Sugar Detox is Just as Fun as it Sounds!

The week before Christmas I was doing great at eating healthy and avoiding all sugar and processed carbs. And then my husband brought home a goody basket from his employees filled with homemade candies and cookies. The white fudge proved to be more than I could withstand, and I at it. I tried to get my husband to fire the one who made it on principle because nothing before that had tempted me enough to consume, but he won't. Something about protocol for termination doesn't include giving yummy treats. Whatever. Since then, I have been on a steady diet of fudge, divinity, and cookies with an occasional slice of pie-a-la-real whip cream. My bloodstream couldn't possible have room for any nutrients in it at this point, and it's clearly time to detoxify my system before I become an unstoppable sugar fiend. I could live with being addicted to the sweet stuff if my clothes would also fit in the meantime, but there is definitely a cause and effect relationship between the amount of fudge I eat and the size of my butt. Not exactly rocket science, but it's a fact that's easy to deny until it smacks you in the too tight jeans. And so today begins my renewed commitment to eating right and working out so at the end of January I can wear my new formal gown without worrying about it fitting too snug. For you that means my blog during the next month may be littered with irritated rants as I fight the urge to ingest bad carbs and scream at the people who live closest to me. (Pray for them!)

My mom used to tell me it's never ok to give someone a living thing as a gift unless the giver lives with recipient and is willing to accept full responsibility. I think that is the best Christmas advice I have ever heard!

 I grew up in a virtual menagerie. (That would be a collection of animals for anyone who flunked SAT vocab and thought that word meant something naughty) At any given time, our family's back yard was filled with exotic pheasants, rheas (they're like ostriches), rabbits, chinchillas, tortoises, an opossum named Pansy, and sometimes, even a cat or dog. What I learned from that time in my life is that animals stink, they're noisy, and they're expensive.
Once in high school, my dad brought my grandmother and I a pair of finches. (tiny birds that don't do anything entertaining) She liked looking at them, but I was in charge of caring for them. It's important to  note that he didn't live with us and broke the cardinal rule of gift giving. I didn't have the heart to tell my dad that I didn't want anything to do with the little birds. That was my first mistake! Eventually I forgot to feed and water them, and did you know that finches can only go about a day without eating? You can test this if you want. I killed a bird. My father who loves me and didn't want the lone finch to be sad brought me a new one to replace the one that "mysteriously" died. They had an egg, made a family, and one by one, they all suffered the same fate. I forgot to feed them! I have to confess though that I blamed second hand cigarette smoke on their deaths, and this is the first time I am openly admitting my role in their demise.
Skip ahead a decade and a half(ish). My 7 year old bought a betta fish with his own money a while back, but wouldn't you know it, I am the primary care giver of said fish. My husband wouldn't allow the fish to live in the kid's room, which was good for the fish. On the other hand, it's on the window sill in my kitchen where I see the dirty water and attend to it, and our child has learned nothing about fish maintenance.
That's what happened two days ago when I almost committed another act of petocide (not on the SAT b/c I made it up, but I bet you know what it means). I was going to pour some of the gross fish water down the drain and refresh the bowl, but I poured the fish out with the water. Right into the disposal. Having just poured out the water, I had to pause and refill the container before my rescue mission could commence. Thankfully, I was able to gently fish him out and get him back in the bowl alive. The poor little guy was not looking good for a while, and I was sure he wouldn't make it, but I am pleased to report that he is just fine today.

Let this serve as a cautionary tale to anyone considering buying their kid a pet for Christmas. What are you willing to commit to the pet because it will be all yours! How often do you think you'll remember to feed it? Reptiles can go much longer without eating in case you're wondering.

Please Santa, Bring Super Glue

I'm borrowing most of this from an article I wrote for something else last week, but since it's mine, I guess I am allowed. After all, it's relevant to the season, and as I am just about to super glue this pitiful victim back together, I need to vent, or re-vent about the pitfalls of decorating with kids.

As I’m writing this, my husband and I have just come in from putting up our lights. This job always takes twice as long as we think it’s going to and leaves us frustrated as strands randomly flicker off or don’t fit where they’re supposed to go. And somehow there are never enough stakes to fasten lights around the perimeter of the grass, and we have to go buy more. Every year!

Tonight while we were intensely driving wire stakes into the rock hard ground and carefully removing busted bulbs from their sockets (swearing under my breath when I trip and squash yet another bulb), a silver Christmas ball bounced off the porch and rolled down the sidewalk. It had fallen off the wreath on the door after the children had opened it and shut it for about the 90^th time to see if we were done yet. At least it bounced instead of shattered.

We have a designated spot that we call the “ornament hospital” where I keep super glue handy for repairs. I’m pretty sure we have more ornaments on our tree that have been glued back together than ones that have yet to need glue. It's gotten so bad that next year I think we may wrap the whole tree in bubble wrap. Wait, then all I'll hear for weeks in popping. Never mind.

We even have a wise man that had to have his hand reattached after an unfortunate incident where the nativity set was tossed out of the attic. Don’t ask, we don’t like to talk about it.

It’s not so bad to have to a house full of repaired Christmas decorations though as long as I refrain from gluing my fingers together in the process. Sadly though, I seem to do it every time. Besides, House Beautiful is unlikely to come photograph my holiday décor. If they did though, the saggy gingerbread house would be a must see. It was the messiest thing to make, and I will still be sweeping up sprinkles in a month, but my kids are so proud of their little house. It doesn’t matter to them one bit that the roof slid halfway off, the door is crooked, and they got more icing on the table than on the house. They loved making it, and the memories they will have of fun Christmas traditions will mean so much more to them as they grow up than having a perfectly decorated home. Who cares if a Lego man has to stand in for our missing Baby Jesus? This reminds me, I still need retrieve a shepherd from above the cabinets where he was launched last year.

Confession time: I'm currently using the back of my child's latest art project from school as my grocery list. Shhh!

Everyone in this house has a conniption when I throw away any drawing, coloring page, or graded paper. To them, it's a sign that I hated whatever prized page I discarded. To me, it's an act of love to keep us off that show Hoarders. After all, we have three children. By the time they all graduate high school, they will have been in school a combined minimum of 7,560 days. Provided they only bring home one paper a day for me to save, that would be a LOT of papers. Can you imagine the refrigerators I would need to display all that mess? But the truth is, they each come in from school every day with a huge stack of papers and no less than two art projects. If I saved everything, mathematically speaking, we would be buried alive and miss the youngest kid's graduation in 14 years. And so it's with love that I save a select few masterpieces, recycle the projects I can (hence the grocery list), and sneak the other 45 into the garbage.

Are you not supposed to wash your cell phone?

If smart phones are so smart, then why don't they hold their breath under water? I had a Samsung flip phone not so long ago that survived an entire washing machine cycle in the pocket of my jeans, and after a day of drying out, it worked great. I was torn between being bummed because I was kind of hoping for a new phone and being relieved because if I killed the lesser phone, then I would never be able to convince my husband to invest in something more expensive for me to destroy.

But I'm thinking if that phone could manage the washer, then the iphone ought to be able to withstand a quick dip in the pool while its owner fishes out a child who has fallen in. True story that happened to a friend. Glad he chose the kid over the phone! And in case the hubby reads this, no, I didn't immerse my phone. Had a close call with the bath tub last night, but it was just sprinkled. Does that mean it's a Methodist?

There has to be something phone manufacturers could do to protect their product better from water. After all, you can buy all sorts of shock-absorbing covers to protect it from falls, a fact I'm relieved to note. I've had a few split second moments in between the feeling of my phone slipping out of my grasp and the sound of it hitting the tile where in my mind I see shattered pieces of my hot pink and black iphone exploding everywhere only to open my eyes and find it undamaged and in one piece. Today, it fell out of my bag, and I didn't know it until I heard the crash and saw three pieces on the ground. Breath, Honey. One was the unbroken phone, and the other two were the halves of the cover.

I think it's all a conspiracy. The companies who make the covers are making a killing. So are the phone manufacturers because as they make flimsy, water-fearing phones, people must replace them frequently. cha-ching! Then to protect their replacements, owners buy better, more expensive covers. It's a win-win for them.

Moral of the story: if you listen to your ipod in the bath, and if you leave it on the side, TAKE OUT EAR BUDS BEFORE STANDING UP.

Please Don't Call Me Narrow-Minded and Intolerant

I have been reading about the trend of young women morphing from liberal-minded voters into conservatives as they become mothers. It's as if the media believes we moms have lost all ability to be open-minded and tolerant as we sink into a closed world of diapers and laundry. This is ludicrous, and I would argue that as moms, we women become obnoxiously tolerant of things for which the rest of society has no tolerance at all.

Take Barney and The Wiggles for example. They could drive a grown man to suicide, and I don't see why they didn't just make terrorists in Guantanamo Bay watch The Wiggles for about 5 days straight and play the "I love you" song from Barney all night long. They'd be ready to talk in no time. Perhaps this method was deemed too cruel by the Geneva Convention, and I can understand that. Yet, you park an irritable 2 year old in front of either of those shows, and he will sit still and become an angel for the 20 minutes it's on. Magic! What mom couldn't learn to tolerate something so detestable in the name of 20 minutes of peace.

Another example would be screaming children in general. I have friends who will quickly hang up the phone if they hear my kids yelling in the background. I also have a few well-meaning individuals in my life who have commented that I should discipline my kids better so they aren't so loud. How intolerant and prejudice can you get? I mean, kids are loud, and us mothers have become open-minded enough to accept that fact and not judge another mother when her children are banging on pots and provoking the dog to bark while she's on phone with us. We've all been there.

I'm not even going to grace the topics of religious and political tolerance with my high horse today, but I defend the position that us moms are the most tolerant people on the planet. And on that note, I'm going to clean up yet another potty puddle. See, who besides a mother would tolerate the same kid peeing and puking in her house more than once?

My two year old is having his first sleepover at Grannie's house tonight, and I am so thrilled! The dog hasn't figured out where the baby is, and when we came in from eating outside earlier, she whimpered a little and kept looking inside the tent we had played in. I assume she thinks we left him outside, although he had gone with Grannie before that.

Gran may be less than thrilled and the one whimpering in the morning though. #3 just emerged from a phase of waking up at 5:30 every morning. Not only would he wake up before the sun, but he felt obligated to wake up the other children and both parents as well. It got old very quickly, and I have to say, I am relieved to have had a couple of weeks in a row of peaceful slumber until a more reasonable hour. For Gran's sake, I hope the streak continues, but he'll be in a strange bed without siblings for the first time, so he may not sleep well.

When we are away from home, we put him in bed with a brother or sister, mainly because no adult wants to sleep near him. He's the cuddliest baby when he's awake, but in his sleep, he flops around like a fish out of water. We had to put toddler rails back on his bed after removing the crib rail because he kept falling out of bed. I'm sure it's normal, but after #2 who hardly moves in her sleep at all and #1 who prefers still to wedge himself firmly against the closest warm body (which inevitably leaves me with a solid 4 inches of space in which to get comfortable when he ends up in my bed), the erratic tossing of the third child is exhausting.

I'm sure though that tonight while he's not here to keep me up or get me up too soon, he will sleep like an angel. That's about how it goes.

"Depend on the rabbit's foot if you will, but remember it didn't work for the rabbit"-R.E. Shay

In Sunday School, we talked about superstitions and charms and I started thinking about where the idea of getting good luck from an object and getting bad luck from an action came from in the first place. Good luck charms are fairly easy to figure out. If you have something with you when a good thing happens, then you may assume the object led to the good thing. I don't really know why you'd be walking around with rabbit's feet though, unless you were starving and the rabbit was dinner. That might be a lucky break for you, but then I would think carrying around the severed limbs of your prey would scare away any future dinners. I've never tried hunting rabbits with or without lucky rabbit's feet, so I wouldn't really know either way.

Superstitions about bad luck seemed senseless to me, but when someone in class listed walking under a ladder as a common belief, a light bulb went on in my head. Perhaps these false notions have some pretty logical roots. For instance, the time I walked under my own ladder, I knocked a tray of turquoise paint off of it. While I don't anticipate 7 years of bad luck from the incident, I do have some bright little reminders of it on the carpet. And if I don't see the paint spots, I have a husband who will be glad to point them out to me...for as many years as the carpet remains. Maybe a truer sign of things to come would be "if you don't use a drop cloth, you'll have 7 years of bad luck."

I wasn't sure about the logic of not crossing paths with a black cat. I grew up near an elderly lady with a ton of cats though, and it got me thinking that maybe the ones who first came up with that superstition were kids with a crabby old cat neighbor. Then they would have warned each other, "if you get anywhere near that black cat, Mrs. Cranky will come out and yell at you. Good luck there, pal!" Then there's the one about breaking a mirror. Your level of bad luck will ultimately be reflected in WHOSE mirror you break. Some people are likely to hold that over you for years. If you're a teenage boy and it happens at your friend's house, you may need more than luck to get invited back over. A mom will forgive her own child for breaking her things, but if she's not your mama, don't break her mirror.

I'm not entirely graceful, and I've broken a few mirrors in my time. I doubt it's caused any bad fortune in my life. Unless...maybe the breaking of the mirror resulted in me being cursed with clumsiness rather than the clumsiness leading to the breaking. Hmmm. If that's the case, I better start looking for a good luck charm after all. Given my normal string of "bad luck." I'm thinking crash helmet, steel-toed boots, safety goggles are all good choices.

How to Kill Your Grass

A couple of weeks ago I discovered a huge fire ant mound in the yard. First I sprayed it with Raid and when it didn't work, I googled "how to kill fire ants." It said I needed to dig up the mound, destroy the nursery, and poison the whole thing. Well I found something more powerful than the Raid and thought I did all of that. The little dead ant carcasses all over the sidewalk were convincing evidence, but several days later, though the grass was completely dead on that area, and new little mounds started popping up all over the yard. I don't seem to have any luck getting the weed killer to kill weeds, but since the bug killer completely annihilated the grass, maybe I should use weed killer on the ants and see what happens. It has been a constant battle of me against the army of fire ants.

Yesterday I went to Lowes and bought a large bag of fire ant poison guaranteed to start killing them within minutes. I went to town sprinkling the granules all over and around the mounds and watched to see what would happen. I expected to see the little suckers just fall over as they walked through the poison, but that did not happen. No, turns out, I should have read the instructions in advance because I was supposed to pour water over the granules to activate them. done! If only I had taken that route in the first place.

Today my son yelled for me to come look at the mound. He said the ants were laying eggs all over the place. It turns out that what he was seeing as eggs were actually balled up dead ants. Hundreds of them! I got all excited that the poison had worked, and as I smugly leaned in for a closer inspection, I felt little pin pricks all over my feet. There was a swarm of un-dead fire ants attacking me! I guess they were just using the dead ones as decoys.

I'm starting to see some parallels between the fire ants and my sinful nature. I try to fix things my way and ignore that God already has the perfect formula for healing me. I take short cuts, and I don't take God's Word seriously in my life. Then before I know what's happening, the meanness, backbiting, and anger just multiply exponentially and take over. You're all shocked that I'm a mean, angry person, I know, but it's true. God's grace is the only thing that keeps me from going over the edge most days.

Back to the ants, I'm all out of ideas. Maybe it's time to buy some hip waders for the kids to wear in the yard and just let them take over.

Home Alone

Last weekend my oldest son and husband went camping and left the rest of us at home. It's not a small or quiet house, so I don't do a lot of sleeping as the lone grown up, and I depend on the dog, Zelda, to help guard the fort.

It was a peaceful weekend until around midnight Saturday (or Sunday morning). That's when Zelda started growling at the front door. She's a 95 lb rottweiler, and she doesn't get upset very often. Well that's not entirely true. She really hates the dumpster truck, and every time it comes down the alley, she barks and charges the door, defending out house against the evil garbage truck. Twice a week she acts like she could hurt someone. Other than that, she is quiet. So when she was upset about something outside in the middle of the night, I got upset too. I already had all the lights on, inside and out, but I was not about to open the door or blinds to see if someone was out there. If I saw them, then they'd see me too! Why is that hard for a man to understand?

I got the baseball bat, but I had the thought that in order to use a bat on someone, they'd have to be close enough to hurt me, and I put it back in favor of the gun. It's kept in a hard to reach spot, locked up with the key in another hard to find location, really hard, because I still haven't found it. But I had it out nonetheless. Finally the dog settled down and went to sleep, so I returned the gun to its hiding place.

In the morning, the boys called to tell me about catching fish, and I in turn told my husband about the dog flipping out and scaring me enough to feel the need to defend our home. I could feel him rolling his eyes at me through the phone.

Later that evening when they got home, the other kids and I were at church. Brent called to tell me they made it back safely and to let me know what the dog had been growling at. I was hoping for validation. I wanted it to be something not bad enough to give me nightmares, like evidence that someone tried to break in, but something to make it ok that I was ready to resort to deadly force if needed. Oh no, he couldn't even lie to me to make me feel better. In fact, he was quite smug when he told me it was the wooden Halloween decoration on the front door rattling in the wind. And to add insult to injury, here is his facebook status that he couldn't wait to post: "okay, my wife had a police officer talk to her MOPs group at church about personal safety last week. Now she thinks that she needs to leave bright floodlights on outside of our house 24/7, and while I was out of town she almost shot the halloween decorations that she hung on the front door."I blame the dog because she's the only one who heard the wind or the wooden thing scraping the door. But since I never found the right key for the trigger lock, is his assessment really fair?

true story

Today I will get to experience the thrilling joy of my first mammogram and a subsequent needle biopsy. My view of the whole ordeal is that someone's going to plop my girls onto a chopping block and smash them with a cold metal anvil. Then another stranger will take a large sharp thing, stab it into the flattened tissue and suck out the pieces just pulverized by the smasher. Should be fun. If I could get them to re-inflate the girls with a healthy dose of silicone (or helium to keep them upright longer), then it might not be so bad. Unfortunately, I fully expect to come home with matching flat, square imprints on my chest. If it's not as bad as that, I will be pleasantly surprised.

10 hours later:

Ok, it wasn't as bad as I had expected. First, all of me is in the same shape we started in. Not fully inflated, but not flat either. Second, it was quick and mostly painless, but by no means pleasant. And by a miracle, I completely avoided the needle, so that was a huge bonus.

My vision of the anvil smashing thing wasn't totally off base though. If you haven't been through a mammogram, let me tell you how to prep yourself. First, place one bare breast on your kitchen counter, cover with a plastic tray, and set a watermelon on the tray. Then repeat three times on each side. I offered to demonstrate for my husband using his man parts, but he declined.

There were also little stickers that the tech placed on each nipple. Not the kind of sticker you give kids for good behavior or the kind pop stars wear when exposing themselves, but a little round thing with a metal bb on it. I'm not entirely sure of its purpose other than to be a target. But if your going to squish the whole breat anyway, I don't know why you would need to aim for the tip of the iceberg. I learned later as I was dressing that the adhesive on these stickers is the same as you would find on a bumper sticker. Rip slowly or quickly, it's the same either way; if you don't bleed, you will still cry.
All in all, I was worried about nothing. I will not, however, be signing up to do it again anytime soon. If they start using the same method to screen for testicular cancer though, I will happily sit in the waiting room just to watch the patients faces as they leave. Happy Breast Cancer Awareness Month!

If anyone reading this knew my dad, you may find it ironic to note that I do not like birds. They're not creepy really, except for those massive flocks that move like a black cloud with one mind; I just don't want them eating my vegetation, pooping on my stuff, or making noise. I don't buy birdseed because it would attract birds, and I can't see why I'd want to do that.

It was with this mindset that Saturday evening my son found a small mourning dove with a broken wing and brought it home to take care of. (side note: just because I don't like birds does not mean I can't identify them. Thanks, Dad.) Not knowing what to do for the bird or for my compassionate children who wanted to see the bird be alright, I helped them gently put it in our courtyard with water and cracker crumbs. After it survived the weekend, I bought a 5 lb. bag of birdseed, the smallest I could find. We have been faithful to check on the little guy, and my daughter prays for God to heal it so the bird "can fly away over the wall all by itself." It's a sweet life lesson for them, and for me as well as I am learning to care for one of God's creatures.

And then there was an incident today. The two year old opened the door to the courtyard so he could see the "buddie and the teedle" (birdie and turtle) but our gigantic dog rushed out and snatched the bird before I could stop it. She brought it inside shaking it like her rope, and I screamed. She slithered off to her crate, and I rushed to the aid of the pitiful, contorted bird in my floor. Not knowing what else to do, I got a shoe box from the closet (see, having a shoe obsession is helpful!) to use as a makeshift stretcher or coffin, whichever. The bird appeared to be barely clinging to life, and I thought it would be much easier for me to stomach disposing of it later if it were already boxed up. As soon as I got it in the box and back in the courtyard, I had to leave to pick up my daughter at school. On the way home I explained to her what had happened, and when she went to check if I had told the truth, she found the bird sitting upright, a vast improvement over his earlier state. I tried to reposition the distorted wing, and we configured the lid of the box to provide shade and still be open on top. Then my girl began to pray for the bird. "Dear God," then she made a raising motion with her hand and told me, "take the lid off so I can see what I'm praying for." Then she sweetly asked the Father to heal each injured body part.

Three hours later, we broke the news to my oldest on the way home from school, and all three rushed the courtyard to see if the bird was alive. He was, and in fact, he had hopped out of the box! I am amazed even now that the thing survived the rottweiler's grip, and I never expected to see it moving again after the shocking living room floor rescue.

God is stirred by the prayers of the faithful, especially little children who have yet to develop hearts and minds of doubt.

In the car tonight, my daughter started to tell me something, "when the bird flies away," but I stopped her to interject that the bird couldn't fly. Irritated by my helpfulness, she snipped, "quit interrupting! WHEN the bird flies away, we will have lots and lots of birdseed left over to feed more and more birds. We can help all of them!" Oh great, do you see what happens when you do nice things?!

when I grow up I want to be young again

Yesterday I had to buy new wrinkle cream because the old one I had was making me break out. That's not even close to what I had in mind for younger looking skin!

I do not like being in my thirties. I don't know why, because if I weren't, it would mean I'm dead and not here to raise my babies. However, there is nothing cool about being out of high school longer than the teens I teach have been alive! Not cool at all. Sometimes when I've cleaned up after the kids and dog and caught a glimpse of my frazzled reflection in passing, I longingly think back to a simpler time when I was single and lived alone. Do you know how many people you have to clean up after when you live alone? ONE, and even that's optional.

But thinking about what life used to be like is a bad idea because you never see it clearly for what it really was. For instance, child birth. That is a hell like I can't even explain, but once a mom holds her baby, she forgets all about the bad stuff and eventually may even want to have more babies-knowing what it takes to get them here. She just blurs over the bad parts.

I also do that when I crave oranges. I love everything about oranges, their smell, texture and flavor. I even love that you have to peel them because there is pleasure in seeing how few pieces I can peel it in. But sadly, I am quite allergic to oranges, and they do bad things to my body. Peeling one for my kids burns my hands, and eating them burns my throat and leads to sinus infections. And yet, they continue to entice me. When I see and smell an orange, I just WANT it!

Then yesterday I read a scripture that pierced straight to my heart because it addresses all of my longings. Psalm 103:1-5 is an unbelievable comfort to me right now. It tell me that God redeems my life from the pit, which is exactly where I was living in my single days in that quiet apartment. In truth, while I look back and think about how great it was, at the time, I was rebelling against God's will for me, and I was angry with Him. Now though, He "crowns [me] with love and compassion." Psalm 103 also tells me that God "satisfies [my] desires with good things" so I don't have to long for things that will hurt me or leave me drained, like oranges do. Unfortunately, oranges aren't the only unhealthy desires I invite into my life. Praise God that You love me enough to keep pouring on the "good things!" Finally, vs. 5 amazes me with its assurance that through "good things" my "youth is renewed." I'm hoping that means I can stop buying wrinkle cream because my face is about to look 24 again! Maybe not, but I am claiming that renewal today.

Investment Returns and Heart Surgery

Don't worry, I am not about to give you financial advice. First off, I was only marginally successful in that math class with all the % rates. I'm just glad I know what APR means, but if I had to calculate it, I'd be in trouble. Second, the only time I invested in the stock market, I realized about a month in that I wouldn't make rent without that money, so let's just say my portfolio is...limited.

I do however know a little about time and spiritual investing, mainly because I have also been unwise in those areas of investment. I also know a little (very little) about heart surgery because, well, I'm a nerd, and that stuff interests me.

Christian radio stations have been updating about the newborn son of Sanctus Real's lead singer this week as he endured a 4 hour open heart surgery and almost died yesterday. It has really effected me and convicted me of how I take this life for granted.

I invest my time and my spiritual heart in so many different things that I've lost count. Reading novels, not cleaning my house, and shopping are three of my current faves. As long as I spread myself around, I don't have to invest too much into one area, and I protect myself against any hurt that may come from one direction. Because if I give myself completely to a relationship or a project and they fail, it feels much worse than if I just got my feet wet and they fail. Yet, my efforts at diversification have not given me the returns I had hoped for. I don't feel well-rounded and fulfilled; instead, I feel depleted, broken. My heart wasn't constructed to work in pieces, and just as my blood-pumping heart must be whole to keep me alive, my spiritual heart must be wisely invested in one thing, the one true Thing, in order to maximize its yield. If only I had given all of my heart over to God in the first place, by now the rate of return would be incalculable. Now I feel like I am simultaneously scrambling to gather all the broken pieces of my heart in one location and doling them back out in other wrong places. I know I said I don't get that kind of math, but this can't be good for my eternal portfolio!

So I'm trying to reset. I'm gathering the pieces of my heart and giving them the the Lord Almighty to stitch together perfectly. And I'm certain when I do, everything else will yield accordingly.

For the past several weeks, my youngest has been fixated on watching the same movie over and over. If you read my facebook statuses, you know what it is, and if not, I will start at the beginning of the movie and recite lines until you guess it. Just kidding. It's Monsters Inc. Or to my two year old, "Monkers Inc." It getting really old. And it's not like all we do it sit around watching movies, but if we're in the house, he is either begging watch it or sweet talking someone into turning on the DVD player for him.

I realized this afternoon that he's not alone in his old man rut. My oldest is getting painfully predictable at asking me the same question at least 20 times a day...to go see if the neighbor boy can play. If I say no, then I get to hear it asked in more creative ways. And my daughter, well you can bet that if I choose her outfit or fix her hair, I will be a complete idiot and do it all wrong. I don't expect that one to change much over the next decade (and a half!) The dog's not even mixing it up anymore! At least they're all consistent, right?

There are some perks to consistency. The Bible says says that Jesus is the same now as he has always been and will ever be. That's my paraphrase of Heb. 13:8 It's good to know that my God of the Bible who healed and loved broken people is the same God of 2010, healing and loving people. It gives me peace as I'm cleaning the carpet and folding the laundry just like I do alllllll the time that He is watching over me and taking care of me just like he does all the time. I wonder if it ever gets old for Him like it does for me? I don't know, if taking care of me is to God what Monsters Inc is to my kid, then I have nothing to worry about!

Open Season on Smoke Alarms

First of all, who develops the noise a smoke detector makes? Do scientists study the sounds that most make a human want to run out of the house at night? If so, they should bag the high-pitched beeping and make an alarm that sounds like a child throwing up. Try to sleep through that. Many a dad has pretended to, but we're on to you. So here is my PSA on smoke detector safety:

1. A smoke detector will still chirp even after you dismantle it and take out the battery.

I thought that was just a sitcom bit on Friends, but we lived that Phoebe moment last night. Try it if you don't believe me, but I suggest you choose an optimal time of day when you can give the situation proper attention.

2. Smoke detectors are much like newborns, they have no regard for time of night when they"
[checking them regularly in the light of day. You won't be able to sleep through it no matter how hard you try. But you will still try because the alternative is scrounging for a battery, and if you come up empty handed, you have to find the right drawer to muffle the sound of the chirp until the battery stores open in the morning.

Thankfully, we found a new 9V battery and were able to silence the thing. I am also proud to report that I did not fall off the stool I managed to climb in the middle of the night with my eyes still mostly closed.

The reason we just happened to have a battery on hand? A few weeks ago we had a chirper outside one of the kid's rooms right at bedtime, and we had to make a special trip to the store to silence it. Good thing I bought a two pack!

3. The annoying mechanism that signifies the low battery is separate from the actual alarm. This we also learned at 3:30 this morning when my honey hit the test button to be sure the battery was in correctly. It emitted a sound only audible to small rodents. So later this morning (after strong coffee and daylight) I tested all 6 of our smoke detectors and discovered that 3 of them beep at the level of a digital watch alarm. So now I get to replace them and spend a bit more time balanced precariously on a stool installing the new ones. And if we wake up to another chirper tonight, it may just be time to pack up and move.

Just because you don't go to Hell for wearing ugly shoes, it doesn't mean you should!

Last week my honey had to go to New York for business, so I tagged along. After all, I had to go to visit the great shoe Mecca. It’s part of my 2^nd religion. (the first being Christianity, and the second being staunch Shoeology) Which reminds me, I bought a decent looking pair of low heel sandals to wear walking in Manhattan because (per a previous blog entry) I read New Yorkers don’t wear flip flops or sneakers. Incidentally, either I never saw a real New Yorker-entirely possible-or they really do wear the same type of shoes as me! So back to the sandals, they’re slightly more functional than attractive, and after the sitter made fun of my granny shoes, they got left behind. After all, being a born-again Shoeologist, I couldn’t risk going to hell for wearing ugly shoes, could I?

Vanity has a price though, and I paid mine when I decided to wear lovely kitten heel strappy sandals to walk in Manhattan, my feet developed the largest blisters I’ve ever seen on about 6 places. At this point, I was already walked too far from the hotel to think about going back for my flip flops, so I admitted defeat in Macy’s and bought a 2^nd pair of slightly uncute, practical shoes. Then I hid behind a stack of comforters in the bedding section, plastered my injured feet in band-aids and donned granny shoes #2. The damage had been done, however, and I had to cover my feet in moleskin patches and wear good ole sock and tennies after that.

Warning: the adhesive on moleskin will roll, stick to your shoes, and rip the thin, delicate skin right off your blisters. Then the moisture from popped blister will seep, further removing the moleskin and subjecting blistered foot to full-on fiery pain.

It was in this pitiful state that I found myself (strategically placed myself to be more honest) in a situation where Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos were surrounding me, begging to be tried on. If you find yourself unfamiliar with either of these names, you are clearly not a Shoeologist, and if you haven’t lost interest in reading by now, you may as well Google them. I will save you the embarrassing details now, but refer to previous paragraph for a clear mental image of my feet.

I found a lovely, no, magnificent pair of heels that were dying to see Texas, and being the compassionate sole, I mean soul that I am, I affectionately made the purchase. Sadly, I was unable to force my injured feet into them when we went to a Broadway show, and I wound up wearing my little black dress with $10 Target Flippies. I attempted to wear some sexy red strappy heels (placed carefully over the bandages) at first, and toted the flip flops in my huge mama purse just in case, but I promptly made the switch when the pain became too much to bear. My evening clutch remained untouched in my suitcase along with the perfect shoes that Cinderella’s glass slipper couldn’t even touch! I soon as the swelling goes down though, I plan to live in my souvenir shoes...until I save enough money to buy them some strappy friends. It's not vanity if it's true love.

ps. I really love my Lord Jesus and my dear family more than lovely shoes for the record. But don't tell my shoes that.

how I spent my summer vacation

In the pool, in the car, and in planes. I guess technically that was only a fraction of my summer, but that’s it in a nutshell, and my beloved always asks me for the short version.

I spent today flying back from New York, and it wasn't one of my better plane trips. There were no crashes, and I didn't get sick, so it could have been much worse, but all I could think of while I was sitting in the flying day care- where there were babies as far as the eye can see. Actually, as far as the ear can hear- was how my beloved has gotten bumped to first class a number of times, and it has yet to happen to me. I left Manhattan extra early this morning to account for traffic and lines at the airport. There were neither lines nor traffic, so I had 2 hours to kill in the airport before boarding. We made up for my easy arrival on tarmac where we waited in line for 25 minutes for our turn on the runway. About 1 minute into the wait, the newborn in the seat next to me began wailing. When he finally gave it up about an hour later, the infant a few rows ahead picked up the slack. I want to know who handed out the sign up sheet for the babies to pick a time slot because it was constant crying in even rotations. I usually feel bad for the parents, but I also usually have headphones to minimize my discomfort, and this time I had accidentally packed them in my checked bag. I had also given up my isle seat to the couple beside me with the infant and long-legged father, and going to the bathroom now seemed an impossible feat. My full bladder made me less sympathetic to the wailers' parents.

Eventually, I did have to go to the bathroom, and it was like a 4-member Olympic team scrambling to beat the drink cart. We all had to hobble out of the row (baby too), hobble back in as the flight attendants brought the cart by, and play musical chairs in order to get back out again. When I came back to my seat, the mother was changing a diaper in it.

Then there was the child behind me who got airsick. Oh yes. The smell of vomit infected my nostrils at the exact moment the attendants began handing out microwaved cheeseburgers. I won't even describe that delectable treat. Finally we landed, and I sprinted through George Bush Intl in order to catch my connecting flight.

The second flight was less eventful, but there was a boy about 10 in front of me laying across 2 seats listening to his ipod without headphones. High pitched Indian music whined the same rhythm for an hour and a half. This kid also ordered coffee from the flight attendant with lots of sugar. Apparently the sugar/caffeine ratio made the kid deaf because the music continued to get louder as the flight progressed. I thought the guy next to me was going to beat the kid, and if we had landed 5 minutes later, I might have done it myself. I've never been so glad to run to my car full of my own screaming, smelly kids in all my life. It's good to be home.

How to get noticed in the big city

I just read a book about a family in LA in the film industry. It poked fun at mid-westerners in their LL Bean clothing and stick-up-the-butt protestant values. I didn't say it was a great book. While I'm not technically from the mid-west, and the only thing I own from LL Bean is a diaper bag, it made me feel self-conscious about how well I fit the stereotype of the housewife with 3 kids in the perpetual ponytail and tennis shoes. I don't know if I own any single piece in my wardrobe that cost over $75! I guess the only reason I didn't stick out in California is because everywhere we went was nothing but tourists. We looked fine to each other!

We have also been getting ready to go to New York again, and as it was 20 degrees the last time we were there, I am stressing what to pack. Some websites claim that only tourists wear colors other than black, sneakers, or flip flops. I have some black, but it's mostly winter wear. If you wear black in 100 deg Texas heat, your skin starts to boil under you clothes until it blisters and welds itself to the fabric. As for my footwear blending with the locals, aside from the vast collection of strappy heels (all totally inappropriate for walking all over midtown unless your name is Carrie Bradshaw), the only summer shoes I own are flip flops and sneakers. According to the internet, I can expect to be mugged as soon as I step out of La Guardia.

Fabulous. I might as well embrace the tourist look and buy a fanny pack! I'll even apply sunblock to my nose in the middle of the sidewalk and look at a map every 5 minutes. Yep, that ought to do it. If I don't end up on the news for being attacked, at least I will be in a fashion mag...on the Don't page with the black censor bar across my eyes.

All My Kids Are Going Back to School!!!

In 20 days, I will finally be able to go to the bathroom by myself! at least during the hours of 9 and 2:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This morning as two little heads peered in to see where I'd disappeared to and one waited to flush for me, I was seriously trying to figure out how I could avoid going altogether except on those precious 5 and 1/2 hours on Tues/Thurs. I know you're thinking, why don't you just lock the door? I do when I remember to use the only bathroom in this place that actually has a working lock. That's about a 15 second deterrent though because the oldest can pick the lock, the middle child is loud enough as she bangs on the door and screams that it's more peaceful to acquiesce, and the little guy pokes things under the door at my feet.

My husband asks me what I plan to do when the little one starts school since I've never had everyone out of the house at the same time. At first I was a little apprehensive that I might get bored, and it would be too quiet around here. I'm sure he was also concerned that I might blissfully fill my days with shopping and spending recklessly. It has occurred to me. I will definitely use the 10 hours a week of solitude to grocery shop and run errands. The store clerks will be appreciative of this, especially the poor guys in Discount Tire who see me coming with the snack bag, coloring books, and crayons. They take one look at my kids (some of whom are wallowing in the floor trying to get comfortable as they create their artwork and others who are rearranging the chairs in the waiting area), and they instantly move my car to the front of the queue. With two of them in school daily, I might actually get the laundry caught up and finish the honey-do list we never get around to. We need to touch up some paint on the walls, but paint should NEVER under any circumstances be purchased, used, or spoken of in the presence of young children. I have learned that the hard way on a number of occasions.

Another upside to the school starting is that the little 11 engraved deep in furrows of my brow might have a chance to relax and give me a look of restfulness again. That could really save money on future Botox needs. And I feel certain my gray hairs grow slower during the 9 months school is in session than they do in the three months we have off. The significance of both these factors add up to one very important life lesson that my friend Whitney reminds me: A HAPPY WIFE MAKES A HAPPY LIFE!

I'm considering going back to work. Actually, I've been considering it for years because I think I worked less when I was getting paychecks and insurance than I do now staying home. Back then I had weekends off, got a lunch HOUR, and was out the door by 5:00. Since leaving the workforce to raise my brood, I either work straight through the weekends or spend all of Monday muttering unrepeatables under my breath about the sloppy monkeys in my house and work double time, ignoring my kids in favor of cleaning. It's not pretty. I also eat on the run or inhale my food while I check my email in the 15 minutes between me putting the children down for naps and the first one getting out of bed whining that he's not tired. As far as punching out at the end of the work day, well, let's just say I'm averaging 13 hour shifts on a good day when no one gets up in the night or throws up after hours. I might even have extra time to get bored at work if I had a "JOB."

I will have to update my resume though. Since leaving my last company, I have been running my own laundry service. It's a small operation, but with minimal staff (only me!), we are able to offer full service 24 hour custom care for an elite clientele. I have also worked as a home health aid offering round the clock care during fevers, stomach bugs, and have on several occasions wrestled preschoolers to the ground to administer eye drops. Wait, would that fall under "rodeo cowgirl" since it's something like calf roping and steer wrestling combined (except one handed of course b/c I have to protect that tiny bottle of eye drops)?

Working away from home does present the obstacle of hiring other people (notice I didn't say person) to replace me here. We will need a housekeeper, childcare provider, pool guy, and a full-time laundry staffer. By then, will my piddly researcher's salary be enough to make up the difference? No time to weigh it out now, the dryer just stopped, and I have to get back to work. Current time: 10 pm on Saturday night

Jack Johnson is a wizard!

My kids have an immense love for Curious George, so after we watched the Will Ferrell movie about 30 times, I bought the sound track thinking it would be a nice diversion from the two Veggie Tales CDs we listen to continuously in the car. There's only so many times you can listen to a gourd sing "I don't got a belly button" in one day before you start to lose your mind. I do kind of enjoy the worship CD where the Veggies are singing something about seeking God's beauty. I don't remember the real words though because from the back seat mine are singing, "...I would seek to shake your booty." Clearing up the confusion as to why the song was about God's booty didn't stop them from singing it wrong. Funny once, annoying twice, and stuck in your head forever like a it's been pounded in with a nail gun on the third time!

Enter Jack Johnson. The soundtrack to Curious George is all him, and I discovered a very valuable secret the first time we played it-when he sings, my kids shush! I think the tone of his voice is so soothing that it just lulls them into a calmed stupor. Sometimes when the three of them are really driving me crazy in the car, I switch on some Jack Johnson (any of his CDs seem to do the trick), and it gets quiet. I have to say, there needs to be a way to bottle that kind of magic into a pill form! Airlines should pipe it through the planes! My hope is that the hypnotic effect will never wear off so that when they're teens and I hear, "Mom! You don't know anything! You're ruining my..."I can just crank up the volume on Banana Pancakes and "pretend that it's the weekend." Better, it'll get quite enough for me to remember what it was like when I could listen to my own music in the car and it was just me. Until then, Thank you Mr. Johnson for giving me the silence, even if it only lasts to the grocery store.

Arizona stinks!

I have always loved going to Phoenix-even in the heat of the summer, and Saturday I got to see Salt River Canyon for the first (and maybe only) time. my mom says I've been over that road before, but I was in the floorboard of the car trying not to be sick, so I didn't see anything. Two hours of winding treacherously around a canyon is an adrenaline rush not unlike jumping out of an airplane strapped to a guy wearing your only chute. I had white knuckles as all 10 fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, and I only diverted my gaze long enough to pull over once when my middle child was about the throw up. After every sharp curve, i would start to sigh with relief until I saw the series of hairpin turns coming up on the GPS. Glad we made it through that.

Also glad we made it through being pulled over TWICE in the great state of Stupid! The first time I was obeying the law carefully in a podunk town just passed the Salt River Canyon when the police car began tailgating me and finally stopped me. For what you ask? SO DID I! He just decided to run my plates and verify my license and registration. Didn't need a reason. I was after all in his town. They apparently do that there. I guess I look like an illegal alien or something.

The second time I got stopped, I was barely speeding. I had my cruise control set at the speed limit, but then there was a cluster of 18 wheelers, and I sped up a little to get past it.There were several other cars that flew past me (my brother-in-law included) when the highway patrol picked me out of the crowd to pull over. No ticket, but he wanted me to take off my sunglasses so he could see my eyes and roll down the windows so he could count the kids and see that they were in proper car seats. So weird! Needless to say, it left a bitter taste in my mouth, and I was relieved to cross the state line into California. At least in Texas when I've gotten stopped, it's been for legit reasons...just speeding in case you're wondering.

family vacations not for the faint of heart

Vacations are not relaxing for moms. I wish that had been in the contract: "by conceiving this child you understand that you are no longer going to enjoy leaving home with your offspring. You will be scrubbing poop and/or vomit without the usual home helps in a hotel or truck stop sink, and you will break down and cry at least once on every trip. Delays will be compounded exponentially by the number of children and their ages, and you and your spouse will likely not be speaking upon return to your home.

If you accept the terms of this arrangement, please continue with the conception. If you have changed your mind, embrace celibacy and book the next flight to a tropical locale you find!"

If this IS on the contract, it's in that super fine print they use on car ads, and it can't even be read with an electron microscope. When you find yourself on the side of the road wiping vomit off of the precious blankie with a wet wipe and hand sanitizer, it's too late to back out. You're too far from home to give up, and the kids are yours, so your committed until they finally commit you either to the nut house or the nursing home.

now I know why Rapunzel was really locked up!

If you have been blessed with a daughter, then heed this as a cautionary tale. This weekend I was cleaning the pool while Kailyn was entertaining me with a wild story about her boyfriend Jake. They're both fifteen (although I birthed her 4 years ago), and they have to live together and take care of each other because neither of them have parents. All they do is swim all day and cook dinner together. And he's REALLY cute! Then she told me she has another boyfriend named Flynn Colton, but she only needs one boyfriend to get married, so she's going to get rid of Flynn.

I love that girl, but if anyone's looking for me for the next hour, I'll be throwing out the TV and going to Home Depot to buy a deadbolt for her room! If you need Kailyn for the next 20 years, she'll be in her room.

Hot! Hot! Hot!

I love the summer, and I think the hotter it is the better I like it. Especially since this is the inaugural year of our swimming pool. We have been spending the majority of our time in the yard, even eating dinner out there most evenings. The two things I don't like are the 412 loads of wet towels that cycle between the floor, the washer/dryer, the table where I struggle to get the clean clothes folded and put away, and the ground outside. I'm thinking of having in industrial blower installed out back (like the kind that dries your car at the carwash) to blow dry the family and banish towels all together. I also hate that the brick patio will burn little feet in a matter of seconds. I have bought water shoes and flip flops for everyone, but they have to wear them to be effective, and that is a joke. If you sit on the ground to put on shoes, you burn your backside. If you step in a puddle in your flip flops, you're likely to land on your backside when the shoes hydroplane right out from under you. The only thing I can think of is to hire cabana boys to keep the patio hosed down and help the kids with the endless shoe nonsense. They would also come in handy to brace the little ones and keep them from blowing back into the pool when they're under the dryer. Now accepting applications.

Rowing our boat

This week was my oldest's kindergarten graduation, and after it was over, we were "encouraged" to take our students and spend a fun day with them. I did NOT want to be that parent who leaves her kid at school while all but one other kid get to go home at 9:45. First of all, my son would never let me forget it, but his teacher might not either. Far be it from me to be the one to jip a kindergarten teacher out of a day off!

So...while we were finishing up a couple of morning errands, we started talking about boats and remembered the inflatable kayak in our garage that's only been used once. That's how our fun afternoon on the lake was birthed! With my mom watching the little ones, C and I headed to Buffalo Springs Lake, a whopping 15 minute drive from our house. I haven't been there in 10 years or more because it's dirty and stinky, but dirty and stinky go hand in hand with 6 year old boys! We spent about 2 and 1/2 hours paddling around and chatting. We also spent a good bit of that time trying to keep the kid from swimming, splashing me, or peeing over the side. The water was so murky that I was terrified of getting a flesh-eating disease or that if he came out of his life jacket, I would never be able to get him. Eeeh! I don't even like thinking about that now. I also had to keep tugging at my life jacket because I accidentally grabbed my husbands extra large, and it kept riding up my neck making me look like a turtle with it's head in its shell.

We had to sing "Row row row your boat" and make up other little rhymes to keep our rowing in sync. Harder than you might think. If we rowed in unison, we zig zagged, but if we could stagger our strokes -one rowing right, left and the other rowing left,right-we could slice through the water much faster. Good workout and great bonding time. I hope we get to spend many more days on the water together. Next time though I will remember to sunblock my legs (or at least toast the backs of my legs first so they stay even), bring a life jacket that lets me see out and breathe, and work my triceps in advance so when my biceps are firm from rowing, the backs of my arms won't look extra saggy like they do now.

Fyi, one should never EVER have Cheetos in the house when one is having a pity party! Just sayin. I'm over it now, but the Cheeto guilt lasts for days.

Yesterday our Sunday school class took personality profile tests. Your answers determine into which of four categories you are grouped: sanguine, choleric, melancholy, and phlegmatic. I looked up the true definitions of the words because they all sound so appealing! In case you were wondering, sanguine means cheerful, passionate, related to blood. Choleric is bad tempered, melancholy means gloomy or depressed, and phlegmatic means "having a sluggish temperament." Which one do you root for? I mean, 3/4 of them sound like pretty crummy people to be around. So what are the odds that both my spouse and I could wind up in the "sanguine" category and have proof on paper of our wonderful personalities? Apparently not good. We did initially score exactly the same in 3 of the 4 categories. We both had 9 points for sanguine, 13 for choleric, and 11 for melancholy. We also both got hardly any points in the phlegmatic category. Notice how I said "initially?" That's because I was so shocked that we are so much alike that I looked at all his answers and made him change a couple of them. That's further proof of my bad tempered personality I guess. In truth, the cholerics are the type who like to be in control, are outspoken, and stubborn. I SO hate having to claim those traits!

It explains so much about our relationship. We are both headstrong, determined to be right, unsympathetic (to an extent), and controlling. If you don't know us, I bet you're wishing you did now! People always say opposites attract, and Brent and I are in SOME ways, but apparently fewer than I realized. The upside to finding out you married your opposite sex mirror image is that I know the fun, good things I love so much about Brent are somewhere inside me as well. He helps to bring out the fun side of me, and hopefully I help to bring out his compassionate side. I also hope we've used up the family allotment of stubborn and bossy so there's none left for our children. How blessed it would be for them (and their eventual mates) if they become cheerful, considerate peacemakers. However, I have met all three of them, and it would seem that the apples have not fallen far from their parental trees. It would be good to start a prayer chain for the ones who would marry them one day.

An Erma Bombeck Mother's Day

Here's an excerpt from Erma Bombeck's take on Mother's Day:

"A mixer whirs, out of control, then stops abruptly as a voice cries, 'I'm telling.' A dog barks and another voice says, 'Get his paws out of there. Mom has to eat that!' Minutes pass and finally, 'Dad! Where's the chili sauce?' Then, 'Don't you dare bleed on Mom's breakfast!' The rest is a blur of banging doors, running water, rapid footsteps and a high pitched, 'YOU started the fire! YOU put it out!' And breakfast arrives.

"Later in the day, after you have decided it's easier to move to a new house than clean the kitchen, you return to your bed where, if you're wise, you'll reflect on this day. For the first time, your children have given instead of received. They have offered up to you the sincerest form of flattery: trying to emulate what you do for them."

My special day actually came early when my gift from my favorite store arrived via UPS. I love that my husband gets that about me! Then Saturday I wanted to do a nice thing for my family by making my favorite meal (and one of my mom's faves too) that night so it would be ready to eat after church on Sunday. It was a great idea in theory, and when I fell into bed at 1:45 a.m., I felt really proud of my accomplishment. I had even cleaned up my mess and taped a sign to the door reminding me to put the meatloaf in the oven before leaving the house. Except that our church has a lovely Mother's Day tradition called "Mommies and Muffins" that requires harried families to get to church 30 minutes earlier than usual so the mothers can dine with their children in their Sunday best. It's really quite sweet to get your picture taken as a family and all, but while the dads drop their families at the door and make a Starbucks run, moms get to corral youngsters in a dog and pony show that resembles to torture for a mother of three.

My 6 yr old served himself and sat very nicely next to me inhaling 3 chocolate muffins and several creme-filled danishes. Thankfully, the sugar high didn't kick in until after I dropped him off with his Sunday school teachers. The 4 yr old didn't find anything at all that she would eat, including strawberries. Every other day of the year she loves them, but suddenly this time, strawberries were gross! The 2 yr old was happy to get to sit in a big kid chair and use a real plastic fork...to mutilate his muffin, but not to eat a single bite. He then proceeded to run around the room shrieking and enticing his sister into a game of chase. Women in heels carrying plates of food are less than impressed with this game when it causes them to dodge small children without falling on their butts. A sweet friend and fellow chaos keeper told me afterward that we should petition to have "Donuts with Dads" moved to Mother's Day and all us moms would get coffee together next year.

We managed to survive "Mommies and Muffins" as well as get through service with a wiggly, temperamental, HUNGRY drama queen, and I was really looking forward to my well-planned meal just minutes away. That is until my husband asked me as we pulled into the drive, "How did you set the oven timer?" Crap! In our rush to get out the door, I never saw my sign! I blew up at my husband and had a major meltdown over the lunch we wouldn't get to eat, and I single-handedly ruined my own Mother's Day by acting like a baby.

My dearest quickly came to my rescue by grilling chicken, and my wonderful mother was just happy to have the time with her grandbabies. All turned out fine in the end, but my inflexibility and disappointment were a lesson to my kids, I'm sure. I am very blessed to be the mom of three of the funniest, sweetest, cutest kids in the world. I have the gift of a godly man who takes very good care of me, and I am the daughter of a godly woman who lives close by. Life is good...even without meatloaf!

If I don't end up on the news tonight, it will be a miracle! The blowing dirt wreaks havoc on my allergies, and I am powerless without healthy doses of Zyrtec and Claritin. The side effects of these antihistamines include everyone who says your name suddenly causes you to want to beat the irritating right out of them. If you take either of these meds and feel like that, it's not your fault-it's your spouse and children who are inflicting themselves on you in your vulnerable state. For instance, currently one child is throwing a fit because I didn't compliment her artwork with the precise wording she suggested. In "correcting" me, she screamed and repeated herself so much that the words "SHUT UP" were hurled out of my mouth before I could stop them. And when my husband asked me to turn off something outside that I had forgotten to do the night before, it took every bit of my self control not to throw dirty dishes and laundry at him. Don't even get me started on the affairs of my housework right now. I realize I should be folding rather than typing with enough force to send the keys right the  rough the bottom of the keyboard, but if I don't vent, the police will have to come!

I have tried to take less volatile remedies like Benadryl, but then I fall asleep. Yesterday the toddler emptied a bottle of hand soap all over the floor while I was alert and feet away, so I shudder to think what the three of them could do if I were in a Benadryl-induced coma.

And so, rather than pray for patience, I will pray for the wind to stop blowing and for peace in our home. You can help by praying for my kids to be sweet and the house cleaning fairy to be swift.

Embarrassing moments are usually really funny to people who didn't live the embarrassment, so I thought I'd share one of mine in hopes that as you laugh, it will help me laugh about it too.

I took the two younger kids shopping this morning, and we had to make a stop in the ladies room at the mall. My daughter, who is never at a loss for words, loudly proclaimed, "Oh Mom! You're really stinky!" It wasn't me. Really! Approximately two seconds later, she pointed out the shoes in the stall next to us and said, "that lady's feet are huge." I almost didn't take time to wash my hands before we flew out of there. However, it was a public restroom, so I scrubbed quickly and praised my merciful Father in Heaven that we made it out of there before Stinky Big Shoes left the stall. Although, now that I think about it, she was probably waiting for us to leave first. I don't blame her. I would have apologized, but how would one go about that? Nevermind.

On a related note, the very same 4 year old was rewarded at Hobby Lobby for sweet, quiet behavior later today with a $2 battery powered fan. With blades sturdily constructed of craft foam, it's not powerful enough to injure a little brother, but just powerful enough to puree a popsicle all over the kitchen. I SO wish I was making that up. I'm off to mop.

Don't mind me, I'm just on my high horse

I don't always hold myself to the highest standard of moral and legal obedience, and while it makes me a total hypocrite, it's no excuse for why the rest of you don't behave yourselves! For instance, I have been known to speed on occasion, but I try not to break the sound barrier and make illegal turns. And certainly not at the same time! But some of you drive like John Cusack in 2012, outrunning tsunamis while dodging landslides. Stop it!

I'm also tired of people lying. I have lied. When my husband asks about the new shoes I have on, I tell him they've been in the closet for forever and hope that last Thursday counts as forever. If he asks me point blank when I got them, I tell the truth! My love for shoes doesn't supersede the trust between a husband and wife. Nor do I think shoes in any way compares to point blank telling the woman who birthed you that she's not about to have a grandchild when you know full well that she is! Sadly though, I know more than one idiot who has lied to their parents about expecting babies even when the moms outright asked, "are you expecting?" Who does that?! If they didn't want to talk about it, they had other options. Like keeping their mouths shut and their fingers off the keyboard until they were ready to come forward. It's not like it would be obvious. For most of us, we don't get big round bellies the instant the stick turns blue. At least not before the third pregnancy.

This tirade could go on for a while as I pick at wounds that have been festering for years. And I can say all that because I'm fairly certain the jerks who do that sort of thing don't read my blog. Not so sure about those who commit moving violations, but oh well!

And in the wise words of my lovely friend, "I'll step down from my soap box now."

The Monkey in the Middle

I just realized this title follows my blog about my phobia of chimps, and while the pun was unintentional, it's not without merit. My 4 year old daughter is sandwiched between two boys, and she is the light in our family. She's loving and adorable and unbearably funny. Just now her older brother was mixing an "experiment" that looked completely gross. So K says, "Collin's vulgar. He made vomit." Well said, Little One! The offhanded remarks she makes throughout the day keep me with a constant supply of amusing facebook statuses. Like her take on the new dress I wore to church last week. She told me, "You should NOT wear that! It makes you look married!" I guess I'll keep that in mind if I go out trolling for guys and try not to wear that dress.

Brutally honest also describes her. Just ask the sitter who was talking with K tonight about her necklace. When the sitter told her it was special and asked K if she liked it, my little monkey's response was, "no, there's nothing shiny on it." I could write a War and Peace-sized book on her obsession with all things sparkly and how I have to add rhinestones to her plain shirts just so she'll wear them.

Sometimes...she's just plain unbearable. In the store not long ago she loudly told me the lady in front of us was wearing ugly shoes, and once she asked if a person walking past us was a man or woman because she couldn't tell. There's just no graceful recovery from that kind of embarrassment.

Her sparkle and joy mixed with drama and difficulty make her a beautiful handful, and I think we'll keep her and pray that she grows into a blessed gem...who knows when to shush!

Chimpophobia

not long ago I had a dream that while I was cuddling my youngest, he morphed into a chimp. He was still cuddly, but I was terrified he would rip my face off, and I woke up in a sweat. Don't even want to know what that means in the psych realm. Now though we're watching an old sitcom with a chimp as a house guest, and I find myself again terrified that someone's going to lose an eye or something. One bad chimp on the news and I have a new phobia!

On the other hand, I had no fear whatsoever when my tiny babies would fall asleep on the floor next to our enormous rottweilers. Ironic I guess since there are many more reported cases of the family dog attacking a baby rather than rouge apes doing it. Then again, how many families have chimps for pets as opposed to dogs? No doubt the odds swing in my favor.

Are you smarter than a 6 year old?

I don't want to answer that question because I know for a fact that the child currently humming the world's most annoying tune in my ear is indeed smarter than I am! I've already shared how he tried to out-smart me with his bird v. snake logic. He's not that bright all the time though because he was typing the following essay when he was supposed to be cleaning the living room, so he missed out on the reward of swimming. He also has yet to figure out that humming in weird alien voices in my ear is not the right way to entertain me. Nonetheless, here's his essay:

Bunnies and dogs are not the same.

Bunnies are fun.

Bunnies are nice.

Nice people get nice things.

Black people back in the old time they dint get there way. Bob glob. I once went to the park and I plade.

We might not show this to the school counselor just in case she wants to have him tested for ADD. Also, we were blissfully unaware that he even knew there were varieties of skin colors until just now. Last fall I was trying to ask him the name of the boy at school who wanted to have a play date, but my description fell short and my son didn't have any idea which child to whom I was referring. I finally said, "there's one boy in your class with very dark brown skin who wants to know if you can come over to play. Who is he?" My son's reply was so blind and perfect, "Mom, everyone in my class has exactly the same skin as me, so I have no idea what boy you mean! I guess I can thank public education for opening his eyes and ruining his innocence.

Exorcist mom and the Easter Bunny

My kids are filling their own Easter eggs right now while they hurl mock insults at each other. "Take your snoogy nose and you stinky mouth and get out of here!" I'd intervene, but they're laughing hysterically, and that's such a nice sound. I was laughing earlier when the 6 year old told me, "me and my friend Ryan toot together at school." (sorry, Ryan's mom) "You what?!" "We toot. You know...[makes armpit noises] We're trying to make up our own language of toots. That would be so cool to just [armpit fart] for hi and [double pit fart] for bye."

I bet it's wrong for a mom to laugh at that, but what was I supposed to do?

It didn't take too long for our amusement to take a turn south though. They ganged up on me earlier to get me to give them sugary snacks right before dinner. LITERALLY 10 minutes before I intended to feed them! The whining got so bad that I yelled at them in a low, mean voice that was so scary I wasn't sure it was mine. And now my throat hurts. Did it work? Not so much. And as my husband reminds me, the money we spent on parenting CDs was well spent!

This is a picture of us on the polar Express train at Christmas, and the face I'm making as I speak "firmly" to my son is authentic. He had just stepped on my lap after I told him not to, and his falling off my lap and into my face shifted my contact lens. This is the moment that followed-captured for posterity by my better half. I kept it to remind me how ridiculous I look when I scold my kids. At least I was quiet. Wish I had a recording to remind me how I sound when I get so mad the Exorcist voice comes out. But now that I'm hoarse and can't talk at all from yelling, my beloved might appreciate that one moment of bad parenting on my part is about to result in a night of silence for him.

mail me to Macy's

I had fun with all my kids home last week. It's been quiet here the past few days, and I'm finding it hard to concentrate. On the other hand, as I type this, my daughter is putting gold stars on my back, and the baby's singing into the Rock Band microphone, so it's business as usual for a Wednesday. And as usual, I will probably forget to remove my stickers before going to the gym later. I just wish that one morning they'd put them all over their dad's suit before he heads to the office. The "I'm learning to use the potty" stickers they use to tag the toddlers at church would be the best kind for him! Once at the grocery store a kind woman ran up to me as I was loading kids into a cart and whispered that someone had taped a note to my back. Sure enough, there was a 4"x6" UPS packing label in the middle of my back compliments of my then 3 yr old princess. I think it was a return label for Macy's, which is exactly where I'd ship myself if I could! Instead of letting the nice lady peel it off of me, I should have let her watch the kids while I delivered myself to the UPS store. Well, the baby's using a marker, so it's wise that I get off here and keep both eyes on him. If you see me later with gold stars on my back, just congratulate me for going potty on my own, and I'll know what you mean!

I bet they get it from their dad

My children are insanely funny. And smart, and a little weird...in a good way. They like to play Rock Band on the Wii, and they'll play with the instruments and pretend to be in a band even when it's not hooked up. Yesterday my 2 yr old was playing drums and singing back up to my 4 yr old daughter singing, "It's your fau-alt. And your fau-alt. It's everyone's fault but mine!" And when she was done, she introduced me to her stuff animal friend Pinkalicious. What could she possible be watching on TV that would plant that in her mind?! Dora???

Then today the boys had their moments. The 6 yr old tried to out-logic me in the car, and in another year, I will be toast! He wanted to know why I won't let him have a pet snake. Again. And I gave him my same list of reasons again. The final one was "I do not want to have any pet that eats other animals." To which he asked, "didn't you have a pet bird once?" I did, and I don't like to talk about it. Did you know that birds can't live if you forget to feed them for even a day or two?! Dogs will let you know when they're hungry instead of just falling off the perch. So I just told him yes. Then with skill of a trial lawyer, my sweet little kindergartener said, "well, birds eat worms, and worms are animals, so you broke your own rule." Nice try, Buddy, but they sell bird feed in a box! Whew.

We've covered funny and smart, so let's tackle weird. The baby's new thing is that he wants to lay his head on my stomach with my shirt pulled up like he's listening to something in there. Maybe the sounds of his first home? Hoping for a friend to be growing in there? (not a chance!) But he does it as often as he can get me to sit down with him. He's so sweet and cuddly, and I'm sure my belly does make a fluffy pillow, but don't you think that's weird? I guess no more so than the weather. Sunburns last Saturday in the pool and snow castles in the front yard this Saturday. It's gotten so confusing to go outdoors that maybe the poor baby is just remember the one place where the temperature and dress code never changed.