I pretty much lost it today.

Twice.

You see, my life revolves around poop. From the second I wake up in the morning, open the twins’ bedroom door and am nearly knocked unconscious by a mushroom cloud of stank, to the final nasty diaper of the day.

All day.

Every day.

Double diaper duty.

Sure, I love my babies. I do not, however, feel any fondness to their feces.

This morning, I left the babies in their cribs a little longer than normal. The usual eau du poopoo didn’t waft from the room when I opened the door, so I figured they could sit in some pee for a while and have their morning bottles while I cleaned the kitchen up a bit. (And popped on to Facebook and Twitter, of course. You know, the morning essentials.)

It wasn’t that long, and they were happily playing, so I let them be. I walked down the hallway to get them, and I began to smell… it. The it to end all its. It seemed worse than normal, but I didn’t think much of it. That is, until I saw him.

Wyatt. Covered. In. Poop.

Head to toe and on his hands that were, of course, in his mouth. Crap was flung or rolled all over the crib, the bedding, the stuffed Mickey Mouse doll, blanket, Cabbage Patch Kid (Lily was apparently sharing her toys).

I held him at arms length and rushed him to the tub. It took all of my motherly instincts not to drop him when he took his turdy hand and happily slapped it against my forearm.

I began whimpering. Normally, I can suck it up, but this wasn’t the first time this had happened with Wyatt this week. Sunday, the kid blew out his diaper so bad, it coated his legs, back, and everything. It was another tub-er (tub-er: when a diaper is so horrendous, it must be changed in the tub). The best part of that story, is that I didn’t realize I had crap streaked on my ankle until several hours afterward.

So, I was whimpering, washing him off, sticking my bare hand in places that it ought not be stuck, watching digested peas, orange bits, and corn float in the tub water because our drain is horrible, and willing myself not to vomit. Wyatt thought this was the most hilarious thing ever and was squealing, splashing around, having a grand ol’ time.

Finally, he was clean and thoroughly sanitized. I set to work on the bedding and poor Mickey and Cabbage Patch, when I realized we were out of laundry detergent.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelled to no one in particular.

The entire time this was going on, I was wavering between “I am going insane” and “This is going to make a great blog” with a dash of “Thank God I’m getting away next week.”

Crisis averted, I traded my neighbor some laundry detergent for some coffee creamer (they were out of an essential item too).

Not two hours later, I had sent Lily to time out for whining. This girl… uuuuggggghhhhhh, this girl… She has been the whiniest, most, uuugh! I can’t even talk about it, it annoys me too much.

So, while she was in time out, I was folding laundry. Suddenly, she became far too quiet and un-whiney. I walk over, she says, “Mommy, I poop!” and holds up her hand.

Poop.

On her fingers.

All over her fingers.

Bulging from her underwear.

I lost it.

I picked her up, grumbling about not telling me she had to go potty, put her in the bathtub that I had already completely washed down after Wyatt’s poop fiasco. I removed the underwear, put them in a plastic bag, and threw them away. I simply wasn’t going to deal with laundering more feces today. I refused.

On the way to the garbage can, I said (far too loudly), “I am so sick of shit!”

For the second time today, my bare hands scrubbed poop off of my child’s body, and in between cracks and crevices. I wasn’t at all nice to her about it. I have been incredibly patient with her the whole time she’s been potty training, vowing to not go off on her about not going in the potty when she has accidents, and here I was, doing the exact thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

I did calm down, of course, and tried to right my wrong, but what’s done is done. Next time, I’ll do better.

After Lily and the bathtub were cleaned and sanitized, I did what any good stay at home mom would do.

I called Clint at work and vented to him.

He was good, too. He listened. He didn’t laugh. He sympathized.

I can’t say that I wouldn’t be busting up laughing if the roles had been reversed.

To make this all even more annoying, I have had this random issue with my eyelid and it’s bothering me and making me a little more irritable than usual. I have no idea what happened, but I seriously look like someone clocked me in the eyeball.

See?

What the heck?!

So, it’s now 2:05pm and most of the kids are down for naps. Before lunch, I made a run to Starbucks to treat myself for having to deal with so much nastiness today. Seemed like a fair reimbursement.

Cross your fingers that the rest of my day is feces-free, will ya?

That title is about to get a little more funny.

Read on. You’ll see.

This past weekend, a pregnant chick I had just met was talking about this new cupcake place she had been to. She said the cupcakes were amazingly delicious. She mentioned that one cupcake had salted caramel frosting and she loved it.

I had never heard of salted caramel before. I like salt. I like caramel. But together? I needed convincing.

And anyway, this woman is pregnant… her tastebuds can’t be trusted, can they? I know mine were whacked out when I was pregnant.

Still, I was intrigued.

Every Monday night for the past several weeks, has found me at my friend Jenny’s house with Hollie (the business card destroyer), watching making fun of the Bachelorette. One week, Jenny had brought some nummy gourmet cupcakes to share. She had mentioned her affinity for red velvet. I had never had red velvet before, but it sounded so decadent, so… well, velvety.

I decided I wanted to try my hand at some red velvet cupcakes and test out that whole crazy salted caramel frosting business, so yesterday, I set to work.

I immediately hit two roadblocks. One, no white vinegar. Thankfully, my neighbor hooked me up with some.

Then, I ran out of red food coloring, even after borrowing some from my neighbor as well. This recipe (doubled) called for FOUR tablespoons of red food coloring. I dunno… I’m not a culinary genius, but I feel like that’s overkill. Is Paula Dean trying to appease the vampire foodies out there? Still, I didn’t have anywhere near four tablespoons, so I added in a teaspoon of blue.

What happens when you combine red and blue?

Sure, you may have had red velvet cupcakes. But have you had purple velvet cupcakes?

Purple is the new red, anyway, in case you haven’t heard.

This first batch didn’t turn out so well. You see, I had just washed those nifty silicone mini baking cups in soap and water the night before. When I snagged a cooked cupcake to taste test (thank God I did), it tasted like my dish soap.

Yumm-o.

The next batch were normal sized cupcakes and this bad boy blessed me with his presence:

Tell me that doesn’t look like a penis.

(Have you connected with the title of the blog yet? Wait for it… Ha! Oh yeah, you did.)

Friends of mine and I joked that this purple penis cupcake resembles what happens when a dude gets blue-balled too often. Looks like a painful affliction, if you ask me.

Back to cupcake baking.

This is only a fraction of what I baked.

See my little purple man-part cupcake on the left?

I decided not to frost him. I decided to keep him intact.

Intact!

HAAAA!

(Tell me I’m not laughing at my own penis jokes here…)

Then, of course, there was the delicious and oh-so fattening frosting. I’m a big fan of the frosting. The cupcake is all right, of course, but it’s merely a vessel for the good stuff. Much like vegetables are the vessel for ranch dressing. You can’t simply eat frosting, nooo! That would be downright disgraceful. Yet somehow, eating frosting atop a baked good is perfectly acceptable.

I made the salted caramel from scratch, which I combined with cream cheese, butter, and powdered sugar to make a little something I like to call… Heaven.

The other frosting was a simple cream cheese that I topped with crushed pecans and a raspberry. For fun, I decided to put some pecans on some of the caramel ones too.

The whole time I was icing the cupcakes, I worried about becoming a feature on Cake Wrecks. I kept running through my mind all of the horrible piled-on icing jobs I had seen. I just know Jenny would turn me in. She’s devious like that.

Thankfully, they turned out beautifully (if I do say so myself).

And they tasted sooo good.

I had so many, not only did I bring them to Bachelorette night, I gave a bunch to three different neighbors and still had far too many left over.

Overall, a baking success!

What shall I attempt next time…

If you want these awesome recipes, check out the salted caramel frosting here at Nosh With Me and the Red Velvet Cupcakes and Frosting here, at Food Network!

Lindsay Maddox… Laughing my way through motherhood.

(And taking submission guidelines literally.)

Remember when MySpace wasn’t ghetto? That’s when my blogging career began. It started innocently: I wanted to lose weight and thought blogging would keep me accountable. I threw in some stories of my firstborn.

People commented.

Sometimes.

When my daughter entered the picture after a fully protected tango (99.9% effective, pshyeahright) on our new mattress (hence her “Baby Sealy” nickname for nine months), my blogging life turned into more than the occasional update. Screw weight loss; now, I had stories to tell. Good ones. Ones that involved tantrums, sibling rivalry and all of the hilariously awful things that being “Mooooom!” brings.

More readers. More comments.

It encouraged me to broaden my writing passion. I dove into writing contests and quickly found myself not merely entering, but winning. A lot. Soon, I would see my name in print.

In the meantime, motherhood was throwing all sorts of curveballs (and by curveballs I mean kids who played with their poop) my way. Stories erupted from my fingertips faster than my daughter blew out her diapers.

Then.

Call it temporary insanity. Call it… no, yeah, let’s go with insanity.

The hubs and I decided to give it one more shot. Surely, we could handle three under four.

“Lindsay, do you see what I see?” the doctor chuckled.

Two sacs. Two heartbeats. One enormous grin on my face.

Growing up, my parents, who are both twins (not with each other, mind you), informed me that if I had sex, I would have twins. Abstinence? Yes, please. Yet, when my first two weren’t twins, I felt a bit gypped. I mean, I was threatened promised!

Finally, my parents’ integrity was restored.

(Mostly. There’s still that whole “Santa” thing. I’m still not sure he’s real.)

One “Ohmigawd, I’m going to have four under four” revelation via blog post, and my blog took off.

I tracked the most popular posts and kept note for the future. I made it a point to tell readers all of the horrible stories. Instead of pushing readers away, it brought more in. Soon, I had over 500 fans on my Facebook fanpage alone. My page views skyrocketed.

I instilled rules upon myself:

1. No annoying ads. I hate them.
2. Complete honesty. No one benefits from sugar-coating the truth.

I can stop blogging and disappear into internet oblivion if I choose. But I won’t. There are too many sub-par blogs out there. My posts give wary moms a good chuckle and show them they’re not alone. I try to prove that there are funny moments, even in the worst situations.

My story is only beginning, but what an attention-grabbing opener it is. Through social networking, I am making a name for myself, but that’s merely the icing. Anyone can promote themselves; it takes talent and a great deal of self-sacrifice to draw people in and keep them.

Call me cocky, but I know I have a good thing here.

***

And, scene.

Wonder what that was all about?

Project Mom Casting has an open casting call to mom bloggers attending the BlogHer’10 conference. They’re looking to pitch a reality-based show about bloggers and the world of social media. If they like what I just said, I may be called for an interview.

If you’d like to give me some props, head over to the Project Mom Casting Facebook page and click “like” on my submission. Or, retweet this using @momcasting in your mention!

Don’t feel obligated to, though. I know you have more important things to do (like, I don’t know, play hide-and-go-seek with the kids)!

This might be frightening… I now have blogging capabilities from my phone.

Note: From today on, random blog-worthy knowledge may be posted at any time. (Maybe even from the pot. You won’t know! Muahahahahaaa!)

That’s all I wanted.

Carry on.

P.S. I swear I’m not in the bathroom. Cross my heart.

See?

Irony (ˈī-rə-nē or, for normal people: eye-ron-ee):

When a child named Colby absolutely cannot stand cheese.

Thank goodness we didn’t name him Colby Jack…

(Seriously, though, who doesn’t like cheese?! My kid is a weirdo.)

Most guys are complete wusses when they’re sick.

(HA! I just wrote “pregnant” instead of sick. That was funny. Anyway…)

Most guys, when sick, roll around in agony, whine in misery, certain that they are writhing on death’s doorstep.

Not Clint.

This man has the immune system of an elephant.

(This is, of course, assuming elephants have excellent immune systems. I, for one, have never seen a sick elephant, so I’m going with that analogy.)

And the suck-it-up-ness of something equally tough.

(Sorry, I’m out of animal analogies. My brain is still stuck on sick elephants.)

The week after the Fourth of July, he was sick. Knocked-on-his-ass, miserable, don’t-kiss-me-I-don’t-want-your-disease… sick. It was bad news. He had to take days off work, which he never does. He ended up going back to work, although he was still sick, for fear that they’d think he was playing hookie, since it was the nicest weather week we had seen all summer.

(Read more about me being pissed about that, here.)

His ears started hurting later in the week. He sucked it up and tried to ignore it. It got worse. Friday night, it was horrendously bad. Unfortunately, I was unaware of his misery and unable to help him out because I had consumed a ridiculous amount of Fireball Whiskey and was too busy sobbing on the floor about my glasses… Seriously. I have never been so tossed in my entire life. It. Was. Bad. Not my proudest moment.

Saturday morning, he was all but writhing in pain. I knew he was in bad shape. He put his head in my lap and plugged his ears and I stroked his hair. He was all but sobbing from the pulsating, stabbing, pain in his ears.

Not soon enough, the walk-in clinic opened and he headed out.

I got an idea.

His ears were sensitive to noise, and the kids weren’t going to be quiet, so why not get away for the night? We had a gift certificate to Semiahmoo Resort and Spa (say: Sem-ee-ah-moo) that Clint had received from work last year. I asked my mom if she could come up and watch the kids for a night. She said yes.

“On one condition…”

I tensed. I don’t usually like conditions.

“You let me buy you a massage,” she said. “They’re amazing.”

Now that’s my kind of condition!

I booked the hotel room, made dinner reservations (seriously, this was an enormous gift certificate, I don’t know why we didn’t use it sooner), and started packing our bags. I panicked for a minute, wondering if Clint would even want to go, since he was so miserable. I rationalized that it’d be better to be sick and hurting in a cozy hotel room than our house, with kids screaming and running amok.

He arrived home with this story:

The doctor (insert shout-out to Dr. P) looked in one of his ears and said, “Woah!” He peered in the other ear and said, “Woah…” He told Clint that his first ear was the worst ear infection he had seen all year…

Until he looked in the second ear.

Poor guy, right? I felt bad for him.

I broke the news to Clint about our impromptu getaway. He was totally on board. We left as soon as my mom arrived.

I drove, because that’s what I do…

And sipped my Red Bull… ‘cuz that’s what I do when I’m tired.

Fortunately, Clint started feeling better pretty soon after taking his medicine and downing plenty of ibuprofen. We checked in and walked down to have dinner…

…on the patio, looking out on the beach. This was our view (and I didn’t bring my super stalker lens, so you can see that we were very close to the water.) Check out that rainbow!

{Completely off-topic, but if you haven’t watched this rainbow clip, you absolutely must. Beginning to end. Go now. I’ll wait.}

Okay, you’re back. Good.

Here we are at dinner (our drinks were as nummy as they look):

Afterward, we endured the enormously long twenty yard endeavor to the beach, where I proceeded to make Clint pose for my camera.

Can you tell he was feeling better?

(Fun fact: You can see my reflection in his sunglasses, kneeling over my tripod.)

Then, I pulled one of those “hide behind your man to disguise your flabby torso” moves. He retaliated by making a goofy face:

And then I groped him.

And he liked it.

The sunset was stellar and I was upset with myself for not bringing the stalker lens.

The land you see across the water is Canada. Fortunately, you don’t need a passport to take pictures of, or look at, Canada. (Nobody turn me in if you do.)

Look at the purdy purples!

Of course, we had to get one of these:

And…

(Kids, close your eyes.)

One of these too:

We ran out of time for the massages, but my mom told me to keep the money she gave me anyway. We went out for drinks that night (where I had an eeensy little “I’m going through a quarter-life crisis” conversation with Clint, and ended up realizing I over-analyze way too much in my life, but made me feel so much better in the end), back to our room (we had two queen beds… We used them for different things… that started with “s.” I’ll let you work out the details of that one), and off to sleep.

The next morning, we had coffee on the beach.

We went home. Life resumed as normal. We wished for a few more days, but were thankful for the time we had.

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the business of parenting. Clint and I work phenomenally well together. We know what to do, depending upon what the other person is doing. We move fluidly through mealtimes, cleanup, bedtime, and all of the in-between. We get so caught up in the routine and the business of it all, that we forget about each other. We forget about taking time out. Soon, we’re simply a team, focused on raising children, instead of a team who raises children and laughs and plays together on the side.

It is too easy to forget each other, and the most important aspect of parenting our kids: our marriage. I hope we’ll always have opportunities to refocus, and the drive to maintain and improve our relationship time and time again.

But for now, back to that elephant thing:

What if an elephant were to get sick? Could you imagine how nasty it would be when an elephant sneezed?

Yick.

I have to be completely honest with you: This blog post makes me want to cry. In fact, as I uploaded the pictures for this post and looked back at that face Lily gave me… it choked me up.

However, thankfully, I have the foresight to know that someday this will be knee-slappingly hilarious to me, and I know that you guys will find it funny, so I can’t not post it.

Last week, while Colby was at VBS, I tried thinking up fun little things for Lily and I to do together. Since his VBS time fell exactly during the babies’ nap time, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for some good ‘ole Lily and Mommy time. One day we blew bubbles. Another day she made me coffee (what? It’s her favorite thing to do… oddly enough, mine too) and we took a bubble bath together.

I found myself running short on ideas when Friday rolled around, but decided to go with my always on standby, back-up plan:

Homemade Cookies.

I pull this out on a rare occasion for a few reasons: First, it’s messy. Second, it means I have to possess insane amounts of patience to not freak out at spills, messes, and ingredient taste-testing. Third, we simply don’t need cookies in our house.

When I suggested the idea, Lily was elated. She didn’t bat an eye when I dropped Colby off, or make a single whimper because she didn’t get to go. Instead, she looked at me, wide-eyed and squealed, “We make cookies, Mommy!”

At home, we cleaned up the kitchen and washed hands. I handed her the recipe. She pulled out all of the ingredients we needed as I mentioned them. She was being an amazing helper and listening so well. The only time I had to give her a stern mommy look was when she grabbed a handful of uncooked oatmeal and shoved it in her mouth, dropping oats all over the floor. I breathed a sigh of relief and gave myself a mental pat on the back for being such a stellar mom and acting patient, yet stern.

I had decided that No-Bake Cookies were going to be the quickest, least messy option. She helped me put ingredients into the pot and I stirred while the ingredients boiled. I had my back turned for a tenth of a second.

Meanwhile, Lily had climbed up to where our coffee maker was, opened the top, grabbed out a handful of spent coffee grounds, and shoved it in her mouth. Did I mention this was merely minutes after she had been warned about grabbing the oatmeal from the measuring cup?

“Lil.Lee. Grr.Ace!” I yelled.

She started and looked up at me, coffee grounds surrounding her mouth and coating her hand.

“What are you doing?!” I yelled again (I hate yelling, yet sometimes, I can’t help but yell).

I grabbed a wet paper towel and cleaned her off, spurting frustrated half-sentences.

“Why do you-”

“What were you-”

“You know better-”

and finally, “Ugh! Just get in the corner, now!”

She cried and sat in time out. After her time was served, I knelt down and asked why she was there.

“A cuuzzz… I eat da coffee,” she stated.

“Yes, exactly, because you ate the coffee. Lily, I asked you not to stick your hands in the oatmeal, and then you went and did the same thing with the coffee. You cannot do that! You’re not listening to Mommy and that frustrates me,” I replied.

She apologized. All was well.

We continued on with our cooking. From the moment she had seen the cocoa powder at the beginning, she was giddy to pour it in to the pot. I had it all measured out for her and she did a fantastic job of putting it in the pot and stirring. I told her as much.

“Okay, baby,” I said. “Mommy has to go to the pantry to get some wax paper, I’ll be right back.”

She was at the stove stirring. (The burner was off and locked, of course.)

I was gone for maybe a second.

I came back, and saw this:

©LindsayMaddox

“Lily,” I sighed. This time, I had decided, I wasn’t going to loose my cool and yell.

“Wah, Mommy?” she asked, innocently.

“Lily, did you get into the chocolate?”

“Chwaaackkk-wet?” she asked.

©Lindsay Maddox

“Yes, Lily. Chocolate. Did you eat the chocolate?”

“No,” she said.

“Lily Grace, do not lie to me,” I said sternly. “Please tell me the truth.”

I lifted the cocoa powder container that was open and spilled all over the floor, obviously on her face, and also her fingers.

“Tell me that you ate this. I know you did. Just say, ‘Yes, Mommy, I ate the chocolate.”

“I no eat chwaahk-et,” she asserted, pointing to the container. “I not eat dat.”

“Please, Lily,” I begged. “Did you eat this?”

I pointed to the pot of cookie “dough.”

“No. I eat nuff-ing.”

©Lindsay Maddox

“Lily, tell me the truth. I know you ate the chocolate.”

Then, she gave me this face. This is the face that makes me want to cry. This is her total caught-in-a-lie face:

©Lindsay Maddox

She was adamant, but unconvincing, that she was innocent.

I put her in timeout. I finished the cookies by myself and put them out on the wax paper while she sat in the corner, quieter than I’ve ever heard her… even in sleep.

I went over,  knelt down, and asked why she was in trouble.

“A cuuuuzz… I not eat chwaaak-et.”

I sighed.

“You mean, you ate the chwak- I mean, chocolate and you shouldn’t have?”

“No.  I. No. Eat. Chwaaak-et!”

I put her back up on the chair, back to the scene of the crime (this was when I took these pictures). I repeated the questions. She replied the same way. I even turned my camera around to show her the chocolate smeared on her face and told her I knew she ate the chocolate. Still, she insisted that she didn’t do it.

I put her back in timeout.

Finally, she broke… sort of. With a lot of coaxing, she hesitantly admitted that she ate the chocolate. I thanked her for her honesty and asked her to apologize for lying. She didn’t get a cookie for quite a while. They sat on the table within her reach and I told her that if she so much as touched one, she wouldn’t get anything. She obeyed.

Still, I’m sad. I’m sad that at 2.5, my daughter is lying to me. She lied again today when I found her sneaking a candy she had found. She insisted that she didn’t eat it. Her face and hands were sticky. There were remnants of the candy on the counter where she had stood. I made her repeat after me, “I ate the candy and I’m sorry.” She did. She said sorry. I let her off the hook.

Please tell me that if I handle this well now, that she’ll be less likely to lie when she gets older? It’s taking all of my effort not to visualize my daughter, now lying about eating candy or chocolate, later lying about other, more serious things.

(Dramatic, I know, but can you blame me?)

I love that little stinker girl, and all of her devious ways. I know that if we can work through things with her while she’s young and divert her devious, hard-headedness to something more acceptable, she’ll be an extremely successful adult. For right now, though, I feel lost in how to parent her.

If I’m being honest… she terrifies me. She makes me question absolutely everything I do as a parent and wonder if I’m even doing anything right with her.

My light at the end of this tunnel is showing her this post one day when she tells me her own child has her at her wit’s end and I can say, “It’s karma, baby. Karma.”

Who has two thumbs and just won a trip to New York?

*this mama!*

I. Won. I Woniwoniwoniwon. I have said that about 182,345 times since finding out Friday morning, and I’m still not sure it has sunk in.

Friday was overwhelming, in such a great way. There have been few times in my life that I have been so awe-struck by the support of my friends, family, blog readers, and even complete strangers. By the end of the day, I was running out of ways to say “Thank you!” and grossly overusing exclamation points. How do you say thank you genuinely enough, when the congratulations mean so much?!

After some of the excitement settled, I began writing back and forth to Gazalle at Lovable Labels. I sent her my information, we worked out different logistics, and she even told me that they booked an extra night for me at the Hilton where the conference is located. Seriously, how sweet is that?!

I immediately began to realize that although the big-ticket aspects of the trip were covered, there were other aspects that I would still have to pay for, such as baggage fees (I really hate that they charge for baggage!), transportation fare to/from the airport (boo to no free shuttles!), and other random times when I need food, etc. (and by etc. I mean coffee. Sweet, glorious coffee.)

Frankly, that turned my insides out. We’re really tightly budgeted right now, especially since both babies are still on formula (ohmygoodness, it’s a fortune). I hemmed and hawed over an idea… I worried that people would think I was being greedy… but I went for it anyway.

I created a chip-in page for my New York Incidentals. (You can see it here, if you want.) I put the link on Facebook and my writers’ forum and asked if anyone felt like they wanted to throw a couple bucks my way, I’d certainly appreciate it. Then, I bit my nails.

I knew what some people would think.

“You just won a free trip to NYC, and now you’re asking for more?!”

I know! I get that.

(I actually did have a friend call me up and ask this same question, more out of complete awe that people would actually help me out than anything.)

Simply… I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. If no one sent anything, I absolutely wouldn’t be offended, but if someone felt like they wanted to help me out, I was opening up that opportunity.

The awe I felt after receiving all of the congratulations and way to gos on Friday was about to increase tenfold.

Immediately, friends (several of whom I’ve never met before) and family started donating to my account. They each said, “Enjoy a little something on me” or “Live NYC up to the fullest,” and one friend even said, “Talent like yours needs to be rewarded! Have fun!”

Right now, I have enough to cover transportation, baggage, and a couple of cups of coffee. My friend and I are arriving in NYC two days before the conference, and we’ve lined up some inexpensive or free things to do, and still see the city.

I feel blessed.

Some people might still think I’m greedy or a little too bold for asking for money. Maybe bold. Not greedy. I hope that anyone who sent some cash my way knows how much I deeply appreciate it, not as much for the money (though, of course, that’s huge), but just for what it says to me. Just like the congratulatory comments and pats on the back, it tells me that they’re rooting for me and are excited for me.

So, if you have ever supported me… be it financially, through encouragement, a much needed girls’ night out, fed me dinner, birthed me (hi mom!), commented on my blog to show me that I’m not simply talking to myself…

Thank you. Really, truly, thank you.

And if you are ever tempted to reach out to your friends and ask for some help… Do it. Ask, and you shall receive. People love being involved and knowing they’ve helped someone.

Give them the opportunity, don’t abuse it, of course, but when the need arises, ask.

You never know where it’ll lead and what you, and they, will get from it.

I am not close-minded about religion. If you choose to believe different than I do, that’s totally 100% fine in my book. In fact, I think there are some amazing aspects of religions other than mine.

However.

Do not come to my door at 11am on a Saturday morning, hand me your leaflets, start reading from your bible, and preach to me.

It makes me so, SO angry.

There’s this woman who has been coming to my door at least once a month for the past couple of years. She hands me booklets, whips out her bible to read a passage, and then asks me questions about my faith. Every single time, she brings at least one impressionable child with her.

If it weren’t for the little kids at her side, I would’ve told her to buzz off long, long ago.

Today, she came to the door again and began preaching to me.

“Ya know,” I said, “We actually just became members of our church down the street and attend there regularly, so I’m actually pretty good with all of this stuff.”

She smiled and asked which church. I told her. I realized my efforts were all for naught, because my church wasn’t from her denomination.

“Oh, that’s so nice,” she replied and proceeded to dive into her doorstep sermon while I stood uncomfortable in my own house, wanting to tell her to get the heck off of my porch and not come back.

“I appreciate your time, but your visits make me very uncomfortable and are entirely unwelcome,” I wanted to say. I had it all worked out in my head. Then, her son, probably about 6 years old, looked up at me with his sweet, innocent face, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him feel uncomfortable.

It has become a bit of a joke in our house, after she leaves. Clint and I come up with all kinds of things that we’d never say to her.

“Sorry, can’t talk. We’re busy celebrating Christmas and birthdays, while organizing Halloween parties and completely over-the-top costumes.”

{Okay, so maybe not entirely mature of us.}

It infuriates me, though. It feels violating, demeaning, and uncomfortable. Even if I were open to experiencing a different religion, I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that coming to my door and preaching to me is NOT going to persuade me… like, at all. In fact, it would do the opposite.

I don’t know what to do about this lady and her “bring kids with me so you don’t slam the door in my face” tactics. I don’t know how to tell her to leave. I have told her before that I don’t read the papers she gives me and I don’t want to hear what she has to say, but she persists.

Help me!

Note: I am not singing Lady Gaga. Oh… how I despise Lady Gaga. Ridiculous, repetitive oh la la-ah, rah, rah, rah-ahaah.

No.

Thank.

You.

Instead, I am rah-rah-ing in a peppy cheerleader sort of way.

I have been taking Colby to and from VBS this week (except yesterday when my superawesome neighbor helped me out). Every time I pick him up, it’s a chore and a test of my patience and strength. Getting Colby from VBS means loading the twins and Lily into the van and then unloading them using maneuvers only seen in advanced yoga. Picking him up involves somehow fastening a baby to my body while holding Lily’s hand and lugging the other baby along on my hip. It involves wading through seas of small children, moms, and the random art project dropped on the floor to get to Colby, and then turning around and wading through the same madness to get to the car where I immediately repeat the kid-loading maneuvers, drive home, and unload.

Every time I have picked him up this week, I have run into our church’s youth pastor. Each and every time he sees me, without fail, he says, “Yeah! It’s Lindsay! Check you out, nothing’s stopping you!”

Now, I don’t mean he says that when he sees me coming in the door. I mean he says that when I’m coming in the door, and then a “Way to GO, Lindsay” after I find Colby, and another, “You are awesome, mama!” when I’m leaving.

I have seen him do this same thing to high school kids, little tikes, guys, ladies… everyone. He’s genuine, and he truly means what he says.

I have a twin-mom friend who, whenever I see her, asks, “How are you doing?” and after I give my response, she says something to the effect of, “You’re here, and that’s awesome.”

These instances make me feel fantastic. I am here, and it takes a lot of effort, planning, and preparation to get here (wherever “here” may be).  It feels good to have my efforts recognized, even if it’s just a simple, “You are here and that’s awesome.”

It makes me wonder… how often do I cheer another person on?

Am I so stuck in my own little world, that I can’t give someone else an atta-boy?

I’ve decided to keep my eyes open and on the lookout for someone else who needs encouragement. Even if they don’t appear to need encouragement; I know I probably don’t look like someone who needs encouragement. I’m not usually mopey and frowning, pleading with my eyes for some glimpse of hope. Instead, I generally have a smile on my face and am skipping along or acting silly with my kids. Still, even in those moments, it’s amazing to be told, “Wow. You’re doing a great job.”

Has someone encouraged you recently? How did they do it and what did they say?

P.S. Speaking of peppy… I am a finalist in the Lovable Labels contest. YIPPEEEE! I find out tomorrow morning if I’m going to New York for BlogHer’10. Wish me luck. I can’t even imagine how much I could get out of that conference…