T-Minus 1

Leaving tomorrow after school for the beach. Still have not packed. So, I will not be blogging until I manage that situation.

Tip Your Hat

Birthday breakfast with Preppy Paper Girl, The Hot Puerto Rican and Outlaw. They spoiled me with this killer bag too. And no, I didn't wear the hat all day. But, I wanted to. Hell, I wanted to sleep in it. Instead I wore pajamas with birthday cakes on them, but I digress.

Sitting on my dining room table is this enormous navy beach hat with a grass green monogram. It was a birthday gift from Preppy Paper Girl. I mention it not solely because it's the most darling and amazing hat that ever existed (which it is), but because it reflects the sum total of the packing I have done for my trip.

The minis and I are leaving Friday for the beach (assuming Jack agrees to travel on his actual birthday, otherwise Saturday) and I have the hat laid out. Oh, and the oil has been changed in the minivan. That's it. Nary a pair of shorts have been pulled out, nor a bottle of sunscreen or pair of flip flops. Never in the history of The Mommy Show have I wanted to see the sun more than now. Stupid Atlanta and your weather. 48 and raining is not spring. Groundhog sold us a buffet of bullshank.

Fear not, I will pull it together Clemson Girl style.

Tangentially, I will absolutely still call myself a girl, despite my 36 years. I will also refer to Coach as a boy and you will not roll your eyes or talk about me behind my pink cardi-clad back. Is that clear? Actually here's a secret. I don't much care if you talk about me. I'm not that interested in dissention, and there's no real cream filling in my Oreo of bitchiness. heehee

Birthday Wishes

When I was younger, my mother would lie in bed at night and ask my father...did you lock the doors? He would dutifully reply "Yes." Then she would tell him to go downstairs and unlock them, in hopes that the gypsies would come and steal me away in the night. That was how much of a pain the arse I was. But the gypsies never came. (Tangentially, when I was a little girl people used to ask me where I got my “pretty blue eyes” and I replied earnestly, “At the liquor store.” I thought they were asking me about the “blue ice” in bags my parents bought there.)

In college, Coach and I met at Mass and he later asked some friends about me. “She’s a bitch.” they said. “She’s a snotty, stuck-up Northern bitch. Forget it Coach, she will never give you the time of day.” But he didn’t listen.

When he called my father in Belgium, where my family was living at the time, to ask his permission to marry me, I have no idea what my father told him. This is because the conversation was/is so Top Secret Private that to this day neither one of them will tell me what was said. I imagine it came with fair warning and a sigh of relief on my father’s part that I would now be “someone else’s problem.” I doubt that I will ever know the words exchanged that day, but whatever my father said, it wasn’t quite enough to scare Coach away from marrying me. I do know that today, on my 36th birthday, I’m still a smidge of a pain in the arse. I’m nothing if I’m not a teensy (huge) bit of a slightly less snotty bitch. Without question (or endless calls for information, advice and direction) I am still “my father’s problem”.

So today I celebrate them. My Mother. My Father. My Husband. For putting up with me for all or some of these past three and a half decades. For listening to the drama, the shenanigans, the woes and the half cocked ideas. For supporting me and mine. For loving me in spite of the fact that I likely continue to make the three of them completely Alice in the Rabbit Hole crazy.

I love you. The three of you.

And I thank you for loving me back.

Red Bull and Nerf Guns

Red Bull. Rock Star. Monster. Sugar free of course. Energy drinks are my friend. Since I gave up Diet Whateversonsale and Starbucks for Lent, I have been dragging arse. However these magic drinks are getting me through. Look, I gave up processed foods and high fructose corn syrup 15 months ago, I don't want to know if there's something horrid in those drinks. So keep that little knowledge nugget to yourself. K? Thanks.

All I know is that they sort of burn my tongue in a good way and allow me to make it through the day. So, in caveman terms, me likey.

In other news, the minis now own every single solitary Nerf gun that exists. We had most of them until they scored Target cards at their birthday party last week and sure enough...now we have the full arsenal. Needless to say, I have declared the kitchen a "bullet-free" zone in order to preserve some sense of order in this freaking fraternity house. Of course, it's much more entertaining to have the Nerf war in their underwear. 8 and 10 year old's in boxer briefs, safety goggles and Nerf guns. I feel like it's a preview of their futures in college.

I'm off to prepare for the week, Heaven knows this girl loves a Monday...and that makes Sunday all the better. xo

BIHF

Bleh. I Hate Friday. But you already knew that.

This weekend Coach is out of town (shocking, I realize) and the minis have baseball tonight and tomorrow. So I spent the morning today getting all my errands and whatnots crossed off my list. Mailed the thank you notes from the birthday party (collage photo prints with "8 is Great!" and "10 is Terrific," printed on them) sent a box of treats to my amazing friend ClemsonLocal for her birthday next week, renewed my minivan tags ... it's all very exciting. Living the minivan dream.

In order to renew my Georgia plates, I had to have my emissions tested. The man running the testing center was schooling me on the effects of emissions on the environment. He launched into a long diatribe about the air quality and how important it is to protect our environment and so on and so forth.

I listened and nodded and smiled and agreed.

While he chain smoked Marlboros.

D'oh! or Never Say Never or I Swear I'm Not a Meth Addict

This morning I am mildly hungover. Not in the traditional sense, but in a "day after the party" "cupcakes and confetti" hungover kind of way.


Woke up, got the minis breakfasted (yes, that's a verb in our house) and Coach took them to school. I started a load (brag? the only load!) of dirty clothes and poured and enormous cup of coffee. I sat down at the kitchen table with the laptop and started my morning.


Feeling rather smug, I flipped through the pictures from the minis' party. (See post below, duh) They had a great time and everything went off without a hitch. I think it might have been their favorite party yet. The day ahead seemed full of possibility. House is clean. Thanks to a late night visit from my neighbors/clients, my work schedule is open for the day. No baseball tonight and Coach is actually in town. Dinner is in the fridge and I actually have a plan for it, thank God for Publix Apron Meal recipes and all the awesomeness that is associated with said meals.



Hmmm, how to spend the day? I know! I will workout, then head up to the outlets to get a few things for the upcoming beach/Disney trip! That will be perfect.


And then the phone rang.


Coach was dropping minis off at school and realized that Ryan didn't have his PE uniform. Our school is very strict and you are only allowed to drop off lunches and coats, so luckily Ryan hadn't gotten out of the car yet. No problem, I told them I would jump in the minivan and run it over. (It was clean, in the PE bag, hanging on the backpack rack. We just forgot.)


Oh frick. I'm still in my pajamas. Modest, clean pajamas, but pajamas nonetheless. No time to get dressed. I have always rolled my eyes at those moms driving carpool in pjs. I have always firmly insisted I would never do that. Never say never, and I'm not talking about Bieber. I grab my keys and PE uniform and drive to school. I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror at a red light. Lawd. My hair is super long and is piled on top of my head in what was a ponytail and is now, well, not. I have yesterday's makeup on, including delicious black mascara under my eyes. Gross. I have a smidge of lip gloss...on my chin from last night. Gack.
I wipe the errant lip gloss off and brace myself. This is not a big deal. I'm not getting out of the car, no one is going to see me. I pull up next to Coach's and sheepishly wave at Sister. I hand them the uniform, he kisses me (God Bless You Coach) and I head back home.


And then I realize.


I have no gas. Literally the light came on yesterday as I was driving home from school but I couldn't stop and fill up because the party was starting. I know Dad, fill up when you're at half a tank like you taught me. But I was super busy making glittered centerpieces! As a result of the glittering now I have NO gas. Fumes maybe. I check the magic DTE setting and see that I have zero miles to empty. Son of a biscuit.


I pull into the gas station and step out of the minivan. My intention is to swipe the debit, stick the pump in and sit in horror in my car. Of course, the dang pump's clip device that allows you to pump and let go is busted. D'oh! This is not good. I have to STAND OUT HERE AND GET GAS. Right next to the busy road where everyone can see me.


My mind is racing. I'm mortified. What are people going to think? They are going to think I'm a meth addict. Yep, that's clearly the message I'm sending. Meth addict mother of 2 pumping gas in her freaking pajamas. Looking like a street walker with yesterday's makeup and some crazy hair. My heart starts to race and I feel like I am going to throw up.


But then I realize, no one is going to think I'm a meth addict.



Because meth addicts don't wear lavender Nick and Nora bride/groom pajamas and gold jeweled flip flops.



Whew.

Wii Had a Party!

Hello sweets! Today was the minis birthday party! They opted for a joint party since their birthdays are 10 days apart and we had a GameTruck come to the house. It's the huge trailer truck in the picture and inside? Boy heaven! An enormous leather sofa and flat screen tvs, Wii, XBox and PSP. Nothing preppy about that, so I had to cute it up with the decor! Lime green, silver and black. Plus glitter. Work it out boys!

I made the centerpieces from gift bags, foam bricks, dowels and pipe cleaners. The numbers were brown cardboard from Hobby Lobby and I painted and glittered the hell out of them. The table runner is actually wrapping paper, and totally genius if I do say so myself.

Even though the boys shared the party, I made sure that they felt separate. We divided the children into 2 groups and while the 2nd graders were in the truck, the 4th graders ate pizza, popcorn and cupcakes. Then they swapped. I set separate tables for them too.

The favors were silicone Wii remote covers that I found for $1 and filled with candy. The tags say "Wii are so glad you came to our party!" Cuteness!

I'm sleepy. But the party was a huge success.

Wii are going to bed!

Monofilament

I'm getting ready for the minis' joint birthday party tomorrow after school, and I've been exploring parts of stores I have never been in.

I promise to post lots of pictures afterwards, but some of the things I have been buying are:

monofilament (this is a fancy word for fishing line, which BFF had to point out would be sold in the fishing section of the store, duh)

green glitter/silver paint

36 mini water bottles

5 pizzas and 8 boxes of popcorn

9 wooden dowels in various sizes

silicone wii remote covers

lime green, black and silver balloons

2 dozen orange hazard cones

Toradol shot for impending migraine

It's not a princess ballet party. Just saying.

Don't Blink, You'll Miss It

A decade ago, Coach and I lived in an apartment in Atlanta. I drove a Jeep and was basically a complete spoiled brat Princess. We moved to Nashville and on March 21, 2001 I delivered this

miracle baby via c-section. Instantly I lost all Princess qualities (ok most) and to be a spoiled Mama is next to impossible. I suddenly became selfless, empathetic and kinder (a little).

I began to understand the bigger picture of God' plan for me. This little baby boy, Ryan Andrew, was everything I never knew I always wanted. Coach and I knew we wanted a family, but I had no idea exactly what that picture looked like. Turns out, it looks just like this.

10 years later, and every single morning, I am grateful and thrilled to have been given this gift. A gift and an enormous responsibility of essentially working myself out of a job. In essence, in becoming a Mother, your challenge is to make your children no longer need you. At least not in the same ways they do as small children.

This morning Ryan celebrated his 10th birthday over a farmer's breakfast and stacks of gifts. He hugged Coach and I and headed off to school.

To become a little bit more of the young man we are training him to be.

Happy Birthday Ryan.

Without you, I can only imagine the person I would be.

Weekender

The efficacy of sunscreen is greatly diminished if you neglect to reapply it after hour 4. After 3 baseball games today (Jack, Ryan and Coach's teams all won, if you care), I am sweaty and mildly sunburned. Oops. The minis got plenty of shade and sunscreen and they survived unscathed.

Quite the weekend already. Last night we went to the Fish Fry at church. The recent arrival of General Krotendorfer rendered me both bloated and unable to make simple decisions. There was a brief (read: 30 minute panic-stricken) stretch where I was fairly certain I had thrown my car keys in the enormous trash can. Alas, a darling altar server found them in the ladies room. After I consumed a healthy portion of baked tilapia and green beans (or fried pollock and coleslaw, you decide) we headed to Coach's game.

Tonight I am preparing to finalize my To Do list for the week, the bulk of which are items for the minis' birthday party which I am throwing on Wednesday, finishing my continuing ed classes to renew my Real Estate license and scrubbing this frat house.

What's on your agenda?

Death Threat

March is trying to kill me. I think it's personal.

The end.

Leprechaun Shenanigans

Happy St. Patrick's Day from the Casa de Chaos! Another fun breakfast for the minis.

Breakfast table as per usual cuteness. Note the wee little Rubiks Cube, which I decided was Irish, based simply on it's tiny size and one green side.


Southern Irish...mixing a Gail Pittman pottery piece with a Dollar Tree centerpiece.
I green puffy heart it.


The key to Magic Milk is to put the green food coloring UNDERNEATH the end of the straw, so the minis don't see it. Then when you pour the milk, it magically turns the color. No fun pre-mixing it, nothing magic about that!

My little Irish Italian Americans...Ryan Andrew and Jackson Patrick...

Wee little pots of gold coins...

The whole scene.






This would be my first commode pic on the blog, but had to show you that a Leprechaun clearly visited our powder room. In other news, the minis determined that some Leprechauns must be girls...because the seat was down. heehee

Labs Chill Out When They Turn 2, Right?

Mother's Day 2009 we adopted this sweet lab puppy when he was 9 weeks old. For the 10 years of our marriage prior to this day, Coach insisted we would never have a dog and I can say with absolute certainty he was "not a dog person." If you know anything about pet adoption volunteers, excuse my French, but they are bat shiot crazy. 3 sets of interviews and a home visit later, we were granted fit to care for the pup. I kid you not, the Dog Adoption Nazi really almost didn't leave him with us, because we have children. Um...he's a lab, not a lion. I guess what finally sold her was our fenced back yard and our ability to remember to feed him. Sheesh.

This face, and subsequent cuteness won Coach over and as we all know, I can talk that man into anything. Sweet Bowman, named by me, for the famous field at Clemson.
When Bowman was 5 months old, we almost had to kick his puppy arse to the curb. He was cray-cray and cut Jack's ear with his stupid milk tooth. Whatever that is. Twice. I called the BFFs and sobbed. I called the vet's wife and sobbed. Then I did exactly what you'd expect. I read 84,000 dog training books and boot camped the pup into submission. Just like I did with the children. Duh.

We had very few other instances of puppy shenanigans, accidents or chewing. Amen.

We had a short stint of considering adopting a female from Bowman's litter. She is yellow and her name is 10 Minutes. We had her for 10 Minutes before I shipped her misbehaving sassy self back to the foster lady. She was a buffet of bullshank.


Today this big old dog is turning 2. He needs a buddy, but I just don't have it in me to deal with another dog right now. So instead, for his birthday he's getting a new Clemson collar and the world's longest walk. Right, Coach?

Happy Birthday Bowman.

Non Sequitor

Random pup picture. Because I can.

Thoughts from today:

I should have married an orthodontist. I love you Coach, but I think I could stop shopping at Old Navy and start having a personal shopper... took both the minis today and their treatment plans? Cost half as much as MY MINIVAN. Seriously.

Atlanta's schizophrenic weather appears to be finally getting on some meds. Today is gorgeous and I debated buying plants today. I have decided to hold out until the end of the week, but will have them done before the minis' party... ferns at the top of the drive and some pansies maybe. Don't doubt that the monogram flower pots already have faux foliage in them. Duh.

Ah, the minis' party. They have agreed to share a party again, after a brief reprieve from that fabulousness. With birthdays 10 days apart, it just makes sense. I promise a post with lots of photos, this years' party may take the cake. Not literally, we do cupcakes. The party is next Wednesday and I think the details are finally coming together. Just need some pinking shears and some hot glue and...

I've got to run, of course we have baseball practices tonight. Heaven forbid we get a night off from that nonsense.

The Baller Knew Better

Today the Homily at Mass was based on Genesis. (The minis find it hilarious that the Lector was very Southern and said "they realized they were naked." Except he said "nekkid" and they have been cracking up about that all day.)

In any case, the Homily talked about why Adam and Eve chose to eat the forbidden fruit, even though God told them not to. God didn't put up a fence, or a wall or an alarm system. He simply said, don't eat it. Sort of the Holy version of when a Mama says "Because I said so." But they ate the fruit because they (thought) they knew better than God. Thus a rousing 10 minutes on how we are tempted every day and sometimes choose that temptation thinking we know better than God.

It was actually quite relevant and the minis garnered a lot from it. Lately we have been having some real issues with rule breaking. Ryan especially has taken to making his own decisions regardless of the rules because he thinks he knows better than I do. Case in point we have a fairly large fenced backyard and the children are allowed to play baseball back there, with whiffle balls or tennis balls. Last week they were home with a sitter and decided to use a real baseball...fast forward...broken 2nd story window. Duh.

Don't misunderstand me, I have 2 boys. I expect rough housing and occasional broken whatnots. What I do not expect, or tolerate, is blatant disobedience. They know they aren't allowed to use a real baseball for that very reason, but they knew better than to honor my rules.

We have had some other instances lately where my reaction has been, "Seriously?! I made that rule to prevent this from happening. Why do you think you know better than me?" I can't seem to make him understand that I make rules for for legitimate reasons. Truth be told, he's had me in secretly in tears more than once in the last few weeks.

After Mass, Ryan approached the Deacon who had given the Homily. "I really liked your Homily" he said, shaking his hand. "But I wish you'd given it sooner. I broke a window with a baseball I wasn't supposed to use, because I thought I knew better."

Bracketologist

Unless you're filling these brackets in with top 64 lip glosses, cardis or ballet flats?

No thankyouverymuch.

You're Welcome for the Snark

This week's posts will be brought to you by the letters P, M, and S.


I think. I'm not totally sure, despite being 35 and having experienced PMS for the last 24 years, (Yes, that's a hot mess, I know) it appears that I am incapable to charting said situation. Whatever.


It's either PMS, and I think you remember this post on what ,my PMS is really like, or it's the lack of espresso-based drinks from Starbucks. Tangentially, not having espresso makes me really hungry. Turns out that whole "caffeine is an appetite suppressant" thing? Spot on. Which also is the excuse I'm using for why I felt compelled to eat potstickers at 9am yesterday.


This morning I woke up at 6am, on a Saturday to take the minis to back-to-back baseball games. Ryan, as per usual, had misplaced something. As in freaking lost it forever. But no biggie, not a hugely important item, JUST HIS STINKING BASEBALL GLOVE. Lawd, that child is cute as heck, but would lose his head if it wasn't connected to his neck.


We were "snack family", which is total lamesauce because it's 9am and the children don't need Gatorade and fruit snacks. (PS? I brought pretzels and water. Duh.) I had the monogrammed cooler all loaded up with a Thermos of coffee and my Greek yogurt. I was all settled in and minding my own business.


Then Ryan comes to the side of the fence, "Hey Mama? Coach says I can't use my bat. He said it's too small."


Oh. No. You. Didn't.


His Daddy? Oh, yeah...IS A DIVISION I COLLEGE BASEBALL COACH! I am fairly certain (read: absolutely dead positive) that HE HAS THE CORRECT SIZE BAT, you Jackleg.


But I didn't say that. I walked calmly to the dugout with gritted teeth. "Um, excuse me? I'm Ryan's mom. He has a bat. It's orange. He will be using it. Are we clear on that?"


"It's too small. See?" He holds up Ryan's appropriately sized bat next to another player's bat. Said other player is at least a head taller than Ryan and practically has armpit hair. Ryan is 9. I think the other player drove to practice. He's huge. (I'm not judging, but I may have seen other player chugging a Mountain Dew before the game. G-ross.)

"See? He won't get any power with this tiny bat."

I blink very slowly. I wipe the corners of my lip gloss with my index finger and thumb.

"Ryan has a bat. It is orange. He will be using it. Are we clear on that?"

He rolls his eyes at me and hands Ryan his orange, appropriately sized bat. I walk back to my cooler.

Bigger isn't always better.

Except when it comes to Mama's attitude.

"Eye" Caramba

Coach is in charge of the minis on school mornings. He gets up, grabs his coffee and a shower whilst I lie in bed, blissfully dreaming of the off-season. Then at 6:30 he gets the minis up, gets them in showers and they dress in our room while Coach shaves and dresses.

Me? Still lying in the bed. Semi-conscious in my pajamas.

Shortly before he fixes their hair (Ryan says we make him have Lego hair, heehee), I head downstairs, to pour my coffee/diet whateversonsale. I plate breakfast (which I baked the night before; muffins biscuits, etc) and open yogurts. I make Coach's protein shake and pour his coffee into his travel mug.

He loads his work stuff (which is oddly a shiot-ton of stuff, including the radar gun), the minis backpacks and the minis into the car and he drives them to school.

They leave. I collapse into my chair at the kitchen table and have 15 minutes of total silence before I begin my day.

Works for us!

Except.

Except this week, Coach is out of town, so I'm handling the mornings.

Today went super smoothly, no issues, except that I am basically defunct in the morning. My entire body aches and my head is all cob-webby. I remembered to give them money for the raffle. I was sweet to the minis and we managed to get in the minivan by the appointed time to drive to school.

Mid-drive my eyes start itching and burning from dryness. I start rubbing them (and admittedly yesterday's makeup) as I continue toward school. Frick. My right contact pops out and lands on my shirt. Lie, that's a total lie. Lands on the cardi I threw over my pajama tank. I didn't say I got dressed, I said I was sweet. Big difference.

I pull over into the closest parking lot which is happily empty. Which is helpful because my vision is 20/400 and I can't see a blessed thing without corrective lenses. Not a blessed thing I assure you.

I spit shine the contact (Hello?? It's crack thirty and I'm barely awake, I am currently blind.) Spit in my contact is the least of my concerns, and put it back in my eye. Gross, but I will throw it out when I get home and put in a new one. Desperate times call for, well spit. Tears are streaming down my cheeks from my eye watering.

As I am pulling out of the parking lot, several moms from school pass me. They give me half waves and odd looks. Hmmm, perhaps they aren't used to seeing my bring the children to school? Perhaps they are befuddled by my hair, piled into a ponytail on the top of my head? (Sorry, Mom! I know you hate that!) Oh, maybe they are wondering why I'm not wearing lip gloss. In any case, I am sure getting some odd looks.

I make it to school, and successfully drop the minis at the front door. Another mom rolls down her window and says, "Hey Clemsongirl? If you need anything, anything at all? Call me. I'm here for you."

WHAT THE? I buckle my seat belt and head towards home. I don't look that bad! I mean to be clear? I'm not ugly and by design I am one of the youngest moms at school. Amen for having my first at 25. Sheesh. Harsh.

As I round the corner I meet a red light. I look around and realize WHY I was getting all the strange looks.

I had pulled over to amend my contact issue...in the Crisis Pregnancy Center parking lot. Where the moms saw me pulled over, seemingly sobbing.

"Eye" Caramba. That explains a lot.

Text This

Coach is so stressed during baseball season. He takes his job to heart and is always the first one at The University and the last one to leave. He loves those players like they are his sons and cares deeply about their performance, on and off the field.

That said, win or lose, Coach is all in. But March, April and May he's jumpy and exhausted and overwhelmed. So I TRY to take on a little more for him during those times. (read: 365, duh)

After a loss last night, he was beyond frustrated. He's extremely quiet and was trying to pack and prep for a road trip just before midnight. Washing uniforms, packing bags, charging the radar gun, measuring protein powder, he was a flurry of activity.

This morning he headed out in the 6 o'clock hour for Ash Wednesday Mass, then got directly on the team bus. His head was spinning.

I called him just after he left Mass. I gave him a super sweet pep talk. I told him I loved him and how proud I was of him. I empathized with his exhaustion and told him things would be great. I would hold down the fort (double duh) and manage everything at home. I repeated that I loved him and said we would see him on Monday.

We hung up and I jumped in the shower.

Whilst in the shower I congratulated myself on being such a kick arse wife. I felt so pleased about the encouraging words I had shared with him. I felt absolutely certain that he was getting on that bus feeling empowered and confident. He must be thinking about his sweet wife and how much he loves me.

I got out of the shower and had a text from Coach. I smiled, and opened it.

"Thanks." Short and sweet. Awwww, he really listened to my words.

I pretended to be coy and texted back,

"Thanks for what baby?"

He immediately responded.

"Oh, sorry. That was for DJ. He made copies for me."

Fricking boys. Idiots.

Catholic

Recently I was asked to speak to a group of college students about what being Catholic means to me. I'm still working on that presentation, it's weighing heavy and I want to do it well. However, it seems apropos that I share this post today on the eve of Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent.

As an aside, I have given up Starbucks (gasp!) and diet whateversonsale (double gasp!). It promises to be a long 40 days, and that's the point of self-sacrifice. The minis have given up TV and candy. Wowser.

In any case, it's not news that I went to Clemson. If you didn't already know that, stop reading and go jump in a lake. Preferably Lake Hartwell. heehee

Clemson has a tiny Catholic church called St. Andrew's on the corner of Edgewood and Sloan Streets. You can imagine that being Catholic in Clemson was well, unique. There weren't many of us, but those of us who were Catholic dragged our (sometimes hungover) selves to Mass at 10am on Sundays. I often walked in about 2.2 seconds before Father began Mass. But, I was there. In cute dresses. Pinky swear.

My Senior year (I was on a 5 year plan, due to internships and my general awesomeness) I met Coach at Mass. It's a long, hilarious and endearing story which I am saving for another post, but fast forward to this: I met Coach at Mass. My parents were convinced that "church" was a name of a bar, but I assure you, it was St. Andrew's.

Needless to say, the fact that Coach was Catholic was a game changer (no pun intended) for me. I don't know that I actually thought a lot about that before then, but as it turned out, in that moment, I realized that religious commonality was extremely important to me. I mean, just think, if I had married a Methodist, he never would have understood my overwhelming Catholic guilt. Or me giving up Starbucks as my personal hairshirt.

We got married and have been members of several parishes throughout our moves on the Coaching Tour. In Tennessee, our parish was a huge part of my life. My mom's group, playgroup, Supper Club, meal group...all through our church. I was the President of the Ladies Guild and I co-chaired Vacation Bible School. I met some of the most amazing friends and raised my babies with the help and advice of those fellow Catholic women.

Now the minis attend Catholic school. We were honored to have their efforts highlighted at this year's Catholic Charities Atlanta Gala (thus the picture of me with Hair Cycle: Day 1 and grown up clothes), and here is what was shared about them, which I have edited for privacy.

“And now I would like to introduce two very cute boys to you, Ryan & Jackson. The boys are in 4th and 2nd grade at St. Catherine’s, and their parents are guests here tonight – welcome to Clemsongirl and Coach and thank you for sharing the boys’ story.

In order to better set the stage for this family’s unique gift, we share with you Ryan’s impact while still very tiny.

When Clemsongirl was pregnant with Ryan, she & Coach were informed that the baby had serious health issues...they turned to prayer, their strong faith, and staying in good health. Clemsongirl had always been very close to her parents, and as her complicated pregnancy progressed, she saw the two transform very dramatically from her doting parents to grandparents who had their priorities set on being there for their grandchildren under any circumstances. Overnight, they became Papa Jack and Granny Diane!

Ryan was born ... after tense days in the hospital ... he was pronounced perfectly healthy and continues to be very much so! Two years later, they were blessed with Ryan’s little brother Jackson.

When the two brothers were old enough, Granny Diane and Papa Jack established a great summer tradition – Granny Camp! The two would travel up with Jennifer to the Chicago area to spend longer and longer times with their grandparents. Granny Camp has developed into a several week stay that they now get to make solo.

Granny Diane makes elaborate plans of fun activities to do with the Jackson and Ryan, and Papa Jack makes sure that plenty of sports and outings are in the mix. For the past several years, in order to make sure they have a little extra spending money for their big trip, a special savings jar has been established – one in Atlanta and one in Chicago. The minis will put in extra change or money the boys earn from chores, and Papa and Granny are doing the same thing – tossing in money here & there to save up for splurges at Granny Camp.
...

Granny Camp jars turned into the Giving jars!

Now I have to give credit to a fellow parishoner because it was his Christmas talk this past December at St. Catherine’s that caused the boys to part with their Giving jar proceeds for the benefit of Catholic Charities and its clients – and these funds were matched by their grandfather Papa Jack. The boys were paying special attention when he got up to speak because they associated them with the Elijah Cup, and the family had been praying for vocations with the cup program for many years. After hearing from him about the work of Catholic Charities and how they helped, especially other children, they were moved to donate it all and forego some goodies this summer at Granny Camp.
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Thank you, Clemsongirl and Coach, for sharing your story and for raising such truly compassionate and amazing boys!"

I take no credit for these efforts or the donation. That project is solely that of the minis and my father. However, I do take credit for bringing them to Mass, sacrificing to send them to Catholic school and for teaching them. Teaching them that self sacrifice is an important life lesson.

Being Catholic is who I am. It colors how I think, what I choose and how I raise my children. Being Catholic led me to Coach.

So tomorrow when Coach leaves at 6a for Mass and the minis and I go at 9a it is because we are Catholic.

And that's how we roll.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler!

Mornings in the Casa de Chaos are pretty legit on holidays. Breakfast is the one meal we are all home for, even Coach! So, I always decorate for breakfast, Mardi Gras included! This year FitGirl found lots of purple after Christmas for me, and we used the heck out of it!

Construction paper runner (I said I was Fun Mommy, I didn't say I was spendy!) and lots of beads.

Purple hard straws in footed tea glasses. A litte secret ingredient in the bottom of the glass...

When you pour the milk, Voila! Magic Mardi Gras green milk. The minis still think this is amazing and Jack is completely befuddled by this. Of course 9yo Ryan rolls his eyes, but inside thinks it's the bomb. They love it.

IKEA picture frame thingys with notes for the minis.

This morning, although they know the table will be decorated, they came into the kitchen and yelled, "SWEET!"

Throw me something, Mama!

Weekend Loathing

If you know me in real life, (or follow me on Twitter) you know that I LOVE Monday! It's the absolute best day of the week. Minivan is clean, gas tank is full, minis return to school. Clean slate. Monday is the only day of the week where you haven't made a mistake yet. Haven't disappointed anyone yet. It's the day when I say, "This might be my best week ever!" Mondays hold endless possibilities. Mondays are the best.

Fridays? Stink. With a capital SUCK. Hate them. Hate them like it's my JOB.

Coach works all weekend, every weekend. I have to write, produce and star in The Mommy Show. I have to manage the children 24/7. Meals, clothing, activities, etc. I have to juggle my job, obviously showings and Open Houses take place on the weekends. It's exhausting.

Everyone posts annoying Facebook statuses about their family outings and cute pictures of them on Friday and Saturday night dates. No one is around to commiserate with me because they are with thier Monday-Friday working husbands at Home Depot buying the supplies for thier family weekend projects. Puke. I'm over your "family planned raised garden bed" and your "new crown moulding" that you and your " sweetie pie husband" put up on Saturday morning. Gag me.

I'm exhausted like everyone else by Friday, but the relief troops? Ain't coming.

Some people say it's lonely at the top.

I say it's lonely on the weekend.