It was supposed to be a great day.

It was supposed to be an awesome Saturday. I was going to be a great mom. I am on my own this weekend, but I was determined to be Master of All Things and not give the kids a chance to miss their daddy, nor would I call him in tears about how I couldn't handle it. I am Mommy.

10 mile long run on the schedule? Check. Nailed it on the treadmill. And when I say "nailed it" I mean "slogged through it while watching a Supernanny marathon." By the way? On Supernanny today was a lady with 4 kids, a husband who worked from home, her mom living with her, and an actual nanny. I would love to borrow one of her helpers if she's not going to be taking advantage!

Next on the docket: take the kids to Sea World by myself. I have done this before, but not on a blazing hot South Texas Saturday morning, which is code for, everyone in this Great State would be there. After packing every snack item, bottle of sunscreen, and change of clothes I could find, I laid out some ground rules (just like Supernanny taught me). There would be no riding of the merry go round, as Captain Destructo will only ride the bench, and New Baby will only ride the horse, and Sea World had to stop the carousel for me last year when I leaped over the bench holding New Baby to console a screaming Captain Destructo (true story). There would be an Elmo show, a Shamu pretzel, and some splashing in the new waterpark that we had yet to try. It would be a great morning and I would be Mother of The Year. Or at least the Day.

After an obscenely long line, the Elmo show was a success. I played my usual mental game where I try to guess which character would be the first to pass out in the stifling heat, the kids wiggled and danced and we were on our way. When attempting to change them both into their swimsuits, I noticed that New Baby was looking a little...off. She had a bit of a glazed eye look and her skin was pale. I felt her head. Blazing. Not knowing whether this could be from the heat or a fever, I asked her what was wrong, and she pointed to her tummy. Ok, I thought, this could end badly. But Captain Destructo was freaking out excited over going to the new pool, and I had just wrangled them into their suits, and it would be a half hour drive home. So, in a very un-Mother of the Year move, I gave New Baby some water and soldiered on to the pool.

She seemed to recover a bit in the pool, and I figured maybe that was just a fluke. But after 15 minutes or so in the pool, she said "home now, Mommy?" in such a miserable voice that I would be a truly terrible person if I made her stay at the pool. So we made it to the exit and I listened to Captain Destructo say "but I didn't get a pretzel! We didn't see the sea lions! I didn't get some lemonade!" for the duration of the ride home. As a plus, New Baby did not vomit in the car as I suspected she would. Thank God for small mercies.

So now we are at home, where we will, in all likelihood, be watching the Disney channel and counting down the hours until bedtime. So much for Mommy of the Year.

Growing Up

Captain Destructo's new favorite movie is Peter Pan. I love both this movie, and the break from princesses galore, so I am happy to watch with her. Ever since she started watching this movie, she's been expressing a lack of desire not to grow up.
"I don't want to be 4 anymore, I want to be 3."
" I want to stay little forever."
"I don't want to get big and go to school."

I can totally sympathize with these sentiments, because the idea of her growing up gives me an ulcer. She is going to kindergarten next fall, and I literally cannot think about that too much without tearing up. Oh look, tears. Just thinking of her putting on a little backpack, holding her little lunch box, and waving goodbye to me to spend her day with 24 kids and a teacher I don't know makes me start sweating. I know that we've got over a year to get there, but the fact that she doesn't want to go worries me. How do I prepare her for something that neither of us want to do, but we both have to? Seriously. How.

Do you know what's right around the corner from starting elementary school? Starting middle school. Do you remember middle school? Do you have fond memories of middle school? Apparently this question has different answers from boys and girls. My husband remembers middle school as his "peak." If middle school was my peak, I would hate to see the valleys. Here's what I remember about middle school.
Being a total bitch and telling my elementary school best friend I didn't want to be her friend anymore.
Being afraid to go to school because I didn't know if my friends would be my friends anymore.
Wanting to go to a dance with a boy, but never being asked.
Finally going to a dance with a boy, and wishing I was there with my friends instead of holding his sweaty hand.
Getting my period in the middle of 8th grade biology (not for the first time, just the most traumatic. The first time was in 5th grade. And I just heard girls as young as 3rd grade are getting their periods now. 3rd grade, people).
Being called Fatso, Tubby, and Chubs.
My first experiment with an eating disorder.

And while high school was marginally better for me, it's not that way for everyone. And high schools are so much worse than when I was there I can't even stand it. You might get lucky and just end up doing the cinnamon challenge on a You tube video, or you might be too fat to shop at Abercrombie. (Sidebar: does anyone remember the store 579? Is that still around? Because I was definitely too fat to shop there. Nothing like being too fat for a store and being there with your size zero friend. Actual size zero, not Old Navy size zero.) While I was no angel, my biggest high school transgressions involve a few sips of Boone's Farm strawberry wine after junior prom, not getting alcohol poisoning from drinking hand sanitizer. Don't even get me started on the outfits now. I can't even imagine what the kids will be wearing in 10 years when Captain Destructo starts high school (and when I say "kids," clearly I mean other kids. My girls will be wearing pigtail braids and dresses a la Laura Ingalls).

So yeah, when Captain Destructo tells me she doesn't want to grow up, and I plaster on a fake smile and tell her it isn't all that bad, I'm crying on the inside. Because while the being a grown up part is not so bad, the steps to get there can pretty much suck.

What do you do to prepare your kids, and yourselves, for kindergarten?

Facebook, it's not you, it's me

I'm taking a break from Facebook and it might kill me.

It's not that I think Facebook is inherently bad, because I don't. In fact, I just read about how Christians should be on Facebook. If I were a normal person, my Facebook experience would be a little something like this:
"Oh look, Suzy is pregnant again! And John is posting his lunch! And Sally is posting some sort of acronym that I suspect is related to Crossfit! I am happy to know what all my friends are doing!"

But I'm not so normal, so instead my Facebook experience is more like that:
"Holy crap, Suzy's having another kid! Should I have another kid? No, probably not a good plan. Come on John! Do we all need to see a picture of your lunch? No we don't. Get a hobby. Hey Crossfit people! No one know what it means when you say you Rx'd a WOD! Can we not just talk in normal words? Or put your weird voodoo terms on a Crossfit site! Gahh!"

And maybe because my husband travels and my family lives on the other side of the country and I'm a little lonely, or maybe because I just need to find more to do, I am on Facebook a lot. It's on my phone, it's on my computer, and it's on my Kindle, so if I'm bored, I'm on. And then I turn into a crazy person who worries about the excruciating minutiae that people post. Does Mary have an eating disorder? She keeps posting about her diet. Why does Tommy say cryptic things like "worried." Worried about what? I must know. Someone else is posting another rabble-rousing article espousing the virtues of extended breastfeeding. Should I get involved? Will she hate me if she knows how long I breastfed (answer: not very).

And so I forced myself to take a Facebook break. To be honest, I miss it and I don't. I feel a bit like I'm missing everything that's going on. There might be a huge social media crisis happening RIGHT NOW and I'm missing it! I also miss "talking" to people. Because honestly, as sad as this may be, sometimes that's the only time in a day I talk to adults.

But I don't miss the drama. The intentional rabble-rousing posts about politics or attachment parenting, the endless Harlem shake videos, the pleas to vote for your baby in the Gerber cutest baby contests, and the pictures of your meals. So I think when I go back, I'll be on way less frequently. Hopefully once a day, lest I turn into crazy Facebook drama lady.

How much time do you spend on Facebook? Do you get caught up in the drama too?

My baby drank Windex and other things that should probably concern me

Yeah...so....New Baby drank Windex this morning. And not in the cute April Fool's Day trick where you fill up a Windex bottle with blue Gatorade. She had a gulp of the real deal.

It's pretty much all my fault, as are all child-related failures. She was a holy terror this morning (did I mention she just turned 2? That fact probably helps explain the rest of the story) and I left her in my bedroom to deal with Captain Destructo's bathroom issues. I also left the Windex and dusting polish that I had just finished using in my bedroom. After dealing with the potty, I forgot that New Toddler was unsupervised with cleaning products and threw a load of laundry in the washer. Upon returning to my room to change out of my stained sweats, I found her. On the bed. Holding a bottle of Windex with the top off. Sporting a blue mustache.

I promptly said the s-word. I try not to cuss, but I figured if anything warrants an s-bomb, it's when one of your kids drinks something with a skull and crossbones on the label. I grabbed my phone to call poison control, who pretty much said "meh." Not in those exact words, but it turns out a gulp of Windex won't really hurt. He informed me that I should watch for vomiting. I said "what do I do if she vomits?" and he said "take her to the doctor" in the same voice you would use when telling your 4 year old to get her shoes for the 17th time. She wasn't vomiting, and mostly seemed mad that I took her bottle of Windex away. I offered her milk and cookies and she took them. Okay, I thought. Drinking Windex is not the end of the world. We ended up at the gym later, and it occurred to me that I should warn the childcare providers that she may vomit Windex. Fortunately for all of us she never did.

Thinking back, I called poison control for Captain Destructo several times. Once when she sucked on the dispenser of some antibacterial soap and once when she licked a Chlorox wipe (it's starting to occur to me I should supervise my children better). In both instances, they just said to watch her for vomiting. She never got sick. I'm starting to think that all the warning labels on the back of cleaning products are a bunch of fear-mongering.

One of the saddest parts of this story is that I'm on a self-imposed Facebook fast, which is a different story for a different day. You know what's Facebook gold? A status discussing the various cleaning products your children have ingested. If I'm lucky, she'll drink something else at the end of the month and I'll have something to talk about.

So, how about you out there? What's the weirdest thing your kids have eaten?

Helping Others

Do you ever look around and think "what am I doing with my life?"

I've been doing a lot of that lately.

God's been stirring something in me for a few months now. I'm not an unhappy person. I consider myself blessed beyond belief. 10 years ago, I could never imagined having a life as wonderful as mine is now.

And yet.

What am I doing with it? I mean, really, when I am gone from this world, when I am standing before Jesus in eternity and we're looking back over my life, He's going to say "welp, you had a beautiful family and some nice stuff. Great."

I have a burning desire lately to serve more. To do more for His kingdom. To do as Jesus said and love widows and orphans, and feed the hungry and clothe the naked and visit the imprisoned. To be His hands and feet. I've been praying that He will show me how. For the past few weeks I've been hearing Him say "Go, sell your possesions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven." Ok, I thought. Just sell my stuff? And then I'm good? This anxious, uncomfortable feeling that permanently resides just under my sternum will go away? I can totally do that. Here you go, poor people! Here's my old clothes I don't want anymore. Good thing there's an Old Navy right here next to Goodwill so I can get new stuff!

Through a friend of a friend, I heard about the book 7 by Jen Hatmaker. And oh my goodness is all I can say. It totally has opened my eyes to the wastefulness in my life and my children's lives. People are starving in the world, even in our city, and I'm throwing away perfectly good food because no one feels like eating it. Children are dying of exposure and I'm buying myself new shoes because I'm bored with my old ones. People are being abused, being sold into slavery and I'm on Facebook. This book has simultaneously rocked my world and scared me to death because I'm pretty sure I have to make some big changes. And I'm scared to death of big changes.

So what does this all mean for me? I'm not sure. I'm pretty sure I'm going to go through our stuffed-to-the-gills house and donate lots and lots of stuff. I'm pretty sure I will be selling books and movies and giving money to the poor. I'm pretty sure that I have to take a Facebook hiatus (gulp). I'm pretty sure I'm going to get a babysitter so I can work with Girls on the Run, and I'm pretty sure that I will run my first marathon in October for Team Hope. But beyond that I'm not sure and I'm hoping you all can help.

How do I open my girls' eyes to the world outside of themselves? How can I get them involved with feeding the hungry and helping the poor? What do those of you with young kids do to involve them in missions?

In Which I'm a Terrible Mother

It's been a crappy afternoon. Coming off a busy morning of Bible study that left me feeling "meh" and the kids incredibly high strung and talking/babbling a mile a minute, I was hoping for a peaceful afternoon. But, for whatever reason, New Baby decided on a super short nap and I found myself staring at the clock at 2:15 and wondering what the heck I was going to do for the next 6 hours. The idea of staying home made all of us antsy, so I decided we would go to the playground and library.

And that's when the afternoon went from crappy to awful.

We got to the library, whereupon I realized I have never really taught my kids the Rules Of The Library. Namely, it is frowned upon to run through the library and scream like Corn Children. Also, I realized that the vibe of the library at 10 AM, when we usually go, is totally different than it is around 3. Specifically, people give you and your Corn Children dirty looks when they run around screaming at 3 PM. Add to that the fact that Captain Destructo almost got smashed in the automatic doors and New Baby was stinking up the joint with her rank diaper, we got the heck out of the library as fast as we could and moved next door to the playground.

Because I am the master of foresight and planning, I chose the playground that has recently added adult workout equipment. Because, you know, adults work out at the playground all the time. Of course, both girls made a beeline for the chest press machine and the way-too-big plyometric benches. Nevermind the swings, climbing toys, and slides that were right next to them. I informed them that we needed to stay on the playground. They whined. I said they would stay on the playground or we would go home. They went to the playground for about 30 seconds and went back to the workout area. I repeated my warning. They repeated their whining. I realized I would have to actually follow through with my threat, gathered up 60 pounds of whining children, and left.

Fast forward 2 hours, I was cleaning up a wholesome and delicious dinner (where New Baby ate 2 containers of applesauce), still stewing over my crappy day, missing my husband, and listening to sounds of shrieking from Captain Destructo's room, and I did this.
"WHAT IS THE PROBLEEEEEEEEM?!"

Yeah. I'm awesome. And then I realized that I was yelling, actually yelling, at a 1 year old and a 3 year old for fighting over a toy. (If you wondered, the story I got was Captain D was trying to do New Baby's hair and she wouldn't let her.) I know they're good kids. Seriously, I was a teacher. I know bad kids. I just wish I could be more patient and calm and Michelle Duggar-like, who, by the way, probably doesn't respond to stress by hiding in her pantry and eating bagfuls handfuls of candy corn. Not that I do that.

But, in the spirit of teaching them forgiveness, I told them I was sorry and spent the next 20 minutes letting Captain Destucto pull brush my hair. And now we're watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and praying for a better tomorrow.

What, me worry?

I am totally the queen of worry. I worry the kids will get picked on, get sick, get hurt, even get bug bites (West Nile is killing people in Texas. Like I need another thing down here that could kill us). After New Baby's latest pediatrician visit, I realized I should start worrying about the fact that she doesn't talk.

I guess that's not entirely accurate. I have been keeping a running tally of all the words she's ever said. At 18 months, she has said 14 words at least one time. But most days, she says "Ma" for Mama, "Ma" for Molly (Captain Destructo's real name. Your mind is blown, I know), duck, ball, and book. Occasionally we'll get an Elmo or an Abby. And yes, I realize that 1/3 of her words are Sesame Street characters. I have video of Captain Destructo on her 2nd birthday where she says "the hat fall down on my face." So yeah, there is a bit of disparity there. If things stay the way they are now, on New Baby's 2nd birthday she will be emitting a series of grunts and blowing raspberries, doing a close impersonation of the Tasmanian Devil.

Like most people who worry, I google. And when I google I found that if your child is not meeting language milestones, you should may need to start thinking about autism. I really don't think she's there. Girlfriend can make animal noises like no one's business, as well as point to body parts, and she does that thing where she points to things just to share it with us (I used to know the name for that before I became a stay at home mom and my brain turned to mush). So if she's not meeting language milestones, and she's most likely not autistic, then (a) do I need to worry and (b) what do I do to help her? I have a total vision of her in her cap and gown, holding up her diploma and yelling "Ma! Book!"

Going to chase a roll of Tums with a glass of wine.