Help, I'm raising a giant pack of nerds

(Nerds one and two: Expanding their vast stores of knowledge at a museum)

(Nerd three: Doing what she does best, looking pretty)

It is a truth universally acknowledged: Anyone who has ever foolishly thought they were once cool, must raise at least one nerd.

I'm raising three of them.

Here's where it all began. The school had a traveling science fair come and visit the third grade. This prompted my third grader to come home begging to have a family science fair. I mumbled my usual, "Yeah, sure, whatever," a remark that I reserve solely for things that bring them great joy, require no effort on my part, and probably won't make too big of a mess.

All yesterday afternoon, Chase helped Hannah work on her entry for the family science fair. [Yeah, just writing that makes me feel like a big, fat nerd.] Here we see her completed entry on the life cycle of a rabbit:

And because it's just too good to miss, let me break it all down for you. First, the rabbit is born (or bron, as Hannah likes to spell it). I like that the baby rabbit is actually wearing a diaper and seems to be locked in some sort of cage, while the mother sits outside with a smile on her face.

Now we know why rabbits have so many babies, don't we?

Then we have childhood. Which consists mainly of playgrounds, slides, and large lolly pops. Although, I am really hoping the jumbo-sized rabbit on the end of the see-saw is not meant to be me. She seems to have a bit of a weight problem when compared to the other bunnies.

And I can't help but worry about the bunny on top of the see-saw, and how he seems stuck in the air, waiting interminably for Chubby Stie the big boned rabbit to get off the see-saw.


Childhood is promptly followed by the phase of life known as, "adult." Here, we see that adults type on computers and wear ties. I am assuming they are sitting on chairs, even though one of the chairs does slightly resemble a toilet.

I'd like to point out that no one in this house ever sits on the toilet with a laptop, unlike some people allegedly have been known to do.

Once you've completed the adult phase, it is time to mate.

After she finished this poster, she came and asked me what it means to mate. I told her it means you get to hold hands with a boy, on your first date, when you turn 27.

She seemed to believe me.

After you mate, there is only one step left in life: Death.

And I must say, it doesn't look pretty. Death by rabid dog/wolf cannot be a pleasant way to go. Although, if you'll notice, both rabbits appear to have smiles on their faces. Interesting...

Nerd number two (aka, Chase) has just started his own entry. He brought a book home from the library and told me his project was on the human body.

He writes: "Here is a human. He, as we can see, can't see inside him."

That's all he's got so far. I can't wait to see the rest of it, which, I have no doubt, will be anatomically correct.

Nerd number one (McKay) is still tossing around ideas for his special project.

Looks like a very educational week, indeed.

Is it wrong that I sort of want to give them all wedgies and steal their lunch money?

To my big boy on his birthday

Dear McKay,

Today you are turning eleven years old. This day every year brings you one step closer to that inevitable moment when you are ready to spread your wings and leave the little nest I have created here. I find myself wholly unable to think about that far-off day, and turn my attention to the utter joy you bring us now.

Mack, you are just good. There is no way around it. There is not a mean bone in your body. You not only root for the underdog, but you go out of your way to help him. You cannot stand the idea of anyone hurting. Your thoughtfulness is way beyond your years.

Your current favorite game is one of your own invention, called, "Would you rather?" You give me a choice between two diverse (and often really gross) scenarios, in which I am forced choose the lesser of two evils. Tonight, you asked me if I'd rather die a hero or live long enough to see myself become a villain. Proud of your keen intellect and creative philosophizing, I bragged to your daddy about it on the phone.

He laughed and told me it was from the newest Batman movie.


As I'd want it, school has been an ongoing challenge, and I'm so proud of the way you've dug in your heels with determination. You absolutely refuse to not do well at anything. You are driven in such a way that I know came solely from your father's genes. You have a vision for the way you want things to be someday, and you are planning now for that future. I have no doubt that you will achieve all you set out to do. And I can't wait for you to make those millions you're dreaming of.

Because laboring for hours to bring you into this world without an epidural? That's got to be at least worth you funding my golden years in a really posh nursing home staffed by strong, handsome men.

You continue to share everything in life with your brother. The two of you are inseparable, and it is not uncommon for me to find you both bent over a pile of legos, or laughing while reading a Calvin and Hobbs book together. I can't tell you the joy it brings to my mama heart when I see you two so close. Just a few minutes ago, when I walked past your room, I smiled as I heard you and Chase talking together about various events in your day. I love that you love him so much.


You are thoughtful and tender, obedient and kind. I rely a lot on you, and without question, you do all that you're asked and more. You make me laugh with your silly jokes. You make me smile when I see that look on your face - the one where you try so hard not to smile or show others how excited you are about something. The one where you look just like your dad.

You are the kind of kid that makes parenting feel so easy.
I love you, buddy. I know you love me, too, even if you think it's gross to give me a hug in public. Thank you for filling our life with such sweet, easy happiness.

Love,

Mama

What's the cure for a sugar hangover?

Let's just say there's a football game on television that happens once a year. You invite some friends over to watch it on your husband's ridiculously large t.v. You spend the day filling your belly with things like fresh guacamole, sugar cookies, Swedish meatballs, and chocolate cake. [Curse that Pioneer Woman and her satanically-delicious chocolate sheet cake.]

You then plant yourself in front of the television, balancing a large plate of food on your knees. You have foolishly left your buffet unattended, knowing the pitter-patter of little feet overhead is the children gorging themselves on sugar.

And about thirty minutes into the game, the shrieking and fits of hysterical laughter coming from their direction confirms this very thing.

But you allow it because, after all, it's the Super Bowl. It's a once-a-year phenomenon. It's the only time you ever sit down in front of a football game with your husband (but let's be honest, you're really only there for for the commercials). You pretend to care about field goals and touch downs while you daydream and drool over the back and front sides of Kurt Warner.

You cheer when that one guy goes running across the big green field and scores some points. You feel mildly annoyed when there's a pit in your stomach, as you root for the guys in the red and white uniforms to win.

You console your husband when they don't.

Then you send your husband off on a business trip with a plate full of snacks for the ride. You happily start chatting with your friend Shiloh, and look up to find that the clock says almost two in the morning. You mentally count the hours until you have to be up and going, and realize it's very few.

You decide to eat one last sugar cookie. Because at two in the morning? Sugar cookies are always a good idea.

You go to bed with horrible heartburn and swear yourself off sugar forever. Then after what feels like minutes, your alarm is startling you from sleep. You rouse the troops and find they are faring no better than you:


Except for one, who has the constitution of his father and doesn't seem to need, require, or care for little trifles like sleep:

[ Seen here opening his birthday presents yesterday - a few days early due to the Husband's trip this week]

You forget your self-imposed ban against sugar and decide a cookie for breakfast is the cure for what ails you. You wash it down with a diet coke.

Oddly, it doesn't make you feel any better.

You pledge to never combine football and sugar cookies again, and wonder if your friend Becky would lend you her extra special elastic-waist pants.

And that, dear friends, is how you experience the Super Bowl. In case you were wondering.

Baby love

Look what I got to play with for a few hours last week:
Gorgeous, isn't she? Her name is Zoey and I have been unofficially adopted as her aunt, and grafted illegally into her extended family, without most of their knowledge or consent.

I hope they don't mind.

Zoey and her cute mama were here visiting their real aunt and popped by to say hello. I immediately pulled out the camera and we had a little impromptu photo shoot. She was charming and adorable throughout the entire process, even when I made her strip down to her skivvies.

Plus, she let me hold her and smell her yummy neck, which is something house guests under the age of one will always be subjected to around here.





Please feel free to come visit me any time. (Just don't forget to bring your babies with you. They will guarantee admission to the House of Stie).

And I promise you will not have to strip down to your skivvies. [Unless you are or remotely resemble Daniel Craig or Mr. Darcy. Then all bets (and shirts) are definitely off.]

A little lesson for the Midwest

Oh, you loopy, loveable midwesterners. You are a classic paradox.

Hardy and strong, you bravely face the endless muggy summers filled with heat, heat, more heat, and mosquitoes. You cheerfully take your kids to the park on days so hot that one actually sweats in a cold shower. You are out jogging in air that is 95 degrees with 80 percent humidity.

Yes. With smiles on your faces.

And yet, when the mere possibility of a few inches of snow is before you, you abandon all logic. You run to the grocery store and hastily clear the shelves of bread, eggs, milk, and toilet paper. You preemptively salt your driveways. You stockpile the firewood and hunker down with quilts to worship the weatherman on t.v.

And then, in a panic, you declare a snow day and cancel school.

Before the snow has actually, you know, fallen.

Well, my not-so-hardy winter friends, let me give you a little lesson. When it snows like THIS, there should, indeed, be a snow day:

(Our front yard in Boston, circa 2005)

Not when it snows like THIS:

Our front yard, about ten minutes ago

Any questions?

[All this excitement, by the way, led one of my children, who shall remain nameless, (*cough*Chase*cough*) to wake up at 4:30 a.m., and not be able to fall back asleep. That naturally led him to wake his siblings at, say, 4:43 a.m. And, of course, none of them would go back to sleep. I blame you, crazy midwest people. Thanks a lot.]

Auld lang syne

It took me a while to get our New Year's Eve pictures off my camera.

Probably because I've spent several weeks thinking of all the bad food that got eaten over the holidays, and how it was now permanently residing on my thighs.

Oh, the nerve of that holiday food.

But when I finally stopped staring at my thighs and hooked the camera up to the computer, I discovered a few gems that needed posting, if only for posterity's sake.

She was deliriously tired - it was midnight, after all - and she tore herself away from the company of her little girlfriends to come find her daddy for a toast. Wearing a paper princess crown, and sporting slightly crooked pigtails, she made sure to ring in the new year with the man in her life.

As much as she likes to make him work for it, he knows what he means to her. She has already mastered that thing they call coy, and he is powerless to resist her.

She, his little tomboy princess.

A happy new year, indeed.

Some days

Most days, life is pretty good. Some days, I wonder why I bother getting up at all.

Most days, I relish my role as a mother, and find joy in caring for the little people in this house. Some days, it's really hard to care when someone wants their crust cut off, knowing they won't even eat the sandwich anyway.

Most days, I don't mind the Husband traveling. Some days, I really wish he was home.

Most days, I find myself on top of my schedule and can easily manage my responsibilities. Some days, I absolutely forget to do things. Important things, like helping in the first grade classroom, thereby reducing a little first grade girl to tears.

Most days, I am fairly indifferent to my highly imperfect body. Some days, I just can't stand the girl I see in the mirror.

Most days, I make healthy food choices and feel good doing so. Some days, it's all I can do to not eat my weight in cookie dough.

Most days, I answer questions cheerfully, and solve problems in a rational manner. Some days, I tend to yell a lot.

Most days, I am happy, confident, and strong. Some days, I'm just not.

Today has one of those 'some' days.

And I really wish it would leave already.

I hate the some days.

A perfect match

Have you ever found someone you connect with on such a profound level that you immediately begin to wonder if somehow you just might be related?

Well, I had that experience over the Christmas holidays.

And the best part? We ARE related. We just haven't seen each other in a really, really long time.

This is my cousin, Liz. [please ignore my giant head in this picture]

She and her family came to visit us over the Christmas break. Neither one of us knew what to expect, as we have not spent much time together as adults. Sure, we got along great as kids. But back then I was the cool, older cousin with big bangs and pegged jeans. Now? I'm just the older, fatter cousin with a muffin top and three kids. What if we had nothing to talk about?

Well, we had plenty to talk about.

We had a blast. The kids immediately became fast friends, and the husbands chatted it up while bonding over the football. She and I stayed up late, laughing, joking, and never once running out of things to say.

It was a little eerie, though, how similar our families are. Our kids were a perfect match for each other.

Her oldest is a polite, tender-hearted bookworm, who is very eager to please. Just like my oldest.
Her second child is spunky, curious, energetic, and passionately creative. Just like my second child.

Her daughter is a sweet, pink-loving princess who can climb trees with the boys, but also happens to be a devout Dancing Queen fan.

Just like my daughter.

Her baby boy is a chubby ball of content, smiling love who never once cried in the three days we drooled over him.

My baby boy is...oh, wait.

I don't have a baby boy.

Sorry. Got a little carried away there, what with the similarities between our two families and all. But I could not have hand picked better friends for my kids. It truly was the icing on the cake for our holiday break. We were so sad to see them go.

The kids have not stopped talking about their new cousins, and I am thrilled to have connected with my cousin. Thanks for everything, guys. We can't wait to get together again soon.

Which we will. Because when you find people you like this much? You just have to get some more time with them. And soon.

Have you ever? (The parking edition)

This afternoon I decided to brave the below-freezing temperatures and head to the mall. The kids were home for a half-day today, and Hannah was in need of some entertainment. The boys were having a play date, and she was stuck at home with mom (a fate worse than death, I know).

She has become an ardent scrapbooker (read: she likes to rifle through my stuff) and I figured an outing to the local scrapbook store would serve several purposes today. One, it would get her some new supplies and increase the chance that she actually leaves my stuff alone; two, it would give us something fun to do together; and, three, it would enable me to spend more of the Husband's money on pretty paper, ribbons, and such (which just so happens to be one of my favorite things to do with his money).

So we bundled ourselves up and headed out. Seeing as it is literally eight degrees today, I circled the parking lot repeatedly, looking for a spot close to the doors. I spied one on the front row, and headed toward it with glee. That glee was short lived, however, when I noticed it was designated parking for expectant mothers only.

Oh, for half a second I actually wished I was pregnant.

I stopped. I hesitated. I mentally debated whether or not I looked pudgy enough in my winter coat to be able to get away with it (which sadly, I probably do). But in the end, the thought of some poor actual pregnant person having to walk farther in the cold because of me was enough to compel me to do the right thing.

With a sigh, I resigned myself to the mile-long walk in the cold, and headed for a parking spot farther out. As Hannah and I approached that front-row mother's spot on our way inside, another car was pulling in.

And to my horror, a very obviously-not-pregnant person was getting out of the car. How could I be sure, you ask?

BECAUSE IT WAS A MAN.

Yes, a lone man was parking in the expectant mother's parking spot. You can be sure that my frozen face scowled as fierce as one could in the sub-freezing air.

I don't think he noticed, what with his short, warm trip inside the mall.

So, once again, I reminded myself not to judge, and prayed that a real pregnant person was not stuck in the cold longer because of him.

But it begs me to ask -- have you ever parked in that spot when you weren't pregnant? How about the handicapped spot? Ever parked there when you know you shouldn't have?

Discuss.

My favorite time of day

I think I love the half-hour after dinner, showers, and PJ's the best. The dishes are usually done. The kids all smell nice and clean. The house is silent, but for the sweet little voice of this girl, reading out loud to her mama. Our favorite lately is anything Junie B. Jones. But we laughed ourselves silly at this old classic the other day.

The quiet is briefly interrupted by one of these wily fellows, wanting to share something funny from their books, or stumbling upon a word they're not quite sure of.

The day's cares have melted away. There is a look of contentment on each of their faces, as they are immersed in one of my favorite worlds - the wonderful world of books. I have raised three readers, and I might just think myself a success for fact that alone.

Selling my blogging soul for a bottle of free lotion: SkinMD Shielding Lotion and Sunscreen

A few months ago, I was contacted by the nice folks at SkinMD to review a bottle of their shielding lotion with sunscreen.

I was thoroughly excited to have been chosen and could not wait to get my hands on the product. I have typically said no to product reviews before, but they got to me on a good day, I suppose, and I said yes.

I have been using it for over a week now, and I have to say that -- gulp --I don't like it. [Insert SkinMD permanently adding my name to a product review black list here.]

I wanted to like it. I felt compelled to like it.

But I just can't tell a lie, especially to you good people.

It is moisturizing, to be sure, and really made my skin feel great, but I cannot get past the smell. It is not an awful smell per se, but it's got a faintly medical odor to it. It brings to mind old ladies in white hats giving shots, which is not exactly how I want to spend my days smelling, no matter what my skin feels like. Having soft, luscious skin that is doubly protected from the sun is one of my life's goals, but I can't do it at the price of my nostrils.

Plus, the Husband won't come near me when I wear the stuff. [Of course, that could be a major market they're missing - target the wives wanting to keep the husbands away! No? Okay. Can't blame a girl for trying, right?]

So, please, in spite of my less than stellar review, try the product yourself. I would love to be proven wrong on this one, especially as I am quite sure it will be the last review I am ever asked to make.

Unless, of course, someone wants me to review, say, cookie dough, chocolate, or Mr. Darcy movies. All of which would undoubtedly get an earnest thumbs-up.

Solidarity, Christie-style

I won't lie to you. This morning was not a pretty one, my friends. We've known this day was coming for two-and-a-half weeks. We have talked about it. We have prepared for it. I thought we were finally ready.

Oh, I have never been so wrong.

When that awful beeping startled me out of my blissful dreams, I half considered blowing off school and not getting up.

And I would have, had it not meant I'd have the children home another day.

Painfully, I tore myself away from the warm quilts and slid into my pink fuzzy slippers. I plodded down the hall and found all three beds still occupied; a phenomenon which never happens. The crazy people in this house take great delight in waking up at the crack of dawn on any given day. Except, naturally, the one day they have to.

Breakfast was marked with yawns and their drowsy, resentful silence.

At one point in the morning, I found a child asleep on the stairs with his backpack and coat on. I gently nudged him awake, and reminded him of all the fun he would have at school today; how his friends would be so happy to see him, how he'd be having pizza for lunch. His sleepy eyes and pouty lips were not to be convinced.

Finally, the bus lumbered slowly around the corner. I watched as their shoulders drooped just a little bit, and their feet grudgingly moved forward, one tired step at a time.

I felt so very sorry for them. But ever the stoic, I waved earnestly, then did the only decent thing a good mother like myself could do: I crawled back into my still-warm bed and took a nap.

My own brand of solidarity.

[Just don't tell the kids. I think it'd break their little hearts.]

I resolve...

It's that time of year, friends. The time of year when we are all gorged out on Christmas cookies, and find ourselves pining away for crispy vegetables. We have most likely spent our Christmas break sleeping in late, lounging in our PJs, NOT exercising, reading books until three in the afternoon, and then deciding we're so tired from all that hard work that we need a good nap.

You know I'm not the only one.

I think it's because we spend the last two weeks of each year in a constant state of gluttony and slothfulness, come January, we resolve to be better. We need to be better. We can't stand the thought of our lives turning into what they've been over Christmas break. So we make lists, goals, and we dream big. We exercise. Boy, do we exercise. Ever been to a gym the first few weeks of January? It's AWFUL. It's so crowded with sweat and good intentions that one can hardly breathe.

Well, this year is no different for me. I have spent the last few days pondering over some things I would like to accomplish this year. But rather than set myself up for disappointment when I don't do any of them, I thought I'd make a list of things that I will not do. Sort of a backwards resolution list, a list of things I can accomplish by simply NOT doing any of them. I did a list of these resolutions last year, and really enjoyed them. Thought I'd expand on the idea again this year.

So here it is, my list of things I WILL NOT do in 2009:

1. I will not pull weeds poison ivy in my backyard.
2. I will not eat cookie dough and call it dinner.
   
3. I will not stop reading books.
4. I will not laugh out loud when I see people still sporting mullets (I will only laugh inside).
   
5. I will not flash the goods for the UPS man.
   
6. I will not stop exercising. See number two for reasons on this.
7. I will not start smoking.
8. I will not start selling crack.
9. I will not let crazy ladies do bad things to my hair with scissors.
10. I will not let a day go by where I don't tell those three kids how much I love them.
11. I will not love my thighs, especially come summer.
12. I will not run away to Paris with famous male movie stars, even if they beg and plead.
    
13. I will not stop shopping for that perfect pair of shoes.
14. I will not hate myself, even on those really ugly days.
15. I will not stop loving and laughing with the Husband.
    
16. I will not enjoy doing laundry.
17. And I will not spend my days wishing for a different life.
    

What will you not do this year?

A conversation from last week that still makes me laugh

HIM: Now tell me again where you're going?

ME: I'm going to a cookie exchange.

HIM: What exactly is a cookie exchange?

ME: Well, dear, as the name implies, everyone shows up with cookies, and we exchange them with each other. You know, a cookie EXCHANGE?

HIM: So, does that mean you'll be bringing other people's cookies home with you?

ME: That is the general idea.

HIM: Why would I want to eat anyone else's cookies? That's like having an affair with a really ugly woman.

_______________________

[By the way, he did end up eating other people's cookies. Should I be on the lookout for an ugly girlfriend now?]

The 13-day hiatus comes to an end

Oh, hello there little blog. My, how I've missed you. Is anyone still here? Anyone? Anyone?

I am sorry to have been away for so long, but for the first time in several long months, I have actually had a husband around.

While for most of you this is an everyday occurrence -- in my world, it is not. It is a rare treat, and one which I have enjoyed to the fullest. We have spent every waking second together for the last two weeks. And guess what we discovered? We actually like each other.

I know, right?

While the Husband is not heading back to work just yet, I am finally ready to return to you, my other true love.

I'm kidding.

You know my other true love will always be Mr. Darcy.

Anyhoo, semi-regular posting will resume shortly. That is, if any of you are left to read the drivel that gets churned out here at Stie's Thoughts.

And sadly, taking a hiatus doesn't make me any funnier. I apologize in advance for the disappointment. But dang, it feels good to be back.

My love affair with the mailbox

One of my favorite things about the month of December is the good mail.

- The samplings so far this year -

Instead of the usual bills, home refinance offers, bills, realtor advertisements, and bills (did I mention the bills?), my mailbox brings me love in card form.

As I have said in the past, I love to send them. But I love even more to receive them.

I savor that half-hour after the mail comes, reading each card over and over. I study the pictures of long lost friends. I smile, as I notice just how much their kids have grown since last year. I read the Christmas letters. Yes, every. single. word.

I love them.

But I had to laugh when the mailbox yielded a few unexpected cards this year:
Looks innocent enough, right? When you open the inside, you see this:

Yes, our trash man left us a card this year.

How nice of him. Now when I see him dumping our gigantic piles of waste into the garbage truck, I will feel just a tad bit guilty. I'll think, "Sorry, Terron, for the gigantic piles of waste." Instead of my usual thought of, "Oh, there's the trash man."

I hate feeling guilty.

The other card that made me laugh came from some of the Husband's closest, best, and most special friends. The outside looked like this:

And the inside looked like this:

You know you are traveling WAY too much when one of the many hotels you frequent sends you a Christmas card.

And what's worse? He actually knows most of the people who signed it. Me thinks it might be time to stay home for a while. Get to know some of the actual people who live in Missouri.

You know. WHERE YOU LIVE.

How about you, internets? Gotten any unexpected cards in the post this year?

Rock star

This chick has serious 80s rock star hair every morning at the breakfast table. It goes well with her nightly concoction of mismatched pajamas and a summer swim dress -- which is best worn over the jammies. I mean, duh. How else would one wear a swim dress in the middle of winter while one is sleeping?

I have given up creative control when it comes to her wardrobe, and that includes the night time. She is far too stubborn for me to ever win anyway, and I decided I would save that battle for another day. Like if she ever tries to peg her jeans and wear her bangs straight up, six inches higher than her forehead.

Which I totally know is going to happen someday. That kind of bad stuff has a way of repeating itself.

She is definitely not a morning person (wonder where she gets that from?), and usually spends a good half hour in silence, with a look on her face like this one:


Don't worry, girlfriend. I can totally relate.

But eventually she warms up to us, and starts talking. Once the talking starts, it doesn't stop until her tiny head hits the pillow at night. Which is where the hair magic happens all over again.

Dang, I love this little girl something fierce.

Still, she will probably kill me when she sees these pictures.

And if that happens, remind the Husband that I forbid him from ever marrying anyone who doesn't outweigh me by at least double.

And no, dear husband, I do not weigh a mere 55 pounds.

Why he may now always request to sit by old, ugly, very large men

Last night, the Husband got home from a business trip. He had a funny little experience on the plane, and I feel that I must share it with you here, in the event that any of your loved ones travel, and could benefit from this valuable lesson.

Due to the high frequency of the Husband's business trips, he is one of those annoying people in the "more special than you/able to sit in the front of the plane/and board early" group. If there is room, he is automatically upgraded to first class. He has a special waiting room at the airport which has comfortable seating, drinks, snacks, and free WiFi.

I know. I never even knew that room existed, nor have I seen the inside of it.

Anyway, he was seated semi-comfortably in coach on a completely full flight. There were two empty seats left on the plane, and one of them was next to him.

Two people were in the aisles, heading to the last two seats. One of them looked like this:

And one of them looked like this:

He swears that merely for the comfort factor, he was silently praying for the attractive woman to have the seat next to his.

Yeah, right. On what planet are we expected to believe that one, Husband? Pffftt, puhhleease.

As [my] luck would have it, the woman was NOT seated next to him, and proceeded to take her seat a few rows back. The male passenger squeezed into the middle seat, right next to the Husband.

Within 30 minutes of take-off, there was a loud retching sound heard a few rows back. Further investigation revealed that the attractive woman had gotten sick mid-flight and thrown up ALL OVER EVERYONE in her row.

Let me repeat that in case you're not clear.

THE ATTRACTIVE STICK SHE THREW UP ON THE PEOPLE SITTING NEXT TO HER.

And had the Husband gotten his secret wish, she would have puked all over him, his laptop, and any remaining shred of his manhood.

And so, let that be a lesson to you, dear Husband. Sitting by attractive women on your flights will only result in BAD things.

VERY, VERY bad things. 'Nuff said.

I just love it when life lessons are handed out in neat little packages like that, don't you?

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Last week, my friend Annie did a post in which she revisited the ghosts of Christmas past -- in card form. It was so fun to walk down memory lane with her.

And since there are no gorgeous, half-nekkid, singing men to post about today, I thought I'd take you on a walk down our family's memory lane. On seeing these old cards, I found myself full of emotion. Some of them made me laugh, and some made me cringe. But most of them simply made me smile, and I caught myself wiping a tear or two away, as I wistfully noticed just how big my babies have gotten lately.

First up is our Christmas card from 1999. In this picture, McKay was about 21 months old, and Chase was probably two months old. The Husband traveled out of town every week, Monday through Friday, for a year-and-a-half during this period of time. It was tough. It was definitely the first test of my independence as a wife and mother.

I must have fared rather well, as he is still traveling up a storm today, and I don't find it nearly as hard.

Please note that a child ABSOLUTELY had to be placed in front of my body, as I was not yet recovered from the pregnancy weight gain and looked like a bloated cream puff, held up by thighs the size of tree trunks.

I also had really bad hair. Kind of like right now.

The next card is from 2000. This photo was actually taken in Seattle, right before we moved to Boston. McKay was two, and Chase was not yet one. This angelic photo was just weeks before THE INCIDENT. Oh, if we only could travel back in time. What we'd tell ourselves, no?

And, at this time, I was still quite the porker, and couldn't risk long-distance friends and family seeing that.

Just in time for Christmas of 2001, I was five months pregnant with Hannah. That fact alone explains away the absence of a family picture. Do you sense a theme here? [Quit judging. You know you do it, too.]

This was also our way of announcing the impending arrival:

[Please note her due date. Her actual birthday is April 25th. Why couldn't my babies be born on-time? WHY? Was that simple request too much to ask? UGH.]

In 2002, I was finally part of the picture again. Not because I was trim and slim, but because it had been so many years, and I worried people would think I had run off with the mailman.

Which, I'll be honest, I considered at times. Having three kids in four years will do that to you.

Skipping ahead to 2005. Here, we sent our first "top ten list." I kept a journal handy and wrote down funny things the kids said throughout the year, and we had them printed on the inside of our card.


It's become a tradition we still do today. The funniness factor, I think, was maxed out two years ago, in 2006, when some of our top ten items were:


"Dad, if you get pulled over one more time, you're getting a van." (Chase)

"But I just can't find a man to fall in love with." (Hannah)

"The directions don't tell you a damn thing!" (McKay)

"Be a peacemaker or I will stab you." (Chase)

"You should never get mad at me because I am so pretty." (Hannah)

Yeah, we'll totally never top that. Best top ten list ever.

So stay tuned next week, internets, and I'll post our card from this year. I just mailed my last big stack today, and I don't want to ruin the surprise for anyone who hasn't gotten theirs.

Play along, won't you? Let's see some of your Christmas card ghosts.

In which his words come back to haunt him, beat him, and kick him where it counts

Today we were driving to church, and the familiar banter between siblings filled the air. Elbows were dug jovially into rib cages. Treasures were held out just slightly farther than little hands could reach. Shoving ensued, and was promptly followed by the unavoidable, yet completely annoying, tattle.

"MMMOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!"

All this before we were even out of our neighborhood.

So, in an attempt to find a little peace in my heart on the sabbath, I put on a CD, and declared that the car was now a talking-free zone. The Husband raised his eyebrows quizzically when the opening number of Joseph filled the air.

I shrugged my shoulders, and proceeded to lose myself in Donny's melodic, "Any Dream Will Do."

Then, in a flash of brilliance, I announced that we would be watching Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat tonight for family night.

Groans immediately filled the air.

[And they all came from the Husband.]

His protests were naturally matched by those of his boys. I was preparing to dig in my heels for battle, when suddenly, from the back seat, a tiny little girl voice spoke up.

"But, Dad, aren't we supposed to be flexible and try new things?"

His very words to them less than 12 hours before, when a plate of foreign-looking food was placed in front of them, had now come back to haunt him. I smiled sweetly, awaiting his reply.

I'm pretty sure that grunt and roll of the eyes was his surrender.

And so tonight we all watched Joseph. Two of us loved it; three of us didn't. Any guesses who loved it?

Although, how anyone could not love this is beyond me:



[Note to self: Must stop posting pictures of half-nekkid men on the blog. Eh, maybe tomorrow. This is just too delicious. And it's about the Bible, after all. How wrong can that be?]

Having my cake and eating it, too

On a post I wrote a few days ago, Calibosmom left me a comment that really got me thinking.

She wondered if it would be possible to have James Bond AND the chocolate cake together in one place.

I figured that was the epitome of having your cake and eating it, too. Which I am most fond of in any way, shape, or form.

So, I rolled over and asked James what he thought. This was his response:

Which we did.

After we burned down a hotel in the desert, and saved the water supply for Bolivian villages everywhere, of course. We spent a lovely few weeks on his yacht and private island together. He had called in sick to his boss, M, which basically left the entire world unprotected.

I didn't mind, though.

Because, as James said, I was looking a little too thin. What with four days of thanksgiving food fully packed with butter and sugar. I needed some tending to, you know, me practically wasting away and all.

But, alas, I had to leave James and go on a series of press junkets for my other movie.

Yes, it's been a busy year for the little Stie.
I know a lot of you didn't like it. But hopefully the next ones will be better for you. We're hoping to have a lot more money this time, and actually be able to pay someone to do our makeup. We had to do a bit of it ourselves, as you can see. But it's been great to be here with Edward. He doesn't like to let me leave his side for a moment. If I'm not right there with him, he sneaks into my bedroom at night and watches me sleep.

Which is not at all creepy. Or stalkerish.

Finally, after all my press conferences, interviews, and parties were over, I flew home to be with my one and only true love:

He missed me a lot.

Don't we make a handsome couple?

We get that all the time.

I know you're totally jealous. Don't be stealing my imaginary boyfriends now. As you can clearly see, they belong to me.

How to lose the Christmas spirit (before you've even really gotten it yet)

Step one: Annoy your husband by demanding he haul the extra large, extra heavy tree box up from the basement. Annoy him further when you ask in your nicest wifely voice if he will also bring up the two large bins of ornaments/decorations. Ignore his grunts and grumbles and be glad he is so strong.

Step two: Turn on the Christmas music that you burned onto your oldest son's i-pod (as your i-pod has recently died a slow and painful death). Smile sweetly when he complains about this. Think of his painfully difficult birth that was done without the use of an epidural, and decide he owes you this, at the very least.

Step three: Untangle multiple balls of mangled lights that you could have sworn were rolled neatly last January. Begin hanging the untangled lights on the tree.

Step four: Finish hanging the lights, go to plug them in, and realize (to your horror) that half of them are burned out. Begin searching for the bulbs that are burned out and suddenly realize you cannot see things up close. Wonder exactly when that happened, and blame it on your recent 35th birthday. Make a mental note to start shopping for cute bifocals. [Wonder briefly if that is an oxymoron.]

Step five: Give up searching for burned-out bulbs and remove all lights from the tree. Test another tangled ball of lights to make sure it works before hanging it on the tree. When lights appear, hang the second tangled ball of lights. Go to plug them in (and realize AGAIN to your horror) that half of them are burned out. Wonder exactly why the universe hates you. Decide you hate the universe, too.

Step six: Try hard not to lose heart, in spite of the universe hating you. Grab your purse, and head to Target for replacement lights. Sing loudly in the car on the way there. Be proud of yourself and your unusually positive attitude in a situation like this.

Step seven: Get home and call madly for the children to come back and help with the tree. Realize they have lost interest. Pull new lights out of the plastic Target bag and realize (TO YOUR SHOCK, HORROR, and SHEER FRUSTRATION) that you have purchased lights with white wiring, which will not look too good on your green tree. Momentarily consider hanging yourself with them.

Step eight: Decide against suicide, grab your purse, and head BACK to Target. Say lots of four-letter words out loud in the car instead of singing. Return white-wired lights and pick up new boxes of green-wired lights. Stand in line and try not to throw things at people in front of you.

Step nine: Come home yet again. Ignore the children who could now care less about the tree decorating. Silently curse that annoying Christmas music in the background. Hang the damn lights on the damn tree.

Step ten: Start hanging ornaments and have the children suddenly take an interest in the tree decorating.

Step eleven: Find your ice-cold heart of stone slowly melting. Finish decorating the tree. Stand back, sigh, and be mildly grateful for the season.

Step twelve: Angrily throw old lights into the trash. Vow to buy new lights next year before beginning this process. Turn off the lights on the tree. Go to bed.