They're Throwing Snowballs in Hell Right Now...

A few things are about to happen that I have to tell you about. Number 1, my hometown Cubbies are going to win next season’s World Series. Number 2, my 4-year-old son is going to stop screaming “VAGINA!” 18 times a day at random intervals. And, Number 3, my 2-year-old son is going to start sleeping through the night, every single night, for the rest of his life.

All of these things are definitely going to happen…because Hell has officially frozen over.

How do I know this? Well, I’m going off of what has happened to my little ole blog over the past week.

The BIG news, and the event that really sent Satan running to Nordstroms for new Uggs, is this:

I WAS PICKED AS A FINALIST IN BLOGGER IDOL 2012!!!!!

Yep, that whole thing I posted a few weeks ago about channeling my Inner Rockstar and reaching for new heights with my writing and making out with Bono…

Wait, what?

Sorry. Bono fantasy distracted me again.

Anyway, all that stuff I wrote for my Blogger Idol audition obviously fooled, I mean impressed, those judges, because they picked me (and 12 others—see below) out of 167 auditions to compete for a MONSTER HUGE basket of chocolate. (Yeah, there are other prizes, too, and some really cool ones, but I can only focus on the chocolate. Check out the Blogger Idol website to see what else there is to win.)

So, as soon as I finish bragging about myself here, I’m off to write my first assignment post of the competition. And come Wednesday, I’ll be all over facebook and twitter begging you to haul ass over to their website to vote for me.

Because I really want that chocolate.

But, believe it or not, THAT’S NOT ALL!

Remember me?

Earlier this week I received an email from my favorite online magazine for moms, BonBon Break. And guess what? They want to feature my RabidRaccoon/Deadly Spider/Chupacabra post in one of their upcoming issues! You should check them out—they’ve always got a ton of great stuff over there and I’m honored that they want to include me. I’ll let you know when my post goes live.

So, all of that is pretty exciting and unbelievable right? BUT THERE’S EVEN MORE!

My friend Andi-Roo at http://www.theworld4realz.com nominated me for the Liebster Award! The Liebster Award is granted to up and coming bloggers with fewer than 200 followers who deserve some recognition and support to keep on blogging. And she picked me! (Well, she picked 11 people, but I was one of them!)

The Liebster Award comes with a few rules, which I am going to bend. But I can do that, because I am a Blogger Idol 2012 finalist. WE MAKE OUR OWN RULES!

Ahem.

Anyway, when you are nominated, you are then expected to nominate 11 other bloggers who you feel deserve the recognition. Then you have to answer 11 questions from the person who nominated you, and ask 11 new questions of the bloggers you nominated.

But, did I mention that I’m a Blogger Idol 2012 finalist? I have stuff to do, people. There’s a huge-ass basket of chocolate on the line. So with apologies to Andi-Roo, instead of nominating 11 blogs I’m going to point you toward the other 12 Blogger Idol 2012 finalists. There’s some scary-good writing on these blogs, and you should go read them and then NOT tell me about it because I am still working under the delusion that the basket o’ chocolate could be mine. And, because I know the pressure they are now under as Blogger Idol 2012 finalists (oh, yeah, did I mention I’m one too?), I am not going to give them new questions to answer.

So, here are the official 13 Blogger Idol 2012 finalists:

1. Pile Of Babies
2. My Rad Dad
3. Crazed in the Kitchen—THAT’S ME, PEOPLE! ME!!!
4. The Real Matt Daddy
5. Forever 51
6. Martinis and Minivans
7. Dad And Buried
8. The Mother Freaking Princess
9. Crazy Dumbsaint of the Mind

10. Edward Hotspur
11. Ice Scream Mama
12. Manderstanding
13. Random Thoughts n Lotsa Coffee

Now for my answers to Andi-Roo’s questions. Keepin’ it short but sweet here. Chocolate, remember?

You can have a half-hour conversation with anyone no longer living. Who do you choose? Why?

Definitely my mom. Because lately I’ve had this awesome latent memory come up of being 4 or 5 and eating graham crackers covered with some incredible peanut butter frosting. I’d really like to get that recipe. (There are other reasons I’d like to talk to her, of course, but that one is really bugging me these days.)

You can have a half-hour conversation with any fictional character. Who do you choose? Why?

Scarlett O’Hara. The end of Gone With the Wind haunts me to this day. I’d ask her what happened next.

Of these four characters, which do you most resemble in your own life?

— The Protagonist (Shit just happens when you’re around.): Dorothy / Harry Potter

— The Brains (You think of ways to avoid / escape the shit.): Scarecrow / Hermione Granger

— The Heart (Everyone loves you when the shit hits the fan.): Tin Woodman / Ron Weasley

— The Hero (“Who’s a coward now that shit just got REAL, bitches?”): Cowardly Lion / Neville Longbottom

Definitely The Protagonist. But mostly because I’ve always wanted to be Dorothy.

What made you choose your current Twitter avi?

Um, ‘cause it’s the best picture of me I could find, and I look way cuter in it than I usually do in real life. Duh. 

What’s your blood type? Just kidding. Trick question. Now go pee in a cup. I’M JOKING. Gosh, why so freaking serious? For realz this time: Are you down with True Blood?

Nope. My vampire love begins and ends with Twilight.  

How many pairs of shoes do you have? Don’t lie. It’s good to feel the shame. Let it burn.

It’s more embarrassing to admit that I only have like 6 right now. And 4 of them are sneakers. Pregnancy was not kind to my feet. When I go back to work I’ll have to buy some “normal” shoes, I guess.

Pushpins? Or dry erase markers?

Pushpins.

You’re throwing darts at your favorite local pub. Your choice: Are you tossing at a corkboard or one of those plastic mechanical pieces of crap?

HA HA HA HA HA HA “favorite local pub.” I have 2 kids and no life. But if you came to my house and installed a dartboard, I guess I’d have to say corkboard.

How often do you utilize your local library? What materials do you check out? Books, CDs, books on CD, DVDs… some even carry video games…

The kids and I go almost weekly. We mostly check out kids’ books about trucks and space and volcanoes.

Be honest: Did you, or did you not, read and adore “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” by Judy Blume? Best book EV.ER, #AmIRight ? Is there a male equivalent, anyone? #AskingForAFriend

I was an over-achiever at reading and read that book when I was in second grade. I had NO IDEA what this period thing was, so I asked my mom and then the whole book made a lot more sense.

Chinese or Mexican? I know, it’s a toss-up. CHOOSE. My dinner might just depend upon your answer.

Chinese. Unless it’s Mexican. Blogger Idol 2012 finalists are allowed to be fickle like that. And it doesn’t really matter, because all I want to eat is CHOCOLATE!!!

Why I Won't Be Doing My Family's Laundry Any More

Not long ago, I informed my family that I would no longer be doing their laundry.

No, this is not one of those Lifetime Movie of the Week things about a disgruntled housewife who goes on strike against her ungrateful family. In fact, I don’t really mind being my family’s Head Washerwoman. It’s fairly easy and has immediate results—my kind of chore.

Nope, nope, nope.

However, I won’t be doing it any more.

You see, our washer and dryer are in the garage. The garage is attached to the house, but to get there you have to walk out of the house and about 10 feet through the backyard to the back door of the garage.

No problem, right?

Well, actually, there have always been two major problems with this set-up: Son 1 and Son 2. During the day, I have to leave them briefly unattended in the house if I want to do laundry. Thanks to Murphy’s Laws of Parenting, I know that even if I am gone for literally ONE FREAKIN’ MINUTE, that will be the time that they either try to fight each other to the death or that one of them will attempt to fly from the couch to the coffee table with disastrous results.

So let’s just say I have learned from experience that daytime laundry isn’t worth it.

That leaves laundry for the evening, after my rambunctious darlings have gone to bed. Until recently, this was no problem. I’d throw clothes in the washer, then settle down to watch The Bachelorette, er, PBS.

But then I realized that my backyard at night is a scary and dangerous place.

And so I can’t go out there after dark. Ever. Again.

I learned this a couple of weeks ago when I blithely headed out to do laundry. I heard a noise at the back of my (fairly small) yard, so I peered through the semi-darkness and saw a shape on the brick wall back there. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw it was a HUGE raccoon—like, the size of a golden retriever, at least. (MAYBE a large German Shepherd, even. He was big. BIG.) Anyway, he looked at me, arched his back, and let out a hiss that said, roughly translated, “I will eat you alive and then poop you out all over your laundry if you so much as look at me again.”

So that was the end of laundry for THAT night.

Contemporary legend? Or TOTALLY REAL??

The next night I stayed up late writing. At about midnight, a round of horrible screeching and screaming erupted right outside our front door. It sounded at first like cats, but as it went on it became clear that it was something else. I peeked out the door, but I couldn’t find the source. Eventually, the screaming evolved into enraged chattering that went on for over an hour.  I knew there was just one thing that could be making such a noise: a chupacabra.

OK, yes, I realize that a more rational answer would have been “a raccoon.” I had just seen one in the neighborhood, after all. But it was past midnight, dark and quiet, and my thoughts turned naturally toward this less-likely probability. As the chattering continued into its second hour, I became more concerned. I called animal control.

NO, I did not tell the nice lady who answered that there was a chupacabra outside my house. I may BE crazy, but I don’t like to APPEAR to be crazy. I explained the noise to her and she said, surprisingly, “Sounds like a raccoon to me.”

Ummmm…sure.

“Well,” I said, going with this absurd raccoon theory, “could it be injured? It’s making a lot of noise.”

“Is it in the street? Did it get hit by a car?” she asked.

The face of evil

“No,” I replied. “It’s definitely in a tree.”           

“Then it’s not injured,” she said. “Raccoons don’t get injured. They’re way too aggressive. They win every fight they’re in.”

STOP.

WHAT?

“Raccoons don’t get injured??? Like, ever???” I asked.

“Nope!” she answered cheerfully, before informing me that there was nothing she could do about the devil menacing my neighborhood.

This news about raccoons bothered me. I mean, I knew raccoons were mean garbage-eaters, but now I learn that they are actually INVINCIBLE, evil baby-killers? (<--That part is just me extrapolating from the information I have. Seems reasonable.) Nope. Never leaving the house after dark again.

I woke up my husband to inform him of this turn of events re: his dirty clothes, but I didn’t have to say much because just at that moment the raccoon/chupacabra ran screaming right under our bedroom window and over the fence into our backyard. Where it went from there, I don’t know, because I haven’t been out there since.

OK, that’s not wholly true. I did get desperate for clean clothes last night, so I snuck to the garage with my super-beam, heavy duty, could-beat-a-raccoon-off-of-me-if-not-actually-injure-it flashlight. Out of curiosity, I flashed it around the backyard to see what was out. No raccoons. No chupacabras. But the light did shine momentarily on what turned out to be a spider web in a corner. I went to check it out and what did I find? Not much. Nothing, in fact, except for A BIG BLACK WIDOW SPIDER conveniently hanging belly-side-up as if to say, “That’s right! Check out my red hourglass! Just like you’ve seen on Google late at night when you should be sleeping or doing laundry!” If spiders had fingers, this one would have been flipping me off.

Oh, look! A spider! I'll just go check it--aaaaarrrgggghh!

Well, half a can of Raid Flea and Tick Spray (it’s all we had) followed by a phone book squish-and-smear (you know what I mean), and I had taken care of that cheeky spider. But not before it screamed out in spiderese to all its friends and family about what I was doing. (<--Again, extrapolating.) So I think it’s fair to expect that they will all be out and coming to exact revenge on me each night at sunset, along with the super-raccoons.

Which is why I won’t be doing laundry ever again.

photo credit: nal from miami via photo pin cc photo credit: fingle via photo pin cc photo credit: EJP Photo via photo pin cc

Channeling My Inner Bono

I have always believed that if life were fair, your talent at something would match your enthusiasm for it. If you loved to knit, you’d be able to make gorgeous sweaters that fit perfectly. If you loved to play tennis, you’d serve aces every time. For me, it’s singing. I LOVE to sing. I sing in the car, I sing around the house, I sing to my boys. But I’m really not that good at it. At times, in fact, I’m pretty bad. And that’s not fair. Because I would love to be one of those people who jumps up on the stage at karaoke night and belts out some ‘80s rock anthem that brings the crowd to their feet. But I’m not. In fact, if I belted out anything at karaoke night, people would indeed be on their feet—to LEAVE.

But, despite my lack of singing talent, I think I may have found a way to be…

Wait for it…

A ROCKSTAR!

ALMOST as cute as my husband. Almost.

Yep, it’s true. And that’s because there’s an awesome group of really smart people who believe what many of us have know for years—that writers are the new rockstars. To prove it, they’re holding a competition for bloggers called Blogger Idol—and I’ve decided to channel my inner Bono and audition.

(Hmmm….turns out channeling your inner Bono just makes you want to stop what you’re doing and make out with yourself. I may have to pick another, less attractive, rockstar to channel if I want to get anything done around here.)

Anyway. You can check out their website here for more information, but the audition process is pretty simple: Tell about yourself and why you think you’re worthy of the title of Blogger Idol. This was tricky for me, as I’m not generally one to toot my own horn to strangers. But I gave it a go, and here is what I came up with:

My Blogger Idol Audition

I’ve earned a few titles since I temporarily left my teaching career to be a stay-at-home mom. “Nicest Mommy In the Whole Car,” “Best At Almost Always Getting Us to Swim Lessons On Time,” and “Vagina Person” are just a few of the lofty awards that have been bestowed upon me by the adoring masses, um, I mean, my two little boys.

So why would one already so decorated with honors pursue yet another—that of Blogger Idol? I guess I’m like the driver of the cherry red convertible Ferrari I saw the other day at a red light. As I gawked at the beauty that was his car, I noticed that he, too, was staring at something longingly. I followed his gaze to the next lane over and saw the object of his drooly desire—a sleek, gray Lotus. And I realized something: even Ferrari guys want more.

So, while I am obviously driving a Ferrari of Life with my enviable mom titles, my I-swear-these-are-yoga-pants-not-pajamas lifestyle, and my little ole blog (www.crazedinthekitchen.com), I’m eyeing the Lotus in the next lane. I’m ready to trade up.

I want to be the next Blogger Idol.

But, you might ask, aren’t you a mommy blogger? Isn’t that a little genre-specific—a bit like being a yodeler trying out for American Idol? I mean, sure, a yodeler can make some awesome yodeling sounds, but can she rock? Can she belt out a power ballad one week, a country-bluesy tune the next, and follow it all up with a kick-ass cover of “Hot Blooded” on Foreigner Night? (Note to Simon Cowell: There is not enough Foreigner on American Idol. Also, wow, I’m old. And not at all hip.)

Well, no, a yodeler probably couldn’t do all that. But I’m not just a yodeler, er, mommy blogger. Sure, I write about my kids sometimes, but I like to think that my strength lies in taking those everyday moments we all have and sharing them in an entertaining way. I make no effort to hide my imperfections as a mom and as a person, and I think that’s part of why people like my blog. And, I’m eager for opportunities to grow as a writer. If power ballads are my specialty, then it’s about time I branch out and try some country, or even, *gasp* yodeling. I’m pretty sure I’ll rock them all.

Thank you for your consideration.

So, there it is. I already sent it off, so if you don’t like it just go ahead and lie to me in the comments. As you know, I already lead a rich fantasy life, so that is no problem at all. The 12 finalists will be announced September 20, and I’ll let you know then if I made it. Meanwhile, stop by the Blogger Idol facebook page and tell them Molly/Bono from Crazed in the Kitchen sent you.

Now I’m off to finish this Google Image search of Bono pics. Yum.

How I Found Out My Four-Year-Old Son is Sexist

According to the all-knowing Internet, the average 4-year-old asks about 400 questions a day.

Looks like it's almost time for the big guns...

I’d say that’s a lowball number. Or my son is an over-achiever.

Matthew asks questions all the time, all day long. One minute he’s sitting quietly in his car seat in the back of the car, humming “Bad Moon Rising” and absentmindedly picking his nose, and the next moment he’s asking, “But, Mommy? How does the baby get IN the mommy’s tummy?”

One of the great things about being a stay-at-home mom is that I get to field about 350 of those 400 questions. Every. Day. And, obviously, my 4-year-old’s questions aren’t always easy. Recent topics include such doozies as God, death, where babies come from, and, of course, poop.

For example:

[On God]: “So God is, like, magic? And knows everything? Is God Santa Claus?”

Me: “errrrrr….”

[On the recent death of one of our cats]: “So, you and Daddy left Beau at the vet’s office after he died? Does that mean the vet’s office is Cat Heaven?”

Me: “uhhhhhh…”

[On how babies get OUT of their mommies]: “YOU SHOWED EVERYONE IN THE HOSPITAL YOUR VAGINA???? “

Me: [*cringe*]

[And, to his brother]: “Why are you such a poopy stinky butt?”

(Well, that one got less of an answer than a time-out, really.)

In general I try to answer my son’s questions as honestly and as factually as I can (except for the one about babies getting IN to their mommies’ tummies. I’m dodging that one for another few years).  Of course, I use language that’s accessible to a four-year-old, and sometimes I might not exactly know EVERYTHING about the subject in question, but I give it a go. So when I answered “How are tornadoes made?” with “Um, when warm air and cool air bump into each other and the warm air wants to go up and the cold air wants to go down so they end up swirling around each other and making a tornado,” I felt ok about it. He’s only four.

My answer? "Super duper hot!"

Of course, sometimes I don’t have enough information to satisfy my little professor. So I do what I always have done with my students: I admit I don’t know, and I point him toward other reliable sources of information. We have checked out library books on volcanoes (“But how hot is lava for REAL?”), looked up information on the solar system on the internet (“But what is the asteroid belt made OF?”), and read newspaper articles together (“But WHEN will the robot get to Mars? WHEN??”). And, very very very often, I refer him to his dad.

It turns out this may be a mistake.

Because, the other day at bedtime we had this conversation, which I thought was about evolution:

Matthew: “What kind of animal were mosquitoes before they were mosquitoes?”

Me: (having had enough questions and not enough caffeine) “I don’t know.”

Matthew: “I know who I’ll ask. I’ll ask Daddy or Uncle Johnnie or Papa or Grandpa. They’ll know.”

Me: (something is up here) “What about Grandma?”

Two-year-old brother (just happy to be involved): “Or Baba!!!”

Matthew: “Oh, they MIGHT know. But men are better at figuring things out than women.”

Me: (mouth literally agape) “What? Who told you that?”

Matthew (shrugging): “Me. I just thought it up myself.”

At this point I am starting to sweat. This is big stuff here, but it’s already bedtime and I’m on solo duty tonight. I’m also tired, and tired of questions.

Here’s what I WANT to say:

“Oh, Daddy and Uncle Johnnie, eh? The very two men who as we speak are at a Phish concert, probably swaying and playing slo-mo air guitar to some 15-minute-long, trippy version of “Hush Little Baby,” or some other such nonsense? Yes, I’m sure they’d give you a GENIUS answer to your question, darling.”

Here’s what I ACTUALLY say:

“What about Dr. Harvey? She’s a woman, and she knows a lot.”

Matthew’s response? “Yeah, but men doctors know more about people than women doctors.”

FOR THE LOVE OF GLORIA STEINEM, WHAT HAVE I DONE WRONG???

Now, I made a little jokey there about my husband but the truth is that other than his taste in music, he is an amazingly smart man. It’s part of what attracted me to him in the first place. This is a man who majored in math—MATH!—at an Ivy League college because, he says, “I knew it would be easy and I wouldn’t have to work too hard.” He reads pretty much everything he can get his hands on, and really does know a lot about a lot. Which is why he is my go-to back-up question answerer.

But when I refer my son to him when I don’t know something, am I sending the message that if a woman doesn’t know, the best course of action is to ask a man?? Good lord, I thought I was passing the buck but instead I’m taking down a generation’s work advancing women?? And how is it that my darling son has forgotten that I successfully (as far as he knows) answer over THREE HUNDRED of his crazy questions every day?? And I almost never say something like, “WHY is it so important to know why bumblebees don’t have stingers? WHY? LEAVE ME TO MY FACEBOOK AND WATCH YOUR YO GABBA GABBA QUIETLY!”

Ahem.

Anyway, this is fair warning to my mother-in-law, my stepmom, my sisters, my aunts, my grandma, and any other woman who has the bad luck of walking her dog past our house in the near future. I may be sending a small, underwear-clad boy your way—either via Skype or in person—with some random question about skunks or wind or gravity or who knows what else. Please, don’t let me—and all the women of the world—down. 

The Truth About Wine Labels

Tastes like GOOD wine

So today I was reading the label on my wine bottle, which is not something I usually do because, let’s be honest, I couldn’t tell the difference between “oaky” and “elmy” (is that a thing?). I am no wine connoisseur—I mostly choose my wines based on their price and label. Trader Joe’s is great for choosing wine. There are maybe 8,000 different kinds of wine for under $10. And truth be told, I generally stick to the under-$6 vinos anyway. Why spend a bunch of money when I wouldn’t even know the difference? The other great thing about the wines at Trader Joes is that lots of them come from snappy little up-start vineyards in California that try to lure you in with their clever names and labels. Why else would I try a wine called “Pancake White?” (my absolute favorite, so far.) And recently I bought a bottle of red wine called Cocobon because its name sounded like cocoa and its label said it had hints of chocolate. Mention chocolate and I’m pretty much in, every time.

Anyway. Today I happened to read the label on my current bottle of white (chosen because it features an old-timey-looking drawing of an elephant) and I read this: “lovely aroma of ripe tropical fruit, fresh lemon and green apple which marry beautifully with rich vanilla oak spice and melon flavors. Drink with grilled chicken with a pineapple mango salsa.”

Errr…come again?

So, I sniffed the wine, really trying hard to smell any kind of fruit. Green apple? Fresh lemon? No. What I smelled was…wine. You know how wine smells? That. That is what I smelled.

Hmmm. Maybe I’m getting a cold, I thought. Maybe my allergies are acting up.

WTF is "cherry coulis???"

I reread the label and decided to taste it. I like vanilla, though I’m not entirely sure if I like “vanilla oak spice.” But it sounds good. If I found a scented candle or a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream in that flavor, I’d buy it. And I like melon well enough. So, I sipped the wine. And what I tasted? Was wine. White wine, definitely, not red. But just wine. And a disappointing lack of what I call vanilla, that’s for sure.

Well, I thought, maybe it’s because I’m drinking it standing over the kitchen sink with a low-cal ice cream sandwich in my other hand. Maybe if I were drinking it with “grilled chicken with a pineapple mango salsa,” maybe THEN I’d taste the vanilla oak stuff. Maybe I should make some grilled chicken with a pineapple mango salsa for dinner tomorrow.

Then I laughed so hard at my little jokey that my husband asked if maybe I shouldn’t lay off the wine a little.

Pineapple mango salsa??? If I want a good pineapple mango salsa, I’ll go where god or nature intended me to go—a RESTAURANT. 

So then I got to thinking about what wine labels should really say. What many of us are ACTUALLY eating and thinking and doing when we drink wine. Here’s what I came up with:

“Pairs beautifully with guilty-pleasure reality tv and a king-size bag of M&Ms.”

“A delightful complement to chicken nuggets with a ketchup/mayonnaise dipping sauce.”

“Enjoy while gorging on an embarrassing number of Girl Scout Cookies while wallowing in your latest round of parental guilt.”

“A fine accompaniment to eating your weight in ice cream and crying over your recently deceased cat.”

“Drink with Triscuits and Facebook.”

Of course, I’m just spitballing here, it’s not like I’ve done any of these things…really, I swear.

So, what’s your favorite wine?

There's nothing like a little validation to make a blogger feel all warm and fuzzy inside--this post was syndicated on BlogHer!

Dead Womb Walking?

So lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my uterus.

For most of my life I have taken my uterus for granted and haven’t thought about it much at all. During my two pregnancies I thought about it A LOT, of course, but once my babies joined us on this side of my cervix, I kind of forgot about it again. But now I feel bad, like I haven’t appreciated it enough. It grew two healthy babies and helped usher them into this world just as it should. (And one of those babies was 9 pounds, 10 ounces and almost two weeks late—that’s above and beyond the call of duty, uterus-wise.) If uterus-having were an Olympic sport, I’d at least qualify for the finals, I think. (No medal, though—those would go to the Super Uteruses, like the ones in surrogate mothers and Michelle Duggar.)

So why am I now suddenly all, “How great is my uterus?”

See, I had a birthday recently. The First Annual Celebration of My 39^th Birthday, to be precise.  And as the big 4-0 looms ever larger, I can’t help but wonder if my uterus’s time is up.

If it’s not just a dead womb walking.

I have always said that I want to be done having kids by age 40. I’m not sure why I drew the line at 40—I guess it was all the talk about how your fertility decreases around then, at the same time that your chances of having problems with your pregnancy increase. For whatever reason, for me and many of my friends who put off having kids until our 30s, 40 is the big cutoff date. Last call at the fertility saloon, if you will.

Well, 40 is just one year away. And if you do the math, given a nine-month pregnancy (HA!), that means we have just 3 more months to decide if I’m retiring the old uterus or calling it back into baby-making action one last time.

And I just don’t know.

There are some days when I KNOW, unequivocally, that my two darling boys are enough for me. It’s not just the days when they fight like rabid badgers, though that certainly helps. But it’s also the days when they are just wonderful; when we are lying in a heap on the couch reading a book together, or sitting on the floor at the airport eating a McDonald’s picnic and watching planes take off as we wait out a 2-hour delay. And I think, “How can I ask for more than this? Why rock this happy little boat?”

But, then… Then I remember being pregnant. Feeling those first kicks and hiccups and even the right hooks to the bladder. Somehow the balloon ankles, sciatica, and crippling nighttime carpal tunnel pain are forgotten. Instead I think about that delicious anticipation that comes before you meet your newest little one, the nine months of wondering what he or she will be like, and then the slow process of getting to know the precious little human you helped create.

(If a mom with a new baby happens to walk by as I’m having all these thoughts, there’s a good chance my ovaries will just explode.)

Ovaries exploding in 3, 2, 1...

It doesn’t help that every time I turn around or log onto facebook someone in my real or online life is announcing their third pregnancy. I can’t even read my favorite celebrity gossip magazine without hearing about Jennifer Garner’s new (third) baby or Tori Spelling getting pregnant just one month after her second baby with her current husband was born. (By the way, that’s a whole ‘nother blog post, am I right? ONE MONTH? We all know what that means, and that is completely cray cray. Good lord, give your poor lady parts a break, Tori!)

Of course, everyone assumes that if we tried for a third, I’d want a girl. And sure, there are times when I think, “Wow, everyone in this family farts a whole lot,” and then I think it might be nice to have a daughter to hide in the corner with, fanning ourselves and spraying Febreze at anyone who gets close. And, I have to admit I kind of want to see what would happen if my husband ever had to deal with little-girl hair. THAT would make for some entertaining facebook photos, I’m sure.

But truthfully, when I think about having another child, I don’t secretly wish for a certain gender. I just think about holding a squishy little newborn and smelling his or her wonderful little head. (What is it about newborns’ heads that make them smell so good?) I think about another round of first smiles, first steps, first words. I think about the amazing, addictive, indescribable feeling of love I have for my sons.

But still, I just don’t know.

I wish that the decision to have a third child were as cut-and-dried as the decision to have a first or second. With our first baby, the question my husband and I had was relatively easy to answer: Did we want kids or not? The answer was yes, the timing was right, so we moved on to the fun part. Sure we were a little scared and not entirely sure what to expect from parenthood, but we forged ahead anyway. The decision to have a second child was also easy. We asked ourselves,  “Do we want our child to have a sibling?” The answer again was yes, and though it was a little more difficult to find time for the fun part with a toddler in the house, we managed to make it happen.

It's Ryan Gosling holding a baby. *Drool*

But, a third? Not so easy. Right now, we are so lucky. My two boys are healthy. They are active, happy, little beasts who, sure, tend to break things and whine a lot and refuse to eat most vegetables, but who also, for the most part, get along with others and follow most social norms (you know, just not the ones involving nudity). They are by no means perfect, but they are perfect for US. How do I know if we are meant to have another?

So. My husband and I have some thinking to do in the next month or so. There’s a lot to consider—even more than what I’ve laid out here. My uterus is looking for answers, and I can’t keep her waiting much longer. (Uteruses are female, right? It would be weird otherwise, I think.)

In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you—how did you know when you were done having children? And how did you know how many you wanted to have?

You Like Me, You Really Like Me!

You like me, you really like me!

Sally Field may have said it best when she accepted her Oscar for her role in “Places in the Heart” in 1984.** And now, it’s my turn.

Because someone out there likes me!

In fact, TWO people out there like me!

Yes, it’s true. In the past week I’ve been tagged by two different bloggers for two different blogging awards. First of all, dancing dynamo mom Keesha over at Mom’s New Stage awarded me the Liebster Blog Award, an award given to upcoming bloggers who have 200 followers or less. According to her blog, the word “liebster” is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome. Now, I have on occasion been told I am cute (you know, the three times a year that I blow dry my hair and wear makeup at the same time), I can sometimes be pleasant (a full night’s sleep helps), and if at 8 pm you are holding a glass of chardonnay for me I will definitely be the kindest person you know. So, totally fitting, right?

 

Well, as if that excitement wasn’t enough, then I got this news: Dawn, the amazing baker from DJ’s Sugar Shack, has awarded me the Versatile Blogger Award! Hot damn, I am on a ROLL! (Or maybe I should say I am on a DONUT—check out this recipe from Dawn’s blog--*drool*.)

Now here’s the thing. Each of these awards comes with rules. You have to post facts about yourself, answer questions, tag other bloggers who you find deserving of these awards, and ask them new questions. Yikes. Between the two awards I would have to post 18 random facts about myself and tag 26 different blogs! You do NOT want to know 18 random facts about me, I promise. That would get us all into mundane details like “I have a cat with Irritable Bowel Syndrome” and “Mushy bananas make me gag” and no one needs to know about that stuff. So with many thanks AND apologies to the lovely ladies who nominated me, I am going to split the difference and combine my responses to these two awesome awards.

So, drumroll please, here are 9 random facts about me:

1.     When I was 8 I got to play Bozo’s Buckets on the Bozo Show (a tv show on WGN—anyone? Anyone?) and I totally bombed. I had to throw a ping pong ball into buckets that were in a line in front of me, and I missed the first one. The one that was practically touching my TOES. No one misses that bucket. No one.

2.     My first celebrity crush—at age 10 or so—was Alan Alda. I watched old M*A*S*H episodes with my parents…what can I say? I like funny guys, lucky for my husband.

3.     I would pay good money (and have!) for a nice, long, scalp massage. Heaven…

 

4.     I always claim that chocolate is my favorite food, but every time I eat bacon I think, “Hmmmm...maybe I was wrong.”

5.     I once spent two weeks traveling in France by myself and though I loved the experience, I hated traveling alone. I’m too shy for it and I don’t really want to do it again.

6.     Fingernails on a chalkboard don’t really bother me, but you know that noise that a pencil makes when its eraser is almost gone and you try to erase something anyway? That sound of metal scratching on paper? I’m getting nauseous just writing about it.

7.     I can’t not watch “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette.” I know they’re crap TV, but I’m hooked. I’m already worried about how I will see the finale when I’m on vacation.

8.     As a kid, I read the “Little House on the Prairie” series 7 or 8 times. I loved it and wanted to be Laura Ingalls, even for one day. But I never, ever, ever watched the TV show. I knew it couldn’t be as good as the books, and to this day I don’t know if it was.

9.     When I was single, I used to watch “Bridget Jones’s Diary” like once a week. It made me laugh and gave me hope. Also, Colin Firth.

Now, to introduce you to some of my favorite blogs! Please go check them out when you get a chance—there is a lot of creativity, humor, and inspiration in this list!

Bella Noise

Foodler—Feeding the FoodieToddler

Laura Loves Fitness

January Lace

Five Little Chefs

Honest Toddler

Young Adultish

Gina Valley—The Glamorous Lifeof a Modern Day Soccer Mom

Bubblegum on My Shoe

Hands Free Mama

Starring Scarlett

Thoughts from Paris

I know I missed some. My brain is like Swiss Cheese since I had kids. So if you’re a blogger, or you know one you love, feel free to leave a link in the comments so others can check it out!

**Oh yeah. Wikipedia informed me here that that’s not exactly what Ms. Fields said, but the sentiment is still the same.