Why I Spank My Children

Last week I saw several people posting "My parents spanked me as a child. As a result I now suffer from a psychological condition known as respect for others."  Today, I saw this:

And it got my blood boiling. I was spanked as a child and I too spank my children. According to this ignorant poster I am a child abuser as are my parents and most of my friends and family. Ok, then I am also a billionaire supermodel who invented electricity after I graduated from Harvard Law School at the age of 10. 

My sons are five and two years old. They do not understand complex consequences. My boys are smart, but if it doesn't affect them right now, they don't really care. When they show behavior that I want to discourage I put them in time out, take away a toy and yes, spank them. They are warned that they are about to be spanked and I make them tell me why they got the spanking. Do something you are not supposed to and get something you don't like. It is as simple as that. The theory is the same for adults but we have a greater understanding of action and consequence. If I'm speeding, I get a ticket. I don't like that. If I don't pay my mortgage, my house is foreclosed. I don't like that. If I steal a necklace, I go to jail. I don't like that either. 

I spank my children to help them grow and mature to understand all consequences. I spank them because I want them to be responsible, discerning humans one day. I spank them because I love them. 

If you don't want to spank your children that is fine with me. Each parent makes their own decisions about how to raise their children but please do not call me a child abuser. There are so many children who are truly abused. Please don't compare a parent trying to teach their child right from wrong to a person who punches their child and puts cigarettes out on their necks. It belittles those poor children who are really being hurt. 

Mom and Dad, thank you for spanking me. I am a better person for it. 

The Sleep Dilemma

My husband snores like a freight train on an average day. Tonight he is congested (additional snoring intensity) and doped up on NyQuil (even more intense snoring) so needless to say, I'm pretty sure the people across the street can hear him.  His parents and brother and sister-in-law are staying with us so the guest beds are full. Now I face a serious question: do I have a sleepless night in a) my own bed next to the jet engine, b) next to a five year old who will kick me in the head and drool on me or c) on the couch where my back will certainly be non-functional tomorrow?

Staying here would be a kind choice. I could hop up and get water and medicine for my sick husband, rub his back to soothe him and check his temperature at 3 am. Um...yeah right!  I love you honey, but have you MET me?!?!

Option two. Connor is a good cuddler. He snuggles up right next to me and tucks his feet under my leg to warm them up and there is nothing sweeter than a sleeping child. He also drools like a bulldog and kicks like a donkey. I am likely to wake up with a black eye. 

And finally, the couch. No snoring, no kicking. Sounds appealing, right? Not!  I need to be able to walk for the next few days. 

That leaves me with secret option D: Kick Tim out. The grandparents get to keep their bed because, well, they are the grandparents. I do have a little respect. I can't sleep next to my brother-in-law because that is just disturbing on so many levels. So move over Uncle Timbo! I'll put a blankie on the couch for ya!!

No You May Not Have A Bite

I had an extended conversation with my sister today about one of the greatest annoyances of parenthood: having to share your food. Is it not enough that we cook their food, cool their food, cut their food into a million pieces, get their fork, their napkin, their milk and appropriate dipping sauce?  When we finally sit down to dig into our own meal now we have to SHARE with our children too?!?!  This is some BS!

Sometimes I act like I don't hear those dreaded words, "Mommy, can I have a bite too?"  Here is what I want to say:

"No, damnit!  You just ate your dinner. This is MINE and I'm not sharing!  Get away from me you little leach!"

But that is not what I say. I tell them sure and I share. As my sister said, you want them to expand their food horizons so you share your food. You curse them in your head and pray that they don't like it so they won't ask for any more. 

Unless it is treat time. I absolutely will not share my treat. No way, no how. I hide in my laundry room and eat my treat in peace. I sit on the floor and lean up against the door while my boys bang, scream and try to kick it down and I devour my chocolate covered frozen banana and no you may not have a bite. 

Not Cool

I showered, plucked my eyebrows, spackled on makeup, curled my hair and squeezed my feet into heels last night. I wore real clothes, not stretch pants, and dangly earrings because there would not be tiny hand trying to pull them out of my ears. No. We were going to a party. I was feeling pretty good about myself. I was feeling cool. 

Until I had a terrible "old" moment. A girl I had never met walked into the party and I started talking to her asking mundane, small talk party questions. 

"How do you know the hosts?"  

"What do you do for a living?" 

"Where are you from?"  

"Ft. Worth you say?"  

"No way, I went to high school in Ft. Worth. Nolan Catholic." 

"Me too!!"

What a small world I thought. I wonder if I know her. I don't recognize her but maybe she has changed a lot since then.

Then I asked that fateful question that would make me feel like a fogey for the rest of the night. It came out of my mouth before I even realized what I was setting myself up for. 

"What year did you graduate?"

Dun, dun, dun. 

"2006"

Pardon?  Do my ears deceive me?  Surely I heard her wrong. This cannot be. Not only did I not know her, but we were never even at Nolan at the same time. I had already graduated from college then. Shoot, I was MARRIED then!  Not cool. 

Feeling old and frumpy I could only manage, "Oh. Well I was gone by then."  I skulked off and started drowning myself in champagne. And by the way, drowning yourself in champagne is not a good idea when you didn't graduate from high school in 2006. 

This is a new feeling for me. I have always been the youngest. Youngest in my class. Youngest at my job. Youngest of my friends. Not cool. Most of the time I still have a hard time remembering that I am an adult. My mind still thinks I am 18. 

But when I woke up this morning with a brick in my head and a tornado in my stomach I was rudely reminded that I am not 18. Not cool. 

Snot Bubbles

I talk about poop and butts a lot. To be honest, my life involves a lot of poop and butts. But today I am not going to talk about poop or butts at all. Today I am going to talk about something entirely different. Snot and boogers. 

You would be shocked at the number of surfaces that I have to clean snot from each day. The couch, the rugs, the walls, the kitchen table...I even had to clean it from the Velcro clasp on Charlie's shoe. I cannot fathom why a prickly piece of Velcro would look like an appealing place to wipe your nose. 

They will walk around forever with snot dribbling down their noses but do not, I repeat do not attempt to actually wipe it with a Kleenex. This is apparently considered assault and they will fight you like they are being mugged if you attempt to clean it. 

There is a constant crust around my childrens noses no matter how often I wipe it, they pick them, eat them (vomit) and even let them run down their noses and suck them back up. It is all terribly disgusting but the most baffling boogerism of all is the repetitive bubble. You know what I mean. They are breathing through their noses, going about business as usual except for that snot bubble that will not pop. It disappears when they breathe in and reappears when they breathe out and they don't seem to notice. HOW can you not notice a glob of mucous sticking an inch out of your nose?!?!  It's Iike a train wreck: hard to watch but I can't stop looking!  Our family record is four minutes held by Charlie. I guess I shouldn't be surprised as these are the same children who taste random items off the floor in order to identify them. 

The grossness continues. 

Brace yourselves...this one pic is nasty

Icemaggedon

I don't want to jinx it, but I think it is safe to say we survived the icemaggedon. 

We did crafts

We suited up and played outside

We made some very oddly shaped cookies

We busted a lip

We wrestled. We wrestled a lot

We could no longer stand our house so we drove on boulders of ice

We went to McDonalds looking awesome

No one died and we had enough milk. Let's just hope we don't need to get anything out of the garage for a while. 

And please oh please no more ice storms!

Meh

I  am REALLY good at three things. Drinking vodka straight, complaining and buying shoes. In fact, I may the best in the world at these three things. But everything else I am just, as my sister would say, meh. Meh is pronounced just like it is spelled but with a long e and is usually accompanied by a shoulder shrug and a head tilt. Meh...as in, “Was the movie good? Meh.” “Did you like the dinner? Meh.” “How does this shirt look on me? Meh.” Meh: Not too good and not too bad. Just meh.

I like to write, but I ain't winning any awards. I'm a meh writer. I can cook fine, but most new recipes I try are only made once because no one likes them. I'm a meh cook. I try to listen to my children and seem interested in what they are saying but most of the time I am thinking of something else and just nodding. I'm a meh mom.

Even my kids seem to think so. Today I was making treats for the boys teachers. I showed them to Connor and he said, “They look pretty nice but maybe next time make them not so squished.” I tried on a new skirt that I bought and Charlie said, “You look kinda pretty momma!” At least they are attempting enthusiasm.

My dream is that one day I learn to be REALLY good at something that is not detrimental to my health, relationships or credit score. Maybe when I have tons of free time I'll take a class...ahahahahahahahahaha. For now, I'll hand out my squished cookies looking kinda pretty and smile and nod while simultaneously singing Bohemian Rhapsody in my head. I'll be meh.

Ice Storm, You Bitch!

I am crushed!  Deflated. Straight up down in the dumps.  Because of all this damn ice, the Bush family Christmas party was cancelled tonight and thus my dreams of catching a glimpse of W in person are gone. 

It's no secret that I can be a bit of a Scrooge. It's not that I don't like Christmas. It's that I don't like stress.  Or extra crap in my house. Or not being able to keep up with a any aspect of my life. Aside from the Christmas cards and, you know, the whole birth of our Savior thing, I could do without. But a couple of weeks ago we got a call from our friends Ben and Cindy (hi guys!!) inviting us to attend the Bush family Christmas party at the library with them and my scroogishness disappeared. I was ecstatic. The best part of it was that the BOYS were invited too!!  As soon as I hung up the phone my fantasies started. MY children were going to meet Laura and W (they are close family friends in my mind so that's what I call them). I could just picture it. Charlie was going to walk right up to them and W would scoop him up in his lap and give him a high five. Connor would give Laura a kiss on the cheek and she would gush and his complete cuteness and charm. Chris and I would rush up gathering our children apologetically. George and Laura would insist it was no trouble at all and would invite us over for dinner the next night just so they could spend more time with our sweet family. We would politely excuse ourselves as not to monopolize any more of their time and George himself would type my cell number into his phone so he could call the next morning with dinner details. It was going to be picture perfect. 

And then the ice storm of the century had to hit and the party was cancelled. Because this story would have totally happened if we had gone. So here I sit drinking beer and watching football instead. And I even got a new skirt to wear. Beautiful, classy and tasteful. Laura would totally approve. 

Silent Night

It has been a trying week for me. You know when you feel like you are failing at everything?  When you feel like a terrible wife, mother, friend?  Like a terrible person in general?  Yep.  That has been me this week. 

My children can frustrate me to the point where I feel like I want to curl up in a little ball on the floor and teleport to a quiet, peaceful place. I get so mad and upset that they are acting awful and I envision shipping them off to a faraway land where someone else can deal with their attitudes and messes and fits. I feel like I am out of ideas of how to teach them how to be decent humans. I can't take it anymore. 

And then they go and do this. 

The boys wanted to sing Christmas songs on the way home from school today. We sang the usual: jingle bells, Rudolph and Santa Claus is coming to town. I asked them if they knew silent night and started singing in the best voice I could muster. When I finished Charlie cheered and clapped and, after a few seconds of silence, Connor said, "You sang that so pretty."

Feeling proud of my operatic attempt I said, "Thanks sweetie. Do you want me to sing it again?"

"No mom. It made me want to cry."

Ouch. Way to deflate my balloon kid. 

"On no, it should make you happy, Connor."

"It did mommy. You know sometimes something is so sweet and nice that you just want to cry?"

Yes you sweet, nice, precious child. I know EXACTLY what you mean. 

Craptastic

It's been a long day. I'm tired. I'm grouchy. My child whining capacity was reached hours ago. The time out seat is smoking from all the booties that have been in and out of it today. I'm starving. 

 Let's just eat dinner and be lazy until bedtime, ok?

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha. I snap out of my fantasy. 

"I don't liiiiiike noodles!!!  I want McDonalds!"

"This YUCK mommy!"

I drag my dirty haired, stained clothes self to the table with my carb-free version of our family dinner.  They get penne pasta with meatballs, parmesean and garlic toast.  I get a giant pile of spaghetti squash with 1/2 cup of ground turkey and tomatoes. 

I shovel my squash in my mouth as fast as I can because I know the first request can't be too far off. 

Two bites in: "Moooooomy. I want dwrink!" "I want a drink too but not milk only water or apple juice.  I am NOT drinking milk!"

I drop two sippy cups of milk on the table.

"Nooooooooo!  I saaaid only water!" "yeah mommy, I no wike miwk toooooooo."

I completely ignore their mini-tyrant attempts at demands.  Start shoveling that food again before the next one comes. 

One more bite down and I start hearing gurgling. From both. Because, you know, Charlie see Charlie do.

"Boys, don't blow bubbles in your milk."

Giggling

"I'm serious guys. No bubbles."

Charlie spits milk in my face and the pebble sized morsel of calm I had left flies out the window.

"Time out both of you!!!  Now!!!"

"But mommy I need to poop!"

Damn it!  Poop trumps timeout. "Ok but timeout after."

The next hour passed something like this: someone has diarrhea and wrecks their pants. Someone is in timeout screaming.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Repeat.  Also throw in one self removal of a poopy diaper and a sit slide down the stairs with said poopy butt bare on carpet.  

Night ends with me running from house to escape to the peaceful grocery store leaving Chris alone to deal with the literal shitstorm. 

Some afternoons I've just got nothin left.  

At least I got this pic of Chris sniffing each stair and railing to make sure their was no poop smeared on it. Now that...that is a good man!

Dating Lessons

Chris bought tickets to The Nutcracker for Connor to give me and take me on a date. We went to lunch, out for frozen yogurt and then to the ballet. I decided this was a great opportunity to start teaching Connor about appropriate behavior on a date and how to treat a lady. He was so cute. He opened my doors, pulled out my chairs and even handed the waiter a credit card...MY credit card, but still. 

As our day progressed I took mental notes on other things to teach him about going on a date. 

1. When you open the door for your date, do not cut off the old woman behind her and slam the door in her face. 

2. Do not ask your date to cut your chicken. 

3. Don't talk about your girlfriend. 

4. Don't dance around like a rabid monkey if you get a brain freeze. 

5. Keep your hands out of your pants. 

6. Do not lay on the floor during a ballet performance. 

7. Don't sit in your dates lap so you can see better and if you do sit in her lap do not keep trying to stick her fingers up your nose. 

8. Assume that the stairs are safe. Stopping at the top of every set to "check" them does not increase your coolness level. 

9. Compliment her outfit even if you "like it better" when she wears a dress.

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY

10. Never, under any circumstances, ask your date to wipe you after you poop. 

It's a good thing this kiddo has about 500 years left before he is allowed to date!

Major First World Problem

The following is the definition of first world problem:

My parents gave me a watch for my college graduation.  Not just any watch, a Rolex with a beautiful mother of pearl face.  The slightest movement of your wrist changes the sheen of the face.  I love how it never looks the same twice.  It is, without a doubt, beautiful and fantastic quality.  The best.  I have worn it nearly every day since I received it and it is one of my most prized possessions. 

Or should I say it WAS.  I am a huge klutz and have inadvertently been very hard on this watch for ten years.  About two months ago I dropped it on my bathroom floor and the face cracked.  I know it is just a "thing" and it is silly, but I cried.  The repair was covered by our insurance policy. I took it to a jeweler and they sent it off to Rolex to be repaired.  All was good in the world again...until I got a phone call telling me that my prized mother of pearl face had not been manufactured by Rolex therefore they would be confiscating it. They could replace it with a blue, black, gold or white authorized, legitimate Rolex part.  A long phone argument ensued and in the end I was shit out of luck.  I cried over a "thing" again.

I went to pick the repaired watch up today and began crying again when the jeweler pulled it out of its case. I cried not because the replacement piece was ugly or damaged but because I lost something that was special to me...sentimental...valuable.  Yes it works perfectly and it is still a beautiful, heirloom quality watch but it has lost value to me.  You see, "things"don't make us happy.  But the meaning and memories behind the "things" DO make us happy.  They give "things" value.  And for me, some of that value is gone.

Rest In Peace old gal.

Thanks

I spend a lot of time complaining. I complain about chores and errands and my children's not so perfect behavior. I complain A LOT. But I am thankful for everything that I complain about. 

I am thankful for my children. I am thankful that they are healthy enough to run around screaming and throwing things at the wall and I am thankful that I am healthy enough to chase after them and carry their flailing bodies to time out. I know there are mothers who would give anything to see their child doing anything outside of a hospital bed and mothers who have to watch other people take care of their children because they are too sick to do so themselves. 

I am thankful for a husband who works his butt off to provide a generous life for his wife and sons. He is the reason we have a beautiful home that I am able to complain about trying to keep clean, plenty of clothes that stare back at me begging to be washed, a pantry full of food that I can groan about cooking.  I know that I am beyond fortunate to have this wonderful, sweet, loving man. Most people are not so lucky. 

I am thankful that I have friends that I have to remember to call and keep up with. I am thankful that my mom makes such a big deal out of family activities and I have to rearrange our schedule to accommodate my sisters crazy families and kids and custody agreements and distance constraints. I am thankful that my dad doesn't wear his hearing aids when we are around and we have to scream things at him to get his attention.  I am thankful that my boys have paternal grandparents that I have to endure a horrendous drive and carsickness to see.  How many people can say they regularly get to see their entire family and that their in-laws love their grandchildren so much that they will drop everything and drive nine hours just to see them for a day? I don't know how I would handle anything without my family and my friends. I am thankful that they are here and I cherish them.   All of them. 

I am thankful to have all these things to complain about.  I hope no one was offended by this. It truly is my twisted way of saying how grateful I am.

That Sums is Up

A random assortment of pictures I found on my phone from the past four months.  I don't even have words to go along with some of this ridiculousness.  And yes, I realize there are a large percentage of these that have at least one pantsless child.  It's just how we roll.

Cleaning Again?!

My darling 5-year-old son has been having a more intense attitude problem than usual. The complaining and nagging is infuriating. A typical conversation with him goes something like this:

Me: Connor, please (insert request)

Connor: Noooooooo. Why do you always say for me to do things I don't like?!

Me a little more stern: Connor, please (insert request)

Connor: I TOLD you...I'm NOT doing that because I HATE it and you are being so mean to me!

Me yelling this time: CONNOR, I SAID (Insert request) AND IM NOT TELLING YOU AGAIN. DO IT NOW!!!!

Connor: you are the meanest mom ever!!!!

Repeat several hundred times a day. 

Today, he caught me off guard.  I mentally prepared myself for the usual storm and I asked him to pick up the crayons.  

"Again?!?!  I've already cleaned up something today and I'm NOT cleaning anything else!!"

I think I am going to adopt this same attitude. And let our house fall completely apart. 

Playdate - Who Needs Underoos Anyway?

We had out first play date in the new house today. Four five-year-old boys. Need I say more?  

A huge disaster and ear drum bursting noise is expected and I typically don't even check on them. Unless someone is screaming bloody murder I assume they are having a good time. 

Today one of the boys came downstairs cracking up and said "Andrew doesn't have his underwear!"  Drawing the line at nudity, Andrews mother went upstairs to see what was going on. 

I'm not sure what went down, but I heard her say, "well where did you put them?" followed by little men chuckling in unison.

Apparently someone stole Andrews underwear while he was using the bathroom and hid them in this. Somewhere in this...

And I am officially never letting Connor go to a sleepover. Or camp. Or anywhere. Pranksters in training. 

Anxiety

Last night I went to a moms night out dinner.  I was invited by a friend from college and I didn't know anyone else. I have to give myself a pat on the back. 

I walked in, sat down and started chatting. I didn't feel like anyone was staring at me judging my appearance. I didn't sit quietly and wait to see if anyone would speak to me. I didn't look down at the table and avoid making eye contact. I sat tall, engaged, asked questions and added to the conversations...and I was comfortable and had a great time. 

I have had anxiety as long as I can remember. It has been lurking around my entire life.  As a child and teenager I remember feeling panicked about everything.  I felt like I didn't have intelligent or important things to say. I listened to people talk around me but rarely spoke up. I was uncomfortable in the clothes I wore and always felt fat and ugly. I covered myself in a towel and would scurry to the pool as quickly as possible so no one would see me in my swimsuit...at probably 8 years old.  I was afraid to answer questions unless I was absolutely certain I knew the right answer. Speaking out loud and being incorrect made me want to cry. I can even remember as a very young child being very bothered if we pulled up to a red light and someone in the car next to us glanced in my direction. I was certain that person in the other car was looking at me because I looked strange. 

As I grew and aged I got much better at pretending I did not feel these things. If I met a new person they probably thought I was very normal and perhaps even confident. I was an excellent faker. But it was all a facade. While I smiled and asked questions to a new acquaintance I was running through a list in my mind of what they might be thinking of me.  Did I sound smart?  Did I have on enough makeup to cover my bad skin? Did they like me?  How much longer could I act "normal" before I needed to go in the bathroom to take a few deep breaths?

I certainly still have my share of anxious feelings. I think it is a given being a mother. But last night, I was so proud of myself. I was not thinking those things. I ENJOYED talking to new people. I liked them. And I think they liked me. 

Baby steps. 

RIP Lego Balloon

I guess I really shouldn't be surprised at the insane things my children think of. They do contain Chris's DNA after all. 

From the stories I have heard and the leftover wacky ideas that still pop up every once in a while, I'm shocked Chris survived past 13 years old.  The amount of knives, fires and improvised explosive devices this man has dealt with in his life is astonishing. 

Last week he discovered a hornets nest in the fireplace in our kitchen and decided that the best way to eradicate them was to light the fire and sit next to it with a barbecue lighter. He individually torched any brave soul who tried to escape the inferno.

Two weeks ago Connor got a helium balloon at a birthday party and promptly let go of it in our 20 foot ceiling living room. It has been a decorative fixture ever since. This morning, Chris decided he was tired of it. After a few shots at it with a nerf cross bow and an inventive use of the telescoping light bulb changer stink thingie, Lego balloon is resting peacefully in the garbage can. 

I never said the hair-brained ideas weren't effective. 

The nudist colony

Another thing no one ever told me about raising two boys: I live in a nudist colony. But not all the time. Only when a repairman or UPS driver arrives. These small nudists are also exhibitionists. 

I knew we had two packages being delivered this morning and that the AT&T repairman would be here sometime between 8 and 12. Everyone was still in jammies (hey it's Friday) but I had ensured all booties and weenies were properly covered. The doorbell rings.  Quick glance in the living room. Yep, still dressed. I open the door and see it, the shocked eyes. I turn around to see the big one in Star Wars briefs and the little one naked from the waist down, playing with his boy stuff no less. Approximately 10 seconds had passed since I confirmed clothing. Apparently they are also magicians. Nudist, exhibitionist magicians. 

With the door wide open I begin yelling, "put your pants on!  Where is your diaper!?  Stop playing with your weenie!" After a brief chase and football tackle, Charlie is rediapered and Connor has disappeared.  It's that magician in him. 

The polite repairman is still standing on the porch with a little smirk.  Completely embarrassed and a little winded from the chase I say, "I am so, so sorry..." He cuts me off. "I have a three year old son."

So he lives with a nudist too. Ahhhhhh...camaraderie. 

Creative adaptation

It is amazing to see a child grow and mature right in front of you. Over the past few weeks Connor has begun to get really creative and interested in drawing and writing. His pictures are getting more detailed and recognizable. He used to get so upset and fall apart if he messed something up or if it didn't turn out the way he intended. 

Today he told me he wanted to draw an "epartment." So he drew a tall building with a column of windows. Then hurricane Charlie scribbled on the top. Instead of the nuclear meltdown I was expecting, Connor said, "hmmm, maybe this could be a police station instead."  He drew a flagpole and a large door. "Mom, how do you spell door?"  He drew the D but it looked more like a P. Again, you could see the wheels turning. "Well, I'll just write P IS FOR POLICE instead of DOOR."  He even added a larger P on top of the building. It doesn't sound like a big deal but for the meltdown maniac, it is monumental. 

I closed my eyes for a moment to thank God for this step in my child's development. 

 "I'M GOING TO HEAD BUTT YOU IF YOU DONT GET AWAY FROM MY PIIIIIICCCCCCTUUUUUUURRE!!!!"  

Screech, crash, crying. 

Perhaps I basked a moment too long. 

Well so much for that

I made the tragic mistake and admitting to myself that I was having a peaceful moment. Charlie was napping. I was chopping fresh, healthy ingredients for our dinner while Connor was coloring Thanksgiving turkey pictures for his friends. It was lovely. 

And then Charlie woke up. 

"Mooooooommmmmmmyyyyyy!"  He's downstairs in a flash. "No Charlie!  Don't touch my pictures!!"

Push

"Mommy I want use maaaaakkkkerrrr tooooo. No crayon!"

Snack bowl hits floor. 

"Mom, watch this. I'm going to give myself a little haircut."

This one warrants leaving the stove. But not before I dumped 2 tablespoons of cumin on the pot that I had already put the lid on. 

"I waaaaaannnnnttttt cwacker!!!!!"

"Hey Charlie, draw in your eyeball."

Holy Moses. Haircut, two year old covered in markers, ground spices all over the kitchen, snacks everywhere, screaming people. In less than five minutes. 

What is that burning smell?!

No card for you!!!

Last week I was telling someone about ordering our Christmas cards to send out this year and how I was hoping that 150 cards would be enough. This person gasped and says, "It's such a waste of money.  Why don't you just give the money you would have spent on cards to a charity instead. That will really get that holiday spirit pumping!" I was caught off guard and didn't know what to say. So here is my response:

I love Christmas cards. I love receiving them. I love taking a picture of my family every year and I love sending them out. I know it is a hassle to get pictures made, a hassle to make the cards, a hassle to address them all and yes, it is not cheap to send. But I love Christmas cards. I save them year to year bound together with a little ring and love to flip through and reminisce.  I love to open the mailbox and see that first card smiling back at me. I love to ooh and ahh over everyone's families and their cute designs and photographs. I love Christmas cards. I love sticking that huge stack of envelopes in the mailbox knowing that in a couple of days, everyone I love is going to see my cute babies faces and will get a chuckle out of it. 

This is truthfully one of my favorite parts of Christmas. I tend to get stressed and bitchy about the planning, gifts, activities, baking etc. but I really, truly love Christmas cards. So instead of giving the money I would spend on them to charity I am going to continue just as I have and send out those fun Christmas cards to everyone I love!  Instead of giving that money to charity, I am going to use it for something that I love and what brings me my own personal Christmas Joy and puts me in the spirit to pass that attitude and joyfulness to my family.  

That is where I get my christmas spirit pumping. And of you have a problem with that...no card for you!  

His time of the month

I am a mother of two boys. By definition I deal with weird, gross stains on every textile that enters my home. Suspicious brown smears on clothes (just wash them, don't smell), sticky green goo on my own shirt (small people like to use me as a Kleenex), a combination of blood and snot used to finger paint on a bed sheet...I've seen and usually identified it all. Or so I thought until I was doing laundry this morning.  I first gagged and then stared quizzically at this head scratcher of a stain. I carefully examined it and believe I have figured it out.  It's a period stain. Yep. My two year old son must have started his period. 

Licking

There is a list as long as my arm of things I say on a regular basis that I never thought would be necessary. The ones I'm noticing the most lately involve the use of the tongue and teeth. "Don't lick the wall." "Get your mouth off the counter." "Stop eating your boogers." "You are not allowed to bite off your brothers toenails."  That's right.  On a road trip last week I looked back to see Connor biting off a hangnail on Charlie's toe. I almost vomited. The more I thought about it the more I thought it was actually kind of sweet...if you think really hard. He was trying to do something helpful for his brother. Ill take kind gestures wherever I can get them. My sweet little toenail biting man. 

Pretty Much The Same

I haven't written in our blog in quite a long time. A lot has been happening. We sold our house, moved into a new one, I had surgery, my younger sister got married had another baby, we have gained family members, lost some. But everything is pretty much the same...tonight, Charlie came running out of the bathroom screaming, "I'm nekkid!" While peeing all over the carpet. Then Connor came out swinging around the glow stick he had hanging from his penis. So yeah...it's pretty much the same around here. Beautiful Chaos.