I'm going to take a little (unpaid, mind you) bloggy vacation this week.
So unless I get an inspiration to come write at midnight (as often happens) I'll be posting some reruns oldies classics.

While I'm on vacation, I'm hoping to squeeze in a pedicure


and some naps


some time to think outside the box


about how to deal with the Ninja Trouble we've been experiencing.


We've got a case of tennis racket wielding ninjas, which y'all all know are the worst kind of ninjas. Something must be done before we get served. (haha! groan)

I'll also be gardening


under the clouds.



Because, in typical Missy fashion, one small short project turned into one mighty big one.

Y'all have a great week!

Somebody call Mommy Protective Services

A memory for Memorial Day. From 12-8-08.


I have a headache. A big headache.

Why? Because when you get socked in the cheek, it hurts all the way up to the top of your head.

Bless your heart, Mis! How'd that happen??

My son beat me up.

He's five.

Tonight he was sitting in my lap as we read Mad Maddie. Now, you should know, my lap is prime real estate. Location, location, location. On the rare nights when I do Daddy's job of bedtime stories, there is a huge bidding war over it. Cranky, tired children ranging from 25 to 50 pounds use subversive, slightly illegal and certainly unethical techniques to position themselves there, and the losing bidders do not react very positively. Names are called. Threats are made.

That picture up there?

It looks nothing like that.

Today was one of those days when the two older ones - who are so close, they are almost the same person in two bodies - were being exceptionally evil to one another. I had threatened. It worked - for about 23 seconds. Hostile takeover attempts resumed. Finally I said, mid Maddie, "Okay, that's it, you're still being so ugly, go get in bed."

At which point the 50 pound son, the current property squatter, cried "Noooooooo!" and flung his defiant little self backwards in a physical display of protest. And his very, very, very hard, very hard head went straight into my cheekbone.

And it hurts. I mean, y'all, it hurts.

It feels exactly the same way it felt last week when his baby brother practiced his own cute new skill of arching his back and throwing his huge melon skull back when requested to do something really repugnant, like, get his jammies on.

Yes. Twice in one week, I have been toddler-slapped.

I remember once hearing that if you are ever being attacked from behind, you should hurl your head back as hard as you can into the attacker's face. They said it will hurt him really bad.

I am hear to testify that it will indeed hurt him really bad.

Perhaps preschoolers have a lot to teach us in the area of self-defense.

Should you ever find yourself in a precarious situation, here are some other techniques you might could try:

• Pick up a coffee cup and bring it down with all your might on their skull while they are obliviously folding laundry.
• When they are lying on the floor, drop the metal clip of a pacifier holder straight down into that area right beneath the eye. It's very sensitive. They might have to leave the room so you won't see them cry. (If they are pregnant, they might stay in the hallway crying a long time.)
  
• As hard as you can, bite the area of the shoulder right above the collar bone. It's very sensitive too. This is especially effective if done when they least expect it, say, in the middle of a previously sweet hug.
  
• Grab a handful of their chest hair and twist it while you pull at the same time.
  
• If they are breastfeeding and on the couch, you can knee or elbow them in the boobs at least twice a Blues Clues. Trust me, this will bring the tears.
• In the grocery store, beg to push the cart and then run it right up on their heels. That's a real good one. You might even cause them to sit down on the floor right there in the middle of a grocery store aisle and then you can watch their face turn really red while they try not to scream.

I can testify to the sheer pain that each above act ensures because each has been perpetrated upon myself at least once in the past five years. (Except the chest hair one. I myself have not experienced this personally, thank you. But a member of my household has assured me it inflicts severe injury.)

I hope you never have to use any of the above defensive techniques. But if the situation ever arises, just remember -

act like you're four.

It could save your life.

Hair color and barf etiquette and television debuts

Whoaaaaa, Nelly. (Whose Nelly? I have no clue. But she's available for emphasis. So we'll partake of her services.) Whoaaaaa, Nelly. What a week we've had.

First off, the hair.

Well, I used the Color Oops. You put it on, leave it on, then rinse for twenty minutes. The directions said the rinsing part is the magic. The rinsing part is very important.

In case you have ever wondered, "If I were to sit with my skull directly under the shower for twenty whole timed minutes, would I perhaps get bored out of said skull? Or would my boredom be interrupted by the hot water turning into cold water on same said skull, whereupon I would become both bored and miserable?" You no longer need to perform an experiment to test your hypothesis. I've proven it. Yes and Yes.

Initially I was very disappointed with the Color Oops results. Despite following the directions to the letter and piling a product on my head that smells like, well, like farts (still. My bathroom still smells like farts. A week later) the top was almost back to my original auburny-browny. But the sides and were still black. Like one of those teenage chicks I see on Judge Judy with the bleached hair on top and the black hair at the bottom? Except it was almost nothing like that. Anyway. Back to the drawing board.

But before I could focus anymore on killing Morticia, the Naptime household was attacked by a vicious stomach virus.

With one exception that was caused by snot so doesn't really count, my kids have never thrown up before. Never. I know. Bizarre, huh? Fabulously, fabulously bizarre.

We are bizarre no more. We are stinkin normal. And by stinkin I do mean, you know, stinkin.

Sunday night, Eva Rose earned the proud title of First Child to Puke in the Momivan.

By Tuesday night, we thought she was well. So my mom took us to an eat house for dinner. But the minute we got on the patio, thar she blowed chunks, earning the First (And Hopefully Last) Child to Puke In a Restaurant Award.

That was fun. And embarrassing. And also put me in a bizarre etiquette situation when I saw some people walk through it before I could stop them and wondered, do I tell them they just walked through puke? And how exactly should that conversation begin? As Emily Post was not on location to advise I decided their ignorance would be their bliss. And then I began wondering if I had ever unknowingly traversed stranger puke myself.

I attended the University of Texas at Austin.
Chances are high.

Tuesday night about midnight Shepherd earned the proud title of First Child to Puke on the Stairs, Mom's Feet, the Kitchen Floor, and the Bathroom Floor.

Not to be outdone, by 5am Wednesday morning Maggie went for the coveted First Child to Puke on GG, who blessedly had slept over. Later, Miss Overachiever went for First Child to Puke All Over the Couch, Not Once But Twice.

By noon, Ike got the very best award: First Child to Puke in His Bed, So Neatly, With None On His Clothes, That Even Though He Must Have Slept In It, His Mom Did Not Even Know He Had Thrown Up Till Bedtime When She Discovered the Hours Old Puke.

I'm so proud of my babies and all they have accomplished.
Where's my bumper sticker?

Thursday was my turn. I've never been very competitive so I kept the tummy issues at bay. The mommy strain of the virus consisted of miserably and achingly sitting on the couch, dozing, attaining full consciousness only to referee a Wii dispute or give permission for cookies? yes, more cookies, whatever you want, serve yourself, just don't make me move from this couch.

Obviously, my hair issues went unattended. But hey, I got an award too: my Mommy Merit Badge for Not Puking Yourself While Cleaning Up Kid Puke. Not wanting to brag here, but it is one of the harder badges to earn.

Meanwhile, my husband was in Philadelphia, because he always manages to be out of town when all the fun happens. Tuesday night, as I was pondering the social obligations of vomit walk notifying, he called to tell me to turn on the normally shunned MSNBC because he was going to be on TV.

I assumed he was interviewed as 'the man on the street with way more opinions concerning Arlen Specter than any reporter had bargained for' but I was mistaken.

Here, ladies and gentleman, Walker's cable news debut:


I tell you what, it was the most enjoyable thing to happen to me all week.

And just so you know, whenever you see those guys on TV on their cellphones? They are not making very important calls involving words like "Buy!" or "Sell!" or "Chicken wings!" as it might appear. Nope. Every single one of them is saying to his wife, "Can you see me now? What about now? Can you see me now?"

Finally, he came home. He took Friday off so we could go on a very important mission, which I will soon tell you about. Then on Sunday, we went to church. When we walked in the door, he declared he didn't feel good. Then he ran to the bathroom. Repeatedly.

Sigh. At least his aim was good.

Oh but the good news! As you can imagine, I took lots of showers last week. And somehow, via repeated skull rinsing, my hair now appears to look kinda normal.

Morticia is dead, my friends.
All it took was one fell stomach virus.

Just in case you are among the 3 people who haven't seen this yet

Enjoy.

Not in a black mood anymore

I cannot tell you how blessed I have been by the simpatico, humor, and wisdom left in the comments over the past couple of days. Y'all rock the casbah and I so appreciate you, every last weird one of you.

But now, it's on to more life changing matters.

I simply cannot abide my starring role in The Addams Family Moves to Suburbia one more day.


One's hair should not camouflage into one's clothing.
Something has to be done.

Thanks to the beauty of Twitter, I was strongly advised by many of y'all that one cannot just dump another Miss Clairol concoction over one's head when one's head was fool enough to die one's head black, which was the way one had originally planned to rectify one's situation.

It has something to do with, like, chemistry? And considering I 'passed' high school chemistry with a pity score of 69, I couldn't explain it to you if you put a flatiron to my head.

By the glory of googling tags like "help i dyed my hair black please help i can't live like this" I was led to a certain product that promised to restore me to my former mousy brown with gray lack of glory.


It's called Color Oops. In true product placement genius, it was right next to the Splat shades of Luscious Raspberry and Blue Envy.

I had gone to the CVS to find the Color Oh Ca-raaaaaap but they were out. This will have to do.

It's a complicated endeavor, but I'm up for the challenge.

Well, mainly I'm just broke and desperate.

So now, at 10:17pm....I'm goin in.

Wednesday morning Update: I don't mean to leave y'all hanging but I've been cleaning up puke since midnight. Well, since Sunday, but it hit two more kids last night. Three kids down, one with a fever who won't eat. Not looking good. I'll be back when I crawl out from under Mt. Vomit.

Blessed to be a weirdo

I have often thought that, while on the whole I believe the internet to be a wonderful invention, one of the negatives about it is that it decreases one's comprehension of the normative. What I mean is this: it used to be, if you were a weirdo, you knew it. It was obvious that you were different from the people in your family and your community. You stuck out like a sore thumb. Folks called you 'black sheep' or 'oddball'.

But now, due to chat boards and blogs and so forth, no matter how unusual or even deviant your weirdness might be, within minutes you can find a group of people who will not only accept but encourage you in your proclivity. Soon, you don't feel weird at all. Soon, you might even start to believe that you are the normal one.

It's an illusion. A busy chatroom is no indicator of the status quo.

It can be a very dangerous illusion depending upon the status of your weirdness. Just because some yahoo in Peoria is as perverted as you are, it doesn't make your perversion acceptable.

Or, it can just be deceiving.

I first joined an online community of moms when Shepherd was born. Nothing unusual, I knew plenty of moms in real life. When I began blogging - completely ignorant of what I was getting myself into - I naturally fell into the 'Christian mommy blog' community. And that was fine. I also know lots of Christian mommies in real life. Life imitated internet.

But, now, things have changed.

And I've just discovered I'm one of those online weirdos.
Who thought she was normal.

I was adopted, my brother was adopted, my closest-thing-to-a-sister was adopted, many of my childhood playmates were adopted. It seemed normal. I always knew that if I could not conceive, I would no doubt adopt. Then years ago, I was made aware of the orphan situation in China and vowed to adopt whether I could conceive a child or not. Before I married my husband, I made sure he was on board with the plan (his response: "Awesome. Adoption is so freaking biblical." Yup, he was The One.) Throughout our marriage, the question has never been if we would adopt, only when.

Silly me, I still thought I was normal.
Thought my cute new husband was normal too.

Once the timing became right, and we began the process, I immediately found a huge online community. Not just for adoption in general or even international adoption, but for Ethiopian adoption specifically. There are so many blogs of families at every stage of the process. I also joined no less than three yahoo chat boards for those adopting from Ethiopia.

It started to seem like everyone was adopting internationally.

It seemed - you know what - normal.

It was a humongous illusion.

The reactions we have received from some in our tangible community - the minority, blessedly, the minority - have slapped me out of my internet bubble and forced me to confront reality. Slapped me hard. My cheeks bear invisible bruises from various criticizing palms.

We've been called everything from foolish and naive to selfish with bad priorities to neglectful parents to trying to be fashionable by adopting a black child (the latest stinging accusation.) It's even been insinuated that we are racist - though I'm still not sure how that one works.

And these are the things that have been said to our faces. I don't care to imagine what some are saying behind out backs.

Guess what y'all? Turns out it's not one bit normal to adopt an orphan!
We're the oddballs! We're the black sheep!

I should have known.

I knew the statistics: that if only 3% of the world's self professed Christians adopted a child, there would be no more orphans in the world. That if only one family out of each church in our country adopted one child from foster care, there would be no more adoptable foster children in America.

And yet most Christians don't adopt. Many - dare I say most? - churches don't do one thing to protect the fatherless in America or anywhere else. The result: there are still approximately 143 million orphans in the world, and over 120,000 orphans in America (in addition to another half million foster children ineligible for adoption.)

Only 2,277 Ethiopian children were adopted by Americans last year.

But because every single one of them seems to have a blog, I got hoodwinked into thinking it was more, much more.

I kind of shocked myself today with the revelation that, when I discount a couple of acquaintances and people whom I have met only because of our impending adoption, I have only one real friend who has adopted internationally. One. I've never ever met another family who has adopted from Africa, let alone Ethiopia. In my own good-sized church, I can think of only three families who have adopted period.

We are weird. We are super weird.
And we are gonna have at least five super duper weird kids who think that sacrificing all you have to pay the ransom for a child you've never met from an orphanage in a country that previously you couldn't find on a map is normal.

And, for the first time in my life, I feel so unbelievably blessed to be a weirdo.

Mommy Rhapsody from Church on the Move on Vimeo.

Thanks to Kristan at Hugs Included Blankets for sharing.

Seeking approval

Yesterday some 'friends' wrote some very, very nasty things to me regarding our motives for adoption. I have not been so insulted in a very long time.

I barely know these people who felt the need to be so ugly to us, they were 'friends' of Walker's. He's very hurt. I'm just angry. But it cast a pall over my day today. I didn't realize how much until a friend just posted something funny on facebook that made me laugh out loud, and I realized it was the first time today I have laughed. (Thank you, Lord, for the blessing of funny friends.)

I've always been a 'justice person.' My fellow justice people - you know how hard it is to be us. When we see injustice, it keeps us awake at night. When we are unjustly accused, it takes all that we are to not confront the person with a ten bullet point list detailing exactly why they are mistaken, including links and suggestions for further reading.

But I am not going to do that. I might ponder a fantasy rebuttal, but even that would be a waste of my time.

Instead, I am bringing to mind all the precious ones who have supported and prayed for us and our daughter throughout this journey, and focusing on The Only One whose opinion of me matters.

Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God?
Or am I trying to please men?
If I were still trying to please men,
I would not be a servant of Christ.
Galations 1:10

What happens when I get thee to a convent.

Amanda, who is going to the Holy Land soon, asked in a recent blog post if any of us had ever been there and if we had a favorite memory. And I started to comment and you know how sometimes comments get so long you think, shoot, this is more than a comment, this is a whole blog post?

Or is it just me?

Anyway today was one of those days.

Yes, Amanda, I have been to the Holy Land. Here are, if not my favorite, are my most outstanding memories of that holy time.

Once upon a time, I was 23 years old, in Jerusalem, staying at the Ecce Homo convent. Ecce Homo as in, supposedly THE place where Pilate cried "Behold the Man!" as he handed Jesus over. Or he cried "Ecce homo!" cause he spoke Latin. Et tu?

Maybe this convent is the actual place that Jesus stood. Maybe it is a tourist trap. In Israel, you can never really be sure, so you spend a good deal of time wondering if you are getting scammed or if you are just a horrible, horrible person with very, very little faith.

Et tu? Or is it just me?

Anyway. I had a migraine brought on by the cigarettes protruding from the lips of every single Palestinian/Israeli person walking around Old Jerusalem. In the convent's 'youth' hostel, there was only me, some lady from California, and a very old Irish nun who lived in the Israeli desert.

Oh, and did I mention I was alone? All alone? In ISRAEL? I had hopped over by myself from London. Fortunately this was during the intifada, a brief non-violent period, so it was as safe as Israel gets but - pardon me just a moment -

Dear Eva and Maggie and Bethie,
You may never, ever, ever go to Israel for a week all by yourself.
What are you, on crack??
Love, Mom.
And Dad.
And everyone who knows you.
PS Shep and Ike, this goes for you too.

We were sitting in the kitchen, and I was telling them about my going-on-two-days migraine. Migraines for me meant hours of lying in bed, a washcloth on my head, interrupted only by intermittent periods of vomiting.

Alone. In Israel. In a convent. Where Jesus may or may not have stood.

Suddenly, the nun came over to me and put her hands on me and began to pray for God to heal my migraine.

I had never had anyone lay hands on me before. And I tell you what - an Irish nun really is the way to go when it comes to laying-hands-on-and-praying. An Irish nun in Jerusalem. In the exact place that Jesus may or may not have stood. I am not saying that your first laying-on-of-hands experience wasn't great, I'm just saying that mine was better.

So while this sweet nun chants over me in her awesome Irish brogue, it was as if an exorcism - and perhaps it was - began to happen. I stood up, ran across the kitchen to the sink, puked, and sat back down. And Sister with a capital S never missed a beat! She just prayed louder than my dainty retching and laid her holy nun hands right back on me when I returned.

Talk about a professional, y'all.

I'd like to tell you that my migraine was miraculously instantly healed but, well, I can't remember. Believe what you wish.

My other main memory was of going to the Dead Sea. The Dead Sea is so far below sea level that your ears pop on the way down. It is also so salty that nothing can grow there, hence, the name DEAD. Get it?

But you can 'swim' there. And 'swimming' there is one of the coolest experiences because, due to the salt content, you just float. It's like you are on an invisible inner tube. You can flip flop all around. Weebles wobble but they don't sink.

Since I knew I was going 'swimming', I prefaced my bathing suit experience in the customary way: by shaving my body from head to toe.

Did I mention that the Dead Sea has a salt content 8.6 times more than the ocean?

Did I mention that I shaved from head to toe?

Ever gone to the beach and had your freshly shaven legs sting a wee bit when you got in the water?

MULTIPLY THAT BY 8.6.

My entire body was on fire. I wanted so much to bob around but my pores could not handle the sensation of being attacked by a million fire ants fighting over the Gaza Strip.

So, I got out, and actually paid perfectly good shekels to be covered with 'healing' Dead Sea mud from head to one foot (?), aka, a Screaming Spa Treatment.


After I washed that torture away, I took a photo with an Israeli soldier, who had his uniform unzipped to show off his manly chest hair and manlier gold chain.


And when I got them developed, I realized he had his hand on my butt.

Amanda, I hope that your trip with your mom is equally exciting. But, in much different ways.

La Chaim!

Adoption Carnivals

Kristen at We Are That Family is having an adoption carnival tomorrow - if you are in the process, please link up with her. And if you are not in the process, then please hop around the links and offer prayer and if led, financial support for those of us who are. Trust me, this process is long and frustrating and we covet your prayers!

Also, LoraLynn and I are working on another adoption carnival soon, where each country/situation will be represented. It will be one stop window shopping for anyone considering adoption. It's coming soon!

On a completely different note, I am considering running for congress on the platform that all Kristens/Kristans/Kristins will be required to spell their names one way. It will provide a sense of national unity in these stressful times. I hope I can count on your vote.

Perhaps I should just become a Supreme Court Justice and legislate from the bench. Much easier.

On another completely different note, my computer is making very strange and concerning sounds right now.

And on a really nother note, did you know doodle bugs are not insects? They are crustaceans, like crabs or shrimp. The things I learn in the course of mothering.

Laundry calls.

Laundry calls loudly.

Dinner at Cafe Flop

I can't draw. I can only sing in one octave. I played clarinet in elementary school and I could never hit the high notes. And if there were a video of my attempts at playing any sport like tennis, it could be used to blackmail me.

Well, at least you could blackmail me with that way back when I still had pride. Now I would probably consider it a good blog post.

Honestly, why would you want to blackmail me? For what? The sticky change in the bottom of my purse? Didn't I mention I am on a budget that requires dying my own hair and hotwaxing my own unsightlies? (Oh yes I did. It was painful. But effective. Mostly.)

Speaking of my athletic prowess, Eva Rose's sweet PreK teacher said to me yesterday, "Eva Rose is complaining of headaches. But it is always just before recess. She doesn't like recess, you know. She says it is 'hot and boring.'"

To which I sheepishly replied, "Well, her mother spent years deliberately stepping in holes hoping to break an ankle in the hopes of missing PE for 6-8 weeks. So, um, sorry."

I learned early on that I have disappointingly strong bones.

Digression...digression...focus Ethel focus...

Okay. So I was just listing my lack of skill in most everything. But one thing I can do well is cook.

Just last night I made chicken breasts with mushrooms and artichoke hearts, and pine nut couscous, and a spinach salad with grapes, strawberries, almonds, dried cherries, feta and a raspberry vinaigrette. Ummm, um.

I don't even plan these culinary wonders, y'all. I just toss them together and let the magic happen. Or I google a recipe and can tell just by reading it that it will rock, like this recent delight.

Because I have amazing skilz. That pay no bilz. But make great mealz.

Usually.

Sometimes, notsomuch.

Sometimes the Lord decides my pride needs a kick in the crock. Pot.

Today I found some round steak in the freezer, which I don't know how to cook, because I am not a huge fan of cow, but I am all about experimentation, so I googled away, as is my custom.

So far, so good.

I found a recipe that called for a crockpot and some beer. Both of which I had. One of which was a Guinness, a beverage that I am pretty sure the devil toasts his evil schemes to because it is naaaaas-ty but left over from my birthday party. Perfect.

The recipe said mix that with some brown sugar and vinegar and various seasonings etc and so on.

Now, I did think to my Top Chef self, "Vinegar and beer? Really?" and that was what we call a Check In My Spirit and I should have heeded.

I did not heed. Oh, to have heeded. I needed to heeded.

As the aroma of dead cow + nasty Irish beer filled my home I thought, well, this is either going to be fantabulous or exceedingly wrong.

So tonight, amdist the screams of hungry children tortured by chore lists, with trepidation I tasted the murky brown concoction and thought, (insert grimace....insert pause....) uhmmmm.

Next stop: Walker. He said, "Yeah, not your greatest." Then a second later he said, "WOW! That aftertaste is TERRIBLE! Oh, party foul, Mis!" Then he asked for water.

I sighed and giggled a little but also thought, well, crud. What am I going to serve for dinner?

Suddenly, it was last call at The Improv.

The meat was thrown in a colander and all the Irish sin was washed away. Then I threw it with some rice. Then I added a can of cream of mushroom soup and some sour cream. Because cream of mushroom soup and sour cream can occasionally cover our iniquity.

The result: jimmyrigged stroganoff that even a college boy would turn his nose up at.

Or, one might refer to it as Walker did, "A Fetid Room Temperature Goulash Only Made Edible By Utilizing Extreme Amounts of Salt."

And as a stimulating side, I overcooked the brussles sprouts so they were nice and mushy.


But guess who liked it? Guess who cried out, "More! More! Please, Mummy, may we have some more?"


Guess who, after analyzing the gourmet glory like a mini Padma, Tom and Gail, determined all that it needed was a little Tabasco?



I've always said I am blessed that my children are very good eaters.

Now, I'm just a little concerned.

Happy birthday to you!! GIVEAWAY

Guess what, I got a surprise for you.

I have a giveaway from Initials Inc. And it's awesome.

So click over here to my giveaway page to enter!

Good Vintage

The short girl's mode for taking pictures

If you wish to know how it feels to be forty, I believe I can sum it up in one concise adjective: it feels tard. Which if you live in the South you know that tard is quite a step above just plain old tired. Tard is my body hurts. Tard is my eyes ache. Tard is not getting my husband's jokes at all.

Tard is how I felt the full nine months of each pregnancy with 1-3 toddlers hanging off my bloated ankles. I do not feel quite that tard. But close.

Once when I was pregnant I went up to Walker's Grandmother Ruth and said, "Do you feel like you're pregnant? Because I say every morning that I feel like an 85 year old woman. And since you are an 85 year old woman I was just wondering if you ever wake up and said, boy, I feel like I'm pregnant?"

She laughed. I think she doesn't quite know what to make of me sometimes.

The overwhelming sense of tard might have something to do with my weekend, which was really and truly fabulous.

Friday, my actual birthday, my children awakened me with breakfast in bed of flaxseed pancakes (just say no) and fruit and coffee. Groggy though I was, I summoned the extreme skills required not to spill everything while four children jumped all over the bed and sang happy birthday over and over. Four very, very cute children. Then, after taking Maggie to the allergist where Ike whined for the entire two hours it took to receive some very upsetting news (more on that later), I took her to school and put Whiney Whinekenstein to bed.

Usually on my birthday I give myself a mani/pedi. But when one is on living the the Adoption Lifestyle, one must improvise.

So I gave myself the gift of a nap. Because it's my birthday and I'll nap if I want to. Nap if I want to. Nap if I want to.

You would nap too if 40 happened to you.

Bom bom bom bom, bom.

Later that evening, a huge team of us gathered together for Heather's birthday party at Pappasito's. Wasn't that convenient that I got to go have fajitas and girl time on my birthday without having to organize it? Then Heather lured us back to her house under the auspice of playing cards, but really she just wanted us all to come and discuss how difficult it is to raise malechilds when you happen to be a female.

Then I drove home (late, very late) and left almost a whole go box of beef fajitas in my car over night. MAN that makes me mad.

Can we have a moment of silence for the delicious next day lunch that never was?

Thanks.

Saturday, Walker took the kiddos sans Whiney on a huge daddy driving adventure - I really don't know what it involved, I just know that hours later, dirty, tard children appeared with another go box containing hot dogs and fries that did absolutely nothing to soothe my loss. While the destructors were away, with my momma's help, I busted my badonkadonk getting this house clean for my BIRTHDAY PARTY!!

Walker asked me a while back what I wanted to do - well, okay, I actually said, "You realize I'm turning 40. You realize you need to do something." and he said, "What do you want?" and I said, "I want all my friends to come over for wine and stinky cheese." To which he replied, "Really? That's what you want?"

Oh yes indeed. Friends, fermentation and mold, lots of mold.
There's your glimpse into Missy Heaven.

So they came - a lot of them came. And because the Adoption Lifestyle does not provide for huge parties, they even provided their own refreshments. And my kids stayed up later than they have since Christmas. And I could not have had more fun.

When one of them was leaving, he remarked, "You guys have a lot of really cool friends."

Oh, amen sir, amen.

And Sunday we went to brunch at a new favorite restaurant, Peli Peli, and afterwards the kids played in the water fountain. Because I believe fountains are for wading.


But when 40 year old women party like 20 year old women for a whole weekend, it makes them feel like 85 year old women.

(Yawn) I think I feel another nap coming on...

Lordy, lordy look who's

Tomorrow I have a birthday. Kind of a big one.

I'll be forty. Four. Oh. FORTY. Forty. forty.

It's kind of weird. In my head, I am still about, oh, 28. But daily, my body sneers In your dreams, old lady!

Just a few of the charming ways I am reminded that I am no where near 28:

• Hello, my name is Missy, and I've had bunion surgery.
  
• My cute little Lisa Loeb glasses went from being an occasional cute accessory to a full time necessity (this aggravates me no end)
• The weight goes on so much quicker and comes off soooooo much slower.
• The gray - oh, the gray. All those "baby bangs" I lost came back in a fabulous new shade of Old Mare.
• If I lie down on the floor with the kids, it flat out hurts to get back up. And occasionally even takes a coffee table heft. And sometimes I groan just a little.
  
• Hair grows in abundance where hair should not be growing. (A note to my children: if I am ever clueless in a nursing home and you don't take a tweezer to my chin, you are out of the will.)
• I have always been a ditz, but I have graduated to a whole new level of bimbo. Walker and my mom are constantly saying, "You just don't listen." I do listen, y'all. I just don't retain information anymore.
• My new fragrance: Eau de Ben Gay
  
• And the final indignity: when I cross my legs, sometimes - not always, dangit, but sometimes - I have to pull up my leg by my ankle.

There are other signs, such as, when I read People Magazine, I don't know who at least 60% of the People are. But here's the dead giveaway I am officially old: I so don't care. And whoever they are, I think they need to dress a little bit more appropriately.

Because my brain is still convinced I am 28, I have this illusion that I can still run up to the store in sweats without any makeup on and not offend anyone's eyes. Until I catch a glimpse of my own self in a mirror and am aghast at the frumpy forty year old woman staring back at me.

So, here I am, hobbling into a new decade.

My twenties were so tumultuous, I was glad to kick them to the curb. My thirties have been pretty wonderful. They say Forty is Fabulous. We shall soon see.

Have you had a favorite age? What was it and why?

Define motherhood

Kristen is doing a giveaway where you are supposed to link up pictures that define motherhood.

Here are some of the highlights of the last six years and nine months, in no particular order.

Thanks Kristen. What a blessing this was to me.



















And the lastly: the damage done by four back-to-back pregnancies


But oh, it was worth it. So, so worth it.

Sunday bloody Sunday

Walker was out of town this weekend at his annual Lake Travis Malebondathon. My mom stayed over Saturday night and she said, "Hey, are y'all gonna go to church tomorrow? Because Luby's has this new all you can eat breakfast buffet that I thought I might could take y'all to."

And instead of saying, Get thee behind me Satan disguised as GG!, I pondered the process of getting four children up and dressed cute and walking them to three different Sunday school classes whilst trying to juggle coffee and a donut hole and my bible without their daddy to help me versus sleeping in, arising lazily, putting on play clothes and maybe a touch of mascara, lipstick if I felt extra fancy, and moseying down to get breakfast on a Sunday morning, the way the pagans are wont to do.

I chose the way of the heathern.

And suffered the consequences.

I have to say, first off, that the world is split into two camps: those who love Luby's, and those who can't for the life of them get what the big deal is. 99.9% of humankind - including everyone I am related to - falls into the former camp.

I fall into the latter.

I have given Luby's more chances than it deserves and it never fails to unimpress me. The Heathern Buffet was no exception.

I did not know until I just now clicked onto their website that the dining sensation that is Luby's is only a Texas/Oklahoma/Louisiana thing. I thought all Americans were united via either their love of the Luann Platter or their eye-rolling, deep-sighing, fine huffing resignation of once again being hauled to Luby's because everystinkinbody just looooooves Luby's.

Except me.

So if you don't know, Luby's is a cafeteria where you get your big green tray and slide it down the rails while you direct the people behind the glass to dish you up a plate of something fried and/or smothered in butter and/or gravy. After you pass the various shades of Jello and pie, you have to carry the trays across the dining area to a table. Four small children with large trays and endless culinary and beverage options needing explanation and choosing plus a long walk to a table means that I am exhausted by the time we finally sit down. Then, as I dig in, I think to myself, "Perhaps today will be the day I fall in love with Luby's. Perhaps today is the first day of my Luby loving life."

It never happens.

I sat with my momma and my four children amidst all the other pagans and focused on one thing Luby's does do well: coffee. The kids poked at their food and decided they were done, but I was looking for the coffee. Then our waitress brought out balloons. The children squealed with delight as I sought out cream for my coffee. The waitress brought out crayons and paper crowns to the delighted children, and I finally sat down, and delightedly, began to enjoy my coffee.

Meanwhile unseen by me, Eva Rose attempted to open the plastic surrounding her restaurant crayons with a knife. A simple, dull, Luby's dinner knife.

And then I heard the scream.

Now mommies are endowed with certain mystical powers when it comes to screams. I can instantly distinguish which screams are to be ignored, and which are a call to action. There's the melodramatic-I-see-a-bug scream. Response: deal with bug. There's the melodramatic-I'm-trying-to-get-a-sibling-in-trouble scream. Response: ignore. There's the I-fell-and-it-doesn't-really-hurt-but-I-want-attention scream. Response: sometimes ignore, sometimes provide wanted attention.

Then there's the other scream, the scream that makes a mother immediately jump up and race to her child because something is seriously wrong. That was the scream that pierced the forest green and maroon accented dining area of Luby's.

Eva Rose was the screamer, and the source of the scream was the middle finger on her left hand, which was gushing an unbelievable amount of blood all over the forest green formica table.

I looked at her finger, and said, "Okay, up, let's go, everybody in the car now, let's go." Then I wrapped a forest green napkin around her hand to catch the unbelievable gush of blood as it spurt all over the maroon carpet.

I returned to my maroon seat to grab my purse, and looked down, and saw it: my hot, half drunk, perfectly creamed coffee. A voice inside of me said, over the screams of my mutilated child, I wonder if I could get a go-cup? as another voice admonished the first voice, Are you kidding! She's bleeding like a stuck pig! Bad mommy! Bad mommy! Good mommy gave the coffee a lingering glance and sadly, left it on the green formica table.

If you rushing to the emergency room with a shrieking, bleeding child in the back of your minvan, there is one thing you can be assured of: you will hit every single red light on the way. And the red lights will last uncharacteristically long. And you might even be out of gas and have to stop and fill up a gallon just to make it to the ER.

You might also have a six year old boy in the backseat saying, "Sissy you're DYING! We're all going to diiiiiiiie!! Sissy is bleeding to death!! Mom did you steal that napkin? You better take that napkin back Mom, you shouldn't steal a napkin. Are the police going to come get you cause you stole that napkin? Ew, Sissy, bleed on your own seat. Drive faster Mom!! We're all going to diiiiiiieeee!"

It was evident that the cut was not causing a lot of pain, for which I was incredibly thankful. She was more frightened than hurt. Poor baby squealed, "This is the worst day of my whole life!"

I chuckled to my mom, "Just wait till she sees how much attention she's gonna get. She's gonna love this."

For my daughter loves to be the center of attention.
I've no idea where she gets that from.

Finally we arrived at one of the many popup emergency clinics for which I am eternally grateful. Because the sights and sounds of a real emergency room might have turned me into a homeschooler I never care to be.


Fortunately the bleeding had stopped at one of the 42 red lights. Eva Rose was immediately bandaged and we were sent to a nice, clean room with a nice flatscreen TV to watch iCarly and wait.


And wait. And wait two hours more.

Meanwhile, my mom sat in the very nice, clean waiting room with another flat screen TV, an xBox, a fishtank, and three very happy, entertained children.


Finally a doctor saw us, cleaned up the crazy amount of blood, tourniqueted her finger until it looked dead and puffy (ugh), gave her four shots of anesthetic in her finger (we both cried a little), and stuck his little fishhook in her finger (look at Tinkerbell baby, don't look down) and stitched her up.

More waiting for discharge instructions, and we were finally able to leave.

As we walked outside into the sunshine, she sighed, "I'm gonna miss this place, Mommy."

Yes you will little girl. Because from now on we will be at church on Sunday mornings, with all the good Christians, where no dinner knives are allowed and Mommy can finish her whole cup of coffee.