PSA for my Children

Dear Darling Demonspawn,

There are going to be a vast number of things you'll be able to get away with in your lifetime. I am not always the most observant person in the room. Heck, there are days I forget about the tattoo I have on my foot, and it's only been there a couple of months. I can look for a book, a kitchen utensil, or my wallet for an hour or more and not realize it's directly in front of me. I lose my glasses when they are on my face.

So that tattoo or navel ring you might decide to get when you are old enough to do so without my consent may go unnoticed. You will probably be able to sneak out once or twice and I will be none the wiser. Clean your room by throwing everything under the bed or in the closet? Yeah, that's gonna take me a few minutes to figure out.

However.

If you go from looking like this:

To looking like THIS:

Telling me you didn't think I would notice is not going to work.
I was born in the morning, but not THIS morning!

Love you even when I want to lock you in your room for forever,
Mommy

Like an Endless Episode of Kids Say the Darnedest Things...

Zephina: Mommy, did you know that the place where all the headstones are is a graveyard?

Me: Yes. It's also called a cemetery.

Zoe: ZOMBIES come from cemeteries. Great, now you got  zombies  in my head and I'm going to have to dream them out!


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Zoe (while wielding a plastic butter knife) Sissy! Come here!! I want to cut you up into a chicken!!!

It Was Easier Last Time

The last time their daddy went anywhere, the big one wasn't even 3 yet.

And the little one hadn't turned 2. 

This time, they're big.

And they understand that Daddy is leaving.

The big one is mad. I can only tell her I understand.
The little one keeps making me reassure her he is not going to the place with the war. Thankfully, I can do this.

And the mommy is starting to feel horrible that her amazing kids were born into this life. They didn't choose it. I did. Daddy did.

I can't stop thinking about all military children. We ask so much of people who are so little.

Bad Mommy, That's a Very Bad Mommy...

She asked me for help standing up, and since I am mean, I told her no. Said she could do it herself.

I'm now unsure whether I feel worse about saying no, or laughing hysterically for two minutes before I helped her free her hair that was in a bun and had gotten stuck in between the slats on the back of the chair.

Ooops!

What's In a Name?

I have a friend from high school who once forgot her own name.

Yes. Seriously.

During a marching band rehearsal, the choreographer asked her her name, and she said "Shaquetta". He looked at her and say "No, your real name."

She gave him a blank stare, and had to think for a minute to remember her real name.

I'm afraid my children will be in a similar situation at some point.

I almost never call my children by their real names. With Zoe, her nickname is derived from her name. We've always referred to her as Zo-Zo, and that morphed into Bo-Bo. Not too random of a thought process. At least, not for ME.

Zephy on the other hand. Oh poor Zephy. Not only do people rarely spell her name correctly (Her medical records have been for Zehina T. Longlastname, and are now for some kid named Zepina T. Longlastname) but I rarely call her anything other than Bean.


Maybe I'll get their real names tattooed on their arms. It'll make sure they'll have a permanent cheat sheet to that terribly difficult question of "What's your name?"

It's Like, Blackmail Worthy

So last night, I'm sitting at my computer chatting with Holly, when all of the sudden she says, "I have big belly Sara pictures!"

I must say, for a moment, I did not believe her. I was pretty sure there was not a single photo of my pregnant belly in the entire world. And I liked that thought. I am NOT photogenic in the least bit, and in every picture taken of me, no matter how much I weigh, I have 12 chins. I'm pretty sure everyone on my mom's side of the family has the same issue. Even though we don't have them in real life, in pictures they are front and center.

After the initial shock of my little picture-less utopia being crushed wore off, I figured it couldn't be THAT bad. That, my friends, is a lie. I know I'm VERY critical of myself, but that's just how I am. I see the flaws no matter what. However, Miss Zoe DID just turn five two weeks ago, so it was fun for these pictures to surface when they did. So, in honor of today being the day Zoe was SUPPOSED to be born, I will share one of the photos with you.

Also? I have to share because none of my friends or family in Indiana ever saw me this pregnant. With either kid.

November 30, 2005
The day before Zoe made her debut. I was totally in labor when this was taken. 

Consider yourselves lucky this isn't the one where my belly button looks like a giant third nipple in the middle of my belly. THAT is pretty gross.  Also? Totally looks like I just shoved a basket ball in my shirt.

Daily Convo: 5 year old Edition

The following is an exact transcript of the conversation that just occurred between myself and Zoe.

(I handed her a pajama shirt so that she could finish getting ready for bed...)

Zoe: But Mommy! I wore this shirt when I was FOUR!!

Me: Um, okay? Put it on!

Zoe: It's a shirt I wore when I was FOUR!

Me: Hush! Just put it on, it fits you!

Zoe: But!!

Me: You need to stop complaining about a shirt you wore TWO DAYS AGO!

Zoe: You need to calm down!!

She's been 5 for less than 48 hours, and already I'm wondering which one of us is the only one who will survive to see her 6th birthday...

This is Serious Business, Didn't You Know?

Every time I hear about crazy parents flipping out and beating the crap out of each other at Little League games, I loudly roll my eyes. I always have said that there is no way I could ever get that angry at a GAME involving my children. Also? Hello, can we get a positive role model or two? That would be nice.

We just wrapped up the 2010 Pee Wee Soccer season. All this season, I've said that the parents on our team have got to be the WORST soccer parents in history. Our kids show up, but we don't keep secret the fact that we may or may not have been hoping all day that a game or practice would be rained out or cancelled for any random reason. Add that to the fact that we may or may not have made comments about how our kids need to knock over some kid on the opposing team, or kick them. I mean, kick the ball. Yes. Kick the ball.

However, we ALSO are the only team parents who do the "High Five Tunnel" at the end of every game for BOTH teams. We cheer for BOTH teams, and call a good play no matter who makes it. At our last game of the season, we almost turned into those parents who attack the parents of the other team.

In this case, the other team's coach.

One of our kids (one who is known to be a little overly dramatic) fell, and was being carried off the field.  The coach of the other team told his players to take a knee. No biggie. That is the respectful thing to do.

However.

Our kids? They don't know what "take a knee" means. They DO know what "time out means. They DO know to STOP when someone says time out.

The other coach? He yelled at our kids to take a knee. And pretty much physically made one of our players kneel down.

For a moment, we almost turned into THOSE horrible little league parents.
Because apparently, Pee Wee sports are SERIOUS. BUSINESS.

Disclaimer: I Cried Writing This.

I have to tell you this story. And it's not an entertaining one. And it sucks. And I cried. And my heart shattered into a million pieces. And my Zeph, she is growing up too fast, and I hate that she knows that there are real "bad guys" in the world.

Backstory: Paul's brother is deployed to the sandbox right now.

The other night, I mentioned to the girls that their uncle might be coming to our airport soon. Apparently, when I said it, something in Zeph's brain clicked, and she realized she didn't really know WHY her favorite uncle is in the desert. So she asked. And this mommy couldn't come up with a good half truth to tell her, so I told the real truth. Obviously (like in the where babies come from conversation) I only told her what she wanted to know. Letting her ask questions, and answering, instead of just throwing it all at her at once.

So now she knows the story of how, before she was born, some very bad men stole airplanes and flew them into buildings, causing lots of people to die. I told her that we share our military with the other countries to help keep the children and their families safe. I reminded her that we are a military family. Supporting Daddy and Uncle R is how WE help keep those kids safe in the desert.

Her response made the tears I was already holding back spill over, and my heart shatter into a million pieces.

She said:

But I don't want to.

Of Mommies and Things

Mother's Day is a conflicted holiday for me. I am a mommy, and yet, I don't have a mommy. In the traditional sense anyway. 

Somedays, I worry that I am going to be a horrible mother, because I don't have any clue as to how my mom did things. I don't have examples, good or bad, from my past to draw on when parenting my daughters. It's a very scary thing for me. 

Then however, I remember that while I don't have MY mother, I have SEVERAL mothers. After my mom passed away, it wasn't just my grandma and aunts that stepped up to help Dad raise my sister and me. No. Her very best friends did so as well. My aunts who are my aunties by choice, not birth. All of these women, relatives and pretend relatives, are absolutely amazing. So when I start to feel sorry for myself, all I have to do is remember that while some people have one mother, I have the next best thing. 

So, Marilyn, Teresa, Elaine, Mary Ellen, and Marla, I love you. Thank you doesn't even begin to express how grateful I am that you all a part of my life. 

And Happy Mother's Day to all mothers. Hope your day is filled with lots of hugs, kisses, and love!

PSA ~ From Daycare Providers Everywhere

Parents of small children, please listen closely.

It IS possible to do TOO MUCH for your child.

Now, I'm not talking giving them the best of everything that you possibly can. I'm not talking about being too much of an advocate for your children. I'm talking about simple, basic life skills. Yes, I understand that sometimes it's easier to just put their jackets, shoes, pants, shirts on yourself. I get that. I really do. I understand you cleaning up every mess they make for them, because again, it's easier to do it yourself. What I don't think we realize as parents, is that this is NOT GOOD.

It is really okay for your 3 year old to wipe up his own spilled milk. It's completely okay for your 2 year old to try and put his own clothes on. It's okay for them to brush their own teeth. Self help skills are so important, I do not feel like I can thoroughly express it properly.

Please please please I'm begging you. Let your kids do things for themselves. It's not only important later in life, but it's REALLY GOOD for their self esteem.

This message brought to you by the letters Shut. and Up. Also, by the number Idon'tcareifhelookedatyoufunny.

Should Have Named Her Foxglove...

When I describe my children to people who have never met them before, I explain that Zeph is the stubborn, determined one. She knows what she wants, and doesn't like to be told no, or change her mind. If you don't know her, she would appear to be a bully. You just don't mess with her. (But she's also really sweet too. You just have to pass her audition process before you see that part of her.)

The Zoe on the other hand, well, she is an entirely different story. She truly is the MEAN one. The problem is, she's so tiny and adorable that you don't realize she's about to commit some crime of evil until after she's done it, and you've blamed her sister. I mean really, something this cute couldn't possibly be that horrible, right?

You then, however, find out that she has done things like whack her sister with a TV remote so hard that the batteries fly out and realize that packaging can be incredibly deceiving...

Explanations.

Yesterday was the day for photos that needed further explaining.

First, I sent a picture of my arse to Erica for our project. It's not REALLY of my arse, just part of one cheek, and the tattoo I have on my pre-butt. (You know, that part between where your back technically ends and your butt technically starts?)

My daughters have seen it numerous times. Zoe has even tried to scratch it off a few times. Even after I assure her it's not going anywhere. Yesterday, while I was changing to go swimming, she saw it again, and in less than 15 minutes she reminded me 6 times that I have a tattoo.

She would walk into the room, see it, and say "Mommy! You have a tattoo!"

As if I don't remember it's there. Like it magically appeared one night in my sleep. So, yes child. I have a tattoo.

Then there's the one I posted here.

That nasty shiny white thing on my fingers is a burn blister. You see, whilst I attempted to make Zeph a new hair bow, I had the hot glue out. (You see where this is going, right?) I had glued 3 out of 4 ribbons successfully, when I missed the last ribbon all together and squeezed the glue out onto my finger.

I have no idea how this happened. I wasn't holding the ribbon. I don't recall my finger being in the way.

I've mentioned I'm blonde right?

Another Friday Night

Rootbeer Float = Happiness in a Glass

How Did YOU Spend Friday Night?

Sisterly Love

Today is the day I decided to organize my kitchen, as part of my "Get Organized in 2010" resolution. While listening to music on Pandora, the song "My Wish" by Rascal Flatts came on. And from the dining room I here Zeph say:

"Oh, Zoe was right, the word IS small...Don't tell her I said she was right, k?"

My lips are sealed.

Maybe.

Karaoke Z Style

I love how random children can be. Earlier tonight, Little Z turned a small empty box into her turtle shell. It was too stinkin' cute. But about an hour before that, my children performed a mini concert for us on our way out of the BX to our car.

The song they chose to sing?

The Roof is on Fire, of course!!

Semantics...

Big Z is officially fired from her job as big sister. Earlier she noticed that there are sprinklers in our apartment and asked me what they were for. After I explained it, she went about her business. Last night, Little Z asked her sister what they were. Instead of saying they are sprinklers and they put out fire if one is in the house, she said: That's the thing that spits out fire. Guess who can't sleep now, and is afraid her room is going to burn down in the middle of the night?!

Flu Mist ~ Now with More Screaming

Last week, I had to take the childrens to get our flu "shots". Since none of us are in a high risk category, we get to have the flu shot up our noses. I liken this experience to what it might be like to snort peanut butter. It just feels so gross going down the back of your throat. Last year, my kids were perfect. The hardest part of getting them to inhale live germs was not allowing them to blow their noses for a half an hour. This year? Nose blowing was the least of my problems.

Actually, the problem STARTED this past summer. While we were home visiting family in Indiana, *Z* got sick and we had to take her to the emergency room. At the ER, they decided to test her for the flu. Do you know how they do that? They shove a Q-tip up your nostril. Poor Big Z has been having issues with nose bleeds since she was about 20 months old. She had had a big bleed that morning. And shoving the Q-tip up there made it happen again. So she's not too keen on things in her nose.

When it was time for her vaccination, my lovely daughter LOST HER DAMN MIND. There is no other way to describe what happened to her in that small room in the immunization clinic. I threatened to have the nurse get a needle and have her give her a shot. And I think I would have had her do that, if the shot could have gone in her arm. In the end, I had to lay her down on the bed and hold her down. Her crying fit lasted more than half an hour. Which caused her sister, who didn't care one way or the other about the flu mist, cry. All Little Z cared about was the Barbie sticker after it was over.

And Big Z? She is still mad she didn't get a sticker!

Trying To Tell Me Something?

I wonder, if maybe, just maybe, this little butt head was trying to tell me that I should do some laundry. What do you think?