Instead Of Laundry

You know how there are days where you have a list of things you should do, but you ignore them and do the things you want to do? I love those days. I wish I could make them happen more than twice a year. Don't you?

My sister sent me a link to the top 50 Mom Craft Blogs. I'm giving it to you so you can ignore your list and stare at your computer instead:

Top 50 Craft Blogs

I won't admit whether or not I looked at every. single. blog. The husband already thinks I live a life of leisure, so why add fuel to the fire. But, I will admit that #40, #47 and #50 are my favorites.

Ignore your regular life, banish the guilt and soak in some creativity.

"Of The Age"

Those 3 words have started following me. I can't seem to escape them. I'm now "of the age" to get yearly mammograms (which is a difficult thing for a girl who can still wear a training bra). My gynecologist told me I'm also "of the age" to start seriously considering my high risk for osteoporosis. I thought he was kidding at first. Nope. He wasn't.

I have wrinkles in weird places and I've noticed my underarms jiggle when I wave to my kids at the bus stop. Body parts that jiggle are never a good sign. What if it spreads? The jiggleness? Maybe it's like a virus that starts growing when you turn 40. It starts on your arms and spreads to the rest of your body. What if I try to wave at my kids in ten years from now, and my whole body jiggles? I guess I would still be "of the age", so I won't be surprised.

I think there should be some kind of an official list made. If everyone knew what was coming when you're "of the age", it might not be so shocking. At least you would know well in advance that you'll pee your pants if you attempt to jump on a trampoline. That kind of stuff deserves fair warning. Just sayin'.

I have yet to find a positive side to being "of the age". Maybe there isn't one to be found. Or maybe I have found it, but now I'm "of the age" and I already forgot it. Somehow, that explanation makes a whole lot of sense.

The Things That I Forgot

I no longer have a brain that functions. This is the conclusion I have come to. It's merely a result of 2 crazy weeks. Well, 1 crazy week and a Spring Break. I think there might be a scientific formula for this kind of episode. Kids home+stress=Dead Mom. Over the last 2 weeks, I've been reminded of a few things I had forgotten (and really had no desire to remember).

First thing I forgot: The DMV is the armpit of America.

I wish I had great things to write about Spring Break. I don't. The kids were home, they fought, I (hypothetically) yelled at them. The only exciting event was taking Sam to the DMV to get her driver's permit.

4 1/2 hours!! We almost went crazy and I think half my brain fell out by hour 3. Where do all those people come from? Seriously! And why does it always feel like you're the only normal one in the building? The mother behind us took the time to explain to her daughter that she wouldn't let her work at Hooter's until she was 21. Of course her explanation involved a good helping of swear words. Sam turned to me and asked, "Why isn't she acting like a grown up?" Ah, good question.

Second thing I forgot: Toddlers are crazy.

Teenagers are their own special crazy. I can't even describe it in words. But, 3 year olds? That's just crazy topped with exhausting. I really had forgotten that part.

My sister's Twin #2 has been in the hospital for the last 5 days. Very sick, very pneumonia. So, Twin #1 took up residence here. What little bit of brain I had left after the DMV is now gone. It's been sucked away. I think by tomorrow I may not be able to speak. People have started asking me if I adopted a 3 year old from China.

Third thing I forgot: Happiness comes in the smallest of moments.

They are both in separate choirs. This week, they performed together. So much of family life is spent living life at a fast pace and arguing with those you love the most. I tend to wish for happiness in big, heaping piles of peace, kind words and pleasant attitudes. Happiness doesn't really work like that. It shows up in the smallest of ways, a calm in the storm. Like when 2 sisters stand together and sing. For just a moment, things felt like heaven.

Looking For A Loophole

Yesterday during church (while everyone else around us is quiet and thinking righteous thoughts):

Child #3: "Where do I come from?"

Me: "Ah. What do you mean?"

#3: "I'm the only one in our family with blond hair. So, where did I come from?"

Me: "Your dad had blond hair when he was your age."

#3: "So, I come from dad."

Me: "And me too."
...pause while she looks disappointed....
"Sorry."

#3: "Could I come from Aunt Emily?"

Me: "Nope. Sorry again."

#3: {heavy sigh}..."Alright."


She's looking for a way out of here, isn't she?
Can you blame her?

What Kind Of Mother...

There are now 2 runners.
1 high school, 1 junior high.
1 thinks running is the best thing ever and can't get enough, and 1 thinks running is the worst idea she has ever agreed to and can't wait for the season to end.

Translation: 2 track meets on the same day, at the same time, in different locations, every week. I have no idea why the school district didn't take my scheduling needs more seriously.

So here is my question...What kind of a mother looks at the forecast for rain today and starts praying with fervor that it will rain so hard that both track meets will be canceled and she can stay home tonight and watch TV?

Seriously. I'm asking.
Good mom? Bad mom? Tired mom? How about a combination of all 3?

Please Say Amen

I have no idea why this stroke of genius has taken me this long to figure out, but seriously, this is the best. idea. ever.

Peep S'mores.

{pause for deep breathing}

Maybe I should just call them P'mores.

In case you're curious, we make our s'mores in the oven (on broil). Campfires just aren't my style. Once these Peeps were toasted and slightly melted, Todd decided they looked more like badgers. Huh?

Make some tonight.
As the main course.

Sundays Are Rotten

Sunday is designed to be "a day of rest". It says so right there in the Bible. The sabbath. A holy day. A time to focus on family and the Lord.

I hate Sundays. There, I said it. In this house, it's none of the things described in the Bible. Ever. In fact, it's the polar opposite. Sundays make me cry. And not in a good way.

Most of the time, all my energy is spent breaking up the fighting and trying to keep my own voice at a 'righteous' level. This morning, children #2 and #3 spent a minimum of 3.2 hours crying. Good glory, the crying! #3 stabbed #2 with a pencil because she wouldn't stop reading out loud. Where on earth is that described in Genesis?

I looked at my kids today and realized that there is inherently something wrong with them. I'm not kidding. Somewhere along the way, the DNA in this family went bazeerk. And now, there's no turning back. Add in a Sunday "family day" where we're jammed together, and trouble is just itching to come out.

Oh, and let's not forget the actual church-going part of the day. That just adds another layer of special. By the time we all sit down on a pew, all I want to do is cuss and kick someone. Hard. But instead, I sing hymns and pretend we are a normal family. It's a talent I work at.

I don't have a solution for the problem. I'm living knee deep in the mess and can't see a way out. What if we skipped Sundays? Just hopped from Saturday to Monday? Kinda like a leap year, just every week. I think it might be worth having just a one day weekend. Just think of all the sanity we could save.

Until then, I'll just keep on living the dream. That's what this is around here. A dream. One where children stab each other for speaking and grown ups visualize running away. That's how it's described in the Bible, right?

Lock and Load

Texas 101: look pretty when you shoot.
Texas 101.2: it's completely normal to go shooting for a church activity.

Ya'll, I think this girl is officially a Texan. I might just get her a belt buckle for Christmas. That, or some clay pigeons.