Posts Tagged 'humor'

fallen down the croc hole

Okay, y’all. We need to have a conversation about crocs.

Not croc…odiles

Crocs

Those ridiculous, come in every color of the rainbow, add charms and bedazzle them until they’re more gaudy than before, how’s that’s even possible I don’t even know, Crocs.
Since forever I have been vehemently against the croc movement.

Let me play the Never Have I Ever game and ask me about Crocs and my sign would absolutely say N E V E R.

Now that we are clear on that, let us completely change direction and talk about our kitchen. 

More specifically, our floor.

Well, if I’m being thorough it’s more like our kitchen and laundry room and hallway and half bath and the area beyond the kitchen that’s supposed to be a living area but has been overrun by dog beds and dog toys and Kellan’s “work station” (aka the place to pile ALL THE THINGS so no actual work ever even happens there so we may as well just call it an “open closet with no doors”).

These floors are where we spend probably…ehhhhh….75-80% of our day. So lots of walking and standing and general being on your feet-ness happens on these floors.

We bought this house as “new to us but not new at all” and so the previous owners had redone the kitchen and in doing so, decided to redo the floor. Granted, this house has been around the block puhlenty of times and has had maaaaaany of owners and I am hella glad they took it upon themselves to put in new flooring.

But this floor you guys.

Not only did they decide to buy IMPORTED ITALIAN TILE (that was ZOMG expensive when we had to buy like 10 tiles when we redid the half bathroom because they apparently thought the dark red monkey and pineapple tree wallpaper, among other poor design choices like a vanity that was so big you could barely close the door, was worth saving), but they also didn’t do anyone any favors in the comfort department because this floor is like walking and standing on the hardest, most unforgiving surface you can imagine. 

Without shoes. 

Because we don’t wear shoes in this house. 

My feet and calves would literally ache every night when I went to bed. A throbbing ache that wouldn’t let me sleep and basically screamed, “FLIMSY HOUSE SHOES AND SOCKS AREN’T CUTTING IT!” I would wake up in the morning and hobble down the stairs because my feet, more specifically my plantar fascia tendon, was so sore and so stiff that it just decided to start protesting the second I put my foot to the ground in hopes I’d listen and do something.

So, finally, after putting up with it and dealing with the pain for two years (I’m a glutton for punishment apparently), I decided to try and find some shoes that were easy to get on, comfortable, and would support my feet.

Naturally, I went to Zappos. They are my favorite way to buy shoes because A: I don’t have to go anywhere, which leads to B: It saves me actual hours of time because I have Sasquatch feet and finding shoes in my size is always a disappointing wild goose chase. Anyone with feet bigger than a size 8.5 don’t deserve to wear nice shoes. Apparently all of us size 11 and aboves should just head straight to the men’s section. Do not pass go. Do not look at anything that sparkles because it will not be in your size.

Anyway. Zappos. 

I start my search for indoor shoes and house shoes and supportive shoes. I add some options to my cart to compare. 

I keep searching.

I have decided that I need to do this right if I’m going to wait two years to do it at all.

And what does the search pop up?

Crocs.

What are you doing to me, Zappos????

CROCS?!

Did we not already have this conversation about acceptable shoes? I’m so happy you have lots of size 11 options but I think we’ve gone too far here. We are stepping out of bounds. 

Throw the flag. 

Blow the whistle.

We don’t do Crocs.

Then my feet reminded me in no uncertain terms that they were having a full on rebellion and if I ever wanted to walk again  – without pain – I better buck up.

Sooooooooo I hesitantly clicked on them. 

The Crocs.

And wouldn’t you knownit? These shoes had like….no wait….let me get the actual number….These shoes have one thousand three hundred and seventy six reviews and five stars. 

If one thousand three hundred and seventy six people are taking precious time out of their life to sing this many praises for these godforsaken shoes, I may as well read what they had to say.

And they said everything I hoped they wouldn’t. 

They said they were perfect house shoes. Perfect for plantar fascia issues. Perfect for hard floors. Perfect perfect perfect heart smiley emojis sunshine and rainbows.

In my brain…the rational part…the part that said NO WAY was like, well, I can always return them, right? I can say I gave it my all and it just didn’t work out and these people have no idea what they are talking about.

Heh. Crocs.

So…..I can’t even believe I’m admitting to this….so after much waffling, I bought myself a purple pair and Kellan a green and blue pair.

And then before they came we randomly left for LA for two weeks and I forgot about them (that’s acting life for ya).

When we got back home, I started wearing the crocs…because I had to do something for my feet or else (that’s what they said).

And low and behold! They were the most amazing shoes I had ever put on my feet! They looked ridiculous! I felt ridiculous! I loved them!

No more foot issues. No more screaming calves.

Hallelujah! I AM A BELIEVER!

I think I told Tim every day for at least a month straight how amazing my Crocs were. How they had solved all my problems and were so easy to clean! So fast to put on! So perfect for every situation!

Tim just rolled his eyes like suuuuuure. Whatever you say, sweetheart.

Then, one morning, Tim comes hobbling into the kitchen all, “oh…ouch…ohhhhhhh I was on my feet too long in here yesterday and I wasn’t wearing shoes.”

I saw my window and I jumped right through it.

You need to get a pair of Crocs.

Tim side eyes me all say whhhaaat? No way am I wearing Crocs.

And like the overly enthusiastic convert I was, I grabbed my phone and pulled them up on Zappos and tried to have him see the light that was CROCS.

BUT LOOK! So many color options! Special kinds for men! Here! Try mine on! You don’t understand! These shoes are ah-mazing!!! They will change your life! 

Tim finally….hesitantly….picked out a pair.

I ordered them faster than he could get the words out to tell me he changed his mind.

You won’t regret this! ::dazzle super smile DING star flashing off my teeth::

Once they came I was like an incessant grandma: DO NOT FORGET TO WEAR YOUR CROCS!

And Tim would be like OMG. FINE.

As the days went on, he slowly started to begrudgingly agree that the shoes really were useful, but he never outright said it. He wouldn’t wear them outside for yard stuff. And he’d only sometimes put them on if he was “going to be on his feet for awhile.”

Then, the night of the tornado happened. The night he was jolted awake by me running down the stairs yelling all kinds of words at him that were basically HONEY! TORNADO! SHELTER! NOW! TORNADO! NOW! SHELTER! NOW!

I ran into the kitchen. I put on my crocs. Kellan stumbled into the kitchen in his pajamas and what did I have him put on?

Crocs.

After Tim finally made his way into the shelter and we all got our bearings and took a breath, I look over at him and said, “Are you wearing any shoes??”

Because honestly we all hustled our asses out the door as fast as possible and I’m not even sure how I had the wherewithal to remember shoes for me or for Kellan and I sure as hell did not even think about Tim’s feet.

Tim looks at me with this YAH DON’T EVEN GO THERE look and says, “my Crocs.”

I had to stifle a laugh because priorities (read: tornado) but I know my face said enough. It said it all.

And Tim, seeing my look, shoots back a pleading, “but they were just so easy to put on!

::waggles my purple croc covered foot in the air toward Tim::

Don’t I know it.

buzzy bees

It has taken me 34 years to realize the reason why I have zero filter and just SAY what things are without any forethought…without thinking about how my words might affect someone…is because I didn’t grow up in a sharing all the things household. Maybe it was partly my personality, but we just weren’t as open about everything all the time.

When I first met Tim and was introduced to his family, it was like massive culture shock. I mean it didn’t matter what it was, everybody knew about it. I mean, hello my first Christmas there and my panties get eaten by the dog

Mortifying.

Especially to Thee Who Never Talked About Things.

It took me a while to drop the curtain (nice post panty placement, no?). But once I did?

LET’S SHARE ALL THE THINGS!!!!

And then however long ago, my mom asked my to stop writing about my dad. I have no idea why. I probably should have just not told her about my blog and then I wouldn’t have been censored, but in the spirit of SHARING ALL THE THINGS, I wasn’t going to also hide what I was writing.

And then the atomic bomb that was spring 2015 happened and I censored myself.

And now here I am, totally bottled up.

Bottled up and wanting to SHARE ALL THE THINGS!!!!

(My phone keeps correcting bottled to bottles and I think it’s probably trying to tell me something about partaking in alcohol)

(Because why not?)

So, what can we share?…What can….oh! I know.

Let’s talk about moving.

Because that lovely activity is on the horizon and I am really just…moving is hard. Moving takes so much time and energy and it disrupts everything.

And regardless of where we end up this next time, it’s not the last time Tim will be asked to move. We just want to BE SOMEWHERE we don’t have to move anymore. 

We buy houses based on how they will resell. We find houses that don’t neee much, if any, work, because we don’t want to invest in a house we know we will leave. We want to invest in a house and do all the things we want to do, but we want to do that to a house where we will stay.

I’ve been thinking about moving again, and finding friends and all that. We didn’t do much of it where we are now, because I didn’t want moving to be any more upsetting than it already will be for Kellan. He doesn’t want to leave our house. He says he will miss it. I know moving will be tough for him. I also know that this next time, we will have to start school. 

We decided to home school him, partly to minimize the impact on future moves. But, I know we will need to get connected with a homeschool group wherever we go, which will force us to get involved and make friends and become more of a part of the community.

I think that will be a very good thing, though I also think it will also be a very difficult thing when we have to move again.

So, my thoughts really around this whole thing are not the logistics of it all. It is more trying to make the whole experience positive and not stressful. Like, I will need to chill out. Tim will need to chill out. Lots of things are not going to go as planned. There will be lots of messes and clutter and things to do and people to call and instead of getting all worked up and stressed and haired, we will just need to CHILL.

That is going to be hard.

Being chill is hard for me and for Tim and for Kellan. 

None of us are very good at keeping our chill.

We are the opposite.

We are ZOMG THERE IS SO MUCH TO DO I STILL HAVE TO CALL THE ELECTRICIAN AND CANCEL THIS BILL AND WHERE IS THE LIST OF STUFF TO DO WHY IS THE HOUSE A MESS WE HAVE TO KEEP IT STAGED HOW ARE WE GOING TO FIND A RENTAL HOME WILL IT HAVE A WASHER AND DRYER WAIT ARE WE KEEPING OURS? OH THEY’RE NEGOTIABLE…OUR HOUSE NEEDS TO SELL FAST WHY HASN’T THE AGENT CALLED ME WHERE EVEN IS MY PHONE?

I mean that’s not even exaggerating. All caps are required here because my brain goes to all caps and lots of exclamation points when it is stressed.

Really it’s just this on repeat:
 !!!!!!!!?!!!&$!!!!!!@&$$!!?!!!!!!!!!?!!!??!!!!

There are no words. Just lots of noise. 

Buzzy bees as I like to call it. 

Somehow I have to silence those damn bees.

So, that’s my plan. 

I have no idea how I’m going to do it. I am just going to have to be mindful of what’s coming out of my mouth and how I’m feeling and try to just….yup. 

YOOOOOOOU GUESSED IT.

CHILL

when you hitch your horse

Remember the other…week? Month? Whenever it was when I said I was just a punk kid, writing a blog, who knew nothing?

I’m learning the same goes for marriage.

Waaay long time ago I didn’t really…how do I say this? I mean grammar is purposely bad here so let’s not mess this part up….the whole vows thing. Words. They were just words that everyone says during a wedding. It was like a rite of passage. I mean who really sits themselves down to go through every vow and think it through to its inevitable completion?

No one. 

Because you can’t.

And I don’t even like to say can’t and we try to live the message that “can’t” isn’t a word we understand in our house, because there is always a solution to every problem…but for this particular thing, I’m going to say can’t.

Because you cannot possibly know what is going to happen over the years and down the path that will challenge and stretch and pull and tear those vows to their breaking point. There will be things that occur and words spoken and moments where you just want to throw in the towel because you. are. over. it. all.

Tim and I have had our share of all of those things. Big things and small things and repetitive things that aren’t even a big deal until they keep happening over and over and over again to the point they are the most exasperating thing in the history of ever OMG CAN YOU PLEASE JUST NOT WITH THE LEAVING THE THING ON THE COUNTER YOU DON’T WANT TO PUT AWAY BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE TO PUT IT SO IT JUST SITS FOR ETERNITY COLLECTING DUST AND MOCKING ME UNTIL I MOVE IT…to a place we can no longer find it when we need it again three months later because where I stored it makes no sense because I don’t know where to f-ing put it either.

Those things. They’ll make you crazy if you don’t learn how to see the humor and laugh about it.

We have finally, mostly, made it to that point. Unless someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed and obvious jokes aren’t even funny, can you just stop it right now, can’t you see it’s not even funny, until the grouch decides to make a joke out of the clear blue sky and all of a sudden think they’re funny. Except now, by that point, the person who was initially making jokes is in a pissy mood because the grouch went and rained on their sunny picnic….

It never ends people. Marriage is the same for all of us. Why do you think the comedian’s bits are so funny?
Because we’ve alllllllll been there. We are allllll there, every single day. We all have had the same conversations and the same arguments and the same ridiculous fights over the pettiest things. Over and over again.

The difference, I am slowly learning, is not not let all of the small things eat you up and build up and to deal with the things bothering you, even if you think it’s easier to just keep your mouth shut.

It isn’t.

You may think that’s the best way, but it’s really the worst way. You’ll fill up with resentment and lash out at seemingly unrelated things because the other person has no freaking clue that they are making you crazy (I don’t know how they don’t know, but trust me, they don’t know unless you actually tell them in plain English).

It means not walking out on a heated conversation even though you have zero desire to participate. 

It means you actually laugh – finally – when the other person makes a valid point during an argument in a funny way. You both laugh and you both are done. You kiss and make up and no one holds onto anything after it’s done, because it’s done.

We will be married ten years this year. And it has taken me that long to figure out some of this stuff. To let go. To understand what all of those vows really mean when they are put into practice.

If you’re going to decide to hitch your horses to the same wagon, then it’s for the whole ride. No one gets to cut loose and go around the river or rocky trail and leave the other to maneuver through the difficult part on their own. You go through it together. Side by side. Leaving all your shit behind you. You pull your wagon and you grumble at each other but you keep moving forward at the same pace.

That’s when the magic happens, because that’s when you learn the most about yourself, about your partner, and about how to get through the rough spots together in order to come out on the other side stronger and closer to each other. You trust each other more. You learn each other’s strengths and weak spots. You learn how to keep the other person going when they don’t think they can take another step.

So, if you aren’t married, small tidbit of advice: you better decide now if you enjoy spending all of your time with your horse – especially during the bad and boring parts – and you really better like your wagon, because it’s coming with you every step of the way.

ode to arkansas 

I’m not even going to lie. When we first moved here from Denver (I KNOW), I hated it. I couldn’t wait to leave. I counted the days until Tim’s company would move us starting the day we got to this godforsaken place. It was ridiculously hot and there was nothing here and the grocery store sucked eggs and had moldy produce and I HATED IT ALL.

The days kept going by and the new position for Tim never came after the promised year….year and a half….here we are at two and a half years and still. nothing. Oh, there have been interviews. Even final ones. Yet not a single one has panned out. Not a one.

We were both over it. The emotional letdown from having one rejection after another after another was too much. Those opportunities weren’t meant to be but WHY???????

Sometime last summer, we were in the neighborhood walking and talking with Kellan and I brought up something a friend from Colorado said to me as I was lamenting over our situation. She said, “maybe you haven’t moved because you have to find what’s good about it all first.”She was right. We had been saying how much we loved our neighborhood. It’s the best neighborhood we have ever lived in. We don’t really have any friends in it, but everyone is nice, it’s an older neighborhood with big lots, every single house is different, and it has great running roads. They just added a park at one end and our house is amazing. Built like a tank. Huge backyard and has gorgeous windows that let in so much light. The sunsets from the backyard in the winter are incredible. I still despise summer…so we won’t go there…but we realized there are a lot of good things about where we physically live.

Then, Kellan and I spent two months in LA in August and September. It was a huge culture shock, especially for Kellan. Everyone is too busy, in too much of a hurry, and too important to give anyone else – especially a four year old – the time of day.

Kellan was almost in tears one morning when he kept trying to talk to our server at a restaurant and she never spoke a single word to us. Zero. Not one. When I finally was able to tell her that Kellan wanted to say something, she mumbled something as she walked away about being short staffed and busy and was gone. Kellan just looked at me like…why is she being like this??

I didn’t have a good answer other than that is the way people are there because that’s how the culture is…and that’s what people are used to and expect. It’s normal to them.

(Granted, we did run into people here and there who would stop and talk with Kellan, so it’s not everyone in LA…but the vast majority…they all need to just take a second and breathe)

Well, what’s normal to Kellan is the complete opposite. What’s normal is anyone and everyone stopping in the middle of what they’re doing to notice and talk with Kellan. A few days before Christmas, we were in a packed Bath & Body Works to pick up a gift. Kellan had just visited with santa and was SO EXCITED about it. He wanted to tell everyone. As we were waiting in line, a woman was rushing out and I had to tell Kellan to move so she could get by…I mean when there’s only one mall in the entire city, packed means basically walk to wall people and everyone has to squeeze around everyone else.

Anyway, so as this woman is inching her way around Kellan as fast as she can, he looks at her and says, “I just saw santa!”

Now, had we been in LA…his comment would have fallen on deaf ears. She could have pretended she didn’t hear him over the ambient noise and Christmas music.

But not here.

Not here.

That woman, who was obviously in a hurry and had no time for anyone…that woman stopped dead in her tracks, turned around, and responded. Not only did she respond, she inquired. She had a conversation. She took time out of her day to make a child feel special.

She didn’t stop because she felt obligated or because she thought she’d get the mean mom, “I can’t believe you’re so rude to a kid” eyes.

She did it because she genuinely wanted to.

And that’s how a majority of people are here. They stop. They are never too busy. They understand that a child’s question deserves just as much attention as an adult’s.

The checkout person – Jo Ann – at our grocery store? She knows Kellan by name. She calls him the “movie star” and asks where he is if he’s not with me. Same with a handful of Target employees. I have had them ask me if it’s okay to give Kellan a special treat. They ask himhow he is and give him high fives.

The entire staff at a restaurant know us and will come talk with Kellan at our table when we are there. It’s probably because Kellan walked around the whole restaurant one day, introducing himself to everyone from the hosts to the manager to the people working behind the bar. But…they remembered him. They didn’t just see him as “some kid.”

Kellan has an entire cheering squad at swimming lessons. Every single one is probably over 70, save one guy who does therapy in the same pool he has lessons in…but they all help him when he’s struggling or scared. They tell him he did a great job or how he’s improving so much (and wow has he…but that post is for another time). 

Just the other day, Kellan was having a reeeaaallllly tough day. Tears and the whole nine yards. He didn’t want to “dive” in (kneeling at the edge and kind of falling in like a dive) and swim to his instructor. He can and he usually has no issue, but he’s four and sometimes things are hard even when he’s done them before.

Well, the therapy guy starts talking with him – because he’s seen Kellan swim and knows he can do it – and then out of nowhere says he will race him to the middle of the pool. His therapy person swam out to where Kellan’s instructor was and the therapy guy and Kellan swam next to each other all the way to the middle of the pool while they were cheered on by the instructors.

And therapy guy turned Kellan’s entire lesson around with that small gesture. He even made sure he told him goodbye before we left.

I have example after example of people in this town going out of their way to make a kid feel special.

I have never lived anywhere like this. The way everyone stops and is never too busy…it is truly heartwarming. It isn’t easy to find a place like this. It’s a wonderful way for Kellan to learn how to interact with people. Without phones in faces and half distracted conversations. It’s fully engaging and 100% genuine.

Had we come here and left right away…or had we not decided to try and find the good in this place…I am not sure if we would have ever opened our eyes to the people here. They are wonderful. They have taught us all how we should pause. Life is lived in little moments every day. And we are blessed with those moments here every single day.

Never in a million years would I have given Arkansas credit for anything other than being a dumb old hick town.

But I was wrong.

Very wrong.

And not one person here has rubbed that in my face. 

Instead, they taught me with their kindness and genuiness and desire to treat people, young and old, with love and respect.

I’m humbled by the people here. And I’m so glad Kellan has learned such important life lessons…how to be human. To never be too busy to stop and talk with someone, even if we ARE busy. 

Because you should never be too busy to be kind. To have a conversation. To brighten someone’s day.

We stop.

We talk.

We smile and say goodbye while we are still facing each other and bid them a nice day.

We live the little moments that are the formative moments in the lives of little children.

Arkansas gets that.

And now…we do too.

goooodbyeeeee junk

So, there’s this book making the rounds called ‘The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up.’ Maybe you’ve heard of it, maybe not, but the basic premise is if any of the “stuff” you have  in your house doesn’t bring you joy (or serve some actual, daily or at least more than once every few years, functional purpose), it goes. Get rid of it. There is no need.

My friend gave me the book ooooohhhhhh I don’t know. A year or so ago? She read it, followed it, and now has one cutting board and two measuring cups in her whole kitchen. There will not be ten different measuring spoons in her household. Nooooooo way. Not having it. But, she was like, “It is so nice to get rid of all the STUFF.”

And I agreed with her. Because I am over all the STUFF collecting in our house. There is too much. It is overwhelming. I cannot handle it anymore.

About ooooohhhhhh I don’t know…a year ago, I told Tim we should do the same thing and he started hesitate-stuttering all, “But sometimes we use that. We might need this. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”

Yada yada yada and so nothing happened.

You guys.

We literally own a chair that NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SIT ON because it’s too old and fragile.

It collects dust.

It’s a dust collector and a Tim hat stand and sometimes a clothes pile-up-on-er.

(Some of you may say, well, that chair absolutely serves a purpose! Look at all of those functional operations if performs!)

(But honestly people. We do not need another THING to hold more THINGS when those THINGS should really be put somewhere else…like the closet where the clothes and hats live)

The other…probably month by this point…I stood in the garage all, “I need another tote for this stuff…”

And then as I was standing there, it hit me and I was just like…ooooookay….if we are having to buy more totes to put more THINGS in because there are entirely too many THINGS floating around, there is a serious problem, here. Bordering on ridiculous.

So, suffice it to say I’ve been wanting to get rid of the stuff for quite some time now. I’ve just been waiting on the other half to get on board, and we all know nothing happens until it is their idea.

I mean it went something like this, out of the clear blue sky one Saturday morning:

Tim: I AM SO TIRED OF ALL OF THIS STUFF. IT HAS TO GO.

I used to go crazy over things like that all, “Um hello? I’ve been saying this for how long? And you think this is a new idea like some amazing lightbulb just went off in your head that has never been mentioned before? OMG. Are you serious right now?

But now?

Me: Yes! You’re right! Let’s do this!

Because I’m getting my way, after all….albeit months later…but we’ll just call it a win and move forward. I’ve learned a lot about being married and what you need to do to keep the peace and to also get what you want done. And when that delayed lightbulb goes off, you just roll with it, ladies.

We spent that entire weekend going through the garage and donating or shredding or recycling or putting items into a garage sale pile. After awhile we were both like, “WHY? Why in the world do we even have college notebooks and binders from however many years ago? Are we ever going to reference any of this? Can we even read and understand our own notes? Have we even opened these binders since the day before the final exam of whatever class?”

No, no we have not. We never will.

It brings no joy and serves no purpose other than to make us crazy.

AWAY IT GOES.

Tim was all, “I just want a conveyor belt to put it all on so it disappears and we don’t have to deal with it.”

Unfortunately, dear husband, the “dealing with it” is part of the process.

So, for this entire year, we are going to go through the entire house and attic. Every box and tote and drawer. We are going to ignore our sentimental side that wanted to keep a sticker from high school or a champagne glass from a college dance. We both like to keep sentimental things…but at this point the practical side is taking over and the type A personalities that cannot handle the clutter is behind the wheel because we are both. going. crazy.
Goodbye stuff.

Hellllllooooooooo freedom!

 

 

 

 

 

 

it’s not broken, just unmeasured

I guess I should have started a cooking blog or something.

Well, let me clarify:  one of those ones where all the things that aren’t supposed to happen…happen. I’m not someone you should ever take lessons from when it comes to the kitchen and events that are logically expected to occur there without incident  (exhibit a, b…I’m sure there are more). Things go very unplanned and off course and not measured in my kitchen. 

Granted that’s not always a bad thing.

“How much XYZ spices did you put in here? It’s really good!”

I have no idea?

Annnnnd there goes another amazing recipe unrealized and never to be exactly replicated because I don’t measure. I mean I guess I am pretty okay at cooking things. I can whip up dinner no problem these days.

Really it’s the baking where things go wrong.

Probably because I don’t measure. Damn that baking powder blowing up my cookies to the size of muffin tops or damn the whatever it is that happens when they end up so flat the chocolate chips are like giant mountains over a prairie terrain.

Chemistry. Mocks me every time. 

But measuring….measuring is such. a. pain. It means I have to actually get those little spoons out and find the right one and then two different things need the same amount but now that particular sized spoon is dirty and those spoons really are the worst dish ever to wash..save maybe cookie sheets because I’ll be damned if I somehow don’t turn the pan the wrong way and water either gets all over me or all over the counter.

I’m all about less dishes. Save the water. Avoid a mess. Whatever. Just no measuring. I guesstimate. Eyeball it. That pile I poured looks like abooouuut tablespoon. We’re good. Moving on.

Also about those spoons I don’t even like? I think we have five different sets. It’s probably so I didn’t have to wash a set in the middle of a project. But then that means there are multiple sets to man handle later and so really nobody wins.

And oh the irony….we BOTH still prefer to use the original set.

Anyway, so funny enough, the other day we were making tacos and I had taken out all of the spices and was putting them in the pan with the ground turkey (none of that packaged seasoning stuff here…making your own is so much better!) and I looked at Tim and said, “I don’t measure, just so you know.”

He just kind of nodded his head all Oh-I-know-and-there-is-no-sense-in-explaining-the-reasons-why-we-measure-because-it-falls-on-deaf-ears-I’ve-learned-to-pick-my-battles-and-this-is-one-I’ll-never-win-I’ll-be-over-here-saving-my-sanity-and-preparing-myself-to-choke-it-down-thankyouverymuch.

I continued about my extremely scientific ways, i.e. Eyeballing, and no one really says anything more about it until we sit down to eat. 

And then it happens. 

After Tim takes a bite, he is all, totally unprompted, “These are honestly the best tacos ever. The flavor of the meat is AH-MAZING.

Excellent to hear, dear husband.

She Who Does Not Measure will just be over here, doing what she does, damn all the spoons.

maybe I’m just weird?

I know. It’s been awhile. Like, I’ll be starting my third trimester in a few days and the last time I was around was to say that baby bista was a boy.

Which, by the way, he’s a boy with no name. Guess we better get on that…not that we haven’t tried. We are just having a really hard time coming up with a name, or even a few names (which is preferable), to choose from when he’s born. I’m hoping something just comes to us soon….like a lightbulb moment…I digress.

My whole point of this post really has nothing to do with baby bista. At least, not yet. 

So, lately, Tim and I have really been trying to pick out battles with Kellan the threenager (why didn’t anyone warn me??? Holy roller coaster of emotions every five minutes). We are trying (and I say trying because we fail a lot. Daily. It’s pretty frustrating to feel like you really suck at parenting at least once every day, usually more)….anyhow, we are trying to let things go unless it is a legitimate safety or respect issue. 

You want to eat standing up? Not use any utensil at all, ever? Make “animals” out of play doh and let them dry out? Wipe the stainless steel refrigerator with wipes to “clean it?” Use five different chapsticks every ten seconds and roll them up so far that half of the stick gets stuck in the top? Put stickers all over the banister to make it “beautiful?,” pack single toys and objects into thirty separate gallon ziplock bags? Race your cars through flour? You want to do alllllllllllll of this along with a myriad of other activities that can make a type A person go insane and also take forever to clean up?

Knock yourself out, kid. Do it. Do all of those things. We aren’t here to stop you.

Do we want to say no?

Yes.

All the time. 

ALL. THE. TIME.

But…we aren’t.

We may be cringing on the inside, but we let him go. Unless it’s respect (like hitting the dogs’ crate to scare them) or safety related (like trying to jump while on the stairs – OMG kid almost gave me a heart attack. Had he fallen, it would have been 15 steps down and backwards).

We are trying to just go with it, and it is HARD. 

[cue me whining] I don’t want to wait five minutes for him to pick a bedtime story and then change his mind after he gets all settled in. 

I was like too bad. 

And Tim was like, is this really that important to battle over?

No, it isn’t….([whining again] but I’m tired!!!!)

I guess that’s where the rub lies. Kellan wants to do, or not do, something that we don’t want to deal with because we can already see the outcome. We know the end game.

But….he doesn’t. And how is he to if of they he is never given the chance? Trial and error. Hypothesize. Experiment. Fail.

And fail and fail and fail.

Or, maybe he’s just expressing his creativity. The 30 gallon bag activity was a beast of a mess to clean up, but Kellan was so into it. What he was doing he was calling an “important job” and who am I to tell him it’s not?

Or trying to be helpful, like with the wipes. Tim has an OCD thing about streaks on stainless, and let me tell you, baby wipes leave more than just a streak. More like a film or impossible to remove streaks. But, Kellan sees that activity as cleaning. He’s trying to bechelpful. Why kill that desire, even if at the time it isn’t 100% correct? Yes, we can give him the appropriate cleaning tools, but that was a spontaneous act and why stop him when he sees what he’s doing as helping mom and dad?

So, I’m not exaggerating about any of this. All real. All happening on a daily basis. I told Tim that we are going to have to have and keep a sense of humor about all of this, plus the sass and attitude we are getting and will continue to get, or this whole parenting experience is going to be miserable.

And no one wants to be miserable.

So, enjoy our messes, and go make your own. Maybe I’m in the minority and I’ll end up with hooligans, but this is how we have decided to approach this. We are letting go of control (and it’s really hard)….and neat and tidiness…and trying to overlay what we want Kellan (and eventually baby bista) to do and/or how to do it versus what he wants to do. Unless it comes to safety or respect. Then we draw a line.

I’m sure lots of parents think we are crazy. And maybe we are, I don’t know. That’s the benefit, really, because no one knows what they’re doing when it comes to being a parent. You’re learning on the job, just like everyone else, and no two kids are the same, so no method isn’t a catch all. 

I figure you have to ebb and flow.

So. Here we are. Real life. Ebbing and flowing.

The bags. The other half were on the coffee table:



The lack of utensils. That’s birthday cake frosting by the way.

The Chapstick….



The five hundred play doh animals that were eventually thrown away:




this is where you ask those burning questions

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