I Just Want To Make It To Cocktail Hour

I love being a part-time stay at home mom. I do. It's just that sometimes I feel a little overwhelmed and that is when I need to escape.

For a couple of weeks now I have been looking forward to getting together with my girlfriends for a "Ladies" Christmas party. I use the term "Ladies" loosely because we act more like drunken frat boys when we are all together.
My evening is all lined up. Blake is staying home with Addie. Mee-Maw and Paw-Paw are taking Tyler for a special evening- this means even more spoiling from them than usual.

The anticipation of my joyful girls night out was so exciting that I didn't even blink this morning when I came downstairs and found that Archie had pooped on the rug- recently washed from the last time he decided to take a dump on the floor. When I went to flush his little present down the toilet, I stepped in a huge puddle of pee. I decided to blame this on Scarlett because she just looked guilty.

Trying not to cuss in front of Tyler, I banished both dogs outside to take care of business. For some reason they think that since it's cold outside, they can poop and pee in the house. While I am making breakfast Tyler asks me if he can let "Carley and Arcie" back inside "pease". I tell him no. There's a couple of minutes of silence and then he says, "Mom, Arcie cold. Pease."
Oh fine. Let them in.

Scarlett has been shivering and the only thing I can find for her to wear is a t-shirt that says "Vote for Pedro". She likes to linger by the fireplace for warmth. If the dogs quit pissing and pooping on my floor, Santa is going to bring them Snuggies for Christmas.

Addie had a little flu bug yesterday. She puked three times. I am so happy that she is sleeping it off.She looks like a sweet angel in her sleep. I am glad she is feeling better. One because she is just such a sweet baby and two because I really want to go to cocktail hour and a sick baby would put the kibosh on that.
We are finally dressed and heading to my sister-in-law and brothers house to see my new nephew. I have only seen him twice since he was born. I've been working and when I haven't been, my kids have snotty noses or the runs. Not good to take Germ I and II around a new baby.

I hear a horrifying sound from the back seat and smell bile and bacon. Tyler's turn to projectile. I feel so bad for him. I think puking scared him more than anything. I call my sister-in-law. "We can't make it," I tell her. "Kids still sick."
I am afraid Jenny may begin to think I make this stuff up. Tyler cries the whole way home because he wants to go see the baby. I am in tears because I don't think I'll be making "Ladies" night.

He refuses a bath and I don't want to fight him. I will just turn this into a teaching moment about good hygiene. We practice washing hands. Apparently this is fun for a two-year-old. He spends the next hour in the bathroom "watching mine hands".

No one eats lunch. The scent of bacon and bile is inescapable. I put them down for naps early. My mom calls and I now have the task of delivering bad news ... "Tyler is sick. I don't think he can spend the night tonight."
God Bless her. She doesn't take no for an answer. She says that unless he pukes again, she still wants him to spend the night. Score! There is a glimmer of hope left for my night out.

The husband calls. He doesn't think it is a good idea for Tyler to spend the night at my parents if he is sick. I tell him it is not a good idea for me to miss cocktail night. I am beginning to feel like a caged animal and I'm not sure that is good for our kids' well-being.

Yesterday I had a dance party with the kids. I was feeling a little wild and I let the I-Pod just play randomly. Tyler told me he liked my favorite song- Hypnotize by Notorious BIG. I didn't really think it would be a big deal to let him listen to my workout playlist. He's only two and doesn't really listen to the words in a song. Wrong. He has taken to calling Addie a "Silly Hoe". Thanks Biggie.

Today he told me that I had a "Big Tinky(stinky) butt." Kids say the darnedest things- which means that even if he has a little bug, he must be feeling good enough to say something cruel to his mom. Sounds to me like he is just fine to go to Mee-Maw and Paw-Paws. Sounds to me like Blake has Addie tonight and I'm going out to play with the girls.

Gold Chains N Thangs

My husband is many things. He is a great husband and dad. He is tall, blonde, attractive, obsessed with sports, freakishly smart, and shy. Shy that is- until you really get to know him. Once he’s warmed up to you, he is very sarcastic and he will tease you without mercy. That is why I don’t feel bad writing this blog entry and poking a little fun at one of Blake’s less admirable qualities- a fondness for 1980’s gold chains.

I came across his beloved gold chains when we moved in together many moons ago. I had this great little house and it was decorated exactly the way I wanted- a vision from the Pottery Barn catalogue.

I told Blake that though I was excited to merge our lives; my vision of our future didn’t encompass some- if not most- of his things.

“Think of it as like a rental- where all of the furniture is already included,” I told him, trying to cushion the blow. “All you need is to bring your clothes and toiletries.”

I thought my biggest battle would be the ESPN banner that he wanted to hang in the family room. I was wrong. The gold chains took the cake.

He found them in a box of shit that his mom had sent along with her blessing for us to move in together. A non-hoarder like myself, I’m sure she was thrilled to get rid of “Blake’s Stuff” as the box was clearly labeled in black marker.

In a fit of nostalgia, Blake emptied the contents which included old Nintendo games, yearbooks, sports rosters, baseball cards, mixed tapes, pictures, and even some old love letters. His face really lit up when he found two hideous 1980’s gold chains.

It was a nice little story. He told me that his mom had bought the chains for him- one with his number on it- when he made the varsity baseball team. Half-listening I smiled and nodded while the voice in my head screamed, “Confiscate those and hide them immediately.”

I tried to make light of it. I joked that the chains would have to stay in the lovely box of memories. “NO ONE besides Mr. T, Ice T., and W.T. wear gold chains,” I said.

Defiant, and maybe a little hurt, Blake put them on and promised to wear them everywhere we went.

I am not a total b, so I let him wear them to a party or two where I knew everyone would be too toasted to notice. He was so proud of embarrassing me that I think those chains became a symbol of all the things that I made him leave behind.

After a while the matter of the gold chains died down. One day he took them off to shower and didn’t put them back on. After a couple of days, I did what I felt was necessary. I threw them away.

I felt no guilt over this at the time and for the first couple of years of our relationship, I denied that I had any idea where the gold chains were.

On our one year wedding anniversary, I finally admitted to the atrocity that I had committed. It wasn’t guilt that drove me to confess. It was the wine and the man sitting next to us wearing a pimp suit and gold chains.

Over the years our relationship has deepened and so has my guilt. My husband accepts me for who I am. One of the things that I love most about him is that he could care less what I wear. My attire these days mostly consists of beat up jeans and an Ohio State sweatshirt. He thinks that’s sexy.

The 50th wedding anniversary is the “Golden Anniversary”. I pledge now that on Oct. 8, 2,055 I will make it up to Blake. His gift will be a box full of memories of our life together and you guessed it- two gold chains. I am going to have our jeweler make the most ostentatious number 50 for him to wear proudly all around the nursing home.

About an hour after I posted my blog entry yesterday, I received a phone call from Tricia Anglin, Nursing Director for the Butler County Health Department.

She said the department has approved all local doctors offices that ordered the Swine Flu Vaccine to distribute it.

According to Ms. Anglin, the department has decided not to distribute vaccines from the county's supply to the offices because the process the county would have to go through to do this would be too rigorous and require man power the county doesn' t have.

She said that she was very frustrated with the way the CDC has decided to distribute the vaccine. She said the Butler County Health Department had planned on having local partners (doctor's offices).

I could tell she was pretty annoyed talking to me so I didn't push further. From what I gather, the county had assumed the local doctors offices would receive vaccines from the CDC or the manufacturer. I don't think they planned on being in responsible for distributing hundreds of vaccines to hundreds of offices.

Working in the pharmaceutical industry, I can appreciate her perspective. There is all sorts of red tape, regulations, and documentation that is required when working with medication and the government.

So basically, it is what it is. I highly doubt that any Swine Flu vaccines will make it into the private practices.

Looking super forward to standing in a ridiculous line for the kids boosters.

Janie Investigates Vaccination Abomination

I very rarely wake up on the wrong side of the bed, but today was one of those days. I was Pissed off with a capital P from the moment my eyes opened.

When I have days like this, I ask myself- "Self, what is REALLY pissing you off?"

Today I couldn't pin-point anything in particular, so I ran through my mental checklist of things that sometimes set me off before 8 a.m.:

Blake talking to me
Tyler whining
Dog piss and poop on the bathroom rug
A dirty kitchen
Getting puked, pooped, or snotted on after I have showered and dressed for the day

None of the usual suspects were at the root of today's angst. Hmm. Must be PMS. Glorious.

I turned on the Today Show , like I do every morning, and wouldn't you know it- I found a reason to be in a sour mood!

Wall Street Gets Swine Flu Vaccine
http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/26184891/vp/33651691#33651691

Janie fans- I know you are probably thinking- stop it already with the Swine Flu rants. But in all seriousness, PLEASE watch this story and tell me it doesn't make your blood boil.

The idea that companies are able to get the Swine Flu Vaccine, but my pediatrician and OBGYN office is not, appalls me.

Both offices tell me that they ordered the vaccine back in late summer, but have not received it and don't know if they even will.

My goal today is to channel my bad mood into something productive and lead the movement for "Swine Flu Vaccine Distribution Reform".

To do this, I first needed to understand why hospitals, doctors offices, and pharmacies aren't getting the vaccine.

The next step- find out who is responsible for that decision and rip them a new a-hole.

Finally, encourage everyone I know to be outraged about this as well and provide direction for mass complaints.

So here's the scoop.

I started with calling the Centers for Disease Control. This was a cluster. I was transferred to different operators like three times and hung up on once. I finally got in touch with a semi-informed person (laugh) and she told me, "The world’s five leading flu vaccine manufacturers are struggling to make enough supply to keep up with the global Swine Flu pandemic."

Thanks for the verbatim biotch. I get that part.

After approximately two hours on the phone with various levels of government agencies- national, state, county- I am still not clear on how the vaccine is distributed because I keep getting different answers.

It seems like the state blames the distribution cluster F*%$ on the CDC, the CDC blames it on the county, the county blames it on the state. Etc, etc.

A representative at the Ohio Health Department told me that the CDC is responsible for distributing vaccines to each state based upon its population (also known as project areas). To see how many vaccines your state will receive, go to this link- http://www.flu.gov/individualfamily/vaccination/supply.html

According to my source, the state then distributes the available supply to each county based upon that county's population. The county is then responsible for distributing the vaccination to the community. From what I gather, most counties have done that by holding public clinics for high-risk patients only.

According to the Ohio Health Department representative, (found it interesting that she wouldn't give me her name) physician offices can order and receive Swine Flu Vaccinations, but the office must be inspected by the county for proper storage facilities before receiving their shipment.

The Ohio Health Department representative also told me that in Butler County, where I live; there are only 6 officials to inspect the hundreds of doctors offices awaiting vaccines.

I called my pediatricians office to ask if the practice was aware of the inspection protocol. The practice manager that I talked to told me that she'd ask the doctor in charge of getting the vaccine and get back to me.

Regardless of wheter or not my doctors office have been inspected yet, I find it insulting that the state would feel the need to do this. This office, and others like it, have demonstrated highly competent care and the ability to store and distribute regular flu shots without error.

Many comments and questions come to mind, but most importantly- Why all the extra red tape if the Swine Flu is such a high risk for certain populations?

I randomly chose five pediatrician and five OBGYN practices in my area- other than mine- and none of them have received Swine Flu Vaccinations. Clearly this isn't an issue of an office dropping the ball on getting the storage inspection.

I've been told that the person I need to question is, Tricia Anglin, the Nursing Director for the Butler County Health Department.

So far I haven't been able to reach Ms. Anglin. I did get her voicemail and thought it was interesting- and a little infuriating- that after the formalities she says, "...If you are a provider and are calling about when you will receive your shipment of the H1NI vaccination, I do not have that information, nor will I."

Wow. There is only one word for that statement. Ok, maybe two words- F' ing Wow.

This topic has been covered on the local level all the way up to network giants like The View. Clearly it is a widespread problem and needs to be addressed. If you are as outraged as I am about the way the government has decided to supply the Swine Flu Vaccine, I encourage you to take action and call your county health department. Demand answers and accountability.

If you live in Butler County, feel free to call Tricia Anglin- 513.863.1770. The buck may or may not stop here, but it's a place to start. If I were a betting person, I'd guess that she will deny accountability and send me complaining to someone else.

My kids are due for their swine flu boosters in two weeks. My pregnant sister-in-law has still not received the vaccine. Chances are we will wait again in a long, public clinic line to get the shot. Meanwhile, my pediatrician office and my sister-in-law's OBGYN office will be calling Ms. Anglin only to hear that she has no information for them, nor will she.

In Line For Swine

Before I begin my post, I want to apologize to any Janie fans that may still exist. I have started back to work and have found myself with less time to write than anticipated. Moving forward I promise to write more, but I will warn you- my thoughts and therefore, posts may be more scattered and random than ever before. In the name of time, I am foregoing any loyalty I ever had to grammar and proof-reading.

Last Friday will go down in the books as the day I actually considered murder.

I received an email from my bestest mommy friend alerting me to a swine flu clinic. Fortunately and unfortunately, my children qualified for the vaccine due to their young age.

I had been on the fence as to whether or not I even wanted to vaccinate my kids. But when my babysitter snapped and fired us- due to Tyler's wild temper tantrums- I was forced to put my kids in daycare.

Ach-choo, cough, slobber, runny eyes, blown out diapers, puke .... I didn't need x-ray vision goggles- like the ones on CSI- to see the creepy, crawly germs. They were everywhere. After one day in daycare, I made my decision to have the youngsters vaccinated.

I knew the clinic would be packed and I really didn't want to tote my kids out in the rain, so I called my pediatrician's office to make an appointment. I was a little shocked to find out that they didn't have the H1NI vaccine and weren't confident that they'd even get it.

The concept baffled me. Why would the Center's For Disease Control decide to mass vaccinate people at the Butler County Fairgrounds instead of disseminating the vaccine to local doctors offices?

I called around only to hear the same message-
You want your kids vaccinated? Get your ass up to the fairgrounds and wait in line next to the pig barn.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

Anticipating waiting an hour or two, I packed four diapers per child, snacks, a bottle, toys, warm clothes, umbrellas, the portable DVD player, a worn out copy of The Backyardigan's, and my mom.

When we got about a mile away from the fairgrounds, it became clear just how many people hoped to get their kids’ one of the 13,000 shots up for grabs. The crowd looked like a Wiggles concert had met and married Woodstock. Parents and children alike were lined up in rain gear as far as the eye could see. The clinic had only been open a half-hour and the police had already been enlisted to shut down the operation.

My mom and I took our place at the back of the line and quickly made friends. We got the scoop.
The "good moms" had been lined up since 6 a.m.
There were only eight health department workers on hand to vaccinate over 6,000 people.
There were only two bathroom stalls in operation.

Freaking fabulous. Janie was itching to come out and it was only 10 a.m.

My mother, a nurse, banished us to the car while she waited in line. She said the chance of Pneumonia was as likely as the swine flu. You don't argue with Big Jude, so to the car we went.

After and hour, I was getting restless and I tried to call my mother to get a line update. No answer. No surprise. She always forgets her cell phone at home.

Three hours into the quest against the plague, I was still stranded in the car with two whiney kids and about to loose my cool...
I had to pee- bad.
I had all I could take of The Backyardigan's.
The baby had finished her bottle and was boycotting a nap.
Tyler had blown out 2 out of 4 diapers.

Just as I was pulling down my pants to pee in a diaper too, my mom knocked on the window- I have had two babies. I lose bladder control when I am startled.

She told me that we had at least three more hours to go. It was around that time that I started to understand why some people are driven to murder.

I was so angry. I would say that 85% of the people in line- Babies, toddlers, pregnant women- had private insurance. Instead of being able to go to the doctor and get a vaccine that could save their lives, they had to wait in an absurd line. In the rain. In the cold. At the fair. Two bathrooms?

Somehow my dad finagled his way in to the fairgrounds to save the day. He brought backup supplies and peace. He also reminded me that I voted for Obama and that this is what "Obama-Care" would look like if the public option went through. Ugh. Always a teaching moment.

If there is one person who can get nastier than Janie, it's Big Jude. My dad sent her home and took her place in the world’s longest line.

About four hours into the wait, the DVD player battery died. So did my patience. My sanity. My filter... My hope is that Tyler forgets how to say the F-word before he goes to daycare next week.

After a six hours of waiting, our turn finally came. It was worse than a haunted house. Kids were screaming bloody murder as health department workers frantically vaccinated in an assembly line.

My son looked at me like I had tricked him. I'm sure he thought that after hours of waiting there'd be something cool- like Disneyworld- in store for him. Nope. Just a needle prick in the leg. I hadn't even thought to bring a sucker.

Just as we got to the front of the line it stopped. I was going to go postal if they told me that they ran out. Instead, I had to wait in another line because the nurse had just thrown up. My confidence and my nerves were shattered.

I snapped and started a scene. It was like an out-of-body experience complete with screaming, arms flailing, and foot stomping. I demanded that my kids be vaccinated IMMEDIATELY. We had waited long enough.

I knew that I looked wild, but it must have been worse than I thought because the health department ring leader came from behind her desk and personally vaccinated my kids, myself, and my dad.

As we left the building I noticed the line starting to build again. Some lucky folks had been let in at the last minute and would only have to wait an hour and a half... At least my bestest mommy friend was able to be part of this fortunate group.

I was just about to apologize to my dad for dropping the F-bomb a lot over the last couple of hours and for the scene. I knew he would forgive me, but probably lecture me on cussing out my husband when he called to see how it was going. I was prepared for that, but I wasn't prepared for the emotional breakdown I had when I locked Tyler in the car.

Yep. Still don't know how that happened.

I stood with tears streaming down my face while dad went to get the cops. I called my husband and cussed him out again. I seemed like the logical thing to do at the time.

Tyler was so exhausted that he was asleep before the cop could slide the coat hanger in the door. The lock was popped in 5 minutes and we were homebound after Six LONG hours.

According to the Health Department, in 30 days my kids have to get a second dose of the H1N1 vaccination for it to be fully efficacious.

I, or Janie rather, warned Ms. Health Department ring leader that the government better use those 30 days to get their act together and some pig flu shots delivered to my pediatrician’s office.

Will She Stay Addison or Become Baddison?

This blog entry is dedicated to my dear friends Kate and Brian. Congratulations on the birth of your sweet baby girl, Elle Jansen.

When the ultrasound tech announced, “it’s a girl!” My husband, Blake, announced he was buying a gun. I just cried. My tears were a mixture of jubilation and terror. I pictured a sweet little baby girl half me and half Blake. Then it hit me. OH SHIT. She would be half me.

There are certain worries that come packaged with the X chromosome. Because I am a chronic worry wart and because my anti-anxiety prescription has run out, I have decided to outline the phases of my daughter’s life that are already putting wrinkles on my forehead.

Elementary school-
I am dreading the day when my sweet little Addison gets on the bus to go to school. At 5-months-old, Addison is already in the 95th percentile for height. This data point stresses me out because my nickname in grade school was “Jolly Green Giant”. I was tall, yes, and with a mother who is 5’9” and a father who is 6’4”, Addie doesn’t stand a chance.

Not only was I freakishly tall in grade school, I was not very cute. Even my parents will admit that I went through a rather ugly stage. To make things worse, I was not athletic. I was giant, ugly, and clumsy. People used to look at me and offer condolences to my parents.

“Well, I bet she plays volleyball and basketball,” they would say in response to my height.

Nope.

I did however, have a desire to be a cheerleader and this only brought on more ridicule as I was taller than the football players.

I had to have a special uniform made for me because mine was too short.

There is a special place in my heart for the tall chick in the movie Deuce Bigalo: Male Gigolo. It is my favorite movie even though I feel guilty laughing at the part when a man yells, “That’s a huge bitch!”

Though the adversities I faced as a youngster only me made me stronger, I do not wish these lessons upon my children.

Middle school
This is a phase that I am especially scared of because times have changed. I watch the news. Middle schoolers no longer write notes saying I HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU. DO YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON ME? CHECK YES OR NO.

No, these days girls are “sexting” or posting provocative pictures on Facebook.
I am scared to death of my sweet little Addie turning into a pre-pubescent skank. I drive by them everyday at the bus stop and wonder why their mothers let them dress in hoochie skirts and glitter. What was wrong with tight rolled jeans and flannel shirts? It may have been a little much, but at least everything was covered.

Blake and I have already agreed that Addison will NOT be allowed to wear anything with words written across the butt. This fashion statement is simply a bill board that reads LOOK AT MY ASS SICKO. I AM ONLY 12. What it should say is WHAT’S EVEN MORE DISTURBING IS THAT MY MOM BOUGHT THESE SLUTTY SHORTS FOR ME.

I can already imagine my future arguments with Addison regarding what is appropriate school attire. “Addison, I don’t care that all the popular kids wear ‘PINK’ from Victoria’s Secret. I WILL NOT buy your clothes from the same place that I buy my kinky underwear,” I will tell her while drinking a martini.

Hopefully by the time Addie is in middle school, retailers will quit encouraging girls to dress like prosti-teens. Hopefully by then I will get out of my granny panty comfort zone and back into kinky underwear.

High school
I’m not sure what makes me more anxiety ridden about this age- boyfriends or girlfriends?

Girls can be so mean and it’s not just the words they use or the rumors they spread.
I will never forget when my little sister, who is eight years younger than me, came home from school with a black eye. I was so enraged that I got out her school directory and called the bully’s mother. I told Miss Thing that if her daughter ever touched my sister again, I would kick both their asses.

It was an unreasonable Janie moment and I couldn’t stop myself. My mom was so mad. “I’m the mom,” she scolded me. “You had no business getting involved. Kids have to work these things out themselves.” She was probably right, but if someone hurts my kids, incarceration could be in my future.

The B word is another anxiety I have about the high school years. That would cover beer, blunts, and belly button piercings. I know I should be worried about all of the above, but I’m more concerned with boyfriends.

UGH. It is inevitable that Addie will go on a date and hopefully it will end there. In a perfect world Addie would be so busy with sports, charity work, and bible banging that she wouldn’t have time for boys.

I genuinely hope that a serious boyfriend isn’t in the cards for high school. I haven’t yet decided how I will answer the tough questions girls usually ask their mothers.

Mom, do you believe in sex before marriage?
(Um Hell yes. What if you marry a guy and he sucks in bed?)

Mom, was dad your first?
(Um yes. Did my nose just grow larger?)

Do you think that people should live together before they get married?
(Definitely. Hands down. Absolutely.)


College
Ah college, some of the very best years of my life took place at OSU. I recently met up with my college roommates and we all agreed that I am completely screwed.

If Addie makes it to college without me having to kill her, then college will be the big show. A show that will keep me on edge for four years- maybe five.

I may have been an angel with an attitude in high school, but I was hell on wheels in college. If Addie has half my genes and is only half as bad as me, things will still be pretty bad.

My biggest concern is Spring Break. It is a collegiate rite of passage and mine took place in Cancun, Mexico...... the year Snoop Dog was there.

My husband still has the correlating Girls Gone Wild episode because he swears one of my college roommates is featured in the film. I don’t know why he thinks that is so funny. If she was there, I wasn’t far behind.

So here it is. My list of worries. It details every wrinkle that has carved out a line on my face or eventually will. Will my daughter be bullied, will she be freakishly tall, will she decide to be that weird goth girl who wears studded dog collars, will she have confidence, will she have good morals, will she ...... I should probably get my prescription refilled.

Ironically as I write this, Addie wakes up. I can hear her crying on the monitor, wanting to be rocked back to sleep. I think it is a sign to just enjoy the moment and not worry about the future. For now she is so little, so sweet, and so innocent.

For now.

Just Another Day In Paradise

3:32 a.m.
I wake abruptly from a deep sleep. The baby monitor is going off like bombs over Baghdad.

My 4-month-old, Addison, wants a bottle. Believe it or not, I usually cherish this middle of the night interruption. It is our time to cuddle and bond.

Tonight however, I am all drugged up on Benadryl- thanks to allergies- and I almost drop her twice. To stay awake I start singing “Rock-a-bye Baby” and I get to thinking about the words … Who in the hell wrote this messed up song?

Now-a-days you mention putting a baby cradle up in a treetop and someone calls Children’s Services. Your mug shot plastered all over the evening news and Nancy Grace.

7:05 a.m.
“Mornin’ Mom-Mee. I wan bite.” I roll over and see blonde curly hair eye level with the mattress.

My son looks forward to waking me up so he can have a bite of my breakfast. It sounds sweet, but usually this causes at least one major meltdown before 8 a.m.

“No moat-meal. I want nack,” he says when I offer him a bite.

A “nack” means fruit snacks and they are literally like baby crack. Tyler is addicted to them and he will do ANYTHING for a “nack.”

He throws in a “Peaz” for good measure and vigorously starts doing the sign for please with his hands. He seems to think that he should get whatever he wants as long as he says please.

“We don’t have nacks for breakfast,” I remind him. “Would you like a bite of mommy’s banana?”

“No nana!” he screams at me. This is followed by a 15-minute melt down which includes tears and snot.

The baby monitor starts going off. The breakfast protest has woken up Princess. I crack open a Diet Coke and head upstairs to get her. Tyler follows me crying and pulling at my pant leg just to make sure that I know exactly how pissed off he is.

8:30 a.m.
Things are under control. Tyler is quietly playing cars, Addie is fed, and the dogs are locked outside for safe keeping. Fueled by my second Diet Coke, I have managed to start some laundry, answer an urgent work email, and do the dishes.

Things are going so smoothly that I feel confident in my ability to pull-off a shower! This is not easy with two babies. I lay Addie on a blanket and sit Tyler beside her with the portable DVD player. The Backyardigan’s should entertain him for roughly 7 minutes.

I rip off my clothes and hop in the shower. I am washing my hair when I hear an “Uh Oh.”

Damn. He’s pushed a button in attempt to go to the next episode.

The DVD player comes through the shower curtain and into the stream of water. I see his little face staring at me. “You help me?” he asks innocently.

The DVD player is soaked and I fight back the urge to scream the F-word.

“In one minute,” I say through clenched teeth.

He runs out of the room crying because one-minute seems like an eternity to a 2-year-old. The baby starts screaming. I can’t see her, but I’m pretty sure she was accidentally stepped on in the protest against my shower.

10:07 a.m.
Tyler and I are playing cars while Addie naps in the baby swing. He starts grunting and making disturbing faces.

“Tyler do you have to go poopy,” I ask him?

“No Archie (the dog) poops,” he replies. It’s an interesting response.

Tyler spent last weekend at Me-Maw and Paw-Paw’s house. I’ll have to thank my dad for reading Tyler the book, Everyone Poops. He’s been obsessed with the subject ever since.

I sit him on the potty and for the next half hour he runs down a list of everyone he knows. Everyone who apparently poops.

“Me-Maw poops. Paw-Paw poops. Daddy poops. Elmo poops ….”

I end this discussion when he starts getting straight up ridiculous. “Shoes poop. Trucks poop.” The bathroom smells toxic and now I have the joy of wiping his butt.

Afterwards I sing, “Wash the stinkies out. Wash the stinkies out.” This is a song I made up to engage him in washing his hands. It works. He thinks it is fun and for the next 20-minutes he marches around the family room singing “Wash the stinkies out.”

12:30 p.m.
I’m in the home stretch. Addie is fed and Tyler has agreed to eat half of his chicken nuggets in exchange for a nack.

After lunch both of them should go down for a nap. I can hardly wait. I will have a little peace and quiet to watch my “girlfriends” on The View.

Auntie Barbara, as Tyler and I call her, is back on the show today. She has been out covering Michael Jackson’s funeral. I can’t wait to hear all about it.

1:30 p.m.
HALLELUJAH. Both babies are asleep in their rooms. I toss my third load of laundry in the washer and pop open another Diet Coke. I need energy for the second half of the day.

I’m getting ready to sit down and fire up TIVO when I hear a choking sound in the dining room.

Archie has puked up what appears to be a chicken nugget. Scarlett is trying to eat it. I have a choice to make; let the bile stain the white carpet and watch my show or clean it up and risk waking up one of the kids.

I don’t think I can handle ANOTHER stain on the carpet so I start up the steam cleaner.

There is a God. Both kids remain asleep.

2:15 p.m.
Elizabeth and Joy get into a little argument about politics. BORING. I fast forward to get to the good part … gossip.

Thunder rumbles outside and I get a little nervous. Both of my kids are light sleepers and Tyler is terrified of storms.

Yep. Screams come from upstairs. I guess there will be no down time today.

3:30 p.m.
I soothe Addie back to sleep. The thunder has ceased, but the rain continues.

Uninterested in books and over playing cars Tyler begs me to go outside. I debate the practicality of this. I think about my grandma who used to tell me “when life gives you rain, defy it under an umbrella.”

Out we go.

Tyler squints as rain hits his cheek. He squeals with delight. “ I yuh yo (love you) mom. I like da rain,” he says.

Yep practicality is overrated. I miss my grandma. She was the best.

5:12 p.m.
Both kids are hungry and the concert of cries sound like an obnoxious symphony.

I hear the garage door open and everyone goes ape shit. The dogs bark, Tyler runs to the window. I feel like doing a cartwheel.

Blake is home from work. BACKUP! Now I know how a lone police officer must feel when the SWAT Team shows up.

I pour a glass of wine and Blake makes a snide comment. “Whatever,” I hiss. He’s been home five-minutes and already he’s on my fragile nerves.

I show restraint Monday thru Thursday. I don’t bust out the “Janie juice” until 5 p.m. I think 4:45 p.m. is appropriate on Fridays. Besides I drink wine for my heart. Got to keep the older ticker in good shape since I don’t workout.

7 p.m.
We’re in the home stretch again. The kids go to bed in a hour and a half!

Tyler and Blake are playing so I put Addie in the stroller and walk down the street to my friend’s house. I know her husband won’t judge if I have a second glass of wine. She has three kids under the age of two so I know she’s always up for a drink.

Not home. Damn. Where do you even go with three babies I wonder?

8:30 p.m. on the dot
Blake has Addie duty and it’s my turn to put Tyler to bed. There is nothing in the world I enjoy more. He snuggles in my lap while we read books.

We fold our hands and say our prayers. Tyler waves at the ceiling and says, “nite nite Got (God), nite nite Jeez (Jesus).”

I lay him in his crib and as I close the door he says, “I yuh yo my mommy.”

10:07 p.m.
I retreat to my bedroom and hope my husband will stay downstairs and watch baseball. I love him and all, but it’s been a long day and I want some time to myself.

He follows me upstairs feigning exhaustion, but I know what he wants. It’s been like a week since we’ve had sex and I know where this is going.

I try to ignore his looks and appear even more tired than I already am.

“Do you want to do it?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say. “The way you romantically woo me makes me want to rip my clothes off.”

He doesn’t recognize the sarcasm in my voice or maybe he chooses to ignore it.

The rest is history. Good history!

10:10 p.m. (just kidding)

11:00 p.m.
We turn off the TV and go to sleep because 3:30 a.m. comes around really fast.

Thank God tomorrow is a work day. This part-time business is really the best of both worlds. When I’m at work I miss my kids. After a couple of days with the kids I’m ready to go to work.

As I drift off to sleep I think about my life and the words to one of my favorite songs …

Well, there’s no place that
I’d rather be
Well, it’s two hearts
And one dream
I wouldn’t trade it for anything
And I ask the Lord every night
For just another day in paradise

Boob Envy

"So we talked about how much you should set aside for the emergency fund, the college fund, and the retirement fund. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss today?" our financial planner asked.

My husband looked at me with that facetious grin he gets when he wants to embarrass me. With a big smile he said, "Jamie, wasn't there something else YOU wanted to talk to Sherry about?"

I shot him a death look and kicked him under the table. It was a simple warning that I would beat his ass in the elevator if he didn't shut his mouth.

"No. I think we covered everything. Thank you for the great advice," I said in my most professional tone.

We left the office and got into the elevator. I tried to kick his ass, but he was laughing at me and trying to grab my chest.

"I thought you wanted to set up a boob job fund," my husband said, clearly thinking he was so hilarious.

"Your an asshole," I replied laughing because it was pretty funny.

The truth is, after two kids my boobs are wrecked. I know this because I confirmed it with my best friend. We made a pact years ago to always be honest with each other. Even if the truth would hurt.

"They look like you put a handful of nickels in a tube sock," she said matter-of-factly after I flashed her. "It's too bad because they used to be so round and perky."

Yeah. That one stung a bit.

My recent obsession with boobs may be due to the fact that I will be turning 30 in a few months. I must be having a pre-mid-life crisis because I truly never used to be a vain person.

Lately I am vein on so many levels. Of most concern is my complete and utter obsession with boobs. I straight up have boob envy. I am like a creepy teenage boy- staring at boobs every chance I get. The grocery store. The mall. The pool.

When we had kids, I made my husband give up all his favorite magazine subscriptions. I'm no idiot. I know where he hid his favorites. And late at night when I can't sleep, I get out his old nudie mags. I study them and plan out my new boobs like an architecht. A little lift here. Some more stuffing there.

The other day I was at weight watchers and this lady was being recognized for losing 70 pounds. She had her two kids with her- ages 4 and 6- and was dressed for the gym. Everyone was asking her- How did you lose the weight? How do you find time to work out?

It was a Janie moment. I got very annoyed with the dumb questions. Who gives a shit about the weight loss and the damn gym.

What we need to know is- Who is her plastic surgeon? How much does he charge? How bad did it hurt? Do they give you awesome pain killers? And ... Where in the world did you find that amazing push up sports bra? I didn't even know they made those. I may start working out just so I have a reason to wear one.

Inspired, I went home and googled "breast lift with implants". The good news: the saggy sisters could be fixed. The bad news: it would cost approximately ten thousand freakin dollars. HOLY SHIT! We don't have the kind of money to save for emergency funds, college funds, retirements funds, and boob job funds.

So I decided to try and convince my husband that the boob job funding should come from the emergency fund. Afterall, in their current state, my tities qualify as an emergency.

When my husband got home from work I started showing him before and after photos. He was all about helping me pick out a new set of perfect silicone c's.It was the first time he didn't shoot down something with a price tag over fifty bucks!

"Wow! Look at those puppies," he said about a pair that were a little too porn star for my taste.

We were both so into the boob pictures, we didn't realize our two-year-old was listening to our discussion about what size rack I should get.

He dropped his toy cars, came running over to us and said, "I wan see pup bees!"

He truly thought we were looking at puppies. His face was so sweet and innocent.

That was the moment that I decided I needed to get over myself and my saggy old boobs. There are more important things in life. We need to save money for important things like college, family vacations, maybe some more precious kids.

I decided to put my boob envy behind me and work on kicking the vanity.

My husband snapped out of it as well. He's back to being the money police and freaking out when I buy anything over fifty bucks.

While I have come to terms with the fact that it's not reasonable- at least in our world- to drop ten grand on cosmetic surgery, I do believe it is ok to have dreams. Attainable dreams. Dreams that cost maybe 50 bucks a month between now and my 30th birthday ...

I have started my own little savings fund. If I am able to meet my savings goal it would be a nice little down payment on some botox!

Janie's Top Ten

One of the things I always looked forward to when planning a family was the idea that I could quit birth control.

I wasn’t one of those unlucky women who suffered pill side effects like weight gain or pizza face. I was the crazy lady in the Yaz TV commercials who confesses to being a hormonal psycho once a month.

That seemed like a marital deal breaker so I said “I do” to a loving marriage and “Adieu” to birth control.

I still stand by that decision. I can give you two beautiful examples of just how well my husband and I get along when I am not on the pill. Tyler is almost two and Addie is three-months-old.

My kids are both blessings and it’s refreshing to be able to look back on a “Janie moment” with affection.

Tyler was born nine-months after Janie convinced my husband that you can’t get pregnant on or around Christmas. Addie arrived exactly nine-months after my brother’s wedding. I have included a picture of Janie inappropriately table dancing at the reception.

At this juncture, my husband and I have decided to take a baby-making hiatus and this required a major decision. Do we practice abstinence or do I go back on contraceptives?

My husband and I both voted for contraceptives even though that meant Janie would rear her ugly head at least once a month.

I will never forget the moment we made the decision. It was ridiculously early on a Saturday morning. Both kids were up and wanting to play or eat. There had been no sleep the night before and Tyler wanted to watch the same episode of The Backyardigan’s on repeat.

I said to my husband, “I’m going on the pill.”

“Thank God,” he replied.

So this week I am hormonal and psycho. I thought I would chronicle the Top Ten people, animals, and/or things that pissed me off...

1.) Bikers. Not the cool people who ride motorcycles. The idiots who ride their stupid bicycles on busy roads. I am going to purchase a firm pool noodle and if I catch you on my road again, I am going to whack your spandex ass. I will then pull my car over and laugh at you while you cycle off into a ditch.
2.) My sister’s boyfriend. Excuse me, ex-boyfriend. You know who you are and I hope you read this. I know where you live. Be scared. Be very scared.
3.) The cover of US Weekly- “The Hills Made Me Bulimic.” Are you freaking serious Stephanie Pratt??? Quit the show and get a life. There are people in the world who have real problems.
4.) My husband speaking to me while I am watching The View on Tivo. I don’t care about your day right now honey. I went back to work for the better of our family and I am having separation anxiety from my “girlfriends.” Can’t we talk over dinner or something?
5.) Mrs. Blabber Mouth in the grocery store line. Quit yip-yapping and move your fat ass. Nobody cares that your daughter is at band camp. Didn’t you watch American Pie? That is not something to be proud of.
6.) The aggressive kiosk salesperson that followed me through the mall. My hair IS already straight and clearly so are you. Stop staring at my boobs. I only take hair advice from gay men. Piss off.
7.) The paranoid schizophrenic who nails crazy cardboard signs to the telephone pole near Frisch’s on Liberty Fairfield Rd. I want you to know that I am not taking down your signs because they are about world conventionalism and government control. I take them down because they have spelling errors and that pisses me off.
8.) My dogs. Are you serious right now Archie? The baby is screaming, Tyler is whining, and you think I want to play ball? And Scarlett, if you want a bath so bad, learn how to lick yourself clean like a cat.
9.) My memory. I went to Kroger on my lunch break to buy a Diet Coke and a frozen meal. I drove away with the meal, forgot the Diet Coke, and accidentally put the germy grocery basket in the car. Damn. I need some sleep.
10.) Controlled cold medication. Are you serious? I have to purchase Advil Cold and Sinus from behind the counter and show you my driver’s license? It’s not crack-cocaine people. It’s cold and sinus medication. Get a grip.
Oh and one more I need to get off my chest…
11.) It hasn’t happened yet, but I know it will. My husband will come home from work tonight and ask me, “what’s for dinner?” Um, I checked my paycheck and my roles are wife, mother, employee, family shopper, cleaning lady, but not chef. I wear these heels and pearls because they are business attire, not because I want to cook in my June Cleaver uniform. How about you figure out dinner. I suggest you call in a pizza to 347-1111 and stop asking me EVERY FREAKIN night “what’s for dinner?”

No Spanx + Rice Lady = Catastrophe.

Saturday started out as an amazing day. I had weighed in at Weight Watchers and in the 11 weeks since giving birth to my daughter I had starved 12.5 pounds off of my body. The tasteless food was paying off!

Both sets of grandparents had offered to take a baby overnight and my husband and I were joining our friends for dinner and drinks at a local winery. I was excited for wine. My husband was excited for what happens after I drink wine.

No kids + Wine = A Good Time.

Blissfully childless and feeling super skinny I decided it was time to bring sexy back. My weight loss had inspired me to put away the maternity clothes and squeeze into my old wardrobe. I knew this would require Spanx and a new bra. So I went shopping. Alone!

I found a bra with a shelf in each cup. This amazing contraption put the girls’ right back where they belong.

My bra was going to cost a small fortune and I didn’t want to alarm the budget Nazi (husband), so I decided to forego the girdle. After all, I WAS skinny and didn’t really need Spanx... Bad decision.

No Spanx + Rice Lady = Catastrophe.

I was standing in the buffet line, piling veggies on my plate, when she-satan came up to me and said, “You HAVE to try the rice. It’s to die for. I came back for seconds.”

I didn’t want any rice. I was saving my weekly W.W. points for alcohol and dessert, but I didn’t want to be “that girl” so I put a little rice on my plate.

“Oh look at you all cute and pregnant in your dress,” she said, now eyeing my Spanx-less stomach.

“I’m skinny, not pregnant, you horrible bitch!” Janie screamed in my head.

Everything went black. I couldn’t breathe and it was all I could do to not curl up in the fetal position and cry.

“How far along are you? Wait let me guess,” she gushed before I could even respond. “Six months?”

Oh god, now Janie was conjuring up criminal visions in my head. I pictured shoving pounds of rice in her fat mouth until she choked and died.

While she continued on about pregnancy and babies, I somehow managed to utter, “I’m NOT pregnant. I just had a baby. This is my first night away from her.”

The rice lady turned as red as her ugly lipstick and began apologizing profusely. Luckily for her, my friend grabbed my arm and led me out of the room. She sat me down next to my husband. I began to drink. Not eat.

My friend was angrier and drunker than I had ever seen her. “Don’t worry!" she yelled loud enough for rice lady to hear. "She looks two years pregnant with a WHALE."

“What happened?” my husband asked. And as my friend filled him in, I could see his heart sink. Not because he felt bad for me, because his whole night had just been ruined.

Rice Lady + Wine = Drunk, Crying, No Libido.

Saturday started as an amazing day. It didn’t end that way- not even with the kids being at grandmas overnight.

The next day I was hung over and trying to think if I had ever known of a pregnant person going to a winery. Nope.

I tried to find the silver lining and I came up with this- my amazing belly had incubated each of my beautiful children for nine months. They entered this world happy and healthy.

“Oh what a nice thought,” I heard Janie say. “You’re still fat.”

I’m definitely sticking to Weight Watchers this week. I would rather eat tasteless food than rice.

Love US Weekly. Hate Heidi Klum.

I love Thursdays. The world’s best source for news arrives in my mailbox- US Weekly.

This fine example of a magazine gets a bad rap for being a tabloid and I think that is total horseshit. I earned a journalism degree from The Ohio State University and I know a great publication when I see one.

US Weekly has all the qualifying pieces of a solid newspaper.

• National News- while Kate from John and Kate Plus Eight is on a NATIONAL book tour, her husband is exploring a new idea for their show- John and Kate Date. ***Disclaimer- title for the new show has been trademarked and copyrighted by Janie.***
• Sports- Alex Rodriguez and Madonna were hooking up, but now Kate Hudson is getting some A-Rod action.
• Politics- Ben Affleck told The New York Times that he almost ran for Congress in 2004, but decided against it because his good friend told him it was a terrible idea. Um…. no worse than starring in Gigli. Where was his “friend” then?
• Finance- Ed McMahon foreclosed on his house.

There is however, one section that I would add to US Weekly- Letters to the Editor.

Here’s what I would write:

Dr. US Weekly:
Your publication is the absolute shit. Reading your fabulous articles is the only time when I feel it is totally appropriate to ignore my husband and children. Their little cries for attention sometimes become so annoying that I fake a stomach issue, lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the fan, and read your magazine from cover to cover.

While I may be your biggest fan, I want you to know that I have a serious issue with one of your subjects- Heidi Klum.

She may be climbing America’s #1 Darling list, but I’m on to that bitch. First of all, her stupid little German accent is fake. That’s right, Heidi Klum is an imposter. There is no way she is German because everyone knows that Germans eat Weiner schnitzel, sauerkraut, and potato salad. In fact, I don’t think she is even human. She may be an alien. I have included a photo of Ms. Klum, EIGHT WEEKS POST-PARTUM with her third child, at the Victoria’s Secret fashion show to prove this point.

In the May 4th issue, the “She Devil” reveals to US Weekly that she and husband, Seal, are expecting their fourth child.

Heidi tells the clearly gullible reporter, “I honestly don’t think, ‘Oh, my God, when I get bigger, what am I going to do with the weight after?’ People write crazy things about me, like I put vinegar on salad leaves so I have no appetite. It’s not true! I trust my body. My stomach can stretch out to the most enormous place, then it goes back with exercise and eating right.”

Come on US Weekly! Do you expect your readers to find this reporting credible? Ms. Klum is clearly a liar and needs to be exposed. So I, being a good reporter, do a little expose’ of my own.

Two weeks after having my second child I joined Weight Watchers. The editor should note that I AM of German heritage, but I followed the plan and banished all things resembling real food. No shout outs to beer or big doughy pretzels.

Ten weeks post-partum with my second child, I try to replicate Heidi’s outfit at the Victoria Secret show. I bedazzle one of my old thongs and put on my best push up bra. Unable to secure a pair of Angel Wings, I accessorize with a pair of high heels because that is supposed to make you look sexier in your skivvies.

I was going to send a picture for publication, but Holy Shit, it was too offensive! So here is my conclusion. Heidi may be a Supermodel, but she is NOT a Supermom. She has two nannies, a sick metabolism, alien genes, and a great plastic surgeon.

In future issues I would like your reporters to cut the crap about Heidi’s growing family and how amazing her relationship is with Seal. Who cares that they get remarried every year? I think it would be more relevant to report on how her boobs don’t sag to her hips (see Heidi’s picture in the attached Jordache ad- also at 8 weeks post-partum).

In these tough economic times, everyone enjoys a good joke. But myself and women across the world, look to your publication for factual news and trust that you report the truth.

Anyway, I love, love, love, love your magazine outside of the reporting on Heidi. Please keep up the great work!

Your biggest fan,
Janie

I'm going to Hell: Reason #1

I dropped the F-bomb at a two-year-olds birthday party. It’s the God’s honest truth. But before you judge, let me explain.

So I’m sitting in the freaking “play circle” at Gymboree staring at the other parents in disbelief when Janie pipes up in my head. “WTF happened to my life?” I must have said it out loud because my good friend stopped shaking her “magic” maracas and gave me a knowing smile.

Now I love being a mom. I truly do. I could go on and on about all the glorious moments of motherhood, but this is not that kind of blog. I will save the sweet, eewy, gooey details for scrapbooks and dinner discussions with my grandma. This blog is the outlet for the downright wrong thoughts that enter my head on a daily basis. It is a place where I can purge the truth about what I really think. Thanks Janie for keeping it real.

Anyway, back to the birthday party. In case you aren’t a parent, Gymboree is a structured play class full of jungle gyms and activities that can hype up a toddler faster than a ten foot pixie stick. It is a popular venue to host a kiddie birthday party because you don’t have to clean your house- before or after. SWEET! So when my son got the invitation to this birthday party, I was pumped. When we arrived, I was ready, as suggested by the Gymboree party leader, to be an “involved parent”. Ha.

I take off my shoes and socks and enter through the munchkin gate. I am prepared to spot my kid while he defies gravity on the unsafe looking equipment. Oh no. That’s not what she meant by being an “involved parent.”

The party leader, who I later come to believe is on an acid trip, tells everyone to enter the “play circle” (looks like a parachute to me) for the opening ceremony. What in the world? Are we at the Olympics? With a lot of enthusiasm she instructs us to pick up the "happy bells” and ring them. Uh ok. Are we channeling elves?

Then Miss Weirdo starts with the gay songs. Now my son is totally into it, so I play along. I shoot a glare at my husband. Why does he get to sit in the other room with our infant while I am losing my dignity in the “play circle?” Catching my glare, that asshole laughs at me! If he takes a picture I am going to kill him.

Totally embarrassed, I ring the “happy bells” and look to the other parents for support. Merely remnants of the cool people they used to be, no one will make eye contact with me. I eye up this one dad. I imagine once upon a time, before he had kids, he would have been at BW3’s watching a game with his buddies. Now, he is this zombie of a man, clapping his hands like an idiot, while this psycho party leader starts dancing with a doll.

I fight the urge to flee; One, because my girlfriend paid an ungodly amount of money for this birthday party. Two, because my son is beaming with happiness. His huge blue eyes illuminated with delight.

A good mom would have resolved herself to the situation. Swallowed her pride and participated with passion. Not me. I dropped the F-bomb. At a two-year-olds birthday party. In the “play circle.”

When I stand in line at Heaven’s gate, I know this is going to bite me in the ass. But that’s okay. My son had a hell of a time and the good news- I think the magic maraca’s drowned out the F-bomb. At least MY son hasn’t repeated it yet.