Know

I was sitting in my kindergarten class. 

Most of the moms were visiting that day. Our teacher was reading the book, Love You Forever.

The lines repeated throughout the book are, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

I looked around, and all of the moms had tears running down their faces, kleenexes bunched in their fingers. My mom was no different. I looked at her blankly.  

Why was she crying? Why were any of them crying? 

Moms could be funny, and I didn't get it.

I've always been close with my parents, we have a great relationship. They told me often that they loved me, no matter what. But I didn't really get it until 4:07am on the morning of April 24th, 2008 when my first son, Jacob, came into the world.

In that moment, I understood the love my parents had always professed for my brother and me. In that moment, I came to know absolute, pure, unconditional love.

Sometimes at night I pick my children up out of their cribs and rock them in my arms. I hold them close and I feel almost suffocated by all the things I want to tell them.

That I love them in a way that no language can express. 

That I would die for them without a moment's hesitation. 

That I pray they never have to suffer any pain in their lives.

Growing up, when I did something wrong, I would be afraid to tell my parents. I'd imagine the worst possible reaction they could have, and it usually included them writing me off or disowning me.

Because I didn't get it.

If I could have known the depth of their love for me then, I don't think I would have been fearful in sharing my misdeeds with them. (Well, not as fearful anyway, because I still got punished).

As a parent, I want my children to know that I love them no matter what. It doesn't matter what they do, or what they say, or what they think. I will continue to love them. It is beyond my control, and I couldn't stop loving them if I wanted to.

And yet, I doubt they will get it either. 

Until the day comes when they hold their own firstborn child in their arms and they fall desperately in love with that perfect, precious baby.

Then they will finally know.

I Think Parents Traveling with Children Should Get Complimentary Alcohol on Airplanes

Sigh.

I'm tired. I'm stressed. I'm on edge.

Can you guess what I'm doing today?

Flying. With toddlers.

My mind is flooded with images of luggage falling all over the place, the kids screaming and wiggling to get out of their strollers, angry looks from annoyed strangers, and TSA who want to basically molest me in their effort to keep our skies safer.

Will I make it through today?

To top it off, I have been dealing with some weird body temperature issues this past week. I have been so freaking hot for no reason. It doesn't matter where we are, or what I'm doing. It just comes and goes without warning, and it immediately causes me to break out into a sweat. 

I hate being hot. HATE IT. 

I don't look good when I'm hot. I get shiny and puffy, and it makes me really cranky. So now I keep wondering if I am going to have a hot flash at the airport, while carting around luggage and children, and I will be dripping with sweat and snapping at the slightest things, all because my internal barometer is reading 9500 freaking degrees.

Because of all these issues, I have been going into our bedroom every five minutes to announce to Richard that I have a new "battle plan" for tomorrow. God love him, he is one patient man. He listens quietly and nods his head yes, even though he has heard my detailed strategy a million times already, and every time I go over it again I can see his stress level rising. He's scared too. But he's being the strong one. 

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I just can't shut up. I hear myself talking, and in my head I'm like, KELLYN STOP TALKING YOU SOUND LIKE A CRAZY PERSON. But I can't. I just can't stop. 

*       *       *       *       *

Oh, and baby? I was thinking maybe I could drive to the airport tomorrow. I know I am going to be on edge and stressed to begin with, and sometimes when I am stressed I have a tendency to get stressed out even more by your driving, so I think this would be a way for us to avoid an unnecessary conflict.

What? You think I'm a bad driver?

No, no no. You're missing the point. Just say you'll let me drive.

*       *       *       *       *

He even watched the boys today so I could run to Old Navy. I was on a mission to find a "flying outfit". I would prefer to wear my new favorite Seven jeans, (that I bought at 40% off OMG!), but the thing that makes them so cute - the fact that they are adorned with gemstones - is exactly why I cannot wear them. They would set off every alarm, bell and whistle that airport security has in place. 

Next thing you know I would be taken to some back room, stripped from the waist down as the TSA ran my jeans through an X-Ray machine, and interrogated me about that trip I took to Mexico five years ago, and Richard would be on the other side of the door, with two hungry, screaming, poopy toddlers, yelling at me about why in God's name did I wear bedazzled pants to the airport?!

So as you can imagine, I was hoping to avoid all that. 

I went in search of some stretchy, comfy pants with no buttons, metal, zippers, nothing. I eventually found some yoga-type pants, and while not particularly cute, they will do the job. 

So this is where we're at. T-minus 20 hours until our plane leaves the ground that I so enjoy having my feet firmly planted on. But I am already too stressed about traveling with kids as it is, that I'm not even going to allow myself to start worrying about the plane crashing. I just can't. This week has already caused  me more than enough gray hairs, I'm sure.

Bottom line? Traveling with little kids SUCKS. There's no way around it. Richard was all, "Let's just drive to Illinois".

HA.

I told him he better hop off the crazy train because that would never be happening. 

A twenty-plus hour car ride, through the snow, and over several mountain passes with a one and two year old? No thanks. 

I guess I will settle for outrageous baggage fees, let a TSA employee get to second-base with me, and then spend three hours in a compact fuselage, squeezed so close to the stranger next to me that our elbows and knees keep awkwardly rubbing together.

I don't mean to sound like a Scrooge. I was stressed last year too, and once we got to Illinois we all had the best trip with Richard's extended family in a beautiful white Christmas. I am looking forward to another fun and memorable year. 

But this whole traveling process? Has turned me into a raving lunatic.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

This is the Face of a Hoarder

We've all seen the shows on TV lately revolving around "Hoarders" - people who are incapable of ever giving away or throwing anything out, to the point that there is barely any space to walk through their rooms, never mind a place to sit, or floors or walls that can be seen.

Sure it's entertaining to watch these shows; they are simultaneously interesting, disgusting, and funny.

But friends, I will have you know that it is one thing to watch these shows, and another thing entirely to live with a person who is afflicted with Hoarder's disease.

I live with a Hoarder.

Ryan. 

He hoards everything - mainly during meals. It's like he is afraid that once I have given him his food, I might take it back, so he holds as much of it as he can in his little clenched fists. Then he sits there - not eating any of it - just desperately attempting to contain his entire meal within his palms.

Green Beans

String Cheese

Gummy Vitamins

Pop Tart

M&M's

Cheese

Saltines

Pretzels

Then there is his toy box. He puts everything in here. EVERYTHING. From bouncy balls, to stuffed animals, to trucks and cars, to books, to blankets, even his sippy cups. It's like he is hoarding all of his belongings in the event of an emergency. I imagine that if Ryan had been an adult during the whole Y2K scare, he would have been one of those people who built a bomb shelter and then stocked it with every item you might possibly need. 

Protecting his treasures

His bomb shelter.

Even Ryan's bed cannot escape his compulsive need to hoard items. I guess he uses it when his toy box is completely full to the max. In fact, I have to clean out his crib about three times a week, just to ensure that there is room for him to sleep at night.

So, the next time you are watching your Hoarder shows, and smirking at the quirky actions of others, I want you to think of this face.

This is the face of a Hoarder.

Addict

So Richard decided to join Facebook this past week.

Which was great. For about five minutes. Then he discovered Facebook games, and that was all he cared about.

*    *    *    *    *

Richard, you should comment on my status.

Sure, sure, I will, but I am advancing my civilization right now. This game is SO awesome you have to play it.

Um, I don't play Facebook games. Why don't you talk to someone on Facebook? That's why most people have Facebook - it's a social network. We socialize. Not play games.

*    *    *    *    *

Aside from the occasional time-killer here and there, I've never been into Facebook games. Earlier this year, it seemed like most of my friends were crazy about them, and every day my Facebook account was flooded with invites to harvest a field in Farmville,  or join someone's Mafia, or help a friend bake a billion cupcakes in Cafe World. 

It just wasn't my thing, and I ignored all of them. I didn't get what was so enticing about a fake farm, or a fake mafia or fake cupcakes - Hello! That is just plain wrong. If I am going to help you bake cupcakes I better get to freaking eat one at the end of all that work.

But it seemed as though my friends had stopped playing their games. Or perhaps they just realized I wasn't going to assist them. In any case, I had stopped getting those invites.

Until Richard joined Facebook.

All the sudden I was once again being bombarded by these invites to help him build his ancient civilization in City of Wonder. But I couldn't simply hit "Ignore", because two seconds later Richard would come hound me about it in person. There was no escape!

*    *    *    *    *

Listen Richard, I can't help you with your game. I have a reputation to uphold.

On Facebook?

Yes.

What does that even mean?

It means I don't play Facebook games, okay?

*    *    *    *    *

And I was all snooty and so above any of that game-playing.

He begged me to play his game - to just try it. I finally caved and agreed I would give it a try the next day while he had duty. 

After I fed the boys their breakfast that morning I remembered my promise, and decided to take a quick look at the game before showering and starting on the laundry and my long list of chores for the day. 

Next thing I know, it's FIVE HOURS LATER, I'm still in pajamas, my hair is greasy from lack of shower, our laundry hasn't been touched, my mascara from the day before is smudged under my eyes and I can't leave my computer - not for more than two minutes - or my civilization might fall into ruin!

I. Was. Addicted.

I spent $25 dollars of REAL MONEY on this game buying myself gold - FAKE gold. 

Real money for fake gold. 

On what planet does that make sense?? And yet, I couldn't stop myself. I had to increase my monies.

Richard called me in the evening to discuss the game. I told him how irritated I was at him for getting me so addicted to this dumb game that I could not quit playing.

*    *    *    *    *

You're my husband! You're not supposed to get me hooked on bad things like this.

I know! It's super fun, right? I just hope you're remembering to feed the kids, hahaha...

What kids.

*    *    *    *    *

Don't worry, the children got dinner...eventually. WHAT!

Tomorrow we are planning to take the kids to the park, far far away from any computers or ancient civilizations. If that doesn't do the trick, you may see me wind up on "Intervention", eyes bloodshot, with week-old Cheetos stuck in my ratted hair. 

OMG someone stop me please.

Everybody Was Kung Fu Kissing

A little background, first:

While on deployment, Richard would kill time by practicing Jujitsu, (which, according to Google can also be spelled no less than a thousand other ways, so if you were going to correct me on the spelling, don't bother. I just picked the one I liked best). Anyways, he got really into this form of martial arts. Every time he would email me he'd tell me about the latest move he learned or how he totally almost made a guy pass out that day.

So there we were on Friday night. We'd had a long, busy day and I was cuddled up in our comfy bed, with my soft fleece pajamas on, eating from my bowl of ice cream and watching a movie.

*    *    *    *    *

Kellyn! Come over here for a second, I want to show you some of my Jujitsu moves.

No thanks.

No, come on Kellyn, it will only take a minute.

I'm good.

Seriously, you need to learn this stuff, it is good for self defense. It will help you in case anyone ever tries to attack you.

Actually I have a better plan, I will just stay away from walking down dark alleys at three in the morning, and sleep with Captain Kirk next to the bed.

Noooo, Kellyn please come here? I really want to teach you this.

(Sigh) Fine.

Awesome! Ok, so you lay down on the ground and I will get on top of you like I am going to attack you.

Don't hurt me, I bruise easy.

I'm not actually going to attack you. All right, now you need to wrap your arms around my head like this...

Wow, our carpet is filthy! I gotta remember to vacuum in here tomorrow.

Kellyn! Focus! Now wrap your legs around my back and lock your ankles together.

This is boring.

Look, this is really easy, just pay attention okay? This is important stuff you need to know. Now interlock your fingers and put your arms around my neck.

Like this?

No, no! You're not doing it right, lock your fingers together really tight so I can't break through.

Don't yell at me!

I'm not yelling - Ughh - Okay, let's switch positions so I can show you what I mean. I will lay down and you get on top of me like you're going to attack me.

Fine.

Okay, now pretend like you're going to punch me and I will stop you. (Richard does some of his Jujitsu magic).

I can't move.

Exactly! See what I'm doing? Now do you get what I was trying to show you? You need to have your hands locked together really tight so they can't be pulled apart.

(I lean my face toward Richard's and give him an Eskimo Kiss).

What are you doing.

Eskimo Kisses! (I do it again).

Dah! Stop that! You need to pay attention.

Is this what you guys did on the ship? When you pinned one another down would you Eskimo Kiss?

No. That would make us gay.

Well, no offense, but it seems to me that a bunch of grown men pinning each other down and straddling one another is a little gay.

Okay, you ruined it. Never mind.

*    *    *    *    *

And that was the end of my self-defense lesson. 

Except that now I am super paranoid that I AM going to be attacked and I will be kicking myself for not paying more attention. But at this point I don't think Mr. "I Hate Eskimo Kisses" is willing to teach me again. 

Good thing there is always Captain Kirk to protect me.

Beauty Bonanza

It all started in seventh grade. I was going through an...awkward phase. To put it nicely. 

My hair was uncooperative. My body was just weird. I had braces and acne.

But - I had nails.

They were really the only part of my body that I considered "pretty".

I wasn't very skilled at painting them, so I decided to get fake nails. I just knew they would make me look older and sophisticated. I couldn't get the nail salon kind though, since I was 13 and had no money. So I begged my mom to buy me the ones from the drug store that taped onto my real nail. They were incredibly long and I painted them neon yellow.

People. Neon yellow.

I thought they were HOT, and that all the boys would be lining up to date me and my exotic nails.

I vividly remember standing at the bus stop with the cute boy from down the street who was a year older, and holding my hands conspicuously in front of my face, (which I'm sure looked very awkward to him), in an attempt to get him to notice my electric-colored talons.

In hindsight, they probably came across as more frightening than hip.

So, that was an epic fail. And, even worse, once I finally wised up and ripped them off, my real nails were pretty damaged. I promised myself I would never wear fake nails again, and began training myself to paint my own. I painted them every single day of the week. It became almost an obsession. After a while I was able to do it without even thinking, it was a relaxing activity for me. 

At my worst I would paint my nails three times a day.

In college I kept the nail polish remover and all of my polish colors in a drawer of my desk so I could paint and repaint my nails while working on homework or writing essays. 

People would walk in the room while I was painting my nails and make a face about the smell and tell me that we should open a window. I never understood what they were talking about. I couldn't even smell the paints anymore, my nose was so accustomed to them.

I've had to slow down a bit since having children.

It never fails, as soon as I finish my nails and am waiting for them to dry, one of my sons will need me right THIS INSTANT to change a diaper or fill a sippy cup with milk or change the batteries on a toy.

But I still love painting my nails. It's calming, and it is so fun for me to come up with new designs and colors to try out. I especially like coordinating my nails with holidays or special events.

So, without further ado, I have created this new page for your enjoyment ,(you can also get to it by clicking on the "Beauty Bonanza" Tab at the top of this page). 

I plan to post photos of nail designs I create, and discuss some of my favorites styles or brands of nail polish. I may also occasionally discuss other girly beauty topics on there as well for the fun of it. So if you, like me, enjoy trying new nail designs, then have a look and let me know what you think!

And don't worry, I no longer use neon yellow. For anything.

This is My Life

This is my life.

We have to mail a package. 

We're five days late getting it out because of a combination of bad weather, Richard's Homecoming, and Thanksgiving.

I absolutely have to mail it today, my tardiness is just getting ridiculous at this point.

I hustle the boys into the car with promises of lunch at McDonald's, where they can eat all the Chicken McNuggets and french fries that they want. 

15 minutes later we arrive at the post office. Which, for some very awkward reason, is as quiet as a library.  

Great, the perfect setting for two loud toddlers.

And, of course, everyone and their goat decided to go to the post office today too. 

And, of course, each one of the zillion people in line has a VERY IMPORTANT ISSUE they need handled RIGHT NOW, that will take no less than five minutes to sort out.

Multiply five minutes by a zillion people and that equals one very bad headache and two super impatient toddlers.

Ryan is screaming and trying to wiggle himself out of the stroller.

Jacob is yelling "Chicken please! Chicken please!", frustrated that we aren't at McDonald's, and now the other people in line behind us are looking at me like they think I starve my children, and force the poor babies to beg for food.

In an attempt to buy myself a few minutes I dig out some stale Gerber Puffs that have been in the bottom of the stroller for who knows how long, and hand Jacob my car key ring, which has a small flashlight on it that I think he will like playing with.

Instead, he goes straight for the button that sets off my CAR ALARM. 

Finally - somehow - we mailed the package and piled back in the car.

Once we are in the McDonald's play area, Jacob keeps trying to push open the emergency exit door, which conveniently has an alarm on it as well.

Seriously, who's genius idea was it to put an emergency alarm door in the children's play area of McDonald's?!

Ryan is running from table to table trying to steal other patrons' french fries and juice boxes. 

This is my life.

Setting off alarms.

Disturbing the peace.

It's the most adorable chaos you can imagine.

I wouldn't have it any other way.