Road to Independence, One Fruit Snack at a Time

I'm attempting to raise independent kids. Kinda tough when they are 6, 3, and 21 months. But you gotta start somewhere, right?

I start with fruit snacks (I know, MAJOR misnomer, but they're still yummy). They come to me wanting me to open their package, a package containing flavored, gummy sugar, a package that begs to be ripped open and devoured in 30 seconds. Or less.

I charge an opening fee. If I open it, I get to take a little of whatever is in that package. They hate it. If they are struggling with opening a package, they'll say, "Will you open this? BUT DON'T TAKE ONE!!!". But I do anyway. I have to. Otherwise, they will feel comfortable coming to me when they're 16, asking me to open their potato chips. Or Snickers. Or whatever it is that teenagers eat.

It's all for their own good. And the good of my sweet teeth, because I know I have more than one tooth that likes sugar.

So, my little sweeties (it's ok, you can roll your eyes here), you can thank me when you're in college and you are able to open Doritos all by yourselves. And with a tear rolling down your cheek, you'll think, "I have my mom to thank for this moment." Sniff, sniff.

I will be accepting my Mother of the Year award anytime now; I can feel it.

Hiatus

I'm unemployed.

My mom called me up a couple of weeks ago to see if she could make the 3 1/2 hour drive to pick up my kids and take them to her house. Um, ok! So, I guess technically I'm not unemployed, but on an involuntary vacation.

Life is good.

I took a really long shower today. I shaved my legs. I enjoyed the absence of banging and screaming.  I didn't have to worry if my kids had escaped and were wandering the streets half dressed. There has been no fighting over the bean bag, no head whopping, and no "I hate you, Mom!".  No Wonder Pets!, Dora, or Batman on TV. No one begging for food, telling you "you will kill us if you don't feed us." No time-outs, consequences, or awards. No hugs or kisses. No sweet little lips lined with peanut butter and jelly being wiped on my pants. No one saying, "Look at me, Mom!".  No singing time. No playing. No reading. No giggles. No smiles.

It's kinda quiet around here.

Then again, it's kinda quiet around here.

Come what may and love it, right?

Come what may and love it!

Redneck Party Wrecker

We bought a TV antenna, 'cuz we be white trash like dat, so we could pick up the free, basic channels in HD. My mouth hit the floor when I read this:

"WARNING: Do not attempt to install if drunk, pregnant, or both.  Do not throw antenna at spouse."

Dang. There go my weekend plans.

I'm Gonna Eat Until I Die!

The world's fattest mother has a higher aspiration than just being a large momma.  Normally I would say that aspirations are good. Admirable. Applaudable. But her recent aspiration makes me squeamish. What is it? Drum roll, please. Rrrrrrrrrrrr........she wants to be...rrrrrrrrrrrr......the world's fattest woman. She wants to weigh 1,000 pounds (are your eyes popping out of your head yet? Just weight. I mean, wait). Shes does have a concern, though.  Now that she has a child, keeping up with that kid will keep mommy's weight down. Down to 600 pounds. Six HUNDRED. If that isn't crazy enough, her partner supports her in her endeavor. "He's a real belly man...". Really? The this-belly-will-smother-you-and-suck-the-life-from-your-lungs type of belly man? Um, Ok.  

The biggest glutton prize goes to you, ma'am. Hands down. Or belly down?

Wicked What?!

Pierce (5 1/2), being upset at me, exclaimed, "If you don't do what I say, I'm going to call you a wicked monkey for the rest of my life!"

Ooh-ooh ee ah! That's monkey for, "I'm wicked."

Part-time Stocker

Dan is starting to scare me. But in a good way, if there's such a thing. He has a new pride and joy. What the previous one was still eludes me, but nevertheless he has a new pride and joy: our food storage. Yes, my husband gets chills when he sees excessive amounts of canola oil and wheat. A little tear might have slipped out of his eye when we were stocking pasta and peanut butter. And visitors beware! You will have to endure a short tour of our cold storage. He has even renamed our storage room. It is now "The Store." "Did you get that from the store?" "Don't worry- there's more in the store" are just some of the things I have heard. His enthusiasm is endearing. And in the event of a catastrophe (assuming our cold storage is still accessable), we will be fine. If fine is drinking powdered milk and eating lots of pasta, that is.

Thank you, honey, for stocking "The Store."


A little shiver just ran up my spine.

It's No Joke

The other day as I was driving my son to school, I saw a chicken cross the road.  Really, I did. We live in a more rural area of Utah and I grew up in a very rural Idaho and not once have I seen a chicken cross the road. Until now. So the question begs, why did this chicken cross the road?

To get to the other side.

Naturally.