Here’s Why Women Love Windmills

Art, Illustration, Motherhood, We Are In This Together

I’m a farmgirl. And just like any other farmgirl, I love everything that goes along with that title.

I love chickens, tractors, horses, springtime babies, fresh-cut hayfields, big red barns–the list goes on and on.

But there’s one farm icon–hands down–that has always been my very favorite.

Windmills.

I am drawn to those towering, rusty structures like moths to a flame.

I adore those sentinels that keep watch over their farms and keep the all-important waters flowing. I always have, and I always will.

I can tell you where darn near every windmill is in my whole county–after all, aren’t huge windmills perfect landmarks?

And lately, I have loved seeing more and more windmills popping up everywhere I look. On pinterest. At the craft store. At the antique store, at the hardware store, pretty much everywhere . . . which makes me realize that I’m clearly not the only woman in the world with an affinity for Aermotors!

I have given it a lot of thought, often during the countless hours I’ve spent seeking out my own perfect antique windmill, scanning newspaper classifieds and craigslist columns to no avail. I may not have found my own perfect (attainable) antique windmill yet, but I think I have figured out why we females all like them so darn much! (And no–it’s not because Joanna Gaines sneaks them into her farmhouse decor collections now and again. But hey, can you blame her?)

Nope. Women love windmills because we are just like them.

Windmills represent us. Beautifully.

We are sentinels, too; standing silent watch at our nursery doors while our little ones struggle for precious sleep, or at the front door while our not-so-little ones race to make it home before curfew. We stand strong, around the clock, just like they do. Because our workday doesn’t end when the sun goes down, either.

We stand by our husbands, our partners, through the strongest storms of our marriages, and keep our own wells from going dry.

We stand tall and strong, no matter how fiercely the winds are blowing our way. We absorb those winds, the forces of nature we can’t control, and we turn them into goodness.

We turn adversity into growth, and struggles into successes. We turn hard work into reward. We turn and we turn and we turn, so our families can thrive.

We pump (and sometimes literally pump) ourselves into keeping our children, our families, and our relationships healthy. We may slow down at times, but we never quit.

Women are just like windmills. Beautiful and sturdy, steadfast and striking–just what every landscape needs.

I hope that the next time you see a windmill, mama, you will take the chance to tell yourself what a good job you are doing.

And I know exactly what you’ll do next.

You’ll keep right on turning.

This post originally appeared on Her View From Home .

Here’s Why Little Kids Need Big Dogs 

Life Lessons from a Two Year-old, Motherhood, We Are In This Together

I was a dog mama long before I was a people mama.

The fur-baby that stole my heart was 165 pounds of Blue Merle muscle–a majestic Great Dane named Roscoe.

Roscoe was more than a dog–he was a full-on family member. He got me through several moves, a difficult divorce, and countless single nights when every creak and crack in my big empty house kept me up at night.

I knew that my beautiful behemoth of a dog was special, but I never truly appreciated his full worth until he became a watchdog for not just me, but for my baby boy, as well.

When our little bundle came home from the hospital two years ago, Roscoe didn’t complain–even when he got moved from his cozy living room corner to a bed in the heated garage. (It was the baby’s turn to nap in that nice warm spot by the fireplace, you see.)

So, he let him.

Somehow from day one, Roscoe knew it was his job to watch over that little boy, and watch over him he did.

For two blessed years.

Sadly–we just buried our almost 12-year-old, geriatric gentle giant a week ago, under a big cottonwood on the family farm. I know his spirit will keep on watching over all of us–especially Hank, who over the last two years had become his very best friend. Those two sweet boys taught me some pretty big life lessons–one of which is how meaningful animals can be to little people.

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I hope that as you read along, you nod in agreement because your little ones have a furry friend to love on like Hank did. But if you haven’t gotten a pet for your child or children (yet!), dear reader, here are five reasons why you may want to consider it!

1. Companionship

Our big dog and our little boy were two peas in a pod. Anywhere the toddler went, the dog was sure to follow. And vice versa. On the swingset, digging in the dirt, playing ball on the lawn, picking strawberries–these two adored each other’s company. We couldn’t go for a walk unless Roscoe came with us, even when it meant he had to give up his beloved afternoon nap.

If Hank could have slept on Roscoe’s dog bed with him every night, he absolutely would have.

2. Responsibility 

From the time he could walk, our toddler helped me with all of our dog chores. He understood that the first thing we did each morning was let Roscoe out, and he looked forward to it every day. He helped me fill his food and water bowls, and he even helped me clean up the “land mines” in the yard. (He was the “locator,” and I ran the shovel.)

Having a dog taught our toddler a world of responsibility, and most importantly–it taught him how to care for a loved one.

3. Teachable Moments

From learning a universal nickname for dogs–“Coco”–to learning that dogs will do almost anything for a milk-bone; our gentle giant was also a wonderful teacher for our little boy. He taught him that dogs don’t really like to be ridden like horses, even if they are the perfect size. He taught him that “woof” means “come open the door please.” He taught him that Great Danes make wonderful pillows for naps on the lawn. He taught him that it is important to hold still when you are getting your toenails clipped. He taught him that sometimes when we get old, our bodies just can’t keep up anymore. He taught him that even though saying goodbye is scary and hard, it is something that we can get through.

He also taught him the true meaning of the phrase “loyal friend.”

4. Protection

Our huge dog kept an amazing eye on our little boy. Roscoe was Hank’s shadow, never venturing more than 10 or 15 feet away from the tornado toddler–even when that meant a LOT of getting up and laying back down! I loved knowing that whenever I watered flowers or weeded beds in the yard, I had an extra set of eyes on Hank while he played.

Roscoe truly loved his “job,” and Hank loved having his own personal watchdog.

5. Lifelong Memories

Even though he is gone now, Hank still talks about his big buddy “Coco” everyday. Any dog we see gets a chubby little finger point and a loving “Coco!” exclaimed with a huge smile. Whenever I tear up or mention how much I miss Roscoe, Hank grabs his stuffed puppy and gives me a kiss with it. I have countless amazing pictures of these two together, and I will never forget their two years filled with those special moments. Their relationship–although much too short–gave all of us a lifetime of heartwarming memories, which I thank God for everyday.

There’s nothing quite like the magic of big dogs and little children.

Trust.

So, please. If you have a family dog, let your little ones climb all over him, even when he’s a little bit muddy. Let them snuggle up to him and get those trademark slobbery dog kisses, right on their little faces. Let them help carry the water bucket, even though it splashes all over the garage floor.

I promise–it’ll all be worth it.

And if you don’t have a family dog?

Then someday–if only for your kids’ sake–I hope you’ll change your mind.

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Best of friends.

 

 

 

 

Six Pillows, Two Throws

Life Lessons from a Two Year-old, Motherhood, Step by Step, We Are In This Together

I finally lost the battle. 

The funny thing is–I didn’t really even notice that I had lost it, until last night. Not officially. 

The fact that I didn’t even notice further solidifies the fact that I truly have LOST the battle. For good.

My Type-A personality has now officially been replaced with a new type: Type Mom.

Without even realizing it, I stopped doing the one thing I ALWAYS did, every morning, to keep my sanity.

As long as I can remember, I have religiously made my bed each day–perfectly, and arranged it like a Threshold ad for Target: six pillows, two throws. Two standard king pillows, two big shams, the minky sable body pillow that I sewed before I got pregnant; then the square burlap/chevron accent pillow as my finishing touch.

Then of course–at the foot of the bed–one robin’s egg blue throw, and one sable throw. 

My perfect bed.

My happy place–perfectly in order, even if just in one little corner of our crazy house. My nice, organized landing spot to fall into after each kaleidoscope day in this blended family of six.

The one thing I could make look perfect, and walk away from; knowing it would still look exactly how I left it at the end of the day.

Unlike the rest of the house, hit by all of our daily tornados of little league and toddler toys and dirty clothes and clean folded clothes and grocery shopping and LIFE.

But last night, when I went to pull off those perfectly arranged pillows, they weren’t there.

They were in a heap on the floor, exactly where I’d left them the night before.

And when I really thought about it hard–they were there the night before that, too.

Wait—WHAT? 

How did I stop this tradition–this thing I’d tried so hard to maintain for so long–and not even notice?

I’m a mom now, that’s how. 

I think my brain simply needed those brain cells, that little extra bit of RAM, to deal with more important things. 

Like explaining to a two-year-old why he can’t, in fact, go to the moon, even though he really, really wants to.

(This has occupied a surprising amount of time, over the last three days. He REALLY wants to go.)

My effort is much better spent worrying about Big, Important things like that, than making sure the bed looks perfect. Because I am finding, in these crazy, wonderful, (numbered) days, just how big and important they actually ARE.

So, somewhere in the last month, I subconsciously gave up the ghost on the perfect bed. 

And you know what? 

It’s OK.

Because right now, in the crazy trenches of mamahood, I guess I don’t need that little corner of perfectly folded and tucked organization, anymore. 

My life now can only be summed up appropriately in one word: chaos.

And I’m all in. 

Hmm, I wonder if he knows how those trash bags got wrapped around the island?

Coming out of Hibernation

Life Lessons from a One-Year-Old, Motherhood

“Let light shine out of darkness”  2 Corinthians 4:6

I cannot find words to express how grateful I am that today is the first day of spring.

It was a looooooong winter!

Between huge snowstorms and subzero temps and keeping the home fire burning (literally) and staying on top of work and motherhood and kid activities and an awful lot of work-widow “single-parent” nights while the hubs traveled here and there. . . .it was a long winter.

This past week the temperature hit the 70s, the snow melted, and–FINALLY! I had the urge to blog for the first time in months. What was stopping me before? Exhaustion? Chaos? Yes. Both.

A good friend gave me an even more perfect explanation for my seasonal writer’s block though: my inspiration was hibernating. 

She was right! It was!

I didn’t have a single extra brain cell available with which to create or express or ponder or record or even just report the goings on of my crazy life the last few months. Because it was just that–crazy. 

I am still trying–my New Year’s intention–to be content in every day. Contentment in chaos is difficult, it turns out! So is calm, so is peace, and so is presence. I seemed to subconsciously realize around mid-January that if I had 10 spare minutes of energy, it needed to be focused on my family. So my writing and my new-found glass obsession both simply did what they had to do to survive–they went into hibernation. 

The other change that has helped me survive the long winter? My social media presence. I am online about 1/100th of the time that I was in 2016, and you know what? I could not feel better about that choice! The old me couldn’t walk down the stairs without scrolling my newsfeed. And now I can go days without a single peek at the book of faces. The connections are great, but what drained me was the time, and more recently, the negativity. I realized the very limited time that I have right now is too precious to waste reading bullshit political articles, or watching as 25 different people/pages all share the exact same news clip with different reactions. 

I simply don’t have time right now to worry about page views or likes or shares. 

I need that time to worry about hugs and mealtimes and snack times and nap times and tuck-ins and washing those favorite digger jammies so he can wear them again.

I also need that time for listening and supporting and laughing with and loving and enjoying my best friend (the hubs!) when he is home. Because all the days when he’s gone, my whole world just feels like winter.

I need to spend my moments watching these four brothers play ball and laugh and teach and practice and tackle and race and wrestle. Because every time they go away and come back again, Hank’s bigger. They’re all bigger.

God usually has a funny way of getting messages to me, but I always get them, loud and clear. This week I got the message that I am doing the right thing; by focusing more on what matters most, and letting everything else fall by the wayside. Loud and clear.

Coming out of his daily (mini) hibernation

I had just grabbed Hank after a perfect two hour nap, and I was feeling guilty that I had fallen asleep as well, rather than being “productive.” With 30 pounds of groggy toddler in one arm; I stacked his sippy cup of milk, his snack, a water bottle, and my phone all up on my Chromebook with the other; then headed down the stairs in a balancing act of multi-tasking greatness. 

Except that it wasn’t.

Somehow as we got off balance, I knew I had overestimated my capabilities. I managed to slide most of the items onto the banister as I squeezed Hank to my hip, but I watched in slow motion as the sippy cup full of milk went rogue and bounced end over end down the entire length of the staircase. Spraying milk in grand arcs all along the (carpeted!) stairs and the beautiful dark stain of the wood banister. 

LOTS of milk. 

I turned to Hank, who was equally enthralled by the display, (it looked just like those park fountains that spray the water up in the air in pretty patterns) and all we could do was laugh. He then offered up an adorable “Uh-oh!”and shrugged his little shoulders.

I held him closer to me and stood there for a few seconds, taking it all in. I had just summed up my life (as of late, anyways) in one milky disaster. 

I have been trying to do too much at once. And it just got messy.

I got the message.

I have to hold what is most important to me, closest to me, and let all the rest fall away. (Even if some of it does get messy at times!)

This springtime is the only springtime I will ever have with an almost two-year-old, who discovers something new every single day. 

A boy, a ball, and a bucket


I don’t want to waste these days, these hours, or these minutes. 

Any precious moment I am not working, this beautiful time of year; I will be spending with Hank. I will also savor the times when I get the privilege of enjoying his amazing daddy and his incredible brothers, too.

I have to find my peace in the chaos by leaving my phone in the house, while we play ball out on the lawn. 

I can catch up on the news some other day. . . .or not at all.

I can blog once a month, instead of weekly, and that will have to be good enough for me.

I know I will still write my books, make my mosaic masterpieces–another day, when I have more time. More energy. Less laundry.

(Maybe when he goes off to preschool?)

Until then, and until next time, happy spring!

*Make time for you and yours, and make sure to enjoy those little moments!*

His Dig Dreams Are Big Dreams

Life Lessons from a One-Year-Old, Motherhood

Most little boys go to bed with a teddy bear, a tattered blue blankey, or a lovey they have carried around for months. I have offered all of these options to our little man, but he simply isn’t interested.

I guess you could say that Hank has a “lovey”, but his lovey is no cuddly puppy or bear. Hank’s lovey is a digger. And no, not the nice soft stuffed excavator that goes along with his Good Night, Good Night, Construction Site book. Oh, no. Hank goes to sleep at night with a death-grip on a cold, metal skid-steer he affectionately calls “dig-dig.”

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Dig-dig and Tractor

You see, our little boy has a love–an obsession, really–for heavy equipment of all kinds. It runs in the family, and he gets to foster his love often; thanks to the good luck that landed him on a Montana farm. Hank bounced around in a dump truck when he was still bouncing around in my tummy; and his affinity for that big huge truck seemed to be born into him from day one.

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Digger and Dump Truck

There are days I’m convinced that Hank has hydraulic fluid running through his veins!

Hank’s grandpa owned and ran a heavy equipment dealership for many years before “retiring” as a farmer, and Hank’s daddy sold/rented heavy equipment as well. Both of them can run anything. (And run it well.)

Hank doesn’t just get his love for running equipment from the men in his family tree, though–he also gets a little of it from his mama.

I was lucky enough to grow up on that same Montana farm, with that equipment-loving father who figured both of his kids might as well learn how to run everything on the farm. My big brother and I ran skid steers as soon as we could reach the pedals, and before we could reach them we rode along with dad, seat-belted onto his lap, like Hank does now.

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Moving Dirt with Gramps

I’m willing to bet that one day, my little digger-man will end up in the construction industry running something, and I am already behind him on that 100%. I don’t feel the need to push him to shoot for an Ivy League school, or to encourage him to be a doctor or a lawyer. I see how happy that little boy is when he is digging dirt or hauling gravel, and that’s plenty good enough for me!

It helps that I also see how happy his grandpa is–digging dirt or hauling gravel–and I know that it may simply be in their programming. I will encourage Hank to follow his dreams, whether they include construction or not, but I will thoroughly enjoy the fact that they do, right now.

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Motor Grading with Daddy

I will let him bring dig-dig to every meal with him as he insists on doing, currently. I will let him scoop up peaches with the bucket of that darn toy, and even let him use it as a spoon now and again. (What little boy doesn’t want to scoop food into his mouth with a bobcat bucket?)

I will let him sit on my lap as we read Diggers Go three times in a row before every nap-time and bed-time, and I will do my best to make the right sounds. And I will let him wear his equipment PJs more than any of the others, because of course, they’re his favorites.

I will do my best to keep a mental note of where each piece of equipment gets left around the house throughout the day, because Hank can’t quite keep track of them all yet.

I will keep handing him off to dad or grandpa; whoever happens to be running something that day.

And most importantly; I will keep letting him go to bed with dig-dig. Because to some little boys, dreams of diggers are much more magical than dreams about anything else.

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Excavator Operator

Gratitude, Always

Motherhood, We Are In This Together

This week, I got humbled.

A few days ago, I ran an errand on my way to the office, so I went a different route than I normally would. Heading up 27th meant I had to cross the railroad tracks, and of course, a long train was rumbling through as I pulled into the long line of waiting cars.

As I sat there waiting, I tapped my steering wheel and looked all around me to gauge whether I should peel off and take another route. It has to be nearing the end, I thought; so I stayed in my northbound lane and grew increasingly more antsy and impatient. Increasingly more negative.

I make my own schedule and work for family, so it’s not like I had a boss waiting to scold me for arriving to work late, but I was still stressed out about running behind schedule.

Finally after what felt like an eternity, the tracks cleared, and after two rounds of stoplights, I got to the other side of the tracks. Held up at yet another red light, I felt like pulling my hair out–that is, until I got humbled.

I noticed a tall, lanky, nice-looking man waiting at the crosswalk, carrying a grocery sack. As he started to walk across the street, right in front of me, it was like he let me look right into his soul. He looked kind but troubled, somehow. His hair was long and looked like it hadn’t been washed in days, and his clothes most likely hadn’t been either. He was dressed nicely though, and I got the feeling that he was a genuinely good person.

As he walked right past my windshield, I saw that his plastic grocery sack held a loaf of bread, and sticking out of his jacket pocket was a half pint of milk.

The milk is what got to me.

The milk is what caused hot tears to immediately fill my eyes as that light turned green.

I pulled away from that stoplight, in my nice warm Tahoe with its heated seats, thinking back to my blessed morning in my warm, cozy house.

As I had raced around the kitchen that morning getting a lunch packed for my toddler, I’d mistakenly poured fresh milk into his sippy cup from the night before that was still in the fridge. As his daddy walked into the kitchen with the correct cup, I poured the “old” cup of milk down the sink, threw the sippy in the dishwasher, and topped off today’s cup from our brand new gallon jug of whole milk.

I wanted my son to have a fresh sippy cup of milk.

I also knew there were two more full gallons in the garage.

In our extra fridge.


Now, I don’t know how far that man had walked that cold morning to get that bread and that milk, but he certainly had to work a whole hell of a lot harder to get to his half pint of milk that day than anyone in my family did.

Our cup–literally–runneth over. My blessings and my privilege smacked me right in the face, as I sat there watching that man walking back to who-knows-where with his bread and his milk.

And then it clicked.

I was supposed to go that way to work, and get stuck behind that train, so that I could see that humble man and his half pint of milk. So that I could see that what mattered was not being perfectly on time for my perfectly planned day.

What mattered was that I had a job to go to, in my nice warm car, and a nice warm house to go home to afterwards. What mattered was the privilege of having my healthy family’s company to enjoy when I got home.

What mattered was that I had the luxury of a hot shower this morning.

What mattered was that we almost always have a two gallon box of milk in our garage fridge, because we can.

All of these blessings made me cry big tears, of overwhelming gratitude. I couldn’t stop thinking of my Hank, his amazing daddy, and his sweet big brothers. My biggest blessings.

I cried because I had wasted perfectly good milk, that a hungry man would have walked across blocks of traffic for, and I didn’t even give it a second thought.


Well, I did give it a second thought, all the rest of the way to work. And as soon as my hubby got home, I gave it a third thought when I told him how a half pint of milk in a man’s pocket on a cold morning had humbled me.

We gave it another thought when he and I decided that evening to donate $100 to our local “Flakesgiving” fund, so four families could have Turkey dinners on Thanksgiving, who might not have been able to otherwise.

I gave it another thought waiting in the drive-thru Starbucks line the next day, while running errands with my mom. As we sat there being humbled, yet again by that man and his milk, we decided to buy the coffees for the carload behind us. I hope they did the same for the car behind them.

And still, I haven’t stopped thinking about that man and his milk.

I haven’t wasted a sippy cup of milk, since; either.

I am grateful for that man and my lesson. And I am also grateful for the mantra I have been saying over and over in my head ever since that humbling; a few lines borrowed from one of my favorite authors, Elizabeth Gilbert:

“Gratitude, always.

Always, gratitude.”

Happy Thanksgiving, my dear friends, family, and readers far and wide. Maybe my lesson can be a lesson to you, too.  

For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and the one who humbles himself will be exalted.

~Luke 14:11

Always.

The Picture of a Family

Motherhood, Step by Step, We Are In This Together

This past week I did something I thought I might never get the privilege of doing in my lifetime. 

I picked out five nice dress shirts that matched (but not too much) for the five handsome boys in my life; put on a scarf from my closet that tied them all together, and dragged my six-pack down to Two Moon Park for a half hour with our favorite photographer. 

We actually took family pictures

Professionally-done; a true family photo shoot. 

I almost couldn’t believe it happened, but I know one of these days, that amazing photographer is going to email me a link to check out the proof that it actually did. 

The pictures that will prove that I have my dream family, when sometimes I feel the need to say “pinch me” because this can’t actually be MY life. 

I have a husband who is not only hard-working, caring, and smart; but a wonderful daddy as well. (And handsome, to boot!) He is my soul mate and my best friend. It took me a while to find him, but I know I was supposed to find him in my lifetime.

I have three stepsons who are the sweetest, most well-behaved boys you will ever meet, and even more importantly–the BEST big brothers.

And we all have Hank. The little boy I dreamed of all those years and finally have; blue eyes, blond hair, and a beating heart. 

I still have to pinch myself about him, too. Every day.

This family of mine is my whole world now, and I have been focusing on my gratitude now that fall is here. Things are slowing down–thank goodness–we’re catching our breath after our crazy summer, and Thanksgiving time is right around the corner. I have never had a year to be so grateful.

I literally have everything I have ever wanted. How many people can say that? I mean, say that and TRULY mean it? Probably not very many.

It’s not what you have in life, but who you have in life that truly matters. And I have the most amazing people in mine.

I want for nothing. My cup runneth over.

And maybe I will believe it myself, once I have one of those amazing Tina Stinson photos on my wall as my proof that it isn’t just a dream I’m about to wake up from.

Until then, will somebody please pinch me?

“The Agonizing Wait For A Baby” on Her View From Home

Motherhood

I am so thrilled to post this link!!

The Agonizing Wait For A Baby

This link takes you to my first post to be featured on one of my very favorite websites: Her View From Home.

If you are a mama like me, who had to wait a lot longer for your family than you wanted to, you might already be familiar with “The Wait.” It can be so difficult!

Enjoy! And if you do, please feel free to share or comment on the post on the HVFH page!

Thanks for reading!

XO!

This is my *totally stoked* face!

Open the Gates!

Motherhood

Help us, Lord. 

We took down the baby gates today. Now, we have THREE flights of stairs, which are fully accessible to the crazy toddler they were off limits to for the last seven months. 

Needless to say, this mama is FREAKED.

On two counts:

1) What if he forgets to scoot scoot scoot like we have worked so hard on, and tumbles down the entire staircase; and 

2) When did my baby boy become such a BOY, he no longer needs a baby gate???

I am so not ready for this.

The hubs repurposed one of the gates into a fireplace guard, so we technically aren’t 100% free of them. I guess I should rejoice in that. He is still baby enough to not be trusted around the fireplace, (which he can now reach just fine even over the hearth, thanks to his 90th percentile for height–ahhhhh!).

But–there is one upside to all of this.

I cannot wait to bring home my first carload of groceries now that I have a clear path from the garage door to the kitchen! Hauling bags through two gates AND stairs with a toddler “helping” was never one of my favorite mom chores!

Onward and upward! Literally  🙂

Here we are again, HELPING

Farewell – Beloved Morning Nap, I Will Miss You

Hank Humor, Motherhood

Hank decided last week that he was a big 15-month-old, and he had WAY too many things to do in a day, to waste time napping TWICE.

I, on the other hand, disagreed with him on that sentiment, and tried my heart out to adhere to the morning-and-afternoon-nap schedule.

It didn’t work. He won.

So, here we are, week two of only one nap a day, and we are doing just great! (Well, he is doing just great and I am dragging ass, but thoroughly enjoying my extra cup of coffee in the mornings–the one it takes to get me all the way from wake-up to the almighty afternoon nap.)

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We can sit here as long as you want, Mama, I’m not napping

Here I was thinking that he would make it to eighteen months (at least!), before he kicked the morning nap I loved so much. The nap that allowed me to shower in peace, to eat eggs that were actually WARM, to sneak off to work early, to fold the clothes that just came out of the dryer, etc., without chasing him around like a crazy person trying to accomplish all some of those things while he wrecked havoc all over the house. (And ok, I will admit it; the clothes NEVER get folded right after they come out of the dryer. Maybe they do in my dreams.)

Ahhhhhh, those were lovely mornings.

Nowadays, we just go directly from wake-up (zero) to full-bore playtime (sixty) in about 5.2 seconds, and we now stay there until 12:30 or 1:00, when we crater.

And I mean CRATER. I have never seen a little boy nod off in a highchair, until this week. I have never hauled a sleepy baby in from a car seat, and actually PUT HIM BACK DOWN TO SLEEP, until this week.

But here is the part that makes no sense to me whatsoever: Shouldn’t a one-hour morning nap and a one-hour afternoon nap convert into one TWO-HOUR afternoon nap?

Shouldn’t it?

Well, no. At least not by Hank’s logic. He just graduated himself into one more hour of play time. So mama just earned herself one more cup of stout, sugared-up coffee.

And I don’t even want to think about the day when we will have to go to NO NAP AT ALL. Hopefully, I have years before that happens.

If I don’t, please just don’t tell me.  Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

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Tired? Do I LOOK Tired? YOU are the one who looks tired, Mama!