My sweet, helpful, cleans-better-than-I-do Husband does not travel very often. Tonight is one of those nights. It is 7:17, and all four of my children are in bed. And boy, am I tired. So even though my home currently looks like this
(I finally picked up your dry cleaning honey, see it back there all shiny on the floor from where it slid off the couch?) and is obviously in need of some major domestic attention, I think I shall sit down and just blog a spell.
I had a migraine on Friday. I have had migraines since about kindergarten but blessedly, they seemed to be one of those weird things that I had pre-pregnancy that often comes on during pregnancy but since I had it pre-pregnancy, like my restless leg syndrome, pregnancy seemed to helped it (did you follow that?)
My point is I don't have them nearly as often as I used to. Even so I have always wondered how on earth I would mother with a migraine. Well, now I know. Not very well.
Fortunately three of my children were in mothers day out/school for the majority of the day and Ike was sweet enough to nap until they came home. Walker picked them up at 2:30 and I tried to sit very still as they watched two and a half hours of Word Girl. Funny how I never notice how much my kids whack/kick/climb on my stomach until trying with all my might not to puke up the three saltines I had bravely digested an hour earlier. (Kinda like how I never noticed just how many hundred times a day my toddlers elbowed me in the boobages until I met a little demon named Mastitis.) I also never noticed how loud they were - man alive, are they loud - and just how obnoxious their loud toys were until there was a tiny demolition crew working overtime just above my left eyeball.
The only highlight was that even as I retched my saltines I thought to myself, well, at least I am having a low-cal Fit Friday. A little involuntary bulimia, if you will.
Always look on the bright si-ide of life, do-do, do-do, do-do-do-do-do-do.
Reminds me of the time I saw my very good friend Jenny and said, "You look good!" and she struck a pose in her skinny jeans and sang, "Food poisoning!"
Saturday night we had supper club at our home. Our supper club consists of six couples. Three of us are original to the very first Christmas after we were married, when we all had a white elephant exchange with our worst wedding gift (and once Lisa realized that the useless bowl with the holes in it she had received was actually a bread basket, she stole it back.) Now there are fifteen kids and counting between us, two still ordering womb service. Hence the name, the "Who's Pregnant Supper Club." We meet every three months at rotating homes. The hostess provides the meat, and everyone else brings the sides, which are determined throughout a series of emails. Typically, we do a theme, and since it was my turn, the theme I chose was SOUTHERN. Aka, heart attack on a plate.
Obviously I chose this before the Old Navy experience.
So I made my momma's fried chicken for the first and possibly the last time ever. Because y'all, frying chicken is work. And a little complicated. I have a much greater appreciation for Popeye's now.
The sides were - are ya ready? Fit Friday sistahs might want to turn away for a moment:
greens, fried okra, black eyed peas, corn pudding, and cornbread, with pecan pie and Blue Bell ice cream for dessert.
We finally sat down to eat about 9pm because did I mention, fried chicken takes forever? And then, I made up for the calories I puked on Friday. With gleeeeeee.