Stumbled across some old blog posts...

And thought I'd bring them over here....


January 2008. I was pregnant with my 6th baby. Working as City Clerk.

Loud Noises!


This is what I think about people:

People thrive on chaos. As much as they claim to despise it. As much as they claim to hate it, and they try to avoid it at all costs....they frigging thrive on it. They enjoy it. They secretly wish for more. I know they do. I know I do.

I don't claim to hate it, or despise it, or even try to avoid it. I love it. I welcome it. The more chaotic my home is, the better I seem to function. I'm not talking wild crazy, unadulterated chaos that people get hurt in, I'm just talking about loud, noisy, crazy kids, clutter, phones ringing off the hook, kids banging on the front door, normal stuff like that.

If I came home to a completely quiet and orderly house everyday, Id have to check my pulse. Id be in hell for sure.

Griffen and Rourke were 'starving', so they asked for Tortillas. Yes, everyone in the world knows that tortillas will stave off any hunger pains. They are 'that' filling. Rourke dropped hers on the floor, Griffen laughed at her. Rourke then snatched Griffen's tortilla and smacked her in the head with it. Griffen stopped laughing. Griffen then lectured Rourke on how that was not good manners to smack someone with their own tortilla. I guess you should use your own? Yes, when attacking someone with a tortilla, one should most definitely use theirs, and no one else's. They've since moved on from tortilla smacking, to watching TV. All is forgiven and forgotten about the spat while ago. Of course, until the next hunger pain strikes and they ask for another tortilla. Maybe next time I'll hand them each one, and a helmet to go with it.

I have one kid at a friend's house. He never makes any noise to contribute to the chaos factor at our house, so that's not really a valid point. He never adds to the noise, except when he's aggravating someone else. They scream quite loudly. So, maybe in a round about way he doesn't contribute. He plays Halo most of his spare time. He tries to get me to play. I finally relent and play. Ive never played Halo. I have no clue how to work the controller. The letter keys, the Z button things, the analog sticks, all that crap. Confusion at it's best. So, he gives me the run down. Analog stick here to guide my man. Analog stick here to look around. Yay, I can make the man mobile. He tells me where his player is. My player suddenly jolts and falls to the ground. Hmmm. Little bastard has killed me. I whine how unfair that is. He says that is the point of the game. No it isn't. The point of this game is to teach me how to play, not murder me. He promises not to do it again. This time we play again, and I get across the river, to the building thing, and there is some motorcycle/tank vehicle thing. He says to push the X button or whatever and I get in. I don't get to drive, he took that spot. I'm working the guns. Will they shoot his man? No. I tried.

He then tells me when to get out, and how to get out. We go in some building and collect another gun. We go outside. Again. Somehow, out of the clear blue sky, I'm dead again. Maybe my player has a heart condition....? No. He's murdered me again.

He grins.

I smack him.

He makes some whooping noise and flicks his fingers in my face.

I tell him I'm never playing Halo again with him. He is a bully, a cheater! A murderer!

He laughs and says he'll sucker me again.

And, he probably will.




With daughters, you have chaos and ultimately, drama. Drama is this never ending migraine that wont go away until you die. I'm convinced of this. You may think you're in the clear, but you aren't. It comes back and hits you square in the face. This is no love tap. This is full fledged Ultimate Fighting Championship stuff. 'She took my makeup! She said my Barbie is ugly! She said I could never wear her jewelry! She said I couldn't have tea! She said that when she drives a car, I cant go with her!'

Huh.. You are seriously bitching about when your sister drives, in 8 years, that she isn't going to let you go with her? This is a legitimate argument how? Let's wait a few years, then argue about the important stuff, k?

Kids crack me up and kill me at the same time.

My kids, especially since there are five of them, are louder than your average household full of kids. I guess since the average house has like 2.3 or something kids. Id never know what to do with .3 of a kid, so Im glad I have extras. I dont mind my kids hanging out making noise. I dont mind their friends, for the most part. Of course, some of them get on my nerves, but that's anywhere. They are funny, silly, stupid at times, goofy, chicken, boring, and most importantly, loud. They fit right in with me. Hopefully when all is said and done, Ive passed on a few more of my traits than just the loud factor.

They are so damn hilarious. So damn annoying. Yes, I can admit my kids are annoying. It's part of what makes me tick. I can call them assholes, and bitch and whine about them to my friends, yet at the end of the day, those loud annoying little pains in my ass are what make my world go round.


14/01/2008 15:02
Milk, and the 'It does a body good' has gone 1 step too far:

This morning. It was all over my body, and let me tell you. It did no fucking good whatsoever. It got Mose yelled at and banished to the kitchen. It got me scrambling into the bathroom for a washcloth so I could try to wring it out of my hair, off my face and my clothes.

2 minutes from leaving for work / school. I end up wearing an entire fucking glass of milk. The floor, the rug, the mirror, the wall, the baseboard, and the closet door must have all been feeling left out from something, because they all got a share too.

I was ready for work. I looked awesome, as usual (who's laughing with me?) The kids were ready. Jamey, the sitter, shows up. She sits on the couch and Mose is so excited to see her! He is bouncing around, wagging that 'Labs are so famous for their strong otter like tail' around and you guessed it. Milk:In the Glass:No Longer on the Table. No, flying off the table is more like it. Landing upright on the floor, right where Im sitting, finding Zac a sock.

Yes, Im such a cool freaking mom, I find my kids' socks for them (read that as 'Im too lazy to mate the bastards and put them away).

Glass of milk lands upright on the floor beside me. Yay? No! When a full glass of milk has landed on the floor from a table that is nearly 3 ft high, the milk doesn't stay in the glass. It rockets up out of the glass. Onto me. And, the floor, the rug, the mirror, the wall and the closet door. No, Im not kidding.

So, Im trying to wash it off my hair, wipe my face off, change shirts, wipe it off my pants. Lucky for Mose, I had another shirt, and it came off my pants. He was banished to the kitchen, and not too nicely, I might add. So now, I have a mess, Im freaking exasperated, and the dog is depressed because his Mama yelled at him. Great. Now I have high blood pressure and Im mean to the dog.

Jamey said she'd wash the wall and door off. I ushered the kids out the door, cussing in my head all about how much I can't freaking stand milk. It does a body good? Maybe. It sure does like to fuck with your attitude and mess your clothes up!


15/01/2008 21:34
Let me decide where I should start with this one.

Kid getting hurt and us being in the ER for 3 1/2 hrs?
Babysitter looking up porn on my computer while 'watching' my 2 year old?
Mom trashing my house while babysitting while Im at the ER with above mentioned kid?
Kids up at 10:15pm on a school night because no one can put them to bed?
Dogs in the kitchen dragging the trash all over the floor?
Cats on the counter eating the spaghetti from supper that no one can scrape in the trash?

Zac got hurt this afternoon. Bad enough. Im not generally a 'let's rush to the ER!' kinda mom, but when railroad ties fall on your kid, you kind of get anxious. Anyway, while trying to get him ready to go (ever wonder what it's like to bathe a 10 year old boy?) You dont want to have to do it....because if you are, you are either one sick fuck, or he's really hurt. Our situation was the latter, and man, it was really freaking me out.

My mom tries to get me to round up another car, plus her Jeep and we should all go. Uh, excuse me? No. I dont think so. I have a kid with possibly a broken hand, and a fucked up elbow, not to mention the other welts, bruises and cheese grater effect to his face and sides. I dont want to haul 4 extra kids to the ER with me. Not the family outting I have in mind. I dont want to all go out to eat after. Im going to want to go home and let Zac sleep on the couch. On that same note, dont get testy with me for not wanting you all to go. Fuck. Just help me out here. If you dont want me to use your car, say so and you can go home. I'll borrow someone elses.

THEN: if you do stay here and babysit.....do that. Babysit.

Please dont: cook supper and leave it sitting on the stove, let the cats then climb on the counters and eat it, let the dogs dig in the trash, let my 2 year old scatter all her letters and numbers and flash cards through-out the entire house, peel 3 apples all over my coffee table, leave a bowl of spaghetti ohs on the same table, let the kids stay up until nearly 10:30 on a school night, forget to help any of them with their homework, not give any of them a bath, forget to feed the dogs, let the babygate that isnt even mine get destroyed, let my 4 year old sit in her room snacking nonstop playing her V Smile, have 2358 full glasses of milk all over my house, leave the brand new juicy juice sitting out on the counter, forget to have the kids brush their teeth, be irritated with me for being LATE!

Sigh.

Im. Just. So. Done.

No, I didnt know my son was playing on the fucking railroad ties. No, I wouldnt let him do it if I had known that was the plan. Im not stupid. Dont act like I 'let' this happen. I know full well what COULD HAVE HAPPENED.

I feel outnumbered and overwhelmed. I feel as if I have zero support, and so many things going on that I dont know how to keep them all balanced. Why? Because of tonight. I have no one that I can count on when something like this happens. I cant leave my children at home, knowing full well they will be well taken care of, and things will get done that should be done. I cant take my injured child to the hospital without feeling as though Im putting someone out.

Now, Im being a freaking whiney fucking baby. Ugh.

I usually always have things going on. I usually always manage to keep them balanced just enough that everything flows into the next thing. Sometimes a little disorganzied, sometimes (well, a lot of times) chaotic, but it all works. It works our way. Then, something like this, a little tiny stumbling block in my path and I feel like a complete failure.

I cant even get a reliable babysitter. Rourke loves her. I liked her being here. Then, tonight, I find that during the mornings, when she is supposed to be watching MY child. She's looking at porn online. What. The. Fuck. We're going to have a conversation about that. Now, I need a new sitter. I hate that. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.

Boy, this entry has just been a ray of fucking sunshine.

Here's a site for you if you arent impressed: http://www.ifyoudontlikemybloggofuckyourself.com


Thank you, and Good night.



18/01/2008 07:15
I learned something tonight. When you love something, you crave it. You cant get enough of it. You get it, but it's never enough. You need it. More of it. Then, you get it, you're doing it and I can see your entire facial expression change. Your demeanor, everything.

I'm talking about Zachary playing basketball, people.

This kid LOVES the sport. Everything about it. Running until you cant breathe, and then pushing yourself to run more. Shooting with everything you've got in you, only to pick that damn ball right back up and shoot it one more time. He doesn't have the word 'quit' in him. Even when he's sore as hell, and his hand is all bandaged up, he still begged to go to practice, then to 'just stand in on D', then just to shoot some 3's, then free throws, then running with his team. He can't get enough.

I watch these boys play. The passion, the drive. These kids give their entire beings into the game. I love it. I could watch it for hours up on hours. They don't care if people are watching them screw up, they just give it their all and who gives a shit what other people think.

So, this carefree passion they all have, where does it go?

You grow up, and suddenly no matter how it makes you feel, or how great you can be at something, that no longer matters. You suddenly care what this STRANGER thinks of you. How you look, how you do whatever it is that you're doing.....Why?

I take my kids for a walk. We take Giant steps. We walk backwards. We do stupid made up karate moves while stepping. I don't give a flying fuck who is watching me, or what they may think of me. I'm not doing it for them. I'm doing it for me. For the kids. We enjoy the hell out of ourselves. We race, we walk sooooo slow. We hide behind trees and scare each other. Of course, so the person driving by is glaring at me shaking his head. 'Why doesn't she grow up?' I'm sure he's thinking. But guess what? I am grown! And, I'd thumb my nose at you if I cared enough to take the time to do so. How grown up is that?

I don't understand, for the life of me, why people place such value on how other people perceive them. Why does it matter? What is going to change in your own personal world if the 2 people driving down the street approve of your behavior while you're playing in your yard with your kids? Is the world going to stop if they don't approve? Glory! What if they even talk about you as they drive away? Oh my Gosh!

You rule your world. Only you. You are the one responsible for your own happiness, and unfortunately, your own misery as well. People casually passing judgement on you will not make one bit of difference at the end of the day. I promise.




18/01/2008 16:10
"Put your coat on! It's cold outside!"

Is what I said.

'But why? I'm not cold!' is what he said.

'Put your coat on, and your stocking hat, or you won't be going outside to play, your choice.'

(shrugging his shoulders) 'I won't be cold!'

'Fine. Stay in the house.'

(shoving his arms into the coat. Wincing that he hurt his own elbow, again) 'It's on. OK!'

'Leave it on. Have fun.!' I snicker as he goes out to play.

Not even 20 minutes later, what do I see? Stupid kid comes in from outside with his stocking hat on, no coat. WTF?!!

'Where in the hell is your coat!! It's SNOWING outside! It's COLD!'

'Out by the goal. I couldn't run with it on.'

(insert retarded face here, because that's what I had to have looked like at this point)

'Get your tail back outside and get the damn coat. You just got it! It's still new.'

He honestly started to argue that a month old coat isn't exactly new anymore, but he smartened up.

He then (Im not kidding here) asked me if I could go get his coat because:

'it's too cold to go get it.'


And you people wonder why animals eat their young.




29/01/2008 07:21
It's Monday!

Whooptie Doodle Doo!

How was your weekend?

Mine was slow and long and just kind of blah.

Friday night we watched The Bourne Ultimatum. Ok, Matt Damon looked like shit in this movie, but the movie was a great follow up to the first two.
Saturday, I got up at 7, put the dogs out, and went back to bed. Fast forward to Noon. Yes, Noon. I rock. I got up at noon and stumbled around some. I then watched War with Jet Li and Jason Statham. Could very possibly be both of these awesome, awesome guys' worst movie EVAH. Total let down. Boo to you Jet Li and double Boo to you 'Handsome Rob'

Now, remember, I'm still putting off making these fucking Pioneer Woman's 'totally awesome you'll be humping the fucking pan' Cinnamon Rolls. Saturday night is a blur to me, I don't remember what I did.....or didn't do. Losing my mind I suppose.

Sunday was spent doing some cleaning, laundry, more cleaning in the basement. Let's not even go there.

Sunday afternoon was a 4th, 5th, and 6th grade girls basketball game. Of course, from previous lessons in here, basketball trumps EVERYTHING. So, we go. Gaige, Zac, Jacob and I. Griffen and Rourke were busy coloring on the hardwood with more chalk. Eddie has finally gotten over that tiny little battle that he never had a chance of winning in the first place.

Our girls won! Yayyy!! Good game, girls! :)

Sunday evening comes and I decide to make these Cinnamon Rolls to conquer all other Cinnamon Rolls. First, let's start with the mad scramble to get more flour, because my flour is the fucking Self-Rising flour and I need All Purpose Flour. Ugh.
Next, I start making the stupid dough. It isnt rising fast enough. Eddie suggests that I should have used the Self-Rising flour. I tried to stab him with a knife. He's gotten quick.

After waiting on the dough, which finally did rise, we go to roll it out on the table. Ok, this part is freaking gross. Tables are not clean. I scrub. I bleach. I rinse. I scrub again. I bleach more. I rinse again. And again. Ok. I GUESS the table is clean enough for the dough to be rolled out on. Oh, wait! No it isnt, Griffen came in and threw a bunch of toys on it.

Sterilizing commences once again.

Ok, I get dough rolled out. Zac, Gaige, Griff, and Rourke are all perched on chairs watching. Wanting to roll the dough. They all take a turn. Griffen pokes holes in her part. Hello. That is not conducive to "Hump the pan" Cinnamon Roll making, child. I repair the dough.
We then pour the requied amount of melted butter on the thinly rolled dough. Yikes. Waterfall of melted butter, anyone? Ok. Too much. Stupid Pioneer Woman. We sprinke sugar on. We sprinle cinnamon on. Smells GREAT. Duh. Cinnamon and sugar smells good anywhere.

Ok. Roll this puppy up. Right?

Not.

Not with the butter oozing out everywhere. Too much butter. Did I already say that? Ha, you don't understand. It was a lot of fucking butter. The kids were corralling it with their hands. At this point, sterile dough isn't my concern. Melted butter dripping on my toes through the crack in the table is a higher priority. At this point, we have a semi-rolled doughy, butter, cinnamon-sugary MESS on the table, and the waterfall of goo is not stopping. I scrape the mess into the trash bag.

Sterilize the table again.

Start anew with the 2nd half of the dough. I know why she said separate it into 2 halves. She knew I'd destroy the first half. Maybe she isn't THAT stupid.

2nd half of the dough goes according to plan. I use 1/3 of the butter she calls for. I rock.
We spread, we smear, we roll, we slice, we put cinnamon rolls into the pans. They look good, and they're even raw!

Eddie says 'oh, these do look like cinnamon rolls.' I brandished my knife at him again, and he went outside to smoke. Smart guy.

Well, they didn't rise anymore, and we even let them sit the right amount of time. We gave up and baked them. They turned out ok. They are not pan humpable. They are not orgasmic. They are just doughy, yeasty, gooey cinnamon rolls.

I ate one.

My kids ate about 10.

So, to the people that their opinion matters, I rule.

All is good in the world.