Next Year, You're Getting a Box

You would think, spending the amount of time with my children that I do, I would have no problem picking out exceptional gifts for them. Well, you would be wrong. Though I've only been a mother for 3.5 years, I have struck out repeatedly when choosing "big" gifts for gift-giving holidays. The toy kitchen is mostly used for bathing dinosaurs and microwaving Hot Wheels, the Power Wheels Jeep sits in the garage for 8 months out of the year, the tricycle is buried under several inches of snow (probably the most action it's seen since May), and the train table has been shoved into a corner of our computer room/guest bedroom (I know...) because I'm tired of watching little boys leap from it.

This Christmas, I decided on a different approach: furniture. We have hardwood floors and because I still haven't found an area rug I like, there is limited seating for little ones. The husband and I decided on the cute arm chairs from Pottery Barn, complete with monogramming. We sure thought we were clever, labeling them to avoid the "MINE!" epidemic that plagues houses with small children. As if that would be the only problem we'd have!

I had many dreams for these chairs. I could picture the boys sitting in them, quietly leafing through books while I did motherly stuff like mop and bake and play Mafia Wars. Apparently, I was picturing someone else's kids. It is five days after Christmas, and for the third consecutive day, the chairs are locked away in the computer/guest room, after being confiscated for inappropriate stacking and climbing. I'm far from a parenting veteran, but this, this, was a rookie mistake. If any kids could turn foam chairs into something dangerous, it would be my two. So now the only purpose these ridiculously expensive diminutive arm chairs are serving is to catch the dust before it settles on the train table.

Pimp My Blog

I finally did it. I was so tired of the sidebar labeled "followers" mocking me with its emptiness, I deleted it. Score one for my self esteem.

My blog remains without followers because I have yet to share the link with anyone who would actually read it, a demographic which consists of my mom. So unless someone randomly stumbles upon this blog, all of the page views are that of yours truly. Why? I wanted to it be something worth looking at before I shared it.

With this in mind, I just wasted the precious slice of my day that is my boys' naptime figuring out how to add a background. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that now that I see how simple it is. Everyone's got to start somewhere, and hey, no one's reading but me, right?

Now that I've deleted the evidence of my lack of followability and replaced it with a snazzy background, maybe it's time to share. Except, dang it, I've forgotten how to edit my font size.

I'm Dreaming of a Silent Night Before Christmas

I am not a morning person. Clearly, I was not thinking about the long term when I married one and subsequently had children with him. Both of our boys are early risers, despite the fact that the sun doesn't rise until 10 AM on these short winter days. Unfortunately, our youngest, who will be two next month, has decided that 6 and 7 AM wakeups were just a little too leisurely. 5:30 has become the hip new time to wake up and demand a cup of juice and a showing of Ice Age 3 (in that order, thankyouverymuch). I'd like to say it would be manageable if he wasn't still waking up at night (he is), or if he woke up refreshed and ready to start the day (he doesn't), but I'd be lying. Hopefully, Santa will leave a little something to cover under eye circles in my stocking this year.

And so it all began...

It's never occurred to me to blog before. One day, out of the blue, it hit me- maybe I do need a blog. I have heard that someday I'll look back on these years of smashed goldfish crackers and sticky hands with longing, and I'm too lazy to scrapbook, so, blogging it is. I need a place where I can shamelessly gush about the cute things my boys say and do, and share my parenting successes and epic fails. My own personal piece of real estate on the world wide web, where no one can tell me they've heard that story before. Well, they can, but I'll just delete their comment.