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.