Sunday, August 27, 2006

Kirb Appeal

Kirby calls…
Says the long awaited leggings have arrived at TARGET.

Even in my congested condition, I must see this to believe it.
After calling Kirby in the purses and asking, "Where?" AND three trips to the restroom...

That's right. THREE trips to the restroom.

I was in Target for under an hour today and had to take my kids to the bathroom 3 times.
For single people who shop slowly, giggling as you go, oblivious to what mother's go through to get some Spray and Wash, this should shock you and make you entertain our kids when you're standing behind us in line at the check out standing there calm, unfrazzled, non-sweaty, perusing People magazine to see what's going on with Angelina and Brad...we mothers, franticly trying to get out of the store before the kids realize they finished off all their juice in their sippy cups back on the picture frame aisle.

For fellow mothers, considering I took my kids to the bathroom three times with out abandoning my basket in the Dollar Spot, grabbing my kids and heading to the car, while saying

"Next time

we come here,

you're all wearing a diaper...

even you Anson"

meant one thing...

I wanted these leggings in a bad sort of way.

Yes, I pushed on, even after three trips to the bathroom.

Even though, like a think-ahead mom, I made them all go to the potty before we started shopping.
Nonetheless, at two different times, two of them had to go poo…

Which means, at two different times, anyone standing near us heard them announce, at the top of their little people lungs…
“Mom. I’ve got to POOP.”

No matter how many times we go over this, they refuse to whisper this bit of information.
I had to take Ashton to the bathroom twice.

First number one.
Then, 15 minutes later, number two.
I mean, really, what are the odds.
It’s got to be the lighting.

I bet they thought I was trying to shoplift my leggings.

And, believe me, trying to explain to a two year old that it would be so much more time efficient if in the future, he would try to coordinate all number twos with number ones is…

In response to that conversation, Ashton screamed in delight…
He was pointing to the Target sign.
I just sighed, knowing, those circles have a sick way of bringing me joy as well.
After all that...

Kirby was right.

I found the leggings.
And guess what…

There are TONS of them.
Racks and racks and stacks of them.
Which means…
Target is expecting LOTS of people to buy them.
I for one proved them right.
Get onboard people.
Leggings have landed.
My Kirby said they were going to be huge.
And you people doubted her.
That Kirby knows stuff. Especially clothes stuff.
By the way, I wish you all could have a Kirby.

Like, I wish I could wrap one up and give you a Kirby for your birthday.

Last week, she filled my couch with all things cool.

Cool shirts.

Cool pants.

That's what she does.

Kirby is my tie to trendy.

I wore her jeans with holes in the knees.

NEVER have I felt more hip.

My husband pointed out to me that I would probably be even cooler if I didn’t constantly point down to my holey knees and say, to perfect strangers, “Look how cool I am.”

He’s probably right.

If you’re feeling blah…or frumpy…or your hair really needs highlights, but you haven’t had the time or money…just go hole up some of your jeans.

You will feel like Angelina Jolie…

Or like Kirby.

Either way, things will be looking up.

I love that girl. And, I love that I'm going to be wearing leggings soon.

Right after Kirby finds me some shoes to go with them.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Sinus Boycott

My brother in law, Will came to visit this weekend.
He drove a long, long way to say hello and see his oldest nephew get baptized.

It was sweet.

He left behind…

A yellow shirt

A thumb ring

Snot germs of the Satanic sort.

He left his snot germs somewhere in this house…and as I innocently strolled by them, they jumped on me and crawled up my nose holes.

I don’t think moms with this many kids should ever have to be this sick.


There should be some sort of exemption.

A loop hole.

Like that list on the back of a jury summons that says you can dodge jury duty if…

You are over 70 years old.

You are a volunteer firefighter, rescue squad member or ambulance crew member.
You must care for young children or elderly adults, if your absence will put them at risk.
You are so important to the operation of a business that your absence will cause that business to fail.
You are an attorney, physician, dentist or registered nurse.
You do not have a car and are unable to use public transportation.

When I get sick, that’s how I feel…

Like this is all a terrible mistake…a huge misunderstanding…because…

I can’t be sick.

I just can’t.

Monday morning, I should have been able to take proof of my mother-of-a-million status to someone, somewhere and hear them say, “Oh…we’ll take care of this Mrs. Hendrick…right away…we’re sorry…it’s all been a terrible mistake. You can’t be sick. If you’re sick, how are you supposed to take care of all those kids? What were we thinking?”

I would smile, look relieved and say, “I know! I knew this had to be some sort of clerical error.”

And, then, they would take the sick away, delete it from their files, clickety-clack on their sick-assigning computer…and wa-la…I walk out of that wonderful, make-believe place snot to do the 900 things I need to do that day with out bringing along 900 tons of nose fluid.

That’s the world in which I want to live.

The one where mothers getting sick is a mistake…something that can be quickly remedied with a little bit of quick typing on a computer keyboard in an office down town.

No matter how much Nyquil I take, I can’t seem to find that wonderful world anywhere.

Instead, I’m stuck in this one, where blowing my nose is my new hobby.

Where I lie in bed, coming in and out of
consciousness trying to imagine what on earth sinuses are.

What are they?



Are they buckets?

Are they flat?

Can they be removed?

Can you donate your sinuses to someone who will appreciate them?

I have no idea.

I do know that some people don't have children people...because I took Anson to the doctor one time because I thought he had a sinus infection and the doctor told me that was impossible because Anson didn't have sinuses yet.

So why do I have to have them?

And why do mine have some thug riding around inside them driving a tricked out car with hydraulics, blasting base from his radio that’s blaring “All my Friends Drive a Low Rider.”

I mean, I like that song…just not in my sinuses.

The last few days feel like a blur to me.

I know I went to staff meeting.

I made tacos.

Some man came to our door and asked if the jeep was for sale.

Who does that?


Who just comes up to your house and asks if your car is for sale when there isn’t a for sale sign on it?

I told him I was really sick.

He almost fell off the porch to get away from me.

There were three dirty diapers tied up in three separate HEB bags right in front of the door.
It was a miracle, in this phlegm filled condition I was even able to change three dirty diapers…but carry them all the way to the outside trash can…come on…really…who could do that.

So, I just looked down at them and then looked up at the man wanting to buy a jeep that’s not for sale and said, “Those are diapers.”

That’s what I said to him!

However, at the time, I was mortified that this man I don’t know, was looking at my dirty diapers…not mine…but you know…

I told him my husband’s name was Aaron.

That was his name too.


For goodness sakes, Will…next time bring me flowers, or a remote control sprinkler…not your kill a mother germs!

Monday, August 07, 2006


Ok, here’s my first post …

Thanks to that silly book of Heather’s, she and I have been sitting here making the stupidest noises and the dumbest faces ever. There’s been much spitting and some light-headed hyperventilating as well.

Why you may ask?

Because according to that book everyone needs to know how to whistle with their fingers by the time they are 30. I don’t know why. I mean I’ve lived 29 years without being able to do that shrill whistle-of-death that some people can do. And I’ve managed just fine. (Although to be honest, I have always envied those people who can throw a couple of fingers in their mouth and pierce the eardrums of everyone in a 2-mile radius. I mean come on … it is cool.)

But is it really necessary? Is that really something you have to know how to do before you turn 30? Will people really think less of me if I can’t make their ears bleed and windows shatter on a whim?

I don’t know. But I will keep practicing. I wouldn’t want anyone to think less of me.

Any pointers would be greatly appreciated.


Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Shazam! I Fancy Bowed Hayden

In case you are not up to speed on what's going on in my life...

Here is the abridged version:

I'm dumb.

I'm almost 30.

I'm going to learn to do 30 things before my friends throw me a surprise party.

According to this book I bought, the first thing every person on the brink of 30 should know how to do is wrap a present.

Although I do not agree with the author's premise for the need to know how to do this...after beholding the illustration of the fancy bow I said, "Why fancy that, I simply must know how to fancy-up a bow."

The author implies that no matter if you painstakingly figure out where Thailand is and travel there to find the perfect gift, that if your present isn't wrapped in it's Sunday best, the person receiving the gift will think you are a big fat meany head. She thinks sticking gifts in colorful bags with poofy tissue paper is tacky. I think I would want to smack you with my tacky sack if you agree with her. Call me crappy, but I LOVE colorful bags with coordinating tissue paper.

According to her, even if you buy someone their very own Starbucks franchise, if the presentation of the Starbucks franchise is might as well have bought them a chia pet.

To this I say...

The author needs to have children.

Some of my most precious gifts have come from my most precious gifts. Sure, on the outside, the gift may look like one of these precious children beat it up with a stick horse...

then kicked it to his brother who flushed it down the toilet...

then fished it back out with my kitchen tongs...

then used an entire roll of Scotch tape to hold together his masterpiece, accidentally taping the waded mess to the kitchen table...sure...that happens...

But what's inside the smelly, wrapping disaster is always divine.

Even though I phooeyed on her reasoning…I kept reading. This was the first instruction for my fancy bow:

Cut a length of ribbon that's twice as long as the length of the box, plus three times as wide as the width of the box.

That right there was enough to make me ok with dieing at the age of 29.

It's amazing that I didn't quit. She tricked me. She put MATH in a BOOK I am READING. Math in a book…that I bought…to read…for FUN??? It might as well have been pornography.

Hello…Math is still math, even if it’s written with words. I almost started hyperventilating. All I could think of was...if a train leaves the station at 12 p.m. and a pony starts walking to Tulsa...when will the noodle soup land in Japan? AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

I took deep breathes…and then just unrolled half the ribbon off the spool. Surely that would be enough.

I even kept reading even though she says an awful bad word in the very first chapter.

In my twenties, after seeing instruction number one and the bad word, I would have deleted my post about this book from the blog, hoping everyone would forget about my almost 30 challenge.

I’m getting so grown up. The result of my almost 30 maturity… I just learned the fancy bow from my foul-mouthed instructor.

I'm so proud.

Not of her mouth or of the reason behind the need for such a thing as the fancy bow...

Just of my bow...and that it's fancy.

While I was tying the fancy bow, Hayden said...

Is this going to take to-ever?


When you get done, am I going to be a girl?


He sighed...with relief.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

I think we need a new picture for our profile

One with short sleeves, instead of long ones. I can't even stand to see pictures of us in long sleeves now that it is August. That's just not right.