Finding Christmas

Finding Christmas

This year, not surprisingly, “humanity” has left me gobsmacked with their typical, annual worsening of entitlement and general disdain.  Happy holidays?  Not even if you get ’em on sale.  Traffic was horrific; people even worse.  Anger?  Hostility? Rage?  Seems that’s what retailers really stocked up on this year.  And it got to me.  And I let it get to me.  Having left my regular job in September in an effort to get our business off the ground, we’ve hit a few snags.  We’re alright, just tired.  Thankfully, all seems to have worked out for the best (as it almost always does) and our worries seemed to be for nothing.  Nevertheless, it’s been hard to get “festive”.  The abundance of bad attitudes didn’t help at all.

I needed to get in the “spirit”.  Not just for me –but for my kids.  For my husband.  For people around me.  For my soul.  I love Christmas.  Always have.  Being out of the mood just doesn’t suit me this time of year — especially since I’ve been known to listen to (and belt out) Christmas songs in June.  Yes, I’m that jerk that everyone knows.  “Hi, my name is Sarah and I love Christmas carols.”

A few weeks back, I went to church with my parents instead of where we had been going.  It just happened to be the easiest thing to do since Gabe had spent the night with them.  I’d just bring him home with me after services, easy peasy.  I went figuring I wouldn’t be altogether impressed.  Granted, I didn’t go in critiquing.  But I didn’t figure I’d be moved, either.  The service was great — the pastor’s message was on point.  Can I say that about a preacher’s sermon?  Seems off, doesn’t it?  Anyway, it was.  On point.  But a song was played that I’ve heard every single year since I was pregnant with Gabe.  And every single year, I need to hear it.  And every year, without fail, there is a new message provided.  This year was no different.  Oddly enough, it’s a thought that I’ve had — albeit, fleeting.  You’ve probably heard the song.  I’ve posted it below, just in case.

A baby changes everything.  There is so much obvious in that lyric.  I mean, obviously… babies change everything.  Every aspect of life.  But you know how some things are so obvious you seem to overlook them?  I do that with my boys from time to time.  Not overlooking them, but overlooking the obvious.  I’ve often wondered how Mary had to have felt when she carried her baby.  How she might have wanted to distance herself — knowing what was to come — and yet, also wanting to cling tightly to the little life that would eventually save the world.  A world that would not do likewise for her infant; our Savior.


I wonder how she got through her days watching him grow; watching him learn.  How she had to have stayed busy to not think about what was to come at a time she had not been given.  And yet…. how much pride would she have felt?  What a bittersweet life she had to have lived after her baby was born.  How strange it had to have felt raising her sacrifice.  Would she have felt resentment for the world — or the greatest depth of pity?


I, myself, can hardly bear to think of it.  Raising my own two boys who, though far from perfect, are absolute perfection for my life… I cannot imagine the pain and the pride she had to have experienced for the rest of her days.  How bizarre it had to have felt; how speechless it might have rendered her.  How humbling.

Thankfully, our debt has already been paid.  Thankfully, I will never have to know the immense emotional struggle she had to have faced.  I will never have to give up my boys for a world that would not do the same.  But I can imagine it.  I can feel it.  And to say I’m grateful is the understatement of a lifetime.  A baby changes everything, indeed.  My babies changed my everything.  Her baby changed my everything.  I may get flustered with preparations and I may swear at a box or two, but my Spirit glows.  So no matter the “bah humbug” attitude of others; no matter if my dressing is dry or if my wrapping skills need serious adjusting.  My Christmas was not wrapped in bows; it was wrapped in swaddling cloth.  I have found Christmas.  Or did Christmas find me?

From our home to yours, I wish your the Merriest of Christmases.

Fifteen Things that Sum Up the Ridiculousness that is Parenting

Fifteen Things that Sum Up the Ridiculousness that is Parenting

I’ve learned quite a lot over the past six years as a parent. I’ve learned what to do and infinitely more what not to do.  Kids are often times the best teachers to have; from our kids, we learn how to live and how to love; how to be humble and how to be proud; how to keep it together when we ultimately just need to lose our shit.  You get the idea.  As a mom of two mad-crazy little guys, ages 2 and 6, I have begun to really lose my shit lately.  I’m not as cool and calm as I always thought I’d have been; my 12 year old self figured I’d be a hip, laid-back mom. BAHAHAHAHA.  These days, I’m so high-strung that a Stradivarius would be envious.  Thankfully, I have realized this and I am trying to find the humor in things that would normally set me off like a Roman Candle.  Because of my new-found work-in-progress, I have begun writing down little snippets of what parenting is to me.  Now, you may find yourself jumping on my bandwagon, and you may leave here today thinking I’m a total fruitcake (and… you’d be right).  Nevertheless, parenting is, like I said before, a life lesson for us all.  And so, for those of us who live in the real world of make-believe and near parenting-induced alcoholism, who also do not have the benefit of expensive live-in nannies, I present to you my list of “parenting is…”.  I hope it at the very least brings you a chuckle if not a Katniss-esque salute of sympathy.  I’ll be starting my list with one point that ventures towards the macabre — but I know y’all will feel me on this…


  1. Parenting is: plotting out for weeks on end the murder of America’s favorite fictitious character, Mickey freaking Mouse.  Call it hateful, throw around the term “kill-joy”…. but that mouse is a parent’s nightmare on crack.  Now, did I personally always feel so violently towards the peppy, over-the-top excited little dude?  Nope.  There was a time I, too, was rather fond of Ears.  But Mickey Mouse Clubhouse has rendered me irritated, at best, with it’s unrealistic expectations of childhood behavior.  Not to mention, he’s Connor’s idol and a small mutiny occurs in our home every time that damn mouse is refused.  My mind is leaning towards a Saw like end to the Mouse.  I’m thinking a backwards mousetrap.  Too much?  Oh, well.
  2. Parenting is: wanting to get housework done, but the toddler is sleeping on the couch, and if parenting has taught you ANYTHING its, “Don’t wake the bear.”  Hello, Netflix marathon.
  3. Parenting is: stress eating cheap pizza because “For the love of God and my waistline, quit stalling and do your math facts!”  Move over, skinny jeans; the muumuu is strong with this one.
  4. Parenting is: hovering around the fridge, spoon in hand, avoiding hard stares and denying any knowledge about the banana pudding on the second shelf (behind the Country Crock, adjacent to the Dijon) and arguing that, “No! I’m not going to eat anything, promise! DON’T JUDGE ME, TODDLER!”
  5. Parenting is: a conundrum.  On the one hand, parents love to their kiddos sing pretty much anything.  On the other hand, hearing the chorus of any song over and over on continuous loop because that’s literally the only part of the song they know makes people want to pull their hair out and throw darts at the walls.  See also: Mickey Mouse Clubhouse freaking theme song.  Scooby Doo’s theme is equally annoyingly endearing.


  6. Parenting is: telling the kids to shake it off after pretty much any injury, knowing full well that if it were YOU, you’d either A) swear at the air until the “ouchie” goes away, B) cry like your two year old who has been refused Micka Mouf, or C) stress eat anything that doesn’t move.
  7. Parenting is: repeating yourself calmly a thousand times over, in the most serene of voices, until something in you snaps and suddenly your neighbors all think you’re a metal-band groupie and, “Oh my gawsh, she ate a bat’s ear off, I swear!”
  8. Parenting is: hearing yourself say things — things that should never be said — and not knowing which direction the day will go afterward.  Case in point: I always say weird, off-the-wall things to my kids.  They do weird, off-the-wall things, after-all, and well… shit happens.  But the other day, I said within a five minute span, “QUIT LICKING THE DOG!”, “No, we cannot sell your brother.  No, I do not care that you need more Legos.”, “Santa does not bring presents to little boys who pull on their private area.”, “Please quit putting your butt on the window and put on some pants.”, “No, wiping your ass is not one of my favorite things to do.”  “No, I do not think I look like Velma.”, “We do not point guns at the mail lady.”, “No, I do not think she looks like Velma.”, “No, I will not smell your finger.”  Five minutes.  No lie.  I’ve thought about bringing my kids in for testing, but I’m afraid I’ll never get them back from testing.
  9. Parenting is: s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g  e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g… until your six year old breaks down that impenetrable code (damnit, ELA).  Then, parenting becomes speaking in movie references to anyone who will understand because said six year old is all, “I ain’t droppin’ no eaves.”
  10. Parenting is: attempting to reason with a screaming, tantrum-throwing toddler, only to realize that it would be easier to do and sing the Hokey Pokey backwards and in Pig Latin.  It would also be more enjoyable.
  11. Parenting is: looking feverishly at that untouched bottle of wine in your fridge and managing, somehow, to save it for the weekend even when it’s been a Monday of a Wednesday.
  12. Parenting is: ending most days with someone in tears, someone else covered in Nesquick, and you on the verge of nervous breakdown… but, one way or another, finding the humor in it all, odds be damned.
  13. Parenting is: guidance, chauffeuring, chaperoning, disciplining, kissing booboo’s, and scaring away the monsters.
  14. Parenting is: being loved and getting to love.  It is special.  It’s a gift.  It’s humbling.  It’s pride-bearing.
  15. Parenting is: an experience.  Several experiences, really.  Ones that should be spent with your kids, not at your wit’s end.  It’s hard, it’s tiring, it can be a nightmare; but it’s worth it. They’re worth it.  And so are you, momma and/or poppa bear.

This Thanksgiving, I’m especially thankful for my kids.  I am proud of who they are — even if they drive me positively berserk.  They are my reasons to be thankful for anything; I am blessed beyond measure.  And tired.  I am so, so tired.  Time for the daily battle with Mickey Mouse.  I’ll give you a hint who wins: it’s not me.

Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.

Brace Yourselves; Weird Thanksgiving Food Fusions Are Coming

Brace Yourselves; Weird Thanksgiving Food Fusions Are Coming

Thanksgiving is nearly here, y’all.  “But it’s three weeks away!”, you say.  Y’all don’t even know.  Thanksgiving is THE holiday meal of the year in my family.  We do it big and we do it good.  Even Christmas dinner, which is usually gumbo or maybe a ham, can’t light a candle to Turkey day for us; it’s simply tradition.  It’s a tradition I’m glad to pass down to and share with my little ones.  Our counter tops are loaded down with fried turkey, spiral ham, praline topped sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce, among other things.  We are Thanksgiving traditionalists — not much passes the threshold that is wild and wacky.  That said, there have naturally been some exceptions: pumpkin pie cheesecake, pecan pie cheesecake, sausage balls and even a brisket (or two) has been known to make a rare guest appearance every now and then.  But there are some things I’m relieved to say will likely NEVER make way to our Thanksgiving smorgasbord — things that I’ve only ever seen before in nightmares and brief cameos in Ye Olde Medieval Festivals.  Here are just a few that made my stomach absolutely churn:

  1. Deep Fried Stuffing on a Stick.  There is so much wrong with this, I don’t even know where to begin.  bb2600a6e2dad2279413b46ac9a0c90dJust knowing there are people who have fed this to their kids makes me feel less guilty about “Chicken Nugget Tuesdays” at our house.  Not much less guilty, but I’ll take what I can get.
  2. Turkey Cake.  No, this isn’t a Cake Wars confection that is actually a cake cleverly disguised as holiday fowl.  No, no.  This is essentially a meatloaf (only… with turkey) “frosted” with mashed potatoes and other varied toppings — depending on the “chef”.  Really, it’s a festive shepherd’s pie.  Thanks, but I left school lunch back in 2006 where it belongs.
  3. Regular holiday food — Fear Factor style.  Picture this: the scene is perfect.  Dad’s carving the turkey, mom has made her famous Pecan Pie (puh-kahn.. not PEE-can), and grandma is passing around the croissants.  Every one is settling down to dive in and — wait, what’s that?  Is that… a mealworm?!  Yep.  From my native state of Louisiana, comes “buggy” food.  The folks down at the Audubon Insectarium in NOLA topped their turkey day noms off with things of the protein-rich variety — and we’re not talking vitamin supplements.  No worries; most of us southerners can smack down on a holiday meal, mealworm and cricket free.
  4. Gravy soda.  Once again, I have no words.  All I can imagine is someone opening jarred gravy, pouring in some soda water, and going to town.  850860b0afc0e156ae6adf3b8df1d6caKill me now.
  5. Tofurkey.  This poor food item (if you could call it that) has been the butt of everyone’s Thanksgiving day joke since… well, since someone thought it was a good idea and served it to their family.  I would love to have been a fly on the wall for that Thanksgiving dinner nightmare:  “‘Let’s have Thanksgiving with the cousins’, you said.  ‘It will be fun’, you said.  I told you we should have gone to the Chinese buffet!”  Ah, sweet memories.
  6. Turbaconucken.  This just sounds like congestive heart failure waiting to happen.  And perhaps it could be if it is paired with Deep Fried Stuffing.  On a stick.  Basically, this is one of those Turducken things… but wrapped in bacon.  I’m all about bacon.  And turkey.  And chicken.  Nooot so much duck, admittedly.  But turbackonucken?  If I have a hard time saying it, I don’t think I want to eat it.
  7. Jarred gravy and canned cranberry sauce.  As a southern girl, this hurts me to my very core.  nothing-says-annual-thanksgiving-dinner-contribution-like-jarred-gravy-cff48Two of the most important facets of “the dinner” itself, and you can’t take the time to make it?  Tsk, tsk.
  8. Gluten-free rolls.  I understand people who have an allergy to gluten or just do not or cannot eat it for health purposes.  That said, I’d cut off my left, big toe for gluten.  Actually, that really explains a lot about where I carry all my weight.  But damnit, what good is a roll without gluten?  It’s carb blasphemy!  I just can’t even.
  9. Turdunkin.  Listen, y’all.  I love turkey.  And I freaking love donuts (as per the size of my backside).  And while some breakfast foods may pair well with some not-so breakfast foods (check you out, chicken and waffles!), some things absolutely do not hold the same reputation.  54f942e51ccad_-_turdunkin-turkeyEnter: Turdunken.  Basically, this is a turkey basted in Dunkin Donuts’ Coolattas and stuffed with, get this, Dunkin Donuts.  I have a legitimately hard time believing this could possibly taste worth a damn.  What a waste of good donuts.
  10.  And last but not least, Twinkie Stuffing.  Is there really an explanation necessary for this particular dish?  No, I think we can all gather what kind of food mutiny is going down, here.

I’m sure there are a few here and there that I missed, but these dishes managed to wrangle their way into my mind and burn themselves into the deepest recesses of my memory.  That said, I am going to go over my menu for, oh, the millionth time.  Any strange family holiday dishes you’d like to share?  I’d love to know what the “black sheep” of your Thanksgiving menu may be.

Christmastime Magic

Christmastime Magic


It’s Christmastime again, only this year it’s even more magical than ever before.  Gabe is an absolute Christmas fanatic and, suffice it to say, he has made our holiday around here shine.  I love Christmas under normal circumstances, but this year I’ve stayed up long hours making decorations and making sure the tree looks just right for our little guy.  His love for the season is as genuine as can be; fascination just beams from his little eyes.  He started talking about Christmas this year even before Wal-Mart (and other fine retailers) put out decorations (you know — back in March).  I’m pretty sure he believes that Santa not only exists but is also his best buddy; he has been begging me to make gingerbread men for when Santa, “…wakes up from his nap and comes to his [Gabe’s] house.”  I love to watch him with every part of the season and am so not looking forward to eventually taking everything down and putting it away.  My only comfort in that is knowing that my little guy will find hope and magic at least once a year, at the best time of year.

This evening we went to visit Santa and I thought Gabe would come unglued.  He was so excited and promptly asked Santa for a snowman and a fast racecar.  Upon leaving Santa’s little cottage his hollered back, “Merry Christmas, Santa!”  He grinned so big the whole way home.  Christmas lights have brought forth a particular joy for him and he makes sure we see every single bulb as we drive by the well-lit houses.

As a child I adored Christmas.  There was no better time of year for me.  Now, as an adult, I get to watch my own little ones glow in awe.  And for a spell I am relieved of the commercialism and greediness that the holidays have become.  I am spared the chaos and, yes, even holiday hatefulness when I look into Gabe’s bright eyes.  I am reminded that this time of year is about giving and loving.  I’m given hope in a Christmas that once was and that still is to my small ones.  And for a moment the hustle and bustle of what Christmas was never meant to be fades into the background, no longer consuming my mind and thriving on my impatience.  I get to experience and love the pure, childlike happiness that illuminates my Gabe’s little face.  And in that moment, I am glad.

Our little Connor is having his first Christmas this year.  I am so looking forward to having two little guys in my life that will be consumed by all the gloriousness that the true Christmas Spirit brings.  For now, though, I am enjoying watching him watching Gabe, his own little face beaming with love for his brother.  It is these little ones and those litttle moments that make my heart overflow with a happiness one can only feel and never explain.

Thank God for the innocence of little ones; it is in them that Christmas lives on.  It is because of them that I still believe in Christmastime magic.
And with that I say, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight.”

Mutual Weirdness

Mutual Weirdness


I’m just full of news lately, y’all.  Evan and I are GETTING MARRIED!  And I am pretty late on clue-ing you in.  He proposed on Good Friday, which he said I’m officially allowed to call “Great Friday” (har har) and very nearly sent me into a state of shock… of both the sugar and heart-attack varieties.  He came home with two Easter baskets — one for me and one for Gabe.  While Gabe was distracted with, “OMIGOSH! MOM! CHOCOLATE!”, Ev kept my attention with a few goodies of my own.  He either kind of likes me or really hates me, because in the basket was my single most favorite Easter candy ever (Robin’s Eggs) and a Storm Trooper “Easter bunny” (don’t judge).  In addition to the sugar-y goodness was a single pink egg.  He said it was a special egg and had me open it.  At first all I saw was Laffy Taffy.  And then I picked it up.. and there it was.  I was thrown for a mile, so at first it didn’t occur to me that he was proposing.  My response?  “Oh!  That’s pretty!”  God love him, he must have realized that I was confused, and so because I am a few bricks short of a house, he asked.  I accepted in truest Sarah-response, “You jerk! Of course!”  I am such an adult, I know.  But I can honestly say there’s no one else around that I’d rather fall asleep on during movies.  I’ve finally met my mutually weird counterpart, and now he’s stuck with me.

The rest of our Easter “break” was just as nice, although relatively busy and not at all break-ish.  We had our families out for lunch and enjoyed our Sunday afternoon complete with more Easter bunny festivities.  Connor is getting bigger and stronger, as is evident with his kicking, and Gabe is doing so well with his potty training.  I’m so proud of my boy!  I think we’re rounding a big corner.  I took him to Target the other night and let him pick out his own “big boys,”  and now he is even more excited to keep those undies in tip-top shape.  He’s growing up, y’all.  And as bittersweet (and long over-due) as it is, I’m ECSTATIC.  And just as soon as it’s ended, it’ll pick right back up with munchkin number two.  Sigh.  Ah, well.  It is what it is.

I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it, but in case I haven’t, we have so much going on in the next few months.  And as nerve-wracking everything is and will be, I’m excited to move on.  Gabe starts PRE-K in four months, which will be a big transition for him. Who am I kidding?  That’s a big thing for me, too.  Around that time, Connor will make his grand entrance — another huge progression for the fam.  That’s an awful lot happening already between a (newly) four-year-old pre-k’er and a newborn.  Add to that the start for finding a house to buy — not rent.  We have roughly nine months to make that magic happen.  Somewhere between, we get married.  Whew.  I’m tired just thinking about it.  But it’s beyond worth it.  Even though I know there will be some speed bumps along the way, I am confident that we’ll make it all work.  I’m also relatively confident that Evan and I will be needing a vat of Red Bull by the time this is all said and done.  And with that I say, “Bring it on!”

Rockin’ Around (er.. Down) the Christmas Tree

Rockin’ Around (er.. Down) the Christmas Tree

Did somebody say “timber?”  No, seriously — whodunit?  Because this morning was the THIRD time our little tree hit the dirt as though it had been slugged by a snowball.  I oughtn’t be surprised, really; this happens to me every year at least once.  And I suppose I should be grateful that it didn’t fall on me like in years past.  Two of those years we had company over, leaving me on the couch (by the tree), and at wee hours of the morning the lit dude fell right on top of me.  It really is a wonder I don’t have Grinch-y tendencies.  No, instead I cut down and kill a tree every year in hopes that someday one will get the (needle) point and, you know, quit being such a pain in the ass.  Maybe Santa will bring me a heavier tree next year..?  hmmmm.

Anyway, it is finally starting to feel like Christmas here in The Boot and we are all relieved.  I don’t know about you, but nothing ruins Christmas more than a hot Christmas (except frozen hot chocolate, which is completely twisted).  Evan and I brought Gabe to see the lights in Natchitoches a while back and my parents came along as well.  Gabe just loves the lights, what few there are, here in town, and I just knew he would love the festival.  It was pure magic for me when I was small — hell, I still love it.  So on we went on our first Christmas adventure of the year!  Gabe had a ball.  He ooh’ed and ahh’ed at all the lights and sights (whew… I’d hate to see that light bill..) and laughed and shot at (yep..) the fireworks.  That 1000 watt smile of his positively beamed brighter than the bulbs that glowed and made this old momma bear heart melt.  Afterwards, we headed back to town for Cracker Barrel and finally got in the door around 11:30.  I think Ev and I are officially on Santa’s Nice List.  Right, Santa?

At any rate, this has been an enjoyable, if not hectic, season.  We have officially almost finished shopping and are getting ready to settle in before the visits to multiple homes for even more Christmas festivities.  Little bit has so enjoyed Christmas this year… I hate to take it all down.  But take it down we shall lest we look like we stepped out of Redneck Festivus Magazine.  For now and until it is time to head into the New Year I will enjoy watching him gaze at the tree and listening to his excitement any time he sees “Ho Ho.”  sigh.  Poor Santa.  I mean Ho Ho.

Because I am not good at updating with some regularity to ye olde blog, I will go ahead now and wish you all (all three of you poor souls) a very Merry Christmas and a blessed, safe New Year.

be merry.

...laughing all the way
…laughing all the way
It’s All Fun & Games ’til Momma Sits on the Easter Bunny.

It’s All Fun & Games ’til Momma Sits on the Easter Bunny.

So, y’know how I was hoping that Easter pictures wouldn’t turn out like our round one Christmas pictures?  Dude.  I thought we had skated by bad attitudes.  Wrong-o!  One change of clothes & a sippy-cup sighting later and it was photo smack down all over again.  Thankfully I got some good ones before Things 1 & 2 (more so Thing 1 than 2) turned into Goblins Heeby & Jeeby.

Cate & I thought everything was going to go soooo smoothly, too.  We got up on time (a first), got out the door on time (never happens), and not one but BOTH kids were the sweetest getting out the door.  And then it happened.  When I say we changed shirts & the shit hit the fan, I’m serious.  Pulp Fiction baby style.  So we threw up our hands, got in the car, & headed out.  To the MALL.  Bad idea.  Well, not so much at first.  There was a little petting zoo by B&BW with a bunny & some ducks.  The kids loved it.  We had a hard time getting them away from it until *GASP* they spotted it.  The friggin’ Easter Bunny.  They were all about it until we got up to take pictures.  Then, not so much.  We put them together thinking that, with some moral support, they’d chill, take a photo, and we could get on the road.  Not. Even. Almost.

I wound up sitting with on the bunny (no worries — it was a six-foot rodent suit that I’m pretty sure held a sixteen year old with acne & BO from hell) with our chitlins in front of God & everybody.  They still weren’t having it.  The woman took at least 10 pictures (all of which were comical.  or at least would be in a year or two.  maybe.) and the best one was this one:

hip hop my ass.

Gabe looks petrified.   Abi might look a little deranged.  My nose is massive (for real, it wasn’t that big even after I had Gabe and I was sporting quite a schnoz, then).  And that bunny?  Damn that rabbit’s freakin’ trippy.  I’m beyond grateful our mall didn’t have the Easter bunny when I was their age, ’cause I’d have shit a brick if I had to sit with that thing.  No wonder the kids had mini-panic attacks.  And you can’t see it, but I am totally sitting on the poor guy’s foot.  Oops.

All-in-all, it was a productive weekend.  Easter pictures: done.  Car washed: done.  Kids still alive: check.  Momma’s not liquored up: ch–well.

Nah, just kidding.  Now be a dear & hand me that flask glass.

Lost in Translation

Lost in Translation

Preface: I swear, y’all.. this is not me bashing Valentine’s Day like I did last year.  Swear it.  Okay, there may be a little bashing.. but not on the day itself, but the miscommunication of it all.  There.  I admit it. 

*insert Billy Mays here* But wait!  There’s more!  I’m counteracting my negativity with 14 things I love, so what now???

“Cupid” comes from the Latin, “cupido,” which means — ready???– “desire”.  Cupid, by definition, means desire.  Not love.  Not adoration.  Not buy-one-get-one sales on chocolate at Walgreens.  “Desire.”

“But to desire someone means you la-ha-hooove them, Sarah!”  Negative, ghost rider.  Desire could be love (and I only say this because, according to, love is a synonym for the misnomer.. but I digress), but more often than not to “desire” is to lust.  To crave… etc, etc, etc.  And we all know what desiring does to us.  Well.  Any of us who have children do, at least.  And let me tell you, a hospital bill is a hefty price to pay for prior bad sex and alcohol.  But again, I digress.

Hey… while still on topic of “craving”… I craved the crap out of some dairy products while I was pregs with Gabe & do you know happened??  75 pound happened.  So, yeah.  My desire for cheese & such bit me in the ass… so to speak.

Anyway.  I’m all for love.  True love.  Not “Heyyyy booo… wanna hook up?,” love.  More like, “Sweet Lord your breath is awful this morning, but damnit you’re friggin cute,” love.  It still exists, of that I’m convinced.  Currently, my favorite love is waking up to my two-year-old’s big toe in my eye.  Sounds awful, but at least I know I was well behaved the night before, and what’s more, I can remember the night before.  I could probably even tell you when said big toe was planted into my eye socket, and why I was too lazy to remove the pain-causing agent.

Anyway, I promised I wouldn’t knock this uber-expensive holiday, but I do wanna say this: Aros, another Latin term for Cupid, means love.  Oddly enough, Aros is often the equivalent of Erotes (Latin for erotic love).  Anyway it goes, whether it be a Cupido, Aros, or Erotes kind of love, Happy Valentine’s Day.

That right there? That’s LOVE you guys. For reals.


  1. I love my Gabe.  Not that it’s a secret, or anything.  But that little man has my whole heart & then some.  He was also expensive as hell, & I’d like to keep around for a while.  Get my money’s worth, ya heard me???
  2. Love the parental units (just kidding guys).  I appreciate that they allowed the pair of us to live with them for 2.5 years.  It didn’t go unnoticed, and it was definitely appreciated.  Also, they didn’t kill me for the 18 years they probably should have.  So, thanks for that.
  3. I love friends that become family.  I’ve got an amazing support network, and for that I am blessed beyond measure.  Right now, Gabe & I are living with Cate & Abi.  And while there will be many benefits to this, its also a huge inconvenience (you can tell me its not all you want, Mae, but it totally is).  I love that I have good friends I can count on, and I hope they know they can count on me.
  4. I sure do love my Poppa & think of him often.  I can’t tell you how much I wish he were here to meet my Gabe… they’d have been big pals.

    love that man.
  5. I love Diet Coke.  LOVE. IT.  Hook me up to an IV, man.
  6. I love daisies.  Gerber daisies.  They’re my favorite, for sure.  Tulips are a close second.
  7. I love to write.  I don’t have time anymore, but I love it.
  8. I’ve recently started painting and I love it too.  Again, no time to.  But it’s fun.
  9. I love a guy who can play with my kid.  Maybe not love a guy, but we’ll probably be fast friends if you can entertain Gabe.
  10. I love driving around aimlessly… or even with a point in mind.
  11. Music makes my world go ’round most days.  It’s so quiet at the office more often than not, so music helps my day suck less.
  12. I really love learning.  I’m a nerd.  I love a learning challenge… I don’t do very well if you’re handing me the answers, ’cause I mean… seriously.  Why do I need to pay attention if you’re spelling it out for me?  Moving on.
  13. I love bon fires.  They screw my head up for days, but they’re fun, and they’re about as redneck as I’m going to get.
  14. I love that Valentine’s Day is nearly half over.  Sorry, guys… had to get that last dig in.
No, You Can’t Have a Pony & Don’t Stick that Crayon in Your Ear!

No, You Can’t Have a Pony & Don’t Stick that Crayon in Your Ear!

Every day I say something to Gabe that I never thought I would.  I’ve said that header (okay — minus the pony part) all week, every five minutes.  Some of my favorites from the week:

“No, baby that’s an ornament.  And for crying out loud get it off of your lip.”

“Yeah, that is a puppy!  Wait!  Don’t punch th–… damnit.”

“You break that arm, you buy it.”

He’s wild, guys.  In all honesty, I’d rather have my maniacal little guy than a prissy little girl.  But sometimes it’s a little tiring.  Okay… it’s exhausting.  Recently we’ve discovered that we can stick things in our ears & nostrils… namely crayons & peas (the peas freaked me out more than the crayon… not even gonna lie).  Used to I could deliver a possessed growl like none other and he would remove whatever inanimate object was in whatever orifice.  But today I growled my fiercest Emily Rose growl & the little bugger laughed.  LAUGHED.  At my growl.  I’ll be honest — it knocked me down a few notches.  Then he proceeded to stick macaroni yellow next to cornflower blue… and I got PISSED.  Irrational?  Absolutely.  But lets just say he won’t be allowed to even look at another crayon until he’s thirty.  Five.

He’s been awesome this week, though… crayons aside.  I think someone sent him a memo (a little late, albeit) letting him know that Santa’s been watching.  But I’ll have you know that Santa’s informants suck, ’cause the kid’s got more coming to him then should be allowed.  That’s okay though, ’cause said informant got momma a six-pack of Light Heineken (what Santa don’t know won’t kill him.. don’t judge me).

Right now I’m listening to the off-key musical stylings of Veggie Tales and then we’re going to read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas (3rd annual read — yay traditions!).  We’ll be hitting the sack soon… well, Gabe will.  Momma’s got some more wrapping to do.  Word up for procrastination!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Bud Light!