Madness #16--my own dairy farm

So, making yogurt is easier than I realized.

Just follow these simple directions for your own tasty deliciousness:

Step 1: Fill your child's favorite sippy cup with whole milk.
Step 2: Watch as he inevitably drops it.
Step 3: Watch as it inevitably rolls under your furniture and ends up in a hard-to-reach place.
Step 4: Think to yourself, "I'll get it later".
Step 5: Wait a couple days.
Step 6: Do the dishes and wonder where that missing sippy cup ran off to.
Step 7: Invite friends over and watch their noses scrunch up in response to a sickening smell that you haven't realized is taking over your house.
Step 8: Put two and two together.
Step 9: Get on your hands and knees to retrieve the science experiment growing under your couch.
Step 10: Unscrew the sippy cup lid and try not to vomit.
Step 11: Voila! Your very own, home-grown yogurt.

Lucerne would be so proud.

Madness #15--a sour attitude

Lesson learned.

Don't ever give a teething child lemonade to drink.

It's like pouring lemon juice on an open wound. No really. You're literally pouring lemon juice on an open wound.

Goo.

"I am Woman. Hear me roar!"

Just call me Becky, Warrior Princess.

A couple girlfriends and I are reading through the book "Captivating", and seeking to unveil the mystery that is a woman's soul. Can you believe that as big a phenomenon "Captivating" is, I've never actually read it? Maybe I thought I understood myself just fine, thank you. Maybe I was too stubborn to admit that I had things to learn. Maybe I just didn't want to fork over the $22.99 needed to get myself a copy.

But here I am, a wife of almost three years and a mother of over one, and I'm discovering so much about myself that I had no clue was buried deep inside.

Chapter one talks about the basic desires of every woman's heart. One of those things is to play an "irreplaceable role in a great adventure". Now, I'm not a huge adventure junkie. I'd just as soon stay inside and mend my husband's favorite brown courderoy shorts. But a certain line in this section of the book hit me. It says, "There is something fierce in the heart of a woman. [...] A woman is a warrior too."

Now, I've always been fierce. Tyra Banks and Christian Siriano "fee-yees". But I don't think the book is talking about your ability to walk a runway or rock that funky pair of shoes that you bought at Rite Aid and swear are the next big thing.

No, I'm a warrior. But all this time I haven't been able to see my own armor. I guess growing up I always dreamed of being the damsel in distress. I dreamed of the day my knight in shining armor would sweep my off my feet and be my protector. My defender. I thought my role was to be vulnerable and helpless so that I'm in constant need of rescuing. Isn't that what guys need? To be the rescuer? And doesn't it follow that they need someone to rescue?

My eyes were opened by this simple concept that we, as woman, feel the need to be warriors at times, too. To be irreplaceable ("To the left, to the left"--I love me some Beyonce). To be so important, that a certain task could not be completed without your specific input. I kind of like that idea. I may not be the woman that's out there living in the woods for weeks at a time, brave enough to squat and pee without wondering if any little forest animals are watching. But I can be adventurous in my own way. I can be fierce--a warrior ready to face any battle thrown at me.

With this mindset puffing out my chest and raising my shoulders, I was able to conquer my first tiny battle this past weekend. Instead of catering to what someone else expected of me, I chose to go my own route and make a decision for myself, without apologizing for it. Without trying to back-peddle or make excuses for why I did what I did. It felt kind of good.

But today, when walking in for an eye exam, I heard a nasty customer use some nasty words in front of my precious son. The warrior in me became a coward, and I was too timid to ask that he not talk that way in the presence of my child. Guess this whole Xena mindset takes some getting used to.

You know what though? I'm also learning that sometimes being a warrior means fighting your own emotions and tendency to lash out when injustice is observed. Sometimes being a warrior means standing back and letting things slide in order to protect someone else. Sometimes it means guarding someone else's heart no matter how broken your own is.

I'm in the midst of a serious battle right now that's been going on for several years. I'm not sure how it started, and I certainly don't know how or when it'll end, but it's there. It's a constant issue, constant thought, constant fight. And I'm finding that right now, it's my calling. It's my lesson to learn. And the best thing to do is to keep myself from jumping to the front lines and making that ugly war face you always see in movies. Seriously. I won't be roaring in the midst of this one.

But I know that the fierce warrior inside of me is still fighting. I'm fighting the Enemy's lies. I'm fighting my own tongue. I'm fighting for something that I think is worth fighting for, no matter how hard it gets. Warriors don't give up when they break a nail or smear their mascara. They keep on keeping on, looking only towards the prize at the end. Dang. It better be a good one.

At least when the going gets tough, I'll know that I look fabulous in my warrior princess gear. Who doesn't love some quality leather and a brass shin guard?

Madness #14--playdates

Little did I realize that sleepovers aren't just for kids. I guess I kind of assumed that once Mommy-hood hit, I'd wave goodbye to the occasional fun ME time.

But no. Last night some friends spent the night because all the fire smoke prevented them from turning on their swamp cooler or opening windows. And their house had become it's own Easy-Bake Oven.

So we thought we'd share our central air. Let the fun begin. We made our own vanilla cokes by pouring vanilla extract into our sodas, we watched Marty sing his heart out in an old home video, we laughed at my husband saying "I'm always the balls", we named our new business venture Dee-Dods, we prayed healing over my son's fever and watched the Lord remove it completely, we ate three boxes of mac n' cheese, we made a paper bag hand puppet and had it watch Marty do the dishes, and all this with a couple strawberry margaritas in our bellys.

Who says adults can't be teenagers all over again? I feel like I need to go put in my retainer and french braid someone's hair.

brainiac-ness

So, I'm kind of proud of myself.

I managed to put together a website for my mother-in-law, who's a public speaker and soon-to-be author. She was hoping to get her name out there, so I offered to give the whole cyber space design thing a whirl.

Hence, www.mimimoseley.com.

I know, I know, it's not super professional-looking. I'm no Patrick Hardy. But I figured the whole thing out on my own, so pat me on the back next time you see me. At least I can say that things turned out exactly the way Mimi wanted them to. Happy client equals a check in Becky's pocket and the satisfaction of meaning something to the outside world.

After all, I really am a computer geek at heart.

Echo Court--what what

I love living on Echo Court.

And not just because of the drummer kid that can't keep a beat. Not just because of the neighbor's children that have a thousand questions waiting for you when you leave the house, including "Can I have some of whatever you're holding?"

Monday night I was making a homemade pizza for dinner, and wanted to surprise Marty with it when he got home. But my weak woman arms wouldn't let me open the jar of spaghetti sauce. Hence, my love for Echo Court. I simply walked down the street, knocked on a door, and some muscles were standing there, ready to help. Way to go, Billy. My pizza would have been sauceless without you.

I guess location, location, location really can make a difference.

Monday doldrums...

Funny how one minute everything can be going your way, and the next you just want to cry and suck your thumb.

Stupid $300 cell phone bill. Stupid guilt trip about our dying front lawn.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Moms Gone Wild

Long week? Check.

Time away from your child a necessity? Check.

Two friends with a night free? Check.

Three glamorous pairs of heels? Check.

Getting hit on before even leaving Candace's driveway? Check.

Singing some old school DC Talk on the way to Chevy's? Check.

Chips and salsa? Check.

One watermelon margarita, two sour apple margaritas, and three prickly pear margaritas? Check.

Salt around the rim? Check.

Laughing so hard we nearly peed our pants? Check.

Wondering if our kids are "special"? Check.

"Finding Nemo" playing on the tvs in the bar? Check.

Waiter offering to finish our drinks for us? Check.

Discussing things we'd never admit to discussing? Check.
Lifting each other up with our encouragement and advice for one another? Check.

Needing Marty to come pick us up because Sarah had something illegal in her trunk? Check.

Climbing over the center console and trying not to fart? Check.

Agreeing we need "girl time" more often? Check.

One of the best nights of my life? Double check.

"Liar, liar, house on fire!"

So, last Saturday we had a bit of a scare. Okay, more than a bit. A lot of a scare.

Marty and I were just hanging out, watching a show on the food network ("Ace of Cakes", baby!), when Marty looked out our sliding glass door and saw huge amounts of smoke coming from somewhere freakishly close to our backyard. He called 911, but they said the fire department was already on their way. So we walked outside, and saw flames billowing up from the running trail right behind our neighbor Rana's back fence.

The firefighters showed up a couple minutes later and started hosing everything down, including our own back fence. As they tried to contain the flames, a bunch of us neighbors, my husband included, were using our measly little garden hoses to wet down the very flammable weeds and growth in Rana's back yard.

I felt helpless for one of the first times in my life. I had my sister take the baby over to Bobby and Candace's house so he would be safe and out of the way, since I was worried about him inhaling too much smoke for his tiny lungs. I called my mom and my mother-in-law to ask that they start praying.

But even after I got those things checked off my "what to do in an emergency" list, I still had no clue what to do to help the situation. I just wandered aimlessly through my precious home muttering, "God, build a wall of protection around my house. God, build a wall of protection around my house." What more could I do?

Funny how in a situation like that, when you begin to realize that you could quite possibly lose everything, every single item that catches your eye becomes unbearably sentimental. As I paced, I began to cry over the things I would miss should the fire spread. And I'm not a materialistic person--you can tell by the fact that almost all of our home furnishings are hand-me-downs. But I attach my emotions to "things" more than I should. That dirty white couch in our living room has been with us since we first got married, and I can remember all three times we've moved it to a new place, grunting and cursing it as we tried to shove it through three very small doors. And the two bamboo tables in our living room were the first couple things I bought for our home, in my pathetic attempt to decorate by scouring the local Ross for a great deal. Every little thing has a story behind it, and if I were to lose everything, I'd lose the stories along with them.

My mom had mentioned that it might be a good idea to start packing a couple precious items into our car, like photo albums, favorite toys or blankets of Marty's, and anything I just couldn't live without. My mother-in-law mentioned that it might be a good idea to start packing a couple important items into our car, like birth certificates and an outfit for each of us should we get evacuated. All great advice, but what do you grab first?

Here's where my lameness came into play. And why I managed to laugh despite the threat of everything we own reducing to ashes. I was frantic as I started gathering things to put in the car because I couldn't find my new wide-led pants. And I just wouldn't let myself leave the house without them. I mean, they look great on me, and they're super comfortable, and you just can't find that every day. What if Macy's no longer carried them? Or what if they were out of my size? I was not willing to risk that, so with smoke filling my lungs, and the sound of fire truck sirens echoing in my ear, I ripped through all the piles of clothes on our bedroom floor until I found them.

So with my favorite pants in tow, I went outside and found out what had happened. The fire was started by a couple troubled teens who dared each other to light one, then got caught when they called the cops on themselves. Let's just say I wanted to walk over to that cop car sitting at the end of the street with the guilty girls in it and give them what-for. Righteous anger, in my opinion, when someone deliberately, and for no good reason, puts your whole life--your home and family--at risk. Anyone seen "What Happens in Vegas"? I had half a mind to knock on the squad car window, punch them in the face, and yell, "You KNOW what you did!"

Now though, looking back, the fire wasn't as serious as we made it out to be. I think Billy said it best, "At least the air smells like hickory." Dee-lish, if I do say so myself.

dishpan hands...

I can picture it now.

I'm on my deathbed, saying my goodbyes, and all I can think about is how much of my life was spent doing the dishes.

For some reason, dishes are the one household chore I have the hardest time keeping up with. Which I don't understand, because it's also my favorite household chore. I find it really therapeutic to start with a kitchen full of grossness, and end with a running dishwasher and a shining, sparkly sink. I've done a lot of my best thinking while standing over the soap suds with my blue rubber gloves on.

I guess it's finding the time to devote to them that I struggle with. Because I have to wait until my son is either napping or in his high chair and immobile--both of which are few and far between. And who wants to spend their only free time during the day cleaning? I know I don't. The second my son is sleeping, I'm sitting my butt down on the couch for some quality time with a huge bowl of mac n' cheese and The Tyra Show.

Anyway, I've tried doing the dishes while little Marty is playing in the other room. I've even tried the "stick your kid in front of the TV to distract him and buy yourself some time" trick.

But the second I open the dishwasher, he's crawling into the kitchen to check things out. Then he's climbing onto the dishwasher door or pulling the bottom rack completely out. I've had myself a few minor heart attacks over it.

So why don't I just do the dishes as they're dirtied? Clean them off and put them right in the dishwasher to save myself the trouble of trying to find a couple hours-worth of non-baby time? Well, in our house, it's my job to load the dishwasher, and Marty's job to unload it. I'm not a big fan of putting the dishes away, but I can wash and rinse with the best of them. So if there's a batch of clean dishes ready to be reloaded into our cabinets, I'll leave them there for Marty to take care of. Until he does, dishes pile up in the sink because, oh bummer, there's no room in the dishwasher. And I'm usually too stubborn to do his job and mine.

Because when I do, when I unload and reload and unload and reload, I find myself resenting the concept of dishes in general. Take yesterday for example. I managed to find myself some dish time, and ended up spending hours and hours getting things tidied up. And while I enjoyed the process, the fact that it took up most of my day was not so fun. "What did you do today, Becky?" And I'd reply, "The dishes." It doesn't bode well for my claim that being a stay-at-home mom is just as exciting as any other job.

I guess I'm trying to say that if you come over and find a mountain of nasty in my kitchen sink, kindly ignore it. Look the other way. Or hey, strap on those blue rubber gloves and have a go. You'll be the one I think of on my deathbed, thankful that a few minutes of my life of dish washing was spent watching someone else tackle my mess.

Madness #13--crying over spilt milk

I never knew that seeing my son drink lowfat milk out of a sippy cup would bring tears to my eyes.

question (or a few)

Does anyone own a paper cutter that I can borrow? Or know someone who does?

Maybe someone out there has the uncanny ability to bite paper into a perfectly straight line. Lend me your skills, friend.

I have a big ol' project to complete in a small ol' amount of time. And I'd like to avoid getting scissor calluses if you know what I mean.

Help? Please?

one year ago...

Happy first birthday, little buddy! Your daddy and I love you more than we can say.