Just Call Me Buddy

I don't usually look forward to Christmas. I like it ok, but it's a lots of work! The decorating, the gift buying, food, house cleaning for guests-it wears me out. Last year we took a break from the whole thing and went on vacation for Christmas. Santa filled the kids stockings in our hotel room, but we didn't put up a tree or many decorations at all. It was nice, but I guess I got my second wind because this year I feel like Will Ferrell in Elf. It's not even December yet and our house is lit up inside and out. There are gifts stashed, lists made, hot glue blisters and glitter stuck in my hair.
This is the current state of my living room (as I sit here typing). You may not be able to see the layer of glitter covering the floor, but I assure you it's there!

I wanted to have a spectacular mantle this year. I painted and glittered 4 wine bottles (FYI I didn't drink them, although my finished wreath may convince you otherwise). They were so fun and sparkly, that I guess I didn't want the project to end. And that's about where I lost my mind. Actually, according to our good friend and nanny, I lost it yesterday when I let my children put a lost dog in the car. What's another craft project littering up the house when there's a strange dog shedding in the back seat. (By the way, if I weren't already a person of faith, I would have become one real quick as I realized I had no idea whether or not the animal I was toting would get car sick! Prayer was my only lifeline) Anyway, I made these lovelies and decided the wreath above the mantle would not work at all with the wine bottles.  The old silver wreath was far too small for the space, and it lacked the pizzazz of the red bottles. So I reconfigured it into a bright, fun monstrosity. I used mesh ribbon, picks, wire ribbon, glass ornaments, and about 9,000 sticks of hot glue. I even hand painted scroll on the ornaments because I have a sickness. It's called Obsessive Compulsive Crafting Disorder (OCCD) My husband had no words for it-the wreath, not my sickness. He has plenty of words for that. He just said "ok, Honey." I tried to tell him how much a wreath like this would cost if I ordered it ready made off the internet. He wasn't impressed. He replied, "there are a lot of things on the internet I wouldn't pay money for!" Even though I agree that it looks a bit like Christmas threw up on our wall, it coordinates well with the rest of the mantle, and it's very mod! If you don't believe me, just check Pinterest.

before

the entire Christmas section of Hobby Lobby on one wall!

Now I'm going to clean up my mess and move on to setting up the snow village! By December 25 I will be burned out again. In fact, this may become the house that is Santa-ready year round! Not because I love it so much but because the thought of taking everything down is starting to give me a stomach ache. In case you are thinking of decorating your own wine bottles, check with me for empties first because the more I sit here and think about what I've gotten myself into, the more likely I am to have plenty to spare. 

Our Thankfulness Tree

This morning I was perusing Pinterest to find some Thanksgiving crafts to do with my kids. I saw a tree made of twigs and paper punches that I really liked, but the link to it was blocked. No matter. Monday Mom on caffeine can't be deterred by a photo without instructions!
Kid #3 and I found an old florist vase and filled it with broken sticks from our yard. Next we used a circle punch and random scrapbook paper to cut a ton of circles for writing things we are thankful for. If you don't already own scrapbook paper or a punch, any paper would work just as well cut into circles or leaves. Real leaves would work great as well. I used a small hole punch to put a hole in each circle to hang it on our twigs. Each circle has one name or item on it, and there are plenty of unused ones that we can add throughout the month. My son thinks it looks beautiful (or rather "boo-ful") as it is. We put it in a central location so it won't go unnoticed, and I wrote I Thessalonians 5:18 on a note card to adorn the vase. It was simple, free, and fun to do, but the message of giving God thanks for all the good gifts He gives us each day is relevant year round and not just in November.

A Cautionary Tale of Painting and Parenting

We currently have a DIY project, and I have spent the past several days working on that for three hours in the morning and another three after the kids go to bed at night, on top of the day's regularly scheduled programming. Needless to say, it's exhausting. Hopefully we are nearing the completion because a repeat of this evening could prove disastrous.
I should include that I spent the entire day in my painting clothes. I did not bother to change to go to the dentist or to pick up the children from school because I didn't want to waste precious painting time swapping outfits or risk a paint smudge following me into civi clothes. That's not relevant to my tale; it's just amusing because the poor kids were mortified that I was #1 wearing overalls. and #2 said overalls were covered in paint splotches. There's no telling what the dentist thought.
Anyway, this evening I was listening to my first grader read her library book. I laid my head back, propped up my feet, and that was the last thing I remember. What kind of mother falls asleep while her child is counting on her full attention? I should feel totally horrible, but before I could even consider my actions, I awoke thinking I was being scalped. Close. Upon finishing her book and discovering I was no longer conscious, my daughter decided I looked like a good candidate for her beauty salon. My hair was being brushed, hair sprayed, and braided violently by little hands. Once the tangles (or roots) were all sufficiently pulled out, I drifted in and out of light sleep amid her hair stylist chatter. "How many children do you have? Are they a handful. I have four, can you believe it?!" I think I answered appropriately, but it's highly possible she never even paused to wait for a response. Once I was styled, she said, "Girl, you look like you could use a massage." Seconds later I bolted off the sofa because ice cold lotion was being pumped directly down the back of my shirt! "Does that feel good?" she asked. I can't swear to it, but I feel pretty certain I was being punished for falling asleep.
 So as you can see, I must get back to painting so I can get a full night's rest and give my children my undivided, alert attention lest they decide on harsher methods of waking me tomorrow.

Evolution of the Mom Arm

This morning I was driving my son to practice when I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting the nice person in front of me who decided rather suddenly to corner on two wheels and to conserve their turn signal life by not using it as a warning to oblivious drivers behind them. In a split second I hit the brake pedal and threw my arm across the car to keep my child from flying forward. Why do we do that? Is it a developmental reaction that has evolved since the invention of the Model T? I can see how the instant arm of protection could be useful at slow speeds back in the old days when no one wore seat belts that glued them firmly in place in a stop short situation. It wouldn't be useful in a collision though, except maybe to keep one's purse from spilling into the floor board. I've noticed that I thrust my arm across the passenger seat even when I'm in the car alone. I usually manage to keep my handbag in place by doing so, but I'm not sure I am actually thinking about that in the moment of reflex. (this makes me sound like a horrible driver, but I would like to think I'm not. I've only been in two accidents in my adult life) Air bag technology should also have made the flying mom arm obsolete. In fact, if we had crashed through the rear of the maroon devil car in front of me this morning, the deploying air bag would have thrust my arm into my son's nose and likely caused broken bones for both of us. Actually, that might have made me look really heroic. When asked what happened to us, I'd be able to say, "I was protecting my son from flying through the windshield. And it's a good thing I did or he would have much worse than a broken nose!"
That does bring up more questions though about why wouldn't his seat belt have stopped him and why was he in the front seat in the first place. He's quite tall and old enough to sit there, but shouldn't my most precious cargo be in the back, which is really the safest place? Oh! I know the answer. He sits up front so he can hold my purse and keep it from flying off the seat when I slam on the brakes.

Take a Flying Leap

Last weekend my family and I watched the Olympics, and the event of the hour was the men's 10 meter platform diving. The kids were mesmerized by the flips and twists and were rating dives based upon the size of the splash. (They get that the smaller splash is a good thing, so they just compare water spray to determine who should win gold. That's regulation, I think) We saw one diver exit the platform (dive in, not wimp out like I would immediately do from 10 meters high) from a handstand. A HANDSTAND! I hope he got extra points for bravery if nothing else. IF, and that is indeed a big if, I managed to muster the courage to jump from a 10 meter platform, not only would I not be standing on my hands, I would never be able to dive head first. It would be something more like pencil-straight, legs together, one arm glued to my side with the other bent so as to pinch my nose closed. My eyes would be squenched shut and my mouth tightly holding in that giant breath that would have to last me until I eventually flail panicked back to the surface. It goes without saying that every other muscle-controlled orifice on my body would also be clenched tightly closed. When that kind of jump becomes an Olympic event, I am totally trying out!

 Beyond the elaborate dives and gymnastic feats, I was equally awed by the fact that such tiny swimsuits stayed put so well after plummeting so far and impacting the water forcibly. My 4 year old is the king of diving into our pool from surface level and coming up with his hiney exposed, but these Olympic divers never even sport so much as a wedgie! It's impressive. The function of the suit I mean. I'm going to start ordering David Boudia's particular Speedo style to wear as my every day undies. If they can take that kind of pressure and still keep all of his bits well-concealed all the way to the gold medal stand, then certainly they could withstand a mother's constant bending to pick up Legos, shoes, and laundry without creeping. While I could never ever under any circumstances condone an adult male wearing a Speedo on a beach, at a pool, or anywhere outside of an Olympic diving platform, perhaps that's the draw. Middle-aged overweight men like the comfort of knowing their swimwear will stay put. While the rest of us are disgusted by one man's inability to decently cover himself, he's looking at the big man in board shorts picking his wedgie thinking to himself "I'm SO glad I'm not that guy!" Or maybe he just wants to be prepared in case a diving platform and a challenge ever presents itself, in which case, we will all be glad he's got the right suit to hold it all together.

Motherhood can be a fickle business

Johnson & Johnson commercials lead newmoms to believe that we will just adore every single thing our little miraclesdo. Ask a new mom how much she cherished cleaning a diaper explosion in the middle of the night only to have her precious son pee all over her in the process. I'd love to see a formula commercial where the husband and wife lovingly gaze into the face of their sleeping angel as the husband gushes, "Honey, do you remember the time Little Johnny projectile puked all over the new sofa?" And she smiles as she recalls the stain that never came out as well as the soured formula smell that still wafts out of the side cushion. It would never happen because some things about infancy are just miserable. Then babies morph into stubborntoddlers, and from there it just gets downright scary. It’s so easy to love thecuddly child who hugs me and tells me how cute I am. It’s more work to behavelovingly toward the same child who uses straws as drum sticks to pound out atune on my rear end as I’m ordering lunch at the Chic-Fil-A counter.

My daughter can be the most caring, precious child thereever was, but when her mood changes, well let’s just say we all hunker down with pillows over our heads and wait for the tornado to pass. Sometimes I think she has anevil twin, and we just never see the two girls at the same time. Every mom hasto deal with times when our little ones are completely unlikeable.

It took a stranger to remind me that even in the most uglymoments of childhood, our kids never stop being precious to us. He was next tous at the soda fountain when my oldest tried to get a caffeinateddrink without my blessing. When my child begged and said he didn’t understandwhy he couldn’t have it, my quick, frustrated explanation was, “because I don’t likeyou when you’re hyped up on caffeine.” The man gave us a look that was bothamused by my response but somewhat disturbed. I quickly amended my statementand told my son, “I love you all the time, but I don’t enjoy your presence oncaffeine.” While he knows nothing he does will ever quash my love for him, hisbehavior doesn’t always delight me.

On the other hand, when you’ve struggled to get a child to learna new skill until you’re both quite frustrated, and he suddenly GETS it, thepride that floods a mama’s heart is immeasurable. The child who screams at youfor taking off her training wheels when she falls off her two-wheeler willeagerly show off her new skills when she sees your excitement as you run alongside her, encouraging her and bolstering her confidence.

I think it’s ok if you don’t like your kids allthe time. Don’t feel guilty for wanting to toss them at the first non-strangeryou see and make a run for it. In a few minutes they’ll do something wonderfulagain, and all the aggravation of being a mom will melt in their kisses andhugs. Those sweet times refuel us until the next time our behinds becomemusical instruments in public. 

What Color Is Your Thumb?

My only professional job was at a research greenhouse developing insect-resistant crops for agriculture. I was hired because I had a degree in biology and chemistry and because I was the only applicant. Also, I may have left off of my application the insignificant fact that every green thing I touched died a slow and painful death. My mom gave me a ficus tree for my college apartment, and when I moved home, I left all of my belongings in the car to go hang out with friends. That would have been fine if the temperature had been above freezing, but it wasn’t, and my sweet little tree did not survive its two hours of winter neglect in my car. Word got around in the plant kingdom, and I would swear that all my future house plants knew the ficus’ tale and killed themselves instead of waiting for the measured torture they were sure to endure.

The worst testament to my cursed brown thumb was following the death of Brent’s mother. People sent enormous baskets of peace lilies, ivy, and countless flowers. I never meant to hurt them, but one by one, they all suffered the same fate as their predecessors. When you’re mourning the loss of a loved one, the dead plant that was sent as a memorial to the person’s life really offers little comfort. Now when you come to my home, you will notice beautiful artificial plants basking in the direct sunlight.

In spite of my record, I excelled at my job in the greenhouse and succeeded in producing unbelievably lush cotton and tomato plants. My newfound confidence with growing things led me to believe I could have a beautiful garden at home as well. I carefully cultivated my beds and spent a small fortune on baby plants only to have the dog rip them up to chew on the roots and the toddler bring me tiny green tomatoes off the vine. After 8 years of gardening at home, I collected enough cherry tomatoes for a salad only once.

Perhaps the next time one of my children bring a sprouting bean plant home from school, I should go directly to the garden center and purchase a greenhouse of my own. Apparently that’s the only way I am meant to halt the curse of the ficus and garden successfully.  I’m very thankful I have the means to purchase healthy vegetables for my family in lieu of growing them, but more importantly, I’m so thankful that God grows beauty out of dust everywhere, even in west Texas. 

Had to Check You Tube Just to Be Sure...

This was my facebook status yesterday: "Ever have one of those days you just pray you don't end up on you tube? Thankful all the neighbors had already left for work when I fell in the dumpster. Also glad I didn't break a bone b/c going to the ER would have embarrassed Brent too." I thought I might elaborate on my good fortune in order to entertain and make others feel better about themselves.

I got up feeling industrious yesterday morning. As soon as the kids were off to school, I decided instead of running as I had intended, I would weed eat and rake the back yard. This is not a job I covet. In fact, the weed eater is my mortal enemy, but I was so tired of all the weeds that I willingly waged war with the evil weed whacker. (I apologize for the accidental absurd alliteration)  

Since I was already dressed to work out, I simply added a sun hat and protective footwear. That was my first wrong turn. Picture it: spandex capris, polar fleece top, J Lo floppy hat, and hiking boots with long socks. It wasn't pretty. Pretty funny maybe, but there were no witnesses, so I didn't really care. It wasn't long though until I had to take the tree limb I had cut (and let fall on my head because the floppy hat was blocking my field of vision) and the full trash barrel of debris to the dumpster. I should include that all the driveways and garages are in the alleys in our neighborhood.  I struggled to hoist the barrel over the side of the dumpster, and it instantly fell straight to the bottom with a sickening thud. When I want to throw out one little bag of garbage on dumpster truck day, the bin too full, and the truck is running behind, but the one day I do the yard work, the truck has come a day early, and there's not one thing to keep the trash barrel buoyed within my reach when it falls in. 

So I climbed up the side of the dumpster and leaned over as far as I could to reach the barrel. My biggest fear was that at any moment a neighbor would drive by and see me in my fancy duds with my rear end pointed skyward. I should have been more concerned about the effect of gravity on my upper body leaning so far over because the rest is facebook history. After I scrambled out with my big ol' barrel in tow, I started thinking about what I would have done if I'd gotten hurt falling in. Naturally I would have called my husband the hospital exec to have the ER expect my arrival. He would have loved that! There are just no words to say in response to a woman in a floppy hat, hiking boots, and fitness gear covered in grass explaining her dumpster-diving accident. So glad we dodged that bullet! He's a lucky man...in more ways than one.