Hi There!

Well, all of the sudden, my stats have gone through the roof.  Apparently, my old college ran an ad in the alumni newsletter about this blog.  So hello, fellow alumni of the college I attended many years ago for one purpose and one purpose only…..

To meet me a Yummy Man.

Which I did.

Oh yeah, and work on a degree in writing, which I didn’t accomplish unless you count writing for this blog, in which case you’d be mildly delusional, yet flattering to my very-fragile psyche so thank you.

(And now you understand from the above sentence why I didn’t accomplish my writing goals and must rely on the occasional bad grammar and run-on sentences of this blog to fulfill my need to be a sorta-author.)

About 22 years ago, I transferred into that school and was heartily welcomed by the self-proclaimed “Welcoming Committee” made up of Yummy Man, his roommate, and various friends of his.

Of course, if I’d weighed 450 pounds and been hairy and sweaty, I’m thinkin’ they wouldn’t have ventured over to my table in the cafeteria that day.

I was pretty smart back then and could figure that out for myself.

But here’s something cool or creepy, depending on how you feel about these kinds of things…….

The night before, there had been an informal square dance in one of the buildings on campus and Yummy Man was there because he was one of maybe 42 people in the universe who actually knew how to do that.

And I saw him there as I stood on the sidelines, fending off the advances of a guy who reminded me of one of The Muppets although I’m not sure which one, thinking about how yummy that square dancing guy was in the gray, Levi button-flies.

(Yes, I remember what he was wearing.  Green shirt too.)

And I honestly said in my head, “Could he be any yummier?  I’m going to marry that guy!”

And now, here we are after 20 years of marriage and nine kids, still going strong.

All that to say, “Welcome, fellow alumni” although, officially, I didn’t graduate so that probably makes me, technically, a non-alumni.  Or an alumni by marriage.

And thanks for reading my little freakshow here on the web.

 

You…..The Extraordinarily-Privileged Readers of My Blog

Believe it or not, I never got the sickness, even though I was able to answer a lifelong question of mine as well as many others’……

What does vomit taste like?

And therein lies the key to understanding the title of this post.

You are my extraordinarily-priveleged readers because you can now say that you know a woman whose small child vomited INTO HER MOUTH and she did not succumb to the same sickness.

After more than two weeks of one child getting the vomit-sickness every other night at 11 p.m. SHARP, we are done.

Finally.

And I am astounded and amazed that I never got it.

I should be studied by science, don’t you think?

Personally?  I think it’s the one Dr. Pepper I allow myself each day.

Really.

You’ve gotta admit that it’s GOTTA be healthy.

I mean, it’s got the word “Doctor” in it, for crying out loud!

And now I realize that I probably lost a good chunk of my readers who collectively gasped at the fact that I drink Dr. Pepper, but that can’t be helped.  Just remember this…..I run it off every night.  Plus, remember the “Doctor” thing.  Also?  Yummy Man started it.

So there.

 

So Here’s the Question…..

Say that your 22-month-old projectile-vomits down your entire body, INCLUDING INSIDE YOUR SHIRT, down your skirt, and onto the tops of your shoes……..

And?

on.

your.

face.

And say that some of said vomit gets into your mouth.

What do you think the odds of NOT getting the same sickness would be?

Ballpark figure.

Kindly leave your encouragement at the end of this post.

Also?  In case you (or, more likely, your kids or the juvenile side of your husband) are wondering?

Vomit tastes exactly like it smells.

So there you go.

A Post About Vomit. Vomit, Vomit, Vomit.

Before I write this post, there is something you should know about me.

I clock out at 8 p.m.

The only time I will work through the night is if someone is bleeding from their eyeballs, requiring juice from my body, or vomiting.

If any child comes out of his or her room at night after we have put them to bed, and it’s not an event that we have established as a true emergency, consequences ensue.

Because I’m clocked out and clocking back in to tell a small child that her insistence that her eyelash hurts is NOT an emergency will just lead to bad things for her.

After 8 p.m. is my time with Yummy Man.  Plus, it’s the only time of the day when I am able to speak in complete sentences.

Okay.

Here was the conversation that I started at supper tonight…..

Me:  Okay everyone, listen up!  I need to tell y’all that if your tummy starts hurting REALLY bad, you need to come tell me, especially if it is in the middle of the night.  That probably means that you will start vomiting soon thereafter because that is exactly what happened to two of your siblings within the last three days.  I need to know this so I can prepare your beds and the carpet.

(And let me just pause here to tell you that we have not had real, true carpet in our kids’ bedrooms since 1997.  Seriously.  So vomit on the carpet is a big issue for me right now.)

The kids:  Mommy?  What if it KINDA hurts but not really that bad?  Like, if it just feels like I have to go icky.

Me:  Well, that wouldn’t be REALLY hurting now, would it?

The kids:  Mommy, I’m sure that you can figure out that 4-Year-Old will come out at night to tell you that her tummy is hurting real bad but it actually won’t be….she’ll just want an excuse to come out, ya know?

Me:  There will only be coming out to tell Mommy this if tummy pain WAKES YOU UP, okay everyone?

The kids:  Well, what if I’m already awake and THEN it starts hurting?  Should I come out then?

Me:  It has to REALLY be hurting more than you’ve felt it hurt recently.

The kids:  What if it really DOES hurt and we come out and tell you but then we don’t throw up from it?  Will we be punished because we came out to tell you but then nothing happened?

Oh my stinkin’ word.

And then?  After that?  The rest of the supper was spent reminiscing about past vomit events.

Like, Mommy, remember when I knew that I was going to throw up so I tried to get out of bed and run to the bathroom but I didn’t make it in time and I threw up all over the mats in the basement? 

Or, Mommy, remember when we were driving home from that all-you-can-eat restaurant and I threw up noodles in the van?

It was a lovely supper, let me tell you.

After a few minutes had passed with the subject still being vigorously discussed, a picture of my mom came into my head and I decided that, out of honor for the way she raised me, I must put an end to it.

So I said, “You know guys, Grandma would be having a FIT right now if she was here!”

And they all agreed loudly and wholeheartedly.

And then 9-Year-Old began motioning with his hands the trajectory of his vomit three nights ago, with his older brothers looking on with interested facial expressions and mouths full of jambalaya.

It was the most animated and well-attended discussion we may have ever had at the supper table.

Ever.

A Little Post of Encouragement

So.

Spent last night up and down to the bathroom with Oldest Child who spent most of that time vomiting.

Oh, yippee.

So this morning, I told Oldest Child in the presence of 3-Year-Old that I would bring her some crackers later on for her to try eating.

Bad move.

3-Year-Old then informed me that he too would like some crackers but I told him that we would be eating breakfast soon and he would not be getting crackers.

So he protested in a loud manner.

I then explained to him that we were saving the crackers only for people who throw up.

(Because I’m an experienced mom of nine and I know that more people throwing up is in my very near future.)

3-Year-Old then proceeded to throw himself to the floor, kick his legs, and yell at the top of his lungs, “I WANT TO THROW UP!!!!!!!!!!!”

And if THAT doesn’t make you feel a little bit better about your life today, then you are just completely incapable of being encouraged.

 

This Afternoon…….Thirteen Days After My Last Post

Today, the entire family was looking at old pictures.

The kind where you have to really think which baby that was with the swollen eyes and the purple skin and the nakedness.

Since they all kinda came packaged that way.

And there were nine of them.

We also looked at pictures of our old house in Iowa where there were green, rolling hills and deer in the yard and clotheslines full of newly-washed beanie babies and mismatched towels and tiny little boy undies.

And I almost started crying because I miss green and rolling and clotheslines in the country.

But I didn’t.

Because 11-Year-Old informed me of this self-esteem-destroying fact…..

He said, “Mommy?  You looked way better in Iowa than you do here.”

And when I explained to him that the ONE picture he saw of me that made him say that, was a week after I had birthed a baby…..which is the ONLY time that I have thick, wonderful, non-frizzy, chocolate-flavored hair.

And he said, “Well, how can you get that here?”

Man.  If I knew THAT, I’d be a millionaire!

A thickly-, curly-, chocolatey-tressed millionaire!

A Christmas Eve Day Story

We spent Christmas Eve day with friends who live in the country.

We try to have as many friends who live in the country as possible because we miss country life and love having any excuse to go there.

Even if it IS Arizona.

So after all the kids ran and played and jumped and ate and yelled and laughed themselves silly and we had quite thoroughly worn out our welcome, we got back into the van to come home.

And on the way home there was quite a bit of grunting and pushing noises coming from the back.

Where the kids who wear diapers sit.

When we arrived home, I opened the sliding door to let everyone out and when Grunting Boy came to the van opening, I asked him if he had had a fun day and he said, “Yesssss!”

All the “ssssses” are there because he has this very pronounced lisp.  Also, even though he is three years old, he is a bit delayed in his speech although he is very advanced in the loving and serving department so we don’t have a problem with all the lisping and stumbling over words and sentences.

So then I asked him if he made a stinky on the way home and he said…..

“No, Mommy.  YOU made a stinky on the way home!”

And he had the cutest grin and the most adorable lisp and then, when I took him inside and put him in the red sleeper with the fire truck, I ate him all up and now he’s gone.

The End.

 

A Politically Incorrect Post

When we were at Legoland, Yummy Man told all the kids that they could each get a souvenir in the Big Lego Store.  The one caveat was that it actually had to have the word “Lego” somewhere on it.

So Four-Year-Old got a pink princess skirt with a half-inch square on the waist that said “Lego” on it in tiny letters.  Whew!  She barely passed with that one.

I had to put a time limit on the big boys or else we would’ve paid $420 for Legoland tickets in order to spend two days in the Lego store, picking out one.  Lego.  kit.

I picked out a box of Duplo people for the two littlest boys.  It had 20 people in it of various vocations, ages, genders, and races.

Pretty nice choice, right?

When we got home, Yummy Man opened the box and immediately, 3-Year-Old settled down in the living room with all 20 people, setting them up on the coffee table while I nursed almost-2-Year-Old.

As an aside, we have never ever owned a coffee table because, to me, a coffee table is just a piece of furniture that takes up valuable square-footage in a house vastly occupied by many small people.

But they ARE kinda appealing to short people who otherwise aren’t able to enjoy normal tables.

Anyway.

After a few minutes, 3-Year-Old excitedly told me that he had very lovingly and helpfully separated out the various Duplo people so that he could have some and his 2-year-old brother could have the rest.

He had lined up his people in a nice curved line, perfectly matched to the curve of the useless coffee table.  There was a firefighter and a police officer and a construction worker and a bodybuilder. 

Okay, not a bodybuilder.  I’m just trying to convey the level of manliness that his Duplo people oozed.

Then I noticed that beside me  on the couch lay a pile of Duplo people that had been designated 2-Year-Old’s.  Three-Year-Old motioned to me that I could now incorporate them into 2-Year-Old’s life and then he cheerfully went off to play with his manly Duplo people.   And there was no malice or unkindness at all in his demeanor because he doesn’t POSSESS these things in his character.  Seriously.   I’m not just saying this because I’m his mother either. 

So there they were.  Two-Year-Old’s Duplo citizens.

All girls and old people. 

Seriously. 

Three-Year-Old left him with the Duplo wimps, basically.

And last night when I was lying in bed, almost asleep, I remembered this story and started giggling in the bed, lights out, the house quiet, Yummy Man almost asleep, and I just. couldn’t. stop.

Tears were rolling down my face, picturing precious little 3-Year-Old with all his manly Duplo people all lined up and when I tested him, and secretly snuck a girl or a geriatric citizen in there, he squawked, threw it aside, and replaced it with his testosterone-y guy.

Truly?  It’s one of the top five funniest things I have ever experienced in my life.  

And that may not have come across in the retelling, but I had to try anyway.

 

 

Here We Are!

We’re home from our Christmas experience in California, namely Legoland and Sea World, and a wonderful time was had by all, although that fact was not readily apparent on the return trip.

And now I’m going to go ahead and admit this because I know it’s going to have to be said or else Yummy Man is going to hack into this blog and tell you all about it because he’s so loving and supportive like that.

I cried at the Shamu show.

Yes, I did.

(And I’m not pregnant so don’t even go there with the comments even though I know it’s tempting to those of you who know my fertility history personally.)

You may, however, inquire as to WHY I cried at the Shamu show just like my children did.  And I would have to answer, just like I did to them, that I really don’t know why other than watching that huge whale fling itself COMPLETELY out of the water and then do a flip in midair……..well………yeah…….

That doesn’t help explain it, does it?

Okay, something to do with the magnificence of the Creator and His imagination and the training involved in something like that and other noble things that I can’t really conjure up because it really doesn’t make sense to me either, the crying.

But if you know that, a few years ago at an airshow in Omaha, I cried when I saw a Harrier take off?  That might go a little ways at explaining the Shamu thing.

Or maybe not.

So let’s just go with……I cry at dumb, inexplicable moments in time because I’m a woman who has had nine children so my hormones could very well be confused at what is appropriate behavior and what is not.

Here’s something else that confounds me.

Five-Year-Old and Seven-Year-Old?  They rode a roller coaster at Legoland that grown adults would need to wear diapers for.  And not only did they ride the Death Coaster more than once, but they RAISED THEIR HANDS on the parts that said diapers would be filled during.

Five-Year-Old almost didn’t make the height requirement if that gives you an idea of the appropriateness factor.

But I do have this one figured out.

See, they’re not old enough or experienced enough to know why this ride was scary.  The one time I rode it (that’s why I know about the diaper requirement), I was envisioning myself flying out of my seat or worrying about the car staying on the tracks or how the drizzle or potential lightning or possibility of spontaneous-fire-eruption could make me die early……you know, realistic stuff like that.

Apparently, my little girls have not been made aware of how much worrying there is to life.

I’m gonna have to work on that.

(More to come in future posts, including one called The Most INpolitically-Correct Post of All Time.)

Merry Early Christmas

For Christmas this year, instead of giving presents, we decided to give one big, huge family gift.

A trip to California to experience Legoland and Sea World.

All of our children are now wearing diapers because of the excitement-levels inherent in these two extraordinarily high-priced theme parks.

After 82,000 hours of searching for a rental house to…..um…..rent for the week, I found one that totally rocked, except the agency wasn’t exactly jumping up and down with excitement about renting it to a family of 11. 

Nine of whom are kids and not sober, couch-sitting, theology-discussing adults that we are claiming as dependents on our taxes just so we can bring them along with us on vacations because, ya know, wouldn’t THAT be a ton of laughs!

So.

The house we’re renting is in an exclusive, gated enclave of homes that costs more than we will ever make in our lives.  Unless we live to be 5000 years old.

And we were able to afford this house because it’s the off-season.  Plus, I wanted a house that was in an enclave because that’s a cool word, isn’t it?

Needless to say, we don’t exactly fit in.  You know what I’m saying?

When we arrived and were unpacking the van, a generic can of refried beans fell out of a box, rolled down the driveway and out into the street.

Way out.

And do you know how big of a redneck I was, running out into the street in my Goodwill clothes, behind me our van with the dent in the bumper, and my nine kids inside the house, squealing and sliding around on the marble floors in their socks, yelling at me to come see the two ovens and the huge fridge and the fountain in the side yard and the TV screens so massive they could be used as stretchers?

We so don’t fit in here.

And then, this afternoon, we were getting ready to take the kids to a playground in this area, and I put on my running skirt in case there was a track nearby, but I didn’t put on my weird Five Fingers shoes because it was a little chilly and I don’t have socks to wear with them yet.  So I had on a long-sleeved t-shirt, my running skirt, and my favorite socks in the whole world…..striped Smartwool kneesocks.  Basically, I looked like a 40-year-old Pippi Longstocking except with brown, short, curly hair.   And 15-Year-Old told me that I looked like a total dork, but in a fairly-respectful way if that’s possible, so I told her that there was no. possible. way. that I was NOT going to look like a dork in this exclusive enclave with nine kids, a 15-passenger van, southern accent, and thrift store clothes, so I really wasn’t going to try because I really don’t care AND I’m used to not fitting in anyway so I’m just going to be comfortable and warm because what’s the point?

But I AM livin’ it up and enjoying every minute of the enclave.

See?  I told you it was a cool word.

Except now?  I just looked up the word “enclave” to make sure that I’ve been using it correctly this whole time and here is what the definition was…..

A detached mass of tissue enclosed in tissue of another kind.

Boy, that’s embarrassing.