Last night I had THE most perfect dream. Every blessed once-in-a-while, I have dreams that read EXACTLY like a movie plot, and I’m not involved at all. Last night was one of those nights.
The past few nights, I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m a light sleeper -a natural byproduct of motherhood -and the past few nights have been noisy. I don’t need total silence to sleep… on the contrary, I actually sleep better with white noise, but once I’m out cold… any little cough, sneeze, sniffle, creak… and I’m up checking the kids’ breathing, making sure the doors and windows are locked, and getting a small drink.

It all caught up with me last night, and as I lay me down to sleep, I prayed the Lord to let me ACTUALLY sleep.
And I did.
For nearly an hour.
Then I was up with my daughter. She had spilled some water all over herself at midnight, which as you can imagine, was really uncomfortable for her.
After I had her situated and had checked that every household appliance was off… I went back to bed.

Aaaaaaand I dreamed. Of what? Of Margret. Margret was a college student circa 1965. She had a little money, and used it to take a hold of her freedom and go abroad to a place she’d dreamed of going all her life: Italy.
—It must here be noted that I’m DETERMINED to learn Italian, and I practice it with my daughter using a Learn Italian App on my phone. We’re getting very good. And by “very good” I mean… we can say “thank you” and “you’re welcome” back and forth all the live long day. Can you do that? Grazie. Prego.—

Margret only had enough money for a plane ticket OVER to Italy… not enough to fly home, but her independent spirit reigned the day. She flew over and took what little money she had left to feed herself and find a humble bed for the night. The next day, she set out to do what she’d dreamed of doing for YEARS:
PAINT. In Italy.
So she did. She gave little care to the world around her, and she painted. She had no idea that a local was watching her -a local MAN, of course. He tried to introduce himself, but he had a hard time seeing as how Margret’s Italian was even worse than broken. He was able to convey to her that his name was Roberto. She was able to convey to him that her name was Margret. He took her under his wing and introduced her to his mother, taught her the Italian word for “ice cream” and in due time (which is to say somewhere between the hours of 12 midnight and 4 am) Margret fell in love. She knew her Italian vacation was going to end soon, and she tried not to think about it.
But the day finally came. She dreaded it. Roberto dreaded it. They never spoke of it until they day they spent together picnicking by a lake. Even then, it wasn’t outright mentioned. Margret just started sobbing in a very brokenhearted manner, and Roberto UNDERSTOOD EXACTLY why she was crying without her having to SAY anything.
Because it’s a dream, right?
Her picked her up.
(It’s a dream)
And walked back to his home where he lived with his mother who was also 100% in love with adorably, artsy Margret.
Margret realized then what she’d suspected but I knew all along: she was in love.
“Is it possible?” She asked Roberto, as silent tears slid down her perfect face.
He didn’t answer. I’d LIKE to say it was because he was touched, but I’m more or less certain it was because he had no flipping idea what she’d just said.
I mean really: she’d only known Roberto for a small time. They didn’t even SPEAK the same LANGUAGE. Was it possible?
Once back home, Roberto’s mother was busy talking to the house help about how she wouldn’t be needed. Incidentally, I understood everything they were saying because my brain was the author of the dream. She told her she wouldn’t be needed anymore because her son Roberto was destined to marry the American Margret and that the only help that they would need would be The Mama.
As Roberto, The Mama, Margret, and The Lady Helper Girl sat in the kitchen together, they didn’t say much. They all knew Margret was hours from leaving them for good.
Roberto abruptly got up and left.
The Mama took Margret’s hands in her own, and they shared a tearful moment.
After a time, Roberto came back. He was riding a bicycle and carrying a small white box. What was in the box? A set of designer painting brushes (and, thanks to my brain, a random crochet hook). Roberto jumped from his bike, neverminding that it crashed into the side of the family barn, and with shaking hands pried open the white box. He pulled the brushes out, haphazardly arranged them in the shape of a bouquet, ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair and walked back into his kitchen.
Without a word, because even if he HAD spoken it wouldn’t have mattered, he got down on one knee by Margret’s side. She was stunned. She was afraid. She knew she had to be crazy to accept his proposal.
But she knew, deep down, that she’d be even MORE crazy to refuse. So she embraced him, and I assume they went on to have a lovely wedding with a large Italian reception where they served (what else?) ice cream to their guests.
I wouldn’t actually know since I was roused from my picturely perfect lush Italian dream where romance blossomed with every ticking minute… by my husband’s snoring.

Talk about OUCH!

I mean: don’t get me wrong. My husband is amazing, but to be roused out of such a perfect story by SNORING?! Damper!

So I did what I’ve done at least 6 times before, I got out of bed and I wrote my story down as quickly as I could so I wouldn’t forget it, and then I went back to bed. I was disappointed. We never want a good story to end: but this was especially awful on account of their being absolutely gone. Forever. At least when The Princess Bride is over I know I can pop it in on any given Tuesday and revisit it again.
But Robert and Margret? And The Mama? They’re gone. So I went to bed with a mixture of a heavy heart and a euphoric feeling -the kind that sweeps you over when the boy gets the girl.

It reminded me of church yesterday. It was my turn to do Sharing Time with the kids, and I spoke to them about their Heavenly Father. We talked about trusting in him because he is the SMARTEST. He knows more than we do which is why he asked Noah to build the ark and why he gave Sister Deets a baby boy when she thought she didn’t want one.
Heavenly Father knew what was best.
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” I said, leaning down into the microphone, “Are you listening?”
The kids nodded.
“You have people in your lives right now that love you. You will have more people in your lives when you get older that will love you. You will love them too, but you know what? They won’t mean to, but they’ll disappoint you. They might hurt you and they’ll let you down from time to time. But guess what? Heavenly Father NEVER will. You can rely on him because he is the smartest, he loves you, and he will never, ever, ever let you down.”
I poured my heart into my testimony, sharing my very soul with those kids. When I finished, a little girl in the front row raised her hand.
“Yes, Kellie?” The little girl pulled her top lip to the left and her bottom lip to the right.
“When I do THIS,” she said leaning forward so I could see, “I look like an elephant.”

I just had to laugh.
And just like my husband’s snoring that brought me back to earth, Kellie’s elephant lips pulled me right back as well.

In the meantime, I’ll have to immortalize Margret’s story so I can pick it up and read it whenever earth gets too… real. That means I’ve got to work beyond Grazie and Prego.

Ciao.

Because I take Sundays off from blogging and crafting, I HAD to get this posted quickly tonight! I can’t wait until Monday!
We had a GREAT visit from my in-laws today, and after they left I pulled my sewing machine out and whipped out a baby doll sheer apron. My mother in law has a talent for making everyone around her feel like they’re absolutely amazing. While she was here, I showed her some of what I’ve been making for the boutique. Naturally, she made me feel like I could take on the world with some rick-rack and a leeeeetle elbow grease. I finished this apron late tonight and I hurried to snap a few pictures with my cell phone. So keep that in mind, por favor.
For your viewing pleasure, here is a less-than-perfectly-shot sneak peek of …
Baby Doll Jane

She was created JUST in time for Valentine’s Day and will only set you back $20.

I stitched a glam button on. Da-gling!

It’s generously sized (L-XL), bigger than other baby doll aprons I’ve made in the past.

In the coming week, I’ll be making quite a little stash of these sheer baby doll Janes -each one will be a little different. Some will be black, some will be pink, some will be white with glitter…
But for now I’ll sleep soundly knowing I’ve done my apron for the day.

Good. Night.

We trekked to the city as a family yesterday to get some shopping done and to switch banks. I knew as I was getting dressed that we were in for a doozy of a day. We always are when we spend the day in the city. I wish we were one of those fictitious movie families that enjoys spending every spare minute together, but right now we’re at a less-than-lovely stage of life. I used to panic when I had to take my only child, an infant, shopping with me.
Ha.
I thought THAT was hard?

Now they’re out of car seats (read: NOT strapped down) and they’re sort of potty trained. More on that in a minute…

As we drive, we are regaled with “I NEEEEEEEEED to go potty!” and “Where is it? Is THIS it? Are we there?” and, new this last month, constant whistling from our daughter.
Her range is fantastic -her song choice: cultured. We’ve been serenaded with nearly the entire soundtrack from “Phantom of the Opera” and “Swan Lake.”
Constantly serenaded.
Constantly.

And my son is going through a phase where he tells me I’m beautiful at LEAST 20 times a day -at least, really.

Walking through stores is rather difficult as it is, but when you add fabrics to the equation… oh, brother. Our trip to the fabric store yesterday went something like this:

“Mom, I CAN get this out…”
“Lacy, put that back.”
“Mom, lemme go.”
“Trent, no. You need to stay by me, okay? Lacy get OVER here! Stop running off.”
“Mooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm…”
“Trent stop whining.”
“I can get this down…”
“Lacy, NO! Don’t get anything down!”
“Lemme GO!”
“Trent, NO!”
At this point, I was stuck between a struggling 3 year old and a five year old who had taken a bolt of fabric out of the rack (because she could, you know) and couldn’t get it back on. I let loose of the 3 year old, and attempted to help the 5 year old. But before I could, the three year old was pushing the cart into a rack of fabric.
I scolded the girl.
I snatched the boy up and scolded him.

And then a kindly old grandmother took my daughter under her wing and helped her replace the fabric bolt. I felt like a jerk for getting after my kids while someone had been watching.
I thanked the grandmother.
I told my daughter to thank her.
She did.
Then Lacy whistled.
My son smothered my face in kisses and told me I was beautiful. I felt even worse about getting after him, still fully aware that he tells me I’m beautiful whenever he’s in trouble.

Where was Dad? On the phone with the people who messed with our credit. More on that in a moment…
Do you think I ever got fabric picked out? It was pretty much a joke, but yeah. I finally did. As we made our way through the store, people were in awe of my children.

“Is that HER whistling?” They’d marvel.
“Yeah, she taught herself,” I’d say. I should have beamed, or something. But by the middle of a long day in the middle of an impossible shopping excursion… I was so far from beaming over Swan Lake.
“Trenton, STOP. Get outta that. Get over here. Look out for that cart! If you don’t come here… Yes, would you mind cutting 2 yards of each, thank you… TRENTON, STOP KNOCKING THOSE OVER. You better get -If you don’t -I’m gonna…” *snatch him up and plunk him on my hip even though he’s pounds too big*
“Mommy, yo’ byootiful.”
I don’t respond. I just stare straight ahead.
“Awwww,” the woman behind me gushes, “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”
“Yeah,” I sort of nod. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t KNOW!

And so I go through my day getting looks from people who obviously feel I don’t appreciate just how AMAZING my children are.
I do appreciate them.
But yesterday, it was harder. MUCH harder than those blissfully nervous days where I couldn’t even buy diapers without my mom there to hold my hand while I pushed my infant around Wal-Mart in a cart seat sealed off from the world by at least 2 flannel blankets (out, danged germs!).
Simpler times, those.

These are great times too, but boy howdy. Harder.
I should also mention that the fabric shopping disaster happened directly after we’d left the bank and gotten some upsetting financial news. Not DEVASTATING. Just upsetting.
It compounded everything ten-fold.

By the time we left the store, we were all 100% SICK of each other.
After typing that line, I’m somehow tempted to sing, “We are a happy family!” Maybe I can teach my daughter how to whistle it…

We had one stop left. Sam’s Club. We put the kids in one cart. Usually we let them roam around, but after what we’d just been through? They were trapped in the cart.
About 2 minutes into our shopping, we found this:

He was out cold.
She wasn’t, but she knew better than to cause ruckus of ANY nature. She sat in the cart the entire time, only asking to get out about 4 times. She might have asked more if she hadn’t been busy whistling.
When we asked her please stop, she replied, “But my body just says, (she took on a high pitched nasaly voice) ‘Lacy, I NEED to whistle, LET ME whistle!’ So I need to, Mom.”

We went over budget by an alarming amount.
We never do that. Ever.
We really didn’t have any choice. We need toilet paper and diapers and fabric softener… it just so happened they all ran out at the same time.
Given the news we’d just gotten from the bank AND the going over budget, we drove home and reworked our budget as we drove.
THAT was terrible idea.

My eyebrows went down.
I thought about my pant-less son who had wet himself in Sam’s while he slept.
I thought about my sleeping daughter, who had also wet herself.
I thought about money.
I thought and I thought and I thought and my eyebrows knit farther and farther down with each thought.

We stopped on the way home at Wal-Mart. I hopped out to grab a few things before heading home. My thoughts were primarily on money.
And then I saw him…

Have you ever met someone and been instantly put on guard? You somehow feel in your skin and bones that you’ve got to STAY AWAY from that one person?
On the flip side, have you ever met someone you normally might walk away from but who makes you feel completely at ease? Safe, even?

He was a homeless man with a shopping cart full of his only possessions. He was laughing jovially with a Wal-Mart worker. And then he turned around and looked right at me. His eyes twinkled. I mean, they REALLY twinkled.
“Hello,” I smiled.
“Oh, darlin’,” he said, and walked away.

I don’t know what he meant by that. Maybe he was actually an angel who knew exactly the kind of day that I’d had. Maybe he knew I needed a happy homeless man in my life to remind me that my money troubles aren’t really troubles at all. Maybe he knew I needed to see someone living a life I was terrified of… and see that they were truly happy.
I came home, unloaded my CAR FULL of products, ate a hot dinner in my home and was humbled to my very core.
Whistle all you want, Lacy Lou.
Ram carts into fabric racks to your heart’s content, Trenton Too.

And that night, as I curled up to watch a movie with my husband, I was at peace. The kids were asleep by this point, which PROBABLY had something to do with it, but mostly: I was satisfied.
I hate how mortal my thinking is.
Someday I’ll quit thinking like a idiot person and start thinking like someone who really GETS it, you know? I realize that my actions yesterday toward my children weren’t the best. The thoughts, feelings, and attitude weren’t the best. I can’t give my BEST 100% ALL OF THE TIME, especially when “Angel of Music” is being whistled in my ear when I’m trying to add figures in my head.
BUT.
I keep trying my very hardest.
I’m forever grateful for the Perspective Angels in my life -the ones who pop up and scream at me to come back down to earth, calm my thinking, and get over my little worries that don’t deserve an OUNCE of my energy.
May you find your own homeless man in the near future.
May his eyes twinkle.

True to my word, I was up early. I got out of bed this morning and went to a Zumba class for the first time ever. My husband always teases me about having a “popularity complex.”

If everyone else likes it, he says, Alicia hates it.

Oh come on. He’s only MOSTLY right. And, as Billy Crystal has told us all time and time again, “It just so happens that your friend here is only mostly [right]. There’s a big difference between mostly [right] and all [right].”

Zumba has been sweeping the nation, and so, naturally, I shunned it. The novelty has worn off, and now I’ll venture out and explore. It’s 2005 all over again, when I wrapped myself up in the Harry Potter books even though everyone else had already read most of them. All it took was three entire books for me to say, “Hey, they’re great. I’ll watch the movies instead.” Nothing against the author. A million props to her! I just prefer boring books where the plot line is soooooooo sloooooowwww that you can speed read 3 pages before actually hitting something of significance. ALSO: I prefer to keep action in a book to a minimum. If it isn’t, it takes all the relaxing out of reading.
This, by the way, is also why I haven’t bothered with The Hunger Games. I can handle 3 hours worth of action in movie form. But stretching it out over days and possibly weeks?! Forget it.

Back to Zumba: I showed up to work out in my PJs. Truth: I don’t own any legit work out clothes. So there I stood in my pink plaid PJ pants (say it ten times fast. Dare ya) and my pink John Deere shirt… and I gangta danced to Latin music. Sort of. I mean, have you ever seen a farm girl try to shake it? I’ve only EVER shaken like that when a field mouse crawled across my bare foot. EEEEEEEEEEEEkkkkk!

I definitely need some new gear if I’m going to keep my work out routine up. I’ve wondered if I should for a few weeks now, but coming home with a blister today confirmed my fear: my shoes aren’t new anymore. I don’t know what my deal is, but when I buy new clothes they seem new to me for years afterward. I once whined that a pair of Charlotte Russe pants that I had JUST bought were wearing holes in the seat of them. My mother-in-law gently pointed out that I had purchased the pants over a year prior.
Wha…?
They weren’t NEW?
Confession: I’ve had the same hair brush for 5 years, and before my husband bought it for me, I hadn’t owned one since I don’t KNOW when. Gross, I know.
Confession: the last time I bought a good pack of socks was 6 years ago, and even then I only bought them because I was about to board a plane and realized at the last minute that my socks were at home. On the flip side, my husand buys new socks about twice a year, like a normal person.
Confession: I still wear some clothes from high school and completely forget that they are at least 10 years old.
Confession: I hate buying clothes for myself unless they fit perfectly and are extremely affordable. This means I shop exclusively on clearance racks. and Goodwill racks.

I don’t know what my DEAL is, but if I don’t work through this I’m going to wear holes in my “new” shoes that keep giving me blisters. In fact, yesterday I found a bloomin’ hole in the new shoes my husband gave me for Christmas 4 years ago!
The audacity. Shoes just don’t hold up like they used to. *sigh*

My issue maybe MIGHT stem from my being raised in Wrangler. After about 7 years of wearing a pair of good, sturdy, western Wranglers, you finally start being able to bend your legs at the knee.
FYI: Most every Western store has a clearance rack, but there are hardly ever any good western clothes on Goodwill racks. Why is that, do you think?
Western clothing is legendary. It never. dies.
On second thought, maybe I’ll stick with my John Deere tee as a work out shirt…

Completely unrelated and possibly SCADS more interesting than everything I just wrote: I came home from a personal morning devotional this morning (in the which I drove out to the Arizona desert equivalent of the Boondocks and watched the sun rise… sweet bliss) and cooked breakfast with my son. He is my BOY. We both love mornings, and we both love laughing.
This morning, I set him up on a chair and had him help me cook breakfast. Since I had tried Zumba for the first time, I decided to try something else for the first time: make frog-in-the-hole.
I didn’t get a picture, so I’ll borrow from Google.
Mira:

via kahakaikitchen.blogspot.com

My son’s imagination ran rampant with the whole “frog” thing.
“Frogs don’t pop out of bellies, huh Mom?” He asked.
“Nope,” I reassured him.
“Can I crack the frog and puddit inna hole?”
“Sure,” I handed him an egg and prayed a little.
It landed RIGHT in the hole with only ONE teeny tiny shell piece. No yolk breakage. He’ll be a regular Bobby Flay yet!
Once it had cooked, I plopped it on a plate for him and started cutting.
“MOM!” He started to slightly hyperventilate, “You can’t just CUT the fr- I can’t EAT the frog!”
I didn’t say a word… I just kept cutting the egg. I watched his brain work as it switched from imagination to reality, and it was downright darling.
“It’s jussa egg,” he remarked as he tilted his head thoughtfully and looked down at the oozing yellow frog.
“It’s just an egg,” I shrugged.
And just like that, I stifled his imagination. Because I’m an awesome mother.

At least I don’t fix his inside out jammie top that he put on ALL BY HIMSELF. So that’s something.

Growing up, I thought I was different and special.

Then I sorta GREW up and realized I was most definitely wrong. I didn’t come to the realization all on my own, mind you. It was brought to my attention by gut-wrenching experiences like miscarriage.
What? Miscarriage? Isn’t that something that happens to OTHER people? Certainly not ME.

Well, technically it was a “spontaneous abortion” according to the ER papers, but even the doctor nearly teared up as he explained not to give any credit to the technical term. Ouch.
I’ll only leave you with that one bright and happy example, but you get my point.

Anyway, I thought for years and years that I was different. I wasn’t one of “those” moms who needed alone time. I loved being at home, and whenever I had a spare minute (so rare!) I didn’t want to spend it alone. I wanted to spend time with my husband!
Well.
After years and years of emotional melt downs and self-loathing, I finally realized something that SHOULD have made me hate myself, but -oddly enough -it didn’t.
Guess what? I NEED alone time. And not just once a month or even once a week.
I NEED alone time… every. dang. day.

Does that make me selfish? Well, only if I don’t take it. Let me explain:
If I don’t wake up earlier than the rest of my family and take some time to spend absolutely alone, I spend the rest of my day trying to escape from life. I run to Netflix, to books, to hulu, to Pinterest… and I’m a complete grouch.
So as it turns out, I’m MORE than one of “THOSE” moms. I’m absolutely more high maintenance, and I repent 10-fold for my previous judgmental attitude toward them.

I mean, for crying out loud! I need time alone every day! Like I said, I WANT to try and hate myself for it, but mostly I’m just grateful that I’ve recognized my needs and how to meet them. My quality of life has improved drastically. I’m a better person, a better wife, and a better mother. And if being selfish it what it takes to get there, than so BE it!

*ahem*

HOWEVER, I have been sleeping in for the past week. Yesterday I sat in bed, browsing the web and trying to occupy my children any possible way I could that didn’t include attention from me. Isn’t that horrible? I know it is which is why I began to hate myself. I escaped into Pinterest and Netflix to make me forget how much I hated myself, but when the movie was over and the Pins all started looking the same, I had to face myself again, and it wasn’t pretty. I hated what I saw in the mirror. I hated the sort of mother I was. And then the hate sort of swarmed around me and clung to everything I looked at.
Oh, that wall paper. Could it BE any more AWFUL?!
Oh, that spot on the carpet. A good housekeeper would have cleaned it up rather than watched a movie.
Oh, that old bucket of paint.
Oh, oh, oh…

As the day crept slowly on, my own House of Hate started closing in on me, and suddenly a guardian angel tapped me on the shoulder and DECKED me.
You bloody idiot, it whispered (because, as I’ve mentioned before, angels CAN be rotten), All you need is to get out of the house and spend some time alone. You should have been doing it all week, but NO! You had to SLEEP!
And then it marched off into the air, shaking it’s fist as it went and muttering things like, Just when I think she’s learned…
I immediately picked up my cell phone, asked my husband to please stay home with the kids, and then I LEFT.
Is it fair that my husband had to pick up the pieces because I indulged in sleeping in? No. It’s not.

Also, our relationship (which has always been one of my favorite things) has sort of taken a back seat.
Okay, it’s taken a nose dive, but whose keeping track? Apparently, not us. I HATE that. After watching this video during Family Home Evening on Monday:

I just started crying. Crying, crying, crying. And then I was suddenly hungry -STARVING -for a spark. The absolute last thing I want in the WORLD is to have my relationship with my own husband be one of the many, many, MANY reasons I come to realize that I’m no different than anybody else. Because guess what? When it comes to our love, I feel we ARE different. His love for me and my love for him… it’s something great -it’s something amazing, and it’s something others spend their entire lives looking for.
I. HAVE. IT.
Right here.
Right now.
It sleeps next to me, and it snores. It leaves paper trails and sock trails and it plays video games until it gets headaches.
It fixes, it paints, it cooks, it laughs, it hugs, it kisses, and it genuinely CARES.

Years ago, I took much better care of it. I even wrote a “100 reason why I love Danny” list.
So yesterday, after icing my jaw, I curled my hair. I sat down at the computer, and I wrote another list. I took the time I had alone and I spent every dollar in my pocket (plus $10 from my bank account) on my husband.

Doing what?
Doing this.

I’m putting it together today along with an impromptu party. I’ve got strawberries to cover in chocolate, a chocolate cake mix, and sparking cider. The kids and I are going to throw Dad a party. What for? Because. That’s why. And he deserves every little sprinkle.

Today I’ll be creating yet another pin board. A DATING pin board. In the meantime, if you’re dating someone, please take a few minutes to read

THIS

article about dating. When I first stumbled across it, I thought it would be the same ol’ runnath’mill dating such-and-such, but it really isn’t. It is a good read, and heaven help me if I don’t PRINT IT OUT to use it as a reference sheet during my next date with my husband.

Thanks to my guardian angel, I’ll be waking up bright and early tomorrow. See ya then.

I took a bath a few days ago, and while I was soaking in my lavender epsom salts I got to thinking.
I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am: many-a-great idea has been thought up in the bathrooms of America. I once knew a few boys in college who kept a voice recorder near their toilet so as to record their thinking-time epiphanies. I never heard the tapes… nor did I ever want to, but that’s beside the point.

The point is… pantyhose.

I don’t even know what got me thinking about them. I hardly wear them. I THINK I own a pair. They might be shoved in the backest most part of my undies drawer. Nevertheless, I realized that the quality of my life would improve radically if I were to be more like pantyhose.
Now, I’ll say to you what I said to my roommates in college when I told them that the LDS church was like an unborn fetus.
“Hear me out.”

They did, and now they believe. Okay MOSTLY they believe I’m a nut job, but that’s okay. It’s not like I could hide it forever anyway.

Pantyhose are subtle.
They have a way of being in the room, improving it, but never making a scene.

Pantyhose are classy.
Pantyhose are timeless… though they may fall in and out of fashion with the youth, they’re aging effortlessly. Shall I go so far as to say, “They’re aging seamlessly?”

Pantyhose improve.
They have a remarkable ability to SEE the flaws of the person next to them, but they make every attempt to bring out the better instead.

Pantyhose adapt.
They’re delicate, to be sure. All it takes is a little snag for them to completely give up their station. What then? Well, if a little clear nail polish can’t mend them, they have the decency to admit their defeat, and they go on to serve in other ways.

See?

Pantyhose are versatile.
They’re ready to suit a variety of needs. White? Black? Knee high? Queen size? Thigh high? Nude? You’ve come to the right product.

When they want to be, pantyhose are chic -almost daring.

Now, you still might think I’m crazy, but apparently pantyhose already are everything I hope to be, socially. Someday I’ll sit and write a funny poem about it, but today is not that day. Today is the day where I teach preschool and squeeze in a work out and shower. Today is the day where I am NOT chic or daring. Preschoolers don’t need chic and daring, you know.
They need versatility.
They need adaptability.

They’re good practice for me, you know. And then someday, when I’ve mastered the Arts of the Pantyhose and can enter a room only to improve it… I’ll reward myself with a little daring/chic -designer style.
For now?
Let’s make it a nude knee-high day. Ole!
(Hey, there’s my poem!)

 

Lacy used some of her birthday money to buy The Smurfs Movie, and the kids have loved it. They mentioned to Grandpa that they had it, and Grandpa got a wonderful, awful idea. He had his grandkids up for a Smurf party!
The kids were really excited.
We made smurf cookies for the occasion (we added blue food coloring to our chocolate chip cookie dough).

Then I whipped up some homemade face paints and, per the kids’ request, turned them into Smurfette and Clumsy Smurf, respectively.

The girl loved being Smurfette.

…for like 3 entire minutes.

Then she begged to be just a butterfly. Because I didn’t want Smurf tears all over my kitchen floor, I transformed Smurfette into a butterfly, and then all was right with the world.

I had the kids convinced that the cookies had essence of Smurf in them, and Lacy loved it.
“Time to get our Smurf on!” She kept saying.

Once up at Grandpa’s and Grandma’s, we were fed a fried chicken feast and then we watched our movie. I didn’t get any pictures because I was having too much fun.
It was the second best part of yesterday. The first best part?

We got a new nephew!!

***The MINUTE he woke up this morning, my son reached up to feel his face. The paint had worn off. “Hey!” He whined, “My Clumsy face is gone!”
This means I may be painting their faces blue again today, so if you see us out and about… please call him Clumsy. He insists.
And I’m now Painter Skater Mom. So cheer.

Yesterday I woke up and spontaneously decided to do absolutely nothing.
It. was. glorious.

In the past when I’ve executed lazy days, I’ve always felt a tremendous amount of guilt… so much so it completely sabotaged any joy I was trying to juice from day-long Austen Movie Marathons. Well. Yesterday was an exemption. To add joy to joyous, the two piano lessons I had scheduled to teach called up and cancelled! It was like providence!

Aside from the usual daily ins and outs, I was free as a bird.
“Kids,” I said, gathering them around me in the morning, “Today is Relaxi-Day, okay? We’re going to have all day be rest day.”
THAT automatically made me the world’s uncoolest mom, but hey. At least she’s sane, ladies and gents. At least she’s sane.

On a side note, I think the Lord assigns special angels to survey the earth.
“Pin point stay at home mothers who are taking the day for themselves and then prompt everyone in town to go over and visit them…” and then they all have a good laugh watching us scramble to put up our hair, put away the blankets on the couch, get rid of the ice cream bowl, slab on make-up (and a bra, for that matter), light a candle (it SEEMS cleaner if it smells good, right?), and bark at the children (“underwear OFF the floor, you are NOT a dog, stop throwing, and do I have to ask again: GET THOSE UNDEROOS OFF THE FLOOR!”), and then politely sweep open the door to welcome visitors with a pleasant smile and a mouthful of apologies for the state of the house and the stench coming from the direction of my unshowered self.

I’d laugh my buns off watching that from above. Real-life comedy show. But then: most of reality is something of a comedy show… like the way I feel when my husband uses the lap top until the battery is borderline DEAD, closes the lid, and then leaves it for me to find. Which I do. After I’ve situated myself comfortably down on the couch. Of course the cord to plug the computer in is ALWAYS at the other end of the house. It’s got the same laughability effect as the whole “empty ice tray in the freezer” situation.
Ah, life.

My kids are champions when it comes to staying outta the way, mostly because they know they can get away with so much more when mom’s checked out for the day. Nutella sandwiches around! Conversation hearts for lunch! Make a fort from the kitchen table!

What did I do? Shuttling the girl aside, attending a preschool pizza party aside, and delivering my husband’s wallet to him at work aside?

I watched an 18-episode television show. Isn’t that ghastly? It was a terrible show about a family who ran a hotel in the 1920s. The first 8 episodes were absolutely gripping. The next ten? Soap-opera at best. I was spoiled with both great plot and good acting AND terrible acting and cheesy dialogue.
“Go ahead, Marcus. Tell them. Tell them what you’ve done. Tell them how you’ve been in love with their mother -your own brother’s wife and THEIR mother all their lives. Tell them how you pursued her!” Marcus’ wife would yell.
“ENOUGH!” Marcus would glare at his wife. Who, by the way, happened to fake a pregnancy and BUY a baby from a poor mother so far in debt she was reduced to selling her unborn child. Marcus had no idea, by the way. He was duped. Not like it mattered. He was too love sick over his brother’s wife to notice the pillow under his wife’s maternity dress.
All the while, there was a soldier son who had the audacity to fall in love with a chambermaid.

I’m telling you: it was all too wonderful and perfect. Hilarious.
By the end of the day, I had myself convinced I could write a scintillating soap opera that would be absolutely gripping to people who took it seriously and gut-wrenching hilarious to those who didn’t. I even started planning music cues to go with dramatic expressions.
You really ought to have seen it go on, you know, in my head…

Anyway, yesterday gave me just enough time off to make me feel ready to start today with renewed umph. Today will be much better.
No chocolate sandwiches.
No rejoicing over the treasure chest I found in the freezer (cookie dough I had frozen and forgot about -heh-ven!).
No sweats.
Today is going to be all sunlight, fresh air, and home cooked food.
And then, at the end of the day when I’ve showered and dressed, cooked and cleaned, I’ll look around and wonder why NO ONE bothered to stop by.
I blame those angels. Is it possible for angels to be rotten? Maybe just a little?

Before “over and outing” I’m going to leave you with a few pictures of our little Blu.
Blu is the bird Santa brought to the girl, and Blu is the bird we’ve all fallen in love with. It also happens that Blu absolutely hates strangers and bites every single one of them, but Blu loves us. Loyal little thing.

Blu goes everywhere with Lacy, per Lacy’s orders.
Blu even sits on me while I craft and poops on the shoulder of my new white shirt. Yay! Per Lacy’s orders, I am Grandma now.
“Come on, Blu,” Lacy’s says in a high-pitched voice, the kind you use to talk to babies, “Let’s go see Grandma…” and then she plops the bird on me.
It’s fine, really. She might as well call me grandma. Ever since we went ice skating, the boy insists on calling me “Skater Mom.”
Between being “Skater Mom” which makes me feel 15 and “Grandma” which makes me feel 50… I somehow feel all right with the world.

Oh, Blu. You patient little thing.

I love “Oklahoma!” And not just because it has a “!” at the end of it’s title. One of my favorite lines from the flick comes from Aunt Eller when she’s playing auctioneer at the school house dance.
“It’s all for the children, ain’t it?”
I find myself using that line time after time.
“Alicia, did you use the brand new Christmas lights that were supposed to be for the pillars outside and BURY them under all that fluff around the Nativity?”
“Well… It’s all for the children, ain’t it?”

Yesterday I woke up really early and ended up having a few hours to myself. It was great and truly needed. Thank GOODNESS for overcast skies that let my babies sleep and sleep and sleep.
I worked out, and then I read.
I read a couple of talks by M. Russell Ballard that got me thinking I should never, EVER leave my home. I’ve always wanted to teach, but lately I’ve been feeling like maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should stay home 100%, but get my teaching degree should the time come that I absolutely need it. Reading his talks on the value of motherhood and womanhood gave me the refresher and refocuser (not a word!) that I really, really, really, REALLY needed.
I decided to try and spend more time with my kids that day.
When my son woke up, I let him crack the breakfast eggs in the hot skillet. The only problem? The minute his hands felt the gooey insides of the eggs, he freaked and dropped the entire egg -shell and all -into the skillet. By the 4th egg, he caught on pretty well. No shell dropage there.
Soon his sister woke up, and I was attacked with a stomach ache I had been fighting off all night and most of the morning (my hormones are so lovely to me).
When I could muster it, I started mixing up dough to make a loaf of french bread. It was cooking day, after all, and I try to take one request a week from my husband. This week, he asked for french bread. He loves my french bread, BUT it takes for-ev-er to make. We’re talking… 5 hours at the very LEAST. Add a stomach ache and a full afternoon of visiting teaching to that, and you’ve got 9 hours.
It has to rise 3 different times.

Between the stomach ache and the visiting teaching and preschool, I didn’t get to see much of my daughter. When the boy took a late nap, I put in a movie for the girls and we played with my daughter’s press-on nails we’d bought her for her birthday. YEARS and YEARS ago, my mother bought me some press-on nails. I remember absolutely nagging the saneness out of my mother, begging her to do the press-on nails with me. Remember how it was as a kid? There was always something inside of you that said, “Don’t bug mom. You already bugged mom too much today.” But you couldn’t help it! You HAD TO ASK every FIVE MINUTES if Mom was ready NOW to play press-on nails even though she wasn’t ready 5 minutes ago. A lot can change in 5 minutes, right?
I remember clutching the package and dreaming of how amazing my press-on nails would look. They were brightly colored, yellow or orange -I can’t say which. If I remember right, they had a sort of tropical decal on them. Oh, how I longed to wear them and be the MOST beautiful girl in the world.
The moment finally came when mom agreed to help me put them on.
“When I get back from visiting teaching we’ll do them, okay? Don’t bother them until I get home.  I won’t be gone very long.” She said, and walked out of the door.
The anticipation was killing me. I sat on the edge of the counter and STARED at the press-on nails, beaming brightly back at me from their package. My toes tapped and curled… my palms tingled.
And then I really did it.
I opened the package and decided to DO it myself. I rationalized that Mom would be happy for me -she would be SO impressed with my ability to figure it out for myself.
Only I couldn’t seem to.
There were these sticky sticker thingies, but they were only sticky on one side… try as I might, I COULD NOT do it on my own, and because I tried so hard without having a lick of any idea as to what I was doing, I RUINED the press-on nails, and I never got to wear them. I still remember the look on mom’s face when she walked into the kitchen where I was. I remember how BADLY I WILLED the nails to just stick to my real nails so mom would be PROUD instead of UPSET. Stupid of me, really. And really stupid of me.
Of course I got in trouble for not listening.

I thought of that yesterday as I helped my daughter with her press-on nails. I’m not much better than I was back then with them. Luckily my little daughter is too young to know or care. I was able to get 5 of the little nails to sort of stick long enough to one hand long enough to snap a few pictures, and then she was over it. LUCKILY my nail skills are so crappy that the press-on nails came right off! No soaking for us!

My husband worked a long shift yesterday, so I didn’t bother with dinner… mostly because the awful stomach ache came back and I was flattened on the couch with nothing but my crocheting and hot pad to comfort me. The french bread I had started at 9 am was finally finished around 7 pm. The girl, who had helped me with the dishes and rearranged my entire kitchen (because hand mixers BELONG on top the fridge) asked if she could cut the loaf.
“No,” I said, “That’s just for Dad. He likes to cut it.”
“But,” she used her favorite word and held up a butter knife, “I just know how to use this.”
“Daddy likes to do it himself,” I said, “Please do not touch that loaf.”

And then I resigned to the couch, ne’ermore to rise.
Until I saw:

The loaf.
The all-day-french-bread loaf.
The ENTIRE loaf… gone! I felt exactly like the mother from “A Christmas Story” when her neighbor’s dogs ravish her turkey.
“Is this -?” The words caught in my throat, “ALL of the bread?”
“I FIXED it,” my daughter said, cheerily.
“Okay… but didn’t I tell you not to cut it?”
“I TORE,” she held her hands up, demonstrating to me exactly how she had done it.
I’m sure she rationalized in her mind, just as I had as a young girl all those years ago, that her mother would be PROUD of her rather than upset.
I was just upset, though I did my best to hide it on account of her having tried her best to make dinner for everyone.
Note the cookies? We’d made them together for our neighbor who so lovingly lent us about one billion Christmas lights to use during the festive season.
They even chanced to package up a bunch of the cookies in Minnie Mouse Containers for their Daddy. A “surprise” for him.

I had listened to the kids as they put dinner up (fully unaware that the bread was being demolished).
“Trent, just do errything that I say for you to do.”
“Awwwwight…”

“This is glass, Trent, and so you hafta be careful for it may BREAK.”
“Awwwwight…”
“DON’T TOUCH THE GLASS!” I interjected from the living room.
“But,” Lacy said, using her favorite word.
“NO! GLASS!”
“Awwwight…” Trent would say.

Trent’s a great kid. His wife will love him.

After about an hour and after having discovered the bloody French Loaf Massacre, I pled with my daughter to PLEASE leave the kitchen.
“But… I’m fixin’ stuff.”
“Please hurry and be done fixing soon,” I said.
She wiped off a platter with a red towel and deposited the crumbs on my kitchen floor, reminding me of the day when I had scraped all of the dried-up bits of leftover play dough onto my mother’s kitchen floor.
“You shouldn’t do that,” my oldest brother said to me.
“It’s okay,” I explained to him, “I always do and then Mom sweeps it up.”
Too bad I happened to explain that all to him while Mom was sitting nearby and listening. I didn’t understand then why mom said, “Sure, fine. Just leave it all to me” and then sighed heavily.
But I do now…
Sure, Lace. Just leave it all to me.

Gently replace the platter:

Then put mom’s dinner of cookies and bread on top.

In the end, it took the combined efforts of my husband AND myself to stop her from fixing things.
And, oh, my kitchen. My husband couldn’t find his keys this morning because they weren’t where he’d left them in the key dish. I couldn’t find a small bowl to fill with milk to dip my cookies in (what? It’s a serious problem!).
I need to fix it back up without hurting her feelings too badly.
She was just helping, after all.

**On a side note: I just realized that the entire time I’ve been typing, she’s had herself locked in my bathroom. When I asked her what she was doing, she said “CLEANING!” She was instantly ordered out and asked to please go rediscover her play dough. May she throw the dried up crumbs on the floor. Heaven knows, I deserve it.**

Just as we were winding down to go to bed, my son sat next to my on the couch and began threading crayons between his toes.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Putting dem in my toes,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Wecause I didn’t want them in my hands.”
Well. Obviously. Wecause.

This is the kind of no-nonsense thinking the world NEEDS which is why, today, I’m decidedly a forever stay-at-home mom… My kind of intellect ought not venture outside my own front door.
Decision subject to change depending on the quality of my sanity… In the meantime, have you seen my ladle?

I haven’t had a true MONDAY in ages, so I guess it’s about time. I woke up from a dream in which I could FLY. I literally flew from one place to the other and bested an entire herd of skunks! You didn’t know they ran in herds, did you? Well, you would have… if you could fly. I distinctly remember thinking, as I tried to fly between two sets of power lines, ‘Now that I can fly, I won’t have to do that stupid Jillian Michaels’ workout anymore! I’ll just fly!’

… and then I woke up.

Bleck. As I tumbled out of bed, grumbling at my hand weights under the bed, my husband brightly asked, “What are you going to do today?”
Doesn’t he KNOW?!
It’s Monday. What have I done every Monday for the last… who knows how long?
“I’m going to CLEAN,” I attacked back, “I’m going to do my workout and then I’m going to clean all day long. Isn’t that great? It’s like an entire day of DRUDGERY just for me.”
I don’t think he meant to laugh, but he did.
In the middle of my butt kicks, he came out into the living room and softly suggested changing cleaning day to Tuesday this week… maybe that would make today a little less drudgistic.
“No,” I shook me head and panted, “Cleaning day is today. I have to clean today.”

This time he didn’t laugh. His obvious answer to making my life a little easier was easily shot down by me, and when that happens my husband knows FROM EXPERIENCE that hormones are the ruler of the day and the best thing he can do it… go to work and bring chocolate home. Poor man.

To add insult to self-inflicted injury, PICNIK is closing. I use picnik.com every dang day! I don’t know what I’m going to do without it! It says it’s moving all of it’s picture enhancing goodness to Google+ so I did what any desperate woman would do… I signed up for Google+ despite the fact that I have no idea what it is, how to use it, or even where picnik is going to be on it.

So I turn my whiny voice to you, readers… where can I go to edit pictures with the ease and funzy funness comparable to Picnik?
Anyone?
Anyone?
Please, shine a ray of light on my Monday. I mean, I did get ONE ray of light when I discovered the special feature on my Jillian Michaels’ DVD that lets me mute her voice…
Mwahahahaha.