My position on positives, if you want to call it that

I've been trying to focus on the positive lately.

I'm positive the van will get stuck at least once more trying to get out of the snowy driveway this week.

I'm positive the tax bill due by the beginning of next month should have given me a coronary, especially considering the credit card bill was nearly the same amount.

I'm positive my kids think 3:30 a.m. is the most perfect time to hit/kick/slap their way to the coveted spot in my bed.

I'm positive we blew the grocery budget this week, and I'm positively not going to worry about it since we had money left over last week.

I'm positive wine is usually the answer when I get in a writing slump, because I tend to suck down several glasses and write like a beast - usually pounding out 2,000 or more words in a shortish amount of time as I pour the words from my soul desperately into a Word document that someday will resemble a paperback.

And I'm positive the book I'm penning is almost done. This one I'm almost as sure of as getting stuck in the driveway.

I'm also positive that while I'm trying to "be positive," it's hard, because there's a huge difference between being positive of something and being emotionally/psychologically positive. Most people are aware of that difference. So while I try really hard to be emotionally positive, it's not something I usually wake up thinking will happen today. There are still a lot of days I look out the window and it's not the sun I see, but the dirty snowbank and slushy roads. Instead of being proud of my daughters' inquisitiveness and ability to make a mess while learning, playing, and growing, I can't see beyond the clutter.

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.

20 minutes in a normal day

Parents everywhere understand that having two youngsters at home and trying to do anything productive really aren't conducive to one another. Either you're paying attention to your kids or you're paying attention to the thing that will make you feel productive. The kids are upstairs doing God knows what right now, so I wanted to share with you a snippet of a day in our house.

It's OK to cry in front of them

I had an emotional breakdown today in front of my 3-year-old and it's OK.

Mommy cries sometimes. And the holidays are hard. Being a big kid, an adult, is hard, I told her.

And I wept while hanging onto her youthfulness, shrouded in the shadows of our upstairs hallway.

"It's OK, Mommy."

It is hard, and despite how much I adore the season, every year for the last seven Christmases (this would be the eighth) I've found myself feeling sad. And three years ago that sadness turned to an emptiness.

First, when my grandma, Nana, passed away in 2006 it was difficult to get through the holidays, but making her Rum Cake recipe in her kitchen with my then boyfriend helped me through it. It made it bearable to mix and bake and taste and drink and love because I was doing it in her home. And the years after that just got ... easier.

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.

Desperately seeking wine and a closet

What's the protocol for a kid who attempts to brush her teeth with Softsoap Lavender and Chamomile hand soap?

Please don't say call Poison Control. Please don't say call Poison Control.

Shit. I knew someone would suggest it. Oh well. She hasn't thrown up and she told me she didn't swallow any. Not to mention, I'm fairly certain Charlie learned a valuable lesson here: soap doesn't taste as good as it smells.

All I want for Mother's Day is ...

My life right now is all about scheduling. And I'm sucking at it. Badly.

The only thing I have set in stone every week is the Bean's creative movement class on Tuesdays, but soon enough that will come to an end and we'll be doing the summer thing. I assume the "summer thing" will be much like our "spring" and "fall" and "winter" things ... a whole lot of what the eff are we doing today.

At least we're finally getting bedtime back. Forget prime time television with the Boy — I'm stuck sitting on the stairs outside the girls' bedroom usually from 8 to 9 p.m. At least they're in their own beds and sleeping most of the night again. Though the normal bedtime for them means an earlier wake up call. I suppose I can handle getting up at 6:30 some mornings if it means an hour or two of quiet at night to collect my thoughts. I usually don't get to do that during the day unless it's in three-minute increments interrupted by screaming because someone turned the TV off, took a toy or dumped Bailey's water dish.

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.

The "to do" conundrum

My "to do" list is never ending. Literally.

Each time I cross something off I seem to add two more things. Excluding the usual chores — vacuum, dust, dishes, etc. — there are probably a dozen other things I wanted to get done this week alone and yet they haven't been crossed off.

It's a horrible affliction, this list of mine, and I've fallen into a rut. The list is getting so long it overwhelms me some days and then nothing gets done other than diaper changes and meals.

So, I added "drink wine" at the bottom; it's something I should have done weeks ago. I figured including alcohol would make it easier for me to get things done around the house, use it as an incentive to bust my ass and feel a little more accomplished in my new-ish role of stay-at-home mom and housewife.