Exercising My Right

So yesterday I found myself in a place I usually steer clear of.  You see, like dark alleys and the wrong side of the tracks, the gym is a place I've heard enough bad things about to just stay the hell away.  For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I got the sudden urge to go visit the facility that takes an EFT out of my checking account each month.  You see, my husband does enough physical work for the both of us, so I usually just let him do his 'thang with that kind of 'thang.  I'm one of 'those' people who love food waaay to much to let a silly thing like body image get in the way.  However, somewhere in between eating three generous-sized pieces of birthday cake and the reminder for my impending vacation to Beach Country, I decided maybe I should do something somewhat proactive about cramming my body into a Spandex/Lycra blend from hell.

Upon entering this place, we'll call it Oz, I saw people chatting and laughing so I assumed it couldn't be that bad.  WRONG WRONG WRONG.  It's a conspiracy; Oz hires these folks to stand towards the front and frolic about in a manner that suggests a positive experience.  As I made my way upstairs, I knew for certain I'd made a bad decision.  Panting,  sweating, the heat----and oh my oh my, the smell. It was hell on earth for sure.  People of all ages suffering to the beat of what sounded like an electronic mash-up of cats walking on piano and the Looney Tunes theme song (edit: I have actually learned that it was just a Ke$ha song).  I took my place on the elliptical.  I smashed on the keypad until it stopped asking me for my weight and date of last pap and got rolling.  After about thirty seconds I considered stopping because I couldn't stop looking around.  I was bored.  Oddly enough, there is a TON going on inside of Oz.  FIVE televisions with closed captioning rolling across the screen and shitty music blaring "music" while people of all walks of life crawl, jump, and jive across the floor.  I usually don't consider my attention span to be short, but there was so much going on in the place I found it difficult to stand in one place.  It's a bizarre conundrum to be bored out of your mind while you have so many stimulants being thrust upon you.  Somehow I was able to hang for about a half hour before I thought my brain was going to explode.

After my thirty minutes of power (that's sarcasm, friends) I was unstoppable.  I GOTS THIS GYM THING DOWN!  And this is where I got cocky.  I happened to see a lady running in place from what had to be the police.  She was faster than fast and although I don't buy in to hype, I knew I had to join her.  How hard could it be?  I decided that choosing the treadmill next to her was a good choice so that I could copy her keypad functions more effectively than I did on the first machine.  As I got rolling, I was doing good.  And then it got bad.  Really bad.  I thought my heart was going to explode and I'm pretty sure I lost my voice somehow based on how bad my throat hurt.  Although I was pretty sure I had ran about twenty minutes, the clock only said I had run for a minute and forty-seven seconds.  Fuck.  New plan.  A quick google search (whilst on the treadmill thankyouverymuch) returned in .00007 seconds with a FREE app that teaches idiots how to run.  SIGNED, SEALED, AND DELIVERED (see: I downloaded it).  Basically it starts off with a "brisk" walk followed by intervals of running and walking.  Although I was shamed to be walking next to what had to be a part-woman part-stallion, I convinced myself that she didn't come out of the womb running and we all have to start somewhere.  Still, within two minutes of my "brisk" warmup walk, I was fucking bored again.  This is where the beauty of technology comes in and the ugliness of people comes out.

Naturally, I pull up an app that I pay for monthly that allows me to watch movies instantly (take THAT, product placement).  I tap on the first thing that they recommend based on my love for Katherine Heigl and crappy movies.  I needed something I could focus on and follow if I was going to torture myself any longer.  Let me just say that I had headphones on.  This is an important bit of information because this is when bad went to worse.

As I am peacefully viewing the feature presentation whilst I run (and gasp for breath), I hear something louder than my film say, "Are you fucking serious?"  It was too loud to be something in the movie.  That's when I looked to the stallion to my right.  Glaring at me, running way faster than me, she seemed to be quite upset that I was watching a movie.  At first I wondered if maybe she didn't like the movie, hated it even, and didn't want me watching it by her.  Then I wondered if it was more of a "OH HELLZ YEAH" kind of exclamation and that she really wanted to see it.  I went with the latter and scooted my phone closer to the middle of our machines so that she could watch too.  Not the right thing obviously.  As a looked at her, smiling as best as I could as the life is being sucked out of me, I hear her say, "Get the hell 'outta here" and shake her head in a less-than-pleased manner.  She continued to shake her head as she ran and I withdrew my peace offering by scooting my phone closer to my line of sight.  Although I tried not to stew about it, I couldn't help but think that her anger was displaced.  There was a guy in Jorts casually peddling a bike to nowhere and a girl who had perfectly coiffed hair climbing stairs leading to nowhere---but she was mad at the Rulking (see: running SLASH walking) girl because she was watching a movie?!  Why not be mad at the lady watching CSPAN because let me tell you, that shit is that same thing.  Anyways, 25 minutes later I finished my workout and noticed that the Angry Woman of Oz had departed at some point so my movie distraction had worked.  As I did my cool-down and tried to convince my heart not to explode, a man came up next to me and started jogging.  Something fierce must have been occurring in his head (or on the tv he was watching that was displaying the hockey game) because this guy was PISSED.  He was swearing and shaking his head and I knew it wasn't because of me because I had already closed down my personal movie theatre for the remaining duration of my workout.  Between the Angry Woman and the Angry Man, I came to the conclusion that this Oz is a pretty angry fucking place and I probably shouldn't return.

Just kidding, I'm going back tomorrow so I can catch up on The Office.



Friends: Let this be a disclaimer of content and allow me to say this is SARCASM.  I have nothing but jealousy and respect for you BAMF's working hard at the gym.  That shit is HARD and most of you bitches make it look easy.

Also, let's just pretend I haven't fallen off the face of the earth with this blog thing, mmkay?

An Agglomeration of Sorts

A real photo of the random shit I accumulate.  Nicor bill, nail file, computer software, baby clothes, birthday cards, the deed to our house...you know, the usual.

If you've ever watched an episode of Hoarders (or similar) then you can probably summarize most of the episodes.  In fact, you probably can't talk about a specific episode without covering the details of another.


Oh, that crazy (insert man/woman) with all that shit?! The one that (insert that terrible experience or dark happening)?!  They are fucking crazy, man!  Can you believe they found a dead (insert animal) in that stuff?! That will never happen to me!

And you are probably right.  Unless you are me.  Then you are only half right.

I am the most imperfect combination of an extreme purger with hoarding tendencies.  My problem, well at least one of them, is time.  I don't have time to read the abundance of magazines that come in the mail, so they go into a pile.  I don't have time to coupon, but I'd like to, so the coupons from the paper go into their own pile.  See, I ran out of time when I was painting my nails so that's why the polish, top coat, and other accessories are in a different pile.  90% of the time one of the kids will need something while I am smack dab in the middle of something, and I'll have to run and take care of something else.  And 90% of the time, I'll start something else before I go back to that original task.  It's a vicious cycle of mess and chaos.  But you know what?  About a week of this goes by and I get batty and then throw everything in the garbage.  It's a toxic combination but the latter leaves me with a de-cluttered, clean house...and who doesn't love that?!

Today was one of those purging days.  I started with Baby 2.0's room.  I talked to myself like a real class-act, making jokes and laughing at them while three pairs of eyes stared blankly at me wondering what the hell was going on and why I was evicting five year old bath toys.  With one room done, I fiercely moved on to the bigger room, belonging to the boy who has more toys than anyone I've ever met.

I made a deal with said child.  I told him to find as many toys as he could that he doesn't play with anymore, and each toy will count as $1.00.  At the end of the process, however many toydollars he has, that is what he has to spend on ONE new super toy.  Child 1.0 was ecstatic until he realized that these toys were leaving forever.  I told him that the toys were going to kids who will play with them and treat them really nice.  Not working.  I told him that the toys were going to kids who has a mom that isn't fucking nuts and doesn't buy them something new every week might not have any toys.  Not working.  Finally I realized this wasn't going to work and I just started grabbing shit and asking him, "WHICH ONE DO YOU WANT TO KEEP!?!"  Obviously I raised my child right, because he responded with, "Both."  "Bitch."  Kidding on that last part.  For at least a few more years at least...

It quickly dawned on me that a four year old was not able to make such a decision.  All of these toys were appealing, especially considering that they'd been under the bed, in the back of the closet, etc. for the last two years.  They were practically new!  I decided to use my best judgement and exile these toys myself.  Whilst occupied by toys he actually plays with, I was able to stealthily bag up the old toys that I'm sure he won't even miss; that is, until he finds them.  And I'm pretty sure he forgot about the toydollars, so that's more money I have that will probably buy new toys anyway.


Now both of the kids have immaculate rooms.  For today.  Unfortunately it took five hours to clean/purge both rooms and all the while, the papers I had stacked on the record player blew all over the house because my stupid ass had the screen door wide open.  Tomorrow is another day.

Clean room.  I'm seriously timing how long this lasts.

Bitchin' in the Kitchen

So against my better judgement, I committed to doing another dessert swap.  See, it's not that I don't love me some desserts, it's just that I always overlook how much work it is.  I do this with my friends around Christmas with cookies and it's always fabulous.  Well maybe not fabulous for the fit of my pants, but alas, it's a great time that yields some delicious cookies.  Last month I decided I would do another swap, this time the focus would be cupcakes.  Each person makes X amount of cupcakes based on the number attending, we display them and bitch about how much work they were, then everyone takes their allotted amount and eats as many as possible so they don't have to share with their children or husbands.

This evening was my first attempt at baking anything in mass quantity since the birth of Baby 2.0.  I give you:

Vanilla rainbow cupcakes with nutella cream cheese frosting

PART I

(approximately 100,001 calories per bite)

FOR ZE CAKE I used a William Sonoma cake recipe and then made them rainbow:

3 eggs, 1.5 tsp vanilla, 1.5 cups cake flour, 3/4 tsp. baking powder, 1/4 tsp salt, 12 tbs unsalted butter, 1 cup sugar, 1/3 cup milk.

1. Start with all of the ingredients room temperature.  Preheat the oven to 350.  Since you didn't plan ahead of time, you now have about an hour or so to kill before you can even start since your ingredients are ice cold.  I turned off my oven because I had a long time before it was going to be used.  Welcome to the club.  If you are responsible, hang out with your kids, play with your dog, do some laundry.  If you are me, get a beer and get on Pintrest...tell husband you are balancing the checkbook.  He won't know.
2.  When the ingredients are finally at the proper temp, whick together the eggs and vanilla until blended.  In another bowl, sift the flour, baking powder, and salt.  Set aside.  Take a sip of your beer; you deserve it after all the whisking and sifting.  Whew.
3.  Beat the butter on medium-high speed until light and creamy...this takes about three minutes.  I used my Kitchenaid, so I had three more minutes to drink my beer and do some pinning. 
4. Gradually add the sugar and beat until fluffy...another three minutes or so.  More beer.  More pinning.
5. Add egg mixture and beat until well combined...about a minute.  Finish your beer.  Get another if time permits.  I'm dieting so I switched to water with lime.  I'm jealous of you.
6. Turn your beater down to low and add the flour mixture in three additions, alternating with the milk and beginning and ending with the flour.  Mix until juuuuust incorporated.  Don't overmix.   

To make them rainbowlicious, separate the mix into different bowls.  I used  Wilton icing tints to dye the batter different colors.  Using a spoon, add dollops of the different colors into muffin cups.  Swirl them around poke them, or just leave it alone if you are in a hurry.  Bake for 20 minutes.  Enjoy the ride.

Because nothing says "acid trip" like rainbow cupcakes.

Raw.  Although tempting, do not treat these as if they are Trix yogurt cups.

Cooked and cooling.  And my sweet Christmas potholder from 1987 is peaking out to say "hey!"

The innards.

I'm too tired to ice these bad boys tonight, so my nutella cream cheese frosting post (and the results of the cupcake swap) will be another post.  These cupcakes, sans icing, are very very good and very moist.  They will go very good with my breakfast of coffee and paczkis tomorrow.

Now I have to go load three days worth of dirty dishes into my not-high-capacity dishwasher. 

No, not dead...at least not literally.

Although right now I am sitting in my house with every light off and even a blanket over my kitchen window, I'm not in hiding.  You see, I had Baby 2.0 in early January and about two days ago she decided she hates to sleep.  Hates it.  Even right now I have her wrapped into a little J-baby burrito, all cozy in a chair, and she simply stares into the darkness...probably trying to put a hex on me.

It all started with January 2, when I dragged my half-ton ass into my OB's office and stared at him miserably.  He made the right choice to start with, "Do you have any questions for me?"  If he had started with "how are you?" or "how are you feeling?" I would have died.  My answer was, "Yeah, can we schedule something?" And so it began.  I decided J-baby's birthday would be January 6.  Child 1.0 was an induction as well, so clearly I am super Type-A and get to pick when I will have a baby.  I am a planner and a control freak.  So we showed up at the hospital at 5:00 am (WTF) and started prepping to evict a baby from Wombland.  I'll spare you all the nitty gritty (poor you) but she was born at 3:51 pm and this bitch right here only had to push twice.  To say I had an easy labor would be an understatement.  I waited as long as possible for the epidural (with Child 1.0 I got it right away) and although she had to do it THREE TIMES (WTF!?), this time it took.  (With Child 1.0 it never took)  We got to leave the hospital 36 hours later.  Jbaby has her momma's black hair and no-nonsense demeanor.  She is just as high strung as me---nothing like the lax baby that was her predecessor.  

The first few nights were typical---I was a mess because every little peep made me jump through the ceiling.  However, each night she slept more than the last.  We got to a good little routine where she'd go down at about 11pm and sleep til 5am.  And then she'd sleep til 7am.  This was after sleeping 95% of the day.  As of two nights ago, she has changed her mind about this whole sleep thing, because she must think Child 1.0 and I have all kinds of cool stuff going on during the day.  She is what my friend calls a "Sleep Ninja."  She "sleeps" in short little bursts and most of the time has one eye open (and no joke, it's shifts...shifty-eyed sleep ninja...).  She doesn't really cry per se, but she does do what us in Mommyland refer to as Baby Bitching.  She makes these pissed off sounding grunts just so you know she is pissed.  About nothing.  So we bounce, we sing, we burp, we swaddle, we rock, and sometimes I do magic.  But today is different.  You see, last night she did her baby bitching ALL NIGHT.  Even when her eyes were closed, she was bitching (just like her mother...)  I got a cumulative total of one hour of sleep on top of the fact I am in deficit of three weeks "good night rest."  Today I don't have it in me to bounce, sing, etc. so I made the house completely dark.  For realz.  It looks like night time in here.  I wrapped her up super cozy and laid her in her soother chair.  Although she is not sleeping, she isn't baby bitching either. 

I have searched for the cause of this and have not come up with a damn thing.  See, she isn't crying however she stops doing "it" when you bounce, burp, or rock her.  She doesn't seem to be miserable about anything, just grumpy.  As soon as you get her to stop, she likes to just look around  or pretend to sleep.  I say pretend because as soon as you set her down, she's at it again.  I am really out of my element here because 1.) I am used to a toddler and 2.) My toddler as a baby was NOTHING like this.

So I continue to look like a hermit.  And I continue to tell myself to cherish these days (as tiring as they are) because before I know it, Jbaby will be toddler sized and I'll be crying into my Lucky Charms. 

Photo by Andrea Keaveney

Holiday Update 1.0

I want to preface all of this by saying I usually never have my shit together.  Like, in general...ever.  I'm one of those people who prefer to fly by the seat of their pants and claim to do my best work under pressure.  Around the holidays, I like to have things done earlier than the norm, but I have never been this close to being done by Thanksgiving.  So needless to say, part of me is bragging and the other part of me is just freaked the hell out. 

• Our holiday portraits have been taken and ordered and will be ready to be picked up by Wednesday.
• Our holiday cards have been created and sent to the printer and should arrive by next week some time.
• Santa has been visited and informed; photo was taken.
• I am 90% finished with my holiday shopping.  Gifts have been wrapped AND hidden.
• I'm putting up my Christmas tree tomorrow.

I am genuinely surprised at my efficiency.  I don't know where this motivation is coming from, especially when I am the size of Santa Claus (possibly larger) and have a very crazy toddler, a needy dog, and a crazy, needy husband at home.  Part of me wonders if it's somehow being driven by my subconscious feeling that Baby 2.0 isn't going to stay in for as long as the docs are saying.  Maybe a freakish mommy part of me knows that I need to get this shit done and is giving me the willpower, energy, whatever to do it.  I wish that same drive would tell me to put my laundry away, but that's here nor there. 

Along with the holiday cheer, I have to share our experience with Santa this year.  We had a deal from Sears that for $10 you get to take the picture with Santa and get a few sheets of photos.  You also have an appointment time!  In the past we've just tried to show up at the mall when we thought no one would be there.  Typically we had to wait in line for way too long and then they murder you (with holiday cheer, of course) with the cost of the photos they take.  I recall in the past it was upwards of $30++ and you get like, two 5x7's.  They even choose which pose they think is best and generally (in my experience) don't even show you what the other options were.  I was delighted at this Sears offer and wondered if there was a catch.

The catch?  None.  Aside from the fact Santa was a little bit weird and kept saying "Ho, ho, ho! Santa needs some Starbucks!"  He was a pretty legit looking Santa.  Child 1.0 did not appreciate how real he looked.  As soon as we walked in to the little studio, he shut down.  He sat on Santa's lap and with a terrified, forced smile, took a picture.  Luckily the picture popped up on the screen and I immediately told the lady we were going to need some time.  I didn't know that time was going to be forty-five minutes.  Child 1.0 had a few breakdowns (he was really freaked out by this Santa guy) and a lot of arguing, claiming he didn't want any presents and just wanted to go home.  We have been making our "list" for weeks now and he's been reciting it pretty consistently.  He even pretends to call Santa on his fake cell phone and talks to him.  We walked around Sears trying to get him to a happy place and finally I had enough.  I decided I was going all or nothing and taking him back to that studio whether he liked it or not.  I was even willing to put him onto Santa screaming and crying and get that picture.  All of Child 1.0's pictures with Santa are of him happy as can be but go figure that by Christmas #4 he wasn't cooperating.  I march his ass back to the studio and we were able to walk right back in immediately.  Child 1.0 bounces up in Santa's face and yells, "MERRR!!!"  I don't know what merrr is, but it is a loud, sudden sound that makes most people jolt---including Santa.  Child 1.0 was laughing hysterically at his success at scaring Santa, and jumped right in his lap and was cheesing like nothing had even occurred.  He started rattling off the most random "want list" ever, including things like t-shirts, new shoes, and hats (which I worried made us look like we needed DCFS to come down the chimney instead).  When he was done, he told me he was ready for his "treat."  In the heat of his meltdown, I may or may not have bribed him with a toy.  I figured he was shouting so loudly that he didn't hear me say, "Just take a good picture and you can go into the Disney Store and pick WHATEVER you want---ANYTHING!!!!"

He heard it.  He happily bounced into the store, and what seemed to be intentional, took his sweet ass time looking at every.damn.thing. in the store.  Luckily he has cheap taste because this venture only came to be $4.97.  When factored in to the cost of the portrait package, it was still half the cost of what we would have paid the usual mall Santa PLUS we get more prints, so it's hard to even put a price on it.  Hell yeah.

Ho, ho, ho!  Mommy needs some Starbucks!

When Your Good Intentions Don't Mean a Damn Thing

Ain't that the truth...

Today I learned something terrible: No matter how nice your intentions may be, shit can still go terribly wrong.  See this quote from my least favorite Jurassic Park movie:

Billy Brennan: You have to believe me, this was a stupid decision but I did it with the best intentions.
Dr. Grant: With the best intentions? Some of the worst things imaginable have been done with the best intentions.

It all started with my dog, Dex.  I was so excited to have my first adorable wittle puppy that I didn't put much thought into where to store his crate.  It seemed like the main hub of our house is either the kitchen or the living room, so I plopped the crate in the corner of the kitchen and that is where it has been for the last six months.  Since then, we've gotten a new kitchen table that doesn't quite fit (aesthetically speaking) with the crate.  Grr.  Things like that eat at me, especially when I am super-neurotic and pregnant.

Skip over to our disaster of a laundry room.  It's a pretty damn big space, and I utilize that space by throwing everything in there and closing the door.  Voilà, problem solved.  When we first moved in, we put a mini-fridge in there and kept all of our (hubby and my) drinks in there (not just booze, asshole...mixers too.)  We also have a full-size fridge in our garage PLUS the one in the kitchen, so obviously we were NOT lacking in fridge space.  For about the last year though, the fridge in the laundry room has been empty.  It has also been plugged in.  Super efficient, right?  Exactly my thought a few months ago when I was in there staring at the pile of laundry that needed to be done.  I thought to myself, "Wow!  What a waste of money!  I am going to unplug that bad boy!"  So I did.  And I left it.  And because I don't do laundry too often, I don't go into the laundry room unless I have to.  

Skip back over to today.  With all the boys sleeping and me already on my third cup of coffee, I felt like reorganizing something.  Aha!  We'll move the damn dog crate into the laundry room.  It's like killing two birds with one stone or something....So first I emptied everything I could from the laundry room (which really reminded me that I needed to do a load or ten) and figured I'd move the fridge a little closer to the wall.  So with a mighty heave, I pushed the fridge and heard a terrible "swooshing" sound.  Shit.  Genius over here, (me, obvs.)  unplugged the fridge (that has that little freezer part at the top that had turned into a block of ice) and never did anything about draining it.  Dreadfully, I opened the door and although I'm not sure if it was the water pouring out or the dreadful smell, but it resulted in me screaming.  Not only was a shit-ton of water ALL OVER the floor, but the innards of the fridge were COVERED in a moldy/mildewy mess.  Shit.  It smelled awful.  I was embarrassed in my own lack of common sense and for the fact that nasty water was all over my feet and bottom of my pant legs (ew).  

Needless to say the project turned out to be a TON of more work than I had originally planned.  However, the dog crate has been moved into the laundry room, which I am sure it has NEVER been as clean as it is today.  Seriously.  Also, my kitchen table is now centered appropriately and it looks a lot better.  

Now let's hope my uppity dog doesn't have issues with his new sleeping arrangements or shit is gonna get real.

Morning of Failure; Commonly Known as NotChristmas

This morning I woke up laying crooked on the bed, with my head damn near hanging off the side of the bed where my belly is usually overhanging.  It was darker than usual in the room, and I couldn't get my bearings together quick enough to realize what the fuck was going on.  Where the hell was I?  I am such a creature of habit that something as simple as waking up looking at my room from a different perspective makes me wonder if somehow I was kidnapped or something (which I know is unlikely because that would mean someone would have to lift me up, and let's be real, that shit isn't happening without three large men).  After I snapped out of Sleepyland, I realized why I was laying where I was: A child had magically appeared in my bed.  And he was in my spot.  I sat up and looked at the clock: it was 5:00am.  Fuck.  I punched around hoping to locate some piece of hubby, but he had strategically placed himself on the opposite side of the bed.  It appeared he had relocated to accommodate our guest as well.  Child 1.0 has NEVER crept into our bed in the middle of the night.  If he wakes up in the middle of the night, he yells for us and we go in to his room and calm him down, and in extreme circumstances (see: I'm really fucking tired), we bring him into our bed.  This was not the case tonight.  He had somehow managed to get out of his bed, meander into ours, and take over my spot on the bed without waking either one of his parents.  Damn, he's good.  I stared at him for a few moments and contemplated taking him back to his bed.

...Nah.  I went back to sleep and at 6:00 he was breathing his hot breath in my face telling me it was time to wake up.  Not so fast, my friend.  I told him to go back to sleep or he was going to go back to his room.  He fought me on this for about two minutes before I attempted to sit up to whisk him back to his own domain.  He shot himself back down onto the pillow and shut the hell up.  I woke up at 7:00 and he was sleeping still.  Nice.  Back to sleep.  At about 8:00 I woke up to him silently rustling the covers and creeping out of the bed.  He took off running out to the front part of the house, leaving me confused.  Within moments, he was screaming and had entered Meltdown Mode.  Thinking he discovered a dead body (or the candy wrappers I had left on the coffee table), I had to run out to the living room as well (which I'm sure was a sight to see).  He was standing in the middle of the floor, crying, thrashing, and mumbling incoherent somethings.  When I finally got him to get it together, he told me that his presents didn't come.  What the fuck?  I had not had enough coffee to play "What the Fuck is Your Toddler Trying to Tell You" so I asked him to say it again:


"MY PRESENTS DIDN'T COME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

As patiently as possible, I told him I didn't understand.  He looked at me like I was crazy and proceeded to tell me that today was Christmas and that Santa did not come and that he didn't get any presents.  And for fuck's sake, he was pissed.  Part of me wanted to laugh and the other part of me wondered if my big pregnant ass forgot it was Christmas.  I had to exert my last few ounces of patience and explain to him that it wasn't Christmas.  It was hard.  He did not want to hear it.  He had been so exited for NotChristmas that he had been unable to sleep and came into our bed.  He had wanted to wake up earlier to open presents but "mommy made me go back to sleep" and he had waited "like a good boy."  It was awful.  He was distraught and outraged.  I needed coffee.  After a good half hour (which in Meltdown Mode equates to about three weeks), he was on the road to recovery.  Unfortunately, since we had spent so much time battling tears and angry voices, his whole day was gearing up to be whiny and pissed.  Nothing was good enough for him and EVERYTHING was an argument. 

I did what any decent parent would do and dumped him off at my mother in law's.  We couldn't both be in meltdown mode.  We are almost out of tissues as is.  Booyah.