Father's Day

My husband is an incredible father.

He changes diapers. Even the icky (and tricky) meconium newborn poops. In fact, he was the executor of each very first diaper change (while I giggled wearily from the hospital bed).

He gets up with crying babies in the middle of the night. Not all of the time, but enough to make a huge difference for a sleep deprived mama.

On weekends he really steps up his game. Bath time, breakfast time, outdoor play time. You name it, he can do it.

He can and often does fly solo. That is, he is home taking care of the girls without me so that I can have my girls’ night or book club, or whatever.

He knows how to hold a newborn. Every woman loves to see her man cradling their infant.

He reads to the girls almost every night. Girly books, like Disney Princesses. He read A.A. Milne’s Hundred Acre Wood to my pregnant belly.

He can soothe a crying baby to sleep as well as I can. In fact, he is doing so right now as I type this.

Every day he works a job that he doesn’t like in order to support a family that he loves.

He can calm his irate toddler. He can be firm and he can be gentle. And his patience can occasionally stretch much farther than mine.

He can calm his irate wife. Sometimes.

He is the first to sacrifice and the last to complain.

He will condescend to sip tea with Minnie Mouse, Care Bear, and Curious George. He does indeed sit down in a tiny pink chair at a tiny pink table and serve all sorts of pretend delicacies in tiny plastic dishes. But don’t tell him I told you.

He puts up with much crying, fit throwing, and attitude. And the kids can be pretty bad, too.

He is one lone male in a house full of females. God help him.

When we learned the gender of our first born, he cried happy tears. He so wanted a girl. Now he has two.

He can’t make their outfits match to save his life, but he can get them dressed.

He doesn’t prepare them vegetables, but he can get them fed.

But most of all, my husband adores his little girls.

And they know it.

Fess Ups and Mess Ups

I may or may not be guilty of serving my toddler microwave popcorn for lunch, which may or may not have been coated in “movie butter.” I did this because I preferred to spend exactly one minute thirty seconds heating that popcorn, which will be completely devoured, rather than taking thirty minutes to meticulously prepare her usual well balanced lunch, of which she will take maybe two bites.


This same toddler is no longer taking naps, though I am beginning to suspect that she might could If I would only take the time and the effort to bring them back into our routine. But there will be major conflict in convincing her of this (think WW3) and I am suddenly feeling very Switzerlandish. So despite the fact that she is tired and cranky all afternoon and I am now a desperately crazed mother without a break from a tyrannical toddler, naptime still isn’t happening.

I just don’t have the fight in me.

Does this reflect a new, more mature development in my parenting or am I simply copping out of my responsibilities?

Discuss amongst yourselves.


Several expletives were in fact muttered by yours truly while trying to disengage a bubble blowing octopus from its ridiculously confining package. It was actually screwed into plastic discs that were in turn screwed to the cardboard. Seriously, I need a freakin’ screwdriver to free a one pound plastic toddler toy from its cardboard box? It appears that toy manufacturers may be losing perspective.

It‘s not a hand gun.

It is a purple. plastic. octopus.

It blows bubbles.


Ahem…Just how much tv is too much tv? Because it is really, really hot outside.


I fear my toddler may be a brat. Really. I have been praying about this and I’m worried. How much bad behavior can logically be blamed upon terrible twos? And isn’t “strong willed” just a euphemism for “very unpleasant child?”


And last, but certainly not least, I can now officially announce that the proverbial rose colored glasses of motherhood have been removed.

And stomped into a fine pink powder.

As if you couldn’t tell.



It has been a rough month in the Webb household. It seems that our two year old has upped the ante on the "terrible." Please feel free to stand upon your soapbox and give me what for.

Or contribute your own confessions.

Summer: A Love/Hate Relationship

• I love the sunshine. I love that the grass is green and the trees are full and the sky is blue. Summer is colorful, and I do love color. However, I do not love the angry red of my skin after it has been exposed to the brilliant gold sunshine. Nor do I love the emerald green grass that grows too fast for us to keep it as groomed as we would like.

• Swimming! Nothing can bring back childish enthusiasm quite like a dive in a cool blue swimming pool. Of course the obvious downside of swimming is the necessity of a swimsuit. Not that I would prefer to swim naked, just that I really, really hate wearing a swimsuit these days.

• Oh, how I wish I could tan. But I do not. I burn and heal and then burn some more. And I get a few more freckles. But I am happy for all of you bronzed sun worshipers. Truly, I am. And I console myself with the certainty that while I am settling for a streaky, self-applied, imitation tan, someday you will all be wrinkled, leathery toads.

• Since my kids are not yet in school, the summer does not immediately affect our routine except that it is not dark at the girls’ bedtime. I am therefore not a fan. But we have been staying outside well into the evening and allowing the girls to play (and hopefully exhaust themselves), which they love. And I suppose I have to love that, too.

• I won’t go into specifics, but we (and by “we” I really just mean Greg) do look forward to the summer movie season all year long. I am especially excited to take Rylie to her first cinema experience in the coming weeks. So, you may ask, where is the downside to this one? I will let you know in the coming weeks, after I take Rylie to her first cinema experience.

• Ladies and gentlemen, this may come as a shock to you all, but I am not a nature girl. I do not love to sweat. I do not love insects of any kind, (even you, ladybug). I have already conveyed my feelings regarding sunshine and grass. So generally, I avoid going outside. Especially in the HOT summer. But, like anything else, there are caveats. I love sitting on a porch swing in the late evening. I love lounging in a pool at any time of day. And yes, I do love taking my girls outside to discover The Great Outdoors on their own terms. Though I can’t promise that the mere buzz of flying insect won’t send each one of us running into the house.

Burnout: A Pep Talk

It’s good to be back! I have taken a bit of a blog hiatus due to technical difficulties, but thanks to my brother Cole, my laptop is back, and so is this blogger. I have some new ideas rummaging around in my head and I can’t wait to get them sorted, but until then I will be posting a couple of things written weeks, maybe months ago, that I did not post because I simply refuse to blog on our old desktop relic.

The following was written in a funk, and though I am in a better mood these days, I am going to put it up as reference on the days I do need it. And because there are times that we all need it.

Sometimes in the midst of days at home with my kids, I get a bit down. Maybe the day seems not just long, but endless. Maybe I can’t seem to accomplish one thing because there are two small sets of hands clinging to my legs. Maybe I am weary of battling a strong willed toddler day in and day out. Mostly, I believe I am just wistful for something to be easy in a time where everything in my life seems difficult.

Today is one of those days.

I am tired.

I feel like I need a break but there is not one in sight.

Such is the plight of so many other women and I must resign myself to the fact that there will not be a break any time soon. There might never be a break, at least not a substantial one. Money is tight. So very tight. The economy has tanked, as you well know. Chances of new employment for myself or better employment for my husband are slim.

So today, rather than wallowing indulgently in self pity as I am wont to do, I am choosing to be grateful for my lot. It’s a pretty good lot.

I am blessed to be the mother of that toddler sleeping in her bed at this moment, even if today she did throw a tantrum over where she is allowed to ride her tricycle. Even if that tantrum was outside. In the road. For twenty minutes.

And I am so thankful for that 12 month old crying in her crib right now because I dared put her down for a nap after rocking her for half an hour.

I am going to just take a moment to put things in perspective, if you don’t mind. Remind myself of my priorities. Give myself a pep talk. I have to do this occasionally.

We’ve all heard it before, but it bears repeating. Children are gifts from God. It is easy to forget this little nugget of wisdom when you are in the midst of raising the wily buggers, but it’s true. They may sometimes be snotty nosed, spoiled rotten, whiney gifts, but they are gifts nonetheless. They are gifts that not everyone gets to receive or to keep very long once given. And having glimpsed a teeny, tiny bit into the worlds of infertility and child loss, I cannot be too appreciative of these little people toddling around my house.

Oh, and about the house, I could use a little motivation on that front as well. Being a mom is not easy today, but it never was. EVER.

My husband knows that when he comes home, dinner may or may not be on the table, the house may or may not be clean, and his wife most certainly will not be wearing an apron, pearls and heels, a la June Cleaver.

Nope.

When my husband comes home, dinner might be in the works, or it might be somewhat planned, or it might be only a vague idea. The house is usually messy. The kids are usually cranky. And unless it is an errand or appointment day, I will be wearing a t-shirt, yoga pants and an exasperated expression. My face will be devoid of makeup and framed by seriously flat hair.

Strangely enough, Greg is actually okay with all of this. Though I think he prefers errand days and dinners in more tangible forms than vague ideas.

I will try to keep all of this in mind if I find myself moping around the house, feeling burned out. When I am up every two hours with the teething baby, I will remember that some women never get to rock their own babies in their arms no matter how hard they pray. When I find myself running in circles to pick up my house while the kidlets weave paths of destruction behind me, I will just give in and play along, because someday they won’t be little girls under my feet, messing up my house, and begging me to play with them. When I feel stressed because it is 5:00 and the house is trashed and I do not have a plan for dinner, I will relax, because my family likes hot dogs.

So no, I can’t take a vacation this year. Not even a mini one. But I can enjoy what I have and choose to not let it stress me out. I can give myself a break from my own judgment of what constitutes a “good mother.” I can remember that there are moms in unbearable situations; moms with sick children, moms in miserable marriages, moms living in poverty, moms of children now in heaven. The list goes on.

Despite the fact that I haven’t been on a vacation since our honeymoon six years ago, I will be just fine. I will appreciate that now is a good time to be a mother. I will be happy with the blessings in my life, regardless of sleep deprivation, clutter, and seriously out of control tantrums.

I will rest in the knowledge that my children are healthy, my husband is happy, and the only expectations I have to meet are my own.