Professionalism. It's for the birds. Except when it's not.

So you know what sucks about being a professional?

You can't fight back.

Not to prove that you were rarely late for sessions.

Not to prove that you weren't out to decrease services for a child, only trying to make the constant in and out of therapy manageable for the parents.

Not to show that using the term "attachment parenting" wasn't an insult; it seemed a reasonable conclusion with a four-year old and two-year old share your bedroom, decision to let children move at their own pace.  Even if I was wrong, isn't that a discussion, not a complaint?

Not to say that use of the iPhone timer is more used with the intent of not moving in, checking the time over and over instead of trying to escape your home, especially since I was never in your home less than 30 minutes.

I know I need to get over this.  And I'm well on my way. . . the relief of not being put in a home without back-up from parents & a non-compliant child  is winning over anger hands-down.  The challenge is substantial when lies are told, just a shade off the truth--enough to be plausible.

"You always need the last word," my mom says.  Dammit if she isn't right.

Lessons from being Fired

I was fired today.  Not from my job in total, thank goodness, but from one patient.  My friend's son asked if I got "moved down a level."  Luckily, the answer to that is no, too.  I'm pretty glad life isn't like a video game in this instance.

I have to say that in 13 years of doing what I do, this is the first time I've had a parent be so blatant about her dislike of me and my approach(es).  I have had 2 other families cancel services with me and each time it is a blow to the ego, leaving me searching for reasons WHY.

Funny enough, my management duties often involve coaching other therapists through exactly this kind of situation & I've oft repeated that we all get fired in the course of treating for any length of time.  That's true.  The other nuggets of truth I'll add to that discussion are:

• Each time it stings, leads to questioning of skill, doubt in what you have to offer.  
• Questioning and reflection on skill is important, no matter how long you've been practicing your trade.
• Underlying that ego-blow is RELIEF.  
• If you so happen to dread interaction with a caregiver so much that you are nervous to tell about jury duty service, then that relief will wash through you with your second mixed drink--that spreading warmth a combination of a little buzz and the realization that you never have to take abuse from that particular parent ever. again.  HALLELUJAH.  

So much more I could say.  So.  Much.  But in the hopes of salvaging my professionalism, I'll stop. . . in a minute.  Just for the record, if I ever am in complete denial that my child needs limits or has failings, someone take me out back and beat some sense into me.  

**The part I left out was that after I left the home I was not the picture of calm.  It involved quite a bit of righteous indignation, well-timed curses & shaking with anger (no exaggeration).  I'll save that post for another day.

Do Your Part. NO Really.

I am a speech pathologist in my professional life.  A darn good one, most of the time.  I love what I do, I don't think I will ever feel not-challenged.  That's a positive.  I want to be challenged.  I want to keep learning.  It is a metaphorical back-flip moment when I see a child do something they have never done before because of my therapy.  Seriously.  Such a high, a sense of accomplishment to see a wee face and the parental excitement in the background as the child eats a piece of bread for the first time, tells their parent they are hungry or uses a computerized device for their voice & corrects me on the form of "it's" that I used.

Sometimes, though, I run aground.  I flounder and struggle for direction, for inspiration.  And sometimes I beat my head against the wall in frustration.  The thing is, an hour of really good speech therapy per week only gets you so far when it comes the hard things.  And if a kid has qualified for therapy, they need help with the hard things.  One hour spread over a couple of intense therapy sessions per week will bring fair results, at best.  Mediocre.  Middlin.'  That's with intense therapy.

Now change circumstances to therapy with a 'meh' level of intensity and little-to-no practice, reinforcement of skills and you get a teeny-tiny baby step of progress, if you get progress at all.  If a child spends the majority of a session not wanting to (and really, I get it, therapy is doing the hard things) & then caregivers don't feel compelled to, well, compel the child to cooperate; followed by haphazard follow-through on practice, results are poor.

Common sense, right?

Sigh.  Alas, it is not.

Recently I have had several parents feel like this was due to shoddy, less-than-stellar therapy on my part.  I know.  I am much more likely to blame myself for disappointing results  so I sure didn't want to write this off an inconsequential.  But when I took a step back, looked at the facts logically and turned the situation in my mind to examine all facets, I see this isn't a lack of good therapy, although there is always room for improvement, room for a different way.  This isn't a refusal of mine to accept poor outcomes.  This isn't because of a child that is unable to learn.  In fact, this isn't about the therapist or the child, for the most part.

So that leaves the parent.  The parent wishing for the magic wand that would cure autism, any syndrome, any sound disorder & entrusting therapist to "fix" their child.  I just can't. We can't.  It's a flaw in our profession, a limit of our humanity.  Progress on a skill that doesn't come naturally is really freakin' hard work.  So if that hard work is too much, for right now, forever, just STOP.  Stop blaming me. It is not an error that I want my toys back at the end of a session, just like a dentist doesn't give you their tools--it's the same thing.  Toys are my tools.  Stop therapy.  Really.  Sometimes a break is the best thing for everyone.  Therapy of any kind is only as effective as the 'want to' of the family.  Turns out that is one of the only things I can't provide--the want to. Sabotage rarely has the desired positive outcome.

That's my "Come to Jesus" talk (best term ever, thank you Dean Cowser), only a lot harsher than I can provide in my real world job.  For some reason, the fact that the whole entitlement generation-thing would effect my ability to affect change never occurred to me.  That was stupid.

To the rest of you, working your asses off to be consistent on what you stress to your kids, thank you.  When I shrug off compliments on how much I did to help your child it's because it's true.  The hard work happened when I wasn't there.

Perspective. The Heart-Warming Kind.

This.  On days like today when I am overwhelmed with my piddly problems, I need some perspective, especially perspective that doesn't come with sound because I often seek perspective when I'm rocking a baby to sleep.  Today, this was the solution.  Well, this and rum & Diet Coke.

American Excess (Or Why Laundry Ruins My Life)

is alive and well, as evidenced by the mass quantities of laundry in my hallway, laundry, room, kids' laundry hampers. . . my bathroom floor.  I'm basically saying that we each have about 4 million pieces of clothing.  Laundry haunts me.  Clutters my view as I type this.  Today I decided we should each be allowed 10 outfits.  So then that would be 50 outfits for our family.  That sounds like a lot, but we are lucky to have much, much more.  And by lucky I mean it's also a curse.  A curse that haunts me.  I think I need to downsize, which would make life much more simple or much more likely that you'd see us wearing dirty clothes. 

Oh, and did I mention my husband has pneumonia? Yes.  That's real.  No exaggeration for dramatic effect. 

Merry and Bright. (Dammit)

Mornings where I am responsible for getting 4 people out of the house without help are my kryptonite.  Needless to say is that some go more smoothly than others.  The last 15 minutes are typically made of me rushing around, trying to figure out how many trips I'm going to need to make to the car.  That's the scene. 

Me:  (putting a jacket on Brooklyn)

The Regulator:  (jamming one of our Christmas cards in front of my face) What does this say, Mommy?

Me:  What am I doing?

The Regulator:  Putting Brooklyn's jacket on. (jamming the card in front of my face again)  What does this say, Mommy?  Tell me. 

Me:  Ell, you have to WAIT.  I am BUSY.

Me:  (finish putting on Brooklyn's jacket)

The Regulator:  What does this say, Mommmmmmmmmmmmy?  (shrill whine included)

Me:  (impatiently, with a big sigh, and full-on Mommy voice) It says, "May all your days be merry and bright."

The Regulator:  What does that mean, Mommy?

Me:  (short, hateful tone) It means have a good day every day.  (Dammit. This part was said to myself.)

Yep. I'm a paragon of Motherly Virtue.

Returning to Work. And a Gift

Yep.  I'm back at work.  Full-time.  With three children.  Whoop.  I get the standard questions that I have no idea how to answer:  are you glad to be back at work? how is it leaving your baby?  how is it going with three kids?

Here's the truth.  There are days that leaving my babies really, really bites the big one.  BUT most days it is just fine.  It is rewarding to me to have quiet moments where I'm only worrying about myself and not three (four, if you count the husband) other people.  I feel like that statement exposes the dark underbelly of parenting, but I promised the truth.  So it's a conundrum--I miss my kids like crazy during the day but am also thankful for moments to myself (hello, using the bathroom without an audience).  I also know they are in good, safe hands, where, true story, Brooklyn didn't want to leave yesterday (that broke my heart just a wee bit).

The other odd thing is that I am way more tired back at work than during maternity leave.  I got a nap all but 3, maybe 4, days of my leave, which kept me sane.  Unfortch, nap time isn't included in my workday, but if you know my employer, put in a good word for it, m'kay?  So there you have it.  Not always pretty, but it's a pretty good life.  Even better (this is where the gift comes in) is that the tiniest of my tribe has been sleeping from 8:30ish until 3:30-4:00am.  That's seven hours, my friends.  Seven hours, roughly three of which I am not sleeping, but still, of sleep.  Seriously amazing.  I think it took Elliott six months for that feat, so gift for mom, indeed. 

Wishing you all health, happiness and controlled chaos. 

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?. . . .

It was Unintentional

I didn't mean to be on a blogging-break.  BUT here's what happened:  my best friend's birthday=getting home late, too exhausted to function the next day, the next day was packing & laundry, then three days of bliss with the girls far away from society.  Then today was Pink Eye Day (for Ell, not me) which has forced me to do childcare all day and then work all night.  I have some doozies to post--random nakedness, more laughter than you can stand, etc.  Now to find time for the posts to make it farther than my brain just as I'm drifting off to sleep or doing something mindless.  I swear.  Being an adult is exhausting some times.

It Takes a Village (Why Mommy Sickness is BAD)

This week I was Sick.  I used that capital for a reason.  I missed four days of work.  Four.  That has never happened for sickness before.  What I thought was a springtime cold/sinus infection combo turned out to be strep.  Strep throat without the sore throat.  I broke down and went to the doc-in-a-box after two days of feeling like general ass and resting and not getting any better at all.  When the peppy nurse asked if I wanted a strep test in conjunction with the flu swab, I shrugged--it really seemed unnecessary.  She also asked what my pain level was on that stupid scale.  I had no idea how to answer, even after looking at the smiley faces that then turn sad.  I felt like crap, but I didn't correlate that to being in pain.  Is that dumb?  And really, did my answer make a difference?  I wasn't having crippling stomach pain, suspected strain or broken bone or even a migraine.

Being sick as a mommy is no fun a'tall.  Not that being sick is fun in the best of circumstances, but still having to get up and get other people dressed, make bottles, feed small people and wipe hineys just seems cruel.  I know I'm whiny.  It's a good thing I have a husband who is a nurturer and a mom who generously agreed to help me on her Spring Break.  It takes a village, people.  Especially when a mommy is a whiny sick mess.

Sometimes the Universe Laughs. . .

and you have no choice but to sit back and grin.  Even when your first reaction was the F-word.  Yep.  That was me.  You see, I'm a planner and when things don't go according to MY plan, then I say the F-word.  A lot.

Well, about a month ago when the pregnancy test showed two lines and then again when the second and third test showed the same, I was saying that word a lot.  A third child was NOT in our family plan.  This is where that 'universe laughing' thing comes in.

I've stopped saying the F-word.  Sure, I'm worried.  Having 3 kids under three and a half is quite a daunting thought, but at this point, I know we'll survive.  What's one more in the chaos, right?

Which Category? Blessed or Cursed?

"At 17, I was determined to do 2 things: get a college education and get that education at the small private college of my choosing, TCU. I did both. I went on and got a Master's degree--all paid for with grants and loans. I knew I would be paying back forever, but the concept of interest made no sense to me. Looking at this statement, it is startling to see the interest exceed the actual principle of the loan. And this isnt my only loan! I am proud that the balance is under $3000, but let this be a lesson to those making careful decisions about where to spend their college years."


I posted this on my Facebook wall this week after getting this student loan statement:

At 35, I am damn proud of myself.   I still feel like I might never get it paid off, but it doesn't make me sick to my stomach to think about anymore.  Let me be clear, it wouldn't matter where I chose to go to school--I would have needed loans.  


In response to my post, a girl I know posted this comment:

We are still paying off my husbands school loans but we have been determined to pay cash for my schooling. I love UNT cuz it is possible(not easy) to pay cash. We have been so blessed that God has helped provide so we dont go into further debt

 Um.  This is bothers me on so many levels.  Suggesting that God has made it possible for this person to attend school without debt because she is "blessed" is downright insulting.  Does this mean God didn't choose to "bless" me by being able to pay cash for school?  This person is lovely.  A giving, warm-hearted person, but so incredibly naive to believe at 22ish that her ardent belief in evangelistic Christianity has made it possible for her to go to school debt-free.  It is perhaps isolated to the upper-middle class evalgelistic soul who believes that those who don't believe as they do end up suffering.  I mean, there's a reason these Mega-Churches preaching the prosperity doctrine are filled with upper-middle class white people.

Okay, I don't normally take my Musings in this direction, but life in surubia forces it from time-to-time.  Especially when I live deep in the Bible Belt and one of the few places that the recession hasn't completely devastated.

End Rant.

Mental Health in a Vibrating Chair

Today my Heather came over for a visit.  It had been a ridiculously long time since I had seen her, but no worry, my 2 year old immediately recalled that she's the number one person willing to play hide-and-hide with him (no editing mistake--he only wants to hide and be chased).  Eventually poor Heather got to sit and even got to take off her impervious-to-cold soccer shoes.  That's when Ell busted out with this, upon seeing her feet and pointing,

My Mommy don't have those anymore.  

 Yep.  I still have feet.  Toes even.  What did I not have any longer?  Painted toenails.  This wasn't because I took the polish off--oh no.  This was because it had been so long since my piggies were painted that it had all grown off.  Even off the big toe. Sad.  That's what happens when you have two kids and a full-time job during a recession.

That moment is when Heather and I looked at each other and we knew. . . we KNEW our destiny.  Pedicures.  Sometimes that vibrating, massaging chair and some girlfriend-time is all you need to make you forget about re-arranging the garage.  Trust me.  Totally rationalized worth it.

A Side of Poop in the Morning

Lemme tell ya a little tale. This morning, I was changing Brook-Brook's clothes when I hear Ell banging around in the kids' bathroom. I call for him--several times--and get no response. Finally he comes into B's room and I ask what he's been doing and if he made a mess? Yes, he says with a twinkle in his eyes. Then I notice that he's removed his diaper--I asked if he went poopy. "Yes," he says proudly, "Humprhey ate it." Gross. I walk into the bathroom and find the pot of the potty chair in the sink. Ell puffs out his chest and says, "I cwean up. I wash it wif soap."



And that is how one becomes obsessed with Clorox and Lysol--even when skeptical of the chemicals in all mass-produced cleaners--AND justifies a morning stop at Starbucks.  Too much to handle by 7:20 in the morning.  The end.

On Perfection.

Today was one of those rare, close your eyes and make a wish, hold your breath, perfect kind of days.  Rare.  Rarer still with an almost three-year-old consumed with a case of the whinies.  I can expound upon that another time.  Back to perfection.  I should add to my raving that it was a balmy 78 degrees.  In January.  Really.

We decided to embark upon the virgin journey for our chitlins to the Fort Worth Stock Show (no rodeo this year. . . I mean there is a rodeo, we just didn't attend).  I was excited.  Even after departing our home at least an hour and a half past our goal departure time.  So we off we went.  Brooklyn missed her morning nap.  She didn't cry.  Elliott didn't whine.  No really.  He didn't.  We saw horses. We saw pigs.  We saw chickens.  We saw lambs.  No whining.  We (Elliott) sat on tractors.  No whining.  We visited a petting zoo, where Ell declined to actually pet. . .anything.  We wrapped up our trip with a jaunt down the giant bumpy slide, complete with burlap seat, for Daddy and Ell.  Oh, and a trip on the motorcycle carousel.  NO whining.

This day then moved into another study in perfection by dining outside at Joe T. Garcia's.  No margaritas, but still perfection.  Oh, and did I mention that it was 2:00 and neither of my children was crying AND that they still hadn't napped?  Yep.  Stupendous.

We go home.  We napped.  We painted.  We played.  We laughed.  This is one for the record books.

Snack break. Yes, I did remember the hand sanitizer.  

I was impressed with the hard work and cheerful, friendly attitudes of the teens there to show their animals.  They didn't seem to mind stroller-pushing, camera-wielding families with toddlers wanting to pet their animals.  I never did the ag-thing, but it made me think I would be proud to see my kids work that hard at something. . . I mean, without considering the slaughtering-thing at the end.  I couldn't handle that. 

One of the rare acutual petting moments.

We loved the baby chicks and the ducks.  I am fairly certain Ell would have been happy to spend all day in the Children's Barn.  

Tractor-sitting is always a big hit.  

Creepy-eyed goat and Brooklyn.  She was far more willing to actually pet the animals.  

Takes me back.

Loving the "motorcycles."

Will Rogers Colosseum on a perfect day.

I love the Art Deco inspired art architecture.

Brooklyn checking out her feet at lunch.

He's like my own Jackson Pollock.

At the end of the day, Ell told me that his favorite animals were the piggies.  Can't you see why?

Perhaps my favorite picture of the day.  I mean, of the ones sans children.

And did I mention that when we returned home, our cleaning service had been to visit?  I know.  I'm a little spoiled.  We would live in squalor if not for the cleaning service with both of us working full-time.

And THAT is how you spell a perfect day.

Let's Get Real

I'm all for being honest.  Most of the working moms I know talk about how much of a disaster zone their home is--to the point where we won't see each other in our respective homes because of the mess.  I told two of my friends today that if I'm waiting for my house to be perfect, I may never see them again.  I need to get over my mom's voice in my head that a mess makes it unacceptable to have anyone enter my door.  So here's my attempt at transparency.  It's okay.  You can judge.  And let it be known that my house looks this way and I still choose to do things like write a blog post, take a nap (if it's the weekend) and create a huge mess of popcorn and chocolate for little Christmas goodies.  Smart?  Likely no.  I'm just surviving--knowing there are things more important than folding laundry when I get a scant 2 hours per day with my kiddos during the work week and that by the time they are in bed, I am toast.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not one of those perfect moms.  I know I'm not the only one.  I'm definitely not like a co-worker of mine who told me, quite seriously, that she doesn't check her email or have a Facebook account because those things would have her waste time.  So if you're all for wasting time on the interwebs while unfolded laundry takes over your house, CHEERS!  Now be brave and post about your own unfinished chores.  Let's live a little and show that a little mess doesn't matter in the scheme of things.  

And some baby cuteness.  Actually, I can't decide if I like this squenched up face she is making, but the picture makes me smile, so I'll include it.  

And finally, if you were wondering how Chris and I look gussied up, here's a pic from my company Holiday Party that happened to be on my birthday Birthday Bash!

Is Being Strong a Weakness?

Back in 2001 scene of my first 'real' job, my first performance review was an unmitigated disaster.  I was blind-sided.  I had thought that I was an asset to the team, outspoken and respected.  Yeah.  Well, the review blindsided me with reflections that I was too outspoken, too passionate, too. . .everything.  I was devastated.  How does there exist such huge problems for a YEAR without telling the employee, who also happens to be a friend?  It was a craptastic day, to be sure.

In the ensuing years, I have received criticism feedback that I have a "strong personality" several times.  Each of those times, I have worked determine what this means.  The truth is I felt all defensive and sad inside because surely this feedback was only meant to be negative.  I also was at a loss for how to censor myself, to turn off what is so offensive about me.  I beat myself up, asking "why can't I be easier?," "why do I say things the wrong way?," "why do I push too hard?" Bleh.  Well-trodden territory, comfortably uncomfortable.  

I was recently turned away from a promotion because I'm "too passionate."  Isn't this saying "strong personality" in different clothing?  I am trying to cling to the cliff, refusing to slip into the valley of self-hate.  In my new-found maturity (?), I am trying to simultaneously accept the truth and maintain my sense of self.  Not so easy a task.  I am trying to feel the defensiveness, observe it, accept it and move on--not to assume that I'm one of the more annoying people on the planet.

I know that I can be too emotional.  I cry when I'm angry--this isn't quite productive in a business situation.  I also know that when I'm told that this can be perceived as "being manipulative," that is more about the other person looking at me through their lenses than it is truth.  I know that I can be pushy when I believe an injustice has been meted out.  I also know that it has more to do with the confidence of the other person that they cannot push back with equal gusto.  I know that "picking my battles" is not my strength and something I seem to only find success with my preschooler.  Heck, I'm still working on that with children with behavior problems in therapy.  I know that the people who (supposedly) said that they can't work with me have never really tried. 

I am strong.  I have personality.  I am passionate.  I cry.  I push.  I resist change, but eventually come around.  I am self-aware.  I am intelligent.  I am a quick study.  I am intuitive.  I am honest, to a fault.  No really, it's a fault.  I have recently realized or accepted that to some people I can be intimidating. . .or at least I'm working on accepting that concept.  The truly irritating thing is that the people who are stuck in their perceptions of me are also mired in their own crippling self-confidence issues.  I am still trying to reconcile the fact that to succeed, I have to modulate me.  I know this is life; I just can't figure out why my strength is a threat, why someone else's weakness must be catered to?  

All of this leads me to this:  my acceptance of this feedback makes it up to me to be successful.  To find a way to still fight for a cause, to retain my passion, but in a way that is more palatable to others.  Now the real work begins.  

No 'Poo, No More

Pretty sure my hippie-no-shampoo experiment has come to an end. . . or at least on pause.  I just couldn't handle the gummy feeling of my hair.  That and I felt self-conscious and wondered everyday if people were looking at my hair and wondering why I hadn't washed it.  Hm.  I'm still interested in reducing/finding an alternative to shampoo, I just am not sure this was the right combination for me.  Plus, I've hit the massive hair-shed of the post-partum period.  My.hair.is.everywhere.  Ridic.

My Dirty Little Secret

Turns out my dirty little secret isn't dirty and it isn't all that little:  Piles of clean laundry are taking over our home.  Slowly encroaching on ever surface available.  We leave the house dressed, kids well fed, homemade formula in tow but our house is a ginormous mess.  The kind of mess that would make me want to slam the door in a friend's face should someone drop by unannounced.  Playroom strewn with toys, all my maternity clothes laid out on the playroom couch left over from my failed attempt to sell them on eBay, hallway full of dirty clothes, laundry room with a substantial pile of clean laundry wedged into a corner so that the garage door may be opened, master bath unable to enter the closet due to the sorted dirty clothes and, finally, the living room with two full laundry baskets and another pile of clean clothes.  My current mantra is: "This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

I think the house is just a symptom of juggling everything required to be a working mom.  This week has left me longing for days with my kids, uninterrupted by duties and errands and work.  I am fairly vigilant about making sure we keep to some kind of sleep schedule for my wee people and committed to performing my work duties with competence.  These certainly don't always mesh.  Especially when my wee-est wee one goes to bed between 6:30 and 7:00, leaving me only an hour of time with her each evening.  Suckety-suck-suck.  The amount of "The Guilt," as the ladies from Rants from Mommyland call it,  is rampant on this front.    I could keep going on this train of thought, but in hopes of preserving my sanity and the need to finish my glass o' wine are making me stop.  Stop.  No really, Courtney, STOP.

Say it with me now:  "This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

"This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

"This stage won't last forever and my kids and taking time to rest are far more important than a perfect house."

Did it help?  I know.  We need practice.  

I'm a Crafty Beeyotch. Fo' reals.

My mom is a crafty genius.  In my stupid rebellious younger years, I decided to eschew my crafty tendencies for the most part.  This, of course, was excepting rock painting at camp.  Pintrest, while helping me discover I have no style, has also helped me find my inner crafty gene.  Proof you ask?  Sit back and watch, bitches.


French Memo board for the Monkey's room.  Made from a rockin' 80s bulletin board purchased at Goodwill on half-price day for $1.50.  Covered in broadcloth ($2.99), ribbon ($2.50 a piece at half-price spool sale) and cute scrapbooking buttons ($2.99).

Halloween wreath for my door.  Spray-painted grapevine wreath ($3.99 for the wreath, spray paint was $3.00), rolled pieces of felt, hot-glued together ($.25/sheet of felt) and "Spooky" door hanger with ribbon cut off ($1.99).

And finally, I added the fringey-balls to the bottom of this lamp for Monkey's room.  I think it's super-cute and took a plain ol' lamp up a notch.  

You might notice all the shizz in the background of each picture.  Dang if it isn't the constant state of my house.  Don't worry, I just kept on crafting.