Thanks, Rachel and Rachel and Brian

In September, my friend Rachel Hough said, "Hey! I've got a lake house--let's go!" So this weekend we did. 

I've spent the past few months trying to find my new balance. Briley is in the fifth grade (which is the worst grade ever invented if you ask me); Hadley's in her last year of middle school; Brian's busy with teaching and picking up the pieces that I drop as I try to juggle my life. The transition of having my mom at home with us has really been an easy one, but it's a change nonetheless. My last TMI Mom book, Girlfriend Rules, was just published and my next book, Life With Extra Cheese, was moving along slowly.

Normally, once the girls are in bed, I sit down and write a few chapters.

Lately, though, once the girls (including my mom) are in bed, I crawl into my own bed and essentially start drooling before my head hits the pillow. (Don't worry about it, though; the cats lick up my face for me.)

The most common question I'm asked when I am speaking or presenting is "How do you do it all?" Up until recently, I would just shrug my shoulders and say I didn't know. And I really didn't know. It just worked, and it just happened.

The past few months, though, I've felt literally drained. I needed to be revived. I needed some time--just time.

So with a ton of momma (and daughter) guilt, my mom went to stay with my sister, Rachel, Brian wrangled the kids (including one that developed strep throat) and I went to the lake with my friend, Rachel.

 

It was exactly what I needed. We didn't have wi-fi, which was a good thing. We had Taco Doritos and peanut M & Ms, which was also a good thing. I changed into yoga pants on Friday evening and didn't change out of them until this morning. This was a very good thing.

My mind cleared. My shoulders eased. My words flowed.

Ahhh ... it was  good weekend. Thanks, Rachel, Rachel and Brian for letting it happen.

Giggling Uncontrollably and Inappropriately

Daughter 1's bra broke. She has more than one bra, but this was her favorite bra. It may have been her favorite bra because it's the one she can actually find, but none the less, it was her favorite bra. And, it didn't break so much as the underwire poked out. It might as well have stabbed her in the heart and left her die.

I suggested, when she told me of this at 8:15 yesterday evening, that she just pull the wire out. Well, you know that can't be done, right? Because then she'd be lopsided. Plus? It's a stupid idea, donchaknow.

source

 

 

 

"So, are you going to get me another bra?" she asked me as I shooed her to bed. I sighed.

I was weary. It's the first week of school, and we started on a Tuesday, which means that I have spent all week having super weird dreams about Robin Williams being my student and old boyfriends hiring me to coach track and stuff like that. I'm not rested. I'm tired. And now, I had to go back out and get a bra.

"I guess," I whined. "If you really can't find your other bras."

"I really can't, Momma." And she said Momma with a heavy sigh in her voice.

Brian passed by me as I was walking out the door.

"Want me to go get the bra?" he asked as he kissed my forehead.

"Nah," I responded, grabbed my keys and headed out.

Then, as I stood at the bra display, grabbing bra after bra that is Daughter 1's size, but becoming completely perplexed by the numerous kinds of bras that were at a young girls' disposal, I realized the error of my ways.

I should have let Brian go get the bra. Holy cow! If I were perplexed, his testosterone filled head might have actually exploded making the choice.

Or he would have come home with a white, knit over-your-head sports bra.

Either way, it would have been hysterical.

And that's how I came to be standing in the lingerie section, by myself, flipping through bras, giggling uncontrollably.

Give me an S! (For Stupid)

When we found out that Daughter 1 was not Son 1, we declared then and there that she would not be a cheerleader. Now that Daughter 1 is a tween, it's clear that she's completely on board with our desires. Daughter 2, though ... man, that's a different story.

It's not that we think cheerleaders are evil; we just don't believe that the end of a cheerleading road is someplace we want our girls to hang their hats at night. Let me explain. If our daughters play softball growing up, they can join a softball league as an adult. If they play golf, they can continue to play golf as an adult. But, if they, as an adult, don a cheerleading uniform, shake their pompoms and run onto a football field, they are arrested for public intoxication. We just wanted our kiddos to participate in activities that would serve them well for their entire lives.

Please understand that I know all about competitive cheer with the stunts and tumbling and routines, and I support that fact that cheerleading is an athletic endeavor. I just don't believe that Daughter 2 wants that out of life. I think she wants the short skirt and the matching bow, if the truth is told.

It might have been a little hypocritical of us--and by us, I mean me. I was a little girl during the mid- to late-seventies. My sixth grade year, found me on the sidelines shaking a pair of black and gold pom poms, cheering on the YMCA Raiders. But, I really wanted nothing more than to be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader. I'm also pretty sure that if I were a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, Brian would have not one complaint about cheerleading in general.

I loved those boots. I did. I really did.               Source

I wanted to marry Roger Staubach, and knew what a Fedora was thanks in no small part to Tom Landry, who was the third most important man every Sunday behind God and the preacher.

Back to Daughter 2. This kid. She's an awesome athlete. She can seriously compete in any activity and competes well. But, she's also a girly girl. She wants to accessorize herself like a QVC model, and she's always trying the new and latest hair styles. And ... she really, really wants to be a cheerleader.

When asked why she wants to cheer, she'll stiff-arm an off-the-cuff routine that involves the words victory, defense and let it roll.

I conceded and told her that quite possibly, this fall, she could cheer. Sigh. I don't want this to become her one true passion, but I don't want her to always wish she could have been a cheerleader when it could be an easy and somewhat harmless fix. But, I'll be honest here, I hope it's not something she loves. Because if it does become a life-long pursuit for her, I'm afraid of her becoming an Oakland Raiderette.

You've heard about this, right? The organization has a "super secret" cheerleader handbook. And a not-so-super-secret scorned cheerleader has let its contents leak.

If you don’t like your meal, try a little of everything and strategically move the rest around your plate.” And, “Gently unfold your napkin and place it on your lap. Fold it almost in half and place it with the fold side towards your body. If you need to leave the table, place the napkin on your chair, and don’t forget to say, ‘Excuse me.’

It takes 3-5 seconds to form a first impression of someone. Think about the last time you met someone for the first time. You probably looked at their hair, jewelry, facial expressions, style of clothes, shoes and nails…

If you are a grown woman and you still need very basic social functions explained to you, then being an adult cheerleader is the least of your concerns and quite possibly the department of human services might want to do frequent welfare checks on you.

I might have made that last one up. But, I bet we find it in some form there.

So, my fingers are crossed the Daughter 2 cheer and get it out of her system, that Daughter 1 not torment her too horribly and that Brian and I can lead her down a road that leads to fulfillment as an adult and not necessarily down a road that leads to cheerleading. Unless she makes the Cowgirls squad, then Go Cowboys!

Not Gone Nor Forgotten

This winter has caused us all kinds of memory issues. The cold has robbed our brains of our capacity to remember just the basics.

1. The Daughters have forgotten that we have a place for their shoes in their rooms. Right now there are seven pair of shoes under the table and three pair of shoes in the living room. We picked them up last night. This has all happened since 6:22 this morning. I blame the cold.

Source

2. We can't seem to remember that the trash men won't--because they've never--come into our house to fetch our trash. We still have to take it out to the trash can. Weird, right? You'd think that as cold as it is, we'd stop having trash in our house. Or, at the very least, that the trash men would actually come gather in from our house, particularly the bathroom trash, which is always overflowing despite the fact that no one actually puts anything in it.

3. Our family believes that when it's cold outside time moves much slower. "Why do I have to get up now?" was the whine this morning when I roused Daughter 1 this morning at the same time as I rouse her every other morning of this school year.

"We have to go to school?" I responded, leaving off the "duh."

"This early?"

"I always tell you to get out of bed this early, honey."

"But it's cold."

4. We are under the mistaken belief that I control the weather. I appreciate the fact that my family gives me credit for being that powerful, but really--when it's so stinkin' cold, their proper response should not be, "Why is it so cold, Momma? Why isn't it warm?" It's January, it's winter, it's going to be cold. I am not the great and powerful Oz, but pay no attention to the man behind the curtain anyway.

Sacrifcing Momma

I'm not sure when I first ate a Frog in the Hole, but I loved it. The yummy breakfast (or lunch or dinner) dish reminds me of college, but I cannot recall any instance when I actually ate it during college. Of course, there are many instances that I cannot recall from college (cough, cough, my junior year, cough, cough), so that doesn't really mean much.

Ohmygoodness, y'all! This is my favorite!

Frog in the Hole also reminds me of snow days--again, I'm not sure why. But, when we have a snow day, I get a hankering Frog in the Hole.

If you aren't sure what Frog in the Hole is let me 'splain. Butter a slice of bread with obscene amounts of butter (I only use real butter, y'all) on both sides. Slap that sucker in a warm skillet or griddle or whatever you want. Using a biscuit cutter or a round glass, cut a hole in the middle of the bread. Set that circle on the side of the bread (it may be the best part). Crack an egg into the hole, salt and pepper and cook. I love Frog in the Hole, I tell ya. Love it!

Last week when we had a snow day, I craved Frog in the Hole and asked The Daughters if they wanted Frog in the Hole. I already knew that The Dad wouldn't. He has no taste. They both nodded their heads from their vegetative state watching "My Little Pony." So, I made three Frog in the Holes. Frogs in the Hole? Frogs in the Holes? I made three of my yummy, buttery, egg-y dish.

And that's when it happened.

"I won't eat this."

"Is it real frog?"

"Why is the egg in my toast?

"What am I supposed to do with the little circle?"

"I don't like crusts."

"I thought I asked for cinnamon toast and deviled eggs."  Daughter 2 never remembers what she orders.

I stood in the kitchen with three Frogs in the Holes ... or whatever their plural is ... and wondered what to do next.

I only wondered a short time: I ate them all three. I'll be starting cholesterol meds next month, I'm sure, but it was worth the sacrifice.

Once a Bagger ...

Last week, Brian and I went to Hellmart to gather my supplies for my Great Day Green Country TV segment. Brian didn't want to be there. He never wants to be at Hellmart, but on this particular night he was coming off a three-day sinus infection that had laid him flat. Once my list had been checked twice, we went through our new self-checkout. I'm not sure what it is about the self-check out, but dang if it's not fun, right? There's power in that scanner, y'all.

I turned to Brian before I began scanning and asked, "Do you want to bag?"

He shook his head, so I scanned and bagged. Rwar! I am woman! I can do it all!

And I got it all in one bag. 

"Heather? Geez," Brian sighed and pulled another bag out and started re-bagging my purchases.

You see, back in the day, Brian was a state-champion bagger. 

No. I'm not kidding.

"I asked you if you wanted to bag," I whined when he was redoing my chance at carrying in all of our purchases in one hand.

"I don't. But I don't want to pick up a bag full of your stuff from the driveway when the bag breaks."

"You miss it, don't you. You miss bagging the groceries, stacking heavy to light, creating sacks full of groceries that won't squish." I teased as I paid out.

"I really don't. I just don't want the bag to bust before we get home," he sighed. 

"You miss the apron, right? You wanna wear the apron when we get home?"

It was at that point that he stopped talking to me.

But he did wear the apron around the house the next day.

January 6--Beans! Beans! The Magical Fruit!

(Are beans even a fruit?!)

Today is Bean Day. It's also Cuddle Up Day. If you get the chance to stay in jammies all day underneath a big warm blankie, I suggest you just do that. If you eat beans, I suggest you cuddle only with people who have had beans or dogs. You can blame your toots on your cuddle partner or the dog. But that's just my opinion. Do whatever you want to.

For Bean Day, we're making a big ol' pot of beans. For New Year's Day, I baked a spiral ham and kept the bone (this is something that I never do and my mother always chastises me for it). I'll make cornbread for Brian and then eat those muffins piled high with jelly for my dessert. The Daughters, however, will not even eat the beans. I'll make them a chicken sandwich instead.

The beans--they are soaking and sad for some 

ham and Rotel!

You could also start your beans for your garden on this day. the home improvement stores already have their starter stuff and soil out.

This would also be a good day to make up some dry bean soup in a jar and deliver it to your neighbors--especially remember those who may be cooped up in their houses alone during the winter. You know me, I like to share and (over)share and (over)share some more.

Let's all finish the day by singing the Bean Song! Sing it with me, now, y'all!

Beans, beans, the magical fruit

The more you eat, the more you toot

The more you toot the better you'll feel

So let's all eat beans for every meal!

Beans, beans, they're good for your heart

The more you eat, the more you fart

The more you fart, the more you'll eat

And you'll spend the night on the toilet seat!

Beans, beans, they give you gas

They make you fart and burn your a$$

The more you eat the more it hurts

Slow down your eating to stop the squirts.

My Favorite Things: Laughing

The great philosopher, Buddy The Elf, once said, "I just like smiling. Smiling's my favorite." This is where Buddy and I differ. I do like smiling, but I like laughing better. And this morning, I had a great laugh. 

Brian had been at the YMCA swimming his laps when he came in from the cold morning air and said, "I need your help" on his way to the back of the house. 

I followed him thinking of worst-case scenerios. Was he having a heart attack? Could he breath properly? Were we in the midst of financial ruin and would he spend the better part of his remaining life in Federal Prisons being a bitch to an inside-trader named Troy?

I found him laying on a towel on our bed holding a pair of tweezers. It was cold out, sure, but tweezers? This was not an emergency. This could be fixed with a long, hard, deep, wet kiss followed by a long, hard, deep, hot shower. I rolled my eyes at his juvenile attempts at getting lucky (PS--Have you bought my book yet? Do it. Do it now.)

"Jeez, Heather," Brian huffed at me as I set my iPod to my "50 Shades" playlist, "My suit came untied during laps and I double tied it while treading and now it's way too tight and too wet to get undone."

Brian wouldn't let me take a picture of his knotted trunks.
It's like he doesn't even get me.
Source

I laughed again. Then I spent the next twenty minutes working just north of my husband's crotch tweezing his drawstrings loose while "Let My Blow Your Mind" by Eve played over and over and over.

I laughed the whole time.

My Favorite Things: My Bubby

My Bubby--I'm not sure why I started calling him Bubby; it evolved from Buddy, and I'm not sure why I called him that either. Although he does remind me of Buddy the Elf, I started calling him that way before the movie came out. My friend, FloJo, refers to him as Bubbly part in mock but partially because he is ... He's a bubbly sort of fellow.

When I was putting together my line-up of favorite bloggers to highlight, he was one of my first thoughts. We've been married for almost sixteen years, but have known each other for almost twenty ... we think. We met several times before actually meeting and sticking together.

He's my biggest supporter and the one whose opinion counts heaviest with me. He encourages me in all aspects of our life together and is a great daddy, an awesome teacher, a fabulous husband (read my book, Getting Lucky--you'll understand why) and my best friend.

Check out his Favorite Things post on his blog. This man, my heart, one of my most favorite things.

#NaBloPoMo: Accomplishment Of Which I Am Most Proud

What accomplishment am I most proud of? Hint: There's not just one. For the sake of time, I'll give you three...

It'd be easy to say that I'm most proud of my books. Just eighteen months ago, I was dreaming of being a best-selling author. And now I am one.

I am proud that I set a goal to have my books published and am meeting that goal. I'm proud that The Daughters are seeing hard work and dedication paying off. I love that they are sharing their dreams with me but I'm prouder still that their are sharing their plans to make those dreams come true.

I'm proud of a little thing called Listen To Your Mother. I met Misti Kae almost three years ago when we were cast in the NWA production. Last year, we were selected to produce a show in OKC. This year, we're producing a show ... again!

I'm proud that this little show is a nationwide movement that gives motherhood a mic.

I'm proud of my family. My hubby is an amazing rock star--He rocks the classroom, he's rocking his health, he rocks daddy-dom. He's nothing short of amazing--and I'm not just saying that because he puts up with my shenanigans and doesn't whimper or mutter things like it's been a good run, but Imma be going now.  

Our daughters are beautiful, talented, spunky, sassy, strong-willed, smart, dedicated to their dreams, and mine. All mine. I chose them before I knew them. I made them. I birthed them. I love them and am so proud of them.

So, accomplishment (singular) that I'm most proud of? I haven't a clue. But, accomplishments (plural) that I'm most proud of? There's not enough space on the internet for me to list them all.

Men Pray For Me

My sister and sister-in-law married a couple of great guys. They are wonderful husbands, great daddies, handymen, and faithful and spiritual people. I know for a fact that they pray for me and Brian.

There really is no better gift that you can give to another person than to hold them close in your heart, your mind and your soul, and I can feel them holding Brian and me close in to their soul through prayer.

I feel their prayers most when I work around the house ... when I replace the air filter in our heat and air system, I can feel my brother-in-law, Jared, pray for Brian and for me.

When I text my brother-in-law, David, about removing sliding shelves in my kitchen, I can feel his prayers for us.

Cool idea, huh?

But, last week, when I installed a curtain rod on my wall--not over any window, over the love seat in our bedroom--I was privileged enough to actually hear their prayers. They weren't in the bedroom with me. I didn't have one or the other on the phone with me, yet I heard them in much the same way one hears a great idea, a nudging from one's conscience, in much the same way Pinocchio heard Jiminiy Cricket.

I actually had the white nail from another project--
I used it to make a hole for the screws.
Who needs a drill?

As I stood in the middle of my room admiring my handy work and giving thanks for the extra parts the manufacturer included in my curtain rod kit, I heard their prayers.

Dear God, Please grant Brian good health and a long life. And if anything should happen to him, take from Heather some of her crazy because we do not want to have to deal with that on our own.

Great guys, huh?

Friend Friday: Future Former Fat Man

He's one of the smartest men I know--he knows finance stuff, world events, history, geography. He can do algebra, keep softball books, and has this really awesome ability to see basketball plays even when it looks like a bunch of tall player just messing around on the hardwood.

He's sensitive (don't tell him I said that). He'll sit through not one, not two, but three different productions of Mama Mia and won't complain one time. He'll do remarkable things for his students like buy them lunch when he knows they are hungry or stays after and tutors them for free. He drives his daughters all over town pimping cookie dough and stops at every "lost dog" sign so they can see if they know the lost dog.

He's creative. He's a thinker. He's fun and funny, which is not always an easy balance to keep. He's fiercely loyal. He loves with his whole, entire, bigger-than-life heart. He's a dreamer. He has big plans, not just for himself but for everyone else as well. And ... he battles with his weight.

A year or so ago, after some professional bumps in the road, he had hit a low. He was traveling and stressed and ate his way out of frustrating situations that took him away from his family and robbed him of time that could be spent doing things he wanted to do or needed to do.

In desperation, he sought help from a doctor that specialized in weight loss surgery. Over the course of a few months, he realized that the surgery would certainly assist him in losing weight quickly, but it would also lead him to lose out on some of his dreams, namely doing an Iron Man Triathlon. He also worried about the message he'd be sending his daughters. He wanted them to know that if the situation was dire enough, do what needed to be done (surgery), but only if the situation was dire enough. He didn't feel like his situation as an otherwise healthy, able, and willing man was dire enough. He wanted to do it on his own.

So he researched nutrition and altered his diet. He landed a different job with a schedule better suited to his family and made time to work out. And, he's now twenty-five pounds away from losing one hundred pounds.

Tomorrow he's doing the Tulsa Run, just a small step toward his goal of doing an Iron Man. I couldn't be more proud of the Future Former Fat Man ... My husband, Brian.

I See Where I Rate

For the most part, the government shut down didn't have a direct impact on me and my family except to cause extreme anxiety in my already-anxious child about how the government shut down would directly effect her and her alone. I have close friends whose families wondered where their grocery money for the week (or two or three) would come from; I knew people who weren't being paid because they are employees of the Federal government; and every single person I knew had an opinion, one way or another, about what the real issue was and who was at fault.

As for me, I didn't fully understand it. I listened to the commentary, I read every last shared post on Facebook (and then did some major blocking of ignorance), but I all I really got from it was that our politicians' behavior could be best summarized with two words: Big Babies.

Good news--they came to an agreement before we defaulted (whatever that means) and the government shut down was ended, which really didn't mean too much to me and my family because, as I said before, we weren't directly impacted. Life was still going on as usual. I blogged a little. We did our #ThankfulThursday. We went to school. We came home. We went to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

On Thursday morning, we woke up, got dressed in our costumes and drove to Tulsa to film my segment for Great Day Green Country. Brian and I were dressed as a Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes winner and spokesman. Daughter 1 was dressed as Napoleon Dynamite--Sahweet! And Daughter 2, after a lot of last minute scrambling, was dressed as one of the Duck Dynasty Guys.

We did a segment wherein I discussed how we do our own Halloween costumes and how I try to not spend exorbitant amounts of money on something that we'll only wear for four hours at best and how 90% of our costume can be used in some other capacity and about how I crowd source for the hard to find items--like a Napoleon wig.

The interviewer, KC Lupp, who is always so kind and seems genuinely interested during our segments, asked my family how they felt about my blog and my oversharing, and they all responded that they were the first editors, nothing gets posted without their approval and then we cleared.

All during my interview, I felt my phone in my back pocket vibrating like an adult toy with new batteries. Brian and The Daughters went back to the lobby--they didn't need much changing. I headed back to the changing room and then joined them in the lobby where I checked my phone.

You were preempted!
The president is speaking!
You aren't on! The president is!
Why aren't they showing you?
When will you be on?
What are you doing? Send. Send. Did it send? What are you doing? I don't think this phone is working. (My own momma just learned to text.)

So ... we stayed around to film my next segment ... but I'm not telling you when it will air in case the President reads my blog has plans to wipe me from the air completely. (So there! I will not go down easily, President Obama!)

In the meantime, though, we ran into a few of our Wednesday night friends:

So ... what was my takeaway from Thursday?

1. Apparently The President outranks a mom blogger from Oklahoma--who knew?

2. Modern Family photo opps always make things better.

3. Our costumes look really, really great on and off the air.