This flu has turned into the nastiest sore throat this side of the larynx. I couldn't swallow pooh, if I wanted to, which I don't, but if I did, I couldn't.
Onto other news...
I had my classroom-party-initiation on Thursday in Cohen's Kindergarten class. It was sticky, to say the least.
And, when we were filling up the kids bags with copious and dangerous amounts of candy, all the other parents favored their child, while I, like the dope I am, spread them out evenly and fairly. Cohen went home with only TWO Kit-Kats. How can I live on only TWO Kit-Kats I ask you? Not well. Not well at all.
Kembry is...evil, let's move on.
Chloe is a patient baby. When she wakes up screaming for the milk-bag in the middle of the night, she stops as soon as I turn on the light, and sits quietly until I get everything prepared, including turning on the t.v. full blast to give my husband a taste of my medicine. If I'm up, so will you be.
But then the little snot latches and just sits there, looking at me, as if to say, "That's right, I'm taking my time, and there ain't nuttin' you can do about it, neither." Her Kembryesque style is coming along nicely.
So there's an update. I would blog more, but they only let me out every two hours for ten minutes to feed the baby, and then I'm back in the slammer, cooking, cleaning, wiping butts and kicking them at the same time.
P.S. Cohen has caught whatever it is that's taken up home in my throat. On Halloween. I'm the worst mom EVER. Time to dope him up and send him out to fetch me some candy.
Yesterday we went to my step-moms office so she could show off her grandbabies. She's the bestestest grandma in the entire world...after mine, of course.
Anyway, (Hey, Kim, I found myself saying "Anyhoodle" yesterday!) ANYWAY...there was a garden in the middle of the building beneath a huge window in the ceiling. It was really beautiful, all tropical, with plants I've never seen, and would love to grow in my yard. Psht, yeah right. Thanks Utah alkaline soil...
Man, I get off the point easily these days...
So I asked Brett, "Are these real? They're so beautiful, so unique!"
"Sure they're real, look," he said, gently pinching a long leaf in his hands and pointing to a brown spot.
That's how I knew they were real.
They were all so beautiful, and they were real, living there inside a building in Utah.
I told Brett, "They should put brown spots like that on fake plants, so they look more real."
That's when it hit me.
To make something look more real, give it imperfections. How wonderful!
They don't get that when my eye starts to twitch because the kids are letting the demons out for the evening, well, it's not funny.
It's not funny when my son pokes my daughter with his fork because she pinched him and then screamed in his face for no apparent reason and shattered every window in the kitchen.
It's not funny.
So when my husband looks at my twitching eye, smiles, and says, "You should blog about that," well, I sorta want to poke him with a fork and then pinch him.
Scientist. Theologists. The guy whose about to miss his deadline. My husband.
But it has to exist, because someone keeps stealing mine.
Here are a few of those thief's today:
Cat throw up. Thank you Harley.
Dishes Dishes Dishes. We're eating off the floor tonight, the food will end up there anyway.
Laundry. It breeds. Cloning is possible, because my clothes do it in the washer, and then multiply exponentially in the dryer. Maytag has come a long way.
Chloe. I love her to death, but she literally sucks the time and life-milk out of me. Every hour. This would explain why she has more chins than the Chinese phone book. BAHAHAHAHA. Oh, my favorite joke.
If you see any of these offenders today, please apprehend. Feel free to keep them. And fold them.
For the past seven weeks I have been behind on my domestic duties.
But I don't get paid, so I really shouldn't care!
Regardless, I've been behind, and it's been gnawing on my sense of well-being. It's hard to get anything done when I have to stop and nurse every hour, and during that brief twenty minutes (please hear the sarcasm) my darling Kembry manages to destroy any progress I've made. She's got a talent, that one.
And so I started getting a little resentful. Lack of sleep and sore nipples can do that to a person. I started resenting my obligations, my daughter, and even Chloe. The ironic thing is that I resented my obligations because I so much just wanted to sit and hold my baby and play with Kembry, and I resented the two of them because they were keeping me from getting my work done.
The mind of a woman is a scaaaary place, my friends.
Needless to say, this issue and guilt have been a major part of my prayers lately. Please let me be able to accomplish something today. Please let me get a chance to hold and coddle my baby. Please help me be a better mother to Cohen and Kembry.
And last night Brett answered my prayers. No, he didn't scrub the house from top to bottom while I cooed and cawed over Chloe (dang!) But he said something that made the dim light bulb hovering over my head glow like the evening star.
Essentially he said there are priorities in life. There are so many important things that you have to prioritize. And he said, "Chloe is our number one priority." (Note that he said OUR number one priority, not your number one priority. I love that man.)
He asked me, "When you're an old woman, are you going to look back and think, 'I wish I would've done more dishes!' or will you say, 'I wish I held my babies more. I wish I had played with my children more.'"
Well that's about the easiest way to prioritize I've ever heard of. This morning, with a pile of dishes waiting for me since Saturday, laundry that needs to be put away, and a piano that needs dusting, I sat and held my baby and read my scriptures. I felt zero guilt, zero anxiety, zero stress. It was the perhaps one of the most peaceful mornings I've had in a long time.
And while I know I'll have to eventually put Chloe down and stop playing with Kembry to do the dishes, my day has already been a successful one.