Midwestern Mommy

Dear Department of Child and Family Services,

Just in case you read my most recent post about what was in my purse please know this: I don’t really own a crackpipe. My mom doesn’t own one either. If you ever met “General Joyce” and watched her buzz around her house you would probably wonder where she gets so much energy. This would cause you to ponder whether the aforementioned crackpipe is indeed hers. But after you talked to her for a minute you would realize this is a woman who has never even smoked a cigarette much less a mind-altering, illegal substance. This is the woman who unknowingly bought a BONG from a church garage sale! So while she’s held illegal drug paraphenalia in her hot little hands many years ago - it wasn’t on purpose.

As for me, I’ve seen those movies about drug addiction. People vomit in those movies. And I don’t care how great the high is — I have a serious vomit phobia. So there’s no freaking way I would ever try those sorts of things. Because I’m too scared I would barf. Even in my early 20’s I would only allow myself three alcoholic drinks an entire night. Because I knew if I let myself have more, I would lose track and my dinner would end up all over someone’s lawn at 1 a.m.

So the crackpipe in question? Actually doesn’t exist. Sorry to lure you here on false pretenses but I’ve never even seen a crackpipe. And I don’t think anyone in my family has ever seen one either. We’ve all lived a fairly sheltered life in that aspect. Frankly, I’m thankful for that.

Sorry to disturb you.

Lisa B

P.S. I don’t even spank the boy, although he probably deserves a swat now and again — depending upon who you talk to. There was a young woman in Target Sunday night who was screaming at her child (who looked to be about 10-12 months old) to “stop the attitude”. She told him if he “didn’t shut up”, she would “spank” him “right then and there”. You may want to talk to her. Personally, I think that’s a mite too young to start the whoopins.

P.S.S. I was surpised to see this woman at Target — as this sort of “mothering” can quite easily be found in Wal-Mart after 10 p.m. most evenings.

What’s in Lisa’s cheap but cute little bag? Well, wait and I’ll give you a minute by minute account, right as I’m pulling the junk out. Really exciting, huh? (This will also explain why I don’t own any expensive purses.)

*A 3-day old hamburger from McDonald’s that has fallen out of the wrapper. (I keep my purse in the car and its been cold. The entire sandwich is as hard as a hockey puck.
*Pickle from said burger (now stuck to bottom of purse).
*7-year-old cell phone that won’t turn on anymore. (I need a new phone, yes?)
*Wallet with two one-dollar bills shoved into it. And about $20 in coins.
*Approximately 500 receipts from various grocery stores, Target, and Walgreens. Most dating back to some time in ‘05.
*Small clear bag given to me by the vet during Abbeydog’s check-up in March of ‘05. I was supposed to put poop into the bag so they could test for worms. (Abbey’s poop — not mine or the boy’s. Although, I’m thinking maybe I should have the poop of both critters tested. Because with little boys you never know…)
*A hard candy that Seth put in his mouth and then spit into my purse while I must not have been looking. Apparently the dog sat on my purse at some point because there’s dog hair stuck to the candy.
*A lipstick I never use that’s stuck to the piece of doghaired-candy.
*A few receipts from our recent ski trip, stuck to the doghaired-candy.
*Three coupons for stuff I never buy and will never buy, stuck to the doghaired-candy.
*Crack pipe.
*Three small rocks. Maybe Seth’s way of saying that someday when he’s a brilliant doctor, businessman or male-stripper (I don’t care what he does — as long as he has a passion for his job and makes enough money to move out of our house), he plans on buying his mama a REAL nice rock?
*Hershey’s candy bar (in case of emotional emergencies).

Oh, the crackpipe was put in there just to see if you were paying attention. Its not really mine. Its my mom’s.

KIDDING!

During our trip to Steamboat Springs, Marc and I entertained the idea that maybe Seth would show such promise and genius on skis, we’d have to move to Colorado so he could pursue Olympic aspirations. After 10 minute of skiing, or trying to get Seth to do so, we realized he, like us, is a mere moral. Our hopes were dashed.

We’ve watched a bit of the Olympics. Seth is very interested in the snowboarding and skiing competitions. And we have watched a few seconds of the curling competitions.

Frankly, I just don’t understand how curling snuck its way into the Olympics. What’s next? Men’s distance spitting? Would men chew tobacco and get points on how far they can spit and how it lands? Would they get style points? Would they be tested for steroids?

At the rate things are going pooping competitions may not be far behind. Hey, my child can produce vast quantities of poop, ON COMMAND. Maybe we have an Olympic hopeful after all.

This is a photo of me at Steamboat. Yes, the jacket is very 1996’s but hey, it kept me warm. My original ski pants didn’t fit due to “that time of the month.” So I got new ones. I really like the new ones.

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This is my honeybunny and my little bunny. That is one happy daddy. By the time this photo was taken, that was one fussy, tired child.

There are a few more pics — I just couldn’t figure out how to fit them all on one post. So keep scrolling to see the two others.
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This is the little man. Without the helmet and goggles, he actually looks like Kenny from Southpark (on skiis.)
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It is the night before our trip to Colorado. (And no I wasn’t able to squeeze into the old ski pants. I need to buy new ones once we get there.) So I’ll post once I get back. I’ll be thinking of you guys. And can’t wait to hear about what I’ve missed.

I will consider this a successful trip if there are no serious injuries and no one is asking for a divorce. Wish me luck.
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Hollywood has all sorts of trends — the nip slips (blech), wearing those Ugg boots with skimpy skirts (eyeroll), and formal shorts (shudder). What if we moms start a trend of our own? At least we’d look ALOT more comfy than the starlets working the red carpet!

Slacker Mom Chic is THE look for moms who stay-at-home, telecommute or for those moms who only get to “dress down” on the weekends. Actually ANY woman can pull off Slacker Mom Chic (SMC).

What you will need:
*track pants, or yoga pants
*long or short-sleeved t-shirts
*mismatched socks with holes in the heels
*grubby running shoes that you used to wear when you actually ran 15-25 miles a week.
*pony tail holder
*tinted sunscreen
*4-6 hours of sleep a night for at least a few months. This helps with the SMC attitude which is “Because I said so. That’s why!”

Wear the pants, layer t-shirts. Dig through underwear drawer to find said socks. (It is not difficult to find such socks because, remember you are the mom. Your warm tootsies? Last on the priority list. Put on the shoes which can be found either in child’s room, dog bed or some other place they shouldn’t be.

Brush hair for 2.5 seconds. Put hair in pony tail. Wash face. Put on tinted sunscreen. Brush teeth for 3.5 seconds. Viola! Don’t forget your deorderant.

Now go put on your black coat and pick up your brown purse. You, the rascally critters, and your mismatched, disheveled self are running late!

***Oh and on those dressy occasions, go all out. Wear earrings and put on some chapstick. Now don’t YOU look HOT!

The pros of this look:
* No one will notice you’ve gained a few pounds.
*Smarmy sales people in furniture stores and at malls assume your not-s0-pulled-together look means you have no money, so they leave you alone.
*Old men don’t try to pick you up in grocery stores.

I am fully convinced that Seth is really a fussy 89-year-old woman who’s trapped in the body of a 3 1/2-year-old boy.

More often than not, if I turn on my music, he gets upset with me telling me to turn it off because “it’s too loud”. (If he can hear it even slightly, its too loud.) Also when he takes a bath or has gone to the pool, he’ll exclaim, “don’t get my hair wet!”

In traffic, there are alot of times he’ll scream at me to slow down. And he refuses to eat peanut butter and jelly or really anything that makes his hands sticky.

A few months ago, his babysitter corrected him. He got mad and carried a grudge for more than 6 weeks. He couldn’t even remember WHY he was perturbed but he sure could remember to be angry with her.

On Wednesday, when I walked the dog, he accompanied with his Harley Trike. He’d fuss if I tried to give him a push to get him going. He’d fuss if I didn’t. He’d fuss about going too fast. Apparently, his idea of a safe speed is barely moving. He has been fussing like a little old lady since he’s come out of the womb. (Although he has had alot of therapy for his Sensory Integration Dysfunction, as you can see, there are still a few issues we deal with.)

So I’ve been calling him “Daisy” these days — from the movie, “Driving Miss Daisy.” Because sometimes I get very frustrated and saying that is sort of a joke that keeps me from screaming at him. My hubby thinks this nickname is funny and has taken to calling Seth “Daisy” too. And wow, I can completely relate to Morgan Freeman’s character in that movie. Because that cranky ole’ Miss Daisy has nothing on Seth some days.