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Backseat Driver

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My kids are officially the last ones to be picked up from school almost every day. I have maxed out on carpool drama. Folks need to learn how to wait in line. Then teach their kids how to do it. Just sayin’.

Today as we were speeding out the door I yelled at Sadie, “Get some clothes on! We’ve got to hurry!”

Sadie, who prefers as do all of my children, to wander around the house nekkid, grabbed a sundress and pulled it over her head. We jumped in the car and before buckling herself in her seat (which, PRAISE THE LORD, she can now do herself) she took OFF the sundress– that she had been wearing approximately 37 seconds. Sadie proceeded to buckle herself into her carseat, in nothing but her panties.

Picture me– not caring.

We zipped through the deserted line and picked Aubrey up. We were heading home when I yielded at a green light before turning left.

Sadie: GOOOOOOO MOMMA!!!! GOOOOO!

Me: Hush you don’t know what you are talking about.

Sadie: GOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Me:  I DO NOT TAKE DRIVING ADVICE FROM NEKKID PEOPLE IN FIVE-POINT HARNESSES! Zip it. I’ve got this.

 

 

 

High Fashion, Python Clutch & Loving Myself

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On Facebook yesterday I shared a link to a flashmob organized by teachers and faculty to Carly Rae Jepsen’s Call Me Maybe. It was one of those things that was happy, fun and uplifting– and made me cry like a baby.

I’m that girl. I cry if something is really funny, OR really sad, OR really happy. Kristen Bell explained it to Ellen perfectly. If being sad is 0 and being happy is a 10, anything less than 3 or greater than an 8 makes me cry. (I saw you just shake your head at my crazy.)

BlogHer’12 was crazy. 5000 women in one location– the New York City Hilton. It was everything you would expect from having 5,000 women together. There were lots of amazing women to laugh and share with and their was a smattering of mean girls who only treated you like you were worth talking to once they saw your name badge and realized how “important” you were.

Friday night BlogHer hosted a fashion show featuring a handful of bloggers. I went to support my roommate Pauline Campos but wasn’t expecting a whole lot. It was clothes. And I mean YAY! Fancy designer clothes! Pretty! Sparkly! I cannot afford you! But I got a whole lot more than I expected.

The show started with blogger, Laurita Tellado rolling herself in her wheelchair onto the stage. As the music started pumping she STOOD UP out of her chair and walked the runway with a confidence that gave me chills.

By the time Pauline made her way to the catwalk, I had crabwalked to the very front of the runway to take her picture like a proud Momma.  (Yes I did crabwalk at a fashion show.) I sat in the floor, with tears rolling down my cheeks as blogger after blogger WORKED IT down the runway.

Pauline working the runway.

No one was a size ‘zero’. No one was what the mainstream media tells us in beautiful, but every one of those women was stunning. Gorgeous. Their confidence literally took my breath away.

I’m not a size ‘0’ nor do I want to be. But there are times, like every other woman on the planet that I wish my body was different or my clothes fit me in a different way. And this may sound ridiculous to you but this is why I LOVE me some accessories. Regardless of how  tight my jeans are or if I can actually zip the dress I wanted to wear, a new pair of shoes or a sassy purse can be enough to give me more confidence.

This is why I was SO excited when my friend, Annsley Popov, sent me a clutch from her designer line of handbags and accessories, Presmer. She sent me the natural Marie clutch, which I had sort of been drooling over for awhile.

I loved seeing women with bodies like mine on the runway. I loved seeing them in designer clothes that I would have assumed weren’t made any larger than a size 4. And I love that Presmer’s bangles and purses can add a little designer punch to even the most simple wardrobe.

Check out Presmer’s line here!

Disclaimer: In exchange for this post I was given a Presmer clutch for review. HOWEVER, I only review or promote items I genuinely think my audience will enjoy. I hope you do! 

Laura Ingalls Wilder Weekend

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One of the most amazing things ever happened this weekend. I got an office with a door. Glory hallelujah! When we bought our house there was a guest house in the backyard. I use this term VERY gingerly. It’s a really nice room but had no heat or AC or bathroom. Our idea was to eventually add a bathroom and use it as a guest room when people came to visit. We bought a window unit had a spare bed out there for a while, then when Sadie moved out of her crib we moved the bed in her room. Then the “Little House” became a playroom for the kids. But really they never used it and basically I got sick of every single member of my family coming and standing by my desk every time I sat down to write. And people touching my stuff. And seeing the mess in my kitchen from my desk. So I kicked my kids out of the Little House and called it mine.

 My Precious. 

 

It helps that my husband is like being married to Pa Ingalls, Bear Grylls and MacGyver (minus the mullet).

 

He built me this entryway bench last week while me and the girls were at the beach and painted it this weekend. I ordered the baskets and cushion. While Zeb was finishing my bench, me and the girls picked about 5 gallons of fresh figs and I made jam like it was my J.O.B.

Ma Ingalls would be so jelly. Oh yeah. I said it.

Before bed one night Sadie had two sticks and was beating them together (that used to be part of my screen door, thanks dog.) Aubrey screamed, “Sadie is trying to make fire in the house!!”

What the WHUT ya’ll? I mean it was annoying but my first thought was not, “DANGER!! FIRE!”

Zeb and I laughed and Emma asked, “How do you make fire by rubbing sticks together?”

Zebulicious has an answer for everything. I’m not being sarcastic. He knows everything. So instead of explaining it to them, he took Aubrey and Emma outside, carved a stick into a point and MADE. FIRE. If there is a Zombie Apocalypse you should get to my house ASAP. I have enough jam to last three years and Zeb can make fire, y’all.

I was already laughing to myself about how my weekend had gone all Frontier Life when Zeb randomly got his shotgun out and started cleaning it on the kitchen table. The girls were in the bed but Emma came wandering through for a glass of water and while I was telling her she was never ever, ever to touch a gun EVER, she said, “I think Daddy is better than Toby Walker.”

I had no idea who that was. But apparently he was a sharp shooter in the Wild West and was one of Annie Oakley’s homies. Zeb had watched Annie Oakley with the girls over the weekend while I was compulsively preserving fruit.

So in case you were worried about us we’re all stocked up for the winter and I haz an office door.

 

Monday Can Suck It

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It is Monday. Sit-in -the-pediatrician’s-office-can’t-remember-when-I-washed-my-hair-last-didn’t-get-to-the-grocery-store-so-we-are-going-to-have-breakfast-for-dinner-MONDAY.

Because of the glorious weather we have been having lately, I have moved the girls’ kid sized table and chairs into our carport. They can sit beside their kittens and do homework and I can hear and see them from the kitchen and laundry room while I get dinner ready. (Or play Solitaire on my iPad. Ya know. Whichever. Ahem.)

Anywho, I hate putting up laundry. Actually, I hate putting up anything. Is there any feeling worse than walking into the kitchen to a sink full of dirty dishes, THINKING that you can open your empty dishwasher and throw all that crap in there, thus, giving you for all intents and purposes, a clean-ish kitchen– but instead– you open the dishwasher to find– GASP– Clean Dishes?? No, there is not.

SIGH! UGH. Blerg! (I just said those last two words OUT LOUD. Because, GAWD. It’s just so annoying.) So THEN you have to put up the dishes before you can get all your mess out of the sink. (Am I crazy? I hope I’m not the only one. I hate it so freaking much.)

At any rate, I was feeling That Way about my laundry room this afternoon. Because there is chit everywhere and it needed to be Put Up before I could move on and I was all NOOOOOOOOO!

My kids put up their own laundry. The oldest two do anyway, Sadie is too short to really be of any use as far as the laundry sitch goes and ironically, she is the only one willing to help. (Help– in Sadie Speak= putting panties on her head. So, yeah. Thanks, Boo.)

Emma (5yo) willingly put up her own laundry then I begged her to do Sadie’s.

Me: I’ll pay you. Cash. Please.

Emma: How much?

Me: How much do you want?

(I wish I could arch JUST ONE eyebrow because I would have done it right here.)

Emma: I don’t want to. I don’t think you have that much money anyway.

Me: Wth?

Emma went outside to visit with Aubrey who has been doing her homework for 18 hours. For. The. Love.

Whilst deciding that we would have breakfast for dinner, I overheard the girls outside.

Emma: Pretend I homeschool and I did all your work.

(I snorted.)

Aubrey: I’m the Momma.

Sadie: Momma! Momma! Momma! Momma! Momma!

Aubrey: What?

Sadie: Um… I love you Momma. I’m going to school now

Aubrey: OK.

Emma: Pretend I knew ALL THE ANSWERS to your homework.

Aubrey: Ok.

Sadie: Momma! MOMMA! MOMMA! MOMMA! MOMMA!

Aubrey: WHAT?!

Sadie: Um… I’m back from school.

Aubrey: Fine. Ok honey, put your stuff up.

(I have no idea what Sadie actually did.)

Aubrey: I SAID! PUT YOUR FREAKING STUFF UP!

(Errrr. Sounds familiar.)

Sadie: Momma! MOMMA! MOMMA! MOMMA! MOMMA!~

Aubrey: I don’t want to be the momma anymore.

A-to-the-men Sistah Child.

How’s your Monday? 

And Just Like That… I Became The Crazy Cat Lady

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I am not an animal person. I cannot stress this enough. I’m sure your dog or your cat is Precious but I am totally uninterested (Mosby being the ONLY exception to this hard and fast rule.) I have written about my non-animalness in great detail and have received plenty o’hate mail over my stance– so close that email, Lady. It’s already been said and I’m just going to delete it without reading it as soon as you tell me that I’m going to hell over a dead goldfish.

THAT said, about 8 months ago, a stray calico cat started showing up at my house after school everyday. Aubrey and Emma (7yo & 5yo) inherited their Daddy’s animal lover gene and would not shut up until I bought cat food and started feeding what I lovingly referred to as, “That Damn Cat.” (Not lovingly. I sort of hated her.)

But Dottie, as she was quickly named by Aubrey (even though I lobbied hard for “Streaker”) started to sneak into my house and my good graces. As the winter became harsher, I would come in the kitchen to find Dottie sitting on my welcome mat, all three girls hovered around her petting her while she ate in the warmth of our kitchen.

Every evening she would come to our kitchen door and meow until I stomped through the kitchen, slamming cabinets and dragging out bowls to feed her.

“YOU are not the boss of me!” I hissed at her as I poured a little heavy cream into her bowl. (It was about to go old in the fridge. I was going to have to throw it away.)

A couple of months ago Zeb started insisting that Dottie was knocked up. I defended her honor, Dottie was not that kind of girl, AND I figured she was just getting fat from getting fed by at least two members of my family on a daily basis.

But alas, for the first time in his life (almost) my husband was right. Dottie was in The Way and last week she had her kittens. We looked for them for a few days before finding them in our neighbor’s yard on Easter.

I had mostly conceded to not officially hating Dottie anymore but still not admitting any real affection for her, when just now, as I cleaned the kitchen after dinner I heard Zeb shout from the driveway, “Dottie is bringing her kittens!”

She held her tiny baby in her mouth and came and laid it proudly at our feet. Zeb and the girls scrambled around yelling, “Get The Cat Box! Get The Cat Box!”

“The whaaaaa?” I asked.

They had prepared a cardboard box with straw and towels– they grabbed it and placed Dottie and her kitten inside. Zeb walked across the street and gathered the two other babies and my girls APPLAUDED. And then the cackles of my cold, dead animal heart melted.

 

And just like that… I became the Crazy Cat Lady.

Hi. My name is Robin. I’m a writer and uh… I have four cats.

(The girls all named a kitten. Here are the kitten’s names– guess which kid picked which name– Fluffy, Lily and Hercules. I’ll leave the answer in the comments!)

 

Bathing Is NOT A Spectator Sport (Unless Your Name is Shamu or Mommy)

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For the better part of seven years, since my oldest child was born, I have been a mother. I know that seems totally obvious, right?

You are like, “Of course you have been a mother since you had your first child, you idiot! That’s how that works.”

But my point is that once you are a mother you are never truly alone unless you have a deadbolt and for the better part of seven years, I have not been alone. Someone is constantly touching me, talking to me or wanting something from me. I realize this is all part of the deal but sometimes Mommy has to have a little break.

I like to call that little break bath time. There have been plenty of times over the last seven years that I’ve bathed my infant/toddler/child in the tub with me then passed her off to my husband for pajamas. But one of my favorite hobbies is lolling. I learned the art from The Sweet Potato Queen, Jill Conner Browne and I’ve taken the art form very seriously. There is nothing I like better than to sit in water so hot it scalds my skin and read.

But here’s the thing none of the parenting books tell you about having kids: bathing is now a spectator sport. Last week my husband was out of town for three nights which meant I had to manage homework, dinner, baths and bedtime for all three kids by myself. (Hats off to single parents everywhere. Seriously, y’all are heroes and deserve medals.) By Friday when he came home from work I was exhausted.

My disposal broke while he was gone. It hates me and breaks every time he leaves the city limits. My two-year-old had diarrhea in my best friend’s lap and filled my shoe. (Sorry if you were eating.) I completely forgot about preschool orientation until it was too late to get a sitter. None of these things were the end of the world and I realize they are “first world” problems, but nonetheless I was tired.

Directly after dinner I headed to the tub and made a huge mistake. I forgot to deadbolt the door. Which meant that approximately 60 seconds after I got in the bath, all four members of my family assembled beside the tub to gawk and stare and throw peanuts at me.

“Get out,” I said.

“But Momma…” my three daughters said in unison like something out of a creepy horror film.

“Get. Out.”

“I just…” my husband said.

“GET. OUT.”

My husband and two of my daughters left the room while the third, who shall remain nameless, stripped to her birthday suit and stood staring at me.

“Honey,” I explained with patience I didn’t feel, “sometimes Mommy just needs some privacy. Like right now. I want to take a bath by myself. What are you doing? Why did you take your clothes off?”

“I want to take a bath.” She explained calmly. The “Duh!” was implied.

“You can’t take a bath right now. I’m taking a bath.”

“I’ll just wait. I want to take one by myself anyway.”

“Really? Me too,” I said. The “Duh” was implied. “Go play. You can come back when I’m done.”

Here’s my best advice for new parents: put a deadbolt on every door in your house and then use them liberally.

Photo credit.

Working Mom: THIS Is How We Do It

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This is for people who ask me, “How do you WORK from home? How do you write with three kids??”  Like this:

Important factors to note:

1) No makeup. (Don’t be jealous of the sexy.)

2) I’m wearing workout clothes and I haven’t been to the gym in over 10(ish) days.

3) I am sitting in my own driveway to use my wi-fi while Emma is at dance class because Sadie was taking her nap in her carseat. She woke up as I was taking this pic and she was NOT impressed.  If I get out of the car she will go bananas. She will not want to get back in her carseat and I will spend the entire time we are in the house telling her ‘No!” Or chasing her trying to get her BACK in the car to go get her sister. So I am writing in the car. In my driveway. #winning.

How do you “do it all”?