Lauren-rella

Cinderelly, Cinderelly
Night and day it's Cinderelly
Make the fire, fix the breakfast
Wash the dishes, do the mopping
And the sweeping and the dusting
They always keep her hopping
She goes around in circles
Till she's very, very dizzy
Still they holler
Keep a-busy Cinderelly!

We're cleaning today -- keeping ourselves hopping -- because...

because...

because...

we'll be trying to sell the house soon.

And that

 is all

I can say

about

that.

(Until I come here sobbing about the memories...be on the lookout for weepy Sarah.)

It's Me Against the Pollen

As soon as I sent this column off to my editor, the pollen deities laughed at my confident assumptions. They hurled a greeny-yellow cloud of dust at my poor Lauren's face and made me watch as her eyelids puffed up like jumbo, pink marshmallows.  Still, most of this is working helpfully with a few additions I'll add at the end....

Spring is here, but it’s neither the green grass nor the peeping flowers that have convinced me.  It’s the allergies. 

Although I’ve been one of the lucky few who’s never had to deal with seasonal allergies, my kids haven’t been so fortunate.  While I grew up understanding spring as a colorful, verdant season of romping outdoors without consequence, my preschooler is beginning to see a more complex set of circumstances.  Itchy, swollen eyes, a scratchy throat, sneezing fits – she’s coming under fire from spring’s prolific pollens right now.

For the most part, I’ve been utterly clueless as to how I can help her cope.  I know how to treat fevers and stomach bugs.  I can manage scraped knees and sleepless nights.  But, never having been confronted with allergies before, we’ve reached a time of great learning in our household.  Mainly mine.  And mainly frantic.

I’ve been more interested in finding ways to reduce the pollen from her life than in administering medication, but I’m finding that both are important in treating allergy symptoms.  If I want her to remember spring as hopeful and beautiful, rather than torturous and agonizing, I need to get started with some battle plans.

Soon, the yellow dust of pollen will be coating the world.  Porches, vehicles, rooftops – we’ll see the evidence everywhere.  The first line of defense in keeping pollen out of our house will be closing the windows.  That admission is almost painful to adhere to; I love fresh air blowing through open windows as much as I love low energy bills.  But if it will help keep my daughter free of the worst discomfort from allergies, we’ll close up until the world loses its greeny-yellow tint. 

I’ll also have to remember that endless outdoor playing will come with a price in this season.  I won’t keep my daughter locked inside until summer arrives to set us free again – that’s neither feasible nor enjoyable*.  But I will be vigilant about wiping her skin after she’s been outside.  Pollen can build up in hair and on arms just as it does on porch furniture, so I’ll douse my daughter with a wet washcloth as soon as she’s done playing.  We’ll also aim for baths every night to rinse the pollen from her hair and body as much as possible to limit her exposure**.

Indoors, her bedding should be washed more regularly.  It will be helpful to strip sheets and pillow cases several times a week, throwing them in the wash with her beloved blankies to clear them of their pollen buildup.  She carries her blankies everywhere anyway, so it’s very likely that they’re attracting as much yellow dust as she is. 

Overall, allergies in the family will mean a bit more effort in keeping the house clean.  More frequent vacuuming and dusting of hard floors and surfaces will keep the pollen from taking over.  It might also be helpful to make sure our home’s air-intake filters are changed more often and with higher-quality particle traps. 

When the discomfort can’t be alleviated by cool washcloths to itchy eyes or spoons full of honey for itchy throats, I will be unrepentantly ready with children’s allergy medicine***.  Hopefully, these childhood allergies can be either outgrown or at least not made worse over time.  And as always, we’ll be ready with hugs and comfort – sometimes they’re all it takes to help a little one forget about itchy eyes and scratchy throats. 

{Originally published here.}

*Actually, I am keeping her mostly indoors until the worst of the pollen is past.  We venture out in short bursts and wear sunglasses to keep pollen from blowing into her eyes.  And if it's wildly windy, it's an indoor day for sure. 

**Aiming is an understatement: baths are mandatory.  And since this season is particularly bad, Mia's skin is even flaring up with some allergic reactions, too.  On her neck and behind her knees, where the skin is thin, a rashy, itchy mess has developed.  Hydrocortisone cream has helped immensely. 

***This includes allergy eye-drops.  We haven't actually used them yet, but they're in my medicine cabinet, waiting at the ready.  Poor Lauren's eyes are really badly affected this year -- I'll do anything to help her stop digging at them with her fists!

So how do YOU try to prevent or treat children's allergies?  Anything miraculous?  Please share!

Bigger Picture Moments: Eating Bon-Bons

There are a few specific times in my day that can, if I feel inclined to make them, be used solely for laziness. 

For instance, when Lauren is away to preschool, Landon's morning nap is the most glorious stretch of silence -- perfect for doing nothing.  To shatter the quiet with clanging dishes in the sink or shoving around in the laundry room would ruin the effect, and I do love to hoard silence.  It's such a rare, perfect thing.

So yesterday, I hoarded.  While Landon slept for two and a half hours, I burrowed into the couch.  A blanket was tucked around me, forbidding me from escape.  There was a pillow on my lap, propping up my novel.  I'm convinced that my body completely shut down in this time, only expelling enough energy to turn a page or allow my eyes to focus. 

It was wonderful.

But then, Landon woke up: he nursed; we retrieved Lauren from school; she went to her room to play quietly; Landon napped again; I ate lunch and checked email, and then looked around myself.

My house was a disaster.  I had plans to make some french bread for dinner later but there was no counter space on which to knead dough.  I went into my bedroom to find my shoes and saw instead three loads of laundry I'd meant to fold. 

The grumpies overcame me.  Instead of using my morning hours to knock out some nastiness around this place, I'd done NOTHING.  And when Mia came home from school, Landon would be mostly awake for the afternoon and I'd have my hands so full of chores that I'd have almost no time to play.  To do art projects with the girls.  To experience my kids. 

No, while they ran around outside in the soft and perfect, warm afternoon, I'd be stuck inside, sulking.  Slamming things around in the kitchen with clumsy speed, hoping to have dinner ready before bedtime. 

I was mad at my hoarded free-time.  I know it's not socially cool (something I've never claimed to be anyway) to announce that me-time is selfish, but that's exactly how I felt yesterday. 

By the time Justin and I went to bed, I had gotten almost nothing done.  It was as if I'd literally sat around all day eating bon-bons and watching soap operas: the banal stereotype of stay-at-home moms.  That was me.

I lamented.  "I'm so mad at myself," I told Justin.  He sat on the edge of the bed where I was crumpled in a heap at the foot.  "There was so much I needed to do today, and I just...skipped it all.  You know what I did?  I read.  That's all.  For over two hours -- enough time to clean the whole house -- I read my book.  Ugh!  Why am I so lazy?!"

He raised his eyebrows at my whining.  "Well...I mean...just put the book down next time?"

I rolled my eyes.  "But the thing is, I WANT to read.  I LOVE to read.  I'm ADDICTED to reading."

He shrugged.  Stepped over some dirty laundry on the floor.  Kissed my head on the way to brush his teeth. 

Later, we lay in bed.  Our lamps made the bed -- our hands, our faces -- warm and golden.  My feet were tucked under his calves and we both had books open on our tummies.  I closed the paperback cover, flipped the book over and glared at it.

"Finished?" he asked without looking up from his reading.

I sighed.  "Yep.  It's over now."

"See?"  He turned to face me.  "And you said you didn't get anything done today."  A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.

I laughed; that tease of a smile filled me with promise.

Anyway, no bon-bons for me today.  Lauren and I are going to make banana bread.  I'm going to enlist her help to sort the laundry.  I'll let her play in the bubbles in the kitchen sink.  When Mia gets home, we'll read another few chapters of A Little Princess.

There are things to be done.  And motivation, too; a commodity. 

Let it be written: I will feel happy with this day at its end.  Then, I might search my shelves for a new book with which to reward myself.  Bon-bons before bed never hurt anyone.

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us at Undercover Mother today! Grab the button, link up, and read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

A Failure

I once folded a pile of clean towels. 

Promptly, which was strange.  They usually sit in a heap on some unsuspecting surface -- couch; bed; bassinet -- until the surface is needed for a replacing load of darks or delicates.  But not this pile; it was folded while the towels still clung greedily to the dryer's warmth. 

And the way I fold towels is something to behold.  It takes a certain class of perfectionist to make sure no two blue towels are together, but that the growing tower of mismatched towels are in a sort of succession of color.  Blue, yellow, purple, white, blue, yellow, purple...

I'm very particular.  It's quite necessary.  I haven't figured out why, yet, but still. 

So this stack of warm, clean towels were folded.  On our love seat.  (Because if towels don't say love...)  Then, I did what any right-minded girl would do with such a stack.  I left them there.  Later in the afternoon, they were toppled during the daily seating-area-as-trampoline match-up: the preschooler in this corner, the kindergartner in this corner. 

Blame was placed.  Help was demanded.  Towels were fixed. 

I carried half of the stack to the front bathroom along with an assortment of fine washcloths.  The other half languished, cold and rumpled, in their regurgitated stack.  On the coffee table.  (Because if towels don't say kick your feet up...) 

The sun set.  The sun rose.  Twice.  (Then once more.)

The stack was in the way of a coloring sheet and plate of strawberries on the coffee table, and the linen closet was, perhaps, a few too many steps in the wrong direction.  So the stack was relocated, again.  To the back of the couch.  (Because if towels don't remind you of a stylish, knit throw on the sofa's rear...)

And as I sit here typing, the towels rebuke me.  They are growing flat with helplessness.  Any fluff of promise has departed along with my assertion of good housekeeping skills. 

If it weren't for the satisfaction of a nicely distributed color assortment (blue, yellow, blue, beige), I'd consider throwing the lot of them back into the dryer for another chance at perfection. 

As it is, I'll probably shuffle them to the ottoman.  That's at least seven steps closer to the linen closet. 

I certainly won't make any promises, though; I once folded a pile of clean towels, but the rest is up to fate.

Some Freshness

Oh, you guys!  Have you SEEN?!  There's a new interior design around This Heavenly Life, and I'm SO happy to open the curtains and let the light pour in! 

I've been needing something new for...oh...a couple of YEARS, and I finally gave up the hope of ever learning how to do it myself.  Something about the likelihood of me unleashing terror upon my blog's face which would then spill over into massively destructive code-warp over the internet as a whole...well it made me skittish.  No, I don't see myself as the center of the universe to be able to inflict such far-reaching damage.  But I DO have melodramatic tendencies.  They can be quite paralyzing, actually.

BUT!  There was a rescuer for my drama:

I'd like to thank Dorian Speed of Convolare Design for cleaning up around here and giving me some clean, bright space in which to dream up unlikely scenarios and emo-drivel.  I wanted more writing space, less frill around the edges, and several unknown -- yet picky -- elements that I couldn't really put into words.  So probably, I was a JOY of a client, I'm sure. 

Dorian has been beyond patient with my back-and-forthness, and mostly just...you know...my hero. 

So, thank you, Dorian! You took words like 'clean, simple, and open' and interpreted them into something I'm in love with. 

I now LIKE to look at my blog, and that's an enjoyable feeling.  So not only am I navel-gazing, I'm gazing at my navel-gazing.  With love.  A convolution of narcissism. 

I hope you like it!  We're still ironing out a few particulars, but it's here!

Now I need to go make some hot tea or something.  To soothe my smile-sore cheeks, you know.

What do you think?!

A Family of Spring Cleaners

Maybe it’s the lonely, irrelevant Santa statue that’s been perched on our TV stand since December.   Maybe it’s the overflow of toys that came from an abundant holiday season.  Maybe it’s my brain waking up after a winter’s worth of new-baby-distraction.

Whatever the inspiration, I’m telling you: our house is in need of spring cleaning. 

When our family keeps going and doing without looking too closely at our surroundings, glaring clutter becomes part of the landscape.  Somehow, an ancient pile of junk looks completely appropriate, because it’s been there too long for any of us to remember what the space is supposed to look like.

Yes, we need to buckle down and clean-up before spring. 

Only, the prospect of a weekend – a day, an hour – devoted to nothing but cleaning and organization fills me with doubt.  How can we possibly get anything worthwhile accomplished with three small children around?  Their playing, I imagine, will automatically undo any progress towards a fresh, clean house. 

Unless I embrace their energy and enlist their help to get the job done.

Very small children can actually be helpful with chores and cleaning, especially when the whole family is on board.  Here’s my plan for making use of the kids and their growing abilities as we approach spring cleaning together.  Maybe these easy ideas will help your family do the same.

We’ll make it playful.  There will certainly be upbeat music involved, as we dance our way through the chores.  Daddy’s socks on kindergarten-sized feet would make perfect dust-mops, and the background beats of our favorite music will keep us all motivated.  We’ll also add a little bit of friendly competition to keep the tasks entertaining.  Think, ‘Daddy and the preschooler against Mommy and the kindergartner in the battle of the sorted laundry.’ 

We’ll assign jobs that work with each child’s strengths.  One girl is very particular about things being just right, so she’ll be asked to carefully sweep every bit of floor debris into a small masking-taped square on the kitchen laminate.  She’ll have a child-sized broom to facilitate independence.  Another girl is especially enthusiastic about making faces in the mirror, so she’ll be given a vinegar-soaked rag and asked to wash all the mirrors.

The day will include breaks for the kids with no-mess activities like movies or coloring pages.  This will allow mom and dad time to tackle more labor-intensive work without worrying about new messes cropping up. 

We’ll modify chores that are typically out of their skill set.  Our preschooler, for example, is too small to push the heavy vacuum around, but she can definitely run the hand-held attachment over the couch cushions without much difficulty. 

We’ll expect distractions from our own tasks.  I have a bad habit of not being at my most gracious when my focus is interrupted.  So if I’m in the middle of sorting through a closet full of toddler clothes and a little one disturbs my flow, I’ll take a deep breath and show her how she can help. 

When the kids are included in our spring cleaning, my hope is that we’ll be able to get some work done while also learning the merits of teamwork.  Something I’ve realized while contemplating the state of our sloth is that if a thing is worth doing, it’s worth showing your children how to do, too.

[Originally published here.] 

Bigger Picture Moment: Taking Up Slack

My youngest daughter and I are in a fight right now.

Well, not right now; this battle emerges daily for a few periods of time before being resolved happily and melting away into the past, where I'm sure it will remain until, sadly and inevitably, it crops up once more.

It's ridiculous.

It's the pick up your toys battle.  And I'm just about out of tactical maneuvers.  Lauren, though, has plenty. 

She doesn't mind if I confiscate the non-picked-up toys, hauling them away in bags or boxes to another room until she's proven that she can handle picking up after herself.  She really hasn't been bothered by being told she can't exit her room until she's put away the toys.  She almost didn't get dinner one night because she refused to budge.  (And how terrible is it that I even threatened such a thing?  I never thought she'd come remotely close to making me follow through!)

The standoffs might last for hours, and are almost daily.  I've stopped taking the toys away from her if she doesn't clean them up, because she just doesn't care.  She's probably happy to be rid of the mess.  So I stand firm.  Which I hate.  Really, I'm a terrible firm parent.

It's true that I'd like to be able to make this all go away (poof!) like magic.  I'd like to have things simple and easy, especially since there's about to be a baby in the house.  And maybe that's where my insecurity really lies.

If I'm about to add another child to the family, shouldn't I be better able to keep the house running smoothly by now?  Shouldn't I have it all under my belt, with children who have learned to understand the value of picking up after themselves?  Of being considerate and thoughtful no matter what? 

But nothing stops just because a baby is on the way.  The lessons I'm trying to impart to my first two children will still need imparting.  I'm not starting over -- I'm adding-to.  Which sounds both liberating and frightening at the same time.

So I stand firm, perhaps more firm than I would if there weren't a baby about to join us.  Maybe my resolve will help her learn about picking up her toys; maybe it'll only aggravate both of us to the point that we're angry so often that we throw in our respective towels.  I don't know.

What I do know, is that when faced with something that is out of my control, I try very hard to gather control in all other areas indiscriminately.  When the upcoming birth will happen is out of my control.  How we'll settle into life as a family of 5 is unknowable.  Whether or not I'll fall apart at the seams from lacking the logistical knowledge required to manage 3 kids simultaneously is still up in the air.

So I'm tightening up my strings in other places, taking up slack, getting ready for the waves to become bigger for awhile. 

And that means that my sweet Lauren, baby of my heart, and I -- we're going round and round.  Luckily, on the flip side of our circle, there's always a little girl who hugs and kisses her mama, even if she has to put her ponies all back in the box instead of leaving them on the floor for all of eternity. 


(But help me out -- how do YOU get a 3-year-old to pick up after herself?  Part of seeing the Bigger Picture today, for me, means that I need your advice!)

We're seeing the Bigger Picture through simple moments -- moments that force us to stop and take notice of the ways our worlds are important, meaningful, and beautiful. Please join us today at Lenae's place! Grab the button, link up, and then read a few others to encourage them as they walk this journey of intentional living.

An Imperfect Understanding of 'Nest'

It is 8:45 PM -- considerably past the time when my pregnant body told me I should already be in bed -- and I've successfully removed my contacts.  I'm wearing my husband's shorts and a too-short T-shirt, and I'm getting ready for blessed sleep.

But instead of crawling into bed, I notice some yucky spots behind my bathroom sink's faucet.  They've been there for months, yes, but at this moment, they're mocking me with their mildewy stamp of disapproval; I'm a terrible housekeeper.  I grab a bottle of something that will remove all traces of mockery from those yucky spots, and start spraying. 

I scrub.  I move on to the sink proper, and scrub some more.  It looks nice, I think, but more importantly, there are no more yucky spots to haunt my dreams tonight.  I can rest.

Except, I remember: the bathtub is also sporting some proof of my housewifely laziness.  And since the spray bottle and sponge are still in my grip, I head that way. 

Except, I remember again: the drain in this tub has been clogged for a few days now.  If I want to clean this and have it mean anything, I need to do surgery first.  With a screwdriver and a pair of tweezers. It takes me awhile to remember where the tweezers are (on top of the microwave in the kitchen -- makes sense, right?), but when I finally find them, I am ready. 

So, it is 9:10 PM, and I'm on my hands and knees in the dirty bathtub, digging for unmentionable masses of drain-clogging matter with an old pair of tweezers.  And finding a strangely grotesque satisfaction in seeing what I can pull out next.  Since I only gag twice in this process, I consider it a success.  Especially when the job is done. 

Spray bottle in hand (again), I douse the bathtub with lemon-scented suds, and get to scrubbing.  The bottle pledges to contain a 'scrub-free' solution that will simply eat away at any foul accumulations in my tub, but it is lying.  I must summon elbow-grease and shoulder-grease and every other kind of grease in order to make the tub perfectly clean, for perfectly clean it must be. 

Standing up -- snapping joints in my legsbackknees as I rise -- I remember the laundry I need to switch out.  I've already completed three loads of laundry since the girls went to bed, but piles of it are multiplying on my bed, and it is all pink.  I think of how that will change.  Three weeks.  So soon?

Now, it is 9:45 PM and I am standing in the baby's nursery.  There are paint squares lining the edge of the crib where they either match or contrast with his newly arrived bedding.  There are drawers full of tiny onesies and footie pajamas.  The window is open to allow a cleansing breeze -- so cool and fresh on this September evening.  I look around and smile.  Then I worry....

With only three weeks left, I wonder when my nesting instinct will kick in?  Because so far...I've gotten nothing done.

Is This Nesting, or Mere Insanity?

The day was gorgeous, the sun was shining, and the air outside was...well it was unbearable.  And by unbearable, I mean that as soon as I and my basketball-belly stepped outside, we would have created a sweaty, red-cheeked, not-pretty scene. 

Therefore, I did what any normal mother does on sweltering days: I decided to scrub the toilets.  Not only that, but I also needed to sweep, dust, empty trash, wash towels, and make beds.  (You know -- to avoid the irritation of a sweaty scene...)  While it seems senseless with a capital DUMB, I had a very good reason to be frantically cleaning, for frantic I was. 

The carpet man was coming. 

I know!  The carpet man!  He who probably never sees a house in disrepair!  Never in the course of all his furniture-moving, decade-old pad removal, dusty-fiber cutting work could he have possibly come across a dust bunny or -- gasp! -- less than sparkling toilet!

But you see, he wasn't coming to do dirty work that day, he was only coming to do a consultation and measurement.  The consultation, because neither Justin nor I have much luck deciding on definitive carpet or flooring choices, much less what will look good when paired together, since we're having our entire house re-floored sometime in the very near future.  So I had to clean.

Moreover, as I scrubbed our toilets and wiped our counters, it entered my fevered thinking that I was also cleaning for a very odd reason.

A completely irrational reason.

In my head, after I got it all sorted out, it went like this:  What if, upon seeing the disastrous condition of our living space, the carpet man hugs his gorgeous samples of rugs and tiles and laminates to his chest, exclaims in horror, and refuses to part with his goods for fear that they'll end up being less-than well cared for?  What if we're deemed unworthy recipients of his services?!  What if they don't trust us enough for the 'good' consultation, and merely give us the bare minimum that they think we'll actually be able to handle, based on our clearly sub-par cleaning standards?!

All this because of a pile of towels on the floor and a scattering of crumbs under the kitchen chairs and a mess of dishes in the sink.  Oh, and some bags of donations in the hallway.  Also, a mash of banana on the table.

But who's nesting, right?

Not I, said the crazy lady.

The Incredible, Inflatable Madness

The first of June dawned hot and humid here in Missouri, and as soon as the heat marked its prickly, sweaty presence, I remembered our inflatable pool.

The one that's been languishing, flattened and neglected, in a far corner of our back yard for the past 9 months, give or take a late Indian-summer weekend or two.

There was no telling if the thing was salvageable after being exposed to so many months of ice and snow and wind and sun and stomping toddler feet, but I gave it my best shot. 

Here's how my best shot looks: stare balefully at the mud-crusted vinyl circle for three days, wondering what manner of crawling creatures could be hiding under its blue bottom.  I was all set to leave it on the ground for another 9 months, if that meant I could avoid being freaked out by bugs or snakes or mud or something...but that would have meant a trip into town for a new pool. 

And 'town' right now has been a little bit more than I can bear.  I didn't want to drive anywhere to get a new pool, therefore I was left with one option: pool cleanup.  I commenced with much grimacing and tiptoeing, hoping to be spared the irritation of a rip or hole.

Three hours later....

The job was done.  I'd peeled a growing mushroom from the pool's wicked underbelly.  I'd sprayed a wriggling worm from between the wedged crevices.  I'd smashed a half-dozen spiders with my giant sponge.  I'd wasted gallons of hose-water in the scrubbing down of each mud-plastered inch of plastic.  I'd made myself dizzy by wasting gallons of fresh air from my own lungs to inflate the stupid, dirty thing.  I'd accidentally sat in a nest of tiny ticks or chiggers while doing the inflating, awarding myself with several itchy bumps in several inopportune places.

But it worked! 

We swam and splashed and invited our cousin, Evie, and the pool was a success! 

Nothing leaked that I could see, and if one ring lost a bit of height, I blew a few mouthfuls of air into it without much trouble.

For two whole days, my hard-won inflatable pool was nearly perfect.

Until we woke up yesterday and saw:

Sadness.

But now, finally, we're ready to make the trip into town for a new pool.  Our summer depends upon it.  And I promise promise promise to put the new one away properly at the end of the season.

My sanity depends upon it.

This Is So, So Gross

It's been an unrealistic fear, hidden in the recesses of my mind, that something like this would happen one day.

And now the day has come. The fearsome thing has happened.

It goes like this:

When Mia was in diapers, we used a Diaper Genie to hide her beastly productions. We shoved that thing full of all manner of nastiness, knowing we'd have to empty it later, but enduring the task for a lack of better options. And when we'd open it to be emptied later, well, it wasn't a fun job. It was the most malodorous, stinking heap of wadded up plastic and balled up diapers you could ever hope (or NOT hope) to encounter. I think I withered a few brain cells trying to empty it while holding my breath, choosing the more pleasant way to dizzy myself: from asphyxiation rather than odoriferocity (I'm sure that's a word, right?). Plus, the liners required to make the gadget work seemed far too expensive.

So, I wasn't a fan of the Diaper Genie.

When Lauren came along, I banned the Genie from the nursery. I preferred to walk to the garage and place the dirty diaper directly into the trash bin, a practice that became a contentious point between Justin and I. Because I became lazy about it. I'd toss the wadded-up, taped-down diaper down the garage steps or down to the garage doors where the trash bin waited, being too lazy or BUSY with the business of motherhood to walk all the way to the bin, lift the lid, and throw the diaper in.

Sometimes, though, a wayward fantastical nightmare scenario would flit across my consciousness about the possible downfall of my chosen diaper removal method. In scenario A, the diaper would be flying down the length of the garage, on its way to the floor beside the trash bin, when the tapes would inexplicably come loose, unleashing the contents of the heavily soiled diaper all over our car, our recycling bins, and our lawn chairs, before entirely exploding when it landed on the floor. Horrific to imagine. Improbable, but horrific. I worked hard to avoid the manifestation of this scenario.

In scenario B, a diaper would be flung down to the trash bin end of the garage by my admittedly bad throwing arm, landing under the back of our vehicle instead of in its intended resting place, and be forgotten about until it was run over by the back wheel of our SUV, SPLOOFing its smashed contents on the cement floor before being smudged all over our tires or dragged across our garage. And while I worked hard to avoid the manifestation of this scenario as well, I also underestimated my ability to remember when I'd mis-thrown a diaper.

Which happened the other morning. There was a hidden diaper, fouled and filled, languishing directly behind our rear tire.

Justin started the car...the girls were buckled safely into their carseats...I was nestled happily into the passenger side...Justin backed the car out of the garage...

SPLOOF.

Contents. Smashed on the cement floor. Shot out both sides of a day-old diaper.

And away we drove. Never again to return.

Except, we had to return. We did rock-paper-scissors to decide who had to clean up the mess.

The winner (loser!?) is still rocking himself in the fetal position, trying to eradicate the nightmares from his delicate mind.

Potty training should probably now be amped up to full throttle.

Peace be with you.

While I Hum A Merry Tune

Sometimes at the end of the day, bathtime is the least appealing thing to be faced with. Yes, my girls are adorable all lathered up and splashing (and I'm thankful that we have warm water in which to splash, agreed), but...ugh. It's probably been a long day by that point and I'm ready for the handsome husband to take over while I do something else. Something quiet and alone. Every so often I'd rather be cleaning up the dinner mess, folding laundry, staring at the sunset, anything but another minute of chattering noise and attention.

This is selfish of me, yes.

But it is true.

One night last week, Justin read my open book of a face and said some magical words which I vow never to forget:

Why don't you vacuum while I take care of bathtime?

I looked at him with adoration and a slightly weepy countenance. Right now? I asked. You want me to...skip bathtime..so I can vacuum?

He nodded in encouragement, and I planted a kiss square on his lips. My hero.

A few months ago, I would have been as equally averse to both bathtime and vacuuming at the end of tiring day. But one of my best Christmas gifts changed all of that:

Now I am a card-carrying, sonnet-singing, machinery-praising Dyson owner, thanks to Justin's mom. It's so powerful. And light. And efficient. And gorgeous. I turn it on and transform into a graceful dancer; the Dyson follows my confident lead, and together -- a perfect team -- we clean house.

The magnificent purple ball (the engine, I believe) rolls over our old, worn-out carpet, seeking hidden dust and crumbs, sweeping away the evidence of toddlers. I push my lovely Dyson one handed, gracefully moving around furniture and marveling at the swirling nastiness encapsulated within its canister. I sigh. I smile. The fact that I'm doing this while bathtime is underway is just too perfect for words. It's just me and the vacuum. Dancing all over the house.

Plus, there's the added benefit of getting to peer into the canister and squeal with disgusted glee over the sheer volume of junk that gets trapped in our carpet. Justin has been angling for months to put in wood laminate flooring to alleviate the feeling of dust-infested carpet underfoot. But now? No sir. I want carpet. I need carpet. My Dyson and I MUST HAVE CARPET to dance upon. We need carpet to further the time we have to get to know one another, and we're only getting started. I only know that I love it.

Our old vacuum took all of my (limited, but feisty) muscle power to monster its way around the house. It was stunningly loud -- the girls would cower together on a bed, behind a closed door, until the terrifying creature was finished roaring. The Dyson, not so much. I can hold a conversation with a brave little girl who watches from the couch as the box of cereal she upturned in the living room is being swept away. I can hear myself composing love poems to the beautiful appliance. I can hear my adorable woodland creature friends chirping and ooh-ing and ahh-ing and coo-ing at the efficiency and speed with which my household chores are completed.

Fine. That last part was clearly stolen from a fairy tale.

My household chores are never completed with efficient speed, though my woodland friends are supportive of my efforts. Even a Dyson can't fix lazy.

But it's sure doing a good job convincing me of its loveliness in the meantime. Especially when that convincing begins at precisely the same hour as bathtime.

Urine, Too Much Urine

It was bright.

Too bright.

I glanced out the window at the frozen ground, covered with crusty snow, reflecting all the harshness of the sun's rays back into the nursery. My eyes, offended by the fiery whiteness, blanched with pain.

Bright snow did not help the brewing headache.

I stepped away from the window to turn my attention to the girl -- the unclothed girl -- who was dancing gleefully around the room. She'd stripped her clothes off in an attempt to delay naptime, but I wasn't playing along: she could sleep naked for all I cared. Naptime was here.

She scaled the side of her sister's crib and plopped down to have a pretend nap while I closed the window shades and straightened up the room. In my almost-headached state, I was dismayed to hear what happened next.

UH-OH! Maaaaaamaaaa! Lauren's bed is peed on! It's EVERYWHERE!!

I sidled up to the crib (none too anxious to see the damage) and beheld the broadest, yellowest, soppiest pee stain I'd ever witnessed before. And I've seen my fair share. It seeped out to her blankets, wadded at the foot of the bed. It eased up to her pillow. It covered at least half of the entire crib mattress -- the middle of the crib was soaked from bumper to bumper.

Groaning, I hauled the girl from the wet mattress and began answering her myriad questions while I stripped the bed.

Where did all that PEE come from, mama? (I guess it must've been from Lauren, she woke up with a too-wet diaper in the middle of the night last night...but there couldn't have been THIS much...)

Why did she PEE so much, mama? (I don't know, baby.)

Oh, *hehe* she must have had TOO much water! (Yes, Mia, you're probably right. Huh. You would think I would have noticed so much pee when I laid her down in a clean diaper.)

Why did her diaper not hold it all? (I don't know, babe. But I KNOW I would have noticed this when she woke up this morning. Huh.)

I was stumped.

Too stumped.

I hauled the stinking mess of sheets, blankets, pillow, and mattress liner to the hallway. The fumes were enough to make me stumble and grimace before I made it to the laundry room.

This didn't make any sense. Lauren had woken up, crying, at 2:30 that morning. She was pushing at her diaper, moaning take off, take off. I had felt her hips, and sure enough, her pajamas were cold and wet with overflowed urine. I changed her into a clean diaper and pajamas, and she fell right back to sleep. When she woke up in the morning, she was happy...and dry. There was no way she could have laid in that crib and been anything other than soaked if the pee had been there at the same time as her.

I mentally retraced my steps that morning, making sure I'd not felt a wet baby at any point in time. Shaking my head, knotting my brow, I concentrated.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

Still confused, I went to retrieve a clean sheet and pillow from the other bedroom. The bedroom which had not yet been darkened for naptime -- through the window, the glaring snow assaulted my eyes once again. I shivered a little, thinking about how cold it was out there. So cold and frozen, in fact, that we'd allowed our outdoor cat to spend a few hours of each day, for the past 3 days, indoors. In the warmth. We were feeling benevolent with the holidays, and hated to see him tiptoeing across the iced-over snow.

As memories usually play back -- in rushes -- yesterday's conversation with my husband's grandmother zoomed through my thoughts.

Now you have a litter box for him, right? You don't?! Oh, my goodness. You'd better get him one quick if he's going to be indoors for any length of time. If the snow is too frozen for him to dig in, he'll just hold it all in until he can find a soft place to go.

A soft place to go...

I stopped what I was doing and stomped to the laundry room. I picked up the least peed-upon item of bedclothes, the pillow, and gave a quick sniff. Blech.

Cat pee. Definitely cat pee.

The mystery was solved. I turned the washing machine on to HOT and dumped the load into the bubbling water, determined to eradicate the smell of cat urine from my daughter's bedsheets.

I finished up the crib-makeover, read stories to the sleepy girls, and put them to bed. In clean, soft, warm beds. I wandered to the kitchen, peeked out the back door, and there he was.

The cat.

He stretched up to the doorknob, rattling and mewing to be let inside. I squinted through the bright afternoon light and smirked a threatening grin at him. His days of cozy comfort were over. So much for being benevolent.

It was trouble.

Too much trouble.

A Working Weekend

If weekends could take on physical form and move around in a life-like way, this last one would have been a big, brawny, shouting drill sergeant. It pushed us so far away from sitting still to relax that it was hardly recognizable as a weekend.

There was a trip to the recycle center that's been needed since the first week in October, some grocery shopping, a pumpkin patch visit, my Pampered Chef party and all its requisite house cleaning, and a family pumpkin carving party. And because most of those things were really fun it didn't take a drill sergeant to make us want to do them, but the house cleaning part kind of overtook everything else and wore us out.

My house is presentable on a daily basis. Pretty much. But when company comes, I find a million things that I'm sure people will notice to wrinkle their noses at. I think I'm not alone here, right? So this drill sergeant of a weekend breathed down our necks as we dusted and vacuumed and scrubbed our way to a sparkling house.

Justin stayed home from church to get a list of tasks taken care of. He cleaned cobwebs out of porch corners. Disassembled the clogged vacuum to release it from miles and miles of my hair threatening to choke it's life away. Moved my grandma's pink recliner from its awkward spot in the living room. Rearranged the bedroom furniture to make room for the pink recliner. Decided the pink recliner wouldn't fit and moved it into Lauren's room instead. Moved Lauren's rocking chair into our bedroom and then cleaned up every part of the messes he'd made in moving all the furniture. He was super-husband, making my party preparations much simpler and keeping me from hyperventilating.

My mom also came over early to help get everything set up, meaning she found things I hadn't thought of and cleaned the heck out of them. For example, there are several old stains in our carpet. Not huge spots; just little bits of discoloration that we haven't been able to remove. We've scrubbed with carpet cleaner. We've used a big, bulky steam cleaner. We've tried every way we knew how, but never been able to get those stains out. Enter: Mom. She filled a bowl with warm water and a squirt of Palmolive dish soap, sudsed up the stains with bubbles, scrubbed them away, and now our carpet is clean. In less than 5 minutes, my mother accomplished what we haven't been able to do in over 4 years. Why we don't invite her to live with us, I'm not sure.

The party went well, I was happy with my uber-clean house, Justin and my mom proved themselves to be indispensable - the day was a success, but I'm worn out. After such a busy weekend, I'm showing my age and wanting to be as lazy as possible now that the drill sergeant's not yelling at me anymore.

But soon, if you're up for it, I plan on posting one thousand-ish pictures from our pumpkin patch visit. Be here or be square. Lauren hugging pumpkins will be the cutest thing you've ever seen.

My Game Is Faltering

Lauren is at that scream-inducing stage where she's into everything at once. Therefore, I am at that stage where I scamper behind her, righting the house as she torments it.

Sunday morning, I cleaned up an overturned cereal box only to turn around and see that she'd emptied the bookshelf. While I shelved books, she dumped a box of Q-tips all over my bathroom floor. As I scooped those up, she plucked about 70 sheets of Kleenex from the box on my nightstand. With my back turned to refold the wadded Kleenex, she dragged her finger through my tub of lip balm before running away yelling something about SNACK! and CRACKERS!

At each new crisis, I said NO! very sternly and seriously. At each new NO! she ducked her chin to hide a naughty smile. After several attempts to curb whatever messy bent she was on, I gave up. It wasn't time for snacks, but I could no longer summon my inner disciplinarian. Lauren knew how to dig her fist into the Goldfish box - I'd let her do it if it meant I could have a moment to wipe the lip balm off the side of my nightstand.

I should have known better.

A few moments after she'd run to the kitchen, Lauren raced back to me. "Iiiiiihhhh!" she whined through puckered lips. "Eeeeeehhh! Mama mama eeeeeeeee yucky! Ishwinawa yucky!" Her little legs propelled her down the hallway while her hands rubbed at her mouth and cheeks. They were coated in coarse, black bits of some unknown substance. I had no clue what it could have been - she'd long since abandoned potting soil after tasting it a few times. It held no charm for her; I doubted she'd have tried it again.

"What is that, Lauren?" I prodded. "What did you eat?" She turned back around and marched down the hall, narrating the offense as we went. She pointed and gestured, looking for all the world like she'd been forced to ingest the mystery substance. I followed my indignant child until we reached the mess.

Loose leaf tea. Flung around the kitchen and living room floors.

The accosted box lay defeated on the carpet near a pile of tea. It had been no match for Lauren's prying fingers and had spilled its contents in various heaps around the room.

"Oh, sweetie," I frowned. "You ate dry TEA?"

At this, she babbled with relief. Still verbalizing her disbelief at being insulted with the bitter black tea, Lauren followed me to the kitchen for a washcloth and sippy cup of water. I cleaned her up and she drank deeply while I headed for the vacuum.

And that was punishment in itself. Both of my girls are scared of the vacuum: Mia's gotten over her fear for the most part, but Lauren still hides from it. I cleaned up the mess with her clinging to me.

At least with her on my hip, I could guarantee she wasn't off creating havoc in another room.

But I will say this for her: All the running around she necessitates may ease me back into my skinny jeans. Because I don't see the messes ending any time soon.

Call Me Gumshoes

When I was younger - a little girl, even - I loved to be organized. I had all of my kitschy knick-knacks arranged in specific order on my shelves, right above my descending height-ordered books and specifically placed stuffed animals. My mom always gave me the task of unloading the dishwasher, I'm convinced, because she knew I'd settle the tupperware into nicely nested stacks and the glasses into neat rows. When I grew up and got jobs and had bills, I paid those bills quickly and efficiently. All two of them.

Somehow over the years, though, my well organized life has squeezed out the edges and spilled over the sides and spread its messy fingerprints everywhere. My life laughs in organization's face; My life needs a swift kick in the backside to get its slovenly act together. I misplace things on a regular basis, and because the house is generally in a state of bordering disarray, it's heck to find anything that isn't right where it should be. Our bills are paid in a 'What day is it? The 15th?! Crud...I'll be right back.' sort of way. There are clothes upon clothes in the girls' closets that no longer fit or are for the wrong season, and since I've yet to sort them all out, the clothes that do fit are piled on tops of dressers. It's a sad situation with nowhere to place the blame but on my own disorganized shoulders.

As bad as that last paragraph sounds, it's not the worst of it. The worst of it is that I'm always cleaning or straightening something, so I know the problem is not lack of cleaning skills or gumption. The problem is disorganization. If there was a method to my madness, I have a feeling there would also be a lot more peace in our household. Maybe more fun. Maybe. Because sometimes the losing objects part can be entertaining.

Case in point - the latest item to go missing around here was my cell phone. Yesterday I searched and searched with no luck. Meaning, I looked in the obvious places and gave up hope after that. I decided to just use the home phone to dial my cell phone and follow the ringing to the jackpot. Which would have been really simple if I could've found the handset to the home phone. It was just gone. Luckily for losers (heh - get it?) like myself, our cordless phone comes equipped with a handset locator. A little pager button I can push from the phone base to find the missing handset.

I pushed that locator button and followed the beeps to the handset which was wedged behind our TV. On first guess, I'd say that had something to do with a toddler. And I'd bet about a thousand dollars that I was correct. (A thousand dollars is a lot of money!)

Next step, dial my cell phone number and follow the ringing to find it. Dialed, listened, searched - but sadly, not found.

I dialed again, hearing a very faint ringing from somewhere in the kitchen. Scouting out the exact location was tricky. It was somewhere around my kitchen island/pantry but not anywhere I looked. Not under the pile of junk on the counter top. Not in the fruit bowl. Not fallen down beside the island. Not anywhere.

For the third time, I dialed the cell phone. This time, I recruited Mia's help. Now we were both sniffing around the pantry, looking in all the right places, moving hotter and colder until finally the phone stopped ringing again without us finding it. Had it melted into the floorboards? Become invisible? I could very distinctly hear the faint ringing when I was right by the island, but the second I'd move to a nearby counter top or stool, it got quieter. Leading me to believe it was somewhere on the island. In some secret hiding place, maybe?

Again, I dialed the phone. Dial number 4. I was on a mission this time. Mia had lost interest and wandered away, but I had my game face on, honed my x-ray vision, and crouched down to look the island directly in its wood-paneled face. Slowly, I got the impression that the ringing was coming from inside the island. Even though I couldn't imagine it being there, I pulled out the top pantry shelf thinking maybe the phone had fallen in earlier. There was no phone in sight, but the ringing was louder now; we were definitely getting hotter. After rummaging around the cereal and cracker boxes for a minute, the ringing stopped again.

But I was on to it. My phone-finding reflexes led me to reach out and grab the Pop-Tart box. I opened it, and THERE sat my phone, the screen dimming from the glow of 4 missed calls.

"A-HA!" I yelled triumphantly. My chest was heaving from exhilaration, and my eyes must have been bright with victory. Looking around to see who'd witnessed my tracking skills, I found an empty room. So empty, in fact, that I had no hesitation in doing a terribly unflattering victory dance. That phone was hard-won, darn it.

Even so, I'd like not to go through that whole rigamarole again soon. Granted, I'd bet another thousand dollars that the situation was instigated by the same toddler as the home phone misplacement, but there's got to be a way to keep our house better organized. So that next time something goes missing, I don't have to sift through piles of junk with no proper place in order to find what I need.

I can just go directly to the Pop-Tart box instead.

Tally For The Day

Times the toddler threw up: 3

Times the toddler threw up in her carseat: 1

Times the toddler threw up on This Heavenly Mama: 2

Minutes spent on the side of the road cleaning up the puked-upon toddler and carseat: 11

Hours the toddler slept: 4:10

Saltines the toddler successfully kept down: 3

Loads of vomitous laundry washed: 3

Blankies washed: 3 (She got one each time)

Times Lambie was washed: 2 (Poor thing was only spared once)

Times This Heavenly Mama accidentally touched diarrhea: 1

Pairs of jeans worn all day by This Heavenly Mama with dried throw-up on them: 1

Pairs of jeans that were unwearable due to being under sweaty workout clothes in the laundry pile: 4

Hours This Heavenly Mama spent with dried vomit under her thumbnail before noticing its presence: 5ish

Occasions the words "thisisgrossthisisgrossthisissoooogross" were muttered: 8

Moments that were Heavenly in spite of the vomit and diarrhea and laundry and crying toddler: None. OK, some. Maybe, like, 7. Or 15. 20 at most. But definitely not more than 30. That would be ridiculous. Right?

This Is The Thanks I Get?

We've been pretty lucky on the potty training front. (I can't believe I just said that out loud! Quick - throw some salt over your shoulder!) (What?) Mia's been trained for close to a year now, and we've only had a handful of accidents. They've cropped up when she's been too excited to take time away from the fun, or when I haven't been diligent in asking if she needs to go. Very rarely, she's had an accident in the middle of the night.

Such as last night.

After calming her cries and assuring her that this was no big deal, I stripped off her wet jammies, getting myself soaked in the process. I wiped her down with a warm washcloth and dressed her in dry jammies, laying her on a pillow on the floor while I worked. I quickly changed her sheets, switched out the blankets, and tried not to notice the pee that had gotten on my own pajamas. I'd have to change, too. I piled the wet clothes and bedding in the bathroom to be dealt with in the morning, and scrubbed my own hands free of the urine smell they'd absorbed. Then, I tucked her back into a clean, soft bed. I leaned down and kissed her face, snuggling for just a moment before saying goodnight.

So grateful was she for my midnight service that she looked up at me with sleepy eyes and mumbled:

"Someone has the yucky! It's not me, mama, it must be you! You need to go brush your teeth, OK?"

I just nodded on my way out the door, and went to change my clothes. Clothes that were soaked through with my precious baby's urine. I walked past the pile of stinking bedding, wondering how lucky one mom can be.

I get to have urine-interrupted sleep, followed by midnight insults.

Woo.

But how weird am I, that I love this pee-soaked, nighttime crying, morning-breathed life?

Don't answer that.

The Devil IS A Blue Dress

For picture day last week, Mia wore a brand spankin' new dress: turquoise with white polka dots and a yellow ribbon around the empire waist. It suited her perfectly, bringing out her blue eyes and complementing her skin. She looked beautiful.

That night at dinner, she had chocolate milk in a sippy cup. No danger of spilling, I thought. However, this particular sippy cup had been chewed on and abused to the point that it was no longer spill-proof. I didn't realize until dinner was almost over, that Mia had spilled tiny drops of chocolate milk all over her beautiful new dress.

I don't usually worry about her being a messy eater, unless it's something inherently dangerous like soup or spaghetti. More often than not, we're lucky if she eats at all, so I don't get too concerned about whether or not she'll get herself messy.

I should have worried about it that night. After she was in bed, I sat huddled over her dress with a Tide To-Go stick, finding each tiny individual stain. It would have looked like brown polka dots had invaded the white ones, had I not hunted for every single one. Some stains were so deep into the fabric that it took several tries to erase them enough to where I thought they'd wash out clean.

This was backbreaking work, and I spent close to an hour with the dress before I called it quits. By the end, my eyes were seeing polka dots wherever I looked; they had been burned into my retinas. But I salvaged a dress that had only been worn once, and this was worth temporary blindness.

I threw the dress in the washing machine, confident that it would be as good as new when I pulled it out. It would live to see another wearing.

This is not the case.

It will not be worn again, at least by Mia.

It has shrunk to about 2/3 it's original size.

I said some words.

And I don't regret it.

The Cold, Hard Truth

Me: Hey babe, what do you want to do this afternoon? Do you have any plans?

Him: Let's just hang out here today. I don't feel like going anywhere.

Me: 'Kay. Then would it be OK if we do some heavy-duty house-cleaning? You can watch the girls while I vacuum, then we can dust, and...

Him: (mouth open in horror)

Me: Do you want to wash some dishes, or fold laundry, or...?

Him: I kinda wanna go to your mom's house.