Distilling homemade vanilla

I had to pick up some booze from the grocery store in order to finally make some homemade vanilla and I had already run a couple errands that morning so I knew that just popping in and out of the store for this ONE thing would be OK. I wouldn’t be stretching the patience or my luck with 2 kids in tow.

Except, when did I ever think that my luck ran that far?

I was holding my son, two years old, through the store because my daughter, 5 years old, asked to push the smaller version of a grocery cart to which I said yes, she could.

Half way through the shopping trip my son decides that this set up is not fair and he loses his marbles. Literally kicking and screaming in my arms. The folks in the aisle infront of me stop, turn and watch as I pass with my five year old pushing a cart with the biggest bottle of vodka available and me holding my thrashing (and filthy) two year old in my arms.

There wasn’t blood. I hadn’t been hit or bit or scratched, so it wasn’t that bad right?? He did finally get his stuff together and we make it through the check out line.

He’s sniffling and I have to tell them both that, No, we are not going to be riding the Penny Horse today – I almost get out of the store (Vodka in hand) when I walk right into the exit door. Still holding my son.

Which means that I smacked his head into the exit door, while holding Vodka and trying to corral my daughter into following me more closely as to not run into traffic.

Which I stopped dead when he started screaming from the pain of getting his head smashed into a door. It was an accident!! And the vodka wasn’t for me (kind of) … I wasn’t going to be drinking when I got home (although, who wouldn’t have thought that after seeing me?).

People from a good 300 feet away turned around, stopped returning their carts or loading their groceries and watched me walk to my car with my vodka, filthy/hurt/screaming child and my daughter.

I got in my car after calming my son down and making sure he was ok and sat there.

Just. Sat.

I was in shock, stunned.

And then I called my mom.

I thought about taking a shot when I got home, don’t you worry, but I saved it for the vanilla.

Other moms, is that a club?

It happened. This morning. Another mom from preschool brought up my blog. Not a bad thing! I was a little scared and mostly just wanted to hide under a rock.

If there’s one thing I just don’t know how to handle yet where this blog is concerned it is most definitely how to have the conversation wherein I admit I have a blog at all. And most definitely to the other mom’s of preschool.

I fully understand that when I write all of my innermost thoughts and feelings, ideas and what-have-yous all over the internet that I am opening myself up to all kinds of interpretation and speculation. I get it, I accept it. I try to deal with it respectfully. However I know full well that I am not making that decision for my kids. So … when other parents who have children in the same class or school as mine do bring up my website I cringe a little because (and maybe this doesn’t matter at all) I’m worried about their foresight’s onto my kids BECAUSE of me. (I’m just insecure, I suppose, in a group of other women who do the same thing I do but we never actually discuss how hard it is, how tiring it is or how much we love it and hate it at the same time … mom’s, we’re kind of intimidating.)

Double standard? I have no idea. I hope not. And it’s getting more comfortable but it’s also a little narcistic to talk about myself talking about myself and I’m trying hard to be wise in that area. Or mature? Pretty much I just don’t want to be the one who always has to say something, just to fill the space. Or be some one because I feel pressure to perform.

Nevertheless, I still love writing here so I will get over myself.

(Hi Mom’s!)

Before you become a XXX star

Our house has been a petri dish of germs this past week – it started with my husband coming home early and conking out before dinner … now this happens every so often just from stress etc so I wasn’t too worried but when he woke up the next morning I knew we were dealing with the green guys.

Next came Jessica and Oliver – Jessica missed school a couple days this week, the husband ended up losing his voice and I got run over by a truck and had gravel shoved down my throat.

Oh it was fun. Like buckets of acid being thrown on your face fun!

Thankfully the husband could rework some of his schedule to be home with the kids while I was more worthless than your average box of cereal. Ah snap! WORTHLESS I TELL YOU.

I spent the nights tossing and turning and wishing there was a magical fairy who was coming to take all the pain away so I could just sleep, for 15 minutes, for 5 minutes. Anything would have been nice. Instead I woke up morning after morning worse than the night before.

Whu whu whu.

So this morning I called to get an emergency appointment with the chiropractor so he could break my bones into working again and stop all the madness going on in my head. The Chiropractor we see regularly didn’t have an opening so I made an appointment with another guy in the office.

Now. I’ve written before about how going to the Chiropractor is kinda like being in a really bad porn video. The places they have to touch to test a muscle are not very modest, ok. Since we’ve been going to this particular office I’ve grown in my comfort in addressing this issue with the Chiropractors, it’s all part of the medicine and I’m assured that it’s not just me … it’s other patients too.

So. This new guy today, he had to go there. He had to test some muscles that were not very modest and I’m laying there on the chair thinking about how bad this must look from the outside in.

I’m sweating by this point … through my jeans I’m sweating. On my legs, my back, my armpits. A couple of the fixes he had to perform included my jaw, which meant he had to be leaning over me while I breathed in and out with awful, germish breath and I want to die, ok. I just want to die.

One. You are not the doctor I usually see, so this is just awkward.


Three. Contrary to popular belief; I am modest.

We adjusted the supplements I’ve been taking for the blood sugar marathon and I got some tips as to how to avoid throwing my body into this revolt again so I feel like we’re on the upswing. We better be, at least. I’ve got a busy week ahead of me and there is not room for gravel or truck accidents on my limbs.

Can we make this worse?

This past summer I confessed to some serious household shortcomings in respect to having a paid sitter come into the house and have to deal with my lack of organization.

It has not gotten better.

In case you were wondering.

Although – I do now have toilet paper in the house and there are no longer lottery tickets sitting on my counter … and we haven’t bounced any more checks. There are new problems with my brain.

I remember hearing a story once about a babysitter who wanted job security so she would find the people’s birth control and tamper with it. As in, if it were condoms, she’d poke holes and if it were pills she’d … I don’t know, mess with them. I don’t know how.

This scared the crap out of me because who the heck knows what someone is looking through when they’re at your house and you’re not there?

Now. Step aside. I fully and completely trust the ladies we employ not to sabotage my ovaries. And I trust that if they’re nosey … soon they will not be because I’m sure they’ve found stuff by accident and then decided to shield their eyes for ever and ever, amen.

I’m making it sound like we’re freaks aren’t I?

Meh. Deal with it.

ANY WAY. It has happened before when I come home and start picking a few things up or walk into our bedroom to change or something only to notice the discarded birth control wrapper. I am not spelling this out for you. And I immediately shrink to about 2 inches tall inside and gasp at my total disregard for modesty.

I am married so 2+2=we’re doin’ it. But I don’t really want you to KNOW that. I don’t want you to see the evidence.

There have been countless times when I’m taking out the trash and see toiletries that are less than pleasant resting right on top and I’ve had to wonder to myself … OH MY GOSH! Why haven’t these girls up and quit on us?

Because when I was babysitting, none of this stuff was ever shoved in my face over and over again. I didn’t even go into the parents bedroom. And I’m not saying our sitters do – but our kids do! They love to play in there, be on the bed, wear my clothes. To be completely honest I don’t really care if our sitters do, either.

One thing I’ve learned since becoming a parent is that modesty, in all realms, is really just security for less embarrassment in a crowd. And once you’ve been projectile pooped on in your church bathroom during a service and had to walk right back out and sit down next to the wonderfully put together mom of 4 while you struggle with your ONE … modesty just has no place in that business. At all.

So, I do a mental check now before a sitter comes over. Toilet paper? DIAPERS?! (which I have forgotten many-a-times) Trash cans – clear? Diaper pail – fresh? (I’m bad at that one) Birth control evidence? Clean clothes?

Oh. Laundry. What a waste of time. I always have clean laundry piled high in our basement waiting to be folded and put away. Does it ever happen? Oh yes, about twice a month. And I feel amazing and on top of the world, until the next morning when half of my daughters closet is on her floor and in her hamper once again and it begins all over.

So you will totally be accosted with laundry upon entering our basement and I’ve just stopped apologizing for it. I’ve also stopped making sure that my nitty-grittys are somewhere underneath the entire pile of laundry because I’m sure I’m the butt of many jokes … literally … about how terrible my granny panties look.

That is correct I have not actually thrown them away yet.

But now I must.

Also? I’ll be crawling in a hole today and staying there for eternity.

I leave my camera to Jessica. Good bye.

It’s never “just an errand”

I had to quick run into Target yesterday for wipes because, like the toilet paper issue around this house, I also am quite the procrastinator when it comes to keeping the stock of wipes to butt ratio high in this house. Whatever.

So I pull into a parking space, that now I have to calculate where it’s going to be with the new van because the thing is a boat – I’m constantly worried about people denting the sides. Hey, it’s happened. So after the mathmatical decision to park far enough away, we park and then I itch my nose. BUT WAIT! What is that I feel?

A zit. Or maybe two. For crying out loud, I am not 16 any more. Lets just stop this whole oil production please, I am not kidding, cut it out. I take a quick gander in the mirror and decide I can quickly, yes I am going to say it, pop them. They were moist, if it wasn’t gross enough for you. Moist with zit puss! PUSS!

All the while I have no idea if any of the other parked cars around me have occupants and at this point I am praying to Jesus that I am o-so-very-alone in this act. I see something out of the corner of my eye but I’m distracted by the blood careening down my nose that I have to grab the closest absorbent thing to me and wipe my face.

That absorbent thing? A diaper.

I am now sitting in the parking lot of Target, unaware of anyone watching the horror show of this woman popping her zits in the mirror and then WIPING UP THE MESS WIHT A DIAPER.

I waited a good 5 minutes in the car to ensure that anyone sitting around me in other cars would leave or go in the store and not recognize me. Then I went along my merry way buying wipes for the now diaperless butt of my child because I stole the diaper for blood clotting on my zitty nose.