Need to make an on-the-spot major decision on household conduct? Chug one of these first.

“I think we’re going to have a grease fire. Honey. Honey?! Are we? You’re a firefighter. Can you tell me? Do we need the extinguisher?!”

“Mommy, get me a snack. I’m hungry,” my three year old whined while following me around the kitchen as I frantically flung open the windows. “I’m hungry. A snack. Snack. Can I have a snack? Please?”

“Anna, in just a second! Mommy’s trying to prevent a fire. Dave, do we need an extinguisher?!” Meanwhile, the baby is running around with an obviously poo-filled diaper. Whee!

My husband casually looked up from the laptop, where he was surfing truck listings on Craig’s List. “Oh…there’s a lot of smoke. Maybe.”

Maybe? Maybe?! That’s it! I wasn’t going to risk losing our …

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Don’t mess with this tough chick. (She’s practicing her wink, by the way.)

Today, while she was playing make-believe in the space between the open bathroom door and linen closet (Anna’s castle, of course) a spark I’d tried to ignite many times finally began to catch fire in her rapidly growing little brain. 

Many times I’ve told her, “You’re brave. You’re strong. You can take care of things for yourself.” I’ve never outright told her, “You don’t need a man,” because frankly, I need my man. I want her to value her father, grandfathers and uncles. But I worry about the long-term effects of her princess obsession, and whether or not she’ll be hesitant to participate in sports or apply herself in class because she’s afraid of what some boy will think. 

We’ve allowed her to …

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She’s real. And she lives in West Wichita.

There she was, in real life, tall, bottle blonde, tan and wearing spandex as it was meant to be worn. She had pep in her step, pearls for teeth and a perkiness that indicated silicone (if you catch my drift). She emerged from the church carefree and unburdened as I was walking in with a baby slung up on one hip, and a toddler gripping my free hand. I was schlepping, she was practically bouncing. She had style, she had grace, I probably had graham cracker on my face. (No, seriously, Erica had been munching on them on the way in.)

So what was she doing here, at this mega-lo-church, where I was dropping off my kiddos for four hours of social interaction? I was already a bit …

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This face. Love this face!

I’d like to tell you about Erica. My second born. Her big sister gets all of the attention on momma’s blog, but little sister is a personality all her own. Anna is my squeaky wheel, mainly because she is three, and challenges and delights my mind in ways I never knew possible.

Just tonight, Anna told me, “Mom! I just saw an angel! In the sky! It was a girl. She had magic in her ears!” When asked the angel’s name, she replied, “Water bottle.” See? There she goes, stealing the spotlight from a post about how her little sister never gets the attention. Anyhoo…

Erica is a delight. A chubby, bubbly toddling bundle of energy and curiosity. How do I love Erica? Let me count the ways:

1. I love how she passionately …

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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 …

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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 …

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