I’ve seen two videos today that were about being a dad and they both made me cry.
Because I’m a girl.

And because I’m a girl, I’m instantly hopping online and saying, “Aww, I’m crying. Here, cry too!”

Brush up on your Dora, and then watch this:

And then watch this:

This One Time…

I had this blog, and I’d blog every day except Sund’y.
My house was clean and I baked a lot. My laundry room smelled like roses and my clothes fit seamlessly. I wore aprons and I sang Loretta Lynn songs at the top of my lungs as I did dishes. The children wore rompers and played silently on the floor all day. with blocks.

I read them poetry by nightly candlelight.
My husband would come home from work in perfectly pressed slacks. He’d smoke his pipe and wear a red smoking jacket.
And if you listened very quietly, you could hear the children humming themselves to sleep while Mother and Father held hands and read separate books in front of the crackling fireplace.

Ours was a life desired.
And then. we reproduced.

You guys… I’m just not sleeping. My house looks something like how I imagine Hell to be. NONE of my clothes fit (sweats excluding) and when I cook, I feel accomplished with Hamburger Helper.
Wash your own plate/bowl/mudpie to eat off of, please.

I don’t iron (confession: I never have because I bought an electric dryer).
I don’t wear aprons (not tooooo terribly worried about my sweats getting dirty).
I don’t sleep.
And really, I’m not all that bathed.

Where does this put my blog? Abysmally backgroundish. I miss it so much. It isn’t a matter of making time to do it… I could very well make TIME for it. It’s my brain that’s the problem these days. I can’t think straight or well or logically. I keep putting things in the fridge that don’t go there, and I keep telling my kids to “Clean out the rug and then go close outside.”
They don’t get it either…

Alice Michelle is burning the candle at both of her cute little ends, and I am making the change from Lady of the House to Creature of the Night.
Bags under my mascara smudged eyes to complement the lines on my face.

Folks around town have been telling me it’s summer, and I hiss and shade my eyes and slowly back my hunched figure back indoors.

Last night I actually got roughly 7 hours of sleep which is why I woke up, ate more than my fair share of cracked wheat and then decided to blog. About what?
Well, nothing. But isn’t that what I usually blog about anyway? I’m not doing anything today, nothing worth cataloging for future family reference.
I did have one huge realization the other day when I took the kids outside for their rare weekly dose of sunshine (I jest)… I texted my friend Jewel from where I sat in the playground shade.

Being a stay at home doesn’t come with a paycheck. I get that.
But what it DOES come with is the ability to fart whenever I want to. And that’s almost just as good.

Just sayin.


My baby loves me.

This is monumental to me because my other babies didn’t. They NEEDED me, but that was about it. Dad was their go-to guy for giggles, smiles, and funzy time. I was just a tool, an object, a means to an end.
I’m not bitter.

But THIS baby loves the snot out of me. She reaches for me, smiles at me, giggles at me, wants me to hold her, and I feel like I can die happy now. Not that my sole goal is to be loved by others… *ahem* anyway!
Here’s a picture of us loving each other on my living room floor while watching “Hercules”:

Here’s a picture of us loving each other closer up:

Here’s a picture of Me with The One I Trained to Love Me:

I can’t leave my husband out for obvious reasons (if they’re not obvious to you, call your mom posthaste and ask her how babies are made. If she brings up the stork, cry foul):

My son was also present last night, but he was picking his nose and not fit for photographing.
Me in my PJs with my hair not done and my make up melted off IS okay, but I draw the line at nose picking. I’m a lady, after all.

Good Morning.

I’m suspicious.

I think someone fed my baby a few adult-size spoonfuls of sugar sometime yesterday. Getting her to sleep was so far beyond ridiculous.
(“That so ‘dicious, it’s REdiculous.” -can you name that movie?)

I snuggled up in bed with her, and she nursed. She was so hungry to nurse… her back arching, her head rooting. She latched on and guzzled. I took a deep breath and relaxed. It wouldn’t be long now, and we’d both be asleep… fast, fast asleep.


You know when kittens nurse, how they use their paws to dig into their mamas? She is like a kitten. Correction: a tiger cub. She was a tiger cub last night, digging her palms into my skin and slowly making fists -which meant my skin was being pinched by the tiniest hands in this household.

A painful little alarm.
I switched sides. I tried patting her, rubbing her back.
She blew raspberries WHILE nursing (which was only cute the first 15 times).
I continued to switch sides, I softly blew in her face in an attempt to discourage all the spitting. She decided to try and talk while she nursed.

“Alice… go so sleeeeeep,” her Dad said. He reached over to caress her crazy-haired head, and one little arm flew backward, landing on her Daddy’s face. She quickly rolled to look at him, quickly rolled back to me, rooted her head…
I scooped her up and held her tight, attempting to calm the crazy.

I’m seriously SUSPICIOUS that SOMEONE fed my baby mass amounts of sugar sometimes yesterday. And I solemnly swear that if and when it happens again, I will drop The Tiger Cub off at the Sugar Feeders house and let them try go through the Da-Guh Raspberries Game.

I slept very fitfully (as did the Alice) and dreamed that I was traveling in luxury with the cast from The Great Gatsby (which I haven’t even seen).
I woke up this morning with an aching body.

Today is promising to be lazy. At best, the kids and I will get all of the puzzles they dumped out onto their floor organized.
In the meantime, I give you Safe Alice (aka: what happens when Trenton -who is afraid of a lot of scary things in life -is left alone with baby Alice and he wants to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself):

I won’t lie… I wouldn’t complain if Trenton surrounded me with pillows and put a blanket on me. I’m tired.


You have to lean in REALLY close to hear her whimper, but it is WORTH it!

After getting her shots, Alice curled up on her Daddy and just whimpered so pathetically, and he would ask her, “Are you tired?”
She would whimper and drop her head.

The first time it was cute.
The second time it was adorable.
The third and fourth times, I realized I NEEDED to get a camera rolling on this.
And then she quit… but I was able to catch her doing it twice more. You just have to wait and be patient.
Not like you’re doing anything, right? You have time, right?


I was sitting in the waiting area of our Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor when the call came in.
My Dad wondered if Lacy would be home by 5:30… she had been invited to accompany Grandpa and Cousin Elly on a Journey.
They would make the journey on their bikes!

The thrill was almost too much for my little Lacy, who giggled with glee at the mention of THE Phone Call. I realized that Lacy had never gone so far on her bike, and we needed to stop on our way home from the Doctor and buy her a bike helmet.
(which of course meant that we had to buy TWO helmets because Trenton can’t be left out.)

We got home at 5:00. Lacy strapped her carefully selected helmet on (and applied a lot of make-up because you must be FABULOUS for journeys) and waited.

She perched herself at the end of the driveway and waited.

“Mom, did he forget?”
“Mom, you better call Grandpa.”
“Mom, you really need to call him.”

“Lacy, I’m not Grandpa’s Mom. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”
“Then WHEN, Mom?”
In what felt like an eternity (by Lacy’s standards) she finally caught a glimpse of… THEM.
“She bounded off her bike and into the house, running rampant around the yard, arms flailing, “THEY’RE COMING!”
Paul Revere would have been so proud.

“Them” was, of course, Aunt MariJoe, Cousin Elly, Cousin Kylie, Cousin Jens, and… GRANDPA!
Can you find them?

This was a big deal -a JOURNEY. JUST the big girl cousins. JUST Grandpa.

“Bye, Mom! Bye! I’ll miss you!”

I was worried that she wouldn’t hold up through the entire ride, but she DID. I’m so impressed.

Kylie and Jens came inside to play for a few minutes, but not before I could snap a picture of Jens all bundled up (his male-themed helmet is in the Coming Soon stage -it’s hard having only older sisters):

Not to be outdone by her mother’s cool passenger, Kylie had brought along a few of her own passengers:

I’m still pretty in-awe that my daughter made it all the way to the edge of town on her little training-wheel clad bike. I’m proud of her!
Here’s her “after” picture:

Thanks, Grandpa!
And, just in case you’re experiencing any negative emotions right now… here’s a quick cure from Alice Michelle:

You smiled.

Admit it…

SIX Months!

I can’t believe it’s been six months.
I also can’t believe I haven’t had this girl in my life ALL OF THE TIME. She just makes sense with me. It’s like she’s always been there, even though she wasn’t.

Or maybe I’m just so sleep-deprived that I can’t recall my life before December. It’s likely.

She’s learning how to sit up. She refuses to take a bottle, even if it’s filled with Mama Milk. She loves feeling like she is part of our family (don’t leave her in the bouncer while the rest of us eat dinner or ELSE). She loves sleeping with Mom. Lacy is her favorite person in the whole world. When she’s upset, she uses the “D” syllable.
When she’s irate, she uses the hard “B” syllable.
You really have to be here to hear it.

(Caption the top left picture. for fun.)
She loves sticking out her tongue. She loves blowing raspberries. She loves anything that crinkles -tissue paper, wrappers, toy plush books that make special crinkly noises. She loves HAIR and will reach out to feel it (or hold it hostage, if you’ve got enough).

She’s started sitting up. She’s started laughing.
Her favorite television show is Eebee Baby. Her favorite game is Patty-Cakes (use her feet. always her feet). She loves it when I hold her as tightly as I can and say, “You are LOVED!”

And she really really is.

Fearful Safety

MONTHS ago, for the first time in my little life I submitted something to a publisher.

I’m proud to present to ya’ll my very own, my very FIRST rejection letter:

So I was bummed for an hour or so, and I even tried to write about it on facebook.
“My very first rejection letter: proof that I’m brave enough to put myself out there no matter what… also? a good excuse to eat more chocolate.”
It wouldn’t post.
That’s right! My post about my rejection letter was rejected.
Welcome to my life.

Okay, that’s just being dramatic. My life isn’t always like that, but in that moment it certainly FELT that way. And I’m feeling a mixture of pride in myself for sending a piece of my work and life out there fully knowing that people could reject it, toss it in the garbage, and send back a thoughtless mass produced letter addressed to Ms. Alicia Deets.

They don’t know my life!

But I did it anyway. I DID IT. And there’s another part of me that takes the letter as a personal challenge. Like, “Oh YEAH?! Well, I’ll show YOU!”
And then there’s part of me that wants to go back to playing it safe…
A few weeks ago, Lacy put Alice on the couch on top of a blanket. She quickly rolled off the couch and hit her head on the metal part of her bouncer. She screamed and screamed. And the only person to rival her in tears was her older sister, Lacy Lou.
I doled out hugs at a record-breaking rate and then took a little time to teach Lacy about how to safely put baby down.
Apparently, the lesson took. I found Alice in a very safe place last night, but you know what? I think she hated it.

And I gotta admit: I hate padding myself with fear, knowing that if I never put myself out there, I’ll never be rejected.
Rejection is proof that I’m becoming fearless.
At eating more chocolate.


Last evening, I took the kids to great grandma’s to make s’mores. While there, my Dad called to tell me my brother and sister-in-law were in town for night, and we were invited to come up and visit.
After all was said and done, I walked through my door at 10:15 in the PM.
“Okay,” I said, “Time for PJs and prayer.”
My son trudged off into his bedroom. I waited for him to emerge.
I waited.
We waited.
The girls all waited.
I called out… no answer.
I called out again… no answer.

I finally realized there was no getting around it, and I got up (hate that).

PJs are sometimes too much to ask for, Mom.
Look at that serene, worn out little face:

And those cute little cock-eyed legs:

I left my oldest daughter to herself while I went to my bed to nurse Alice Michelle. And I, of course, fell asleep. I woke up just after 1 am, put the baby in her bed, turned off all the lights, and panicked a little when I couldn’t FIND my daughter.
Not in her bed.
Not on the couches.
Not on my floor.
Not on the floor by her Polly Pockets (a frequent favorite sleeping spot).

And then, THERE she was:

Sleeping away in perfect peace right next to her brother.
Why? WHY?
Because, Lacy of the Future, YOU LOVE HIM!

A few weeks ago, she was singing a song to me.
“I’m full of love.
Full of LOVE!
I love my mother and father!
And my brother!”

Then she stopped and leaned over to whisper in my ear, “I don’t really love him… that’s just what the song says.”
“You don’t love him?” I asked.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because,” she sighed deeply, “He always watches POWER Rangers. and I HATE that show.”
Take that, Rangers.

Fearfully Devoted to You

One of my older piano students (a grown up) recently said to me, “We all need one person in our lives that we can just lose our tempers on, say whatever comes out of our mouth -even if it’s swearing -and know that when we’re done yelling at them, they will still love us and forgive us because they know our hearts.”

I know that I have that in my Father in Heaven because I HAVE yelled at Him, and in return I felt nothing but overwhelming love… almost as if He’s glad I’ve let my guard down enough to be wholly honest with Him.
But guess who I don’t have that in? My husband.

When he came home from work that day, I brought it up.
“I don’t feel comfortable making any kind of mistake with you,” I said.
“I’ll try harder to be more —” he started to respond, but I cut him off.
“The thing is, I don’t think YOU feel comfortable like that with me either.”
He tilted his head in thought and then agreed that yes, he didn’t feel comfortable making mistakes in front of me or making mistakes and having to tell me about them.

I took his sweet bearded face in my hands, looked into his eyes -much to the awkwardness of all involved -and I said, “I want to feel comfortable making mistakes in front of you.”
He chuckled.
“Say it back to me….” I prodded, “Do it…. SAaAaaaaay it……”
“I want to feel comfortable making mistakes in front of you.”
“Even if it’s hard,” I said.
“Even if it’s hard,” he echoed.
“Even if it’s scary,” I said.
“Even if it’s scary,” he echoed.
“Even if it hurt…” I said.
Immediately, his eyes filled with fear.
“Have I hurt you?” He asked.

Oh, guys.

We have a long way to go. A looooong way to go.
I want to be SO MUCH for my husband, and I hate that I go over budget sometimes. So I hide it for as long as I can.
And that’s just a minor offense!
He’s the same way.

But the more we offend and are honest about it… The better our marriage is.
I’m serious! My husband and I fight more than we ever have, but our connection is more equal, much deeper, and it’s vulnerable and real.

You know what I don’t want? I don’t want to be the couple in their 80s with our hair all grey and/or gone who believe that the wife is somehow “The Better Half.” That doesn’t appeal to me in the least. I want to be his equal half, his other half, his missing half.
But better?
No, thanks.

We’re both trying to weed our marriage and home of shame and fear. It isn’t easy, and we’re pretty clueless as to THE HOW of it all, but we both know that somewhere in the Bible it’s written, “Clulessness begat Prayer.”
I’m pretty sure it’s there somewhere…
(The only recent picture I can find of BOTH of us together. Can’t seem to catch us without at least one kid sandwiched between us these days. Not that I’m complaining. Kid Sandwiches are the best.)