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.

If a Taco Falls and a Five Year Old’s Around…

If a Taco Falls and a Five Year Old’s Around…

…does it make a sound?  According to Gabe, yes.  I’m gonna go ahead and put it out there that this post isn’t exactly politically correct.  So, if you get butt-hurt too easily, move on.  Should you choose to stick around, please take note that the following conversation happened between me and my five year old who doesn’t even like hurting spiders, let alone people’s feelings.  We don’t teach hate and we all share a fondness for most things TexMex.  That said, let’s move forward.



While watching Big Hero 6 on my laptop at work:

Gabe: Mom.  The movie’s making taco noises.

Me: Do what?

G: The movie.  It sounds like tacos.

Me: *typing* That’s nice…..

Five minutes later…

G: Mo-om!  It still sounds like tacos!

At this point, I stop what I’m doing and listen in case the disc is skipping.  It wasn’t.  They were speaking SPANISH.

Through a fit of laughter I managed to get out:

M: Baby.  They’re speaking Spanish.  Not tacos.

G: Sure sounds like tacos to me, mom.  But you’re old.. so okay.


i need this in my life.
i need this in my life.

Y’all, I about fell out of my chair.  And on the menu tonight… nachos.  Because tacos.

On Budgeting and Monthly Menus

On Budgeting and Monthly Menus

We’ve been getting our business going at full throttle here lately and because of this we’ve had to do some serious budgeting.  I’m not sure if any of you have ever started a business, but those of you who have know what I’m talking about.  New business = Ramen noodles and cold cuts.  Unless, of course, you were like… born into money.  In which case, send some of that cash-flow over our way.

At any rate, we’ve been cutting back here and there where we can.  I took this as an opportunity to cut back on grocery shopping because: A) I loathe Wal-Mart, but it’s the only grocery store around here that doesn’t price gouge and, B) I’ve been meaning to start a monthly menu that doesn’t completely revolve around grilled cheese, chicken nuggets, and applesauce cups (don’t judge… at least I was feeding them.  Right?).

So I seized the day.. er.. Pinterest boards… and we’ve been monthly menu-ing it since February.  Let me just say… I freaking love it.  I go to the store ONCE, that’s right — ONCE, for our “big grocery shopping trip”.  I go with list in hand and buy only what’s on that list.  Nothing else.  The only things I go back for are milk, bread, and weekly produce, which I get on the weekends.  I’m in complete love with this system.  It’s infinitely cheaper (you would not believe how much money we were spending at Wal-Hell) and so much easier for all of us.  I typically go on the last Thursday of the month while Gabe is at OT & speech therapy.  I’m in and out in an hour.  Until February, I believed there was some unspoken law that no one could get out of Wal-Mart alive before his or her two and a half hour time slot.  It was something that I’d do on a Saturday morning, and by morning I mean 3:30.  PM., which would completely ruin the day and moods for all involved.  I’d grocery shop and would pick up take-out because hell no I’m not cooking for you heathens right now.


Anyway.  It works like a charm and I’m a little embarrassed that I never did this before.  Some days we veer a little off track.  Like a few weeks back we were with the kids at the ER for various sick-ish reasons and I was not cooking Monterey Jack Chicken at midnight.  Sonic really stepped up their game that night.  And, really… who doesn’t love a late-night grilled cheese?  Just me?  Hmm.

I even stepped up my game and made an Excel spreadsheet of item costs.  A little above and beyond, you say?  Did you miss the part about budget?  I’ve allotted us a $350 grocery budget for the month.  And, truth be told, that’s a little extreme.  Because for the four of us for the month, weekend produce/milk/and bread trips included, I’ve been coming in well below that.  Like, ~$200 – $250 kind of below that.  It’s amazing.  If prices change (excluding sale and coupon costs), I simply change the amount on my spreadsheet.  I always know exactly how much I’m going to be out-of-pocket before I even make it to the register.  Seriously, y’all… if you haven’t tried this system, you really ought to give it a look-see.  It’s wonderful.  And for those of you who have been using this method for years?  Why haven’t you helped a girl out?  Secrets don’t make friends, guys.

Because this little venture turned out so beautifully, I’m branching out to other ideas and household organization tools.  This weekend I’m working on a chore chart/reward system for the kids.  Yes, kids.  If Connor, the 1.5 year old, can go put his plate in the trash and clean his tray by himself, then he can do other little things around the house.  Plus, I’m beyond tired of hearing, “Moooooom!  I’m bored!”  Trust me, they’ll never know what hit ’em.  And maybe my baseboards will stay clean.  Hashtag: wishful thinking.


T-Pain, Exit Stage Left

Even when my self-esteem was at its lowest, I’ve always respected myself.  I’ve always demanded respect for myself.  Not as a bitchy girl or woman, but just as someone who had a firm enough handle on reality and a lack of self-loathing.  Because I demanded respect, I always had a handful of great guy friends.  I guess they were drawn to my lack of bullshit drama, and they always protected me like they would their kid sister.  I can’t think of a time when I ever felt threatened in any situation — shifty or otherwise.  I have always dressed modestly and playing “hook up” was never my thing.  I was never good at that whole scene.  Oddly enough, I’ve listened to rap and could-be definitely is raunchy pop since I was a teenager.  I’ve always liked the beat and, until lately, the lyrics made me laugh.

I marvel at girls today just like I did when I was a kid; how they demand to be respected but can shake their ass with the best of ’em to the musical styling’s of T-Pain and Chris Brown, openly offended when guys aren’t lined up playing grab ass.  Too, I’ve made several arguments against these so-called hipster feminists who claim that, “men are pigs,” and “chivalry is dead,” yadda yadda.  Maybe some men are pigs because we’ve allowed it.  Maybe some men are pigs because we’re yelling at them for not opening a door (or for opening a door) all while pulling a Miley and twerking all over God’s creation.  Yeah.  The point trying to be made is pretty much null-and-void.  You can’t have your cake and eat it too, you double standard user, you.

But I’ve veered slightly off track and that is another topic for another day.


I’ve made a personal choice just recently to not only limit but to completely cut off raunchy tunes from my playlists.  Not because I’m personally offended by the lyrics, because I’m not.  I’ve never allowed any guy to call me his bitch or his hoe, and I’ve certainly never twerked (you can all thank me later).  I’ve altered my music choices because I have two small boys in my charge.  Two little guys that I love with every fiber of my being and I’d hate to whip some butts because they disrespect people — women or otherwise.  Of course, I couldn’t very well be angry with them if they’re picking up their wit and charm because of Pitbull blaring from Pandora or Spotify.  I guess that would be what you’d call my issue.  I’m not condemning anyone for listening to secular music.  Swear it.  I still listen to secular artists.  I just don’t listen to the horny ones, is all.  I said earlier in the post that this is a recent development.  By that, I mean yesterday I was blaring Ludacris and Savage in my car.  I finally really listened to some of the lyrics and realized I’d become embarrassed.  The kids weren’t even with me at the time and all I could think was, “Gah.  I don’t want my kids talking to young women this way.”  And so that’s when I made my decision.

When they’re older I won’t be able to control what they watch and hear to a point.  When they’re in my house, there will be mine and Evan’s rules.  I’m not naïve enough to believe that whenever they’re outside of our home that temptation and peer pressure won’t be a problem, though.  Absolutely it will be.  I was a good kid, but I did some boneheaded things outside my parent’s view because I knew I could.  Nothing I’d take to the grave, now.  But then I felt rebellious.  I felt “alive”.  I was dumb, but it happened.  And I’d be ten-fold more stupid if I believed now, as a parent, that my kids will be the picture of perfection outside of the house.  They may not be complete heathens, but they’ll do some dumb shit.  Stuff they better hope to God I never find out and, to be honest, I won’t want to know about.  All I can do is teach ’em the best I can.  And part of our lesson, just like not burping at the table and always remembering our please and thank you’s, is to be respectful of every living thing.  Women, that includes you.

I want my boys to grow up and find respectable, RESPECTFUL, young women; ladies who beam class, modesty, & a quick wit.  Those girls will not be “them bitches and hoes” that are so characterized in popular music.  I don’t want Gabe or Connor finding their spouse because of how low she can drop it.  Both my little guys will learn at a young age how to treat a young lady; lessons they can only be taught from Evan and me.  This is only a personal conviction.  I have plenty of friends who love those tunes and their kids are fantastic.  Their girls respect themselves.  I will say that’s a rarity.  I’ll also say that I’m glad those individuals have taught their kids — both boys and girls — how to respect and be respected.  But it’s rare.  Because I also know too many little ones who shake their collective asses with the skill of a thousand strippers.  And it’s pretty sad.

So call it what you may; silly, what have you.  But there are far too few respectful guys left in the world.  I got a good one after I’d long given up hope.  I’m just trying to do my part the only ways I know how; I just want my little ones to be gentlemen.  I brought them in this world and I’d hate to have to take ’em out for pulling a Chris Brown.

From a Momma Bear

From a Momma Bear


2013.  Oh, you’ve been eventful.  So much has changed — not much remains untouched by your presence.  One thing uncontrolled by your rapidity — yet, altered still: my momma-bear love for my little ones.

My boys have grown so; even my Connor in his short little life.  Gabe’s laugh continues to fill a room and Con’s lovely smile brightens dreary days — both little bodies warming our hearts and providing a constant reminder of what an enchanted, and sometimes monotonous, love really is.  I so love, and envy, their growth; for they see things in a way I’ve long since forgotten.

But this momma bear sees more than just their childlike innocence; I am not blind to the chaos and utter sleeplessness that little ones can bring.  Hardly.  I have been brought to complete agitation by disappointing news and pre-k hardships.  Left in zombie-like conditions by 3 o’clock feedings and teething pains.  Brought to my knees and sometimes bewildered laughter by incidental growing pains felt by parent and child alike.  No, I am not ignorant of these things.  I am all too aware.  But coupled with these sometimes back-breaking moments of sheer chaos and backwards steps are the wonderful and enlightening learned mobility I see in my kids.  And those, truly, make every sleepless night and heartache dissipate — even if just for a moment.

Oh, though I love my little ones, this year has not been without its frustrations.  I have growled and snarled; been the gruffest of momma’s.  I have not always been patient, nor have I consistently been kind.  I have misunderstood; I’ve snapped when instead I should have clung to.  But nevertheless, this old momma bear, even in her snarliest of ways, loves the little ones that I am privileged to call my own.

Upon entering 2014, we look to new beginnings, trials and errors.  Hopeful that this year brings forth good news and revelations.  And in hindsight, I hope we remember the good of the Old.  To sweet union, new life, and delightful hopes and dreams — we say Happy New Year and God Bless.

And to you gruff momma bears out there — Cheers.


What Would My Kid Say About Me?

What Would My Kid Say About Me?

I watched a video this evening showcasing how a handful of mothers view themselves in their maternal-ness.  You’ve probably seen it — I believe it has gone viral.  If it hasn’t, it will soon.  But here’s a link for the heck of it.

Anyway, watching the video was both heartwarming and heart-wrenching for me.  In the clip, the women tell at least one fault they see in their mothering.  The most used?  Patience.  Or, rather, the lack thereof.  It hit a nerve, you know?  I am notoriously impatient.  I am a Type A, perfectionist wanna-be momma who would probably rush Jesus if I could.  I am a ball of nerves at nearly every point of the day — especially where my boys are concerned.  I just can’t wrap my mind around how things can be done so slowly or so disastrously.  I often forget that the reason I can do things (semi)flawlessly and with greater precision and speed is because I’ve been doing these things for 21 years.  I have had a literal lifetime of practice — on things that I still screw up daily.  I have done these things for so long that I take for granted that I, too, had to learn how.  I have forgotten what it’s like to enjoy learning and experiencing newness.  I have forgotten the pride in learning a life skill — because I have acquired them all… or most of them.  I have long since forgotten what it’s like to take childlike time and just be… just be slow.  Take time.  I don’t remember the last time that I haven’t rushed about.  I don’t remember what it’s like to enjoy my time instead of scheduling it.

The video got me to thinking: is that what Gabe and Connor will think of me?  Will they see me as some Nazi-esque scheduler who is impatient and high-strung?  Will they see me as that momma who never thinks before she speaks?  Who is more concerned with how a pre-schooler’s turkey project looks than having fun and enjoying the time?  What would my four year old say about me?  What does he think?

When I was young I cared incessantly about how others saw me — and they knew it.  I was walked on and pushed around.  Eventually, I stopped caring.  Until I had children.  And then I cared so much about what other people thought about me and how others saw my kids that I became the mother I swore I’d never be.  I became the mother that, when my children are older, will see my name on the ID and reluctantly answer.  I’ll become an obligation because that’s how I’m making my little ones feel.  When in reality… my desire to love and take care of them far outweighs the obligation.  But they seldom see that.  I’m sure Gabe knows I love him.  But I shudder to think what else he believes.

What would my boys say?  Would they understand that my crazy strictness is meant to protect?  Would they know that my persistent tries for perfection are so they could feel proud?  Would they know that I love them unconditionally… no matter my impatience and hurried ways?  My head is hopeful; my heart hurts to think not.

On Pre-K, Newborns, and General News

On Pre-K, Newborns, and General News

Ohhhhh, y’all.  I swear to goodness I haven’t fallen off the face of the planet.  Although, to be honest, there have been a few days in the past few months that I’ve wished that were a possibility.  Things have been stir-crazy, man.  Like, ridonkulous.

For starters, Gabe started pre-k.  That, my friends, was a nightmare in and of itself.  I’m a total newb in the “send your kid off to school,” thing.  Yeah, sure, Gabe’s been in daycare since before he was even walking.  But daycare and pre-k?  Totally different balls of wax, dude.  Totally.  For one thing, uniforms are mandatory in our school district.  Translated: Goodbye, wallet!  Because not only am I buying uniforms not at all uniform khakis and polos, I’m also chucking out moolah for honest-to-God street clothes (jeans and shirts, guys — I’m not equipping him with do-rags and chains, yo).  Secondly, why the hell is bloody pre-k so expensive?!

  • Obligatory t-shirt fees (no shit).
  • Memory book fees (again — no shit).
  • Field trip fees (already).
  • Lunch fees (RIDICULOUS, by the way).
  • School supply fees.
  • School supplies.

I’m dying, man.  DY-ING.  And hey!  Why we’re at it, why not throw in a fundraiser!  ALREADY!  Good God Almighty!

But before all the money-throwing woes, there was a fear that Gabe might not get into pre-k.  Which we needed.  Gabe thrives off interaction from other kids and I felt that this would be a really good experience for him.  Thankfully, it wasn’t an issue at all and I was given the go-ahead to start throwing money at Target and various children’s clothing stores.  Oh, did I tell you?  Target has made me their new mascot in replacement of the cute little dog.  It’s only fair being that I’ve spent a fortune at the store in the past few months on school crap and that little sawed-off dog bastard hasn’t bought a damn thing.  Cheap ass.

Gabe school

Anyway.  Gabe’s in pre-k and loving it (they made applesauce yesterday and he was beyond excited) and I’ve only gotten one two phone calls from his poor, exasperated teacher.  Ms. Rose has no idea what’s she’s in for.  God bless her.  Also, my big kid is riding the school bus every morning and it just tickles him to death.  I’ll be honest, I was a little nervous letting him ride in the mornings, but he was so excited and so I figured what the hell.  Thankfully all has gone well on that spectrum.  He thinks it’s just the coolest thing ever (next to fire trucks and the ambu-lance), and to be honest?  I think he’s pretty cool for being a big kid and being all fearless and stuff.  I’m both proud and grieved — my big boy is growing up and my baby is taking off.  Sigh.  Guess it had to happen sooner or later, right?


In other news, we’ve had Connor!  And he has stolen our hearts.  Gabe just loves him and Evan is as proud as he can be.  I kind of like him, I suppose.  I mean, he’s cute and all.  I guess we’ll keep him.  He’s such a tiny little thing (compared to Gabe, anyway, who was a total chunk) and is so quiet and laid back.  He very nearly sleeps thorough the night already (what what!) and has a smile (and gas) as big as Texas.  He’s pretty much perfect and healthy and completely loved.  And I’m totally digging that I can see my toes again.  In keeping with the on-going changes in our lives, Evan and I are getting married at the end of October.  Just a JOP thing for now — we’ll have a wedding in a year or so.  But we figure why wait?  I’d rather have a great marriage than a nice wedding any day.  Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have a wedding eventually.  I’ve been planning my wedding since before I was out of grade school.  But if I’d rather not wait on a name change just because we’ll be weddingless for the time being.  Mrs. Paul has a nice ring to it.  Plus, I can get a new Hasting’s card and not have anymore late fees to contend with.  Bonus!  Only kidding, guys.  It’s the library’s late fees that I’m really excited about dodging.

con gabe


To wrap things up, we are still in the Money Pit.  We’re beyond ready to be out, and in five more months we can kiss this garbage goodbye.  We’re hoping (key word there) to buy our first little place in February or March, so fingers crossed.  Since last I wrote, we’ve (still) had major issues with plumbing, septic systems, and general maintenance that shouldn’t take an act of Congress to get fixed.  No kidding — at the beginning of the month I let our property manager know that our sink in the kitchen was leaking pretty badly and the toilet in the guest bathroom was running constantly.  I let her know when I paid her our ridiculous rent in hopes that she would maybe move her ass and get on the ball.  Yeahhhhh, right.  Two weeks later I call her to inquire as to when we could be expecting someone out, to which she admitted she had forgotten and she would get the “maintenance guy” out.  Yeah, he came out.  And he put a friggin bowl under our sink to catch the water.  Swift thinking, guy.  Unfortunately that won’t lower our utility bill.  So fix your shit!  Eventually, it was fixed.  Eventually.  As in last week.  So you can bet your big toe that we’re ready to get the hell out of here.  Maybe if we do pick a fight with Syria they’ll send a nuke over to land on this place.  Only kidding, government.  Don’t get your panties in a wad.

Fill in the Blank Friday.

Fill in the Blank Friday.

1.  My best quality is   that I’m thoughtful.  Oddly enough, this is also often a huge flaw of mine.
2.  One of my less flattering qualities is  I’m never on time and I hate that.
3. I’d rather be at home, curled up on the couch, watching a good movie.
4. Something I have been challenged with lately is  Gabe’s potty training.  Pull-up’s are expensive, yo!
5. I am looking forward to  more of this gorgeous weather we’ve been having!  And also Christmas.  Gabe’s old enough this year to really just be in awe of everything.  I am pretty eager to see his reaction to Christmas morning.
6. A super random factoid about me is that I am super creeped out by cows.  Not horses… not goats, sheep, or pigs… or any other livestock, for that matter.  But cows… sheesh.
7. I want to  get out of town.  I just need a day.. out of town.. to just look and see what I can get into without spending a shit-ton of money.  Noooot gonna happen anytime soon I’m sure.
Fill in the Blank Friday = Lazy Post.

Fill in the Blank Friday = Lazy Post.

But I haven’t posted for a few weeks.  Busy, busy, busy!  Real post later.  When I can finally sit down for longer than, oh, five minutes.  chyeah.. right.


1.  My favorite feeling in all the world is    for real butterflies.  I get them when Gabe runs to me & hugs me after a long day or when Ev kisses me on the forehead.  Just simple little things that mean absolutely nothing to anyone else but mean the world to me.
2.  My favorite smell is…  my Poppa used to smell like tobacco & peppermints.  An odd combination, yeah… but it’s one of my favorite scent memories.  Not cigarettes, guys.  Just tobacco.  And I love how newborns smell.. clean & new.  And fall baking?  Holy cow.  Don’t get me started.
3. My favorite taste is  virtually anything salty.  Shamefully, I can down a sleeve of Ritz crackers in about 5 minutes.  There’s a reason I don’t keep them in the house.
4. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen was.. okay, so I’m a sucker for “beautiful” things.  I’ll tear up at pretty much anything sweet & sincere.  But not to sound like an over-used Hallmark card… the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen was when I first laid eyes on my boy.  He shook the earth & captured my heart.  Too bad he didn’t come with a bottle of Tylenol.  😉
5. The best sound ever is  laughter in general.  Lame.  Cheesy.  Yeah, yeah.. bite me.  I love being in and around happiness.  Doesn’t mean I think the world is made of marshmallow fluff and that unicorns burp glitter… I just like to feel happy.  And hearing people laugh (especially a goofy, “I-don’t-care-if-my-laugh-IS-obnoxious-I’ll-laugh-anyway” laugh) makes my heart grin.  Baby laughs, especially, win me over.
6. A smell that reminds me of my childhood is… it’s hard to explain.  You’d have to be the connecting force that binds my nostrils to my brain to catch what I’m throwin’, but there’s a smell I find from time to time that reminds me of my grandpa’s old church.  To be honest?  It almost smells of old books & coffee.  I LOVE that.
7. My favorite of all the senses is  sight.  There is so much beauty to take in in the world… I’m so glad that my eyes function well enough to fully capture it.