The Reality of Communication

My Hubbs is amazing. Tonight when he came home I was literally a ticking time bomb. I had about 6-dozen things I was ready to rant and rave about. I was planning to unleash only 3 or 4, but they were going to be doozies. By God’s grace I held my tongue letting my complaints roll over in my head like giant tumbleweeds. Of course by that time the children were so insanely crazy we could hardly talk even if we wanted to. They were exhausted and ready for bed, this was at 6:00!
Fearing complete explosion, I calmly told Mark I needed to go for a drive while he bathed the kids. Poor guy, he took it all wrong, and then I took him taking it all wrong, all wrong. Usual PMS miscommunication was alive in the house just as the bacteria that caused the flu in the kids.
Neither Mark nor I like to fight. We do not thrive on drama or hurt, so we both shut our mouth for a bit to reflect on the exchange. He came in Lola’s room a short time after and apologized for ??? He attempted to understand why I was so mad, but also fully appreciates the un-rational of my behavior. I told him how I felt, why I felt that way, and there were parts that were irrational, but if you read my blog you can understand why I was so stressed out by 6:00.




Usually by this time of the day I am not stressed, but instead focused on getting the kids bathed and to bed. My poor babies are fare more tired then I, so I need to stay focused. As I have said before today was not the usual day.
After I said what I had to say, he kissed me and boy did I feel better. He understands me. He listens to my words even when they are veiled in complicated woman issues. He digs past those issues and tries to see what is upsetting me and how he can best soothe my pain. We are every movie with a happy ending, every love story about "the one", we are perfectly matched. I need him and he needs me. How great God is to gift each of us with the perfect person. Now, I know once you are married, that is technically supposed to be the "perfect person" for you. We have a freindship that surrpasses marriage, we are truley bestest friends. I like him... a lot!


When I went to our doctor recently he asked how Mark was doing. He said, “That man thinks of you as his Sheba, his queen. I have never had a patient with a husband so concerned and in love with his wife.”
Anybody that knows us, knows that to be true.

Please and Thank you

How is it possible that 29 days of the month a woman can be as sane as a brick wall, and one day, a stark raving lunatic?
I swear today, I feel as if I was somehow misdiagnosed and instead of having hypo thyroid, I have hyper-hysteria.
Where is my Prozac? Shove the Advil and gimme the good stuff, Vicatin.

Today is my one sure-fire day to send the kids to Rita’s. To tell you the truth it is as much for their safety as it is for my rest.
But no, they are recovering. If you have ever had children you will know that “recovery” far out weighs the stress of kids actually being sick. In “recovery” they are physically better, their energy is up, way up, and the parents are forced to contend with every rule that has been broken for the last 7 days. Every extra hour, or two…whose kidding 5, that you let them watch TV, they are begging for an extra 5 more, pretty much in hopes that entire day can be spent with the television on, even if not watched. Every piece of broccoli that was swept off the plate or meal skipped is now a regular routine; instead of not eating, all they want is popcorn or cheese crackers. Talking back, hitting siblings and mis-behavior in general is accepted in their little minds, The New Rule. Lets just say they have been the center for so long, you spend the next seven days reprogramming them to the correct center. That being you and your FREAKING CRAMPS!

I love you kids.
Please don’t shove each other to see who can lay across-on top-sideways over mommy more then the other.
Please don’t throw your full cups of milk on each other at the table.
Please don’t later spit milk in each other’s faces and think it is really fun game. It is not a really fun game.
Please don’t steal the chocolate syrup out of the refrigerator, lock yourself in my bedroom and drink half then poor the other half all over mommy’s sheets and bed frame.
Please don’t completely fall apart screaming and kicking at Wal-Mart because I will not buy you cotton candy pink pumps. (That was Moses by the way)

I love you kids.
Thank you for loving me so much that you fight over me.
Thank you for fighting this Flu/Pneumonia and recovering at home and not the hospital.
Thank you for laughing when I fly you in the air like an airplane.
Thank you hugging me two minutes after I scream at you for stealing the chocolate syrup.
Thank you causing me to grow on a daily basis because I am at a total loss as to what I am doing most of the time.
Thank you for causing me to go to the Lord and say, Help, I need Vicatin…just kidding!

All in a Days Work

I cleaned the pantry out yesterday. What a job. After I woke up at 6:30, and pondered the condition of human existence I started itching to do something productive.
Prior to having my second child, I was the most organized well-put together person. My refrigerator was always cleaned, my life always recorded in a neat calendar, and my sock drawer looked like a picture. (Ok, that may be a stretch)
My mom instilled a deep need to purge clothes, shoes and junk from every part of our life. Of course that could have something to do with the fact that we moved about the country with the ease of a band of Gypsies. A family cannot have too much on its back if your only mode of transportation is a VW Rabbit, circa 1980.
Since the birth of my dear Mosey, things have changed just a bit.
Laura reminds me, in a nice way of course, that I should be growing veggies in my garden, not at the bottom of the refrigerator. My poor little calendar sits closed at my bedside. The first month I got it I entered the first 5 months with a day or two off. Now I can’t even bear to pick it up. My sock drawer, lets just say there are items of clothing in there that were worn only in the last week or two of pregnancy…ladies, you got me?
Yesterday I said ENOUGH! I will gain back control of my home. Lets start with the pantry.
Now I know why I never do this kind of stuff.
It started out ok at first. I began by pulling out spices that were in complete disarray due to the fact that there is usually four small children in my home and at one point or another have all taken a swipe at the many culinary condiments hanging on the wall.
As the process really started getting more involved, the children inevitably noticed that mommy was doing something unusual, and there were many things that are usually out of reach right in front of them!!!!!!!!
I decided to sit them at the table and let them play with pots and a couple cups of dried beans. They were great, at first. Slowly one bean, then another would bounce to the floor. They paid them no mind until one bounced right back up on the table, SCORE! Pretty soon it became a game to see how far each of them could throw a bean, then 10 beans. I was so entrenched in my project I could not bear to pull myself away and end the beaning. Anyway, I rationalized I started it.
I am not sure what came next, the dried oatmeal all over the kitchen and dining room floor, or the honey squirts all over the carpet? Needless to say, Mark spent about as much time cleaning up from my cleaning up as I did cleaning the pantry.
All in a days work.

Ps. Camera is MIA. To bad!