Get in Bed!

“Ni-night, girls. Sweet dreams.  Get some sleep. School tomorrow. I love you. Kiss kiss!”

“Night, Mommy,” my youngest girls said as they threw their arms around me and kissed me goodnight.

I left their room, walked out to the living room, and collapsed on the couch. After getting about four hours of sleep last night, waking up early to find eggs, cooking a big brunch, and cleaning and organizing my garage in preparation for my garage sale, I was pooped. I sat down and and started reading email. No sooner had I opened my laptop when Lexi walked into the living room.


“Um Mom?”  (They always have to begin with, “Mom?” even though I’m sitting right there, looking at them. That isn’t good enough. I must assure them I’m paying 100% attention by answering in the affirmative.)

“Yes?”

“Um, I um. . .”  She trailed off as that universal kid ADD kicked in and she became glued to the TV.

“Hello?” I prompted, bringing her back to her reason for getting out of bed.

“Oh yeah!  Um, you know what my five favorite smells are?”

blink blink

“Chicken pot pie, ham, baby lotion, Suave shampoo, um, and, um, hmmm, I can’t remember the other one.”

“Lexi?”  I said, using her technique of attention-getting.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“GO TO BED!”

Why, oh why, do these most important things pop up when the kids are supposed to be sleeping? It doesn’t matter if I’ve taken time to create a relaxing bedtime routine: snacks, teeth-brushing, story time, snuggling, or if I’ve had a hectic evening and just told them to get in bed. No matter what, they inevitably come up with some very important, life-or-death matter they must discuss after being tucked in.

“Mom, I um, Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Um, Mom, look at me.  This is my super happy face!”  major cheesy smile

“Charming.  Good night.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Do I have school tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Um, I forgot.  Oh yeah!  Mom?”

“Still yes.”

“Um, I can’t sleep.”

“That’s because you’re standing here.  Now get in bed!”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“How many more days until my birthday?”

“You’re not going to make it to your birthday if you don’t get your butt in bed.  I mean, three hundred and thirty-some days.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Um, I have to do my project for school.”

“Isn’t it due in two weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“Go to bed!”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a hamster? Where do rhinos live? Do whales sleep? I think there’s a spider in my room. My jammies are itchy. I need to go to the bathroom. I know what I want to be for Halloween now. Where’s my blanket? Can I wear my black shoes tomorrow? Can I get a drink of water?”

This is the point when I give up, walk to the fridge, pour myself a glass of wine, and simply tune them out until their mouths get too dry to talk anymore and they fall asleep.  Kids have no clue. If someone told me, “Go to bed and get some sleep while I do some work and clean up the house,” I’d be asleep before my head hit the pillow. Sleep is totally wasted on the young!

Hot Lava!

I sat in the lobby with Brooklyn yesterday while I was waiting for the mechanic to look over my car and give me an estimate. I was content just sitting on my butt, alternately playing Words with Friends on my phone and glancing up at the freaks contestants on The Price is Right. Did you all know that Drew Carey is the host now? I had no idea. Although, I supposed Bob Barker has to be about a hundred years old, huh? 

 Anyway, I was fine just sitting there, playing with my phone and looking at the TV now and then. Brooklyn, on the other hand. . .

The repair shop had one of those Hinckley and Schmidt water coolers. You’d think they dispensed rum with the way my kids are addicted to these things. The minute my kids walk into a waiting room that features one of these coolers, they make a bee line toward it. They proceed to guzzle down water like a tribe of desert wanderers. It was my kids who taught me that a human’s stomach can expand to hold four and a half gallons of water. Of course, all this water has to go somewhere. Thus begins the bathroom fun.

Brooklyn’s little bathroom trip took approximately fifteen minutes. Two minutes to pee, wipe, and zip up, and thirteen minutes to play in the sink. Then she came out and headed right back to the water dispenser. But this time, there was an added twist. “I can only walk on the rug. I can’t touch the floor,” Brooklyn announced as she leapt from carpet runner to carpet runner, carefully avoiding the tiled area. 

“Why do you have to stay on the carpet, Brooklyn?” I inquired.

“Because,” she explained with the hint of an eye roll, “the floor is hot lava.” 

Ahhh, yes, hot lava. All kids know about the dangers of hot lava on the floor. I wonder why this is since most kids have never actually seen hot lava. But ask any child and they’ll tell you that you must stay on the carpet, or the green tiles, or the white squares, etc. to avoid falling into hot lava. Hot lava is universal. 

She carefully hopped back and forth to the water cooler, avoiding the hot lava, several times. Then she switched things up a bit. The hot lava became a lake with alligators and snakes. She had to leap onto her chair so an alligator wouldn’t take a bite out of her way-too-small shoes that she insisted still fit her. This game went on for a while until she decided she needed to run across the carpet runner maze. 

“Mom, mom, mom! Say 'ready, set, go!'", Brooklyn instructed as she crouched down, ready to sprint across the room. This was followed by, “Mom, time me! How fast am I?” I let her run around for a while, hoping the mechanics would get sick of seeing her bounce around the waiting room like a ping pong ball, and they’d quickly finish up my car. When that didn’t work, I tried to get her to sit down and play a game on my phone. When that didn’t work, I gave up and joined her. All I can say is, it’s a good thing the floor wasn’t really hot lava.

When Your Brakes Break

I had to get the brakes fixed on my car today. Ordinarily, when the brakes start to go, it happens so gradually that I’m not even aware they’re getting bad at first. Then, one day, I realize I’m employing the Fred Flintstone method of stopping. It’s really not the best idea to put your foot through the floor in order to stop though, so I take the first step in getting my brakes repaired – I think about doing it. This step can last weeks. But when my car, angry that I haven’t taken it to a mechanic yet, rebels and starts making that metal grinding against metal sound, I figure it’s time to actually take it in to a mechanic. At least sometime in the next few weeks.

This time, however, I skipped the whole Fred Flintstone stage and went directly to the metal grinding stage overnight. In the matter of a couple miles, my attitude went from, Hmmm, I think my brakes are sounding bad, to Oh my gosh, I won’t be able to stop and I’m gonna crash and die!

So I took my car to the shop today. I was thankful that my brakes were consistently making that horrid metal grinding noise. Not because I like that sound or anything, but so I wouldn’t have to explain a mysterious non-existent noise because everyone knows the mysterious sound disappears the minute you take your vehicle to the mechanic.

“Well, ma’am, we drove it around, but didn’t hear any noise.”

“It was making a noise! I swear! It went like this Eeeeahhhscreeeeeahhhhshwooshwoosh! Honest. It did. Ahem.”

So, the guy drove my van around, then put it on the stick thingy that raises it up in the air and did important stuff like count the tires, point to miscellaneous parts under the van, and write a list of all the things wrong with my car. When he was finished, he presented me with his estimate.

Here’s the thing though, average folks (especially women) have no clue what the mechanic is talking about. A mechanic could tell me anything and I’d have no choice but to take his word for it. I’m convinced they make up stuff just to mess with customers. I bet they make wagers with each other on whether the clueless customer will believe them and agree to the repairs.

“Yes, ma’am, the halogen fluid in the headlights is low, it needs new muffler bearings, the spare transmission isn’t working, the anti-lock brakes won’t unlock, and the flux capacitor isn’t fluxing. These are definite safety issues and you should get them fixed immediately. It’ll cost you $3400.”

I like being able to stop my van without running into buildings so I told them to go ahead and fix my brakes. After paying them an amount so obscene I think I’ll have to move into my van to live, I took my keys and headed toward my car. Before I left, the mechanic had these parting words, “The brakes need a breaking in period for about two weeks so don’t floor it to the red lights and then slam on the brakes, okay.”

Darn! Now I have to wait two weeks before I can play pole position while weaving in and out of traffic and slamming on my brakes frequently while running the car pool in my “church van”.

You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

The other night, I went downtown for a blogger event.  I was totally looking forward to this, not because it was going to be such a grand soirée, but because I’d have a couple hours to relax and be responsible for no one but myself.  I gave my parents last-minute instructions and cruised to the train station in traffic.  I was running late because apparently I’m incapable of getting anywhere on time, but I pulled into the station with like a whole three minutes to spare before the train arrived.  Stressed out and feeling guilty that I had dropped the ball on making dinner for my kids ahead of time, I joined my friend Michelle and sunk into the seat she’d saved me on the train.  I took a deep breath.  ”Okay,” I told myself, “I’m off duty now.  Just for the next few hours,  I can do what I want.  I won’t have to break up any arguments.  I won’t have to tell anyone to go to bed 50,000 times.  I won’t have to. . . ”  brrring

I glanced down at my phone to see a text from Austin.  What’s the password for your old laptop so Clay can play a game on it?

I texted the password to Austin, then turned to Michelle.  ”Ahhh, it feels nice to sit down.  So, hey, what are you doing tomorrow around lunchtime?  I was just wondering because I have a friend coming over to tape. . .”  brrring

I looked at my phone again. A text from Jackson read, Can I go over to John’s?

Before I even had a chance to text my well-thought out, considerate reply of, I’m off duty!  Ask your grandparents!, my phone rang.

“Mom, can I go over to John’s?”

“Sigh.  Yes, Jackson.  As long as it’s okay with Yia Yia and Papa, you can go, but you’d better be back by 6:00 because you’re getting picked up for hockey then.”

I hung up and turned, apologetically, back toward Michelle when my phone beeped.  This time it was a text from Savannah.  Hey Mom.  Can I have like $20?  Pweeeease?

I looked at Michelle and explained.  ”My daughter is hitting me up for money long distance.”

I texted back. Sure!  You know where Yia Yia’s purse is.

Instantly, another text came through.  This time, from Jackson. 

Forget it.  I can’t go to John’s after all because his sister is sick.

Before I’d even finished reading that one, another came in.

Can I please have $20?  I’ll love you forever and ever.

John’s mom changed her mind.  I can go over there now.  Is that okay?

Hey Mom, it hurts when I breathe deeply.  I think I might have a fever.

So, can I have some money please?

Can I go to John’s?

Is it bad if you can’t breathe?

Money?

John’s?

Fever!

I shook my head and looked at Michelle.  ”Just a minute,” I apologized.  Then I got up and walked to the end of the car while the train came to a halt.  As the doors opened, I whipped my phone out onto the track.

You can get out for a couple hours, but you can never get away.

Walking to School

My Little Chatterbox

As I walked Brooklyn to school today, she informed me, “Mom, Ashley doesn’t talk much at school.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. She’s quiet.”

“Well, some people are quiet. That’s okay,” I explained. “And then, other people are chatterboxes,” I continued.

I looked at Brooklyn and asked, “So what do you think you are – quiet or a chatterbox?”

She glanced up at me with a decidedly guilty look on her face. “I’m a chatterbox,” she admitted under her breath.

I threw my head back and laughed uproariously. Let me explain. This is how the rest of our walk went. . .


“Oh look, Mom! This is where me and Clay and Lexi had a picnic. We sat over there. We had chips. You know those kind of chips that have those crunchy things? And we took juice. But we were out of juice boxes. We just poured some juice in a bottle. But we only had two bottles so we shared. Oh look, pinecones! Remember when I was at Clayton’s baseball game? Remember we were at that park with that boy? He took my pinecones. Is that the park where kids pee under the tree? Nettie said she isn’t my friend anymore. Can we go to the park at my school? Jackson went sledding with me there before. Not now. When it was snowy. In the wintertime. Which way do we go? Is this my left, Mom? You have to check for cars, right Mom? You have to look this way and that way. Do you know what you do if your clothes catch on fire? The fireman told us when we went to the fire station. There was a cat there. Oh look, the sidewalk is bumpy here.  Why is the sidewalk bumpy?  Are they going to fix it?  What’s that?  Why is it there?  Are we late for school?  Do I have music today?”

Then she took a breath and started her second sentence.

Every night, the kids and I take turns going around the dinner table, sharing the best and worst parts of our days.  This evening, Brooklyn announced that the best part of her day was walking to school with me.  I don’t think I said more than two words on our walk.  I guess sometimes all it takes is an open ear.  Funny how those moments that seem so insignificant to us can mean so much to someone else.

The Games Kids Play

When my kids are getting along, you can rest assured it's because they're coming up with stupid things to do together.

While getting ready to move, I’ve been ruthless in my decluttering efforts. I’ve tossed garbage, set aside outgrown clothes and other items for a garage sale, and boxed up those things we want to keep, but don’t need for the next few months. I stacked the boxes and several pieces of superfluous furniture in the garage. No problem, right? All neat and organized, boxed up, and out of the way, just ready for moving day. Except for the fact that I have six children who like to destroy things.


Yesterday it was 80-something here and the kids played outside all day. At one point, I took a break from packing, plopped my butt down in a lawn chair, and watched my kids come up with stupid ideas that were sure to end in broken bones games to play with each other.  They played games like Let’s Break These Thick Foam Insulation Boards With Our Heads Until We Pass Out, and Dunk The Baby In The Basketball Hoop, and Hey, Lightbulbs Make A Cool Sound When You Whip Them On The Ground.  At some point during my ulcer-inducing nice, relaxing break, I noticed that the rows of neatly stacked boxes in my garage had been scattered about all over the place.  There was water on the floor of the garage.  Items had been taken out of boxes and were haphazardly thrown here and there.  After my head exploded, I decided to order a pod so I could lock my kids in it.  Did I say that out loud?  I meant, so I could safely store my belongings while I’m showing my house.

So the guy who came to drop off the pod looked like Chris Rock.  That actually has nothing to do with my story.  But it did make me think of a zebra saying, “cracka-lackin” every time I looked at him.  Anyway, I asked him if he could put the pod on my driveway alongside my house.  He looked at it, made a face as if he was weighing whether or not that was possible, and finally said he’d give it a try.

So, he backed up the truck and stopped on my driveway exactly where I wanted the pod dropped off.  He hopped down from the truck to take a look at the placement.  I clapped and said, “Yay, you did it!”

He furrowed his brow, looked at me, and said, “I wasn’t worried about backing up, but I need a lot more room on either side of the truck to unload the pod.”

I felt like an idiot.  I laughed nervously and said, “Ohhhh.  Heh heh, it takes me twenty minutes to back my van into a parking space, so I was impressed with the whole backing the truck up the long driveway thing.”  Then I stepped back out of the way and shut my mouth.

The driver pushed a button and lo and behold, his truck was a transformer!  It turned into a giant mechanical spider-like thing.

The giant spider carefully lifted the pod off the truck, gently placed it on my driveway, then took a walk around the neighborhood, crushing cars and pedestrians in its path.  Okay, that last part was a lie.  It turned into a helicopter and flew off.  It was very cool.
Now I have to load up the pod and make sure all the loud, obnoxious toys accidentally fall out during the move.  It’s not as easy as it sounds.

Sunday Sound Out

From Chicago, the town that, the town that, the town... Waaaaaahhhhhh! Sniff sniff. I just realized I'm only going to have a few more of these before I have to start writing, "From Orlando!" Anyway, it's your host, the woman who painted her kitchen and even got a little paint on the walls, Dawn Damalas Meehan!

And now for answers to this week's questions.

I got a lot of comments like these - YAY! I am so happy you will be in Florida. You are gonna love it, I dont actually live in FL, I live in TX. But the weather is the same. Now...you do understand its very very hot and high in humidity? Cause I dont wanna hear no complaining, bc you sure did hate the snow :-)

Already mentioned above the heat and humidity, but the BUGS are HUGE!!! Seriously so big. My aunt lives in Gainesville...home of the Florida Gators and it was creepy visiting there with all the bugs, and also ALWAYS thinking there was a gator in the pool. However VERY cool for you.

What? No one mentioned hurricanes? It's supposed to go like this. "That's fabulous that you're moving to Florida. How wonderful. And I'm sure the heat, humidity, ginormous bugs, and hurricanes won't be that bad, dear."

I'm so happy for you that you have job lined up already! Is this something that a reader helped you with?
One of my best friends from high school mentioned that she knew of a job down there that would be perfect for me. It worked out well!

beware the kids may want to bring in the lizards they find on the backyard. mine 3 try to all the time and have named them "buddy".
They might want to? Uh yeah, Jackson spent every spare minute in Florida doing just that.


I am so happy for you for your job!!! That's awesome. What will you be teaching? Have you taught (other than your own kids) before?
It's not a teaching position, but I will be working with kids who need a little extra help and encouragement.

So happy to hear the news of the new job!! Hopefully the older kids do understand it's for the better in the long run :)
Austin's the only one who isn't thrilled about moving and it's just because he doesn't want to leave his girlfriend. I understand. It stinks. I don't blame him one little bit. I would've been MAD if I'd had to leave my boyfriend and switch schools before my junior year. But, he's been absolutely awesome about it! I couldn't be more proud. We talked and he told me that he wasn't mad at me for making him move; he understands why we're moving. He's upset, but he's being really mature about it. The other kids are pretty excited about the move.

Does Brooklyn start school (kindergarten) next school year?
Yep! And there's all-day kindergarten where I'm moving. She'd only go half a day here and I'd have to arrange day care for her so I could work. Another plus for moving to Florida.

Dawn, you have done an amazing job! I know you got rid of a lot of stuff, but did you put some in storage, too?
I was ruthless in throwing out junk and boxing up stuff for a garage sale. Whatever doesn't sell is getting donated to Wings. And yes, I did pack up a few boxes of things we want to keep, but won't be needing in the next few months.

Where on earth are you going to keep the kids so it doesn't revert? I rented a Pod for them.

What about your room, Dawn? You've never shown us pictures of that
My room is in desperate need of paint first.

Was Clay's nose broken?
I'm not sure. I didn't take him to the hospital. Since I took Jackson there for a broken nose a few months ago, I learned they don't do anything unless it's grossly misshapen and in his case it isn't. It's swollen and bruised. He can't breathe out of one side very well because of the swelling, but it really doesn't look too bad.

That’s Lexi? How can you tell her & Brooklyn’s baby photos apart?
I have to look at background clues to figure out who's who in baby pictures because they all looked a lot alike as babies. But Lexi has crossed eyes in a lot of her baby pictures. I thought it was just a stupid human trick she did. I mean, she'd passed the vision tests at preschool. But I opted to take her to an eye doctor "just to be sure" when she was five. Turns out she couldn't see and needed glasses. I had no idea. So here's a public service announcement: take your kids to an eye doctor because those school vision screenings do NOT catch everything.

You can my most recent post over at Babble here!

Now I have a date with some bubble wrap. Have a great week and remember, hugging's very different from leaning. Hugging involves arms and hands; and leaning is whole bodies moving in. Leaning involves wanting... and accepting. Leaning. . .

House For Sale

I cannot believe how much time it takes to pack and declutter and paint and clean everything. It's especially time consuming when I'm spending several hours every Saturday and a couple hours most nights at hockey, softball, and baseball practice. But I'm getting there. I'm hoping to have the rest of it finished by next weekend.

Doesn't this look like a house you'd want to buy? Doesn't it make you want to move to Chicagoland just so you can get my house? Seriously, does it look nice? I haven't gone house-shopping for nineteen years so I'm not sure how this compares to other homes. And since this is my house, I don't think I'm objective, but I think it will show well. What do you think?

The Boys' Room

The Girls' Room

Bathroom One

Bathroom Two

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

The number one question people ask me is, “How do you do it?”  That question is closely followed by, “Are you crazy?” and oftentimes, “Is that your son holding a squirrel by its tail?”  People want to know what it’s like to raise six kids, especially now that I’m a single mom.  Well, I’ll tell you how I do it.  Rum.  Lots and lots of rum.  Kidding, just kidding.  Mostly kidding.  Actually, my number one, most important ingredient for raising kids is humor.  You need to realize that kids are goofy and you must have a sense of humor about said goofiness.

Kids do crazy things.  I bet if you took an honest look at your childhood, you’d admit that you did crazy things back in the day as well.  Kids are a little nuts.  It’s how they’re supposed to be.  Once you wrap your brain around the fact that kids are kids (and therefore nuts); and not smaller versions of rational adults, you’re halfway there. 
If you expect children to know everything you know, and behave in ways that make sense, and do things like blow their noses on tissues instead of their shirt sleeves, you’re going to be disappointed and frustrated.  If, on the other hand, you understand that kids are goofy, and they simply don’t know everything you know, and it’s your job to teach them those things, then hooray, you’re ready to be a parent.
I learned a long time ago that children’s brains only hold so much information.  I mean, they have important stuff stored in their noggins; stuff like the names of all the Pokemon in the universe, lines to every SpongeBob episode ever made, the exact ratio of dirt, soap, toothpaste, and water and to make really cool squishy goo.  They can’t be expected to remember that markers are for paper only, or that they need to hang up their coats after school, or make their beds every morning.  Teens’ brains are so filled with texting abbreviations that they can’t possibly remember to take out the garbage or replace the empty roll of toilet paper with a new one.
This is why it’s important to focus on the important stuff – don’t lie, don’t steal, treat others the way you want to be treated, use manners, be polite, don’t wake mom up before 9:00 on Saturday.  And this is why it’s okay to let the little stuff slide.  Because it’s little stuff.  When a kid does some goofy kid thing, ask yourself, “Is this going to matter in a year?  Will I even remember it?  Is it really a big deal?”  Most of the time, those little things we flip out about fall into the No Big Deal category.  I’ll give you some examples. . .
When your toddler sticks an orange Tic Tac up his nose, it’s no big deal. Plug the other nostril and have him blow. Let him enjoy his orange flavored snot and next time buy Nerds; they’re smaller.

When your daughter colors her face like this, take a picture and send it to Stephen King as inspiration for a new novel. Maybe he’ll give you a cut of his royalties.

When your child does this to your TV, relax.  I promise you that one day in the future (and it’ll be here before you know it), you’ll spot that little drawing and it will make you smile.  Pinky swear!

When your son drops a plate and it explodes into 50 trillion pieces, just shout, “Opa!” and pour yourself a glass of wine.

When you find a sandwich that looks like this in your son’s bed, use it to treat your child’s next ear infection.

And when you find your baby happily playing in the toilet, just be thankful you don’t need to give her a bath tonight.

In other words, don’t sweat the small stuff (and most of it is small stuff in the whole scheme of things).  Focus on what’s important and don’t stress over the little things that pass by in the blink of an eye.

The Wicker's Gotta Go!

I begged my friend, Eric to come with me to Home Depot today. I hate that store. The huge ceilings and aisles of foreign looking stuff make me hyperventilate. It smells like guy stuff. And did you know, they don’t sell any shoes or makeup in the entire store?! But I bit the bullet and went because apparently, when you sell your house, you need to fix all those little annoying things that weren’t important enough to fix while you were living there. But for the complete strangers who are going to move in – well, it’s important to have things “just so” for them.  The thing is, it’s hard to move out of ‘What Would I Like In My House’ mode and move into ‘How Can I Make It Look Nice As Quickly And Inexpensively As Possible” mode.


I replaced the ceiling fan that was above my dining room table. It was dark brown and had snazzy wicker inserts in the blades. It was lovely. But since it’s no longer 1970 and I don’t have a macrame owl, or a giant spoon and fork hung on the wall to complement it, I figured it should be replaced. Plus, two of the glass globes were broken because my kids never saw that episode of The Brady Bunch where mom always says, “Don’t play ball in the house.”  Now, I have a nice little white fan/light that blends in and looks really nice. I mean the new people who get my house have a nice little white fan/light that blends in and looks really nice.

I got a couple new floor register vent thingies. That’s what they’re called. Really. Go look at the label on the shelf at Home Depot. I don’t make this stuff up. Okay, yeah, I do. I have no idea what they’re called, but you know what I’m talking about. My old ones were nasty, rust colored metal with God only knows what encrusted on them. The new ones are fresh and clean and white.  I got a new glass plate thingy to hang over the bare lightbulbs in Austin’s room.  His old one broke years ago.  Yep, I’m right on top of these little maintenance projects.

Everytime a door broke in the house, my ex replaced it with a nice, white, six panel door, however there are still a couple old, plain, brown, original, circa 1950 doors left in the house.  I got new white six panel replacements so everything looks uniform.  I’m going to love the way the news doors look!  I mean, the new people will like the new doors.

I need to put a fresh coat of paint on every surface of the house because I don’t think the new owners want to see my kids’ artistic drawings displayed on their walls or the dirty little footprints on the ceiling (don’t ask). So we stopped by the paint department to look around. This is how the conversation went.

The nice lady at Home Depot asked, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m selling my house and I just want a buttload of your cheapest paint so my house will look nice and clean and neutral.”
Then Eric asked her, “Do you have five gallon buckets of antique white?”

She answered while walking down the aisle, “No, not antique white.  But we do have five gallon buckets of paint here.  It’s ceiling paint, but you can get it in any sheen and use it on the walls.”  She indicated the buckets of paint stacked down the aisle.
Eric wasn’t sure about the color.  “But that’s going to be really white-white,” he protested.

I interjected.  “Who cares?  It’s not my house, remember?  I’m selling it.”

Getting back to ‘Help My Friend Sell Her House’ mode, he asked me, “Okay, where do you want to paint?”

“The kitchen/dining area, the hallways and the ceilings throughout the house.”

“How about your bedroom?” he reminded me.

“Oh gosh yes!  I forgot about that.  I definitely need to paint my bedroom and the family room.  I was thinking maybe a nice tan.  Kinda like what I just put in the bathroom, but not quite that dark.  And I don’t want to use flat paint because it’s not scrubbable.  I’d rather it be so glossy that the light reflects off it and blinds you.  That way I can wash the potato people drawings off the wall.”
Eric raised an eyebrow.  “I thought you didn’t care because it’s not your house.”

Pouting because I hate being wrong, I said dejectedly, “Oh yeah.”  Then to the Home Depot lady, ” A five gallon bucket of plain ole white, please.”

It’s really hard to remember that everything I do to improve my house is for another family’s benefit now.  I mean, it could help me to possibly sell my house more quickly, but in the end, it’s not for me; it’s for someone else.  Someone who will probably come in and take out my new ceiling fan because it doesn’t go with their wicker dining room set.  Someone who will probably paint over every wall in the house.  Someone who will mark their own growth chart on the back of the door.  It’s a weird feeling knowing you’re going to be leaving the house you’ve lived in for nineteen years.  The only house your kids have ever known.

On the bright side, I don’t think I need to go back to the hardware store!  The only thing I forgot while I was there, was a shower curtain rod to replace the one my kids somehow managed to pull down.  But thankfully I can get that at Target tomorrow (along with makeup and shoes, I might add).

It's Another Edition of I Spy

Otherwise entitled, Why is the Play Doh hairy?

I've been cleaning my house in preparation for moving. I've gotten the boys' room spotless. I've gotten the bathrooms decluttered and cleaned. Apparently I have ADD because I keep getting distracted every time I start working on another room. Every other room in the house is half-done. This week, I'll finish cleaning and decluttering every other room. That's the plan anyway.

Yesterday, I took out the entertainment center. By "I took out the entertainment center", of course I mean that I stood there, telling everyone what do and complaining when they didn't do it the right way while Austin, Savannah and my friend Eric took it apart and moved it out of the house. This piece of furniture is 100 inches long X 75 inches tall X 20 deep. Obviously it's not something that can be moved away from the wall in order to clean behind it. This is what I found. . .

CONTINUE READING HERE!

With Great Responsibility, Comes Great Joy

Yesterday, I had a little breakdown. The responsibility of raising my six kids, taking care of the house, writing articles, paying bills, driving here and there, attending sports practice, making dinner, and now packing and getting ready to move on top of everything else just got to me. I broke down crying and repeatedly said, "I can't do it all. I just can't do it. I can't do everything. No matter how hard I try, I just can't do it." I felt hopeless. I felt like I was drowning. I felt like I would never ever get caught up and have everything taken care of when it needed to be taken care of.

My little breakdown continued this morning. I have so unbelievably much to do. So much so, in fact, that I didn't know where to start. I just looked around at the empty boxes and the piles of belongings to be packed. I glanced at my long "to do" lists. I gazed, completely devoid of emotion at the stack of papers on my desk. Then I lay down with Brooklyn to watch a movie. Sometimes, when I feel overwhelmed, I just shut down. I don't know where to start, so I don't do anything.

I'm happy to say that after 24 hours of a lovely little pity party, I picked myself up, did some cleaning, and made a dent in my "to do" list. I always feel weak when I break down and feel sorry for myself. I hate feeling like that. There's no reason for it. I'm stronger than that. I have too many blessings and good things in my life to wallow in self pity. But despite that, now and then, I do lose control and cry. I have a very hard time remembering that it's okay to feel overwhelmed and it's okay to cry sometimes.

When I look back on different situations in my life and see how they worked out so well despite my tears, aggravation, frustration and fear that things would never turn around, I feel foolish. I love being able to look back and see how God knits everything together for good. I think that's how I keep going and how I can enjoy my kids without stressing out too much over the little things. Because I know, those little things just don't matter in the long run.

This is what I wrote over at Babble today. . .


I’m raising my six children without any help from their father.  That’s not the way I wanted it when we were going through the divorce process.  In fact, the first thing I said to my lawyer is that I wanted my soon-to-be ex involved in the kids lives as much as possible.   But, unfortunately, he couldn’t deal with everything and chose to remove himself entirely.  

Although it’s hard and demanding and takes every minute of every day and then some, I wouldn’t trade places with him for all the money in the world.  At the end of the day, I can look myself in the mirror and (aside from the wrinkles and bags under my eyes) like what I see.  I can go to bed confident in the knowledge that I’m doing everything I can for my family. And not only am I doing the right thing, but I love being a mom. It’s my dream job! It’s my favorite thing in the world! I couldn’t even begin to fathom walking away from it!


My kids’ father showed up for Lexi’s softball practice on Saturday.  Well, for about half an hour of practice anyway.  I can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen any of my kids in the last year and a half (other than the few times he ran into them while he was still working for the school district).  And yet there he was without a care in the world, acting like nothing was amiss; the distant uncle who stops by when he’s in town and says “hi” and then leaves.  No responsibilities.  Just a moment of fun with the kids a couple times a year.  And really, it’s not even “the kids”.  It’s Lexi and Brooklyn and rarely Clayton.  The older three want nothing to do with him.

I bite my tongue and grit my teeth for my kids’ sake, but I can’t even bring myself to look at his selfish face.  The fake niceties from him make me want to throw up.  The fact that he owes me about $8000 in child support and yet shows off the tattoo he just got makes me shake my head in amazement. But beyond the anger and disbelief in his actions, is a degree of pity. I mostly feel sorry for him because he’s the one missing out. He’s the one choosing the lonely path that leads to wasted years and regret.

In a way, it makes me thankful that I’m on my own with my kids.  I mean, it would have been nice if my ex hadn’t gone off the deep end and we were able to effectively coparent, but since that isn’t an option, I’m kind of glad I don’t really have to deal with him.  I can only imagine how difficult it must be to coparent with a less-than-cooperative ex-spouse.  In that way, even though I don’t get a break and all the responsibility is on my shoulders, I have it much easier than those divorced parents who have to manage to get along with each other even though they couldn’t get along in marriage.

So, I’ll be the one arranging to get everyone to practice and I’ll be the one outside in the stinking cold for five and a half hours, watching them and cheering them on.  I’ll be the one buying all their equipment and taking them to the ER when they break an arm (just thinking ahead.  I mean, it’s bound to happen sooner or later.).  I’ll be the one paying their regsitration fees and pitching in for the coach’s gift.  I’ll be the one consoling them when they lose a game and I’ll be the one taking them out for ice cream to celebrate a job well done. 

I’ll be the one enjoying every minute of their lives.  :)

And guess what!  I’ll be the one they thank when they win the Superbowl, World Series, Olympics (again, just thinking ahead here).