Ah, I bet you are sitting at your computer, hunched over like the rest of us with the terrible posture that would make my Nana poke you in the back...wondering why on earth you should read my ramblings. I've got only one answer for you...in view of the fact that I happen to be a bit of a wackadoo, my musings can be your evidence that you are completely normal, thus relieving you of the fear that you have gone loco. Leave that part to me. Oh, and I love to use the thesaurus, as I have an affinity for elocution and a deep seated, albeit odd obsession with grandiose language.
So dig in and be prepared...

Monday, February 28, 2011

The dangers of living large...

1. You simply cannot find half of the crap you own.
2. You simply do not remember half the crap you own.
3. You simply do not need half the crap you can't find that you can't remember you own.
4. You simply cannot afford to spend 3 1/2 hours searching for a very small package of math crap that you must have to implement the ridiculously complicated math curriculum that you just had to have to make your homeschooling life oh so much easier.
5. You simply do not have the time for this crap.

CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP (said while banging head against wall while throwing random toys...but only at walls you haven't paid your painter to redo yet...)

Let this serve as a cautionary tale...

cut the crap.


clan mac mama

Friday, February 25, 2011

I hate days like this.

Days when I didn't get up on time...can't seem to get my head out of my proverbial behind...wonder WHY on EARTH I am homeschooling...crave the quiet that I never seem to get during naptime...am certain that I'll never get this house to feel like home...am overwhelmed just by life.

I often wonder what in blue blazes God was thinking when he decided 5 was my number. FIVE. CHILDREN. UNDER. 8.
I also wonder what He was thinking when He decided that I should feel called to homeschool those FIVE. CHILDREN. UNDER. 8.

Some days I am SUPERMOM. I keep the house clean, feel like I've kept my kids from being illiterate and uneducated, spent some QT with the littles, made dinner, did laundry AND I'm sitting by 8:30. (really, I only have one of those per quarter...just thought I'd mention it to remind myself that I have something to look forward to.)

Most days I am slugging through, trying to ascertain if I will ever get it together. If I will ever start using that completely overwhelming math curriculum I ordered in a fit of overachieving supermomness. If I will ever actually REALLY use the fabulous homeschool planner that stares at me from it's dusty spot on my desk. If I will ever get to work out again. Go on playdates with my littles again. Go to the store on the fly without having to call an army of helpers to watch my kids or go with me.

This life is a blessing and I know it. I just wish I could figure out how to make the most of the blessings. How to get things done. How to actually implement all my fabulous ideas. How to rewind the clock and build a different house. One that didn't feel like an uphill battle to live in. I really never thought I'd long for the days of renting or base housing. But really? Right now, I'd give my left arm to not be responsible for one nail in this wall. I really think sometimes that I'd rather be stuffed into 1800 sq feet and have a savings account and free weekends.

Aw crap. I'm whining. Yep, I know it. Yep, I know it doesn't really do a dang bit of good. But I'm gonna do it anyway.

Someone, anyone, send the supernanny. or any nanny. or anyone at all.

I think I'm suffering just a little bit of predeployment jitters. Some moments of Sh*t, seriously? I have to do this ALONE for almost 8 months? There isn't enough valium in the WORLD for that.
And I'm just irritated at myself right now for wasting this day, for deciding that I'd homeschool with FIVE kids and for having the attention span of a gnat.

That said, I guess I'll go pop frick and frack into their beds so they can jump and play for 2 hours and stress me out by not napping and I'll attempt to educate the bigs AND hopefully, I won't forget about Sam.

Hope your days sucks less than mine.

Clan Mac Crabby Mama

Thursday, February 17, 2011

A Time for Everything...

Ecclesiastes 3:1-

A Time for Everything

1 For everything there is a season,
a time for every activity under heaven.
2 A time to be born and a time to die.
A time to plant and a time to harvest.
3 A time to kill and a time to heal.
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
4 A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
5 A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.
A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
6 A time to search and a time to quit searching.
A time to keep and a time to throw away.
7 A time to tear and a time to mend.
A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
8 A time to love and a time to hate.
A time for war and a time for peace.

To Everything there is a season. This might just save my sanity.

Thursday, February 10, 2011


is a facetious little punk. It's like the devil running around with a hot poker, zip, zap, hit you with a slap...

It can manipulate thoughts, change relationships, color what we think of ourselves and what we believe others think of us.
OH, how I've struggled such a very long time to overcome that demon.
OH, how miserably I've failed.
And lately, I seem to be constantly at the mercy of what I feel those perceptions are.
Really, I shouldn't give a flying crap. (now...that's a visual...) And sometimes I really just don't, but mostly, I'm just like everyone else in the world and I do care.
Could be my struggles in this last year. My emotions ache much like a raw wound, healing and scabbing over just a bit at a time. My protective shell has crumbled into itty bitty pieces and I'm still trying to find my way again.
Sometimes I think it's the complexity of female relationships.
Other times I think it is growing up in a VERY small town.
Mostly I think it might be this.
I've come back to the place I fell apart. On one hell of grand scale. Where I became someone I didn't know, someone I despised. A parody of all I didn't want to be.
So much has happened in the 10 years since I last lived here. I don't think there is even a tiny shred of that woman left. Well, maybe one tiny shred.
A tiny shred that leaves such a gaping wound. A gaping wound that doesn't allow me to truly believe in myself. To trust completely in the Lord's plan for me and for my family. A tiny piece that still pushes me to invest myself in relationships that aren't healthy, productive or affirming. That always seems to push me back into the belief that the judgment of others far outweighs the purpose for which I'm here.

Well, I guess I could just stop overanalyzing it and finally decide to post this stinking ramble.

Friday, February 4, 2011

She told me I was going to pass out...

sh*t. She was right.
SO, to launch my new soapbox, I've decided to share a tiny tidbit (seriously? I don't do tiny anything,) of this particularly mortifying episode.
Picture this, dear readers. You are standing half naked, your boob pressed like a sad little pancake between 2 sheets of radiographic plexiglass. You've already had a few dizzy moments during embarassing pictures # 1 & 2. The tiny little radiographer has brought you water and waited patiently while you regain your wits. You have assured said tiny person that you are fine and ready to proceed. She proceeds with boob flattening and positioning of your parts. You again reassure her through the deafening rush in your ears and flashing lights in your eyes that you are just fine!
WELL. Since I woke up on my back, boobs flapping everywhere, and 4 people standing over me, CLEARLY I was not fine. Oops.
Fast forward to an apple, some water anda bottle of oj later and the 4th and final picture is done. And I am mortified, and still clearly NOT ok.
Mind you, my other half and 3 of my 5 offspring are waiting in the car, as just a short 2 days ago, he had a minor surgical procedure that prevents him from lifting our littlest chubster. SO. Now I have to go to the ER. Oh, by the way? That tiny little radiographer was the one who caught my dead weight.
SO. I bet you are all just perched on the edge of your seats, breathlessly awaiting the cause of my distress and embarassment.
I have 5 kids, I'm a bit nuts and my hubby was out of commission. That is essentially equal to low blood sugar, low sodium and dehydration. Oops.

The first voice I heard when I woke from my little incident? My therapist. That sweetly charming southern voice that somehow manages to be just the right mix of my mom, my mama in law and God's word, all rolled into one very wise package.

Now that you have an image of my flattened boob burned in your brain FOREVER, have a wonderfully lovely day.

And, hell yes, I know I need to take better care of myself. I also need a nanny, more money, and something other than a dorky minivan to drive. More tattoos might cover it.

Wine awaits me...