To Walmart Elderlies Everywhere:

I did a post similar to this already, but because unsolicited advice is thrown at me in a continual stream--and because just the other day I wanted to explode with some more "Eff Offs," and Just Jennifer created a new meme at just the perfect time--I'm going to vent. Again.


So here is my first installment of Fantasy Eff Off Friday. Got something you need to vent about, someone you want to lash out? Go link up!

If you're an avid follower of my blog, you probably know I hate Walmart. With a passion. I'm grateful for the convenience, but there's just something about being there that makes me agitated and on-edge. Beyond the vast spaciousness or the confusion that comes because they've moved something to a different aisle yet again, or even beyond the fact that the items I need always seem to be out of stock or off the shelves.

Or even beyond the fact that I ask Sam if he needs to go potty when we first get there, and every time he says no. And--every time--thirty minutes into it, he decides he does have to go...soooo bad. Now that I have my cart full of merchandise. And no merchandise is allowed in the restrooms. And I can't send him in alone. Or leave my cart with the other kids outside the restroom alone.

Even beyond that.

I turn into Momzilla as I'm pushing that cart down the aisle, trying with all my willpower not to ram into old women in motorized carts, slow people, or just those people who love to block the aisle in general. I. Just. Want. To. Get. Out of there. I'm alone with all three kids. And that says it all. Josh opening the shampoo and squirting it all over himself, the cart, and inside my diaper bag when I'm not looking: that says it all.

Oh, great. Another trip to the bathroom. Where I ask the lady employee giving me the evil eye to watch my cart, since I can't take it into the bathroom with me. She looks overwhelmed just from looking at my kids, and can hardly nod. I take that as a yes and leave her alone with my stuff. Trusting she's not some thief, since my wallet is in there, too.

So, if you see me at Walmart, with a red face, a sweat-gleamed brow, and steam coming from my ears, it's probably best just to keep walking. Keep your mouth shut, try to ignore my bad parenting, and whatever you do, do not make eye contact.

I ask myself, why does it seem like the unsolicited advice always occurs at Walmart? And why do I keep going to such a monopolized mall when I hate it so much?

Oh yeah. The convenience. They're cheap, and usually have everything. The less stops I have to make and the less times I have to drag my kids out of the car, the better. So you win, Walmart. Again. As always.

And Wednesday was particularly bad. We'd just gotten done spending an hour at the ER so they could followup on Josh's stitches--an hour of waiting, just so they could take a gander and tell me everything looked fine. It was just me and my kids, and when it's just me and my kids in settings such as doctors or hospitals, they love to make me miserable.

Even beyond the way they do at Walmart.

This time, they all decided to cry at the same time. Sam kept pulling back the curtain to the space next to us, where some sickly woman waited. He also had to yell and run around, since he knew it was a place he shouldn't.

Then there was Josh. When he wasn't crying from being back in that place, he was also pulling back the curtain, swinging on it, and dancing in it. And I tried to control them, people, I really did. But when I have the joyous background noise of Luke's screams, I have to weigh my priorities. Preserve everyone's hearing, or hold down my kids?

I picked preserve everyone's hearing. Especially because I heard the woman next to me tell the doctor she had a migraine. And when I decide to feed Luke, my kids know my hands are tied. And they become even more out-of-control.

Sometimes I just wish I had six arms. And that's what I wanted to say to all the silent watchers. That and, "No, I'm not a single parent. I just feel like it sometimes."

And, "Yes, I did have to bring them all."

Needless to say, all I got were either looks of pity or looks of chastisement.


Ugh.

And then to top it off, I had to lug all three kids to the car afterward during a massive monsoon. Massive.

Oh, and we were parked as far away from the entrance as we could be. By the time we got to the car, we were completely soaked through, Josh was crying (he hates water), and Luke was screaming. I guess there was one good thing though. Sam was laughing, since he loves getting wet.

That was when we ventured to Walmart. Stupid, you might say? Why not wait until someone is with you, you ask?

In our situation, it doesn't matter if all the kids are crying, it's raining, or I'm tired. If we are in town, we have to take advantage of Walmart. We have to knock down the shopping list, since we don't have the convenience of living close to civilization. We take advantage while we are there, before we venture 1.5 hours home.

We waited in the car for a bit, until the rain slowed, and when we finally got out, I put the baby, in the car seat, at the top of the cart, Josh in the main part of the cart, and Sam walking next to us (thought I wish he wasn't, since he runs up and down the aisles and gets into everything). Oh, and the diaper bag is in there with Josh, too, getting ransacked.

So, where do I fit the hoards of groceries I have to get?

My only option--unless I let Josh walk, too, which I try to avoid, since he wreaks more havoc than Sam, and I wouldn't be able to accomplish a single thing in that store--is to have Josh stand by the diaper bag in the cart and hold on tight.

And now that I'm typing this, I'm thinking that maybe I should get a leash. Hmm...good idea. Kinda wish I would have thought of it sooner.

Anyway, when the groceries start piling up, I did just that: made him stand. And that's when the looks of judgment come. And the comments. All from old people who haven't had kids in probably fifty years.

"Sit down, young man!" an old man told him, as though he was his guardian and I wasn't standing right there. As though I'm some dense breeding machine who isn't fit for parenting. "That is dangerous! There are hundreds of deaths each year by kids who've fallen out of shopping carts!"

And even more irritating was how stern his voice was, like Josh was being horribly naughty.

I. Swear. To. Hell. I will punch you.

Instead I glared, fuming inside. I stayed silent as he sent me his reproaching eyes and I sent him the eyes of a defiant daughter in return, and then he eventually passed.

Seriously, where does he come off?

Next, another old man, glaring at my rowdy kids in passing, jeers, "How many more are you gonna pop out?"

I laugh politely, not trying to hide the edge coming through, and move my feet faster, desiring to be outside those Walmart doors even more desperately now. Especially because I noticed Josh was tearing holes in all the boxes of pasta I just put in the basket.

Next, I'm standing there, comparing two products and trying to determine the best value with the coupons I spent too much time searching for, and the kids are taking advantage of my loss of attention. Because if I had my attention on them 100% of the time, there's no way I'd be able to shop. And they know that.

By this point, Josh is out of the cart because there is simply no room for him, and both he and Sam are racing down the aisle and knocking things down. I stop what I'm doing and sternly snap, "STOP running. NOW!"

An older couple passes, and the woman says under her breath to her Marlon-Brando-in-his-older-years-looking husband, "You hear that? You hear her?"

Really, woman? I will chuck this carton of eggs at your head.

Lastly, not even a minute later, I have the kids herded at the basket, my eyes still comparing products, and the kids decide to start crying, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!..."

"Kids!" I yell. "Stop! For just one second!" I feel like Chris Farley as the bus driver on Billy Madison.

"Aw," the old lady next to me says, sending her mushy grandmother-like stare at my boys, "They just want your attention, Mommy. They're not misbehaving, they're just telling you they love you. Nothing wrong with that."

And there you have it: the WORST comment of that day. I felt my eyes twitching as my heart raced, and I clenched my fist in an attempt to keep myself in check. Before I could kick her in the throat, I stormed off, forgetting the eggs I needed in the process.

Because apparently I'm a self-absorbed mom who pays no attention to my attention-starving children.

Lady, you had NO idea what my kids were putting me through that day. In fact, you do not know my kids at all, or the way they misbehave vs. the way they show affection.

To all of you who felt it was your place to judge me on yet another stressful, hair-pulling trip into town on Wednesday, I say....

Eff Off!

Sigh. There. I said it.

Maybe next time I will actually get the guts to say it to their faces.

Probably not. Which means I will continue to use my blog as my venting platform.

Pour Your Heart Out, "Bad" Mommy

Sometimes I'm not a good mom. The secret's out. Actually, it's no secret. Unfortunately, I think anyone who watches me parent for longer than an hour can see it.

And I'm not talking about the little things. Like the fact that I sometimes act like I don't know they're getting into trouble just because I don't want to deal with it. Again. Because I've already wasted so much of my breath telling them that day NOT to do what they're doing.

Or that I sometimes give them stickers after they've begged for them, just because I want something to occupy their time. Even though I HATE that they put them on EVERYTHING.

Or that I call them by the wrong name ALL the time, sometimes going through all of their names before I figure out who it is I'm actually talking to. Yes, Mom, I've turned into you in that way. I'm sorry for giving you crap about that when I was younger.

Or that I don't give them baths every single day. And some days I even forget to brush their teeth. And make them wash their hands.

Sometimes I even go weeks without trimming their nails. Horrific, I know.

It's not even those things that brand me a "bad parent," in my mind. If you've read my blog, you've heard me mention more than a few times that I have the worst patience in the world.

In fact, I'm sure I don't have any left at all. Just ask my children and my husband. And the handful of customers at the gas station that heard/saw me blow up at Sam in the car while Dave was filling up. I yelled. Loudly. Even maybe screamed a little but.

And people stared. And Dave was embarrassed. He told me he'd never been so embarrassed as an adult.

Yep. Ouch. Talk about being put in your place.

But I deserve that, I really do. I've been working on it, hard. I've been trying really hard not to yell at my kids when they frustrate me and talk over me and try telling me what to do. Or scream in my face, "No!" repeatedly while I'm trying to instruct them.

Breathe, I tell myself, even now, because just thinking about it speeds my heart and heats my core.

And if I don't gain some measure of control over it, I fear I'll have a heart attack by the time I'm 35. Either that or a whole head of gray hair (IF I have any left by then). Sometimes I just don't feel cut out for the parenting thing.

Because I know it's not my kids who need to change. It's me, 100%. They're just being kids. It's the name of the game. I'm the one who's acting up.

And I know, I know. Every mom feels that way at some point. And I know everyone's kids drive them crazy, and every mom loses it. But I do feel a little more out of control than most, a little less tolerant.

Okay, a lot less tolerant.

And I don't get it. I don't get why I can't handle things in the same way other people can, or how I can be filled with so much rage or frustration, when at the same time I'm filled with so much love for the little people that drive me to insanity. Because really, my favorite thing in this entire world, no matter my mood, is hugs and kisses from my kids.

So how do I calm myself, how do I feel normal inside, so I can actually feel like a decent mom? I know I've made posts similar to this before, but it is PYHO Wednesday. So I'm taking advantage. Again.

I don't like being this way. I don't like that every little thing gets under my skin and I react before I can stop it. I hate it, and I want to change. And I'm trying. But some days, I just don't feel I can measure up.

Some days, I just want to cry.

Keep your unsolicited advice to yourself.

*Post inspired by Mama Kat's writer's workshop prompt, "List 10 things you wish you could say to strangers who share unsolicited advice about your parenting skills."


Beware, all. Remember, this post is things I wish I could say. So they might be mean. But that's why I don't say them. I also thought it was funny that after I made this list, I realized that a lot of this stuff is centered around Walmart. I guess that's when I get the most unsolicited advice.

1. "What are you looking at?" Yes, I notice your daggers when I'm walking through the store with a baby, toddler, or child (or all three at once) throwing a temper tantrum. You don't have to say anything, because your old, judgmental eyes say it all. What do you want me to do--beat them? I would, trust me. I'd spank those little bums in public if I knew I wouldn't get reported to child services. So instead, my threats of spanking them "when we get home" will have to do.
2. "Yes, high fructose corn syrup is bad!" I know you think that because we had it when we were little and we're all still alive that it's okay, but they didn't have the research they did back then. It really is one of the worst things we can ingest into our bodies (and I know because we have done research and know the effects). And I want my kids to be healthy. I know, I'm horrible for letting him miss out on pop-drinking at age two. He just might have to go to a support group for it someday.
3. "Wait...where's your kids? Oh yeah...YOU DON'T HAVE ANY!" So until you do, please stop acting like you know anything about what it's really like to have and raise a child. I promise you, they're not that easy to control.
4. "My kids watch TV. So kill me." You say they might end up mindless, ADD children, but I say that my son learned his ABC's from Brainy Baby videos when he was fourteen months old and learned how to count to ten in Spanish from Dora when he was eighteen months old (Though I do loathe Dora). So, no, I don't feel guilty for using the TV as a babysitter when I'm in desperate need to get something done. Like dishes, or showering, or laundry. Or sitting on my back porch with a margarita and a romance novel. Ha!
5. "No, ma'am, my baby isn't hungry. No, ma'am, I'm not neglecting my child." So maybe only the first sentence applies, but when my baby is crying hysterically and you ask me if he is hungry, isn't that what your saying anyway--that I need your helpful prompt to remember that I have a baby in need of me? Lay. Off. He's tired, sick of being in his car seat all day (because to go anywhere we have about three hours of driving time), and basically cries every time I'm not holding him. So if one more old maid in Walmart asks me if my baby is hungry, I'm going to punch you. Okay, maybe not. I'll probably just smile and shake my head, but know that inside, I want to punch you.
6. "Don't talk to me until you do your research." Because I promise you, I have. And I know I'm doing what's best for my children. Even if that's different than what's best for yours. Even if that means you think they're disease-infested, germ spreading children because they're on an alternate vaccine schedule.
7. "Yes, dummy, breast is best." I don't judge anyone for their decision not to breastfeed, and I understand not everyone can--heck, I couldn't breastfeed my first child. So don't tell me I'm not doing what's best by nursing my child. Because, really...your argument sucks. Other than your claim that I need to put myself first and take care of me, and get more sleep at night so I can enjoy my children more during the day, you have nothing to back it up. And I'm sorry I put my baby before me. I'm a mom. I nurture. I nurse. That's what me and my boobs were made for, and that's how I love it. So, lost sleep, sore nipples, and all, I won't stop. And going off of that...
8. "Since when did you become a lactation consultant?" Yes, I have tried everything, and I mean everything, to nurse my baby (speaking of my first). That includes countless nurses, grandmas, aunts, and three real lactation consultants. And everyone was stumped. I spent hours and countless hours up in the night and meeting with people to try to get my baby to nurse. He hated it, no matter how many tears I spilled and how many prayers I prayed--so I could be the mom I wanted to be. So I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, after six weeks of constant refusal from him, I pumped all day, every day, until he was six months old, just so I could feel like I was doing what was best. So do not tell me that you have the magical solution. Because I guarantee I've heard it and tried it. And no, they will not just give in when they get hungry enough. I promise you. And I will not let my child suffer from malnutrition. Just because your babies were good nursers doesn't mean everyone's baby can be.
9. "Talk to me when you have a fussy, high-needs baby." Until then, don't even pretend to know what it's like. It's great your children are angels, sleep when, where, and how you want them to, and are happy laying by themselves, but letting my baby "cry it out" isn't going to change a damn thing. No, I did not make him this way by "loving him too much." My kids have been high maintenance since the second they came out of my lady parts. Baby, they were born this way.
10. "You're right...I am too stupid to realize my child is danger!" Thank you so much for telling me he might fall out of the grocery cart. I don't know what I would do without your eyes. After all, I'm just a mindless breeding machine with a baby wrapped to her chest, a child sitting in the front of the cart, another child in the back, and every other inch of space occupied with groceries. 

Oh wait...I just realized my child is standing because I told him to.  

Because I don't have four arms and can't push two carts to carry all the millions of groceries I buy, and because of those millions of groceries there just isn't enough room for him to sit, and because I live an hour and a half from the nearest Walmart and have to stock up on groceries on the rare occasion I get to go, and because I have to make these long, obnoxious trips to town by myself, and because I don't want my kids to run away from me in the grocery store (I swear, if I did let him out of the cart, he'd be gone in a second)... And because, because, because...

I do what I can. Even if that means one of my children will stand in the back and hold on. 

But what do I know? I'm just a mindless breeding machine.

Whew. Felt good to get that out.

Tornadoes=Temper Tantrums

It's one of those eerie moments where the world outside the window is dark and chilling, black clouds are blanketing everything, and you see a herd of twisters lowering from the sky, destroying everything in their paths.

And worse, they're coming right for your house.

The hairs on your arms stand on end and a certain panic sets in, and, immediately, more than anything else, you're desperate to make sure every member of your family is accounted for. Moving with a haste you've never moved at, you rush into the basement, kids in arms, to find the most appropriate place to hide.

Then the panic deepens when you find that there just aren't any safe, good hiding spots, and the freight trains are growing louder as they close in on you.

This is it. The moment that will undoubtedly end it all.

So you crouch wherever you can--be it in the water heater room because there are no windows, or just in the bathtub--holding your children against you as the sound of terror and destruction sounds right outside the window. With tense muscles and a racing heart, you cling to them, praying that if death is involved, you'll all get to experience it together so that no one is left behind.

But they never hit.

Eventually, as the raging quiets and your heart rate slows, you look out the window to find that they've either dissipated or completely missed your house.

Maybe these dreams are inspired by recent terrible events in Missouri, etc., or maybe it's just because I can't get a handle on things. Either way, it's a reoccurring dream I've had a lot since the time I was very young, with the exception of a few varying details each time. The dreams come and go in spurts, sometimes occurring every night for weeks before they go months, sometimes years, without coming again.

And they've returned again. So I was curious what they meant this time.

When I was a kid, I thought it was just because I had a fascination with tornadoes (the dreams were always stressful, dark, and scary, but they were kind of cool, so I never considered them "nightmares."), and instead of scrambling to get my kids, I was desperate to find my cat so that I could protect her.

But now that I'm an adult, the exciting factor is gone, and this morning I realized there's probably more to it than a creepy childhood fascination.

So, thanks to Dream Moods, it all makes sense. Especially the first part, which I've bolded.

Damn those temper tantrums.

To see a tornado in your dream, suggests that you are experiencing some extreme emotional outbursts and temper tantrums. Is there a situation or relationship in your life that may be potentially destructive?

To dream that you are in a tornado, means that you are feeling overwhelmed and out of control. Your plans will be filled with much complications and you will be met with a series of disappointments.

To see several tornadoes in your dream, represent people around you who are prone to violent outbursts and shifting mood swings. It may also symbolize a volatile situation or relationship.

And the award for Worst Mother of the Year goes to...

I have a serious problem.

And admitting it is the first step. (No, I'm not talking about my addiction to carbs)

If you're not in the mood to read the ventings of a hair-brained, stressed out mom, then you might want to stop right here. If you fancy pity-parties from someone who is a little beside herself for no good reason other than mothering children, you're at the right place, my friend. Just remember I warned you.

Sometimes I don't feel cut out for this whole motherhood thing. And it's not because I don't love it. I do. I wouldn't trade what I'm doing for anything else in the whole world--not even being the author of a New York Times best seller. It's almost scary how much I love my children and my heart literally skips a beat when I look at them.

But I'm exhausted and stressed and overwhelmed, and I'm just not sure how to recharge, because it all builds. And builds. Taking care of three tiny kids all day is challenging, especially when it feels like their goal is to bring me down to the utter depths of losing-my-mind-ville. (Wouldn't that be a cool Facebook ap?)

And today they won. They shot me a hundred times over, then did a victory dance on my twitching, unkempt body. (Did I say unkempt?)

And here's what gets me: I'm sure my kiddos aren't any more difficult than anyone else's four-, two-, and zero-year-olds. Every mother of multiple children goes through this, especially ones who don't have any extra help. Everyone has children whose ultimate goal is to make your life miserable (but can mysteriously show they love you at the same time) by defying your every demand until you sound like a broken record and want to vomit at the sound of your own voice.

I'm not even sure I know how to talk at a normal volume anymore (Jacob Silj comes to mind, hehe). Because it seems that the only way they'll listen to me, in the rare instance they do, is if I raise my voice. And I hate raising my voice.

So if this is so normal, and thousands of other moms are dealing with the same, completely normal and acceptable things I am--

hands/arms always full * anything and everything interrupted with yelling, screaming, crying, or reoccurring "mommy"s (Family Guy anyone?) * being pulled on, yelled at, hit, spit on, target practice, laughed at (in the humiliating way), and defied from five a.m. until eight p.m. * taking ten minutes to load the car and feeling like I've just packed for a month-long trip just to go to the grocery store * never-ever getting a single break (not even while sleeping since I have a nursing baby) except for maybe a five minute run to the grocery store or to the post office when the husband gets home from work

--then WHY do I feel like the only one who's losing it?

Gosh, nothing means more to me than when I'm having a stressful day and my four-year-old, who I just yelled at and sent to time out, hugs me and randomly says "I love you." I love the fullness I feel when they're in my arms, and that fullness can cure anything. But at every other moment throughout the day, the pressure is building, and by the end of the day I want to explode. And sometimes do.

And I don't know a healthy way to let off the steam. I honestly, truly feel like other mothers handle it so much better than me. I mean, we are moms. That's what we do. I've accepted that my days will be like this for a long long while, and that until Luke is older I just will not get a break because it's impossible. I've accepted the fact that they will get up at five a.m.

So why, when they do, do I flip out as though it was the most horrible thing that could happen?

Is it because I'm so exhausted that I can't function? (What the crap am I doing up right now when I should be sleeping?? Oh yeah...basking in the quiet) Or is it because I'm just not cut out for it?

As I've mentioned in previous posts, I have a bit of a temper. And it flares bad when the kiddos stress me out. I'm talking, one tiny thing goes wrong and I fly off the handle. Steam shooting out of my ears, face reddening, uncontrolled curse words flying from my mouth as though I've been taken over (though mostly under my breath).

Like I said, I have a problem. And even though I roll my eyes at my husband when he brings it to my attention (Because, really, who wants to hear that you're a danger to your possessions every time a door is slammed?), I do want to get better.

I want to be more patient. I want to be calmer with my children when they are impossible. I want to be okay with the fact that it never-ever ends. I want to be able to handle it deep inside when I feel at the very end of my very frayed rope, instead of feeling like I've absolutely lost control and the only outcome is exploding or running down the street screaming. And since the latter would be considered child abandonment, explosion it usually is.

I need your help, ladies. Anyone. I've got to get a hold of myself and learn how to "just breathe," or I might end up like this lady here.

Does anyone have any suggestions for stress relief--suggestions that are actually doable with three small children and no way to get away? What has worked for you?

And, please, please tell me I'm not alone here. I know most of you are a stone's throw from perfect, but if there are any others out there with an extremely short fuse, tell me I'm not alone. That way, I just might forgo nominating myself for the Worst Mother of the Year award.

(And no, there is no such thing. I hope. Because if there was, I'd have to prepare an acceptance speech, and I hate public speaking.)

Here I am. In a Nutshell.

My life is full of happiness, joys, blessings, and lots of great days. I'm aware that I have a great life and a wonderful family, and, really, when it all comes down to it, I have no reason to complain. I just want to point that out.

And get it out of the way.

Because due to some recent spikes in less-than-happy things in my life (one of our kittens dying tragically, to name just one), I’ve been kind of a buzz-kill the last few days.

I know, I know. I need to be positive and move on, despite the extra lack of sleep (Luke is teething and back to not taking good naps or sleeping well at night. Nor letting me put him down without that trademarked high-pitched screaming that says, “How dare you think you can actually get anything done around here?!”).

And, despite the few--okay, lots more than a few--extra pounds I’ve been wallowing about lately. No more using the excuse that I "just had a baby." What happened to the whole claim that nursing moms lose weight faster?

To me it’s looking like a fairy tale, ladies. And I can only use the elliptical for so long before I realize my kids are destroying things while in the absence of my attention. So throw me a frickin’ bone here [insert whoever I feel like directing this at] and at least let me get back to my pre-baby-growing size.

Okay, moving on from that. In light of my loss of vigor and optimism, I feel like making a list of some things that make me me (some inspired by recent events and others at random placement). Good, bad, embarrassing--I don’t care. I am who I am, and on most days, I actually like that.

So, just in case you ever get quizzed...

• If I actually let myself, I could probably eat a whole cake in one sitting. Beyond any food, even chocolate, cake is my downfall.
• I still mourn my Dyson and have a little buyer's remorse for my Kirby.
• The romantic fluff is my favorite substance in movies and books. If there isn't any, the rest of the content better be damn good.
• I swear sometimes. Okay, more than sometimes. But--to all you gasping for the innocent ears of my children--I do watch myself around my kiddos. And church members.
• The judgement, naivety, and close-mindedness from church members is the highest pet peeve on my list of pet peeves.
• The whole mumbo-jumbo of religion and doctrine in general, and who's right and wrong--even in my own religion--is really tiring me out.
• Pictures of posey teenage girls taken by themselves are high on the pet peeve list, too. Maybe even #2. Especially ones with the crooked pout and the sideways peace gesture.
  
  
  
• Doctors are climbing really high on my hit list right now. All except my kiddos' pediatrician, who I found after a rigorous search and is wonderful. As far as I'm concerned, besides her, there aren't any left with good hearts in this world, who truly care about the patient and figuring out what's wrong with them. Since when does someone whose services we pay out of our butt for feel they have the right to treat us like we're wasting their time??
  
  
  
• I hate corned beef. I only eat it on the special occasion that we make it because it's my husband's favorite food. There's nothing right about it.
  
  
  
• Dora the Explorer is the bane of my existence.
• I am horrible at anything crafty. I don't sew. I don't have a nack for home decor, and am basically clueless when it comes to knowing whether or not something looks good. And I'm only a decent cook. So, basically, I fail at the Susy Homemaker test.
• My passion involves a laptop and solitude, and sometimes, I admit, that writing is all I want to be doing.
• At this given moment in my life, if I was given the opportunity to spend twenty-four hours doing whatever I wanted, I'd go to a hotel completely and utterly alone, and write.
• I want other people to read what I have labored over. Regardless of whether or not I'm good enough, I want to be known for writing--and maybe even make a little dough on the side.
• Grammar mishaps really bother me. Like, a lot. Irregardless is not a real word, people.
• Sometimes my kiddos still see me naked. And that's not good, since Sam is almost four. But that's what happens when you have three small children, a busy husband, and you are shower-deprived. Sometimes, it's unavoidable. So sue me.
• I nurse in front of my kids because I want them to be accepting of it. It irks me when mothers are so hush-hush about breastfeeding and don't even speak of it. It's not a sexual thing, ladies, no matter how much society wants it to be. It's a beautiful thing and a God-given way to feed and nourish our babies.
• Though I know it's not (do I really?), sometimes I feel like praying is a waste of time.
• Next to losing a child, my biggest fear is my children losing their father, or me, and having someone else raise them.
• I Hate bugs. Hate with a capitol H. And one of the biggest offenders are moths. There, I said it. I'm "afraid" of moths. And crane flies.
  
  
  
• If asked, I'd say the Book of Mormon is my favorite book, because it is, yet I haven't really read it in almost four years.
• I love dry humor. I love anything comedic.
• I'm addicted to late night comedy/talk shows and DVR some of them regularly. Conan is my guilty pleasure.
  
  
  
• I'm socially awkward sometimes. And physically awkward all the time.
• I have the worst temper in the world, thanks in part to the genes of my father. It almost prevented my husband from marrying me. And now I see it in my kids. Uh-oh.
• The best sound to my ears isn't rain or waves or anything emo like that. It's the word "Mommy" on my two-year-old's lips.
• I truly feel that with all of these things aside, my children are my greatest blessing in life. They are the best part of me, an extension of who I am--my flesh and blood. And my life would be nothing without them. Poop, screaming, annoyances and all.