Why does it seem that most women have the uncanny ability to suck the fun out of any holiday?

And perhaps when I say "most women," what I really mean is me.

::sigh::

The morning started out innocently enough. Scotty started making chirping noises around 6:30am (5:30 DST, for anyone following along...kill me now...) I rolled over and grunted at Brian. "Not it," I said. He grunted back, but then I heard him sigh and get up. Satisfied, I snuggled in for an extra hour of sleep.

The Bear and Brian woke me up a short time later. I detected a whiff of attitude from my husband, as he did not appear to be his usual pleasant morning self. Immediately in my head, I began going over all of the justifications as to why it was okay for me to sleep in. I'm training for a half marathon; my body needs the sleep. I'll wake up with him on Sunday. I am exhausted. I have dark circles under my eyes and I'm starting to look like a raccoon. I need the sleep, okay? Get off my metaphorical back.

Then my internal monologue of grumpiness (fueled by no coffee, mind you; a true recipe for disaster) veered off into my schedule for today. And then tomorrow. And all of the things that I needed to get done in the next 48 hours hit me like a ton of bricks, so I dealt with it the way every good wife does: I started snipping at my husband.

"Did you make him breakfast?"

No.

"Did you give him his medicine?" (Scotty's on antibiotics for a sinus infection. Today is day 9).

No.

"Did you change his clothes, brush his teeth, put the dishes away, or sweep the kitchen?"

I knew the answers before I asked the questions, but my irrational self still vocalized the questions. Just out of unpleasant spite.

And keeping with the theme of the morning, I launched into my "So essentially, you've done nothing other than keep the child alive until I woke up?" speech when I started to notice Brian's eyes glaze over.

I was losing my audience.

I could tell he was started to eye the door, wondering just how fast/quietly he could exit the building to stop my ranting. He wasnt' listening; he was planning his escape.

Regardless, I pressed on.

"Do have any idea how much stuff I have to do tomorrow? I am waking up at 6am to run 10 miles. We then have a toddler birthday party in the morning. Then I have to go decorate - for the Halloween party we are throwing - in the afternoon, which by the way, all of the decorations are still in my car. I asked you to take them out last night, which you did not do. And after I'm done decorating, I have to come home, make food, shower, and then we need to put our costumes on. The party starts at 8 and we need to be there early. Do you know how tired I am going to be?"

I kept going.

"...and today, I need to go to the Gap and get a birthday present, go to Costco - on a Friday afternoon of a holiday weekend! - drop off books at the library, and take Scotty to the park. And hem his costume and edit articles for Junior League AND do all of this while entertaining a toddler glued to my hip."

Oh wait, still not done.

"So while you sit there and pout about getting up early, I want you to know enjoy - " my voice got a little louder here  " - YOUR DAY NOT TAKING CARE OF ANYONE BUT YOURSELF. ENJOY YOUR QUIET RIDE TO YOUR QUIET OFFICE IN A CLEAN, QUIET CAR."

And with that, ladies and gentlemen, I became the scariest thing about Halloween.

Looking back, yes, I recognize my behavior was poor. Terrible, in fact. Brian, bless his heart, simply exited quietly through the garage with a look of fear and concern in his eyes. And mild irritation, but I'm not going to begrudge him that. I'm just happy he didn't throw a plate at me or something, since my head was clearly about to start spinning around.

But what is it about the holidays that makes us (okay, me) crazy? I know I'm not the only one going through this right now. I know there are probably millions of women, frantically gluing buttons on cheap felt material right now while eating their weight in mini candy bars. I'm sure there are hundreds of us driving around with plastic skulls in our backseats, cutting off the guy in front us because we want - no, we need - that Starbucks more than the other person. We're picking fights with our spouses because we've piled our plates high with charity work and toddler activities and exercise, and then we melt into puddles of resentment and exhaustion when we realize the day is only 24 hours long.

This is not good.

I blame Martha Stewart for this.

And so while I am cognizant of my mistakes, I am going to try to take a chill pill this weekend (hopefully in the form of a mini Twix bar and maybe a vodka cocktail or two), and remind myself, things don't have to be perfect. It's okay to let the husband watch that baseball-game-thing that is on tonight. It's like, some big deal or something. It's okay if Scotty's pants on his costume are too long; it's okay to just cut the material and have an uneven edge. Really, who cares?

Because between the pumpkins, the goats, and now today, I fear that the rest of the year (holiday time!) will be nothing but a giant stress headache waiting to happen.

We haven't even discussed pumpkin carving on Sunday yet.

I'm not sure Brian's going to let me handle sharp objects.

Happy Halloween, everyone.

On Monday, Brian came home early from work so we could do a little shopping, er, picking of pumpkins at the faux patch. Scotty had just had a hair cut (and looked like a shorn sheep) and was in a good mood, so it seemed like a fun outing.

Until Brian got attacked by goats at the petting zoo.

Like any kind and loving wife, I kept a safe distance on the other side of the fence and took photos with Brian's phone and then sent them to my friends.

Scotty thought it was a riot, too. (We're such a considerate family).

To add insult to injury, as we were checking out, I told the woman to throw in a bale of hay. I envisioned this grand harvest display on our front porch, and since the hay was only $10, why not? I might as well buy some dried corn, too. Harvest it up, folks!

I don't know if you know this, but bales of hay are HEAVY. It's not like in the movies where they show farmhands just tossing bales around. No, these suckers weigh close to 75-100 pounds each. Way too heavy for me to lift, and very heavy for Brian. I, however, did not know this little fact, and it wasn't until I turned around and found Brian struggling with three big pumpkins, one insanely thick bale of hay, and the Bear, did I stop and help the poor guy out.

He smelled like goat poop, but I didn't hold that against him.

He wasn't real happy with me (I won't tell you what he called the bale of hay, but it was fairly profane and descriptive). So we stopped at McDonalds and I got him a McRib sandwich and life was good again.

Sorry, sweetie. Thanks for putting up with my hijinks. Goats, hay, and all.

Don't you just love the holidays? Yay....

Last Saturday, Brian, the Bear, and I headed out to pick out our yearly pumpkins. We decided to go "au-natural" and actually harvest them from the place where they were grown.

(Just a Vegas tidbit: since we live in a desert, there is only one orchard that I'm even aware of out here. So instead of going to an actual pumpkin patch, faux patches crop up on empty corners of deserted lots right at the start of October. Brian and I typically shun these patches, hence the rationale for heading to a real orchard.)

We had been to the orchard - and neighboring farm - the year before. It's a trek from our house, but well-worth it.

Or so we thought.

With the temp hovering right around 92 degrees, we donned shorts and sunscreen and set off for a little fall fun.

The day started off great. Scotty was excited to pet the cats at the farm.

I think he was a little bummed we didn't take a kitten home.

I was too.

Nothing says "petting zoo" like a desert tortoise (that you can't actually pet), but we had fun looking at old Tanky. (his real name).

Then we began the long walk from the orchard to the pumpkin field.

We walked.

And walked.

And walked.

We stopped for an obligatory photo op that had been set up in the fields.

This is Scotty's pose. He calls it his, "I'm hot and don't care to be photographed but I will stand here in silent protest" pose.

When we were in Indiana with Grandma, she taught Scotty to "bite" pumpkins. (I know, don't ask).

I'm not proud to say, but the behavior continues to present day.

After what seemed like hours of wandering through this dry, dusty field, we finally asked a nice man where he got his pumpkins. He pointed to the very back corner that was by my calculations, approximately 27 miles away.

And with that, we picked one tiny pepper --

-- and promptly turned around.

We'll try again next year.

And yes, our current pumpkins are from the faux patch. Just as good as the real thing with a fraction of the work.

We may be smiling here, but we're not really happy.

I've now been pounding the pavement for about four months, and it's been quite the journey. On Sunday, I completed my longest run ever - 12 miles - in just over two hours. I'm running between a ten and eleven-minute mile, and while I don't consider that my "wolf speed" (i.e. the speed at which I would run if wolves were chasing me), it's not like I'm hitching a wagon or anything. The Vegas 1/2 Marathon is in just under six weeks, and I feel confident that I'll be able to run the entire thing at a reasonable pace.

Maybe I'll even have a beer at Mile 7. Who knows.

Now, there are some aspects of running that you may not be aware of. Over the past few months, I've discovered a lot about myself - and my feet - that I did not know. Perhaps most illuminating was the whole toenail-loss thing. (still at ten and holding strong, thankfully). I mean, we all know that running is very time-consuming (2+ hours a day, including dressing, showering, and shoving the child at the husband). It's also fairly expensive, since once you really get into it, you start buying things like hydration belts, fancy shoes, and Garmin watches. And there is the sore muscle part, too - I'm not going to lie, after 12 miles yesterday, Scotty can go up and down the stairs faster than I can. But there are some lesser known aspects about running that I would like to shed some light on. For example...

Running ten miles does not make you instantly slim.

Blame it on our instant-gratification society (or perhaps just my own mindset), but when I ran ten miles a few weeks ago, I expected my pants to fall off of me by the time I got home. They didn't. In fact, they were a little snug. And I love the looks I get from people when I mention my miles: there is this quick up-and-down I usually get, along with a long, "Oooooooh. Interesting." I want to say, "I know, right? I don't know why this weight is staying on, either!"

And while I have dropped a few pounds, it's more because I've been especially cautious with my diet lately. Egg whites and spinach for breakfast, raw almonds as a snack, an apple with almond butter for lunch...you know the drill. It seems to be working, but I'm not getting a whole lot of bang-for-my-buck with running. I mean, at this point, shouldn't I look like Heidi Klum? I certainly feel like I've suffered enough.

You are going to become the most boring person in the world.

You know all the friends you have, the ones that don't wake up at 4:45am to run five miles? Yeah, they really don't want to hear about how you spent your early morning hours. But because you got up at the ungodly hour of 4:45am, you are going to want to tell everyone what you did...making you the person they most want to avoid in the Mom's group.

Because let's face it - unless you are a runner yourself, it's a really dull subject. My friend Courtney and I could talk about it for hours - gear, pace, mileage per week, and then the gossip from boot camp or the running team - but everyone else just gets this glazed over look in their eyes, like they are trying to be polite but are having trouble stifling their yawn. At a playdate recently, Deana became so tired of the subject (as Court and I chatted away) that she actually got up from the table and left. Later on, she told us jokingly, "Please stop talking about running! You are forcing me to pay attention to my children!" We all giggled and promptly shut up.

::yawn::

Running is all about pooping.

There. I said it.

It's on everyone's mind. Whether you run or not, it's one of those necessary functions of life. The difference for runners (aside from the fact that all that movement stimulates the colon) is that we tend to run away from civilization...and bathrooms. Which is both terrifying and messy.

I cannot overemphasize the stress that this causes.  I mean, what are you going to do five miles in? Pop a squat? I'd rather cut off my right arm. But I know runners who carry tissue with them just in case.

Ack. Yuck. Vomit. I think that would signal my retirement.

And aside from actually adhering to the call of nature, there is the whole general uncomfortableness that goes along with the need to answer nature's call. When you have a long run in the morning, I guarantee that the night before, you will be especially cautious about what you eat. Rice? Check. Bananas? Sure. McDonald's quarter pounder? No way in hell.

See? This is why running makes you skinny...eventually. I'm going to have to put down the buttercream cupcakes and snacking on apple cores. I'll be Heidi Klum before you know it.

One day.

The Las Vegas Rock'n'Roll Half-Marathon is in 41 days and I'm happy to report, I've never pooped outside.

I'm going to go out on a limb, and say that the three most dreaded words in the world of Parenthood (aside from "some assembly required" and "car seat installation") are...

(insert scary music here)

...DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME.

It's coming. I can feel it. The temp in Vegas has dropped to 85 degrees. The calendar is reading mid to late October. People (including myself) are decorating with gourds and fake leaves. I know it's coming, but I cannot bear to look up the date of when it actually occurs.

Is it coming this weekend?

Next weekend?

The first weekend in November?

Kind of like that puff-of-air-test at the optometrist's office, I'd rather not know when it's coming. Surprise me.

I remember when I was a non-parent and I would relish in the extra hour during the weekend. Now, it's all about the schedule. And as any good parent would likely tattoo on their body, since they take it so seriously...

Don't deviate from the schedule.

Words to live by.

And then some yahoo went along and invented Daylight Savings Time. Yes, yes, I understand that without it, it would be dark at noon in like, 30 years. But I'm willing to sacrifice that because right now, all I care about is that my two-year old is sleeping past 7am.

Oh, the beauty of it.

But because I'm a glass-half-empty kind of gal (or as Brian likes to say about me, "Do we even know if there is a glass?"), when Scotty blissfully sleeps that late, my very first thought (after "where are my glasses?") is "don't get used to it. 7:15 today is 6:15...soon."

I bet the guy who invented DST didn't have young kids.

Either way, it hangs over me.

Winter is coming.

Someone lost his.

...and one day, I'll be showing this picture to his prom date.

So the weird thing about being a parent is that you are so freaking excited for your child to start talking. If I could graph it out, it would like something like this:

0-6 months: He made a noise that wasn't crying! Hooray!!

6-9 months: He's babbling! This is great! I think he said, "Da-da!"

9-12 months: Omigosh! Real words! He said "Ball!" And "dog"! That is so cute! Did we get that on video?

12-16 months: Wow, he was saying a whole bunch of stuff like two months ago, and now the kid has gone silent. Where is that ASD checklist again?

16-22 months: Oh, we're fine. He's chattering away again. I think all of that physical activity took away from language development. Now he's putting together one and two word sentences. This is the greatest!

22-26 months: He's just a little chatterbox! What a love! Everything that comes out of his mouth is adorable. He's up to three and four - and beyond - word sentences! Amazing!

26+ months: Is this kid ever going to shut up? Oh my god. And how in the world did he become so opinionated? And bossy? Did he really just tell me to sit down? I'm the parent here!

As you might guess, we are at 26+ months.

Scotty has turned into something of a small dictator.

He is ruling this family with a tiny, iron fist. Brian and I are quickly learning that if Scotty isn't happy, ain't nobody happy. And it's about the smallest stuff, too. Like lunch yesterday. I asked him if he wanted cheese. He said, "Otay." (so adorable). I then went to the fridge and got him a wheel of Babybel cheese. He saw me, waved his hand with authority, and said, "No. String cheese."

I'm sure I blanched for a moment before replying, "Uh...sorry sweetie. We don't have any string cheese." I was just at Costco! How did I forget the string cheese?! Curses! The child will be unhappy! Use distraction. "Have a wheel of cheese instead."

He pounded his fists on the table. "No wheel cheese! No wheel! String cheese! STRING CHEESE!"

Had it been in his vocab, I half expected him to say, "Off with her head!"

Aside from having very strong opinions about cheese, Scotty also likes to act as my doctor. Every morning, he tells me to sit on the bed ("Sit down, Momb," as he pats the blanket) and take my vitamins. He likes to pull each container out one by one, demand I open them, and then set the pill on the dresser. He then examines the vitamin before shoving it in my mouth yelling, "Take vitamin, Momb. TAKE VITAMIN!" This goes on for like, twenty minutes, until I'm on B-6 overload. It's like have a pint-size physician. A very, very bossy one. And I'm sure I have the most expensive urine in all of Las Vegas.

His demands aren't for me alone, thankfully. Yesterday, he barked at his stuffed doggie. Then held the dog at eye level and reprimanded him, saying, "Indoor voice, Doggie. INDOOR VOICE!"

::sigh::

Or my personal favorite, which happened at Costco yesterday (yes, the same visit where I did not purchase any string cheese). I was fishing in my wallet for the Costco card, which had wedged itself in the farthest corner. My dalliances were holding up the line to enter the store and Scotty took one look at me and then the line, and then exclaimed very loudly, "Oh for goodness' sake, Momb!"

Everyone laughed. Except me.

Toddlers are funny. It's like living with a combination of a parrot, raccoon, and some kind of tropical storm all at once. Your house is never clean. Your words come back to haunt you. You never know when the next Category 5 storm will hit.

I think that's why God made 'em cute.

Thank goodness for that.

I don't know about you, but I am exhausted by the Dinner Argument. You know, that discussion you have every morning and every evening, the one with no resolution and no end in sight? I've totaled up the number of hours Brian and I spend talking about what to have for dinner, and it breaks down to approximately 37.2 hours per week. That's a lot time to spending talking about food.

This is usually how is goes:

K: What do you want to do about dinner?
B: I dunno.
K: Okay...how about chicken?
B: Um...okay.
K: Great! I'll make [insert type of chicken dish here].
B: Oh wait, I had chicken yesterday!
K: ::head desk::

This conversation loops around for approximately 6.3 more hours, before we pop a bag of popcorn.

So, in honor of all of you who may have similar situations, let me offer the following recipe. It makes it appear as though you have thoughtfully prepared something for your spouse, when in fact, all you've done is dump stuff in pots. I can handle this.

Apricot Crock Pot Chicken with Brown Rice and Broccoli:

2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts
1 jar of apricot jelly (we like Smuckers)
1 pkg of Lipton onion soup mix
some chicken broth

Dump all ingredients into your crock pot. For the chicken broth, I pour it into the now-empty jelly jar, shake to get the rest of the jam, and then pour it in the pot.

Cook for 5 hours on high.

I pair it with the Costco "microwave-in-the-container" brown rice (90 seconds! Word!) and with some steamed broccoli. This involved boiling water in your steam pot, dumping (that word again...) some fresh broccoli in the basket, and steaming it until it's bright green.

Enjoy! See, your spouse will think you spent all day in the kitchen. That is, unless you write about it in your blog, and then the cat's out of the bag...

(meow!)

Happy dinner, everyone!

I've been fairly open on here about my reluctance to start the arduous task of potty-training, and then this morning, Scotty called my bluff.

Little stinker.

He's taken to pooping in our closet. This is much better than it sounds - he is still wearing a diaper and the mess is contained. He, however, is hitting that stage where a little, uh, privacy is needed. Yesterday, as I made the bed and got ready, I watched as he bee-lined to our closet, very carefully slid the door shut, and gave me one last look like, "Hey Mom...pretend you're not seeing this."

I thought he had something in his mouth, so I followed him and cracked the door. He didn't have anything in his mouth, as he stood here, mouth agape, knees bent, face red. He looked up at me and I felt like I had completely interrupted a very private moment. He then burst into a big smile and declared, "Poo poo!" and gave him rump a hearty pat.

This morning, he did the same thing. I half-expected him to grab the USWeekly off the nightstand before he hit the closet. I followed him again, but before he had a chance to push, I asked him, "Are you making poo-poos?" He nodded yes. "Do you want to go on the potty?" He looked at me, looked over at the bathroom, and then said very certainly, "Yes. Potty."

Um...

See, I don't have a toddler potty seat. I don't have anything potty related, and the kid just called my bluff. I didn't expect him to say yes - I thought I had six more months to plan my attack. I would have to hold him over the seat while he dropped fecal matter in the toilet, and quite honestly, that sounded like a haz-mat situation in the making.

So I did what any good parent does in that situation: I stalled and then distracted him.

"What a good boy!" I said, gently taking him by the arm and steering him past the potty. "Let's go to your room and change your diaper...and then M&Ms!"

Looks like I know how's buying an Elmo-toddler potty this weekend.

On October 1, 2011, the world welcomed Ulysses Samuel Abrahms into the world. At six pounds, fifteen ounces, and twenty inches long, Uly was born at 39 weeks and is anything but ordinary.

First, his initials are USA. Yes, that is intentional. Adam and Tiffany, proud parents and our dear friends (you may remember the wedding Brian and I were both in last summer in Southern California? Yup, same couple) and self-proclaimed right-wing political enthusiasts, feel very strongly about their patriotism. Their wedding was red, white and blue. Their bulldog, Teddy, is named after Theodore Roosevelt. When they found out they were having a boy, the obvious name choice was Ulysses, per Adam, despite Brian's repeated protests that he was going to call the baby Sam. And my favorite part? When I asked Tiffany if the nursery was going to be red, white and blue, she looked at me like I was crazy and said very seriously, "What? No way. It's light brown and blue."

Oh. My bad.

Aside from his very unique moniker, Baby Uly is unique in other ways: he came into this world with his liver outside his body. Adam and Tiffany underwent the ultrasound every pregnant couple fears - the quiet technician. They found out at 20 weeks that their little warrior drew the one in over 10,000 chance of having an omphalocele, a condition where one or many of the internal organs grow in a sac outside the body. The good news? The liver was safely contained in the omphalocele. The bad news? The condition is most often seen in conjunction with other abnormalities, almost all of which are fatal.

Now processing what I just wrote, it's essentially every new parent's nightmare. A genetic abnormality. More tests. More doctors. Lots of appointments, and lots and lots of test results to endure. I'm not sure how Adam and Tiffany managed to weather the storm of pregnancy, but they did, and with each test, they continued to get better news. There were no other genetic abnormalities noted. All chromosomal testing came back healthy. They met with a surgeon who did the exact same kind of surgery he would do on their baby on two other cases, and both children are healthy and functioning normally.

And armed with that information, Adam, Tiffany and Alex welcomed their little warrior last Saturday into the world with open arms. His condition was better than expected, and he was taken into surgery the same day he was born. With the liver tucked safely back into place, now it's just a waiting game. When I spoke with Tiffany last Saturday, she sounded tired but upbeat, and I find that remarkable. I feel as though Scotty's 4-day-3-night NICU stay is forever burned into my brain, and here is she is, coping, laughing, and finding the positive in the situation. Truly amazing, and downright inspirational.

The healing process is a long one, both for her and for Uly, but I couldn't help but note that this kid has an amazing set of parents. They are strong. They are opinionated (yes, their opinions tend to differ quite a bit from my own, but they are professional enough to never get personal.). They love their child and are willing to do anything to make his life better. And so while he drew an unlucky straw with the omphalocele, he's a lucky boy, indeed.

If you have a moment, take time to think about little Baby Uly and send him some good thoughts and prayers. Tiffany has joined the blogging world (yay!!) and you can read more about his story at http://teamabrahmsusa.blogspot.com.

Love you, Adam, Tiff, Alex, and Uly! The Bear can't wait to meet his new buddy one day, even if they are rooting for different football teams.