Best Mom Tip #79: Get a good washing machine

Depressing though this is, I am happy about my new washer and dryer. Yeah, they're blue. And the washer is front-loading.

Granted, the drip pan was bolted to the floor by the previous owner of our house so the installers had to just put the new washer in the same place as the old one. The bi-fold doors on the laundry closet-thing take up too much of the door frame when they're open, so our front-loader can't open if the bi-fold doors are open. So, if you come to my house, you can see the new appliances because there aren't any doors at all right now.

Actually, I think you may be able to see them through the 2nd story picture window if you stand at just the right angle in the cul-de-sac.

But even with their new prominence in our decor, I am still happy. Largely because my day involves things like my daughter landing butt-first in a bowl of chili. That's right. Her behind. In a bowl of chili. This is why I need a really good washing machine. She somehow mananged to flip over the back of the sofa and catapult herself onto the coffee table during our playroom picnic time. She was actually sitting upright in her bowl of chili on the coffee table.

The new washer got that chili out of the seat of her footy pajamas in no time. And it didn't sound like the washer was trying to escape our house--which was a problem with the old one.

So, I am pleased with appliances. I think I'll go get in my minivan and buy a new blouse at Ann Taylor to celebrate.

Best Mom Tip #78: Wait for Tuesday

To be upfront, I feel I should tell you that this post is really complain-y. I will be whining a lot. I blame that on pregnancy hormones. And also my penchant for whining.

Right now, I just look fat, not pregnant. I also am growing out my hair and I am in an awkward phase that looks like a cross between the Dorothy Hamill haircut of the 70s and that episode of Friends when Phoebe gives Monica a haircut like Dudley Moore instead of Demi Moore. The maternity tops that have been loaned to me aren't quite filled out by my belly and my pants either fall off or won't button. I just don't feel good in ill-fitting clothes.

My ipod got washed in the washing machine and I didn't get a chance to work out today. Those two things are loosely related, but I will spare the details to protect the innocent.

I haven't gotten to spend much time with Jay lately that didn't involve us talking about tasks.

"Have you packed the kids' bags? Has the baby had his medicine? Are the sheets dry yet so I can go to bed? Do you think the tax return looks right? How long has that water spot on the ceiling been there--isn't that under the kids' bathroom? What do we need at the grocery? Any ideas on how to make that stupid drawer front in the kitchen stop falling off? Can you do the dentist this week if I do the checkup next week?

None of these topics are very romantic. And none of them encourage loving conversation. Actually, they tend to encourage accusations, frustration, and exasperation.

I need a vacation.

One where looking like you've dressed with clothing exclusively gleaned from your grandmother's closet is considered the height of fashion.