Hello there, 5!

Dear Lucas,

I figured it's about time I wrote you one of these.  After all, your sister got one every month for her first year (though they're not posted on this blog).  Mattias also got them every three months or so. Now it's your turn.  I promise you it wont always be this way often-overlooked-third-child.  Would it help if I secretly told you that you're my favourite?

All joking aside, you kinda are.  Let's face it... you're adorable (okay, the other two are as well), but you don't talk back.  Or tell me no.  Or give me attitude.  You seem to get that silence is golden, and... your poop doesn't smell bad.

I thought I'd start with today, because for many reasons, it's pretty special.  First off, it's your Uncle Marc's birthday.  You met him a few weeks ago and seemed to like him, even though the thought of changing your diaper made him gag.

Secondly, it is your 5th monthaversary.  It seems unbelievable that you have been around for that long.  Yesterday, I saw a mom with a newborn and it seemed to me that you still should be exactly that size; all tiny and snugly.  I love the stage you're in, but I do miss those milk-coma days.

But most importantly, exactly one year ago today, I found out that you were on your way to bless our family.  I remember being so scared, not because you were coming, but because there were signs that I was going to loose you.  I had known about you for less than 24 hours, yet I was already so in love with the idea of you that I could barely breathe.

But here you are; 365 days later.  A perfect fit into this crazy family of ours. You are such a lovely baby and you are so loved. I can't wait to see what this life has in store for my wonderful third-born.

Love,
Your Mama

23!

Dear Mattias,

I can't believe how long it has been since I've done one of these.  I want to document your crazy life, but you don't really leave a lot of time in the day to do it.  You are constantly on the move and I love it.

 You are still talking in your crazy, made-up language. I know that you can speak "properly", because every once in awhile you will pipe up with something like, "the purple ones", or "popcorn". But when we ask you to say anything, your reply is always, "nope!"

In fact, this is a conversation we recently had:

Me: Mattias, can you say Elise?

You: Nope!

Me: Say toast!

You: Nope!

Me: Can you say Mattias?

You: Nope!

Me: Can you say nope?

You (with a mischievous look in your eye): uh-huh

Comedic timing... you get it, even at such a young age.

My favourite word by far is your word for bananas, which is meomas.  Usually said with great glee.  In fact, whenever we go to Target, the first thing you do is run down the main aisle towards where the bananas are, yelling, "MEOMAS, MAMA... MEOMAS!"

You love babies and the mere sight of one will make you say, "awwwww, bebe!" You are particularly infatuated with the cartoon baby on your diaper cream tube and you like to give it kisses. This makes me happy as pretty soon there will be a real live baby joining the family, poised to usurp your position.  Get ready to be okay with that. 

One of my absolute favourite things about you is how much you love your sister.  It is so much fun to watch the two of you sitting at the breakfast table, each of you trying to make the other laugh the hardest. It is sweet to watch and music to your Mama's ears.

Your latest skill is putting your dishes in the sink.  You won't even let me clear your dishes because you are so proud of how you can carry them from the table to the sink.  There are some adults in this house that could learn from you.

I have loved watching you grow from a tiny baby into a silly, quirky, passionate and fun little boy who would wear mismatched pajamas all day if I would let him.  I love your sweet heart, and how you will immediately run over to comfort your sister if she's crying.  I love your enthusiasm for sports; whether it's watching the Rangers on TV ("Go ball go!"), or shouting "GOOOOAL" when practising a rather wicked forehand shot with your hockey stick.

I even love watching you pout when you don't get your way. The way your tiny lower lip curls out and how you stomp your feet, showing your displeasure with a rather emphatic "HMPH!"  As long as you don't do it to often.

And yes, I even love you when you do something crazy like swallow a battery and I have to rush you to the ER for surgery the day before I'M supposed to have surgery. All I can say is, you are lucky you are so cute.

I love you, little T, and I can't wait to see what the next year brings.

Love,
Your Mama

He's 1

Dear Mattias,

Exactly 1 year ago today, as I write this, you were being born. Yes, I am writing your 1 year letter on the day of your birthday. Let's just say you keep me a little busy these days.

From your level of activity in utero, I should have known you'd be a wild man. I can still clearly remember lying awake at night, my poor bladder absorbing your kicks and punches.

Only these days, all your energy is put into giving me a heart attack. If it's dangerous, you want it. If it can hurt you, you make a bee-line for it. You have no fear of anything, and while that will serve you well later on in life, all it's doing now is aging me prematurely.

You have no time to snuggle, give kisses or demonstrate your love in any way. You are way too busy getting into trouble. You will, however, sit in my lap for a story. The reading of which makes you laugh manically for some strange reason.

You love to dance, bop and move to music. It captivates you, and makes everyone around you laugh. Which is fine by you, since you seem to be the world's biggest ham. And for the record, wearing a napkin on your head while we're out at a restaurant is okay now, but you should probably stop it by the time you're in your 20s.

This year with you has been a wild ride, my little man. I love your craziness... but let's try and calm down for the next 365, m'kay?

Love,
Your Momma

She's 4

Dear Elise,

When you have children, people love to tell you, "cherish these days, they will be grown before you know it." And while you are not yet grown, you are 4. Which is almost the same thing to me. I blinked, and my tiny baby morphed into a pre-schooler. They really must put some sort of crazy hormones in that milk.
Although I do miss you as a baby, you have grown into such an amazing little girl. You have the sweetest heart and I have never met a child that feels so deeply. I honestly don't think you have a mean bone in your body. Thankfully, your mother does and stands ready to give an atomic wedgie to anybody who dares to make you cry.
That's not to say that you are a wimp. Quite the contrary. You are probably stronger that most adults. Perhaps it's because of the diabetes, but I think it's just who you are; strong spirited.
Elise, you are beautiful; inside and out. And while most people comment on your outer beauty, I want you to remember to stay beautiful on the inside. You are kind. You are generous. You are loving and the best big sister to Mattias. I love who you are; a quirky, fun princess with a huge imagination and a heart to match.
Four years have now passed since the first moment I held you in my arms. And I have held you everyday since. It never gets old.

Thank you for making me a Mom. And happy birthday to my sweet little bean.
Love,

Your Momma

You can label me ticked off

Dear speech therapist who was so determined to slap a label on my son,

On Tuesday, I brought my 7-month old son to see you because he seemed to have some feeding issues. Within about 10 minutes of meeting him, you had decided that he has Sensory Integration Disorder.

Your basis for this diagnosis? First off, he didn't like it when you donned those bright blue gloves and started touching his face.

I'm guessing that to a baby, having your face touched by some crazy blue hands that belong to a complete stranger is the equivalent of someone I just met giving me a pap smear. Please... say hello, introduce yourself and shake my hand before sticking that speculum up my bajingo.

You were also concerned that he didn't like to have his face wiped. How about I hold YOU down in a chair and proceed to wipe a towel repeatedly over your mouth and see how happy it makes you.

What nailed it for you is when he refused to eat your jar of nasty, no-name carrots. Well crap... I can't say that I blame him. If you had told me, I could have brought him something halfway decent. Perhaps he's a bit of a food snob.

Isn't 7 months a little young to be labeling someone? And what of these labels, anyway? Why does everyone have to be something. Why can't my son just be an adorably quirky guy who doesn't like to eat some days? You're saying that anyone who doesn't fit the standard (read: boring) mold, must have something wrong with them. What a crock. Take me for example:

I don't like the feel of corduroy or velvet

I can't stand shirts with only one pocket.

Crowds bother me.

I don't like people I don't know standing too close to me.

High pitched noises are like nails on a blackboard to me. So are nails on a blackboard.

I hate the smell of fish, I think football is boring, and I abhor it when people pee on the toilet seat and don't clean up after themselves.

I also don't suffer fools.

Gee, if you were recommending 60-90 minute therapy sessions, 3 days a week for a baby that didn't want to be touched by you, I can only imagine that you would have me institutionalized.

You know what, despite my many issues... I turned out pretty okay. Without intensive therapy.

I respect that you went to school and received your degree in this, but my gut, mom-tuition, and bullshit detector trump those letters after your name any day.

Yours very sincerely (and quirkily),
Joanne

Why don't I ever crave broccoli?

I found this post in my drafts folder... I'm not sure why I never posted it, but the memories make me laugh, so enjoy!

Dear God,

I'll bet you have people asking You, "what is up with (fill in the blank)" all the time. Like the platypus for example. I'm guessing You've taken Your fair share of ribbing on that one. Personally, I think the platypus is kinda cool; a downright funky animal. I only regret that I've never seen one in person.

But I really gotta ask You, why did You have to come up with pregnancy hormones; namely, the ones that make me crave weird things at odd hours of the night? It's not like being pregnant isn't hard enough, what with the nausea, the wild mood swings, and the getting bigger with the round ligament pain and things of that nature.

And let's not even mention the pain of child birth.

What I take issue with is the fact that I can be marching my shopping cart down a grocery store aisle, minding my own business and keeping to the exact letter of my shopping list when BAM! Out of nowhere, I spy a bag of marshmellows and think to myself, "how good would a roasted marshmellow be right now?"

Never mind that I'm nowhere near a campsite, and the fact that it's ten billion degrees out during this very pleasant (she said, sarcastically) Texas summer day. All I can think about is a white-melty-blob of high-fructose-corn-sugar-goodness. All rational thinking goes out the window and I toss the marshmellows into my cart.

Fast-forward a few hours later, and I now find myself in front of my stove, "roasting" a marshmellow over an electric burner on a wooden kabob skewer. And by "a" marshmellow, I mean 5.

Well, pregnancy cravings must happen for a reason, right God? At least that's what I'll keep telling myself as I'm double-fisting the candy corn.

Yours very hungrily,

Joanne

I'm not even kidding... three years later

I'm going to keep on re-posting this every year until someone listens...

Dear Person or Persons in charge of Daylight Savings Time,

Yes I know the time change was a few days ago so this may seem a little late. You see, it took a few days to put my thoughts down into writing because I've been wandering around my house trying to figure out WHAT BLOODY TIME IT IS.

It seems some of my clocks are smarter than me and change on their own. Some, my husband changed on Sunday. And others still display the "old" time. My problem is, I can't figure out which is which.

So, onto my issue with you. I hate the very concept of DST. It is, quite simply, a load of crap. I don't care that on some farm, in a far away land it makes the cows happy, or whatever bull you're touting, but it screws with my life and it must stop. And I don't appreciate the propaganda the news is spewing by telling me, "you gain and EXTRA hour!" That is pure crap to the highest degree.

We're onto you, yes we are. Who are we? We are the parents of children who cannot tell time, and ergo do not give a flip about your stinking time change. We are the parents of children who are now waking up a FULL HOUR EARLIER than normal now, because of a reason that no longer exists. My daughter has decided to add an extra half hour to that, because that's how she rolls.

An hour may not seem like a lot to you, but when your days are filled with house-cleaning, meal-preparing, blood-sugar-checking, insulin-shot-giving, child-rearing, errand-running, diaper-changing, laundry-washing and nose-wiping; and you do it all while suffering from the 500th consecutive bad hair day, AND quite certain you have poop smeared somewhere on your person (because why else is THAT SMELL following you around the house like the dog when she's hungry), well then, I would say an hour is HUGE.

So I am urging you, PLEASE, for the love of all that is holy... do away with DST. Or I shall be forced to hunt you down, find out where you live and start banging away on your bedroom window an hour before you usually get up. I will also knee you in the groin for the extra half hour. Because that is how I roll.

An open letter to my bladder

Dear Bruce,

We need to talk. These four-times-a-night visits to the bathroom have to stop. You understand that I don't get enough sleep as it is, right? Well, having to roll my ever-expanding body out of bed, and practically killing myself as I trip over every obstacle between the bed and the bathroom is not helping. Especially when I sit down and all you manage to squeeze out is a teaspoon of liquid.

Seriously? You woke me up for THAT?

Look, I understand the baby is using you as a punching bag, but you really need to toughen up.

Sincerely,
Joanne

P.S. I would also appreciate it if you could do a little better job of holding it together when I sneeze... a girl only has so many pairs of underwear, if you know what I mean.

Why Texas can suck it this time

Dear Texas,

You had to go and do it, didn't you? Give me yet another reason in the looooong list of reasons why I don't like you very much. I mean, there's already so much to choose from; the insufferably hellish summers, the insanity of the drivers, and the traffic that makes you want to saw off your arm and club yourself to death with it are just a few of the highlights. The fact that there's nothing really fun to do here and the closest thing worth driving to (Colorado) is about 15 hours away doesn't help any.

And of course, there's the absolutely stunning (insert sarcasm here) vistas. Come on Texas, when the only two other places you have lived in your life have been Vancouver, B.C., and San Fransisco, you've got to know that water towers painted with stupid hometown slogans just aren't going to do it for me.

Oh dear, I'm coming off sounding like a bit of a snob, aren't I?

No matter. This spring, you have managed to outdo yourself Texas, by simultaneously sprouting every noxious weed you have to offer, thereby making me seek refuge indoors during one of the two seasons that it is fit to venture outside. I don't get it... it's not like anything pretty is blooming these days. As I stare out my pollen-stained windows, everything still looks like death and dying outside. So where is all this allergy-causing crap coming from?

I will admit, that the Bradford Pears are quite beautiful when in bloom, but any beauty is immediately cancelled out by the smell those things give off. Seriously, it is enough to drive anyone to their knees, let alone a morning-sickness suffering pregnant woman. Who knew a tree could make someone vomit?

In closing Texas, your plants really aren't all that pretty, so you can stop trying now. Bring on the plant-killing heat of the summer!

(I am going to be sooooooo sorry I ever said that)

Nitwit Broadcasting Company

Dear NBC,

I wanted to say a most sarcastic thank you for your decision to not air Sunday's Canada vs. USA hockey game on the broadcast network; instead relegating it to the lesser, cable network, MSNBC.

But why were you not able to watch it, you ask? Because I am one of the minority 11% in this country that doesn't have cable. I have seen what is offered on cable, and I refuse to pay good money for pure crap in its highest form. And yes, I consider shows like Keith Olbermann, Mad Money with Jim Kramer, The Real Housewives of [insert county/city here] and the like, pure crap.

Apparently, your programming department is made up of 8-year old girls, because in place of showing the clash between two hockey giants, you decided to show ice dancing instead. Really NBC? Ice dancing? It hardly qualifies as a sport. More like a hobby. Or a reality TV show.

Let's also not forget that one of the pairs competing in the ice dancing competition are brother and sister. That's a little icky if you ask me. I'm just sayin'.

And yes, I've read your reasons for why the game did not air on NBC... blah, blah, blah. I still think you're a bunch of weenies.

Although I do owe you some thanks, I suppose. Apparently, my team forgot to show up and play, so by not airing the game on a channel I could watch, you spared me three hours of pain and suffering.

In closing, I would like to recommend you pull your heads out of your bums, and perhaps you need to send your programming department to their rooms.

Oh, and no dessert for one week.

Most sincerely,
Joanne

I'm published!

Okay, not really... but my letter to the editor was! If you want to read all of the who, what, when, where, and why (and perhaps a how or two), just click this link to my other blog.

Today, a letter to the editor. Tomorrow, a 859 page novel about an invading army of space giraffes from the planet Gyrot. And one wily human (who may or may not be named Joanne), and her plans to save the planet from these even-toed ungulates.

I pick Tina Fey to play the lead character in the movie version. Because our glasses are very similar.

Dear Idiots

This is a letter to all the unpleasant, feel-like-they-own-the-whole-trail morons who were biking or rollerblading at Campion Trails Saturday, September 26th, 2009.

Yesterday I witnessed just how terrible people can be to one another and added yet another reason to start saving for that deserted island I'm going to need to buy to get away from people like you.

I don't understand it, but I do realize that you twits feel entitled to pathways where cars do not tread. But you do not own them. They are not yours. They are open to EVERYBODY, especially when we are walking in a CHARITY EVENT.

I'm guessing that all the tents that were set-up, or the giant balloon-arch, or the vast hordes of people wearing all sorts of matching shirts, or even the BIG SIGN THAT SAID JDRF WALK FOR A CURE, were not enough of a clue for you dimwits, but yesterday at Campion Trails in Irving was the annual Diabetes walk.

You know, I am so sorry that all those people got up early on a Saturday, took the time to raise money and awareness for this horrible disease, and spilled out onto your pathways in support of the people they love who have to live with, or take care of someone who lives with diabetes every day. How very inconvenient for you.

But for you to huff at us, and mutter things under your breath as you pushed your way through us, was a new low... even for people that are known for being so openly hostile towards those that dare to get in your way, or violate your "sacred rules of the pathway".

And to that cantankerous, old biddy on the bike who practically ran a mother who was pushing her kids in a stroller off of the pathway, then had the balls to yell at her; I have something very special to say to you. Except I'm not going to, because my Mom reads this blog and I am too much of a lady to say those things out loud.

I will say to all the pinheads on two and eight wheels; get a freaking life and chill out a little. You now have your precious trail back for the next 364 days. But we will be back, and next year I won't be above sticking my arm out to clothesline the first discourteous jerkoff-on-wheels who rolls by.

Sincerely,
Joanne

Two years ago, at this very moment...

Dear Elise,

I am going to start out this letter with the very cliche, "wasn't I just giving birth to you yesterday?" Yes, yes, I know it has been said a thousand times over, but there is no better description for how time has just rocketed by in the last two years.

And what a crazy two years it has been; full of so many ups and downs that I'm feeling nauseous. But I think I can chalk that up to the cast quantity of chocolate I have just ingested. But enough, this post is supposed to be about YOU.

Sweet Elise Rian, I don't think I have the adequate vocabulary to describe the amount of love I have for you. Nor can I put into words how you amaze and astound me everyday. All that you have been through in your life and you still face every day with a smile.

God knew exactly what He was doing when He entrusted me with your life. I say that not because I think I'm doing such a bang-up job as your mother, but because I have learned so many lessons from you.

I have learned that yes, life can suck, but then you keep on living it as best as you can. Every day is a new day, full of promise. I shouldn't fear what the future brings, I should look forward to it with eager anticipation.

I've learned the art of patience. Having a toddler with no concept of time, and a mind of her own will do that to you. I've also found out the old adage, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" can be fun, especially when it entails hiding in the clothes racks at Target.

You taught me that music is to be enjoyed while spinning and jumping around and dancing with stuffed animals. And songs should be sung at the top of our lungs while driving in the car; complete with wild hand gestures. Who cares if the people in the next car are staring. They're just jealous that they're not having as much fun as we are.

I've learned to stop and enjoy the world around me. That you can sit and check out that strange-looking bug on the driveway for 20 minutes, because there is always another story time happening somewhere.

I always knew that I married a wonderful man, but I now know that I married an amazing father too. Seriously Elise, you are so blessed to have Poppa as your Poppa. One day, you'll get it. Judging by your reaction when he comes home from work, I think that you're already starting to.

You have taught me that I am a lot tougher than I thought I was. You have given me a lot of confidence in areas I never thought I'd be any good at. I'm still a work in progress, but I think we make a phenominal team.

I've learned that painting is always better when done naked (well naked plus a diaper). This rule only applies to you, not me.

I'm so proud of you, little girl, and so glad to call you my daughter. Happy Birthday.

Love,
Your Momma

Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do

Dear lady in the SUV turning right off of Kimball onto the 114 service road,

I just wanted to extend my most heartfelt thanks to you for showing me the error of my driving ways. All this time I thought it was proper driving technique that when you are turning right, to turn into the most right-hand lane of the road you are turning onto.

But the other day when you made a right-hand turn onto the three lane service road and ended up in the far left lane (or as I saw it; my lane, since I was turning left into it), all the while honking, shaking your rather hairy knuckles, and yelling what looked like "bass-pole" at me, I realized I had been wrong all this time.

You can't really blame me for not being aware of the "turn into any bloody lane that you feel like" rule. You see, up in Canada (where I hail from), we follow the rule as I stated it above. When I moved to California and had to take my road test again, I found that they too have strict rules when it comes to turning.

But now that I've lived here in Texas awhile, I've discovered that most people don't care what lane they turn into, just as long as nobody impedes them.

Now that I've learned my lesson of the lanes, I'm going to take it up a notch. I figure I'll start turning left from the centre lane from now on. Or, when I get really good at it, make a right hand turn from the far left lane. I also see that a lot of people here like to drive the wrong way on the highway. Maybe I'll add that to my repertoire.

So thank you again scary, crazy lady; the finger you flipped me at the end was the icing on my cake. I hadn't received the one-finger salute in awhile and had forgotten how much it makes me laugh.

Sincerely,
Joanne

In case my description of the incident above is a tad confusing: I was turning left onto the service road, angrylady was turning right onto the same road. We turned at the same time; I into the left lane, and she, also into the left lane. At which point the fun began.

An ode to my blog

Oh blog... I just realized that our one year anniversary together passed, and I failed to acknowledge it. So here is my long overdue anniversary post.

Dearest Blog,

Twas just (over) a year ago when you were but a gleam in my eye; a lone (and lonely) idea peculating in my brain. I had so much to say, yet wasn't sure I was ready to play in traffic on the world-wide-web-information-super-highway. So I started you off as quietly as I could. Just another small voice staking out my corner and not caring if the world even heard what I had to say.

Then, just a month into our courtship, our relationship was foisted out into the open by my husband. As good as his intentions were, I wasn't sure I was ready for other people to read the various things I rambled on about. In the end, it happened for the best, because it taught me so many things.

First and foremost, it helped me remember how much I like to put pen to paper (in a manner of speaking), and express myself. I had forgotten how much I love using words to form ideas, tell stories, or make people laugh. I love the artistry that writing entails, and I feel that I do have a bit of a knack for it. Dear blog, you have done my heart good by just being here.

You have also become an important way to relieve stress. Let's face it, although it would be nice to sit down with someone for an hour a week, and allow myself to unload some of the baggage that adds up from day-to-day, it is not a luxury I have time for. You, sweet blog, have allowed me to express myself, and get rid of some of the pent up frustration. Plus you are way, way cheaper than therapy.

Through you, I have learned that not everybody on the internet has malicious intent. When I read other blogs, or articles, and then read some of the comments; I wonder how on earth we can be so cruel to each other. The promise of anonymity has made some of us ugly, and more prone to say the twisted things that we should not give voice to.

But with you, dear blog, I have learned not everyone is like that. Through writing on you, and your sister-blog Death of a Pancreas, I have met some truly kind and wonderful people that in my small physical world, I never would have been introduced to. People like Maria, or some of the other D-Mommas out there. I am thankful for their cyber-friendships, and hope they realize how supportive they have been through the trials we've dealt with over the past year.

So thank you, dear blog. It has been a fun year together. I'm looking forward to all the nonsense I will post on you in the future.

Bloggingly yours,
Joanne

My Brain Hurts

Dear Creators of Lost,

I "heart" your show, I really, really do. But I need to get one thing through to you. I know that a lot of people who watch your show are nerdly crazies (and I say that with absolute fondness), who troll your Lost-related websites, know John Locke's middle name, and can probably correctly tell you what how many times Jack and Kate have kissed, or almost kissed (and probably yell "ewwww, girl cooties" when it happens).

But there is another faction of your loyal viewers who are like me. Their days are filled with many things; be it a stressed-filled job out in the real world, or chasing a toddler who has managed to get her hands on your grocery coupons and is gleefully throwing them around the room. Sometimes, they even do both. What I'm trying to say is that by the end of the day, we lack the mental capacity to keep up with your plot twists, turns, and loop-de-loops.

When I wander into my bathroom, I usually cannot remember what I am there for (although the options are rather limited), so how on earth am I supposed to follow the plot-lines of 8 different characters in your season premier? What has it been, like three years since last season's episode? I'm amazed I can even remember the dog's name.

All I ask is this, adhere to the KISS principal... Keep it Simple, Stupid. At least some of your loyal viewers will be thankful. And for the love of all that is holy, please tell us what happened to Walt.

My Fan Letter to 2008

Dear 2008,

You suck. To quote Homer Simpson, you are "the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked." If you were a person, you would that be Governor Hairpiece from Illinois. Perhaps the only way you could suck more is if you were the Dallas Cowboys playing against the Eagles for a playoff spot. Or maybe if you were just the Dallas Stars.

I don't like you very much and I'm glad you are about to be gone.

To sum up, you suck.

Yours very sincerely,
Joanne