Super Noob [Search results for home] 

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.

The kitchen is the heart of the home, right? It’s where meals are lovingly prepared, families gather to eat and talk about their day, children innocently (and not so) make messes on the floor, and countless other things. When a party happens, have you ever noticed that everyone seems to congregate in the kitchen?

So, in my opinion, it goes without saying, that the kitchen should be loved. It’s the one room in the home that I have to have just right. When we chose this home, I thought I could live with the tile that was in place on the counters. After all, it even looks pretty decent. Right?

Wrong song, ding dong! I am here to tell you that tile on the counters in the kitchen es un idea muy malo! It gets dirty…deep down in the grout…and is next to impossible to clean. After time, I grew to loathe these counters. Until my husband rode home one day on his beautiful while stallion, strode in the door and proclaimed that he was here to save the princess from her tile prison. Granite to the rescue!

Beauty. Even with the towell that I couldn't be bothered to move before snapping the picture.

Ahhh. Now that’s better.

A quick hello and belated Merry Christmas. Coming out of what has been a whirlwind for us, we are back home from visiting family. Unloading the car and filling our house with the things we all received. Looking forward to posting later tonight...I have been jonesing for the blog ;)

Until then...I bid you adieu.

Almost three weeks ago we brought our furry little bundle of joy home to join our family, and today he is fighting for his life.

I debated about posting this, but I fear my head may explode if I don’t hash it all out.

Wednesday night we were playing with him in our living room, and he needed to go out for a potty break. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then ten minutes later he was at the back door wanting to come back in. When he did his breathing was very labored and his gums were going grey.

Within ten minutes I had him in my car headed for the emergency vet. There he has been since. He has pulmonary edema, which, in laymen's terms is fluid build up on the lungs. He has a severe case. There are two types. Cardiogenic (having to do with the heart), and non-cardiogenic (obviously not having to do with the heart). He has the second type.

Causes could be: anaphylactic shock (brought on by a sting/bite), choking, head trauma, electric shock, or heat stroke. We have no idea what it was, but we know it wasn’t any of the above with the exception of choking. We don’t know if he may have swallowed something and it restricted his airway for a few minutes, or if his collar got hung up on a bush he plays in and freaked out, thereby choking himself.

In any case, most cases of this typically resolve themselves within 24hours. Finnegan has been in the vet hospital since Wednesday night and shows no improvement. Because he hasn’t worsened, they keep suggesting more time. So…we’ve been continuing to give him more time.

My heart is sick with worry, I cry out of no where throughout the day, I look at his toys strewn about my living room and cry again. I am a huge mess. There is already a hole in his absence. I can’t imagine what will happen if he doesn’t make it, and yet the vet has said we need to start preparing for that. How? I am not God, nor do I want to play God. The thing is, we don’t have an endless supply of money either.

I think the consensus that we have reached is to try to give him until Monday to show improvement. If he doesn’t go into respiratory distress before then. If that happens, then I will consider it his way of letting us know he can’t do it anymore.

In the meantime we are trying to figure out how we will come up with the money to support our little guy until then. Our bill thus far is over $3,000.00. Now is one of those times when I wish I were still working.

So…we wait. Just like we’ve been doing since this began. Waiting and hoping that he starts to show us that he is going to pull through. Meanwhile, I am an emotional wreck and was ill prepared to answer my precocious daughter’s questions about his whereabouts. “The doctors will tell us when he can come home, right mama?” “Mama, Finnegan is our dog…so he needs to come home to be with us.” “Do you promise they will tell us when he is ready, mama?” What on earth do you say to that?

This past Sunday my Aunt's mother passed away. One of my cousins and I were talking about it, and we both had the same memory come to mind. P.I. (Aunt's Mom's initials) was shouting as we would ride by on our bicycles "E.T. phone home!" We would laugh hysterically at her kooky remark and ride by again to hear her repeat it. We were young kids then. We weren't very forgiving, and so we basically thought she was, well...kooky.

Now I am an adult with kids of my own, and to be honest I can still say that she was kooky. The difference is, today I will tell you I am too. When I remember P.I. now, I don't remember her for being kooky. I remember her for her generous heart, her forgiving nature, her quickness to befriend, her eagerness to smile and her love to laugh. She was a warm woman with a good soul, and she was my Aunt's mother.

It is impossible for me to process the despair my Aunt must feel at the loss of her mom. It was very sudden, and somehow that makes it worse. I think when we know the end is near, we can at least attempt to ready ourselves for the grief to come. But when a loved one is taken suddenly without warning, it hits like a freight train.

I know this all too well. When I was younger I lost one of my closest friends. There was an accident at work, he was badly injured and didn't make it out alive. Freight train. Devastation. Devastation for all of us who were left behind.

An entire year went by, and within it not a day was missed that I didn't ask God "why"? Why him? Why us? I still don't have the answers, but I no longer ask the quesitons. God knows...and for now that has to be enough.

So tonight my heart aches for my Aunt and the suffering she endures. I love her, but I can offer her no shelter in the storm. I know that only time will give her that. For on Sunday P.I. did phone home, and God told her it was time.

I used to be successful. Really successful. I was in sales for a fortune 500 company, and I was great at what I did. I had goals, and I blew them all out of the water. Financially, I was in a place of freedom that I never imagined possible. I averaged around $135,000.00 a year. Me! Not married, no kids. There are times when I miss those days. Not just the money aspect of it (though that was amazing), but the feeling of setting a goal and anihilating it. There is a sense of accomplishment in that. That sense of accomplishment brings about a sense of confidence and a sense of self. I never questioned whether I was good at what I did, or whether I was valued. I just knew it to be true.

Having me stay home with our children is one of the best decisions we ever could have made, yet there are times when I question how I am doing. Whether I am valued. Whether I am good. Part of me realizes this must be natural. Afterall, there is no tangible way to set a goal to be a good mom, and then measure the success. Not really. Nor is there a real sense of feeling valued on a regular basis. In the working world (sales for example), you sell an account, the boss shouts "hooray" and slaps you high five. At home, you shower before noon, get the dishes done, change a couple of diapers, make dinner, and no one is there to say "hooray!" No one high fives you on the days you actually manage to put on deodorant and brush your teeth.

Then, your three year old draws an "A" on her doodle pad, and proudly exclaims "Look, mama! I did it. I drew an A!" And, looking down at the doodle pad, you see that she did indeed draw an "A." That's the high five. Right then, right there.

Then, your children are playing outside when suddenly the baby falls and bumps his head. He is screaming when daddy scoops him up to give him kisses, and the screaming doesn't cease because only mommy will do. You're valued. Right then, right there.

Staying home with these little people is the hardest job I've ever had. There are so mnay ways to make mistakes. So many ways I fear I can mess them up. And while at first glance it seems often like a very thankless job, I know that it is the most rewarding job I've ever had. The most rewarding job I ever will have again.

So while I do miss the straight forward feeling of being successful in the corporate world, I recognize that I am blessed to be able to be present for all the "A's" and bumps. To be the one my children not only want to have kiss their hurts, but also the one with whom they want to share their wins. I'm blessed to have a husband that also believes in how important it is for me to be here with them. I know he values me as a wife and mother and more importantly a friend. Yes...I am valued.

Friday Andy and I decided to give Finnegan until Monday to make a turnaround, despite all the animal doctors’ advice. They continued to tell us that all signs pointed toward no, and we were still praying yes.

Nearly an hour after making that decision, the doctor called to tell me that Finnegan was declining. Declining? “What does that mean?”, I asked. “Does that mean we are at the point I have dreaded? The one when I will have to decide for him whether he has given it his all?” So, I went to see him. They led me back to where he was kept, and tears streamed in a torrential flood down my face at first glimpse. Not because he looked worse to my eye, or because he looked like he was hurting. Simply because there he was, looking at me like I should take him home. Looking at me like he didn’t understand why I kept leaving him there.

I talked with the doctor while standing there, and she told me his “prognosis” is not good. She doesn’t have a lot of hope for any recovery at this point. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to let him go. So I left, determined to give him at least until later that evening. Around 9:30pm I called, and a new doctor was in (but one who was with him the previous night), and she didn’t have better news. In fact, she told me it was time to think about euthanizing him.

I went in, and after crying for 30 minutes while talking with the doctor, I made the only decision I thought I could make. I let him go. I rubbed him the whole time, and as he left, so did a tiny piece of my heart. Then, as my tears seemed unending, I walked away. I drove home alone with his little collar in my lap wondering why on earth this happened. What purpose did it serve. Knowing that I may not ever have the answers, and that oftentimes the answers aren’t even for us to understand.

So Finnegan is gone, and our home is missing a family member. While he was only with us a short time, he made an indelible mark. His little paw prints are planted firmly on our hearts.

Happy birthday to my husband! Today he is 36. GASP! I can't believe that he was 27 when we met. Where on earth has time gone? Oh, I also wanted to make it very clear, that I am not 36. I am almost 34. Just to be clear ;)

If ever there was a person who was a magnet for weird...my husband is it! Being his birthday, I thought it would be fun to tell a couple of stories which perfectly depict the crazy, random things that happen to him.

Subway
My husband goes to Subway to grab a sandwhich, and before he leaves, glances at his bag and notices there are no napkins. He politely walks up to the pimply faced teen behind the counter and asks for some napkins. Teen tells him "they're in the bag." Andy (with a look of mock confusion) holds his bag, looks at it, and says "no napkins." Teen says "we pre stuff all the bags with napkins. They were in there." Exasperated, Andy says "Okay, let's say there were napkins in the bag...can I have some extra napkins?" Teen says "I'm sorry, we don't give out extra napkins." About to lose his mind, Andy storms to the bathroom, spins off about half of the economy sized roll of T.P., wads it in a massive ball under his arm, walks out in front of the counter and loudly says "Hey! Thanks anyway...but I got it all figured out here!"

Safeway (a local grocery store)
It's somewhat late on a Sunday night, and I send my husband out to the grocery store to pick up a few things. One of those things is yogurt. Andy gets to the dairy aisle which is occupied by only one other person...a store employee who is busy stocking the shelves. Andy sidles up beside him and begins retrieving the yogurts for which I sent him. The employee sighs loudly and says "are you kidding me?" Andy, very confused, looks at the employee, then looks behind himself, then back to the employee, and says "me?" Employee says "yeah! I just finished stocking all those yogurts, and now you come along and move them all?" Andy, so dumbfounded, just says "whatever dude."

Brother in Law
About 3pm one afternoon Andy gets a text message from his brother in law. It reads "I'm getting off here in a bit" Andy, thinking 'thanks for sharing' replies "Ok, that's great." Brother in law says "Should I get something for dinner?" Andy says "If you're hungry." Brother in law "Always, how about you?" Andy "You know I'm always hungry." Brother in law "I can't wait to get home and see you and (BIL's son's name). Andy getting it now "Maybe tonight we can make another little (son's name)." BIL "Oh I'm excited now, I'm almost home!" Andy, unable to keep up the charade "Dude, this is Andy!" Brother in law "OMG! I'm so sorry, I thought it was your sister." **I feel compelled to tell you that BIL and Andy's sister do not have the same first initial...baffles me how this mistake was made**

Commercial Cleaning Company (In addition to day job, Andy owns a commercial cleaning Co.)
Andy hires a new employee for a recently acquired account. She is meant to team up with another woman already under Andy's employ. She works a night, and the current employee tells Andy there is no way the new woman will work out. She takes breaks every fifteen minutes and complains incessantly about her back pain. Being that she is in her probationary period, Andy tells her it will not work out. She calls...and calls...and calls to try to fight for the job. Andy stands his ground. She starts to get nasty. Calls and harasses him about getting her check. Andy says "the policy is you get your check when I get my shirts back." They plan to meet to exchange said items, but not before Andy gets a phone call in which someone with a disguised voice informs him that he is going to get his A$$ kicked. Anyway, Andy meets the woman to give her the check. He requests his shirts. Woman says "Oh hell no! I aint given you nuthin til I get my check!" Andy "You do realize the check amounts to $18.00, right?" Woman "I don't give a F#%k how much the check is! I want my check, and I don't trust you." The woman (with a rare stroke of her genius) says "Okay, I have an idea. You hold out the check, and I hold out the shirts, and we let go at the same time." So here is my husband in his shirt and tie, doing a redneck standoff with some irate woman over a couple of t-shirts and $18.00.

I'm here to tell you, that I have had some strange stuff happen to me, but this man beats all! If there is strange within a mile radius of my husband, it finds him...always. It makes for some most entertaining stories, and no one tells them better than he.

Happy birthday, Andy...I love you and all your crazies.

In the question and answer post my husband so happily reluctantly did he mentioned a couple of his favorite meals made by me. It dawned on me that I have never posted either one of them. So today I bring you...

Salmon Scallopini: For all you salmon lovers, this one is pretty darn good if I do say so myself. All measurements in this recipe are approximations because it is one from the old noggin'. I played around a couple different times before settling on this, and now it's almost the only way we will have it in our home.

Ingredients:

1.5 pounds fresh Salmon fillet (about 4-6 oz per person...so more or less depending on family size).
Olive oil
2 Tablespoons butter
3 cloves garlic (finely minced)
2 Tablespoons capers
2 Roma tomatoes (diced)
1/4 Cup white wine
3/4 Cup Chicken broth
1 Teaspoon cornstarch (mixed with 1 teaspoon water)

Instructions:

Remove any skin from Salmon, and cut into 4 to 6 oz portions. Coat the bottom of a large heavy bottomed skillet with olive oil (you don't want to fry, but you do want your pan coated). Set aside. Melt butter in a medium sized skillet over medium-low heat. Add garlic and saute till tender, but not brown. Wisk in wine, and simmer, letting liquid reduce by about half. Wisk in chicken broth and continue to let simmer.

Now heat your large olive oil coated skillet over medium-high heat. Add salmon in a single layer (cook in batches if needed). Cook through (length will depend upon thickness of fillets, about 3.5 minutes per side). Fish will flake fairly easily when cooked done. Remove from heat and plate the salmon. Add capers, tomatoes and cornstarch to your wine sauce and wisk in. Allow to heat through for about 30 seconds, then pour the mixture over the salmon. Serve.

It's great served with or over a simple angel hair pasta, and steamed asparagus on the side. You could go crazy and do some garlic bread as well. It's a favorite (mostly) all the way around in our home.

P.S. I really dislike tile counter tops!

…not Murphy, and not Guinness…but Finnegan! Long story, but we landed on Finnegan for his name. We will call him Finn more than likely, and so far it seems to fit.

Finnegan and I had an okay time on the plane ride home. He was scared and unsettled in the airport, and threw up twice in his carrier. He wasted no time letting me know how much work he’d be!
Once home, he was good to go. The kids adore him, and I am thankful that he doesn’t seem lonely like I thought he would.

Night was a whole ‘nother story. Up to go potty at midnight, then up at 4am…seemingly for the day. We’re going to have to rectify that in a hurry or mamma is not going to be a happy camper. Meanwhile, coffee is my berry best friend. Yes, I said “berry.” That’s what being up at 4am will do to a person.
A few more pictures before I bid farewell…

Get right on in there Colton for a big wet kiss!

Pay no attention to whatever is on my cabinets. Though, now that’s all you’ll see.

Needless to say…he is a lover.

This last one is Finnegan’s dad. So…this is how he’ll look when he’s full grown. He is going to go through all sorts of awkward and cute along the way, and of course, I will be compelled to share in photos!!

Oh, and for those of you who missed what type of dog he is...he's an Irish Water Spaniel.

I am leaving to go to Phoenix tonight as soon as Andy gets home from the gym. I am headed up to go the the U2 concert which is tomorrow. It is just much easier for me to go tonight and not have a torrent of tears and an all out scream-fest at my leaving. Yes...Andy needs to learn to control his emotions a bit better. The kids are still very attached to Mamma.

Anyway, I have packed my bags, and now anxiously await my husband's return. All the while feeling sad. Isn't that crazy? Sad because I am going to miss my kids. Sad because it means (more than likely) the end of my nursing Colton. I suppose it's time anyway. He is, afterall, 14 months old. Sigh. Reminds me...I have to update the kids baby books.

Who will be watching the kids while I am off jet setting? Why Andy! He is taking Tuesday and Wednesday off to stay home with them. I will be back Wednesday mid-morning sometime. I can't wait to come back to my house in perfect order all clean and fresh...Ahem, or just come back to my house exactly as it is now. That'll do just fine.

Drew is smart. He's funny. He's charming, and a major talker. Drew also has the last minute syndrome. Okay, I may be making the up the affliction, but I bet you know someone you'd diagnose with this as well. If so, then you are no stranger to the feelings of frustration induced by this particular trait.

My down time happens when my children go to bed for the night and my workout is done. Unless Drew strikes...which he does...often. It's 7:30, the two youngest have been in bed for 30 minutes, and I am about to go do my workout. Drew strikes. "Shannon, I forgot. I need you to check my math homework, or quiz me for my spelling test, or proofread my peom (choose any of them)." I stare blankly at him, trying to reign in my fuming temper. "Drew, why do you wait until the last minute?" (Though I don't know why I ask this, because the answer just makes me angrier...it's the same every time). "I don't know." No longer can I look forward to a little relaxation after the workout...now I have homework to do.

It's Wednesday, and I have gone to the grocery store earlier in the day while Drew is at school. I have dinners planned out for the next several days. Things are looking good. Drew comes home from school and begins his ritual of telling me about his day. With feined interest (don't think me miserable, I can only be actually interested the first 100 times I hear the same story) I listen as he tells me how he scored the winning touchdown in flag football or how so and so told him his breath stinks (hmm, maybe I'm on to something with the whole teeth brushing thing, ya think?). Then...Drew strikes. He tells me he needs Valentine's cards for class. I tell him I will get them when I can. He informs me he needs them for tomorrow. Somehow I fail to see why this should be yet another emergency on my part. Somewhere along the way, I swear, our kids are supposed to get wise to the fact that waiting until the last minute never has a good outcome. "Well," I say "if I can get to the store I will get them for you." That is not an acceptable answer for Drew. He says "If I don't bring them, I can't participate in the party, and I have to sit and do homework while the others are passing out their cards." Nice try, buddy. Somehow I don't think it would fly for the teacher to punish any student who couldn't bring cards. I have already decided that I will get the flippin' cards, yet I don't let him know that. I want him to sweat a little. Call me sadistic, I won't be offended.

I end by telling him that maybe next time he will not wait until the last minute to let me know something is needed. That sitting in class doing homework while the others are getting a sugar buzz will be a good lesson. He says he won't wait next time. We both know that's just a pipe dream. I sure wish I had a person willing to drop everything to pick up my slack when I drop the ball. I think I need a wife.

Note- I have to say, for fear of being lashed, that my husband actually picked up the cards on his way home from work...but somehow, that detracts from the snarkiness of my wife comment, so I omitted it from the post ;)

**My nursing cover giveaway ends today...enter if you haven't...winner announced tomorrow**
I am sitting here depleted of energy, thoughts, emotions. The well has run dry. Not truly, but that is my overall demeanor as I type. I have just come home from the gym. From a workout the likes of which I haven't had in a long time. I mean it. My husband has been going to a personal trainer, and tonight I went in his place. I will be continuing to go in his place for a month...if I make it that long.
On my way home from the gym I was thinking about how this has to make the change that has eluded me thus far. If it doesn't, nothing will. Of this I am certain. Then, I started thinking about the fact that it never seems to be enough. Never. I don't know that I will ever be satisfied with my body. Always five more pounds, then tone this more, and shape this more, and on and on and on.
Prior to my first pregancy I was in good shape by my own standards and great shape by other's. In fact, here is a picture of me when I was 12 weeks pregnant with Addyson.

I look at it this and I long to look like that today. My breasts weren't to my knees, and no muffin top existed. Yet, at that point in time (well, before I was pregant...but this is the only pic I have that bares it all for that time) I wasn't happy about how I looked. Oh, most days I felt pretty good. I was fit, I worked out at least 5 days each week, and my clothes fit me well. But I didn't like my legs, and my butt needed to shed a layer. I could smack my former self right about now.
Today, two kids in rapid succession later, I am struggling to get that body back. I keep saying I have just ten more pounds to go when the reality is more like fifteen. I have been able to squeeze into some of my pre-pregnancy wardrobe, but not most of it...not even half of it. It's so depressing. So, now I am going to show you what I look like today. The picture was taken in February, and honestly I look at it and I know that some of you are going to say things like "you're crazy, you look fine." I can say that I look at the picture and I see that I look okay, but okay is not good enough. It's never enough.

I couldn't even bare to do the picture in a swim suit. So there I am...posing like a moron and smiling about it.Now, to be clear, the point of this post is not to beat on myself. I am working at getting myself back to where I feel comfortable. The point is that for so many of us, it's just never good enough. I believe it's great to live a healthy lifestyle, and be fit...but at what point do you say "Damn! I look good." (to yourself, of course). Why do so many of us struggle to be able to simply feel content with who we are today? There is so much more than the outward shell we present.
I'll tell you this...I mentioned that if this month with the trainer didn't start to make the change, then nothing would. I believe it, and I have made up my mind that it's okay. I'm okay. I'm perfectly flawed...and that's good enough.

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.

I'm a mom from the middle of nowhere, South Dakota. Our little town has a population of just over 1,000 now - but when we first moved here, it was still working up from the 900s. Our big family of six didn't quite push the town over the top, but we came close. We moved out here from North Carolina when my youngest wasn't even one year old - now, that was a road trip - so my husband could be near his parents and help keep up the family farm. We also thought it would be a calmer, quieter place to raise a family than the big city of Raleigh.

Our kids had some trouble adjusting at first, but now they love living here and are always begging to visit their grandparents on the farm. Grandma always spoils their dinner with root beer floats and helps them make crafts out of coffee filters or her big jar of colorful buttons. Then there's Grandpa, who gets out the old train set and teaches my son all about golf while the sounds of putts and drives from the TV fill in the background. There are pet cats, cows, and sheep galore, and one friendly dog who greets the kids with slobbery kisses every time they arrive at the farm. It's a great place to grow up, and I'm so glad we decided to give them the opportunity to enjoy it.

Stress and the City

Of course, life isn't always paradise. I left my family back in North Carolina so we could raise our kids in the country, and there were times when I missed Raleigh and the people I had left behind. My mother's age and deteriorating health started to worry me, and sometimes I feel overcome with the desire to move back so I can take care of her. I have brothers in the area, but let's face it - when it comes to care-giving, boys aren't always the best nurses.

One day, I was sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself as I folded the laundry. Always fascinated by "grown-up" activities, my youngest daughter was "helping" me fold the endless heap of clothes that accumulates when you have six people living in one house. My husband came in from work and saw that I wasn't my usual self, so he asked how my day had been. I told him that it had been fine, and he gave me a quizzical look. After a few seconds, he asked what was bothering me if everything was fine. In a moment of overflowing frustration that had been building for weeks, I said, "If you can't figure out how to be sympathetic every once in a while, you'll just have to take me to the funny farm!"

I was about to burst into tears because I knew he didn't deserve my anger when I heard the excited voice of my daughter: "Mommy, mommy! Can I come, too?"

Of course, she didn't understand that I was referring to a mental institution, not her grandparents' farm. To her, "funny farm" was a logical name for the place she loved so much. I couldn't help it; I started laughing until tears rolled down my cheeks.

I was a tired mom at the end of the day, and my daughter had just provided the perfect punch line to help me see how petty I was being. Although her words brought laughter, they were also a profound reminder to me that my husband and I had moved to South Dakota for a very good reason. I believe that it's the best environment for raising my children, and I know my mother would want that every bit as much as we do.
My family visits North Carolina once a year, usually at Christmas, and my mom is doing just fine. Every time I start to worry about her, I remember that I'm making the right decision for my whole family by living here and raising my children to love life on the farm.

Bio: Maria Rainier is a freelance writer and blog junkie. She is currently a resident blogger at First in Education where she writes about education, online degrees, and what it takes to succeed as a student getting an online associates degree remotely from home. In her spare time, she enjoys square-foot gardening, swimming, and avoiding her laptop.

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.

I have recently come across a blog, appropriately named, Blogtrotting. Go check it out if you haven't already. Sign up, and sign into the region in which you live. Then, when it's your turn, you post about your home! When it's not your turn, you can blogtrot all over the world meeting new people, and learning about new places. So for my readers who are not a part of Blogtrotting, go join the fun!

So welcome to the Grand Canyon State (just click the link to see some amazing photographs), state capitol, Phoenix. It is home to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, and to me ;) Oh, and let's not forget the infamous fight that went down at the OK corral in Tombstone, Az. Yep...the very one which was made into a movie. The very one where Val Kilmer, portraying Doc Holiday, says *insert post title*.

Seeing as how I am not a fan of really long posts, I aim to keep this brief...filling you with some fun trivia about our hellishly hot state. In case you are related to our local scorpion, and you live under a rock, you should know first and foremost that Arizona is hot. H-O-T. I mean 115 degrees for consecutive days and weeks hot. That's pretty much when we hole ourselves up in air condidtioned spaces, fanning ourselves while cabana boys feed us grapes. Well, at least the first part is true.

Winter months are glorious, hovering around a brisk 65-75 degrees. Old timers Snow birds flock to our state in overwhelmingly annoying numbers. They overtake our shopping centers, restaurants and roads...leaving the natives restless and edgy.

We have snakes. All types, but none so well known and smartly feared as the rattlesnake. The Western Diamond Back is perhaps the largest and most intimidating.

As I mentioned above, we have scorpions. The most prevelant is also the most poisonous. It's the Arizona Bark Scorpion. It's sting is rarely fatal, but dangerous none the less.

Roadrunners and coyotes make their way over our property and through our streets on a daily basis. I should clarify that this is not true for all inhabitants of AZ. We happen to live somewhat on the outskirts of town, bringing us closer to all the critters. Javelina also run the streets.

Arizona produces more than 1 million metric tons of lettuce each year. Go have a salad on us!

The Castilian and Burgundian flags of Spain, the Mexican flag, the Confederate flag and the flag of the United States have all flown over the land area that has become Arizona.

In 1926, the Southern Pacific Railroad connected Arizona with the eastern states.

Arizona produces more copper than any other state. This is the reason for the copper star in the center of the Arizona state flag.

The original London Bridge was shipped stone-by-stone and reconstructed in Lake Havasu City.

The world's largest solar telescope is located at Kitts Peak National Observatory in the city of Sells.

Arizona is one of two U.S. states that do not observe Daylight Savings Time (we're such rebels).

Arizona's Valley of the Sun has more golf courses per capita than any other state west of the Mississippi River—2.5 million golfers litter the greens every year.

Saguaro catcti, which can grow as high as a five-story building, are native to Arizona. This one is right in our backyard.

In the words of the great Porky Pig (who, consequently, is not from Arizona), that's all folks!

Keely was so nice and emailed me the questions early, and I still dropped the ball and neglected to get this post up until now. I started my photography class today...very excited. In any case, I am home now, and getting my answers in for Keely's Sunday blog hop.

1. How many piercing's do you have?

Well, the answer to how many I have had, and how many I have now is different. I, at one time, had my ears pierced twice, and my belly button pierced. Now I just have my ears pierced once. Not to say you can't see where the previous piercings were, but I consider them inactive.
2. I love the sound of...?
Rain on the roof when I am trying to go to sleep. Or anything other than my children screaming.

3. Favorite city?
Dublin, Ireland. To date, but I plan on seeing so many more, that I reserve the right to change my mind.

4. Colts, Saints, or could care less?
Well, I don't care that much. Seeing as how I am being asked to choose, I will say Saints.

5. Frozen yogurt or ice cream?
What? Who came up with this? I suppose I copuld be all health conscious and say frozen yogurt, but that would be a big fat lie from my big fat ice cream eating mouth.

6. Favorite appetizer?
Is this assuming I only eat at one type of restaurant? I mean, come one now...is it French, Italian, Greek, Mexican? The choice is different at each. I'll pick French. Escargot.

7. What item in your closet currently makes you the happiest?
Anything that I can stretch over my arse.

8.Favorite facial moisturizer?
Clinique. Moisture Surge to be precise.

Now, I showed you mine...let's see yours!

Addyson and I were sitting on the couch yesterday when she picked up a sippy cup from the floor (Lord only knows how long it had been there) and asked me to open it. I complied. She sniffed the inside of the cup, and said "Oh, that stinks...did Daddy fart in it or something? Seeing as how I have the sense of humor of a 3 year old, I laughed.

You might assume, based on her automatic question, that Andy makes a habit of farting in the sippy cups in our home then securing the lids to capture the stench for an unsuspecting child to later discover. I almost want to let you believe that to be true. It's not. He doesn't. Why that was her first inclination is beyond me.

Maybe the people in this house have an unhealthy obsession with farts. Or at least the people under 3 feet high.

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.