Confessions

I'm pretty sure my husband doesn't read this blog, so I'll take a chance here.

Also, it's Sunday - I'm not Catholic or anything  - but any Christian worth their salt will admit that we need confessionals in every denomination. Especially the Baptist ones. Just sayin'

Back to the confessions:

I have, on more than one occasion, let my son stay in that dirty diaper just an extra 3 or 4 minutes until dad could get home. At which point I tell the little stinker to go give daddy a big hug, and then feign surprise and horror that he has produced yet another doody. It usually goes along the lines of "What?! He's stinky? He must have JUST done it!"
What can I say? It's lame, and it works, so there you go.

Here's another one. Yesterday in the car my aforementioned son called his sister a butt munch. Butt. Munch. COMPLETELY inappropriate, I know. And yes, I bit back the smile and told him that we don't say such things. To which he replied, "Daddy taught me".  All of which I should have been perturbed about, except that his comedic timing was impeccable, so I went ahead and felt a little proud of him.

One more thing and then I have to go to church before the guilt swallows me whole:

I really do know how to plug the dvr into the t.v., work the remote, clean up the dog poo and wait for it...change a tire.
I just don't want to, ok? And as long as the husband is buying that I'm too pitiful and dainty (choke) to do any of the above, what am I going to do, ruin it for him?

Negative.

So...about 4 Hail Mary's and I'm good, right?

BAH!

It's time for a little whining. Get the cheese...and the drumroll...or whatever it is a drummer does after a dumb joke...

Tuesday nights are not what you would consider exciting, right? Unless you play co-ed softball for your church.
Then, Tuesday nights become the nights you get to knock the crap out of a little white ball and not care that your children are pouring dirt on their heads.
It's also the night you discover the distance from home plate to first base is like, double what it used to be.
It's a night that you remember how great it feels to play ball at twilight in the spring, and how good it is to hear the "ting" of the softball bat. Well, considering my strikeout record this year, maybe I'm not too familiar with that one.

But mostly, it's a night that you get to be around some amazing people; people you wouldn't have thought could be so cool.

Except that this Tuesday, it's raining. And thundering. And irritating.

Busted

I stole an idea from my Mom when trying to get the kids to clean their rooms. We play these little games where we pick up all the red things, all the round things, you get the idea. Occasionally,  when they protest, I pull out the big guns and remind them I have a direct line to Santa.

This has worked for me far too long apparently.

Recently, after smugly watching my little elves clean their mess from another room, I hear the oldest monster tell the middle monster "Mommy tricked us, she doesn't have Santa's number. I checked."

Since when can I tell my kids the moon is made out of cheese and not have them believe me???

So, like any mother in a tizzy and trying to defend a good fairy tale, I whipped out my phone and called Santa himself.

Note to self. Use the mute button next time before you hear this: "The time is 4:45. Temperature 70 degrees."

I'm so busted.

Let me break it down....

Here's how this day went. Ready?

Wake up on the a.m. side of 6 o'clock to 80mph winds.
 Hide in the (small) closet and listen to three children alternate between being scared for their lives and wanting their stinking pancakes.
Drive to school in torrential rain. Okay, that part wasn't too bad, but it irritated me nonetheless.
Be productive and fold 3 loads of laundry, only to find out that the two youngest monsters have colored themselves blue, as well as the left arm of the couch.
Le sigh.
Find out that my almost 3 year old son can climb a lot better than I thought he could.
Clean up a dumped bag of mini-wheats.
Trip over hot wheels and curse.
Quickly manufacture a kid-friendly definition of said curse.
Repent for both offenses.

And that, folks, was all before 9 a.m.

Next time you wonder where my crazy comes from, refer to the above.

Why not come out swinging?

Alright, I'll go ahead and do justice to the title of this blog and  tell you that my kids have a pet name for children's Benadryl. They call it their sleepy-vitamin. Mother of the Year, no? What can I say? They work. Really well. I was reading the back of the box the other day to see if I could give them anymore than I had already, and it stated in small print "Do not use to make a child sleepy" Hmm. Clearly written by someone who had never enjoyed the bliss of children in a Benadryl-induced coma.

Don't get me wrong, they don't get it very often. I don't want them building up too much of a resistance, lol.

My sanity is very closely tied to the amount of sleep I get, so no judging, ok?

Kelli

*disclaimer* my children do not get benadryl very often at all, so hold your calls to CPS. this blog is solely for my own amusement and no children were harmed in the writing of it.

Goooood Mooooorrrrrning Blog Spot! Or insert other annoying title that is equally unfunny and desperate for viewing.

So...I'm new to the blogging world. My narcissism is literally doing backflips.

There a hundred things that run through my head during the day that no two year old could appreciate, so I will send them out to cyber-space. I am fully aware that I may be the only one to read this, and that's alright. I had one whole follower on Twitter, I embrace the loneliness. :-)

I'm going to try this blogging thing to keep friends and family updated on our goings on.

Maybe I'll even figure out how to add pictures of my sweet monsters!


Kelli