A Little Pink On The Inside

So I’ve not been feeling well since yesterday.

Initially I thought it might be the fish and chips I had for lunch yesterday.

For some reason the fish didn’t look right, I ate more chips than fish, neither of which was a good idea.

I made it through the morning today, still not feeling well, got through a two hour training session, came home and tried to make a game plan for the rest of the day.

I didn’t even consider lunch.

By my afternoon appointment, I was really worried they might see my lunch from yesterday in their conference room.

But, it was too late to back out, I plowed ahead, got some crackers, and an hour and a half later, made it back home and crawled into bed at 4 pm, the work day nearly done.

Got the kids dinner, homework, normal sarcasm from Jordan all night when, at about 9 pm as Tyler is headed off to bed, he casually mentions to me, ‘oh yeah, Kelsey (ex-girlfriend who’s been at my house frequently up until, um, Sunday which is when I guess, as Tyler put it, ‘it didn’t work out.’) has the swine flu.’

Hello. Did ya not see me in bed with covers up to my chin at 4 pm?

I said, “Tyler, could you have told me that a little sooner?”

Typical 2009 teenager reply, “well mom, it’s not like were doing the wild thing on the couch. She just came over and watched movies in the living room.”

Ugh. I guess he needs to go back and YouTube or Google biology and germs and swine flu and see that her hand on my front door was enough to turn us all into little oinkers.

And dad, if you are reading this, did I ever, in my 18 years under your roof, refer to ‘doing the wild thing?’ Can you even imagine me saying that now as a just turned 40 year old?

I asked him how sick she is-I feel sick but fortunately, I’ve held down my food, just not feeling well at all-he said she has a temp of 103.

So, if I vanish for a day or two, just know I’m at home, sprouting a cute little curly Q of a tail, and ‘m hoping by Labor day weekend that I’m not taking care of four little piglets.

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That’s Him with His Daddy’s Eyes

These are all my babies
Lord knows how we survived
The first one was hard and last was unplanned
What a big surprise
That him with his daddy's eyes. (Sugarland, The Very Last Country Song)

Today is Jordan’s birthday.

I love that song by Sugarland just because of that one verse.

Jordan was certainly a surprise to us, but I would never say unplanned, because clearly he was planned by someone with much more creative ability than Robert and I could ever dream up.

My third son, but I so wanted a girl.

I prayed for a girl, just about offered up the first two boys if God would give me a girl.

But, I remember clearly to this day getting the call that his pre-natal tests had come back at high risk for Down’s Syndrome, the flurry of medical tests that followed, and, finally, the high level ultrasound that oh-so-clearly let us know we were in for lots of testosterone.

I remember being in the ultrasound room, me covered in that stupid cold jelly they smear all over you, half naked, Robert crouched down by the bed, and the doctor saying, “well, so far the baby looks okay, but the only way to know is with an amniocentesis, which has about a 15% risk of a miscarriage. And by the way, you’re having a boy.”

Robert and I looked at each other and there was not even the slightest hesitation that, as much as I prayed and begged for a girl, that we would not risk the life of our third son with any test.

If he came out with Down’s Syndrome, so be it.

We looked at the doctor, thanked them, and waited five long months to find out those test results we’d chosen to skip.

Okay course, he came out fine.

Since the moment he looked at us in the hospital, he has marched to his own drummer.

If he didn’t look so much like our families, I would swear he was baby swapped.

But he is just, so, well, Jordan.

As one of his classmates told him in fourth grade, much to his dismay, he has a ‘strange nature.’

He loves Journey (or any other 80’s rock group) more than Jay Z.

If he tells you he doesn’t like mashed potatoes, listen to him, or they will come right back up, as will any food he doesn’t like. Strong gag reflex doesn’t begin to describe it.

He is sarcastic, funny, witty, has amazing comic timing, but yet once started to bawl because I didn’t tell him “God Bless you” when he sneezed.

He will sit through a horror movie without blinking, but when the movie ‘Bobby’ came out when he was in fourth grade, he became so fascinated with Robert Kennedy and his life, that he listened to ‘The Sound of Silence’ off the soundtrack 59 times in a row, until I finally threatened to delete it out of I-tunes for good if I heard it one more time.

And, lastly, I  LOVE the fact that he is probably going to be the tallest and biggest person in our house. How cool is that when you’ve spent your life as the youngest of three brothers?

He is the surprise baby, that continues to surprise us every single day.

And we are so, so happy that twelve years ago today he landed in our lives.

But we’re still arguing over whose side of the family that mouth and those size 11.5 feet come from.

It ain’t mine!

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It’s A Smaller World After all

As a teenager, I remember having several pen pals.

I cannot recall how we originally connected with each other. The back of 16 Magazine or Tiger Beat, maybe?

There was certainly no Internet, Facebook or MySpace.

But, somehow I managed to reach out and touch a few other teenagers my own age, who lived in far off places like the France and Beirut.

Weeks, months, would pass before I would receive a response to my American-teenage-girl, drama filled letters.

I would instantly recognize the replies in the mail: the tattered, striped international mail envelopes, the very-slanted-to-the-right non-American handwriting.

It felt like Christmas, opening those pen pal letters, other girls describing their own teenage lives, cultures, in broken English. I treasured every page, and held on to many of the them, with their small crinkled photographs, for years.

Flash forward to this past May, when Michael, one of the tweenies who spent a chunk of his summer at my house, announced he and his family were relocating to Azerbaijan. (I had to look that up three times to spell it, by the way.)

If you’re like most Americans, if someone announces they are moving to Azerbaijan, you might look at them like they’ve just said ‘I have eight toes on each foot.’

I had no idea where that is located, except that it sounded a long way off, and nowhere in Texas.

Turns out, it’s near Turkey (the country, not the food), thank you Google.

Michael and my boys hung out all summer and eventually, he and his family packed up and moved, with promises to return to visit next year.

Imagine my surprise when I walked into the living room Monday, only to hear my kids talking to Michael through X-box Live. There was his crackly little pre-teen voice coming through the our surround sound speakers.

As uber-connected as we are (I sleep with my head closer to the Blackberry than  the pillow on some nights, a terrible example, I know,) it never occurred to me that they would be chatting away with Michael from the other side of the world.

I just assumed he had moved to a place that sounded closer to Saturn than a TV and X-Box, and that we wouldn’t actually hear from him, Facebook updates aside, until next June.

In disbelief, I said, ‘Is that Michael? Coming through the TV speakers?"’

The kids barely looked up, ‘yeah mom, he’s 11 hours ahead of us, we’re good, we’re winning.’

I was amazed! I said, ‘wow, how cool is that, we’re able to stay in touch with Michael through the TV, from Azer-whatever (I can never pronounce it correctly)! Maybe we can all look up Michael’s new crib on a map, a GLOBE?’

Then they all looked at me liked I had eight toes.

Whatever. I tried.

I’m thinking this weekend I’m going to show my kids how to fill out the front of an envelope and affix a stamp.

Just in case they ever need to, you know, actually hand write a letter.

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Smelly Shoes

As I was leaving for work yesterday, I tripped over one of my twelve year old son’s shoes.

This can be dangerous. At 5’6, he wears size 11.5 shoes. I know this for a fact, because we had his feet measured last weekend when we bought our only school shopping item to date-shoes.

I cannot comprehend being 5’6 and having feet that are size 11.5. That would equate to what I looked like on vacation in Hawaii: giant mask, snorkel and flippers, waddling down to the beach.

I’m not sure how he walks without tripping.

Nevertheless, the large pile of boys shoes by my front door made me stop and think about the shoes, and the feet that go in them.

Some of the shoes in the pile don’t belong to my kids, they belong to the other tweens who have invaded my house all summer.

As much as they have farted, burped, eaten and slept their way through my home since May, the shoes that don’t belong to my children reminded me that for some reason, children have chosen our house to re-locate to when possible.

I bet it’s my never ending supply of my Cheeze-Its that they gobble down, regardless of my threats.

Maybe it’s the fact that while many of their dads are at work during the day, my husband is plopped right there in the middle of them, game controller in hand.

I realized how big the shoes looked, and how little those feet had once all been.

With my first born, I remember my brother, no job, expensive tastes still in place, bringing Tyler a pair of mesh Air Jordans to the hospital.

In 1993, Air Jordans for a newborn cost $60.

My brother was unemployed, but this was his first nephew; money was not an issue.

With my middle son, I remember bringing him home from the hospital, barely tipping the scales at 5 lbs. He was tiny. I had to buy him socks from the baby doll department at Toys ‘R Us.

With Jordan, I remember the very first thing my husband said when he was born was not, ‘wow, he looks like me.’ It was ‘oh my goodness, look at those feet.’

Even as a newborn, his tiny feet eclipsed his little body. Little did we know.

I thought of all the times those 3 sets of once tiny feet once ran to the door to tell me goodbye as I left on random work trips, Jordan saying, ‘but mama, I will MISS YOU.’

I realized how much they’ve grown, those feet, my boys.

Now they drive cars, and those same feet storm up stairs to slam doors when they are mad at me, or carry them out back to clean off the patio for surprise parties.

Lastly, I thought of where those shoes, those stinky smelly, awful teenage boy shoes, and the feet that go in them will go; the fact that one day they will stand at the end of an aisle, (I pray in a church and not a courtroom,) or how many, MANY years from now, they will wait in a hospital room for their own new pair of tiny feet to arrive.

Somehow that stack of shoes reminded me of the half way point that we are at with these boys, closer now to men each day. Well, on most days.

I was, momentarily, thankful that the big pile of shoes, with my kids smelly sneakers, was at my house, and not at another house.

And I really want to track down the inventor of Febreeze and thank him.

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Weekend Hair Woes

What’s the only thing worse than having hair that’s too short?

Having hair that’s too short first thing in the morning. On a Saturday morning.

I went to brush my teeth this morning and whoa buddy, I took one look at my new do in the bathroom mirror, and realized I’d stepped into Chapter Two of the chopped hair crisis.

I normally drag myself straight to the shower, non-stop. So far, the crew cut hasn’t been an issue in the 72 hours since my bad hair moment turned into bad hair Ground Hog Day.

That all changed this morning.

I was fully intent on wearing my normal non-working-weekend attire of a ball cap, no make up and hoop earrings (at the most.)

My hair chopper off-er Lily failed to warn me that when you have more hair under your arms than on your head, and it’s been caked in hair products the day before, the result the next morning is a finger in the light socket look.

And, when your hair is this short, ball caps (of any style) are not a great idea.I tried out my weekend cap, and quickly realized I’d better wear hoop earrings as big as dinner plates to make sure no one thought I was, um, of the other gender.

Luckily, I didn’t have any errands to run until this afternoon, crisis temporarily averted.

The Target run became unavoidable, I left off the cap, tried to style my crew cut as much as possible, put on my fat sunglasses and started to leave.

I opened the door, yelled behind me, ‘I’ll be right back,’ heard Jordan said ‘okay'.’

Pause.

And then in a voice that was just barely loud enough for me and his tween cohorts to hear, he followed it with ‘Kate.’

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around.

‘What did you just say?’

He replied, in a voice that was a cross between an answer and a question, a plead to laugh with him and not go all UFC on him in front of his friends, ‘Kate?’

The tweenies all howled with laughter.

Chase didn’t get it at first, ‘why are you calling her Kate?’

Jordan filled him in, ‘the hair, you know, mom looks like that lady off TV with all the kids.’

Chase looked from me to Jordan and back.

‘Wow.’ Light bulb moment. He, too, started to howl.

One of them tried to smooth it over, ‘it’s okay mom, you really only look like her before she had all those kids.’ As if.

That’s okay.

I guess they didn’t read the blog about the cat food in the Cocoa Puffs.

We’ll see who gets the last laugh.

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Me and Kate, Minus Eight

No, I’m not posting a picture.

I decided to get a haircut Tuesday night, about 3 weeks ahead of my scheduled appointment.

I do this occasionally, cheat on my normal hair stylist, who I love dearly.

She’s well aware of my tendency to be a little non-faithful once or twice a year.

I just like a change every now and then.

I’m sure it has nothing at all to do with D-Day this Monday. Not a thing.

Usually when this mood strikes me, it occurs on a whim, perhaps a over worked mom hormonal whim although I’ve never tracked it and don’t intend to. I just waffle right on over to the mall where my back up (and more expensive) hair stylist is waiting in the wings.

My back up stylist is extremely thorough (hence the higher price.)

When you see Lily for a haircut, you really aren’t leaving that chair until every hair is in place.

Which is why it’s all the more surprising that I walked in asking for a ‘little less hair’ and somehow walked out looking like Kate Gosselin, minus the 8 children and philandering husband, thank goodness.

Maybe I wasn’t specific enough? I thought I did a good job of explaining that I wanted it a little shorter, there was too much over my ears, a little more than the normal trim? How 'take a little off the back' turned me into a mirror image of a tabloid queen is beyond me.

I did not mention anything about Kate and her rooster-like do? Did I?

Fortunately, Lily had enough presence of mind, at 9 pm on a Tuesday night, not to fluff my hair up on top of my head like Kate’s. She started to fluff the bottom though and I quickly stopped her, thinking, knowing, that if she fluffed or cut much else, I might need the number to Kate’s divorce attorney.

I’m pretty good about hair cuts and dealing with it.

It grows back.

Surprisingly, I’m not terribly freaked out. As long as I stay away from mirrors. And keep the boxed Merlot on hand.

I understand though, why someone with sextuplets and twins would want that hair cut. It’s certainly quicker to style in the morning than what I had before.

I would estimate that my hair prep time now falls somewhere in between Kojak and Howie Mandel.

As long as 8 mini children suddenly don’t show up at my door, I should be fine.

And no, I’m not posting any photos.

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Say what?

All work and no play makes Shannon need a day off. Or Two.

There are a few signs that you need to use company provided PTO days, which I rarely use (stupid mistake, don't copy me,) but finally decided they are not there for decoration.

'Signs' is a nice way of saying I've recently noticed blaring, huge neon messages from my body saying, "I''m revolting, get rest soon or we'll be having a talk you don't want to have."

Last week, I went to an ENT because my ears were feeling stuffed up, I couldn't hear. Of course slective hearing can be a good thing, but this was not selective, it was irritating.

A co-worker said I might have fluid in my ear (made sense to me) so I went to his doctor.

This short little ENT dude with one of those light things strapped to his head that makes him look like a cross between a coal miner and doctor rushes in, looks at my chart, looks in my ears and says: "Do you grind your teeth?"

Bahahahahahahahahahahaha!

That's a good one.

Poor guy. He doesn't know that my daily routine looks sort of similar to the Tazmanian Devil on speed, chasing a few Road Runners, falling off the cliff like Wiley Coyote, and usually feeling as mentally awake as Elmer Fudd.

Yeah dude, I grind my teeth. Do you see ear wax? It's a wonder I haven't ground them totally out of my head, okay?

He promptly hands me a pamphlet and says, no fluid, you have TMJ. Poof, he was gone.

I'm thinking, okay TMJ sounds like a community college, what the heck is that?

I was irritated. I thought Napoelon Coal Miner had just rushed me out to get home early since it was nearly 5 pm already. And he is probably well aware of Medical Center traffic.

I got in the elevator, opened the pamphlet he had given me on my new diagnosis, and in big blaring letters: CAUSES OF TMJ: STRESS, PSYCHOLOGICAL....I stopped reading there....

Greeeaaaattttttt.

People keep telling me I need to de-stress.

That is funnier than the short guy asking me if I grind my teeth.

And when would you like me to de-stress? In between waking up at 6 am and going to bed at 11 pm?

Someone suggested getting up at 4 am to exercise as a way to de-stress.

This gets funnier by the moment.

If I get up at 4 am, trust me, I am not going to be de-stressed.

Not only will I forget to use the coffee pot, I might forget to put my pants on, I mean something BIG AND BAD will happen.

Nope, 4 am is not a good time for me to de-stress.

I'm still working on the whole de-stressing project. Knowing me, I'll get stressed trying to figure out how to de-stress.

But, I took the first step and took half a day off to go to Fort Worth, with my husband driving the whole way, to attend a funeral and pick up my two younger children from Camp Dowhatcha Want, where, by the way, it's 104 degrees today.

Just reading that doesn't sound very de-stressing. Hmmm.

Well, I took off Monday as well since I don't know for sure when we are returning. Big slap on the back for me, the PTO computers will think there has been an error.

Baby steps here though, I keep telling myself, baby steps.

One cannot expect to de-stress overnight unless you have one way tickets to Maui, which I do not (feel free to donate me some if you have extra...)

For now, a night at the Sheraton in Arlington will have to suffice.

Between the funeral, heat, and sugared up children we are picking up, my husband and I will have some quality time together.

But if Jordan smells like deviled eggs, he's staying in Dallas.

Unfortunately, my sense of smell is not blocked.

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Fairy Godmothers

Fairy Godmothers.

Every mom should have one.

No, not for yourself (although that would be nice, let me know if you figure out that one), for your kids.

Of course I am referring to 'Godmothers,' but when my kids were little, one of them (probably Jordan) started to call them 'Fairy Godmothers,' and the name stuck.

Like all good Fairy Godmothers, Aunt Jennifer (the Fairy Godmother who currently has possession of my two younger angels) has a magic wand that I don't seem to be privileged enough to own.

She waves the wand, and the fighting that is non-stop at our house, seems to vanish when they are with her.

It's either that magic wand I need but don't own, or her tenure as an almost 20 year elementary school teacher, and the fact that she can shoot them a look that instantly lets them know to straighten up or the Fairy Godmother will turn into the Wicked Witch. Who knows, somehow they get it. I can shoot that same look but hers is much more effective.

Maybe it's the fact that they have known her since birth. With all three of my children, Aunt Jennifer (who is not really an aunt) was at the house within days to see the new bundles and probably wondered if we were planning on re-populating the planet (which we were not. The Duggars off TLC are doing just find with that.)

And Fairy Godmothers have the luxury of never hearing about random male aching body parts or inappropriately dowloaded Itunes applications.

Last summer, when we made the trip to pickup the kids from their summer visit to Aunt Jennifer's Magic Kingdom, they sort of rolled/fell out of her car, punch drunk from the endless sodas, trips to eat pizza, hours in the sun at the water park. I'm sure this summer will be no different.

Yes, everyone needs a Fairy Godmother.

They fill in a void that most moms can't fill just because well, we have to be mom.

And if you try to be a Fairy Godmother and Mom at the same time, whoa buddy, big problems are sure to arise.

So, do what I did-find someone else to do the job, fill in that "anything goes" gap.

If you're looking for a Fairy Godmother applicant, remember this: Good Fairy Godmothers either have grown kids, or no kids: If you have kids at home, it a very bad idea to spoil someone else's children with yours around. It could actually create a mutiny. Plus, Godmothers with no kids around tend to be much more patient than those of us already outnumbered and low on patience.

One note of warning: If your Fairy Godmother is not married, you might need to be careful.

Jordan called me one day last summer when Aunt Jennifer had gone to run an errand, and he was rummaging through her fridge, (what he spends most of his day doing regardless of the location.)

Fairy Godmothers are not flawless. And ours is not a tee-totaler.

Aunt Jennifer apparently has a fairly empty fridge.

Empty except for the leftover Jello shots stacked neatly, front and center, that she forgot to hide, or move, or suck down.

Jordan called me to ask why Aunt Jennifer would have a bunch of little cups of jello in her fridge and did I think she would mind if he had a few?

Hello. I told him to back away from the Jello slowly, look for some Cheeze Its, and I hung up and called Aunt Jennifer and said she nearly came home to a house with some pretty goofy pre-teens.

We're going to pick them up this weekend, the quiet is nice for a few days.

That's the only thing about Fairy Godmothers...they never seem to want to keep the kids permanently; there is always a moment when the clock strikes twelve and they turn into pumpkins and are returned home.

Spoiled for sure, but that's what Godmothers and summer vacation is all about.

Bippity, Boppity, Boo!

I keep repeating that, hoping I'll get my own Fairy Godmother.

Maybe I need to switch tactics and rub a magic lantern?

Nah, I've got enough men around here.

The last thing I need in my house is an overweight male, hiding out in a lamp.

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Say Cheese!

On the way home from my recent work trip to Austin, I lost my drivers license in the airport.

Evidently, I somehow dropped it in between the ‘don't even think of joking around with me’ TSA guy, and a lady from South Carolina sitting next to me on the plane who, bless her heart, has 3 kids in Iraq including a daughter but wanted to be sure I was saved on the 28 minute flight from Austin to Houston.

I'm saved, we’re good, I let her know before we even left the ground.

She spent the next 26 minutes just making sure.

Maybe God was trying to send me a message. I’ve had the same drivers license since I was 29, and a month before I turn 40, I lose it and need to get a new photo taken.

Never ignore ladies who try to save you on a plane. Karma is a bad thing.

I stood at the DPS office this morning waiting to replace the lost driver’s license, and I began to pray for a Rapture of some kind to occur; it would have been much more exciting and it would have gotten me out of that dreaded government office.

I am so fortunate, I thought, to be able to ‘pop’ into the DPS office on the way to work.

Clearly, I hadn’t had enough caffeine when I thought there was any chance of ‘popping’ in and out of that place.

The lady who guarded the front door was a cross between a Marine drill sergeant and Betty White. She looked so sweet, but she could bark out orders like Rambo.

It quickly became clear to me who wielded the power in that building.

Not the State Troopers, who, I swear, looked as friendly as the TSA agents back at the airport.

Nope, this lady had the power to make things happen. Or not.

My turn finally arrived to approach her counter and receive my instructions on where she would allow me to sit, stand and breathe while I waited for my photo op.

I plopped down my birth certificate, only to be stopped by a woman (English clearly not being her primary language) who came up to the counter from behind to ask Betty a question.

Huge mistake. I simultaneously ducked and waited for the laser beam to strike the poor woman down.

Rambo Betty answered her question, turned around to me, and said, “if they come over here they should learn the language how can I help you (lovely smile)” without missing a beat.

I bit my tongue, appalled but fearful, and she handed me a number.

A few minutes later, she barked out the number, my cue to actually get in line.

The man in line behind me was breathing loudly.

And heavily.

And right down my neck.

I couldn’t tell if it was Darth Vader or someone with a seeing-Bulldog, or both.

I was too scared to turn and look, should Rambo Betty notice any quick movement on my part.

He breathed, heavily, and I prayed, quietly, the working mom’s prayer:

‘God, I have a job to do today, get me out of here quick, please.’ (the prayer most working moms use for pediatrician visits, traffic tickets, and DPS offices where you’re trapped between an adult Pug and a female Chuck Norris.)

About then, I really started praying for that Rapture.

The DPS office is not big.

One man sneezed three times in a row, at least, I stopped counting.

I’m no germophobe but between the heavy breathing on my neck and the sneezing to my right, I started to think I would take my chances and go without a license.

I finally made it up to the treasured spot in a Drivers License Office:

The yellow line where you are next to be called.So close, yet so far away.

At that exact moment my feet hit the line, all the workers promptly stood up and went on break.

It was as if some magic sign had flashed that only they could see, that read: “the lady who needs to get back to work and has Darth Bulldog behind her is next. Time for coffee ladies!”

I stood there for another 15 minutes while Darth fogged up the back of my neck.

I inched away politely to save myself.

He inched with me.

If we keep inching up, I thought, we are both gonna cross that yellow line too soon, and Rambo Betty is going to zap both of us, (or at least me for sure since I am in front of you,) with her Mac Daddy laser beam she surely keeps under that desk for people who misbehave, or cross the yellow line ahead of their time.

Come on Rapture, I thought, please save me. I’m good to go.

Finally, one of the coffee break ladies re-appeared.

I was granted permission to cross the yellow line, and within 3 minutes she had my thumbprints and asked me stand in front of the purple curtain to take my photo.

Since of course I know that the DPS office uses a purple curtain as a backdrop, I was wearing a purple shirt. Nothing like having a Drivers License photo where all you can see is your eyes, nose and mouth.

There was no “Say Cheese!” warning either that the photo was coming.

As soon as my feet hit the mark, she clicked the camera.

My new 40 year old Drivers License will be a photo of me with a soggy neck and eyes bloodshot from lack of caffeine and the fear that Ms. Rambo had spent the past hour instilling in me.

But at least I will blend in perfectly with the backdrop.

May the Force be with you.

And God bless Rambo Betty. Man, I sure hope she's saved.

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Happy Mom Update

Like many working moms, last Thursday I found myself on the brink.

And I don't mean on the brink of my favorite coffee mug.

No, I found myself on the edge of just a total and utter collapse, physically and emotionally.

I'm feeling much better. We've called off the National Guard, EMS, and local authorities and told them to stand down for now. All's good fellas. Just another crazy working mother who probably has ingested too much Oprah and not enough hormones. Or maybe the reverse of that?

Those size 6 pants worked wonders. If I could bottle the feeling of fitting in those pants and sell it, I might be a gazillionaire of some sort. Kind of like Joy Mangano who I always see on HSN or QVC, laughing and smiling all the way to the bank as she sells cushiony hangers. Why didn't I think of selling colored squishy hangers?

Anyhow, I am feeling a little more than half way normal.

I was right on the money about Jordan not coming home though.

Jordan called last night and asked Robert if he could stay at his friends house for another night, which not so loosely translated means, "is mom there and if she is, is she wielding weapons?"

Jordan, if you are reading this: it's safe to come home, dad hid all the sharp objects from me.

I turned the Blackberry back on today but have come to fully appreciate the silence and freedom it brings being totally off and no one-friends, family, or work-being able to find me. I don't think my husband's cell phone has gone off with more unknown numbers since he has had it.

The people who know me well knew how to find me, and were able to do so.

Those who didn't know the secret code (Robert's well hidden cell phone number) just had to wait.

It was kind of funny-I got all kinds of random Facebook messages and emails from people looking for me. I might have even missed a smoke signal from someone.

Guess what: the world went on, and I feel fine. Well, much better. Fine is a strong word.

And 6 is my new favorite number.

I'm headed off today with my two older kids (who are brave enough to defend themselves and also have the ability to drive away, should I decide to suddenly go postal again) to watch our local mini-July 4th Parade.

(I love this photo from our local parade, because this photo is about 4 years old and I know all of these kids...they look like such babies here. )

Having just come back from Philadelphia, I treasure actually treasure this day and what many, many people went through to make it happen, during a period of history when such things were unimaginable.

SCREEECHH (That's the sound of a scratching record for those of you old enough to know what that sounds like.)
Sentimental/historical moment instantly over.
The doorbell just rang.

Maybe the housekeeper forgot something yesterday and is coming back to double check her work?

No such luck. Just one of the regular 13 year olds who uses our house as a second home, and 'needed water 'cause it's hot outside?'

Life is good. Stray teenagers and all.

But honey, if you read this, can you call and tell me where the scissors are?

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No more Momzilla

How to go from Momzilla to June Cleaver in 10 easy steps:

1.) Sleep late. On a Friday. I'm officially now a huge fan of every Federal holiday that falls on a weekend.

2.) Make sure the first person to ring the doorbell is the housekeeper coming to clean. (As opposed, say, to a 13 year old asking to borrow an Xbox controller.)

3.) Go to breakfast with your husband and the one and only kid who is home today.

4.) No matter what happens or how tempted you are, leave the Blackberry totally off and at home. (Hint: This will not be easy at first. But if you stay strong, it's do-able. There should be a support group for going off a Blackberry, they call it Crackberry for a reason. If you need a sponser, let me know, I'll be glad to step in.)

5.) Get a pedicure after breakfast. Nail salon right next door to a taqueria. Genius.

6.) Have the pedicure ladies who normally only speak in in their native language, suddenly start to exclaim in some pretty darn clear English that you look really skinny, where have you been, wow you look skinny and just keep going with that line of conversation for the next half hour while they paint your toes pink. (I tried to explain to them, 'I haven't been in to get a pedicure lately because I've been sitting on the front steps of the local psychiatric hospital wondering if they take my insurance and how long they will let me stay.' They smiled. And nodded.)

7.) Walk through the Walgreens parking lot and have a guy in a pickup stop and ask where you got the pink Beatles t-shirt you're wearing because his sister in the back seat wants to know. (There really was a girl in the backseat. I have no idea if it was his sister. She was kind of enough to wave? Who cares...someone asking where you bought a pink t-shirt, unless he looks really creepy, is a quicker picker upper than all the other steps combined.)

8.) Come home after pedicure to find the housekeeper nearly done and house smelling like Fabuloso.

9.) Schedule a date to go see movie this afternoon with your husband. It's Transformers II. I never saw Transformers I. And I don't care. Neither does he.

I'll let you know #10 when I figure that one out. :)

Update! #10 just discovered!

10.) Go to the mall, because the movie in #9 is sold out. Try on pants. Fit into size 6 (with no stomach sucking.) Now if you are normally a size 2, a size 6 might not be such a good thing. But if you've had 3 babies, and have spent most of your adult life hovering near a size 16, fitting into single digit clothes is amazing.

Fitting into a size 6 (pretend audio insert: huge choir in the background right here signing Hallelujah, Hallelujah!) is like finding the Holy Grail.

Poof! Momzilla gone!

Steps #1 through 9 no longer needed. Nice, but not needed.



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Mom, Overboard

I'm not so sure today's blog is going to be funny. I'll try, but I can't promise.

Before I go on, I want to make one thing clear:

I realize that there are hundreds of thousands of women who have things much, much worse than I do.

So, if you are not interested in my pity party, I understand.

In fact, there are so many moms who make do with so much less, I would love to hear about them.

We can start with single moms.

And then we can add single dads, since I was raised by one.

There are moms working multiple jobs to make ends meet.

Moms whose husbands are in Iraq.

Moms whose husbands have died in Iraq.

Moms of special needs kids.

Moms working multiple jobs to make ends meet because they have special needs kids and they lost their husband in Iraq.

In fact, if you know of an amazing mom, please email me her story. I would love to post it here, and that's definitely not a joke.

I am not, for one second, foolish enough to think that my life is hard compared to many women.

Compared to Demi Moore? Maybe.

Everything is relative and I know that.

But, since I write about the life of an average working mom, this is just one of those moments in our lives that I've chosen to make public if for no other reason, than to let another working mom out there who might stumble upon this know, we all fall overboard on some days.

My husband walked in last night to find me at the laptop working, with big fat tears rolling down my face.

And I am so, so, not a cryer.

If I get to that point where tears are being shed, it's time to call in the back up troops quickly.

I'm sure I looked like a wreck. Or maybe someone off a ship wreck.

Like Wilson the Volleyball from that Tom Hanks movie.

Only I looked like Wilson at the end of the movie.

I had put my on my Ipod to drown out the noise from the living room.

Just the fact that I felt the need to drown it all out makes me sad, because really, it's summer and kids should be able to have friends and noise and make a mess, without worrying about mom going slightly...okay majorly mental.

It wasn't a particular incident that pushed me over the edge, really.

More than likely it was just your average combination of too much work, too many kids, too much caffeine, not enough sleep, and an overdose in there somewhere of an extra hormone or three. We all have our tipping points. And I was way past tipped.

The look on his face said it all: 'what can I do?'

My response back with no words was: 'I don't know. Thank you, but I don't know.'

He silently backed out, came back with a Diet coke, and left me to the Ipod and laptop.

Forget keeping up with the Joneses.

Right now we are having a hard enough time keeping up with ourselves.

This morning, I told him as I got ready for work, that the our days as a summer youth hostel were over for, at least temporarily, and to please politely send the spare children home to their parents.

In fact, send them home and send ours home with them. Fair is fair, right?

But when I arrived home early, unannounced, and the herd was in essentially the same location that they all had been last night, I turned right around and walked back out to the car.

I sent my husband a text and said, I'm going to get some lunch, and then I'm checking into the Holiday Inn for the weekend. I was serious.

Then I called my mom.

I was able to calm down over lunch, bring myself back down to earth, and realized staying at the Holiday Inn might be a little extreme.

But, I felt like I was falling overboard and needed a life raft desperately.

Mom to the rescue.

After she quickly showed me her new Botox treatments ('can you tell?' She squints her eyebrows, except she can't squint them because her faze is now frozen...'I don't look like Joan Rivers do I?') she talked politely explained to me that hiding at the Holiday Inn was not the best idea.

When I arrived back home from lunch, everyone was gone except for Tyler, and they stayed gone the rest of the day.

I'm not sure if Jordan will be back before August after seeing the look on my face when I arrived home early and saw them all sitting there.

I managed to finish working and Robert and I went to the mall.

There was no purpose to the trip, just to walk, get away, interact with my spouse in a way that didn't involve kids or house cleaning or bills or work. Mall Chinese food. So simple.

I've climbed back on the ship for now, I'm back on board.

But if you hear a loud splash, just remember, it might be me going overboard again.

Or it might be another mom.

But throw her a life preserver if you can.

We're all on this boat together.

(And I was serious about emailing me about amazing moms...I wanna hear about them!)

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Secret Codes

Here's a riddle:

What makes a bigger mess and more noise than 5 teenage boys sitting my living room amidst the countless half empty fast food cups, Cheeze It boxes, stinky socks and wet swim towels left on the floor?

No, not more teenage boys, that doesn't count, that's a given.

Keep thinking.

Give up?

My husband sitting in the middle of them.


I wanted to go to bed early last night.

At the rate I've been going, that would have been anytime before midnight.

But I sure was hoping to see the sandman by 9, maybe, possibly, like I used to?

I struggled to get everything done by 9.

Not a chance, silly me.

10 came and went.

How ironic is this? I'm rushing to GO TO BED AND FALL ASLEEP ON TIME.

What's wrong with this picture?

The clock got closer to 11 and I finally decided enough already.

I guess because I had been working, I was not paying attention to the party going on in my living room.

I walk out to find 5 boys in the midst of their usual teenage squalor, sharing old comforters, molded into the sofa, lights off, engrossed in a video game.

And right there in the middle of them, under the Winne the Pooh and Tigger blanket, sat my husband.

Equally engrossed and equally oblivious to the female presence in the room.

I think might even have been wearing one of those video game head sets.

Such a Kodak moment this was not.

More like a combination of a scene from Animal House and Camp Rock.

At that second, I realized that members of the adult male species evidently emit a secret signal, which can only be heard by other people with a Y Chromosome.

When I am home, and my husband is safely hidden from me at work in the Gulf, there are rules at my house, and every child within a 30 mile radius knows them.

Pick up your trash, no food in the living room, and if it's a weeknight, you better be as quiet as church mice after 9 pm, or I'll have your little rear ends back on your front porches quicker than you can say 'Taylor Swift.'

I'm still working on decoding the male signal, but loosely translated, it goes something like this:

'When dad is present, all mom's rules are null and void (unless she's mad at me, at which point I'll send out another secret signal letting everyone know to vacate the room quickly.) No need for noise control, trash pick up or any other chore. It's all good. Anything goes.'

I made a half-hearted plea to pick up the food and trash before they went to bed.

I don't think anyone heard me though, I'm still working on that secret language of theirs.

And then I turned right around and went back in my room, resigned to the fact that I was pitifully outnumbered.

I learned a long time ago to choose my battles.

I was just too darn tired by that point to care.

Imagine trying to go to bed, knowing you have to get up early and get ready for work the next morning.

Only imagine trying do that at a fraternity house.

During a keg party.

Well, soda party, no we didn't have a keg.

That's what it felt like.

All I could think about as I went to bed was, if a giant Texas sized cockroach crawls out from their mess, I hope it lands squarely on one of their faces.

Maybe that would get their attention.

Nah. They would probably just eat that too.

Here's the best part though: Moms have their own secret language as well.

Only ours doesn't need a decoder, no translation necessary.

Your spouse gets the female signal decoder ring free of charge the instant he says "I do."

When the alarm clock went off this morning, I rolled over, looked my husband (who was not at all awake after his late night partying) and said, "did anyone pick up all of that trash last night?"

Before I could say another word, he was out of bed and in that living room like he had ants in his pants.

Yep, as it turns out, our secret code is much easier to translate than theirs.

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Work Life Balance?

I'm in bed this morning, trying to recuperate from a long week.

I decided to forgo any attempts to make coffee and instead went straight for Diet Coke.

No chance of me needing to suck it off the kitchen floor with a straw.

And because I am still in a daze from the week, thrilled it is Saturday and that there are no swim meets or mouthy 11 year olds nearby, I am eating breakfast in bed.

Cheeze Its.

I'm just too tired to eat much else.

Yep, it's me, Cheeze Its, a diet coke and the TV for now.

I knew my TV choices would be limited to Michael Jackson or Michael Jackson, but as I was channel surfing, I heard someone mention 'work life balance.'

I'm sure it was one of those morning news anchors who all look like former Miss America contestants.

Regardless, it got me thinking:

Whoever came up with that term either didn't work, didn't have kids, or didn't have a life.

Or maybe they had none of the above and were looking for it.

I'm sure they are still looking.

I've decided there is really no such thing as true work life balance.

Work life balance is sort of like a giant see-saw on a playground.

On one side is work, on the other side is the rest of your life.

And getting on that see saw is like being in second grade again.

Some girl who you know really doesn't like you comes up, and in this oh so friendly voice says, "hey, want to get on the see saw with me?"

Your first instinct is to run (this is second grade after all or your first instinct as an adult would be to tell her where to go...)

You cannot figure out why she is asking YOU, when there are so many other people she could ask?

For a brief moment, it seems like a fun idea?

For reasons you cannot explain until many years later when you are in group therapy, you gladly agree to get on the see-saw with this person, and not so deep down, you know exactly what is about to happen.

She gets on one side.

You get on the other.

And WHAM.

She hits the ground and promptly sits there like sack of potatoes.

You, of course, sit 10 feet in the air, feet dangling, too far to touch the ground and get off this ride you volunteered for, knowing exactly what would happen.

And there is no way in hell you are going to call for help.

If you asked for help, everyone would know that you were crazy (or dumb!) enough to get on the see-saw when there was no chance, no chance at all, that there would be any fun or balance to that stupid thing!

No, I don't think there is really such a thing as work life balance.

Ask 100 women if they feel like they have really attained true work life balance, and 99 of them will laugh at you and say no.

And the last one will be lying and was probably a mean second grader.

You can strive for balance, but in the end, one of the items is always going to be the mean kid sitting on the bottom, holding you down.

While your feet dangle, and most of us refuse to call for help, the guilt builds and builds that you were silly enough to think you really wanted to do this, could do this.

Eventually, something has to give.

You either call for help from the teacher who looks at you like, "you knew this would happen, didn't you?"

Or, you beg the girl to let you down, off that horrible ride.

If she's nice (which she most definitely is not, or she would not have put you in this place to being with), she will slowly ease you back down.

But, if she's the way we know all know she is, you know what happens next.

WHAM.

She gets right off and you come slamming back down to the ground flat on your butt. Hard.

As she walks away, she gives you an evil smirk like, 'I can't believe you fell for that.' (That's okay though, 20 year high school reunions usually provide some sort of revenge.)

Off she goes to find her next victim.

Welcome to the see-saw of work life balance.

I don't think there are many opportunities to be let down slowly, and there certainly is not much balance.

We search and search for some way to find the happy middle spot on that see-saw, that mysterious place where everything evens out and one side is not dangling loose, and one side is not slamming to the ground. Somehow, we fool ourselves into believing we can pull off keeping both an employer and children (and a husband usually) fully content.

All at the same time.

And do it well.

I'm not sure if we'll ever find that happy medium.

If, fifteen or twenty years from now, Robert and I can sit on the front porch (okay, or maybe Sam's Boat with oysters and beer,) look back and say that we didn't have to bail anyone out of jail or send anyone to rehab, I'll be happy.

If the worst thing that happens is that my kids super glue their injuries closed without calling me first, or they fail to scrape the Wolf chili from the sinkand it starts to look like a biology experiment gone bad in my kitchen, we will be okay.

Until then, on some days my feet will dangle loose for sure, and I will stubbornly refuse to ask for help.

On other days, we will hit the ground. Hard.

In between now and then, Cheeze Its and Diet coke on Saturday morning in order to recuperate will have to do.

The see-saw might not be perfectly balanced and it probably never will be.

But it's close enough.

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You know it's going to be a bad day when...

Your morning goes something like this:

Turn on coffee pot.

Take shower.

Go back for coffee and there is no pot.

But lots and lots of coffee on the floor.

You would think coffee pot makers would think of this.

Coffee is, afterall, usually meant for those of us who are NOT QUITE AWAKE WHICH IS WHY WE ARE MAKING COFFEE TO BEGIN WITH.

Do I sound like I need caffiene?

Yes! It's all over my kitchen and not in a cup, although I was tempted to try and use my hands or to scrape some off the counter into a cup. Or maybe suck it up with a straw.

Why aren't there huge alarm bells for this type of incident on coffee pots??

Something very loud and jolting like "HELLO MORON YOU FORGOT THE POT" at the sound level of a jumbo jet might have gotten my attention.

This was so not a Folgers moment.

Or is that supposed to be Kodak moment.

Or Folgers morning?

Whatever, you get the point!

Good thing I wasn't trying to do laundry.

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What's a Farrah Fawcett?

A month or so ago, I watched the documentary about Farrah Fawcett's battle with cancer.

Toward the end of the show, Tyler walked in at one point, saw that I was watching something medical (he hates medical shows) and asked what I was watching.

I said, "It's a documentary about Farrah Fawcett and her battle with cancer."

He looked at me like I had just spoken French.

"What's a Farrah Fawcett?"

It has never occurred to me that her name might sound a little strange to someone who didn't grow up with Charlie's Angels.

I looked at him, trying to think of how to answer that?

Long pause from me as I tried to absorb what he had just asked and how to respond?

"Mom, what's a Farrah Fawcett? Is that a person? Was she famous"

How do you explain Farrah Fawcett?

The only thing I could think of that would come close enough to give him any perspective, and really it was a stretch, was to say, "imagine many years from now (MANY YEARS!) one of your kids asking, 'what's a Beyonce?'"

How do you explain who Farrah was to a 16 year old boy today who, if he had been alive in 1979, would have probably known more about Farrah than I would have ever want to know.

Thank goodness there was no Internet in 1979.

I tried to explain who Farrah was: an actress, one of the original Charlie's Angels, a UT Student who became famous because she was beautiful.

And the poster.

That poster.

I wasn't sure really how to explain that poster.

Kids today don't even really have posters like we did, so just trying to say to him, "well, her poster was in more bedrooms than there probably were bed sheets," didn't really get me very far.

I tried to explain her to him the best I knew how, but in the end, Farrah was someone from my generation that he would never really understand.

Trying to explain to a 16 year old that a 62 year old was once worshipped by every male over the age of about 8 is pretty much impossible.

"Isn't Nana about 62?"

I gave up.

"Just Google her."

I hope and pray we remember Farrah for more than the poster.

She was a mom, a wife, a friend, a sister, a daughter and a human being with her own issues and troubles that she tried to deal with in whatever way she knew how.

Okay, so the David Letterman thing a few years back was weird.

Sadly, not eight million posters, not fame, not even being the original Charlies Angel can stop cancer.

If I could rewind back to that TV show last month, I think I might change my answer to Tyler:

"Mom, what's a Farrah Fawcett?"

"A mom who was once famous and beautiful around the world and had more money than any of us could imagine, and would probably give all of that back in a heartbeat to have one more moment with her family."

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Remote Control

Sunday night I was up at 11:30, which seems to have become my new bedtime. I'm one of those weirdos who goes to sleep with the TV on.

The TV had been off all day but I turn it on to fall asleep.

That should say something about our programming options these days.

I'm flipping channels and I notice that the choice of TV shows these days has deteriorated into a strange selection of options that is eerily reminisent of the old time freak shows at a circus.

Pay a quarter, lift the curtain, see the tallest man alive.

Next booth, lift the curtain, see the conjoined twins.

Nothing has changed in 100 years except that we pay more to view, the participants get paid to put their lives on display, and we can watch it all from our bedroom at midnight-no need to pay the creepy dude at the door.

Unless you're late on your cable bill.

Which I know nothing about.

So, here's what I had to pick from:

Twins by Surprise: Okay, I've known a few women actually who've gotten pregnant and didn't know it. I can't quite understand how that happens though. If I so much as eat 3 extra french fries, my scale goes up 5 lbs.. An extra baby? Not a chance.

Twins by surprise though? Here are some clues you might be pregnant with twins and concurrently in a sad state of deinal:

• If you suddenly find yourself only able to fit into clothes that have brand names like PEA IN A POD or MOMMY AND ME, something is wrong.
• If your stomach starts to do some hellacious moves on it's own, and you've never taken a belly dancing class...and you're well, not belly dancing, that could be a clue.
• If you start to look like you swallowed one of the Harlem Globetrotters basketballs, yep, there's a problem.

The Secret Life of the American Teengager: I thought this was very funny.

Teenagers today don't have secrets, plain and simple.

When I was a kid, secrets were do-able. A good diary with a sturdy lock, well hidden from your little brother, and all of your secrets were safe.

Not today. I can barely pass wind and my kids have posted it on MySpace.

Okay, to be fair, I do post frequently myself on Facebook.

But, I am an adult and I know the limits, for the most part, of what constitutes a secret and what does not.

Teens today bare their entire lives, and anyone who might be connected to them, for the whole world to see. And comment on.

I think this show should be re-named: The Secret Lives of Parents Who Don't Know Their Kids.

If you know your kids, you probably wouldn't end up as subject material for this type of show.

The next two choices were just awesome viewing material:

Half Ton Dad OR Why I Ran

Guess what the common theme was among these two shows?

No, there were no half ton men running anywhere.

Give up? Both shows took place in Houston. So we have half ton dads AND geniuses who try to out run the police, but instead are followed by the news helicopters, like there is a chance in hell that they are gonna get away with the whole city watching their every move. All for your viewing pleasure, filmed right here in H-Town.

Last choice? My favorite, but for a different reason: ICE ROAD TRUCKERS

I have lived most of life in Texas.

We use ice for 2 things-iced tea and ice chests (usually full of beer.) Oh, I almost forgot.

We also use ice for frozen Margaritas.

That's it.

We don't walk on ice, we don't stand on ice, we don't fish on ice and we certainly do not drive on ice.

In fact, when the rare ice storm hits south Texas, most of us cannot make it to our mailbox without slipping and falling on our butts at least half a dozen times.

No native Texas would, in their right mind, drive on ice. Not even in a Big Wheel. You would be more likely to find me pregnant with twins by surprise than you would to find me driving any vehicle on ice.

These men have evidently made a career out of something that is unthinkable to those of us from the south. I don't know what kind of mental state you have to be in to choose this as a job, but I sure hope they pay you well.

This would be sort of like those of us from the south telling someone from Minnesota to come visit in July and to bring a sweater because it gets 'cool' at night. If you're not from here, you wouldn't get it.

You'd be more likely to find someone from Texas on Jupiter than you would driving an 18 Wheeler across an Ice Lake.

Now, if you're from Houston, and you happen to move into this profession, you'll probably be great at cutting off, tailgating or making creative hand gestures at the other Ice Road Truckers once you're out on that ice lake.

Those were my choices. Pregnant teens. Half ton dads or people running from the police. Twins by Surprise (also known as "Women in denial that they have doubled in size over the course of nine months".)

What has happend to our society that everything available on TV is a peek into the lives of people with issues that, 10 years ago none of would have ever known about, and we would have been just fine keeping it that way.

And if this is what's on TV, I'll take the kids playing Wii or X-Box any day of the week over television.

So, what channel did I land on?

Forensic Files.

Nothing like a serial killer to help you fall asleep.

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You're Gonna Miss This

Today was the first day of summer vacation for the kids and the first day of 3 months of insanity for me. There is a song by Trace Adkins that I love called 'You're Gonna Miss This', here are the first few lines:

She was staring out that window, of that SUV Complaining, saying I can't wait to turn 18 She said I'll make my own money, and I'll make my own rules Mamma put the car in park out there in front of the school Then she kissed her head and said I was just like you-Chorus- You're gonna miss thisYou're gonna want this back You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast These Are Some Good Times So take a good look around You may not know it now But you're gonna miss this...

That may be my mantra for the next few months. In the last 12 hours, I've already heard:

• I'm bored.


• There's nothing to eat. I mean literally mom, there's nothing to eat.


• Can Daniel spend the night? And Michael? (This in addition to my own 3 boys. Note photo above, 2 of the 3 pictured children are not mine...)


• Why do I need to take a shower? It's only 1 in the afternoon?
  
• At 10 pm...Mom, I'M STARVING can you take us to Sonic? (As if???)

Three months and counting....

You're gonna miss this? For now maybe not, a few years from now, for sure. I'm already slightly panicked at the thought of Tyler being a Junior next year. I remember all that I did, approved and not, my Junior year. And I remember how it all seems like yesterday. The hourglass was turned over with Tyler a few years ago and the sand seems to fall faster and faster each year. So fast, it goes by. 11th grade? How do I have an 11th grader?

This has been a long, long week for me...there is no doubt. One night, I am sure that Chase thought I was possessed over his lack of cleaning the kitchen correctly that night and well, I may have not have been possessed but I was certainly out of my head with fatigue and probably not acting extremely rational? I guess all moms do that at some point. But I am still looking for ways to notice the small moments, let go of what can be ignored at the moment, and somehow, somewhere, treasure the small, small moments like when Tyler and I talked for one night this week about next school year. And the grin on his face when he came home after finishing his last final and I said to him, you're officially a Junior now, huh? Fatigued, tired, stressed or not I hope to hang on to those small moments of time, that look he had on his face, that come and go so quickly.

So, no, we did not go to Sonic at 10 pm. There is, afterall, a swim meet at 645 am. Otherwise, I might have said yes...what else are summer nights for but late night runs for ice cream? And every moment I have, even if it's 10 pm at Sonic with two extra mouths, is worth it.

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First thoughts

I am not sure what has possessed me to think I have the time or energy on any given day to maintain a blog. Who knows. Maybe it's Jordan's recent medical news...which by many standards is a drop in the bucket but nevertheless something that our family is going to need to adapt to. Maybe it's the fact that the last few weeks of work and the kids and Robert's schedule would wear out even the best of moms (and I know some great moms so I think it's safe to say that) and I hope to have a place to put the thoughts down. Not so sure about the publicness of this, we'll see. :)

My life is a blur on most days, there is doubt about that. I struggle on many days with a way to slow it down somehow, before I look up one day and all the things that I value or treasure have somehow passed me by. Unfortunatly, I cannot find the brake pedal that I need, as hard as I try and pray and plan every Sunday evening before the next week arrives, that will help me slow down and enjoy the smaller and more important moments each day. Right now as I type this, I realize I did not pick up my dry cleaning for next week which means what I wear to work on Tuesday is going to be VERY interesting. See what I mean by random thoughts?

Three boys, I remember hearing that a lot when I was pregnant with Jordan. "Three boys, what will you do, how will you manage?" Still working on that. So far, so good I think. We're a work in progress for sure.

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