What's up, y'all?

What's up, y'all?

What's up, y'all?

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just stuck on "repeat myself" mode after getting the kids ready for school this morning. Does anybody else ever feel like you just say the same thing OVER AND OVER AGAIN AD INFINITUM like a broken effin' record? Just a minute ago, as a matter of fact, I asked my three-year-old to go down to the laundry room, open the door, and turn the light off. And it went something like this:

"Coby, can you please go open the laundry room door and turn the light off?"

Coby starts down the stairs. Is distracted by a piece of fuzz.

"Coby. Can you please go open the laundry room door? And turn the light off? Please?"

Coby, still rolling the fuzz between his fingers, finishes descending the stairs. Opens door. Walks into laundry room and starts inspecting the contents of the pantry therein.

"Turn the light off please!"

Coby drops the fuzz and grabs bottles of water from the pantry. "Mom, I got you a drink!"

"Thank you, but we have water in the fridge. Put those back and then turn off the light."

Coby puts the water back. Fingers longingly over a box of scalloped potatoes. "Can we have these?"

"Coby. It's 8 o'clock in the morning. We're not having scalloped potatoes. TURN. OFF. THE LIGHT and get up here."

Coby scrambles up the stairs.


That's pretty much how my whole morning goes. Every morning. I swear my kids have a "Mommy's voice" filter in their brains that just selectively screens out anything I say unrelated to Mario Brothers, the playground, or Chuck E. Cheese. I guess they must be honing that special man-skill of tuning out the wife's voice later on in life. (Which by the way is equally annoying ... cough*Curtis*cough.)

Colin's shoes, for example. I had to tell him no fewer than six or seven times this morning to put them on. And it's like ... just put the damn things on already. Am I asking you to donate a kidney? No. Am I asking you to consider spending a year as a monk in the furthest reaches of Tibet? No. I'm asking you to put your shoes on. It's not something that takes a lot of thought, or preparation, or emotional readiness.

Now if I had asked him to fold a basket of laundry, I'd totally understand the procrastination. My clean laundry is working on day three in the basket as we speak.

But I'm the mom, dammit.


My husband went to New York on business. He does this type of thing every few months. And while he's gone, guess who gets to stay behind and single-handedly take care of every glorious household duty?

Yep. Me. The missus. The little woman. Suzy Homemaker.

It's, like, sickening how glamorous my lifestyle is sometimes.

When Curtis called yesterday, he was all, "I'm in New York! Boy, you should see this hotel. It's really nice. It's on the twelfth floor, and I have an incredible view. We don't have any meetings until tomorrow, so we're going to do some sightseeing. First up, Central Park!"

And then throughout his marvelous New York day, he texted me pictures like this:

... And this ...

... and this.

So I took pictures throughout my day. Like ...

... the crusty baby-cereal patch on my tres-chic elastic-waisted pants ...

... and the typical demeanor of the teething four-month-old ...

... and the unfortunate spilling of the peppercorns by a three-year-old who was getting into the cabinets to eat all the marshmallows ...

... and the dishes in the sink because the dishwasher was full ...

... and Cameron using bubble gum as a mustache and a necklace ...

... which led to me spending like ten minutes picking it out of his neck hairs while he whined ...

... and the state of the living room less than ten minutes after I vacuumed ...

... and the mysterious gash that happened while I was taking the dogs out to pee, that no one would claim responsibility for ...

... and more crying ...

... and the laundry ...

... ohhhhh, the laundry ...

... and bath time.

There were some things my little "day-in-the-life" photo diary didn't capture: like the eight hundred squabbles I moderated. Or when the dog ate an ill-gotten bag of pork rinds and then barfed them up all over the carpet. Or the screw I had to remove from Coby's ear. Or the leftover pork roast I reheated for supper. 

I didn't text any of these pictures to Curtis because I didn't want him to be jealous of this fabulous time I'm having here in Iowa, while he's suffering through New York City sightseeing and lobster dinners. 

Wife of the year right here, y'all.

Hot Dish

I think back to how it was when Curtis and I first got married. Hot. Steamy. Satisfying. We took our time; slow and uninterrupted. Savored the experience, and then went back for more. It was like that every. Single. Night.

But then we had kids. And since they came along? Dinner just isn't the same.

I swear I haven't had a hot meal in at least six years. It's not that I don't cook: every night you can find me slaving away at the stove.*

*Except for the nights when I'm like, "Oops, I forgot to thaw something so here's some cereal."

But the thing is, when I'm done cooking, the kids' food needs to be plated up. So I divvy out equal portions (to avoid the inevitable cries of he got more macaroni than meeeeeee! or why did I get so many carroooooots?). Cut up food for those who aren't old enough to do it themselves, which is nearly everyone. Pass out plates, dole out silverware. Make sure everybody has a multivitamin. Pour drinks. Put them on the table.

Curtis helps me with all this, but it still seems to take forever. And then as soon as I sit down, someone spills something. And as soon as that's cleaned up, someone wants a second helping (which has to be cut up). And then somebody wants a drink refill. And then somebody wants to try pepper on his dinner like Daddy has. And then I realize that nobody has napkins yet everybody needs them. And then my head explodes!

By the time I finally get around to eating, my food is lukewarm at best. And everyone else has gotten such a jump on the meal - especially Curtis who, thanks to habits he picked up in his military Basic Training, eats everything on his plate in like 2.5 seconds - that they're all finished when I'm just beginning. So I either end up sitting there by myself, or eating while everyone stares at me.

I fantasize wildly about the day when they're all old enough to pour their own drinks and dish up reasonably-sized helpings of food without spilling it all over the place.

... Which means I've only got like ten years of cold dinners to go.

Who Made it Monday?

I've been dressed for less than an hour. Grabbed these clothes straight out of the dryer, where I had stuffed like three fabric softener sheets in with them because I'd left them in the washer a little too long and they'd started to smell a little funky. Oh yeah, and then forgot to turn on the dryer when I finally put them in there last night. Oops. The dryer sheets helped with the smell ... kind of. (Hey, I might have a little musty odor no thanks to my washing machine, but at least it's not a stank of the gray hoody variety.) I couldn't be too choosy about my wardrobe anyway because I was trying to get four children and myself dressed sufficiently enough to shuttle the older two to school, and I was running like five minutes behind. Again.

It doesn't really matter how undesirable my choice of outfit was, though, because when I picked up the baby after feeding him his rice cereal, he chewed on my shoulder with his little cereal-y mouth. I laid him down on his play mat and noticed a booger on my sleeve. After removing the baby crust and the booger from my shirt, I sat down. Right on a piece of soggy Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Which like mashed onto my pants.

I probably would have changed pants anyway. Because I'm going to try to make it to Zumba class this morning while Cameron is at preschool, and when I sweat wearing these pants, I totally look like I peed myself. I have to go straight from the gym to the kids' school to pick Cameron up - no time to change - and somehow going with sweaty pitstains doesn't bother me, but going with a crotch stain the size of Texas feels a little embarrassing.

First though I'm going to take care of my hair, because I slept on it wet last night and it looks like it's trying to run away from my face.

While I'm doing all that, pop on over to my Giveaways & Reviews page and enter the latest giveaway. There are only six entries so far y'all, so your chances are phenomenal! I was going to choose a winner today but I'll extend it until tomorrow.

... Seeing as I have to change my clothes and all.

Miscellaneous and Moronic

My house is such a mess right now that I can hardly even walk anywhere without stepping on something. And when I do step in a place where there isn't a toy/piece of paper/item of clothing, crumbs stick to my feet. Plus? My laundry looks like this:

And that doesn't even include the two loads in the dryer and the load yet to be washed.


So basically I'm just gonna leave y'all with a few quick weekend tidbits. First: there are only two days left to donate to the Alzheimer's Association and help reach our goal! We've got under a hundred dollars to go, so please, do whatever you can! If you haven't read the post about why you should donate, read it here. And then go donate here. Every dollar counts! If we reach the goal, I'll do a new cartoon or vlog or something. Your choice.

Secondly: I've got a new giveaway up right here (or just click on the "Giveaways & Reviews" tab up top). It'll make you less old-looking. Or at least less old-feeling. Either way, leave a comment! Your odds of winning are really super good right now!

And last but not least: when I left the gym the other night I went to unlock my van and it didn't work. I kept clicking the "unlock" button on the key fob and ... nothing. The lights would blink, but the door wouldn't open. WTF! So I yanked and yanked and yanked the crap out of the door, just out of frustration. And then I glanced into the interior of the van and realized ......

It wasn't even my van.

My van was parked behind the one I was so mercilessly trying to break into. So I did see the lights flash when I pushed the unlock button, but it was the reflection of my van's lights. Ha! There was a dude walking across the parking lot and he looked at me like I was doing something criminal. Which I guess technically I was ... but it was a total mistake.

Sheesh. What a dork.

Have a good weekend everybody!

"High" School Work

Last night while I was making dinner, I sat the boys at the kitchen table to do their homework. Colin had some sentences to write, and Cameron's preschool work consisted of listing things he saw that started with the letter P.

"I see a pot!" Cameron said, pointing to the pan I was cooking macaroni in.

"Very good, Cameron!" I exclaimed. "Pot does start with P, so draw it there on your paper."

"But I can't draw."

"So then write the word," I suggested.

While he was busy writing P-O-T on his paper, Colin and I were shouting out more things around the kitchen that started with P. Pencil! Pepper! Potatoes! 

"Pie!" shouted Colin.

"There's no pie in this kitchen," I said. "But I wish."

"Plant!" said Cameron. "How do you spell that one?"

"P-L-A-N-T," I told him, and once again he bent over his paper, writing. Then he proclaimed his homework finished and ran off to play.

I figured he had been writing down all the stuff as we shouted it out, but when I picked up his homework a little later, this is all it said:


I do use a lot of herbs in my kitchen. But not "THE" herb. There are no illegal growing operations on my kitchen counter.*

*Those are in my basement, under a grow light. Duh.

Anyway, I'm thinking I ought to attach a little note to his teacher explaining the situation, just in case. I wouldn't want her calling Child Protective Services like, "Yes, one of my students reported seeing marijuana plants in his home." I'd have him add a few more words, but that would take away from the precious hilarity of the original document. And this one's going in his baby book.

Cameron: making me look like a questionable parent since 2008.


First of all, to save me some explanation time, you should really read this post. Really, go read it ... I'll wait.*

*I'm giving you all the patience in my limited reserve, so feel privileged.

Back so soon? Awesome.

The post you just read was written two years ago. And what's horrible is that it still holds true. Two years later and I'm still struggling to keep my stuff intact.

You see, yesterday, Colin and Coby (7 and 3) were playing school in my bedroom. They do it all the time. When I went to check on them, they were sitting quietly on the floor - Coby filling out a "worksheet" and Colin pretending to be his teacher. It was one of those heart-melting Mom moments, actually, when they're not whining or bickering or kicking each other for the first time in like two months and you're all, "Awwww."

So, assuming all was well, I went to make dinner.

Silly me.

I should know better than to assume anything. EVER.

Because when you assume things are well, this happens:

That's my brand-new mascara all over his face. And the rest? Those smudges all the way from his shoulder to his toes? That is nail polish. But not just any nail polish - not a light neutral pink or something, ohhh nooo - it's a color called "Petrol" which is a nearly-black blue-green. (And which, despite repeated scrubbing with nail polish remover, still stains the skin ... so now Coby appears to have some weird rotting foot disease.)

As for Colin, my seven-year-old who definitely knows better but watched his little brother do all this anyway? He has this misguided perception that if he wasn't actually the one committing the act, then he's not at fault.

Yeah. Needless to say, that perception was promptly corrected.

But that didn't restore my makeup to its original condition.


PS - Wanna hear some GOOD news? I have a new giveaway up! Click on the "Giveaways and Reviews" tab above and check it out!


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