Y’all. Turn your volume down. Way down.
These Are Not Resolutions
No ma’am. These are deep, dark confessions and I hope you can still look me in the eye next time you see me.
As I was thinking about my New Year’s article, I came across a blog post by one of my favorite author/bloggers, Jen Hatmaker. It was her New Years’ post from 2011, Quirks, she writes about how she adores all of the end of year lists that pop up online around this time of year. So in this post she makes her own list… of her Top 5 Quirks.
I read the post and half of the comments before I had to take a break because I was laughing so hard. Inspired by Jen, here’s a list of some of the things that drive me nuts, or make me nuts. (Potato/potahto, right?) Please leave your quirks in the comments and for the love of all that is good and hilarious, read her post and her readers comments. You will laugh until you hurt!
Buckle up, people.
1. Tapping and or monotonous sounds. Clicking a ballpoint pen in and out, someone nervously tapping their fingers on a table top. And the very worst— sitting in a pew at church with someone at the other end bouncing their leg.
I do not have adequate words to describe how nutty this makes me. Every single nerve in my body gets all twitchy until it stops. And if it’s somebody I don’t know, there simply isn’t a nice way to say, “Stop doing that before I have a psychotic break.”
At the Auburn/ Ole Miss game someone who was sitting behind us, had their foot on the bench I was sitting on and was shaking their leg like a dog scratching a flea. My anxiety level went from 0-60 in about 3 seconds. I warned Zeb, “Please tell her to stop so I don’t have to throw her off the upper deck.”
2. ANYONE touching my toothbrush. I mean, you know a little about my kids, right? You’d be scared, too.
If I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and my toothbrush isn’t exactly, precisely where I left it, I will throw it away. It has happened a time or two that my toothbrush was actually WET when I picked it up, even though I hadn’t used it since early that morning. And again, there are no words for the level of horror I experienced when I saw the damp bristles.
Things are about to get weird.
3. When I get out of the bathtub or shower, the first thing I do is grab a Q-Tip to get the water out of my ears.
But (I cannot believe I am putting this on the world wide web.) I have to lick the Q-Tip first because I can’t stand the sound of the dry cotton in my ears. So essentially, I’m “drying” my ears with a damp Q-Tip but I can’t not do it. (I know that’s a double negative. But if I’m going to let all my crazy out for your entertainment, cut me a break, alright?)
This is the worst part: my kids think this is what you are SUPPOSED to do with Q-Tips so they all do the same thing. I can barely breathe, I’m laughing so hard.
4. I love jumping out and scaring people but, I detest being scared.
I do not know why I do this. I’m sorry, okay? Even when I’m about to do it, I’m thinking to myself, “You are so mean!! Stop it! Don’t do it!” But I HAVE to because it’s so hilarious to me.
Blair, my little sister, probably has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from all of the times I heard her coming down the stairs, or around a corner and jumped out and screamed, “BWAAAAAAAH!”
If I ended up behind her on the staircase, I would stomp my feet really loud and growl. As expected, she would squeal and run and I would laugh hysterically.
But if you jump out and scare me?
I will punch you in the face.
I wish I was kidding.
I don’t have the flight or fight reflex. I have the “I will kick your ass like a redneck at Waffle House after the Auburn/Alabama game” reflex and I will hit you as hard as I can before I can even mentally process what is happening.
5. I cannot write a single word if someone is looking over my shoulder.
My brain will not allow it. I can’t think of a single word. I can write in my kitchen while cooking dinner and helping three kids do homework.
I can sit in front of the television and knock out an 800 word article in less than 30 minutes. But if you look at the screen, OR my hands while I’m writing, I will freeze. Every single time, without fail. Brain… no… make… the… um, what… huh… I… um…
I can’t text, tweet, type a Facebook status or come up with a single emoticon. I can’t think.
Stop looking at me!
So there you go, five of my quirkiest quirks. Spill it, people– otherwise, I’m not going to be able to look you in the eye the next time I see you.
How I Fell in Love with a Dog
I am not an animal person. I don’t think this a secret to anyone who knows me, or anyone who has been reading my column for any length of time. There was the Goldfish Massacre of 2010, where in only 48 hours, the lives of countless fish were lost by my unskilled hand. (And a two-year-old who felt strongly that they should eat six to seven times a day.)
I was terrified of dogs as a child and never really had a pet. I was against animals in general but most specifically about animals that lived in houses with people because— gross.
But as soon as my oldest daughter, Aubrey, started talking, she began praying for her very own dog.
“Dear God, thank you for my Mommy, Daddy and sister and dis house and for my dog. Amen.” She’d solemnly pray.
“Aubrey you don’t have a dog.” I gently reminded her, never saying outloud, “AND YOU NEVER WILL.”
“I know, Momma! That’s why I pray for it!”
For years she has quietly asked for a dog. A dog would make all of her dreams come true. She could only be fulfilled in life if she had a dog. I was firmly against the dog idea, as you may have gathered. But she found support in her little sister and in her daddy.
Zeb and Emma joined her in a full court press to get a dog and I finally relented. A friend shared a picture of a litter of lab mix puppies on Facebook and said they needed a home, and I caved. Sadie, my youngest was only three at the time and was as terrified of dogs as I was as a child. I knew we were going to have to get a small dog or a puppy so that it would be smaller than her so she could get used to him.
We threw around a slew of names— James Earl Jones being my top pick. I just really wanted to yell out my screen door, “JAMES EARL JONES, YOU GET BACK HERE.” But I was once again outnumbered, Moses was chosen by Zeb and the girls.
He was a playful puppy, he nipped at Aubrey and Emma and chased them around the yard but somehow he seemed to understand that Sadie was afraid of him. (Prolly all that shrieking and the way she scaled all the way up my legs anytime he came within ten feet of her.) So Moses began gently courting Sadie, and I slowly started to like him.
Only a few weeks after we got Moses, he was in the house playing with Aubrey in the kitchen. Sadie had taken a nap on a pallete in the middle of our sunroom and when I heard her waking up I went to lie down with her. I kissed her squishy cheeks and we snuggled up together. That’s when I noticed Moses standing at the office door. Sheepishly, he poked his nose around the door. I called him to me and he took a few tentative steps into the room but paused a few feet away. Then he laid down on his belly and crawled the rest of the way to our pile of blankets. He was quiet and still and peering at Sadie, wrapped in my arms, she wasn’t shrieking with fear so slowly, Moses dropped his head onto her arm. And just like that, my heart melted.
Last week, Zeb was away on business and one evening the girls and I came home to see Moses shivering in the driveway. I let him come into the kitchen for a few minutes before we were out the door again. We ran a few errands and decided to get him a bed to keep him off the ground at night but when we came home, the girls dropped the bed in the kitchen, Moses walked straight to it and collapsed with a gleeful grin on his face.
The girls begged me to let him sleep there for the night and against my better judgement I agreed. He’s a chewer and there are a lot of things in my kitchen I didn’t want destroyed.
Moses stayed put that night, and the next. And the next. And the next. And the night after that, the girls found an old towel and tucked him into bed, several hours later I walked in the kitchen to find him passed out, still under the blanket with only his little doggy head hanging out.
As I type this, Moses is laying on his memory foam bed in a patch of sunshine falling through the kitchen window. And beyond the fact that:
1) I HAVE a dog.
2) I actually love said dog, and
3) Said dog has been sleeping in my house for weeks— I just wrote an entire column about my love for this dog.
I am, apparently, a changed woman.
It’s a FABULOUS Holiday Giveaway!
GIVEAWAY WINNERS HAVE BEEN CHOSEN. PLEASE SCROLL TO THE BOTTOM FOR THE FULL LIST!
Sometimes these companies give me free stuff because I love them so much that I shout their praises from the virtual rooftops.
I’m giving away some stuff, y’all! And not just any stuff… some of my favorite stuff. FABULOUS stuff!
First I have THREE eye kits from Obagi. They come in a super cute hardshell cosmetic bag and your eyes will look amazing. Included are the Eye Treatment Gel and Elastiderm Eye Complete Complex Serum! Stuff your own stocking! If you are looking for a great gift for anyone who is concerned about skin care I HIGHLY recommend the Vitamin C Serum– I swear it’s the fountain of youth. Check Obagi’s website for locations near you and like their Facebook page and leave a comment here to be entered to win!
Remember my Magic Marshmallow Pillow? Haven’t you been thinking about how AMAZING it would be to have your very own? Guess what? They are giving one away! Like their Facebook page then leave a comment here!
THEN my friend Amber who makes these presh bracelets was all, “I WANT TO GIVE STUFF AWAY TOO!” I have this exact bracelet and I’ve never worn it without at least one person asking me where I got it and how they could get one for their own self. She’s giving away TWO bracelets. Go visit her store and daydream about which one you want to order!!
One of my life long biffles, Amy, started blogging this year over on Adopted, Accepted about adoption, infertility and being the Momma to a biracial family and her story will just make you cry happy tears and inspire you. In addition to having three kids under 3, girlfriend wrote AND illustrated the sweetest little book called Hand Picked. It’s a great tool to introduce the concept of adoption to toddlers and young kids and emphasizes how every family is different. I cried when I read it because it’s just so sweet. You know the drill, like her on Facebook and leave a comment!
AND THEN, my friends Mandy and Nat over at Happy Mommy Box, were like, “WAIT! US TOO!” So they are giving a free Mommy Box to one lucky mother (heh) in January. Happy Mommy Box is a monthly care package full of fun surprises and motivation to brighten a mom’s day! They like to call it….encouraged and inspired motherhood at your doorstep!
Then, I wanted to get y’all something for Christmas too, so when my very favorite author, Joshilyn Jackson, came to town to promote her new book Somebody Else’s Love Story, I bought a copy of one of my favorite books she’s written (but they are all equally amazing and all of her books are SO GOOD,) A Grown Up Kind of Pretty and had her sign it. That book. Y’all, that book spoke to me. You can go follow her on the Facebook too and leave a comment here!
(And if you want signed first-edition copies of Somebody Else’s Love Story, you can order online from Turnrow Books, one of my favorite places in the whole world and they will ship ’em to your front door. Or you can call them at 662-453-5995)
NUTSHELL: Like some Facebook pages, check some links. Leave a comment HERE. Be entered to win FAB-A-LOUS stuff.
The giveaway ends on Friday, December 20th at Midnight CST. I’ll announce the winners the next day, which is my BIRFDAY. We gonna partay y’all!
WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER!
How this works: Each comment has a number. I use the total number of commenters and hop over to Random.Org to draw numbers. These winners were chosen at random and hope everybody enjoys their prizes! Winners have 48 hours to contact me via email before another winner is chosen.
Signed copy of Hand Picked: Alicia B
Happy Mommy Box: Jennifer Duke
Obagi Eye Kits: Yvette Iaica, Tina Hall, Lori Silva
Signed copy of A Grown Up Kind of Pretty: Sili
Bracelets: Lucky Girl Gankee & Karly Field
And the winner of the Technogel Pillow is……. VICKY PATRIDGE!!
Shoot me emails at robinschicks at gmail.com. The sooner I get your info the sooner you get your prize!
xo Robin!
My Elf on the Shelf Has Seasonal Affective Disorder
I’m not sure if you’ve heard about this new thing that Santa has been up to for the last few years. Apparently, he needed a little help keeping tabs on who was naughty and nice and started sending elves to kids’ houses to monitor their behavior 24/7. You may think the elves look like small stuffed dolls but you would be wrong, my friend.
No as legend tells it, these elves have magical powers. Every night while the children sleep, the little elves fly back to the North Pole to tattle to the Big Man about the kids to which they are assigned. But you know elves— so full of life, so full of mischief.
Those little elves are so busy that my Facebook feed is full of other people’s elves: taking a marshmallow bubble bath in the sink with Barbie, hanging the family’s underpants by the chimney instead of stockings, hanging upside day from the family Christmas tree.
Apparently, those little elves are SO busy that their behaviour is quite the hot topic around the lunch table at my girls’ school. Sadie, Aubrey & Emma come home everyday recounting the new adventures of their friends’ elves.
Which may explain why my kids are a bit disgruntled with Santa this year.
While he did send an elf to keep an eye on them, poor Chippy seems to be struggling with Seasonal Affective Disorder. He’s listless throughout the day and while their friends’ elves get into all sorts of hijinks at night, Chippy tends to spend entirely too much time on Netflix bingeing on his favorite shows. He lays around the house, sipping on a glass of Merlot, eating gluten free chocolate chip cookies and wearing yesterday’s yoga pants.
Occasionally, Chippy makes a half-hearted attempt to climb the Christmas tree, but it’s just so much work.
Chippy recognizes the total insanity of making a mess in someone else’s house and is smart enough to know, if I was left to clean up after a night of elfish escapades, he could expect to be our dog’s new chew toy before I poured my first cup of coffee. I’m pretty sure what Chippy needs is a little vitamin D– A long vacation somewhere where the sands are white, the water is cool, the sun still knows how to shine and the drinks are served in coconuts— and if he wanted to take me with him, well, that’d be okay, too.
The Weight of Great Expectations
Thanksgiving was fun. We spent a week at The Farm in Jasper, Alabama with Zeb’s family. I love them and I have the best in-laws in the world. I don’t even have to try to like them, because I just do. They are awesome. And I say that because I don’t want anyone, anywhere to confuse what I’m about to say– but sometimes the holidays just suck.
Yeah, I said it.
The holidays suck. Maybe not for everyone, but I know I’m not alone in this.
I mean, I guess EVERYTHING about the holidays doesn’t suck, but for me, anyway, they are almost always emotional.
You know that hollow, day after Christmas kind of feeling?? That. I hate that.
I guess it boils down to expectations. No matter what, we always have them. Other people have different ones, and then we are all in the same place trying to celebrate and be happy, but there are kids everywhere and tons of people to be fed. And I crave the quiet corner in my bedroom but I’d be sad if I was there because I want to see everybody and do everything but that’s hard too.
My parents divorced when I was sixteen. It affected every member of my family differently but deeply. Sometimes it still surprises me that my parents aren’t together anymore. Like it just happened yesterday.
Then, in 2006, someone broke into my childhood home and burned it to the ground. (BTW, great job on never doing anything about that, ever, Jasper Police Department.) Thankfully my mother wasn’t in the house when it happened but she lost everything. And for me, the last bit of “home” was gone. Even after my parent’s divorce, home was still home. But then it was just gone and part of my childhood went with it. I miss that house, and the life I thought I was supposed to have pre–divorce. I struggle to this day with my expectations being so very different from my reality.
The day before Thanksgiving, I cooked dinner at The Farm for my wonderful family. The in-law family that has accepted me as their own for the last sixteen years. My dad came by for a quick visit before dinner and I was so happy to be there with everyone. We ate dinner, my nieces washed dishes and cleaned the kitchen, and I went upstairs to the room Zeb and I share at The Farm, and cried for two hours.
It wasn’t about anybody or anything, it’s just that sometimes, when you are broken– the things that are supposed to feel good, don’t. I’m not sure if I should attribute this to being from a “broken home,” having chronic depression, being human, or all of the above.
I texted with my friend Heather, (because she’s the kind of friend you can text the day before Thanksgiving, when you are crying in the bed), and just talking with her made me feel so normal that I cried harder. Mostly because I knew I needed to write about this moment, because I don’t want you to think you are alone if having to force yourselves to keep moving forward through the holidays when you don’t always feel like it.
I took for granted when I was growing up in my parent’s huge house that one day it would be full of their grandchildren. It never crossed my mind that not only would I not be spending the holidays with my parents, but they wouldn’t be spending it with each other. And every year, I find myself holding my breath around the holidays. Not figuratively. My chest aches and I realize I’m not breathing and it hurts. It hurts to breathe, but it hurts not to. So I take a deep breath and pack up my family and we come to the Farm, where my husband and kids feel like they’ve always belonged but where I still feel slightly conspicuous. I love it there but it’s not my home– it’s not where I was raised. It’s not mine.
Sometimes it just hits me so hard that I need to be saved from myself. From my expectations of other people, from my expectations of me.
The weight of these expectations is what keeps me from breathing.
But I keep it breezy on Facebook and say things like, “Have a great turkey day! May all your food dreams come true! Happy Holidays! Fa la la la laaaa!!!”
Because it’s easier than saying, “Hey, I realize today may be really hard for you because it’s not what you thought it was going to be 5 years ago, or 3 months ago or 2 minutes ago. But I hope it’s bearable. I hope it’s good. I hope you make it through this day with a smile. I hope you are kind to yourself today. I hope you breathe and notice something beautiful. Maybe it’s not what you thought it was going to be. But maybe you’ve been adopted into something that is lovely and beautiful and full of light.”
But maybe that’s what I should say instead. Because maybe then you’d feel less alone, and so would I.
Because if you’ve lost someone, if you are struggling with depression, if you feel out of place or out of step or out of sync… I simply hope your holidays are bearable. I hope you breathe through them. I hope you embrace what is beautiful and let go of everything that isn’t and I pray for peace for all us in the midst of our own expectations.
I’m A Grown Up Lady
I’m not sure why I’ve been thinking a lot about getting older recently. Maybe it’s because my birthday is coming up and I can’t remember if I’m going to be 35 or 36? Maybe it’s because I’m seeing how much my girls are growing up and it makes me realize that we’re all getting older (and in my opinion, better). Maybe it’s because I’m watching from afar as my mom helps an elderly friend move into assisted living. I can’t really put my finger on what’s got me thinking about aging so much, but it’s been on my mind.
I’ll say this– I’m not sure if I’m 34 or 35 (pretty sure I’m 35. I could do the math but I’ve got other stuff to do.) But I AM sure of this: I love life right where I am.
I wouldn’t go back to 30 for a million dollars.
I wouldn’t go back to my 20s for ten million dollars.
And for a magic genie and unlimited wishes there is no way in HELL I’d go back to my teens. Ain’t no way.
I’m content.
I make faces at myself in the mirror to scrunch up the wrinkles on my face and see where that first round of Botox is going to to go in a few years (right between my eyes) but so far– getting older is pretty kick ass. My kids all sleep through the night, unless they are sick or have a nightmare. Everyone can put their poopoo and peepee in the potty (Glory to God in the Highest) and, best of all? They can all use words!! No more screaming and crying for inexplicable reasons. My four-year-old can simply say, “Momma, my ear hurts,” and BOOM, just like that, I know we need to go to the doctor. I don’t have to wait it out, call my friends, call my mom, call my pediatrician… wait, did she pull her ear??? Nope. We just use our words.
I was in this sort of “HOORAY for getting older” phase when my friend Mandy Rose from one of my fave blogs, House of Rose, posted on her Instagram that she was going to start wearing real lipstick.
She’s adorable without a speck of makeup but her post made me realize that I never wear real lipstick. Even when I get dressed up all fancy to go somewhere with full make-up, I usually just wear lipgloss AND– this is the worst part– it’s the same color I wore in 8th grade. That’s not to say that Clinique’s Black Honey isn’t a timeless classic, because obviously– it is. But I realized that if I was really a Grown Ass Lady– I’d wear real lipstick. Dark and dramatic lipstick.
I remember a conversation I had with my Momma once. She was trying on lipstick in Sephora, something she only does when I make her, and she put on a dark wine color. I gasped. It was stunning with her gray-blue eyes and silver hair.
“It’s too dark!” She argued, wiping it off.
“Are you kidding?” I scoffed. “Wearing lipstick like that is one of the reasons I’m looking forward to getting old! It would look cheap, trashy and sort of goth on me, but you just look classy! I can’t wait to get old so I can wear bright red lipstick and huge diamond earrings. Hell, they’ll probably be CZs but when you get older, everybody assumes they’re real.”
All of this was still rattling around in my brain when my friend Cecily posted on Babble with her top makeup tips for women over 40. I clicked through her slide show and read all of her tips and I thought she was beautiful. Her lipstick was bright and spoke to me.
It said, “I’m not afraid of bright colors because I am a sassy and fabulous Grown Up Lady.”
Later that afternoon I was at the grocery store and I thought to myself, “Dadgumit. I’m gonna buy some real Grown Ass Lady Lipstick.”
I wheeled over to the makeup aisle and trusting Cecily’s recommendation of Revlon’s Colorstay Overtime, I bought the reddest red on the shelf (Forever Scarlet.) I checked out and once I was in my car, I whipped out the new lipstick and put it on. I checked my reflection in the mirror and I’m not going to lie, my heart skipped a beat– I looked just like The Joker. I fiddled around with my phone for a minute, responding to a few texts then checked the mirror again. It wasn’t that bad, I guess after 20+ years of the same lipgloss, it just seemed, so dramatic.
But the more I sat there and stared at myself, the more I realized that was exactly the reason I had bought it. Because I LOVE being 35. (Or 34.) I care less each day what other people think about me and this lipstick was bold and kind of awesome. I also realized that it was 2:30 pm and I was still wearing the workout clothes I wore to hot yoga at 8am. It was highly probable that with a shower and a full face of makeup, my Grown Up Lady lipstick wouldn’t be quite so out of place.
Regardless, I decided, I wasn’t just going to wear red lipstick– I was going to rock the hell out of it, you know, the next time I was going to go somewhere which required underwire and makeup. I reached for a tissue and wiped it across my lips and was a little surprised when there was NOTHING on the tissue. That’s when I noticed that the packaging promised it would last 16 hours.
SIXTEEN. HOURS.
I was committed but I was planning on pulling out the big guns for special occasions only– not for running carpool. Which, as it happened, was exactly what I was supposed to be doing, I cranked my Patty Peck Honda Odyssey (wink) and headed to school to pick up Sadie. As soon as she got in the van she yelled, “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR WIPS MOMMA? DAT’S SO PETTY! Kiss me!”
None of it rubbed off on her, so I feel like Revlon was pretty damn serious about it lasting 16 hours. I posted on Facebook:
Shortly after, people began offering me tips on how to remove the lipstick. I was running errands with my kids and I felt pretty freaking suspicious in my sweatshirt, yoga pants, dirty ponytail and bright red lipstick. I considered swinging by my house and trying some of the suggestions but then I thought, “Screw it. I’m a Grown Ass Lady and I’ll wear red lipstick with dirty sweats and greasy hair if I damn well want to.”
And I do.
Getting older is awesome. I can’t wait to be 36 (or 35 again.)
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