The last year I say I don’t have a teenager

I can’t believe I missed writing your birthday post this year. So, happy unbirthday, Munchkin. You aren’t really a munchkin any more, though…are you? This is the last year you won’t be a teenager. *sigh* I’m not sure I’m ready for how fast it has started going.

You are a voracious reader, a minecraft aficionado, and a Sims4 whizkid. I love your enthusiasm for theatre, your indifference to folding clothes, and even your dislike of eating more than six bites of almost anything at one time. (that drives Daddy nuts, by the way)

You’ve started listening to music that I think is complete drivel and you talk about boys more than I want to listen to (but make no mistake – I’m listening – and checking them out).

You are beautiful. I mean, you’ve always been beautiful, but now you are stunning. There isn’t a whole lot of “little girl” left when I look at you. On one hand, that kind of makes me sad, but not really. Because, despite being in full-swing-drama-queen-adolescence, you are really awesome.

Watching you this year in cheerleading is so much fun. Your confidence level grows by leaps and bounds. You have found an inner strength that has been amazing to watch.

This year you want to be an interior designer. The things you design in minecraft and sims4 are incredible. Scary smart doesn’t even begin to cover how bright you are. I’m watching you discover your intellect and learn how to use it. Stretch. Grow. You are capable of ANYTHING.

I love you so much, Munchkin. Don’t ever think you are too big to sit in my lap or lay your head on my shoulder. Keep inviting me to lunch. I’ll keep coming as long as you ask. I might sometimes act like I’ve got to move things around to make time, but I look forward to seeing you every time. I’m really enjoying middle school through your eyes. I hope it stays this good.

Keep growing.

Watch out for boys. And girls.. Be nice to everybody. Pray a LOT. Eat. I love you, babykins.

12

 

 

One You

You are one.

You are smiles.

You are snuggles.

You are everywhere.

 

You are light. Your older sisters are wind and water, but you are light. Your smile lights up a room and everybody gravitates to you. We can’t help ourselves but to love you.

You eat just about anything. Well, except blueberries. You’ll drink the milk cold, unless it’s first thing in the morning or the last drink of the night; then it has to be just a little warm.

You like Octonauts, Jake and the Neverland Pirates, and Chuggington, but don’t really care either way; you are (by far) the most laid back of the three.

You’re just as happy with a lego pad that is kind of the same shape as my phone as the phone itself (I know that won’t last much longer) and “no, no, no” seems to be your favorite thing to articulate at this moment (probably because you hear it 2300 times a night).

I love you, little boy. You make our little family absolutely complete. You are one. You are mine.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

4

At any given time, you are bossing somebody around. Especially your big sister.

You have a steely determined look that says, “Do you feel lucky, Punk?”

Your laugh is the best music in the world. Thankfully, it’s a song that plays a lot.

You make me laugh and that’s probably saved your life a few times. (just kidding) (kinda)

You insist that Bunny is excluded from pictures because “he’s old.”

You have the facial expressions and gestures of an adult. It’s kind of weird, but oh so hilarious.

The fact that I have to be a tyrant to brush your hair is ridiculous.

I have no doubt you have big things in store for you, kiddo. Inside that brilliant little mind is the cure for cancer, the solution to Middle East strife, and maybe even the proper way to tie a knot.

You eat all. the. time.

Your spontaneous bursts of affection are absolutely the best part of any day with you.

I cannot believe it’s already been four years. You can’t really be princess crybaby any more. You aren’t a baby. So…henceforth, you will be known as Doc. Because they are bossy. In a good way. And so are you.

 

Happy birthday, Doc. Daddy and I love you to the moon and back.

IMG_6410

Brilliance in 61 seconds

My Facebook Movie

In 61 seconds, Facebook sums up the best parts of the past six years. Marrying Coach, my sweet children (they even included Riley), work, and family; and they set it to a rousing little tune, set to my favorite tempo (6/8).

This is some of the more brilliant marketing I’ve ever seen. If you want to build brand loyalty, show people themselves. Remind them why they love you.

I love this little video. It never fails to make me smile. it’s my favorite thing Facebook has ever created.

Miracle

I looked at a house today. As in, stepped foot in a house I’ve been looking at with curiosity for months. Our budget says we could totally afford a house once we got into it, but GETTING INTO a house seems impossible and unreachable. At least for the foreseeable future. We have three children (almost 12, almost 4, and almost 1) and the prospect of saving for a big down payment any time soon is almost laughable, if it weren’t so depressing. It would take a miracle.

For now, I must be content to be curious.

Furthermore, I don’t know that this was THE house. It would need a lot of work to get it “just right,” but it’s got a HUGE yard with enormous shade trees, all the bedrooms we could possible fill and lots of little surprises to make it charming (like those vintage blue tile bathrooms! le sigh) And it was pretty quiet. I could imagine happy kids running up and down halls, decorating a room they didn’t have to share with older or younger siblings; tromping up and down stairs, Christmas trees for years to come in front of that gigantic bay window in the front, but I also almost immediately noticed the chipped paint EVERYWHERE, the original laminate (hey, I think I know somebody who could do something about that), big patches of bare ground where the St Augustine died in the shade of those enormous trees, and the most gawd-awful looking metal shed (did I say shed? I meant metal eyesore) that would immediately have to be torn down taking up a good 1/5th of the yard.

I’ll know the house and time is right when I get there. I’ll feel that zing in my ears and that tingle in my fingers. The house will speak to me.

Shush. I heard you laugh.

 

Soooo, it’s probably not THE house. But it was fun to look. And imagine. And feed a dream that, maybe, thanks to a lot of hard work (and maybe more than a little miracle) might come true. Someday.

door

 

 

milestones

first cry.

first smile.

first word.

first tooth.

first steps.

first scrape.

first loss.

first day of school.

first report card.

first failing grade.

first blue ribbon.

firsts.

….

Today is Munchkin’s fifth grade awards assembly…graduation, if you will. Not with caps and gowns, but a milestone nevertheless. It’s been a banner year. Perfect attendance, A/B Honor Roll, passing STAAR test with flying colors, being cast in The Wiz, making the cheer team, keeping school drama to a minimum, making new friends, winning two second place ribbons at Little Wildcat Relays. A really good year.

I am astounded elementary school is coming to an end. Tomorrow is the last day of school and then she’ll be a middle schooler. I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a bit of trepidation about this new chapter. Middle School is…well, Middle School. You can smell the crazy on them. (stolen from one of my favorite lines from The Avengers.) Literally. Middle Schoolers smell bad. DEODORANT, children. Sorry, I digress.

school pics

 

5th grade

Congratulations, Munchkin. Daddy & I are so proud of you! You are becoming an amazing young lady and we can’t wait to see what is next!

 

ps. This is what the three year old thought I meant when I said “use some magnets to put this on the refrigerator.”

IMG_5387

More

I knew three was going to be more. More kisses. More snuggles. More laughter.

And, yes, I knew it would be more work. What I underestimated was how much more. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t wonder what on earth I got myself into and when I’m going to feel a little less overwhelmed.

IMG_5349

Overwhelmed by the mess.

Overwhelmed by the noise.

Overwhelmed by how tired I feel. All. The Time.

Who knew adding one more little person to the mix would add all this work?

I’m pretty sure I’m messing it up. The Boy cries when he’s tired. Or hungry. Or wants to be picked up. (which is all the time). Princess Crybaby is a tyrant. Munchkin is growing up too fast. WAY too fast.

Oh, and have I mentioned the mess? And the noise?

….SIGH…

Just when I feel like maybe I can’t take any more, they do this:

And then I laugh. And I do. Laugh, that is. A LOT.

There is a lot more of that, too. Delight at the beautiful young lady Munchkin is becoming. Amazement at how fast Princess Crybaby is learning and how incredibly smart she is. And the sheer joy of falling in love with a boy. (they really are SO different)

I read something the other day that said to have young children is to accept that, for a time, you just have to hunker down. And I guess that’s what I’m doing. I just hope I make it out alive. *laugh*

A note from the Coach’s wife

As Coach’s wife, I don’t often voice opinions or thoughts out loud about the Soccer program. I don’t see it as my job. My job is to support and keep the home fires burning. But I just have to say this one thing…

Thank you. Thank you for driving back and forth to away games and tournaments. For selling t-shirts and nachos. For sitting on metal bleachers in 25 degrees, rain, sleet, and snow over and over this season. For trucking kids back and forth to EARLY morning practices and waiting in cars for afternoon practices as the sun went down. For always believing.

I am so proud to be the wife of your head coach. He loves your sons as if they were his own. What you may or may not know is that you and your sons are prayed for. They are part of our family. We cheer when they win, we grieve when they don’t, and we hurt when they hurt.

Six years ago, I knew almost nothing about Soccer. Now, I can watch a game and see why it is called “the beautiful game.” And, intertwined in every moment are the faces of your sons. THEY make it beautiful.

Thank you for trusting Coach. Thank you for believing in Wildcat Soccer. Thank you for a beautiful season. Thank you.

Hello Mornings: Taking Refuge

Ruth 1:1-5

So excited to start this new session of HM. Ruth is a lovely story and I’ve read it many times, but never really stopped and spent any time with it.

So, the assignment is to read the passage and write what jumps out, then write a sequence of events, and, finally, to read judges 2:11-19 and note what’s taking place in the country during this time.

But first, I wanted to know how far away from home and why they’d gone in the first place.
Visual Bible
Neat maps that show the journey, specific to Naomi and Ruth.

Events
Elimelech takes his wife and two sons to sojourn in Moab, due to the famine in Canaan
Elimelech dies.
The two sons marry Moabite women.

Notes
The Matthew Henry Commentary (MHC) suggests it was a sense of duty that took the family of Elimelech across the Jordan into Moab. To sojourn means to move, but without plans to stay forever. They were, in a way, refugees fleeing the famine in Canaan.

But they get over there and Elimelech dies, leaving Naomi and her two sons. They, in turn, marry Moabite women. Why did they do this? Why didn’t they go back home after their father’s death? It’s i the resting to note the MHC says that Elimelech probably had no idea his sons would marry women outside of their faith but, “But those that bring young people into bad acquaintance, and take them out of the way of public ordinances, though they may think them well-principled and armed against temptation, know not what they do, nor what will be the end thereof.” Which is a really fancy way of saying if you allow your children around bad people and situations, don’t be surprised when something bad happens.”

That caused me to stop and really think about some of the lessons we have to teach and, frankly, UNteach in our house. We are a public school family. I work outside of the home. My children are exposed every day to children growing up in homes without Jesus. This does not make them bad children, or their families and homes unsafe. It means that, as their parents, we must constantly work to ensure they are hearing enough truth to balance all of the noise they hear, and give them a foundation strong enough to withstand the temptations they will face because we have chosen not to shelter them from the world, but to raise them to be Godly in spite of it.

Quiet

It’s a little before 5am. The house is quiet; everybody still sleeping. I’m sitting in the dark living room, finishing my first cup of coffee and thinking about a second. It’s a rare treat that I get to enjoy a cup of coffee in silence since the arrival of The Boy. Has it already been almost three months? Has it only been three months? He seems so much part of our lives that it’s hard to imagine him not here.

Princess Crybaby is good. The other night, Coach told her it was time to go to bed. She walks over, stands in front of his chair and says, “can we talk about this?” And that about sums up where she’s at. Everything has to be explained. She’s into the “I need reasons mother” phase. It’s obnoxious. And adorable.

Munchkin is in a play at the high school. Yesterday, I picked her up from the house to take her to rehearsal. I smiled inwardly as I noticed she’d taken great care to get ready. Her hair was arranged and there was a certain “big kid” air about her. A part of me sighs a little more each time I have the opportunity to witness this young girl transforming into a young lady. I am happy, of course, because that’s what she’s supposed to do, but still. Glimpses of the little girl are becoming a little more rare. This part is new for me, so I am trying to approach this with a certain air of conservative detachment. (yes, I made that up)

As we pulled into the high school parking lot, I asked her if she wanted me to drop her off or walk her in. (I kind of thought she’d just want to be dropped off – I mean, I’m MOM and she has started striking out on her own a little more…I didn’t want to cramp her style and I knew she was perfectly safe) Because it was right at 4 o’clock, there was still a lot of traffic – both people and cars. She asked if I’d walk her in. Playing it cool, I parked the car and she hopped out. This is our world – we spend a lot of time around Temple High School – so, as we walked through the parking lot, we chatted about rehearsal and what she would do when she was finished. I reminded her to turn her phone off during rehearsal (no, Munchkin, silent isn’t enough. If it accidentally goes off, you might get tossed off the stage… LOL – just kidding. kinda)…etc.

At this point, we’ve waded pretty far into the mass of humanity in the plaza outside the student center. It is all the sudden I feel a very close little shadow at my side. She leans into me a little and says, “there are so many people, Mommy,” and she takes my hand. It is then I am reminded that she is not so very grown up after all.

I smiled down at her and reminded her that they were just bigger versions of her and we navigated through the crowd and into the student center. I noticed the little bounce in her walk returned once she had ahold of my hand and it was all I could do not to kiss her head. (I know that would have been way over the “MOOOOOOOOM” line) Once we got inside the theatre, she slipped her hand out of mine and bounced off to her world in the theatre. The moment was over.

It was a sweet reminder that I still have a few years before I enter the uncool phase and she’ll struggle with her desire to be close to me and, at the same time, the need to be independent of me.

So much in which to delight. Mine is a cup that overflows. And that’s why the floors are sticky.

But, for now, it’s dark. And quiet. And you can’t see the piles of laundry still not finished (as if), and the dishwasher that’s full of clean and the sink almost full of dirty (I think they multiply like tribbles when we aren’t looking), and the …. well, you get my point.

And my coffee cup needs a refill.

Made Up Words

Nirvana. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Tolerance.

Increasingly in my life, I believe “tolerance” is a made up word. Cain killed Abel because he was “intolerant” of the way Abel worshiped God. Abel chose a different way and Cain killed him for it.

Having a belief system (whether someone else agrees or not) does not make you intolerant, ignorant OR phobic. A&E has the ultimate right to do as they choose with shows under their umbrella, but I DO believe it was an unwise business decision. A&E cashed in on the Robertson family and their way of life. It is illogical to suddenly have a problem with part of their belief system because a certain part of it isn’t PC. It is illogical to believe a family who has been unapologetic about their faith will suddenly apologize or shy away from talking about what they believe to be truth.

My belief system is this: man without God is a broken thing. Scripture says that with God all things are possible. The reverse, then, is also true. Without God, NOTHING is possible. We are incapable of showing love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness OR self-control without God. Period. The end.

 

PS. For the record: All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away. Isaiah 64:6

I am a broken, disgusting, dead thing. But, because of CHRIST, I have been remade. All of us are broken, disgusting, dead things. My life choices. Your life choices. Broken. Disgusting. Dead. But for Christ. Amen.

The clock ticks

I don’t want to be a stay at home mom. I thought I did. I used to be. But I don’t anymore. This is not a post about the pros and/or cons of staying at home. This is about me. Because it’s my blog. LOL

I stayed home with Munchkin until she was two. It was, circumstances aside, Amazing and super rewarding. Being able to watch her develop and learn real-time was incredible. When I went back to work, we both had a very hard transition. Becoming a single parent necessitated going back to work. I will tell you, in our experience, two was too late to introduce daycare. Munchkin suffered terrible separation anxiety and every transition issue you can imagine. This compounded my own personal guilt at not being able to continue the plan of staying home with her until prek; illogical as it would prove to be. I felt like I failed her by not being able to sustain the plan.

Princess Crybaby was a daycare kid from six weeks. She did not experience separation anxiety the same way and she missed a lot of the transition issues her sister went through. She is not a hitter, or a biter, and potty training was a breeze. She gets along well with classmates and is, overall, very accepting of adult caregivers. All of this could be personality and have little to do with early socialization. Certainly well-socialized kids still hit and bite, struggle with potty training and have terrible separation anxiety. Shoot, who knows how The Boy will shake out. (So far so good, though)

As I was pregnant with The Boy, then, scenarios went through my mind of staying home; both with and without some kind of income. I felt some measure of sadness as I accepted the reality that finances and our chosen lifestyle just wouldn’t permit me to stay home without some kind of income, and legitimate work-at-home jobs seem scarce or hard to find.

Once The Boy arrived, it was quite different. I found the long days at home very lonely, blissful as they were, with only The Boy for company. I found myself craving a creative outlet, but felt too tired and attention-torn to focus on anything. I started to feel a little crazy without regular, adult conversation. I started rearranging the house, cleaning and organizing. That makes my husband VERY nervous.

I realized that my wanting to stay at home was less about the kids and more about me.

Now that I’ve gone back to work, albeit only a couple of days back, I find I am happier and more satisfied during the day. Of course I miss the children and can’t wait to see them at the end of the day, but I get that much-needed creative exercise. And, being home with the kids all evening isn’t exhausting, because I haven’t already been with them all day… I can still be a good mom and not be home all day.

I believe God uses our circumstances to gently teach us. I am pretty over the idea of a God who beats us over the head in order to bend us to His will, or employs the “because I said so,” style of leadership; blaring truth through loud speakers. He was gentle (and silent) in this circumstance; allowing me to discover for myself that His plan (going back to work) really is in my best interests.

So if you, Dear Reader, are sitting and watching the clock tick, sit tight. Search your heart for how you feel and where you see God leading. Try not to get too hung up on the why; I think it becomes apparent, but sometimes not until you’ve moved past.

disclaimer: I am a skeptic. I love The Lord with my whole heart, but confess to asking a LOT of questions. I have invested in fleeces, because it seems like I have frequent opportunities to use them. Thankfully, I worship the God of the universe: big enough to put up with all my obnoxious questions, and small enough to take the time to answer them.

Endings & Beginnings

All things come to an end. Today was the last day of my maternity leave. Ever. I’ll never be pregnant again. Never give birth again. And I’m ok with that. Pregnancy is scary. I can’t un-know all that can go wrong, or how quickly things can go from fine to nightmare.

Endings. How we say goodbye to things is as important as how we say hello. I cried a little today; not out of sorrow, but a sense of finality. I AM getting too old for the bone-grinding exhaustion of a brand new baby; the never-ceasing demands of very small children. While The Boy is small and sweet and oh, so, snuggly now, he is also fragile and very young – when so much is out of your control. That is where prayer comes in. Because rather than hang up on all that COULD happen, I will choose to spend my time being thankful for them, and all the moments that come with them: funny, soft, heart-breaking, and exhausting. The joy, sadness, pain, satisfaction and disappointment that comes from parenting little people who are so like you, but still their own little individuals.

I am not going to lie. In the middle of those not so warm and fuzzy moments, I find myself looking to the heavens, saying, “what, EXACTLY, can I be thankful of here?” More often than not, the heavens are silent. Not because He’s not paying attention, but like every good counselor, He’s waiting on me to figure it out myself.

I’m still learning.

So, tomorrow is a beginning. I pray it will be a blessing and that, in turn I will have an opportunity to bless those around me. I am nervous and excited. I know the skills required and hope to get my sea legs quickly. I go in with eyes wide open that the pace will once again quicken and work will become more demanding, but in a skill set that is more in line with my skills. We shall see.

I’m still learning.

Beginnings and endings. One chapter closes, and another one begins.

So many things

I have several posts rolling around in my head. For now, just the titles are set.

Upcoming:
On the birth of a son
Revival of the cereal diaries category
Too much, too soon (how they are stealing her innocence)
Middle schmiddle (how to avoid the middle child syndrome)
The Corleys go back to church
The clock ticks (why I don’t want to be a stay at home mom)
Be all there (my epiphany on how being in a hurry actually steals time)

Ok, I think that’ll do it. Don’t you? Sit tight, I’ll be back after I fold MORE laundry. UGH.

Today’s Spam posts

Email-Marketing-SPAM-Law

Who ARE these people? And does anybody actually fall for this nonsense?

 

 

 

My brother recommended I might like this website. He
used to be entirely right. This post actually made my day.
You cann’t consider just how much time I had spent for this info! Thank you!

———————-

Even if you prepare your own return, you may be well advised to consult a tax professional.
Bed, Bath & Beyond or The Container Store has handy, cheap
items that can help you find additional storage space in
the tops and bottoms of your closet, under the sinks, on
the doors of your kitchen cabinets, and inside your cabinets.
People started to buy the property in Chandigarh that also gives birth to rising demand of properties.

———————-

Thanks for sharing your thoughts on laihduttajan ruokavalio.
Regards

———————-

20 a share Citing order cancellations in the business.
Sean Long converted to put the Hawks on the board. There, before you, from
aaron rodgers jersey amazon the very earliest days of the journey through Holy
Week. Indeed the six tries he scored in a 43-minute spell as the City Reds disintegrated in dreadful conditions.
Altarpiece of St Ambrose Ambrose refused, and sat
among regular worshipers. Photo by Chris Graythen/Getty Imagespg.
That said, we are still all pulling in the same state in 1922.

The boy who never grew up

I am reading Peter Pan to the girls at bedtime. I think they are enjoying it – even Princess Crybaby gets mostly still and quiet. Sometimes she will lay her head on my lap and I’ll rub her back while I’m reading. It’s terrific. Munchkin and I read The Secret Garden last year and it was really fun.

peter-pan-15Last night, we were reading the chapter where Wendy decides it’s time to go home. She’s telling the story about the Darlings and how the mother always kept the window open for them to return – never forgetting them. Peter goes on to tell his version of that story, when his own mother “forgot” about him, locked the nursery door and replaced him with another little boy.

Call it runaway pregnancy hormones, but I started to choke up. The girls were absolutely silent too. It was quite the literary moment.

I reassured the girls at the end of the chapter that I would never forget about them if they flew away to Neverland and I would always keep the windows unlocked so they could come home. And then the bedtime rodeo recommenced and the moment passed.

For them.

Peter PanBut, a little while later, I found myself thinking about Peter and his story and I could not help but think of Riley. The temptation to fantasize about our eldest boy being one of the Lost Boys, running wild around Neverland; having adventures with Indians and pirates is an intoxicating thought. And then we get to coming back to the window. Would our little “Peter” (aka Riley) think we’d forgotten him? Would he see the crib and bassinet and a closet full of clothes waiting for The Boy’s imminent arrival, and decide that we must have replaced him?

Yes, I know it’s irrational. Riley is in heaven and has been since that morning in October, four years ago. I have not forgotten or replaced him. In fact, I don’t think a day goes by that my heart does not, in some way, whisper his name.

It’s just a story. And I’m VERY pregnant.

One day, I will read Peter Pan to The Boy and kiss the top of his head for the trillionth time and, yes, think of my own Peter Pan. And, while I am perfectly aware of the fact that this is from the movie Hook and not Peter Pan or any of the original versions, I still love this quote from Tinkerbell:

“You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you, Peter Pan. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”

Some content on this page was disabled on January 5, 2023 as a result of a DMCA takedown notice from ignacio ayestaran. You can learn more about the DMCA here:

https://wordpress.com/support/copyright-and-the-dmca/

Torture

So, the Doc said a couple of weeks ago that I was far too cheerful to be “ready” to have a baby and that there would come a point where I would just be OVER. IT.

Friends, I believe that train has left the station.

Like Chinese Water torture (see, sis, I got it this time), I can’t tell if these B-H are hurting more because they are getting stronger OR if my pain tolerance is compromised because they’ve been continuous for a week.

download

 

Either way, they suck and I hate them. Well, hate is a strong word. If they are going to continue and ramp up (TODAY), then they are great and by all means, they should continue. BUT. If they are just messing with me, then I hate them.

classic straight jacket

According to wikipedia (the source of all knowledge; reliable and otherwise) – the purpose of chinese water torture is to drive the victim insane by the incessant drops of water. Sounds just like B-H. I wonder if they make straight jackets in maternity sizes?

Had this been an actual emergency…

10237007-large

Dangit. I said I wasn’t going to do this. This is baby #3 and I KNOW what real labor is like. I told this child he wouldn’t get one over on me. I blogged, oh-so-smugly about being onto the mental games played by Braxton-Hicks. I felt invincible.

But, my darling son simply can’t let that stand (who is he to not join his sisters in running me in circles) and so he got creative. He gave an Oscar-worthy performance. All the signs pointed to the real deal. Even the OB nurse got excited. I was pretty convinced we were headed to The Show. I finally agreed to go into the clinic so the doc could “just check things out.”

Well, as it turns out nothing is, in fact, happening. I am right where I was YESTERDAY (at my regular appointment). The contractions feel different and they are stronger and lower, but not strong enough to progress. So, I bought myself a chili dog for lunch and came back to work. I have mollified myself by saying it wasn’t L&D so it doesn’t really count as a practice run.

I hate being wrong. I have a real problem with it. Did you know?

Brilliant..now be yourself

My dearest, most precious Munchkin –

You are 11. What? When did that happen? When did you go from this tiny thing with the biggest eyes that took in every detail of every minute of every day to this amazingly beautiful, incredibly brilliant not-as-old-as-she-thinks-she-is-but-older-than-I’m-ready-for-her-to-be? You are spectacular. You are irritating. You are incredibly self-possessed and insecure – at the same time – it’s maddening.

You are a natural at nearly everything you try (except people, but that’ll come in time). You are a beautiful dancer. Elegant and graceful. You take to nearly every new activity like you were born to do it.

You are growing into a beautiful person. You drive us crazy because you are so dramatic, but that is part of who you are and I wouldn’t change it if I could. Because then you would be somebody else. And that’s just no bueno. (mmm, bueno. Taco Bueno – we should do that again. Soon)

Things you love:

  • Minecraft
  • your iPad
  • your little sister
  • your little brother (who you haven’t even met yet)
  • Subway
  • Mio
  • Harry Potter
  • Hamburger helper

Things you hate:

  • Peas
  • Most green vegetables
  • Anything that even sounds like in a former life it might have been spicy
  • “plain” water
  • taking direction
  • being wrong (sorry, kid – you get that from me)

You are a brilliant girl. Now, be yourself. Stop chasing so hard after all those silly little girls who will NEVER be you. You are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Acting dumb isn’t pretty and it just smells fake on you. (like that tween-stink perfume that your little sister got into and smeared all over her cousin.) STOP IT. Just relax. Let God continue that good work he began in you. Trust your parents. Don’t talk back. (really. it’s obnoxious)

And know that I love you. To the moon and back.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Enough is Enough

Be warned: this is my soapbox. There are many like it, but this one is mine. I am heartily sick of the “Temple ISD needs better communication.” “Temple ISD needs to do more to get the word out about their successes.” For the record, I was Communication Director for almost six years. The two that have followed me can probably tell many of the same stories; even in their short tenures. They are ONE person. They can (and DO) work 24 hours a day, 7 days a week; forsaking time with family and friends, their health, enough rest, their own personal opinion and much of their privacy to get out the “good word.” They take hundreds of pictures, post hundreds of Facebook posts and tweets, maintain a website, send school messenger messages, hustle to get articles above the fold in the newspaper and on, and on, and on, and on. The cycle of work NEVER ENDS. And still, people complain. I have more than a dozen awards that prove Temple ISD is doing Communication RIGHT.

The ONLY way the “perception” about Temple ISD will EVER change is when parents and staff in the district who are part of the success (even the baby steps) stand up and say, “ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.” When parents, students and staff say, “I don’t know what Temple ISD you’re talking about – that’s not what I live and see every. single. day. At the end of the day, people who like to bash Temple are bashing 8500 CHILDREN. That is my daughter. 1300 employees working every single day for children. That is my husband and I’m SICK of it.

Temple ISD is an EXCELLENT school district. Is it perfect? Is anything? You show me a perfect school district and I’ll show you a perfect church. It doesn’t exist. Yes, there are all the problems of public education; balancing the needs of so many children with radically different instructional, emotional and physical needs, but there are also miracles (big and small) happening in every classroom – in every hallway – in every school in the district. Yes, there are stellar teachers and there are those who need to find something else to do. (but can’t that be said for ANY business – anywhere?) But the very things that make Temple a challenging place to live, teach and learn are the very things that prepare children for what is OUT THERE. People who look different. Who talk differently. Who worship nothing. Or something else entirely. 

I’m not on the payroll anymore and I never will be again. Those doors have closed and I’m ok with that. Yes, I miss the people. Yes, I miss the stories. But it is becoming abundantly clear that I can be more effective as a mom, wife and citizen, than I EVER was as spokesperson. 

My mother taught hundreds of students that communication is the responsibility of the sender. I took that to heart. When I couldn’t break through the web of lies, ghosts of a past that may or may not have ever existed (aka. “The Good old days of Temple”), a time of upheaval that seemed to be never-ending, an uncertain, but optimistic, future, and the inevitable mistakes of living, breathing humans; I would change tactics. Adding more and more and more to my plate as I tried and tried to figure out the magic formula for making a difference in what seemed to be an insurmountable task.

*sigh*

Look, I obviously don’t know all the answers. What I do know is that there are an awful lot of people, working really hard to make a difference in the lives of children and it breaks my heart to hear that the only message that gets through is the ugly. The hard. The sad. What if we only told the stories about when our children failed? When our spouse made us angry? No stories of forgiveness. No stories of redemption. No second-chances. Just condemnation. It poisons the very air we breathe when we focus only on the bad. We must find the good stories and TELL THEM. SHOUT THEM. Never stop letting people know that, yes, I disagree with the way this is done or the way that conflict turned out, but MY GOD, she’s making straight A’s in Math and, when I take the time to do something nice for these people who are with my headstrong, uber-bright Alpha-child for 8 hours a day – along with hundreds of other children, all of the frustration from that parent-teacher conference disappears and we are reminded that we are on the same side!

So here is my story for the day:

Last night, Munchkin (now in 5th grade) was finishing up homework. One of her assignments was to write a list of historic events and she was frustrated because “social studies is just not her thing” and she didn’t really know what to do. (in the words of one of my co-workers at the office: this was a sprinkle on top of an 8-layer cake) After digging with lots of questions, I finally get that they are going to write a short story around a historic event and this is, evidently, ground-work for that story.

gru_lightbulb

Then, she shows me the warm-up they did earlier in the day (I’m guessing as an intro to this assignment). “If you could go back to any point in history and talk to any historic character, who would it be…” She chose Rosa Parks (I was impressed, by the way). Well, this centered the discussion around the Civil Rights Movement. LIGHTBULB! So, we start looking up civil rights milestones and she finds a great timeline. She’s only 11 and hasn’t had that much exposure to this particular topic. Some of it is, frankly, pretty grisly, so I stay with her to talk through it. This leads to a really cool discussion about Brown v. Board of Education. What could have been a facebook rant about the lack of information she brought home in order to correctly do this assignment, or the same “kids have too much homework” rant that’s been played out hundreds of times, I had an opportunity to take a few minutes to sit at the table with her, looking up stuff on her iPad and talk to her about another time in the history of our country. At one point, she asked me, “How do you know all this stuff?” And I told her, “because I had good teachers who made me do stuff like this all the time.” Betcha Mr. Hall didn’t really plan for that in his lesson plan for the day. Good job, Mr. Hall. Good job.

I yelled at my kids today

wve-white-flag-260
It was NOT a good mommy morning.
I yelled at Princess Crybaby for dropping her cookies in the car.
I didn’t tell Munchkin “goodbye, I love you” when I dropped her off. I told her to be good and mind her own business.
I mumbled something huffy under my breath when I had to find the compact cards for Coach.
I feel like I failed as a human being today by being a complete bitch. I’m going to make something yummy for dinner tonight, to make up for my awful-ness this morning. And read bedtime stories.
And, yes, I’m trying not to cry about it, but I’m not doing a very good job.
I’m tired of being pregnant. I feel fat, my uterus feels like it’s starting to fall out and I DO NOT want to hear another person tell me how quickly September is going to go by because I might punch them in the throat.
I’m terrified about having three little people need me – at the same time- to help them get ready for the world when I, myself, feel like such a tangled mess.
I’d like to go back to bed, please. I’m being unkind and that’s the same crap I yelled at Munchkin for.

Hope

1185584_10151836099861842_971111165_n

Today you are three. You are the light at the end of a very dark tunnel. You are water. You are sound and motion. Never. Ceasing. Motion. You are my sweetest Princess Josephine. You are unruly – like your hair.

You are the funniest three-year old I’ve ever met. You are the most exasperating person (besides your father) who I can’t wait to get up every morning to see. You are Hope.

Things you love to eat:

  • Chips and “dip-dip”
  • Mac & cheese
  • Hot dogs
  • Watermelon
  • Sweet tea
  • Ponatoes (Tomatoes)

Things that scare you:

  • The lion that comes in your room
  • Cornbread (the dog)
  • Having your hair washed

Things you love:

  • Bunny
  • Your family
  • Books
  • Your new Hello Kitty shoes
  • Harry Potter
  • Lord of the Rings (awesome)
  • Mickey Mouse
  • Doc MacStuffins
  • Sofia the First

I love you, Princess Josephine Crybaby. More today than I did yesterday. Happy birthday, little one.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Adventure

Have I mentioned how much I detest the unknown? Walking down paths unexplored gives me hives. I hate not having a plan. HATE. Like I hate mayonnaise kind of hate. Oh, I’ll eat mayo, but it was almost assuredly a mistake or an accident that lands it on my plate.

And that’s where the adventure part comes in. When my mother uses the word Adventure, I know the wheels have come off and all hell has broken loose. That’s generally how I feel about the unknown. It’s not good. It feels me with no positive feelings. No slight euphoria at the thrill of discovery. Just a dull, sick feeling. As if my body is preparing to be punched in the gut.

Ok, enough with the metaphors.

I am 32 weeks pregnant. A month ago, our doc informs us she’s leaving her current practice and going to work for the big hospital (where we always intended to deliver). We had insurance ($$) all worked out and everything was going according to plan. And then. Well, her move means that insurance estimate is now something we have to mess with. Dealing with insurance people and medical billing people makes me want to puke on the best of days. But having to deal with the unknown of how this change will affect our very carefully balanced finances, as I’m staring at six weeks of maternity leave in a little less than 2 months makes me want to faint every time I think about it. Or cry. And you KNOW how I feel about crying.

Now, let’s add the fun part. When I left the school business, I went to work for a smaller business. While there are many, many ups that have come with the change (uh, the pregnancy being right there at the top of that list), there were some benefit changes that came along with losing the buying power of a large company that I didn’t think about (not that it would have really made that much of a difference), but that are having a very big impact on the bottom line. Thanks to the ridiculous increase in healthcare costs, it makes far more financial sense to drop my coverage on myself and go back on Coach’s insurance with the district as soon as possible. That’ll be effective in a week. That solves several problems; once all the wrinkles are worked out.

So. The fun part comes in this morning. Since my doc is now with the big hospital, all the insurance estimates have to be redone. That part, itself, really isn’t that bad. It’s just numbers. Add on top that I am switching insurance and all the mess they scratched on those papers today will be null and void come Monday. Back to unknown.

Ugh. So, we’re looking at a hospital balance due before the end of September, but we really don’t know how much will be due because the new insurance isn’t effective. It’ll be somewhere in the neighborhood of what we’ve already been estimated, but I HATE not knowing. Bam. Done. Ugh (again).

I know. This too shall pass. (I hope you heard that in the most sarcastic, obnoxious voice you can imagine, because that’s how it sounds in my head.) Platitudes make me almost as sick at the unknown.

photo

Routine

alarm-clockI will freely admit I am a type-A personality. (PR people like stating the obvious) I like routine. I dislike disorder. So, summer’s “what do you want to do?” “I dunno. What do you want to do?” schedule makes me CRAZY. (and it doesn’t take much to accomplish that these days.)

So, I’m super excited school starts Monday. My children? Eh, not so much. I’ve been pushing morning wake-up earlier and earlier and I’m noticing two little grizzly bears emerging from where my daughters had been.

Lump it, kids. Momma can’t think when we’re in a hurry. Then I can’t ever find my keys and you KNOW how that works out. I call Daddy and start yelling on the phone. #truestory

Who’s betting I’ll start getting up BEFORE 5am; just to get a quiet moment with my coffee before I have to start wrangling kids. And that’s BEFORE we add The Boy. OMGosh. Somebody shoot me now.

I don’t wanna be nice

Have you read my webfriend, OhAmanda? She’s awesome. She’s a mom. She’s not perfect. She’s real. She does cool things and I vicariously imagine myself doing them as I read along. She posted this great post on What’s in the Bible’s blog the other day about kindness and I had to share it. Because it’s great. 

When I step OUTSIDE of my tired, 30weekspregnantandyouhaven’tstoppedtalkingsinceIpickedyouupchild moment and make myself gently kiss heads and help brush little teeth and tuck little faces into bed (again) and bring ANOTHER drink of water, I find all that other stuff fading away as they smile innocently up at me; completely oblivious to the fact that, 10 minutes earlier, my broken self wanted nothing more than to go hide in the car so I could have five minutes of quiet. And then, as I stand in the dark hallway, after pulling the door shut on sleepy little bodies all tucked in for the night (yes, this time for real mom), I realize how special those moments are. And, like Amanda, I hope they only remember the soft moments and not the moments before when I showed my exasperation; or when my brokenness gets in the way of how much I really love and treasure them. 

 

“B-H can Eat It”

Today, I was talking to my mother and I told her I’m having a lot of Braxton-Hicks, but that I’m onto their “let’s make her think she’s in labor” game and they could just “eat it.” Because that’s what they do. It’s like taking your car to the mechanic. It never does it once you get there to check it out. And then they look at you like you are a little stupid and maybe you should have paid closer attention to those childbirth classes and a little less attention to Pinterest.

This is not my first rodeo. So you would think I would know what I was doing 100% by now.

My pregnancy with Munchkin was pretty easy, if you don’t count that pre-term labor thing at 22 weeks (don’t worry, I carried her to a lovely medium-well done 37 weeks). Delivery was a PIECE. OF. CAKE. So much so, that I almost hesitate to tell my birth story because I figure other mothers might want to slash my tires.

Princess Crybaby was another easy pregnancy. Sure, I threw up a little every morning from about 10 minutes after the pregnancy test until the morning they induced her at 38 weeks (so we could make it into the hospital we wanted before they closed it to rebuild it as a children’s hospital). Quick and (as these things go) unremarkable (other than they, “hey look, it’s a redheaded miracle baby!” part of delivery – DUH). Another easy delivery. Well, for me it was harder, but I fully believe that’s the 8 years older business. *ahem*

The Boy has been super sweet. No nausea (well, not enough to really talk about), no stupid sweet tooth that made me blow up (weight-wise) and lord, the weather has been an absolute gift. Y’all, it was 70-something degrees this morning. In Texas. In late August. UNBELIEVABLE. (not that he had anything to do with that, of course)

But I’m nervous. What if this last one is “the hard one?” What if I finally earn my mother stripes by living through the delivery from hell? You know what I’m talking about; the one where I finally earn the right to stare down my son and say, “I labored 22 hours with you, BOY, so you’ll eat your green beans standing on your head if I say to..” I can’t really use that card with the girls. “Munchkin, I pushed six times and you were out,” or “Princess Josephine Crybaby, I pushed 15 minutes with you, young lady, so I think I’ve earned the right to tell you you aren’t going to dye your hair,” just doesn’t have the same affect. Not. Even. Close.

But it’s not time to find out what kind of labor it’ll be. Hrmph.

So, in the meantime, these B-H can just keep on doing whatever it is they are trying to do because I ain’t falling for it this time. Nope. Not me.

Dangerous Road

Once again, the geniuses at Pregnant Chicken slayed me with their cleverness in the weekly email and I had to comment. Here.

Because otherwise, I’m going to whine about having to get down on my hands and knees and look for Princess Crybaby’s shoes AGAIN this morning and, just as I was about to really let the profanity go on the phone with The Coach, I found it. Under the table. “Exactly where she left it.” (and yes, I’m making that face, Coach – so don’t start)

Yes, it did occur to me to pick them up when I saw those shoes in two different places (is she throwing them around now or something?) last night before bed, but then I remembered I had corn to harvest on Hayday and I forgot. Sue me, dudes, I’m 31 weeks pregnant.

beluga

Things Never to Say

I’m pretty sure being pregnant is the most obnoxious way to pass most of a year. Not because of the process itself so much, but because you can’t be pregnant without people saying REALLY dumb things. And, while I’m sure there are some who feel perfectly entitled to shoot back a stinging retort to all the inappropriate touching, comments and shenanigans (Coach, I’m using that word just for you), I am *trying* to be a little more laid back.

But the first one on this list really struck me as funny and TRUE. Friends, gather around and let Auntie fridaynightgirl share a little safety message: just don’t. There is no good or safe way to remark on a woman’s silhouette when she’s pregnant. Especially not by 31 weeks. And yes, I’m going to explain. By this point, we feel like we’ve been hauling around a pumpkin in our belly for a couple of months now. We are hot. We are sore. We are uncomfortable. And, for the love of mike, we haven’t seen our feet when they are directly under us in weeks. So, saying “well, you just don’t even look pregnant!” is a no-go for a couple of reasons. FIRST, by saying that, what we HEARD with our psycho-preggo ears was, “Geez, you always look like a beluga whale to me!” Whether our weight gain is on track or headed off with the second gallon of dutch chocolate Blue Bell ice cream, we don’t want to be reminded of the all the clothes that don’t fit because of this little project we’ve got going here. We know we’ve gained weight, so don’t try and lie to us. SECOND. When you say it, YOU are trying to compliment us for not blowing up into the Stay-Puffed Marshmallow mommy. We get it. Somewhere. But our sore back, stretched skin and four articles of clothing that still fit mock that sentiment. Growing a human is HARD work, y’all. There are things that happen in pregnancy that are awful. Messy. Painful.. And that’s before labor and delivery. So, as whacked out as this logic is, telling a woman after 31 weeks that she doesn’t even look pregnant somehow discounts all this back-breaking work we’re doing here. At least, between my ears (which, for the record, is the ONLY part of my body that seems to not be a little puffy today) – don’t get me started on the chin. UGH.

I think we can all agree on the general stupidity of remarking “how big” a pregnant woman looks – at any point of her pregnancy. This doesn’t require much discussion. That’s just asking to have a chair thrown at you. Don’t do it. Ever. She’s perfectly aware of the fact that she’s not cutting much of a figure other than the previously mentioned relative of the WHALE.

My advice? When she comes to you and makes some remark about feeling as big as a house or whatever, pat her on the arm and tell her she looks fantastic and ask her if she wants a cookie. Or a Dr. Pepper. Or, in my case, a brand new bag of chips and french onion dip.