Sneak Peek for the "M" Family

Thanks guys! I'm looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow! Hope you like em!

Sneak Peek for Baby J

Here is sweet Baby J...just five weeks old.

My First Maternity Session

Here's your sneak peek...

Check out my new site...

What I do when my kids go to sleep...

Sneak peek for the P family

Thanks for the fun! Here's your sneak peek...

No words.

Some people's children take their breath away. Mine take my words away. I used to be sharp, I used to be quick, I used to be innovative.
I used to have an answer for everything.

My Kid: "Mama, why can't I hit my brother?"

Me: "Because it's not nice...and he'll probably hit you back."

Bam. Problem solved. Fight diffused.

Yes, I used to be...

While I once could come up with a sufficient punishment at the drop of a hat, I now find myself stuttering, and tripping over my words to come up with a proper "if...then" statement. A statement that means business.

One that keeps my three year old from ripping open a bag of chocolate chips from the pantry, and one that makes my five year old think twice before he talks back "one more time."

Yeah, my kids know mama's going soft. Oh,they're all over me, testing me left and right.
My "one more time" has now become forty-seven more times. Wanna know why? Because I have no more words, and I need the extra time to come up with something good.

Take this evening at dinner. Not unlike any other night, tonight's meal started with a brawl over a plastic cup. In our home, this cup is referred to as the "special" cup. While it serves it's purpose well as a liquid container, I can't for the life of me figure out why this cup is so "special." But to my children, it is.

In fact it's so special that my kids are willing to risk their meal, their toys, their valentines, their college education and every other good thing they have, just to drink from it. Unbelievable.

Unfortunately, when the fight broke out tonight my brain was unprepared yet again, and the only thing I could come up with was for the culprit to go sit on the red chair.

The red chair.
Pathetic, I know.

Ahhh...the life with four kids. I need some help people.

Who I blame for my three gray hairs...

This is beginning to look look like one of those photo blogs...

Here is your sneak peek of Baby S!

I need some new models

My children are getting pretty tired of me sneaking pictures of them. Let's just say there is a lot of free candy floating around my house these days...

Plan B

Some recent photos...get the word out, if you're pregnant or a mom, this Mama of four wants to take pictures of your newborn, kids or family. Check out my site at www.marionburgos.printroom.com.

Another year, another year older...

With my recent family addition of my fourth child, my sweet baby girl, I've come to realize now more than ever, that my children are growing, and they are growing fast. Faster than I can keep up with, actually.

My days are a whirlwind of carpools, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and poopy diapers. Sometimes in that order. Sometimes, I go to bed at night not even able to remember what I did, or who I spoke to that day.

My husband tells me I often wake in the middle of the night in a panic, running around the room saying, "where's the baby, where's the baby?" All the while, she is safely tucked into her crib.

It's not necessarily the actual load of the kids, that makes having four small children difficult, it's mainly just that there isn't enough time in the day to feed, clothe, entertain, read to, sing with, play with and kiss a million times, all of my children. And when I don't do all of the above, every day, with each of them, I go to bed feeling like the day is done, before I am done. Don't get me wrong, at the end of every day I am completely physically done, sometimes I just feel like there just wasn't enough time in the day. Today was one of those days. Today I was in the same house with my children every second of the day, and yet I will go to bed tonight missing them.

Where in the world have I been?

What can I say? I'm a dreamer...and I've been busy working on my next dream over here.

Death of a Wardrobe

Something very sad has been happening around here. My wardrobe is dying. A very long, slow and painful death. And while I'd like to say that I have just discovered that the shirt I've been wearing around town for the past year is "so eighties," (as is that phrase,) sadly enough, I'd have to admit that I saw signs.

I'd say it probably started about 6 years ago. Strangely enough, it was right around the time I gave birth to my firstborn, my source of delight--my daughter. Yes, come summer of that year, I realized that even though I had lost all of the weight I had gained while pregnant, somehow, someway, my body had changed(became permanently deformed), and the clothes that once fit me, now did not.

So I began to shop with the mindset of, "I will buy whatever fits me in this entire store, as long as I don't have to go up a size." And with this, as you may have guessed, brought home some questionable pieces.

Shortly after my daughter turned one, came my pride and joy, baby number two--my son. (AKA: the baby who turned my thighs to jello.) This time around I remembered what I looked like after my first, and I tried to cut back during the pregnancy in hopes of lessening the aftermath effects a bit. And for the most part, I did, and was able to fit into a lot of the after-pregnancy clothes from my first. While I had hoped this size was just a "transition size," (defined as: the size we moms are, after we have our babies; sometimes months after, sometimes years after,) unfortunately while pregnant with my son, I ate too many Tostitos with Lime, and this became my new size. Luckily, I had an abundance of fashionable clothing from my last pregnancy, so updates were only needed for family events and Christmas parties.

While the two years in between my second and my third may seem short to some, it was a breath of fresh air to, well, my wardrobe. I managed to cut down my thighs a bit, and in turn, managed to pick up some new clothes here and there, just enough to make me look somewhat put together.

And then there were three. Clothes weren't about fashion. Clothes were about not being naked. (My wardrobe begins to get sick. Very sick.)

And just about the time I begin to lay some pieces to rest, my sweet baby number four arrives, my second baby girl, my love, the one that makes me wish I could fit into post-pregnancy clothes from baby number one, and the one that makes me know that I never want to sport a "post pregnancy" wardrobe again.

At this point, my wardrobe consists of a mish-mash of clothes from past years, clothes that are stained, and either clothes that are way too big, or way too small. My wardrobe is ill I tell you. Very ill.

And from the way the events unfolded today in the dressing room with my infant and toddler, I'm pretty sure it's going to stay that way for awhile. I almost think that they want me to dress like a bag lady.

Unless of course, one of you out there nominates me for TLC's WHAT NOT TO WEAR.

Wait, I guess you'd have to see me to do that. Scratch that idea.

It's never too early to learn about the Trinity

Despite their sometimes questionable policies, I have resumed all activities at the library. And yesterday when I took my four kids, I struck up some interesting conversation with my two year old, while reading a book.

MY SON: "Mama, those are stars." (He feels the need to narrate everything.)

ME: "Yes honey, you're right. And do you know who made the stars?"

MY SON: "Jesus."

ME: "Yes, God made the stars."

MY SON: (With puzzled look on his face) "God made the stars? I thought Jesus made those stars."

ME: "Jesus is God."

MY SON: "Jesus is God?!?"

And I was just about to quote some scripture and go into the biblical truths behind this, but luckily a daddy long leg caught his eye, and that was the end of our conversation.

These few moments, however, along with an in-depth conversation with my daughter last week about how Adam and Eve "weren't born," have caused me to reprioritize my daily schedule to include a much more detailed and fact driven quiet time in the Word.

Two things that are sure to ruin my morning

1. Quaker chewy granola bars

My sleepy two year old asks for one every morning, but because they are chewy they almost always break in half when you open them.

This is an action that sends my son into a tizzy that is impossible to pull him out of. Needless to say, there is a half of box of half opened granola bars sitting in my pantry.

2. 3/4 in. sleeves

My six year old wears uniforms to school that consist of a white collared shirt and navy blue jumper. For some reason my daughter is very sensitive to minuscule droplets of water, and any kind of constraining device on her forearms--ie. 3/4 in sleeves.

Typically after I've meticulously opened the Quaker chewy granola bar, I attempt to stretch the armholes of my daughters cotton dress shirt, so that her arms freely slide up and down the shirt.

And I'm expected to get four kids out of the house by 7:30 every morning.

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The costumes that broke the bank

It's that time of year again. The leaves are falling. There's a chill in the air. And the seasonal section of department stores are lined with every Halloween costume known to man. Whatever your kid wants to be, they've got it. We're talking a real diverse collection of costumes here--Spiderman, Transformers, Elmo...
My husband even found a "Diva" costume today. I'm sorry but how in the heck do you dress up like a Diva? Gold chains and big hair? Who knows. One thing I do know is I guarantee some little girl is going to walk right into Target and pick out that very costume.

That is, only if she can afford to be a diva! I'm telling you what, I just about passed out in the aisle today when I saw how much these costumes were! Twenty, thirty, some even forty dollars! For a Halloween costume! It's crazy!

And what's really crazy is that I almost bought three! Luckily, my kids are still young, and can be easily swayed into changing their minds. Mommy has a way of making certain things sound better than others.

"I bet they have a ton of costumes on E-bay. Orrrr...mommy can make you a really awesome costume! Why don't we go home and search on the computer?"

So, to avoid my family's financial demise, and the need to be "bailed-out," I swayed my children and am now responsible for putting together three very "cool" costumes.

The irony of this whole predicament, is that we are not big fans of Halloween anyway, being that we are against pretty much everything it stands for.

What can I say?

We like candy.

Manners for manners

I've recently come across a problem, that I did not see coming. For the past six years I have been teaching my children to use their manners, to be polite, to say please and thank you, and excuse me when it's appropriate. And for the most part, they have done very well in this area, and have turned out to be very polite little people.

However, while I was able to teach them manners, I have failed in teaching them couth. Like if someone has a boogie in their nose, it's not polite to point it out. Or in this case, if someone passes gas on the sly, you don't always have to point them out and tell them to say excuse me.

This is what my two year old did this past week. While I also noticed the faux poi's, I of course didn't mention it. Unfortunately my little darling couldn't help but say something.

At the time, I must admit, I was kind of proud. I didn't know whether to say, "good manners, sweetie," or pretend I didn't hear him and walk away. I opted for choice B, and I walked away, completely oblivious to the mumblings of my two year old.

Oh well, guess it's just one more thing to add to my list of fears in public.

My week in a nutshell

Monday morning, my son decided to style his own hair and put half of the container of gel into his hair, while sitting on my couch. He looked like Frankenstein.

On Tuesday, I caught my two year old son eating a half a stick of butter. For some strange reason, he enjoyed the taste, and continued to grab chunks of it and shove them in his mouth, as I attempted to pry it from his hands.

On Wednesday, it was clear that the butter did not sit well with my son. He tried to run to the bathroom, but didn't make it in time and pooped on the floor in front of the toilet. Lesson learned.

On Wednesday night I went out to an evening writing class and came home to my three month old, who had not eaten in three and a half hours. For a breastfed baby, that mineswhile have been three and a half days. Apparently, all bottle attempts had failed. I went to bed with terrible mother guilt, and resolved to never leave my baby again.

Thursday seemed to be going by without a glitch, that is, until my hubby came home. We seem to have some sort of crazy fertile soil in the front of our house, as all of our perennial "shrubs" have grown to massive sizes. My husband volunteered to trim down our butterfly bush. Twenty minutes later the entire landscaping in our front yard had disappeared. Vanished. It looked like a tornado had come through our neighborhood, ripped up all the plants, and left the house. (Sorry honey, I know I told you I would never mention it again.) What once looked like an amazon jungle, now looks like a desert. I will now spend an unmentionable amount of money, replacing all plants that were lost.

Today is Friday. So far, the morning has been pretty uneventful, but I imagine it will not stay that way. I guess we'll have to wait and see...

A picture is worth a thousand words

Yeah, but is it worth a thousand dollars?

Definitely not if it was taken at one of the department store photo labs. I'm not going to name names though, I'm only going to warn you not to waste your PENNYS at any of those places.
Unfortunately, I am a tough learner, and realized this only after my 25Th time there.

If you're a mom, and you have more than one child, chances are, you can relate to this story. Pictures mean the world to me. I just love them. I love capturing memories, especially since I have four kids now and can barely remember all their names.

I want pictures of every moment of every day.

I want a picture of my baby's feet, because I know one day, I'll forget just how tiny they really were.

And I want a picture of my boys with their spiky hair, because I know that one day, they won't let me rub hair products in their hair, just to get it the way I like it.

One day they probably won't even let me touch their hair.

And even though I didn't love the thought of getting my kids all dolled up and driving forty minutes to get their picture taken, I decided, the picture would be worth it. The memory would be worth it.

So, my husband and I did just that.

Unfortunately, our picture perfect moments were not captured. In fact, the only moments that were captured, were these cartoon-like, wide-angled photos of children with enormous heads. Not my children, more like bubble children.

Now, I'm not a professional photographer by any means, but I'm pretty sure if you use a wide angle lens up close on a child's face, their face is going to look, er...wide.

Besides the terrible shots, the photographer's people skills were less than desirable. I mean, what kid is going to smile at someone who's shouting at them to move their feet?

And to round out the entire unpleasant experience, when I refused to buy any of the photos, they explained to me that I would need to pay the $40.00 sitting fee. Can you imagine?

Unfortunately, I don't remember the end of this story, as I blacked out shortly after that.

I do, however, know that when I came to, all of my money was still in my wallet, and...I didn't have handcuffs on.

Why two year olds shouldn't make homemade pizza

Because they may or may not grab the garlic salt and run around the house dumping it all over the carpet.

And the couch.

And their sister's head.

Surely, we will not make that mistake again.

Politics? What are politics?

I've noticed that a bunch of bloggers have been writing about politics and the upcoming election. Until about a week ago, I would have nothing to say on the topic. Mainly, because I know nothing. Politics just doesn't interest me. Not one bit. Heck, I've never even watched a debate before.

But, when I heard a mother of five kids could possibly be Vice President, I just had to find out about her. So, I watched her speech...and she blew me away.

She inspired me as a woman and as a mother.

She made me proud.

Proud of a fellow mother. Proud of a fellow American.
Proud of a fellow Christian.


As I watched this woman speak on possibly becoming the second most powerful position in this country, and then walk over to her family proudly embracing her five children, I was brought to tears. One of these children, being a baby which some Americans wouldn't have even valued as worthy to be born, only months ago, and another, a teen who will probably be looked down upon, and deemed foolish by some, because she sinned.

But her children, nonetheless.

From the few moments I heard this woman speak, I knew. I knew that we shared the same values. I knew that she believed in the same God as I. I knew that she valued human life. And I knew that she believed in forgiveness.

Her family isn't perfect. She isn't perfect.
But as Palin walked over to her children and kissed each of their heads, she painted a picture for me, of the kind of country I want my children to grow up in.

A people that believes in God.
A people that values human life, even when others don't.
A people that needs and gives forgiveness.

Come election day, I know where my vote is going.

That is, as long as I can figure out those poll machines. (Just pull the lever, right?)

Death by laundry

I'm pretty sure if you laid out all of my laundry, end to end, the pile would go around the world 13 times. Maybe more.

The strange thing is, noone in my family ever has any clothes to wear.

So the obvious question would be, whose clothes am I washing?

When two year olds begin to reason

Somehow my son managed to drag his bubble lawnmower into my living room, and up onto my couch.

As soon as that caught my eye, I told him to put it back outside on the porch.

He responded with, "but then my lawnmower can't see me!"

Who can argue with that? The kid is smart. Makes his mama proud.

Change of plans

As I dropped my big girl off at her first grade classroom this week, I couldn't help but feel as though I was losing her for good. Sure, I know, it's only first grade, I mean she's only six, for crying out loud. But...I wasn't prepared for this.

I wasn't prepared to rush out in the middle of the night searching for dress shoes and navy blue knee highs. Or prepared to be cutting off the crusts of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich at ten o'clock at night. I wasn't prepared to drop her off and leave her for six whole hours. Every day. For the next 180 days. I wasn't prepared for it, because it wasn't my plan.

My plan was to homeschool my daughter. My plan was to see her every day, all day. My plan was to teach her how to add and subtract, take her on field trips, explore and dissect things together. All the while providing her with all the foundation in God, and the academic education she would need. I could do it. I knew I could.

People looked at me like I was crazy. Homeschool with three kids and a newborn? "That sounds really difficult," they'd say. Or at least they'd think it. But I was determined, I knew what was best. Or so I thought.

As I sat down at the kitchen table with my eldest daughter and began to recite the instructions for the lesson, something didn't feel right. It wasn't that it was too hard to follow, for me or for her. Sure, I was somewhat distracted by my two year old attempting to bite my four year old in the butt, but I remained as composed as possible. And my daughter, she whizzed through page after page. She stayed focused and neat, the picture of a perfect student. But again, something didn't feel right.

Still, I pressed on with the lesson. As we closed up our books, I began to feel this gnawing feeling. Maybe, just maybe, homeschooling wasn't the right thing for my girl. Maybe, this wasn't enough.

The huge grin that once adorned her face as she ran out of her classroom, just wasn't there, as we sat down to work together. And the beaming smile that she had, as she performed "Grand Old Flag" on stage with her peers, wouldn't be there either.

Sure, I had big plans. Plans for groups of other children, and science and music lessons, but for my girl, it just didn't seem to be enough. She needed more. She needs more. And though it was hard to admit, for the first time, I couldn't give her what she needed.

My plans of homeschooling my girl, and knowing and being a part of every single thing she learned, turned out, not to be the best thing for her. I struggled with this decision. I wrestled with it, going back and forth in my brain. I even resorted to telling myself that if other people did it, why couldn't I? She'd be fine, I thought. But in the end, I decided, fine isn't enough. Not for my girl.

I want her to thrive. I want her to be happy. I want her to fulfill the plan God has for her. Not the plan I have for her. So, I let go. I let go of my plans, and began to take hold of God's.(Not without a good fight, of course.)

So now, my girl will go off to a good Christian school for six hours every day for the next 180 days, and I can't be with her. I can't watch her learn how to multiply, or make sure she's being polite to her teachers, or even eat lunch with her.

I'm just thankful He can.

Three things that have changed since I had my fourth

1. I have found that I need to make lists, in order to remember to do things. Go pee is on that list.

2. Dinner time used to be a time for our family to talk about our day. Dinner time has now officially been renamed, "quiet time."

3. My husband and I are so busy running around during the day, that the only time we have to talk, is when we're sleeping. We call it multitasking.

Wake up call

I recently aspired to waking up in the morning with a much more enthusiastic and positive attitude for the day, even if I am run down and exhausted.

This morning I awoke around 4 am to my toddler lying next to me. Unbenounced to me, sometime during the night, he snuck into my bed and curled up between my husband and I.

I also awoke to a wetness streaming down my back.

He peed in our bed. A lot.

So much for aspirations. Better luck tomorrow.

Interesting bedtime conversation with my daughter

On our recent weekend family getaway, this is what my daughter said to me as I laid her to sleep one night.

My daughter: "Mama, did you know that today the policeman brought my baby brother back to our room?"

Me: "What are you talking about honey?"

My daughter: "Yeah, when daddy brought us back to our hotel, the policeman found (brother) in the hallway, and knocked on our door."

Me to Husband: "Honey, what the heck is she talking about?"

Husband: "NO, it wasn't like that at all...it wasn't a policeman."

Me: "Yeah??"

Husband: "It was just a security guard."

Qualified

With the recent addition of my newest baby, our fourth, the family dynamic has changed a bit. What was once a sometimes rambunctious household, has now turned into an all out every-man-for- himself, chaotic zoo. Some days I feel myself attempting to block out the myriad of "mamas!", and waterfalls of tears, but to no avail. Some days I am in such a exhausted stupor, that I forget things, like putting the stroller in the trunk, before I back out over it in the driveway. Yes, rare is the occasion that I can even hear myself think, but this morning I found myself drifting off into my brain, for just a quick second.

It all began as I pulled up to the gas pump and began pumping, as I listened to the screams of my six year old. She had gotten her hair entangled in the seat in front of her, while she was picking up the gum wrapper for her "collection." In doing that, she bumped into my two year old who was already screaming about the water bottle that he had dropped on the car floor. As the tears welled up in my eyes, (just a reflex), I found myself comparing the many facets of my job, to other jobs out in the world. And to my surprise, I concluded that the level of stress that I endure on a daily basis, is that much like these other high-intensity occupations. I have discovered that I am in fact, much more qualified for these positions, now, as a stay at home mom of four, then I would be if say, I went to a four-year private college. The following is a list of jobs that I might apply for when I retire:(Please add any additional occupations you think we moms, might be qualified for)

1. Hostage Negotiator--impeccable bribery skills

2. the next Survivorman--with the amount of food that I "save" in my minivan, a family of four could stay alive in an amazon jungle, for at least a month

3. Captain of a Cruise ship--my sense of direction is unwavering, even with passengers in complete pandemonium and disarray and all out fist fights

4. Wrestler--I can pry a bottle of body lotion away from my two year old faster than that baby jaguar on Diego, can climb a tree

5. Lawyer--let's face it, I read my kids like a book. I know when they're tired, when they're hungry and most importantly, when they have to go potty in the middle of a fancy restaurant

One reason why I know God has a sense of humor

I just came across this very interesting post...

"Ask, and it will be given..."

The Beginnings of a Perfectionist

Last night, my husband and I awoke to the unconsolable screams of my two year old. We waited for him to stumble down the stairs to us, and when he did, asked him what was wrong. I had assumed he was either thirsty or had a bad dream, but to my surprise, his response was neither. Through sobs and tears, my little darling cried, "my room is a mess!"

O-kay. Not exactly your typical toddler trauma, but understandably upsetting. I know that I've felt like waking in the middle of the night and screaming about the nine loads of laundry that were waiting for me in the basement.

The Place to Poop

Let's just say our town library probably won't be extending any personal invitations to my family, to return any time soon. Can someone please explain to me why my children insist on pooping every time we go to the library? I mean are they pumping microscopic fiber molecules through the ventilation system? Are they serving raisins and apple juice for snack time? I just don't get it. What is it about the library, that makes them have to go?

Not more than five minutes had gone by when my nine week old decided to do some major pooping, with sound effects mind you, at exactly the moment that I bent down to pick out some books for my kids. The embarrassment from that little incident alone, was enough for me to hightail it out of there. Boy was I naive. The real torture hadn't even begun. After I changed my daughter's diaper, I proceed back to the main children's area to pick out some more books, only to find my potty-training toddler holding the back of his pants saying, "pee-pee, mama!"

This of course turns out to be entirely false, as I go to help him up on the potty, and to my surprise, receive a handful of poop as a thank you. Yeah, did I mention my son mixes up the names of his bodily functions? It gets worse. Because I wasn't aware of this major accident when I placed him on the potty, by now there is poop everywhere...in his pants, down his legs, on the potty.

I attempted to clean up my squirming toddler and the library facilities, all the while using an appropriate library inside voice. Unfortunately, my attempts at remaining discreet in my mission failed, as my infant screamed in hysteria for me to pick her up. Did I mention how those bathrooms echo?

So, I finish the cleanup and head back out to my older two, who are patiently waiting to pick out some books. Just as I lay my baby back in her stroller, I hear the same daunting words all over again..."pee-pee mama." Yup, that's right. Poop mission number two, except this time it's even worse because I have no more wipes, and no more changes of clothes. Needless to say, after the second attempt to sanitize my son and the library bathroom, I promptly packed up my four children and headed home. From now on, I'm renewing my books over the phone.

One ticket to crazyland, please.

After a long, hard day with the kids, I received a very interesting phone call from the telephone company. One that kept me wracking my brain for hours:

"Tiffany" the phone operator: "Hello, I'm calling because you have an outstanding portion of your bill that has gone unpaid. And in order to prevent an interruption of service, you're going to need to pay this portion."

Me: Oh, yes I know all about it. Yeah, we actually don't owe that, we returned the DVR box(babysitter), and we were told we would receive a credit."

Tiff: "Yes, there is an outstanding $300.00 on your bill for the box and I see no credit."

Me: "The box was returned, I know, I did it myself."

Tiff: "Right, but we are showing no record of that. The box would've gone to customer service, so you're going to need to work that out with them."

Me: "Okay, can you transfer me?"

Tiff: "Uh, no ma'am I can't. But I can give you their number."

Me: "Ok, I'll call them now."

Tiff: "So how would you like to pay your bill ma'am, to prevent interruption of service?"

Me: "umm.. I don't owe anything, but I was going to call customer service to work it out."

Tiff: "Yes, you'll need to work that out and then call us back...but as soon as you hang up, you will receive an interruption of service, unless you pay this portion of the bill."

Me: "Okay, so as soon as I hang up, my phone will not work?"

Tiff: "That is correct, ma'am. Unless you pay your bill."

Me: "But I don't have a bill. I have a credit."

Tiff: "Right, but we have no record of that, customer service does."

Me: "So, how exactly can I call customer service if my phone won't work after I hang up?"

Tiff: "Well, ma'am if you pay this portion of your bill, your service will not be interrupted."

Me: (banging head on table) "I'd like to speak with your supervisor."

"Please hold..."

This conversation resulted in the phone company admitting their mistake and crediting my account. They assured me my service would not be interrupted, and I no longer owed anything. I got off the phone and just as they said, it was not shut off. Later that day, I went food shopping and came home and mysteriously, my DVR box was shut off...

All aboard....

Do we really need bread?

Four things. I only need four things. This was my mantra as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot yesterday, with a minivan full of children. My children to be exact. Although outings these days aren't as easy as they once were (yeah,right), I decided to forgo the risk that accompanies four small children in a grocery store. After all, I only needed four things.

I unloaded my gang and allowed my two year old the freedom to walk and hold hands with his sister. First mistake. I managed to walk my parade the 30 feet across the parking lot, into the store and right up to the redbox movie machine, (AKA: Date night.) And the meltdown begins. I tried to wait patiently for my two year old to slide the movie into the return slot. I noticed my eight week old begin to stir, and I knew my window of opportunity was closing in. I watched as my two year old stretched as tall as he could to reach the slot and tried to assist without him knowing, but my feeble attempt had failed. The second my finger grazed the machine, the wailing and body thrashing began. I decided I would not be completely controlled by this kid,(at least not this time), and I quickly pried the movie from his hands and shoved it into the box. Within seconds he had flung himself to the ground. And to top it off, at this very moment my hungry infant begins to cry.

As I picked up my baby, I couldn't help but notice the stares, some sympathetic, some just plain annoyed by the commotion. I strained my voice over the screams of both my children and managed to lure my two year old to follow me towards the bakery. I attempted to regain my composure and my thoughts long enough to remember what the heck I had needed at the store in the first place. But as my mind wandered, so did my son--right up to the freshly baked italian bread where he began to slide the loaves out of their paper bags, all the while telling me, "we need this." I motioned for him to put the bread down, and when he didn't comply, I grabbed his little wrist and made a bee-line for the diaper aisle. This pattern continued on as I maneuvered through the store looking for my four items.

We neared the registers and as I pulled into the lane, my sweet child proceeded to grab numerous candy bars and throw them into the cart. With my infant on one arm, I used my other arm to wrestle the candy from his hands and lifted my son into the cart. A feat that had to be seen to believe. As the screams intensified I tried to remain calm long enough to scan my items and pay. Gotta love self-checkout.

I was pretty much to my boiling point as I headed out to the car with two of my four children screaming at the top of their lungs. I lifted my two year old out of the cart, and wrestled him over to the driver side to put him in his carseat. Unfortunately, I could not even get to the driver side, as a large orange pickup had pulled into the parking spot next to mine, so close that only a paper thin person could fit through. And unfortunately, paper thin I am not. At this very moment I actually thought to myself, "Now I understand why people key other peoples cars." Terrible thought,yes, but sadly enough, true. So, I head back around to the other side of the car with my kicking and screaming toddler and catapult him across the baby seat, into his car seat. Once all my children were securely fastened I jump the passenger seat to get to my seat, and sped off towards home.

The moral of the story is this: If you're thinking about going on an outing with all of your children, ask yourself this, "do we really need bread?"

Number One Sign that Your Kid is Bored

This morning my two and a half year old playfully drove his Imaginext safari jeep into the living room. Alongside his "bounty hunter," (thank you husband), was one spankin new nursing pad. Shortage of toys, you say? Afraid not.

And Then There were Four...

Here she is, born two weeks early...

Grace Kathryn
June 6, 2008

7lbs. 3 oz
20 in. long




Keep checking my posts, as this mama will be back in service very soon.

A CHIP off the Ol' Block

My husband has a problem. A serious problem. Actually, it's more of a condition, then a problem. He's a chronic thrower-outer. And yes, that is the official medical term. You see, he throws everything out. And I mean everything.

Any type of food that has had it's temperature altered for more than thirty seconds, is game for the garbage pail, at any given moment. That last, juicy piece of Easter ham that you had been craving all day--gone. Oh, didn't you see? A smidge of mashed potato cross contaminated it while you were transferring it into the tupperware Sunday night. Yeah, it had to be thrown out.

And that Reese's peanut butter cup that you had hidden in the fridge, for that late night chocolate fix--Sorry...freezer burn, had to get rid of it.

This has been the story for many a food item at my home in the past seven years. And for the most part, I've gotten used to it. Typically, if I want any food that I don't eat in the first 24 hours after I bring it home from the grocery store, I try to make it well-known. And I have somewhat established the rule of, if there is nothing growing on it in the fridge, then it is still edible, and it is off limits to the garbage man. I've also adjusted pretty well to the fact that the term "leftovers" is null and void at our home. The Good Lord knows leftovers don't stand a chance next to my husband.

So, as a good wife, I've put up with many disappearing food disappointments, and I've accepted the numerous stories of my husband's bouts of "food poisoning"... If I had a nickel for every food poisoning episode...

As adjusted as I am, in this state of pregnancy that I am in, certain things are just unacceptable. Like the disposal of a perfectly brand new bag of sour cream n' onion Baked Lays--completely unacceptable. I had bought them about three days ago, and then like most things I bring into my car, they were stranded to my front seat since. (It was either carry up the chips, or my sleeping two year old.)

This evening, as I felt a crunchy craving coming on, I asked my husband what he did with my brand new bag of Baked Lays. I should've suspected their fate, as I watched my husband's face droop, and his words begin to stutter. He couldn't even look me in the eye. I knew it.

"You threw them out???"

"I didn't throw them out."

"I cannot believe you threw them out!"

"I'm telling you I did not throw them out. While I was cleaning out the garage with the kids, we opened them up and started eating them."

"And then you threw them out?"

"NO! I did not! We started to eat them...and then...(he totally was trying to make it up as he went along,) our son was eating them all, so I put them on top of the car."

"Wait, let me guess, the old man up the street walked by and asked if he could borrow some potato chips?"

"NO, I'm telling the truth."

"Okay, so what...technically you didn't throw them out...the kids probably dropped them on the floor, and all these bugs started to come, so you had to vaccuum them up real quick...right?"

"No, I didn't."

"Okay, so if that didn't happen, and you didn't throw them out, then could you please go down to the garage and get my Baked Lays?"

"Okay, I will."

My loving husband proceeds to walk down the basement stairs. I heard him get halfway down and then head back up.

"OH, I remember what happened...the kids were starting to eat them all...and so I let them eat some, and then put them on top of the car...and then when we drove to the park, I forgot I had put them on top of the car, and I drove off."

"So, you are honestly telling me that my chips are spread out through our entire neighborhood?"

"Yeah, they're probably down the big hill, ya know, the one with all the bumps?"

"Unbelievable."

I had no more words. I could not and still cannot, grasp the untimely demise of my chips. Undeserved I say, undeserved.

And so the reign of my husband, the garbage man, continues on, and one more innocent food item gets thrown into the trash bin...or in this case, pavement.

Hormones...what hormones??

How bad is it when your five year old nephew tells your sister that you were "grouchy" yesterday?

So, just how many days will they let me stay in the hospital?

...one of the many fleeting thoughts I had this afternoon, as I attempted to keep composure during my two year old's 30 minute tantrum. Thoughts that shortly followed that, "how invasive is a tubal ligation?" and "I wonder if I have enough cheddar for dinner."

So, it's been awhile. I'm sure all six of my avid readers(family members), greatly missed my sarcastic rants. My apologies for my lack of commitment, but lately my days consist a great deal of driving back and forth to kindergarten, peeing every seven minutes, and catching at least 45 minutes of the ever popular American Idol, right before my husband and I doze off to sleep at approximately 8:56 p.m. Sadly, that is a pretty accurate description of my days. Throw in some daunting sciatic pain, an expanding backside and you have me, a just turned 27 year old, mother of three, who is 25.4 weeks, towards being a mother of four. And yes, the .4 matters. A lot.

Back to my original question...As of today, I have decided that this time I give birth, I am going to stay at the hospital as long as I possibly can. To some, the hospital may seem sterile, and smelly. A place where comfortable sleep is nearly impossible, and the food is worse than tv dinners. But to me, at least this time, the hospital will be my little paradise. I'm pretty sure our vacationing will cease to exist the second my fourth baby takes her first breath outside of my womb. So, I am going to treat my short stay, as a little treat, a little break, a little breath of fresh air. I mean sure, the food is pretty bad, but...I don't have to cook it, and that there, is worth its weight in gold. And ideally my vacation wouldn't include hours of painful labor, but hey, they've got epidurals. And typically I would prefer more "spa like" accommodations, rather then the "break down" beds they currently offer, but hey, at least I know I'll be sleeping alone there. All in all, not such a bad deal, I mean going from three kids at home, to one kid in the hospital? Sounds like a vacation to me...
Beggars can't be choosers, you know.

Dear Carol...

It seems that lately I am a magnet for running into very interesting people, on my day to day journeys. And wouldn't you know it, I always seem to run into them on those days when everything seems to be going wrong, and I'm just about to my breaking point(signing myself into an asylum), and then BAM!--there they are, smack down right in the middle of my chaos. Hmmm...maybe He is trying to teach me something? You think??

That's what happened this Tuesday--after my two year old had been complaining he had a boo-boo back for three days, and then woke up with a fever. Wouldn't you know I landed myself right in the x-ray department of the local hospital...at 9 a.m....with three kids...ALONE...
And there she was.

I wouldn't have guessed it when I saw her, she seemed nice enough--just doing her job(Or so I thought). Now, I could go through the whole story of how I met her, but I decided instead, I would just write her a letter...a letter in honor of our meeting:

Dear Carol,

If only we had met at a different time, or even a different place...maybe we could've been friends. Okay, maybe not friends, but I know for sure, we could've at least been friendly.

Sure, our meeting definitely could've been better. I can still remember looking up when those elevator doors opened, and then closed again, as I wrestled with my two year old to stop arching his back and dragging his feet, just long enough so I could actually exit the elevator. Yes, I remember your face as I finally squeezed my troop out of those doors. And although I could hardly hear you as my toddler screamed blood curdling screams, I'm pretty sure when I asked you if the wait would be long, that I sensed a bit of irritation in your voice. Was I bothering you Carol? Did I disturb your work that day? Or were you just annoyed that you couldn't concentrate with the screaming toddler in the background? If that's the case, I surely can understand. Maybe you can get some earplugs though, as I'm almost positive I am not the only mother in the world who totes around a screaming toddler. If I am, however, scratch the ear plug thing, as my children typically scream at higher-than-normal decibels.

Nonetheless, I sensed the irritation when you answered me, yet I wasn't bothered, as I figured maybe you too, were having a morning like mine.(although I highly doubt it)
I must admit, I was so involved in trying to appease(shut up) my screaming toddler, that I didn't even notice you were still staring at me, that is until you spoke. Yes, as I threatened my child with the all too familiar and yet completely uneffective "time-out," I couldn't help but hear a small voice in the background. It was your voice Carol. While I would've hoped for maybe a more helpful voice, or even a Higher voice, I heard your voice.

"Don't say that!"

I'm pretty sure those were the three words that once vocalized, would annihilate(at least for a time), our chances of ever becoming amigos. I questioned you, just to make sure that you were in fact speaking to me...and you were. You may have noticed my mouth drop as you went on to protest me telling my son that he would receive a time-out in of all places, the hospital. And though I think I may have passed out for a second or two, as you went on and on, I'm pretty sure I heard most of your argument claiming that I would make him afraid to come there--there, being the hospital--the place where sick people go--the place that typically doesn't evoke happy feelings in children.

Nonetheless, you stuck to your guns...as did I. Though I didn't agree with your position, or even your involvement in the disciplining of the child whom I birthed, I find it somewhat kind--your concern for my child, and his future fears. I'm not sure I told you that though. Umm...yeah, I'm pretty sure I didn't tell you that. So for that, I am sorry.

And when I told you that you obviously didn't have children...well, I suppose I could've jumped the gun there. Maybe you do have children, but maybe, just maybe, you slept through their toddler years. So, for that unnecessary comment, I am sorry again.

As far as you calling out another hospital employee, and claiming that I was causing a problem...I'm not sure that was necessary. In response to that action, I've got to ask, what did you think a pregnant woman with three small children, was going to do in an x-ray waiting room? Just curious.

So there you have it--our meeting. Not exactly a pleasant one, for either of us I'm sure. In closing, I just have one question for you Carol: Do you actually know what a time-out is? Because to be honest, it really isn't all that bad. Just sitting in a chair, that's all. And for my toddler, a two minute time-out, is usually completely forgotten about in, well, two minutes. I thought I'd tell you, as you may have mixed up time-out, with the word for midieval torture device. I can understand that.
So, my only hope is the next time we run into eachother, (there aren't any other hospitals to deliver my baby in), that we could be cordial to one another, maybe even smile at eachother. Maybe you won't even remember my gnarled face, and we could start fresh, meeting eachother all over again, for the first time. Yes, I think I hope for that.

My Best,

Mamaofthree

The Christmas Present

Some of you may think I'm completely confused and delusional, because Christmas was just about a month ago, but I can't help it. I feel like I have just received another Christmas present...the best Christmas present.

Remember that first morning after you brought your first baby home? Do you remember what it felt like to look into the bassinet and realize that it wasn't all a dream, and you actually are a mom? That always felt like Christmas morning to me--I was so excited, I just couldn't wait to wake up. (Yes, maybe I am delusional)

So, if you did the math, you'd know that I did not have this baby yet.
But my Christmas present...I am getting a GIRL! Yeah!! I've prepared the ol' "I don't care either way speech," as much as the next guy. But honestly, with one girl and two boys, I really wanted to even up the teams over here. Lord knows, if one more Hotwheels car enters this house...

So, if you can excuse me, I am going to celebrate with a trip to the baby girl clearance aisles at Target...

A Tale of Two Tummys

As I flipped through the latest pregnancy magazine, I can't help but think that the pregnant women in them, are not really pregnant. Actually, I'm thinking that they aren't even moms.

Take pregnant lady A, for example: She's lovely alright...long, wavy hair, soft glowing skin, perfectly rounded tummy. I say....complete fraud. Okay, so maybe it's her first baby. I know for sure she doesn't have more than one, because if she did, she would have not one rounded tummy, but two. As far as I know, you only get that perfectly rounded belly the first time around. Once baby number two hits, you've got yourself, what I like to call, "double trouble." Consider it a pregnancy gift, or a little memory book you carry around with you forever, either way you slice it, you've got yourself a small belly looking pouch from your previous baby, and then you've got your larger, more substantial belly containing your, now growing, new baby. I want to see the pregnant woman who looks like that. Where is that lady?

And never mind a perfect, little, inny belly button. After four pregnancies, I'm not even sure I have a belly button anymore. I think mine got swallowed up by pregnant belly number three, never to be heard from again.

Clue number two that this would be this woman's first baby...her long, wavy hair. Lord knows, if this woman was a mom already, her hair would have some sort of crusty, unidentifiable substance in it. Either that or sprinkles of baby powder--due to her inability to find the time to wash her hair that day.(you all know that trick, don't ya?) And the long part? Well, if it were her second, third or fourth child, her hair probably wouldn't look so healthy and long. I imagine her hair would be falling out in clumps from the surges of pregnancy hormones, not unlike my own. But the good thing is she wouldn't realize it until that one day she finally found time to clean the shower. Then she'd notice, for sure.

So, maybe it's better they don't show the real pregnant women after all...the shocking photos might deter some of the more put together women, to question the whole motherhood route. Luckily, I'm not one of those more put together women.

Sincerely Sunday

The Perfect Plan
Have you ever wondered why God chose to bring new life in the form of newborn babies? I mean, besides the whole size aspect and the need for new life to be able to fit in our womb, think about it. He had the perfect plan when He designed new life to be brought forth by a woman, in the form a tiny, newborn baby. I mean can you imagine if instead of having newborns, every time you had a baby it would be a two year old? You see, but He knew us. He knew us, because He designed us. And He knew that if new life would come in the form of a screaming, biting, tantrum throwing two year old, there is no way in this lifetime, that we would ever, ever, EVER, have more than one child. We just wouldn't. But He knew that, and that is why He chose to bring new life in the form of a perfect, sweet, pink, tiny baby. And that is why we, most of us anyway, choose to have more than one child. Want to know how I know this? Because I have lived through two two-year olds, am in the process of trying to live through one more, and wouldn't you know it, am choosing to have one more child, which consequently purposes me to yet one more round of the "terrible twos." Aren't you glad God knows what He's doing?

You Know You're Pregnant If...

1) Your non-maternity underwear are so tight, they put a semi-permanent indentation in the top of your thigh.

2) You pack two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and no drink in your daughter's lunchbox.

3) Your eyes well up with tears as you watch the new Bank of America commercial, or even just think about it.

Ummm...spoken from experience.

Saved By a Fly

Let's see, it's about 10:43 a.m., and the desperation set in at about 8 o'clock this morning. I know, it's too early to be desperate, too early to be negative about the day, but I am...well, I was anyway.

My cries of insanity started because my two year old has taken a real liking to all types of destruction--dumping things, spilling drinks, knocking down chairs, he's pretty much like a bull in a china shop, and well, I'm not gonna lie, it's starting to get to me a bit. But it's because he's two right? His utter defiance is completely normal, right??? Right??? Normal or not, it's making me feel the need to find a new career, outside of my home. Paper route, anyone?

So, the combination of the cornstarch spilled on the floor, the lotion squirted on the carpet, the fact that not one single spoon was clean and remembering that my husband would be working a double shift today, I knew that if I didn't gain just one minute of sanity, the day was headed for disaster. And then it happened...

I didn't even see it coming. It was like the good Lord above, came down to my home for just a minute, answered my prayer, and sent a little distraction...in the form of a fly. My son caught sight of it by the bay window, and was completely enthralled. In fact, he was so excited as he watched it fly up and down the window, that my daughter heard him, and came over to try and catch the fly. Not only did they watch the fly for at least ten minutes, their interest sparked a whole little play scenario, where my daughter acted as though she were a reporter interviewing my two year old, the fly catcher. So for about 20 sweet minutes, I had peace. There were no screams, no pulling hair, no knocking down picture frames, no dumping out sippys on the carpet...just peace...the kind of peace that could only come from a fly.

The Newest Addition to My Kitchen

As I ate the last bite of my homemade pizza this evening, I looked up directly across my kitchen and saw this bottle of soda. Come to think of it, I saw this bottle of soda when I was making the pizza. Even worse, I think I might have even seen it in the middle of my kitchen floor when I woke up this morning. And as I watched my children do their usual insane laps around my kitchen after dinner, I noticed that they ran directly around the bottle. I think that they think it belongs there. Actually, I'm starting to think it belongs there.

Sincerely Sunday

If only we had faith like this child.

Cookies You Should Not Volunteer to Make

They're just darling aren't they? Yes, they are just the vision I had when I filled out that little red slip for kindergarten and marked down, "peanut butter cookies." While I could have gone the traditional peanut butter blossom--Hershey's Kiss route, I opted for the more festive, Rudolph. Take my advice, unless you can do the following, do not make these cookies:

A) Pick up single grains of sand with your bare hands. (This will come in handy when you're making the sweet little mini-chocolate chip eyes)

B) Can break a branch into antler shapes. (Useful for constructing pretzel antlers)

C) Do not feel pain when touching burning hot cookie.

D) Can do all of these at warp speeds, moving fast enough to gently press Rudolph components onto the cookie before it cools and hardens, while wrestling young gladiator child from table with free hand.

If Cars Could Talk

If cars could talk, my minivan would say bad, bad things. Mean things. Terrible things. Maybe even obscenities. I know it's sounds bad, but sadly, it's true. I imagine if cars could talk, mine would probably say, "What did I ever do to you?" It would probably explain to me that contrary to what I believe, it is NOT a closet, or a storage facility, or worse, a trash can. My car might even bring up the old incident of 2004, where I forgot to fully raise the garage door, and drove right through it. It might talk about the numerous times I've accidentally drove up on the curb, or even over the curb. One thing I know for sure, if cars could talk, I'm pretty sure my minivan would bring up the dreaded happenings of yesterday...Yes, this story is just too good(really bad), to be left untold.

As the snowstorm hit the other night, I relished the thought of just hanging out in our pajamas all day, watching Christmas movies and baking cookies. By 10 a.m., that thought changed to, "Is it really too bad out to drive her to school? Anyway, after what seemed like a 48 hour day, the following morning I had committed myself to getting out of the house, even if I had to hitch a ride out of my driveway.

So, I packed all three kids into the van, and prepared some lunches for a long, fun, day of Christmas shopping. (Obviously complete denial. Has anyone ever brought three small children Christmas shopping?) I knew it would be a challenge, but I also knew it would be better than watching my daughter attempt to dance to Bella dancerella all day, while my two year old ripped the mat out from under her.

We get in the car. We buckle up. I survey the driveway, and convince myself that the pile of snow lurking outside my garage, would not hold me back, I'll make it. I buckle up, tell the kids to hold on and step on the gas. Unfortunately, the snow was a bit higher then expected, and I don't quite make it out of the garage. "Hold on kids," I shout to the back. I step on the gas again, and when I do that my van flies out of the garage, all the while ripping my driver's side mirror right off the car. My heated, electric mirror is now dangling from the car. Just great!

I survey the damage, hold back the tears, and reach for a shovel. My determination to leave my house has grown even stronger now. The damage has already been done, I can't lose sight of my goal. As I lean over to shovel a big pile of snow from under my tire, my back gets stuck bent over. "Perfect," I think. As I attempt to stand up, I look around for a neighbor, hoping one with a snow blower or plow, just happens to be looking out their window at that very moment. No luck. Not a sound is made, nothing but my kids fighting inside the car, that is.

I decide that my injury is minor and that I will get in the car and try to ram my way out of the driveway. The tears are unstoppable now, as is the self-pity. I drag my hunchback back into the driver's seat and listen as my older two discuss the situation. As I press my head to the steering wheel, I hear my son say, "Mama, are you pretending me?" Before I could muster a response, my daughter chimes in, "No, mama is crying because she broke the mirror!" Soon to follow was, "Mama, if we drive with the mirror hanging, it might fall off on the road somewhere." Smart kid. Where was her advice ten minutes ago?

I floor the car one last time, only to drive it even further into the snowbank on the side of my driveway. A million thoughts of "why me" and "did this really need to happen," race across my mind. As the throbbing pain from my back starts to creep up to my neck, I decide now, it is time to give up. While I put up a good fight, I know that this is one battle, I will not win. As I dial my mother's number to come and rescue me, I leave this daunting experience but with one thought...thank God that cars can't talk.

It's Hard to Keep a Positive Outlook when there is Poop in the Tub

Some days I wake up thinking, "How in the world am I gonna make it through this day?" And other days I just decide, "Ok, today we are going to be stranded in a snowstorm, but we'll just do fun stuff all day, and it will be great." To be honest, the latter thought is probably thought much less then the other. Nonetheless, yesterday I began the day with a real positive outlook. A major snowstorm was coming, school was canceled, and I just felt like lounging around and having fun all day. Up until bath time that is...

As a Mom/Master multitasker, I try to use the time that my children are in the tub, to also clean my bathroom. Even though my children are getting way to big to fit, they still insist on cramming themselves into the tub all at once. So they play around for awhile, completely soak the entire bathroom, and I use the water that gets thrown overboard, to tidy up the floors and such. Call it...teamwork. Well, wouldn't you know, halfway through the bath, my older two start talking amongst themselves...

Daughter: "What's that?"

Son: "That looks like poopy."

Daughter: "EEWWW, MAMA, the baby pooped in the tub!!"

Me: (naively) "No, honey, he didn't poop in the tub."

I turn from washing the mirror to investigate.

Daughter: "Then what's that, mama?"

Me: "Alright, everyone out of the tub!!"

As my kids fly out of the tub, I turn on the fan, open the window, and prepare myself for the cleanup. As I try to mouth breathe to keep myself from vomiting, I grab a roll of paper towels and some Clorox spray, and brace myself for the massive sanitizing project, I was about to take on. If only I could call one of those massive destruction cleanup crews.

At this point in the day, I must admit, it was a bit difficult to keep that positive outlook I had had earlier. Yeah, difficult is not the word...more like impossible. I'm doomed, I thought. And to think, it's only the morning.

And the Birthday Party Emmy Goes to...

NOT ME. In fact, I don't know if you all got the memo, but there is no birthday party Emmy. That's right. No Emmy, no award, heck, there ain't even a competition.
As the last birthday party of the year just came to an end, I can't help myself, but to search for a little perspective.

Okay, so how old is he? Oh, he's two. You see, from the massive game planning that took me all night to concoct, I would've said he was about six or seven. Nope, two.
So what is it that two year olds do at parties anyway? Maybe crafts with foam, cotton balls, and glue? Hardly, I mean don't get me wrong, cotton balls and glue are a crowd pleaser for pretty much any kid. But do I really fool myself into believing that these little monkeys are really going to sit long enough to glue Elmo's tiny black pupil to Elmo's tiny white eyeball? Yeah, I do. Every party, every year. And then I watch as my son plays with a blue balloon, and a pack of stickers, rather than the shiny new tricycle I bought him, and I can't help but cringe a little.

I told myself this party would be different, it would be...less. Less people, less food, less games...less work. And it started out that way, I planned to make some homemade pizzas, and I told myself, NO THEMED GAMES. So I invite two less people then normal, throw together seven homemade pizzas and some chicken wings, and I'm off to a bad start. He's two, he'll be happy licking the frosting off the cake, he won't need much. OH, and the cake--this time I'll just do some cute Elmo cupcakes, no cake. I'll skip out on the three hours of piping Elmo's crooked smile at 1 am the night before. Sounds perfect.

But then it happens. Something inside of me, this innate competitive drive within me, it kicks in. And I get online, and I start to Google "Elmo party games." Eh, it won't hurt to have just one cute game, and then I find one, and another, and another and I can't resist, and I start to print out Sesame Street signs on my computer and I'm up at night trying to cut a giant "E" out of a sheet cake and...I'm back to where I started five years ago, and worse, I'm exhausted, more exhausted than usual, because I decided to wait until the last minute to plan it all.

Why must I do this to myself? I don't know. It's not like he'll remember any of it. Maybe deep down my hopes are that the older kids will remember it, and they'll remind him of his grand Elmo party that his mama threw for him. Or maybe I'm just waiting for the day when they do hand out awards for birthday parties. The sad thing is, even if they did, I'd still lose. Heck, my daughter just attended a gymnastics party where they participated in two hours of coached gymnastics. C'mon, who can top that? Do I really think my foam Elmo hats are one tenth as cool? I'll tell you who can top that, the kid who just gave out invitations to the entire kindergarten class, to come to his party at one of the bests children's museums around. See what I mean? I can't compete even if I wanted to. I'm truly pathetic...a pathetic party planner. Just do me a favor and remind me next Spring when my daughter's birthday rolls around, that there really are no birthday Emmys.

Ode to a Holiday Classic

In honor of the Christmas season, I have put a little spin on a good ol' Christmas carol...if you know the tune, feel free to hum along.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a babysitter and a nanny.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me, two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me, three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles, and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, six fluffy towels,
five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me, seven days of freedom,
six fluffy towels,
five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, eight peaceful phone calls,
seven days of freedom,
six fluffy towels,
five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, nine romantic date nights,
eight peaceful phone calls,
seven days of freedom,
six fluffy towels,
five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, ten empty dish loads,
nine romantic date nights,
eight peaceful phone calls,
seven days of freedom,
six fluffy towels,
five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me, eleven lengthy foot rubs,
ten empty dish loads,
nine romantic date nights,
eight peaceful phone calls,
seven days of freedom,
six fluffy towels,
five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny.

On the twelvth day of Christmas my true love gave to me, twelve personal organizers,
eleven lengthy foot rubs,
ten empty dish loads,
nine romantic date nights,
eight peaceful phone calls,
seven days of freedom,
six fluffy towels,
five per-so-nal chefs...
four bubble baths,
three clean white t-shirts,
two casseroles,
and a babysitter and a nanny!

Sincerely Sunday

Just Say Yes!
I went to a women's meeting at my church on Friday night, where I heard a wonderful speaker talk about her testimony and journey with God. Her story is amazing, almost unbelievable, a real inspiration for women who are looking to hear from and follow God's plan for their lives.

While I won't do it justice, I will try to give you just a glimpse of her story. You may have heard of her before through her other ministries, or may have even seen her on Oprah, but her real claim to fame lies not in this world, but with the Father. All because she said yes.

It all began one day when she had gone to a concert to hear an African boys choir, sing at a local church. While she expected to hear some great music, she did not expect to hear the voice of God. You see, as she was sitting there listening to these orphan boys sing of the joy of the Lord, God spoke to her and told her that two of those boys would be hers. While she dismissed it at first, this call would later be confirmed numerous times, to the point where she had but one choice...to be willing to follow the voice of God, or to choose to go her own way because of her own fears and insecurities. In the end, she chose to obey God, and despite numerous obstacles, went on to adopt two teenage boys from Liberia, and bring them home to live with her family. As a result of her doing this, her friends also went on to adopt more than 30 orphans from the country of Liberia. Sound crazy? She thought so.

While just the thought of deciphering God's voice seemed crazy enough, what really struck her was the fact that God chose her to adopt these children. It amazed her that she was chosen, out of everyone in the world, to give these boys this new life, that they so deserved.

Here's the real good part. As she examined her life and questioned God as to why He would choose her, a woman not nearly good enough, or worthy enough for this great deed, He simply answered to her, because you said yes.

You see, that is the way God is. He is not a God who is looking for perfection, or even close to that. He doesn't bless nor call only those who are the most spiritual, the most upright, or even the most godly. He merely calls those who are willing. Those who in the face of opposition, will choose to listen for His call, and who will answer it with a yes. Heck, He doesn't even expect you to necessarily like the call, He just expects you to willingly accept it. That is the God we serve. And that is who He will choose...those who say yes.

So, if you are waiting to return to God until you are worthy, better, or even perfect...don't.
Go back to Him now, listen for His voice, and be willing...in your acceptance, He will choose you, He will prepare you and He will perfect you.


Matthew 5:9 Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
If you'd like to hear the speakers full story, check her out here.

Drawing Blood

I decided to run some errands this morning after dropping my daughter at school. At the top of the list was getting some bloodwork done, something that I had been putting off for the last couple of weeks. I had brought my boys with me the last few times, so I knew it wouldn't be all that bad. They actually kind of like watching the phlebotomist tie up my arm in the tourniquet, and well, I don't mind the seconds of pain all that much either. Hey, it's something to do, kind of like a field trip.

Since this was about the fifteenth time I had gone already, I knew that the massive questioning from my son was about to begin. "Mama, why will they take your blood?"
"Mama, what's that thing for?" And then when I glanced down at the script and noticed it said Urinalysis, I knew I was in for an interesting visit, to say the least.

It started out fine. My boys were being so sweet to me and the phlebotomist. My baby is really concerned with me getting hurt lately, so he came over to me and said, "mama, you o-tay?" and stroked my belly. Well, actually it was another part of my body, a bit higher, but he thought it was my belly...cute nonetheless. As I sat there trying to regain my center of gravity, after giving out nearly 70 percent of my blood volume, I couldn't help but beam at their cuteness. I had no idea it was all about to go downhill.

Once I felt stable enough to stand, I headed into the bathroom with my plastic pee-cup and my boys trailing behind. Once I got into the bathroom, the conversation between my son and I went a bit like this:

"Mama, what are you doing?"

"Mama has to pee in this cup honey."

"Mama, that's gross, are you joking me?"

"No, honey, mama is not joking, can you watch that your brother doesn't...Oh, don't put that in the toilet!"

As I wrangle a mound of toilet paper from my son's hand, I stand him on the side of the wall, next to his big brother. As the uncomfortable conversation with my middle son continues, I attempt to pee in the cup, a feat in itself. I continue to explain to my son that the cup is not a real cup, but rather like a test tube for experiments. As I try not to pee on my hand while talking, I look up to see my baby unlocking and opening the door, while I am still trying to pee in the cup.
"NO, don't let him open that!" Luckily my older son grabs the door, just as I nearly flash all of the nice phlebotomists in the lab.
I then grab my baby and try to hold onto his coat, while pulling up my pants. I catch my breath, slide the pee cup through the "secret elevator"(all part of the storyline for my son), and head back out into the office.
Some field trip...guess I ought to rethink bringing my boys to my next O.B. visit.

10 Things I'm Thankful For

In honor of Thanksgiving, I've compiled a list of things I am thankful for on this day.

1. I am thankful that this morning when I put a button up dress shirt on my son, he didn't fight me tooth and nail, like he usually does.

2. I am thankful that the extreme nausea I have been suffering from, didn't appear until after I hit the dessert table.

3. I am thankful that all three of my kids sat down on the couch this morning in their cute, coordinating outfits, and let me take a picture of them...truly a major feat.

4. I am thankful that two out of my three children fell asleep on the way home from our Thanksgiving commute today.

5. I am thankful for maternity underwear.

6. I am thankful that my husband hardly ever forgets to tell me I look pretty in my new shirt, even when I don't.

7. I am thankful that my middle son loves to hug and kiss his mama.

8. I am thankful for a comfortable bed and pillow to sleep on tonight.

9. I am thankful for big families...especially mine.

10. I am thankful that I am not in control of my life and God is...less anxiety for the both of us.

Desperate for Attention

I'm convinced my children absolutely do not want me to have any down time alone. They just don't. Apparently my innumerable hours with them since their birth, have not been adequate. They are so desperate for attention that the second I step foot in my steaming hot bath at night, they are completely lost among themselves, to the point of delirium.

I know this because as I was just settling in the tub this evening, my husband banged on the door and said, "you've got to help me!" I sensed the urgency in his voice and stepped out of my comfort zone, into the hallway. To my surprise, my five year old had decided to put a wad of gum in my husband's hair, and he needed my assistance in cutting out. So I did. No questions asked. I didn't have to ask, I knew all the answers already. Kids will do anything when they are desperate for your attention. They wanted me out of the tub. Mission accomplished.

Mama Scissorhands Part 2: Revenge of the Toddler

Some of you might remember an earlier post about the traumatic experience that occurred while cutting my middle son's hair. If you don't know what I am referring to, check out this post.

With Thanksgiving right around the corner, I decided to finally get some help in straightening out my little one's locks, mainly because he would be meeting some out-of-state family members for the first time. While my heart was saying, "save your money, do it yourself," my brain was saying, "bring him to Snip-its, you stink at cutting hair." In this case, my brain won the argument.

I planned the trip accordingly, made sure my guy was fed and happy, and I even managed to pack my camera, so I could capture these sweet moments of his first real haircut. We entered Snip-its, or as I like to call it, Disney World Hair Salon, without the slightest hitch. This is where it all went wrong.

I didn't see it coming. My baby proceeded to wander through the maze of brightly colored chairs and toys, grabbing at things left and right. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Unfortunately, the fun stopped there. The minute we strapped him in the bright pink hair chair and handed him a dum-dum, he began to throw the biggest fit known to man.

Trying to appease the wailing and thrashing of my son, the women in the salon began performing from their great bag of tricks. Bubbles, lollipops, videos, even a balloon...nothing worked. The girl with the scissors began to cut his hair, and just maneuvered this way and that attempting to salvage some sort of decent cut. Her friends continued to try to sweet talk my screaming baby, while I snapped some pictures. (Ah...for the sake of the scrapbook.)

Approximately 4 minutes later the nice girl asked me if it was okay, and proceeded to release my tortured baby from his chair. I surveyed his hair quickly and nodded that it was indeed acceptable. I must admit, that while I was wiping the tears from his cheeks, I noticed that my son had a bit of blood trickled on his little ear. That's right people, she cut his ear. For the time being, I dismissed the injury, and went on to pay the girl for the haircut, as I am not one to make a big scene and make a girl feel bad. I knew she didn't see the cut, and it was obviously a challenging client. I imagine it was somewhat like trying to put a dress on a cat. And from my experience, that ain't easy.

After going on with the day and pondering it awhile, I have come to the conclusion that I actually am pretty upset about that little cut on his ear. I mean, if I had wanted someone to cut his ear while cutting his hair, I would've cut his hair myself. Isn't that the whole reason for the hair salon? You pretty much expect that they won't do a worse job, or even an equal job, as you, isn't that right? I paid $14.95, for some lady to snip my baby's ear, when frankly I could've snipped it myself. It's crazy! And on top of it all...I tipped her. That's right,the insanity goes like this, "hey you, yes,you managed to somewhat even out my baby's bowl head, but you did happen to snip a little piece of his earlobe. Ya know what, it's okay...here's an extra two bucks, go buy yourself a cup of joe...on me!" And to top it off, I'll probably end up going back there one day, when he needs another haircut! It's crazy I tell you! Snip-its...they get you in with the flashy colors and goofy prizes...they really ought to call it Snip-you. Maybe it's time I break out my own chicken shears again.

Typical Responses to "I'm Pregnant with my Fourth..."

Let's face it, with your first baby, you can barely see the pink line appear, before you are on the phone with half of your family, telling them the great news. With your second, you still have that overwhelming excitement, that you burst the news out over a holiday dinner. Baby number three comes around, and fear starts to set in. You just barely mention it to your closest friends, but only because you are trying to line up some help for the future months. But your fourth? That's a whole different ball game. There's no cutesy announcement t-shirt (trust me, I checked), no special hallmark card, frankly no real easy way to break the news. That is because most women who have four, don't even tell anyone they are expecting, until they're in labor. It's true. And I know why. It's because of those not-so-well-wishes, and facial expressions they receive, when they finally do break the news. Here are just a few:

What they say: "OOhh...four huh?"
What they mean: "You need a hobby."

What they say: "I didn't even know you were trying."
What they mean: "You need a good lesson in birth control, girl."

What they say: "How sweet, another playmate for the children."
What they mean: "Remind me never to come to your house for dinner."

What they say: "I wonder if you can get a refund on that gym membership."
What they mean: "Guess those flabby thighs are gonna be around for awhile."

What they say: "Wow, you're going to have your hands full."
What they mean: "You are absolutely crazy!"

Confessions of a Stay at Home Mom of Three...and Counting

Attention: Will all those with four children, please stand up? I just want to get a head count.
Ahem...is this thing on?
Where is everyone? I don't see anyone standing.
Oh wait, there's someone in the back, uh...nope, just the mailman.

Where are all you moms out there with four children? Are you just busy? Tied up? Are your children all on top of you, so you can't get up? Are you stuck in the basement doing laundry for six people? Are you trying to plan out a meal which includes at least one thing that everyone likes,not even including a vegetable? Are you breaking up a brawl between your little ones as they fight over the one barbie that still has all her body parts? Or are you hiding in a closet somewhere, or better yet, the bathroom? Oh, that's what I thought.

Next to Jon and Kate, and the Duggars, big families are seeming to become obsolete these days...at least in this neck of the woods. What a shame. Somebody's gotta do something about that. Think of all the stuff you'll miss out on...fighting over the last Pillsbury croissant on Thanksgiving,(you've seen the commercials), camping trips at the lake(who can afford a hotel with four kids?), sibling rivalry to get your parents undivided attention, and think about all the valuable writing your children will miss out on, since they won't have to fill out thousands of scholarship essays to get into their school of choice. Yeah, that's what big families are all about. I say bring it on. In fact, I consider it my personal mission to bring back the value and joy to the stigma of big families. And with one in the oven...I'm well on my way. Stay tuned for what probably may be my most hysterical adventures, as I turn into one stay at home mom of four. For now, I must go, there is a bathroom floor with my name on it.