Sick.

I meant to post last night, I really did.  But then the Benadryl happened.  Right before I sat laid on the couch and slept, while my children played with every, single board game we own.  One hour of Benadryl-induced sleep = totally worth having to pick up 3,597 game pieces. 

And then I watched Grey's Anatomy AND the American Idol results show, at which point it became abundantly clear that I cannot stand the way Scotty McCreery holds that damn microphone.  JUST PUT IT IN YOUR HANDS AND GRIP IT, DUDE. 

And then Mike gave me another Benadryl, because it was clear the first one hadn't quite calmed my *crazy*.

Most annoying thing about this cold?  One sinus/nostril is like a tropical rainforest, and the other, a dry, African desert.  Balancing two totally different eco-systems in your face is...challenging. 

But.  After spending a solid 13 hours in a resting position, I am feeling much better.  So there is a light at the end of this tunnel, and it appears that I AM going to live.  Which is *kind of* a bummer, because I am still looking for a way out of that half marathon next week.  Death would have been a great excuse.

On having "More"

It started with a simple stone,

Shiny, round and wee

She put  it in a simple box

For all the world to see.

But.

A tiny little stone

Was barely just enough.

So that girl set out to find

More stones. More space. More stuff.

It filled her rooms, her closets

It overflowed her drawers

And before she blinked her eyes,

She couldn't shut her doors.

Soon.

The tiny stone she loved so much

Was nowhere to be found.

Beneath the piles of having more

Some have said it drowned.

Into the mess she wandered,

Past fancy! big! and bright!

To find that itty bitty stone

A simple, lovely sight.

And she knew.

What if having everything,

Is not so grand at all?

But is, in fact, a little stone

That's actually quite small.

************

Today, I joined Pinterest.  Scratch that.  Last night, I joined Pinterest, but my entire existence on that site depended upon my ability to drag a button (?) to an imaginary tool bar (????) I had never heard of.  Very similar to finding the magical wardrobe to Narnia.

And 20 hours later, when that was accomplished, I set about *defining* myself in *stuff*.

Which really boiled down to: J. Crew, Boden and Lands End Canvas.

At which point, I had an actual AND virtual identity crisis over what. I. actually. like.  You know, aside from the three widely popular retailers.  Am  I REALLY a mass produced chambray shirt dress?  Don't I want to be a one-of-a-kind etsy tunic sewn by Himilayan goats (or something)?  And don't say Anthropologie.  I LOVE Anthropologie, kind of.  But it is the mass produced version of something that's meant to look like it was whimsically made from fabric scraps.  Here's a tip:  Take something in your closet, wrinkle it, add another something (preferably a bold print) that doesn't match AT ALL.  Throw on a gigantic necklace and carry a ceramic bowl.  Bingo.  Anthropologie.

Here's my deal:  too many choices render me a hot, hot mess.  As witnessed by my near, web-based, paralysis this afternoon.  Or my houseful of stuff purchased (probably on sale) to give me the *appearance* of an identity.  And identity, coincidentally, that speaks of a bag lady with a fascination for the Caddyshack gopher (an actual, dancing stuffed animal in my basement).  When truly, the items that I really love could quite honestly be compared in size and space to a tiny, tiny stone. 

So, so interesting.  The story my stuff is REALLY writing about me.

Blogworld, meet my feet.

If you are a friend of mine of facebook (if we're not friends, WHY?  Is it something I said?), then you know that I did a LOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG run  today.  And that 1.5 hours into it, I lost my will to live.

That's right, I said my WILL. TO. LIVE.  Because if I had to run another freaking second, life just wasn't worth it, and I *honestly* considered lying down on that quiet suburban street, but knew it would be HOURS before a car would actually run me over.  And possibly, they would not simply kill me, but instead decide to send me to a looney bin that would prescribe a treatment plan of diet and exercise, which is PRECISELY the reason I was in this pickle to begin with.  Although, a solid, mood-controlling, drug prescription might not be a bad idea.

In the past 4 years, I have become a runner.  But here's a little secret:  I HATE RUNNING.  Hate, hate, hate.  A hissing, spewing, cursing kind of hate.

Why run, you ask?  Because I got into this terrible habit of eating cheeseburgers at midnight (damn you, teenage metabolism), and one day I realized I was LITERALLY super-sized.  Adding insult to injury, overalls (my go-to fat suit) were out of style, and if I'm being honest, probably a *little* tight.  Which still wasn't a big deal, because I just went ahead and got pregnant to make it look purposeful.  I. Am. Brilliant.

In retrospect, what I did was stretch my skin to accommodate an additional 60+ pound weight gain.  Complete with a wardrobe of expandable clothing.  Sonofabitch.

Three years and four children later, it was time to take action.  Hence, the running.  But in my true, manic style, I couldn't just run for 30 minutes a few times a week.  No, no, no.  I had to sign myself up for a half-marathon to keep myself *motivated*. 

Next weekend, I will be running in my fourth half marathon.  Only, as of a few weeks ago, I had sort-of decided I wasn't going to run, because I am having a few *issues*.  The greatest of which, is a growth on the bottom of my foot, that I have mentioned casually on this here blog.  I believe that now is the time to tell you (in detail), that I have self-diagnosed it as a foot corn, which is a truly disgusting term for a hard lump of dead skin that forms due to pressure and friction (so, so, SO many inappropriate jokes).  Anyway.  Based on the pain level, it appears this skin lump has grown so deep and large, it now reaches my shoulder blades, and is staging an attack on my brain (which we all know is strategically weak and unguarded).  I am now, regrettably, 15% human, 85% foot corn.

Again.  Seeing as I am never one to abandon a project based on time-constraints or common sense, I am running through it. 

That's not the only issue.  You see, I AM OLD.  And today's 10-mile run has left me cursing any time I stand-up, sit-down, squat, turn,  breathe, MOVE.  Probably because I went from minimal running to 10 miles, which is not a *great* idea, however, it is now completely possible that I qualify for a handicapped parking sticker, which might be a bonus.

I am aware that I could join a gym and ride the elliptical, so as to lessen the damage to my now fragile joints/bones/muscles/foot corns.  Let's just FLUSH money down the toilet, because if the route to said gym includes a McDonalds?  You guess which one is going to win, and in that scenario I am paying a monthly fee to get FATTER.  Sure, there's yoga.  But I don't tend to have the patience for a 6-month learning curve, and part of the reason people LOVE me is my non-zen-like nature, so I really hate to burst that bubble by going against my life theme.  And my love (and adherence to) themes is WELL documented.  DON'T EVEN SAY ZUMBA.  I refuse simply on the principle that I embarrass myself quite enough on a daily basis without the aid of Latin music and mirrors, thankyouverymuch.  People, YouTube now exists--you must guard yourself appropriately.

So for now, running it is.  Until I am officially a large, calcification of skin void of all mobility.  Here's *hoping* that foot corns will defeat body fat in the battle for my soul.

Where I put in writing my plans to be buried in the very thing that kills me.

Guess what, friends?  For one more day it's gonna be Easter 'round here, because I worked too damn hard not to milk it a *little*.  Plus, we have entered the valley of the un-inspired, which tends to happen immediately following a holiday-all-nighter. 

Lack of sleep + 86 pounds of Easter candy = blog lameness.

Anyhoo.

Easter skirts.  Made from the best pattern EVER, which you can purchase right here (LINK, peeps).  If you sew, do yourself a solid and buy this thing--I have made a couple for my girls, and every time they wear them, I, (cough), I mean THEY receive tons of compliments.  It is NOT hard, just cutting a lot of fabric strips and piecing them together--it is only time consuming because there are lots of pieces to the puzzle.  But do-able in 3-4 hours, as witnessed by my 11 p.m. to 2 a.m. Easter sew-a-thon.  Crap.  I should have videoed it, taken pledges, and donated the money to the organization committed to curing the kind of whack-job-crazy disorder that has me crafting in the wee morning hours of every major holiday. 

Also, as an added bonus?  The striped fabric that is used most predominantly in these skirts was a full-sized sheet purchased at Goodwill for $2.  I had Easter in mind when I found it a few months ago, and I love the way it matched with the other fabrics. Cheap sheets are an excellent source of fabric...thrifted sheets are even better.  This also pretty much guarantees that I will never throw out a single piece of bedding, and will therefore die a slow suffocating death when I am eventually pinned beneath an avalanche of bed sheets.  Excellent.

When this inevitably happens, will someone be a love and sew me a pillowcase dress and coffin liner in coordinating floral/polka dot patterns?  That will be my way of giving a giant middle finger to the crafting obsession that is sure to kill me.

The parable of the Easter cupcakes.

On Friday, I was itching for a good Easter project--with all of the intensity that a drug addict itches for crack, I imagine.  As is typically my style, I neglected Easter all together until 48 hours before the actual holiday; at which time I entered into a bunny-themed binge that included the making of these baked goods, the dying of Easter eggs, the completion of the Easter basket re-do of '11, the stuffing and general presentation of the filled Easter baskets...and ending, at 2 A.M. on Easter morning, with the sewing of two little girl's Easter skirts. 

I do not recommend this method.  It has appeared to make me a diabetic, aged me 12+ years, and fueled my growing hatred of holidays that inspire crafting.  You know, everything Jesus desired for me when he died on the cross. 

As it turns out, Friday's cupcakes were pretty cute, and were realistically do-able for the chickens.  It did not require the ability to ice evenly (a struggle for my desire for visual proportion and balance in children's projects), as the coconut covered uneven icing.  I helped stick the licorice in for the basket handles, but otherwise, it was all their work.  Well, minus the felt bunny ears.  That was me.

Now.  Let me show you what these pretty little cupcakes cost me.

I realize that this picture fails to account for the layer of sticky that covered every surface of my kitchen for 24 hours (who am I kidding, I mean FOREVER.  Sticky FOREVER).  And  the bits of coconut that I will find, months from now.  Or the icing stalactites on the ceiling.  And this is only my counter top after the cake baking--but you are hella crazy if you think I am going to pick up a camera while my children are wielding large spoonfuls of icing.  Photographing the mess in progress would render me unable to scream my constant, all-encouraging-holiday-craft-mantra:

"STOP.  Put it down.  DOWN.  Do not lick the cupcake.  STOP.  Do not lick the spoon.  Do not put icing in your sister's hair.  NO. STOP.  PUT. IT. DOWN."

I mean, it takes an INTENSE amount of vigilance and rules to produce an Easter-themed baked good.  And the mess.  Oh. The. Mess.

I fight the mess A LOT.  Mainly because I'm not *great* at cleaning.  But  my attitude, in general, consistently relies upon the amount of mess and clean-up associated with any given project.  Which, let's face it, has made me a mostly raging B, and has led to a general life theme that I could categorize as "frustrating", because EVERYTHING is messy.  For example:  My kids can decide to draw on a completely clean kitchen table--and within 7 minutes, the floor is covered in paper bits and MAGICALLY, a glass of milk has spilled on something/ everything. 

Rule #4,982 of having children:  Milk spills on everything, at every minute, of every day.  If I lived  in a dry, dry desert, milk would still appear simply to spill and ruin my life on a daily basis.  Prepare accordingly.

I can choose not to take on the projects, but let's be craft-geek honest here--creativity feeds my soul and I would eat Mod Podge if it wasn't toxic.  I LOVES it.  I love making pretty.  I love wrapping things in cellophane.  I *heart* grosgrain ribbon. 

That deep, deep, fulfilling, creative love?  It comes with HUGE amounts of mess and work.  They cannot be separated, they feed the same fire in my very soul.  The chaos that, in turn, breeds something so purposeful.  Something whimsical.  Something beautiful. 

Do you know that the things you do on a daily basis tell a story?  The things I sew, projects I take on, the crafts I make?  The kids I am raising?  The decisions I make?  My relationships?  All of them tell the same story, of the thing that takes shape from the uncertain chaos, that makes the mess worth all the effort. 

Daily, it is cupcakes and Easter skirts.  A clean house.  Non-milk spilling children.

Eternally, it is heaven.

Today, we are celebrating Easter.   The Savior who rose to make a gigantic MESS absolutely BEAUTIFUL.  You cannot separate what is sticky and ugly and painful and hard from the perfect and beautiful love of Christ.  They feed the very same fire, the single event that shapes the chaos into something so stunning and purposeful.  

Without the cross, it's just a disaster.  The sticky without the cupcake.

Every single day of history, every detail, tells THIS exact same story.  Of lives made beautiful.  By the very work that started on this day we celebrate.

Happy Easter, Friends. 

This is a two-fold post discussing needle donation and Jesus.

Blog world, I'm not sure if there is a legal way to ask this, so I'm just gonna come right out and say it--

Do any of you have a use for Insulin syringes?  You know, for reasons related to diabetes AND NOT (let me repeat...NOT) intravenous drug use?  We used these (well not THESE actual needles, pictured above...ick) on the ol' beagle, but as you may recall, WE SUCKED AT IT, and as a result she went ahead and had some sort of stroke related to her diabetes, followed by a series of seizures, and well....that was it for the beagle. 

I suppose this also begs the question--Can you USE these needles on humans?  I'm *guessing* yes.  Because we got them at the pharmacy at Sam's Club.  And Sam's Club is for (mostly) humans. 

Seriously, there are like, 150 UNOPENED syringes here.  I hate to see them go to waste.  I also hate to see them sit in my cabinet for another 20 years, simply because I cannot bear to throw anything away.  Also because I don't think you can just throw needles in the trash, and if I have to take these somewhere?  Not a chance in h-e-l-l that they'll ever leave my countertop.  Why is everything SO complicated.  And more importantly, why do I have 150 needles? 

Also, in a weird and ironic twist of fate:  I found TWO unopened 3ml syringes in a different drawer.  Hell. If. I. Know.  I'm going to go ahead and assume they were left-over from that freaky science experiment (invitro fertilization) that left us pregnant with triplets. 

**********************

On a note unrelated to needles--we are currently in the middle of Holy Week, the series of days leading up to Jesus' death on the cross, and his glorious resurrection.   Sometimes, it feels a whole lot like Holy-minute-and-a-half around here, because mostly we are our same ol' frantic, busy, overwhelmed selves.  Finding good homes for clean needles, and other activities of great importance, apparently. 

It is REALLY easy to beat myself up over the amount of time I spend with the Lord.  Praying, or worshipping, listening to *Christian* music (verses, oh, Lady Gaga), having what feels like mental conversations with him.  Or even just thinking about him for a split second.  My time with him is not regular, it's not always heart felt, it's somewhat distracted, often its non-existent.  

He desires more, no doubt.

But also,  I believe he speaks CLEAREST to me through actual life.  Not sit-in-meditation-for-five-hours kind of life, but actual booger-encrusted, spilled milk LIFE.  The part of me that wishes it was easier, or simpler, or less effort, or cleaner, or more patient.  Do you know that is?  That is the part of me that yearns for a Savior, even if it's often confused with needing more (or less) of something else.  Strangely, I have yet to find a t-shirt at the Gap or a $100 haircut, or even a house cleaner that has EVER satisfied that part of life that is hard. 

The part of me that aches for something different IS the part of me that needs Jesus.  Not just in a structured, finely-worded, 20 minute prayer.  But in real, actual, overwhelming NEED.  If you think the Bible is full of people who followed rules and lived perfect (and boring, suffocating) lives?  You'd be wrong.  It's all about generations that struggled and wrestled and often failed at life apart from God.  Replace the robes with J.Crew, substitute donkeys for gigantic SUVs (or hybrids, if you are environmentally minded).  We are living the same story, over and over and over.  And over.  NEED has always been the way that he speaks to us.  Without it, we just aren't listening.

Today, I am thankful that I am needy.  And searching.  Because I believe that those are the often unanswered love letters of a Savior that wants me and desires me to know joy beyond a to-do list of laundry and dishes. 

Does this look like a basket you'd like to crap some eggs into?

I took it upon myself to give the Easter baskets a much needed make-over. Not that they were terrible, or anything, just in need of a little updating.  I have a great knack for taking on new projects at totally inappropriate times, and this would be another, stellar example.  Also on deck:  sewing G an Easter skirt AND creating some sort of bow tie.  You'd be wise to stay tuned, there is definitely some *crazy* coming down this blog pipe. 

But look at how CUTE this turned out:

Some blog, some where, sometime in the past 60 days (what accurate source citation!!), created a mossy letter.  I fell in love with it and mentally filed it for the busiest week of my year, because I am a genius with scheduling.  Thankfully, it was super, SUPER easy.  I bought a small wood letter at Hobby Lobby.  I bought green moss.  I glue gunned the moss to the letter (including the sides, so that no wood was exposed).  Done.  Oh, and  for good measure, I removed that ugly-ass pastel ribbon and replaced it with brown polka dots.  Much better.  I think I'm going with an *earthy* Easter theme this year, and am debating pulling up actual sod for the insides of the basket (no, not really). 

Also, let it be noted that I think this basket would look RAD with fabric strips tied (and covering) the entire handle.  In earth tones (greens, browns, twine), duh.  No word yet on whether or not I'll make that happen, but if I can squeeze a few minutes in after 2 a.m. on Easter morning, it might be a definite possibility. 

Bring. It. Easter Bunny.

ALMOST as embarrasing as my laundry pile.

Blog world, I am about to let you get all up in my biz-ness, and after this post, we are gonna be real, good friends.  Because today?  I found my high school CD collection, and it is a terribly accurate look into my ACTUAL soul.  For real.


Take a second to peruse the selections I have chose to capture on film.  90210 soundtrack?  Check, bitches.  Expose's Greatest Hits?  Listening to it right now, as Mike has what looks like a seizure.  Anyone who can create a song titled "I'll Never Get Over You Getting Over Me" is a lyrical genius, because it kind of sounds like a one-woman schizophrenic argument.
Mariah Carey x 2?  Hell ya. 


Atlantic Starr?  Oh, yes.  Yes.  Yes. Yesssssssssssss. 


Bevis and Butthead soundtrack?  Sadly, yes.  But in my defense, the Red Hot Chili Pepper's version of "Rollercoaster of Love" will blow your mind.  I think.  It's been a few years since I've listened to it, and one might argue that my musical taste has never quite been *spot* on. 


There is only one explanation for the massive cluster known as my CD collection:  I grew up in Hawaii.


Most of you think my state is famous for palm trees and sun and beautiful beaches, but really it is the place where decent music meets an ugly, bloody, multiple-stab-wound-head-in-the-freezer type of death.  I think.  Because I've never actually heard decent music there.  Unless you  define "decent" as Color me Badd (saw them in concert...WOOT!) or Hi-Five.


What!  You've never heard of Hi-Five??????   Dude, I can still sing every word of this one BY HEART.  And I may or may not have purchased it on itunes within the last 2 years.  And I may or may not RUN to it, on occasion, because nothing motivates an islander to speed and productivity like slow-ass music.



Seriously.  If it sounded like this, people in the islands LOVED it.  And crafted prom themes around it, that included choreographed dance routines (complete with LIFTS!) for the prom court.  NO JOKE. 


(Update:  As I continue to let Hi Five play in the background, Mike's ears/eyes/nose have started bleeding.  Profusely.)


Ahhhh.  Many were the nights when we would jump into a Honda Civic and *cruise* Waikiki to the sounds of The Cover Girls (anybody???).  And by *cruise*, I mean drive in heavy traffic, up and down the strip, along with every other high schooler on the island.  ALL blasting slow, pop ballads like mating calls. I cannot make this sh#! up, people.  It was like the Fast and the Furious, Slow Jam remix.

For any of you who have ever asked me what it was like to grow up in Hawaii?  I think you're looking at it.  Lordy.


To this very day, we will hear some of this music in random places like Taco Bell, and it will take me back.  And I will sing every word, and Mike will look at me like I done lost my damn mind.  Note to self:  Create a "Stevie B" Pandora Station.  If you've never heard of Stevie B (WHO'S NEVER HEARD OF STEVIE B????), do yourself a favor and google it.  Pay particular attention to "Because I Love You".  Brilliant.


AHH!!  A YouTube search of Stevie B. (couldn't resist) has turned up the long lost...Timmy T.!!!!!!  How can my brain POSSIBLY retain the lyrics to this song and yet fail to remember the deadline for my kid's soccer sign-ups?  Makes no sense, except to suggest that this is genetic.  Blog world, if you make it through this entire post, we are besties.  For sure. 





Looks like you can take the girl out of Hawaii, but you can't take Hawaii out of the girl. 


Peace out. 

The garden of eden *might* have been intended as a hippie commune adjacent to the world's largest brewery. Discuss.

Best. Weekend. Of. My. Entire. Life.  NO JOKE.

As it  happens, we managed to feed 7 children a lunch of soft pretzels with cheese, followed by a walking tour of the Anheiser-Busch brewery tour and an hour stop at said brewery's hospitality room, and ending with a visit to a local soda-shop.

As proof, I offer a poorly taken iphone photo, capturing 5 (of 7) children.  And while it is true that two of my other offspring were also present, let's face it, with this many kids, who the hell knows where they all are at EVERY given moment of the day??

Kidding.  They were spitting pretzel chunks into my Shock Top sample (NO JOKE).  I mistook said chunks for fruit pulp in my raspberry wheat, until my actual eyes proved that I was wrong.  So, so very wrong.  But with this many children, who the hell knows what you are actually drinking, at any given moment of the day???

If you are still thinking that I lost sight of my children at a brewery?  Then let me interject and tell you that child abduction was highly unlikely as NO ONE takes their kids on a brewery tour, apparently.  This is a huge mistake, as Anheiser-Busch offers:  a large room of tables and chairs, free pretzels and unlimited access to a soda fountain. 

Translation:  If you use your *imagination*, then we found a the FREE equivalent of a McDonalds playland, that serves 8 different samples of beer.   Seriously, why don't people PAY US for our parenting genius?

*************

Following Saturday's field trip?

Today's six-hour impromptu barbeque, at the home of the same friends who accompanied us to the brewery.  I sat on a porch lounger and stood up three times to:  serve my children lunch, pee, and change into a t-shirt.  My 8-year-old cried one time, when she was inadvertently punched in the face by her younger sister in the bounce house. Yes, there was a bounce house, a pond, and several hundred small containers into which water was poured.
Minus the face punching, my children would say this day was 54-kinds-of-awesome. 

And it was the kind of gloriousness that makes me believe that hippie communes make ALL. KINDS. OF. SENSE.

Monday, you are going to be a buzz kill.

My baby turned 5.

For my bear, on his 5th birthday,

After testicular cancer, invitro-fertilization, the premature birth of our triplets (and their corresponding six month, $3 million-stay in the NICU), we sure were *surprised* to learn we were having ANOTHER kidlet.  Our baby. 

You have ALWAYS been the best kind of surprise, Joshua. 

With love,

Mom and Dad

The story of my stuff.

Do I look like the kind of person that would own this basket?

Wait.  Don't answer that.

I mean, it's not TERRIBLE.  But as I purge through my morbidly obese basement, it has come to my attention that I hoard baskets (amongst other things), and they take up an awkwardly large amount of space.  And I'm just starting to contemplate the kind of story my stuff has to tell about me.  Beside the fact that I cling like hell to EVERYTHING. 

I'm not trying to be fancy.  Or expensive.  But I'm also not trying to be that basket either, you know?

Problem is, I've always evaluated my *stuff* in terms of the space I have to hang on to it, and if I had to guess, I would say that 10% of the things in this house actually serve a purpose, and 90% is just here because I'm afraid it will be lonely at Goodwill.  But what if, WHAT IF, the things I own actually told a story about me? Have you ever thought about what your stuff would say?  I sure as hell am not trying to tell the story of the place where crap goes to escape a second-hand store, only to find itself trapped in a dark basement.  But as it turns out, I guess I am. 

Egad.

Could I handle letting go of the things I tolerate, just to wait for what I truly desire?  And what exactly is it that I actually WANT?  I mean, really, what is the problem with being less-than-stuffed-to-the-gills, if it means making preparing a space for something I love? 

It's just stuff.  I get that.  But I think if we are all being *real*, our stuff tells an actual story.  And I'll bet, if we're being REALLY honest, our stuff doesn't tell the story we are actually trying to write.  At. All. 

For example.

That basket is saying that I would like to live in a log cabin with a country theme.  And the other 43 baskets that keep it company probably suggest that I am actually wicker-weaver. 

Not exactly the kind of life theme I was going for. 

I am about to start a project that tells the story of my stuff.  And I'm kind of excited about it, but it's somewhat radical, and that makes me nervous.  When I have a spare minute, I will get to work and fill you in...but for now, just a teaser. 

Because tomorrow, this little bug turns 5.  FIVE.  What the hell?  Coincidentally, the stuff in my second-floor storage area would tell you that we are still planning on having babies.  Boxes and boxes and BOXES full of babies.  And you know?  I just don't think that's the story I am writing, either. 

Tonight, I am remembering the story of this little boy and the morning that we met him.  The story of THREE children, 16 months and younger, plus a 3-year-old.   If that story was a movie, it would star ZOMBIES.  But somehow, we got to the place where these kids are potty trained and sleeping through the night, and not taking naps and playing independently.  And this movie would star an actress that never showers.

Happy (almost) birthday, Little J!  I look forward to the day of regaling you with tales of how my water broke at 3 a.m., and all of the lovely details that will make you want to vomit as a teenager.  Because that's my job, son. 

And if I can find the pajamas I was wearing that night?  Now they would tell that story WAY better than I ever could.

To my knowledge, I have NEVER used the word failure to describe my kids.

Mom said, "He is a failure in bascetball (basketball), but he trys hard."

G, age 8

For the record, none of my children play basketball, so I am ASSUMING that this is a purely fictional scenario, written by my 2nd grader, as part of her spelling sentences.  Although, I fully expect that this will qualify her to visit with the school counselor on a bi-weekly basis.  

Dude.  I bought you HAMSTERS.  What about a sentence that speaks to that kind of awesomeness?? 

Sorry I've been absent, blogworld.  It's been a busy week, and I have been all a-flurry with new projects and activities.  One being a writing project on behalf of my church, where I was asked to put the worthiness of Jesus into words.  Limited to ONE, double-spaced, typed page.

No problemo!  Actually, I was super excited, until I realized that if you put the entire Bible on a single sheet of paper, the font size is impossible to read.  Kidding...but holy cow, this was way more difficult then it seemed at first.  Try it.  I used all kinds of big words and fanciness until I remembered that isn't my style.  So in the end, I stayed true to  myself and wrote from the viewpoint of a mother, whose very offspring reveal the need for a Savior on an hourly basis.  As proven by G's homework. 

I will publish that piece, here on this blog, next week in honor of Easter.  So stay tuned.

Also, I took my three littlest kids on a bike ride yesterday.  This is HUGE, because we crossed 24 streets to get to our destination, and they all survived...but it entailed a constant stream of commands.  We were almost home, and riding down a moderate sized hill, when Little J lost control of his bike, went flying past me, CRYING, jumped a curb and bounced off his seat (while still attached at the handle bars), where he landed in a yard.  Surely, he thought he was going to die.  I thought he was going to die, and it was terrifying.  Until he was fine, and then it was kind of funny.  On this day, I like to think that we gave death-on-a-quite-suburban-street the middle finger. 

We do that kind of a lot, actually. 

How to lose friends and alienate neighbors. On twitter.

Oh, Twitter.

When I mentioned that I had jumped aboard this bandwagon, many of you probably saw this moment coming.  I was ACTUALLY becoming 64-kinds-of-excited, that perhaps, Twitter was my way to escape social awkwardness, what with being limited in words and lacking all real-time facial expressions.  Twitter definitely puts Baby in a 160-character corner.

I was all prepared to begin my rise as the sarcastically-salty/tolerably sweet darling of the Internet, when I happened to make a Twitter friend in TheNextMartha.  If you are new to Twitter, you should check out her blog, particularly THIS entry.  It will help you not to embarrass yourself by doing the Twitter-equivalent of crapping your pants in public.....and when I actually understand half of the things she is talking about, I will be much less likely to cyber-embarrass myself.   Until then, you have entries, like the one pictured below.

So, here's the other thing about twitter.  If you want to be followed, or have any kind of presence on there...well, you have to MAKE AN EFFORT.  Put yourself out there a bit.  If you have popular-kid-syndrome, and expect people to just invite you to everything because you were crowned the king-goon-of the-adolescent-apes 18 years ago?  You will suck at this (disclaimer: unless you are Kim Kardashian, or  someone equally famous for doing absolutely-nothing-whatsoever).  Listen, you're going to have to engage people YOU DON'T KNOW, and are likely to never meet in real life.  You have 160 characters with which to do it, and nobody, let me repeat, NOBODY finds your description as "head cheerleader with a killer rack" endearing.  Unless you can make that vulnerable and sarcastic in 160 characters. 

So.  TheNextMartha is totally digging my jelly, she mentions me by that magic @ sign, and voila!  I have followers.  This boost in my self confidence will likely and inappropriately last for years.  And *might* be blamed for what happens next.  When I decide to ENGAGE my next victim. 

A new mom, with one child.  Oh!  I shine here!  I mix a cocktail of slight sympathy, with a dose of sarcasm and a *small* pinch of peppy-ness.  I. own. this. 

We banter about her husband taking her to I-HOP!  I LOVE I-HOP!!! 

I tell her that the best name for a breakfast combo, in the history of forever, is the "Root-n-Tooth, Fresh-n-fruity."

Root-n-TOOTH, fresh-n-fruity. 

No.  No.  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Did I just tell her that I-HOP serves teeth?  With roots attached?  Like from the pancake-making dentist?  I think I might vomit.  At the very image and the sheer embarrassment.  Stupid, STUPID auto correct. 

Tooty!!  TOOTY!!!!!!!!

I tried to recover, but she's probably still entertaining the idea that I am tiling my bathroom in baby teeth and maybe human bones.

Proving, yet again, that I am less a Reese-Witherspoon-type personality, and more (way, WAY more) of a Collette Reardon.  Who was kind of awesome.  In a prescription meds kind of a way. 

How the kingdom of Heaven is likely a Target store.

I believe in the Kingdom of Heaven.  And when the good Lord Jesus comes to take me there, I believe that he will be escorting me to a large (yet uncrowded) Target store in the sky.  Bedazzled and full of polka dots. Oh!  The glory.

As it happens, every time I walk into a Target, I am reminded of his majesty.  And what he made possible with cotton knit to the tune of $3.  It is almost more than I can bear.

And today.  I discovered the Orange Cream Icee in the Target Cafe?  This shall be the manna that feeds me for all of eternity as I lounge about the clouds in a Merona sweater set.  And I shall never want for more. 

Introducing my new weekly feature:

How the kingdom of Heaven is likely a Target store.

Complete with photos to support my claim.

Happy Weekend!

What to do, when progress attracts a soft-porn following?

So, I've joined Twitter.  Excuse me, my husband joined twitter on my behalf.  And he posts 90% of the stuff on there, because he WISHES he was as awesome as me and my 4 followers.  

Actually, his point is that this is the wave of communication and  news gathering in the future.  And  as I see it, I have three choices:  

• Regale my teenage children with tales of how iphones never existed and people actually read books made out of paper, and we actually drove cars that used gas back (verses wearing a jet pack) when I was a wee babe.
• Miss their graduation ceremony when I fail to receive my twitter/facebook invite.
• Pose as @SweetBuns87 and intercept their twitter feeds and facebooking codes to discover just where that rockin' party will be next Saturday night when their parents think they are studying for finals with a friend. 

Yes friends, I am doing this for  the children.

So.  I know nothing about twitter,or how it works, of this weird technical language that uses all kinds of #'s and @ and !!!!!!  Hmmmm.

Also, you might imagine my surprise when I picked up a new follower today!  Hooray.....

ummmmmm.........wait-a-ssssssssssssssss..................is that--?????????????????

Enter Madeline T. 

(edited to note: Madeline T.'s photo has been removed at the request of my husband who would prefer that our children never, EVER see that picture, even when they are 50.  Too bad for you guys, it was a doozy.)

She is interested in laptop repairs and eczema.  And PENIS ENLARGEMENT.   She lost me with the penis enlargement, but otherwise, maybe we could be friends.

What am I missing here, tweeters?  Why is there a soft-porn star trying to educate me on skin disorders???

HELP. 

This is neither appropriate NOR helpful in my plan to distance my children from sexual predators.

Also, I would like to know who's out there, because I am having ZERO luck finding twitter friends and I feel like I am talking to myself out in cyber-space.  So if you are a *tweeter*, send me your username so that we can hook up with a few @ or # or whatever. 

Put your username in the comments section, or follow me--SDenckhoff.  Please wear clothes.  And no fondling, please.

Tomorrow I aspire to the level of "Not Embarrasing" as it relates to my abilities as a mother.

Today could be described as a moderate parent fail.  And I say *moderate*, because there were really two events which defined my parenting chops in the past 12 hours, one mildly disturbing and the other so appalling it is a small miracle that my children function above the level of a 4-month-old.  Together, they average out to be on the over-achieving side of terrible. 

And  they are:

Lying down  on the couch after lunch, only to lose 1.5 hours in what can only be described as a roofie-induced coma.  Because someone OBVIOUSLY spiked my diet coke with Lunesta.  But if there is a saving grace here, it's that the chickens were outside playing on  the slide-o-death while I was unconscious, AND THEY LIVED.  I was not awoken by screams or blood...rather, by a four-year-old asking when we were going to the store?  And my frantic realization that I would have to go without Diet Coke for a whole day if I didn't get there STAT. 

Mother. of. the. freaking. year.

Here's the thing.  Without Mike here, I don't think I have EVER taken a nap while the kids were awake.  I *usually* can't relax (or trust my kids) enough to ease into slumber.  However.  You might recall that I have mentioned my burning wrath for pollen?  Yup, it's arrived here in the Midwest, and that allergy pill I took on SUNDAY AFTERNOON?  It has rendered me so useless that I could *seriously* use any combination of:  a scooter, a nanny, methamphetamines, an i.v. drip of diet coke, a neti-pot, 48 hours of continuous sleep, a long sharp object capable of scratching my inner sinuses, plastic surgery that makes it impossible to close my eyelids, and some Cadbury mini eggs. 

And to be clear, this is the event which I  classify as *mildly* appalling.  Let's move along to moment that will have you asking what-in-the-hell-I-have-been-doing-for-the-past-eight-years-when-I-claimed-to-be-mothering-humans.

After peeling myself off the couch, I barked a few orders to  get us on our way to the store.  Go to the bathroom, find your shoes, no not those shoes, please leave your stuffed animals here, where are your SHOES, close the front door, etc.

My kids are pretty good at this, plus, I *think* they were hoping to escape the house before I discovered the neighbor they murdered while I napped.  We popped in the car.  I backed up.

"Guys, I asked you to close the front door.  Someone go close the front door."

L jumped out.  She proceeded to stand in front of the door and stare.

"L, close the door."

"It is closed."

"No, its not."  So, she then proceeds to open our glass storm door (which was closed) and let it go, thereby shutting it.  Repeat 3 times.

"L.  Not that door.  The other door."  Of course, I was referring to the door BEHIND IT.  The one that was OPEN.

She proceeded to search the front of the house for the other, *magical* door that leads to Hogwarts, apparently.  Yes, yes, yes.  I know what you're thinking.  It would be a WHOLE lot faster if I just got out and did the whole damn thing myself.  I refused on principle.  We are talking about identifying a DOOR.  Did any of you have to teach your kids what a door is?  Am I missing something?

Big J and Little J jump out to help.  Which is like the blind leading the door illiterate. 

"Guys!  The black door, behind the door.  The one that is OPEN?" 

"It's closed?"

"Not. That. Door.  The other door.  The big door.  The black door?"

"Where?"

"THERE!!"

"Here?"

"Yes!"

"It's closed!"  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-sob-ha-ha-sob-sob-sob-wail.

They fixated on the storm door a little longer.  Holy hell, it's like they had never seen the front of our house EVER in their lives, nor learned to properly identify:  a door, the color black or the word "open".  It was humorous.  And soul-crushingly depressing, as to what this means for my skillz as a mother.

Memorized all words to Ke$ha's "Tik-Tok"?  Check.  Proper identification of a DOOR?  FAIL.

Nine minutes into this ordeal, the door was correctly identified.  And closed.  Son-of-a-motherless-goat.

Forget learning to read.  Tomorrow's lesson:  Introduction to the stove, the word HOT and a clear understanding of the words "No Touch."

If the timing and circumstances align just so, these dolls are freakin creepy.

7:00 a.m.  Not my finest hour on any given day.

POORLY placed American Girl dolls (that NEVER get played with, mind you).

Gigantic thud.

Sight of sandy blonde hair.

3.7 seconds of believing that I had killed my daughter with the bathroom door.

Nope.

Just major head trauma for the expensive doll

(and her Target counterpart, cuz Santa is practical),

that has already been BEHEADED once.

Tomorrow's conversation:  Why it is NEVER okay to pass out on a bathroom floor. 

*******

Weenie post alert:  I tired.  The Butler game + allergy meds + chardonnay + an impromptu visit to the zoo today has knocked it out of me.  I'm just kind of like blah.  Blah.

I need a good craft.  Or maybe a medically induced coma. 

Where I prove there is very little difference between me and Charles Barkley.

For one more day, I am going to write a sports blog.  Hang with me friends.


The thing that most qualifies me to WRITE a sports/college basketball blog? 


That I  DON'T WATCH SPORTS OR BASKETBALL.  Because I have watched the tournament for 3 weeks and listened to Charles Barkley (who actually PLAYED the game) sound like an idiot.  Lordy, that man voiced opinion, after opinion, after OPINION, about how Butler was going to be overpowered in the second half of every game they played.  What was he watching????  And really, he was just a very vocal example of a group of *experts* that consistently picked EVERY team but Butler to advance.  Well, except for the VCU match-up, because then, of course, Butler held the higher, magical *seed*. 

(Side note:  It is equally ANNOYING when commentators remark that it REALLY comes down to this game, for a particular team.  Well, duh.  It's a single elimination tourney, that's true for EVERY team, dumbass.)

You basketball fans, and your seeds and your stats.  I kind of get it.  I mean--if you'll allow me to put this in terms that I am more intimately familiar with--even I was SHOCKED when  Adam Lambert didn't win American Idol, you know, because of all of the hype and prediction and what not.  I pride myself on being somewhat of a pop-culture-idiot-savant, and I TOTALLY get the way Idol works, and how you can't sing a Celine Dion song without falling short, or expect people to vote for you after you act like a douche (on camera) by ripping on a sweet, chubby 16-year-old kid.  That is Idol 101, people.

So, sports fans:  Is that what it is like when a team like Butler makes it to the finals?  Do you equate it with a Sanjaya, or that red-headed kid from seasons past?  Did someone call them in a vote to the championship?  Do you think that Butler's practices consist of watching the movies "Hoosiers" and "Rudy" over, and over, and over.  And over???? I mean, you might as well go ahead and believe that they grow a magic beanstalk and eat of its fruit for breakfast and ride unicorns. 

Because the (limited) amount of commentary I have watched has NEVER picked Butler to win a game against a competitor with a higher seed, which is just about every game besides the VCU match-up.  Seriously, if this is what it takes to give my two-cents on sporting events, sign. me. up.  Just pick the better rated team and restate the stats?  Shoot, I can READ, so that must make me capable.

Listen.  I get that if your stats are right, then Nolan Smith is Jesus come to save the world with a sweet lay up, or something equally ludicrous.  I get that there needs to be some kind of ranking,and that it's hard to put a lot of weight in a small program that just doesn't win the players with the "flash" because their league isn't a *BIG* something.  I get that seeing them in last year's final seemed like a sort of wish-granted, or a peak with great timing (verses a season of hard work).  I get that they are physically smaller, their coach is young, their STATS (those damn stats!) don't compare.

Except that they win.  Everybody seems to overlook the fact that they WIN.  Even when it's ugly and they do look physically mismatched (Florida).  Still. Winning.

WHY, experts?  Tell me WHY they are still winning?  And for-the-love-of-all-things-holy, do NOT refer to a STAT.  Duke is out!  Kansas?  Dead!  Pittsburgh?  Buh-Bye. 

So yeah.  Those magical stats and seeds and whatever are great...but they are obviously wrong.  There is a measure of something else that is missing and yet equally important.  And as I only watch college basketball for 3 weeks out of the year, I have no idea what that something might be, but TV commentators might look a heck of a lot more knowledgeable if there was a number assigned to grit?  Mental acuity?  Performance under pressure?  Or scrappy-ness?

Seriously.  Charles Barkley and his team of experts need a print out of those numbers before the game, so that they can stop referring to Butler in terms of fairy tales and magic flying trolls that seem to put the ball in the basket.  Because HEAVEN FORBID that they grow a pair and have an opinion outside of the STATS. 

Go Dawgs!!

Alpha Phi is smiling now...

Big J lost his FIRST tooth on Friday afternoon.  This is HUGE!!

Too bad the tooth fairy is a MAJOR fan of Butler Basketball *and* chardonnay.  A combination that has rendered her USELESS for two nights in a row.  Thankfully, Big J has 19 other teeth, with which the fairy can redeem herself. 

So.  When I was in college, I was in a sorority.  And I loved it.  We lived in rooms the size of a shoe box and we ate bagels everyday and we had weird rituals, and we sang songs, and when we were freshman we crafted an 8 foot penis out of wire and paper mache (long story).  I have lip-synced and performed an entire dance routine to the song "Sleigh Ride", in front of our house's Christmas DATE dinner. I have gathered countless feet of yarn over HOURS of time to find my pledge mom.  I have unraveled and strung countless feet of yarn for my pledge daughter to find me.  I have a ridiculous amount of t-shirts from date parties and formals.  I have dressed in lederhosen and performed in a "Sound of Music" skit for 3 years straight.  I met my husband while riding my sorority's teeter-totter at 1 am.  I have seriously rocked the art of puffy paint.  I have run through a line of fraternity boys swinging paddles (much less abusive than it sounds).  I've been a Rush Chair.  I have "trained" girls to yell 3 minutes worth of cheers, loudly and ENTHUSIASTICALLY!!  I have sat on this porch for hours at a time. 

And I REALLY love the girls I lived it with.  We didn't necessarily choose each other, we just happened to Rush the same house six weeks into our freshman year.  Best thing that could have ever happened to me, at that point in my life.  For three years, I lived with, ate dinner with, went to class with, relaxed with, did stupid things with the same people.  We had lunch everyday at noon, dinner every night at 5:30.  There were always bagels involved.  We didn't have *options*.   If you were allergic to gluten back then?  You had to suck it up and rock your skin rash.  We had one menu, one schedule, and we all kept it.  And it had it's annoying moments, but really, how can you complain about a place that makes you turtle brownies and then has fraternity boys serve it to you?  Exactly.

We've been out of college for 13 years, but I still love it.  Those friends are still among my best friends.  Those memories are...incredible. 

And this week is the closest I have felt to being back there.  And it was good.  And I am incredibly proud.

Once again, my friend and fellow Alpha Phi, Tracy, and her husband Brad are finding themselves in the college basketball championship game.  Brad is the head coach at Butler University, and Tracy is the woman who has birthed his children.  She was a roommate of mine, my co-rush chair, the gal who caught the bouquet at my wedding.  I am so happy for her.  I am so stressed out for her.  I have also been liquored up and pulsing with adrenaline for her. 

And last week, I decided to write an email, make some calls.  Organizing the thing we are ALL thinking about.  Asking all the Alpha Phis I knew to make a sign for Tracy and Butler, and post it to her wall for encouragement.  Because that is what we DO.  We speak the love language of signage/dot letters.  I emailed the Alpha Phis currently at DePauw and asked them to hang a sheet sign on the house.

The results?  A-mazing. 

Over 40 girls who posted a picture on Tracy's wall, who dressed their kids in blue, or colored their driveways in chalk, or took pictures of their signs in front of famous domestic AND international landmarks, or got students at the college they teach at to hold signs, or posted old college pictures, or let their husbands write "GO BUTLER" in icing on their bald head as they battle cancer.  Unbelievable.   

On the day I received my bid from Alpha Phi, I ran across campus to a house full of girls that were waiting for me.  Cheering, smiling, laughing, pictures snapping, sheet sign hanging.  They didn't know me, really.  But they claimed me.  It is one of the greatest feelings--particularly for 18 year old girls--who are used to the politics of friendships and cliques and a lot the ugliness that comes with female relationships.  I won't say that my sorority experience was without some of the crap, but the way that a house with long traditions loves its members is pretty amazing.  We often acted like Big b's.  We were snarky.  We said mean things to each other.  We cooled down, we went to the bar on Thursdays, we had to live in small rooms that made it impossible to be more than 4 feet away from each other at any given moment.  And then we did something stupid, like execute a deodorant bomb raid.   We got over it.  Most important part of having GREAT friendships?  GETTING OVER IT. 

Other lesson learned about loving your friends well??  Claim them.  Loudly and publicly.  All those sheet signs, senior dinners, bid days, candlelight ceremonies, pledge mom hunts?  The tradition of claiming our members, loving them loudly, celebrating their success, taking pride in what they are doing.  Sororities are all. about. it.   And the stereotype gives it a bad and cheesy and ultra-snobby rap, but I have yet to meet a girl that doesn't feel loved, when 100 of her friends paint her signs and send her sweet words and PROUDLY announce her success.  We were really taught how to practically show our love for our friends, by a tradition of women who have been doing it for over a hundred years.  Sounds strange?  It is absolutely some of the best habits and lessons I could have ever learned.

Will people think you are crazy and weird when you make cute signs for your friends when you are 34 years old?  Yup. 

Who. Cares.  The gal you are trying to encourage will never hate the effort you put into making her feel noticed and loved.  The beauty of a sorority?  That the hard times that come with living together SO closely, are honestly over powered by the ways I have been loved in really big ways.   

And I am more than touched and beyond proud that we are still able to get our crap together and make a real, honest and large effort at claiming and celebrating one of our own.  Truly a testament that it meant an incredible amount, to all of us.  Even after all these years.  I am beyond ecstatic for Tracy and Brad, but every inch as proud of the girls that have (and still) love me incredibly well. 

Let's go Butler...with much love to Tracy (and Brad) Stevens!!!!!   We are SOOOOO proud of you!!!

Butler vs. VCU

Game time.

Go Dawgs!!