A Utah Family Travel Writer's Adventures with Altitude
When Hunky Hubby’s hatred towards anything floppy goes too far. And is unleashed upon The Innocent with his pastel vest, Buddha belly and snazzy jig to the tune of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail.”
I won’t include the ransom note because it’s just too traumatic. Oh, and also because he destroyed all the evidence….
EASTER BUNNY: BEWARE.
Do not hop on by our house. Hunky Hubby is ticked at all your species for crapping all over our yard your feces, digging holes and eating his precious garden. He has been teaching his innocent daughter how to terminate and destroy you. Because she’s just that fast.
Of course, Haddie has yet to associate Said Species with the same that will be showering her with chocolate and jelly beans in a few short weeks. So you’ll probably be safe. For now.
(Photo caption: Little Bunny Haddie during more cuddly times.)
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Speaking of lies we tell our children, Jamie and I recently discussed the ramifications of believing in Santa. We both agree that while we don’t put a ton of emphasis on it, there is something magical about the fantasy that a fat guy in a red suit can satisfy our innermost wishes.
Jamie: “If you think about it, so many people make Santa such a taboo thing but no one seems too interested in shooting down the fact that so many of our kids’ favorite characters aren’t real. I find it hypocritical that parents encourage children to believe in Elmo but make Santa out to be the bad guy.”
Amber: “Gee, I can’t wait to hear the reasoning behind this one.”
Jamie: “Yeah, imagine if we told them Elmo wasn’t real and was just a puppet who has a hand stuck up his butt.”
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The Sound of Music is my all-time favorite movie and I have an immeasurable amount of respect and admiration for Julie Andrews’ talent.
Mary Poppins was on television recently and while it’s not one of my favorites, I was drawn to watch some of it. Mostly, I just wanted to watch her float out of the sky with her umbrella, conjuring up similar fantasies that I, too will be rescued from these children by a magical nanny. I’m still waiting.
Anyway, as she was belting out a song whilst cleaning up the toy room with the children, I marveled at her.
“You know Jamie. They just don’t make actresses like Julie Andrews these days. She is so classic, so timeless and so classy. She really defies all the trash we see today.”
“I think I saw her toples$ in a movie once.”
Every neighborhood has ‘em.
You know: the one white-trash family that just oozes with socially unacceptable behavior such as loud music, big engines, cold beer and jacked-up trucks.
I just didn’t know “they” were “us.”
It all started out innocently the other day when I took the kids for an early-morning run. Since the temperatures were still brisk, I opted against getting them dressed and kept them bundled up in their fleece PJs.
Now, something you should know about me is that even though I’m lucky if I get a brush through my hair, I am pretty anal about ensuring my kids are properly groomed. But I figured this was a worthy exception to get an early start to the day. You know. To beat those sweltering 60-degree temperatures that would soon descend upon us.
Something else you should also know is that it was garbage day, certainly not the best of times to be running due to the surrounding stench. I was the last 1/4-mile into my run up the big stinky hill to our house when I spotted It: that which led my great downfall to white trashdom (and coincidentally, it was white…and trash). Someone had left a wicker chest out by their garbage.
I stopped. It would be perfect in our basement for Haddie’s toys. I investigated. It was in great shape, too. Or at least it was before my attempts to transport it.
There was a problem, though. It was really big, which made our progress really slow. Oh yeah, and did I mention the hill? My little charges were patient in the beginning but after about 15 minutes of dragging it, fussiness ensued. I decided I needed another plan. I could take the kids out of the jogging stroller, put the trunk inside and let them walk. Well, at least the big one. My main concern was that Hadley was still in her pajamas and what would the neighbors think?
I did it anyway.
And so there we were on our leisurely Monday Morning Dumpster Diving Stroll around the neighborhood. Haddie in her soiled PJs, Bode with his frumpy hair.
Then Haddie started limping. “I have cereal at the bottom of my PJs,” she whined.
I looked down and sure enough she had lumpy feet. But at this point, the only way to get the cereal out of her one-piece pajamas would have involved stripping her down completely. And if PJs by Day were white trash, having her wander down the street with her sagging pull-up diaper was veritable trailer status. And at that, I drew the line.
“I have an idea! Just stomp really hard and it will turn your cereal into little crumbs. And then we’ll just follow them home like Hansel and Gretel!” I have always been a master of resolution.
She looked dubiously at me, made a meager attempt and then limped the rest of the way. It was memorable to say the least but we survived and the kids have a new toy box.
Would I do it again? Sure. Only next time, I’ll just need to remember to bring my shopping cart along….
Last Saturday morning, Jamie rounded up the troops to help him weed the front yard. You know: because the weeds were green for St. Patty’s Day.
Haddie pulled, Bode ate.
Passersby surely thought, “Oh, what a cute family working together.”
I have two words for them: slave labor.
I have had some inquiries since the Chuck E. Cheese fiasco regarding how potty training is going. In a word: it’s not. OK, that’s more like 2 (or 2.5 if you want to get picky like my former editor and count the contraction.)
(though I think I’d fire the ad agency that coined this winner stating it is worth it to pee your pants if you’re just able to use the hula hoop again.)
But instead, I’d target this: lazy husbands everywhere.
An award-winning campaign strategy?…
I have news. Big news. No, I’m not pregnant so I guess it isn’t that big (in which case, it is I who would be big). But I have a fun project underway that has the potential to become a veritable nightmare a lot of work with no rewards really cool.
You see, I figured I just wasn’t busy enough juggling two small children and spending my days fantasizing about sleep and potties. I recently contacted Denver’s two newspapers with a proposal: to run a “Mile High Mamas” blog. This would be a forum for Colorado mothers (and anyone else) to read humorous blogs (written by yours truly and others), share helpful parenting tips and provide an excellent resource for area activities.
At least that was the formal wording I used in the proposal. But y’all know what that means in Amber speak: TO PARRRRTY!
Miracle of miracles, both newspapers loved the idea. I have decided to go with The Denver Post because they have some fantastic plans in the works.
Oh yeah, and because the other guy didn’t call me back afterwards.
This is in the very preliminary development stages (they’re still assigning the project to a designer) so will probably be at least a few months in the making, if not more.
And so I turn to you, my dear friends, for some advice:
Does your area newspaper do anything similar? Do you know of any humorous bloggers in Colorado? What kind of things would you like to see to build an interactive network amongst mamas? What great mom sites (not necessarily blogs; more informational such as BabyZone) do you visit and why? Any standouts for design? And am I ever going to get eight hours of sleep again?….
(Subliminal messaging: Go to Top Momma, click on this cute baby picture of Hadley in her red snowsuit at least 100 times and then go back to your day).
Now, onto our regularly scheduled message….
There is an ongoing theme in our family: keys. Or should I say a lack thereof.
Our latest key story surely confirmed to Hunky Hubby why he loves me soooo much. Upon leaving YMCA of the Rockies, he looked everywhere but could not find our extra room key to turn back in during checkout.
I eventually found it while I did laundry. Assiduous wife that I am, I called him immediately.
“Hey Jamie–I found your key!”
“Really? Where?”
“It was at home in the dryer. No wonder you couldn’t find it….”
For all those out there who’ve wanted to photograph that priceless moment after their kid does a face plant but felt too guilty about it, I have a solution.
We have returned from our Crazy Fun Family Weekend. Well, that was at least the appellation for last year’s trip. This time around, it was more in keeping with my regular fortune: more crazy than fun. But to truly ascertain the outcome of our weekend, I shall do some calculations to determine Planet Pluto’s Performance (P.P.P.) and if the planets truly did align for another perfect weekend.
Selling Out On The Baby Sale
If you’ve ever traveled with me, you know of my biggest pet peeve: to leave late. This means do not do your laundry and do not stop for an oil change and then decide “Hey, why don’t I just get my emissions done while I’m here?” (Ring any bells, DAVE?)
I called Meredith at the boys’ scheduled departure time and learned through a course of events (that could only be attributed to Murphy’s Law associations with yours truly) that her car chose this day of all days to act up. Her Lexus, that is. You know: said to be one of the most reliable vehicles on the road. She informed me that she had to send Andy down to get it checked out at the garage. Oh, and then they would both still have to pack.
I decided to scrap Girl’s Night Out with her and drive up with Jamie and Co. Many would have lamented that they had to miss the Sale of the Century. My requiem was more along the lines of submitting myself to Moodiness of the Millennium. But I knew an early departure would be better for teething Bode. Plus, he’d be better off with his mommy’s sympathies, right?
My sacrifice paid off. He cried the entire drive.
P.P.P.: Nada
Nightmarish Nighttime
My children do not like to sleep. Put them in the same room and guess what: two negatives do not make a positive.
Friday night: Bode cried in 2-minute increments. All Night Long. And doting mother I am, I catered to him for the sole purpose of ensuring the enraged, sleepless lynch mobs from the hotel did not plunder us out of love.
Saturday night: I gave up. Really, I did. When Bode started crying, I could not physically drag myself out of bed. Allowing him to cry woke Haddie and put her into hysterics. It got so bad that I wanted to join the enraged, sleepless lynch mobs from the hotel pack up and leave in the middle of the night. Jamie is the sole reason that our children are still alive today. And that we stayed through morning.
P.P.P: So far, NoSoGood
This weekend we’re heading up to the mountains with some of our favorite neighbors: Andy, Meredith and baby Maddie. This trip has been a long time and coming. Well, only technically two-months-and-coming because we had to cancel our originally-scheduled date back in January due to The Plague. You know. That two-month sickness I may have mentioned once or twice.
We did this same trip last year and it was one of our best family vacations ever. We hope to have a repeat performance but are not ignorant enough to believe the planets could align twice in one lifetime for us. Well, maybe Pluto could perform but we all know what happened to that poor planet.
Against all odds, the weekend is already off to a stellar start. Meredith has been lamenting that we were going to miss The Baby Sale of the Century on Saturday. Y’see, Denver has these cool events a few times a year that are like a gazillion garage sales pooled into one. Women stand in line for hours like vultures waiting to attack. As a non-shopper, I was one of their prey my first time around and am still waiting for the footprints to fade off my back.
Meredith, on the other hand, is of the assailant variety and successfully begged the sale organizer to let us in for the Sneak-a-Peak on Friday night at 7 p.m., well after we were supposed to leave for our trip. And so she called me with a proposal, which I then relayed to Hunky Hubby.
Now, let me preface this by saying Jamie has had a hellacious week at work. The ulcer-inducing kind. And so I approached him with some trepidation.
“Hey, Meredith called and she said we’re able to do the preview.”
Grunt for a response.
“And and and Andy had the brilliant idea that Meredith and I should stay for the sale and drive up afterwards. Then you and Andy could carpool right after work with the kids. You know: a Guy’s Night Out!” You know. Crammed in a car with three irascible and screaming kids for a couple of hours. Party on!
Blank stare.
“So, what do you think? Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I’ve just officially hit rock bottom.”
“So, I’ll take that as a yes?….”
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. Learn More