Apparently, I don't understand parenting in the context of quiet, imaginative play.

A couple of things worth noting today:


LOTS of you love McDonald's french fries, and the FREEDOM to steal them from your kid's happy meal.  Seriously, this is how women bond, and form friendships and win that damn prom queen title through good ol' fashioned personality.  Mostly, I think we agree that having someone else decide what we should feed our kids (and how much) feels like the worst kind of patronizing b-s.  Listen, I've bought into the trendy parenting hype ONE TOO MANY times to fall for this little hissy fit over french fries.  And in a STRANGE turn of events, I think the vegans are with me on this one...because I have it on good authority that McDonald's french fries are a vegan-approved food group.

Secondly.  Today is the first rainy day we've seen in quite some time, and my children have entertained themselves for HOURS (literally), building Lego creations together on our dining room table.  Three of my four children have never touched a Lego before in their lives, and now here we are, being all Swedish-Family-Robinson, and building small-scale shit, and being calm and appropriate and imaginative.  Nine and a half years, I have waited for this day, and it's freaking WEIRD and a little too quiet--like a dingo ate my baby or something.  This isn't what childhood looks like, or at least, it hasn't in our house--because (in my experience) childhood is loud and messy and caked in toothpaste and whining for the Wii and kicking the Candyland game board in a fit over the color purple and begging for cheap crap at the Dollar Store.  Quiet imaginative play = zombie apocalypse, I'm pretty sure.  But I'm gonna need to consult Tim Riggins on that one.


Last thing.  I FINALLY broke down and bought G another swim suit today; generally, I like to have 3-4 suits in our arsenal, but this year, G has sprouted out of everything she owns (making last year's suits...inappropriate).  I mention this, because I have been circling Target and Old Navy like a mental patient, just PRAYING for God to send me a cute polka-dotted number in turquoise, or maybe some muted rainbow stripes?  How about just a solid colored tankini (NOT in a neon shade), and I'll add my own monogram?  Shoot, I'm not picky, and really, I'd take ANYTHING that wasn't so bright it was visible from space, or tye-dyed, or with stomach cut-outs, or resembling a hooker's bikini.  And that doesn't exist this year, unless you sell your soul to mini Boden--and I just refuse to believe that I can't find anything CUTE for less than $30.  It's like a personal challenge, and I keep waiting for Target to come through with a late season, large, whimsical, floral print--but sadly, I've been forced to recognize that sometimes even Target gets it WAY wrong, and I have to settle for the fluorescent-pink, Old Navy bathing suit that is so damn bright, it burns my retinas a little.  Now typically, this would be the kind of thing that inspires my wrath, except that this week, I have the french fry debacle to consume me--and the universe has an amazing way of keeping me well rounded, you know?


Just keepin' it real, and pro-french-fry, and impossible to be ignored in a hot pink lycra, friends.

My hormonal rage hath found it's target.

McDonald's, you are on my sh#! list.  

My timing on tonight's dinner was approximately 1.5 hours off--but that's what happens when you fly by the seat of your pants to the zoo for the afternoon.  You see, it's not just about the zoo, it's about the three hour time loss and meal rearrangement that happens as a result.  Recovering from a schedule addiction has given me the shakes, which I suppose is better than a case of explosive diarrhea.

Around 6:30 p.m., McDonald's was decided upon--mostly because it was easy, even if it does cause cancer in lab rats.  We ordered up our happy meals, and the cheap plastic toys on wheels that would spike my blood pressure when they ricocheted off the dirty, tile floor, every 22 seconds.  It made me wish McDonald's was carpeted, but that's like one million times GROSSER than eating human eyeballs, even if they are covered in ketchup.

Upon opening said happy meals, it was discovered that the french fries have...shrunk.  SHRUNK!!!!!!!!!!!!

Turns out, someone bullied McDonald's into skimping on the fries and adding apples.  APPLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I blame Morgan Spurlock (the Super-Size Me guy) or Oprah, or the Kardashians, or Kim Jong Il.  Because you know what happens when I buy FOUR happy meals?  I can steal enough french fries to give myself a respectable serving of lard, that's what.  Except that the new serving size can practically be swallowed whole by a BABY, and so essentially, I am now SCREWED.

If someone tells me that now I get BOTH fries and apples, so help me God, I will punch them in the face.  I came here for MCDONALDS.  If I want to gag over natural fruit, I'll juice some kale and watermelon in the privacy of my own home, thankyouverymuch.  I feed my kids whole wheat bread, and give them servings of milk; I force them to try new vegetables (Squash-gate 2012), I serve them fruit at every meal--unless I haven't been to the grocery store, and my only option is moldy lemons, because I have learned that many of you would call this child abuse.  I own (and use) a juicer, daily.  We don't really snack much, we don't have cavities, we are low on the weight charts, and we are current on our vaccinations.  

So put the f-ing french fries in the basket.  

Because here's how I see it--they are french fries and they taste good.  And we like them.  And we used to have a choice, before the health Nazi's stripped our basic human rights.  My kids are HEALTHY, and a side of french fries every other week isn't going to kill them.  It's really just a casual meal choice, and not a political statement on obesity, or heart disease, or food regulation, or whatever.   I see this path we're walking down, that begins with breast vs. bottle feeding, and becomes about sleep schedules and sign language and mixed-age classrooms and braces--this tendency to make everything a matter of life and death and intelligence.  It is a freaking impossible standard, and one that will have my kids sleeping in a lint-free bubble and speaking Portugese by the time they are parents, because someone will come up with some study that suggests speaking a European language will lower cholesterol by 84%. 

And that will happen over my McDonald's-loving, dead body.  It's a freaking trap, kids.

If I could impart a few pieces of advice to new parents, it would be:

Stick your baby in front of the television AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE.  Give them a bottle within their first week of life, because with all the "Breast-is-Best" insanity, you'll want to chop your boobs right off when your baby is eight months old and STILL refuses to eat anything not attached to your nipples.  Be a rebel and feed your kid fruit from a jar before vegetables (and screw that business of making it yourself).  Let them have a pacifier if they want it.  Toddler shoes from Target are just as good as the ones from Stride Right.  No child has died from these things, but PLENTY of parents have lost-their-damn-minds trying to keep up with the latest trend in super parenting.

None of these are absolutes, mind you.  Just exercises in fighting the mentality that you are doing EVERYTHING wrong, and that you will ruin your child.

I say this, because parenting has become a constant string of very serious and political decisions, when sometimes it's just DINNER AT FREAKING MCDONALDS.  It's not the moral high ground, people--at least it isn't for me.  I have no problem with parents who want their apples, but give me my french fries (and then feel free to just talk about me behind my back).  I could give two craps if every meal they eat in their entire lives is healthy and organic; at this point in the game, I am trying to raise kids who will be responsible, but not suffer with guilt when they take it easy sometimes.  I want them to be able to enjoy life, and know their limits, and not have to over think a side dish in a happy meal.  I want to raise them to make these kinds of choices for themselves--but mostly, to know that choosing FRIES over APPLES every once in a while isn't going to kill them.  But following the kind of rules for doing it perfectly, and taking all the human error out of life, will surely squash all the fun out of living it.

I want my kids to challenge themselves in the way they see and treat others, in how they handle injustice, in being humble, in their work ethic.  I want them to be gracious, and strong and confident and quick to forgive.  I DO NOT want them to spend their lives fixating on the injustice of the happy meal.  Good golly.

Next time, I'm just going to order the 20-piece McNugget meal, and call it a day.  

Less is more, unless more is something REALLY entertaining and blog worthy.

I guess it was last year--after juggling the schedules of three different schools, their start-times, their pick-up ettiquettes and their obligations--that I began to itch for summer break.  I remember this being a curious change of attitudes and events, as I had spent 93% of the years between 2002-2010 thinking that the school years were the *magical* solution to me having a life + six hours of *free* babysitting + my kids learning how to read and do math.  It seemed like such a win-win, what with kids getting educated while I ran half marathons and chiseled my abs and started a lucrative business in cake pop baking.

Except that I hate running, and education comes with HOMEWORK, and I was born without abs, and I have failed the housewife exam (translation: cake pop making) four times.  As it turns out, I don't know how to have a life outside of laundry and facebook.  

And my little people, of course.  Turns out, I LOOOOOOOOVE them.  

In years past, I've psyched myself up for summer with my favorite "buzz" phrase-- Being INTENTIONAL.  Turns out, I have half a basement full of "intentions" in the form of craft supplies that were going to create great memories and family heirlooms.  I made lists of things we were going to do and adventures we were going to have, and it was all really cute and well INTENTIONED--but it was stressful.  It was expectations.  It was not mixing the paint until it was BROWN!  It was wearing the matching bathing suits!  It was never having the same lunch twice in a week.  It was schedules and plans.   Not bad things, unless you live and die by plans and schedules and the appearance of what great parenting looks like.  In that case it just becomes consuming and busy.  A craft to plan, a mess to clean, a meal to make, a lesson to teach, an hour to fill.  It was photograph-able, but it wasn't very fun.  

And you know, my kids can finally handle fun.  In the sense that they can handle stimulation and sugar without acting like meth addicts.  We can visit the pool without the threat of drowning and we haven't seen a diaper or a case of public diarrhea in YEARS.  Today, we played Qwirkle, and no one had an aneurysm!  In biblical terms, we are ready to fly by the seat of our freaking pants--even if that just means eating frozen custard for 90 days straight.  

So THAT is my plan for the summer.  Doing stuff when we feel like it, and watching movies when we don't. I'm already five days in, and the sunscreen routine, combined with Little J's allergic skin reaction to chlorine? Sun? Grilled cheese sandwiches? is making my eye twitch--which *might* mean that we won't hit the pool until 4:00 everyday (dermatologist everywhere are applauding on behalf of my red head).  I don't really know, and I'm not really ready to commit to any kind of schedule or expectation.  Also out the door?  My idea to sew patriotic buntings for our large, outdoor porch.  Yes, this was an ACTUAL intention, but it's just not gonna happen--because these days, I'm lacking the time to simply read the last 100 pages of "Fifty Shades of Grey.  Mostly because I'm borrowing a paperback copy, and it's inappropriate to read porn at the kiddie pool.  So, "Bossypants" it is, when I'm in PUBLIC.

I do have an image to protect.  And simultaneously trash, here on the Internet.  

My mantra for the summer:  Less is more, except when more is an excellent source of blogging material.  

In the hierarchy of stupid human tricks, I think sexual talents *might* always win, simply for their shock value.

Blogworld, I'm gonna tell you something about myself that you probably didn't know.  Or maybe you did, if we are friends and we ever played the stupid human tricks game--you know the one, where people fart the alphabet, or someone decides to hit a cayman crocodile on the head (repeatedly) with their penis and it ends BADLY (TRUE STORY).  


Just to be clear:  I, myself, have never taunted an animal with my penis.  I was, however, able to turn our old beagle on with my shins, if that counts.  I would add this to my list of talents, but as some of you might remember, our dog died a couple of years ago, and was a *key* part of that act, and honestly she had a thyroid problem for YEARS, and so I'm not sure that trick has been possible since 2002 (full disclosure).


Party trick #2 is like that, but not bloody or involving animals, or dry humping or nakedness. 


{Drum roll, please......}


I'm double jointed.  I know, right?


I learned this when one day, I touched my palms together behind my back, slid them right up to my shoulder blades, and made someone vomit in disgusting amazement.  Also, my preferred method of floor sitting was with legs bend outward at the knees, until the age of 34--and now, that makes sense.


This little genetic abnormality comes in REALLY handy at parties (but not ones with crocodiles), in porn shoots, and during the talent portion of beauty competitions; but ALSO, and most practically, during the summer months, when self-applying sunscreen.


Except, you can't really consider it a super-power, with eyeballs that are singularly jointed.  


Days #1-3 of the pool season = upper-back splotch-fest.


Welcome to summer, friends.

Where I hypothesize that the resources and energy that are put into making cheap crap could be redistributed to fight feline AIDS. Or something.

Whenever my house looks like THIS, six hours before we are hosting a barbecue for ten families, it makes me think....

....that if I could harness the amount of sheer willpower and effort that it takes to clean the damn house, then I could probably cure cancer and world hunger in a single. freaking. week.   


Sidenote:  Little crap is the bane of my existence.  It's not so much the dishes, or the laundry, or scrubbing the bathrooms that kills me, so much as the small plastic froggie (and it's militant gang of McDonald's toys and bouncy balls and goodie-bag-items) that take all kinds of effort and creativity to hide, because I am running out of DRAWERS, people.  


When I run for President of the Universe, it will be on a platform that, a.) prohibits pajama day in any way, shape or form in schools across the galaxy; b.) makes it illegal to dress your daughter as a skanky nurse, or Prarie settler, or Little Red Riding Hood on Halloween, and; c.) bans the pressure and expectation of birthday party goodie bags, by outlawing the purchase of mini slinkies, bouncy balls, crayon packs and small animal figurines.  


I realize there is a lot of hate in my heart over really stupid things.  But that's the thing about parenthood; you learn that there is a SOLID line between what you can tolerate, and what drives you into a hormonal rage.  


Today was our first day of summer vacation--more on that next week.  


Happy Holiday Weekend, friends.

It was such a perfect day, that I suspect it was a biblical prophesy.

Yesterday was...EPIC.


It started with my parents leaving to head home to Hawaii at 5:45 a.m., which presented a REAL conundrum, as I had the choice to go back to sleep, or get on with it.  As it turns out, I decided to buck up, stay awake and watch an episode of Friday Night Lights before getting the kids ready for school...then heading off for a round of golf with Mike and friends, on the most BEAUTIFUL spring day here in St. Louis.  It was GLORIOUS.


Golf was followed by lunch, before heading to pick up the kiddos.


The school that we left in March had their last day yesterday--and we met lots of our friends at the park to catch up, and hang out.  I really miss that school.  But I slid back in rather seamlessly at their end-of-the-year celebration.  See, we haven't REALLY left.


So, here's where it gets good.  We were catching up, and then my friend Becky (who we golfed and had lunch with) asked if we wanted to go to the Cardinal's game that night. 


First reaction:  There's no way, I've been up for YEARS, and I still have 3.5 seasons of Friday Night Lights to get through.


But then the reality set in--SIX tickets to a Cardinal's game for free, with great friends, on a perfect night (not the 82-degree, full-sun, sweat fest we sat through last week).  This is what the Mayans prophesied about as a win-win, I'm pretty sure.


As it turns out, there weren't just six free tickets...there were 100.  Basically an entire section.  Seriously--WHEN does that ever happen?  In the home of the reigning World Series Champions, I might add.  Mike did his part to help distribute some tickets (harder than you might think, with 2.5 hours to game time), and then we headed home to dress our kids in red, put on (more) deodorant, and haul ass to Busch Stadium.

The seats were in left field, RIGHT next to the foul pole, and just a row up from Matt Holliday.  Who happened to give a small wave to G's best friend last night, when she yelled "Hi, Matt Holliday!"  I am not kidding when I tell you that this night was what it looks like when the stars align and the heavens pour down an incredible amount of awesome tickets, and bacon wrapped hot dogs and cotton candy for the kids.  It could only have been made better if it was "free chardonnay night" at the ballpark, but I'm pretty sure there are legal restrictions and liabilities that make that impossible--or SURELY it would have happened.  


We left in the 8th inning, just before the win (and the official shut-out by Wainwright); the kids were in bed at 10 p.m., and I ended the day much like it began, with another episode of Friday Night Lights.  


Best. Day. EVER.

I claimed a piece of my soul in the bike aisle at Wal-Mart.

For Mother's Day, I asked for a bike to tool around our new neighborhood.  I wanted one of those big suckers, without gears in a REALLY awesome color, *maybe* with streamers coming out of the handlebars.  You know, classy.


As it turns out, Mike has figured out that when I ask for a bike (or an aqua-blue colander, or a pair of Tom's), this is INDEED, actually what I would like.  And not code for a bowling ball or a rooster figurine.  It took YEARS to re-wire him, because I believe his gift-giving language was spoken in Mandarin Chinese.  Or, possibly, he really enjoys the element of surprise, which he will get EVERY TIME, when gifting his wife with a rice cooker.


So on Mother's Day, I woke up to a pretty sea-green bike.  With gears, because he thought it would be more functional, and I agreed.  Except that it turns out that the bike was a size too small, and so we ended up taking it back to Wal-Mart yesterday to consider our options.  


Here is where we spent an hour, considering the bigger picture, as it related to the purple mountain bike with the SHOCKS?  Or, the pretty little white cruiser with the damask seat pattern.


I mean, I should get the one with the gears (and shocks).  It's practical, should we want to take a family bike ride on trails around the river bluffs, or something.  I'm told they exist, though I don't know this firsthand--although with four kids, I will tell you the only thing that would make that scenario *easier* is a motorized vehicle, a white wine spritzer, and a DVD player.


"Which one do you want?"  Mike would ask me every 7 minutes.


"I WANT the cute white one, but I should probably get the one with gears..." was my answer, every time.  


Practical or whimsical.  Practical or whimsical.  This friends, is the dilemma around which my very soul was created.  Perfectly articulated by the bike section at Wal-Mart.  Freaking Wal-Mart is like a metaphor for life on so. many. levels.--and one day I shall do an entire post, to this end.


Mountain bike or cruiser.  Practical or whimsical.


But you know what?  I talk myself out of everything fun (except chardonnay).  I mean, GEEZ, doesn't it feel like everything has to serve 12 purposes these days?  This right here is PRECISELY why I don't understand my kids and their love of Squinkies--because what do they DO, exactly?  It's the age old parent-child debate, and the reason math puzzles and underwear get wrapped up as Christmas presents--because we see the world as efficient and full of unrealized purpose, and these little people see freaking panda bears in a tiny, plastic ball.  Suddenly, I am 35, and KICKING ASS at taking all the fun out of choking hazards. 


Kids, I am SO sorry.  I get that it's awesome, even if it doesn't DO anything.  Because it's a platapus.  In a bubble.  


Just like my new bike is awesome.  Because it's glittery white, and it doesn't have hand-breaks (or gears), and it will NEVER expect me to thrash down the side of a mountain.  As it turns out, I am just not the kind of girl that likes to bike for sport; but get me a wicker basket and a side braid and I could easily spend my days carting cantalopes back from the Farmers Market on my cruiser. 


Next time I'm getting a polka dotted one.  

Pajama day joins math on my list of educational pet peeves.

Okay, blogworld.  We're gonna need to make this quick; which I realize sounds JUST like the sexual bargaining of an old married woman.  I was going to weenie out on you AGAIN, but then I got an email from one of the kid's teacher's that Tuesday is PAJAMA DAY.


And there is NOTHING that brings fear, loathing and anxiety upon me like PAJAMA DAY.


Mostly because I stopped buying pajamas in 2006, when the twins were about 18 months old.  Those sets lasted for a while, and then we went through this bit where we decided that we were going to train our kids to sleep in t-shirts, because it had just become SO COMPLICATED to wash, and fold, and get the two-piece Disney Princess (or Spiderman, or Super Mario Brothers or Santa Kitten) pajamas back in the drawer at the same time.  Ultimately, a High School Musical top was paired with a Frogs-playing-the-violin bottom and it STRESSED ME OUT; and I just can't justify paying $20 to feel completely inadequate in my laundry skills, and to constantly broadcast that I am a *little bit* bat sh#! crazy.  


Anyway, you might also remember that our plan to transition into t-shirts backfired when my boys CRIED HYSTERICALLY over not wearing pants.  And so we let them cling to their 18 month pajama bottoms, which are now like hot pants with dinosaurs/race cars/whales on them.


It's never a big deal, until PAJAMA DAY, because I realize that it's inappropriate to send my children to school in their underwear.  Or something that looks like a European speedo with a toddler theme.  And then there's the girls, who sleep in cotton shorts and t-shirts--and I can almost GUARANTEE that there will be some kind of argument about how those don't "look" like pajamas, and we'll end up at Target at 9 p.m. on a school night, purchasing some kind of set with images of bunnies-making-pancakes.  Except that we won't wear them to SLEEP, but save them as the illusion of PAJAMAS that are worn to school, only.


Geez, blogworld.  Can't we all just agree that PAJAMA DAY is a gigantic farce?  


Who am I kidding, that will never happen, until a 3rd grader shows up in his boxer briefs, or one is able to link pajama day to severe allergies or childhood obesity.  


{Edited to note:  The only school-themed day that has ever been more hated by me is the bike parade that occurred at the twin's preschool when they were THREE.  Otherwise known as the day I had to lug TWO tricycles, twins, and an 18-month-old baby to school.  Uphill for two miles and in the pouring rain, or whatever.}

Hobos be traveling in CLASS.

As previously mentioned, we live about two blocks away from the heart of a small suburb--with it's own *working* train station.  It's made out of stone, and it's next door to a custard stand, and down the street from the Farmer's Market...and it's freaking darling.


Now, I have always known that you could hop an Amtrak train from our suburb to Washington, Missouri--it's a 40-minute ride to a small town just down the Missouri River.  You catch the thing at 9:45, have a two-hour window for lunch, and then head back home for an afternoon nap because you drank a lot of wine the night before, and also a few beers on the golf course before that.  I know that sounds like a lot of work to visit a town just outside of the St. Louis county limits, but ROLL WITH IT, we were looking for an *adventure* straight out of 1927.


However, it is almost impossible to dial one's expectations back to a time when you couldn't buy a used Honda Civic off Craig's List for LESS than the cost of these tickets, and so, from the very start, it was clear that this whole railway system is...flawed.  Beginning with the automatic ticket machine and the guy who was responsible for it, with ZERO idea of how to trouble shoot it.  At all.  Like when we were unable to purchase 8 tickets and he just told us to board the train and pay the conductor.  Um, in the world of air travel, this would red flag you as TERRORIST.


As time was low, and the train was in the station, and the place was packed AND it just so happened to be National Train Day (WHAT are the chances)--we followed his advice.   And three minutes outside of the station, we learned that we probably couldn't buy tickets because the train was SOLD OUT (someone should probably tell this to the guy working the ticket machine and giving free rail rides to terrorists).  I mean, GEEZ, I really had no idea that anyone rode trains anymore, but by some miracle, we rode to Washington (not in handcuffs) with a whole bunch of train nerds and a bachelorette party sporting wedge heels.  


{It should be noted:  Despite the fact that EIGHT of us jumped a train without tickets, or even giving anyone our names, for that matter, Amtrak is pretty nice.  Like, WAY nicer than my mini van that is growing black mold.}


Per the outbound goat rodeo, we took the conductor's advice and called in reservations for the return trip home (leaving in 93 minutes).  Turns out that train was near-full too, and for a moment we thought we might be spending the night in Washington, until we remembered, we are only a 35 minute car drive from all of our friends and family.  Instead, we decided to upgrade two of us to "business class", and purchase the remaining six economy seats.   This was an excellent plan, except that when we boarded the home-bound train, there were BARELY two seats together, and so we ended up scattering, with some of us sitting next to a group of boy scouts in the snack car--which is where Mike snapped this photo of a 16-year-old scout with a potty training badge.  Someone with a boy scout--PLEASE EXPLAIN.  I mean, I assume he is potty trained, because he appears to be of age to SHAVE.  We speculated that he, perhaps, trained a toddler in the ways of the potty?


I'll tell you what.  That scenario is f-ing weirder than if he was still wearing a pull-up.


{Edited to note:  I googled it, and it's a joke.  Which is FUNNY, because the boy scouts, as a group, do not appear to be the type to find humor in their uniforms.  I stand corrected, Boy Scouts.}


I digress.


We got off the train in Kirkwood, regrouped at the station...at which point it was discovered that NONE of us had paid for our tickets--we had merely made the reservation by phone, and as it turns out the reservation system doesn't in ANY WAY correlate to the actual running train.   So basically we were like a family of traveling hobos aboard a government subsidized train.  As far as we know, they have ZERO idea we were on that train, which is what it feels like to be a secret agent, or Jason Bourne or James Bond or a TERRORIST.  We simply told the conductor that we had a reservation for 8, and that is apparently like saying you are P. Freaking Diddy and they don't ask you any questions.  Also, they didn't provide us with strippers, so it's not *exactly* the same.


Because my mother is an honest woman, she decided to call the Amtrak line once we walked back home; and apparently, there is NO WAY for them to collect money after you have unknowingly hitched a ride on one of their trains--because, as you'll remember, it's 1927 and that kind of technology just doesn't exist (Oh, wait).  And so they thanked us for our honesty, and picked up the tab for a family of eight to travel back from Washington, Missouri on a sold out train.  I'm assuming this is the case on any given Saturday, or anytime there is a crowd, a *perceived* element of chaos, the need for credit cards, or machines that spew tickets.  


I mean, it's not even like you have to chase down a moving train anymore, with all your posessions contained in a pouch on a stick; turns out that one can travel as a hobo (or a terrorist) on any crowded Amtrak train across the country.  For free.

What I lost in thigh sweat, I made up for at dollar burger night.

Ohmygod, you guys.  Today, Mike and I went to the freaking HOTTEST baseball game ever played.  82 degrees at Busch Stadium, 10 rows up from 3rd base= me wanting to do a stripper dance with a garden hose.  And as it turns out, a t-shirt can ACTUALLY serve as a wick that funnels armpit sweat down one's back/butt/thighs.  


I sort of lost the will to live for about four innings, until Mike made me climb 45 flights of stairs (I ALMOST killed him), and parked us in the shade of the nosebleed section--right above home plate, at the exact altitude in which planes turn off the seatbelt sign.  It was glorious, especially since we won with a hit in the bottom of the ninth; but mostly because the sweat from my thighs had stopped puddling in my shoes.  


Blogworld, my parents are here for a visit, and that typically means that Mike and I are packing in all kinds of activities--but damn, I am old, and after four consecutive nights of wine drinking I feel a head cold coming on, and perhaps, an entire day spent reading Fifty Shades of Grey.  And with that, I am turning in for the evening, and bidding you adieu...until tomorrow, when I tell you the story of how our family of eight turned into high class hobos on a passenger train.


TRUE. STORY.

Where I offer you Tim Riggins as an apology for my lameness.

Friends, I had book club tonight, which means I have very little to offer you.


Except for this shot of Tim Riggins.  Because who DOESN'T love Tim Riggins.  He's the gift that Netflix keeps on givin'.  Let it be officially stated that 2012 is the summer of Friday Night Lights and One Direction--which is a sign that I need therapy ASAP.


To add to that insanity:  My book club has just completed "Fifty Shades of Grey".  I opted out of reading it, because there aren't enough hours in the day to do so, AND watch four episodes of FNL, AND successfully keep four children from juggling knives, BUT...


I'm intrigued by the ridiculousness of it all.  But it makes me feel slutty, in a midwestern suburb kind of way.  Just wondering if any of you out there have an opinion on the matter?  I have a feeling it would make GREAT blog material.


Texas forever, blogworld.  

The stage of parenthood clearly involves less tantrum control and more jedi-mind tricks.

After nine years, my children gave me the gift of simultaneously looking at the camera for a photo.  Priceless.


Those first few years of motherhood, it seemed like life was a never-ending string of eating, and vomiting, and cleaning vomit, and changing diapers, and Baby Einstein and trying to calm the irrational mood swings of children who so desperately wanted to lick electrical outlets.  I survived that chaos with the promise of big, uninhibited smiles and sleep schedules and monogrammed onesies.  I watched other children, older children, who ate chicken without SCREAMING, and I thought that there was hope for a life that was more...civilized.  


And then one day, I asked told my kids to line up and SMILE.  And I got this.


Four happy kids, despite all those years that I ruined their lives by not allowing them to play in the toilet.  They dress themselves, they (mostly) wipe themselves, they brush their teeth and get themselves ready for school, and clean their rooms (when threatened with a Wii-ban).  They eat chicken.  Somehow it got to be SO easy, and yet, 642 times more complicated.


Oh, they are the best gift that was ever surgically removed from my uterus.  


Happy Mother's Day, to all of you who have ever had to scrub permanent marker off of a toddler's eyelids.  And to those of us who are past that stage, and understand that LACK of evidence and obvious mischeivery means our children are clearly playing with firecrackers on a pile of bedding in their closet.  

Setting goals.

You know, when I first left home for college in Indiana, there were glaringly, OBVIOUS cultural differences--for instance, no mainland-raised college student wore clothing purchased at the Disney Store.  I figured most of this out quickly, and except for the rare moments when someone got a hold of my yearbook and peed their pants while gawking at the number of coordinated outfits sported by my senior class, these differences became less pronounced over time, or easily ignored.  


Which is probably why it never seemed odd to me that "unicorn man" was trying to befriend me on facebook.  Yep, that's Hawaii for you.  This kind of sh#! can fly, just like airbrushed apparel and the popularity of Atlantic Starr in 2012.  Except that last week, I saw this picture pop up somewhere!  And it was the first time it had occurred to me that the person befriending me on facebook, is not ACTUALLY the person pictured.   I come from a world where THIS can exist as reality, friends.

Sorry, this is just kind of a random post.  About nothing, apparently.  I mean, I don't know if it's this beautiful spring weather, or pollen, or post-partum depression, or my binge eating habits, or a thyroid malfunction--but I'm just sort of dragging these days.  I think that being without a housing crisis has left me...bored.  


You know what my problem is?  I just need some goals.  And some speed.  But mostly, some goals. 


Starting with getting off my ass and throwing away those two big gulp cups + the wad of dirty kleenex sitting on my coffee table.  That would be a *respectable* start.

I need to stop eating this cake.  Which isn't really a cake, it's a pan of sugar cookie bars that never got cut into bars, because it's less work if I just push my way through it with a fork.  Clearly, the plan for this goal must be to eat all of the cake today, and thus, eliminate the problem entirely.  {Check.}


I need to buy toilet paper.  We are down to .75 rolls for six people and two bathrooms.  And my parents arrive in two days, which will put us in a real pickle, if I don't motivate myself to get to Sams.


Speaking of my parents, I need to *create* a guest bedroom.  And by that, I mean that Mike has to donate all of his high school clothing to Goodwill--because at the moment, he has the biggest walk-in closet I have ever seen.


For goodness sake, the TOOTHPASTE.  Kids are a freaking disaster with that stuff.


Oh, and there's the pineapple I need to cut, that is starting to mold on the bottom.  That's bad, right?


How about I cook something for dinner that doesn't include sliced bread as an ingredient?  


Last thing.  I'm working on getting over the paralysis that occurs when packing away my summer clothes/ simultaneously thinking about the fact that we'll be in Colorado this summer and in need to long-sleeved items.  Biggest fear:  Not having something that I NEED (like the unfortunate Netflix glitch that resulted in us purchasing the first season of Friday Night Lights), even though it's in the cedar closet on the third floor.  I like to have all options, draped across every piece of furniture in my bedroom, all of the time.  So deal.


Goals.  Sometimes it's book writing, and sometimes...it's aiming not to embarrass myself.

As it turns out, furniture making is not my God-given purpose.

The weather in St. Louis for the past week has been hot (really hot) and summer-like, so when I woke up this morning to gray skies and drizzle, it sort of occurred to me that this might be a writing day.  If eighth grade girls can predict their life's success by hairstyles or acne, then grown-ass adult women can determine their life's work and priorities by the emotional themes of a daily forecast.  {Insert eye roll}.  Writing was the thing I was supposed to be doing all year (since we enrolled Little J in all-day kindergarten, for this very reason)--but my time was clearly wasted on more important things, like purchasing dishware at Target, or running, or moving, or doing a stupid (STUPID) juice cleanse that left me bedridden.  Being a stay-at-home mom is supposed to be intentional and overflowing with purpose, but given a full school year to accomplish my DREAM, I realize that I am living a life of distraction.  House projects, school projects, facebook, Hobby Lobby, plans to sew quilts for the girls, home-made Christmas gifts, cake pops.   Now we are 14 days away from the end of the structure of the school day, and I am attempting to make it MEAN something; and this conundrum is clearly a metaphor for my entire life, as nothing is obvious, or relevant or significant until I am reminded that I will be spending the better part of the next 90 days solving the case of the ETERNALLLY-missing-shoes-that-were-just-on-your-feet-two-minutes-ago-so-obviously-they-are-in-the-bin-of-Christmas-ornaments-in-the-top-shelf-of-the-basement.  If I have anything important to say, it must be said NOW, before I am overcome with the RAGE of finding peanut butter on the bedsheets.  


I was about to begin living intentionally, but then I found a basket full of unfinished sewing projects, and decided to start crafting a pair of girl's shorts out of an old pair of red khaki pants.  Because clearly I suffer from ADHD, with a heaping dose of FEAR.


But I'm here now.   Doing battle over my purpose, and trying to figure out if I was created to sew shorts or to write something IMPORTANT.  Maybe important is the wrong word--I would settle for a book that inspires a mediocre screenplay.  You have to dream abusrdly, people, and then find yourself surprised and humbled when you are sitting 16 rows away from Tim Riggins at the Academy Awards.  I mean, Taylor Swift has this routine DOWN, and it seems to be working for her.


You might remember that a few weeks ago, we were gifted with a dresser that I decided to paint orange.  I was excited about this for approximately one coat of paint, until the gnats were all up in it, and it became clear that I have NO PATIENCE for painting (or gnats).  I would throw a layer of paint on it, walk away--and always seem to come back to something that was sort of streaky and not quite uniform in color.  I understood this to be what happens when you take something white and try to make it orange, and so I just kept at it in my free time, between laundry and twitter and facebook.  

Until Mike decided on Saturday that enough was ENOUGH, and under heavy protest, he just decided to move the damn thing into the house.  There were tears and arguments about how it wasn't ready and this was clearly going to ruin my life--how I had PLANS to sand some of the drip marks out, and buy a small roller brush, because we are only 27 steps away from PERFECTION!  Turns out Mike doesn't care about perfection, he is more concerned that we don't hoard furniture in our garage, or eventually, have a car sitting on cinder blocks in our yard.


Writing for me, is a lot like that orange dresser.  NOT ready.  NOT perfect.  A gnat trap in a dark garage.  Don't we all have big plans for something beautiful that is inadvertently, frustratingly, attracting bugs?   


Mike forced the dresser into the house, where it was revealed that a few of the drawers needed to be sanded down, because I put so much damn paint on there, they wouldn't close properly.  Whoopsie.  The mentality of just slopping another coat of paint on isn't always what makes something beautiful; sometimes the tedious work of making it perfect leaves little puddles in the corners of the trim, or streaks you can't see in a dark garage--and there just aren't enough hours in the day to fix all of the flaws.  


However.  If you could translate every project, or moment of your time into PERSPECTIVE, or a narrative of important words and ideas, this dresser would say:


You are not an f-ing furniture painter.  Now get on with it.

Where I demonstrate that the iPad is an excellent tool for introducing sex education.

My children have discovered the iPad, the wonders of YouTube, and the never ending footage of animated gummy bears singing pop songs in their underwear (or something equivalent).   It is a really excellent way to buy myself 42 minutes for an episode of Friday Night Lights, except that tonight I realized that G's love of cat videos is LIKELY to be confused with popular slang--and will ultimately end with a full shot of a vagina.


What I'm saying is, I suppose I understand how kids might accidentally be exposed to porn.  


Welcome to a new week, blogworld.

A view from the top.

Whoopsie, I realize it's been a while since I've made good on my promise to post a picture a day of our new house--and so today, I'll give you a little glimpse of our third floor, otherwise known as the kid suite.  


One of the things I loved the MOST about this house from the very first day we set foot in it, was the third floor.  Hell, I probably loved just the idea of it, before I ever laid eyes on it's window nook (that sits high, HIGH above our street), or the stained glass piece that sits in it's ceiling (I'll have to post that photo later).  The second photo is a view from the third floor, to the playroom on the second floor (a converted bedroom).  That's right, the kids stare down at the second floor from their bedroom...it's pretty quirky, but pretty rad.  And if you can believe it, we have children of age and responsible enough NOT to catapult themselves over the banister overlooking the drop to the playroom--surely a mark of success in the grand scheme of parenting?  


We have A LOT of couches.  And twin beds.  You never realize these things, until you move them 12 TIMES--but that is what we have, and so the kids inherited a chair and a couch for their playroom.  If our last house presented the problem of WAY TOO MUCH wall space to fill, then this house is just the opposite; not an obvious place for three couches, two Lazy-boys, and three oversized chairs.  But tell me, WHO can ever have too much olive green twill furniture?  


Yep, all four of our kids share a room.  Excuse me, they share an entire floor.  It EASILY houses both bunk beds, has TWO window nooks, a balcony to the playroom AND still fits a train table and toy chests without feeling tight.  Clearly there is a winner in this move, and it is anyone in our family under the age of 10.  How we have made it almost a decade without someone begging and pleading for their own space is BEYOND me, but it still appears that they enjoy each other (most of the time).  

And in unrelated news:

Big J got his NEW, tortoise shell glasses today!  We went with the plastic frames (versus the wire ones) and are hoping to alleviate that problem immortalized on our Christmas card:  glasses that were ALWAYS bent and sitting crooked on his face.  He is such a little old man, I can hardly stand it.


And now.  If you'll excuse me, I have another date with Tim Riggins.  

Until I finish this series, I will live in a sort of pseudo-reality.

I'll tell you what.  You make a few (dozen) comments about Tim Riggins, and you open a can of Friday-Night-Lights-worms.   I'm not sure what planet I have been on, but prior to last weekend, I had never seen an episode of that show, and now it is like the crack cocaine to my very addictive soul.  Don't be alarmed; we've seen this play out before with 90210, Ally McBeal and most recently, the Twilight series-- however, on the tail of Monday's post, I feel it only fair to point out that little girls who play princess and grow up to love boy-bands *might* be setting themselves up for a downward spiral of delusional fantasies about fictional high school full-backs and pale, glittery vampires.  And just so we're clear, this isn't a sexual thing, but more of an inability to identify REALITY, or possibly to want to *mother* something, which is also somewhat ridiculous, because I deal in skid marks for a living.




{Edited to note:  I just called Mike to ask him what other sorts of television shows have I been OBSESSED by back in the day?  To which he answered (without pause) The Real World/Road Rules Challenge and the show about the fat delivery guy (King of Queens).  Apparently, I have problems that run deeper than Riggins.}


I mean, you guys know that my boy-band theory is totally a ridiculous argument, right?  Because I'm really not sure which is worse--having a kid who actually falls in love with Tim Riggins, or being an adult who almost cannot function without watching another episode of Tim Riggins.  Or, maybe, it's the simple inability to remember that Tim Riggins ISN'T REAL.  You choose.


I am trying to have this conversation with my husband, and it always comes out CREEPY.  Because part of me IS Tim Riggins (no, really).  And part of me wants to FIX Tim Riggins.  And part of me just kind of likes to look at Tim Riggins.  There are an obscene amount of layers to this onion, but I get that when I talk about him all. the. time. it seems kind of perv-y, particularly since he is supposed to be a high school junior.   But it's NOT like that.  I mean, have you ever rooted for a (fictional) t.v. character MORE?  I myself have not, and that includes Abram, in the Real World/ Road Rules Challenge, seasons 5-28.  


But good golly, it doesn't help that he always appears to be wet--with sweat, or grease, or rainwater.  And Mike finds this disgusting, but I would argue that it's ENDEARING, except that it's kind of like something you would see in soft porn, and so I get that this is is WEIRD.  I mean, if Jennifer Aniston was always soaking in something, I might find it offensive, but this is simply a guy who cannot catch a break (or a shower, or an umbrella, whatever the case may be).  I would argue that there is a DIFFERENCE, and it might be lack of a parenting, or abandonment issues, or living in the shadow of your perfect best friend, or being an alcoholic.  Damn, this is a great show. 


I'm not really sure where I am going with this, except that Riggins is a OBVIOUSLY a common bond among women--and he just *might* need to be a regular on this here blog, so I am open to suggestions of how to make that not awkward.  Except that right now, I need to wrap this post up, if I have any hope of squeezing in two episodes of Friday Night Lights in before midnight.  


Who am I kidding.  I once read a good chunk of "New Moon" in a single sitting, until I fell asleep--and woke up CRYING because of you-know-who leaving you-know-who, and all of the dread that comes with wondering if he will EVER come back, despite the fact that there were 2 books remaining in the series.  This sort of thing defies logic--and if I know the signs of obsessive behavior, then we are headed down that road with Riggins, friends.