One small exercise in letting go.

Blog world, we quit our Country Club.

I can hear you all collectively taking one LARGE gasp of air, and the resulting wind-suck is going to cause some sort of weather phenomenon in South East Asia, I am sure.  This is HUGE.  This is DISASTROUS.  This is DEVASTATING like the famines in Africa.

No, it's not.

See what I mean about it being totally ridiculous.  But totally necessary. 

Let me back up for just a second and tell you all that Mike joined this club in 1998, just after I moved to town.  Twelve and a half years.  He joined when he was 23.  And that is just ridiculous.

Do not hear me say that I didn't love it.  Well, let me rephrase--I LEARNED to love it.  Because I would not set foot in that place by myself for at least 5 years.  It was sca-ry.  And color coordinated.  And there were rules about which doors you could use at various times based on dress code?  And mostly  it was full of people who were 30 years older than me, and at the time, I didn't even have kids.  So really, it was just kind of unappealing. 

Are you understanding this?  We paid out the bung-hole for something that was mildly terrifying for me.  For 5 years.

Did Mike use it?  NO.  I think he had grand designs to.  But he's just not a Saturday morning golfer (thank you, Jesus).  Even before we had kids, he was never there with any kind of regularity.  He did, however, grow up at this particular club, and tomorrow will be the first day in his life that he hasn't been a member there. Okay, that is kind of sad. 

Also.  It might be important to note that we actually live in a neighborhood that backs up to this golf club. As in, our backyard gate?  Connects directly on to Hole #10.   So, maybe you can kind of see why deciding to walk away was a big deal to us.  We've sort of, inadvertently, structured our lives around a place we don't really use all that much.

How the hell did that happen?

Well, let me hypothesize for a minute. Mike grew up here (his parents were members, his grandparents were members), he had great memories here, he is a killer golfer,  and he generally has a childhood that was happy and free of large emotional scars, so we figured what-the-hell, let's just stick with what works.  We did.  And not one ounce of me realized, at the time, that I was making a HUGE decision about what my family life would look like.  And I made this decision when I was a clueless and CHILDLESS 22-year-old.  It just didn't feel like all that big of a deal.

About the time that I got pregnant with G, I began to get over my *fear* of the Country Club.  We met some friends, I played a little golf...it was nice.   Are you seeing the irony?  Then I went and had myself a kid and oh-my-god would not be caught dead bringing a baby in there!  What if she POOPED or CRIED or POOPED then CRIED? 

I battled through it, I found babysitters, I made more friends, I played more golf.  And then, son-of-a-bitch, I got pregnant with triplets, and well, we all know how that disaster went.  I spent the next 3 months chained to a Lazy-Boy (read: NO golf) and the 6 months after that shuttling between my house, my 2-year-old and my surviving twins in the hospital.  They did, however, happen to come home just as the pool was opening!  And we did make it up there quite a bit, oxygen tanks and feeding tubes and all.  We were a medical sight to behold, and that is putting it mildly.

People, we haven't even gotten to the birth of Little J, but you get the point.  I spent 5 years afraid of this place, and then a solid 4 years spitting children out of my uterus, and well, what remained was a stretchy, frantic, horribly less color-coordinated mess.  The Club became the place we took the kids to swim every. frickin. day.  And they would do crazy stuff like walk into the pool without their floaties or scream when water got splashed in their faces or walk out of the locker room butt-ass-naked or poop in their swim diapers and drop turdlets on  the diving board.  For 3 years straight, all Mike and I did poolside was count to four.  Repeatedly.  Like Rainman. 

But we're past that now.  Kind of.  The kids are at the ages where this place would start to make sense.  They'd be on the swim team, they'd learn to play golf and tennis.  Good things.  But is it what I want for them? Because it is a commitment.  It's a summer schedule (I REALLY hate schedules, they make me crazy).  And it means sacrificing every thing else because there isn't any more time. 

We don't see a lot of our friends in the summer, because we always go to our pool.  We don't travel, because we're on the swim team, and the season for using the club is so small.  This summer, I am going to Hawaii for an ENTIRE month, with all the kids.  That's 4 weeks out of a 12 week season that we are gone.  I LOVE the club, I have no complaints, I have great friends there, and we are just starting to use it...but I'd be lying if I said it doesn't come at a price.  We are either flushing money down the toilet by not using it, or sacrificing other things to be there. 
It just doesn't make sense for us, right now.  Our kids are getting older, and we are being pulled in 36 different directions at the same time.  It is emotionally exhausting just trying to figure out what strings to cut.  But.  There are LOTS of things about our life right now that we are doing simply because they represent the predictable road.  Safe.  Expected.  We chose this path.  And yet, there is such a large part of us that knows this isn't quite right.  And we are letting it go. 

Here's the thing I am learning:  Every *thing* that I think I want, every choice I make, every path I choose has 50 alternatives. They are all appealing, they all make some kind of sense.  And you can VERY quickly find yourself doubting your decisions, or worse, learning to resent them.  Constantly longing for something else, even when you have everything you could have imagined. 

Having more has made me restless. 

The Country Club is such a small (yet big) thing, but Mike and I have put a serious amount of time into thinking about the choices we make, without really thinking.  And how that needs to change, in bigger ways. I look at our kids, and the lives we are structuring for them, and the standards they are being held to.  And I am confident that they will have great test taking skills and (eventually) a working knowledge of math concepts, but I am not so sure of the kind of people they will be.  Will they go to college and get married and live in St. Louis and have 3 kids and search for happiness and contentment but always feel like they are just one-window-treatment away from having everything they ever wanted?  Will they know they can't buy joy at Target?  Will they be afraid to take risks because I am teaching them to CLING to comfort? 

I dunno.  Possibly. 

I want them to see a story that is bigger than this safe, little life I have created for them.  And I want them to embrace it.  I want to see the world with them and play a part in the way their minds are shaped as they process it.  I want them to be teachable, I want them not to fear change.  And I just don't think I can do that by always choosing what is safe and easy for me.

We're not sure what that means, and we sure as hell aren't jumping into anything.  I'm NOT homeschooling, though I can't say I haven't thought about it.  Blog friends, you would certainly benefit from that scenario and the documented spiral of my journey to insanity (because that's what it would be).  But it's not the right choice at the moment, either. Not without a bigger plan.  But we're working on it.   

I'll let you know what we come up with. 

Let it go.

One of the projects that came out of my band saw experience, was this lovely scalloped chalk board.  I've wanted a chalkboard to hang on a wall somewhere, and decided to add it to the list of things I wanted to create with fast-moving blades. This took about 4 minutes total time (not including the 13 months in which the ply-board sat in my basement).

Let's just go ahead and consider my basement a fine marinade for projects. 

Anyhoo.  The idea for the dresser I am turning into a storage unit of sorts, is very similar to this--I created a kind of scalloped pattern to add a little *character*.  While I finish up with the furniture rehab, I thought I'd tell you that I am really enjoying this little chalk board number, AND the saying upon it. 

LET IT  GO has officially become my motto.  And I am finding A LOT of freedom in those little words.

I will elaborate more...just not tonight, because it's Sunday and I'm gonna rest up before the mother of all winter storms head our way in a day or so, because apparently, I am going to have to chop wood for fire and slay deer out my back door if I am to survive this blizzard?  

I will say this.  We all make decisions that feel like small choices.  Lots of them, every day.  And some of them are really inconsequential...but some of them are actually things that shape the way your life will look in pretty big ways.  Mike and I  are starting 2011 and realizing that there are some of those decisions that  we would make differently.   And so, we are doing just that.  

Only.  When you decide to go a different path many years later?  It no longer feels like a small choice.   

Sounds cryptic, I know.  REALLY, it's not.  It's actually no big deal at all.  It's actually so not a big deal, that when I utter the words in the blog-sphere, some of you will laugh.  But that's what's amazing--that such ridiculous decisions hold such power.   Or any power at all, for that matter.

For now, you just need to know that Mike and I are NOT:  having another baby (or BABIES, if you think I am being sly), getting divorced, selling any of our children on the black market, becoming math teachers, hunting big foot,  or running for President. 

Stay tuned.

Looksy there, fat. I CAN fight back.

Can I get a whoop-whoop-hallelujah-hail-mary-booya!-high-five-hell-ya-fist-pump?  Because today I fit back in my "fancy" jeans.  And not in a 10-pound-sausage-squeezed-into-a-three-pound-casing kind of way. But an actual, proper and not obscene way that does not suggest I am hiding an inner tube full of cocaine beneath my shirt (I would not recommend this method of hiding illegal substances, it is not flattering.  Or discreet.).

These jeans are thrilling.

I thought it might be possible, after I went for a long run this morning, and then weighed myself after removing ALL clothing and every last bead of sweat I managed to dehydrate out of myself.  I drank no water before weigh-in AND I peed for good measure.  Really, is there any other way to weigh oneself?    If your routine does not include peeing and sweating, then I will be bold and tell you--YOU ARE DOING SOMETHING WRONG.

I resisted the urge to go and eat seven super sized McDonalds fries. Barely. 

Instead, I was *brave* and put the jeans on.  One button and 10 squats later?  BINGO.

These jeans were purchased for me on my 29th birthday.  That was exactly 2.5 weeks before, SURPRISE!, I found out I was pregnant with Little J.  But I wore these damn things for as long as possible....because my dear husband bought them for me, and this man does not believe that jeans should cost more than a monthly electric bill.  Particularly when you can buy denim at Sam's Club for roughly $15.99.

My dear friends, pregnancy is NOT good to me.  Not one tiny bit.  I actually worked HARD to keep the weight off with Little J, but he sent me the ultimate blow-of-death from the womb by landing me on hospital bed rest for 2 weeks.  Let me tell you what that means.

Southwestern omelet wrap with a side of hash browns (and a Krispy Kreme....shh) and a brownie, a 44-ounce diet coke, a cheeseburger with a side salad (COVERED in ranch dressing), french fries, one of those BIG oatmeal/craisin cookies by the cash register, a 44-ounce diet coke, ....toasted ravioli, a small pepperoni pizza, another side of french fries, another 44-ounce diet coke...and ANOTHER Krispy Kreme/brownie/oatmeal-raisin cookie for dessert. 

EVERY.  DAY.  And be a lamb, and charge it to my insurance? 

Oh, did I mention I wasn't allowed to move?  So, number of calories burned = Big. Fat. ZERO.

I arrived at the hospital as a *normal* pregnant woman, and I left two weeks later as Jabba the Hut's fat cousin.  It was disgusting.  But that's what you get when you chain a pregnant woman to a hospital bed and give her a FULL cafeteria menu.  For free.  Yeah, yeah, we pay a *bill* every month, but let me tell you--the cost of keeping our wondertwins alive for 6 months?  Our monthly payments will NEVER fulfill that amount.  NOT ever.  I LOVE insurance.  Love, love, love.  And I know not many think that way, but I do.  Particularly when they made us up our policies and what-not after Mike's cancer battle?  Which gave us the BEST POSSIBLE COVERAGE for having 6 months of NICU-level medical care (x2). 

And, lest you forget, my premature chickens had been out of the NICU at the same hospital for less than a year...so I knew that cafeteria WELL.  So well, that when I would call down my food order?  I would tell them EXACTLY where to find every item I wanted.  And while I started by ordering conservatively?  By the end of week 2, I was catering parties of 20 in my own, personal suite.  Whoop!

I thank the Lord EVERY DAY that I had a C-section with Little J.  All pictures of his birth are of me lying down flat, and the fat is evenly distributed throughout my skull.  Because, I swear to you, even my tongue was an XXXL.

After I started running in 2007, my ass revisited these jeans for a couple of years.  And then laziness and vacations, and WINE, followed by a gigantic upper-cut of holidays made me squishy again.  Until today. 

I am gonna try REAL hard not to eat fat.  Or spill anything on the jeans, in which case, god-forbid, I will have to wash and dry them.  And I am still indulging in soup and tuna and 98% fat free hot dogs, because this is *good* and all, but I am simply one cupcake binge away from having to stretch my waist band with a rubber band. 

And I NEED the freedom to have a quarter-pounder (or 3) once in a while.

My poor laundry skills have earned us bio-hazard status.

So.  I'm going to need to know EXACTLY what you all do with puke chunks in bedding.  EX. ACT. LY.

Because this morning can only be described as the biggest comedy of errors in history.  Which is *funny* because I'm kind of an expert in puke removal, as you'll remember that Miss L threw up multiple times a day for 3.5 years straight.  NO joke,it is actually the reason we removed our carpet.  Except that those sweeter, fonder vomiting memories consisted of 100% liquid up-chuck, because our little darlin' only consumed formula. 

But wouldn't you know it!  She went and got herself on a solid food diet.  And mini-cheeseburgers and macaroni and cheese are the gifts-that-keep-on-mother-humping-giving.  Almost in their original form, coincidentally, so it is quite like I am doing a 3-D dairy puzzle that is 37 years past it's expiration date.  

I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth. 


So this morning.  I wrapped L's entire bed in saran wrap and carried it down to the basement. Where I proceeded to hand rinse it.  I removed everything chunky in the sink BY HAND (gag) and then threw it in the washing machine.  And I kid you not, when the cycle was finished and I went to take everything out?

Vomit flakes were plentiful.  And everywhere.  In. my. washing. machine.

Which is was the ONLY clean haven in my entire house. 

W. T. H.

Perhaps there is one evil greater than middle of the night vomit that requires a full showering and load of laundry, pronto.  Actually puking in my washing machine would be WORSE and somehow, I managed to inadvertently make that nightmare happen. 

So then I had to sterilize my washing machine with alcohol and fire.  Whoa, you don't want to mix those substances.  FYI. 

L only threw up one time, but it was a doozy.  Mostly because it happened around 1 a.m. (based on appearance and smell), but was not discovered until 7 a.m.  and her  last meal consisted of 3 very bad food choices:  noodles, meat and dairy. 

Fan-tastic. 


***fyi, I know that last level of the vomit pyramid is blurry.  Can't. figure. it. out.  Except to assume that blogger hates me and wants me to die a slow, psychotic death. ***

Looking forward to the day when we grow out of the sneaky-violent-and-slightly-illiterate stage.

So, the wondertwins are celebrating their 100th day of school tomorrow.  BIG CONGRATS to Ms. R., who has survived 100 days of cattle-wrangling, while managing not to get eaten by these little monsters!  Seriously, it's a HUGE accomplishment.

For their 100th day, we had to bring in 100 of any item...L chose crayons.  It was a *mildly* frustrating experience to count out 100 crayons, mostly because my children OBVIOUSLY slaughtered the art fairy, who is normally responsible for keeping our creative supplies tidy.  If you are new here, my children have a tendency to kill the magical little dwarfs that are supposed to be keeping this place neat--the shoe fairy bit it last year, and it was BRU-TAL.  I believe they are staging an ambush of the tooth fairy, and have plans to build a bomb that explodes baby teeth.  Ick.

Anyhoo.  L is slightly behind in counting to 100, or she just doesn't like to do it in my presence.  Whatever, I am totally over math.  TOTALLY.  It is on my list of things I am surrendering.  So basically, I counted out 100 our items, while constantly trying to justify why a marker or colored pencil or random bit of graham cracker was NOT a crayon.  As I may have mentioned before, L doesn't necessarily adhere to boundaries, instructions or traditional definitions. 

Also, both the twins are getting additional help with reading--and let me just clarify, that they are in no way, shape, or form doing anything that resembles reading.  So, I totally see the point of this.  Actually, this right here, is the very reason we have sent them to our public school--to get the extra help and they will need in the classroom. 

And yesterday, I had to sign a contract promising their reading specialist, that I would read to them.

Which I have been doing for their whole, entire lives. 

I feel the need to justify that. 

And possibly send in the wondertwin's 12 inch tall folder of all medical records pertaining to their prematurity and Big J's brain hemorrhage and L's TWO strokes.  I mean, we are LUCKY that their heads don't spin clear 'round their bodies on an hourly basis. 

And also tell you that I pumped breast milk EVERY 3 HOURS for 10 months straight, just so that I could stimulate the brain development of my very premature twins and ROCK this very moment in kindergarten (which, clearly, I am not).  I did not, however, teach sign language or make my own baby food, because I have limits.  But, let's be honest, that is probably where I screwed my children.  People, LISTEN UP!  Learn to blend organic baby kale and lima beans (best if you pick them yourself) or else your kid may not read so good.

Bla-ha-ha!!  Totally kidding.  I know there are some first time moms out there that are freaking out about the kale.  Seriously, it's more important that you crack a bottle of wine and learn to relax, because if you carry that kind of hyperactivity into their elementary school years?  You will burn out somewhere in between your little sweetie's survival swimming and concert harp lessons.  But not before their weekly Japanese watercolor class.

Kindergarten is the year I've been waiting for.  Where I can easily see the effects of their prematurity.  They have been defying the odds and developmental expectations for SO long, that even I forget the long list of things we were told they might never be able to do.  Learning disabilities were the least severe of the problems we were told to expect. 

But  this year, we started at a new school with no records what-so-ever of their prematurity.  Except that we have 547 friends in common with Ms. R (their teacher) and so I'm pretty sure she heard a nauseating amount about our undercooked chickens.  But to everyone else, Big J and L are just your average kindergartners, with a mom who has obviously NEVER read to them a day in their lives and needs to sign a contract to get. her. arse. in. gear. 

I KNOW that's not what she meant.  I know.

It just felt like it. 

I might be a *tad* sensitive when it comes to my kids.  And school.  And thinking that prematurity and all it's effects are my fault.  Which, coincidentally, would mean that I am also taking credit for the miracle that is Big J and L.  And the fact that they can breathe/walk/function without the help of machines.  Except for the 10,479 ounces of breast milk I supplied fresh daily (that was ALL me).  Some of which Big J aspirated into his lungs, and almost resulted in his untimely departure from this world.  Yup, breast milk can kill babies, if they try to breathe it. 

I take so much about my kids school performance personally.  I don't know why exactly--maybe because they spend so much time there, or they are GRADED on how well they are doing, or I have an obsessive-compulsive desire to do everything perfectly.  Even my children.  Which, by the way, is a total recipe for disaster. 

I'm trying to let that stuff go, but finding it hard to strike the balance between being an absentee parent and a no-wire-hangers kind of mom.  Haven't found her yet, and hoping my kids haven't tied her down in the basement (it could be months before we find her in that mess).

This is me trying NOT to maim myself.

This is me using a BAND SAW.  You know, after we decided the jig-saw just wasn't going to give us the kind of finish we were looking for.  Can I get an Amen?

Let me tell you, it is TERRIFYING to use something that could suck your fingers clear off your body.  And once you get over that whole bloody scenario?  It's EMPOWERING.

Do you SEE me, working with WOOD?  Sick and perverted blog readers, keep in mind that I was hacking that sh#! out of that wood with a moving saw blade.  Not. So. Funny.  Is it?

Unfortunately, I have no "finished" pictures.  Yet.  Now that the wood is cut, it needs to be painted and properly attached to the thingy-ma-bobber that I am trying to finish.  I know what your thinking.  Your thinking this sounds like a 1-week project (that I started 2 years ago, but who's keeping track?) that is going to lose it's steam?  Not gonna lie.  It does sound *suspiciously* like a pet ferret that would be left unattended in the basement for years. 

Not that I've EVER done that.  But I do know an entire house of fraternity boys that did.  However, if we are confessing to odd-pet-neglect, then I will tell you that we have recently put the "hammies" (Pinky and The Brain, or dwarf hamsters) in a very out-of-the-way spot, and it is VERY common for me to catch them out of the corner of my eye and think we have unwanted mice.  Until I remember that we BOUGHT these rodents.  With our own money. 

But we were talking about losing FOCUS.  Imagine that. 

I mean, the band saw was hella SEXY.  But the painting, and the measuring, and the assembly and what not?  That sounds like math and the opposite of a good time. 

But I'm going to stick with it, friends. 

I can do this.

I CAN do this. 

Looks like my Girl Scout cookie mantra is becoming my life motto.  Huh. 

I'm not sure how it happened, but I made a trampy outfiit out of fleece for my daughter's doll.

Whoop-Whoop! 

We are still in January, and I have managed to make good on the first  of 2011's projects....pajama pants for G.  To be fair, I bought this material last year, with plans to make these for Christmas, but when this Captain (A-hoy!) drove her Titanic into that mother-humpin' holiday iceberg?  The PJ pants drank some tequila and went down with the ship.

That's code for "I didn't have time to make the pants".  FYI. 

But once I put my list of "to-do's" on the blog, it was sort of out there.  And I felt committed.  Like that time I said I was going to re-do my bedroom in 2 weeks?  Bla-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Ha. Ha.

Coincidentally, I did happen to finish PAINTING my bedroom last week.  It only took 2.5 years.   And just so we're clear?  Painting is the most boring-est job EVER.  The next time I tell you I am going to paint something?  Remind me that our bedroom was two-toned for 2.5 years.

But wait.  The PJ pants don't end there.

Because I HAD to make some for the doll that G NEVER plays with.  It's possible that she is just one pair of pajama pants away from actually showing Nicki any sort of interest.  Oh!  Have you heard that this year's American Girl Doll of the Year is Hawaiian?????  If I can talk it up and tell G that she craps quarters, *maybe* she'll be interested and I can justify it.

This would be the SECOND pair of pj pants I made for Nicki....pair #1 were a tad bit small and *low* in the rise, and let's just say that the wardrobe choices on the Jersey Shore would have been modest compared to what this girl was putting out there.  Apparently, I would be AWE-SOME as a clothing designer for Bratz dolls, and I am possibly two clicks away from dressing my girls in slutty Halloween costumes.  Kidding!  Any-hoo, this is the risk of not sewing with a pattern, BUT, the pants took 7 minutes to make, so it turns out that Nicki will not have to prostitute herself in her sleepwear. 

But get this, blogworld.

Tomorrow, I am working on project #2:  Refinishing a piece of furniture.  And it requires the help of an expert and a SAW with a moving blade.  You should be VERY scared for me.  I will take pictures, even if I cut all my fingers off.  You've been warned. 

"Quiet" time.

Yup, this is EXACTLY how I found her at the end of  "quiet" time.

She was, indeed, quiet.

Also.

If you happen to be missing any, it appears that G & L's room  currently contains the entire world's crap.  It's impressive.

Look closely, and you'll see a few Barbie dolls?  We have a hanging case of 10 or so on the girl's closet.  Which is FUNNY, because the girls have never played with Barbie dolls a day in their lives.  But apparently, they REALLY enjoy tossing every Barbie and her shoes to the floor.  Every. Morning.  What is my problem, that I clean it up every...other week?????

Also.  We own a Prince Charming Barbie and I can't find his pants.  And it is CREEPY.

Happy Weekend!

I call this astronaut training.

I am very easily bored with my kid's lunch selections.  VERY.  But it's hard to mix this one up, because, my willingness to *cook* anything is somewhat low, leaving me with variations of processed foods and cheeses.  I have discovered ALL possible combinations of circular meat and dairy and a fruit for good measure.  And guess what?

BORING.

Yesterday, Little J was going to throw a fit worthy of an Oscar-nod, over a Nutrigrain bar.  Normally, I am unphased by fit throwing (I've been conditioned that way), but he got me in a weak moment, and you know, sometimes Nutrigrain bars do kind of suck it.  

And that's when I found the pesto.

Now.  I know what SOME of you are thinking. Pesto?  In a jar?  From Sam's Club?  Ew-like-totally-gag-me-with-a-spoon.  I bought it one day in a pinch, and you know what?  I ain't going back to homemade.  Mostly because I would need and ENTIRE field of basil to make this much pesto.  And last I checked, the labor costs of said field would be drastically more than $8. 

If it's the processed/non-organic issue that grosses you out?  Refer to paragraph #1, in which I tell you that I feed my children a medley of chicken and beef bits in circular formation (bologna).  Organic is REALLY not on my radar.  And I happen to believe that will serve my children well in 2053, when they are living on the moon--an environment that will only grow fake, chemically altered food.  We are TOTALLY all about the bandwagon that will happen 40 years from now.  Think about THAT.

So you add yourself some mozzerella and pop it in the oven--I went with 400 degrees, for about 5-6 minutes.  Until the cheese melted.

Big hit with 2 of 3 children.  Little J chose instead to go on a hour-long hunger strike, at which  point I realized that food was just not going to meet his expectations for the day.  Tell me about it kid, or would you like to try my less-than-satisfying, fat-free hotdog? 

That's what I thought. 

Our stats.

7-8ish inches.

Snow Day.

Phone calls at 5:04 and 5:40 a.m.

(grrrrrrrrrrrrr)

Kids  out in the snow by 9 a.m.

Hubby still  home.

Shaping up to be the best. day. ever.

Schools, you are RUINING this for me.

Dear Schools:

Let me assure you.  It is going to snow tomorrow.  This based upon my A-mazing talent for predicting the weather *and* the actual forecast as given by REAL meteorologists. 

Listen here, I'm going to ask you to do me a solid and CANCEL SCHOOL RIGHT NOW.  RIGHT. NOW.  Because that 5:30 a.m. wake-up call that is coming tomorrow morning?  It makes me want to punch someone in the teeth. 

Let me rephrase.  If you don't man up and call this thing RIGHT NOW, I will be receiving THREE 5:30 a.m. wake-up calls.  Because we have managed to, somehow, have our 4 children attend 3 different schools,which is never really an issue...

EXCEPT ON SNOW DAYS.

Schools, I know that sometimes we don't see eye-to-eye.  On things like math.  And "friendship day" (still, to date, your dumbest idea ever).  But can't we see this for what it really is?  A snow storm.  Headed straight for us.  Particularly during morning drive time.  He-LLO?????

Parents, I know there are some of you who need your kids in school tomorrow, for the sake of mental sanity.  I totally get that (really).  Lord knows my kids are going to want to play Lego Star Wars on the Wii, and it is emotionally exhausting for me to explain, repeatedly, for 23 minutes straight, how to get Qi Gon Jin into the spaceship (it is, after all, just WALKING, the most basic of maneuvers).  But now is the time to DEAL.  If you play your cards correctly, lay out a banquet of breakfast cereals and *arrange* for Nickelodeon to be the channel your t.v. is set to?  I do believe you can buy yourself an extra 17 minutes of sleep.  Score!

But not if those bastards at SCHOOL don't call it RIGHT NOW.

Because then?  You'll be up 1.5 hours ahead of schedule.  But you'll stay in bed and try to mentally force yourself  back to sleep, which Will. Not. Happen.  Until you actually drift off at the exact minute a child will spill an entire jug of milk AND ketchup all over the floor. 

This year, for the first time, all of my precious children are in school, five days a week.  I foolishly thought this was going to provide me with enormous amounts of freedom, to accomplish every task that has EVER been on a to-do list of mine. 

Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  

Having to get 4 children, to 3 different schools, by 8:10 every morning is painful.  But then I'm FREE, right?  WRONG.  Once I get myself back home and blink 5 times?  Yup, it's 11:20 and time for pick-up. 

Here's the catch, new moms.  It totally sucks to have to get up in the middle of the night with a newborn.  But what gets you through it is the knowledge, that one day, years from now, that little angel will be independent!  And in school!  And then kindergarten rolls around and you are soooo excited, because you have earned three whole hours of a life!

Until reality hits two weeks in, and you are dragging a 6-year-old out of bed and opting to feed them yogurt because technically you can massage it down their throats if they are not fully awake, before having to get them dressed and in shoes (NOT CROCS for the 2,358 time), brush their teeth (22% of the time), FIND their backpack and that thing you were supposed to turn in, get their coats on and have them properly in the car.  By 8 a.m.

And what you will realize, in that moment, is that you still have an infant that is 40 pounds heavier.  And needier. And able to scream LOUDER.  And by some miracle, move SLOWER. 

But tomorrow?  We are going to wake up at 8:00, have a ssslllooowwww breakfast, draw some, watch Ramona and Beezus (borrowed for such a time as this), make some homemade ice cream, read a little Percy Jackson.  Maybe get the paint out, if we're feeling *crazy*.   Definitely play the Wii, which will fry my nerves a little, but I will deal.  And I will reclaim, for ONE DAY, that morning rush hour that drives me bananas. 

If our schools would  just. frickin. call. a. snow. day. 

Do it, and I will forget that "Friendship Day" ever existed.  Now we're even, and you're welcome.

Love,

Me



We are going to need those medical props after all...this is going to be harder than I thought.

It went something like this:

Mom:  L, how are you gonna sell your girl scout cookies?

L:  I forget.

Mom:  First you say, "Hi, my name is L..."

L:  Hi, my name is L....

Mom:  "Would you like to buy some girl scout cookies?"

L:  Yes.

Over and over and over.  I don't think she ever ACTUALLY asked anyone to buy girl scout cookies, but somehow, we have purchased 34 boxes. 

Please keep this in mind when my self worth equals 37 boxes of cookies.  My #1 sales girl is easily distracted. 

Also.  What the hell, people.  Last night's post was wicked awesome.  Don't you remember that we LOVE to hate the girl scouts????  Are we still friends???  Are you talking about me behind my back????

WHERE ARE MY COMMENTS???? 

I even made you a chart, and that puppy almost made my brain explode.  Did you know there was math involved?  That's right, I said MATH. 

List of things I hate:  bananas, the word "panties", public speaking, child leashes  and MATH.

I'm sorry if I sound needy.  According to the chart, I am still in a-hole status.  I am a fragile flower. 

But you are worth it, blogland.

So throw me a frickin bone and leave me a comment. 

My purpose in life, is CLEARLY, to own the girl scouts.

Ahh, Girl Scout cookie time. 


My psyche for these two weeks spans the entire emotional spectrum, as my desire to sell these damn cookies to the best of my L's ability meets my L's (?) hatred of asking people to do something for me her.  Although, let's be clear:  If I allowed my daughter to peddle her fat biscuits all on her own?  Yup, we'd be serving bloody pancakes on the busy street that fronts our neighborhood. GROSS.


L is half blind, y'all.  I'm not even sure she could find a doorbell, AND, if our neighbors looked out their peep hole?  She is so darn bite-sized, they would not even come within 4 feet of actually seeing her.

Blindness + Independent Spirit + cute as an Asian button = Possibly wearing a backpack leash.  For the rest of her life.

Plus.

Mom now becomes the battleground upon which the forces of perfectionism and HATRED of asking anyone to buy anything wage war.  Freddy vs. Jason style.

And as a sequel?

The Evil Lord disorganization and his underling, Procrastination, will form an alliance that will seriously threaten the entire balance of the known universe.  Because a month after I turn in the order?  I'll have to sort through it, and --Son of a bitch!--collect the money. 

I can do this.

I CAN do this.

Because I am good enough, I am smart enough (meh...), and dog-gone-it, people like these cookies.

Also.  Some of you might remember the pretenses under which L became a Girl Scout?  Involving the Jehovah's witnesses, the *suspicious* roasting of a cat and a semi-nasty Girl Scout Leader?  Those factors have spawned a plan so detailed and purposeful, it can only be likened to the birth of Jesus.  If Christ was, in fact, a girl scout born to atone for the sin of a mother who cannot. get. her. sh!#. together. and join the girl scouts in a timely and responsible manner.

There is something at stake here, and it is the soul of every mother who cannot keep up with the paperwork/homework/fundraisers/extracurricular activities of her children.  Oh!  I just figured out how to save the environment?  Kill all the children!  Or the people who send 25 papers home in their folders EVERY DAY.

I. Am. Kidding.  Lest I remind you that I *suggested* L wear a backpack harness--and I REALLY hate those things--but I would do it, if it was for her safety (See, I am invested in her being alive, rest assured).  However.  I would probably stuff the backpack under her shirt (better to have a hump than a harness), and would remove all straps--opting instead for less visible fishing line, therefore, giving the appearance of back-fat deformity, but certainly not a LEASH!   Plus, people might think I was a Jedi, if they walked into my *invisible* fishing line leash and mistook it for a force-field.  I. am. a. GENIUS.

Anyhoo.

Let's be real.  My self-worth will now be proven TOTALLY proportional to the number of cookie boxes L sells.  And I am BETTER than the 10-box patch.  I am AT LEAST the Eco-tote (110 boxes).  And MAYBE (maybe!) the floating charm necklace (310 boxes!).

So listen up, friends.  You are going to gain 10 pounds.  When L comes to your door, look DOWN, and try to resist her sideways glance and lisp.  Just. Try. It.  We are going to use every ounce of her prematurity to our advantage, and if she will still fit in an incubator (probably) and will tolerate a ventilator tube, don't think I won't try it.  I might even shove the feeding tube back in, and I REALLY hate the feeding tube (as much as I hate child leashes).  God's purpose in L's horrendously early birth and extended hospitalization is now, so OBVIOUSLY clear: To sell the damn cookies. 

We are going to rock this SO hard, we are going to OWN the girl scouts. 

If this sounds like a cause you would like to support (my self worth, not the girl scouts) and you don't know any of the 17 Girl Scouts that live on your street, OR their moms appear to be the kind who respond to emails and deadlines (gag) and you would like to visibly support the team that only showers a couple of times a week (because you feel sorry for us...we are NOT beneath a pity purchase)?  Look. No. Further.  I will order your cookies, I will collect your money, and I will deliver them to you...or, if you so choose, perform random food challenges on a live vlog (video blog, duh) with Little J.

When the boxes are tallied, heaven shall declare that it is GOOD.

Slacker moms, REJOICE.  Our redeemer liveth! 

No. More. Twinkies.

This is BIG J.  After he killed himself a garden squirrel, skinned that mo-fo with his teeth and stored it in his chin sack, where it shall marinate until the Winter feast of 2012.


Or maybe.  He lost a battle with your average Crayola marker before my husband transformed him in the "Fat Booth".


Yes.  My husband spent $1 on a face book app that makes you....chunky.  Mostly in the chin-u-lar regions.  If you happen to have red pen marks near your mouth?  It will look like you drink monkey blood for sport. 


Husband has spent HOURS making our entire family faux-fat.  It's his most favorite hobby of all time. 


Bor-ing.


If I am going to be chubby, I am damn well going to earn it with a few (or 10) bottles of wine, a pot roast, and some ice cream.     

Word.

I can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure our Leapster is Satan's portal to total world domination.

Leapsters are made of 100% crack, I think.  Just a theory I am working on, because oh-my-god, my kids will not give it up.  This is what they look like EVERY DAY, until I play the mean mommy witch and tell them to Give. Me. The. Leapster.

I'm torn here, blogworld.

I mean, this thing is teaching them to write letters!  And numbers!  And draw lines!  And mix colors!  But they would play it all the day long, and that just seems...excessive.  No? 

Don't get me wrong.  I am totally excited that Little J will go into kindergarten with the penmanship of a 6th grader.  Too bad his social skills will skip "awkward" and jump straight into "moderately alarming".  Because....I believe that's what happens when your best friend is an electronic box.   

And to think I debated buying a Nintendo DS.  Because I really hate to buy toys they will grow out of in 3 weeks, and was *thinking* the DS would have held their attention for a few good years.  Not gonna lie.  I am somewhat intrigued by the idea of an electronic babysitter   mortified to think of what would have become of my sweet, playful children if that kind of evil walked into our home.  Though, in all honesty, I believe the Leapster wields so much power, because the children can manipulate it successfully.  Tonight's Wii lesson in Kirby's Epic Yarn with Big J?  It can be described as 5,000 miles west of successful manipulation.  Walking + Jumping = IMPOSSIBLE.  Which basically left us bouncing a ball of yarn for 45 minutes.  So. Fun.

Also.  I KNOW tons of you have a Wii and perhaps, a small boy that plays Lego Star Wars.  What. In. The World.  So, I can Jedi-mind trick the FIRST DOOR you come to in the Phantom Menace (literally, the first thing you do), but then what?  We keep pulling an exorcism of sorts on a silver version of C3P0 and then accidentally cutting off his arms so that he hops around.  It's pitiful and totally NOT THE POINT, I'm guessing.   

On another Christmas toy-related note.  Buzz Lightyear was officially assembled today, and for the first time, in my experience as a mother, the boys role played with an action figure.  Hallelujah.  I really suck at Lego, so this picture should be compared to the finishing of a marathon.  Blindfolded. 

One more day 'til the weekend...finish STRONG friends!

Inspiration.

So here it is, folks.  My preliminary list of crafty projects for 2011, which will grow 100-fold over the next 11.5-ish months.  Because my eyes are always bigger than my time/patience/ability.  But I believe this is a *modest* start.

Felt Dahlias (link HERE), as seen on Holidash (but created by Not Martha). 

Fleece Pajama Pants for G.  Actually been planning on this since before Christmas, because she swims 2 nights a week, and I don't know if you realize this, but it be COLD in Missouri.  I've made PJ pants before, they are quite easy to knock out in a night, and I believe this was the site I used as a guide (link HERE).  NO NEED to buy a pajama pant pattern, fyi.  Unless you want tight, fitted-exactly-so pjs with pleats.  I can think of nothing worse.

This *might* be my year to paint a piece of furniture.  And I say *might*, because there is a dresser in my basement that has a primer coat, and a first coat of black paint.  Started that little project about 2 years ago, and then, BIG SHOCK, I got bored.  But this gal seems to paint all kinds of stuff, apparently it doesn't take 2 years to finish this kind of project (who knew) and it all looks AMAZING.  Check it out and be inspired (link HERE).

I LOVE mini Boden, but I hate the price tag.  They do have a very particular look that I happen to really dig, so with certain pieces I can handle the wallet raping.  But I'm kind of thinking that I can make their long, baggy boy shorts (link HERE).  Hanna Andersson also has a similar version (link HERE).  I mean, their like a daytime acceptable version of short pajama pants, right?  How hard can it be?

A pillow for our bed, which I imagine to look nothing like this (link HERE).  I like that pillow, it's the size I have in mind (long rectangle), but I'm envisioning more of a curly monogram vs. a single letter.  I do, however, dig the single letter idea for the kids, and there is another  great & whimsical-looking, DIY idea HERE .  If all this comes to be, we will have an entire alphabet in pillow forms by December.  Awesome.

If I was being honest, I'd also like to try my hand at *simple* quilting AND I have a necklace idea I was planning to copy from Anthropologie, but I can't find it ANYWHERE on their website, which leads me to believe I dreamed the whole thing.  Plus, Anthropologie is totally selling an ADULT hair clip with some fabric scraps and a dinosaur figurine (if you don't believe me, here's the link), which means someone there hit the happy juice a little too hard.  I think I could make it, but it's not really the look I'm going for.

Anyway.  I jumped in with a friend, and committed to making 5 homemade gifts this year.  I really LOVE that idea.  I LOVE to gift, it might be my favorite thing.  So some of these ideas might just be passed along, we'll see.  Going along with that idea, I'm thinking of having a crafty night over here sometime soon.  If anyone is interested.  Drag that armoire you've been dying to rehab on over here, and we'll get ourselves to work!  I'm kidding, please don't do that. 

For those of you out there who are crafty--what kind of projects are you jumping on this year?  I always think these quiet winter months are SO great for getting fun stuff done...no pressure to make things for the holidays, weather that sucks so bad I would rather eat my own flesh than step foot outside, children still in school.  And just think?  If we could get crafty with a little company, wouldn't the world be a better, happier place?

I think so. 

Where its proven my children are safer, wiser and healthier when confined to a school desk.

Snow Day!!

The children thought up this little contraption-o-death.  All. By. Themselves.

It's actually quite fascinating to watch,

 probably because it teeters on the very edge of MAJOR disaster.

And here's why:

If the chickens stick the landing and propel the sled forward?

They must quickly steer themselves through the open gates of our fence.

Approximately a 6 foot margin for error.

Or maybe 4.

I really suck at math and the general estimation of trajectories and speeds, AS WELL AS all intellect and common sense to know this is not the *best* idea.

Probability of injury:  Almost guaranteed. 

Normally, they tend to stick to the left side of the gate.  But today?  G did this slide move that sent her toward the right...

Into the wood pile (whoops).

Ricocheting into the edge of the gate (ouch).

All contact with wood and metal posting was done SOLELY with her face (EGAD).

And that would end our time on the slide of terror.

Hold. The. Phone.

As there were sledding and snow-related activities (and injuries) involved in our day, it seemed only natural to serve S'mores.  That, and we have 300 homemade marshmallows.  And well, what else do you do with marshmallows?

I tried a different technique today.  Oven roasting.  With a *twist*.

I took a graham cracker square and hit that sucker with a phat glob of peanut butter.  Did you hear that?  I said PEA-NUT BUT-TER in a quantity large enough to add 4-17 dimples to your ass.  Then I stuck two squares of chocolate on top and popped them in the oven, at 400 degrees, for about 2-3 minutes.  Enough for them to begin to melt. 

Next:  Quickly add a marshmallow and pop it back in the oven, for another 2 or so minutes.  Until the marshmallow melts with a tint of brown to it's edges.  That is the official sign that it has surrendered its life.

Seriously, I had a religious experience and it had everything to do with the peanut butter and the melty-melty goodness.  Don't even bother over the stove top (or, God forbid, an actual fire).  You can bake a whole pan of these things at once and instantly undo the work of any diet you have ever been on in your whole entire life. 

Hope you all survived the snow day!  Tomorrow we head back to school to learn the maximum speed at which it is *safe* to collide face first into a lot of hard, jagged things AND the number of tears that will be shed while mommy tries to lose the effects of massive marshmallow consumption.  Should be interesting. 

If you kill the Easter Bunny, here's how you hide the body.

So, I tried something new last week--homemade marshmallows.  I chose this project for two reasons:  1.) I had all the ingredients, and 2.) I don't like marshmallows, so was *less* of a chance that I would inhale them through my mouth AND nostrils in 12 minutes flat.

I saw this recipe linked to another blog and this gal said they were SO GOOD.  But she's really skinny, so I figured that she didn't really inhale the marshmallows either. 

People.  Homemade Marshmallows are SO EASY to make, and they taste SO MUCH BETTER than the store bought ones.  My heavens.  They are light and fluffy just like they are supposed to be, but with a better flavor, I think.  If you want to give it a try (and I recommend it!), this is the recipe we used (link HERE). 

You are basically mixing a variety of sugars for a long time.  And it whips up to this super soft and fluffy cloud.  Kind of like I killed the Easter Bunny and decided to serve him for dessert.  I think he would be the tastiest of the imaginary beings.

And after it looked like this, I transferred it to a 9x13 cake pan and let it sit overnight, just to firm up a bit.  And when I say  "transferred", I mean scooped it, spoonful-by-spoonful into the pan.  Because the 15 minutes of mixing?  It was like a sexy dance between my mixing bowl and it's base and  I. Could. Not. Tear. Them. Apart.  Be warned.

Also.  I'm wondering if you have a recipe that calls for melted marshmallows or marshmallow fluff?  This stage in the process would *probably* be the homemade equivalent.  I say PROBABLY because I have no freakin idea.  But it looks right. 

The best part of homemade marshmallows?

Smores. Roasted over the stove top.

Whoa.

I don't know if it was the smaller size (these are slightly smaller than a normal marshmallow, and more square shaped), or a difference in consistency?  But these babies melted REAL nice.  Took about 1 minute, over our kitchen flame.  And it really was a thing of beauty. 

But I'm on a diet. 

And I THOUGHT I disliked (hate is too strong a word) marshmallows.

I was wrong.

The Tree Burn. And experience in extreme temperatures.

A few years ago, when disposing of our Christmas tree, my dear husband had an idea.  To burn it.

Which we did, in our backyard (after he chopped it to pieces), in a metal trash can.  We aren't really homeless, we just like to pretend.  Apparently.

That evening was a *tad* windy.  And by *tad*, I mean HE almost set our neighbors house on fire.  But thankfully learned that a crowded suburban neighborhood is not an appropriate place for a large, raging fire in a windstorm.  Very similar to the lesson my brother-in-law learned once, that pouring gasoline down mole-holes and lighting them ablaze is, perhaps, not the safest way to rid your parent's yard of vermin.  TRUE. STORY. 

But the dream didn't die, folks.  Nope.  That dream found a friend with a cabin next to a big field and a river.  And the tree burn was officially born.

Since the blessed event moved from the comforts of my own backyard, I have respectfully opted not to partake in it.  Because it is ALWAYS 10 degrees, the second week of January. Did you hear that?  I said TEN. DEGREES.  I don't care if you set the entire state of Missouri on fire--if I have to wear 73% of my wardrobe underneath my ski attire, and am still moderately chilly?  It. Is. Too. Damn. Cold.

This year, I decided to give it a try.  Throw caution to the wind (literally).  I had sort of thought the temps might linger near 30 degrees?  What a dumbass.  It is always TEN. DEGREES.

However.

It was a sight to behold.  And I must say, I can now die happy, having survived a scenario in which I thought I would spontaneously combust--there is hope, should you ever find yourself in that pickle.  Because when you throw 15 dry Christmas trees on a fire all at once?  Yep, a part of my eyelids done dripped right on my Ugg Boots.  FIERCE.

But just when you think you are going to die?  The flames retreat just a bit, until the next thing you know?  You are suffering hypothermia and have lost feeling in your extremities.  If your life's dream is to visit the sun and the North Pole within 3-4 minutes of each other?  BURN 70 CHRISTMAS TREES IN JANUARY.  You're welcome.

Oh!  And if you are wondering how we attained 70 Christmas trees?  That would be the work of my husband and his band of goons, who drive around town to various Christmas Tree lots on Christmas Eve, WITH TRAILERS, to snag their treasures (with permission, of course).  This same band of goons might have been on hand when Mike channeled his inner-Richard-Simmons in the freak (undetected) electrocution. 

I lasted about 2 hours.  At which time, a group of 4 of us headed back to *town* with the heat cranked up to 124 degrees, where we quickly found a watering hole that served Chardonnay.  

Tree Burn '11...Oh! What a Night!