P-town

I grew up in P-town. That's not it's real name, of course, but that's what I call it. It's a very small town in northeast Oklahoma. For me, there's no other place like it. As I sit down to write this, I am absolutely overwhelmed by all of the thoughts and feelings that came rushing into my mind. I honestly don't even know where to begin. I had no idea how much a part of me this crazy place really was until I started to try to explain it to those of you who haven't been there. I can tell that this will not be my only post about P-town. I would venture to guess that it's exactly like every other small town in rural Oklahoma. The names and faces change, but the overall experience is the same. For those of you who don't have this experience, I will try to break it down for you in as few words as possible.
P-town is backroading and beer drinking. It's knowing everybody and their business, and seeing someone you know everywhere you go. It's walking to school and going home for lunch every day. It's wearing your cheerleading uniform to school on Football Fridays and finding someone old enough to buy you beer after the game. Or homecoming ceremonies that rival Princess Di's wedding. It's scheduling a party at the Third Pole: (literally the third telephone pole on a backroad). Playing Kick-the-Can and other night games until your parents shouted out the front door (even if you weren't in the yard, you heard them) to come in. It's getting on your bike after school and being free until dinnertime, when your whole family sat down together to a home cooked meal. It's having the football team (Dad was the head coach) over for cookies and film-watching on Thursday nights. Indian dances and Penquin Hell-Week in the summer. Being outside all day long, never checking in with your mom once and still, she knew you were safe. Riding in the back of your dad's pickup. Going fishing. Building a bonfire out in a pasture and sitting on haybales (again, drinking beer...see a pattern?) with your friends. Sleeping on the trampoline in the backyard or toilet papering the neighborhood. It's gossip and backstabbing and rumors until you think you can't stand it anymore. It's wanting out so badly you can taste it, but then moving away and telling your friends about it as if it's the greatest place on earth.
Now I have kids and although I don't think I could live there anymore, I am so glad I get to give them a taste of this life. It's so different from the way they are growing up. They love the freedom and laid-backness (is that a word?) of it all. We are going to visit today and I don't know who is more excited...the kids or me. I love watching them experience a little bit of my childhood. It's even better the second time around.

Diary of a Bad Mommy (Volume 2)

Sometimes I'm a bad mommy without meaning to be. Well, I guess none of us are bad mommies on purpose. What I mean, is, that some days, I'm doing everything right and yet, I still wind up feeling like a bad mommy.
For instance, Monday I was working on some painting. I usually feel a bit guilty when I paint all day, so I let my kids do lots of fun stuff to make up for the fact that I'm basically ignoring them. So, I let the girls paint while I worked. Making a mess makes them happy. (And I consider myself a good mom if I let them make a mess like this one without complaining.)









As for Rhett, he's happy if he can see me. So I put him in his Bumbo seat right next to me on the table and all was well. Or so I thought. For just a second, the girls needed me to switch out their water, or brushes or paint. It would only take me a second, so I left Rhett where he was, because he was happy and safe. Those Bumbo seats are really sturdy and I knew he wasn't going anywhere. And he didn't.

But as I returned to my spot at the table, I noticed something strange. Something was on his face. And his hands. And his onesie.
What is that? Is that.....blood???? Oh my God, how is he bleeding?


It took me less than a second to look over his entire body and realize the source of the bleeding was his little hand. But how? What in the world could have jumped up and cut my baby boy's chubby little hand in the two minutes I was with the girls less than 10 feet away?



Anyone want to guess? Anyone?
Give up? Ok, I'll show you.










Did any of you guess a diet Coke can? If you did, then you are a much smarter person than I. While I would never purposely hand my child an aluminum can, it never crossed my mind that a baby can somehow wave his hands in exactly the right direction so as to not only dip his teeny tiny fingers directly into a can but scrape said fingers directly on the edge of the can, making a cut that bled profusely for about 15 minutes.
Sheesh...if this is what happens on a good day around here, then God help my poor children when I'm having a bad one.

Comic Relief

Is there anything worse than hearing that something isn't quite right with your child? Even if you have known in the pit of your stomach, that something is wrong, is there anything worse than finally hearing it? In as much time as it takes for a doctor to say "Hmmm, how long have you noticed this?", your cloud of blissful denial shatters and you are forced to acknowledge your perfect, precious baby's obvious-to-everyone-else flaw. The thing you knew wasn't right, but that you chose to view as a cute characteristic. The thing you felt in your heart might be a big deal, but outwardly acted as if you weren't worried in the least.
My reality hit last week. My little boy has ptosis in his right eye. This basically means his eye doesn't open all the way. Sometimes he looks a little stoned in one eye, sometimes he looks like he's winking at you. When he grins really big, it closes all the way and I think it's just about the cutest thing I've ever seen. He didn't open his eye for a whole day when he was born, but the pediatrician at the hospital said he was fine. Mommy Instinct told me he was wrong, but it was easier and more comforting to believe him. People have asked why he had a lazy eye or if I had had that checked. I always responded with "Oh, the doctor said it was no big deal." Because I knew it wasn't ok, I didn't ask his regular pediatrician about it at his 2 week or 2 month checkups. I told myself that, if it's a big deal, his doctor will mention it. He never did. Until last week. His 4-month-checkup was last Tuesday and we were about 5 minutes into it when his doctor looked at him and stopped. "Has his right eye always been like that?" Yes. "Have we discussed it?" Well, either you or the pediatrician at the hospital said it was no big deal. "That wasn't me. I never would have said that." Oh no. What is it? "I've only seen two cases of this in my entire career, so I need you to see a specialist immediately to see if he needs surgery now or if we can wait." Oh no. I can't believe I didn't ask you about it earlier, I feel like such a bad mom, I just thought it would go away, one of those things they grow out of, I'm so sorry, I hope he's ok, I hope waiting didn't make it worse...

I was fortunate to get in to the doctor he recommended within two days, due to a cancellation. We spent an hour and a half at the pediatric opthalmologist's office last Friday as doctors and nurses asked questions, shined lights in Rhett's eyes, put drops in to dilate his eyes, blew in his eyes, magnified his eyes, and in general, got in his face and poked at him endlessly.
The good news is that he seems to have good motor control over his eyelid for now. He may have to have glasses early and he may need to wear a patch from time to time to keep his muscles strong, but he doesn't have the worst case of ptosis he could have. He will have to have surgery, but not for several years.

The even better news: They have cataract glasses for babies.
I don't know if that's the technical term for them, but you know what I mean. I laughed when the nurse handed them to me and she said, "Anyone who's big enough to have his eyes dilated is big enough to get these glasses." I put them on him for a joke...he was a big hit in the doctor's office. I couldn't stop laughing at him. But then, when I tried to take them off, he squinted his eyes and cried, so I left them on him. Everywhere we went, people laughed and smiled. It was a fun day.
I guess it's true what they say: Every dark cloud has a silver lining. My boy has an eye problem, but hey, at least we have baby cataract glasses now, right?

Sick

Do you remember what it was like to be sick when you were younger? I loved it. Not sick, sick, but sick enough to miss school. I loved being snuggled up on the couch or, even better, in my parent's normally-off-limits bedroom watching TV. I loved it because I could be lazy and whiny and get away with it. Mom would hover around me, making sure I was comfortable. She would sit next to me and rub my legs or scratch my back. I didn't have to share her with my other three siblings. She would put off chores and phone calls just to sit with me. It was Heaven.

Even in my twenties, living in my own apartment in Dallas, I would get excited when I woke up and realized that I was, indeed, sick enough to call in and miss work. I would get the phone, a book, the remote and all of my favorite blankets and lie down on the couch, in anticipation of the perfect day of laziness and indulgence. Before the day could officially begin, I always had to call my mom and tell her I was sick. Even though she lived 5 hours away and wouldn't be putting her own life on hold to sit next to my bed, it was enough to hear her say "Oh baby, I'm sorry. I wish I was there." That's all I needed. Being sick is the perfect excuse to admit you need to be babied.

But somehow, it's different now. I have decided I don't want to get sick anymore. I was sick all weekend and there really wasn't anything enjoyable about it. I wasn't deathly ill or anything, but I had fever, chills, the works. I spent the better part of Sunday in my bed, alternating between chills and sweating. I didn't even have the energy to read or watch TV. But the worst part of all of it was the underlying feeling of guilt. I felt guilty. My husband's two days off were spent trying to keep the kids out of Mommy's room. I could tell it bugged him just a little bit. He would never admit it, but I just felt it this time. Usually, when I'm feeling bad, he takes my mom's place at the side of the bed, rubbing my back and babying me whenever I need it. But now that we've got three kids, all the babying and attention goes toward them. And I wouldn't have it any other way. It's nice to be able to zone out for two days and know that your kids will survive without you. But there was just a teeny tiny part of me that felt sorry for myself. I didn't even call my mom this time. I'm a grown up and should start behaving like one, right? Even when I'm sick. But if, by chance, my mom should read this and get the urge to call me and say "Oh baby, I'm so sorry you were sick...I wish I had been there," I just know I will feel all warm and cozy inside and somehow, it will make it all better.

Making Meals More Fun

Ok, let me start by saying I'm not trying to be Martha Stewart. Or Mother of the Year. But I am a nerd and a former teacher, so when I'm feeling really industrious, I like to add a little fun and possibly even some learning to our every day activities. An easy, fun thing we like to do is to make our same old lunches a bit more interesting. They might learn something, but more importantly, they EAT...happily. It's not hard or I wouldn't do it. I have three kids under the age of 5 (have you noticed how I like to repeat this?), I have laundry and cleaning to keep up with, so it's not like I spend every waking moment trying to force learning on my kids or make their day "creatively stimulating." I just throw simple things in here and there.

Obviously, you can do things like talk about how sandwich (or Sonic) starts with an S, or macaroni (and McDonald's) with an M. But if you want to go a step further, you can make an octopus from the ocean on a mountain of macaroni and hit two letters at once.








...or use a cookie cutter ($1 at Wal Mart, I have tons) to make your sandwiches into shapes. Like a butterfly with a banana or a pumpkin with a peach. Or a foot with fish (goldfish crackers), or a ghost with goldfish and grapes.
If your children are a bit older, you can serve carrots and crackers with celery and talk about how C makes two sounds. Or cheese and chicken and chips. I'm getting excited here...told you I was a nerd.

I do math sometimes too...sort the grapes and the raisins into two groups (M&Ms and Skittles are good too!)...count how many are in each pile and compare which one is more or less. You could even graph the results. (I swear I haven't gone that far with it...yet.)

But now I have a problem...I've been doing the same stuff for a long time. I need some new ideas. I know I have a few readers who homeschool and thought you might have easy, quick ideas. If you are a dork like me and haven't spent the last few minutes laughing hysterically at me, send me some of your ideas...please?

I Think I'm In Trouble

I think my oldest is smarter than me. I've had this suspicion for quite some time, but since her fourth birthday last May, it has become painfully obvious that I am going to have to be on top of my game to deal with this one. I remember a time when I was impressed with her ability to absorb, retain and regurgitate information so quickly. I can't remember exactly when she began using her powers for evil. I think it was when I noticed that she began turning my own words against me.

For example, when I'm doling out cupcakes, spoons, candy, socks, plates, or anything that could possibly result in the comment "But I wanted that one!!", I respond with "You get what you get and you don't throw a fit." One day, about three or four months ago, I sent Avery out to the garage fridge to get me a diet Coke. She brought me a regular Coke instead. (You know where this is going, don't you?) I said, "Oh, thank you baby, but that's a regular Coke and Mommy wanted a diet Coke." Her response? Yep, you guessed it, but her version goes "What you get what you get and you don't throw a fit." Yikes. Ok, we don't talk to grown ups like that, but yikes.

Also, when I was pregnant with Rhett, I would sometimes take more than my share of the cookies, cupcakes or brownies. When she would frown and say "How come you get two?" I would respond "This one is for Baby Rhett. He's hungry in my tummy." One day, soon after she started a new Sunday School class, we were eating dessert and she asked for another serving. I told her that too much sugar isn't good for her and that was plenty for now. She very sweetly said "But Momma, Jesus is in my heart and he's hungry in there." Man, this kid is getting good.

There have been other instances where I feel like I'm listening to a tape recorder of myself. "I'm so a-zausted, I'll just clean it later" or "I just really need some time to myself right now, so can't Reese just take a bath by herself?" The latest, "I certainly did not do that." And my personal favorite, "Mom, these kids are driving me crazy, so can you guys just go in the other room and let me watch my show?"

And then, last night, I made a dinner that no self-respecting four-year-old would enjoy. I always make our kids eat what we eat because, as I like to point out to anyone who will listen, I'm not a short order cook. Tonight's dinner was tough, though. It involved fish, Mediterranean veggies and rice. I made the kids at least try a bite before I gave in and heated up some leftovers for them. But still, Avery wouldn't eat. I told her to eat in a pleasant voice. I told her in a firm voice. I told her in an exasperated voice. I threw out the "no dessert" comment. Finally, I just picked up her plate, cleaned it off and said "I'm over it, Avery. I'm cleaning the kitchen and you've had plenty of time to eat, so you're finished. And no dessert, for sure." Her response actually might have made me smile if I wasn't worn out from the dinnertime battle. "Mom? Does Jesus like it when moms are mean and say stuff and just boss their kids like that?" I gave the old, "spare the rod, spoil the child" line from the Bible and said "Let me tell you what. God gave you to me and it's my job to turn you in to a decent human being, no matter what it takes." She stared at me blankly for a minute (I'm not sure she even knows what the Bible is exactly, and I know she doesn't understand the whole Jesus/God relationship) and said "Mom, I mean Jesus. I'm not talking to you about God. I think you hurt Jesus' heart when you make me sad."

Obviously, she was sent to her room. And she didn't get dessert or snacks or anything else. But let's think about this, folks. She's only four. There isn't enough Gingko Biloba out there to keep my brain sharp enough for what she has in store for me.

My Brother

I have to write about my brother. Not the football coach brother, this one. The fireman brother. The one who told me about the memory boxes. He's a little worried that people will think he's less than feminine if they read that he was talking to me about memory boxes, so I'm here to set the record straight. He's not gay (not that there's anything wrong with that). He's married to an adorable girl (woman? lady?) and has two beautiful children. I know he likes girls and just because he told me to make memory boxes does not suggest otherwise.
But I have to be honest. He's not a macho man. He cooks, he helps take care of his kids. I don't know if he cleans, but I'm sure he would if his wife asked him to. He has been known to gossip on occasion and he's one of the most fun conversationalists in the world. He can sit and have a chat with me about raising children or losing weight as if it's fascinating to him. He doesn't speak in grunts and he actually listens when people talk to him. It's not that he's interested in memory boxes, it's that he's interested in me. I love that about him. I know he's not perfect, but sometimes I have to remind myself of that fact.
He is hilariously funny and is almost always in a good mood. I know if I need a pep talk, he's the guy to call. And he'll be positive and listen to me whine about pulling my calf muscle or having to clean poop off the floor even if he's broken down on the on ramp to the freeway in his "paint wagon" pick-up with his two kids screaming their heads off or sitting with his buddies in the fire station doing manly, fireman stuff.
He's a lot of fun. If you want to have a party, call him. He will create the guest list (beware: this will include every person he encounters in the days preceding the party), buy the food, prepare the food and organize who is bringing what. He will buy lots of beer and set out lots of chairs and make sure everyone is having a good time.
He is a great husband and father. He spends a tremendous amount of time with his kids. He will even take them to the doctor if his wife has to work. I think he has even gone shopping with his wife. If his wife is sad or sick, he'll baby her and try his best to make her feel better. He compliments her almost every single time I'm around them and he genuinely thinks she is the most beautiful, fabulous woman on this earth (she is pretty great, I'll admit!). He loves his family and would do anything in the world for them. He mows for my mom and Nana. He helps my sister with manly stuff since her husband is in the Army. He would mow my lawn and carry my groceries if we didn't live 300 miles apart.
And the other thing. He's humble. I honestly don't think he knows how great he is. I know he will cringe when and if he ever reads this. I can hear him now. "Aw, Dode, come on. Don't say that, that's silly. Don't tell people that," not because he's too shy or private, but because he's embarrassed to have someone go on and on about him.
He's a good guy. I like him. Can you tell?

Heartbreak

Look at this face. It's such a sweet little face, I think, with the big eyes and pleasant expression. And she really is such a sweet little girl. However, she is almost two and, as with most two year olds, she is starting to test her limits.
For example, yesterday, we were at the store. I was carrying her because she was screaming when I put her in the seat of the cart. She, for no apparent reason, started saying "NO!" to me in a really naughty voice, with a really frowny face. I was ignoring her and she kept saying "NO, Momma!" and finally slapped at me, I guess to get my attention. The child hit me! Of course, that lit a fire under me and I sat her down firmly and firmly told her not to hit anyone and she gave me those eyes and said "O-tay, Momma, O-tay. I nice." And that was that. She was nice from then on.
This is how she always reacts after being in trouble. It's almost too hard to follow through on punishment because she responds so sweetly. She gets a look on her face like she's so ashamed of herself and it breaks your heart when she gives you those eyes and cries and says "sorry" or just "O-tay" in her little sweet way.
So, I can only imagine my husband's heartbreak Sunday when he had to punish her for hitting her sister. He's a TOTAL softy and these girls have him wrapped around their little fingers. But he is a good parent, so he disciplines them when they need it. He may give them more chances than I would, but he eventually does what he has to do. So, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that, when Reese hit Avery, he told Reese to go to her room without giving any second chances. He said he was in total shock that she actually went. He said she just turned around, put her fingers in her mouth and started walking, crying all the way. He let her go and gave her a few minutes. When he went to do the follow-up talk, he found her in her room. Sitting on a little stool, facing the dresser. Crying. And reading a book. Just crying quietly and reading. Does that break your heart as much as it did his and mine?
If she ever figures out how much that hurts us, we are in big trouble. We don't stand a chance.

I Love Us

My husband and I are the least romantic people I know. It's not that we don't love each other. We do. And it's not like there aren't romantic feelings between us because, um, well, we have had three kids in less than five years. It's just that we aren't really moonlight and roses people. And even though I've always known that we love each other tremendously, I thought that if we were as in love we professed to be, then surely I would be answering the door wearing nothing but Saran Wrap as a candle-lit dinner of something that took me 4 hours to make simmered on the stove. (I watch a lot of TV.) I just don't think that's us.
We got married on the beach in Playa del Carmen. What could be more romantic than a sunset beach wedding in Mexico? Just about anything else, as it turns out. You see, we went on this trip with my two brothers and their wives. My brothers really like to have a good time. The entire trip was hilarious and fun and exhausting. At an all-inclusive resort. There was an endless supply of Dos Equis and tequila. Let's just say we got our money's worth.
The first night, my husband overestimated his ability to do shots and dance on a bar, and landed himself in bed at approximately 3:00 in the afternoon. When I went up to check on him, I decided to "freshen up" in the bathroom. I sat down on the potty, only to be bucked off onto the floor. It seems that my better half had, uh, spent some time in there earlier and somehow, ripped the toilet seat right off the bowl. No romance that day.
The next day was the day of our wedding. We spent the day on the beach. I think there may have been a couple of drinks (because at an all inclusive resort, you have to drink a lot or it's like they are ripping you off.) At some point, my soon-to-be husband calls out to me from the ocean. "Babe! Can you come get this so I won't lose it?" His wedding ring. Drops. Into the ocean. $400 swept away with the next wave before we even got a chance to have the ceremony. He wore a black and green beaded ring from the gift shop during the wedding.
After the ceremony, we decided to splurge on one of the fancier restaurants in the resort. We had a wonderful dinner, complete with delicious food and a fabulous atmosphere of love and celebration. Apparently, the excitement of the day's events combined with the residual hangover from Day One was too much for some of us. My sweet new husband was in bed before dessert. I spent my wedding night partying with my brothers. Definitely fun, but not the most romantic wedding/honeymoon in history.
And then there was our first Valentine's Day as a married couple. I was determined to make this a Valentine's Day he would never forget. I lit candles all over the apartment. I made him a CD of romantic songs that remind me of him (the millennium version of the "mix tape") and it played softly in the background. I wore a satin red robe with very little underneath (Dad, if you are reading this, nothing happened. I swear.) and I had a fabulous dinner in the oven.
I think he was impressed when he walked in the door. He brought me a beautifully wrapped gift in a big paper bag with tons and tons of tissue paper and I excitedly dug in. He always does so well at thinking of things that I would really want or need and this time was no different. It was a huge set of acrylic paints and brushes because I was making lots of my canvases at the time and never had the right stuff. This was going to be the perfect evening. Come to me, my darling husband.....Wait. Sniff. I smell something strange. Is that.....? OH MY GOD, SOMETHING IS ON FIRE!!!! Turns out, the tissue paper had fallen on one of the candles and now the gift was in flames. Don't worry. The gift was saved. The evening was not.
I think that was our last great attempt at real (TV) romance. It's just not us.
You know what is us? Buying a Nintendo 64 as our first big purchase as a couple and playing it every day before we went to work in the morning. Buying season passes to Six Flags and driving 45 minutes out there and back just to stand in line to ride the new Titan. And drinking beer and ordering pepperoni pizza and watching "Dumb and Dumber" so many times, we have it memorized. Playing blackjack in Vegas for 9 hours and chasing each other through casinos. Eating Oreos in bed. And sneaking beer into a movie theater and making out in the back row. Or hanging an OU/OSU flag in the living room and taunting each other endlessly. And having Texas Hold 'Em Tournaments at our house and having private jokes that no one else gets.
It's not moonlight and roses, but it works for us. I love us.

New Items (Post 2)

I have debated over whether to add these or not...I don't know if anyone is interested in something like this, even though I was. I don't know if people will actually pay for something like this, even though I would. Plus, they take a long time to make and I didn't want to rip myself off by charging too little. My time is precious, People!!! :)
In the end, I decided that since, my precious brother, Josh, took the time to call me and suggest that I make these, I would put them on here. Here he was, busy building his house, working hard at the fire station, and taking care of his own kids, when he calls me out of the blue and says this "Hey, Dode (people who know me well call me Dode), have you ever seen a memory box? You know, like you put your kids' little stuff in?"
I say, Yeah, actually, I need some for my kids for their little things, like first pacifier, hospital, bracelet, stuff that won't fit in a scrapbook, but I haven't seen anything cute enough that was cheap enough...so yeah...why?
"Well, because Em (his wife), has some of those for the kids and they're made out of like maybe wood or something and they are just, like, painted with stuff like cute stuff for kids and stuff, you know? And she keeps their little stuff in it that she wants to keep, you know? And I thought maybe you could make them since you have that website and people might like them, you know?"
I thought this was absolutely adorable. Besides the fact that I think my brother is just almost perfect anyway, the fact that he took time out of his busy schedule to call and suggest this is just too cute for me! I had to put them on here...
So, if you are interested in a box or whatever to put, like your kid's, stuff in, and you would, like want to pay $25, then let me know!!!
They are made out of a heavy cardboard. The wooden ones are heavy and expensive, and these were perfect for what I wanted...I hope you feel the same!

Sleeping With The Enemy

My husband and I are mortal enemies. During football season, that is. He graduated from the University of Oklahoma and I, from Oklahoma State University. This is the flag in our living room-only during football season because, let's face it, it's not something that most people (women) would consider chic decor.
While this rivalry is not one of the bigger rivalries on our nation's radar, it is, in the small state of Oklahoma a HUGE game for fans of both teams. It is the Bedlam Battle and the winner of this game has bragging rights that carry beyond football season. My husband and I are at odds almost every weekend, not just during the OU/OSU weekend. He's always talking about how good OU is and how highly they are ranked and I'm always trying to throw in my little digs about how OU cheats, OU is overrated, OU fans are losers, etc. I'll admit I'm the meanest of the two of us over the whole thing. I taught our oldest daughter, when she was too young to even know what a Sooner was, to respond with "STINKS!" when asked "What do the Sooners do?" I take it much more seriously than he does and while he will root for OSU when they play someone else, I have NEVER rooted for OU to win in my entire life. EVER.
I knew when I married him that I was taking a big risk and possibly making a huge mistake. A friend of mine once told me that her dad said "You can't help who you fall in love with, but you can help who you are with in the first place." That's so true. I normally wouldn't have been caught dead fraternizing with a Sooner but, you see, by the time I found out he had graduated from OU, I was already head over heels. Oh well, I thought, he's not obsessive about OU, he even cheers for the Cowboys, so it's not that serious.
Boy, was I ever wrong. Just look what he has done to my babies!











Can this marriage be saved?

Why?

1. Why do my kids wait for a fresh diaper to go poopy?
2. Why do toddlers go tee tee and poopy on the floor NEXT to the potty?
3. Why does my baby eat every 3 hours EXCEPT when the 2 hour mark hits at a time that I am busy, I am without a bottle, or both?
4. Why do toddlers throw their food on the floor and then cry because they don't have anything to eat?
5. Why do the set-in, non-removable stains only occur on my very favorite, usually expensive outfits? And the cheapie play clothes still look brand new?
6. Why do husbands only want romance when you haven't slept, bathed or shaved in two days?
7. Why do kids wake up 45 times in the middle of the night but then refuse to budge the next morning?
8. Why does a constipated child, who hasn't gone potty in 2 days, suddenly have the biggest blow out of all time when you finally got the nerve to drag all three kids to the mall?
9. Why, when you have money and time to shop, can you not find anything you like, but then you see a bazillion things you would totally buy if you only had the time to try it on and/or the money to buy it?
10. Why am I asking the same questions that have gone unanswered for at least the past 1000 years by wives and mothers everywhere?

As-salt With A Spicy Weapon

My middle child is obsessed with the salt shaker. I normally put it on the counter after every meal so she can't reach it, but sometimes I forget. And she ALWAYS notices that I forgot and climbs up and dumps it out. Yesterday was one of those days...and she didn't just dump it on the floor or table like she usually does. She had a victim this time.










Poor Baby Rhett was covered in salt from the waist down! Clearly, he was already in need of a bath judging from the horribly stained onesie he's wearing, but it took alot of extra effort to get all the salt out of all of those nooks and crannies.
"Hey Reese! Just because your baby brother looks like a Butterball turkey doesn't mean you get to treat him like the main course!"

Picky, Picky

My husband is a terribly picky eater. He is worse than our 4-year-old. And he knows it. (And he knows I'm writing this and that I love him anyway!) His biggest fear about being on a diet is all the fruit and veggies he knows he will have to eat. And he doesn't like veggies unless they are deep fried or smothered in cheese. The only fruits he will eat are apples, bananas and the occasional grape. And that's only when he has to. He doesn't like tomatoes, carrots, avocado, peppers, mushrooms, onions, mayonnaise, "picnic food" (potato salad, deviled eggs, hot dogs, etc), bread with the "hard nutty stuff in it," any cheese except American, cheddar, or concession stand nacho liquid.....ok, so you get the idea. Basically, if a kid would love it, so would he. And if it would clog your arteries the moment you ate it, even better.
Why do I bring this up, you ask? Because I love to cook, I love to try new recipes, and I like to eat healthy. I still like pepperoni pizza and macaroni and cheese as much as the next guy, but I also like Chicken Marsala, and stir fried veggies and other many so-called grown up foods. I want to be able to cook something that you can't find on the Chuck E Cheese menu and have him savor every bite and tell me that I'm the most amazing, most incredible woman he's ever met and how did he ever live without my glorious cooking.
What makes it even harder is that he's the sweetest guy ever and he would NEVER complain about something I made or god forbid, refuse to eat it. He would sit and pick 497 onions out of a casserole I had made before he would refuse it. And he always, ALWAYS says "Good stuff, Baby" after dinner, no matter what it is or how many times he had to rinse his mouth out with water between bites. So I will make something and actually find myself almost saying "See? I knew you would like cream spinach if you just tried it!" until I say "How was it?" and he says "It was alright." That's the kiss of death.
As you can imagine, it's hard for us to agree on what constitutes a great meal.
For example, the other night, I tried a new recipe. Quiche. I've always wanted to make quiche and since I don't make brunch, I decided to make it for dinner. So, when he called on his way home from work, the conversation went something like this:
Me: "Hey babe, I just thought I'd let you know I'm making something new for dinner."
slight pause Him: "Oh yeah, what's that?"
Me: "It's chick food."
more pause: Him: "Chick food? What kind of chick food?"
Me: "Well, I thought I'd try to make a quiche."
longer pause: Him: "Oh. Will I like it?"
Me: "It's eggs, bacon, and cheese, what's not to like?" (I didn't mention the spinach, mushrooms and onions I was busy chopping at that very moment.)
Him: "Are the eggs scrambled?" (He only likes scrambled eggs.)
Me: "Of course they are...how else would they be?"
Him: "Ok, well, I'll give it a shot."

Well, you know what? He liked it. I don't think he loved it, but he didn't say "It was alright." He didn't go for seconds and he didn't ask me to wrap it up for his lunch the next day, but he ate it and said he liked it. And guess what else? He has started eating steamed broccoli. And asparagus, as long as it's fresh. With no cheese. Or butter. I'm making progress!!!
At this rate, he should be eating Linguine with Clam Sauce....at least by our 50th wedding anniversary!

You know I love you, Babe. And I'm excited for our "hot date" tonight!!

Contest Winner!

Patricia Steuver! Congratulations!!!
Email me at dodiajackson@yahoo.com to claim your prize!

CONTEST

I've decided that, in light of the fact that I pulled a muscle at the gym and honestly cannot walk, I'm going to sit around all day and look at my computer.
Soooooo, I want to see your comments. I'll have an official drawing in my kitchen tonight! Anyone who made/makes a comment TODAY, Sept. 12 before 9:00 pm. (CST), will be entered. You can win $20 off this site! If there's anything you have been considering, now is your chance!!!

Those Five Little Words

The five words I like to hear from my husband are not "I love you so much" or "You look hot today, Baby." They are "Do you wanna call Celia?"
Celia is a housekeeper. I love her. I mean, I really really love her. I would love to have her move in with me.
But since I don't work outside the house, I don't have a regular housekeeper. Not because my husband says I can't, but because I feel too guilty. Partly because of the money and partly because I feel that keeping up the house is part of my job as a housewife. Truthfully, I actually enjoy cleaning. I like feeling like I accomplished something and I love the look and smell of my house when I have spent the entire day cleaning. But the problem now is that, with 3 kids under the age of 5, I never get to spend the whole day cleaning. It's dust one day, vacuum the next. Clean the bathrooms one day, the kitchen the next. So the whole house is never all clean at once.
But when Celia comes, it's like Heaven. For one brief moment, the entire house is perfect. It smells deliciously clean and everything sparkles. She does the things I always forget, like dusting the fans and the blinds or mopping the laundry room floor. I love it. And she was just here on Monday, so I know it's going to be a while before I hear those five magic words again.
For now, I'll just cross my fingers and hope for my second favorite phrase: "Do you want a massage?"

Yesterday morning, I was in here on the computer and my oldest was in here asleep on the guest bed. I heard her stirring and turned around to say "good morning" to her. She didn't respond. She just stumbled sleepily out of the bed and walked into the other room. I wondered where she was going, but wasn't really concerned. I assumed she either had to go potty or had just decided to move to our bed. I was way off.
When she returned, about 10 minutes later, this is how she looked:












In case it isn't obvious, she's wearing her daddy's clothes. When I first saw her, I kind of laughed and asked her "What in the world are you doing?"
Her response: "Nothing. I just had to get dressed." (As if this is her normal daily routine.)
Me: "Well, are those Daddy's clothes?"
Her: "Yeah, I like to wear them sometimes." (I wasn't aware that she and Dad shared clothes.)
Me: "Where did you get them?"
Her: "Dad's closet. On the hanger"
Me: "Um, can I ask why?"
Her, exasperated: "Mom, I just like to wear Dad's clothes, ok? This is what I want to wear today because I just want to dress like my dad. OK?"

I don't even have an argument for this one.

Embarrassing Confession (Probably One of Many!)

I used to be in love with Bret Michaels, the lead singer of Poison. For those of you who were either too young, too old, or too smart to know who this is, let me give you a little background. Poison was really popular in the mid-to-late eighties, around the same time as Def Leppard and Motley Crue. Some people referred to them as "hair bands." And I loved them all. But none so much as Poison. Mostly because of Bret Michaels. I had a poster of him on my bedroom wall and I blotted my Cover Girl Rose Quartz lipstick on his face every morning before high school. I listened to "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" and dreamed that he was singing it to me...I was the rose, but alas, too young to legally date him, so there is the thorn. Two of my high school girlfriends and I actually memorized the lyrics to "Nothin' But A Good Time" and acted out (oh God, this is worse than I remembered) the video back when MTV still showed music videos all day. His concert was the first one my parents ever let me go to and I actually cried when he came on stage. I forced a small Asian kid to his knees so I could climb on his shoulders in order to get a better view of the stage (and by this, I mean put myself up there so Bret would suddenly spot me in my frumpy Kappa Sig sweatshirt and torn jeans and realize I was the woman for him.) This poor dude shook the whole time I was up there. I finally got down when I realized that, not only was I killing this poor guy on the ground, but I wasn't glamorous enough or naked enough to get Bret's attention. Ok, so I was a complete dork.
The point of telling you this is that I've had a chance recently to get reacquainted with Bret lately. He's on VH1's Rock of Love (white trash version of The Bachelor), trying to find his one true love. It seems that twenty or thirty years of hard rock 'n roll living has made it tough for him to find someone who truly loves him for him and not just for his "talents."
So as it turns out, Bret is not really that fabulous. In fact, he's downright disgusting. I mean, don't get me wrong. I still record every episode of Rock of Love and scream at my children if they try to interrupt me while I'm watching it. But I wouldn't dream of hanging a poster of him on my bedroom wall. And when I imagine the cooties crawling in his bedroom or in that cesspool he calls a hot tub, I actually throw up in my mouth a little bit. But this show is hilarious. There are, apparently, at least 25 ladies (I'm using this term loosely here) who still find him absolutely dreamy. The latest episode involved two of these delightful creatures vomiting over a lovely dinner of shrimp and oysters after doing shots with his band mates. The thing I love the most about this show is not the girls and most certainly not Mr Hot Pants Michaels. It is that it reminds me how much I love being a boring, suburban housewife and mother of three. And how far I've come since those ridiculously silly days of being lovestruck by a celebrity.
But have you seen Scott Baio is 45 and Single? Ooh La La.

From Ball Boy to Head Coach

Here is a picture of my brothers from the early/mid-eighties. My dad was the head football coach in the small Oklahoma town where I grew up and my brothers were always either water boys or ball boys until they themselves became players. They both played in high school. The one on the right went on to play football for a small university in Oklahoma and later came back to coach there. He was just recently promoted to the head coach of a college in South Texas. Head coach! Like he's a grown man who is capable of being in charge of an entire football team!
I had to see this for myself, so my family and I traveled to their game last night, which was played at a college not far from where we live. And you know what? He's a grown man who is completely capable of being in charge of an entire football team. He will probably be embarrassed when he reads this, but I have to say it anyway. I am so proud of him.
He is amazing.
I have read countless news articles in the last couple of months and they all make me tear up when I read the kind words people have said about him. Firm, but fair. Disciplined, but fun...a "player's coach." Finally, it's out there for the world to see: He is a good guy. A really really good guy. If you had told me 20 years ago that I would WANT the world to know how awesome he is, I would have said you were crazy. He was the brother who drove me the most nuts. I think it was his goal in life to make me scream (not that it was that hard to do back then!) It took a long time for him to grow on me. But now, he's like my best friend. I couldn't imagine life without him.
And last night, after a difficult loss, I saw him how everyone else must see him now. He was composed on the field with his players, he was completely professional as he visited with reporters and his athletic director. He hugged his wife (who, I think, took the loss harder than he did), and held his nieces. He was kind and strong. He was disappointed in the loss, but looking ahead at how to make things better next week. He was exactly what you would hope for from a man in his position. He is the head coach.

My "Little" Guy

This delicious little package will be 4 months old tomorrow. He is so cushy (look at those thighs!) and soft and cuddly, you just want to squeeze him and hold him all the time. And I do, as much as I can. However, in his infant carrier seat, he is a LUG. It's almost more than I can handle and I'm not a little weakling, by any means.
So you can imagine my dismay when we go to my doctor's office yesterday and realized the stroller wasn't in the car. I had to park in the garage and walk to the building with three kids, one of whom is unusually large and one of whom is almost 2 and does NOT want to hold hands with anyone. But we made it. My oldest is a terrific little helper and I was thankful (on this day) that she is so bossy and in charge of her little sister. I was in no position to have to carry said sister considering I was busy trying not to drop Wonder Boy, carrier and all.
As we get inside, I see people smiling kindly at the chaos that surrounds my children and I. Some older people make comments about how cute they all are, or how there was a time they were just like me with their kids. The girls are wonderful, but they are running together in the halls. Quiet, shy little Reese is yelling "HEY!" at just about everyone who passes. I have to use two hands to hold Rhett's carrier by this point, so it makes me appear completely overwhelmed and incapable. I say appear because we all know I'm completely capable and not in the least bit frazzled or uptight about any of this.
We finally make it to the elevators. Avery and Reese both push the buttons and we all get on. We are alone in the elevator (thank goodness). When we reach our floor, I say "We're here!" and step off, assuming that the girls are right there with me. I look down for them and they aren't beside me. I look up and see the elevator doors closing. All I can see is the panic on Reese's face and I can hear Avery say "MOM, HELP US!" For some reason, they didn't follow me off, and when the doors started to shut, they froze. Nothing lights a fire under an overweight mom, with an even more overweight baby in an infant seat, like sheer panic. In the very second it took me to picture them all alone on that elevator, I sprinted toward the doors and threw my arm and foot into that increasingly narrow space between the elevator door and the wall. I think I yelled "Oh my god, NO!" or something equally dramatic. I got them out just in the nick of time. They are safe. And Rhett was dangling safely in my other hand, feeling light as a feather, completely unaware of what was happening around him. I protected my children. I am woman, hear me roar. Or something like that.

P.S. When we got to the doctor's office, all the nurses were so impressed with Rhett's thighs, they just HAD to put him on the scale. Are you ready for this? He weighed....TWENTY POUNDS!!!!!!! At 4 months!!!!! My girls weighed that at a year old. Sheesh. No wonder I almost fall over every time I have to carry him. How am I supposed to tote this carrier for 8 more months with that kind of weight in it? I should have Arnold Schwarzenegger's arms by then.

Poopy Story

Well, remember yesterday when I said I'd try to be back for a lighthearted story, possibly about poop or something? I guess my middle child was listening, bless her heart, because at the very moment I was posting yesterday's blog she was in the other room working on material for today.
I posted my blog, and then went into the living room to check on her. Here she is:



You probably can't tell (I never professed to be a fabulous photographer), but she has a wipey in her hand. And a small stain on her shirt, near her hands. Guess what she's wiping? POOP. Actually, diarrhea. She had apparently been digging in her diaper the whole time I was in here because her hands were covered. And then she got a wipe to clean it. God love her. I can just hear her little thoughts..."Mommy is so happy doing her blog, I gotta give her something good to write about...so I'll just dig in here for a bit and make a funny, cute mess." Mess, yes. Funny, not so much. Cute, always.

My Children

Disclaimer: This is a serious "piece.". I have found that, since starting this blog, words are pouring out of me. I may not be a good writer, but I think I may have finally found my life's passion. I cannot stop thinking of things to write. I can see myself becoming one of those ladies who wears long, out-of-style earrings and who goes on long trips by herself to "lose myself in my writing." (I have three small children who are my life and a husband who probably just freaked out when he read that...I'm not leaving, Babe.)
I intended for this blog to be lighthearted and funny at all times, but I'm not always lighthearted and funny, so I'm just going to use it to share myself with anyone who is interested. I'm going to pick and choose what I share because I don't want to depress the world and I don't want to hurt anyone I love. I apologize in advance to anyone who came here hoping for a laugh today, but bear with me. I'll try to have a funny poop, mess or mommy failure story for you tomorrow!


My Children have taught me so much. About life, about themselves, and a lot about me. I have spent many, many years of my life trying to "find myself" and figure out who I am and why I am here. I think I am figuring it out and I think my children are mostly to thank.

I have a dark side. A very dark side. I let this dark side rule most of my teens and early twenties. I think I hid it well from friends and family, but I spent years fighting it. I feel that it was never really at rest until I saw my first child's face. In that moment, as dramatic as this sounds, something happened and I chose happiness. For her, and for me. With the birth of each child, that dark place inside of me has retreated further and further until now, it is the exception in my life rather than the rule.

I have wrestled with my Christianity and feelings about God. I have rejected God, I have questioned God, and I have even thought I hated God. I have rejected organized religion as a whole, determined to "do it myself." But I know better now. I see God in my children's eyes and I know He has saved me from myself and brought me to this point in my life. A point at which I thought would never come. A point at which I realize I have come this far, not because of myself, but in spite of myself.

I always thought I had to be tough. My sometimes bitchy attitude, my sarcastic front, my inability to admit I'm wrong. They are a defense. One I have begun to let go. (My husband might disagree, but I'm working on it!) One I have realized has no place in a happy, honest life. My children allow me (encourage me) to be vulnerable and unknowing, opening my eyes to a side of life I never chose to see.

I never trusted. Anyone. I have always waited for "the other shoe to drop." I used to think my happiness wouldn't last because it never has. I was vigilant in the early days of my marriage, waiting for him to figure me out, stop liking me, see the real me and run screaming. Sometimes I would try to show him the "real me" just to test him to see how he would react. He never left. I had my first baby and waited. For something bad to happen to her, to lose her somehow. She never did. Two more beautiful children have come since them and I no longer wait. I am content, finally. Content knowing that this is where I'm supposed to be. Content that this is what I deserve and that it won't be stripped away at a moment's notice.

I am learning that I am an ok person who is deserving of this life. I am learning that we all deserve a life as great as mine. That we all should be this happy. Much of that happiness is a daily decision. I forget to make it sometimes. And even on those days, when I wake up feeling like my old self, I see my children and I remember. Remember that that is not me anymore. My children have rescued me.

Oh. My. Gosh.

You have to read this book. Today. I was up half the night reading it and only put it down so I could get some sleep and be a halfway decent mommy this morning.
"Comeback: A mother and daughter's journey through hell and back", by Claire and Mia Fontaine. I first heard about this on Pioneer Woman's site, but honestly, it sounded a bit dark and I've been reading lots of chick lit lately so I wasn't in the mood for something sad and dramatic. But then my girlfriend in Oklahoma told me she was reading it and loving it, so I thought I would try.
I can't put it down. I can't remember the last time I was this-what's the word?-spellbound, consumed, overwhelmed, emotional about a book. It's amazing. I cried twice in the first four chapters. I cried so many times last night, reading it, I lost count. It's amazing. If you have been abused, if you know someone who has, if you have a daughter, if you are a daughter, if you know a daughter, READ THIS BOOK. The writing is phenomenal. It is a true story. It is devastating and real and unbelievable, yet understandable, all at the same time. Read this book. For real, people. Read this book. TODAY.

Corporal Punishment?

My husband is building a shelving unit in our playroom upstairs, so the girls have been "helping" him quite a bit lately. Sunday, he allowed our oldest to actually use the hammer and nails to create her own little masterpiece. Here she is, showing it off. I told her it was really cool, such a great idea, I love it. What is it supposed to be?

Her answer disturbed my soul and has kept me awake nights. "It's for Reese. You know how Reesie always cries when Daddy leaves? Well, I"ll put this by the door so if she cries, then she'll just step on these things (the nails!) and it will make her get away from the door."

RUN, REESIE, RUN!!!

Poor little Reese-a-roni. She has no clue.

Bittersweet

Today is bittersweet. Avery had her first day of school. She's been gone all of 26 minutes and Reese and I are moping around like we lost our best friends. Well, we kind of did. Reese's playmate is gone until 2:00 today and since Avery is the only other person besides me in this house who can carry on a conversation, I'm going to feel lonely without her, even if her questions do drive me crazy sometimes.

Avery did well this morning. Better than that...she did great. She got up, ate her breakfast, and got dressed when I told her to. She did try to wear her Spiderman pajamas instead of the outfit we agreed upon last night, but she changed willingly when I reminded her that we were going to wear girl clothes to school. We compromised a little bit. She is wearing boxers under her dress and she has a Spiderman lunch box and backpack.
I also got to do something I've been dying to do as long as I can remember. I packed a lunch, complete with fish-shaped sandwich, Snack Pack, and "Mommy love note" on a napkin. It's really a bright day for all of us. And as much as it breaks my heart that she's growing up so fast, I am proud of my little girl. She went into her classroom, sat down in her seat and waited patiently for her teacher to tell her what was coming next. She was calm and strong as Reese wailed and I fussed over her, kissing her repeatedly and telling her we would be back in a few hours. Other kids grabbed at their mom's legs and begged to go home. But not my Doodlebug. She stayed firm, eager to finally experience "big kid school." She is an amazing kid.
I can't believe how much I already miss her. Judging by the way Reese is moping around the house with her fingers in her mouth, I think she misses her too.

Petie's Prizes!

Remember the drawing I held last week? Petie won $20 credit on this site? Well, she chose these cute little door hangers as her prize. She sent me a picture of what she was thinking about and I created something similar. I LOVE when people send me a picture and I get to try to re-create it. I like these alot (if I do say so myself) and was thinking of adding them to my site...$25 each (plus $5 shipping) What do you think?

I Am So Weird (Volume 1)

I am so weird. Those of you who know me already know I have issues of varying degrees, but I have decided to purge my soul and let the rest of the world see the strangeness up close and personal, one issue at a time.
I'm starting with baby steps because I don't want to scare anyone off since I just started getting readers who aren't my sister and mother!
Ok, so see this ribbon holder my sweet husband built for me this weekend?
It's nice, right? I like it. That's not weird, right?
How about the fact that I can't stop looking at it? Or the fact that I first arranged the ribbon by size and color, in a very organized fashion, but then went back and created this hodge podge because it's more fun to see all the colors that way and have kept rearranging them to satisfy my mood? Or the fact that I keep looking at it?
Seriously, every time I come in this room, I open the door to see the ribbon thingy. I love the colors. I love ribbons that coordinate and I like to look at these and imagine all the things I could do with them. I can't stop looking at it.
Is that weird enough for you? No? Good because there's LOTS more strangeness where that came from...stay tuned.

I Love Music

I went for a run this morning. It went really well, much better than last week's long run and I spent some time thinking about why last week's run went so badly, even though it was shorter than today's. The answer is music. Last week, my earphones were broken and I had to use some old ones I found laying around the house. The minute I started sweating, they fell out of my ears and I eventually gave up trying to keep them in and just quit listening to music. It was all downhill from there. But today was different. Today I had my new Ipod full of every song I've ever loved blaring at full volume. It was heaven. I was actually singing aloud at one point (I've always thought people who did that were so weird, but I'm old and weird now anyway, so who cares?) I started thinking about how music can completely alter my mood. Sometimes it's a blast back into a past I'm not always comfortable remembering, but most of the time, it lifts my spirits and inspires me to get moving!
Is everyone like this? Or is it just my family? As I thought about all of this this morning, I thought about my parents. I think my parents had a huge influence in my siblings and I loving music as much as we do.
My dad is a complete music junkie. Not playing an instrument or anything, but just listening to music. He's always had music playing whether he's painting, working in the garage, driving, working out, whatever. He listens to classic rock on his paint radio. He listens to Top 40 stations and knows what's popular. I remember one time, when I was in college, we were at the mall and he wanted me to pick up the new Matchbox 20 CD. And I can't EVER hear "Sweet Baby James" by James Taylor without remembering riding with him in his orange pickup, listening to eight track tapes.
Mom is not that different. She's not as into buying CDs or listening to what's hot right now, but she definitely enjoys her music. She loves to put CMT on the TV and sing at the top of her lungs or dance around with the grandkids. I remember being younger and Mom saying "Ok, guys, let's turn on some good music and get this house cleaned." If I hear anything by the Doobie Brothers, I can almost feel a dust rag in my hand. She also put on music most mornings before school. Fleetwood Mac, The Doobies, Kenny Rogers...oh, Kenny Rogers. That reminds me. She and my brother used to sing a duet along with Sheena Easton and Kenny. "We've Got Tonight." I still love Kenny Rogers to this day. I own his greatest hits CD. (So does my brother.)
Those are some of the best memories of my life. There is a country song, I think it's by Clint Black, and it says "Ain't it funny how a melody, can bring back a memory." Whether it's painting with Dad, singing with Mom, dancing with a high school boyfriend, or breaking it down with my siblings at an all-night-shake-down party, I love the memories and feelings that music brings back. I can't wait to create some of these same memories with my own kids. (Instead of Fleetwood Mac, they'll have Justin Timberlake.) I think I'll go start right now.

Diary of a Bad Mommy

Sometimes I'm a bad mommy. Like this morning. My oldest has her first soccer practice with her new team. I didn't get her soccer shorts washed for today and had to dig them out of the bottom of the laundry basket and spray them with Febreze so she wouldn't be the smelly kid. And the middle one walked around this morning for 2 hours with a soaking wet diaper that I just didn't notice.
Sometimes I let them watch TV all morning so I can get some cleaning/laundry/talking on the phone done. Sometimes I let them have Goldfish for breakfast just because we're in a hurry to get out the door. Sometimes I let the oldest surf the internet (Noggin or NickJr, of course) for an hour instead of the daily recommended 20 minutes because I want to be left alone. And I have been known to skip naptime just so they will all go to bed relatively calmly at night. I have gone for weeks at a time without changing crib sheets because they are too hard to put back on.
But there are those days when I get it right. I get up two hours before they do and fix everyone eggs and toast. We go to the gym for an hour and then come home and play Candy Land or Superheroes together. We have a picnic lunch at the park, make it home for naps and then have another hour of playtime before I cook a healthy, balanced dinner where we will all sit as a family and say a prayer and share our day.
If those "Supermommy" days only happen every 4-7 days, is that ok? Is the fact that I love them so much it breaks my heart making up for the "bad mommy" days? If the worst thing I ever do is let them go to bed stinky because I'm too tired for baths, will they forgive me?
I think that one day, after only 2 hours of sleep and weeks of dirty diapers, snotty noses, and whiny voices, one of my daughters will call me and say in a weary voice, "How did you do it all, Mom?" and then they will understand. I didn't do it all. Not even close. But I'm doing the best I can and most of the time, that's pretty darn good.