Please check all that apply.

In case you hadn't noticed, Thomas and I are an interracial couple. Which means we have biracial kids. (This is groundbreaking stuff, no?)

And mostly I don't really notice. We are who we are.

Recently, though, I was filling out some paperwork for Kai. And it included the usual (and of course totally optional) racial/ethnic questions.

Now, in case you were wondering, Thomas' racial background is as follows: Japanese, Hawaiian, Puerto Rican, Black, Cherokee, & Choctaw. Oh, yeah, and Irish.

So, when it comes time to fill out paper work for my kids and I have to check all that apply I can check nearly every box on the page. But you know which one I always leave blank? White.

And I never even realized it until the other day.

It kind of freaked me out. I'm not sure what to make of it. On the one hand, I feel silly checking it since they are so obviously brown skinned. But I'm white. So they're at least half white, right?

This realization may partly be a reaction to watching the documentary "Prom Night in Mississippi" the other day. It chronicles a small Mississippi town's efforts to hold it's first integrated prom. In 2008.

It made me wonder, if we lived in that town which prom would my kids be "allowed" to attend? Thomas said they'd be a part of the "Black Prom." He said white people (particularly in the south) simply associate anyone brown with being African Americans.

Which is obvious when you consider all of the talk about America electing it's first Black President. Wasn't Obama's mother white? So at the very least wouldn't that make him the first bi-racial president? (Something that bothered me like crazy during the election even though I'm guilty of it in my own family. Irony. I haz it.)

It's as if we all believe that what you see is what you get. Which, at best, is ignorant. And, at worst, is racist. And something I (someone who is 1/2 of a interracial couple and the mother of 3 biracial kids) am guilty of.

I don't like realizing that very much.

I mean, clearly I'm not a hostile racist. (Duh.) But, I have apparently bought into the idea that what you see on the outside is what you are on the inside. And that it is that which defines who you are. An idea that is disturbing even outside the context of race.

Our Bible study has been reading through the book of James lately. And the 2nd chapter discusses judgment. Specifically how we are not to judge others. Which led to a fight discussion between Thomas and I the other night. You see, we have this house in our neighborhood. We call it the "stinky armpit house." "Stinky Armpit" being code for Registered Sex Offender. Because, well, a registered sex offender lives there and I don't want to use that term and freak out the kids.

In all fairness I should mention that the offender is registered with a very vague and seemingly minor crime. But still. It freaks me out. And I sit in judgement over the people in that house every time I drive by. Because I'm a hypocrite. And I apparently think I'm perfect. Thomas says (and I hate it when he's right) that I should focus on keeping our kids safe from the scary people, both registered and unregistered, and not appoint myself judge of the entire neighborhood.

It seems I'm guilty of doing this all over the place. I judge people based on what I see when I look at them. It's not always in a negative way. Sometimes simply in a categorizing way. But still. It's not a good thing. And, to further this theme of irony, it is something I most fear others doing with me. If you were on Twitter the other night you would have seen me tweet, "Heading to the Christian Homeschool Daisy Scout Orientation. Better wear extra Christiany clothes to distract from the tattoos." Do you see that? It's me judging people for being the type of people who will judge me before I even get the chance to meet them. I told you I'm an expert hypocrite. (BTW, they were nice. And didn't even seem to notice the tattoos. Which also means I'm kind of a jerk.)

All this very much makes me realize what a work in progress I am. And I hate being a work in progress.

So here's the thing. (And you're gonna love this.) I have no resolution to this post. I have no great way to tie it up and close it. I could say I'm vowing to stop looking at the outside of people tomorrow and pay attention only to their insides but that would be disingenuous. Because I've been doing this too long to simply say I've turned over a new leaf and I'll never sit in judgment again.

What I will say is that I am going to be more aware of how I see people. That I'm going to check my heart before I form opinions about people. And that I'm going to pray that God will let me see people as He sees them. Because if I can learn to do that then all the other labels go away. And the only box I'll have to worry about checking off is human.

Swimming for Faith

I love to watch my kids swim.

Ivy, having just turned 3, bobs in the water with her floaty vest on and her mouth just barely hovering above the water line. She swims all over the pool with her head straining to stay out of the water. It's heartbreaking and beautiful all at the same time. Her persistence coupled with her newly developing water skills make her a sight to behold.

It's like watching a calf try to walk for the first time. The whole thing is some ballet of awkwardness. Muscles learning their purpose. Uncertain steps being taken slowly and deliberately. Failure and success taking turns throughout the process and determination keeping the whole thing moving.

I like to think I've made it through all those awkward stages but lately I think I've become more and more aware of what an ugly sort of dance I'm in the middle of. My problem lately is simply this - I just can't seem to get the hang of this whole faith thing.

I know God is real. I know He is with me. And, if I'm really lucky, when things go bad I remember to turn to Him for help. It's just that the instinct to turn to Him seems to be mostly when it's the little bad things and not the big bad things that come my way.

My problem is that I lack faith in whether God will sustain me through difficult times. And the root of that is, if I'm honest, blatant materialism. God never promised us nice perfect houses and well-manicured lives. He promised not to give us something we couldn't handle. He promised not to leave us or forsake us. But, I want that to mean that I'll never have to struggle financially. Or endure emotional pain. And the thing is, that isn't realistic.

Like a spoiled child who always demands a present, I've tied God's love to my circumstances. I lose faith in His love for me when I don't get my way. In that way I'm no different than Kai or Ivy who accuse me of not loving them each time we leave Target without a new Hannah Montana doll. In those moments as I drag them out the door pouting and crying and insisting I'm the worst mommy ever because they didn't get the toys they wanted right that very moment, I think to myself, "Can't you see that my love for you is bigger than some silly toy? Can't you see that these stupid toys will be sitting in the Goodwill box in a few years while my love for you continues on?" I want to shake them out of their superficial understanding of my love for them. I want desperately for them to understand how big that love is. Does it not stand to reason, then, that God wants the same thing from me?

Last week God and I had a rough week. I posted that post about my keys and was all proud that I'd been happy with that little bit of encouragement. And then the next day, Thomas didn't get paid. He worked his hours. He did his job. And because someone in his department didn't do one thing that needed to be done he just didn't get paid. Though that didn't stop every bill I had scheduled online from clearing at exactly the same time leaving us with a bank balance that started with - and was highlighted in red. Which, as I'm sure you know, is never a good thing.

And then I had a fight with God. A big one.

'Cause, after all, hadn't I just told everyone how great He was for letting me know He was there with my keys? And hadn't I been so spiritually evolved when I said that it was enough for the day?

It was an ugly fight. And if I believed that God was the type to hold a grudge I'd be pretty scared right now about an imminent lightning strike. Luckily, I don't think God is really the lightning type.

In fact, as it turns out, He's more of the kill them with kindness type. Because despite all my tantrums (and a few very un-kosher words) He sent us a really huge (and much needed) blessing at the end of the week. And suddenly my faith was restored.

But, the problem is, if my faith depends on my circumstances then it can't really be faith, can it? At least not the kind that it should be.

For me, the whole thing is a lot like learning to swim. I can tell Kai or Ivy exactly how to swim. I can talk them through the steps. But unless it just clicks for them they're never going to get it. Something has to happen in them to make it work. And that is nothing I can give them.

And that is where I am right now. Struggling to swim in this sea of uncertainty and turmoil. Struggling to hang onto the buoy of faith that I know is there but that keeps alluding me. This is a lesson I need to learn. It is one I desperately want to learn. But, oh how I hate going through what it takes to learn it.

Enough.

I lost my keys. Six weeks ago.

And yesterday was abysmal. If you follow me on Twitter you already knew this. Actually, I've been whining all week. But yesterday? That was the icing on the cake.

First, there is this vacant rental house. And cleaning up the disgusting mess left by our tenants. And the stress of paying for it without getting rent. Then work has slowed down again unexpectedly for Thomas which is really bad when you're an hourly contract employee. Not good timing. Either one of those things I could handle on its own. But together? It is bad. I've been trying to be positive. I've been praying a lot.

Then yesterday morning on my way home from dropping Thomas off at the train station, I said to God, "Could you please help us out? Could something good happen today? Even something small? Please?"

And when I got home and took Traveler out of his car seat I was in a better mood. And I thought things were looking up. Until I discovered that he'd had a baby poop blow-out in the car seat cover I had just taken out of the dryer. But that wasn't the best part. There nestled snug in his car seat of poo was my Blackberry. Trust me when I say, you don't even want to know what that was like.

That's when I told God that if that was His idea of helping that I'd be fine without His help today.

Follow that up with an entire day of everything that can go wrong will and, well, you'll understand why I tweeted "If God is the Heavenly Father, then I'm the bratty whiney teenage daughter today." Boo-hoo. Poor me.

But I yelled at God a lot yesterday. We're cool like that, though, so you don't have to worry. He knows me. He gets me. And, thankfully, He puts up with me in this stuff. So I asked Him why He couldn't give me one stinking good thing that day. Anything. I wouldn't be picky.

And He didn't remind me that my children and husband are safe and healthy. And He didn't point out to me that I had a roof over my head. And He didn't rub my nose in the fact that I have a pantry full of food to put in my children's bellies.

Instead, last night after something I needed became annoyingly lodged in a crevice in the van and I had to get Thomas to remove the whole center console to get it out God showed me where my keys were. The keys that had been lost for 6 weeks. The keys that I thought I'd lost for good.

And for that moment, that one small thing was enough to let me know He was there. And that was enough for the day.

For the record, this is not what I thought I'd be writing about when I graduated from college.

The other day I met a new mommy at Ivy's art class. She was a nice, well-dressed, well-spoken woman. She seemed to be intelligent and informed about things going on in the news.

We were enjoying our conversation when her daughter came over and said she needed to go to the bathroom. And the mommy got down to her daughter's eye level, looked at her and said, "Okay, sweetie, do you need to go wee-wee or doodie?"

And it was all I could do not to crack up. Wee-wee? Doodie? Seriously? Who on Earth uses such silly terms for bathroom behavior, I thought in a fit of undeserved self-righteous judgment.

Then my daughter came over and said she needed to go poopy and pee pee.

Busted.

Though I would argue that poopy and pee pee are infinitely more dignified than wee-wee and doodie (ahem), I would lose that argument. Because, truth be told, there is nothing dignified about any of those words.

And yet we use them. My husband and I are grown adults with college educations and decent vocabularies and we say poopy and pee pee on a regular basis. Which, when you think about it, is pretty funny. We also say toot, boobies, and booty-hind (don't ask). Good Lord, we are intelligent folks.

Having realized that day that I, too, engaged in potty baby talk I tried to think of alternatives that would be polite and not too silly. But I came up empty. Maybe that shows a lack of creativity on my part. Or maybe announcing exactly what biological matter is coming out of your body just can't be both polite and intelligent sounding. Either way, it made me wonder what other parents do.

I've heard the arguments for calling private parts by their actual name and not coming up with silly names (though we apparently do that, too) but what is the dominant theory when dealing with bathroom vocabulary? Does anyone actually use "urinate" in place of pee pee with their kids?

So what is it? Poop? Tinkle? #1 and #2? What words do you teach your children to use when dealing with potty matters?

(And in case you're wondering if I'm wondering how I got to the point where I blog about potty words the answer is yes. Yes I am.)

Why I broke up with BlogHer.

A few months ago I got an email saying a spot had opened up in the BlogHer ad network and since I was on the waiting list I got a chance to be a part of it.

I was pretty darn excited. See, when I started blogging it was to keep family that was far away in the loop on what was going on in our lives. Then a funny thing happened. It saved my sanity. I started to feel less like a prisoner of my children and more like the aspiring writer I promised myself I'd become when I graduated college.

And then I found out the most amazing thing. People actually make money blogging! **gasp**

So, I was pretty excited about signing up with BlogHer.

As with any partnership there are rules and guidelines. I gladly accepted them. After all, I was getting paid to blog! Hurray!

Then I got my first ad revenue check. And my second. I was getting $60-$70 a month in ad revenue. I was pretty darn happy considering before this I had been blogging about my public humiliation for free.

But, one day I got an email from BlogHer. They had, apparently, been overpaying me. By a lot. And, my actual monthly revenue? It was more like $6-$7 dollars a month.

And since numbers can't be typed in all caps, let me phrase my reaction like this:

SIX OR SEVEN DOLLARS A MONTH?!?!?!?!

It occurred to me that in order to adhere to their rules I had to turn down giveaways worth more than I'd made in the last 4 months with them. And it also occurred to me that I had given up some control of my blog (albeit only a small amount) for 6-freaking-dollars a month.

And, so we broke up. Which is why there aren't any ads on the side anymore. And I can blog as often or as little as I like now. And I can giveaway anything I want. Or not.

Now if only I can avoid drunk dialing this ex in the middle of the night...

Progress Report.

As of today I've been home and on my own one full week with 2 preschoolers and an infant. And, I thought I'd just jot down a few notes about what is has been like to be home with three little ones on my own.

In a word? Delicate.

It has been a delicate balance of all my jobs. It has been a week of nurturing a delicate newborn and then there is the situation of my very delicate and recovering incision. I've had to handle my girls with more care than before so they don't feel left out and replaced. I've had to make things work largely by myself since Thomas' job took a crazy turn this week and demanded the longest hours he's worked since starting there 2 years ago. Talk about bad timing.

But, I've also had to be vigilant about my somewhat delicate mental state as well. See, with Kai I had no trouble transitioning back into "normal" mode. With Ivy, on the other hand, I had a pretty bad case of baby blues. I didn't realize it until I had my 4 week Doctor's appointment, but it turns out I had more than a little Post-Partum Depression. Like, can't get out of bed or off the couch or out from under the covers bad. And I knew that this time it was a distinct possibility. I know it still is.

So this week I've avoided playing the blame game with myself. When Trav's diaper leaked because I didn't realize it was full, I avoided calling myself a bad mom. When the girls ate a bit too much junk food (I can neither confirm nor deny that they ate Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs for breakfast one morning) or watched a Max & Ruby marathon so I could nurse the baby in relative peace, I forgave myself for not coming up with something better. Because guilt does not help things at all.

Do I need to do better when it comes to entertaining and feeding and balancing everything? Definitely. Do I wish I could have been SuperMom right out of the gate? Totally. Am I planning on doing a great job when I recover a bit more from this surgery? Yes! But, I'm not going to beat myself up over being lazy last week. Or even this week.

'Cause I'm doing the best I can. And even though this week everyone may not be getting their food pyramid needs met, their educational needs fulfilled, or even - you know - dressed in something other than pajamas, they are getting hugs and plenty of cuddly mommy time. And, after all, isn't that what really matters right now?

Total Truth Tuesday: A Domestic Fairy Tale

I was looking around my house tonight and realized I'm living a life I had never dreamed I would. When you're a kid, you dream about fantastic adventures in far off lands. You dream about the fulfilling work you'll do changing the world. You dream about a glamorous and exciting life.

You do not dream of playrooms overflowing into your hall or of doing laundry and dishes and cleaning bathrooms at 1:30 am. You don't dream about dirty sippy cups and crayon scribbles on walls. You don't dream about the inevitable clutter of a busy life.

But, it wouldn't be so bad if you did. Because, I must say, despite it's decidedly unglamorous nature this is an incredibly fulfilling life. It is not the jet-set life of a writer I had envisioned for myself and some people who used to know me think I've settled for less or taken an easier path. But, this is anything but easy and I can't help but think when I look into my childrens' eyes that this is by no means settling for less. (Though, I'll admit, before I had my kids I would have felt that way about others in this position.)

I don't think I am noble or righteous for choosing motherhood. I don't think women who pursue a career are less admirable than those who pursue a family. I think this is the right choice for me. And I think women have the right (and the responsibility) to determine what a fairy tale is on their terms. I guess right now, for me, my fairy tale is chasing preschoolers around and stepping on discarded toys on my way to the kitchen. And I fully intend to cherish every minute of it.

Is your "fairy tale" different than you had pictured it? How has your idea of success and happiness changed since starting a family?

This post was originally published March 10, 2008.

Who doesn't love a party?

Since I'm currently, oh, 75 weeks pregnant (okay, okay technically just 39 weeks pregnant) the only parties I'm up for are ones I can attend in stretchy pants. And, as it turns out, blog parties are just about the only parties where my choice to wear embarrassing grandma pants is completely acceptable.

Which is why I decided that partying it up with the wonderful ladies from 5 Minutes for Mom was a perfect way to spend my last week of pregnant "bliss."

So, here I am. Actually, it's me 39 weeks pregnant with my youngest daughter and the victim of my mom's terrible photo cropping skills - you're welcome. (Read the full story behind this embarrassing pic here. It comes complete with a poem to highlight the humiliation. Don't miss it!)


Meet my family. Our family photos look a bit like the old "Which of these things is not like the other?" game from Sesame Street. In case you're a bit confused about where I am in the picture, I'm the one that doesn't tan. Not even remotely.


Here you can read what a typical day in my life is like. And, yes, I really am that ridiculous in real life. I blame the red hair.

And, just for the heck of it, here's the story of how I (unwittingly) hired strippers for my oldest daughter's 2nd birthday party.

If I haven't completely scared you away with all that, you can find me Twittering here.

So, there you have it. Me, in a nutshell. A really scary, humiliating, inappropriately honest nutshell.

Feel free to leave me a link in the comments so I can check out your blog and/or follow you on Twitter and get to know you, too!

And head over to 5 Minutes for Mom and check out all the cool mom content there! Enjoy the party!

Total Truth Tuesday: My Case for Polygamy

I called Thomas at work last Wednesday and told him if he wanted to try and convince me to give polygamy a chance that was the day to do it. It is also, not coincidentally, the day our cleaning lady came for the second time.

Have I mentioned that I am in love with her?

Before you start to worry that I've been watching WAY too much Big Love on HBO, let me say I can't truly imagine adding another person to a marriage.

But, adding another person to the house? One who cleans and can watch the kids while I run to the grocery during the day without worrying about loading anyone into over-sized carts and negotiating fights over who gets to sit beside the frozen pizzas? I can definitely imagine that.

When I was in college I remember reading Judy Syfers' classic feminist essay, "Why I Want a Wife" and thinking it was really "cool." Because I was 19. And I didn't really get it. But, I was a feminist so I'd heard there was gender role inequality and, well, I jumped on the bandwagon.

But, now, I read that essay and I realize it could have been written by any one us mommy bloggers. I can relate to that essay in a way I had never quite imagined. I, too, want a wife. Wives are such wonderful, wonderful things.

Since I'm pretty much a traditional kind of girl (at least in the sense of wanting a one man/one woman marriage for myself) I'll settle for having a housekeeper one day a week. It is probably as close as I'll get to the bliss of having a wife to take care of me.

Our housekeeper started two weeks ago and I already look forward to seeing her every week. In fact, everyone in our house does.


"Don't mess up the playroom," Kai warns her sister, "Miss Trina is coming next week!"


"When Trina is here next week, can you have her iron some more dress shirts?" Thomas requests.


And, I am more than willing to give up these chores to someone more qualified than I am to do it. You should see me iron a shirt.

You may think I'm a terrible wife if you wish. I don't care. Think I'm overindulgent, frivolous, or lazy? I can take it.

I guarantee you that society doesn't view my husband as overindulgent, frivolous or lazy for having someone at home caring for his progeny and his domain. It is just a given that he'd have that luxury.

Don't misunderstand the arrangement here, though. Having help one day a week doesn't mean I sit around the rest of the week eating bon-bons and watching Dr. Phil. I still have plenty of household responsibilities to keep me busy. It does, however, mean I have someone who is guaranteed to catch the things I've routinely overlooked. Like baseboards. And blinds. And changing the sheets as often as they should be changed.

The truth is, now that I've gotten a taste of having someone to help around the house, I'd gladly sacrifice meat from my diet to be able to afford having her come clean our house. I'd limit myself to buying one pair of shoes a year. (Okay...maybe 2?)

Because homeschooling a preschooler, a kindergartener, and taking care of a brand-new baby after a C-section while maintaining some kind of order in this house is beginning to look overwhelming to me. Even with better living through pharmaceuticals.

So, when she offered to watch the kids while I ran a quick errand last week it occurred to me that having someone there to help out is pretty irresistible. Though, as it turns out, Thomas isn't so much into the idea of marrying 60-something-year-old women so he wasn't all that tempted. Even if it would save us the money we pay her.

I guess since polygamy is out of the question, I'll stick to paying someone to help me be a better wife and mom. After all I am contributing to the economy that way, right??

What about you? What little luxury to you make room for in your budget that you refuse to do without?

On shushing a rooster (and other exercises in futility)

Sometimes I have these moments. You know, moments where I find myself doing something and I am able to imagine how it looks to the outside and I realize that I really am even more ridiculous than I thought.

Yesterday I had one such moment.

It's the chickens, people. They bring out the crazy in me. I swear.

See, we (read: I) just had to get a few more chickens to add to our coop. I wanted 7 dozen eggs a week so we could sell them easily to friends & neighbors. It's fun. And addictive. And, inevitably, crazy inducing.

'Cause when we got the chickens we got two that would be good for setting (not laying). Basically, it means they're smart and they'll make good moms. Just in case we want to, you know, add one more thing to this household for me to keep alive.

But one of these "smart" hens got out the first day. And now she wanders all over our yard. And she taunts the other chickens. And the rooster.

Yesterday, he'd had enough. He decided to let her have it. LOUDLY.

And that is when I decided to try and quiet him. By that I mean, I started shushing him. And, of course, it didn't work. In fact, it made him mad. So he crowed and clucked more. I got down on his level and shushed him more. Then I begged him to be quiet. I mean I really and truly was pleading with him to quiet down. And I tried to give him treats and convince him he didn't really want to make noise that would disturb our neighbors.

It was there, on my knees in the middle of begging & shushing this noisy bird that I saw him. My neighbor. On his deck. Watching me in amusement as I worked so hard to convince this bird to be quiet. And as I failed miserably at accomplishing my goal.

It occurred to me that as ridiculous as I looked this was a scenario that is quite common for me. I am guilty on so many occasions of drawing attention to myself and making a scene in an effort to avoid drawing negative attention. I'm guilty of trying to manipulate situations that are beyond my control and making myself look like a fool in the process. Because, in the end, there really isn't all that much out there I can control. Except (on good days) myself.

And, I wonder what this is teaching my kids? I tell them that they shouldn't worry about what other people think. I tell them to be happy being themselves. And then I go off shushing roosters.

What about you? Have you ever found yourself trying to take control something clearly outside of your control? How do you overcome these urges?

Let's get down and dirty.

Okay, so I know that I don't have to spill any dirty truths until tomorrow. But, I just have the need to get something off my chest. And, so, if you are a male and/or you know me IRL you may want to stop reading now. Really. Unless you want to know more about me than you probably should.

Here's what I want to know today. Ladies who are pregnant or who have ever in your life been pregnant could you do me a favor? Could you raise your hand if your pregnancy hormones ever made you have the libido of hormonal 18-year-old boy? Because everywhere I turn I see that stereotype in the media and I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm missing out on an important benefit of pregnancy.

Actually, to be more accurate, my poor husband seems to think he is missing out on a major benefit of pregnancy.

Though my theory is that finding a pregnant woman with this particular pregnant symptom is kind of like finding a unicorn please feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

Valentine's Day, as a result, is a day of undue pressure on those of us preggo chicks who are not hormonally crazed in a good way. It's just not fair.

To make things worse, did you know that they make things like this? Talk about pressure!

So, can you guess how Valentine's Day went down at our house?

Here's a synopsis:

Scene: Valentine's Day night. Living room sofa, 11:00 pm.

My sweet husband, snuggling up to me on sofa: "Hey, baby. Happy Valentine's Day. Did you like your flowers?"

**kissy-kissy-kissy**

Me: "Speaking of babies, when are you going to paint the baby's room? And I'm starving. Could you grill me a steak? Also, is it like 150 degrees in our house or what? Crap my left butt cheek has fallen asleep again. Could you move over? Is our couch made out of cotton balls or something 'cause suddenly it is all lumpy and out of shape. It's probably the fact that I'm huge, huh? I'm ruining the sofa from sitting on it. Do you think I look huge? Don't lie. I can see it in your face. It's not really fair to judge me right now, okay? I am, after all, growing the son you've never had. Just get off my case already."

My sweet husband: "Huh? Um...your hair looked really pretty tonight at dinner. I love you."

Me: "Yeah, well I guess that is what happens when you get a chance to take more than a 30 second shower and actually wash your hair. I know I've let myself go, alright? It's just hard to take time to get ready during the week when I'm constantly getting the girls ready and taken care of. Can't you just pretend not to notice?"

My sweet husband: "Um...I think I'm gonna go to bed. I love you, though. Okay? I really do. I mean, if that's alright with you."

Me: "Fine. Lay the guilt trip on. I wish for just one moment you could feel how I feel so you would understand why I'm not all lovey-dovey at the drop of a hat. I know what married couples are supposed to be doing on Valentine's Day and I'm sorry. But, you know, I'm not some Stepford Robot Wife so just cut me a little bit of slack."

At which point my sweet husband slinks away to the safety of another room.

End Scene.

--

Yeah, I'm a heartless wench. Really. And feeling hideously guilty for not being a better wife lately. And also I'm kinda not into, well, you know, marital congress at the moment what with all the pressure of a 6 lb. baby simultaneously sitting low in my belly and kicking me in the ribs. Thank God my husband has the patience of Job.

To the friendly Jehovah's Witness who had to see me in my nightgown-

I appreciate that you want to save my soul. I truly do.

But, I'm pretty sure that obsessively ringing my doorbell on a Saturday morning when I'm trying desperately to clean up before my husband's family comes over is not the best time to do it. Especially when I'm still dressed in the one nightgown I own and not my usual yoga pants and T-shirt that I can often pass off as lazy day clothes and not pajamas.

Because when you show up on a Saturday ringing the doorbell of a pregnant woman who is flustered and irritated that her husband is off having a nice relaxing morning coffee and not helping clean up, here is what inevitably happens:

She will answer the door against her better judgment because seeing a strange man in a suit on a Saturday morning might make her think that it is something very important. She may even be so paranoid about owning chickens (and a rooster) and having been quoted in the paper recently on such matters, that she will think you are some kind of county code enforcer come to snatch her children's' chickens from them. Even though she knows that county code enforcers do NOT wear black suits.

Except maybe on days when they go out to witness to neighborhoods on behalf of their churches.

And so she'll hide in the dining room and insist her 4-year-old run and get her a pair of jeans to throw on with her nightgown so she can answer the door in something other than the Pollyanna nightgown she finds herself in. But, she'll forget that the differences in maternity jeans and men's jeans might be indecipherable to a 4-year-old. So, she'll end up wearing her husband's jeans with her nightgown when she answers the door for you.

And she'll be grouchy. Sweet merciful Lord, will she be grouchy.

But, most important, in her haste to put on the jeans over her nightgown she will forget something very important. Something she will not remember until after you leave. She will forget one of the most important steps in dressing one's self in pants.

She will forget to zip up her husband's pants.

So, while you are trying to witness to her and save a place in the sweet hereafter for her grouchy, messy self she will be flashing you a very undignified view of her undergarments that will be accentuated by the obvious Pollyanna nightgown poking through the aforementioned unzipped zipper.

And she will close the door after meeting you, realize the state of dress she was in, and go on to call her husband and blame him for all of this.

Because, after all, he was the one who was chilling at Starbuck's while she had no choice but to sleep in too late, fail to get dressed properly, and answer the door to a complete stranger. So, it has to be his fault, right? I thought so.

Total Truth Tuesday

You all know Jane over at What About Mom, right? If not, go now 'cause she is awesome. Seriously. I'll be here when you get back.

No, really. Go.

Okay, back now? Good.

Last week Jane posted pics of what a real house looks like. You know, the kind where the spirit of Donna Reed is not channeled on a daily basis and where the kids don't live in some kind of plastic bubble where messes are never made. I loved her post. I admired her honesty.

And, I was so inspired by her Full Monty post that I decided to post my own. Because, you know what? I'm all about keeping it real here at the Land of Lovings.

So, in the spirit of transparency brought out by brave Jane, here's my own Full Monty post. This was my house on Saturday and Sunday morning (note how many dishes were left out since FRIDAY? **hangs head in shame**).

Actually, I'm shocked at how much cleaner it looks in pictures. Because, it was bad, people. The worst part? My house has actually been in worse shape. And, I don't have any real excuse for it. Except that I've got two unruly kids and I'm gestating a human being. And, you know, that I'm hopelessly addicted to day time TV. Do those count as valid reasons or just lame excuses? Actually, I don't care either way. Last week it was simply our reality.

So, here you go. My house in all of its messy disheveled glory.

You know, I think with posts like this one (and my infamous baby bottle post) I may be guaranteeing that my mother completely avoids my blog on Tuesdays. Sorry, Mom!

What about you guys? Any dirty little housekeeping secrets lurking around your house?

(Click the pics so you get the pleasure of reading
the details of the mess you're looking at!)

Because there is something infinitely wrong with my brain...

It has occurred to me before now that I am not entirely normal. But the extent of my strangeness was never more real to me than last night at my fantastically romantic Anniversary dinner with my husband.

As part of our night out Thomas took me downtown to "Big Atlanta" to go out to a restaurant that we went to on our 1st anniversary. It is a great old downtown restaurant. Dimly lit, romantic, delicious food. You know, everything an anniversary destination should be.

Knowing where we were going I had a chance to prepare a wardrobe choice for the evening. Which is a good thing since it takes me hours to dress this belly of mine lately.

I ended up in the same black dress I always wear when we go out, a pair of tall black boots (because I know you care what shoes I was wearing) and a pair of pre-pregnancy skinny jeans.

Okay, so here's where you begin to get a glimpse into my weird, weird brain. See, when I'm preggo I try and use my regular jeans as long as possible. With a 6 month belly (that is apparently STILL measuring 3 weeks ahead) you might be able to guess that these jeans don't button. But, I'm creative. I think of ways to keep them up.

Last night I decided to just wear a long tight shirt under the dress to function as a makeshift belly band and keep them up. Of course, it didn't work well and I spent several trips to the bathroom hiking up my pants to avoid losing them in public.

On one such trip I was contemplating ways to make my pants stay up easier. The rubber band trick never works. I am too lazy to go out and look for a belly band. And maternity pants? No way. I'm more than halfway through this pregnancy. The next pair of cute jeans I buy will be post-pregnancy jeans.

And then, in some flash of twisted genius it occurred to me. I should wear a pair of my beloved maternity panties on top of the jeans to hold them up. Because pants can't fall down with a pair of those over-the-belly underwear on top, right? And since I almost always wear a short dress over these particular jeans no one would be the wiser. There was a brief moment when I really, truly thought I had discovered something quite genius.

But, I'll be honest, the idea of wearing underwear over my jeans cracked me up right there in the middle of the ladies room. Because, I imagined what would happen. I knew the first time I did something like that I would end up in some minor accident that would send me to the hospital where I would have to explain the reason I was wearing my underwear on the outside. And then I would end up in some compilation of the "weirdest patients" at an end of the year hospital party.

You know it's true.

When I finally made it back to the table I was still giggling about it. 'Cause I could just envision the post-accident/panty revelation post that would come out of such a ridiculous scenario. When I began to explain my sudden fit of giggles to my husband, he looked at me adoringly and said, "Why not just use a belt?"

Because, friends, that is what a semi-normal person uses to hold up their pants, right? A belt. And yet my mind went straight to wearing maternity panties over my jeans. That right there is why I will ultimately never run out of blog material.

I am simply too weird for my own good.

The story of how one adorable pair of heels thrust me into an abyss of self-pity

Here's an important lesson we learned last night: No matter how much your husband needs a new dress shirt for an important business meeting the next day it is NEVER a good idea to take two sick kids and a sick pregnant chick out to help find one. Though this was 100% my idea, I am completely willing to admit it was a terrible one. Because it ended in a complete and total meltdown for me and the kids...

It all started when I tried on an adorable pair strappy suede heels while distracting the kids at Marshall's. Oh, the shoe was beautiful. And sexy. And flirty. And I looked in the mirror at my unwashed hair in a messy ponytail, my sloppy blue jeans that had been worn one day too many and my husband's dress shirt (I'm currently in denial about my need for maternity clothes) and suddenly the proverbial ton of bricks hit me hard. I may never ever need to wear cute shoes on a regular basis again. Which actually somehow translated to: I may never be cute or relevant or flirty or cool again. I may never be useful or socially valued again. I may never be anything but a sloppy, grungy SAHM with chronic crankiness issues and no lasting impression on society.

God help me, I almost started bawling right there in the shoe aisle at Marshall's. But, I didn't. I pulled it together. And having not found the holy grail of men's dress shirts, I grabbed my wiggling kids and headed off to our next high class destination. You guessed it. JC Penney.

So, there we are in JC Penney. Sick and miserable and wrangling wiggling kids while picking out the perfect dress shirt for Thomas' important interview. And he says to me, "Hey they're having a great sale. Should we go buy some stuff for you?" To which I automatically reply, "No. You're the one with a job. Let's don't waste the money."

There you have it. In a nutshell. It would be a waste of money because, well, what do I do besides wipe noses and butts all day? But, I still didn't lose it because I had two wriggling whining kids to corral while the other shoppers tried unsuccessfully to disguise their disdain for my noisy snotty-nosed children.

And, here's where I actually lose it. At the counter, one shirt rings up at regular price. The next shirt is supposed to ring up at 88 cents because of this big sale (pretty amazing sale, right?) but it doesn't. It rings up at...$4.90. GASP!!! Apparently the promotion didn't apply to clearance items. Which prompts some angry rant against the pitiful cashier about how ridiculous it is that they would rather discount a $42 shirt down to 88 cents than a $4.90 to 88 cents. Because at this point I'm desperate for someone to understand that I have a brain that works and is valuable and the only way I know to make that clear is by pointing out a glaringly stupid (not to mention financially unsound) policy to some girl who probably is making $7 an hour and would like nothing more than to finish her shift with as little drama as possible.

I was rude and ugly and just, honestly, a bitch. And I did it all while wearing sloppy jeans, my husband's dress shirt, and a hideously unwashed and unkempt ponytail. Not to mention, trying as hard as possible to get my seemingly unruly and snotty-nosed children under control. Not my finest moment.

All of this is how I came to be sitting in the front seat of a messy minivan at 8:00 on a Wednesday night crying all the way home and listening to my children bawl at the loss of their "mall cookie privileges."

I wish I could say that I came home and my kids said something deep and profound that made me realize I would always be a valuable member of society even if not in a way that is immediately obvious or that makes cute shoes a necessity but it didn't happen that way. In fact, I felt even worse about myself for failing at the one important job I do have.

So, this story has no happy ending. At least not one I can tie up with a pretty bow. Because, honestly, this is my constant struggle. It is easy to feel left behind by the rest of the world when you're home washing clothes and changing diapers. But, I know what I am doing is important even if it feels thankless and unimportant some days. I just wish it wasn't so hard to remember that on a daily basis.

And, if I'm being honest, I wish the required footwear was a bit more glamorous as well...

How to terrify an entire room full of preschoolers the Loving Family way

Did I mention that Ivy's teacher asked me to bring in a chicken to show the class today as part of their unit on Farms and Farm Animals? She did. And for some insane reason I agreed to do it.

Yet another of those "What on Earth was I thinking?" moments I have come to know and love.

It started out fine. The chicken was tucked sweetly beneath my arm. The children were excited. Then, the teacher asked to hold it. And the chicken must have realized that this was someone she didn't know 'cause about 20 seconds into being held in the teacher's lap she bolted. The teacher tried to grab her back but only succeeded in pulling out a handful of tail feathers and freaking her out more.

Of course, the children being in a circle were pretty much well-positioned for the greatest amount of freakout potential. The chicken half-ran half-flew across the room right into Ivy's lap. Which set off a scream that terrified both the chicken and the other children who basically perceived the flight into Ivy's lap as an attack that would be targeting each of them next. The more the children ran and screamed the more terrified the poor hen was. She flew, they screamed. Then she got scared by the screaming and ran away and they got scared by her running and they screamed some more.

God help us. It was insane. There was screaming and crying and shrieking and me chasing this chicken across the room and finally grabbing it and clutching it in a death grip beneath my arm.

Afterwards, the kids were still screaming about how much they didn't like chickens and begging me to put her back in the cage and I'm pretty certain that they will all go home and tell their parents about the "Giant Chicken of Death" that Ivy's mom brought to school today.

Guess the parents can pretty much count on chicken nightmares tonight...

Things we learned at the county fair

Last week we went to the good old county fair. Just another reason Fall is my favorite time of year! And, while we were there we learned a few important lessons...



1. Just because you're tall enough to get on a ride doesn't mean you're ready.

Kai made up her mind that she absolutely positively could not go one more second of her life without being on the swinging pirate ship ride. After insisting on getting on it and paying her 3 tickets to the slightly scary carnival ride technician, she was seated on the ride between her Aunt Tee Tee and Uncle Jared. And, then, she determined that this very ride might just be the end of her. And proceeded to scream bloody murder the entire time. This picture is taken just minutes after she got off the ride (and I promise her daddy was comforting her thus making it less despicable that I snapped a picture of her in her traumatic state).


2. Kiddie rides are perfect for...kids. Unlike the aforementioned grown-up rides.

After the disaster described above, we managed to talk Kai into riding on one of the kid rides and she was much happier. In fact, both of the girls loved them and managed to charm the ride operator into a free ride!

3. If you are pregnant and eat a giant turkey leg, corn dog, french fries, diet coke, funnel cake and fresh squeezed lemonade, you will throw up the next morning. Guaranteed.

Umm...enough said.

Because the most logical place to put it is in your nose...

Staying at my mom and dad's house with my kids is always an adventure. Don't get me wrong, it is wonderful to not be the "mom in charge" every once in a while, but my parents have this serious no-childproofing policy that has been in effect long enough to make me wonder how my sisters and I ever made it to adulthood. Oh, the tales of Kerosene heaters, paint thinners, and accidental nooses I could tell. But, I won't. 'Cause my mom reads my blog and I'd hate to embarrass her. (Though if I run out of things to talk about, it may very well become fair game.)

Nonetheless, it is relaxing to be at my mom and dad's house. Even if my kids ALWAYS pull something crazy. Like, well, this:

My mom loves a nice smelling home. So, potpourri and fragrances and candles abound at her place. The girls have strict orders to avoid all wonderful smelling/fragrance producing apparatuses and generally adhere to that. But, there is always the odd divergence from the norm. Always.

At dinner the night before we left, Kai started complaining that her nose hurt. She said she bumped it and since I didn't notice any dermatological disturbance I told her she was fine and to go ahead and eat. But, she started getting freaked out saying it was hurting reeeaaalllyyy bad. Which usually means one of two things: a.) it hurts reeeaalllyy bad or b.) she doesn't want to eat dinner.

Turns out this was more of an a.) situation. After tears started flowing and she said overandoverandover how she hurt it when she "bumped" it I took her seriously. I asked her about her injury. How it happened. Where it hurt. And then she said something that cleared up all my questions.

"Mom, it just hurts. Come here and smell it. Please!"

And, that is when I knew. Something had been stuck/sprayed up her nose and the "bump" story was simply to avoid telling me she had done something she wasn't supposed to.

You've seen those Reed Diffusers people have all over their house? You know the ones. Lovely nice smelling sticks sitting irresistibly in a bottle of very expensive and highly fragranced oil? Well, apparently to a 4-year-old that translates into: stick this up your nose for a bit and see what happens. At least that's how it works with my 4-year-old.

Which is exactly why I will be waiting until Kai is in high school to purchase one of those things.

In case you were wondering, having a child submerge their head in a sink filled with warm salt water to blow "nose bubbles" is a great way to get that smell off their face. Nose bubbles make kids happy and anything that keeps children's nasal passages from smelling like Jasmine and Vanilla makes moms happy.

The Lovings were here...again.

I'm not sure when I'll learn my lesson. It is just pretty much inevitable that our family's presence at a school or birthday function will bring with it chaos, embarrassment, and/or infamy. That's just the way it goes.

This weekend, of course, was no exception. Saturday we had a pool party for a friend of Kai and I managed to completely forget about a church obligation Thomas and I had that night so it meant the kids could only stay about 45 minutes at the party and wouldn't be able to swim. I explained it to them before we got there and the girls were fine with it (yeah right) so I thought everything would be fine.

We got to the party. Dropped off the present. And, prepared to have a bit of cake before the rest of the party jumped in the pool. But, as always, things did not go according to plan.

Ivy, my resident daredevil, really wanted to swim. Really badly. She kept walking around crying and trying to take off her pants (classy, no?). Finally, she "accidentally" fell headfirst into the pool. In the deep end. In front of everyone.

I did the whole shrieking/screaming for help thing 'cause (and here's where it gets embarrassing) I was fully clothed in the outfit I had to wear to church in 30 minutes and, uh, I wasn't about to jump in. Let me be clear, she popped right up to the surface and was not-so-gracefully treading water. There was no danger of drowning. Within about 15 seconds her dad came to the rescue but not before I managed to dive to the ground (prematurely big belly and all) and reach for her - breaking my sandal in the process.

I limp around the party for about 10 minutes with a broken shoe until finally giving up and going completely barefoot. But, wait, it gets better (or worse) 'cause then Kai, thinking it is unfair that her sister got to "swim," starts pouting and moping. She lays down on the ground and covers her eyes and just silently puts on a dramatic show. She looks not the least bit bratty and instead like the child of a completely cruel mom who would bring her child to a pool party and torture her with the inability to get in the water.

One of the moms (who was an angel) gave Kai a pair of her son's shorts and tshirt to swim in for a couple minutes. Kai proceeds to get just a little too far out into the deeper end and loses her confidence thus resulting in a half-drown/half-tread water move reminiscent of her sister's earlier move. She's not drowning but she's panicking. So, I have to walk down the steps a little to get a float out to her. I soak my jeans in the process. You know, the jeans I'm going to be wearing to church in about 10 minutes? Yeah, those jeans.

And, now we're all wet and guess what? We don't have towels either. Who doesn't bring towels to a pool party? The mom who assumes her kids are absolutely not going to get in the water, that's who, but it doesn't stop me from looking like a flake. I am the only mom there without a Land's End tote packed full of every single supply my children need. So, I beg and borrow towels off of moms who are more grown-up, more organized, and infinitely more together than I, all the while thinking the one thing running through their mind is, "Yeah, this girl needs another kid."

The best part? I got to go to our church's GroupLink function in a pair of soaked blue jeans and completely inappropriate sparkly dress shoes. Never a dull moment in this family. But, oh how I could use one...

You know what I'm talking about. Right? (please say yes.)

Today:

1. I woke up too late and only got out of bed because my children were begging me to save them from starvation.

2. Kai got yelled at for knocking over a plate of peanut butter toast that was sitting by the bed. It's been sitting there for a day (okay 2) and it was totally my fault it was there in the first place.

3. The kids ate leftover pizza two meals in a row which, for those of you doing the math, is actually eating pizza the last 3 meals total.

4. We had two potty training accidents in one day. One of them involved standing on the bed and peeing all over sheets.

5. The playroom went from organized to a complete and total disaster.

6. I threatened to throw toys in the trash and settled on locking up the playroom.

7. I relied way too heavily on Comcast On Demand (thank you, Dora, Diego, Backyardigans, and Blue!).

It's days like today that make me think about getting a job. I think it would be like going on vacation.

But, then I remember that I am not qualified for anything and pregnant super satisfied most days and decide to see if tomorrow is a better day.

It almost always is.