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Worlds of Hurt

Nearly one year ago, Brian and I made the commitment to maintain a weekly date night with each other in order to make time for our marriage and to give us approximately 4-6 hours every week where we don’t have to worry about cleaning up another human being’s feces or vomit.

Oh, sorry. You’re not eating, are you?

I almost always plan our date night activities because Brian never cares where we go “as long as we can be together.”

[Okay, NOW I’m going to be sick.]

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Could You Be My Neighbor?

As I mentioned several weeks ago, Brian is voluntarily separating from the Air Force this fall, and we are in the process of looking for a job, looking for a house, and moving out of our current house here on Fort Leavenworth. In addition Brian is working longer hours this week while I’m wrangling a 2-, 3-, and 4-year-old in 90 degree heat with 337% humidity.

Anxiety cocktail, anyone?

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The Day We Got Sued by Supernanny

Long before Brian and I had children, one of my absolute favorite TV shows was Supernanny. This was a reality program where a female, British nanny named Jo observed the dysfunction in a household and then coached the parents on how to undo years of bad habits they have instilled in their children. Shows like Supernanny are simultaneously hilarious and disturbing to people without children. Brian and I would sit there — in all our childless naïveté — and bemoan the parental failure on public display.

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A Doctor's Worst Nightmare

Y’all may remember last year’s string of hypochondriacal posts like the one where I diagnosed myself with Bleeding Esophageal Varices and the one where I told you about my embarrassing trip to the ER. These are still two of my favorite video posts of all time. Probably because they’re both incredibly melodramatic and also exactly what happens inside my brain when I allow myself to visit WebMD without a chaperone.

It’s like unleashing a monkey inside a banana store.

[With metaphors like that, I can’t believe Katy hasn’t won a Pulitzer yet.]

If only they had a “blogging” category.

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A Weird Way to Wake Up

Let’s step back to nearly a MONTH ago when the four of us went to my in-laws’ farmhouse in Indiana. When my fashionable, Chinese friend and her husband spent their honeymoon with us. Before I had THREE children in my house asking 3 million questions an hour and eating 3 million pounds of peanut butter. I would like to finally tell you the rest of that story before I forget all of it and that space in my brain is replaced with VeggieTales lyrics.

“If it doesn’t have a tail, it’s not a monkey.
Even if it has a monkey-kind-of shape.
If it doesn’t have a tail, it’s not a monkey. If it doesn’t have a tail, it’s not a monkey. It’s an ape!”

Too late.

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The "Weight" of Motherhood

In case you’ve never made the mistake of telling a toddler that Christmas is coming soon, I’ll give you a quick lesson in cognitive development.

Toddlers have NO concept of time. None.

In fact, toddlers have no sense of any type of measurement. We made the mistake of telling JJ a few weeks ago that he has grown so much recently and that he’ll soon be taller than daddy.

“Soon,” we said . . . like a bunch of stinking amateurs.

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First World Problems

Since Brian and I made the decision to homeschool our little ones, I have kept my eyes and ears open for opportunities to broaden our kids’ experiences outside the home. Read: I may start eating paint chips if we spend all day every day inside the house. Thankfully, we live extremely close to Kansas City, which is full of great, educational ways to entertain the kids.

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How to Post #TBT Photos Like a Celebrity

I poured through my photos yesterday (Thursday) in an attempt to come up with the perfect TBT photo. Dad, since I know you’ll ask, TBT (Throwback Thursday) is when people post old photos of themselves on social media or blogs. Not old as in, “Check out my crow’s feet in this photo,” but old like, “Hey, check out my ALF t-shirt.”

I have plenty of pictures of both, by the way. 

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Motherhood: Got Earplugs?

For as long as she has had the ability to speak, Averi has referred to yogurt as “dodoke” (pronounced dough-doke). And since I’m a lousy mom with little concern for my child’s cognitive or social development, I don’t bother to correct her.

“Sure, sweetheart, I’ll get you some sugar-and-chemical-filled dodoke. Just let mommy finish her mid-morning nap first. Oh, and can you hand me that lit candle and the lighter fluid while you’re at it?”

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