The Prodigal Slipper and the Stapler

My nearly two-year old loves to throw things.  She has no preference really to what she picks up and whips.  Hailley throws paper, pencils, books, toys, balls, keys, garbage, food, socks, shoes, underwear and herself when she feels the need.  She often accompanies this action with running in the opposite direction of the individual who so desires the item she possesses.  As the person who suffers the most from this, I strongly dislike her hurling action.  I try to put on my Mary Poppins face and nicely tell her not to run away with my stuff, but she does anyway.  I choke down the urge to yell at her cherubic little face when she whips it across the room out of reach as I'm feeding the baby.  I bite my lip to discourage myself from going into her room and throwing all HER stuff-let's see how she likes a taste of her own medicine!! I sit back and remember that I am the adult, whether or not I feel like it.
As you can probably guess, many, many household things are lost after they leave Hailley's chubby little fingers and are launched into space.  Most recently was my mini stapler that I use for my college classes.  The thing simply disappeared.  I searched everywhere to no avail.  I knew though.  I knew who was behind the crime.  Without any evidence though, I couldn't prove her guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.
I recently removed the baby bassinet from beside our bed.  Do you know what I found where the bassinet once was?  Of course you do, and I certainly should have known too.   A slipper!  The slipper that the entire family spent time searching for a month ago, all in vain.  And right next to that prodigal slipper? My stapler. 

It's Totally Worth It

It is not easy getting up at 5 in the morning.  I grovel at the feet of my husband Blake, who gets up at 3 a.m. to go work out and get ready to be at work by 7.  However I am trying to make these mornings more enjoyable (or are least productive). 
This morning I was busy cleaning our apartment in preparation for some guests we are expecting over later.  I started my morning with some Joyce Meyer preaching, and then the CD player automatically moved on to the next CD in the slot after Joyce's teaching on Power Thoughts was finished.  A mix of the music from our wedding popped on.  As I'm wandering around, humming to myself, my daughter Hailley approaches.  She wants to dance with me! 
We twirl around the living room at 6:30 a.m., giggling and singing along to Ray Charles "I Got a Woman", and I realize that my early risings are all worth it for this moment.

Mount Dresser

Oh glorious nap time.  The time of day where I am ALONE and can entertain thoughts and activities that don't center around messy diapers, goldfish ground into my carpet or Hailley's favorite board book from Hawaii, which is currently crusted closed by.. IDK a fruit squeeze snack? Eww. 
Anyway so yesterday I put Hailley and Maximus down for their afternoon "quiet time"; the word "nap" is met with great resistance in my home.  But before I tell you what happened, let me explain something first. Nap time in my home is not always peaceful for me (or Hailley for that matter).  It can be very bad.  Previous naps have led to permanent marker all over the TV, nail polish on my childhood teddy bear's face, and fecal matter on the carpet and wall.  Nap time is met with nervous apprehension by me, and doom by Hailley.  (Max is an infant and still likes to sleep, and is too little to wreak havoc yet.)
So where was I? Yes, yesterday.  I put the children into their rooms and set about my own business.  After I while I heard Hailley start to scream from her room.  I rush in to find this scenario:

• The radio is on as usual, but it is now blasting the Christian radio station I tune into.
• I look at Hailley's toddler bed.  Empty.
• My eyes shoot to Swaylynn's bed (the 8 year old not home).  Empty.
• I look at the rest of the room.  Most of the dresser drawers are open, and some of Sway's clothes are spread around the area.  Still no Hailley.

Finally I see my 23 month old daughter perched on top of the tall dresser.  She has opened the drawers and climbed up the five feet to the top.  She is teary-eyed and has her Chicago Bears jersey (Hester, for those of you who are curious!) over her head and on one arm, like a sling.  Top-of-dresser items (all off limits to the child sitting in their place) are scattered across the floor, including Sway's peacock feathers and the lava lamp.  She is sitting next to the blasting radio.
She looks at me and says, "DOWN!"

Really?

Whose bed is this?

Right now I should be sleeping.  I should be fast asleep, dreaming about a clean apartment, or being skinny again, or Jason Segel.  Lord knows I could use my "beauty rest". This morning, however, I gave up this precious allotted amount of time by 4:50 a.m.  Why the *@#& would I do this, you ask?  I blame my son Maximus.
Max is four months old, and already suffers from an addiction.  "What??" You might think to yourself.  "I am reading a blog that a drug-induced mother wrote?" No, of course not.  I gave up drugs days ago.  (insert sarcasm here)  He really has an addiction though, and it is to my bed. 
I can't argue with the kid.  My husband and I enjoy a queen-sized cloud covered in bedding from my favorite store, Target.  This is the place I would vacation to every summer if I could.  So I get why he feels so comfortable here. But.. really? His satisfaction in taking over my side leaves me suffering.  I know what you're thinking-so don't let the kid sleep in your bed dummy!  Oh, if only it were that easy.  You try listening to a baby cry in his crib for even five minutes.  Parents of the world get it.  Before I know it he is happily nestled against me, breastfeeding.  Then he is asleep but I am a human pacifier.  Then he is kicking my left boob repeatedly (um, hello, way to kick the boob that fed you!) Finally he starts oohing and ahhing incessantly, a trait he picked up from his father.  So I vacate the premises, and he falls back asleep immediately.  Go figure. 

The scene of the crime, complete with spit up.

The Bologna Slap

Every single day of my life, something strange or otherwise notable occurs that causes this reaction in me: "Really?" As a married woman with three small children, there are ample opportunities for such a situation to happen, and happen they do. 
Take last week for example.  I was taking a shower in my bathroom.  Mind you as this said married woman with three children, this act was not only necessary, as I probably hadn't showered in days, but it was also the few minutes of that day that I got to myself.  No cries to investigate, no poop to scrape off the wall, no everyday object to fetch out of a drawer for someone.  Right as I was really feeling relaxed, I heard the bathroom door open.  My 23-month old daughter Hailley opens the door, walks over to the shower, peels back the curtain and very calmly, slaps me in the leg with the slice of bologna she was eating. 
Really?
I no longer wonder why animals eat their young.