Nailed It!

Lately I have become fascinated by the nail art on Pinterest. Wall art is great. Who wouldn't want to have an original masterpiece hanging where all who enter your home can admire its beauty? Well nail art is similar-It's like having ten tiny canvases on your hands for people to ooh and ah over any time you whip out your credit card or shake a hand. Even better than telling your house guests, "yes, it's a Picasso," is telling the cashier at the grocery store, "yep! I totally painted them myself!" At least in my mind it would be better. I neither own a masterpiece nor the ability to create stunning nail art.
My talented cousin posts her amazing creations like these

on her blog http://thenailinator.blogspot.com/, inspiring me to dress up my own blah fingertips. The problem with all the pics I see online is that I can't measure up! The clear coat smudges the design, and I have nicks before the polish ever dries. Does it ever dry?? No offense, Rach, but do you sit perfectly still all day long with your fingers spread so as not to damage your artwork? Or do you snap the pic as soon as you have them painted before the kids have a chance to need your attention? How long do they look like the photo?WHAT'S THE SECRET??? Also, I am not ambidextrous, so my right hand can never look presentable because I have to paint it with my left.

Here is another stunner The Nailinator created. I watched a tutorial on painting snowflakes and sort of came close this time although I don't want my hands to have to be too close to hers for fear mine would just shrivel up and fall off out of embarrassment: 

 I'm basically a walking disaster when it comes to nail polish, and I think whoever posted this on Pinterest might be my soul mate:

Frankly, I have a long history of nail failures. I bought a pen to create cool designs. Nope. It just bled all over my hand and the bathroom counter. Another time I was tapping a bottle of sparkly polish against my hand to mix it, and the neck broke off. Glass and silver glitter polish exploded all over the bathroom. The whole family was high on the fumes of nail polish remover for a week!
You may be wondering why I keep going to the trouble when I'm destined to make a mess and look silly. Well here goes, my name is Stephanie, and I'm a nail biter. It's true! I bite those suckers to bloody nubs sometimes, but if they are painted, I'm less likely to chomp down. Because I don't want to mess up the polish? No, because I don't want to walk around with red or blue paint chips stuck in my teeth!
I wonder if nail polish would be a biting deterrent for the Great Dane puppy we just got. I keep having to jump up and rescue various items from her teeth. I'd coat the entire interior of the house in "Cinne-man of My Dreams" (thank you OPI for your fun polish names) if it would save the furniture and kids' toys from being chewed up.
Anyway! I've forgotten what I was really going to say, and I have started nibbling on my pinky as I sit here trying to think. That means it's time to pick up the giant pup and go paint something! 

Another Episode of Raising Boys

Tonight the 5 yr old had a Christmas program at school, so being a good mom, I made him change out of holey jeans and a hand-me-down cartoon tee into nicer jeans (from the dirty pile, let's be honest) and polo shirt. I had asked big brother to pick out clothes for him while I was trying to finish another task, and bro chose a button down and a sweater vest. Seriously! Is it Easter already? The shirt and vest were purchased for kid #1, and they're practically brand new still because neither he nor #3 enjoy dressing up. I'm thinking Big thought he could torture Little by making him wear fancy duds. Yeah, he wasn't having it, and that was definitely not a battle I felt prepared to fight. Enter the polo compromise. 

When I was satisfied with his appearance-we had him wearing presentable clothes, smoothed his hair and wiped the crumbs off his chin- we loaded up with just enough time to run one errand, drop #2 off at gymnastics, and hunt for a seat in the crowded school cafetorium.  Now is a good time to include that I had just come in from work where we had pajama day (think preschool teacher. It's funnier if I was an investment banker, but to the other parents picking up at the grade school, any mom in her jammies at 3:30 is entertaining) and changed into jeans and actual shoes v. slippers. For some reason, this was the first time I had seen myself in a mirror all day, and I realized the messy bun I'd thrown my hair into before my 7 am shower was still right where I'd put it! We are THAT family! The mom dresses up by getting out of her pajamas, but since it's not Easter, she doesn't bother brushing her hair, and the kid is wearing pants fresh from the hamper. If my husband is reading this, he's A) completely mortified and deleting me as a Facebook friend B) printing this out to take to a marriage therapist.

So now that I've framed it out, back to the school program. The kid performing in his "clean" duds goes to car, lays on the garage floor and crawls under the car to get to his side. I lost it. Compared to some of the idiotic things I've witnessed in my raising of boys for the last decade, this is certainly small, but come on! Who DOES that?! I mean, if you're just going to belly crawl through filth, can't you do it before you get spiffed up? There's no time to change now, and since we had already scrounged in the dirty pile for nice clothes, it's not like we had a lot of options to fall back on anyway. 

God is good though. When I dropped the boy off in his class, the teacher was handing out cardboard Christmas trees for all the kids to wear. It covered his garage grime perfectly! But then I had the thought, it also would have covered cartoon screen print and holes in the knees. Oh well, I guess he can pull those out of the hamper and wear them tomorrow. 

Raising boys ain't a job for wimps

Living with boys means you never sit on a toilet in the dark. It also means searching for batteries that work will become your quest for the Holy Grail. (The old, useless variety are scattered everywhere) On the other hand, if you wish to find a Lego or a Matchbox car for any reason, you need only to close your eyes and take two steps in any direction for them to materialize right under your bare feet!
Being the mom of boys is a special role that not all mothers are called to, but those of us who are feel both blessed and driven to the brink of insanity by our little men. Trees and rooftops are extensions of their play yards, so we have to keep our eyes peeled and our prayers constant. They will swim for hours without taking a potty break, so we keep the chemicals in balance and our mouths closed in the water. Blood is a part of life, as are black eyes, ragged jeans, and the constant smell of armpit, gas, and halitosis. I assume some of these, at least the odors, will dissipate as interest in girls takes priority over hurdling fences, taking 10 second showers, and making your sister scream with your smelly emissions from whichever end may render them. Another fact of life for the boy mama is that at some point, a mom down the block will call for you to come pick up your precious child and drive him to the ER for stitches. Now the reason for having to have your son stitched back together could range anywhere from tripping over untied shoe laces (1st grade, 4 sutures on the forehead), to doing stunts over the sofa or in a swimming pool (age almost 3, 4 in the lip and age 4, 17 in the mouth and lip, respectively), to running with a metal pole to make sparks on the sidewalk and impaling self on said pole (two weeks ago, 10 sutures below knee cap). The boy in question is the reason John Frieda 4N Dark Brown is my "natural" hair color as opposed to stress-induced gray.

This was Monday when the pediatrician let him remove his own stitches with a scalpel and forceps. Doc really should have taken the sharp objects from his hands before jamming a swab in the boy's throat for a strep test because his natural response was to throw his arms up, narrowly missing cutting the doctor. That is why no mother would ever hand a scalpel to a 10 year old. Ever. You can go ahead and thank me now for not sharing the gory photos the child insisted I take at the ER for him to show his friends. I also refused to let him keep the bloody sock for show and tell.  I am however, willing to let him pick up the next hospital tab should he expose his insides to the outside ever again. 

If you are gifted by God with sons now or in the future, know that it's ok to hose them down outdoors as needed, they won't get sick from eating dog food, and if you end up in urgent care holding a bloody ice pack on your kid, you've got a friend in me. If your sweet little boy drops trow on the church's astro turf playground to relieve himself, well I've been there too, but I pretended he wasn't mine, so you're on your own. May God bless you in your role as super mom, and may He protect your wild ones with quick and tireless angels.

It's Only Puppy Love, But Love Stinks!

I grew up with an animal loving father. We had exotic birds, rabbits, tortoises, a cat I sweet talked my daddy into rescuing, an opossum, cats, dogs, and an ostrich. Technically it was a rhea, a slightly smaller, just as mean, gray version of an ostrich. All these critters lived in the back yard. Humans and fish in aquariums (and the occasional reptile) were the only things allowed to live indoors. Then I married Brent, and he came with a sweet but crotchety 80 pound house dog. She barked at squirrels and leaves blowing by and perceived all other dogs as mortal enemies. I brought a pet into the marriage too, an African tortoise that eventually grew to the size of a beach ball. No barking, no shedding, no having to be let out in the middle of the night, and didn't have to be fed every day. He couldn't even run away. I thought he was the perfect pet. 

I don't remember becoming a dog person, but as I write this, a Rottweiler is laying on my feet keeping my toes warm while a Great Dane snoozes in my lap. Thus, either I am a dog lover or a crazy woman. You read "Great Dane in my lap" and automatically concluded the latter, didn't you? I should clarify that she is 6 weeks old and weighs 13 pounds. By this time next year I suspect she will dwarf the Rottweiler and serve as a riding toy for the children.  In other words, she is a temporary lap dog. For now I'm carrying her around and baby talking her constantly. I'm thinking toting a fast growing giant breed puppy has got to be a good workout plan. I could build some serious muscle if I don't break my spine first! 

We technically have two lap dogs. Zelda the rotty swims laps all summer like an Olympic athlete.  Sometimes she tries to jump over pool noodles but doesn't quite clear them so she just swims with a floatie under her until someone removes it for her. I guess not EXACTLY like an Olympian. ...I had to pause and let the picture in my mind of Michael Phelps splashing around the deep end with a hot pink noodle tucked under his arms sink in. 

Back to the dogs. The big one holds a local record for the stench of her flatulence. When I was a kid, my friend had a smelly house dog, and I used to wonder why they never got rid of it. There's no way I'd put up a mutt like that! Now not only do I put up with a full-blood, high-bred champion progeny, world class farter, but I let her sleep on the floor next to my side of the bed! Crazy woman. She has had ACL surgery, an MRI and neurology consultation, and takes 4 pills twice daily to control her epilepsy. I want to make you believe she's worth the trouble, but I have a feeling you're reading this with the same level of empathy that I had for my friend's gassy dog. Why?! Because we are crazy! We love our Stinky McToots-a-Lot like family. And since we love her, we wanted her to have a pet of her own. Enter Macy, the horse in the making who is currently twitching in her sleep and sucking on my sleeve. I surprise myself realizing how happy these doggies make me in spite of the shedding, drooling, pooping, seizing, and tooting. If you see me out and about, I'll be the nut job with huge biceps toting a 150 pound Great Dane in a baby carrier on my chest. 

From Ashes to Amazing!

One Saturday as we were heading to breakfast, I spotted a large dresser at a garage sale. I convinced my husband I NEEDED it, and a bit later the oldest child and I carted it home. It was sold to me as a two piece set-the main dresser and a hutch that sat on top. As you can see, retro is a nice way of describing the outdated piece with gold accents.

The seller also told me there was minor smoke damage from being in a house fire. I don't have experience with smoke damage, but it was pretty gross. There was ash in the drawers and a layer of black soot on everything!

I removed the hardware and gold plates and wiped the whole thing inside and out with water and vinegar solution. After sanding and coating it with a couple of layers of Kilz Premium, I had a blast girling it up! New hardware and a Moroccan stencil made for an unbelievable transformation. I added zebra print contact paper in the drawers. I would have to say that this was a fabulous $40 find! 

Are you wondering about that hutch? Well, my darling husband told me from the day I brought it home that it was an 80s waterbed headboard. I assured him it was part of the dresser because I never questioned the seller when she told me that. I had big aspirations for it too, but um, it turns out it was actually a headboard. 

I feel dumb for not realizing it sooner, but it is 15 inches longer than the dresser. I lost interest in it becoming anything other than a has been. The dress is cool enough on its own without a hutch anyway. Now if I can redo a fun mirror to mount over it, my daughter's room will be complete. 

Clumsy Girl Seeks Disability Compensation

I just read that if you have a condition that prevents you from earning $1,040 per month, you can qualify for social security disability. I feel certain that means physical or mental conditions rather than three children and a chaotic house, but I may still qualify under the definition of clumsy: "awkward in movement or action." That counts as a physical impairment, does it not? A quick perusal of my blog will prove that I have a long standing (and I use the term "standing" very loosely) history of falling into dumpsters, getting stuck in trees, falling down stairs, etc. I have left out many other times when I've tripped over our black dog in the dark, gotten stuck in odd places, or dropped...well, almost everything I touch. I am certifiably clumsy. Ungraceful, inept, and bumbling. I have become a danger to myself and others. Mostly just to myself, but I did fall down stairs while holding my 9 month old baby, resulting in a small buckle fracture in his leg. Certainly the government can see that paying me to sit on my butt and do nothing is much safer to the public (and potentially cheaper) than allowing me to attempt labor of any sort.
This weekend I painted our laundry room, and I had to scramble on top of the refrigerator to reach the corner of the wall. The dog sat on the floor below me with a very worried expression on her face. She didn't take her eyes off of me as if she knew no good could come from me being up that high. I don't know why she kept watch since she couldn't dial 911 if I did fall, but at least she cared. I didn't fall or even make a mess, so she wasted her effort for nothing. I was feeling very confident. In the past I have had a couple of clumsy girl painting issues. For instance, I hit my head on the ladder while painting the play room, knocking the tray of turquoise blue paint off the ladder and unleashing it on the beige carpet. That was 4 years ago, but I still hear about it from the hubs every time I even mention needing to paint. If I were collecting disability, we could afford to hire professional painters while I sit quietly and try not to break anything.
Back to the laundry room. I was feeling confident. It was hot in there with the dryer running, and being that it was late at night and no one else was awake, I just took off my shirt and continued to paint in my bra and jeans. Once I finished the last stroke and proceeded to wash out my brush, I looked down to see that my cleavage and formerly gray brazier were now a cheery bold yellow. I have no idea when or how it happened. Maybe that was what had the dog so worried in the first place. She may have thought if I was oblivious to having paint all over my chest, I was in no frame of mind to be left unsupervised. She's a wise pup. If she could talk, she would totally testify to my need for SSI compensation.  I'll get to work on my application so poor Zelda can rest knowing I'm safe from ladders and self-graffiti. 

Date Your Mate

Confession:  there are times that I miss dating. I’m not saying I miss the singles scene and want to go out with other guys again, but I definitely miss dating my husband before we were married with children. Back in the day, he tried hard to impress me, he was interested in my day, and he kissed me sweetly when he walked me to my door. I would walk in happy, blushing, and looking forward to seeing him again soon.

Fast forward to the present. This is what our typical date night looks like now: we get ready in the same bathroom, where there’s no door separating my man on the toilet (and all related odors) from me applying deodorant while my toothbrush hangs out of my mouth. It’s not sexy! 

At the restaurant we try to avoid talking about the kids, which means I have almost nothing to say since my life revolves around them. We run by Wal-mart because we remember we are out of milk and are home by 9:30. It would have been 9:00 if we hadn't driven around for half an hour to make sure they were asleep before we got there. (I mean really, if I have to go re-tuck them in bed and go through the entire bedtime ritual after paying a babysitter to do it, then I feel like I haven’t gotten my money’s worth) Finally, the hubs is sound asleep before I even get the sitter paid and out the door. So much for my good night kiss.

In marriage, we often lack the excitement and romance we had when the relationship was new, but we infuse tender moments into the rhythm of our daily lives. Pastor Chris Galanos says that it’s important to marry your best friend. Only a bestie can tolerate us when we’re at our worst and love us when we’re no longer trying to make a good impression. 

Currently my husband has a broken wrist, and I have to help him get ready in the mornings. Who but a BFF could you trust to tuck in your shirt tail and tie your shoes? Unless you're under 4 or over 90. Then you probably don't care who does it. We get frustrated with one another and laugh at the absurdity of me trying to fasten his belt and tie his tie. I don’t want to wish a broken bone or illness on myself, but it would be awesome if he gets to be my caregiver someday and help me put on my bras and straighten my hair. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is! 

If you’re not married to your best friend, pray for God to move in your relationship. Find ways to play together, go on dates to increase your intimacy, and interact so that your love will deepen and last long after the kids are out of the house.