We're in the top 40

For the past 4 years, my life has been overrun by the little rugrats that I birthed. Willingly. It's not like I had a choice: "You're dilated to 10! Push!" "Hell, no! Stick that little shit right back in there, I wanna have another 9 months of tortuous hell!"

All memories aside, my life has been overrun--I can't pee without a child standing next to me, fold my laundry without a toddler running around with a pair of panties on her head, or listen to anything other than...Kelly Clarkson.

So, it's my fault. We were at the Best Buy, and Big E requested a new cd. "Which would you like?" I asked, thinking, oh, it will be the latest Disney release soundtrack. "Since U Been Gone."
"Come again?"
"I want 'Since U Been Gone'."
"Kelly Clarkson?"
"Yes, from 'The Singing Show'," (which would be the title for 'American Idol,' in our house).

So, we buy it. Now, I constantly have to hear not only, "Play MY music! MY music!" but, "I want number 2! NUMBER 2!" "Number 2," as it were, is "Since U Been Gone." Both of my children, the spawn of a parent with a knowledge-base in English, are singing at the top of their lungs, in improper grammar. To add to the fun, my new car is very small, and it has turned into a virtual concert. I have a 4-year old screaming, "Since U been gone!" and a 2-year old chiming in with, "Yea, yeah!" It's like surround-sound. Why pay for tickets?

I heard Jenna singing softly to her My Little Pony this evening, "Here's the thing/we started out friends/it was cool/it was all pretend...yeah, yeah, since U been gone." I really hope that bastard pony didn't break her little heart.

Pardon me while I go insane

And time is...oh wait, it's gone. No, there it is. Damn, gone again! And where is this time going, you may ask? To work! Work, work, work, and more work! And things that aren't, technically, "work," but must be considered so because they cause me to think. If I have to think, then it is most definitely work.

At least I don't have to worry about dinner tonight. THAT'S not work. We're having leftover mac and cheese and ta da! Fishsticks. Because the kids LIKE fishsticks. They're not your general run-of-the-mill fishsticks either, baby. Oh no. I got a new job, and that new job came with a raise, so now I'm using that extra money to buy NAME-BRAND fishsticks! Can you stand it?! I don't know if I can. The macaroni noodles aren't even Kraft. Oh, I'm getting all one-uppy and crazy on you guys--they're some fancy-schmancy Italian-brand that are all different shapes and are infused with vegetables. YES! Vegetables! I disguise vegetables within the al dente goodness that are vegetable-laced noodles. I ask again, "CAN YOU STAND IT?"

I'm going off my rocker. I have not eaten anything of substance today, except for about 20 Altoid mints.

Magic!

I'm not sure how it happens, but every night when me and Scott go to bed, it's just he and I. I make sure there's no one else in there--I check under the bed, under the covers, and in the closet. However, when we wake up, there's me, Scott, and 2 little ones in the bed. I'll be damned! We're multiplying in our sleep!

Gettin' all literary on your ass

In the Summa Theologica, Prima Secundæ Partis, it is asked
"Whether man's happiness consists in pleasure?"

I think there are three objections, which I'm obviously paraphrasing here, so I don't want any philosophical nuts knocking down my door.

The first objection is that happiness DOES consist primarily in pleasure. The reason being that happiness is not desired for something else, but other things desire happiness. The second objection talks about the appetite. Something about how delight absorbs man's reason and causes him to hate other things (okay, I'm REALLY paraphrasing here!!). But still, man's happiness consists in pleasure. Objection 3 states that desire is meant for good. "Therefore happiness, which is the supreme good, consists in pleasure" (that is directly from the Summa).


To me, it looks like happiness, or a form thereof, is derived from pleasure.

St. Thomas answers that BODILY pleasure can't result from perfect good. Bodily pleasures result from good gotten from sense. Then he goes on to say something about man being a rational soul, and complete happiness can only be found if your soul's happy, and therefore, "bodily" pleasure does not equal happiness.

St. Thomas replies to the objections as such (again, from memory, so VERY paraphrased):

Reply to Objection 1. Delight is desired.

Reply to Objection 2. Everybody wants sensible pleasures, because the senses are perceptible.

Reply to Objection 3. Every delight results from some good, and some delight results from supreme good.

I had a discussion with my sister on Saturday, and it just got me thinking all about philosophy and what people believe. St. Thomas had a good point, but it seems to me that he goes back and forth a bit. He says that bodily pleasure doesn't equal happiness--he's right, but wrong at the same time. I think bodily pleasure brings a KIND of happiness. It's a euphoric happiness, a passionate happiness. A glow, if you will. It may not be lasting, but for that very moment, aren't you happy? Happiness doesn't have a timeline to it, last time I checked. Everybody needs some passion in their life.

With just a twist

On Saturday night, I discovered the awesomeness that is gin and tonic.

On Sunday, I discovered the hell that is a hangover.

It's our thing

It's 7am--just got the husband and wee one out the door. I'm about to have to go get dressed, since today is Friday. On Fridays, I work from home, but it's also the day that Jenna and I go out to breakfast. There's this place up the street that makes the best pumpkin muffins ever. Jenna loves them, so every Friday, we have special "Jenna/Mommy time" and go have breakfast together. It's our thing.

Speaking of special things, every morning, when the little one leaves with daddy on her way to the sitter's, I get her special goodbye routine: first she smooches me on the lips, then an Eskimo kiss, then a butterfly kiss, then a hug with a big squeeze. It makes it difficult not to eat her all up.

Sometimes, I wish it could be morning all day.

Winnie needs CPR! To the COW mobile!

First, there was me, wearing a Winnie-the-Pooh costume. It was full-fledged mascot territory, down to the armpit straps that keep the head on. I was too short, so I couldn't see really well, and damn! If I couldn't really see, how was I supposed to compete as Pooh Bear in the "Coalition of Obese Women's Synchronized Swimming," or COWSS, for short? It was 100 degrees outside, and I was thinking, "Man! I should have given the high-school mascot more props! This sucks!" As I wandered over to the wall, in which I would leap over and jump into the pool, I ran into the side--because of the lack of vision--and my sister laughed. Nice. But I was still thinking, "I'll be the best COWSS Winne-the-Pooh EVER! My mom will be so proud!"

No. I don't do drugs. But don't I have great dreams?

Finally!

Gosh, for YEARS now, I have been losing sleep over something totally silly. I mean, I would stay up for HOURS, not being able to think of anything else but to wonder What Kind of Kisser am I?

Woo! I'm so glad I found out. What a relief.

Part Expert:
You're a kissing pro, but it's all about quality and not quantity.
You've perfected your kissing technique and can knock anyone's socks off.
And you're adaptable, giving each partner what they crave.
When it comes down to it, your kisses are truly unforgettable.

Part Passionate:
For you, kissing is about all about following your urges.
If someone's hot, you'll go in for the kiss - end of story.
You can keep any relationship hot with your steamy kisses.
A total spark plug - your kisses are bound to get you in trouble.

Hot damn! I must be a sexy mama!

Ramblin' man

Let me tell you, it is SO NICE TO WORK FOR A COMPANY THAT APPRECIATES ME! I didn't think I'd ever be able to say that.

I had a fantastic dinner with my boss and my area sales rep. They are both fantastic people, and hilariously entertaining. My dad watched the girls, and left not too long ago--he's probably going home to cry himself to sleep; I'm sure they scared him to death. Scott's off playing softball--so what's new?

Found out I'll be in Vegas sometime in November. I can't wait, it's going to be an awesome time. It's 99% work-related, but it will be fun all the same.

I just sent a kiss-ass email to my client because I made some stupid mistakes this week. Well, I can't say I kissed her ass, but I did blow some kisses. All is well, and she's back to thanking me for doing such an incredible job. Gotta love it.

I got two calls today from two different colleges wanting to interview me for adjunct teaching positions. That's a total dream job for me. I'm such a nerd. What I wouldn't do to be able to talk literature all day...

All in all, life is good. So good.

Potty mouth

Claire, yes, wee little, precious Clairey, has discovered the fine art of teasing. The other evening, after I changed her diaper, she picked up the pee-pee laden nappy and threw it at Jenna, exclaiming, "PEE PEE!!!" and laughing like a crazed hyena. Jenna screamed and ran, so Claire picked up the pee-bomb and ran after Jenna again, this time catapulting it and hitting Jen right in the chest. "PEE PEE!!! yahahahahaaha!!!!" This went on for a while, until I decided that Jenna had had enough. Then I threw the diaper away. Who knew pee-pee diapers could be so much fun?

Last night, the little sweetie and I were snuggled in my bed, watching VeggieTales for the millionth time. Clairey looked at me, grabbed my cheeks, and as I puckered up for a smooch, she whispered, "Poo-poo ca-ca."

Mommy:"What?"

Claire:"Poo-poo ca-ca. Mommy poo-poo ca-ca."

Mommy:"I'm not a poo-poo ca-ca!"

Claire: "Yesth! Mommy poo-poo ca-ca!" [insane giggling]

Mommy: "NO. CLAIRE'S a poo-poo ca-ca!"

Claire: "NO, no, no! MOMMY POO-POO CA-CA!!" [more insane giggling]

Well, I knew this had to stop. That's no way for a soon-to-be-two-year-old to talk. So I fixed the problem:

Mommy: "DADDY'S a poo-poo ca-ca."

Claire: "Daddy? Daddy poo-poo ca-ca?"

Mommy: "Yep."

Claire: "Daddy poo-poo ca-ca! Daddy poo-poo ca-ca!"

All's well that ends well.

LES PLAISIRS DE L'AMOUR LESBIAN

No, I don't speak French, but I can pretty much draw a hypothesis regarding what that says. Why do I always get lesbian mail? I have never been a lesbian. The closest I've ever been is when I kissed a girl on a dare. Oh, and I wanted to kiss my friend, Jeni, once. She told me that I had beautiful eyes, and seriously, if it's coming from a good friend, you know it's true. But did that news really span the globe, resulting in continuing lesbian contraband strewn in my email box? Strange, very strange. It does sound nice though, but then again, say anything in French and it sounds beautiful.

Snake charmer

My mother is a snake charmer. I deliver the kids to her in the little baskets that I've stuffed them in, and mom sings a soothing melody, and they come out--not acting evil and snake-like at all. Damn, damn grandmothers and thier infernal powers!

On Saturday, I called my mother, and while Claire provided the background music ala banshee screaming, I asked my mother, in a solid, practiced voice, "Do you want her?"
"Which one?"
"The small one."
"Bring her over."
--click--

We conduct business like a drug deal--straight and to the point.

I packed up the 26lbs of evil, grabbed her a pair of pajamas, said goodbye to the fam, and loaded her in the car. I was at my mom's in about 10 minutes. Of course, Wee Evil was asleep in the carseat. That's what she does: Screams until her head threatens implosion, and then passes out from the lack of oxygen. Works for her, but meanwhile, anyone who's been within 2 miles has ringing ears and is wondering what the hell that sound was.

I unloaded her and dropped her off in mom's guest room. Out cold, so it seems. She opens her eyes, sees my mom, and becomes an angel child. It's sickening the way that happens. If it's the "island spice" potpourri that mom has going on in her house, I'll gladly douse myself in it, if it makes the kids behave.

I make my break. As I'm walking out the back door, I ask my mom, "Should I feel guilty for just dropping off my baby?"

"Nope, I used to do it all the time."

Gotta love moms.

It's kind of like the Black Forest

Overheard on the baby monitor: "Winnie-the-Pooh"--Jenna style

Deep in the huntered acre woods
where Christopher Robin plays
You'll find an engendered neigborhood
of Christopher's child and ways.

A donkey named Eeyore is his friend
and a little kanga-roooooo
and there's someone and somebody else
and most of all, Winnie-the-Pooh.

Winnie-the Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
tubby, la la la la la la la with fluff
Winnie-the-Pooh
Winnie-the-Pooh
Yeah, yeah, he's a silly old bear!

Friday Haiku

Pill stuck in my throat:
Listen, dissolve already!
You're making me mad.

Which, consequently,
is not what you're supposed to
be doing for me.

Draino

Right now, I have a Prozac caplet stuck in my food tube. I don't know how the damn things always get stuck. For God's sake, I can wolf down an entire T-bone and not have an issue, but a teeny-little gel cap? Oh no, it MUST get stuck. Ah yes, nothing better than having some kind of mind-altering acid burning the good 'ol esophagus. When I complained about this a couple of weeks ago, the pharmacist said that I must be "taking it wrong." Um, yea. I don't know a whole hell of a lot about different drugs, but I DO know how to put a pill in your mouth and drink a glass of water. Moron. He seriously said, "Put the pill in your mouth, tilt your head back to get it to move to the back, then take a drink of water." Really? I was so dumbfounded that I couldn't even think of a smartass remark. So I just said, "Ohhhhhh....THAT'S how you do it!?" He also said, that if the pill gets stuck, to eat a piece of bread, or something else "heavy" to help it go down. Well, hate to tell ya Mr. Pharmacist, but I've eaten two hamburger buns, and no dice. The Prozac is still in the pipe, which, if it had an emotions, would be smiling and happy right now. I have scoured my kitchen for "heavy" food, and the only other thing I can think of is the frickin couch. Alas, "davenport" is not a food group, but I'm about to stuff a frickin pillow down my throat just to see if that helps. I'm eyeing the Draino with great interest right now. But who am I kidding? That stuff can't even clear a mean poop out of a U-bend, much less a Prozac caplet stuck in my pipe. It's been 41 minutes. Shouldn't this fucker have disolved by now?

Conversations with Jenna

*As I collapse on the bed, totally "mommied" out:

"Oh, it's okay mom. It'll be okay, don't worry about it."

Don't scare me so early in the morning

Remember in highschool science lab, usually tucked in the back corner, you would find the "eyewash" stand? Do you remember that? No one ever had to use it--at least not while I was there. Nothing ever exploded or fizzled over, or jumped into my eye--it just didn't happen. Then again, the most "potent" potion I recall brewing up was homemade icecream in physical science. Regardless, it is my firm belief that all companies/institutions should have an eyewash stand. On each floor. After what I saw in the elevator this morning, my eyes are still tearing and burning and the image, unfortunately, is scorched upon my retinas.

*Hang on...I need coffee and oatmeal if this story is to continue...

Okay, I'm now armed with Maple and Brown Sugar and a cup of joe...where was I? Oh yes, the elevator. SO, I'm in the elevator minding my own business, when another woman gets on. I'm not one to remark on what people are wearing, but....okay, I AM one to remark....

Anyways, my eyes take her in from head to toe. Bright, bright red hair. Actually, more fuschia than red. Styled in the retro, Susan Powter style (read: extremely short, and spiky all over). Lots of gel going on there. Face: wrinkled, but professionally spackled with builders-grade putty. The makeup is so thick, that you can actually see the build-up on her face. Tons of eye-makeup--it's "smoldering" and "smoky"--like she's going to a cabaret. Lips: Hot pink. Oh. VERY. HOT. PINK. And the lipliner was visibly bleeding towards her nose--gotta mention that. The shirt, well, I'll save the shirt for last, because it's the best part. The pants: pre-faded, tapered jeans--high-waisted. Shoes: Teva-inspired, but with a 3" sole. And now...the shirt--drumroll, please.

It's a company t-shirt. I know this, because I have one. They handed them out at an "all employee meeting" about 2 years ago. It's pretty plain--company logo on left chest area, bright green box on the back with something scrawled in it--it's your basic "company-inspired" t-shirt. She was wearing this. BUT, and here it is, it had been MODIFIED. Oh yes, my friends. MODIFIED. When these shirts were handed out, you had a choice of two sizes: L and XL. I chose the L, and it's big. Looking at this woman, I can only guess that there's a poor 4-year old somewhere, crying, missing his shirt because this woman stole it. Her shirt had been altered in the "flash dance" style. It was CROPPED, people, CROPPED. Cropped where she obviously had to have taken scissors to it and then rehemmed it, for God's sake. Not only was it cropped, exposing her belly, but it was "fitted," if you will. Hugging her perky, cantaloupe boobs like white on rice. I would say the bottom hem of the shirt was about an inch away from exposing the underside of her boobies. Let me remind all of you that she's wearing this to work. WORK! A place of business!

Now I know all of you have this vision in your mind, and it may not be all that bad, and you're thinking, "So, a hot chick modified her shirt to look hotter, big deal?" Au contraire my friends. I hate to hurt you so early in the morning, but this "hot chick" could get the senior-citizens discount at the local diner. The only thing "hot" about her, was her menopausal hormones. Now believe me, I've seen several older woman that look fantastic--this was not one of them. This scared me.

Introducing....

Rivera. Pico Rivera.

There's a point...

when you've been together so long, that you just say thing that you shouldn't. To strangers. Case-in-point:

Last night, Scott and I are sitting at a car dealership. You know, one of the most uncomfortable places on earth. Because, seriously, it all comes down to "Are you WORTHY enough to drive my car?" And, hell if I know how this happens, but one minute we're talking to the financing lady about payments, and the next, I hear this come out of Scott's mouth:

"Yeah, we were just laughing because we figured that this is the first August in four years that Stephanie hasn't been nursing."

Um, what?? Granted, we all know that interest rates and breastfeeding are apples to apples, but why tell the finace person? I just looked at him, and smiled. I have a plan, and it goes something like this:

Next time we go to an Italian restaurant and I order spaghetti, I'll just throw in, "I'd like marinara on that. And you know, that just reminds me, he wears his penis on the left side of his underwear! Can you believe?!"

You know, because marinara and penises go hand in hand.

Puzzle maker

Hello. I have a request: If you find my shit, would you please put it together? Thanks. I appreciate it.

I can't get my shit together. Do you ever feel like that? I mean, usually, I'm the most shit-togethered person there is. Lately though, not so much. I just have so many other things on my mind. Stupid things that are just occupying my day. Oh, you know, just normal stuff like Jenna being in preschool, scoring 34% on the geek test, starting up the "Pico Rivera Fan Club," and laundry. The usual.

Conversations with Jenna

Jenna, last night, while gnawing on the remains of a t-bone steak:

"This is the best 'letter T' I've ever had!"

Carnivores. Gotta love 'em.

Instant Message

ripped_elder: I heard you were into older men
stewbie2: It depends on how much money they have.
ripped_elder: you see my profile baby
stewbie2: good lord. That's gross.

I invite all of you to IM "ripped_elder" and let him know that I don't appreciate him coming on to me.

*ps. It's my brother. He's SO not crafty.

A modest proposal--no really

Back in the good 'ol year of 1789 (I think), an Irish writer by the name of Jonathon Swift published a brief manuscript entitled, "A Modest Proposal." Now, Swift was a bit ticked off with his Irish brethren, and namely because he was Irish, he was ticked off at the English as well--you know, for good measure. However, he crafted this lovely proposal of why the Irish should eat their children. It's supposed to be a parody of Swift's actual proposals that he had submitted to the Irish parliament, but really, if I would have been alive back then, and I had stumbled across this proposal--that's just the excuse I would've been looking for.



I mean, check out the pudge on this kid! DELICIOUS.

*Can you tell I'm missing the kids today?

I ate a baby!

Adorable, isn't it? Sweet, touching....just precious. Big Daddy cuddling his little princess. Although, to tell you the truth, he was really just PRETENDING to sleep. He was waiting for her to be totally out so he could take a big bite of that. But then again, who wouldn't? Want to take a big bite of that baby, that is?

Pico Rivera Fan Club

I will be more than pleased to post pictures of Pico Rivera. Once, that is, I get my film developed. Yes, I said FILM. I forgot my camera and we had to buy a "throw-away" kind. I can, however, promise you that there will be a slew of pictures of Pico, or "Peek," as Jenna calls him, since Jenna kidnapped the camera and took several pictures of "Pico in Mexico."

Little T

Someone just asked me, "What really makes you mad?" Oh, tons of things make me mad: stupid people, people that talk to me like I'm an idiot, bad coffee, liars, one-uppers, and racial insensitivity. Last one's a doozy, huh?

I can't stand it when people use the "n" word. I can't stand it when people align their lives to stereotypes. That just really sucks. My mom has been dating a Trinidadian man for, oh, seven years or so--a really long time. For nearly 90% of those 7 years, I've had a big problem with him. Not because he's black, but because I didn't like the way he was treating my mom. I used to hate it when my mom would say, "It's because he's black, isn't it?" Um, NO. I don't give a rat's ass WHAT color he is, if he's treating me mom like ass, I'm not going to like him. Now, we all get along pretty well. He loves my kids, and my kids are taking a likin' to him. He's very, very nice--albeit YOUNG (my mother, the cradle-robber)--but he's lots of fun to talk to. Especially because he has a wicked Trinidadian accent, and he's always saying things like, "Oh my God, woman!" and it just sounds so frickin hilarious.

That being the case, I get SO uncomfortable around people that bash other races, but particularly black people (I can't really say "African-American" because mom's guy is from the islands). It really pisses me off. Why in the world would you judge someone by the color of their skin? Am I a better person when I'm not tanned?

That being said, yesterday I asked mom if "Little T" (that's what I call him) will be able to get off of work for the girls' birthday party. And you know what? I meant it. I think this is a valuable lesson for my kids, and for me, too.

First day of preschool...

I swear I heard her mumble under her breath: "Tell 'em I'm coming...and hell's coming with me..."



Today is Jenna's first day of preschool. It was supposed to be on Monday, but you know, with the ear infection and the fever and the whining...I just didn't want to impose that upon the general public. She's supposed to start in the "3s" classroom, and then switch at the end of the semester. However, since I have such a brilliant child, they're putting her directly into the 4-year old pre-K class. That makes me laugh--doesn't EVERY parent think their kid is just a braniac? I've never heard a parent say, "Well, you know, little Josh, he's just dumb as a fence post." Jenna's a smarty-pants, but I'm not arrogant enough to say that she's gifted. She learns quickly--that's good enough for me. Besides, I'm glad she's in with the 4-year olds. She's the youngest one in there, and the smallest. I'm hoping she gets pushed around a bit--get her off of the 'ol high-and-mighty column.

Anyways, she was raring to go this morning. If I had my druthers, and I don't--even though she's 3--I would have kept her home another day. However, I had to balance the scales: whining about how I wouldn't let her go to school, or let her go and tough-it out? No fever. She's in school. I'm kinda glad she's been home...I'm not quite ready for her to be in preschool. She's almost FOUR. Cripes, I can't believe it. I almost had cardiac arrest, dropping her off this morning. I'm hugging her, and holding her tight. Meanwhile, she's pushing away from me, saying, "MOM! I'm cool! I have Pico with me!" (That would be Pico, her stuffed dog.)Then, to add insult to injury, I find out that she's going on a field trip today! On a bus! Away from the school! Not with me!! Sweet baby Jesus, I'm going to pass out.

It's been a while

Wednesday, July 27th

We're on an airplane.
No, you may not "Get off NOW!"
We are still in flight.

Thursday, July 28th

Please make me a drink.
There are 4 kids between us.
Make it a double.

I need a vacation

We just got back from Cozumel, and now, I need a vacation. One that doesn't entail screaming/whining/crying, diapers, or swimmer's ear. Overall, this vacation was pretty good. Could've been better, but then again, I could have spent a weekend in Galveston trying to avoid needles while walking on the beach, so I won't complain.

The Hurricane Emily, Cozumel report:
For those of you who frequent Cozumel because you love the laid-back attitude, the friendly people, the gorgeous water, and the sun-drenched days, then--GOOD NEWS--Cozumel is fine--you should go back immediately.

For those of you who go to Cozumel to party it up, puke in the streets, grimace at the class of people who live there, and bitch and moan about every little thing, I hate to tell you, but we couldn't even land the plane, because Cozumel is no longer there. Shut your whining pie-hole and go to Cancun where everything is so Americanized, you don't even realize that you're in Mexico.

Okay, now that THAT'S been taken care of...

Vacation was nice. Good friends of ours traveled with us (along with their niece, who, might I add, is a fantastic young lady. She should be made a hero amongst young women and children. Seriously, what an awesome role model--I didn't think there were any "good girls" left), and although that didn't go anywhere near like I had expected a "vacation with friends who brought along a babysitter" would go, I won't complain. We had lovely dining companions for a number of meals, and that's more than we've ever had on previous visits. We certainly didn't get to hang out and watch our kids play as much as I had envisioned in my head, but I also haven't won the lottery, which I've also envisioned. I will, however, say this: I will NEVER, EVER travel with my children again, without bringing my mother. She is so much help, and I'll be damned if I haven't taken it for granted the past times she has gone with us. MOM: You are going on vacation with us every year from now on. Make arrangements. That being said, we plan on taking all proceeding vacations without children. Until, of course, they are self-sufficient, neither wears diapers, and realizing that you cannot get out of the plane while it's in flight is NOT a bad thing.

The resort was wonderful, as always. The people were courteous and friendly, and my room was clean. The drinks were plentiful and decent (all except the syrup-colada I got on the first day), and the food was not the best ever, but totally on par for an all-inclusive resort. Oh yes, and translation for all of you "never been to Mexico"-ers: Filet Mignon=Mignon Filet=cube steak. Just a tip: Always go for the fish. I've never seen a cow in Cozumel. I'm just saying...

The children were, well, they were my children. It doesn't matter where the hell they are, they always remember who they are, where they come from, and don't give a damn who knows it: So, we're on a plane and one wants to get off? SCREAM. Scream at the top of your lungs, "I want off! I want off!" While jumping on my lap. I mean, you can do that at home and I'll ignore you--not so possible on an airplane. How 'bout that seat in front of you? You kick MY seat while in your carseat, so why not just kick the piss out of the plane seat in front of you? I'm sure the passenger in seat 5e LOVES it. Oh, and you have a poopy diaper? I LOVE the timing of that--poop before the "you are now free to roam about the cabin" jargon happens. That's fun. That way, you can jump and scream on daddy's lap, while yelling "Poo-Poo!! Poo-poo! Potty!" I KNOW you have poop in your diaper, Love, but when the aisle is blocked by a feminine male, and we're still climbing in altitude, I really can't just skip over the drink cart and take you to the potty. Speaking of which, do you know how damned difficult it is to change a diaper in an airplane bathroom?? Good Lord.

You don't want to get out of the pool? Scream. No, reallly, scream louder. I like it when you scream. Throw a fit, too. That's always less embarassing. Oh, and if possible, while IN the pool, yell, "I HAVE TO GO POTTY! I HAVE TO GO POTTY!" While I applaud your efforts at not going in the pool, this is the one time I'm not going to give you the whole, "So, if she jumped off a bridge, would you, too?" speech. Just pee in the pool and don't tell me. I'll never know and we'll all be happier--not having had to dry off and carefully walk down the slippery steps into a bathroom that is teeming with humidity and wet toilet paper. Oh, and this is my favorite: I'll be honest here, I let you do things that a lot of other mothers don't. BUT, if we're in public, and I ask you to do something, be like a Nike and JUST DO IT!! {And our little secret: I thought the 3-fork tower was pretty impressive, and when you and your sister laugh that hard at the table, I really don't care.}But my God, child, LISTEN TO YOUR MOMMY!

It's really not a vacation when you have the kids. I think I looked at Scott with "love in my eyes" once. Maybe for a second or two. The rest of the time, the look was, "Man! You better get a hold of that child or I will beat your ass, and I don't mean in a good way!" I think I'm more exhausted now, than I was before we left. Whew! Now THAT'S when you know it was a good family vacation!