Growing pains and change

My free moments have been few and far between lately. Interruptions, events, appointments, deliveries, more interruptions.

Father's Day weekend started with a dance recital and birthday celebration. I'm still trying to grasp the concept that Josie is officially a 4-year-old.

We did the Father's Day run around where we didn't actually do anything special, but it was special because we were together.

Baby's First Haircut ... it still counts even if she's 4, right?

Then it was a week of doctor appointments, getting Josie registered for the Universal Pre-Kindergarten program offered by our school district (again, her being old enough to go to school is a concept I'm not fully grasping), actually celebrating Josie's birthday by taking her for her first hair cut, having the giant mattress delivered and our anniversary.

Our anniversary, which we did nothing special to celebrate other than bust ass to continue getting the house we need to sell ready for showings. After months and months and months of talking about how we needed to list it and all the things we need to do to get it ready, it's ready. Almost. As I sit here taking 15 minutes to pour my thoughts out on the interwebs, the Boy has taken a ladder and gone to paint the door frame on the back of the house and the supports on the front, maybe touch up the paint in the bathroom that I didn't get to and put the light cover back in the front light.

It's officially on the market and open for showing as of June 30.

Not your traditional Mother's Day jargon

I really loved my last post.

Like, I loved it so much I read it multiple times after I posted it. And laughed hysterically at parts only I and a select few really understand.

That's not something I do regularly.

In fact, it's something I do so rarely I could probably count the number of entries I've loved that much on one hand.

My husband, though, admitted to me he didn't really "get" it and only skimmed.

Sleep begets sleep and all that

I talk a lot about my kids' sleep habits. At least, I feel like I talk about them a lot.

Charlie loves sleep and only fights bedtimes when she's overtired, which means then she's going to be awake at the ass crack of dawn trying to break down the gate to Cereal Land where she can wreak havoc and mayhem. I'm not usually griping up a storm about the Goober, and really haven't done so since I put my foot down when she was 15 or so months old and forced her to learn how to self-soothe (which is my nice way of saying I broke down from exhaustion and gave into a modified "cry it out" method).

So, when I mention sleep habits these days, usually it's how shitty the sleep habits are and that I'm tired of being held captive in my own bed by the one and only Josie. That kid likes to stay up late no matter how tired she is, and then I'm forced to listen to her rant and rave when I leave the room, or I sit there with her waiting for sleep to take over.

I'm a bedtime hostage

I cooked half the day today, but the kids and I had leftovers for dinner.

Most of it probably didn't fit in the "healthier than thou" category, and as I told my mother on the phone, I felt bad. She laughed at me and asked why. Well, because it's not the "hey I tried to make you a gourmet toddler meal" approach to motherhood I was envisioning while my husband was out of town for the week. It was more the, "we're poor and I didn't go to the store for lasagna noodles and milk" version.

Meh. My one bowl of chili and the peas/corn combo, even in the freshest state, weren't on the gourmet list either. Since I was starving (or I like to tell myself I was), I just housed a bologna and cheese sandwich at 11:30 p.m. to try warding off a headache that really won't go away unless I drag my ass to bed. And the headache is likely because of a lack of caffeine, reading in the dark and begging my eldest to just go the fuck to sleep already. Here, listen to Samuel L. Jackson tell this bedtime story, which basically is every single night in my house.