Motherhood

Dad’s Money
A few weeks back Bella accompanied me to the bank. It was a wondrous experience for her as she had never been to Daddy’s work bank before.
We stood in the line for the teller.
Bella asked me about my little deposit bag. I explained to her that this was daddy’s bank for work
and that I had to give the bank the money that dad had earned.
She asked me how much money daddy had in the bank. I told her that it wasn’t very much, but that this deposit would give him more money.
She exclaimed to me and the three people behind us in line:
“Maybe we should go to daddy’s work and get his money.
Daddy has a lot of money at work.”
I was perplexed.
I then rememebered that we have been trying to teach Bella about coins. Daddy had given her free reign in his change drawer a few days before. She loved counting all those pennies. I guess I had better go and rescue the change from the office, now that you all know where mu hugely successful lawyer keeps his big bucks.

Making Memories in the Winter of Our Lives
On Sunday night, LG and I had “the talk”.
You know the one.
What are we doing?
Is it worth it?
When is this supposed to get better or just plain easier?
Let’s just say we’ve had a rough couple of months.
And leave it at that.
After much discussion and a few tears, I turned to LG and said,
“You know in about 25 years when we’ve quit worrying about money and careers
and having no time to ourselves, and all of our kids are gone,
we are going to look back at this time and wish we could come back.”
LG replied, “Yeah right. I don’t think so.”
And then God made a miracle happen to show LG that I was right.
I’m always right.
God made it snow.
Really snow.
Building snowman kind of snow.
It’s the first time since we’ve lived in Tennessee.
And we made memories.
The kind that can only happen in the winter of our lives.
The kind that are so good, you will forget how cold it was.
And only remember love and warmth.
Yes, the kind that you will long for in about 25 years.

We had to get dad to help.
The second ball was too heavy for us to lift.
I forgot how much stronger men are made.
And I am the fortunate one to be married to a man
that not only can lift, but will gently apply a clown nose as well.
This is our plain guy.
With a stick something.
(Is that a cigarette?)
I guess we’ve been among the Southern tobacco industry too long.

It’s definitely a Tennessee thing.


A cucumber nose.

No nose.

Snow muchacho.


The cross dresser.


Snow Poppins.
Your Coldness.

Clown Man.
Or bad Toupee Guy.


Merry Winter.
Make some memories.

My day

This is Kitty Bear.

She’s a big part of my day today.

Yesterday I was having contractions at church.
I’m only 19 weeks.
I came home to put my feet up and they stopped.
Even though I am assured that everything will be fine with the baby,
I vowed to take it easy for the next few days.
So, last night, Bella goes to bed with a fever and thrashes through the night.
LG also goes to bed with a fever and a sick stomach and also thrashes through the night.
This morning I drug up LG with some Dayquil so that he can go to court.
As he leaves the house trying not to puke I hear his voice trail quietly, “I need a partner so bad.”
I drug up Bella with some Tylenol because her fever is higher.
I wait for LG to return.
He looks ghost white and sweaty.
I put him to bed.
I put Abigail in charge and run Kitty Bear to the vet.
Kitty Bear pees all over me and my van on the way. I have been meaning to buy a kitty crate and never got around to it. Kitty Bear did not like that pillow case. I threw it away.
I watched Kitty Bear scratch the vet’s eyes out while she got her vaccines and her tapeworm treatment.
I get an education about tapeworm. In the bottle it is all wound up like a spring and about 3 feet long. Kitty Bear has one of those inside of her. Yuck!
I go home. Everyone is managing and Bella seems to feel a little better. LG is knocked out.
I put Abigail in charge again and run to the store for whatever I can find that is a kid’s form of Dayquil. It worked for LG and I want it for Bella.
Abigail calls me at the store. Sophia is throwing up.
I run some groceries by a friend’s house who believe it or not has it worse than me today.
I run home.
I drug up Sophia and Bella.
Abigail and I do a little dance because we are the only members of the family who are not throwing up.
I forgot how violent it is when a man is hurling out his guts over a toilet.
I get everyone situated and make the rest of my Relief Society phone calls to make sure all the other sick people at church are taken care of.
I make dinner, clean up the disaster of a house, and sit. And try to find somewhere to put my feet up. It doesn’t matter because I only get to sit for five minutes.
It’s bedtime for Abigail and Bella and Sophia is thrashing.
I take care of Sophia and LG some more.
I do a load of laundry because the kids need their favorite pj’s for school tomorrow.
I then realize that LG needs a shirt ironed for court tomorrow.
I iron.
Kitty Bear is making weird noises.
She throws up all over the carpet.
Sophia then proclaims that Abigail and I are indeed the only members of the family who aren’t sick.
I feel another contraction and remember that I was supposed to be taking it easy today.
So much for that.
If this baby is to survive I think it must be a girl.
One more week and we shall see.
The good: Because I have been home playing nurse, I had time to blog today.
The bad: I will more than likely be up all night.
The ugly: The fact I have been wearing a shirt with cat pee on it since 11 am this morning.

Two Lines

EQUALS

Two weeks of a blogging hiatus. (and surely more)

Two years of waiting.

Two man hands making dinner every night.

Two hundred dollars in groceries that dad can cook.

Two swollen and sore female body parts.

Two more months of puking to look forward to.

Two wishes for twins.

Too old for this.

Too long before he will touch me again.

And two HUGE shout outs for all your prayers.

I had a miscarriage at nine weeks last Spring
and so I hesitate to announce this.
But my readers have been worried,
and you know I will do anything for my readers.
I just couldn’t leave them worried that The Purple People Eater ate me up.
(although his party put me out of commission for a good 24 hours afterward)
And, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t this sick last time.
And it’s just too much energy to hide it.
So, if it doesn’t work out,
you are all invited to mourn with me.
But, for now, be happy that you don’t got two lines!
It ain’t fun in the beginning.
I’ll keep you posted.

Sex education

Here is a conversation that recently occurred between Abigail and one of her church friend’s.

Abigail’s friend reported the conversation to her mother, who reported it to me. It’s a good thing that Abigail’s friend was already informed, if you know what I mean.

Abigail said pointing to the lingerie at the local Target: “Do you know what those little nighty things are for? They are for, you know, when, hmmm…hmmmm.hmmm. You can only dress immodestly like that for your husband when you get married.”

The un-named friend who will stay anonymous was silent and stunned.

Abigail continued, “Yeah, my mom and dad have done that at least 98 or 100 times.”
The friend’s jaw then dropped – with some force, I should add.

Abigail unaware of the friend’s shock, then made sure that her friend was informed completely, “If it would have worked every time, my mom and dad would have had 98 or 100 kids.”

This is me. I’m taking a bow. Don’t you think that our sex ed is getting through to our kids?

And, please don’t tell you children that they aren’t allowed to play with Abigail anymore. We have just taught her not to be embarassed about the topic.

I promise I will have a talk with her about what she is saying to other kids.

Or, if you are too scared to have the talk to your own children, feel free to send them Abigail’s way. I think that she could do a very thorough job, maybe even better then you could do yourself.

Cook with common sense

Mom’s advice for the day is cook with common sense.

And if you’ve don’t got any, watch your mother in law while she cooks mac n cheese.

I used to always put the pasta back in the sauce pan and then add the rest of the ingredients in one at a time.
It was horrible.
The bottom would burn and the cheese would be clumpy and the pasta would crumble.
I may not have common sense on my own, but I do know how to watch and learn.
And, trust me when I say that I learned the much more effective method.
Leave the pasta in the colander. Then melt the butter in the empty sauce pan, add the milk and cheese, whisk, and wha -la…it’s creamy sauce. Not clumpy or burnt.
And, THEN you add the pasta. And, it won’t crumble.
It’s as simple as well, should I say it? It’s as simple as mac n cheese. And so was this post.

It was red.

It was red. It was perfect. And the story goes something like this:

The anticipation of Mother’s Day was slowly putting my husband over the edge. How the man ever buys a satisfactory gift for me with all that intense pressure, I will never know.

On Saturday morning I chuckled inside as he begrudgingly announced that he had some business to tend to and would be home shortly. As he dragged himself out the door, I hollered out, for the twentieth time that week, my short list of things that he could buy for me. I try to help him out like that. That’s what mothers are supposed to do and I wouldn’t want to shirk my responsibility so close to the holiday, would I?

Less than ten minutes later, he walked in with a good size box under arm. It was all wrapped up. What in the world? He confessed; he had gone to work to pick up the gift that he had really purchased several weeks back. He had been acting worried for two weeks just to increase the surprise.

I gasped for air. Had he really bought me a gift two weeks in advance? I must be getting more special by the minute. Or was I just better looking when I was 8 months pregnant with number three? He never buys Christmas gifts until Christmas Eve; he learned quickly to put off the torture as long as possible. Wow. I couldn’t have been more speechless if I had won the Grammy for mothering.

I was in a trance. I sat and I unwrapped. I felt like the luckiest mother alive. And let’s keep this between me and you, I was taking my time because I was a bit worried about what he may have picked out all on his own. Ideas were flowing freely into my skeptical brain. What if it was horrid? How would I play it off? The worry lasted for just a second. The picture on the box stole away all of my spousal anxiety and mistrust.

My jaw dropped. If the box was correct, he had purchased my coveted Kitchen Aid mixer. I can’t even tell you how many times it was on the long list of gifts to buy! It was the gift at the bottom for another day when we had more funding. It was a gift of such magnitude that it was never on the list that I typically yelled to him while he stomped out the door. How could he have remembered?

When I started to tear up, it was a little more emotion than he was ready for. He quickly explained, “I hope this gift lasts you for the next three years because you probably won’t be getting anything else for a while.” We would all become law school orphans soon enough.

The gift couldn’t have been any more phenomenal. Except maybe if it was a new couch. That is still on the long list. I tore into the box; I couldn’t wait to make some homemade rolls; I would finally be free of the torturous duty of kneading. I made a vow, the man would never hear me complain again.

But, wait! What color is that? It’s not the same as the picture on the box? It’s not the plain old white model. Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. My eyes did not deceive me. My man had given me the moon and the stars just as promised in those old fairytales. My new mixer was a mixer with a purpose; it made a statement as grand as mine.

My new mixer was the color of my personality. My new mixer was my favorite color that I had never dared to declare. It was red. It was perfect. It was the color that I always described like this, “I don’t have a favorite color. I love them all. How could anyone declare a favorite color? All of the colors are beautiful in their own way. Oh, if I had to choose one? Well, I really do love the color red. It would be at the top of my list.”

I am sure that LG has given me great Mother’s Day gifts over the last ten years, but I can’t for the life of me, think of one. How could he top perfection? And not because it was from the long list, but because it was red. He had chosen my favorite color. And it was beautiful. And if his 8 month pregnant wife wasn’t beautiful, you could have never convinced her of it. Her husband had reached perfection in the gift giving department. And he did it just for her.

And I am now proud to exclaim my favorite color. When people ask, “What’s your favorite color?” I proudly reply. “It’s red. My husband chose it for me. It was a mixer. It was red. It was perfect.”

Now honey, don’t be getting any crazy ideas. A red couch would simply not do the trick for my upcoming birthday. Please keep the couch at the bottom of the long list and don’t EVER try to pick me out a couch, o.k.? Really, I want a say in the couch department. I am serious.

Oh, and I love you. And, I love red. And, I love my red mixer. But, I won’t love a red couch. Got that?

I will be submitting this to Scribbit’s September Write Away Contest. Just for fun. And as my way of saying thanks for the topic.

Seatbelt Security
I have posted before about some of our family’s seatbelt dialogue.

Here’s another one that happened the other day.
LG: ” Girls put your seatbelts on.
Do you guys want to know why you need to wear your seatbelts?”
Me: “Because you don’t want to die if we crash, that’s why. Now put them on.”
Abigail: “We know mom. You’ve told us that a million times.”
LG: “Yeah, but there’s another reason. I was reading a Reader’s Digest article the other day and it was talking about people who die in car crashes. 90% die because someone wasn’t wearing their seatbelt. And lots of times the person that was wearing their seatbelt died, and the person who wasn’t wearing their seatbelt lived. The person who wasn’t wearing their seatbelt shot out of their seat like a missile and killed the other person. Wouldn’t you feel bad if you killed mom?”
Abigial: “O.k. o.k. I am putting my seatbelt mom. I don’t want to missile you.”
Me: “I don’t want to missile you or miss you either Abigail. Thank you.”

My mom’s advice for the day is:
Scare your kids into wearing their seatbelts.
And, please, please, teach your kindergartners how to take off and put on their own seatbelts, so that I don’t have to wait longer in the school pick up line while you secure your child properly.

Mass Scary
And here’s a mass scary picture of me just for good measure.

On the way to school the other day Abigail asked me how long it took me to learn to put mascara on in the car.

I told her that applying mascara while driving was a fine art that her mother had practiced a lot over the past 17 years.

I then added, to the sure relief of my reading mother in law, that even though the talent was quite handy, it was one that I hoped she would never try to learn.

Abigail said, “Why?”

LG quickly replied from his passenger seat, “Because, it’s scary, that’s why!”

Abigail said, “Oh, o.k. Mom, from now on when you put on mascara in the car, we are going to call it mascary.”