Bad, Jiminy

So I have this rule that, over the years, has saved me loads of buyer's remorse and at least a few marital disputes.

I don't buy clothes that aren't on sale.

Because they always go on sale eventually. And when they do, I kick myself.

Because my husband wants to be a teacher, and though admirable, this does not bode well for my effortless life of luxury.

And because I'm not a long-term wardrober. I like to switch things up with the seasons, with my mood, with trends, and that's hard to do when you blow $48 on a single shirt.

So, sadly, I don't buy clothes that aren't on sale.

But today? Today I seriously questioned that pestering Jiminy Cricket and his silly songs about conscience and doing what's right.

And for one bright, shiny moment, before I remembered the playset we bought last night and the vegetables that need to be purchsed and planted this weekend, I went on a shopping spree, filling my cart with pleasant surprises from a company I had relegated to the over-fifty apparel crowd.

And what'd I find?

This (though I think I'd do a navy blue bottom).

And these (with a short-sleeved cardi, even if my husband thinks I'm turning into an old woman with all the cardigans I wear of late).

 And this.

Blasted rules! That's right, conscience, I'm talking to you. Take your chirpy spokesperson and your guilt and shove it. I wanna go shopping.

But I won't.

So one request:
Once I tell you where to find all these cute goodies (and I promise you'll be surprised), if you indulge (really am cursing the dumb playset. Kids like rocks and dirt -- who needs a slide?), wanna share?

Drumroll please...
Lands' End.
Seriously. They have a new line called Canvas, and it's youthful and fresh without looking like it was made for a 15-year-old. It's J Crew at 3/4 of the price, and I am swooning.

And Runs

I wasn't going to write this post, but after running through it with a friend, she assured me it was more funny than whiny and that I should forge ahead into the depths of the doozy that was my Wednesday. Not complaining; just think it's a fair representation of the chaos that is life as a working mom.

Here goes. If you are directly or indirectly referenced in this one, please take it with a grain of salt (what does that even mean?)...

5:30 a.m. Wake up earlier than usual so that I can go into work early so that I can leave work early to help manage the chaos that is a primary party with 100+ kiddos. Get to work at 6:53 (though I will later tell a co-worker I was in at 6:30 -- sorry Cami; this is why it's bad to let co-workers read your blog). Late for my self-appointed early clock-in because my eldest woke up early and Mr. Burt was still snoozing, leaving me to change wet underwear (still working on the nighttime potty training), flip through the cartoons and dig up a pre-breakfast-because-I-don't-want-to-leave-my-four-year-old-alone-with-a-bowl-full-of-soggy-cereal snack.Work, work, work (harder than usual because I will be stealing bits of time throughout the day for two different doctor appointments (I know, poor planning on my part).

9:15 a.m. Sneak off for appointment number one: follow up on last week's wisdom teeth extraction. Back to work. retrieve a voicemail from Andy asking about babysitters and delivering a couple urgent messages related to the coming primary activity. Answer messages of primary kid parents in my quiet-so-my-boss-won't-know-I'm-not-really-working phone voice. Arrange a babysitter for Nora (thank you, Melissa!) for the afternoon because, once again, Andy and I have failed to pay attention to one another's schedules. Work. Meeting. Work. Answer phone to hear husband say, "You owe me big time." Apparently, the extra insulation we are getting in our attic for free took too long to install and the installers were late and the kids were hungry and Andy had to fill out paperwork and and and...I promised a back rub, rolled my eyes and hung up. Back to work. Yogurt, and apple and a half-eaten granola bar that I found in the bottom of my purse that went to church with us on Sunday for lunch at my desk. Work.

1:15 p.m. Sneak off for appointment number two: lady doctor. Always fun. Apologize to my very stylish and funny and young enough to still be judgmental ob/gyn about the scraggly toenails (I generally try to go in sparkly and clean from the waist down all the way to my toes). Mumble something about half-marathons and unfulfilled promises to myself for a pedicure only to learn that enviable lady doc runs FULL marathons (and has nicely pedicured toes that I can see through her cute sandals -- what happened to ugly doctor orthopedics?). Leave, reminiscing on the days before kids when I would not only paint my toenails before these kind of appointments, but would also buy new underwear even though the doctor never sees it because the nurse quickly ushers you into a paper gown. Always be prepared.

While driving, fantasize about pinics in the sunshine with perfectly manicured and well-mannered children in the park. I had no idea I loved being a stay-at-home mom so much until I wasn't a SAHM anymore. In my fantasies, every weekday at home with the kids is a pleasant, well-executed hike or trip to the zoo or museum or library. Logically, I know otherwise, but refuse to accept such nonsense in any argument that pits Andy's to-dos against mine.

Back to work at 2:01. Supposed to leave for party set-up at the church at 2:30. Not going to happen. Work. Take fourth phone call from husband. Confirm babysitter plans and take a few more messages from parents who are sketchy on upcoming party details. Return messages. Leave work at 2:53. Construction detour on the way home, and then run into the house for a quick change (a decision I will later applaud). Dear husband is watching ESPN while kids are napping. Green envy creeps up my neck, flushing my cheeks. Quick-slightly-terse "hi" to seemingly relaxed husband. Dismiss the thought to "accidentally" wake up the kiddos in vindication, grab a handful of Red Vines and back out the door. To the church just after 3:00, with apologies for being late. Rush to get my station of the pending fun set up. Sneak a couple marshmallows out of the bag before setting up for the marshmallow relay. Sweet sugared bliss.

3:30 and kids are arriving. Fill out name tags. Enter room of 100 kids under the age of 10. Lots of shushing. Lots. Take 30+ kids in a parade down the hall and into the gym. More shushing. Wonder if they'd play the quiet game for 15 minutes (note: I love my calling in the primary -- just a bad day for a headache). Play marshmallow relay race with kids. Laugh. A lot. See, I do love my calling. Time for similarly-themed snack: silly s'mores.

I'd like to interrupt this post to say that whoever conceived this treat -- an idea we found online -- never actually made it.

So silly s'mores. Give each child a sealed ziploc bag with a graham cracker inside. Tell them to smash it. Lots of stomping and laughing and tossing. Best part of the conceptual dessert. Unzip bags. Toss in a handful of chocolate chips and...wait for it...a spoonful of marshmallow whip (you know, the sticky white goop that comes in a jar with a blue lid). Stop laughing. Reseal bags and cut small hole in bottom corner of bags. Tell kids to squeeze the snack into their mouths. Hah! Mallow whip is like concrete. It doesn't squeeze to the bottom of the bag like toothpaste; it sticks every inch of the bag into a tiny ball of crumbs and sugar. Kids get impatient and begin ripping bags open at random entry points. Suddenly covered in graham cracker crumbs and mallow whip. The pre-school version of tars and feathers. Wishing I would have tested this dessert out before the big day. Hindsight.

Usher kids to the bathroom for hand washing. Am now covered in marshmallow concrete, graham cracker crumbs and water.

Do the relay race/silly s'more adventure over again two more times with increasingly older groups of kids. It's no cleaner with eight-year-olds than it is with four-year-olds.

Party's over. A sticky success. Clean-up. Hah! Sweeping and scrubbing (didn't come prepared for that. Fortunately, our church uses the industrial-strength scratchy brown paper towels). Say a little prayer that the men who will come to the gym to play basketball later that evening do not slip on a patch of fine cracker crumbs and break an ankle.

Home at 6:33. Andy's still coaching and Nora's still whimpering and dripping after what I assume was a two-hour stint of screaming in my neighbor's ear. Sorry, Melissa. Must. Cook. Dinner. Blergh. Pasta and leftover chicken and canned sauce. Easy enough. "Mo-ommm, I don't like this!" Ignore eldest but toss some parmesan cheese on top as a pseudo-bribe. "I wanted peanut butter and jelly." Still ignoring. Feed kids with loads of coaxing and idle threats, clean dishes with clingy one-year-old on hip. Check the clock a zillion times. Did I just hear the garage door? Yes! 7:15 p.m. Hi, hun. "What's for dinner?" Seriously. Wipe kids' faces and hands a second time after they pawn food off their sun-kissed dad. Nag husband about sunscreen and skin cancer and whatever else comes to mind. Finally have presence of mind to remove permanently sticky clothes (told you I'd applaud the uninformed-yet-fortuitous decision to change out of my cute work frock). Second round of dinner clean-up. Outside with kids to water newly-planted peony bushes while Andy showers. Turn my back on Nora to reach the far corner of the yard with the hose. Big mistake. Finish watering and remove muddy clothes from not-so-genteel daughter. Spray her down with the hose. Screaming is warranted but ignored -- sorry, no time for baths tonight. Pajamas for kids. Tooth brushing and the child hand-off. Lace up running shoes. Step outside front door.

Silence.

Run 4.21 miles. Surprisingly, the most relaxing part of my day. Drag out the cool down so friend and I can catch up. Revel in the sanity of it all. Until we start to discuss our plans for the rest of the evening.

9:15 p.m. Back home after run. Andy mentions we're low on toilet paper. That's ok, I have to head to the store anyway to pick up a few more items for baby shower I'm co-hosting the next day. Wander aisles. Purchase ribbon and chicken and clothespins and a rattle. Argh! Toilet paper. And another trip through the checkout.

10:03. Home and washing strawberries, trimming chicken breasts and dicing red peppers. Andy wants to talk about...wait for it..."I think we need to slow things down. We're (he meant me) doing too much." Bite tongue. Mumble snarkiness. Am surprised that it doesn't become an argument when suddenly, sweet-though-oblivious husband apologizes for the bad timing and heads to bed. Wait. If you're not tired, I've got strawberries to dip and nametags to make and chicken to cook and...the bedroom door closes.

11:15 marvel at the good time I'm making on my projects. Silence and festering spousal frustration are the perfect combination to incite a tornado of mindless activity.

Glance at clock again. 12:15. What?! Up to craft room to pull out the Cricut. Back downstairs to make piles of unfinished projects I will try to finish in the hour I've got between work and the baby shower the next evening. Chuckle.

12:45. Shower off the marshmallow and stress and running saltiness and a little of the marital anger. Wonder how quickly I can brush my teeth and still have it do any good. Ignore errant eyebrows that need to be plucked. Suddenly realize how I let me toenails get so scraggly.

1:05 a.m. and into bed. Breathe. Andy's awake and suddenly feeling affectionate (Sorry. Promise that's as graphic as I'll get). Are you kidding me. I love my husband, but come on. Smooch, smooch, blah, blah, blah. Set alarm clock for 6:30 a.m., knowing full well I'll hit the snooze button at least four times, and finally, sleep.


Post Script.
I painted my toenails this morning before heading into work. A gal's got to know her limits.

She Runs

April brought running in the figurative and literal sense, with my first half-marathon.

Here we are pre-race (I don't know the girl in yellow, but she was a lot more honest in her expressions than my friend Sandi and I; I just kept thinking, "Why are we doing this?"

And here I am after, with my no. 1 fan.

I'm pretty sure my sister got pics of my triumphant crossing of the finish line, proof that I survived a 13.1 mile, 1:56 minute run, but the only pics she gave me were the I-am-dog-tired-and-a-mess snapshots. Even Nora is grossed out by the salty forehead and fuzzy hair.

Nora, some day you'll be embarrassed; maybe after that, you can be proud?

And Mandy, if you're reading, quit holding the good pics (I'm assuming there is something a bit more Nike-esque) hostage. Pretty please.

So glad I did it, training and all, and though my post-race actions would suggest otherwise (a lot of sugary goodness and empty excuses to skip runs), planning to do it again this fall.

To be continued (I hope) with better pics and a challenge to you all to join in the crazy...

Happy Birthday, Dino-sized

This little guy turned four in April, and we celebrated with a week-long birthdaypalooza.

Among his charms, our eldest one brings with him an insatiable love of jokes and pranks (if you've met his father, you know that was inevitable), and if you ask him how old he is, he'll answer with anything but "four."

How can you not love that sneaky smile and how easily joy creeps into a four-year-old's face?

After weeks of indecision over what kind of a cake he'd like, the mighty dinosaur won out over pirates and tractors, and though it is not without its flaws, I must say Porter's cake marked one of my proudest maternal moments (my mom always made our childhood birthday cakes to order, and though I've tried year after year, I needed this victory to carry the tradition into my fifth year of motherhood).

In keeping with the dinosaur theme, we had planned to host a gaggle of dinosaur games.

But that all changed when the birthday boy lost the first sack race. It seems he also loves winning, and it looks like we need to work on sportsmanship before we sign him up for soccer next fall.

And though the mid-party fit was slightly out-of-character and mildly embarrassing, the heartbreak of defeat was soon quelled by birthday presents and candle-blown wishes.

Oh the magic (and messes) of snakes, snails and puppy dog tails.

I heart May

As long as I remain a loyal SUU Thunderbird, our Aprils will remain a gaggle of chaos and stress and run-around, thanks to that pesky line in my job description that dumps the University's annual graduation festivities in my lap.

April also brings Easter (and the obligatory travels to be with family); spring planting and cleaning (or at least the at least half-unfulfilled back-of-your-mind nagging to do so); Porter's birthday (complete with Ace of Cakes amateur hour); and Coach Andy's soccer season (and the resulting single momming).

And this year, as an added bonus, it brought a half-marathon, family stuff that was important but inopportune, a graduation celebration for two of the Burts (Andy's brother and his wife), a new church calling, a smoking-but-paid-off car (that needed a new radiator), non-stop teething for both Nora (I-teeth) and I (wisdom teeth), and a visit from the Atlanta/New York contingent of the Burt clan.

Yes, our April was full. And though there was probably more fun in all of that than actual work, in the end, it comes as no surprise to me that I have now resurfaced to find a much-neglected blog among the aftermath of the Burt family's April.

And though you will be getting the nitty gritty on all of the above, for now, I'm still on reconnaissance to find just how many to-dos have been back-burnered. I have to make the new to-do list before I can start checking things off.

And so I leave you all with promises to get caught up (even though I am certain burtastic.com isn't a page-turner for any of our six faithful readers -- our kids are cute, but I'm sure you all had your own Aprils to get through).

And as an added bonus, a fairly telling image of my April:
squatting in heels while duct taping. Multi-tasking at its best. Imagine a whole month of similar mismatchery, and you've got a pretty good sense of the chapter we are now closing.

Hooray for May!!!

I once had a writing professor who said, "You only get three exclamation points to use throughout your life. Use them wisely."

I will gladly squander all three of mine on May if it conveys the relief/excitement/anticipation that comes with the fifth month of the year.