Posts Tagged Under Annie Yearout
Mai Tai Mommy
I will never, ever go on vacation again. Normally, I find myself saying this after carting my three kids under five years old to Boston and back on the red-eye that stops through Denver to switch planes. HELL ON WHEELS – or wings, in this case.
But this time, I will never, ever go on vacation again because I left my household of three kids, one giant yellow lab, one German student, one wide-eyed husband and many unwelcome vermin in the basement – and went ALONE on vacation with another mom.
Yes, ALONE. No children. Solo. Single. Alone.
By Annie YearoutReality TV Addicted Mom Fesses Up
I admit it. I’m a fan. Or an addict.
Pigtails Makes the Girl
I have a favorite picture. It’s lost in someone’s basement. Probably my Dad’s, possibly mine. I’d always thought I’d be more organized than my Dad. Nope.
It’s a picture of me as a two-year old in a field of bursting yellow dandelions in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. I’m on my Dad’s shoulders – piggyback, which I now appreciate, as a mom of three, as quite a test of strength.
My body starts aching after the first 100 steps, with a little twenty-pounder on top. How did my Dad do it??
By Annie YearoutOne Twin Gets Mommy All to Herself!!!
My girls were born at 8:01 and 8:02 a.m. on a nippy February day, screaming in their full pink-faced, harmonious glory. They’ve shared a birthday, a hairbrush, a room, and a mommy for every single moment of their twenty-three plus months.
Today we split them in half. Madeleine was shuttled off with Daddy down to grandma’s house. And I had Charlotte and all of her delicious one-ness to myself.
WHAT JOY!
By Annie YearoutMom and Her Monthly Warthog
Once a month, the warthog emerges. Like a werewolf in a full moon, she bursts, full-throttle, from the dark, sinister depths of her home office, hair uncombed, breasts throbbing, voice peeling the paint and the crayon doodles off the walls.
Run, children, run, for this creature shall force you to eat all three carrots on your plate! Run, children, run, for this creature shall make you put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of on the floor next to said laundry basket. Run!
The warthog has no patience and likes to nibble, slowly on naughty, defiant children. Foraging in the refrigerator and cabinets for something sweet or salty, she ROARS with frustration that only organic squeezie yogurts and Annie’s Ranch Bunnies are available for devouring.
By Annie YearoutReunion
The flight home from Boston to SFO is over five hours and we don’t have our kids this time. That means five hours of flipping peacefully through Newsweeks and Oprahs and lip-reading the actors’ lines in the straight-to-video box office bombs that United forces you watch despite your best intentions to read War & Peace. Thank God my headphones don’t work. I look out at the clouds, so puffy.
My husband and I are on our way back from our 20th high school reunion. We went to the same high school outside of Boston, were in the same class, and, later in life, re-found each other and ended up living “happily ever after” with three kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. Ok, scrap the fence, but the rest is true.
This was my first reunion since graduation in ‘87. Teens of the ‘80s – Madonna, Billy Idol – with hardly a Rebel Yell and always ready for a holiday, our class of 85 students skipped through our four years, high on Fresca and high-school hormones. We were “a good class” without extreme bullies and with a strong female force.
By Annie YearoutExtraction
Have you seen that e-mail going around about the way to remove things caught up in your kids’ noses? I think it was originally sent to me via my twins group – which was then followed by a group replys of – “Hey, we had that happen, too!” and “Ohmygod, that is the coolest home remedy ever!”
It’s as simple as closing your little rascal’s mouth completely, airtight, and then blowing gently into the one nostril that DOES NOT have the alien object imbedded in it. A little blow and – poot! – the offending item flies out of the clogged nostril.
When I saw this e-mail come through, I was in the later group: the, “Wow, what a totally cool thing to know as a mom.” The avoidance of speeding down Sir Frances Drake to Marin General Hospital with a large pea up the schnooz is right up there with flying across country with three kids under age four. Both as high in the fear/terror/I can’t-believe-I’m-in-this-situation level of the parental horror-story scale as you can get! Both worth avoiding like the plague (or today’s Bird Flu), so I burned this e-mail tidbit into my memory with hopes I’d never have to use it.
By Annie Yearout