My Life Is Complete

I may never blog again.

Not really.

But until I have complete thoughts, I'll let you in on a little conversation I had last night at 4am.

Me:

Getting back to bed after another baby feeding - astounded at how much milk I'd LEAKED ALL OVER THE PLACE in the short window of sleep I'd gotten. So, I said to a sleeping Brent, not even sure I was being heard - mostly just thinking out loud - "Man! I'm going to have to wash all of our bedding tomorrow!"

Brent:

in a sleep-drunk stupor - "Why?"

Me:

"Because I've leaked a gallon of milk all over my side of the bed! And it smells faintly of popcorn jelly bellies!"

Brent:

"Too bad it doesn't smell like popcorn shrimp."

The Inevitable

As awesome and exciting as it may seem to wait with baited breath, on pins and needles and white knuckles for the arrival of a baby… wait – I want to know who on earth thinks it seems awesome or exciting. And then I want to tell you your seemer is broken. What I seem to do best is handle things really well when they’ve been sprung upon me. Whatever the case may be, you most probably want me at your wedding. I don't know what it is with me and weddings, but I typically deal with something or someone I hadn't counted on remarkably well without much of a ruffled feather by the bride most importantly.

But I’ve also had several instances – at least three now – where the idea of having another child was sprung upon me. I can’t say we’ve ever flat-out TRIED to have these people. I mean, sure – we know what causes them and the risks involved when regular doses of hormones aren’t popped every day at the same exact time in hopes of preventing their conception. I’m just not willing to get on board with the idea of having any strand of pasta snipped and tied shut, not even now! And, um... I didn’t think I’d ever say this [so don’t quote me] but there’s something about being shoved off the edge of the cozy two-kid-ratio cliff to MIGHT-AS-WELL-HAVE-HALF-A-DOZEN that doesn’t freak me out. Shoot, you just find a way and you do it and most things after a newborn are springy and upony and if you can’t be flexible, you just end up bald for having torn your own hair out by the fist-full. So, anyway.

I really thought this baby was on her way last Saturday and in to Sunday. I really did. I was in lots of labor-ish pain – all the textbook signs and symptoms – the kind of pain, the location, the way it radiates, the inability to sleep thru it… but no. The only “not labor” sign was its irregularity. Well, that and my water hadn't broken or anything, but that only happens to 1/10 women anyway. And well, I went Monday and was told all was the very same as it was the previous week. So, boo. And now that it looks like she’ll be staying put until her actual, scheduled date, I will probably need to call and get some heavy-duty Valume. Like I said, I deal best when things are sprung upon me. Having to wait, seeing the bus headed at full-speed my way? Yeah. No. I don’t do that well. I was made to be completely thrown.

"That" Kid

This school-year is now the fourth to have one or both boys in school. And while it may be shocking, I’ve never had a single incident with either of them needing any major discipline… while at school [let me be clear]. Their teachers have always reported what kind people they are, what great help, good friends to their classmates, and well-behaved. And I can’t say it’s a big stunner with my oldest. But the Kindergartner has issues. So, hearing great things about him, in particular, is a bit of a nice feeling. It’s official, he does have a soul.

But then. I get a call from the elementary principal Monday. She has my youngest in her office, prepares me to listen to his side of what went down, and hands over the phone. His upset, hiccupy voice tells me his little friend told him he didn’t want to sit by him – and so… he “accidentally” BIT HIM. Now, I’m one who tries to give my children the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he lost his balance and fell teeth-first into this kid’s back. Maybe he was trying to quietly enjoy his lunch and the kid’s back got in the way of the ferocious PBJ-bite my son was taking. But my intuition told me this was rather on purpose… or as we like to say at our house… “On PERBISS”.

I spoke for a second little while with the principal and we came up with what I would imagine would be incredibly nerve-racking and mortifying for a kid… we had him apologize to this child’s father – who happens to be the high-school assistant principal. Yeah. Great. We know how to pick'em. But I was on board with however appropriately we could DRIVE THE ISSUE HOME… We are almost 6. We do not bite people. We say, “You’re being rude. I’m going over here now.” or even, “Weirdo!” is better than Hmm… what can I do to make this kid regret not wanting to sit by me? I know! I’ll bite him. THEN he’ll be sorry and want to sit by me every time.

Anyway, I talked to Brent and another mom about how to further handle it… and decided to let the resolution remain at school this time. I didn’t want to lambaste him, or even have him feel that I couldn’t understand how his feelings might have been hurt by his friend. But in talking to him about it later, I made PERFECTLY CLEAR that we do not handle our issues with friends this way, asked how he can better handle it in the future – and told him if ever ever ever it happens again, we’ll be in MAJOR trouble at home too.

But this isn’t really what this post is about. It’s about this incident striking a worried nerve about the fact that I WAS NOT A NICE KID every time I could have been… and now my son has done a compulsive, reactive thing when he otherwise isn’t sure how to find a healthy outlet for how he feels. I mean, I had friends. I was invited to slumber parties – this didn’t become the case of the outcast who couldn’t be befriended. I just did some mean things I’m sad to admit - one of which might involve jabbing a classmate with a pencil. That favor was returned. Believe me; the lead mark is still under my skin.

So, what is a mom to do? [That’s rhetorical]… I think these things follow people. I became a bunch nicer by the time I was in Jr High; but still, my brother came home one day - several years after the fact - and asked me why I’d bent Jeff Mold’s fingers back when I was 10 – because Jeff apparently remembered and struck up the conversation with my brother at their high school track practice about what a mean person I’d been to him. What do you say for yourself? I don’t know why I did it. I still don’t. I mean… I know why… he wouldn’t get his clompy feet off the back of my desk. But I don’t know why I handled it with the hyperextension of his index and middle fingers… on PERBISS.

A Yabba Dabba Doo Time

And well… I feel about a day or two older than I was yesterday and the day before. Birthday madness is a thing of the past after 25, I think. Typically I’ll have a little fun something with just my immediate family or just Brent, then my whole family: parents, brother’s family, etc, and then a girl’s night – and typically spread over a birthday week. Birthdays have always been a big deal. I have a mom who is super glad about celebrating birthdays. Admittedly it gets old hearing the story of my birth every single year. I was rear-first breach. I was huge. I was ultimately a c-section and that meant for one gorgeous, perfectly round noggin. The nurses called me “Pebbles” in the hospital because I guess I looked like a Flintstone and “Pebbles” is nicer than “Barney Rubble” for a new baby girl. Who knows.

Last year’s big 30th was to be a great-big deal with a bowling party including a bunch of friends at Red Pin – a little trendy bowling alley downtown. That was a bust all together having my oldest in the hospital with pneumonia. So, 30 floated right past without as much as a blink. That’s no complaint. I didn’t really have to feel the weight of a new decade having never celebrated. But this year, even being asked what I might like to do, what I might want, or what sounded like fun – I was all “Uhhh… duhh… uhh...” – because I’m either one-big-thing-at-a-time or I’m a million-miles-a-minute unable to really get a grip.

So, with the latest upcoming events, I’ve been preparing all baby things, not birthday things and have gotten myself on a Christmas kick. It dawned on me – I like to put Christmas up the day after Thanksgiving. That’s 10 days post-giant-abdominal surgery!! Maybe I’ll just be directing from the couch this year. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want each of my children to have a new stocking with their name monogrammed to be a keep-sake… or that I don’t want to be making paper-mâché giant pieces of candy… or knitting hats… or putting together advent calendar items. I ordered these. They're not in yet. But having a baby who'll have her first Christmas at 6-weeks-old, her stocking sort of dictated the need for the others to match.

And so, this birthday was nice and simple. I was blasted awake with three dudes singing “Happy Birthday” (each in their own key, at their own pace and volume). Brent set fire to several cupcakes and had gotten a pretty funny card with some earrings. And then I was vacuuming crumbs off the kitchen floor by 7:30am. Nice. We thought we might have dinner together Tuesday night and I went to hug my littlest dude and he was BOILING with 102 fever. Clearly we went nowhere. And now it’s just any other day. I think this means I’m a real grown-up. I’ll always like to jump on the bed though… not eight-and-a-half months pregnant, people chill out. Wait… that might not be a bad idea.

Happy Halloween!

Before we got ready...

Against Every Fiber

I have either done the most genius thing or the most idiotic. I've put aside the belief (just a little bit) that children who spend much time playing video games are either dumber for it and/or contribute to the childhood obesity problem. I’ve purchased a Wii gaming system. We’ve already been over the issues I face when we “pretend” Super Bowl or somehow incorporate tackling into pretending World Series. All that roughness goes hand-in-hand with loud crying in the aftermath. And like I’ve said before, this is not conducive to my sanity. Throw in a sleeping baby who can't sleep and we’re headed to the psych unit for at least 3 days. At least!

So, with that in mind – I need a babysitter. Yeah, I said it. If this baby isn’t able to sleep because her ding-dong brothers can’t handle bonks that come with rough-play without taking it personally, then well… I can’t very well lock my kids in the backyard in the middle of December. We’re not in Australia, folks. [that's a weather-related idea... not because they lock their kids in the backyard in December there]

So, the Wii will be a privilege to be earned. It will be something to do when we have to "time-out" for baby naps. And it can be taken away if need be... not to mention having to get off the couch in order to play. I can just see this meaning I can be less medicated in the long-term.

If any of you want to play doubles tennis, BRING. IT. ON.

Mensa for Dummies

I often become so astounded at what geniuses my kids are. I know – like you want to read about my smart kids when everyone thinks their kids are smart [except for the checker at WalMart who offers up the info about her daughter who has "a little M.R. in her" the last several times I've accidentally entered her lane] – and if I keep it up, I’m going to start sounding like one of those hob-nobby-full-page Christmas letters about Derek and his 9 MLB offers straight out of high school and Alexandria and her National Merit Scholar brains and thesis on such’n such smarty pant-pants accepted to 3 Ivy League schools by the end of her 5th grade year of home-schooling.

But really, my small people catch on to new concepts in math, read and understand giant words, and are learning to be more responsible with where we keep our homework assignments, what needs to be signed and returned, and even things as simple as completing all morning routines unsupervised before sitting down to cartoons if time allows. I met with my Kindergartner’s teacher for our parent-teacher conference and she really had nothing to say except to show me his fantastic work. And you really should hear some of the tender-hearted prayers my 7 yr-old says at dinner-time with a thankful heart for “the opportunity to play team sports with his friends”. The quotation marks mean he said that very thing… just so you know.

So, I’m left scratching a hole in my head when the same 7 yr-old comes SCREAMING down the stairs right after I’ve officially declared “lights out” because he has stuck a small piece of rubber down into his ear canal… only he simply claims his ear is hurting and he suddenly cannot hear out of it, but with the panic of an imminent bear attack. The information about it being HIS FAULT was not offered. So, I was left to do my own deducing. First, he was able to make it down the stairs without tumbling end over end… AND he was not projectile vomiting. So, I figured it probably wasn’t a burst eardrum. I thought maybe it was stuck water from the bath he’d taken, but Brent arrived with a flashlight and found the exact culprit of his sudden deafness. It wasn’t too far lodged, so I was able to tweeze it out with one, slow, steady attempt. I’m an Operation board-game champ. These things come in handy; I’m not even kidding.

Okay, whatever – I can see how maybe – the thing was shaped like the much larger, much more reasonable ear-plugs Brent uses for hunting and shooting. And I honestly don’t think we’ll be dealing with this again. But two days later, sitting at the kitchen table coloring, a sudden “Aaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!” caught my attention. Same kid. New problem. He “accidentally got a staple stuck in his thumb”. Let me explain something. The fastening of two or more pages of paper was NOT what was going on. This only involved a stapler – and a thumb… and a kid who’d just stapled his own thumb. In my head I was laughing in shock, but I couldn’t outwardly be laughing at my crying child. So, I couldn’t even talk. I just kind of blanked out and stared at him like he was a never-before-seen species of mammal. He pulled out the staple himself and ran water over it and I looked at him and actually had to advise my genius child not to staple his fingers.

Oh well – I’m pretty sure on more than one occasion I put a thing or two into my ear or nostril when I was little. I think it may have involved a screw and perhaps a pinto bean a different time, but I don’t know. I can, however, tell you for sure this is not a reflection on my IQ or the IQ of my offspring. I and my pinto beans could be members of Mensa International. I’m kinda serious.

Frrrrench Kiss

By a show of hands - how many of you know about the mustard on a burn home remedy? Last Christmas we had a small dinner party with my parents and brother's family over here. And I was making a sugar concoction I found in Barefoot Contessa's cookbook - it involves melting sugar to a nice amber-brown in order to pour it over a little wheel of brie. And by either mistake or on purpose, my finger found its way into the molten lava sugar syrup and I mean... immediate blistering went on... and yelping.

My dad's wife [I have no problem calling her my step-mom, only that I'm 30 and this is a recent addition to our family - and - I might as well be calling my own mom by her first name at my age]... anyway, she told me to put yellow mustard on it. So, I did because I'm truly pretty gullible, but she was serious, and it worked - immediately. I blobbed it on and eventually had to take it off to resume use of the hand, but I'm not sure all that much is needed. Last night I reached into the shade of a lamp to turn it off and burned my arm on the bulb. I put just a light layer of mustard on it and it felt better right away - and I was able to get in bed without smelling like a fresh, steamy hot dog.

I've honestly tried it on a sunburn. That didn't work.

I Wasn’t Made For Central Heat & Air

Surely by now you’ve seen either the commercial or QVC time slot for the “Sleep Number” bed. You can customize firmness/softness for each sleeper in this kind of bed – unless of course you’re those people who sleep with your children. And then you’re just out of luck… and your mind. But what I want to know is – when can we find a way to heat and cool the room specific to the likes and dislikes of the inhabitants? Don’t even think a space-heater is a great idea. Because it is. But it’s not.

Somehow, it’s hard to regulate the temp in our room alone. I think it’s FREEZING. But adjust the entire thermostat and the living room is boiling and the heating bill is then really dumb. Maybe the thermostat is the issue. Maybe the windows need to be caulked. But really what I’m trying to say is – the worst suggestion would be to “bundle up”. When this happens, all things get better. But then I break a sweat. And then I have to throw my covers off violently. And then my damp self joins the Polar Bear Club and I freeze again. This goes on all night and I don’t sleep – and then we all pay. Or should I say everyone around me does?

Today I found a HUGE down blanket sewn as a giant parka… think: down "Snuggy". I didn’t buy it and now I’m sorry.

A Laughing Matter

I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard recently as I have the last couple of days. I don’t even know if these things will be “had to be there” things and I don't care. You're going to laugh whether you like it or not. I live with funny people.


The boys love to share their favorite part of the day when we’re winding down for lights-out. Last night, however, the theme was “favorite memory”. My 5 y’old came up with that idea and thought the Mustang Shelby GT my brother-in-law rented when he came in town for Thanksgiving last year was the best ever. And my 7 y’old started out by saying, “A long long long long long long long long time ago – I remember like it was yesterday… [long pause]… because it was yesterday…” and I don’t even remember the rest I was laughing so hard. I later told him what a funny guy he is, and my youngest sighed really loud and said, “Man, I’m so romantic.”


I’m not sure he knows what that even means. But I truly think the girls in all of kindergarten think he’s the cat’s meow. The way they say hello or goodbye to him… I am a girl… I know what the tone means. And to say anything to him about it turns his face bright red. I hope we’re not in trouble. So far, he’s only had a major crush on one girl for quite some time. I’m pretty sure it’s mutual. She certainly gets two thumbs up from me – I absolutely adore her. And I know kindergarten is incredibly premature to keep fingers crossed. But my grandparents have known each other since 4th grade – so you just never can tell. At least I can hope maybe he’ll be the guy that doesn’t go for the types that make anything easy.

He was super “huggy” today after school – which is not normal. He has never liked being held much… not even as a little baby. My oldest is the snuggliest person ever. So, I asked him if he was feeling okay – and why he was so affectionate. He told me I’ve just gotten so comfortable. I’m pretty sure that means “soft”.

And then I was all frazzled because I couldn’t find my cell phone. So, I asked Brent to call it for me so I could hear it ringing while I looked around. And he started yelling, “Phone!! Phooooone! Where are you, phone!?”

Even the dumb dog is cracking me up. He gets all prissy as if he’s going to melt – crying and whining like… “Don’t you see me out here under the COVERED! PORCH! with this drizzle going on behind me!? How dare you leave me out here! My fur is going to kink!” What a diva. He's super metro. He might even be gay - or at least "confused".

This is for sure “had to be there” – but my sister-in-law made the mistake the other day of putting shoes on my niece that squeak when she walks. I’ve seen the shoes in the store before, but not on… and I truly could not see why anyone would want more noise than their child already makes. Fortunately, the squeaker can be removed, but oh my gosh – to witness my tiny niece fall in love with, run, jump, stomp her feet laughing hysterically, and panic at the idea of taking them off was truly one of the most hilarious things. I no longer hate the squeaker shoes. They’re worth it. I’ve never seen a girl so young be so sure she’d be sleeping in new shoes in my life.


And speaking of babies – I went to wash my hands the other day and saw the cutest little baby lizard hanging out under the rose rock we have. He's hard to see - and he wasn’t there very long. I have no idea how he got in, but he’s a reminder of tiny new things to come.

It May Be Tourette’s

I’ve become so fixated on just the one bit of major, upcoming life-changing news-worthiness that I truly can’t think of much else. So, if I become insanely boring for – oh – say – LESS THAN THREE MORE WEEKS… then, well, you can always just check email.

But let’s back up a minute to that word “insanely”… route word: insane… right there before “boring”. I’ve given a lot of thought to the idea this new child might be cuckoo. You just never know. She will be female, after all. And let’s all face it – women are known to have a certain bit of drama attached to our nature to varying degrees. So, when I tell you about what happened the other night, you might see where I’m coming from. We’re talking nature vs nurture here – and truly – where the HECK people get their freaky chemical imbalances.

Let me think… this was Monday night… like that matters. But I’d just gone to my child’s ballgame in my own car, planning to leave early if I needed to. My best childhood friend and her husband had come in from Arizona to spend a cabin weekend with her family – and were on their way back to her parents’ (here locally) to prepare to fly back out the next morning… not before stopping by for a short visit to mi casa.

So. I got her call just as we were leaving the field. I headed home to meet up with her and Brent took the boys for a quick bite for dinner. As I pulled in to my garage and got out, I noticed my next-door neighbor out front with her precious two-year-old. So, I said hello – chatted for one bit. And then… here comes… this giant SUV… BARRELLING down the street. I saw it coming, yelled (not screamed - and I’m not even kidding… with a tone like Yoo-hoo? Hello? Anybody in there?)… “Slow down, please! Slow down!” – which – I feel is perfectly reasonable when A. I live there. B. I have children who like to play outside, and C,D and E. I don’t want them or anyone else hit – not even a mangy dog. Okay, maybe a possum but that’s it and that thing will play dead anyway.

And so, back on track: the driver passes – doesn’t slow down at all… even hits a dip in the road with a loud THUD – I assume it’s her tail end hitting the ground – and this is a tall car, people… a Lincoln Navigator… pearly white… license plate 603 DPQ. But anyway. It seemed like a good 2 minutes pass. My neighbor and I share a thing or two about how we feel when people speed like their heads are on fire down our street. She, in fact, has had her mailbox hit three times – one having been a nice, big, brick mailbox when they moved in, and now it’s not even worth fixing the dent in part of it. It’s like a good-luck charm. Having left the dent, the thing hasn’t been hit again.

Okay – so – we’re standing there a minute or two later and this car pulls up slowly. Enough time had passed to not really recall the speeding SUV exactly and I assume the best friend is driving someone’s car I haven’t seen before. But no. This was a RAGING LUNATIC who rolls her window down, has basically climbed into her passenger’s lap in order to hang her head out the window to yell, “Did you just tell me to slow down, B**CH!?” – and, of course my inner mouthy teenager came out and said, “I most certainly did!! Because you needed to slow down!” and then holy hell broke out of this lady’s face… right around her mouth hole. “You don’t know me! I wasn’t speeding, B**CH! You don’t know how fast I was going! You’d better watch your back, B**CH! I will come over there and beat your G.D. A**!”

I’m standing there with my neighbor being verbally accosted with our mouths open in shock – neighbor defended what I’d said with “Well, just slow down. You were speeding.” And I’m all, “You need to calm down.”… returned with “YOU calm down, B**CH! You don’t know me! You’d better shut the F*** up before you get your A** beat, B**CH!” and then… oh my gosh… she pulled into my driveway, threw her car in park and said she’d get out of her car right then and “F*** me up”. My neighbor held up her phone and yelled she’d be calling the police. I calmly fish around in my purse for my phone – hoping to God she thinks I’m looking for a WEAPON – something small, maybe black, metal, and full of ammunition… Ring a bell [by bell I mean bang]? And we were so close to the neighbor’s front door, there’d have been no way she would have reached us before we could have gone inside.

She took off. And of course, I yelled again “Slow down!” because I can’t keep from smarting off sometimes. It may be Tourette’s, I don’t know. I got her license plate # and went home and called the police. Weird they can’t really do anything but call and warn this lady… and warn me not to... uh... tell people to slow down… which… I feel is a tiny bit ridiculous – in my own neighborhood. I hear about road-rage, but this was truly surreal.
And if she returns – which I highly doubt – she’ll be met with an injury I don’t think she’ll have counted on. It’s just odd. We live in a very safe area. The crime here is extremely low. I seriously doubt she lives anywhere near. She did turn toward the high school. So, I assume she may have been going to a sports event there.

But my point, I guess, is where on earth do some women get so angry and hostile… and MENTALLY UNSOUND? Is it a product of environment, completely innate, or something to do with culture and bias? I am not feeling conclusive here or even hope to start some debate. And I honestly don’t have issues against different races or ethnicities. But I wanted to (and didn’t) tell that lady, “Way to add fuel to a stereotype a lot of people still have.” And I do sometimes wonder if there’s a small sect of people who weren’t even alive during, say, slavery – but somehow feel entitled to carry a chip on their shoulder about it – and it makes me wonder further if those few people somehow believe now that their president is black, they’ve been given a new freedom to feel somewhat “vindicated” and spiteful. Well, my president is black too. And… cover your eyes and ears… I voted for him. Gasp!! I know. Shocker.

Just don't ask me if I'm thrilled with him. This isn't about that. This is about the possibilities I have a nut-job child... with Tourette's or road-rage... in her battery-operated Barbie jeep.

Step AWAY From The Brother

I love a cold, drizzly day. The sun was out a little bit yesterday and this morning for the first time in about a week and I just want to say… I was a little disappointed. I would FOR SURE get depressed if every single day was dark and dank, but I have so many great memories surrounding this kind of weather. First of all, most of my birthdays have been cold, wet days. So, the first time I was let loose with my brand-spankin’ drivers license, it was really chilly and misty outside. But at the time I also had a horrible case of poison ivy on one entire side of my face swelling my eye shut. I had it in my license picture for four years. It was fantastic. Not really. But funny when I arrived at the surprise, roller-skating party my brother threw together [? I guess he thought I’d never figure it out since so many sixteen-year-olds are in to roller-skating?] … the cake was a giant license and my photo-copied icing face was messed up with pink frosting. It was a blast!

And this year the weather will be associated with a new baby and all the fun surrounding that. Last week my small group girls from our church threw a dinner-party/baby shower – and it was so much fun.

We've actually only recently started attending this particular group. I already knew around 1/4 of the girls – either from junior-high or because our kids go to school together. But it truly is moving when girls you barely know show up and bring your baby something they spent time shopping for. Aside from the most darling cake...

and personalized child’s rocking chair, some of my favorites included a little onesie that says “I am not a boy”… another onesie with a little owl… several warm-cozy things and a little Kicky Pants dress. I’m learning all the girl trends and I’m not in to any as much as that one. I mean, Baby Gap and their $1.99 leggings I’ll find on sale can’t be beat; but most trendy girl things are holy-smoking goofy-looking except for any and all Kicky Pants. This brand is organic cotton and/or bamboo – which – if you have never put to your face and felt how soft, you’ll never understand.

So, I am feeling set. If she stays put, I’ll have her a month from today. It finally occurred to me – I might want a little travel crib “pack n play” to keep downstairs and an area to change diapers so I don’t always have to go up to her room for everything. The crib will be handy to take to my grandmother's for holidays too. Most of these contraptions have a changing table attachment dealy-whopper. But most also have SO MANY OTHER unnecessary bells and whistles, and are also more expensive than when the boys were little because of it. Either that, or the thing is rickety, simple, and inexpensive because you have to buy an additional 50-dollar padding system so the support rods aren’t poking your child in the back. I finally found a happy-medium. It was reasonably priced, soft and sturdy and didn’t have GIANT pink polka dots I’d have to resist the urge to gag myself in order to be around. All I have left is a bag to put together for the hospital stay. Holy crap! This is going to get here.

We're on fall break this weekend. I'm a little worried about the amount of drop-kicking already taking place between brothers as we'll be out for the entire week of Thanksgiving right after the baby comes home. And by drop-kicking, I'm including taking the boxy alarm clock and hurling it right at your brother's unsuspecting head. Weird they really do love each other and laugh harder together than with anyone else. Still, I'm pretty sure I'll be finding a new level of what it might mean to flip my lid. Maybe I can find a Thanksgiving camp. In Missouri.

For What It's Worth

I can’t really breathe anymore. And Oreos are becoming a problem. So, if I make no sense in the coming paragraphs, we can blame lack of oxygen and saturated fat.
I think today is my last bimonthly OB visit before we head to weekly visits. I may have one more, I don’t know. And I don’t think you care which it is. It’s just heavy ON THE BRAIN… and lungs.

But for now, let’s move on to more random topics. I have Jon & Kate Plus 8 on pause in the living room. I don’t know why I recorded it.

I have a real fear of swine flu.

I cannot stop nesting. I want things to be well-put-together before I go into hiding for months. I leave the house to go find something and come home with NOTHING. I can’t make up my mind – I really have no idea what it is I need, but I can’t stop looking for it.

I’ve gotten way more emotional and way less demonic. Sunday morning I was running behind and planned to catch up with the guys at church. But I accidentally stuck myself in my own eye with the mascara brush, had to rub the eye watering terribly... of course ruined my makeup… started crying… ruined more makeup… had to wash my whole face, got so ticked off I couldn’t stop crying… called Brent crying… said I wasn’t going to come to church… hung up… cried some more… watched lame church on tv with dudes in robes… cried some more… ate too much cereal… had a tummy ache for the rest of the day because of it…

Brent found a few fleas on the dang dog. How the heck did he get fleas!?

I want to start crying.

I’m turning 31 in a about 3 weeks. That’s weird… not really cry-worthy, just weird.

I’m not even going to tell you what I had for lunch today. I can’t even remember. Really, I’m racking my brain. And I can’t remember.

Brent just brought in the wet dog after having flea-dipped him. Gross. I’m so grossed out. I want to panic and then I want to cry after that. Nothing in the world makes me panic more than getting lost in an unfamiliar city like San Antonio – where – they can’t tell me how to get back to the highway because I don’t speak Spanish very well. And fleas. Oh my gaw. Oh. My gaw.

Maybe She'll Look Like Me

Double U-O-M-A-N

Brent is home after a weekend-long hunting trip to the far recesses of the Oklahoma panhandle. I expected to be so much closer to driven insane here all by myself, but I wasn’t. I can’t say every single moment was delightful beyond measure, but I also can’t discount the sense of humor each of my boys has. I think I wet myself laughing at least twice. Bladder-control has become a thing of the past for now.

So... I’ve been participating in a small group reviewing a study written about the book of Esther in the Bible. The history is pretty interesting… focusing on the selection of a new queen by King Xerxes of Persia. We’re talking – a mid-400’s BC “Bachelor” selection-process after the king deposes his queen, Vashti. That part is engaging enough even though I truly can't watch the “reality show” – reality used loosely.

So far, the author has concentrated on the selection process itself. And when I say it was like an ancient-day season of “The Bachelor” – I’m putting it mildly. These young, virgin women were forced to leave their mothers and fathers, and perhaps those to whom they were betrothed. I’d imagine the confirmation of their virginity was an invasive and humiliating process. Think: Memoirs of a Geisha… the book… not the crap movie. They were given about a year of lavish “beauty treatments”, and were later presented to the king. But there is no indication a rose-ceremony was involved [darn], that there was any narrowing the number of contestants over time, or that any of the girls were allowed to visit their families. Long story short, King Xerxes chooses an unlikely, Jewish, young lady, Esther… and the story continues from there.

More specifically, at the center of the selection process is the idea that no matter the day-in-age, it is “tough to be a woman” in a sea of other women. Just as these women at the time were competing against each other to win the throne, women everywhere today seemingly compete or compare themselves against each other for one reason or another. This would explain the rivalry, threat and insecurity around prettier, more fit, more successful women all around us. But… the issue I’m having with the idea is… I’m not so threatened by other women. I love – and in fact, TREASURE – what other women add to my life. Maybe I’m fixating on the wrong point. But, I just think the club I’m in is FANTASTIC.

I’ve known catty, mean girls. Sure, I’ve had a terribly horrible boss. And aside from that, there are certainly things I don’t particularly love about myself or my body. But I don’t feel bad about the junk in my trunk because I think my brother’s wife has the greatest rear-end I think I’ve ever seen. You would agree, I promise. Still, I don’t know a single person who LOVES everything about themselves. And I whole-heartedly believe there is not ONE person who has “arrived”. We are all a work in progress.

Being comfortable with who I am doesn’t mean I have all things figured out. Far from it! But, I don’t need to be perfect or be everything to everyone to feel complete. I have best friends who have other best friends. I’ve had lonely periods of time. I’ve felt a wide array of insecurities. But I love girls. I love what being female means – and what other women have meant to my foundation. If ever there was a whole, huge chunk of time I didn’t or felt inferior, I was in seventh grade. So, maybe that is the point. Save the drama for your momma and enjoy what makes being a girl so great!

I just plucked two whiskers from my chin. If that isn't a total blast, I am miss-ing-some-thing!!