Rachel Callahan

SurveyMommy.

January 18, 2012January 17, 2012 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Survey Says. . ., Utter Silliness

I went on a second date the other day.

It was nerve-wracking, because we had been hooked up over one of those internet sites for months – you know the type I’m talking about?

No, not a dating site – geez, people. One of those Mommy blog things.

Anyway, so blind dates are scary enough, but living up to the expectations of who you say you are on the internet? That’s panic inducing.

(Especially since I am approximately 87% more boring In Real Life than I am on paper. My brain just doesn’t work fast enough to prevent me from being awkward when experienced In Real Time.)

(For instance, someone introduced themselves to me the other day.

“Hi, I’m Anna!”

“Hi!”

…And then there was a long silence…

“Oh! I’m Rachel!”

Yeah…like I said, Awkward.)

Anyway. So my second date. We brought our kids along, so it was hard to get conversation in edgewise, but we managed shreds and crumbs of the stuff.

Which really, leads to quite a conundrum – because every bit of conversation I have in a new relationship then has to be broken down and analyzed for the remainder of the day to see what I said that was stupid, what might have offended, what might have come across as arrogant, or what might have come across as obsessive-compulsive acute paranoia.

(That last one would actually be true. Err, obviously…)

So anyway, as I sat at home pondering my every word and movement, I considered how nice it would be if I could simply send one of those customer satisfaction surveys to my new (In Real Life) Mommy friend. Surely she wouldn’t mind taking it, right?

It would go something like this…

Hi! Thank you so much for your recent outing with our family! We would appreciate it if you could take the time to fill out a short survey about your experiences to help improve our friendship services. When you complete your survey, you will be entered into a drawing to win a $50 gift card to a store you never go to!

(And you will be bludgeoned with offers of “free” magazine subscriptions presented as a token of our appreciation, but we’re really trying to snag your credit card number and auto-renew your subscription for the rest of your life.)

Thank you for your time! It is very important to us!

1. How would you rate the cleanliness of our family?

a. It’s painfully obvious that you only bathe your children twice a week.

b. They were okay, but there was some serious peanut butter stainage on the corners of Ali’s mouth. And since you hadn’t had lunch yet, I’m assuming it was leftover from yesterday.

c. I was pretty impressed at how undirty they looked – I actually expected much worse, considering that you only bathe your children twice a week.

d. They were practically sparkling!! Today must have been bath day.

2. Did you feel that my children treated your children with mutual respect and friendliness?

a. Did you not see your baby haul off and hit my kid?? No way was that a sippy cup accident!!

b. I would have preferred if your baby hadn’t handed his toy car to my baby after gleefully sucking on it for five minutes. By the way, does your baby have a strange and contagious rash on his right buttcheek?

c. Your kids never even looked at my kids!! Is that what you call respect at your house?

d. It was obvious that you bribed your kids with some unimaginably delectable treat.

3. What was your level of satisfaction with the Mommy conversations that occurred between wiping poopy butts and settling toy ownership disputes?

a. Conversation? You call that conversation??

b. I would have preferred you to have not used the poop-covered wet wipe as a part of your hand motions in that story you were telling while changing a diaper.

c. I now have no doubt that you have a blog ghost-writer. You were about as interesting as a saltine cracker topped with a rice cake.

d. You talked so much that you didn’t even notice when Noah picked a booger out of my baby’s nose and ate it. Thanks for that.

4. What is the likelihood that you will choose our Mommy Playdate services again?

a. Seriously?? You’ll be lucky if I don’t unfriend you on Facebook after today.

b. I’ll consider it, but only if we go somewhere that my children can stay strapped in and safe from the reach of your children’s slimy germs.

c. I’m up for any Mommy Date I can get my hands on – I’m not too ashamed to say I’m desperate.

d. I can’t wait to meet again! …just as soon as my kid recovers from his right buttcheek rash.

Thank you for taking the time to fill out our survey!! You will now be redirected to a dozen different pages expressing our appreciation! Oh – and don’t wait by your mailbox for that gift card – you don’t think people actually win those, do you??

Coexist.

January 16, 2012October 30, 2013 Rachel Callahan A Bit More Vulnerable Than I Usually Am, On a more serious note. . ., Pop Post

I watched as a young mom was pummeled for her choices. A steady stream of other mothers came by the blog on which she had posted her story to inform her of how horrifyingly awful she was. How heartbroken they were for her child. How selfish and unloving she was. How wrong she was going about this whole mothering business.

It quickly became obvious from the round-robin punches they were throwing that not only did they find it necessary to attack this woman repeatedly, but they had recruited their like-minded friends to join in on the brutal assault.

If you could read just the tone of the dozens of comments, you would think that the mother in question was on the road to becoming the next Casey Anthony.

But she wasn’t being negligent.

She wasn’t being abusive.

She wasn’t mistreating her child.

She was simply and vulnerably sharing her story about making a decision that countless mothers have to make every single day – she was explaining why she had chosen to quit breastfeeding.

Sadly, this form of mother-on-mother attack isn’t an isolated occurrence. I have seen this happen time and time again, both on the internet with venomous persistence and in real life with sugary coated condescension. Whether it’s about breastfeeding or schooling choices or vaccinations or medicated birthing or any other one of the myriad of decisions that we have to make as mothers, our culture has bred an environment of judgment and derision.

But as easy as it is to spot these overt and nasty attacks, I must face the fact that I myself am just as guilty.

Maybe I keep it inside, judging other mothers for not doing what I would do in a particular situation. Or worse, maybe I talk to my husband or closest of friends about it.

I am those women.

I may not often force my opinions on others, but that doesn’t exonerate me. And I’m horrified and devastated when I think of the times that my “help” could have come across as judgment.

Motherhood is the most rewarding job in the world, but it’s also the hardest. It’s excruciating, exhausting, back-breaking labor that takes every ounce of strength that we have – mental, physical, and emotional. And it doesn’t care that we have at least a dozen other priorities that also need some of bit of our vaporous energy – motherhood wants it all.

And it’s impossibly hard to figure out at times. It’s like that recurring dream where you’re taking your final exam and realize that you haven’t been to a single class or opened your textbook all semester. As you stare at the test, you realize that you have no idea what a single right answer could even possibly be.

And then there’s Mommy Guilt. It seems that no matter how many Awesome Mommy Points we earn in a given day, the one moment that we completely fail in will haunt us indefinitely and steal our hard-fought victories.

When you compound these things by other mother’s judgments, or even the fear of other’s judgments, it’s a miracle that any of us make it out of this job with any shred of sanity or self-confidence left.

But the irony is, even though we’re all scared out of our wits when it comes to our own choices and actions, we think we’ve got everyone else’s issues completely figured out.

My husband has learned well what I want from him when discussing a problem or issue. “I don’t need you to problem solve right now. I just need you to listen.” This should apply to mother-to-mother communication as well. Sure, sometimes we actually want advice. But what we all need more of is to feel true camaraderie and support from other mothers, the only other people who can really understand the myriad of choices that we’re forced to make every day.

We need to remember that the path of motherhood is a fingerprint – no two are ever going to look the same. Every groove making up each print has it’s own unique twists and turns – children’s personalities, financial situation, living situation, needs of everyone in the family, the past…it’s completely erroneous to assume that what works for me will automatically and with certainty work for you.

Does this mean we can’t have a sense of humor with each other? Most certainly not. Over-compensating can lead to walking on eggshells, and walking on eggshells leads to shallow, insincere relationships. We need to be sincere and we need to be lighthearted, but the underpinnings always need to be support.

Here is the pledge that I am taking – I will try my hardest to do these things whenever I am talking to another mother:

1. Listen – Really listen. Hear what they’re saying and what they’re not saying. I won’t interrupt to talk over them. I will just listen.
2. Encourage – I will share with other mothers where I see them excelling, compliment their amazing strengths, and encourage them in their paths.
3. Discern – I will only offer advice if someone directly asks for it. Otherwise, I will go back to steps one and two.
4. Accept – I will appreciate the fact that other people’s lives and choices won’t – and shouldn’t – look just like mine. Choices are out there for a reason – we need them.

Please join me on a quest to support, a quest to love, a quest to…

Lurker Appreciation!

January 13, 2012January 12, 2012 Rachel Callahan I'm a Blog Geek

Today is National Delurking Day, which is the only national blogging holiday that I look forward to every year with great(!!) excitement(!!)

(That could be because it’s the only national blogging holiday. But still.)

My favorite part of blogging is the relationships with you guys. And being that I’m so not a narcissist and yet I still have to do most of the talking around here, I relish the days when it’s all about you instead of me, me, and more me.

But this year, I love it even more.

At some point during the past twelve months, I had an epiphany: I REALLY appreciate my lurkers. About 80% of you have never said a single word to me – something that used to completely baffle me. But all of a sudden, I realized how cool it was that there are actually people out there that would come read my blog regularly, and maybe even find it marginally interesting, without a single bit of personal interaction, ever.

(It kinda shocks me, actually – I don’t know that I’d read my blog if I didn’t talk to myself.)

So today is more than just asking you to say hi, it’s also a day for me to say thank you.

No seriously – thank you!

Thanks for being interested in the ridiculously frivolous fluff with which I crowd the internet (and the occasional slightly more dense stuff), thanks for keeping on coming back even when I write a really stupid post or ten, and thanks for being a part of our life.

So. If you don’t want to say hi today or, like, ever, I’m totally cool with that. Because I am celebrating you (yes you!!), and appreciating your odd and inexplicable interest in reading this unnecessary corner of the internet.

But if you do want to say hi, today is your day!!

If you’re new around here and haven’t gotten a chance to introduce yourself yet, or if you say hello only on this day each year (I love you people!!), or if you’ve never said a word to me, I am now metaphorically handing you the microphone.

And if you don’t know what to say, here are a few burning questions that you’re welcome to answer, if you like:

1. Where are you from? What is something super fascinating about your city?

2. What’s the most awesome (aka most horrifying) stereotype you’ve ever heard about Alabamians? Or…what stereotype have I disproven (or proven) about Alabama?

3. What are your favorite blogs to read?

4. Do you have Armadillos where you’re from? Have you ever seen an armadillo? If not, I am so jealous of you. Do you have giant flying cockroaches? If not, I’m moving to your state.

Please accept this post as a token of my extreme gratitude to you – for sticking around even when I talk about vomit and poo. And when I rhyme the words “you” and “poo”.

Happy Delurking Day!

The Stages of Blog Failure Emotions.

January 12, 2012January 12, 2012 Rachel Callahan I'm a Blog Geek, Just My Luck

So yesterday during the kid’s naptimes, (also known as my only work time), my blog went down.

Like, DOWN down.

Like, so down that I couldn’t even get to my admin page down.

And then – it stayed down. For sixteen hours.

One can go through a lot of emotions in sixteen hours.

1. Denial. No – it’s not down. My computer is just screwed up. Let’s try it on my iPhone.

2. Franticness. It’s not coming up on my iPhone either! Maybe this other computer? Maybe the iPad? Maybe I could walk over to my neighbor’s house and try it there? An internet café, maybe!! Maybe I should call one or ten friends to see if they can get it to come up?

3. Horror. Oh. It’s DOWN down. Like baby get low, low, low, low on the dance floor down.

4. Re-Denial. Surely this will only last for a few minutes. Surely it will pop up any second now…

5. Worst Case Scenarioing. What if I’ve been hacked again? What if my site is being used for a giant offshore banking scheme? What if my URL is currently being utilized to swindle people out of millions of dollars in order that they may accept their fifteen billion dollar inheritance from a fake African Prince?

6. Mass Pleas for Help. Surely someone can help me. Email my hosting company. Email WordPress. Email Vaultpress. Email random dude who once helped me with my blog problems. Email the Pope. Email Barack. Email Nostradamus. Email Honey Badger.

7. Attempted Ignoring. Go do something else. Anything else. Perhaps the dishes. Or mop the floors. Or slowly pluck out every hair on my left arm. ANYTHING.

8. Shame. Obviously this whole blog thing is too important to me. I must quit immediately before it overtakes and swallows me whole. Yes, blogging must end. Maybe this is goodbye.

9. Justification. No, it’s okay to be upset about a hobby that you love. I bet that dude with the world’s largest aluminum foil ball would be pretty torn up if someone came and chopped a side off of it.

10. Suspicion. Who hacked my blog?? Did YOU hack my blog?? No – it was YOU!! I just knew you really hated me deep down on the inside!!

11. Back of the Mind Consumption. Okay. The kids are awake. It’s still not up, but it’s time to get back to real life… even if I can’t forget what has happened.

12. Semi-Relief. Here’s an email from the hosting company – my server is messed up. They’re fixing it as fast as they can. At least I know that it wasn’t an evil Bangladeshian Hacker.

13. Sleep. Sleep will make it all better. Surely when I wake, all will be right in the world.

14. Dreams. It’s back up!! It’s back down. It’s back up!! Leonard Nemoy is eating it. A Brazilian Caterpillar is dancing on my server!! Whoa – is that Kung Fu Panda dancing across my blog?

15. Inability to Face Reality. I think I’ll hit snooze one more time – I’m not ready to find out the fate of my attitude today.

16. Re-Shame. Snooze… what kind of awful person am I that I don’t want to get out of bed because I’m afraid my blog is still down??? Must quit blogging immediately.

17. Wary Joy. It’s back up – for reals. Or is it? I will never feel secure in my bloghood again.

(If you’re still having trouble with it, let me know. Or don’t – you might send me back into The Tailspin of Blog Angst.)

Price As Marked.

January 11, 2012January 12, 2012 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, It's Tough Being a Girl, Just My Luck, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend

Friday night…

“You should get the Grouper. You love Grouper, and it’s the catch of the day!!”

I scowled at him. “Are you kidding? It says ‘Market Price’!! I totally don’t know how much that is!”

“Oh come on. You can ask if you’re that hung up about it. I’m sure it’s about the same price as all of the other entrees.”

“Nope. I’ll just get something else.”

Saturday morning…

“Didn’t you want to get some strawberries for the kids? Here they are.”

I looked all around. “Yes, but… I don’t see the price anywhere. I’ll just wait.”

“You’ve really got a complex about this whole shampoo thing, don’t you?”

I calmly promised. “Mark my words. I will never buy anything. Ever again. Without knowing the price first.”

Backing up to Friday morning…

I needed more shampoo and conditioner.

I went to my favorite salon store to browse through their half-off room.

(Being that I have long, thin, easily breakable hair, I find it necessary to use nice shampoo in order to keep it from looking like four-day-old roadkill. And since Chris is the one who insists that I keep it long, he gives me an unlimited hair product budget.)

(However, I do all of our bills and budget, and I can’t stand paying full price for much of anything, hence my obsession with the half-off room.)

I didn’t have the kids with me, so I decided to go ahead and stock up for a few months while I had full use of all of my limbs. I found a couple of conditioners that would work, but I was having trouble finding a shampoo that was color-safe. I picked up a bottle that said it was perfect for every type of hair and every follicular need.

Sure it is. I’m sure they all say that.

However, it looked promising, so I took it – despite the fact that it didn’t seem to have a price marked.

That’s okay – all liter bottles of salon shampoo cost about the same – $30 full price, $15 half price. I’m sure it’s right around there somewhere.

I took all of my products up front. I asked the girl at the counter (who had excitedly tried to help me when I came in so as to earn her commission) if she thought that the shampoo would be okay on color treated hair.

She half-laughed, and said, “Oh yeah. It will be just fine.”

I puzzled over her laughter, but let it go.

She rang up all of my products, and as I had my hand mid-air to swipe my card, she called out my total.

Unfortunately, by the time my brain registered the too-big-to-be-on-Sesame-Street number she had just spoken, my hand had already completed the swiping motion.

“Whoa. Wait a minute – that sounds way too high.”

“Hm…”

She handed me my receipt.

“A HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS!?!? What in the world was a hundred and fifty dollars???”

“Nothing was. But that shampoo was originally $150 – you only paid $75. It’s the most expensive thing we’ve ever carried in this store. It’s probably the most expensive shampoo in the world. That’s why they quit making it.”

“I don’t want a hundred and fifty dollar shampoo! I want to return it.”

“It was seventy-five dollars. And you can’t return it. (she motioned to the ‘NO RETURNS OR EXCHANGES’ sign behind her) But I know a few people who use it, and they say it’s awesome!!”

“No. I. Do. Not. Want. That. Shampoo. I haven’t left the store, and I barely finished my purchase before I said I didn’t want it. There has to be something you can do.”

“Well…since you haven’t left the store…I guess I can exchange it for some other products.”

“Oh good grief – I’m going to have shampoo for a year. Maybe next time you might consider telling someone that it’s the most expensive shampoo in the world before they buy it?”

“I guess so…”

That wasn’t very convincing.

I left my two week’s worth of groceries shampoo up front and went to find reasonable things to exchange it for, carefully checking all prices first. I came back with a gigantic armful of hair care to equal the amount of that sinfully expensive bottle.

“Look how much shampoo you were able to get!! Isn’t that great?”

Yes.

So great.

Because I totally planned on coming in here and dropping that kind of cash today.

Thank you SO much for your awesome help.

Enjoy your commission – buy the Catch of the Day on me.

‘Twas The Night Before Her Birthday…

January 10, 2012January 9, 2012 Rachel Callahan Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

Some of you are about to gasp in horror at my detached and neglectful parenting. Others will congratulate me in complete awe of my remarkably inspiring accomplishment.

Are you ready? Here it is.

I made it 4 years and 364 days without ever sleeping in one of my children’s beds or ever having one of them sleep in mine.

And now I know why.

3:30 AM Sunday Morning: Chris and I jumped up at the jarring sounds of screaming and crying and “I NEED TO THROW UP!!!!”

Although those words can bring terror on a parent’s soul quicker than finding out that your daughter is aware of who Justin Bieber is, it IS a nice parenting milestone when your kid recognizes the need to puke before they find themselves satiating said need.

(Ali does not, yet, know who he is. I quiz her every now and then just to make sure. I live in dread of the days when I can’t get “Oh Baby, baby baby..OHHH” out of my head.)

My middle of the night horror was compounded by recalling the fact that Ali’s birthday was the next day. My mind began reeling with all of the plans that would have to be cancelled, family that would have to be called, and food that would go uneaten as I sprinted to attempt to aim the vomit into an appropriate receptacle.

As I began re-planning our weekend on the bathroom floor, Ali stood, screaming and crying, as she hunched over the toilet.

“My tummy hurts SOOO bad!!!”

Nothing happened, besides the inordinate amount of screaming and moaning.

Cue irrational fears of appendicitis. Or intestinal blockage. Or some rare and unheard of stomach disease that causes unending feelings of impending puke.

My compassion for her and my guilt over her sickness on the eve of her fifth birthday clouded my judgment.

“Would you like for me to sleep in your bed with you?”

“Yes, please!”

I positioned a trash can on her side of the bed, retrieved my pillow and wedged myself between her and the wall.

Then I remembered that she was still using my childhood mattress.

As she moaned, I rubbed her back and felt my own back seize up in pain from the obviously expired mattress. I began wondering where you could buy a mattress at four in the morning…

After an hour of moaning and writhing, she finally began the descent into Vomiting Hades.

Wipe up child. Wipe out child’s hair (no point in washing it yet). Change trash bag. Wipe up vomit that missed the mark. Remove horrific trash bag before the odor makes me do the same. Get child comfortable back in bed. Try to find room for myself in same tiny bed.

I waited until Ali had been snoring for about a half an hour. I had been lying as still as possible and as uncomfortably as a Honey Badger beneath a pile of Crimson.

I very gingerly crawled over Ali and escaped to my own bed. With a refreshed sigh of contentment, I sank into the comfort of my own mattress, which made me feel more guilty about the horrible quality of Ali’s. Must remedy soon.

Right as I dozed off, crying commenced.

More vomit? OhPleaseNo.

I jumped up and sprinted into her room.

“Do you need to throw up again?”

“No! (sob) I missed you (sob) because you said you would (sniff sniff) sleep with me!”

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get comfortable and you were asleep. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“YES!! (shame-heaping-sob) You hurt my feelings. (sooooob) I NEED you to sleep with me – I feel really bad!!”

Now triply Guilt-stricken – by sickness, by her birthday, and by her irreparably damaged feelings, I retrieved my pillow, told Chris to get some good sleep so I that could sleep the entire next day, and headed back to my incarceration of discomfort.

Somehow I managed to doze off despite my state of being squeezed into a space that only an eight year old girl could fit in. And I am positive that it was no coincidence that I dreamed that I was Christian Siriano.

But sleep didn’t last long.

Knee to the pelvic bone.

I readjusted to escape from the violence. My right arm was stretched out above my head in a zero-blood-flow position as there was no room for it anywhere else.

Doze…

Slap to the face.

I moved further. My back was halfway on her bed and halfway atop the pile of stuffed animals that filled the hole between her bed and the wall. Meanwhile, she had at least two miles between her and the other side of the bed.

Doze…

Elbow to the rib cage.

I finally gave up on sleep. I lay there thinking that this must be what it feels like to be in a toothpick press. Do they make toothpicks in a press? Ooh – those pirate sword toothpicks are cool. I wonder if this is what it feels like to sleep on a Pirate Ship bunk? No…they had hammocks – that would be much more comfortable.

I peered through the doorframe. I could see daylight, but it was faint. It must be around six in the morning.

I contemplated my escape.

I leaned forward. Ali leaned up, eyes still closed.

I leaned back. Ali leaned back.

I leaned forward. She leaned up and looked at me.

I whispered, “I’m going to see what time it is. I’ll be back.”

She laid back down.

I headed into my room, where Chris was sitting in a chair. I looked at the clock.

9:48 AM.

Whaaa?

Apparently, I sleep while compacted better than I think I do.

Epilogue: Ali is completely better, except for missing her birthday and all. A makeup birthday is in the works. No one else has caught Ali’s scurvy yet, but my Zofran and Ponytail are awaiting me – just in case.

Celebrating Five With Tradition.

January 8, 2012January 8, 2012 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, The Blissfulness of Life

All holidays and birthdays in my family are opportunities to re-tell the same embarrassing stories over and over again. And they always seem to be about me.

(Did my brothers never do anything story-worthy?!?)

And despite the ridiculous repetition of these stories, someone always inexplicably acts like they haven’t heard it before so that it can continue it’s tradition in getting recounted endlessly.

“Hey, do you know what we did when Rachel was little and refused to eat Turkey at Thanksgiving?”

“No! What?”

“Before we brought the turkey out of the kitchen, we’d fix her a special plate of “chicken”. She always loved it!”

Ha ha.

“Hey! Do you know that one time Rachel got so mad that she flung her older brother across the yard?”

“No! Really??”

“Yeah. She got disciplined for something, so she went outside and kicked the cat in anger. So she got disciplined for that, and she went back outside, saw JC on her Big Wheel, and in a rage, yanked him off and threw him across the yard.”

“Seriously? How old was she – like ten?”

“No – she was about three.”

Thanks for sharing. For the fiftieth time.

So, it seems fitting to me that my daughter should be passed the reigns of humiliation for her fifth birthday.

She is now, after all, of significant age.

(Not that she’ll be embarrassed now, but she certainly will be one day.)

And surely everyone is finally tiring of hearing the same old stories about me.

SURELY.

Ali is not just a rule follower – she is a rule WORSHIPPER.

She told us the other day as she sighed in delight, “I just LOVE rules.”

Due to this personality quirk, she tends to overextend rules beyond their useful value and make logical jumps to apply rules to other things in similar ways.

Which leads to the story today.

We’ve been having some issues in our household with politeness. Ali has become highly conversational about bodily functions of all types, creating some awkward situations, especially when we’re in public.

“Excuse me!! I just tooted!!! Do you smell my toot??”

“MOMMY!! I smell something STINK-Y!! Somebody definitely tooted!! Who do you think it was?”

So we’ve begun politeness boot camp – for both her and her Daddy, who may or may not be the impetus of the problem.

…let’s not talk as much about toots and burps.

…let’s excuse ourselves quietly, rather than vibrating our explanation off of the rafters.

…let’s cover our mouths when we burp.

And so, in full Ali fashion, she has begun practicing these rules with vigor and vim.

And instead of loudly exclaiming her excuses, she now loudly exclaims her following of the new rules.

And, as Chris and I suspected that she might do, she chose to draw a logical conclusion to extend the last rule.

She was sitting politely. All of a sudden, she hopped up, covered her butt with her hand and quietly said “excuse me!!”

Then proceeded to explain.

“Mommy, I’m going to ALWAYS cover my mouth when I burp and I’m going to ALWAYS cover my bum when I toot.”

“Um, you don’t have to cover your bum when you toot, honey.”

“Why not? I’m supposed to cover my mouth when I burp, so I should have to cover my bum when I toot, too!!”

“Well, it’s just weird. And it doesn’t seem very hygienic.”

“Well I want to. So I always will.”

Later that night, as she was going through the bedtime routine with Chris, she informed him of the new changes.

“Hey Daddy? There’s something that I want you to do.”

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

“I want you to cover your bum when you toot. Actually, I want EVERYONE to cover their bums when they toot from now on.”

Who knows? Maybe she’ll start a trend. But if she does, I’m forsaking the trend of handshakes.

And, now that I’ve properly embarrassed you,

Happy Birthday, Ali!!

January 8, 2007…

1 Year Old…

2 Years Old…

3 Years Old…

4 Years Old…

5 Years Old.

…And may you continue your obsessive rule-following ways throughout your teenage years.

A Romance Story.

January 5, 2012January 4, 2012 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, A Day in the Life, Every Now and Then I Can Be Sappy Too., The Blissfulness of Life, Toddlers: The Experience

Dear Googly-Eyed Romantic Datey Couple sitting at the next table over at Zoës,

Thank you for enjoying my baby boy as he made faces, giggled, smiled charmingly, and in general flirted with you. I was honored to contribute to your holding of the hands and dreamily gazing into each other’s eyes, imagining such a creature of your own somewhere in the future.

After all, I’m sure it doesn’t look like it from your end, but it wasn’t so long ago that Chris and I were dreaming those very same dreams as we watched other people’s children do adorable things.

So it is with the deepest sincerity that I apologize for him choosing that moment to noisily and revoltingly gag on his crammed-full throat o’ fruit.

I am also sorry that you had to watch, horrified, as I calmly beat his back with one hand while positioning the other under his mouth in anticipation of what was to come.

Furthermore, I apologize that you had to lose your appetite for both food and romance while watching him upchuck giant fistfuls of fruit, tossed in a fresh au jus of saliva, directly into my hand.

I’m sure it wasn’t pleasant to watch me dump my handful of gag into an empty fruit cup, then immediately return to using that same hand to cut up the rest of his dinner.

(Yes, my hand did smell a little funky. Thanks for caring.)

He didn’t, I’m sure, add to the enjoyment of the envisioning of your future when he took the amount of au jus he had managed to swipe for himself and very methodically mousse his hair with it.

Nor did I, by going about my business and eating my dinner – again with my slightly putrid hand.

So anyway, since I wasn’t too helpful with my dinner illustration, I thought I would answer some questions about your future.

Yes, this is exactly what that googly-eyed romance leads to.

No, it’s not always like this.

In fact, he almost always prefers to noisily poo during dinner instead.

But really. I know that getting an eyeful of that particular reality wasn’t exactly encouraging of your romantic notions, but when it’s puke coming from your own creation, as a result of your own googly-eyed romance, I promise that even catching it with your bare hands can be charming.

Okay. Maybe not in that moment.

But when you take your vomit-crusted, fruit-covered, overly-juicy baby home,

And give him a good scrub to remove their outer film of nast,

You will be able to see that he is the absolute perfect culmination of googly-eyed romance.

And you will find yourself staring at him, overcome with love – for both him and the one with whom all of this started.

Sincerely,

A still googly-eyed-in-love romantic.

Fashionably Hypocritical.

January 4, 2012August 27, 2012 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Parent of the Year, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend, Zulily

Oh, hi there.

(Ahem.)

So remember that post that I wrote last week about Zulily?

Yeah.

So, that very same afternoon, I received a package in the mail – one of my Zulily orders.

As I mentioned before, the one-click ordering makes it a wee bit too easy to order without thinking too hard, and the tiny screen on my iPhone makes it challenging to understand the exact idea of the fabric and stylings of some garments.

But enough excuses.

I opened my package and discovered this.

I recoiled in horror.

Oh dear stars of the western sky!

I had ordered my very own saloon girl outfit.

(Well, for Ali – not for myself. But close enough.)

My brain panicked.

What was I thinking??? Where did this come from??

I must bury this in the backyard immediately before my blog sees it and divorces me!!

Where’s my iPhone?? Surely this isn’t what I ordered!!

Oh. Yes, that is indeed what I ordered. I swear it didn’t look like that two weeks ago!!

At least it’s not strapless. And a romper.

What are you saying?!?! It’s still fuchsia and black tulle!!!! It’s like Coyote Ugly at the Turn of the Century!!

I can’t let Ali see this. Then she’ll want to wear it all the time. And it will inadvertently make it into a blog photo. And the world will know what a horrible hypocrite I am.

But the next day, before I had fully decided how I was going to hide my sins, Ali did see it.

She squealed with delight.

“It looks just like a Ladybug Girl costume!!!”

I looked at it….

hmm.

Through the context of her eyes, it’s really not so bad…

I let her try it on.

I could definitely see where she was coming from…

And it certainly looked better on her than it had on that nauseatingly pink satin abomination of a hanger…

She immediately fell in love with it and insisted on wearing it every time we were home, all weekend long.

And it began to grow on me. It was cute and bouncy…

Then Chris, being the softy that he is, fell prey to her begging and let her wear it out of the house on a Daddy/Daughter Yogurt Mountain Date. But it IS January after all, so he had her add some “warmth” to the outfit, giving it a seriously awesome Punky Brewster flair.

I couldn’t deny being impressed with their finished product.

I actually began to like the thing … a little bit.

Right as I was about to completely dismiss my breach of judgment as maybe not so breachy after all, my family came over for lunch.

“Gramamma!! I want to show you my Ladybug Girl costume!!!!!”

She ran upstairs and put it on.

“Don’t I look BEAUTIFUL??”

“Yes! You look amazing!!”

After a few minutes of twirling and dancing around the house, mom asked her, “So who gave you your costume?”

“Mommy gave it to me.”

She stopped. She looked at me. I saw the scoffing rise in her eyes.

“Wait a minute. YOU bought that for her?”

“Well, you see…it was all a big mistake. I got it on Zulily, and …”

“On Zulily even?!?! I was just thinking that it looked identical to all of those outfits you were criticizing so vigorously!!”

“I … I … I KNOW!!!!!! …. but at least it’s not a romper….right??”

The laughter and taunting filled the house.

I hung my head in shame. I deserved it, after all.

Christmas Scissorhands.

January 3, 2012January 2, 2012 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Quirky quirky quirkiness

I have a confession to make.

Every year, after all is said and done for the Christmas season, I take great joy in butchering your Christmas cards.

Every last one of them.

I have this great vision of having a perfect collage of beloved faces on our refrigerator. My children will spend the year gazing upon all of your cheery holiday smiles in admiration and love, as they are reminded daily of all of the important people in their lives.

Beautiful, no?

(And then there are those photos of people they’ve never met, of whom they ask me daily, “Who is that again??” — ok, that’s really annoying, but alas – the dream lives on.)

So to see my vision come to fruition, I get out my scissors and my roll of magnets and gleefully origamize your cards.

Because within this project, I have a quirk: No words allowed.

No joy, no love, no bible verses, no names, no nice platitudinal statements, no wishes for a wonderful holiday.

The only exception is the year (but only if it’s in number form – NO words allowed!!), and only then if it is impossible to dissect it from the photos.

Some of you make this process easy for me, nicely separating your photos and your wording. One chop and your card is ready for magnetization.

But some of you don’t.

In the pleasant, euphoric place that is the inside of my head, all of the photos would magically and perfectly fit together like the puzzle pieces that make up our lives.

But after all of the shoving, maneuvering, and cramming together, I annually resign myself to the fact that you don’t make very cooperative puzzle pieces.

This year, the challenge was even greater, as the finished product of my collage had to be at least 30 inches off of the ground. Because Noah loves your cards, too – he thinks you’re delicious.

Apologies are extended for the slaying of your Christmas cards. And double apologies are given to anyone who had photos on both sides – especially to those of you that I decapitated. Merry Christmas.