Some days

Most days, life is pretty good. Some days, I wonder why I bother getting up at all.

Most days, I relish my role as a mother, and find joy in caring for the little people in this house. Some days, it's really hard to care when someone wants their crust cut off, knowing they won't even eat the sandwich anyway.

Most days, I don't mind the Husband traveling. Some days, I really wish he was home.

Most days, I find myself on top of my schedule and can easily manage my responsibilities. Some days, I absolutely forget to do things. Important things, like helping in the first grade classroom, thereby reducing a little first grade girl to tears.

Most days, I am fairly indifferent to my highly imperfect body. Some days, I just can't stand the girl I see in the mirror.

Most days, I make healthy food choices and feel good doing so. Some days, it's all I can do to not eat my weight in cookie dough.

Most days, I answer questions cheerfully, and solve problems in a rational manner. Some days, I tend to yell a lot.

Most days, I am happy, confident, and strong. Some days, I'm just not.

Today has one of those 'some' days.

And I really wish it would leave already.

I hate the some days.

A perfect match

Have you ever found someone you connect with on such a profound level that you immediately begin to wonder if somehow you just might be related?

Well, I had that experience over the Christmas holidays.

And the best part? We ARE related. We just haven't seen each other in a really, really long time.

This is my cousin, Liz. [please ignore my giant head in this picture]

She and her family came to visit us over the Christmas break. Neither one of us knew what to expect, as we have not spent much time together as adults. Sure, we got along great as kids. But back then I was the cool, older cousin with big bangs and pegged jeans. Now? I'm just the older, fatter cousin with a muffin top and three kids. What if we had nothing to talk about?

Well, we had plenty to talk about.

We had a blast. The kids immediately became fast friends, and the husbands chatted it up while bonding over the football. She and I stayed up late, laughing, joking, and never once running out of things to say.

It was a little eerie, though, how similar our families are. Our kids were a perfect match for each other.

Her oldest is a polite, tender-hearted bookworm, who is very eager to please. Just like my oldest.
Her second child is spunky, curious, energetic, and passionately creative. Just like my second child.

Her daughter is a sweet, pink-loving princess who can climb trees with the boys, but also happens to be a devout Dancing Queen fan.

Just like my daughter.

Her baby boy is a chubby ball of content, smiling love who never once cried in the three days we drooled over him.

My baby boy is...oh, wait.

I don't have a baby boy.

Sorry. Got a little carried away there, what with the similarities between our two families and all. But I could not have hand picked better friends for my kids. It truly was the icing on the cake for our holiday break. We were so sad to see them go.

The kids have not stopped talking about their new cousins, and I am thrilled to have connected with my cousin. Thanks for everything, guys. We can't wait to get together again soon.

Which we will. Because when you find people you like this much? You just have to get some more time with them. And soon.

Have you ever? (The parking edition)

This afternoon I decided to brave the below-freezing temperatures and head to the mall. The kids were home for a half-day today, and Hannah was in need of some entertainment. The boys were having a play date, and she was stuck at home with mom (a fate worse than death, I know).

She has become an ardent scrapbooker (read: she likes to rifle through my stuff) and I figured an outing to the local scrapbook store would serve several purposes today. One, it would get her some new supplies and increase the chance that she actually leaves my stuff alone; two, it would give us something fun to do together; and, three, it would enable me to spend more of the Husband's money on pretty paper, ribbons, and such (which just so happens to be one of my favorite things to do with his money).

So we bundled ourselves up and headed out. Seeing as it is literally eight degrees today, I circled the parking lot repeatedly, looking for a spot close to the doors. I spied one on the front row, and headed toward it with glee. That glee was short lived, however, when I noticed it was designated parking for expectant mothers only.

Oh, for half a second I actually wished I was pregnant.

I stopped. I hesitated. I mentally debated whether or not I looked pudgy enough in my winter coat to be able to get away with it (which sadly, I probably do). But in the end, the thought of some poor actual pregnant person having to walk farther in the cold because of me was enough to compel me to do the right thing.

With a sigh, I resigned myself to the mile-long walk in the cold, and headed for a parking spot farther out. As Hannah and I approached that front-row mother's spot on our way inside, another car was pulling in.

And to my horror, a very obviously-not-pregnant person was getting out of the car. How could I be sure, you ask?

BECAUSE IT WAS A MAN.

Yes, a lone man was parking in the expectant mother's parking spot. You can be sure that my frozen face scowled as fierce as one could in the sub-freezing air.

I don't think he noticed, what with his short, warm trip inside the mall.

So, once again, I reminded myself not to judge, and prayed that a real pregnant person was not stuck in the cold longer because of him.

But it begs me to ask -- have you ever parked in that spot when you weren't pregnant? How about the handicapped spot? Ever parked there when you know you shouldn't have?

Discuss.

My favorite time of day

I think I love the half-hour after dinner, showers, and PJ's the best. The dishes are usually done. The kids all smell nice and clean. The house is silent, but for the sweet little voice of this girl, reading out loud to her mama. Our favorite lately is anything Junie B. Jones. But we laughed ourselves silly at this old classic the other day.

The quiet is briefly interrupted by one of these wily fellows, wanting to share something funny from their books, or stumbling upon a word they're not quite sure of.

The day's cares have melted away. There is a look of contentment on each of their faces, as they are immersed in one of my favorite worlds - the wonderful world of books. I have raised three readers, and I might just think myself a success for fact that alone.

Selling my blogging soul for a bottle of free lotion: SkinMD Shielding Lotion and Sunscreen

A few months ago, I was contacted by the nice folks at SkinMD to review a bottle of their shielding lotion with sunscreen.

I was thoroughly excited to have been chosen and could not wait to get my hands on the product. I have typically said no to product reviews before, but they got to me on a good day, I suppose, and I said yes.

I have been using it for over a week now, and I have to say that -- gulp --I don't like it. [Insert SkinMD permanently adding my name to a product review black list here.]

I wanted to like it. I felt compelled to like it.

But I just can't tell a lie, especially to you good people.

It is moisturizing, to be sure, and really made my skin feel great, but I cannot get past the smell. It is not an awful smell per se, but it's got a faintly medical odor to it. It brings to mind old ladies in white hats giving shots, which is not exactly how I want to spend my days smelling, no matter what my skin feels like. Having soft, luscious skin that is doubly protected from the sun is one of my life's goals, but I can't do it at the price of my nostrils.

Plus, the Husband won't come near me when I wear the stuff. [Of course, that could be a major market they're missing - target the wives wanting to keep the husbands away! No? Okay. Can't blame a girl for trying, right?]

So, please, in spite of my less than stellar review, try the product yourself. I would love to be proven wrong on this one, especially as I am quite sure it will be the last review I am ever asked to make.

Unless, of course, someone wants me to review, say, cookie dough, chocolate, or Mr. Darcy movies. All of which would undoubtedly get an earnest thumbs-up.

Solidarity, Christie-style

I won't lie to you. This morning was not a pretty one, my friends. We've known this day was coming for two-and-a-half weeks. We have talked about it. We have prepared for it. I thought we were finally ready.

Oh, I have never been so wrong.

When that awful beeping startled me out of my blissful dreams, I half considered blowing off school and not getting up.

And I would have, had it not meant I'd have the children home another day.

Painfully, I tore myself away from the warm quilts and slid into my pink fuzzy slippers. I plodded down the hall and found all three beds still occupied; a phenomenon which never happens. The crazy people in this house take great delight in waking up at the crack of dawn on any given day. Except, naturally, the one day they have to.

Breakfast was marked with yawns and their drowsy, resentful silence.

At one point in the morning, I found a child asleep on the stairs with his backpack and coat on. I gently nudged him awake, and reminded him of all the fun he would have at school today; how his friends would be so happy to see him, how he'd be having pizza for lunch. His sleepy eyes and pouty lips were not to be convinced.

Finally, the bus lumbered slowly around the corner. I watched as their shoulders drooped just a little bit, and their feet grudgingly moved forward, one tired step at a time.

I felt so very sorry for them. But ever the stoic, I waved earnestly, then did the only decent thing a good mother like myself could do: I crawled back into my still-warm bed and took a nap.

My own brand of solidarity.

[Just don't tell the kids. I think it'd break their little hearts.]