SOC Sunday- Inhibitions and judgements

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go.

So, I'm late with my SOC post. My father in law is in town for the week, and we packed up the heathens (aka our kids) and drove down to San Antonio early Saturday morning, and we drove back yesterday. It was only a 4 hour drive, but the drive back took longer since we stopped at a few stores and broke up the drive.

So basically I was too freaking tired to do it yesterday. And I realized that never again will I share a hotel room with my 3 kids. Arielle talked in her sleep, which woke up the baby at 11pm. Then Jasmin started snoring, which woke up the baby at 2am. Then the baby woke up crying at 4am, and I said screw it and just pulled her in bed with me. So after not getting much sleep the previous two nights, I passed out last night.

So after the Alamo, the Riverwalk, Ripley's Believe It or Not, and dinner,  hubby and the FIL took my oldest two to the pool, and I stayed in the room with Ava. She was tired, and it was way past her bedtime, and I always try to give hubby some time alone with his dad. 

So they get back, and Jake was telling me that there was another little girl at the pool, so my two ran over to her and started playing. Splashing, pretending to be ninjas and mermaids, stuff like that. 

And I got to thinking. I've always loved how uninhibited children are. That every other person their size is just a friend they haven't met yet. My kids will be playing with another kid at the park for an hour, and my girls will tell me "I made a new friend!" And when I ask them what their friends name is, I get the "I dunno" response in return.

You always hear stories about bullying and such. And then there are cliques, and mean girls, and the "in" crowd and the cool kids.

At what point does it change? As much as I try to teach my girls about accepting other people and their differences, people judge. You're too skinny. Too fat. Your clothes aren't name brand.

  

I know eventually, my kids will have to deal with it. Either as the giver or the receiver of the judging and school torment. I just wish they could always be so free and uninhibited. 

SOC Sunday- You don't need to pet me, mmmkay?

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go.

So, I'm pretty excited about today. I'm getting my arm tattooed by an artist I've been wanting to work on me for a long time. But he's usually booked up months at a time. But a couple of weeks ago, I checked and he had today available. And of course, I snagged that appointment slot. Booyah! I already have a big day of the dead skull on my arm, with flowers. I know I want more flowers on it, but honestly I'll take his advice and opinion and go from there. 

Unless you have visible tattoos (and I don't mean that little kanji on your ankle), you don't realize how flippin weird some people are about tattoos. I have a number of them, I'd say I'm moderately tattooed? And I have a number of piercings. Nose, two barbells in my tongue, and about a million in my ears in all the weird places (not just the lobes).

What is it about modifications that make people act so damn weird? I've had strangers come up and without even saying a word to me, start rubbing my tattooed arm. And when I look at them with a "what the hell are you doing" look on my face, they tell me "Oh, I just wanted to see what your tattoo felt like." I mean, excuse me? How did a tattoo magically make you forget socially accepted "personal space"? I mean, if you're wearing a faux fur vest or something, you don't see me walking up and "petting" you.

A few years ago, I took my oldest daughter to a new doctor for a check up. I don't know what nationality/religion he was, or if that even pertains to the story, but I know he was Middle Eastern. But he looks at my tattoo, and asks "Why don't you believe in God?" So because I have a skull on my arm, I now have "I hate God" stamped on my forehead? My husband works at a church, and while a t-shirt covers up most of my tattoo, you can still see part of it, and I've never had anyone at church give me a hard time about it. So now I need to explain myself to a pediatrician, who should be checking out my daughter's allergies instead of lecturing me about my religious preferences? Oh, and the conversation ended with him telling me that worshipping the devil isn't a good idea. WTH, dude? And yeah, we don't go there anymore.

Hubby says that even though tattoos are becoming more mainstream and socially accepted (and heck, even Animal Planet had a commercial with a heavily tattooed guy holding a frou-frou dog), choosing to put something like that on display is asking to be judged. But, if I'm not going to walk up to you and ask why you're wearing mom jeans, or rockin' a comb over, I feel like that should be a two way street.

I mean, most people, if they say anything, it's just "Oh, I love your tattoo!". That's cool, and I appreciate it.

But, the strangers who walk up, and say with an accusatory tone, stupid stuff like "Why would you do that to yourself?" How am I supposed to answer that? Or for that matter, since when was I required to explain myself to a perfect stranger? Want to ask me if it hurt? That's cool. You want to ask me if it means anything? Go right ahead, I love talking about myself :)

But there is a HUGE difference between asking questions and confronting a stranger about their personal choices.

So why would I do that to myself? I did it because I'm awesome and I felt like it, that's why. :)

SOC Sunday- Gorgeous? Tiny? Are you talking to ME?

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go.

So, you'll have to forgive me if this is a blah post. I still feel like hell.

We donated blood yesterday, me for the first time. Needles? Ugh. I hate needles. Yes, the chick with all the tattoos and piercings hates needles. That scene in Saw 2 when that dude throws Amanda in the pit of needles? Ugh, made my skin crawl. And I apparently have great veins and I never have a problem when they go to draw blood.

So I donated, and felt really damn proud of myself. Ava needed two blood transfusions when she was in the NICU, so Jake and I said we were going to start donating regularly.

I was fine when it was over, but about an hour or so later, I start dry heaving and feeling like crap. Mind you, we just sat out in the sun for an hour, watching my middle daughter's soccer game. So i think the heat and the blood drawing combined kicked my ass. I still feel like crap. 

But the point of this post, you ask? When the tech was finishing up, she said "Since this is your first time donating, and since you're so tiny, go grab a powerade and a snack and hang out for ten or so minutes so we can keep an eye on you." 

And my immediate thought? "Who, me? Tiny? Are you crazy? I'm bloated cause I'll be starting my period soon. And I'm still working off those 8 lbs I want to lose. And I know you can see my muffin top thru this shirt."

And I posted a pic of me donating, and my girlfriend Erin thanked me for donating (she lost over 100% of her blood when she was delivering and is still alive. God is good) and then said I was "stinkin' gorgeous" in my pic.

And my thought? "Who, me? Cute, yeah. Some days even pretty. But gorgeous? Really?"

Why do we do that? Why are people so self deprecating? Is that a better option than "Hells yeah, I know I look good." Why can't we just accept a freakin' compliment? 

I read an article in Cosmo or Glamour about verbal and mental abuse. And the worst offenders? OURSELVES.

"You look fat in that outfit. Hello, cellulite thighs. Ever heard of braces, snaggletooth?"

You wouldn't say those things to a friend. So why do people think it's okay to say it to themselves?

Why is it so hard to believe the good things people say about us? Why is it easier to listen to the "you're stupid/fat/ugly/slutty/insert negativity here".

Can you truly, graciously accept a compliment? I mean, with JUST a "thank you" instead of the "thank you, BUT......."

Like, I get told I have really white teeth a lot. And my response? "Thanks, BUT I hate these little white lines on my teeth from when I had braces." 

Or, hubby will say "You look really gorgeous today, babe. I like your new lipstick color." And my response? "Thanks, BUT there isn't enough make up in the world to cover up this zit."

I come across as a super confident chick. But some days I can accept a compliment. Some days I can't. You?

SOC Sunday- Muffins are bad, mmmkay?

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go.

So, I've managed to be talented enough to gain 4 lbs in the past two weeks. Not sure how the hell that happened. I've been eating the same, not working out the same, etc. Which kinda goes against my whole "I'm going to work out for my New Years Resolution" thang.

But one day I was feeling extra muffiny, and it wasn't my period so I wasn't fluffy from that, and I stepped on the scale, and it read 126.8. I'm normally at 123 right on the nose. So how the hell did that happen? And no, I'm not pregnant. I took a test. Okay, two of them. Just good ole extra fluffy. 

I gain weight in my stomach and muffin top. It's amazing how that 4 lb gain can make me go from "super sexy, confident, bad ass chick" to "oh baby, lights off is sexier." I mean, when 4 lbs is the difference between okay and not okay, I'm straddling that line a little too close. 

So again, I'm on a goal to lose weight. For reals this time. Should have just started when I weighed 123, so I didn't have an extra 4 lbs to lose to get back to where I was. I really want to be 118. Okay, 116 would be awesome but 118 would be okay too. And my bloggy bestie Lesley has lost 25 lbs since January. 25 lbs! And here I am, lamenting about having to lose 8-10 lbs.

So I've started writing down everything that I eat, and I look up the calories and write those down too. Holy crap, I eat a lot of crap. Eating for the sake of eating. I won't lie, I enjoy eating. It'd probably be one of my hobbies. I heart food. Like, want to take romantic strolls and have candlelight dinners with it. But I need to know that I'm 30 and that whole "metabolism thang" just ain't what it used to be.

And yes, I know. 4 lbs isn't a big deal. And I'm sure you're thinking that I'm being vain about my looks/weight/whatever and I should STFU. But, I'm 5'4 and normally 123. A 4 lb gain is huge. And completely obvious. And I can only wear solid black so often.

I looked up how many calories I should be eating. To maintain, it's 1890. To lose weight, it's 1495. I hit 1510 on Friday. On Saturday I hit 2205. But there was a UFC fight on, and in a moment of weakness, we ordered Buffalo Wild Wings, which was an extra 600 calories on that day. Oops. 

So I've been working out every day, and actually feeling pretty damn good. Let's just hope it keeps up. Hubby works out 5 days a week, protein shakes for breakfast, eats really well. Blah. Hopefully it'll be motivation to get back to being my super confident self. I'll post a pic of him if you promise not to notice that it'll put me over my 5 minutes. And if hot shirtless men offend you, stop here.

***End of 5 minutes. Oops***

So yeah, when hubby looks like that, it's kinda hard not to want to be in shape. Just tell those powdered donuts to stop calling my name, mmmkay?

Scale results this morning. 125.4. In yo face, muffin top!

SOC Sunday- Life is too short to be miserable

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go.

Jake's grandmother passed away on Friday morning. We are sad, of course, but so thankful that Jake was able to make it up there to visit her before she passed. The first day he was there, she had a few moments of clarity with him, recognized him and thanked him for coming to visit her. And everyone said that when she met Ava, she got the biggest smile on her face that she's had in a very long time. 

So we all knew the end was close, the doctors had given her less than a week left to live. And I truly believe that she would have waited for Jake to get up there, she knew he was coming to visit. And his dad ended up driving up there, so all 4 of her kids were there with her. 

It's sad of course, but I think people know when they're ready to go. You get tired. And what is supposed to be a sad situation isn't as much sad as comfort at knowing their pain is over. 

Jake shared a bit about grandma's life with me. How her mother died in childbirth and she was raised by her aunts. How she didn't have the nicest husband. And it wasn't until after he died and she moved and started helping out with the Grandmother Program at school that she really found herself. 

And we talked a bit more. About how life is too short to be miserable. 

Too short to stay married to the wrong person. Too short to stay in a job that you hate.

My grandmother always says that every moment you spend hateful or angry is a moment you'll never get back. That life isn't a dress rehearsal for something bigger. This is it. I mean, looking at Ava, it's so obvious just how fast time goes by. Moments that you'll never get back.

Jake and I have a wonderful marriage. Friends always tell us that we're perfect for each other, that we're adorable, that we obviously make each other so happy. We work really hard at our marriage. We talk constantly, and really try and make the other person's happiness a priority. 

But after his grandmother passed, and our conversation, it's even more important to us that we stay happy. That we go the extra mile to work on our marriage. Do the little things. Talk. Spend time together. Not hold grudges. Don't live in the past. Forgive past mistakes. Hugs. Kisses. 

 

"Life is like a coin. You can spend it any way you wish, but you can spend it only once. -Lillian Dickson"

Sunday Stream of Consciousness- I'm Too Damn Expensive

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go. 

 

 

So, as I sit here and toss back my pain meds and antibiotics with my ever so favorite morning drink of Coke, I'm going to share my Thursday with you. 

Thursday morning I was in the dentist chair for 5 hours. Yes, you read that right. We finally switched to a new dentist, which I love. Well, as much as you can love a dentist. A person who is legally allowed to torture you. The dentist I had before I did like, but didn't like his office practices. Plus he moved to a different location, and hubby didn't like the replacement dentist.

I had a root canal when I was 13. Gross, right? We didn't do much dental care when I was growing up. Thank God it's important for hubby that our girls see the dentist every 6 months. I don't think about stuff like that. I went to the dentist when I was in the military, but didn't go after I got out. It's important for Jake that I'm taken care of, so he makes my appts every 6 months. So we started going a few years ago. Turns out my root canal was done wrong, and it had gotten an infection in my jaw. So I had to have a bone graft in my jaw and the root canal redone done by a specialist. Fun, right? So the dentist was supposed to replace my temporary crown in a few weeks, and his office "lost" my file. So my temporary crown that's only supposed to be worn for about a month? Yeah, I rocked that for 2 years. When they finally found my file, I was pregnant with Ava, and I refuse to get work done without the gas. And pregnancy = no gas. And being pregnant with Ava did a number on my teeth too. Dang, the things you go thru for these kids. 

So we switched to a new dental office. Really dig the place. The wife is the receptionist. Husband is the dentist. Daughter is the hygenist. All family owned and operated. So I know I have to get a ton of work done on the lower jaw. Yes, my 5 hours in the chair was just for my lower teeth. 

We did the conscious sedation. Basically you are knocked out with pills, but are still coherent enough that if they tell you to open your mouth, you can. Stuff like that. I don't remember any of it. Apparently I just babbled a lot. The dentist told hubby after the procedure was finished, I asked him "Did you plan on starting anytime soon?" 

I have no idea what I got done, I panic too much. Nor do I know how much money it cost. For me, ignorance is bliss. I do know it didn't cost as much as Jake set aside. Apparently I had three teeth that might have been on the verge of root canals, but he was able to do fillings and crowns on those. I do know that I had 5 crowns. But they lovely and white, and not that silver crap. These are temporaries, but I love not having a mouthful of silver. I'm actually excited to get the final ones on.

You know what sucks total ass? I take really good care of my teeth. I admit, flossing gets neglected at times, but the hygenist says I hardly have any plaque on my teeth. But she said my saliva could be more on the acidic side, which eats away at my teeth. Or I could just genetically have weaker teeth. It sucks. It's gross. Makes me feel like I'm a dirty bum who brushes my teeth with sugar and gargles with soda. I mean, I constantly get compliments on how white and pretty my teeth are, and yet, yuck. Gross central.

 

So I do know it cost a lot. I get it. Jake won't tell me the total, cause he knows I'll panic and worry about the money and feel like shit for costing a lot. And he says my job in life is to just be happy. 

Am I the only one who feels so damned guilty when it comes to spending that much money on myself? I know we just got a big tax return. Yay for 3 kids during tax season, right? But even though I don't know the cost, I feel like I'm spending all this money that could be spent on other stuff. Nothing big, we have all we need. But stuff like a new TV or something. Paying off my car. Something for the house. Family vacation. Jake just tells me to enjoy it, and that it's his job to keep my happy and healthy, but I still feel bad, sucking up such a huge (unknown) amount of money that he works so damn hard for.

Sunday Stream of Consciousness- Operation: Better Wife

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go.

So, I told Jake about a week ago that I was going to try and be a better wife. I'm not a "bad" wife. I couldn't cheat on him, ever. Hell, I wake up crying when I have dreams that I'm dating/married to another man, even if I'm not married to Jake in my dream, so there is no cheating involved. He knows when I wake up upset, that in my dream he's died and I've moved on. Or I never met him, something like that. So not dreams of actually cheating, he's just not there. Does that make sense? Thankfully he doesn't read into it and over analyze, he knows that a dream is a dream. 

But seriously, I would walk through fire for that man. 

I do all the stuff I'm "supposed" to. I take damn good care of Ava, to the point where sometimes I'm the only one who can comfort her. Anyone else can hold her and she'll still be fussing. hand her to Mommy and all is right in the world. 

And I take care of the house, most days. Jake is awesome about helping me with chores, but I try to get it done before he gets home from work. He works HARD. And he comes home and does freelance most nights. So I don't want him to have to work all day and then worry about laundry. He does the stuff he needs to, like taking out garbage, helping with Ava, doing homework with Arielle, reading stories to the girls before bedtime. 

But there are some days that I don't touch the house. At all. Glue gun on the counter, laundry all over the bedroom floor, the bathroom a mess, etc. He never complains though, as long as there is a hot meal on the table. And not hamburger helper, which is banned from the house, hubby says it's not "real" food, LOL. So I do cook every night. Stuffed bell peppers. Enchiladas. Salmon. Casseroles. "Real" food like that. 

But I've been lazy with myself, which equals not being the best wife that he deserves. Hair in a ponytail. No make up. The dreaded comfy pants. I think it's easy to be lazy with your appearance when you're a stay at home mom. I mean, who sees you all day? I can go most days and not see anyone besides Jasmin's bus driver. My husband sees me, that's who.
 

I did a make up post a few days ago, telling you my make up process. Seriously, it takes me all of 5 minutes. And it doesn't take me too long to do my hair. Or throw on a pair of jeans. Or put on a bra. But I don't do it, most days. 

And that's not fair to him. Why put on make up when I go to lunch with a girlfriend, but I can't even take 5 minutes to make myself look pretty for my husband? I know he loves me regardless, but he deserves as much attention to my appearance as my friends do. 

So I told him that "Operation: Better Wife" was in effect. And yes I called it that. I'm going to take the time to run a brush thru my hair and avoid the ponytail, regardless if Ava grabs those little baby hairs on the back of my neck and pulls them. I'm going to take 5 minutes to put on make up, even though Ava likes to suck on her fingers and then caress my cheek. I'm going to put on jeans, even though comfy pants, are well, comfy. 

He deserves that.

Sunday Stream of Consciousness- The skanks are running rampant

This is my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post hosted by all.things.fadra. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

    •    Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.
    •    Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.
    •    Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

Five minutes. Got it. Ready, set, go. 

Hubby and I went to the mall twice in the past week. Which is a LOT for us, I haven't been to the mall in probably 9 months. Which sounds like a long time for a girl who loves to shop. First I was on bedrest for the last two months of my pregnancy. Then we got busy with Ava and the NICU situation, and then we've been down to one car cause hubby's car has been in the shop for FOREVER.

But I dragged hubby there. I chopped off 6 inches of my hair last week, and wanted some earrings that I saw on Forever21 online. Which of course, they didn't have jack in the store. And then on Friday we went because I got an email from Fredericks that they were having a bra sale. I FREAKING love their bras. Nevermind the fact that Victorias Secret doesn't even carry my stinking size. I mean, really? But the email said that all bras were on sale for $19, and I wanted a nude colored one. And I picked up a red and black zebra print one for $9. Rawr baby. 

But as we're walking around, I can't help but notice the different levels of skank that are running rampant in the mall. Girls with shorts on that are no longer than their underwear. A 16ish year old girl with a shirt that says "Looking for my next sugar daddy." So much cleavage its distracting. I mean, a 15 year old girl with her boobies shoved up under her chin. Really?

And after I got past being disgusted and irritated, I started to worry. I mean, I'm the mommy to ALL GIRLS. And Arielle is 7, almost 8. Which is pretty close to 15 with as fast as time goes past. And it's scary. Is my daughter going to be the one who leaves the house in one outfit and changes into another? Is she going to be hiking up her skirt as soon as she's out of the house?

Now, in middle school here, they switch to uniforms. Khaki pants or khaki knee length skirts. White or navy blue polo shirt. I'm undecided how I feel about uniforms. I'm all about kids being themselves, but not when it involves push up bras and "Juicy" written across their butt. And it's sad, because I'm sure that at least half of these parents saw what these kids were wearing when they walked out the door.

So we really try to watch what she wears. Skirts and dresses must be longer than her fingertips. If not, there has to be leggings worn underneath. No halter tops without a cardigan on top. Midrift must be covered when she raises her arms. No bikinis on my tween. No short shorts with writing on the butt. Kids are so sexualized so young.

But I don't think it's controlling. She loves zebra print, and bright colors, and rhinestones on her shirt, and I'll buy those for her. But there are rules. I don't care what her friends will be wearing, I want her to want to be classy, not trashy. And I want her to want that too.

Sunday Stream of Consciousness- Mommy Trials

Hello, dear readers. I'm going to participate in a new link party I just found.

Here are the rules. 

* Set a timer and write for 5 minutes only.

* Write an intro to the post if you want but don’t edit the post. No proofreading or spellchecking. This is writing in the raw.

* Publish it somewhere. Anywhere. The back door to your blog if you want. But make it accessible.

* Add the Stream of Consciousness Sunday badge to your post.

* Link up your post.

* Visit your fellow bloggers and show some love.

Today's Challenge? 

 "I’m going to challenge you to go deeper. Before you sit down to write, think about what’s really in your head. Then write about it. For 5 minutes. That one thing. It doesn’t mean your keyboard won’t take you other places but let it flow. Try not to jump from one subject to another. Let your mind go deeper."

So, I'm new at this, so bear with me. Five minutes on the clock starts..... now.

This has been the longest week in history. The girls have been off of school since Tuesday because of the weather. The weather has been stupid crazy. I was in a tank top last weekend, and then we ended up with an inch of ice on the ground a few days later. Come on Texas, get it together. Thanks for giving me a reason to wear super cute hats, but seriously? Plus, my miniature dachshund refuses to go past the porch when there is snow on the ground. So there is pee and poo all over my back porch. Mmmm, thanks? Not that I can blame him. I can't say I'd want my bits to be dragging in the snow.

The girls are getting over being sick. Coughing, runny nose, slight fevers. So that, combined with the 6 degree wind chill, means I can't just send them outside to burn off some energy. So they have been cooped up in the house. And no matter what toys they have, what craft supplies, what games, etc, they are still following me around with sad, pleading eyes, begging me for the secret to unlocking their boredom. I'm sick too, so my patience is thin. And I find myself taking deep breaths and biting my tongue a lot. Which isn't fair to them. But I'm trying to keep my sanity too as the torture of cabin fever sets in. I can only play so many games of Memory before I want to punch myself in the face.

Am I the only mom who questions her success at being a mom? I see posts on Facebook where a mom will post "Today I took Johnny to the library and out to lunch, and now we're watching a movie and snuggling, I love being a mom!" Where as my status yesterday read "Am I the only one who is trying not to strangle my kids?" How does facebook make me feel so inadequate as a parent. Jake is awesome, as always, and always keeps me grounded. When I complained about that status I read, he puts it in perspective. He tells me that I'm honest, and facebook is full of shiny lies. Yeah, that mom took her kid to the library, to lunch and now they're watching a movie. But what she didn't write? The fact that Johnny peed on the floor at the library, he knocked over the ice cream cone stand at Jason's Deli, and they're snuggling so mom can restrain him from hitting her while they watch Toy Story 3 for the 40th time.

Jasmin always tells Jake "You're the best daddy I ever had!" So sweet, right? When she tells me that I'm an awesome mom, I immediately think "yeah, but I yelled at you to shut the door and stop air conditioning the outside. And I threw away the last 4 pictures you drew of Buzz Lightyear for me since I still have the first 3 you drew. And thank you for the hug but you're standing on my toes, and you just wiped sticky fingers on my new shirt." I need to remember not to compare myself to other moms. That I do the best with what I can. There is always room for improvement. I can have more patience. Less gritting my teeth. More hugs. Less saying no. I'm not Mary Poppins. I'm me. I'm not perfect and that's not okay. And it's okay that diapers make me gag. And I grit my teeth as I sweep up playdoh pieces for the billionth time. And I curse to myself as I step on another toy that's been left in the hallway. Cut yourself some slack, Jen.