Hot Mess Mama Chronicles, episode #44

To celebrate the last full day of school for Baby Girl, we went to Sonic, because what says "Bring on Summer" more than a little cherry limeade served on rollerskates? I ask you. Beverages were procured at half-price. High five, Mom. You made it in time for happy hour.

We also made it with plenty of time to drop off Toby at puppy camp. Due to his extreme excitement upon arrival to Puppy Camp, the Tobinator, on leash, whipped around Little Man, causing the boy to fumble with his milkshake, of which he had taken one sip. The grass was then drinking 98% of the milkshake. The remnant 2% was left in the milkshake cup which suddenly no longer had a bottom.

Conveniently, there were neither wipes nor napkins in the car, and it was 115 degrees outside at the moment. I proceeded to enter Puppy Camp with one child guzzling a slush, one Garbage Pail Kid all saddened because he lost his milkshake, and a puppy that could have cared less whether this was a concentration camp or a Caribbean cruise exclusively for canines.

The Puppy Camp transaction was successful.

En route to Wal-Mart (judge us if you must), Baby Girl successfully punched her straw through the bottom of the slush. Within seconds, she was wearing the slush.

Now, any other mother having her wits about her would likely have turned around, aborting mission Wal-Mart, and promptly hosing her children down of Sonic beverage with which they had splatterpainted themselves.

Instead, we went to McDonald's and procured more beverages made of 79% chemicals and 21% sugar. Hurrah!

We then persevered with Le Mart du Wal where it is a good thing I did not lose sight of Baby Girl completely for an entire gut-wrenching minute, envisioning her already to Kentucky in a Winnebago with the People of Wal-Mart. Like I said, good thing that is a completely alien experience to which I cannot relate.

Now here we are, at home, where I'll be with my kids full-time for the next few months.

Happy Summer, y'all.

Gag Reflex

Herein I will paint an image for you that is less than appetizing. Tonight I was bathing Little Man and out of the charity of my heart, I allowed him to handle my special paraben-free honey oatmeal loofah bar soap. And how does he thank me for this decadence?

He bites it, tasting the organic cleansing ingredients to dissatisfaction.

At which point he barfs a small clay-colored geyser of various snacky items--now in chunky liquid form--into the bathtub. Convenient since I can still rinse him off with no clothes on. Inconvenient because, when is ralphing convenient?

Anyway. I forgot about the upchuck splatterpaint in my bathtub (see also: kids to put to bed, kids to remind to brush their teeth and kids to remind I'm not going to brush their teeth this time and then kids whose teeth I am brushing, sigh). A couple of hours later, I rediscovered the bath art and, while replaying the whole epic Little Man sneak puke attack as I scrubbed the tub, the thought struck me:

I've been doing the same thing as Little Man for a while now.

Tasting something that sort of seems a bit unpleasant and then, gack, everything that I had rumbling in my tumbly for months comes roaring up my throat.

Do you ever do this?

You think you're cool, you're dealing, things aren't always easy but you're coping, even and in spite of an unfavorable evaluation at work, poor sleep from babes who cry and/or dogs who snore, and bills that win at eating your paycheck before you got it...

And then SOMEONE just COULD NOT BE BOTHERED to re-line the stupid wastebasket in the bathroom and you find yourself TASTING THE SOAP.

It tastes sooo soapy. The potent taste of soap is too much. It's too much. There's more badness you're tasting. Actually, you're tasting bad things from 3 days ago. No! Three weeks ago. Oh, remember the bad thing you tasted 3 months ago and didn't tell anyone about?

In this moment, that bad taste is fair game. Chuck it up.

***

Lovey Loverpants, he is not a fan of the massive liquidation sale from the emporium of things that upset me that I have been stockpiling for days and weeks and months and maybe even years.

Sometimes I feel as though I cannot help myself, but mostly I feel that a part of growing up should be the ability to govern my feelings and thoughts like a character from a Jane Austen novel.

This is no plum assignment for someone who remembers everything that happened or was supposed to happen in hers and the lives of others, fictional and otherwise. Smile.

But the Lord is so provident to remember our own sins no more, to cast them into the ocean of oblivion. There is power in His hand that casts away and begins afresh to create in us new hearts over and over and over and over.

Take that bar of soap Lord and clean me out for your glory. Not just for my own expurgation. Amen.

*** Hope you had a delightful Mother's Day. I had a nice, chill weekend with my fambam. Went to church, ate some cupcakes, watched some "Jem and the Holograms," and even went to a wedding for two of my favorite students. Lovely all around.

(Thanks, Selena, for the pics!)

Sugar-laden

The last two weekends have been sugar covered, and then dipped in another layer of sugar which was then blanched in sugar. My lands, the sweetness that was overflowing... Last weekend the wee ones attended four Easter Egg hunts which is three more apiece than any child needs to attend/year. There are many secret benefits to living in an insular Christian community and these secret benefits live in the form of a marshmallow Peep tucked covertly inside a pink plastic egg. Ho ho, and there were many of them.

Photographic evidence:

HIIIIIGH AS A KITE.

One particular egg hunt was sponsored exclusively by our landlords for our children and was followed by a tractor ride around the property.

Tennesseein' is Tennebelievin,' y'all.

*** This past weekend has been equally sweet and marvelous. On sabbath, I got to hear some of my talented students sing in a Gospel Choir. I know there is a large-lunged Gospel singer inside of me trying to beat her way out, but until she breaks through, I am going to leave the work to my students. They are amazing.

Today we got to go to an Elmo Birthday party hosted by a Salvadorean mama and a Dominican papa. Can we agree that Latinos throw the best parties? I think that vote was unanimous. In Heaven, I want my neighbors to be Latinos. Or! Maybe in Heaven I will BE a Latino Gospel singer/party planner. Put that in your cereal box and call it a prize.

But prior to the party, we had our own little shindibble here at the headquarters. It was really an excuse to clean our house, let's be honest, that happens about quarterly. But some of my faves came over.

Photographic evidence:

I made Meyer Lemon Ricotta Pancakes with Mascerated Strawberry Coulis. I am going to be forthcoming here and confess that I didn't use Meyer Lemons. I used your boring ol' standard lemon and mixed in the juice from mandarin oranges. Bladow! Done. And I used half whole wheat flour. But the ricotta adds such a nice consistency to this pancake. I'd say it was worth it to circumscribe Aunt Jemima on this one. 'Scuse me, Auntie J. Gonna go a different route this time.

I also made Key Lime Creme Brulee.

I used the blond Oreos for the crust. Probably overly sweet. But as we have established already, I am not a Gospel singer, a Latino party planner, nor am I a French afficionado of subtle sweets. I am an over-sugared American woman that bakes accordingly. And I now own a torch. Beware.