It's so Pintrest (un)worthy

Yesterday was the furthest thing from what our society deems "Pintrest Worthy," despite how awesome my ham broccoli braid looked before and after it was baked.

It's like the moment my feet hit the floor the Goob had it out for me. I went to shower and get ready to go to the gym (yeah, I shower prior to getting sweated up) only to come downstairs and smell ... something. Definitely a smell from my primary school years. So familiar I could almost taste it.

Rubber cement. Only not. Vinyl patch glue. More like it.

All over her hands. On the carpet. On the kitchen floor.

I was more mad than anything because I was afraid, at first glance - she had her hands in a prayer pose - that it was super glue and it flashed through my mind that 1) I have no idea the quickest way to the hospital from here and 2) there's no way I would have gotten her safely in the carseat if her hands were glued together.

You've never seen someone have a full on conniption fit until you've witnessed a raving 31-year-old mother dealing with a glue covered child who thinks she's just "washing" her hands with some stinky soap.

Breakfast is served!

It's no secret I regularly have a love affair with my slow cooker. Some weeks, we meet every day. And then after that hot, steamy, delicious rendezvous we take a break and I give the oven or stove some attention.

Just last night I perused the Interwebs in search of another tasty treat I could create in my crock. I was in the mood for breakfast.

At 9:30 p.m. my husband joined me at the counter cutting apples while I concocted what, this morning, was possibly the most delicious oatmeal I have ever eaten. Slow cooker overnight apple pie oatmeal.

I'll give you a moment to collect yourselves and wipe the drool from your chin.

Pies worthy of a crazed baker

Our church is holding its annual Harvest Ham Dinner today. My apologies to anyone who eats the pies I've made and donated to the cause. One top crust is overworked and the other pie is missing apples because Charlotte decided to help herself. 

By the time I was done, I was ready to tear my hair out. It was too early to start drinking

Oh, and headache day No. 6 was well underway. Seriously, I'm now a full week into waking up with a dull headache, which eventually will work itself into a splitting headache by bedtime. If I'm lucky, I'll go to bed with the beginning of a migraine like I did last night.

But let's not think about that. Let's talk about baking ... with our kids.

Clean freak chronicles: In a Lysol haze

I've been kind of secretive about plans to move. Or at least, after some careful thought and a strategically made Facebook post, that's the way it may appear to some.

Truthfully, I just haven't turned to social media with all my joy/panic moments over the decision because we (Boy Wonder and I) never sat down and did a serious house hunt.

But here it is — after almost five years in this house, we're moving on. It's happening slowly, because if I make a big move and do it too quickly I'll fall apart, and I can't afford to do that all over again. Moving into our current home was almost too much to bear and the clutter utterly consumed me. A lot of days it still does, but that's primarily because we don't have enough space for the amount of things we have. I've been making great strides to cut back on the material things here that are just pure crap we don't need to hold onto, but I can only do so much when we only get 24 hours each day to accomplish what's on my list. And that list is long.

Living better? Challenge accepted

Did you know there's something called referring spam? I don't understand the whole of it, but from my experience so far it makes it look like you have a ton of pageviews when really NO ONE is looking at it. My ego burst when I realized that, no, it's very unlikely that so many people in Russia and Germany would give a shit what I'm writing about and all these "pageviews" I was suddenly getting were probably due to this random website that kept showing up as a traffic source.

Fuck you referring spam. Instead of 600-plus pageviews, I probably have something closer to like 300. I'm guessing. I hope it's more than that, but truly have no idea because there are rarely comments and I have a grand total of three public followers.

I'm done letting something as ridiculous as pageviews get me down, because that's exactly what happened. Considering my livelihood once came from a byline, I have a tendency to thrive on and feed off of the knowledge someone is reading what I write.

Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I feel better.

Dear June, a little inspiration please

June Cleaver, I am not.

But, damn it, I try real hard.

Since making the decision to stay home and focus on raising our babies, things have been less than perfect in my mind, though. I seem to apologize to Boy Wonder on an almost daily basis. Envision this scenario:

He walks through the front door and is immediately met with, "I didn't get a chance to pick up the living room. Dinner is cold. I kicked the dog and drank all the beer. Today SUCKS!" (OK, I didn't actually drink the beer, but some days it definitely crosses my mind ... a lot.) And then I stomp off because he says, "It's OK. You think I'm worried about it and I'm not," instead of commiserating with me or getting upset.

My husband is freaking amazing and ridiculously laid back a majority of the time. He gives me the time I need to be pissed off at my lack of organization, letting me rant and rave about all the things on my "to do" list that haven't gotten done and then when the kids are in bed we pick up the house together, he sets up the coffee maker and I get a few hours of restless sleep.