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.