I’ve never been a fan of crazy, big crowds.  

A Canes game is fine because everyone has their own chair, their own spot to settle in.  Even if they go nuts over a goal, their “WOOOOO’s” are generally controlled to that space.  

Concerts are alright because, again, everyone has a place to aim. And once the music starts, you are too busy clapping and dancing in your spot to bother anyone else. Even if the crazy fans are singing at the top of their lungs and couldn’t find the right key with a flashlight, my ears are ringing at that point so I can’t hear them anyway. 

With the exceptions noted, I really don’t like big crowds. But I will do anything to be with my children and see them smile.

Enter the State Fair.

The last time I went to the Fair was in 2003. I had just moved to Raleigh, I was young and carefree, and was promised a good time. That night, someone burned me with a cigarette butt and I watched a grown man vomit a giant turkey leg (and a lot of beer) after getting off one of those spinning rides. The splash of it caused my favorite jeans to be thrown away as soon as I got home.  That’s after I had to walk a mile to the car with the rank and rancid smell of a stranger’s good time on me.

That was the end of the fair in my world. 

But today was a new day. I was going to give it a second chance and was determined to have fun with the kids. 

I have never seen so much camouflage in my life. It was educational really. They come in all kinds of colors and patterns now, I had no idea.

And the tattoos, good Lord, the tattoos.  They were on every other person I saw. Some detailed and well done, others looked like drunken friends played connect the dots with sharpees. 

Airbrushing. Why must we spray paint our names onto t-shirts? There was a line around the corner to have license plates and t-shirts airbrushed, like they need to broadcast the redneckery. 

And last, but not least, the food. As you know, we have a frightening obesity problem in the good old US of A. I gained 5 pounds just breathing in the Fair air. The amount of fried foods was incredible.  But it was the things that were fried that cracked me up. Snickers, twinkies and oreos are so sweet already, adding batter, lard and powdered sugar seems a bit much. But I am clearly in the minority because hundreds of people were lined up everywhere buying sticks of fried everything. 

The Fair and I just don’t equal a good time. But, I will say this… I’d do it again to see their smiles.

That’s a lie, I’d do it again for the easy bed time. These kids dropped like bricks when we got home.

Gotta love the Fair!

I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, enjoying the 5 continuous minutes of uninterrupted work time, when I felt a small sting on my foot. I rubbed it with my other foot and kept on working, then felt another sting.

I looked at my foot and found a huge, hairy, hungry mosquito.  I smacked my foot and the stupid thing exploded.  My foot looked like a scene from a Saw movie.  I cleaned up and didn’t think about it again until I got home and noticed two big knots on the top of my foot.

Fast forward two hours and I’m ready to cut my foot completely off just to escape the itching.  I felt the two on top of my foot, but I missed the 12 other bites… that’s 14 bites folks.  14!

So I’ve been scouring the internet for home remedies, creams, powders, amputations, anything that will stop the itching.  I’m going crazy here, and not the fun kind.

In my searching, I have learned a few things…

Mosquitoes are attracted to light.

I am a very pale woman whose skin shines like a flashlight in the sunlight.

Mosquito magnet.

Mosquitoes are attracted to the color blue.

My veins are like ropes and being almost transparently pale, that means you can see the blue. Who knew the blue hue would be attractive to some?

Mosquito magnet.

I am also a southern girl who has had her color wheel done by a real southern belle and my best color is blue.

Mosquito magnet.

Only the female mosquitoes bite, the males stick to nectar.

Doesn’t that go against nature?  The males should be enjoying the chase and drooling over their latest catch.  And the women should be able to appreciate that their nectar dinner is made after a long day.

Instead the girls gravitate towards me like a blood beacon.  No solidarity for the fairer sex, they just bite and leave insanity behind.

No matter the gender, a dread hits when I see one because I know they are headed my way.  I can’t focus on anything when there is a mosquito buzzing around.  I am instantly itchy, instantly paranoid and instantly ready for winter when they all die a slow and painful death.

I’m going crazy over here… big time.

#ImAChickMagnet

#MosquitoesAreTheDevil

#SOOOOOOReadyForWinter

 

I could not fall asleep last night to save my life.  I tossed and turned, and finally gave up… fed up… and got up to get some little things done.  When I finally fell asleep, I had a crazy dream about a parent at the kid’s school that woke me up about 15 minutes before my alarm went off… is there anything more annoying than waking up before your alarm with enough time to go back to sleep, but not enough time to get good sleep?

Grrr.

So my body got out of bed, with my mind trailing behind a bit, to make coffee.  I drank my first cup and could feel the synapses firing a little faster.  Lunches were already packed, clothes were already chosen, dogs were already fed, so I decided to splurge on a long, hot shower which rarely happens on weekday mornings.  I shaved things, I conditioned, I stood under the scalding water and just enjoyed the spray.

When I got out of the shower, I was a new woman – a perfect mix of She-Ra and Donna Reed.  I felt awesome, rejuvenated, joyful and ready to tackle the day with gusto and glee.

Then I looked at the clock and realized I had been in there for nearly half an hour and was now going to use up all that gusto and glee to actually get to work on time.

Good feeling gone.  Let the rushing begin.

Wake up!  Wake up!  This is my bad, but this is no drill.  RUN, do not walk, to your clothes.  Get dressed like the house is on fire.  Brush your teeth and hair, you can use the bathroom when you get to school.  You can have cereal or cereal for breakfast but this box is open, so here you go!  You have 5 minutes to eat as much as you can, then we move on to shoe finding and fittings.  Meanwhile, I will be in the bathroom throwing make up at my face in hopes that it lands where it should.  I’ll dry and fix the front half of my hair, I can’t see the back so I can’t be held responsible for what’s happening on the flip side.

To the kids credit, they rushed, raced and readied with precision and pleasant attitudes.  They have inherited my disdain for moving too fast, too early in the morning, but they made me proud and only threw it in my face a few times that I was the cause of the hurry.

We made it out the door with a few minutes to spare, when I remembered that today was trash day.  CRAAAAAAAAP!!!!!!!  You get in the car, I’ll push the trash can down the hill.  That awful stench was all I could smell and my hands were wet with trash can morning dew, but by God we were still on time.  Victory!!

With only minor speeding, I got to my desk, sank into my chair and took a deep breath.  Good feeling back.  We rock as a team.

Out of habit, I reached in my purse for my Burts Bees and my phone.  I have an addiction to Burts Bees chapstick.  I’m not proud of it, but there it is.  I have a tube in my car, purse, desk, living room, sunroom, bathroom, night stand, and kitchen at all times.  I pulled out the chapstick for another layering and felt the world fall into place.  For one shining second there was Peace in the Valley, there was a worthwhile Presidential candidate instead of the halfwit and felon we are faced with, no one had been hurt or effected by Matthew… just a second of good.

Then it hit me that my phone was not in my purse. In my rush out the door, I left an appendage charging on my night stand.

Good feeling gone. Let the withdrawal begin.

#WithdrawalOnACellularLevel

#BurtsBeesIsMyAddiction

#RushingInTheMorningIsMoreCommonThanNot

#WhyIsMyTrashCanHandleAlwaysWet

I don’t think I’m hard wired correctly.

I went shopping for rugs today with two friends, one man and one woman. I know people were staring at us laughing and making inappropriate digs at each other but we had fun.  

After we found what we were looking for, the topic of “Love Languages” came up.  Apparently there are 5 love languages:

Words of Affirmation

Acts of Service

Receiving Gifts

Quality Time

Physical Touch

We were laughing at each other and picking each others languages, but I was curious to see what mine actually was.  I haven’t exactly been successful in this area so research couldn’t hurt.

I took the quiz that basically phrased the same question differently 30 times (very aggravating by #15).  In a nut shell, I have 3 love languages.  I took that to mean there are more ways to love me, but after further reading I understand now that I am just generally confused.

And bonus, the one I thought I would be wasn’t one of the 3 it gave me.  So, I’m a hot mess and am going to have to research how to speak my own language.  If I don’t get me, Lord help those around me that try to.

Rephrase – I know I’m not hard wired correctly.

#LoveLanguageQuiz

#FirstStepIsAdmittingThereIsAProblem

#ShoppingMakesMeGrouchy

After 7 months of working post-first-baby, I seemed to be handling it with dignity. I had walked through the halls of my company for months with no baby spit up on my shoulders, no sleeping at my desk, and no milk leaks that made me look like I had a wet bathing suit on underneath my silk blouse. I was doing alright…

The story below is what I get for being cocky.

I was sitting at my desk one day when I bumped my once smallish bust and noticed they had grown quite a bit.  I looked down and stared at the girls in amazement. They were indecently large and filled unevenly.  I felt like a lopsided Pamela Anderson.

I was pulling my collar out so I could actually see them, and didn’t notice that the president of the company was standing behind me smiling, waiting for me to finish.  I snapped back into reality and told him I was fixing a button.  I don’t think he believed me, but he was kind about it and didn’t stare when I turned around with my latest developments.

As if this wasn’t embarrassing enough, it gets so much worse…

After we talked for a few minutes, I headed downstairs to the locker room where I could pump and stare at my new Dolly Parton figure behind a locked door.  I got my bag of supplies and turned down the hall to see a woman coming out of the room.  I didn’t think anything of it until I walked in and figured out what she had been doing… using it as a nuclear testing site.  The smell in that room was rancid! Like a skunk had sprayed sewer gas on a pile of compost on a hot summer day.  Had I known her better, I would have offered to take her to the hospital.

But the locker room was the only place in the building I could have complete privacy.  So I plugged in all the apparatuses that it takes to sit there like a milking heifer.  I pulled up my shirt but it just wouldn’t stay put long enough to get the pumps in place.  I decided to just take my shirt off and be quick about it because I was in the middle of working on something and I needed to get back upstairs.

With shirt off, I sat there looking at the rolls that had taken over my stomach and how my pants were still tight from the 9 lb watermelon that came out a few months before.  I unbuttoned them with a deep sigh and saw the bright red line that tight pants leave on your stomach… getting a picture yet?

So I sat in the chair with shirt off, nursing bra unfastened, and pants unbuttoned.  I assumed the position and turned the pump on to start milking myself.  It always fascinates me how this actually works – I was a dairy cow!  A very pale, sometimes hairy, dairy cow!

I took a deep breath and listened to the machine make it’s rhythmic sound.  I heard it say something different with every pump, but that day I remember hearing “Knight Rider” over and over again.  I make no sense.

I was just getting into the groove of it when I heard someone coming.  I wasn’t worried though because I had locked the door… or had I?!  I couldn’t remember actually locking the door because the smell of raw sewage had smacked me in the face and took my focus away from the task at hand.

I stood up, keeping the pumps carefully attached to keep the milking in progress, but I couldn’t reach the door knob with my hand (don’t ask what I had to go through to hold both pumps steady with one hand).

As I stood there, my unbuttoned pants started to slide down my legs.  I popped my knee out to catch them just before they hit the floor.  The voices were getting louder and one of them was female so I knew they were aiming straight for me.  There was only one thing to do…

I lifted my foot to the door knob to use my big toe to poke the lock in. But just as I had gotten my leg up (and assumed a spread eagle type position) the woman opened the door and started speaking to me in a language I couldn’t understand but knew very well she was yelling at me to keep my crazy debauchery at home.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, a man I had worked with for four years was right behind her taking all of this in.  She slammed the door and I was left to stand there, looking in the mirror at true mortification.  There was the red pant line going across my waist, my bra unhooked, the pumps in hand, and milk spilled down my stomach pooling into soaking wet underwear that was in full view since my pants had fallen to my feet.

I collected my thoughts for a second, took my time getting cleaned up and dressed, then slowly opened the door to face the music.  The woman, I’m sure, had run to tell everyone she knew what the pale freaky girl was caught doing in the bathroom.

The poor guy, however, was sitting on the bench in the lobby with his elbows on his knees, his head still shaking and his face bright red.

I sat down next to him and told him I was sorry he had to see that.  He took a second, still focused on his feet and said, “Cami, I’ve been picturing you naked for years, but I never could have dreamed that up.”

I laughed out loud at his attempt to make a seriously awkward situation just a funny story. As we rode upstairs in the elevator, we laughed and joked about the image that would forever be burned on his memory.  I was almost at ease again, which felt like a miracle.

The doors opened for him to get out, he smiled at me and added, “I hope you feel better… I hate when my stomach gets that upset.”

%$&#! He thought that smell was mine!

#BreastfeedingAdventures

#MotherdomInAllItsGlory

#MomentsThatMakeOrBreakYou

#DollyPartonMustHaveBackPain

I think I’ve shared the fact that if you want anything from me, the sure fire way to get me to agree to anything is to rub my back. I will stop whatever it is that I’m doing and focus on whatever it is that you are saying if your thumbs are getting the knots out of my shoulders. 

My children have learned this and wait until bedtime to break out the big guns. And I fall for it a solid 90% of the time… I consider it a win-win.

But these knots are fierce. Tiny hands can’t conquer these things.  A jack hammer would go dull on them.  Professionals have exclaimed over them. Grown men have given it their all and still not come close to breaking them down. 

So after a minute, the kid’s fingers get tired and they want to quit. We can’t have that, now can we?! This is a teaching moment – Don’t be a quitter! Never give up! Anything worth doing is worth doing right!

The other night I was actually hurting and desperate for just a little relief. So our compromise was Norwex dryer balls.

These things are wonderful in the dryer, I love them! They keep the static away and I put “Fresh Cotton” oil on them so the clothes smell incredible for days. 

It turns out they are also awesome on the old shoulders.  I pulled those bad boys out of the dryer and made a game of the kids rolling them all over my back!! They are the size and feel of tennis balls but are a little softer and smell much better. The kids think it’s fun, their little hands stay energetic and my knots get rolled… another win-win.

This epiphany has been going on for about a week now, but I didn’t realize they liked it so much until we were walking out of school yesterday and my sweet girl asked, with a huge smile on her face, if they could “use the balls on me tonight”… 

Heck yes you can! We’ll get the balls out right after dinner!

Let’s hope CPS doesn’t get any calls and show up at my door this week. 

#NorwexDryerBallsAreANecessity

#ParentingIsJustGoingWithTheFlow

#MothersAreInnovative

#TheseKnotsAreNoJoke

To get your Norwex massaging dryer balls, contact my gorgeous friend Katie Watson at katie.erin.watson@gmail.com or go to katie.watson.norwex.biz!

I had my picture taken today.  My children also had their pictures made today.  Do you have any idea how impossible it feels to get three people picture-ready before 7:30am?

I woke up early, had an extra trough of coffee to keep my energy and attitude up, showered immediately after seeing myself in the mirror looking like a less attractive Nick Nolte mug shot photo, fed the dogs, made the lunches, picked the clothes, found the shoes, put on an extra layer of the daily Lancome “mask” (that’s what the kids call make up) and then began the 15 minute battle to wake the children up.

They are little angels in the mornings, aren’t they?  I always take a second to look at them before I wake them up.  It’s the deep breath I need to start my day.  It’s a better pick me up than all the coffee in the world.  It’s also my last moment of silence before the skirmish begins.

No matter how soft my voice is, no matter how early they went to sleep, when I try to wake them up, these children twist and turn all over the bed like vampires exposed to daylight.  The moaning and mumbling kicks in and they arch their backs like their spines melted over night.  My sweet talk continues, wishing them a good morning and rubbing their little backs.  But the moaning gets louder, the pouts begin and the grumblings become bargainings for five more minutes.

**Side note – why is it that on the weekends, they are perfectly content to wake up by 6am on their own and want to talk and be cute?  But the weekday hits and nooooooooooo, they are growing and need 4 more hours of sleep.  Not cool.**

At about the 10 minute mark, my voice grows from a whisper, the covers get ripped back and I start announcing the time (I may embellish a bit to make my point).  From the time their little feet hit the floor, I feel like a drill sergeant blowing the whistle as their time runs out to perform each of their tasks.

But it’s picture day, so everything that needs to get done, needs to get done without wrinkling, food staining, toothpaste drooling, milk spilling, paw prints marking, hair blowing, falling down, or tripping up.  And bonus, all of this needs to be done while keeping them in their happy place so they will smile pretty for the camera.

It was shaky there for a bit, but we managed to get to school on time.  Everyone was in a good mood.  Everyone looked adorable.  The promise of a good day was upon us.

Here’s hoping my kids smiled and said “Pokeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemon”.

#PictureDayStress

#PictureDayEqualsBlackmailMaterialForYourParents

#NothingBeatsSchoolPicsFromTheEighties

This weekend was filled with friends that I don’t get to see as often as I want, but I can laugh with like no time has passed at all.  Those are the best kind, aren’t they?

We solved world problems, had mini therapy sessions, guided one another on the can’t-miss tv shows premiering this fall, figured out what motivates men (that one didn’t take long), rolled our eyes at the Presidential Debate, compared parenting wins and fails, and just laughed… a lot.

But one thing that kept creeping up in this weekend’s conversations was mother’s guilt.

No book can explain the power of it to a woman without children.

No girlfriend can express the ripple effect of it before your baby is born.

No mother can escape it forever.  It can sneak up on you when you least expect it, over the tiniest little things.

For example:

You think you’re on your A game after cleaning the whole house but you recycled the artwork that’s been on the fridge for 6 months, and now they are hurt because they made it just for you and wanted you to keep forever. BOOM! There it is.

You’re tired and don’t get that last load of laundry in the dryer which means they are the only child in class who won’t have their blue shirt for Spirit Day at school.  BOOM! There it is.

You want to accept the great job offer that would allow you to actually use your brain again but might mean picking them up later in the evenings.  BOOM! There it is.

You drop them off at daycare and leave with their tears still wet on your shirt because they will miss you.  BOOM! There it is.

You hold them close while they cry on your shoulder and ask for the millionth time why you and daddy can’t live together again.  BOOM! There it is.

You go out with friends for the first time in a year to have a dinner that doesn’t include macaroni and cheese.  BOOM! There it is.

You get on to them over something you normally would let go because you’ve had an awful day at work that depleted your patience.  BOOM! There it is.

The guilt is real – definitely for the big stuff but even for the stupid little things.  You know you’re a good mom, even a great one some days, but that guilt is wicked y’all.

I can’t be sure, having never been one, but I don’t think fathers have this level of built-in guilt.  They seem to function as good (some days great) dads while still escaping that dreadful feeling.

Maybe it’s because women are more sensitive.  Maybe it’s because Eve ate the apple.

But maybe it’s time to let go of the constant worry and just have faith that you are doing the very best that you can.

As long as they feel safe and loved, everything else is gravy.

As long as you take a minute every day to remember how blessed you are, everything else will fall into place.

As long as you remind them that you are their biggest fan and nothing they do will ever change that, they are the luckiest kids in the world.

As long as you teach them to work smart and hard, they will learn to appreciate what they have.

And after all that… maybe, just maybe, they won’t live with you at 30 and skip their shift at Taco Bell to get a “No Regerts” tattoo and wonder why they aren’t taken seriously.

BOOM! There it is.

#MothersGuiltIsReal

#OldFriendsMakeYouFeelYoungAgain

#AlphaChiOmegaSisters

#MamasSupportingMamas

Why is it that packing lunch for the kids takes 5 minutes if I do it the night before, but if I wait until the morning to pack it, it sucks 30-45 minutes from the already tight schedule?

I try to do it the night before but sometimes I just can’t… sometimes I’m just too tired… sometimes adding one more task to my day is just too much to think about and for the sake of everyone around me, I just need to sit down or, God forbid, go to bed early without finishing my chores.

And in my head, the same line always repeats… “It will be alright, I’ll get up early and do it.”

Nope.

I already get up early, any earlier and there would be no point in laying down in the first place.

At night, the lunch options seem to jump from the pantry and land in the lunchboxes magically. They are healthy, well chosen, well packed, and well, perfect.

In the morning… the game changes and we enter survival mode. The sandwich may have had something in it, but after being thrown in the box it is now a “deconstructed sandwich”. The Food Network shows them all the time, just eat it.

The box of raisins you didn’t eat yesterday and smashed to see what the inside looks like will taste the same as a new box, just eat it.

The to-go box of Chinese we had the other night still smells alright and you said you liked it Monday, just eat it.

The sweet note I took my time writing yesterday describing how much I love you, how proud I am of you and what a blessing you are to my life… yeah, all of that applies today, read it again.

So I start my day in a rush and swear not to procrastinate tonight.

But now I’m home after a long day and the bed is taunting me with promises of coziness and quiet.

I’ll just rest my eyes a while…

#LunchBoxTimeWarpIsReal

#HealthyLunchesAreEssentialButSoIsSleep

#ParentOfTheYearAwardWinner

I feel like the country is being punked.
One of the finest freedoms we have in this country is the right to vote for whoever you feel will lead our nation with integrity and virtue, and with the wisdom to encircle themselves with people wiser than themselves. 

I will never argue with someone who is voting one way or the other. And I will never disclose who I am or am not voting for.

With that said, this debate was a train wreck that I couldn’t stop watching.  It was a my-horse-is-bigger-than-your-horse, ridiculous celebrity grudge match. I find it so hard to believe that in a nation of over 300 million people, these are the only two we could find to represent us. 

And poor Lester who thought he was there to lead a debate, but surely walked away with a few more gray hairs and a new case of TMJ.  Trying to control those two will definitely put hair on your chest and a drink in your hand.

On the upside, I want to give Hillary her due… not once did she ask what exactly was in that glass Trump kept sipping on.

And I want to applaud The Donald for not asking why she hasn’t replied to his emails.

Way to take the high road everyone. You just keep digging until one of you buries the other.  

Now may be the perfect time to move to Fiji.