Say It Often

Tell people that you love them often...

It's one of the most annoyingly clichés ever. But sometimes there is a reason that clichés are clichés.

I don't remember my gram saying that she loved me a lot when I was young. This was completely okay with me because throughout my teenage years, I couldn't imagine anyone more lame that my grandma. She was the epitome of lame. Called blush, "rouge", didn't believe in shaving until 18 years old (WTF?), didn't allow boys in my room, wanted my curfew to be at 10, and thought tampons were only to be used after participating in sexual relations.

Lame to the extremist extent. Am I right?????

As it turns out, she was just a really good parent. As for me, I just needed to get over myself. Well, at approximately age 21 or so, I got over myself and realized the gem that I had been given with this lamo grandma. She wasn't lame at all. She was an angel.

Then, I started saying, "I love you." to my gram. She said it back. We said it often, regularly, even when I knew she was going to call right back. "Love you." "Love you too!" There was never a phone call ended without an I love you. It was lame, it was last minute, it was rushed often, and it was said without thought sometimes...

.but it was always said. Always.

She passed away in April 2014. My entire world ended. Except that I had 3 beautiful children and a husband to also think about. I couldn't let my world end. I got the average one week of grieving and then it was back to life. Too many people depending on me to dwell for too long. Too many little people who might be distraught to see mama cry for too long. Everything was well.

Except for the little regrets.

Why did you let her do so much for you and not give anything in return? Why didn't you go see her more? Why did you ask for so much? Why didn't you do more? Blah blah blah... I suppose no matter how much we love someone, we always have regrets. We should have spent more time, should have listened more, should have loved more, should have, could have, would have. There is no shortage of regrets when someone passes. There is always something that we wish that we would have done.

I have a lot of regrets....

My cousin and I were talking. I was mentioning that I wish I would have spent more time with her at the end. I said that I didn't remember what we talked about the last time. I have no idea. I don't remember our last conversation...

 This kind of eats at me.

BUT, I know for a fact, my last words to this woman were that I loved her. And her last words to me were "I love you too".

We said it often. We said it every time. We said it without fail.

I can't remember my gram and my last conversation, but I know without fail, that the last words we said were I love you. Because we always did. Because we never knew... And we didn't know when the last words would happen, but we had it covered...because we said I love you every single time.

Say it often. Say it regularly. Say it even if it seems stupid and cliché and lamo and dumb. Maybe you'll say it three times in 20 minutes. Who cares? If it's a regular habit, then you won't have any regrets when its too late. You'll know that the absolute last thing out of your mouth were , "I love you." That was 100% the last words that I said to my gram, because I said it often. I know that, even if I don't know what the last conversation was about. This gives me immense comfort.

I may be the worst mother of the year, of the world, of the universe... I may annoy the crap out of my kids with my million, "I love you's"..

But there is a good chance that when I pass away, the last words out of my mouth to my children will be,

I. Love. You.

And I like to think that this will give them comfort.

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Of Course!

It's the small things that make toddlers happy....(also the small things that make them freak the eff out, but that's another blog for another day).

Madelyn climbed up onto the couch this morning. She's two and so she's been doing this for about a year now. No big deal right? Wrong. Big deal today!!!

Big. Huge. Deal.

As soon as she got onto the couch, Madelyn stands up on the cushions, throws her hands in the air and says, "Woohoo!! I did it!!!"

While stifling my laughter, I faked my best "super impressed mom" look. "Good job Madi!" I said to her. "You did it!"

You've also been doing that for 365 days now, probably at least 900 times in total...but good job this time!!! You did it especially well this morning. Great form pulling that leg up after getting the first leg up. Gold medal for you!!

And a trophy too. Always a trophy. Haha

I'm an ass mom. I admit that. But just in my head. Never to their faces. I'm not sure if that's better or not, but what they don't know won't hurt them right? Right? Hello?

A few minutes after that, Madelyn wanted juice. After a solid 25 seconds of trying to get her to drink some water, I gave in. I'm kind of a stubborn, unwavering, hard-ass parent like that. I know, I know, I should probably soften up a bit.

Regardless, I eventually started pouring her some juice into her sippy-cup. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny little face get wide-eyed. I looked over at her. She was watching the juice pour into her cup.

"Wow!" She says. "Amazing!"

I looked back at the apple juice to see if it was changing colors or growing wings and flying away or something. Nope. It was just falling into the cup like normal, boring, non-magic apple juice does. Next time, I'm getting the magic kind. This kind was not special at all.

Madi thought it was though. It was amazing!!!!

They (no idea who that is) say that a wise man enjoys all the wonders of the world and celebrates the smallest of victories in life. According to "them", Madi is very wise.

But this is the same girl who answers "of course" to questions such as, "Where did you put your cup?"

"Madelyn, where did you put that sippy-cup?"
"Of course."
"Of course what? That doesn't even make sense."
"Of course."

Perhaps she is wise...

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Worst Tantrum Ever

There is a video circulating around that apparently shows the worst tantrum ever. I guess the kid is out of control in a store and people are absolutely shocked by his actions. I didn't watch it. I didn't need to. 6 years and 3 kids later and I find it hard to believe that there is ever a tantrum that could shock/disgust/astound me.

Okay, that's not entire true. If a kid sat down cross-legged on the floor and calmly said, "Mother, I am very disappointed that you are negating my requests for this toy in which I truly desire.", I would be shocked. I would probably be bewildered and slightly disturbed about the whole thing. Truth be told, I might even have creepy dreams about it later on. That would be shocked. A regular old kicking/flailing/crying/screaming tantrum... I barely blink an eye.

I've seen it all when it comes to tantrums. There is no worst tantrum ever. They are all bad and normal and stressful and common and unavoidable and annoying. And no kid is immune and there isn't a mother alive who has escaped them. They happen. Period.

My oldest drained all the "give-a-damn" out of me when it comes to tantrums. She broke me in well with her antics. She knew/knows how to throw a good tantrum. I'm talking, give WWF wrestlers a run for their money with throwing chairs, body slamming herself, screaming as loud as she can, all things crazy. She is good. I admire her tantrum skills.

(But really, she's a super good girl 99% of the time)

My second child throws the most hilarious tantrums that I've ever seen. It takes all of my energy and determination to not bust a gut laughing at her attempts to be as good as big sister when it comes to tantrums. She's got nothing on my oldest child's skills, but she tries her best anyway. A for effort, F- for outrageousness.

See, my second offspring throws out a half-assed grrrr, throws herself on the ground, pushes out a tear or two with all her might, pretends to cry, and then peeks to see if she has an audience. When she realizes that she does not, she stops, gets up and resumes life like a normal human being. It's great.

My baby is too little to throw tantrums yet, but I'm fairly certain that he won't impress me with his skills either. He's a super happy little guy so I'm hopeful that the tantrums will be few and far between. Even if I'm wrong, I'm not going to stress over it. I know now that they are normal.

7 years ago, if I had seen a gigantic tantrum in the store, I would have thought (or maybe even said), "What kind of a mother is she? How hard is it to raise a civilized little person? My children will never be like that because I will be a good mom!"

Not only did I turn out to not be a good mom, but I also realized that little people will have tantrums from time to time, no matter your parenting skills. It happens to the best of us. Nowadays, my judgment has turned into, "Mama, it's going to be okay. This too shall pass. Just breathe."

So if you see a kid in the store that is out of control and your first (pre-parent) thought is judgment about how crappy the kid is and how much the parent is failing, I have one word for you; KARMA. It will come back to you and you will feel the need to apologize to every parent you ever criticized.

If you watch that video of the WORST TANTRUM EVER and think to yourself that your kids will never act like that once you're a parent, you're wrong my friend. They will. It doesn't make you a bad parent. It makes your kids normal.

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Madi Lou Turns Two

Madelyn Noel


Madi girl...

Madi Lou Who...

Madi Paddy Pudding and Pie....

My sweet Madi, sometimes I think you have more nicknames than days you have been alive. You've been alive for roughly 730 days....also known as 2 years. I can't believe how fast the time goes and it scares me that time flies more and more quickly every year. I'm afraid that one of these days I will go to sleep and you will be 30 years old.

But for now, you are 2.

The "terrible 2's" they say. (For the record, 3's are highly underrated as a terrible age). But you aren't a terrible 2 year old at all (knock on wood). You are a sweet two year old. Much more sweet than I ever thought possible for a toddler. Everything is "yes mama" and "okay mama" and "yes peas" and "velcome" and "tanks". I don't know how I got so lucky to have an easy child, but I did. You are very complacent... something that worries me for you later, but for now I just appreciate it.

Despite your sweetness, you hold back hugs and kisses and snuggles. You have no time for any of that business. There is a cat to chase, a dog to bug, a sister to bother, and things to get into. After all, the cat food isn't going to spread itself all over the house by itself. The toilet paper isn't going to get unrolled without your help. But I wish you would stop sometimes and give me a kiss instead of saying, "No mama. No fiss!" No fisses (kisses in Madi language) for anyone really....only if you're sick and needy. Then, fisses for everyone, even though that is not the time for anyone to be spreading their germs via fisses...but I take them anyway because who knows when I will get the next fiss from you.

I love your hair. Every little girl with curly hair has become you now. I see little girls with curly hair and smile to myself thinking, "That's my little Madi." Your curly hair makes me smile more than you know. I love how it bounces whenever you run or "jump", which for now is just lifting one leg up and slamming it down. We'll work on that. Haha...

But every morning when you wake up, your hair is 3 ft wide by 3 ft high. I know that you will hate it. I love it and so will thousands of other people who wish for curly hair. That's how life goes. Thank your dad for your hair. His hair gets really big and poofy when it gets long. Just so you know, this is why he keeps it so short.

I'm so sad that Grandma Barb isn't here to help you celebrate this birthday or any after this either. I wish you could have known her and that she could have known your personality. She would have adored you with your cute grin and bouncy hair. You would have made her laugh and she would have tried to steal many fisses. She would have called you a little stinker for not giving hugs or fisses freely. But she would have loved you so very much.

I hope you have a great birthday, but I know this day means very little to you at this point in your life. When we tell you to blow out the candles on your cake, you will spit all over the place. When we give you a present to open, you will take the bow and run off (probably to feed it to the dog). When we sing happy birthday, you will try to sing along. It's okay. Soon enough you'll get it.

And then you'll be mad that your birthday is so close to Christmas. Sorry about that....all the good times so close together and then nothing for you for 11 more months. I tried to talk your dad into doing half-birthdays. He said that was lame. He's often a party-pooper, but you'll never have to wonder if he loves you...this I can promise. And I promise that I will always love you more than you ever know and I hope that you never change.

Well, I do hope that you eventually give me more fisses... but that's it.

Happy Birthday Madi girl!


To fully enjoy the irony that is this post, there are two things you must know;

1. I am a horrible cook, especially when compared to my very knowledgeable and talented chef husband. He can take two pinto beans and a drop of water and turn it into a batch of fluffy pancakes. On my best day I struggle with Hamburger Helper. That's no joke. I've made it both too thick and too thin...on multiple occasions.

2. My grandma made Suzy Homemaker look like absolute failure/slob/amateur. She knew how to do everything around the house including but not limited to; sewing, ironing, starching, stitching, crocheting, hemming, baking, cooking, cleaning, and making everything look fabulously easy. I learned nothing from her. I suck. I should have picked up some tips, but while she was making pie crust from scratch, I was eating her scraps....that she threw sugar and cinnamon on and baked for me....because I was ridiculously spoiled.

So keeping those two facts in mind....

Savannah and I were baking sugar cookies the other day. I'm not especially talented at making these nor do I enjoy it necessarily, but my love of sugar cookies is stronger than my setbacks. I LOVE these cookies almost as much as I love my children. In fact, on their worst days (no naps, teething, etc), I might love sugar cookies more than I love my kids. See the title of this blog if that shocks you. ;)

Anyway, we're making cookies together. The dough is thick and needs a good pin-rolling. Savannah loves to use the rolling pin whenever it's necessary and sometimes when it isn't at all. So of course I let her do that step (and any other step that I don't like to do...she basically makes the cookies herself with my managing). As she starts to flatten the dough, it sticks on the rolling pin. "Mommmm....the cookies just keep rolling up!"

I grab some flour and spread it all over the rolling pin and hand it back to Savannah. "It doesn't stick if you do this." I tell her. Just then Jim walks in. I think he thought he was going to need to bail me out of this cooking he often does.  "Hmmm..." He says. "What?" I ask. "It seems that you did pick up some things from your gram." I smile. Maybe I did. Maybe I subconsciously learned more than I thought while I was stuffing my face with her delicious concoctions.

So I've decided that I'm going to start trying some other things that she did around the house. Don't get too excited though, nothing big. I'll work my way up to ironing slowly. Those kind of difficult tasks that are better left to the experts.

As for now, I'm just going to start with trying things like separating laundry correctly. Once I master that, I have every intention of learning how to hang clothes up to dry. It's going to be awhile before I get to gravy making and all that business. Perhaps by the time that I reach grandma age, I will know how to sew.

Lets not let ourselves get too far ahead now. Baby steps.

Ho Ho Ho Translates to...

So my 6 year old is already becoming skeptical about Santa. She's already asking me questions about him and saying things like, "I think he's just a man in a suit." Frankly, I think this is bs. I think I'm getting screwed over in the "fun times for parents" department, but I learned that life wasn't fair a lonnnnnnngggggggg time ago.

What can you do? Sometimes we just get hard breaks. Thankfully for me, in the end, I was blessed with the three most beautiful kids in the whole world. One has an abnormally large head (Nolan), but they are gorgeous none the less....

Anyway, Savannah has become skeptical. She's asking me a million questions a day. "Well, how do reindeer fly anyway?" "Well, how does he get to every house in one night?" "Well how does he fit down chimneys?"

Again, bs because she is only in 1st grade and I assumed I would have like 3 more years but what can you do?

I expected these questions, though not as soon, but I did expect them. And I did plan answers so I'm good. (Dear Mother of the Year Committee, I have answers!!!!) So of course I answered completed honest with the, "It's a Christmas Miracle!!!" to every question. Don't judge me. You don't know what I go through...

But then, I remember that I am raising Savannah.

And not just any Savannah, but MY Savannah. This is the same girl that asked me what color her clear straw was when she was 2. TWO. As in not one, but TWO YEARS OLD. Have you ever explained what color clear is? Good freaking luck!!!! If you can answer that, let me know. I have a million dollars that says you cant.

Anyway, Savannah asks me what 'Ho, ho, ho' means. I answer that it is something that Santa says. Normal kids say, "Oh, okay."

Savannah says, "I know, but like, what does it mean? Like what is it in Spanish or whatever? What does it translate to?"

What does it translate to? It translates to Ho Ho Ho. Same same. No one asks these kinds of questions. Only her. So I answer that 'ho ho ho' is a laugh for Santa. She looks at me with a puzzled look.

"I'm just going to ask Santa." She says,

"Okay." I say. I try as hard as I can. You have no idea how it is to raise a kid that has been smarter than you since week 5. WEEK 5!!!!

We go to the mall and wait in line for Santa. Savannah goes over her list. "I'm going to tell Santa what Madelyn wants for Christmas because he won't understand her." Good call. He won't. She speaks English...with French accents...and the occasional German tone...with Chinese words thrown in. It's ridiculous.

Finally we get to Santa.

The elves are tricky. They ask Savannah's name and then tell Santa secretly so that he knows to say to Savannah, "And how are you Savannah?!" This blows her mind more than anyone knows. Later she will ask, "How did he know?" For now, she just looks at me in amazement.

"What does 'Ho, Ho, Ho' mean?" She asks Santa. Dear Savannah, by the way, you don't ask Santa questions. He asks you.

Santa looks at her like "What kind of kid asks this? I have never been asked this in my 40 years" I look back at him like, "I know, right? This is what I deal with daily. She's been like this since day one."

There is a pause and then Savannah says, "Does 'Ho Ho Ho' mean something or what?"

Santa says, "Ho, ho, ho! You've been a good girl! I can tell."

Nicely done Santa. Way to drop the ball. I can do better than that. I'm just saying.....

Savannah was not impressed with his answer, but she was BEYOND impressed that he knew her name. Apparently that's all that matters? I guess next time she asks me how a combustion engine works I will just answer, "Oh, Savannah, I see you have been a good girl!"

Ho Ho Ho...


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Thankful For What?!

If you've never met my 6 year old, Savannah, let me introduce her. This picture will tell you everything you need to know.

Like every single elementary school student in the history of...ever, my daughter did the cliché Thanksgiving art project; make a turkey, write what you're thankful for on the feather thingies.

Like every elementary school student, she listed the predictable things. She was thankful for her mama (aweee), thankful for her dads (aweeee), thankful for food (if you knew her, you would know this is probably #1 to her), and then there was the last one...

"I am thankful for toilet paper."

Yes, toilet paper.


Savannah. Savannah does. Because that is her. Because she thinks outside the box. Because she refuses to be a sheep who follows along. Because she is creative.

But mostly because she is weird.

Yes, I just said that about my child. No, I don't have any regrets. No, I am not issuing a public apology on the news because I got caught and millions of PTA moms all over the world call for a retraction. She's weird. I stand by that.

Make no mistake about it, her weirdness is good for the most part. If for no other reason than because it gives me a good laugh and a great blog post this one.

On a side note, though we often take toilet paper for granted, I do believe that if we had to go back to moss, we would all be thankful for it.

That being said, all the other first graders were thankful for their siblings, their toys, their houses, their pets....

...and then mine was thankful for butt wipe.
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F$%* Mama, F$%*!

I need a shirt that says, "She is not saying the f-word." I also need to get Madi a matching one, but hers will say, "I'm not saying the f-word". We can be matchy-matchy for once. It will be cute.

Madi loves trucks. LOVES them. Log trucks, semi-trucks, dump trucks, big vehicles that look like trucks... loves them all. It makes her day to see them. She can be mid-melt down in the car (which is pretty regular),  and if she sees a truck she will immediately stop crying and start excitedly yelling, "Truck! Truck!" It's very cute, with one little exception...

She has a minor speech impediment for the time being. Her "tr" sound somehow becomes an "f" sound. So when she gets excited about a truck, she thinks she is saying "truck", but really it comes out of her mouth sounding like, "F*ck mama! F*ck!"

Now being her mother (and knowing everything of course), I understand what she is saying. For the rest of the mere-mortals out there (and no judgment there), it just sounds like she has spent too much time around the drivers of the trucks that she loves so much. In other words, to everyone around us my little 2 year old appears to be saying the f-word.

She isn't. I promise. I wish I could tell you all that, but I know it would appear that I was just trying to save face. Most of you would just think I was lying to keep in good with the Mother of the Year committee.

This is not the case. I fully admit to the fact that I have taught my children potty words. I have a potty mouth and I'm not very good at keeping those potty words inside sometimes. I take full credit for Savannah's "damn it!" well as the shit phase, son of a bleep phase, and of course the awful f-word phase. I'm guilty.

I am not guilty of teaching Madelyn to say the f-word, not yet anyway. She isn't saying the f-word. She's saying truck.

So, to the little old lady who shot me a murderous, death glare the other day in the store when we were in the toy aisle and Madelyn saw a "f*ck", she was saying TRUCK! You can take back your murderous, death glare. I'm not a horrible mother.

Okay, sometimes I am a horrible mother.

But I'm innocent in this case.

She said truck.

Not, f*ck.

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Super Savannah

For those of you who don't know, I have epilepsy. It's annoying. I cry every time I have a seizure because I just want to be normal. That being said, I know that there are worse things that I could have. I'm not dying so that's good.

On Saturday morning, I had a pretty good (or bad?) seizure in the bathroom when my girls were taking a bath. Jim had run down to his work for a moment so it was just me and the kids. I fell onto the toilet, broke the seat (because if I'm going down, I'm taking something with me!), and then eventually hit the floor. I have no memory of any of is always the case. Apparently the brains way of saving me from the trauma. I appreciate that.

Meanwhile while I was passed out, my little 4 foot tall hero, Savannah immediately went into survival mode. Remember, she's 6...

Savannah got out of the bath and then lifted Madelyn (2) out of the bath as well. Later she told me that she didn't want Madi to drown. Though they fight, it's moments like this that prove they actually do love each other...though neither will admit it very often.

Once they were out of the bath, Savannah grabbed my phone to call for help. She scrolled through my contacts and called "Dad". She thought that I would put my husband under Dad in my phone. She meant to call Jim, but ended up calling my dad instead, which was fine too though it didn't take her to her dad...

Soon after, Jim came home and got me upstairs and into bed. Savannah told him what had happened and he later told me when I came to all the way. See, seizures do this weird thing where even though you are conscious and talking, you are still "not there". It's like dealing with a drunk...or so I've heard anyway. I've never witnessed a seizure myself.

Savannah later told me how scared and worried she was. This breaks my heart, but I think in the end it will make her more well-rounded...or at least that's what I'm telling myself anyway. I hate that she has to see them, but there isn't much that I can do to prevent them beyond taking care of myself. Sometimes they come out of nowhere and I can't do anything about that.

I am beyond proud of the way that my oldest handled everything on Saturday. She was truly a hero and did everything perfectly right. I am amazed at the fact that she could do all of this while obviously panicking inside. And that she thought about her sister in such a traumatizing event makes my heart happy.

So while I make a frillion zillion mistakes (daily), it's moments like this that remind me that perhaps I am doing a few things right along the way.

But let's not let that get out. I have a reputation as Worst Mother of the Year to uphold...

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Go Home Tuesday, You're Drunk

Yesterday started with my husband waking me up before he left for work. "Savannah's cough is worse. I dunno if she should go to school." She had missed the day before because she was "sick". So sick that she ran and played all day with her little sister. I had no intentions of letting her miss another day.

"Oh, she's going to school!" I told my husband. She has missed a lot of days already and we're only two months in. This is partially due to other parents never keeping their kids home when they're sick....but that's none of my business. Either way, Savannah was going to school, even if she had Ebola. I don't have time for Truancy court...for a 6 year old.

So I got the princess up, made her get dressed, got the little kids ready and headed out the door to take Savannah to the bus. Once I got Madelyn strapped into her car seat, I closed her door...or attempted to anyway. It bounced back open. "What the??" I said to myself. I tried it again. It bounced open again.

Because I'm not very smart, I opened and closed it approximately 31,000 more times. I jiggled the handle, played with the latch, locked and unlocked it, and did every other thing that I could think of to "fix" it. Nothing worked. It kept bouncing back open.

"WE ARE NOT MISSING SCHOOL!" I said to myself.

Knowing that it's never a good idea to drive down the road with your toddler's door open, I pondered all of my options. I went to find a rope. Instead, I found a bungee cord. Even better!

I wrapped the cord over, around, through, and under every thing that was solid on the door and the car to ensure that it would not fly open during the drive. Yes, I most definitely am white trash, despite my best efforts to hide that some days. I didn't care. We were not going to miss school for this and I am not a mechanic.

As soon as I got it jimmy-rigged, I closed it Madi's door last time. It latched this time. Of course it did.

Happy that it finally closed right, even if it took me a half hour, I rushed into the car to head to the bus. I forgot my coffee was sitting on the middle console. My forgetfulness caused my very full cup of coffee to decorate the interior of 99% of the inside of my car. Coffee was on everything. Surprisingly enough, it hardly made a difference on my already trashed mom car.

Like troopers though, we trekked on. Savannah was not missing school. We got to the bus with seconds to spare before the bus should have arrived. We waited...and waited...and waited. "Damn!" I thought to myself. "The driver was early on the one day that I was late. Oh well, I'll drive into town. Savannah is not missing school!"

We arrived in town 15 minutes later. I noticed that the school zone sign was not flashing. "Someone needs yelled at for that crap!" I thought. I'm very in favor of driving slow in the school zone. I don't think that's probably a hotly contested issue, but if it is, I'm on board with the pro-side.

When we turned the corner off main street onto the block that the schools are on, I noticed that there were no cars in any of the parking lots. We were a bit early for school (but late for the bus, go-figure), but I can't believe that we are the first people here.

Then reality slapped me across the face....IT'S FREAKING VETERAN'S DAY. There is no school. I could have slept in. I could have stayed in my pajamas. I could have saved myself two wasted hours of trying to get Savannah to school.

And I did this last year too.

Dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb girl.

After a good laugh over the matter...because I was two seconds away from crying...I drove back home to enjoy my day.

Then the power went out. I hadn't showered yet. No shower for work? That's great. Also, its the second time in two weeks that I've been forced to go showerless to work. Fabulous!

Then Madi woke up from her nap crying hysterically. Nothing I could do would console her or calm her down. Fun!

Then Nolan woke up, apparently playing follow the leader with his sister, and also cried hysterically. I only have so many shoulders to cry on and hands to pat backs. I could do nothing else for 90 minutes. 90 MINUTES!!! Note to self- get sterilized.

A while later Jim came home and I left for work. Leaving for work means the day cannot possibly get better, just the same or worse. Worse was what happened...

I poured a new cup of coffee for my drive to work. I went to take a sip, hit a bump, and chipped my tooth because I hit it soo hard. That wasn't even the worst part. At the same time that it hit my tooth, coffee also spilled out (thanks to the bump). It was very hot and the whole thing startled (and burnt) me. This was when I dumped the second cup of coffee all over my car.

One would think that at this point, I would have just gone home, gotten in bed, and called it a day. Nope. My boss never accepts the temporarily insane excuse for missing work. I went in. All was well for the rest of the day. Apparently, Tuesday finally passed out.

But this is what happens when Tuesday gets drunk. It starts thinking it's Monday and everything goes wrong. If I didn't have to work, I would have gotten drunk with Tuesday, but I didn't...but I should have.

Go home Tuesday, you're drunk.