Something about eating a cookie that looks like a book feels wrong.
But not so wrong that I couldn’t go through with it.
Monthly Archives: December 2014
NOLA.
I’m happy to report that I haven’t dropped off the face of the Earth. Hooray! Right?
RIGHT?!?!?!
I’m currently having a very restful (code for “kid-free”) vacation with Robbie. This time of year is so insane, it’s kind of ironic (code for “stupid”) that we decided to take some time away NOW, but fairly often we do things that don’t make sense. Like go to a 3-hour-long timeshare presentation in exchange for $75 in Bass Pro Shop gift cards. Or stay at an inn that Marie Laveau used to reside in.
New Orleans is normally not my favorite place to visit because it typically smells gross and is hot as hell, but New Orleans in December is magical. I’m not just saying that because we are kid-free … although now that I think about it, perhaps that has skewed my world view a bit.
There are Santas and violinists on every corner, with the same festive air that is normally found here, just more so. Everyone is merry. It’s nice.
On an unrelated note, I have eye crinkles. I worked very hard to get them, so I’m working very hard to not freak out. This has brought on a lot of deep breath-taking and repeating of phrases like “This is normal, I AM NORMAL,” and “35 is not THAT old.”
Hold me. I’m terrified.
This Is What It Means To Be A Mother.
Today I am over on Toni Hammer’s site Is It Bedtime Yet? talking about the time I got stuck in a sports bra. Don’t you want to read it? OF COURSE YOU DO! This one has nothing to do with sex and there is no bad language, so have at it. (You can read it by clicking here!)
I met Toni because she is one of the talented authors in Scary Mommy’s Guide to Surviving The Holidays, and her straightforward humor made me like her right away. Her blog is awesome and honest — go check it out, and tell her I sent you!
Covered up with little people.
Best-Laid Plans.
I had big plans to get stuff accomplished today, none of it got done, it is now 10:30 p.m. and I feel exactly how Asher looks in this picture.
He gets it from me.
“You know that weird line around your face where your makeup ends and your skin begins? I can see it. Yup, clear as day. And it’s ugly.”
This.
This.
This is why I fell in love with my husband, and why, despite all the things he does that irk the SHIT out of me, I still fall in love with him every day.
We don’t agree on every issue. We bicker. A lot. There’s a lot of eye-rolling. Even so, sometimes I step back and look at what we have been through in the past few years, and I’m really proud of what we have managed to overcome without completely falling apart.
According to the Meyers-Briggs personality test, we are opposites in every way (except that we’re both extroverts). The things I may have found fascinating about him in the beginning of our relationship, before kids, now sometimes make me want to rip his face off.
But … this.
Back when I thought tanning beds were a good idea and we met while working at the grocery store on the corner of Perkins and Essen, I saw glimmers of what you see in this picture and I just knew. What makes us work, with all our individual and joint flaws, is the love that underscores everything we do.
Obviously there are things that make living with another person easier, like compatibility, disposable income, lack of family drama and overall health. But my belief is, when you strip away all the fancy words and put away the self-help books, LOVE IS REALLY ALL YOU NEED.
I can’t wait until I have the time and emotional energy to write about the long and painful road I traveled on my quest to find a husband, which ended when I finally gave up and said eff this shit.
And then, I found him.
I didn’t marry this man for money or power or because we were raised in the same religion and that is what you’re supposed to do.
I married him for love, and I’d do it again and again.
Born Into The Wrong Family.
Pepper sees cashmere, in real life, for the first time.
Black Santa.
Today, Robbie and I put our marriage on the line and brought a live tree into our house and put stuff on it.
Just like everything else, accomplishing this with three kids running and screaming and undoing everything right after you JUST DID IT was pretty freaking miserable. I know I’m not supposed to say that, and we did take cute pictures of the kids to post to social media so everyone could see how much we’re rocking Christmas … but … wow.
Yeah.
However, all of that stress melted away when I found my Most Favorite Ornament Ever. One of the kids ripped the lid off a plastic tub, and I was in the middle of yelling “FOR THE LOVE, STOP STEPPING ON THE LIGHTS!!!!” and there it was. My black Santa.
Me and Santa, 2014.
If you’re a long-time reader of this blog, you should recognize it. For a refresher, read the short background story.
This is the ornament no one can touch because it’s my favorite. Yes, oldest child, you can play with the plaster hand print we made when you were tiny. But don’t you dare touch Black Santa.
This thing brings me infinite, indescribable joy. I couldn’t ask for a better conversation piece of holiday decor.
That Was A First.
There is something about me that attracts weirdness, I’m sure of it. Until I can figure out what it is that I’m doing wrong, I guess I’m going to continue to have things happen to me like what happened tonight — when the Pizza Hut delivery person straight up asked me how much I weigh. Oh, yes, she did.
Maybe if I tell you exactly what happened, we can all work together to make some sense out of it.
I was planning to make hamburgers and french fries for dinner, because it’s Friday night and it just felt right. Then I realized that the ground beef was frozen, so I went to Plan B which was pancakes … but we are almost out of syrup. That is when I texted Robbie to ask if he would pick up a pizza on his way home. He responded that he would have some food delivered.
At 5:45 p.m. there was a knock at the door, and on the other side was a delivery woman who looked about my age. Now, I have a special place in my heart for delivery people. Robbie delivered pizzas at night to supplement our income a few years ago when we were trying to follow the Dave Ramsey plan, and ever since then I have really made a point to tip well and be polite to people who deliver pizzas. It seems like it’s an easy job and it is, until your life is in danger. Think about it. Who is too preoccupied to make dinner besides busy mothers of small children?
People who are in the middle of cooking a batch of meth in their bathtub, that’s who.
It took her awhile to pull the pizzas out of the bag that keeps them hot, and she noticed the two boys standing behind me. “I have a two-year-old,” she said. I smiled as I took the boxes from her and said I’d be right back — I needed to go find a pen to sign the receipt. On my way, I scooped up Pepper because she was crying.
When I reappeared at the door with her on my hip, Delivery Woman looked surprised. “You have three?” she said. “Are there any more in there?”
“Nope, that’s it!”
“How old are they? Did you have the smaller ones back-to-back?”
“Pretty much, they’re 21 months apart.”
I thought this was the end of our conversation. Nope. She took a step toward me … and this is what followed:
Delivery Woman: How do you keep your weight down?
Me: I in no way feel my weight is “down.”
Delivery Woman: Do you work out?
Me: I mostly go to the gym because there is childcare there.
Delivery Woman: Which gym?
Me: (Told her which one, how much it costs, and what it offers.)
Delivery Woman: Are you breastfeeding that baby? I heard that burns calories.
Me: No … no. Not a breast feeder. (Starting to inch backwards to close the door.)
Delivery Woman: WELL. I need to know how you do it.
Me: (Trying to tuck the kids back into the house.) Uhhh …
Delivery Woman: HOW MUCH DO YOU WEIGH?
That is when I looked at her like this:
As I stood in the doorway of my house with my gaggle of children and two large pizzas, the lady from Pizza Hut proceeded to ask again, “How much? About XXX?”
She guessed my exact weight within 3 pounds. I felt myself nod at her and wondered if our next door neighbors were standing on the other side of the bushes listening to our conversation. I totally would have been. This shit was weird.
As I shut the door, I heard her yell “NICE TALKING TO YOU!!!!”
Wait.
Did I just make a new friend? Or am I just the kind of person who you meet and think “I can totally ask her how much she weighs?” Give it to me straight. Between this and the gym towel fiasco, I’m really starting to think I’m doing something wrong.
Goddess.
Maverick (age 6) drew this picture of me yesterday. I command the sun and the rainbows with my very large hands.
Finally, someone in this house recognizes me for the goddess that I am.
Modern Mommy Madness 