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.

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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:

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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:

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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:

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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!

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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:

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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.

 

 

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Situation desperate but not serious.

So, it was May Day yesterday.

Which is fitting.

I kind of feel lately that I’m an Ace World War I fighter pilot, and I’m in a plane hiiiiiigh up in the sky, and I’ve been shot down by the Red Baron and WE ARE GOING DOWN. MAY-DAY. MAY-FREAKING-DAY.

Ok, relax, it’s not as serious as it sounds. Desperate, though.

So, a few months back I was all, “Wow, the days pass twenty-four hours at at time and whoa, there goes another one,” and then April came and BOOM time has now decided to fire itself at me and just kind of shut my eyes and try to steer through the shrapnel, all ablaze and screaming a little.

Perhaps I’m exaggerating a little but let me just show you something:

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Ok, when did my son on the left become a middle-aged man in marketing?

Ignore the one on the right. He’s basically been the same since:

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Look. He has my chins.

But wait. No, look at pic above (how can you NOT because holy cuteness. If your ovaries aren’t exploding I don’t know what’s wrong with you. Unless you’re one of my five male readers then, yes, no ovaries. No exploding.)

My goodness people, WHERE, AND I MEAN WHERE EXACTLY, DOES THE TIME GO?

Just last week I was putting away Christmas decor because it was still snowing and now we’re signing them up for summer swim lessons and Blonde, evidently, is now thirty-seven and investing heavily in low-risk stocks (see above pic).

Cue: “Sunrise, Sunset” music.

Also Cue: “Stone Cold Crazy” by Queen. Obviously.

There is something about the month of May that unleashes the hounds of crazy at our house. I mean this is a two-fold way because crazy is nuanced like that and deserves levels.

Crazy, Level One: The calendar is exploding and no one knows how to make it stop.

Between birthdays, my college classes and finals, choir concerts (see above), more birthdays, trying to actually garden something because we are still attempting to keep the whole Martha Stewart vibe/ruse going, feedings, baseball, soccer, baseball AND soccer on the same day, still more feedings, end of the year things for teachers and coaches and my gosh I’m just going to start handing out five dollar bills, and more graduations, and the random “Let’s invite so and so over today!” from the husband, which leads to a bit of muttering on my part but thank YOU frozen Stouffer’s lasagna,(deep breath):

MAY. YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN.

Seriously. Somebody needs to hand May a small snack to try and get its blood sugar under control.

And oh, then there’s also this:

Crazy, Level Two Because This is Me, After All:

My children. They keep doing this thing called growing. And part of me wants it to stop. And then that part realizes what that really would mean, and so we go on and live in reality. But there are times…. when I pass them in the hall and they are so BIG and gangly and when they hug me I don’t even have to bend down at all (which honestly is kind of a bonus) they just fit right in under my chin.

I remember you, sweet older lady in the Walmart line who chirped at me that one time, “Cherish the moments, dearie,” while both boys were whacking each other with some useless artifact that Walmart puts at child eye level just to make them whine and want. I remember you well, sweet lady. At the time I think my eyes kind of shot fire at you while my kids laid on the floor and begggggged for the plastic toy thingie made in China in the Walmart line.

Oh yes, I remember you like it was yesterday. 

I didn’t exactly cherish that moment, sweet lady. But, you meant well. I kind of wished you would get run over by an eighteen-wheeler loaded with plastic toys from China while you were wheeling your cart in the Walmart parking lot, but you know. I got what you were aiming at.

I never cherished the moments enough. But that’s parenting. We do and talk and fix and clean and cook and wipe and wipe again and we forget to stop and LOOK around. Mainly because 50% of the time the wiping involves some sort of bodily fluid and that takes hard core focus, y’all. It takes commitment to clean that stuff up.

And really? Even IF I had stopped and thought, “Right now. I am going to stop and really cherish this moment. LOOK AT ME CHERISHING IT ALL OVER THE PLACE.” I just don’t think I would have done it enough. Because that’s time, for you. And children. Neither of them stand still for very long.

It’s why my phone is full of pictures like this:

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If you look closely, you can see the eye. Just like in Jaws. Only less scary.

And here’s the magic of all of this: The other day, I was in the store, and a tired momma was ahead of me, putting her Gogurts and her GoGo Squeez and her Cuties and all her other kiddie-named food on the grocery treadmill thingie (yes, there’s a term for it but I’m tired and my children make my vocabulary smaller) and she had about four sticky children all smushed up next to her and around her (ok, maybe it was two but they seem to multiply, like rabbits who constantly ask for things) and she just looked so exhausted and I wanted to encourage her. I wanted to tell her to hold onto this time, and just savor it. To really just BE in the moment, you know? So, I smiled at her and said,

“Girl. You really are rocking the top bun today.”

And I left it at that.

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.

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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.

 

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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.

 

Preparing.

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It’s the day before Easter. I woke up late this morning, after a middle of the night dialogue with insomnia. Sleeplessness likes to mess with me every once in a while, and I’m not a fan. But for some reason, as I dragged myself out of bed this morning and faced a day of laundry, cat boxes, groceries, and yard work, I felt strangely peaceful and alert.

Tomorrow’s coming, after all.

The kids and I worked in the yard, raking leaves and prepping gardens that I will later plant with hope and spinach and tomatoes. In that order.

We swept off the front porch and took the snow shovels that had been sitting there since January back to the garage. Also, it’s supposed to snow tomorrow, but we are a risky bunch and decided to take our chances.

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And I bought yet even more pansies. Because:IMG_7901.JPG

You can never have too many purple pansies. Never.

And I ironed, which is a twice yearly event, so that’s a big deal. Also there were the tiny boy three-piece suits to prepare:IMG_7897.JPG

Note the clip-on tie. Very important. The nine year old, Blonde, does love his ties. Red, on the other hand, not so much. Last time he wore one he clipped it to the second button on his shirt and just called it good.

Perhaps he’ll start a new fashion trend. He accessorized this with pants that were on the right way, so he’s a fashion rock star, in my book.

And then, there were these:

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Because Easter must have cupcakes. It’s in the bible.

(Ok, yes, I know it’s not but it should be.)

And then, finally:

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The redbuds are starting to show on my little tree. Things are slowly turning soft green and butter yellow crocus are all over my neighbor’s lawn and I am just so happy.

Tomorrow is almost here, and I am so grateful.

I am just so very grateful.

 

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Don’t ever settle down.

Linking up with my favorite peeps today! The theme?

 

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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?

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When the routine is all we have.

Linking up with my people at Five Minute Friday today.

The theme?

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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.