Read Any Good Books Lately?

There was a time when I loved reading. I devoured books. Sometimes one in a day.

Then along came my beautiful children...

However, I am trying to fit reading back into my schedule. I just got a copy of a new book called Arms of Deliverance by Tricia Goyer. (Go here to read the first chapter!) This is the summary from the back cover:

"Katrine, a Czech Jew, is so successful in her attempt to passas an Aryan that she finds herself dating a Nazi officer. Having convinced him of her genetic purity, the officer sends her to stay at a Lebensborn home - A Nazi breeding program in which children are raised and indoctrinated by the state.

Meanwhile, rival American reporters Lee and Mary land assignments on the frontlines of war-torn Europe --Lee joins troops sailing for Normandy, while Mary's destiny lies in the cramped quarters of a B-17 bearing down on Berlin. Before the presses roll, their lives will be indelibly marked by a caring American navigator, brave French resistors, and a maniacal Nazi officer. Arms of Deliverance is a story of unexpected redemption."

I may be making myself look stupid here, but I didn't even know there was such a thing as a Nazi breeding program. That alone interests me. And I think the artwork on the cover is gorgeous.

There I go...judging a book by its' cover.

So, what are you reading?

Meme For Babies

Okay, I don't really like Memes. But this one is really creative. Corrie from Rocks In My Dryer tagged Baby for this. So here it is. All you ever wanted to know about my Baby:
3 Things That Scare Me

• Mommy getting too far away from me, unless I'm at Super, Mega, Ultra McDonald's. Then I want to run away from her as fast as my little legs will carry me.
• Strangers, because they may want to take me away from my Mommy.
• Mommy leaving me in the nursery at church.

3 People That Make Me Laugh

• Brother
• Sister
• The cat

3 Things I Love

• Mommy
• The Computer
• Belly Buttons

3 Things I Hate

• When Mommy leaves me in the nursery at church (See above, 3 Things That Scare Me).
• Not getting to go bye-bye when Daddy takes Brother and Sister with him to the store.
• Cucumbers.

3 Things I Don't Understand

• Why I can't eat butter from the butter dish with my fingers.
• Why I don't have my own blog. I know I could do it if Mom would just let me at it!
• Why not everyone loves having my cute, little razor-sharp fingernail jammed in their belly button. I think it's hilarious.

3 Things On My Floor

• "Mr. Brown Can Moo" by Dr. Suess
• plastic Elmo
• shoes

3 Things I'm Doing Right Now

• Sleeping
• Dreaming
• Snoring

3 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

• Get on that computer. I'm dying to see what happens.
• Go swimming without floaties.
• Have my very own cell phone. And not one of those stupid toy ones they try to fool me with. I want the real deal, baby.

3 Ways To Describe My Personality

• Fearless (well except for that whole "mommy going away" thing)
• Fun-Loving
• Hot-Tempered

3 Things You Should Listen To

• Garth Brooks' "Wrapped Up In You". It's my favorite! I can even sing along.
• My Discovery Toys car. It makes a really loud clicking noise when you push it. Great stuff. Mom loves it.
• The pager beep on the cordless phone. I love to push it when Mommy's not looking.

3 Things You Should Never Listen To

• "Don't Touch"
• "Stop"
• "Come Here"

3 Absolute Favorite Foods

• watermelon
• cheese
• puffy Cheetos

3 Things I'd Like To Learn

• How to talk.
• How to ride a bike.
• How to sneak Mom's cell phone without getting caught.

3 Beverages I Drink Regularly

• Juice
• water
• milk

3 Shows I Watch

• Dora the Explorer
• Sesame Street
• Thomas the Tank Engine

3 Babies I Tag

• Gemma from Under the Laundry Pile
• Girlie Girlie from Confessions of A Stressed Out Mom
• Little Warrior from The Barefoot Poet

McFryday (Get it? Friday?)

Today the kids and I went to the new Super, Mega, Ultra McDonald's. And yes, it is all that. Basketball, high tech games (that weren't working) and even a couple of mini-trampolines.

(And in this photograph I have a lovely shot of some mommy's backside. She'd be thrilled to know it's posted for the entire universe to see.)

So, why was I at the new Super, Mega, Ultra McDonald's, you ask? Well, I made a new friend today.
Shannon from Rocks in My Dryer! Turns out, we're sorta neighbors. How cool is that?! And what a time we had. Between chasing toddlers we got to know each other outside of Blogland. What a sweet lady.

I'll admit, I was a little nervous. I didn't sleep well last night. I thought, "What if we don't hit it off? What if our children hate each other? What if there's no 'click'?" Well, that and I drank a Pepsi at 9:00 p.m. so I had a good caffeine buzz going. I needn't have worried. The kids got along great and once I found out she has a Hairbow Fettish, too, I knew she could be trusted. It was like chatting with an old friend.

Not only that, but a cold front has moved through tonight, giving us respite from the blazing heat.

All in all, I'd say it's been a pretty great day.

Color me McHappy.

Discovery of Head Cracks Cold Case

Sister's Room (AP) - A head belonging to the wife of a murder victim was found in a plastic, pretend microwave on Wednesday. The head belonged to Barbie, who was a suspect in her husband's death earlier this year, along with the Fairy Tale Prince. After finding Barbie in much the same way as her late husband, Police began to believe it was the work of a serial killer. After a thorough investigation, evidence led them to Sister, shown in this snapshot.
Sister has a history of violence with small, plastic people and often uses disguises to charm and disorient authorities. However, when questioned, she was quick to admit guilt. "I just wanted to pull it," was her statement in regard to the discovered head. So far, no formal charges have been filed, but she is expected to receive no more than probation and community service at the hand of her mother.
The Fairy Tale Prince could not be reached for comment.
Services for Barbie were held today at the Kitchen Trashcan.

Chocolate, Anyone?

"Mommy, I made my own chocolate milk!" were the words that woke me from Dreamland this morning. And this was the chocolate covered mouth that uttered them in a sweet little whisper.
"Good, Sweetie," I replied groggily. That is my cue to rise and shine.
After dragging myself out of bed I shuffle to the living room on my way to the kitchen to make my coffee. I can't function until I've had my coffee. I feel something grainy on my feet. "What's this?" I ask. Brother informs me it is Ovaltine. Sister had brought it into the living room, for some reason. Probably to eat it from the can. Upon entering the kitchen, I find chocolate milk on the table and floor with Ovaltine sprinkled about.

Remember, I haven't had my coffee. I sigh. Sister is standing beside me. She had been so proud of herself, and now she was standing there looking so sorry.

Now, tell me, could you be angry with a face like that?

On the other hand, I did find this smeared on my bathroom wall:









Pray tell, Gentle Reader, might you care to guess what it is? Need a hint?

IT AIN'T CHOCOLATE MILK!!!!!!!

One of my children got a little "messy" while wiping one day and decided to wipe it on the nearest surface.

Help me. Please.

Heat Exhaustion

I sat down tonight with a post in mind, and a perfect photo to go along with it. This was the message from Blogger that greeted me.

We need to perform hardware maintenance on the photos system for Blogger. This means that photo uploading and serving will be down for approximately 1 hour starting at 5pm (Pacific Time). All photos previously uploaded will not be visible during this maintenance.Thanks for your understanding.

Update: This is now complete. Thanks for your patience.

So, do you see a photo? No?

Thanks, Blogger. Glad to know the problem is fixed.

So, since I cannot upload a photo, you will get to participate in a little envisioning exercise. It's good for you. It will stimulate your frontal lobe.

That's on your brain. Don't get too excited.

Imagine, if you will, a photo of a cherub-faced toddler with sky blue eyes and a perky little ponytail lying on the floor throwing a no-holds-barred, world class, raise the roof tantrum.

That, my friends, is exactly what my day has been in a nutshell. So sit back, and grab a Coke. Supermom is about to do some whining.

First of all, the heat outside is approaching Supernova proportions. Our little three foot swimming pool has been turned into a jacuzzi, offering no refreshment. It is so hot we can't even be outside and enjoy it. So we have become like hermits, holed up in our house with all the blinds drawn to keep the sun from burning holes in our brains.

You know what happens when you keep three kids indoors for too long, don't you? Mutiny. They are all conspiring against me to drive me completely and utterly insane.

I tried to find fun things to do. I suggested we fold laundry. That didn't work. I said we could do worksheets. No takers. What's wrong with these kids?

So I brought out the big guns. We'll go grocery shopping. AND we'll buy cookies.

Am I great mom, or what?

And that was a lot of fun. So much fun that I had to come home and eat a dozen of the two dozen cookies we bought to alleviate my (ahem) fun.

All day long my children have been disobedient, rude, obnoxious, whiney and...well, I can say it now...bratty. Yup. They've been bratty.

They've been fighting with me, fighting with each other and it has been all I can do today to not scream and throw things across the room. Seriously, folks. I am stressing OUT. All I wanted to do was veg in front of my computer and have them leave me alone.

I know. That sounds terrible. I've been guilting myself all day for feeling that.

Now I can say with a fair amount of confidence that I am a very "hands on" mom. I rarely leave my kids with other people. And I normally love to play with them. I pride myself in that. But lately I am feeling the need for a break. I just need some distance. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the hormones. Maybe it's the pressure of being the sole parent in the household for what feels like 24/7 (even though that's not really true). Or maybe it's all of the above. But I can't find the energy in me to suck it up and take my Supermom title seriously.

I think I need a hiatus. Maybe Alaska. Maybe Siberia. Maybe Antarctica.

Tonight Baby and I made the rounds, tucking in Sister and Brother before I put her down. She climbs up into Sister's bed and gives her a hug, laying her head on Sister's chest. We say goodnight to Brother, on the top bunk of his bunk beds and I turn to leave the room. She starts to cry and reaches around for him. I lift her up to him, where she throws her soft little arms around his neck and he kisses her chipmunk cheek.

Sigh.

That kind of makes up for the tantrum.

Update

My sister called earlier to give me some very good news. She met with the surgeon today and he said it doesn't look like cancer. They will operate (probably next week) to remove the mass and she will go home the next day.

Thank you all so much for your prayers and your sweet words. It is amazing to me how you have all reached out to me when I've never even seen your faces (well, there's a few I have). This silly little blog I started as a journal has taken on a life of it's own and brought me such incredible friends (can I call you that?).

Thank God.

Bittersweet

When I was a girl, we spent every weekend hanging out with our family. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins...the whole clan. In the summertime we would go fishing and picnicing below the dam or on the creek where us kids would swim in lifejackets and tennis shoes and down ice cold Orange Crush from the cooler. When the weather turned colder we would usually meet at my grandparents house. The adults gathered round the dining room table and played some raucous games of Rook and dominos. My cousins and I played with the rusty, metal cars and trucks Grandma bought at a garage sale for us. What wonderful, happy memories for me.

Several years ago my parents moved in across the street from my sister. Hubby and I would go down almost every weekend. My sister, her husband and children, my brother, my parents...we would cook and play and eat and take naps and play games. It was a bonding ritual patterned after those sweet childhood memories.

But things changed. My sister's husband got very sick and we all watched him wither away and die. It left a giant hole in our family. And because none of us handled it well, that giant hole became a chasm. The relationships suffered. And I have hated it. I have wanted the closeness for my own family. Children should know their grandparents. They should know their aunts and uncles. They should have those wonderful memories to comfort them and bring them a smile in life.

I have wanted it for myself, too. I need the support of my mother and older sister, who have gone this way before me. I want the relationship we can have now that I am an adult. My soul has been empty of that. And I have suffered because of it.

But today was like old times.

I took the day off from church and went to my sister's house. Mom and Dad came. My brother, too. We cooked together. We ate together. We laughed and reminisced together. My children ate too much dessert. Today all the walls were down and we just spent the day complaining about the heat, snapping at each other now and then, and doing nothing, but doing something. It was like rain on my parched heart.

Just before I started home, my sister helped me bathe my kids in her big, whirlpool bathtub, which the kids loved. As she dried Baby, she said, "It's been almost like normal today. I haven't really thought about it."

And I hadn't either.

But now I am. Tonight I play pictures of today in my mind. I see my sister holding my children, kissing their little cheeks and saying, "I love you. You know that, right?" more than once...more than twice. I see her stealing a kiss from her new husband and exchanging a knowing glance. I see her tapping her foot and humming a hymn. I see her joking with her boys and laughing around the table.

I feel her embrace, which feels so true and so overwhelmingly full. I hear her words in my ear about how much she loves me and my heart breaks. And I feel myself pull away inside. I want so much to be close to her, but now I fear the ending.

Please, God...

The Gift of Music

I have a good friend, The Barefoot Poet. Poet is a wonderful writer with a very sweet wife and an adorable baby boy. Poet is also a very gifted musician.

Hubby and I had Poet and his family over for dinner a couple of weeks ago. However, he failed to mention beforehand that he wasn't a fan of Kelly Clarkson.

He doesn't think she has anything to say.

He likened her to Britney Spears.

Okay, Poet. It's ON.

So, just for my friend, Poet, I am posting this musical treat by the always entertaining, Ms. Hilary Duff. It's an infectious melody with haunting lyrics. The bridge is especially thought provoking. How does she do it?!

But the best thing about this song, is how it stays stuck in your head once you hear it, playing on a continuous loop all day and into the night. So, Poet, that is my gift to you. Enjoy.

Click here to see the video.

Tonight I am heavy-hearted.

My parents came over early this morning to treat the kids and I to breakfast and find some garage sales. I come from a long line of garage sale fanatics. It's what we do on the weekends during the summer. The kids ran up to the car as soon as it pulled into the driveway, practically knocking my mom over in the rush to give her a hug. Her and dad were all smiles, getting that special look that grandparents get when they see their grandchildren. I stand back and observe, as I love to watch it. When the kids have sufficently smothered MeeMaw and PawPaw with chatter and affection, I go to give mom a hug. She sighs.
"Ann's in the hospital again," she says, speaking of my aunt. "She's got a blood clot."
"Oh, no," I say, giving mom a kiss.
"And your sister has a problem."
I look at mom's face, thinking I know the problem and wondering if I'm right. I thought there might be trouble between Teresa and her new husband. But Mom's mouth quivers and her eyes become moist. "She had a colonoscopy done. They found a mass..."

I don't remember her exact words. But they believe the mass to be malignant.

My sister is 42. The mother of four boys. A widow of cancer. A newlywed.

She will have surgery next week. We will know more then.

It's difficult to put words to the emotions. I'm not sure I can. I am asking everyone to pray. For what? I don't know. My faith is stretching thin, but I know God is sovereign, and it is only in Him that I have any hope at all.

My first thoughts are selfish. But this is far-reaching. Teresa's boys are our greatest concern.

Pray for them. Pray for her. Pray for my parents. Pray for us all.

Spacing Out

I'm feeling a little claustrophobic today. Everywhere I turn there are little feet following me, like I have four shadows instead of one.

I've said it before. My house is small. About 1100 square feet. Usually, we make it work just fine. But today...today has been different. Could it be the discovery that Baby has grown 2 3/4 inches since January?

Sad, but true.

This morning I was having my slaves, I mean, children help with the laundry before we started school. Brother and Sister were in the living room folding the whites. I heard the buzzer on the dryer and walked to the laundry room to empty it. You've seen pictures of my laundry room. There is about a 12"x12" square of floor to stand on. I stand in that spot, lean over and grab a huge armload of laundry to dump on the couch for the slaves, I mean, children to fold. Apparently that little patch of floor is a prime location for eating bananas because Baby decided to do just that right next to my feet. As I turn to deliver the armload, which is blocking my view of my feet and the floor beneath me, I trip over her, knocking her over and almost killing myself in an effort to keep from squashing her like a cute, little bug. Clean laundry falls on a not-so-clean floor. Re-wash it? Of course not! Pick it up, dust it off and deliver it to the couch.

Phase two of our productive morning: Table Time. This is the hour in the morning we spend on "book learnin' ". We do our workbooks, worksheets and other things that involve writing or drawing. With three people calling my name and needing my attention, most of this time is a blur. But one part I remember vividly is Baby fussing about being at the table with us. After trying to appease her with various things, I finally let her down to get into whatever trouble she is sure to find. Brilliant move on my part. She is toddling around the kitchen and wanders into the laundry room. Then she comes back into the kitchen and I hear a thud. She is standing there rubbing her eye, but not crying. I'm thinking she bumped her head or her eye or something, but since she's not wailing I give her a quick "Aw, are you okay?" and try to control the Play Doh chaos that is erupting at the table. Pretty soon she scurries up to the bench with Sister and Brother and starts clamoring for some Play Doh. They're all playing and making a grand mess when I turn and notice Baby's face. There is something red all over it. At first I thought she had tried to shove red Play Doh up her nose. But upon closer inspection I discover her nose has been bleeding and she has smeared it all over.

10:00 a.m. and we're rockin' and rollin'.

Fast forward to lunchtime. I make the kids bean burritos, serve them and they begin eating. Then I make my lunch. By the time I sit down, Brother has downed his and wants another. I hop up and start to make him one. He gets up and comes to stand on top of me...I mean, right next to me.
"Hey, Mom, where's my Kool-Aid?" he asks.
"It's in that pitcher in the sink. I just have to finish stirring it."
"I'll do it." He begins to stir.
There are just enough beans left to make Brother's burrito.
Sister chimes in from the table, "Mommy, I want another, too!"
"I don't want to stir anymore," says Brother. He spies me stealing beans from his tortilla and putting some on half a tortilla for Sister. He is right up next to me, sticking his face in it all. "Is there enough?"
I'm feeling a little irritated. "Yes, go sit down."
"Are you sure? I'm really hungry."
"Yes, sit down." I take his to the microwave which is located in my spacious laundry room. I stand on my little square of floor space and lean over the laundry hamper to pop it in. Brother, being the inquisitive and very obedient child he is, is right there, observing all the incredibly interesting details of microwaving canned refried beans and a little cheese on a tortilla. Fascinating stuff.
"GO SIT DOWN!" I say sweetly. And he promptly does.
I return to the kitchen to pour them Kool-Aid and he is right back up, invading my space.

SPACE!! SPACE!!! MY KINGDOM FOR SPACE!!!

I finally get Brother's and Sister's second helping finished and sit down to eat my lunch, when Baby, who is finished eating, is crying, reaching for me and saying, "Na Na!", which means "night-night" or "I want to go to bed NOW!"

I scarf down my lunch with Baby on my lap, whining and trying to lift up my shirt. All you nursing moms know what that means, right? And I dream of wide open spaces, where my children can scream and yell outside the 3 feet circumference around me.

Who am I kidding? It wouldn't matter how much space I have, they are going to be underfoot for a while. And really, I guess I'm glad for that.

But in the meantime, maybe I can get Ty What's-His-Name with the washboard abs to come makeover my house, Extreme-style.

Dear Ty and the Extreme Makeover Home Edition Team,

I am a stay-at-home, homeschooling mother of three very large, very loud,
very energetic children and wife to a man with huge feet. We are
squished like sardines. Please come build us a really, really big house
before:
1. our children grow more and the house actually explodes
or
2. I am forced to check myself into the nearest looney bin.

Sincerely,
Supermom

P.S. Never mind. I think the looney bin sounds wonderful. I'll
have a private room, right?

Why I Love To Bake

Guilty Pleasure

I have a confession. I like to look at tabloid covers when I'm in the checkout line at the grocery store.

C'mon. Be honest. You do it, too.

I try not to be obvious, though. I stand in front of Better Homes and Gardens and pretend to care about doing my own home improvements or whether or not I'm raising spoiled brats, but I'm actually looking out of the corner of my eye at the Star magazine caddy corner down from it and wondering which mystery celebrity is wearing that bikini and cellulite on her thighs. Yikes! Is that how Cameron Diaz looks without makeup? And don't even get me started on Star Jones.

Now those really stupid stories, like alien babies and 7,000 pound people don't interest me at all. I'm no idiot. I mean, I know the difference between reality and a plain, bald-faced lie. I'm an intellectual, for cryin' out loud.

What?! Lindsay Lohan was spotted with a new tatoo while shopping for cleaning products at Target with Johnny Depp and his secret love child named Nissan?

Now there's a story.

I was in Barnes and Noble the other night with a friend. We had gathered up tons of books on writing, getting published and the like. We sat in the cafe, sometimes chatting, sometimes sitting in silence, soaking up the written words like a Bounty towel on spilled Kool-Aid. During one of our conversations the subject matter turned to children. Imagine that. She began to pour out her heart about the struggles she's having with her pre-teen daughter. I sat listening intently as she described the pain and angst of life with a hormonal girl. At times, even tearing up with emotion. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, her gaze fixed over my shoulder and her jaw dropped. "Oh my gosh!" she exclaimed.

What? A spider on my shoulder? A 7,000 pound man? What?

"Jen and Vince are getting married?!" She jumped up from her seat and ran to grab the magazine with the jarring headline, bringing it back to the table to devour every seedy detail. She flipped through quickly, anxious to get the skinny on the wedding plans.

I couldn't believe it. Her. My smart, bookish friend with wisdom beyond her years. Honestly, I couldn't believe she even knew who Vince was. Here she was, pouring over the article as if her very being depended on knowing this juicy bit of gossip.

As it turns out, it was all a hoax. The article was just a sneaky way to get you to pick up the magazine. And she fell for it. Hook. Line. And sinker.

"You want to read it?" she asks, handing it to me.

"No," I snort haughtily. As if I care about Jen and Vince.

"But I do want to look at the fashions at the beginning. You flipped through those too fast."

Seriously. Did you see what Keira Knightly wore to her movie premiere?

Everyday Things

Everyday Mommy runs a weekly post called "Everyday Things" where she asks us to post something sort of "ordinary" for which we are thankful. That is what my post is. However, Blogger is having issues and won't let me upload the banner. So close your eyes and imagine really hard that there is a cute little blue rectangle with red, ripe tomatoes reading "Everyday Tomatoes" in this space.

It's a hot Saturday and I'm broke. Hubby is at work. The kids and I are home, cleaning up around the house. The kids are whining about staying home and doing chores. It's not really what I want to be doing either. I'm trying to think of something fun and thrifty we could do and weighing the cost of gas against everything. The kids earned coupon books from the Library's Summer Reading program for all kinds of free stuff. So I promise to take them to the candy store where they can redeem their coupons for free ice cream cones. After lunch we make our way to the Candy Castle at the mall.

I park in front of Dillard's because Candy Castle is right next to it inside the mall, and I don't want to have to walk through the rest of the mall to get there. The air conditioning cools our sticky skin and the smell of clean and new tickle my nose. I stick out like a sore thumb in my worn T-shirt and no makeup and I feel as though I've been transported to another dimension. I lead my three, hot children through the aisles of clothes, jewelry and shoes without having to stop and say "Don't touch!" even once. I suppose they are preoccupied with more exciting things, like a cold, sweet treat and riding the escalator. Whatever the reason, I am thankful.

We make it to the candy store without incident and order the cones. Strawberry Swirl for Sister. Chocolate Swirl for Brother. And Baby and I share Orange Swirl in a cup. We decide to sit in the cool food court and people watch while we eat our ice cream. Radio Disney has a stage set up surrounded by parents and kids. It seems they are playing games and handing out prizes. Brother wants to participate. We move to a table closer to observe. They play a few more games and have a mini-concert with three young, teeny-boppers singing about being true to yourself and following your dreams. A nice little "freebie" we didn't plan that added a bit more fun to our outing. The ice cream is soon devoured and close by are mechanical cars and trucks requiring quarters. So I give Brother 50 cents to ride once and Sister 50 cents to ride with Baby. After the short rides have ended, we make our way back to the van.

Since there are no distractions to keep them from it, the kids decide to stop, look and touch practically everything on the way back through Dillard's. In trying to focus them, I too, get caught up in looking. I wonder what it is like to come to this store and buy something. Not because it's 75% off, but just because you like it. Because it's flattering. Because it makes you feel good. Discontent creeps up on me and I try to bat it away. We almost make it out when Sister spots the fairy dresses next to the door that she had somehow missed on our way in. "Oh, Mommy! I want one of those!" The dresses are flowing and sparkling in pink, blue and mint with pictures of fairies on the front. A prissy little girls' dream. An older woman walks in the door and says to her, "You look just like one of those," pointing to a fairy. Sister smiles and I see her imagination spin a sweet, little dream of glittery wings and silken gowns. She would look every inch a fairy in one of the dresses. "Not today, Sweetie," I say and steer her out the door.

Once in the van, Brother asks me to drive by the movie theatre so he can look at the posters posted on the outside. But I'm hot, Baby is tired and I just want to get home. "No," I answer. "I'm going the opposite direction to avoid traffic. They're doing construction that way and I don't want to have to wait." Brother is angry and doesn't mind letting me know it. He slaps the seat in front of him, furrows his brow and crosses his arms. I feel the anger rise up to my ears. I begin my lecture. "Why is it that every time I try to do something fun with you, you have to find one little thing you don't get your way and get upset about it? You need to control your temper. When we get home, you're going to bed." This upsets him further and he keeps trying to push back. I am hurt by his ungrateful attitude and don't understand why he would treat me this way. It feels like I can never do enough. Like my gifts today, though small, were insignificant.

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This morning at church I was so glad to be in worship. My heart was loaded down with feelings of hurt, anger and abandonment. Feeling like my God had abandoned me with a husband and three small children and not enough to give. But in worship I could give all those feelings back and not think about the emptiness my own discontent has brought.

Afterwards, one of our members gave a slideshow presentation from a mission trip to New Orleans. A group from our church went with Samaritan's Purse to help hurricane victims. There were video clips of the devestation that took me by surprise. I've seen it on the news. I know what happened. And yes, it is sad. But it has been too easy to keep it all at a distance and not really consider the horror of it all. Seeing those pictures broke my heart. Pictures of homes and businesses swallowed by water. People sleeping outside on the ground. Babies being given bottled water to try and satiate their hunger and keep them hydrated.

I began to cry. I cried for all those faceless, nameless people I had claimed to care for, but never bothered to consider their circumstance. I cried for their pain and their struggle and their loss. I cried for those children and their parents, helpless to do for them what parents ought to do. And I also cried out of shame. I thought of my hurt at Brother's reaction to all I had tried to do for him. And I realized my own reactions to everything God has given me was very much the same. I have a home, with a roof and air conditioning. A bed inside. My children have clothing. We have hot food. We have each other. And my focus lately has been on having more. In my heart I've been slapping the seat in front of me and wondering why I don't have everything the way I want it. There are people in New Orleans who have had all those things taken from them. God forgive me.

So, this is a long way to saying I am thankful for the everyday things like four walls, a roof and a safe place to sleep. I have reprieve from a hot sun. I have clean water to drink.

I am thankful for the haven of home and family.

Flashback

Before I found the miracle of blogging, I used to send out annoying emails to my family and friends detailing the amazing adventures of my life. I figured it had to somehow, someway be recorded for posterity. While visiting Diana's blog, I ran across her post of her son's binky in the toilet and it made me think of a particular story involving a toy mouse. I found it in my email archives and decided to post it here. It was dated last July, so it is exactly a year old. My how time flies:

A couple of weeks ago Sister earned a little Cinderella doll complete with microscopic shoes and two little mice (Jack and Mary). Even more than Cinderella with her rubbery finery and accesories, Sister loves these two little mice. She plays with them all the time. Remember that.

Okay, it's 7:45...we're nearing the home stretch...bedtime. Everyone is clean, teeth are brushed, toys are put away and I am ready to get everyone tucked in. Brother decides he need to go to the bathroom just as the phone rings. I am sitting in Sister's room when I answer it. Baby is playing on the floor and Sister is trying to talk me into playing with either Jack or Mary mouse. Brother is doing his business. The voice on the other end is someone with blah-blah financial blah-blah interest rate blah blah blah. Sister decides to ask Brother to playwhile he is on the toilet. While I am trying to get rid of the blah blah lady Sister comes back into the room and says Brother dropped Jack into the water. "Okay, honey, just a minute," I say. Then I peek into the bathroom and see Brother standing instead of sitting. "I dropped Jack in the water, " he says as he gazes into the toilet.

Wait, it gets better :-)

I take the phone with me into the bathroom to find Jack at the bottom of the toilet right next to a giant turd. Blah blah financial lady is still chattering away so I finally hang up and am grossing out because Sister wants me to get him out. Well, there's no way I'm going in after it, so I announce that Jack will be flushed. Sister immediately starts crying and lamenting her darling Jack.

So here I am with a decision...fish or flush.

Jack is now swimming in a cup of bleach, where he will remain until morning when he will make his way to the dishwasher for further disinfecting. All is well in rubbery Cinderella-land.

Drum Roll, Please...

Are you sitting down?

No, really. Are you? If you aren't, then sit. Now.











Seriously. You need to sit down.














Are you ready?













I finished painting my living room.

















It's true!! Look at the lovely white trim, the door, which was previously primer gray and my beautiful Nutmeg Brown walls! It took me three entire evenings of staying up until one and two o'clock in the morning, but the peace I feel when I enter my living room is well worth it. It's the first time in the eight years I have lived here that my living room has been entirely painted. I even hung up the window toppers I bought on clearance in December. It's coming together to make a nice, little room.

You didn't think I'd do it, did you?

Of course, the rest of my house had to suffer:















But you'd just be jealous if every room in my house looked great. It's okay. I like to do my part to make everyone else feel better about themselves. Keeps me humble.

Party at my house tonight to celebrate.

Of course, you have to stay in the living room.

Misery Loves Company

I woke up stressed out today. Not a good sign. I have this friend who is, well, how do I put this?...a control freak. Her control issues have become a hinderance in our relationship and I have been at the point I am ready to let her go. However, she called me last week and wanted to get together. And because I am too gutless to be honest with her, I invited her over. So today I woke up stressed.

Everything about her is neat and tidy. Her house, her clothes, her hair, her children, her Suburban. Always put together. Always has the appearance of complete control.

But that isn't what bothers me.

What bothers me is the many occassions she has tried to impose her tidiness on me, even going as far as to make fun of my inability to control. I can take a joke, but she's not joking. She really sees me as not living up to my potential, whatever that means.

So I woke up feeling I had to get a shower, do my makeup, do my hair and get my house spotless. Oh, and run some very important errands and tend to my children, as well. But everything was working against me from the beginning. For starters, I woke up to find the box for the Special Addition Superman granola bars with blue and red chocolate chips in the trash. Not a big deal, except I just bought them yesterday. When I questioned Brother, he admitted to eating the eight - Count 'em. Eight. - remaining bars for breakfast this morning. And it just went downhill from there. By lunchtime Brother had a stomachache (shocker!) and I wasn't able to accomplish anything I had set out to do. While putting Baby down for a nap I found myself feeling like a miserable failure and the tears began to flow.

"Stop crying, you idiot!!" I scolded myself. "Answer the door with red eyes and a splotchy face so she can ask what's wrong. That's all you need!" I tried to suck it up. But my eyes were like two leaky faucets, unable to stop dripping. So I decided to let it out. I could always lie and tell her my allergies were really bad.

What is it about me that delights in other's struggles? Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see anyone really suffer. But I would have loved for her to show up on my doorstep completely disheveld saying, "Man, the baby didn't sleep at all last night and I didn't even have the energy to shower. I left a dirty diaper laying on the kitchen counter and my bed unmade. Do you have a Wal-Mart sack so I can clean out the trash in my car real quick? Oh, yeah. Can I borrow a maxi pad?" I might have kissed her perfectly manicured big toe if she had. I just need to see some reality now and then.

After a nice little breakdown, my head cleared a bit and I was able to put some perspective on the situation. I couldn't believe I had let myself get so worked up about something so silly. This is who I am. Flighty. Unorganized. Compulsive. Completely out of control. Every day I work toward being better. However, I will never be one of those women who keep it all together in a lovely, little designer package. Why have I let her put pressure on me to be something I'm not? Or maybe I'm the one who's putting on the pressure.

I got up, dried my eyes and didn't even dab on concealer. I moved the laundry basket from the couch to my room so she would have a place to sit and let the rest go. Not even a Clorox wipe to the toilet.

Great Blog

Guys, you have got to run, don't walk, over to this blog. This lady is very sarcastic and dry.

I LOVE HER!

She makes me want to hop the next plane to Texas and be her best friend. Seriously. Go check her out.

SSSSSHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Mark it on your calendars, folks. It is a day that will go down in history.

All three of my children are napping at the same time.

That's right. The SAME time.

Now I will lip sync a very happy song, so as not to wake them.

When did my seven-year-old son begin turning into a thirteen-year-old girl? I swear, Brother is more emotional these days than a pre-menstrual tweenager. And I don't know what to do about it.

Each time something doesn't go his way, he sees fit to turn around and run off, usually spewing something over his shoulder like, "You just don't want me to have any fun!" or "You're making my life miserable!"

It's like a scene from Lizzy McGuire. Or so I've heard.

This morning after church a group of his friends and their parents were going out to eat lunch. I have a twenty in my wallet for gas and that is it. No extra for eating out. Apparently this was a lunch of particular signifigance in his social life, even though he had just spent three hours "hanging with his homies". Never mind that. His fun quota hadn't been met yet. Once I dared to tell him we were going home and not out, he ran away from me into the kitchen. I followed and ordered him to come with me. "I want to be alone," he said sullenly, pulling off a pout that would make Greta Garbo green with envy. "I need some quiet time." "Well," I replied. "You can have all the quiet time you want in your room at home. Come with me. NOW." And in case he still didn't get the picture, I put on my best crazed, maniacal mommy face, lest he think about storming off again. He hops up and I turn to make sure my other two children are present and accounted for. I grab the girls, my stuff and head to the door.

Wait a minute.

One. Two.

Yup. The third, has gone AWOL. I ask other people standing around if they have seen Brother. No one has. I assume he has gone ahead to the van, since he wouldn't dare hide from me. I go out to the parking lot, where the hot sun is beating down on me and I'm balancing books, bag and children. I see the van, but no seven-year-old sillouette in the window.

Brother has a death wish.

So we trapse back to the building - did I mention it was hot? - where I almost rip the door off the hinges. As I walk in I see Brother hiding out in the prayer room, looking very guilty. I speak two words.

Here. Now.

And it's all I can do to not go postal. I inform him he will be receiving a spanking at home. We go back out to the van and get loaded up, where I give instructions for complete silence. I hit the road like a Nascar driver with a severe case of road rage. And no one spoke a word. Probably feared for their dear little lives.

We make it home in one piece and Brother takes his place on my bed, where corporal punishment is administered. By this time I have cooled down and don't want to have to follow through with my promise. But I don't have a choice. He gets one swat and falls to pieces.

My heart breaks for him. We have had to say "no" a lot lately, and I know he's frustrated by that. I'm frustrated by that. Hubby has been working and taking summer classes and he's not home enough for any of us. I know that plays a part in things, too. But what can I do? I take him in my arms and tell him I understand how he feels. I tell him I love him. And I tell him he can never, ever, under any circumstances hide from me again.

I know there are difficult times on the horizon. I see a day coming when my embrace won't soothe the hurt. And I'm not ready. I know my job is to see him through this journey to become a man. But why does it hurt so much? Why is it so hard? On the one hand I want him to grow up a bit and learn to handle his disappointments. On the other hand I just want my little boy to stay small enough to snuggle up in my lap and love Thomas the Tank Engine forever. Unfortunately, he doesn't fit in my lap very well anymore and Thomas has been replaced by Batman and Superman. He grew up when I wasn't looking.

We are struggling, he and I, with the changes that are happening to and around him. I don't have the answers. But perhaps it has more to do with just being here for him. To let him know I understand his frustrations and his fears, even if I can't solve them.

And I will give him hugs. Lots of them. Because for today, it did the trick.

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'.