Actual things that have happened this week...

No crap.


*I walked around all day with my nursing bra hanging open. Unaware. That is how much time my bra spends open.

* I shaved my legs (it was newsworthy). I did not cut myself (also newsworthy).

* My 12 year old son is texting a girl. A female. He claims she's not his girlfriend but I saw him text her a rose. Suspect. Highly suspect.

* I caught him doing push-ups. Oh. Dear. God.

* My 11 year old son got completely ready for school without any prompting. And also without pants on (inspiring my future book... Don't Forget Your Pants).

* My 15 year old daughter started drivers training. Sigh.

* I hope bald is coming back because the baby pulled out half the hair on the right side of my head.

* One of our stupid dogs attacked the other stupid dog and I almost broke my arm trying to separate them. I am not a fan of our dogs right now. Or any dogs for that matter. Or the cat. In fact, the only animals I'm feeling any good about are the fish, and one of them died. Crap.

* I had to pee (at least once a day) but the baby was in the wrap so I peed while babywearing. In fact I also swept, cooked and dusted babywearing. I would have showered babywearing if my sling was waterproof (and yes they do make those).

* I made Henry the Hoot Owl. But I had to do it with a baby on my lap which means I stabbed myself with knitting needles no less than 7 times.

* I went almost an entire day without water. I had coffee and iced tea. That's all. And they weren't even caffeinated. I didn't realize it until 9:15 pm. By then I had a headache. (I hope the Man isn't reading this or I'm busted)

* I made rice krispie treats.

* I ate rice krispie treats for breakfast.

* I ate rice krispie treats for dinner.

* I probably ate rice krispie treats for lunch but I'm not admitting it.

* One night I served the 15 year old (who had to leave for an activity before dinner was done) a plate of mexican rice, a rice krispie treat and a banana. It looked as bad as it sounds.

* I started to write a tutorial for the owl I mentioned above. I got the first two lines written. So far, that's it. It goes like this: Step One: Get some yarn. Step two: Get some size 3 knitting needles. (More on this later)

* The 11 year old told us he was learning about dictators that are "mean and crazy" also that he would like to be a dictator, but a "nice one" because he doesn't want to be shot or hung. Awesome. It's good to have dreams.

* I fell into the big curbside trash can. Like inside of it. I don't really want to talk about it.

* Did I mention the rice krispie treats?

Oh also because I've been such a good wife and mommy (or you know, because I was looking for an excuse, like I FELL IN A TRASH CAN) I bought myself this lovely book:


Isn't it lurvely?

Then someone spilled syrup on it.

Of course.

So readers... what happened to you in the last week?

Hang in folks,

j-diddle


PS I love Jane Austen. Who doesn't love Jane Austen? OK I mean what LADY doesn't love Jane Austen? If you don't love Jane Austen you should buy this book anyway because it's so purdy.

PPS It's been one the best weeks of my life.

make. it. stop.

Please for the love of all that is sacred and holy.

Make it stop.

You see, next year these two lovebirds who met in 1986. (Yeah you read that right):

Will have their 20th class reunion.

Last month this baby turned 11.

And last week we bought a car for this baby to drive.

When she turns 16:

In August. Which is 6 months from now.

And last night this baby (the one on the right):

Was text messaging.

A GIRL.

A FEMALE HUMAN.

(He'd be mortified if he knew I said so but I mean COME ON. A GIRL?)

And this baby, you know the one born like, what was it, yesterday?

Was rolling over.

Both ways.

It is in light of all this that I insist that all growing cease. And additionally that time stop.

Immediately.

Thank you for your consideration in this matter,

the mother

PS the wedding-y photos you see here were taken by the incomparable Myron Yeung. Take a peek at his website (You'll see yours truly featured :)

Bad. Bad blogger.

I confess.

I am a bad blogger.

I wish I could offer a good reason for this but alas, I give you only this photographic evidence:

My kitchen.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

You see the Big Kids are back from their dad's house. They were gone 3 days and I missed them terribly. Admittedly though I did not miss the messy kitchen. In fact my kitchen was mostly clean for, you guessed it, 3 days.

I do not know what happened in the kitchen this morning. I think it might have been a bomb. Or a tornado. Please note: Geometry and Biology books on table. No, I am not a Sophomore in high school. Someone around here might be though, let me check. I'll get back to you. Also note: There are two pots of things cooking on my stove. Chicken (for chicken and dumplings) and pinto beans (for refried beans). And a box of Rice Krispies. Because I'm going to make Rice Krispie treats. If I can ever find my counter top. And speaking of the counter top, on the counter top you may see some carrots. I will make them eat carrots before the Rice Krispie treats. So that I don't get reported to CPS.

While the Big Kids are at their dad's house I have only Ella, myself and the Man to look after.

It's still a full time job.

Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon stripping cloth diapers. This is so. much. fun. (Not really.) And it leaves your house smelling fresh and clean. (If your idea of fresh and clean is the smell of boiling dawn dishsoap and urine.) Once I was done doing that I decided that pizza sounded good for dinner. (As the house still smelled vaguely of peesoap.)

Yay for pizza.

Also I was working on this.

Though it's got nothing to do with the messy kitchen. Except that I maybe could have a cleaner kitchen if I had no hobbies.

I can't tell you what it is (it's knitting). Or what it's going to be (an owl). Or when it'll be finished (today). Or who it's for (Ella's BFF Anneliese). Because it's a surprise.

So you can see at least 3 compelling reasons why I'm a bad blogger.

My apologies.

I'll get back to you once I dig out from under the dishes. If you don't hear from me by tomorrow afternoon please notify the authorities. The children will most likely notice I'm missing, but not until they get hungry which probably won't be until be dinner time (since there's at least enough cereal and carrots to last until then).

signing off,

j

the one where I confess I only see pediatricians that look like Mel Gibson

Allow me to explain.

Ella is 5 months and 1 week old. She weighs 20.8 pounds. She's fee-at. ( Can you say Hulk Baby?). She's also te-all. I don't know how tall because she won't be still long enough for me to find out.

She does things: She rolls over (prolly case she's fee-at). She holds toys and examines them carefully (trying to figure out if they're edible). In both hands (because when you move it from hand to hand it changes). She grabs food from my plate (She wants to eat. Bad. But we are waiting until she can sit. Which might be forever. More on that later.) She plays with her tongue, sticking it out and sucking on it (also because I presume she thinks it's food). She drools (profusely). She screeches (loudly). She nurses (frequently). She sleeps (occasionally).

She tries to sit up.


She can't (that's why this is blurry, because her punkin head drags the rest of her body over).

The grabby hands.

Fully functioning (Grab. Grab. Grab.).

Rolly poly. Rolling. Over.
Note: Bib. Excessive drool. And by excessive I mean the front of her shirt was so wet with drool I could have squeezed it out then washed the load of laundry with it.


Anyway. There's Ella Bella (her middle name is Grace. For the record.). She's made of butter. And sugar.

And she's on a personal mission to make sure I accomplish absolutely nothing.

And she is awesome in every way.

And she hasn't seen a pediatrician since she was one day old.

When she was one day old we took her to a great doc in a city nearyby to be checked over for any shoulder/clavicle issues she may have had left over from her, shall we say, tight fit. Since then we haven't even considered taking her. People may wonder why.

There are a few reasons for this:

1. She's clearly healthy. I have at least enough medical training as a RN to recognize this. But more importantly, she is my fourth child. I've been there done that.
2. I don't give a rip what the growth chart says (it would say she's fee-at).
3. We aren't fully vaccinating. In fact, presently, we aren't vaccinating at all. Until I've done enough research to know what is going into her and why. And when we do it'll be on our own schedule. Three injections in one day is not happening (don't call CPS).
4. He doesn't look like Mel Gibson (FTR I think Mel Gibson is a jerk. But in 1995 I felt otherwise. Read on.)

When I had my first baby I was 21 years old. Young by most standards. And I took her to the pediatrician for every. single. age. appropriate. visit. She had every physician recommended vaccine right on time. And I did precisely everything he told me to do. For two reasons: A. Because he was smart and kind and the closest thing to a holistic doc I'd ever met (it was he who said the varicella vax was overrated). I trusted him and listened to him. He gave great advice like limit sugar and air your house out when your kids are sick. He told me to get her out of daycare when she was plagued with repeated ear infections to the point that I could no longer remember a time she wasn't taking antibiotics and I was buying echinacea by the gallon. And when it became clear she might need tubes he was willing to wait it out. Good thing because she escaped without them. Oh and B. He was KEY-UTE (Mel Gibson. First Lethal Weapon. That kind of cute. Now stop judging me it was 1995. That look was in. Sheesh.)

Anyway time marched on. More kids were born. And they got sick. And we went to the doc. And I found out that every time we went to the doc they seemed to get sick from being AT THE DOC. And it was Hell. Capital H. Plus the doc was mean. And he didn't look ANYTHING like Mel Gibson. The nerve. Eventually their super duper superhero immune systems kicked in pretty dern good and they stopped getting so sick I thought someone might die (most likely me) (now that I've said that they're all going to get the plague. Tomorrow.) SO we stopped going entirely. And they're healthy. Aside from the occasional emergency thing or incurable skin rash we just don't go. (ask my kids, I've been known to try to use breastmilk to cure everything from an earache to skin rash to eye infection {also, I'm not crazy, it actually works.})

This baffles people.

I still love my children. I swear. If the ped looked like Hugh Jackman I still wouldn't go.

Now I have to go get absolutely nothing done because Ella is drooling all over the keyboard.

Ella Bella

Ok it's not Ella's turn for a blog post featuring her but I. Am. Dying. Here.

Last week my friend Staci and I got together (as we do on Tuesdays because it's the only day she's not in nursing school and I'm not running kids all over creation) and we took some pictures of Ella. She is 4 months and 1 week old which is in no way a milestone but you know I have four kids so whatever. Don't you judge me for not even having a baby book.

Please.

Anyway can I just say. Oh. My. God. Staci is great with the camera but how could you go wrong with this subject matter.

Without further adieu, I present to you, my readers, the. Cutest. Baby. Ever.

I swear to god she's made of butter. And sugar.

Yup. She's in a basket.

And just as this was being taken she actually rolled over for the first time. I'm sure she could have rolled over before but frankly she's never on the floor long enough.

I took this while Staci made goofy sounds.

Don't be fooled, she can't sit up. Also she peed on my bed.

Super baby.

This flower is bigger than her head. Ella, I apologize. It's too cute.

Biological clocks engage.

If you thought you were done having children, I apologize. This baby might make you want another one.

on eleven year old boys

Thank heavens for failed birth control.

No, really.

Thanks, heaven (or you know, whoever).

My son, the littlest one, turned 11 yesterday.

I found out I was pregnant with him after about 9 weeks of feeling 'not quite right' and attributing it to the heat, the move, the exhaustion of having a 3 and 1 year old. Anything but the little person growing inside.

I had no period. I was nursing his brother. I was on the pill. I wasn't trying to have another baby.

I had no idea I was pregnant.

It was hot. We had no air conditioning. We had a swamp cooler. It doesn't count. If you've ever had one, you know what I mean. I was doing dishes one night and found myself hunched over the kitchen sink in a gut wrenching hurl.

I don't vomit. Like ever.

This is the exact moment I knew that the birth control pill had betrayed me. The next day my suspicions were confirmed. The week after that the poor poor radiologist had to be privy to my near breakdown when I saw that the presumed baby had fingers and toes.

I know what that means. You aren't a little pregnant ma'am. You are, in fact, a lot pregnant.

I wasn't ready but he was coming. And sure enough on January 29, 2000 at 8:40 pm this little guy joined us earthside.

I hope this photo conveys the awesome-ness that is this kid.

He loves bugs. Of all kinds. And animals. And mud. And blueberries. And his baby sister.

He plays sax. And drums. And the strings of my heart

He cries when he gets in trouble. And not the "please don't punish me" kind of cry but the truly sorry kind. Because he is.

He was there when his baby sister was born. And by there I mean THERE. In the room. And by in the room I mean standing right beside me the entire time. The. Entire. Time.

He blew me bubbles.

He sat on the ball (OK he had a PSP but he was sitting there for like 6 hours).

And as Ella was literally coming out of me, he stood behind me and held my shoulders telling me I could do it. Gently encouraging me and saying "you're DOING IT mom."

(I cut the bottom off. Because this is a PG site. Also, I'm literally giving birth in this photo. There is a human being coming out of my body. Please forgive my hair.)

OK he used the thermometer like a gun too. I mean, come on, he was 10.

That is my boy.

Damn am I glad that birth control pill failed.

new look plus shampoo free day 7/8 and I should live in my car

Not because I'm homeless. Stick around, will explain.

Let me know what you think of the blog redesign. I obviously didn't need all that header. I found something smaller.

I'm typing up the post at a time when I wouldn't normally be blogging. It's dark. I think you get what I'm saying. Today is going to be a wild ride for this mom of 4. I'll get to that later.

First things first.

Poo-free update. We are now on day 8. My head itches. This is apparently normal. Frown. I'm not enjoying this but I am sticking with it. I think I've combatted the dryness by using honey in the ends of my hair and reducing the baking soda (and still rinsing with AVC). Here's hoping. I'm not a fan of the dry hair feeling so honestly if I can't combat that, I can't not use something. Presently I'm using almond oil and the coconut was just too greasy. The Man is having no issues but agrees that people use shampoo because it's easy. So far this has not been. I'm holding out hope that once we get the kinks worked out it will be. Hoping. Now that I feel like I'm conquering the hair, I'm ready to start the oil cleansing method for face. More on that later.

Secondly:

This is the kind of day I'm going to have. The 3 big kids have to be at 3 different schools at 3 different times. 6:45. 7:45. 8:45. They also have to be picked up at 3 different times. One of them has a jazz band festival in a town about 35 minutes from here which begins at 9:00. Somehow I have to get kid #1 to school at 8:45 and still get to the festival by 9:00. Kid #3 has to be picked up at 12 because he has a minimum day. And kid #2, the jazz band kid? Well I don't even know when he has to be picked up. Crap. I hope I don't forget him. Thankfully Ella can't walk or go to school yet.

I'm going to just move my stuff into the car today.

I need coffee.

Immediately.

And a clone.

the eyes have it

This is a story about not getting what you want. And why that's a good thing sometimes.

1986. Legwarmers were in fashion. Hairspray was all the rage. Kids used to breakdance on cardboard. There was a thing called a "boombox".

It was a dark time.

I lost the district spelling bee. The word was exon. It's not spelled with two X's. Please see definition here. Please note: Spell check does NOT even recognize that as a word. Also if I had asked them to use it in a sentence I would have known they didn't mean the oil corporation. I'm bitter about it. But one good thing did come out of that humbling loss. The boy that would grow into a man and become my husband some 24 years later won... the bee, and my heart.

It was these that got me:

The eyes. The breathtaking eyes.

I said to my friend, "Friend, did you see that guy with the blue eyes? Who is he? He is SOOOOO cute." (This is a paraphrase. I was 11, my memory isn't that good.)

I was intrigued by the Gulf of Mexico Pacific ocean blue. Probably because I'd been looking in a mirror at these:

Brown. Or some shade of it.

(This was taken at our wedding by the way. Please note: Wrinkles. Many.)

Fast forward...

24 years later we got married.

And here we are. Blue. Brown.

There is nothing wrong with brown eyes. Not. A. Thing. I got mine from my dad.

This is him:

And me. I'm the pregnant one.

I always wanted blue though. Which is probably why I picked a blue eyed man. Genetics be damned.

Now, I don't know how much you know about Mendel. But in the event you don't have time to re-learn eight grade biology, let me just tell you the odds of me having a blue eyed baby aren't great. Given that my grandmothers both have blue eyes but both my parents have brown. Not too good at all.

I got pregnant. We went to see the midwife and she asked me, "Did you put in your order for those blue eyes?"

Yes. Yes I did thank you very much.

This wasn't the first or last time the topic would come up during the pregnancy. Though the Man never said anything but he hoped she looked just like me, the overwhelming public opinion was that she ought to get her dad's eyes. And when Ella was born the first question I'd usually get (after the person heard she was born in the kitchen and weighed 10 and a half pounds and after they had fully recovered from the cardiac arrest I'd just given them with that news) was, "Are her eyes blue like her dad's?"

The short answer. No.

They started out that way, but I had my doubts from the beginning. In fact every baby I've given birth to has STARTED that way. I've got a hazel (my eldest). A brown that is just like mine (my middle, who looks just like me too). And a color that is hard to describe. A kind of two toned blue and brown (that's little Owen, who isn't little at all anymore). And there's Ella.

They aren't brown. Yet. But they are going to be. I'm like 99.97% sure. (Also I'm pretty sure she has her dad's eyebrows.)

The day I figured this out was the day I looked at her eyes and realized that they weren't getting any more blue. And I was sad, I'll admit. I said sullenly to the Man, "Man, the baby is going to have brown eyes." And I apologized to the baby for being genetically dominant. "Baby, I'm sorry your mommy made it nearly impossible for you to get your dad's awesome eyes."

I felt bad for being sullen about it.

The Man said to me, "Don't you apologize to her for getting your beautiful brown eyes."

Oh. Yeah. I forgot. Not everyone thinks blue is better than brown.

Also he loves my ears. The ears I was endlessly tormented for those as a kid. Whaddya know? I married someone who thinks they are cute. Adorable even.

Crazy.

In a way I'm grateful that Ella's eyes are going to probably end up brown. When I look at her and I see my own eyes looking back at me, it makes it a little easier to love the brown. And the ears. The fact is, odds are, she's got those too.

Lucky kid.

And I hope she's lucky (and smart) enough to end up with a Man who loves her brown eyes too.

I am.

I am a wife.

A sister.

A daughter.

A nurse.

And I am a mother.

So I'll be honest with you.

Ready?

Yesterday I felt suddenly like I had no identity. Maybe you know what I mean? Maybe not. I've been a mom for a long time now but the sudden realization that I'm no longer identified as "nurse" made me question what I am at all. What do I have to contribute to any conversation? Am I interesting at all? I won't go into what brought this feeling on. I'll just say it was there.

I'm not a doctor. I don't have a masters degree. I don't live in a big or interesting city. I don't play an instrument and I barely sing (it's pretty bad). The Victoria's Secret catalog came in the mail yesterday. Swimsuit edition. Ack. Two years ago I was picking bikinis out of that catalog. This year... that catalog goes straight to the recycling bin. Funny thing is I don't really want to be that size ever again. (To those of you who knew me at that size I think you know what I mean.) In any case, I WAS that size. Now I'm not. Also I'm just plain old jiggly. All over. I tried to read a book to expand my mind. Ella had other ideas. She would have no part of this indulgence. I felt like a blob. I was feeling pretty pathetic.

It's ridiculous I know.

But my sweet husband said I should talk about hard things so here you go.

I'm not always sure about everything. Despite my tough exterior I sometimes feel like I'm not sure about anything.

So I said to my friend Staci (who is one of the few real friends I have)... is it weird that I feel boring and inadequate? (You don't have to answer this question in your mind but feel free to if it applies to you as well.)

And she said, "You my friend are not boring, you are an adult. You had a baby in your kitchen. Has that lost it's power?"

Pause for reflection.

Then... "You helped people birth their children and then you helped people transition into death and then you CHOSE to stay home because YOU are the best choice for your family."

Oh. Yeah. I'll shut up now.

I am a wife.

A sister.

A daughter.

A nurse.

And I am a mother.

I have given birth 4 times, once in my kitchen.

It was pretty frickin awesome.



And that's enough.

Shamu discipline and the American Teen

Recently someone asked me about dealing with 15 year old behaviors. Brace yourself.

I have a teenager. I actually almost have two teenagers. Hard to believe. And true.

When my oldest daughter was born 15 years ago I held her in my arms. The world was full of possibility for her and I knew the coming years would bring excitement and joy and some confusion. I had no frame of reference for age 15. But I do now.

My daughter reads my blog so before I go on I want to say this to her: Kelsey, you made me a mother. I dreamt and hoped for you and you came. A fulfillment of my hearts desire. I haven't always made the best choices for you but I have always made the best choices I could at the time. As Maya Angelou says, when I knew better I did better. My heart aches with love for you. You are beautiful and smart. You are funny and kind. You are the best parts of me and your father. Also you're a bit of a slob, but that's ok, I love you just the same. Now please pick up your room.

Now, let me say this, having a teenager is not all that different from what I expected. My daughter has her fair share of drama and bad days. She gets frustrated with her hair and can't decide what shoes to wear (even though often times they are my shoes). She wants to know what purse to carry, what belt to wear, what to do about boys. She's still figuring it all out. When I get frustrated with her I try to remember that at her age I was a holy terror. I'm not making that up. Ask my mom. Moody. Dramatic. Emotionally labile. And I hated my mother (sorry mom). I'm pretty sure Kelsey loves me so I consider that a victory.

The one thing I knew I wanted for my daughter and I was that I wanted to be someone she could come to. Someone she could ask things of. Someone she could love that would love her without condition. I wanted her to always know that I was available for her, no matter the need. I didn't want to try to be her friend like my mother did because I knew the resentment that created. I hope when she has the distance to look back at being a teen she can say I've done those things.

Anyway, love can build a bridge as they say but love doesn't always get the clothes off the floor, even with all that love, teenagers still need boundaries and discipline.

How do you get a 15 year old to clean their room? Do the dishes? Help with the laundry?

I'm about to reveal something revolutionary.

A 15 year old is a lot like a baby.

Not in the drooling, breastfeeding, co-sleeping sense (though my 15 year old still hops in bed with me periodically, which I love) but more like this... when I smile at Ella, she smiles back. If I frown, she frowns. Cause and effect. Fifteen year olds are a lot like this. Happy and helpful makes happy and helpful. And this is where the Shamu discipline comes is (Shamu is a whale by the way, in case you live in a cave). Whale training is a lot like kid training. Read about whale training here. If you read that, they you're prepared to answer this, how are kids like whales? Well, everyone likes a reward. Everyone. I don't know one person that would say, "Oh you know what, I'd rather you didn't praise me for my good behavior. In fact, just ignore my good behavior and while you're at it why don't you yell at me when I get a C in geometry." No one doesn't like a pat on the back. The best thing about a good pat on the back? You want to get another pat on the back. It's very simple. And very effective.

Practical example anyone? Kelsey wanted to give the baby a bath. She didn't know how so I told her and showed her and helped her learn and then I gave her the reigns and of course she didn't do it perfect. She made some mistakes. Nothing dangerous or detrimental, but not perfect. I ignored them and said, "Wow, thanks a lot for giving the baby a bath Kelsey. I really appreciated getting the dishes done without wearing the baby (I do it but it gets messy)."

Guess what? The next night she wanted to bathe the baby again. And I got to do dishes again (maybe some day I'll use that time for something like a quick jog). I haven't perfected this art because sometimes I get frustrated and "GIVE ME YOUR CELL PHONE RIGHT NOW" is effective too. But I'm a work in progress. I'm working on making sure my kids have positive praise for the good things they do and hopefully nothing at all for the bad things (unless someone if getting hit by someone else, that I can't ignore).

I think you get what I'm saying here. Shamu likes fishy treats. Kids like praise. Done.

Sunday. Baking Sunday.

Better than bloody Sunday.

We still aren't done with the baking. But we are dangerously close.

I swear I had the best intentions yesterday to be done. I really did. But it just did not happen. We made a lot of goodies. Translation: I made a lot of goodies. The Hub did dishes. The Big Kids helped some, but mostly sat around basking in the glory of the first day of winter break and the Wii. Ella ate. And napped some. That's what she does best. She's a professional eater.

This is what we ended up with (thus far anyway):

Peanut Brittle:

I slaved for HOURS on this. I mean it's CANDY, people. Do you now how hard it is to make candy correctly? It's HARD.

(It took 15 minutes. Including clean up.)

Peppermint Bark:

Three layers of it.

This has ganache. In the middle. Ganache is one of the best things. Ever. It's ridiculous.

Fudge:

Um... Yum. That is all.

Buckeyes:

This is what is in buckeyes.

Butter and peanut butter.

Powdered sugar.

Chocolate.

(By the way, that is my ghetto double broiler. Dutch oven + glass bowl. That's how I roll. Don't judge me. )

Don't ask me what the recipe is. I can't tell you. It's secret. What I can tell you though is that mixed in the right proportions those 4 things make a candy so good you might want to just go ahead and die after you eat it.

(It's not really secret.)

This is what they look like when they are done:

That one doesn't look like that anymore. It slightly more *ahem* pureed? In my stomach.

They look like an actual buckeye. Get it?

Only mine are delicious.

I confess: I was born in Ohio. Even though I moved when I was 10 days old I still like to say I'm from Ohio. I don't know why. Who really wants to be from Ohio anyway? My dad is from Ohio. He moved to California as soon as he could. He says the people who live in Ohio only do so because they haven't figured out how to get out of Ohio yet. No offense to those of you who live in Ohio. (Family: I love you all. Despite you living in Ohio.)

I digress.

Just as an aside... You should always have a wearable helper when baking. She doesn't look very happy but I promise she is. I look like I've been in the kitchen all day because I have and additionally like I don't own a hairbrush. My apologies. I do own a hairbrush. I'm like 98.7% sure.

Note: Don't worry I'm not going to set the Baby on fire. The stove isn't even on. The water was preheated to a boil, then shut off for safety. I haven't caught the sling on fire yet.

Back to business: We are putting the finishing touches on the sugar cookies and g'bread peeps. They aren't done because I am the Mother and I insist that all the children be present for the decorating. Non-negotiable. One of said children just left for a sleepover. Inside I'm secretly glad because I don't feel like making frosting right now. I do eventually run out of energy. Tomorrow is a new day my friends.

My couch and my behind are about to get reacquainted.

Like now.

But only for 15 minutes... then I have to go back into the kitchen and make dinner. I wonder if any mother has ever just put her bed in the kitchen?

Happy Holidays ya'll.

Sincerely,

the lady covered in various powdered ingredients

out of the mouths of 15 year olds (daughters in this case)

Disclaimer: These are just things MY 15 year old says (or has said at some point over the last year or so, give or take). I make no guarantee that every 15 year old will say all (or any) of these things. There is a pretty good chance you're going to hear some of them though. Repeatedly.


a. Mom, I can't wear the black Uggs with the brown belt. Ohmigawd (yes, it's one word). You just don't KNOW.

{No, clearly I do not.}

b. Mom, you are NEVER going to believe what (insert any girls name here) said today. She said she couldn't believe (insert any other girls name here) even LIKED (insert any boys name here). He's such a JERK. He was totally flirting with (insert yet another girls name here). He doesn't even deserve (insert 2nd girls name again).

{Things used to be so simple.}

c. Mom, I'm hungry.

{Why am I not surprised?}

d. Mom, we don't have ANYTHING to eat.

{Except that cabinet full of food.}

e. Oh. Em. Gee. Mom. Your boob is totally bigger than the babies HEAD.

{Gee. Thanks.}

f. Mom, don't worry, it's ok for you to get big when you're pregnant.

{And. Again.}

g. Mom, are stretch marks inherited?

{Yeah. In reverse. I got mine from you.}

h. Mom, I have the BEST idea. Let's go SHOPPING!

{Wow. That sounds super fun. Let me ask my huge human head sized boob if it wants to go too.}

i. Mom, my room IS clean. No, it's clean. I swear.

{By the standards of? A homeless guy? Oh, ok. As long as we're clear.}

j. Mom, WTH, why can't I have a facebook. Come ON. PUH-LEASE.

{Ask your father.}

k. Mom, how do you know when you're in love?

{If you have to ask, you aren't}

l. Mom, what if you like a boy but he doesn't like you? Ooooor what if he doesn't even KNOW you?

{Introduce yourself. If he still doesn't like you, he's a idiot. At least temporarily. Move on. Wait 20 years. Call him up. See what happens. Maybe you'll get married. :)}

m. Mom, why is your hair like so awesome and stays curly and mine won't stay curled at all. It's LAME.

{Genetics. Learn to love the hair you've got. There is a no exchange policy on hair.}

n. Mom, does this purse look ok with this outfit? (always say yes. Always. You're going to be wrong anyway) . NO, it does NOT. You just don't KNOW.

{No. Obviously not. Oh see h. We should go get another one. :-|}

o. Mom, when did you lose your virginity? Were you like married? Or what.

{How about we talk about my stretch marks again?.}

p. Mom, what is sex like?

{Fun. Or it should be. Next topic. }

q. Mom, you are like (btw, insert the word 'like' randomly in any sentence for 15 yo effect) SO good at being a mom. No mom, really. You're like (there it is again) GOOD. How did you get so good?

{Years of practice. Mostly on you. Sorry about that.}

r. Mom, Ella is the luckiest baby ever to have you for a mommy.

{Thanks honey. I love you too.}