Technical Difficulties

I suppose it has to happen to everyone at some point,  and now it’s my turn.  My computer has died. 

Well, kind of. 

Let’s just say that it is acting very fickle and whether or not it works seems to depend upon which way the wind is blowing, hence my lack of posts of late.  I’m not on my own computer at the moment, and the one I’m on is slower than molasses in the middle of January, but I wanted to check in to confirm that I am alive and well, just computer-challenged at the moment.

In the meantime, I’ll offer this tidbit about Ginger: now that summer weather is here, she has gone back to wearing her snowsuit to bed.  She also wants to wear – I’m not making this up – her black turtleneck and jeans.   Meanwhile, I can’t find clothing skimpy enough (while still tasteful) to keep me from sweating my body weight times two each day from the heat and humidity.

I’m not sure whether this is an early demonstration of a future proclivity to be contrarian, but I get all hot and sweaty just looking at her. 

Anyway, back to work on salvage whatever information is left on my dying computer. I never realized how much I relied upon that small metal box until confronted with the threat of losing its contents. 

The Devil Got My Eggs

So not only am I a complete failure in the food prep category, apparently I do no better in the food storage department.

Last night I decided to make deviled eggs. To appreciate the significance of this, please understand that I tend to limit myself to dishes that require no more than three ingredients and two steps to prepare. Beyond that, things just get dangerous for me and anyone else who happens to be in the vicinity of the kitchen.

I boiled the eggs, gently removed the yolks, mixed what I presume would be the “devil” part, and delicately dropped spoonfuls of Devil into the Eggs. I then put my lovely creations into a plastic container and placed it in the refrigerator, quite proud of myself.

A few minutes later I opened the refrigerator door, my container fell out, and this was what I was left with:

I am not kidding when I tell you that I am useless in the kitchen. Useless.

The Food Hierarchy According To Ginger

Based upon my observations and many battles with Ginger, I now present to you, my dear readers, the deliciousness of food, in descending order.

1. Food given to Ginger by another mom.
2. Food given to her by another child.
3. Food that she finds while scavenging in the pantry despite my repeatedly yelling at her to stay out of the pantry.
4. Food in her brother’s snack cup.
5. Food that her brother drops on the floor while carrying his snack cup around.
6. Food in her own snack cup.
7. Food that she happens to spot while we are at the grocery store or otherwise running errands.
8. Food that is on GrumpyDaddy’s plate.
9. Food that is on GrumpyMommy’s plate.
10. Food that is purposefully served to her as part of a meal at her own house.

Please note that all 10 of these foods could be the exact same thing (say, some Cheerios) and this ladder of yumminess still applies. No Cheerios that I serve her will ever taste as good as the ones that came from someone else’s mom. This is Toddler Logic at its finest.

Meet My New BFF

Today at the gym, as I was getting dressed after my workout, I spotted something that made my day. Another woman was getting dressed after her workout and was eating a Snickers bar in full view of the rest of us, with zero shame. I love it.

Shouldn’t we all enjoy life like that?

Happy Mother’s Day!

As I type, I can hear Fred on the baby monitor, wide awake and practicing the word “eye” while playing with perhaps the greatest invention ever, the Ocean Wonders Aquarium. Moments like this make all the hassle worth it.

We’re not big on fancy celebrations around here, but GrumpyDaddy is cooking dinner tonight, which will be a nice break.

I wish all the moms out there a wonderful Mother’s Day that hopefully includes some good behavior from the kids!

Motherhood – The Ultimate Weight Loss Plan?

Random thought for the day: I’m not one to obsess about weight, but I don’t understand why I’m not a size 00. Well, aside from the fact that my entire body frame would have to collapse on itself a wee bit in order to make that happen.

But seriously, being at home all day with two toddlers is the world’s best (or worst, depending upon your perspective) workout. I chase these kids around all day long, with one blessed break in the middle of the day while they nap. They used to go to bed around 6 and 7 respectively, but with the longer days, they are usually in bed by 8 or so. Then I plop down on the sofa, check emails, watch TV, and collapse into bed around 10pm. I sleep through every night as though I’d cross-country skiied that day. Plus, I go to a gym 4-5 times a week.

My mother visited this past winter for a few days and commented that she couldn’t believe I weighed an ounce over 98 pounds given the physicality of dealing with young children all day long. Even she, who is physically active (if playing golf, drinking G&Ts, and partying with friends count as “physically active. Lord how I envy retirees living fabulous lives in golfing communities) found the physical nature of the work quite daunting.

Frankly, it’s amazing I haven’t shrunk into nothingness. But I honestly do wonder what on earth I’m eating that’s preventing me from disappearing into (frighteningly) thin air, because I’m basically the same weight I was back when I used to sit behind a desk 10-12 hours a day.

I suppose the constant access to food is an issue. Who can resist a handful (OK, a bowlful) of Kix cereal or raisins every now and then when they are sitting right there? Nevertheless, I have often wondered why it is that I’m not marathon-ready given the physical nature of being a SAHM.

The Importance Of Being Diapered

GrumpyDaddy is a very intelligent man. Really, he is. And I realize that it’s unfair to expect him to know how to handle the two kids as well as I do, simply because I do it all day, every day.

But honestly. Letting a 19-month old run around without a diaper?

Long story short, GrumpyDaddy does me a favor and gives the kids a bath while I clean up after dinner. (Ginger was whining about wanting a bath – apparently the “I hate bathtime and will scream when you try to clean me” phase has come to an end – and I suspect he caved just to get some peace and quiet).

After the bath ended it sounded rather, shall we say, chaotic upstairs, so I trekked up to see what was going on and I find Fred sitting, buck naked, on the rocking chair in his room and I just knew what I was going to find. I walk over, pick him up, and sure enough, there it is: a large wet spot on the chair.

Now GrumpyDaddy half-heartedly insists it was just water that hadn’t been dried off of Fred since getting out of the bath, which of course begs the question why Fred wasn’t dried off when he got out of the tub. GrumpyDaddy said he had to help Ginger who (falsely) claimed to have pooped on the potty and needed to be cleaned.

GM: “So why couldn’t you slap a diaper on Fred before cleaning Ginger?”

GD: “Because I thought she had pooped!”

GM: “So take 10 seconds to put a diaper on Fred and then go clean Ginger.”

GD: “Yeah, but what if poop slid down her leg onto the floor?”

GM: “Um, what? You do realize that toddler poop is like peanut butter, right? Ginger could run a marathon and it’s probably not going to just slide down her leg.”

GD: “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to take that chance.”

So we now have a not-inexpensive rocking chair that has been amply peed-upon. Yet somehow this is preferable to a tiny poop stain on a carpet that is going to be ripped up in the near future anyway.

Somewhere in there is, I suppose, some logic, but as the person who usually sits on the peed-upon chair while reading stories to the kids, I’m not seeing it.