A Fun Eye Test

The Recovery of Kembry

Kembry is recovering.

We all are.

She has bouts of absolute "fineness" followed by screaming fits.

I feel bad and annoyed all at the same time.  "Use your words," I prompt her, but I only get more screams at my face. 

Cohen isn't as kind.  He's back to his old ways.  Terrorizing her every second he can.  A particularly rough teasing took place in the 2 minute drive from his school to the neighborhood market.  It was followed by with a "stern" talking to in front of strangers in the parking lot.

Don't ya just love those?

Tonight she's having night terrors.  This is following eating an undetermined amount of chewable melatonins.  It's not her fault, they do taste delicious.  I regret leaving them anywhere she may have found them.  But I don't regret the sleep she's getting, she needs it.

And her breath.  Her breath.  Her breath is death.  It's just awful.  Just awful.

Chloe is taking more and more steps, and this is so encouraging, I could cry.  She weighs like 34 pounds.  I can only take so much!

My life has been taken over by Kembry's recovery and another something, but I'll blog more about that tomorrow.  As for now, I'm watching a very light episode meant to make me laugh, and then passing out next to the best looking man in the house.  Psht, the whole neighborhood for that matter.

I know you're jealous.

Blow Torches and Tonsillectomy

I've been on a puking binge and my house directly reflects this.  Plus, I've had children home from school for two weeks...and my house directly reflects this.

It is amazing, absolutely shocking, how much mess a 5 and 6 year old can make in a few short hours.  Even if I wanted to follow them around picking up after them, which I don't, they tend to go in different directions.  So, if you've ever taken a physics class you should already know this, but it is PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE TO KEEP UP WITH THEIR MESSES.  I'd love to take a blow torch to the whole institution of house cleaning.  It's easy to vacuum up ash.

On the upside, day care, er, I mean school starts tomorrow.  Halla-freakin'-lujah.

Kembry does not go back to school tomorrow.

*Deflates happiness balloon*

She had her tonsils gently scalloped from her throat this morning.  And I have to say, IT WORKED!  I mean, c'mon, it's Kembry post surgery.  We should be hanging from the rafters in terror as she Tazmanian devils her way through the house.  But she's quiet and calm.  Slightly whiney, which was too-be-expected.

And plus, PLUS, she got up every time to go to the potty.  Let me back track...did I not mention that Kembry wets her bed?  At 5 and a half.  Her tonsils were so large that she wasn't getting enough oxygen to that mischievous little brain of hers, and therefore slept so deeply that she couldn't feel the sensation that she needed to potty.

Again, every time, under narcotics, she's gotten up to go pee pee.  I'd call that a complete success.  Totally worth the large $$$ amount we're shelling out, too.  Think of all we'll save on sanity, pull-ups, and laundry detergent.

The Asterisk Updates

*Kembry will being have her tonsils removed on the 4th.  I got what I want, now I don't know if I want it.  My baby, under anesthesia, getting cut open?  $900?  I just have to hang on to the hope that demonic Kembry will go down for surgery, and Angelic Kembry will awake from surgery.

*Going to McDonalds and the park tomorrow.  It's going to be 72 degrees here.  I am not hating this.

*The TV has been graciously raising the children while I've been down on my back, yet again.

*I still love hearing about people getting knocked up.  Something is seriously wrong with me.  I just don't care.

*Brett and I got called to teach CTR 5.  I rejected the calling until Brett kindly reminded me that Kembry would be advancing in January and WOULDN'T be in our class.  Okay, I accept =)

*I haven't taken down the 3 foot Christmas tree and I have no desire to do so.  Moving on.

*Chloe is still not walking.  This angers me and my weak discs.

*I've taken oodles and gads of pictures on the iPad and have no clue how to get them on my blog.  Not that I was that great at putting pictures up before.  Regardless, it's driving me bonkers!

The End.

Just Try And Tell Me Fast Food Isn't Addicting

Because I'm pretty sure I'm (secretly, so don't go blabbing this post to the whole world) addicted to fast food.

Here's some evidence:

I eat in secret. Like, I'll say "I'm gonna run to the grocery store for...tic tags. Don't wait up for me!" (Heh, fooled him!) And I do go to the store, but I also stop by In-N-Out.

I spend money we don't have on fast food.

I get grumpy when I have to cook dinner when really what I want are some trans fatty French fries.

My body is starting to reflect my abuse. It would be better if it was meth I was addicted to...but my love handles attest to my real addiction: ChicFilA waffle fries.

Oh how I dream of that sweet, tingly cold swig of coke after a particularly salty and delicious chicken nugget.

I've destroyed an organ because of my addiction, namely my gallbladder.

And I find any excuse to go. "What? Prince Whoever married Anorexic what's-her-name? LET'S CELEBRATE! McDonalds anyone?"

So if you really want to get me a present this Christmas season, make it a gift card to Carl's Jr. Or a stay at the Betty Butter Center. Oh, I mean Betty Ford.

Those Dagnabbit Tonsils

I'm currently compiling a case to have my daughters tonsils removed. Expert medical reports, USA Today articles, friends blogs...it's all gonna be there. Because I have a feeling Imagonna haveta fight tooth and tonsils to get them to cut my baby open and slice up her adenoids.

Doctors sometimes like to argue with me.

I know this has never happened to anyone before

*rolls eyes*

I'm ready to go into that doctors office with my mommy gloves on.

If any doctor tries to tell me she doesn't need her tonsils removed, they're gonna have to mess with mama bear. And mama bear wants a non-temperamental, sweet little rested angel. Not the angel of death I've been gettin lately.

And it's not that I know more than the doctors

(but I do)

And it's not that I don't trust the medical community at large

(I don't)

It's simply that I

A) know my daughter and know that she isnt sleeping well and that as she ages this tiny problem has turned into a huge mega beast.

And that

B) I'm always right.

Just ask my husband. *grin*

So don't pray for me folks. Ooh no. Pray for that poor unsuspecting doctor that's going to be meeting She-Beast.

Can You Smell That? Yep. Spoiled.

We are a very spoiled family. Coming to you live from our very own iPad...can ya smell the stink?

A VERY BIG thanks to Papa Tim and Grandma Sandi for our new toy!

Back! Back you heathens! Mummy's playing!

So. Close. I Can. See. The. End...

Holy guacamole, Batman.

Brett and I moved so much today.

And we also lifted heavy furniture.  Hyuck hyuck.

Couches, book shelves, boxes and boxes of crap, all in our new home.

And surprisingly, there's still a lot of room.

You know how when you look at a new home, and it's all empty and clean and pretty, and your imagination runs wild, "Oh the things I could do in here!  18 piece dining room table here, oh!  And of course a china hutch here and over there.  400" TV goes here..."

But amazingly, we still have a lot of room.  I'm excited because my whole married life we've had little-teeny-tiny-itsy-bitsy houses.  This is no McMansion by any means, but it's still roomy, and I'm stoked!

Anywhoodle, I go sleep now.

Moving Is Laaaaaaame

I would have been happy to live in this house for the rest of my life.

Not because it was perfect.

Not because it was in the best location.

Not because it was in an awesome neighborhood. (Although, it is in the most awesome neighborhood.)

No, I would have lived in this house the rest of my life because...I HATE MOVING.

Do I look like I'm not lazy?

We've been tremendously blessed with the house we're moving into.  Unable to find a home that Brett and I could both agree on, or, when we did, have that house ripped from underneath our greedy paws, we decided to rent a house until we could buy a house.

Well, that, and this house fell into our laps with a pretty price tag.

So here we are, blessed with our new abode, only minutes from our crappy apartment.  And while it's nice that we don't have to rent one big truck to haul all of our crap, it still sucks to move.

Now I'm at a crossroads.  Will he or won't he get help this Saturday?  Will he or won't he rent a truck?  Will he or won't he be getting laid? KIDDING.  Trying to get the man-cub to do any of these organizational tasks is worse than ripping out Cohen's second loose tooth (oh please, won't you please just fall out?!)

I've lugged everything over that my weak little arms could carry, and now we live in skeleton bones at the apartment.  I want to just take it all and let the rest stay here, but I can't carry, nor live without the following: my bed, the TV, food, my computer, and the internet.  And couches.  And my rocking chair.  I need my big strong man to rally other big strong men and a truck to move most of my beloved items (that enable the laziness.)

I cannot.  Live.  Without these things.

So wish me luck as I endeavor to get Brett to make plans.  Actually, if you could sacrifice a few lambs on my behalf, that would be awesome.

Yours Truly,

Stuck-in-an-apartment-until-my-husband-picks-up-the-phone-and-organizes-help-Kelly

130 By 30: Only B'cause I Love Ya

My sweetest and dearest friend thinks she's fat.

*Rolls eyes*

She's not fat.  But she's a health nut, and she wants to lose enough jiggly fat to weigh 130 by the time she turns 30 (next August).  And I *pulls on collar* said I would do it with her.

When I made this agreement, I was high on a girls night, shoving fries and burgers into my mouth until I couldn't breathe.  It was extortion, I tell ya!  But I get encouraged when I see things like this:

This is one pound of fat.

That looks like it came straight out of my left love handle.  I can imagine if I lost 50 of these.  I could actually catch  my runaway 1 year old.

I am convinced, however, that Brett loves being married to a chubby woman.  The proof is in the cheesecake (and brownies...and cookies...and outrageous and delicious dinners...)  The man doesn't know when to stop! So I downed my daily calorie count in two delicious slices of cheesecake yesterday.

The man KNOWS I have no self control!

So, dear sweet Tanya, you may just slaughter me on this quest of ours.  The good news is you can eat me if you're close to starving.  Bad news: I'm mostly fat!

So here's to a fresh start and a new day!  Cheesecake milk shake, here I come!  (What, I don't want to waste a whole cheesecake...I mean, it has strawberries on it!)