The Sweetest Dad Ever

What kind of dad paints his daughter’s tiny toenails at his own birthday party? That would be Aron. For the record, he paints mine, too. And has offered to shave my legs since I’m all pregnant and big-bellied right now. But people coming at me with razors freaks me out, so I just try to be as flexible as possible. It’s quite entertaining.

Mrs. Hannigan

Crap, I may have to change my label off to the right from “Tresa worship” to “Fellow Blogger Worship.”

My pal Lisa Russell goes by Mrs. Hannigan on her blog and it hit me last week WHY. She’s the mother of 6 girls. Miss Hannigan ran an orphanage for girls in the movie Annie. I remembered how much I loved the play and the movie Annie. So I put it on hold at the library.

The day it came in I raced to the library, grabbed it, raced home and popped it into the VCR. My kids were entranced by this 23-year-old masterpiece.

I realized that this movie is just another reason why I spoil my kids. You watch a movie about little orphans enough times and you start to feel bad for them. And you worry that your own kids may someday be orphans, so you want them to remember you well.

Another way this movie affected me: I always wanted kids and knew that if I could not deliver them myself or adopt, I would damn well grab all the foster kids and orphans The State would let me have and take good care of them and love the crud out of them. I’m sure The State would frown on homeschooling and cosleeping, but they’re (The State) not doing much better, so I’d give it a shot anyway.

Nose Picker

I’m getting pregnanter and pregnanter, so forgive me for thinking this is hilarious.


Excerpt from The Laid-Back Mom’s Parenting Guidebook (available for purchase down the left side of the blog)
CLOTHING
I don’t mess with pajamas at bedtime for my kids or for myself. We just wear comfy clothes that we can fall asleep in = the ultimate in lazy!
Tip: If your kids don’t want to wear underwear, that’s less laundry for you.
If you could get away with wearing a onesie in the summer and footie jammies in the winter all day every day with no shoes or hair bows or other useless junk, wouldn’t you? Maybe it’s just me.

Swedish vs. Irish

Thank God for my mother, who tapes me random crap (in addition to Rescue Me and Flipping Out and the Housewives series) off of cable.

So I’m watching Top Chef Masters, which I’ve never seen before because I’m not fond of cooking. I do like to eat, though. Good thing I married a cook.

There’s a chef on there who is Swedish. He talks about how Swedes are always on time (I used to be on time before I married Aron), and others talk about how Swedes are guarded, even-keeled, not super-emotional. My dad’s side of the family is hugely Swedish. I’m not anything like these people are describing.

Then it hits me! BAM! I finally understand why I’m the quasi Black Sheep on my dad’s side. It’s because my mom’s side is Irish! Hello! Don’t I act WAY more like an Irish person? I’m WAY more Tommy Gavin in Rescue Me than a let’s-not-talk-about-it, let’s-sweep-it-under-the-rug Swede. I’m always annoyed about SOMETHING, and I want to talk about it, dammit. I want to hash it out until it’s a totally dead issue.

Then there’s the stereotype of the Irish who can’t figure out birth control (heard of Irish twins … born less than a year apart?). CLEARLY I can’t figure out birth control … (big joke since I use Natural Family Planning and know WAY more about my cycles than I care to).

The thing that confounds me is the drinking thing … I don’t care for alcohol, darnit. Is that a Swedish thing?

The Pregnancy Card

This will teach me to brag about my high pregnancy energy level and how great B12 vitamins are.

One weekend recently I was sooo sluggish. Aron was trying to make spaghetti sauce from our garden’s tomatoes, and he also picked buttloads of green beans to can. I was like, NO HELP AT ALL. I’m all big now, and the baby is sucking all my energy and forcing me to rest. And jack around on Facebook. And clean out my e-mail. And try to promote the e-book, which has sold all of one copy. But don’t feel sorry for me. I’ll be alright (sniffle).

So Aron tells some practical stranger at work how I pulled the Pregnancy Card over the weekend. He said he doesn’t mind since I NEED to rest and all that, but that he’s used to me being 8 ½ months pregnant with a kid on my hip while mowing the lawn. That’s sweet.

It’s nice to know he thinks I’m usually Wonder Woman (or the mighty Isis), but the dude has to realize I’m 38 years old carrying his FIFTH love child. I told him I’m gonna play the Pregnancy Card until the baby is born. Then I’m gonna pull the “I Just Gave Birth” card … and fight for the baby boy name I really want (Henry). If he won’t let me name the potential-boy Henry, I’ll pretend like I’m hemorrhaging and am being called to the light.

Yeah, yeah, I know. The previous name was Max. But I’m a Gemini and change my mind a lot. I’m also not getting a 12-passenger van when the baby comes because I think we can somehow all cram into the minivan. Aron needs to realize it’s a miracle I haven’t changed my mind about HIM in the last 14 years.