I posted this picture on Husband’s Facebook wall last night.
Husband: You want me to grow a ‘stache like that?
Me: You want me to put you in a headlock like that?
Husband: That might be the kinda stuff I’d be into if I had a ‘stache like that.
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| Before a birthday party. |
I know I said I would stop talking about my boots, but clearly I am unable to.
So far, they have been tested at the following locations:
1. The woods.
2. The mall.
3. A children’s birthday party.
4. The grocery store.
5. My kitchen.
At all of these locations, I spent most of my time on my feet. I don’t know how or why, but these boots are literally the most comfortable pair of shoes I have ever owned IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.
I am 32 years old. I’ve owned a lot of shoes. I’ve owned a lot of comfortable shoes — including Nikes, Merrells, Borns, Birkenstocks, fancy flip flops that conform to your feet, and a whole slew of others.
It’s madness, people. Don’t be too surprised if the next picture I post is of me and my boots in frumpy workout gear, headed to the gym. I haven’t tried running in them yet. I’ll let you know how that goes.
I just submitted an article to Birmingham Mommy that is probably going to embarrass my husband and my mother. But certain things need to be talked about. And I don’t have an alias.
I just want to state that I recently held a HUGE secret for one of my best friends and I didn’t tell it.
She had a breast cancer scare.
It was horrible.
Her biopsy came back benign, thank God. Life can go on. But it got me thinking. It’s an honor for someone to trust you with a major secret that they haven’t even told their mother or sister yet. Especially considering that I over share about everything in my life.
I don’t have any siblings, but I really think of my girlfriends as my sisters. I love them like family. They ARE my family. They have stuck by me through an embarrassingly long list of crises and weird problems, and if all that is asked of me is to provide support to a sister who fears she will have to wear pink for the rest of her life (because of breast cancer … you understand), or maybe lose her hair or even her life, well … sign me UP.
I also wanted to mention that I find the mere thought of a mammogram terrifying. My boobs have had their fair share of abuse, thank you. They have been through quite enough without squashing them between two metal plates.
Okay, I promise I’ll stop raving about my boots soon. But seriously, they look good with everything in my closet. No, really. Everything. The only con I have found is the fact that I pulled a chest muscle trying to remove a boot from my left foot. That happened earlier today.
TWO is 6 months and 4 days old. It’s amazing how he went from this:
To this, in a seemingly short amount of time.
Happy half birthday, little TWO. For awhile there I was worried you would be grumpy forever, but you’ve turned into a charmingly inquisitive, joyful, smiley baby who stole Mommy’s heart.
Oh … wait …
Were you worried that I was going to be grumpy forever??
Thankfully, I am now soundly medicated and you are sleeping through the night. Both of these are life-changers and ensure that I will, in fact, not be eating my young.
ONE and TWO and I are finally back home, and after two hours of cleaning, my house no longer smells of man.
Never, ever would I have fancied myself to be the kind of girl who would wear cowboy boots and love them. I mean really.
I come from a long line of cowboy boot-wearers. My grandpa in Alabama wore them every day to work. During my entire childhood I watched my grandma pull them off for him in the evening. He would kick back on the sofa and say in his Southern drawl, “Earline, come pull my boots off for me, honey.”
My grandpa is the kind of man who wears a cowboy hat to the zoo and looks good doing it.
My daddy wears cowboy boots to church. He’d wear them to work, but they would get ruined. His brother, my uncle, wears cowboy boots everywhere. And about a year ago my parents bought ONE a ridiculously cute pair. I remember when he finally grew big enough to wear them. When I helped him put them on I had one of those moments that mothers of little boys have when I looked at him and imagined what he’ll look like as a big strapping man.
I let him wear those boots everywhere. Just last night we went for a tricycle ride and he had his cowboy boots on with a sweatsuit and it was so freakin’ cute I couldn’t stand it.
A few days ago, my daddy asked me if I would like a pair of boots. I got really excited and blabbered about how cute they would be with sundresses this summer and YES, THANK YOU, I WOULD LOVE A PAIR. So we went to The Boot Store — yes, that is what it was called — and went shopping. I tried on the whole store before I settled on the Most Awesome Boots Ever.
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| Corral Vintage boots! They didn’t have the original box for me, but that’s okay. |
My life has been forever changed. I wore them yesterday, all day long, walking around outside and my feet didn’t have a blister on them. I literally felt like I had on Nikes. It was a-maz-ing. I have been on a hunt for cute and comfortable footwear for YEARS. Here is the answer.
The boys and I are driving back home tonight and I cannot WAIT to try my boots on with everything in my closet. Yeehaw!
I hate counting calories. Stupid My Fitness Pal. Stupid bathroom scale. Stupid tight pants.
This morning I had what I thought was a conservative breakfast of one english muffin, two tablespoons of peanut butter, half a cup of juice, and my usual 6 cups of coffee. With half and half.
When I plugged all of this into My Fitness Pal, it totaled (gasp!) 517 calories. What the HELL? That is one third of my allowance for the day. Which means I’ll be eating vegetables for lunch.
While I was mulling over my plight, ONE drew a picture:
This is, and I quote, “a man walking in the woods with a great three-eyed ghost chasing him.”
This made me feel better. The scale might be stuck at an unacceptable number, but somehow my three-year-old learned how to draw stick people.
Also … it is kind of fun to see how far his pee will go and to see if he can hit an anthill. I am beginning to gain more and more insight into the mind of a man.
Yesterday, a terrible thing happened.
Let me preface this by saying that I am struggling to adjust to summer break. Struggling. Like … it’s good? But also horrible? Can something be good and horrible all at once? Because I’m pretty sure that is exactly what parenthood is.
Making the transition from having all three kids in school for 6+ hours per day (and working during those hours), to having them home all the time and trying to get my work done in addition to mothering in a loving fashion, is not going great. As I have already established in multiple blog posts from previous years, summer is effing relentless.
Pepper is obsessed with two things: outlets and babies. Here she is showing her baby doll the outlet in her bedroom. #multitasking
Thankfully, this year is somewhat easier than previous years simply because my children are getting older and more independent. Pepper will be 3 next week, so I think we’re finally on the upswing after a very dark time in the Valley of Motherhood.
Yesterday afternoon, we got home from playing at the park. The boys jumped out of the van, heard some kids next door playing, and asked if they could go over to play. I granted them permission and took Pepper inside. Her clothes were filthy — covered in layers of peanut butter and dirt — so I stripped her down to a diaper.
I ran to the bathroom with her trailing behind me, always my little shadow. And then, my mom called. She’s not feeling well and I can barely hear her on the phone. I was straining to understand what she was saying — did she just say she needed to go to the hospital?! — and naturally, my toddler got really loud at exactly that moment. As her shouting drowned out my mother, my stress level started to rise.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. My daughter cried from the hall, and when she stopped, I was thankful. When I emerged only a few minutes later, the house was quiet. A panicky feeling started to rise in my chest, and then it felt like my heart stopped.
Just.
Stopped.
Beating.
Our back door was standing wide open.
Screaming her name, I ran outside. She was gone. Or hiding. Or missing.
I heard a woman’s voice — our across the street neighbor — yelling at me that she just saw a little girl cut through the fences in the backyard.
“She went that way, sweetheart! I was standing here watching her!”
I was barefoot and it did not matter. I ran. I ran until I found her. I couldn’t feel my feet. I couldn’t feel my body. All I could hear was my own voice screaming her name, and my heartbeat deafening my ears. That is what blind panic feels like.
My 2-year-old was wandering one street over from ours, wearing nothing but her diaper. She was holding a toy pet carrier with a little stuffed dog inside. I will never forget the way her face looked when she saw the horror on mine.
“NEVER AGAIN,” I said to her.
“Not with my dog?” she said.
“NEVER, EVER. Do not ever leave this house without a grown up,” I said, as I wiped away my tears.
I’m sharing this story to demonstrate how quickly children can disappear. How many times have I heard stories of toddlers wandering the streets and thought to myself, WHERE WAS THE MOTHER?
That mother is me. I was right there. It happened anyway.
I’m a damn good mom. I am capable. I am aware. I am not negligent. But children are fast. And sometimes quiet. And things happen. So today I’m hugging my babies tight, grateful for their safety, knowing that sometimes other mamas aren’t so lucky.
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Modern Mommy Madness 