Oh deer

I know I promised this story a little while back, but I was still too emotionally connected to be able to write it. Thus, I will share it with you now, as I’ve stopped thinking about this poor little deer on a day-to-day basis, wondering where it is or if it’s eating little deer cookies in deer heaven.

The day after the wedding, Sept. 18

On Sept. 18 at 6:00, I was ready to divorce John. It had been a long 24 hours, what can I say? Okay, Sweetie, since I know you’re reading this, really I wasn’t. I was just a little harried, that’s all.

On Saturday night, the plan was to spend time with family and friends at a relaxing dinner, which we did, but getting ready for it was one of the most unorganized two hours of my life. John had gone to the hotel early, justifiably, to spend time with his family because he doesn’t have the option I do of seeing his family every day. Or every few months for that matter.

While I tried to get dressed up and keep the boys looking half clean, they managed to:

1. Get a hold of John’s aftershave and spread it on the carpet and sofa to say nothing of their outfits
2. Poop. (By the way, is there some prophecy out don’t know about that when you’re getting ready to go, your kids will poop?)
3. And spray hairspray all over the living room (I was just thankful that this didn’t get in their eyes).

My mom saved the day by coming over to drop off something from the wedding site and deciding to stick with me to help me get the boys in coats, etc. and out the door.

On our way to dinner, just where Hwy 5 meets 35, I heard my mom say, “Sweetie, there’s a deer behind that column.”

At this point, both boys were singing “Wheels on the Bus” in the backseat, I was wearing a dress and heels, and the last thing I was thinking about was a deer.

The deer apparently wasn’t thinking about me either.

She dashed in front of the car and slammed on the brakes (thank God no one was behind me) and we caught the poor things’ rumpus right on our hood.

“Keep driving, you did a good job,” my mom said as my hands shook and I tried to drive 70 to move in with traffic and the boys continued to sing, “The wheels  on the bus.” Thank God for Britax car seats by the way.

“Ummmm …,” I said intelligently. All I could see was that poor deer flying into the underbrush of the bypass, lying in pain or saying, “Thank God for that ghetto booty.” I really hoped it was the latter.

And then my mom said something that made me think – no wonder I turned out so crazy.

“I always wondered what it would be like to hit a deer.”

I looked at her, incredulous. “Really? That’s what you're thinking right now?”

She patted my hand and looked hopeful. “Don't worry, Sweetie. I think that deer may have made it.”

Well, I hope so, but if you did Bambi, you owe me a deductible.

Sink or Swim

Sully has turned into Lassie in the past few days. It would be incredibly cute if it weren't followed by something incredibly (insert dangerous, expensive, or grotesque here).

On Sunday, for instance, while I was drawing a bath for the boys, trying to encourage William not to splash all of the water onto the floor and grabbing two pairs of pajamas, Sully tugged on my sleeve, looked at me with big brown eyes and said, "Mama."

I know the drill now, so I followed his little footsteps into the bathroom and crossed my fingers he was about to show me something he'd put in the bathtub (for instance, last week's "Mama" led me to a bathtub full of our pots and pans). But that's okay. In instances like this, I've lucked out, because all it takes is a little cleaning time and we're back to normal.

This wasn't one of those times.

I sighed, looked down at Sully's little finger pointing straight at the toilet and groaned. He opened the lid slowly, as if to say, "You won't believe this, Mama. This is something amazing."

"Ooooh," he said as he opened the lid, eyes on me. Look Mom. Magic.

And he revealed his Sleep Sheep sound machine. Sitting at the bottom of the toilet. The only toy that has helped me gain sanity in moments of craziness was sitting like a stone in toilet water. The only sign of life, little bubbles that floated to the top until -

My son reached in and grabbed it and held it out for me like a prize. "Mama," he said again and I groaned ... again. I put the machine on a towel because I couldn't bear with the thought of throwing it in the trash just yet -- the only toy that made a sound that didn't make me crazy.

In case you're wondering about what items sink and what items swim, thus far we have discovered that bottles swim, sound machines sink, Neosporin swims, and toilet paper, well, toilet paper clogs.

Stay tuned for future episodes of Lassie. Until tomorrow ...

Changing my name to Mayonnaise

One week from tomorrow, John and I are getting married. It's a bit strange, since we feel like the rings are a bit of an accessory to this life it feels like we've been leading a while, but maybe now when I say, "I'd really like ice cream," at 10:30 at night, he'll feel a little more obligated to deliver, and maybe when he says, "I really want to watch the game," I won't roll my eyes.

Okay, maybe not, but that three second thought was nice.

I'm a bit excited to have my name changed, and a bit sad. It's been with me a while. Sivadge. It has changed over the years, too.

In sports, I started out Sivadge.
In sports, because you're constantly yelling and have two seconds to react, I became, "SIV!"
In awkward telemarketer calls, I'm Ms. Savage. (Sometimes I pretend Fred Savage and I go way back, but other than that, it's not so cool), and Ms. Si-vadge-ee.


In college, when I first started having to make more adult phone calls and pay some bills, I also learned that my name is long.

"S as is Sam. I, V as in Victor. A. D as in Dog. G as in George. E."

It will be weird that I won't have to say that any more. A few months ago, when I got off the phone with someone who said, "B as in Boy? C as in Cat?" and I finally gave up and am pretty sure I agreed to the name, Sibacge, I told John:

"I can't wait to have your name."

"Don't get too excited," he said. "People mess my name up all the time."

"What? How? Maynes?"

"Yup. They say, "Mr. Mayonnaise" a lot.

Sigh. Well, at least I like mayonnaise.

On the wedding and other things that are giving me gray hair

I have gray hair. I found my first gray hair three years ago now. Pre-pregnancy and thus pre-children. Pre-insanity. Pre- sleep deprivation.

 You can imagine what it looks like now.

The thing is, I won’t go gray gracefully – I’d like to think I’d have that thick silver hair that people can really rock when they go all gray, but I’ll go gray like a skunk – a strip straight down the middle. I know this because in third grade there was a lunch lady I nicknamed “skunk” because her hair looked just like this – all black with one white strip down the middle - and that’s how karma works. Karma’s laughing at me right now. (In my defense, she was really mean to all of us and would make us take a second trip back to our seat if we didn’t eat our vegetables and such).

I never ate my vegetables and such.

I ate my pizza and such.

Okay, but on to the wedding. Here are things that gave me gray hair this week.

1)      Why in God’s name doesn’t someone rent shepherds hooks? What on earth do I need 24 shepherds hooks for AFTER the wedding?

That would be some very odd living room décor no doubt.

2)      I need someone to marry us. Yep – thinking that’s getting pretty important.

3)      I need someone to take everyone back to their hotels safely because knowing my friends, they won’t be sipping on apple juice all night. Cost for 1 hour of rental: $350. Cost for me showing maturity for the first time in 10 years and not screaming, “Must be nice to make a business off of absurd pricing and monopoly!”? Priceless.

4)      I don’t know if I told you about the lady who sold me my dress and looked at me over her glasses and pointed at my waist and said, “Now, this can’t change very much you know,” with an eyebrow raised, but I ignored her. I went home and ate two Bavarian crème donuts, and I think the excessive number of cookies I’ve since eaten might be trouble for me come my first fitting. I’m not getting gray hair about my weight gain, though. It’s more the fact that I’m going to have to wear a girdle and it’s going to be about 127 degrees out.

Okay, in case I’m giving you gray hair at this point, I’ll stop here for now, but trust me, there’s plenty where this came from.

I’m off to dye my hair.

Until tomorrow …

What are you running from?

So yesterday I decided it was high time to get back in shape. This came after one of my girlfriends from college posted on Facebook that she'd just finished running 20 miles. Not a typo. Not 2 miles. 20 miles.

Before work.

I looked at my Starbucks Frap and calculated that that was more miles than I had run in the past two years (I'm not good at math, but this didn't take long, because I haven't run any miles in 2 years).


Before the boys, I ran 4 miles a day. Not a huge accomplishment by any means, but I felt like if I wanted to say, go into a grocery store and steal all of the Hershey bars and run from the cops, I might have a good shot at getting away.

Not any more.

Now I would give up well into the chase. Probably just outside the store door. And eat all of the Hershey bars during my ride to the clinker.

This image, of chocolate on my face as I looked out a window with my hands in cuffs, was enough to make me put my jogging shoes on again.

So, after work, before I could think twice (and eat the chips staring at me on the counter) I grabbed the boys, plopped them in the stroller, and took off. And the road ahead looked very, very, long.

I made it a mile. Not in one shot mind you, in about quarter-mile increments. And people driving by looked at me like this:

"What the hell is she doing? Is she okay? Look how red her face is!"

But I pretended they looked at me like this:

"Wow. Isn't she amazing? I wish I could jog pushing two children!" And it made me jog an itty bit faster.

Today I am viciously sore, but I will try this again (maybe tomorrow, maybe I shouldn't abuse myself twice in 48 hours). A big thanks to the boys for their "wheee" giggles as we sped downhill (oh yes, forgot to mention that, a big part of my jog was downhill).

Until tomorrow ...

Huey, Duey and Fluey.

The flu struck our house last week and left no untouched. Tuesday, poor Sully woke up in puke. On Thursday, John came home to relieve our green-faced nanny and I came home early, he hoped to relieve him, I hoped to make it until 7:30 (the boys' bedtime) before I threw up.

That didn't happen.

Being overly zealous I plopped the boys in the bathtub and tossed in their bath toys only to turn around and toss my cookies in the toilet. Will cried. Sully played with his toys.

Probably a sign of future somethings but I was too busy wishing I hadn't eaten Mexican for lunch to care about it.

An hour later, Will started tossing his cookies. Poor guy, sad little eyes and pukey shirt - we were quite the pair when I was running him to the bathroom with me, him puking on his onesie, me in the toilet if I was lucky enough to make it there.

My poor mom came to help Thursday night and was sick by 4:30 Friday morning. Saturday morning at 7:30, John was struck.

Damn flu.

Ruined our weekend.

And all of plans to cook wonderful recipes from http://www.thepioneerwoman.com/ - my latest passion. (It still involves food of course).

I am very happy to report we're on the mend just in time for the work week. I am on a no-Mexican diet for at least a month because I've seen it in a form I'd rather not see it in for a long, long time, and I'm looking forward to gaining back every pound I lost last week and then some.