Wishing desperately for a slice of King Cake right about now

On Sunday, we were making our usual pilgrimage to church when the kids noticed signs at several churches along the way announcing various Ash Wednesday services and activities.

Being naturally curious, they wanted to know exactly what it was, what it entailed, and why we didn't do it.

Having had some good Catholic friends through the years, I felt well-schooled in the ways of Fat Tuesday, Ash Wednesday, Lent, and the like. [Wisely, I left out the whole Mardis Gras/beads/flashing of boobs component. I figure MTV will take care of that job for me in a few years.]

Fascinated with the concept of giving something up for Lent, my three began begging to have a family lent of our own.

McKay offered cheerfully to give up homework.

Chase chimed in and offered to give up yogurt (something he absolutely despises).

Not exactly how it's supposed to work, is it?

So, with the help of the Husband, we steered ourselves toward the abandonment of something much more painful: Dessert. As a family, we are giving up dessert. For lent. A holiday our own religion doesn't even participate in.

Insane, right?

Realistic, and wholly unable to go 40 days, we opted for a week.

And let me tell you, this has been the longest week of my life.

I am on DAY THREE and I feel like I am starving. Not that I would have eaten much dessert over the last three days anyway, but the fact that I can't -- fills me with longing for it. I find myself craving donuts, brownies, ice cream, and pie. Things I don't even really eat anyway (my drug of choice will always be cookie dough, I'm afraid). I'm crabby. I'm irritable. I've got a pretend dieting headache. And the worst part is that I know it's truly all in my head.

Here's hoping we survive the next four days.

Maybe we should have just given up homework.

Self-esteem is definitely not a problem with this one

A quick quote from Hannah, as I was doing her hair this morning:


"I feel sorry for myself when I was younger. I just didn't know how pretty I was back then."

Um, yeah. We don't eat the humble pie for breakfast around here, as you can plainly see.

Should I be worried?

Nah. Middle school will knock her off that high horse pretty darn quick, I'm afraid.

Sending you elsewhere

I have nothing for you today, my friends.

Still wallowing in the self-pity that is sick kids, bad weather, and absent husbands.

But I know someone who does have something good for you. Go here, and visit my cute cousin, Liz. LOVED her post on parenting and felt it was spot on for my life right now. I'd bet you'll feel the same way, too. It was beautifully written, brought a laugh to my soul and a tear to my eye.

Just what the doctor ordered.

Plus, there's a gratuitous photo of her darling baby boy. That alone is worth the trip there.

I'll try to find something exciting to tell you tomorrow. Even if that means I have to make it up.

Random thoughts on this pretend Monday

1. Worst weekend in a long time. Let's just blame it on strep throat, the Husband getting stranded in Grand Rapids, muddy footprints, and chocolate that refuses to stay out of my mouth. We'll leave it at that.

2. Anyone happen to catch this on the freak show channel Discovery Health Channel?


I find myself truly sorry for anyone in this situation, but have to ask one question - if you're bedridden due to your ginormous size, who is bringing you enough food to enable this situation to continue? If you physically can't get out of bed to get your own food, then what are you eating? Wouldn't you be bound, theoretically, to eat what was given you? And couldn't you then be put on a very strict diet, against your will?

It boggles the mind.

3. I am so over the winter. I don't know if it's because we had a taste of spring last week or because I've immersed myself in planning our vacation to Hawaii this summer, but I can't bear the cold any longer. I'm done. I've had it. HAD. IT. Hear that, spring? Get your lazy a$$ up and get over here already.

Yes, I know it's only mid-February.

No, I don't think I'm being ridiculous.

4. Big shout out to the Husband who came through with flying colors for Valentine's Day. Thanks to him, I will be escaping the cares of my exhausting life (ha ha) and heading to the spa for a day of beauty and relaxation. For that alone, he is forgiven the unpardonable sin of not reading this blog on a daily basis. (Yeah, he still has not caught on to the alleged make out session spoken of earlier. Pity, isn't it?)

5. There is nothing more thrilling than watching your two boys whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies on their own. I feel their future wives will thank me for instilling in them a competency in the kitchen. Every man should know how to cook, even if it's only cookies.

6. I loathe cleaning the bathroom. I don't even know if loathe is a strong enough word. What's worse than loathe? Hate? No, I feel even stronger about it than that. And in this house? I have four bathrooms that all need a good scrub down. I think it might be time for a cleaning lady.

That is all. My condolences to anyone who bothered reading this far. Disappointing, I know.

Happy Tuesday, interpeeps.

Best Valentines Ever (you'll thank me for this one)

While trolling innocently through my blog reader yesterday, I stumbled upon the most genius of all genius ideas.

Meet Alissa. Amazing photographer, mother of four beautiful babies, and blogger extraordinaire.

Now meet her genius idea (seriously, go check hers out).

And now see my literal rip-off of her genius idea:



I frantically grabbed my camera and caught the kids wherever they happened to be, and in whatever state they happened to be in. Two of the three were in the sandbox and totally filthy.

I honestly didn't care, so enamored was I with this idea.

I uploaded the pics, added the words in Photoshop, and then sent them online to my local Sam's Club. Within an hour, I had the photos in-hand. I made small slits at their fists with an xacto knife, inserted the lollies, and BAM. Best. valentines. ever. Total effort on my part? Maybe 20 minutes.

And that counts the break I took in the middle to get a snack.

Because sitting in a chair using an xacto knife? Totally nutrient draining.

So thanks, Alissa, and hats off to you, sister. Were it not for you, I would have been resigned to the tacky crap I hate at Target with pictures of Sponge Bob and Sleeping Beauty. These pictures are so much better.

See? All the pretty soldiers, lined up and ready to go:

Now hurry. There's still time to get yours made.

And yeah, you're welcome.

Cause and effect: The BB gun version

Question:

What happens when you take this:

And combine it accidentally with this?

Give up? You get this:

Which, thankfully, turned out not to be broken.

Instead, there was a hematoma [due to the blunt trauma of the thumb being smashed in the cock of the BB gun].

Have I mentioned before that I loathe blunt traumas of all kinds?

The urgent care doctor had a special tool that he used to burn a hole in McKay's thumbnail, to release the pressure and alleviate his pain. This caused a giant explosion of blood all over the examination room.

Which caused Chase to beg and plead to keep the special tool.

Which caused me to make a mental note of leaving Chase at home next time.

End result? Nearly all the pain is gone and McKay has a gross wound with which to scare away all the girls on the playground. He's very thrilled.

P.S. On a side note, I think the Husband has not been faithfully reading his wife's wonderful words this dumb blog. Thanks to my friend, June, and her brilliant idea, I am going to put outrageous lies in here until he calls me on them. Like today, when I made out with Angelina Jolie. It was so hot.

Prisoners of my disease

To my three babies,

In light of a certain situation that took place this afternoon, I feel compelled to issue you a public apology and a pledge, from the bottom of my heart, to be better.

You see, in case you didn't know it by now, your mama has a touch of the OCD. And because I automatically know that Hannah's next question will be, "What is OCD?", I will tell you. OCD, loosely translated, means I am incapable of dealing with messes in our home -- in any way, shape, or form.

This is not your fault.

It is mine. Some may call it a disease; while others look at it with envy and wish they had it, too. But for me, it is the core essential of what makes me who I am.

However, from this day forward, I will try harder to let the natural children inside of you be allowed to come out and play. I will not roll my eyes and exhale my breath loudly when you go outside and the fresh grass clippings cling to your tiny feet.

I will be glad you are playing freely in the fresh air, instead of moaning at the mess I have to clean up.

I will be more understanding of your so-called "leaf collections," and admire your profound interest in nature. Even when I find pieces of them all over the carpet upstairs.

I will realize that most people (your father included) don't spend hours a day thinking about magic erasers and mop kits. Or get excited about new ways to organize closets, or search for ways to make laundry more efficient.

And I definitely will not yell at you for playing chef in my kitchen (especially if you asked me first), even when you break the garbage disposal while dumping your creation down the sink. Yes, you snuck a fast one in there because you asked me in the middle of my Sunday afternoon nap.

And we all know that I'll pretty much say yes to anything when I'm half asleep.

But I promise to try and not complain when you return inside with flushed cheeks and happy hearts, even when I look down to see all the mud you have brought in with you. Because you know what? I love you more than my clean floors.

And that, my darling babies, is really saying something.

Love,

Mama

Help, I'm raising a giant pack of nerds

(Nerds one and two: Expanding their vast stores of knowledge at a museum)

(Nerd three: Doing what she does best, looking pretty)

It is a truth universally acknowledged: Anyone who has ever foolishly thought they were once cool, must raise at least one nerd.

I'm raising three of them.

Here's where it all began. The school had a traveling science fair come and visit the third grade. This prompted my third grader to come home begging to have a family science fair. I mumbled my usual, "Yeah, sure, whatever," a remark that I reserve solely for things that bring them great joy, require no effort on my part, and probably won't make too big of a mess.

All yesterday afternoon, Chase helped Hannah work on her entry for the family science fair. [Yeah, just writing that makes me feel like a big, fat nerd.] Here we see her completed entry on the life cycle of a rabbit:

And because it's just too good to miss, let me break it all down for you. First, the rabbit is born (or bron, as Hannah likes to spell it). I like that the baby rabbit is actually wearing a diaper and seems to be locked in some sort of cage, while the mother sits outside with a smile on her face.

Now we know why rabbits have so many babies, don't we?

Then we have childhood. Which consists mainly of playgrounds, slides, and large lolly pops. Although, I am really hoping the jumbo-sized rabbit on the end of the see-saw is not meant to be me. She seems to have a bit of a weight problem when compared to the other bunnies.

And I can't help but worry about the bunny on top of the see-saw, and how he seems stuck in the air, waiting interminably for Chubby Stie the big boned rabbit to get off the see-saw.


Childhood is promptly followed by the phase of life known as, "adult." Here, we see that adults type on computers and wear ties. I am assuming they are sitting on chairs, even though one of the chairs does slightly resemble a toilet.

I'd like to point out that no one in this house ever sits on the toilet with a laptop, unlike some people allegedly have been known to do.

Once you've completed the adult phase, it is time to mate.

After she finished this poster, she came and asked me what it means to mate. I told her it means you get to hold hands with a boy, on your first date, when you turn 27.

She seemed to believe me.

After you mate, there is only one step left in life: Death.

And I must say, it doesn't look pretty. Death by rabid dog/wolf cannot be a pleasant way to go. Although, if you'll notice, both rabbits appear to have smiles on their faces. Interesting...

Nerd number two (aka, Chase) has just started his own entry. He brought a book home from the library and told me his project was on the human body.

He writes: "Here is a human. He, as we can see, can't see inside him."

That's all he's got so far. I can't wait to see the rest of it, which, I have no doubt, will be anatomically correct.

Nerd number one (McKay) is still tossing around ideas for his special project.

Looks like a very educational week, indeed.

Is it wrong that I sort of want to give them all wedgies and steal their lunch money?

To my big boy on his birthday

Dear McKay,

Today you are turning eleven years old. This day every year brings you one step closer to that inevitable moment when you are ready to spread your wings and leave the little nest I have created here. I find myself wholly unable to think about that far-off day, and turn my attention to the utter joy you bring us now.

Mack, you are just good. There is no way around it. There is not a mean bone in your body. You not only root for the underdog, but you go out of your way to help him. You cannot stand the idea of anyone hurting. Your thoughtfulness is way beyond your years.

Your current favorite game is one of your own invention, called, "Would you rather?" You give me a choice between two diverse (and often really gross) scenarios, in which I am forced choose the lesser of two evils. Tonight, you asked me if I'd rather die a hero or live long enough to see myself become a villain. Proud of your keen intellect and creative philosophizing, I bragged to your daddy about it on the phone.

He laughed and told me it was from the newest Batman movie.


As I'd want it, school has been an ongoing challenge, and I'm so proud of the way you've dug in your heels with determination. You absolutely refuse to not do well at anything. You are driven in such a way that I know came solely from your father's genes. You have a vision for the way you want things to be someday, and you are planning now for that future. I have no doubt that you will achieve all you set out to do. And I can't wait for you to make those millions you're dreaming of.

Because laboring for hours to bring you into this world without an epidural? That's got to be at least worth you funding my golden years in a really posh nursing home staffed by strong, handsome men.

You continue to share everything in life with your brother. The two of you are inseparable, and it is not uncommon for me to find you both bent over a pile of legos, or laughing while reading a Calvin and Hobbs book together. I can't tell you the joy it brings to my mama heart when I see you two so close. Just a few minutes ago, when I walked past your room, I smiled as I heard you and Chase talking together about various events in your day. I love that you love him so much.


You are thoughtful and tender, obedient and kind. I rely a lot on you, and without question, you do all that you're asked and more. You make me laugh with your silly jokes. You make me smile when I see that look on your face - the one where you try so hard not to smile or show others how excited you are about something. The one where you look just like your dad.

You are the kind of kid that makes parenting feel so easy.
I love you, buddy. I know you love me, too, even if you think it's gross to give me a hug in public. Thank you for filling our life with such sweet, easy happiness.

Love,

Mama

What's the cure for a sugar hangover?

Let's just say there's a football game on television that happens once a year. You invite some friends over to watch it on your husband's ridiculously large t.v. You spend the day filling your belly with things like fresh guacamole, sugar cookies, Swedish meatballs, and chocolate cake. [Curse that Pioneer Woman and her satanically-delicious chocolate sheet cake.]

You then plant yourself in front of the television, balancing a large plate of food on your knees. You have foolishly left your buffet unattended, knowing the pitter-patter of little feet overhead is the children gorging themselves on sugar.

And about thirty minutes into the game, the shrieking and fits of hysterical laughter coming from their direction confirms this very thing.

But you allow it because, after all, it's the Super Bowl. It's a once-a-year phenomenon. It's the only time you ever sit down in front of a football game with your husband (but let's be honest, you're really only there for for the commercials). You pretend to care about field goals and touch downs while you daydream and drool over the back and front sides of Kurt Warner.

You cheer when that one guy goes running across the big green field and scores some points. You feel mildly annoyed when there's a pit in your stomach, as you root for the guys in the red and white uniforms to win.

You console your husband when they don't.

Then you send your husband off on a business trip with a plate full of snacks for the ride. You happily start chatting with your friend Shiloh, and look up to find that the clock says almost two in the morning. You mentally count the hours until you have to be up and going, and realize it's very few.

You decide to eat one last sugar cookie. Because at two in the morning? Sugar cookies are always a good idea.

You go to bed with horrible heartburn and swear yourself off sugar forever. Then after what feels like minutes, your alarm is startling you from sleep. You rouse the troops and find they are faring no better than you:


Except for one, who has the constitution of his father and doesn't seem to need, require, or care for little trifles like sleep:

[ Seen here opening his birthday presents yesterday - a few days early due to the Husband's trip this week]

You forget your self-imposed ban against sugar and decide a cookie for breakfast is the cure for what ails you. You wash it down with a diet coke.

Oddly, it doesn't make you feel any better.

You pledge to never combine football and sugar cookies again, and wonder if your friend Becky would lend you her extra special elastic-waist pants.

And that, dear friends, is how you experience the Super Bowl. In case you were wondering.

Baby love

Look what I got to play with for a few hours last week:
Gorgeous, isn't she? Her name is Zoey and I have been unofficially adopted as her aunt, and grafted illegally into her extended family, without most of their knowledge or consent.

I hope they don't mind.

Zoey and her cute mama were here visiting their real aunt and popped by to say hello. I immediately pulled out the camera and we had a little impromptu photo shoot. She was charming and adorable throughout the entire process, even when I made her strip down to her skivvies.

Plus, she let me hold her and smell her yummy neck, which is something house guests under the age of one will always be subjected to around here.





Please feel free to come visit me any time. (Just don't forget to bring your babies with you. They will guarantee admission to the House of Stie).

And I promise you will not have to strip down to your skivvies. [Unless you are or remotely resemble Daniel Craig or Mr. Darcy. Then all bets (and shirts) are definitely off.]

A little lesson for the Midwest

Oh, you loopy, loveable midwesterners. You are a classic paradox.

Hardy and strong, you bravely face the endless muggy summers filled with heat, heat, more heat, and mosquitoes. You cheerfully take your kids to the park on days so hot that one actually sweats in a cold shower. You are out jogging in air that is 95 degrees with 80 percent humidity.

Yes. With smiles on your faces.

And yet, when the mere possibility of a few inches of snow is before you, you abandon all logic. You run to the grocery store and hastily clear the shelves of bread, eggs, milk, and toilet paper. You preemptively salt your driveways. You stockpile the firewood and hunker down with quilts to worship the weatherman on t.v.

And then, in a panic, you declare a snow day and cancel school.

Before the snow has actually, you know, fallen.

Well, my not-so-hardy winter friends, let me give you a little lesson. When it snows like THIS, there should, indeed, be a snow day:

(Our front yard in Boston, circa 2005)

Not when it snows like THIS:

Our front yard, about ten minutes ago

Any questions?

[All this excitement, by the way, led one of my children, who shall remain nameless, (*cough*Chase*cough*) to wake up at 4:30 a.m., and not be able to fall back asleep. That naturally led him to wake his siblings at, say, 4:43 a.m. And, of course, none of them would go back to sleep. I blame you, crazy midwest people. Thanks a lot.]

Auld lang syne

It took me a while to get our New Year's Eve pictures off my camera.

Probably because I've spent several weeks thinking of all the bad food that got eaten over the holidays, and how it was now permanently residing on my thighs.

Oh, the nerve of that holiday food.

But when I finally stopped staring at my thighs and hooked the camera up to the computer, I discovered a few gems that needed posting, if only for posterity's sake.

She was deliriously tired - it was midnight, after all - and she tore herself away from the company of her little girlfriends to come find her daddy for a toast. Wearing a paper princess crown, and sporting slightly crooked pigtails, she made sure to ring in the new year with the man in her life.

As much as she likes to make him work for it, he knows what he means to her. She has already mastered that thing they call coy, and he is powerless to resist her.

She, his little tomboy princess.

A happy new year, indeed.

Some days

Most days, life is pretty good. Some days, I wonder why I bother getting up at all.

Most days, I relish my role as a mother, and find joy in caring for the little people in this house. Some days, it's really hard to care when someone wants their crust cut off, knowing they won't even eat the sandwich anyway.

Most days, I don't mind the Husband traveling. Some days, I really wish he was home.

Most days, I find myself on top of my schedule and can easily manage my responsibilities. Some days, I absolutely forget to do things. Important things, like helping in the first grade classroom, thereby reducing a little first grade girl to tears.

Most days, I am fairly indifferent to my highly imperfect body. Some days, I just can't stand the girl I see in the mirror.

Most days, I make healthy food choices and feel good doing so. Some days, it's all I can do to not eat my weight in cookie dough.

Most days, I answer questions cheerfully, and solve problems in a rational manner. Some days, I tend to yell a lot.

Most days, I am happy, confident, and strong. Some days, I'm just not.

Today has one of those 'some' days.

And I really wish it would leave already.

I hate the some days.

A perfect match

Have you ever found someone you connect with on such a profound level that you immediately begin to wonder if somehow you just might be related?

Well, I had that experience over the Christmas holidays.

And the best part? We ARE related. We just haven't seen each other in a really, really long time.

This is my cousin, Liz. [please ignore my giant head in this picture]

She and her family came to visit us over the Christmas break. Neither one of us knew what to expect, as we have not spent much time together as adults. Sure, we got along great as kids. But back then I was the cool, older cousin with big bangs and pegged jeans. Now? I'm just the older, fatter cousin with a muffin top and three kids. What if we had nothing to talk about?

Well, we had plenty to talk about.

We had a blast. The kids immediately became fast friends, and the husbands chatted it up while bonding over the football. She and I stayed up late, laughing, joking, and never once running out of things to say.

It was a little eerie, though, how similar our families are. Our kids were a perfect match for each other.

Her oldest is a polite, tender-hearted bookworm, who is very eager to please. Just like my oldest.
Her second child is spunky, curious, energetic, and passionately creative. Just like my second child.

Her daughter is a sweet, pink-loving princess who can climb trees with the boys, but also happens to be a devout Dancing Queen fan.

Just like my daughter.

Her baby boy is a chubby ball of content, smiling love who never once cried in the three days we drooled over him.

My baby boy is...oh, wait.

I don't have a baby boy.

Sorry. Got a little carried away there, what with the similarities between our two families and all. But I could not have hand picked better friends for my kids. It truly was the icing on the cake for our holiday break. We were so sad to see them go.

The kids have not stopped talking about their new cousins, and I am thrilled to have connected with my cousin. Thanks for everything, guys. We can't wait to get together again soon.

Which we will. Because when you find people you like this much? You just have to get some more time with them. And soon.

Have you ever? (The parking edition)

This afternoon I decided to brave the below-freezing temperatures and head to the mall. The kids were home for a half-day today, and Hannah was in need of some entertainment. The boys were having a play date, and she was stuck at home with mom (a fate worse than death, I know).

She has become an ardent scrapbooker (read: she likes to rifle through my stuff) and I figured an outing to the local scrapbook store would serve several purposes today. One, it would get her some new supplies and increase the chance that she actually leaves my stuff alone; two, it would give us something fun to do together; and, three, it would enable me to spend more of the Husband's money on pretty paper, ribbons, and such (which just so happens to be one of my favorite things to do with his money).

So we bundled ourselves up and headed out. Seeing as it is literally eight degrees today, I circled the parking lot repeatedly, looking for a spot close to the doors. I spied one on the front row, and headed toward it with glee. That glee was short lived, however, when I noticed it was designated parking for expectant mothers only.

Oh, for half a second I actually wished I was pregnant.

I stopped. I hesitated. I mentally debated whether or not I looked pudgy enough in my winter coat to be able to get away with it (which sadly, I probably do). But in the end, the thought of some poor actual pregnant person having to walk farther in the cold because of me was enough to compel me to do the right thing.

With a sigh, I resigned myself to the mile-long walk in the cold, and headed for a parking spot farther out. As Hannah and I approached that front-row mother's spot on our way inside, another car was pulling in.

And to my horror, a very obviously-not-pregnant person was getting out of the car. How could I be sure, you ask?

BECAUSE IT WAS A MAN.

Yes, a lone man was parking in the expectant mother's parking spot. You can be sure that my frozen face scowled as fierce as one could in the sub-freezing air.

I don't think he noticed, what with his short, warm trip inside the mall.

So, once again, I reminded myself not to judge, and prayed that a real pregnant person was not stuck in the cold longer because of him.

But it begs me to ask -- have you ever parked in that spot when you weren't pregnant? How about the handicapped spot? Ever parked there when you know you shouldn't have?

Discuss.

My favorite time of day

I think I love the half-hour after dinner, showers, and PJ's the best. The dishes are usually done. The kids all smell nice and clean. The house is silent, but for the sweet little voice of this girl, reading out loud to her mama. Our favorite lately is anything Junie B. Jones. But we laughed ourselves silly at this old classic the other day.

The quiet is briefly interrupted by one of these wily fellows, wanting to share something funny from their books, or stumbling upon a word they're not quite sure of.

The day's cares have melted away. There is a look of contentment on each of their faces, as they are immersed in one of my favorite worlds - the wonderful world of books. I have raised three readers, and I might just think myself a success for fact that alone.

Selling my blogging soul for a bottle of free lotion: SkinMD Shielding Lotion and Sunscreen

A few months ago, I was contacted by the nice folks at SkinMD to review a bottle of their shielding lotion with sunscreen.

I was thoroughly excited to have been chosen and could not wait to get my hands on the product. I have typically said no to product reviews before, but they got to me on a good day, I suppose, and I said yes.

I have been using it for over a week now, and I have to say that -- gulp --I don't like it. [Insert SkinMD permanently adding my name to a product review black list here.]

I wanted to like it. I felt compelled to like it.

But I just can't tell a lie, especially to you good people.

It is moisturizing, to be sure, and really made my skin feel great, but I cannot get past the smell. It is not an awful smell per se, but it's got a faintly medical odor to it. It brings to mind old ladies in white hats giving shots, which is not exactly how I want to spend my days smelling, no matter what my skin feels like. Having soft, luscious skin that is doubly protected from the sun is one of my life's goals, but I can't do it at the price of my nostrils.

Plus, the Husband won't come near me when I wear the stuff. [Of course, that could be a major market they're missing - target the wives wanting to keep the husbands away! No? Okay. Can't blame a girl for trying, right?]

So, please, in spite of my less than stellar review, try the product yourself. I would love to be proven wrong on this one, especially as I am quite sure it will be the last review I am ever asked to make.

Unless, of course, someone wants me to review, say, cookie dough, chocolate, or Mr. Darcy movies. All of which would undoubtedly get an earnest thumbs-up.

Solidarity, Christie-style

I won't lie to you. This morning was not a pretty one, my friends. We've known this day was coming for two-and-a-half weeks. We have talked about it. We have prepared for it. I thought we were finally ready.

Oh, I have never been so wrong.

When that awful beeping startled me out of my blissful dreams, I half considered blowing off school and not getting up.

And I would have, had it not meant I'd have the children home another day.

Painfully, I tore myself away from the warm quilts and slid into my pink fuzzy slippers. I plodded down the hall and found all three beds still occupied; a phenomenon which never happens. The crazy people in this house take great delight in waking up at the crack of dawn on any given day. Except, naturally, the one day they have to.

Breakfast was marked with yawns and their drowsy, resentful silence.

At one point in the morning, I found a child asleep on the stairs with his backpack and coat on. I gently nudged him awake, and reminded him of all the fun he would have at school today; how his friends would be so happy to see him, how he'd be having pizza for lunch. His sleepy eyes and pouty lips were not to be convinced.

Finally, the bus lumbered slowly around the corner. I watched as their shoulders drooped just a little bit, and their feet grudgingly moved forward, one tired step at a time.

I felt so very sorry for them. But ever the stoic, I waved earnestly, then did the only decent thing a good mother like myself could do: I crawled back into my still-warm bed and took a nap.

My own brand of solidarity.

[Just don't tell the kids. I think it'd break their little hearts.]

I resolve...

It's that time of year, friends. The time of year when we are all gorged out on Christmas cookies, and find ourselves pining away for crispy vegetables. We have most likely spent our Christmas break sleeping in late, lounging in our PJs, NOT exercising, reading books until three in the afternoon, and then deciding we're so tired from all that hard work that we need a good nap.

You know I'm not the only one.

I think it's because we spend the last two weeks of each year in a constant state of gluttony and slothfulness, come January, we resolve to be better. We need to be better. We can't stand the thought of our lives turning into what they've been over Christmas break. So we make lists, goals, and we dream big. We exercise. Boy, do we exercise. Ever been to a gym the first few weeks of January? It's AWFUL. It's so crowded with sweat and good intentions that one can hardly breathe.

Well, this year is no different for me. I have spent the last few days pondering over some things I would like to accomplish this year. But rather than set myself up for disappointment when I don't do any of them, I thought I'd make a list of things that I will not do. Sort of a backwards resolution list, a list of things I can accomplish by simply NOT doing any of them. I did a list of these resolutions last year, and really enjoyed them. Thought I'd expand on the idea again this year.

So here it is, my list of things I WILL NOT do in 2009:

1. I will not pull weeds poison ivy in my backyard.
2. I will not eat cookie dough and call it dinner.
   
3. I will not stop reading books.
4. I will not laugh out loud when I see people still sporting mullets (I will only laugh inside).
   
5. I will not flash the goods for the UPS man.
   
6. I will not stop exercising. See number two for reasons on this.
7. I will not start smoking.
8. I will not start selling crack.
9. I will not let crazy ladies do bad things to my hair with scissors.
10. I will not let a day go by where I don't tell those three kids how much I love them.
11. I will not love my thighs, especially come summer.
12. I will not run away to Paris with famous male movie stars, even if they beg and plead.
    
13. I will not stop shopping for that perfect pair of shoes.
14. I will not hate myself, even on those really ugly days.
15. I will not stop loving and laughing with the Husband.
    
16. I will not enjoy doing laundry.
17. And I will not spend my days wishing for a different life.
    

What will you not do this year?

A conversation from last week that still makes me laugh

HIM: Now tell me again where you're going?

ME: I'm going to a cookie exchange.

HIM: What exactly is a cookie exchange?

ME: Well, dear, as the name implies, everyone shows up with cookies, and we exchange them with each other. You know, a cookie EXCHANGE?

HIM: So, does that mean you'll be bringing other people's cookies home with you?

ME: That is the general idea.

HIM: Why would I want to eat anyone else's cookies? That's like having an affair with a really ugly woman.

_______________________

[By the way, he did end up eating other people's cookies. Should I be on the lookout for an ugly girlfriend now?]

The 13-day hiatus comes to an end

Oh, hello there little blog. My, how I've missed you. Is anyone still here? Anyone? Anyone?

I am sorry to have been away for so long, but for the first time in several long months, I have actually had a husband around.

While for most of you this is an everyday occurrence -- in my world, it is not. It is a rare treat, and one which I have enjoyed to the fullest. We have spent every waking second together for the last two weeks. And guess what we discovered? We actually like each other.

I know, right?

While the Husband is not heading back to work just yet, I am finally ready to return to you, my other true love.

I'm kidding.

You know my other true love will always be Mr. Darcy.

Anyhoo, semi-regular posting will resume shortly. That is, if any of you are left to read the drivel that gets churned out here at Stie's Thoughts.

And sadly, taking a hiatus doesn't make me any funnier. I apologize in advance for the disappointment. But dang, it feels good to be back.

My love affair with the mailbox

One of my favorite things about the month of December is the good mail.

- The samplings so far this year -

Instead of the usual bills, home refinance offers, bills, realtor advertisements, and bills (did I mention the bills?), my mailbox brings me love in card form.

As I have said in the past, I love to send them. But I love even more to receive them.

I savor that half-hour after the mail comes, reading each card over and over. I study the pictures of long lost friends. I smile, as I notice just how much their kids have grown since last year. I read the Christmas letters. Yes, every. single. word.

I love them.

But I had to laugh when the mailbox yielded a few unexpected cards this year:
Looks innocent enough, right? When you open the inside, you see this:

Yes, our trash man left us a card this year.

How nice of him. Now when I see him dumping our gigantic piles of waste into the garbage truck, I will feel just a tad bit guilty. I'll think, "Sorry, Terron, for the gigantic piles of waste." Instead of my usual thought of, "Oh, there's the trash man."

I hate feeling guilty.

The other card that made me laugh came from some of the Husband's closest, best, and most special friends. The outside looked like this:

And the inside looked like this:

You know you are traveling WAY too much when one of the many hotels you frequent sends you a Christmas card.

And what's worse? He actually knows most of the people who signed it. Me thinks it might be time to stay home for a while. Get to know some of the actual people who live in Missouri.

You know. WHERE YOU LIVE.

How about you, internets? Gotten any unexpected cards in the post this year?

Rock star

This chick has serious 80s rock star hair every morning at the breakfast table. It goes well with her nightly concoction of mismatched pajamas and a summer swim dress -- which is best worn over the jammies. I mean, duh. How else would one wear a swim dress in the middle of winter while one is sleeping?

I have given up creative control when it comes to her wardrobe, and that includes the night time. She is far too stubborn for me to ever win anyway, and I decided I would save that battle for another day. Like if she ever tries to peg her jeans and wear her bangs straight up, six inches higher than her forehead.

Which I totally know is going to happen someday. That kind of bad stuff has a way of repeating itself.

She is definitely not a morning person (wonder where she gets that from?), and usually spends a good half hour in silence, with a look on her face like this one:


Don't worry, girlfriend. I can totally relate.

But eventually she warms up to us, and starts talking. Once the talking starts, it doesn't stop until her tiny head hits the pillow at night. Which is where the hair magic happens all over again.

Dang, I love this little girl something fierce.

Still, she will probably kill me when she sees these pictures.

And if that happens, remind the Husband that I forbid him from ever marrying anyone who doesn't outweigh me by at least double.

And no, dear husband, I do not weigh a mere 55 pounds.