Hyperemesis Gravidarum: what NOT to say!

Irony of ironies, I have barely been able to post the myriad of things I have wanted to, including wrapping the editing of the post where I announce my pregnancy, because I have been too sick.

So, by the way, I'm pregnant.  Yay!

I have always said I was a princess, but man, Hyperemesis Gravidarum just wasn't the thing I wanted to check off in that box as proof.  Not only to Duchess Kate and I hypothetically bond over illness, but this same illness is the reason we publicly announce our pregnancies.  HA!

It is hard to talk about HG when you are actively in the throws of it.  Go figure, talking about puking is hard when that is all you can do.  So I'll not tell you much right now about how I am doing or what this journey has been for me personally, but I will.  Just when I am better.  Presently I am 14 weeks and the clouds are lifting enough that I find this post possible, a few weeks ago it simply wasn't.

This is part hormonal, nauseated, angry rant with a dash of begging and education thrown in for good measure.  And lots of GIFs because they make me happy.

In no particular order because anyone of these if grounds for me aiming at you when I get sick for the 100th time today ...

1. "Oh I had morning sickness too!"

Morning sickness is crummy, I make no bones about it.  But HG is not morning sickness, though by medical definition it is often referred to as "severe morning sickness."  Let me put it this way, if you can count the number of times a day you get/got ill this is NOT the thing to say to me.

2. "Have you tried crackers/ginger/Preggie Pops/Seabands/some-weird-wives-tale/etc.?"

If one more person suggests ginger in any form {typing paused because I actually had to gag and dry heave over this} ... in a word, yes.  Yes.  I have tried all of that.  Desperately. Repeatedly.

3. "Oh my gawd, this one time when I was pregnant I threw up in...."

Do not talk about up-chuck in any form.  Not only do I not care, because that requires energy I do not have, I also cannot take hearing it.  Its also pretty freaking weird but for some reason people seem compelled to tell me.  I have managed to christen every receptacle typical for catching illness and many never intended for acts so vile.  We can swap horror stories some other day, for now please just shhhh.

4. "Have you tried just forcing yourself to eat or drink?"

Seriously?  I am trying not to drop F-bombs here but this one is hard not to reply with a good ol' "eff you" too.  Scientific question: what would happen if you tried to spray a garden hose UP Niagara Falls?  Same dif here.

5.  "But doesn't taking medicine while your pregnant make you nervous?  What if your kid has like a third eye because of that?!"

You're asking the wrong questions.  What if my child is so malnourished that s/he doesn't make it?  What if I am so malnourished or dehydrated that I go into preterm labor or miscarry?  What if both my baby and I don't make it, because that happens with HG?  I hate taking medicine, but without them I wouldn't have gotten this far.  It scares me, but not taking them scares me a lot more.

6. "Oh I understand!  When I was pregnant I would hurl the second I even saw *insert food item here* much less smelled it!"

I am sure that was awful, and I say that without too much snark.  I had that in prior pregnancies and it sucked then.  But here's the thing, I don't vomit because of seeing or smelling food, though that is a sure fire way to make me sick. I am sick no matter what.  Sometimes I can't even talk because the act of opening my mouth and activating my vocal chords does it for me.  I cannot swallow my spit half the time.

7. "I gained 30 lbs when I was pregnant, you're lucky to be losing some!"

Or anything like this.  Anything that comments on my weight loss as though it is some kind of GIFT makes you an undisputed asshole.

8. "Well you haven't lost that much weight."

Seriously, if you were an asshole on #7 this makes it even worse.

If you are looking at me and thinking I haven't lost that much weight chances are you are seeing how puffy and bloated the medication I am taking has made me.  Or even better, and way more TMI but you -- special snowflake that you are -- deserve it: Maybe my tummy is so large because the medication that they have pumped me full of makes it utterly impossible to poop.  Yup.  I am so damned constipated that my entire GI track is as backed up as a LA free way at 5 PM on a weekday.  What I manage to get down may never come out again!  So my tummy IS huge and I AM maintaining weight temporarily, but its not a good thing either.

9. "Oh I bet you are so sick because you're having a boy/girl this time!"

I admit, I have always joked (as a mother of only boys) to my girl friends who have had girls and are uncomfy through their pregnancies that it has to be that they are having a girl causing their misery.  "After all," I tell them, "two women can never occupy a confined space in peace!" so they MUST be having a girl. I swear, I will never say this again.

I have been assured I am having a girl this go-round because of my pathetic state more times than I can count.  Wives tales and gut feelings aside, HG has no known cause, cure, or even a sure-fire treatment plan.  The gender of my child is not what is making me so ill, even if it winds up coincidentally matching your theory.

10.  "Bet this will be your last baby now, eh?"  

I admit, now is NOT the time for me to discuss ever being knocked up again.  But I find any questions like this rude and nauseating when I am not in my current state, why are you inquiring about this at all you nosy weirdo?

Because actually screaming would mean
I have to open my mouth ...

Between the sickness, and the resulting exhaustion and weakness I have experienced as a result, I have not been up to a whole lot.  Sitting up at the computer is actually a challenge.  So whether you found this because YOU are going through HG (hugs and sympathy!) or because a loved one is, hang in there.  My thoughts and prayers are with you.

karma, threenagers, and juice

A letter to my mother, if she could have read it 30 years ago.

Dear Mom,

Fear not, karma soooo has this under control.  I know right now you are looking at that precious child you birthed and thinking "dear gawd she is a demon" but I assure you, what goes around comes around.

You see, I am that demon ... er, I am your daughter.  I am all grown up now nearly 30 years later with a child the exact age as I was when you first really started debating "can I sell her?"

You didn't sell me, and I am grateful, but I doubt you could have if you tried.  While I was cute, I was apparently an absolute mutant of a child.

You have told me that I would scream or shriek when I threw a tantrum so badly you were just sure someone would overhear and call the police convinced I was in the process of being boiled to death.  Reality being what it is, I was merely pissed you had dared utter the word "no" to me.  But for all those times you shared those stories and I rolled my eyes convinced you were exaggerating, even after my first child was born for he failed to have meltdowns of that level, I assure you I am now eating a feast of crow.

The Beans is cute, but oh. My. Goodness.  Hereforward for the sake of clarity we will call him Dr. Banner or Hulk.

It all started with Captain America.  No joke, it really did.

He loves these juice bottles with heads of characters on them, and most of all he loves Captain America.

I was out of Dr. Pepper and decided to splurge before we picked Meatball up from school.  We were going to get me 44 ounces of my drug of choice and him an apple juice with Captain America's head on it.  The whole way into the gas station he babbled about getting his hero and how he hoped they had one.  Well they did, but they also had Muck.  He is a stupid truck from Bob the Builder, a show Beans has watched ONCE.  But he was CERTAIN he needed Muck.  Had to have him.

But Muck is smaller than the Cap I said.  I showed him.  He saw that it was smaller and NOT Captain America.  He heard me tell him that I think he should get the Cap'n.

Yes, he hears all of it and knew, he wanted Muck the scoopy truck.

So after about a minute of my "are you sure"ing him he convinced me.  We bought Muck and my beloved Dr. Pepper.  We walked outside, buckled him into the car seat and then I pealed the seal off the Muck apple juice that we had already been discussing for about 3 minutes at least.  I handed it to him with a smile, certain he got the ridiculously expensive juice of his dreams.

"No, Mommy, I need my Captain America."  said Dr. Banner, the still reasonable big-blue-eyed angel in my car.

"Sweetie, you picked the truck one, we didn't get Captain America."

Then he did this.

Figuratively of course.  Well mostly, it did kinda look like that but he was less green and muscley.

I closed my door and took one sip of my 44 ounces of heaven.  I hadn't had a Dr. Pepper in 2 days and that caffeine flew to the pleasure receptors of my brain promising that we could handle this melt down.  He's usually a reasonable kid.  We will have maybe 5 minutes of yelling and whining, then he will be fine.

Oh how wrong I was.

I start to pull out of the parking lot, and this is when the Hulk realized the shmit was getting serious.  He started kicking the back of my passenger seat with everything he had.  The seat organizer that hung over the back was a casualty that he flipped up and started pummeling.

Unfortunately, as a driver, the sight of something suddenly flying like that startled me.  So I jerked the wheel.  Did I mention that the cup holders of a 2001 Corolla are really not equipped to hold a dixie cup much less 44 ounces of peace and deliciousness?

So 44 ounces (minus ONE sip) of Dr. Pepper dumps down on my feet, all over the pedals and floor.  Any moment now Noah will come floating along in the deluge I tell you.

I turn around and pull back into the gas station as it is the easiest place to go.  Hulk is now really screaming "GO INSIDE.  I NEED CAPTAIN AMERICA APPLE JUICE!!!"

If I had been on fire and Captain America apple juice was the only means with which to douse the flames ... well, burn baby burn.

So I scoop the ice out of my car into the parking lot.  I use my discarded sweatshirt to absorb what I can.  All to the tune of:

"I NEED CAPTAIN AMERICA APPLE JUICE NOW!!!! MOMMY, GO GET IT!"

I try to calmly say no and reason with IT.  Nope.  I try the mom voice.  Nope.  I try the little-devil-that-was-my-last-$3-and-my-Dr.-Pepper-is-gone voice.  Still nope.

So I drive.  Realizing there is no way we can go to the grocery store with him like this I just decide to take the long way to Meatball's school to pick him up.  Maybe we will be there early, but hey the kid will likely fall asleep and I will have a quiet moment to crush some candy like a junkie needing some kind of fix since I am without caffeine now in the parking lot.

Yeah, I still was underestimating the sheer power of karma and the Hulk.

Over an hour later he was exhausted.  The Hulk fell asleep.  Thank goodness.  I privately swore to myself I'd kill anything that woke him -- see this is why we know where he gets his anger issues from.

Then he starts again.  In. His. Sleep.

Seriously, how is that even possible?!

I tried to soothe him.  I was even kind about it.  It was hard, but I did it.

He wakes up.

"NO YOU BE QUIET MOMMY!!!!!!'

Okay, kid.  Sheesh.  I say nothing.

"YOU NEED TO BE QUIET MOMMY!!!"

But I am being quiet!  I desperately point out.

"BE QUIET NOW MOMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Okay, he had me there, I had spoken.  So I stayed quiet.  But he kept screaming how I needed to be quiet NOW.  Then Meatball got in the car.

"MOMMY BE QUIET LIKE MEATBALL! BE QUIET NOW MOMMY!!!!!!!!!!"

Dude, seriously, I am not talking!!!!

He started to go hoarse.  Then he shrieked until he gagged.  Each time I asked what was wrong (before the command to be silent of course) I was told "I DON'T KNOW!!!"

He kicked one shoe off at some point in this ridiculous mess and when we got home and I pried him out of the car and set him down he screamed anew at me for that. We got inside ... well after Paul Bunyan ran after him when he tried to run down the street screaming "I NEED MY SPIDERMAN SHOE!!!!" then carried the kicking screaming mutant inside.  He continued for a little bit and I sat on the ground.

"NO SITTING ON THE GROUND MOMMY!!!!!!"

I am waiting.  I said.  I think you need a hug, I told him.

"I NO NEED HUG.  YOU NO HUG ME!!"

I made the best sympathetic grimace I could, sure my ears were bleeding and the neighbors -- who had to have seen the screaming child try to flea in desperation -- had to be assessing if it was 911 worthy yet.  I held out my arms and said "I think my Beansie needs a mama hug."

Then he ran at me and threw himself in my arms.  We sat quiet for about 5 minutes with him just hiccup breathing and me regaining my hearing.  

I learned a new term today, mom.  It is "threenager" and I am hoping that it is a short lived phase because he isn't even actually three yet!

So, mother of mine, rest assured that I will some day get every ounce of what I have given.  I too will have friends smile and say "oh surely he didn't scream for the whole hour" while my left eye twitches.  I too will want to snap and scream and go as crazy as you probably did.  But I too will hug that little a-hole and tell him how much I love him, making him know he is incredibly special and safe and loved in spite of the monster he is being.  Just like you did.

And I will pray that he will grow out of this, just like I did.  Only sooner, please.

With love, respect, and wine,

Me

bladder capacity & toy baths

I may not be a real scientist, but I play one on the internet.  Hello, I am a "rocket surgeon" y'all!  So being all scientific-ey the other day I realized I can visually represent the Beans' bladder capacity for you visually.

Before we get to that, have you seen this?

Or hows abouts this?

So true.  So very, very true.  In my case, the Beans did not actually escape his prison, he just decided to punish me for putting him in it.  I should have been alerted by the sudden silence.  I should have, but I wasn't observant enough.

Now to the scientific bladder capacity part -- just how much pee can a two and a half year old's bladder hold?

Enough to contaminate all of this when he puts his mind to it.

To be fair and maintain scientific transparency, there was smearing action before I realized what was happening.

Of course, my giving his toys a bath was so cool, so he naturally added more to it.  Dumped a whole bucket of Duplos before I could stop the little monstrosity.

This is totally the crap that should be in parentage books, but is strangely absent ...

I know, I will burn for this, but ...

So I guess considering the last post I have here was bemoaning the end of the school year, followed by an absence and now the new school year has resumed one can sense a correlation between blogging time and mom duties?

I am not scientist, but I think we could hypothesize some kind of relationship there.

Can't tell you how many times I have thought "oh I can blog about that" and ... well, I didn't.  I also hardly ever wrote any of those brilliant ideas down, so all the great material I thought I had is lost to my memory.  Unless it involved my taking a picture, because then there may be hope.

The hope, to be fair, is pretty limited though.  Whenever I get around to cleaning my phone's picture storage out there is always about 1,000 pictures in it, no exaggeration there.  Of those 1,000 pictures there are always enviably a good 600 that are crap.  But at least 100 are of food I may blog about, a cleaning thing I might want to share (okay, so there are maybe like 4 of those) and then a lot of "fails" that I may share if I feel like laughing at myself publicly.

In the past three months I have dumped the phone like two or three times, so that means I owe you like a dozen cleaning-related posts and roughly 12,000 failure ones.  Don't know that I am up for that, but I will get close I am sure.

Anyway, it is 11:43 and the Beans is wide awake right now running around quite happily because I accidentally let him nap at 4:00 PM today.  The falling asleep was an accident, he just sorta conked out.  The staying asleep was a colossally bad decision on my part.  But given that I haven;t had good sleep in a while and am now up waaaaay past my usual bed time I am a teeny bit slap happy.  Keep that in mind with this little story as I part ways for tonight ...

The Beans is happily watching the Octonauts because it is what happens to be on right now.  I just heard them say "marine iguanas do it with a salty sneeze" and I nearly pissed myself laughing with completely inappropriate, dirty humor.  Then I started laughing at my own hilarity all over again when I decided that this must make me Octo-naughty.

So, yeah, I have sunk to all new lows and will try to get back to blogging again, but probably not when I am quite this sleep deprived! I will admit, however condemned it may make me, that making inappropriate jokes out of children shows is precisely what makes watching them tolerable for me.

Anyhoo, it feels good to be back, not matter how horrible I may be.

Top 10 Things That Used to be MINE

Last night the Beans was being a two year old.  The nerve.

Paul Bunyan decided to read something on his Kindle Fire in order to tune out the baby death shriek and repetitive chant of "no no bed."  But the second he pulled out that electronic device a gasp rent the air, followed by approximately 2.7634 seconds of rare and precious silence.  Then came "BABY'S BIG PHONE!" and the Beans grabbed it from daddy and expertly jabbed the screen a few times until the Lorax cued up and began wailing "How Bad Can I Be?" on full volume.  Appropriate, no?

This made poor Paul Bunyan sigh and bemoan that he wondered when he would get to read on his Kindle again.  I had about 2.7634 seconds of pity when I realized that if all I was lacking was Kindle access I might be a shit-ton more sane.

 Top Ten Things That Used To Be MINE

1.  My boobs.  Bunyan likes to think of them as his, but a nursing baby wins every time.  No matter what, even when the milk bags are no longer feeding a little vampire any longer they aren't MINE anymore.  MY boobs had some life to them.  They were small, but they at least seemed to not lack filling.  Since nursing children I apparently lost like a third of my boob mass because they are still small but deflated and droopy looking.  What the eff?

They are actually *mine* ... well, they once were.

2.  My Wardrobe.  I used to get dressed because I liked an outfit.  Or I looked good in an outfit or it made me feel good.  Occasionally I dressed in something because it was comfy.  I would even go, dare I say it, shopping for clothes for myself ... and enjoy it!  Now?  I wear whatever happens to be clean, roomy enough to cover this expanding version of myself, and often provides easy access for nursing, running after children, or cleaning something.  Bonus points to clothing that can cover the ridiculous number of stains I obtain in a day without obnoxiously announcing "LOOK this is strawberry applesauce!" and "Yup, that's a booger" whenever you look my way.

3.  My Phone.  I have more than 72 apps on my phone.  I tried counting them but kept forgetting what number I was on, so there are at least that many.  I use 7 maybe 8 of them for myself regularly.  Lets make it a round ten apps for ME.  That means there are 60+ apps that are simply there because I need to put the food on the conveyor belt at the grocery store without Houdini baby trying to escape the cart.  My iPhone is so full of kid apps and pictures of kids that I actually only have room for one playlist of music.  Only reason I get that is because my children haven't realized it is possible to load any of their music on the phone yet.  They do know about my Pandora app though.

The ultimate Mom Purse

4. My purse.  Oh wait, that's funny I don't HAVE a purse anymore.  I have a backpack/diaper bag/first aid kit/snack storage/changing station/toy holder/crumb hoarder hybrid with a monkey hanging off of it that also carries my wallet and chapstick.  When I can find them.  Yes, it is actual one the one pictured above.

5.  My Jewelry.  I used to wear some.  I now wear a wedding band, and not the nice one either.  The other day whilst changing a poo diaper someone (AKA Beans) thought it would be hilarious to start bouncing his cute little baby butt all over the place.  Thus getting nasty baby crap all over my hand.  This had of course happened on the one day so far this year I wore the pretty channeled band Paul Bunyan bought me for Christmas three years ago.  If jewelry isn't an effective way to cause me pain while getting my attention (earrings and necklaces) then it means I am washing shit off diamonds.  Screw jewelry.

6. My Anything-Below-the-Neck.  Hell, who am I kidding?  I have grey hair, wrinkles, and raccoon eyes -- screw it being just the belly I don't want to claim and the varicose veins that make my legs look even worse than before.  What the hell happened to me?  Thank goodness children are cute, because the side effects that come with them are hell.

7.  My Bladder.  Perhaps if we are going for anatomical accuracy it isn't the actual bladder but the muscles of my pelvic wall or floor or whatthefrickenhellever.  I held out hope with the first pregnancy that the whole wetting yourself when you sneezed thing would go away.  Since child number two I am realizing that this is a pregnancy symptom that may never abate.

8.  My Sleep.  I used to have some, with complete cycles and everything.  I can almost remember back that far, but deprivation being what it is I may just be hallucinating.

9.  My Sanity.  I swear, I used to have more of it.

10.  My Life.  I used to have one that revolved around me.  Looking back, I am not sure that it was entirely enjoyable.  This may be exhausting, I might have lost of my sense of Self, and there are moments that straight up suck (anyone claiming otherwise lies) but this is a gift and I am grateful.

Again, I may be hallucinating here though.

oil pan magnet board

My love-hate relationship with Pintercrack marches on.  Some days I want to kick the whole website in the nuts, some days I am not sure how I'd survive without it.

Today is a good day ... for now.

Have you seen this one?

While I don't see me posting my kid on the internet in nothing more than a diaper, I do dig the idea.  You can nab one of those oil pan thingies at Walmart for like $12.

So I did.  Then I had to figure out how to get the stupid thing home in a Corolla with two kids and a driver.

It wasn't pretty.

But then I brought it in the house and freaked Paul Bunyan out by saying I was just going to Gorilla Glue the crap out of it.

Eventually, he is going to realize how easy he is to manipulate, right?

Anyway, he took over the hanging of the thing (which involved pre-drilling holes and using bits I wouldn't have known existed so it was for the best I didn't want to do that anyway) and just wanted me to tell him where.

And taaaa daaaa...

Apparently there is something weird in our wall and the bottom left hand corner of the pan didn't hit a stud, so he had to do it over just a bit to the right, which left a ridiculously sharp metal hole in the darn thing.  The cure?

Slap a cute pirate sticker on it and BAM, all better.

Beans loves playing with his "numbers" ... they are letters, but hey, he is two and we are working on it!

An Open Letter to Netflix

Dear Netflix,

We have a complicated relationship, and I blame you entirely for it.

We started off fine, with you sending me the DVDs I wanted more or less when I wanted them.  Then the whole streaming thing started, and I was like "man, that is bad ass! Thank you!" and loved you even more.

Somewhere in there, my ability to function became entirely dependent on you.

Oh yeah, I know where it happened.

Parenthood.

Don't get me wrong, I will be honest that I was swearing at you under my breath when I had discovered Glee, like a year after everyone else on the planet, and obsessively watched up to the end of what you offered only to discover that an additional like 17 seasons have happened that you haven't loaded.  The freaking Glee club kids I was watching should be heading back for their ten year reunions and I have NO idea what is happening?!

I could get over that.  I had a much, much harder time with Downton Abbey and wound up having to find out when the hell PBS was airing that because I would still be back in frigging 1914 and not have known about *spoilers, highlight to see it if you are even further behind than I was* Mary and Matthew finally getting married, Sybil dying and what they did to my beloved Matthew! I am still in mourning!!!*end spoiler*

But now?  Now you screwed with Nick Jr.

Pardon my french, but you deserve an f-bomb or two and I have muttered them countless times in the last week or so when Beans is asking for Diego and Wonder Pets ...  but they are GONE.

GONE!

We purposely bought some of his faves from Disney on DVD because, let's be frank here, Disney is all about magic and whatever, but whoever is in charge of marketing and product distribution is one greedy bastard.  It takes me ten years just to bypass the previews and get to mother effing "fast play" and then they go vaulting crap so you cannot buy it and have to splurge now or Peter Pan may DIE!!!  So when I looked at the list of things available on Netflix and saw very very little of Disney I figured it was just that Disney was good and controlling their product and whoring for as much money as possible.  So, no, I assumed I would not have access to Disney shows for $8.69 a month.

So we bought a couple Jake and the Neverland Pirates videos.  A holy butt ton of Little Einsteins, the cost of which seems to be equal to whatever the disc's weight is in platinum, and figured between a couple DVDs  and Netflix all would be well.

Then you screwed me.

I know it is all contract BS and maybe it isn't exclusively your fault that you no longer have Nick Jr. shows, but know that I am hating you for it all the same.  You let the whole Viacom deal expire.  You are the asshole to blame.

Apart from the wicked pissed two year old that I would unleash upon you if I didn't think I would somehow get sued for the damages he'd cause, I have a ticked 11 year old who loved some occasional Jimmy Neutron and I am terrified you will take away the shows *I* want to watch before I have cleared the que.  As if I needed something else to distract me from getting things done now I have YEARS of television to cram into my life?!

Seriously, can you just tell me if you are going to rip Weeds, Once Upon a Time, Mad Men, How I Met Your Mother or Dr. Who out of my life to so I can totally sink into the madness?

Did I mention we are in the process of canceling our cable for you?  You two-timing-witch.

Oh and did you really keep Calluou?  Seriously, I would rather soak in honey and lay on a mountain of fire ants for hours than listen to ONE episode of that whiny little turd.

In closing, I forgot to mention that I have friends who's kids are completely obsessed with Dora and Yo Gabba Gabba (I was scared of that show and have never allowed my children to watch it because it is like Sesame Street on acid) who are equally ready to riot against you.  I am sure you are fielding LOTS of calls from parents annoyed with this and I am sure you have some very nice prepared statement about it all too.  I also know that I have been told that between Hulu and Amazon Prime I may be able to bring peace to our house again.  You may have gotten awfully comfy being the best for a while, but you have to stay competitive in order to stay on top.

Keeping that whiny brat Calluou but ditching the Wonder Pets was an exceptionally shitty plan to try to actually please customers.

Sincerely,
One Frazzled Mom

Its my Mommy!

I remember when my oldest started naming his toys after me.  I thought it was soooo cute.  All his beloved stuffed animals were affectionately called "mommy" and I thought it was precious.

Beans has however, taken a different approach.

First off, he names anything female after me, and everything male-like after daddy.  However, sometimes I swear the kid is messing with me and trying to break me via self-confidence-destruction.

Want proof?

These are "Mommy" and "Daddy" ... and no, I don't really want to discuss who is who.

I mean it was all fine when we were talking Hot Wheels.

Mommy.

Daddy.

I was willing to just take the whole chocolate bar themed car as Beans knowing his mommy well, rather than it being a comment about my exceptional and nutritional take on life.  But a muscular one-eyed, bearded dude?  Come on!!!

Feeling a bit miffed about the whole thing I packed Beans up and went about my usual errands, which this day happened to include a Costco run.

I don't know why, but the people at Costco who check your receipt at the door think that no matter how impatient and completely pissed your child is, they can cure them with a cute smiley face drawn on the receipt with a highlighter.  So while Beans is losing patience and our items are being counted, I take a deep breath as the gentleman at the door flips the receipt over and begins his Picasso moment.  He wraps it up and hands his masterpiece over to the Beans who takes one look at it and gasps.  Three people, plus myself and the Costco employee look down at him as he proudly holds the page up and yells

Its my Daddy!!!

Suddenly, I felt a lot better about being a bearded pirate.  

I am that good

Okay I have totally sucked donkey bits at blogging lately, I will give excuses later.  But I wanted to share with y'all what I am clearly not doing in my bloggy absence.

Being any good at anything that resembles "domesticisty."

As an example for you this fine day I offer this pictoral piece of evidence:

Now while you are wondering what you are looking at, and why you are looking at that random assortment of crap I would like to blow your mind.

It was in the couch.

Not just under the cushons, I am not that bad.  Shit, I have needed spare change plenty of times in the last decade of that couche's existance to have lifted the cushions in hopes of a Dr. Pepper from Circle K.

No, my couch eats things.  It once tried to eat my Great Dane's leg, no joke.

This was all in the frame of it.

In case you are not yet impressed with my complete bad-ass-ness yet, please direct your attention to the top leftish of the picture.

See the pacifier?

That was Meatball's.

He is eleven.

Boom!

the !@#$% chore sticks, done!

Okie dokie, so these chore sticks that never seem to get done and just hover in my semi conscious demanding I finish them with the intoxicating promise of being helpful ... yeah, I want them done.  I have mentally attached the completion of these sticks to the success and smooth running of this household, so I am feeling a smidgy desperate.

So I gave you the massive list of chores, and I showed you how to make the sticks, and how to take a really ugly picnic utensils basket and make it be something you'd actually want in your home.  So now, how to use it!

Here is the gist of it:

There is the section for the chores not being used this week.

Then there is the section for the regular chores that are always expected and never a commission.  This is the daily stuff that Meatball has to do every day.  We don't think that he should be paid to take care of his basic responsibilities and contributions to the house.

Then there is the section for the 20 chores that are available this week for commission.

I will put the chores in on Sunday and they will remain there all week.  We do not control Meatball on when he does the chores, when and how many are entirely up to him.  There are only 20 chores here per week because he can only earn a maximum weekly commission of $5.  This doesn't sound like much (as far as chore numbers) but with Meatball's other responsibilities -- his daily non-commission chores, school, sports, being a kid -- it really is pushing it for him to hit all 20.  At least, we think it will be.  Obviously we will adjust as needed, and I know that during school breaks we will have to develop a plan of some sort.

Each stick is worth twenty-five cents.  This may sound steep, but Meatball is 11 and we didn't want him to have a max earning of $2.  When the Beans is older and he starts getting chores the amount per stick will be much less and will grow with him.

The very last section on the basket is the "done" section, which is divided into two parts.

One is for the daily non-commission ones, the other for the weekly commission ones.  This makes it easier on Meatball to start each day by grabbing yesterday's done dailies and just putting them in the section he still is working on.  When they mix together it takes longer, which means he just skips it and defeats the whole dang point.

Oh and the container that Meatball insisted that he needed because four sections in the basket wasn't enough?

We have no use for it currently, so it is just sitting behind the chore basket with the "I'm Bored" sticks ... which I don't think I ever posted about either ... I will get on that.  So here it is at a glace, I didn't bother to label the dog kennel or my Scentsy warmer, but I think you get the idear!

So, now they're done, is my house clean and organized yet?  Am I hoping for too much?