I am Prepared.

In my head, I am nesting.  It's true.  In reality?  Nope.  Unless you count my husband bringing down the one box of newborn boys clothes we have currently.  And those are still in the garage.  Unwashed from when they were packed away two years ago and G$ wore them.  And these are only the clothes my sister deemed possibly unisex.

Newborn diapers?  Nope.
Coming home outfit?  Nada.
Pre-registered for the hospital?  NO. (this is one of my more brilliant choices)
Crib bedding?  Huh-unh.

I am prepared.  Poor third baby.

Name Re-do. (Or a Turn at Crafting Genius)

This go-round with nesting tendencies, I'm a crafty beeyotch.  Or at least I aspire to be.  That's probably more like it.  So a year after upgrading Elliott to the BBB (Big Boy Bed), I decided to finally update his names above the bed to match.  I wasn't sure I could pull it off, but I'm pleasantly surprised with the outcome. 

I tried to locate a 'before' picture of the letters on the wall in Ell's room, but they are hiding right now.  So instead, here is a few pictures of the BBB, with the Big Boy himself.  

My boy and his treasures.  Notice Minnie snuggled up next to him.  

Up close of the duvet--purchased at Ikea.  

And the results:

I used the letters we already had from Hobby Lobby that had been spray painted the green color.  Then I took a pencil and sketched different designs that would match and/or compliment Ell's "Cars Blankey."  I used acrylic paints, then sealed with a polycrylic gloss sealant.  If you attempt this, be aware that to get good coverage, it took at least 3 coats of paint to achieve the desired outcome.  At the last moment, I decided that  the designs would stand out better if I outlined it all with an extra-fine Sharpie.  Ta-da!

Sh*tty Saturdays

I mean this literally--not in an "oh-we-had-a-bad-weekend" kind of way.  I mean it in a way that suggests my 3-year old has shat in his pants the past two Saturdays and I've been awoken by a startled and panicked husband asking for help and a bedraggled, wet, stinky child in the shower.

Last week he chose to poo in his pants on the back patio.
This week?  He chose to crap his pants during a diligent nap protest.

Both times this led to legs smeared with poo, a bleached tub and child slightly proud to tell of his shit-ventures.

We had to nip this in the bud.  Last week, we talked.  This week?  We had to take action. All day, Ell had looked forward to seeing Glam and Pop, especially since this meant going to a restaurant.  Unfortunately, as we explained, we could not trust Ell to actually use the facilities and not sh*t his pants in public.  This meant Mommy & Brook-Brook got to visit OTB with Glammy & Poppy while Ell and Daddy stayed behind.  With the first explanation, the consequence was accepted.  The truth set in as we walked out the door and the composure melted.  I'm hoping this consequence sticks in his head, that missing out on Tickle Poppy (what Ell has taken to calling my dad) & Glammy AND eating at a restaurant is enough to remind him that pooping in his pants is not a good way to spend the weekend.  Time will tell.  Until then,  I'll do my best not to mention it. . .and let the consequence speak for itself.

What would you do to remedy the Sh*tty Saturday trend?

What Our Fourth was Made Of

(should the 'of' be capitalized in the title?)

Midsummer celebration of freedom?  Yes, please.  We had a loverly day of swimming, bubbles, tractor riding, hamburgers and fireworks.

Yes, I was foolish enough to attempt another group photo.  Please note the new "cheese" face sported by my nephew, Griffin.

This one is almost straight out of the camera.  Her eyes really are that blue.

Griffin was 'helping'' push Ell on the tricycle (he refuses to pedal).  Chris encouraged waving.  Our version of an Independence Day parade.

Yep.  He really loves to pee outside.  I really loved the light in this photo, so I had to post it.

My mom's Fourth.  I was envious.

And my parents' arch-nemesis (plural?).  There's a plague.

He loved the smoke balls.

And the sparklers.

It was a memorable day, to be sure.  After waiting all day for it to be dark, Ell decided the fireworks hurt his ears and asked, "Daddy, can you not do that anymore?" He also commanded relentlessly that we all "cover our ears" each time Chris approached a fuse.  We saved some fireworks for Saturday, when we'll celebrate Amanda and Ben being finished with camp.  Tonight Elliott told me, "I'm so exciting for fireworks on Saturday."  Round Two--ding, ding.

Perfect Home = Perfect Family?

Is a perfect home the measure of a perfect parent?  Does a messy house = failing to provide for my family?  How did I even come to have this standard of success?

As much as I am constantly trying to battle the perception that my size determines much of my worth, I have come to realize that I am constantly coming up short when I continue to measure my worth as a mom by the perfection of my house.  Basically, I am lazy.  I own it.  I would rather relax than mop, rather cuddle with my wee ones than dust and rather nap than fold laundry.  Yes, clutter and unfolded laundry makes me crazy, but when Elliott says from the couch, "Mommy, will you sit wif me?," I briefly weighed my options and found those three year-old cuddles won the prize.

I'm not sure how I fell into the trap of measuring my ability to be a grown-up by the status of my laundry baskets, but I'm trying to cut myself a break.  Instead of choosing to ignore chores and then feel overwhelming guilt and disappointment in myself over what is left undone, I am vowing to try and accept this as a phase of particular busyness, when the moments of a full-time working mom devoting full attention to child-raising are precious and certainly more important than a perfectly decorated house, cleaning up Laundry Table (yes, this matches Laundry Chair at my sister's house) and even folding the never ending river of laundry.

I have to tackle this challenge.  To be real with myself and with my family.  It seems certain to me that it is incongruent to match my ability to parent with my ability to keep a tidy home.  Love & tidiness aren't hopelessly intertwined, right?  I can only bet that my children would rather live in a cluttered home with parents who choose to let chores go undone in order to give them more time, rather than parents always focused on the appearance of a home.  Maybe this is finding ways to endorse my laziness & procrastination. But maybe, just maybe, this is allowing myself to own the challenges of having a full-time job outside the home along with the hardest, most important job around--Mom, while still trying to carve time for relaxation, a marriage and a wee bit of social life.

Now where's that remote?. . . .