The binkys have been trashed, and there is no going back. Ever since round two of the pacifier removal, I have been telling Dani that she is a big girl, and so we gave all her pacifiers away to the babies. Luckily, her deductive reasoning is not quite developed enough to have caught me in the lie. (So if we gave the pacis to the babies three days ago, how did one suddenly reappear in my crib during naptime when mom came up to "shoosh" me?)

Tonight as we were getting ready for bed, she randomly quipped, "Babies took Dani's pacis away. No, NO babies." That's right, Dani, keep blaming it on the babies. Because your mother had absolutely NOTHING to do with it.


A not-so-little birdy told me

This morning a sea gull flirted with the boundaries of my snow-laden lawn, and then thought better of it. Birdbrained though he may be, he was wise enough to realize that no good can come from a daybreak encounter with a springer spaniel. At least not for a sea gull.

With 17 degree weather and a sun that sets before the early bird specials even start in a Boca Raton restaurant, I suppose I got lost in the winter of it all and forgot that the Atlantic is but a mile away as a bird flies. It took a fly-by from a diehard down-eastern sea gull to return the ocean to its rightful place in my mental map.

And that got me thinking. (Oh no, here we go....).

I so easily lose sight of the vast and powerful and important things in my life, until an inconsequential fluttering of wings startles me back into perspective. It takes a rampant stomach virus to impress upon me the amazing blessing of health (and the glory of Oxyclean). It takes a few tough nights of single parenthood while Larry is on call to make me immensely grateful that he is here with us, even if only in fleeting moments. Because what precious moments they are. And it takes a scary piece of news or an absence of all certainty about the future to bring me back to my knees in search of the Peace that passes all understanding. Yes, the most important things, I so often forget them. Until a not-so-little birdy flies by with a reminder.


Light-Housekeeping Items

First, I feel I should clarify that we do not, in fact, live at the Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth. One of my dear friends (who incidentally lives in Istanbul and therefore hasn't had the chance to visit us in Maine) thought that perhaps the picture in the blog header was us walking off into the sunset in the shadows of our coastal dream house. Sorry to disappoint, but the rocky coast is not crashing about in our backyard. We just have a swingset and some overgrown shrubbery. It's probably for the better, as it lowers the risk of the kids and/or dog wandering off to sea when I turn my head for a second.

The other little tidbit I have to confess is that I am "back-blogging." And what a big backblog it is. I realize I am now banned from saying "I don't have time to... (fill in the blank)...because I'm so busy with work and the kids." Anyone who has time to methodically migrate one hundred old blog posts to a new site, for no reason other than OCD, cannot complain about there "not being enough time in the day." It's okay though, because there are still plenty of other things I'm allowed to complain about. And as soon as I'm done back-blogging (might be years), I can start in again about how I barely have time to brush my teeth.


Happy New Year!


It turns out I was wrong

The grandparents DO like it when you blog on and on about barf. In fact, I just received an email from Nana wondering when I was going to post “part 3” of my “gift that kept on giving” series. I can always tell my mom is feeling better when she returns from her cyberspace hiatus to inquire about the status of our digestive tracts.
So here’s the scoop. The boys eventually got it too. Caed was a trooper and bounced back quickly. Larry survived as well and is already back at work (although he probably could use another week of sleep to fully recover). And I no longer live in dread of waking up to the sound of gagging in the night or hosting another all-night vigil by the washing machine. Because everyone in my household has been there, done that, and then some. And we are so over it!


Jimmy Choo ain't got nothing on Buster Brown

Nothing says “trend setter” like a poofy corduroy dress and some scuffed, bulbous Buster Brown shoes, four sizes too big, sans socks. You laugh, but seriously, raise your hand if you have ever worn crocs? Or let your kids wear them daily with everything from sweatpants to sundresses? Yeah, I thought so. So you know firsthand that it doesn’t have to look pretty to be cool.
Mark my words, this is the new look for 2009. Better run to Goodwill before all of the toddler sizes fly off the shelves. You just can’t go back to preschool this winter without a pair!

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