This is MY Netflix shirt.

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You guys.

I have told you about my fabulous gig with Netflix, haven’t I?

Yep. I post monthly on various shows that I love or my kids love or even the hubs (but his cue is all full of documentaries about World War II, so his options are a bit more… grim). Netflix took me on for this gig over two years ago, and the bonus was that I receive a free membership for my blogs.

It all seemed a perfect fit. I love Netflix. I love free. Voila! We were meant for each other!

And then. You guys.

They started sending me stuff.

Like, toys for the kids. And a charger thing-ie for my laptop (I don’t know what it is, but the husband does and says it’s awesome, so there).

And, and yes. JUST A TELEVISION.

But this latest little giftie? It’s the best. THE BEST.

LOOKIT!

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My PRESHUSSSSSSS.

I don’t have to share it. It is mine. Know why it’s mine? BECAUSE IT SAYS IT RIGHT THERE ON THE SHIRT.

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It’s all soft and comfy, my Netflix shirt. It completes me.

And, just recently, I actually WATCHED Netflix, whilst wearing MY shirt. And my head nearly blew off. From the coolness and meta-ness (yes that’s a word) of it all. And also because I was on my seventh hour of House of Cards. That show is intense.

Ok, so today’s post is about sharing. ‘Cuz sharing is caring, after all. But here’s the thing:

I don’t wanna share.

Moms so have to share all the time. Their food. Their boobs. Their breathing space, for Pete’s sake. So, this is all about the Netflix shows that I JUST DON’T WANNA SHARE ANYMORE!

What I mean is, I watch these lovelies all alone because they are probably not ok for little eyeballs, and to me, that’s not sharing. I realize it is kinda a wonky definition, but let’s face it. My ideas of sharing were pretty much blown out of the water when the little ones first took up residence in my uterus. Sweet little parasites.

Did she just say that? Did she just say her preshus angels were parasites?

Which brings me to my first show:

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I really don’t need to explain, do I? He has, like, a bunch of kids. He makes fun of parenting. And not once does he drop the F bomb. ‘Nuff said.

And then:

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There are days, my friends, where I need to dial up my pink taffeta prom dress memories. I had puffy sleeves the size of watermelons, y’all. And I worked it.

 

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So, this is kind of a veer from cute and pink, but you guys. I LOVE this show. It’s just so good. And, as it is British, it makes it extra good. The accents, you know.

Oh, and finally:Hart-of-Dixie-TV-Series.jpg

Yes. I know. Back to the cuteness. It’s total southern stuff. It’s got cuteness and fluff written all over it, and by tarnation, I LIKE IT.

Mainly, I like it because I spend the majority of the show coveting Lemon Breeland’s (played by Jaime King) wardrobe. Just her WARDROBE could have a show of its own, you read me?

I mean, just LOOK:

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If you google, ‘Lemon outfits” google already knows. She is just that fabulous. Well, first you will get a slew of actual lemon outfits because the internet tries so hard, but eventually Miss Breeland shows up with her sparkles!

Sharing is caring. I know. But sometimes? Momma needs her couch and a blanket and NO ONE ELSE IN THE ROOM while she watches her Netflix.  And if someone could find me a cardigan like the one pictured above, perfection.

But for now, I’ll settle for some sweet tea and my, MY Netflix shirt.

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Throw Back Thursday: “Y is for “Yes, Jesus Yubs Me”

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The other day I was practicing some drills in Mom Surveillance.  This means puttering about in the room next to my sons as I eavesdrop on their conversations.  I do this to monitor if they are normal, not weird, children.  I have a chart:

 

1_8_inch_graph_paper

 

I also have night vision goggles and I know how to use them.

 

As I pretended to clean the cat box, I overheard this:

Red:  Dis is MY train, stop takin’ it!

Blonde: Red, dats MY train, it was a birthday present and it is VERY SPECIAL TO ME.  (Blonde often claims about 90% of the toys in this house, broken or not, are birthday presents and thus, VERY SPECIAL.  This is a fat load of horse poop, because he barely gets anything for his birthday.)*

Red: (unfazed) Thata is not da truth.  This twain is MINE.  Grandpa gave it to me.

This riveting back and forth session sucked about four minutes out of my life, and since I aim for brevity let’s pick up here:

WHACK!

(Dramatic pause…)

WaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAA!!! MOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!

Yep. Somebody got whacked.  Not in the Italian mobster fashion, thank goodness, but in the toddler smiting fashion.

So…  you know the drill…  we all go to the timeout area, we talk about why.. blah blah blah, somebody says sorry… blah blah… the enthusiasm for the whole thing about equals when I pretend to clean the cat box.

The boys are left to timeout to “think about what they’ve done” (which means = I am going to walk away before I lose it, and they’re stuck there, so blessed containment).

After a bit, I hear it:

Blonde:  RED, OBEY your parents because it PWEASES DA LORD.**

I froze in my tracks.  A tough thing to do because I was actually trying to hustle the litter box refuse out the door (no more pretending).

My son, my sweet, darling, adorable son had just quoted scripture to his brother.

Warm fuzzies, ya’ll. Somewhere a bell rang, an angel got his wings, St. Peter high-fived Paul, and Jesus said, “Ch-CHING! Momsie!  Your children are so spiritual!  And I should know!!!!“

 

The end!

 

What. WHAT?  (The Lawyer, aka, Mr. Pain in the Tuckus, is here.)

Well, I KNOW it’s not really the end of the story but I don’t want to bore them-

But-

Well-

Why?

Can’t I just?

Really?

Don’t pull that whole “journalistic integrity” thing on ME.  That’s only for people covering the war, or something.

FINE.

 

Ok. Sigh.  Here’s the rest of the story:

 

There is the possibility that while in timeout, the Party of the First Party kept leaning slightly towards the Second Smaller Part of the Party (or something like that; I’m not so good at this legal speak stuff).  This “leaning,” I guess, qualified as a crime against humanity and resulted, thusly, in what I term Extreme Whining, which made the Third Party lose her cool and bellow at the top of her lungs at Both Parties:

“GOD GIVES JOY TO THOSE WHO GIVE PEACE!*** SO GIVE PEACE! RIGHT NOW, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY!!!!”

Yep.  Nothing like shooting scripture AT your children, lobbing it like a big, fat, cannon ball of God’s Biblical Truth. BLAMMO.

 

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So later that day:

Red and Blonde are in the play room.  Momsie is skulking about as well. As always.  This time, she’s pretending to clean the bathtub.

Red:  Here’s da bible!  Dis is our bible, wite?

Blonde: Yep.

Momsie starts to glow with pride.  They’re gonna talk about the bible!  Jesus moment!!!  I feel like a bird watcher who just spotted a SapBellied SapClucker or something.

And then:

Blonde: Wait…  no… that’s MY bible.  It was a birthday present and IT’S REALLY SPECIAL TO ME!

Red:  No!!  It’s MINE!

(Dramatic pause…)

 

Yes, you know the rest.

One of my kids hit the other one.  With the bible.

And lo, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth as the result.  From the kids too.

 

* Don’t email me.  The kid gets loot galore from his grandparents.  Generally all the toys that kids really love that drive the parents crazy.  Payback and karma and all that.

** Cowassianss 3:20.  It’s a good ‘un.  Bible is full of ’em, by the way.

*** Rogers 12:20 – This one makes a lot more sense if you don’t screech it.  At anyone.

 

 

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The Dreaded Think, Pair, Share

 

Linking up with Heading Home today for Five Minute Friday.

Today’s word:

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When I was in the classroom, I used to inflict my students with this activity:

“Ok, folks, I would like for you to read the following paragraph, and then (wait for it…) Let’s do a Think, Pair, Share!”

The children would groan. Well, they were too kind to groan out loud. No, they would stuff those groans inside and then slump over with silent, overflowing groaning in mime, as they read and prepared themselves to share.

Think, Pair, Share had good intentions, ya’ll. It really did. The concept was solid – think over something, share your thoughts with another, this allows you to Stop, Collaborate, and Listen, which only then leads us to start nodding our heads along with Vanilla Ice’s horrible riff on Queen, and from there?

Oh, I don’t know. I have totally lost my train of thought here. Probably too much sharing, in that I just revealed to you that I do have the lyrics to “Ice, Ice Baby” still in my head, packed in with too much coffee this morning.

Anyhow.

Think, Pair, Share. It’s not the Thinking or the Pairing that was the issue. It was trying to come up with something somewhat intelligent and inspiring to SAY. Forced SAYING of things does not go well. I, of course, was looking for depth, insight, that moment of zen when a student says, “I feel that Scout had a deep sense of reverence for her father all throughout the book, but it wasn’t until his final speech at the courtroom that she was able to realize it.” Instead, I get this: “I don’t get this book. I read the whole thing. We’re in the last chapter. When is someone gonna kill the mockingbird?” *

I am sharing all this with you to tell you this:

I am not really into sharing. I do like to talk, a lot, about myself. It’s my favorite subject, really. I love to chatter on, witty and all, about my sons trying out their wrestling moves on Steve the Cat.

But sharing is hard. Sharing means vulnerability. Sharing means… I might show someone that I’m not large, in charge, and totally in control. Because, really? I am so not in control. Of anything.

And when I had kids? This takes this sharing thing OFF the CHARTS. Because, if you don’t learn to talk and lean on your girlfriends a bit, after a day of being surrounded by little mouth breathers who have made it their mission in life to MISS the toilet seat as artistically as possible, you will lose your mind. And then, there won’t be any mind to share at all.

Just a tired out, blob of a mom.

When Blonde was first born, I morphed into that blobby mom. I don’t really know how or why… (well, I do know some of it – I was totally post partumming all over the place, and was also looking into the abyss of a very real addiction to alcohol, so it’s NO wonder I got a bit wonky)… and I got so isolated and alone that I actually started to feel like I wanted it that way.

One time, I saw a neighbor friend coming up the front walk, and I so did not want to TALK to anyone, that I actually dropped to the ground to avoid her seeing me through our wide picture window. I know. Nutball. (No, I will NOT divulge who the neighbor friend was. And YES, I will agree, my behavior was a bit silly. But, I’m SHARING, here. Don’t judge. Or, judge, but just don’t message me about it.)

As I was lying there on my carpet, staring at all the mating dust bunnies under my couch, I wondered, “Hm. This is a bit over the top, even for you. Perhaps, you have issues?”

I learned to get out. To see people. To talk a bit. And then, it took me about FIVE years to get sort of comfortable with the concept of sharing. REALLY sharing.

I’m still working on it.

But if we don’t learn to lean on each other, and share the load? Then, we’re all alone, stuck with a big stick, and no one to help us carry it.

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“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”
― Mother Teresa

* This is a true story. My student was an avid hunter. He was not an avid reader. The ONLY thing that kept him engaged in this classic was the hoped for hunting scene and that oh-so suspenseful demise of the mockingbird. Poor kid.

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Y is for “Yes, Jesus Yubs Me”

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See the sweet little blonde on the left? Nope. That’s not my son. Just to be clear.

 

The other day I was practicing some drills in Mom Surveillance.  This means puttering about in the room next to my sons as I eavesdrop on their conversations.  I do this to monitor if they are normal, not weird, children.  I have a chart:

 

1_8_inch_graph_paper

So far, not so weird!

 

I also have night vision goggles and I know how to use them.

 

As I pretended to clean the cat box, I overheard this:

Red:  Dis is MY train, stop takin’ it!

Blonde: Red, dats MY train, it was a birthday present and it is VERY SPECIAL TO ME.  (Blonde often claims about 90% of the toys in this house, broken or not, are birthday presents and thus, VERY SPECIAL.  This is a fat load of horse poop, because he barely gets anything for his birthday.)*

Red: (unfazed) Thata is not da truth.  This twain is MINE.  Grandpa gave it to me.

This riveting back and forth session sucked about four minutes out of my life, and since I aim for brevity let’s pick up here:

WHACK!

(Dramatic pause…)

WaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAA!!! MOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!

Yep. Somebody got whacked.  Not in the Italian mobster fashion, thank goodness, but in the toddler smiting fashion.

So…  you know the drill…  we all go to the timeout area, we talk about why.. blah blah blah, somebody says sorry… blah blah… the enthusiasm for the whole thing about equals when I pretend to clean the cat box.

The boys are left to timeout to “think about what they’ve done” (which means = I am going to walk away before I lose it, and they’re stuck there, so blessed containment).

After a bit, I hear it:

Blonde:  RED, OBEY your parents because it PWEASES DA LORD.**

I froze in my tracks.  A tough thing to do because I was actually trying to hustle the litter box refuse out the door (no more pretending).

My son, my sweet, darling, adorable son had just quoted scripture to his brother.

Warm fuzzies, ya’ll. Somewhere a bell rang, an angel got his wings, St. Peter high-fived Paul, and Jesus said, “Ch-CHING! Momsie!  Your children are so spiritual!  And I should know!!!!

 

The end!

 

What. WHAT?  (The Lawyer, aka, Mr. Pain in the Tuckus, is here.)

Well, I KNOW it’s not really the end of the story but I don’t want to bore them-

But-

Well-

Why?

Can’t I just?

Really?

Don’t pull that whole “journalistic integrity” thing on ME.  That’s only for people covering the war, or something.

FINE.

 

Ok. Sigh.  Here’s the rest of the story:

 

There is the possibility that while in timeout, the Party of the First Party kept leaning slightly towards the Second Smaller Part of the Party (or something like that; I’m not so good at this legal speak stuff).  This “leaning,” I guess, qualified as a crime against humanity and resulted, thusly, in what I term Extreme Whining, which made the Third Party lose her cool and bellow at the top of her lungs at Both Parties:

“GOD GIVES JOY TO THOSE WHO GIVE PEACE!*** SO GIVE PEACE! RIGHT NOW, OR YOU’LL BE SORRY!!!!”

Yep.  Nothing like shooting scripture AT your children, lobbing it like a big, fat, cannon ball of God’s Biblical Truth. BLAMMO.

 

IMG_0259

So later that day:

Red and Blonde are in the play room.  Momsie is skulking about as well. As always.  This time, she’s pretending to clean the bathtub.

Red:  Here’s da bible!  Dis is our bible, wite?

Blonde: Yep.

Momsie starts to glow with pride.  They’re gonna talk about the bible!  Jesus moment!!!  I feel like a bird watcher who just spotted a SapBellied SapClucker or something.

And then:

Blonde: Wait…  no… that’s MY bible.  It was a birthday present and IT’S REALLY SPECIAL TO ME!

Red:  No!!  It’s MINE!

(Dramatic pause…)

 

Yes, you know the rest.

One of my kids hit the other one.  With the bible.

And lo, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth as the result.  From the kids too.

 

* Don’t email me.  The kid gets loot galore from his grandparents.  Generally all the toys that kids really love that drive the parents crazy.  Payback and karma and all that.

** Cowassianss 3:20.  It’s a good ‘un.  Bible is full of ’em, by the way.

*** Rogers 12:20 – This one makes a lot more sense if you don’t screech it.  At anyone.

 

 

kitty 2

Even our pets are super spiritual.