Rules

Rules. Sometimes I think I have too many, but most times I think I'm lacking. "I'm" as in me. Rules that are selfishly driven because they'd help my sanity. Rules like:

1. ALL eating must be done at the kitchen table. Is it that I enjoy having the handy-vac permanently attached to my right hand? Do I find some pleasure in constantly worrying about what Phoebe just picked up from the floor and put in her mouth? Is it my way of graciously inviting that which I fear the most, a.k.a. ANTS?!? Do I feel as though the damned cat doesn't puke enough?!?

2. Mom must shower daily and wear PJs as clothes at most only once a week. I take the time to dress my children well enough so that they don't look as though they're hurting for cute clothes. They have their bath nights. The husband showers daily and gets to wear comfy business casual attire. Why do I have to stink? Why do I have to look dumpy? Why do my legs and arm pits have to be so soft? And I don't mean in the "ooooh, what soft skin!" way...I mean in the soft furry way. Why do I put myself so low on the priority list? Why can't I take care of myself without feeling guilty???

3. Other adults in the house must help with chores. Once again, guilt is the reason this rule is not enforced. Because of this, laundry is never caught up or put away, the vacuum cleaner collects dust (as well as every surface in the house), and every nook and cranny is a disorganized mess. Perhaps contributing to why I feel as though I'm a disorganized mess...??? You already have some sense of what state my nook and crannies are in.

4. Mom and Dad should have a date night without the children at least twice a month. Guilt yet again plays into this one. The last thing I want to do is ask family and friends to sacrifice their plans so that the hubby and I can enjoy our relationship as husband/wife/friends (not parents) for a few hours. And my God, do you have any idea what "professional" babysitters cost?!? OMG!!! But you know what? I'd give up the fancy cable or the emergency order-pizza-nights-'cause-the-kitchen-is-too-dirty-to-clean in order to fund some time with my man.

I've been overcome lately with a feeling as though I need to get my sh*t together.

I'm promising myself right now that I'm going to start that...

...next week.

OMG, I totally went there

It's one of those deep, dark secrets that moms never reveal: They have a favorite child.

GASP!

Puh-leeze. OF COURSE every parent has a favorite. We're only human after all. I'll admit it: Pheebs is my favorite. Now before you get your panties all in a bunch, understand this-- Having a favorite doesn't mean you love one child more or less than another. Well, I guess it does for the "bad" parents out there, but I'm only talking about us good ones! I love both my children, but here's the difference...I'm loving babyhood MUCH MORE than toddlerhood. This toddler phase is kicking my ass. Raina doesn't like me for most of her waking moments, fights with me about every freaking little thing, wants nothing to do with my offers to help, and cuddling with me is out of the question. Phoebe, my little 10-m-o, on the other hand, thinks I'm the center of the universe. She LOVES me. She NEEDS me. She is reduced to tears whenever I'm out of her sight or touch. She reaches for me when in the arms of someone else. She crawls at top speed to get to me when I'm across the room. She rests her head on my shoulder and hums as I hold her, occasionally lifting up to give me a sloppy kiss.

Now seriously, how can that NOT be my favorite?!?

I'm enjoying it for all it's worth now 'cause in a few short months she's sure to figure out that Dad is the coolest person alive and I'm, well, not.