By popular demand....

Isn't she lovely?

Isn't she wonderful?

Isn't she precious?

Less than just 5 years old?

Isn't she lovely, made from love?

~~~~~
And, just for comparison's sake, here is her mama on prom night...

(I loathe that dress. Wish I could find my junior prom picture. That dress was a knock-out. This one makes my calves look HUGE.)

And the wedding dress that ate Chicago. It just kept on going, and going, and going, and going...

Let's Dance...

The moment has finally arrived. The night of the much-anticipated "Daddy Daughter Dance" is upon us.

"I can't believe my baaaaaby is big enough to go to a big girl dance!"

"Oh MOM-meee!! I am not a BAAaby! I am SO BIG. I'm 4 and a HALF." Bounce, bounce. Giggle, giggle.

"I know, I know. And I am so glad you're getting older, because only big girls can stand still enough to get curls put in their hair! And look how pretty they look!" (deftly avoiding her earlobes with piping-hot curling iron as she does everything BUT hold still...)

Much squealing. Many giggles. Hair spray floated everywhere, coating her in a familiar scent, but not one that I have ever associated with Corinne... Chapstick and oh-so-light, sparkly pink eyeshadow were applied for that special extra touch and she was absolutely glowing and ready to dance the night away.

"Now come over here, baby-girl. I need to take your picture on the piano bench. Do you know that before every single dance that your Mommy went to, she sat on her piano bench for pictures? Even on my wedding day, I sat on the piano bench in my fancy dress. And now you're going to a dance and sitting on the bench in your fancy dress...." (Yes. I was getting teary-eyed at this point)

Then they posed together; she in her pink flowers and curls, he in his blue shirt and tie. My tiny little "big" girl and her gentle giant of a daddy. And then her hand was in his and she skipped out the door into the night and straight to their grand ball at the local school gym.

And I am left to wonder at how I am here... How did I reach this point? This moment where we are at the beginning of it all... I am left to imagine the dances and dates and proms and wedding and, and... And my heart just clutches up a bit and my eyes just can't stay dry.

She looked so, so beautiful. SO incredibly sparkly and gorgeous. Her eyes were lit up for only Patrick and her happiness was so genuinely complete.

I cannot wait to see the pictures of their fun and hope that this First Experience remains with Corinne forever. I know it will remain with me.

Don't be putting any apples on your head around me...

Yawning over my morning coffee, I blearily puttered around on my emails. I had to be speedy-quick, though because Corinne had ballet at 9 am and I loathe being even 5 minutes late for a 45 minute class. I mean, do the math! That's like, um... well... A lot of pennies and dimes. And I don't actually feel like doing the math. And you can't make me. ANYWAY! The scene is being set and I am getting distracted. As I was saying, hot coffee. Bleary emails. On a schedule.

Moving on!

I remembered that Corinne and Patrick have their Daddy-Daughter dance on Friday and checked my receipt from the park district to be certain of the start time. All was good and I noted it on my calendar, feeling quite proud of my efficient ability to plan and record things from one piece of paper to another. Good job, Tracey! You rock. But before I could finish patting myself on the back, I read the dates on Justin's archery class (his birthday present from us). And then? I practically shat myself.

APPARENTLY, I signed him up for the February class, even though I remember wanting the MARCH class. APPARENTLY, I never noticed that the 03/16 that I thought I saw on the paper actually read 02/16.

Fa.Bu.Lous. This is a 4 week class and 2 of the classes were ALREADY HELD.

Well, it just so happens that I signed up at the center where Corinne has her ballet classes, so I tucked the receipt and some luck into my back pocket and prayed that I could convince someone to break all the rules that are CLEARLY stamped upon all paperwork and websites: No Returns, No Refunds, No Way, No How. (Well, that's the impression I get, at least...)

Scene: 8:55 am. Holding area for mommies of miniature ballerinas. Community rec center. 5 or 6 pre-schoolers hopping around the puddles of melting snow and mud. Tracey approaches the desk with a crumpled piece of paper. And so it begins...

"Hey! Remember me? How are you? Yeah... I have a bit of a problem. Do you remember when I signed up for the archery class? And the Daddy-Daughter dance?"

Nice Receptionist Lady "Oh, sure. What's up?"

"Wellllll.... I am not sure how I missed this, but we are in the wrong class and I was SO upset this morning when I realized it! My son (pointing at scraggly 11-year old, scowling in the corner) is really excited about this archery class, and I was really careful to write all the dates on my calendar after we signed up and it was only this morning that I noticed that the 03 I saw on the paper is actually an "02" (waving paper in her face) and this means that we have MISSED half of the class! I mean, when I realized the dates were wrong I thought 'You're so stupid!' and I just about cried!"

NRL "Um..."

"Oh no! Not YOU. Not 'YOU'RE so stupid.' I meant 'I'M so stupid.' God. Now I really DO sound stupid..."

NRL "Um..."

"ANYway! I know all of the papers say that there aren't any changes allowed after the class starts but it was an honest mistake and we truly can't afford to sign him up for a class again and this was his birthday present! He's so upset (points at dull-faced pre-teen again) and it just breaks my heart to think..."

NRL "AHEM!"

"Sorry?"

NRL "Let me look at it, ok?" She generously shut me the hell up. Her eyebrows raised for permission, she snatched my printed receipt from my wildly gesticulating hand.

NRL "Hmmm... Let me see what I can do. Why don't you sit down over there (far away from me, you psycho) and I'll let you know if we can transfer him to the March class, ok?"

"Oh! Yeah. Sure. Thank you. Thank you SO much! Let me know if you need me. I'll be right over here, ok?" (pointing to the obvious chair next to the obviously unhappy 11-year old, I nervously backed away to position myself, ready to help her help me in any way possible).

Honestly folks? I was an honest-to-God, first-class NERD. I was blathering on and on, and the poor woman didn't get a chance to get a word in. As I fidgeted and bit my nails (I mean, $50 bucks, dude. That is a huge chunk of change for us. It was a real DECISION to be made before we paid for this class) she worked some sort of magic and got Justin switched to the March class (that I already have written on my calendar). All is right with the world.

Immortality on the Internet

Looking through photos of relatives that have passed brings so many questions to mind; what did she dream of? Who did he love most? What sacrifices did she make? What tragedies shaped his life? In what ways did this unknown ancestor influence my present life?

If no one remembers who you were and what you were inside, does this mean that your thoughts and dreams evaporate when your time on Earth is over?

Is this why I blog? To be remembered? To adamantly declare that "I will NOT be forgotten! I will not be reduced to a half-dozen, unlabeled, fuzzy photographs in a box in someone's attic. My presence on this planet will have an impact because I write these words in this little box, from my little office." Like Independence Day, "We will not go quietly into the night!"

I suppose I am no better than the very people I (internally) mock. The ones who desperately purchase anti-aging creams and Botox in an attempt to retain their youth. The people who say "IF they die..." instead of "WHEN I die..." People who cannot accept that our bodies are temporary (so incredibly temporary) modes of transportation for our spirit's stream of consciousness.

I suppose that in writing my little escapades on my little blog in my little fraction of the internet, I am desperately carving my name on the wall and screaming "I WAS HERE!" No matter how I sugar-coat my reasons for blogging (making friends! recording our lives for my children! parental camaraderie!) I must honestly admit that it all boils down to the same need we all have which is to know that we MATTERED.

Don't you... Forget about me...

Yes, yes. I know. I MATTER. I matter to my family. I matter to my friends. I love them all, and they love me. I am blessed in knowing this fact so confidently. That is not in question. But, the older I get, the more I feel the need to make a more permanent mark upon the outside world. A painting, an article, an accomplishment of some sort that causes me to stand out from the rest. Something that proclaims "She was here! She was fabulous and ordinary and flawed and HUMAN. She dreamed and loved. Her heart expanded and fractured. And there will never be another exactly like her!"

I don't want to go quietly into the night...

Quickly, before I go...

Stacia kindly asked me where I've been for the past few days. I was touched, but honestly, it's just been one of those weeks. Considering the fact that it is February (depression month for me!), there was a death in the family, AND I have my period (TMI? Too bad. MY BLOG, remember?), I am remarkably happy. But busy. For instance, these are things I actually said today:

"We don't put tape on the cat."

"You need to learn to read and write so that you aren't living in a ditch when you grow up because you sure as heck are NOT going to live HERE."

"Who put the sock in the toilet?"

"For the last TIME: just because you know that 'bitch' means 'female dog' does not mean you can go around telling me the names of all of the bitches you know." (That is the last time I have an in-depth conversation regarding the terms 'bitch' and 'ass' with my 7 year old. Another question he asked me was "Have you ever SEEN a real 'ass'?" )

On that note, I must vacate my little spot on the net once again. There are shirts to iron for tomorrow's final good-bye to a cousin, a plank of wood to purchase, sand and attach an arrow to for the Cub Scout graduation on Saturday and a house to clean for Justin's birthday party on Sunday. Lots to do and not all of it pleasant.

(Corinne is thankfully healing well and I am no longer worried about her throat. Thank you all for your concern.)

May your weekend be full of sunshine.

Peace, yo.

You say tomato, I say...

Originally posted at the former Chicago Moms Blog on Feb 15, 2010

You say tomato, I say...

Recently my children sat around the kitchen table, building skyscrapers with new blocks we won on a giveaway. Towering above her head, my 4 year old stared up at her creation and proclaimed,

"I made the Serious Tower!"

Giggling over her obviously childish description, her older brother (aged 7) indulgently said,

"Silly goose! It's the Series Tower!"

I barely controlled my snorting laughter as I corrected them both with,

"No, no, no. It's the SEARS Tower."

Sighing over his family's inability to get with the times, my eldest son (age 10.11 years) shook his head at all of us,

"You GUYS. It's the WILLIS TOWER. Geesh."

I despise the changing of the guard and the altering of the names of landmarks. Especially when my children can stay on top of things better than I...

On Edge

Well. Lots to say about this weekend. The monster truck rally. The movie. The quality time together. But I am still reeling from the near miss we had with Corinne and the sharp tube she decided to hold in her mouth while jumping off of a chair... The scream and the panic before we decided that a trip to the ER wasn't necessary. The cut in her mouth isn't pretty, but doesn't seem terribly serious. She is on a water, jell-o and popsicle diet until I think it has healed. (Or until I think it hasn't healed and warrants a trip to the doctor, after all...)

The fact that this accident was so close to being "something serious" (as in, half an inch more) is making me extremely on edge. This in addition to the news that an old friend's 3 year old was diagnosed with leukemia this weekend has me feeling a little less than Valentiney today. Grateful for what I have, yes. But still... on edge...

Can't get no satisfaction?

Recently, a fairly well-known mommy blogger wrote a heartfelt post about the conflict she felt when encountering at-home parents on her lunch breaks from work. She honestly confessed that she feels torn between wanting so desperately to be with her little ones and yet wanting so desperately to enjoy her fabulous, upscale career. The women who jumped up and raised their fists in unison no doubt feel exactly as she does. And I feel for them, I really do. And because that was THEIR space and THEIR rallying war-cry, I didn't feel it was appropriate to write my comment on her post.

Because...

I just want to say, it's ok to say that you like being a stay-at-home mom. It's ok to not jump on the bandwagon and nod your head and say "Hear! Hear, mah sistah!" when another mom talks about how haaaard it is to be at home and how much she misses her "sense of self" that she felt when she was "working." It's OKAY to not agree to being soooo looooonely or soooo unfulfilled or soooo dissatisfied with where your life is at! It's ok to say "You know what? I actually like being home. I actually do feel acknowledged and appreciated (most of the time). Despite the hardships that my job of being a SAHM (who homeschools!) creates, I completely understand that the hardships of being a mom with a job outside of the home are not the lifestyle I wish to live."

Guess what else?

It's ok to say the exact opposite. It's ok to not have to JUSTIFY why you work. It's ok to say that you adore your job and don't fret over your kids when you're at work. It's ok to feel secure about the care they receive from your spouse, relative or other daycare provider. It's ok to acknowledge that you LOVE being a working-out-of-the-home mom.

It's ok to be satisfied with what you have.

I've done the "working mom" thing. Honestly? For me? It sucked. Every damn minute I was working sucked. I loathe the idea of ever having to re-enter the workplace while my kids are still within our home. But I can also understand how you could hate being a SAHM. I get it. However, for me? I am NOT JEALOUS. I might envy your material possessions a bit, but I don't take for granted what I have as an at-home mother. Not one single minute.

I cleaned my office...

To sum up today: I cleaned my office. That phrase, right there, tells me that I am feeling optimistic and ready to plan ahead. I always enjoy the cleaning of the schoolroom/office. I end up feeling rejuvenated and fresh and ready to cram some knowledge into a few craniums (whether they like it or not!). Tomorrow will be an ordinary school day as I plan for the next 2 weeks of Fun and Educational Activities! So, basically, when I clean my office, my kids cringe in anticipation...

:)

We actually have a pretty busy weekend. Tomorrow night will find me surrounded by thousands of men of all ages. There will be much screaming and shouting, drinking and swearing.

Oh, and I'm bringing my entire family. You can come too; we'll be at the MonsterJam truck thingy.(Don't ask me the real name. I'm a novice. About as novice as you can get!) Kids under 12 are $10 and I have a discount code of "MOM" to be used for early purchases so that you can save $5 off adult tickets (not valid on the $50 or $30 price level seats). Enter the code in the PROMOTIONS OR SPECIAL OFFERS LINE. My boys are beyond excited, especially since we're making this into a birthday weekend celebration for Justin (he turns 11 on Monday. I'm not ready to talk about that yet, though...)

They'll have a sleepover and then on Saturday we'll catch the matinee of Percy Jackson!! YESSSS!! THIS part of the weekend really appeals to ME. I loved those books and so did Justin. We can't WAIT to see it!

So I sit here, in my clean office, at my clean desk and scribble down the exciting lessons I can't wait to have my children reject, and I AM GRATEFUL that I am feeling so energetic and positive. Now, can somebody find a way to bottle this up for me? (A way that isn't, you know, ILLEGAL...)

You asked for it; You got it. *

Ahem.

My apologies to the state of Illinois. I do believe that I am responsible for the snow that is falling and falling and will continue to fall for the rest of the day. I do believe that my little whine to Cara of "Wah wah we only have frozen mud wah wah frozen mud isn't anymore fun than FROZEN MUD wah wah no fair that YOU get all of the snow!". You get the idea. You've all heard me whine often enough that I don't need to elaborate, yes? Yes.

Sadly, for my derriere, I stayed up late last night frosting 50** heart shaped sugar cookies. (With sprinkles). So, when I got a call saying that the Valentine's party for our homeschool club was canceled due to a few flakes (what's 12-18 inches and blowing wind?!? Come on! Buck up!) I inwardly groaned. The thought of all of those pink bits of heaven just taunting me is more than I can handle. Of course, the problem was partly solved when Evan said "We're hungry! Where's breakfast? Can we have a cookie?"

Yes. Yes you can.



* Who can name that line?!? From what funny movie did we hear that line about 45 times in a row?

** To be honest, SOME of those cookies are for our Cub Scout den meeting tonight. Of course, I have a feeling that it will either a: be canceled due to the snow or b: consist of only my kids and another 1 because of the snow so it will end up that my family WILL eat the majority of these damn cookies. I am DEFINITELY making up a plate for the neighbors. Because my own butt shouldn't be the only one to suffer in these cold, cold days of February.

DUDES. I almost forgot. I have got TONS of giveaways on my review site. Go check it out if you like to do any of the following:

~ eat
~ clothe your children
~ wipe up things that spill

Why I hate showers...

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Now you know.

What I want for Christmas in 2010

So I'm sitting here at 7 am on a Sunday morning with my family still cutting zzz's and my coffee still too hot to drink. Shivering my ass*off, I grabbed the decorative Christmas blanket** off of the back of the couch and wrapped myself up, good and tight. My robe and slippers are upstairs... Hmmm. I? Am lazy. They're upstairs. I'm DOWNstairs.... The blanket will do. I do not need the exercise (despite the cream puffs). Onward to Blogland!

I pull up new, favorite blog. I read. I comment. My blanket falls off. Damn. Tug, tug, shiver.

I pull up an old, favorite blog. I read. I comment. My blanket falls off. Damn! Tug, tug, shiver.

Rinse and repeat about 10*** more times. Much swearing. Much shivering.

I rub the crusties out of my eyes with my icicle fingers**** and have a conversation with myself.


"Self, I am so cold! I hate this. Why don't you turn up the damn heat?"

"Stop your bitching, ya big baby. It's set at 67! How warm do you want it to be?"

"Um, warm enough that my hands have some circulation?"

"WHATEVER! Your hands and feet NEVER have enough circulation! You will definitely have them cut off before you're 65, and turning that thermostat up will NOT make them all comfortable and cozy!"

"You are SO CHEAP."

"Get another blanket."

"It keeps falling off!"

"Put on your robe."

"It doesn't cover my feet! Besides it's UPstairs!"

"Lazy ass."

"Tight ass!"

"Whatever. I'm outtie. Touch that thermostat and I will totally bitch slap you."

Continue to grumble to myself, even though I am no longer there to talk to...

"Man. I wish I had a blanket that wouldn't fall off! I wish I could stay warm while I type! I wish I had a long, fuzzy blanket that had some sort of holes or something in it so that my arms could sneak out of it.... Oh. Wait. Yeeeaaah...."


I must apologize to all of the Snuggie users that I have mocked. I now see the folly of my ways and I CAN understand how a blanket with ARMHOLES could be beneficial to my life...



* (which is definitely bigger since the cream puff incident)

**(Yes, the Christmas blanket is still out, though we have literally dozens of other blankets with which to adorn our furniture. WHY is the Christmas blanket still out? Because I forgot to put it into the boxes when I UNdecorated which means that said blanket will most likely still be out come July...)

*** (SHUT UP. Ok, FINE. More like 20-30. My name is Tracey and I cannot stop myself from stalking people I don't really know on the Internet. Wanna be my newest bff?)

**** (My circulation. OY. Let me TELL you about my circulation! It could be 90 and humid out and my hands would STILL be a cool and relaxing relief from the heat. But in February with the whipping winds and the alter-ego who is a tight-fisted bitch, I am left in seriously cold pain. Pity me, won't you?)

So much for fitting into a bathing suit this summer...

Should I write about the cream puffs I made from scratch and ate HALF OF yesterday? See what happens when you open your cookbooks in an effort to be more "natural" and "healthy"? See what happens when your cookbook haphazardly flops open to a picture of absolutely delicious chocolate cream puffs? Did you know that I cannot eat just 1 or 2 cream puffs? Did you know that these are one of my honest-to-gosh weaknesses? (Dove mini-caramel-milk-chocolates are my other...) Do you wonder why I am not posting a picture of the other half of the decadent chocolatey cream puffs? Because they're in the freezer. Under the chicken. Out of my sight (but not out of my mind since I'm writing an entire paragraph about them, dammit.) Because if I were to dig them out and snap a picture, I'd have to take out 1 to munch on. And then another. And, before you'd know it, the entire container would be GONE before Patrick even knew it existed. I swear to God. But, I promise you, they ARE AWESOME. And Chocolate. And... Awesome. Shit. Now I REALLLLLY want one!!!

So, this groundhog walks into a bar...

February, eh? I've made it through the first third of the winter darkness.

I am a bit quiet about that this morning. I mean, 1/3 of the way through some of the crappiest weather means that I still have 2/3 left to go. (See mah math skillz? That's talent. That's pure, homeschooling TAHL. ANT.) Isn't there a rodent that's supposed to have a big celebration today? Shoot. A GOOD homeschooling mom would have had an art project and word find and shit for groundhog's day. Fabulous. I suck. Maybe I can dig out some brown paper and felt. They can make a rodent for the window. Because nothing says "Festive February!" more cheerfully than sticking a furry critter that lives in the dirt on your front window...

Pardon me while I chug my coffee. And eat homemade bread. Yes! I made bread. I watched Food Inc. and will now be paranoid about antibiotics and "unpronounceable food" for a while. Bear with me while I write about attempting to be more "natural". All that in addition to finding a cheap way to humidify the house (dry skin! breathing issues! all because of the lack of humidity!!), dress from the current decade (keep your husband interested! Don't let yourself Goooooo!!!), maintain the laundry, pay most of the bills, help the starving children, and organize the million and one other tiny details that constantly run through my head. (Thanks to late night/early morning t.v., I am exposed to waaaaaay more "causes" and "issues" that a conscientious person is "supposed" to be attentive to. I now have so many issues in my brain that I can't fully devote myself to ANYTHING...) Is it any wonder that I am perpetually awake at night?

Too much. I have too much in my head. I would like to wake up in the morning and KNOW what is expected of me without having to be in charge of it all. You know what I'd really like? I would like to be thanked for the stuff that I do: The homemade pizza and bread on Sunday. The hour spent wrapping a damn arrow for Justin's Cub Scout award. The mountain of laundry that I have managed to hack away at after 3 weeks of not being able to do it. The schoolwork I prepare, the fights I break up, the countless hours that I AM patient and kind (and not having them all wiped away by the loss of my temper after weeks and weeks of being "On" every hour, every day).

You know what is bugging me? I thanked Patrick for changing the cat box, yesterday. Why did I do that? He didn't ask to be thanked. He didn't deserve to be thanked. It was, after all, just the cat box. They are our cats and they needed to be cared for, so when I said, "please change the cat box" and he took care of it, why did I feel compelled to reward him with praise? My rudimentary psychology knowledge knows that it is because I am looking to be praised. I want him to look me in the eyes and say "You really ARE doing a good job." This year has been a big change for our family and I feel I have succeeded in some ways and am floundering in others. Overall, though, I know our year has been decent. And without a paycheck or review or a gold star to stick on my wall, I am feeling quite dreary this February 1st. Where's my damn gold star?!?

Of course, having pounded these words onto my keyboard has alleviated much of my Monday morning stress. Though I'm not quite "chipper", I am definitely more willing to get up and make a worksheet for Evan, lay out the paints for Corinne, and prepare myself for Justin's complaints about his workload (more Algebra! A new science lesson!).

Either that, or the coffee has finally kicked in.