Ramblings of a tired mind.

In the last eight years since I became a mother, I’ve learned just a few hopefully a lot of things. I’ve relaxed about a few things, come to conclusions about a few things, and ran into lots of brick walls in my venture towards what really is (and isn’t) important. In no particular order, a few things:

Shoes can be mismatches if you like. You can even wear them on the wrong feet. Knock yourself out. If we’re headed to the store, I might try to find two that match. Or not. Unless Daddy’s taking you. Mismatches cannot happen if Daddy’s around. He’s not too tired to care yet. Give it time.

Outfits worn at home do not have to match. If we’re headed out, I reserve the right to change any article of clothing on any of my children.

Hair must be combed. Every day. This is not an option. Neither are teeth; they must be brushed.

Princess dress up shoes, affectionately called “clip clop shoes” in Ruby’s world, can also be worn to the store.

If clip clop shoes are worn, bring extra shoes for Ruby. She, like most girls I know, can only tolerate heels for so many miles. If you forget the comfy shoes for her for when blisters begin to form, you will be carrying her.

Muttering at me in an unclear and quiet voice when I ask a question is disrespect. I will tolerate it no more.

Putting on my earrings constitutes dressing up. My kids always know we’re headed somewhere on the days I put earrings in.

Pajamas are completely acceptable anywhere – if you’re under the age of one. Otherwise, we dress to shoes. And yet, my kids giggle when I don’t get Pierce dressed all day.

Children get less work from Momma on teaching them colors, numbers, letters, and the like the more children I have. Yet my younger children know far more than my older ones did at their ages. Turns out, the work the older ones require rubs off on the youngers ones. Thus, the reason my three and four year olds are driving me nuts with the states and capitals song.

The wood trim in my house needs to be painted a dark color. No matter how often I wash it, the area four feet tall and lower is always dirty. Always. I’m not convinced I want dark colored trim. And yet…

I’ve had the same ficus tree since I was in college. It’s nearly as tall as me. It’s moved ten times. I thought it was just because I was really good at growing houseplants. Turns out, all the dead plants I’ve killed through the years are mocking me. I just read ficus trees are  really hard to kill. Ruined my pride.

Charlotte likes to eat the dirt out of the ficus tree. She shakes her head at herself as she does it. Does that constitute as self-discipline?

My writing typically gets funnier as I get more tired. I should be pretty well on my way to hilarious from where I sit.

I forgot Pierce the other day. A friend held him for me, and I was ready to go on my merry way, forgetting I have an infant. Just when I think I’ve got it together, that I really can do this, something like that happens. Turns out, pride cometh. And falls cometh. Feeling a bruised tush right about now. And always.

Speaking of Pierce, he weighed 11 lbs. 4 oz. today. At one month old, baby’s grown. So glad that pregnancy wasn’t 45 weeks long. Baby’s looking round.

The van: the battery was dead! Crazy. Still don’t know why, since it’s run well ever since Blaine jumped it with the pickup. Counting blessings upon blessings with that one.