I am....my mother.

So I spent last week visiting my mom. Well, it was more than a visit. It actually turned in to a whole home improvement/spring cleaning week. But it was all good. It's how I like to spend my days off work. Working. Yeah. That's it.

It actually was pretty good. It kept me distracted from other things. And I needed to be distracted.

But in the midst of all the cleaning/organizing goodness came a moment of horrible clarity for me. That moment that we swear will NEVER happen...that we will do things differently than our own parents, whether it be disciplining our children, how we drive or what career path we choose. Maybe even buying a different brand of peanut butter.

I was trying to get a TV in the spare room working with the satellite. It seemed that one of the grandchildren had unhooked it and it didn't get hooked back up correctly. I finally got the cables all hooked back up properly and got to a point where I needed to program the remote.

"Where is the satellite manual?"

"Well, I think it's in the living room in the Entertainment Center."

I dig. I empty the storage space in the entertainment center. The manual is nowhere to be found in the entertainment center. But there was a ziploc baggie with some bank statements and a few paid bills.

"Try again."

"Well, look in the drawer of the buffet."

I dig. I empty the 3 drawers of the buffet. The manual is nowhere to be found in the buffet. But there was a ziploc baggie with some bank statements and a few paid bills.

"Try again."

"Well, look in the pull-down thing of the hutch." (Yes...the "pull-down thing"....and I knew exactly where she meant)

I dig. I empty the pull-down thing of the hutch. The manual is nowhere to be found in the pull-down thing of the hutch. So I tried the two drawers in the hutch because I knew the "try again" progression would end there. No manual. But there was a bigger ziploc baggie with a few bank statements and a MANY previously paid bills.

That's when it hit me.

I have become my mother.

I have piles of mail all over my house. Little piles....one on the end table next to my recliner, one on my nightstand, a larger one on my desk and a BIG one on the floor inbetween my side of the bed and my nightstand. They are not in ziploc baggies, but you get the idea.

I begin with the best of intentions, just like I am sure my mother did. ORGANIZE THIS MESS. CONSOLIDATE THIS CRAP. And so I start by gathering ALL of the little piles, recycle most of it, shred what's confidential and.....and....find a permanent home where every piece of mail from that point forward will reside. But then Troy goes to get the mail and he sets it next to my recliner where I open it and then set it back down. But sometimes I go get the mail and I take it to my room and open it on my bed while I watch TV. Then I set it down on my nightstand.

And it just goes downhill from there.

My mom is actually pretty great. There are worse people I could become, afterall. I guess I should get some ziploc baggies.....

That movie?

Meatballs....and here are a couple of comments regarding some of the comments left:

• I guess "childhood" movie with those particular lyrics did sound pretty bad. lol! I was actually getting ready to enter high school when this movie came out. So I was totally PG-13 already.
• My sister can't follow directions. She actually gave away the name of the movie in the comments and either people didn't notice, or didn't read it, or didn't care.
• I'm wondering how many people *really* DID NOT google that, even after they left my blog......

Name that movie....

We are the CITs
so pity us

The kids are brats
the food is hideous

We're gonna smoke and drink and fool around
(we're nooky bound)

We are the North Star C-I-TEEEEEEEEs!!

No prizes involved. Just a bit of nostalgia as I watched one of my favorite childhood movies. And good luck with getting that tune out of your head if you know the answer....which, btw, DON'T answer in the comments. Let's see how many people can get this. No google cheaters.

Bitter Sweet

My baby






turns 21 today



Please note the time of this post...for it is the exact moment, after 12 hours of labor, that he was finally declared seperated from the womb. Tattern and torn this child left my poor nether regions. Is that too much information? Probably. So we'll leave the rest of that story for Baby showers and girls' night out.

From diaper rash to a broken nose to a totalled car and everything in between, this is my first born. My first of three wonderfully, perfect little miracles from God. From this child I would learn what not to do with the other two. He would have the first of all the firsts of my children. The first little voice of all of them saying "mommy". .....the first day of school....the first good report card....the first bad report card...the first car...the first broken heart....the first graduation...the first job...the first consequences of a teenager finding his way in life.

He hasn't quite found it yet. His way. He's searching. He's struggling. And I'm praying. And on this day that my first born turns 21 I know that every diaper I have changed, every boo-boo I have kissed, every girl I have wanted to strangle that broke his heart and every gray hair this child gave me will not be in vain.

His heart is huge. His laughter contagious. He sees humor in everyday things and together we have been a thorn in his Father's side more often than not as Troy rewinds the movie for a 4th time because he couldn't hear it over our snickers, giggles and belly laughs. He is the child who knows how to play with my hair in such a way that it destresses me enough that I can fall asleep....and he always did it without complaining. He is the big brother that keeps his little sister in check. He is the big brother that fights passionately with his younger brother but will defend him to the end of time.

He is my son. My baby. And how long can your son still be your baby without it becoming weird?




Happy Birthday, Cody.


I love you,
Mom