It seems I’ve been on a streak of heart-warming, tear-jerking, and somewhat soft and fuzzy posts lately.
Well guess what, people? The happy baby hormones have officially run out.
Category: Carter
Getting to the bottom of behavior problems with my children is like pulling teeth. One perpetually lies. The other tells a little bit of lots of true things, but leaves out the details of exactly what you want her to say.
This girl gets away with far. too. much.
In the name of Fall, and what I assume is a hormonally induced burst of creativity, I have found myself in Goodwill and Joann’s Fabrics more times this month than I have all year. I have wielded felt, a hot glue gun, duct tape, and duct tape sheets. And thanks to Google Images, I’ve surprised myself, artistically speaking.
Without further ado, I’d like to provide evidence that as the cleanest most type-A parents to ever live, every once in a while, we aren’t total deadbeats in the name of fun. (What you do not see pictured is the stick horse we created for Kindergarten Wild West Day, nor the backup costume that doubled as Hey Diddle Diddle, the CAT and the Fiddle for Nursery Rhyme Party Day. Perhaps an update, soon.)
In honor of my favorite lunch of the week, served every Tuesday for five summers of my life and at least one Tuesday a summer for about ten years of my life, I continue the tradition for Tuesday night dinner with my family.
But Taco Tuesday doesn’t just mean seasoned ground beef and some crunchy shells.
Sometimes it is enchiladas.
Sometimes it is quesadillas.
Dare I admit that the first thirty-seconds of mealtime at our house is a terrible, terrible picture of the way things really are in my house? I’ve been fielding comments in light of my two recent video posts (more face-to-face than written here on my blog) about how “cute,” “sweet,” and “well-mannered,” my children are. This, because we tend to set a few boundaries when it comes to talking to God.
I feel sort of obligated to show a little more reality behind the Baptist facade. And not just in my children.
While growing up, a frequent dinner table comment of my mother’s went something like this: “If you were having dinner at the Queen’s table would you ______?? [Here, insert any number of behaviors, table manners, or the wearing of appropriate attire.]
Continue reading “Would You Rather: Bathroom Talk at the Dinner Table”
Eliott prays for “bigger jobs” for Daddy so she can go to gymnastics, and Carter is in a bad mood.
Was Labor Day a month ago? John keeps commenting how quickly this year is flying by, meanwhile, four measly weeks ago feels like an eternity in my mind. But Labor Day weekend was a pinnacle moment for me in this pregnancy.
It is when I took my nesting hormones and actually applied them to something productive. For real.
I find it funny that the Urban Dictionary definition of “nesting” includes ridding the house of anything “potentially harmful” to the soon to be born child. It turns out, on Labor Day Weekend, this meant the fetus’ father and his older sisters.
I’m attempting a little series.
This is the first, in the series. Perhaps not the strongest. But I feel confident things will only get better.
It is a rainy Saturday morning and I am avoiding gearing up for a ridiculously busy day.
It has been an emotional week. The UnderToad has been lingering, and though I know my hormones are more to blame than anything, I can’t help but think several circumstances also contributed. There have, on the positive side, been some hidden gems of goodness sort of sprinkled throughout everything.
I have become that mother who screams, “GO OUTSIDE!” about ten times a day.
It is a crying shame North Carolina isn’t big on basements. Another mental note for the house we build one day. I will make sure it has a big basement, which is padded, and filled with things I do not care about. I will turn a blind eye when “fight club” develops down there, making sure not to burn the muffins I have baking in the civilization I have created for myself above.
I have come to the conclusion that my children were too intelligent for the “Terrible Two’s.” Instead of spending nine months to a year of their lives in emotion-driven tantrum frenzy, they feigned innocence while silently observing and storing up all aggression to be distributed in a much more calculated and passive way.
The UnderToad 