Saturday, August 27, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
Ready? Break.
I wrote this post yesterday. That is how on top of it I am this week. Yeah....Um...not really.
But I am determined to stay a little more on top of things around here. I have to. Because I can't be busting out hormonal tantrums every time the thought of doing dishes overwhelms me. So maybe the dishes did make me cry this weekend. But I'm deranged, give me a break.
This is my plan...
Daily-
Get dressed to shoes. She might be a little over the top for me, but I've got to admit FlyLady's got something with this one. Swimming suit totally counts as dressed, so long as we actually make it to the pool.
Dishes. Damn them. I hate em. Hate em. Hate em. I'd rather do ostomy teaching than do them.
Swiffer floors. Porkchop will gladly help with this one.
Two loads of laundry. Folded and put away. I loathe laundry almost as much as the dishes, but can now tolerate it, almost even look forward to it even, with my audiobooks.
Monday- Mom School, Mopping and Bathrooms
Tuesday- Craft Day, Bedrooms and Sheets
Wednesday- Dusting, Diapers, and Date Night
Thursday- Out and About- Work and Knitting Night
Friday- Fridge, Microwave, and Meal plan, Yardwork, More Mom School
Saturday- Family Fun Day
Sunday- Worship
I'll let you know how it goes.
But I am determined to stay a little more on top of things around here. I have to. Because I can't be busting out hormonal tantrums every time the thought of doing dishes overwhelms me. So maybe the dishes did make me cry this weekend. But I'm deranged, give me a break.
This is my plan...
Daily-
Get dressed to shoes. She might be a little over the top for me, but I've got to admit FlyLady's got something with this one. Swimming suit totally counts as dressed, so long as we actually make it to the pool.
Dishes. Damn them. I hate em. Hate em. Hate em. I'd rather do ostomy teaching than do them.
Swiffer floors. Porkchop will gladly help with this one.
Two loads of laundry. Folded and put away. I loathe laundry almost as much as the dishes, but can now tolerate it, almost even look forward to it even, with my audiobooks.
Monday- Mom School, Mopping and Bathrooms
Tuesday- Craft Day, Bedrooms and Sheets
Wednesday- Dusting, Diapers, and Date Night
Thursday- Out and About- Work and Knitting Night
Friday- Fridge, Microwave, and Meal plan, Yardwork, More Mom School
Saturday- Family Fun Day
Sunday- Worship
I'll let you know how it goes.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Heaven Help Us
Scrunch is sitting at her table coloring and carrying on a conversation with Captain Hook. Peter Pan and Charlie's names pop up every once in a while, but they're old friends who hang around quite often. I'm used to them. What peaked my interest was when I overheard her start to teach them about Jesus.
"Erick is NOT Jesus," she told them.
Ah, she's getting it. Proud Mama moment. Check.
I have been secretly hoping that my children will catch reverence like the cold they come home from nursery with, and that they will learn at least some of the Gospel through osmosis. I mean really, what would you say?
We actually arrived to church a few minutes before Sacrament meeting. Oh, why yes thank you, I would like a brownie badge. Skip the badge and just bring me brownies.
"Mom! Why are they covering up the food and drink?"
"Come sit on my lap and I will tell you. (This is where my heart begins to swell and I think we're going to have 'a teaching moment'.) When Jesus died they covered his body. The sacrament is a symbol of his body and blood so they cover it up too."
"Wait. Why did Jesus die? What was he sick with? Couldn't he just get better?"
"He died for our sins so we could return to Heavenly Father." (This is where I'm starting to catch on that perhaps this will not be the Shining Mother moment I am hoping for.)
"Well, I think they cover it so Jesus can't sneeze on it."
Oy.
I tell her to sit quietly and fold her arms, and wait for Papa to take his seat next to us.
"Hey Mom!"
"Shhhh. What?"
"Who's Jesus again?"
"He's our Brother."
"WHAT!?! ERICK IS JESUS?!?!"
I give up. I fold my arms and pray I do not pee as I struggle to contain my laughter.
Better luck next week.
"Erick is NOT Jesus," she told them.
Ah, she's getting it. Proud Mama moment. Check.
I have been secretly hoping that my children will catch reverence like the cold they come home from nursery with, and that they will learn at least some of the Gospel through osmosis. I mean really, what would you say?
We actually arrived to church a few minutes before Sacrament meeting. Oh, why yes thank you, I would like a brownie badge. Skip the badge and just bring me brownies.
"Mom! Why are they covering up the food and drink?"
"Come sit on my lap and I will tell you. (This is where my heart begins to swell and I think we're going to have 'a teaching moment'.) When Jesus died they covered his body. The sacrament is a symbol of his body and blood so they cover it up too."
"Wait. Why did Jesus die? What was he sick with? Couldn't he just get better?"
"He died for our sins so we could return to Heavenly Father." (This is where I'm starting to catch on that perhaps this will not be the Shining Mother moment I am hoping for.)
"Well, I think they cover it so Jesus can't sneeze on it."
Oy.
I tell her to sit quietly and fold her arms, and wait for Papa to take his seat next to us.
"Hey Mom!"
"Shhhh. What?"
"Who's Jesus again?"
"He's our Brother."
"WHAT!?! ERICK IS JESUS?!?!"
I give up. I fold my arms and pray I do not pee as I struggle to contain my laughter.
Better luck next week.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Lost
My poor neglected blog.
Kitchen floor.
Eyebrows.
And toes.
Because if you want to pity something for being neglected, my feet need a pedicure like you can't believe.
Things are good, I've just been lost in the Burmuda triangle of raising small humans. I move in circles through the day wiping up handprints, filling sippy cups, strapping and unstrapping car seats. Park Days, Pee Wee Splash, watching Papa play football. I re-instituted Craft Days and drove an hour to buy 12x12 sheets of chipboard, getting lost in traffic on the way home. Then last night Miqui and I ventured to the ghetto grocery store and really did get lost in the dark, in a less than desirable neighborhood, without! cell phone service.
And even though I feel tired and busy, I also feel grateful that I do not have school drop off, sports, dance, piano, or any other extra to add to the mix. We are in the "let's just keep everyone alive" stage wandering around, never to be seen or heard from again.
Scrunch is my Miami with all the drama, spice, and flair that the city has to offer. Porkchop my Puerto Rico. Mostly because it was the most 'boy' sounding of the trifecta. At 15 months this kid is all boy! We've learned (repeatedly) that glass does not bounce. His expectation in life is that it needs to bounce, growl, or be tackled. If he learns to climb, forget it! I will have to close down the blog for sure. My little uterine resident is Burmuda herself. Happy to be headed to the beach even if it kills you getting there.
The more I think about this little metaphor, the more I'm liking it. Motherhood- Full of it's shark infested waters and breathtaking sunsets. Or not.
My point is, I once was lost and I still haven't figured my way out.
Kitchen floor.
Eyebrows.
And toes.
Because if you want to pity something for being neglected, my feet need a pedicure like you can't believe.
Things are good, I've just been lost in the Burmuda triangle of raising small humans. I move in circles through the day wiping up handprints, filling sippy cups, strapping and unstrapping car seats. Park Days, Pee Wee Splash, watching Papa play football. I re-instituted Craft Days and drove an hour to buy 12x12 sheets of chipboard, getting lost in traffic on the way home. Then last night Miqui and I ventured to the ghetto grocery store and really did get lost in the dark, in a less than desirable neighborhood, without! cell phone service.
And even though I feel tired and busy, I also feel grateful that I do not have school drop off, sports, dance, piano, or any other extra to add to the mix. We are in the "let's just keep everyone alive" stage wandering around, never to be seen or heard from again.
Scrunch is my Miami with all the drama, spice, and flair that the city has to offer. Porkchop my Puerto Rico. Mostly because it was the most 'boy' sounding of the trifecta. At 15 months this kid is all boy! We've learned (repeatedly) that glass does not bounce. His expectation in life is that it needs to bounce, growl, or be tackled. If he learns to climb, forget it! I will have to close down the blog for sure. My little uterine resident is Burmuda herself. Happy to be headed to the beach even if it kills you getting there.
The more I think about this little metaphor, the more I'm liking it. Motherhood- Full of it's shark infested waters and breathtaking sunsets. Or not.
My point is, I once was lost and I still haven't figured my way out.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Fake it till you make it!
In terms of my homemaking abilities, on a scale of 0-10 with zero being a sloth and 10 being MerryMaids on roids, yesterday ranks about a two. I just could not get my act together. I spent the majority of the day lying on my bed, minus regular trips to pay homage to the porcelain God. The kids stayed in their pajamas and we ate my leftovers from my date the night before for lunch. I let my son eat chile verde enchiladas! with his hands! on my white spread! I let my daughter climb the shelves in the pantry to get her own pretzels. Encouraged her even! Cuz that's how chill I am. (wink) Replace 'chill' with lazy or desparate and that's a more accurate description.
I begged my husband to come home early and rescue me with a Coke Slurpee from across the street. I almost burst into tears when he arrived and told me they were out. I sent him back across the street around dinner time with the charge to return with five Whoppers. I again ate on my bed. I think my children ate. At least I threw away empty paper bags later and my kids usually make more than a peep if they miss a meal.
It sounds nice to spend a day lounging in pajamas doing nothing, but the reality is that it's only fun when there are fewer things that NEED doing. I could have spent several hours reading or knitting, but I felt guilty not having even done the dishes or even brushed my hair yet. Don't judge.
At 7:15pm I received a text that extended family we rarely see was a hundred miles away and would like to see us tomorrow morning. Somehow this morphed into me politely offering a place to stay for the night, not really expecting a response. Within minutes I was on my feet flinging garbage into a bag and running the hot water for dishes because ready or not, here they come! With the help of my husband and Miq we managed to wrangle my disaster into shape in time for them to show up an hour later. The bathroom was clean, the floor mopped, most of the handprints removed from the surfaces Porkchop's height. And it was all done even though I still didn't feel like doing it.
This morning I showered, dressed, bathed my grubby Gremlin, and started breakfast. With guests still here, I continued my charade and started the dishes directly following the meal. The last time that happened was probably the last time we had guests.
As we said our Goodbyes and closed the door, I practically raced to the bathroom to relieve my body of breakfast. I came back to the kitchen and husband asked, "Where did that come from?"
"I've been trying not to throw up for the last forty-five minutes."
"Really?"
"Uh huh."
"Well babe, you put on a good show."
Something about that last statement has nagged at me all morning. My husband is great and if he has expectations he rarely voices them. He picks up where I leave off in lots of cases, and maybe I haven't been fair. The truth is I can do better than I've been doing. If I can play perfectly happy house, complete with mom in an apron, for practical strangers my own family deserves at least half that effort even half the time. Even if I don't feel like it. Maybe especially when I don't feel like it. There might be something to this "Fake it till you make it!"
Ack! I'm practically on the verge of implementing FlyLady (for like the fifth time), aren't I? Maybe I just need to do more of the things I don't want to do, so when my energy/motivation does come back I can use to do more of the things I want to do. Guilt free.
I begged my husband to come home early and rescue me with a Coke Slurpee from across the street. I almost burst into tears when he arrived and told me they were out. I sent him back across the street around dinner time with the charge to return with five Whoppers. I again ate on my bed. I think my children ate. At least I threw away empty paper bags later and my kids usually make more than a peep if they miss a meal.
It sounds nice to spend a day lounging in pajamas doing nothing, but the reality is that it's only fun when there are fewer things that NEED doing. I could have spent several hours reading or knitting, but I felt guilty not having even done the dishes or even brushed my hair yet. Don't judge.
At 7:15pm I received a text that extended family we rarely see was a hundred miles away and would like to see us tomorrow morning. Somehow this morphed into me politely offering a place to stay for the night, not really expecting a response. Within minutes I was on my feet flinging garbage into a bag and running the hot water for dishes because ready or not, here they come! With the help of my husband and Miq we managed to wrangle my disaster into shape in time for them to show up an hour later. The bathroom was clean, the floor mopped, most of the handprints removed from the surfaces Porkchop's height. And it was all done even though I still didn't feel like doing it.
This morning I showered, dressed, bathed my grubby Gremlin, and started breakfast. With guests still here, I continued my charade and started the dishes directly following the meal. The last time that happened was probably the last time we had guests.
As we said our Goodbyes and closed the door, I practically raced to the bathroom to relieve my body of breakfast. I came back to the kitchen and husband asked, "Where did that come from?"
"I've been trying not to throw up for the last forty-five minutes."
"Really?"
"Uh huh."
"Well babe, you put on a good show."
Something about that last statement has nagged at me all morning. My husband is great and if he has expectations he rarely voices them. He picks up where I leave off in lots of cases, and maybe I haven't been fair. The truth is I can do better than I've been doing. If I can play perfectly happy house, complete with mom in an apron, for practical strangers my own family deserves at least half that effort even half the time. Even if I don't feel like it. Maybe especially when I don't feel like it. There might be something to this "Fake it till you make it!"
Ack! I'm practically on the verge of implementing FlyLady (for like the fifth time), aren't I? Maybe I just need to do more of the things I don't want to do, so when my energy/motivation does come back I can use to do more of the things I want to do. Guilt free.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Hello, my new best friend!
We finally stopped calling him Uterus Hog. And I've forgiven him for not wanting to be my Birthday Buddy.
I call him E.Z. Ez. Razzmatazz. Neto. Spanglish for nieto. It works cuz his mom still calls me Netty. Porkloin. At two ounces bigger than Porkchop, it works too.
His parents call him Ezra Kent Peterson Meraz.
Cute little bugger, huh?
Booger.
Bug.
The options are endless.
I call him E.Z. Ez. Razzmatazz. Neto. Spanglish for nieto. It works cuz his mom still calls me Netty. Porkloin. At two ounces bigger than Porkchop, it works too.
His parents call him Ezra Kent Peterson Meraz.
Cute little bugger, huh?
Booger.
Bug.
The options are endless.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
It feels like a Monday but it's already Wednesday.
A few months ago, during one of Macy's extraordinary sales, I picked up a new set of stainless steel cookware. I love it. It is quite possibly one of the best purchases I've made this year. It's so shiny. I love it so much that perhaps that is why almost every single piece is still sitting in the sink or along the counter top. Every single piece. I just can't bring myself to put it away.
Or I'm lazy and just can't bring myself to do the dishes this morning.
I pathetically even Googled "How to get motivated to do the dishes." More than a few results came up! And I started to think that perhaps I should do my part and write some completely asinine articles, or at least their titles so that just in case there are other women out there in my same position they would also have results when they turned to all-knowing Google. Just so they don't feel like they're the only ones.
"How to convince your three year old to name her Llama something besides Cocky."
And that's as far as I got because that's how very unmotivated I am today. Plus, it took longer than you'd think to compromise on "Peto."
Or I'm lazy and just can't bring myself to do the dishes this morning.
I pathetically even Googled "How to get motivated to do the dishes." More than a few results came up! And I started to think that perhaps I should do my part and write some completely asinine articles, or at least their titles so that just in case there are other women out there in my same position they would also have results when they turned to all-knowing Google. Just so they don't feel like they're the only ones.
"How to convince your three year old to name her Llama something besides Cocky."
And that's as far as I got because that's how very unmotivated I am today. Plus, it took longer than you'd think to compromise on "Peto."
Friday, August 5, 2011
All Is Swell
I don't like ultrasounds. I think they are creepy looking. And they look like aliens. They are like farts and snot-nosed kids. Ewww and gross, unless they're your own. In which case, they are the cutest damn things you've ever seen!
Not only is our baby not a vampire, but it can dance. The whole time I lay there I kept playing this old forward over and over. What does that say about me? But the resemblance is striking and this video much more entertaining than our ultrasound DVD.
Not only is our baby not a vampire, but it can dance. The whole time I lay there I kept playing this old forward over and over. What does that say about me? But the resemblance is striking and this video much more entertaining than our ultrasound DVD.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Cook, Cry, or Clean
Dinner tonight was awesome. Really. I would not consider myself a cook, but it even looked pretty on the plate.
A vat of mashed potatoes turned Parmesan Salmon Patties with a salad of beet greens, roasted beets, candied pecans, feta cheese, and a orange juice/balsamic vinegar dressing. Also served with thinly sliced nectarines and blackberries. I candied the pecans myself, Booyah!
On the counter is my giant stainless bowl full of cucumbers pickling a la Abe's Delicatessen- to be served with top round roast turned roast beef later this week, a crockpot of homemade humus with plans for fresh pita bread, and THE best zucchini bread ever. Nothing says comfort like Paula Deen. God bless her and the Food Network!
I am hoping I puke it all up.
All of it.
Even the beets.
I've never done that before and it has the potential for looking amazingly gruesome.
The puking stopped three days ago. This would have been FAN-tabulous had I not had my first midwifery appointment where we were unable to "locate fetal heart tones." There are three (maybe four) potential explanations for this. 1) No heart tones= no baby and it was the two Klondike bars which have caused some rather sensational bloating. 2) My anatomy is making it difficult to auscultate the little bugger. 3) I can't count and I'm not really 12.5 weeks. And the 4th and quite possibly the most difficult to stomach) I'm going to birth a vampire who doesn't have a heart and then have to name it something awful like Renesmee.
Given a choice, I am obviously going to go with option number 2. We have decided to opt for an ultrasound. The potentially harmful sonic waves can be no more detrimental than marinading in a vat of fear and nerves for the next two weeks. We are scheduled for Friday. At that time we will have to consider whether or not we can afford to stop again for groceries, like we did after our last appointment. Besides the budgetary considerations, small talk with a polite but rather clueless checker can create for a potentially awkward moment of epic proportions.
"So, how was your day?"
"I had a tooth extracted and then we went to the midwife and found nothing."
He opted to smile politely instead and went with "fine". God bless my Husband, he really did have a crappy day.
I have bookmarked sites full of goodness I fully plan on revisiting later this week like stuffed zucchini, fresh basil pesto, and pumpkin bars. My newest, latest, and greatest theory is that when things get Crappy you respond with one of the 3 C's. Cook, Cry, or Clean. Never having tried it before, I've gone with the first. And I've been pleasantly surprised. Stress is abundantly more tolerable sauteed in butter and guilt is surprisingly more palatable dipped in chocolate.
My lifelong regret list is now two long. Alongside quitting the violin in 7th grade rests saying that I hated being pregnant. I'd take it all back if it would just come back up.
A vat of mashed potatoes turned Parmesan Salmon Patties with a salad of beet greens, roasted beets, candied pecans, feta cheese, and a orange juice/balsamic vinegar dressing. Also served with thinly sliced nectarines and blackberries. I candied the pecans myself, Booyah!
On the counter is my giant stainless bowl full of cucumbers pickling a la Abe's Delicatessen- to be served with top round roast turned roast beef later this week, a crockpot of homemade humus with plans for fresh pita bread, and THE best zucchini bread ever. Nothing says comfort like Paula Deen. God bless her and the Food Network!
I am hoping I puke it all up.
All of it.
Even the beets.
I've never done that before and it has the potential for looking amazingly gruesome.
The puking stopped three days ago. This would have been FAN-tabulous had I not had my first midwifery appointment where we were unable to "locate fetal heart tones." There are three (maybe four) potential explanations for this. 1) No heart tones= no baby and it was the two Klondike bars which have caused some rather sensational bloating. 2) My anatomy is making it difficult to auscultate the little bugger. 3) I can't count and I'm not really 12.5 weeks. And the 4th and quite possibly the most difficult to stomach) I'm going to birth a vampire who doesn't have a heart and then have to name it something awful like Renesmee.
Given a choice, I am obviously going to go with option number 2. We have decided to opt for an ultrasound. The potentially harmful sonic waves can be no more detrimental than marinading in a vat of fear and nerves for the next two weeks. We are scheduled for Friday. At that time we will have to consider whether or not we can afford to stop again for groceries, like we did after our last appointment. Besides the budgetary considerations, small talk with a polite but rather clueless checker can create for a potentially awkward moment of epic proportions.
"So, how was your day?"
"I had a tooth extracted and then we went to the midwife and found nothing."
He opted to smile politely instead and went with "fine". God bless my Husband, he really did have a crappy day.
I have bookmarked sites full of goodness I fully plan on revisiting later this week like stuffed zucchini, fresh basil pesto, and pumpkin bars. My newest, latest, and greatest theory is that when things get Crappy you respond with one of the 3 C's. Cook, Cry, or Clean. Never having tried it before, I've gone with the first. And I've been pleasantly surprised. Stress is abundantly more tolerable sauteed in butter and guilt is surprisingly more palatable dipped in chocolate.
My lifelong regret list is now two long. Alongside quitting the violin in 7th grade rests saying that I hated being pregnant. I'd take it all back if it would just come back up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)