Do As I Do

My son had a science lesson a few weeks ago about the traits we inherit and traits we acquire. It was fun for our family to see which traits we have in common and where we differ. For example, my son is the only one in our house who has blue eyes, and I am the only one with attached earlobes. I didn’t even know there were attached and detached earlobes, and now I am very self-conscious. A few of us are double jointed, and we all have dark hair. My daughters inherited my bad eyesight, and my son got his 20/20 vision from his father. We enjoyed comparing our inherited similarities and differences.

But those inherited traits we give our children are the ones over which we have no control. I am realizing more every day that it is the acquired traits that require our parenting skills. Our kids watch us more than we think, and what we tell them to do will never be as important as how we live our own lives. I remember as a child hearing, “Do as I say, not as I do.” Yet we know that our kids model our behaviors—the good, the bad, and the inappropriate.

I remember one bath time when my middle daughter was about four. I dropped the shampoo bottle into the tub and said, “Damn it!” I tried to not make a big deal about the bad word, hoping maybe she hadn’t noticed, but a few days later we were driving down the road with my mom in the car. My daughter dropped something she was holding and yelled, “Damn it!” Oops. My mom looked stunned for a minute, but then I told her the story and she tried to hold back the laughter. She always told me that one day she hoped I would have a daughter who was just like me.

We make a lot of mistakes as parents, but we hope that our positive examples will trump most of the negative ones. One thing we strongly believe in and try to model is the importance of service. We are all involved in many community organizations, and just spent the past weekend volunteering at our regional AYSO tournament. The kids put in almost as many hours as we did, and were so proud that their hard work was a huge factor in making the tournament a success. We hope they notice the time we spend trying to make a positive impact on our community, and will do the same when they are on their own.

Because they need more from us than blue eyes.

Downsized

Working in the auto industry used to mean good money and relative stability. When I met my husband he was an engineer at Ford, but there were so many opportunities at small automotive suppliers, soon after we were married he took a job for a lot more money and fewer hours. Switching jobs was a no-brainer.

That particular job lasted not quite two years before another opportunity arose. This time, his former boss at Ford called, encouraging him to apply for a job that would take us to Australia. Our son was about four months at the time, so the only hesitation was taking him away from family for three years. We quickly decided that it was only a few years, and after his interview (on the golf course, of course) and offer letter, we packed and sold our house and were gone within two months.

Our overseas adventure lasted about two years before his company moved us back to work on a big program here in the states. That was great for us—back close to family, now with two young kids. But the new project came with the long commute, long hours, and added stress. So when another former co-worker called to let him know about a job opportunity at a company closer to home, he again submitted his resume and switched jobs within weeks.

This type of job switching was common in the industry. People with the right skills and connections were contacted by friends and head-hunters, and salaries increased with every call. My husband dislikes changing jobs, and never thought his resume would be so peppered, but it's hard to pass up lucrative jobs.

But what started as opportunity ended up survival, as he would attempt to find new employment as his current company appeared in trouble. Since his days at Ford, he has worked for seven suppliers—one was sold, and three went out of business. Luckily, he managed to stay ahead of the trouble, and managed to leave if his company appeared to be in trouble. But the days of easy jobs and good money were quickly going away.

It finally caught up to him last summer. After a year of downsizing, my husband’s company announced it was following too many others and was closing its doors. No severance. No vacation pay. Nothing. The banks came in to tie up loose ends and kept a few people to help for about two weeks, but then it was over. Three years ago I wouldn’t have worried a bit, because my husband would have lined up another job by the time they locked the doors, but last summer it was an entirely different environment. With the market flooded with downsized skilled workers and nobody hiring, it didn’t look good.

Thankfully, my husband is one of the hardest workers I know. I knew that even if he didn’t get a great auto-related job, he would do anything to take care of his family. We follow Dave Ramsey’s principles, so we didn’t have to worry about debt or how we would make payments. Our emergency fund was in place, so we didn’t feel the stress I know many of our friends in the same situation faced. Plus, we had my parents living in our basement to help care for the kids and give us a little extra income. I was worried, of course, but we were as prepared as we could be.

Our job search was aggressive. I searched the internet for jobs for both of us. My husband insisted he would not find a job that way—his only opportunity would come from his personal contacts—but that didn’t stop me from sending his resume to any posting I found that looked remotely promising. I did end up finding a job for myself in Abu Dhabi, but that’s another story.

It took six weeks for my husband to start a new job. He was right about the internet thing—of the maybe 50 resumes and carefully crafted cover letters I sent out on his behalf, he did not get one call. Instead, his networking and reputation landed him a job with a company based in Grand Rapids, and he now works out of the house. No more daily long commutes. We got him fuzzy slippers for Christmas, for his “commute” to work.

I learned through all of this that we can try to plan our futures, but really we don’t know what the future holds. All we can do is try to plan for the "Unexpected." Get a nice pair of fuzzy slippers, just in case.

Oil Spill

My husband works for this innovative company--the possibilities are incredible. BP gets thousands of ideas sent to them every day, so any help spreading this solution around might make it a reality.

Dance

My little one, who is not so little anymore, is a dancer. Her nickname is “Skippy,” because she is not capable of just walking from point A to point B, she has to dance or skip wherever she goes. I hear her banging above my head as I write this. Most mornings I have to yell over the music in her room to get her ready for school.

I was never a dancer, so until a few years ago this whole dance thing was foreign to me. The first year my oldest daughter danced, I took her to a studio one of her little friends went to and found that the moms were a little nuts about the whole dance thing. They were three, for goodness sakes, and some moms put a little too much pressure on them to be perfect. I didn’t think my daughter was going to grow up to be a prima ballerina, so the next year I found a place where the people were a little more realistic about the whole experience.

My older daughter ultimately chose soccer over dance, but I can’t see Skippy doing that any time soon. She loves the excitement of performing, and would be happy if she could go to dance class every day. She’s hoping to add classes next year if they’ll let her.

This is recital weekend, and today is the last performance. Skippy wishes the show could go on, but I’ll be happy when it’s over. I love watching them show off all of their hard work, but after all the back and forth, costume changes, make-up, etc., I’m ready for a break.

Break a leg, Skippy. We’re proud of you!

Last Day

Tomorrow is the last day of school. My 5th grader will be clapped-out of the school he's attended since kindergarten, and I will be crying.

I know I'm not the only parent who loves having the kids home all summer. Leisurely mornings and lazy days...I look forward to the next few months.

And then I will be ready for them to go back in September.

The Laundry Fairy

Ever wonder why there is a Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, Magical Leprechaun, and Santa Claus, but no Laundry Fairy? Seriously…taking teeth and handing out gifts is easy…give me someone useful.

There are usually clothes strewn about my house in various states of “doneness.” I don’t mind sorting, washing, or drying—it’s the folding, hanging, and putting away part that trips me up. I always begin with ambitious hope to get every piece cleaned and in its proper place, but by that time in the process I’ve completely lost interest and moved on to more interesting projects.

I used to dump the clothes from the dryer on my bed so I’d have to fold them before going to sleep. That didn’t work out well for me. I’d usually end up tossing them all back into baskets to wait for morning. Then we were all frantically scrounging for socks and skivvies from baskets, which sometimes stayed for days. Now I at least try to fold or hang the things that will wrinkle easily, but I’m still left with piles in the laundry room.

Now that the kids are older, they sort the socks and fold the towels, so it’s a little easier. They take their clothes to their rooms, but if they put them away themselves, they end up a jumbled mess in their drawers. When my husband helps, all the clothes end up in the wrong places—but I think he does that on purpose, because he doesn’t like the job any more than I do.

Forget ironing, too. Occasionally I’ll touch up a dress shirt, but for every day items I either spray them with that miracle formula Downy Wrinkle Release (it does work!) or I’ll throw the item back in the dryer for a few minutes with a wet towel. Good enough.

Maybe if I’m really good this year the Laundry Fairy will pay me a visit. Just once I’d love to be able to leave the laundry room door open.

Two Truths and a Lie

We try to be as truthful to our kids as possible. Sometimes, however, those harmless little white lies sneak in. We justify that we use them for their own safety, but usually it’s for our own sanity.

Like the light switch lie. It drives us crazy when they turn them on and off, so we told them we get charged a quarter every time, and they would have to pay us back. They don’t want to empty their piggy banks, so they’re pretty careful now with the lights. We’ve also used this common one: if they cross their eyes and someone hits their back, their eyes will stay that way. I hate when they cross their eyes.

My mom used to tell me that if I swallowed watermelon seeds I would grow a watermelon in my belly. Every time I saw a pregnant woman I figured that’s what she was carrying. Watermelons we buy these days are mostly seedless, so that fun little lie can’t even be used today.

Here's a good one we did just for fun: While driving down the road, I would scan ahead to see if houses ahead had their garage doors open. I would then push our own garage door opener and tell the kids I was going to open that house's garage door. It took them a long time to figure that one out.

My favorite original lie we’ve used since my kids were little has helped keep peace in the car. Years ago, my son asked what that red triangle button on the dash was for, and I told him it was the eject button. I said we didn’t want to use it often because it’s very expensive to reset, but if the kids in the back seats got too noisy we could simply push the button, the roof would open, and the seats would fly right out. They were shocked. “Would you really do that?!”

We explained that driving a car requires concentration, and disruptive passengers can make it very dangerous. To this day, if they’re getting rowdy back there, all I have to do is make a motion toward the button and they shape up. Two of them are pretty sure the button is for something else, but they still change their behavior.

They don’t want to find out the hard way.

Number One

I'm proud of my eleven-year-old son for a lot of reasons, but as I type this he is out in the garden pulling weeds so they don't overtake the vegetables we so carefully planted. No one told him to do this. It's amazing what kids will accomplish when they take ownership of something. He's been out there for well over an hour now.

Maybe it's the first-born in him. I do hear they are likely to be the more responsible ones. It didn't turn out that way with my siblings, but it seems that many of the most reliable people I know tend to be the oldest sibling. I try not to make a big deal about his responsibility as a role model to his little sisters, but it occasionally slips out.

He doesn't seem to mind--he has always been pretty serious and responsible. When he was in first grade, he wrote and entire page (while the other kids wrote one or two sentences) about how he wanted to go to the Air Force Academy and be a pilot. I don't even know, exactly, where he got that information, (we didn't have cable tv or anything at the time) but this continues to be his dream as he heads for 6th grade. I saved his little essay, and told him that when he applies I'm attaching it to his application.

He and my husband were able to take a trip to Colorado Springs last month to visit family. They spent a lot of time touring the Air Force Academy, too, and since the trip coincided with a class career project, Number One got to interview a recent graduate. She gave him tips for what he needs to do to be accepted, and he came back more convinced than ever that he belongs there. I hope he continues to work hard and watch his dream become his reality, but I also want him to enjoy being a kid.

Parents often joke that first-borns are the "guinea pigs" or "test kids," and it's true to a certain extent. We aren't perfect, and we certainly learn from the mistakes we make with the oldest child. I do worry that we put more pressure on Number One than we do the others, expecting more from him. It's hard, though, when we see all of the potential in our children to expect less.

As I wrap up, he is still out in the garden. The sun is slowly moving behind the tree line, and I'm sure the mosquitoes are preparing to attack. The girls are getting ready for bed, and I know I should call him in, too. But I won't. I'm going to let him finish the job he started.

Step-Teacher

I don't have a real job. I know, I know...parenting is a full-time job, blah, blah, blah...but I don't get a paycheck for it. I used to be a high school English teacher a hundred years ago, but I took a year's leave when my first child was born and never returned. It’s crazy how fast ten years flies by.

Now that my kids are (finally) all in school all day, I decided to start subbing, and to slowly ease back into the classroom. I'm volunteering all the time at my kids' school anyway, so figured I may as well make some money while I'm there. My first day as a sub--ahem--Guest Teacher, was on my youngest daughter's 6th birthday last April. I subbed in her kindergarten class at her teacher's request. I hadn't earned a paycheck in ten years, and it was a pretty emotional day for me (though maybe it was just the kindergarteners wearing me out…it takes a special person to teach kindergarten, I realize.)

My oldest daughter’s 4th grade teacher this year is also in the Army Reserves. In the past three years she has served one year in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. This year she attended several trainings, etc. I would sub for her pretty much every time she was out, sometimes full weeks at a time, so the kids started calling me their Step-Teacher. It was great for me because I knew the routines and great for the kids because it was at least semi-consistent. My daughter might tell a different story, though.

Subbing is an awful job, but it is nice to be able to walk into someone else’s plans, and leave with no homework. I’m not quite ready to work full-time again, and it’s probably not the best time to try, anyway. Between my kids’ elementary school and the high school where I used to teach, I filled most of the days I wanted to work. I’ve been through lock-downs and fire drills, fist fights and nose bleeds, vomit and break-downs. I think I’ll be ready when it’s time to get a real job again. Until then, I just wish Step-Teachers made a little more money.

One Big Happy...

All parents have a variation of, "As long as you're living under my roof, you will follow my rules." Of course, this is another phrase I told myself I would never utter to my own kids that I now say on a pretty regular basis. But the time it came in really handy was when my parents moved into my house last summer.

My mom and step-dad both retired a few years ago. Retirement came easy for my mom, but for dad...not so much. He ended up taking a job at The University of Arizona and they moved to Tucson. That lasted only a few years before they realized that Arizona is not an easy trip from Michigan, and they couldn't see their families as much as they liked. They wanted a warm climate that was closer to family, and they needed a place to stay temporarily while they looked around and decided where to settle.

We didn't know how long "temporarily" would be, but we offered up our basement to them anyway. We called it The Semi-Private Deluxe Poolside Suite. They offered to pay us rent, which we normally would have turned down. But my husband works in the auto industry, and at the time his company, a small supplier, had many ups and downs. We gladly took the extra income to save for a rainy day. It was a win-win.

It was an interesting summer. Not many people have the opportunity to live like this while their parents are still young and able to care for themselves. The kids loved having gramma and grampa available any time. Many mornings they would head straight downstairs for toast and conversation. We loved having live-in babysitters.

We tried to respect each others' privacy as much as possible, but since our main floor is open to the basement, it was hard to really achieve. They ended putting a big privacy screen at the bottom of the stairs—when it was up that meant they were “closed”. Sometimes I’d catch the kids sitting on the top step just waiting for them to be “open”.

I bet my brothers that my parents would make it a month here, but they actually lasted about three months before they finally got sick of us. I doubt it’s very quiet having the five of us banging around above their heads. And every time my mom got on my nerves or spoiled the kids or had some crazy new decorating idea, I got to say, “My house, my rules.” That just never gets old!

They ended up buying a house and moving just across town, and plan to spend winters someplace warm. My husband’s company did end up closing, so we had six weeks of uncertainty—but that is a story itself. Ultimately, I think we all came to know and appreciate each other a little more. But the best part is that when my parents actually are older and may need extra care, I’ll give one of my brothers the opportunity.

I’ve had my turn.

Soccer Dog

I haven’t mentioned our dog yet because I was waiting for just the right moment to share her story. But I am mad at her today, so she is getting an early mention.

So the kids wanted a dog. Of course…what kid doesn’t? My daughter's birthday list last year looked like this:
1. dog
2. dog
3. dog
4. dog
5. hamster

We held off until we thought they’d be responsible to at least pick up poop (which they do not do, by the way). Then we started looking at dogs without telling the kids. Turns out, adopting a rescue dog is not as easy as it would seem. We tried all the local shelters and rescue sites online and filled out countless forms and applications. People who rescue dogs are selfless and compassionate and serious about whom they let these animals ultimately live with, so they scrutinize and question. Every time I found a dog that seemed a good fit for our family, by the time I got through the process he or she would already be adopted. I was glad we hadn’t yet let the kids in on it.

This was in the fall, so my daughter was just starting her soccer season. She plays forward but hadn’t yet scored, so we offered an incentive: once you score we’ll get a dog. That girl grew wheels! She was suddenly faster and more aggressive, and practiced dribbling and shooting nearly every day. But two more games passed and she still hadn’t scored. Now she had the added pressure of her siblings, who blamed her for remaining dog-less.

It wasn’t looking too promising the day they played a team clearly out of their league. Our girls were down 9-0, when from way down at the other end of the field I saw the ball go high into the opposing net. I didn’t see who scored, but the mystery was soon solved when the entire team started jumping up and down screaming, “Cory! You’re getting a dog! Cory’s getting a dog!!” No one cared that the score was 9-1. Cory was getting a dog.

Our search got more aggressive then. Every spare weekend minute was spent scouring shelters and adoption events. After just a few more weeks, we walked into the empty back area of a Salvation Army where a local group takes adoptable dogs on weekends. Taking a quick glance around, were ready to walk back out the door when we spotted a beautiful dog in a crate in off to the side. This poor pup was just 7 months old and recovering from multiple illnesses, including parvo—from which she almost died—and kennel cough. She wasn’t adoptable yet. Her rescuer just wanted her to have a change of scenery, but we weren’t giving up. We all fell in love with her that day and aggressively stayed in contact with her rescuer in order to prove that she belonged with us. Two weeks later, after a clean vet evaluation, we picked her up and she became ours. We renamed her Angel, because she obviously had one looking out for her. She’s even the color of my carpet—a white husky-lab mix. Super-smart and easy to train, she’s never given us any trouble. Truly an angel.

Until this week, that is. I stumbled into the kitchen to make the coffee this morning, and our little “Angel” had her nose in the trash and recycling. It was all over the floor—chewed up plastic and stinky rotten food spread all over the wood. The bins pull out from a kitchen cabinet, so either we left the door ajar or she’s smarter than we think. Regardless, I startled her and she scrambled out of there, clearly admitting her guilt. I wouldn't be so mad, but she woke me up at 4am a few days ago with the same offense. That time I forgave her easily because she had never done anything like that. This time I am taking it personally.

Washing the floor twice in one week is just not cool.

Pumpkins, tomatoes, and corn...oh my!

I have a yellow thumb. This means that I tend to kill about half of what I attempt to grow. Consequently, I buy a lot of $5 plants at Home Depot. We live out in the boonies and I have several garden areas, but I tend to get lazy as summer wears on and forget to water them, so only the drought-tolerant survive. A few weeks ago I hit the jackpot at Walmart--shrubs for $2.75. I can kill twice as many for almost half the cost, I guess.

A few years back, I really wanted to make a pumpkin patch and sunflower maze for my kids. My husband cleared about an 8 x 10 section of land for the pumpkins, and I spent an afternoon on my hands and(bad) knees next to it digging a hundred holes, and adding sunflower seeds and water. We ordered a bunch of topsoil and seeds and I imagined dewy summer mornings, watering and weeding and teaching my kids to be one with the earth.

The problem was, this garden area was way too far away from the house and the hoses--by about 75 yards. My kids were too little and my husband worked too many hours and I just didn't get over to that side of the driveway often enough. The birds (I think) got to the sunflowers--not one came up. The pumpkin patch was a dud, too. But we did end up with two small pumpkins I proudly displayed on the porch for Halloween. Needless to day, we dug up the topsoil and moved it away and never ventured over there again.

Last year my kids begged for a vegetable garden, and we meant to get to it but just never did. We promised we'd for sure do it this year, so as soon as they saw the seed display in Target they started making their plans. This time we're older and wiser--we dug the garden much closer to the house, making it easier to water and weed. And we even fenced it in to protect it from the critters. The kids took charge, mapping out where each fruit and vegetable would go. They even made their own little pumpkin patches right next door, all on their own.

So far so good. They water every morning, even before school. When they got home today, they ran right over to check, and sure enough, there are new sprouts that weren't there this morning. We see the corn, cucumbers, beans, and zucchini popping through. And even better, the pumpkins and watermelons they planted in their own individual patches are coming up, too. They can't wait for the day that most of our dinner comes from our own yard.

I love to watch their excitement for these little miracles that grow right in front of their eyes. Now maybe they'll understand a little of how I feel watching them.

Can't Wait 'Til Monday

I know, crazy, right? Who looks forward to Mondays?

But around here, weekends are packed. Between dance and sports, we, like everyone else, always have a project list on the fridge. This spring the list is exceptionally long. We didn't get much done last year, so we're making up for lost time.

We high-fived at dinner tonight (yep, I even made dinner) because we got two weeks worth of work done in two days. And we're feeling it. We moved dirt, opened the pool, planted a vegetable garden, moved more dirt, planted some shrubs, moved some bulbs, moved some topsoil, and planted some more shrubs. We even managed to make it to church, dance pictures, and an away travel soccer game.

Thank God for Mondays.

Peace

It’s 6am. The house is quiet, the kids are still sleeping. Or at least they are supposed to be sleeping. My middle child, the early riser, I suspect, is reading her latest book with a flashlight under her covers. I don’t mind, as long as I have a moment of peace. I don’t always have this much time to prepare—I tend to stay under the covers too long—but this morning I could see the sun through the crack of the door, and decided to take advantage.

The kids aren’t allowed to come downstairs until 7am. We got them each digital clocks for their rooms as soon as they knew their numbers. We figure that they need their sleep, so this might encourage them to sleep longer without feeling as though they’re missing something. It doesn’t really work that way, it turns out, but at least they stay in their rooms. Before the rule, we had kids coming down at all kinds of crazy hours ready for the fun to begin.

Before I had kids I’m sure I would have thought this a selfish rule. Why even have kids if you don’t want them around? My mom’s standing rule was that we couldn’t bother her until she had her first cup of coffee. I hated that one.

There are two things I know I need: a good sleep, and a few minutes of wake-up time before I start my day. I remember more than a few days during their early years where I just felt cranky and resentful. I’m sure it was because I was never really able to sleep a full night, and I felt as though I did most of the child-related work. Those days and bad feelings are mostly a blur now, but the lessons learned keep me sane. It really is true: If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

When my little traveling circus comes bounding down the stairs in a few minutes looking for food, I’ll be ready for them. They’ll know I’m anxious to see them after a whole night apart, and we’ll start our day in a positive way. Time to refill my coffee.

The Clean Plate Club

I'm almost certain that if not for peanut butter, at least one of my kids would have starved by now. They put it on pretty much everything: bread, waffles, celery, apples, graham crackers, bananas, ice cream. I can't imagine how I would cope if one of them had a peanut allergy. I do buy the kind with no trans fats, just to make myself feel better.

We’ll even let them have a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, at times, if they really don’t like what we’re having. Sometimes we make them clean their plates—my husband doesn’t remember any other option when he was growing up—but I usually remember my vow to not torture the children if they absolutely can't eat something I lovingly prepare. I try not to take it personally.

There was one Christmas season way back when (I was in a high chair, so it was a loonnng time ago) and my brothers and I were so excited that Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer would be on television that night. Of course, there were no DVR's or any such modern conveniences, so if we missed it, we would have to wait the entire year before we could see it again.

Unfortunately, the rule in our house was that we had to clean our plates before we could do anything else. I wasn't an extremely picky eater, but there were a few things my mom made that I just couldn't stomach: stuffed peppers, spaghetti sauce with onions, and stew. Of course, my mom chose to make stew on Rudolph night.

I can still picture the dark lonely kitchen, and pathetic, pitiful me sitting alone in my highchair, full bowl of cold stew on the tray. I managed to swallow a few soggy carrots, but just couldn’t bring myself to consume the rest. I could hear the television in the other room, but couldn't see the show I waited for all week. It wasn't until the show was over that I was finally allowed out of my chair.

That's why, from time to time, I will let my kids make themselves a peanut butter sandwich for dinner. They need to take at least one "no thank you" bite of whatever we're eating, but I see no point in making them suffer. There will be plenty of other opportunity to torture them as they grow up.

The Disclaimer

I never doubted that parenting would be hard work. I just figured I would be much better at it than most people. After all, I spent a good part of my adolescence babysitting my little brother and neighborhood kids, so I knew all the tricks. I could clearly see what their parents did wrong, so I was convinced that by the time my own kids came along, I would be a pro.

I made particular note as a teenager of all the stupid things my own mom did—her rules that made no sense, the endless lectures with no obvious point, or her overuse of “because I said so” when she clearly lacked a good reason. I created a mental file labeled “Things I Will Not Do or Say When I Have My Own Kids.” I never hesitated to let my mom know when adding another of her offenses to my file. Her only comeback was, “You’ll understand when you have your own kids.” Oh please. I added that one to the file, as well.

As I matured, I watched as friends and relatives closer to my age started their families. I cringed at some of their parenting choices, again noting the things I would never do. How could they stand letting their child eat like that? How could they allow that four-year-old out in a Batman costume in the middle of July? Why do they sign those poor kids up for so many sports and activities? My kids would never act like that. My life would never be like that.

My fantasy family was perfect in my mind. I knew problems with the children would be inevitable, but we would calmly work them out and end up closer. My husband and I would be partners on the same page, backing each other up. The kids would learn to respect our clear boundaries and have no need to test them. I had it all worked out.

Then I had kids.
(The disclaimer: I am incredibly lucky to have a wonderful husband and three fabulous, healthy children. But they get on my nerves from time to time. Subsequent posts may reveal some of my frustration, but I am always aware of how blessed I truly am.)