Where is the candy?

If you've noticed that I haven't written in a few days, thank you. You've brought some validation to the craptastic pile of snot and coughing my life has become over the last few days. In other words, I'm rockin' a nasty chest/head cold. It's not too bad, though. The worst part is waking the baby up with my coughing, because once he's up, he's up. Right now, it's just me and the four year old that are sickly. Daddy and Emmy have had it, me and Bry are in the middle if it, so all we lack now is baby Dyl. And God help us all when he gets it. Notice "when", not "if". Of course, I couldn't blog last night, even had I felt like it. Sunday nights belong to The Walking Dead.

Side note #1: Find out what happens when my friend Amber's peoples get sick here:

http://crappypictures.typepad.com/crappy-pictures/2011/08/last-monday-started-like-any-other-monday-except-the-boys-were-being-unruly-more-than-usual-i-mean-this-was-the-beginning.html

(Because I'm technologically illiterate and haven't asked Dr. Google how to rename a link. Just click it. You won't be disappointed.)

Yay! So it's Halloween, right? So glad I got our trick or treating out of the way the other night. I can stay home in my pajamas and not even shower if I don't feel like it. And I don't. I fell like crud. Like if you took crud and put poo on it and warmed it over the fire. (You're welcome for THAT visual.) Feeling thusly, I decided much earlier today that I was just going to lay in bed and watch the Fearfest on AMC, and take care of the baby. I can recuperate, Mommy gets better, house runs smooth again, everybody's happy.

Not so fast, Speedy.

Jeff decided that on the off chance that we get trick or treaters I need to go buy some candy from the dollar store. I just stared at him. I mean seriously, we haven't had a single trick or treater here in the eight years we've owned this house. In his defense, though, this IS probably the first year we've actually been home on Halloween evening. But these people would have to be lost. Really lost. We live in the boonies, I promise you.

Whatevs. If it means I get to stay home instead of driving around to all our families, I'll run to the store real quick and purchase goodies. And although I suspect ulterior motives on my husband's part (leftover candy, anyone?) I don't mind too much. But I'll be darned if I don't have to get out of my pj's and take that dang shower. Nobody better expect makeup tonight.

Oh, and my absolutely wonderful mother-in-law that I adore can't stand for the kids not to get surprises on Halloween, so she's bringing goodies here. Yay for Granny!

So I go to the store, even though I'm not really sure why my sick self has to. Something to do with not having any cash and my husband being debit card phobic. But I take Emmy and she does most of the shopping for me. Time to head home (bed). But already, she's begging to eat the candy we purchased for the poor, lost little trick or treaters my husband just knows we'll have.

Side note #2: It's 7:15pm, and we have yet to have the first car even drive down our road.

Predictably, when we get home, sick Bryce quickly joins in what soon becomes a deafening chorus of, "Mom, can I eat an eyeball?" "Mom, can I have a coffin?" "Just one, I promise!" "Waaaaanhhhh!" That was Dylan. He isn't old enough to ask for candy, but he's not about to be the only one not fussing in this house.

So much for my quiet recovery time in the depths of my comforter watching Halloween for the umpteenth time this month.

*sigh*

But seriously, we're gonna have a butt load of candy left, so I'm fixing to just let them have it. I'm tired of telling them no, and this was their daddy's brilliant idea, anyways. He can stay up with them.

So where is the candy, you ask?

Why, it's on top of the refrigerator of course. About the only place in the house the ginger ninjas can't get to. But Emmy is so long-legged, she can climb up there now, I think. Oh, well. At least the night is almost over.

I've got to go now. If I stay in the bathroom much longer, they'll stop believing I am using it and realize that I'm just enjoying the relative peace and quiet. I'd hate to lose this refuge. At any rate, my legs are falling asleep á lá Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon 2. (CLASSIC)

So, happy candy huntin'! G'nite and stay safe.


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ohmygodsugarhighCORNHOLIO!!!

Apologies in advance to any of my diabetic friends. I was there for a few miserable months this year, so I sorta know a little of what you go through. So I don't really mean to use the words in the title of this post flippantly. But I'm convinced that the only way to describe what happened earlier tonight is to use two words...sugar high.

Let me set the scene for ya. The Saturday night before Halloween is generally the accepted night for trunk or treat in this area. That's not a typo, it's trunk, not trick. Churches around here offer an alternative to trick or treating in which parishioners drive to the church and pop their trunks, and the kids 'trunk' or treat candy from people they know. It's a Christian alternative to soul-stealing ghouls and goblins and candied apples filled with razor blades.

It's also a good opportunity for lazy people like me to get all our get trick or treating done in the space of about 30-45 minutes. (You should see the appeal of this, as opposed to running all over hell's half acre, barging up to strangers, and begging for candy.) Hey, when ya got three kids, ya cut a few corners.

We visited a church tonight for their annual trunk or treat. We'd never been to this particular one, and are considering visiting to see if we'd like to go to church there on a regular basis. My daughter has friends from school there, and it's close to my husband's parents' home, where we generally spend our Sunday afternoons anyway.

This went as things like this usually go. The kids had a blast, and I stressed the whole time about keeping them together, not fighting, and behaving in front of people I wanted to make a decent impression in front of. This was accomplished, and we had the added bonus of leaving with about 157 pounds of candy.

WARNING: I'm going to stray from the topic a bit here.

The ginger ninjas were given plastic baseball bats at this shindig. What kind of sadistic, parent-hating people send plastic baseball bats home with children who are also hauling a year's worth of candy home with them? I bet the old people of the church got together and thought that up. I can just hear them saying the word 'whippersnapper'. You should have seen some of these kids going at each other with these bats. Really.

Anyway, the gingers got a ton of candy.

Did you know it's illegal to not let your kids eat every piece of their candy on Halloween night? That's what my seven year old said, and I have no reason to doubt her. She wouldn't lie to me just to be able to eat candy all night, right? But it's not just her.

We left and went to Granny's to make all sorts of Halloween lovelies. Spider cupcakes, popcorn balls, candied apples (no razor blades!). And, oh my gosh, my sisters-in-law can cook. I mean, I can cook, but they can COOK. Seriously, they should be caterers. And at Granny's were a bunch of people. About half of them were kids.

With candy.

Lots and lots of candy.

It was rather noisy. Like it's a bit cool in Antarctica. But the funniest thing to me tonight was my four year old, Bryce. (Note the multi-colored ring around his mouth in the pic below from 15 different kinds of junk he'd already consumed when I snapped the photo.) They all ate their fare share of candy, but he was bouncing of the walls. Literally. He was on such a sugar high, he was running into walls and bouncing off of them. Like the kid from the Steve Martin movie Parenthood, remember?

But tonight, on his sugar high, he reminded me of another fictional character from my youth. I will love MTV forever and ever, because this week, they brought back Beavis and Butthead. And I didn't even have to sneak to watch it! I'm 31 now!

Remember the movie, though, where Beavis was completely hyped up on caffeine pills? Good lord, that was my Brycie tonight. Gone was my sweet, quiet child (well, quietER compared to the rest), and in his place was Cornholio.

"Lake Titicaca!"

"I need t.p. for my bunghole!"

And while he didn't utter these exact phrases, he was just as wild tonight! He may as well have swallowed a handful of caffeine pills like Beavis.

But all good things must come to an end. The sugar highs wore off and they turned into such butts! Oh boy, they are so my kids...ill as wet hornets when they're sleepy. Thankfully, we're home now, two of the three have passed out, Daddy and Cornholio are watching poker, and I am fixing to pass out.

All in all, another successful Halloween squared away, and it's not even Halloween yet. Man, I'm good.

Everybody else have fun trick or treating, stay safe, and watch out for ghosts :)




I'm too tired right now to ask you to follow @mrsjeffgray2002 on Twitter, so I'll just (yawn) go on to (yawn) sleep. (YAWN) G'nite :)

*I borrowed the Beavis pic below from Dr. Google. If you own it, please don't sue me. You'll only get about thirty seven cents. And possibly a kid or two.*

Is that a cricket in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?

I'd like to apologize for the lack of all things bloggy last night. I was getting ready to yard sale it up today, and there was a crap ton of stuff to go through. And if you will recall my dire predictions from a few days ago about my kids being good one day and then the spawn of Satan the next, you will be interested to know that my kids have been really good for about three days now. However, I am REALLY scared. Because I know my kids. It's coming. You may not know where, when, how, or why, but you may definitely rest assured that it's coming.

So, all in all, a quiet few days in the Gray household.

As stated earlier, I've been having a yard sale today. And I have had *tons* of help. The kind of help mommies love but dread. It's cute though, Bryce wants to chat up every single person that pulls in the drive. In between peoples, I've been watching the Horrorfest or whatever on AMC. Between the baby and the yard sale, it took me about 4 1/2 hours to watch House of Wax, but hey, I got to watch Paris Hilton die again. Bonus!

But now, Bryce has stolen the tv for the Xbox, as Bryce is wont to do. So while I'm watching Darth Vader do his thang, I thought I'd catch up on my blog a bit.

But what to write about? Like I said, the ginger ninjas have been pretty good lately. And pretty good gingers=no blog fodder. So I'll tell you about something else that happened to me about 3 am yesterday morning.

It's been really nice, weather wise, in North Mississippi the past few weeks. That is, until the day before yesterday, when it turned off cold. Now I can hear my more Northerly and East Coast friends groaning. "Fifty degrees is NOT cold, Roxanne." Oh, but it is! When you are used to 100+ degree summers with humidity so thick it's like trying to walk through a brick wall, fifty degrees is a bit chilly. But I'm not the only thing around here that thinks so.

The bugs outside are apparently cold, too.

Because they are unerringly drawn inside to the inviting heat that radiates from my home. Thankfully, they're usually dead by the time I come across them, though. Like, 'Yeah, boys, we made it in, we can die now!" We get flies on occasion, but we mostly just get crickets. And spiders.

Water spiders.

Water spiders that have to have at least a two inch leg span. They are oh-my-God scary. Did I mention I hate bugs, but especially spiders? And Jeff thinks this phobia is funny. "Do you know how many spiders you eat in your sleep during your lifetime?" No, honey, I'd rather not. Please just let me sleep in ignorance of the spider buffet that obviously begins when I close my eyes for the night.

*sigh*

It's about 2:55 am yesterday morning. I was sleeping SOOOOO good when I hear, from someplace that seems very far away, "Rox, get up and cover the baby's eyes. I have to turn the light on." Now you'd think I'd argue since it's 3 am and he's going to turn on the glaring light in our bedroom. But no, I am out of the bed faster than you can blink. Because I know what it means when you have to jump up and turn the light on in the middle of the night. I live in the country, remember? It means that something was crawling on you, and whatever it was is obviously big enough to wake you up. So, shielding the baby's eyes from the light, all I can think about is how big this spider is gonna be.

The only thing worse than being awakened by an unseen insect is not being able to find it once the lights are on. Because no way in hell will I get back in that bed until I see whatever creepy crawlie that it was squished on the bottom of one of Jeff's boots. Covers are thrown back, completely disheveled, but no dice. Where is that bug???

But then we see it. Scurrying across the carpet towards the hall. Looking , in my mind, like something from a John Carpenter movie. "Oh, my God, Jeff, kill it! Quick!" But he's closer and sees what I don't see yet.

Just a dang cricket. Thank God.

Funny story, right? Not really, just one of those nighttime adventures couples have. What's funny actually came the next day.

Jeff has, with great masculinity, reasserted his ability to protect his family from dreaded insect plagues. How strong, how fearless, how powerful! Swoon! Fall at his feet in undying gratitude! Dressed like a fairytale princess! Oh, my prince, you've saved us!

Riiiiiight.

I hate bugs, but not THAT much.

Yesterday evening, he reminded me several times how he saved me from the horrific, evil cricket. He was like a kid telling it again! And how it was on him but crawling towards me. And how he kept his cool and didn't automatically fling it off on to me. And how he did all this without waking the baby. So I spent the evening inflating his ego. He doesn't get a lot of opportunity to 'save' me, lol.

So, you go, Babe! You are THE MAN.

P.s. Really glad it *was* just a cricket because, regardless of who it was on, it was in my bed. And spiders suck.



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Special shout out to @eringoettsch, who helped my technologically ignorant self with my comments section. Follow her, too, she's awesome. Anonymous users, GO!

Shortest. Entry. Yet.

I was going to blog tonight, but my husband is not a stupid man. And being intelligent, he realizes several things this evening:

1. Some celestial bodies somewhere have obviously aligned tonight.

2. I am in a rare, good mood. The 500 degree shower I just got out of didn't hurt my good mood any, either.

3. Our three kids are all sleeping soundly. AT THE SAME TIME. Please, someone call CNN.

4. One of my favorite romantic movies of all time (yes, Twilight, sue me) just went off and now I'm feeling all romantical.

So, being the 'not stupid' man that he is, he seems to have some...plans...to take advantage of all these factors this evening. And since I am perfectly content with these plans, I will bid you all a fond farewell until the next post.

I bet we play Parcheesi!!!

(A special apology to my cousin, Jenny! I promise I'll call you back later!)



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Minivan depression

Be warned: This is more along the lines of a quick, self-loathing rant. Plus, my kids were *fairly* well-behaved today and didn't give me much material to work with. Which means tomorrow they will probably test my sanity in every way possible. So hang out for a day or so for what are certain to be many more funny (in my case, crazy-makin') entries, but for tonight, make do with a cry from the depths of my tortured mommy psyche. Pleased to enjoy.

I was young once.

Well, younger anyway. Jeff, my husband, is always quick to point out how much older he is than me when I start complaining about my body falling apart. That makes me feel good for about two minutes at which point I realize, 'Hey, his body hasn't been trashed by three rough pregnancies AND deliveries.' Wait, Rox. That's enough for a whole 'nother post. This one is about minivans and depression. Simmer down, girl.

Minivans. Those giant, unmaneuverable bastions of soccer moms everywhere. The vehicle that people go kicking and screaming to buy, only after having been completely beaten down by the lack of space in their current vehicles. I looked at one once. Many, many moons ago, when this was a two-income family with good jobs. It was a brand new white Nissan, and I believe this was 2004. Although I'd just had my first baby, I looked at the van and could not bring myself to give it a shot. I was twenty-four! Far too young! The thought of owning a minivan was completely depressing. Why in the world would I buy a friggin' minivan?

Well, the thought of owning a minivan is still completely depressing now, almost eight years later, but for totally different reasons.

You see, we are no longer a two-income family and money is very tight. Granted, this is by choice, and I'm not complaining. I get to be at home to watch my babies grow. It makes me appreciate the sacrifices my husband makes all the more. But we drive cars that are PAID FOR. Thank goodness, because our budget doesn't leave a lot of wiggle room for another car payment. So where does the depression come in?

Right. Here. I kick myself all the time for not having purchased that beautiful machine when we could've afforded it. The interior, which seemed as empty and hollow as the Grand Canyon so long ago, taunts me now in my dreams with all that space. What I wouldn't give to be driving that behemoth these days. Because it would be soooo paid off right now. And I'll tell you another thing. Those people that went kicking and screaming into those dealerships, forced to purchase the dreaded minivan, would not trade it for anything now. You could put a brand new BMW in front of them, and they'd probably only take it to sell to buy more minivans. They love all that space. I lust all that space. I get hung up on copious amounts of room, with good reason.

Space is at a premium in my current car. I drive what must be one of the Smallest. Cars. Ever. A Saturn SLE is mighty fine and sporty for a family of four, but adding just one more (and his carseat, bags, strollers, etc, etc) has turned my little golden car into a clown car. You know, the tiny car fifteen people get out of? (Go ahead, enjoy the mental picture. I'll wait.)

Sure, it gets us where we need to go, and I guess that's the most important thing. But I make new discoveries every day. For instance, today, I was forcibly reminded that the stroller part of the travel system I got a few days ago (for $20!) effectively takes up every bit of space in the trunk. Not a good thing to figure out when standing in the grocery store parking lot with a cart full of just-bought groceries and two fussy boys. Thank God Emmy was at school-into her seat they went!

Why, oh why, did I let youthful pride keep me from getting that Nissan?

Doctor, I'm fairly certain I have minivan depression.

Boo.



I'm a tweetin' fool and you can be, too! @mrsjeffgray2002

The bog of eternal stench...

I have figured out why I am so messed up as an adult. It's because I watched movies like Labyrinth when I was a child. But it's been years and years since I've seen it, and the memories of being terrified by all the goblins have slowly transformed into "Oh, my gosh, one of my favorite movies EVAH!" Remember, I haven't seen it in years.

So, Jeff's flipping through the guide for the next few days, and what does he see? Well, if you're not brain dead, you probably guessed Labyrinth. Good for you! We, being the fantastic parents that we are, decide that we are going to DVR it and watch it with our kids. I don't know, for family memories or something. Anyway, it recorded yesterday, but Paigerooni wants to watch it tonight. Well, sure, you only have school in the morning, Daddy only has work.

I lose, of course. We start this movie after nine. On a school night.

*sigh*

So the movie begins, and I remember very little. I'm excited, though! Sharing part of our childhood with our kids! Circle of life, and all. But as the movie progresses, I begin to worry more and more about my kids. Of course, they are eating it up. Bryce, especially-he seems to love the 'globlins'. But what a trained parent will notice is that they have moved from where they started watching. Bryce has glued himself to Jeff, and Emmy hasn't left my side. I can only imagine the nightmares they'll have.

How could I do this to my kids? How could our parents have let us watch this awful movie? I mean, I'm enjoying it as an adult, but my poor kids will be traumatized! Either that, or they're going to start begging the goblin king to take each other-and probably Dyl, too-off to the labyrinth. I guess I'll console myself that in a few decades, when they watch it with their kids, they'll remember it fondly until they are shocked again by it, as we have been.

On the other hand, I seem to have rediscovered the fact that David Bowie is HOT! Well, young David Bowie, anyways. He's one of those like Prince or someone-not too much to look at, but they just ooze sexuality. Jeff thinks I'm crazy for that. That's alright, though. I mean, I don't fuss when he ogles Scarlett Johannsen.

Anyways, why, you ask, did I title this blog 'the bog of eternal stench'? Well, aside from being a major plot element in the movie, it reminded me of something. It's cool, do you remember the bog? It's one of the goblin king's favorite punishments-chunking people in it. And once you've touched even the tiniest bit, thou shalt stinketh forevereth. But what did it remind me of?

Some of you may know where I'm going with this.

The rest of you may want to stop reading.

Mommies will understand...

The bog of eternal stench exists, my friends. It's in the bottom of the fifty million blowout diapers Dyl has had the last few days. The kind that makes your hand stink even through the thickest wipes and repeated hand washings with smelly good soaps. The kind of diapers that make veteran moms afraid. Very afraid. The stench seems to linger on and on and on and on...

And with that lovely piece of too much information, ladies and gentlemen, this entry has officially become...

Wait for it...

THE BLOG OF ETERNAL STENCH!

Oh, but I crack myself up.




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Sociopath to be?

Hi again! Stuck around for the fourth blog posting? Go, you! I'll try not to disappoint.

There is a battle raging in my living room right now. It started about 15 minutes ago. This coincides quite nicely with Daddy going into the living room, taking the remote from Emily, and turning the channel from whatever mindless Disney drivel she was watching to some mindless drivel of a poker show.

Now, let me pause here and say that it's not really Jeff's fault. I ran him out of the bedroom and really, that's his only decent option. The televisions in the kids' rooms are really small. And have an astonishing amount of crayons and stickers on their screens. And really, it's not like I said, "Jeff, get out of here." It's just that I'm watching the Rob Zombie Halloween remake, and he doesn't care for it. And I have no intention of changing the channel. I totally gravitate to horror movies lately just to get some 'me' time, because the short ginger people know and accept that they can't be in the room when one is on. And since I have Dyl (the unspoken rule being that whoever has Dyl gets whatever they want/need), Daddy heads to the recliner in the living room without a fight.

But Emily has already decided she was watching HER shows and sleeping on HER couch. Most of you probably know Emily and her personality (which is uncannily similar to mine), but for those of you who don't, let me sum up her reaction to the whole channel changing deal. I can even do it in three little words:

Aw, hell no.

Ever seen a seven year old (who thinks they know everything) and a thirty-seven year old (who knows they *should* be in charge) lock horns? Let the fireworks begin! Emily proceeds to pitch a Gray-baby-hissy-fit, which her daddy laughs off. "You can scream all you want, I am watching MY TV." And I currently hear poker in the living room, so I'm mildly surprised when I realize that Daddy won. We both usually lose.

So I sat back in my bed with Dyl, half watching my movie and half paying attention to the battle as it raged down the hall from me. I was even a little smug, thinking 'Glad it's him and not me.' But I stopped laughing fairly quickly, and here's why.

Remember how I said I was watching Halloween? And remember what Jeff said about her screaming? Well, let me just tell you...no sooner did he say that then young Michael Myers starts screaming and wipes out half of his family with a kitchen knife. I have a moment (and every mom eventually does) where I stop and ask myself:

Sociopath to be?

Are we-good people, decent parents-raising a little sociopath?

Nah, probably not. She's too much like me, and I figure it'd take too much effort to kill someone. I mean, the hows and whys, and where to the hide the body(ies). The problems are insurmountable, if you think about it. I'd not want to get caught.

Besides, it's probably Bryce I have to worry about, anyway. Don't they say it's always the quiet ones? (No, I really love my son, I promise!)

Oh well. *sigh* I'm going back to my horror movie now (thanks, DVR), since I'm reasonably certain there's been no bloodshed in the living room. I'm too lazy to get up and go look.

G'nite! Happy {early} Halloween :)





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***DISCLAIMER*** I don't own this picture, or copyright, or any of that legal stuff. Just snapped a picture of a Syfy movie with the iPhone. So if anybody is at fault, it's Apple. Yeah. So sue them.

Yaaaaawn...and liquor

No, I'm not giving up on this whole blogging thing just yet. I told y'all, it's fun! I'm just reeeeeeally tired tonight. Totally in zombie mom mode. Which is weird. I mean, it feels like it has been the longest, most draining day. But it wasn't really that bad of a day. Go figure.

On another note, I think I see a trip to Tupelo taking shape sometime this weekend. Jeff and Bryce both need pants. That's my excuse. The real reason for my trip-and please, if you are law enforcement, stop reading-is that I live in a dry county.

For my non-Southern friends: imagine a place where no alcohol can be sold. Period. But just across county lines, any alcohol you want can be bought. Ridiculous, huh? But it does exist. In my opinion, it is not the brightest thing in the world to do. I mean, what else could induce a thirty one year old mother of three to so willingly want to break the law? Seems to cause much more harm than good. At any rate, I'd like a drink. More than that, I deserve it.

Now I am not a drunk, don't get me wrong. I grew up in a household with one, and I rarely even drink because I worry about having inherited that addictive personality. And I've come too far to see what we've built falter. But here are the facts (ma'am):

My baby is now 3 1/2 months old. That means that when you take into account a nine month pregnancy, it's been over a year since I have had any alcohol cross my lips. Other than mouthwash but really, I seriously don't think that counts. This is why I feel like I deserve this drink, what this rash sense of entitlement stems from.

But notice I said "drink", as in singular. I don't want to get slap happy drunk for the reasons above, but also because I am broke. Alcohol is a luxury that we can rarely afford, and must be savored over several weeks or even months. But mainly, because I am that thirty one year old mother of three. Three young, impressionable, little sponges. Believe it or not, I do *try* to be someone they can look up to. So that one, tall, ice cold rum and coke is calling my name.

*begins to salivate*

And probably a quick trip to Outback for a curbside pickup of a bloomin' onion and bread. Screw the steak, that's all I really want!

*salivation turns to outright drooling*

Ok, I gotta stop before I get up and head to the kitchen. I already had a bowl of crunch berries tonight. Dang sweet tooth.

Well, would you look at that? I guess I wasn't too tired to blog, after all. Yay, go me :)




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The best $.50 I ever spent

My three month old is...a difficult baby. As bad as I feel about admitting that, it's the truth. Doesn't make me a bad mother, or him a bad baby. Just makes us work a little harder. Thank goodness he's getting better!

For instance, he's almost always grumpy, even when he sleeps. But I will take grumpiness any day because grumpiness I can deal with. And in the last month or so, I even get occasional big, gummy, 'you-are-my-world-mama' smiles from Mr. Grumpy McGrumperton. I LOVE THIS and cherish it like you wouldn't believe.

Because the first two months of this kid's life were pure hell.

Don't get me wrong. I love him more than life. I would lay down my life in a heartbeat for any of my peoples. However, if he'd been my first instead of my last, he'd have been my only. Bless his little heart, though. Wasn't his fault.

A little background. Dylan was a surprise. A big surprise. We had our 6 year old daughter and our three year old son and we were done. But you know how it goes...one reckless night and... I swear, that man can talk me into anything! *goosebumps*

But I digress. Our Dylan roller coaster started with breastfeeding complications. It continued with multiple formula changes. Fever at three weeks that landed him in the hospital. Severe acid reflux. Upper GI testing. All of this played out to the tune of the unending (diagnosed) colic that only let up a few weeks ago. He literally screamed every second he was awake. And it felt like he never slept. I felt so helpless.

Everyone was at a breaking point. And then, probably only days shy of a nervous breakdown, I discovered something that literally saved my sanity: the super swaddle.

Now, I believe this child will be a prize winning boxer when he grows up. Obviously, because he likes to punch himself while trying to go to sleep. This has the unfortunate effect of keeping him awake and angry. Not a good combo for anyone. But the super swaddle, or as I like to call it, the baby straitjacket, stopped that.

The first night we had those little arms locked down, he slept from 10 pm to 6 am. And the next night. And the next. I was in heaven! It took three days for the lack of sleep to catch up to where I was only exhausted again. Which brings me to the best $.50 I ever spent.

Money, like in most families, is very tight in the Gray household. So last week the kids and I were shopping in a local thrift store. It's cool, they get toys I only have to pay a quarter for. Because, God knows, they have to get a toy if we are in a store that sells toys. We were in there shortly before they closed when I saw it. Powder blue, sticking out of the playpen full of bargain baby clothes.

A brand new Kidapotamus swaddle sack. FOR $.50.

I snatched that thing up faster than you can blink. (Like the other two little old ladies shopping in there were going to beat me to it.) I was so proud of my purchase.

Got it home, washed it, it's magic! All you have to do is lay him on it and he KNOWS. He gets velcro-ed in, quiets and goes right to sleep. It's a godsend, especially after all we've been through. We have caught up on gobs of sleep.

But if you'll see the picture below, the only problem is glaringly obvious. I probably only have 2 or 3 weeks, tops, left that it will fit! And I have no idea what I'll do then. *sigh*

But it still is, by far, the best $.50 I ever spent :)

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Why I had to explain THIS auto-complete to my husband

My first blog entry, wow! If you're bored enough to read it, then I hope you enjoy it.

Anyways.

So, as a stay at home mom of...wait, I have three kids now? Sorry. As I was saying, as a SAHM, I often wonder about ways to help my poor, beleaguered husband (who works his fingers to the bone) out with finances. None of them every really pan out. First, I tried medical transcription before I decided I hate typing. Then I tried selling, ahem, adult products, before I decided I hated selling. Today, however, the four year old gave me a doozie of an idea.

Enter the four year old into the bedroom: "Quack, quack!"

Okay...I'll bite. "Why are you quacking?" Now I'm expecting 'because I'm a duck, duh' as he has a bit of a smart mouth lately. But, no.

"Because I found a duck in my Cheetos."

???

But then I take a closer look, and he really did! Look!

Now, I've seen the Jay Leno segment about stuff that gets sold on eBay. People will buy ANYTHING. So being the wonderful mother I am, I take the child's Cheeto away from him, snap a pic, throw it in a ziploc bag in the freezer. (Now, don't judge me. He had the whole bag to get another.) My brain has already formulated a master plan to sell this thing on eBay.

After the obligatory posts to Facebook and Twitter, the wheels start turning. Sure, I could sell it to someone who just likes ducks and collects duck thingies. But I have a dirty mind, so I decide I might be able to get more money with two little words that pop into my head:

Duck Fetish.

But is there are market for such a thing? My husband says there is a rule. Rule 31 or something, I don't really remember. It basically states that 'if it exists, some kind of porn has been made about it.' Not to put him on Front Street or anything. I hope he didn't violate any 'Man Code' telling me that.

So ducks exist. Cool, right? Rule of 31. Someone out there with a duck fetish will pay me lots of money for my duck-shaped Cheeto. He can even name it Slave and do whatever fetish people do with their fetish thingies. Hell, Jay Leno might even call! I can see the dollar signs! $$$

So, I spend the next few minutes or so searching the Internet for 'duck fetish' before I decide that, sadly, the aforementioned rule is incorrect. There is obviously no market for duck porn out there. Or maybe I'm not looking in the right place as I don't frequent fetish websites. I don't spend much time looking because I am paged by a crying, hungry baby. My get-rich duck fetish plans will have to wait.

But I am easily distracted. Hours pass and I have forgotten all about these grandiose plans. Until...

Until my husband goes to search for something that starts with 'd', and 'duck fetish' is the first option given in the drop down bar. Thanks, Google.

"Um, Rox...?"



And this is why I had to explain THIS autocomplete to my husband.

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