12 easy steps to whatever

1. Browse Pinterest while feeding the baby. Say "hmmm" a lot.  Wonder if you should have a board titled, "STOP.  JUST STOP." for some of the crazy, crazy stuff on there.  Find some promising ideas for spice storage.

Source: theartofdoingstuff.com via Jennifer on Pinterest

Source: 1userverrack.net via Mackenzie on Pinterest

Source: etsy.com via Jessica on Pinterest

Source: frugaldecormom.blogspot.com via Hipsu on Pinterest

2. Get all excited when you see this all over Pinterest:

Source: manditremayne.blogspot.com via Cami on Pinterest

. . . because HOLY COW one of your very favorite people did that!  Sweet!

3. Become mildly unhappy with your current spice situation.

4. Collect various empty jars. And a baby spoon.  And an avocado, apparently.

5. Print names of spices to punch out.  Break your circle punch.  Remind yourself that trying to punch three layers of cardstock was a bad idea.  Realize that your sisters are going to mock you for having a circle punch, even the sister that secretly owns about 45 more punches than you do.

6. Try to cut circles with scissors. FAIL. Go with squares.

7. Ask yourself WHO CARES what your spices look like.  YOU no longer care.

8. Oops - forgot poppy seeds.  Write it yourself.  In dull pencil.  Because heck if  you're going to walk into the next room to find a pen.

9. Pause production to take care of your cute baby.

10. Give the stink-eye to the teenager who waited until Sunday night to do her homework.

11. Run out of glass jars.  Ask yourself if you care.  (You don't.)

12.  Meh, good enough.  Pin THAT, I say.

Title Schmitle

Can I not act my age for just a minute?  Maybe more like 13?

Because this is like, totally the WORST WEEK EVER.

Not just because my teenagers are at Girls' Camp WITHOUT ME.  Rude.

Not just because I snuck up to Girls' Camp with a baby yesterday evening to deliver a late camper and some forgotten supplies and, like, got totally caught sneaking around the back of the silent, silent fireside to hug my teenager.  And they were all like, "What are you doing?  The Stake is watching!"  And I was all whispering, "Dude, I know, I'm gonna go."  And then the baby was all, "BURP."

Not just because (and this is for the two people I haven't whined to about this yet) my baby is extremely sensitive to dairy AND eggs AND wheat, AND I'm on an antibiotic that must be taken FOUR times a day on an empty stomach and I'M HUNGRY.  Like, whatever!  (As my sister tells me, it would appear that karma is calling me FAT.)

Not even just because I'm finally writing a hasty post for the first time in months and why the heck is blogger making me chase my cursor thingy all over the page?

It's mostly just because J-dub is moving away forever this weekend and I'm soooooo sad.

SO NOT FAIR.  (I just stomped my foot.)

Dear Arizona:  You totally stink.  Thanks for stealing one of my favorite people.

(My lower lip is now quivering, and I'm about to flounce into my room and throw myself face down on my bed.)

Except now the baby is waking up and I have to be a grownup again.

(Seriously, WHERE did the cursor go??)

A post that will make you feel better about yourself, one way or another.

Right after the New Year, I noticed there was a flurry of posts on various blogs about home organization.  It was a veritable multitude of clever, crafty and attractive ideas that I would ideally love to try someday.

But let's be honest.  I'm not getting around to them anytime soon.

And then, upon further reflection, it occurred to me that I have my own current style of home organization.  I think I shall call it Redneck Shabby Geek.  Or something like that.

You're intrigued, aren't you? 

For example, I wondered why automotive cup holders can't come standard with carpeted rooms, and then had a flash of inspiration involving an empty can, some plastic wrap, and the small filing cart next to the recliner.

Behold!  A redneck cupholder!  (My carpet thanks me.)

Stuffed animals taking over the kids' room?  Sew little loops onto each of them (do NOT bother with coordinating thread . . . everyone gets purple) . . . .

And then hang them from cup hooks screwed into an unfinished plank screwed to the wall.  Pretend not to notice when lots of things besides stuffed animals also get hung from the hooks.

A big shelf plus dollar store tubs equals two dressers and a bookshelf condensed into a footprint of two square feet.  Yes, the tubs are always messy.  That's the redneck way.

More unfinished wood.  This time, adorned with large thumbtacks.  Hung above the remnants of a broken towel rack that needs better wall anchors.  I'll get around to it.  Maybe when I get around to painting the dusty pink walls.  Don't hold your breath.

Here's a conversation we get to enjoy almost every morning:
Child 1: I need a hairbrush!
Me:  Ask Child 2.
Child 2:  She can't use mine.  She'll lose it!
Child 1:  I can't find mine!
Me:  I've bought at least 25 hairbrushes in the last 10 years.  WHERE ARE THEY?
Child 1: Puh-leeez can I use yours?
Child 2:  NO
Me:  LET HER USE YOUR BRUSH FOR 30 FREAKING SECONDS.
2 minutes later . . . .
Child 2:  Where's my hairbrush?
Child 1:  Pfft, I dunno.

SO, I went to the dollar store (again) and bought three brushes.  Want to see where they are now?

That's right.  Two of them are tethered to bathroom fixtures.  The third is tied to my desk, just to be sure.  Lose THAT, punks.

While Child 1 and Child 2 are arguing over the brushes, Child 3 is usually trying to get out the door without having met a brush at all, and has gotten away with it on a few occasions.  This is why I keep a comb in the church bag, and why I've had to use it while singing the opening hymn on more than one occasion.

No fabric-lined baskets or coordinating rubbermaid containers here.  The toys get stashed in ice cream and laundry soap buckets and tossed onto a chipboard shelf.  *whispering* They're not even labeled.

Some of our laundry procedures (Mom, look away for a few minutes):  If you put it in the laundry inside-out, it will be washed, dried, folded, and returned to you inside-out.  (If only half of the item is inside out - say, one sleeve or leg - I will cave and turn it all the right way so it will fold properly.  I suspect the 8yo is on to this.)  I'm also toying with the idea of not matching socks anymore.  Each person would just get a pile of their own, unfolded socks.  Admit it: you're mulling that one over now too, aren't you?

Redneck Spring Break Resort, Day One

Redneck Spring Break Resort, Day Two

Redneck Spring Break Resort, Day Three.  (Also known as the day even this mother couldn't take it anymore, and made the poor children put it all away.)

You may think you're looking at a deceptively deep puddle that fools each and every kid that hops out of a car in my driveway and results in many a soggy shoe in my entryway, but I prefer to think of it as my moat.  It's more fun that way.

Speaking of excitement, is there anything better than a pack of kids running like a herd of elephants through the back door because they can't wait to show you that they've harvested the first spring flower just for you?

Also regarding excitement, this is such a dopey picture (oh my, I can't believe I'm posting it), but it pretty much sums up the mood around here.

Tick Tock

A few months ago, the kids started asking me several times daily to tell them how many days were left until the baby comes. I'm a math geek and all, but all the addition was getting to me, so of course I made a looooong paper chain:

. . . like that.

And now it looks like this:

(I think it was sat upon sometime recently.)

We are almost to single digits, and I still can't wrap my head around it. Every time I wake up, I have to remind myself that it's for real!

It's a nice way to wake up.

Presidents' Day

I got the kids up at 7:00 this morning on a holiday to do chores. Secretly, they were really grateful, I'm sure.

Conversations that ensued:

5yo: It's seven hundred. Should I wake up the girls?
Me: Yes, please.
5yo: They usually get up when I yell "BOO!"
5yo: *Goes and yells "BOO!" at the 12yo and 15yo*
5yo: Um, they jus' ugnored me.

7yo: My eyes hurt really bad.
Me: If you have pinkeye, I'm quitting my job.
12yo: What job?
Me: MOTHERHOOD.
7yo: *throws up*
12yo: Please don't quit, Mom!

15yo, playing out of the Children's Songbook: The Prophet said to plant a garden?
Me: Well, yes.
15yo: When?

This picture just makes me laugh. The kids were watching the baby stretch and kick, and more than one of them thought it was creepy.

Making Mr. Rogers Proud

When we moved into our current home five years ago, one of our new neighbors warned us gently about the guy across the street: He didn't care for cats (not a problem) or kids (maybe a problem). We noticed right quick that he didn't care much for a friendly "hello" either. But we've acquired no cats, kept the kids out of his yard and avoided subjecting him to neighborly chit-chat, and in return, we've had no complaints from him. Good enough!

He can't be that bad, because he did take the time to come over shortly after we moved in, and let us know that our perpetually flooded driveway did indeed have a drain, and he pointed out where he thought it was. I thanked him happily, and I intended to thank him again with a plate of goodies, but never got around to it, of course. Until Monday morning, it was the only time I had conversed with him in five years.

He DID report us to the police once, but so did pa-lenty of other households within a one-mile radius. (No exaggeration. Turns out illegal fireworks can be mistaken for gunfire or worse. Who knew?) Anyway, we suspect he was one of the ones who called, because he was watching from across the street as the police came to the door, which was thrown open by six ecstatic children (and one mother with a camera) expecting to see Santa Claus.

(Bless Santa's heart, he had arrived at the same time as the police, and was waiting around the corner for the dust to settle. Except when he did finally come to the door, the children refused to answer it. Go figure.)

SO just Monday morning, I happened to be taking kids to school right when he and his dog were outside, and the dog came barreling across the street towards us, barking and growling. The poor man had no choice but to come collect his dog. I figured I'd better say something, which ended up being:

"So, is this a new dog?" (Because I really couldn't remember ever seeing it before.)

And he replied, "No, I've had him for six years."

I think that's a conversation that'll hold us for another five years, don't you?

For Mandi

(Because I would do anything for Mandi.)



That is a mad bull, right? With really skinny legs? Or am I totally missing it? (I'm probably totally missing it.) Wait, is it a mad bull being held up in the air by a Polar Bear? A two-headed llama? An Ecuadorian pictograph for Olé, we finally unloaded the reject fabric on that guapo, guapo gringo?



I'll get back to you on the egg whites - gotta go pick kids up.