This is me. (with really flowy hair that particular day)
This is a soapbox
    Now could you please in your mind put the two images together and imagine me standing on a soapbox (except put an incredulous look on my face)?  That is possibly what this post is going to sound a little bit like.  I might come off sounding like a hater - a jealous hater at that. (because we all know that haters always hate because they jealous.  And you know - haters gone' hate)  Excuse me, I just lapsed into my ghetto alter image for a split second.  If you've never heard the phrase "haters gone' hate", then may the Lord bless you and keep you in his palm and may you never have to hear that in real life. 

    Anyway, what I'm trying to get at here before I got all off topic with my ghetto self, is that I love Pinterest. (Ha!  That's not what you were expecting was it?!)  And I love finding cute ideas, good recipes, and adorable clothes on Pinterest.  I even really enjoy it when I find an article or a "how to" piece that is of some relevance to me.  However, there needs to be some sort of "stupid" filter.  (I know this is impractical and people just shouldn't pin stupid stuff, but people on soapboxes don't always take time to think things like that through.)

    And to be honest, this little emotional outcry I'm having is really not about what's on Pinterest at all, but the other night I saw where someone had pinned an article about potty training.  Well, the time has come that I have to quit putting off my girl who begs to wear panties and actually get down to business with the potty training.  She's been ready - I have just been lazy.  So I clicked on the article to see if there were any helpful tips since it's been a while for me.  Do you know what I found?  I found a blog post by a person who has spent the last two months potty training her first child (who is 19 months old) because the babysitter gave them tips on how to do it and she wanted to share with the world.  Now don't get me wrong, it's perfectly acceptable to pretend like you're an expert even though it's your first time and you're following tips from your babysitter and it's taking more than two months.  But really?  What is going on it your life that you have to act like an expert?  Who, per say, are you trying to impress?  I've noticed a lot of that lately, now that I've joined the blog world and pay attention to a few more than I ever did before (which consisted of my sister-in-law's and no one else's by the way).  There are tons of sites that teach you how to be a "play at home mom" with post after post about homemade science projects and art projects and imagination projects and healthy eating projects and over-the-top birthday parties.  Who is doing this stuff?  And who is doing their laundry?  And do they ever take five seconds for themselves?  Or are they all just lying about their lives on the internet because it's the internet and everybody lies? (p.s. - I never lie on the internet.  Feel free to decide if that was a lie or not)

    So with all of this recent deep thought and disgruntledness due to guilt that I have yet to set up a new imaginary play scenario every morning before my children get up and right after I prepare fresh, organic fruit and oatmeal on the stove, I decided to evaluate just why I myself am taking the time to blog.  What am I doing here?  What kind of outlet is this for me?  And I decided that it is a completely selfish way to feel "not alone" in this thing we call mothering.  Our moms mothered, our grandmothers mothered, our great grandmothers mothered, Eve mothered, but I think now more than ever we are so connected to the world around us (ex.- me facebook stalking you in the carpool line.  and I do)  that we see what everyone with a wifi connection is doing.  And it's so easy to compare ourselves to them.  Sometimes we come out feeling better about ourselves, sometimes worse, and sometimes we just need a reality check. 

    So that's what I'm doing today.  I'm reminding myself that all the people with the cute little articles and the professionally installed car seats and the amazing coupon savings and the unrealistically beautiful family portraits and the organic dinners aren't me.  They don't live my life.  And that's ok, because they probably wouldn't be any better at it than I am.  And I would probably stink at theirs.

    But you know what I do know?  Today my daughter poured a whole entire, brand new bottle of Johnson's baby soap all over her and her bathroom.  When I walked in tonight, our new puppy was chewing on the carcass of a dead mouse, right at our back door.  Yesterday, in the very back of the garage fridge full of drinks, behinds stack of other stuff, I discovered a crock pot full of left over rotel dip from Turnanator's school Christmas party.  It was looking rurnt.  Sometimes I resent my children for taking time away from Aaron and me.  Because we live in the same house and occasionally I miss his attention desperately.  I forgot to send book fair money this morning.  And at my house, Little Debbie cakes are a sufficient breakfast.

    Guess what else I know.  My mother didn't spend every second of her waking life stimulating our imaginations and challenging our brains, and we all turned out fine.  Better than fine, even.  Cold doesn't make people sick, germs do.  Getting the flu because you didn't germ-x your hands at Walmart is not the very worst thing that can ever happen to you.  Kids are mean.  I hope my kids never act that way but learn to deal well with the ones that do.  Captain Crunch has vitamins and minerals in it, so it can pass for dinner occasionally.  My house will be clean eventually.  It won't kill my rotten children to help get it that way.  Vaccines are scary.  So is Polio and Smallpox - it's tricky.  There are five people in this house that love each other and do their best every day.  There is a God watching over this house that loves us more than we can know, and He knows what is best for us always.  And there are lots of you mamas out there tonight, just like me.  Doing the best we can with what we know and praying that God takes it and makes up the difference.  And thank Him so much for that.  And you.
    Most of you are on Pinterest.  (I say that as if it were a factual piece of information.  As if I actually know all of my readers and have polled you for information.  Apparently I think you will believe me if I lie confidently.) 

    Ok, so I assume that a lot, if not most of you are on Pinterest.  I am on Pinterest as well.  If fact, I am on Pinterest a lot.  In the middle of the night mostly, when I should be sleeping, and instead I am clicking the "see more pins" button over and over again.  Which in turn leads me to desperately want to bulldoze my house and build an amazing one with bookshelves in the stairs and walls of bunk beds and kitchens with holes in the wall to throw recycling straight out to the garage.  Maybe if I had holes in my kitchen wall I would recycle.  Dear Mother Earth, I'm sorry.  It also makes me want to cook and eat every terrible thing you could ever imagine, including but not limited to and oreos wrapped in a chocolate chip cookies.  Also I feel an overwhelming urge currently to bury our trampoline in the ground and wear an outfit that pays homage to a different Disney character every day for three months.  I also have had the urge to join the crowd and make my own laundry detergent, and today I actually caved and did it.  Have any of you done it so far?  How do you feel about yours?  I made the powdered kind and am a touch apprehensive.  I know Gain is good.  I don't know about the homemade mix just yet.

    So tonight when I started typing four different blog posts and decided they were all boring, I got the bright idea to lame out with some cute e-cards from Pinterest that I feel describe my life perfectly.  It's like the designer jumped in my head and made these things up.  And even though many of you have seen these before, here they are again for the few (ahem......mother) that haven't so much jumped on board with the whole social networking thing yet.
I get it from my mother. We can't help it. It's a medical condition. Overactive Emotionalization
It's true. I've already decided that I am going to eat raw chicken before a big event I'm supposed to go to soon so I can get out of wearing high healed shoes.
The people in my life are so overly demanding.
Truth. No explanation needed.
Isn't it funny how we all have those people?
If only I could find someone who would pay me for making stuffed bell peppers and changing diapers.
This is how I feel towards my wonderful, but exceptionally busy husband every day!
You would be surprised how hard it is sometimes.
Busy being fabulous,
     I haven't written in two whole weeks.  I have no idea why it's been that long.  When I first started this blog, I wanted to write several times a week.  But soon that became overwhelming so it whittled down to eventually just once a week.  And then for some reason, the past two weeks happened, and I just could not bring myself to sit down here and type.  I kept thinking about it, and every time I would sit down at the computer, blah.  Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.  I think I'm just not feeling funny lately - and funny is kind of my thing.  Or at least in my mind it is.  Please don't tell me otherwise.  It will hurt my psyche.  And I can't afford another hurt thing today.

     As it turns out, my righteous case of writers block is still here and going strong pretty much, but I have managed to muster out a sad story of lameocity and woe from my pain.  Today I did two things that were very good for me, but oh so very out of characteristic and included me wincing and wishing for a fleeting second that I used profanities.  (please don't be like me)  For those of you who are my friends on facebook, you will already know about all of this, but what can I say - I already told you I had writers block.

     I went to the dentist.  Yeah, I know to you that doesn't really sound like a big deal, but to me it was huge.  Mammoth.  Epic even.  I'm talking "a new Star Wars movie" epic.  You see, I am a self-diagnosed sufferer of Dental Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  So much so that, barring a visit for pain with a cracked tooth 5 years ago that eventually led to an ill fitting crown and more trauma, today was essentially my first cleaning and checkup in more than 10 years.  Please feel free to judge away.  I don't care.  I have a mental health condition, DPTSD, and I cannot help it.  It all began many years ago with a little girl and a giant chin.  It's true.  I hit puberty and that joker shot out like Jay Leno wearing a jet pack.  Pair that with some gnarly looking teeth, and we're talking six years of braces, two preliminary dental surgeries, and one broken and realigned jaw with a mouth wired shut for six weeks.  I know you would never know it now from looking at me and my stunning beauty, but it was whack man.  Whack.  Then when I was finally forced back to the dentist with a cracked up tooth, there was the whole "crown episode of 2007" that took ten visits and a little bit of screaming.  I am damaged.  I am broken.  I hate the dentist.

     My mother nags.  My mother fusses.  My mother wears me out.  My mother footed the bill for all of the afore mentioned dental work, so now my mother cannot bear the fact that I am content to let my teeth rot out of my head like a professional meth addict rather than visit a trained dental professional.  So today, I humored my mother and I went to the dentist.  I chose him because he was recommended to be kind and non-judgemental, and because he gives the gas whether your insurance pays for it or not.  It's "complimentary".  I asked for it in the parking lot just so I could get through the front door.  Unfortunately they aren't quite that obliging, but they were terribly nice otherwise.  Luckily I lived and am scheduled to go back again.  No one get too excited, though.  I make no promises.  Baby steps people.

     Another thing I did today which was not good for me at all, was too finish off the gargantuan Hershey's kiss that I had given Super G for valentine's day.  The one he gnawed on for a while and then decided it was too much work so he layed it down and said, "that's enough.  I don't want to get fat anyway".  So I ate the rest of it.  (don't be like me)

     Which brings me to my next point of what I did good for me today.  I exercised.  And not just any old plain jane exercise.  I did P90X.  I know I'm behind the times and all of you did it last year and now you're on to something else.  But I didn't.  I had it last year, but I didn't do it.  Mostly because Aaron is the one that wanted to do it, so he ordered it, and then two days before it arrived in the mail he fell out of the attic while putting up the 87 boxes of Christmas paraphernalia and ripped up things all over the inside of his body.  It was whack man.  Whack.  So we didn't do it.  But now we are.  We've done two videos - "chest and back" and "plyometrics".  One is an hour of pushups and one is an hour of jumping.  I currently cannot put on deoderant because I cannot reach either arm to the opposite side of my body, and I am sleeping in my tennis shoes tonight because my legs become so jiggly when I bend over that I fall down.  Then my back is too sore to lean over and untie the double knots - hence the sleeping in the Reeboks.  On the floor.  (don't be like me)

     It's funny how just typing this made me think back to a story that's only funny to me (but I'm totally going to tell it to you poor suckers anyway).  You know how I was talking about the chin earlier and how I am always talking about the love of cadbury eggs (which are out now btw!) and the resulting "no pants that fit"?  Well one afternoon while in college, Aaron and I were talking about "when we get married" and he decide it would be funny if we both drew a picture of what we thought our kids will look like.  He drew a boy, and I drew a girl.  And we used every terrible feature that either one of us have, multiplied by 100.  You should have seen those jokers.  Both fictional kids were 7 feet tall, with a unibrow, a nose wide enough to fly a paper airplane up, "booty lips", and "the gimpy toothed chin situation".  Then they had a ginormous rear end, tree trunk thighs and weird feet.  Plus there was some acne and several cowlicks.  And sticky-outy ears.  And stubby hands.  Did I mention the large buttox?  Anyway, this image has stuck with me all these years, so if you have ever heard me talk about crying when I found out I was pregnant with a girl - it was for many reasons.  Especially the fact that her life was going to be extra hard looking like that.  But it turns out so far that no one has signs of a giant chin (even though bless Super G's little heart his teeth are already gimpy), there's not that many cowlicks at our house, and they all seem to have the good sense to quit eating the giant Hershey's kiss before they develop type 2 diabetes at age 8. 

    And just to prove their cuteness against all odds, I thought I would throw in some pictures that I came across tonight that I haven't seen in a while.
Love you like a fat kid (with a big chin) loves cake,
You know the thing about babies is that they always start out so tiny.......
But in no time they get all attitudnal with their new personalities........................
Whachu talkin' bout Willis?
Soon they are sneaky..............
Cupcake? What cupcake? I haven't eaten any cupcake.
I don't know why you keep accusing me. I have not been in the markers!
And you know all kids go through phases........................
The sad dragon phase was definitely the worst
Before long they are doing grown up things with ease................
Hey Mama, look at me! Hey Daddy, watch this!
Do.Not. kiss me in front of everybody!
They mature...............................
Can I hold her and take a picture please?
But sometimes the attitude still shows through.............................
If you don't stop taking photos of me right this second and wipe this mess off my face, I'm going to cut you. Seriously. I do not kid.
You know the thing about babies?  One day they are brand new and then just a few more days and they are celebrating their sixth birthday.   And while all that individual stuff is going on that seems to last forever (like the colic and the sad dragon), it turns out it all adds up to six of the quickest and most wonderful years of your life.  Funny how that happens.
Son, you are the most amazing little creature with your handsome looks, and funny quirks, and hat poking up off the top of your head.  You're so smart and so good and so loving, and you are so much like your daddy in so many ways.  You are the best surprise that could have ever happened to me and I love your little face off.  Thanks for making the past six years wonderful. 

Happy Birthday Turnanator!