The Texas Mama

The party went reasonably well. It was one heck of a day for us, though.  There were presents:

Clothes, big girl cups, a bear, and a neat Dora pen from the in-laws.  Mama and baby blue bird (hand made softies, thank you very much) from me.  Yes, the softie craze has hit me.  I am addicted. I have a many more to post. I think I will probably put them on flickr (notice the link over on the side there).

She threw away her bottles:

Explained to me that she is now a big girl, and doesn’t need bottles. “No more bottles!” she repeatedly tells us.

And we ate lots of HUGE cookies that we baked and a cake (a mix from a box):

After the whole shabangabang, I cleaned up the kitchen then we went to the shop to move stuff.  More on that in another post…

How to Have THE most fun in 24 hours:

Step one:   head to Walmart for groceries about 10:30 after you have put your daughter to sleep, which btw, takes nearly an hour

Step two:   try and sleep in the guest bed so that your back doesn’t scream at you in the morning, but get woken up by afore mentioned daughter in the middle of the night and go lay back down on the dang air mattress

Step three:   try and pretend like it isn’t really morning, your daughter isn’t really already awake, and that your bladder isn’t about to burst by rolling over and pulling the covers over your head

Step four:   Did I mention that your in laws will be coming over today? Ya. Oh, and you are hosting a party for your daughter so that she will be happy not scream until she throws up about having no more bottles. But don’t worry- you cleaned the house from top to bottom yesterday, thus your body is crying out in agony as you limp down the stairs to get your daughter some chocolate milk. If you can talk the husband into coming home anytime soon, then he will be manning the grill.  That’s good, because you know, you’ve seen him for like three hours this week.

Step five:   whine on and on about it on your blog

Step six:   Finish making beds, pick up Hali’s room, shove craft supplies in the drawer in the office, and water plants (thank goodness that one your MIL gave you rfor your birthday is still alive…)

Step seven:   frost the cookies, have Hali add sprinkles, clean up the spilled sprinkles from every surface in your kitchen, pick them out of her hair, etc.

Step eight:   Make a PINK birthday cake and frost it.

Step nine:   Hide porn stash uh, clean the toilets and wipe up Hali’s bathroom counter and sink (kidding, totally not doing either)

Step ten:   call husband to see if he had thought of coming home yet…

Step eleven: pluck those bushes you call eye brows and slap on some make up.

Step twelve:   tell husband to pick up his clothes and sweep of the walkway and patio.

Step thirteen:   sit down and act casual as if it took no work what so ever to do all this…

Step fourteen: add one more step so that you don’t curse yourself by leaving it at 13- stuff your face with sweets, and watch Hali have a good time

Step fifteen: try and get your in-laws to leave before Hali’s bed time, which should be difficult, seeing as you even said to MIL on the phone “I want to do it early, that way we can finish before bath time and stuff so that Hali will have time to calm down and go to sleep… so like 4-6 should be fine”  her response “oh, do you have some of that ‘peace and calming’ oil? put some on her feet and she’ll calm right down.” Right… like how those oils helped us so much last winter when we were all freaking sick? Or how about you graciously follow my nicely put request?

What you are about to read is embarrassing for me to share.  I went soft.  I just couldn’t separate them.  They loved each other so, and darn it, they looked cute together.  But it has gotten to the point where I have to take into consideration the health aspects of it. So, this weekend, they are leaving her forever.

This Saturday Hali will be hosting a “Throwing Away The Bottles Party”.  Yes, she is three. Yes, I am a bad mother to have let it go on this long and I am sure that she will have thirty cavities soon and need braces to correct the damage that the bottle has done to them.  But I finally decided that enough was enough.  I bet I make all you other moms feel good about your mad parenting skillz, huh?

Poor Hali, she really does love her bottles.  She cries out for them in the middle of the night.  She wants one first thing in the morning (she hasn’t had one in the morning in a while- we switched to chocolate milk in a sippy cup) and last thing at night.  We have had a few false starts, but I hope that by getting her involved, we will accomplish it this time around.

I have finally come up with The. Brilliant. Plan.  We are having a party, culminating in the ritual throwing away of the sacred and almighty bottle.  She will be tossing them herself into the garbage.  While eating cake of course.  Oh, yes, there will be cake.  And cookies. And soda.  Because I have to give her something to ruin her teeth and because she planned this party.  She asked that we invite Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Kelliarie (Kelly Marie, her aunt), and Puppy.  The in laws have a Chiweiner- or so I call it, as it is part Chihuahua and part wiener dog.  This is whom she refers to as Puppy.  She didn’t forget anyone!

Hali also requested pink birthday cake and sugar cookies, this just after she yelled “soda!” because what good is a party without all these things?  She also started mentioning Dora things, so I am not really sure what that was all about, but I can do the cake, cookies, and soda.  If anyone is in our area this Saturday, bring your kids by- poor Hali needs some friends.

What is up with THOSE moms? You know the ones I am talking about. They look like they have it so together. They have the skin, the toned body, great hair, beautiful, well behaved, smart children (ya, I’d like to say that all kids are beautiful, and they are- one the inside, I am sure), handsome husband who makes serious bank, and a smirk on their perfect little faces that you KNOW means they got them some last night.

I see these women, and it is all I can do but to sit there and stare at them and silently chant “they have a nasty std, their breasts aren’t even real (no, wait for any mom that’s actually a good thing…), that one kid looks like he has a different dad- wonder if the husband has noticed, her hair is bleached too blond, the husband is never around, they don’t cook (or eat, apparently)… I can find some little imaginary problem with anyone who appears so perfectly perfect.

Oh, but wait, why do I care? Because I judge. Because I want for them to have problems worse than mine so that I can feel better about myself and my life and my problems. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Sad, really. I know.

I do eventually force myself to stop thinking about other people and what they appear to have or not have. I remember to count my blessings. I bet to a lot of people, I look like I really have it down.  In fact, I had better look like I have it down, because I am so OCD that I try hard to make it appear so.

I actually think about these things.  I will try and make sure that Hali at least appears to be doing no wrong. I ply her with snacks and toys and books to keep her quiet in church. I pose. You know the one I’m talking about. The one that makes you look your thinnest. That one. I plaster on the fake smile ( Jeremy is constantly telling me I look like I am unhappy/mad/an unwilling participant in torture when I am not purposely guarding my expressions).  And I do all of this and hope that it looks casual and easy and effortless. Huh. Somehow, I am doubting that if I have to think about it that much, it isn’t. 

So no, I don’t have great skin, a toned body, or a husband who makes serious bank, and I didn’t get any last night. But, I do have e good hair. And a reasonably well behaved and smart daughter (if somewhat socially inept) and a handsome husband. My boobs are real, in all their huge saggy glory, my daughter is definitely my husbands daughter, my hair isn’t too blond, and I cook and eat.

Well, it could be worse. It could be better, but that’s just my own dang fault isn’t it? I can be such a meanie. Really, I mean who thinks these things? Ugh. I think I really do need a mind make over. Some one should come in like, with tools ‘n stuff and just have at my brain. I am thinking tiny little gay men. Not like those Umpa Lumpas though- they freak me out.

Oh, hello, FIXED BLOG!!! After weeks, maybe even months of this thing running off the side, it is fixed! And all it took was the following:

” Please,
please, please! Do something about the templates on Quick Blog.It looks
horrible- the words are all overlapping into the side border where they
should not be. I have changed templates. I have changed colors, I have
changed pictures, everything. Please do not tell me that it is Firefox-
that’s what you said last time. It is NOT Firefox- it is how YOU have
set things up. I have e-mailed a web designer friend. I realize that
you have to pay someone to do that and everything, but I have only
become more and more unhappy with your service over the last few
months, and I will be moving my blog elsewhere in just a few months.
Thank you for not answering all of my questions just a few days ago, it
was really helpful! “

Aren’t I a SWEETHEART?! So polite! BUT! I finally got them to DO something!

” Dear Sir/Madam,

So that also explains why my entry about Hali’s haircut was republished. That was the entry they are talking about in their smug little way, I am sure.
Unfortunately, the e-mail that I sent them on the 10th is still left largely unanswered, as I smarmily referred to in that e-mail.

I could go on and on about this dang blog, but I won’t. I’ll probably be picking up and moving it, but I haven’t mad any decisions yet. So on to what I wanted to  write about. I don’t like to get political, but…

I am LDS- that’s a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Mormons. You know, polygamists and Utah and Godmakers, right? No. That isn’t what I want to talk about, either.

What I wanted to say is Mitt Romney. Ya. I am going there. Or not. Because, you see, that is where the problem lays.  Despite my being LDS, I am not super conservative.  My positions ( missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy style- they’re all good) are varied, but I consider myself to be a liberal republican. I am right there on the fence, really. 

Republican because I want less government control in many things, but democratic because I would like to see health coverage for all- a national health plan- like you know, lots of other countries have.  Republican because I don’t see the need for abortions (hello, don’t have sex if you aren’t prepared for the consequences, that or its called birth control, and they make morning after pills too), democratic because I… uh, well there isn’t really one for that.  Lastly, I am very conservative in that I don’t think you need to live with someone of the opposite sex if you aren’t married and are both straight.  Which brings me to my main point of why I am a bad Mormon and am not sure that I can vote for Mitt Romney.

I do not have a problem with anyone who prefers the same sex.  I. Do. Not. Care.  For me, it’s a non-issue. I don’t think it is something that should even be a big political issue. It is two thousand and freaking seven people.  How about equal rights for everyone, hey? 

On the other “side” of the possible candidates, I also find myself unable to vote for Hillary Clinton. As much as it kills me to say that I cannot vote for the first serious female presidential candidate, I cannot vote for her. Heh, political views aside, can you imagine Bill in the White House again?! Watch out!

Now, I didn’t put this out there so that I could get hate mail. I just felt like a semi serious, ‘look- I have more on my mind than cleaning and Hali and whining’ kind of post today. That is all.

*** Happy Birthday, Ashton! My little sister is 18 today!