Excuse me, Bon Qui Qui

The other day, Ally Grace looked at me, and literally said "I will cut you, Mommy."

Excuse me, I didn't realize I lived with Bon Qui Qui over here.

Don't interrupt.  Rude.

Cup of Creamer

Apparently, I was so terrified of going to the dentist, that I completely blocked out the actual date in my mind.  Instead of happening last Thursday, I have now been able to enjoy looking forward to it all of this week too.  Because it's happening this Thursday.

Also known as today.

Which means I've flossed approximately six times since 8am.

And maybe cried a few times too.  Don't judge me.

In other exciting news (NO.), I think I've figured out exactly where those 5 extra pounds have been coming from.

(I know, this is riveting.)

It's no secret that I love and adore my morning cup of coffee.  Okay, my morning TWO cups of coffee.  Which recently, during the last few months, had become my morning THREE cups of coffee.  And I know you're thinking, "But Sherri, coffee doesn't have calories (am I making this up? Possibly.), and isn't caffeine an appetite suppressant?  Or a metabolism stimulant?  Or basically something that would NOT make you gain 5 pounds?"


Well, yes.  You would be correct.  (I think.)

Except when you realize that you're going through bottles of creamer awfully fast, and tend to have no less than 6 bottles at a time on your grocery order.

And by "awfully fast," I mean that I just might have noticed that, on my three cup days, an entire bottle of creamer was disappearing from my fridge.

Did you just throw up a little?

John always says that my coffee tastes like "a donut."   In reality, it's the caloric equivalent of about FOUR donuts.

And I love it.

Happy Thursday, from me and my cup of creamer over here!

Tonight

I just had to hop on here and say that I am SO excited to "bless some hearts" tonight while watching the Bachelor.

As in, "Tell me she didn't just do/say/wear that?! Awww, bless her heart."

Who's with me?

Anyone? Bueller?

(And yes, that's all I have to say right now. I'm braindead from negotiating a contract all weekend).

(Thank the good Lord for nice clients and e-signing software.)

(And chocolate. Obviously).

SEEKHIM1

Dear Lady Who Cut Me Off the Other Day,


I really liked how you almost drove through the front of my car in an attempt to get in front of me.  That was really special.  


You know what was even more special?  


That one-fingered salute you shot my way, AFTER YOU WERE CLEARLY THE ONE IN THE WRONG.


And even more special than that?


Your license plate.  Which read SEEKHIM1.


Now.  I'm pretty sure that when you chose "SEEKHIM1" you intended to say "seek Him first", and were not advertising the fact that you're a stalker or something.   Although I could be wrong.


And again, I could be wrong (I'm not), but flipping off innocent drivers is probably not the way to "seek him first."  Why don't you check out Matthew 6:33 on that one, m-kay?


Sarcastically,


The VERY INNOCENT person driving down Howell Mill minding her own business, and again (for once) doing NOTHING WRONG.


P.S.  As my friend Jessica wrote on her facebook wall the other day, "you're lucky that you had already driven away before it dawned on me to take, deface, and post/pin/tweet your picture. The next person who does this to me will be an Internet sensation. Try. me."

It's That Time Again.

If you've been here for awhile, you know that I hate the dentist.

Well, fear AND hate.

Which may cause me to do things like ignore tooth pain, due to my stellar plan of avoiding things that I don't want to deal with.

So, I've gone just a tiny bit longer than the recommended six months between appointments.

How long, you ask?  Well, let's just say that last time I went to the dentist, I didn't actually have a baby yet.  So.....yeah.

(I mean, I'm not totally nasty.  I brush.  And floss.  Sometimes.)

(But let's be real, flossing is hard to remember.  And doesn't a good listerine-ing take it's place?)

(No?)

Oh.

Wish me luck, people.

Cakes and Pies. Among Other Things.

This morning, I stepped on the scale and saw that I had been given a late Christmas present.
In the form of 5 extra pounds gained over the holidays.

Not exactly the boots that I asked for, now was it, Santa?

I felt a little baffled, and started thinking of possible reasons for this weight gain.  Was I working out less? Hmmm, no.  I'm pretty consistent with my workouts.

I mean, "the crazy" has to find a way out, somehow, right?

Right.

Then, I thought, "maybe it's from all the cakes and pies I ate between Thanksgiving and Christmas."

("Cakes and pies, Cakes and pies!")

(I will love you so much if you can name that movie.)

Definitely possible.  But I still wasn't totally convinced.

So I decided to consult John.  Because what guy wouldn't answer honestly when asked by his wife if she had gained weight?

Exactly.

Me:  Hey babe, can I ask you a question?


John:  (with slight trepidation) Um, sure.  What is it?


Me:  I promise this isn't a trick, and I want your honest answer, okay?


John:  (Clearly nervous at this point) Um, o-kay.


Me:  Have I gained weight?


John:  (Voice rising a couple notches) What?! No!  That's crazy talk!


(Just like I trained him, ladies. Kidding.)


Me:  No, it's okay, I know I have.  

John:  I thought this wasn't a trick.  


Me:  It's NOT.  I just don't understand why.  I mean, have I been eating more often?


John:  Are we still in the trust tree?  Because, I may have possibly noticed that you've taken to eating cookies.  In bed.  Right before you go to sleep.  


That could have just a tiny bit to do with it.  


Me:  But in college, I used to guzzle non-diet Mountain Dews.  Three times a day.  While eating a sausage biscuit. And downing a full sleeve of cookie dough. And I never gained an ounce! 


(Yes, I hate college Sherri a little right now too.)

John:  Well, welcome to your 30's, babe.  


Me:  At least you beat me there.

Dear 30's,

I hate this slowing metabolism business.  Clearly, any weight gained from here forward is all your fault, because in no way does this have anything to do with my lack of restraint around sweets.  Obviously.

P.S. I think wrinkles AND a slowing metabolism is pushing it.  Let's just pick one, okay?

Weekend Lessons

A Few Lessons I Learned This Weekend.  The Hard Way.

1.  Never,  and I repeat, NEVER, take your toddler mattress shopping. Do I need to say it again?  No?  Okay, good.  I'm embarrassed to call this a "lesson," because, really?  I should have known better. Our visit to the Mattress Firm resulted in 2 very stressed out parents, a hugely hassled sales clerk, a super-hyper toddler, who may or may not have wanted to jump on all the beds, and incessant balloon kicking (by her, not us.  Okay, maybe by John too).

Dear Mattress Firm,

Bless your hearts for putting up with us this weekend.  Also, bless your hearts for having a Lego table in the middle of the store for the little ones.  I do believe it's the only thing that stood between us and an unfortunate toddler meltdown.  

Those balloons that you have strewn all over the floor promoting your mattress sale?  Those are a different story.

Sincerely,

The mom who was dumb naive enough to take her girl into a room of what clearly appears to be trampolines and kickballs to a 2-year old.

2.  The Dora the Explorer guitar is moderately to completely annoying after prolonged exposure.  And by prolonged, I mean more than about 2 minutes. You may or may not find yourself shouting "fantastica!" for absolutely no reason at all.

3. You know how sometimes, you want to do a date that's more active?  Less "sitting around watching a movie," and more "kind of a workout." You might decide that something like indoor rock-climbing would be fun.   (Forgetting that those harnesses tend to give you a permanent wedgie.)  

Just so you know, it might be a good idea to call first, so you can learn that most climbing gyms require reservations for skill testing.  You know, instead of letting you , say, accidentally drop your partner 30 feet to the floor, or something like that.  

I know you're certain that they'll immediately recognize your ability to tie a sweet figure 8 knot, but guess what?

They won't. 

So let me tell you what will end up happening instead:

You'll agree to go play racquetball with your husband, who can hit the ball at about 95 mph.  Interestingly, the racquetball courts will be front and center at your gym, and in full view of all the people who want to entertain themselves by watching you wildly swing at (and miss) the ball.  

Or maybe they just want to see you hit yourself with the ball 6 different times.

You will definitely laugh a lot, which makes it all worth it when your right arm doesn't work for 4 days straight, and you have to start picking up your drink with both hands to avoid dropping your glass on the floor.  

Dear everyone,

Racquetball is one of those sports that will almost always result in you looking like a doofus at least once, if not the whole time you're playing.  John's actually good at this sport, and he even had a few party-fouls on the court.  Just take it from me....if you want to look cool (especially on a date), go do something else.  

You know, like sitting around watching a movie.

Love,

Your friend Sherri, who's typing this with her left-hand, because her right one still doesn't work.

My Favorite Things (For the Moment, Anyway)

Okay people.  Please tell me that you notice what just happened here.

(No, it's not that I managed to talk about poop too much this week.)

(Although I did.)

I actually managed to post FIVE DAYS IN A ROW.

Let's just file that one under "unprecedented," and hope that you found it enjoyable and not annoyingly random, shall we?

We shall.

I thought it might be fun to do a Sherri's favorite things list.  It would have been extra fun if I had done this at a more opportune time of year.  Like prior to Christmas or my birthday.  But, since it's January and there's not a gift-giving occasion in sight for someone to utilize this list (you know who you are, husband),  I'll throw it out there just for kicks.

(You know, instead of "for annoying the heck out of someone who may just want to get me a present without many typed, double-spaced lists suggestions.)

I would also love to do this a la Oprah or Ellen, where I can be all "And everyone wins a year long supply of Frye boots! And marshmallows!  And stainless steel wipes!!"

But that might lead to just a tiny bit of financial distress in our marriage.

So.  I'll at least let you win the ability to click on the link and go view the items I'm talking about.  And perhaps purchase them with your very own credit cards.

I know.  I'm nice like that.

Sherri's Favorite Things:

1.  Frye Jane Stitch boots:  I love these boots so much I would literally marry them.  If by "literally," I mean "figuratively," since I'm guessing there's some kind of law against that.  I got a pair of these last Christmas, after physically drooling over them for many, many years.  Which was kind of awkward that time I went to Nordstrom to look at them.  Much to John's amusement, I lovingly store them after each wear in the tissue and box that they came in.

Yes, I do know that I'm a freak.

2.  Downy UNSTOPABLES:  These smell amazing!  I may or may not have recently been found in our laundry room with my nose stuffed inside the bottle.  More than once.

3.  Ugg Bailey Button Triplet:  Okay. I totally made fun of Uggs when they first came on the scene.  I was all, "why would anyone pay actual money to wear such ugly shoes?"  And then I slipped my foot into one.  And it was like wrapping clouds around my feet.

Besides. They totally class up my mom-uniform of "all gym clothes, all the time."  Right?  RIGHT?!

Moving on.....

4.  Serenity Stone Drops:  I can tell by the way these are looking at me that they are dying to make my ears their new home.

(Which actually sounds kind of creepy, because I have a not at all weird phobia about bugs making my ears their home while I sleep.  NOT that we have bugs or anything...but just because it's freakish enough to seem possible.)

5.  Weiman Stainless Steel Wipes:  These need no explanation.  See above re: literally marrying them.
Fryes, you have some competition.

6.  Pinterest:  Guess what?!  This one's free.  Until you (hypothetically, of course) start linking up to things that people have pinned on etsy, and (again, hypothetically) decide that you HAVE TO HAVE that pillow/lamp/ring/necklace, etc.

Ahem.

7. And last but not least, my Cuisinart Single Serve Brewing System: First of all, it just sounds fancy.  A brewing system, instead of a coffeemaker?  Um, yes please.  It is literally one of my favorite inventions, second only to Tivo, the Internet, and the iPhone.

Again, I would probably marry it.

And apparently, I'm a product polygamist.

I'd love to hear some of your favorite products! Because obviously, I need to add to my list.  Or not.  And hey, if you wanna go all Ellen and Oprah, and just give them to me, I won't complain a bit.

Disclaimer

John calls me on his way to work this morning, and we have the following conversation:

John:  "Hey.  I just read your blog."


Me:  "Aw.  You're so sweet.  I thought only my mom and I read this blog.  Now I can officially up my readership to three people."


John:  "Yeah.  I thought it was really good."


Me:  "You did?! Which part?"


John: "All of it.  Except for the part where you made it sound like our daughter ate poop."


Me:   Well, we don't know that she didn't. 


John:  Of course she didn't!  She's a little angel.  She would NEVER do something gross like that.


Me:  Whatever, you know you probably ate your own boogers or worse as a child.  


John:  No way, but you totally did.


(See how mature our relationship is? I know.  We're a total inspiration.)


Sherri:  Of course I didn't!  I was a little angel.  I would NEVER have done something gross like that.

Oh wait.

Disclaimer:  I honestly cannot say with 100% certainty that AG ate her own poop.  (Although, as a person with at least some degree of common sense, I can look at the evidence and draw a logical conclusion.) I would like to think positive and believe that she didn't.  Just like I would like to believe that a brand-new Mac computer would just show up on my doorstep.  For free.  But, since I live in the real world (you know, the one where toddlers put everything in their mouths), AND since I have a tendency to be Debbie Downer-ish when it comes to things kids are capable of doing, I felt that a good google on the poop-eating subject would be beneficial.

I certainly didn't mean to imply that she definitely ate her own poop.

Except that I sort of did.

The end.

2012

I was thinking about doing a recap of 2011 post.  But, since it's now January 10th of 2012, it may be just a tiny bit overdue.  Plus, I've forced you to listen to me recap 2011 during, let's see, ALL OF 2011.

So, I won't do it again.  I'll just say, it was a good year.  Despite being yelled at by random angry dads, getting caught outside during hailstorms, and having to THROW DOWN with Dot at HP.

Regardless.

It was awesome.

And I have high hopes for 2012.  I've got a feeling (tell me you didn't just go all Black Eyed Peas in your mind for a minute.  You did, didn't you?) that this is going to be a great year.  And, as per usual, I sat down to think up some goals for 2012 so I can bore you with them share them with you.

But while I was doing that, I read a recent blog post by my cousin, Whitney.  (Who is pretty much a saint, and the sweetest girl in the world.)  Anyway, Whitney said that someone once gave her the advice to "Be the Whitney-est Whitney you Can Be."

And that pretty much just stopped me in my tracks.  Because, y'all?  THAT is my goal for 2012.

(Not to be the Whitney-est Whitney I can be, because that would be weird and kinda stalker-ish.)

My goal is to be the Sherri-est Sherri I can be.

(Even though that actually sounds like a pretty weird mix of Dr. Seuss and the Army.)

Still.  I love it.  So here's what I think that means for me this year.....

1. Giving myself the freedom to cry at lame things that don't affect anyone else.  Like, hypothetically of course, that ASPCA commercial with Sara McLaughlin. Or the Christmas shoes song.  (At least I don't have to worry about that one til next Christmas.)

2.  Unashamedly watching shows like the Bachelor.  I like trashy TV.  And yes, I know that they aren't going to end up together.  Doesn't make it less fun to watch.  You're just going to have to deal with it. (I'm looking at you, husband.)

3.  Not heaping guilt on myself for being the kind of mom and wife who hates to cook.  Actually, I kind of loathe it.  It doesn't mean I won't do it, but I don't have to pretend to be all Martha-y, when I clearly am not.

4.  Openly loving the Hunger Games.  And Twilight.  And yes, maybe I AM a 17 year-old trapped in a 31 year-old's body.  And I'm okay with that.

5.  Feeling no shame that, this year, I choose spending time with AG over kicking butt in real estate (or at least trying to).  I still want to work, but not at a level that interferes with being her mother.  Because motherhood is the best job, I've ever had.  (You know, minus the crib-pooping incidents.)

6.  Deciding that it's okay if it makes my skin crawl to touch newspaper, if I absolutely hate playing board games, if I am more than a little bit addicted to stainless steel wipes, and if I never have Jessica Biel's body.

(Unless I steal it from her.)

(AND, there I went sounding stalker-y again.  Oops.)

Anyway, the point is, I'm excited to just be me this year.  No unreasonable goals and unrealistic expectations.  I think Psalm 139 actually says it best:

 ¹³ For you created my inmost being; 

   you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 
¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; 
   your works are wonderful, 
   I know that full well. 

Or, you know. Be the Sherri-est Sherri you can be.  

Initiation

Well, it finally happened.  After 2+ years, I have finally been initiated into motherhood.

(And no, cleaning up vomit at 3am actually wasn't the initiation that I previously thought it to be.)

Allow me to explain.

In the past, I've heard some SUPER horrifying stories from my mom-friends, about their toddlers deciding to become mini-Picassos, using poop as their artistic medium.

I would inevitably (and very naively) think something along the lines of "Oh bless your heart! Thank goodness Ally Grace would NEVER do something like that to me."

Clearly, I should never say never.

Yesterday, Ally Grace took an amazingly long nap.  I mean, she was silent for THREE ENTIRE HOURS.  And I was able to fold clothes, and write a blog post, and possibly even eat my weight in peanut butter M&M's.

It was a great day.

Until it wasn't.

I go upstairs to wake her up, thinking, okay, long naps are great and all, but Mama needs to watch the Bachelor tonight. Which means girlfriend needs to go down at her normal 7:30 bedtime.

I walk into her room and immediately recoil in horror at the smell.  "Whew," I say.  "Girl, you need a diaper change STAT."  And then, "Oh look.  You're holding your hands up for me. You missed me during your nap and want a little cuddle! How sweet."  And then, "Wait, what's that on your hands? DEAR LORD, IS THAT POOP?!?!? EWWWWW!!!  KEEP THOSE DIRTY THINGS AWAY FROM ME!  And then, " UM, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN'T ACTUALLY EAT IT?!?!"


And finally, "Where exactly is John when I really need him? Cleaning up feces should so have been included in our fake, exists only in my mind marital contract."


By the way, you would be surprised at the wealth of information you can find on the Internet when you google, "If my child ate her own poop, what should I do?"

Because one day, you might just need that information.

Never say never.

The Christmas Identity Crisis

Well, I was totally on a little bloggy roll right before Christmas....I don't know what happened to me, but it just might have had something to do with a month-long caffeine high from too many peppermint mochas and/or an abundance of family around to play with and entertain AG.  Or a blissful combination of both.

Regardless, I realized how much I had missed getting my word on.  (Despite the fact that you probably haven't missed that phrase.  At ALL.)

So, 2012, it's ON.  I promise.  For real.

And while I'm talking to you, 2012, I'd like to thank you for a great start to the new year.  Well, except for that time I took AG to school with my pants on backwards.

That wasn't so great.

Other than that, I've enjoyed starting the year without morning sickness, or being in the thick of nursing a baby, and definitely without a pesky snowstorm that shuts down the whole entire city for a week straight.  Right when my girl is dropping her morning nap.  Even if it would perhaps make for some good snow-kayaking.

(Oh, who am I kidding? Snow-kayaking is never good.  And if you think I'm not praying that it has no opportunity to make it's rednecky appearance this year, you would be mistaken.)

Ahem, point being....2012, you're getting your own post.  But it'll have to happen at a later date, because right now I need to recap Christmas 2011.  Also known as the year that AG loudly proclaimed that she was Santa  AND baby Jesus, to anyone who would listen.

A.k.a The Year of the Christmas Identity Crisis.

We started off Christmas two days prior to Thanksgiving, when I put up our Christmas tree.  That's also when I begin maniacally wrapping presents that I had stashed all over my house like some kind of Christmas-y hoarder.

Yes, we had to cram our tree into a corner.  A section of lights also went out about a week before the big day.
While my OCD-ness couldn't even look at the tree after that REALLY wanted to fix it, my lazy side forced me to just deal with it.

We went to my hometown to spend Christmas Eve Eve with my parents, and then went over to my aunt's house for Christmas Eve lunch.

Later in the day, we came back to Atlanta for Christmas Eve dinner at Jamey and Sara's house.

AG's face cracks me up in these pictures.  I feel that she's all "Hey Ma, Why's this bow the size of Texas?"
(Except that she totally doesn't call me Ma, but it sounded better for the story.)  

On Christmas Eve, Sara gave me the cutest pair of pj's to wear on Christmas day.  She and her sister always wear matching pj's on Christmas morning, and I felt completely honored to be included in their tradition.  After I stopped geeking out about our new sisterly bond (and after John and Jamey stopped making fun of us in obnoxious valley-girl accents), we read the Christmas story and all went to bed so that Santa could visit.

(Or so John could put together AG's new giraffe rocker.  One or the other.)

Here are our Christmas Day photos....also known as, I Need to Post Them On the Blog, Just in Case My Computer Gets Another Virus and Really Dies Next Time.

Also known as, Sherri Needs to Go Buy An External Hard-Drive or Something Else Tech-y Sounding To Back Up the 5 Years of Pictures Housed on This Computer.

Matching pajamas and silly hats....what's not to love about Christmas?  

During the week after Christmas, we spent time hanging out, seeing movies, and crazily trying to visit the Atlantic Station H&M the day after Christmas.

(Hi Sherri?  Remember how stressed out you get when you shop at H&M? All those unorganized piles, loooong dressing room lines, and random strangers stepping on you? You know how you eventually begin shoving random articles of clothing into your shopping basket without even trying them on?  Which results in you giving Sara the cute dress you found that sadly fits only one of your legs?

But the day after Christmas?  Girl, that is truly certifiable.  Let's not do that ever again, shall we?)

Next, we were on to New Years.  As total slackers, we decided to have friends over, oh, about 2 days before New Years Eve.  We ended up with a great crowd, and I actually stayed up til almost 3am.
(Which probably hasn't happened since college, and resulted in me guzzling caffeine like a champ 4 hours later.)

Hey, thanks for the self-taken portrait guys.  It's never at all alarming to find out that your camera has been confiscated by boys.

Kristin's due in about another month, and I cannot WAIT to spoil her little one to death.
And may I note that she is almost full-term, and looks about like I did in month 6 of pregnancy?

I would hate her if I didn't love her.

There ya have it.  Our Christmas & New Years in a very picture-padded nutshell.  Is it acceptable or embarrassing that I'm blogging about Christmas on January 9th?

Um, maybe you shouldn't answer that.