A Thanksgiving Wish

Ok, so I am not going to be in town for Turkey Day, so I thought even though I am a few days early, I would leave my Thanksgiving wish for all of you. In honor of my Grandpa, who died a little over three years ago, I am going to do so in the form of what is called a "Turkey Note." Grandpa Ash used to write one every year for each member of the family, and they were great. My first one was when I was playing soccer in elementary school and I still have it. It is:

Lynn's a soccer player.

And a good one it may seem.

She can even score a goal

for the other team.

Obviously, my attempt will never measure up to his, but I am going to give it a go.


First, to my parents who read my blog:

You sent me away to college

to work toward a career

and now you get to read my thoughts

nowhere else but here.

I bet you'd like your money back

cuz my degree just ain't needed

to sit at home and birth my kids...

Man, I bet you're feeling cheated!!!

And to my brother who reads my blog:

The first blogger in the family,

you definitely do it right.

Your blog revolves around

God and all his might.

You make a lot of valid points

and speak with dignity and power

after all, you have a better topic

than what Will does while I shower.

And to my husband who reads my blog:

Sometimes I like to write about you

And throw you under the bus,

but I only do it figuratively

which is a good achievement for us.

The good thing is it's all in love

or at least in toleration,

which again is how I express myself

with the utmost moderation.

And to my friends that read my blog:

I really do love each of you

in our own special way,

which means that I will mock you

each and every day.

But if you ever need anything

like bail, babysitting or booze

just call on me and I'll be there

any day you choose.

And lastly, to those of you who read my blog, but I don't yet know you well:

Thank you for being there

to read my rants each day.

It really touches me

in a totally non-pervy way.

I didn't think that people would

care what I have to say

and the fact that you keep coming back

makes this the best Thanksgiving Day.

Happy Thanksgiving All!!!!

Switched at birth

I learned today that Will is not really my son. Ok, so I don't know that for sure, but the seed of doubt has been planted and someone with a greener thumb than mine is caring for it. I have always known that he doesn't look like me at all. He doesn't really act like me either, although he acts more like the Tasmanian Devil in Warner Brothers cartoons than anything else, so I am not sure that is indicative of anything. He loves to read, so that is kinda like me... but our taste in books is totally different. I am reading Jen Lancaster's Such a Pretty Fat and he is reading Little People A Trip to the Zoo. It has way too many doors to open for my taste, while Lancaster's dry sense of humor doesn't keep his interest. Nor does he care about her dieting problems, because let's be honest... he's never dieted a day in his life. How could he relate? But, those differences aside... his behavior this morning was the clincher. He woke up at 6:00a this morning like Mr. Perk Perky Perkerton and has yet to blink or yawn.

Picture Angelina Jolie screaming "That's not my son." That was me this morning although slightly less 1930's glamour and slightly more poundage. But, my plaid pajama bottoms and smudged mascara (both of which I am still wearing 3 hours later) just don't evoke the same image, so picture her instead. To say I am not a morning person is not even a strong enough statement. If I had my druthers, I wouldn't bat an eye until close to 10a. Ok, if I really had my druthers, I would not be even semiconscious until closer to noon. But, I have Will... and Jack... and Tabbi... and no druthers. If someone sees my druthers, please let me know. And can someone call Murphy and ask him to for a vote to change his laws? Because today, the day that Will decided to awaken earlier than roosters (well, I don't know that for sure, but I am willing to call Laura and ask), Jack was sound asleep until 7:30a. Not. Fair. At. All. If it weren't for Will's need to rise before the sun, I could have been asleep til 7:30a. I find it morally repugnant to be aroused prior to Good Morning America and today I was totally Good Morning Indiana. Sick and wrong.

So, I am putting a call in to St. Vincent Women's Hospital to find my real kid. He will be the one still sleeping soundly this morning. I will return the one that has spilled croutons all over the kitchen table, ripped a Styrofoam ball to bits and scattered styrodust all over the playroom floor, dumped Tabbi's cereal milk into the fish tank to feed the fish (don't worry, the last fish died over the weekend so he's not a murder), emptied the cleaning closet of all brooms, mops and vacuums, is playing an extremely loud electric sounding guitar and decided that diapers are for sissies (not yet potty trained) all by 9:12a. "I WANT MY SON BACK!" Sorry, channeling Angelina again.

It takes two...

So last night, I asked Mark to change Will's poopy diaper, and you would have thought I said to do it with his tongue or something. It was pretty clear that he didn't want any part of it. Now, its pretty clear that I don't want any part of it either, duh... who does? But I am up to my elbows in poop Monday through Friday, so it seemed only fair that he take one for the team last night. He, later, didn't disagree... but he didn't agree either. It appears that we might have differing opinions of what our "jobs" are. For the record, before Mark leaves a pissed off comment, he is very good at helping out and blah blah blah, so this isn't meant to be a blast Mark blog post. I save those for when they're really deserved (like the Uverse/fish post). But, it does warrant looking in to... what are the expectations of a stay home mom... when Dad is at home, too?A certain someone I know (cough... Homa's boyfriend...end cough) has said that if he is the one earning the money, he expects to not have to do anything at home. I kind of get that. In our house, Mark brings home the bacon (or chicken breasts, or ground sirloin... depending) and I cook it. I take care of the laundry, day to day keeping alive of children, Tabbi homework, etc. Sometimes he cleans the kitchen after we eat, and does the dishes, other times I do it. I don't clean, because we have a cleaning service (thank God and Mark's parents) and he tidies up at the end of the night. Its a pretty good system. But, on the weekends, its a different story.

I left with Tabbi for the morning on Saturday and came home hours later to the exact same thing I left. Dishes strewn about, children undressed, husband in all his greasy unshowered splendor. I walked in and you would think that I was Ed WhatHisName with a check from Publisher's Clearinghouse. I am not Ed Anyone and I ain't got no money. But, the two boys and no mommy supervision was almost more than Mark could take. He breathlessly said "I don't know how you do it" the second I walked into the room. He's never been so happy to see me in our lives. Then, we had the diaper incident on Sunday and I just didn't get it. Isn't he equally responsible for their care as I am? Or, shouldn't he be?

Saturday and Sunday, I believe that we should share responsibilities. I didn't make these three kids on my own, and I had no part at all in one of them. So, I expect that Mark will load a dishwasher with Jack's bottles and change Will's diaper. I realize he works 40 hours a week and enjoys his days off, but I am pretty sure my hours are longer and I don't get any days off. I am still waiting for my vacation leave to kick in, I guess. The interesting thing is that I don't think Mark is opposed to helping out. He seems to take orders pretty well, if poop or lawn mowing is not involved. It just doesn't occur to him to do any of it on his own. But, I want it to. Its a little something called "female insanity" because I fully expect him to know to do everything and resent it when he doesn't or when he does it differently from the way I want it done. But, I don't want to have to tell him to do it, either. And since I didn't thrust this children upon him... and they've been around for awhile, I don't think that is uncalled for in this instance. Figure out the chores and responsibilities of keeping the house running, read my mind to make sure it gets done the way I want it to, and do it. That's not unfair, right?

Pretty in Pink

I am conducting a survey. As I may have mentioned (once or 2,000 times) I am turning 30 soon. By soon I mean next Thursday. The big 3-0. This entry is not about the age, though. That mental breakdown may come next week. Instead, I am posing a question to you... my readers, my friends... my brutally honest commenters (even those of you that save the brutal honesty for emails after the fact... right, Laura).

Am I too old for pink extensions in my hair?

For those of you who don't know me outside of Cyberland, I have a history of... uh... unique hair. I spent college and the first half of my professional life experimenting from bleach blond (not a highlight) to bright blue (really fun) to blond with pink tips (love it, but it didn't photograph well) to jet black (very goth). And just about every hue in between in every configuration you can imagine. I loved it. But, then I got a job at a national staffing firm, and well... professionalism was required. I hate that. And after, I thought that since I was a mom... I better look the part. Well, call it a midlife crisis (if that happens at 30... God help me at 40 or 50), or just a desire to mix things up, but for my birthday I have booked an appointment with Cari of Rumors Salon to get an all over dark brown color and another appointment to add hot pink extensions. They won't elongate my hair, because I can't afford that (although I would LOVE to do it, Cari, if you ever read this and want to give me a discount to advertise on my blog... hint hint). But, it will thicken it and most importantly, add some serious hot pink. LOVE IT. But, alas, Homa said that pink hair isn't cute and seems to think that its a poor choice. So, I pose it to you, my loyal friends and confidants. Are you with me or against me? A Homa or a Lynn? Bring it on. I can take it.

Is there such a thing as being too old for pink hair?

Domestic Goddesshood...

So, yesterday I had the world conquered. I had a to-do list and I got it to-done. As a stay home mom, it just doesn't get better than that.

I started the day with a strict agenda. Tabbi had a girl scout meeting last night, and I had to have things ready. She needed a family tree and a dish that represented her heritage for their non-traditional Thanksgiving dinner. I needed to finish the laundry and clean the fish tank. And, I needed to prepare the meal that I had scheduled for my family's dinner. Sounds like a piece of cake, right? Well, in my case, the piece of cake is usually too dry and crumbles to bits... but not yesterday. In addition to feeding and caring for Will and Jack, I accomplished all assigned missions. I made two full meals, I did the laundry, I cleaned the fish tank (and flushed the two corpses that were at the top... for anyone counting we are down to only two fish now...) and I made Will Spaghettios for lunch (his first time eating those oddly fluorescent orange noodle-like treats... single tear). When all was done and the boys were still napping, I even had time to sit down and organize a get together with the ladies. I am good. Oh. So. Talented. I was one frilly apron and a string of pearls away from Donna Reed and proud of it.

Then, we sat down to dinner. The All in One Meal Meatloaf that looked so promising in the magazine was barftastic. The meatloaf didn't actually cook, and I am pretty sure meatloaf tar tar is a poor choice. The thinly sliced potato layer, that I spent forever on as I had to peel the potatoes (who does that????), were strangely fiery hot and yet completely hard and uncooked at the same time. All in all, my All in One was a colossal failure. In addition to my culinary failure, I managed to dry a white long sleeve t-shirt (my uniform) and set in a a stain that I was previously determined to get out through 400 washings if need be. But, no... I was in a hurry to get back to my All Full of Crap Meatloaf, that I didn't bother to check it and spray, wash, repeat. And, I am pretty sure our surviving fish (Chubbers One and Two) are on their way to the fish tank in the sky, because they are both hanging in the "race car" and not moving. I am pretty sure if it were a convertible, they'd be at the top o' the tank, belly up.

So, good thing Betty Crocker didn't show up to issue me my a-line 1950s dress, heels and red lipstick to fit in with the other Domestic Goddesses, because I have fallen from grace. I rescind all bragging and boastfulness from yesterday (to those I bragged and boasted to) and vow to leave all potatoes up to Ore-Ida and their culinary genius aka frozen tater tots.

Eight Year Old Murderer???

Am I the only one confused by the way the world is going right now? I am not talking politics or economy or Barack Obama... but what is going on with people today? How do you go from attending your third grade classes to shooting two adults with a .22? I just don't get it.

I have heard the news accounts and read the Arizona Republic article on this child, and I just don't know what to think. Did he do it? Was he coerced into admitting it because the two adult interrogators put the pressure on? He never really admitted to doing it, he just said he thinks he did because the men were suffering from wounds inflicted by an unknown attacker. My words, not his. Obviously, he would have told the story in eight year old verbiage, which I think makes the whole thing that much more sad. At one point he said, "... I went upstairs and I saw him. And there was blood all over his face. And I think I touched him. I just kind of checked to see if he was a little bit alive." Can someone who says "a little bit alive" really be a cold blooded killer? And more importantly, if this little boy whose life should be Ninja Turtles, soccer and the Diamondbacks became a killer, the key question is why?

He owned the .22 because he was a hunter. It was given to him by his father. So that begs the question, should we be training little children to hunt? I know hunting was prevalent among all ages in the past and blah blah blah, but in the past you hunted for food, not sport. Even the kid's story of "they were suffering so I was putting them out of their misery" is a hunting idea. Wound the deer, track the deer, shoot the deer to kill it. But then again, lots of kids hunt and don't kill their parents. Is it video games, violence on tv, a lack of parenting and teaching right from wrong? Did his dad not give him enough attention, did someone give him the wrong attention? I'm not asking to find someone to blame for this little boy alone. I don't want to point to Uncle Greg and say, "Oh, so its your fault," glad that settled. In truth, this kind of thing is happening more and more, so if Uncle Greg is to blame for this little boy, who do we blame for all the others? Really... how does this happen?

This little boy is not the only one. You have that Florida woman who allegedly killed her daughter, but then staged it as a kidnapping. Obviously, she was a grown adult and not a child, but that doesn't change the insanity that is taking over. What is happening in your psyche to decide that its time to murder your child. Andrea Yates, are you reading this, because I just don't get it. I don't even know the details of this Florida case, but I know its weird and obviously sick and wrong. What makes a person just decide to murder their daughter that day? Is there no regard for consequences? Does she not know right from wrong or just not care? If you are not cut out for parenthood, can't you find a better solution than that? Did she just not have a support structure to turn to for help or was she so far gone she didn't even recognize that she needed help until it was too late?

I don't know. I want answers, though, and I am not sure who can give them to me. How 'bout a show on this Dr. Phil? You seem to know exactly what to do about people brainwashed by religious cults, serial shoplifters and binge eaters. Let's turn your "expert" eye onto something just a wee bit more important. I am not an expert on anything and I realize this blog entry is not very clear, and I further realize I have no profound commentary that will open our eyes and say... hey, that's the answer. But I really think this is a question that needs to be out there. How does this happen and what are we going to do to make it stop?

Property Laws of a Toddler

Mark's Grandmother, Eleanor, sent us the cutest little snippet about toddlers. I have no clue where it came from, so I can't give credit, but it made me laugh out loud so I am going to copy it here.

• If I like it, it's mine.


• If it's in my hand, it's mine.


• If I can take it from you, it's mine.


• If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.


• If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.


• If it looks like mine, it's mine.


• If I saw it first, it's mine.


• If you are playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes mine.


• If it's broken, it's yours.

As the mother of a toddler, who mastered the "mine" concept promptly upon his 2nd birthday, I have a few more to add.

• If I see it on tv, it had better be mine stat.


• If it used to be my dinner but now it's in my diaper, it's yours and you better clean it up fast because I am going to squirm and kick until my mess is shared with the whole ottoman.


• If I stopped wanting it a few minutes ago, but Tabbi looked in it's direction, it's mine again.


• If it's sharp, pointy, hot or dangerous in any other way, shape or form, it's totally mine.


• If it's medicine (other than the pink stuff), ear drops, or a Kleenex, it's yours and you better keep it away from me.


• If it belongs to someone else, fits in my hand, mouth, or the couch cracks, it's mine and you will never see it again.


• If it makes loud noises, it's mine the second Jack drifts off to sleep.


• If it will cause my parents any embarrassment, it's mine and I will exercise my right to use it at the most inopportune times.

Now that we've got that settled... parenting a toddler will be much easier to figure out.