To Grandaddy's House We Go

I have always considered my husband a great driver.  We seem to make it to our destination all in one piece-- or five pieces depending on how you look at it-- every time.   We have been a magnet for other dangerous drivers though.  -- 6 times in the past 3 years.

1)  Kroger parking lot
2) Parked in front of our house
3) In front of Kroger -- this one totalled our Honda, so sad
4) Parked in front of Troye's house 
5) parked somewhere -- this one was a hit and run at some point that we didn't notice until later
6) three weeks ago infront of the Mall of Georgia.  Dude did not have insurance - but we won't go there right now.

Any who.  The hubby is a great driver.  The teeniest bit of road rage, but all in all, I almost nearly never get stressed in the passenger seat... but after this evidence, maybe I should.

We were driving to Grandaddy Mike's on Christmas Eve and I thought I should capture the moment.

"Smile Everybody!"

Aww.. Let's do it again boys!

Cute, but your eyes are closed, son

Let's do a family shot.

Nice, boys, but apparently your father is driving with his eyes closed.  Let's try again.

Mmm.  let's try again honey.

Maybe we should pull over right now.. Do you need a nap dear?

Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh, Christmas Tree

Anyone who has known me for my entire life would know that I've changed somewhat over the years. I've been skinnier and fatter, then even skinnier, then the fattest, then somewhat thinner, and then somewhat fatter again. But that's not what I mean. I used to be a control freak. I don't even know if people around me knew that, because I'm also a people pleaser. So perhaps you could have called me subtlety controlling. (They probably have therapy for that, and I'm almost certain that is a key characteristic for most criminal masterminds, but I digress.)

I don't really know what has changed. I think getting married and having a family. I have learned that getting my way really doesn't matter, because there are more important things to worry about like mouths to feed, noses and butts to wipe and whether or not I will even get a shower today, or tomorrow for that matter.

I have one last strong hold, however. I have not quite released the last sliver of control over that tiny part of my life. I feel somewhat like Chris Farley clinging to the little stick on the side of the mountain in Black Sheep. "Stay strong, little branch" I'm clinging, but I know it's in vain. the signs are everywhere... actually at the bottom... of my Christmas tree...

My husband learned after the first year of marriage that the Christmas tree is my deal. He can contribute after, and only after, all lights are properly affixed, branches sufficiently fluffed and ribbons and bows and key ornaments are arranged. When the word is given, he might be allowed to hang a few non-vital ornaments, but with full understanding that I always maintain the right to rearrange ornaments to create the perfect ratio of colors, size and balance for the over all aesthetics of the tree.

Then I had Grant.... and Grant takes after his mother and is also a control freak. So the branch began to loosen from the side of the mountain and my grasp on it suddenly became a futile effort, and I began to realize that my tree was no longer mine.... but ours...

As Grant gets taller and taller, so does his impact on the tree. This year it is quite a juxtaposition… kind of like Kate Gosselin's hair. You know, all business in the front, and party in the back. This is more like a clash of Martha Stewart meets the Griswalds.

The top of the tree is just lovely. I can look at it all day. Look at the combination of antique ornaments, ribbon, new ornaments, flowers and the play of the tiny twinkle lights and larger bulbs. Just perfection.

Then the further down the tree you go, the tree loses its chance for the blue ribbon from Southern Living Magazine. There are no glass or antique ornaments down there for obvious reasons. Grant has all 6 of his ornaments for each year of his life hanging on one branch. He doesn't care about section 4.2b of the Christmas Tree Manual that states that all ornaments must be properly distributed over the entire tree to ensure the overall aesthetic integrity of said tree. Then there's the Christmas village. Now I must say I caught it at a better moment. Usually there are matchbox cars scattered everywhere. Not to mention playmobil men, knights, leggos and a few wild animals.

So I've lost control of the tree, for now, at least. And My childrens' fingerprints are all over that sucker...just perfection. I wouldn't have it any other way.  Man, I love Christmas!

I Mother, Therefore I am... tired

I'm tired today.

I'm tired because Juliette's diaper leaked at 4 am and she didn't like it so much, "and while I'm up, Momma, why don't you go ahead and feed me."


I'm tired because every time I start to try to something productive Jax has to pee. Why can't you pull your own pants down, son? And I know you are excited when there is poop in the potty, but do I really have to see it every time?


I'm tired because I constantly do laundry. No further explanation needed.


I'm tired because I always feel like I'm feeding someone.


I'm tired because there were TWO children in my bed with me when I woke up this morning


I'm tired simply because I never recover from 5:00-7:30 each evening. That time slot deserves its own post.


I'm tired because I've been so busy this morning I haven't had my coffee yet.


I'm tired because I had to walk to the bus stop in the rain AFTER I looked for my car keys for 15 minutes.


I'm tired because NOTHING seems to wrap up nicely with a bow. Really, the dude who hit us doesn't have insurance? nice...


I'm tired because the boys' bathroom ALWAYS smells like pee... I can't clean it enough.


No cutesy ending to this post... too tired to think of one.

I Don't think Jax is Shooting for the Nobel Peace Prize

My son is obsessed with guns.  With our first, Grant, we made the no-gun-rule.  Every good parent does, you know.  No shooting in my house, no sir.  No buying of guns. No giving of guns.  No pretend guns.  It worked great.  Grant has just enough of his mother in him that he enjoys making peace.  And as we all know, shooting at others really detracts from that goal. 

Then Jaxon came into our lives.  Not much shooting going on with an infant.  Then he discovered guns.  I don't even know if that's what happened really.  I think it's simply a part of his DNA.  Implanted in there when the sperm hit the egg.  It just started happening when he was coordinated enough to point his finger and pop down his thumb.

We still had the no-gun-rule.  But no matter to Jax.  Anything can be a gun - fingers, leggos, clothes, and even properly constructed Hot Wheels tracks.  And then there's the shooting noises. His repertoire is incredible. He recently acquired the machine gun. REALLY? We don't have video games. We don't even have cable.

We finally gave in and let him be who he is... and let him have a gun with his cowboy out fit.  He shot everything in sight for weeks.

I had to speak up, however, when he declared that Santa's sleigh "goes really fast and shoots."  I told him clearly that Santa does not shoot, and neither do his elves. 

I'm pretty sure that coal is going to be in Jax's stocking.... that or some shotgun shells.

My Obsession

I have a need to dress my daughter in the most ridiculous clothes in the world.  I can't help myself.  She really has a great sense of style.  My husband calls it hodge-podge.  I call it precious.  First there's the hair accessories.  The bigger the better. 

Bows are great, but I'm especially partial to the head flowers.

Then there's the dresses my sewing machine keeps making... it's not me, I promise.  The fabric fairy who shall remain nameless (jenn stahl) just drops by my house, and during the night, my machine or perhaps the fashion forward sisters of those little shoe elves come and make the most obnoxious, adorable, clashy clothing for my sweet angel to wear. 

It would be rude of me to not put her in them. 

Then lets not forget to mention the legwarmers -- black and pink paisley ones...  just because.  And shoes,  doesn't every baby girl need panda shoes with pink bows? 

Last but not least, there's the ever popular tu tu.  Plain pink one, Red one to go with her Falcons shirt (just for Daddy), and the candy color one. 

Will she let me still dress her when she's 16?  One can only dream...

The Day I Sinned in Church

I'm pretty sure I sinned in church on Sunday.  I couldn't help myself.  I had to wear them.  I had no choice really.  They were calling my name, and under the curcumstances, no other option was available. 

I woke up Sunday with my usual I'm-so-fat-and-flabby-and-I-know-I-just-had-a-baby-but-really-I've-got-to-do-something-about-this-blues.  Yes, I know --- I've already bragged about getting into my prepardum jeans.  Yes, BUT THEY ARE MY FAT JEANS!!! and that boost to the ego can only last so long. 

So I think to myself - "What can I do in the next hour that can make me feel better about myself?"  Can I get my hair cut?  Yes, but not this morning (please call me back Rheannon, I need a cut now!!!!).  Can I loose 15 lbs?  Not quite.  Can I actually put on make up and throw in the contacts?  YES.. but is that really enough to do the trick?  No.. What else can I do? 

Then the lightbulb went off.  I swear the room got brighter right over my head.  There had to be one there--right above my head--, because my idea was was simply brilliant!  My metallic bronze B.P. peep-toe high heels!!!!!!  They are simply fabulous!!!!  So I slipped my feet into them and instantly felt 15 lbs lighter.  I think my makeup looked better, my eyes were greener, and I'm pretty certain my hair got 1/4 inch shorter, not to mention silker and shinier.  I AM BACK!!!!!!!!!!  I thought to myself. 

So I strutted into church (pretty slowly, mind you b/c they are 2 1/2 inch heels), carrying my sweet little angel.  I checked my children into their classes and then made my way to the service.  I ran into KQ (our pastor) in the lobby and he simply led me even more into my sinful ways.  "Momma's BACK!!!" he says to me.  Not meaning that I'm back at church.. he's seen me many Sundays now.  No, he meant "Momma's BACK --- Momma's not looking like she just hobbled out of the hospital---- Momma in fact doesn't look like a new Momma anymore... MOMMA's BACK!!!!  He had to have seen my shoes!!!!   I think I got even skinnier at that point.  My hair even bouncier. 

So I sit myself down in service.  It was a great sermon.  I was getting so much out of it.... It was ironic really.  Materialism was the sermon topic.  I was "Amen"ing and nodding with all of the rest of the saints.... then it happened.  I looked down at my foot, swaying back and forth as my left leg is crossed over my right knee.  That's when the sin occured.  I was worshiping all right...  worshiping my shoes!!!!!!!!!  But could any new mother blame me?!???!!  I think not!

Service ended, and I picked up my kids from their classes and strutted out of the church, even more slowly now, because it's been a while since I've worn those suckers! got in the car and went home.  I walked in the door and kicked off my shoes.  I felt kinda like Cinderella when the clock struck midnight.  I got fatter, my hair lost it's bounce, shine and even got longer than it was when I woke up.. and I was Fat-New-Momma again.  Ahh..  at least I had fun at the ball, even if I did sin!!!!

I have finally arrived - well mostly

The day has come. It's a day that all new mothers anxiously await. No, not that first night of full sleep. Baby's first real smile? Nope. Baby actually learning to keep paci in the mouth? Nope, not even that. I'm talking about zipping and actually comfortably wearing your prepardum jeans!!!

This, for me at least, comes in stages. Call me a maschist, but I'm one of those who tries on the prepardum jeans when baby is a week old. It is, first of all, key to pick the fat prepardum jeans. These are most likely your lightest shade denim. My jean expert friend, Cheri, says that the lighter shade denim stretches more during the day so success is more likely. Do I expect to really wear them that day? Heck no--although how fabulous would that be? No, success at that stage is simply buttoning and zipping at any length. Lengths such as lying completly flat on the bed and sucking in with all one's might. Don't forget the squat and stretch move to create a little more room especially with newly washed jeans. AND NEVER EVER try jeans on in the first week after a shower - even the slightes bit of humidity may hamper the process.

So week one - said jeans were on my body. not perfectly - it was actually slightly obscene, but they were on just the same. SUCCESS! And I have tried them on since that time, each time with more ease. I abandoned the bed technique after finding it no longer necessary a few weeks back. But yesterday the sun rose on me and light beams flooded on my body and my prepardum jeans simply went over my hips and zipped and buttoned with no sucking in. I heard music playing, the birds were singing... I swear my skin was glittering like Edward in the meadow. It was marvelous.

So I wore them with pride. Comfortably, all day.... Now the process begins again with the prepardum skinny jeans. Yes, I am a masochist.

The Need of a Prayer Closet

I now truly understand why the Bible recommends a prayer closet. I never really understood the point. The idea seemed nice -- pluck yourself out of your daily environment and tuck yourself away in a quiet and secluded place so you can focus on Him. I never really thought that I needed it, though. I'm not your adult case of ADD. I can read a novel while the world is spinning around me. I can generally let life around me fade away as I focus on the task at hand. I do feel like I need a side note here, however. This skill of mine is quite different than the male version. I CHOOSE to block the outside world out while I focus. This is not the geneticly inherent skill that men obtain as the sperm collides with the egg. They have no choice in the matter. Multitasking it not possible for them. Have you ever tried to communicate with them while they are on the phone? You simply are trying to augment the conversation because we all know they are leaving out important details. Then, when you are sure they understand what you'd like them to tell the other party, they say good bye and hang up the phone, walk away as if you'd never said anything, because in their little world this is the case. Any who, all that to say. I can multitask with the best of them, but I can do the opposite quite well when need be.

So back to the point. I never thought I needed a prayer closet, that is until today. I now know that this one recommendation was written I think specifically for mom's of small children. I sat down to read some scripture this morning. As soon as I sat down, Juliette's stomach apparently started growling -- breakfast time! That's OK, I can do this. Nurse and do my devotions. So we get all situated and here I go back into Proverbs again. Then Jax got the signal. Apparently they had conspired while I left them alone when I was making toast in the kitchen. So, Jax began talking and touching and pulling and shoving and I thought I was going to strangle him, but I thought Juliette might cry again if she was detached and I haven't quite mastered the skill of "discipline" and nursing at the same time.

I now understand when Susannah Wesley just pulled the apron up over her head. Just one moment of peace would be great. It's the price we pay for being a mommy. But, then again, I'd pay it again and again. This too shall pass and I know for certain that one day my house will be way too quiet and I'll long for the day when my children and grandchildren invade my space - I will welcome it with open arms!

Will Juliette survive Jaxon?

Look at the happy family. Juliette was only hours old. She had already had the shock of her life. Poor thing was, like all of us, forced one way or another out of a perflectly cozy, warm, dark and happy existance. She has yet to encounter to the full extent, the real shock of her life -- Jaxon.

Poor thing is now five weeks old and the stories are piling up like the clean laundry at the foot of my bed - and rocking chair - and dresser (really, who has time to fold?) Jaxon is really a precious 2 year old. But poor sweet baby Juliette, she has no understanding of why she gets randomly turned upsidedown in her car seat. Or gets small round objects with interesting flavor shoved in her mouth (they're cheerios, honey) Or gets popsicle sticks stuck down her throat. Jaxon: "say, ahhhh. I'm the doctor, Mommy!" Or gets her face scratched while being scrubbed with a Clorox wet wipe. Or gets carried across the room and dropped in front of the t.v. (perhaps some sort of ritual sacrifice to the Magic Man that puts shows inside the big box?)


I keep reminding myself that little sisters survive all around the world everyday. She too, will navigate through the dangers and surprises that we all enounter with Jax. He is who he is, and we love him for it!!! It may, however, take sweet Juliette longer to arrive to that conclusion.

Back at it again

Here is my attempt once again to blog. At girl's night out last night, we went to see Julie and Julia. Julie worked full time, cooked multiple Julia Child recipes and still managed to blog every morning. Why can't I?

There is one major difference: Julie had no children. Herein lies the crux of my problem. I apparently can't even blog and be pregnant at the same time. My last blog post was literally the week before I found out I was pregnant with our 3rd child. Pregancy apparently henders multi-tasking...

So, why is it that I think that I'm going to be able to keep up a blog now that I have THREE children? (Yes, it's been nearly a year since my last post - I can hear my 5-week old coo in her bassinet at this very moment) I don't know. Perhaps, giving birth depletes the brain cells responsible for logic one at a time. no, not one at a time... thousands, no, millions--all at once.

One thing I am sure of, however. The addition of the third child - our token girl - will definately be fodder for blog material.

So I'm lifting my figurative glass of sparkling cider - yes, Cheri, even in my figurative world I don't like the taste of alcohol - Here's to blogging -- again!