Expert for hire.

Harper demonstrates. . .

proper safety recommendations. . .

and most educational usage. . .

of a water table.

Should you require a home safety consult, she accepts payment in the form of cookies, i cweem (ice cream), stowybooks, baf (bath) toys and raucous games of peek-a-boo.

Type B Takes a Sick Day

Here's why getting sick isn't an option for me (or for most moms, generally):

Because we live more than 300 miles from family.

Because I don't have a daycare to use.

Because all of our friends work every day. And if I'm completely honest? I wouldn't saddle anyone with all uh dis even if they didn't.

And because my husband has a job that he can't just say, "Alright doctor friends. I'm not coming in today. Take my patients. The ole wife is sick. Gotta play with the baby so she can curl up in a ball and shake her sweaty self to death for 24 hours in peace."

Despite aforementioned reasons that it absolutely can't happen, it happened on Monday night.

Conveniently, the delirium was sandwiched between two sets of weekend visitors, so I didn't skip a beat. Speaking of, was I the only kid who only got sick on Friday night or, if my body planned an extended illness, during vacation or snow days?

While I'm fit as a fiddle now, I look back and realize that Tuesday was - and I'll be the first to say it - not my best parenting day ever. Or either it was my best ever, considering the circumstances.

First, I peeled my tired, shivering body out of bed at 6:00 a.m., at the first "Heeeey (like a game show voice, like.. Bob Barker) Momma!" and reluctantly took a baby-momma-approved Tylenol, knowing I needed a miracle. Not "a" Tylenol. Maybe 5 or 6 would have worked. I digress.

After my fever broke during a second showing of Dora, I threw on some clothes that weren't drenched in sweat and put Harper - my 100 lb (that's how she felt) toddler - in her car seat and drove to our appointment with an insurance adjuster.

Just when I had lost all faith in humanity, I found out later in the day that we'll be getting reimbursed from our parking lot fender bender a few weeks ago with the old lady who made Brandon yell. 

As we left our appointment, I felt chills invade and travel all the way down to my toes and knew that I only had a good 30 minutes before I could do no more than resume my "I am surely dying" position, albeit upright, on the floor or on the couch with Harper.

Since we hadn't washed the car in three weeks for fear of monkeying with the "evidence" of the Mercedes bumper attack, I decided we needed to go to the car wash immediately. Which Harper hates with the fire of 1,000 suns.

So we pulled into the black abyss of water and brushes and scrubbers and loudness and Harper lost it (like usual, which is why I never take her), and I sat. Resigned. I closed my eyes, grateful for the moment of no responsibility and snaked my hand back and patted Harper's leg comfortingly. . . . . but it was wet.

I turned as quickly as my achy body could manage to find that - while it was no U-571 - Harper was taking a healthy spray of lukewarm water to the dome every 3 seconds or so. . . . which may or may not have have contributed to her terrified screams.

Water boarding complete, we went home where she napped off the trauma (and I slept and sweated and shook) for three hours. 

Then, she woke up and wanted ice cream cake for lunch and I let her have it. Just that. Just cake.

And when she took a bath to remove the blue tattoo sleeve she created with icing, I sat nearby, shaking and sweating and helplessly hoping the water would wash it off, b/c there was no way I could do anything more than sit nearby, shake and sweat.

Icing free, she announced in garbled toddler that she wanted to go to the attic and play with her old toys. Which is usually fine, but on Tuesday, it was well above 90 degrees up there, and I said to myself, "Wow. That'll feel really, really good! I won't be cold!" and so for a few minutes (literally three) I sat nearby while she played until she proclaimed it to be "We we (really really) hot." Sweating, but not shaking, I carried my 150 lb. toddler downstairs.

After a few ragged, throaty, whiny calls to my husband begging him to please hurry home and rhetorically warbling to myself about how 'if I'm this big of a baby with one baby, how can I manage being sick with two babies,' and lots of Dora, mercifully, Brandon arrived.

I dragged myself out of three layers of sweaty clothes and into the shower where I shook and presumably sweated while Brandon did the lion's share of the nightly routine. 

Though I did manage to squeak out a few books, a few songs, pick up our 200 lb. toddler and put her to bed - all while hitting a personal record high temperature of 102.0 - I wasn't good for much after that and was ordered to bed at 8:15.

Thank the sweet Lord, I woke up better and with a new appreciation of life at 98.6 degrees.

Strangely, I have a picture I don't remember taking, which pretty much sums up how the day went:

Behold, the power of water!

I don't know how I've been a homeowner for the past three years without buying a pressure washer.

When you sign a deed to a house, the lawyer should just give you one.

It's $99.

It's addictive. There should be a support group. . . power washers anonymous. . . for people who neglect all other duties in the name of clean bricks and a build-up free deck.

As a Type B personality, I can get behind this in a very this-is-so-much-more-fun-than-unloading-the-dishwasher kind of way.

If you get a kick out of cleaning, this is for you. If not, stop reading now. This'll be the most boring post ever.

Also, I'm pretty bad about taking before pictures. I didn't start snapping until I realized greatness.

Explanatory and somewhat obvious captions will immediately precede each photo. Like this:

Bottom step done. Holy cow.

Wide angle shot of bottom step:

Up close and personal with the gunk I blasted off:

 

Railing half gunky, half not:

After it dried, half done, half not. Our intention is, of course, to re-stain a similar color. The power washer knocked off more than half of the old, cracked, chipping red stain.

Front porch step. Concrete is way more satisfying to blast than wood. Is there a joke there? Also, feet in the picture on purpose. This is a seriously gross job. Way worth it.

Bottom two steps done. Top not.

A tiny part of the stoop not done. I didn't actually use any of the cleaning supplies pictured. Super gross feet. I didn't think this would be so dirty because it's a covered porch.

Action shot of our stone walkway. I had no clue it was this color. Bottom cleaned. Top not, obviously. Note the right side of the grout, which has been cleaned. Left side, not. Huge difference.

The final one is when I uncovered how pretty the flagstone is! It's different colors! Top cleaned, bottom not.

Type B Greets an Officer of the Law

Today, Harper and I made the trek over to Bethesda to have some routine lab work (me, thankfully, not Harper).

As I pulled up to a new hospital gate, I was distracted by a lot of construction.

I wanted to mention the new, substantial covered entrance to the guard who was about to check my identification. . . maybe even make a little jokey joke about how nice it was that we weren't having to do this in the rain (in hindsight, so, so lame, which scares me, because this means that on a daily basis, terribly stupid things must fly out of my mouth with abandon and I don't think a second thought because I don't blog about saying them. I digress).

So I got the standard and way polite, "Hello ma'am, how are you today?"

Since I hadn't quite put together exactly what to say or how to say it, the ole brain went on autopilot.

Typically, a disaster.

Even tonight, I still don't know what I was going for, but it had the word "good" in it. And I think my brain got the "day" from his "today," because what I emphatically blurted out was:

"Good day!"

and then I may have followed it up directly with a "yes."

Like.. Agreeing with myself? Answering for him?

The whole thing came out all garbled and the inflection was crazy, so I sounded a little like a hot-under-the-collar Gene Wilder, except not mad. Like.. jovial. And British.

Is a pocketbook, by any other name, as mysterious?

"God! Why does my purse smell like bananas?!" ((less annoyed, more Napoleon Dynamite))

Husband has just been rhetorically wifed. He shrugs.

"I mean, there was a banana in there, but I took it out yesterday! Why on earth can I still smell it?"

((inserts whole head into purse, takes long, disgusted drag. removes head. shakes head in defeat))

Am I wrong to assume that most moms of toddlers have a banana (or two) in their purse 83% of the time? or that we smell things that shouldn't be smelled without reservation or pause?

A few days later...

Scene: Grocery Store Check-Out.


"Omg! Why are my credit cards stuck in my wallet?  What did I spill in there? It's brown and.. creamy. What did Harper put in there?"

At this point, it is safe to assume that I no longer carry an expensive bag. Or have an expensive wallet. Or have failed to annoy a single grocery store check-out girl.

"Oh GOD! Is it poop?!" Did Harper go rogue?!

<<horrified gasp from cashier>>

"No. It can't be.. It smells like.. bananas."

But I took that banana out three days ago and I didn't notice that it had even been split open.  It wasn't even brown.  In fact, I ate it.

I suppose a Type A would have done it right away, but. . .

Later that night..
Intent on discovering the source, I began removing items from my purse with the eventual intent of throwing it in the washing machine.. b/c I'm a Mom and have a washable purse ((blushes in recognition of the travesty)).

. . . paci. . .toothbrush. . .1/2 eaten cookie. . . gooey wallet. . . receipts. . .coupons. . . paci. . . paci. . .small blanket. . .sippy cup. . . . .freeze-dried strawberries. . . applesauce. . .diapers. . . .wipes. . .paci wipes. . . make up. . .keys. . . .loose change. . . hand sanitizer. . . screwdriver(?). . .scotch tape. . .board book. . .

"What is the source of the stench that plagues me so?!" I didn't really say that.

In a defeated huff, I walked to the laundry room with an empty, black winter banana purse in tow.

Spring needs to be sprung and I'll tell you why.

In anticipation of its bath, I carefully checked each inner pocket one last time, wincing at the thought of unexpectedly plunging my hand into the source. ..Coming up empty, I tossed aside the bottom board shaper and lining.

I audibly squealed in shock as a long, skinny, slimy, wet, completely black object loosed itself from the innards, became airborne, did slow motion flips and landed on my beflipflopped foot with limp clap. 

Paralyzed with fear and disbelief, I stared:

A dead black FISH!?

A DEAD MOUSE!?

OMG. It's a snake.

..but dead snakes don't smell like three week old bananas..

Type B Packs for a Trip

So, tomorrow we're leaving for Chicago for a whole week.

To say I'm excited is an understatement.  I could barely choke down food today.  This whole day has been like the night before an elementary school field trip.

Amplified by coffee. And free will. And no nametags. And my two trip buddies are my favorite people in the world, instead of some random kid my teacher randomly paired me with that isn't even my BFF. I digress.

Harper and I have been on the move all day, only pausing for one long nap coinciding with a windshield replacement in our front yard.  Boy.  That's a story for another day.

We're packed for tomorrow. Food bag, game/toy bag, Harper clothes, Daddy clothes, Mom clothes. Shoes. Power cords. Chargers. Cameras. Every eventuality is covered.

The car has been vacuumed out, much to Harper's horror/delight.

The house is spotless. ..because what's better than coming home from a long trip to a sparkly clean house?

My bulldog of a next door neighbor knows we'll be leaving tomorrow and to be on the lookout for lurkers.  ..I swear, we should be paying her instead of ADT.

Our neighbor across the street will be picking up our mail beginning tomorrow and doing daily checks.

Our bills are paid.

Loose ends? I have none.

We are ready in an extremely Type A way. 

Since we're leaving tomorrow morning at 4:00 a.m.,  I packed our car this afternoon.  

As I did so, I lamented that, for tonight, we'd have to use old toothbrushes and I'd have to coax an old hair dryer to run and make do with second-string cosmetics, but it would be worth it.  We'd be up and out of the house as quickly as possible.

About an hour after I took that, "Ahh.. it's done" breath, I realized that today is Thursday.

And we aren't leaving until Saturday.

And now I'm going to get my toothbrush and phone charger out of the car.

Goodnight.

Inspired Errands

Nothing makes me want to do something fun like a list of lackluster chores.

After far too many cups of coffee and a long walk to get me thinking, I think I'd like to spend the afternoon. .

Planting some of these in our sad, dead front yard:

Painting a piece of furniture this color (fear not, father-in-law, king of antiques, this won't actually happen):

Baking a cake to put it on my gorgeous cake plate that never gets used.

Buying flowers for the coffee table. HA. Toddler hands with gladiolus in reach. HA.

But. . . .

The front windshield of our car needs replacing. . . because wow, I've put that off a long time and nothing says safe (and classy) like a week-long road trip with a cracked windshield.


Harper's vast array of pajamas need to be washed. . . we're scraping the bottom of the fleece-footed barrel. If things don't happen quickly, we're poised for a showing of the blue ones with trucks, to which she is adamantly opposed. "No turks!"


We need to scream bloody murder while hurtling into a black hole of muddy abiss get the car washed . . . That's an emotional scar I'd just as soon not inflict.

And honestly? The house needs to be cleaned. Like.. actually cleaned, not just straightened.

On that last one, I'll defer to my home girl Mary Randolph Carter:

 A perfectly kept house is a sign of a misspent life.

This is my dance space.

I'll begin by saying the following:

I like to talk to people, but if someone's not a big talker, I definitely catch myself talking way too much to compensate.

So, I'm my least annoying self with outgoing people.

..Not that I don't like introverts, it's just that it takes longer to find out where I stand with them.

Which, sometimes makes me nervous! b/c for better or worse, I'm an open book.

I especially like people who make me laugh. ..but those are easily found, because I'm generally a cheap laugh.

 So, a few weeks ago, I was introduced to a man at dinner and, for two days, I was stumped.

..because I didn't like him.

He rubbed me the wrong way and I kinda couldn't wait to get away from him.


He seemed nice, he made jokes, he was talkative, engaging, polite. .

. .so, what the heck?

Just when I was starting to feel like a humongous jerk, it hit me.

Personal Boundaries. I haz them. Spongy, but they're there.

According to science, he didn't have a prayer. As soon as he hit the door, he was doomed.

He didn't wait to be introduced. A go-getter, which I normally admire, he introduced himself to Brandon first and shook his hand, and I was poised for the same, when...

he hugged me.

In the .2 seconds I had to react and process, in which I obviously hugged him back, lest I make him uncomfortable, my brain did something like this:  

whoa,what'sgoingonhereWow,you'recomingsoclose.Areyougoingtohugme?yikes!ok,I'mbracingmyself,okit'sover.phew.

Before you actually do write me off as a humongous jerk, I'll say that I don't have a problem with hugs AT ALL. It's actually my most frequently chosen and preferred greeting and farewell with anyone I like in a non-professional setting!

Hugs are nice and they're a great way to show people that you like them! O.M.G. I love hugs.

So, the night wore on and he made jokes, seemed smart, talked a lot. . . and so did everyone else, so the awkward greeting was literally forgotten.

...Until it was time to go. Boom. Drive-by hugging.

Under other circumstances, I would have absolutely been OK with a farewell hug from someone I barely knew, but in this case, it must have sealed the deal.

So when the hugging willies were extracted from my subconscious, I started thinking. . .

There are so many freaking caveats to my space bubble, that it's dizzying and annoying and rather Type B.

With regard to the introductory I-don't-know-you-from-Adam's-house-cat hug,

I probably would have felt less like this:

If it had been a woman-to-woman hug.

And if I had even a sliver of background info about him prior to full-body contact.

Or maybe if I had a glass of wine. ..or even a smidge less focus on my toddler.

Also, I think I'VE even been guilty of the first-time-I-meet-you hug, but in the intensely Southern, "Oh mah Gawd, I have hurrd SO MUCH uh-bay-uh-t (four-syllable Southern-speak for 'about') you, I just wonna hug yor neck!" kinda way.  ..Although I don't think I would say those things, I'd probably be thinking them.

But the facts are simple. Edward Hall, an anthropologist, hit it on the nose in 1966 with Proxemics.

So, study up. And I will, too.

If you're gonna be all up in somebody's grill, do it right, lest they spend two days trying to figure out why they didn't like a perfectly awesome and likable you.

Type B does organization.

Our kitchen cabinets have been sealed tighter than the lid on a pickle jar since Harper started scooting around.  All of my cleaning supplies used to be under the sink, but a: there were too many of them so I couldn't see them, b. I didn't like having them in Harper's reach, on the off chance we forgot to engage the cabinet locks jaws of death.

After watching a particularly disturbing episode of Hoarders, I decided it was time to do something about it.

Below, I give you the single best organizational idea I've ever had.  It hangs on the inside of the door that goes up to our attic, so I can shut it and it's completely out of sight and Harper can't open the door and probably won't be able to do so until she's 18. . . because Brandon "disengaged" the handle. ..but that's a story for another day.

It's a shoe organizer that I bought for Brandon's shoes (after watching an equally disturbing episode of Hoarders), but his shoes are too big. So, there. Boom! You've just been stay-at-home mommed.

First Post

This is a blog for all the Type Bs out there.  You know who you are - your car house refrigerator schedule life is disorganized and sometimes your socks don't match.  ..and it doesn't really bother you. It doesn't bother me, either.

For years, I've even embraced it.  With the randomly destructive pattern of one Tasmanian devil (yes, the cartoon one), I can swing into a whirlwind of organization:  the holidays, former occupational duties, visitors. .

. but if I'm honest, and that's what a blog is all about, I am Type B.  Down to the tips of my toes, which haven't been polished in three months.  Because it's winter.  And no one sees them.

Enter Tasmanian devil jr., my accomplice in non-accomplishment, also known as my nearly 17 month old daughter.

I used to sit, doodling in work meetings and conference calls, feeling the kicks of little busy feet in my tummy, and I daydreamed about the days ahead. Visions of parks, playdates, dresses, shopping, cleaning, organizing, cooking and all around mom greatness circa 1950s danced in my head.

Fast-forward 17 months through a, well, challenging infancy (Harper's literal and my figurative one as a mom) and here I am: still in my pajamas at 1:00 pm after dragging a Christmas tree from the attic in three spiky, unimaginably awkward pieces and assembling said green porcupine as uneventfully as possible, as to not attract an exorbitant amount of attention from Tasmanian devil jr. 

This is how I work. 

It's not pretty, but Harper doesn't notice that I'm still in my PJs.  She knows that we've played with Christmas ornaments all morning (my crack at desensitizing to the real thing), colored with crayons and taken turns playing chase all over the house.

In between, I've managed the aforementioned tree battle, washed our sheets and vacuumed the den and couch - if you have a child who loves graham crackers as deeply as does Harper, you know why I vacuum the couch. 

It sounds like a crazy day and it's typical.  The only difference is that I've put up the tree more than a month earlier than I usually do, and thus begins my journey to improve my untimely ways!