The Perfect Quest:Leather Boots

I've been on a quest for the perfect pair of leather boots for about 7 years now. So far, I've accumulated one pair of nearly perfect brown suede wedge knee highs (Nine West), an incredibly uncomfortable but very sexy black suede Michael Kors stilleto boot, and nearly a year's worth of wasted hours spent obsessing online for the perfect leather boot. Not too frumpy, not too sexy, not too simple, not too uncomfortable.
I've pined for a pair of Campers. Swooned over Stuart Weizmann's. And drooled for LD Tuttle. And recently, as the hours accumulated and what's left of my good reason dwindled, I eyed a pair of $1200 perfect leather boots.
And I am wondering, "If I hocked my shorts and bought this seemingly perfect pair of debt ridden black leather boots ...if my husband didn't shit his own eyeballs first...and slipped them onto my feet, would something inside me feel different? Would I see the world through the same rose colored glass every owner of $1200 shoes does? After all, it would be like roller skating across a lifetime of dollar bills, right?"
Well, it's almost midnight and I didn't put those $1200 leather boots in my shopping cart (so I could close the window and they'd disappear).
I decided that one dollar bills aren't supportive enough for the lifetime of my feet. I'll just have to keep looking.


Smart Moves

I've done a few stupid things in my parenting career...like leaving the baby in the cart while I loaded a 6-pack of beer in the car only to realize that the cart had rolled away and down a curb....it's a miracle my children have survived all my idiot moves. But, Murphy and I agree that for every action there lies an opposite and equal reaction.
And the opposite, and completely intelligent things I've done lately are listed below:
#1. Hired a house cleaner. (So I can like my children again)
#2. Arranged for a weekly babysitter so I can work (because juggling kids and clients gives me the sweats).
#3. Enforced time-outs based on "Age Minutes". And when she can't stay in her room for 5 minutes, she loses privileges like gymnastics class, or riding her bike. It works.
#4. Signed my girls up for gymnastics and ballet class. Activities that fill those cranky hours before dinner.
#5. Did I mention I hired a house cleaner?
#6. Used the iPod and earbuds to survive those cranky hours before dinner. Pop those babies in and my girls can scream their heads off for all I care, "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" really gets me in the groove for putting the dishes away!

My Talented KinderGirl

Shelby's kindergarten teacher corralled me after school the other day and demanded my cel phone number.

"I want to send you something and I want to see your reaction! It made my day and I sent it to a friend who works in the corporate world and hates her job. She'll just want to quit knowing I get to do this every day!"

So, with obvious anxiety, I awaited the arrival of her forward to my cel phone as we stood on the playground after school.

What I received was the following video of my daughter at recess.

The kindergarten teacher had attached the message she sent to her corporate friend, "I love my job! Here is to loving life." And as I watched with love and pride, I could hear Shelby's voice in my head telling me how she was the only one who couldn't do the monkey bars at school. Coordination doesn't seem to be her problem:)


Day #29: Single Parent

I lost my ability to reason last week. Which is why I agreed to arrive as a family to Shelby's tap dance show and then let John take the car without us to work. "Oh sure honey, leave us stranded 3 miles from home to rely on public transportation at nap time with no lunch, no diaper and NO CAR!"
Fast forward to the part where I find myself being blown around by the wind while carrying my 25 pound toddler on my chest and pushing my oldest in the stroller...uphill. They both started crying at the bottom.
We made our way to the top and took cover in a restaurant near the bus stop. I must have looked like I stepped off the crazy train when we rolled into the quiet lobby with my hair in every direction and my children wailing like fire engines.
The restaurant door closed behind us. The wind stopped. The screaming stopped. And for one celebratory moment, I found calm. And then I exhaled loudly. And attempted to right the wrongs of my coiffe.
And just as I made eye contact with the nearby bartender and signaled "Mommy needs a Bloody Mary, STAT", I heard, "Hey, girl! What's happening!?"
It was my high school neighbor. By this, I mean, a guy I went to high school with in my hometown 15 years ago in a place that is located hours away from where I currently live with my husband and 2 daughters, and who happened to move in to a house 3 blocks away from us last year. For some, this would be a happy circumstance. For me, it's a little creepy weird. Especially since he has continued his relationship with my at-one-time-very-serious ex-boyfriend from high school. Who visits his house occasionally, three blocks away from where I now live.
Anyway, I make my way over to where he and his wife are posted up in the bar area just as the bartender slips a well garnished, giant Bloody Mary (as big as my headache) into my hand. Suddenly, the tripping up of the stroller, the fact that Shelby is dragging my cashmere scarf around the floor, that Ana has climbed onto the handlebars of the stroller to reach a very breakable object on the wall, doesn't matter anymore. I have adult conversation AND a stiff cocktail in my hand and my dilapidated brood just discovered that somewhere on the brink of meltdown land, there is an oasis called "Dorn's Restaurant".
Minutes go by and we are seated at a comfy booth with bread, crayons, and momentarily, french fries and bowls of soup. The girls are miraculously well behaved and I think my hair has returned to it's usual arrangement on top of my head by now. And just as Ana has finished the cutest, loudest rendition of "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" to the nearest onlooking tables, she announces her finale by pronouncing, "Mommy, there's a poopy in there" as clear as day.
And then my hair stood on end, my purse spilled its contents all over the restaurant floor (no diaper), Shelby resumed her screaming in the middle of the dining area, the diners' dropped their jaws, and their forks and gasped. It was a scene out of a Mommy Horror Film.
I gathered my mess of a family, spilled the soup on the floor on our way out, and couldn't locate the exit fast enough.
Come to find out, our bus had just pulled away from the stop (without us) and we were destined to remain outside the restaurant (in full view of the dining room) for the next half hour awaiting the arrival of the next bus. For all practical purposes, 30 minutes is a tolerable wait, until you consider the contributing factors: past nap time toddler, exhausted 5 year old, MORE WIND, poopy diaper. Thirty minutes can last a lifetime when you're stranded on that hell hole of an oasis called Dorn's.