3rd Time Around

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

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

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

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

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.