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.  

Just Call Me Buddy

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

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

before

the entire Christmas section of Hobby Lobby on one wall!

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

Our Thankfulness Tree

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

A Cautionary Tale of Painting and Parenting

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

Evolution of the Mom Arm

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

Take a Flying Leap

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

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