Jurassic Park: A Parent's Best Friend

Morning Readers,

     Some people probably think referencing Jurassic Park is dated and irrelevant. And to those people I say, "Hogwash". Jurassic Park is not only a masterful work of fiction, its valuable life lessons will span the decades, teaching young children how to roll safely out of crashed jeeps, climb electrified fences, and run when Dr. Grant tells you to run. But more importantly, parents should be keeping a copy on their bedside table. Maybe some of my Readers have What To Expect or Jane Eyre next to their waterbeds. Do me a favor, throw them away, buy a copy of Jurassic Park, cover it in contact paper, write your name on it, and shove it under your pillow. That way, you'll be prepared for when your dinosaurs get smarter...

Don't Lose A Finger On Memorial Day

Morning Readers,

     Today I'll keep it short and sweet because a.) I only have nine more hours of daylight with which, to squeeze my form into a bathing suit and waddle to the local swimming hole, and b.) the puncture wounds in my pointer finger are making it difficult to type. So, while I'd like to remind you to remember all of our fallen vets, on this great day, I'd also like you to remember that teething babies are dangerous babies. On this Memorial day, if you find you simply must stick some type of medicine in a baby's mouth, for your own good, please check with this list first:

Don't Tell Me What You Think I Want To Hear About What I'm Thinking

Afternoon Readers,

     If you were to ask me, "Paige, would you rather be chased down a crooked hallway by an ax-wielding murderer, or listen to the babies scream at you some more?", I'd say, "First of all, that's a strange question to ask, at a Church picnic, but if you really want to know....ax, please." My threshold for screaming is high, but wasn't high enough yesterday, to keep me from being reduced to a big, crying weenie.. As a result, I found myself on the phone with Husband being talked down....kind of..
What follows is a rough transcript of our conversation:

Sign Me Up, God. I'm Ready To Be Canonized Now.

Morning Readers,

     Do any of you happen to know where you can request an application for sainthood? I've spent the better part of the morning searching the Vatican's website for some type of form, brochure, or comment box, on which, I can make a case for beatifying myself. I know what you're thinking, That's mighty bold of you Paige, especially because we read your blog, and know just what type of person you are. Fair enough, but I'm not applying to be the patron saint of humility or sobriety. Perhaps if I tell you I've been taking care of two, sick children, while being sick myself, you'd hop on the interwebs and start looking for heaven's fax number yourselves.. Actually, do that...I could use some help, and I'm fairly certain my "clicking" finger is developing carpal tunnel..

Guest Post: Plastic Surgery to Stop the Bullying?

Morning Readers,


     It's Wednesday, and that means another, wonderful guest post from a fellow Readers. Today's writer is Lissette Minges from the great state of Oklahoma. Lissette would like to share her thoughts about child plastic surgery. Yes, you read that correctly. To nip and tuck? That is the question.. Lissette's adventures with her husband and baby boy, Oliver, can be found on her blog http://mingesfamily.blogspot.com . 

Sock It To Me, Stephen Hawking

Morning Readers,

     We'd been watching a movie together, Husband and I, playing our normal game of "Stupid Pieces of Actor Trivia That We Know But Are Completely Irrelevant to Life As We Know It". I finished an interesting tid-bit with, "Yeah, because I'm smarter than you."
    He laughed a long and hearty laugh evil pirates would be jealous of and replied, "Umm..I'm smarter than you. Why do you think I married you? You need me.... Are we really going to argue over it now?"

    My eyes wide, I gaped at him like a trout. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I think Mamma needs to lay down some ground rules. You're the one who needs me..you know...to tie your shoes and stuff...and...and.."

Breaking News: Parents Raptured To Death By Baby Screams

Morning Readers,

     Did you hear Arnold Schwarzenegger is a dirty, old man? I did, only because it was all over the news like hot butter on a bald cat (or Dippin Dots on a sun-burned dog, but I'm not sure which). And it's all horrible and the general public laments as another pair of celebrities divvy-up a gazillion dollars, and yada yada yada. Well, what about the rest of us that were left behind after the Rapture?

Oh, wait...

Hey Haley Joel Osment, Paying It Forward Makes Your Car Smell Like Beef

Morning Readers,

     My car smells like beef. Not cheap like happy meal crushed into the carpet, but classy, like Michael Angelo walked into my garage, decided Sistine Chapel 2.0 was in order, and proceed to paint it in Au Jus all over the interior, complete with little, beef angels on my console. I suppose it sounds delicious in theory (those little trees that smell like pine, bananas, the troll doll your dog ate when you were five, are so passe'), but something about jumping in my vehicle and feeling like I'm trespassing on the set of CSI: Cow Sloughter Investigations, makes peeling out of my driveway less enjoyable. How's a person supposed to recreate Fast and the Furious if their car smells like french dip? Ummm...they can't. But that's what happens when you pay it forward..

The Tale of Stretch Mark Island

Morning Readers,

     Once upon a time, there was a magical place covered in sandy golden beaches, caressed delicately by crystal blue waters lapping its edges. Known to appear only between the bewitched months of June and August, this enchanted place could be summoned by only the most desperate of mothers.
      The story goes, a sad woman named Paige looked in the mirror one day, all frowns and pouts, her hands jiggling the tire around her waist. She shook it angrily and shouted at the stretched-out, little muffin in the mirror, "Listen muffin, I've had enough of you. It's only t-minus one week until the pool lets me in, and you're truly unsightly. Because of you, I must buy a body-encasing garment with which to hide you. If only there were a place where I could wear a two-piece swimsuit without ridicule."

Words of Wisdom From My Dad: Men Don't Mature Until Forty

Morning Readers,

     While herding my youngest brother and sister out the door and simultaneously noticing the worn expression on my face, my Dad decided to tell me a funny story the other day…and by “story” I mean a couple sentences that made my neck hairs porcupine, and “funny” in the way the clown doll hijacked that little kid’s legs in Poltergeist. He said, “You know, for the first few years of our marriage, I always let your Mom do the dishes. I never helped.”

Baby Storm: Category 5

Morning Readers,

    Today I'm reporting to you live from my living room. All limbs have been accounted for, toys organized, paper wreckage pushed in the general direction of the trashcan. If it weren't for the trace amount of frosting and tell-tale signs of cupcake dismemberment, an untrained eye would never know, less than twenty-four hours ago, Armageddon touched down, kissed our home lightly on the forehead, and exited as quickly as it came. But we survived it. We survived the first and last birthday party we will ever throw for our children.
...I think.

I Didn't Mean To Tell People You're Nice

Afternoon Readers,

     It'd been another late-night, frozen pizza pow-wow in the kitchen. Exhausted from a night of work, but still happy with how much writing I'd gotten done that morning, I leaned against the counter top, in the most alluring fashion I could muster, and re-hashed the day's exploits with Husband. As I finished my verbal waterfall of blog posts completed and word goals on my book achieved, he knit his eyebrows and said, "Ya know, I just don't buy it. I'm not that nice." I looked at him like he'd just told me he was running away with Richard Simmons in a pink limo..

Yea Though I Walk Through The Valley of The Ill-Fitting Top

Morning Readers,

         I got really excited this morning. Not exactly the pee-my-pants-because-euphoria-overtook-my-bladder excited, but jazzed enough to play So Into You by Atlanta Rhythm Section without caring who's listening and possibly assuming that I'm a fifty-six and charging head-first into midlife crisis mode. In actuality, I'm twenty-six and psyched about what I just discovered on my porch. Correction...I'm excited about what I removed from my porch, ripped open and waived at my dog while he looked at me like I'm the one who licks my undercarriage eight times a day (I don't, by the way). Sweet Mary Todd Lincoln's petticoat... Readers, I just got a purchase in the mail that I actually like...

Guest Post: Babies on Leashes

Morning Readers,

      As you know, I usually don't post on Wednesdays, but that's perfect, because I've got Readers itching to throw some ideas out there. Today, I leave you with Alyssa Jordan from Columbia, GA, an upstanding citizen and mother to twin girls, who's been mulling over the idea of putting her children on a leash. Smart? You be the judge..

To Butch And Sundance On Your First Birthday

Morning Readers,

     Today is a most auspicious occasion. It was on this day, one year ago, that God gave me license to parent. Luckily, the Big Man Upstairs is easier going than the DMV. Otherwise, I'd still be alone in a cubicle, unable to communicate with the outside world, wondering why happy hour wasn't something you could celebrate all day long at your desk. So today, I mark the occasion with a note to Butch and Sundance, the little cheeseburgers who've given me a new lease on life and who are truly responsible for our blog, dear Readers.. I won't go into the whole birth story; anyone who's interested in that debacle will be able to read about it in my new book, due out the instant an agent picks me up and convinces a publisher that people really do want to read about me pro-creating. Without further ado, I give you a birthday letter:

Money, Meet My Mouth

Morning Readers,

     Covered in relish, ketchup and all matter of condiments that make hotdog-eating somewhat of a sideshow act, my dinner looked down right seductive. "I love you", I whispered. Preparing to take a Sasquatch-sized bite, I opened my mouth and instead of welcoming hot dog utopia, was promptly "shanked" in the ribs by an elbow. Husband had begun to point at someone coming up the stairs of the ballpark. "Now's your chance", he laughed. "Go one and tell him what you think." And just like that, he was staring me in the face...and I....I was armed only with a hotdog..

My Precious Fits!

Morning Readers,

    It's finally happened. A respectable guess, but no, Stephen King didn't stop by my blog, discover my overwhelming talent, ask for a copy of my manuscript, and spend all night shopping it to publishers so I could successfully sell a billion copies and move into the beach house next to him so that we could spend hours talking about the craft of writing. I mean..that would be silly right?...eh..em...
No, Readers, not a book deal, but my newest discovery makes me more tingly than the time I thought I'd pulled-off dying my hair black all by myself. Behold! My ring...*sticks out finger*...

Don't Hug Me Tree, I'll Slap You

Morning Readers,

    Finding a cockroach in your pants is a terrible feeling. How do I know? One day, somewhere in the twelfth year of my life, I attempted to put on a pair of floral, spandex biking shorts (nothing else seemed to match my Hanson t-shirt just right). The screaming started precisely the same moment the "wiggly" feeling moved from my right butt cheek, down my thigh.Tiny cockroach feet dancing on my rump, forced me to strip down, waive my shorts around and horrify the rest of my family. Don't ask me how it got there. All I know is that's the precise moment I began to hate nature. Naaatuuuree...the sound of it makes me cringe. Turns out, hate something enough and it can be inserted into your genetic code and passed on to your children.

The Other Man Makes Great Coffee

Morning Readers,

     A couple of weeks ago, I made some Sanka, coffee's second cousin. I'd been in a rush and needed something that looked and mimicked the caffeine-saturated drink I love so much, without having to wait for it to brew. The instant the hot water hit the crystals lying in the bottom of my favorite mug, I could feel it; He was staring at the back of my head. My shoulders slumped and I turned to pat his little, red top. "There there", I said. He stared back at me, because what I was doing was unkind and I knew it. Mr. Coffee and I need each other. He rolled up his cord and looked the other way.

Pity?.. Party Of One?

Morning Readers,

     Last night, I hid in my car. I crawled in to the passenger seat, put my Coors Light in the cup holder, and shut the door as tightly as I could. After which, knees pulled up to my chest, I commenced the crying of a woman who's had a really, really long week. If any of my close friends had discovered me, the natural conclusion would've been a dry-run of the family's Zombie Apocalypse survival plan (if you're wondering, after crying, I pack-up the kids, reverse the suv through the garage door and book it to the country..), but it wasn't about zombies, I was just trying to escape baby hysterics, husband frustrations, and the poor decision of giving one's children diet soda...