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The Hairy Legs Report

Editor’s Note: This past week, Mile High Mamas has been dedicated unto the joys of blogging. We have discussed why and how to start a blog. Now it turns personal as each of our bloggers shares the reason they started blogging and their favorite post.

My adventures in blogging started just under two years ago. I had a ton of ideas taking up space in the gray matter but I didn’t have the forum to put it all out there to share with others. My husband, Secret Agent Man, can attest to the precious hours of sleep he lost because I kept him up with conversations such as,

“Honey, do you remember Jello Pudding Pops? How come they don’t make those anymore?â€?

It Makes Me Feel Normal. Kinda.

My son Declan has a very strict bedtime routine – completely of his own invention. When I tell you about it, please do not think we are nuts. (Just think of all the crazy stuff you have done for your kids.)

Every night, every bedtime goes exactly like this:

Pajamas, medicine (for allergies), brush teeth, go potty… in. that. order.

Read books, the number of which depending on how long the previous stuff dragged on.

Climb into bed, turn on the fish aquarium lights, turn off the room lights.


Really…This Has Never Happened To Me

Much to MRS’s chagrin, our sex life has popped up as semi-frequent topic on my blog. And today, it rears its ugly head again. In the past I’ve complained about the systematic collapse our bedroom activity has sustained since we began procreating. I’ve lamented about my needs not being fulfilled. I’ve moaned about my numerous lonely nights by the fire with a glass of wine, my favorite quilt, and the gossamer hope that MRS would saunter by with a gleam in her eye. I’ve solicited aid from the blogosphere to intercede on my behalf with an email campaign urging MRS to embrace her wifely duties. Though as campaigns go, I must admit the groundswell I was hoping for didn’t quite materialize.

Today I have news that’s bound to send shockwaves along the information superhighway. It’s also bound to subjugate what little manhood left floating in my bloodstream. Essentially, the headline would read:


Cabin Fever Redefined

I am writing this as part of my recovery. At least this is what my pseudo-therapist-husband prescribed.

To preface this confession, my disclaimer is that I have never been one to be caught up in the material world of lavish houses, clothing and cars. I loathe the haughtiness of country clubs and abhor shopping anywhere except for R.E.I., Super Target and Costco (the latter of which is only during “sample” hours. Because evidentally I am also a big fan of freebies).

Most of our discretionary income goes towards travel, travel, travel. And muzzles for the children.

So, here’s the deal. I am obsessed with The Granddaddy Purchase of them all:

Just another example of how I make and break the rules as I see fit

There is a long-running tradition of believing in superstition in my family. For example, my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother all lived in mortal fear of El Cucuy at some point in their lives, believing he’d whisk them away in the middle of the night if they didn’t behave. For years now I’ve tried to put it behind me like that bad memory involving P.E. class and accidental flatulence. For the most part, I’ve been successful. I no longer feel it’s necessary to scotch-tape a nickel to my belly during a lunar eclipse. I don’t feel like I’m cursing a baby if I admire their cuteness and don’t follow through with gently touching their head with my hand (an absolutely real belief in some circles). Black cats, ladders, the number thirteen and spilled salt mean absolutely nothing to me.


There’s the eyelash issue. For some reason, the eyelash issue is exempt from my belief system. If I drop an eyelash, my kids rush to harvest it so they could press it between our thumbs, make a wish, pull the thumbs apart and see whose lucky thumb it stuck to. I could squeeze my eyes shut and PRETEND to make a wish in an effort to stay true to my non-superstitiousness. But I don’t. I actually make a wish. I wish for all the things that mothers wish for – healthy, happy children becoming healthy, happy adults, a secure future for each of them, strong teeth well into their nineties… But it really makes no difference because I never get the eyelash. I NEVER get the eyelash.

Party all the time

On Friday, my daughter threw her third annual Halloween bash that included an inordinate amount of hairspray and the disturbing confirmation: Like Mother, Like Daughter. [Insert evil cackle here.] [photopress:IMG_7899.jpg,full,pp_image]

We also played games such as Pin Pick the Nose on the Pumpkin, indulged in devilish epicurean creations including my green slime chocolate fountain, read a haunting story with Dora the Explorer who made a celebrity appearance and had a free-for-all civilized candy hunt in our backyard.


Bryan and I are tech freaks, so I am not surprised that Declan loves gadgets and gizmos already. At JUST-TURNED-FIVE.

We gave him one of our old PDA’s… and he uses it to practice his letters, do little graffiti drawings and manage the profusion of play-dates with his little friends. (Just kidding, that’s my job). OK, and he also likes to draw incredibly accurate sketches of the Palm Pilot itself, so it has its uses as a “model” too.

Channeling June Cleaver for the Modern Mom

Growing up watching re-runs of Leave it to Beaver set me up for disappointment and self doubt later in life.

June Cleaver is my hero. Clean house, happy kids, and home-cooked meals. Ward, Wally and “The Beaveâ€? were served a hot meal and a smile every morning for breakfast. She was even polite and patient with the ornery, suck-up-of-a-neighbor kid, Eddy Haskell.

It’s hard to not feel like a failure of a modern mom compared to June. I realize that June Cleaver was a fictitious character, but she set a standard for me all the same. I grew up admiring her, but once I became a wife and mother myself, I realized how hard it was to emulate her.

Through careful analysis and contemplation I realized that June didn’t have any abilities or characteristics that I didn’t have. But, there was one very important detail I was missing. The one thing she was rarely seen without. The secret weapon that made her the mother of all TV mothers:

They Lied

Antonia, my oldest, was a born nervous wreck. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said that she’d been sharing womb space with Marilyn Manson for nine months. Traumatized is the only word I can use to describe her little facial expressions and her glass-shattering vocal pitch for the first year of her life. I do realize that newborns are supposed to cry. Some even have a condition commonly referred to as colic. But this was… different. Antonia seemed genetically-inclined to be disturbed by things like sunlight, water, nutrition, voices that didn’t belong to her mother, shiny things, furry things, socks, music, kisses, touching in general, and the concept of SLEEP, for crying out loud… I say this because she cried out loud. For YEARS UPON YEARS, she cried out loud.

When she was two months old, I decided to quit my job because I was afraid that day care people would surely throw her out with the dirty diapers just from sheer delirium. I thought, ONLY the person who gave birth to this thing can dig their claws into the cliff of sanity and keep from descending into prison. Alls I can say is THANK GOD I had that innate love thing going on. Otherwise, who knows.

A Love Letter to the Rockies

Dearest Rockies, [photopress:Rockies.jpg,thumb,pp_image]

This letter is actually on behalf of my husband, Jamie. He has been a devout follower since your amazing winning streak (I believe the correct term for him is “fair-weather fan.”) Regardless, he is committed to your cause and can be seen wandering around with bloodshot eyes after particularly late nights out on the town with you.

I admittedly am not much of a baseball connoisseur (due to the inordinate amount of pucks I took to the face whilst growing up in Canada) but I would love nothing better than for you to win the World Series. I have even been to a few of your games. Of course, I was usually lucky enough to be in a suite with oodles of food, Internet access and television so I can’t really confirm if you were even playing.

There was also the time we were given seats directly behind home plate and indulged in the gourmet fare at the secret restaurant in the secret tunnel. When we returned to watch the game, we were presented with an extensive menu and informed we could order anything off of it…for free. I can’t remember but I think you won. I know I did.