The Queen De-Throned

Extra Crispy.

And I'm not talking about Colonel Sander's special recipe chicken, folks. I'm speaking of my shoulders, back and thighs after a few hours at the pool without sunblock yesterday. I wanted to even out my farmer tan and get some color on my legs. I thought it would be fine. Okay, it wasn't really one of my brightest moments. But after the tenderness subsides and the pink fades, it should make a nice tan.

Knowing my luck, it will probably peel and leave me looking like a leper. With a farmer tan.

A friend invited us to her brand new house in a brand new housing addition with a brand new, shiny pool. It was perfectly lovely...minus the sunburn. This pool sits in the middle of the addition, beside the clubhouse, surrounded by large, beautiful, brick homes. As I lounged in the water and enjoyed the sensation of a warm sun on wet skin, I decided against Europe for my summer home. Something tropical would be delicious. Maui? Mexico? Brazil? I'll have to give it some thought.

While we were there we got a tour of their new house. Now, we haven't shopped houses in some time. We've been in this house for almost eight years. So, I can't even begin to tell you what their house was worth. I can only say I have no point of reference, because I've never even considered thinking about buying a house like that. It was gorgeous.

For the most part, I am a content person. I don't spend a lot of time wishing I had this or that. And I wasn't even envious of her house, per say. If I had the opportunity to build a new house, it isn't what I would have built. But what I did envy was the "newness" of it. The new smell. The freshly painted walls that didn't have nine layers of other peoples' color choices underneath. The pristine carpet that would leave those nice little "tracks" after you vacuum it. The wooden floors with nary a scratch. No stubborn dirt in the corners left by previous owners. No unfinished projects dragging down the feel. And all that open space.

I'll admit it. I was a little disenchanted when I came home to my teeny, tiny little house with unfinished projects galore. I had gorgeous pictures of my children taken in November, but haven't hung them up in the living room because I haven't finished painting. Baby doesn't even look the same! What's wrong with me?

A very wise friend made a statement about losing weight the other day. "Obviously it doesn't bother me that bad or I would do something about it," she said. "I just make different choices."

There was a time I really cared about the state of my home. Not just about tidiness, but more about the look. The feel. The "ambiance", if you will. I used to put work into making it pretty and homey. But three children later, I've made different choices. I've let it fall by the wayside. I'd like to think more important things are foremost in my mind. But the question remains, "What do people feel when they walk into my house?"

I'm not sure if it's conviction or jealousy that spurs me on, but I'm on a mission to put some hudspa back into my home. Or at least, my living room. Don't worry. I won't be locking my children in a room with a TV and neglecting their needs. Actually, that TV thing isn't a bad idea. But I am going to find a way to get some things finished around here. If for no other reason than to relinquish my title as the "Queen of All Things Unfinished".

Time to make different choices.

Look for updates.

I'm feeling very smart and on top of things today. We did some chores, did some school, had some playtime outside and my children have had three of their five servings of fruits and vegetables and it's only 1:24 p.m.!!!! I have even told Baby "no" at least three times today. Not an easy feat.

You can see why I'm excited.

Days like this just don't happen enough around here. Of course, my bathroom still smells like pee, but I'm dealing in reality here.

I am also feeling very proud of my little munchkins. I know I whine a lot about my frustrations, but I gotta say, my kids are very sweet, very smart, very funny and I love being home with them.

On a rather sad note, my dryer has died. I'm not sure how to break the news to Hubby. I know he'll take it pretty hard. But on the upside, I have an excuse to not do laundry.

I've been doing some research on scholarships. I'm pretty sure I'll have my tuition paid for by grants, but it would be great to have some extra money for living expenses...like a new dryer. I'm not having a whole lotta luck. Apparently this is something I should have thought about around January. If you hear of any scholarships for for stressed out blogger moms who major in losing things and overeating, please let me know.

A slow day around here. Not much to report...yet.

Supermom signing out.

Lost In Translation

Apparently my children and I speak two very different languages. Because when I speak, they either
A. Act like they didn't hear me
or
B. Do something other than what I said to do.

These are some problem phrases:

"Sister, pick up your dress-up clothes."
Translation: "Sister, get out your Polly Pocket dolls and play with them."

"Come here, please."
Translation: "Stand silently where you are and don't make any sudden moves."

"Sister, pick up your dress-up clothes, NOW."
Translation: "Sister, see how many plastic bead necklaces you can cram into a tiny little purse, NOW."

"Please put those clothes away."
Translation: "Please take these clean clothes that I laundered for you, unfold them and scatter them about your room."

"You may read books quietly on your bed."
Translation: "Practice your light saber skills, complete with sound effects, while your baby sister naps in the next room. Try very hard to wake her up."

"Bedtime! Go get in bed."
Translation: "Ignore me. Don't move a muscle. And while you're at it, think of something very important you need to discuss with me."

"Please, don't do that."
Translation: "Do that. Repeatedly."

"Just a minute!"
Translation: "Keep yelling at me. I can't get enough of that."

Call Me Sybil

Discipline.

I'm no master of it. Not with my children or myself. But the words keep repeating themselves to me this morning. And the blog is sucking me in. I lack the discipline to resist.

FlyLady sends me an email this morning, as she does every Monday morning, to remind me of our Weekly Home Blessing Hour. This means we spend an hour doing things like dusting, vacuuming, changing the sheets on the bed, etc. I enlisted her help a while back by subscribing to her daily email reminders and I must admit, she has been a big help. I wake up, after a good night's rest, ready to take on the day. Ready to get back into our routine and return to some structure. Because I suffer from PMS.

Perfect Monday Syndrome.

You know what I'm talking about. Monday is the day you're always going to start whatever life-altering habit you're obsessing about that week and become the person you've always wanted to be.

But I'm having some trouble today.

Inside my head there is a war going on. A war between the strict, Nazi-Librarian who demands order and structure in every area of life and lectures her children on the dangers of being too carefree, lest you end up living in a cardboard box and the hippy, free-spirited artist who likes basking in the sunshine and painting and music and dancing and warns against too much structure lest you end up living in an imaginary box that keeps you from enjoying life to the fullest.

This is the conversation they've been having this morning:

Nazi: I want the bedrooms spotless! You've been lax. You've gotten them out of the habit by letting them relax on Sunday. These toys should have been picked up yesterday! No fun today until everything on that mental list of yours is done! By the way, that list shouldn't be mental. You need to write that down. You need to post it for all to see and enforce it.

Hippy: But it's Monday and you've had a busy weekend. You all need some down time and some time to rest. Sister has a new little watercolor set she wants to use. Let her paint and she can pick up her room after a nice, long nap. And Brother is wanting to play baseball. Have you noticed the weather? It's gorgeous!! Nice and mild with a lovely breeze. You wouldn't even get hot. Why don't you all go outside and play? They're growing up so fast. Don't miss out on these precious moments.

Nazi: Play?! Haven't you had enough fun? You didn't do anything productive yesterday! That's why your house is such a mess! You have to get this FlyLady routine down if you ever want to get anywhere. It's only an hour. Can't you buckle down for one silly hour? That's why Brother doesn't want to do school! Speaking of which, you really need to do some reviewing today. He'll never learn to read well unless you practice every day. It's been a week since you've done any lessons out of that expensive curriculum you ordered.

Hippy: Don't push. He'll get it. If you push him he will hate it. Let him go at his own speed. What about you? Wouldn't you rather be blogging? You've got all these great ideas floating around in your head. Aren't you dying for that creative release? Let the kids have the morning off so you can feed your muse. They don't want to do chores anyway. You want their hearts. You want them to want to obey out of love and respect.

Nazi: (snorting) Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen. You're turning them into spoiled, selfish, soft little brats. They need to learn about the real world. They need to learn that life is not about doing what you want. Take Baby, for example. You have no structure for her. You should have set times for her to play with certain toys. You should have her day planned out down to the minute. Kids love routine. They thrive on it. If you did, you wouldn't spend so much of your day chasing her around and picking up her messes. And when are you going to wean her, for crying out loud?

Hippy: Children need the freedom to explore. Don't stifle that with a schedule. And as for weaning, let her take the lead. She'll wean herself when she's ready. Breastfeeding is very good for her. She's formed a healthy attachment to you.

Nazi: Yeah, I'll say. You can't even go to the bathroom alone. She screams bloody murder every time you leave the room. That's a healthy attachment, all right. Hubby is ready for you to wean that kid so you two can have a life again. You should be putting his needs first. Taming the chaos would help you be a better wife. FlyLady says you should have a date night with your husband.

Hippy: But you've got the rest of your lives to do things together. Baby is growing up so fast. She is the last one. After she is weaned you won't have any more babies to snuggle.

Nazi: Can you say, "co-dependant"?

Hippy: Can you say, "tight-a..."

Okay! Okay!! Enough already!!

Perhaps it's not PMS. I think it's more like MPD.

Multiple Personality Disorder.

Good Lord. Now FlyLady wants to know what's for dinner. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, LET ME BE!!!!!!!

Curse you, FlyLady.

The Wedding

Last night, as I took Sister's hair down and had her remove the lovely tiara she got to wear in the wedding, she cried woeful, crocodile tears. It had been an exciting day, so she was, of course, tired. But she had felt like a beautiful princess in her flower girl finery and her little heart couldn't bear that the magic had come to an end.

Truth is, I understood how she felt completely.

As I removed the pins from my own hair, I slid back into my old self, wishing I could wear the pretty dress and coax my hair into staying so neatly swept up. I caught myself pretending once or twice.

My sister, Teresa, got married this weekend. We haven't been close in a while, and I wasn't especially excited about the marriage. But I've had a change of heart, and today I find myself feeling a sense of real joy for her and for the future.

The rehearsal was Friday evening and Teresa had made hair appointments for Sister, herself and myself for Saturday morning, so she put us up at the Holiday Inn Friday night. We don't get out much, so we were all pretty excited about that. As you can see by the picture, my children couldn't contain themselves. And I didn't allow any photos of my reaction. You'd have thought we were the Clampetts just arriving in Cal-i-forney fresh from the backwoods. The kids were going nuts! Even the bathtub proved to be much more fun than ours here at home. I was worried the other guests might call hotel security about the jubilee and merriment coming from our room. Mental note to self: Get the kids out more often.

After the kids finally calmed down and went to sleep, I treated myself to a thirty minute long shower with all the hot water I could stand. I might have stayed in longer, but I was starting to see spots and I took that as a bad sign. When I emerged I noticed my beautiful tan (courtesy of self-tanning spray) had been steamed off my shoulders, leaving me with large, white, flakey patches. I knew a nice, even tan to wear with my strapless dress was way too much to ask. Another mental note to self: Long, hot showers + self-tanner = something that looks like a skin disease. Luckily I put on tons of lotion and it wasn't as noticable. And my dress had a matching wrap to hide my farmer tan.

The big day arrived. Sister, Teresa and I went to our hair appointment where the stylist transformed us into glamorous wedding divas with lightning speed. Teresa, who I thought would be a nervous wreck, was the very picture of peace and serenity. She was cool, calm and completely happy. And I began to think I was wrong about this wedding. Maybe she really does love him. Maybe she was going to be all right. We spent some time bonding and being girls together. We laughed about our failed attempts at tanning and her neon pink toenail polish she hadn't had time to change. It was time I had missed and wanted so badly. And for the first time in years, I felt we were close again. I felt like she really wanted me there to share this day with her and hadn't asked me out of obligation. In a sense, it felt as though my heart had come home and found my family.

We made it to the chapel in plenty of time to get changed and be ready for pictures by 1:00. And let me say, the chapel was perfect. It was very old, and decorated accordingly. It felt as though we were transported in time to a place where beauty and romance were the principle reasons for living. It was elegant and classic, without being at all overdone or frilly. It was the kind of place that made me want to get married all over again...to the same man, of course.

The photographer began the pictures outside, at the front of the chapel. It was a lovely, little garden shaded by magnolias and wrought with charm. She took pictures of my children first, then some of Teresa and I together. I stood next to my sister, gazing at her lovliness and awed by her confident composure. She put her arm around me and whispered in my ear, "I'm so glad you're here," then planted a kiss on my cheek. Our eyes met and I began to well up as the emotions overwhelmed me and came to the surface. It was a pivitol moment when I felt sure that all was right with the universe and we were all exactly where we should be. I returned her kiss, unable to speak for fear of ruining the makeup we had both worked so hard on. The photographer snapped her camera, capturing that moment in time forever.

The ceremony was beautiful. There was no feeling of dread or fear. It was a testament to love and a chance to find it again. It was joyful. It was a celebration. It was everything I didn't expect. They will have issues to work through. And it will not be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I feel confident they will make it.

I believe she loves him.

I believe he loves her.

Call me a hopeless romantic, but that puts the odds in their favor. Perhaps my sister got the fairytale after all. May they live happily ever after.

I'm losing my mind.

Yes, I know you thought I lost it ages ago.

But no, now I am really losing it.

I have a gajillion things to do before heading out of town this afternoon for my sister's wedding. So what am I doing? Blogging. Why? Because I love insanity. It's my drug of choice. That and chocolate chunk cookie dough, which I just ate half a roll of to alleviate my stress.

Oh man, I think I'm going to hurl.

So, ya'll have a good weekend. I'll catch up with you next week.

Decorating Tips From Supermom

Tired of your home decor? Needing a change? Take a tip from Supermom and turn your ho-hum home into a haven of style and comfort.

White refrigerators are so yesterday. Spruce up yours with a few colorful magnets.


Real plants are preferable to artificial. Especially if you water them and give them plenty of sunlight. I hear they like that.

(Hey, Heather! Remember how you said this plant was hard to kill? I'm managing pretty well, don't you think? Call me an "over achiever".)

Paint half your walls and leave the others for six months or so. Leaving half finished projects gives your home a certain "shabby chic" charm. I have something unfinished in every room.

My favorite is the sponge painting I started 7 years ago.


Now, this may seem a bit unorthodox. I know most professional decorators would tell you to hide toys in your living area from view. However, I find that the basket of toddler appropriate toys give a whimsical touch to the floor furnace during the summer months. And they are purely decorative since our toddler never touches them.

Choose artwork carefully. The right piece can make a room and say a lot about your personal style. This one reflects my sense of humor. Notice how the words "Healthful Cleanliness" and the dust and grime on the picture frame contrast each other. In the art world it's called "irony".


When it comes to light fixtures, less is more.


If you really want to open up a small bathroom, try removing the doors of the vanity. This gives the room a nice, light, airy feel. I removed the doors two years ago to paint them. This falls into the "shabby chic" category, too. It is also multi-purpose by serving as a place for your toddler to play.


Why pay thousands of dollars for someone else to rennovate your home? With these tips your home can have that cozy, lived-in look with no money and virtually no elbow grease...literally.

The Anti-Fairy Tale

"It's not always rainbows and butterflies, but compromise that moves us
along.."
-Maroon 5

Teresa was almost 10 when I was born. Though I wasn't as close to her as my oldest sister, we had a good relationship. She began dating Brian when she was 16 and I was six. Whenever he'd come to the house to pick her up, he would try to steal a kiss from me. He would use whatever means necessary, like bribing me with stuffed animals and tricking me into hiding my eyes. He became like a brother to me.

Two years later Teresa became pregnant and they were married right after she graduated high school. They bought a trailer house and moved to a small town not far from where he worked. A baby boy was born in November and so began their family. Three more boys followed. It wasn't a perfect life, but it was a good one.

Eighteen years later, Brian develops a cough. The doctor treated it like the flu, but it wouldn't go away. As it turns out, it was a tumor pressing against his esophagas. A malignant one.

Nine months later, Brian left Teresa and the four boys. She was a widow at 36.

Brian has been gone for almost six years. Teresa has been dating Mike for about two years. They got engaged in December after an on again/off again relationship. A month later she tells me she gave him the ring back, saying she didn't love him. She still loved Brian. A few weeks later she is wearing the ring again asking me to be the matron of honor in June.

I like Mike. He's very sweet and treats her like a queen. But I don't think she loves him. I don't think he's a good match for her. I don't think they should get married. She knows my thoughts on this. But it is her decision to make. So we've spent the past few weeks getting everything ready for a wedding set to happen this Saturday.

The dress is bought.

The chapel is booked.

The invitations have all been sent.

And Sunday night she called it off.

As of yesterday, it was back on.

My initial reaction was to roll my eyes. It's beginning to feel like an episode from Days of Our Lives. But the more I talk this out, the more my heart hurts for her.

She had a love that was rare and special and beautiful. Not perfect, but seems that way in light of her grief. She wants it again, but doesn't know if it can happen twice in a lifetime. And if it can, does that make it less rare? She wants to let go, but can't. And then she doesn't want to let go. Does letting go mean she doesn't love Brian anymore? Is it okay to love someone else?

And what if it's not that special, magical kind of love feeling you see in the movies? Maybe it's the kind of love that makes her feel safe, secure and not so alone.

Maybe she doesn't feel butterflies. Maybe she doesn't get weak in the knees. Maybe she's not dying to jump into bed with him. Maybe she just likes being with him. And maybe something more will grow out of it.

It might seem dull and un-romantic on the surface, but as people who are constantly looking for instant gratification and self-fulfillment, maybe we have fooled ourselves about love and marriage.

To my sister and her new husband-to-be: May they have a long and happy marriage together. One that grows from friendship, respect and the willingness to take on life together. May God bless them.

Dude Looks Like A Lady

I posted a comment on another blog earlier this week that I wasn't so caught up in how I look anymore.

Scratch that. I am.

I used to be such a cute little girl. I loved wearing dresses, playing with dolls and anything pink. Even into my young adult life I always preferred skirts and dresses to pants. As a professional during the pre-children era I loved wearing my skirts and pumps to work.

Then I had babies.

Going to one income did a number on the clothing budget. Not to mention what pregnancy and easy access to the fridge did to my derriere. Button up blouses gave way to stained T-shirts long and baggy enough to hide my new pudge. Pencil slim skirts were replaced by pants with worn out knees from crawling around on the floor. Pumps...well, I'm not even sure I could walk in them anymore.

But I didn't miss it. At first. These were things I gladly gave up to be home. And if given the choice, I would do it all over again.

But when did I start becoming a man?

The first thing I noticed was one lone, black hair growing from my chest. I plucked it. It came back. Then, while plucking my unibrow one day I noticed more dark, little hairs growing from my chin. Then on my upper lip. Yesterday while putting on lotion I saw them on the top of my foot!

In a year I will look like Frodo Baggins.

Many of you have voiced your disappointment in my new photo above. And to be honest, I don't like it either. I noticed how thick my neck has become. How large my nose looks. How manly my jaw seems.

I look like a drag queen.

I know to many I don't seem like it, but I am girly. Really, I am.

A friend asked me once where Sister got her girly-girl ways. "You don't seem that way," she said, not trying to be unkind.

Let's see. Uh...her dad?

It was me. ME! I'm a girl!! My appearance may tell you otherwise. but it's true. I don't grow facial hair by choice. I don't dress this way because I like it. And doing my hair and makeup would be grand, but I showered and put on deoderant. I can't even seem to fit that in every day.

Oh, to be young, beautiful and feminine again.

Perhaps I should start with shaving my feet.

Britney's Boobs and Mrs. Dugger

This is a great post by my cyber-friend Joyful Journey on moms in the media. Enjoy!

Editorial Comment: For the record, I feel badly for Britney Spears. I would love the chance to hang out with her and let her know we all do stupid stuff from time to time.

I Love You All

I was scrolling down through my comments and a wave of warm fuzzies washed all over me.

Don't worry. I'm fine. They were nice warm fuzzies.

Anyway, I marveled at the relationships I have formed with people out there who could walk by me on the street unnoticed. You come here and read about all my insane goings on and instead of pointing a finger or leaving a snide remark, you encourage me.

Oh, gosh. I hear Josh Grobin in my head.

Seriously, ladies (and a few gentlemen), you make my day. Thanks for coming along beside me.

Times like these I wish I could have you all over for lunch tomorrow so we could crowd around my table in my very small kitchen and yell at our kids to stop interrupting and go play in the street so we could have some mommy time over coffee.

Wouldn't that be great?

Sounds stupid when I don't even know everyone's real names, but I'm rather fond of you. I think you're all Supermoms.

TA-DA!

Here it is! My new look.

I have to say THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU to Susie over at Bluebird Blogs for giving me such a cool, new blog. Susie, you are incredible!! And a true joy to work with. Everybody go visit her and enter to win a free new look for your site!

I so don't miss the dots.

CALGON, TAKE ME AWAY!

I need a vacation. One where nobody touches me or talks to me. Something like Castaway might be good. Only with chocolate. And a PC with internet access.

I must have the neediest children on the planet. I feel as though I am constantly being pulled in three different directions every five minutes. Case in point:

This morning I tried to do some schoolwork with Brother at the kitchen table. Sister is playing Barbies in her room and Baby is at the table with us, making a mess with the pegboard and pattern blocks, but happy and entertained. Sister yells at me from her room about six times. I walk through the house to her room to see what it is she needs, thinking it must be something extremely important. "Could you put this shoe on my Barbie?" she asks. I try to explain to her that she could bring the shoe and the Barbie to me instead of screaming for me to come to her. While I am talking to her Brother starts yelling from the kitchen that he is finished with the assignment I gave him and can he please have a graham cracker? I trek back through the house to find Baby has abandoned the mess she made and has buckled the belt on her booster seat, a neat, new trick she has learned. But now she is grunting for me to unbuckle it so she can buckle it back. I unbuckle it and reach to get Brother's graham cracker and Baby has buckled it back and repeating her request for help by the time I turn around.

Yes. This is a fun game we could play for hours upon end.

As I am unbuckling Sister yells again for me. I walk back through the house to the bathroom where she is on the potty and asks me for a book. I gather six, figuring that should be enough to last. She asks me to read one to her, but I explain to her that I can't right now, but I will later and we need to finish up in the bathroom because we have to make a trip to the store for lightbulbs because Brother's room is completely dark and we are out of lightbulbs...yada, yada, yada. While I am prattling on Baby comes in behind me and grabs the curlers from under the bathroom sink and begins to scatter them.

Another fun game.

Then Brother comes in and grabs me by the back pockets of my pants and begins pulling on me and saying something while Sister is telling me why my reading her a story will help her poop, all the while I am trying to keep my balance and not step on Baby and the minefield of curlers on my teeny tiny bathroom floor.

Do you know what happens when you pull a rubber band too hard?

We go to the store where my children spend a large amount of the time whining, complaining and disobeying. Not to mention I ran into an old church friend again. And I looked like a baglady, again. Actually I looked like a baglady with unruly children.

At lunchtime Brother is sitting at the table waiting for food. Baby is also at the table, eating cantaloupe. Sister is playing Barbies in her room again. While I am making Brother's food I decide to take a quick bathroom break. I give Brother his food and walk through the house to the bathroom. As I am leaving Baby immediately begins to chant, "Mama! Mama!" which is preferable to her usual screeching that sounds like a cross between a wookie and a bat. I'll spare you the gory details of what went on in the bathroom, but needless to say I wasn't quite finished when Brother starts hollering as though he's just seen a black widow or an anaconda slither across the table. "MOM!! MOM!!" I hurry, as much as possible, and run back to the kitchen to see Baby, making the sign for "more" cantaloupe and Brother, who is having a dire, life-threatening hot dog catastrophe. Half of the bun had slid off into his plate.

Big whoop.

And I ask him, "Son, what did you expect me to do for you while I was in the bathroom?" He looks at me as though he knows the answer to this question but has a feeling it's not quite the right one. "Come here," he replies, with a slight question mark. I begin the lecture on being able to solve some problems for yourself. Blah, blah, blah.

It's futile.

I am nearing the end of my proverbial rope and from where I stand there are two options:

1. Hang myself with it.
2. Tie the kids to a chair with it.

The latter is looking do-able.

After lunch comes naptime.

Let me just interject here that what follows next contains referrences to breasts and breastfeeding, so for all you squeamish men reading this, click away now. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. And if I happen to go to church with you and you read this anyway, please don't let me know you read it or I will never be able to look you in the face again.

Okay. Baby is 18 months old and still nursing. To make matter worse, I nurse her to sleep. And if that's not bad enough, she sleeps in mine and Hubby's bed.

Don't look at me that way. I had a colicky infant and two other children at home to teach and take care of. I was desperate when we started the habit and it worked for us. Yes, it will be killer to wean.

Moving right along.

Before naptime we read books. I am nursing Baby while I read the first book and she falls quickly to sleep. I take her to my bed and lay her down. I return to the sofa where I read another book to Brother and Sister. I get Sister in her bed and Brother to his bed and began to feel excited about no one saying "Mama" or "Mom" or any derivitive thereof for about an hour. I sit down at the computer, anxious to blog and relieve some of my stress. I check some email and then pull up my little Blogger account to get started.

What's that?

That noise?

It sounds like the pitter-patter of little feet. Except all the little feet around here should be in bed, with children attached to them.

Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away.

Nope.

It is Baby, who is on a thirty minute nap kick. She smiles and reaches out for a hug, looking all cute and disheveled from her power nap. I pick her up and say, "No. Bed," and carry her back where we begin the nursing process all over again.

Now, for any of you who have nursed your children to sleep, or laid next to them until they went to sleep, you know what a feat of acrobatic prowess and cat-like stealthiness it takes to remove yourself from their side without waking them up. I am a master. But Baby has caught on, and likes to wrap her little hand up inside my shirt, making it more difficult to detach.

Okay, guys. This is your last warning. Boob talk ahead.

I lay still, watching her eyelids droop, blink, and finally close. I listen for the rhythmic breathing and feel for her arm to go limp. I make my move. I bend my thumb and it makes a slight popping noise. Ever so slight. But she hears it and starts. I freeze. Motionless. Silent. But she grabs my breast with both hands and latches on.

Hey, wait a minute. That's MINE! I had it first!!

Her eyes slowly flicker and then close again. I'm stuck. She has me tight within her clutches and isn't letting go.

So, here I am, trying to blog while Baby plays with a bottle of peroxide, Sister is yelling at me from the potty and Brother is watching a video I think is much too violent.

But I got my blog done.

Tomorrow I break out the Nyquil.

Seven Things I Say

Okay, Michelle. Here 'tis:

1. Silly Goose!
2. Sound it out.
3. You're not a little anything. A Seinfeld quote I use when my husband says, "I'm a little...(fill in the blank)." It drives him bonkers. Tee hee.
4. Listen and Obey.
5. What am I? The maid?!
6. Naptime is my favorite time of the day.
7. You're interrupting.

I hereby tag Literature Lover, Cheerio Butt, The Pink Commander and Heth.

List Of Things I Have Recently Lost

I have a knack for misplacing things. Call it a "gift". These are things I currently can't find.

1. A pillowcase to a very expensive set of sheets.
2. A very nice Tupperware container. I have the lid, but no container.
3. A library book. This will go over really well with the Library Nazi.

However, on a happier note. I did find something the other day. Remember the fruit bowl I lost in February? I found it:

Along with six petrified oranges. Cool, huh? I had boxed up some seasonal items that were laying around the house and this was in it. For the record, I did NOT put it there. It must have been one of those elves that like to come around and help me from time to time.

Darned elves. I think they're trying to "gaslight" me.

Why I Love Homeschooling - Reason #54

When you paint your nose to look like a puppy, it's considered "creative expression".

Carnival

There's a Blogging Chicks Carnival going on! Go here to see a list of great Chick sites you can check out, including yours truly.

See? I wasn't making it up. Click here to see the disturbing David Lee Roth appearance on The Tonight Show.

The "Family"

I love going to the library. We go every week. I reserve books/videos/computer software/audio books/CDs online and then we make our trip to pick things up. Then when we get there I browse the shelves for more. It's not unusual for us to come out with 50 items in one trip. It's annoying to my husband, but he's okay as long as I don't send him to pick up our stuff. It embarrasses him. I think he feels like he's looting the place. Imagine that.

I will say it hasn't always been such fun for me. The librarians in our branch our very...well...librarian-ish. I like to refer to them as the Library Gestapo. They are well over 60 and very particular about library rules and regulations. Don't be caught breaking them or you will pay. See, books you can keep for two weeks. But videos and DVDs are only allowed out for one week. They charge you 50 cents a day for each day they're overdue. Now there have been several instances in my library patronage where I haven't been able to make my weekly trip and the wonderful "free" videos from the library end up costing me more than a ticket to a Broadway show. One librarian in particular - we'll call her The Nazi - found it necessary to refresh my memory about the video rules. "If you get them back within the week, it won't cost you anything," she quipped, with a smug smirk.

But I like paying through the nose to see Thomas and the Magic Railroad every day for two weeks straight.

She even went so far as to correct my children for being too loud. I know, I know. You should be quiet in the library and it's her job to enforce that. But I was right there. The words were on the tip of my tongue. And they weren't yelling or screaming. Just talking in a normal voice as opposed to the hushed tones preferred by the Gestapo. And she gave me that look. Good grief. Give me a chance to teach them how to behave, for crying out loud.

I lost a book once. It was Madeline. You'd thought I had killed one of their children. The Nazi, fighting back tears, told me I should have a special place set aside for library books so we can keep them all in one place. I paid for it, but felt their eyes on me each time I visited. Watching me, cringing each time I touched one of their beloved little ones.

Not too long after that they called me, saying I hadn't returned another book. I searched everywhere for it, even though I was 99% sure I had taken back. But I was the one who had been complacent in looking after Madeline, surely it was my fault. Alas, it was nowhere to be found. I was prepared to buy yet another book we could never read. Imagine my surprise, and theirs, when they found it. Someone had put it back on the shelf without logging into their system.

Yeah. I felt vindicated.

However, because I love the library so much, I have done everything within my power to please her strict masters. I made each Wednesday our library day so we could have all videos back in seven days. We designated a special crate in the living room where all library materials go. I remind the kids before we go in to use their "library voices" and no running. I think the Gestapo noticed. They have been very sweet and accommodating when we visit. They even let us check things out when I forgot my library card once, saying, with a sweet smile, "We know who you are."

But last week, I failed them. Due to the stomach virus that ransacked our house, our items were overdue. I dreaded going back. I didn't want to see the disappointment in their faces. Hear the regret in their voices.

I'd lost favor.

And they let me know it. I tried to explain to the Nazi that we'd had a stomach virus, but her sly smile and failure to speak said it all as she silently checked us in.

I don't know whether to be ticked off or scared out of my wits. Why do I get the feeling they're sizing me up for cement shoes?

WARNING!

New look coming. My site will look completely different within the next week. Don't be alarmed when you click over and my crazy mugshot is gone along with those godforsaken dots.

I know. You'll miss them.

But life is all about change. It will be good for you. It will help you grow and stretch as a person. Really. We'll get through it together.

(cue music: I'll Be There - Jackson 5)

Just call my name...I'll be there.

Or click on the link. I'll be there, too.

Pleading

This is my sweet Baby, reaching out to give me one of about twenty hugs she showered upon me at dinner tonight.

Sigh.

Please, God, PLEASE, let me keep her this way forever. I want to stop time and stay here always. When she says "oose" for juice and "ooze" for shoes. When she pretends to meow. When she dances and sings and lays her head on my shoulder when I hold her in my arms. When she laughs that intoxicating baby belly laugh.

Please, can't I?

Diamond Dave Is Dead

There must be something to this 6-6-06 stuff after all. Today really is the end of the world.

I just saw David Lee Roth on The Tonight Show singing a bluegrass version of Van Halan's "Jump".

Yup. You heard right. I said bluegrass.

He looked like a gay televangelist in flare-legged jeans. Where's the spandex? Where's the crazy, devil-may-care hair? He didn't even do even do a toe touch. Not even one.

It's wrong. Wrong, I tell you.

Lost: Waistline

I've lost my waist. I know I used to have one. I have pictures to prove it. But it's gotten away from me somehow. It is nowhere to be found.

On a related subject, I found a bag of M&M's today I had hidden from the kids and forgot about. I put the sweeties to bed at 7:45 this evening and inhaled the bag in about 0.25 seconds. However, it was just a small bag, so it only left me wanting more.

Now, what was I saying about my waist?

I didn't realize it was gone until I recently went looking for a dress to wear in my sister's upcoming wedding. I am her matron of honor.

Matron. That word conjures up images of hair slicked into a tight, little bun and eyeglasses on a chain.

Anyway, she won't be having any bridesmaids, so I get to pick what I want to wear, as long as it's lavender. Initially, I was kind of excited. I haven't worn a dress of any kind in about three years. The thought of getting to pick out a beautiful, evening gown sort of dress and have a reason to get all girlied up made me giddy.

Well, that didn't last long. Shopping for a beautiful, lavender, flattering dress was almost as painful as shopping for a swimsuit. See, I'm not a 21-year-old size 4, which is who all the pretty dresses are made for. The dresses in my size seemed to be very fitting of the word "matron". Actually, they were very fitting of the word "tent", too, which is what I was considering after a day of shopping.

"Hello? Bass Pro Shop? Yes, do you carry the Coleman Montana Big Sky tent in lavender?"

I came home discouraged and disappointed. The truth is, instead of an hourglass, I look like a sausage. A bratwurst, if you may. No waist.

So, after complaining to my hairdresser, she rescued me from having to go back out on the frontlines of dress shopping. Turns out her daughter was in a wedding last year and has a lovely, lavender bridesmaid dress in my size. It fits. It's pretty. And it's strapless, showing off the batwings I have grown on the underside of my upper arms.

Now, what to do about my farmer tan?

Oh, yeah. If you happen to see my waist, please tell it to come home. I miss it very much.

A Post About Nothing

Nothing.

It's been almost a full week since I posted anything, which must be a record for me. But when I sit down to type...nothing. I can't think of anything remotely interesting to write about.

Is it Blogger's Block?

Could it be that life is becoming smoother...less chaotic, leaving me less to blog about? No. That couldn't be it.

Perhaps it is the calm before the storm and I should be terrified.

Thinking...thinking...

Nope. I got nothin'.