Around here, we don’t have many neighborhood disturbances. Things are calm. No domestic disputes (except ours), unsupervised children run amok (except ours) or overgrown lawns in desperate need of a weed-whacking (except ours). Then again, we don’t have any neighbors. Oh sure, we consider each other “neighbors,” but we never have to worry about whether or not anyone can see us sitting at the kitchen table in our underwear eating Apple Jacks (my daughter, not me).
If we had actual next-door neighbors, they would have been in for a treat last night. Right at dusk, a stark raving lunatic ran through our yard. And across our yard. And around our yard. Her face seemed eerily void of all emotion, almost as if she was trying to block out some trauma that had just occurred. She zigged, she …
Coffee cup given to me by my amazing coworkers, who gave me a “surprise support” party. It was perfect. Still my favorite cup.
Be warned, there’s some harsh emotion/language in this post. If you’ve been through it, you understand. If you haven’t been through it, try to understand.
I still remember the look on the bakery lady’s face as she handed me the small cake with the words “We’re Having a Baby” scrolled on it over the counter. “Good luck,” she said, as she winked and smiled at me. Little did she know how much I was going to need it. Not that it would have helped any.
I knew. I already knew something was wrong. I knew the moment I could barely discern a second pink line on the stick that something was wrong. Shouldn’t I …
Our shining star. (Name and happy face compliments of mom.)
If there’s a part of my stereotypical “at-home mom” job I’m failing, it’s the not-so-fine art of crafts (or “crappy crafts” as affectionately called by a friend of mine). You know the kind, cheap, chintzy and usually adorned with some kind of edible item (macaroni noodles, beans, o-shaped cereal).
There are three reasons why I’ve hardly pursued crafty activities since I’ve been home with my girls for the past eight weeks.
1. It seems like such a waste. You use up all of the glue, paper, stickers, etc., and then end up throwing it in the trash after the refrigerator magnets will no longer hold up the weight. I am cheap. I don’t like throwing things away. (Ask my husband, he calls it “hoarding.” Whatever.)
2. I don’t …
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest…oh who cares?
By society’s standards, I am not a stunning, beautiful woman. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m hideous. I can relate to this line from one of Gretchen Wilson’s honky-tonk tunes: “I may not be a ten, but the boys say I clean up good.” Give me a shower, some makeup and a flattering dress and I’m not too shabby.
No, I’m not fishing for compliments or affirmations of my appearance. Rather, this is a celebration of my imperfections. There are things on my body that are large when they’re supposed to be small (pores, nose, feet). And there are things on my body that are small when they’re supposed to be large (use your imagination).
But you know what? I’m glad. So glad that I …
Yes, these two are actually a full-time job.
These are actual things that people have asked me since I decided to stay home with my girls a little less than two months ago. I’m getting a little tired of pushing my right eye back into my head (it pops out a little when I get angry), so I decided to provide some “education” to those who may come into contact with a SAHM, WAHM, SAHD, WAHD, or whatever term you prefer.
Please, please, please don’t ask me:
1. How are you enjoying your retirement?
My response: “How are you enjoying your ignorance?”
Retirement? Are you kidding? Staying home with your kids is really no different than having a full-time job outside of the home. And why is it that if you have the title “daycare provider,” people understand what you …
Who could deny this face? And don’t judge our nutrition choices. You know you are.
There are few things that give me the “oogies” more than cutting cardboard. And by “oogies,” I mean that nails-on-chalkboard shiver that shoots up your spine and causes your head and shoulders to shudder with disgust. (The sound of someone hocking a loogie and/or vomiting are equally offensive to me. In fact, I nearly couldn’t type that without becoming ill. Excuse me…I’ll be right back.)
When my daughter approached me with an empty oversized cereal box the other day, and asked me to “cut a hole in it so she could pretend she was on television,” I immediately grabbed a knife and started hacking away. After all, it was an awesome idea, and the fact that she said “television” instead of …