iPad: Beginning of the end?

So I'm trying to watch the end of fill-in-the-blank reality show and that stupid Apple commercial pops up again. Stevie J gave us the best TV ads, perhaps ever, and we've sunk to this? I'm treading on thin ice here since I know less than nothing about anything with wires, but "iPad is thin. iPad is beautiful"?!? iPad's iHair flows through the iBreeze on a motorcycle. Do I really need a reminder how ugly and fat I am from an electronic device?

This is not a PC/Mac debate. Those people who say each are great for different purposes just don't have enough money for Apple. My laptop shuts down in five seconds, your Toshiba takes five minutes. So is PC good for people who have inordinate amounts of time to waste? No, the folks in Cupertino have that argument in the bag. Where they screw up is in Pied Pipering the skinny jean crowd to fall for the Emperor's new clothes. By using a Suave commercial template.

So, listen up lemmings! If you fell for the iPad, you are a complete sucker. It is an iPhone that doesn't make calls and doesn't fit in your pocket. Maybe the point is to carry it in a sling, like a newborn baby, and invite others behind you in Chic Coffee House to coo at it. Good luck with that. It doesn't even have the applications that actually help you get work done. You bought the iPad because 1.) it's Apple; and 2.) that commercial about it being sleek and sexy made you want to be part of the in-crowd.

I'm not saying that the iPad isn't a step toward the future norm. But remember all those folks who fell for Vista? Or laser disc players? Give a thing at least four generations before shelling out some serious dough.

Development Dept. at Apple: watch yourselves. When the lemmings find out you're scamming them, your next new iDevice will fall flat.

Back to mommyhood, where paunchy midsections and dark under-eye circles reign.

Hot Tamale Heads to Kinder

If we thought no day could be more thrilling than the annual Easter mEGGa Hunt, today came very, very close. The Hot Tamale was not only in heaven--she was in the very best parts of it where people eat dark chocolate bon bons by the carload and still keep a cut six-pack. She was so exhausted from exuberance that she requested a nap. At 11:30.

Kindergarten! Land of tripping, slipping, jumping, dancing, singing large-ish little folks. With five days left until summer break, these kids had a bad case of kinderitis and Hot Tamale did her best to keep them even more distracted. Entertain them, she did. Mrs. Gigi loves having bite-sized visitors to spice things up in class, so we decided to introduce HT to the world of alphabet puzzles, home centers, and dull scissors.

"Let's show Hot Tamale how we do calendar. I'm looking for a very quiet boy or girl sitting in their spot." And HT sprints to the carpet. She picks the Qq to sit on, which is perfect since Owen is home sick. She stays there, criss-cross apple sauce, for about 43 seconds and then she's off to inspect backpacks in the cubby area. Oh how big kids straighten up for littler ones! One mommy in particular, Penny, knew exactly how to woo the HT:

"No, Hot Tamale, sit down and look at Mrs. Gigi. Can you dance with us? Let's read this book. No, you can't eat it. [To me with utter confidence.] I have a little brother and a little sister. My mom really wanted a boy and he's the last one. I KNOW how to take care of babies."

Can I take you home in my diaper bag, Pretty Penny? Delicious! HT half listens to the days of the week and skip counting songs and half pesters the big boys (who really want to play with her but don't want the other big boys to know it). In just over four minutes my extra spicy Hot Tamale has demolished the morning routine.

The rest of our hour-long visit HT tippy toes around the room with an entourage of at least five kindergarteners giving her the down low on Oscar the Grouch, alphabet buckets, and how to use the in-class potty. Had P.E. not interrupted the morning, she would easily be reading Dr. Seuss by lunchtime.

Hot Tamale soaked in every ounce of attention showered on her. Hip hip hooray for our second best day ever!

I've got a lovely bunch of coconut...chocolates

Life is like a __________.

You know you said "box of chocolates" in a weird southern accent! Don't lie! My favorites are the cherry filled kind. Or the ones with oozing dark chocolate that you have to slurp. The carmel filled kind are mid-tier. But I hate the coconut ones and always put them back half eaten--not worthy of a trip to the garbage can. That trash is disgusting.

I desperately want to believe God doesn't dole out coconut chocolates when he's disappointed with me. Yes, I know I know I know! He doesn't work on tit-for-tat, you scratch my back I'll scratch yours basis. But when those coconut chocolates start rolling in by the truckload, that evil voice starts spouting, "Well, remember that time you did that thing you shouldn't have? What goes around comes around, honey!"

Let's just say we're in the Valley of Mounds with Almonds right now. Every day we are showered with our manna of chocolate covered coconut flakes and it just stinks. Since going back home we moved in with family, originally by choice but now out of necessity (more on how that happened later). Coordinating life with two adults and two itty bitty babies is confusing and challenging enough without adding doting grandrents and an unhealthy lump of guilt into the daily routine.

It could always be worse. We could have a life-threatening disease. Or be stranded in eel infested waters near the Cliffs of Insanity. But that kitchy silence filler never really comforted anyone. Tell somebody with Stage III cancer that they should be glad it isn't Stage IV. Oh I feel much better! Thank you!

Since suffering is relative, it's very believable that Hot Tamale's time out sentence is as traumatic for her as infertility is to a young couple. So my big battle right now is accepting that God wants more for me than a comfortable, house-wife with picket fence existence. It's pretty lame when I write it down since "it could always be MUCH worse." But I wrestle with so many parts of being an extended guest in someone else's house. Trying to keep it clean. Hiding my milk-making boobs. Finding storage for the kid crap. Maintaining a healthy relationship with Hubs. Truly loving people who are very different from me.

He has work to do through me living with my in-laws. That's clear. And he'll keep me here until that work is done. I get it! He cares far more for my soul than to leave it untested. If I can't be faithful with this tiny trial, what about when the levies really break? Just for the record: God, if you'd rather send me suffering to a beach hut in Costa Rica, I'll leave it all (the bouncy seat and everything) right now. We're talking Friday, May 21 1:45pm! Until then, I'll let you teach me how to love chocolate coconuts...

Blessed Lobotomy

Browsing through iPhoto is especially meaningful when kids come along.

"Pumpkin, who's this?"

"Dada!"

"Very good! Now how about this one?"

"Hah bout Baba!"

"Yes! That's Grandpa!"

But the best part of picture perusing is the complete lack of any painful memory. God, in his timeless wisdom and mercy, just knew that we'd just curl up and suffocate ourselves if we could feel even one tenth the pain of childbirth. Or the vacation where we got on each other's nerves. Instead, this memory will self-destruct after one scrapbook. The remnant is a beautiful, staged memory of the past.

Here are the best uncomfortable-but-the-picture-prooves-otherwise memories:

Two weeks after the Hot Tamale was born. My female parts are radiating fire! And I'm sucking in my stomach like I'm going to swim the English Channel under water.

Love this one! Aren't my children happy, fluttering and dancing in the breeze? That trash itches! Bluebonnets are ridiculously tall and every manner of biting beasty feasted on their smooth baby skin that day.

Remember that awesome scene where they dance around the fountain in Enchanted? That's us frolicking in the EXACT SAME SPOT in NYC! Nevermind that I had walked nearly six miles miles that day eight months pregnant. I was a ball 'o crabby patty all day.

So touching, so tender! Little Dude's first birthday! I have absolutely no recollection of pushing him through the birth canal ten minutes earlier. Literally two minutes before this doc was stitching away...

Five minutes before a torrential downpour and 60-degree weather. In West Texas. In May.

Whoops! That's actually a miracle--point not proven at all.

Only save the skinny, smiley pictures and voila! instant rosiness! Thank you, thank you, thank you for these gracious lobotomies!

The BIG girl bed

The crib is genius. Whatever caveman thought up the baby prison deserves a lifetime achievement award way more than Susan Lucci. Child yawns, walk her to her room, lay down in said jail and bliss! No worries about plummeting to a carpety death and no napping on me in slings. If we are huge fans of the crib, we enjoy hogging our beds just as much.

So when exactly does that moment come when baby needs her own bed? I'd just as soon wait until college but CPS might come poking around. The thing is Little Dude has grown far beyond his pack and play and needs her crib. He gobbled up a loaf of that "Eat Me" bread from the rabbit hole last week and nearly doubled in size. What are those animals that grow to fit their cage? Yeah, he's one of those. So...twin or toddler bed for the girl? Our thinking? When we get pregnant with triplets next time, I'd like for the nursery set to match, at least when they're older. So we'll order a toddler bed in the same finish as the crib set for easy-on-the-eyes room sharing decor.

Toddlerbeds.com is a pretty awesome place to order from--they have free shipping and no tax and great prices. If they'd like to pay me to say that I'll gladly wear a sandwich board, but for now the Cowboy will take care of it. [The bank card has a Dallas Cowboys logo on it, selected by a certain testosterone laden, chest painting member of our family...if you can't beat 'em...] Our Little Dude is in baby heaven, breast stroking his way around his new pad, but the Hot Tamale is another story.

My mom brings this blow up twin mattress for her to use while we wait for the bed to arrive. I bathe her, read several bible stories about Cheesus, and we walk to the new spot. "Oooo," she says. This is going to be a piece of cake. We lay down, sing a song, and I tell her who loves her. "If you need help, just say 'Momma' and I'll be right here." She's all smiles. I am such a good parent! Walk to door, "Nite, nite, honey." And as soon as the door clicks, the siren wailing begins followed by attempted jail break. She sprints to the door and bangs, yelling. Crap!

This was one of those parental forks in the road. Do I re-cuddle and risk an even bigger backlash? Do we tough it out and resist entry as long as possible? Eeesh. Not a good feeling. Lord, a little help!! I open the door and walk her back to the "oooo" big girl bed. "Lay your head down. It's time for nite nite." Second verse, same as the first. Double crap. Wait a little longer. Then open door and point to bed with my best teacher look. The Hot Tamale sprints back this time and puts her head on the pillow. That booger knows what to do--ha! I've got all night, honey.

Repeat two more times...do I really have all night? Yes! Be strong! After thirty minutes of rowdy play with the androgynous baby she passes out.

Missing baby prison already...

Four-mile First

Drumroll please...brrrrrrrrr...four miles straight! All on my own! Without a scooter! If you're just getting into this like I am, know that the first two miles are generally junk, which is why it takes so long to get to three miles consistently. If you can plow through twenty minutes of peanut butter, you'll be rewarded with a bearable finish. This new distance makes me want to eat a donut guilt-free. My next challenge...a marathon, yes? How awesome would that life experience be.


Watch it sister! If the only reason I want to run (ha! jog...slooooowly) a marathon is to say I did it, is it worth it? I don't know if I can mentally psyc myself out for going that distance for bragging rights. But truthfully, that isn't the only reason why. Here they are in order of importance:

1. "I ran a marathon." Wow! Really? Was it hard? Why would you do that? I enjoy answering these inevitable questions in my head. It's my acceptance speech at the Oscars or the perfect end zone dance.
2. I'm sick of elastic pants. I'm sick of forming my rolls into a giant donut on my stomach. And then making it talk. This isn't me in this body--let me out!
3. I want a physical representation of what God wants my spiritual life to look like.


Number three should be number one, and I have faith it will be near mile 22, but probably not a step too soon. This is a serious time commitment and if the end product is an aborted after baby, perhaps that time could be used differently. Paul likens the Christian walk to running, finishing the race strong. The few times I've run longish distances I never felt this more tangibly.


Still toying with the idea. Maybe a half is more reasonable, but how lame is that.
"I ran a half marathon."
"Were'd the other half go?"
You're funny, random sideline heckler.

What's the dill, pickle?

My hot tamale train,

I always had it in mind to start writing to you in utero, but you'll see someday that great intentions don't always pan out like you want them to. Eventually, with the Holy Spirit, you'll be able to not judge me for crap I do or don't do.

You crack me up! And then make me cry--but only on the inside so far. You're flexing your independence wings and very nearly taking flight. This mock hitting thing has got to stop, though. Yes, I can tell you are crossing the line and, no, you can fake like you're burping me and get away with it. Time out, just like in the Olivia book.

Let's see...for nearly three hours straight you walked on your tippy-toes. Your Grammy and I don't see how since you inherited Grandma Lucy's teensy feet. Some other favorites for you right now are:

1. Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus--girl, you rock OUT to that one! And everytime it's like the first time you hear it! "Put your hands up they're playing my song, let the butterflies fly away!"
2. Brother's hands/hair/mouth/tummy--you just can't get enough of him. He doesn't always appreciate the extreme love and someday you'll get what's coming to you.
3. Ming Ming is still in your graces, although Tuck (aka Cut) is wooing you to the turtle dark side.
4. Counting to 20, then shouting "again!"
5. Circles are everywhere. Yes, I see them too!
6. Chee and cackas.
7. Waking up at 5:52. We'll get you an alarm clock, babe, because that trash needs to stop.
8. Asking for Babba and Grandma. They will come home eventually, I promise.
9. Duck Duck Moose is a savior to iPhone moms everywhere. Itsy Bitsy and Wheels on the Bus get picked most often.
10. Milk or awa?

Thank your daddy for the nite nite duties tonight so I could go for a jog. I still feel guilty when I don't tuck you in at night, but I'm just a room away if you need me! Don't forget, Jesus will always get there before I do...

ciao baby