Apparently, even weekly is too much.  I’ll try to be by more often, but with naps a thing of the past, I feel like my free time has vanished.  I try to sneak by when I can, even if I don’t comment.

*********************

Four years ago today, amidst the sounds of the Notre Dame Fight Song playing from my cell phone (which Daddy deems far too coincidental - just face it hon,  you have little choice here!), you arrived in my life.  And, it will never be the same.  I have a decent vocabulary, what with being an English teacher in my former life, but there are simply not enough eloquent words to contain all that you encompass in my life and in my heart.  You told me the other day you were “unique” and that unique meant “special…one-of-a-kind.”  Do you have any comprehension just how true that statement is? There will never be another you.

You are more than unique, sweetheart, you are the fulfillment of a promise I felt in my heart, even knowing you would be a boy, before your dad and I were married.  How did you manage to turn a name I picked out at nineteen and the words, “It’s a boy!” into the delight you have become today?  Motherhood is the most incredible experience of my life, and you were the one who enabled me to have that title, one I will never relinquish.

I chose to love your father.  It was a decision to choose that love.  With you, it was never a choice.  It was almost an instantaneous thunderbolt of emotion that left change in its wake.  And, that is how I see you: the vessel that parted waters and made me a different person.  That you chose me as your mother is something I get down on my knees and thank God for - because despite your faults, you have taught me beyond measure.  Regardless of how many degrees I may obtain, nothing has taught me more than you.

When I see the dawning of realization on your face as you figure something out, I know I am looking into your daddy’s eyes and his intelligence.  When I see you remember something inexplicably trivial from three months ago, I light up inside knowing you have your mother’s memory.  Your grandfather’s extrovertedness.  Your grandmother’s empathy.  The unbridled curiosity that is solely your own.  You are the amalgam of all those various wonderful qualities found in others joined with the ones that make you you.  You inspire all of us, son.

Thank you for allowing me to tag along on this ride.  Happy 4th Birthday, Knute.  I love you.

AKA Oops! I posted again! I’m thinking I might be able to handle posting once a week.  Maybe.  But, I’m not making any promises.  I swear I sound like I’m at a Shopaholics Anon meeting and am trying to convince my group that while I did in fact get the 25% off coupon at Coach (did you?), I won’t be using it.  I don’t even believe it myself.

I haven’t mentioned it yet, but we got a new dog.  A Scottie - which, I know! I know! goes with AFF like diets go to Oprah - from none other than Rocking Pony. Karen put our little Fiona (Puppy claimed naming rights for agreeing to basically end life as she knew it for Lanna) MacKenzie (I got that one) in a crate and flew her down to us.  That was a fiasco in and of itself, especially since Puppy went out of town and both Knute & I got sinus infections.  Know what?  Having a puppy is like having a newborn high on crack (and I’m never checking stats again after that one!) who doesn’t get the joy of wearing a diaper.  It’s just a newborn who rubs her diarrhea butt on your carpet and pees on your freshly made bed.

After the initial “HOLY HELL IN A HANDBASKET!! What was I thinking?” I think (perhaps?) we’re doing better.  She-who-loves-to-chew is currently munching productively on a rawhide while alternately growling at birds who dare to chirp in her backyard.  She-who-hated-her-little-brother-and-now-hates-me-too is sulking under the bed.  Caesar?  Can bite my giant butt, because Lanna is seriously depressed & I swear she is exhibiting people emotions -despite what he says.  Lanna needs me to chop up my xanex and give it to her in her food, because girl is not happy I brought another small slobbery thing into her pack.

Fiona arrived and has displayed one heckuva personality!  I have never heard of a dog who deliberately chooses to poop while standing on her two hind legs, but Fi?  Has done this four times so far, and I cannot help but laugh hysterically at her while she props herself up in what you actually get to call doggy style and out drops poop.  In addition to her proclivity for odd bowel movements, the dog is the biggest scaredy cat.  She’s terrified of our now mowed grass.  The tallish weeds that she’d become accustomed to?  Preferable to freshly cut lawn.  Shoot me.  Just shoot me.    I’m too old for this.

And, there are pictures, but I got a new lappy (Debbie) and haven’t figured out how to upload them yet.

*No promises.  I’m still taking a break, but I felt like posting.  Sue me.  Also, this story involves mild political humor.  I have sworn I’d never post politics, and this really says zilch about my stance on anything.  If we can all agree that there are idiots in both parties, you can read ahead.  If you cannot?  Move on.  There’s nothing to see here.

Last week I was watching tv when the phone rang.  I glanced at the caller ID (oh, you know you screen, too!) and answered the phone with, “Hey, Mom!” only to be greeted with “I hate this stupid computer,” in my daddy’s droll and irritated voice.

Two things we must remember: 1. my brother paid Dell for two years of customer service help and for the honest-to-God actual number of Alfred the IT dude in Calcutta to handle anything related to dad + computer - this guy was suppose to help us avoid such phone calls.  2. Calling ME?  I have owned my own new lappy for almost two weeks and I only know how to double click Mozilla to connect to the internet.  Y’all know I am a computer failure.  How is it my dad doesn’t?

“What’s wrong with the computer now, Dad?”

“I need you to tell me how to send an email.”

?????????

“Umm, Dad?  You send emails all the time.  You keep getting mad at me for deleting them.”

“I only ever forward ones other people send me.”

Internally: Well, that explains so much… Aloud: “Okay, Daddy let me get into Yahoo to talk you through it.”

I tell him to do the obvious like clicking create new message.  And, to type the email address into the box where it says To.

“I did that.  That’s the problem.  It won’t send it.  It keeps giving me an error message.”

Right at this point, Puppy walks in and figures out who is on the phone & the gist of the conversation.

“What email address are you using?”

“www.billoreilly.foxnews.com”

????????????

“Daddy, that is NOT his email address.”

Puppy says under his breath, “I think it’s bigfatwindbag@foxnews.com.”

I started laughing hysterically & finally got my dad to grasp the concept of emailing.  Later that night, Puppy said, “Hol?  You know if your dad actually does send that email he’s going to be the idiot guy who gets it read on the show and verbally attacked, right?”  To which I replied, “Well, yes, but if that happens, he won’t watch the show anymore.  We’ll only have to have him quoting from Hannity & Glenn this way.”

Hi everybody.  I know this is probably going to come out of left field, but I’m going on a long hiatus.  For months I’ve been posting less and less.  I’ve been waiting for things worth posting about to happen, but I haven’t been living my life - not living means nothing will happen.

Once upon a time, I was perfectly happy to spend hours on end sitting here and reading and writing.  I blogged when Knute napped and after he went to bed.  Then, he stopped napping, and I blogged all 12 hours he was in school each week.   That was okay, but I didn’t really even get to enjoy the few hours I was off duty.

Then, the lines further blurred when I began to feel guilty for doing things for myself.  There are three Netflix movies sitting on my counter wanting to be watched, but I haven’t wanted to take two hours away from the computer to watch any of them.  TV?  Same thing.

Knute told me last week to “shut the computer, Mommy,” and I gotta say, it stung.  I went to the conference and I saw people who were on computers 15 hours a day.  I cannot become that person.  The dynamic has changed for me.

I love you guys.  I appreciate the time and energy it takes you to comment on my site.  But for right now, I need to get a little perspective.  I’m so incredibly lucky to be able to stay home with Knute, and I want to enjoy that again.  I sincerely hope you understand.

The House of Mouse
SoCal

Dear Misters Povenmire & Marsh,

Hi!  What’cha doin’?  It’s me again - the mother of the nominal (toddler) president of the Phineas & Ferb fan club.  I gotta say right off the bat, we’re counting down the minutes until Monday when season two kicks off.  Partially, that is due to knowing season one by heart…almost verbatim.  While it’s probable Puppy or I will say, “Ooh!  It’s Love Handel!” or “Oh, boy! It’s PFT!” we are ready for some new favorite episodes to dazzle and amaze us.  You should see Knute’s anticipation just by the mere mention of New Phineas.

You know as a family we are approaching roadie status when Knute busts out with “frrrreeedddd” (the sound Perry the Platypus makes - I’m not sure how to phonetically spell that, exactly) when he wants to whistle, or when we use “Gitchi Gitchi Goo” instead of saying “I love you.”  Knute wanders around the house with his trusty field journal (a P&F spiral-bound journal) creating new blueprints for his latest and greatest monster truck - for Candace, of course.  And, his latest adventure is climbing to the top of his swing-set to launch his “rocket” to outer space to track Kermillion’s Comet.

Thank you both for helping to broaden his scope.  I hope you realize how much your show impresses me - especially since I have now become rather addicted to the Cowabunga Candace game on the website, and it irks me to no end that pre-pubescent tweens are beating the pants off of me.

Now the bad news: You knew it was coming, right?  I bet you didn’t realize this, but little Knute’s birthday is fast approaching.  I’m the hyper-vigilant mother who might go into apoplexy if all party planning is not settled 10 weeks before the blessed event.  However, I’ve got a problem.  How do I find the Phineas & Ferb partyware when there is none to be found?  Is there a direct number to reach Karl the Intern to take care of such things?  Cause, I’m starting to freak out a little.

Respectfully yours,

Holly the Anglophile

PS Knute says, “Give me a Bust ‘em,” with a fist bump.

Do you remember the video game The Sims?  The one where you simulate a life, marry, have kids, hold down a job, buy new stuff, and somehow try to maintain your friendships?  That’s how it’s been around here lately.  I’m just going through the motions and nothing exciting has happened.  That’s the reason for my lack of posting.  Something has transpired, however.

About a week ago I was cleaning my bathroom (I clean! Who knew!?) when I discovered my seldom used scale hiding under a shelf.  Curiosity struck, and I weighed myself.  To say I was flabbergasted would be an understatement.  Fourteen additional pounds since the last time I got on it.  I gained a solid stone!

How did this happen?  I stopped exercising.  Why did this happen?  I could easily blame the PCOS, but I know it’s my fault.  I have no one to blame but myself.  I don’t follow the low carb diet the doctor wants me on.  I enjoy food.  The remission caused by Knute is definitely over now.

Ten years ago I was proud of the fact that I weighed 105 pounds.  Well, pride goeth before a fall, right?  Because, I assure you at 144 (I cannot believe I put that out there), I have been humbled.  While I own up to my Biggest Butt in Blogdom, I do not want to accept that this is the new me.  I am lethargic.  I am tired.  I am cranky.

I’m going to a blogger conference next week, and  I nearly cried while in the dressing room at Ann Taylor.  I grabbed a pair of pants in a 6 (expected size) that didn’t fit, an 8 (couldn’t button), a 10 (Holy Mary, Mother of God!) and almost hyperventilated.  While my weight may not be heavy to some, I am only five foot two, and on my frame, I’m becoming portly.

That stone I saddled myself with?  It made me take action.  I filled my glucophage prescription (referred to as the puke meds on AFF), and while I have not had the best history with them, I’m going to take it slow.  It took a long time to gain this weight, I’m okay with it coming off slowly, too.  I’ve been taking them since Wednesday, and so far so good.

I also have been cutting my carbs.  They are my frenemy.  I love each & every one of them to pieces, but they are only contributing to the problem.  You know I am serious when I only have one cuppa with sugar a day and drink water almost exclusively, not to mention this week is Valentine’s and talk about sugar overload!  The reason I fell off the bandwagon was that low carb is so rigid.  I will allow myself to enjoy on occasion, just not daily.

Lent’s in 16 days, and I’m “giving up” a lot right now.  In addition, I’ll be proactive by saying I’ll trudge up the stairs into the media room to dust off the elliptical machine.  I want to see where I am in 40 days.

Cheer me on.  I’m want to be a healthier Holly.  A happier Holly.  A Holly with a little energy.  Somewhere inside the Stay Puff Marshmallow Woman is the svelte feisty wee bitch I want to be.  I want to stop simulating my life.  I want to stimulate it.

*****

Don’t forget!  Only one week left until we discuss Cal, Les, Janet, and Stewart.  Join PMS! and read About the Author with us.

Howdy all.  I hope you are all having some tasty mimosas this fine, gorgeous Monday morning.

Last week I was at the mall playing at the play place with a couple of my friends.  While I was buckling Knute into his big boy carseat two women came walking out loudly talking about something or other.  The problem I had with them was their speech was peppered with eff this and effing that.  I glared at them with the momma don’t play that in public look and continued to buckle Knute.  They continued to speak as if my glare amounted to nothing.  Appalled, I said, “Would you please not use that kind of language around my child?”  The response?  A shocking, “It’s a free country!”

I was flabbergasted.  Seriously? I did say something about how actually profanity was NOT covered under the First Amendment and I could have them ticketed for inflammatory speech, but they flicked me off, jumped in their cars and zoomed from the parking lot, cutting me off as they did.  Still dismayed, I replayed the scenario several times; each time rethinking how I shoulda said this or that.  And, then I realized it boiled down to the concept that somehow these women had no concept of what exactly freedom requires of them as citizens.

I shudder to even call these women ladies, because to me a lady is someone who has class.  I full on admit that sometimes on AFF I swear like a sailor, but I hope you all realize in front of my child?  I would never say such things.  In public, I adhere to the concept that we live in a polite Judeo-Christian society.  Being a born and bred Southerner, manners and being polite are about as high on my list of must dos as is attending church each Sunday.

More and more often, I see situations like the one above.  I see time and again where my son is told, “Knute, ladies always go first,”  or “Knute, we hold the door open like a gentleman,” only to see the woman my age he let go in front of him not even smile or say, “Thank you.”  It’s very hard as a parent to raise a polite and mannerly child who uses please, thank you, no sir, yes ma’am, when the adult population is so ill mannered.

I blame carelessness.  There is an overwhelming and pervasive sense of apathy just about everywhere I go.  When did we stop caring?  Why did we stop caring?  Was it the parents in the 80s who tried to be their kids friends instead of their parents?  Was it in the 90s when parents refused to let their children ever make mistakes and bribed, brow-beat and pleaded to get them into college and job situations?   Was it this decade when the psychologists made teachers (like me) stop giving zeros when children failed to turn in work, and said that a 55 was a low enough score, because God forbid we actually hurt their poor fragile little psyches?

You know what?  I am Knute’s mom - not his friend.  I spank him when he steps out of line, because life is about learning right and wrong.  I teach him to respect both me and his elders (even the ones who are total dillholes).  I allow my son to fail, because I want him to learn life is not always peaches and cream.  His father and I will continue to work on his manners.  The only way to combat apathy is to mold my son into a responsible citizen who cares.

A big Congratulations! to Not a Mean Girl (commenter #24) for winning the Sookie Stackhouse box set & About the Author.  I really enjoyed doing the Bloggy Giveaways, and I hope everyone enjoyed participating as much as I did giving stuff to people.  Thank you all for coming by!

While we were home last week, Nana (my mother) asked Knute what Puppy does for a living:

“Knute, what does Daddy do?”

The response:

“He makes things.  He builds things.”

Well, the Rocket Scientist does sorta build things that go boom!, okay.  We’ll give him that.

Nana asked Knute what Holly does for a living:

“Knute, what does Mommy do?”

The response:

“She shops.”

Now that?  Is my boy.  Give him an A, because if that were a job?  I’d be applying stat.  Anyone know of a Classifieds Ad looking for a professional money spender?  I can get a resume together quickly!

Hi y’all. I just wanted to let you know my niece (blog named) Olivia, has arrived. I’m officially an aunt. And, Puppy’s such a cute, beaming uncle. Knute doesn’t quite grasp what a cousin is, or that he’s not the only grandchild any longer. Little Miss O decided to debut on Saturday night and is a tiny wee thing at 6 lbs 3 ozs. As such, I’m already in Houston, and will be in & out rather sporadically this week.

I didn’t want anyone to think I was bailing on Mimosa Monday, so I will share a tasty Knute comment from the inaugural MM. I had fixed myself a tasty adult mimosa and Knute asked for a sip. I figured it wouldn’t hurt anything to let him whet his whistle, so I let him. And, then he said, “Mom, is this pickled orange juice?” I loved it!

And, I also am sharing a recipe (won’t Rachel be proud!) that Wright posted last week and I’m using with permission.

Orange Cream Mimosa (It’s like an Orange Creamsicle!)
Recipe by Tyler Florence
Prep Time: 10 min
Inactive Prep Time: 4 hr 0 min
Level: Easy
Serves: 8 to 10 mimosas

2 1/2 cups freshly squeezed orange juice (5 to 6 oranges) (I actually often use clementines)
1 orange, zested
1 cup half-and-half
1 cup superfine sugar
1 bottle sparkling wine or Champagne*
Strawberries, for garnish
*Non-alcoholic sparkling wine, sparkling cider, or ginger ale can be substituted

Put orange juice, zest, half-and-half, and sugar into a blender and process until the sugar has dissolved, about 30 seconds. Pour this mixture into a shallow pan and freeze until hard, 4 hours or overnight.

Remove the frozen orange mixture from the freezer and let it sit to soften slightly, about 10 minutes. With a scoop or tablespoon, scrape out a small scoop and put it into a Champagne glass. Slowly fill the glass with Champagne and serve garnished with strawberries.