Our little helper

So I mentioned earlier how Taylor is always trying to help us do things. And by HELP, I mean getting right on top of us while we are trying to complete everyday tasks and, therefore, making it pretty darn difficult to get anything done. Well, here she is trying to help Chris brush Ruby yesterday:

Too bad she doesn’t need any help with being cute, huh?

Taylor’s pay-puh

A few weekends back, Chris was attempting to finish-up reading the Sunday paper and Taylor was trying to help him. And by HELP, I mean she was ripping each section out of his hands and crumpling and tearing them while squealing with delight. Not only forcing Chris to hone-in on his speed reading skills, but covering our living room floor with homemade confetti. So she was essentially HELPING me keep the house clean as well, because after she was done I was obligated to sweep the floor for the billionth time that day. And I don’t know Mr Swiffer Sweeper personally, but I’m guessing he had both a destructive toddler AND a shedding chocolate lab in his household as well.

So. After finishing up the literary achievements of our local paper, Chris started browsing through the many advertisements, all with Taylor’s help of course, and half-way through he called me over to the couch with the oh-so-familiar, Hey, Come see what your daughter is doing. So I grabbed the dust pan and walked over, only to find our little peanut totally engrossed in one of the shiny, colorful ads from the paper. The Toys R Us ad. And both Chris and I looked at each other and said, She can’t possibly know what she’s looking at, right? And when I asked her, T, Whatcha looking at? She looked up for a millisecond and then put her head back down and pointed at the ad and said, DOH-RAH. And, sure enough, right there was a picture of a dancing Dora the Explorer doll. Right next to a Tickle Me Elmo doll, and when her eyes focused away from Dora, she pointed right at it and whined, EL-MOH.

And after she and Chris went through the rest of the ad, pointing out every baby doll and familiar cartoon character on all the pages, she jumped down off the couch with the Toys R Us ad still clutched to her chest, and went over to her toys, plopped down and looked at the ad AGAIN. And she continued to do this for the next hour or so, just browsing through each page and verbally pointing out what she recognized. BAY-BEE (baby), CAH (car), CUH-KEY (Cookie Monster). And by the time she had leafed through it for the tenth time, the pages were all crinkled and starting to tear. And being the OCD-Momma that I am, I waited for her to turn her back and then tried to throw it in the recycling. And, OH, the shrieking and crying that followed. PAY-PUH! PAY-PUH! Causing me to stop in my tracks and hand the shredded mess right back to her.

And when I told my Mom this story, she just started laughing and said, THAT is just like you and Libba with the Penney’s holiday catalog every year. You guys worshipped that thing, and fought like cats-and-dogs over it. Every year when it came, both of you would mark and dog-ear everything that you wanted, and then obsess over it until there was nothing left but shreds.

And THAT is exactly what Taylor did, dragging that ad with us wherever we went for the next few days, reading it in the car, after naps, while watching cartoons. She was OBSESSED. And by Thursday, all that was left was one tattered page. And after she went down for her afternoon nap, I tossed it. I know, I know. Why would a mother throw away something so precious to her daughter? Because it was driving me NUTS, that’s why. You try keeping your sanity with an 18-month old screaming PAY-PUH, PAY-PUH in the backseat because you tried to go to the grocery store while leaving a toy ad at the house. It HAD to stop. And it did, and by Friday afternoon she had forgotten all about her precious paper. Until Sunday, when Toys R Us generously included their gigantic Christmas Wish Book with the paper. And then TODAY, when they just decided to pop a one-pager in the paper.

So until Christmas is over, if you see me, you can just assume I will have either a tattered toy ad or a crying toddler with me at all times. Do you see THIS Toys R Us? THIS is me shaking my fist at you. You and your marketing geniuses can go jump off a cliff. Happy holidays.

The running of the Rubes

Looks like we got a thrill seeker on our hands. Which is reason number-72 why we will never let her go on a spring break trip in a foreign country without us. Well, at least until she’s 30. We’re not THAT strict.

My little monkey

First off, Halloween was almost cancelled at the Famous Amys house yesterday due to the emotional roller coaster we called the Iowa-Indiana game. When Stanzi threw that fifth interception late in the third quarter, I was THIS close to packing up T’s costume and calling it a night. Fortunately our Comeback-Kid Hawkeyes woke up in time to win the game and maintain our perfect season. And I know that a win’s a win, but I’m pretty sure Chris aged about 15 years during that victory. So I’m begging you, Coach Ferentz, Can we please, please, PLEASE play our fourth-quarter offense ALL GAME next weekend? My husband’s sanity depends on it.

And, unfortunately, mother nature also decided to put a damper on our candy-loving, costume-wearing holiday, as it drizzled on and off for the majority of the day yesterday. Regardless we packed up our little monkey and headed up to the Scully house to eat chili, drink beers and watch our girls in all their cuteness. And, of course, they didn’t disappoint.

And while the weather cleared long enough for us to get some priceless pics, the rain started up again as soon as we put our coats to head out and trick-or-treat. And because this is probably the last year that Taylor and Elliot won’t beg us to go door to door, regardless of the weather, we let them have their first trick-or-treat at Paige and Danny’s house. And it was still extremely fun for both of them.

Coming out of my shell(fish)

I’ve always had bad allergies. Always. And growing up on a farm in Iowa, once harvest-time came around my nose would turn into a faucet, my skin would break out in hives and my eyes would turn into itchy, red balls of fire. Pretty nice, huh? And I blame this all on my Dad, of course, who has always been a walking ad campaign for seasonal allergy relief. Once fall would come around, he and I would become the handkerchief twins. Sneezy and Wheezy.

And it wasn’t just seasonal allergies, but my Dad also had severe reactions to all kinds of shellfish. And after numerous attempts at eating fresh Gulf shrimp on our annual beach vacations growing up, and all ending with me extremely sick, it was concluded that I inherited his shellfish allergy as well. And this is something my shrimp-loving husband has been wrestling with for the past ten years, always looking into seafood restaurants with longing eyes and begrudgingly packing my extra food when we would attend low country boils.

But then something happened when we became residents of the dirty south nearly seven years ago. We not only left all our beloved friends and family up north, but we also seemed to leave some of my allergies. And for the first time ever, I was able to stop and smell the flowers without sneezing my brains out. And run through the autumn foliage without taking breaks to blow my nose. It was heavenly! I was able to ENJOY the changing of the seasons, and looked forward to stocking up on shorts and t-shirts instead of making sure my medicine cabinet was full of pills and nasal sprays.

But don’t get too happy here, readers. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Because apparently it takes our systems between five and six years to acclimate to a new region’s environment. Meaning after five years of being Kleenex-free, my system rebooted and my new southern, seasonal allergies reappeared and sucker-punched me in the face. And after a particularly crippling spring this year, I finally pulled the trigger and made my first appointment at an allergist.

And I don’t know how many of you have ever been to an allergist, but the initial visit is about as fun as driving through Nebraska with a screaming baby in the backseat. Long, boring and painful. They stick you and inject you with about a million different allergens and common substances in order to find out how your body reacts to them. And while I was itching like crazy with a few trees and grass species, I was completely cool with all the seafood and shellfish tests. Didn’t react to them at all. Which was weird, because the last time I accidentally ate something with crabmeat in it, my throat started closing up. And after explaining this to my doctor, he decided to take a blood sample and have it sent off to wherever they send blood to in order to make sure I really was allergic. Just to make sure I wasn’t FAKING this whole shellfish allergy. Yeah, like I’m THAT good at acting.

And guess what? My blood said that I was NOT allergic to shellfish. And I was all, LIAR. My Dad is. My sister is starting to have reactions. And it makes me SICK. I am just not able to eat shellfish. So go check your information again and call me back when the answer is I AM ALLERGIC. And so they double-checked and my blood continued to say, Hey, eat some lobster. It’s really, really good!

So that’s what I did. Kinda. Yesterday I blocked off a half day to bring in some shellfish and eat it in front of them. I’m not kidding. Yesterday morning I had to roll out of bed and walk into a doctor’s office and gag down shrimp for breakfast. Oh. And the kicker had to be that I brought in raw shrimp, because I’m stupid, and so one of the nurses had to steam it in the microwave. Doesn’t that sound good? Nuked shrimp for breakfast? And after she cooked them, the entire office smelled like a seafood counter, and for the rest of the visit I was referred to as The One Who Made The Office Stink.

So the test went like this - Rub some shrimp on my lips and wait 20 minutes. If I’m still alive, then make me eat a little and wait 20 minutes. Then eat a little more and wait. And so on and so on until I had to eat a whole shrimp. All while they are checking my vitals in between me gagging down portions.

The whole process took four hours. FOUR. HOURS. In a doctor’s office. Resulting in me reading through five back-issues of Highlights and mastering the highest score in the world in Tetris on my phone. But you want to know what DIDN’T happen? I didn’t get sick and my throat didn’t close up. Other than almost barfing each time I ate a microwaved morsel, my body didn’t react at all. NOTHING. And 20 minutes after eating the final shrimp and checking my vitals, my doctor looked at me with one of those I Told You So looks and said, Well, it looks like you are NOT allergic to shellfish. And I was all, Huh? But I get SICK every other time. And he was all, It might just be in your head. Now, stop being a faker and go order some Bang Bang Shrimp at Bonefish.

And after telling Chris the final verdict, he jumped around like a kid at Christmas, shouting out all the places he wanted to eat and wonderful shellfish dishes he would order for me. And CRAB LEGS! You can have some crab legs. And you can have LOBSTER. It’s the best stuff in the entire world. Maybe I can make you some scallops this weekend. Or oysters! OYSTERS!

And even with all the enthusiasm I’m getting from all sides about my new life that includes shellfish, I’m still super hesitant to dig into a bowl of gumbo or crack open a crab leg. Which is probably because I had to eat microwaved shrimp for breakfast during a four-hour doctor’s office visit yesterday. But here I am, 24 hours later and not a hive in sight. I’m on my way to becoming a converted shellfish lover, former allergic-reaction faker. Do you think they have support groups out there for this?

This one's for Grandma

Because Grandma cannot fathom the idea of her precious angel having a temper tantrum.

And why is this ballerina so peeved, you ask? Well, because this mean Momma wouldn't let her bring her pacifier downstairs after naptime. I know. THE HORROR.

How to pick the perfect pumpkin

First, take a stroll around the merchandise. Make mental notes. THIS pumpkin will last you at least a week. You don't want to choose too quickly.

Try a few on for size.

If some are too heavy, maybe you should go down a size or two. You need to find a pumpkin that FITS you.

Make sure it feels good in your hands.

Make sure it TASTES good as well.

And once you've met all the criteria, just trust your intuition. And if your gut says YES, then you've found the perfect pumpkin.