The Land of Misfit Mommies

You know that claymation series that's always on at Christmas? I can't remember if it's "Rudolph" or "Santa Clause Is Coming To Town." Any-who, in one of those movies there's a land called The Land Of Misfit Toys where all broken and unwanted toys go to be together with their shared defects. In real life, it's called Target. I refer to it as The Land Of Misfit Mommies. On any given weekday morning at Target, you'll find on average 30 mothers walking around in their baseball caps and sweats with JUICY written on the butt, with their babies and toddlers in tow.

I laugh at this every single time I go. There's not one single man in the store who isn't an employee. It's just a bunch of us moms, nodding at each other in acknowledgement of one another with a silent understanding that we know exactly what the other is going through, because we too have a toddler with us who is crying for an ICEE, or a baby who isn't at all thrilled with being belted into the cart. Like myself, these mommies appreciate The Dollar Spot for allowing us to buy our kids a "treat" without actually spending more than a dollar (a win/win for everyone). Once a week I make this trip to Tar-Shay to buy nothing in particular, but to seek out other misfits like myself. Those who, like me, have dolled their kids up in Gymboree outfits but didn't have time to pluck those hairs poking through between their eyes. Or spent 20 minutes combing their little girl's hair, but have half hazardly thrown theirs up in a pony tail. We shop.... in solidarity. We shop.... as sisters.

To my fellow Target mommies, I salute you! See ya next week.

VIDEO of my kiddies and husband dancing. Love them.

The fish isn't dead, it's sleeping.

This picture is of Taylor holding jars of
caterpillars.
We're waiting for them to turn into butterflies. Totally unrelated to my post, unless they die and leave me answering even more questions.



When I was about 9, I went to church with my best friend in elementary school, Brennan Kelly. She was Catholic,....or Christian...., something to that effect anyway. And whenever I spent the night at her house, I'd tag along to their church the next day. I was fine with it, for the most part. They met in a beautiful church, with nice enough people, and for what I can recall it was all very typical as far as religion goes. Nothing crazy. No offering up of goats or anything of that sort, (although that would've livened things up a bit). So I was comfortable there. And when they'd pass around the sacrament, I'd take it. A piece of bread...don't mind if I do. A drink of juice in a little cup.....don't mind if I do. And that was that. Then one weekend I mentioned all this to my Nanny, a wonderful woman who was raised Catholic and would tell me horror stories about nuns with rulers. To my dismay, she informed me that the sacrament was the body of Jesus. Mind you, she neglected to mention that it was only symbolically the body of Jesus. Strike one. She also said the juice or wine, was the blood of Jesus. Again, neglecting any mention of symbolism here. Strike two. And just to make sure that I was scared completely out of my 9 year old mind, she said it was very important that your teeth don't touch the bread because that would be a sin. Strike three. I don't know if she could see the look of utter horror on my face but deep down, I was a mess! Not only could I NOT figure out how the church could pass the sacrament Sunday after Sunday without running out of, what I assumed was the actual Christ, but also WHY on earth would they do such a thing and not tell me what I was putting in my mouth! And then the kicker was the amount of complete guilt I felt for chomping on the bread like it was toast. Guilt. At 9. So poor little Nikki, prayed and prayed for forgiveness that God wouldn't be mad at her......And never again slept over at Brennan Kelly's house on a Saturday night.



I only make mention of this because being 3, Taylor has a whole brain full of questions, some of which are about God and what happens after you die. It doesn't help when family pets (Molly, Gidget, and our fish Dorothy) have all gone to pet Heaven in the last year. Our fish went first, and I slyly flushed him and removed the bowl before she even batted an eye. Molly, my aunt's cat who had about 20 lives instead of 9, was second to go. When Tay asked to see her, I think we said that Molly "went away". I don't think we elaborated much. But when Gidget passed, my mom's dog, it was a little harder to hide the evidence. She flat out asked me, "Where did Gidget go?" I answered as best I could, remembering the promise I made to myself NOT to lie about such things, or to tell her anything I didn't 100% believe in myself."She died honey. She went to Heaven to live with Heavenly Father. She's not in any pain and I think she's very happy now. She gets to play all day long and gets lots of snuggles." Case closed. End of discussion. "But where's Heaven?" Crap. "Um...Well, we can't see it. It's a wonderful place where everyone is very happy. It's up in the sky. You can talk to Gidget if you want, just like when you pray to Heavenly Father, and Gidget can hear you. You can tell her you love her if you need to." O.k., so I stretched a bit with the "up in the sky" part, but I do believe in the rest of it. And that's important to me. If there comes a time when I don't have the answer, or don't feel a strong conviction that my answer's correct, I've always told myself that I'll be honest with my kids and let them know that I'm clueless. This may happen more often than not. Poor them.



Classic Taylor Quotes:

Taylor: Why does Jesus cry?
Me: Huh?
Taylor: WHY does he cry?
Me: Not sure I follow.
Taylor: UGH!! We always say Jesus Cries. In da name of Jesus Cries. Why's he crying?
Me: .................................His name is Jesus Christ. Ta. Chris-Ta.
Taylor: Ohhhhh. O.k.




A typical Taylor prayer:

Dear Harry Fawder,
Tank you for dis day. For all da food. That we're healthy and not sick. Tank you for Daddy, and Mommy. (Wes:And Corinne.) And for da food.....(Wes: And Corinne.) And for we can all be happy (Wes: And Corinne.) And for da food (Wes:Say Corinne.).........And Corinne. In da name of Jesus Cries, Amen.

Totally unrelated Corinne update:

At 14 months, Corinne lights up a room with her sunny disposition. She can jump, kind of, and she says it as she does it. She climbs on everything. She loves to run and chase Tay. She can say wow, Tay Tay, Grandpa, Ma Ma, Da Da, Doggy, no, Tada!, Na Na, Grandma, and she can moo like a cow and cackle like a chicken on command. She also points at everything and say, "What's dat?" Not to mention burp on command, thanks to Nana. A skill every 1 year old should have, I think. She also loves Baby Einstein and can sign all done,more and milk. And she dances like a maniac whenever she hears music. She just melts my heart every day.

Dressed up as Minnies for our friend's Disney birthday party. I'm rockin' the Mickey Mouse overalls.














Sharing lollipops at CA Adventure. I took them by myself, and survived.

Focus!!

When I was younger, I took dance class. O.k., that's an understatement. I pretty much lived in the studio. I started off like any normal kid taking two classes a week and it all sort of snowballed into being there everyday on a full scholarship from Patsy Swayze, who saw how much being there meant to me. Looking back, nobody every pushed me into it. I found the dance studio in the phone book. I bugged my mom to register me. I got myself motivated for class and I pushed myself until I was actually really good. I don't bring this up to toot my own horn. I only mention it because Taylor, at the ripe old age of 3, is a dance class drop out. (Sniffle, Sniffle.) At first she loved it! She'd spin and laugh, and have a jolly ol' time. And then the teacher decided to change class rooms every so often. Well Ms. Tay's not one for change, let me tell you. It threw her for a loop. And all in all, she just didn't seem to like it anymore. I won't lie. I was a wee bit sad that I might never see my baby as the Sugar Plum Fairy. But not wanting to be a pushy stage-mom, I stopped taking her once she announced she didn't like it.

On to the next adventure! She pointed to a picture of a girl on the balance beam and said, "I want to do nastics." That's gymnastics, for those of you who don't speak toddler. So we've been going to nastics class every Thursday and she really enjoys it. It's running, jumping, balancing, and just having a lot of fun. And it's SO much fun to watch her enjoy herself. It's what I truly live for. I don't care if she grows up to be an underwater basket weaver, as long as she's happy.

I sit there and watch her, sometimes my dad comes along, and we cheer at every little thing the kid does. If she does a front roll, we cheer. If she gets across the balance beam, or even if she doesn't, we cheer. We'd cheer for just about anything. And for the most part, the other parents do too. But parenting is a funny thing. There are some parents who scold from the stands, yelling at their kid to, "Pay attention!" Some even threaten time-outs if their kids don't "Focus!" Taylor's three. There's not a lot of focusing going on. But that's o.k.! And I have to remind myself of that when she tells me, "I don't want to flip upside down today. And I'm afraid to swing from the rope." When I get a little frustrated with her, I try to remember how my parents were with me and back off entirely. And to stifle that little, tiny part of me that's disappointed,(and I cringe with embarrassment as I type that.) Not disappointed in her, by any means. Just a little bummed that she's lacking in confidence to do anything! Even if it's the confidence to flip upside down, because really, who cares? That's not exactly a skill she'll apply to her adult life. At least, not to any career you'd hope for your child to have.=) I'm proud of the girl no matter what she does, and I'm thankful I had parents who felt the same.

video

"Your co-pay will be $10, mam."

I'm writing to you, my faithful readers, from my own personal hell. I used to think hell was full of fire, brimstone, the devil, Hitler, etc. But now I think if you're damned after this life, it'll be to take care of sick children for all eternity while feeling sick yourself. That my friends, would scare me to tears. Because in the past 5 days I've been barfed on more times than I care to count. I've cleaned up more fecal matter than a farmer and I've had as much sleep as I did with a newborn. I've had to permanently traumatize Taylor by forcing her to swallow Motrin while Wes was holding her arms down, because with a 103.5 fever we had no other choice. And for some odd reason, when Corinne takes Motrin it's like the kid has had an energy drink or crack cocaine. She takes off babbling and running around the house, or rolling around on Taylor at 2 in the morning with energy that stems from who knows where. The Dr., who will retire in Jamaica with all the money I've paid in co-pays the last 3 months, said they both have some sort of chest thingy. Could be RSV, bronchitis, just something icky in their chests making them bark like seals at night and feel miserable during the day. And to add insult to injury, yours truly has contracted the ickiness as well. Thankfully, I have a mom and step-dad who volunteered to watch the little kidlets for the night so I can catch up on some sleep and recuperate myself. I've been reassured that I'll look back on this one day and laugh.