One more confession of a not-so-crafty mom

Sculpey, I think, could convert anyone.

Confessions of a not-so-crafty mom

1. I only recently bought my first glue gun.

2. I didn’t know what Perler beads were until a couple of years ago.

3. I used to dread trips to Hobby Lobby.

4. I’ve been known to count bubble-sculpting in the tub as a craft.

Add this to the list of reasons I married him

Yesterday, Atticus took all three children out for the day. The whole day. The entire day. As in, “I didn’t fix lunch or dinner for anyone and I ate Chinese takeout from the box” kind of day. This is also known as Mommy’s Christmas Present.

Now, before I’m accused of being one of those selfish, 21st-Century-Gotta-Take-Care-of-Me-First moms, I want to make it clear that I love being with my children. I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t homeschool them. I adore them and I adore being with them. I love them to pieces, distraction, etc. (sorry — stolen quote from Franny and Zooey, for those of you on the plagiarism watch, which I’m alert to, since Atticus just finished grading term papers ….)

But, I do enjoy — occasionally need — revel in, a little bit of time to myself. This was more than just “a little bit” of time to myself, though. This was a positively decadent amount of time to myself during which I:

~ enjoyed a shower without anyone flinging the shower door open to say, “Mom! I played the game she wanted, but now she won’t play the game I want!” (This after having passed by their father who’s available to settle a squabble but who will always be overlooked because Mom is the first squabble-settler they seek, regardless of whether or not she is standing in the shower with soap all over her face.)

~ was certain I heard footsteps upstairs while I was in the shower

~ spent a short amount of time paralyzed by my choices

~ drank coffee. Lots of coffee. Had some more coffee. And every cup was hot.

~ worked on an article I’ve been wanting to revise for months

~ talked to a faraway friend on the phone without anyone saying, “What? What? Why did you laugh?”

~ read. Pondered. Read. Prayed.

~ ate Christmas candy and didn’t share a bite of it with anyone (which if okay, since they got ridiculous amounts of candy in their stockings)

~ decluttered a part of the family room that had been overtaken by kid stuff that was screaming to be bagged up and thrown out

~played on the computer, surfing further than I usually do, because nothing else was in need of my attention (except the decluttering, the article to revise ….)

~ drank Chocolate Chai (sent by dear, above-mentioned faraway friend) which stayed hot, too

~ worried when my family wasn’t home at the expected time, and thought about how my life would come to a screeching, horrifying halt if they’d been in a fatal accident … my whole life, in one van ….

~ rejoiced when they walked in the door, hugged them incredibly tightly, and told them that I loved them enormously, missed them, and I hoped they’d had as dandy a day as I did. And you know what? They had.

Ending a lovely Christmas day

with a quote from 3-year-old Ramona:

“I’m all sorts of tired.”

I would never erase her

Ramona just turned to me, a pencil mark on her cheek, and said, “Recently, I crossed myself out.”

Fortunately, those myths about pencil lead poisoning aren’t true.

One of the reasons I married him

My husband made fudge last night. He does the usual yummy-marshmallow-cremey type thing, but he adds his own touch. He shells and crushes a bunch of hazelnuts, and then throws in toffee bits. Then he encourages me to enjoy it and tells me no, of course I don’t look fat, and I should just stop worrying about that.

If we weren’t already married, I’d ask him to spend the rest of his life with me.

This is life, we can’t replay it

Last night we decorated the tree, and afterward, Betsy exclaimed, “Oh, no! You didn’t videotape anything!”

“Hmmm,” I said. “I guess we were too busy living our life to record it.”

I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

Not that I don’t cherish past videos of the kids oohing and aahing over dearly beloved or until-now-forgotten ornaments, but sometimes it’s nice to just go about things, without thinking of how it will end up on tape. I have a love/hate thing with that video camera, and to be perfectly honest, I was glad I forgot all about it last night.

But don’t tell Betsy.

We need to stay home

You know you’ve been too busy when your child draws a picture and describes it to you this way:

“It’s a little girl who’s tired … see all the bags under her eyes?”

My kids aren’t totally gross

We visited our local Children’s Museum this weekend, and I’m happy to say that my children, while they enjoyed the “Grossology” exhibit, are still sensitive enough to have said, after a sufficient amount of gross-out time, “Can we go play in the farm area again? We’re starting to get stomachaches.”

Anne and Betsy enjoyed making the giant nose sneeze, and Ramona loved crawling through the digestive system. An extremely loud simulation of breathing and burping sounds sent Ramona running into my arms, though, and Anne felt some stomach flips at the sight of a large, drippy-nosed character. We aren’t completely crude around here … just enough to have fun. And, besides, if my kids couldn’t laugh at this stuff, how would they relate to Daddy and creatures like him?

Another reason some moms don’t allow pets

Because pets bring stuff home. Mr. Putter, the cat, has roundworm, an ear infection and possibly fleas. And he’s an indoor cat. How did that happen? He’s not supposed to bring anything home … he’s always home. We’re supposed to bring stuff to him, like ponytail holders (his favorite toy) and little aquatic-smelling treats.

He’s a breathing mound of vet bills (has been since we adopted him) and yet we love him. Because Mr. Putter is lovable. Having animals in the house is a splendid thing. It teaches kids all the usual stuff: responsibility, blah-blah-blah. But more than that, it’s just good. It’s really good. It’s really charming to see a child stop and gaze in wonder at this silly, beautiful creature that God made.

If you read Melissa Wiley’s post the other day about glitter in which she quotes a delightful post by Billi-Jean (whom I don’t know but, based on this post, like immensely) then you know what I’m talking about. Stuff that is “inherently good.”

Mr. Putter is the glitter of cats. He’s a mess but we don’t ever want to get rid of him.