Dashing Hopes and Dreams: Another One of a Mother's Callings.

The eldest member of the offspring feels the need to be famous.

Apparently his future is mapped out to not only include being a world-renowned endangered animal rescuer, but also juggling a full 365-days-a-year concert tour and starring in his own Disney Channel hit television show.

I nod my head and smile.  Because I believe in supporting dreams.  Especially the dreams that will support me when I'm one foot in the old lady swim aerobics' class at the Y.

But all good things must come to an end.

And today it ended.

I dashed every hope and dream of fame that had ever entered that poor boy's noggin.

Hey, mom, how do I get to be famous?

Well, dude, what kind of famous are you talking about?

You know.  Movie and television famous.

Well, hon, most of all of the agents and auditions that you would need to go through are in Hollywood or New York.  And we're a long ways from there.

Can't you take me there?  We could live there.

Uh. No.  It doesn't work like that.

What about Arkansas?  Don't famous kids come from Arkansas?

Um....nope.  Not so much.

And with that I earned the Mother of the Year Award for being the complete opposite of that whole "You can be whatever you want to be, honey" thing. 

There's still animal rescuing.
Because that will get me my condo in Boca right next to the shuffleboard courts, for sure.

Oh brother.

Flobby Bay

I am not a cook.

I am a professional box opener.  And dumper-in-er. 

I also have mastered the art of the can opener.  Sadly the only time that my family has consumed fresh veggies is...well....uh....never.  But I'm sure that they were fresh when they were canned. 

I do make some stuff from scratch, however....like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  And hamburgers.  And eggs.

Just call me Flobby Bay.

I stand in awe of folks who can cook without the use of boxes and packets of highly processed powdery substances.  And I stand in even bigger awe of folks who can get their children to eat food that doesn't come out of boxes and packets of highly processed powdery substances. 

*Before you tell me, I totally get that I'm not furnishing my offspring with proper nourishment, but we're coming to terms with it.  Thus the reason for the Lightning McQueen vitamins that we munch on every morning with our Cap'n Crunch.*

So although I know nothing about braising and mincing and sauteing, I am, however, fluent in boiling, frying, grilling, baking, and "cutting up."  And I'm secure in my primitive boxhood. 

Ain't no shame here.

Because I've decided that I tip-toe on the edge of crazy just a bit.  I might not flambe geese or anything, but I know how to shake things up in the kitchen.

Hang on to your Kiss the Cook aprons....because.....

I DON'T FOLLOW PACKAGE INSTRUCTIONS.

Scandalous, right?  I know.

I don't wait for the water to boil before dumping in the noodles.
I never measure the milk and butter for mac-n-cheese.
I boil the noodles separately from the meat when making Hamburger Helper.
I dump-n-pour the Minute Rice until it looks right because then I don't have to wash the measuring cups.
I don't add a full can of water to Chicken Noodle Soup.

Can anyone else spell R.E.B.E.L.L.I.O.U.S. S.P.I.R.I.T.??

You scoff at my James Dean-edness?

Go ahead.  Laugh.  But I bet you are one of THOSE PEOPLE.  One of those package direction follower people.  When it says "2 cups of water" -- you add and pour little spurts of H2O until it comes right.to.the.line.  When it says "boil water" -- it has never crossed your mind to not let it boil.  When it says "450*" -- you have never punched in 451*.  Nope.  Not you.  You, rule follower, you.

So this is what I've concluded....

Although being a dumper-in-er speaks volumes about my lack of culinary expertise, it also points straight to the heart of my personality. 

I'm a natural rebel.  A rule-breaker.  A limit-pusher.  If there is a line, I'm going to cross it....or at least stare at it for a very long time.

But I've found that my well-behaved friends....the ones who let their water boil before dumping in the noodles....are born rule-followers.  It makes them nervous to go in the "out" door.  They drink a full 8 oz. of water with their medications, and they remember to take their contacts out at night.

So.....which one are you?  I bet I could already guess about most of you, so we'll see if I'm right! 

Are you a rebel?  Or a rule-follower?  Does it cross over in your cooking...ur...box dumping?

What does your dinner say about you?


(And if you just want to leave me messages about the health of my children due to the lack of my cooking skilz...save it.  I already pinned myself with the Mother of the Year Award today.) 

Halloween Scrooge

This should come as no surprise to you.

Because after all, I'm the one who hates birthday parties, dresses my child in girl pants, and was guilty of actually forgetting one of the rascals' birthdays.  (I'm as proud of my mad parenting skillz as you are.)

But...I don't like Halloween.

I'll be honest with you....

It does have a bit to do with the historical aspects of Halloween that have given me the initial sour tastes in my mouth.  I just don't like it.  But, I have come to the point of realizing that dressing up in a superhero costume and begging candy off your neighbor isn't really that big of a deal.  We do, however, stay away from all things scary and haunted and gross.

I so wish that I could just take hold of that whole "We Don't Do Halloween" thing and run with it.  But, then I'd be lying to everyone.

Because really what it boils down to is that I just despise the whole costume THING.  And the fact that our town STINKS like skunk when it comes to Halloween-alternative activities also makes me just want to go to sleep on October 30 and not wake up until November.

Here's my take on the costume thing.  When I was growing up, my parents let me participate in Halloween activities like trick-or-treating and such, but we always, always, always MADE our costumes.  I was a gypsy and a hobo for years on end...because we scrounged around for stuff at home.  I'd get into my mama's makeup and doll up in my grandma's jewelry.  It's just what we did.

But now everything is so commercialized.  The racks and racks of neatly packaged costumes that cost $19.99 for cheap polyester hypnotize my children and put these weird voo-doo spells on them.  And it isn't that I can't say "no."  Because I can say "no."  It is the whining and perpetual asking for polyester that just makes me want to pull my hair out one blessed strand at a time. 

AND....

$19.99 x 3 = $59.97 for paper costumes

Do you know what we can do with $59.97??????  But the children don't tend to think in terms of $59.97.  They only think in terms of what's hanging on those racks.  (Do you know that one of my boys actually wanted to be a guy from KISS this year?  Why?  Not because they know who KISS is...but because it was hanging there.  Case in point.)

So this year (actually just yesterday...because I procrastinate), I put my foot down.

Each kid got $5.00 to spend on Halloween costumes.  They could use it to buy supplies to MAKE something (wahoo!!) or they could buy makeup or they could buy something to go with a costume that we already had at home.

.....let me interject here with the fact that we have a costume/dress-up cabinet at home that has no less than 48,397,342 costumes in it of all shapes, sizes, and colors.  Masks.  Hats.  Shoes.  You name it.  But, of course, none of those were "good enough".....

And I'm pleased to report that after much whining and crying over not getting to buy the prepackaged Obi Wan Kenobi or Gene Simmons or Michael Jackson (yes, MJ) costume, we came out successful. 

And today the children are excited about their costumes.

Tate found an army guy hat that he desperately wanted, and when he remembered that we had a soldier costume in the dress-up cabinet...he was thrilled.  $2.99 for army guy hat -- Score.

Keaton decided that he wanted to be a book.  Yes.  A book.  So today we are turning him into a book about whales (his choice), and he is going to end up looking relatively like one of those "The End Is Near" guys from New York City.  But he's happy, so I'm happy.  $3.29 for foam board. $1.29 for elastic. -- Score.

And then there was Sawyer.  He was dead set on being a ninja.  And making a ninja costume would be easy IF you owned a black sweatsuit.  We don't.  (Well...we do, but it has red paint all over it from when one of the boys painted the dog house.  And last time I checked....ninjas don't do paint stains.)  So, we priced everything at the store and GASP! it was going to come out cheaper to just buy the polyester get-up in the package then to buy a hoodie and britches and red material to make all the masks and ties and stuff that he was sure he needed to be an authentic ninja.

So we hatched a deal.  I'd put my $5 towards a ninja costume.  But he'd have to foot the rest if he wanted it that badly.  Smart kid spotted a $12 ninja costume (which was nowhere near as elaborate as the $19.99 one that he was eyeing) and decided that it was just fine.  And he decided that $7 was worth being able to hi-yah his way around the streets tonight.   $12 for a ninja costume. -- Kinda score.  (Because I put the $7 back in his piggy bank without him knowing it...I'm a sucker like that.)

Ah....Halloween.  My least favorite of all the holidays.

But I'm putting on my big girl britches tonight and making the most of it.  I'll parade my soldier, book, and ninja up and down the streets, and I'll come home and fish all the good candy out of their buckets.  I'll tell them that I need to "inspect" those pieces, and then I'll eat them.

And then we'll wake up tomorrow and it will be November.

And it will be time to get ready for my two favorite holidays.  Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Now those I can get excited about.

I Don't Do Parties

Hello. My name is Amber. And I have an addiction.

An addiction to NOT throwing birthday parties for my children.

Birthday parties make me cringe. And break out in cold sweats. And I have been known to feel faint and nauseous when discussing possible party options.

Hospitality is not my thing, and hosting parties at my house is about equal to having a root canal. Picking out party plates does nothing for me except make me anxious, and don't get me started on the party favors. Just don't like it. At all.

In fact, I can count on one hand the number of birthday parties (that friends were invited to) that I've held for my kids on one hand. And combined, my kids have had 20 birthdays. Not such a good record that I've got going on. And those birthday parties were all hosted somewhere other than my house. Like the skating rink. And Chuck E. Cheese. You know...the write the ginormous check, but they do the work for you parties.

All of that to say....I have a problem.

My oldest rascal turns 9 in a week or so. And although the fact that my baby is turning 9 is problem enough for me, my bigger predicament is that he wants a party. Rather, he has a notebook full of plans for this party.

A baseball party.

At the baseball field.

And everyone is to wear either a white shirt or a blue shirt. And we are to have a baseball game.

And his mother is about to have a panic attack.

Because, remember...I don't do parties.

Now before you get all "Suck it up, Cupcake" on me, hear me out.

Because I'm so adamant in my whole No Party Policy, the younger two rascals (who have already had their 2009 birthdays) didn't have friend parties this year. There were no party plates. And no treat bags. And certainly no baseball games turned birthday party.

So...in the interest of not playing favorites, and in the interest of protecting myself from the incessant "It's Not Fair" montage that I know would ensue for the next 567 days, how in the world of all things good and blessed, can I give that boy a party?

Because....really. It isn't fair. And maybe even more than that....

This mama don't do parties.

So...what's a mama to do? And before you start, save the whole, "Just start giving the kids a party" thing. Because even if I tell you that I'll try...I know me, and I know that I won't.

Oh...and don't start feeling all sorry for the rascals. They get a family party (complete with spoilage from the grandparentage), and a homemade cake that is decorated by hand by me, and really groovy presents.

That is, of course, if their mother doesn't forget their birthday. Ahem. But we won't discuss that again. No need to drudge up my excellent parenting skilz.

All In a Day's Work

5:30 a.m......alarm goes off. slap snooze button.

5:40 a.m.....slap snooze.

5:50 a.m.....slap snooze.

6:00 a.m.....slap snooze.

6:10 a.m.....slap snooze.

6:20 a.m.....slap snooze.

6:30 a.m.....turn alarm off. roll out of bed. finally.

6:32 a.m.....lie back down in bed. still sleepy.

6:45 a.m.....force self into shower. water cold. forgot to wait for it to heat up. burr.

6:55 a.m.....stare into closet. nothing to wear. make mental note to do laundry.

7:05 a.m.....still staring into closet.

7:10 a.m.....throw on any.old.thing. who cares.

7:11 a.m.....dry hair.

7:15 a.m.....pack lunchboxes x 3. cafeteria is cleaning out refrigerator since it is last week of school. pat self on back for loving kids enough to not subject them to the leftover mystery meat from last September.

7:20 a.m.....dig clothes out of closets for boys.

7:21 a.m.....fuss at boys because they aren't dressed yet. realize that you are still holding their clothes in your hands.

7:30 a.m.....change clothes. put on another any.old.thing. try to pretend like you don't care, but you really do.

7:35 a.m.....dig flip flops out from under the couch.

7:40 a.m.....shuttle kids to van.

7:41 a.m.....head out of drive way.

7:45 a.m.....remember that you didn't put on your makeup. do u-turn in road.

7:49 a.m.....back home. get makeup.

7:50 a.m....pull out. again.

7:51 a.m.....back in driveway. redhead forgot his poptart.

7:52 a.m.....on road headed to school. 20 minute drive. school starts in 5 minutes. nothing like punctuality.

7:55 a.m.....begin to apply makeup in car. almost hit dog that Barney Fife warned you about.

8:12 a.m....dump kids off at elementary school. smile sweetly at their principal. tardy? who's tardy?

8:15 a.m.....roll into high school. tardy? who's tardy?

8:15 a.m - 3:15 p.m.....do your school thing. wish that you had worn first any.old.thing. also wish that you hadn't done makeup in car. you have mascara smudged down to your belly button. your rearview mirror deceived you.

3:20 p.m.....load boys in car. head to skating rink for compensation party for making the redhead miss his first grade swim party. remember that even though he is mad as fire slightly disappointed, it is not your fault that they aren't allowing siblings to go, but are requiring a parent to attend. also remember that the idea of 40 first graders in a pool doesn't sound fun in any way.

3:22 p.m.....promise redhead that he can get nachos, a soda, candy, and a glow stick at the skating rink because you are so sorry that he didn't get to go swimming today. with 39 other kids. in one teensy pool.

3:23 p.m.....also promise redhead ice cream.

3:24 p.m.....and another glow stick.

3:35 p.m....pull into skating rink parking lot. notice that it is empty. gasp.

3:35:30 p.m......redhead notices that parking lot is empty. no gasp from the redhead. but a yelp exits his mouth.

3:36 p.m.....read sign on door. discover that they are closed. kick self in rear end for not calling ahead of time. wonder why skating rink owners didn't read your mind.

3:37 p.m.....beg redhead's forgiveness.

3:38 p.m - 3:50 p.m....sit in van trying to reason with a highly irritated redheaded first grader.

3:51 p.m....give up reasoning. resort to Plan B.

3:52 p.m.....pull out and head to ice cream shop. pretend like ice cream will make up for a missing a swimming party and a skating party. after all....it is ice cream. right?

4:15 p.m.....arrive at ice cream shop.

4:16 p.m.....make redhead feel like a big shot by announcing that he can order a double scoop whilst his brothers may only have a single.

4:17 p.m....redhead smiles. other two cry.

4:17 p.m.....present yourself with the Mother of the Year Award. because you deserve it.

4:20 p.m.....herd beaming/screaming kids into ice cream shop.

4:25 p.m....order ice cream. redhead orders double scoop of rainbow sherbet with sprinkles. he now approves of you being his mother figure.

4:25 p.m....other two try to order double scoops. you say no. they order singles, but disown you as their mother.

4:26 p.m. - 5:00 p.m.....drown parenting sorrows in a huge bowl of Chocolate Mintster (mint chocolate chip/Oreo/chocolate syrup all fantabulously mixed together on a cold stone).

5:01 p.m.....head to baseball field.

5:15 p.m - 5:30 p.m....boys change into baseball uniforms in car. you look for sunglasses to hide mascara raccoon eyes.

5:31 p.m.....stub toe on dern rocks that litter the field parking lot.

5:32 p.m. - 6:30 p.m.....watch Tate's T-ball game. visit with other moms. make another desperate attempt to appease the redhead by giving him your Diet Dr. Pepper. what were you thinking?

6:35 p.m....find out that older 2 boys have been placed on a baseball tournament team. realize that most of your summer has just been sucked up into a giant pitching machine vortex.

6:36 p.m.....accept that you can get a pretty good tan at the ball fields.

6:37 p.m....realize that you could get a better one at the pool.

6:40 p.m.....head to car. need to get home for Idol.

7:00 p.m.....still driving. hope you set the DVR. because you FORGOT last night and missed The Bachelorette. scandalous.

7:10 p.m.....home. carry Tate in house. realize that he wet his pants while he was napping in the car.

7:20 p.m....finally turn on tv. phew. remembered DVR.

7:20 p.m - 8:00 p.m....watch Idol. love on Kris. get frustrated with Adam. he once again applied his eyeliner better than you. not saying much today, what with the whole rearview mirror thing.

7:20 p.m. - 8:00 p.m.....get highly annoyed with Simon Cowell. he knoweth notteth of whateth he speaketh.

8:01 p.m....feel butterflies for Kris. wonder if you can make it until tomorrow night's AI finale. make a mental note to IM Tiff and talk some smack.

8:02 p.m.....watch the season premiere of Glee.

8:02 p.m. - right this second.....decide that you are going to like Glee. they sing. they dance. and there is drama. perfect.

right this second....decide it is time for bed. maybe tomorrow you won't make one of your kids want to find new parents. and then bribe him with ice cream to make him take you back.

560

I've never won any awards for my math skillz.

In fact, I had to miss most of my recesses in 4th grade to listen to a whiny lady recite multiplication facts to me on a record. I still harbor great resentment towards multiplication for that very reason. Because you just shouldn't have to give up Freeze Tag for Math. It's just not right.

So the fact that I'm about to bust some math moves on my blog is not only extraordinary...it is just plumb crazy. (I feel your eye rolling, Smart Friends....)

Ready for this?

140 x 4 = 560


Ahhh....560 calories ingested into my body in a 15 minute span.

I wish it had been in the form of a doughnut.

Or an ice cream cone.

Or even a big ole' honkin' chocolate bar.

But. Oh no. I chose to dump 560 calories in my body by eating 4, count 'em 4, bags of these...


Your eyes do not deceive you. Those are in fact graham cracker bugs.

And I ate 560 calories worth of caterpillars, dragonflies, and ladybugs today. One after the other.

Because I was hungry. And they were in the car. And because I momentarily forgot that swimsuit season is only 5 weeks away.

So...you're thinking Good one. But don't beat yourself up over it. It isn't that big of a deal.

To which I tell you that if eating 4 bags of children's snacks wasn't pathetic enough, then the fact that I didn't even share with my kids might just take the cake. And I probably also shouldn't mention that they asked me to share....and I mumbled "No" through a mouthful of butterflies.

Excellent parenting once again.

I deserve an extra dose of cellulite for that one.

...And She Takes The Podium And Says....

Hello.

My name is Amber. And I'm a procrastinator.

Hello, Amber.

I also suffer from the addiction of saying things that come back to bite me in the rear.

I'm pretty sure a forty eleven step program is in order.

See this face?

Isn't he precious?

So precious that he was chosen to be the lead in the Preschool Circus. Tate is the "wing masstuh." And so excited about it. He has been counting down the number of "sleeps" until Circus Day.

Guess what? Tomorrow is the circus!

Guess what else? His mama waited until TODAY to hunt for his costume.

Guess what else else? No store in town has any black pants left in his size. (I guess some people actually buy swanky new Easter outfits for their kids....me? Oh no. I'm Mom of the Year....remember?!?!)

Guess what else else else? My BFF Stephanie offered to sew him some pants TONIGHT....what a great friend...willing to bail out a loser mom like me? Couldn't let her do it though.

So...Guess what else else else else? My precious ring master is wearing GIRL PANTS tomorrow.

Shhhhh...don't tell the ring master. He currently is under the impression that all ringmasters have decorative stitching on their pockets....because they are cool like that. Bless his heart. He still believes all his mama's bull.

So. Yes. I'm a procrastinator. And as a result my children might just land themselves in therapy...because one day Tate will look back on the pictures of his ring master days and come to the brutal realization that his mama lied to him....and that ring master's SO do not enjoy decorative stitching.

Oh...the part about stuff spewing out of my mouth and then growing teeth to come back and take a hunk out of my rear?

Yah....that's when I told everyone that Tate would make a pretty girl. And that just once I'd like to put him in a dress or in a cute girly outfit to see how pretty he would be.

Words. Biting. Me.

Tate. Wearing. Girl. Clothes.

Because. His. Mama. Is. A. Loser.

CRAZY -- Day 4

We made it.

CRAZY is officially over, and Steph and I are both still breathing. I do have a few more gray hairs, though...I noticed those when I was getting ready...

At 7:30 this morning.

Again....this little munchkin didn't get the memo on the whole sleepin' in thing. Good thing he's cute, or he might possibly have been chunked across the bedroom this morning.

So we were up. We fed the kids cold pizza and waffles for breakfast, cleaned up the condo (well...if you can call cleaning shoving the cookie crumbs up under the table so they weren't quite as noticeable), loaded the van, and headed out.

Our one and only stop today....Silver Dollar City.

I love this place. It brings back all kinds of crazy good memories of going as a kid with my grandparents and parents. Overpriced funnel cakes. People dressed like Ma, Pa, and Mrs. Olson on Little House on the Prairie. Little stores which make the phrase "bull in a china shop" make total sense when my fellas just breathe on the threshold. Rides which leave you dizzy, wet, and giddy....mostly because they all involve references to hillbillies and moonshine. Nothin' but good clean family fun.

Apparently Steph and I have the same tolerance for rides that spin. Nauseous is not really a color that becomes me. But, because she is a better mom than me, she sucked it up and took one for the team. And they rode this. Uh...that thing spins...and swings.

I want to throw up just looking at it. And look at Sawyer...

...I was really afraid he was going to blow chunks on the poor little girl with the pigtails in front of him.

On to a roller coaster....fun size.

Tate wouldn't ride it. And he proceeded to inform me that he wasn't riding anything the whole day. I pinned myself with another Mother of the Year Award right after I threatened him within an inch of his life if he didn't ride any rides. Yah. Yah. I know. Excellent parenting. But I didn't spend $40 on a ticket for him to play with the sticks in the flower beds. You would have done the same thing....admit it.

But he rode a ride. And decided that he liked it. Like I knew he would.

So we rode pirate ships that made me want to throw up....because they were deceptively non-nauseous looking when I was still in the line.

We rode through the Flooded Mine....and shot bad guys with guns. Now that is just great boy fun!

We rode the train that runs through the park, and we got held up by a couple of bandits.

We ate food that must have been made out of gold because I almost had to sell Tate out in front of the restaurant to pay for it. It was yummy though.

We floated down the Lost River and got S.O.A.K.E.D. (Note...when it is 50 degrees outside...don't ride water rides.)

(Don't let Keaton's sour look deceive you. He's having fun. He's just going through that "I'm to good for your stupid camera, Mom" phase....and we don't even say "stupid" at our house.)

The line for the Lost River was also where we encountered the overly friendly gentleman with his family. He offered to keep our kids with him, as well as our bag....ahem....no, thank you, scary weird man. He did take this picture of all 7 of us though....his only redeeming quality.

Next, we moved on to my favorite....FIRE IN THE HOLE! If you've been, then you are yelling it with me right now! I heart this ride. Tate....not so much.

No pictures...too busy trying to unhand the death grip that Tate had on my arms throughout the ride. Keaton, though, rode the ride with a very nice lady from "Min-nah-sew-duh"...proving that not only are Northeners nice...they have AWESOME accents.

Then we moved on to the American Plunge. I kept the 2 little kids with me, along with a red head who suddenly became a big chicken, and wouldn't ride it. Bah-hum-bug. Steph took another one for the team and took Keaton and Logan on it. They added S.O.A.K.E.D. to soaked.

I kissed my red head on his nose....because being half-way dry was not seemin' quite so bad.

The kids were freezing, there were rain clouds looming, and we needed to wrap up CRAZY. So, we forced the kids to pose for a couple of very strained pictures, made a pit stop at the funnel cake stand (oh, yah, baby!) and the bakery, and were outta there.

Back in the warm van. Wet blue jeans and all.

But we were happy. And smiley. And full of funnel cake.

Silver Dollar City was an EXCELLENT end to a sometimes manic, all the time fun, and fabulously marvelous CRAZY!

Now I need a vacation from my vacation...

Parenting Rule #64 -- Birthdays Are For Remembering

If you are a stranger to Rascal Raising then you aren't blessed to know just how many times I have pinned myself with the Mother of the Year Award. I've won it so many times in my own eyes that I'm thinking of changing it to Mother of the Week...or Mother of the Day...or Mother of the Five Minutes.

You see....when it comes to parenting....I got me some serious skillz.

I can't remember the last time my children ate a green vegetable, I bribe my kids with whoopie cushions and fake vomit, and I've been known to send my kids to bed without brushing their teeth.

And because it would be weird for me to actually have it all together, today I committed one of the carnal sins of motherhood....

Sawyer turned 7 today. And I forgot.

I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do that. Forgetting your child's birthday....is, well, wrong.

In my defense, though, I didn't really forget. Today just crept up on me....even with the constant reminding and big calendar notices.

And because of my awesome skillz, I was left with no cupcakes for his school party, no presents, no cake, no cards, no nothing.

Shameful.

So I did what any self-respecting mother would do.....I totally faked it.

I spent the entire morning tattling on myself (because outing myself to everyone except Sawyer made me feel better), made a mad dash to WalMart on my free period, bought a buggy full of overcompensation, and pranced into Sawyer's classroom bearing all kinds of wonderfulness under the disguise of a super-organized mom.

And I'm now his hero. Because surprise parties are "awesome!"




Gosh....look how cute he is. I feel bad. One day I'm going to 'fess up and let him know that his mom is a loser...

...but then I'll be sure to add that it was his fault my brain is fried.

It would only be good parenting to do so.

Happy Birthday, Sawyer!

You've made our lives everything but boring!

Love, Mama