The commercials are so sweet, so bonding, so peaceful. They depict a moment.  A moment that will be treasured by every child who is fortunate enough to experience it.  Good grandmas and good mothers across America strive to be like that Tollhouse woman - the unattainable picture of all things right and good.

I know a thing or two about baking with kids. I also know that it's a far cry from anything we see in the commercials.  Start to finish, it takes 4 times the amount of time it would take me to do it alone.  But that's ok. If you're in the child raising business, you know better than to expect things to happen quickly when kids are involved.  Not only do we real moms end up with award winning cookies, but in the process we hurdle dining room chairs that have been pushed up to the counter (as many as 3 in my house), we man the mixer while holding back grabby hands that reach for the spinning beaters regardless of how many times we discuss the possibility of losing extremities, AND we stretch our arms to inhuman lengths reaching over and around children in order to make sure the ingredients actually make it into the bowl rather than be dumped down its side.  Not to mention the crazy math that goes on in our heads as we try to evenly distribute 2 1/2 cups of flour between 4 kids so that everyone gets a turn to pour. Let's see. 2 divided into 4 - that's easy...1/2. 1/2 divided into 4 - I can still manage that...1/8. So that would be 1/2 cup plus 1/8 cup of flour per child. Then there's the other approach  - Sally puts all the flour in, Billy takes charge of the salt, and Junior does the baking soda, but that only works until they're old enough to realize that dumping 1 teaspoon of salt into the mix can in no way compete with the joy and satisfaction that comes from being the chocolate chip dumper. Then what? Fairness must be observed at all costs.  Don't even get me started on the eggs.

I don't wear a vintage ruffled apron and I definitely don't bake on sparkling cookie sheets.  Could that be the problem?

When the cookie dough is finished, us experienced team bakers know better than to start cheering. The hardest part of the process is yet to be accomplished - loading up the the cookie sheets.  It is physically impossible for four kids to reach the bowl of dough and the cookie sheets simultaneously and feel satisfied with the arrangement.  Cookie sheets are too big, tables are too small, bowls are too deep. But really what it boils down to is there are too many cooks in the kitchen!  So, which one of your kids are you going to kick out of the game? That's what I thought.  Generally, we end up with a kid or two sitting on the table, a little yelling, a large amount of pulling on pans and bowls, secret cookie dough sampling, which really is no secret at all, and sometimes even the very illegal spoon licking.  I kind of just close my eyes during this part anyway because as much as the kids' hands are scrubbed clean prior to this step, the sight of little fists squishing each dough ball 28 times to perfection takes a toll on my appetite.

The actual baking step - that's easy. 8-10 minutes of baking time may as well be an eternity to the kids, so everyone runs off to play, leaving Mom with the mess, which somehow feels as welcome as an appointment with the masseuse now that the kitchen is empty.

A funny thing happens though, by the time the timer rings and the cookies have cooled. It must be the wafting scent of freshly baked cookies or the smiling faces of all those dough ball squishers.  Baking with children strangely evokes the same feelings as childbirth.  When you're in the midst of it all you're screaming "WHO thought this was a good idea?"  And then when you're gazing into that sweet baby's newborn eyes (or sinking your teeth into that first bite of rich and gooey goodness) you think, "That wasn't so bad.  Let's do it again!"

And you do.

I've always loved thunderstorms. The wind, rain, smell, lightening.  It brings back so many childhood memories. My dad loves storms, or change in the weather of any kind, really.  When we were little, a good storm usually meant we'd all jump in the car and go for a drive. Sometimes up to the mountains to see if the reservoir was spilling over, sometimes just out of town to enjoy the sound of nothing except rain pounding down on the roof of the car.  Then we'd come home, often to hot chocolate or homemade cookies. I love those memories.

Last night was one of the best thunderstorms I have EVER been in.  Or at least it should have been the best.  Thunder, lightening, rain falling in sheets, which soon turned to hailstones the size of bouncy balls. Seriously, it was ridiculous. It started around 10:00, I think, so the kids were already in bed.  Reas is hundreds of miles away on a business trip to Denver.  That left me and the storm.  After about 5 minutes of being scared to  death that a monster hailstone was going to come crashing through a window, I realized that big time storms are totally cool when you're with people.  Not so great all alone.  I was sure water was going to come pouring down through the attic because it sounded like 10 showers were running full blast right above my head when I'd walk under the opening to it.  If that happened what the heck was I supposed to do?! Buckets would be useless. I kept going into the kids' rooms to see if anyone was waking up needing me to comfort them. Those dang kids were somehow sleeping right through it!  I just wanted someone to talk to and sing "My Favorite Things" with.  Honestly, I don't know how they slept through it.  Our house sounded like it was under attack, and I was a big chicken.

This morning in the light of day, I was mad.  Mad that I was such a wimp last night.  A cool mom would have been out in the storm collecting hailstones to put in the freezer to show her kids and husband. Grrr. Instead, I'm ashamed to admit it, I crawled under my blankets, heart pounding out of my chest, and eventually fell asleep. I don't have a picture, video, or anything!

Note to self, two inch hailstones don't happen every day, especially in Vegas. Thunder won't hurt me and the chance of being struck by lightening in a given year is one in 700,000 (it's true. I just googled it). So next time, I'd better get out there, stomp through the puddles, dodge the hail bombs and be cool.

Not that I really wanted to have to do it.  But I had said that's what I would do if they kept leaving them in the middle of the floor and they did. So I HAD to do it.   I left them there.  And there they'd stay until they were noticed by the owner and properly hung up in the closet. I was mad.  Should I feel guilty for the pleasure I felt by slamming them into the trash?  Probably. It was bad.

Maggie noticed hers as soon as she came down the stairs, probably because it was on top - the least disgusting place because she had the fewest offenses. As she walked over to the trash, she started to say "Why is my backpack....?" Then she stopped mid-sentence and quietly took it out and hung it up. Lesson learned? I don't know.  We'll see what happens tomorrow.  Ty's was in the bottom. The way down deep BOTTOM.  And at the moment it didn't feel like I could get it deep enough.  Neither Ty or Claire had noticed their backpacks by the time we had to leave for baseball.  I called Reas, who hadn't come home yet and told him whatever he did, do NOT take the backbacks out of the trash!  Specifically, I said, "If you have to dump bacon grease in there and feel like smearing an open peanut butter and jelly sandwish on them, go ahead. Just don't take them out."  Told you I was mad.  He was like, "uhhhhhh. ok."  And probably was reconsidering why he ever thought I'd be a good mother to his children.

We came home and honestly, I can't really remember how or when the other kids noticed their backpacks.  Maggie may have said something to them. I know it's an anticlimatic ending to my story, but I think they got the point.  If anything, they learned that I do what I say I'm going to do.  And that I'm mean sometimes...and maybe overly dramatic when I get worked up, and a little OCD when it comes to keeping order, but I think they already knew all that.  My point is that more and more I'm learning that if repeating the same thing over and over (asking them nicely to put their stuff away) has failed to give me the results I want, then I have to DO something differently (shock them to pieces by throwing their bags away). I'm definitely not saying that this was the best or kindest approach. But it was different, and they responded.  This can be applied to everything.  If we're tired of being late, wake up earlier.  If waking up to a dirty kitchen stresses you out (like it does me), clean it the night before.  If you're kids regularly argue over who's turn it is to play the computer, come up with an entirely new plan.  It sounds so simple, but we're creatures of habit and so we easily get into a rut of reacting or responding the same way to a situation, even when it never works.  And for me, that's when I get tired, frustrated, and sometimes even feel helpless.
So here's my thought for the day: Stop exhausting yourself by doing what you know doesn't work and try something else.

 It's deep, I know.

I just finished cleaning this glass:

...and I'm the BALL.

Except in this game there are 5 paddles keeping me in line.

Paddle #1 reminds me when we haven't been social enough.  "Mom, let's invite friends over!" "Mom, let's go to the park!"  "Mom, let's invite so-and-so to the library with us!"

Paddle #2 is quite aware of how I choose to spend my free time (if there is such a thing).  He patrols my blogging time in comparison to the number of Yahtzee games we've played together or the number of pitches I've thrown to him.   It's all a delicate balance.

Paddle #3 approves or disapproves of my outfit each day, thus protecting me from myself.

Paddle #4 tells me when and where I can sleep.  Lately it's falling off the edge of our king size bed because by morning she's between us sleeping SIDEWAYS.  I'm still trying to see the good in this.

Paddle #5 is just a wee thing who I have only just met via ultrasound.  As small as he/she is, my eating habits completely revolve around this one.   Secretly, it's kind of nice to not be held accountable.

Every now and then, somehow I'm able to bounce off the ping pong table and roll under the couch where I'm temporarily forgotten.  We all know it's far from lonely down there.  It's a fleeting moment of quiet solitude.  I hide in the dust and broken crayon bits just long enough that I can get up, shake off the dust, and get my game on.

is that I want to eat everything.  I've never experienced this part of pregnancy to such an extremely ridiculous degree.

It doesn't matter that I just ate.  It doesn't matter that I wasn't hungry 2 seconds ago.  If you mention it, I want it.  I feel like a 2 year-old who thinks that every toy that any other kid happens to be playing with is now rightfully his.  Except we're talking food, not toys.  This is much more serious.   It's self-inflicted torture to watch commercials because they're just way too convincing.  Sometimes it's physically painful.  I just saw a picture of an oreo on another blog - now I want oreos. No, I NEED oreos.  I am DROOLING over the thought of dipping oreos until they reach the perfect state of sogginess, and then slurping down the chunky sludge.  Gross.  I just made one of life's greatest food creations sound about as nice as a can of worms.

I don't think I need oreos anymore.

I really don't intend to only blog about pregnant stuff.  It's just that right now, it's kind of all-consuming.  My life is pregnant, my blog is about my life, therefore my blog is pregnant.  It really makes perfect sense. As soon as I'm feeling back to normal, I'll return to my normal blogging schedule, whatever that is.  So sit tight, and just feel the hormones turning cartwheels.

Here are some critical facts:

 So, here's how it all played out.  Soccer games had just ended, it was late, I was without husband.  First, there was me with a diaper bag on one shoulder and a lawn chair on the other.  Then there was screaming Lily, facing outward in my left arm, her arms and legs flailing in anger, and slipping down my body at a disturbing pace.  Then there was the stroller being dragged along in my right hand, spilling over with a picnic blanket, leftover dinner containers, trash, and sweaty socks.  Then there was Ty, covered in strawberries and 3 more in each hand, thus explaing his complete uselessness in helping me.  Then there was Claire about 20 steps behind us whining of being cold and tired,  Tired, yes.  Cold?  Well, I guess it had dropped to like 80 degrees by that time and being Vegas born...who knows, maybe she really was cold.  Did I mention I was talking on the phone too?  I was.  As we trudged onward, a nice man asked if I needed help.  Hmm.  Help?  Aren't I supposed to do this all myself?  I AM the mother and I HAVE control.  "No thanks. We're parked pretty close."  About 1.3 seconds passed by before I realized what I had just said. What!?  Did I really just turn down the help of a willing adult?  That was plain stupid.  Here I am about to drop one kid, lose another one to the crowd, and dump over a stroller full of junk, and I actually tell him I don't need his help!  I'm sure the nice man was thinking, "Dumb lady. Why doesn't she let me help her?"

I don't know why I refused his help.  Maybe because I'm so used to having a baby on the hip, holding a little hand in the other, and being loaded down with twice my weight in kid supplies, it's normal for me.   All of that is such a part of me, that I wouldn't be any more likely to ask for help managing it than I would ask someone to help me brush my teeth.  I do it because it's my job.

Here's what I realized.  I don't have to do it alone all the time.  That man was completely willing and I sort of blew him off.  I would've loved help and he obviously would've felt good about providing a chivalrous deed for a damsel  mom in distress.  Instead, neither of us got anything.

Bummer.

So, mom lesson learned today:  let others help me once in a while.

Everyone will be better off that way.

At 8:25 the kids get picked up for school.  At 8:20 I saw Maggie's empty folder sitting on the sidetable. "Maggie, go get your homework, put it in your folder, and put it in your backpack."  If I'm being completely honest I know I said it with just a little exasperation in my voice.  Afterall, she is in 4th grade, and she should be a little more responsible, right?

"Mom! I can't find my homework.  I think I left it all right here, and now it's gone."

Ugh. We all go scrambling around looking for the missing homework.  We have like 3 minutes to find it.  It's not in any of the usual places.  Luckily carpool seems to be running slightly behind, so we start looking in all the unusual spots.   Behind couches, under beds,  between pillows, even in the laundry room, and the kitchen trash.  It is nowhere.   Carpool arrives, they agree to wait a minute while we keep looking.  Now we're looking in really weird places...the pantry, Reas' church folder, my closet.  All the while I keep saying things like, "THIS is why you should put your homework in your backpack as soon as you finish it."  Finally, we have to let the carpool leave and I'll have to drive Maggie to school after we find the homework.  I would've rathered just sent her without it, but the look on her face!  She was so sad, nearing hysterics, but trying to hold it back all at the same time.  She IS responsible.  She wants to do everything right, and going to school without her homework, where she'd have to sit on the wall during recess for coming to school unprepared would be torture for her.  During the frantic search I'm torn between trying not to get mad and showing it by lecturing her the whole time, OR breaking down right along with her because I can remember being in 4th grade.  I remember knowing the world would truly end if I had a missing assignment.  I totally understand it, but STILL.  This all could have been avoided if she would have put her things away.   So I try to keep the lecturing to a minimum, but little comments kept slipping.  By this point she was desperate, and I knew that homework wasn't going to turn up by itself.  So we said a prayer.  A simple, heartfelt "help us find the homework" prayer.  Then we did the only thing that was left to do...we kept looking.

I made my way back to the trash, obviously not my favorite place to go digging.  This time I must've dug a little farther or searched down the other side of the bag because there it was.  All 3 pages of her homework glued together with chocolate pudding and sausage grease.  I was happy, relieved, and instantly humbled.  I was the one who threw those papers in the trash.  I KNOW it was me.  I turned toward Maggie expecting and hoping to see smiles.  Instead, she was mostly worried about what to do with her soggy homework.  I wiped off dinner the best I could, smoothed out the wrinkles, and wrote a note to Maggie's teacher taking full blame for the huge mess.  I apologized to Maggie for accusing her of not taking care of her things.  She knew right where she had left her work.  She put it safely out of reach of little hands, but unfortunately not out of reach of a mom who all too often spins around in a frenzy trying to be rid of clutter.  I hate being wrong, especially when it's at the expense of others.

We jumped in the car and pulled up to the gate one minute before the tardy bell would be ringing.  The van had hardly stopped and she was out the door, racing across the playground trying to get to the door before she'd be locked out and have to go through the office where she'd be given one of those horrible pink tardy slips.  That's the the other thing about Maggie... she hates being late.  I sat there watching her run, backpack and lunch box flying behind her, and feeling completely helpless.  I know now it doesn't sound like a big deal...not turning in homework ONE time, and being a little late to school.  For Maggie though, it IS a big deal.  And I could even get over the fact that the whole ordeal had been my fault because it was just an honest mistake, but the way I had accused her the whole time when it had really been me, and the little comments I kept making, makes me sick.

She made it to class before they locked the door so I guess it was a happy ending.  But all I can think about is how I sent her off to school without giving her a hug and making sure she really knew how sorry I was.  We were in such a hurry to leave I couldn't even talk with her about how we found her homework after we said a prayer.  I felt cheated out of a moment with her.  I know I can say it all tonight when she's home again, but I'm feeling it now.  I'm feeling the weight and responsibilty of motherhood now.  Life is short and my time to be Maggie's, Ty's, Claire's, and Lily's mommy is even shorter.  I know parenting, like everything else we do, is a learning process, but it's scary that while we are learning and unfortunately making mistakes, we're permanently shaping another life.   Or 4 other lives, in my case.  It's kind of like the studying for the test and the actual taking of the test is all going at the same time.  I know I'm going to mess up more than I'd like.  I just hope that if each day I can do a little more to be the right mom for my kids, be more loving and understanding of their needs, and mess up a little less during the process, that that will be good enough.

Sometimes...most of the time I feel like my life is on fast forward.  Whatever it is I am in the middle of doing I have to do it fast because there is always something else that I need to start on.  I'm tired of being on fast forward.  I always know my life is getting out of hand when I'm scarfing down my lunch for no apparent reason.  Yes, maybe my whole day's list isn't checked off yet, but there is nothing so pressing that I should feel the need to swallow without chewing.  Or sometimes during dinner, I don't even think to take off my apron.  Maybe it's my big momma bib (which often is very handy), but usually I think it's because I know in ten minutes time I'll be up doing dishes and wiping up messes anyway, so I may as well save the time.  But wouldn't it be nice if I removed the apron, sat down, chewed, and then got to the clean-up when I felt like it.  Yeah, that'll be the day.   I know I need to slow down when one of the kids asks me to play with them and my answer is "yes, I just need to_______ and then I'll play."  I hate to admit that as I'm saying that, deep down I know that they'll get distracted and forget that they wanted me to play, and then I'll be off the hook.  Playing with my kids should not be the hook.   How do I make myself stop,  look around, and say everything else can wait?  Playing babies with my 4 year-old is by far the most important thing I have to do at this moment.  I know that now.  But how do I remember that when I'm in the middle of scrubbing toilets, working on a church assignment,  or maybe reading Percy Jackson for me and she wants me to play?  I'm feeling guilty.  And sorry.  And overwhelmed.  Guilty, sorry, and overwhelmed about the number of responsibilities that I am 100% responsible for and I'm not doing any of them as well as I should be.  How do I slow down, focus on my most important job as a mom, without letting everything else slip?

...but I call it outwitting my child.

Today Lily has been so sad.  Everything we do to try to make her happy just seems to make it worse.  I know she's teething.  She has a cold.  She probably just feels rotten and it's so sad. The poor thing is exhausted, but whenever I put her down to try to get her to sleep she just cries...that sad, sad someone please come save me cry.  I know the difference between the save me cry and the I'm just being a stinker cry.  This was definitely the save me cry and I can't ignore that one.  SO.  You know what I did?  I made muffins which she loves, put her in the highchair, and kept those muffins coming until she konked out in the chair.  It only took two (rather large ones)- so that's not so bad, right?  And besides that, they were zucchini muffins.  Vegetables! SO healthy (only 3 cups of sugar). Who am I convincing?  No one. But she's asleep.  She was so happy in her little muffin paradise picking off every last crumb off of the paper. 

Now she's sound asleep covered in muffin crumbles and I think I've decided to let her nap it out right there.  I'm not risking waking this baby for nothin'.

I was folding laundry when I realized it was very quiet...too quiet. I walked upstairs fully expecting to meet disaster in the face. Maybe a kids-only fingernail polish party or something of that nature. But no. Just look at these perfectly behaved calm children all getting along beautifully. And even reading during their Christmas break. Ahhhh. Bliss.

On Saturday we did a little Christmas shopping. First I went out and Reas stayed home with the kids. Then we switched.

As I was happily prancing around Kohl's all by myself, I noticed other moms who weren't as lucky as me - they had their kids with them. And then I made a BIG mistake. I laughed at them. Just in my head, of course. And the only reason I felt justified in this cruel behavior was because usually I'm THAT mom - the one shopping with the kids. I don't think that I was actually laughing because they were so miserable, but more because I was so happy to not be them at that moment. See? I'm not really all that bad. But still, I should not have laughed. Carma would soon teach me that.

My shopping trip went smoothly. I was gone about 2 1/2 hours. I came home a new woman. When I walked in the front door everything was in order. Kids were happy, Lily had slept for nearly the whole time I was gone, Reas was even able to rake leaves and clean up the yard. He and Ty were happily lounging in front of a football game. A pretty simple success for him, I'd say.

THEN HE LEFT.

Here's what I did in the 1 1/2 hours he was gone:

Finish making and cleaning up lunch

Start working on my mom's gift and soon realized it's NOT going to work

Claire's complaining of a tummy ache

Bundle up Claire, lay her on the couch, and continue to listen to her complain

Listen to the others fight while they're trying to play Uno.

Put away the crappy Christmas gift supplies

Still cleaning up lunch

Lily's crying...loud. Can't figure out why.

Hear the familiar sound of throw up coming from Claire...on the floor, on the couch, on the pillow, on the blanket, in her hair, down her shirt, on me.

Strip down Claire and leave her standing there while I at least get the stuff cleaned up off the floor, so it's not tracked around the house.

Get Claire upstairs to the bath.

Lily's still crying. She'll have to wait.

Back downstairs to scrub the couch.

Throw a load of puke clothes in the wash.

Scrub the cushions.

Pick up Lily because she's still crying. Smell poop. A lot of it. It's everywhere - on her clothes, on the couch, on me.

Clean her up and get a diaper on her.

Run upstairs because Claire's crying. She wants out of the bath.

Get her out. Get her dressed.

Run downstairs to finish dressing Lily.

Scrub the poop couch.

Rinse poop clothes.

Back upstairs to bring Claire down to the couch.

She's complaining of a tummy ache. More throw-up.

Put another load in the wash.

Oh! Reas is home.

Claire falls asleep.

Lily falls asleep.

...and I am done.

Next time, I won't laugh.

Last year when Ty had a little birthday party, his friends went home with a candy bar tied up with a ribbon that said something along the lines of "thanks for helping Ty celebrate!" Today in Kindergarten, there was a birthday "celebration." I wasn't actually there, so I can only imagine what kind of festivities went on in the classroom. Ty informed me that they had corndogs, juice and cupcakes. Corndogs?! We have to provide lunch for the whole class now? Then as each child walked out the door, they were given their own jumbo helium balloon. At this point I was already kinda thinking wow. This is quite the class birthday. Then as we're walking out to the van, Ty says, "My backpack is sooooo heavy from all the party stuff." There's more?! I couldn't believe it. When we arrived home, out of his backpack came

a light up yo yo
a giant light up bouncy ball on a string complete with a wrist strap
4 cutsie erasers
a hacky sack

and because that wasn't enough there was a super cool dart gun (with 4 darts included) tied to the outside of the goody bag. This was like high quality merchandise.

Who knows what the girls went home with. Probably a gift certificate to the spa.

Let me back up a bit. Last week, Ty received an invitation to this same girl's party, so this school party was just the beginning! I told him he wouldn't be able to go because I have no clue who the girl's family is and the party is scheduled to last until 9 PM. Ummm. We're talking five year-olds. Am I the only one who thinks is all just a bit over the top? Unfortunately it looks like Ty may be missing out on the experience of a lifetime by not attending the party. Maybe the whole Dodger line-up will be there. Or maybe they'll be raffling off new big screens. Maybe backyard pony rides, bumper cars, and ferris wheels will be there. A carnival perhaps? Seriously. What happened to pin the tail on the donkey?

We just may decide to cancel birthday parties around here. The other kids' moms are damaging my self-esteem.

There may be no greater sound than that of a happy family. Especially, when it's my family. I love it when the kids are happily playing, giggling together about their made up jokes, or just chatting away, enjoying being a family. More often than not, the happy sounds become loud and sometimes a bit chaotic, but as long as it's happy chaos I can deal with it. I love having a busy and bustling home full of little bodies who are eager to live life.

My second favorite sound comes in at a very close second. That would be the sound of nothing. It's obvious why this is also a favorite of mine. It's a rare commodity. I love it when I can sit and listen to the sound of quiet. When I am able to identify the sound of one single bird chirping outside the window or count the breaths of a napping baby who has decided to gift me with a moment of solitude. Quiet calms me. Quiet rejuvenates me from the inside out.

There isn't enough quiet in the world. With so many distractions - the TV, radios, cell phones, alarms, and even noisy appliances that are often a permanent background - it's difficult to find silence. Quiet bliss is critical for me. It's critical for everyone. It's healthy for the body, mind, and spirit. I know because I know how it makes me feel.

Right now, it is quiet. I am relishing in the beautiful sound of silence. My sweet Reas has taken the kids out, and here I am listening to nothing. When they return, it will be loud. I know because I know my family. I'm sure it will be a happy loud with excited voices telling me about the outing with Daddy or about the funny things they saw or did. It will be a good sound, made even better having been preluded by silence.

I learned something about myself today. I have slowly over the course of 8 years of motherhood began to acquire the fine art of mom magic. It must've happenend so gradually, I didn't even realize my own strength until I actually stopped for a minute and thought about what I was doing - how I use this new super power I possess . It's crazy. As a child and teenager, I knew my mom was extra special (hi mom!). She knew stuff. She knew everything. I'm not talking about history, math, and English stuff, although she is very, very smart. The kind of stuff I'm referring to is like knowing what's going on, who's doing what, what the trick is to making every appliance in the house work just right, and pretty much how to do just about anything and everything. She was magic. How does one little mom who's supposedly so busy raising her 6 kids still manage to know everything?! Like the time I stole my brother Scott's M&Ms out of his Easter basket. I swear I was so sneaky. There's no way anyone could have known. But a mom? Yeah, she knew. Mom knew everything. I don't think that I've quite reached her level yet - she has a few years on me.

But...I'm getting there.

Earlier this evening I felt just a tad of that mysterious magic coming from me.

I was rocking Lily in the front room. The rest of the family was back in the family room and kitchen. Everyone was doing their own thing. I couldn't see any one. I was sort of dozing off because that's what I do when I sit for more than one minute. I "woke up" suddenly, not really for any obvious reason. As I sat there for about another 10 seconds I realized my rest time had to be over. I knew a LOT of stuff. Stuff that was happening all over the house, but I hadn't moved from that rocking chair. Stuff was amuck and I knew it.

I knew Claire had a permanent marker

I knew Ty needed to go to the bathroom...bad, but he was insisting on holding it.

I knew someone had left the back door open.

AND

I knew the toilet handle needed to be jiggled because it was still running, and the bathroom is three rooms away. Too far to hear it, especially in my sleep.

*Side note - every house I've lived in since childhood on up has had a toilet like this. Is there a more permanent solution than jiggling the handle? Like a way to actually fix it? Any plumbers reading my blog?*

So before I got up to go restore order to my world I had to sit there and think about how I had come to know all this. In my ponderings I discovered the secret to mom magic. You may be surprised to know that anyone can learn it. Yes, it is a learned art, but it takes years of dedicated training and a highly motivated seeker... like a mom who wants to always be sure to retrieve the permanent marker before the lid is removed by a three year-old.

The magic of mom is all about using your senses. Using all of them all of the time. Our homes are our own little world that we can learn to be masters over. It makes perfect sense. When a matronly master becomes so in tune with her world, nothing will escape her - almost like magic. All will be amazed.

Obviously sight is a critical sense. I rely on it to follow the traces of a chocolate chip theif, to know when some little person got into the markers and left pictures on the wall, and to move the roller skates off of the stairs in order to avoid a trip to the ER. So, what if mom is sitting on the couch with a migraine with her eyes closed because the light hurts too much to keep them open? Well then, her ears work double time. She can hear the bag of chocolate chips being opened, she takes note of the conversation about how fun markers can be when one is not using paper, and she immediately recognizes the thud of the roller skates landing on the stairs and then hears the culprit scamper off. What if mom also has ear plugs in because the neighbors are playing their music too loud AND she's wearing a mask to keep the light out? That's obvious. She's still got a nose. And luckily for moms on the job, things like permanent markers, nail polish, bleach, and chocolate were all given strong smells to help make mothering just a little bit easier. So what if, poor mom with the eye mask and the ear plugs, also has a cold so her nose is stuffy and she can't smell anything? In that case, her sense of touch is enhanced by 500% so that slight changes in air currents do not go unnoticed. This explains why I always wake up when one of the kids comes and silently stands by our bed in the middle of the night. I feel their presence. A mother must be completely at one with her surroundings to master this sense. I'm sure I still have much to learn. And last, and perhaps the most critical sense for the success of a mother is taste. Any mom knows that at the end of a long and tiring day, if she can depend on that bowl of ice cream or big fat piece of chocolate cake, or whatever her pick me up food may be, then all of her other senses will be refueled for another day on the job. Taste is the mother sense of all senses. It's what ties them all together into a single, solid, indestructible force. Good eating yields effective mothering.

Just a heads up. Expired Kool-Aid is not cool.



Maybe if it's only a LITTLE expired you might be safe, but January of '06 is pushing the limit. The problem isn't only that it doesn't completely dissolve. The taste is something of a mix between moldy asparagus and shampoo... and I love asparagus. Besides that, the painful after-taste lingers like you wouldn't believe.

You know what's most funny about this? We didn't live in this house in Jan. of '06. We didn't live in our LAST house in January of '06. I've managed to pack up and move this crumpled package of fruit flavored sugar TWICE!

Remember what I once said about my disorganized cupboards? No longer so! After chugging that sludge I decided to get down to business. I didn't go as far as alphabetizing my spices, but close.

And as a friendly reminder, check the dates on your Kool-Aid packages. You'll be glad you did.

Lily is now 1 month and 1 day. It's so unfair how the last month of my pregnancy seemed to last 3 years, but this past month has zoomed by in a wink! Last week I turned the corner - I'm beginning to feel normal again, rather than zombie mommy. The sure sign was when I woke up one morning and my first thought was, "I'm going to rearrange the furniture today!" I didn't actually do it because I had sick kids laying around all day, but the desire was there. That's got to count for something. Me and the Lily babe had our first trip to DI too - post partum, that is. I'm sure she felt right at home considering a great deal of her fetal development occurred while wandering around in there. After six weeks of not stepping foot in the place, it was very gratifying (and maybe a little embarrassing), when manager Leland came sprinting over to me from across the store to welcome Lily to the world. Yeah, me and him are pretty tight. Occassionally, he even knocks a few dollars off my purchases. A preferred shopper, I am.


Be back soon with blogging updates. I've slipped behind. There's a birthday to post, Primary Little League, and I need to rant about a public matter. Stay tuned. In the meantime, here are some pictures.


Ty is absolutely in love with Lily. He must kiss her 50 times a day. I love big brothers!

It's a fact - I'm a cow...and apparently I smell like one too, according to one very honest 3 year-old. I was holding Claire on my lap, having a nice morning cuddle when all of the sudden she gets the unpleasant crinkled up nose look and says, "I smell Lily. It smells like milk. Take a shower."

Well, thank you very much. That's just what I wanted to hear this morning. Cows are nice animals...I guess.