GONE

I have gone back to Xanga. Visit me again HERE: www.xanga.com/livingwilde

 

Fo(u)r Greg

Four jobs you've had in your life: Waitress in college, Writer directly out of college, morphed into Public Relations, morphed into Sales/Marketing for high tech companies. Four movies you could watch over and over: The English Patient, Out of Africa, The Blue/White/Red trilogy, Dirty Dancing. Four places you've lived: Virginia, Alabama, Pennsylvania, Indiana Four TV shows you love to watch: Desperate Housewives, Biography, CBS New this Morning (Sunday/Arts edition), Friends (yes I know it's been canceled, but I have ALL the DVDs! --thanks Steve!) Four places you've been on vacation: I'll be snooty just for Sarah... This year, we're going to Vail, Breckenridge, and Cancun, and add my favorite vacation spot, Paris. Four websites you visit daily: Sarah's Blog, Greg's Blog, Ronda's Blog, Elaine's Blog Four of your favorite foods: Tomatoes, Mozzarella, Balsamic Vinegar, Chocolate. Four places you'd rather be: Teaching, In School, Home, Any Beach. Four albums you can't live without: Afterglow Live, Wicked Soundtrack, Your Little Secret (still one of my favorites), Everything Bon Jovi. Four magazines you read: Fitness, Shape (or as Ronda calls them, my "skinny bitch magazines"), This Month on APT (really -- cover to cover), RID Journal Four cars you've owned: 86 Dodge Colt, 92 Toyota Paseo, 96 Toyota Corolla, 03 Honda CR-V Four people to do this meme: Sarah, Ronda, Elaine, Nancy.

A GREAT Quote...

Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. That’s why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don’t risk everything, you risk even more.
—writer Erica Jong

Inspiring the Next Generation

I drive carpool. Every friggin' morning. Our carpool consists of 3 kids -- Elyse (my 12-year-old, 6th grade daughter), Cadence (her friend, 6th grade), and Jackson (neighbor, 8th grade.) Grades came out on Friday, and Elyse and Jackson are both on some level of restriction.

Now, I don't know what Elyse says to her friends about her mean mom, but she is smart enough to not complain about this restriction to me. In fact, she actually admitted that I went lighter on her than she expected. Jackson, this morning, was being a bit high maintenance. So we had a conversation. It was one-sided. They don't know how to take me.

"Dude! You seem to be under the misguided impression that you are the center of your parents' world!"

"Stephanie! That's so cruel! Are you telling Elyse that she doesn't matter?"

"I have a life. And Elyse knows that. If she plays her cards right, she gets to become an adult who has a life. What do you think you have to look forward to about being a grown-up? Hounding your kids all the time about their grades? What kind of fun do you think that is?"

Laughter.

"You're a hobby. You're a hobby that your parents enjoy, but man, wouldn't that suck if all you had to look forward to was growing up to get a job and push your kids around. Elyse is a Wilde chick in training, and she knows it. That means I have a life, and hopefully she's developing a life."

Elyse agreed. Then there was discussion about Hobby Lobby. As in building kids.

I'm sure that again, this secures my nomination for mother of the year. But ya know, it's worth a rant! Even though I know this conversation puts me squarely in the camp of that newspaper parenting guy that I hate.

Breast Shopping

Ah, I pretended I wouldn't blog about this, but I find I must. On Saturday, Ronda and I took her breasts shopping. Her breasts have decided that they need new bras. This, of course, was after being denied their own zip code. I'm not convinced that they won't be granted their own zip code by the time she starts lactating, but, sigh, not yet.

No, at this point Ronda's breasts are only an E cup size. This makes me happy, because I'm an English person, and I like that we are both vowels. Ronda apparently likes this too. As we were shopping for bras, she pointed to a rack of "petite" bras, and said, "Oh, isn't that cute." "That's my size." "No it's not. You cannot wear that bra." "OK. The one behind it."

In reality, I guarantee I could have fit into the original bra with very little cleavage. But my breasts weren't shopping. My breasts can't intimidate sales girls into excitedly looking to the back of the rack for an ever bigger bra. The sales girls see me coming and they simply point to the toddler section. They see Ronda, and they see an opportunity to squeeze someone into bras they stock for "just in case."

On Saturday, I was The Crocodile Hunter. Only, they weren't crocodiles, they were Ronda's breasts. Ronda needed two things. New bras. Done. And nursing pajamas. Well, when I bought nursing pajamas, I wondered why they made such enormous boob holes in them. I can fit my head through those holes. Right. Enter Ronda. It took two of us in a tiny fitting room to get the PJ's on. Getting them off? Oh no. Not happening. Much like a crocodile, the breast attacked. Throwing itself this way and that, and refusing to give up its now native habitat inside the fabric of the pajamas. The breast won. The pajamas failed.

But the store won't know that until we are a faded memory.

The Religious Left

I consider myself to be a proud member of the religious left. There are more of us than you think. I go to church every Sunday. I take my children to church. I teach them that God loves them. I teach them that they have a responsibility to do good in the world we live in and show other people God's love through their actions. I believe that God loves me, but not just me. God loves everyone, and if we focus on that love, then we quit focusing on our petty disagreements.

I'm pro-choice.

I'm pro-gay rights (including gay marriage.)

I'm pro-tolerance.

I'm pro-taxing me at a higher rate because I can afford it.

I volunteer in a homeless shelter, and I'm a Presbyterian youth leader.

And a Jewish Rabbi just did a whole heckuva better job than I'll ever do at explaining why and how I believe what I believe... Read here:
http://www.beliefnet.com/story/182/story_18230_1.html

Ferber recants!

I'm a weak person. The kind who just couldn't, unless I was totally exasperated and had tried everything else, let my baby "cry it out"... I tried various levels of it, but never lasted more than 5 or 10 minutes. I called that crying it out, but hard core Ferber method said to go as long as 45 minutes. I couldn't do it. Just couldn't.

So I'm happy. Because I just read an article online http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Health/story?id=1317690 where Ferber has changed his mind. Which has to mean that I'm not weak, I'm justified. Don't you love it when you can justify otherwise weak actions? Makes for a great day. Politicians certainly know.

Jeff and I woke up at about 4am. We were cuddled up to each other (rare -- we usually sleep pretty separately.) Why? Because Mike was in bed with us and had wedged his body so that he owned half of our bed.

So crying it out isn't my problem now. Anybody have a solution for toddlers who can open doors??

All Middle School Teachers Must Be Suicidal

Elyse just called. Her English project is to describe how to make something. She chose Oreo blizzards. She has to take all the ingredients to school. That would be oreos and ice cream. "But you need a blender." "Not for the way I make it at camp." "But where will you put the ice cream." "They have freezers in the lunch room." "We'll talk about this when I get home."

Now my grown-up mind works this way. Why in the name of all that is non-perishable and holy would a middle school English teacher want her 6th grade students to bring ice cream to school? And if Elyse is bringing ice cream, dear God, what are the other kids bringing??? I can just imagine... Johnny demonstrates how to make crystal meth... Susie explains how mommy mixes her thrice nightly double Bourbon... (Oh yeah, Elyse could have done that one.)

What is wrong with the modern education system???

Because I Really Will Blog About Anything...

Endometrial ablasion. Those words meant nothing to me until 11am this morning. I'm going to have one in 4 weeks. What does this mean? It means that my uterus -- the same uterus that carried and competently nurtured both of my children -- has turned against me. I have polyps and massive thickening and other things that simply can't stay there. So on Feb. 2, my doctor will perform a number of procedures while I'm knocked out, effectively burning away the problems.

The funny thing about this is that I'm a bit upset by the thought of being infertile. Infertile and most likely lacking periods. Did the word biopsy bother me? No, not really. But the fact that my body will stop functioning the way it's functioned for the past 20 years... That gets me! Do we want more kids? No. Jeff had that taken care of after we had Mike. But still, somehow the idea of the permanence of this bothers me. Or maybe it's just another proof that I'm not 20 any more. That I'm marching toward older and not younger.

I'm very blessed. I was a very young mom the first time. And an average young mom the second time. (18 and 28.) I have a girl and a boy, both of whom are happy, healthy, great kids.

Finishing a chapter.... and it's a damn good book!

The Crocodile Bit Mike

Ah... It's amazing how many things look like crocodiles when you're two. Especially when you're two and obsessed with Peter Pan. Monday, when we were playing at Helen's house, the collies were crocodiles. Elaine was smart enough to notice that collie snouts really do look like crocodile snouts. But today was different. Today, Mike was BITTEN by a crocodile.

It all goes back to that potty training thing again. Why oh why can't he just stay in diapers until he's 30? Anyway, he woke up wet. Not a big deal. Lots of kids have trouble "holding it" all night. So he didn't want to try to use the potty first thing. He waited. Until I was in the middle of doing my make-up.

Most of you know that Jeff & I live in an historic house. Meaning, we have very small bathrooms. Our bathroom is the main bathroom for the house, and for me to put on make-up, I have to bring in a tacklebox from another room and set it on the toilet. So, while I'm putting on make-up, is not the optimal time for a 2-year-old to require re-orientation of the bathroom.

I moved stuff around. Make-up box to the bathtub. Stepping stool in front of the potty. Lifted the seat for him, but didn't notice that my lovely Mary Kay brush set was still on the back of the toilet -- preventing the toilet seat from being flush (ha, ha) with the back of the commode.

It fell.

On Mike's finger.

And apparently, when a toilet seat falls on your finger, it means you've just been bitten by a crocodile.

Now you know.

A first post

Gasp. As much as I love Xanga, I'm moving my blog to Google, where you can all pay me for reading. Ha-ha. Just kidding. Well, kind of. See those lovely Google ads? If and when you click them, I get paid. In the world of my dreams, I will become Steve Shickles and sit around playing on my computer to tweak my sites instead of caring about electric GIS.