Mom Fail

I screwed up today. That, of course, is not big news. I screw up in one way or the other every day. But today's screw up was deeper, and came with one of those revelatory, "Duh!" lightbulb kind of moments.

This morning, Matt and I attended the kindergarten parent breakfast with the boys. They were so excited because all of the classes we're going to be singing for the parents at the breakfast. Hays was particularly excited because they were singing Skinnamarink (you know, skinnamarinkydinkydink, skinnamarinkydo, I love you...), and we've always sung that song. So he couldn't wait to get up there. Until he was up there.

I saw it coming. I saw the lip start to tremble, I saw the eyes start to water, and I knew exactly what was about to happen. Sure enough, halfway through the first song, he bolted off stage and ran to me. And did I hold him and tell him it was okay and give him a reassuring hug? No, I didn't- and that was a mom fail.

My first reaction was, "Oh crap, of course, it's my kid that's not behaving. It's my kid that's acting out." So my response to him was, "Hays! Stop! You're fine. Get back up there and do what you're supposed to do! You're embarrassing me!" And when he refused, I said, "Fine. just sit there and be quiet." Ugh, such fail. You can judge me, it's okay. I promise I'm judging myself just as harshly.

Luckily, that was when I had my completely obvious, but hereforto unseen to me revelation. He's not acting out- he's scared. He looked out at that sea of faces and flashbulbs, and got a case of good old fashioned stagefright. He didn't run to me because he's an uncooperative brat, he ran to me because he was overwhelmed.

That's when I did the right thing. I leaned over to my little buddy, put my arm around him, and said, "It's okay, baby, I know you're just nervous. I understand. You can stay here with me if you need to." And he told me, "Mommy, I don't like everybody looking at me and smiling at me. It makes me feel shy." I guess I didn't recognize it at first, because it's not a feeling I've ever had. I have never had a problem being the center of attention, and always relished being on stage. I love an audience. So do Will and Mason. But not my Haysie, and that's okay.

And what do you know, as soon as I reassured him, they started in on Skinnamarink, and my boy took off like a rocket, took his place right there in the middle of the front row, and sang his little heart out. Eyes locked on me, pointing directly at me during the "I love you" part of the song. Redemption and forgiveness right there in the primary school cafeteria.

When he came off the stage, I told him what an awesome job he did. And I told him I was sorry that I got on to him for being nervous, and that I was so proud of him for being so brave. I messed up today, but I learned something in the process. They're not always going to be exactly what I think they should be. Sometimes they'll be shy when I think they should be bold. Sometimes they'll be bold when I wish they'd be reserved. But I always want to be their port in the storm, their safe spot when everything gets to be a little too much, and I always want to be their biggest fan when they overcome their fears and shine like stars.

This Is Where We Used to Live...

This morning I had a doctor’s appointment on the other side of town. On a whim, I decided to drive past the first house Matt and I lived in when we moved to Athens 12 years ago. It looked a little different, but it sure did recall some sweet times.

It wasn’t a particularly impressive house. In fact, it was downright tiny, but it had its charms. It was a little blue, two bedroom house with a bit of a front porch, and a patch of lawn nestled amongst far more stately dwellings in a historic part of town. I loved being surrounded by gorgeous hundred year old homes on tree-canopied streets. And I loved that little house, right down to the orange laminate countertops in the minuscule kitchen.

It was special, you know? It was our first place together. We were 22, poor as church mice and living in sin, but we were excited and hopeful. So many of our big things happened there. I started my first teaching job, Matt graduated college, we got our sweet dog, we got engaged in the living room in front of the Christmas tree.

The big things are special, but I think my sweetest memories lie in the little things. Like our first Halloween. I was so excited at the prospect of trick-or-treaters, and we carved a bunch of little pumpkins in the images of dead rock stars- Jimi Hendrix, Jerry Garcia, Bob Marley, The Beatles. We’ve done some elaborate carvings since then, but those will always be my favorites.

And then there was the day that it unexpectedly snowed, and Matt and I walked through the swirling flakes with our yellow dog down a street that looked like a Victorian postcard. It was one of the most beautiful, magical moments I ever experienced.

I hosted my first Easter dinner in that tiny kitchen, and I was so proud to serve my sister and her friends on my brand new wedding china that had just started to arrive. We started our life in that house, and it will always be dear to me. So when I drove past it today, even though it was a different color and the yard had changed a bit,  it still looked like hope, love, and the eternal optimism of youth. 

Is There a Rehab Program for This??

            You know that story The Red Shoes about the ballerina that gets a pair of red slippers that make her dance beautifully, but she can’t stop dancing? Literally can’t stop at all and dances herself (spoiler alert) to her death? Well, I’ve had a similar situation over here, only it wasn’t toe shoes. Let’s call it The Red Glue Gun.

            I don’t know what it is about fall, if it’s cooler air, the kids going back to school, or the sheer abundance of holiday crafts and recipes that start appearing everywhere, but I start getting the urge to get crafty. This year it was especially bad. I think it has something to do with the fact that all the kids are in school all day and I actually have time to do stuff. And since the beginning of September, it has looked like Hobby Lobby exploded all over my house.

            First it was the dollhouse. I have always had a thing about dollhouses- really anything in miniature, and I’ve wanted a dollhouse for years. Attempting to build one from a kit proved beyond a doubt that that requires way more patience and precision than I will ever possess. So I turned to Ebay and bought an exact replica of the tin dollhouse I had as a child.

            It was great. I made some furniture, it was cool. But not as cool as it could be. So I set out to help it achieve ultimate dollhouse fabulousness. For an entire weekend I glued tiny wallpaper, sewed tiny pillows, mitered popsicle sticks to make window mouldings and chair rails, I even painted tiny pictures and made a tiny beaded chandelier. I think I remembered to feed the children somewhere in there, but who cares if I didn’t? My dollhouse looked fabulous! It lights up!!!

        I thought an entire (tiny) house makeover would quell the crafting urge. Nope. The Sahara-hot days of summer started to cool down, and I made the mistake of looking at Pinterest. Then I discovered burlap canvases at Walmart. Cue the deluge of pumpkin paper crafts, fall leaf paintings, and scarecrow embroidery. Surely that would do it, right?

            Ha ha ha, no fool, of course not! Because the second most crafty holiday in all the year is approaching. That’s right folks, Halloween. Second only to Christmas when it comes to glitter and glitz. And this year, I attempted to take on every craft project that I had filed away in my brain from last year. I painted a wall of Halloween silhouettes. While searching for a haunted house image to trace, I stumbled across awesome paper mache haunted houses people had made. Several hours and 15 pounds of glitter later, I had one of those. Painted wine bottles? Check. Chicken wire ghost? Obviously. I have become a weekly fixture at Hobby Lobby and the Dollar Tree. And walking into either of those establishments has started to cue a reaction similar to a drug addict. My pupils dilate, I start to breathe a little heavier, and my mind starts spinning at all the project possibilities.

           But I’m in recovery. Yesterday was October 1^st, and I put out all the Halloween creations that I had been furiously churning out. There are no longer a pile of paintbrushes drying by the sink, bottles of paint, glue and paper scraps littering the laundry counter, and I swept up the fine coating of glitter that covered everything. I’m pretty sure I have a hunchback, and I have severed all the nerves between my finger tips and fingernails trying to pry up all those little metal tabs that hold the backs of dollar store picture frames. But I’ll be okay. The glue gun burns, wire scratches, spray paint carpal tunnel and glitter lung will all heal- just in time for the flurry of Christmas crafts to begin…

Success, redefined

Did you miss me? Did you worry that I had fallen off a cliff and disappeared forever? Nah, I just got lazy. And I'm still trying to toe that fine line between writing my mind and respecting my kids' privacy. But for today, I'm saying screw those kids' right to internet anonymity. I've got something to say, and I'm shouting it from the top of the blogosphere!!! So, here you go, friends, my first (and, let's be honest, maybe last) post of the 2013/14 school year....

 Everyone is back in school, and I hope that all of the children are having great success in the classroom.  Personally, we’re having to define success a bit differently this year. We’ve always been able to judge Mason’s year by grades, test scores, percentiles in standardized testing- and we’ve always been pleased with what we saw. All the numbers reflected the bright, capable boy that we knew we had.  (The same cannot always be said for his homework!)

But once the twins started school, those numbers became useless to us. They painted pictures of children so terrifyingly behind that they had no chance of succeeding in school. Children that knew little to nothing. They showed kids that were struggling. They weren’t entirely wrong- our boys were struggling.  But the tests didn’t reflect what the boys actually knew, or how quickly they were learning, so we’ve had to start defining success in a different way for Will and Hays.

The boys are developmentally delayed and they have learning difficulties, this has been the case since preschool. Will’s ADHD makes it very hard for him to focus, and both have trouble completing assignments without a great deal of help. Independent work leaves them frustrated or wandering aimlessly around the room. Their weak fine motor skills make it difficult for them to do activities that involve cutting and writing. And kindergarten is not what it used to be. It’s no longer coloring, and dress-up centers, and learning colors and letters. Kids are expected to come in knowing all shapes, colors, letters, and numbers. An understanding of historical literature and quantum physics isn’t required, but is certainly encouraged. Okay, I’m kidding about the physics, but only a little.  Basically, school is hard and they’re behind.

And if we just focus on those things, kindergarten becomes one huge depressing glob of poor test scores, incomplete work, frustration, and fear for their future. So we’re not. We’re putting aside the tests for right now and we’re looking in front of us, and what we see is progress. It may be smaller and slower than the leaps and bounds other children are making, but it’s progress. They can identify almost all the letter sounds, read a few sight words, write their names (mostly) clearly, recognize numbers, count objects- all things that they could barely do three weeks ago. Tonight Hays bit his triangle of cheese quesadilla into a “k” shape and said, “Look, I made a K. It says kkkkk. Katie and Kangaroo start with K.” And let me tell you, folks, that is HUGE. They may not make a MAP test question for making quesadilla Ks, but if they did, my kid would be in the top percentile!! So we are celebrating these day-to-day accomplishments.  And we’re seeing them learn and understand more every day. How could that possibly be anything other than success?

The test scores may say otherwise. If you compare my kid’s work to some other kid’s work, it may not look like he’s doing amazing things. But if you put all that unimportant outside comparison away, and compare his paper today with his paper from three weeks ago, you will see something amazing and beautiful. They are growing and learning at lightning speed and it is awe-inspiring. I’m so very proud of them and grateful to the teachers and early-intervention teachers that are helping make this happen.

I’m growing and learning too. If you’d told me a few years ago that my children would need early intervention and special education services- that I’d be sitting in a meeting with both teachers, the assistant principal, the speech teacher and the school psychologist, I would have been horrified. And probably cried my eyes out. But now I see it as the blessing it truly is. We have a whole freakin’ team of dedicated professionals who will help my boys. All these wonderful people that will work their butts off to get my boys everything they need to continue to grow and learn and succeed.

My wounded mommy pride that was so quick to blame my parental shortcomings for any problem my boys have ever had, has lightened up a bit. This isn’t about me or anything I didn’t do. Plenty of smart, wonderful, involved parents have children with learning difficulties. This is not an indicator of bad parenting. In fact, the willingness to seek out every possible program or modification to help your child learn, is the sign of a very good parent. So I’m no longer beating myself up for missed flash card opportunities when they were toddlers, or crying over poor standardized test scores. I am focusing on the growth I see every single day, and how proud they are of every accomplishment, and I know that they are having a successful year. They’re in school to learn, and that’s exactly what they’re doing, and that’s good enough for me. 

Seeking Mommy Proxy

Where exactly on Craigslist would one place an ad for a mommy proxy? Because I need one to fill in for laundry, whining, bathing the dog, and dealing with school stuff. Honestly, I'll do the rest of it if I can just get someone else to deal with school because I am OVER IT.

Every October, as long as Mason has been in school, I have written some variation of this post. That's because every year, we have dealt with the same crap. He's smart, but not focused. He's capable, but not motivated. He's sweet, but too easily distracted. His test scores are great, but he's careless with his work. And on and on and on, and blah, blah, blah, and I am soooooooooo over it.

Not over it in the sense that we don't keep going through the motions. I'm still fully involved in the teacher conferences, emails, supervising homework, checking the agenda, setting goals, reward charts, consequence charts, lectures, motivational speeches, threats, begging- but only in the physical sense. Mentally, I'm yelling "Auuuuggghhhh, ENOUGH! Jesus, enough. We know he's smart. We know he gets it, and can do anything you put in front of him. He just doesn't give two shits about bar graphing how many chickens Farmer Brown has. And I don't either, so stop bugging us about it!!" But of course, we can't do that. We have to care about Farmer Brown and his freakin' chickens. Or at least, we have to make Mason think that we care, so that we can somehow make him care.

But I don't. Not about the minutiae of it all. I care a whole, whole lot about him actually learning the material. I want to know that he has a clear understanding of all the things they're trying to teach him. And I know that the teachers are trying to measure his learning and progress with all those stupid, boring worksheets. I get it. And because I get it, I ride his ass when he rushes through his work and makes sloppy mistakes. But I am so, so, so tired of riding it. Because if I can't muster up even a little bit of concern over the plight of Farmer Brown and his chickens, how can I expect him to?

And I'm just worn out with dealing with every infraction. He was dancing in class? Eh, yeah. He was talking in the hall? Meh. He was scaling the bathroom stall like Spiderman? Well, that's just kind of impressive....Before my teacher friends decide that they hate me, I know that it's all the little things that add up to a classroom full of chaos. I used to teach- I know you have to nip that crazy in the bud. But honestly, unless he's hurting someone, causing an outrageous distraction, or  selling drugs on the playground, I just can't get all that worked up about it. We're doling out consequences for it, but only because I can't figure out a way to ignore it without sending Mason the message that we don't care about his behavior at school. I mean we care, but come on- he's 8. And there's a certain amount of crazy that comes with being an 8 year old boy that no amount of lecturing or punishing is going to tame.

So I want a proxy to come and do all that crap for me. I want her to stand over Mason and make him go back and correct the mistakes in his homework 600 times. I want her to send out emails over and over to the teachers explaining that we are aware that Mason is not working up to his potential. I want her to go to the conference and explain that while we totally agree that Mason could be excelling, we can't force him to excel. And we are okay with him just meeting standards as long as he truly understands the material. I want her to lecture Mason 400 times about how he's so smart and capable, but his work isn't reflecting that. I want her to take away TV privileges because he danced in class, because I am tired of it.

I am tired of fighting with him and fussing at him. I'm tired of being mad at him, and I'm tired of him being mad at me. I just want to hang out, get along, and let someone else do the scut work. So, pretty please, tell me where to place that ad?

In Honor and Memory

For most of my life, I have had the pleasure of spending our summer beach vacation with my very large family, and our dear friends, the Williams family. Carol Williams is my mother's very best friend going all the way back to 7th grade. I have always thought that theirs was the perfect example of friendship. Decades and distance haven't diminished their ability to talk, reminisce, confide, and laugh until they are gasping for breath and tears are running down their faces. Carol is smart, funny, beautiful, and ridiculously fun to be around. Who wouldn't want to be her best friend for a lifetime?

The Williams children are as amazing as their mother. Sarah is stunningly gorgeous, sweet, and elegantly stylish. I think the word "lovely" was created to describe a girl like Sarah, because she is truly lovely in every way. And Spencer, oh lord, I barely even have words to describe how wonderful that boy is. I swear, if you could order a son from a catalogue, he's the one you'd pick out. He is not just smart, handsome and athletic, he is good and kind to his very core. If any of my boys turned out half as good as Spencer, I'd feel like I'd really done something.

The foundation of the Williams family is Rodney. And he is, quite simply, one of the best men I have ever known. The word that comes to mind when I think of Rodney is "solid." He just exuded wisdom and strength and it always seemed like he could answer any question and solve any problem. Like the rest of his family, he was smart, good-looking and funny, but the thing that stood out most about Rodney was the sense of, "This is a man you can count on."

Rodney fought the good fight against cancer for the last couple of years. Unfortunately, even the strongest and most solid of men can't always overcome that monster. And now we are mourning the loss of this good, good man and our hearts are breaking for this family that we love so much. We are also mourning a beloved tradition that has lasted nearly 20 years, because it will never be the same without Rodney.

Despite the sadness, I am so grateful to have known Rodney. He was such a shining example of everything that a good man, a good husband, and a good father should be, and I feel honored to have had him as a part of one of the most special, treasured parts of my life. He will be missed, but what a legacy he leaves in the beautiful family that he and Carol created.

Three of my favorite guys in my favorite place

Ma Ingalls Gets My Vote for Mother of the Century

I hope you all survived the summer and that you're rejoicing in the glorious return to school and the promise of cooler temperatures. Personally, I almost wept with joy when I saw the school bus lumbering up the road. Summer gets awfully long around here. It's really hot, the kids are bored, they're whining and fighting- it would be hard on the toughest of mothers. And I am not the toughest of mothers, but I can tell you who is. Caroline Ingalls.

Who is Caroline Ingalls? Duh, Ma Ingalls, mother of Laura Ingalls Wilder, and perhaps the most stoic woman to ever traverse the prairie in a covered wagon. I loved the Little House series when I was a kid (both book and tv, though I preferred the show. Michael Landon was dreamy...) I  reread Little House on the Prairie for the first time in probably 25 years, and I can tell that age and motherhood have changed my perspective on that book. I mean, sure, Laura's great and all, but the standout for me was Ma Ingalls.

Was there anything that woman couldn't do? In a few hundred pages she packed up her entire world, two little girls and a baby, and set off into the wilderness. She put her full faith in her husband, trusting his every decision from the route to take, to the place they settled. He said "this is it" in the middle of nothing but grass and she says, "Okay" and starts unloading the wagon. She keeps the kids clean, the food cooked, the clothes washed and ironed while they're still living out of a freakin' wagon. She helps build the house, fend off prairie fires and Indians, survives a bout of malaria and a near massacre, only to have to pack up and move on a year later because Pa built the ol' homestead three miles over the line in Indian country. Way to go, Pa.

And yet through all this, she never says anything crosser than, "Why won't you girls ever keep your sunbonnets on?" Seriously??? How is that possible? She never says to Charles, "What the hell is wrong with you?? We had a perfectly good house in the Big Woods, but you just had to drag us all out here to possibly be scalped because you could occasionally hear someone's ax?" Wolves surround the house. Indians wander into their house, demand that she cook food, and take their stuff. And not once does she yell at her husband "You idiot! Are you trying to get us killed?" How does she do it?

I like to think that a big part of it is the fact that it's written from a child's memories. That sweet, innocent Laura was so busy frolicking around chasing gophers that she didn't notice the too-bright, sharp edge of sarcasm in her mother's voice as she said, "Why sure, Charles. We'll just pack everything back into the ol' wagon and leave behind everything we almost killed ourselves to build, just because you weren't quite careful enough when it came to property lines. Oh no, I'm not mad. I'm positively thrilled to set out on a new adventure." Because if she was truly as stoic and good-natured as the book portrayed her, she was superhuman. Or drunk. Or had the hook-up to some awesome pioneer pharmaceuticals.

Or maybe she was just a much, MUCH better woman than I am. Because we're packing up our own covered wagon (minivan) and setting off on a 7 hour trip to Disney World in a few months, and I'm dreading that as much as I imagine a pioneer woman would dread a trip across the great plains. And we have air conditioning and a dvd player and a Nintendo DS and an Ipad. We literally have more screens than children, but I'd still almost rather be scalped.

So, Ma Ingalls, my hat is off to you. I'm not a quarter of the woman you were, and I don't really want to be. But I wouldn't mind a bottle or two of whatever magic elixir you were using to get you through the day. I bet that would make those miles to Orlando just fly by!

Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire

I say I won't be blogging much this summer, and here I am, two days later. But this was too funny not to write about, and I didn't want to take any chances of forgetting it.

Hays has realized that being sick or hurt means sympathy from Mommy and Daddy. So now, every time he's in trouble, he suddenly becomes deathly ill or tragically injured. This is pretty common with kids, but lately, Hays's claims have become quite imaginative. Two of my favorites have occurred in the past two days.

Tuesday we took the world's most horrible trip to Target. Hays was apparently possessed by demons just before we got there, and screamed, cried and whined during the entire trip. I'm pretty sure no mother has ever sprinted through Target quite so fast. I was furious, and I let him know that, in no uncertain terms, on the drive home. The minute we got out of the car, I told him, "You are going to time out the second we walk in the door as punishment for your awful behavior!"

I watched him stand in the driveway, pondering this for a moment. Then he suddenly dropped to the ground and cried, "Owwwwww! Someone just hit me with a hammer! I'm huuuuurt!" A hammer? Really? A sudden, invisible hammer attack? That level of creative lying is skillful. Kind of impressive, in fact. But not impressive enough to excuse public fit-pitching, so I suppressed a smile and hauled him to time-out.

I figured he couldn't top the alleged hammer attack, but I was wrong. Not 24 hours later, he mounted another public protest when it was time to leave the park. This time my mom was along for the fun, and she got stuck carrying a crying, thrashing Hays to the car. He accidentally head-butted her while writhing and carrying on as she was buckling him into his car seat. I felt sorry for her, but not so much for him. I guess that he could sense this as we drove away and I admonished his tears with a cold-hearted, "Well, if you hadn't been acting like such a punk, you wouldn't have hurt yourself!" He replied with a lie of such stellar proportions- "I didn't! Yaya said she hates me!" that I was momentarily left speechless. Ummmm, yeah, sure. Yaya said she hated you. Yaya, who is so nice she would barely say she hates mosquitoes, or the bubonic plague, or Nazis, said she hates her four year old grandson. Nice try there, buddy.

We had to have a little chat then about lying. But honestly, I don't think it did much good. Because five minutes later when I told him not to throw his Power Ranger in the Publix parking lot, he told me, "I didn't throw it. The ghost did."

School's Been Blown To Pieces

Well, my friends, summer has officially descended upon us. Mason finished school Friday, and yesterday was the first day of summer vacation. A time that I used to adore. A time that felt like freedom and opportunity and held the promise of something amazing. I loved summer. Hell, I lived for summer. Funny how things change....

Now I dread the whining and fighting of bored kids. The brain-scrambling heat that smacks your face like a miffed Southern Belle the minute you dare to peek out the door. Summer is no longer a thing of beauty and a joy to behold.

But it will be better than last year. By God, it WILL be better than last year. The twins have achieved the ability to play in the backyard by themselves (it's fenced). And they will play out there for hours, no matter how hot it gets. And, devoid of other human contact, Mason plays with them. There are plenty of arguments, fights and tattling in the process, but they play. We'll have some trips to Yaya's pool. My sister promises to make weekly trips out here with my nephew. And the Three Martini Playdate with two of my best friends and their kids will be in full swing. (Got to love having educators as friends- they can play all summer long!!) So we're going to survive summer if it kills me!

But you know from previous years that summer means a major blogging draught. It's not that I don't have anything to say, it's just that I'm too hot, tired and mired in chaos to actually sit down and write anything. I'm sure I'll manage some sporadic updates, but it will probably be kind of ghost-towny around here for the next couple of months. But the good news is, once August rolls around, the kiddos head back to school. And since the twins will go four mornings a week (YAHOO!!!) I'll inundate you with more bloggy goodness than you can imagine ( or stand). Happy summer, everybody. May your cocktails be cold, your kids content, and your days sunny!!

The Prayer of The Frustrated Mom

Dear Lord,
     I need your help. I need you to hold me back and keep me from killing this child. Because, Lord, I don't know if I can do it on my own. Honestly, how many times can you be argued with? How much smart-mouthed back talk can you take before you finally snap and knock his head clean off his shoulders- sending that sass-mouth rolling clear across the kitchen floor? I'm not sure exactly how much, but I'm afraid I'm going to find out.

     So hold me back, Lord. Please. I don't want to kill him. I love him more than my own life. And there are so many times that I'm amazed by how cute, sweet, smart and funny he is. But, Lord, this is not one of those times.Quiet my nerves and hold my tongue, because it's about to get away from me. I need you, Lord. You and a glass of wine.

                                                      Amen.

In Defense Of Crafty Moms

The mommy wars- stay at home vs. working, cooking from scratch vs. takeout, organic vs. enough artificial coloring to give your kid rainbow poop- are as old as time, and I really don't have anything new to add. But as Mother's Day approaches, there's a slew of articles about how we should be parenting, why we should ignore the books that tell us how to parent, and how it doesn't matter what we do because we're going to be crushed under a sea of mommy-guilt that makes us feel inadequate whichever way we go. I tend to ascribe the the latter theory. And if you can't win for losing either way, I figure every mommy has to do what works best for her. But within these articles that encourage moms to follow their hearts, do what makes their family happy, and not feel guilty if they don't follow all the rules, a theme has started to arise. The idea that crafty moms, make-it-from-scratch moms, "I have a craft room" moms are crazy, condescending bitches that just want to prove that they're better than you. Not true.

Well, okay, I'm sure it's true for some. But that's not the case for all, or even most of us. I'm a total crafty mommy. I love to make stuff. I love to cook and bake from scratch. I wish I had a craft room, but in my tiny house, I'm settling for a craft closet. But I do not, for one second, think that this makes me a better mother than anyone. In fact, most of the time I feel like 99.5% of women I know are much better mothers than me. And the remaining .5% are at least equal. I'm not cooking from scratch because I could never allow a preservative or red dye #40 to pass my little angels' lips. Please, my cabinets are stuffed with oreos and cheetos, and today I fed the twins frozen pizza for lunch for the second time in a week! I just like to cook. I like watching something start off as a pile of ingredients and become dinner. And when I make party decorations or valentines or birthday cakes, it's not because I think store-bought just won't do. It's because I like to make stuff.

I am a girl that has never had any real, discernible talent. I was passable at stuff, but I was never a standout. I never felt like I could do anything that I was particularly proud of. Then, as I got older and became a mother, I discovered talents that I never knew I had. I found that I liked to cook. I think it's fun and interesting, and much to my surprise, I'm pretty good at it. And then Martha Stewart started putting all her ideas out there with a smug, "Sure, go on, Just try to do this. I dare you" attitude. And I decided to show her that she's not so special. Sure, I may not be able to knit my own getting-out-of-jail poncho, but I can sure enough make some tissue paper flowers. You're not so special, Martha. I've got a glue gun and feathers. I can make a chicken costume every bit as good as yours, so ha!!

And once again, to my surprise, I found that I could do this stuff. I was even good at at least half of it. I mean sure, some attempts were big, fat disasters. But sometimes I turned out things that were really cute. And I was AMAZED  And when I put it on Facebook, it's not because I want you to feel inferior. It's just because, honestly, I'm proud of myself. I can't draw a stick figure, and at those drink and paint things, I can't turn out a decent-looking picture, even though the outline is stenciled on the canvas!!! But I can make things. I can see something cute, and make it, and that amazes me. And makes me proud.I don't have a job, and the only proof of my abilities are my children- and let's be honest, they provide a lot more "can you believe that honestly happened?" stories than bragging rights. So I'm posting my cute cupcakes on Facebook, by God!!!

So cut the crafty mommy some slack. Don't mock her for feeding her child homemade graham crackers. She probably just wanted to see if she could actually make crackers. And remember, I might bake from scratch, but you probably yell at your kids less. And in my book, that makes you a much better mom. No matter how many springtime garlands I make, I go to bed every night feeling I could have done a much better job with my kids, and hoping that they don't wind up in therapy due to bad mothering. At the end of the day, crafty or not, we're all just trying to keep our kids alive and make sure that they feel loved. And if we can keep our sanity and feel okay about ourselves at day's end, all the better.

Remembering

This morning I've been thinking back and reflecting. My mind is going back four years to the time we spent with our tiny, sick babies in the NICU. On one hand, it seems like so long ago that it takes on a dream-like quality. It's nearly impossible to reconcile the loud, boisterous, hurricane-like forces of nature they are today, with the helpless little beings they were back then. It almost seems like it happened to someone else. But even though I have a hard time seeing the boys as they were then, all I have to do to remember the place, and the feeling of being in those rooms, is close my eyes and be still.

The NICU at St. Mary's hospital is a place unlike any other. The lights are dim, and it's quiet, broken only by the occasional cry of a tiny baby. The rhythmic beeping of SAT monitors and the sometimes shrilling alarms are a constant reminder that things can change here in an instant, but over time they become background noise that's easily tuned out. I remember the sounds, and the quiet bustling of nurses who are kind beyond measure. But the thing I remember most is the presence of God.

I have never been in a church, or ceremony where I felt His presence, love and comfort more clearly and constantly. In our time there, we saw joy and miracles, and we saw sorrow beyond comprehension, but we also saw God in every single moment. Through every bit of fear and every bit of hope, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that God was with us, holding us tight as we struggled through the hardest days of our life.

And today I remember all of that clearly. Today is the fourth anniversary of the passing of Zach Kirk. He was our NICU next door neighbor, and his parents became our friends and guides through the sometimes treacherous waters of hospital life. Despite spending months in the NICU with their sweet boy, they never lost their faith. Not only did they stay strong day after day, they shared their hope and strength and encouragement with others. To this day, they are one of the most amazing examples of faith and grace that I have ever seen.

I am thinking of them today, and reflecting on a the time that we shared. I am sad that we didn't get the chance to see Zach become a wild, rambunctious little boy. Based on the tales his mama tells about his adorable little brother, Samuel, I have no doubts Zach would have been a pistol. But I will always be grateful for the example that his family set. The way that his parents showed that you just keep going, day after day, no matter how hard it gets. That you keep your faith and your hope, and you just keep loving each other through the darkest days. Faith, hope and love- and the greatest of these is love.

Spring Breakdown

I had to wait until it was official, but I can now proudly proclaim- We survived spring break!!!!!! I know that may not seem proclamation-worthy to everyone, but it is here. In fact, I thought about renting confetti cannons to fire this morning in celebration of the glorious return to school, but I thought that might be going too far.

The best part is, we didn't just survive our week of non-stop togetherness, I'd dare say we thrived. I wanted to do everything I could to make sure that I didn't spend every minute of the break yelling at bored, whiny, fighting children, and simultaneously developing a fairly worrisome drinking problem. The only way to avoid this was to keep them busy. And keep them busy I did. We started small. Monday was declared "Muck out the Mommyvan" day. It looked like homeless people had been squatting in it, and hadn't been washed in far too long. Before we could even consider any spring break adventures, that disaster had to be reckoned with. And if you don't think cleaning out and washing car could fill the better part of a day, well you haven't seen my car. Or tried to accomplish anything with my children's "help."

Once I could see out the windshield, and we could feel fairly certain that you couldn't catch any communicable diseases from the upholstery, we were ready for fun. Luckily, my mom had taken the week off work to lend a hand with spring break-o-rama, and an extra helping of adult supervision opened up a world of possibilities. So we headed out to the Yellow River Game Ranch on Tuesday. I love that place. You can pet the deer that roam freely, chase the chickens, feed bears- it's cool. Totally lives up to its motto, "Like a zoo, only better." The kids had a great time racing down the paths with me and Yaya sprinting behind, yelling, "Slow down!! Wait!!!" But no one got lost or eaten by a bear, so I consider it a total success. And I would like to say, with all sincerity, thank you, Yellow River Game Ranch, for making your gift shop affordable. I was able to let all three boys choose a small souvenir for $10. That NEVER happens. I always have to be the mean mommy that denies them the $40 stuffed animal at the end of every absurdly expensive adventure. But this time I got to be the nice mommy, and say, "Sure, have a stuffed chipmunk. You want a plastic eagle? It's yours." And I gotta tell you, that's a darn good feeling.

Will feeding a deer

Gimme that carrot, kid!

What are you lookin' at??

Please just sit still long enough for one picture!!!

Haysie and a bunny

Wednesday was my project day. So I drug the boys to Lowes, then attempted an ill-fated trip to TJ Maxx to get a few things to revamp our pitiful excuse for a master bathroom. They played outside and watched Power Rangers, and I painted and gussied things up. By the time Matt got home, we had a whole new bathroom. Go, me!

Tiny but improved bathroom

Thursday was by far my most impressive day. I was helping a friend with an ill father by watching her kids that day, so I had a total of five kids- four boys, one girl. In a move that would make home-schooling sister-wives proud, I teamed up with a friend that was watching a little boy in addition to her daughter, and we took all 7 kids to pick strawberries on a farm, then to lunch at McDonalds. AND EVERYONE SURVIVED!!!! (Disclaimer: My mom and one of her best friends came along for the strawberry picking. I'm not sure we would have had complete success without them.) The sister-wives might not have so proud to hear we spent the better part of the afternoon drinking wine while the kids played, but only I after I made a casserole and pie for my friend with the ailing dad. Good deed cancels out questionable behavior, right?

Seven crazy kids

Sweet Mason

Annalise and Jack

My sister-wife, Miriam, with Lainey and the other Jack

The kids were exhausted by Friday. Mason went to a friend's house to play, but the twins and I stayed home and did as little as possible. Well, I tried to get my house back into reasonable shape after its week of neglect while the twins vegged out on Power Rangers. But I knew that I was in the home stretch. That gave me enough strength to give Matt a pass on bathtime/bedtime for the twins so he and Mason could go hit balls at the driving range. Yes, it's true, I'm the nicest mommy ever. (riiiiight)

We made it through the weekend, and we were even fairly productive. A hall bath make-over is in the works, and we've waged war on the public urinal smell that plagues us thanks to the boys' less than accurate aim (but that's a whole different post). And now Mason is back at school, we're back on schedule, and spring break can officially be called a success. The secret seems to be a near-constant stream of fun outings and adventures, so I'm going to need a sizable entertainment budget for summer. Would anyone care to sponsor that? Anyone??

Probably Not Our Best Week

In the past week, Hays gave himself a concussion bad enough to need a CT scan, Will rode a bike down a set of brick steps, the twins were determined to be almost, but not quite, special ed, and Mason proved to be too lazy for the gifted program. Not exactly a banner week.

Let's start with the injuries. Those are common around here, but this was the first time one has sent us to the ER. Not that we're not familiar with the ER. Will's respiratory issues guarantee that we'll visit at least once a winter, and there was that time that we thought Hays might have swallowed a battery (http://theamazingtwinadventure.blogspot.com/2010/12/after-midnight.html). But this was the first time one of them had gotten hurt badly enough to require a hospital trip.

It happened in typical backyard fashion. He and Will were outside swinging with my sister, Paige, while Mason and I were inside baking a cake for his class. All of a sudden, Paige comes in carrying a crying Hays and looking terrified. She explained that he had let go of the chains while he was swinging, and we all know that gravity is an unforgiving force, and he wound up bearing the full brunt of that force on the back of his little head. He was already sporting a sizable goose egg, but it was his odd-sounding cry that was worrying me. When he started losing consciousness and throwing up, off we went to St. Mary's.

That was the most harrowing drive of my life. Traffic was bad, and I kept talking to him to try to keep him awake, shaking his foot every time he didn't respond. Once we finally got to the ER, we had to wait through a line of people (that didn't even look sick, much less like they were in the midst of an emergency) just to check it. They finally took him back after 30 minutes or so, and he was already starting to perk up. He sat through a CT like a champ, and once they determined he had neither a skull fracture or a brain bleed, they finally released him. 4 1/2 hours after arriving, we were on our way home, and you would never know he'd been hurt.

I thought we might be on our way back yesterday with Will. We were at a friend's house, and he was riding her son's bike on their very wide front porch. Even though we were sitting 15 feet away, we weren't close enough to stop him when he decided to coast down the front steps. Luckily, there are only a couple of steps, and he hurt his pride more than anything else. He's got a couple of scrapes, but nothing bad enough to keep him from climbing back on the bike two minutes later (Though we did block the stairs. I'm not convinced he wouldn't have given it another shot.)

The bike incident occurred just hours after my meeting with the school psychologist and speech therapist. Testing had shown that while the boys both have some mild to moderate developmental delays, especially in the area of fine motor skills, they weren't quite severe enough to qualify for services. They did stress that they had just missed the cutoff. Ummm, yay? But they did qualify for speech services, which was our main concern, so they'll be getting 30 minutes of speech therapy twice a week next year at preschool. And they'll monitor their progress in other areas, and if they're not coming along like they need to, they'll reassess later in the year.

Then I had my second school-system meeting this morning to see if Mason qualified for gifted. Nothing like the irony of testing on both ends of the spectrum, right? In a decision that really came as no surprise, he did not qualify based on low motivation. He's plenty smart, and the test scores for skill and intelligence were high, but motivation was abysmal. That's my Mason- smart as a whip, but always looking to do as little as possible to get by. On one hand, we're bummed because we think he would have enjoyed the PACE program. They do some really interesting things, and Mason always does better when he's interested and engaged. On the other hand, we're not wailing and gnashing our teeth because he didn't get in. We know this doesn't indicate that he's not smart or capable. He's both, and we know he has what he needs in those areas to be successful. Our concern is finding a way to make him WANT to work to the level of his ability, rather than just sliding by. The same thing we've been struggling with since kindergarten. The same thing my parents struggled with every day of my educational life. Oh, Karma......

But next week is spring break, and I'm hoping that it will be uneventful and relaxing. Yeah, right, relaxing. Like that's gonna happen. Maybe if I send the kids somewhere and just stay home by myself! But since that's not likely, I'm just aiming for a week with no trips to the ER.

Watch Your Step

Today's tale from the parenting dark side is gross. So gross, in fact, that I feel the need to post a picture of them being cute first, so you can remember than they're not always disgusting, uncivilized cavemen. But this happens to be a story about them being disgusting, so if you're eating while reading this, you might want to head on over to another page. I suggest People magazine- did you hear that Tori Spelling is pregnant AGAIN???

Okay, for those of you who are brave/crazy enough to proceed despite my warning, here's how it all went down. Yesterday, Hays had been happily playing in the backyard, but he suddenly ran in crying. I didn't see any blood or visible evidence of tragedy, so I asked him what was wrong. I was not prepared for the answer. "I pooped in the yard, and now the flies are on it and they're scaring me!" Ummm, wait, what? You did what?? YOU DID WHAT?!!? I thought (hoped, prayed) that he meant dog poop. Surely he meant dog poop, right? There's plenty of that in the backyard.

But further investigation proved that he did not, in fact, mean dog poop. There, lying in the dirt by the swingset, was a decidedly human deposit. And pretty much every fly in the general area was inspecting this exciting new offering. (Hey, I warned you it was going to be gross.) I, of course, lost it. "Oh my GOD! Are you crazy? We don't poop in the yard! You never, ever, EVER poop in the yard. That is NOT okay!" But that didn't change the fact that there was a human turd lying in the dirt, and someone was going to have to deal with it.

And I've got to tell you, I had never really thought about the best way to deal with such a situation. I mean, really, what to you do with it? I decided to go the route of the responsible dog owner- double bag that crap (ha, crap, I'm punny) and toss it in the outdoor trashcan. But while I was fetching plastic bags, Will decided to get rid of those bad flies that were scaring his brother. I came out to find him hitting the poop with a plastic rake, yelling, "Go away, flies! Go Away!" Sigh......

I gotta tell you, this was just one of those gross parenting scenarios that I swear is limited to boys. I don't know a single friend with girls that has had to deal with yard poop. I'm sure there are some, but all the moms I know have lovely, civilized daughters. (Or they're just not admitting to it if they don't!) But I know for a fact that I'm not the only boy mom that has experienced this particular act of grossness. I just may be the only one shameless enough to share it with the world. Yeah, you're welcome....

If I'm Running, Something Really Scary is Chasing Me

I am not a runner. Never have been. And I now know, without question, that I never will be. Lots of my friends are, and they love it. They track their miles, and increase their endurance, and all that kind of runner-y crap. Heck, some of my friends have run (and finished!) actual marathons. I've always admired them, but have never been particularly inclined to join them.

But something about spring makes you want to get out there and pursue some honest-to-goodness physical fitness. (probably the knowledge that you will soon have to wear a bathing suit in public. If that doesn't encourage you to move your ass, nothing will.). Despite the insanely high pollen count, it was a beautiful morning, so I decided to forgo my usual climate-controlled elliptical session in front of the TV in favor of some outdoor exercise. After dropping the twins off at school, I headed to the park to walk the trails. I was just planning to do a couple of power-walking laps around the trail. It's a big trail, and I knew that would count as decent exercise. But something about the cool spring morning, and seeing all those other people happily jogging, made me decide to see what all this running craziness is about. After all, I foolishly thought to myself, it's not like I've actually tried jogging. I might discover that I love it.

Yeah, right. What I discovered is that running SUCKS. I didn't even do that much of it, but I can tell you without a doubt, it suuuuuuuuuuucks. My thighs were already kind of complaining after walking these very same trails last night with my friend, LeAnne. She's this tiny little girl- she's not 5'2 on tiptoe, and I'd be surprised (and happy) if she weighs 110 soaking wet. But damn, can that girl walk! I swear, it's like she's got rocket boosters attached to her feet. So I was already in a little pain from my valiant effort to keep up with Speedy Gonzales, but nothing like the pain I would soon be experiencing.

I had no illusions that I was going to run the entire time- or even most of the time. I just figured I'd give it a shot and quit before it killed me. It took about three steps before I could sense the Grim Reaper jogging beside me. (He was going faster- even carrying that big staff) But I refused to give up that easily. Instead, I focused on a point in the (near) distance, and forced myself to jog at least that far before gratefully slowing to a respectable walking speed. I did that three or four times before finally admitting defeat. Not total defeat- I did a few laps around the trail, but 85% was walking. And in the future, 100% of it will be walking. Quite frankly, I prefer my shins un-splinted, my knees in working condition, and my hip joints where the good lord intended them to be.

And you runners can't change my mind. You can talk all you want about building up and breaking through, and that awesome runner's high. "Runner's High." Ha. You're high, all right, but if it takes running to get there, I'll pass. I've got no problem exercising to the point that I'm panting and pouring sweat, I just prefer to do it where there's air conditioning and cable.

How Many Snakes Does It Take to Make a Sport Coat?

Most days after the sun, and sons, go down. Matt and I can be found on the couch watching tv. And since our favorite scripted network shows either can't be counted on to air every week, or end their season waaay too early (I'm looking at you Grey's Anatomy and Parenthood) we find ourselves watching a lot of the reality television that litters the airwaves.

And when I say reality television, I don't mean stuff like Survivor or The Biggest Loser. We're not watching Real Housewives of anywhere, and we can only stomach The Bachelor in clip form on The Soup. I know America loves that crap, but not us. We go for different, stranger versions of reality. Not that an angry Italian woman, who may or may not be a transvestite, flipping a table isn't strange- it's just not our kind of strange. Nope, we'd rather watch a be-spiked exterminator fight a rat infestation, or salty fisherman battle the Bering sea, or a bunch of buffoons try their hand at gold mining. Basically if it comes on Discovery, Animal Planet, TLC, or the History Channel, we're in. Forget The Amazing Race, we want hoarders, pawn brokers, and freaks! And sometimes watching these slices of a life you know nothing about will raise questions. Luckily, we generally have an ipad or iphone nearby, and dear old Uncle Google can answer our question. But a while back, we came up with one that even stumped Google.

I can't remember exactly what we were watching, but based on the question, it had to be either a taxidermy show, or a snake hunter show. We started to wonder how many pythons it would take to make a jacket, perhaps a reptilian sport coat. Matt thought you could probably do it with one good-size snake. My guess was ten. "To the cloud!" we declared, but alas, our query could not be answered. Google could tell us exactly where to buy a snakeskin sport coat, but not how many snakes would be required to make it. So we did the next best thing- sent this email:

My husband and I were trying to guess how many snakes it would take to make a snakeskin blazer. Oddly enough, that appears to be the one question Google can't answer. So we're hoping you can enlighten us. He guesses one good-size (8 feet or so) python. I think it has to be more- I'm guessing 10. So can you settle our bet? Or at least tell us who is closer? Thanks!

I figured they'd brush us off, or perhaps mutter curses at us for wasting their time, and I pretty much forgot about it. But lo and behold, a couple of weeks later, I found this in my inbox.

Okay we are talking Python not any other snake skin. There is no set answer, but you are closer than your husband. There are many variables. 

Skin Width

Skin Length

Skin Pattern

How good the tailor making it is.

Most importantly what size the jacket needs to be made is.

Awesome!! Not only was I happy that I won the great snake debate, I was totally impressed that they took the time to answer our silly question. I always like a company with a sense of humor. And while I'm not in the market for a python blazer (those things are EXPENSIVE!) if I was, I'd totally buy it from East of Eden Leathers. http://eastofedenleathers.com/ And should you be looking for snakeskin apparel or accessories, I'd highly recommend them. (Buy me those shiny gold loafers on their homepage while you're there, please!)

How Weekend Renovations Almost Destroyed My Marriage- Tales from the DIY Dark Side

My marriage has survived a lot of things. It has survived being so dirt-poor that I lay awake at night wondering how we would pay the bills. It has survived having a critically ill child hospitalized for months. It has (thus far) survived parenting three of the wildest boys alive. However, it almost didn't survive my latest DIY undertaking.

I have spring project fever, and redecorating Mason's room just wasn't enough to quell it, so I decided to renovate our hideous laundry room. I think it was the only remaining untouched space in our house, and I decided that I was going to make it cute. And Matt, being the loving supportive husband that he is, fully approved of my plan- even though this one would require his help. Well, I'm not sure if it was because he's so loving and supportive or because he hated the laundry room almost as much as I did. But either way, he agreed. So after trolling Pinterest and googling cute laundry rooms, I came up with my brilliant design plan and gathered supplies.

In my haste to get started, I forgot to take before pictures, so you'll just have to imagine it as it was- 6'x3' closet with ugly, water-damaged linoleum, two long shelves on the back wall, and ugly wire shelves on the side. It was ugly. And beige. And messy. And ugly. But I had big plans for this glorified closet. Plans involving stenciled cabinets, a counter over the washer and dryer, and a shiny new floor. And I wanted to get it all done in a weekend for less than $250.

I bought inexpensive unfinished cabinets and started painting them on Friday. I had found an awesome quatrefoil stencil online (http://thecsiproject.com/2010/05/18/jens-quatrefoil-paint-projects-free-printable-stencil/) and I just knew it was going to look fabulous. What I didn't know was that it was going to take HOURS (6 to be precise) It's a simple stencil, but it's very geometric and requires a lot of precision. And a lot of touching up with a tiny artists brush. I was so cramped and achy after hunching over those things for two days, but by Saturday night they were finished and gorgeous.

You're probably wondering where the marriage-destroying part comes in. Well, I guess you could say it started Saturday morning. I needed Matt's help moving the washer and dryer out. No big deal- other than the fact that it turned the kitchen into a disastrous obstacle course. But I could live with that. What killed me was the painting. Matt was going to paint while I took Mason to soccer practice. I figured he'd knock it out in no time. After all, I'd put a first coat on every part of the wall that I could reach before we moved the washer and dryer. I was wrong.

 By the time I got back, he'd painted it (sort of), but it was all patchy and uneven, and he hadn't bothered to cut in at the trim or corners. I was a bit dismayed (after all, I can paint an entire room in a couple of hours!), but I wasn't ready to call the attorney just yet. I even kept a (relatively) cool head every time he said "I've got a great idea!" Even though his ideas were brilliant gems like "let's put a drawer in that inch of space between the counter and the washer!" Ummm, really? A drawer that's less than an inch deep, and can only be pulled out three inches before hitting the wall? That doesn't sound super-useful....

But by Sunday evening, I was thinking about packing my bags. We had soooooo much left to do, and my weekend deadline was closing in fast. I was ready to work like a monkey on speed. Matt was ready to work, but I can tell you, it did not involve anything even resembling speed. I have never seen anyone work more slowly in my entire life. Matt does everything at a tortoise-like pace, and it's always made my jackrabbit self a bit crazy, but this just about put me over the edge. He'd meander over and pick up a hammer, wander back and drive one nail, stand and look at it for a minute, hum a little tune...... HE WAS MAKING ME INSANE!!!!!!

In a single day's time, we had to finish painting, lay the vinyl tile floor, hang the cabinets, secure the counter on the supports he'd installed the night before, put the trim on the counter, and stain it, move the appliances back in and hook them back up, and return the kitchen to a semi-functioning state. That's a lot of stuff to accomplish in one day, especially when one-half of the DIY team is moving at the speed of molasses! But somehow, we got it done. I was clenching my teeth and casting murderous glances his way the entire time, but we got it done.

It wasn't officially finished by the end of the weekend. I didn't finish making the art until Monday, and I didn't get everything hung up until Tuesday. And since we still haven't put the new doors on, I guess we can't call it officially finished. And I probably went over my budget by about $50. So I can't declare this a total DIY win, but pretty darn close. And the best part- Matt and I are still married. Happily now that we're not trying to do a project together!

                                  The laundry room in all its finished glory!!!

Right and left side views

Cute sock art. I totally stole the idea from some girl with an Etsy shop

Clothesline art. Stole the idea for this one off of some Swedish chick's blog!

They Really Ought to Give Me a TV Show

This is what Mason's room used to look like. (well, with a red headboard and black furniture, but this was the wall.) I painted it when he was four, and crazy about super heroes. But now that he's a worldly gent of seven and a half, he's outgrown Gotham. As sad as I was to paint over the cityscape mural. I was excited to have a new project.

He wanted to go full-on Star Wars; printed comforter, curtains- the works, but I convinced him to go a bit more sophisticated in his choice of bedding. After all, you might not want a Star Wars comforter when you're 12. But I was fine with him going whole hog with the accessories. Especially because it gave me a good excuse to fire up my crafty mojo. 

 I think the gray walls and simple black and gray bedding will grow with him.

And when he's tired of Star Wars, we can change it up easily.

We framed a couple of Star Wars posters that we bought, but I painted everything else on canvases. (They were on sale at Michaels, so I spent a grand $20 on supplies to make 4 pictures. Can't beat that!) All I can say is, thank god for Google Images, and crafty nerds creating Star Wars pumpkin carving patterns. I can't draw a stick figure, but I can cut with an exacto knife and trace with the best of them!! I could save my self a whole lot of time and tedious tasks if I could just learn how to draw! 

                Even Darth Vader has to walk his dog..

Vader in all his evil glory, and some silhouettes. I looove silhouettes.

I also used pumpkin patterns to turn a $5 lampshade and a $6 pillow into Darth Maul and Storm Trooper awsomeness.

What Star Wars room would be comlpete

without a remote controlled lightsaber light?

 I decided to start this project Friday morning. I did not have a single thing, including paint, until 4:00 Friday afternoon. (That required slogging with all three boys to Target and Walmart in a trip so heinous that I can't even bear to relive it in blogland. I spent Saturday morning buying paint, bedding and art supplies, so I didn't actually start painting his room until 3:00 Saturday afternoon. So y'all had all better be super-impressed when I tell you that I had everything done- walls and trim painted, all art and accessories made, everything in the room, by 7:00 Sunday evening. Tone down your applause a little- I didn't get the framed pictures hung until Tuesday. But only because I didn't have frames, then Hays got strep and I couldn't make it to the store until Tuesday evening. But other than pictures, I had the entire room done in less than 48 hours, and it cost under $300!!

I mean , seriously, doesn't that deserve a tv show? At least an hour-long special? The people on Trading Spaces got $!000 dollars, two days and an entire crew to redo a room! I did it in a day and a half, on less than half the money, BY MYSELF, and I had to stop multiple times to feed/ clothe/referee three children. I'd watch that show. HGTV needs to call me.

Sleep Is for the Weak, Right?

Pardon me if this post is only semi-coherent. My insomnia is becoming insurmountable, and I'm so tired that semi-coherent feels like it might be a stretch. I am honestly starting to wonder if I will ever get a non-medicated night's sleep again.

For the last 3-4 weeks, I have fallen into this horrible sleepless cycle. In the past, if I had trouble falling asleep, I could usually rely on Benadryl or melatonin to do the trick. It didn't always work, but most of the time it did. And then, all of a sudden, it didn't. I found myself lying awake night after night, and no combination (or amount) of my old sleep-inducing friends seemed to help. It felt like no matter how tired I was, my brain just wouldn't let me sleep. I'd start to drift, then, BAM! Wide awake.

There I am, lying there, mind spinning, and the only thing I can focus on is Matt's breathing. His loud, constant, INCREDIBLY ANNOYING breathing that invariably turns into snoring. And that is literally all I can hear. Even when it's fairly quiet, it seems so loud that I wonder how the children can possibly sleep through it. So then I start kicking him, or elbowing him, or hissing "Would you please, please SHUT THE F**K UP!!"  (sorry, but being wide awake at 2 am makes me mean.) He finally got sick of it to the point that he moved to the couch- and I'd be fast asleep within five minutes. And once that happened several nights in a row, I got convinced that I could not fall asleep with him breathing beside me. Thus began the mind games that had me starting to worry about sleep at approximately 8 in the morning. And when you've psyched yourself out about it all day, there's no way you're going to sleep at night.  We started taking turns moving to the couch once I'd given up all hope of ever falling asleep beside him. And this sort of worked, but seriously, who wants to sleep every other night on the couch? It was time to bring out the big guns- a prescription for Ambien.

Oh Ambien, glorious Ambien. It works like a charm. Pop one of those babies, and 20 minutes later, I am gone. It is wonderful and I love it so much. Problem solved, right? Nope, not right at all. See, Ambien becomes less effective the more you take it. And if it stops working, I may as well give up on sleep for good. So I can't take it every night, lest it lose its magic powers. And the nights I don't take it are, if possible, even more miserable than before. Last night was one of them. Of course I couldn't fall asleep. I moved to the couch and spent an hour and a half trying to drift into dreamland. No dice- back to bed. I kicked and  hissed at Matt for an hour before kicking him out to the couch. (He went, but not without a few choice words. Can't say that I blame him.) And even once I had the whole bed to myself, and no one was breathing but me, it still took a while to fall into a restless, fitful sleep from which I woke after less than 2 1/2 hours.

So here I am, tiredly blogging in run-on sentences, already wondering how I'll sleep tonight. I'm hoping that sheer exhaustion will put me out without pharmaceutical help. But if not, I'll gladly drug myself into oblivion, because I can only go on like this for so long!