Resolutions

    The new year is fast approaching. It is creeping steadily towards me as my keister spreads wider from the Christmas cookie consumption competition I am currently having with Santa himself. With New Year’s only days away, in my head I’m making my tally of all the resolutions I hope not to break before February. So here is my list of do’s and don’ts for 2015.

    The fact that I am 4’9 and have the metabolism of a small hippopotamus, I vow to try and make better diet choices. As much as I wish I could have the diet of most toddlers, alas, my ass will not let that happen. Thank goodness my love of working out has let me break even over the years, my ever aging self soon will not let even that be. Let’s face it folks, being the size of most 8 year olds, with both blemishes and grey hairs is bad enough,( We aren’t going to also mention the orthodontic situations currently going on in my pie-hole) but add portly to that equation and well thats just sad. So, as stated in a previous blog, my goal is not to turn into a waif (because that just ain’t gonna happen), but to keep my ass to the scale of a Kardashian and not Momma Cass. Sure my stature has gotten me out of most solicitations that come to my door, because they ask if my mom is home. But figure maintenance when a few pounds makes a big difference is a pain in my medium large to extra large sized rear end.

    Another goal of mine is only to lose my shit two to three times a week and not daily. So when my three year old tries to rip my six year old’s throat out Rick Grimes style, I will not threaten to do that to him if he does it again. I will politely explain to him that gutting your brother with your bare hands is strongly frowned upon in this establishment. And when my six year old give me an eye roll most 14 year olds would envy, I will not threaten to pop him upside the head. But enlighten him to the fact that if he rolls his eyes back that far, he won’t see me coming. And when my six year old baits the behemoth three year old into fisticuffs and comes to me crying, i will not tell him that when he messes with the bull he’s bound to get the horns. I will tell both of them to play nice is the calmest of tones. For that matter, when my three year old yells so loudly it could burst Helen Keller’s eardrums, I will not yell louder to combat it. I will serenely ask for an inside voice, which we will quickly retort, that he doesn’t know how. I will not blow a gasket when my youngest runs naked after bath giggling that he likes when the puppy licks his “weina”. I will remind him his weina is private and doodles and everyone else are not allowed.

    And another that I have kept since the day I made my babies, that I plan on continuing, is truly enjoying the chaos that is two little boys. I will continue to refuse to correct Connor when he calls his spanish teacher Hola Debbie, even if her name is Ms. Betty. I continue to enjoy Logan’s gossip of who is on what color at school and enjoy listening to every infraction made by all of his best friends. I will continue to hold my ear up to the door of the playroom to listen to them play superheroes nicely. Hearing them yell for help as Groot or Rocket save Wolverine and Cyclops while Connor sings “Hooked on a Feeling”. I will continue to give high fives to Connor for not pissing on the wall every time he completes that mission. I will continue to cheer for Logan during soccer while simultaneously shooting lasers at that asshole six year old that shoved him on the field. Honestly, I give myself a high five for not running after that sum bitch and throwing down with said six year old. It wouldn’t be that unfair of a fight. I only got like 3 inches on him. I will always come running when my goliath screams from his room “ I WANT SNUGGLES”! I will always enjoy my big boy’s love of cuddles and movies.

   New Year’s is a time for resolutions, like maybe my Connor will finally get rid of his pacifier, or maybe he will go to college with it. Maybe this year I will be able to pee alone, or at the vary least with only a Labradoodle interloper. Or maybe I’m destined to have three pairs of eyes asking me questions every time I scurry to relieve myself. A New Year, filled with possibilities, and while I can’t promise the size of my fanny, I can promise I’m going to laugh the whole way through. Taking care of a house full of males, stupidity, loyalty, joy,and laughter will know no bounds.

Tis' The Season

Tis the season bitches. I am once again left to what I do best, survival by the skin of my teeth. While Dan is hard at work getting his farmers tan, I am left to get two kids ready for brand new schedules at two different schools, while simultaneously acclimating to having only one parent ninety percent of the time. Super fun. All of the times… 

    So, lets begin with what is going on now in the Shula household. First off we have gotten a new little puppy to join the asylum. A  cute, ridiculously furry and adorable bundle of joy. He’s smart and sweet and has the talent to poop confetti. Confused? Well, all things are edible, no matter what they are or where you put them, he will find them, eat them and then shit them out. So on the daily, as I pick up behind my little Nutella colored fluffball, I get to play ‘I Spy’. (“Oh look there is Splinters finger,” “Damn it! I knew the magic eraser didn’t just disappear,” “Son of a bitch, if didn’t tell those boys to pick up their God damn Leggos”!) Aside from the shrapnel shits, he’s brought fun and excitement that the boys just adore, but he also makes our day a little more crazy, a little more zany and much brighter. But I digress…lets now talk about a day in the life of the worst football wife in America.

     

    MORNINGS:

          

          Each morning I wake up with the intention of a Mary Poppins moment in real time. But then my little Gremlins wake up and I realize that was just a dream and my nightmare was just beginning. Breakfast is always a point of contention in my house because no matter what I make,it is EXACTLY what they did NOT want at the moment and groans and whines are just part of our good morning ritual. So with that it takes them up to 45 minutes to eat two Eggos. There is always a fight on what side of the table they sit (even though they have assigned seats), what plate, what gummie, what sippy cup… you get the picture. 

    SCHOOL:

       

        Logan’s first week went wonderfully, he’s made friends, gotten compliments in behavior and even got kissed by a girl on the playground. He told me, she told him that she wanted to tell him a secret and planted one on him. The kid is a stud what can I say. When discussing his behavior chart at school, we talked about how being a Super Hero means you were good, Side Kick you needed to be talked to on more than one occasion and Training meant that Mommy was going to be called. Then I said, “Well, you will never get Training right?” and he replays, “ No Mommy, but probably Side Kick once and a while. What can I say? Sometimes I am bad”.

   

       Connor on the other hand always keeps it interesting. Not one to be shy, by his third day he was comfortable enough to crap with the door open. Interested? Well, as the legend goes, it was the end of the day and it was story time. And the call of duty called he was unwilling to miss his favorite part of the day. So he told the teacher she could read the story loud enough so he could hear from the crapper and hold it up high enough so he could enjoy the marvelous illustrations from his porcelain thrown. So, if she didn’t raise the book high enough he would tell her so, and when she reached the optimum level, he gave her a thumbs up and a wink for a job well done. All this as he shat, I shit you not. 

 **STOMACH BUG**

       Week one into school I got to step in Connor’s shit at 1 in the morning, explain to him "why his butt is making that noise" at 1:30, watch Octonauts at 2, coax him at 2:30 to puke in the bucket and not the couch, he got extensively chatty at 3, then he remembered he owned a Kermit toy so a massive man hunt ensued at 3:30 and then more bucket holding at 4am. Then the little SOB was up by 6:30, never napped and acted like the night never happened. I thought I would take Logan to school and the rest of the day would be spend with my little muffin snuggling in bed, dozing in and out of slumber. Instead I was chasing a wild man wondering if Benedryling him would hurt his stomach.

EVENINGS:

       

      Not much, mostly because I block it out. But I do know there is fist fighting, wrestling, some light choking and a bark battle.

   But bath time is something I can’t forget, for it goes something like this.

                    

      After bathing Logan while Connor takes his signature 20 minute shit.. Logan steps out and while I am drying him off the puppy tries to lick in between his cheeks. And while fielding the inappropriate attack, Connor is snapping my underwear that is hanging out of my pants while he is still on the shitter. I paused at that moment because this is my life. I have a puppy that wants to toss salad, a 3 year old that defacates more than a 300 pound man, and an ass  so big there is not a pant in the world willing to bare its full capacity.

Monday/Saturday Same Dif.

     Summer is officially here… and with the ending of school all my days are both a Monday and a Saturday. Confused? Let me explain… With my days promptly beginning at 6 am, where I become, maid, short order cook, waste management, chauffeur, event planner and coordinator, dog walker, entertainer, tutor, detective, jungle gym, referee, ass wiper, kleenex, and whatever else my day has to offer and ends shortly before my will and sanity have no hope of returning; therefore EVERYDAY is Monday. But since getting out of my pajamas is technically not required of me… its Saturday. 

    With a long and arduous winter under our belt and a huge transition back to Florida and then the devastating passing of our beloved pet; I was ready for summer vacation.Then, it started and I remembered that vacations are for children and fathers not for mothers. With our adventurous past few months, my husband and I decided on a low key summer that I am reveling in. Playdates and a twice a week golf camp my only required events and of course, working out to keep my insanity at bay and my ass between Kim Kardashian and Momma Cass  size.

     With the lack of truly having to be anywhere at any given time, we have lost our ability to get ready in a timely fashion. Seriously, it took us seventeen minutes to put crocs on to take the poor dog for a walk. The other morning, after a torturously long attempt at breakfast, I sent my eldest upstairs to get ready while my the younger took his required bites to move on to the next task. When I came down from making beds, I was delighted to see my three year old beaming at me that he had finished not just bites but his whole plate. Rushing him upstairs, brushing teeth, and outfits picked out I was left with the task of getting myself ready. Mid-hairbrushing, I found my six year old with his pants around his ankles shuffling angrily at me that his poop was too dirty and he was tired go wiping. I told him I didn’t care if took until the next day but I was not going to wipe his ass. (I said butt to him but you get ass). Mid-wing of my eye liner I hear a scream and an “I’m Sowy” which means I am totally going to lose my shit. And there he was… pants still around his ankles but now with excriment smeared on one butt cheek, in his shoes and on the poor little fishy mat. After a hazmat-esque clean up, my winged liner looking sad from sweat I went to clean the breakfast table. There I found out that my three year old is a diabolical genius. He had smashed his mini muffins into little pancakes and secured them underneath his plate so it layed perfectly flat. And that my friends is a typical morning in the Shula house.

     Summer is here and the living ain’t easy but it is highly entertaining. Whether it’s my three year old trying to choke the life out of my six year old or my six year old telling me that his brother “ legitimately needs a zipper for his mouth”…my days are never boring, and neither are my reactions to some of the said behavior. I feel as though I might actually look like a cartoon character as I yell so loudly I can legit feel my eyes bugging out of my head and I can read the cartoon bubbles over my boys head that read “ Well, we did it. We drove the bitch over the edge. Secret high five. Lets do it again tomorrow”.

      

Fit to be tied. Life with a the Hulk at age 3.

      Every night before I go to sleep I quietly sneak into each of the boys' rooms and check on them. And each night I think what amazingly perfect human beings I have created, angels on earth that smell of sweat, spit and sweet sleep… that smell could melt the iciest of hearts, and is my one true addiction. (even more than chocolate and coffee) But then they wake and I think what the hell am I doing?! These things are evil and are sure to kill each other or me before adulthood. This is the cautionary tale of an angel baby turned to satan's spawn with in a three month span and there is nothing one can do about it because he is that dreaded age…. Not the terrible twos people, but the Lucifer Threes.

    Upon looking at my teddy bear about to be three year old, one would be disarmed by his thick build, giant mouth formed in an enormous grin, and his cavemanesqe way of talking. And most of the time he is an absolute joy, telling me I am bootyful and his gentle love for all things furry. He is my not so mini me and my partner in crime, and sometimes I think I will have to bail him out of jail before he hits the double digits in age. Lets now give you some examples.

Once we went to a birthday party where the birthday boy was not Connor's biggest fan, after a few "accidental" elbows and pushes in the bounce house, Connor was willing to let bygones be bygones… That is, until said birthday boy took his beloved old school Ninja Turtle trucker hat, a hat he had not taken off his head in a month. That is when shit got real, and Connor saw red. After a solid right hook and and intervention from his big brother, that hat was recovered but his temper was not. He would walk around with his shoulders up by his ears and his face scrunched and his fists in balls asking, "Where that wittle guy. I gonna get him". That little guy was double his age and height but no matter when you are the incredible Hulk. He spent the remainder of the party dragging they boy out of his bounce house by the legs and telling anyone who would listen his devious plan to annihilate his foe who had far forgoten the altercation.

      Another fact about my son, is that he is more than willing to give you a run down of all the bad behavior he plans on doing, before he does it. He sees a boy with a toy he wants, he comes and tells me he wants it. I tell him he has to wait his turn and that he needs to share. He says, " I just hit him and then I can get it". Mama don't play that and yet he looks shocked when I tell him no EVERY TIME and it happens more often than I care to admit. He legitamitly doesn't understand why he is not allowed to tear his brothers face off after Logan takes a toy that he wants, or why he is not allowed to hit me. Once he was spanked for hitting me, after the timeout I told him that hitting mommy was not allowed and he need to apologize. With tears in his eyes and sniffles baiting his breath he said, " But I weally want to Momma!"

    Connor with his colossal kisser is the loudest human being in recent history. When he is happy he is loud, when he is sad he is loud and when he his angry he could make your ear drums burst. His new found fits is something that Bruce Banner would marvel at, and I don't think it is a coincidence that the Hulk is his favorite of all the super heroes. When he is in the throws of his anger that is no talking or reasoning with him. And when we are home alone, I quietly sit back and let him at it, punishments come after he has shrunk back to his normal size. But when you are in the middle of Sunday mass and your kid is the one yelling and acting a fool, and you respond by saying "Jesus is watching and you're making him very sad by being a bad boy" and he responds in the loudest of voices, " I DON'T WIKE JESUS, I DON'T WANT JESUS TO COME TO MY HOUSE!!!" It makes you want to scootch away from him and look around and shrug your shoulders and just ask the people around you where this kid's parents are.

          Before I had children I would be in a public place and see some poor shmuck with some asshole kid making an absolute scene. I was in amazement that that person couldn't get there kid to lock it up and now I am the shmuck with one or two assholes surely being judged. But just know if you are that shmuck in the Target line… know there will be no judging from me; just a look saying I feel ya. The Hulk, Dr. Jekel and Mr. Hyde are all wrapped inside most three year olds… They are the cutest and the funniest little humans you will ever meet and yet if you aren't careful they will cut you. Parenting is a blood sport and not for the faint of heart. And having three year olds, especially 3 year old boys is in a class all on its own. There will be nothing else that will tear your into all extremes, happiness, anger, desperation and above it all enchantment. They are only little for a fleeting moment, so why not laugh at the insanity that is my day to day with these little precious monsters.

And there we see the Hulk emmerging 

Road Trip Road Rage

Greetings from sunny Florida. We have arrived, by the skin of our teeth and by the edge of my sanity… we are here. 

Our adventure began a week ago when Dan finally made it back to Illinois. And with him came boxes piling up and furniture being sold, I think the boys finally grasped what was happening, and they were not willing to go down without a fight. Although I couldn't blame them for the upheaval they unleashed on us, our faculties didn't seem to care. When it wasn't a full on a assault of whining and brazen lack of listening, we were also refereeing when they turned on each other. Listening to a twenty minute screaming match in which a five year old and a two year old disagree on whether or not they are truly in fact brothers will crack even the most sound of minds. ("NO YOU ARE NOT MY BRODER CONNAH!" "YET I AM YOGAN!") Rough as it was the dust eventually settled and after many brutal goodbyes, the road trip was in full effect.

The first day was truly a success. Nothing to report, our timed stops went without a hitch and so did the evening; truly i barely remember it happening. While the apocalypse was looming, the unimaginable happened half way into day 1 of our 20 hour trip… OUR DVD PLAYER DIED and along with it a little bit of my heart. Our first stop in Tennessee was to the local Target to acquire a new DVD player, or AKA the lifeline of children's road trips. Crisis averted. Day 2 began with a fight on which movie they would watch on their new device. The two year old creature with the attention span of a cracked out Jack Russell wanted to change movies every 90 seconds for the first three hours… and let us know loudly in a variation of different animal mating sounds or maybe alley cat warning mews… I don't know exactly how to describe it but I will tell you I hear it in my nightmares. The next four hours after DVD drama, were spent fighting his nap. After squeezing myself awkwardly into the middle seat (thanking the good Lord for my pocket sized stature) and cuddling, fielding hair pulls and snot in my eyes, and Shh Shh Shhing until I thought I might pass out to no avail. And even when my mom of the year moment of some giving  "night night juice" (benedryl) made not a dent. I  began to assume that he was just possessed or the Incredible Hulk. I fought the urge to give myself some night night juice to quell the noise but he finally dozed off thirty minutes before reaching our final destination. That meant that i got to spend an extra hour in the car awkwardly cradling a 37 pound sleeping rattlesnake, although said rattlesnake is rather delicious to hold, I couldn't feel my arms for an hour afterwards. Day three was better, we got to see some of my favorite people on earth on the way down, which brightened up my weary spirits… The boys enjoyed attention from a sweet nine year old boy who is basically a god in the eyes of my five year old. 

Once back in our home town anxiously awaited by ecstatic grandparents, Dan took me to our new home. Joy would not do what I felt justice. Its a beautiful little house, in a beautiful little neighborhood and it is all ours. I am beyond elated that there will be no more goodbyes said to my children by my husband. Everyone is working so hard to make our little house a beautiful home (especially my mom) and I could not be more thankful. My son started his new school and I could not be prouder of how he is handling this transition, and my other one is in the midst of his terrible twos but at least he is an incredibly adorable monster. I can't wait to keep you all in the loop of our next adventures. Thank you for reading. 

The More Things Change….

       The past three weeks I have experienced many changes, many of which are extremely bittersweet. My husband has been blessed with a new job in a higher devision of football! And if that weren't wonderful enough, it is in our home town. But, this incredible blessing comes with its own set of challenges. He received this job the week before Christmas and was gone before the New Year. And gone he has stayed. So, here I sit waiting for his return, waiting for our new life to start and absolutely dreading the good byes we will all have to make. But the sappy good bye blog is on its way and it is not this one. This one is to tell you, although my husband is busy learning the ins and out of his new football team, he is in a tropical climate, having lunches and dinners with family and friends.     I am here.

Since he has been gone I have been through a winter break with two children, a snow storm, a winter vortex in which my entire town was shut down for two days, and then just normal everyday life, all of which I have needed an old priest and a young priest, my neighbors, friends and ice cream to get through. My children have had me within an inch of my sanity for almost three weeks now and I thought I would share their antics.

Bath time seems to be when things literally and figuratively go to shit. If its not my youngest neither shitting nor getting off the pot for twenty minutes before bath and then complaining that his feet are asleep, it's my eldest who happily times his flatulence to hit my hand or my face while I towel him off. The peak of insanity and hilarity is when Connor, my two year old, while in the tub, informed me that I had a big booty. I agreed. Then he continued this pleasant conversation by telling me i also had a large weenie… that is when I took issue. I informed him that I did not have a weenie of any size. To which my five year old chimed in by explaining to his brother that I peed out of my butt. So there in I had to have a talk about my lady business with a five year old and two year old males. As you can imagine, I don't think anything sank in.

 
If it is not my two and five year old giving me a run for my money, its my twelve and ten year old dogs. Let me explain, in his youth, Gizmo was the most obedient and wonderfully spoiled dog in the entire world. But now that he's twelve he has decided to wipe his ass with me and not listen to anything I have to say. Granted he is getting a little deaf, but when you see a panda bear-esque shih tzu staring you dead in the eye while stands in the middle of the yard giving you the finger in negative degree weather it does something to your soul.I don't care if he's in the record books for deafness or age, it makes me see red. And then there is Harley, who might be one of the most adorable little dogs you have ever seen, and yet, also the biggest asshole to ever walk this earth. He takes forty minutes to do anything outside; rain, sleet, blizzard, heat wave, you name it and the bastard takes his time. And then when he comes in he wiggles around and sighs like he is saying, "man that was rough". He also is a part time anorexic, and since Gizmo is a full time glutton, Harley is banished to the laundry room until his food gets eaten. He barks every ten minutes until he finishes which can take hours. (I make him stay in there because when he waits to long to eat he pukes and true to fashion he always finds a nice clean rug.)

Don't get me wrong, I feel incredibly lucky. We are moving back to where all of our family is and I am very excited about that. But while I have boogers stuck to most of my body, and I am playing the "is it poop or chocolate" game, while I freeze my ass off calling for dogs that don't come and my husband calls to tell he is going for a quick run, or a quick bite to eat with friends, I realize, he is just a little more lucky than I am. I tell him daily that his life is infinitely easier than mine. And it is HE not I that hit the jack pot. After all, who is the one with the four nine potty mouthed wife, that can't cook and is beyond the edge of reason most days. If life is a box of chocolates he picked the nuttiest fun sized one in the bunch.