Moved

As per months of contemplation, I've finally moved the blog back to WordPress.

Woohoo!

Don't worry, the contest is still the same. Only instead of sending people to carolynnthedyer.blogspot.com, please send them to carolynnthedyer.wordpress.com.

And then come and join me yourself!

There's a new header, new layout, new ways to follow, and ALL the old posts. Come on, whatchya waitin' for? Click on over!

Riddle

I've written a poem. 

For this, I sincerely apologize. 

In an attempt to make it up to you, I'm turning this into a game. Read the poem, make a guess as to what/who the Ode is written to (either via the comments or email), and everyone who is correct will be entered into a drawing for a totally awesome prize that I'll announce when I come back from vacation in Utah (read: I haven't found it yet, but I definitely will!). I promise this prize will not be child- or mommy-centric, so you won't have to be either to enjoy it. 

Last day for guesses is July 31. One guess per poster, please! Want to earn extra guesses? Share this post via Twitter, Facebook, or any other social media platform, and post where you shared it along with your extra guess. 

Please note, your guesses will have to be specific. Meaning a general guess such as "housework" (i.e. a category instead of a specific type of housework) will not count. Feel free to email with questions!

-------

Ode to ---------

Lofty goals that mothers make

Include not eating too much cake

And keeping you, my dear old friend

In check;

A goal to send me ‘round the bend.

For you, my soul, are always near

Always present, always clear; 

With need for me to take the time

To wash

A pile a mile high.

Methinks, at least just once or twice,

That to be done would be so nice.

But then I think, What would I do

With me

If there was no you?

Fly to Paris, dance in Spain, 

Maybe take some time rein

In my children, who like to scream

And cry

When’ere I try to keep you clean.

Not that they dislike, perhaps,

It’s just that washing and timely naps

Never seem to find a way

To coincide.

Alas, and curse the day.

My time with you is ever sweet

In torture and in triumph neat. 

Water soothes the tortured soul

And reminds

That a shower-less week takes its toll.

I hate you when you’re dirty, true;

And love it when you’re clean, I do. 

I know alone I’ll never be

Because

My children will dirty you just for me.

Monday Mantra

You can't punch a migraine in the fact*, but you can be happy if you've a mind to.


*Please note this typo. It was brought on by the migraine. And I STILL can't punch the dumb thing in the fact.

Fireworks

Everybody

enjoys

fireworks

in a 

different way.

Here's hoping you enjoyed yours.

Monday Mantra

Parent with laughter, and pray the rest comes out right.

Ruined

I say things, and then suddenly become paranoid that I've ruined my children forever. And then I google it because google is the oracle, and inevitably some amazing guru of child-rearing has at some point said that you should never ever never EVER say/allow/do whatever I just said/allowed/did. 

Alas, how my children suffer. 

If I give them a treat, they’re inevitably instructed to "Eat it all up." I'm just trying to prevent a mess (Huh?! How DARE you try to be convenient at the expense of your children?!), but then I’m struck by The Guilt. Here I am, teaching them that they must consume every last sweetly-sticky bite of their treats. They’ll become gluttons, I tell you! What will their first Halloween out of the house be like?

 No, those are lollypop sticks, not cigarettes. StrawBee  totally knows better!

I must prevent such a crisis. So I try to counteract the candy thing by telling the girls to eat healthy so they can keep growing and get tall. However, Ladybug has latched onto this "tall" thing, and now I'm certain she's going to spend the rest of her life worrying about being tall enough. And since short genes are all she’s got, this is either going to end in extensive surgery or stilettos. 

All the rage this summer.

I can’t have a child of mine growing up to be taller than me--*cough, hack*--excuse me, I meant; risking her health like that. So I told my beautiful girls that they are just that: Beautiful. Perfect in the way God made them. However they are, so long as their hearts are beautiful, they are beautiful. 

Did you know that children have selective hearing? 

“Beautiful” is all they got out of that one. 

Which led to this: 

Notice me NOT panicking here.

Way to keep it a non-issue, mom.

I thought I had at least 10 years before I heard this.

Lecture #321

She totally gets this, you know?

Because please beats paper, rock, AND scissors!

Eventually I thought to tell her that only grown up girls communicate with makeup. She, of course, retorted that she was grown up. I told her that when she was grown up to 14, THEN she could have makeup. 

She was delighted. And now she reminds me every day that when she’s 14 she gets makeup. 

Parenting: You just can’t win for losing. 

Monday Mantra

Fireworks make everything better.

And chocolate cake sure doesn't hurt.

And homemade ice cream.

And family you haven't seen in ages

And this is far too long for a mantra.

...Happy 4th!

Out of Context: II

Way back at the end of April, I created this post out of a conversation I had with my brother (if you haven’t read it yet, do. Otherwise what follows will make absolutely no sense, instead of okay-I-get-it-but-you-must’ve-been-dropped-on-your-head-as-a-baby sense). I know you’re all hanging onto the edge of your seats (and hold tight, as it’s a long drop) to know how the conversation ended. And because I love nothing more than pandering to others to get attention, here you go: 

Jay: Anyway, no.

What amazing trade show is happening in Las Vegas that you've probably never heard of?

Carolynn: Uh… "The AMAZING Trade Show That Carolynn Has Never Heard Of!"

Jay: I'm sure the internet would tell you if you asked.

But I'll give you a hint first.

N.A.B.

Carolynn: Hmm…. National… Arborist… Bacchanalia...

Ah, that was a good year.

Jay: I do like arborists, but they don't get me this excited.

Carolynn: National… American… Brainwashing...

On a positive note, drool makes a great skin softener.

Jay: Nope…another great organization, but not it.

Carolynn: National… Apple… Bath time...

Jay: Nope

Apples don't take baths silly...

Carolynn: They do if they're getting ready for bob-for-apples.

"Mr. Smith? The iLights are still on on your iCar. Can I use your iKey to turn them off?"

Jay: That's apples, not Apples.

This association is related to my job.

I keep thinking of joining.

Carolynn: National… Association… of BOOYA!!

You only wish you were this cool.

Recognition

Dad Up: Verb. The act of stepping up to relieve the woman who has mommed-up to the point of impending spontaneous combustion; the saving of a super hero; sheer awesomeness.  

Because being a man is only halfway there.

Monday Mantra

Even if I fail, the trying makes me stronger.

Tailored

Or, How I Almost Ruined My Mother’s Birthday

The Mother (AKA Giver of Life and Nana to my children) had a big birthday this month (I think she’s 19 now) and The Dad made some major plans to surprise her. He spent the build-up to the Big Day keeping secrets from everyone, and getting people to lie to The Mother. My job was to make her think that I, her oh-so-innocent eldest daughter, was planning something. And then to make her think it had gone horribly, terribly, irreparably wrong.

As you can imagine, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Mustache twirling will cost you extra.

I executed my tasks perfectly and was able to start dressing for dinner out with a clear conscious, knowing I had completely freaked my mother into thinking we weren’t doing anything for her birthday.

My dressing was almost my undoing.

We all do things we shouldn’t do. Eat a little too much chocolate, sneak into work late, use the kids as an excuse to escape, blame the flying monkeys for the late payment. You know, normal stuff. And I don’t think I know many adults who aren’t guilty of, at least once, the Number One High Fashion Crime of Badness: Wearing Squeeze Clothes.

Squeeze Clothes: Noun. Clothing that once correctly fit a frame that has since changed but, by dint of sucking in and squeezing, can still fit onto said frame. See also: Fashion, Crime Against and Sister, Forget It.

Hm. Just cut off a few toes; who needs 'em?

Let me tell you a story: Way back in the land of High School, there was this strange ritual known as Prom. All of the little savages in High School looked forward to Prom, either as the High Point of All Important Things, or as a fun event to throw rocks at people. I, being a good little savage, desperately wanted to go. However, being a “if-a-boy-looks-at-me-sideways-I’m-going-to-die” sort of savage, I dreaded being asked. 

So I avoided all the male savages with all my might. And was still very, very sad when I didn’t get asked to observe the strange ritual by any of them. 

The Dad, surveying the mess of High School, felt very badly for me. Especially when I expressed, with tears flying everywhere, that all I wanted was to wear a Pretty Dress! His tender heart was mushed, and he gruffly declared that I should go forth, find a Pretty Dress, and join him for dinner the evening of Prom. (It was, by the way, the best Prom in all of savagery.)

Being of a practical frame of mind, I eschewed the more Prom-like glitter dresses and picked a formal gown that might actually get more than one night’s wear. It came with me to college, where I dreamed again and again that some dashing knight would sweep me off my feet while I was wearing it. I had it tailored to fit, just so I’d be ready when the horse pulled up. 

It fit me very, very well. 

So, back to getting dressed for The Mother’s dinner. And SCs.  

The problem with SCs is that if the fabric is hardy enough, you still look just fine. Enter the Pretty Dress.

I swore that I was just going to try it on. After all, I’d had my third baby not 3-½ months earlier, and even getting it over my hips would be surprising. Then, after getting that out of my system, I’d put on a church dress and head out for the par-tay. 

Not only did it fit over my hips, it was like a straight jacket for my baby pooch. That thing wasn’t even going to try and misbehave with all that fabric squeezing it in. Okay, so it doesn’t actually zip all the way up the back. Stick a safety pin in the zipper, cover it with the matching jacket.

Sha-ZAM!

Magically, I fit into my high school prom dress after 3 kids. 

Just try and tell me you wouldn't have so worn that dress too.

So what if the safety pin popped the second I stooped down to get into the limo? Was I going to worry about such a little thing when I was in a wow-who’s-the-famous-person-riding-in-there limo for the first time in my life?  

Ab-so-freakin’-lutely not. 

The spots dancing in front of my eyes shortly after we ordered appetizers in the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever been to were a minor inconvenience for such a triumph. The shortness of breath could even be ignored. For a little while. If I concentrated. 

Okay, so I gave in and unzipped my dress a little more. It was a cold night, I had my dress coat, and as far as anyone else knew I was a Pretty Dress NINJA, with super shape-changing abilities and a get-into-the-dress shimmy to bring down empires.

Dinner was fantastic. Conversation was great. Dress looked good. 

Then came dessert. A mountain of oh-no-you-didn’t chocolate torte, piled even higher with the best minty ice cream you have ever tasted. I thought I had died and gone to dark chocolate heaven.

And that was just the first bite.

 I knew that even though I was sharing with my sister, I’d never be able to finish my half. But when she said, “Oh, ugh, I couldn’t eat another bite! It’s all yours!” it was on. Me or the dessert. One of us wouldn’t survive. 

The dessert won.

I took one more bite. One, teeny-weeny, chocolate-filled taste of decadent yumminess. It was exactly one too many. With that one bite, The Pretty Dress was suddenly, unquestioningly, and unforgivingly too tight. 

Death is bad, and I saw it coming for me.

If you’ve never almost suffocated yourself, let me fill you in: Light headed. Dizzy. Seeing spots. Nauseated. 

I bolted for the bathroom, hoping no one had noticed. Shimmied out of my control-top pantyhose (why did I think those were necessary with the belly straight jacket?!), unzipped my dress the rest of the way, and slunk back to the table, only to discover that I couldn’t sit down any longer; the final bite of chocolate torte was squishing the air right out of me. 

The evening was over, and within sight of the finish line I was discovered—yeah, laying down in the back of the car, gasping for air on the way home kind of gave me away.  

Kid Sister is glad Pretty Dress did me in. She was up to inherit.

And because I know you’re all frothing at the mouth with curiosity:
(Presumed) FAQs About Near-Death By Dress: 

1. How do you feel about Pretty Dress not fitting? My body is no longer a child’s. It’s a woman’s. Thank goodness.

2. How were you able to laugh at yourself when you almost puked all over The Mother’s Super Important Birthday Dinner of Awesomeness? Very carefully. Laughing at yourself is great fun, but also suffocation-inducing given the circumstances at the time.

3. What did you learn from this experience? That other people look very, very funny when they’re worried you’re about to have a size-related nervous breakdown. 

4. Was the chocolate torte worth it? Oh, even yesser! 

Monday Mantra

There is no such thing as "finished"--and that's okay.

Exhausted

Mom Up: Verb. 1: to behave in the manner of a mom, e.g. continuing to work despite sudden illness or impending death from ebola, zombie apocalypse, or ingrown toenail. 2. ultimate call to action. 3. saving the world.

Family

I love it when my family visits. It makes me feel all squishy and warm inside. Mushy, gooshy, ooshy happy. So happy that my brains have oozed out of my head and left me without a real blog post this week. For this I apologize, dear readers. But I do hope that you'll understand. And maybe go give your family an extra squeeze tonight to keep them close.

Monday Mantra

Remembering is half the battle.

Donate

 You know how, when you were a kid, you'd hear things that wouldn't make much sense? Like when I ruined dinner and Ladybug asked me what happened; she became very concerned when I replied, "I killed it." 

Whoa. Time to hide the meat cleaver.

Then there are colloquialisms such as "you've lost your voice." Kid Sister, when she was about Ladybug's age, was terrified of this one. She caught a head cold and when a lot of the congestion settled in her throat, my mother explained that she was losing her voice. Kid Sister decided this meant her voice had wandered off and was never coming back.

Oh, look. Carolynn does have some art skillz. Hello, grade school horizon line.

She laid in her bed at night, calling again and again, "Hellooooo? Helllllooooo?!?" in her sad, hoarse little voice. 

Pitiful.

I had a difficult time with one of these sayings in particular. I always pictured it like this: 

Mmmm! Nothing beats a fresh green salad.   

Put your money where your mouth is?! That sounds so unsanitary! 


I understood that the basic idea was that one was supposed to show that they weren't just blowing hot air when they claimed to believe in something, but I didn't really get it. 

And then I grew up (about, oh, two months ago) and the light finally went on. This had nothing to do with eating your greens, and everything to do with making some kind of real commitment of resources to the causes you claim to believe in. Basically, a call to avoid hypocrisy. 

I've always tried to teach my girls that how you love is more important than how you look. However, I did very little putting of money in my mouth to prove that. Actually, most of my spare change went straight into my clothes closet. 

Let's be clear: There is everything right with wanting to present yourself with your best face. And from there on in my beliefs in fashion, presentation, self-worth, and beauty become very complex; ergo, we'll leave it at that for now, or this post is going to get seriously sidetracked. The point is, I wanted to teach my children that behavior and belief are more important than, say, your haircut, but I wasn't doing anything to show them that. 

But now I've made a commitment to put my money where my mouth is. 

For the next few years, I'll be growing my hair from its usual pixie cut to at least 12 inches in length so I can donate it to Locks of Love. I've always treasured my short haircuts; they make me feel like I can own any situation. They're like portable awesome, renewable by a simple trip to the stylist. 

Today only, buy Awesome and get Supa Kool for half off!

I'm gonna have to learn to be awesome without it. 

I'm gonna have to learn to take care of long hair, so I still present myself the way I want to. 

I'm gonna have to actually spend money on shampoo. 

But gosh darn it, I'm gonna get it done. My time, my effort, my attitude toward myself -- all those resources, I'm putting on the line for something I believe in. For someone else, maybe this isn't a big deal. For me, I'm kicking out the hypocrite in my life. 

I'm putting my money where my mouth is.

If any of you would like to join me in a commitment to grow your hair for someone else in need (or any other goal for others), please post it below. If we get enough responses, I'd love to check in with everyone once a month. I'll create a post with pictures of my hair, and anyone who wants to share their progress can email me pictures to put up alongside mine. 

Go eat your greens.

I've been saving this post for awhile, because the time just never seemed right. Now, however, it does. Take time out today to put your money where your mouth is, wherever that mouth happens to be. And if your mouth (or your heart) happens to be in the general vicinity of Joplin, Missouri, feel free to click here for an article on ways you can help.

Monday Mantra

There is always someone who has less than you.

Click here to learn how you can help victims in Joplin, Missouri.

Sick

This week has been a really interesting episode of Survivor: Motherhood around the Dyer household. In the wee hours of Wednesday morning, an insidious and evil germ-of-doom entered my unsuspecting body and started enacting its plot for hostile takeover. It started in my throat, then quickly spread both down and up. Our script this week went something like this:

Wednesday
Me: Uuurgh... throat hurts.

DB: Get some rest.

Me: Can't. Gotta do dishes and other stuff.

Thursday
Me: *Gravelly voice* Uuuuurrghh... *cough cough* Throat hurts.

DB: Get some rest!

Me: Can't. Behind on the laundry. You've got a test. Go study.

DB: ... Fine.

Friday
Me: *Man voice* Urrgghhh... *cough sniffle* Throat huuurts...

DB: Get some rest!!

Me: You have to study. And work. And we have kids. And a house. Dishes. Laundry. Bathrooms...

DB: ... Okay, fine. At least take it easy.

Me: Of course. I promise. Just don't look at my fingers, 'cause they're definitely crossed.

Saturday 
Me: See previous days, all added together.

DB: Woman! Get back into bed!

Me: Can't. Dress rehearsal. Dad home from surgery. Gotta help.

DB: *Rolls eyes* Fine. Just make sure to invite me to your funeral.

Sunday
Me: Zzzzzzz....

DB: .... I am so not waking her up for church.

Me: Zzzzzzz....zzzzz....zzzz....zzz-- *cough hack cough cough* Trying to talk, but no voice.

DB: I'm sorry, what was that honey? You want to stay in bed all day until you absolutely have to get up for your performance? Good plan.

Me: *Evil glare* .... .... .... Zzzzzzz....

Monday
Me: *Gravelly voice* Ok. I'm not falling over any more. Back to work.

DB: *Facepalm* You still sound like a man! Give yourself a break!

Me: No talking, man person! Go study for your final!

DB: You need to rest!

Me: Gymnastics! Cleaning! Dinner! Children! Laundry and laundry and laundry! Go study!

DB: I hired a cleaning service. Go rest.

Me: ... I was on a roll. Trying to be a martyr here.

DB: Go rest.

Me: Sure, okay. Right after gymnastcis. And keeping the kids out of the house while the cleaning ladies come. And making dinner. And finishing that one thing...

DB: *Sigh*

Tuesday
Me: *Cough cough -- hack hack* Urrrgh... All right, gang. I give up. Daddy is officially finished with finals, so I am going to --

DB: *Cough cough*

Ladybug: *Hack hack*

StrawBee: *Cough hack*

The Captain: *Sniffle*

Me:

...At least I'm finally excused from the laundry.

Monday Mantra

If I can sing with almost-bronchitis, I can do anything.

Finished

Yes, world. I am officially finished. 

Having babies, that is. 

Why, do you ask? Is it too many late nights and early mornings? Too many days gone un-showered? Too many nights washing peed bed linens? Too many dollars at the grocery store?

No, nope, nah, and nay. It's this: 

It's a hair. 

A dark, curly hair. 

A dark, curly chest hair. 

That I found on my chest. 

That's right. Apparently giving birth turns me into a man. 

I was prepared for a lot of bodily changes from bearing children, and on the whole I accept them gladly. 

Stretch marks?  Got 'em.

Saggy belly? Check.

Saggy breasts? Double check.

Circles under the eyes? You mean that isn't mascara? ...Oh, I guess I would've had to have put some on first. Right.

Hormonal imbalances? I'm sorry, I can't answer that question until I've had some chocolate -- dark, with strawberries  on the side.

Chest hair? Oh, su-- Wha huh wug???

I've noticed that with each birth, I've collected a few dark hairs in places that are generally considered the province of men. Hairs that were easily pluckable and, really, not all that strange (as you find once you get to know a girl well enough that she'll share these things. Why is it that we'll share all kind of weird details about pregnancy, labor, and delivery and not 'fess up to a few stray hairs?). These I have accepted. 

But chest hair? 

Uh, no. 

If DB decides he wants another baby, he'd better bring up the topic by presenting me with a carte blanche gift certificate for laser hair removal. 

Because at this rate, I'll be ushering in Planet of the Apes: Mom Edition before you know it.

That's right, work your sexy bad self.