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- On Saturday we had a birthday party for the boys. The plan was to have an outdoor bbq, but the sky threatened rain and the humidity left the air thick and soupy. We moved the 30+ people indoors, but after a while the sun burst through the clouds and people ventured outdoors. It ended up being a really beautiful day!
You may recall that while planning Owen’s first birthday party, I laid some pretty heavy mom-guilt on myself over — of all things — his birthday cake. I made myself feel so terrible that I, (gasp!) bought his cake rather than made it with love. Somebody should have told me to get over it. Really.
This time, I decided not to go crazy. I put a sailboat and some nautical language on the invitation, bought some red, white and blue table cloths, plates and napkins and called it a day. Nautical-ish. Patriotic-ish. Whatever, it totally worked. I also released myself from any guilt and for under six bucks made 48 funfetti cupcakes and you know what? They were DELICIOUS.
My mom always threw us great birthday parties, but the ones I truly remember I was older for. I figure I have many birthdays ahead of us to go all out. I did splurge on one party thing, though — adorable matching birthday shirts for the boys. I’m so glad I did!
Aren’t they sweet? (Psst…If you like those, check back on Monday for a super awesome giveaway !)
It was a really great, stress-free party and we have some wonderfully generous friends and family who spoiled the boys rotten. A great day.
- So, after the party comes the thank you cards. I’m a big believer of a handwritten card thanking the recipient specifically for what they gave. It’s always nice to receive mail and appreciation, no? I do my best to get them out within a week of getting a gift (my mama raised me right!), and I hope to instill that in the boys as well.
What drives me crazy, though, is what surrounds the giving of the thank you card. If the person mailed the gift, I often send a quick email to acknowledge we received it. I thank them in the email, then thank them again by card. But I always wonder if they think the email is the actual thank you and kind of tacky. I don’t know, I get all in my head about it. Sometimes it’s just a lot of work to say thanks for a pair of socks, or something.
It also makes me nuts when my mom (hi, mom!) will ask me if I’ve sent a thank you card. I totally get it, I do. She’s a mom. I’m a mom. Moms will do this. But I’m 30 years old and she’s the one who taught me to send the cards! Job well done, mom! So, mom. You don’t have to ask this time. I’ve been writing the thank you cards
- Owen received a toy lawn mower for his birthday, and while he was playing with it he told us he was going to “unleash the power of technology.” We all kind of stared at him for a minute in confusion. Say what? Where did that come from? I’m still at a loss so if that sounds familiar to you please let me know!
- Bad TV I’ve been watching : Mistresses. Good TV I’ve been watching: The Newsroom, Season 1. Any recommendations?
- I finally took the Christmas decor down last week and now it is glaringly obvious that there is nothing hanging on the unpainted walls. My living room is basically a sterile environment. If you don’t count the Cheerio crumbs and dog hair. I started to pin ideas for the room so if you follow me on Pinterest, I apologize for the recent onslaught of photos of mantels and gallery walls. I would also love to paint, but the room is big and neither Michael nor I likes to paint. Hiring someone isn’t in the budget right now so either we suck it up and do it ourselves, or continue to live in the vast whiteness.
- Anyone remember when we watched my mother-in-law’s crazy dog last year? I swore it would not be a repeat thing, and yet, here we are one year later and about to embark on 13 days with Lucy. Last year she was skittish and whiny and afraid of men. Which meant that any time Michael would come into the house…she would pee. And then, to add icing to the cake, she freaked out and expressed her anal glands in my kitchen, and I’ll just take a moment to let that sink in.
Expressed her anal glands. In my kitchen.
That smell is burned in my memory and so help me, if she does it again I am shipping her off to Florida so my MIL an deal with it. So, SO gross.
- Speaking of my MIL, she bought a cow. Not a whole cow, not even half of a cow. She bought something like a fourth of a cow so we could split it between us. Only, we don’t really eat that much red meat. Maybe once or twice a month. She was insistent, however, so now the entire bottom half of my freezer if filled with beef. Because even splitting up a fourth of a cow is still hundreds of pounds of cow. I’m not kidding when I tell you this meat will last us a year, maybe more. There’s just so.much.beef. I’m going to have to host a beef party or something just to put a dent in it.
Except a beef party sounds disgusting. No one would come if I cordially invited them to a beef party. Or they would, but they would think it was an entirely different type of party with a whole different kind of beef, if you catch my drift. And that would be awkward.
There’s never a good time to step in urine, but stepping in urine before 7 a.m. really takes the cake.
We’re knee deep in potty training Owen and while he’s doing excellent — really! — boys have that whole extra issue of having to tuck it in and because of that, occasionally I find myself dodging puddles. We’ve bought stock in Clorox Wipes.
I guess I can’t really complain too much. He announced one day while in the tub that he had to go potty, and after that things just took off. I still have to tell him it’s time to take a “potty break”, as he only sometimes tell us he has to go, but if we keep up on him he spends almost every day entirely dry and many nights too. He’s also been learning the concept of “privacy”, and now wants us to leave the bathroom and shut the door while he goes. Cracks me up, this kid.
ANYWAY, I digress. My point was that at 6:39 a.m. I opened the bathroom door to find that not everything had made it in the bowl and I guess those things can get some range, because the puddle I stepped in was closer to the door than the potty. At the same time, Ryan was complaining from his crib where I put him after he woke to eat at 5:30 and wouldn’t go back to sleep, and Kodiak was all up my butt wanting breakfast.
I finally got everyone situated, but before I could get a drop of caffeine in my system, Ryan was ready to go back to sleep (uh, yeah. Because you were up at 5:30, kiddo.), Owen wanted breakfast and Sesame Street and now the kitchen floor needed wiping from Kodiak shaking his face after drinking. Sometimes I feel like I’ve had an entire day before the day ever starts.
- I’ll admit it. I totally use Owen as a “babysitter”. For example, Ryan’s needs are all met and he is happily playing on his play mat while I write this. Until he’s not happy, for whatever reason, and starts to fuss. “Hey, Owen. Go make your brother laugh,” I’ll say. And he does. And I get five more minutes of me time. We’ll have to have another kid just to keep the cycle going.
- Have you started holiday shopping? I…haven’t. I kind of know what I’m getting most people, but aside from one purchase already made for Owen, I’ve done nothing. I always say I’m going to shop year-round to avoid last minute stress and I NEVER DO. Never. Of course.
- Speaking of holidays, don’t forget you have until Friday to enter to win $50 off your Tiny Prints order. Do it! Cards are expensive! Free stuff!
- Random (appropriate for this post, no?) but do you have a headboard for your bed? Do you love it? I really, really want one, but they’re so expensive and I just can’t commit. I want one that is padded but won’t collect dust and hair. I’m not sure I love leather. I’m pretty much screwed, right? Help?
Something like this, maybe. I really like the clean, modern look of it. I do not like the price tag. Damn you, West Elm and you’re pretty, expensive things.
- In the time it took to write this post, we had another successful potty endeavor. One and two, if you cared to know. (You probably didn’t.) I’m happy to report everything made it into the bowl and no mothers were forced to step in anything gross. The end.