I've been noticing that lately the kids are playing this game on facebook called "why, what's up?". If you aren't familiar, basically the game goes like this: someone has to put "why, what's up?" as their status, then friends post on their wall saying things about the person. My oldest daughter, Kaylan did it, and I wanted to answer for her. Here goes:

Kaylan Denney? KKD? Punk-Punk? The one who lived in my tummy for 9 weeks before I even had a clue? The one who made me feel like KFC would be a good idea for breakfast, lunch and dinner? The little person who caused my size 5 body to balloon to 170lbs? The cause of my stretch marks? The baby who arrived after 8 hours of labor?

The baby who slept through the night at 6 weeks, therefore making me think something was wrong with the next 2 because they didn't? The toddler who set the bar high because she did everything early? The little girl who walked right into Kindergarten while I sat out in the hall and cried because my baby was growing up?

The girl who didn't have time to snuggle because she was too busy exploring the world around her? The one who always championed the under dog? Who didn't make friends with people because they were popular, but because she saw something in them that not everyone else could see?

The young lady who started high school this year? My punk-punk who has made me realize that I've grown up too? My little band geek who has shown true grit and determination in color guard? The one who yacked at band camp, but wouldn't let me pick her up because she swore she was okay?

My young woman who has caused me to see the world through different eyes? The one who has shown me that maybe I've done a pretty good job at being a mom? The chick who has the same sense of humor as me? Who can be the only one who laughs at stuff with me? Obscure things that other people wouldn't understand?

The one who went to a dance at school last night? Who looked so grown up that it caused me to be out of sorts for the rest of the night? The one who makes me so very proud?

Yeah, I know her, why, what's up?

A New Set of Beliefs

I'll be honest with you, I'm scared of teenagers. They are full of anger and hormones. All they think about is sex, drugs, and whatever you call that music that Justin Bieber sings. Teenagers are hell bent on making horrible decisions that will bring shame to their families. You can't get a group of them together without someone sneaking off to smoke or get pregnant. So when my 14 year old daughter informed me she wanted to have a boy/girl birthday party for the very first time this year, I immediately began trying to find ways to prepare myself for the doom I knew it would entail.

Day of the party arrives, I end up with about 20 kids of varying ages in my yard, half are girls, half are boys. Thank goodness I had some adults on hand to help me keep an eye on all these hell raisers. I kept a constant vigil to make sure noone tried to satisfy their raging hormones. But I noticed that all they really wanted to do was listen to music, and be able to enjoy interacting outside of school.

I then started to wonder what their angle was. Why were they being so polite? Were they trying to catch me off guard so they could go in and invade the liquor cabinet? I laughingly told my sister-in-law we should tell them to play "Red Rover" just to see their reaction. To say I was shocked at their enthusiasm would be an understatement. In no time at all, they had teams picked, and were lining up holding hands, ready to play. Their laughter could be heard throughout the neighborhood.

After that, we suggested freeze tag. They loved it! I remarked to Christie, my sister-in-law, that this is how it was when we were kids, outside laughing, running, and playing. Not stuck in the house mindlessly playing video games and munching on junk. After they were worn out from the running, they moved seamlessly to a game I'd never heard of called "Ninja". How refreshing to see that teenagers still know how to play, and they've even come up with their own games.


I guess I was seeing just how silly they could be when I suggested "Duck, Duck, Goose". Again, everyone wanted to play.

After everyone had left, I was exhausted. But I found that my spirit felt happy. My beliefs had been proven wrong. I'm rethinking my whole philosophy on teenagers. I'm thinking that teens don't just care about drugs and getting pregnant, deep inside I think that maybe they still want to be kids, to be able to enjoy childish pleasures. I know they are growing up, but just because they look like miniature adults, doesn't mean that they are there just yet.

For My Fellow Mama Birds

This time of year is a wonderful time for mothers everywhere. The time of year when the kids FINALLY go back to school. Funny, when I was a kid, summer seemed to only last a couple of weeks, but now that I have kids, summer seems to stretch on for many, many, many months. As moms with more than one child, the beginning of school means no more fighting, no more boredom, no more kids asking, "why do we never have food in the house?" even though I just spent $200 at the grocery store.

There are some moms who view the beginning of the school year as a sad time. Their house will echo the silence of no children during the day. Who wait for their kids with a plate of cookies and cold milk, eager to hear every detail of the child's day. They'll even volunteer to be class mom. I firmly believe these moms have a hidden IV bag full of Valium tucked into the waist band of their pants, and it constantly drips to keep them sane.

But for some of moms, this is the first year their baby bird will leave the nest for the first time to go to school. I fall into that category, my last little birdy starts pre-K this year. It's only for 6 hours a day, but I feel like it's necessary to socialize her, she's very shy. I'm also a seasoned mama bird, my oldest birdy started high school this year. I've been checking my feathers for gray ones, but so far have not found any, thank goodness.

No matter if you're an experienced mama bird, or if this is your first time sending baby bird to school, we're all the same. We'd like to keep them home forever, but let's face it, the nest gets loud and crowded after awhile! So we just have to trust that everything we've taught them will carry them on out into the public well. Unless we've taught them some kind of crude trick using a straw and an armpit to make fart noises, that's probably not something we want them to do in public. But you know what I mean. You can only hope that they remember their manners, their courtesy, their respect. We've taught them well mamas, now let's shove 'em out of the nest and celebrate with some shots, first round is on me!!!

My Cheating Heart

I've been in a steady stable relationship for 10 years. Apart from one minor transgression, I have been completely faithful. That is, until last week. The first time I slipped up, I felt guilty and ashamed. And sadly disappointed. This last encounter though, it made me happy. When it was over, I felt beautiful and excited about a possible new future.

But how could I explain it to the one who had been there for me for so long? Someone who knew me, knew all my secrets? A person who had seen me at my worst, yet always made me look my best? How could I tell my beautician that I had found someone who might be replacing her?

When I first started going to Leisa, I had a major distrust for anyone who had a pair of scissors in their hand. I'd been to too many bad hair stylists, I'd had my hair hacked, cut crooked, bad perms, ugly colors, you name it. But as soon as Leisa started working on me, I felt like Shug Avery, wanting to tell Ms. Celie all my hopes and dreams. We built up quite a relationship. She knows more about me than even my husband does.

We moved last year. I was in desperate need of a haircut, and just didn't want to drive an hour to get one. I spent the entire time extolling Leisa's virtues to this poor girl. How Leisa was the best hairwasher, (she really gives a good scrub!) how she knew exactly what to do, how for the past 9 years, I never even bother to look in the mirror when she's done, I just know I look great! I'm sure by the time I left, this chick probably decided to change careers, knowing she could never compare to someone as wonderful as my Leisa. I confessed the whole thing to Leisa, who of course laughed at my silliness.

A couple of weeks ago, I had to have another haircut, and as I do not have a trustworthy vehicle to make the hour trek, I decided to try someone else closer to home. As I sat back in the hairwashing chair, ready to find any fault, I discovered that this lady was actually giving my head a good scrub. I slowly made my way to her cutting chair, still cautious, just because she can wash, does not mean she can cut! But as she cut, we talked. I found another kindred spirit. Someone who listened to me, but also had interesting things to share herself.

And when I looked at the final product, I was impressed. She had done a good job, not only making my hair look good, but making my spirit feel good. And I think that is the best quality in any beautician. Somewhere out there, I know Leisa understands, and blesses me.

John Wayne Versus the Princess

The economy has been having a downturn for the past few years. Everyone is cutting back and tightening their belts. Myself and my family are not immune. We've had to learn to do without a few creature comforts.

It's funny how different people have different views of being broke. Some people will consider theirselves broke if they can't afford to gas up their jet to fly away for the weekend. Others will give up their weekly mani/pedi spa dates as a sign of a lean economy. Myself? When I start buying cheap shampoo, I know that times are tight.

But one thing I absolutely refuse to sacrifice is my toilet paper! I will wipe my butt with nothing less than Cottenelle! And while it costs 4 bucks for 4 double rolls, it's a price I'm willing to pay. My only problem with toilet paper is I never buy enough. My mind will not allow itself to grasp the concept of how much TP 5 people can go through in a week. There's nothing like running out and having to scout around the house for napkins and paper towels. One friend told me that a coffee filter will do in a pinch...Hey, don't knock it 'till you've tried it!

But the absolute worst thing to use is cheap toilet paper. Last week we ran out and I asked hubby to pick some up on his way home from work. Imagine my shock and horror when he came in with something that can only be described as John Wayne toilet paper: rough, tough, and don't take no shit off nobody! This stuff didn't even have a name, it was just called Value Paper. I was saddened to see that he does not understand the level of comfort I'm used to in my toilet paper. I'm a princess by no means, but I refuse to wipe my butt with sandpaper!

As I write this, I'm wondering if I still have that wad of napkins in my purse that I swiped the last time we ate out...I'm out of toilet paper again.

Cleaning out the Refridgerator.

This weekend we're having a birthday party for my son. So that means I'm doing my usual pre-party freak-out house-cleaning. This involves me scrubbing walls, cleaning baseboards, and washing things that I never think to wash. It's funny how you can think your house is clean until you envision it through someone else's eyes. You would think the fact that I'm a stay at home mom would mean I'm a meticulous house keeper, but that's just not the case. I just don't have the fortitude to be constantly cleaning.

Out of all the cleaning I do, it's the refridgerator that really gets to me. Usually I just open the door and grab something and quickly slam it shut, doing my best to ignore how gross it actually is in there. In this economy, I'm trying my best not to waste anything, so therefore I save all leftovers. Even if it was something that noone liked the first go-round. I guess I'm convinced that leftovers are like fine wine, they get better with age. But that's not true, they don't get better, they just get furrier.

I finally decided this morning I would deal with the fridge. I prayed to the Patron Saint of Frigidaire to give me strength. I opened the door and the first thing I noticed is that I have 7 jars of pickles. All dill. If anyone was to look in my fridge they might think we're doing some kind of weird ritual involving dill pickles, so I toss them all except the newest jar. I take everything else out and put it on the kitchen table. In addition to all the pickles, I find that I have 5 tubs of sour cream, and 6 containers of cottage cheese. Now I'm not a betting man, but I can guarantee that it would not be worth my while to open any of them, so I pitched them all.

After 30 minutes, I have everything out, and I start removing shelves to clean them. I get them all out, and covering the bottom of the fridge is pancake syrup. How in the hell did syrup get there? I keep my syrup in the pantry. There has literally never been syrup in my refridgerator. After dwelling on that for a few more minutes, I tackle the job of getting it up. I ended up having to scrape it, but finally it's gone.

After throwing away countless bags of fuzzy things that used to be grapes, or maybe apples, who knows, I was finally done. Looking at my gleaming white fridge, giving myself a big ole pat on the back, I start the job of getting all the shelves hung up, and all the food back in. It didn't take me too long. I worked up quite an appetite while I was cleaning, but unless I can figure out how to make some class of soup out of soy sauce, ranch dressing, A-1, and dill pickles, I guess I'll have to go to the grocery store.

Through the Darkness, I Saw the Light

I've always had romantic notions about living back in the pioneer days. That could just be because I had a big crush on Michael Landon in "Little House on the Prairie". But to me it's always seemed ideal to have my family sit around a table lit by a coal oil lamp. Listening to my gorgeous, dark, curly headed husband play fiddle while my children clapped and sang, and asked for just one more slice of homemade apple pie.

For years I've thought technology has gone so far, almost too far, so fast. When I was a kid, if you would've told me I would have a telephone that I could carry in my pocket and use anywhere, I would've laughed at you and told you to be quiet so I could listen to my new cassette of Bon Jovi. My point is, I've often thought it would be nice if technology took a break for a little while and let life settle down to how it was in the old fashioned days.

That was until 5:04 pm today. I noticed storm clouds moving in, so I made sure to catch the 5 o'clock news. They said storms were moving into my area ------------Then my world went dark. The electricity had gone out. My first thought was, "I wonder if anyone has commented on my status on facebook?". My next thought was, "Damn, I just planted some clover on Frontierville, it's a 5 minute crop, I hope it doesn't spoil."

My kids came out of their bedrooms with confused looks on their faces. Where did the cartoons go? I calmly told them that the power had gone out, and we were going to spend some good old fashioned quality time together. While I was saying that, in the back of my mind I was thinking, "is this going to mess with my DVR? I CANNOT miss Inside Edition".

After an eternity (actually only 7 minutes) the kids started freaking out, wondering if the ice cream was going to melt, so they were opening the freezer every 30 seconds checking on it. I tried to calmly explain that we had to keep the door closed in order to keep the freezer cool.

Around the 11 minute mark, I started to think, "hmmm, this would be a great moment to write". As I wiped the sweat from my brow, I dug around until I found a tablet and pen. Two minutes in, my hand was cramped up from writing longhand. I glanced hungrily at the computer keyboard, thinking I would sell my soul if the power would just come back on.

Exactly 42 minutes after the power went off, my computer monitor beeped. It was like a gift from the Gods. I leaped at it, wiping the tears from my eyes. I had to finally admit to myself, I am no Caroline Ingalls, and although I am married to a great man, he's not exactly Charles Ingalls himself.

An Uninvited House Guest

"Summertime and the livin's easy", goes the old song by Billie Holiday. Summertime invokes memories of past vacations like pictures running through my mind. Lying on the beach, lying in a pool, lying in a chair getting some rays.

Alas, that is not how summertime is. Summertime is about mosquitoes, sweat, and extra laundry. But this year, I have sometime extra for Summer, an uninvited house guest. I have a mouse!

Listen, I understand it's hot outside, and I'm blasting the air conditioner, but that does NOT give you the right to just presume you can come in and camp out here. I wouldn't allow a strange person to come in my house and dig through my food, and I damn sure am not allowing a rodent to do it either!

I hate hate hate mice! Not just because they're filthy. Not just because they disrespect my house by pooping everywhere. I hate them because they scare me. I mean they terrify me. My husband swears that noone has ever been attacked by a mouse, but I don't trust him.

Believe it or not, in my 15 years of having my own household, this is only my second mouse invasion. The first one was about 5 years ago. This little mouse decided to live in my bathroom, of all places. I just knew he was going to eat my feet. Ladies, have you ever tried to pee with both legs in the air? It's possible, but not comfortable. Every time I would see him, (I assume it was a him, who knows?) I would SCREAM and hover. Don't ask how, but I would leap in the air so fast, I would manage to stay there a few seconds. I think I scared the mouse more than he scared me, and he left. No traps or anything, he just left. I think he warned his mice buddies about me, because I had no more problems.

Now that we've moved, these new mice don't know me just yet. I saw one, pulled the scream and hover manuever, he didn't leave. We resorted to a trap. We caught him. But not before he set up a facebook event announcing a party at my house.

I have spent the entire day cleaning EVERYTHING. I have thrown away any groceries not in a can. I've bleached every surface of my house. I went and bought mouse traps. I plan on setting them every six inches through out the house. You might be smart, little mouse, but my friend, my fear is stronger than your moxie.

The Tale of The Granny Panties

I am 33 years old, I have 3 kids, I weigh more than I did in high school, and I do not have any ambitions of being a Victoria's Secret model. My husband stays on me about wearing what he refers to as my "granny panties". I tell him that if anyone ever invented comfortable, yet sexy underwear, they would have a fortune that rivals Bill Gate's.

You know who I want to smack? Women who tell me that thongs are comfortable. That sounds a little harsh, yes, I know. That's fine if they are comfortable for you, just don't tell my husband, because he would be convinced that they would be comfortable for me. To me there is nothing comfortable about dental floss in my butt crack. Not to mention the fact that when I look in the mirror while I'm wearing a thong, it looks like I've packed too much cotton in a sack and have tried to tie it with baling twine to keep anything from escaping.

Ok, I will be honest, my panties are HUGE. I will admit, that if I wear low rise jeans, that I have to tuck them down. Maybe Mark does have a point about them being unsightly. But I like my underwear to do their job, which is to keep my privates private. I have tried to compromise and wear something a little more vampy, and a little less granny, but I spent the whole day digging out wedgies, and what is sexy about that?

Mark was on me about buying some Victoria's Secret panties. So I finally decided to get some for him. I spent $18 dollars on a pair of panties that I am now afraid to wear for the fear of something happening to them. But they do look very nice in my underwear drawer. Maybe I should try the whole compromise thing again, it seems like I get more "honey do's" done when he thinks I have on uncomfortable panties...;)

Shhh!!! Don't Tell Anyone!

For some strange reason, I am the chief waker-upper in my house. Since that's a word I just made up, I'll explain. I am the one who has to wake up first, and then wake up everyone else up for work or school. I still don't understand why this is because I am the world's most horrible morning person. I do not wake up cheerful, excited about the opportunities the new day will bring. I wake up angry and resentful. I love to sleep, it's my hobby.

I can remember as a child, and especially as a teen fighting with my mom in the morning. I can't tell you the times she has threatened me bodily harm if I did not get out of bed and calm down. Even in the early days of my marriage I was like that. Until finally Mark told me that things just weren't going to work out for us because I was his dream girl during the day, but his nightmare in the morning. So I finally learned out to wake up and bottle all my rage and anger inside and slowly let it out over some coffee.

It's worked out great, but I still don't understand why I have to be the first up.Since I still have a hard time waking, I have actually got my alarm clock set in such a way so that it confuses me enough that I have to wake up to figure out what time it is. It's sad, but it's the only way I can get up in the morning. Here's my formula. We have to be up at 6:45. My clock is set 11 minutes fast. I set it to go off at 6:13 and hit the snooze twice. My snooze is set to go off at 9 minute intervals. So by the second time it goes off, I'm scratching my head wondering what time it actually is, and ta-da, I'm awake. Hush, it works for me!

But here lies the problem. By me being the chief waker-upper and the keeper of the time, I also get to decide if I want to hit the snooze a third or fourth time. I've gotten it down to an art. After I feel like I've had enough sleep, I'll jump up and exclaim that the alarm clock didn't go off. I then proceed to dash around getting everyone ready and swear that I will buy a new alarm clock. I know from experience that I can get away with that about once a year. Any more than that and everyone in the house gets suspicious. So I try to save my "extra snooze card" for a real emergency. I hate to do it, but sometimes I have to.

Like this morning. I had to use my extra snooze card. I went to bed at 11:00 because Mark worked late, and I can't sleep without him in the house. So I go to bed at 11:00. At 11:45 Olivia wakes up and is thirsty. I get her some milk. At midnight, she decides she wants to get on the couch on watch cartoons. Okay, fine, just let me sleep. 15 minutes later, she screams that she can't hear the TV. I jump up, turn the tv up a little bit. 20 minutes later, she climbs into bed with us, with her (still full) sippy cup of milk. Why did she even ask for it?? She refuses to put the milk down, so I tell her "fine, just don't spill it". 15 minutes later she then proceeds to spill it all over my side of the bed and all over me. We get cleaned up, and finally fall back asleep. An hour later, the cat decides he wants to come in and bangs on the door. I get up, go to the door like a woman possessed and chase the cat away with a broom. I think I finally got to sleep around 4 this morning. So when the alarm went off at 6:13, I quietly reached over and hit "off" instead of "snooze". Noone was the wiser. Except that we didn't wake up until 9! Now I feel like my children's education is very important, and that their being tardy is not a good thing at all. But you tell me, wouldn't it be better for their mommy to be well rested and calmly get up, or for them to be confronted by the psycho-mommy who chases cats around with brooms? I'll take the first choice, and pass me some more coffee, please.

Will My Ratty Bathrobe Get More Fans Than Oxygen?

As a facebook user, I enjoy seeing everyone's status updates, who's commenting on who's stuff, and who got the high score playing their game of choice. One thing that really makes me laugh is all the fan pages I see my friends joining.

They range from the obscure; "Will This Pickle Get More Fans Than Hannah Montana?", to the asinine; "I Feel My Phone Vibrate When It Doesn't" which incidentally, has over a million fans. It leads me to wonder who is creating these pages that are getting so many fans. It's also making me wonder if I shouldn't create a few of my own.

Here's some of my ideas, tell me what you think.

"Will My Ratty Bathrobe Get More Fans Than Oxygen?"This is in homage to my old blue bathrobe that I wouldn't be caught dead in, but also happens to be the same robe I wear in the mornings when I drive my kids to school. If I ever were to have a wreck in the mornings, I can only imagine the laughing fit that the emergency personnel will break into when they see it. I will probably die while they are giggling. But it's just so dang comfy!

"I've Tried Duct-Taping My Children, But They Always Chew Their Way Out Of It."Does this one really need any explanation? Any mother that isn't under the effect of a horse tranquilizer will understand this one.

"Every Time The Weatherman Calls For Snow, I Want To Kick A Kitten"
Again, no explanation needed. The kids get excited at the thought of being out of school, while inside I am cringing because all I can think of is extra laundry and calls of, "Mom, do we have anything to eat?" every 5 minutes.

"Why Does My Washing Machine Like To Eat Socks?"
This one would get a gazillion fans, easy. I've never met anyone that didn't own a washing machine that seemed intent on eating just one sock from each pair. I've tried to outsmart mine and only buy white socks for everyone in the family. But the washing machine is a crafty beast, when I do not allow it to eat a sock, it ruins my bras by stretching out the straps.

So those are my ideas for some fan pages, what are yours?

A Heavenly Paycheck

Tonite I received a gift whose worth cannot be measured in gold or diamonds. My fellow wives and mothers, you can surely appreciate this. This evening I took a shower that was not interupted. Nothing, not even a knock on the door. It was heavenly. It was also the first time it's ever happened.

My usual shower routine starts off with me announcing through the house that I plan on showering in 5 minutes, if you have to use the bathroom, go now! I always am answered by, "I just went", or "I don't have to go right now". I wait until 1 minute before I'm ready and yell loudly that I will be stepping in the shower in exactly 60 seconds. Again I am assured that everyone's bladder is taken care of. I then proceed to get in the shower. The water is hot and relaxing. I'll then wet my hair, and scrub in the shampoo. For some reason, I've never been able to use the recommended dime size amount, I use way too much. So here I am with a headful of suds when I hear a metallic clinking sound. It's the kid (the one who had assured me they had just went to the bathroom) picking the lock with a butter knife. Now when I'm looking for a butter knife, they are nowhere to be found, but let a door be locked, and they crawl out of the woodwork. Child enters, uses bathroom and flushes a nano second before I scream out, "Don't Flush!!!". I'm left cowering in the corner of the shower, dodging the ice cold water with shampoo running down into my eyes.

The other usual scenario is for them to wait until I am warm and relaxed. Steam building up, swirling around the bathroom, so thick you can't even see through it. That's when I hear the lock being picked. I poke my head out from behind the shower curtain and watch my steam make a hasty escape through the open door, leaving me to freeze when I get out. Child will smile at me and then ask how to defeat the castle on the 4th world of Super Mario Brothers. The nerve of these people!

Tonite while I was in the shower, noone came in to use the bathroom, no castles needed defeating. My steam built up. I started to get nervous. I began to feel like Janet Leigh waiting on Norman Bates. I thought surely, just surely, something is fixing to happen here. Alas, nothing happened. I was able to enjoy a nice steamy bathroom as I slowly dried off, taking in this whole alien experience. I came out feeling like a million bucks. The job I have does not a paycheck attached to it, but the gift of being able to enjoy a simple shower is more than payment enough today.

The Chocolate Pie Mission

The other day I was at the grocery store and suddenly got a hankering for a chocolate meringue pie. Now for my friends who aren't southern, a hankering is a sudden urge, bordering on obsession, with having something. The more I thought about that chocolate pie, the more obsessed with it I got. But I didn't want some premade pie from the bakery, that seemed almost like cheating. I wanted a good old fashioned, home-made chocolate pie. The only problem was I couldn't remember the recipe. I thought long and hard, and all I could remember was eggs and cocoa. I spied some older ladies working in the bakery, aha! I'll ask them. I hate to make speculations about people judged on appearance alone, but I knew these gray haired gals would surely have a chocolate pie recipe filed away in their brains.

Trying to make my way slowly there, so as not to give off an air of a crazy woman with no thought in her head but a yummy chocolate pie, I edged my buggy up and softly called out, "excuse me". They both turned to look at me, and I told them of my hankering for the chocolate pie, and the quandry I was in because I couldn't remember the ingredients. They stood there quietly for a second, and I thought, "yes, I am fixing to recieve someone's delicious pie recipe that has surely been passed down from generations ago". Instead of divulging a secret recipe, one of them said, "I haven't made a chocolate pie in years, I wouldn't even know where to begin". The other one then informs me that she usually just buys her pies from the bakery. Are you kidding me? What respectable older woman, especially an older southern woman, doesn't have a chocolate meringue pie recipe committed to memory?

I then set off on a mission. I reached deep into my memory and finally found the recipe (or is that a recipe for fudge? What does it matter, they're both good) I went through the store frantically grabbing ingredients. I came home and rushed to my recipe box and found MY recipe. I had managed to remember all the ingredients, which gave me a sudden rush of superiority over the ladies at the grocery store. I then spent a good hour assembling my ingredients, mixing, cooking, and baking until I had indeed made the perfect chocolate meringue pie.

But it was with a note of melancholy that I baked. I had to ponder on how many children of this generation are missing out on home-made goodness because of the convenience of ready made? I realize at the end of the day, they both taste similar. I like to think that I add an extra ingredient in my cooking of home made food that Betty Crocker or any of her co-horts just aren't capable of producing. Love. And that my friends, is quite delicious.

No New Year's Resolutions For This Gal

It's that time of year again. Time to set some new year's resolutions. Or, if we're being honest here, it's time to set ourselves up for failure. New year's resolutions always seem like a good idea, until it's time to break them, then you come away feeling like a sorry, dejected loser.
This year, instead of setting resolutions that won't be kept, I've decided to give myself permission to NOT do things. Before you discount me as a cuckoo, let me explain..
1. I'm giving myself permission to not worry about my weight. While it's true that I'm not rocking a super model figure, I am far from looking like a manatee. It's okay to strive to tighten up what I have, but no longer do I have to feel like I'm too big to be seen as sexy.
2. I'm giving myself permission to not feel bad about asking for help with the housework. It's true that I am a stay at home mom, but that doesn't equate with me being an indentured servant. Picking up after 5 people, plus keeping them fed and in clean clothes is a big job. I can't do it all by myself.
3. I give myself permission to not stress about my inability to find a job out in the "real world". There are so many things I can do from home to make money, it's time to focus on that.
4. I give myself permission to not agonize about people who are mad at me. If they're mad, they'll just have to stay mad. I've decided to take my hurt feelings, put them in a box with a pretty pink bow, and hand it to them. It takes too much of my energy to deal with it, and I need all the energy I have to chase after 3 kids.
5. I give myself permission to not expect my husband to solve all my problems, that's my job. He actually has problems of his own. But we can work on all of life's big problems together, that would be just fine.
So you see? By giving myself permission to not set resolutions that are easily broken, I can instead tell myself that its okay to not sweat the small stuff. Now if that doesn't sound like a recipe for success, I don't know what does.