Today, I think I'll try something new and share some words of wisdom that I have learned, living these last few years on a tight budget. Before I quit working, we lived in a name brand world. When we started living on one income and the boys' medical bills began pouring in, we learned that we needed to make some changes. In order to adapt to our new frugal lifestyle, we began experimenting with generic products. We quickly learned that while there are some things that are worth the savings, there are other things that are definitely NOT worth the sacrifice. There are good generic products, and bad generic products. Please, use my knowledge, based on years of trial and error, and save yourself some trouble, in case you ever find yourself in the riches to rags situation, as we did.
THE BEST:
1. Instant Oatmeal: I don't eat oatmeal, but my kids love it. What's even better is that they prefer the generic brands. I haven't figured out the reason, but they really don't like Quaker Oats Instant Oatmeal. Considering that the price difference between generic oatmeal and Quaker oatmeal is over $2.00 a box, I'm not complaining.
2. Contact Solution: My husband and I both wear contacts. Once we discovered that a DOUBLE pack of Equate Multipurpose Solution is less than one box of B & L Multipurpose Solution, we have never looked back. My optometrist told me that B & L is better for your eyes, but I think she's on their payroll.
3. Cleaning Products: As Clint Eastwood said in Million Dollar Baby, "Bleach is bleach." And I don't know anyone who wants to argue with Clint Eastwood.
4. Candles: Ya'll can keep your Yankee Candles. Dollar Store candles mask the smell of baby poop as well as anything. I don't need to spend $30.00 to make my house smell like Sugar Cookies. I can do that by baking a batch for a couple of dollars.
5. Chili: You have heard it here first - GREAT VALUE (Walmart) CHILI WITH NO BEANS = BEST CHILI EVER!! I am not kidding.... spread this heavenly goodness over your hot dog, and your taste buds will thank me. I've served this at countless cookouts and my guests always beg me for the recipe. You can even mix it will melted cheese, for an amazing nacho dip. At $1.07 a can, it's as much a treat to your wallet as it is to your belly!!
THE WORST:
1. Cereal: Generic cereal is just plain awful. If you are unable to afford name brand cereal, perhaps instead of spending money on generic, you could go out to the street, gather some gravel, roll it in sugar, and pour some milk over it. The taste and texture would be about the same. Budget or not, we buy Honeycombs and Cheerios. Sure, the cost is a bit extravagant, but we feel we are saving money by not having to pay dental bills for cracked or broken teeth.
2. Cotton Swabs: If you have never cleaned your ears with generic cotton swabs, I DO NOT recommend trying them. In addition to only a thin layer of cotton protecting your tympanic membrane from the plastic stick, you risk causing permanent damage while using tweezers to remove the remnants of cotton left behind in your ear canal. If you value your hearing, trust me... Q-tips or nothing!
3. Soda: I hate any form of generic "cola." There is no substitute for Coke or Pepsi. Period.
4. Toilet Paper: Using generic toilet paper is like using 20 grit sandpaper on your most sensitive of areas. I have given birth to two children and have had hernia surgery in the last four years. I have enough trouble using the bathroom. I would face a foreclosure of my home before I'd give up my Quilted Northern.
5. Toothpaste: I'm not saying that generic toothpaste doesn't work, but it tastes like a mouthful of baking soda. If Crest or Aquafresh is not in your budget, you would be better off really saving money and using, well, a mouthful of baking soda.
There you have it. A guide to the best and worst generic products. You might agree or disagree, but these are the basic guidelines we follow at the grocery store. I could elaborate further, but it's time for lunch. And for some reason, I am really in the mood for a chili dog.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
This little light of mine...
Sometimes, all we need is something small to remind us that we are not alone. Sometimes, the tiniest thing can serve as a sign that everything will be okay. And sometimes, you can find all that you need in own your backyard.
Last summer, the boys had orchiopexy surgery at the same time. As usual, the simple procedure required an overnight stay at Johns Hopkins to receive IV medicine that helps their blood to clot. Henry went through surgery and recovery with flying colors. Jackson did not fare so well. He was three at the time and did not like the hospital experience. He hated the IV and the fact that he couldn't get out of the hospital bed, and he just wanted to go home. The next day, when we brought the boys home, my mom came over to give us a hand. (For the record, I do not recommend having your one and three year olds go through surgery at the same time - it's exhausting!)
Within an hour of arriving home, Jackson started vomiting. A call to the pediatrician confirmed that Jackson's anxiety triggered Cyclic Vomiting had returned. The doctor told us to give him Pedialyte, and try to get his spirits up. We tried everything to make him happy and nothing worked. He was weak, lethargic, and vomiting every half hour. We were all very frustrated, over whelmed, and felt as though we were out of options. I had almost reached my breaking point. After eight hours, we decided that we should probably head to an ER, because dehydration seemed inevitable. At that point, he couldn't even walk himself to the bathroom. My mom went outside to get some fresh air and immediately ran back inside the house. She yelled for us to come outside and to bring Jackson. Michael carried out pale, practically lifeless, little boy to the backyard and what we saw took our breath away.
Our yard was filled with lightning bugs (fireflies, to Yankees). Actually, "filled" doesn't do it justice. It was as if there was a lightning bug resting on each blade of grass in our lawn. Our tiny yard had more blinking lights than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It was one of the most beautiful sights that I have ever seen.
I should mention that lightning bugs are Jackson's favorite. He watched the extraordinary light show that nature was putting on behind our house, for a few minutes. Then, he slowly slid out of Michael's arms and began running to them. As he ran, those beautiful blinking creatures swarmed his body and circled his head like a halo. It wasn't long before the glowing vision was accompanied by the equally gorgeous melody of Jackson's giggles. As he danced among the lightning bugs, we began to see his spirit renewed. When he grew tired, he ran over to me and said the words that I had longed to hear all day:
"Mommy, I'm hungry."
That was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. To my mom, my husband, and I, it was something that we shared that can never be duplicated. It was an isolated moment of divine intervention, that will remain with me forever. Sometimes, I need to remind myself of that night... of a time when I felt so helpless and something so simple, brought me so much peace. I have always been spiritual and I try to never doubt my faith. Witnessing an obvious sign from above made me reflect the simple things and how grateful I am to have so much faith and love in my life.
Spring is once again upon us. The other night, I happened to see three or four flickering lights buzzing around my front door. And with each flash, I said a silent prayer of thanks.
"If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because, if it isn't there, then I never really lost it to begin with."
- Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz
Last summer, the boys had orchiopexy surgery at the same time. As usual, the simple procedure required an overnight stay at Johns Hopkins to receive IV medicine that helps their blood to clot. Henry went through surgery and recovery with flying colors. Jackson did not fare so well. He was three at the time and did not like the hospital experience. He hated the IV and the fact that he couldn't get out of the hospital bed, and he just wanted to go home. The next day, when we brought the boys home, my mom came over to give us a hand. (For the record, I do not recommend having your one and three year olds go through surgery at the same time - it's exhausting!)
Within an hour of arriving home, Jackson started vomiting. A call to the pediatrician confirmed that Jackson's anxiety triggered Cyclic Vomiting had returned. The doctor told us to give him Pedialyte, and try to get his spirits up. We tried everything to make him happy and nothing worked. He was weak, lethargic, and vomiting every half hour. We were all very frustrated, over whelmed, and felt as though we were out of options. I had almost reached my breaking point. After eight hours, we decided that we should probably head to an ER, because dehydration seemed inevitable. At that point, he couldn't even walk himself to the bathroom. My mom went outside to get some fresh air and immediately ran back inside the house. She yelled for us to come outside and to bring Jackson. Michael carried out pale, practically lifeless, little boy to the backyard and what we saw took our breath away.
Our yard was filled with lightning bugs (fireflies, to Yankees). Actually, "filled" doesn't do it justice. It was as if there was a lightning bug resting on each blade of grass in our lawn. Our tiny yard had more blinking lights than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It was one of the most beautiful sights that I have ever seen.
I should mention that lightning bugs are Jackson's favorite. He watched the extraordinary light show that nature was putting on behind our house, for a few minutes. Then, he slowly slid out of Michael's arms and began running to them. As he ran, those beautiful blinking creatures swarmed his body and circled his head like a halo. It wasn't long before the glowing vision was accompanied by the equally gorgeous melody of Jackson's giggles. As he danced among the lightning bugs, we began to see his spirit renewed. When he grew tired, he ran over to me and said the words that I had longed to hear all day:
"Mommy, I'm hungry."
That was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. To my mom, my husband, and I, it was something that we shared that can never be duplicated. It was an isolated moment of divine intervention, that will remain with me forever. Sometimes, I need to remind myself of that night... of a time when I felt so helpless and something so simple, brought me so much peace. I have always been spiritual and I try to never doubt my faith. Witnessing an obvious sign from above made me reflect the simple things and how grateful I am to have so much faith and love in my life.
Spring is once again upon us. The other night, I happened to see three or four flickering lights buzzing around my front door. And with each flash, I said a silent prayer of thanks.
"If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because, if it isn't there, then I never really lost it to begin with."
- Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Nothing wrong with a little competition...
My parents always taught me to not be a sore loser. The way that they instilled this lesson was to teach me to always try to win... always. I come from a very competitive family and we love to win. This has turned me into what my husband calls "a sore winner." I not only love to win, but I enjoy winning LOUDLY. I've been losing friends playing board games, since I was five years old. I'm frequently accused of "taunting" and "being obnoxious."
But, like I always say, if you don't like to lose, you probably shouldn't play games against me.
All of this stems from my mom and dad teaching me from an early age how to lose. My dad never threw a game of Candyland in my favor. But I learned to try. Playing catch for the first time with a real baseball when I was seven, resulted in the only black eye I have ever had. But I learned to keep my glove up when Dad threw his fastball. My youth group had a "Mother's Night" when I was a teenager. We played an ice-breaker game called, "Birdie on a Perch" ("Musical Chairs" with people). My own mom knocked me to the floor to reach her partner first. But I learned to not let ANYONE get in my way. : )
I should clarify that I am by no means an athlete. I am not the best at sports. (Except Wiffle Ball - I will beat you down at Wiffle Ball!) That doesn't mean that I don't play, when given the chance. That doesn't mean that I don't try my best. And that doesn't mean that I don't exhaust all efforts necessary to win, despite my lack of ability. It's not that I think winning is super important. I just like the feeling that I get when I win. It feels good... it feels really good.
This is why I have such a problem with children's sports. In our area, youth soccer and little league teams don't keep score. That doesn't even make sense to me. Why play a game if there's no winner at the end? What is that teaching our children? I can tell you what it's NOT teaching them. It's not teaching them to try their best to achieve a goal. It's not teaching them sportsmanship, because they never have to congratulate or feel empathy for the other team. Most importantly, it's not teaching them how to lose.
As I said, I am not a sore loser. I know this because I have lost many times. I don't like to lose, which is why I try so hard to win. Our children need to be taught how to lose. A child who thinks he can never lose develops a false sense of entitlement. They don't have the desire achieve, because there's no reason for it. I can't help but think that there is a direct correlation between Generation Y's "slacker" reputation and the fact that competition (and, therefore, ambition) is no longer taught. Winning isn't everything, but the truth is that life is one big competition. Not everyone gets into college. Not everyone gets the promotion at work. Not everyone can run the beer pong table, winning every game for four hours straight, the first time she ever plays. *clears throat arrogantly*
In our house, we thrive on competition. We keep a tally of who guesses correctly during the "Head, Gut, or Groin" segment of "America's Funniest Videos." Jackson does a victory dance when he beats his dad and I at Yahtzee (fair and square, I might add). My husband and I throw elbows to get to the sink, first, to brush our teeth at bedtime. My boys will need ambition as they get older. Being different, they will have to deal with bullies. Being small, they will have to struggle to be heard. Being sickly, they will have to fight for their health. It is my job to teach them to compete, to teach them to reach for their goals, and to teach them to get back up and to try again. They will be a force to be reckoned with.
The other night, Henry, my two year old, was randomly pushing buttons on his brother's Nintendo DS. The battery died and the screen went black. Henry raised his fist triumphantly, smiled, and shouted, "I win!!"
I was so proud.
But, like I always say, if you don't like to lose, you probably shouldn't play games against me.
All of this stems from my mom and dad teaching me from an early age how to lose. My dad never threw a game of Candyland in my favor. But I learned to try. Playing catch for the first time with a real baseball when I was seven, resulted in the only black eye I have ever had. But I learned to keep my glove up when Dad threw his fastball. My youth group had a "Mother's Night" when I was a teenager. We played an ice-breaker game called, "Birdie on a Perch" ("Musical Chairs" with people). My own mom knocked me to the floor to reach her partner first. But I learned to not let ANYONE get in my way. : )
I should clarify that I am by no means an athlete. I am not the best at sports. (Except Wiffle Ball - I will beat you down at Wiffle Ball!) That doesn't mean that I don't play, when given the chance. That doesn't mean that I don't try my best. And that doesn't mean that I don't exhaust all efforts necessary to win, despite my lack of ability. It's not that I think winning is super important. I just like the feeling that I get when I win. It feels good... it feels really good.
This is why I have such a problem with children's sports. In our area, youth soccer and little league teams don't keep score. That doesn't even make sense to me. Why play a game if there's no winner at the end? What is that teaching our children? I can tell you what it's NOT teaching them. It's not teaching them to try their best to achieve a goal. It's not teaching them sportsmanship, because they never have to congratulate or feel empathy for the other team. Most importantly, it's not teaching them how to lose.
As I said, I am not a sore loser. I know this because I have lost many times. I don't like to lose, which is why I try so hard to win. Our children need to be taught how to lose. A child who thinks he can never lose develops a false sense of entitlement. They don't have the desire achieve, because there's no reason for it. I can't help but think that there is a direct correlation between Generation Y's "slacker" reputation and the fact that competition (and, therefore, ambition) is no longer taught. Winning isn't everything, but the truth is that life is one big competition. Not everyone gets into college. Not everyone gets the promotion at work. Not everyone can run the beer pong table, winning every game for four hours straight, the first time she ever plays. *clears throat arrogantly*
In our house, we thrive on competition. We keep a tally of who guesses correctly during the "Head, Gut, or Groin" segment of "America's Funniest Videos." Jackson does a victory dance when he beats his dad and I at Yahtzee (fair and square, I might add). My husband and I throw elbows to get to the sink, first, to brush our teeth at bedtime. My boys will need ambition as they get older. Being different, they will have to deal with bullies. Being small, they will have to struggle to be heard. Being sickly, they will have to fight for their health. It is my job to teach them to compete, to teach them to reach for their goals, and to teach them to get back up and to try again. They will be a force to be reckoned with.
The other night, Henry, my two year old, was randomly pushing buttons on his brother's Nintendo DS. The battery died and the screen went black. Henry raised his fist triumphantly, smiled, and shouted, "I win!!"
I was so proud.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Just like Mommy...
As the mother of little boys, modesty and privacy are two things that I rarely experience. If I take my chance to enter the bathroom, alone, it's not long before four little sets of fingers begin reaching through the gap at the bottom of the door.
"Mommy, what are you doing?"
"I'm thirsty."
"Are you pooping?"
"Can I have a cookie?"
"Are you almost done?"
My quiet time finally comes when my husband gets home. While he occupies the kids, I take my nightly bubble bath. I soak in the hot water with a washcloth over my face and I forget that there is anyone else in the world.
For a few minutes, at least.
During one of my bubble baths, Jackson tapped impatiently on the door.
"Mommy, I have to go to the potty."
Oh well, I was about to get out anyway. I pulled the plug, wrapped a towel around myself, and opened the door. Jackson sat on the potty doing his business while I tried to discreetly get dressed. Jack sighed, dreamily.
"Mommy, I can't wait until I grow up and get big boobs, like yours."
I stifled a giggle and told him that I am girl and he is a boy. Girls get boobs; boys don't.
He was not convinced.
"Well, Daddy's a boy and he has boobs."
This time, I giggled out loud.
"Oh, Jack, he does not."
"Yes, he does," he replied. "I've seen him get out of the shower. He's really got boobs."
I took great pleasure in relaying the story to Michael, who was not amused and fiercely defended his man boobs.
"It's muscle," he insisted.
Again, I stifled a giggle.
When I was young, I dreamed of having little girls. Little girls who would want to be like me and play Barbies, wear makeup, and let me curl their hair. I grew up to have little boys, who wrestle, put worms in their pockets, and..... want boobs like mine.
Henry got into the boys' art kit, the other day, and strategically blotted a stamp on each of his cheeks. "Mack-ut!" he proudly proclaimed. (translation: "Make-up!")
I spend a lot of time with my boys, so it's no wonder that they want to be like me. I know it won't last long. Someday, I will be begging them to spend time with me, instead of begging for privacy.
It's only a matter of time before they want to be like their dad and they won't need me anymore. There is a special bond between fathers and sons, one that is similar to the bond between mothers and daughters... one that I will never get to experience with my children. My husband will get to do the important things with our boys. He'll get to teach them how to shave, how to tie a tie, how to pick up girls, how to work on their pecs....
Okay, nevermind... maybe they'll still need me, a little.
"Mommy, what are you doing?"
"I'm thirsty."
"Are you pooping?"
"Can I have a cookie?"
"Are you almost done?"
My quiet time finally comes when my husband gets home. While he occupies the kids, I take my nightly bubble bath. I soak in the hot water with a washcloth over my face and I forget that there is anyone else in the world.
For a few minutes, at least.
During one of my bubble baths, Jackson tapped impatiently on the door.
"Mommy, I have to go to the potty."
Oh well, I was about to get out anyway. I pulled the plug, wrapped a towel around myself, and opened the door. Jackson sat on the potty doing his business while I tried to discreetly get dressed. Jack sighed, dreamily.
"Mommy, I can't wait until I grow up and get big boobs, like yours."
I stifled a giggle and told him that I am girl and he is a boy. Girls get boobs; boys don't.
He was not convinced.
"Well, Daddy's a boy and he has boobs."
This time, I giggled out loud.
"Oh, Jack, he does not."
"Yes, he does," he replied. "I've seen him get out of the shower. He's really got boobs."
I took great pleasure in relaying the story to Michael, who was not amused and fiercely defended his man boobs.
"It's muscle," he insisted.
Again, I stifled a giggle.
When I was young, I dreamed of having little girls. Little girls who would want to be like me and play Barbies, wear makeup, and let me curl their hair. I grew up to have little boys, who wrestle, put worms in their pockets, and..... want boobs like mine.
Henry got into the boys' art kit, the other day, and strategically blotted a stamp on each of his cheeks. "Mack-ut!" he proudly proclaimed. (translation: "Make-up!")
I spend a lot of time with my boys, so it's no wonder that they want to be like me. I know it won't last long. Someday, I will be begging them to spend time with me, instead of begging for privacy.
It's only a matter of time before they want to be like their dad and they won't need me anymore. There is a special bond between fathers and sons, one that is similar to the bond between mothers and daughters... one that I will never get to experience with my children. My husband will get to do the important things with our boys. He'll get to teach them how to shave, how to tie a tie, how to pick up girls, how to work on their pecs....
Okay, nevermind... maybe they'll still need me, a little.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)