UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015
Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.
So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.
Miss Missouri May 30, 2008
Dear whomever works at the State Of Missouri and recently found my website and is my latest and greatest fan,
Please tell me who are you. Because I only know ONE PERSON in Missouri, in all of Missouri, in the ENTIRE STATE of Missouri, and I can’t imagine the odds.
Of course, this is the Internet, so ...
Now, please fess up. I promise to make you my fan club president. It pays well. (Or, wait, no, that’s the President of the United States. I always mix those up. This postition pays crap.) But! It will make me sleep well tonight knowing I’m not totally losing my mind.
Or, tell me you are a publisher and you love mah shit, that is also acceptable.
Or a mom.
Or a lesbian.
Or a fan of Farting.
Just tell me, Ok? Thank you.
18.104.22.168 (State Of Missouri Office Of Administration)
Missouri, Jefferson City, United States, 3 returning visits
Date Time WebPage
May 29th 2008 09:01:13 AM No referring link
May 29th 2008 09:01:23 AM mrs.flinger.us/
May 29th 2008 09:01:37 AM mrs.flinger.us/index.php/summer06/archives/
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May 30th 2008 09:57:07 AM No referring link
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May 30th 2008 01:43:39 PM mrs.flinger.us/index.php/summer06/2006/09/P4/
Mah name, it appears in lights (ish) May 29, 2008
Today’s post is over at MamaPop. Thanks to Sweetney for the chance to purge my pissed off “there’s no way she lost 78 pounds and was a size eight” self. Because I’m damn proud to be a size ten(ish). And ain’t no way I’m losing 78 pounds. Even post pregnancy. Teh. Enz.
My children, they take after their mother May 27, 2008
Hi there! Welcome back to The Work Week. I know, yes, it’s a short week which means you’ll be getting a lot of posts like this: “Ueereeiiiiiiiiii AHGGGhhHHHHH Ppffppttttttt” They’re open to interpretation and should be noted at such.
Today, though, today I will spare you the screeching that is mah brain yelling, “Undefined Object In Gems.” (If you can help me with that, bygod, let me buy you a beer.)
Today I will spare you the 115 photos we took at the In Law’s house for Baby O’s first birthday party.
Today I will spare you the long drawn out discussion about family and fulfillment and blahblah mushass blahblahblah.
Today, I will highlight only this:
Baby O says, “I’m One now, sistah! RAUR!”
Moving in to 2nd base.
Giving the Baby Kisses. I think Miss JB didn’t mind.
Apparently what we look like when we’re talking to old and dear friends. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
And, finally, for the pure in heart…
2nd Cousins. At least it’s legal.
Reactions May 25, 2008
We have a bedtime routine like most everyone we know. There is some wrestling involved (playfully with LB and out of necessity with the baby). There is tooth brushing, a story or two and a bedtime kiss. Some nights Daddy or I will sit in the small chair next to LB’s bed for five minutes. This helps with the transition for our anxious child and she has come to expect and rely on this time. It’s five minutes. Five out of our entire day.
Some days I feel compelled to run out of their room and start working. Most days I feel the messy kitchen getting grimier and hear the TV blaring. There is chaos and disorder. It bugs me. I like lists. I like things picked up. I like my alone time.
Tonight, as I lay my daughter in bed, I let her know I wasn’t going to spend my five minutes with her tonight. “Baby O is still awake, sweetie, and if I sit there he won’t go to sleep. I’m just going to lay you down and come check on you.” Because of her anxiety, I talk about everything with her. I talk about what we’re going to do, what is going to happen and what is coming. I talk about what we just did. I talk about what’s changing and why.
Still, sometimes I forget she’s only three.
So, I did as I said, kissed her, laid her brother back down in his crib and ran downstairs to clean the kitchen and start a little bit of work. Two steps down the stairs, I hear screaming and crying.
And I got pissed.
I got pissed because I was JUST in there telling her why I couldn’t stay. I got pissed because she screams for drama at least ten times a day. I got pissed because this is my only alone time and because her brother is also trying to sleep in the same room. I got pissed because I’m tired a lot of the time of the neediness and the clinging and the constant “LOOKLOOKLOOK MEMEME COMEHERECOMEHERECOMEHERE”
I got pissed because sometimes it’s just a little over done. And tonight, I was over done.
I decide to give her a few minutes to herself and teach her a lesson. In my head, I’m always trying to teach her a lesson. Tonight’s lesson: a) mommy needs her quiet time b) you go to bed when we put you there and c) listen to me.
After about ten minutes of her maniacal crying, I ran up, pissed, to let her know it was unacceptable. I opened the door and found her laying in her bed sobbing. Baby O was standing in the crib perplexed. I went to her bedside and spoke harshly, “This is NOT OK. It’s time to go to sleep and you’re keeping your bother up!”
Then she looked at me with her teary eyes.
“I just. I just. I just. Wanted you. To sit. With me.” She gulped for air as I stood there, angry, listening to her tell me all she wanted was.. me.
I wasn’t sure what the lesson was any more.
I fetched another bottle for Baby O, let her know I’d sit for five minutes next to her but that sometimes I wouldn’t be able to. Today, though, I would. I fed the baby, held him and smelled his hair. LB relaxed a bit next to me and they both became quiet and soft. The room relaxed. I relaxed. It was bedtime.
Maybe the lesson tonight was more for me. Maybe the lesson was to slow down, take a deep breath, and remember that I was once that little girl who cried when things changed. I was the little girl who just wanted her mom to scratch her back for five minutes. I didn’t understand when my mom worked and I didn’t like being alone either. I still don’t. So why would I anger so quickly at my small daughter who is so much like myself?
Tonight I learned how to react. I hope I remember tomorrow.
Little Girls and Their Daddies May 24, 2008
“Yes, Snow White?”
“Dance with me!”
“Yes, Snow White?”
“I love you.”
One day she’ll dance with him at her wedding. The dress will be different, she will have a new Prince, but I will always remember today.
It’s your birthday and I’ll cry if I want to May 20, 2008
Today was not supposed to be your birthday. I was focused on June 15th but you had a different plan. Instead, today, and every May 20th will be a celebration for us. We’ll celebrate your early arrival, your strength, your loving spirit and your joyful soul.
Today we’ll celebrate you.
You are the baby that took away my words. You are the son that we hoped for. You are the child that laughs easily making everyone smile around you.
You are joy.
You are happiness.
You are very very busy and sometimes you make me so very very tired.
You have this habit of wanting to be held while simultaneously wanting to run from our house to California and back before bed time. It’s comical to everyone else watching. It’s a workout for my biceps. I’m thinking of trying out for the UFC before you turn two. I know your dad will watch. He’d probably bet on the Other Guy, though.
It’s ok. I still love you for it.
You keep me on my toes. You bring me to my knees. You create games out of Tupperware, tampons and recycling. You’re perfectly happy to crawl butt naked around the wood floor and drag your penis from the living room to the kitchen. Don’t worry, you don’t have worms. We checked.
You do, however, have an ear for music. When a song comes on your face lights up and you jiggle your legs until you fall. You find this so completely hilarious you have a hard time getting back up.
You giggle at everything your sister does.
She does a lot of things for you. And to you. She likes to pretend you’re a princess.
You don’t mind too much.
We enjoy you fully, our little Man Baby, the one who completed our family. We need nothing else, our snuggles are warm, our arms are full, our hearts are complete and we all adore you more than you’ll ever know.
Thank you for being you even if you still don’t sleep through the night. (I’m telling myself it’s because I’m so super cool and you’d rather be with me at 3AM then by yourself because it’s the single time each day we sit and snuggle in the quiet. And I love it, too.) Thank you for being early. Thank you for being amazing. Thank you for choosing us as your family.
We love you.
And, to the Inernet, thank you. Thank you to our friends who held him and let me poop. Thank you to my family. Thank you to Jack Daniels. Thank you for watching him come early, go to the NICU, grow, come home, crawl, giggle, walk. Thank you for sharing this year with us.
Brutally Honest Monday: In Which I Ask For Your Help May 19, 2008
It’s a mixed blessing. I love my job. I love coding. I love being a nerd. I love being a mom (most days) and I love my kids. What a curse to have so many wonderful things in my life. I mean, really, who can complain when the sun is out, the house is clean, the clients are poring in and the work is wonderful?
My daughter has anxiety. I don’t know what there is to be anxious about at three. My toys! My bed! MY HAIR. It’s everything: the panties that must be pink, the bed that has to be perfect, the barrette that has to be blue with a bow and on the left side. She’s high stress. She worries when I’m upstairs and she’s not. She freaks her shit out when I go lay her brother down in his crib because MommyICan’tSeeYou!! God forbid I need to poop.
So in her world the worst possible thing that can happen is for me to go to work. Of course, in my world, the worst possible thing to happen is trying to work from home with her there. Last time I checked I was the mom. I win, right? But leaving my daughter bawling and clinging asking me to just stay home does not feel like winning.
I explained that we want to buy a house with enough rooms for her to have her own. I asked what color she wanted it. “PINK!” Of course. I explained that some times she has to do things she doesn’t like because I’m trying to instill a sense of responsibility and understanding that life is not gimmegimme and taketaketake. There’s a lot of work in the blessings we have. We work for those. We save. We struggle. We scrimp. We enjoy. It’s not entitlement, it’s a living.
I understand she’s only three but I firmly believe my children need to learn these lessons early so they can wrap their tiny pre-pubesent minds around them in ten years. And again in twenty. And perhaps come to fully understand them in thirty years when their three year olds are crying because someone else got the pink balloon. Buck up, kid. Throw some dirt on it.
On the other hand, she’s traumatized easily. She has nightmares because they had butterflies at school. BUTTERFLIES people. What on earth is terrifying about a butterfly? It flies. It’s pretty. OHMYGOD it’s freaky.
Here’s my question, for Brutally Honest Monday, and I want your Brutally Honest Opinion (I expect nothing less here): WHAT DO I DO? She begs, cries, screams for me to not work. She offered to share her room with her brother forever if I promise to stay home. Those are powerful statements. She’s sad. She misses me. I’m doing what I can to balance it out: I work three days a week now. When she’s home I do my best to not be on the computer. I’m trying to work after she goes to bed and spend quality time with her. But still, there’s something heart wrenching about seeing her teary face as I leave her at home.
Then again, if she was in another country, another situation, another time, the answer would be “Sorry kid.” If I was a single parent there would be no question. If this were Africa, her life would be vastly different. But it’s not. And I’m not. And while the $30,000 deficit our house is worth today versus what we paid for it two years ago making it nearly impossible to sell and get in to a house we fit in is painful, it’s not the end of the world.
But damnit, I love my job. And I think I’m a better mom because of it. I wish she did.
** If you participate in your own Brutally Honest Post, let me know, ok? **
<a href=“http://mrs.flinger.us”><img src=“http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3130/2394484739_8a1ed73b65_m.jpg” alt=“Brutally Honest Mondays” border=“0” /></a>
My family. My Country. May 13, 2008
This one is for my Brother-In-Law who was deployed on May 3rd. This is the only website he can get to for a piece of home. Apparently group websites like flickr, myspace, facebook and twitter are off limits but blogs about farting and being driven crazy by two small children are a-ok. Who knew?
A lot of people talk about supporting our troops but wish we’d spend less on our military. A lot of people say they love our country but vow to vote in someone who will take the last bits of what makes us unique away. A lot of people want to thank the people who fight to keep us the United States Of America but don’t know how.
Here’s your chance.
I thought I’d donate one dollar per comment here to their family to help offset the cost of living. My Brother-In-Law has a second job to help pay for his family of four, including his new 5 month old daughter. He works at two full time jobs, one for the Air Force and one for a movie theater. While he’s away, he suspends his work at his second job, forgoing that pay, to serve his country.
Are you teary yet? No?
The families of these men and women living on base, being a community together, working toward a common goal are heroes, people with children, people like you and me. Only better. I saw moms I could relate to but who had a much stronger spirit than I could hope to obtain. Moms whose children would watch their dads go off to war. Moms who would give baths alone. Moms who would read the bedtime stories, tuck in the children, make the lunches, and get up to feed the baby alone. They do it because they love their husbands and because they love their country and because they have a pride a lot of people can not fathom.
And I had a hard time not seeing my husband and baby boy for four days? I can not imagine four months.
So, to my brother-in-law, thank you so very much for taking care of us. For being an awesome Dad to my nieces, for standing by my sister, for serving our country, for having a pride that separates you from the crowd. Thank you for everything you do and know we’re all here loving and appreciating and admiring you.
And for every comment here, I’m giving one dollar to help the family. Here’s your chance to support our troops, y’all.
With much love and many more videos and photos to come:
Mrs. Flinger, your sister.
Six, That’s right, Six posts in one! May 08, 2008
This is a Russian roulette of blog posts. Take your pick!
1. Baby O takes his first step!
2. Baby O is diagnosed with his sixth double ear infection in four months.
3. Snacks on a plane: The perils of traveling with Cheeze-its.
4. The “ultrasounds cause autism” myth debunked: Via demonstration:
5. Spray tanning: How to create half moons of white flesh where your boobs lay across your chest during the mist.
6: Why I’m going to Arizona with my “normal” three year old for four days and possibly missing my sons second step and seventh round of antibiotics and bringing snacks-on-the-plane with half moon white spaces from mystic tan:
Totally worth it?
Laughing until I fart May 06, 2008
I just got my first, er, fifty-first piece of hatemail.
The IP of 22.214.171.124 writes,
“Dear Mrs. Fliger. I’ve known you wanted to be just like Dooce for years but you couldn’t hide it any better? Your web designs suck and your coding is awful and now your stealing ideas from Dooce’s website. Pathetic. Get your own fonts.”
Hang on… Hang on…
:: PPPPFFTTTTT ::
Sorry, I’m laughing… so.. incredibly.. hard.. right… now..
I fart when I laugh. Didn’t you know that? My closest friends know that. I figured I’ve told The Internet that at some point or other.
Or maybe I should show you video evidence?
So thank you, 126.96.36.199, for reminding me to not work so much on those sucky designs that I don’t take the time to share ass-gas with The Internet.
P.S. Your is possessive. You’re is a contraction of YOU and ARE. Please take notes.
P.P.S. I’m Mrs. FLINGER. With an “L”. Please reference the font I’ve “stolen” from Dooce on my header for my name.
P.P.P.S I’m honored you’ve read for years even though you hate me. Please feel free to refresh this page and send it to all your hating Flinger friends. I hope you have a secret Flinger-Hate club. I’ve always wanted to have a club. Refresh Refresh Refresh.
P.P.P.P.S. The video is from our garage sale on Saturday when NOBODY showed up. We started pranking our friend who couldn’t be there (we sent her away, actually because it was so slow) and telling her people were making deals. There are four videos. Each one is funnier than the one before. I will post more if you ask nice and pee in the potty and stop wetting the bed. Also, the part where I fall down on the ground? That’s just after I fart. It’s true.