How I Know I'm Through

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.