The reason

I took the girls in for their annual checkups. Claire is a tank in the 92nd percentile for weight and the 98th for height. If I round way up, Cora is inching closer to the 40th percentile in both.

I heart their pediatrician. He says things like, "What have you learned by being Claire's mother?" And then today, after Cora read to him and counted to 100 and Claire serenaded him with a sweet version of "You Are My Sunshine," as if he knew how my yesterday turned out, he wrapped up the appointment by saying that I had two well-adjusted, smart, happy daughters. And Mark and I should be proud because we were doing everything right.

I hustled to grab their coats and hurry the girls out the door before he saw my lip start to quiver and the tears brim over. Because that is why we halved our income so I could stay home and focus on being their mom. That is why I know the lyrics to the entire Disney Princess Sing-a-long. That is why I returned those jeans. That is why I don't have time to crease my pants.

Because I am busy raising two well-adjusted, smart, happy daughters.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

I saw a woman walking into Target today. She was gorgeous. And seemed flawless. Like the type that inserts a worn out dollar bill into a soda machine and watches as it sucks it in on her first try. She was wearing makeup that made it look like she wasn't wearing makeup and her hair was styled in casually messy curls I would have to pay $40 at the salon to fake. And she was wearing what I can only assume were Rock and Republic or Big Star jeans (I had pocket envy!). And she had creased pants. As in, she ironed them. It made me giggle. I mean, who has the time?

But deep down, that giggle masked a lot. I want to be that put together. I might have even owned a big fat can of starching spray before I traded in Banana Republic for Toaster Strudels and my 9 to 5 for Butt Paste. But I don't even think I could fake that look anymore. I think it would be laughable.

I am pretty much frumpy 90% of the time. I prefer to call it comfortable, because that other F-word makes me want to cringe. Because I swore that would never be me. But it is. And today, for some reason, I can't shake that. So much so that I went to the mall and spent an outrageous amount of money on a pair of jeans I will never keep. In fact, I will never even take the tags off of them. But I bought them. And I took them home. And I tried them on again and again. And I ran my fingers over their big fat stitches while mourning the woman I once was. And then I glanced at that $170 price tag and my real life came crashing back into focus. So I folded them back up and put them back in the bag and tried to stop the pathetic ache for material things.

I try to fake it every now and then by getting all dolled up and putting on some eyeliner. And that usually makes me feel better. But today I am just angry that I can't keep those jeans. And I want to throw an all out tantrum before I drag myself back into the Buckle to return them. Because that 1 pair of jeans is the equivalent of almost half our entire monthly grocery budget. And that is the life I chose.

So I guess all I have to say is can you crease yoga pants?

BFF

When you run over your cell phone with your very heavy unforgiving car and you are about to leave on a road trip and you are in desperate need of a new one and you can't afford the $300 the mean man at the Verizon store is promising is the lowest possible price to get a replacement in your paws and you borrow a 1990something version that a friend had lying around and you have to activate said phone while trying to pump gas and wrangle a complaining toddler and you are on hold for 30+ minutes before finally hearing something other than that Godawful elevator music and then you have to call out on the replacement phone on one ear while still talking on the other ear to the overly kind rep who is so kind in fact that she agrees to stay on the line while you drag your 3-year-old into the gas station bathroom because she swears she can't can't hold it for another second and then avoid the glares of the other pictureperfect parents who can't believe a sane mother would be talking on not one but two cell phones at the same time and then repeat that entire process again after your now diarrhea stricken child tells you she must go again and oh wait she can't hold it so now you must juggle two cell phones and hold your child at arms-length so not to get the poop that is currently dripping down her leg on your leg and then spend half an hour in a public restroom before carrying a bare-bottomed child out the door because what else do you have to do on a Friday afternoon except oh right pack for a quick girl's weekend getaway and as you are driving away to enjoy that much anticipated 24 hours sans children your OBGYN's office calls to let you know that of course the culture came back positive and you have a bladder infection because why would you not when you will be driving for 3 1/2 hours straight and then you arrive at your destination and forget all of that because you get swallowed up by the fits of laughter that overtake your entire weekend and you remember how completely and utterly essential good girlfriends are.

A balancing act

We had homemade apple pie for dinner. Not WITH dinner, FOR dinner. And ice cream too. My kids loved it and thought Mark and I were crazy for allowing it. Perhaps we were/are. It was the best dinner we have had in a long time.

While the pie was not exactly aesthetically pleasing, it made up for it by being a little slice of heaven. It was a new recipe and has now become a permanent fixture in my recipe book (and on my thighs).

What happened to no sugar for 30 days? Well, I broke up with that crazy idea after I ate mass quantities of pasta, bread and, well, every other variety of carb in place of sugary treats, and gained 6 pounds. I began wallowing in self pity when my pants wouldn't button and cursing the scale and anything/person near me. Not quite the outcome I had been hoping for.

I used to do these crazy no-sugar-for-a-month shenanigans with my sisters often. Although challenging, I always completed them with very little problem. I'm not sure what changed.

Through this experience I have learned a few important things about myself. My life requires balance. Demands it. A balance of friend time and family time. A balance of daily kid and kid-free interaction. A balance of exercise and relaxation, hard work and no work. Home cooked meals and pizza delivery, date nights and girl's nights. Hysterical laughter and deep conversation, steamed broccoli and Milk Duds.

It's who I am. It's how I stay (relatively) sane. And I am comfortable with that. Lesson #1 learned.

The second realization was a bit more alarming. I have recently come to a truce with my insecurities. After battling for years, I realized it was way to time consuming to care what other people thought about me. I was healthy and surrounded by good people. I was in a good place and I liked me. Or so I thought. What I realized was I liked the me who maintained a certain weight. As the numbers on the scale started creeping back up, a wash of insecurities flooded over me.

But I'm okay with that too. I think. Because I think it will keep me from becoming complacent. If I was comfortable with myself regardless of what I looked like, I might start popping bon bons like they were going out of style and wind up on the Biggest Loser.

So the balance has returned, although my Monday morning cardio class might pay for my apple pie transgressions. But as I lick the last crumb from my plate, I am certain it was worth every calorie-filled morsel!

Stay gold

Can someone find me a pause button? Mark could definitely use one. This is what Cora came home from school with today:Even in its blurry state, should be easy to make out that those numbers make up a phone number. And no, Marc is not short for Marcy. Cora scored a boy's number. She is 5. She is in kindergarten. She still wants me to rock her to sleep. And she is bringing home phone numbers. How do you like them apples?

*The good photos by PK Photography

You know you're from Kuna when.....

Yes, that is our dryer vent. Yes, that is a marshmallow. Yes, Claire's crack is showing and her shirt is 2 sizes too small and she has a mullet. Yes, these are normal practices around here.

But really....
Who doesn't love a nice toasty marshmallow roasted over an open laundry vent by 2 homeless looking kids?