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Memories in the Making

2012-05-23T03:28:03Z

Life with my entourage is pretty busy. In between the cleaning and cooking and cleaning and shushing and refereeing and cleaning and feeding and driving and be quieting and homeworking and yelling and cleaning, there’s not much time for anything else. I’ve lately heard a lot of chatter about the cost that having a big family has on the children involved, which really got me thinking about what kind of memories that the kids are going to have when they grow up.

While I’m sure that I am screwing them up enough to ensure some lucky therapist has a pretty cozy nest egg, I hope that they remember at least some of the good times that we have together instead of focusing on the times where I undoubtedly didn’t live up to their standards as a mother.

To help remind myself to be mindful of these moments (and to serve as a permanent reminder to later show my cherub’s therapist’s), I have decided to compile a list of the moments that I’d like the kids to remember. And, just because I’m kind of twisted, I may add the moments that I’m sure they’ll remember instead.

Dance Parties

Hope: Remember when mom used to let us turn up the music super loud—especially the same song over and over—and let us go crazy for hours? Remember when she would dance and make movies of us, too?

Reality: Remember when that crazy lady used to think she could dance? What a whackjob.

Beach Days

Hope: Remember when Mommy used to spend hours building sand castles with us and helping us dig the perfect moat, no matter how many times it got squished? Remember how she used to take us out deep even though she hated the fish and seaweed?

Reality: Remember how she’d never let us get ice cream at the beach. What a scrooge.

Singing

Hope: Remember how Mom had a special song for all us? Remember how she used to sing all of the time, especially in the car and at bedtime? Remember when she used to make up goofy words to the songs to get us to laugh?
Reality: Remember how she used to think she could sing. Wow, how painful was that?

“Wendy,” “Sir Topham Hat” and “Store Clerk”

Hope: Remember the games we used to play and how Mommy would spend hours, days and weeks answering to whatever name we gave her—even in public?
Reality: Remember how mom never played with us.

Love Nests

Hope: Remember when we used to cuddle up in Mommy’s bed, everyone touching her somehow, and watch movies together?
Reality: God, Mom was tired ALL of the time.

Nicknames

Hope: Remember all of our funky little nicknames and how Mom would always call us what we wanted to be called even if it was silly? Remember how she argued with people to let us be called what we wanted, even when the explanation was silly?
Reality: I don’t even think she knew our names.

Dinnertime Concerts/Ice Skating

Hope: Remember how Mom used to sing really loud ever night that she cooked dinner and then swing us around to pretend to slow dance or ice skate?
Reality: What was really in her “afternoon coffee”?

Nature Walks and Exploring

Hope: Remember when Mom would take us for walks and let us go exploring, regardless of how dirty and disgusting we got? Remember when she would let us walk across the creek, collect rocks and bugs and worms?
Reality: Mom was always so controlling. Did she really think we were going to fall off every bridge? Come on. Way to ruin the fun!

Vacations

Hope: Remember how Mom would pack all of us up and take us places, even when no one could come with? Remember the waterparks and museums and fun? Remember how she tolerated our constant complaining and crying about everything? How did se do it?
Reality: Remember how she got mad and said “Fine! We’re going home!” every single vacation?

General Contracting

Hope: Remember how Mommy used to let us be “worker men” with her? She let us paint with her, fix things, take things apart and put almost everything together with her? She even let us tear up the carpet and put in new floors when we were 3 and obsessed with tools! That must’ve taken a lot of patience!
Reality: Why was she so cheap? Where were the child labor laws back then? Why didn’t she just call someone to do it?

As you can see, there is quite a difference between what I imagine to be happening and what they are likely to be storing in those ever elusive long term childhood memories, but I will keep trying.

My only hope is that in between their perception of the cleaning and cooking and cleaning and shushing and refereeing and cleaning and feeding and driving and be quieting and homeworking and yelling and cleaning that they will remember the moments that I treasure the same way that I do—with love and a mushy heart.

Arguments Against What's the Point-itis

2011-08-20T02:17:17Z

When raising small children and doing the same exact thing day in and day out, it is easy to lose perspective and start thinking "what's the point" about all the mundane tasks of your life.

Today I fell victim to a pretty severe case of what's the point-itis and have had to work at once again finding the reason to, as they so hokily say, keep on keeping on.

To illustrate this shift in perspective, I present the following scenarios (all done in the embarrassingly frequent times of self talk that I engage in) :

Cleaning:

1) Whats the point, they're just gonna mess it up anyway. Maybe if I just leave it a certain state of filth will take over that they will either adjust to (which would eliminate the need for future cleaning) or rebel against (which may get them off their lazy buttooskies). Either way it's a win--win.

2) The point? The point is that you cannot exist in this filth. It's not kidding when you say you might die of mess. That's a real and documented affliction! No one else on Earth has to kick her way through trucks and tools and lumber and dolls to get to the bathroom. No one I say! Clean it or DIE!!! Plus, when Oprah comes out of retirement to interview you or Publisher's Clearing house comes a knocking, do you really want to open he door to that? That's what I thought.

Exercise:

1) What's the point, I just keep getting fatter anyway. Besides, who's looking at my maternal arse anyway. I might as well live it up Gilbert Grape style until they come to airlift me out.

2) The point can be summed up in multiple groupings of two words. Listen closely, genius. Fat A$$. Stress relief. More donuts. Paid membership. And, most importantly, ALONE TIME! Now get moving! Plus, what are the paparazzi going to say when you finally achieve greatness--you DO NOT want them focusing on those thighs and that belly. Get moving!

Homework:

1) What's the point. I already figured out that I suck at my job of choice. I might as well quit school now. What good is an extra degree when all I do is sit home with kids.

2) The point, my dear, is that you are not "volunteer" material, which is what is left for you if you don't get your donut loving butt in gear and work for the career you want! Otherwise I have some scary words for you: Soccer Mom. Plus, you cannot achieve world domination (both financially and/or emotionally) if you choose to sit on your couch wallowing--every paragraph read leads you one step closer to greatness.

I could go on with the many other ridiculous arguments that I engage with myself in throughout the day, but I fear I'd bore you. The point of what I am trying to say (or at least convince myself) is that once you lose sight of the "big picture" of the day to day life of parenting it can get down right depressing.

Sure I often engage of delusions of grandeur and downright denial to get through the tough days, but those are what help the bad days carry with them a sweet promise of future success.

So here's to all of you out there who are going through the motions along with me. Lift your glass to your undercover greatness for together we will soon be taking over the world!

Kids Better Make My $$

2011-08-17T02:55:11Z

My kids are getting older and it's time to start getting them more active in sports and such, though the thought of being a soccer/hockey/football/any kind of sport mom leaves me feeling quite sick to my stomach.

I give much credit to the moms that can do it--the schedule juggling, equipment schlepping, attention paying Mommy's who truly care what their offspring are doing on the field/rink/court. I just don't have it in me.

Having never been an athlete or, for that matter, very successful in any competitive arena, I just don't understand the whole sports thing. Unless there's some long-term goal for me, (cause really, isn't this parenthood thing all about me??) I just don't see the point. Sure, there's the whole sportsmanship and exercise angle, but couldn't we get that from our family life? Especially since, as most people so lovingly joke, I've nearly managed to breed my own team?

So here's the deal. I've decided that the only activities that I am going to endorse are ones that can hone the skills that can one day produce successful children who can support me in my old age in the luxurious way that I deserve.

So far I have come up with the following:

Brooklyn is going to focus on her debate skills so she can finely tune her natural superiority at being argumentative. She will simultaneously work at developing her passion for acting, which I am sure will help her succeed in being a defense lawyer for the stars.

Kyan will be sent to some sort of computer/engineering programs because even at his current pre-K state, he is freakishly good at figuring all things techy out.

Morty and George will first be sent to The Tinkering School where they can learn the ins and outs of their mechanically inclined ways. From there we'll see. Formal education isn't for everyone. Perhaps we'll go old school and do some apprenticeships and such with them. Or, we can send them through the ranks of education, also in the engineering field, where they can revolutionize things that we haven't even begun to imagine yet.

Macky, at this point, is yet to be determined. At this point his zest for life, jumping and exceptionally loud repetition of single words seems to make him a prime candidate for some kind of professional cheerleading. Though we don't like to pigeonhole our children into career paths until they are at least 2. He has about 9 weeks left to make his preferences known.

Of course, as a disclaimer for the many hateristic parents who live in the blogosphere, I am saying this all in jest. I will not force my children into or restrict my children from activities purely for my potential future financial gain, though I can't say that it won't cross my mind.

The real base for this silly post is that I don't "get" the dedication to children's sports and activities--especially when I've the family stress and financial burden that it can produce first hand. Granted, I have yet to experience this phase in life first hand, but from what I've seen it isn't pretty--which is what led me to indulge in my favorite defense mechanism of delusion.

I'd love to hear other's thoughts on the whole sports/activities conundrum! I know that my kids will want to do things that I don't "get" and, sucker that I am, I will go along with it.

What are some of the sanity saving tips that you experienced parents out there have to share

HGTV, Sleep Struggles and Me

2011-08-14T03:14:45Z

Bedtime is generally not my best time.

At this time I am tired, overwhelmed, overstimulated and in some desperate need of some quality introvert time. I don't want to fight people to go to bed. I want them to realize that their internal clock is striking, march themselves up, tuck themselves in (at which point I will gladly deliver a memorable good night kiss, story or what have you) and fall into a blissful state of sleep.

This is so far from reality, it almost makes me chuckle reading it.

All the kiddos (save for Macky, fingers crossed) pretty much suck at bedtime. There is lots of complaining, fighting, whining and resisting that goes on but, admittedly, Morty and George, my beloved dynamic duo, have been a run for my bedtime money since their gestational heydays.

In pregnancy, they used to wrestle at night, causing many sleepless nights for Mommy.

As infants they suffered from some hardcore reflux and colic which left them crying and puking for hours on end for months.

As toddlers, they feared bed. They would often only enter slumber after passing out from screaming for hours--only to wake up a short time after with night terrors and confusion...and more crying.

Now, as preschoolers, they are still difficult to get to bed in that they are rather high maintenance, but there is far less drama involved.

At times, I wish that they could just go to sleep on their own without the aid of a "grown up," but the reality is that this (save for the annoying days where many struggles ensue) is really their last piece of babyhood.

Gone are the cribs, diapers, bottles, nuks. Even their beloved monkeys and blankeys have taken a back seat in favor of ladders and tool boxes.

Bedtime is the only time that they really revert to their baby-like status where they are no longer "worker men," but boys in need of some cuddles.

Lately they have been falling asleep cuddled up next to me on the couch watching "man shows." While I realize that this could possibly be construed as a bad habit to get into, I think of it as a passing phase that I will miss when it is over.

Granted, I know that their desire to cuddle isn't so much about me, but about the fact that a few months ago they decided they wanted to sleep "lonely" instead of snuggled up together as they had since birth.

My hunch is that they did this because they thought they should, rather than what they really wanted and now they're really not feeling it and are able to cuddle more easily if they are left to sleep together on the couch. We will often find them still laying head to head or feet to feet when left to their own devices. Tonight, for example, they are sounded asleep with their legs intertwined and happy as can be.

I forget, at times, how hard it is to grow up and, when having a moment of clarity, realize that I have zero concept of what it is like to grow up with an identical twin.

I wonder if things are more difficult for them and thus more difficult for me because they not only have to separate from me, but also from each other--which, truthfully, seems to be an exceptionally hard fight for them, often leading them to declarations of wanting to do more and more things "lonely" (regardless of how unhappy this makes them).

Eventually I know that they will grow up and live completely separate lives (a fact that make me embarrassingly sad) so for now I am trying to help them through their struggles while simultaneously embracing their last remnants of babyhood.

I know that they won't cuddle me, feet to feet or head to head while watching "man shows" forever. Eventually they'll be too embarrassed to cuddle me, or each other, at all.

So for now I'm going to take what I can get and live it up with my boys, my couch and my HGTV. Real sleep will come later. Babyhood never comes back.

Music These Days...

2011-08-09T02:53:52Z

I've recently rediscovered music. Weird, I know. But the past few years have been such a blur that I haven't had time or energy for anything, much less leisurely hours spent flipping through my fantabulously arranged playlists.

Now days through the magic of YouTube and online learning that I studiously log in to, but go to impressive lengths to avoid engaging in, I have once again been connecting with my inner angst through song.

Problem is, I just don't feel the music like I used to.

Way, way, back in my youth, like the late 90's, I was positive that the music was written for me; that the lyrics explained my life; that I needed the music just to get through my the variety of emotions that bombarded me hourly.

Everything I did had it's own soundtrack. Many times this soundtrack was the message that played for my pager, yes, pager in hopes that the caller would "get" the message.

Most of my playlists of old included sickeningly sappy love songs, some exceptionally embarrassing chinese melodies (don't ask) and the ever present rap of my suburban, middle class white girl rebelion.

Basically, if anyone other than those who went through the same phase at the same time (aka my since disbanded clique of friends) heard these songs--especially in my chosen order--they would either run away in horror or hysteria.

The really embarrassing part of this is that I actually still like these songs and they still can bring back memories that had previously been long forgotten--usually for a pretty good reason.

What I'm looking for now is songs that I can relate to. Songs that can create the new soundtrack for my new, grown up, permanent life.

This shouldn't be that hard given that my previous choices really did not relate in the tiniest bit to my real life.

As much as I liked to believe that TuPac really understood me and was devastated when he died (and still wear the RIP t-shirt my mom got me for my mourning period) there, shockingly, isn't really any common ground in our lives.

The same goes for the countless love songs that I have devoted hours and hours of life, tears and time to.

Can a person who married the first person she actually dated really have that much experience with a broken heart?

I think not.

Sure, there were a handful of unrequited loves thrown in the mix, but the depth of my heartbreak music is really quite impressive. One, two or even ten songs would have been sufficient. Not 200.

So, what this leaves me wondering is if I have crossed that invisible line into old age where I really believe that the music now just isn't as good as when I was a youngin, or is it me who has changed?

Is there a way to really feel music in your life when you are living a life of domestic tranquility? Do you need some kind of raw emotions to really connect with lyrics in the same way?

If this is the case, I'll happily wait for someone to write me a song about a body gone wrong, the sleep that's not had and the days that are rapidly passing.

Until then, I guess I'll just have to put my "When I was your age" speech to early (and frequent) use.

Sanity Sucking Summers

2011-08-08T01:00:00Z

Holy Mother of God I am about to lose whatever is left of my everlovin mind.

If I have to listen to one more hour of Nickolodeon or Disney, break up one more completely ridiculous fight, take one more 2x4 out of an assailants hands, clean up one more mess, here one more complaint of "it's too hoooooooot out"...I'm gonna lose it completely.

Now, I am usually a rather rational human being that seems to thrive on the chaos and constant busyness of my life and miss my children dearly when they are away from me, but even I, dear reader, have limits.

I don't care if I gestated you, squeezed you from my body, nurtured you with my milk and love you to pieces...GET THE %^$S AWAY FROM ME AND STOP TALKING FOR JUST ONE MINUTE!!!

Now, I don't actually say this to my little love muffins, but I am afraid I am getting close. After a summer of family togetherness, I am on a 22 day countdown until school and those days better move FAST.

No longer can I watch the same 5 episodes of whatever ridiculous overly-laugh tracked show that the kids channels are hyping at full volume.

(They weren't funny the first time and they sure as hell aren't funny the 20th).

No longer can I deal with the day long fights about who "gets" the cars, trucks, motorcycles, vans, bikes that drive past us on the road

(REALLY, you don't "GET" any of them so JUST STOP FIGHTING!!).

No longer can I deal with the really fun game of "If I throw this at you and you retaliate I'm just going to fling my exceptionally heavy, shrieking body on Mommy for protection"

(Because in all honesty, if you threw the toy/hit the kid/did whatever stupid action to start the fight, I really don't feel that sorry for you.)

No longer can I deal with the "recipes" that are left for me to clean up when it is discovered that they actually don't that good.

(You should really listen to me when I say that cool whip, peanut butter, yogurt and chocolate don't actually make a good soup--I know what I'm talking about.)

No longer can I deal with the constant complaints of hotness, sunshine, humidity, sweatiness, etc.

(Suck it up already! The heat is not here to attack you! Talk to me about how hot your are when its -20 with 6 ft of snow)

Sure I'll miss the good times we had--the trips to the pool and the beach, the leisurely days playing and hanging out, but at this point summer has run it's course and we are craving the return of routines.

We need a chance to miss each other--to appreciate the good parts rather than focusing on the parts that drive us nuts.

We need a chance to realize that we actually like each other and weren't put on this earth for the sole purpose of making each other miserable.

We need a chance to remember (and appreciate) what quiet actually sounds like.

Here's to you Summer of 2011--we came, we swam, we ice creamed--now you are free to move on to those lovely crisp days of fall where school bells (and mothers) everywhere rejoice.

Things I Do Not Find Amusing: A Reference for my Children

2011-06-13T19:00:00Z

1. Having children call my cell phone incessantly from the house phone while standing in another room just to screech in my ear. I can hear you just fine without the added technology.

2. Any form of brother on brother peeing.

3. Dump it--no matter what it is that is being dumped or where said stuff is being dumped, I don't like the practice in general.

4. Watching you tear down the hill on your bikes at top speed and then having you sit at the bottom and scream for me to push you up.

5. Being locked out of the house and or bathroom is never-ever funny.

6. Walking in a room to hear water running--especially with the all too familiar sound of it splashing on the floor

7. Messing up of recently cleaned rooms

8. Coloring on anything but specifically designated coloring paper including, but not limited to walls, couches, tables and each other

9. Playing with my belly while giggling and shouting about how chubby I am.

10. Drinking the bath water--especially after brother on brother peeing.

Braindead without a Deadline

2011-06-13T18:09:00Z

For the past year of my life I have been obligated to spend a ridiculous amount of time "reflecting" about various elements of my course work. To do this, I had to answer the same questions over and over again in effort to "dig deeper," "push myself" and "connect the material to my life." At the time, this was a much mocked practice between my classmates and myself--especially when we were later required to reflect on other's reflections and then reflect on the reflection we received. This all seemed like such a waste of time.

Now that I have been out of class for a few weeks, I have found myself missing having an obligation to reflect simply because it forced me to think and, probably most importantly, write.

While I think that being required to answer the exact same questions week after week, I have to admit it is helpful to have a point value attached to the process because, lets face it, I'm a slave to any point system--add a deadline in there and I am in procrastination/pressure heaven.

Living in a land without deadlines means I simply get nothing done--that I am, as far as writing goes, braindead. I have tried to create deadlines for myself and my writing, but I ultimately know that I am not accountable to anyone but myself so I don't do anything. I wonder if there is a way to create the sense of pressure that schooling or work create without having to deal with all the other unpleasantness because I'm afraid that without it, I will waste every spare second of my time thinking that I'll write something great...later.

Lessons Learned from Hooker Hair

2011-05-02T23:48:00Z

I am now 30 years old. With this advanced age, one would think that I would have learned a few life lessons. Sure, I know how to balance a checkbook, know when to drive and when to get a ride, know when to fight and when to let it go, but I have yet to learn that there's a time to be cheap and there's a time to be lazy, but they should never go together.

Cheap and lazy separately are delightful indulgences that can create wealth, peace, happiness and a vast number of other things.

Together, they create problems, as evidenced by my latest hair style of white streaks and orange blotches, strangely reminiscent of my 7th grade year.

As I stared at the mirror at my self imposed monstrosity (I at least had a beauty school to blame for the early 90's snafu), I couldn't help but wonder how I had sunk so low to let this happen.

Now, it is not simply the highlighting at home that got me--I've been doing my own hair for a long time with somewhat acceptable results--it was the fact that I was crunched for time (aka, lazy) and got seduced by the "brand new innovative design that delivers foolproof professional results in half the time."

Puh-lease.

Yes the little nifty wand thing was cool looking. In theory, I can see how it would aid in even spreading of bleach...I can even see how, again, theoretically, it could save me the time of pulling the little strands out of that sexy cap, but the reality was much different.

The first application left me with yellow highlighter stands with sexy orange roots.

Brooklyn said I looked like a zebra.

The second application spread out the yellow and added some orange streaks.

Momo upgraded me to "orange like my monkey," which, depending on the context, could possibly be considered a high compliment.

The third application evened things out, but left me looking a wee bit like a hooker or a stripper with a platinum top and a darker bottom.

Grandma screamed when she saw me.

The fourth application brought me scarily close to where I started, albeit 2 days and some odd dollars later.

While I did get to practice coming up with a witty back story to why my hair was so horrid including mid-life yearnings for junior high and a girl crush on T-Boz, I basically was screwed by my cheapness and my laziness (not to mention my rehab needing addiction to all things commercially driven, especially when involving big shiny letters..).

What I have learned through this experience (plus a mini lecture from my beloved on how there comes to be a certain age where you just don't do this to yourself anymore...I had previously missed that memo) is that it might be worth it to suck it up, plop down the money, cut out the time and have someone else do my hair.

By doing that, I could have had a couple hours to myself and a head full of evenly colored, non hooker hair. If I even wanted, I could have chosen a salon who's advertisements I found especially appealing, just to get my fix.

I'd like to declare that my lesson has been learned and I will no longer subject myself to this torture, but in all honesty, we'll just have to see when the roots come a calling again--the seduction of the hair care isle might be too much to resist.

Back off, people!! We're fine!

2011-04-29T01:01:00Z

My house has fallen victim to negativity. We are constantly talking about what is wrong, what needs to be changed, what is challenging and very rarely, if ever, think about what is going right.

Part of this comes from the make-up of our family. With so many people in one house, the vast majority of them being 5 and under, craziness is an expectation rather than an exception.

On any given day there is fighting, mess making, yelling, not listening and many other normal kid behaviors that likely happen in every other house across America—the problem with my house is that these behaviors seem more intense, more unruly and more problematic simply because of the sheer number of kids who potentially exhibit the same behaviors at the same time or because of the fact that if every kid has the potential to act out one out of every five times that we go out, we could potentially have a spazzing kid on every outing.

At any given time, one child can be acting out, which might produce a chain reaction and lead other children to act out resulting in pure chaos, but, when considering the root of the issue: children freaking out, is that really any more different than in a household that has less children?

Should my children be held to a different standard because of how many of them there are? Or should their developmental trajectory be appreciated and nurtured regardless of the annoyance or discomfort it causes the adults?

For instance, yesterday we went to a 1^st grade concert and the twins had problems sitting still and listening. They were antsy and vocal about their distaste for the music. Their behavior was not uncommon, I believe that many newly turned 3 year olds would have struggled similarly, but because there were 2 of them doing the same thing, the attention was more focused on us. Because there were 2 of them, it appeared that we had no control over the kids. Because there were 2 of them, it seems like the idea that “we can’t take them anywhere” was really true.

The idea that I can’t take them anywhere or that people won’t like them because of their behavior is by far the most common thing I hear, which, while completely unfounded because we DO go many places very successfully thankyouverymuch, is harmful because it makes me hyper aware of all their behaviors, which makes me, mean, which makes them act out and so on.

At times, I find myself correcting their behaviors in public when they aren’t actually acting up, which can then cause them to be uncomfortable and freak out.

For instance, in the past two days I have taken 5 kids to the dentist and 4 kids for checkups and shots with no incidents…in fact, they were pretty stellar, if I’m completely honest. But during each situation I was constantly correcting behaviors that didn’t need to be corrected (like talking a lot, asking why and playing while they were waiting for the others to finish up), which started to fire up their innate rebellion, which started to intensify behaviors. As soon as I backed off and let them be, they went back to perfectly civilized human beings who were actually complimented on their behavior.

So I guess all I ask is give me a break people. If I were able to do anything mathematically besides add and figure percentage discounts when shopping, I’d wow you with some kick ass statistics that show my kids are just the same as everyone else.

For my part, I’m going to start sticking up for my kids instead of bowing to the pressure. I’m going to make an effort to assure them that they are fine and dandy and that the rest of the world is stupid. Sure this might cause other issues down the road, but I’d rather battle those later on than have them deal with the feelings of being abnormal.

Birthday Eve -- During My 20's I...

2011-04-22T01:30:00Z

Today is my birthday eve, the last night of my 20's. Tomorrow I officially turn 30, a fact that is leaving me strangely reminiscent, so I decided to compile a list simply because lists are awesome and what better way to remind myself that the last decade was well spent.

During my 20’s I:

Managed to FINALLY graduate high school and have pretty much been going to school ever since.

Have spent 9.5 years of it being the dynamic part of the Betsey/Eric duo.

Spent a total of 3 years pregnant and another 3 years nursing.

(That is 6 years out of 10 that I shared my body with another human. I’m ready to reclaim sole ownership!)

Single handedly contributed to pollution and overpopulation by popping out a baby at 22, 24, 26 (x2) and 28.

Have gained and lost 40 some pounds 4 times—which really makes you appreciate the human body and all its elasticity.

Changed a diaper every single day (minus two) for 7 years, 4 months (and am still at it for another year or so…). That’s about 2600 days, for those of you interested, which, if I only changed an average of 5 diapers a day would add up to 13,000 diapers. Since 3 of those years I’ve had 3 in diapers at a time, that number is exponentially higher.

(Having just realized how many diapers I’ve changed, I did a little math and figure that I’ve spent approximately $4,000 on diapers over the course of my breeding years. And that, ladies and gents, is why my wardrobe sucks. Butts are expensive).

Moved from little sporty car, to sensible 4 door sedan, to minivan to conversion van.

Have become more comfortable with myself and no longer freak out at the mere thought of talking to people—at times I, gasp, even enjoy it!

Learned how to cook more than ramen noodles and now cook 3+ times a day (and secretly enjoy it…though nothing is better than having food made for me).

Have accomplished more than I would have thought possible when I was moving from 20-30.

Completely lost track of time and am often shocked by how long ago my angsty teen years were (and good riddance to them).

Finally found what I want to be when I grow up—and am currently working on it!

Really did all that I could have done or would have wanted to do with these last ten years. Sure, at times I get a little wistful and wonder “what-if,” about the path that I’ve chosen to take—especially when everyone else’s life seems more glamorous, more fun, more comfortable and, let’s face it, somewhat easier than mine.

But really, I have no clue what my life would be without the choices that I’ve made. When I look around at some of the people who I used to know, whose lives were parallel to mine, I’m SO glad that I strayed off by myself because ultimately I see a lot of unhappiness.

So, I guess I’m not too tripped out about being 30. I kid that it is the entrance to old age, the end of my youth, but really, to me, in all my sentimental schmaltziness, it’s the start of the good part of life. Bring it on 30’s, I’ve got a lot of plans for you!!

Top Ten Things I’m Look Forward to Doing to My Children When They’re Older

2011-04-21T02:35:00Z

(Because the anticipation of the sheer joy it will bring me is sometimes all that gets me through the day…)

10. Playing recordings of their fights on full blast, at sunrise

9. Wearing really embarrassing outfits to go places with them when they're teenagers

8. Whipping out pictures of them as toddlers and preschoolers when they claim that no one dresses that poorly

7. Waking them up at 5 am because, “It's morning time.”

6. Going to their homes for a big, important meal that obviously required a lot of work and saying "I hate it," and demanding Mac & Cheese

5. Pointing out their acne, asking if I can play connect the dots on their face

4. Telling their friends that they can’t come to the phone because they’re pooing

3. Standing outside of the shower, asking them things they can’t hear repeatedly, then walking away and saying I don’t remember when they finally get out and ask me what I'm talking about

2. Taking long car rides listening to the same song over and over, singing along very badly and loudly

1. Chuckling to myself when they call to tell me that their own kids are crazy

Most likely, I'll be good and I won’t do any of these things (although I’m tempted to start recording things…just in case), but knowing that I could is enough to make me chuckle.

I also know that I won’t probably get the chance to because their own children will be covering all these annoying tasks, forcing me to recreate my own path as The Grandma.

Cookies anyone??

You’ve gotta love karma. Ask my parents.

Turning Five

2011-04-18T01:31:00Z

Another oldie for your reading pleasure--I found it especially relevant right now since baby #2 just turned five and the last line I wrote in this essay has proven to be false...much to my dismay.

My daughter turn’s five this week. She is devastated. She has somehow gotten the idea that five is the end of babyhood and the start of her adult life. The day after she turned four she started to tell her dad and I all of the things that she was going to do once she turned five. She would no longer need her Nuk to help her get to sleep. She would not be sad and miss mommy when she went to school and, most emphatically, she would never be crabby again.

Yes, five was going to be the start of a new era for Brooklyn. Five was going to bring with it a kindergartener’s state of mind which would make her more like her envied cousin Za Za, a third grader who has cool hair, cool clothes and roller skating parties. Since time is a concept that she hasn’t quite mastered (she often proclaims that yesterday’s events were last year), I’m sure that her fifth birthday seemed like a life time away which would give her plenty of time to wean herself from all the things she’d deemed “baby.”

Now that we are on a rapid approach to the big day, she is becoming more anxious of what it actually means. At times the mere mention of the happy day alternately brings with it the surprise of hysterical crying or screaming, seemingly dependent on the position of the moon. Not that this entirely surprises me, for I too was a bit of a basket case growing up. Every birthday was like a personal assault on me. The fact that another year was added to my age without my permission was completely offensive, combined with the fact that I would never be that age again was too much for my little change resistant brain to handle. I was the type of child who couldn’t take stuffed animals off her bed without having an impromptu therapy session with the displaced animals to ensure that their feelings weren’t irreversibly hurt, and to alleviate my own emotional angst.

Knowing that the little events in my life were never easy for me and that the big events were excruciating, it is hard for me to watch my little girl exhibit some of the same qualities. I also know that I was embarrassed by these feelings because my parents often treated them as silly, so I learned at an early age how to access my favorite coping mechanism of repression. I would try to stuff away my sadness and discomfort out of embarrassment, acting as though things didn’t bother me when I was around others and then being upset when I was alone. This, combined with a healthy dose of denial, worked until I was older. It was then that the emotional build up combined with hormones and peer pressure, turning a sensitive little girl into a jersey and sweat pant wearing, cigarette smoking, foul mouthed teenager who was wholly unpleasant.

Now that I see my daughter doing the same things I did as a small child, it scares me that she will follow the same path and turn into her own version of the unpleasantness that I morphed into—something I wouldn’t wish on any child, much less her parents. So what do I do to prevent this travesty of potential karma? Do I think back to my own youth and analyze the ways that I would have liked to be treated? Or do I sensitively yet casually help to guide her behaviors and reactions to ones that might be easier to deal with? Nope, I instead nag her relentlessly to talk about her feelings. I talk to her in my own brand of psychology, (a combination of my early stuffed animal practice mixed in with a little Dr. Phil twist), alternately asking her “How does that make you feel? Do you want to talk about it? How’s that working for you?” To which I am either ignored or yelled at to stop talking to her. Instead of realizing that I am nudging and perhaps causing more grief on her part, I make a mental note about the obvious anger that her repression is causing.

While there are times that my nudging is extreme (does one really need to voice their feelings about the juice running out?), there are times that she holds so much in that something has to be done to get her to let it out. Earlier in the year we, rather suddenly, moved out of the only house that she’s known. I knew she was really upset, but she would not talk about it. I tried to explain to her that it was normal to be upset and that I was too, that she would feel better if she cried, but she refused. You could see it in her face that she was trying with all of her four year old might not to show that she was upset. Any time I would try to get her to open up she would say, “Talk about something else, I don’t want to be sad.” This broke my heart because I remember so clearly my own move at four years old and how hard it was for me to adjust to a new house and new room. I also knew how hard it was for her to do the little changes like getting rid of outgrown clothes, moving into a “big girl” bed or even reorganizing her toys, so I knew that this huge of a change would be especially hard.

All I wanted her to do was allow herself to be sad, but she wouldn’t. Instead she acted out. First she pretended to be happy in such an extreme way it was creepy. She’d look around her new room, muster together all of her sad energy and start flailing around her room like an over caffeinated cheerleader yelling, “Hey, look at this! It’s so cool. I love it! I don’t ever want to go to Mommy’s house again.” This mania lasted until it turned to anger, then she yelled, screamed, threw things and hit her younger brother. These unpredictable swings continued for about a week until she was so exhausted that she finally broke down, crying hysterically about wanting to go home to her purple princess bedroom. While I was sad to see her upset, I was relieved that she could finally let go and admit that she was upset.

Sometimes I wonder how she is becoming to be just like me as she is growing up. Is the inability to deal with and accept change an inborn genetic fluke? Or is it something I am unknowingly teaching to her through my own daily actions. I like to think that I have come a long way from the child that I was, but the reality of it is that I have just gotten more efficient at going through the motions of my patented freak out. Instead of taking weeks to process all of my emotions, I pack it all into a day of manic behavior where I fly back and forth from excitement over the possibility of starting something new to the crushing misery and regret that come with even the most mundane decisions I make.

It goes something like: Oh my god, I’m so happy to clear out my closet. I haven’t worn those clothes in so long. I can’t wait to get something new. Maybe I’ll try a new style. It’ll be so cute! I can’t wait to go shopping. But, wait. What if I find a shirt that will finally make me like those pants? What if I can’t find another pair like them. Or, what if I do and they’re expensive? We can’t afford that! I should have never gotten rid of them. I wonder if Goodwill will give them back. Maybe I could re-buy them from there. I’m never getting rid of anything again….

As exhausting and thorough that it is, I like to believe that I hide this not so pleasant part of my personality from her, but regardless of what I do, I see flashes of little Betsey in her actions every day.

On one hand it’s a blessing that I experienced some of the same issues growing up because I know how to better respond to her when I recognize the behavior. On the other hand, I also want to stop the behaviors and change her because I know how hard it was for me growing up. One day recently she came home from preschool upset. “What’s wrong baby?” I asked in the car on the way home.

“Nobody gets my tricks.” she said sadly.

I glanced in the rearview mirror to see her dejected face and immediately began having flashbacks to my own youth. Shaking myself out of it, I tentatively asked “What tricks?” not entirely sure that I wanted to know the answer.

“When I try to be funny, no one laughs. Why don’t they laugh, mama? Don’t they like me?”

Immediately I’m thrown back into early elementary school recess days, awkward and unpopular, I’m desperately trying to impress people with my yet to be formed wit. Using my 6 year old logic, I’m sure that if I could retell a joke that the “cool” girls told to the class’s great amusement that morning, I would then one of them. Filled with the confidence that an infallible plan gives one, I call everyone around for this great joke. I start in only to see kids snickering and looking at each other, whispering. This flusters me so much that I promptly blank on the punch line and begin stuttering. I don’t even have my wits about me enough to walk away, instead I just keep trying to spit it out, mumbling my words, until I finally unfreeze and run away to the sound of the other kids laughing and teasing. This was the beginning of a long and painful journey that required many, many more socially awkward situations, the complete avoidance of recess and a horrendously slow process of realization that I was not funny.

Snapping back to the comfort of my minivan, I’m puzzled on how to answer her question. I know that she had a sense of humor (she used to copy the rhythm of jokes before she could even talk) and that she was well liked by her classmates, but I also knew how horrible it felt to be unfunny. This would be especially hard since she comes from a family that’s most valuable currency is humor. Her dad has secret aspirations of being a stand up comic, her grandma is “the funniest person you’ll ever meet,” (or so I’m told…) and, thankfully, after many years of being humorless, I was able to fine tune my comedic timing and have been known to elicit a chuckle or too out of a crowd. I decide that I need to dig further to find the root of the problem.

“Well, honey, what do you say in your tricks?”

“I told them the Ivan joke and no one laughed, they just lined up for snack.”

Armed with the knowledge that she had been telling a hilarious knock-knock joke that she and her father had been practicing repeatedly the weekend before, I was confident that the material wasn’t the problem and that she too was facing a timing issue.

“Maybe they didn’t hear you, you have to make sure people are listening otherwise they won’t get it” I coached, launching into a lesson on timing that would hopefully save her future social life.

Later that night I told my husband about Brooklyn’s and my conversation and he was nowhere near as concerned as I. While I was ready to either go beat up her classmates for not laughing at her joke (whether they heard it or not), or dedicate myself to home schooling her for the next 13 or so years, he was completely unfazed.

“So she works on her tricks. What’s wrong with that? Every performer flops” he ever so aggravatingly replies with the confidence that comes from popularity in your formative years.

“What’s wrong is that her feelings were hurt. What’s wrong is that these other kids suck. What’s wrong is that she has to go to school with these kids everyday for the rest of her life!” I rant letting my neuroses shine.

“So, she learns to deal with it. She’s tough. She’ll be fine. Don’t go projecting your issues on her, she likes it and she’s doing fine.”

WHATEVER! I turn away in a huff thinking, What does he know, Mister Popular. Mister Everybody Loves Me. Mr. I’m Soo Funny. Mr. My School Years Were Awesome. I go on with this for a while until the sound of his snoring snaps me out of it. As I try to drift to sleep I wonder, Maybe he’s right. She’s doing fine. I hated school from the first day of preschool and she’s begging me to sign her up for more Just because she’s like me doesn’t mean she’ll have the same experiences. I look over at my peacefully unaware slumbering beloved, Hell, she’s got a good dose of him in her too, Thank God.

Raising a child is hard. Raising a child that brings up your own childhood issues is almost enough to break you. Brooklyn is my first child, my only girl. She is the one who taught me what being a mother is. She is the one that challenges me everyday, whether it be with her behaviors or mine. I want so badly for her childhood to be happier and better than mine I would do anything to shelter her, but I know that the experiences that she has are what will form her as a person. If I were to create an imaginary womb that I could protect her in from childhood pain, I would cripple her socially and emotionally. She needs to go out and learn the hard lessons and figure out what she wants to do in her life.

As for me, as for now, I will let her be a little girl for as long as she can. The day before her birthday she came to me, Nuk in hand, big brown eyes glistening with tears “I don’t want to be five, Mama. I want to be a baby. I’m not ready to not have my Nuk yet.”

I scoop her up in a hug and cuddle her, thinking about me, about her, about what I should say. “Don’t worry, baby. Your birthday is just a day. You get rid of it when you’re ready.”

Maybe I should be tougher on her. Maybe I’m creating issues in her. Maybe I’m just not ready to give up my baby girl. Whatever it is, I’m getting better at this turning five thing. So maybe by the time my sons turn five I’ll be a pro.

too old, too tired, too busy and too dang cranky

2011-04-16T02:25:00Z

I've decided tonight, under the influence of wine, old age and pizza, that now is the time to reassess my relationships with others and embrace the good and drop the baggage.

Everyone has these people in their lives. The ones who you feel obilgated to for whatever reason. The ones who you dread seeing. The one's who's call you strategically avoid. The ones you pretend to and, at times, really try to like because it's the "right" thing to do, but inside you are secretly counting the seconds until you can get away from them.

There have been many people like that in my life and, loyal and principled Taurus that I am, I try to maintain relationships with these people. I listen to them bitch and moan about all the injustices in their lives. I walk them through the continual bad decisions that they make. I lend an ear for them to vent when they need to, regardless of what is happening in my life.

Basically, I am over it.

I am now at the point in my life where I am done trying, and if you don't like me for it, I'm super sorry for you because you're gonna be missing out on a whole lotta awesome.

Sure, at times I am a bit lonely and isolated in my world of awesome, but never so much that it is worth dappling in the drama-filled world of needy people.

Over the past few years I have put a lot of thought into putting myself out there and connecting with others. I've pushed myself out of my cozy den of introversion into the world of bars, booze and girl talk only to find that I feel just as empty and lacking for female connection than I was before. And let me tell you, I would MUCH rather be chillin in my PJ's watching a little Hulu than making small talk with people whom I couldn't possibly care less about if I tried.

So, tonight, I hereby declare that I am done. I am done with trying. I am done with pretending. I am done with making the effort to convice myself that lame people are really anything but--no matter who they are in my life.

From here on out I am going to concentrate on the few who I really like--the few who seem to "get" me--the few who I can talk to without putting in any effort at all.

I am going to accept that my destiny (and nature) is to be a bit of loner and finally embrace it for the lovely existence that it really is. I am no longer going to try to fill some ideal that poorly written sitcoms have put in my head.

Because who really wants friends popping over anytime they want...(get it?? "Friends"...oh, nevermind). The mere thought makes me shudder. What if I am indulging in one of my kinky fantasies/rituals/hobbies that I don't actually have but am paranoid about anyway when you just happen by. How awkward for you?

Basically I am just too old, too tired , too busy and too dang cranky to deal with anyone who doesn't interest me anymore.

All you needy, drama filled people out there can kindly leave me alone and, instead, seek out each other because I am no longer interested in anything besides what makes me happy.

I am going to enter my next decade secure with who I am and what I want and, to me, there really isn't anything better--even if I do it alone.

One Wrinkle at a Time.

2011-04-15T01:13:00Z

This morning as I sat watching the wonderfully entertaining and thought provoking shows that mornings on Nickelodeon provide, I couldn't help but to ponder my life's purpose.

Was this it? To watch TV with my children, to make them scrumptious breakfasts of microwaved eggs and canned cinnamon rolls, to break up their ridiculously often fights?

Or, while going through the motions of parenthood, am I missing out on what I'm really supposed to be doing? Am I really supposed to be out fighting poverty, homelessness, illiteracy and the rapid proliferation of celebrity nicknames?

Or, like Brangelina, should I be doing it all?

Should I use my stellar beauty and strong sense of altruism to go out and save the world, all while raising my many children and staying ever so humble and grounded?

Yes, this is it! This is my life's purpose! Finally, a use for my natural born attributes! No longer will I waste what I was blessed with on simple parenting. I am going to save the world—but first I have to shower.

Filled with a sense of urgency fueled by my new purpose, I schlep up to shower, stopping only to gaze at myself in the mirror for a moment with the intention of admiring my beauty. It is then that my dreams are crushed and the sense of purpose eliminated from my thoughts. The messy root laden hair and puffy, baggy eyes are not what I had envisioned. Instead they are tired and somewhat crazy, definitely not capable of bringing peace and happiness to the masses.

As I gaze at myself in the mirror, wondering how to restore my natural beauty so that I can go out and solve the problems of humankind, something traumatic, devastating and life changing occurs: I see a wrinkle.

"A wrinkle?" You might say, "So what? They're a natural part of aging."

And that, my friend, is the problem. I am aging. I am no longer a spring chicken, ready and capable of taking on the world. Instead I am rapidly approaching 30, then 40, then 50 and before you know it I'll be in a home, having never accomplished anything but feeding my children possibly toxic foods while poisoning their brains with countless hours of television .

Yes, the finding of my first wrinkle is an end of an era for me. No longer can I walk around with the confidence of youth, thinking of all the things that I can accomplish...later.

No more can I take for granted gravity and its torturous, evil and highly unfair attacks on a female form. I must go out and savor my last moments of youth before they disappear forever. I cannot waste my last moments trying to save the world, I must save myself from my unfair destiny!

I must go now. I must pack up my children and rush to the store for anti-wrinkle cream. Maybe with this magical substance I can hold on to my escaping youth long enough to accomplish something important, something real, something…at all.

I will leave you now, dear reader, with a plea. Don't waste your youth by having endless amounts of children for they age you more rapidly than anything in the world. They cause time to fly by in such a rapid progression that you too might wake one day to find that you are suddenly old.

Don't be fooled by the contentedness that comes from watching your children grow and prosper! Don't take it one day at a time. Make it a fight against one wrinkle at a time! Focus only on these betrayers of youth and yourself and, if you're lucky, you will be able to save some youth. From there you may possibly be able to spare a little time to help others, Brangelina style.

Buddy-isms

2011-04-11T01:08:00Z

Here's a oldie but goodie that I thought might be enjoyable for those of you new to the old blog-a-rooskie. Enjoy while I start the old brain up again for new and exciting content!

There are days when life with all these kids gets a little difficult. Days when ears don’t work and voices work too well. Days when listening is a foreign concept and days when I feel like calling in Super Nanny to save the day.

These are the days when I need to remember the cute things that make having kids enjoyable and worthwhile. My favorites right now are what I like to call Buddy-isms, completely random, unprompted sayings—kidioms—that could only come from our little Buddy.

Here are some little snippets straight from Kyan’s mouth that are enough to make the worst day a little better because they are so dang cute. Enjoy!

“When I cry my heart breaks a little and then a little guy crawls in and fixes it with his tools and I stop crying.”

“My heart changed my mind.”

“My eyes want my big boy bed but my tummy wants my Elmo bed.”

“My heart loves candy, but my brain doesn’t.”

“I can’t go to sleep because I have toys in my eyes.”

“My brain is scaried of the shadows of monsters in my room.”

“Can you play with me at your work Teacher Sherry?” (asked to his teacher during play time)

“My ice cream sandwich is hiding in my tummy.”

“My tummy is hungry for something with a hole in it. A donut maybe?"

"If I Were Important, Where Would I Be??"

2011-04-08T17:52:00Z

It's time for everyone's favorite game again!

That's right! It's time for today's round of "If I Were Important, Where Would I Be???"

The rules are simple.

First pick an object, in can be any object that has some level of importance. My personal favorites are check cards, keys, cel phones, chargers, swimsuit straps and, everyone's favorite, my checkbook.

After the object is selected you have a couple options.

Spot the object lying around and comment that the object is, indeed, in a strange place but make no actual effort to move it while secretly believing that you will remember where it is because of the weird placement.

Purposefully place the item somewhere "safe."

Then simply go about your normal life until the moment you need the object. and then try to remember where you saw/left it. This could be minutes or hours later. If you're ditzy enough, it won't matter. The fun is still there!

Scoring goes as follows:

1 point if the object is where you thought it was and it only takes 1-2 tries to find it.

2 points if the object is not in the exact location you thought, but is in the general area.

3 points if you get so flustered looking for the object that you forget you are even looking for it in the first place

4 points if you spend an entire day ranting and raving and tearing the house apart only to find the object in your possession--purse, backpack, wallet, etc

5 points if you have to cancel an outing because of your inability to find it

and so on. The ability to collect points really has no limit. The more frustrating and ridiculous the situation, the more points you get!

I personally rack up about 76 points a day...often times with never even having left the house! Impressive, I know.

While I sometimes fear I may be suffering from early onset alzheimer's, the patch of forest-like growth on my leg that I found glistening in the springtime sun yesterday tells me otherwise.

What this physical tribute to my ditzy tendencies tells me is that I am often times not paying attention to what I am doing, but rather just going through the motions.

Since much of my day from shaving my legs to grocery shopping is entirely repetitive, I am not paying attention to the minute to minute details like where I set my phone/keys/checkcard which really lends itself to this super fun game, but is also really, really, REALLY annoying at times too.

Hopefully one day I'll get my head out of, er, the clouds and start paying attention to what I am doing. Until then, I hereby challenge you to beat me at my own game.

The Suffocation of Censoring.

2011-04-07T02:33:00Z

My writing is being suffocated by my self-censoring.

There are things that I want to write and want to shout out to the world, but I stop myself for fear of being "inappropriate" and therefore causing myself even more grief.

The main issue isn't that I am going to say anything really outrageous, it's mainly that people are only going to read what they want to believe and run from there. Something about our fast paced world has caused people to only absorb part of a message and then fill in the gaps with their own judgements and understandings, which then either leads them to a sense of outrage or camaraderie.

Very rarely, it seems, are people able to stop, read (or listen) to something, analyze it, understand it and then form an opinion.

Because of this (and my own proclivity to create drama wherever I go) I am really struggling with my writing.

Take, for instance, the post What the Mother-ish....while some people stood up and supported me, others attacked not only me, but my right to parent in general, etc because I was promoting the spreading of filth through my children.

While I can see where this understanding comes from, that is not what I said...at all.

I simply was trying to convey the point that I am not always perfect, am not always able to repress who Betsey is in favor of who Mommy should be, and am teaching my children how to deal with my own imperfection as they make their own way in the world.

I was not saying that I was sitting them down and coaching them in effort to ensure they have the most prolific profanity knowledge in preschool.

But, sadly, I can't control other people's interpretations.

I'm really torn right now about all of this. Part of me feels that I need to be true to myself and my writing because I enjoy it and I am positive that there are many parents out there who identify with my ramblings and might find some solace in the fact that they are not alone in their imperfection...

On the other hand, I also realize that I should, perhaps, take a more professional public image if I am going to continue in the path of professional parent education.

Life would be so much easier if everyone could just understand and appreciate my genius for what it is...that way I can continue to better humanity by bringing my special brand of crazy to the world.

Dear One Legged Troll Who Steals Our Socks.

2011-04-03T16:16:00Z

There is a sock crisis in my house. At last count I have 37 kid socks that are missing their mate.

This is unacceptable. I have gotten to the point that every time I go to Target I pick up new socks in effort to relieve the pain and suffering that this crisis is causing, but still we have no socks.

I've tried all plain white socks because having a specific match wouldn't matter--no luck.

I've tried patterned socks because at least we'd be able to easily identify the partner--miserable fail.

I've thrown out stragglers in effort to start fresh. This only lasts for one wash cycle, and then we are back where we started.

I've even worked to convince the kids that wearing mismatched socks is cool and that Justin Bieber does it--but this fix won't last forever.

This constant struggle has led me to one logical conclusion. We have a one legged troll who is stealing our socks out of spite for my husband who constantly talks of hiring him for his assistant (don't ask...long story).

So here is an open letter in effort to get our matching socks back:

Dear One-Legged Troll (Or Nigel as we like to call you):

Please return our socks, Mr. Troll.

I know we may have offended you with our constant joking about employing you and your stub leg and pirate accent for Eric's assistant, but no worries--we have no intention of doing so and will, from here out, cease and desist all joking.

Please take no offence to this joking, we understand that you are exceptionally busy with your hobbling and argh-ing and such, and we feel most terribly for whatever accident you endured to leave you in such a physical predicament.

But this is really no reason to steal all of our socks. And really, what are you going to do with all those socks? Make a quilt to warm your stubby leg?

I apologize, that was out of line.

If you could please return the socks tonight whilst we are asleep--no questions asked--there may even be some bedazzled bling for you to attach to your wooden peg.

Please help save our family from the endless frustration of finding socks and help save my children from the embarrassment of wearing mismatched socks everywhere they go.

You likely know all too well how that embarrassment can sting a soul and make you bitter. Please help save my children from the same sock stealing future that you faced.

We and our cozy and protected feet are forever in your debt,

Us.

Things I Learned Today Vol. 5

2011-04-02T01:38:00Z

Today has been a very eventful day for me. I really did learn a lot--so much that I feel compelled to once again share my hard earned wisdom with the masses.

So, here you go (see if you notice a theme...):

1. No matter how much they consider themselves to be "worker men," two 3 year olds and a 4 year old are NOT good assistants.

2. HGTV does a lot of editing to make it everything look so easy.

3. HGTV would never employ two 3 year olds and a 4 year old as assistants.

4. Painting textured surfaces sucks.

5. Painting angled walls that are textured sucks even more.

6. Painting angled walls that are textured and curve into the ceiling line where you would like to stop painting and have a clear line but can't because the stupid morons who built your house obviously knew you'd be painting one day and wanted to see if your brain would really explode, is so far past suckville that there really is no looking back.

7. Not everyone knows every episode of Spongebob by heart and sometimes the description of a Bikini Bottom room theme requires additional explanation.

8. Some things are definitely worth paying for.

9. My husband is a better person than I, for he spent summer after summer painting from sunup to sundown to support our family. I wanted to quit 10 minutes in.

10. Rooms sure do look pur-ty with a fresh coat of paint....but they make everything with the old coat look dur-ty.

So, as you've likely figured out, I decided to tackle painting the boy's room today. It was, quite honestly, completely awful in every aspect. Not only was it completely ridiculous for me to do it when I was home alone with all the boys, it was just plain dumb to do it when I had no concept of how long or how hard it was going to be (not to mention the fact that I didn't have enough paint or the right materials...)

But there is just something so exciting about being spontaneous and impulsive. It reminds me of life pre-kids. It also reminds me that I do, in fact, have kids--just in case their incessant talking wasn't cluing me in enough. The ultimate lesson learned (the same that I learn--and forget--every stinking time) is that I don't like spontaneous--I like plans and being impulsive is fun only as long as my attention span holds, which is usually about 4.5 minutes. After that, it is pure torture.

As I sit here covered in paint and worn out, I guess I'm glad I got the bulk done, but you better believe that good old Daddy Bo Dadkins will be cleaning up my mess and doing the Girl Child's room because my painting days are now officially behind me.