Author: Big Mama

It’s the end of the door as we know it

When P and I bought our house 9 years ago, the home inspection report showed termite damage to the front door. On further inspection, they found that the house didn’t currently have termites, but only evidence that a family of termites had once lived in the wooden threshold of our front door and frequently held parties where they’d invite all of their termite friends and they’d float a keg and get destructive. Since the house had bigger issues, such as wiring so old it required us to turn off every light in the house to run the microwave, the termite damaged door pretty much didn’t even register on our to-do list.

So, about 4 1/2 years ago, right after I discovered I was pregnant, we decided it was a good time to do an extensive remodel and addition on the house. The work that needed to be done was so extensive we decided to pack up all our things, rent another house and live there until the remodel was completed. I guess we could have tried to live in our house during the renovation, but I’m fairly certain we would have killed each other and the new master suite we were adding would have been a complete waste.

Pregnancy hormones and extensive remodel. Excellent combination and not at all stressful.

I won’t even talk about how I was so determined to be in our house before the baby was born that I stood on scaffolding to help P hang crown molding while I was 8 months pregnant. I was a woman on a mission. The idea of bringing home our child to a rent house was enough to send me into tears.

Of course, in all honesty, I think an episode of Sanford and Son brought me to tears during my pregnancy. I may have been a little overemotional, but sometimes the unspoken admiration between Fred and Lamont is just too much to bear.

Since we weren’t living in our house, and none of our things were in the house, it was an opportune time to take the front door, which we suspected was once again housing a termite family complete with 2nd and 3rd cousins, and have it gassed and send the termites to a better place. Well, a better place for us. But, we procrastinated and it never happened. It just seemed like there were more immediate issues that needed to be tended to, such as installing flooring and hanging sheetrock. The termite family was spared.

And honestly, we never see them or think of their existence until the weather gets hot. We’ve been in denial, but now our front door is at the point where we may go to open it and the door knob may pull right out as the wood around it completely disentegrates.

So, tonight we were discussing things we need to spend money on and the subject of the front door came up. The problem is our house was built in 1923 and the front door is the original front door. It is one of my favorite features of our house because it’s rounded at the top like a little elf house door with a little square cutout towards the top that holds a piece of original beveled glass. It is a yummy little door and holds my heart in the palm of its termite infested hand.

It is not a door that can be replaced with the cold, sterile doors they sell at Home Depot. Last I checked, Home Depot did not stock yummy elf doors. This is a custom door that will require a custom replacement.

I told P I was concerned about how expensive it might be to replace the door and I didn’t want another door unless we could get another one with a cutout for the little beveled glass window.

I asked, “What if we can’t find someone to make it?”

He said, “I can make a front door. I’ll just get a piece of plywood, nail it up there and spray paint ‘GO AROUND BACK’ on it.”

It’s a good thing he’s cute.
Minty fresh

Every now and then, as a mama, you have those days where you are deluded enough to think you’ve got this whole thing figured out. Yesterday was not one of those days.

I’m not sure what exactly started the day off on the wrong foot, but I have a feeling it was waking up with a 3 year old contorted around my body in such a way as to create a huge crick in my neck. I’m not sure how she ended up in bed with us, but I have a vague recollection of stumbling across the house around 2 a.m. knowing I had lost my will to fight this battle.

We woke up around 7:15 to the sounds of all the construction workers arriving at the house next door. There was much yelling and hammering. It really is a delightful way to start the day. I highly recommend living next door to a construction site, because not only do we get to wake up to all the incessant hammering of the hammers, but around midday each day the head contractor, who I like to call “The Silver Fox”, takes off his shirt and spends the rest of the day supervising while shirtless. The whole scene is like a Diet Coke commercial gone wrong.

Very, very wrong.

So, we’d been up all of 4 minutes before Caroline started in with the whining. And really, who can blame her? She has a rough life with all the constant love and adoration. Not to mention the hot meals, the clean clothes, and using my cheek as a pillow for the better part of the night. But apparently, my resistance to allowing her to eat York peppermint patties for breakfast is causing her much distress. I hope God answers her prayers, because really, does it get any meaner than that?

We spent the morning engaged in various little battles and then it was time for swim lessons. I hosed her down with SPF 50, put on her swimsuit and then went to get myself sunscreened and dressed. As I was standing in the bathroom, she walked in wearing clothes. A long sleeve shirt and jogging pants, which are perfect attire for these 90 degree days. She informed me that she WAS NOT GOING TO SWIM LESSONS because either her stomach hurt or the other kids were too wild. She couldn’t really make up her mind.

Either way, her story had no credibility. An upset stomach is her go-to illness in all instances and there is no human way the other kids are wilder than she is. She is the queen of wild.

When I told her that she absolutely was going to swim lessons, there was much screaming, yelling and gnashing of teeth.

And she wasn’t happy about it either.

I wrestled her into her swimsuit, grabbed the swim bag and we headed to the pool. And before any of y’all suggest that maybe she doesn’t enjoy swimming lessons, let me clarify that she is a champion swimmer. She has spent the entire winter doing the backstroke in the bathtub. She has never had a fear of the water and in fact, the summer before she turned one, I spent much time trying to keep her from drowning herself because all she wanted to do was IMMERSE herself in the H2O goodness and would constantly push against me so that she could completely submerge herself.

The issue was not swim lessons. The issue is that she is 3 1/2 and I actually said out loud the other day, “She seems to be fighting me less on things as she gets closer to turning 4.” If that’s not the equivalent of daring fate to throw me a curveball, then I don’t know what is.

Once we got to the pool, she walked happily to her swim lessons as if the crying had never happened, because after all, it’s not the swim teacher’s fault that Caroline has been cursed with a mother who won’t let her eat York peppermint patties for breakfast.

Maybe if she swims in the Olympics someday, her picture won’t be on a box of Wheaties, but rather a bag of peppermint patties. Breakfast of Champions.
And I’ll pray that she would just go to sleep

By the end of the day yesterday, I was tired and my teeth hurt to the point that I was ready to have them all pulled out and just get false ones instead. My orthodontist keeps saying we need to fill some spaces, but don’t they have some kind of Bondo they can use instead of making my life a living hell?

I guess not.

Plus, he took some x-rays of my mouth because I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get my hopes up that it’s about time to set my teeth free so that he can then dash those hopes to the ground and make me feel foolish for ever thinking a day will come that I won’t have wires sticking into my gums.

Anyway, it was time for Caroline to go to bed and bedtime can be enough of a beating even when I’m feeling good, and last night my patience was at an all time low. And of course, she had to peruse her entire inventory of books before deciding on her bedtime stories.

Then, she needed water.

Then, she needed to go to the bathroom.

Then, she needed to give Daddy one more hug.

Then, my head spun around in circles until it exploded into pieces that flew all over the room.

Finally, stories were read, kisses were given and she started asking for stuff again. In a loud voice I said, “NO. NO. NO. NO MORE STUFF. Now let’s say your prayers and get in bed.”

And she looked me in the eye and said, “Okay, Mama. I’m going to pray that you wouldn’t be so mean.”
Let them eat cake

If you’re here to read the post about whether or not I rinse my dishes before I put them in the dishwasher, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. I’d so much rather bore y’all to tears with mundane tidbits about my weekend, rather than the state of my dishes as they go in the dishwasher but, for the record, my dishes must be rinsed and rinsed well before they see the inside of the dishwasher. I may not make my bed everyday, but I have standards, people. Standards.

On Friday night, we attended my cousin’s wedding, and when I say we, what I mean is Caroline and I attended a wedding. P pretty much gets a free pass on such obligations because I am a great wife. I won’t even bring up the fact that I felt obligated to attend a geographical Easter egg hunt nightmare with his relatives, even though he wasn’t able to be there. I am just that unselfish. Sometimes.

Not to mention, if I hadn’t attended the Easter egg hunt, I still wouldn’t know that sturgeon breed off the coast of Russia or wherever.

Anyway. Family wedding.

Caroline completely cooperated with my master plan which is, in and of itself, a miracle of divine proportions. We spent Friday morning at the pool and maybe it was because I made her swim the 400 meter freestyle, but she actually came home and took a nap. I was thrilled that she would be ready to stay up late for the wedding festivities, but completely underestimated that she is her daddy’s girl and turns into a pumpkin around 10:00 p.m. no matter how much sleep she’s had.

How did I end up with these people? These cheerful early to bed, early to rise kind of people? It’s just not right.

In my ideal universe, otherwise known as college, I would stay up until 2 a.m. and sleep until noon. I love those hours, but when you live with people who like to start the day off with a bang at 6:30 a.m., staying up until 2 a.m. is just self-imposed torture. But sometimes, I still do it, because it’s really pleasant to spend an entire day feeling like you could nod off at any given time only to be brought back to consciousness by a 3 year old yelling, “PAUSE THE T.V., MAMA! I HAVE TO GO POTTY!”

I brought a purse full of Lifesavers to the wedding so I could continuously dole out candy coated bribes throughout the ceremony. They worked like a charm, especially because the minister was blessed with the gift of brevity and the whole thing only lasted about 10 minutes. I kid you not. And my favorite part was when he started the ceremony by saying, “We are gathered here to celebrate the marriage of D and C. These two love each other quite a bit.”

Quite a bit.

Those words don’t seem to accurately convey what two people should feel on their wedding day. It’s more of a phrase I’d use to describe paying my utility bill, such as, we had to pay QUITE A BIT to the utility company this month due to the fact that I have to sleep in a room that is 68 degrees every night because sleeping with 182 pillows makes a person hot.

Or, do you like cheesecake? Oh yes, quite a bit.

So, after the ceremony where the couple declared quite a bit of love for each other, we moved into the reception area. The only problem was the pictures took forever, which means it was forever before we finally ate and an additional week of forevers before they cut the cake. Caroline was beyond exhausted at this point, but she was not leaving the reception without a piece of cake. It honestly got to the point where I wondered if anyone would notice if I just took my dinner knife and sliced off a little piece off the back of the bride’s cake. My thought is if a cake isn’t cut 3 hours into all the wedding festivities, she only has herself to blame.

That’s Caroline waiting on cake. I think her face says it all.

Finally, the music started playing, so to distract Caroline and her white frosting obsession, I got her out on the dance floor. I asked her if she wanted to dance with Bops and she told me she wanted to dance with the beautiful bride, and the bride was sweet enough to dance with her for a few minutes. Shortly after that dance, the bride made her way over to the cake and cut it. I have more than a small suspicion that Caroline might have told that bride to hurry up and cut the cake.

Then, Saturday morning, we went and swam over at Mimi and Bop’s house because really, two trips to the neighborhood pool everyday for the last week just isn’t enough. It was she and Bop’s first morning swim of the summer and thankfully, the sun was out so it wasn’t too cold. Bops must be living right.

After the morning swim, we went home and she took another nap. I can’t tell you the last time she actually slept during naptime 2 days in a row, but I’m pretty sure Nixon was in office. I actually got to read a book and do some laundry completely uninterrupted.

Saturday evening, we had yet another big social event. A birthday party for one of Caroline’s best girl friends. But seriously, this was a hit with all of us. P got to hang out and talk about deer proof fences, I got to catch up with all my friends and Caroline, not only got to jump in a unicorn bounce house, but also got to meet Barbie, who gave her tattoos on her cheek and both hands.

Not real tattoos, mind you. We’re saving that for her 16th birthday.

The funny thing was none of the kids seemed to notice that Barbie had braces and, under the blonde wig, looked suspiciously like their 16 year old babysitter. I guess they were too in awe of the silver lame mini dress she was wearing, and really, who can blame them?

The best part was Gulley and I had no idea that Barbie was going to make an appearance, and as we sat and visited, we caught a glimpse of blonde hair and silver lame and both thought some Mama was way overdressed for the party.

So, there y’all have it. More than you ever cared to know about our weekend.

I have to say, we enjoyed ourselves quite a bit.
To make or not to make, that was the question

Y’all are not kidding around about your bed making or unmaking preferences. I mean, seriously? 106 comments on making the bed? I have written posts that are my personal favorites that have received all of 10 comments, and then I throw myself under the bus by admitting I don’t make my bed, and y’all come out of the woodwork.

Stay tuned for Monday’s post where I’ll discuss whether or not I rinse my dishes before I put them in the dishwasher.

It will be riveting!

So, I’m sad to say it appears the bed makers have the advantage over the non-bed makers. It was a close race, but the final results came in like this:

53 people make their beds almost daily, with a few of them being sneaky enough that they’ve figured out how to get their husbands to do it. Nice, ladies. Very nice.

Also, out of this 53, several make their beds at night as opposed to in the morning, which frankly, blows my mind. But if it makes you happy for those 3 minutes, then more power to you. It’s our differences that make this country great.

43 people let me know they are like me and do not make their beds on a daily basis. The reasons ranged from not caring, to knowing that no one sees their room anyway, to rebelling from a childhood of forced bed-making. Too bad these people didn’t know P, because he could have shared his sleeping bag trick and saved them much trauma.

5 people came in as what I’ll call “other”. These are folks that may not normally make the bed, but due to the fact that they currently have homes on the market, they are forced into deviant behavior. Most of them assured me that once their homes sell, they will once again be fellow slackers. Be proud, fellow slackers. And here’s hoping those houses sell sooner rather than later.

I will say that as I tallied the results it appeared, at first, that the non-bed makers were going to win. Y’all started off strong in the early comments, but as the day wore on, more bed makers showed up. I’m sure they were late because they had been straightening sheets and plumping pillows all morning. It’s all about priorities, and hats off to those of you who put reading blogs first. I salute you.

And lastly, I want to answer a few questions and concerns that came up. First of all, in defense of my raising, let me say that I always had to make my bed while growing up. I continued to make my bed throughout most of college and even during married life. Then, 4 years ago, two things happened. We added on a master bedroom to the back of our house, where no one can tell if the bed is made or not even when the bedroom door is open, and we had a child. I’m not sure which of these things holds more weight as to why I no longer make the bed, so I’ll say they both play a role. Back when our bedroom was highly visible, I did, in fact, make my bed every day because otherwise, the whole house seemed messy.

Plus, anyone who came to visit had to walk past our bedroom to use the bathroom and there was really no way to tell people they weren’t allowed to go to the bathroom for fear that they’d see my unmade bed. That would just be cruel.

I change my sheets at least once a week and sometimes more often because I have a child who likes to sneak snacks into my bed when I’m not paying attention. A bed covered in Oreo crumbs is the equivalent of sleeping in the third level of hell. And as far as pajamas, I usually wear the same pair two nights in a row and then move on.

Someone was concerned about my off-white coverlet, so let me assure you that it was purchased pre-child and a huge advantage of not making the bed is that it has stayed clean. Having a made up bed everyday would be asking for it to have a huge grape juice stain on it, so really, by not making the bed I am saving us tons of money on drycleaning and new bedding, not to mention the therapy I’d need if my beautiful coverlet was ruined.

Thank you all for your comments. It has been more than enlightening and most importantly, extremely entertaining. Y’all are the best.
We all have to sleep in the bed we make or don’t make

Since it’s Friday, I figure it’s as good a day as any to bring up what could be a heated, controversial topic. Just remember that a comment is forever (unless I decide to delete it), so don’t be too quick to judge me or anyone else who may conduct their life with the same beliefs as me.

It all started Wednesday night. I was talking to Boomama on the phone and, as usual, we were solving a myriad of complicated life issues, in between sharing what we had recently read in People magazine and our thoughts on Sarah Jessica Parker’s new fashion line. We are always striving for enlightenment and exploring the deeper issues. Anyway, she was getting packed and ready for her big trip and as a sidenote said, “Alex is sleeping in our bed tonight so that I don’t have to make up his bed before we leave for the airport tomorrow morning.”

What did she just say? I think I just heard some crazy talk.

Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Some of y’all may think my shock was due to Alex sleeping in her bed, but you would be wrong. I completely get that part. I find myself sharing my bed at least 3 nights of the week with my own 3 foot tall, 32 pound person, who somehow defies physics and takes up more bed space than a full grown adult. Having a toddler in bed with you isn’t a hot topic, it’s practically a way of life.

I asked Boomama the question that was echoing off the walls of my brain, “Would you really make up his bed before you left for the airport if he slept in it?” And without skipping a beat, she answered, “Absolutely. I never leave my house without making all the beds because I’m convinced something bad would happen to me and my mama would come to my house and find all my beds unmade. It would be a huge embarrassment.”

I’m just going to come clean right now before God, the internet, and my mother-in-law. I do not make my bed in the morning, which is kind of interesting considering that I cross the border on obsessive about the rest of the house. In fact, the only time my bed really ever gets made is if someone is coming to visit who has never been here before and I’m concerned they may ask for a tour. I completely justify this lack of bed making by telling myself that because my bedroom is at the very back of our house, no one ever sees it.

And it’s not like P cares if the bed is made or not. He slept in a sleeping bag on top of his made up bed every night of his life growing up so that he could just roll up the sleeping bag and toss it under the bed in the morning. It’s really a brilliant plan in its simplicity. Here’s hoping that Caroline has inherited that propensity for coming up with creative solutions to avoiding chores.

Lest any of you think that maybe my bed doesn’t look so bad in its unmade state, I’ll show you this.

Oh yes, it’s very attractive and sadly, it takes a lot of effort to get it to look like that. In fact, it takes me longer to unmake the bed than it does to make the bed. P and I discovered about 3 days into our marriage that if we continued to try to share the same covers, we would be on the fast track to divorce court. So he pulled out that attractive, yellow comforter, which was actually my bedspread throughout college and has a lovely, floral print on the other side, and has been using it every night for the last 10 years. During the winter months, he adds a lovely flannel sheet with penguins printed all over it.

The whole look is really right out of Southern Living.

I sleep under the down comforter with the blue checked duvet cover, which actually used to belong to Gulley. We are obviously all about the fine linens here at our house. And those lumps that y’all may see under all those attractive bedcovers aren’t us, they are the collection of 182 pillows that we sleep with every night.

And when we travel, we bring them with us. Doesn’t that make you want us as houseguests? We’re very low maintenance.

This morning I actually got up and made our bed. Honestly, I had forgotten how pretty it looks when it’s all made up. If something terrible were to ever happen to me, I’d definitely prefer that my bedroom be found in this state as opposed to the other. Boomama might have the right idea.

So, here’s the big question. Do you make your bed every day? Is it a crucial part of your daily routine? Or are you like me and feel like you’re just going to sleep in it again in about 12 hours, no one sees it anyway, so why bother? Also, someone please tell me that you’re as high maintenance regarding the unmaking of the bed as I am.

I’m hoping I’m not alone, because if I am, I may have to delete this post to preserve my reputation.