The Hunt Begins
There is no better time to look for a new home than when you’re recovering from ACL surgery. I mean really. Do I have fabulous timing or what?
It all started innocently enough two weekends ago. Mr. BBM was browsing through the real estate weekly and noticed an open house or two he wanted to go visit. We walked into the second house and were in awe. A few days later, when we got a pre-approval letter that would allow us to buy it, we were giddy with excitement.
It wasn’t perfect though. It was in a good school district, but not my top choice. It was beautiful but lacked just a few of the features I’d like to have in a new home. At the open house, we met this great realtor who really impressed us and the rest is history.
We’ve gone to see about nine homes now with our realtor who calls himself the Rocketman. One of them was on a fabulous street with an in-ground pool and we could totally afford it, and the very night we saw it another contract came in on it. That was disappointing but we figured it was just not meant to be.
Yesterday, we saw a foreclosure home that made no sense at all. In an upscale neighborhood, it had lower quality cabinets and counter-tops than we have in our townhouse. We went to see it with great expectations of being able to get a total steal and have equity built in on purchase day. That wasn’t meant to be either.
Today, I have hoards of MLS listings to peruse and many closets to organize. We haven’t put our house on the market yet but plan to soon. Searching for a home has taught me that people have some really horrible taste.
In one house we saw, every single door was painted a reddish-maroon color. The molding matched the doors and each room featured wallpaper with Americana red, green and mustard yellow colors. Most of the wallpaper featured cats. Yes, cats. One bedroom didn’t have a closet. We started to wonder if they had perhaps wallpapered over the closet.
Another house was blue and green from top to bottom. That means the carpets, the walls, and everything in between. I like blue, but I don’t know if I like it that much.
Today my realtor called and recommended we consider new construction with a particular builder who happened to build his own home. The home would be in his development. We’d be neighbors with the Rocketman! After looking at a bunch of homes with lousy color schemes, worn out carpet, homes that smell like smoke, etc. this seems to be a worthwhile course of action to consider. To build a home from the ground up, with our own color choices and no nasty wallpaper to remove sounds like a dream come true. We will have to wait and see.
For the time being, I have another closet that needs to be organized.
***It’s February now and that means March is just around the corner! March is Admired Martial Artists Month here at BBM and there are going to be some exciting visitors gracing the pages of BBM. For more information, go here. If you’re a martial arts blogger, I encourage you to join in with the theme for March and find some great guest-posters for your site as well!
***BBM is also hosting the February Martial Arts Carnival. To submit an article (this months theme is "Great Martial Arts Book" or you can submit any old thing if you’d like), go here. The Carnival will appear here on February 23rd so please don’t wait to get your article in!
Human Volcano Eruption
9:00 a.m. "I vant milk mommy." (Mommy gets her milk.)
9:05 a.m. "I vant ‘ornange’ juice mommy."
9:05:01 a.m. "Lil C, I just gave you milk. Drink your milk first. Then you can have orange juice."
9:07 a.m. "I vant choc-it milk MOMMY."
9:07:01 a.m. (Mommy adds chocolate powder to milk.)
9:08 a.m. "I vant draw-bewwie milk MOMMY!"
9:08:01 a.m. "Lil C, please drink your chocolate milk first. You can’t have three drinks. Mommy is TRYING to make your breakfast."
9:09 a.m. "I vant egg toast."
9:09:01 a.m. "That’s what I’m making you Lil C. It will be ready in a minute."
9:10 a.m. "I VANT EGG TOAST MOMMMEEEEE!" (Repeat at 10 second intervals.)
9:11 a.m. "I VANT EGG TOAST MOMMEEEEEEEEEEEE!" (Mommy tries to keep brain from erupting with frustration. Mommy starts feeling like a chef at a 5-star restaurant, under extreme pressure to get things done right and get things done NOW!)
9:12 a.m. (Eggs and toast are served to Lil C.)
9:12:01 a.m. "Don’t vant egg toast MOMMEEEEE!"
9:12:02 a.m. "Tough Lil C. That’s what we’re having."
9:12:02-9:15 a.m. (Lil C eats her toast and then climbs out of her chair telling me she is "all done."
9:20 a.m. (Lil C crawls back up in her chair.) "VANT EGG TOAST MOMMEEEE." (Proceeds to eat ice cold eggs. Yeech.)
This is pretty much how every meal goes lately with my downright pain in the heiney agreeable little two-year old. I was on the phone with a friend while making breakfast and shuffling beverages; and I can honestly tell you that I started to feel like my head was going to explode. Lil C is high maintenance and SO demanding right now. She’s also fickle, in case you couldn’t tell.
As a Mommy who is still walking around in an immobilizer brace and is still having some discomfort when I overwork my knee, I choose my battles wisely. It’s not uncommon for Lil C to have three drinks at a time. Some would say I’m spoiling her; I say I’m insuring that I don’t have to get her another drink five minutes from now. Three should last her a while.
The demands of a two-year old are bad enough when you’re completely healthy and mobile. When you’re walking like a peg-like pirate and negotiating stairs 20,000 times a day, it’s downright exhausting.
I am also completely stressed out today for another reason. My aunt was recently diagnosed with breast cancer and is undergoing a mastectomy today. Only four weeks out from much more minor surgery, I feel like I’m reliving all of those emotions again: the waiting for your name to be called, the changing into a drafty gown, the stick from the IV needle, being wheeled into the OR, the waking up in pain. . .
I can’t get her out of my mind. I feel physically sick just waiting for news, and dealing with a high maintenance little person is not distracting me. It’s only making it worse. Is it just me or are children 10 times more demanding and impossible when they know you’re already stressed out?
Here’s hoping Mount BBM can avoid blowing her top today. My plan is to keep Lil C well hydrated with a different drink stationed at every table in five foot intervals. I am hoping this plan of action will help us both avoid an "eruption" of catastrophic proportions today.
Hockey, Sugar and Passenger Seat Drivers
The girls experienced their very first live ice hockey game this weekend. When my parents said they had tickets, I had two choices: either suffer alone all night with the girls since Mr. BBM was in Las Vegas for business, or take the girls and brave the crowds in the arena hoping my flexion would be good enough to allow me to sit comfortably. I chose the latter.
When I told the girls where we were going, Big I protested immediately. "No, I don’t want to go!" and Lil C quickly jumped on the negativity train with her sister. I started wondering how in the world I birthed these children, considering I’ve been a hockey fan pretty much since I took my first breath. My Dad just wouldn’t have it any other way. I have evidence to prove it:
You may also remember this little gem, which was taken when I met Rick Tocchet, my favorite hockey player while I was growing up. (Please don’t mention the gambling stuff around me. I still wear my Tocchet jersey proudly; and don’t even think about insulting my perm. Seriously, because I will totally cross check you, bum knee or not.)
Since going to a hockey game wasn’t exciting them, I enticed them with this scenario: either spend the night alone with a grumpy invalid Mommy or get to spend some time with Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop. They chose the game. Smart girls.
The drive to the arena went the way any drive with my Dad in the passenger seat goes:
"Why are you going this way? It will take twice as long!"
"You’re driving too close to the car in front of you. If I was that guy, I’d slam on my brakes."
"What are you listening to? Where did you get your taste in music, if you can call it taste?"
"No, park over THERE!"
"You should have let me drive."
I can usually tolerate my Dad’s non-stop driving insults by going to my special place and ignoring him, and by reminding myself that it was HE who taught me how to drive. I drive EXACTLY like he does. You know, all that "I’m rubber, you’re glue. Anything you say about me bounces back to you" stuff? After the 10th comment though, I felt it necessary to give him a verbal reminder that he was being a real pain in the butt, and that he had been my exclusive driving teacher. That quieted him a bit. I also turned up the music he doesn’t like. That always helps too.
After managing to avoid strangling each other on the drive there, we made our way into the arena. It was only when I reached the very last three stairs that a worker noticed me and told me I should have taken the elevator. Great. Thanks for telling me now buddy. I had no clue there even was an elevator.
We made our way to our seats and I grabbed the one on the end. There’s not an arena on the face of the Earth made with long legs and knee injuries in mind, so I was very thankful that the seats in front of me were empty. They made a nice and very much needed leg rest for me. The only problem with being on the end was that everyone else needed to get in and out past me. Thankfully I had very patient people (who were also good at leaping to or from the row in front to avoid me altogether) when they got tired of me having to straighten and lock my brace before standing up to get out of their way.
The game started and Big I asked about a gazillion questions about what was going on. Lil C looked like she was going to fall asleep. During the first intermission, my parents took the girls out to the concession areas and came back with soft pretzels, ice cream, soda, and a beer for me. (It’s easy to forgive your Dad for his passenger seat driving antics when he brings you a Yuengling.)
Lil C decided she only wanted the pretzel, so I ended up eating her ice cream. I don’t allow the girls to have any soda at all, but there was nothing else to drink besides my beer. Both of the girls were giggling and watching me in disbelief as I allowed them sips of the soda. It only took about 10 minutes for the effects of the soda to kick in. Big I was talking non-stop and Lil C started speaking in what can only be described as tongues.
As if this wasn’t bad enough, my Dad disappeared and brought them back Cotton Candy. I can’t tell you how thankful I was, knowing that we were all spending the night at my parents house and that I wouldn’t have to deal with two very spazzy children on my own. By the time the game was over, the girls had consumed their body weight in sugar. Because of this, I gave my Mom half of my beer. She looked like she needed it considering Lil C sat on her lap almost exclusively the whole night.
"What is this sticky stuff anyway? Yeah, I’m not liking it that much after all. Yeech." FYI, it ended up being spit out in my Mom’s hand.
During the game, a young guy came and sat down beside me with t-shirts. I thought it was odd that some employee was coming to try to sell me a t-shirt during the game. I quickly dropped my skepticism and defensive anti-buying shield, when he announced that we were the "rockin’ row" and were all getting free t-shirts! Not long after, the team mascot "Slapshot" came to visit the girls and that truly made their night.
Despite the sugar rush and mascot visit, by the time the game was nearing its end, Big I was proclaiming her unwavering boredom and dislike of hockey (Seriously, did I take the wrong baby home from the hospital???); and Lil C was shouting "Let’s Go ROYALS!" like an old sugar-hyped pro.
The drive home was pretty much the same as the ride there, except that my Dad’s head almost exploded in the parking lot as we waited for my Mom to strap Lil C in her car seat the right way since my dad had, in his haste, messed the whole thing entirely up. What is it with Pop-Pop’s and car seat confusion?
As each car exited the parking lot ahead of us, my dad upped his estimation on how ridiculously long it was going to take us to get home now. Apparently, for every car that leaves the parking lot prior to yourself, you can add another five infuriating minutes (in theory). My Dad huffed, moaned and groaned and I practiced some deep breathing exercises and explained to him why there was no way I was leaving the parking lot until EVERYONE was safely buckled.
So, add to the list of driving insults and critiques from above, a hasty explanation for how and why someone should drive like a bat out of hell out of the parking lot and you pretty much have my drive home. Next time, I’m putting my Dad in the trunk or on the roof rack.
Raising a Drama Queen (or two)
The other day, Lil C and I were having a leisurely morning watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse when she announced that her name is no longer "Lil C."
"My name. . . Drama," she said. She paused for emphasis and then added, "My name drama QUEEN." I laughed out loud. She’s obviously paying attention when Mr. BBM and I talk about her. She realized she was being cute and funny and took it one step further. "My name Princess Drama Queen," she said. Apparently, she’s been playing with Big I a lot too.
Lil C has always been very different from Big I. Big I was, for the most part, always pretty quiet, calm and sweet. She had her moments but they were few and far between. Lil C has been an entirely different story. With a big sister to aggravate her, plenty of toys that are off limits as per Big I, and a feisty attitude to begin with, calling herself "drama queen" is not all that far from the truth.
It got me to thinking about the rest of our family and how we operate. Is "drama" a learned behavior or was she just born dramatic? Here are a couple examples to help formulate an opinion:
- When a particular member of our family gets a splinter, there is screaming, sobbing, and frantic freaking out akin to what winning the lottery must be like, except of course, not a good freaking out, a bad one, a very very bad one. When trying to get the offending piece of wood out, a certain somebody will pull their hand away when you get within two feet of it and this will continue for at least a good 10 minutes.
- If a bee or wasp gets into the house, there is a total and complete "lock down" of the BBM household, as in "Everyone get to the safe room and NOW!" Complete with towels to plug up the narrow air holes under the doors, and a case of water in case the stand off is a long one, the BBM family goes into hiding Y2K style until the offending "beast" is "offed" with hairspray, bug killer or a nearby shoe.
- When a certain someone in this house gets in trouble, this person will sometimes send themselves to their room before being told to go there. This doesn’t mean this person remains there quietly. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. This certain someone has a mirror in their room. Upon entering the room, one will find this person flailing about in front of the mirror, complete with crocodile tears, while screaming "Why? Why? Why?" at their image in the mirror. Where are the "All My Children" casting people when you need them?
- A certain someone has recently decided that no meat will cross their tongue except for Chicken McNuggets. This person has also gotten very picky about all types of food with the exception of Pop-Tarts. This person will eat any type of Pop-Tart. I swear they could contain pork chops, and if wrapped in that nice little pastry with a little icing, this person would still be all over it. When it’s time for dinner, if this person doesn’t like the selection, it is not unusual for this person to wind up on the floor, moaning and whining her opposition to the offending entree. Many times the moaning/whining/flailing combo happens underneath the table where it is greatly entertaining for "Princess Drama Queen" in training.
Do you think you can properly identify the Drama Queen "Sensei" in the family?
If you guessed BBM as the main character behind all of these drama-filled scenarios, then you would be. . . . correct. Actually, just kidding. That was for added drama. We’re all pretty good at drama in this household, each and every one of us. Now if you’ll excuse me. . .
"Mr. BBM, get out from under the table now; and for the LOVE of GOD, get away from the mirror! We are NOT having Chicken McNuggets for dinner AGAIN!"
"You won’t get out from under the table?" (I know how to get you out from under there. . . )
"Oh no, what’s that noise? What’s that. . . BUZZING? I think there’s a wasp in the house! Take cover. TAKE COVER!!! Get to the safe room NOOOOWWWWWW!!!"
***The latest review is up at The BBM Review. Have a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse fan in the house? Don’t miss it.
Mommy is “Unavailable”
Because I spent an insane wealth of my life falling asleep on Big I’s floor when she was a toddler while waiting for her to drift off to dreamland, Lil C’s bedtime has been Mr. BBM’s special assignment. Bedtime is my time to write, work, read, eat without having to share, and catch up on my recorded TV shows. (It used to be my kata time, but we’re not going to talk about that now because I’ll cry or something and the whole post will be ruined.)
Lil C will frequently cry when it’s bedtime and ask for me. If Mr. BBM says I’m downstairs, Lil C tries to go downstairs. If he tells her I’m in bed, she says, "Lay wif Mommy." If he tells her I’m "busy," she doesn’t buy it and yells for me louder, "TELL MOMMEEEE. TELL MOMMEEEEEE." We’re not exactly sure what she needs to tell me, but it’s probably that she doesn’t want to go to bed.
A couple weeks ago he found the perfect explanation for why I’m not present when he’s putting her to bed. When she yells "Where’s Mommy at?" Mr. BBM’s chosen response has been "Mommy’s pooping." I was curious as to why she was always asking me about my pooping habits and now I know why. Apparently, if Mommy’s allegedly "pooping," she accepts that explanation and goes to sleep. Funny that no matter what I say, it doesn’t stop her from barging into the bathroom to supervise whenever I’m in there and she happens to feel like joining me.
Without Mr. BBM saying a word about it, Lil C now asks each night, "Is Mommy poopin’?" when she sees that she’s destined to be put to bed once again by Daddy. I told Mr. BBM he needs to come up with something else. I don’t want her growing up thinking that her mother spends the entire evening "pooping." Things could get unnecessarily embarrassing when she starts attending school. "So what does your Mommy do, Lil C?" "Well, my Mommy does a lot of pooping every night." Fabulous.
The other night he told her I was asleep on the sofa, which was not far from the truth considering I took some allergy medication to ward off the sneezing and itchy eyes that have been driving me insane. For once, she bought it and went to sleep.
Now that I think about it, I’m not sure that she would actually buy such a response. Mr. BBM probably told her I was "pooped," and to her, that probably still means I’m in the bathroom.
Great.
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