Momma's Banter

Who Eats Like This?

2011-08-18T09:48:00.000-04:00

I've considered an experiment, but I'm afraid to actually follow through. I just a few moments ago completed one of my continual rituals, completed at minimum twice daily. I swept my kitchen floor. I really can't wrap my brain around how 5 people can create so much mess. Seriously, I cannot fathom how my children can gain any weight at all.

They all three must have CMS: Cookie Monster Syndrome - look it up... for real, I'm not making it up. OK so maybe I am, but I have grounds for the diagnosis. Who eats like this? Seriously. How is it possible that more ends up on the floor than in their mouths? It's disgusting.

So here's the experiment: I thought about instead of throwing out what I sweep up, I could collect it for a month. I could probably start a composting bin in the backyard and fertilize all of the precious little backyard gardens in the county. So what if there is a random lego or nerf bullet? If I sweep it up, it goes.

I know I'm not crazy... not yet... But these little people are slowly but surely pushing me over the edge. I did add sweeping and mopping to the boys' chores. It's never a thorough or complete job, but hey... I'll take it.

So there. I feel better. I've completed my rant ,and I will go on with my day. I will feed my children lunch and then sweep. We will gather around the table for afternoon snack and homework. The crumbs will build up and one of the kids will attempt a sweep. Then I will cook and serve dinner and will need to sweep yet again before bed. The cycle goes on in this season of life... But I haven't said it in a while... I'll take the crumbs and the finger prints and even the ink on the walls. God love my babies.. I know I do.

I Have Lost My Mind

2011-08-16T10:05:00.001-04:00

For those of you who know me - you know that I am a very busy woman. I have my fingers and toes in a lot of projects and causes that keep my daily calendar jammed packed. For those of you who know me really well, you know there is one arena I have stubbornly avoided. I have seen the game and just watched from the stands... Yes, I have cheered with the crowd. I have even been the bat girl a few times. But I have REFUSED to play ball. I have chosen to keep my life ~~simple~~ a little simpler and remain a spectator.

But this year I have succumbed. Perhaps I'm a little weak right now after a weekend away from the kids. Or maybe I have a hormone imbalance. Or maybe I have finally completely lost my mind. For whatever the reason: weakness, PMS, insanity... I have done it. I have been drafted. I have been handed the uniform. It is official: I am room mom.

So what's there to do now but don the uniform proudly, step up to bat and attempt to hit a home run. Or at least not strike out. I suppose I'll settle for a double or a triple. Regardless, I will bat to the best of my ability... and in the meantime can someone please come and dust my baseboards and clean my windows for me, because I'm pretty confident it won't happen until the end of May.

What Was I Thinking?

2011-07-06T09:11:00.000-04:00

Time keeps a tickin' away. Sometimes I feel like I live in some alternate reality or some time warp - like a bad episode of the New Twilight Zone from the 90's - minus the b-list television guest stars, of course. For some reason in my house, there never is enough time for me. I saw a quote recently that basically said Einstein and Newton and Franklin had the same amount of time in their day as we do. I beg to differ. I'm pretty confident that if you threw three loud, active and opinionated children, some stinky diapers and house work into the mix, some pretty important ideas would have either been delayed or may have never been.

Yes, gravity may have still been discovered, but perhaps Newton would have made the insight after the apple had been dropped on his head by a four-year-old and only after, of course, he had to punish him and fight him over cleaning up the discarded apples. But wait, he can't stop and think about it now, because while he has been dealing with the apple thrower, the baby girl has taken off her diaper and pooped on the carpet. So Newton sucks it up and deals with the poop. But while Newton has apple-thrower in time-out and the poop is all cleaned up and wild baby girl is re-diapered, never mind putting clothes back on her at this point – seriously – the big boy seven year old is having a melt down because wild baby girl tore apart his latest Lego masterpiece. So Newton must put off his thought once more to handle the great Lego meltdown of the century. Meanwhile, "Daddy, can I get out of time-out?" is being heard across the house. "Yes!" is screamed back down the hall. The reply should be "I'm sorry, Daddy for dropping apples on your head" but instead it is... "Daddy, the wild baby girl is standing on top of the kitchen table eating bananas" Which would be all fine and good almost, except for the standing on the table part, but in this case baby girl is allergic to bananas. Sigh... Newton at this point would think to himself. I feel like I had an important thought.... but that will have to wait for another day...

I think I had an important thought yesterday...

Uh Oh

2011-03-24T13:16:00.001-04:00

My life may never be the same. In fact, I'm sure of it. I already admit I'm not the best house keeper, and those of you who know me well, know this, and also know that I know this. I also know that I'm not the worst housekeeper either - that is until I took the dive.

I've been sewing casually for a few years. Then my sweet baby girl came along and my sewing got out of control. The word got out, and I started sewing for others. At first I to took Chickfila and fabric as payment, and I still will for that matter. But, as my orders increased and people kept asking for prices and business cards and websites, I decided to dive in.

I took some advice and pointers from my friend Amie over at Laffty Crafty, and I started an Etsy site. and whattayaknow.... people actually bought stuff. So then another friend implored me to let her take pictures of my stuff. I begged cute little girls to come and bring their mommies so Abby could do her thing and make my stuff look super precious. And she did and it is precious and I think I've done a bad thing... for my housekeeping that is.

I'm a crazy woman. I do too much. I have three children, two of which are home all day. I have a part time job from home. I now have another part time job thanks to my precious models and friends and my trusty sewing machine that deserves a name, but hasn't gotten one yet. So what gives? housework of course. I have come to the conclusion that there are a few items that may never get cleaned again... I have no time:

1) Baseboards -seriously, why must we have miniature shelves near the floor to catch the dust?

2) Tops of picture frames - the way I see it, the dust adds an ambiance to framed art - especially those old family pics. Shabby Chic right?

3) The top of the fridge - I never cleaned this until to my Horror and Utter Shock when we were hosting my husband's entire extended family for Christmas, I realized that sweet 6 foot plus I-don't-know-how-many Charles was clearly able to see what I could not. When I climbed up a step stool and saw what he saw..... I'm just going to stop there... it's just too painful of a memory.

4) Under the beds - it's better to not even look

Please don't come to my house and look in my closets or under the cabinets or beneath the sofa cushions... I assure you, it will not be neat, it will not be clean and it might possibly even qualify for a science experiment.

So until the day when I sell enough of those ruffle pants or baby carriers or frilly rompers to hire a housekeeper, it is what it is and this too shall pass... one day....

3rd Time Around

2011-02-24T09:28:00.001-05:00

This is our third time around. I can't say it's a charm. I'm not really sure what to call it. Our first time bringing a child home was more of a cautious experiment. This time it's more of a total lack of caution.

I think back to that precious baby boy over seven years ago. If I remember correctly, we actually rinsed the paci when it fell on the floor. I'm pretty sure he was dressed, out of his pajamas before 10:00am. And I'm fairly confident that we even had something called a schedule - play time, snack time, nap time, reading time.... I even remember that at dinner time, he had a separate meal catered to his desires until he was about 3. Granted, we deal with food allergies, but seriously? The world revolved around him. The sun rose and set on his precious dimples.

Seven years later, plus two more babies, boy have things changed. "This is what's for dinner kiddo, eat it or go hungry."    "Paci fell on the ground you say? Great! soil has great probiotic qualities. Throw that sucker in her mouth! Besides it's her fault it fell anyway. Time to teach this 6 week old personal responsibility."   "I don't care -- you better get back in bed! You know you are only allowed to get out of that bed if someone is bleeding, or if vomit is involved!"

Forget daily baths.  As long as I can't smell them when we are sitting at dinner, we're good. Never mind, that precious Sweet G had a bath every night with toys and bubbles and quality time.  Nowadays, we'll take quality time on the couch and forgo the efforts of baths if at all possible. Really, I feel that if we can get them in pajamas and in bed without tears (I'm talking about me crying - who cares if they are) and with no major injuries and sufficiently fed (never mind if they ate it off of the floor or a china plate), then the day is a success.

So today, I sit and type. Baby girl is swinging from my drapes in a t-shirt and a diaper. Wild man J is screaming his version of "rock and roll" while, of course, in his PJ's.   Laundry is piled at the foot of my bed (I know, shocking isn't it?). There is cereal on the floor. And dishes in the sink. The day begins. Hopefully, by tonight, my children will get bathed, we will avoid too many snacks picked up right off of the floor, and perhaps even get our bedtime devotion done with a quality prayer time.  But regardless, we will make it through. We've managed this far...

Please Not the Denim Jumper

2011-02-18T08:18:00.002-05:00

I used to be stylish. I used to care a lot about what I wore. Let's face it, when you are "plus sized" if you don't pay attention to yourself and if you didn't get blessed with "such a pretty face" (that quote will have its own blog one day) you really can't compete in the world of vanity... So, knowing I had to compensate for the extra this and that around here and there, I was a good dresser.

Then 3 kids later, a stay at home job - two of them to be exact, and chasing two of three of my children for most of the day, fashion has taken a backseat. I really didn't think it was too bad until my friend Cheri told me that by 3:00 if I haven't at least brushed my hair and put on at least some semblance of an outfit, even if it was sweats and a semi-matching t-shirt, she was going to stage a major intervention. I don't know, but if you ask me, that in itself was a sort of passive aggressive intervention... and there ain't nothin' passive aggressive about Cheri.

But then I observed the world around me. Maybe I'm not as bad off as I thought. OK, so I only have one pair of jeans, and I have too many over sized swing cardigans (we lumpy women are so thankful for this fad). but THANK GOD I do not have a denim jumper in my closet. Why oh why people? Please put them away. They hide nothing. They are ugly, and I don't care if you have let yourself go, there is no reason in the world to punish yourself for becoming a mother. Please, go to Wal-mart or Cato or a yard sale for goodness sake and update yourself.

So, there, I've made myself feel better. My hair still isn't brushed and I haven't changed clothes yet and I certainly have not had a shower, but I AM NOT WEARING A DENIM JUMPER!!! And if any of you ever, ever catch me in one of those things, please do more than a gentle reminder. Stage a full-on intervention, with locked doors, tissues and tears and perhaps a Visa gift card preferably minus Stacy and Clinton.

I'm in Love

2011-02-17T13:40:00.001-05:00

I love pretty things, and I love kitchen items, and when those two things combine, I can't help myself.

Things were all fine until this week. I was living in ignorant bliss - minding my own business - cleaning, folding clothes, working, sewing, cooking, wiping butts - the normal stuff. It's really all Troye's fault. I've been too crazed to check out Pioneer Woman's blog lately. I mean really - I haven't even been blogging myself. But she did it, that Troye, she changed my life forever. She said. "have you seen the Kitchen Aid on PW's site?" and within moments on that tiny iPhone screen... there it was... love at first sight.

I cannot even describe the lust... the coveting... the longing. I mean it's orange!!! There are flowers!!! it would match my kitchen AND Julia!!! It matches Julia! ahh Julia... my beloved Julia. My flame-orange dutch oven.

This photograph is now my laptop wallpaper. Sorry Baby Girl, you've been replaced on the screen.

I know it's ridiculous. And I also know that I will probably never own this. (and before all you people out there start chiming in about the giveaway's.... be quiet... I am entering... and I NEVER win..)

So I will put her in the category of loves never held. Desires never met. Dreams that remain dreams.

At least I have her on my screen.

I'm a Chick Magnet

2010-10-14T12:38:00.000-04:00

I'm a chick magnet. Not the kind like Justin Bieber, Rob Pattinson, or Ricky Schroder à la Silver Spoons era.... swoon... No, I mean more like the momma hen and her little chicks following her around, never a moment alone, always a trail of little feet– THAT kind of chick magnet.

I have come to the realization that it will be approximately 5 more years at minimum before I have any privacy again. I remember the days when I could go to the bathroom and did not HAVE to lock the door. I remember watching my own TV whenever I wanted to. And I even remember being able to eat a dessert without sharing.

I realize that having children puts privacy on hiatus. I can deal with that. But what I didn’t realize, however, when I dove into this adventure known as parenthood, was that said children would be drawn to me as if I was one of those super duper magnets that always end up in movies whenever there is a scene in a junk yard. “Hurry Lassie, run tell dad that Sally is in stuck that car being carried by the super duper magnet up there!” The force field is undeniable.

I have now come to accept this reality. It’s just how it is. And now that I’ve been at it for over 7 years now, I know that my magnetism goes into overdrive on specific occasions. It is at these moments that either my electrons shift, or theirs do, and our negative and positive charges attract like my hands on fresh baked chocolate chip cookies after a stressful day. Here’s a brief synopsis of those moments:

1) When I am on an important phone call: it never fails. There will be one screaming for me from the bathroom to wipe their bottom. Another one will insist that this is THE moment to talk about the important issues in life like why is the Wii remote not working or why can’t I use the Sharpie markers on thin paper on top of the dining room table. Sheesh!

2) When I want to sleep in: Any other morning they will sleep later. But not on a day when I get to sleep in. Nope on those days they get up and climb in bed with me. And they will just lay beside me because they don’t really want to play or watch TV and they can’t fix breakfast them selves because of course there will be no cereal or fruit in the house and I will have to get up and actually use a knife or the stove top or the microwave to make breakfast. It seems like the stars always align that way

3) When I have a deadline: It seems like whenever I have a deadline for work, their dependence goes into over drive. My name will be uttered, screamed or sung 7,324 times before lunch. Paleez children! 10 minutes of uninterrupted independence would be fabulous.

4) When I’m trying to cook. Toddlers are notorious for this. This is the time that they always feel the need to be cranky and pull on your legs and lay at your feet… why oh why do they do this to us? It’s a miracle that there have been no limbs lost from falling knives.

So the hiatus continues, my magnet is on and the chicks continue to follow. And until life settles down into the phase of caring for pre adolescents (God help me) I will dream of the day when I can once again pee in peace.

How I Know I'm Through

2010-09-29T09:43:00.001-04:00

I had a dream that I was pregnant - Fear ran through me like I imgained the venom from James's bite ran through Bella's blood...The pain, the agony! I woke up in a cold sweat shreiking "Please God No!!!!!!!!!!!. OK, so maybe I didn't really scream that out loud, but believe me, I wanted to. It was at that moment that I knew for sure I was done. Here are a few other reasons I know that 3 is enough.

If we have another baby, one of our children will be either riding in the trunk or strapped to the roof of our PT Cruiser, 'cause we sure ain't buying a car. I guess we could paper, rock, scissor it before each trip. The kids would like that, right?

I have zero capacity to do any more laundry than I am currently doing.

I DO NOT want to pay that $1,000 maternity copay yet again.

I'm afraid a new baby would be bigger than baby girl in a few months. Poor little chunky monkey... How would her esteem ever recover?

Baby girl is still riding in her infant carrier, and again, I am not buying a new one.

I'm tired of poop.

I enjoy sleep.

I still have my dixie cup-full of brain cells left. I'd rather not reduce it to thimble size.

I really don't think it would be in the best interest of the other children if I was committed.

Thank you God for the three sweet things you have given me. I am blessed, but please know that I choose to be done. I would appreciate it greatly if you agreed.

God so loved the Sanfords that He gave us Saturday Night Service

2010-09-23T09:21:00.001-04:00

It is a well known fact among us mommas that the devil doesn't want us to make it to church happy on Sunday mornings. I don't remember what I did to get in trouble on Sunday mornings as a kid, but I know it happened. What I do remember is going outside of the church and having to pick a switch --And our kids think they have it tough. I'm pretty sure that since mommas have been having to feed, clothe and transport children to worship, the devil has enjoyed the torment that ensues. Those poor little Israelite children probably even got their share of "the rod" way back in the desert. As if having to eat insect excrement (did you know that's what manna is?) wasn't enough to deal with - those mommas I bet had to deal with extra rotten children on the Sabbath.

My children are no exception. They are BAD on Sunday mornings. As my sweet grand mother in law, Mom Eastling used to say "The devil done jumped into 'em." The whining, the screaming, the hitting, the resulting crying.... CALGON TAKE ME AWAY! But alas, there is no time for a bath in luxurious boxed bath salts, nope. We have to load the little demons into the car screaming and kicking, bottoms still stinging from a fresh "gentle love pat", buckle those flailing and tormented things in their seats and take the entire 3 minute drive to church to calm down.... the commute is too short for that though... Still screaming - yes me too - as we pull into the parking lot, we prepare to make it the building without having any children run over by a car. This results in some yanking and dragging because inevitably at least one of the children will think that this will be THE week that they can run through the parking lot unassisted. Next, we have to check all the children into the children's program. At least one will complain and another one will cry and we leave anyway without turning back.

Now - put on a smile, find a seat, and worship....

But God loves me, He really does, and I now know it. He gave me (and I'm positive 12Stone Church did this thing just for me) Saturday Night Service. We had our first experience this past week, and can I tell you no children were spanked in preparation for church? We got to sleep in, picnic at the park, spend the afternoon playing and then take our time getting ready for church. no rushing. And 5:00pm is the perfect time because fresh from a snack, the children aren't starving.. I love you God, I love you 12Stone, and I love you children, because the devil doesn't know about Saturday night service yet.

I Am Jealous Today

2010-07-06T10:10:00.000-04:00

I rarely get jealous anymore. I really don't have time for it. I've just got too many things to do to constantly be comparing my stuff and skills to everyone else's. or maybe I try not to do it because it does no good to compare, because out here in the suburbs it is so easy to be caught up in the sickness of keeping up with the Jones's. For a while there I really did feel the pressure, not so much to keep up, because for us it is financially impossible, but I did feel the obvious tension of not fitting in. There's not a luxury car in our garage. No paid extracurricular activities for the kids. Our kitchen sprayer is still broken. We are making do with what we have in this tough economy. I'm done with those comparisons.

But today I was jealous. I read through some blogs and came upon one of my favorites: jennifervdavis.com
Jennifer is a friend of mine from church. A fellow momma, cook and blogger. I always love chatting with her, and am always surprised by her dry wit. She is an amazing woman. And today when I read her blog, I realized that I am jealous of her. How in the world does she manage to be so thoughtful and articulate in her blog? How does she have so many brain cells left?

There was a time, about seven years ago when I was smart. You may not know this about me, but I was valedictorian. Granted, there were only 95 people in our class, but still. I was number one. Numero Uno. 4.0 The top... all that Jazz. I got to give a speech at graduation and it was good. In college, I was still good. No speech, but I still had pretty cords and ribbons and trims on my robe announcing to the world as I crossed that stage... "Kristina is smart"

Then I had children.

My brain cells started melting away when Sweet G's fertilized egg implanted into the wall of my uterus.... like ice cream outside of the Mayfield Dairy at noon in Mid August. I noticed it most in my vocabulary. The bigger, fancier words that used to decorate my language like my expensive glass ornaments on my beloved Christmas tree vanished. I still had the ability to decorate and coordinate my language with my cheaper Walmart and Target words. But nowadays, three children later, FORGET ABOUT IT. I can't even think anymore much less articulate those thoughts. It really takes so much more effort to decorate that proverbial Christmas tree than it used to, and most times I know it looks like Charlie Brown was involved.

Maybe I like blogging because I have more time to coordinate my words. I can spend more time focusing on their arrangement and I can even use a dictionary and thesaurus and spell check. It's not as exposing as conversation is. It's like comparing the live, raw American Idol performances, to a Miley Cirus or Britney Spears single. Maybe I can fool my high school friends into thinking I'm still smart, just like Miley can fool those 10 year old little girls with her albums. All it takes is some extra time, some editing and auto tune. That works until I really compare. Jennifer Davis, you my dear, are smart. no fooling done there. I've heard your live performance and your studio recording.... You shine at both conversation and blogging. You are always thoughtful and intellectual AND you have three small children. sigh... so now you know... I'm jealous of you and your Christmas tree. You still have your pretty ornaments and can still arrange them so perfectly.

OK, so I feel better. You all now know that I'm just a mediocre studio artist. I can no longer shine "live." I've outed myself and the pressure is off. I'm no longer smart, but I have to say I still enjoy decorating my little online Christmas tree using the dixie-cup-full of braincells I do have left.

The Things I Say

2010-07-05T16:55:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of things that motherhood brings about that I never thought about before the line turned pink on that little plastic stick. For instance, I never wondered when my next shower was going to be. I rarely got excited about a clean floor. And I never, ever questioned my ability to get an uninterrupted night's sleep. But what shocks me the most about being a momma are the things that actually come out of my mouth. I mean sometimes I am amazed about the things that I have to say. Not just those things we expected we would say just because our parents did to us when we were kids: "Because I said so" "How many times do I have to tell you" "You just wait 'till your father get's home" "Go pick a switch" (yikes) What really gets me are the things that a person just shouldn't HAVE to say. It's like we are raising little nincompoops... These are all things that I have conjured in my brain* and have exited out through my lips:

(*please note, I will not express here the things that were conjured in my brain that I actually caught through my filter and never allowed to exit out of my mouth. I will not be held responsible for said thoughts... I am only human and if we all actually said what we thought, our poor children would be in counseling forever)

"Stop licking me!" This one was said to Wild Man J just moments ago.

"Please don't ride your bike in my bedroom." Sweet G thought for some reason that this was a good idea. What's even more surprising is his puzzled "Why not?" reply.

"Why are you in my bed naked?" nope - not said to my husband.... Thanks for waking me up this way Wild Man J. apparently, he didn't want to snuggle with me in a wet pull up.

"I'm gonna tear your butt up" This one I must have picked up somewhere growing up in Pelion.

"Why is there another apple core on the floor?" sigh... a constant battle

"I can't come right now, I have poop on my hands!" Thanks for that nice little diaper change

"Please don't run over your sister" -- the bike is still in my living room.

Last but not least - "Momma loves you," and I never can say it enough.

Furniture

2010-06-28T18:02:00.000-04:00

I find it amazing how quickly things become furniture in my house. I don't mean real furniture, but figuratively. Those things that are so constant and unchanging that they are as familiar and certain as your couch sitting in the middle of your living room floor, or your bed in the master bedroom. You know when you walk through your front door that they are going to be there for you barring some disaster. I know, I have boys and that disaster could come on any day, but you get my drift. On most days you don't have to worry about sitting or sleeping on the floor. You have furniture.

In my house, other things quickly become furniture. Other people may have things that become "fixtures," like the neighbor's cat that keeps sneaking in when your wild boys leave the door open, or the Wii balance board in front of the entertainment center, or the toothpaste splatters on the bathroom mirror. We have those too -- but we also have furniture -- things that have become so certain, you can rely on them when in need.

First of all, there's the sofa cushions, they aren't just a means to an end, they are the end. They can be dislodged from the couch and scattered about to be roads, cliffs, hideouts, tents, bad-guy caves. they are furniture in and of themselves.

Toy containers - not just for storing anymore. They are the perfect step stool for vertically challenged three-year-olds. Can't reach the stick mom put away on top of the mantle because I turned it into a gun and shot my baby sister repeatedly and then poked her for good measure? no problem, I have furniture for that. I can go to my room, dump all of my pirate stuff out of its container and .... instant step stool!

Finally there's the laundry basket. This is a special case. I confess I have a problem keeping up with laundry. It owns me. I can never keep up. I feel like I spend hours each day, but it's never enough. Inevitably, at the end of each day, I have a basket full of unfolded, or folded clothes at the foot of my bed in the laundry basket. I really hadn't taken the time to think about how often this takes place. But apparently, it has occurred so much, that it is officially furniture. It has become so certain it can be relied on when in need.... of a nap:

Where's Wild Man J?

Uh, I don't know - let's check all of the FURNITURE...

precious baby..... can you fold that stuff when you wake up?

My Little Life Coaches

2010-06-22T14:13:00.001-04:00

I've always found life coaches a little annoying. How do I know so much about them? No, I've never been "coached" personally, but there have been some examples out there for us in the best form of education known to man -- reality tv. Come on, isn't it the best information out there? I've learned quite a bit over the last 10 years from reality tv. 1) how to back-stab and then back stab again, and then once more -- and it's all OK to keep that tiki torch burning--Survivor is only a game right? 2) Feathers and human hair make perfectly respectable couture - thanks Project Runway for that tid bit 3) There is a technique to table tossing. only the best tossers can toss without breaking a nail or harming a curl, all while cursing like a sailor, of course -- this info compliments of Real Housewives of NJ. 4) the best way to lose weight is to get someone to make you cry. Thanks Jillian.

You see, Jillian from the Biggest Loser is not just a fitness trainer, she is also a life coach. I suppose she's just the person for the job, because I'm pretty sure anyone who weighs 450 lbs could use some training and coaching. I do, however, get a kick out of watching this life coach work (and any other one I have ever seen). I have boiled their job description down to pushing and pushing and screaming at the top of their lungs "WHAT ARE YOU SO AFRAID OF?!?" until said subject breaks, cries and confesses some deep hidden anxiety or traumatic experience. I have also decided that sometimes I bet that traumatic experience is completely fabricated just to get a break from the "coaching." Kinda like those cooerced confessions in dark, smoky back rooms of police headquarters. "Yes it was me, in the library with the candlestick. Please, Please get me out of here!!!"

All of this to say, I don't need to drive down to Decatur or Little Five Points to find a hippie life coach to push and push and push... Nope not me. I have two little life coaches that sleep in our middle bedroom every night. Their style is perfect. It's that delicate balance of observation, brutal honestly and total lack of tact that make them so successful.

Wild Man J used to be the king of the "pushing." My favorite used to be when as a small toddler he would constantly poke and prod my arm fat and love handles. so sweet of him to make me aware.... Then Sweet G pulled up from behind when he asked me why the skin on my leg always jiggled. Thanks for that observation, son.

They have really left me alone for a while. I guess they gave me a break while growing and birthing another human being, but my sabbatical is over. They apparently conspired to do a double attack last night.

J: "Momma, you have a baby in your bellly."
Me: "No I don't son"
G: "No she doesn't - It just takes a long time for your belly to go down after having a baby"

Would have been sorta nice if he would have stopped there. nope - not Sweet G...

"Cause your belly got soooo big, and it takes a long time, a really REALLY long time for it to go back down."

I left the room before they broke me. No crying last night. They need some lessons from Jillian. too bad their bedtime is 7:30.

I'm Obviously Not Good at Blogging

2010-06-04T17:00:00.001-04:00

I'm obviously not that good at blogging. Well, I think I'm at least a pretty decent writer, I just stink at doing this on a regular basis. I really don't know why that is. I constantly think to myself. "Now THAT is blogworthy." but the thought or story or picture just never hardly makes it to the screen.

I'm really sad to admit my failure as a good blogger. I had high hopes really, but 4 blogs in a year really won't put me up there with The Pioneer Woman or Homemade by Jill or For the Joy of Food. A girl can dream though. I had a dream of a REAL page with more than 2 hits a day with advertising links and cute little tabs and a cookbook and a tour and lots of cute babies wanting pictures with me... OK, not really, but I did want to at least be able to say "I have a blog" with out feeling like a little half liar.

But in my life I have learned to settle with being a dabbler. It's really what I am best at. and I really feel that living a life dabbling in lots of different things, is better than devoting all of my energy into one thing and not getting to even try all of the other things. And I have also learned as I dabble, that if I dabble in those things really well, making those moments worth while, then I don't get burnt out. I keep enjoying them.

So I love my dabblings: blogging, sewing, singing, cooking, painting, designing. I also love the fact that because I am a dabbler and not an obsesser (have I said that I love making up words?) I have room for my real passion - being a good Momma and friend. So I love my friends and family hard and dabble in a lot of things a little bit and probably should do more than dabbling in cleaning and organizing and exercising for that matter, but I do love my life, and am thankful for all of my outlets... even my pitiful little blog.

I'm Running a Hospital

2010-02-02T07:56:00.000-05:00

I never knew that when I pee'd on that stick back in 2002, and the magic line appeared, that I was signing up for medical management. That's really what mothering is all about I've decided. or at least in my hospital, I mean house. I will have to type quickly, because I currently have three children with three different ailments and I'm sure at least one of them will need me in the next 5 minutes.

This is what I know of parenting. SOMEONE IS SICK CONSTANTLY! Maybe not at your house, but we are particularly affected because my children are allergy children. Somone is always reacting to something, random rashes, spotty hives, eyes swollen shut, vomiting episodes... oh the joy. But then there's the regular crap on top of that. and then, for some reason, the NON-regular (I guess I could say irregular, but I like making up new words).

Case in point. The last month:
The first week in January, Jaxon has what I think is an allergic reaction because his eyes are red and swelling.

Then Grant's eyes start up a few days later. Thank GOD I have the pink eye medication from last year so no doc visit required.

That same week, I notice my boob hurting when I nurse, should have known then that it was a fabulous case of thrush in the works, but nope. I go on with my life

Juliette then starts to get pink eye, of course.

By this point my boobs are screaming with pain and I now realize I have thrush, which of course means, Juliette has thrush. Here we go with the battle of the yeast. If you've never fought that battle, then there's really no way to describe it, but I'll just give you a snippit of what it feels like to nurse through it.

Imagine someone pouring a diluted acidic substance on your nipples, just enough to kill the first few layers of skin, making them nice and sensative. THEN, there's the lesions. I'll let you imagine how those come to be in our ficticious scenario. Then, here's the kicker -- attach your Dyson's hose to your boob and turn it on - then off - then on - then off.... Like I said, just a snippit and really at that, there's still no way to describe it.

But by then my boys are well, even if Juliette and I aren't. So why don't we throw a stomach virus into the mix? Thanks Jaxon. Oh, and you'd like to share that with Grant? OK, sure why not. And Grant, yes, please why don't you go ahead and puke on the floor at school, so at least I don't have to clean it up. Very thoughtful dear.

Then, of course Juliette has her first fever. Bless her. She didn't smile for 2 days. Really quite pitiful.

Then she started up with rashes. Doc says probably still yeast. The battle continues.

Yesterday, Jax decided to take on a cold. Please let's try to avoid breathing treatments this time.

So that brings me to this morning. Grant has THAT LOOK about him. That ambiguous look that tells us mommies that all is not right in the world, and please don't let it end up with more than one day out from school.

So, yes. I'm running a hospital............... and asylum. and church. and juvie. and prison. and daycare. and amusment park. and restaurant. and counseling center. I don't get paid enough.

I've Gone Too Far

2010-01-11T14:02:00.003-05:00

I have come to think of myself as a foodie. In the past few years I've noticed my tastebuds have altered to like only really good food, in most cases (I can still rock a Coke and some peanut M & M's). And what I really love is homemade food, from REAL ingredients. In other words, from scratch. No boxed mixes.

I thought that I really couldn't dive any further into the deep end than when I started grinding my on wheat. But apparently there is a new low. It's really an airtight case. I have no alibi. Go ahead and convict me based on this startling confession.

Exhibit A - and only one exhibit is needed, that's how bad it is:

In church on Sunday, KQ was giving a really great sermon about the archeological evidences of Christ's story, and he shows us the picture of Caiaphus' remains. The point being that up until 1990 when this box was discovered, there was no other evidence that this man existed other than the Bible itself.

I should have been thinking something profound when I saw the picture. Like, "Wow, I love when God consistantly backs up His story."

Nope, not me, the foodie that I am. What am I thinking?

"That's a really cool box. Look at those designs. That would be soooo perfect on my kitchen counter right beside Julia, my new flame orange dutch oven, only if it were about 12 inches wide of course, I can't really tell from the picture"

"I could use it to store my sour dough starter. That is--if I even had any sour dough bread starter."

But still, wouldn't that be a great pairing? Just move the radio out of the way and there you go. I'll stop short of photoshopping it in, but you get the picture...

Then I realized what I was thinking and pulled myself out of my spiraling internal conversation and back to reality... God help me.

Facebook might be Pandora's Box

2010-01-08T15:11:00.002-05:00

I'm beginning to wonder if when I joined Facebook perhaps I might have unwittingly opened pandora's box. Sure there are benefits. We know immediately when we can expect our children to get the stomach virus because everyone's status tells us it's heading our way. We always know when there are sales at stores, thanks to the mommas out there who actually leave their houses during the day. And most importantly, I can always depend of Facebook to let me know that there are other people out there with lives very close to mine. Empathy is a comfort.

But, I think perhaps that the negatives might override the positives.

1) I can never-ever gain weight without everyone knowing. It's like we have a living weight chart on the world wide web. "Kristina looks like she's packed on about 15 lbs. since last June. See this pic versus her brand new profile pic." Don't post pictures of yourself you say? I don't have to, because there are people who take their annoyingly addictive I-phones around, take pictures and tag you in them. Then the tag tug-o-war begins. I'm tagged, I untag myself, someone else tags me, I untag myself again... so on so forth... I and my seesawing weight are forever immortalized on the internet. It's kind of like the tabloids with Oprah or Kirstie without the headlines of course. Thank GOD there are no headlines....

2) I can never surprise anyone with a fun factoid. "Yeah, I saw that on Facebook" Really ruins the enjoyment of quasi gossip. e.g.: Did you hear that so and so is pregnant? Did you know about so and so's new purchase? it goes on and on... every body knows everything instantly.

3) It causes me to almost sin on a daily basis. My friend Amy says it DOES cause her to sin. My other friend Cheri says it's not sinning if you realize that it might be...? I call it Facebook Coveting. Before Facebook I didn't have to see my friend's delicious meal that is sitting right in front of them at this very moment at S.A.B. while I'm having Cheerios for dinner. Before Facebook, I didn't have to see a bajazillion pictures of Hawaii while I am swimming in rain (I love you Kimberly). I'll stop now, before I tell you the times when I've REALLY sinned while reading stuff on FB.

4) I constantly think about my life in terms of status updates and postings. Is this event status update worthy? I should post that on Facebook. I bet that would get tons of comments on Facebook. It's kind of like in 10th grade when I was addicted to Tetris. (yes, I played video games too much, yes, I was a dork, and no, I didn't have a boyfriend... I was too fat for one -- thank heavens there was no constant pictorial documentation back then...). We rented it from the movie place, and I played non-stop. It got so bad that I begin to try to fit imaginary Tetris shapes into various silhouettes in my real life. STOP THE MADNESS!!!

But the box is open, and quite frankly I don't think I can stop, but curbing back is highly in order. We'll see. So, signing off for now. I need to go post a link to this posting on my profile.

I Resolve.

2010-01-07T21:59:00.000-05:00

It's a new year and time for the obligitory list of resolutions. So here goes:

I, Kristina Sanford, momma to three and wife to one in this Two Thousand and Tenth year of our Lord resolve to:

1) take a shower before noon at least three times a week. I usually still have on my pajamas at 4:00, when I normally get my shower in. That's only because I have a competent 6 year old home from school who can baby sit for about 3 1/2 minutes... I cringe to know what actually goes on while I'm in the shower. I'm sure there is some mischeif that I'd rather not know about. Maybe I should just take longer showers and swim in the wonderful abyss of ignorance as long as I can...

2) wear something other than my pajamas to the bus stop. Pretty doubtful any of Grant's friends or the bus driver for that matter think I'm running for the fashionista of the century. They probably don't even realize I have real clothes. You know the kinds with buttons and zippers and cloth other than fleece, jersey and spandex.

3) actually fit better into my real clothes. You know the kinds with buttons and zippers and with cloth other than fleece, jersey and spandex. My father gave us Wii Fit for Christmas. I'm sore already and I've really only just plugged my name into the thing. I may need some anti depresants after seeing what that awful thing did to me yesterday. I innocently stepped on that little rectangle box and typed in my wee little height and the next thing I know, my little mii figure blows up like a balloon and this little sqeeky, creepy voice tells me that I'm obese. nice.

So in a nutshell, this year I want to be freshly showered as I workout in real clothes on my Wii before noon. I'll let you know if that happens tomorrow. I seriously doubt it, but maybe, just maybe, by 2011 that little squeeky, creepy voice will tell me I'm just overweight, not obese.

To Grandaddy's House We Go

2009-12-30T12:15:00.001-05:00

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

2009-12-23T08:27:00.001-05:00

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

2009-12-18T08:45:00.009-05:00

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

2009-12-15T09:40:00.001-05:00

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

2009-12-14T17:06:00.003-05:00

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

2009-09-29T12:48:00.009-04:00

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

2009-09-16T06:58:00.004-04:00

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

2009-09-08T08:08:00.003-04:00

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?

2009-09-03T08:02:00.007-04:00

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

2009-09-03T07:48:00.006-04:00

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!

Yay, it's not last Thanksgiving!!!

2008-11-27T06:14:00.006-05:00

I have plenty to be thankful for this year. Life is so good. I have a wonderful husband, precious boys and friends that are the best in the whole world. Can it get any better? I have to say though, I am VERY thankful that this not last year.

Last week my husband was reminiscing about last Thanksgiving, talking about all of the good memories. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. Perhaps he wasn't remembering the same year. Let me share. It started off with an emergency room visit to Scottish Rite Hospital at three AM on Thanksgiving morning. I was convinced that Grant had pneumonia because he had a low grade fever and extremely congested cough. Since no Dr. office would be open, and because we were going to be headed out of town, I thought, "why not get a head start and get him to a Dr. now." Good thing we did. He was have a major asthma attack. They nearly admitted him, but sent us home at around lunch time with a heavely medicated child and strict instructions on his care. Needless to say, our trip was cancelled. We stopped at Kroger on the way home and picked up deli mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and frozen chicken tenders.

But it didn't stop there. I wish it had. On Friday, Grant started throwing up (he picked up and stomach bug from the hospital). On Saturday, a man pulled out of Kroger and totalled our Accord with all of us in it, of course. Man, we missed the gas mileage on that car this year. Then Sunday, Jaxon had the stomach virus. Got to love a toddler throwing up everywhere...

So, when my husband started going on about the good memories from last Thanksgiving, I was more than a little argumentative. I think he must be crazy, or at least his brain is kicking in a coping method. But he went on to explain about hanging out together, eating together, putting up the Christmas decorations together. OK, so maybe he's a little right.

So this year I'm thankful for healthy children and two working cars (at least they are right now). I am about to get up and cook some green beans and ice a cake. Christopher is goign to bake the mac and cheese. Then, we're headed off to South Carolina to spend time with family. Life is good.

My name is Kristina...

2008-11-12T18:09:00.008-05:00

OK. So here's the deal. I think I'm an addict. I've always known that I could become especially attached to things, but have never qualified my self as an addict in any way. This is why -- something only qualifies as an addiction when it interferes with the relationships you have around you. I can safely say that I have never been addicted to anything, only reallly, really attached --- that is until now. My name is Kristina and I am a Twilightaholic. I blame it all on Susannah really, and I was not the first victim. Troye took her first hit a few weeks before me. I saw her focused on nothing else, and I should have known better, but I fell to the pressure from my peers. Maybe I should have just followed Nancy Reagan's advice and just said "No," but I didn't and now I have nothing to show for it but a messy house, undone laundry, and neglected children. So now I get to my point. My attachment is now qualified as an addiction because my precious baby staged an intervention. He walked up to me as I was deeply engrossed into the final pages of Breaking Dawn, looked at me, slammed my book shut, and shouted "No, No, No" Any person simply "attached" at that point would have put the book down and loved on their child. But not so with the addict. The addict in this case, continued to read and loved every minute. Alas, now I am cold turkey. I have read all the books in the series and I suppose I could read them over again, but it's just not the same... There is however, the movie!!! It's going to be a fun night at the theater!!!

Christmas through the eyes of a two year old

2008-11-06T10:15:00.006-05:00

One of my favorite parts about being a momma is watching little ones discover Christmas. This will be Jaxon's third Christmas. It is so great observing this little man figure the world out and this season will be no exception. It really doesn't take much exposure to all of the red, snow, lights and music for them to figure out that something special is going on. Jaxon really cracked me up this week. Maybe he doesn't have it all figured out as much as I thought he did. We were in Cracker Barrell waiting to be seated so we were doing the obligitory, "let's look at as many of these things -that we are never going to buy - as possible to keep entertained and not break in the process" thing when Jaxon spied a shelf stocked full of THE MAN. -- the jolly old elf himself -- reproduced in miniature about 17 times. Jaxon's eyes widened and he begin to point excitedly. I thought to myself, "look at this. he knows who Santa is! What a wonderful thing!" He then proceeds to shout, "oooh, God! God! God!" OK, so maybe his theology is off a little. At least he's figured out something - God and Santa are both big deals, and aparently both have large, white beards.

So here I go

2008-11-05T10:39:00.004-05:00

Alas, I have succumbed to the pressure, and am going to give it a go. -- Blogging --. Here's my main issue and push-back of late. I have no camera, that works anyway. We had a great one, but I dropped it in the sand at the beach. Turns out that's a perfectly good way to ruin an otherwise perfectly good camera. I did make an attempt to fix the camera, and it worked for a little while, but it has finally "given up the ghost." Then my parents gave me their first dinasaur - I mean digital camera. It runs through batteries faster than I run through Troye's pumpkin muffins. I swear I have to put in new or recharged batteries every time I turn the thing on. I finally gave up. All this to say, for now anyway, I'll be blogging with borrowed pictures. I can do it right?.... Nobody may ever read it, but hey, I get points for effort, right?