A Public Display

On this Valentine's Day, I am going to post something that I started on Valentine's Day, 2012, but never had the guts to post. Because I try to avoid PDA. On the internet. Kissing in public is totally okay with me.

But, in the spirit of the day, I will divulge the half-baked tid-bit I wrote three years ago:

I don't know how to talk about Brad. I have been trying all day and I can't. Anything I try comes out too cheesy, too personal, too braggy. I write strictly humor and misery. I do not deal in joy. And so I have no tools to convey my feelings.

So I will just say this: 

When I started to date, I remember being advised to "date someone that makes you want to be a better person."

I didn't realize that as a guilt-addicted perfectionist, my drive to be a better person was already--by itself--enough to propel me through several lifetimes of improvement. Well, improvement and maybe severe depression. Brad was the only man I dated that made me want to be me. With him I am comfortable in my own skin.

Happy Valentine's Day to the man who calls himself "the luckiest" after he's come home from a long day at work and the kids are running loops around the stairs, screaming, and dinner is not done, and I'm still wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt.

He obviously has it backwards.

Hide and Go Seek

If you follow me on Instagram, maybe you remember this year-old gem:

That is Rose. At my feet. She is either insisting to be held since the dinner-making which is requiring my attention is significantly less important than her, OR, she is objecting to the disgustingness which she will soon refuse to eat at dinner time.

Either way, it was not super fun. 

These days, Rose has a new tactic. The minute I approach the stove or the sink, or (heaven-forbid) the kitchen-aid, the child runs to my legs. She clings on for dear life. And with a sweet smile she pleads, "Mommy, ho' ju."  It's a pretty hard request to deny. But it's also really hard to ignore the cries of three other starving children waiting for you to cook them breakfast. It's even harder to flip a pancake while holding a two year-old on your hip.

So.

I invented a new game. It's called "Hide Spiderman."

Observe:

Spiderman hides, and Rose spends 3-5 minutes looking for him (during which I cook, and add ingredients, and stir a little), she finds him and rejoices and jumps up and down, and then I hide him again.

This trick works so well that I'm spending more time in the kitchen. I've baked 6 loaves of bread this week. (The drawback is that I have eaten an entire loaf every day this week. So... I'm also growing a muffin top. Bonus.)

Why I should probably post more.

Yesterday I was perusing all of my posts living in "draft" land. And I came across this number that I started last year, titled, "A Misunderstanding":

Last week I was standing at my kitchen island with a cup of applesauce in one hand, and a spoon in the other while I held Rose on my hip and tried to feed her. I do not recommend this feeding arrangement. Unless your end goal is to be covered in baby food, in which case, this is the method for you.

In addition to holding Rose while feeding her, I was also attempting to hold her hands to prevent her from glopping fruity handfuls of sauce into my shirt and eyebrows. This is impossible. But I am a mom and so I have to do it anyway.
All Moms should be octopuses.

Anyway, as I was wrestling Rose, I realized that Weston was trying to get my attention. It usually takes me a minute to realize that. I'm really only good at focusing on one thing at a time. Which is w

...and that is all she wrote, friends. And now, a year later, I have no inkling of how this story ends. Or even how that sentence was going to end.

Maybe: "Which is... why I never succeed at watching TV and folding laundry"? or "Which is... why my kids have to repeat themselves 2-3 times before I realize what they are saying"? or "Which is... why I am not the poster-child for awesome homeschooling mom"?

It's time to post more. Before my kids are all grown and my brain cells are gone and I turn around and wonder what the heck happened.

(And, let's be honest, I haven't set the bar too high... posting "more" means at LEAST three times a year.)