Kitchenaid

 Did you know that you are supposed to grease your Kitchenaid stand mixer's insides occasionally?

I did not, until I got The Tok.  There I discovered a man called Mr. Mixer, who basically just works on Kitchenaid's and he sells all the shit to do this, and has videos on it that you can follow along.  So, in my completely oblivious, overly optimistic way, I decided this afternoon to jump right in and do this because I was bored and had nothing else I wanted to do and I wasn't about to fold laundry because that goes against our attachment laundering practices (meaning my lazy ass pretends that the laundry WANTS to hang out in the baskets unfolded.  I'm trying to reduce the trauma on the laundry caused by separating them and storing them in dark drawers and closets.  Because if you did that to a child, CPS would be knocking on your door and talking to you about parenting, right?)  I thought about live-tweeting it, but since Twitter is a mess either due to Elon's gross incompetence/arrogance, or his carefully orchestrated elimination of ways to get news to the masses (which theory I ascribe to in a day depends on how much tinfoil I have to fashion a hat), I decided against that.  Then I remembered I have this blog, and that it is my duty to share my crazy with the world because it will make you feel better about your own.  So here we go!

1:00 PM I get all my supplies ready.  Some paper towels, a rag, the little kit that I purchased, a Phillips and flathead screw driver, a hammer.  I am all pumped up and ready to GO!  I take a sip of my water and turn on the video.

1:03 PM OK, I'm taking this bitch apart and I am stuck on this one pin.  It. Will. Not. Pop. Out.  I try hitting it.  I put the mixer up against the steps to brace it as I beat on the punches with the rubber mallet that was included in the kit.  It's not coming out, despite the ease with which Mr. Mixer popped his out.

1:45 PM I decide to go ahead and watch the video to see if he talks about ways to get this fucking pin out because it is still not moving.  Very next part of the video, he talks about flipping it on it's side and using a hammer instead of the mallet.  I try it and this works.  Success!

2:00 PM I had been able to get the drip ring off successfully using the mallet and a flathead screw driver.  It is disgustingly caked with baking debris on the inside. I decide to clean it.  As I am wiping it with a paper towel, I manage to slice my pointer finger a bit because of course I am going to injure myself doing this.  I grab a bandage from the bathroom and carry on.

2:30 PM I now am being told that I need a Robertson S1 square bit.  What. The. Fuck. Mr. Mixer? This was NOT in the initial instructions.  I go into Charles's toolbox and find one, still a little salty about this situation.  I get the planetary off as well as the top off of the mixer.  The grease is disgusting.  It's supposed to be white.  It is gray and a sickly yellow.  I start to scrape this off using the little plastic putty knife included in the kit.  I rapidly realize that the 4 paper towels I grabbed is not enough.  In fact, I would end up using the equivalent of a half a roll of paper towels.  So much grease.  Just...so much.

This was *after* I scraped a lot of it off.  It was like rubber.

So. Much. Grease.

2:45 PM Now Mr. Mixer wants me to remove the pin from the planetary shaft.  He says, just pop it right out!  I say, that motherfucker is NOT coming out easily.  Having learned my lesson from the first pin's refusal to budge, I watched ahead a moment to see if it would come out easier with a trick he has.  There was no trick.  I spend the next 15 minutes fucking around with that thing.

3:00 PM Now I'm using my 10th paper towel to get the grease off of the pieces I have already removed.  My bandage is completely falling off from the grease, so I have to break to wash my hands and get a new one.  Upon returning, I am informed by the video that there is a third fucking pin to remove from the worm gear shaft.  So not only do I have to figure out how to remove this fucking thing, I have to figure out how to keep this worm gear from turning (you know, the very thing it was designed to do...) so I can get the fucking pin out.  Then he talks about another punch.  A smaller one.  THAT WAS NOT INCLUDED IN THE KIT.  WTF?  Now, to be fair, in the beginning he did show two of those punches...but one of them was included with the kit and one was not.  Da fuck?  I go rummaging through the tools again in the hopes of coming up with something to get this fucking thing out as it was not budging.  I came up with this random tool that I should probably know what it is called but I don't so my brothers are all gonna have their heads explode over this I am sure, and some old nails.

Seriously, WTF is this plaque-scraper looking thing called?

3:30 PM I get the pin out between the tool and the nails.  I'm on my third bandage at this point, and eventually abandon them as they just keep getting saturated with grease.  Now Mr. Mixer says to go in with more paper towels and clean up.  This takes longer than your bank does to refund money owed to you.  He also says to use some rubbing alcohol to help with cleaning up the grease.  I forget that I have an open wound on my pointer finger, and attempt to take a towel soaked in rubbing alcohol and get into those grooves to get them cleaned. My soul immediately shrivels up and dies from the burning in my one finger.

3:35 PM I abandon cleaning the parts for a minute and return to the bottom of the machine.  "Remove the hub gear", says Mr. Mixer.  "It slides right out."  Lies.  It does not slide right out.  I have to beat it out.  Mr. Mixer must have hands like vice grips.

3:50 PM Back to cleaning the parts.  So many paper towels.  So many gear teeth to clean.  So much burning from the rubbing alcohol.  At this point, I'm just rolling with it like it's some sort of weird Kitchenaid Kink thing.  He warns that there are sharp parts in the upper housing.  I fucking already KNOW, Mr. Mixer.  I've already cut myself.

4:15 I remember that I have a couple of parts that I need to add onto the mixer, a spring and what he is calling an Everdime.  I quickly find the video telling how to install, and do so.  This part goes smoothly so I get cocky.

4:30 I am now re-greasing everything with this bright white grease that looks like frosting.  So.  Much.  Grease.  So. Many. Towels.  I get everything reassembled.  I call Charles to help with the Everdime, as you essentially have to screw a screw into a rubber gasket, and we've already established that I do not have vice grip hands.

5:00 I am starting to put everything back together.  It goes fairly smoothly, and I get it all set back up on my counter and turn it on.  It works!  I am woman, hear me roar!  

5:01 I put all of my attachments and paddles into my glass bowl for the mixer, and start to push it back on my counter out of the way.  The bowl is not locked, which causes the attachments to hit against the side of the glass bowl.  It cracks evenly, and a large chunk starts to fall.  Before my brain registers it, I am grabbing for the chunk.  It slices my fingers. Three additional cuts.  One, is bad enough for stitches.

This looks way more dramatic than it actually is.  But notice the original injury, on the tip of the index finger, is not even bandaged  In fact, I may have burned off my fingerprints with rubbing alcohol.

So moral of the story?  This is just proof that laundry is the devil.  If I was not trying to avoid it, I would not have injured myself and required medical attention.  Also, 36 minutes of videos somehow turned into 4 hours and a small forest of trees in paper towels, so don't believe everything on the Internet and/or The Tok.

But I am woman.  RAAAAWWWRRR!

Cookies

Oh, hey...been a minute, hasn't it?  Well, I've been busy.  Sue me.  Actually scratch that, because suing me is gonna get you a whole lot of student loan debt and possibly a sweet collection of cobwebs that I've started in the corners of my house (you can't criticize my housekeeping if I say it's a collection, right?  I'm totally starting that rule right now.).

Anyways, I figured I needed to check in so my 9 followers knew that I have not died.  Trust me, though, when I die I am so going to go around fucking with people until the zombie apocalypse happens, in which I fully plan on earning ALL my participation points thankyouverymuch.     (Side note:  I apparently have a thing for the zombie apocalypse because when I did a search to find the above links in my blog, no fewer than 10 posts contained the words "zombie apocalypse."  Add another notch in my crazy belt, I suppose...) 

I had a friend as me about decorating cookies with royal icing, with which I have been playing around some in the last few years because I like to ignore my children and create stress for myself.  I promise, this is related.  I gave her some tips, then re-read what I wrote and was like OMG WTF this needs to be a blog post. (That's how it's related.) But first, some pictures of my cookies to establish my cookie creds:

Some sweet little sleepy clouds.  Or they are stoned.  You decide.

I randomly made gluten free cookies and decorated them as chicks.  Because of course I would.  

And then there are these sad, deformed lambs.  Was I high when I made them?  You decide.

Now that I am done bragging and/or horrifying you with deformed lambs, here is what I wrote to her about decorating cookies with royal icing:

1 cup of powdered sugar, 1 T meringue powder and water. You can add flavoring if you want, just not oil based. I don't because of who I am as a person...that and my sugar cookie recipe has orange zest in it so I really don't feel it needs it. I start with a few tablespoons of water then add more as needed. I use a spray bottle for this as it's really easy to add too much and then there will be wailing and gnashing of the teeth as you try to thicken the fucker up. I beat it for a really long time...like 5 minutes. It gets super fluffy, like a luscious, cavity-inducing pillow. Then divvy it up and add the food coloring (keep in mind gel colors are the best, as the liquid will thin it out some. You can use them, just be aware of that fact.) You want some that is thinner for "flooding", then some a little thicker for outlining. Use a spray bottle for this as well, see above for why. There are a million videos on YouTube about the consistencies for icing. I normally do like a toothpaste consistency for outlining and like a slightly thinner than shampoo consistency for flooding (think like Log Cabin syrup). Another important thing to remember is after you add the color to take the bowl and lightly drop it onto the table to bring up any bubbles, and to watch for them when you flood. Pop those bad boys like a zit ASAP, I do it with a toothpick. On the cookies, not my zits. You can also do the same to the cookies themselves after you have flooded them (very gently, unless your cookies are like bricks, in which case I'm guessing also inedible so why bother? They will be full of disappointment on so many levels that bubbles in the frosting won't matter.) Also, make sure to cover any unused icing with a damp paper towel or it will dry out like a mummy. Mummified icing is a PITA to work with and it never ends well. You also want to make sure to cover the tips of your decorating bags/bottles with a damp paper towel as well or you will get a lovely plug of icing in them. This has been a known cause of mild alcoholism in cookie decorators.

Good luck!

I really should write a cookbook or something.  With instructions like those, who could possibly fail?  Episcopalians?   People with shortness of stature?  Maybe the stoned amongst us?  You decide.

Crafty II

I enjoy doing artsy-craftsy kinds of stuff.  It's a good creative outlet for me when I can't summon enough crazy to write on this blog, and it keeps me off the streets.  And also it's a good excuse to drink wine because when you drink wine while crafting it is called "enjoying me time" vs. "maybe it's time for an intervention".  I occasionally decide to go all Martha Stewart for the kids' holiday parties, and I decided to go full frontal for this Valentine's Day.

I found this cute idea for secret decoder cookies here and decided to put a little Valentine's Day spin on it.  And because I am generous and kind and V-day is about love, I also decided that I was going to give you the play by play of how exactly I made these fucking cookies.

First of all, I totally copped out on the cookies.  I did not make them from scratch, using only all organic, non-GMO ingredients.  I bought a fucking mix:

Why yes, there are two different types of mixes there.  I read the box of the Great Value ones, saw that it made 40 servings at 2 cookies a serving, and figured I was golden.  I forgot I used one of the packets for a trial run when I did that math.   In my defense, this was also the same night I discovered lemon blueberry rum...

I whipped up some of those bad boys and prepared to Martha Stewart-ize them.  Rolled them mothafuckers out, then cookie-cuttered their asses and prepared to fill them with the crushed cinnamon fire Jolly Ranchers I took a lot of my pent-up aggression about my daughters both suddenly deciding to go on a jag of forcing me to listen to only Katy Perry in the car on.  I recognize that cinnamon candies might not be the best thing to put in cookies going to children, but goddamn.  I'm not going for taste here.  I used fucking store-bought cookie dough.

Filled with crushed candies.  Crushed, similar to my hopes and dreams.

Now I had mentioned a trial run.  I was not about to make all of these without attempting it first.  If it was going to go down in flames (hopefully not the literal ones, but I swear that would be our luck...) I needed to come up with a backup plan.  Obviously it had worked or I wouldn't even be telling you about this (though that might make for an entertaining post, fo' shure...).  At any rate, I had already made up a little trial of the message these cookies would be used to decode.  The blog I linked to above talks about using a blue pen to write the message, then covering it with squiggles of orange, red, and pink.  Fuck that shit.  Twenty five children plus one teacher in each kids class equals 52 Valentine's and I am not going to lie...the idea of handwriting all that shit makes me wanna stab my eyes out.  I fully intended on printing that shit out on the computer, so that is what I did:

The hidden message.

The message decoded.  Much easier to see in person, but it did work.

Holy fucking shit on a cracker, it worked again, bitchez.  Some days I even impress myself.

This victory was short lived, however, as I soon came to the realization that the math that meant that I needed to go to the store for more mix is the same math that means I have to make 52 of these fuckers.  Cutting those things out soon became a exercise in maintaining my sanity, and we all know that I teeter on the edge there frequently.  Soon, however, I get the last few cut out and start to fill them up when I realize that I am going to be short crushed candy.  "Fuck it", I thought.  "I'll just toss in a whole one.  It's not like I need that one cookie to make sure I have enough."  (Note, however, that that same logic did  not lead my to just, oh, I don't know, NOT PUTTING ANY CANDY IN.  No, by God, ALL the cookies must have candy.  ALL OF THEM.)

Poor little cookie, there in the upper right.  Different from the others.  You embrace your uniqueness, little buddy.

I popped that last bunch in the oven and started cleaning up.  Timer goes off and I pull them out, and notice this:

Bottom right, this time, but look at how nice that fucking cookie looks.

That is right.  All that time I spent crushing the candy that the children are not likely to eat, then painstakingly pouring it into each little hole...I could have just unwrapped the candy and tossed it in and been done with it.  And this, bitchez, is why Pinterest is the devil.  Not only is it a time suck, it totally leads you down the path to crushing candy when there is no need.

Next time, the only candy I am crushing is on my phone when I am trying to ignore my children while pooping.  After that I was pretty Martha-Stewart'ed out, so I grabbed some lemon blueberry rum, resisted the temptation to just toss back a few shots, mixed it with a glass of lemonade, and remembered a time when my Saturday afternoons were not spent covered in flour to make cookies that children probably won't eat on a holiday I really don't even celebrate.

Fire

I seem to have this weird propensity to attract fire.  Like, literal fire, though there's been plenty of metaphorical fire in my day, not gonna lie.

I'm not a pyromaniac or anything.  I'm only the kind of crazy that makes me fun to get drunk and commit minor misdemeanors, not felonies.  It just seems that I get all kinds of crazy fire-related shit all up in here.

For example, when I was in college one of my roommates caught the burner of our stove on fire with some grease.  Luckily for her, I enjoy baking and had some baking soda available (none of my other roommates did) and knew enough to toss it on the flames.  I then proceeded to leave to go to church, where the sermon was about, you guessed it.  Fire.  Though thinking back on this, the fact that I was in a church and it did not catch fire is kinda miraculous in and of itself...I was really only there for the extra credit for a religion class I was taking to be completely honest here.

Fast forward a few years in college.  We had this big old dead tree in our front yard that it took the college forever to cut down because single mothers trying to get out of poverty and their children aren't a priority, so who cares if gale-force winds come in and send it crashing through the roof, amirite?  I look out the window and see that at the base of this tree, there is a little fire going.  I go out there with a cup of water and douse the flames.  Or so I thought.  I then go to a family party for something or another (possibly Christmas?  a winter birthday?  It was during winter break, so your guess is as good as mine).  I explained why I was late and we laughed at the whole "burning bush" thing and joked about looking out for locusts.  I come home and I am telling my roommates about this when I look out the window and the fucking tree is back on fire.  For some reason, I opt to call for security vs. 911.  They tell me to put it out myself.  So that is how, on a cold winter night, I am out in the front yard of the house I lived in with a fire extinguisher trying to get the fire out.  It just kept re-kindling.  Eventually a security guard came to check it out.  Like a half an hour later.  They realize that I have just about emptied the extinguisher, so they decide that perhaps this is NOT something a single person equipped with chemicals can handle so they call the fire department.  It then takes the firemen another half an hour and sticking the hose into the center of the tree for the damn thing to finally quit.

I then meet my husband.  He's quite the lovely man and proposes and we live happily ever after and shit.  But, he failed to mention during our courtship that he routinely sets himself on fire at work. (He's a welder.)  And he always is so nonchalant about it when he tells me, like "Oh hey,  Aaron got a new derby car, and they fired that idiot they hired last week; oh, and I caught myself on fire.  And do you think you can get me some more nasal spray for my tool box?"  Like it's no big fucking deal that a steaming hot piece of weld landed on your shirt and it went up in flames.  I'm pretty sure he doesn't tell me about most of the times he does this because, well, he's married to a crazy woman.

Another time fire and I crossed paths, it was not quite so direct-like.  We were going to Connecticut, I think for my nephew's birthday, and a storm hit back at home.  Now my brother in law was planning on coming with us but at the last minute changed his mind.  Good fucking thing he did, because a goddamned storm came roaring through and lightening hit their house and caught it on fire.  Luckily the damage was limited to mostly cosmetic outside shit...but cheese and tap dancing rice, WTF?

Which brings me to the event that precipitated this post.  A few days ago, my husband was going to cook some ham on the grill.  He went out to pre-heat it, and then came back into the house to get the meat.  (Snickering cause I'm secretly a 12 year old boy.)  As he is prepping it, I happen to look out the window and I see flames.  A lot of flames.  Like a little mini hell burning in our back yard.  It scorched the siding and broke the window on the mudroom because it was cold outside.  That's how we do winter in Ohio, bitchez.  We grill even when frostbite is imminent.  Hell, most winter nights my husband can be found outside with the dogs in front of a fire, hiding from me. I don't blame him.   I'd totally hide from me too.

Apparently I'm being retaliated against for the church not burning all those years ago...

I am almost wondering anymore if I have mystical fire starting powers I was previously unaware of or something.  Like a dragon, but of course I am way cooler.   And not as scaly.  I swear to God though, our backyard has flooded on more than one occasion and now the grill caught on fire.  There better not be any fucking locusts or Imma have to bring my new found dragon powers out on their asses.

Minimalism

There is this thing going around the internet lately: The Minimalism Game.

The basic idea is that you start on the first day of the month, and eliminate one thing from your household.  Second day, two things; third day, three things, etc., etc.  I need something to distract myself from November as it is generally a month full of suck for me, so I figured why the hell not.  I can only do the thirty days of thankfulness thing on Facebook so many times.  We get it.  I'm blessed to even be in a position to be able to whine about having so many things to be blessed about.  Insert hashtag firstworldproblems.  I was looking for something different this year.

(Aside here...Alexis showed me a pound sign tonight and I told her it was a pound sign.  She said, "You mean hashtag?"  I clung to my defense of it being a pound sign.  They don't say on the automated phone thingies to press the hashtag, now, do they?  I rest my case.)

So far, I have faithfully thrown away, donated, or somehow eliminated items for 20 days straight.  It actually hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be, which raises concerns for me that I may not be just crazy, but hoarder crazy.  Like seriously, I know we have lived in this house for over 10 years now, but dear God, when did we collect so much shit?  On one day alone, I threw away 11 medicine dispensers.  Eleven.  Like, why didn't I just tell Walgreens after the first three that I didn't need any more medicine dispensers?  And one would think that they could have seen in their computer that this is like the 8th antibiotic I had gotten for Charlie because of ear infections in 6 months (wish I was joking here...she totally got tubes...) and that it is likely I did not need yet another dispenser.  And why did I keep just tossing them into the silverware drawer?

Now in my defense, I do feel that we have an especially deep silverware drawer and that they honestly did just get shoved to the back.  But that does not explain all of the other crap I have been able to eliminate.

Old shampoo and conditioners from hotel stays.  Expired OTC meds and sunscreen.  Old toys and dress up clothes that no longer fit the little girls.  Freezer burnt food from the bottom of the chest freezer.  Jars.  Holy fuck, when did I accumulate so many jars and why was I keeping them?  And the paper...OMG, the amount of old receipts, instruction manuals for items we no longer have, warranty cards for baby items...I am continually surprised at my ability to find things to get rid of with little to no effort.

When I started this, I fully anticipated the last few days being me taking a pair of shoes, removing the shoelaces, and counting that as four items.  It has been surprisingly refreshing to purge this household in a deeper way than I usually do when I purge stuff.  It's not just eliminating the papers brought home from school or clothes that don't fit.  It's getting rid of baggage from the past in a way.  Those medicine droppers, a time when Charlie was constantly sick with an ear infection.  The dress up clothes, a time when the girls were little and required help to get them on and off when now they are pretty self-sufficient.  The instruction manuals, a time when whatever item we had was shiny and new, but now is no longer needed/wanted.

It has been surprisingly refreshing to participate in this game.  Maybe there is something to be said for the whole "less is more" thing.  Maybe I can pretend that it was all of this stuff that was driving my crazy to be...well, crazy.  Maybe the challenge is simply a welcome distraction from my dad dying, my dead son's due date, the unpleasantness of the election, and the general suck that is November in Ohio.

Or maybe I became a hoarder without knowing it and this is my wake up call.  Who knows.  I'd ponder this more, but I have to figure out what 21 items I am going to eliminate tomorrow.

Enough

I've been a bad blogger again, bitchez.

I've got all kinds of excuses.  Two jobs.  Three children who consistently demand things like nutrition, healthcare, and education. (Assholes.)  A house that, let's face it, is not going to be as clean as I would like it until we move out of it and into another bigger one we can trash. Just maybe a little more spread out will the trashing be. (And Yoda I am channeling.)  And of course, I'm constantly looking for new things to occupy my time stress myself out over, such as contemplating opening my Etsy store for business and expanding my gardens and training for a marathon.

Ha ha.  I can't even find time to read a goddamned book.  Or even a fucking short story or poem.  A marathon is totally out of the question.  I'm lucky to find time to exercise at all (as evidenced by all of the weight I have gained back...:/ )  Everything just keeps getting pushed off to the future.  When I have only one job.  When the kids are in school full time.  When we finally move out to the country.

Everything seems like it has been getting postponed lately.  I wanted to have a bigger house for Elizabeth's grad party.  She graduates this June, and we are still in the same house.  I wanted to start running again.  I still have not gone out to buy new running shoes.  I wanted to have Alexis take violin lessons.  Her violin has not been touched in forever.  I signed Charlie up for 1,000 books before kindergarden.  She's probably read that many already, but we don't get to the library to turn her papers in.  Hell, I've been wanting to go on a date with my husband.  It's been way too long.

I feel like I have been such a failure in so many ways.  I judge myself way more harshly than anyone else.  The perfectionism that I lecture my clients about runs rampant in myself, and I always seem to be slacking.

But yet...our house feels like home and Elizabeth is having fun planning her graduation party with me.  Alexis has found her true love in dance.  Charlie is as smart as a whip.  My husband puts up with my crazy.  It just never feels like I am doing enough.

Not pretty enough.  Not skinny enough.  Not smart enough.  Not enough money.  Not taking the kids to enough activities.  Not spending enough quality time with them.  Not spending enough time on my career.  Not spending enough time on housework.  On reading.  On hobbies.  On exercise, fitness, and/or health.  On beauty.  On pop culture.  On learning about social media.

When does it become enough?  When you are too old to remember?  When you die?  When you wake up one day and realize that all the voices that were on the outside, or so you thought, were really coming from within, but with help from external sources?  When you realize perfection is an unrealistic standard sold by marketing companies to promote products for the almighty dollar?

I know most of  that logically.  Yet I can understand why most people don't feel it in their hearts.  I tell people,  "Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday."  But you can't rationalize with anxiety (believe me, I've tried.)

I just have to hope that it is enough.  And keep contributing to the children's therapy funds in case it is not.

Relaxation

So we completed the gingerbread houses.  With minimal bickering and whining.  The girls did great too.

They tasted delicious, too.  Or at least the scraps did.  Can you guess which on is which girl's?

I was pleasantly surprised at how well the girls got along while doing these.  They shared the icing bags with the frosting in them and were generally pleasant about the whole ordeal.  I kinda want to make one for myself to decorate next year.

After they were done, I set to cleaning the house. Scrubbing floors, the bathroom walls, the counters in the kitchen.  Putting away all of my baking stuff that had overrun my counters.  Dusting.  Because that is what one does on one's first day of vacation, right?

Apparently not, according to my middle child.  Alexis questioned me as to why I felt the need to clean everything.  Why it was important to scrub the toilets, the walls, to get down on my hands and knees and scrub the floors.  Why I  had to do this in between decorating the houses and coloring with the girls and watching a movie.

(OK, I didn't actually watch the whole movie.  That almost never happens.  But I did sit down for a bit.)

I explained to her how it is very distressing to me to have a messy house.  How I don't like it when we have clutter.  How I really wasn't doing all that much.  How it was a lazy day.  I stayed in bed until almost 10, after all.

Alexis then looked at me and said, "Mom.  You have cleaned the kitchen, bathroom, and living room.  You threw clothes in the washer and dryer.  You cleaned the bathroom walls.  You put away all of the cookie stuff.  And you also decorated gingerbread houses, colored pictures, cleaned out the van, and helped me and Charlie get dressed.  How is that a lazy day?"

She has a point.  When did I stop recognizing what I did during a day?  When did having my self-sufficient girls allow me to lay in bed for a bit make me all of a sudden have a "lazy day?"  When did the idea of having to stop and actually, RELAX, become such an anxiety provoking idea anyways?  What am I trying to run away from?  And who the hell is telling me that I am not good enough if I am not constantly producing?

Tomorrow....tomorrow I am going to just chill.  Charlie had a cousin sleepover tonight.  Tomorrow, I will make them some cinnamon roll waffles.  I will play Angry Birds in bed.  I will drink a lot of coffee (wait, that's every day...) and stay in jammies until we have to leave for my sister's for Christmas Eve.  Hell, since the weather is closer to the actual time of Jesus's birth than to winter, I might even take the kids outside and go to the park with the dogs.  Don't worry; if we do that I will put on actual clothes vs my jammies. 

I took this time off from both jobs for a reason.  I need to refresh.  I need to reconnect with my family.  I'd better damn well use it.

But not until the house is clean.

Umbrellas

Alexis has recently discovered umbrellas. They are wonderful! Fantastic! They keep the rain OFF OF YOUR BODY! How amazing is this!

I am not one who usually uses umbrellas, which makes absolutely no sense if you know me. I have a hatred, a loathing, of water that makes a cat look like Michael Phelps. I have to tramp down an irrational homicidal urge every time that my children splash me accidentally in the bathtub. I shower facing away from the water because I hate getting my face wet. The girls have made bargains with the devil to get me to take them swimming. Etc., etc...you get it.

Anyways, despite all of the above, I don't usually use umbrellas when it is raining. I also don't wear boots and gloves and hats in the winter, and don't usually zip my coats up. Hey, it is all part of what makes me me. And I guess a borderline unhealthy obsession with umbrellas is what is going to make my wonderfully unique child Alexis Alexis.

Now the umbrella that we currently own is an old one of Elizabeth's. Well, that is not counting the battered red one that resides in my Jeep that never gets used. Hell, I forget about the damn thing until I go to vacuum the vehicle out. But the kid umbrella that we have is Elizabeth's, and one of the spoke thingys on it is broken. Alexis still loves that thing, but recently asked me if she could get a new one.

My first instinct was to tell her, "Sure!" I mean, she is three, right? Why make her EARN it? Not like she will understand it. However, I forgot about the power that is anything that Elizabeth does....and Elizabeth has to EARN her extras (for the most part...I am not an entirely evil parent, despite what she tells her friends). So she agreed to do chores to earn an umbrella.

Tomorrow is grocery shopping day. I told her if she were to do the chores, she could get it tomorrow. Do you know that that child WILLINGLY and ENTHUSIASTICALLY did every single thing that I asked her to? And ASKED ME TO CHECK THAT SHE DID IT OK? She was so excited to earn that umbrella...it was cute to watch, kinda like a little Pomeranian that is hopped up on Ritalin, that was how excited she was.

I wonder how many times I will do this to my kids...underestimate them and their capabilities. Not give them enough credit...not think that they are capable human beings. I wonder how much damage I will do to them because of this. I hope and pray that it is negligible.

Know what? I hope that is the best damn umbrella that anyone ever got. Ever. In the history of the whole wide world.