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Monday, October 31, 2011

The Many Faces of "Best Buddy"

Remember my post about "Best Buddy," the "modest" skeleton hanging on our pantry door?  Well, he has been in top form this month!  It's been a fun-filled, "bone-shakin'" October filled with NUMEROUS trips to the pantry for Halloween candy and a visit with Best Buddy.  His various poses have surprised and delighted us!

For my lovely, "sweet-as-candy corn" readers and bloggy friends, a real treat for you for Halloween:

 The Many Faces of "Best Buddy" 
(Daaa da-da!)

*Best Buddy must know my hubby's clan hails from Ireland.  He favors "the jig."


*When I went to Beijing, I saw the Chinese acrobats perform.  They were AMAZING.  They kind of looked like this.  Kind of.

*Best Buddy sees no evil, hears no evil, and speaks no evil.  He's a really nice guy.

*Best Buddy is a true Thespian.  He has a flare for the dramatic.  Le sigh.  (Or perhaps he's just tired of watching me mop the kitchen floor...over and over again.)

*Best Buddy turned all "zen" on us and took up yoga.  I'm pretty confident the madness of the McD house forced him into a quest for peace.  Strike the tree pose and rest in peace, Buddy!

*Lastly, look who finally confessed his undying love for little ol' moi...



Thursday, October 27, 2011

Because It's Breast Cancer Awareness Month

Ta-tas.  Boobies.  "The girls."  Whatever you want to call them, people, I'm here to tell you that I don't really have them.  My boobs seem to be lacking in...girth?  Volume?  Stature? 

Don't get me wrong, before I had kids I had boobs.  Granted, they weren't huge...just nice and perky.  During my pregnancies, something marvelous happened to "the girls."  They plumped right up and filled out nicely.  For a brief time, I was curvaceous!  (This is a VERY BIG DEAL for a girl who resembles a praying mantis.)  It was uncanny, unheard of!  It sort of made up for the raging heart burn and the "pain in the ass" constipation that pregnancy induced.  (And you bet that pun was intended!) 

After my babies were born--and after discovering I was unable to nurse them--my ta-tas decided to retire from their "milk maid trade" and become magicians.  They pulled a "David Copperfield" trick and disappeared.  Poof!  Just like that.

Sometimes I find myself yearning for bigger boobies.  (Remember that one post about the man in Staples??  HE THOUGHT I WAS A DUDE!)  I'm not prepared to embark on any kind of "surgical enhancement" (too scared--I mean, I've been known to hyperventilate while having my teeth cleaned), and I'm still coming to terms with the fact that  my boobs are non-existent--diminished, wilted, gone,  poof!  So in the meantime...I rock a padded bra.

I recently went bra shopping with my mom.  Twenty years ago, that would have been as embarrassing as the time my "fourth grade self" farted in front of the boy I had a crush on while standing in the school lunch line.  Now, bra shopping with my mom is pretty tame...and mostly fun.

Her "Perfect Brassiere for Leish" radar must have been tuned to ULTRA PADDED, because as we wandered through the racks (hee hee...racks) of "intimate apparel," she honed in on the most padded bra in all of creation.  There it was--in the midst of all the lace and leopard print, the demi-cups and push-ups--two pillows attached by an elastic band.  She held it up for me and giggled:  "What about this one, Leish?"

"I know you're showing that one to me to be funny, Mom," I laughed, "but it's actually perfect.  Hand it over and I'll try it on."

Guess which one I bought? 

Shortly after the bra shopping excursion, I was cleaning the toilet of our guest bathroom (blech!) when Lilly appeared in the doorway; panicked and out of breath.  "Mom, Mom!," she said, "Come quick!  It's Camren!"

I threw down the Lysol Toliet Bowl Cleaner and sprang to my slipper-clad feet.  I felt my heart flip and flop in my chest as I thought about what could be wrong.  "He's finally managed to shove an entire stick of string cheese into his mouth, and now he's choking to death," I thought.  Has he gotten tangled up in the blinds?  (Oddly, he loves to play in them.)  Has he tripped and banged his noggin?

"Follow me, Mom," Lilly shouted, as we raced into my bedroom.  She pointed to the floor--to where Cam was sitting with his toy cars--and screamed, "LOOK!  CAMREN'S GOT YOUR BOOBS ON HIS HEAD!!"

I looked at my grinning, beautiful, brown-eyed baby boy--with my padded bra draped across the top of his head in such a fashion as to resemble ear muffs--and thought two things:

1.) He looks like Princess Leia.

2.) Lilly is right.  Indeed, those are my boobs on his head.

Here's the thing:  It doesn't matter what you call them--ta-tas, boobies, or "the girls."  And it doesn't matter what size you are--big, just right, or itty-bitty.  (Or so itty-bitty your bra is ULTRA PADDED.)  What matters is that you take care of them; valuing your body and taking a proactive stance on women's health issues.  Check yourself.  Visit your doctor regularly.  Your physical well-being is important.  YOU are important.

May the force be with you...and your breast-a-roos!

Monday, October 24, 2011

Funny, Funny!

Sometimes being a mom is really funny.

Like when you go to the thrift store with one of your "besties" to peruse used books in insanely good condition and at insanely good prices, and you notice your son is trying to crawl into a dressing room that is muy ocupado.

That's funny. 

Then there's the time you're "crafting" at a friend's house while the four children play.  Suddenly, two of the four are buck-naked and running through the house and the bathroom smells strongly and peculiarly of hand soap and NO ONE under three feet tall is talking about what really happened upstairs while "the moms" were into the mod podge.  The "newly potty-trained" third kid emerges from the bathroom (after needing to "tinkle") and forgets to put his bottoms back on, so now HE is running around partially naked and your mom friend keeps saying insanely hilarious things like, "Put on your pants!  Cover up Mr. Bo Jangles!"

See?  That's funny too.

Or how about when you take a trip to the craft store and your kids start acting like monkeys in the cart.  Your toddler keeps yelling, "Gee oww!  Gee oww!," because he really just wants to "get out" of the cart and run around.  When you finally succumb to his pleadings you wish you hadn't because NOW he's chasing the little old man in the Rascal Scooter.  The kid is undoubtedly obsessed with ANYTHING with wheels, and the little old man seems slightly ticked.  So back into the cart he goes, only to pitch a colossal fit that involves his big head butting into your preschooler's big head.  Now SHE'S crying and you can't help but think about how ridiculously small the stinkin' craft store carts are.  All you can say is, "Geez!  What IS with you guys and the craft store?!  I can't bring you in here.  It makes you weird."  That's when you hear the woman in the next aisle start giggling, because she totally heard your rant.  After waiting in the checkout line, you make yourself feel better by purchasing TWO candy bars.  (Which you will eat at bedtime, while the kids are sleeping.)

Sometimes being a mom is really funny.

It's a darn good thing I've got a sense of humor!
(And chocolate as my therapy!)

Friday, October 21, 2011


I've got it!

I finally know what the Cam Man is going to be for Halloween, thanks to my nifty hair-styling prowess.  (And a smidgeon of pomade.)


(Of course, he might have to kick the "blanket toting, thumb sucking" habit before he goes into office.)

Hope your weekend is filled with "who-mongous" fun!

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Hot Mom

I once saw a young guy wearing a t-shirt with the words, "I {Heart} Hot Moms" printed on it.  Sure, it was cheeky...but I have to admit, it made me smile!

Here's the thing:  I've never really considered myself a "hot mom."  (I'm much too squirrely for such a title.) 

At thirty-one, I have as many pimples as most fourteen year old girls.  (I know this because I have made comparisons while standing in line for the Twilight movies.)  I don't have time to wash my hair most days.  Though I adore Sephora, I could probably use a couple of pointers on how to apply makeup.  I wear a retainer at bedtime.  If I don't, the gap between my two front teeth starts to look like Letterman's.  I love to wear my pajama pants almost as much as I love to eat tacos.  And if it wasn't for Joann at "Wax Me Too," my gnarly brows would look like Martin Scorsese's.

Or Peter Gallagher's.

Remember THIS post?

Or Sean Connery's.

(You get the idea.)

A couple of days ago, I decided to "doll" myself up.  (No "frumpy mom" for me!)  I put on my new, red and white striped shirt.  I pulled out my skinny jeans with the teeny tiny rhinestones on the back pockets.  I wore shiny flats with little bows on the toes.  I remembered to put on red lipstick!

McHubby called from work and suggested we get together for lunch.  I loaded the kids into the car and drove to the mall (a good "half way" point) to meet him at the food court.

After Cam had dumped most of his chocolate milk down the front of his shirt, and after we had snarfed Chick-Fil-A nuggets, it was time to part ways.  James had to get back to work and I HAD to make my way to Bath and Body Works to smell all the new Christmas candles.  As I walked through the mall--with a bulky, sticky, messy stroller, and a prancing pre-schooler, and a two-year-old "mooing" like a cow--I began to notice something.  Attention from strangers.

The elderly man sitting in the plush lounge chairs outside of Macy's smiled at me.  The obnoxiously "shmoozy" dudes working the "Exotic Serums From The Center Of The Earth" kiosk did not offer to obliterate my crows feet with their magical lotion, but rather winked and smiled at me and said, "Hello."  The bearded guy working in Bath and Body Works (yes, he was even wearing an apron) stopped restocking shelves of anti-bacterial hand soap long enough to glance my way.  Even the middle-aged man working the counter at Mrs. Fields (hey, I wanted a cookie!) did a double-take when I approached the glass case.

I couldn't believe it.  "What is going on around here?," I wondered.

Had I finally, FINALLY obtained "hot mom" status!?!  I mean, holy guacamole,  I was wearing a cute outfit and red lipstick and I WAS GETTING CHECKED OUT!  I left the mall feeling giddy (and not at all frumpy) and holding my head high.

When we got home, I slipped into the bathroom to use the "potty."  (Too many Diet Cokes at lunch!)  I looked down to undo my snazzy jeans and was met with SHOCK and MORTIFICATION!!  The perpetual light bulb clicked on above my head, and suddenly all the attention I was getting made perfect (and embarrassing) sense...

My ZIPPER was already DOWN!

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

I Didn't Mean To Be A Witch

Once upon a time,
on a dark and scary night,
I walked into the kitchen
and was met with such a fright!

Sticky, sippy cups resting
in puddles of juice on the tile.
A trail of mashed up Froot Loops,
that could have measured a mile.

A mischievous ghoul and goblin,
stomping around on the floor.
Yelling and kicking and banging pots--
destruction, like I'd never seen before.

My upper lip started sweating,
my eye began to twitch.
I felt my blood start to boil,
Oh no!  Here comes my “mama witch!”

"Don't make a mess," I yell,
"and would you stop hitting each other.
Why won't you two listen to me?
After all, I AM YOUR MOTHER!!!"

With a snap and a snarl, I turn on my heel,
and gruffly leave the room.
I didn't mean to be a witch,” I say to myself,
as I tackle the laundry that looms.

I'm certain we've all felt like witches,
with our tempers and ornery glares.
As mothers, we work hard for no recognition
and wonder if anyone cares.

We frequently feel frustrated--
we feel patience is a virtue we lack.
If brooms were a mode of transportation,
on tough days, our bags we would pack.

No matter our ages or stages in life,
being a mother is tough.
We question our abilities, we doubt ourselves,
we wonder if we've done enough.

But, in the midst of all the questions,
and the cobwebs and the cauldron a bubbling--
There IS something marvelous about being a mom,
that really is quite humbling.

We must never forget that our children,
are Heavenly Father's children too.
We are wonderful, and on witchy, imperfect days,
there are a few things we can do.

We can take a deep breath, put down the broom,
and pray to our Father above.
We can change our perspective, recall the good,
and resume mothering with an increase in love.

So when a dark and scary night rushes in-
when our responsibilities overwhelm us with fear-
We'll remember our roles are especially divine,
and we'll shout, “There are NO witches here!”