The winners of the 3 months of delicious NatureBox snacks are:
Rachel Fish: “Yes I do!”
Kelsey: “I don’t ‘hide’ snacks, but I let my hubby know that there are only a certain number of ‘non-chocolate’ things for me, so please don’t eat them if you can help it! haha”
Congratulations, Rachel & Kelsey! Contact email@example.com to claim your prize.
THANK YOU to everyone who participated! If you didn’t win the giveaway, but still want some delicious, healthy snacks delivered to your door, use the code “KATY” on the NatureBox website to get 50% off your first month of snacks!(This post and giveaway are sponsored by NatureBox. All stories and opinions are my own.)
As a mother of two toddlers, I have learned to accept the fact that we will rarely venture out of our home without some sort of meltdown. Either we’ll skip Averi’s afternoon nap, and she’ll repay us with a Toddlers in Tiaras-worthy hissy fit, or JJ will wake up too early that morning and decide to do that whole-body limp thing every time we try to get him to walk. And since he’s a 3-year-old man-baby and weighs almost as much as I do, this is probably a fun scene for complete strangers to witness.
[Why can't that woman control her teenage boy? And WHY is he wearing a diaper?]
Okay, he’s not that big.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.”
(Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, ESV)
For everything, a season.
And it seems that our 3-year-old and our almost-2-year-old have joined together to drag us all—kicking and screaming—through the “break down,” “weep,” and “war” seasons of life. Every day feels like a cage match. Every. Single. Day.
If you’ve ever seen the film(s) Paranormal Activity, the following post will probably run through your mind as you try to fall back asleep tomorrow at 3 a.m., and you’ll say, “I hate you, Katy in a Corner, for reminding me of this! And, oh great. Now I’m thinking about Katy standing in a corner of my room, and I’m even MORE freaked out!” And I’ll just laugh and laugh because I “saw” Paranormal Activity on my parents’ TV with ten fingers in front of my face, without my glasses on, and singing “LALALALALALA” at the top of my lungs. And the only thing I could tell you about that film is that the painting that hangs on my parents’ wall close to their TV is really beautiful. Why? Because I’m not an idiot, that’s why.
I don’t watch scary movies because I don’t want to be reminded of them every time I have to use the facilities at 4 a.m.
Remember my Labor Day post about how Brian got pulled over in a speed trap for the billionth time this year? And remember how I said I would reenact that in a one-woman show about it? And remember how I vowed to never travel in the car with any of them again until one of them learns to stop speeding and two of them learn to defecate in a toilet and to quit whining nonstop?
Feast your eyes, my friends.
I made two promises last week. One was a promise I made to myself that I will never again take a 16-hour road trip with two toddlers. Unless we move and I absolutely have to do it. And then I’ll probably be in the back seat screaming the entire time. And then the kids can record me for a change.
The second promise is that I would publish this video here today. But, before you view it, there are eight things you should know:
I know I said it last Friday, but the past few weeks were ROUGH. I don’t mean slightly irritating from time-to-time. I mean spontaneous tantrums from sun-up to sun-down with very little help from Brian since he had an unusually difficult work schedule. Rough, I tell you. Like, single parent rough.
(I want to go ahead and give a big shout-out to all the single parents out there. How do you do it? HOW?)
I was a “solo parent” for two weeks, and I’m halfway to crazy right now. Well, I guess I was already halfway there, so…
I’ve reached my final destination.
I’m just going to be really honest and tell you that motherhood kicked my butt this week.
We didn’t really experience the “Terrible Twos” with JJ, but we have officially entered the “Tyrannical Threes.” It seems that meltdowns are the norm rather than the exception, and this entire week has been a battle of the wills.
At 20-months old, I can hardly believe the spirit and expressiveness I see in Averi. She squeals in delight when we hold her upside-down and tickle her legs. She has this hilarious, throaty laugh that is reserved only for JJ when he chases her around the house and rams her into the furniture. I stopped him the first few months he did it, but I have since given up. Because she loves it.
She’s like a trained cage fighter.
Let’s talk about baby weight for a minute, shall we? I’m not talking about the kind we all carry around for varying lengths of time after childbirth. No, I’m talking about the kind of baby weight that pediatricians like to refer to in percentiles. That stuff that helps us determine where our kids rank in comparison to the height and weight of their peers.
I took JJ and Averi for their annual checkups last Friday. And I have to say first of all that they should hand out gold medals at the exit for those of us who are stupid enough to schedule back-to-back appointments for two toddlers during nap time. This medal of pure gold could have an inscription that reads, “Silence is golden. Bring your kids AFTER nap time, you nitwit.”
Or something like that.