Ring Shopping

When last I wrote, you learned all about my wonky hands and a bit about my struggles with ring- wearing while pregnant. What I didn't confess to you at the time, but am now willing to divulge, is that the wedding ring I currently wear is a fake. FAKE!!! False, bogus, phony, fakety-fake fake fake!

While I was pregnant with my youngest, my hands swelled and made it impossible for me to put on my wedding ring. Unfortunately, after my baby was born, the sausage-like expansion of my ring finger made it difficult for me to wear my wedding band on any finger but my pinkie. Since that would look ridiculous, as I am not a member of the mafia, I decided the next best alternative was to head on over to amazon.com and find the classiest fake diamond ring my money could buy. With a whopping $30 budget and the only qualification that it had to come in a size 10 — I know! — I began my hunt. After an extensive search wherein I realized that almost every woman in the world wears a ring at least four sizes smaller than what I needed, I finally found a few decent options to choose from.

$29 and two days later (thanks, Amazon Prime!), my tarnish free rhodium plated sterling silver band with a clear, brilliant cut cubic zirconia ring arrived.

When I pulled it out of the box, I was relatively satisfied that it did not look any cheaper in person than it did in the pictures. I chose to overlook the fact that one of the small accent "diamonds" was missing, since clearly I got what I paid for. Nevertheless, I slid it on my chubby little hand and rejoiced in the fact that I no longer had a naked left ring finger.

Now here's the part that's a bit embarrassing... I frequently get compliments on my ring. I've never known how to handle these comments because on the one hand, if I simply say "thank you" I feel like I'm being deceitful, but if I point out that it is indeed fake, I feel like I'm insulting the taste of the complimenter (like, "you're so dumb that you can't tell a real diamond from a cheap knock-off"). I usually just try to change the subject as quickly as possible so as to avoid any more awkwardness.

It's been four years and my fake ring is showing signs of wear. Once I tried to clean it using jewelry cleaner, but it started to literally disintegrate the moment I dipped it in the chemicals. Luckily with a little buffing, I saved it from an untimely demise, but from that point on I knew that the only way my ring could get cleaned was when I washed my hands. ("Rhoduim plated sterling silver" can withstand water, so it seems). I bought for my husband a watch as a gift last Christmas, and while I was there the jeweler offered to clean my ring "for free" — I was mortified and declined as politely as I could. Handing my $29 ring over to a jeweler for closer inspection was obviously not an option.

As it turns out, my original wedding ring fits me once more, and the size 10 phony ring falls off my finger. So why, you ask, am I still wearing the fake? It's simple: my old ring is busted (from being sized up and down too many times, remarkably), a prong is loose, and frankly I don't really like it. [Gasp! The Horror! How can your husband still love you after a statement like that?!] It's true, I said it, I don't love my wedding ring.

What I am about to write will come as no shock to my husband, so there's no need for you to worry about the state of our marriage after this post gets published. When Scott and I were at that point in our relationship where marriage was discussed and we were "unofficially engaged," he asked me what kind of ring I would like. At the time I thought it was tacky for a girl to pick out her own ring (silly, naive, judgmental little old me), so I gave Scott a few guidelines and wished him luck. [Looking back, this was probably the first of many times in our relationship that I later learned my husband could not, in fact, read my mind]. When the time came for him to present me with my ring, Scott, bless his heart, gave me exactly what I asked for, which means I clearly wasn't specific enough.

The ring was simple (what I said I wanted), a diamond solitaire (perfect), set on a thick gold band (uh oh). Here's what Scott couldn't have know but what I would have realized if I'd tried it on before he bought it: the ring, though lovely, made my finger look like an overdressed bratwurst. Thick band + fat finger = bad news. It's not that I hated it, I just felt really self-conscious about the girth of my finger. But I wore it for years, had it sized up and down each time I had a baby, and was generally content with the effort that Scott made to pick out something like I said I wanted. But after my last pregnancy, due to the reasons listed two paragraphs ago, I put my ring in a safe place and the rest you already know.

A few months ago, Scott said the most beautiful words I always longed to hear: "Darling, why don't you get your diamond re-set?" Turns out, he's not a fan of my amazon.com special. He loves me and wants me to be happy, so it doesn't really bother him that my original setting isn't working for me anymore. He wants me to stop wearing a CZ and start wearing the lovely diamond he scrimped and saved to buy me 12 years ago with his hard earned money. (Oh, have I ever told you about how I had established a "ring fund" for myself when I started college? I tucked away part of my wages from each of my random jobs, put it in a savings account, and planned to present it to my future hubby when ring shopping time arrived. I figured that whatever my soon-to-be hubby could afford, I'd probably want something that cost a little more, so my slush fund could make up the difference. See, I was such a catch!).

So here's where I need your help. You see, I'm in the market for a new ring setting, and I want your opinion. What is it you love about your ring? What, if anything, don't you like about your ring? (Don't worry, I won't tell your husband). I'm excited to pick out something new, but feel overwhelmed at all of the choices out there. Tell me what to buy, would ya?

Murderer's Thumbs

There was a cute boy who lived in my building while I was in college. Okay, to be honest, there were many cute boys who lived in my building - I even married one of them - but it is one particular boy who I am remembering today as I prepare to write this post. We were hanging out in his apartment, having one of those casual, surreal conversations about what qualities we were looking for in our future spouse, when he mentioned how important "nice hands" were to him. It was at that point when I hid mine from view and realized he and I were not meant to be. [Looking back, that guy was super lame. Of all the qualities you want/need in a spouse, "nice hands" really shouldn't matter, right?]

You already know about my feet, but it's time I let you in on a little secret, which, if you've ever taken a good look, you already know... I've got wonky hands. My fingers are short and stubby, my nails are weak, and my thumbs are bizarre. When I was pregnant, my hands swelled up so much that my fingers looked like little sausages. Once my wedding ring stopped fitting, I insisted on going to a mall jewelry store to get a plain, cheap gold band to wear so as not to look like an unwed swollen mass. The ring I bought was a men's band, size 12. SIZE 12!!!! By the end of my last pregnancy, even that didn't fit. Fun fact (and reason #57 for why I have no desire to ever be pregnant again): I retained so much water in my last pregnancy that after my son was born, the excess liquid in my body trying to escape caused me to get water blisters all over my hands and feet. It was absolutely as horribly uncomfortable as it sounds. For a mother of a newborn recovering from a c-section, it was a nightmare.

Anyway, all that was to say my hands are wack. And like my feet, my hands have been the subject of my family's musings all my life. Of all my siblings, I am the only one with mutant feet. But with our hands we share a common bond, because 3 out of the 5 of us got some form of odd fingers. Mine are the worst, naturally, but I have a brother and one sister who also suffer from strange digits. When we were all together for a family reunion this past summer, we sat around and laughed about our hands (then everyone pointed and laughed at my feet). It was my affected sister who sent out a family email recently which seriously made my life:

To: my family
From: my sister, Amy (who we affectionately call "Amo")
Subject: Our thumbs explained...

I was talking to a friend the other day when she noticed my thumbs. "You have that dwarf thumb syndrome thing!" she exclaimed. (She's very sweet but not always super tactful). So I decided to get to the bottom of the "Grant thumb" issue. For those of us who have been blessed with one or two of these delightful looking digits, we technically have "clubbed thumbs." The scientific term is Brachydactyly type D (or BDD), although the condition is also known as "murderer's thumb" (fabulous). It's a genetic condition that's actually fairly common. You might also like to know that at least one movie star reportedly has this condition - Megan Fox.

I don't know about you, but I'm ready to OWN my thumbs. No more refusing to share the hymn book with my fellow relief society sisters! No more hiding my thumbs under the plate when handing Christmas goodies to my neighbors! Join me fellow "clubbers!" Say it out loud - I have clubbed thumbs and I'm proud!!!

Wanna join the "club?"
Amo

Never in my life had I sought to find an explanation for my odd thumbs. I just figured, when combined with my feet, I was being taught a divine lesson about avoiding vanity. Then lo and behold! There is a legit medical reason for our thumbs. Clubbed thumbs impact each of my affected siblings in different ways. Amy has normal looking fingers and two dwarf thumbs. My brother Brian is the luckiest of all, since he has one normal thumb and one squat one. As I've previously stated, all my fingers, as well as my toes, look clubbed.

It was the last part of Amy's email that resonated the most, since I absolutely hide my thumbs from people. When sharing a hymn book, I place my whole hand behind to support it rather than have one of my thumbs displayed. I conceal my hands in pictures, try to avoid ordering meals that I must eat with my hands, and never get manicures. While I was in high school, in an attempt to make my hands look more presentable, my mother encouraged me to get acrylic nails. While I doubt they made much of a difference, beautification-wise, I will never forget the first time they tried to fit my thumbs with fake nails and couldn't find a size large enough.

So there you have it. I have dwarf thumbs and wonky fingers. I'm thinking that this must qualify as some sort of disability. What perks could someone with genetically ugly fingers be entitled to? Must do research to find out.

While I'm not sure I'm quite ready to "own" my thumbs like my sister encouraged, I can promise that I will now be more generous with thumb-involved hand gestures. Perhaps someday soon you'll even get a "thumbs-up" from me. If I can work up the courage...

ZEMAS

On a scale of one to ten, one being equivalent to "okay, she's a little bit odd" and ten being roughly like, "wow. she's a pathetic loser!" how bad is it that the highlight of my day was seeing these photos...

...and discovering that a certain inappropriate crush of mine is currently filming a movie called The Lucky One, based on a Nicholas Sparks (The Notebook, Dear John) novel?

I'm thinking another gathering of the ZEMAS (Zac Efron Mutual Admiration Society) will take place sometime next year. Ladies, brace yourselves.

Oh, and if you can't wait that long, I'll try to find a way for us to convene and watch Charlie St. Cloud at my house once I get my hands on a copy. It's totally on my Christmas wish list.

a message for my high school crush

Dear boy I liked in high school,

It's been a loooooong time. I haven't seen you or spoken to you in over a decade. So why, may I ask, do you keep disturbing my sleep with cameo appearances in my dreams? This has been going on for years, boy I liked in high school, and I would like it to stop. Having you waltz through my dreams every few weeks, sometimes interacting, other times just looming... well, it's kind-of weird. It would be ungracious of me not to point out that you are always very respectful, never attempting to do anything that I, as a happily married woman, would consider untoward. But still, just the fact that you're there seems a bit inappropriate, don't you think? Perhaps what we really need is some closure. Is that why you're still lingering in my subconscious? Alright then, let's sort this out.

Here's the thing, boy I liked in high school: we both know that you were one of many crushes I entertained during those formative years. I am willing to admit that I was completely boy-crazy, suffered from what I now realize was a bit of a self-esteem problem, and as a result pursued and dated a number of boys that I now regret. But you were different, I think... because nothing ever happened between us. We were just friends. We had lots of classes together, ran in the same circles, participated in some of the same activities, spent time hanging out and talking on the phone. We were good friends and I valued our friendship, but without hesitation I would have become more-than-friends with you. And I think you must have known that.

I can't say that I liked you for four solid years, because there were times that you drove me crazy! You were an idiot and sometimes a little mean and I didn't always approve of the girls you liked or dated. But the thing that has always frustrated me when I'm forced to think about you, boy I liked in high school who keeps lurking in my dreams, is that I'm fairly certain that you liked me too. Like, liked me liked me. You wouldn't admit it to yourself, but you did. And I think we could have been really great together, in a temporary, you're-not-my-soulmate-but-I-can-learn-a-lot-from-you kind of way. At the very least, you could have prevented me from going after that one guy, the total jerk who used me and broke my heart a little. That would have been nice.

I didn't go to our ten year reunion. I doubt you were there either. We've obviously both moved on with our lives and are full-fledged adults now with real, grown-up relationships and responsibilities. I'd like to think that if I ever saw you again we'd be able to fall back into that easy friendship that we once had. But I can't imagine when or where we'd ever see each other again. So let's just be content with the knowledge that if our adult selves had been around to advise our teenage selves, perhaps things would have been different. But they weren't, and that's ok.

So, do you think we've worked through our issues, boy I liked in high school? Have we come to an understanding wherein you could now kindly step away from my peaceful slumber and stop hijacking my dreams? That would be so thoughtful of you. It would almost make up for your teenage ignorance.

Yours most sincerely,

Me

What's Up?

Hi there!

Did you miss me? It seems I forgot to blog for, like, 3 months. Whoops! If this were a blog devoted to my day-to-day life, I would try to tell you all about what has passed in the last few months. I'd prattle on about our summer road trip/family reunion, I'd post way more pictures than you care to see, and then I'd top it off with the latest sayings and doings of my children. But since I chose from the beginning to devote this blog to all things trivial and unimportant – my random thoughts – I'll gladly stick to my original purpose and favor you today with a list (yay lists!) of random thoughts/occurrences/drivel:

• I bought a pair of jeans at the Gap recently in a size that made me happy. When I got home and tried them on for Scott I asked, "Do they look okay, or do they look like I had to grease my thighs with butter to get them on?" [I feel sorry for men. They get really nervous when we women pose questions like that.] He was wise and said they looked good. But what other choice did he have, really?

• Recently, I acquired a new cell phone. It is so much smarter than me! I've decided it is time to crawl out from under the rock where I've taken up residence for the past decade and start texting. Now I just need a reason to text and someone to text at/with/to. Brace yourself because before you know it I'm going to be using my phone to take 20 pictures a day of random stuff that I will immediately post to my facebook profile. My friend count will deplete and then I'll curse the day I ever laid hands on my smartphone. Just you wait.

• Fall is here and I am so ready! Jeans, boots, long sleeve tees and sweaters... here I come! There is no better time of year and no better choice of wardrobe to accompany it.

• My husband wants me to self-publish a cookbook with all of my favorite, tried-and-true recipes. I think his main motivation stems from the current cluttered mess of recipes I have in my cookbook cupboard. I think it would be fun to do, but it's also intimidating. Maybe someday...

• Guess what has two thumbs and two tickets to see Michael Buble again in December? This girl! And I've got floor seats! Hooray! Now let's all say a collective prayer that I don't have someone tall standing in front of me during the concert. We shorties are at such a disadvantage at any function that requires the ability to see past the person directly ahead of you. I'm debating whether or not to do something that I've never done in all my concert going experience: wait around after the show in an attempt to get an autograph. Seems lame and totally desperate, right? But also kinda fun. We'll see.

• I'm in serious need of suggestions for good running tunes. I get bored so easily with my running playlist. Got any suggestions? I tend to like newer stuff by any number of artists that I wouldn't listen to otherwise. Currently I've got songs by Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Flo Rida, Ok GO, 3OH!3, Jason Derulo, Michael Franti, Rhianna. But I need more! Got any suggestions for me?

• I was asked to co-chair a committee on the PTA this year. I now know what it must feel like to be in the mafia. These women are hardcore! Amazing, talented, but hardcore. I feel so inadequate, out of place, and completely clueless. And I'm not sure they'll ever let me quit. Already there's talk of what I'll be doing next year. If I disappear for awhile, the PTA powers-that-be should be prime suspects.

• Latest book obsession: The Mortal Instruments series. I found these while browsing books at Costco, which is pretty much the best thing ever for a book lover like myself. Don't be fooled by the shirtless guy on the cover – these books are YA and a lot of fun to read! I'm awful at describing plots, so I'll just say that there's a bit of everything in these books (in total it will be a series of 6 books, but only 3 have been published thus far.) Love triangles, mysteries, unexpected plot twists, good vs. evil, teenagers knowing more than their adult counterparts, mythical creatures. I'm not usually a fan of the fantasy genre, but these were based just enough in reality that I could easily handle it. Take elements from series like The Lightening Thief, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, and yes, even Twilight, and you've got a decent understanding of what to expect from this series. Highly recommended by me.

• Artists and songs I've been into lately:

Wakey!Wakey! – Light Outside, Almost Everything

Jeremy Messersmith – A Girl, a Boy, and a Graveyard

The Temper Trap – Sweet Disposition

Anya Marina – All the Same to Me

Jason Walker – Down

30 Seconds to Mars – Kings and Queens

Stateless – Bloodstream

Now it's your turn... got any book or music recommendations for me? Any suggestions for how I can escape those PTA gangsters? Should I publish a cookbook? Wanna text me? Is waiting around after a concert with the hope of meeting the artist really pathetic? And most importantly... do these jeans make me look fat?

(not me. imagine the above picture with someone 8 inches shorter and with a bigger bum)

If the shoe fits...

I have weird feet. Like, really odd and funny feet. You know those Bear Claw pastries? That's kind of what my feet look like. They are wide with short, stubby little toes. Growing up, my family used to tease me about my feet. I remember on several occasions having the entire family, my parents included, just sit and laugh while staring at my feet. They really are that amusing. Rather than go to therapy to uncover what kind of emotional scars I will carry with me to the grave because of the merciless foot mocking of my youth, how about I just write a blog post about them and then move on? Sounds like a plan.

In college, I had to see a podiatrist about some issues I was having with my feet. When he first looked at them, he snickered. I'm not kidding. A man who examines feet for a living laughed at mine. When he started to remark on the unusual webbing between my second and third toes, I nearly lost it. And so, six weeks before my wedding, I had a minor surgical procedure on both feet. Have you ever had a shot in the bottom of your foot? If not, I can tell you that it is just about the most painful experience I've ever endured. I would rather get an epidural in my spine than another shot in my foot.

I am no Imelda Marcos. Finding shoes that fit comfortably is a real chore which means that I own very few pairs of shoes, and when one pair wears out, I mourn the loss of it. Summer is my least favorite season because sandals are my nemesis. Any shoe that is designed to show off your foot is not a shoe for me. My goal is always to find a sandal that covers the greatest possible area of my foot while still passing as a sandal.

So, you know if you've read my previous posts that I reacquainted myself with my treadmill about a year ago. Turns out that when you exercise regularly, you need shoes that will hold up well. Naturally, I pulled out a pair of old shoes that my mother had worn for her daily walks before giving them to me. She is also blessed with wide feet, you see. Thus, I started my daily exercise routine in a pair of hand-me-down, already worn out shoes. After several months, those shoes were hurting my feet and so I replaced them with a second pair of my mom's cast-offs. Then, about a month ago, I jumped off the treadmill after a workout to discover that I had blood on my sock. Yup, my crappy, ill-fitting, hand-me-down shoes had abused my feet so badly that they were actually bleeding. When Scott saw the pathetic state of my blistered, callused, bloody feet, he begged me -- begged me -- to go buy myself some decent exercise shoes. As much as I hate shoe shopping, after a year of exercising in cruddy shoes, I had to admit that Scott was right (it happens so rarely) and it was time to get some real shoes.

It was with no small amount of trepidation that I entered a shoe store designed for runners/exercisers. I couldn't help feeling like a fraud, despite the friendly salesperson who was eager to help. He asked me a bunch of questions about my exercise regimen, and I slowly began to feel like maybe I belonged there in that store.

Eager-to-please salesguy: "How many miles do you log each week?"

Me: "Hmmm. Well, I hit the treadmill about 4-5 times a week and do about 5 miles each time, so..."

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Alright, so about 20-25 miles a week."

Me: (thinking) Huh. I never thought about that before. Go me!

He explained their three-step system for determining what shoe will fit you best. First, he asked me to remove my sandals so he could measure my feet. Ugh. I suppose I could have predicted that I would have to expose my feet, but it didn't make it any easier when the time came to actually do it. Eager-to-please sales guy managed to maintain his composure after my shoes came off. I placed each foot into a measuring device that he had to tweak and adjust in order to accommodate my mammoth bear claws. At one point he touched my foot and it took all I had not to shout, "Ewww. Don't touch! Don't Touch!"

Eager-to-please salesguy: "What shoe size do you normally wear?"

Me: "7 1/2"

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Yeah, your feet measure at 6 1/2"

Me: "Hmmm. That explains a lot."

Basically, I'd spent the last year exercising in old, worn-out, too-big shoes. Nice. Step two of the three-step shoe fitting process required me to stand on a scanner for a full foot scan, the results of which appeared on a giant monitor in the middle of the store. How fortunate that I was able to examine the thermal patterns and pressure points of my feet in full-color and in plain view of everyone in the store! The salesguy was telling me all about what each shade of color represented, but all I could think was Get my feet off the screen! Get my feet off the screen! I should mention that I brought socks with me for when it was time to try on shoes, and after each step I would ask the salesguy if it was time for me to put on my socks -- so desperate was I to cover my feet. Finally he just had to reply with "No, I'm afraid you're going to have to stay barefoot a little longer." Because there was still one more step... and it was my worst nightmare, but it was no dream.

Step 3: Run, barefoot, on a treadmill while being recorded by a video camera so it can be watched in slow-motion on a giant monitor.

And so I ran, on a treadmill, in bare feet, while being recorded so that we could later watch it on a giant screen in slow-motion and evaluate my foot weaknesses. What happened next is kind-of a blur. I remember the salesguy using big fancy foot words like "pronation" but to be honest, I didn't hear most of what he was saying about arch support, etc. because I was completely transfixed and mortified by the giant image being broadcast across the store of my feet slowly thump thump thumping along on the treadmill.

Eager-to-please salesguy: "It's time to start trying on some shoes."

Me: (relieved) "Great! I'll just put on the socks I brought."

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Actually, I noticed that you have cotton socks. We don't allow cotton socks in our store."

Me: (dumbfounded and slightly amused) "You don't allow cotton socks in your store?"

Eager-to-please salesguy: "Nope, I'm afraid not. You can wear some of our specially designed moisture wicking running socks to try on our shoes."

Me: "Um, okay."

I overcame the sense of shame that had befallen me for bringing unwelcome cotton socks into the store because I was too curious and had to know why they are shunned. Apparently, according to eager-to-please salesguy, cotton socks are pretty much the worst kind of sock you can wear for exercise. So, not only had I been running in old, worn out, too big shoes, but I'd been wearing the wrong kind of socks to boot!

Anyway, I started to try on shoes (they had wide sizes -- yay!) and discovered something remarkable: if they are the right size and well designed, running shoes can actually feel really good on your feet. Go figure! I tried on several pairs, hopped around in them, declined an offer to jump back on the treadmill to try them out, and in no time at all, found a pair that fit like a glove. $150 later, I left the store with a spiffy pair of brand-new shoes, arch-supporting insoles, and several pairs of moisture wicking super fancy socks!

I was really excited to jump on the treadmill that evening and try them out. The store has a 90-day return-for-any-reason policy, so I was determined to see if these shoes were really that much better than what I'd been using... and they totally are! Holy cow! Now, when I exercise, it feels great! My feet don't ache, my legs don't hurt, I feel like I'm just bouncing along. It's awesome! I'm not generally a proponent of idolatry, but I worship these shoes. Aren't they pretty?

So, to all of you who are currently exercising in a pair of your mom's old sneakers (I can't be the only one, can I? Can I?) may I recommend that you follow my ground-breaking example and invest in a pair of new shoes that fit well? You won't be sorry. And your feet will no longer bleed. What more reason do you need, really?

p.s. One benefit of writing this post is that I'll soon be able to tell who all of my blog lurkers are. You'll reveal yourself when, next we meet, you are stifling giggles or recoiling in horror as you stare at my feet.

On Motherhood

It's lunchtime around here, which today went something like this:

Make kids lunch: The latest request from my kids is a bread, butter and jelly sandwich. I don't know what peanut butter did to deserve such a profound rejection, but for my kids at least, PB isn't invited to J's party. Add to the plate some cheetos (because I'm a 'fun mom!' who does things like that), and give the boy a yogurt, as he has a massive addiction to dairy products. Take drink orders by stating "water or milk?" and then wait the 0.3 seconds it takes for child #1 to ask for lemonade. Get everyone settled at the table, have kid #2 say a prayer to bless the food, during which kid #3 shouts out what should be included, "bless the water!"

Make myself lunch: Return to the counter to fix myself a sandwich--not jelly & butter. Barely finish putting the last piece of homegrown lettuce (so good!) on my perfect looking sandwich when the boy calls out "uh-oh, spill!" Abandon my untouched sandwich to marvel at how a boy with a bib on managed to get half his yogurt on his shirt. Start walking towards my sandwich when child #2 asks for more milk. Get her more milk, eye my sandwich lovingly as I approach it, and hear child #1 asking for more cheetos. Spend the next minute or so explaining how one serving of cheetos is enough, while my sandwich grows impatient and threatens to eat itself. Finally sit down to take a bite of my amazing sandwich, when the boy decides he's done and begins to leave the table with cheeto fingers. Leap up to wet-paper-towel the fingers, notice child #2 is finished, ask her to carry her plate over to the sink, realize I wasn't specific enough when only her plate, not her cup or napkin, makes it's way off the table. Sit down to eat another bite while fending off more pleas for cheetos from child #1 who at this moment is clearly dying of starvation. Convince her the begging is futile, get her to clear her dishes, and finally manage to snarf down my sandwich before wrangling the boy into his crib for a much needed nap:

"Time for a nap."

"Why?" (his new favorite question)

"Because you're cranky and mommy's cranky and we'll both be less cranky if you have a nap."

"Okay."

If I were a "mommy blogger" this would be the part where I say I'm so blessed to be a mom and I love every minute of it! While that first part is absolutely true, the last part is a lie every mother tells herself. You love your kids. You love being a mom. But you don't love, you can't love, some of the unpleasant, inconvenient parts of motherhood. There's no love for the puddle of mystery pee in the powder room that all of your kids deny any knowledge of. There's no love for vomit on the carpet or bruises inflicted by a hard toddler skull cracking against mommy's face (remind me to tell you about that sometime).

I love my kids. I am so grateful that they're mine and that they appear to have fewer faults than I do. I wish I could be one of those perpetually perky parents who finds joy in mundane mothering tasks. But, I don't know... maybe we'd all be better off if we admitted to each other that occasionally, from time to time, every once in awhile, parenting isn't fun. So, here I am, putting it out there:

Motherhood is a blessing. Motherhood teaches you how to be unselfish (it forces you to be unselfish, if we're being completely honest). Motherhood has so many rewards, like the daily hugs, and smiles, and "I love you's". But it is HARD. And sometimes, when you run out of patience or make a bad parenting decision, you really do feel like a failure.

It helps to realize that even though I had to meet everyone's needs before my own, that sandwich still tasted great. (Can you tell how much I liked my sandwich?) Maybe that's the lesson I needed to learn today.