If I had this, I would bike everywhere. For about a week, until I got bored and saw something else I wanted to obsess about.
My Make Me is totally out of control. The good thing about it is it makes me want to spend hours and hours in my sewing room. Bad thing, I do not have hours to spend in my sewing room.
Happy New Year!
I have always made resolutions and I, like most, dismissed them after a few days. This year, I am taking a different approach. Instead of trying to find all the things in my life I want to be different, I am going to attempt to focus on the things I do well and continue to do them. I would like a more self loving year.
Let's see how I feel on 1.11.11!
Besides the obvious (to me) typo, I like this approach. While I spent an exorbitant amount of time kicking the shit out of myself emotionally, I am not looking back on this year as a failure, which is my m.o.
The dishes are rarely done, laundry is at a constant state of overflow, my business has a ebb and flow of nothing to everything in my life, the family finances are slightly out of control and I currently have a massive case of end-of-winter-vacation exaustion. That being said, I truly believe this year has been an enormous success.
Case in point, the reason I am so exhausted today is because my kids and my husband have been home for a couple of weeks. The house is filled with bodies, mess and a constant hum of laughter. I like my alone time. The hour of quiet I get in the afternoon before dinner is necessary for me to feel prepared. I have been thrown off my game this week. My normal hyper-control-freak state of being has been replaced with a home filled with laughter, screams of joy, play mess and massive amounts of candy/snack wrappers. This is not a failure. This is a success.
At the end of the day, I love my family, my ever evolving sense of success, the chaos of play and the space my life allows me to reflect.
I will not be listing the things I want to change again this year. I, again, will be focusing my energy on appreciating what I have and following my heart toward my joys.
Peace.
We love oatmeal. It may be a problem.
In of itself, loving oatmeal is not a bad thing. However, as a mother of three who reluctantly does whatever they want from time to time despite my bad ass nature, making and serving said oatmeal is an ordeal.
Here are the instructions so someone can give me when I lose my mind and can no longer function as a member of my family...
Start a medium pot of water boiling
Add a random amount of oatmeal. If you are a stick-up-you-ass type, go ahead and measure it out according to directions. You are now a Follower.
Cook for about a minute. This results in a nice, thick, sticky oatmeal. Just the way I like it.
Spread about half of it on a large plate, put in freezer to cool.
While cooling, toss 4 slices of bread into toaster.
While toast is...um...toasting, start a pot of coffee for yourself. Make it a whole pot, because it typically needs to last about 3 days
Once toast is done, butter two for yourself, cut one in 4ths and spread now cooled oatmeal on them for one kid and butter and cut in half for the other. The third kid may yell at you if you give her toast, don't bother
Divide remaining cooled oatmeal into 2 bowls. The other third man out may yell at you if you give her just a bowl of oatmeal, don't bother.
Pour an ungodly amount of brown sugar over all the exposed sticky, tan oatmeal in an effort to hide the fact you are attempting to give your children something good (despite the fact that you are making it decidedly un-good by adding sugar)
Place all 456 plates, bowls and cups on the table, return to kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, eat scraps off the counter, return to family eating area, pretend you are at a hipster breakfast place with background noise instead of your own children yelling, eat a entire bowl of oatmeal, two overly buttered pieces of toast in about 3 minutes.
If Weekday: run to bedrooms, but out clothes for kids...start the getting ready for school war.
If Saturday: Remove youngest from highchair, dust off the sugar from her face and clothes, grab cup of coffee, find couch and stay there for about an hour.
In both scenarios, be sure not to clean up the table. If you do, you will be depriving yourself of the ability for massive amounts of blood to rush to your face every time you step on sticky oatmeal and it gets stuck to your foot, or every time you attempt to scrape dried, hardened brown sugar encrusted oats off the table.
Feel free to use this method, just give me credit. It has taken a lot of sweat and tears to perfect.
I figure I spend about 15 hours a week in my vehicle.
While it may not seem like a lot, envision everyday piling 3 children into the van, getting one buckled, and waiting a few minutes for the other two to pull their head out of their ass and buckle themselves, drive the 20 minute commute to school, unload said children, return to car and buckle the lone child into her seat.
Then the day varies, but typically includes a few more in and outs with 1 or more kids, the acquiring of some product or 100, the distribution of the please-stop-whining snack, subsequent explosion of said snack all over the back of the van, the daily art project which includes; but it not limited to; glitter, wet paint, glue, streamers and scraps of paper, and the reallocation of articles of clothing left at various locations.
Then we make it home. Most of the procurements of the day get left in the car due to the shortage of hands and willing carriers, with the solemn swear that I will rush back our to get them and the harsh reality that I don't.
The result: 30-40 random pieces of clothing, 3-5 half drunken cups of coffee, a substantial floor covering of crumbs, art masterpieces stuck to the carpet, wrappers from the weekly chip obsession I have and a smell that may or may not be a rotting animal under a seat.
But, let's be clear, I love my van. I wish I were better to it. I have named all my cars (Betty, Tina from Chaska...etc) and I am scared to name this one. If I name it, than I would feel guilty for treating it as I do.
So for now I will have to accept it for what it is and vow that someday, god willing, I will be better to it (once I am, it will become Her, says the feminist). Or, I'll just trade it in for something else and start from scratch.
I love Halloween. And by love, I mean I have a general obsession with fall but loathe hyped up children who spend 37 days post Halloween detoxing. I will settle for love.
We moved into our home four years ago on October 1st and planed a party for that Halloween to encourage a quick unpacking and organizing. We had a blast at it, so it has become an annual thing. We were some of the first of our friends to have kids, so the parties until this point were more adult (nothing kinky, unfortunately). This year, that was not the case.
We have two four year-olds, throwing them in the other room does not work anymore. It was official, small children far out numbered adults. Turns out, it was the best party we have had.
But my camera died. So, just trust me when I say, I am damn lucky to have the people in my life that I do.
And there was a turtle, but she was not having it, so I got no pictures during the 23 seconds she wore it.
I have an unnatural obsession with this bird. I am really digging the hand embroidery process. Just getting started, and this is the first one I am super proud of. Don't tell the other projects, I love them too, but I think this one is just so damn cute.
This bute is for sale in my store...But I still have the pattern, so let me know if you want something with it on it.
I got the pattern from Urban Threads. I love that they not only let, but encourage you to use the images in handmade goods to sell! And they use skulls and shit. Which I think is rad. Mainly because my daughters are scared crapless of skulls. I was going to say shitless, but twice in one paragraph seemed a bit vulgar. oops.
On that note (that note = I am always trying to find ways to torture my kids), we are trying to remove naps in preparation for kindergarten. So, needless to say, I have three kids for sale.
