Household Debate: Hardwood vs. Carpet

You be the judge...

Just Typical

As with most Thursdays, this one was pretty typical with my three children and my sister's two children. Just so you know what its like on my babysitting day, here are just a few events that transpired today:

1)Numerous "mean looks" (AKA--my son's eye twitched at the exact second my nephew looked at him)

2)Violent behavior--my son threw what I thought was a rock, but turned out to be an acorn, directly at my daughter's head...oh yeah, and it was "on purpose" (AKA--what my 3 year old son thinks, means "by accident")

3)Groundbreaking Injustices--slices of frozen Elio's pizza were not perfectly portioned on each plate...next time I will use a ruler.

Sounds like fun, right?

The Beginning of the End

Today was my daughter's first day of kindergarten. I must admit, it might as well have been her college graduation, because for me, it was...the beginning of the end. As we entered her classroom this morning, it was your typical first day scene...clutching bodies, screams of "don't go!", and tears. Lots and lots of tears. Don't worry though, about an hour after drop off, I calmed myself down.

Yep, the tears were from me, not my precious firstborn. The creativity and desire to learn has been running through her little veins since she was born. I knew she'd be crazy for school when she had come to me when she was three years old, after "organizing" our sunroom with chairs and scotch tape, and told me it was her "art gallery." Need I say more? C'mon people, Harvard here we come!

If only I would've known that the time would pass so fast, so fast that I could still remember tucking her into bed for three whole hours, just like yesterday, as she was afraid to go to sleep without me...oh wait, that was yesterday.(We're actually still working out some sleep issues.)
No, but really, even though I've spent every waking moment with my little girl except for approximately 5 days total in her life (seriously), it still seems like it's too soon to send her out into the world. I mean, does kindergarten really have to be every day? Sure it's only three hours, but that's fifteen hours a week. I feel like I have joint custody or something. And lunch? They just have to eat lunch in school? Sure her class hours are from 11 to 2, and sure that is your typical lunchtime, but I figured out on the drive to the school, that I will probably never eat lunch with my daughter on a weekday again? Can you imagine? I think tomorrow I'm going to wake everyone up at 5 am for breakfast, just so they'll be hungry around 10 o'clock for lunch at home. That's right home, where lunches should be served. That's where the term "homemade lunches" came from anyway, they were meant to eat at home. I know what you're thinking, is this the same woman who wrote all of these old posts on this blog? Sounds like a well needed break, right? That's what'd you think, but today, it didn't feel that way to me. It felt like the beginning of this never ending,roller coaster part of parenting, called letting go.

Although I don't think I'll let go just yet, I'm sure after about a week or so, these distraught feelings of abandonment will subside, and I'll find something to do with those extra three hours a day, like organizing my ransacked closet, or cleaning out the cracker crumbs and slurpee stain from the backseat of my van. Either that or I'll just research homeschooling.(LOL)

The $18.00 Bug Bite

After three children, I pride myself on being a pretty reasonable, cautious and self-diagnosing mother. As you can imagine, the viruses in my home are about as rampant as flies on manure.(Nice analogy, as if you all shovel manure.) Anyway, contrary to statistics, my children have all been breastfed, read to, bathed regularly, taught to wash their hands and take their shoes off in the house, and have not stepped a foot in daycare, still they seem to contract any virus that comes within ten feet of our home. Needless to say, this is where my self-diagnosing comes in.
Though I love our pediatrician, I try and keep our visits to a minimum of a couple times a month, as we do need money for groceries. One month we hit the Dr. so often, that I suggested setting up a direct deposit from my husband's payroll, straight into the pediatrician's bank account.

So, I awoke this morning to the usual breakfast requests(Some days I'd swear I'm in
the movie Groundhog's Day), and while buttering my son's cinnamon toast(without raisins), I noticed that his ear looked incredibly swollen, not unlike Martin Short's ears in the movie Pure Luck. Before getting too alarmed, I racked my brain of any other strange symptoms that would help me in diagnosing this new found case. I thought back to last Monday when his ear had looked exactly the same after he had been stung by a bee. After attempting a quick self-diagnoses I couldn't for the life of me, figure out why his ear would swell up again, after last week. But before I would call the professionals, I decided to Google Cellulitis just once, as I was convinced the redness was not in fact from him laying on the couch pillow, but was a bacterial infection brewing under his skin. Good thing I went to med school...

I convinced myself of the diagnosis and decided that he was in fact in need of immediate medical attention. After convincing the receptionist on the phone that her "completely booked" schedule was unacceptable to me and my very ill son, I called the satellite office and was kindly stuck in among the other appointments.

I checked my son's ear about every ten minutes, just to make sure the swelling was worthy of an unruly trip to the office with all three children.
"Oh, yes," I thought to myself, "the swelling seems to be traveling down his ear, it must be spreading."

Long story...uh,...short...I loaded my tired, unnapped children into the van and drove to the pediatrician. Eighteen dollars and two timeouts later, and we have ourselves a bug bite folks. Yep, that's right, an eighteen dollar bugbite.

Goodbye to Anonymity

Okay, so I've been tagged by Elizabeth for a little something called The Face Behind the Blog. Though I wrestled with revealing my true identity to all three of my readers...I've decided to disclose a bit of myself, just this once.

So you know my family story pretty much. Six years ago I married my highschool sweetheart and about 283 days after that I had my daughter and preceded to have my other two children consecutively after that. My husband and I are a part of our church worship team, I like to watch TLC, HGTV, American Idol, So You Think You Can Dance, and other various reality TV shows. Sometimes I pretend I am on a reality tv show, and that the producers are really just setting me up by making my kids do crazy things, all for the sake of good ratings. I also love photography and take the majority of the pictures in my family, so finding one of myself is a difficult endeavor. Here goes...I feel like the masked magician who gave out all the secrets...


Here's one of me and my little guy...what a honey.


And here I am with my niece.

Me and just the boys at the beach.

Menu Challenge

Okay, so I am officially tired of concocting a daily dinner menu for my lovely(picky) family, and have decided I need some help...your help!
Here's your mission: Come up with one dinner meal that will satisfy the needs of one family of five, including of course, a vegetable.

Sound easy? Yeah, right. Want to know the catch? The catch is you have to come up with the menu, without including any of the "Don'ts" from each of my family member's lists, while still maintaining a nutritional meal. This is very tricky, as each member of my family, has quite the list of "don'ts." Consider it a challenge...your incentive and prize will be a picture of one happy and full family.

Here is the DON'T List:

My husband: Due to an unruly gall bladder, spicy and fried foods are to be consumed close to never. Oh, and he doesn't like green beans, peas, or carrots.

My daughter: Nothing with any kind of cheese sauce, although she likes cheese, no sausage, or barbecue sauce. Doesn't like green beans, or cooked carrots, raw are acceptable. No raisins.

My middle son: No salad, carrots, anything with an unusual sauce, pineapple, strawberries, pears, no tomatoes. Nothing "spicy", translation--anything with flavor. He enjoys most meats slathered in ketchup or parmesian cheese.

My baby: He'll eat pretty much anything, besides, green beans, tomatoes and salad.

Me: I will gladly eat anything...(yes, I have some food issues)

Do you accept the challenge? Post your meal here...

Conspiracy Theory

I don't know what it is about librarians, but they scare me. Yes, you are reading right, librarians scare me. They intimidate me, they give me anxiety, they make me fumble on my words and sweat.

I know it sounds strange. Maybe it's the way the librarian glares at me through her bifocals, as she asks me, "will that be all?", as I trump my 15 books and 3 videos up to the circulation desk. Or maybe it's the way they scan back and forth from my library card to me, even before they run it through the computer, as if I'm using some sort of fake I.D. to get into a club or something.

One thing for sure, if I'm returning a book or video late to the library, I make sure to drop it in the outside box, just to escape the convicting glares of the librarian. I mean, you'd think I had just taken a historic artifact or something.
And the panic attack I have when I finally do face the librarian after returning an overdue book...as she looks up the fine in the computer...I hold my breath as I clasp my checkbook, (maybe it won't show up, maybe they don't even know it's late)...
And that will be $200.00, you've had "How to Groom your Dog" out for a year and a half...
What?? I don't even have a dog! There's got to be a mistake in the computer!

I swear the librarians around here all conspire to trick you into paying fines. I bet you they are confiscating books left and right from the book drop, and then they claim they've never received your drop. I bet there is some hidden underground room where all the "lost and overdue" books are. All to make a quick buck...for what you ask...new globes and microfiche machines, that's what. And all this money is coming from you and me, the Moms who go to the library because we can't afford to buy new books in the first place.

The thing is...it works. Let's face it, no amount of conspiracy or intimidation is going to keep us from returning to the public library. Wanna know why? Because we need it...we need them. We need the free snacks and storytimes, the free video rentals (even if they are from the 1980's), and we need the rainy day activity. Yeah, it's worth the $200.00 bill every six months.

Sincerely Sunday

It's So Easy to Forget

It's so easy to forget about the sinless and perfect life He lived on this earth, when we are satisfied in our own "perfect" little lives.

It's so easy to forget about the unbearable pain he suffered, as the thorns dug into his head and the nails were driven into his hands, easy to forget when you are not suffering or in pain.

It's so easy to forget about the palpable fear he felt as he walked that long walk, all the while knowing that he was walking to his death, especially when you don't face that fear, or any fear at all.

It's so easy to forget about the betrayal he felt, as the very ones he loved, would be the very ones who would sentence him to die, especially when you are surrounded and supported by all of your loved ones.

It's so easy to forget about the immense sacrifice he made, as he gave up his human life, just so that we may live ours, especially when we know that this very act is a sacrifice we will never have to endure.

Imagine if He forgot about us, as much as we forget about Him?

Tub Terrors

You've heard of night terrors, right? Those terrible nightmares kids have, where they wake up in a sweat, screaming? I have tub terrors. For some reason, every time I step foot in the tub, bad sounds loom outside my door. Very bad sounds. Thumps, bangs, blood curdling screams. Sounds that send rushes of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Sounds that make the hairs on my arms stand straight up. I'd swear my husband and children were reenacting some sort of Civil War battle every time I take a bath. Either that or they're training for the Ultimate Fighting Championship. I go into the bath with the notion of relieving some of the tension and stress of my day, and I come out more knotted than a sourdough pretzel...so much for relaxation.

Exposed

I'm sorry I did not post a Sincerely Sunday this week, but I had a near outer body experience yesterday that I just had to share with you all.

Let me preface this story by saying how much I deeply love my husband and how smart, thoughtful and unselfish he truly is. That being said, today he committed the most outrageous, most unthinkable mistake.

I don't know about you, but Sunday at my house is the one day I am guaranteed some degree of rest, well usually, because my husband is home. During the week, things are pretty hectic and busy with the usual mundane tasks. So, on the weekends I really look forward to those few spare minutes where I can just sit and relax.

I had just laid my son down for his afternoon nap and my husband had taken the older two outside, so he could mow our extremely overgrown backyard. I laid down on the couch and was about to indulge myself in a classic 1980's romantic comedy, you know the ones they play on Sunday afternoons. The second I laid my head on the pillow, I heard voices. I looked up to see my darling husband and my neighbor..."What in the world?" I thought. They were looking right into my living room bay window. I quickly and discreetly slid off the couch and maneuvered through the land mines of toys in my living room, and headed into the kitchen to look as though I was busily cleaning.

The next thing I knew, I heard voices even louder. Voices that weren't coming from outside. Voices that were coming from inside...inside my living room. I shuddered at the thought. "Nah, I must be hearing things." I know the man I've been with for the last ten and a half years, would not, no could not, let anyone step foot in our house, when it was in this kind of disarray. He just wouldn't. That is surely a rookie, mistake, and my hubby is anything but a rookie.

"Who's that mama?" My son asked.
"I don't know honey," I replied, through clenched teeth.
"Mama, it sounds like Mark," he said.
"No, honey, it can't be Mark, Daddy wouldn't let Mark in our house t-o-d-a-y."
He laughed. "But, mama it sounds like Mark." Smart kid.

I slowly walked into the living room and heard my husband yell, "honey, Mark is just coming in to check out our broken window."
At this point I blacked out for a moment and while I was fighting the urge to go towards the light, I watched the years of my life flash before my eyes. When I came to, I was spitting out something like, "I know you are NOT bringing Mark into our living room when it looks like this.

My neighbor graciously acted as though he'd seen worse(yeah right, maybe in a landfill.) As they walked out the front door, I grabbed a paper bag to control the hyperventilating. I sat on the couch, completely mortified and tried to wrap my mind around what had just occurred. "Was my husband completely out of his mind? Was he sick or something? That must be it, Mark must've been very sick and so my husband had to let him in our living room to rest on our couch. Yeah, that's what happened."

When my husband finally made his way back inside, I tried to get my composure and managed to mouth the words, "what were you thinking?"
"He insisted," he said.
"What do you mean he insisted?"
"He insisted, he was looking to fix our broken window, and he insisted he needed to see it from the inside?"
"Did he man handle you?" I asked. "Did he hold a gun to your back? Did he twist your arm, or threaten to harm your family?"
"Uh, no."
"Well, then I don't care who insists. If you gotta tackle him to the ground, or put him in a choke hold, you do not let him in our living room, when it looks like THIS."
"Sorry, honey." he replied.

Unbelievable. We've lived here for three and a half years, the guy has never stepped foot in our house, and the one time he does, it's the day I decided to take a rest from my mother duties. It figures.

Be careful when you decide to take a rest ladies, watch your back. You never know if it's going to be the day your neighbor decides to pop in, and you are standing there completely exposed.

Miracles Come in All Sizes

I'm trying to teach my kids about the power of prayer and how God can do anything, even miracles--not just with the big stuff, but with the everyday little stuff too. In fact, sometimes I think we had a divine appointment with our minivan, and that it's sole purpose on this earth is to inspire prayer and miraculous happenings.

Some of you may think the best time to teach your children about prayer is at bedtime or at mealtimes. But, if you had the track record of car troubles that my husband and I do, you'd think the best time to teach your children about prayer is the second you step foot in the minivan. I'm not talking car accidents here, I'm talking straight-up, one chance in a million, car malfunctions. The kind of car mishaps that don't happen to the average driver--happen to us. Actually, I think of it as our little mission field.

For example, my husband once ran out of gas (typical of our family), on a busy highway, on the way home from work, driving a car with a nonfunctional gas gauge. When he stepped out of his car onto the highway to retrieve the spare gas tank from the trunk, he mistakenly locked the keys in the car. So ironically, even if he had gas in the gas tank, he still could not drive the car, without the keys.

See where I'm going with this: if my kids were there, I would have used that opportunity to pray with them for our sticky situation. The prayer would have sounded like this:

"Dear Lord, we need a miracle here. Please let a fuel tanker drive by, with a driver that happens to work as a locksmith on the weekends. Amen."

Though I don't doubt my husband sent up a similar prayer to this, unfortunately, a police man drove by who was neither a fuel tank driver, nor a locksmith. And actually he wasn't too handy either as he broke the window trying to unlock the door.

Another opportunity for spiritual teaching came about one frosty afternoon as I drove home from the supermarket with my son. We were on the last stretch of highway that leads to our home when I noticed the gas gauge inching towards the orange E. Even though, I decided to push the limits anyway.(I have a habit of doing this, always have, ask my mom.)

So as we rounded the last turn, I feel the all too familiar put-put and I grip the wheel as my power steering starts to go. As I inch over to the shoulder, I look into my rear view at my son and say, "I think we should pray."
"For what," he asks. "How come we stopped, mama?"
"We need to pray that God would help us to get to that gas station right over there."
"Do we need gas mama?"
"Yes, let's pray."
"Mama, why didn't we go to the gas station before?" he presses.
"Pray." I say again.

So we pray. We pray hard. We pray for a miracle. As I lift my head, I turn the key slowly and the engine sputters a bit, and miraculously, it starts. It stays running long enough for me to roll down the hill, right into pump stall number four at the local gas station.

"He did it!" my son shouts. "He did a miracle."
"Yes he did," I say, as I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

For the next week my son went around telling people about God's miracle of gas. Just goes to show you that miracles come in all sizes.
Yup, we're in our own little mission field over here. Bet you didn't think such spiritual growth could occur in a minivan.

Miracles Come in All Sizes

I've always thought it was important to teach my children about the power of prayer. I teach them about prayer at mealtimes, I teach them about prayer at bedtime, and lately, as our vehicle disintegrates, I teach them about prayer in the car.

Thursday was a typical babysitting day with my three and my neice and nephew. We're in the middle of some sort of heatwave in the northwest, so it was like 90 degrees outside but felt like over 100 degrees inside. I decided to take the kids to the McDonald's playplace for lunch. It was either that or the lake, and I just didn't feel like the liability that came with taking five kids who don't swim, to a lake. McDonald's went suprisingly smooth, smooth enough I was actually enjoying myself for a quick minute.

On the way home, I stopped at my parent's new house to let the kids run around for an hour. Though the exhaustion of buckling and unbuckling five children into five carseats was starting to get to me, I pressed on because I knew I was coming into the homestretch of the day, and my husband would be home when I got there.

I loaded everyone back into the van to head home. As I backed out of my parent's driveway I heard a sound, a kind of thumping and dragging sound. I checked my mirror to make sure I hadn't left the diaper bag on top of the car, or any children for that matter. Nope, everything looked clear. I proceeded to step on the gas again and heard the noise again. It wasn't until the kids started asking me what the noise was, that I decided to pull over and investigate. To my surprise, my right rear tire was flat, completely flat. Just great. I almost completed this day with no mishaps, no injuries, no major fistfights, and now this.

I headed back towards my parent's house slowly, all the while, trying to appease the interrogation from the kids, as they wanted to know just what was going on. My father checked the tire and we decided to head down to the nearest gas station to try to pump it up. He followed closely behind as I headed down the unpaved, pothole ridden road. I decided to take this opportunity to teach the kids about prayer again (yeah right, I just really needed divine intervention.) I leaned back and said, okay kids, I think we should pray. It wasn't long before I heard an even louder noise, and decided that inflating the tire was a wash at this point...we needed to change the tire. I pulled over to the side and my dad got out in the sweltering heat and began to change my tire.

As my Dad tried with all his might o turn the jack on the uneven, gravel pavement, the kids were inside the van, screaming, fighting

To Spank or Not to Spank

I once heard this story and have concluded from it, that spanking is not always the effective form of discipline...

A man laid his son to bed one night and kissed him on the head. As he slowly walked out the door, his son yelled to him,
"Dad, can I have a glass of water?"
"No," the Dad said, "It's time to go to sleep."
The Dad walked out of the boy's room and headed down the hall.
"Dad, can I please have a glass of water?"
"No!" the dad said. "Go to sleep!"
"But dad, I really need a glass of water..."
Completely fed up and frustrated, the Dad yelled back, "If you don't go to sleep right now, I am going to come in there and give you a spanking!"
The dad heard a small pause of silence. "It worked," he thought. Until, his son yelled back,
"Hey Dad, on your way in to spank me, can you get me that glass of water?"

Sincerely Sunday

Consistency

My junior year in high school, I took a class called Contemporary Issues, in which we debated various world issues like abortion, euthanasia and surrogate motherhood. I can remember ending one particular debate with a classmate and feeling especially exhausted yet confident in the argument I held. I just felt like I really gave it my all, and well, if you could win a debate, I felt like I did. I looked to my teacher, who remained completely neutral throughout every argument, for some sort of encouragement, and he turned to me and said, "Wow, you are very consistent." Consistent? Ok. I was expecting something more like noble, insightful, or even mature. But all that he said was that I was...consistent.

What I didn't know then, but know now, is that consistency really is the ultimate compliment. What I would do to be as consistent as I was back then. I looked the word up in the dictionary and it said, consistent: to be free from variation or contradiction, marked by steady continuity. In reading that I thought of all the times I contradicted myself in my words and my actions with my kids, my husband, and even with God.

As I think about the word even more, I realize, to be consistent is to be like God. He is completely free from contradiction, and is completely marked by steady continuity. Think about it...

As we consistently sin, He consistently forgives.

As we consistently disobey, He consistently disciplines.

As we consistently stray from his path, He consistently protects us.

As we consistently hurt others, He is consistently merciful.

And as we consistently run from Him, He consistently waits for us to return...with open arms.

How much more consistent can you get?

Yeah, I'd definitely prefer to be called consistent, over insightful and mature, any day. Would you?

3 Signs You and Your Husband Need a Night Out

1) Before your hubby goes to bed at night, you ask him if he has to go potty.

2) You consider fish sticks and birthday candles a romantic candlelight dinner.

3) Your evening wear...is your pajamas.

Do you really want to know about being a Mom?

Do you really want to know that I woke up this morning in a semi-unpleasant mood, and that I really questioned whether I would survive the day's trials with five children?

Do you want to know that I couldn't pull everyone together and out the door in time, to go to this bible study that I really wanted to go to, prepaid for, and desperately needed?

Do you want to know that by 9:30 a.m. I had already given my one year old two time outs (yeah, right) and threatened to throw away toys?

Do you want to know that my mom saved my life, not from a tradgic death, but rather a tradgic day, with five children under six, and took our girls out shopping for clothes, while I took the three boys?

Do you want to know about how excited my daughter was to try on the navy blue school uniforms for me, that she would be wearing this fall to kindergarten?

Do you want to know about how unbelievably cute she looked all dressed up with her blue cardigan, and how unbelievably sad I was that she would be leaving me to go to kindergarten? And how for a second, I pondered not sending her?

Do you want to hear the 15 stories I made up of my childhood, just to appease my nephew's inquisitiveness, as we drove the five minute drive to the post office?
Are you curious about how I convinced my nephew and son that Wendy's has better kid's meal toys then taco bell, just because I was really craving a juicy burger?

Do you want to hear about how my nephew told me his belly hurt at Wendy's and about the thought process that flew across my mind, of how I could race him to the bathroom to throw up, while carrying a toddler and three year old in tow? And my purse?

Do you want to know about how I took the kids to the park, and then had to rescue my toddler from a high death, as he ran up the ladder of the biggest slide in North America, which ironically is in my park? And how when I rescued him, one of his feet got stuck in the slats, and I had to twist and turn his little ankle to pry him out? All the while, he was screaming and getting mad, because he really wanted to climb up that slide?

Do you want to know what it felt like when I ran across the park to retrieve him, and a jagged piece of mulch went through my flip flop into my foot, and slowed me down, so I had to yell for my mom to run ahead and save him?

Do you want to hear about how two seconds after that I loaded the kids back into the car to head home, and bribed them all with pops to stop them from crying about how we had to leave the park so soon?

Do you really want to know that I went home, I put a movie in, and sat on the couch refusing to do any sort of mother duty for the next hour, or two?

Do you want to hear the conversation I had with my husband, when I called him at work to tell him how underappreciated, we mothers across America really are? And how I suggested he start a petition to send to the President, that stay at home moms be compensated somehow, for our noble and backbreaking work?

Do you want to know about how my mother saved me one more time that day, and treated me out for a girls night, to a nice restaurant that didn't even have happy meals? And how she drove the extra miles to take me out to another restaurant, just so I could get a piece of my favorite chocolate cream pie?

Do you want to know about how much fun I had sitting in a chair at Barnes and Noble reading through parenting magazines, without having to keep my baby from tearing books off the shelves, and from tearing books?

Yeah, but do you really want to know, that the whole time I was out on my girl's night, I couldn't help but think about how my kids are so cute? And how every time I saw a desperate mom trying to hold the store door open while pushing her double stroller through, I couldn't help but wish I had my double stroller with my kids in it?

Do you really want to know that we mothers claim we want our time out, but really think about and miss our kids, the entire time we are out? And couldn't imagine what our lives would be like without them? (At least I do.)

The Next Generation of Superheroes

Do you ever feel completely wiped out after a long afternoon of playing on the floor with your children? Are you tired of having to come up with names of superhero guys and scenarios for action figures? If you're like my sister, who has a five year old who insists on playing rescue mission and army combat constantly, then you probably are. I mean, are we really supposed to be able to come up with that many diverse, imaginative scenarios?

"Mama, who should this guy be?"
"Uh...that's firefighter Joe, honey."
"Where is he going, mama?"
"Uh...to the firehouse."
"But, he can't be at the firehouse, 'cause Jake Justice is at the fire house."
"Oh."
"He should be diving in the deep sea, mama..."
"Doesn't he need diving gear, honey?"
"NOOO---can't you see he has invisible gear on!"
"O-K-A-Y, honey."

Really, there should be a book of action figures names and what kind of combat and occupation they're in. You just look at the guy, flip to, "man with moustache and yellow hat," and you've got yourself a whole life story on him. One that will keep your kids from hounding you again.

I decided to address this daunting issue, and have come up with a list of superhero names and backgrounds. Feel free to borrow from my list at your next playtime.

1. Veggie Man--Basically he can be any guy that is wearing green or is green. He fights obesity and high cholesterol, and his arch nemesis is Donut Hole.

2. The Toilet Troopers--They can can be white, black, even dark green. They fight germs and bacteria and keep toilets safe so little children can use the potty. Their arch nemesis is the evil Dirty Diaper, who resides in the land of Underoo.

3. Super Sharer Man--He's a pretty versatile character, he can be any color. He's known for making the world a better place by intervening when siblings are brawling over a toy. His arch nemesis is the frightening Mr. Playdate.

4. Captain Coffee--He can be any guy that is brown, tan...He's known for swooping into houses in the middle of the day and saving sleeping mommys from slipping into a comatose state, all over the world. He's pretty much your All-American Hero.

There you have it. Just some ideas you might want to use, in case you run out of your own.

P.S. No thanks required.

Mama TV

Have you ever seen the movie "ED TV?" It's about a guy who lives his life normal until one day he realizes his life is really just a script for a live television show. Maybe I'm crazy, but I'm convinced my life must be a script for a comedy/drama television show. It's gotta be true. Nothing else could begin to explain the series of mishaps that transpired in my home on Friday.

The morning started out typical, well, typical enough for our house--baby ransacking the fridge and dropping a big bowl of chicken and mashed potatoes, only to shatter on the kitchen floor. After cleaning that up, and making notes to pick up childproof locks for my refrigerator, I decided to focus on doing laundry that day. My children were running out of clean clothes that fit them, and it was getting harder to convince my three year old, that his pajamas, doubled as an outfit.

My baby had been sick for a few days, and his cough seemed to worsen. I've become pretty adept at distinguishing a viral illness, which typically needs no antibiotics, from a bacterial one. This little skill of mine transpired over the last five years of child rearing and many co pays at the doctor for viruses that "run their course." (I come from a long line of self-diagnosers, though I don't encourage this) So, I decided to make an appointment for my son, and booked the only slot they had, 1:15 that afternoon. The second I hung up the phone, I remembered that I had booked a dentist appointment for my daughter at 2:30, at an office 45 minutes away. Perfect. I couldn't cancel that, because those dental appointments usually take months to reschedule. So I proceeded to cancel the doctor appointment, but then convinced myself, I would accept the challenge, and just try to make both appointments.

I loaded the kids in the van. My daughter was so excited for her first dentist appointment, she could hardly wait. We headed towards the doctor, and I looked back and noticed that my baby had fallen asleep...what to do, what to do. Ah, the dilemmas of motherhood. Do I wake my sleeping child, only to torture him at the doctor's appointment? Sounds like a fun time to me. I quickly make a U-turn and decided to forgo the doctor, and to reschedule later.

I figure now I have ample time to make it to the dentist, so I stop for some gas and a cup of Joe. First mistake. I could not have foreseen the massive traffic I was going to run into, that would make me late for yet another appointment. When I realize the time, I step on the gas, and maneuver in and out of lanes, just scathing numerous accidents, only to make it to the dentist about five minutes late. I look in my rear view mirror and see my daughter's gleaming smile, as she squeals for joy. (Obviously, her first trip to the dentist) For the fifteenth time that trip, I answer her daunting questions of what color toothbrush she'll get, and what flavors of toothpaste the dentist will have. As I go to unload my waking baby, I rush to unbuckle his cookie crusted carseat, and accidentally step my flip-flop into a pile of mud on the sidewalk. Perfect. (Wave to the cameras, honey.)

We rush up the thousands of stairs (Aren't any offices on the first floor?) and walk inside the sweetest, most quaint dentist office, you'd ever see. The waiting room alone could keep my toddler busy, with it's bounty of toys and activities. Finally, something goes right. As I swing my massive backpack/diaper bag around, I say my name to the receptionist. The sweet, young girl was a bit of a soft talker, so I have to read her lips in order to understand what she is saying to me. What? I say. It's as if time slows down, as I read her lips say to me, "I'm so sorry, I tried to call you."
"What do you mean, you tried to call me?" I reply as I dig my fingernail into my hand.
Long story short--this particular pediatric dentist is especially elderly, and apparently inadvertently picked my daughter's dentist day, to be rushed off in an ambulance.
"Will he be okay?" I ask. She whispers, "I just don't know." I send my well wishes and head out the door. Perfect.

See what I mean? Mama TV--you'll laugh, you'll cry...mostly cry. Everyone knows drama is always the perfect ending to a show, my show that is. But wait...the saga continues.

I head home with my sick baby, and disapointed daughter. My husband gets home from work after a four hour commute, due to incredible traffic. This night was supposed to be a date night for us. We decide to just put the kids to bed, and go out at around 9 p.m. to Barnes and Noble for some quiet magazine reading and coffee. Who needs fine dining, when you can read a book, uninterrupted. My kids surprisingly go down to sleep easy, and the plan takes action. (All this, to build up to the finale.) My parents stay with the kids as my husband and I head to the bookstore.

As we pull up, the store looks surprisingly busy for this hour of the night. We walk in only to discover it is "Harry Potter Night." Perfect. The new book is being released, so they are throwing some sort of loud, costume and contest party. I couldn't believe my eyes.(Did I mention how much I dislike Harry Potter?) Hundreds of people dressed up like witches, sorcerers...Harry Potter. There are no seats let alone even enough room to walk through the aisles. I feel my heart rate increase as I pop a squat in the corner of the autobiography section. Ahh...a nice quiet evening to end a chaotic day with the kids...perfect.

Sincerely Sunday

Unsatisfied

The last few years, I've struggled to find satisfaction in myself and who I am. I've always known I'm a good mother and wife, and am completely confident and satisfied in those roles, but satisfaction in myself as a person, I sometimes didn't have. I've felt as though I wanted more, and needed more. I can remember saying to my husband at times, "I want more, I need to be more than this." It wasn't until I heard some of "A Purpose Driven Life," and got a whole new perspective on satisfaction, that I realized what it means to be truly satisfied.

See, the world tells you to want more, have more, be more. "Be all that you can be," "Get more for your money." Get a bigger TV, bigger car, bigger house. These things in themselves aren't necessarily bad. But what they promote is dissatisfaction, and a life of always wanting more. This may seem obvious to you all, but I know with me, I didn't necessarily realize it was happening, but little by little, it was. I started out completely confident and actually honored to be a stay at home mom, and little by little I started to see it as a "just" kind of job. I was fooled by the world's standards and I wanted more.

"A Purpose Driven Life" talks about how God created us with a void inside, one that only He can fill. The truth is we have dissatisfaction because we are looking to the wrong things to fill us. No matter how much money, possessions, or degrees we have, it is not humanly possible for us to be satisfied. At least not with those things.

He designed us to want Him, and even if we don't know it, He designed us to need Him. Ever feel like you just don't have enough? Think you need to be more? I know I do. All the time. We need Christ. Only He can satisfy.

Does this little sermon mean I'm truly satisfied? Not even close. I know it's easy to write, not as easy to do. Almost daily I fall into the thoughts of wanting more and being more. It's not until I come out of the fog I'm in, and remember to spend time with Him, that I realize where I'll get true satisfaction. We can all try to fill ourselves up on achievements and things, but trust me, we never will. We weren't meant to.

If you can, check out this song from Hillsong United.

Grosser than Gross

I've decided to take part in the "Grosser than Gross" tag that Steph of Adventures in Babywearing, is hosting. This may not compete with some of the other's downright disgusting stories, but what can I say? You didn't sit on my couch. Here goes.

A Sofa Story

I can still remember how excited I was that day, browsing through the furniture store. My husband and I had just gotten back from our honeymoon, and with a wad of wedding money in our pockets, we headed to the local furniture chain to pick out our first couch together.

I remember carefully picking out the coordinating plaids and florals, the perfect accents to our country apartment. As we handed the lady our $800.00 in cash, there was one last detail to address.
"Did you want to Scotchguard the sofa?" the lady asked. With little contemplation, we answered in unison, "Oh no, we won't need that." Period. Biggest mistake of our lives, right there. If only we had the foresight that my wise mother has...if only we could go back in time.

Fast forward approximately two years. Our green plaid couch was holding up great. It's wide cushions and fluffy pillows catered to our needs perfectly. We loved our couch. Everyone loved our couch. And then one day it happened. What we didn't know then, but know now, as the "beginning of the end."

My daughter was about 18 months old, our little doll. Even at that age we could see her artistic nature in bloom. It was everywhere in our apartment, pictures on the refrigerator, on the walls, just everywhere. Along came that day: My husband claims he was busily cleaning that hot summer day, and thought she was just "hiding" from him. But to his surprise, when he lifted the overstuffed, ticking striped pillow, what he revealed was not what he had thought. Our little Picasso had fearlessly drawn with permanent black marker on the couch, not just the pillow...the entire couch. In fact to this day, I'd swear it was a picture of a face laughing. It was laughing all right, laughing at me, that is.

From that moment on, protecting the couch became much less of a priority for us. We no longer felt the need to guard it with our lives. What could be worse than permanent marker? That couch was as good as dead to us.

As the years passed, the children increased and so did the damage. The staining became much more of a daily occurrence. The wear and tear progressed and we knew it wouldn't be long until we had to let it go.

The final demise of our sofa would come with the potty training of our middle son. I don't think I have to tell you, it wasn't a pleasant time for anyone involved, including the couch. The accidents kept happening over and over, and the cushion covers were shrinking due to the constant washing. As you can imagine, this left for some worn down, half opened cushions. I tried to cover the couch with a pretty slip cover. Those things never completely work. They slide all over the couch, and never really amount to much more than a blanket tossed on the couch. And everyone who sits on a slipcover, always fears what is lurking under it.
In my case, the fear was a valid one.

Ironically enough, what would prompt us to get rid of our beloved couch, was not the staining, (our standards were much lower now), it was the smell. Though it was hard to let go,(not really, the thing was rancid), we found a lovely replacement, (a 1980's hunter green pouf couch), and moved our prized sofa down into the garage. There it would rest for the next two years, where my husband would rip off its fabric to use as grease rags. Imagine that. Our dream couch, stripped and reduced to rags. What a shame.

If only we had opted for the Scotchguard...