For the last thirty months or so I have lovingly referred to Feenie my-awesomely-animated-third-child simply as The Toddler here on my blog and in real life.  I've greeted my husband, upon his arrival at home each night, with the "you'll never believe what The Toddler did today" at least eight hundred and twenty-five times during those months.  Jeff, an only child, upon that greeting usually glanced around the house making sure the four walls around him were still in tact before letting out a sigh of relief.  "What didn't the Hurricane Feenie do today?"

The bio on my front page reads "happily married mother to 3 Cleveland natives: Jay the son, Lola the daughter, and Fifi the toddler."  And just above that, it states "a self proclaimed globe trotting, minivan driving, SAHM stiletto ho."

Feenie is no longer a toddler and I no longer drive a minivan.  All other descriptions still apply.  Can you guess which one of those changes makes me weep?

Clue:  I don't miss the minivan. At. All. And can't get used to describing her a preschooler. Oh my gosh, she's a preschooler.  Waaaa......

The other night on Twitter (after entertaining good friends and their kids at an impromptu "let's clean out the fridge" themed backyard bbq) I asked online peeps how often they had get-togethers at their own homes.  I was surprised to learn that I was a hosting whore and not everybody had company over allthetime.  I love to host any chance I get (like "let's clean out the fridge" par-tay).  Not that you asked for my opinion, but I will tell you it anyways... entertaining friends at night with or without kids is not only all kinds of awesome for the adults but also a valuable teaching lesson for children.   The lessons taught are endless but my most favorite one is "treat friends like you would want to be treated and they will come."

Which brings me to....

....  a re-cap of this years Emmy's party sponsored by Suave. Last's year is here.  This year my camera flash ran out of batteries and I resorted to using the one attached to the camera.  Blah. Can you see the difference?  Also, and moreso, apparently I chop off my hair at the end of the summer.  The smile is the same, "so happy to have friends over!"

Food from Maggiano's that not only delivered to my house but also took over the setting-up process with help from my ambitious blogging assistants, all being over seen by Julie the head of Beachwood's Maggiano catering was life saving. Julie had the patience to answer every single question my kids had.  Brava.   (Note: Suave gave me a food stipend but I can't help by telling you how freaking awesome the catering department of Maggiano was and that each one of my guests had second helpings.)

The ladies of Salon Blu in Mayfield Village gave red carpet worthy up-dos while we watched the Emmys.  And fancy manicures on the side.  Every guest left with new ways to style their hair using Suave products.

Local Cleveland bloggers in attendance: www.alllacqueredup.com, www.domesticextraordinaire.com, http://blog.iheartcleveland.com, http://mymanagedchaos.blogspot.com and www.kakakakaty.com.

Thanks to #SuaveBeauty for treating Cleveland area bloggers and local Classy Chaos commenters to an awesome night of great food, fun up-dos and great products.  We had a blast!

Usually, after one of these "sponsored" blog posts my bestest friend in the world in Chicago will call me on the next day and ask, "Do I really need that product? Is it as good as you say?"   From one girlfriend to another:  the Rosemary & Mint shampoo from Suave is just like the fancy Aveda version I have been religiously buying since 1999.  Pinky swear. No heavy build-up and the same amazing smell.  I am really bad at lying.

Disclosure:  Suave paid for the food and the salon services and provided products for each guest.  All opinions are my own.

This week eighty-six-year-old Apolonia was driven down to the immigration office in Chicago, by her daughter.   Apolonia spent the greater part of her morning choosing dresses for the field-trip into the big city.  Driving through the streets of Chicago she wondered why on earth people needed such large buildings that scrapped the heavenly skies.  At the office, a Polish translator was on hand to ask Apolonia a series of questions regarding her green card application.  She answered each question without missing a beat.  I don't even know if this is legal to post.  Heh.  We shall find out. It's based on the word of mouth anyways. I can see the headlines already "86 year old great-grandmother from Poland DENIED green card based on a mommy blog." Here's a sampling of the interview because in all honestly I want my children to remember her (based on her observations):

Interviewer:  Have you ever been active in the army?

Pola:  No, I was far too busy being a hard working seamstress and raising my four lovely children.

Interviewer:  Have you ever been involved with any terrorist groups?

Pola:  No, I was a housewife my entire life.  I had a good husband named Stanislaw and he treated me well.

Interviewer:  I can tell he treated you well. You are lovely.

Pola:  Phsaw.

Interviewer:  Have you ever been a criminal?

Pola:  No, no, oh Jesus Mary Joseph no. I was a housewife.  A wife of the house and not a criminal.

Interviewer:  What year was your daughter born in?

Pola:  1923? 1938?  I'm getting old and my memories fade. Your memories will fade too, young man.  (My mother, her daughter, was born in 1954)

Apolonia's three daughters, three son-in-laws, seven grandchildren and three great-children are anxiously awaiting to see the status of her green card.  Don't report her because we've really gotten used to her.

Apolonia in America with my three kiddos.

The older two kiddos are in elementary school full time and now the three-year-old is awaiting her first day by asking every six-point-three minutes throughout the day, "when I go to mine pa-we ska-ool?"  Coincidentally I get asked "what are you going to do with all that time alone when everyone is in school?" at least six-point-three times each day by family, friends and complete strangers.  My husband, always on the cutting edge, asks "are you gonna get a job?"

First on my child-free agenda is visiting the potty without an audience and maybe adapting "rest-room" to my vocabulary like the majority of civilized Americans.  Later followed by actually chewing my lunch.  While sitting down.  I might end the morning by driving my completely silent car (which is no longer a minivan thankyouverymuch) to no place in particular just for giggles.  Insert jazz hands here. I have grand plans for the first day "with all that time alone."

And even greater plans for those days that follow.

From updating family photo albums seeing that the last one was printed in two thousand of oh seven to changing the face of downtown Cleveland with Amelia.  Super secret idea we stumbled upon on our eight-hour roadtrip to the Waldorf Astoria last month for BlogHer10. In between those two enormous life changing projects I am going to publish a children's book.  I am.  I will.  Because it sounds way more interesting then finally tackling the organization of my linen closet.  Or the basement play room.  Or the garage.  Insert first-world panic attack here.

Here's where you (crossing my fingers) might come into play.  I need an artist to draw simple illustrations.  Preferably someone like me who is a passionate parent in need of a project, who wants to be recognized and leave their fingerprints for future generations to see.  I am desperately seeking a talented artist that is able to work fast under an impending deadline.  Like whipping out twenty drawings this upcoming week of a deadline. I like simple colored pencil kind-of-like-children-looking drawings.  Although, if your fingers work best with oil paints then bring it on.   Since I am on a shopping diet I can offer a negotiable stipend but the notoriety that comes with a published book that will be well distributed (email me for secret details - you will not be disappointed) is for sure priceless.  I hope to begin a partnership for more ideas that I have. Ideas that are currently taking up most of the  "must organize kitchen junk drawers"  sections in my head.  Send all serious inquires to classychaos at gmail dot com immediately.  Like right now.

The problem with having a child who saves every nickle and dime is that they often make grandioso purchases such as concrete garden statues or inflatable water slides that require a third car garage just to store or living animals that survive on crickets gone wild. One would hope that the mother of said child would finally grow a backbone somewhere on the journey.

In the meantime.  The money-saving child's latest purchase:

No.  He didn't fund a new science room at the elementary school.

Through private birthday donations, he recently expanded his room to include a new reptile nook located beside the amphibian display.  He introduced "Froggie" to "Rex" the Australian Bearded Dragon that feasts on collared greens and crickets and needs a minimum of twelve hours in 80-110 degrees dry weather.

"This is the best day ever, Mama. I can't stop smiling!"

But really, how can you blame me for being so spineless after seeing the sheer delight in his eyes?   Besides.  Crickets are still ions cheaper then frilly bows, sparkly nail polish and fancy tights that his sisters "need" to survive.

A year after getting married, my husband and I started to practice the idea of "settling down."  We purchased a teeny tiny bungalow from a sheriff's auction in South Euclid and painted the front door a vibrant red. We played house all spring remodeling every nook and when summer arrived we asked each other, "What's next?"

"Do you want to have kids?"

"Not yet."

"Do you want to travel?"

"We are house poor."

We had just purchased our first home together and were not ready to fill it with children.  So my dog loving husband convinced me (the-not-so-much-an-animal-lover-at-all) that the first step in filling our new home should be with the purchase of a dog.

"Let's get a dog. Okay?"

"Ewww.  A dog?  But, they drool."

I have always disliked dogs, often asking people to lock their own dogs up before I entered their homes.  However, I found myself a year after marriage apprehensively welcoming Murphy into our starter home.  We were DINKs with a dachshund.  People flocked towards us on walks with Murphy in downtown Cleveland.  We dined late on Saturdays with him asleep at our feet and woke up even later on Sunday mornings with Murphy wagging his tail. Then came Jay. Shortly thereafter, Lola followed. And suddenly, Murphy was no longer the king of the castle. I never cared for Murphy as much as my husband did and Murphy kept moving down the totem pole with each child.  Until Feenie, the third child, arrived.

Murphy slept beside Feenie's bassinet, rocker, car seat and every other baby device from the first day she came home.  Perhaps I never realized him doing the same with the other two as they were born so close together and I was often too frazzled to notice.  But I did witness Murphy yelping under Feenie's bassinet one night.  It was the night that I obsereved my one-week-old-baby having seizures that landed us in the hospital for a week.  The worst week of my life.  Side note: my MIL isn't doing so well and is refusing any condolences at the hospital where she will be for one week as the cancer has filled her bones and she awaits her hip replacement. I hated telling my family that my week stay at the hospital with a newborn was only routine and I confidently refused any sentiments.  One of the biggest regrets in my life was not crying out for help that week.  I still have nightmares feeling so alone w/o any support.  I plan on cooking a lot of foods this week for her and visiting. If you are family/friends reading this now and you know our last name...  she's staying at the Cleveland Clinic on Wednesday for a week.  I beg you to send a card.  Or something.

The point is that Feenie and Murphy have a super duper special relationship that warms my non-dog-loving heart.  This video makes me laugh out loud and this photo makes my heart smile.  I wish I had adequate MIL footage but she refuses to be documented while sick.  Murphy, the dog has no say, is sick. His back is out again for the second time in his ten years. He's curled himself in a ball.  And all the naked Barbies in the world will not perk anyone up, much to Feenie's dismay.

It's the first time in my motherhood that I've had to explain real pain to my children.  And.  It cussing sucks.

The pain that their beloved grandmother feels battling cancer every single day and the stupid dog that I hate saying I have feelings for, I hate it all.  Explaining to a three-year-old that the two most important influences in her life are in pain just sucks.