Super Noob:
Best Of

My Dearest Addyson,
Three years ago today you took your first breath...and in many ways so did I. When you made your way into this world, mine changed forever. Instantly my heart swelled with love, joy, pride and fear. Oh I had heard all about how the love for one's child is unmatched by any other...but I didn't really get it. Not until you. When I gazed upon your face for the first time, I understood. My love for you was immediate and immeasurable. Love so strong it almost hurt. Love so strong I never fathomed that it could grow any more.
I was so wrong. With each passing day my heart and the love within are ever growing. You astound me with your intelligence. With your capacity for compassion. With your love for me, your daddy, and your brothers. Every day you bring me to the brink of my sanity, just to reel me right back in with an unexpected hug or kiss. You are a challenge, knowing exactly what you want and how you want it...accepting no substitutions nor any delays. You are a pistol, a never ceasing font of energy. You stretch my patience to the limit, then sweetly melt my heart not moments later. You are tender and wise beyond your three little years.
It hardly seems fair that three years have already passed. I wish I could soak up every second and every moment so they may be stored at the ready for me to relive any time I desire. Every day I memorize each line of your face, count every new freckle. And every day I watch you as you become someone I never dreamed you'd be. Dreaming of the person you are would have been impossible. You have surpassed my every expectation, my every desire, my every hope. You have fufilled my every wish, Addyson. You have not only made me a mother...each day you teach me just what that means.
Happy birthday, little peanut. I love you simply more than you will ever truly know.

Love,Mommy

Recently I have read many posts which give advice on the "how to's" of blogging. Don't fret, this is not one of them (though I do have some thougts on the matter). I actually like reading those posts. Oftentimes they offer some helpful tips on how to improve things. Who doesn't want to improve? I especially like it when it comes from the author of a blog I truly enjoy. It's like free advice on how to become better received.

There is, however, one thing I don't like about some of these posts that I have read. I don't want to be told about what I should or shouldn't blog. I already have my own parameters. For example, (with this minor exception) I will not blog about my husband's ex-wife. Off limits...for me. Does that mean I will think poorly of another blogger who does chose to write about that topic? Absolutely not. In fact, I quite enjoy it at times because I can certainly relate to some of the situations. Some people are very religious, and like to express it openly for all to read. Again, not necessarliy my comfort zone, but not going to turn me away either. Often there are some very thought provoking posts on the subject...and it doesn't matter what religion it is, or how they write the post. If it's not for me, I skip it. No harm no foul.

I love my blog. I love my readers. I love my avid commenters! I want to be able to write whatever I feel, and not have to think about whether I may be offending someone. Isn't that what blogging is? A space of our very own to share our thoughts? What fun would it be if we were all cookie cutters of eachother, spitting out the same tired thoughts on the same tired subjects? I would lose interest in no time.

One of the many wonders of blogging is all the different personalities behind the blogs. Some I turn to and I know I will always get a laugh. Some usually leave me thinking of something in a way I hadn't before...and others are just plain fun. Do I love every post, every time? No. That would just be impossible. So, on those posts, I take a pass and come back again another day.

If you are anything like I am, and you have worried about your posts and what others might think...I say stop it. It's your blog. Your space. Make it yours. Give it a life by breathing into it your voice...whatever that may be. When you write what's in your heart, it will allow others to really connect on a different level. Some of my favorite blogs are unabashed about sharing anything and everything. Let's be clear, I am not talking about this tired old line about blogging boldly. I am simply saying don't censor based on what you think others may like or not. You will never please the entirety of the masses...but those who do connect will enjoy it all the more. I certainly do.

he's my brother...

I hope that this is a foreshadowing of their future relationship. I have a brother, and he is without question one of my best friends. My love for him is very much like the love I have for my children...it just is. It exists free of condition, free of burden. My brother has added a layer of depth to my life that has aided in the shaping of who I am today. Together we lived, laughed, cried, loved and faught our way through childhood, adolecsence and into adulthood. My life is richer, fuller and more complete as a result of him. Of all the gifts my parents have ever given, my brother is undeniably the most cherished I have ever received. It is my deep desire that my children also share the same amazing bond that my brother and I are so lucky to have. I hope that they carry each other through hard times, laugh with each other through good times, cry together through sad times, and pull each other through when the rest of the world seems to have left them bereft. So...it is my hope that this photograph of Addyson pulling her little brother, is a foreshadowing of their relationship, their ever growing friendship, and their unbreakable bond.

Once upon a time there was a woman who had a clean house...where did she go? I'll tell you where. Crazy. That's where. Each night I go to bed with my crazy tank at full. I mean topped off. Morning comes, and I rise with slightly renewed vigor. Then it begins. My day as short order cook, washer of dishes, wiper of butts, healer of hurts, teacher of lessons. My day of being incessantly needed by these tiny little people.
I once made a reference to the seagulls on Finding Nemo...about their mindless chanting of "mine! mine! mine!" Well, just replace "mine" with "mommy" and press repeat. So it's no wonder my house is no longer the place of cleanliness and order it once was. At first, I was in a constant state of distress. Frazzled at every coner turned within these walls. Not one five foot stretch of floor can be walked over without encountering a car, shoe, doll, ball, lego, unopened tampon (no, there is nothing sacred...no private space), action figure, stuffed animal, muffin tin, and the list goes on. Daily I precariously walked the fine line between this world and looney town.
Until I simply decided to not care. That's right. I decided there are glass balls and rubber balls. Glass balls are the ones that will break when dropped...things like reading to Addyson and Colton, making their meals, giving them love. Rubber balls bounce. So the living room floor that is littered with toys and countless other articles, rubber ball...bounce. Having clean laundry... glass ball...break. Having folded laundry, rubber ball...bounce. This way of thinking keeps me hanging on to the last fraying thread that is my sanity.
Now, I am about to post some very frightening pictures of my house at its worst. Bear in mind this is not (despite my proclamation) the usual state of my home. If it were, ain't nothin' that would keep me planted in reality! This is the state of my home post Christmas. I will say, however, that it stayed like this until just a few days ago. Oh, and the living room is exactly like this still.
Be warned...not for the faint of heart.

One of the two living room couches in its usual fashion.

Part of the living room. Yes that's a bottle of facewash...in the living room.

More living room.

Kitchen island. See the Clorox bottle? Yeah...that helped. I will say though, my dishes are always clean. For me, that is another glass ball.

My nightstand. Sadly, this is always the way it looks. Oh, yes...I sleep with earplugs so I don't have to listen to the rattle and hum from the other side of the bed.

Sigh. My floor. This is gone now.

Just beside our entry. That is a hitch on the floor. You know, in case we need to make a quick get away and have to use the hitch. Really, I have no idea. This area has also been whipped into shape.
So now that I have given you ample reason to feel better about your own house, kindly thank me before you leave.

As my daughter careens toward her third birthday I am plagued slightly troubled by thoughts of what is yet to come. See, she is already so wilfull and mischievous and smart, and...I think you get the point. What scares me most is how similar in personality she is to me. Now that I am a mother, I have a greater appreciation for my own, and all that she endured. One might think I was hellbent on driving her over the deep end. I'm not saying I was a bad teenager, and that I got myself into major trouble. Nope, I was mellowed out (mostly) by then. I am referring to my days as a three year old...not that I remember much of them, but I cringe at some of the recounted tales.

It's 1979 and we are living in Worcester, Massachusettes (my mom's home town). My parents decided to live there for a little while, at my mom's request, to be near her family. My mom is hugely pregnant with my brother, and in no mood for my shenanigans. So she sends me out front to play (I still can't believe there was ever a time when that was okay). After an unpsecified amount of time elapses, she looks out the window to check on me. No Shannon...I wasn't Mamma then ;). Having a brief moment of panic, she goes out front for further inspection. Strewn about the sidewalk are my clothes. With much effort, she bends to retreive my articles from the sidewalk, only to find they are wet...like super soaker style. Blood pressure rising, she looks to the right. Still no Shannon. Looks to the left and there is Shannon, running naked from the waste down. She hollars calls sweetly for me to get my little butt over to her. All sugar and innocence, I come to my mom. My mom rushes me inside to put on clean pants, chastizing me all the way about not peeing in my clothes. "Shannon, when you need to go potty, you don't go in your clothes!" "Okay, momma." I say sweetly. "Can I go back outside to play now?" Of course she lets me...like any mother, she was anxious for any precious moments of peace she could muster.

For the second time, I am outside playing, mom is inside. Time passes, and reluctantly she hefts herself up to check on me. Expecting to see me galavanting down the street with the other little boys and girls, she coems to the window and stares in silent horror at the scene layed out before her. Her daughter, to whom she had told just moments before "we don't go potty in our clothes" was not in fact going potty in her clothes. Nope. Her daughter was squatting on the sidewalk right in front of the house, taking a poop. Paralyzed, my mom doesn't know what to do. Clearly she has to retreive her demon spawn angelic child, and get her into the house. Yet the thought swimming in her head is one of the neighbors saying "I didn't know you had a dog" as she is stooped over scooping the poop. Fortunately for my mother, no one saw her when she did finally go out to clean my mess. In my defense...I did not go potty in my clothes.

If this story is not enough to have me running scared over what's to come, well I need not look any further than my mom's memory of me and my escapades for further horror material.

My idea for this post stems from one this one written by SFTC. Thanks for this inspiration!

My husband is terrific. He has so many redeeming qualities it would be hard for me to list them all. Which is why, in this post, I am going to rant about something all together different...his most annoying habit. Well, I guess you would call it a habit. It's his CrackBlackberry. Seriously, I would like to see that thing suffer a long, slow, painful death.

Like many, I stay home with the children, while my husband goes off to work everyday. When he gets home I like for him to be plugged in here. Engaged with me. With the children. When we sit down to dinner together as a family, my request (okay requirement) is that we eat without outside interruptions. Our children go to bed early. Seven o'clock to be precise, and so it is hugely important that he make the most of his time with them when he gets home. To be clear, this does not mean that he takes over child care duties, it simply means that he be here as an active and willing participant in their lives. For the most part...he is. I said for the most part.

See my husband has a mistress. Oh, there is no other woman's perfume wafting in the door with him when he enters our home. There is no lipstick on his collar. There is never any mysterious late night rendezvous. Nope...his mistress is his Blackberry. That little tramp.

A couple of years ago I made the dire mistake of getting him his first Blackberry for Christmas. I thought it would be helpful for him at work. I thought he would like it. What didn't occur to me then was what an intrusion the little device would be into our lives.

From the time he comes home, the Blackberry is buzzing and chirping almost without pause. Even through dinner, which wouldn't be that big of a deal all by itself. What gets me is the way my husband behaves as if the stupid thing is his lifeline. Like without it, without his constant contact to the outside world, he would shrivel and melt into a puddle like the witch on Wizard of Oz. The buzzing is like a siren song to which my husband has no defense. He hears the buzz and is compelled to action, checking the device with the same feverish intensity of a crack addict about to take his long awaited next hit. We go nowhere without it. Truly, if we tried, telltale signs of addiction would be evident. He would get the shakes. All would notice the tremor in his hands. It would be a catastrophe.

When confronted about his obsession, there is always a legitimate reason (in his mind anyway) as to why he needs to check this message, or take this call. The funny thing is, every message is this message, and every call is this call. No matter if it is Monay or Sunday. Sadly for me, this is a battle I will never win. Why I chose it to begin with is beyond me. I should have recognized his unrelentling need to have her at all times. So while I don't love her (in fact I despise her), I will learn to live with her. As it seems my husband's dependency on her shows no signs of abating. That won't stop me however, from plotting her demise.

I caught myself today saying something that, if taken out of context, would sound very incriminating. Then it got me thinking about the things I say on a regular basis to my kids. In or out of context it amazes me the words that come out of my mouth. To no one but one of my children could I say any of these things and not be looked at like I was deranged:

"Don't run with that pencil...you'll stab yourself in your eye."

"Spit out that rock...it's only pretend cake, you can't really eat rocks."

"Guys, seriously...can mommy just potty in peace?"

"Don't do that, you are getting pee all over the floor."

"You're right, that is a monster poop!"

"Yes, I heard, but you need to say excuse me after you fart." (lovely isn't it?)

"Well, we don't buy babies...but okay, he can be the last one."

"Shhh...he didn't color on his face, I will explain later." (about someone with a large birthmark)

"Yes, I see that person does have a sticker on his shoulder." (tattoo)

"No, you won't have what he has when you get older. Because you are a girl."

"No honey I didn't fart...I need to brush my teeth."

"Why are you outside with no clothes on?"

"No, you can't taste the worm!"

"You're right...mommy shouldn't say a-s-s, mommy should say bottom."

There you have it. I could go on and on, but now I want to hear some of your favorites. So go ahead, leave 'em in the comments. Don't have kids? That's okay, I am sure you have heard some doozies so leave those!

I should warn you that this is just a random post about nothing much at all. Just was remembering a couple of things, and here goes...

When I was younger, well, no...not when I was younger. At least not just when I was younger. I still do it today. What? Ah yes, let's get to that. I ask questions like "would you rather...?" or "what would you do if I...?" I get a huge kick out of asking the most outlandish things. What's even funnier is I have actually done some of the "what would you do if I's?"

My husband (then just plain old boyfriend) and I were walking by a restaurant, and I asked him "what would you do if I pressed my bare butt (does that offend you? should I say bottom?) against the glass window to the people eating just inside?" He couldn't get me outta there fast enough. He already knew what sort of crazy streak I have and he embarrasses easily.

Not sure why I find this so funny. I have always appreciated humor that defies the norm. I get the biggest charge out of seeing people's reactions to behavior that isn't considered socially acceptable. So much so that I have done some pretty out there things just so I could get those reactions.

Read on.

I am in high school. I am walking home and trailing behind a small group of boys (not anyone I recognized). One of them is straggling just behind the others. I am alone. Idea. I speed up so that I am just behind the straggler and I softly make a noise like a chicken "baaaak." The straggler stiffens a little, but pretends not to notice. I am stifling a laugh. I repeat the noise...only this time slightly louder and with a little poke of my index finger to his back. He turns to look at me immediately. Unmasked shock in his eyes (I couldn't blame him). Then without hesitating he catches up to his friends and is frantically whispering to them. Well, I couldn't make the guy look crazy to his friends, right? That's what I figured...so as they were standing huddled just fifteen feet in front of me, I begin scratching at the ground with my right foot and loudly making the chicken noises ( I am dying of laughter at the memory as I write). My arms are bent at the elbows and I am flapping as if I have wings. They are staring, no doubt wondering if I was on something, or if I was a little crazy...I was neither. As this is happening, my adrenaline surges, and in one last burst I shoot forward to their group, scuttle through them (all the while making the chicken sounds), then stop and calmly walk away. They are left standing and still wondering what on God's green earth is wrong with me. I laughed all the way home that day. On a little side note I ran into them later in the year at a post football game party. They all laughed and shouted "hey it's the chicken lady." They all admitted they thought I must have been totally crazy, but that they thought it was hilarious. It was. Anyway, we were friends after that night.

As I sit here tonight, I realize that I actually don't do stuff like that anymore. Not really. Now I am too busy making sure that bottoms and noses are wiped, mouths are fed, no one is hurting anyone else, my house is at least in some state of "respectable." Yet the thing is, I know that I will do those things again. My kids have no idea what lurks in their future. I thought my mom could embarrass me when I was young? (okay, so maybe I was the one who embarrassed her, but that doesn't fit in with the point I am trying to make). Anyway, all I am saying is: Drew, Addyson and Colton, beware! The chicken still lives within.

Nursing my two little ones was an amazing experience. Both times. Knowing that I was all they really needed to survive during that time, was very surreal. I am passionately pro breast feeding! A true believer that breast feeding, is in deed, best feeding.

Now that I am no longer nursing my youngest, I find it a little bittersweet. Bittersweet and...embarassing! I mean, come on! Why is there still milk in these girls? Not that I am anxioulsy awaiting the ultimate frontal sags, but if it isn't going to good use, then I don't want it in there.

So what brought this on? I mentioned that my kids are sick. They still are. Addyson is feeling much better, but Colton was very clingy today. So I carried him around for a good portion of the day. This lead to my inability lack of desire to make lunch. Instead, I ordered from a local pizza place. Muy excelente...oh wait, wrong ethnicity. Anyway, I ordered the kids a calzone to share.

Fourty minutes later, the doorbell rings, and I am still toting my 14 month old around the house. Here is where I should mention that I am still in the t-shirt and shorts that I slept in...ah, and no bra...see where this is headed? So I put Colton down to answer the door, hastily I hand over my debit card for verification. As I have my arm outstretched to pizza boy he just stands there staring forever for a second or two before taking my card. Inside my head I say something like "Seriously? You don't see my crying kid here? Really, just take your time, jackass!" Yeah, it was probably something like that. We complete the rest of our brief transaction, I close the door and usher the kids to the kitchen.

Passing a mirror I roll my eyes at the goddess unkempt figure who looks back at me...then I see it. Yep, where I had been carrying Colton against my bra-less chest, there now sits a silver dollar sized wet mark. Too perfectly positioned, too perfectly shaped to simply be something I spilled on myself. Great. I can only imagine the story that pizza boy told his pimply faced cronies.

So I ask again...why is there still milk in these girls? I last nursed Colton on October 19th! Oh well, at least I brightened some teenage boy's day. So from now on, you can just call me Elsie. Elsie the cow.

...let 'em me doctors and lawyers and such. You've heard this Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson song, right? If not, you can go here to check it out. I happen to like this twangy old classic, and its title relates well to something that is on my mind in varying degrees every day. No, I am not worried that my babies may actually grow up to be cowboys, nor do I care whether they become doctors and lawyers and such (though that would be wonderful). What does concern me is their character. I am concerned over who they will be rather than what they will be, and I worry over my husband's and my role in shaping just that.

I like to think of a baby as a blank slate when born. A newborn baby doesn't lie, manipulate, steal, cheat, blame, swear or any other number of things our morally bankrupt society does on a regular basis. They are a clean slate, just waiting for someone to make their mark on them. This is where it all begins, this long arduous journey of shaping the moral character of another human being. Heavy.

So what do we do as mothers or fathers when we catch our child in a lie? What do we do when we witness our 2.5 year old manipulate her 15 month old brother so that she can end up with the toy that her little brother was contentedly playing with? What do we do when our 2.5 year old hears what we say, yet deliberately chooses to do something all together different than instructed? These things seem so small when singled out, but I believe that our answers to these questions are the blueprint used in shaping our children.

Modifying my children's behavior on a daily basis is exhausting. It is mentally and emotionally taxing. It sucks the life right out of me. But it is necessary.

Let's take lying. When our child lies to us, how do we react? Well, I for one, do not let it slide. Ever. In my opinion there is no reason...ever...that it is okay to lie. It is one trait that I consider absolutely despicable. So, when my 10 year old lies, he has a consequence. Now, I know that the consequence itself won't stop him from lying in the future, but it may have him at least thinking about it more carefully before he does it the next time around. And so it will go until he is an adult and out on his own. Hopefully, the constant reinforcement while home with us will have taught him that lying is never an okay solution.

Now, one more example. Deliberately disobeying. Addyson does this. Not very often, but often enough to test my patience. So when this occurs, it is stopped swiftly. She is redirected (as calmly as I can muster) by going for a timeout. Timeout is what works best for my daughter. She sits in her timeout spot for 2 minutes, then I calmy re-explain why she had a timeout. I tell her I want an apology, I give her a kiss and a hug and then we get on with our day. Most times, this same behavior doesn't crop up again (at least not in the same day). Through this reinforcement, Addyson will learn that having repsect for others is necessary. It is a characteristic she will carry with her throughout her life.

Our children are a direct reflection as adults, of the way they were parented as children. Being a parent is a huge responsibility and a tremendous blessing. In becoming a parent, I believe, we made a choice to always do what is right for our children. To always put their best interest first. It's not easy. In fact it's down right hard. Which means there are times when I would like to pretend I didn't just witness Addyson push her little brother down, or that I didn't hear Drew teasing Addyson relentlessly. In those times my husband's motto from Westpoint Military Academy resonates with me : Always choose the harder right over the easier wrong. In so doing, I take the worry out of the equation. I feel confident in my husband's and my role in helping to shape who they will be.

And if Colton and Drew want to become cowboys...well, that is A-Okay with me. So long as they are honest, hard-working, upstanding and moral cowboys ;)

Having my son when my daughter was just 18 months old meant I would definitely need a double stroller. I researched endlessly for a week or so before settling on the Duo Glider by Graco (this is not a sponsored post in any way). I had read great things about it, and it was comparable in price to many other good ones. After searching online for the best deal, I bought it on Amazon. Couldn't wait to have it come in.

About a week later, the stroller arrived. Woo hoo! I had Andy put it together right away. Now, all I needed was my little boy to make his debut. He did, and it wasn't long before I got to test drive the new wheels. So I loaded the kids in and set out for a walk in the neighborhood.

At first, all was well. We were on a long road, and Addyson was loving having baby Colton with her. Then came the first corner. Ugh! I hadn't worked out in a while, and it took some real muscle to get that thing to turn. Hmmm...I was hoping it was just the road. Maybe it would work better on a smoother surface. Nope.

This stroller has accompanied us on countless walks, trips to the park, the zoo, and even a trip to New Orleans. Each and every time we got that bad boy out, I would complain to Andy "this stroller is a piece of S*&T! It is so hard to maneuver!" I'll be darned if I was going to spend any more money to get another one though. So we learned to live with it.

Today, 15 months later...something happened. I was at the mall with my two babes when another mother walked by and I noticed she had the same stroller. Feeling bold, I asked her if she had trouble turning hers and explained that mine turned about as well as the Titanic. Nope, she's never had any trouble. She even demonstrated how freely hers spins, and I looked on with envy.

Then, giving my stoller a once over, she gave me a tip that would change my strollering experience for the better from here on out. Now, dear friends, I pass this tip on to you! If you have this stroller and you are having the same trouble I always had before this stroller angel freed me...I give you this: check the front wheels to see if they're locked. Um, yeah. That's it. My husband and I are both college graduates (he a graduate from Westpoint), not to mention the fact that his degree was in engineering, no less. Yet here we've been for the past 15 months, struggling with the demon stroller, whose wheels were all the while...locked. Genius.