If I'm Being Honest, This Is Really Just a Humble Brag

I'm so far behind, I may never catch up. The snow is about three inches deep, and there's a whisper of a promise that the school might be closed tomorrow. Can I get a yippee for snow days?!

I thought I knew busy when I billed hours. I thought I knew busy when I had a three-year old and a newborn. I actually thought I knew busy when the kids had swim lessons a few times a week.

I had no idea.

This is busy, in the best way possible:

The Swagger Wagon ferried us safely to Ponca City one more time. 

We really have to be careful when playing in Ponca; the shadows from the palace on the prairie can really bring those spring-like temperatures down. 

This one is a lover, not a fighter. We ventured out to see Paddington a few weeks ago, and it was nearly too much for him: "Mommy! What if the bear dies?" "RJ," I whispered ferociously, "I will not take you to movies where they kill a bear. What kind of mother do you think I am?"  Two days later, he  reviewed the film and gave his suggestions for the future: "Mom, can you learn this? Never take me to a movie with guns." For the record, I don't recall a single weapon being aimed at the wooly British bear. What kind of mother do you think I am?

No attitude. That pretty much sums him up. We're reading Runaway Ralph these days. RJ isn't sure about it. "Mom!" he gasped, "He didn't ask his mommy if he could go outside!" 

Keep that spirit, little man. Your sister is going to need a good example. 

So says RJ, "Hudson doesn't know my name, but he knows I'm Gigi's brother. Everyone knows I'm Gigi's brother." I bet they do. 

Open house is serious business. 

She had a very different idea than mommy's as to dress-up day for school. 

Career day was way more her speed, though "I'm sad that Frozen isn't in teeaters anymore." 

RJ wanted to be an airplane driver, or rather, a fly guy. He looks pretty fly. 

Ear bobbles make a girl feel lovely. 

But sometimes, you really wish the mamarazzi would just let you be. 

But she's relentless, so it's really easier just to strike a pose. 

Some days just feel like a blue eyeshadow day. 

And others, you really just want to rock a fabulous pair of boots. 

Still others, you just want to put on some music and dream. 

Valentine's Day is just more fun when you're a kid. 

Particularly when you get to spend the afternoon shopping with mom. 

An afternoon at the princess symphony calls for a princess dress. Or, you know, Doc McStuffins--if you're into that kind of thing. 

She has an engineering mind. 

And she's quite handy. 

The late February snowstorm is a blessed curse--finally, we have two hours to stop, catch up, and be kids again. 

Daddies make the best playmates. 

Unless, of course, you're lucky enough to have a big brother. 

That Defining Moment of Motherhood

There's a defining moment for every mom. That instant, that millisecond that forever remains with us. That one thing that makes us question if we're really fit to be mothers. It might be the day the two-year old stair-steps up the vanity drawers, stands in her brother's sink, and downs half a bottle of Avengers mouthwash while singing her ABC's. Or, maybe, it's the day when the school calls for the second time in a month, "We looked in RJ and Gigi's backpacks, and they don't have lunches. They're not signed up for hot lunch. Can you bring them food?" Maybe it's the day your six-year old cuts his thumb on a razor blade trying to empty the trash because you forgot to tell him to dump the can, not to handpick each item from it.

For me, my defining moment wasn't one of those moments. I can shake those off, even give a half-hearted chuckle. My moment?

The day I realized my house is too filthy for me to have a housekeeper.

I hear you: "Oh, we have to pick-up before our housekeeper comes too. It's no big deal!" you shrug and smile unapologetically.

I'll tell you like I tell my students: parse the language. My house is too filthy for me to have a housekeeper. Not too messy. Not too many toys. Filth.

Fluff bunnies have reproduced like, well, rabbits. The cats have puked one too many times for me to pretend it just happened this morning while I was work. There are Cheerios in the couch; chocolate milk rings on the tables; and (I promise I'm not fibbing even a little bit) last week, the possum was licking my patio table by the glow of my kitchen light. Sand has overtaken my tile floors, and we don't live anywhere near the beach (Do kids manufacture the stuff? Is that where it really comes from?)

"I'm really sorry," I texted my housekeeper, "but we're just not at a place in our lives when we can make appropriate plans for you to come."

"K. Thx," came the immediate reply. Short, to the point, non-judgmental even. But I know she was judging. I heard it in her voice when she told me she didn't have time to get upstairs because there was "just a lot to do" downstairs. I saw it in her eyes when she asked me to buy more cleaning supplies (We keep our extras in the storm shelter, I swear. I really do own a bottle of Windex.).

Last week and the week before, I worked four out of five nights until past nine--either at my real job or my volunteer job with my kids' school. My house isn't a disaster. It isn't a wreck. It's not even a mess.

It is just plain filthy. And I fired the housekeeper out of personal shame.

Today, I gave Gigi a can of Lysol wipes and her brother free reign with the vacuum cleaner. They did pretty good work.

Next week, I'll work four out of five nights plus Saturday. On Sunday, we'll go to church and take naps.

There's a another defining moment for each of us mothers. That moment when we realize that what we do accomplish makes so much more of a difference than what we don't. Last week, when I should have been vacuuming, I worked on accreditation for the little Lutheran school that will help raise two contributing, caring adults. When I should have been hunting cat yak with foamy cleaner, I taught bankruptcy law to future colleagues who might someday represent the next emerging-from-insolvency Radio Shack (how is that place still operating?).

There are and will be so many defining moments of motherhood. My kids are still so young. My goal? To make the things I do accomplish define more than the things I don't.

Holding On & Letting Go: Christmas 2014

Yesterday, we made an early morning run to the grocery store. "Hurry! Get in your seats! We have to beat the ice!" I barked at the littles. A winter storm was imminent, and we needed kitty litter, desperately. I carried Gigi across the parking lot, her feet clad in feet 'jamas and pink velour kitty slippers. As is our custom, RJ grabbed my hand as he exited the swagger wagon. There we were: me in purple sweatpants, Gigi in her pink 'jamas, and RJ in mismatched flannel bottoms and a Thunder shirt.  RJ is getting taller, and smarter, and smarter mouthed. He has a quick wit, and a goofy little boy sense of humor, particularly when it comes to bottoms, toots and poops. Most days, when we get to the sidewalk in a parking lot, he drops my hand and dances ahead, just a few feet. Yesterday, he held on. He held my hand in the parking lot, on the sidewalk, and in the store (until he realized he could still ride in the cart, and riding is always easier on the legs). I simply held onto him. 

The days that he will be my little boy are growing increasingly shorter. With every video game, he slides closer to being a big boy, and with every movie, he learns one more snarky comeback. 

For now, he's most assuredly still my little boy, the little one who was excited for Christmas, excited for presents, excited for candy, lasagna, and playtime: 

This was when we told him he could watch Cousin Eddy's dog blarf under the table one more time. 

Rudolph gets thirsty; this year, we made reindeer water and waited for the magic. 

Video games are fun, but there's nothing quite like a little boy with his planes...

and his cars...

and just a bit of baby sister silliness.

Of course, this one is only three. 

She's three going on thirteen, 

and while she's letting go of a lot of things these days,

it will be a few years

 before she lets go of me. (Update: The littlest one, just burst into the room, singing, "Let it go! Let it goooooo! Can't hold me back anymoooore!" to raid my shoe rack for some slippers--three going on thirteen.). 

There were some serious discussions on Christmas Eve. 

Most of those serious discussions concerned whether I was really going to make Gigi wear a baby dress. 

I did. 

Because she is a baby!

Though, she and her brother feel awfully grown up when they work as a team. 

This pretty lady helped keep me sane over a five-day weekend with the littles working as a team. 

And Santa Daddy made a secret delivery, surprising all of us. 

An inch of snow is still exciting when you're six. 

It's equally as exciting when you're three. 

Particularly when you let go of your irrational fears and hold on to the magic that is being a kid. (Gigi was afraid of snow last year). 

We didn't get the icy mix that was predicted yesterday. We did get another day trapped at home. RJ played some video games, and Gigi tried on a hundred different looks. I held onto the last official day of Christmas break and onto the two littles that are still little for now. 

I don't think I'll let go. 

The More Things Change

They say that the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

Of course, that's the point of a tradition.  Things shouldn't change.  

Much. 

We're knee deep in Christmas cheer. The cheer has taken over my living room, where that darn elf has broken the seminal rule: do not touch my folded laundry. The cheer has exploded in my bedroom, where boxes litter the floor like the aftermath of a child's birthday party (how did parents do it all before  Amazon Prime?). 

But really, isn't this a big birthday party? 

Last week, RJ's show-n-tell theme was the letter "K." (Gigi's was "triangle.). They have show-n-tell themes now. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find something that starts with an "X" for a three-year old to bring and discuss? I digress. 

RJ had to find something that started with a "K," and we had 10 minutes to get out the door. "King!" I shouted. "You can take a king from the nativity scene! Go grab one and let's go!" RJ ambled over to the nativity scene, paused, and lifted the baby jesus from the manger. "I got the king, mom." Indeed you did, little man, and thank you for the reminder. 

Traditions. We have ours: sandwiches on Christmas Eve--with the fancy mustard;  the elf (who will not too soon fly away home); The Sound of Music and Christmas  Vacation, and of course, our own birthday party: 

For now, this is one tradition that is holding steady.  

My heart can't take it anymore!

Three years ago, Little Miss celebrated her first pre-school Christmas party. 

So did her brother. 

This year, it was her turn to sit at the big kids' table. 

Three years ago, RJ celebrated pajama movie day solo. 

This year, baby sis tagged along for her own celebration. 

Some things don't change much, and I hope they don't. 

We're keeping up with our traditions far better than I'm keeping up with my blog these days. 

Big things have happened; bigger things are going to happen. 

Someday (soon), I'll have important things to share. For now, I'm taking a break and enjoying a season of traditions (that thankfully don't include billable hours any more). 

Holiday cheers to you!