http://youtu.be/OAbH3VmilUE
I went through orientation for my new job today. Apparently, this place still allows hazing.
It started innocently enough. “Mommy, mommy, mommy!,” Anna cried from her bedroom. My head had just hit the pillow, and I’d foolishly let myself think that I might get a decent night’s sleep. Wrong.
I heaved my legs over the edge of the bed, forced my feet to shuffle to the stairs, and trudged up each creaky stair to the second floor of our 1938 airplane bungalow. As I reached for her doorknob (she insists on sleeping with her door closed), I wondered what I’d find.
Had she wet the bed? Was she getting sick? Had she misplaced her beloved Jessie and Bullseye?
Nope. It was the beginning stages of what I’ve come to know as pure parenting hell…a night terror. I didn’t know what to call them until talking with a friend today whose daughter has the …
Pardon the photo quality. And the lack of food. Milk, ranch and some hamburger patties, what more could you ask for?
I didn’t grow up with nice things, and I normally don’t buy nice things now. In fact, nice things make me uncomfortable. I’m clumsy, so I might break them. And I’m frugal, so I usually think they cost too much. And, there’s the guilt associated with nice things. I mean, I don’t really need a new (insert item here). I can’t tell you how many times I’ve put an item in my shopping cart, only to backtrack my way across the store later to restock it. (And yes, I return it to its proper place, or I’d feel guilty about that, too.)
But let me tell you something. We got our new fridge today, and …
My new coworkers. They rarely listen to me and they’re
always leaving a mess around the office.
Recently, I chose to leave a job that I loved, and begin one that I hope I’ll love even more–as a mom who doesn’t work full time outside the home (I haven’t found a better title).
Professionally, I was fulfilled, challenged and had accomplished an impressive amount of work in four years. Personally, though, I was a mess (not a hot mess, although I certainly wouldn’t mind being called hot now and again). I craved more time with my babies, and not just physical time, but the energy and brain capacity to actually be with them.
I was not ok with my 2.75 year old casually using phrases like “I’m too busy, I’m too tired,” and “I can’t, …
I spent nearly 15 minutes lovingly molding our favorite bilingual adventurer (below) out of Play-Doh. I finished my creation, and set her on the kitchen counter for my two and a half year old to admire.
DO NOT make fun of my Play-Doh skills.
(For those of you without an active imagination, this is Dora.)
Of course, she wanted to “hold” her. And by hold her, I knew she meant destroy her. Because that’s what my little angel does best. There’s a reason we call her “destructosaur.” First, it was the head that popped off. “Uh-oh mommy!” Then, it was her arm. “What happened to her arm mommy?” Then, it was this:
Poor Dora. Even Boots can’t save her from this misfortune.
This is our “before” picture. Note how well rested we looked!
November 23, 2001- I climbed into the passenger seat of his blue Chevy Blazer, my emotions a mix between nervousness and pure joy. He was a cute boy. A very cute boy. And he was taking me to the movies. Should I show my excitement? Play it cool? I must have handled myself quite well, because I’m now married to that very cute boy.
We met while working at Sheplers. I was 18, he was 21. I asked him to clean my boots. He happily obliged, and what started out as roller-coaster crush turned into something real. Something lasting.
A lot has happened in ten years. We’ve grown up together. We’ve fought like crazy and we’ve loved like crazy. We’ve moved five times. We bought a house, …