Have Mercy. (aka the New Years Eve blog)
I fully intended to stick with my beloved tradition of blogging at least once a year on New Years Eve, but sometimes sick toddlers interfere with both my 10pm nachos and my blogging efforts.
I did however manage to still eat ice cream, watch Ryan Seacrest wearing a giant coat, drown out the incessant war zone of fireworks happening outside by using 8,000 sound machines, and look intently at my TV trying to understand how Britney Spears still looks 25. Are we simply distracted by the sparkle heart on the back of her underwear/bikini costume? We cannot know.
We are only 4 days into 2018 and I have already done some push ups, read part of a chapter of a book (Christine Caine, you inspire me), removed the remnants of Christmas from my house (minus some peppermint bark and peanut butter fudge...not my fault), been sneezed on approximately 14 times by tiny humans, been to the walk-in clinic with one of these same humans, washed my hair once (I think), and almost wore real people pants but then opted for stretchy ones instead because I prize cozy over presentable.
Some 2017 highlights...
-Our peanut allergic child eats FIVE peanuts a day. They are covered in chocolate and we call them her "peanut medicine." If gummy vitamins can be considered medicine then so can these.
-Clairebear transitioned from her patented "scootch," which was a surprisingly fast mode of transportation for her, to steps, to official walking, and now to basically running through our house after (or away from) her siblings. We are so thrilled, and thankful for a lovely occupational therapist who is like a blond Mary Poppins and comes to our home to delight my children, feed us spoonfuls of sugar, and pull magical toys out of her bag.
-Ben (aka Bennyboo) is daily given a large stack of construction paper, pencils, tape, and a pair of scissors and will spend hours creating whatever comes to his mind. He has created games, cards, costumes, and a paper chain long enough to countdown to next Christmas. He aspires to be a maker guy/policeman/spiderman eventually and I feel so far that he is quite qualified for each role.
I really adore each of these tiny people (though I do often mourn the loss of my sleep and sanity) and would prefer to keep them at whatever age is old enough to make themselves breakfast, but young enough to still think that my dance moves are as magnificent as forever 25 year old Britney Spears.
As a side note, my dance moves are awesome.
Most of parenting so far consists of me drinking coffee, watching Baby Signing Time, cleaning up toys, bringing out toys, trying to use the phrase "meal planning" in conversations to sound like a grown up, contemplating how much of my children's daily language usage should involve the word "poop," reading blogs that encourage me in my parenting, reading blogs that discourage me in my parenting, texting Jaime every 5 minutes, diagnosing myself and my children via the Internet for various ailments, texting my husband to ask what parental volume constitutes "yelling," making my Pinterest boards appear like I am that Pioneer Woman, and pretending I don't hear anyone calling "Mamaaaaa" for the 8th time after our three hour bedtime routine.
My 4 year old Ben summed up my parenting well the other day when he said, "Mama is a little bit stinky and a little bit Jesus." Too true kid, too true.
Basically, much of the time I feel like I'm just waiting for the real parents to show up. I imagine they'd offer some encouraging words about how the children don't look too mangy, but maybe should be bathed more than quarterly (we're earthy people, it's fine), have their nails trimmed to a reasonable point where gloves will at least fit, wonder aloud about the abnormally large stash of Christmas peppermint bark, politely question the state of the interior of my minivan, and finally resign themselves to sending me to Target with no further instructions, determinedly taking over the rest of the responsibilities themselves.
The benefit of being the real parent of these people is that when they get sick sometimes, like my tiniest human currently, I post a photo on Instagram referencing Full House, and receive a notification saying John Stamos "liked" it.
You guys, there are few greater ways to be affirmed in life than knowing Uncle Jesse "liked" your picture.
I'm not normally skilled at befriending celebrities, though I will say that after attending approximately 872 Susan Ashton concerts as a teenager, it has now transitioned to where my children believe she's one of their aunts and we send her a Christmas card every year.
I also saw Sinbad with his family at a theme park one time.
And there was a confirmed sighting of Darryl from The Office in downtown Seattle when we were there in 2012.
All this to say, I feel pretty confident now to Stamos my way into befriending DJ Tanner, and then move onto Amy Poehler and Kristen Wiig (I can't understand how we are not already friends, but I'm fairly certain now it's because they don't have Instagram! It's just a matter of time ladies.)
In conclusion, as my good friend John Stamos always says, "When people lose their toof, they get money from Jesus."
Just kidding, Ben said that, but I bet if I find a cute enough picture for Instagram of Ben saying this, John Stamos would like it!
Hold onto your dreams kids.
And Happy 2018.
I did however manage to still eat ice cream, watch Ryan Seacrest wearing a giant coat, drown out the incessant war zone of fireworks happening outside by using 8,000 sound machines, and look intently at my TV trying to understand how Britney Spears still looks 25. Are we simply distracted by the sparkle heart on the back of her underwear/bikini costume? We cannot know.
We are only 4 days into 2018 and I have already done some push ups, read part of a chapter of a book (Christine Caine, you inspire me), removed the remnants of Christmas from my house (minus some peppermint bark and peanut butter fudge...not my fault), been sneezed on approximately 14 times by tiny humans, been to the walk-in clinic with one of these same humans, washed my hair once (I think), and almost wore real people pants but then opted for stretchy ones instead because I prize cozy over presentable.
Some 2017 highlights...
-Our peanut allergic child eats FIVE peanuts a day. They are covered in chocolate and we call them her "peanut medicine." If gummy vitamins can be considered medicine then so can these.
-Clairebear transitioned from her patented "scootch," which was a surprisingly fast mode of transportation for her, to steps, to official walking, and now to basically running through our house after (or away from) her siblings. We are so thrilled, and thankful for a lovely occupational therapist who is like a blond Mary Poppins and comes to our home to delight my children, feed us spoonfuls of sugar, and pull magical toys out of her bag.
-Ben (aka Bennyboo) is daily given a large stack of construction paper, pencils, tape, and a pair of scissors and will spend hours creating whatever comes to his mind. He has created games, cards, costumes, and a paper chain long enough to countdown to next Christmas. He aspires to be a maker guy/policeman/spiderman eventually and I feel so far that he is quite qualified for each role.
I really adore each of these tiny people (though I do often mourn the loss of my sleep and sanity) and would prefer to keep them at whatever age is old enough to make themselves breakfast, but young enough to still think that my dance moves are as magnificent as forever 25 year old Britney Spears.
As a side note, my dance moves are awesome.
Most of parenting so far consists of me drinking coffee, watching Baby Signing Time, cleaning up toys, bringing out toys, trying to use the phrase "meal planning" in conversations to sound like a grown up, contemplating how much of my children's daily language usage should involve the word "poop," reading blogs that encourage me in my parenting, reading blogs that discourage me in my parenting, texting Jaime every 5 minutes, diagnosing myself and my children via the Internet for various ailments, texting my husband to ask what parental volume constitutes "yelling," making my Pinterest boards appear like I am that Pioneer Woman, and pretending I don't hear anyone calling "Mamaaaaa" for the 8th time after our three hour bedtime routine.
My 4 year old Ben summed up my parenting well the other day when he said, "Mama is a little bit stinky and a little bit Jesus." Too true kid, too true.
Basically, much of the time I feel like I'm just waiting for the real parents to show up. I imagine they'd offer some encouraging words about how the children don't look too mangy, but maybe should be bathed more than quarterly (we're earthy people, it's fine), have their nails trimmed to a reasonable point where gloves will at least fit, wonder aloud about the abnormally large stash of Christmas peppermint bark, politely question the state of the interior of my minivan, and finally resign themselves to sending me to Target with no further instructions, determinedly taking over the rest of the responsibilities themselves.
The benefit of being the real parent of these people is that when they get sick sometimes, like my tiniest human currently, I post a photo on Instagram referencing Full House, and receive a notification saying John Stamos "liked" it.
You guys, there are few greater ways to be affirmed in life than knowing Uncle Jesse "liked" your picture.
I'm not normally skilled at befriending celebrities, though I will say that after attending approximately 872 Susan Ashton concerts as a teenager, it has now transitioned to where my children believe she's one of their aunts and we send her a Christmas card every year.
I also saw Sinbad with his family at a theme park one time.
And there was a confirmed sighting of Darryl from The Office in downtown Seattle when we were there in 2012.
All this to say, I feel pretty confident now to Stamos my way into befriending DJ Tanner, and then move onto Amy Poehler and Kristen Wiig (I can't understand how we are not already friends, but I'm fairly certain now it's because they don't have Instagram! It's just a matter of time ladies.)
In conclusion, as my good friend John Stamos always says, "When people lose their toof, they get money from Jesus."
Just kidding, Ben said that, but I bet if I find a cute enough picture for Instagram of Ben saying this, John Stamos would like it!
Hold onto your dreams kids.
And Happy 2018.
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