For shame...

Dear Blog,

Shame on me for leaving you for so long without water, food or even a decent reality television show to watch. I have been buried with work, life and playing Farmtown on Facebook and haven’t had even one series of rational thoughts to put together to share with the world. Had I jumped the gun and posted any of the things running through my brain, someone would have surely sent the Looney Bin truck for me. And anyone who knows me can tell you that if they ever catch me, I’ll surely be away for a long, long time.

Forgive me?

Yours (well, until the next time I get too busy to write),
Nicky

My Ode to the O.G.

The devil has tried contacting me. Over and over again, he sends his message. Taunting me. Tempting me. Seducing me with his carefully planned out, cunning scheme.

That’s right – I have recently seen a haunting series of Olive Garden’s Never Ending Pasta Bowl food porn commercials. That dirty devil knows exactly what he’s doing.

Seriously, I don’t think I know a single person who does not like the Olive Garden. Who isn’t captivated by it. Who doesn’t crave it at least once a day month.

The breadsticks and salads and soups – the perquisite – as if we’re being lavishly rewarded for our premium choice of the dinner locale. And let us also not forget the sweet minty treats that unfold from the shiny wrappers and send us happily into our food comas.

As soon as the commercials begin, I imagine myself as one of the confused patrons, babbling about which meal to choose. But then my character stands up, boldly walks into the kitchen and swims naked in the vat of warm noodles. You don’t even want to know what happens next at the meatball station… What? I was gonna say that I pack the perfect meatball, geesh.

And then to tempt us with never ending bowls? Are they kidding? I’m still trying to figure out a way to spend an entire week there. Without leaving. Or showering. Even after my laps around the Olympic-size noodle pool.

If you are anti-O.G., please share your secret. Maybe one thing someone says will help pull me away from the magnetic green, glowing sign. From trying to convert Jace into being a believer. It’s already too late for Lanie.

She truly believes that when she’s there, she’s family.

I could watch it over and over and over...

This just never gets old.

O-H...

Last night, I was putting our 4 year old, Lanie, to bed. Nearing the end of her prayer, I could tell she was feeling inspired. Instead of the typical, “Bless Mama, Daddy, Lanie & Jace and everyone we love,” she added a whole host of names of people we know. To close, we always say a big, “A-men!” But this time I was the only one to shout it. I curiously glanced at Lanie and she asked, “Mommy, instead of amen, can we end with I-O?”

I was very confused and asked her to clarify. She said that she thinks God would want us to end with I – O, as if throughout the prayer, her God is prompting her by chanting, “O-H…”

I laughed hysterically, which I regretted because she was completely serious and a little upset that I found her request so funny. I explained that she could end her prayers with whatever she felt comfortable with.

I imagine that Buckeye, the God of OSU, is beaming right now…

Sicky Nicky's Top Ten List

I’m sick. I have some sort of cold/sinus infection that snuck up on me and hit me like a ton of bricks. Fortunately, I’m the only one the illness has affected – my daughter and husband missed it entirely and my son had a brief stint with it all. This is a good thing, because one sick person seems to consume most of me. Not that I ever mind holding, wiping, hugging, staying up all hours with or holding hair back for any of them, but it is exhausting.

Typically, the order of sickness falls with Lanie then Blake then Jace then me. By the time I’m sick, a month’s time has passed and I have not one ounce of energy to care. And that’s why being a sick mama is one of my least favorite roles.

My top ten list why I hate being a sick mother:

1) Exhaustion. Little restful sleep + still fulfilling all responsibilities puts me on fake-energy overload. I find myself dozing off and face-planting into the pot of green beans before dinner. Picture the Saved By the Bell episode where Jesse takes the caffeine pills to stay awake to study for her midterms and then has a mental breakdown.
2) Smell. If I can’t smell, I also can’t detect the status of my 2 year old’s diaper. It doesn’t make me the popular mom while crop dusting all other Target shoppers. I must rely on dirty glances or Lanie shouting, “Mom, Jace’s poop stinks!”
3) No voice. How am I supposed to continue my yelling at the kids with no voice? I really need to be able to make the aware of my dismay with shouting.
4) Snot.
5) Groggy. I sometimes feel like my house is being destroyed by the children as I sit in the midst of all of it, not caring. Books all over the floor, toys in the non-toy rooms and dirty dishes left on the table from yesterday. When I’m groggy, anything goes. I just let it all happen around me as I drool and have a slight smirk.
6) (Lack of) Drugs. Er, I mean medicine. Because I do have to function as a responsible person, I can’t even enjoy any of the legal, over-the-counter cold medicines. The ones that make you feel tingly and see little trolls all over the room when the kids try to stir you in the middle of the day. Uh, I mean night.
7) No taste. I feel like I’m somehow cheating on my beloved coffee. And I can’t even taste the candy I sneak after telling the kids sugar is bad at 6 o’clock at night.
8) Being untouchable. If I’m sick, I don’t want to pass along my germs, so I try to stay at least 3 feet away from the family. This means no kisses or hugs, which makes me awfully sad. Of course, this also means no kid drool or hand goo touching me, which, now that I think about it, really is a perk!
9) The sweats. When I am sick with a fever, all I want to do is find any tile in the house, get nearly-naked and lie down on those cool squares of sweet relief. Apparently, this is inappropriate and offensive to my children and visitors.
…and the number 10 reason why I hate being a sick mom: Because I realize that commercial that claimed “when mom gets sick, everything goes to hell in a hand basket” (in so many words) is oh-so true. And because I know that when I get better, the long road to life and home restoration begins…

Turning 20. Ahem - I mean, 4.

Our eldest child, Lanie, turned 4 years old this past Saturday. A day I hope she’ll remember. Recently, I’ve started thinking back to what I recall as a child. I have memories all the way back to being 3 years old. When I realized this, I decided that my husband and I had better start being on our best parent-behavior.

This means no more visibly eating cookies for dinner while demanding the children eat the cold veggies on their plates, noting that it is 2 hours past their bedtime when it was actually an hour before, claiming that iCarly “went to bed” ½ way through an episode because we wanted to catch the latest on TMZ, downing cups of liquor to deal with temper tantrums while telling the children it was mommy’s and daddy’s “juice.” Just kidding on that last one. Okay, no that really has happened.

Lanie has already proven she’s caught on to some of our shenanigans, so the act is over. No more parent lies. At least not at that level. We’re going to have to get much more creative. I suppose that’s what earns us those seemingly-mysterious parental powers.

Anyhow, Lanie had a great birthday. I bought a bakery cake for the first time, ever. It was delicious. I’ve now gained 50 pounds since Saturday… It was a Spongebob cake – Lanie’s favorite. She had Spongbob plates, cups and decorations. We had BBQ that was quite tasty! She also got everything she’d asked for and then some. I worry about those sort of things. I don’t want my kids spoiled, but she has absolutely reveled in each of the gifts she received, so I’m at peace with it all. Each gift has truly been special to her.

All-in-all, it was a fantastic day and I’d be proud if she remembers even a moment from it. Well, except the fact that I did hold the birthday over her head to get her to behave nicely last week. Let’s just hope she forgets that part.

Our birthday girl:

Time may change me, but I can’t change the temperatures...

So, yesterday I caught myself saying words I never thought I’d hear leaving my tongue: I can’t wait for Fall.

Whaaaat? I’ve always been a summer person. Only a summer person. I hate cold. I hate snow. I hate having to put on even a sweater. Who is this loon looking forward to FALL?!

Once the words left my mouth, my mind started racing… I had a flashback to a few weeks ago when I bought Bath & Body Works Wallflower refills. I purchased apple, warm vanilla sugar and pumpkin patch scents. Then I fast fowarded to that weekend when I went to Target and ended up buying Lanie Fall school clothes. Ones with long sleeves and had leaves and apples and Fall-related decorations. Just a few days ago, I was eyeballing new nail polishes in dark purples, browns and blues. And to top it all off, I found myself thinking about how nice it would be to use our fireplace. Our FIREPLACE. In 90 degree weather.

I feel like a pregnant woman who suddenly craves only prime porterhouse steaks after months and months of eating nothing but sugar cookies and sprinkle doughnuts. Except my passion for summer has been going on for 32 years – why is it changing now?

I find myself sitting in the sun and wondering when I can flee to the air conditioning. Instead of looking for the sunniest spot and rotating my lawn chair to the perfect tanning angle, I am seeking out only shaded spots. Preferably with dense foliage, water coolers and tiny hand-held fans. And when I am driving in my blazing hot car, I turn on holiday music and pretend that we’re on a sleigh ride in the white, glistening snow. (Only kidding about that last part.)

As much as I’ve tried to convince myself that I am still infatuated with summer, my mind keeps taking me to thoughts of Fall. I have decided to stop fighting the urge and, instead, embrace it.

At least I still have my abhorrence of winter.