I have vacuumed up Legos, hair bands, twist ties, stickers, jewelry, and coins instead of picking them up.
I will load up sixty-eleven grocery bags up and down my arms, shout at small children to get out of the way, knock my funny bone on the van, be unable to close the hatch back, press the garage door button with my nose, and give myself a hernia all to save another trip to the garage. Which I will have to make anyway to close the hatchback. I will do it again next week.
I don't like massages. They either hurt like heck or tickle. Both make me tense with anticipation and I will leave in more knots than I came in with. Also, I like ending sentences with a preposition. This is a good girl's form of rebellion.
I don't like shoe sales-people who kneel in front of me. It makes me feel preposterous and snotty. I tell them to get up and quit being silly; I'm quite capable of trying on my own shoes. Then they feel sad and lost. So I tell them to sit down by me and we admire our feet together. I bemoan my hobbit feet. Then I buy them a coffee.
If the cheese molds, I cut off the moldy part and don't tell anyone and serve it anyway. This also goes for jam. And pretty much anything else.
I make my kids make their beds but I don't always make mine.
I'd rather have a clean house than a good homeschooling day. Don't judge.
I've decided I will never, ever, ever learn the 7s and 8s in the times tables without having to count backwards or forwards from 7x7=49 so one more 7 must be 56 so therefore... etc. I have decided to be okay with this. I will also never, ever, ever learn which planet revolves the sun or vice versa. All I know is 7x7=49 and Pluto is no longer a planet.
I would rather go to a bookstore than a spa.
I would rather go to a library than a bar.
I would rather go to a yard sale than the mall.
I hate buying toilet paper. Seriously hate it. It's such a waste. HAHAHAHA! Get it? A waste? I slay myself.
My dream house is a converted barn.
I don't want to do the converting part though. I want to buy it fully furnished and ready for me to live in. I'll bring my coffee, my owl socks, and my Kindle, and I'll pretty much be set.
If my kid's clothes are cute and clean I don't worry about their hair being combed. If their hair is cute and clean I don't worry about what they're wearing. I adopted this motto early on with my kids and it's just a general rule of thumb now.
I don't brush my teeth before bed every night. This started when I was pregnant with G. I was way too tired to do anything extra (i.e. anything at all other than pee) before dropping into bed at night. Plus, I had horrible indigestion all night long for nine months so I was poppin' Tums like they were going out of style. All night. I just knew I'd have cavities once he was born (even though I have never, ever had one). But I didn't. So I sorta thought, why was I doing all that extra work for thirty years? Don't judge. I'm seriously afraid of running into you now because I worry you will be squinting at my chompers.
I don't make my kids wash their hands after every single potty trip. And I've never used the tissue paper dispenser that's meant for gift wrapping the toilets.
I know I'm supposed to enjoy letting small humans bake with me, but if I'm really honest, I prefer to do the measuring and beating and scraping myself and then deliver the beaters to them. Cooking though, is different. They can chop and stir.
I had to borrow nine crumply dollar bills from my middler in order to put some gas in the car. It was embarrassing. Luckily, she knows nothing about the concept of interest. If she complains, I plan to share the gory details of how she was born.
I only recycle if I run out of room in the trash. Shhh.
I don't think my kid's know our address. This is probably important info they should ideally know, eh? Yeah. I should get on that. What if they decide to take the city bus? Oh wait. We don't have a city bus. And if we did, they wouldn't take it. Cuz they could be kidnapped by bus drivers.
I had a magazine article go viral. I've always wanted to say that. Always, since, like, two days ago. It was shared over 3,400 times on Facebook alone. I find it funny because that article took less than an hour to write. This blog has taken me four years to write and my novel took six months, and they don't get nearly that kinda lovin'. The only logical explanation is for me to put a lot less effort into everything I love.
I'm not sure it's possible to put less effort into my hair, but I'll try. I've been going for the bohemian, braided, messy bun, twirly thing, but I think I might look homeless. One of my ballerinas asked me if I had a bad morning and didn't have time to comb my hair. I made her do extra echappes.