A few nights ago, we went through our typical bedtime routine with Will.


Wrap like a burrito to dry off.

Lather with Lotion.

Put on PJ’s.

Brush hair.

Brush teeth.

Pick out 2 books; 3 if he’s really lucky.

Snuggle up in his bed.

Read the books.

Turn off the light.

Say our prayers.

Give a Kiss and  Hug goodnight…

One more kiss and one more hug.


Usually, after the “Night-Night” Will hollers out to Wes and I that he has to go potty.  So he gets up and makes an attempt.  Then he usually needs a sip of water, one more kiss and one more hug, a back-rub – “like Papa do’s” and requires tucking in ONE MORE TIME.

We’ve nicknamed him Captain Loophole, and he is truly an expert a the trade.

One time he even called me back in because he said he had a “fingernail.” 

Translation – He had a hangnail and apparently couldn’t sleep with it bothering him.

Any way, a few nights ago as we went thru the routine, we got to the part about saying our prayers.

We got all the way to the end…

“…Please god for no more wars, keep us healthy and strong. Amen.”

Well, Will was very enthusiastic about the “Amen” part this particular night and he shouted out with more enthusiasm than the time he found his hidden easter candy in the cabinet.

He gave us a big giant, “Awe-Man!” at the end of the prayer.

I never realized before, because he usually quietly utters the “Amen” part in a sleepy, extremely tired state.  But when he enthusiastically shouted out “Awe-Man” and pronounced every single syllable loudly and clearly, I realized that he has been ending every prayer session, not with Amen, but with “Awe-Man.”

So…we got that going for us, which is nice. 

I was too busy giggling to try to explain the correction.  I’ll save it for another night.



First Day of Camp and Dumb A$$e$

Today was our Munchkins first day of summer camp.

Come August, he will be starting pre-school, so we thought it made perfect sense to enroll him in summer camp at the pre-school so he could become familiar with the campus and the routine.

Today could have gone one of two ways.

First option, a horrible tearful disaster.

Second option, a horrible tearful disaster.

I kid.


First option, includes our munchkin crying and having major separation anxiety when I try to leave him at camp in the hands of strangers.

Second option includes me, the grown woman and Mama, crying and having separation anxiety as I try to leave him there, at camp in the hands of complete strangers.

Luckily, neither of the two options I visioned in my head is actually how the morning played out.  Surprisingly, it went pretty smoothly…very smoothly…eriely smoothly.

Dear lord, please let the rest of the week go the same way!

This morning, we woke up, got dressed and ready and headed out the door as we normally would.  Only this time, in tow, we had a packed lunch for our little camper, and his new cute-as-hells-bells pre-school embroidered back-pack that I ordered from Pottery Barn kids.

I actually let the munchkin pick out his backpack.  He had the option of 4 different “patches” to add to his backpack to personalize it a tad more than the standard, plain one.  He had the choice of a truck, a baseball, a football, and a dinosaur.  I just KNEW he’d choose the truck, so when he said, “I want a basketball!” I almost fell off my chair. 

Unfortunately, basketball wasn’t even an option, so I informed him he’d have to make another selection. 

So there we were, back to the drawing board.  I knew “truck!” was about to fly out of his mouth, when all of a sudden he excitedly screamed, “BASEBALL! I want the baseball.”

I probably asked him 10 times if he was SURE.  He assured me he was.  So I added the baseball patch to our cart, went thru the checkout process, and it was on its way to us in days.

When the package arrived, he was by my side ready to rip it open.  When I excitedly handed him his personalized backpack, he looked at me with the straightest, most serious face and asked, “Why didn’t you get me the football one?”

I can’t win. 

Anyways, we headed off to school with all of the necessary items tucked nicely inside his new backpack, equip with a BASEBALL patch.

On the way to school, I was talking up his camp and trying to prep him for being dropped off.

“You’re going to have so much fun at your school today!”

“You’re going to meet so many friends, and play on the playground!”

“I bet you will do cool art projects, and play with all of the toys with your new friends!”

Then my little church camper looked at me from his toy he had fumbling in his hands, and mumbled something…

I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly, so I asked him to repeat.

Then, I had a heart attack.

I’m not sure where he heard it, but he repeated the phrase I thought I had just heard… “dumb-asses.”  The phrase spewed out of his mouth like he was 21 years old talking to his BFF about the kids at the movies dressed in Starwars costumes.

I had to think fast, and try my hardest not to laugh.  It really wasn’t funny…well, maybe just a teensy weensy bit.

I explained, in a harsh tone, that “those words were adult words, and kids couldn’t say them.”

I told him that he would get in BIG trouble at school if he said that, and that is wasn’t nice and WASN’T ALLOWED.

He looked at me seriously, and said, “kids can’t say those words, ‘dumb asses’?  Only adults?”

“Correct,” I responded.  ONLY adults.

Seriously, I don’t even know where he heard this phrase.  I’m no angel, and I’ve been known to drop a few profanity’s every now and again, but “dumb ass” isn’t really in my rotation of bad words.  I’m more of a quick four letter word profanity dropper. 

I definitely do my best to not say these things around Will.  The only thing I can think of is television, or conversations he hears, but isn’t necessarily a part of.  Obviously, we really need to be much more careful, and monitor the television shows- even if it isn’t something he directly watches.

So now, to add additional anxiety to my morning, I get to worry that he could go to school and repeat this new phrase he’s picked up.

Awesome, just what I needed.  One more thing to stress about!

Drop-off went smooth.  I got there early, so I could hang with him for a bit in his classroom.  He comfortably played with toys and met his teacher.  When other kids started showing up, I informed him that I would be going to work soon and I’d be back to pick him up later.  I kissed him and hugged him, told him to be a good boy and prompted him to go play with the other kids.  After a couple of minutes, I motioned to the teacher that I was going to make my exit.  She told me that she thought he would be fine, as he didn’t seem to be phased.  She also told me that I could call to check in if I wanted…I think she could sense my anxiety.

So, there you have it.  I grabbed my keys, headed out of the classroom, and walked to my car.  I didn’t even cry.

I said a little prayer to myself that he wasn’t crying – I could just picture him looking around expecting to see me, and realizing that I wasn’t there.  Then he’s there by himself, in a place he doesn’t know, and with people he doesn’ t know and he’s crying. 

Luckily, this wasn’t the case!  Whew!!

As soon as I pulled out of the parking lot, proud of myself for not loosing it, my mind suddenly went back to his naughty little phrase.

So I said another prayer, “dear lord, please don’t let him utter those words again.”

I waited until precisely 10:30 AM to call and check in. 

Yes, they probably have a star by my name in the office as an overbearing, worrier parent.

All was well. 

I counted down the minutes until it was time for me to go pick him up.  I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall observing his first day at camp.

Did he make friends?  Was he talkative?  Was he shy? Did he share?  Did he listen?  I wanted answers to all of these questions…and more!

When I arrived to pick him up, I sat at the door peeping thru the glass window.  He looked like he was having the best time!

Instant relief!

When some of the other Mom’s arrived and walked right into the room, I didn’t want them to think I was some crazy lady in the hallway stalking the kids from outside of the door, so I finally went in.

Will was SUPER excited to see me, and immediately started telling me all about his day.

“Mama, I walked in a line like this (and he put his arms behind his back)”  – I guess this is how they walk in lines

Then he told me all about how he played on the playground, decorated bubbles, did “projects,” played with toys, made friends, and watched a dog movie during nap.

We loaded up his gear, and his teacher gave me a glowing report.  She said he couldn’t have done any better on his first day.  She said he went with the flow, he listened, he helped, he ate his lunch, and was just wonderful.

I did a little victory dance in my head, and took a big sigh of relief.

She went on to tell me that, “He didn’t ever fall asleep during nap time, but he quietly stayed on his mat and watched a movie.” 

They had to have tranquilized my child for nap time.  There is no way he laid on a mat with other children around and new toys all around him.  I think she may be pulling my leg on this part!

With a glowing report, and an empty lunch box and BASEBALL backpack in hand, we exited the building and loaded up in the car.  Of course, I continued to ask him about his day.  He answered excitedly.

Then out of no where, he informed me that, “I didn’t say those adult words at school, Mama.”

This again?!…I was praying he forgot!

I thanked him, and sternly reminded him that those were adult words, and that he would be in big trouble if he repeated them.  Then I changed the subject.



Rooster Attack

Did you know that Roosters were mean?

I sure as hell didn’t. 

But I definitely do now.

I can officially say, I have been attacked by a rooster.

We have 2 roosters in our flock of chickens.  We are about to have just 1.

Apparently, the black rooster that we have gets a little worked up at feeding time, and I recently found out, can get really aggressive.  For the past week, things have been fine, and he hasn’t laid a feather on any of us.  But for some reason yesterday, that all changed.

Will and I got home right around 6 and we started working on all of the feeding chores that have to be done around here.  When it came time to feed the chickens, we filled up the chicken feed scoop and headed down for the chicken pen.  When we arrived, the chickens seemed to be anxiously awaiting their feed.  They came running towards the gate clucking, and cock-a-doodle-dooing. 

I instructed Will to stand just outside the gate and hold it closed while I went into to dump the feed into the feeder.  Normally, he comes right in with me, but today for some reason (probably god watching over him) I thought it’d be best if he stayed on the outside of the fence.  With that, we opened the gate, I entered the pen, and Will held the gate closed behind me.

At first glance into the pen I noticed the chicken’s water was knocked over, so I went over to straighten it up.  I picked it up, placed it right-side up and then turned around to dump the feed in the chicken feeder.  As I turned around, I heard the cluck of the big black rooster, saw him flapping his wings and coming straight at me.  He looked like a freaking bear when he spanned his wings out and got a little off the ground.

All in one swoop he plucked at my shin one good time with his beak.  Terrified, I threw the feed scoop to the other end of the cage and screamed bloody murder as I took off for the gate of the pen.  I was getting the hell out of dodge and wishing death upon the mean rooster that came at me.

As I quickly exited ran for my dear life out of the pen, I noticed the throb of my shin and the rapid pace of my heart.  I was wearing jeans, so I couldn’t see my skin right way, but I just knew that I had a gaping wound from his razor-sharp beak.   To top it off, I MIGHT also be experiencing a heart attack from the fright of his attack.

As I got my composure together, I gathered up the courage to roll up my pant leg to assess the damage.  I just knew I would be heading to the ER for stitches.  My shin hurt that bad.

I grabbed the bottom seam of my jeans and slowly rolled it back one roll at a time until I exposed my peck wound.

Ok, so my wound might not have been a big open wound that I just KNEW it was, but it was the worst little blood blister I’ve ever seen in my life. 

For the record, it DID hurt like it needed stitches.  I believe the true damage is all internal, and I just can’t see it with my eyes.

I immediately called Wes and told him how the attack unfolded and I laid down the law that the, “Black Rooster has to go!”

Of course, his initial reaction was to laugh.

Sometimes, I want to hurt him.

Then, he made a typical man comment and told me that we could eat him.

Men really think completely different from women.  There is NO WAY I could eat the rooster.  I don’t care what we do with him, or where he goes, but there was no way I could cook the rooster knowing that at one time it was considered one of our pets. 

I quickly told him that, eating him wasn’t an option and he could give the rooster to anyone he wanted, and that person could do whatever they’d like with him.  There’s just no way, I was going to eat him.  NOT happening.

For now, the mean rooster hangs with the rest of the flock.  But I promise you this…if he lays another feather or comes at me again with that razor-sharp beak; I’m DONE!  He can freaking starve for all I care.

I really wish a hawk would eat him.  Or a bear.  Or a panther….or our neighbor. 

Rooster- it’s what’s for dinner.


Daddy’s Boss

I’ll file this one under, “kids say the darnest things”…..

Today, as I was cleaning up the kitchen after lunch I asked Will to pick up his toys from the living room. 

Of course, in response to my request he asked me, “why?”

This is a pretty standard response for him lately, and it is starting to drive me crazy.

I glared at him and I responded in the best way I could think of at the time.  I said, “because I’m the boss, that’s why.”

Great comeback, right? 

Then after contemplating that for a few seconds, my little angel looked at me and said, as serious as can be, “You’re not my boss, you are Daddy’s boss.”

Trying not to laugh, I resonded to that comment with a, “In some ways you are very correct, but what you need to know is that I’m YOUR boss, too!”  Now go pick up your toys!”

And as quick as I could, I leaped for the pantry to take cover so he couldn’t see me laughing at the fact that he says I’m, “Daddy’s boss.”

I’m sure Wes will think this story is just hysterical! 

For now, I’m just going to bask in all my bossy glory. 

I’m going to pour a glass of wine, and give myself a little toast.

The Boss of everyone,



My husband = wonderful.

Seriously, he is a wonderful father, a great husband, an extremely hard worker and the love of my life.

I even think he’s hot.  Still.  After 100 years of dating and 4 years of marriage, I STILL think my husband is a good-looking, hot individual.


I even know that my husband is intelligent.  The triple threat; Good looking, smart, great father, and a hard worker! 

(Is that 4 things?…does that make him a quad-thread?) 


Even triple threats sometimes have lapses in judgement.  I get it.  I too, sometimes bring a little less than my A game. 

It’s ok.  It happens, right?

Well, the following story happened.  And as I think my triple-threat is somewhat embarrassed by the events that I am about to unfold to you; I just can’t resist sharing. 

So here goes…

Friday night, the Friday night before my big test, I was confined to the office studying my brains out. 

My Triple-Threat, was in charge of the munchkin.  The potty-training munchkin, who is finishing up week 1 of strictly big-boy underwear.

As I am studying, I hear the TV on…re-runs of NCIS (my triple threat’s favorite).  I also hear my ipad blaring a sight-word spelling game, then Dora, then Talking Tom Cat, then Dora, then Wonderpets, then Dora. 

My munchkin switches between apps about every 3 minutes.  His attention span allows for concentration on one thing for approximately 3 minutes and then it is onto the next.

At about 9PM sharp, I hear my Triple Threat tell our munchkin that it is bath time and I hear the movement of removing himself from the couch begin.  I hear him get up from the couch and make his way to our munchkin’s bathroom, to presumably, start the bath water.

This is where it gets interesting.

The next spoken words I hear, are, “WILL!  Did you poop in your big boys?!”

We call Will’s big boy underwear, “big-boys.”  It’s just our thing.

Then I hear, “ohhhh, Will.  Come here.  Come here right now!”

Yes, folks.  I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

Apparently, my triple threat walked into our munchkins bathroom, to discover that he:

  1. had a Number Two accident 
  2. removed his soiled underwear
  3.  left the, aforementioned soiled underwear on the floor in his bathroom, and then
  4. continued out to the living room, naked, where my triple threat was relaxing and watching his favorite TV show, and played with MY ipad for approximately 20 minutes.

It wasn’t until bath-time, that this whole debacle was realized.

As I heard this unfold, I couldn’t help but to feel my face get red with anger.

I mean, is Abby and the NCIS gang all that interesting, that you don’t realize your only child has dropped a deuce in his pants, removed them, and then shown back up in the living room, dirty-bottomed, and sans underwear?!

I love you, honey!  But, REALLY?!