Yep. I said it. Kiss my booty! If you know me well at all, you know I gave up my cussin-like-a-sailor days long ago, so that’s about as potty-mouthed as I get.
Seriously though, I dread this time of year. Stupid tornadoes. Stupid Kansas weather. After last night’s fiasco, I am ready to throw in the towel and move somewhere with no risk of natural disaster. (If you know of such a place, let me know. And send me the names of any good Realtors in the area.)
Obviously, I’m so grateful that the tornado that tore through our community last night didn’t cause total devastation and loss of life. I know how lucky we are, and I thank God for it. But I need to vent a little. Need to get this stress off my chest (although I have to be …
LOVE this image! (from mademama.com)
In light of the recent Ann Romney/Hilary Rosen debate, I felt called to give my take on the reignited “mommy war” controversy. Because I recently switched from one “side” to the other (even though I think we should both be on the same side), I have strong feelings about a woman’s role at home or in the workplace. I have a message for moms (and dads, and other concerned citizens).
To the Workplace Moms:
You are awesome. You bust your butt every day to help provide a safe, loving environment for your children and family. From budgeting to bedtimes, you wear many hats throughout the day. You should feel proud of your accomplishments and the wonderful example you’re setting for your daughters (and sons). If this was the choice you …
Laugh lines should be funny, right? Or are they a misnomer, like “funny bone?” Either way, I was a little taken aback by this family photo taken at Easter. While I should be focusing on the fact that I have a beautiful, happy family, my eyes were instantly drawn to the collection of little lines around my eyes. When did this happen? Who is this person?
I never thought I would really care about the visible results of aging (I’ve got two kiddos, so I’m kind of over that by now). But this has me a bit befuddled. Should I embrace these new accessories? Start using serums like a mad woman? Start crying in hopes that they’ll reverse? I suppose there’s no turning back now, so I’ll just chalk it up to living a full life, …
An ex-boyfriend once gave me a book on dream interpretation. It was a thick, colorful book with explanations for many scenarios and themes one may encounter while sleeping. It covered everything from colors, to animals, to weather, to textiles. While I was intrigued by the subject matter, I noticed a disturbing trend with the book’s rationale.
The color orange? Well, that means you’re sexually repressed. Zebras? Sexually repressed. Rainstorm? Sexually repressed. Corduroy? Sexually repressed. Wait a second…I’m starting to notice a trend. Perhaps this was wishful thinking on his part. Either way, I’ve never given much credit to dream interpretation until today.
I had time to linger over my thoughts on the open stretch of highway between Kingman and Wichita today, and my mind was mulling over this career change I recently made. I’m thoroughly enjoying the …
I took a drive with my oldest daughter tonight to spend some special one-on-one time. (She revealed to me today that she didn’t want baby sister anymore, and I should put her out in the flower garden.) We drove several miles away to a low-water bridge, and poked around along the water. While there, I encountered the strangest thing: a crop of floating onions. They were growing on either side of the bridge, and appeared to actually be growing in the water, rather than having been thrown out there. I’m intrigued by this anomaly, and wonder if they’re common. I would love to hear from you if you have any ideas.
This is her "cheese" face.
Strange "floating" onions.
These were almost fully submerged.
This was the first one I noticed, which was the most …
One. Hour. Straight. 60 minutes of all-hell’s-broke-loose, demon-like, possessed screaming. That’s how long it took my two-year-old to finally give in to the fact that she wasn’t going to the park with no pants on. She writhed in my arms in her pink leotard, veins bulging, blonde ringlets soaked with sweat, and neck bloodied from where she’d scratched herself. This was the mother of all meltdowns.
And while I may look back someday and laugh, right now my heart is broken. My spirit is broken. No amount of soothing, diversions or reasoning could calm her down. She threw toys and clothes from her bedroom, and ran back down the stairs each time after I put her in her room for timeout. I stuck to the Super Nanny routine, and persistently, calmly put her back time and time again. Meanwhile, my 11-month-old …