It SUCKS to grow up.

Almost one year ago, my mother broke my heart. It was just after the annual carving of the pumpkins with Thing 1 and Thing 2 and I made a comment about it not being as much fun as it used to be when I was young.

"I HATED carving pumpkins with you kids," she told me. "The only thing that was worse was making those damn Valentine's Day boxes for school."

WHAT? BLASPHEMY! The two things I looked forward to, every year, that in a lot of ways were even more special than Christmas and 4th of July because they were not things that were overdone, over-celebrated. Also because it was a GREAT time to hang with my mommy and my big brother, working together, laughing at the kitchen table (insert Norman Rockwell photo here).

And she was pretending to like it the entire time.

I was really hurt for a long time. In fact, I think it's a little fair to say I was traumatized for a while. If my mom could pretend (aka LIE) so well about these things, what ELSE about my childhood was a lie???

And then I grew up.

I'm not sure how it happened, or when the lightbulb flicked on, or why it took 4 years after the delivery of my firstborn, but suddenly within this past year I GET it.

Growing up sucks for a lot of reasons. Accountability, responsibility, blah blah blah, bills, etc. But the hardest thing for me to accept--all the little things I looked forward to as a child? After the initial excitement that is left over from childhood wears off, I realize they suck as an adult.

Tonight, we carved pumpkins. We've done it every year since Delaney was "here" and they do love to watch us turn a pumpkin into the "creature" of their choosing. But it is messy, I'm tired, it's stinky, and Thing 1 and Thing 2 had little/no naps today so they are crab-asses. And still we carve on, pretending to love the task because the girls love it so much.

In reality, I'm a perfectionist and have a mean competative streak--so I carve meticulously, but because I want the pumpkin I carve to look perfect--and better than the neighbor's.

And they do.

HIGHLY Unappropriate

Before I even start, some readers may find this entire post highly inappropriate. If you have been offended in any shape or form at any of my other posts, please move on to something else. But what I am about to recant is not really inappropriate--it's my life. And I'm sorry, but it's funny. It's funny to me and I'm pretty sure it will be funny to you, too. So if you would like to find out what I'm talking about, please read on.

Now that the housekeeping is out of the way, this post is going to be highly inappropriate. At least that is what Thing 1 would tell you.

They say kids say "the darndest things" but "they" have never met my kids. They are hysterical. At first, I thought it was just me being a biased mommy. But as I slip in a "my kid said" story here and there (and there and here--I'm obsessed with my girls, I'll admit it) I realize that they are just funny little creatures. I will say, I think all kids say some pretty funny stuff from time to time. Obviously I'm around MY kids more so I hear more and it just clouds my mind with all their little cute and funny things...well, you get it. I'm a mom, I think mine are the greatest--who doesn't think theirs are the best?

This morning, in my rush of "School Day" (see previous post), I am SURPRISE running late. Which should really not be happening, because I didn't have to pack lunch for "the adults" today. The "extra time" was negated by the girls deciding they needed to lift Mommy's weights (dumbells found in the closet) and Thing 2 dropping one on Thing 1's foot. In fact, the whole morning that was today's could be it's own post.

But anyway...so I was in a rush, the girls were ready and only Mommy was left. Allow me to say I REALLY need to put away laundry. The King is a laundry Nazi, he HATES to have laundry around--but once washed (not sorted first, no removal of delicates, no treating of stains--but hey, I'm not doing it so I'm grateful!) it often sits in baskets on our bedroom floor until the weekend when I make time to put it away.

So I am in a hurry and in a rush, and the last one to get dressed. I open the dresser and grab the first things my hands light on...like any rushed mama would do. And since "we're all girls" the little ladies are in the room with me.

As I have my back turned and start to get dressed, Thing 1 gasps very loudly..."MOM!" Holy geeze, I'm just getting dressed...WHAT????

"MOM--I can see your bottom thru your panties--those are HIGHLY unappropriate for work."

Wow, called out by a (soon to be) 5 year old. First, they are not totally whorish panties. They are sheer, but that's it. And that's way too much information, I realize. But if the beginning of this blog didn't scare you away, it's ok because I know you have a pair of "sexy but not whorish" panties, too, even if you don't admit it to the general public like I just did.

While this is mostly the end of the anecdote, my children--especially Thing 1--rarely let well enough alone. Being a school day, I'm pretty sure she would go to school and tell her teacher or at least her friends her mommy wears inappropriate panties. So, like an idiot, I go to school and drop the "just to warn you, Delaney may tell you..." on her teacher. NOT telling the story was making me feel worse than just telling her, so I did. Of course, she is awesome and laughed and told me an even worse story about her son, so I felt better. Still, I wasn't really surprised when another mother asked me about wardrobe choices this evening...ugh...THANKS, KIDDO!

Oh...and when I put on the matching bra, Thing 1 just shook her head, headed out of the room and mumbled, "Well, at least you match."

Highly unappropriate.

Bacon

So I kind of suck with the blogging thing. Why? Because this is the first one I've posted since August. Multiple reasons, long story, let's just chalk it up to "life happens". Seriously, when do people find time to post regularly? I'm sorry--but I promise to try harder to post at least twice a week--hold me to it!

On to the fun that was my evening. It was PERFECT. If you don't know me, that's dripping with sarcasm.

Tonight starts the King's 4-day vacation. He's between classes and honestly NEVER takes all his days--so he decided to take a week. It's going to be awesome. He thinks I'm crazy for always being late for work, always leaving something (luckily not someone) behind, etc.

The joke will be on him come Friday. It's HARD WORK! He leaves before 7 in the morning. That leaves me to:

1. Get myself ready for work.

2. Get the girls dressed and presentable for the day.

3. Make breakfast.

4. Enforce breakfast.

5. Break up fights.

6. Make the adult lunches.

7. Make the kids lunches.

8. Feed the cats.

9. Give the diabetic cats their shots.

10. Shoes and socks on.

11. Fix princesses hair.

12. Gather EVERYTHING.

13. Where is Thing 1 and why is she hiding? Does she hate me?

14. Found her--she's in the bathroom going #2.

15. We're late.

16. Bottoms clean, now Thing 2 has to go #1.

17. Pile into the car.

18. Arrive at school, 20 minutes late. Forgot the adult lunches. Great start to the day.

He has no idea. So I can't wait to see how he handles a full week. I hope it goes ok, but I kinda hope it's hellish. I'm leaving for work early every day, and I plan to intentionally NOT DO ANYTHING. We'll see how that goes, since he will read this...LOL!

Alas, it's started to be a good night. My odd children, who don't like peanut butter and jelly or turkey sandwiches, have decided they LOVE fish. No complaints, but seriously--no pb and j but begging for halibut? With brown rice? But they ate like teenagers, two servings each--it's going to be a good night.

I'm even incentivized by the girls. I'll admit, I've been a gym slacker lately. The girls were sick, I got sick, so I didn't hit it for almost a week. Then I decided to reward myself after the Komen run by not hitting the gym. But tonight is the first night of the "new" Wilson's North location, and my daughters have decided they like to eat heatly, so I'm inspired to get back on the bandwagon. Off to bed, little ones, Mommy's gotta get fit.

And that's where good intentions went bad.

I eagerly change for the "new and improved" gym. Is that pep in my step?

Shoes and socks, check. What is this? I have one of MY socks folded together with one of Thing 2's socks. Really? A size 7 woman's and a size 9 preschooler's feet look similar? I LOVE that my hubby is a laundry nazi, but please--do it right so I don't have to re-do it. Or end up at the gym with a sock that won't go on my foot. I show them to him, he says, "Look at them--they are close in size!" Sure--if you are in prison.

Strike 1 for me. I'm not phased.

So Wilson's North has moved. I come up with the idea to take a shortcut. It is shorter, no stoplights. But the route is one I've never taken. And it's dark. This is what we call foreshadowing.

I'm tooling down Blue Ridge Road and I see a sign, warning me of an upcoming stop sign. I slow down. And I never see the stop sign. As I creep along, I notice a super cute house, and as we ladies do, I'm drooling over it's cuteness, thinking how I will grow up one day and upgrade to a house just like this one.

And then I see it.

The cop car, lights ablazing behind me. CRAP. I have NO IDEA what the speed limit is, so I have no idea how far over it I am. Although, I do think to my self, "Self, you were creeping along looking at this house, it can't be that bad."

Officer Tackleberry is kind enough to turn the spotlight on me. I guess I might run or toss my weed out the window?

He approaches, I make him knock on the window. I get the introduction, he says, "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

I never know how to answer this. I'm always tempted to say something smartassed, but I come from an interesting mix of parents. My mom can talk her way out of any kind of a ticket, period. She has a gift. My dad, not so much. He was all about telling the officer where to stick the ticket so generally got more than he started with. I fall in the middle--I'm a wimp when it comes to the po-po. I'm like Diane Keaton on "First Wives Club", I see the badge and start shreiking, "I'm clean--I'm clean!"

"No, sir, I'm not aware of any speeding violation. Could you tell me why you pulled me over?"

"You ran the stop sign back there. I saw you slow down, but you didn't stop. Why is that?"

Do I smell bacon?

"Oh, I'm so sorry. You see, I'm on my way to the new Wilson's gym and I've never been this way before. I knew better than to try a new way in the dark, but I'm a glutton for punishment, what can I say? I saw the sign that warned of an upcoming stop sign, but I did not ever see the stop sign. I'm so sorry."

I know, I'm pathetic. But in my defense, I was being 100% honest. I didn't see the #$%@ sign!

"I see, I see. Well, let me take a peek at your license and insurance."

License is no biggie. Insurance...it was like a pick-a-card game. I had every single insurance card dating back to 2006, when we bought the car. But not the one that is good starting August of 2010. I give the hub ONE THING to do with this car...grrr.......

Tackleberry: "OK, well, let me take this one here and I'll be right back. If you find the current one, just wave it out the window."

A kind policeman. I'm being honest. This is going to end well. And I got to clean out the glove compartment looking for that #$%^ card while he was writing my warning.

Back he comes, I think between my headband and lack of alcohol breath he has decided I'm not a threat and has shut off the spotlight. It always pays to be honest.

"Here is the deal. It's a state law to have a current insurance card in the car at all times. But I'm going to let it slide. And I believe that you didn't see the stop sign, you seem very honest. But because you dont' have current insurance on you, I can't let both offenses slide so I'm going to have to ticket you for the stop sign. I'm doing you a favor here, it's the less of the two evils." Chuckle. What a nice guy.

PRICK!

Blah blah blah, sign here, etc. "Do you have any questions?" No. "Is there anything else I can do for you this evening?"

And then it happend. My father spoke from the grave. "Yes, in fact. You can go back to that house and ask those people to cut their damn bushes so you don't have an excuse to write a bullshit ticket for no reason other than to create revenue for a city to which I already pay at least 7.55% taxes to on every purchase I make. That would be great!"

I know, I'm a little proud and a little appauled at the same time. I hear my daddy laughing right now.

I had been such the perfect pull-over, so it really took Sgt. Tackleberry by surprise. He said, "I appreciate the feedback. I hope your evening gets better," and left me to curse him.

Strike 2.

I get to the gym, and all things considered, have one heck of a workout. I even added the weights in after the run. It was a workout to be proud of. And the new Wilson's? It's nice. It's not hot and doesn't smell mildewey like the old facility. Seems smaller, but who cares. The kids area is huge and it's clean. And the first workout was a good one.

So now I'm home, obviously, clean and trying to get past my hatred by recanting the evening. Hub tells me to let it go, but is kind enough to keep dropping comments about "people who run stop signs." I tell him that karma is a bitch.

Strike 3, you ask? That's now--it's 11:21 and with the evening's events, I can't sleep. I'm not tired. The King is playing his video games, the princesses are sleeping, and Tuesday will start in a few short hours when the alarm goes off at 5:45.

Thank you, Columbia Police Department, for keeping our streets safe.

Do I smell bacon?