The Golden Globes and Modesty: A Lesson For Violet

Ok, so this is post is no longer timely, as the Golden Globes took place in .... January? But I'm feeling that old need to blog again, and this is still  on my mind . . .

Violet is 9 1/2 years old and we keep her young. As young as possible. Some of the things we avoid include shows where the characters date -- if she's not of dating age we don't think she should be watching shows where the characters are. We avoid shows with swearing - I was excited about Scott Baio's new show (because, hello, Cha Chi!), but within the first 10 minutes he was saying 'damn' and 'hell.' This may not seem like much to you -- and I'm not judging you for that. We just feel, for our children, it's inappropriate. We've avoided, as best we can, the whole fat vs skinny deal and stressed being healthy. Last Spring we had to approach the needing a bra for the first time and buying clothing that I didn't pick out off the rack at Target or Kohls. She and I have talked some - her leading the discussion - about what it feels like to 'like' a boy (maybe, she wasn't sure. It was so ridiculously cute.).

But, we haven't had to delve deep into modesty. She wears a uniform to school and dresses/skirts to church and mostly jeans and cute tops otherwise.

And then I had the bright idea to have her watch The Golden Globes Red Carpet show with me. Because the dresses and hair would be such fun for us to see together.

Ummmm . . .

I reached for the remote to change the channel as the first partially exposed breast popped (ha) up on the screen, only to discover it was in the other room. Violet's eyes were huge and her mouth was hanging open. And I suddenly realized that this was the perfect, natural way to start a conversation about modesty, avoiding an awkward conversation started out of nowhere.

So I said, "Wow. Look at that. That dress is kind of low cut."

She looked at me and said, "What is that crease on her chest? Are those breasts? Why is there a dent between them?"

Ahhh, cleavage.

So we had a discussion about cleavage. In which I had to demonstrate how it is made. Good times, people.

She wanted to know if she'd have that some day, and would she have to show it off?

When all the 'key hole' necklines started appearing she leaned forward and openly oogled the women. Then she turned to me, horrified, and said, "Is that the side of her breast? Will it fall out?" So we talked about fabric tape and how they were all taped in to avoid a 'wardrobe malfunction.'

She had questions about how tight some of the dresses were and how the women could possibly walk in them. Then one of them tipped  walking up some steps and we giggled together.

Then she said, "Why is that women dressed like a man? The one next to girl in purple hair?"

I busted out laughing, I will admit. She was talking about Kelley Osburne and Ross, who do the fashion 360* mirror deal. I told her his name was Ross and he most certainly was a man. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, "Mom. Listen to his voice! That is a woman!" I couldn't argue that he sounded like a woman, so I just said that was just how his voice sounded.

We continued to have a great conversation about the dresses, the hair do's and which ones she found pretty. Then Jennifer Lopez walked by.

Violet about choked.

She looked at me, completely shocked and said, "MOM! That woman is naked! On TV!"

I explained that she wasn't naked, that there was a lining in the dress, so she was actually covered, it just looked like she was naked.  Violet stared at J Lo some more and asked, "But WHY would you want to look naked? On TV? In front of people?" So we talked about how different people find different  clothing appropriate. I did my absolute best to not be judgey while still teaching her what we find appropriate and what God finds appropriate.

It was so hard. What I wanted to say was, "You will NEVER dress like that! Turtle necks! Floor length skirts! Heavy tights! No make up! No skin! Most of these women look like whores!"

Instead, we acknowledged what parts of the dresses were pretty, what colors we liked. What hair do she'd like to try out. All in all, I have to say I feel like this was a parenting win. Every now and again we have those moments.

The sad part of this? The next night I watched some of Joan Rivers best and worst dressed review. Every single woman that was covered - that didn't have cleavage  up to her neck or her breasts exposed to her belly button, was ridiculed for not dressing appropriate to her age, for being dowdy and most were put on the Worst Dressed List. The women, namely Jennifer Lopez, who had exposed breasts and slits in their dresses up to their crotch, were declared to be 'true Hollywood elegance,' the 'epitome of what a star should look like,'

Not that I would take Joan River's advice on what to wear, but what a sad statement this is for our society.

Anyway, I'll get off my soapbox now and tell you that while most of dresses did not impress me, I thoroughly  enjoyed the Golden Globes themselves and think Tina Fey and Amy Pohler should host every single awards show from here on out.

 

 

Politics and Facebook

I'm a republican. But I don't think Obama is evil. Do I agree with his politics? Not quite. I also don't think Romney is evil. Do I agree with Romney? Not quite.

So who am I going to vote for?

I don't know.

Then,  after reading my Facebook feed this morning I decided. I'm totally voting for Obama.

Then I got deeper into my feed .  . . and decided I'm totally voting for Romney.

Because these Facebook status' verbally ripping Obama and Romney apart really made me think and change my point of view

*snort*

Here's what those status updates did do:

Convince me that Republicans are going to vote for Romney because Obama is an evil man.

And also convince me that Democrats are going to vote for Obama because, duh, Romney is an evil man.

Mind? Blown.

So, who am I voting for on November 4?

I don't know.

Just Because She Said It Doesn't Make It True!

Oh, how many times I've uttered, said, and yes yelled that phrase today.

"She said it's raining."

There's not a cloud in the sky.

"He said I don't have any toys."

The room is littered with toys.

"You can't eat breakfast."

As I place the bowls in front of them.

And then, Sarah came up with this one:

"Violet, you weren't born before me."

And Violet, went nuts.

Seriously?

Because, yes, Violet, we've been lying to you for the past nine years. Sarah is really your older sister. You're actually the younger sister.

*sigh*

Because I Was Judgey . . .

I've mentioned before that I was all judgey  about bras and third graders here.

And then here I mentioned how God has a sense of humor because Violet needs one.

Well today we are going to buy one.

It's true.

My first born baby and I are going to the mall and shopping for a bra. No, it's not going to be the shiny blue padded one mentioned back up there (gag), but we're still having to buy a bra.

I'm making a day of it. Going to lunch, shopping for some summer and church clothes with her. We're going to the Christiana Mall instead of the Concord Mall -- and the Christiana Mall is the big mall. It has all the good stores. Justice and Gap Kids. (Ann Taylor and Loft).

So. It's happening. She's over the moon excited. When I told her we were going she gave a fist pumped and yelled, "Yessssss!"

Hold me close.

Seriously?

On a normal morning we wake up at 7 a.m. And I'm dragging my bum out of bed, prodding and pushing, yelling and threatening my children to get up, get dressed and get ready for the day. Especially Sarah. (We've discussed this before.)

Today there wasn't any school.

Guess what I heard at 6:30 a.m?

That's right. The happy sounds of Violet and John. By 7: 15 Sarah had darted out of bed and was happily sitting at the kitchen island all smiles. She got dressed immediately when told -- the first time. Made her bed. Brushed her teeth.

I'm living in bizarro world.

Nuts!

So, we know that Violet is 8 1/2. A year, it turns out, full of change. She needs cami's now. She wears deoderant. She wears a robe in front of her brother. She can roll her eyes *almost* better than me. She's mastered the art of the huff and sigh. (which is impressive, given her age. But her teenage years are looking bleak for me.)

The other day we're at the island and I say to her, "Give me those nuts, please."

And she totally and completely LOSES it. Like, falls down on the floor, laughing hysterically. And because I'm not an 8 year old girl (or a 12 year old boy) I stare blankly at her. She continues like this for a good minute before she hears me saying, "What?"

She turns red and whispers, "You said 'nuts.'"

O.M.G

I turn red and take a deep breath.

And explain the real word vs the slang word.

People. I'm all for using the appropriate term for things. My children have heard the word vagina (or 'gina as they said) and penis since they could hear. But I've never had to explain a slang vs a technical term before.

She was happy knowing the real term, then moved on. And told me more slang words they have.

::dies::

I'm not ready for this.

Something Died In There.

We left for a four day mini vacation on Friday. Took a six hour drive down to Virginia to see my husband's great Aunt. As we were leaving the house I turned on the dishwasher. My husband freaked his freak out and turned it off.

Because the dishwasher will break if you leave it turned on while you're not home.

I rolled my eyes, and threatened him with a great stink when we got home. However, I can't say much because he has this rule about washing machines as well, and once I ignored the rule. And came home to a river running through my laundry room, across the hallway and down the stairs.

Really.

So I continue to roll my eyes and declare that the dishwasher is going to reek. He promises it won't because he rinsed the dishes.

We leave.

We have a great time in VA, the kids play like crazy and we get to visit with his aunt.

We come home (the trip home is hellacious. It take 1 hour and 45 minutes for the kids to settle in and accept the fact that they are going to be in the car for 6 hours so for the love of all that is holy just be quiet and watch the movie. Any movie. Just.watch.it.).

We get home, empty the van (I go for a RUN, but more on that later), and shower the kids. After everyone is in bed, my husband opens the dishwasher to put soap in it.

AND THE STENCH. PEOPLE. THE UNHOLY STENCH.

It wafts over and through the entire downstairs. It's so bad I'm sure I can see it. It's oily and black and overwhelming. My eyes water, my nostrils flare and I gag. I start lighting candles.

We go to bed.

This morning: I open the clean dishwasher. AND THE STENCH. OH THE STENCH.

Then I become an old nag and start snipping at my husband about it. I fill it with soap, again, and slam the door.

2 hours later I open the door.

THE STENCH!!

I pour soap and vinegar in it. Say a little prayer, and turn it on.

2 hours later I open it.

THE STENCH!

I'm on the phone with Diana (over at hormonal imbalances. Did you know she's having TWINS?? we were OMG-ing over that) when I open the dishwasher for the THIRD time and guess what?

THE STENCH.

I reach in and pull out a glass. I can smell the sour milk -chunky egg-rotten cream cheese-old salad dressing smell baked onto it.

I gag. And rant at Diana. We decide to pour some bleach in.

2 hours later I open the dishwasher.

And the beautiful, warm, clean, nose hair burning scent of bleach wafts out.

SUCCESS.

(and yes, I washed them one more time to rinse the bleach off them.)

 

 

 

 

 

Because God Has A Sense of Humor

God has a sense of humor. I've known this for awhile. But last Sunday? Oh, he showed me all over again just what a fun guy he is. Never let it be said that God isn't paying attention to every.single.thing we do and say.

So, here I was all Judgey McJudgerson about bra's and 3rd graders. Remember?

Well.

Last Sunday Violet had on a demure white shirt. She took off her coat. My eyes popped. My heart thumped. My  palms got sweaty and I *may* have started to cry a little. May.

My baby is growing up.

She needs a training bra.

And because I was judgey only a month ago, I knew that God was watching and smiling.

Stupid judgey self.

Although, she won't be getting a blue satin padded bra. Thankyouverymuch.

I'm Not 20. Or Meg Ryan.

So  . . . I'm not 20. Or 28. Or even 30. I'm 39. I just had a birthday, so I'm well aware of my age.

Or not.

In my head I'm, at most, 30. And I'm so convinced of this that I act on it. As in, I see a new, young, couple in church. I immediately think: Excellent! Friends for my husband and me!

I rush over to introduce myself, and as we are chatting I realize: OMG. I'm not their age. They're like . . . 25. Possibly 30. I should be inviting them to dinner so I can take care of them, not because I think I've found a new girlfriend that I can be BFF's with.

I do the exact same thing with my looks. In my head I look about 20. I'm all svelte and toned, lush locks and lean legs. Even when I'm sick? I think I'm adorable. Completely. My hair might be a mess, but in my head? It's Meg Ryan messy. And I looks *just* like her.

Then I pass a mirror and actually think: OMG, who is that? What? Me? No . . .

Then I laugh. At myself.

Loud Talkers

If you know me in real life, you know that I'm a 'loud talker.' And so is my family -- my husband, all three of my children. I talk loud. I laugh loud. I cry loud. Even if we're being quiet, we're still loud. I'm constantly shushing the kids, but it's hard for them to use soft voices when Mom is yelling across the room.

John is no different. He's always been loud, probably extra loud in order to be heard over the racket his two older sisters make.

I've mentioned his epic tantrums before - the screaming is crazy. He does this kind of tantruming at least twice a day, sometimes as often as four if we're having a horrible day.

He has the cutest raspy voice.

Yeah. See where I'm going with this?

When we had him evaluated for articulation problems (which he has) the speech pathologist asked if he had a cold because he seemed hoarse.

No. He has a tiny little smokers voice.

She asked about his history, did he have reflux? Oh, sweetness did he ever. (the smell. Did you have a reflux-y baby? Remember that horrid smell?) Did he do a lot of screaming? Oh, sweetness does he ever.

So she referred us to an ENT, where we went yesterday.  Now, I know John's voice is raspy and a little hoarse. People comment on it and say how cute it is. It is cute. But when the doctor, the medical student and the physicians assistant heard John talk? Eyebrows flew up all around the room.

Excellent.

So. Given his history of severe reflux and his current state as a loud talker (cough cough) and screamer, he has developed nodules or callouses on his vocal cords. They need to actually see the callouses to confirm, so he'll be having his throat/vocal cords scoped on February 16.

In the meantime, the speech path, who is a loud talker (and totally awesome), suggested that we "ENCOURAGE JOHN TO USE A SOFT VOICE." I managed to not laugh. We're going to use a sticker chart to encourage it. He also has to drink a lot of water to lubricate his vocal cords.

I guess maybe his hoarseness isn't as cute as I think. But it is, it really is.

Victoria's Secret? Not So Much

We had a sleep over. It was so much fun. The girls played the Xbox "Just Dance," watched "A Dolphin Tale" and ate a ton of junk food. They stayed up late giggling and asking, "Who farted?" They danced to random music, played Monopoly and Sorry. All in all? A great success

I Chose a Natural Birth. You Might Not. And That's Cool.

I am SO tired of moms judging other moms for birthing naturally or not. For breastfeeding or not. The recent death of an infant due to his formula and the nasty comments of  "breast is best!" and "that's why I only breast feed!" sickened me. This is our reaction when a child dies? Really? And when that gorgeous picture of a mom giving birth without meds went viral, people commented on how thin she was, how she was screaming. What about about that she was bringing her baby into the world the way she wanted to -- just like you did?

Maybe I'm ranting and perhaps this won't make any sense. But I'm putting it out here anyway.

For Violet's birth I had an epidural and it was beautiful. But the recovery was hell. I had a 'wet tap' and  a monster migraine that required three blood patches and put me in bed flat on my back for 23 hours. When the doctor handed me a bed pan I knew I'd never have an epidural again. I missed Violet's first bath, her first doctor appointment. I cried and cried from the pain and disappointment. So we planned and learned and went natural -- med free-- with Sarah and John.

Was I nervous? Yes. I was blessed that Sarah's labor was 2 1/2 hours long from "Huh, that was a contraction." To "Hi baby!" We barely made it to the hospital. Even if I'd wanted one, an epidural was out of the question. And I did ask that time. Things happened so fast that I couldn't get on top of the contractions and at the end it freaked me out for a few contractions.

John's labor was about 7 hours. And he was med free as well. Another choice by myself and my husband. I did it with Sarah so I knew I could do it with him. I paced. I mooed. I stripped. I made some nurses really uncomfortable.

But. It was my choice. My body.

I always think the worse thing is  if you want an epidural and are denied it.You're not prepared. I knew a lady who lied to her sister repeatedly, telling her the anesthesiologist was on his way when in fact he was never called, so her nephew could be born med free.Why? So he could 'be brought into this world without medication." Meanwhile her sister still talks about the terrible labor she had.

I loved, loved, loved my natural births. Loved. As in, a half hour after Sarah's birth I looked at my husband and said, "I have to do this again." I felt empowered. Beautiful. Awesome in the true definition of the word. And yes, I want every woman to experience that.

But what if you don't? What if you find that an epidural is what you want? If you're not judging me for my natural births then I'm not judging you for yours. It just doesn't make sense.

And breastfeeding. And the death of this innocent baby. We don't know why the mom was formula feeding, and it doesn't matter. But the people who judge? You should be ashamed. You are the ones who judge other mom's for supplementing or choosing formula as well. What if that mom didn't produce any milk? What if, like my Sarah, her baby threw up her breast milk and screamed herself sick until she found the found the right formula to help settle her tiny stomach? What then?

I'm just tired of it all. Stop judging. Start supporting. Stop hating. My God, is this what we're about?

What's Goin' On?

Today I'm over at Branson's place, A Reflection of Something -- so cool! When she asked me to be a guest blogger on, as she put it, how I'm 'rocking' motherhood and depression, I was blown away. First of all, she thinks I'm rocking this gig? Cool. :) \m/ While I don't think I'm  rocking this whole thing (especially this week), I jumped at the chance. Branson is such an inspiration. So head on over there and check it out. Really.

Over here, I'm filling you in on Sarah and that Elf on The Shelf of ours, Mr. Red.

Elf On The Shelf: Curse You!

My Grandma and I bought an Elf on the Shelf for the kids yesterday. I'm sure you've seen them - so cute! You sit the little guy on a shelf and he communicates with Santa every night. He tells Santa what you've been up to - have you been naughty or nice? I love this idea and the thought of starting a new tradition just warmed my little heart.

What.was.I.thinking?

I put him on the shelf, read the book to the kids and we named him (Mr. Red). Then Sarah began asking questions. And freaking out.

It's A Seinfeld-ian World

Remember Seinfeld? Oh, how I adored that show. I'll watch re-runs of it now for hours when I find them. Do you remember how Jerry, George and Elaine always had weird, absurd reasons for breaking up with or never seeing girls/guys again? There was the woman with 'man hands,' the 'mouth breather,' the woman who ate her peas with a fork, and on.

The other day I was talking with Diana at Hormonal Imbalances (becuase, yes, we talk every day. It's like a rule.) and remembered a guy I'd had one date with. And the reason I'd never gone out with him again.

He ordered a strawberry daiquiry.

Thus this post was formulated.

Other *really* good, legitimate reasons I refused second dates:

*The guy wore the same cologne as my first boyfriend

*He wore a 'girly' shirt

* He mentioned a second date (I didn't like him assuming? I don't know)

*He didn't mention a second date (but he called, so . . .)

*He was prettier than me

* He had a booger on his face when he picked me up

* He sang along to the radio to songs he didn't know

Gah. Remember that for the majority of these I was in college. I was young, stupid and there were guys everywhere. Later, after I graduated from college and was in the real world my reasons for not dating a guy became truly legitimate. This is the reasoning of a young girl who was probably drinking at some point when she made these decisions. Especially since the one guy I did date steadily in college was five years younger than me (he was a freshman and I was a senior. He'd been at prom that summer. I'd been doing internsips), not very smart, really pretty and crazy immature. So . . . yeah. This list *totally* makes sense.

What is the weirdest reason you've never seen a guy/girl again?

*

It's Not a Tumor. It's a Zit.

Violet wants to wear a band aid to school.

On her face.

Because she has a pimple.

She's eight.

So. This is happening. She's growing up. I know logically that one little (OK, kinda medium to biggish) pimple doesn't launch us into the tween years, but it sure feels like it does. When I told her what it was, she was pretty calm about it. We put a warm compress on it and the worst of it was over. I thought.

Ha!

Three kids at school have asked her what it is. She told them it was a bug bite.

I tweeted, texted and googled. I found some products by Ottilie & Lulu specifically made for tween skin care that weren't promoting make up use (Hello Wal-mart) or pushing the girls to look all tarted up. The models on the website were fresh faced and adorable.

So Violet got her very first skin care products.

::Headexplosion::

First Impressions. Awesome.

Over the summer, while at the pool, I was having . . . a day. A day that was, well. Insane. The kids were a mess. Violet was in my head and pushing every.single.button I had. And then some. Sarah was whiny. (And if you haven't heard this child whine? Oh, sweet lord. She can make grown men give up their secrets.) John was throwing public tantrums that were making other mom's either smirk or nod in sympathy (I prefer sympathy, thankyouverymuch.) But it was a hot, gorgeous day. And I was not leaving the pool. I knew as soon as I loaded them up and headed for home they'd completely freak out. So I gritted my teeth and waited them out, knowing (praying) that soon they'd settle down and get into their routine of playing.

I saw a good friend of mine, Lori. Violet had just done something that had me sputtering with surprise and anger. I walked away. John was in a chair, in time out. Sarah was playing, thank you Lord. I saw Lori and bee-lined it for her. I grimaced and said something like, "Lori, take my children. Please. If you can only take one? Take Violet. Now. I don't care where. She's a hot mess. I'll totally give her to you." Lori laughed. An acquaintance with her laughed, Heather. I know Heather, in that I know she goes to the same pool as me, we say 'hi' every time we see each other, and she teaches at the school Violet attends. I've 'known' her for almost four years, so I didn't mind her hearing me say this. She laughed. I smiled.

Lori turned to her other friend, who I hadn't noticed, and said, "Kim, have you met Sarah? She teaches at Violet's school, too."

Gah.

I froze. I looked over at this perfectly poised woman. She smiled and said, "Violet? I know Violet! And you're her mom? How lovely!"

Lovely. Yes. Exactly what I was thinking.

I nodded and asked, "Uhm, what grade do you teach?"

"Third grade. Violet could be in my class next year. That would be so nice."

Nice. Yes. So very nice. Because I'd just made a lovely first impression.

I nodded weakly, made a lame joke about how if Violet was in her class we'd have to forget about this little meeting, and she assured me that it was OK.

Uh huh.

Because that's the impression you want your child's teacher to have of you: crazy eyes, panting and begging somebody to take your child away so you don't beat them. Totally the impression you want.

At open house night we looked at the student roster and found Violet's name, she had a teacher named Mrs. Jones (we'll call her). Violet jumped up and down, saying how nice Mrs. Jones was etc. Then Mrs. Jones came walking down the hall. A lovely blond woman, all poised and put together.

She saw me and her face lit up. She smiled and held out her hand.

"Kim! How wonderful to see you again! I do have Violet in my class this year. I'm so pleased."

I stared at her blankly.

Then it clicked. Oh. NO. Just . . . no.

She was Sarah. From the pool.

I took her hand, smiled and said, "Mrs. Jones. I'm sure I've never seen you before. It's lovely to meet you for the first time. Violet is thrilled to be in your class."

She smiled and laughed.

But we know. Oh, we know.

Keepin' It Real

 

Yeah. That.

It was 'only' one.

But still?

*rocks in corner*

The house is scrubbed. The linens are scalded. The kids are oiled.

I'm exhausted.

Catch ya on the flip side.

Be Confident. And Realistic.

OK. I'm a bitch. I get that. And judgey. I get that, too. What I am not? Ignorant when it comes to what my body looks like.

I know that I could stand to lose a few more pounds. That my arms are a little soft. I know that I should always wear deep scoop or V neck shirts to lengthen my neck.

I also know that I should not, ever again, wear a string bikini.

Never. Ever. EVER.

Did I rock one years ago? Yes. When I was 21. Am I 21? That would be a large, three kids and 30 pounds later no.

Yesterday we went to a water park.

And OMG my eyes. Gouge them out.

Listen, be confident in your body, please. Work your curves, please. But be smart, be realistic.

I think I look good at the weight I am. I think I look good in my bathing suit. However, I am not  Heidi Klum.

 My bathing suit? Covers my rear end. It covers my stomach that has been stretched out by three children and ice cream. It hides the bit of bra fat I have from breast feeding and peanut butter by the spoon full.

I am not a bathing suit model. I know it.

But there was a woman at the park yesterday that thought she was. Oh, yes she did. And I was horrified. My husband was horrified. I think Violet was horrified. I saw other people eyeing her. It was a train wreck of monumental proportions.

She had on the tiniest of string bikini's. The tiniest. Four tiny triangles and some string tied into a couple straining bows. And her stomach hung over the bottom so much that it covered it up. Except when she raised her arms. Then? You.Saw.Hair. *throws up in mouth*

The string on her top kept getting caught in her bra fat. And pulling the triangles in the front sideways. It wasn't pretty. Her belly button ring? Pointed down.

Seriously.

And she strutted around, swinging her hips. Tossing her hair.

Why? Are we that sexualized that any nakedness is good nakedness? That just showing skin, regardless of what it looks like, is a good thing? Has our society become so much about sex, about skin, about showing off everything and leaving nothing to the imagination that the majority of people now believe they must show everything to fit in? I wonder if this woman looked in her mirror when she put on that bathing suit and thought, "I look good. This looks good." In some way I did feel badly for her -- especially after I saw her super skinny friend walking around with her. But that doesn't change the fact that on some level this woman believed that showing all of herself was the appropriate thing to do.

There was another woman there, who somehow kept ending up standing by the string bikini lady.  She had on this adorable blue bathing suit, strapless, that skimmed down into a dress. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was gorgeous. And larger than the woman in the string bikini. But she was dressed appropriately and looked amazing for it.

And please, God, tell me that someone was thinking the same thing about me.

**spell check will not run on this lap top, so once again, please ignore any typo's. Please!**

The Definition of Crazy, Take Two

If you're just joining us, read this first. Oh, you want to, you really, really want to.

So, we get to Michigan.

~We literally fall out of the car. John has yakked and had a blow out. Haiiii!

~I meet my brother's girlfriend, Kerry, and immediately love her. Plus? John throws up on me mere hours after meeting here, causing me to have to have to shower both John and myself, fully dressed. I need help with this. As I'm holding John, covered in puke, I look at her and say, "We're about to get to know each other really well. Can you help?" And she just does. Later, I find out that she has a big problem with vomit. Ooops!

~As a *treat* my mom, my Grandma and I go to a salon for some girl time. I get my hair hi-lighted. And the power goes out halfway through the process. I have to go back the next day to finish it, which causes some weird chemical reaction. I am now a blond.

~On Saturday we put up the tents for Grandpa's memorial/Bryan's 30th Birthday party. Because who doesn't party like that?? A storm comes through and blows one of the tents onto the roof of the house. While we stand in front of the sliding glass door and watch. Because that's the safest place to be, duh.

~Many people come on Saturday to celebrate two amazing lives. Bryan gives an amaze-balls speech, ending it with a marriage proposal. Kerry is completely surprised and says yes!

~That night, in bed, my husband tells me, "I love you. You're like my left leg."

~The next morning my mom tells us that while she and Bryan were buying Kerry's ring, John vomited all over the ring display. The velvet, the rings, everything. And then, while they were cleaning him, he had a total blow out. Good times.

~On our way home from Michigan we make pretty good time. No lost tickets. No attempting to leave wives and children at random rest stops. Although I do consume many drinks at Starbucks.

~We stop at a hotel and get one of the two last rooms. Yes!

~Once in the room I frantically scrub the stench of the latest blow out/vomit from both John's and my clothing. (I'm sure you're seeing a pattern here. Yes, we figured out the problem. His epiglottis didn't work. He's totally fine now.)

~After we're all clean, I pull back the sheets on the bed the kids will share and OH MY SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN THERE IS BLOOD ON THEM.

~Call front desk. The other room? Has been taken. *Of Course*And housekeeping is closed. I start to laugh maniacally. They manage to find sheets. We toss the sheets on the bed and I resolve to not think about it.

~Violet refuses to use any of the restrooms all.the.way home. So she urinates in disposable diapers in the back of the van. And I? Do.not.care.

~Sarah eats ketchup and chocolate milk for lunch and I consider this a major win.

~And then, we are HOME AT LAST, HOME AT LAST, THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, WE ARE HOME AT LAST!

Did I mention that we are making this drive again? I know we've done it since, without all this drama. And we laughed all the way home. We did. Because who has all this happen to them? But I'm still afraid . . .