We are THAT Family

Going Once, Twice, Sold!

2008-07-07T07:00:00.001-05:00

One of the highlights of our Family Reunion, besides having my cheeks pinched, was the Family Auction.

Every other year, when my hubby's family gets together, everyone brings something to auction off. The funds help reserve the cabins for the next reunion.

Now, I love auctions. I love old things and new things. Well, just things, in general. Don't judge me, m'kay?

As items were labeled and laid out on tables, I eyed some old family embroidered linens. I don't have many heirlooms from my side of the family and thought these would be pretty to have and then pass down to my daughter's.

My kids have never been to an auction. We missed the last Reunion because I was in bed with a troublesome pregnancy. The last one we attended was four years ago and my kids were too young to remember the excitement of buying other people's ~~junk~~ precious items.

Well. Who knew the love of auctions was inherited? It runs deeply in the blood of my children. They circled the table like vultures, eyeing their prey. While the other kids played, mine counted their pennies.

And they asked questions. Many. Questions. My daughter understood how the auction would work and she watched the clock (and drove everyone crazy announcing the time every 5 minutes).

My son? At six, let's just say the workings of an auction eluded him.

A second cousin by marriage stood to start things off. He began with the kid's table. My kids sat on the edge of their seats with their numbers in hand.

And my daughter bid like a madwoman.

It was embarrassing ya'll.

She was completely out of control. She bid on notepads, an old jar, a doily, a pink baseball hat, a bouncy ball, a Mexican tote bag and semi-gold jewelry that was lovely. Oh, and she won a huge box of vintage Simplicity patterns from the 1950's, for .50 cents. I leaned up and tapped her on the shoulder, she turned around, beaming. "Save some for your cousins," I whispered.

"I've only spent $9.75," she said excitedly.

I leaned over to my hubby and said, "I think we might have a problem. Maybe we could get her into the support group I attend."

Well, my son's interest was peaked. Mainly because he saw his sister like this:

And, I mean who wouldn't be envious of her purchased goods? The girl had enough patterns to clothe the vintage world!

The thing was, he didn't get it. My son would raise his number as a package of Hot Wheels was being auctioned and then look weepy when the auctioneer said, "Sold!" and handed the prize to a third cousin.

He kept whispering to me, "Why am I not winning? I keep holding up my number." I explained that you had to pay the most.

Several items slipped through his fingers like sand. He was near tears. The one thing he truly wanted was up next: a package of water balloons. 250 in quantity.

Oh, stop my beating heart.

The auctioneer started the bid at .50 cents and my son raised his card. A cousin had the bid at .75 cents. My son stood. When the nod came his way, he raised his card over his head and screamed, "Siiiixxxx-fiiiftttyyyyy!"

"Sold!"

$6.50 for a bag of water balloons that he kept in his pocket the rest of the Reunion.

And they were worth every penny!

P.S. We returned to my in-laws farm and left our kids for 2.5 days while hubby and I snuck away! My sweet mother-in-law filled up balloons until her fingers were swollen and sore.

(what's left of the water balloons)

My daughter evaluating her new pattern collection!

I displayed my auction linens on an old ladder.

I Am Not a Professional

2008-07-06T07:00:00.000-05:00

I cut my own hair. Once. My bangs. I was 9 or 10.

So, my mom gave me a home permanent.

I don’t know if it was to COVER the jagged cut or DISTRACT from it with something worse. This was the hair solution of choice in my home. I had a perm every time I blinked.

And ya’ll, I blinked, a lot.

Let me just put it this way, if there had been a look-alike contest for Richard Simmons, I would have BEAT him. A friend of mine saw a picture of my childhood afro and started calling me Regina (as in Richard’s long lost sister.)

I learned my lesson: I have never cut my hair again. (I also learned to hide from my mother when she came home from the grocery store- which sold home permanents to unlicensed people).

I am not a professional. That is why I go and have my hair done by a trained, highly regarded, salon stylist. They are called stylists at Supercuts, right?

I’m in situations every day where I could use a professional:

I am not a licensed professional chauffeur. I failed my first driving test. To this day, if my life depended on my ability to parallel-park, I’d be on life support. And yet, I carpool, run dozens of errands weekly, and drive with passengers, daily.

I am not a certified professional chef from a fine culinary institute. Perhaps this is why my toddler throws her food and my older kids run to the door every time it rings on the off-chance it’s a pizza man. My children’s NUTRITION depends on me.

I am not a degreed doctor in the medical profession. There are days where ALL I DO is medicate children. This is dangerous. I’m describing symptoms, googling rashes. I own my own temporal lobe thermometer and an ear thingy to check on ear infections. See, how safe is that? I don’t even KNOW what it’s called!

I am not a professional housekeeper. Does that really need to be explained? You can touch the dust, but please do not write your name in it.

I drive, I medicate, I clean. But don’t expect perfection, I am an amateur.

Not all hope is lost. I am certified to do the following:

I can tickle like a pro. I can remove sticky fruit roll up from the butt of Ann Taylor Loft denim in a snap. I can talk on the phone, type on my computer and finish a school project SIMULTANEOUSLY. I can nurse a baby walking, while pushing a grocery cart WITHOUT exposing a breast. I can do wonders with Hamburger Helper and stretch a dollar like a rubber band.

I can remove dog poop from the grooves of most shoes. I can unclog a marshmallow gun and poke a straw in a Capri sun blindfolded. I can slick down my son’s cowlick, with spit. I can cause quite a commotion when I scream, “Attack” at my daughter’s soccer game and I can silence my children with my special look.

I am a professional mom. Hear me ROOOAAAARRRR!

P.S.

I do not cut my children’s hair. Ever. Bad hair decisions are inherited. So, I leave it to the professionals.

And if home permanents weren’t already illegal, I wouldn’t let that curse continue on to the next generation. That stronghold was broken at the Home Permanent Celebrate Recovery Deliverance Program.

Amen. Hallelujah.

Originally posted in February, 2008. I'm trying to move some of my first posts over to Blogger from my old Mac site.

DIYP #6- Marble Magnets

2008-07-05T00:01:00.001-05:00

I was given some adorable marble magnets a few months ago and I love them.

Since my 8 year old was doing the 'let's do a craft together' speech, and the toddler was taking a nap the other day, I thought these would be a fun project.

It was so easy, my little girl did most of the work.

We dug through my assortment of scrapbooking paper (all 7 sheets of it) and she decided on a beach theme.

Here's what you need:

scrapbooking paper, flat, transparent marbles, glue (I used Elmer's), small magnets

1. She cut out a few of the objects on the paper- a flip flop, sand dollars, a sea crab and some coconuts. We just traced a marble over the paper.

2. Then she cut out the circles.

3. She put a spot of glue on a marble and stuck it to the paper.

4. We let it dry and then attached a magnet. We used the super tiny magnets, but you can use whatever you have or can find.

It only took about 10 minutes to make these and they turned out really cute. Six of them fit an Altoids tin and would make a really cute gift.

We stepped it up a notch and printed our names on a piece of red toile scrapbook paper.

Here's what is on my 'fridge:

She enjoyed herself so much that she has declared this her new business. You can place an order any time and she's priced the magnets at $10.99, a piece. She's saving for a RipStick and what with gas prices, she's got a lot of overhead!

I May Regret This . . .

2008-07-04T07:00:00.002-05:00

My favorite part of blogging, besides all the money I make, are the people who actually read the stuff I write.

And if you are a regular reader, I'm sure you understood immediately that 'besides all the money I make' was dripping with sarcasm. And an eye roll.

See?

We get each other and belong together.

Like peanut butter and jelly; like Barbie and Ken; like our family and the Emergency Room.

I have the best commenters in the entire blogosphere. One day, I will print out all the comments from this blog and wallpaper my closet with them. Wouldn't that just be a boost to my day when I'm trying to decide what to wear?

When I opened my blog to comments back in February, it was my goal to return the favor. I mean, if you are kind enough to visit and read my post, I should do the same. And I did for a long time.

I never dreamed that this would change. But it has. And it makes me sad. I'm only one little mom with three kids and a cat and dinner and laundry and a hubby and a deep love for sweet tea. It's impossible for me to visit every blog every day.

Even though I wish I could.

But if I did, I couldn't write. Or change diapers. Or shop on Etsy for things I do not need.

I'm just saying.

Don't give up on me, I'm making my way around, but much slower. And, I've been out of town most of this week at a Family Reunion and will be scheduling posts in a couple of weeks for our family vacation.

One of the things I wish I could do is answer questions as they come in. First of all, I don't know how to even do this. I get responses from people from comments I've left on my email and I'm like, "hey, how did you do that?" Add simple to that list about me.

So, I thought I'd open this post up to questions. Anything and everything you can think of.

If you don't have a single question, I completely understand. But you must know, for self esteem purposes, this post will self-destruct without a question or two or 47.

Ask away. I'll get them answered in a few days.

And thanks for joining me in my blogging journey. Blogging is a big part of my life and one of my favorite things to do. I don't plan on stopping any time soon and I'm honored that you are a part of my world.

Oh, and Happy 4th of July. I'm celebrating with my in-laws in Oklahoma and I'm trying not to burn myself with a sparkler.

Sincerely 'Fro Me to You-The Ink Parlor

2008-07-03T07:00:00.000-05:00

Welcome to Sincerely 'Fro Me to You! I'm so glad you stopped by. If you want to link up, here are the guidelines. If your visiting, jump right in!

These photos are from just a couple of weeks ago, but they will neh-vah make it into a scrapbook.

Because I am ashamed.

This is what happens when you rush your toddler to the Emergency Room, ignore your older kids in the game room of a restaurant with spare quarters and let Grandparents bring them home.

and

Yes, those are lovely gumball tattoos. On my kid's stomachs. And I did not enlarge the picture. Oh, yes, giant tattoos of beasts.

I didn't see them until the next day. Can you just take a minute and imagine my horror?

Especially since they were going to the last day of VBS with water games, where my son's tummy was fully exposed?

Yeah.

I was so proud of his dragon. I mean, look at that detail!

So was he.

My daughter had tattoo-regret and we scrubbed her tattoo until her flesh was red. We quickly found out this was a quality tattoo.

The kids really got their quarter's worth. We are all about value.

Who's Harder to Raise: Boys or Girls?

2008-07-02T07:00:00.000-05:00

I have been blessed with three children.

Girl, boy, girl.

In a crowd, you would know they belong together because they look alike. It's the nose, I think. Or maybe the big eyes, or maybe it's the matching dirt under their nails.

But they are as unique as snowflakes.

God has stamped each of my kids differently. I think it's called individuality.

I love doing girl stuff with my daughters! I remember being so thrilled that I was having another girl because they would each have a sister.

My son is my middle, peace-loving child. He's a buffer and has me wound pretty tightly. He loves to hang out with his Dad and fish. And he's very easy-going.

I have the best of both worlds. But is one gender harder to raise than another?

Two dear friends and I, met weekly during the school year to pray for our children. One has two boys and the other, four children, all boys.

One day, they were comparing boy stories. They were talking about the noises, the competitions, the smells. And the rough-housing.

I sat back and listened. I kept thinking about my son, dressed in princess clothes and asking for a pink Singer sewing machine for Christmas.

Now, don't get me wrong, there's plenty of finger-pulling and belching in THAT family. We just don't have tournaments.

But it dawned on me that the dynamic in my home with two girls and a boy was different than theirs. It wasn't a great epiphany, but it did strike a chord in me.

Later that day, I even encouraged my hubby to go 'toot and burp' with his son. And maybe wrestle.

Yeah, he looked at me the same way.

For the longest time, I blamed birth order and gender on my first born's strong nature and my middle child's laid back spirit.

I know raising all girls must have it's own dynamic too.

CNN featured a parenting article that made these points:

Boys may not listen as well as girls because their hearing isn't as good from birth
Girls are rigged to be people-oriented, while boys are more action-oriented
Girls tend to grow up less confident and more insecure than boys
Boys are harder to raise early on, but girls become more difficult as preteens

So, talk to me. What's the dynamic in your home? Who's harder to raise?

What plays the biggest role? Gender, birth order or personality?

We're Not Meant to Multi-Task Everything

2008-07-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

If multi-tasking were an Olympic event, my neck would need a daily massage from the weight of all that gold.

Because don't think for a minute, I wouldn't wear those medals. Around my neck. Daily.

It's not an event, yet. But I still pride myself in being able to accomplish many tasks, simultaneously.

It's a gift.

Most days I just do it and don't even think about it. I can talk on the phone, cook dinner, wipe a snotty nose and open the oven with my big toe.

Oh, I kid about the oven and my toe.

Or not.

As my toddler plays in the backyard, I can sweep off the patio, swat mosquitoes, pull an errant weed and dig half a caterpillar from her mouth.

It is a high calling.

The other day, I was scratching things off my 'to do list' like a madwoman. Cleaned fridge: check; swept floor: check; dinner: on the stove; Girl Scout vest ordered: yep ; Reading a blog: in the process.

Besides all the mothering and blogging I do, I also work about 15 hours a week from home. So, busy, I am (said in my best Yoda voice).

My daughter walked up in the middle of all that multi-tasking earlier this week. She needed to tell me something really, really important.

I don't exactly know what, because with all that efficiency I didn't listen. I was close to capacity.

I nodded and uh hum'd her. She walked off and I stayed engrossed at my computer.

Later, the rest of the family wanted me to join them for a family night video.

My mind raced with all the things I needed to do, could be, doing. Do you know it took a vast amount of self-control to only sit? For the first 10 minutes, I kept thinking "maybe I could at least fold a basket of clothes while I watched or straighten toys while I listened."

I resisted the urge and it was the first time in a while, I focused on one thing.

And I'm so glad I did. We laughed our heads off at the funny home movie of my son getting his first haircut. When the video concluded, my daughter hugged me. "Thanks, Mom."

She noticed the difference.

"Tell me again what you were saying in the kitchen," I asked.

Because I missed it.

And I was reminded again that there are just some things we're not meant to multi-task.

The Dream Vacation

2008-06-30T00:01:00.001-05:00

I've told of you of my daughter's deep love for dolls.

And I love that she loves them.

Whatever it takes to keep her little.

Santa brought her an American Girl doll last year.

She even celebrated her 8th birthday with other girls and their dolls.And oh, the love runs deep.

It seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime chance to visit one of the only American Girl stores in the United States on our way to our Family Reunion this past weekend.

So, we did.

My daughter had saved $30 over the past 3 months by doing odd jobs for family members. It took quite a while for her decide on a souvenir.

I mean, who could decide easily with choices like these?

And after an hour in the store, my hubby pointed at this giant poster of the girls with their matching dolls and said, "Okay, that's a little much!"

Yeah, it was time to go. I was tired of looking at price tags for tiny doll clothes that were more than people clothes, anyway.

My daughter was thrilled, paid for her souvenir and we headed towards the hotel.

Now, my son is six and typically very laid back. The last thing I expected was this:

"Hey, Mom and Dad, did we plan this whole day to stop there just for my sister?" he asked.

"Well, yes, we did," my hubby said. "It was special and something we probably won't do again."

He thought about it for a second and said, "Do you think sometime we could plan a special trip just for me?"

"Sometime," my hubby said. "But lets be happy for your sister, okay?"

"Oh, I am." And then a few minutes later, "I know!" he exclaimed. "I know what my dream vacation would be!"

We prepared ourselves for some outlandish Nascar or Lego dream.

"My dream is to take a trip and find some toot putty. The kind that comes in a little can and you put your finger in it and it sounds like toots," he said.

"We might be able to make that dream come true on this trip," my hubby laughed.

The sheer joy on his face was priceless.

Toot putty.

A dream come true.