Who’s tired of the Jack Johnson lyrics? Not me, obviously.
The girls are sleeping and instead of getting the house ready for a fun-filled holiday weekend, I’m here talking to you.
I’ve sold a few diapers and along with birthday money from the wonderful Momma Sue, I have enough dough to get a new diaper bag to replace the one that was stolen. I absolutely adore the Petunia Picklebottom Wistful Weekender. It’s roomy without being a bottomless pit and has enough pockets to hold snacks, an EpiPen, hair bows and chapsticks. Plus, since it isn’t technically a diaper bag, I can use it as an actual weekend get-away bag. HA! That was a joke. Who’s going anywhere for a weekend a.) without children or b.) with children and can manage to pack a weekend’s worth of anything in one bag? Anyway, will you help me choose a new pattern?
Can’t you see that it’s just raining?
There ain’t no need to go outside…
I’ve been playing single parent for the past few days while Hub is away for work. Although we are somewhat used to his work demands, this trip has been the longest in awhile and quite taxing on all of us.
We live pretty independent lives as the girls keep me crazy busy and his job keeps long hours. So having him away on business doesn’t make a big difference in our routine but it makes my world feel off kilter. Like my compass doesn’t point true north or my tether is a bit loose.
We could close the curtains
Pretend like there’s no world outside…
And I’m burnt out.
I’ve deleted and rewritten several times and hesitated posting. Whatever. I’m throwing my own little pity party and it is embarrassing to invite you all but come on in. Not every day is a dance party, right?
So, word to wise – Never, ever try to be ambitious when you know your sanity is teetering the edge.
Extra efforts go seemingly unnoticed, unappreciated and they manage to suck any excess energy I had, once fueled by good intention. Come on, kids! This will be FUN! Yes, it looked like an excellent sensory craft to pass the time but instead of my (nearly) 3 year old happily gluing puff balls to create an underwater landscape, I’m spent trying to explain why she can’t stick the puffs on her sister and regulating the blatant waste of $6 worth of glitter.
Fresh roasted coffee, carrots every shade from red to orange, and mounds and mounds of local peaches spread across the tables. E walks ahead of us and together, we bob and weave through the crowd to inspect this week’s assortment of goods. For our family, there is no better way to spend our Saturday mornings than shopping the booths at the Forsyth Farmer’s Market and finding some culinary inspiration. This week is going to be a crazy one (aren’t they all?) so it was nice to take an hour or so and enjoy the day.
I picked four small – but lovely – zucchini from Bethesda Farm. I initially planned to grill them with hamburgers from Hunter Cattle but as our vegetable bounty grew, I chose a different, sweeter purpose for those little guys.
Am I the only one bothered by the overwhelming misuse of certain words in our daily verbiage? Yes? I figured as much. But bear with me.
Anxious. Ignorant. Literally.
I literally become anxious when people are ignorant enough to butcher the English language.
Anyway. I’m a word nerd. And I am also a health nerd. Pair these two bizarre personality quirks and you get the word I can’t stand to hear misused and abused: Diet.
diet [dahy-it], noun: food and drink considered in terms of its qualities, composition, and its effects on health.
You should be on a diet.
…and for good reason. Otherwise, I’m certain I’d be one chubby and lazy lady in no time.
Let me tell y’all how amazing my husband is.
Hub can cook. And he does it well. He makes the most amazing French crepes topped with fresh strawberries, blueberries and real maple syrup. Secondly, he deals with diapers. I know a lot of daddies won’t even change a diaper let alone change, prep and wash cloth diapers. Thirdly, he loves spending time with our kids.
And when a Mother’s Day/Birthday combo comes around, he pulls out all the stops to make sure this Momma has no cooking, cleaning or child-tending to do.
Which is awesome.
After enduring and (barely) surviving what shall hereby forever be known as The Worst Week of My Adult Life, today was exactly what this worn out Momma needed. Sun, friends, a new iPhone and early bedtimes.
We joined my friend Mariah and her clan at Jekyll Island to celebrate her little man’s first birthday.
Her boys and my girls match up pretty closely age-wise. The older two play quite well together when E isn’t breaking sticks over Miles’s head (during which he sits quietly, enduring the beating like a true little gentleman). The younger ones explore independently but I envision those two troublemakers sitting and scheming up some antics to torture their older siblings in very near future.
If we are Facebook friends (as I’m sure most of us are), you know that yesterday someone smashed my car window and swiped my diaper bag containing my wallet, iPhone, B’s EpiPen, medicine for B’s current hives, and various souvenirs from life with two little girls.
It happens, we live in Savannah. Although beautiful, poverty and crime is through the charts. It happened in broad daylight when YMCA members are constantly coming and going. I was parked in front the door, in sight of the main desk. I was in the building for less than 5 minutes. But it happens and I should have known better.
The things are just things but I feel so violated. Someone took something of mine because they thought they were entitled to it. That I didn’t need it. That they somehow had the right to shatter my property and steal. And then run away.
There are brief moments as a parent when you are overcome with panic and a quick thought flashes through your mind: No, no, no. This wasn’t what I signed up for. I am not qualified to handle this.
For me, these thoughts often include a sinking feeling in my stomach and a fear so tangible my finger tips tingle. And they are always, always invoked by my children and more often than not, my allergic child.
Parents worry. It’s a given. But when you factor in a chronic condition like food allergies, it’s an extra layer of worry slathered thick on top of a worry-filled cake (that better be dairy-, egg- and peanut-free). I realize on the scale of worry, parenting an allergic child is on the calm end compared to parenting, say, a child with cancer. But I am a fretter and allergic reactions can put me into a frenzy.
This morning, I put on my crazypants and went on a frenzied worry-spree.
To those who know me, today’s DLCS isn’t much of a secret but it is definitely a topic of clean living.
I use cloth diapers.
Cloth diapering has certainly gained popularity in recent years and a fair-share of my mommy friends are cloth-converts. And yet, I still get bizarre stares and remarks from some folks when they realize I actually launder and reuse the diaper on Little Chunk’s derrière. So, here’s the (lengthy) rundown on why and how we cloth diaper.