You say it's your Birthday?

I love a good birthday. It doesn't even really need to be mine for me to enjoy it. In my pre-parenting days, if it was your birthday, I would probably tell you it was my birthday too, just so I could be part of the fun.  (To the ztaff at the Gull Lake Zorbaz, May 26th is my actual birthday. I would however like to thank you for all the free birthday drinks you served me in July, October, January and March from 1999 to 2006.)

I still love a good birthday party, but celebrating today looks a lot different than it did five little years ago. The highlights today were: waking up with two crazy little girls giggling and jumping on my bed/head, getting to talk to other adults while my babies ran around the park and coming home to find 60! birthday greetings on my facebook page. OH! AND the house was clean. The day's not even half way over and I can already tell you that the best present was when Rylee told me she was going to put herself to bed for naptime.  It really does feel like God is smiling down on me.

Speaking of presents....Maggie got a package in the mail today for her birthday, and I am glad she is napping so I get a chance to play with them:  Tickle Monster Gloves -

Anyway, to all of you who let me jump on the bandwagon when it was your special day

(which is likely every single person reading this, whether you knew it or not)

Happy Birthday to Us.

Now where's the cake?



A Letter to My Little Ladies

Dear Rylee and Maggie,

This morning I realized that "molding" you two into extraordinary women looks a lot less like a Cotton commercial and more like a recording of the following phrases:

No
Get Down From There
I SAID NO
Stop that right now
That's a good way to get hurt
No more jumping off the tables
Yes, that was funny, but I don't think it's a good idea
Come here this instant
Put the knife down
Put your clothes back on
Put your clothes back on
Put your clothes back on
At least put some shorts on
Come here
In a minute, not yet....

If there is one thing I can teach you other than to not hit each other, it's this.  Should you ever find yourself at a karaoke bar and someone says "Let's streak!"  Don't do it. Even if you are young and have the body to...just don't. People don't forget that kind of thing.  Even 16 years later.

Sincerely,
Your very conservative and modest Momma

Birthday Girl

Someone had a birthday this weekend.

No. Not this one.

  



The wee one on the right turned TWO!

This is the look she gave me when I broke the news that none of the presents were for her.

It was a good time.

We are Cake Eaters.



TPNHL

It's TPNHL Night.

That's right. 

Tracy Peterson Nikki Handeland League Night.

For those of you who don't know Tracy Peterson...she's my BFF.

We call it "league night" when we hang out.

I am going to clean in preparation. Not because she will think less of me if my house is dirty.

No no.

She'll likely not even notice the piles in the sink.

Or the unsuccessful dinner dish.

She'd probably just step right over the empty laundry basket sitting next to a wet pile of dirty clothes.

It won't even cross her mind that things that belong on my desk, coupled with things that belong in the bathroom, are under a pile of recycling on the kitchen counter.

This little gem. Nope, she probably won't even see it.

And if she did see it, she wouldn't judge.

And that's reason number 895 that she's my BFF.



Road Rage

This is how it happened this morning.

There is really only one way out of our development. When you leave, if you want to drive North (like I do every single morning) you have to kind of "leap frog" across traffic. First you wait for the Southbound traffic to clear and jump out into the turn lane area. Then you hang out and wait for a break in the Northbound traffic and ease on in.

There is only really room for two cars in the turn lane area. Should two cars be waiting for a break in traffic, it is only common courtesy to let the first car go as soon as there is a break. If you are the second car, and you are bigger, it is courtesy to ease out into traffic and create an opening for the first car to go ahead of you. Everyone knows this.

Today, I was the first car out in the median area. A larger SUV swung out and blocked my view. If I were in court, this is the diagram I would have used.

After three seconds, I realize that she is going to just pull out in front of me. I start to honk. I mean, I really lay on the horn. No way you don't realize someone is honking at you. She ignores me and cuts me right off.



Two miles later, I realize that we are heading to the same place.   I get a little rampped up thinking about my chance to confront her.  I'm drawing some assumptions based on her car, and the fact that she was wearing full on workout clothes, but her hair and makeup were perfect.  It may be a little bit wrong of me to go assuming that she probably doesn't get called out on her actions a lot. And it may be a little wrong of me to decide that it's my job to tell her she was rude. But it's hot here, and sometimes when I get hot, I fly by my emotions.

We pulled into the school parking lot. I got out of my car and smiled really big at her, like we were long lost friends. Waving at her I said "Oh Hiiii There!" She smiled back. I started in "Remember back there when you pulled out of Summerport?"  Her "Oh yes."  Me: "Well, you cut me off. It was rude, and just a little bit dangerous."  Her: "Oh I didn't realize I did that." Me: "Yes, you did. It was rude."

Then I walked away.  I've always dreamed of confronting someone like this. It wasn't as gratifying as I thought it would be.  But, on the positive front, I kept "the bird" in check, so at least there's a little progress.

A girl's gotta have friends

Have you ever?

Mine's the one on the left.

Retribution

You may recall that I had said on Mother's Day that I thought My Mudda was super nice because one time, allegedly, in a hormonal fit, I told her that I thought her hair was stupid. And the part that was nice of her was not to call me out on being hormonal (she may have been a little scared to?) and she just took the insult and didn't hold it against me?  Well, I may be wrong. I think that perhaps she's the one having the last laugh. I say that because yesterday, as I was picking up 101 plastic cookie cutters off the floor, for the one millionth time, I remembered who gave us that gift. Yes. You guessed it. My Mudda.

Call my hair stupid? Let's see how your hair looks after bending over and picking up after your child her whole entire life. Don't worry, when they've outgrown the cookie cutters, Gramzy has a 2 million piece Lego set already wrapped up for those precious little ladies.

So, if I never actually said it, here goes. Mom I'm sorry I said your hair looked stupid. I can't really remember saying it, but I wouldn't put it past myself since I was such a hormonal hot mess.

Take that, Mickey

When I was growing up, my grandfather used to call me Mickey. I thought it was because he was old and hard of hearing. But then sometimes he would call me Vicky. Still, being young and naive, I thought it was because he was old and his marbles were failing him.

It's no doubt that his marbles did eventually fail him, but the older I got, the clearer it became that his calling me by the wrong name was intentional. I was not his granddaughter by blood. My father had "adopted" me so we all shared the same last name, but as far as the old man was concerned, I would never be his blood. I guess I didn't ever really care. I loved him anyway because he was my father's father.  And really, he was the only grandpa I knew.

After my dad passed away, I used to go over to my grandpa's assisted-living apartment two or three times a month.  His vision was spotty so he needed help with bill paying and running errands. One particular visit, he was waiting outside his apartment for me on a bench. Here's the conversation that followed:

Me: "Well hello sir. What are you doing out here?"
Him: "I'm waiting for my granddaughter Nikki."  (His vision was really bad that day.)
Me: "Grandpa, it's me."
Him: "Oh Mickey, what took you so long." (He had probably been sitting on that bench for six hours in anticipation of our big outing to Dairy Queen. And btw- I was probably a few minutes early.)

I was thinking about this last night as I was reading to Princess Number One. It was a collection of Mickey Mouse stories and she kept calling him Nikki Mouse. I was going to correct her, but then I thought, "let's see how that rat likes being called by the wrong name for a few years."  It may be dumb, and misguided pettiness. But it gives me the giggles, so I'll take it.

Happy Mother's Day

Favorite Things My Mother Has Done For Me

1. Once, when I was driving back to college after a weekend home with my mom, my car broke down halfway through The Flint Hills. If you're not from Kansas, then you might not know this is a stretch of road where, literally, there is one gas station in 50 miles.  It was night and I was alone. I didn't know what to do. The only thing I could think about was a trucker stopping to "help" and my remains being found the next morning. I did what any girl would do. I called my mommy. She was cool headed and told me who to call. When I was done calling the tow company, I called her back. Scared out of my gourd, she sang me a goofy song that she used to sing to me as a child.  

2. When I was going through my very first induced labor pains, my mother showed up. She didn't try to tell me how to breath, or give me advice on how to get through the pain. She just sat quietly next to me and stroked my hair. 

3. She never tells me to watch my language, because she knows that she's one of the very few I unleash The Sailor around....even though sometimes, stuff that comes out of my mouth makes her cringe.

4.  She sewed "something borrowed" into the back of this dress.

5.  She would pack her famous cheese ball in dry ice and mail it to me if I asked her to.

6. Once, I allegedly and in a hormonal fit, told her her hair was stupid. She just said "ok" and left the room.

7. She's always always always shown that she loves me. Always.

Happy Mother's Day

(I know I'm a few days early, but Mumsie doesn't check this blog over the weekend, so there you have it.)

Time for a new camera

Princess Rylee and I went to Sea World yesterday. I say Princess Rylee because, when asked by the ticket counter what her name was, that was how she answered.  I say, if you want to be treated like Royalty, then you should probably set that expectation to everyone you meet. So, good for her.

I'll give you one guess what Princess Rylee's favorite attraction is...

We hung out waiting for it to start...

Mermaids.

(They are oyster divers, but don't try to tell the Princess that)

Or should I say - Mermans

Someone is giving orders for one armed push ups.

I like her style.

If it weren't for the 2 feet of glass between them, he would have been paid kindly in mini Oreo bites.

Runner

I love to watch The Taz run. I always have. There's something about the way she bobs, with her elbows sticking out and back, and her hair flapping in the wind she's created. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in watching her run, I forget that I'm supposed to be "parenting" and telling her to slow down. Sometimes people get knocked over. Sometimes she takes a digger, a face plant or just plain runs into a wall. I can no more stop her from running than I can from enjoying it when she does. C'est la vie my sweet runner.

A Letter to Bear Cub

Dear Sweet Maggie,

When you are old enough to watch a TV program, that isn't a cartoon and without interrupting, you and I will watch American Idol together. One of my favorite parts is when they interview the parents. They always show flashbacks of the contestant when they were wee little performers. I well up as the parents explain how they've watched their babies nurture a love of music from their youth and have followed their hearts.  Your daddy just rolls his eyes at me when they show the parents in the audience, wearing t-shirts with their kids face on them, and I say "Honey, we're totally going to be those kinds of parents."

The point is, recently I've watched you develop a love of motorcycles and I wonder if someday I'll be saying "It all began before she even turned two."  Yesterday, from a mile away, we could hear the roar of a bike engine and I saw your little ears perk up as you looked around trying to find the bike. And the week before last, when we were in the parking lot of The Boutique and you spied one with "ape hangers", all you could say was "a bike a bike a bike a bike MOMMY a bike a bike a bike."  Because I love you, I want you to know that I will support your love of motorcycles, even though I sure do hope you'll end up loving music or art or possibly even math. Anyway, no matter where your heart leads you, there are just a few things I need to tell you:

1. Like your dad always says- There are two things you should never buy the cheap version of - toilet paper and helmets.

2. Don't date a boy because he owns a bike. Own your own bike. Be your own driver.  And on that same note - Boys that wear shirts with sayings like "If you can read this, the b*tch fell off" should be avoided. Also, boys that don't talk much are not mysterious, they are just bad communicators. (This last part applies to all boys, not just bikers.)

3. If you EVER feel the urge to get a tattoo of a motorcycle, please just get the henna kind that will come off eventually. And if that urge persists, please wait until you've had children and you have a complete understanding of the words "permanent" and "forever".

I think that's it for now, little one.  You'll be awake from your nap soon, and Momma will take you to the mall so we can troll for bikes to look at. Until then, sweet motorcycle dreams baby.

Love,
The Crazy Lady In The Front Row With Your Face Puff Painted On It.