**Ella has this really red rash that started yesterday.  By last night she was practically covered with it.  I took her to a doc in the box this morning and the nurse practitioner thought that it she could be having an allergic reaction to her antibiotic that she’s been on for almost 10 days for an ear infection.  So that lazy Sunday I mentioned in the first paragraph was not, in fact, lazy.  It was filled with worry and tender kisses on itchy foreheads, calamine lotion, oatmeal baths,  and holding and rocking a sweet baby girl.  I fully embodied the spirit of Ma Ingalls.

**I came home from the doctor to my husband questioning me, which is completely different than asking me questions.  “Why didn’t they do a histamine test?”  “The doctor didn’t even know WHAT the rash was and was just giving a cop out answer that it’s a drug reaction, wasn’t she?”  “You ARE going to call the REAL doctor in the morning, AREN’T YOU?”

In case you were wondering my husband does not actually earn a paycheck as a hard-nosed detective.

**There is a direct correlation between the number of sunny days and the amount of housework that gets completed.  My house is a freaking disaster area.  Can you guess the weather?!

**I never, ever (EVER) write reviews, but an opportunity to try out a Shabby Apple Dress came my way and wouldn’t you know, I wrote a review.  You can check out my review here!

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I needed the two cups because I got up VERY EARLY to go running.

I got up VERY EARLY to go running because I have big, beefy thighs and I’m tired of carrying around the jelly donut that’s strapped to my waist.

Not only am I motivated! to exercise!, I’m motivated! to improve ALL of myself!  Why not start now!

Writing:  I’m doing this whole NaBloPoMo thing to try and reset my love of writing and blogging.

My marriage:  I don’t like Tate about 75% of the time and I’m trying to cut that number down to about only 10% so I’m reminding myself to stop being a dick to him.  I’ve also been listening to Focus on the Family marriage related podcasts (while I’m running) (which are kinda weird to listen to, but also kinda good.)

Health:  Did I mention I’ve been running?  Well I have been!  And I’ve been drinking more water, which is almost harder than running because I can’t ever remember to actually drink it.

Parenting:  I’ve given up yelling for Lent.  Who cares that Lent doesn’t start until February?  I can give it up now.  It’ll be good practice because it’s going to take that long for the not yelling to actually stick.  Also I’ve been reading some parenting books on topics such as “how to keep your head from exploding when your child throws a tantrum in a busy restaurant” and “exorcising demons from toddlers.”

I know “experts” say that people are “supposed” to make small changes when trying to achieve their goals, but if I do that, I’ll be 350 lbs, divorced, dehydrated, hoarse, AND my blog will suck even harder by the time I get around to fixing all that needs fixing.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Well, I lied.

But see, here’s the thing.  This is type of thing that, if you and I were just hanging out together, sitting on the couch, eating some Bugles and drinking some Coke, watching some quality TV, I would probably bring up in conversation.  I guess I like to talk about stupid topics.

You wouldn’t believe how much fun I am at parties.

So here’s what I’ve been thinking about.   Ketchup.  And my very specific rules about ketchup and where it should and should not be squirted.

Ketchup is great for french fries, but only ON THE SIDE.  NEVER, EVER squirted on top of the french fries.  I feel irrationally strong about ketchup never being put ON french fries, ONLY beside french fries.

Wanna ruin my day?  Pour ketchup on my french fries and watch me get ridiculously irritated.

This same rule applies to fish sticks.

Oddly, I like ketchup in my vegetable soup.  The juxtaposition of the hot vegetable soup mixed with the cold ketchup!  Mmm.

Ketchup is NOT great for hot dogs or corn dogs, as those are MUSTARD ONLY foods.   I don’t feel as strongly about hamburgers and ketchup, though I feel that hamburgers are best-condimented (I made up that word) with mustard and mayo.

My daughter Ella is big fan of ketchup, eating it by the handful.  I think that’s a bit of an overkill.

What are you feelings on ketchup?  Do you have any quirky food rules?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Ever since writing about my son’s troubles at school recently, I’ve hesitated to say anything about him on this blog that could maybe even slightly give an impression that my son isn’t “normal.”  Some of the comments and emails (way more emails than comments) I received as a result of  saying that my son is difficult and has always been difficult really stung.  It hurt and scared me to hear words like “Autism” and “Sensory Processing Disorder.”

I felt like I cheated Carson by not painting a complete picture of him, but my style of blogging is usually to just talk about the issue of the day and not include every single detail that one might possibly need to know to form a conclusion.  Therefore, with the scant information I presented, several of you concluded that my son was somehow disordered.

I can see how you would come to that conclusion.  If I were to have read that post, as someone who doesn’t live MY life, where I went on and on about how Carson has trouble with groups, he doesn’t like to be around too many kids, and that everything we’ve ever done has been a battle, well…I would have come to the conclusion that Carson needed some sort of professional help, that he was maybe autistic or sensory impaired or suffering from an anxiety disorder.

At this point, I’m not really sure what I should say about Carson and school.   I don’t want to jinx the progress we’ve made (because everyone knows that sharing on a success on your blog immediately activates Murphy’s Law).  Also, I really can’t take anymore advice.

I’m saturated and feeling overexposed.

I feel like I need to guard my son.

I feel like I need to guard my heart.

The other day I posted a picture of Carson with his hair in pigtails.  Before publishing the photo, I considered whether or not this would embarrass Carson one day.  Obviously, I went ahead and published it, but I’ve gone back and forth with myself, “hey it was pretty funny!” to “I should be ashamed at myself for posting a potentially embarrassing photo of my CHILD to get comments.”

Everyday there are hilarious things that my children do that would make BRILLIANT blog posts.  The poop on the floor that someone tried to clean up with the mini vacuum, but luckily I intervened in time…The story of how the highlight of someone’s day was learning to pee behind a tree outside…The threatening to hit a certain unmentionable body part when they are angry, “I’m gonna hit my {redacted} if you make me eat lunch.”…

I don’t know anymore what I should and shouldn’t post.  Will I embarrass them, overexpose them?  Now that my children are no longer babies, there is no longer a clear line of what constitutes an appropriate, but still funny topic.  A story about poop involving an infant: Funny!   ALL infants have poop stories.  A poop story about a three-year-old:  funny…maybe, embarrassing…definitely.  In no way do I want to exploit my children’s privacy and embarrassing moments for the sake of this stupid blog, for the sake of comments.

I shudder to think that my children would ever be angry with me for PUBLISHING  for ALL the Interwebs to see on MY blog something that could potentially horrify them.

Something tells me that this is only going to get even more complicated as my children get older.  I’m certain that Ella would be mortified if I talked about her getting her first period.  Carson probably wouldn’t appreciate if I wrote in detail about his first hearbreak.

I mean, I’m supposedly a *GASP* mommyblogger.  I’ve always blogged about my kids.  (Most of the time) I love talking about them with all of you and hearing your experiences.  But if I don’t talk about my kids , then what the hell do I talk about?!

There’s also this whole expectation about what you as readers expect when you read this blog.  Playgroups are no place for children.  A (mommy)blog about a mom who writes about her many moves, her two kids, silly marital strife stories, and pure nonsense.  For awhile I wrote blog tips, but only on Saturdays because I didn’t want to annoy my readers who had no interest in the subject.  I’d love to start talking about some of my other passions like photography and cooking, but I hesitate because “blogging experts” say that every different topic should be it’s own blog so as not to lose readers.

SIGH.

So I followed that advice.  I started a recipe site about forever and an eon ago, but it’s just never felt like my home, THIS blog.  I’ve considered beginning to post recipes with pictures, because I LIKE cooking, I LIKE photography, I LIKE photographs of food, and I LIKE to talk about those things, but haven’t because I didn’t want people to think I was just copying other people who’ve done the exact same thing.

Can you see why I’m having this blogging crisis?!

I fear the repercussions of talking about my kids and I fear venturing into new territories because I don’t have any NEW! and ORIGINAL! ideas.

Where do I go from here?

Even though I think that the name of this blog “Playgroups are no place for children” is frankly quite brilliant (if I do say so myself), I feel so boxed in by it.   Every time I’m referred to as “Playgroupie” I want to barf.  My kids are getting older and I haven’t been in a playgroup in a year and a half!  The name, or really the BRAND of this blog, well…I just don’t know if it works for me anymore.

I don’t know if it is ME anymore.

What I really want to do is throw my hands up in the air and say, “Dammit!  This blog may not be ME as much as it once was, but it is still MY blog.  I can do whatever I want!”  After more than two years of blogging, I think I’m finally in a place where I’m no longer really trying to grow my blog and gain readership, though if it happens, great!  I do want to keep my readers, though, because I LIKE you.  I really, really like you.  It would be a shame to lose a bunch of readers because I decided to be ME.

Can I give myself permission to expand the content that I present on THIS site?  Is it even allowed?

(This is officially the longest and most rambling post I’ve ever written.  If you made it all the way to the end, I’d like to offer you a trophy.)

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

2.  Unsupervised children will rearrange furniture and dismantle a painstakingly assembled Thomas layout in 2.3 seconds.

3.  Legos and games with many parts should be hidden prior to the start of the party.

4.  When many children are together, they become chronic tattle tells.  I finally had to tell the tattlers that unless they saw blood, they weren’t allowed to talk to me.

5.  I should have added “Carson naked” to the list of reasons to come talk to me.

6.   The dryer is a good place to find missing children.

7.  Watch out for one of the guest’s homemade wine.

8.  Husbands need very specific “how to get ready for a party” instructions.  Unpacking the talking deer head/karaoke machine was not on that list.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

So now that we’ve gotten the fact that I’m a thief out of the way, I’d like to show you the contents of my purse.  You’ll be pleased to know that none of the contents of my purse were stolen.

C.O. Bigelow Lemon Hand Treatment (LOVE!), 2 tubes of C.O. Bigelow Mentha Lip Tint (I’ve already talked about my love of these), 2 tubes of Lip Smackers (flashback:  1987), 3 packages of peanut butter crackers, a USB cord, 100 calorie pack of Lorna Doone cookies (they’re FOR THE KIDS!), my name tag from Blissdom ’08, small bottle of 50 SPF Coppertone, Jessie Baylin CD  (LOVE her!), trash, crumbs (not pictured), my cell phone, a maxi pad, an old grocery list, 3 coupons that are worthless, Skip Hop diaper caddy, my wallet, {***GIFT CERTIFICATE TO BUILD A BEAR!!!!!!****}, USB flash drive, baby nail clippers, 1 Germ-X hand wipe, 2 Dentabursts, a going away card from her, All About Trains DVD (what?  don’t you carry DVDs in your purse?), my business cards, the formula from Aveda to color my hair, a juice box, a box of raisins, spare contact case, contact lens solution.

One of these items is today’s Reader Appreciation Giveaway…

Can you guess which one??  I mean, it’s not {***OBVIOUS***} or anything.

Well just in case you need a little help…here’s one more HINT.

Have you all seen their new Christmas Moose (or is it Meese?)…Holly and Hal? SO cute.

To enter to win the $25 gift certificate to Build a Bear Workshop, leave a comment telling me whether your purse is as random as mine!

Comments will close at 7 AM, EST, November, 19, 2008.

Don’t forget you can still enter the nonny & boo $50 gift certificate giveaway until tomorrow morning! Who new that the timing of this giveaway would be so perfect in the light of the Motrin ad fiasco and babywearing mamas….

This contest is over, comments closed!!  Thanks for playing!!

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

When I was around three-years-old, I was married to a man named Robert.  OBVIOUSLY Robert was imaginary, but he was as excellent a husband as an imaginary husband could be.

Robert had dark hair and was short, like me as a wee tot.  We did all sorts of things together that married toddlers do.  We played Barbies and with Weeble Wobbles.  I drug him around everywhere I went (not to be confused with actually being DRUGGED with legal and/or non-legal pharmeceuticals…because it would be near impossible to drug someone who is imaginary).  Robert and I were a very happy couple, as he always did whatever I wanted him to, as any husband worth his salt would do.

It’s possible that Robert and I had children together, I’m not really sure since it’s hard for me to remember DETAILS from 30 25 20 (Yeah!) years ago.  I may be skipping ahead a bit in the story, but I know that I had LOTS of kids with LOTS of husbands during my childhood years.  Most of my children never grew up past the age of “baby,” which is good, because, MAN, think of the college education costs.

Like many marriages that start off with passion (fruit juice, that is), my fairytale relationship with Robert eventually ended.  For some reason, and again my memory from all those years ago fails me, Robert and I broke up.  In fact, it was a pretty nasty break-up.  Maybe it’s because we were SO YOUNG.  Maybe he made eyes at an older four-year-old woman.  Maybe he wouldn’t share his Cheetos.  Who knows?  Robert ended up stuffed in a trash can, which I *think* is how most toddler marriages are annulled.  And I ended up married to Mark.

Details from my marriage to Mark are also fuzzy.  Kids?  I don’t remember?  Marital activities?  (NO, not marital RELATIONS, I was THREE.)  I simply don’t know.  I do know, though, that I have no recollection of ever having divorced Mark (Mom??  Do you remember?).  Like I mentioned above, I know that I went on to marry lots of other fellas and make lots of babies during my childhood, but I cannot remember if my marriage to Mark was ever formally annulled.

Fast forward to today and I’m (again) married, keeping my fingers crossed that I’m not unintentionally practicing polygamy.  I’m certain the Pope would NOT like that, although come to think of it, he probably wouldn’t be too thrilled at the sheer number of husbands I’ve had through my life.

When you were a child, did you have imaginary friends?  Imaginary husbands?

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

It’s very surreal.

Tate’s company has put us up in a nice three bedroom house with a deck and a yard.  We are nestled amongst million dollar homes that overlook the lake, though our house is definitely NOT of the million dollar variety.  I’m grateful that we’re not living in an apartment and that we are living rent free until we purchase a home.  However, this nice three bedroom house is in an area inhabited mostly by retirees and is a good 30-45 minutes from shopping and CIVILIZATION.

I’m having a lot of trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that my family and I no longer live in Indiana, but instead I live in amongst retirees in Tennessee.

Since finding out just under three weeks ago about our impending move, my mind has been occupied with the endless details of moving.  I hadn’t allowed myself to think about what it would be like to LIVE again, in the new normal we have to carve out for our family.

My inlaws, who should be sainted or knighted or something, had spent the past week helping me prepare and move.  Without them I don’t think that I could have coped with packing my children’s toys and clothes and driving away from our home in Indiana.  They left to return home yesterday and all day I felt this huge black emptiness.   Way out in retirement land with nary a park or a FRIEND nearby, I feel lonely and isolated.

Frankly, the new normal sucks.

Bitterness about this move continues to creep into my thoughts.  I feel so angry that we are having to find our normal again, after having just found it.  Living in temporary housing, using someone else’s dishes and pots, sleeping in someone else’s bed, showering in someone else’s (carpeted…ew!) bathroom is not what I had in mind for a normal life.

I realize it’s only been ONE day on the quest for normal.  Tate told me last night that despite my assertion over and over that I WOULD be in a HOME by Thanksgiving, there would be no way for us to close on a house anytime before mid-December.  We are at the mercy of our relocation company whose timeline is not the same as ours.

It has to get better, I know.  But when?

**********

I apologize for yet another post about moving, heavy on the whining, light on the funny.  Soon I hope to get my funny back.  If you’re lucky, I’ll post some pictures of the horrifying lovely floral decor in our temporary house.  Because, um, WOW.

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Tate has been transferred AGAIN.

We are moving to Tennessee.

I feel bitterly angry that I allowed myself to finally feel at home someplace.  In the ten years that I have been with Tate, we have moved at every request of the company.  For me, I moved begrudgingly and suspiciously and have watched over my shoulder and held my breath waiting for his company to call with our next move.

This time, though, I allowed myself to dream what it would be like to raise my children here, in THIS place.  I allowed myself to breathe after ten years. I immersed ourselves into this town and embraced all it had to offer.  We have made friends and we have made plans.  We have made a life and a home here in Indiana.  Never once had it occurred to me that I shouldn’t root myself and branch out and allow myself that hope of home.

I feel bruised and numb all at the same time.

Right now I have no desire to write.  My mind swirls with nothing except relocation companies, mortgages, real estate, and moving vans.  I don’t know if I’m taking a blogging hiatus for awhile or if the desire to write will return as I digest and stew on this information.  If you’ve recently emailed me, I will reply sometime.  I’m purposely ignoring my inbox because I simply do not have the power to think past myself and my family right now.

At least if we have to move, it’s to beautiful Tennessee and luckily we already root for the right team.

And you want to know something funny? I just got my Indiana driver’s license last week. I’m supposed to pick up my Indiana license plate tomorrow. [insert maniacal laughter and tears]

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I don’t know if I can do this again today.

“Mommy!” he screams.  “Please don’t leave.  Sit right here on the floor, beside me,” he pleads after I tell him that it’s not 7:00 yet and that Mommy is very, very tired and want to go back to bed.

I sit down wearily beside his crib, cursing inside.  I wonder if he’s truly scared or if he’s just manipulating me.  Also, I have to pee.

I promise him that I’m just leaving for a moment so that I can pee.  “I’ll leave your door open.  I’m just going right across the hall to the bathroom.”  He starts to scream as I leave.

I turn to him and in my angriest voice, which surprises even me, I tell him to shut up and that I’ll be right back.

I only feel slightly bad that I told him to shut up.  I hope he didn’t notice.

After he’s finally settled I go back to sleep for what seems like ten seconds, but rather it’s about 40 minutes.  6:58 is what I see on the clock as I hear Carson screaming for me again.  Just to spite him, I want to let him scream for two more minutes until 7:00.  Or to spite him, I want to go up to his room and scream at him to please just shut up and wait for f*cking 7:00.

I go in, scoop him out of his crib, saying nothing.  The day begins.

*******

I look around the kitchen and notice the crumbs and fruit flies.  My floor looks as if I haven’t swept or mopped since ever, despite having done both just two days prior.

There is a pile of dirty dish towels, in desperate need of washing and smelling like spoiled milk.

My washing machine is broken, full of water and wet towels.

*******

“Uh oh!” Ella squeals as she tosses her sippy cup, full of milk over the edge of her chair.

The cup is no longer full of milk.

It’s empty, the white milk in a puddle on the floor.  Splashes of white milk dot the cupboards.

It doesn’t matter.  The floor is already dirty.

*******

“You don’t even like me anymore.  I can’t even joke around with you anymore.”  In one respect, I hear Tate’s words and I feel badly that he could even think this.  Of COURSE I like him.  Of COURSE he can joke around with me, but after days of little sleep and constant battles, I need adult interaction.  I need HIM to listen to ME.

Immediately his words make my heart harden and I feel my face redden with anger.  “How dare he,” I think silently to myself.  “All I do every minute of everyday is GIVE.  What about me?  What about thinking of MY feelings.”  I say nothing.

*******

Ella is almost walking.  She takes two or three hesitant steps, her arms out in front of her body for balance before she falls on her bottom.  Over and over she stands up and tries again.

I smile at her and want nothing more than to swoop her up and feel her soft skin against my face and smother her sweet little neck with kisses.

In an instant I can go from feeling such rage to giggling in spite of myself.

*******

He asks if I need a break, just to get away.  “Go for a walk,” he tells me.  I can hear the annoyance in his voice and I want to shout back at him, “you have NO idea what it’s like to be home everyday with these kids.  I do EVERYTHING for them.  You have NO idea.”

I do need a break.  I do want to get away.

NO.  I want to RUN away.

“It’s too hot to go for a walk,” I say instead.

********

I consider not hitting publish.

But I do it anyway.

(Haven’t I written this post about a hundred times before?)

©2012 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.