Oh, My!...What is a Reciprocal Link?

Oh, my gosh!  I have been trying to spend some time this evening researching ways to increase traffic to my blog.  Unfortunately, I am not the most computer literate person.  Translation:  I have a list of suggestions that I don't understand a bit.  Translation:  I have a lot of Googling to do.

Yes, it's official; I am in over my head with trying to optimize...it's all pingy this and domain name that.  eHow, eHow?  Where are you?...help me!  I want to generate good traffic and take Momglomerate global, but I have SO much to learn.

To those of you who seem to be much more technically proficient than I:  I want to sincerely thank some readers for apparently linking the blog to Facebook!  I don't know how you did it, but I am really very appreciative.  I have been getting more and more traffic every day.

If anyone else knows how to link me to other relevant pages, please feel free to do so--and by all means, explain it to me!  (And if anyone knows a tutor for blog-optimization, that would be helpful, too!)

I'm going to keep looking at CPCs, CPMs, affiliate links, privacy policies, guest posting, community sites, blogcarnivals...  and what the bleep is a reciprocal link, anyway?

(Need OJ very badly.)

Drugs

Several thoughts on drugs:

First of all, I still have not had any orange juice.  Woo-woo!  However, for those of you who may have similar problems with the delicious, pulpy beverage, heed my advice: do not try to use Juicy Juice for a quick fix.  Juicy Juice is a gateway drug back to the OJ.  Stay off the juice.  No exceptions.  Trust me here.

Second of all, my mom came over yesterday and was having sinus trouble, so I offered her some of my NyQuil Sinus stash.  You may recall that NyQuil is my runner-up drug of choice (after OJ).  I hardly ever take any medicine, so I am EXTREMELY sensitive.  Therefore, NyQuil is like a tranquilizer for me.  I am really not sure if it ever helps with my nasal symptoms-slash-pain and discomfort because I forget all about them in my NyQuil state of mind.  Anyway, she informed me that it is almost a year expired!  (I told you I hardly ever take any medicine.)  That could explain a lot of things, if NyQuil is like other alcohols and becomes more potent with age...?

And, finally, with OJ (off the menu!) and NyQuil (embarrassingly out of date) both out of the question this morning, I found myself in a very bad state.  I have been having worsening back and neck spasms since Tuesday night.  This morning they were so intense that I was having trouble getting up and down...you can imagine how frightening this is having two clingy infants in the queue for today...  I cannot go for acetaminophen or ibuprofen because I will be nauseated the rest of the day, which is almost as paralyzing as my current neck and back woes.

So, I turned to my trusty oils (essential, that is).  I put a few drops of Lavender into a plain lotion and rubbed it into my upper back.  IMMEDIATE relief...and I was not expecting the oils to be able to touch this pain, so it was not a placebo effect.  I am constantly in awe of Lavender.  I put a few drops on our pillows to help us relax.  I put it in the humidifier basin to calm the babies.  I rub it on the soles of our feet if we cannot fall asleep.  The stuff WORKS.  Ask Greg.  One night, he came home from work and put some drops on his nostrils (?) because he thought it would heal the irritation and redness caused by blowing his nose 300 times that day.  He passed out cold in a matter of minutes for several hours...

(Greg has a habit of using random household products in helter-skelter ways, not unlike the father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding who used Windex for all ails.  For example, he had a zit, so he put a thick vitamin E scar cream on it and swears that it sped up its drying out?!  The strange part was, since I break out a lot, he bypassed several acne-specific creams..gels...potions in order to uncover the scar cream...  Very odd, indeed.)

"Get Me a Cold One, and Put Him in the Cage"

Oh, the things kids say!  Yesterday, our realtor told us that zinger (title, above).  He said that one evening, he and his wife were hosting some new friends from her work in education.  His preschool-aged daughter had been having trouble sleeping, so he had recently taught her to flip her pillow over to the "cool side" to fall asleep.  His infant son was still sleeping in a pack-n-play.  So, as the parents visited with their guests, the little daughter entered the room on her way to bed and said, "get me a cold one [ie. pillow], and put him in the cage [ie. pack-n-play]."  Too funny!

Our realtor is really comical.  He also told us a story about his dogs and coconuts...  I will save that one for a slow day.  Just remember: one coconut per dog.  Period.

Green Construction: Other People's Garbage is Too Expensive

I only have a couple of minutes before I have to wake up the babies and go to school to pick up Alyssa.  So, we are going to make this one short and sweet!

Today, we went to meet with the our builder's operations manager, who is basically guiding us through the process of customizing our soon-to-exist new home.  We are particularly interested in using eco-friendly materials that are also good for our indoor air quality.  So, we have been looking at lots of recycled and reclaimed (read: garbage, refuse, rubbish, junked) building products.

Cool, right?

Well, the bummer is that in order to salvage the budget for the project, we have to "scrap" some of the salvaged materials.  Yes.  I wanted to use other people's garbage to build my green dream house, but strangely enough...it is way too expensive!  It is cheaper to buy new.  Isn't that a drag?  What a crazy, mixed-up world.

Alas, here is some of the cool recycled ("trashy chic") stuff that we are still able use:
-reclaimed barn board flooring
-renewable bamboo flooring
-36% recycled ceramic flooring
-recycled resin solid surface bathroom vanity tops
-fomaldehyde free drywall
-recycled newspaper insulation
-no VOC paint
-sustainable, renewable, GreenGuard-IAQ-approved Meganite kitchen countertops

So very exciting!  Add Green Building General Contractor to momglomerate! 

"Please Don't Steal My Scrap"...The Ideas in This Blog Are My Intellectual Property, God Help Me!

This comment is spray painted on the side of a garage in Windsor, Pennsylvania.  It is painted directly on a brick wall above a pile of metal scraps that have been acquired by the garage's owner.  Rather than keep his pile of treasured scraps indoors, under lock and key, he is choosing to (politely) tell would-be scrap stealers to step-off...  He is trusting in the good of humanity.

Or maybe he is naively advertising his scrap to ne'er-do-well Windsor hooligans who will now steal his scrap just because it would obviously get his goat...  I puzzle over this every time we drive by this garage.

Anywho!  In spite of the warnings of some of this blog's/blogger's fans, I want to keep this blog online and open to all viewers.  I am a bit fearful that someone may "steal my scrap," but I don't want to let that keep me from sharing my stories and believing in the essential goodness of humanity.

The words and ideas in this blog are my intellectual property, God help me!

I have chosen to copyright the material.  "Please do not steal my scrap;" AND THANK YOU FOR ALMOST 250 PAGEHITS IN 5 DAYS!!!

More Memories: Promise Not to Judge Me!

More excerpts (that I find particularly amusing this morning) from my diary:

We move towards the kid-deploying teachers waiting to unload the kids from the cars.  I turn around to check on the boy because I hear the hideous soy formula sloshing around in his bottle—never a good sign.  

“Why does his bottle stink so much?  It smells like feet.”  A shares bad naturedly.  “I hate that I have to share a seat with him sometimes because the seat belt smells like formula.  It is disgusting.  Can’t you steam clean it or something?”

He has somehow removed the plastic nipple from his bottle and the soy formula is flowing out unregulated all over his clothing, carseat, and my car’s interior.  Especially A’s part-time seat belt.  I grab the bottle, nearly empty of its eight ounces of stinking fluid.  The car now truly reeks.  He is crying.  It may be because he is soaked through.  It may be because I have taken his bottle.  It may be because his pacifier was earlier launched onto the floormats. It may be for no reason at all.  I gingerly place the defunct bottle into the cupholder beside my seat.   A wrinkles her nose dramatically.  

******

I carry the babies, one on each hip, towards the bedrooms when he is finished drinking, as evidenced by his launching his stinky drink onto the floor, sending off-white soy splatters all over the grey tiles of the sunroom.

******

We head out toward the kitchen, B happily “dada”-ing, and the boy whining and moaning along behind me.  He falls, dramatically, onto the floor by my feet when I stop at the sink.  He cries, while carefully holding his pacifier between his trembling lips, like an experienced smoker, who can balance a cig while talking.

******

Channel 44 is “Say Yes to the Dress.”  It is a highly overrated show.  I turn off the t.v. and sit down on the couch grumpily; B scrambles out of my lap, wanting to be set loose on the floor.  The babies get into the dog food again.  The babies crawl into the hairy dog beds.  The babies play with a stink bug, and get “stunk” on.  The babies pull magnets from the fridge, and open the lazy susan, and unload foods from it, and terrorize the dogs by playing with their balls and bones.  And I follow in their wake, cleaning and cleaning.  They begin to have melt downs.  They are over-tired.  I decide to switch to Plan B.  I serve an uneventful lunch, punctuated by the usual tossing of beverages and subsequent crying.  

******

 I try to play with the babies—you know, with toys—but, they mostly want to suck on household items, like the remote controllers, my phone, a Tylenol syringe, B’s hairbrush, a chap stick tube, the wipes container, and the ever-popular G’s phone charger.  Before long, it is time for us to leave to pick up A at school.  I am exhausted from trying to save and wipe down all of the items that they have attacked and infected in the past hour.

******

I turn into my driveway.  I stop once I am off the road.  I exit the car to pick up the mail: oh, joy, my Chase card statement and a Clipper magazine.  The babies are screaming as I walk back towards the car.  They always scream when I get out.  I deposit the mail in my center console and return to the curbside to pick up the recycling container.  I set it gingerly atop my car, so as not to scratch the paint.  I pull away too quickly, forgetting the container is aboard.  I see it fall off in the rearview mirror.  I stop the car again, get out, retrieve the container, and put it back on my roof.  I drive very slowly and cautiously the rest of the way up the driveway.  I arrive outside my defunct garage door at 4:40.  I am thankful, just this once, that it is broken, because it saved me from driving into the garage with the recycling container up top, and having it scraped off the car, which is what normally happens on recycling day nights.  I manually lift the garage door for the millionth time today, and I manually lift the recycling container off the car and return it to its place inside of the garage.  Babies are screaming as I walk back towards the car, as per usual.  I pull into the garage and turn off the car.  

******

Once inside, I put B down on the rug, and she crawls off toward her toy boxes.  There is a wet, yellow-brown stain spreading on her pants near the edge of her diaper, I notice as her butt recedes into the distant corners of the den.  I grab diapering supplies and grab B to change her.  Her diaper area is still red and raw when I wipe away the liquid poop.  I smear Target-brand Aquiphor onto the area and let her crawl off naked to air out.  The boy toddles over and pats B’s bare back before turning around and trying to sit on her.  I pry him off of her, as she cries softly.  

******

I go to the bathroom and look at my own reflection.  It shocks me, slightly.  For some reason, I pictured my hair looking better and a little bit of eye makeup.  Alas, I wasn’t even able to dry my hair today, let alone open the squeaky closet door past the babies' rooms to apply makeup.  At least I am showered and dressed in clean clothes for my husband’s much anticipated arrival.  I decide to wait until he gets home to start the meatloaf.  

******

G returns to finish the mashed potatoes.  Hearing him turn on the mixer, I take B to the kitchen.  He is blending them in our non-stick stock pot.  I did that once and scratched up the non-stick surface, and he got really mad.  Being G, he had read all of the paperwork that came with the pots and pans, so he knew that you weren’t supposed to put them in the dishwasher or use metal utensils on them, etcetera.  That is how he is.  I did not know that I should not be mixing potatoes in them until he accosted me in the midst of the act several months ago…so, imagine my surprise to see Mr. Instruction Reader and Enforcer defacing our “investment” with the same mixer.

“What are you doing?”  I question him in a mocking tone, because I really don’t care about our “investment.” 

 

“Well, you already ruined it and the chipped non-stick surface is poisoning us already.”  He is clearly still miffed.

I want to get rid of all of our non-stick “investments” and switch to cast iron.  Non-stick surfaces are made with carcinogenic materials that leach into our food while we cook.

His mashed potatoes are usually fantastic.  He is the designated potato maker of the household.  Tonight, however, they are looking dry and crumbly.  He is more calorie conscious than I, so he probably tried to cut back on the butter or milk.  I dare not express my opinions, or I will not have a potato-maker next time.  He is still mixing, wondering aloud if they should be more creamy.  Yes.   The oven timer reads 00:00:42.  I count down for him.  He pronounces the potatoes complete, and I remove the crispy-coated, savory-smelling meatloaf from the oven. 

More Memories: An Eternity Later, We are On the Road

Entry from another morning when Alyssa and I are packing her snack:

"Do you still have snack?"

“Yes.  All I ate yesterday were three or four pretzels. (Pause.)  Do you think that today is still day 5, even though we had a snowday?  Because one time when we had a snowday, they skipped that day.”

Although it would be easier for me to lie and tell her that of course they skipped day 5, and it is now day 6: library—I tell her the sad truth: today is computer day.  She asks me to confirm this on the school district’s website.  I am making the boy a bottle for the road: four unpacked scoops of powder and eight ounces of cold filtered water from the Pur.  The soy formula smells terrible, like a stale water bucket that a mouse died in.  Peeking in to see the babies still fighting over toys in the den, I decide to vacuum.  As I mentioned earlier, they are already sporting lots of dog hair on their fuzzy fleece baby outfits.  After vacuuming the den and the sunroom, I park the cleaner.  I lint roll the babies to prevent them from re-hairing the carpet.  To Alyssa, who like the babies sits trance-like whenever I vacuum*: “Hellooo?!  We have to go soon.  Put on your boots and your coat.  Put your bookbag in the car.”

*Have you noticed this phenomenon?  Sometimes I just want to vacuum all day long...

The babies, sensing urgency, have skeedaddled to wander the house.  B is sucking on the end of G’s phone charger, which is plugged into the wall, and therefore probably an electrical safety hazard.  The boy is wandering frantically through the rooms, unable to keep up with me, his infant sneakers’ soles clunking erratically on the hardwood, his piercing screams of sheer panic filling the air with daggers.

A begins her final preparations, and I choose to pick up B first—as she is in mortal danger and closer by—and head to the car.  I notice first that she is missing a sock and second that she has pooped.  What the f***?  Seriously?  It is 8:28.  We were supposed to leave at 8:26.  I try to remain calm and focus on changing the second poopy diaper of my less than two-hour-old day.  The boy is still doing his vocal impression of a siren, looking for me.  A can’t find her Uggs.  She has also just remembered that she had homework that required the use of a ruler.  

 

“Where is a ruler?  I need a scissors?  Is there a pencil?  I can’t go to school without my homework, or Mrs. Hoover will be so mad.”  She is hysterical.  It is computer day, and she forgot to do her homework.

“You are going to have to try to do it in the car!”  I scream, trying to wipe a wriggling B’s butt, losing my battle with patience…sanity.

“Nooooo!  I can’t,” she wails.

“Get in the car!  NOW.”  She is crying loudly, but she goes to the car.  I am still changing B’s diaper.  She is crying now.  The boy has not stopped shrieking, although he is standing right beside me.  Finished changing the diaper, I grab B and rush for the car.  I strap her, crying, into the carseat, missing a sock and without a hat or jacket. 

Three crying kids in the car later, I get into the driver’s seat.  I turn on the car, strap myself in, and push the garage door.  Sh*t.  The garage door has been broken for a week.  I unstrap myself and go to the garage door and fling the bastard open.  I rush back to the car, back out of the garage with my door flung open and a foot hanging out.  Once clear of the door, I leap out again, push the door shut loudly, and get back in the car.  I back towards the main drive, the sunlight on the snow blinding me.  I forgot my sunglasses again.  Just as I’m nearing the main driveway, I see the school van coming in.  I have to wait for her to make her agonizingly slow trip back the snow-covered driveway.  An eternity later, we are on the road.

Ah, Memories: My Baby Ate (Organic) Dogfood, and Sadly That Isn't the Worst of It...

As I have mentioned, I am having a bit of a rough morning.  There was a lot of pooping and stealing/flinging of poop...and I am not feeling my usual self, due to the wicked effects of Lenten orange juice withdrawal.

Trying to cheer myself up a bit, I decided to read through some diary entries from worse days than this...  It totally made my Tuesday morning.  Here is a highlight--half an hour of a really, really bad morning:

“B’s eating dog food again!” Alyssa shouts over the theme song of the 8 AM Sponge Bob.  

“I can only do so many things at once,” I say, hurrying back to shoo the baby away from the dog crates, only after sweeping several kibbles out of her clenched jaws and fists.  Rushing out of the kitchen as I have, leaves the little boy I babysit wailing in my wake.  He screeches his disapproval and toddles, panicked, after me, and we nearly collide as I re-enter the kitchen with slobbery bits of dog food in my hand.

The mini waffles that popped up from my toaster are dark brown around the edges.  This won’t do.  I use a butter knife to scrape the burned edges down to a more appealing layer of golden brown.  Saved.  I take the food to the table. 

“This cup smells like wet dog.” 

“It cannot smell like wet dog; it is brand new,” I lie.  I reused her cup from last night—rinsed out, of course.  The child has a nose like a bloodhound.   

Dogs.  I remember that the dogs are outside, and I let them in.  

Speaking of which…“Did you feed the dogs?”  Alyssa gets up to feed the dogs.  She cannot seem to remember this chore, in spite of the fact that I have posted an index card right by the remote control that she just used to turn on Nick that reads, “Please feed the dogs.  Love, G and M.”  

I lift two dog hair-covered babies into their highchairs.  How do they collect so much fur in such a short period of time?  I will never understand why they make the clothes of mobile, floor-cruising babies out of staticky fleece?!  Do they hate me?  I attach bibs to their necks, before pouring Cheerios onto the trays as an appetizer.  Then I add a few freeze-dried little yogurt melts, which the babies seem to dislike so far.  I give Brooke her sippy cup half-filled with watered down orange juice.  She tosses it onto the floor.  The dogs lick the spout.  Screw it.  I am cutting up a banana for the babies, toasting a piece of whole wheat bread.  Alyssa has finished her breakfast and is heading to brush her teeth, a chore that she mostly remembers.

“Please bring me your dishes.”

“Brushing my teeth is more important,” she reasons.

“Please bring me your dishes.”  Exhausting.

“Then I guess you don’t care about my teeth.  You don’t even like me.”  

What?!  “Just bring me your dishes, and then you can go brush your teeth.”

Brooke has, by this point, nearly climbed out of her high chair in spite of being strapped in, and the little boy is moaning in a way that makes me want to cut my own ears off.  I remove her filthy bib, and take her out of the chair, mushing my fingers into partially-masticated, gooey blobs of banana that are stuck to her hairy pants.  I carry her to the sink, pick the most offending chunks of breakfast from her clothes and fling them down the garbage disposal.  I run her hands under warm water, accidentally wetting her cuffs.  I use a wet paper towel to wash her dirty face.  I put her down on the kitchen floor, and she scoots off happily towards the table.

I follow, trying to get the boy out of his seat before his deafening shrieks do permanent damage to our eardrums.  

“QUIT IT!” Alyssa shouts all the way from the bathroom.

He has breadcrumbs stuck in the snot that has been permanently running between his nostrils and his upper lip.  Drool cascades from the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and is soaking his food-encrusted bib.  I gingerly remove the bib, trying not to get any bodily fluids on my hands.  I reach in to pick him up and smell that he has pooped.  I try to hold him away from me, but he rubs his face against my sweatshirt-clad shoulder anyway.  Nice.  Defeated, I carry him and his stench to the den to change him.  I notice that Brooke has found her dog-licked sipper and is taking slugs from it.  Thankfully, she follows us to the den sans sipper.

“What is that smell?” Alyssa says, disgusted, as she returns to her episode of Sponge Bob.  It is the one where Mr. Krabbs becomes obsessed with the buried treasure board game and takes Patrick and Sponge Bob on a real treasure hunt.

Without answering, I lay the boy down on the carpet to change his diaper.  I open the diaper, and he squirms to escape, smearing poop on his clothing and my hand.  I manage to get the diaper away from his legs and feet before any more damage can be done.  As I wipe and wipe to clean him, Brooke becomes interested in the process, and crawls close to investigate.  She tries to get her hands into his dirty diaper, but I swipe her way with one hand—well, elbow.  She settles for pulling wipes from the package, wipe after wipe after wipe.  Not ideal, but I let her do it.  I need to get the boy clean before he can defile anything else.  I am already wearing his germ-laden snot and poop; I don’t want Nana’s Oriental rug to face the same indignity. 

 

Once he is clothed again, I use the wipes that Brooke has discarded to clean my hands and to wipe the dry and wet snot from his face.  I wrap up the diaper and put it into a plastic bag before throwing it into the garage garbage.  The garage reeks of dirty diapers.  G thinks it smells like rotten hamburger meat, Alyssa like rotten cheese.  I quickly close the door.  It is only 8:21.

My Strange Addiction

A few days ago, I blogged about Brooke's milkaholism.  What I failed to mention was that addictive tendencies run in the family.  My name is Aubrey, and I am addicted to orange juice.

I know full well that I should drink water and that fruit juice is full of calories and carbs.  But, sweet and tangy, pulpy, delicious orange juice tastes so good when it hits your lips.  It is my drug of choice...well, that and NyQuil.  I drank it straight from the carton.  I was up to two gallons a week at my worst. 

I tried to give my sweet indulgence up for Lent.  Jesus went 40 days and 40 nights in the desert!  Surely I could survive the Lenten season without Tropicana.

That next Sunday at Giant, I bought two half gallons of Tropicana because it was 2/$6--a good bargain, and Alyssa likes to have orange juice for breakfast.  I couldn't even avoid it for one day.  The gallon of "some pulp" didn't last until Wednesday...and it wasn't because of Alyssa!  I am ashamed to admit that I went back to Giant for more, which is totally against my one grocery trip a week rule.  The worst part is that I was skimping on how much I would serve Alyssa because I wanted to hoard it for myself.

So, although I was willing to admit that I had/have a problem with orange juice, I wasn't able to avoid it.  And, when I would talk with Greg about my addiction, the discussion would almost always end in stony silence.  Me: "I need to quit drinking so much orange juice."  Greg:  "Yeah, it's really not that good for you."  Me (defensively):  "Why not?  It's not like I'm too fat to drink juice!  What's bad in it other than the calories?"  Greg: "You aren't too fat... It's just a lot of sugar--"  Me:  "Naturally occurring sugar!  I get 100%!"  Greg:  "It's still sugar...and preservatives."  Me:  "No, it's not!  What do you think 100% means?"   Silence.  (I kid you not.  That is a real conversation...and, I think we have had a close variation of it two or three times.)

After my almost 11-month-old quit her milkie vice in two nights, I was inspired to quit the juice for good.  This Sunday at the Giant, the Tropicana deal was still in effect, but I bought a teensie pint of Florida's Natural--just enough for Alyssa's breakfast for the week.  I haven't had a single drop of citrusy deliciousness.  I have, for the most part, been drinking water.  When an orange juice craving hits, I might have a little nip from a Juicy Juice juicebox...fruit punch, not orange.

So far, so good: this evening, it will be 3 days off the juice.

Turd Burglars: Story of a Crappy Morning

8:03AM: I am having quite the morning.  My house is full of turd burglars: the dogs swiped a poop-filled diaper for a snack.  The boy just flung a diaper with a turd in it while I was trying to change Brooke.  Why? Why? WHYYYY?  Anyway, just when I was about to completely lose my temper, Alyssa busted out the phrase "turd burglar," and it totally cracked me up. 

I will post a more detailed rant later... (When I have the turd burglars crated and cribbed.)

9:30AM: Ah!  Naptime.  So, anyway, I have been dealing with a lot of crap this morning, literally and figuratively.  I have made several appointments, checked all my emails, fed, watered, and visually inspected 5 horses, changed 4 diapers, fed 3 children, fed and let out 2 dogs, and dropped 1 child off at school...  Me time: time to indulge and unwind.  HAHAHA :-)  I need to finish vacuuming, load the dishwasher, clean up the breakfast mess, check on the laundry...but instead, I am writing to you.  The housework, sadly, will be here when I am finished.

I have many things to cover, so I am going to break it up into various posts...

"Love...is an Endurance Sport"

The wise Pastor Brown of Grace UCC dropped this sweet nugget of brilliance on us yesterday at church: "Love requires stamina; it is an endurance sport."  Amen to that!  I am sure that he delivered a lot of other soundbites of priceless wisdom, but mostly I could not hear him over the ruckus created by one Ms. Brooke Nicole Holler.  Nevertheless, that one little snippet stayed with me, as it seemed the perfect way to gracefully begin my discussion of the delightful, awful struggle that is my marriage.

First of all, I am not naive enough (anymore) to believe that I am the only one who struggles in her marriage; I do not expect a pity party...well, maybe a little one.  Thing is, if love is an endurance sport, you should feel bad for me because my husband is a freaking ATHLETE!  If I am trying to endure him...let alone keep up with him...it is going to take strenuous cross-training!

My stamina coaches tend to be my mama and my friend, Laura.  Laura lent me a book a few years ago that really has changed my marriage for the better: Created to be his Helpmeet, by Debi Pearl.  In a nutshell, it is a Biblical look at what it really means to be a wife.  Reading it was an eye-opener for me--in some ways it offended my senses, hurt my feelings, and kicked my butt.  I cannot say that I agree with everything that Debi Pearl said, but I can say that out of desperation to improve my marriage and my satisfaction with my role as a wife, putting her suggestions into action worked wonders for us.  Period.  (My mama was very skeptical about this course of action; she did try it for a little while in her marriage, but I do not think that it worked out for her.  Fortunately, she has a beach cottage to escape to...and, as yet, Greg and I have only this ONE house, so we still need Debi...)

Anywho, instead of trying to be the leader of our family and manage EVERYTHING, I tried instead giving over the leadership role to Greg.  I took control of running our home, itself.  I made my best effort not to criticize or argue with him unnecessarily.  Basically, I started to show him respect, as my husband and the father of my children.  This does not sound like Earth-shattering secret news, and it is not.  Honestly, it really never occurred to me before to treat a spouse with this reverence...which is basically the reverence that you with which you naturally treat your children.  I never gave him the best of me before: he got what was left over...if there was any.

Debi said that if you treat your husband this way, he will begin to CHERISH you.  I want nothing more than to be cherished...  So, as I said, Debi was pretty much spot-on.  I did an experiment, quitting cold-turkey all of the nit-picking and criticizing and arguing over dumb stuff...I quit asking him for help around the house...I started treating him like the leader of our family...and he really did come around.  Literally.  Instead of staying out late, he began to come home.  He bragged to his friends about me.  I was cherished.  It was awesome!

I guess I need to read the book again NOW because in this endurance race of love, I am laying along the road, writhing in pain from a side-stitch, fumbling around for my Gatorade...and Greg, well, he took a little too well to the reverence..got a little drunk on the power of my reverence...  He is charging past me, barely breaking a sweat, a pill-popping Lance Armstrong most days.  As I have (at least partially) mentioned in previous posts, our arguments are four:

1.  The "what-did-you-do-today?" variety, in which he undermines the value and rigorousness of my daily  work of keeping our house and our children in pristine condition.
2.  The "I-make-the-money" variety, in which he asserts his power over me because he contributes the vast majority to our joint finances.  (Hence the home-made cleaners!)
3.  The "you-have-all-the-time-you-want-to-do-your-hobbies" variety, in which he asserts that since I do not work outside of the home, I am somehow free to go riding all day long.  Therefore, I should not leave the house to go riding when he is home...and he should be able to indulge all of his hobbies whenever he is not at work.  (Nikki has witnessed this one.)
4.  The "whatever-made-you-say-that-inappropriate-thing-to-such-and-such-person?" variety, in which Greg has a sort-of Tourette syndrome-slash-ADHD moment, where he speaks wildly appropriate things out of turn without any type of normal adult "filter."

I am putting on my workout clothes, because I am going to break a sweat.  I am going to discuss each one separately, and attempt to come up with some valid solutions.  I am going to try to get my Debi Pearl on...

(For some reason, this makes me think of the Will Ferrell movie, "Talladega Nights," when he jumps out of his non-flaming racecar and runs around in his tighty-whiteys shouting, "Help me baby Jesus, help me Oprah, help me Jewish God, help me Tom Cruise!"  In this case, I am Ricky Bobby, and the imaginatively flaming racecar is my marriage...and Debi Pearl (forgive me) is either Jesus, Oprah, or Tom Cruise!)

My reason for going through this exercise is (a) to put in the work to get my marriage back on track again...and (b) to possibly help you guys to work through similar issues in your marriages.  I know that these arguments are not unique to me and Greg...except maybe #4 ;-)

Ladies, Get Ready to Add a New Enterprise to Your Momglomerate!

Newest Job Title:  Producer of eco-friendly, budget-friendlier cleaners!

The average American household spends something like $600 per year on cleaning products.  Many of these products contain chemicals that are harmful, if not toxic, to you, your family, and your pets...and they are bad for the environment.  In the past few years, I have replaced my cleaners with naturally-derived, organic products that are eco-friendly, but let me tell you friends, it has not been cheap!  No longer will I have to sacrifice the budget to ensure that my cleaning products are safe for my family and Mother Earth.

I have done the research.  I have tweaked the most common "recipes," and I will be testing them and tweaking them.  I will do the leg work to assure that we can all share the best products...  Let's go green and save green!

You will need only six or seven ingredients to make all of these cleaners.  Some you likely already have in your house.  They are: washing soda (sodium carbonate), borax, white vinegar, kosher salt, lemon juice, liquid Castile soap, and baking soda (sodium bicarbonate).

Window Spray: a couple of teaspoons of vinegar mixed with a spray bottle of warm water; my cousin Jenna says plain newspaper does a great job...if it's good enough for Bali-wood, it's good enough for me!


Toilet Cleaner: a sprinkle of baking soda and a drizzle of vinegar

Air Freshner/Odor Eliminator: baking soda

Ceramic Floor Cleaner: 1/4 c. vinegar mixed with 1 gallon warm water--my mom has been using vinegar and water to clean her kitchen floor for years...great for pet accidents, too.

Tub/Sink/Tile/Grout Bathroom Cleaner: 1/2 c. baking soda mixed with 2 tbsp. liquid Castile (to create a paste); some people use just a sprinkle of baking soda and a wet sponge.

Garbage Disposal: grind ice and citrus fruit or lemon juice; I just toss down the rinds to oranges or grapefruits.

Dish Soap: 2 c. liquid Castile, 1/2 c. distilled water, 1 tsp. lemon juice, 1/2 c. white vinegar

Leather Cleaner (for tack): bar Castile--a Pony Club secret for years!

Dishwasher Detergent: 1 c. borax, 1 c. washing soda, 2 tbsp. white vinegar, kosher salt, lemon juice
(use one tbsp. per load and put 1/2 c. white vinegar in the rinse pouch); there are a lot of variations on this recipe, so this is a composite of the most common ones.  We will have to play with the ratios...

Frugal Guru's Variation on the Duggar's Laundry Detergent (this one for front-loading HE washers):
1.  Add 1 bar of grated Castile or Ivory soap to a saucepan with 4 c. hot water and dissolve. (I wonder
     how this compares to liquid Castile?)
2.  Fill a 5 gallon bucket half full with hot water.  Add dissolved soap, 1 c. washing soda, and 1/2 c. borax.
     Mix.  Fill the rest of the way with hot water and allow to sit overnight.
3.  In a recycled laundry detergent jug, use 1/2 of your soapy mixture and fill the other 1/2 with water.
4.  Add essential oil if you'd like: 10 drops for 2 gallons.
5.  Shake and use 1/4 c. per load.

Good for 640(ish) loads!!!! 

Please be aware that I did not pioneer these recipes; I researched various sources (Eco-Cycle, Planet Green, Vinegar Tips, and e-How...thanks!) and modified the most universal recipes to fit my 7-ingredient list.  Please try some yourselves and be sure to let me know how it goes, so that together we can tweak them to perfection :-)  Can you think of other cleaning products that we should try to make ourselves?  Let's MONOPOLIZE this home-making business!

(I want to thank a friend for inspiring me to look into this.  She is my "frugal guru", and she recommended the laundry detergent recipe listed above.  She made it for less than $10, and she has been using it for THREE YEARS NOW!  I did the rest of the research to figure out how else I could use the left-over ingredients...)

P.S. Your avatar scares me!

Ok, so I am officially ticked off now.

There is a girl at school who has been giving Alyssa trouble all year.  First, it was making fun of her clothes.  Then, it was making fun of the "baby" foods and utensils that she packed in her lunchbox.  Next, she jeered the way Alyssa laughs.  Another time, it was busting on her hat.  I have not intervened, except to tell Alyssa that she will have to deal with nasty people her whole life, and this little girl is good practice for her.  The proverbial straw that broke the camel's back occurred this Monday, when Alyssa came home from school with the closure ripped off of one of her shirts.

I asked what happened, and Alyssa said that while playing in the gym, this little girl pulled her up from the gym floor by her shirt, ripping the closure.  I corroborated her story with Ella via Aimee.  So, I decided to write the girl's mother a nice email:

Hi,

I just wanted to touch base with you because apparently the girls were in gym class, and "anonymous" pulled Alyssa's shirt so hard that the closure ripped off.  Accidents happen, but I would appreciate it if you could ask "anonymous" to please be more careful.

Thank you,
Aubrey

Nice, right?  To the point, but not unfriendly.  Full of please and thank you.  (Professional writer.)

Well, I didn't get a response for almost a week, and nothing was said to Alyssa at school, so I figured that she blew me off.  Oh, well.

And then today:

"Anonymous" advises me that she was not pulling Alyssa's shirt. We do not know how this happened.

That was it, in its entirety.  No greeting (no admission of guilt, no apology,) and no closing or name.  Seriously?  I believe I understand the problem now.  In lieu of writing a snarky response that would quite obviously not make any difference in this situation, I am venting to you, my readership.

Since I'm not sending the snark out into the world...I am going to unleash a teensie bit of it right here:

This was the mother's avatar-thing (is that what it is called?).  I guess you can customize these little cyber people to look like you.  In this case, apparently, wearing a perma-sneer and angrily arched eyebrows.  All I'm going to say is, if I were the kind of person who would indulge a nasty e-mail with a nasty response, I would close it with: "P.S.  Your avatar scares the beans out of me!"

Mimi Pretty Money

He pulled a total, "Artist Formerly Known as Prince" move on us, people.  Breaking News:  Sean Combs is now "Diddy Dirty Money."  

If Sean "Puffy; P-Daddy; P-Diddy; Diddy Dirty Money" Combs can change his moniker every time he reinvents himself, then so can I, right?  Now that I am the CEO of momglomerate, I am going to tackle some serious financial infighting that has been occuring amongst the upper-management echelon of corporate headquarters, and in order to do that better, I am going to reinvent a more thrifty, risk-taking, money-generating, kick-butt, alter-ego version of myself (and Greg.  You are welcome, honey.).

Greg will heretofore be known as Greggy "G-Diddy" Mailman Money and I shall be...drum roll please... Mimi Pretty Money.

For the purpose of clarification,"Mimi" is what Alyssa calls me as my parent super-hero name.  So, there you go.

Without trying to bash old "G-Diddy" to much, I will explain the current financial situation, and why it is just not working for Mimi Pretty Money any longer.  In my next post.

Brooke "Bitty Dirty Diapy" Holler needs my attention.

Peace out!
Mimi Pretty Money...East side!

Milkaholic (Warning: This Post Contains the Word "Breast")

As we approach Brooke’s first birthday, we are all thinking a lot about breastmilk.  (Not what you were expecting, right?)  Brooke is hard-core addicted.  While none of us (other than Brooke) want to be the family where the 5-year-old is still breastfeeding, none of us can imagine life without milkie either.  Just now, Brooke was in the midst of an all out milk-skitz spazz attack.  She was literally moaning and rolling around on the floor.  Withdrawal.  Time for her fix.

As the rest of the family enjoyed some delicious gelattis from Rita’s, Brooke was nursing.  When she was finished, she laid on her back, lolled her head, and looked at the rest of us upside down with a milk mustache on her grin.  She did her little lizard-tongue lip lick move.  Then, she happily spit-up, and it ran directly into her eye.  She (and we) thought it was disguting and hysterical.  

“She is weird when she comes off the milk.”  Alyssa noticed.

“Yeah, after milk is my favorite time.  She is so wacky.  It’s like she’s drunk.”  Greg agreed.

Breastmilk puts Brooke into a blissful stupor, which we have all grown to love—and count on in moments of need.  We totally enable her habit.  As we approach the 12-month mark, however, it is hard to forget that this warm, sweet, delicious, boozy indulgence should be winding down.  Brooke should be weaning.  It is very clear, though, that this will not happen without a fight.

Since she has been born, Brooke has continued to wake up 3 to 4 times a night for some milkie and a snuggle.  She chooses not to suck her thumb or a pacifier.  Why should she, after all, when she has the real thing at her disposal 24/7?  So, instead of soothing herself, she nurses.  Exhausted from so many weeks and months of interrupted sleep, and unwilling to give up sleeping time to let her cry it out, I had been indulging her vice.  Like any enabler, I rationalized:  After all, she is my last baby.  And she is growing up too fast.  And she is a tiny, little peanut.  I wanted to nurture her.

Until the night of March 22.  Brooke had woken up every two hours since I put her down.  I had had enough.  It was high time for an intervention.  She went to her crib, and I was convinced that she would do hard time there until 6AM.  No exceptions.  She cried most of the night.  Greg and I wore pillows on our heads.  When 6AM came, I rescued Brooke from her crib prison, and snuggled her into my engorged breast.  She nursed intensely and then totally passed out.  Her sweaty, limp, seemingly lifeless body dangled from my cradling arms.  She whimpered happily and then slept deeply, lying on her back with her arms spread eagle.

Last night, I decided to continue the trend toward drying Brooke out…at least at night.  After a last chance nursing at 9PM, I laid her with her blankey in her detox chamber.  I was determined not to nurse her until at least 5AM.  She woke up several times throughout the night, but only for a few minutes at a time.  I woke up without a pillow on my head, if that gives you any indication of how well the night went.  At 5:20AM, I nursed Brooke, and she fell into her blackout slumber.  Interestingly, so did I.  After nursing, I dreamed so vividly that Alyssa ringing the doorbell at 6:30AM became part of my dream, and she had to ring again.  I was dreaming about a church where we fed the hungry.  Coincidence?  I think not.  It was the first time I remembered a dream since Brooke has been born, and it coincided directly with my first 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Anyway, I have just put little Lindsay Lohan, I mean Brooke, down for her third night of mama-imposed milkie rehab.  I feel that breaking her milk addiction overnight is the first step in a long journey of weaning—for both of us.

P.S.  It is the next day, and I am happy to report that the little milkaholic went another full eight night-time hours before falling off the wagon again...  :-)

Who am I and Why am I Blogging? Well...What Did YOU Do Today?

Who am I?  

(Honestly, if I think about that too hard, I have absolutely no idea where to begin.)  So, here is the most superficial, shortest short version ever: I am Aubrey, the daughter of more loving parents than one child deserves, the wife of postman Greg, and the mother of 7-year-old Alyssa and 11-month-old Brooke.  I have been keeping a friend’s 1-year-old baby for the duration of this school year (he shall remain nameless until I get her permission to share).  We have two indoor fur babies, dogs named Ringo and Hemi, and five outdoor fur babies, horses named (in ascending size order) Forrest, Yankee, Gabhann, Zephyr, and Finn.  We used to have a fish tank with various aquatic inhabitants, may they rest in peace.

Why am I Blogging?

Although I have been rocking my home-based momglomerate since Brooke was born last May, I have struggled with maintaining a positive spirit despite the isolation.  It isn’t that I’m not nailing the momglomerate—don’t get me wrong—we don’t run out of groceries or clean underwear, my house is decluttered, counters clear, Alyssa has her homework done, and the baby doesn’t have diaper rash!  It isn’t that I am bored, because all of you know that there is more than enough “housework” to keep any mama busy.  It is just that I am lonely.  I think of lots of great (well, some are great) ideas, and most days I have two dogs and two infants to bounce them off of.

My mind is constantly working.  I have a lot to say.  Thankfully, I am a trained writer.  My mom thinks that I have a fear of greatness, which may or may not be true.  Case in point, I am writing a series of autobiographical memoirs, but I am totally afraid to publish them…or not be able to publish them.  (I’m not sure which would be worse at this point).  So, a blog seems like a perfect way for me to dip my toes back into writing for an audience.  I don’t have to worry about pitching my writing to an editor and failing.  Blogging is a way for me to share these moments of genius with others who will understand and maybe even appreciate them.

While all of that is true, I must also admit that I’m inspired to begin this blog because I want to be able to better answer this question: “What did you do today?”  The most irritating question in the world and oftentimes fighting words in this house.  I hear it about five minutes after Greg comes home from work every day (to a picked up, vacuumed, 2-dog, 2- to 3-kid household, with all of his laundry done and folded, dinner in the oven, and a wife who still has hay in her hair and mud on her jeans from the horse farm).  Apparently all of that stuff doesn’t count as valid, time-consuming activity.  For a few weeks, I responded honestly when he asked this most irritating question in the world, that I was writing my memoirs.  He made no reply to this, as if I had said my usual, cleaning, laundering, driving, baby-chasing answer.  He thought I was joking.  I’m not joking:  I am a professional writer (or at least that’s what it says on my degree…right beside Magna Cum Laude).  I will write.  I will get some respect.  

Hopefully, I will also get some MONEY! 

(Seriously, I am a freelance writer and editor for hire.  E-mail me!  ...seriously.)

"Momglomerate..." Get it??

Hello, world!  I had an epiphany today: Every mother is indeed a one-woman "momglomerate."  (I do believe that I created this word.  I Googled it, and nothing--yet!  Mark it down: March 23, 2011.)  Want proof?  Check out Wikipedia's definition of  a conglomerate pasted below:

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Conglomerate (company)

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Jump to: navigation, search

For a kind of rock, see Conglomerate (geology).

It has been suggested that Media conglomerate be merged into this article or section. (Discuss)

Look up conglomerate in Wiktionary, the free dictionary.

A conglomerate is a combination of two or more corporations engaged in entirely different businesses together into one corporate structure, usually involving a parent company and several (or many) subsidiaries. Often, a conglomerate is a multi-industry company. Conglomerates are often large and multinational.

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See?  Sounds eerily familiar, right, Mom?  Under the general infrastructure of your "parent company," you are also heading up a plethora of wildly-varied "entirely different businesses."  Previously, you may have unimaginatively named this parent business "motherhood," and considered your other industries "cooking," "cleaning," "laundering," "driving," "homework-checking," "diaper-changing," etc.  But, now, as you can clearly see, you are totally a "momglomerate!"  Being the "CEO" of your momglomerate sounds so much more glamorous than "stay-at-home mom" or the un-PC: "housewife."  Another perk: you can now call what was something as mundane-sounding as paying the household bills, "managing corporate finance" (or whatever).  Hail to the Chief!  It is all in the rhetoric, you see.

This blog is dedicated to the business of motherhood and to the respect of the professionals who carry this title.  (Aretha Franklin's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" is playing in my mind.  Can you hear it?)