You Can Learn A Lot If You Listen

Recently, while reacquainting myself with my little bloggy-blog I came across this post that for some reason only known to God and the Universe, I never published.  Rather than dump it off as a missed opportunity to share I decided to include it as today’s blog post, the information still quite relevant.  I threw this together back in 2010 when my kids were lee-tle.  Tiny.  Sweet little innocent peeps.  Who loved me.  And talked to me.  And hadn’t discovered how much cooler their friends are than me.  When Avery’s hip didn’t spontaneously jut out during our “talks” and Jackson smelled like marshmallows.  Ahhh, good memories.  Hope you enjoy!


I think children are supremely underrated as sources of intelligent thought. So often we dismiss their nonsensical chatter as just that…nonsense. The last couple of days I’ve spent some time actually listening to the words that come out of my kids’ tiny little mouths and have been amazed at what has come flowing from their pure intellects. I thought I might impart on you, my fellow friends, these little pearls of wisdom so that you may experience a smidge of the enlightenment infusing itself throughout this suburban household.

  • Don’t eat all the candy, momma. Just eat one. You’ll get an ache in your tummy. ~ Jackson, 3

I’m not, traditionally, a big candy eater but have a particular hankering for Hot Tamales. They burn my tongue and satisfy my sweet tooth all at once. Love them. A lot. Jack has noticed. He’s worried. And, he’s right. They do give me an “ache in my tummy” (and, unfortunately, a dimple in my thighs.) Too much candy is good for nobody.

  • We shouldn’t lie, mom. It makes it too hard to remember the truth.” ~Avery, 7

Avery is in the first grade and by all rights this should make her a “liar, liar, pants on fire”. However, I’ve noticed that she’s not very gifted at it. One tilt of my head and a questioning gaze in her direction brings her melting to the ground in a pool of her own lies, truth spewing from her mouth at alarming rates. She has learned, early on I must say, that it is much easier to start with the truth because the “melting in lies” process is tedious and energy-draining. (Disclosure: Her tendency towards honesty is not 100% fool-proof and I am not kidding myself in thinking that she will never lie to me. I am, however, fully confident that I will catch her in them. Every. Single. Time.)

  • Turkeys have feet. Cows have feet. Garbage cans have wheels. ~ Jackson, 3

Wow. I’m really trying to open my mind to the hidden genius in this statement. I know it’s there. It’s just taking some time to reveal itself.

  • I’m pretty sure my Baby Alive is watching me at night. ~ Avery, 7

Ahhh. At first thought, I interpreted this to mean that we are all products of our own judgment. The voyeuristic “Baby Alive” is a metaphor for our own paranoia at being exposed for our inadequacies. “Night” being a metaphor for the point in time our character craves to undergo a complete renewal process, as our bodies are allowed with each sleep. At second thought, I realized that Avery is not that enlightened and truly believes her doll stares at her at night.  Creepy.

So, there you have it: some words of wisdom to help us navigate our way through the perilous journey of life. Start listening to the little ones around you, folks. They are much wiser than their germ-infested, slightly selfish, unconditional loving, slapstick humored, snotty little selves let on.


Priorities, after all.

Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

My son is a pagan.  Or something along those lines.

Recently, during one of my daily “breakdown of the school day” rap sessions with my little 2nd grader (a.k.a. behavior update and/or early planning for teacher Christmas payoffs) I discovered that Jack has recently had Santa Clause on his little brain.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

I’ve used Santa Clause as a widely effective source of bribery for years now.

“Hmmm…haven’t been brushing your teeth?  Ummm…wow.  I hope Santa isn’t paying attention…”

“Oh, man.  That sounds like a lie.  Santa doesn’t like liars.”

“Pretty sure Santa wouldn’t be happy with little boys who refuse to give their mama a chicken nugget.”  I’m not proud of this one.

The point is, I have perhaps played the Santa card a few more times than necessary.  And I’ve seen the error of my ways.

During our talk I asked Jack if he’d given any thought to what he might want for Christmas this year.  He answered, “Yeah.  I’ve already talked with Santa about it.”

Um.  Unless Jack’s a card carrying member of the Santa-of-the-month club this news threw me a bit.

I asked him, “Do you mean last year?  Last Christmas?  You haven’t had a chance to talk to Santa this year.

He looked at me, brows furrowed, “No, I don’t mean last year.”  Insert a gigantic “DUH” here.  He didn’t say it (smart little man) but it was heavily inferred.

“Well then, when have you talked to Santa?”

He answered, “At night.  When I’m in bed.  I talk to him about stuff.  Mostly about Christmas.”  Having frequently shared nighttime prayers to Jesus with this little man I was a little confused.

“Do you talk to him every night?”

“Nah.  Mostly w hen I’m in trouble.  I figure I should let him know what I want for Christmas, you know.  Before you get a chance to let him know I’ve been naughty.”


The little deviant.  He’s trying to get through to Santa before I can.  He’s effectively created a fool-proof system wherein he can commit an offense, tuck himself tightly into bed, download his wish list on Santa and wait for me to realize I’ve been bamboozled.

The student has become the master.  Well played, little one, well played.


Cider and Pumpkins and Halloween Candy…Oh My!


photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures


The month of apple spiced candles and warmly colored mums.

The official beginning of a guilt-free spree of purchasing Kit Kats and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (and then repurchasing because   “Ummm…what happened to those bags of candy?  Damn.  When did my ankles start getting fat?”

The trees begin dropping their brightly colored leaves.  All over my lawn.  And in my gutters.  And on my sidewalk.  Ahhh.  Ain’t it grand.

The start of bipolar-esque weather in my part of the country, the beautiful Pacific North-friggin’ A it’s raining again-West.

Pumpkins.   :-D

The kids begin perusing ideas of Halloween costumes and I begin crushing their dreams.  (I mean, doesn’t anyone want to be a cowboy, ghost, or even a good old fashioned street walker anymore?)

Guilt-free purchases of Kit Kats and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.  Oh, wait.  Did I already mention that?

Spooky home decorating.  What other time of the year is it acceptable to not only ignore but glorify your ceiling cobwebs and dead flies in the window sill?  Perfection.

The cooler weather calling for soup.  And soup usually calls for bread.  Which calls for butter.  Which then calls for dipping back into the soup.  It’s a beautiful cycle.

The start of an exciting long season of family get-togethers and holiday celebrations.

I love this month.


The Blessed Weekend

And it’s Monday.

I can’t believe how quickly the weekend goes. I remember backwhen I was a working girl (not THAT kind of working girl…gaw…although I totally would have been a Julia Roberts-typeand not her annoying co-prostitute/roommate, Kit). It seemed the week would creep along at a punishingly slow pace. I would gaze at the calendar whiledreaming of Friday and all the freedom it would bring.

I no longer work outside the home, but do plenty of friggin’ work inside the home, and still look forward to that weekend. Let me lay out for you why a weekend is still just as important to us what I like to call, employment-challenged,folks:

1) Naps – Weekday naps tend to be a little encumbered. When I settle in for a snooze on, say, a Tuesday afternoon I am really quick to justify that little gem if I’m caught. “Oh, geez…did I fall asleep? Wow. I must be really exhausted from waking up so early to start that closet cleanout project.” Naptime on a weekend usually goes a little something more like, “EVERYBODY SHUT UP! I’m taking a nap!”

2) Breakfast Prep – Breakfast time withmy elementary school aged kids tends to be a little hectic. I’m trying to provide some brain food, make sure various school notes are signed, give the ol’ ix-nay to two out of three of my daughter’s outfit suggestions and remind my six year-old that he is actually still enrolled in Kindergarten and will need to be attending again that day. And, yes, I understand he just went last week but the State actually requires that he continue to go every week. Breakfast time on a weekend usually goes a little something more like, “We’re out of milk? Uh, no worries. Lucky Charms tastes just as good with water, trust me.”

3) Bedtime – Ah, bedtime. Parents have been battling kids to get to bed since the beginning of time. I can just imagine Mrs. Caveman yelling at Mr. Caveman, “Ugh. Kids need go bed. You. Help.” And then Mr. Caveman’s all, “Kids! Go Bed!” And then Mrs. Caveman’s all, “Ugh. You no help. Why I evenask?”Bedtime on a weekend is more like, “Man, it’s getting late. Um, have you seen the kids?” Or in Caveman, “Ugh. Dark. Kids?”

There is just something so liberating about the weekend and that remains to be the same with or without a paying job. I no longer spend my day in a cubicle answering phones and praying for my lunch hour but I still gaze longingly at my calendar excited for Friday (okay, fine. Istill look forward to lunch).

Happy Monday folks! It’s only Four days to Friday! :-P



I mean, really… Who said she could grow up?!?

I’m a mother of a 10 year-old girl. Do you know what that means? I can justimagine all the mothers of girls out there raisingcollective sighs to the Universe right now.

My “little” Avery

Ya get me?

She’s a good girl. A really good girl, in fact. But I am starting to get glimpses into what will most definitely be a mind blowing ride through teenage-dom. (Totally a place, by the way. I picture hoards ofself-involved girls obsessively straightening their hair andboys yelling “dude, you suck” back and forth like a ping pong game.)

My baby girl, the fruit of my loins, is growing up sooooo fast. Crazy fast. Too fast. This became glaringly obvious to me on February 14th.

Wait for it.

A boy brought my sweet apple dumplin’ a rose for Valentine’s Day. A boy. With boy brains. And boy hormones. And boy parts.

She’s growing up…

And she loved every blessed minute of experiencing her own Bachelor-moment over chicken strips, mashed potatoes and the fruit of the month, peaches, sitting at the lunch table in front of all her friends.

“Avery, will you accept this rose?” he asks nervously.

“Of course,” she answers tearfully.

Okay, not really. It was more like:

“Here,” he says as he shoves the rose into her face.

“Thanks,” she answers quietly, wishing the table would swallow her and her rose.

But that girl was beaming as she crashed through the front door, rose clutched in her tiny fist and the words, “Mom, ohmagah…” bursting from her lips.

And I died a little.

Gone are the days of “ewww, boys are gross.” Am I ready for it?

Uh, no.

Is it happening anyway?

Most definitely.