Thomas Gone Wild

My three-year-old son is obsessed with Thomas, and the entire "Tank Engine" franchise. He knows every single train by name, and is constantly throwing out Thomas euphamisms: "He's a really useful engine!" "Emily is cross." "Bust those buffers."

On our family computer, Trey learned to type T-H-O-M-A-S in Google to get himself hooked up with a shot of Sprout Online. Straight to the Thomas games he went. He's a genius! I thought, until ...

One day I got distracted blogging or reading blogs or something, and eventually I wandered over to find that Trey had made his way onto YouTube, and was watching Thomas "videos" (some not-so-appropriate for your average 3-year-old as you might imagine). We had a talk about this - I know I had a stern talking to myself about being more "hands on" - and we moved on.

Fast forward, the other night Macy ran over to me with a, "Mommy! We won a contest!! Come look!"

OMG. At the computer were at least a dozen pop-up screens. Yes, one blinking screen notified us that we'd WON!!! THE BIG PRIZE!!! The other screens? Well ... How do I say this? One word. Porn.

Trey, in his ongoing quest for a fix of a newer, better Thomas video, had stumbled into a virus that unleashed a flurry of T & A (and various other body parts).

The moral of my story. Well, too much of anything, even Thomas, is a bad thing, I guess. Either that, or keep a close eye on your children as they "surf" the internet!

I Don't Want to Dance Anymore

"Mommy, I don't want to go to ballet," Macy told me recently.

"But you love ballet!" I said, a little too excitedly. (I'm thinking, I love you in that adorable ballet outfit.)

"Actually I don't," Macy informed me. "I need a break from ballet. I've got so much going on."

"Like what? I'm just curious," I asked, trying to act nonchalant. (I'm thinking, You're 6. You just wait.)

"Well, learning to read. You want me to read, right? And all that homework. Play dates. I'm just a little tired is all. It's just too much."

"But what about the big recital that's coming up?" I asked. (Thinking, and the recital costume I paid $50 for.)

"I don't really want to be in the recital," Macy stated, with firm resolve.

(I'm thinking, Is my daughter a quitter? First ballet, next what? High school?) I think quickly on my feet and decide to deliver a blow below the belt.

"Yep, you're right. You shouldn't do ballet if you don't want to," I agreed. "But what if Hannah Montana or Angelina Ballerina had quit their dance lessons the first time it got hard? Where would they be?"

"Angelina Ballerina is a mouse," Macy informed me. "And Hannah Montana's Dad is Billy Ray Cyrus. She didn't need dance lessons at six to be famous."

Darn.

I Am Organized to the Point of Dis-Organization

I am so organized. I have a labelled bin for everything. And a laminating machine to laminate my labels (lest they get damaged by a flood).

Sidebar: If you don't have a laminating machine, and I realize you probably don't if you aren't an elementary teacher or an Office Depot employee, you should get one. It is the best $25 you will spend and hours of fun.

So back to my dilemma. Despite my fervent organizational attempts, I still can never find anything I'm looking for.

Case in point, yesterday I needed printer toner. So I dashed to the bin labelled "Office Supplies" but of course it wasn't there. Twenty minutes later, after sifting through bin after bin, I found the elusive toner in the "Batteries" bin.

I need to find a copy of Trey's birth certificate for pre-school (actually, I've needed that damn certificate since August). It should be in the bin labelled, "Very Important Documents (in other words, this box should be a safe)", right? Nope. I've culled through 20+ bins and still, no birth certificate. I know he was born, I was there. And I'm certain they gave me some sort of paperwork to document the event. Now where is it?

Same with files. I've got dozens of labelled file folders organized alphabetically. But try to put my hands on my 2007 taxes, or a warranty, an important receipt or much less a phone number, and you can be bet your bottom dollar that said items will NOT be in their designated folder.

I've tried to instill my stellar organization skills on my family. But we are all chips off of one very dis-organized block.

B-E-D Spells Bed

I had an episode with my 3-year-old son Trey tonight.

First, after passing himself off as potty trained for the last few weeks, he stood in his room and - with reckless abandon - relieved himself (on the rug of course, not on the easier-to-clean-up wood floor). Then he came to tell me about it. As in, Oh I had an accident in my room, Mom. It's in the way, you need to change me and clean it up.

Then when I tried to get him into the shower, he had a huge fit. Totally lost it. Just like a 3-year-old.

So I said slyly to John (my husband, Trey's Dad), I've had it. He's going to B-E-D early tonight.

Trey, just 3, is evidently a better speller than he is a social rule follower.

b-e-d? B ... E ... D? That spells bed. I don't want to go to bed!!!! He screamed.

That's it. Tomorrow, I'm learning sign language. Or French.

I Get Really Winded Whenever I Work Out

A friend of mine who is not that much older than me recently underwent emergency triple bi-pass surgery. He is recovering well, he looks great and has a radiant glow on his face I've never seen before.

You look fabulous! I told him recently. Better than ever!

Thanks, he told me. Everyone says that. I tell ya, it's the healthy living. Eating right and exercising regularly.

Oh, crap. Does that mean if I don't do these things I too could end up having to have triple bi-pass surgery in a few years? (Yes, I straight-out asked him that.)

I used to think the same thing, he admitted. That I didn't have to worry about it, that I had 20 or so years to get my act together. It's just not true. He delivered the hammer. You have to exercise regularly to keep your heart strong.

My heart sank. His words made me literally depressed. You see, I'm that girl who puts on her work-out clothes approximately 2 times per week, but gets busy doing other things and ends up changing into regular clothes sometime in mid-afternoon. I have a membership at the Y, but haven't graced the establishment for over a year.

I'm also a rationalizer by nature. I talk myself out of working out with thoughts like, What? I'm going to burn say, 300 calories. I'll just eat less food for lunch. It's a wash.

I've never been able to establish a "regular" work-out routine (or even an "irregular" one) because, face it, I hate to work out.

I pressed the issue.

How did you know you needed to see a doctor to have your heart checked out? I asked my newly-healthy friend.

Well, I just got really winded whenever I tried to exercise, he revealed. And I was making some pretty bad choices, eating a lot of fried food.

By now, I'm past depressed and moving into full panic mode. I GET REALLY WINDED WHENEVER I WORK OUT! That's why I don't do it! I make bad food choices. Yes, I drink a smoothie every morning, but in my world that affords me free points to eat chips, salsa, wine, fries, eggs, bacon, etc. etc.

So, I calculated quickly, I have two choices. Drag myself to the gym (at least once) to check in on this "really winded" thing OR go straight to the heart doctor to have an MRI. I decided to start at the gym. I haven't keeled over on the elliptical yet, but I'll keep you posted, no pun intended.