Santa's On My List

It's that time of year again when the 'Is Santa real?' question rears its ugly head and has me dodging questions faster than a politician caught with his pants down.

Captain Studly turned to the dark side several years back, somewhat dishearteningly confessing that he'd given up on the illusion of Santa Claus (but can I still get presents?).  Sure, I wanted him to stay all starry-eyed for as long as possible but by the time he start sprouting facial hair, I'd had to say the jig was up.

The Diva?  Well, THAT one is still clinging, but only by a hangnail or two.  With that one, it's the same routine every...Christmas...season.  Couldn't she at least wait until AFTER Thanksgiving?  The whole conversation is like an endless loop, almost like listening to an elder list all their maladies one after the other ad nauseum.  It gets so you even recognize the pauses and what's coming next.  We humans are nothing if not predictable.

Part of me, when asked if I believe Santa is real, wants to shout:

Do YOU believe the man (or any man, let's be honest) could circumnavigate the globe without Mrs. Claus by his side to read the map-(and forget GPS!  GPS my fat fanny-even your Gramma's GPS can't find out of the way quilt shops-what makes you think it can find every house, hut and hovel on planet Earth); jiggle and shimmy his gelatinous self up and down sooty chimneys without soiling or wrinkling his suit (I don't care if he is laying a finger aside of his nose); and still make it home without being spotted by an eagle-eyed tot...never mind the damn reindeer?!?!  I'm still not convinced it's not Mrs. Claus doing all the flying whilst dear old Santa stays at home to bake cookies with the elves.  Is he real?  I'd say there's a better chance of me waking up tomorrow a size four and discovering your Dad's suddenly morphed into Matthew McConaughey (hey, hey all right).

But I don't.  That'd just be pure mean!  Sure, I'm a schmitty mommy who firmly believes June Cleaver was lying through her damn teeth all those years, but I'm not a complete bitch.  Notice the use of the word 'complete'.  Give it time.

She looked at me kinda funny when I asked if she wanted her picture taken with Santa this year.  Kind of the same look I'd get if I scooped dog doo onto a plate and served it up as dinner.

'Muh-thurrrrr!  EVERYONE KNOWS the MALL Santa isn't REAL!'

'You mean, he's like a representative FOR Santa' I replied.

'EXACTLY!  But the reindeer are real.'

Sigh...

The Mother of All Headaches (aka Kids Parties)



Much as it pains me to admit, I really owe Himself a huge debt of gratitude for fortuitously ensuring I'd be pregnant, not once but twice, during the hot Texas summers.  Mind you, it starts 'warming up' by the end of April.  Instinctively, my man knew that I was not a woman cut out to host kid-centric parties.  The thought of a marauding horde of mini-mes breaching the gates of our castle gives me the hives.  I'd rather be decapitated with a grapefruit spoon.  Playdates (and just who the hell coined THAT term, anyway?), where the Co-Defendant to friend ratio has historically been 1:1, is my limit.  Go ahead, call me a sissy; I'll wear that moniker with pride.

It's difficult enough to come up with new and innovative gift ideas for my own offspring, let alone anyone else's.  Sadists will throw out the 'no gifts, please' comment just to watch the unbelieving masses squirm.  Who're they trying to fool?  I'm operating under the assumption that my or my child's mere presence at a juvenile soiree just ain't gonna cut it for the birthday child, thank you very much.  The 'gifts optional' route is no better.  Does anyone really take the word optional seriously? 

"We want her to have friends', Dear Hubby intones from his throne (the leather one, not the porcelain one).  "Send a gift!"  Right-o, old chap!

My children, especially The Diva, whine occasionally about the millstone that is their summer birthday and how it's just not fair they don't get to star in an over the top birthday production complete with bouncy house, clowns twisting anemic balloons into bizarre animal shapes and a miniature pony (I shit you not).  My response never varies.  "Look, Sunny D and a cookie cake during the school year *at school* is the absolute best I can manage.  Take it or leave it." 

I know that sounds heartless, but my birthday is January 1st.  Was I in school when my birthday rolled around?  No.  Did classmates ditch winter vacation plans to come to my party?  No.  Have I suffered any ill effects?  Only if you count the fact that I'm a registered Democrat.  Otherwise, no.  Face it, do you really think the Joneses are going to forgo that sunny trip to the Bahamas just so little Dick and Jane can come to my kids' party?  Would you?  Um...no.

When all else fails and their lower lip sags so low I could practically turn them into upright vacuum cleaners, I appeal to their greedy grub-grabbing inner selves.

"Okay, I'll go all out: bouncy house, rent out the gymnastics place or even (God help me) cross the threshold of a Chuck E. Cheese's for you and 5000 of your closest friends so long as you understand this translates into fewer presents from Mom and Dad." 

Ding-ding-ding!  A family party it shall be!

Bad mommy...

One Happy Mother

I'm not entirely sure if they're just shinin' me on, but the kids swear they're ready for school to start tomorrow.  I know my parents are certainly ready since they kept the two money pits little darlings all. summer. long.  My mother swears there were times she thought she'd lose her schmidt.  I told her 'don't feel bad.   I lose mine every afternoon between 4 and 7'.

Captain Studly has a total of two, that's TWO kids in his class and that's counting himself.  The other mom remarked she hoped both boys would be super smart by the end of the year because it's almost like being homeschooled.  I'm already feeling sorry for their teacher not to mention that this is her first year at our school.  Pray for Mrs. H, y'all, she's gonna need it.  I'm not sure how many are in The Diva's class, but if last year was any indication, she'll have around eight.  Her teacher is a hugger.  Instead of a nice handshake greeting, I got the churchlady hug.  That's probably a cover for when she tries to strangle the kids, but hey, whatever works.  Private school is totally worth selling that kidney.  Just kidding.  Well, almost.

To celebrate the end of summer mourn the start of the school year, I took them to a local bookstore and turned 'em loose then took them to Chili's for dinner.  If eating with the senior citizen crowd in the late afternoon means getting seated without standing for 45 minutes nose to scalp with someone who hasn't shampooed since Noah set sail in the ark and having a waiter practically chained to your table because there's nothing else for him to do, I'm all in.  That. was. awesome.  Why, no, it doesn't take much to impress me!  How could you tell?

He looks so put upon, doesn't he?  She said she was trying to strangle him.  Do I miss not having any siblings?  Not a chance in hell.

And here's me in my annual pose, I kid you not, wishing and hoping and thinking and praying...

Please, Lord, let this be a phone-call and run-ins-with-holier-than-thou-mommas free year!

AMEN!

Even I Can Solve This Equation

Math and I have never been BFFs.  I cringe whenever I'm called upon to help one of the Co-Defendants with a math assignment.  The worst?  Word problems!  UGH!!  I hate having to weed through all that extraneous crap to get to the guts I need to solve the problem.   

Give me hailstones the size of Volkswagons!  Give me locusts!  Give me Justin Bieber live and in concert 24/7 in my living room!  Anything, but word problems!!

When, I asked my childhood self, would I ever use this crap?

Ladies and gentlemen, I submit to you, that today is that day.

Here's my version of Mom Math...

1 five year old Boxer with gastrointestinal upset...

plus 1 clean laundry room...

divided by 10 bath towels times 1 cantankerous washing machine that decided mid-cycle to spew its noxious liquid onto the already, ahem, soiled floor...

times 75 minutes to clean up the now swampy floor times 3 loads of now sodden filthy towels divided by 2 liters of pine cleaner times 28 paper towels plus 1 mop which I'll never use again times 2 gagging children equals how many beers for Mom?

If you said 1, you'd be right.  Give yourself a pat on the back!

It's Monday, y'all.

Ah, just another shitty day in paradise!

P.S. There are bonus points if you can guess what the time was when I actually consumed my beer.  Good luck!

For Grins and Giggles

My husband has complained for years that I move stuff around simply to frustrate his efforts to find whatever item he's so desperate to discover.  I've maintained that the male of the species simply isn't equipped to stoop down, shuffle stuff around and spy what he needs.  If it's not staring him in the face (like a hot car or obnoxiously large breasts), he's not gonna find it.  It's a man thing...like driving around for hours on end when simply stopping to ask for directions would've gotten everyone to their destination six hours ago.

Let me confess...I lie like roadkill.

I move stuff because it's fun to watch him poke and paw through thirteen different cabinets (and that's just the kitchen, y'all!), muttering unintelligibly, brow furrowed in consternation.  This must be what it's like to be a kid and repeatedly poke mother with an index finger...mom, mom, mom, mom, mom!  WHAAATTT?!  Never mind.

He'd really have a conniption if I moved furniture.  Oh, wait, I did that!  I decided my sewing corner needed a little makeover and had the nerve to do it during Clash of the Titans.  I'm such a bitch.  To be fair, it turned out to be the version with Sam Worthington (sigh) instead of Harry Hamlin so it was tough going for me, let me tell ya.  I'm working on re-do day number three, damn Sam's gorgeously tanned, muscular, sweaty hide. 

Before...




After!

I managed to consolidate and eradicate and wound up moving a four foot table out, freeing up more work space space for more fabric.  Hubby just huffed and rolled his eyes.  I'm telling you, it's better than crack, y'all! 

Now, where to move the sofa...?

Redneck Humor

Why can't I be one of those gals that makes a tidy bundle coming up with clever slogans that get slapped on a variety of items like lunchboxes, dishtowels and yard art!?  I tell you, if I'd thought of ______, I'd be retired by now.

But I'm not, so my purchase today is feathering someone else's nest.  So be it.  With two smart-assed lovely children in the house, I just had to buy this metal sign...

Yes, I could've appropriated the slogan as my own and NOT bought the sign, but I figure being able to point to said sign while uttering the slogan will save this redneck mama some jail time should I instead have opted to strangle one of the aforementioned offspring.  Besides, I don't look good in horizontal stripes or day-glo orange...and even I know you don't wear socks with flip-flops!

My son just rolled his eyes...and I pointed to the sign and in my most awesome Texas twang (it's a twang, not an accent..accents are for our northern brethren.  That's our lesson for the day) delivered those sure to be infamous words. 

Golly, was that satisfying!

Race To The Finish

Sorry if you were hoping the post title was a reference to NASCAR, but I'm referring to Co-Defendant #1's Davy Crockett get-up for American Hero Friday at school.  DH brought home dinner so I could finish it up last night...thanks, Dear!  Nothing like last-minute pressure to really make you put the pedal to the metal!

This week has been a busy one at our house.  Between nursing a sick kiddo and running 'round like mad to gather supplies for his stinkin' costume, there's been zero time for quilting.  Just one more week and my Mom and I will be at a quilt retreat...hang on, QuiltnMama!

Here's the (albino) coonskin cap and fringed shirt I managed to come up with...

I think they both turned out fairly well, all things considered.

Here's my boy, I mean, Davy...I hope the real Davy didn't look like such a dork.  Bad mother!

The moccasins go pretty well with the whole ensemble, although he kept calling them Grandpa shoes.  Sorry, kid, but you can't beat Walmart clearance prices when you're in a pinch, okay!?  That bandolier looking thing across his middle is a pouch...I'm assuming Davy carried 'essentials' in his.  And because we must be all non-violent, he couldn't carry a toy rifle.  Heaven forbid we be authentic if it involves a firearm!

My mother cautioned me that someone at the school is bound to find out that I sew so I lectured the kids and they now know to say Mom doesn't sew, she quilts.  I'm off to clean up my sewing area and start packing for retreat.  If you don't hear from me again, it's because I'm buried under a pile of fallen fabric.

I'm linking up to these nice folks...hop on over to see what other crafty types are up to this week!

Richard Quilts
Confessions of a Fabric Addict
Amy Lou Who
Crazy Mom Quilts

Happy quilting, y'all!

TILT!

It happens every evening, regular as clockwork or so the expression goes.  You'd think, by now, I would've learned to adapt and overcome, but I am by nature a slow learner.  Every day the thought will pop into my head in so many hours, we'll all be home together, tucked into our little house, just the four of us and the dog.  Peace at last will reign in my little corner of the universe and all will be well.

So, my shift ends and I commence ticking off chores on my to-do list until time to pick the Co-Defendants up from school.  Right now, Mondays and Wednesdays mean basketball practice after school; Tuesdays mean games.  And so our afternoons consist of some variation of homework-chores-eat-bathe-bed with some fun thrown in to appease the rampaging natives.  But somewhere in there...it happens.  More specifically it happens when Dad walks through the door after a busy day at work.  And so begins, once again, the Co-Defs campaign to drive me out of my friggin' mind.  The louder, faster, grosser, more obnoxious the behavior, the better.  For them, bodily expulsions noises should rate as Olympic sport.  I have not raised them to be this way...it is their father's fault.  I'm just stating this for future reference when they somehow, someway, someday find some poor schmuck to marry them, when aforementioned schmuck stands in front of me wanting to know who's responsible for this ghastly behavior, I can point to my spouse and say 'blame him!' I did my best.  It's almost like they've decided it's three ring circus time and DH is the ring master.  I suppose that makes me a clown, only I don't feel funny..in fact, I feel rather like a Stephen King version of clown. 

Does anyone else want to hide away like I do from all the fuss and furor that is evening time?  Some days, my thoughts will turn to the lowly turtle and I so envy him and his shell where he can tuck his head in and shut the world out!  Of course, should he wind up on his back, he's trapped...dinner for a scavenger or a hockey puck for a passing car.

I'm here now, earplugs firmly in place, enjoying the quiet, or at least trying to because I feel exceptionally guilty for eschewing the raucous sounds of my offspring in favor of that ever-fleeting smidgen of peace I so jealously guard.  No, I'm not having a toilet moment (eeeww!), but I am in the bathroom. 

Do other mothers feel this way or is it just me?

Occasionally, I'll catch a glimpse of our dog, Lulu in what I can only call a contemplative moment on her part.  Her dark soulful eyes gaze into mine and I swear I can hear her say 'You poor bastard, you need a shell'.

Sigh.

Get. A. Shell. Already!

 

Thankful Thursday

Well, Paige and I both survived the dentist ordeal today.  As we pulled into the parking lot she said I don't think I can do this.  As an official Bad Mommy I replied Oh, yes you can and added my meanest Mom Face for good measure.  She passed with flying colors, the Tooth Fairy will have a fabulous silver covered tooth to pick up tonight and Mommy didn't have to take a Xanax.  It's a win for all of us!

I have to give a huge THANK YOU to her dentist, Dr. Trotter.  You see, when I went to pay the bill, the office lady informed me that it was the Dr's birthday and as such she was giving back to her patients...by providing dental care for the day free of charge!!  I stood there stunned and started bawling.  When I finally got myself together, the entire front office was bawling right along with me.  I managed to collect my offspring and hustle us home where we promptly fell asleep.

I didn't get much else done what with running between fetching blankets and pillows and trying to fill the bottomless pit that is my daughter's stomach (nothing to eat or drink since midnight Wednesday night...I guess she was making up for lost time!)  I did manage to press the rest of the curved blocks I pieced and cleaned up the sewing area a bit.  And I can now narrate the entire movie Cinderella from start to finish.  You know, I never liked that chick. 

Thanks to those ladies who left encouraging words for us today...we really needed them!

Mr. Postman, Stop My Nightmare

I am beginning to dread the daily trek to the mailbox.  Granted, the postman will occasionally grace its dark confines with a quilt magazine or Connecting Threads catalog (pitty-pat goes my heart).  Even the bills, junk mail or random critter have nothing on the one piece of post guaranteed to pee on my parade. 

It's an American Girl catalog.

For a girl who eschews all things pink, frilly or feminine, you'd think Co-Def 2's lip would curl in derision at the very thought of anything doll related.  We are, after all, talking about the kid who gave that silicone infused beeotch who has everything, Barbie, green striped zebra hair 'to make her pretty'.

But these aren't your average dolls.  No, no, no.  We're talking 'spensive' dolls here now with outfits ranging from vintage to couture with accessories and price tags to match.  Plus, these little beauties must have a stand to keep them upright 'cause two feet aren't enough, a carrying case because only commoners are carried in a child's arms and bedding because who the heck wants to share a twin-sized bed with a living, breathing child.  Let the kid sleep on the floor...and let them eat cake!  Oh, wait, that was Marie Antoinette.  Sorry.

For what one of them would wind up costing me, I could just pop out Co-Def #3 and call it a day.  Oh, hell-to-the-no y'all!

So, you can kinda understand my snatching the offensive catalog from her hand and lobbing it into the nearest trash receptacle while muttering hysterically 'Who put this crappy Fisher-Price junk in here-don't they know that's for babies?!  Nothing to see here!  Move along!!'  She eyed me rather suspiciously kinda like she did the day I told her the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy owned a time-share property in Florida with Santa Claus that they shared during the off-season.  Hey, she wanted to know if they all lived together.  I can't remember names, much less who lives where, okay??

Now every afternoon, it's a race to see who gets to the mailbox first.  One of these days she's gonna win.  It still takes her a while to get outta the car considering I'm the one with the keyless remote, but she's getting faster at extricating herself.

Yep, I'm a Bad Mommy.