Every. Day.

Every day I sweep at least this much stuff off my floor:

I don't understand, either. Can someone explain?

My Life in Cartoons

Most days, I feel like I am stuck in a Tom and Jerry cartoon.

I have taken on my role as referee and am already tired of it, even though I know this is just the beginning; having children ranging in age of only 2 1/2 - 7 1/2. Can't wait for the teenagers... Oh, and Ethan has chosen wrestling as his extracurricular activity, meaning he spends his Monday evenings learning how to more effectively pin his brothers to the ground. For the record, my vote was for piano...

But lately, I have found myself in another cartoon entirely.

Sleeping Beauty.

Mason has always had a difficult personality, that is to say, he's been more stubborn than either of my other boys and as a result, he and I "fight". A lot. He's also a very smart little weasel and at 2 1/2 speaks much better than his brother's did at his age. Meaning, I find myself actually arguing with a toddler. Daily.

Our latest battle began when we put up the Christmas tree. We got a new pre-lit tree from Costco that I have been wanting for a while now. This year's model however, had an unexpected feature:

The lights have a foot switch that enable them to toggle between white and colored lights. As a general rule, I prefer "pretty" trees. I don't like colored lights on a tree except in certain circumstances. Circumstances that do not currently exist in my home. The first night that we put it up, we let the boys see both the colored and the white lights and do all the proper ooh-ing and ah-ing. When it was over, I turned the lights back to white and admired a job well done. That is the last time I looked upon my beautiful tree, thanks to Mr. Merryweather himself.

Merry multi-colored Christmas!

**The picture does not accurately display just how badly the lights clash with the decor. Promise.

Domestic Diva though I am...

Today I am wishing that I had more refined sewing skills. Don't get me wrong, I know how to sew, I'm just not proficient at it.

I bought the supplies to make floor cushions for my boys, oh, 8 (?) months ago, and have not started on them for nothing short of fear. I'm afraid that I'm going to cut all of the fabric up, and ruin them, therefore ruining the fabric as well. And so, in my closet sits a bag full of by-the-yard canvas and heavy-duty zippers, as a monument to what could have been.

I ripped the zipper out of my favorite dress the other day before church out of frustration. Why do they make zippers that cannot be pulled past a seam, anyway? For the record, it's always been that way; it's not a recent development. I went down to Jo-Ann's and got a replacement zipper that was sure to be more durable, and thought it to be an easy fix to resurrect my dress. That is, until yesterday when I opened the zipper and looked at the instructions. Do they purposely make sewing instructions hard to understand? I was top of my class in 7th and 8th grade Home Economics, and yet, translating these ancient runes seems to be something way beyond me. What is an invisible zipper presser foot, anyway?

But none of this prepared me for my depression this morning. As I was perusing a super-cute fabric shop on Etsy, looking for fabric for a very simple, non-sewing project, I came across this:

Never ever have I wanted to make something more than this. An argyle pieced quilt. Genius! Too bad that should I endeavor to undertake this project, the supplies would sit in the same closet-rotting bag with the rest of my projects.

My craft shortcomings have never hurt me more.

Now, who wants to make me three of these?

Shock.

I've been crying all morning. I found out this morning where Josh will be stationed for his 1-year AEGD (Army "Advanced Education in General Dentistry" Residency). I'm not telling, as I am in complete shock and need time to let it sink in. Suffice it to say that I never thought that I would ever live in that state.

It's not that I have a problem with the state, exactly. Actually, on the contrary, I know nothing about it. I hear that it's even a really great place to live, though people may only be trying to console me. It just wasn't supposed to happen this way. How it was supposed to happen, I don't really know, either. Just not this way.

Maybe I'll be excited in a few days and I'll let you know then.

When I'm done crying.

On Cleaning the Bathroom.

It's only funny because it's true.

Auto Response

Something that you may not know about me: People tell me things. I don't know why, perhaps I am just a good listener, but people confide in me. Generally, it's strangers who have no business assuming that I am a trustworthy person worthy of confiding in.

Yesterday, while sitting down to a nice lunch at CostCo, my listening ear failed me. It could be that I am still getting over an ear infection that I contracted two weeks ago. In fact, we'll place the blame for my predicament there. Aside from that, I must confess that when a stranger is pouring out their secrets to me, I don't always give them my best attention. Especially when I am wrangling three boys and my husband is in the three-hour food court line. In these instances, my mind goes into what I like to call "Auto Response", and I use one of four blanket answers for each thing that they say. We all do it, right? Right?

The situation happened like this: As I was pulling the third of my boys from the cart I heard a woman behind me say, "Wow. Three boys, huh?" (I get this a lot. At least once every time I go to the grocery store. Apparently, we are quite the circus sideshow...)

Me: "Yup. Three boys."

Stranger: "Ever gonna try for a girl?"

(This question is the one that bothers me. Oh, blast. I can try for a girl? Shoot. If I had known, maybe I would have applied myself more...)

Me: "Ah, well, the "trying" hasn't worked so well thus far, so I think I'm just happy with my boys."

Stranger: "Wow. I'm glad that since I could only have one, it's a girl." (Points across the table to her daughter.)

Me: "Well, I'm happy for you."

Stranger: "You see, I am a school teacher and I always thought that I wanted both a boy and a girl, but after teaching boys, I am so glad that I got a girl."

Me: "Yeah, boys are certainly a different breed."

Stranger: "Yeah. I have problems with infertility so I could only do one round of IVF."

(I have nothing else to blame for what next popped out of my mouth but that my irritation with the conversation had activated "Auto Response".)

Me: "Oh, fun!"

The instant it came out, I realized what I had just said and I wanted to reach out into the thin air and grab it back. It was like watching a terrible cartoon. I quickly rambled something about how beautiful her daughter was and hoped that she hadn't noticed the insensitive, yet unintentional, comment. Our conversation didn't last long beyond that point. I tried to snuff it out and turn away with the pretense of digging through my purse and focusing all my attention on putting lipgloss on Mason, lest my mouth get me further into trouble.

Ironically, the subject of a daughter came up later during lunch with Ethan. While eating his pizza, he declared that, "Mom, if you ever do get your own girl, you're gonna have to give it it's own room, 'cause we don't want it to bother us."

Maybe I'm better off...

Family Photo

Have you ever tried to take your own family photograph since everyone's already dressed up?

We should know better.

The Black Thumb

Seriously. Ever heard of a guy called King Midas? I am his gardening equivalent. Except instead of gold, everything that I touch turns to dead.

Let me explain:

When I was a young bride, my husband informed me that he wanted a garden. He had grown up with one and spent time each summer canning the fruits of the collective family labor. I, on the other hand, took on the task of killing Mom's Mother's Day plant each year. In short, I have a bad track-record with plants.

I wasn't thrilled with the idea, as gardening with my mom during my teenage years only proved to me that I was allergic to any and all things organic and that I have the Super-Human ability to kill anything that manages to grow under my care. But, young and dumb, though I was and agreed to give a a go. Or two. Or three.

We started with a houseplant that we got on sale at Target with a leftover wedding gift card. His name was Walter. Long story, but every plant deserves a name. Walter was foolproof. I could not kill him. Or so I thought. After some over watering and under watering, I turned the botanical reins over to my sister-in-law, and when we moved, we left him on the doorstep of some green-thumbed friends.

Zoom ahead about 2 years.

While living in Pocatello, Idaho, we lived in an apartment with a window box. We were told that we would be allowed to grow anything that we wanted, short of illegal substances, in our boxes. Being a young Mom, I decided that it was time to teach my two-year-old the value of work. Flowers would be a welcome addition to my drab kitchen and so, in the spring, I did it all right. I bought the little planter things that you get them to seed in, indoors. I watered only according to package directions. I began to see something grow. They were beautiful and more knowledgeable than I. I opened the blinds one morning to give my little sprouts some sun, and a little water. As I turned my back on the plants, they committed suicide. I kid you not. Though they were stable, perched on my extra-wide window sill, they plunged to their deaths on my tiled kitchen floor. Though they did not leave a note, I heard them loud and clear; You should not be doing this.

Come with me again, ahead nearly four years. My yard is equipped with Astro Turf. Long, luxurious Astro Turf, mind you, but still, unkillable Astro Turf. Last summer I managed to kill one of the three "tolerant" bushes planted in our patio planters, and I am scared to death to prune my dwarf lemon tree. Really, just waiting for it to die.

Why, then, did I think that planting more flowers would be a good idea? My logic eludes even me.

Something was growing here...

Then this happened...

Something appears to be growing here:

Oh wait, too many somethings.

Mold. Despite the greenhouse-esque effect of my bathroom with it's large garden tub and brilliant late afternoon sun through the 4 x 4 glass-block window. Apparently it's the wrong kind of "Perfect Storm".

Really, how many plants must die before I am put to a stop?

I hereby throw in my gardening tools, will, and delusions. I guess this is why they invented silks. Someday I intend to have wonderful, beautiful grounds and a landscaper to match. Someone must save them from a fate worse than death.

In the meantime, anyone need some slightly-used planters?

Fun and Games

How, in a ten-minute time period, can a room go from looking like this:

To this:

They call this game "Christmas Morning".

How very perceptive they are.

And the winner is...?

So, I am entirely stumped. I have been meaning to post a winner, but I have some issues. Namely these:

1. Most people that commented did not post this on their blog or let me know that they e-mailed friends. Hmm. Did you mean to enter??

2. I only got one funny response! I confess myself disappointed. This funny response I received via e-mail and my first issue applies.

So, I have narrowed the winner's circle to these and if y'all will help me pick a winner...

1. Melissa: Indicated a design dilemma and a need for free vinyl.

2. Maggie: The sole individual to post on her blog. If we're being fair, she won by a landslide.

3. Morgan: THE funny response. Morgan says:

"Here's an even better entry.....I like all the sayings and stuff and I've seen it in people's homes. We're finally in a position to look for a new home of our very own! (yes, I know, exciting) and I will finally be able to put a sign on my door that says "take your freak'n shoes off and don't get sh** all over my carpet" (in one way or another of course.) and maybe even put something pretty with our wedding and family pictures on our wall. :) So thanks for hosting the contest. :)"

Crass? Yes. Did it make me giggle for the rest of the day? Yes.

Please leave a comment and vote for your favorite.

And it... was awesome.

Did you ever think that you knew your own mother better than you actually did??

I did.

Background:

My parents hail from the great state of Illinois, which also happens to be the home of Krekel's, the birthplace of the best frozen lemon custard in all 50 states. I spent many a dinner time at Grandma's house, eating only what was required to earn some of that tasty treat. Ah, Krekel's. A long time it's been, my friend.

12 years, to be exact.

Desperate for some of my favorite frozen treat, I devised a way to make it... substituting lemon pudding for vanilla in my favorite homemade ice cream recipe. It was divine! After tasting the dessert for himself (after 6 years of waiting...) Josh suggested that we make it for my mother as a surprise while visiting in August. What a great idea! Or so I thought...

After keeping the recipe under wraps for 2 months, lying through my teeth to keep it a secret, and a secret shopping trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond to pick up the only ice-cream maker left in Post Falls, Idaho, our mission was accomplished.

Mom sat at the table quietly, her ice cream in front of her. Josh, Brookie, and Jana all peeking over their bowls and snickering with anticipation for the scream of excitement that surely would follow, "Lemon ice cream?! How could this be?! It's all I've ever wanted and more!"

After moments of agonizing silence, I decided to prompt her: "How is your ice cream, Mom?"

Mom: "Well, it's good, but it tastes like lemon."

Brookie:"Yeah..."

Mom: "Well, I'm trying to find the Brickle" (She was expecting the original recipe, "Brickle-Frickle" with Butterfingers candy bars.)

Brookie (laughing): "We changed the recipe, what do you think?"

Jana: "Oh, no. This isn't going well."

Mom: "Well, it's good, but I don't know why you'd make me lemon ice cream."

Brookie: "You don't think that it tastes like Krekel's?"

Mom: "I wouldn't know. I've never had Krekel's lemon ice cream."

Brookie: "What?!"

Josh (snickering): "This is awesome."

Jana: "Oh... I want to cry for you."

Brookie: "What?!"

Mom: "I always had the strawberry or chocolate ice cream."

Say what? My mind is still reeling. I guess I still have a lot to learn.

*If you want to try the recipe, I'll have it posted on another (not so long) post, later.

Hypothetically Speaking...

Let's say that you're running late to make it to the story-time at the library and so, without thinking, you set a stack of, oh, let's say 15 books on the passenger seat. 

Driving down the street, you stop faster at an intersection  than you should because you are, in fact, running late. The faster-than-should-be stop sends the stack of nearly forgotten books cascading to the floor of your car, where (because you, let's face it, are just not as agile as you once were...) "Sponge Bob: Who's Hungry?" becomes indefinitely wedged.

After fighting tooth and nail to rescue the book from the clutches of the wasteland that is the shadowy depths of your car, you finally make it into the library. It is here that you find out (20 minutes too late...) that the story-telling librarian has moved the location of the reading from the designated "Story-Time Room" to an event room down the hall due to outstanding attendance at that particular library, on that particular day.

I would really hate that.

Monsoon Season

So that's what a monsoon looks like.

Good to know. I'll alert the authorities.