Making Fused Glass Christmas Ornaments

I love discovering new things to do in our little town, especially things that my kids can do with me.

Just for the heck of it I decided to call down to The Stained Glass Co. to see if they had some sort of "make-it-yourself" project and if they were brave enough to allow two fairly spastic girls to give it a whirl. Turns out they have this thing where kids can come in and make a fused glass Christmas ornament - and it's pretty inexpensive, too. So last Saturday I hauled the girls down there and we made some awesome little Christmas trees.

 
 

We get the finished product back on Tuesday, so I'll post some better pics then. It was a lot of fun, and the gal who helped us (Darcy I believe?) was super nice and helpful.

I told the girls if they behaved I'd take them down to the cupcake shop (Sugar Mammas in Towne Square) and get them a little treat. I didn't know they were closed on Saturdays, but she was there anyway making a cake and was nice enough to let us in for some red velvet cupcakes and hot chocolate. I swear, these were the best cupcakes I have ever had in my entire life. I wanted to buy a pound of the frosting and eat it with a spoon.

Overall, the day was awesome. Thanks a bunch to the nice gals at both of the shops!

Ferber Method: Night 1 continued...

Well, that was a load of fun. I'm pretty well convinced Dr. Ferber must be a sadist. An hour and a half of wailing baby cries is enough to drive any mother to tears, but when he started throwing up and reaching through the rails for me, pleading with his eyes for me to pick him up, that was it. You pretty much have to ignore every instinct in your body telling you to scoop up your baby and comfort them.

So instead I sat in his room with him and held him til he went to sleep, then gingerly placed him in his bed well after he'd gone limp and started snoring. And there he remained until exactly two hours later when we did the whole thing over again. And then again. And again. This, however, is a great accomplishment for us because rather than only being able to sleep soundly between the hubs and I, he slept soundly in his own bed - even if for only a couple hours at a time. My only rule is he does not leave his room until daybreak so he can learn that his room is where he belongs when its sleepytime.

Tonight we shall give it another whirl. And Dr. Ferber, wherever you are: You are the batshit crazy one, not I.

Ferber Method: Night 1

After last night, I'm ready to give Dr. Ferber a shot. The little man was in his usual spot in bed - between my husband and I - and for two straight hours he rolled back and forth, side to side, sleepily chomping on our elbows with his one half-sprouted tooth. I've had enough.

So today I moved his mostly unslept-in crib from our room into "his" room, which is now our computer/storage/baby room. I've made him an 18 hour long playlist of lullabies, put some nice fresh sheets in his crib, and a fluffy little puppy that is only for nighty-night time. And come 8:00 pm, he will be in that crib until morning, come hell or high water. Well, I guess if by "high water" I mean a 3 pound soaked diaper, then maybe not. But you get the point.

Stay tuned.....it's gonna be one swell adventure.

By far the coolest thing ever.....

In my quest for things to lull my wee man to sleep in his own bed, I came across these truly awesome lullaby albums. They are baby versions of classic adult-ish music like Pink Floyd and Nirvana. I am so in love with these. I found them on my Zune Marketplace, but I'm sure they're on iTunes too. And they have a website, http://www.rockabyebabymusic.com/



The Beatles

Bjork

The Cure

Nirvana



Pink Floyd



Bob Marley



 

  

   









Do Chastity Belts Come in Size XS?

I realize that at some point my girls will discover that boys are not really the stinky, cootie-ridden worm-eating creatures that I raised them to believe they were. I just didn't expect that point to come so, like....soon.

I was a good 7 or 8 years old before I had my first crush. It was Paul McCartney. I was pining over a very handsome doe-eyed 20-something Paul, when in fact he was actually closer to 50 at that time. Then came New Kids On The Block, and Jordan Knight took Paul's place. Then Eddie Furlong, and so on and so forth.

So the other night my girls were telling me about meeting grandma's neighbors that live across the field. My 6 year old got this glazed-over look in her eyes as she told me about the boy. "He's 6 like me. And he's got yellow hair like me. And he drives a tractor. Sigh...."

Oh, great.

I've Created a Monster

Right after having my third, and last, child, I sorta went through this "Oh, crap. The baby factory is closed for good." phase and never, ever, ever, ever put that kid down. I mean, not even for like 5 seconds to chase my Valium with a good cold shot of Smirnoff. Just kidding...kind of.

I ate with him, I folded laundry with him, I showered with him, I watched Real Housewives of Atlanta with him. And, the biggest mistake, I let him sleep with me in our bed. Snuggled next to me like a little baby koala, hugging my forearm, drooling on my jammies. And this is why I now have a completely dependent 7 month old who refuses to sleep anywhere other than right next to me. I mean, it was sweet when he was the size of a Glow Worm and didn't take up much room. Now he's this beefy little bed hog who throws his elbow into my ribs if I get in his way.

I've tried everything. I've read all the gurus websites. He hates binkies, he refuses to latch on to any sort of replacement for "me". I went and got one of those nifty singing lullaby light-up thingamajigs that hangs on his crib at Born Again, but that doesn't even stop his blood-curdling crying that loosely translates to "What's going on here? Where the hell is my mom?!"

If there is anyone out there who has some sort of insight into this?

Signed,
Sleepless in the Valley

Booger Butt Nut Monkey Pickle Face

My nicknames for my children get stranger with each passing year. With my first kid, I started out with simple terms of endearment such as Piglet or pumpkin. With my second, I stepped away from the typical baby names and called her fuzzball or onion head (she's got a really round little noggin). My poor third child has the most creative nicknames yet - isn't it always the third who gets the worst of everything? In any given day I call him at least 57 different combinations of the following:

• monkey
• booger
• ball
• nut
• fur
• pickle
• butter
• butt
• chunk or chunky
• chub
• wiener
• turkey

I'd love to know what other people call their kids (or stepkids, or nieces/nephews, etc)... if only to reassure myself that I'm not crazy.

The Peculiarity of the Quarterlife Crisis

At the ripe ol’ age of 29 I find myself smack dab in the middle of a fistfight between my multiple personalities. In one corner, we have Mrs. Wannabe-June Cleaver who stays at home baking cookies, darning socks and waiting to greet Mr. Cleaver at the door with a big pot roast in one hand and a highball in the other. In the other corner, Ms. I-Refuse-To-Act-A-Day-Older-Than-19 who blares all kinds of morally offensive music once the kids leave the car, would rather spend money on Red Bulls than start a college fund, and thinks a clean pair of Chucks are part of a suitable professional wardrobe.

It’s a difficult task trying to find that balance between the new “grown up” side of me and the somewhat-irresponsible punk I always will be. Don’t get me wrong here – It’s not like I party until the wee hours while my kids are at home chugging Mountain Dew and watching South Park. But after work, I’m for damn sure halfway to the wine rack before the girls can even get their backpacks off and drop them by the front door. And I’ve at least stopped wearing my stupid graphic t-shirts from the boys department at WalMart  – to work, anyway.

Since having children, I’ve felt that I’m expected to start wearing twinsets and pleated khakis and quit working so that I can shuttle my kids to play dates and cello lessons. I don’t know why…All I know is that I’m really not the Type A mom type. I’m not the kind of mom who can bake 6 dozen cookies for the class party and volunteer for every field trip. I am the type of mom makes loud embarrassing fart noises in the middle of the store just because it makes the girls laugh hysterically. And that’s all that matters, right? I’m happy; my kids are happy…who cares that I’ve got the sense of humor, music taste and fashion sense of an adolescent. Does motherhood mean I’m expected to trade in my Jay-Z for Celine Dion; my childish Smurf socks for nude nylons; my insane dream of being one of Justin Timberlake’s backup dancers for president of the PTA?

Oh, Lord won't you buy me a Toyota Sienna

I told myself I'd never drive a *gag* minivan. I hate minivans and everything that they stand for. Not only are they visually repulsive, but purchasing one means you've officially given up whatever scrap of youth you had left after popping out a couple of kids. They are reserved for those people who insist on producing children by the litter. I promised myself I'd never drive a minivan. That is until, I saw it....

It floated into the parking lot like a gleaming space age DustBuster on 13" rims. It parked, and both side doors slid open. At this point I'm leaned almost completely out of the window of my car, unblinking and mouth agape. I was half expecting some harried-looking woman in elastic-waisted Lee's to pop out, but no. And I was totally expecting 14 Kool-Aid mouthed kids to come screaming out all at once, but no. It was a normal person with normal kids, much like myself. All three tidy looking children completely exited the vehicle without one getting crawled over or smacked in the eyeball.

Now it's all I think about whenever I'm driving any or all of my children somewhere. I really love my car (you'd think I hated it if you saw the state it's in), but it's time to give in and find something that doesn't require my three kids to pack in the backseat like little sardines... I practically need a shoehorn to get them it. And holy crap, having the kids out of arm's reach of each other would save me so much screaming into the rearview mirror.

Give me your poor, your tired, your puke-stained masses...

For quite some time now, I've read the mom-blogs published in various parenting magazines. I appreciate these women (and sometimes men) for allowing a candid peek at what their lives as parents are like. I especially like the ones who aren't afraid to admit that raising children isn't all peaches and sunshine; that at some point you will very seriously consider checking yourself into a nut house.

I guess I like to know that I'm not the only one who's not perfect. I too am guilty of some shameless parenting infractions. I've dug out the four month old Halloween candy and plopped the runts in front of SpongeBob to buy me a little extra time with whatever I'm doing. After hours of listening to one kid complain about the other hitting or kicking her, I told her to just hit back. I've underestimated the mobility of my chunky little baby boy who learned to wiggle his way out of his swing while I was taking my 30-second shower. So that's what the straps are for.

Overall I'm a good parent. I love my children unconditionally, I feed them at least two (sometimes three) semi-nutritious meals a day, and woe to anyone who dare even look at my kids wrong. But I swear, there are some days that in order to preserve my sanity I have to picture a countdown timer ticking the seconds away until they turn 18. Then one of them will come tell me I am the beautifulest mom in the whole world - puke-stained sweatpants and all - and I'll wish I could stop the clock and keep them just the way they are now.