Making the Bed and Other Youthful Misconceptions

When I was a kid, I had a lot of ideas about what adulthood and motherhood would be like. For instance, I had the general idea that when I became an adult, there were certain things that I would automatically do, even though I never really did them as a kid. Things like making the bed, or getting up early, or exercising, or having a clean house all the time. (Laughable, I know). I guess I just figured that something would click as I got older, and suddenly I would start doing the things that my mom always did.

Well, something must have malfunctioned, because the click never occurred. I rarely make the bed. I don't get up any earlier than I absolutely have to. Daily exercise consists of chasing after a strong-willed three-year-old interspersed with the very occasional push up. And, try as I may, my house is never in the pristine condition that I wish it was.

Well, I recently discovered that I have one less thing to worry about. Julia, ambitious child that she is, enjoys making the bed. (Not hers, just mine.) And boy does she do a bang-up job. She surprised me a couple times last week with her new awesome talent. Take a look.

Not only does she put all the pillows in the house on our bed, she also graces it with her own beloved blankies.

And, who doesn't need a table and tea set in their room?

Oh, baby, even a snack bowl filled with fruit and carrots.

Now I just need her to learn how to fold our towels into cute little animals like the folks at Carnival Cruise Lines. Then all my dreams will have come true.

Just a Little Bit Wary

Earlier this week, I decided to pull out some fall-themed books. "Oh, My, Pumpkin Pie," "The Littlest Seed," and "Leaf Dance," among others. I put them in a basket in our living room to gear us up for the impending change in seasons. Because, you know, the first day of fall is supposed to be tomorrow.

The only problem is, it's not really fall. Not even close. It's still summer.

Yes, it's slightly (very slightly) less hot, but the same general summer weather still prevails. No windows open at night. No playing outside. No rest for the air conditioning. And certainly no pants.

A little over a year ago, I wrote this. It was October 3, and things were finally cooling down. I was in a celebratory mood, full of hope for the cool months to come.

Then, sadly, a month later, I followed that up with this. Before I knew it, it was November, and I was using the a/c again.

Now I'm afraid that fall will never really get here. And putting pumpkins on the counter, or getting out the fall books, or organizing the kids' sock/pants drawers will not change a thing.

Oh well. At least apples are on sale.

Studnets, Bewear!

I think what this sign is trying to tell us is what happens when we don't read and do our homework ereyday for 45 minutes.

P.S. Yes, this is an actual photo from the actual city where I live. So funny and yet so sad at the same time.

Hi, It's Me, Chopped Liver

I love my children very, very much, and I know that they love me. But I am the Mommy, and I recognize that while Daddy is Disneyland, I fall somewhere between the grocery store and the neighborhood park.

During a rare moment that both Craig and I spent snuggling with our oldest child last night, I felt like we should do some family bonding. I asked Julia what she loves about Daddy, and, of course, I wasn't surprised when she answered, "I love when he plays with me." Then we talked about what we love about Julia...that she is so loving, such a wonderful big sister, and so helpful.

My turn.

Time for the fateful question: "Julia, what do you love about Mommy?"

"I love when she puts snacks in my lunch and when she cleans the light bulbs."

???

Lunch packin' and lightbulb cleaning. Apparently, that's what I'm here for.

Sweep Sweep. Chirp Chirp. Taunt Taunt.

I am not an individual who particularly loves the outdoors. I don't enjoy sweating, I don't particularly crave physical exertion, and I am not a big fan of bugs. Yes, I know, I would have made a poorly equipped and probably very cranky pioneer woman.

But this post isn't about how lame I would have been in another life. It's about bugs. More specifically, crickets. I kind of loathe them. And they flourish here. Which is why I was very sad when we had to cancel our pest control two summers ago because it's just not in the budget. Yes, pest elimination should be on the list of priorities right after groceries and car payment, but I haven't quite figured out how to squeeze it in. Sigh.

Back to the crickets. My hatred of them doesn't actually have so much to do with the squeamish factor as you might think. Don't get me wrong, I shudder at the sight of a lone cricket leg with the best of them, but I won't hesitate to squish or chase or yell when the need arises. (Think: Modern Family, Pigeon Episode). More than anything, my disdain stems from the fact that they are loud and annoying and poop all over the place. And, unfortunately, they think that my front porch is a very desirable vacation spot; a sort of all-inclusive, Sandals Laveen, if you will.

I am pretty sure that the local crickets have it in for me. I was outside this morning, sweeping cricket poo off the porch for the tenth time this week, and I was almost finished when I heard it: a single cricket chirping.

Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp. Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp.

I looked around but saw nothing. (Nothing, that is, except for dead Uncle Cricket a few feet away, whose untimely death I was not actually responsible for.) Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp. I kept hearing it, but I couldn't see it. Not anywhere. As soon as I got close to where I thought it was, it would stop. Then it would start up again as soon as I stepped away...like a demented game of hot and cold put on by some Cricket Mob Boss who was getting back at me for trying to close down The Porch Resort. Sweep sweep. Chirp chirp. Sweep. Chirp. Sweep. Chirp.

Well, I examined every crevice and corner in sight, but I never found that elusive little bugger. I swear he was hiding in the stucco, or perched on top of the doorway, laughing hysterically at the way that I was desperately craning my neck and sticking my ear to the wall.

Sweep. Chirp. Taunt. Sweep. Chirp. Taunt.

I'll have the last laugh, though, little friend. Just wait until I call the Health Department and they see that there is cricket poo in the resort kitchen. Then you'll be shut down for good. And I will go back to happily hating you from a distance.