Mother’s Day and Momsie

Here is a post about Mother’s Day because:

  1. I am a mother.
  2. There is a Day that we get.

Before I go on, let me just say that I never really thought much of Mother’s Day until I finally had my own wee babies bust of my own body parts. I know. I’m sorry, Mom. Because once I had my own spawn? Oh my goodness, y’all. It was like Mother’s Day came up and smacked me upside the head then and said, “YOU ARE TIRED. THIS DAY IS GOING TO BE A CELEBRATION OF HOW REALLY REALLY TIRED YOU ARE. SO, TAKE ADVANTAGE, WOMAN.”

By the way, the committee who decided all the rules with Mother’s Day? I am thinking they’re not mothers. First of all, they decided it was going to be on a Sunday. Nope. Sunday mornings at our house? Full on nutball. Even more so than a school morning, because on Sundays we have to BE somewhere by 8 am because our church likes to worship our Lord and Savior when roosters are crowing, evidently. AND – not only do we HAVE to BE there while the sun is coming up, we also have to be FULL ON TALKY-TALKY AND SMILEY AND CHURCHY.

AND. We have to be dressed up. 

And act like this is all totally natural. 

Also, Mother’s Day is in MAY. Really? MAY? May is the month where the calendar just flops over on its side and starts groaning. May is the month of Let’s Do Everything.

May is a firing squad with a day-planner, ya’ll. 

Why can’t Mother’s Day be on a Saturday in… say, February? It’s cold. Rainy. I could take a nap that completes me.

Anyhow.

Here was my Mother’s Day:

  1. Blonde’s card. The snark is strong with that one.

img_8048.jpg

2. Red’s card. img_8057.jpg

Two things: I have not ridden a bike since Red fell off his bike and we ended up in the ER due to the horrible injury involving THE SEAT OF HIS BIKE JUST LET YOUR IMAGINATION FILL IN THE HOLES ON THAT ONE.

Also, totes correct on the sleeping thing.

3. I keep finding pictures like this on my phone:

IMG_7152.JPG

Note the slightly-crazed expression. That’s what I’m working with here, people.

 

4. Here is this total moment of hotness:IMG_8038.jpgNo… I am not his mother. That would be so weird. But he is somewhat responsible for the other two spawn and so, yea.

Plus he’s Hotter Mchotterson in those bike pants. You’re welcome for the eye candy, ladeeeeeez.

5. Also because Hotter Mchotteson is wonderful, he bought me a Ninja blender. This thing is awesome, y’all. I make my smoothies in it. In seconds.  I can make homemade whipped cream (something I never knew I needed in my life quite so much as now) in seconds. I blend soups! I make lattes! I blend up ice because I just CAN! IN SECONDS! It cleans my floors! It tells me I have good hair!

Sorry. Perhaps the Ninja cannot actually talk to me, but it seriously rocks my world.  And, because my last blender was THIS:

IMG_8059.jpg

Yes. It’s filthy. And it’s circa 1897.

Let’s all just have a moment of silence, shall we, for Really Old Grungy Blender Ok? Let’s grasp hands and say a prayer:

IMG_8059.png

6. And finally, there was THIS:IMG_8062.jpg

No, not the value pack of Lysol Wipes. Those are just always sitting around in our house because I have boys with little or no concept of aim.

Yes, this is a box.

It’s been sitting on my dining room table, along with All the Clutter of the World  for about three days. I tend to ignore my dining room table, as the clutter sloooooowly starts to mingle, maybe start dating, and then starts to procreate all over the place until I lose it and start throwing stuff away whilst muttering under my breath about the bad choices that my Clutter has made.

Anyhow, this was a present, for ME that I completely ignored because Clutter, AND I thought it was for my children. And, since they get all the presents all the time, I just kinda plopped it there, for a rainy day, when they deserve a present.

My sister finally texted me to inform me that the box was for ME and to OPEN it for Pete’s sake.

And so, I did and voila!

IMG_8067.JPG

My sister totally gets me.  A jadeite butter dish! Cute!! A cute little measuring tape thing. So cute!! A game that I can play with my children! In a cute little whale bag!! CUTE!

Annnnnnd: IMG_8068.png

As God is my witness, I thought it was drugs.

I know. Pretty much sums up my complete inability to process things correctly and also I am a horrible person.

It’s NOT drugs. It’s Zinnia seeds from her garden that are huge and gorgeous and MY GOSH WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME DRUGS? YOU ARE SICK. SICK, MOMSIE.

Ok, I didn’t really think it was drugs. But maybe, yes, just for a minute. Maybe.

7. I can’t end on the drugs thing. So, if I haven’t lost your readership at this point, here is also this:

img_8054.jpg

Red drew our cats on the wrapping paper for one of my gifts. Vader and Steve. Pretty accurate, actually. One is round. The other, pointy.

And poor Bob. Always off in the corner and misspelled.

And here is this:IMG_8066.jpg

Steve got a nap in. I walked by, took this picture, and told him, “You go, you big fat furry. You TAKE that nap. And take one for me, too, today, ok?”

He didn’t answer, just kept on sleeping. Shocking.

 

And that was my Mother’s Day.

Oh, and here’s what else happened:

  1. 27 hugs.
  2. fourteen kisses (more or less)
  3. A whole bunch of “I love you’s”
  4. My Red coming in to the bedroom, all tossled with sleep, saying, “Happy Mother’s Day, mommah. You are the best mother in the whole world.”
  5. My husband telling me he is proud of me. And that I’m hot.
  6. My sweet Blonde trying to cuddle with me on the couch, all arms and legs and growing boy.
  7. Hosmer swearing his undying love to me. Again.
  8. I didn’t drink because I’m a sober mom and a walking miracle all at the same time.
  9. God saying, “You are a mom, and you are Dana, and you are blessed, and you are MINE.

God bless you, mommahs. In truth? Every day is Mother’s Day. It’s a privilege.

Amen?

Amen.

 

 

Advertisements

Hosmer and a side of bacon.

IMG_7663.jpg

 

Hi! I’m Hosmer. I’m named after a Royals baseball player who has since left us because evidently he was not making enough millions dollars, whatever those are, so he went to another team to make more millions there. It was a cruel betrayal or so my human tells me.  Sometimes now they call me “He Who Shall Not Be Named” and I get even more confused than I already am, which is kinda all the time.

But this post isn’t going to be about baseball. Or money. INSTEAD, it’s going to be a list of things I don’t like. My human is muttering that this is some sort of cute-ification of her post because everyone loves either dogs or children, and her children have “killed off any sort of mammalian nurturing in her body” because they are “feral AND ungrateful, all at the same time” and this is clearly “why I am the lead today.”

I know. Try to control your enthusiasm.

Here we go:

A List of Things That I (He Who Shall Not Be Named) Really Does Not Like:

  1. The distance, in inches, between her and me.
  2. When she gets up and walks somewhere else. Why? Why the walking?
  3. When she goes to the bathroom, unless door is open. And even then, not so much. We could just go use the copious facilities provided outside. And we could do so, together. Which wouldn’t be awkward at all.
  4. When she makes the dinner for the male humans that always make so much noise. I am am never allowed to eat it. And, there is so much back and forthing while the cooking. Why? Why does she not pour the brown roundings into a dish?
  5. When she pets her children. The betrayal.
  6. When she does not allow me to press my entire body against hers, in fervor. It’s not weird. Why does she seem to think it’s so weird?
  7. When I lose my mind at the door. There are the awful people on the other side of it.
  8. When she LEAVES ME HOW CAN SHE DO THAT AND SHE’LL NEVER COME BACK I JUST KNOW IT.
  9. SHE CAME BACK BUT NOW THERE’S NO PETTING.
  10. Other small furry animals in assorted colors in this house that I am not allowed to touch for some stupid reason. Especially the big white one. Fatty.

Things I DO like:

  1. Ear rubs.
  2. Bacon. One time a piece was dropped on the kitchen floor. Since that time I have been waiting. I know it will happen again. I have the faith.
  3. Ear rubs.
  4. There was another one but I really just want some bacon.
  5. The human who is female. The soft one. She is my love. My life. My everything. I know she feels exactly the same way about me- Oh! We’re moving! Relocating! Another room! Alert! Another room! I must stay close or she’ll stray out of my range of vision! Vigilance is key!
  6. I also like bacon.

And… we’re seated. Deep breath. That was a close one. She was about three feet away for almost ten seconds and, as you know, that makes me all quivery. So, now I’m lying on her feet and all is right with the world.

So. Do you have any bacon?

 

Want-Some-bacon.jpg

 

 

 

 

Why do beer commercials get to have all the fun?

You guys. I just watched a beer commercial that made me all emotional.

I mean, I watched it? And it’s possible there was a bit of moisture around the eyes.

A BEER commercial.

You had me at slow-motion prancing, Budweiser Clydesdale.

The people in that commercial were all, “I’m having this really important, bonding, full of love moment with you other actors, out here on this hipster porch. And I have a beard. And look! There goes the Clydesdale again! And this is all so very very real and awesome and good. We are really talking and bonding and great gin and tonics, this commercial is a Norman Rockwell with BEER. And horses.”

What’s the deal, beer? You got to have Spuds McKenszie. He wore sunglasses, y’all.

Hamm’s had a bear, I think.

Dad, did Hamm’s have a bear? I know you’re reading this and you would know. Because, you were around then. 

And then, there was this commercial.

Watch, if you dare:

 

I know. I’ll wait. You go get your tissue box. Sad Doggie Waiting Face will wait too. JUST MAKE SURE YOU DON’T DRINK AND CRASH SOMEHOW BEFORE YOU COME BACK BECAUSE YOU’RE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DOGGIE FACE.

THAT DOG IS SAD AND I CAN’T HANDLE SAD DOGS. HELP.

But anyhow.

I think it’s high time I get an animal. I mean, I already have four, but where is the payout, little furry ones? Why does beer get to have all the fun?

I have these two:IMG_7932.JPGIMG_7929.JPG

Surely, there’s some way we could make some money off of them, right?

I mean, omg. Look. At. That. Butt.

If beer gets to inflict us with a puppy’s need for therapy after a life story that could be its own Lifetime movie, then I get my own animal.

And he is THRILLED BEYOND BELIEF.

IMG_7935.JPG

Steve refused. He was my first choice. We had a very short casting call where I grabbed him and clutched him to my chest and rocked back and forth and said, “I love youuuuuu my preshusssss” but he said he is not selling out. His butt is his own.

Hosmer had no issues with any of this because he never understands much anyway.

And also this post is not making much sense at all, so he’s on board with that.

I haven’t really figured out how to do any of this, but if a duck can sell insurance, then I can make it happen.

 

IMG_7929.JPG

Steve’s behind is so large it is its own “Insert Ad Here” space, with fur. I couldn’t resist.

He informed me that he felt cheap, and used. I offered to pay him with Whisker Lickins, tuna flavor, to which he blinked, and said,

“If we downsize the font, there’s also room to put a link to your book on the Amazon.”

 

The end.

 

This post was sponsored by:

Nobody. I really need to up my game.

 

Don’t ever settle down.

Linking up with my favorite peeps today! The theme?

 

More-FMF-Square-Images-1.png

 

It’s Friday. Good Friday, which as might know, is kind of a confusing name.

Last night, we took the boys to Maundy Thursday service (another confusing name – we Christians like to keep things all a kilter), and Red was very spiritual. Seven pm services tend to do that to him. He can get all quiet and sorta pensive.

It’s also possible he was dog-tired because earlier he was running about like a puppy on pixie sticks, but you know. I prefer spiritual.

Anyhow, Red was explaining what Maundy Thursday was all about, and then he launched right into Good Friday. (If you don’t know, Maundy Thursday it’s a commemoration of the Last Supper. Or, if you are Red, Maundy Thursday is about the Last Supper and ALSO grape juice! Grape juice in those little plastic cups! We NEVER drink grape juice at home so there is GRAPE JUICE COMING. Also a very dry small cracker thing. WHICH GETS TO GET WASHED DOWN WITH GRAPE JUICE OH SWEET NECTAR.)

And yes, I have just basically confessed that my sweet boy regards communion as a spiritual snack time of sorts. It’s a process, people.

So. Anyhow, Good Friday.

Red is trying to understand why Good Friday has any sort of Goodness in it. He says, “Jesus did not go into Good Friday all… ‘Hooray!’ Ok? It’s not GOOD. It’s TERRIFYING.”

Quick backstory: We are in line to go up and take communion while this conversation is occurring so it’s all very whispered and there’s a lot of “Shh-shing” in the background.

So, then Red is quiet for minute and I can literally SEE the little tiny synapses firing away, up inside his little Red head. And then, he blurts out:

“BUT IT’S SO GOOD. IT WAS GOOD FOR US. AND HE’S ALL ABOUT US, SO THAT’S IT! THAT’S WHY IT’S GOOD! I GET IT NOW!”

You know, we all get to get them, these little God moments where God comes up besides us and smiles gently and then WHACKS us UPSIDE THE HEAD with a God moment, because we needed it. And it doesn’t hurt, really. I mean, it can make us a little dizzy, but  it’s just really cool and kinda a moment to shout about.

But, back to Maundy Thursday – where we were supposed to be sort of contemplative and quiet and pondering Gethsemane and sad, and here’s Red, completely rocking out his God moment for all the world to see. And hear.

I wanted to tell him to Settle Down. I did. But instead, I just hugged on him and smiled to the little old lady in line with us, and I realized something:

There is no settling in this faith of ours. It’s big and changing and it breaks our world apart. It HAS to. And today, our world is to break. And Sunday? It will break even MORE. And it’s happy and it’s sad and it’s terrifying and it’s good. 

It’s so good. Thank you for Sunday, my Jesus. Thank you for being so brave. Thank you for loving us so deeply.  Whatever in the world would I do without you?

Settling-for-less-than-the-best-is-a-key-characteristic-of-a-person-who-doesn’t-feel-that-they-are-worthy-of-more.jpg

 

 

When the routine is all we have.

Linking up with my people at Five Minute Friday today.

The theme?

More-FMF-Square-Images-4.jpg

 

There are days when I get up, I get dressed, I swig some coffee, and I sashay on out to the world and say,

“World, greetings and salutations! I just had some coffee and my kids are dressed with 75% of their clothes facing the right way, and I’m PUMPED. Let’s DO this!”

Today friends, is not that day.

Today was a wake up, stare up at the ceiling, wish for more sleep, more coffee, more time when my brain didn’t seem to hurt so bad, kind of day.

I was not ready to face it, the day, or anything else for that matter.

I just wanted to pull my covers up over my head and hope for sleep and chocolate and perhaps a Corgi puppy. A puppy would help.

That would get all messy, though. And you know the puppy would also eat the chocolate which is bad and there would be stains on the bed and UGH WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO BE SO HARD EVEN PUPPIES.

And that’s when I start in on the whole exhausting mental checklist of Doom:

  1. It’s sunny, but I’m still sad.
  2. My children are healthy. Yep, still sad.
  3. Chocolate is in the house somewhere. SAD. SAD. SAD.
  4. We are fed, watered, have a roof… and still there is this horrible dreadful SADNESS. GO AWAY.

I have no reason for this sadness. And I really hate that. I want it to go away. I want to fight it. But the more I do, the more I get stuck in the sadness. Do you remember that verse in the bible about temptation? It says not to engage. Don’t make eye contact. Just RUN DA HECK AWAY? Well, that’s what I need to do, I think.

But I’m too tired to run.

I hate this sadness SO much that I have a tendency to hunker down and listen to a sour, angry voice inside my head that I like to call my “Inner Asshole” (sounds so inappropriate and kind of gross, but really? It’s just who he is). And he says things like:

“You’ll always feel this way. This day is gonna suck so hard it will just be impossible to even MOVE and your kids will hate you and everything is awful and why even try. Nothing matters except that you know that you are a failure for feeling things so hard that they make you immobile, so for the love of Pete, MAKE SURE YOU DON’T MOVE THEN. It’s super important when feeling immobile to KEEP ON BEING THAT WAY.”

But this morning, I did this:

“Hey, Inner Asshole, shut it. (Again, kinda gross.) I gotta go teach a bunch of college kids how to write good.”

And I got up, got dressed, even brushed and flossed (win for me AND the college kids) and got to work.

I didn’t want to.

I really just wanted to stay home.

I kinda hate parenthetical citations, really.

But sometimes? The routine is all we have. And we get up, and floss, mutter the serenity prayer six times, and talk about parenthetical citations, and we hold onto all that stuff as a tiny, bobbing life preserver.

Not a big pink floatie in the shape of a flamingo, folks. Just a tiny, yellow, beat-up life preserver. That’s it. That’s all you get.

The sharks are still out there, but by goodness, I am going to float the heck out of that preserver and paddle on. 

NOT TODAY, SHARK.

NOT TODAY.

 

 

Provide.

Linking up with my favorite Friday people today at Five Minute Friday. The theme?

Setting: the dinner table. AKA the military zone.

The characters:
Blonde – AKA I Think He Eats Air
Red – AKA He Changes His Mind About Things. A Lot.
Momsie – AKA General Momsie

Momsie sets down a cheesy chicken burrito in front of both boys.
And… the first shot was fired.

Blonde: It’s too cheesy.

Me: You don’t like cheese?

Blonde: I do like cheese. But not when it’s gooey.

Me: It’s melted. It’s gooey. You devour pizza so very often, and it has gooey written all over it.

Blonde: I don’t like gooey when it’s mixed with chicken.

Me: So, it’s the chicken. The chicken is the culprit.

Red: I like chicken! But this chicken is too soft.

Me: IT’S SHREDDED CHICKEN. THE CHICKEN HAD NO CHOICE IN THE MATTER.

Red: Can’t I just eat blueberries and six pickles for dinner?

Me: Red, you ate THIS EXACT meal two days ago and you loved it. And yes, readers I am now admitting that I feed them on repeat. They LOVED it two days ago. I was hoping for a return to greatness. And also, the husband has been out of town for a week on a business trip and it’s been pretty basic around here. I did, however, make home made ranch dressing for them to dip their teensy tiny carrots into, so I am winning in some way here, right? Right?

Red: Wow.

Blonde: Our mother feels guilt about a lot of things. Her ranch dressing is a way to absolve that guilt.

Red: Wow.

Blonde: So, can I just eat tortilla chips? There’s corn in there. Healthy.

Red: This chicken and cheesy stuff is too creamy. I don’t like creamy.

Me: I don’t know who you are anymore.

As God is my witness, someday I will make a meal that they both like at the same time.

I provide for my children. Every day, I make horrible, awful, creamy cheesy things. It’s what I do.
It’s what we do.

Privilege

Linking up with Five Minute Friday today! The theme?

Screenshot 2018-02-09 12.20.01.png

I’ve been working a lot on gratitude lately.

Do you know what? The thing with gratitude is, if you work it, it really works!

Say that fast five times, I dare you.

Gratitude is a conversation with yourself and God about how blessed you are. Here are some other things I am learning about gratitude:

  1. It’s just like a three pointer – you really can practice it and improve. Or, if you’re like me, you can practice it and get real close to the basket but feel better about it.
  2. It should be a daily thing.
  3. It should be an hourly thing.
  4. It’s really a minute by minute thing. You get the idea.

I think gratitude is my simplest way to worship. And privilege is right in there. I mean “privilege” in a good way, not in the “I’m taking over the world” kind of way.

It’s a privilege – to walk down the street every morning and teach my kids about writing and thinking (hopefully at the same time). It’s something I don’t take lightly. It has strings attached, little 18 year old souls that need more than just teaching. It’s a privilege to be with them and learn who they are and learn their stories.

It’s a privilege to relate with my husband. Notice I didn’t just say, “HAVE a husband” because we’re past that now. I have him. I done had him over ten years ago – snared like a 6 foot rabbit in a trap. A rabbit that was in looooove.

He’s still in love, and it’s a privilege to keep walking that path with him – the one where we figure out how to stay in love and work on it and screw up and keep working and on and on. Marriage, y’all. It’s hard core.

It’s a privilege to have these two boys. Red and Blonde. Don’t even get me started. They are just the sweetest, most intelligent, perfect adorable nuggets of humanity. While, at the same time, they are also frustrating and sometimes they have me at: “I don’t even know what to say here. Go to your room. Stay there for two years.”

It’s a privilege. This whole life is that. I was granted special permission by Christ, about twenty years ago, to have a life with him IN it.

And, it’s also totally not, because he never said anything like, “Well, I’m only going to offer out this relationship to a few folks. The special, super elite ones – with the good hair and a really great grasp on the the Old Testament.”

And thank goodness because I am very often 0 for 2 on the hair and the bible thing.

It’s a privilege to talk to Him every day. I ask him stuff and complain and then remember to thank him and keep on talking, and he actually listens.

I have a lot of blessings in my life – I am a healthy, financially ok, employed, white woman with a lot of perks that a lot of people in our world don’t even get to consider.

Realizing this, I am privileged. Blessed. Made alive with hope and wonder with the daily business that is faith.

Amen.