This is completely crazy for me to say, but I think I want to get a dog. I blame the recent Westminster Dog Show on my sudden infatuation with getting a dog. There’s no actual science behind this, but I suspect that I’m not alone and that after seeing prize-winning Pekingese and Chinese Shar-Peis, dog adoptions will rise.

For years we have vowed that we wouldn’t get a dog again, at least not for a very, very long time. Between the shedding, slobber, vet bills, kennel bills, and dog poop, Tate and I both agreed that we didn’t need a dog.

Even as a baby, Ella resisted any sort of fuss over her hair.  Living in the south, bows and headbands are très chic in infant fashion circles, so I started Ella off early.  As a newborn, I tried to get her to wear those headbands and used KY Jelly to affix tiny bows to her head.

She would not have it!  Wailing, LOTS AND LOTS of wailing resulted, so I soon quit trying.  I didn’t want to torture her!

Ella's Nick Nolte hair

As she got older, I kept trying new ways to fix her hair.  Not only have millions of dollars invested in bows, barrettes, clips, elastic bands gone to waste, she doesn’t like me to brush it or even wash it. She’s spent a good portion of her childhood with WILD and crazy Nick Nolte in a mugshot sort of hair. Of course I could have cut it off, but I’m a glass half full kind of girl and have held out hope that one day she’ll let me fix her hair.

Just recently I’ve convinced her to allow me to put her hair back in a ponytail under the guise that it helps her.  “Ella, if I put your hair in a pony, it will stay out of your face and I won’t have to wash it so much.”  Little by little, she has even allowed me to used a barrette or headband to hold back stray strands of hair that won’t reach her ponytail.

I think anyone who is a parent has been told by well meaning grandmotherly types to “enjoy this time!”

“It goes so fast,” they say, smiling a wistful smile.  And just like being annoyed by being told that “you sure have your hands full,” we may have had to use extreme restraint to keep from knocking the cane out from under the old bag, uh, well meaning grandmother.

I admit that while in the midst of my children’s baby and toddler years, there were many occasions that I found myself wishing they were older and easier to handle.  I longed for the days when they could wipe their own butts, make logical decisions, and behave in public.  I was often exhausted by their energy and constant need for my vigilant attention to keep them from climbing the bookshelf or falling into the edge of the coffee table. It’s funny, though, my kids are now four and six, well past the terrible twos and unsteady new walker stage, and I’m finding that I MISS the toddler years.

It went too fast!  I didn’t enjoy those years enough!  Those darn well meaning grandmotherly types and their wisdom! I hate when I’m wrong and they’re right.

I was conducting very important Internet research a while back on Twitter and I came across a tweet that said something like, and I paraphrase:  “If one more person tells me I have my hands full, I’m going to scream.  #momofsix.”

I nodded my head in agreement, “Oh yes,” I thought to myself.  “That really is something to scream about! #HowAnnoying.”  What? You don’t think in hashtags, too?

It’s all over the blogosphere, saying “you have your hands full” is a no-no.  It seems like these offhand statements always come from someone when I’ve been in the midst of attempting-keyword RIGHT THERE- to manage a squalling child.  Other times I’ve gotten that kind of a comment when my rarely angelic children were behaving surprisingly well.  I’ve taken offense both because, HELLO CAPTAIN OBVIOUS, yes, I DO have my hands full, thanks for noticing and because I wonder what they really mean by their statement.

I think I was in fifth grade when I was invited to a sleepover at Becky’s house.  She was the new girl in school, a tiny school of only seven classes, one for each grade.   New kids were rare and exotic and either fiercely coveted for friendship or quickly deemed uncool.  Becky, who I later learned had moved numerous times in her elementary career, was savvy in the ways of fickle school girls and invited several of us over for a sleepover at her house that promised nail polish and pizza.

What we didn’t know-and certainly my parents didn’t know-was that Becky’s mom worked nights and that we’d be left alone overnight. I look back now and think how incredibly foolish it was to leave ten year old girls alone all night, unsupervised.  Of course, it never occurred to me at the time, I remember thinking how thrilling it was to have such freedom. We spent a rather harmless evening prank calling boys from our class and looking for raunchy movies on HBO. Apparently I survived the “ordeal.”

I knew before Kindergarten even started that my son, Carson, would be given nightly homework assignments.  My neighbor, an old hat at this schooling business, had told me over the summer when I asked her what to expect out of Kindergarten.

“Don’t worry about it, though!  It’s easy.  Just busy work,” she told me as I eyed her warily.

I didn’t say this, but I thought sarcastically to myself, “Oh well, then!  Just busy work!  By all means!  Great idea!”

I don’t know how I feel about homework, the overall general term, that is.  I know that I had homework in high school, where I practiced math calculations and edited writing assignments.  I read literature and studied the history of wars from Europe and Asia to the United States.  There were only seven hours in the school day, so it wasn’t possible to get everything completed in that time.  It’s seems reasonable that I was assigned homework.  At the time I know I usually felt overwhelmed by the work and resented having to do it, but now as a wise OLD woman I can see that I learned a lot by doing my homework.

The kids woke up Christmas morning to a house filled with gifts from Santa.  Well, you know, “Santa.” Maybe Santa is getting senile in his old age, or maybe he was on the sauce, or he needs new glasses, WHO REALLY KNOWS at this point, but Santa failed to notice that the bathtub play set he’d purchased included a bathtub marker.

I really don’t know how it happened, I wouldn’t have bought the silly thing if I’d noticed the marker.  We’ve made it six years with nary a bathtub crayon or marker decorating our tub, which is really an accomplishment of which I’m quite proud.

Let’s talk about eggnog.

My opinion about eggnog is this: I will obligingly have one very small glass during the holiday season, served ICE cold, and I do mean ICE cold with a splash of whiskey. After that I do not want another glass until the following year, when Christmas tradition dictates that I drink it. In fact, I don’t really want to be in the same room with eggnog after my token glass. Just watching others drink it and seeing the thick remnants on the glass makes me feel a little sick on the inside.

My husband on the other hand would swim laps in eggnog if I allowed it. He guzzles glass after glass, practically tonguing the glass to get every.last.drop. (That last sentence isn’t entirely true. He actually stands at the refrigerator and tongues it straight from the carton. *shudder*)

I just cannot imagine! The thickness! The richness! The word “nog.” It’s too much, I say! It’s too much! Blech.

I sometimes sit in awe in front of my computer, contemplating the wonder of the Internet in all it’s glorious goodness.  The Internet has been good to me, I work there, it provides hour upon hour of entertainment, and it allows me to never have to leave the house to fight other holiday shoppers.  How did our mothers LIVE before the Internet when they had to actually leave the house to shop!?

Thanks to all of my online shopping, we’ve been getting daily package deliveries.  It’s something I look forward to, almost as much as I look forward to receiving Christmas cards in the mail. The ding dong of the doorbell sends both me and my daughter rushing to the door to check out the size of that day’s package.

“Who’s it for!?” Ella will ask, jumping up and down.

“It’s for me!! It’s for me!!” I squeal with delight.  Ella then runs away crying.  I’m really good at this mothering business.

Snickerdoodles for School

Thanks so much to the folks at Pillsbury for sponsoring this post and for providing Pillsbury products for me to have some fun with.

It’s the holidays ’round these here parts*, otherwise known as “Send Cookies to School for Holiday Parties” season. (*aka-everywhere.)

Wednesday is Polar Express Day at school where they need…cookies.

Thursday is Good Behavior Day at school where they need….cookies.

Friday is Holiday Party Day at school where they need….WAIT FOR IT…cookies. (I bet you already guessed that, didn’t you?)