1. I know I'm not the only one out there that does this: You hear or read something hilarious somewhere, and you vow to yourself, that one day, at just the right time, you will make that phrase your bitch and get huge laughs. You put it in a deep dark pocket of your brain and forget about it for a while, a long while, and every so often you'll remember it and wish you had said it a few days earlier. And then one night, after several drinks and in front of ten people, you'll say it right out of the blue. Only it won't be the most opportune time so it won't pack quite the punch you thought it would. So you'll say it again 5 minutes later. And again soon after that. During the course of the night you'll say the phrase a million times and laugh hysterically to your drunk self. People will make fun of you for it the next day and you'll never have the nerve to say it again, even when the conversation leads right to it. You will have made a waste of a perfectly funny phrase. I DO THIS.
2. I guess I'll just come right out and admit this: I hate working out. I hate weight-lifting. I hate the treadmill and the stair-stepper. I used to like running, but I can't do it now to save my life. If someone was chasing me with a knife, than I'd just get stabbed. My saving grace is that I love the bike. But as far as exercise goes, I'm totally unmotivated to sweat on my own, which is horrible since my metabolism is insanely slow. Caleb is completely opposite--he has to make a sincere effort to just NOT lose weight. He's like, 41 times hotter than me. It's just really not fair. I think God ought to give heavy-prone people the will power and drive that the naturally skinny people have but just don't need.
3. I really do think I sing good. I sing real good--as long as it's only one of two or three notes. I love to sing--and it took a while for me to realize my range is not quite what it used to be, if it ever was even that. After numerous complaints, I recorded myself on my cell phone--yeah, I did that--and I did indeed confirm that my singing is less than pleasurable to listen to. And I'm okay with that; my family is not. However; a wise Hannah Montana once said: "Just because you have a terrible voice--does that mean you shouldn't sing?" To which Cheyenne promptly answered, "Yes."
4. I REMEMBER USELESS THINGS. Ask me my kindergarten teacher's assistant's first and last name. Ask me what color my third pair of jellies were. Ask me what I was wearing the first time Caleb and I watched a Seinfeld rerun together. But did I remember to feed the dogs this morning? When was the last time Mia's pool was cleaned? Did I drop off the trash bill this week, or is it still in the car's glove compartment? I HAVE NO IDEA. I'm really smart, but I can't seem to get a mental handle on day-to-day responsibilities. Geniuses can't be bothered with common sense.
5. I bite my nails like nobody's business. They are all gone. They will never grow again. My hands look hideous. This disturbs me. This also disturbs Caleb, who undoubtedly can't stand the thought of his geniusly sexy wife having man-mitts. I've tried everything--coating my nails with gross stuff does not deter me. The only time I've ever quit biting (If it sounds like an addiction that's because it is.) was when my kids were born. Something about touching a sweet, tiny baby with nasty nails made it easy to stop...for a while. I'm back in the habit in less than 2 months. I may look into hypnosis if I get desperate enough. The upside to biting my nails? I'm probably immune to so many diseases it's not even funny.

That title can be taken so many different ways.

Cheyenne begins 6th grade in T-minus 17 hours.

Thank. Freakin'. God.

That girl has truly had one hell of a summer--full of softball and Disneyland and beaches and friends--and after 2 days of actual relaxation, the kid is driving me bonkers. It's like she got used to all the activity and it was a real let-down to have to sit still in boring old Oklahoma for a minute. Yesterday her school held an open house; as soon as we approached the place her face crumpled up into a nasty scowl, and she assumed the customary "I so totally hate school" attitude, only it worsened with each minute we spent trying to find her classes and meet her teachers. I watched all the other girls running around, completely excited with smiles permanently pasted on their happy little faces, hugging one another...while Cheyenne sulked along the halls, hating life.

I don't know if she just thinks it's cool to act that way or what. She's got friends--none of which were there last night when we were--and she's one of the smartest kids in her grade...so no problems socially or academically. Where did this extreme negativity come from? I was so tired of it by the time we left that I gave her a pretty intense lecture (Mom, here's where you can insert parental snort of triumph) on the value of thinking positively and staying in school, blah, blah, blah...

I have a feeling she neither listened nor cared.

Every few months or so our mother-daughter relationship gets a little more strained. I guess it's the age; I flat out told my mom I hated her when I was 11...but man, THIS SUCKS. For the most part we get along, and I think she likes me at least a little bit. She did finally talk to me about having a teeny-tiny crush on a boy last year--that's got to be progress.

Oooooo, I absolutely dread the next 7 years...

Mia turned 3 a few days ago. We had a pretty calm celebration and she got more presents than we can fit in our house--by the way Thank you to all you lovely family members that felt the need to send large items such as playhouses, big honkin' plastic easels, etc. I can't get too miffed about that since Caleb and I did in fact by her a soccer goal, a tricycle and a t-ball stand. So just about every room in the house has become a playroom for Mia. She did have a great birthday, I think.

Being 3 has given Mia a renewed sense of self--she refuses to believe that she is a GIRL and proclaims to anyone who will listen, "I AM A STINKY BOY, AND I AM NOT PRETTY AND I AM A BOY." She doesn't like dresses and absolutely refuses to have her hair combed...Ratty t-shirts and camo-cargo shorts are the outfit of choice these days, and she likes to say her name is Diego. Sitting still and quietly reading a book is not an option; not when she could kick a ball or ride her tricycle around the living room at the speed of sound. Caleb thought it was pretty cool that his little girl is such a super-extreme tomboy...until I pointed out to him that if we do too much encouraging we'll wind up with a mulleted softball player more manly than any son we'd ever have. I was allowed to force Mia to wear ruffled socks with her cargos.

And those are my darling little girls, growing up way too fast and way differently than I ever imagined. And that's just fine with me.