A Haiku

2 p.m. At The Office
             or
I Ate Too Much For Lunch Today

Drifting quietly 

Into the land of slumber

Dozing at my desk

Bitty Surprise

This morning, as I was getting ready for work a little bit later than I usually do have been lately, I heard something unexpected.

The Birdie was awake, and fussing that she wanted to get up.  Okay, that wasn't too surprising, because she has been waking up early a lot lately, but what was surprising was what she was saying.  For possibly the first time ever, I heard through the baby monitor, "Mom-meeee!  I want my mommy!"

Blink.  No, surely I must have heard that wrong.  Because she has never ever awakened asking for me.  Not in the morning, and certainly not in the middle of the night.  It's always Daddy she wants, to the point where she will sometimes wail, "Nooooo!  I don't want yooooooouuuuu!" if I go in, instead.  (But it's fair, because the Imp is the same way with me, except he can't put it into such sharp, specific words quite yet.)

So, after I finished getting ready for work, I popped in and told my still-sleeping husband (who had forgotten to turn the baby monitor on in the bedroom last night) to go ahead and shower, and I'd see if I could get the Birdie to calm down and play quietly in her room until Daddy could get upstairs.

I was still a bit skeptical that she had actually been calling for Mommy, but as I climbed the stairs I heard her wail again, and she was definitely saying "Mommy."  Amazing.

I went in her room, and she sat up, all happy to see me.  "Mommy!"  I sat down on her bed and gave her a hug.

"Good morning, sweetie!  What do you want?"

Often, the first question out of her mouth in the mornings is (or seems to be), "Where are we going today?"  This morning, she asked a variation on it:  "What are we going to eat?"

"Oh, well, sweetie, I have to go to work, but Daddy will fix you something when he gets up here," I replied, with sudden suspicion, but pretending to be oblivious.

She cut right to the chase and confirmed my suspicion.  "Are we going to eat cake pops?"

Ahh, yes.  Cake pops.  She had been delighted by them last night, and ever since she saw them, she had been dying to try them.  And suddenly it came together.  This was why she unexpectedly and uncharacteristically wanted Mommy this morning.  Because Mommy and cake pops go together, in her mind - and the cake pops were apparently the very first thing that crossed her bitty mind this morning.  Or close to it.

And before you say, "Oh no, you are just being cynical, she really wanted you and the other is only coincidence," let me assure you that I am not being cynical.  I accept that she is a Daddy's Girl, and I have no problem with that now.  I am okay (most of the time) with her preference of Daddy, to the point of her often wanting nothing to do with Mommy if he is around.  I love my Birdie and I take my hugs when I can get them (sometimes stolen from a screaming Birdie, but I still get them).  But, no.  It is not coincidence.  Mommy made the cake pops.  Mommy is in charge of the cake pops.  I want a cake pop.  Therefore, I must have Mommy come get me so she can give me one.  I am quite sure that is how her thought process went.

Back to the conversation.

"No, we're not going to eat cake pops right now."

"When are we going to eat them?"

"We'll eat them after dinner."

"Oh."

"You know, there is one with your name on it, waiting for you."

"There is?  Is it the pink one?"

"Yes."

"Is there one with the Imp's name on it?"

"Yes, there is."

"Is it the white one?"

"Yes."

"Is there one with your name on it?"

"No, Mommy and Daddy don't have their names on them, because I still have to decorate them.  But you can help me decorate them tonight!"

I then tried in vain to get her to stay and play quietly in her room, but she insisted on going out.  The conversation quickly turned back to the number-one thing on her mind, though.

"Can I help you decorate them?"

"Yes, you may."

"Can I help now?"

"No, sweetie, I have to go to work now."

"Nooooo!  You can't go to work!"

And I think this is the first time she has ever cared whether I left the house.

Behold, the power of cheese Cake Pops.

Inspired!

Have any of you seen the Bakerella website?  She is amazing, and she has some of the most brilliant creations I've ever seen.

My favorites are her character-themed Cake Pops.  Take a moment to browse through some of the stuff she's done.  (But open it in another tab so you can come back and finish reading my post!)

As the title of this post suggests, I have been inspired to make some little cake pops of my own.  Me?  Really?  Yes.  Me.  I don't bake.  I'm so, so, SO not creative when it comes to drawing and designing things.  I just wasn't blessed in that area.  That's okay with me, because I have other strong points.  (Shhhh!  Let me have my illusions!)

I'm not one of those people who is good at doing something simple and being happy with it.  Just ask my husband, who cringes every time I have to take some sort of food item somewhere.  (Since having kids, I have gotten MUCH better about making a simple choice when it comes to a meal, but before I had two little monsters to chase, I would choose something difficult and impressive.  Or that would be impressive, if it worked.)  Sometimes my creations were brilliant, and sometimes they were duds.

And sometimes, it didn't quite seem like they would work up until the very last minute when, after hours of me cursing and throwing things and stomping around and weeping and anything else you can (or maybe can't) imagine me doing, they would turn out just fine, and I'd feel like a total doof for the way I'd been acting for the last hour or so while Craig hid in the family room playing his video game.

Oh, no, not me.

So, of course I can't just do plain old Cake Pops, not after seeing Bakerella's remarkable creations.  And I had a brilliant idea:  Goggy* Cake Pops for the Imp's birthday, which is about 3 weeks away.  No, wait.  Ooh.  Two weeks.  Eek.

* "Gog" = "Frog" in Imp-speak.

For once, though, I gave myself some realistic expectations (because, dang, those critters look hard)!  There were two main parts to it:  First, I would do a "test run" ahead of time so I could figure out little details, such as how long I should expect it to take (to avoid the last-minute scramble/working into the wee hours of the night before the party), what tools I'm going to need (to avoid the last-minute rush to the craft store), and what the best coating and decorating techniques would be (to avoid the last-minute frustration, anger, and tears when my ideas didn't work, after all).  Second, I plan on doing a variety of designs, and not make all of them little goggies, which will cut down on the more intricate parts.  There will be Gogs, balloons, and just plain balls (which I can decorate - or not - as I wish and have time to do).

I started my test run on Monday night, and let me say that I am so glad I decided to practice.  With two toddlers running around, it makes everything take so much longer!  Monday night, I got the cake balls made, the six test goggies shaped, and everything stuck in the fridge to cool.  I had to make my own icing because we didn't have any, and that was a little bit of a pain, but I vastly prefer homemade icing to store-bought anyway, so that didn't upset me much.  The cake was already made because we baked too much for the Birdie's birthday back in December and froze some of it.  I knew that could make it maybe not taste as good, but - hey! we are practicing! who cares?

Last night, I went to Michael's and got all of the crafting items I didn't have.  When I got home, Craig had to leave right away, so I ordered a pizza (because that's what the Birdie wanted, and who am I to deny her, haha) and got started dipping some of the critters.  I liked the initial results.  So did the Birdie, who wanted to eat the results.  Immediately.  Naturally.  (I did deny her that one, because if I let her eat them, then I'd have nothing left to practice decorating.)

Once the kids were in bed (and the Imp was rocked, and rocked, and rocked...thirty minutes, sigh) I decorated a few of the pops and dipped some more of them.  Here are the preliminary results (please excuse the camera phone photo, it was all I had on hand and my hips and feet and back and belly hurt too much I was too lazy to walk downstairs and get the real camera).

As you can see, I probably have about six or seven left to dip, and then we'll decorate them.  The Birdie has already claimed a seat at the table to help decorate.  :)

Once I'm done, I'll post about them, with real pictures and the lessons I learned for the next time I do them.  I'll also be asking what you like best, because I have two techniques I used for the goggies, and I need to decide which looks (and works) best.

I will say that they're not working out to be quite as hard as I expected, probably because I'm allowing myself extra time to do them and giving myself permission to make mistakes (which I wouldn't have, of course, if this weren't a practice batch).  They're far from perfect, which is fine.

Really.  Fine.  Fiiiiiiiine.  (Excuse me for a moment while I beat down my inner perfectionist.)

Okay, that's better.

Has anyone else tried these before?  If so, what did you do?  Characters or balls?  What colors?  How did they turn out?  I'd love to hear and see pictures, if you have them!

WHAT did that little boy just call me?

Kids do funny things.  Kids also do things that embarrass their parents.  Sometimes, they do things that are funny in one circumstance, and embarrassing in another.  And then you think, Maybe we shouldn't have laughed quite so much the first time.

For instance.

Yes, of course I have an example.  I have two toddlers, one of whom is just learning to speak, and hasn't gotten us in much trouble.  Until, maybe, now.

It started out very innocently last weekend, after we went to dinner and tried to get ice cream at a nearby parlor.  It was jam-packed, and we had to move on, but not before my little Imp got to meet the parlor's mascot, a picture (or statue?) of a cow outside the door.  Although I didn't witness this personally, as I was dealing with a potty emergency involving my other toddler, I have it on good authority that he and the Crazy Cow hit it off quite spectacularly.  The brief meeting ended with my son waving and saying, "Bye bye, cow!"

This has become his new mantra, and at random times, for no apparent reason, we will hear his little voice pipe, "Bye bye, cow.  Bye bye, cow.  Bye bye, cow."  And he will say it over and over.  Sometimes it comes out as, "Bye bye, dow."  But we all know what he means.  And we ooh and ahh and giggle over it every time, because it truly is adorable.  He has a very precious little voice.

So, fast forward to tonight.  My mom was in town again this weekend, and the five of us plus Craig's parents went to an excellent BBQ joint ("restaurant" is just not the right word) for dinner after church.  After a rocky start that involved some sweet cornbread that looked (and tasted) like cake along with many tears when Mommy wouldn't let him have only that for dinner, the Imp managed to finish off about half of my BBQ pork, most of my cornbread, and half an ear of corn.  We were all pleased with ourselves.

Especially him.  He realized everyone thought it was funny when he would open his mouth wide whenever I would try to to take a bite of my food, and got a bit punchy from it.

He's a bit into being the center of attention.  We may have a class clown in the making.

After dinner, I made the ubiquitous pregnant-woman-fifth-potty-trip-of-the-hour.  The Imp was not very happy to see me go, but didn't make a fuss (I don't think).  However, when I came out, he started chanting, "Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!" in his adorable little voice until (and for a little bit after) I picked him up.

Of course, the folks sitting around us were charmed.  "He's so cute," a nice-looking young lady (probably only a few years younger than I am, but with a sweetness that made her seem younger than that*) at the next table commented, while smiling at him.

* I know that sounds a little weird.  I tend to assess people - not try to judge their character, but just make observations - and in this case, my assessment was along the lines of, "She is probably close to my age, but something about her makes her seem younger."

I answered with something like, "Thank you.  He knows it, too." while patting my son on the head indulgently.  After all, he is the sweetest, cutest little boy you will ever see.  Ever.  I mean it.  So take a good look now, honey, because this kind of cuteness only comes around once every seventy-six years or so.

Anyway.

The Imp and I were among the last of our group out the door, and as we left the people who were smiling at him, I told him to "say bye bye!"  I almost always do this when we leave people who have taken notice of him, because his bye bye is just so cute, and everyone always loves it.

Well, usually.

Can you guess where this is going?

My impish little troublemaker looked at this nice lady and said, "Bye bye, cow!"

Blink.

Except, fortunately, this was one of the times it came out as, "Bye bye, dow!" so instead of looking offended, the young lady just looked a bit puzzled.  And it could have just ended there, with me smiling and waving and leaving with at least a little dignity, but I knew what he had said, even if no one else did, and I got all flustered and embarrassed.

"No, no" I admonished him, "Just say 'bye bye!'"

"Bye bye, cow!" he repeated with the sort of stubborn innocence that makes you wonder if he doesn't really know what he's doing, after all.

At this point, I was both embarrassed and at the same time barely able to hold in my laughter, so I just apologized and darted out the door before she could figure out what he had said.

The poor girl probably thought I was laughing at her.  Sigh.

Actually, she probably just thought I was one of the strangest people she'd ever encountered.  And she was probably right.  Double sigh.

I carried my little guy to the car amidst his chants of, "Bye bye, cow!  Bye bye, cow!" and loaded him in, then had a good laugh about it with Craig and my mom.  And the Imp told the cow goodbye off and on all the way home.

So my little Imp has already managed to inadvertently insult someone - and he can't even talk yet.

(Incidentally, I could go into how my three-year-old who never misses anything just happened to notice how funny we found it that the Imp had told some lady, "Bye bye, cow," and add in there how she tends to take anything that we think is funny and run so far with it we can no longer even hear her crazy little giggles.  But I'll save that story for when it happens.  When.)

Please pray for us.  I think we may be in trouble.

Battles

As parents, we are guaranteed battles with our children.  We might not like it, but it's a given.  It's going to happen.

Tonight, our house was a regular battlefield.  At bedtime, of course, because all good battles occur at the end of the day, when everyone is tired and cranky.

Or maybe that's just me.

Two battles were fought - and lost - tonight.  Were they worth fighting?  In one case, probably not; in another, quite possibly.  Was harm done in giving up the battle?  Possibly.  But was there another real option?  Perhaps, but it wouldn't have been pretty, and may have done more damage than giving up.

So in continuing the spirit of airing my dirty laundry, I'm going to tell you about these battles, give you some details, and see what some of you might have done in my situation.

Battle #1

The first battle was with the Birdie, and it was by far the more traumatic of the two.

It was The Battle Of The Pajamas.  Or, I Don't Want To Wear This One, I Want To Wear That One Instead.

My husband almost always gets the Birdie ready for bed.  It's become such a habit that if he is around, she won't tolerate me doing it.  Fine, we have two children, so he takes one and I take the other.  And the habit is further cemented.

He got her into some pajamas, and she came and sat on the couch with me.  They were cute pajamas.  Princess pajamas.  Really, it doesn't get much better than that, does it?

Apparently, it does.

As I was putting away the Imp's clean laundry, I heard the words that started it all:  "I don't want to wear this to bed.  I want to wear a nightgown."

The Birdie has roughly fifty sets of pajamas right now, thanks to grandparents, hand-me-downs from friends, and Christmas pajamas that she hasn't yet outgrown.  About six of these are nightgowns.  So you can imagine how often we end up with all nightgowns in the laundry, and nothing but shirt-and-pants pjs to wear.  However, no matter what they look like, all she ever wants to wear are nightgowns.

So it wasn't really a shocker to me when I heard her say that, but we are trying to raise our children to make their choices and stick with them, and not change their clothes three times before they go to bed.  Or fifty times.

My husband denied her request.

The battle began.

At one point she must have taken them off, because I heard, "If you're not wearing those pajamas when I come back in, I'll..."  And she did put them back on.

Then my husband brushed her teeth.  When they were done, she said, "I need to take my pants off.  These are wet."  She had peed in them.  While I know accidents happen, this was just a bit too coincidental.  I asked her whether she had peed in her pajama pants because she didn't want to wear them, and she replied, "Yes."

Sigh.  At least she's honest.

Perhaps this would have been a good point to just go ahead and put her in a nightgown, since we had to put her in something else anyway, but it just didn't seem like a good time.  It seemed like a particularly bad time, actually - one that would teach her that if she didn't want to wear something, all she had to do was pee in it and she would get her way.  Hmm.  Not really a lesson we want her to learn.

While I brushed the Imp's teeth and read him his bedtime story (actually, he read it to me for once, it was pretty cute) Daddy handled the pajama issue.  I heard the sounds of war coming from the Birdie's room, and finally let the Imp sit in his chair and left to see what was happening.  Daddy was leaving the Birdie's room, telling her she could "spend a few minutes in time out."  She was standing by the bed in her underwear, sobbing.

I sent Daddy in to take the Imp his water, and went in with the Birdie.  I held her in my lap while she sobbed, and sang to her until she calmed down.  When she was calm, I tried to get her into the (clean) pajamas.

Absolutely Not.

I held her a little longer, at a loss, then made an executive decision:  It was time to throw in the towel.  We weren't getting anywhere with this.  She was just getting more and more and more worked up.  She was adamant that she wanted a nightgown, not flannel pj's, and I started to suspect that, more than a control issue, it was just that the nightgown is more comfortable to her.  While I don't want her learning the lesson that if she just holds out long enough, Mommy and/or Daddy will eventually give in, it seemed silly to make her wear something that she so obviously did not want to wear and that probably was less comfortable for her.

So.  Did I just reinforce a bad lesson there, or did I do what was necessary to keep the peace?  Obviously, the real solution would have been to avoid the situation in the first place.  The best way to do that is to let her choose her own nightclothes, which is what I had thought had happened in the first place, but in fact was not - Daddy chose the cute Princess jammies.  And they were cute. Just not the right shape.

At what point should we have stopped fighting?  Should we have given in when she first made the request?  At that point, it sounded like toddler flightiness - "No, I want to wear this one instead" - which is something we'd rather not encourage, at least not when it leaves us piles of unnecessarily dirty laundry.  When we chose to fight the battle, should we have seen it all the way through?  Or does there, in fact, come a point where it is more harmful to keep fighting than it is to give it up?

I have no idea.  But I do hope we can avoid that one again in the future.  I hate fighting with her because I already don't get enough positive time with her anyway - she's Daddy's Girl through-and-through, and if he's available she doesn't want me to do much of anything with or for her (unless it means he can hold her while I do something for her).  I love her so much, and I can't stand to see her so upset, especially when it's over something as silly as what she's going to wear to bed.

Battle #2

This battle was with the Imp, and it was not nearly as hard-fought, although perhaps it should have been.  Perhaps it should have been even harder-fought.  But it felt less like a battle than the pajama fiasco because it didn't appear, on the surface, to be a control issue.

One night this week, either two or three nights ago, the Imp fussed after we put him to bed.  Daddy took baby duty and went in to him, calmed him down, and left, only to have the little guy start right back up.  Daddy decided enough was enough and that he'd let him go.

About half an hour later (or less?  Maybe it only felt that long.) his fussing had escalated into sobbing/screaming, and I went in to him.  It took him a good two or three minutes to settle down even after I was holding him, with the residual shuddering sobs hitting him every few seconds.  I held him and comforted him and rocked him while his crib soother played the Winnie-The-Pooh song over and over for fifteen minutes.  He still seemed shaken after that, so I let it go another fifteen minutes before I put him back down.  His nose was really stopped up, so I figured that was what had kept him from being able to fall asleep (in other words, he was sick, so he really did need the comfort).

The next night, it happened again, and instead of letting him go and get all worked up, I just went on in and held him for two rounds of the music, then put him down and he went on to sleep.

Again the next night (or so, depending on how many days ago it started).  At this point, I'm starting to suspect the development of a bad habit.  But it's easy for me to give in, because he's such a snugglebug that I actually enjoy sitting there and rocking him for half an hour.  Plus, I know he's not going to want this forever.  In fifteen (or ten, or five, or two) years, I'm going to look back on this and wish he would still let me do it.  So in a way, it's hard not to love on him and snuggle him while he'll let me, because I know the day is coming when he's not going to want anything of it.

But tonight, when he started fussing almost the moment I left his room after putting him down for bed, I knew a habit was forming and that it was one I can't let develop, because it's just going to cause problems for everyone.  So I asked Daddy to go in and soothe him, instead, because it's not the soothing he wants, it's Mommy.

Craig went in, then came back out maybe five minutes later.  The Imp was silent, and Craig commented, "That was a pretty good job!" and went downstairs to play his video game.

Not a full minute had passed before the Imp had started fussing again.  I sighed, and sat on the couch a bit longer.  Do I go in or not?  If I do, I'm reinforcing the habit, but if I don't, he's just going to scream and cry until he gets so worked up that he makes himself sick from it.  Because we learned months ago that crying it out just doesn't seem to work for him.

So I caved.

The moment I opened the door, he stopped crying.  "Bah-ee (Mommy)?  Bah-ee?  Bah-ee Bah-ee Bah-ee!"

And I melted.

You see, he usually cries until I pick him up, then snuggles his head on my shoulder.  But this time, as soon as I opened the door, the little booger - the little Imp! - made it clear that he had been waiting for me the whole time.  He wasn't crying because he wanted comfort, or because he felt sick, or because he couldn't fall asleep.  He was crying because he wanted me to come in and hold him, and as soon as I opened the door he knew he was getting just that.

And that's just what he got.  30 minutes of being rocked by Mommy.

Sigh.

Not nearly as much of a "battle" as the one with the Birdie, but probably one with more lasting consequences.  But how do we fight it?  Do I let him cry it out?  But I know that won't work.  Do I hope this is a phase, and just go with it until he starts falling asleep on his own again?  Or does Daddy just go in repeatedly, until the Imp gives up?

I don't know.  I just know that when the only thing in the world my little guy wants is for Mommy to hold him, it's awfully hard for Mommy to not give it to him.  Especially since I know from experience - with his big sister - that these days won't last forever, and someday I will miss them.

Just Peachy

This will just be a little post, a blogette, or something like that.  I can't resist sharing a funny little conversation I had in the car with the Birdie on Wednesday night.

From the back seat, I hear a somewhat startling question.  "What color is the Imp?"

Me: [thinking: they really do notice.  They just don't care.]  I turn the question back on her, as I have learned to do when she asks something unexpected like that.  "What color is the Imp?"

Her:  [thoughtfully] "He's kind of a peach color."

Me:  [blink] "Why, yes, he is."

Her:  [pause]  "We eat peaches."

Me:  [blink.  blink.]  "Why, yes, we do eat peaches."  [pause]  "But we don't eat the Imp."

Her:  [giggling]  "Nooooo.  That's silly!"

Well, good.  I'm glad we got that cleared up!

I muttered to Craig, who was driving, "Well, that's one word for it."

In typical Craig style, he responded something about how cannibalism is usually frowned upon.

Little piping voice:  "What did Daddy say?"

I'll let you explain that one, Honey.

Dirty Little Secret

Okay, I lied.  It's not that little.  And for anyone who knows me at all, it's not a secret.

I am not a housekeeper.

No, let's be real here.  In the spirit of, you know, bold blogging and all.  I am a slob.

Don't judge me.  We can't all be perfect.  We all have our dirty little secrets.  Mine just happens to be, well, not so little.

In the background of many of my pictures, you have probably noticed toys lying around. This is not the type of thing I'm talking about, because, let's face it, who can keep their floors toy-free all the time?  It just isn't possible with kids.  It isn't.  And if you're trying to tell me otherwise, I assure you I'm standing here with my hands over my ears and humming.  I'm not listening!

This is not something that is new to me.  I was one of those kids with the bedroom that made my mom want to pull her hair out.  She earned every gray hair that she has.  And she has more of them than you realize.  It was awful.  I'd wonder how I lived that way, except I still do.  More clothing on the floors than in the drawers, and everything that was in the drawers was stuffed, not folded (which is probably why most of my clothes wouldn't fit into them).  Piles of...who knows what...on the floor of my closet.  Bags...blankets...toys...trash (especially tags off of new clothing, but do those really count?)...everywhere.  You get the picture.

So, of course, the worst thing I could hear from my mom was, "Go clean your room."  This translated to, "Go spend all day in your room picking one thing up and putting it somewhere else it doesn't fit until it's time to go to bed.  Or sneak and read a book, but don't let me catch you, or you'll be in big trouble."  On the rare occasions when I actually, successfully cleaned my room, within five minutes*, it would look like a tornado had struck it.

* Okay, I'm exaggerating.  It may have been as many as ten or fifteen.

These days, I have gotten a little bit better.  Living with someone else (and having company from time to time) can do that to you.  But we still have our problem areas.  Mostly, it's the out-of-the-way rooms with doors, where, during a last minute frantic cleaning session, we can toss all of the stuff that's in the way and make the main rooms look decent.  (Normal people would use a closet, but we have so much random junk that it takes entire rooms to contain it all.  This has gotten infinitely better since my brother-in-law put in an easier access door to our attic, but it's still an issue.)

It depends on where we're cleaning, but the worst rooms tend to be the "office" and...our bedroom.

Our bedroom?  Really?  Why?  I mean...shouldn't a bedroom be, well, peaceful?  Restful?  Clean?

Well, yes, of course.  But you know what else it is?  It's private.  When you have company, people don't usually go in it unless the door is open (which ours never is, to keep the cats off of Craig's pillow the bed).  So, when you have a room that's never seen right off of a room that's often used for company...it becomes a convenient dumping ground.  And you end up with something like this:

The bed hasn't been made in weeks (and I guarantee Craig was the last one to do it).  There is a random seat cushion leaning against the end of the bed.  And I'm not going to get into what is on the nightstands, but we don't currently have a trash can in our bedroom and we've both had colds recently, so you can probably imagine.  And then wish you hadn't.

Or this:

My favorite thing here is the baby seat in the middle of the room.  It's broken, by the way, and we haven't used it since...oh, November or December.  2008.  (But we're going to try to fix it.  Because it worked so well for the Imp, and...I can't stand to throw anything away.  Nooooo, really?)  There are also boxes of clothing that I'd put away at one time, but which migrated back out of the closet for some reason.  No, actually the little box has a good excuse - it's maternity stuff.  But the big box?  I have no idea why it's out.  And the white shirt on top of it?  Not even mine.  Or Craig's.  (It's my mom's, and she took it home with her today.)

Which reminds me to give her some HUGE credit, because without her help, our room would still look like that.  She came in today and made sure the kids didn't kill themselves or each other watched the kids upstairs while Craig and I worked downstairs.  Lifesaver.  An extra set of hands can make all the difference.  So, thank you, Mom.  Because I know you read this.

And I'm sorry about the gray hair comment.  Your hair looks very nice.

Or this:

I think this one is my personal favorite.  It shows very clearly my tendency to say, "Oh, I don't feel like hanging this up right now, but I'll come back and do it later."  And then months will pass, and by the time I admit to myself that I was lying when I said that, it will have mutated into something scary.  And eaten a rocking chair.  (Can you see it?  It's sandwiched between the wardrobe and the chest-o-drawers, which, incidentally, yes, I know do not match, but I love them both, so they both stay.)

I decided yesterday morning that I couldn't take it anymore, and I called Mom and asked her to come up.  She dropped everything at a moment's notice and drove an hour and a half to stay overnight with us and watch the kids while we tried to make our house a little bit more livable.  Amazingly enough, I think we succeeded.

The way a bed is supposed to look.  Made up, with fifty-million pillows at the head and a hand-made (by, you guessed it, my awesome mom) afghan at the foot.  The room isn't perfect.  There's still a random baseball glove on top of a book and a printed out e-mail on top of some sort of electronic device that I, um, don't think is ours underneath the nightstand.  And a random bottle of generic NyQuil on top of it, but I guess my husband left that there on purpose.  Two pictures on the floor, waiting to be hung on the wall.  And the photo collage above the bed is one photo short.  But it's so much better than it was before.

This angle shows that there really was a floor under all that junk!  A few minutes ago, I walked around my bed, and had to do a double-take when I realized I didn't have to step around boxes and baby seats anymore.  (Ignore the random Tigger pillow on top of our laundry basket.  Like I said, it's not perfect.)

And, look, oh my gosh, the clothes really did eat the chair!  Or, well, no.  We moved it upstairs so I'd have something in the Imp's room that I could sit in and get up out of, because his PBK Anywhere Chair just isn't working for me anymore.  Especially at 1 a.m. when I'm trying to get him to go back to sleep.  It's hard to get up out of something that's 1 foot off the ground without any hands even when you're not five-and-a-half months pregnant.

Please ignore the random bottle of...champagne?  I think.  Sitting beside the wardrobe.  I've had it for...um...wow.  Three years?  More?  It was a gift at work for a "job well done" (each person on the project got one) while I was pregnant with the Birdie...and I've never really gotten around to opening it, what with one baby after breastfeeding after another baby after breastfeeding after another.  Maybe I'll get to drink it.  Eventually.  Say, in another three years.  They are supposed to get better with age, right? Right?  Well, I guess we'll see.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that glimpse into my not-so-perfect life.  Next week, I'll be posting a video of me trying to get up out of the Anywhere Chair while holding the Imp, his cup, his Larry the Cucumber, and a book.

Or, then again, maybe not.

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Edited:  Craig informed me, after reading this, that the electronic equipment under his nightstand does belong to us.  I was confusing it with something we borrowed several years ago, and apparently did give back.  Thank goodness.  I was really feeling guilty about that.