So this morning, immediately following my post about my big girl cup and my coffee addiction, I stumbled into the kitchen as I often do, in search of none other that my travel mug. (Which as it turns out, my husband had stolen, viciously, from me. Actually, I gave it to him but then forgot.).

So I turned the corner to walk toward the cabinet, which I thought held my travel mug, then my bare feet took flight and propelled me half way across the room. I want you to think Tom Cruise in Risky Business. The scene was almost identical, except I was missing sunglasses. And socks.

I grabbed onto the kitchen wall, desperate, and in shock. Remember, I was still half asleep, and sadly, had not yet even had coffee!

So I looked around, confused, to find that I was standing (in my bare feet!) in a large puddle. 

I immediately put together the situation, and yelled out,”Brandoooooooooonnnn!!!!!!“

“You need to get in here, now! It’s important!”

My husband stirred, stumbled off the couch, and with eyes half closed looked at me with disbelief.

“What? What’s wrong?”

I tried to compose myself. “Honey, where’s the dog?”

Looking even more confused, he says, “The dog is in the crate…why?”

I pointed down at the puddle, and then at my legs, which were covered in tinkle.

He says nothing, but slowly looks up at me, unwaveringly, as he often does when I yell at him that the sky is falling.

We stand there at an impasse, staring at one another.

Of course I expected an apology. An immediate, heartfelt, sympathetic apology.

But I think he was still unsure why I had called him. It’s possible he was still asleep.

So, disappointed in his reaction, I then cursed, passionately, took a deep breath, and told him he was dead to me. ( All of this happened in my mind, of course.)

Then I turned around and hopped to the bath tub. I cried. And washed my feet.

I just felt so sorry for myself, ya know??

I hadn’t even had coffee yet…

But I did the right thing. I finished washing my legs, dried off, and came out to face the music.

I got my coffee, finally! 

Then I apologized to Brandon. (In my mind)

And then I told him thank you, for giving me something to blog about.

Because deep down, though he didn’t show it, I know he was just as panicked as I was. He saw the urgency and desperation of the situation. He was just staying calm for me, I’m sure.

I know it must have killed him to see me standing there in a t-shirt, covered in dog pee, with my hair frizzed up and stuck to the side of my face.

He was really sad, on the inside, I’m sure.

Dearest Rachel,  a.k.a. the mom-jean expert,

Ima keep it real with you. Your expositional post on mom-jean manufacturers took me through the full range of emotions.

I laughed. I cried. I sweat with conviction. And a small part of my soul died when I raced to the mirror to come face to face with the cold hard reality- I was in fact, wearing mom jeans. For the love of cheese, I’m only 25!

I ran to my bedroom and sifted through my drawers, pulling out mom-jean after mom-jean. Quickly, I changed into a pair of yoga pants- my only escape. Then I sat down with a cup of coffee to rethink my life. These are the conclusions that I came to.

1. I really can’t afford to buy designer jeans. After I had my last pup, a friend of mine came over and dropped off a whole box full of (the right size) jeans. They were free!! Is there anything better than a free pair of jeans? And I had seen her wear them. They were cute. They were boot cut. They were within the realm of cute-mom possibility. I put them on with pride and wore them in style, knowing that I didn’t spend a dollar. My point? I haven’t had a hair cut in six months. My kids need new shoes, and spring is springin early- which means seasonal clothes shopping is imminent. So at the risk of sounding like a tighty… of all the things that I need to be spending money on, designer jeans are (sadly) just not one of them.

2. I rock the mom-jeans. Let’s face it, even at 25 years of age, once your body has carefully crafted, grown and delivered 3 munchkins… there are things about those curves that will never, ever be the same. That being said, I haven’t completely let myself go, and in the spirit of honesty, I don’t mind admitting that I look alright for a mom of three. It’s true, my curves don’t reflect the tautness and sprightliness of my youth, but they do give props to a woman with life-experience, and poise. And there is something to be said about the ‘girl next door’ who can pull off a loose sweater and a ponytail. I bet she can rock the mom jeans as well. That’s what I’m going for here: comfortable in my own skin- comfortable in the mom-jeans.

3. There isn’t enough time in the day for me to spend a second of it worrying about my booty. Right now, I’m sitting at my computer with my third cup of coffee of the day, on borrowed time. I should be doing math with the 6 year old, but instead I’m here…airing out my conscience.  The little people are running around like wild monkeys, ripping open cereal boxes with their teeth, and squeezing toothpaste onto my white duvet cover. I barely had time to take a shower this morning and put on clean clothes, let alone worry about what I’m wearing. What am I wearing? So as someone who barely has time to just take care of those daily essentials like brushing teeth and going to the bathroom, when on earth would I find time to actually go shopping? And if I did, I would have to take the critters with me- to the utter dismay of the college-aged store clerk. And let’s be frank, shall we? I’d rather sit at home in sweat pants then face that kind of emotional trauma. To use the common, but very appropriate ‘new’ phrase. Ain’t nobody got time f’ dat.

I sincerely hope that I don’t come across unappreciative of the hard work that you are doing in raising awareness among the multitudes of mom-jean wearing women out there. I am not happy living in oblivion, and now feel like I can make the educated decision to live among the stylistically challenged laity. But I am happy in my station in life, and I am happy setting a precedent and becoming a trend-setter. I’m nothing if not a first-rate hipster. And I think you’ll see…the young people will soon be coming in hoards to get their hands on the stylish-workmanship of the mom-jean. Until then, I wear them loud. And proud.

Peace, yo.

I was laying in bed last night, and I thought about this story that I absolutely have to tell you-

Okay, so there’s this girl…Let’s call her, Jill.

So Jill, a woman of great beauty and intelligence, has this routine. She gets up every morning, and (sleep) walks straight to the coffee pot- where of course, she makes coffee. Then, she falls back asleep, leaning against the counter, until the coffee-maker beeps and wakes her back up.

So one morning she does this, as she routinely does, with her eyes half closed. Except this morning, she sleepily rubs her eyes before her magical wake-up beverage is done.

And since Jill is disgusting and lazy and never – ever takes her make up off before bed, she gets mascara in her eye- which burned like the dickens. (She told me so.)

So, Jill scurries off to the bathroom, leaving her post in front of the coffee-maker. And with eyes still half closed, she fumbles around until she finds the eye make-up remover on the bathroom shelf.

She then squirts a generous- and I really can’t emphasize this word enough- GE-NER-OUS- amount of cream onto her hand and proceeds to rub it onto her right eye.

Well, then…around, oh, 13 seconds later, Jill begins to experience a very new kind of retribution- one which nothing in her 25 years on this earth had ever compared- a fiery, scorching, pain. A cornea-melting, iris-searing kind of pain. (I know this, because she described it to me in great detail…)

Then the panic sets in, and fear- fear of losing her very beloved, very useful right eye.

So, she frantically races to her children’s bathroom, where the eyedrops are kept in the bathroom cabinet. She does this quietly- like a church mouse- because although she is in mortal agony, she is still clear-headed enough to cling to and protect the sweet and precious 37 minutes of morning quiet time that she has left.

Furiously, she empties the bottle of eyedrops into her eye and melts onto the bathroom counter. Oh, sweet relief. 

Silently, she thanks God.  And Ben Stein -for whatever part he played in the eye-drop industry.

Then she remains like this – crumpled – like a spider that’s been hit with a shoe, on the bathroom counter. She does this until that persistent question pops into her poor, decaffeinated, morning-brain, and begs to be answered.

What the hell did I just put in my eye?

 (Remember this is Jill…I, myself, would never use such language.)

Curiosity wins her over, and she skulks off like a wounded cat to the other bathroom- to investigate the label of this fiery, evil substance.

Picking up the bottle that looks identical to her eye make up remover- I mean, I-DEN-TI-CAL- (can I reiterate this enough?), she turns it around and reads,

Foot Soak.

To Quote the infamous Charlie Brown… Good. Grief.

Jill put foot soak in her eye.

In her eye.

Can you believe that?

Who does that??

Jill, apparently.

Jill is lucky to still have two eyes.

Silly, Jill. 

Careless, Jill. 

Jill should try and be more careful.

So this morning, I sat down at the computer to write a blog post and moved the mouse around on the mouse-pad, as I usually do- to wake the computer up.

Nothing happened.

I wiggled the mouse again, thinking maybe I was just too gentle.

Still, nothing happened.

I sat up straight and looked around, confused.

What’s wrong with this thing?? I wondered.

I tapped the keyboard.

Still nothing.

I began talking to the computer…or myself, I’m not sure which.

What is wrong with this stupid computer? I touched the mouse…I tapped the spacebar…

What more do you want?

I got out of my seat and crawled under the computer desk…

Oooh that’s a pretty, lime green light… that must mean it’s on…

What the heck are all these wires?? Dang you, hubs…with your IT prowess…

Suddenly, Graysen comes into the room, yelling,  ”Good Morning, Mommy!”

Startled, I jump up three feet, hitting the back of my head on the desk. I cursed. Silently, of course.

“Ooooh, Good Morning, Gray.“, I said, as I rubbed the back of my head and sat back down.

“Mommy, what are you doing under the computer?”  she asked, with her little nose all scrunched up.

“Oh, baby, I was just trying to turn it on…but I think it’s broken.”

She raised her eyebrows at me…”It’s not broken, Mommy. See?”  Taking her little finger, she gently pushed a tiny (almost nonexistent) button on the bottom of the monitor.

The screen lit up, magically.

“Um…thanks.” was all I could manage to squeak out. “You want some breakfast?”

“Yeah.” she said with a little chirp, running out of the room….

oooooooh…technology.

Me…. and technology.

Technology and me.

It is a cruel irony that I possess both an innate desire to express myself through blogging, and such a severe technological disability.

1. My husband loves fake food. Sure, he enjoys my homemade culinary masterpieces,

but he also enjoys a nice can of microwave chili.

2. The deer come out like cockroaches at our new house… hordes of them. Hordes?

Do deer run in hordes? Packs? Prides? At any rate… I’ve seen Bambi, but honestly, I thought

deer were solitary animals?  I think they’re magnificent creatures, but I don’t mind

admitting that it is a little creepy how they come out in (swarms?) at night and then scatter

like roaches when you turn on the porch light. What are they doing out there that they’re so

ashamed of?

3. Sometimes I forget that I live in the real world. Like, when I get up early (sometimes)

to go to the grocery store at 5 am before the kids get up, and no one is on the road…

Sometimes I’ll be driving along and then lose my grits because I remember that zombies are

attracted to loud noises- like car engines, and I’ve forgotten my gun. Where is my gun?!?

But then I remember that zombies are in movies, and I’m just up really early. You know?

You know when that happens?

4. The other day, the kids and I all piled into my beautiful Toyota Sienna and drove three

minutes down the road to pick up Brandon from work. He works on the third floor of this

large building that in the bottom contains a fitness gym. So we sit and sing and talk and watch

the physically fit people walk in to the gym. Well as we’re sitting there a very tall, very

muscular, African American male (probably around  the age of 20) walked in to the gym.

Immediately, Graysen says… “Mommy, that boy looked just like daddy!”

I paused for a minute, a little puzzled, before asking, ” Graysen, how did he look like daddy?”

So Graysen replies, “Because of his blue shirt!” And then she scrunched up her nose at me, disdainfully.

Because obviously I had asked a stupid question…

5. You know that moment of what!? when your alarm goes of in the middle of the night…

Like 2 am. And you, confused by your sudden state of awake-ness, mistake it for a tornado alarm.

So you put on pants faster’n a jack rabbit in a forest fire while yelling at your spouse to get the kids and take cover??

Yeah, I don’t know that moment either, but my husband sure does.

Every. Few. Months.