*&#%$@!

Anyone who lives with small children can appreciate that moment of panic when someone with a particular "feature" walks into the realm of a public place. Today I was enjoying a delightful lunch with my sister, her baby, my brother on his lunch break and my three darling children on the veranda of my favorite Mexican restaurant. Not that our group didn't already draw unnecessary attention, mind you. Toward the end of our meal a man joined the table a mere five feet from us--a distinguished older gentleman in a nice suit, with a black eye patch. I felt my pulse quicken and my eyes widen in anticipation of the comments quickly formulating in my four and two year old's minds. The four year old simply pointed it out, "Look, he has an eye thingy like the lady in Big Fish". Phew, "yes, thats right, she did have one." (except then she kept referring to it as a "gold eye", whatever.)
And then, it was too late. The two year old, out of reach of my muffling hand, pointed and with a loud voice told her uncle, "Look! A Pirate!" The man, seemingly unamused pretended to ignore us, as we did him. We quickly paid our bill and left without making 'eye' contact.
I don't intend to insinuate that he was 'funny' looking at all. It just isn't everyday that you see someone with the legitimate need for an accessory like that. So I will consciously take the time to sit with my kids and explain that 'some people have certain needs and it is not OK to make fun, just accept people as they are. Let's embrace our differences...yadda yadda, love one another'.
And to prove that there are no judgements or condescending feelings, I have included a resource for those who might be interested in exploring these "visually impaired" aids.


Adult Ultra Suede Eye Patch
http://www.sightconnection.com/plu-384.html

I Wanna "Squeeze" 'em!

Growing up I thought my lot was hard. The last name Oscarson elicited plenty of teasing--everything from "Oscar the Grouch" to "Oscar Meyer Weiner"...they thought they were pretty clever. Though as an adult I am very proud of my heritage as an Oscarson I had dreamed of more "glamorous" last names after marriage. Then I went and fell totally in love with Clark Scharman. Now instead of clarifying "no, Oscarson, like the son of Oscar" I get to say "Scharman, like the toilet paper...only spelled differently". Now I feel indeed, lucky to be part of two tremendous lines of ancestors though I could do without some of the TP jokes.
My favorite nickname, that my husband always gets stuck with is "Squeeze". Like, "don't squeeze the Charmin". It's silly, but somehow it fits. And you have to admit, don't you just wanna squeeze 'em?

It's poop again!

What a crappy day, literally. We had more poop than we could handle. Mia had an explosion on my lap that came so far out of her diaper that I had to change her in the bathtub...and change my clothes.
Earlier in the day, Abby (age 2) was escorted to the changing room for a doozy of a poopy one. While waiting for the diaper changing props to be staged she was swinging on the bar of the treadmill when she dropped and landed squarely on her rump. Do you know what happens when that much weight drops on a full, poopy diaper? It's kind of like stepping on a water balloon...full of poop! It shot out the sides of the diaper, onto the treadmill, down her leg and somehow on her little pink cast. (I'm talking substatial amounts everywhere!) (The pink cast on her arm is a whole other blog.) Clark got put on room cleanup and I took Abby to the bathtub. I scoured her body the best I could. Then I sat down with an old toothbrush and a bottle of Clorox bleach cleaner and tried to scrub the poop from the tiny crevaces in her cast...but to no avail. I ended up wrapping the cast with medical tape to cover the fecal matter until tomorrow when I can take her back to the orthopedic surgeon. "Um, can we have a new cast?...this one got poop on it."
I love two year olds.

Looks like rain...

Does anyone else ever take the weather report for granted? I do. I mean, how do they know?

Holy Cow

My daughters and I discovered a lovely place not too far from our home. The Texas Oil Ranch welcomed a very large play group last week and we had a blast. This is me milking a cow.

Actually, I felt rather guilty for tugging at the teet. I knew her discomfort, all too well. I even patted her side and told her I knew just how she felt...child after child, lining up to pull and tug and gawk at the squirting milk flowing from her bosoms (can you call a cow udder a bosom? and if you can, is it bosom or bosoms?) At this time I would like to clarify that I may know an element of how it feels. I only have one child that tugs at my teet, not lines of grimy elementary school students on a field trip. Thank Heavens.
This is my 2 year old milking the cow.

My 4 year old had been talking about it all week and then chickened out at the last minute. Get it? Chickened out?...we were at a farm?..
Anyway, we had a really fun time. They have pony rides, milkable cows, a train, baby animals, a petting zoo, tee pees, swings and lots and lots of room to run...and each paying child gets to chose a pumpkin from a large pile by the entrance.

The kids had a great time. We played and ran and explored and wore ourselves out.

Even the baby Mia got to milk a cow...so to speak.

To Keep or Not to Keep

This is a very sad ghost barrett.

It went for a little swim today. A very upset 4 year old came to me with the confession that she had accidentally knocked it into the toilet. (Our hair stuff bin sits precariously perched on a shelf above the toilet...I mean, why not?..oh yeah, right.) So my question is, if the toilet is relatively clean, and there was nothing besides, ya know, toilet water in the bowl--do I go to drastic measures to save the ghost or not. Is it worth a trip to Target and a whole dollar to replace the set, or do I get out the hairdryer?
What I really want to know is, What has been in YOUR toilet? And is it still in use today?

A Funny story not about me.

In honor of my six-week post partum check up this week I have a funny story to share, that is not about me. Tonight after dinner my mother in law told us something hilarious that happened to her recently at a grocery store. She was standing in line behind a man who was purchasing the following ( and only the following): a package of steaks, a bottle of wine, a rose and a box of condoms. When he got up to the register the cashier said something like this:
"Hey! I know you! Your wife, didn't she just have a baby?...like six weeks ago? Wow, how are you?" The man did not answer but looked increasingly uncomfortable as the cashier went on and on, totally clueless of anything that she was insinuating in front of the line of customers behind the man. My mother in law said that everyone in line was trying very hard not to laugh out loud but absolutely couldn't resist when the woman got on the PA and got a price check for the box of condoms. True story.

Mr. Moms

So the other night we decided that the men would take a turn with the wee ones. "Hey Clark and James, would you watch the little people so we can 'whatever whatever'?" "Sure, no prob" came the reply. We were indeed impressed with their parenting abilities. It was minutes before we realized that it was oddly quiet upstairs.

Notice the vacant and mesmorized look on sweet, innocent baby Caleb's face. (Is it just me or does he have very much the same pleased smirk on his face as his father?)
I like to sit and watch my husband play with our kids. He has always been great with kids. When we lived in South Carolina, before we had any of our own, the neighborhood children would knock on our door and ask if Clark could play. I'm not joking. From time to time I cringe at the rough-housing that he is teaching our sweet, gentle, feminine daughters, and only occasionally do I step in and intervene. But I love that they are adventurous, silly, imaginative and have no fear. They have inherited the best of both of our senses of humor. I mean, we come from pretty funny families. And though there are some games I wish we didn't play, and tricks I wish they didn't know, I wouldn't change anything about who they are.
I have to admit that tonight during the "lets lick each other's face" game I was laughing. Then again, tomorrow it might not seem so funny.

Mama Mia!

Here she is folks! The little wonder emerged on September 1, 2005 at precisely 7:57pm. She was a slimy 7 pounds, 12 ounces (tiny for a baby from my loins) and 21 1/4 inches long. This entry is going to be record short but I want you all to take a moment to oogle at this adorable baby and be amazed that I am blogging one week after having a baby. I put one kid down for a nap, my mom left this afternoon (yes I know she only lives 3 miles away but she humored me with a one week stay anyway because she is the best mom). So there is a lonely tear in my eye (my husband also went back to work today), both breasts are exposed following the latest feeding to which I hope she will wake up and finish, and a little baby across the Boppy on my lap. A baby with freakishly long toes and a swirly little "cowlick" in the center of her forehead. Mommyhood is pretty neat.

Who ARE we?

This is me and my hubby five years ago. Weren't we beautiful then? We were young and carefree. We had good skin, flat stomachs and tans.
This is more how we look now.

A little thicker, skin not so radiant, and usually about that tired. OK, so the camping picture isn't exactly how we look all the time but don't you like the two little additions since the last picture?
The new favorite movie that frequents our television 5 to 6 times a week is Saturday's Warrior, an LDS classic. Now as silly and melodramatic as some parts of the movie are, it really holds some great messages and whatnot. My husband and I are also ridiculously moved by the opening song/number called "Who are these children coming down". It makes us both weep, openly. If you think that is crazy, I ask you, do you have children? Sit down and try watching it without choking up. This is my family now.

We are expecting girl number three in just a couple of weeks. Our stomachs will still be flabby, our pores clogged, maybe some bags under the eyes but no doubt smiles on our faces. And in more ways than one, aren't we beautiful still?

White Trash or something like unto it...

This is me. My husband is out of town and my hair is greasy. I have two kids so I usually have stains on my shirt and I sweat a lot in Houston in July. I am pregnant. I complain and kind of waddle from time to time. I am self proclaimed white trash, occasionally. Let me share why. This is my new favorite pair of maternity jeans.

They soon became my favorite at the store because they weren't too tight. In fact, they were so comfortable that after discovering the "Baby" in rhinestones on the buttock pocket, I bought them anyway. Is it referring to the baby in my womb, or am I the Baby. I don't really know.
After a typical pregnancy "I've had it" breakdown the other night my husband did something really nice, really nice. He arranged for a babysitter and took me to dinner and a movie. Calling a babysitter alone qualifies him for some serious smoochin because I hate finding a babysitter and then calling them and asking them to not do something fun and teenager-ish and come watch my kids instead. It makes me feel guilty somehow. ANYWAY,
They just built a new restaraunt not too far from our house and we have both been eagor to try it. As soon as I knew that is where we were headed I was nervous and looked down at my baby rhinestone jeans, baby doll tank over white shirt and couldn't help but notice that we were BOTH in flip flops. Now I have to say that I actually was looking pretty cute that day and I was even wearing make up but come on, my hair was in a braid, I could see my husband's toes and we were pulling up to a place with Valet parking and H2's and Jaguars in the parking lot. In my delicate pregnant state I couldn't possibly face being snickered at by snobby hostesses and turned away because of our attire. I finally got Clark to ask a Valet in the parking lot what the dress code was. His reply was "bussiness casual". Oh you guys look great....snicker snicker. So we parked the magnesium pearl colored mini van and flip flopped our way passed the fancy fountain and on passed the Valets who were dressed nicer than we were. I just really wanted to get to a table quickly before anyone could read my bum. Then I spent the next hour trying to look bored at such a hooty tooty establishment. The food was delicious though the white trash in me desperately wanted a McDonalds cheeseburger and chocolate milk shake...or at least steak and potatoes with cheddar (not some stinky foreign cheese that I had never heard of...that's not what I would call scalloped potatoes...) The meal was ended with stiffled ooh's and aah's by us, the white trash, while a chef came and flambeyed bananas before our very eyes. Is that even how one spells that word? Since I love to eat out so much we will continue to try our hand and many a different establishments. In short, the food we done 'et was real yummy...and the company was delightful. I should have picked a wedgie coming out of the place to make the appearance complete but it was enough that my husband asked if he could tinkle in the parking lot behind the car. I will let your imaginations get the better of you before telling you what my answer to him was.

Just plain uncoolness...

So. I have a sister that lives about 40 minutes from me. We are both in the stage of pregnancy that most books and journals call "the awkward oafish stage". The other night we decided that we both desperately needed a very large Cold Stone Ice Cream. "Let's take the Jeep" says I. "OK" says oaf #2. Let me set the scene. Two very pregnant sisters (who look a little freakishly like twins) are going to "hop" into the Jeep Wrangler and take themselves for ice cream. Oh, years ago we would have been hot stuff. Two blonds who look like twins cruisin the night through a college town, headed out for somethin' cold. The reality of the situation set in before the motor even started. Abby couldn't get in the car. The Jeep actually has doors but it is still quite a hike to climb in. Since we were in an empty apartment parking lot we got each other in with some immodest difficulty. We realized what a mistake our choice of transportation was about 1/4 mile down the road. With every bump we were wincing, holding our bellies and clinching our thighs to prevent birth in an open deathtrap. We arrived at our destination and tried to avoid the stares of the pregnant "yetties" ordering very large helpings of ice cream with multiple mix ins. Getting back into the Jeep was the best though. I am picking on my little sister only because she is younger, prettier, usually skinnier, and currently bigger (she is seven weeks ahead of me). The eyes at the establishment followed us to our hip vehicle and watched as Abby decided she was going to leap into the car in a single bound. Anyone that wasn't already looking did so at my loud gafaw that escaped when her single leap simply bumped her awkwardly into the side of the car. I laughed half the way home because I was depressed at how UNCOOL we have become. The only hopes that anyone could ever possibly find us attractive in any way would be the single thought..."hey, those chics put-out".

Escaping Motherhood...for an hour anyway.

I feel horribly sorry for my children quite often. Some days they wake up cranky, and sometimes I wake up cranky. The day I had planned was ideal. We wake up, actually get dressed and do our hair, go to the library for toddler story time, come home and play with friends in sprinkler until nap time when we all drift into a blissful two hour nap, waking up refreshed and ready to face "bewitching hour" (the time between 4 and 7 pm when all the mothers in the neighborhood are anxiously walking the sidewalks with their antsy, cranky kids waiting for dinner to be done and Dad to come home.)
Maybe I should just leave the description of our day at that...it would be much happier. But this is how the day went. We got dressed, one of us got our hair done and it wasn't me. We picked up friend Charlotte and went to reading time. Reading time was fine, meaning the kids were well behaved. The substitute reading lady was about as interesting as a 5th period geometry teacher reading from a textbook. I sat the entire time imaging that we were really in my sister's reading time in Utah. I then tried to procure a new library card while my two children and their little friend ran up and down the stairs without shoes on. I don't know where their shoes were, so don't ask.
At this point I have suddenly lost the desire to describe the rest of the day, though it carried on much as it had started. Needless to say, when my poor husband got home from a "difficult day at work" (you'll have to read his blogs about what a Navy Shore Tour is like) I took off. I had an entire hour until he had to leave for another appointment. So what does a mother with an entire hour to kill for herself do? I bought address labels at Target. Then I got a Orange Cream Slush from Sonic and took one to my mom at work (where we bother her far too often) and she listened, as she always does to my rantings about the woes of motherhood--she understands...she had 7.
There is no one quite like my husband to make one feel guilty for ever wanting selfish time away from the kids. I came home to a clean house and two adorable toddlers running to the door saying "I love you Mommy!" He knows just how to fix things sometimes.
I have decided that like everything else in life, the endevors that are most challenging provide us with the richest rewards. There is nowhere I would rather be than at home with my girls...or sometimes aimlessly wandering the isles of Target.

A Day at the Zoo

We decided to be of the spontaneous kind today and try an adventure (farther away than the neighborhood park). Those of you with kids know that "spontaneous" means at least 2 hours of preparation to actually make it out the door and en route to destination. We met up with some friends at the zoo. They too have kids so our "delayed" departures got us there right about the same time.
I just had to share what a joy days like this can be. It started out hot and hungry but we saw some animals and the kids were entertained. Abby, my two year old jumped wildly at each exhibit and behaved as though it was her favortie animal in the whole entire world. Each time I had to literally peel her off of the railing to move to the next animal. My three year old Haley had brought along her "connected at the hip cousin" Madeline so she was happy regardless. We "eee eeed" at all the monkey cages, avoided the dirty/naughty Mandril, pointed at huge elephant poop, giggled at the bear tinckling off the cliff and stared at two mating Galapagos Turtles for a very long time.
We really did have a fun time. The trip ended with a lot of traffic, some napping, some screaming, a couple of chicken nuggets, smiles and stinky pants. My favorite though was at dinner tonight when we asked the three year old what her favorite part of the day was. Hands down was when the two year old dropped her toy cell phone into the Sea Lion pool. I will be on pins and needles in days to come while scanning the news for reports of strange sounds coming from the bowels of an expired Sea Lion. "This just in. A bizarre turn of effents today at the Houston zoo where KiKi, our 12 year old Seal suddenly died Thursday. When examined closer, a muffled noise could be heard in the beloved animals innards. We can't quite make it out but it almost sounds like, 'Hi. I'm Hello Kitty".

Soccer Mom?

Is it possible to be a soccer Mom, if you don't have any kids that play soccer? My husband pointed out to me today while walking the park, that I should be a soccer Mom, because all soccer Moms are hot. He got a kiss in between me realizing that one, he wasn't checking any of them out, and two, he still thinks I'm hot.
Three weeks ago my husband and I joined the throng of McDonald's lovin', diaper-changin, potty-trainerin', hot dog eatin' mini-van drivers. We fought the good fight but in the end we succumbed to a lovely magnesium pearl Dodge Grand Caravan. The color, consequently, is neither magnesium or pearl.
We all understand each other and have pride in our decision to drive such a vehicle and yet there is shame in trying to look cool while doing so. And for some reason, people are more ticked off to be cut-off by a mini-van than some cool SUV.
We love our van. It's been three weeks and we actually are still adhering to the "no food" policy and I bought our very own dust-buster the night we got it, just to keep it clean. It's all down hill from here...but we're lovin the comfy ride.

Funny Little Devils

I am constantly reminded that my darling little daughters are both innocent and adorable, and demonic and scheming--all in the same day.

My husband and I decided to do something very stupid last Sunday. We took a nap at the same time. We decided to lock the girls in the "nursery" (my favorite little room in our house, complete with crib, toddler bed and a delightfully snoopy peep-hole in the door). It has a child door knob on the inside so we rationalized that they would stay put (knowing full well that our three year old knows her way around them). At several points during our two and a half hour nap we heard them, outside of their room where the little angels were supposedly napping like cherubic visions.



I stumbled out of our room to find the 20 month old sitting at the bottom of the stairs, stark naked....and yet, covered somehow. I had to look away to stiffle the giggles while my husband tried his darndest to maintain a stiff lip while disciplining the three year old. Abby was covered from head to toe and EVERYWHERE in-between with big, black, permanant, Sharpie marker. My eyes swept the room. The damage was actually quite minimal and I was extrememly pleased to find no marker on any walls. Abby had big circles drawn around her eyes and pictures on her forhead, including a tell-tale mark made by the artist herself--a large H on her forhead....one of the only letters Haley can draw. She had marked her prey. But it didn't end there. I laid Abby down to put on a diaper and found the marker so delicately encircling even her most private parts--down her crack and around her anus. I'm glad that I couldn't stop giggling. It may have saved Haley's life. Even a week later I found black marker on Abby's scalp while doing her hair. And I took a moment to reflect on the humorous antics of small children...and mourned the loss of my own naptime forever more.

Stirrups and Paper Gowns

I feel a need to begin with a brief explanation of my Blog name. And even before that I am going to admit my guilt in the anticipation of actually wanting to blog for so long, and guilt that I may feel in the future for not keeping up with my blog.
Having said that:
I had a good friend in Virginia explain that she found offense in the term "anal". So she decided to create a "politically correct", less harsh, perhaps more constructive term to describer her...uh, personality. So instead of saying anal, she says that she is "concrete sequential". Since having children I have had a total loss of brain cells, millions, maybe trillions per day are steamed away in bowls of easy mac, and tossed aside in my daughter's wet, industrial strength training underwear. In short, I remember very little. I figure that since I actually remember a term like "concrete sequential" it must mean that I am so. I feel comfortable with this. Being anal, or concrete sequential allows me a little control (however manic or random) in a world of toddlers, high-pitched whining, and cute faces that can always get themselves out of time-out a minute or two early.
One of the reasons for such delay in begining a blog is because I am ten weeks pregnant. Sunday was the first day in more than three weeks that I have not thrown up at least once or more in a day. It was a monumental day. Needless to say, I have been lazy and sick and unmotivated. There was a day two weeks ago that I laid on the couch and watched, unmoved physically or emotionally, as my two daughters de-rolled an entire new roll of toilet paper in our family room. Thats about how the past few weeks have gone. But today I ventured out into the world and made my was to my first doctors appointment. My objectives were to hear a heart beat, complain a little, and obtain some sort of drug that would either put me into a nutritional coma for a month, or curb the nausea. Hence the title, Stirrups and Paper Gowns.
Is there anything in the entire world quite so humiliating as a paper gown? It is essentially a paper towel (with the strenght of a peice of notebook paper) with arm holes. When they tell you to keep the opening in the front, you know there will be invasive measures taken. I then sat on the examination table (thank goodness I had at least shaved to my knees) and waited for the doctor for nearly a half hour, trying not to let my armpit sweat weaken the integrity of my paper ensemble. I somehow made it through a very long discussion of medical history with a total stranger, who was a man, sitting in my gown, arms folded, and trying to look nonchalant about the fact that I was sitting in front of him buck naked. I made it, with dignity, to the actual pelvic exam. And there I laid, staring at the ceiling with the strange doctor, in a ghetto office, giving a play by play of procedure, to me or I suppose to the nurse, who I couldn't for the life of me understand one word she said. I even managed to make a really innappropriate comment to this effect: "Huh, pelvic exams just aren't the same since having kids". I'm not exactly sure what that means. But I said it, out loud, right in the middle of "the exam". This exam followed a very descriptive story about a woman who nearly lost her unterus in his "quick and capable hands". At different parts in his story he mentioned blood up to his neck, sweat down to his underpants and something about his sphincter that I didn't really catch. He was delicately trying to steer me away from a particular procedure. Done, for the time being. So despite the efforts of this very nice man, I have decided to seek medical OB/GYN attention elsewhere.
In closing I would also like to admit to some guilt about the fact that my dear husband is out at 11:30 at night at Walmart doing our grocery shopping and buying things like Chinese cellophane noodles and artichoke hearts for a reason I will have to explain at a later time. But it is Valentine's Day. I feel bad. I'll give him a big cheek to kiss when he gets home and promise a real one in a few weeks when the nausea subsides and I can smell everyone's breath again.
Happy Valentine's all!