Home of the Motherhussy

while they are away

Nick called me this morning to tell me she had a rare Cody and Colton "sighting" today. Apparently Grizzly let the boys loose for a day to see relatives from the other side. No, not dead relatives, my relatives--Mom, Aunt, Uncle, and cousins to be exact.

Nick informed me that when she happened upon my small children they, along with their eight-year-old cousin, were pretending to be ghetto gangsta' thugs. They were walking the walk, talking the talk, and even offered to sell her some "crack cocaine".

Seriously. They tried to sell her crack cocaine. Imaginary crack cocaine, but nonetheless *illegal, **addictive, and ****deadly.

I'm not too worried about this behavior because I know the real reason they play this way is because they're practicing for future star roles in ABC's After School Specials.

Nope, not worried at all.....

...*****except it did worry me when Nick showed noticable disappointment after learning the boys weren't really going to sell her some crack cocaine.

*Imaginary crack cocaine has not been proven to be addictive

**Imaginary crack cocaine is not illegal in 49 states (I'm pretty sure it's illegal in Utah)

***Nobody is known to have died from an imaginary crack cocaine overdose

*****No disappointment occurred

The Sog of it All

know what i love?

When my children create loathsome messes in the kitchen, for instance soggy bowls of breakfast cereal, and then ask me, "Mom, what are you going to do with those bowls? They're disgusting, they need to be out of the house."

I love that.

Just So Everyone Knows

I know that last post seemed a little, shall we say, melancholy. However, I do enjoy Christmas. I love Christmas! In fact, if I could marry Christmas, sleep with it, and bear its children, then I would. I love all its piny, frosting-coated, twinkle-lighted, gift-wrapped, credit-charged, bread-stuffinged, holiday caroling, television-specialty goodness.

Just so you know.

P.S. Does the absence of a Christmas tree in my house make me the Anti-Christ(mas)? I mean, Jesus Christo didn't hang on a pine, did he? He wasn't birthed under the scented bows of a Pinus monticola, was he? Do pines even grow in the Holy Land? Point is, I forget the symbolism behind the tree, and I don't really care enough to Google it, so I opted for giant poinsettias instead. They're festive as fu**!

27 and Counting

There's something about the closing of a year that brings awareness to my personal progression and ultimate aging. Maybe it's the long nights that take with them my summertime energy, or maybe it's just the new lines I see under my eyes, but melancholy has seemed to follow me from my first sip of coffee until the time I pull the down blanket under my chin.

I equate loss of youth with increased responsibility. Or maybe it's loss of freedom that comes along with the increase in responsibility. Funny thing, responsibility. I've wanted it since the time I was young, whether it be in the form of a driver's license or a place of my own. I work for it, I dream of it, I spend my money on it--but when I acquire that responsibility that I so thought I wanted, I feel like I lose something. Something. I'm not sure exactly what it is I lose. Maybe just a touch of freedom?

Maybe it's Christmas. Maybe it's the feeling of being responsible for the happiness of another, or just being responsible for giving in general. I am responsible for putting up the tree, wrapping gifts, baking cookies. I enjoy doing all of those things, yet the rebellious youth in me wants to reject all of that and leave until the festivities are over. The transition from believing in Santa to being Santa comes quickly, and all of the sudden you are in charge.

In charge of Christmas. I am in charge of Christmas. I am in charge of creating tradition and warmth and cinnamon-scented memories. I am in charge and responsible for all of this--it seems so anticlimactic knowing all the secrets. Knowing that Santa isn't real, that the beard is cotton and the carrots were bitten off not by a reindeer, but by an adult. An adult with responsibilities.