"Don't Talk About Me Like I'm Not Here!"

I don't really read "parenting material", but I picked up a nugget of advice somewhere; it was something along the lines of not openly humiliating your baby or toddler by pointing out embarrassing or unflattering truths. For instance, don't crinkle up your nose and announce "You're stinky, eww!" when your kid takes a shadoobie in his diaper and is, well, stinky. Eww. Ok, makes sense. I mean, he's just a baby. It's not his fault if he's stinky. Actually, it's my fault if he's stinky. Duly noted.

In that spirit, Steve and I try not to name-call or refer to Robinson in a negative way. Especially in his presence.  I once declared that a teething Robinson was acting like a little monster, and Steve was horrified that I said it in front of infant Robinson. In my defense, he was acting like a little monster. And I mistakenly thought that Lady Gaga nicknaming her fans "Little Monsters" as a term of endearment made it ok for me to use the term to describe my baby. Big mistake. Huge.

Steve and I gradually developed a number of code names to identify Robinson's numerous and ever-changing personas. It's an easy way to de-brief with one another during the day, and if we're describing not-so-nice behavior, we can do it without tipping him off that we're talking about him.

Meet Robinson's Alter Egos:

Velcro Baby: He's attached to me at the hip. He accepts no substitutions. Closely related to Linus. I've learned that if you try really hard, there's just about nothing you can't do with a baby on your hip. Apply mascara. Tie your own shoelaces. Scoop and dispose of dog poop. I know, I know. I don't like gloating about the glamorous life I lead, but it's essential to telling the story.

 Linus: He's a mild-mannered chap. He always clutches a blanket and has his thumb in his mouth. He's very sweet and snuggly. I'm especially fond of Linus.

Squirmy McFidgets: He never sits still. Trying to keep hold of Squirmy is like trying to catch a greased pig. It's exhausting.

Pig Pen: This guy! No matter what I do, he looks like he's auditioning for the role of "Street Urchin" in a revival of Oliver! And he really, really doesn't like when I try to wipe his face and hands.

El Diablo: He's inconsolable and incorrigible. He screams. He throws things. He's red faced. He is what happens when two stubborn, feisty people procreate.

Pterodactyl Baby: We meet this creature whenever El Diablo's behavior goes unchecked, escalates, or cannot be contained. It produces an ear-piercing animalistic sound not heard outside a movie based on a Michael Crichton book. Anyone who has been on the phone with me when Pterodactyl Baby unleashes  himself can attest to this.

Mr. Magoo: He teeters. He totters. He weebles. He wobbles. He lacks coordination and focus, and seems precariously perched on the verge of an epic accident or stumble, but he manages to avoid disaster, to the astonishment of onlookers.

Back Washington: What can I say about this fellow? Well, for starters, he's thirsty. He wants to drink after you. But you don't want to drink after him.

Two Mutts and a Tot

Wow! It's been a while, right? Things are really different here. For example...

I don't live here anymore:

I live here.

 I don't take pictures of Robinson in his chair with Laney every month.

I sold the chair on Craigslist, and due to Laney's building resentment and acts of aggression towards Robinson, our vet has strongly advised that Robinson and Laney keep a safe distance from one another. Laney hides like a cat, and Robinson...well Robinson runs through the house like a streak of lightening from sunrise to sunset.

Robinson is a total handful and a pure joy. He turned 18 months last week. I was late in scheduling his official 18-month pediatrician appointment, so I'll write a post about Rob when I can publish his stats. Or when I have a free moment. Whichever comes first.

An interesting thing about moving is seeing the way your furniture and decorative items translate from your old home to your new home. In our case, the new house has a playroom and clearly defined hallways, and this has created additional wall space for decorating with art projects! All the time I used to spend blogging is now spent trolling Pinterest for ideas, shopping at the hardware and craft stores, and creating my arts and crafts to decorate our new house. It has been lots of fun, and in the coming weeks I'll post photos!

I've been at a loss for blogging inspiration, but I want to try to recommit to writing. I love having written records of our adventures and experiences. This time with Robinson is one of the happiest of our lives, but chasing a toddler is exhausting! My only hope of preserving these happy memories is through the blog. I tell you all this to explain why some of my future posts may be about events that took place in the recent past, because I want to get it in writing before I forget it entirely! Please bear with me through these first few wordy and long-winded posts--I tend to ramble when I've gotten rusty with my writing.

I have missed the interaction with all my "blog buddies", so whether you comment on my posts directly, or on the links I post to my Facebook page, I want to say a big "Howdy!" to ya, and hope that we're still friends after this huge absence!

Misty Doesn't Know

In this season of hope and charity, I hesitate to report this sad news, but I've put it off for long enough:

Misty got fired, y'all!

Let me rewind a click for those who need to be brought up to speed. The Methadone Scarecrow, a.k.a. Misty, was my brother's co-worker for two or three years. She sat at a desk near my brother, and her propensity to overshare, her habit of jabbering incessantly, her absence of a filter, complete lack of inhibition or shame, and her eagerness to share her usually misguided and uninformed opinions was the stuff of frustration for my brother. Wisely, Jarred realized a long time ago that if he couldn't find a way to laugh at Misty, he might go insane. Thus, the Misty emails began. Jarred would type up their daily dialogue and forward it to a few folks, much to my delight. I laughed. I cried. I wet my pants a little. A little.

As I began writing this blog last year, I thought that my friends reading might enjoy Misty as much as I do. Folks seemed to respond to the posts, and I since I sometimes need extra blogging material, periodically I would update readers with Misty's latest ramblings. Still need a memory refresher? Click here to meet Misty. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And here. And one of my favorites.

To those who asked: No, Misty doesn't know that I blog about her, and now that she's been canned, and I expect she'll never know. To those who wonder why Misty got fired: Come on. Haven't we been secretly wondering this whole time how she managed to keep her job this long? I know I asked myself that question. I asked Jarred. He shrugged.

Now, I am left with two options with how to distribute what remains of my as-yet-unpublished "Misty correspondence". I mean, it's not her best material, I pretty much posted all the good stuff, but I feel like I have to put it all out there. Do I roll it all out in this post, which has already gotten a little long, or do I publish part of it today, and the remainder at a to-be-determined date in the future? What? What's that you said? Save some for later? Ok! Here's a Misty Snippet for your afternoon. Savor it.

Misty:  Did you hear the government banned light bulbs?

Jarred: Get out of here!
Misty:  No really, they couldn't stop the block on the ban of the bulbs
Jarred: What?
Misty:  I mean they didn't ban the block...the banning of the bulbs
Jarred: Use your words
Misty:  Crap let me look it up, they did something

You See Your Gypsy: Lace and Paper Flowers Not Included

Hi, friends! It's been a while, yes? I had to actually take a peek at my blog to see where I left off. A lot has happened since my last post...

We sold our house

Goodbye House! In my grand tradition, I made a Shutterfly book to remember it by.

As I was driving around with my Two Mutts and a Tot while Real Estate Agents showed my house to potential buyers, I had all sorts of blog inspiration to write about my experiences selling my home. I may go back and post later on, maybe not. I had the good fortune of getting my house under contract in a mere eight days, and was given 26 days for my home inspection, appraisal, making requested home repairs, packing, securing temporary apartment housing...it was a whirlwind of planning and activity that left me too preoccupied to blog!

We were homeless...for seven days

All of this change has been rough on Robinson

Big thanks to our friends and family who graciously welcomed us into their homes during the week between vacating our old house and taking possession of our temporary apartment! It turns out that there is a difference between sleeping in someone else's home because you're on vacation and sleeping in someone else's home because you have no home. We're lucky to have good friends and family to help make the transition as smooth and comfortable as possible.

My brother got married!

The Happy Couple

In 2000, I was working as a hostess at J. Alexander's with this fabulous girl named Kelly. We soon became friends, and, as friends often do, we went to parties together! It was at one of these parties at Steve's apartment that I introduced her to my brother. The events that unfolded, and the ways our lives intersected over the eleven years that followed is the stuff of romantic comedies. Like all romantic comedies, this story has a happy ending: a wedding! I am so happy, and I have to tell you--their wedding was so fun! Like, so fun that I want to do it again. I wish I had a wedding photo to share, but maybe later I can update.

Photos by Steel Photography

Two Adults, Two Mutts, and a Tot in 600 Square Feet

I slept here ^

"It's only six weeks, let's move in with the least amount of stuff possible..." Yeah. So, the mattress is on the floor, the clothes are in suitcases, and the food is of the microwaveable-comes-in-its-own-bowl variety. If you want to look at our living situation as "camping", I'd say it's a pretty sweet set-up. We have electricity, cable, and indoor plumbing. The only downside is the dogs have wicked separation anxiety since I picked them up from vet boarding after nine days. Laney acts like she just graduated from a Scared Straight program. She has barely so much as grumbled at Rob since returning to us. It's as if she believes she was sent to the kennel for being aggressive towards my son. Their anxiety has reached such a fever pitch that they cannot be left alone, for fear that their incessant barking would lead to our eviction--and as I've covered previously: homelessness < not being homeless. I imagined these six weeks would fly by, enjoying the outdoors with Robinson, running errands, picking out paint and fabric for the new house...if I want to do any of those things, I have to load up the dogs and take them to Steve at work. You see, when disclosing my pet information to the apartment leasing manager, I sort of fudged on Laney's size...and neglected to mention Libby altogether. You can probably understand why I'm trying to keep a low profile. So, that's the story of why we are hunkered down in this campsite like gypsies. Today is day 15 out of 42. Sigh.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Two Mutts and a Tot outdoors together = Mama tangled up in leashes, skittish mutts and screaming Tot.

We Are Getting A New Home for Christmas!

We're so excited, we can hardly stand the wait, but it will be oh-so-worth it!

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! Our family is extra thankful this year! xoxo

I Put My House on the Market. Three months ago. I'm Exhausted.

Ok, full disclosure: I started this post back in September when I had just listed our house for sale. I was wide awake early one morning and jittery (probably from the stout pot of coffee I brewed) and so I attempted to tap out a post about my experiences selling our home. It was really rambling and disjointed, so I never published it. Here is the condensed version, mostly for Steve and me to remember the experience. Maybe you've bought or sold a home and have some of your own experiences to share? I'd love to read about it.
...

Selling one's home can't usually be done on a whim. Much preparation is required. First, I interview my Realtor. There are so many options when choosing a real estate agent. How was I to proceed? Basically, I selected one of the largest Realty companies in the city and scanned the agent directory until I found the agent with the most professional headshot (not the Glamour Shot where the agent is pretending to talk on her phone. "Get it? I'm so committed to you, the client, I'll take your call any time. And I mean any time.") An impressive website was the real clincher. You know whose website didn't impress me? The agent whose mission statement highlighted her goals for the year 2002. So...how did 2002 work out for you? This website doesn't bode well for your attention to detail and your demonstrated ability to follow up. Also, I automatically eliminated agents whose email addresses contained their birthday, zodiac sign, or favorite hobbies. I'm sorry, if I had to give up "sassiestgirluknow@hotmail.com" when I graduated college and entered the work force, you have to grow up and get an email that legitimizes your profession. It's only fair. That is, if you expect me to entrust you with the sale of my most valuable asset. There are so many real estate agents out there, and I just don't feel comfortable emailing my agent at "luvs_2_dance@yourmomshouse.com." I need to feel like selling real estate is your top priority, not some side gig you use to pay the bills until your acting career takes off.

But I digress. I reasoned that the Realtor who best markets herself would likely best market my home.  I don't have the wherewithal for this to be a long and drawn out process. I have set a goal of being in my new home by Christmas, an ambitious but not unrealistic goal. I need a winner working for me to get this house sold, and my listing agent is a damn champ! Once she tours my home and begins pointing out the areas where potential buyers might find objections, I get to work with the help of a handy man. The hot pink laundry room is one, which I accept even though I love my hot pink laundry room.

The other major change was the carpet in the master bath. Yeah, you read that correctly. Until two weeks ago, my master bathroom was carpeted.  Let me just say that a carpeted bathroom is one of the worst ideas ever, right up there with the classic children's toy "Bag O' Glass".

Next, the handy man comes to make the requested improvements. Handy man is polite and courteous, but not what I would consider friendly; despite my attempts at friendly banter, his demeanor is very flat. This sorta bums me out. Why do I feel like I have to make friends with everyone I meet? I don't know, but the man caulked my tub, which is more than I can say for any of my friends. He may lack charisma, but damn it if he isn't handy.

After my home has been improved, I have thoroughly cleaned out all my cabinets and closets so that my home appears spacious, and I have packed up all my tchotchkes (yeah, that's the correct spelling of "chotchkies", and thanks to me, you just learned something new today. You're welcome) and other personal items that make the house look like someone actually lives here, a professional stager hired by my Realtor comes in to rearrange furniture and add decorative elements that at the same time make the house look more furnished and less lived in. I thought I knew what staging was about, but I had no idea. For instance, she removed my fluffy, expensive white Restoration Hardware towels from my double towel bar, replaced it with some paper-thin brown towel and tied a tulle bow around it. Additionally, she placed a basket filled with about a dozen wash cloths on my counter, and placed some sort of "decorative accessory" resembling a sheaf of wheat and a sign that says "Relax" on the seat of my garden tub. (Side note: Telling Steve that "Frankie says..." and pointing at the bathtub sign never stopped being funny to me). So...my bathroom has never had more towels, but I'm not allowed to touch any of them. And the sheaf of wheat and the sign instructing me to "Relax" makes me do the opposite. Ok, I think I get it now. You want to fill the house with generic decorations to make the house look full, but you want it to be impersonal enough so that the buyer can visualize themselves in the house and not think about the fact that anyone has ever bathed in that bathtub. Basically I'm living in a model home. I feel like Michael Bluth.

Welcome to Sudden Valley!

Then she goes to my guest room, and her singular improvement is to turn down one corner of the bed. Wait, I'm confused--I thought the house was supposed to look like nobody lives here. Doesn't the turned down bed imply that someone may sleep here later? Unless we're showing this house to Goldilocks, this seems counterintuitive. I still have so much to learn.

After a whirlwind week of preparation, the house goes on the market. I had no idea how strange this would feel. Why? Let me count the ways:

1. There are photos of my house on the internet. Photos of every room of my house. There is a virtual tour online. Thousands of strangers can see where I sleep. I realize that isn't the same as thousands of strangers watching me sleep, but it's still unnerving on some level.

2. Strangers will tour my home outside my presence, make judgments and comment on whether they like or dislike my home, and I will receive feedback. I've been judged before; I competed in a couple beauty pageants scholarship programs and I went through sorority rush, and I know I was sized up and discussed, but I never had to hear about it later. I suddenly feel vulnerable. This is my home. I am a stay-at-home mom primarily responsible for the decoration and maintenance of this place. I know I'm not supposed to take this criticism personally, but if people dislike my home--it isn't pretty enough or sparkly enough--how is that not a reflection on me? If this house doesn't sell, I'll feel like a failure.

3. Preparing for a showing is not unlike Mission: Impossible. Robinson and I are enjoying our Saturday morning in the living room when a message appears on my phone:

THERE IS A SHOWING REQUEST ON SAT 9/24 @ 11:45-12:45. REPLY WITH YES TO CONFIRM OR NO TO DECLINE

It's like saying, "A stranger wants to snoop through your house, and possibly buy it from you. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to clean up this mess, make your house look like nobody lives in it, pack up your kid and your dogs and haul ass out of here. You have one hour. This message will self-destruct in 60 seconds"

It is then I begin running around the house, like Jane and Michael Banks tidying up the nursery:

A key element in successfully selling one's home is to create an atmosphere where the buyer can visualize herself and her belongings in her future home. Part of that requires that the Potential Future Lady of the House never sees the Current Lady of the House. Buyer walks in the front door, seller walks out the back door, and never the two shall meet. I did have a couple of close calls where I was attempting to make a to-go cup for Robinson, and once where I was backing out of the driveway and remembered that I left my engagement ring inside. I stopped the garage door, ran in the house, heard the Realtor's voice calling "Hello?" from the front door, frantically darted into my bedroom, retrieved my diamonds and hauled ass to the nearest exit, breathless and with my heart racing. I had no idea that breaking in and out of your own house could be so suspenseful! I later told Amy, "I am my own cat burglar". It's a weird feeling, being a grown woman and sneaking in and out of my own house.