miracle

The other day I made the apparently horrible decision to pause the tv while the boys were watching a show. I had something to tell them and was planning on turning it right back on. However, Truett did not think much of my idea and let me know by screaming and throwing a toy at me. I calmly told him that he needed to go sit in his seat for a time-out.
I turned the show back on and allowed Truett to come back over and watch once his time-out was finished. Normally, after time-outs, the boys have to tell me why they had to do a time-out and then apologize to whomever they offended or hurt. But sometimes I forget or sometimes I'm just too tired or sick of time-outs to bother with it. I know, not great parenting. This was one of those times. I let Tru come back in and I completely forgot to ask him what he did that was wrong and have him apologize. But about five minutes later, as we were sitting watching the show, Tru looked at me and said, "I sorry for throwing the toy at you Mommy." I thanked him for his apology and told him that I forgave him. And then I ran to the phone, called Sam at work and said, "It works!"
I actually didn't do that but I wanted to. It is so easy sometimes to feel like the time and effort of disciplining isn't worth it. They just do the same thing over and over. But then there is a moment like that when I see a tiny glimmer of hope and it gives me enough push to keep on trying. The next moment could be one week from today or one month from today but I have faith that it will come so I will keep trying.

it was all yellow

I'm trying to transition Jem out of wearing diapers at night. I probably wouldn't even worry about it except that I'm noticing that the other moms I know with kids his age aren't buying diapers anymore. It isn't going that well though. He is a really deep sleeper and he just doesn't seem to wake up in time. The one good part about it is that he will wake up after he has peed and he will change his underwear and pants by himself. He is usually doing it in the dark so sometimes his underwear or pants are on backwards. But I'm not complaining. He just lets me know in the morning that he didn't make it.
The other morning when I went in, he was laying in bed wearing a pair of corduroy pants. And not the nice, soft kind. These were stiff black ones that we only put on him when we get dressed up for Christmas Eve service at church. They are probably the most uncomfortable pants that he owns. But they were the only ones available so he pulled them on and slept in them.
I am also in the process of toilet training Truett. He just turned three and I'm starting to worry that I waited too long. He was probably ready to potty train about six months ago. He went through this phase when he would ask to pee on the potty and I would, to my shame, tell him that it was okay to just go in his diaper. Before you judge me, I was about eight months pregnant and carrying an eleven pound baby. But now he isn't showing much interest and I'm worried that I missed my window. 
The other day, I put him in big-boy underwear and we went downstairs. My mom, who was going to be watching the kids for me that morning, arrived a few minutes later. I let her know that he was wearing underwear. She turned to him and asked him if he needed to use it and he said, "No. I already went." He had already peed in his pants and when she asked him why he said, "I needed to warm up by the fire." 
I'm seeing a lot of laundry in my future.

photo by JimRhoades  http://www.flickr.com/photos/pixpeep/3841029237/

singing the blues

This morning in church our pastor told us about a woman he came across in Aruba. She works at the resort where he and his wife were vacationing. For 8 hours a day she mops the floors of the two lobbies and the hallway that connects them. And while she does this seemingly mundane, unimportant task, she sings hymns. She has a beautiful soprano singing voice and she sings the entire time that she is mopping. She sings while people walk over her freshly mopped floors, leaving shoe prints and smudges behind. My pastor said that she has made that hallway and those two lobbies into her cathedral.
And it made me stop and think about my attitude when I am doing dishes, mopping the floor and scrubbing toilets. Most days I just accept those types of tasks as an inevitable part of life, something that needs to be done.I'm not necessarily grumbling and complaining about them, but I'm certainly not signing hymns while I work. I often find myself wondering why I even bother because my kids are just going to mess it up again anyway. Just last week I cleaned my house so that I could host card club and the next evening it looked like I had done nothing at all. The dining room floor was dirty. Toys were strewn around the living room. Dishes were sitting in the sink. And I was so frustrated. My hard work seemed to be so pointless.
So there is absolutely no way I would be singing hymns as people walked across my floor. I would be yelling at them and grumbling and complaining. I might even make a rude gesture behind their back. I know, shocking. And I want to end my post with something super encouraging about how I'm a work in progress and that someday I, too, will sing gospel songs while I scrub the floor. And maybe that will happen. But for now I'm just going to be truthful and acknowledge that sometimes I have a sucky attitude and let that be enough.

why

I remember hearing parents talk about how frustrated they were when their children would continue to ask them why all of the time. And I also remember not really understanding what the issue was. Even when Jem was first starting to ask why, I didn't see the big fuss. He would ask why birds had nests or why grass was green and I would do my best to answer him. Besides, at that point he was still okay when I would just tell him that I didn't really know or because God made it that way.
But now it's different. Now I understand what those parents were talking about. I still don't mind the whys that come along with learning about something or encountering something new. But it's those other whys. The ones that make no sense.
Jem: Can we go to the park?
Me: Sure buddy.
Jem: Why?
Me: What do you mean why? Do you want to go to the park or not?
These are the whys that I don't understand and that tend to frustrate me. They ask me if we can do something and when I say yes they ask me why. What is that about? Or the whys that come along with being asked to do something, like come to the table or put on their shoes.
And why is it that one small, three-letter word can make me lose my cool? I don't really know. Maybe it shows me how little control I have over things. Maybe it makes me feel disrespected. Maybe I'm just tired. Whatever it is, it's just one more thing to work on.



photo by tlchua99  http://www.flickr.com/photos/tlchua99/4193348013/

On Wednesday when I dropped Jem off at preschool there were a few new toys out, one of which was a pirate ship. The boys have just started watching Jake and the Pirates on Disney and we often spend our lunch times pretending that we are on a ship. I'm Captain Mommy and they are my crew. So I was excited to see a pirate ship toy until one of the little girls playing with it looked up and screamed, "No, Jem. You can't play with this."
This is the same little girl who used to come up to me last year and tell me that Truett wasn't allowed to play with toys and that he needed to leave with me. I did my best to reply in a gentle tone of voice, assuring her that it was okay and that he would be coming with me as soon as I left. Really I wanted to tell her to mind her own business and that she wasn't the boss.
And now she is standing there yelling at my kid, telling him that he can't play with something. That he isn't wanted. And I wanted to walk across the room and get in her face. To tell her that she has no say over who plays with what toy and that my boy will play with any toy that he wants and she had better just shut her bossy little mouth. Thankfully the teacher stepped in and corrected her and I was saved from dealing with the situation.
It was a reminder that this is coming sooner than I think. My children are going to come home from school or birthday parties or sunday school and they are going to be upset. They will tell me that so-and-so wouldn't play with them or that someone made fun of them. And I won't be allowed to physically harm those kids but I will probably think about it. How can you not want to hurt someone who hurts your children? But the only thing I'll be able to do is dry their tears and hopefully use the hurt to teach them about compassion and kindness. At least, that is my plan and it seems a little more reasonable than yelling at little kids.

i'm going to walk the plank

This is the pirate ship that Truett got for his birthday. It's pretty cool. It had cannons, pirates, a treasure chest, rope ladders, etc. Both boys were super excited when Tru opened it the other night.
It did not come out of the box looking like this. Nope. It came in 27 different pieces that needed to be screwed together. And I pulled it out of the box on a day when both of my boys were home. I didn't know how much assembly was going to be required of me. If I had known, I would have hidden the box and then lied about it whereabouts.
It had already been a hectic morning because there wasn't any preschool. Thanks a lot President's Day. And it was made more hectic by the stupid pirate ship. It took me an hour and 20 minutes to put it together. It might have happened more quickly if I wasn't interrupted every five minutes by someone asking if I was finished yet, picking up random pieces to look at them and asking where the pirates were. By the time I finished, I was thoroughly frustrated. I was tired of the boys not listening to me and continuing to touch things. I was tired of trying to line up the little holes and get the screw to go in straight. But when I carried it out to the living room and I saw how excited the boys were to play with it, it all seemed worth it.
And then they played with it for eight minutes. Eight freaking minutes. Yep. That's just how it goes sometimes. The next time we get a toy that requires some assembly, I think I'll wait until Daddy is home to open the box.

one is the loneliest number

Today is one of those days. It feels like no matter how much I try, I just can't catch up. I finally get the breakfast dishes cleaned up only to realize that I have to make bread for dinner, which means more dishes. Or we get the toys picked up in the living room but the sunroom is still a disaster.
This one wants some water. That one wants me to print out a coloring page. Someone needs to use the potty. Little girl is crying. Someone is screaming and someone is being tackled to the ground in frustration.
I feel like the only thing I say to my boys anymore is, "Just a minute." And I'm not the only one who thinks so. The other day, I was in our downstairs bathroom washing my hands when Jem called out for something. I asked him to just give me a minute and I would be right with him. That is when I heard him say, "In a minute. In a minute. That's all you ever say anymore."
My kids don't seem to realize that I only have two hands and that I can only be in once place at a time. And today is one of those days when I need another me to help out. Maybe it's time to take a look at Mormonism. Ha!
Just kidding. Sort of.

party time

Last night was Truett's 3rd birthday party. He actually turned three this past Friday but we waited until Sunday to have his party. Now, when I say party I mean a small family get-together. We had dinner, opened gifts and ate some cake. I didn't even remember to buy plates and napkins until the day before and the only decoration was a set of streamers that my mom put up. And right now, I can totally get away with throwing lame birthday parties. But I know that the day is coming when my kids start asking to invite friends to their parties. And I'm not ready.
Both of my sister-in-laws throw great birthday parties. They have pinatas, games and gift bags for the other children. The lay out feasts for the adults. And they do it all while remaining calm and composed. This past summer, my twin nieces turned six. Their party took place on a day when the heat index was around 100 degrees. There were around 8 kids there including Jem who was younger than everyone by about 2 years. It was hot and noisy and chaotic and I'm pretty sure that my sister-in-law didn't even break a sweat. She just took everything in stride and made sure that everyone was taken care of. Meanwhile, I was sweating like nobody's business as I watched my fully-clothed son climb into and sit down in the kiddie pool that had been set up for game time.

I'm pretty sure that if I invite a mass of other children to my home for a party I will end up crying in some corner of my house, praying that they don't find me. So I think that until they start to ask for friends, I will just continue to keep our birthday parties low-key. Maybe I can just take them to the park and put birthday hats on them. Then I will take some pictures of them with all of the other kids who are running around at the park that day and when the boys get older I'll pull those out and say, "See. This was the year we had your party at the park. Don't you remember?" Or, maybe I'll just ask my sister-in-laws to plan their parties. That seems like a better option.

photo by Will Clayton  http://www.flickr.com/photos/spool32/5045502202/  See. I didn't even take a picture of his cake. I had to use a picture of someone else's cake. I am the worst.

speaking truth

Saturday night I was standing in front of our fire place when Jem walked into the room and asked, “Mommy, are you going to have another baby?” I told him that I wasn’t and asked him why he was asking. Stupid question on my part. And he so innocently responded, “Your tummy looks like it is getting bigger again.”

Now, I can tell myself that I just had an eleven pound baby less than 4 months ago. I can tell myself that I gained almost 60 pounds with the pregnancy and that I’ve already lost 50 of them. I can tell myself that I had a c-section and the muscles and nerves are still healing. And it’s all true.

But it is also true that I live in a culture that tells me that the way I look impacts my value. That I need to look a certain way in order to be worth something. And I buy into it. That is the worst truth of all. That I feel shame over this body that has carried three babies, brought them into the world, nursed them and cared for them.

Recently, my mom sent me a link to a blog. She thought that I might be able to relate to it and she was right. I read it and I cried. Then I reread it and I cried again. It captured where I am and where I want to be. And it reminded me that my daughter will watch me. She will listen to the way I speak about myself. She will notice if I'm frustrated about the way that I look in certain clothes. There will be many influences in her life, many voices telling her that if she could just tweak this or work on that then she would be so much more. I don't want to be one of those voices. And that means changing the way I speak and think about myself. It will be difficult but I can't imagine a better form of motivation than my daughter.

http://www.emergingmummy.com/2011/06/in-which-i-promise-not-to-call-myself.html

shout out

I just wanted to take a moment to mention that I have a fantastic husband and a little girl who makes me melt. They don’t get the face-time that Jem and Tru get on my blog but that is because Sam can take care of himself and Caia still stays where I put her. So, in essence, they do not make me question my abilities, my level of goodness, and my sanity every few hours. And therefore, they currently do not provide good writing material.

Actually, Sam provides some great stuff to write about but I think that for the sake of several relationships I need to leave it be. And Caia will have her turn. She may be all smiles and sweet baby smell now but before I’m ready for it she too will be stomping her foot and telling me no, just in a higher pitched voice.

But for now they are the stable spots in my day. And they both have such fantastic smiles. It just makes everything better.

not my style

Valentine's Day means preschool parties. Little paper bags hung outside the classroom waiting to be filled with valentines. Sticky fingers, red-stained tongues and the type of tantrums that only follow a sugar-high crash.
Last year I bought little valentine cards only to discover that other mom's bought valentines that had tattoos or stickers or pencils. And suddenly my valentine looked cheap. So this year I was determined to do better. I bought a fun candy pack, bags of skittles that came with valentine label stickers. And I remembered to buy cards for the teachers too. I was so proud of myself. Until I watched the other moms. They stood out in the hallway helping their four-year olds find the valentine bag of each and every one of their fourteen classmates. "Let's see...Amy is next. What letter does Amy start with? It starts with A. Do you see an A somewhere?"
They handed gift bags to the teachers. And I'm not talking about little bags that might hold a candy bar. These bags were big enough to contain a 9x13 casserole. They brought whistles and play-doh and bags of candy. They dressed their kids in red.
Meanwhile, I didn't even bother to have Jem try and find his classmates bags. I just sent him into the classroom while I dropped my tiny bag of skittles into each child's bag. I put the teacher's cards into their bags and dropped in two extra packets of skittles that were left over to ease my feelings of inferiority. Truett had some red on his shirt but that was just a coincidence.
My mom would tell me to cut myself some slack. I have two preschoolers and a new baby. But the truth is, I'm not too busy to make homemade valentines cards or put together small favor bags filled with candy and bubbles. I would just never even think that it was necessary. And most of the time I'm perfectly content with not being one of those moms. But every once in a while I feel inferior. Like maybe there is something missing in my mothering make-up because I don't spend weeks planning birthday parties. Or because I'm more than happy to sign up to bring napkins to the class halloween party instead of a snack. I'm just not that kind of mom and I'm convinced that half of those other moms aren't really that type of mom either. They would much rather be bringing napkins but they too feel inferior thanks to that one mom who is wired to be a gift-giver and is just dying for any excuse to pull out her new hot glue gun.
I wish we could just all agree to ease up on ourselves and on each other. Until then, it helps me to know that my worth isn't found in my role as a mom but rather in being a daughter of the King. It also helps that the boys brought home chocolate from school today. Yum, happy endorphins.

liar, liar

On Thursday morning when I went to wake the boys up, I walked in to find Truett and Jem sitting in Jem’s bed. I wasn’t sure how Tru had managed to get out of the crib tent. The very first time we put him in he figured out how to unzip it in less than 30 seconds. After that, we started looping the zipper around the tent pole making it impossible for him to open. And yet, here he was sitting in Jem’s bed.

I naturally assumed that Jem had let him out but when I asked Jem he denied it. So I asked Truett if Jem had unzipped the tent for him and he told me that he had just gotten out on his own. I didn’t see how this was possible so I put Tru back in the crib, zipped it back up and asked him to show me how he got out. He stood there for a few seconds and then said, “Jebby got me out.”

I finished getting them dressed and then sent Tru downstairs while I sat down with Jem to have the following conversation.

Me: Do you know why I want to talk to you?
Jem: Because I let Truett out.
Me: That’s true but there was something else you did that was much worse. Do you know what that was?
Jem: I lied.
Me: That’s right buddy. How do you think God feels when you lie?
Jem: He forgives me.

I probably should have quit right then and there. I mean he was using advanced theology on me. But I pressed on.

Me: That’s true. He does forgive you. But do you think He likes it when you lie?
Jem: No
Me: Can you tell me why you lied about it?

At this point I was looking for him to say something about not wanting to get into trouble. Isn’t that why we usually lie? It's either to prevent someone from being hurt or to keep ourselves out of trouble. Often, it is a combination of both. But instead, he looked at me and said, “Because I like to.” I quickly called our pastor and asked him to pray for my child’s soul. Totally kidding on that one, but the response did throw me a little bit. I’m used to defiance and disobedience, bad attitudes and sibling squabbles. But getting to this age where it is time to start dealing with matters of the heart is scary. I wish I could say that I had a super great response but I might have mumbled something like, “Well, that’s kind of weird.” And then I fumbled through an explanation about having a good heart and being kind and honest.  All in all, not my finest moment of parenting but I'm entering into a new phase that I haven't dealt with before. This is one of those times when I do my best and leave the rest of it up to God.

I shall call him zanzibar

I’ve decided to change Truett’s name to Zanzibar Buck-Buck McFate. It just has such a nice ring to it.

Okay, I’m not really going to change his name but I have started calling him by that fantastic moniker whenever he isn’t listening to me. I discovered, quite by accident, that Truett really dislikes being called by any name other than his own. Every member of our family has their correct name and we are all allowed a few select nicknames but anything else is unacceptable.

The other day we were reading a Dr. Seuss story and I asked him if he would like to be called Zanzibar Buck-Buck Mcfate. His response was, “I not Zanzibar Buh Buh MiFate. I Suett.” I continued to call him Zanzibar until he threw himself onto the floor screaming. And that was when I knew I had struck gold.

Now, when he is being disobedient I simply call him by his new name. He hangs his head and says, “Aww. I not Zanzibar.” I tell him that he is being Zanzibar because he is being naughty. And surprisingly enough, it has proven to be a nice little incentive for him to change his behavior. Who would have thought?

photo by Darcywal   http://www.flickr.com/photos/52116841@N06/5493419160/

going under

I am not very good at keeping tabs on my stress level. Most of the time I really don't feel stressed out. Life is going along all nice and smooth and then WHAM!! I've turned into this maniacal raging monster or I'm crying over something trivial. That's when I know that the stress has caught up to me. It's almost like being in the ocean near the shore. You bob along in the waves, enjoying the sun and the lulling motion of the water. But every so often a huge wave appears and if you aren't prepared for it the next thing you know, you are tumbling under water scrambling to hold onto your swimsuit while you figure out which way is up.
Last week my mom bought us a crib tent. We were at our wits end with trying to keep Truett in his bed. And as she handed the box to me the clouds parted and a beam of light shone around it while angels sang. Okay, not really. But I was pretty excited. That lasted until I tried putting it together and quickly realized that I did not possess the ability to do it on my own without help. And as I was throwing the entire thing out into the hallway, growling with frustration, a tiny part of me wondered if I was possibly overreacting.
I ignored that small part and instead attempted to install a door knob cover. If I couldn't keep him in his bed then I was at least going to keep him in his room. But try as I might, that cover was not going to fit over our old-fashioned door knobs. And that is when the tears came. Up until that point, I really hadn't felt stressed over the whole getting-out-of-bed-and-tearing-apart-the-room situation. I found it annoying but figured it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. However, crying over a door knob cover is not the action of someone who is handling it.
One of these days I will learn that I can't control everything and that it is okay to ask for help. Probably not today, but one of these days.

photo by CubaGallery  http://www.flickr.com/photos/cubagallery/4855923781/

learning my place

I've started asking the boys to clear their places after meals. They put their milk in the fridge and take their plates and utensils to the sink. I had been doing it all for them because, frankly, it's quicker and easier. But I want my children to learn to be responsible and this seemed like a good place to start.   
It has been going pretty smoothly so I was surprised the other day when Jem hopped down and walked away from the table, leaving his plate and fork sitting there. I called out to him, "Hey buddy. Come get your plate please and take it to the sink." He didn't even bother to turn around. He just said, "I don't think I will Mommy. That's your job."
How do you explain to a four-year old that clearing his dinner plate is not your job, especially when your job does include taking care of the house? He sees me picking up and cleaning all of the time. (Yes, Sam. I said all of the time.) So naturally he assumes that it is my job to do it. And I also know that some people would be in complete agreeance with Jem. After all, I am a stay-at-home mom. What else do I have to do with my time?
But here's the problem. I wasn't born with a love of cleaning and taking care of others. Many times, often on a daily basis, I have to ignore the voice that tells me I deserve more recognition for what I do. I am still learning what it means to serve others and, more often than not, I do a poor job. I struggle to find the balance between serving my family and teaching them responsibility. It's something that I am still working out for myself and that I will continue to work at.
 However, there are two things that I don't need to work out. One is that my son will clean his dinner plate and the other is that he will not be allowed to disrespect or demean my "job". And to Jem's future wife I say, "You're welcome."

channeling laura ingalls

We live in an old house with old windows, drafty doors and almost no insulation. The first month we lived here our heating bill was over $700. We aren’t in a position to be dropping that much money on a heating bill so we spent our first winter walking around in layers and sleeping with a space heater in our room.
When Jem came along, we knew that we would need a different solution. So we invested in a pellet stove for our living room and bought a second space heater for the nursery. This worked out just fine until Tru graced us with his presence, and we discovered that our entire upstairs was wired through the same circuit breaker. Suddenly, we needed three space heaters, and we only had enough electricity to run two. This created a problem, but the solution was wonderful. That year we received a heated mattress pad for Christmas. This is not an electric blanket. Oh no. This is a mattress pad that goes under your fitted sheets and warms up your entire bed. Pure bliss!

So for the past three years Sam and I have slept in a super cold room with a nice toasty bed. Until last night, that is. Because yesterday someone who is a deep sleeper didn’t wake up in time to use the potty. And that same someone was, unfortunately, sleeping in our bed at the time. Sadly, the only downfall to my blessed mattress pad is that it isn’t machine washable.

I’ll admit that when Sam first came downstairs dragging our mattress pad with him, I was frustrated. Not with the child who had peed in our bed but just with the idea of trying to hand wash a king size mattress pad and also knowing that it wouldn’t be done before bedtime.

But it turned out to be a good thing. We piled on the layers; flannel pajama bottoms, fleece sweatshirts, fuzzy socks. We climbed into our super cold bed, curled into tiny balls and huddled together in the middle of the bed. With only the top part of our faces sticking out into the cold air, we joked about feeling like pioneers. Except that the pioneers slept with hot baked potatoes at their feet. Lucky ducks.  And while I love my nice warm bed and sleeping on my own side, it was actually really nice to fall asleep snuggled up next to my hubby. However, the little culprit responsible will be sleeping on an extra-large towel from now on.

photo by TheSeafarer  http://www.flickr.com/photos/sheilascarborough/5492003342/

time

Today, for the first time in quite a while, Truett and I had a big chunk of time to be together. Caia was here of course but she doesn't really factor in yet since she still stays right where you put her. Thank goodness. Jem was at preschool and there wasn't a playdate or errands to run. We just had 2 hours of time before we needed to pick Jem up from school.
After dropping Jem off, we walked back into the house and my eyes instantly went to the mess that was still left over from breakfast. My to-do list started running through my head. Email this person. Write that thank you note. Fill out that form. But I remembered that earlier in the morning the boys had asked where we were going. I told them that Jem was going to school and then Tru and I were coming home to play. And I remembered how Tru's face had lit up and how excited he was when he said, "We're going to play?"
Suddenly, the to-do list wasn't so important. And the breakfast dishes could just be washed along with the lunch dishes later. So I set about the much more important task of playing with my youngest boy. We colored and laughed. We kicked the ball around. We read some books. We raced cars. And, by the grace of God, I was able to stay in the moment with him. I was able to give my full attention to this little person of mine who wants so desperately to know that I see him.
Will this happen every time Truett and I have some time together? Probably not. There will still be days when the to-do list is too urgent or when other stuff gets in the way. But those days will hopefully be few and far between. Because before I'm ready for it, he won't be asking me to play with him anymore and there isn't any email, errand or chore that should take precedence over soaking up every minute I have with him.

never, never, never (part 2)

So yesterday I blogged about one of two issues that I've noticed in my life lately. The first one is that I've started listening to country music. Gasp! Not all of the time but occasionally it slips in there. I placed the blame mostly on my husband and I don't feel ashamed to have done so. 
Today I want to address the second, perhaps more serious issue. It is the fact that I am now the less-than-proud owner of a minivan. When Sam and I started talking about having a third child, we knew that our Jeep Cherokee wasn't going to work. Maybe if this was 1975 and kids could ride without car seats or even seatbelts, but it's 2012 and kids have to ride in booster seats practically up until the day they can drive on their own. I'm surprised we don't have adult booster seats yet. But I digress. Three car seats weren't going to fit across the backseat of my Jeep.
So for practicality purposes and ease-of-life, we made the switch to a minivan. I will admit that I love the sliding doors and being able to stand inside to strap the boys in. I love the captain chairs in the 2nd row and all of the extra space.
But none of that changes the fact that it is a minivan. That my car now screams out "I'm a mom!" As if the spit-up on my shirt and the peanut butter on my pants weren't enough. Stupid, practical, convenient minivan. I loathe you!

never, never, never (part 1)

See if you can figure out what is wrong with the following sentence:
            
                   Last night I was driving my minivan and listening to Eric Church.

Do you see it? Do you see the huge problem? I am driving a minivan and, in case you don't know, Eric Church is a country artist. What happened? How did I get here? If there are two things that I have always been positive about they are 1) that I would never listen to country music and 2) I would never drive a minivan.

And yet this is where I find myself. It is shocking and sad. And I blame others for this travesty.

The country music thing can be blamed in part on a college roommate. This particular roomie was a fan of the Dixie Chicks and she would play their diabolically catchy music in our room. I tried to tune it out but it was just so catchy, and I'm a sucker for great harmonies which they have in spades. I convinced myself that this was okay though because most die-hard country music fans that I knew insisted that the Dixie Chicks weren't "real" county.
But a few years ago, Sam shot his first buck, and my polo-wearing, mazda-driving, borderline preppy husband was suddenly sporting belts with huge buckles, insisting that he needed a pick-up truck and listening to country music. It started slowly but now everytime I get into the car he has the station tuned to country. And I'm trying to resist, I really am. But I keep hearing really good songs that aren't all about tractors and beer. And I'm sorry, but "Red Solo Cup" is just fantastic. And I can't believe that I just typed that. I'm going to go listen to some 90's hip hop now to snap me out of it.


photo by estrellaonline  http://www.flickr.com/photos/estrellawordpress/4702248210/

bummer

Have you ever gone on a trip overseas and realized that your money wasn’t worth as much as theirs? You go, hoping to buy some mementos or some small keepsakes. You promise family and friends to bring something back for them. And then you slide your money through the little window at the exchange counter and the lady slides back a significantly smaller amount. Suddenly, you are left wondering if you can even afford to buy a bottle of water let alone gifts. It’s a depressing feeling knowing that your currency isn’t worth much.

That is how I’ve felt for the past few days after realizing that my newfound currency with Truett isn’t as effective as I first thought. I was so excited that having him sleep in his sister’s room was enough to deter him from continuing to get out of bed and throw clothes around the room. But, while the behavior is less frequent, it is still occurring. This was going to be my go-to form of discipline. I feel like I traveled to a fantastic place only to realize that they use American dollars for fuel in the winter. Whatever currency Tru is dealing in, it’s stronger than mine. The exchange rate at my house is the pits.

photo by KalyanB  http://www.flickr.com/photos/kalyanb/2090991420/

sixteen again

On Sundays we go over to my mother-in-law's house for dinner. Last night, on our way out the door, she handed Sam a box of Drakkar Noir. I have no idea where she got it but she thought that maybe he could use it. I snatched it out of his hands, opened it up and spritzed some in the air. As I wafted it towards my nose, I was taken back to highschool. Walking down the hall in the early morning and passing by a guy who just smelled so good. Or sitting behind a boy at the movies. Or sliding into a guy's car. I had no particular guy to attach it to. It just smelled like sixteen.
And then Sam said, "Huh, smells like Frank.*" Frank is one of Sam's highschool acquaintances and not one of my favorite ones. And just like that I remembered all of the things I didn't like about boys when I was sixteen. Those raging hormones coupled with that astonishing amount of immaturity. The inability to see past a girl's body. The inability to maintain eye contact through a conversation. The inability to have a conversation. 
Suddenly that Drakkar Noir smelled more like annoyance and frustration and hurt.  And those aren't words that I associate with Sam.  I don't want him to smell like memories of a time when he wasn't part of my life. And I definitely don't want him to smell like Frank. So the Drakkar Noir will have to go. Maybe we can find a sixteen year old boy to give it to.

*Not his real name.

photo by lloydjumpay  http://www.flickr.com/photos/lloydjumpay/2811249080/