Dear Mom at Aldi ...

Dear Mom at Aldi,

I ran into you this afternoon. Actually, it's more like I purposely was put in your path and you in mine. I watched you with your little boy as he struggled to get out of the cart as you and your husband looked at the prunes and other baking supplies. I didn't pay much attention at the time, but recognized the struggle - a defiant "I want don't want to sit down" toddler-in-training desperately seeking freedom from that shopping cart while you, also desperately, tried to hold a conversation and reign him in.

I didn't pay much attention until I was standing in the same aisle glancing at the spices and saw you and your children, sans husband, at the other end of the row. I didn't pay attention until I saw that defiant little boy with the fearlessness of an independent child topple from the cart. You'll never know the panic that hit my chest or how I had to mentally grab hold of myself so I didn't rush down the aisle to help you. You won't know, because I didn't tell you and you will likely never read this. Instead, I meandered. Instead of rushing to aid another mom, I watched from the corner of my eye as you gathered your son in your arms, pulled your daughter close to you, and you sat on the floor of Aldi beside a stack of sports drinks and other beverages.

I know I didn't shock you when I asked quietly, "Is he OK?" Because that's what at least a small population of people would do when they see a small child crying inconsolably in their mother's arms. A larger population would have given you a sad smile and thought something like, "Oh that poor woman."

And then there's me.

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.

Do more this holiday season

It's a quiet morning in our home, so far. Only one mini me is awake, and she's snuggled up in a chair watching "Sofia the First."

The coffee in my cup is fresh. I just brewed it.

There are two pies in the oven I made last night and a dish of squash in the refrigerator to go with dinner later. I've picked out a few bottles of wine to enjoy with family on this Thanksgiving.

We aren't hosting the holiday, but I love food and I love to cook and bake, so I offered to do as much as I could.

I wish I could do more.

Because I have a warm house, and others do not.

All Hallow's Eve ... eve

My child refused to dress up for her dance class Halloween thing yesterday.

I'm not going to lie; this doesn't upset me at all. She was adamant we wouldn't even deviate from her normal outfit, though I did sneak in a pair of My Little Legs to keep her warm (which made her look like a less sweaty version of the chick from "Flashdance"). Know why this is awesome to me? My kid was being herself and going against the grain. At least that's what I'm telling myself after last year's meltdown about putting on a damn costume for class.

Before anyone can call me out and say I'm stealing part of their childhood by not enforcing a dress up policy, please just stop. I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm allowing my child a choice, which I actually think is fairly responsible parenting since I don't want to be the first form of peer pressure they encounter.

Weighing the problem

Weight is just a number on a scale. Isn't it?

As an obsessive compulsive weight checker, I can say that isn't always the case. Yesterday, I weighed myself seven times. Seven. It's not always that bad. Some days it's only three. And when I skip a day, I worry more about eating a sandwich with bread than any one person should. I don't, by any means, starve myself, but I do watch closely what goes in my mouth with a reward and reprimand mentality.

For a lot of women, being "fat" is in their heads. For those of us who have battled the weight monster for years, we look in the mirror and see a giant even if our clothes have become ill-fitting from weight loss and the number on the scale reflects something we're pleased with.

The scale isn't the issue, though. The body mass index charts, the skinnier than thou actresses, the weight loss supplements advertised everywhere ... those are the issues. As a society, we — women and men — have religiously opened ourselves up for criticisms where weight is concerned. For most people I know, the BMI would call them overweight; actresses who put on a few pounds because they had a bad breakup and ate a loaf of bread and some Ben & Jerry's are flaunted as baby bump suspects; directly related are the too-skinny rich and famous who are called out as bulimic or anorexic; I'm not even going to tell you what advertisements, the grocery store and pharmacy do to a chunky girl with low self esteem.

What I am going to do is get to the point. Eventually. I think there's a point to this. Maybe.

We be jammin'

I'm getting closer and closer to being a Flower Child. At least in my head that's where I'm headed.

In reality — because let's face it, I rarely live in the real world even though it's nice to visit — I'm following in my mom footsteps. Where am I headed with this? Preservation.

No, not preserving mankind or anything like that, but, like, actual preserves. Jams. Jellies. Home canned make-my-mouth-water salsa and stewed tomatoes. Growing up we did stewed tomatoes every year for as long as I can remember. We worked all summer in the garden growing a variety of tomato species — roma, beefsteak, whatever — along with bell peppers and onions so we'd have enough for stewed tomatoes and fresh eating.

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.

In search of positivity and space

I took a break — from here, from the gym, from feeling like a useful member of society.

In all honesty, I needed it. The morning after my last entry, I packed the kids in the car and took off for my parents house about two hours away. We only stayed a couple days, but it was enough to make me realize things weren't going as planned around here. I was truly beginning to feel overwhelmed again. If you've been keeping up with me and my stories, you know this feeling started a while ago and I've been trying to get back on track. Bad weather and bad attitudes (mine and Josie's, which has likely been caused by mine) have been blamed.

So has the furniture, the dog, the car, the money ... You get the picture.

I decided earlier this week to nip it in the bud. We've been talking about what we need to do to fix the house up and potentially sell it and that has put me in full on "show ready" homeowner mode. I sent an unused television stand home with my parents on a recent visit and then took the baker's rack down — we used it to hold bath towels and toiletries in the bathroom — and repurposed a basket already in the bathroom for the newly homeless towels.

Crazy lady with a green thumb

Composter- 1, Gardener- 0

I was so excited about my new composter. Who am I kidding? I'm still excited despite having to shovel decomposing vegetable matter off the concrete slab we call a porch when the door flew open and popped off spewing the contents. I'm slightly surprised the neighbors didn't call over to ask what that smell was — because it was wretched.

So now the goal is going to be to move this mammoth tumbler from where it is to somewhere else once the weather breaks and the ground is a little less spongy.

My spring time "to do" list is slowly growing. As I write this, I can think of at least three things I want to be doing outside. First and foremost, playing with the kids. A close, very close, second is getting the garden tilled and expanded. Third, I want go crazy fixing the flower bed out front, but I'm not nearly as excited about that because I'm self conscious about people seeing my gardening tactics. They're fairly stealthy and not an exact science, and on occasion naughty words fly out of my face and I hear my older child repeating them later in the day. It's not a pretty sight.

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.

Calmed by the chaos

"Please don't hit the dog with your carrot!"

As parents, we often utter — and overhear — phrases that are totally off the wall when not in context of certain situations. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would say those words in that order in one breath. Ever. But, I said it this morning thanks to the current youngest goober in the family.

Charlotte has been trying for 10 months to cut teeth, only succeeding so far to have two bottom pearly whites pop through. Since she likes to chew on anything she can to ease the pain, I washed up a carrot while making soup and handed it to her to gnaw on. She started off nibbling gently. Then promptly chomped down on it, got pissed off because her face hurt and started beating our Lab mix, Bailey, in the head with said carrot. Naturally, she was screaming and the tears started flowing as though the dog had been the one hitting her instead of the opposite.

Things like this are always happening in our house. Josie tries to ride on her sister like a pony, or climb on Bailey in an attempt to further her chances of being a professional bull rider later in life, and in an attempt to stop someone from getting hurt we catch ourselves saying the most ridiculous things. The only surefire result is a fit of laughter in most cases. Unless, of course, someone actually has gotten hurt.