28 November 2005


For my money, there is nothing funnier right now than watching a toddler lurch around the living room like a drunken sailor in her fuzzy pink pjs while carrying a plastic Easter bucket loaded down with Thomas trains.

Trust me.

27 November 2005

Thanksgiving family vacation

Three kids.

One car.

Six well-meaning inlaws (hubby's parents, bil, sil, grandparents in law).

Whiny, clingy kids.

Kids complaining about food.

Hubby dealing with work part of weekend.

Kids fighting in car on way home.

Glass of cab sav after kids in bed early after five days of torturing Mom:


21 November 2005

Gah! Bad scale! Bad, bad, BAD scale!

Oy. That was a bad idea.

I've been complaining that nothing fits for a few weeks. Usually in the morning, as I'm rushing to get ready.

I've been avoiding the scale, too.

That ends as of tonight. So does my soda habit, my fast-food habit, and my sitting on my tail all day at work habit.

I was 117 before my last pregnancy. I won't admit where I topped out at, but as recently as July I was at 120. And happy. Outfits fit.

Not anymore. I'm at 136, which I know to many of you sounds like heaven, but is about 20 pounds over where my ob and I agreed I should end up.

Eeep. Happy Thanksgiving. Pass the veggies. Hold the mashed potatoes and stuffing. Hello Weight Watchers.

18 November 2005

Chickie pox

When I was 12, my little sister came down with the chicken pox. My mother swore I had them when I was in kindergarten, so she had me help care for my sister.

I distinctly recall, as I was cleaning out the bathtub after yet another oatmeal bath, that I was doomed to catch the darn things. With all the skepticism of the best pre-teen filled with angst, I just was sure she was wrong.

I was right.

Two weeks later, I broke out in one of the all-time worst cases. I had them EVERYWHERE. I mean EVERYWHERE. If you've heard of it, I had them there.

To add to my pain, my then-two-year-old brother, who had one of the mildest cases ever, pranced around the house, lifting up his shirt and proclaiming: See my chickie pox! Come see my chickie pox!!

It is truly amazing that he's alive today.

Two weeks ago today, we had the younger two vaccinated for chicken pox. They've changed the shot formulation, and after this year, I wouldn't be able to get it as a stand-alone. I caved. I'd rather they got it naturally, like our eldest did. But the pharmaceutical companies thwarted me.

Tonight, after our son's bath, my husband called me in. Look at this, he says.

Chickie pox. UGH.

Thank goodness everyone we're supposed to visit over Thanksgiving has already had the darn things.

17 November 2005


I've been fighting colds for a month now. Hence my lack of posting. By the time I'd get them to bed, I'd be too tired to even concieve of going downstairs, turning on the computer, and being creative.

Saturday night, I thought I'd post after I lusted over Colin Firth in "Pride & Prejudice."

Never got that far. I was finishing up a glass of Reisling and wallowing in period literature when I heard something.

No way. Can NOT be. It's freakin' November.

But I turned off the tape, turned on the one reliable weathercaster in this town, and sure enough: tornado sirens.


I was alone with the younger two kids; dh and kid one were off at the annual daddy-daughter dance at her school. The other two were asleep.

Okay, did I really need to wake them up? Once the weathercaster started listing off landmarks and intersections in my neighborhood, I caved.

Woke up the kids. Kid two was handed a flashlight and told to be brave.

"I'm scared, Mommy."

Guess what, I was too. Because if it came, I knew there was no way I could hold on to both him and his 14-month-old sister. My plan was to lay on top of them and hold onto them for all I was worth.

In the end, we just had some hail. It was dicey there for a bit, though. There was an F1 in the next county over. Nothing like what they had in Iowa, though.

Kid two can't stop talking about the "tormado" now. It's a topic every night. I'm proud of him, because he was brave, despite being scared. He listened, despite being the same 3-year-old pest who was sent to bed early for not listening. He was an angel.

But, please God, could we hold off on the tormados until next season?


02 November 2005

There's no "fun" in fundraising

I hate fundraising. I've hated it since my parents made me trek around our rural route to sell overpriced candy bars and raffle tickets for my elementary school.

Let's just say that by fifth grade, I knew that sales would never be my vocation.

Just because I've grown up doesn't mean I've escaped. I get calls at home for donations--We only give through our church, thanks. I get the annual arm-twisting from United Way at work. I do the Walk for Life, because my mom's best friend died of breast cancer when I was in high school. I've never seen my mom so devastated.

Right now, my daughter is selling cookie dough for her talented and gifted program. That, at least, is usable, unlike the wrapping paper, candy, candles, entertainment books, you name the latest stupid thing we have to sell.

In January, it will be Girl Scout cookies. Place your orders now.

Right now, I've been roped into the Muscular Dystrophy Assocation (think Jerry's Kids) fundraiser by one of the Greek organizations at work. They blindsided me, and like a fool, I said yes. My mom's boss's daughter was a Jerry's Kid about 20 years ago; she now is a teacher, I believe. She has spina bifida. Hey, at least I have a connection.

If you'd like to donate to a good cause (and what among them isn't these days) and get me out of jail early, follow the link below. If you want to let me rot in jail for an hour, hey, that's fine too.

Get Sherrie Outta MDA Jail