I’m a mom of three boys — invites to kids’ birthday parties come with the territory. Ditto on my own boys’ parties. There’s not a month that we don’t have at least one shindig to attend, and I’m totally fine with that. I need the socializing as much as my kids do, and what better place to connect with other mom friends than at a place where there’s guiltless cake and probably wine of some sort? (I’m in the south — don’t judge.)
Because I’ve got three kids with ages ranging from 6 months to 8 years, I’ve definitely got my favorite “go-to” gifts for other kids. I try to stray from trendy items because:
A) Often times, they already have those toys, or
B) I’m not 100% sure what he or she is into.
Look, we all want our kids to enjoy themselves. And it is totally fine for our littles to be drawn to the latest, greatest, & loudest. But coming from a mom whose children are surrounded by loud toy guns, trucks, video games, and Legos (if you think Legos can’t be loud, then clearly you’ve never been around a boy with Legos), sometimes I prefer to give other kids fun activities (with minimal mess) and their moms a much-deserved break from all things battery operated.
The things I’ve got in store for you today still allow kids to be kids, but it also provides an opportunity for fun family experiences. I hope you find something cool for your little guy or gal’s next birthday party adventure!
Fun subscription boxes
*The above boxes are from Kiwi & Co. I am not affiliated with nor am I receiving any sort of compensation from Kiwi & Co.
….sooo…. why do I feel no different today than I did yesterday, at 29?
Probably because my kids went to bed squabbling and woke up squabbling. Thanks for keeping it real, kids. You da real MVP.
But I digress. Today isn’t just that huge of a deal for me. It is what it is. My best friend made a valid point this morning — 40 will probably be my epic meltdown birthday. So, there’s that. Ten additional years to prepare for being a complete basket case. She also told me to party like a rockstar — little did she know that I woke up laying in puke that wasn’t my own (thanks, Mason!) and to an unwelcome foot down my pants (thanks, Connor!). So while I’ll likely not party like a rockstar, I certainly woke up like one. Same difference, right?
I’m pretty sure my body is just in shock that I’ve made it thirty years through three c-sections, a slew of super-stupid life choices, and a nearly completely pickled liver. The “dirty thirty” birthday bonanza will probably hit me like a semi-truck later when I’m kicking children out of the bathroom so I can just take a damn shower. So for now, I’m going to leave you with thirty things about myself that, like ’em or not, have made me who I am today.
I was born May 30th, 1988 at 8:15 AM. I only know the time because my sweet mother has hammered that into my memory for, oh, thirty years.
I have three siblings (two brothers and a sister), all of whom I am extremely proud of. No, their accomplishments are not my own. But they make me proud to be their sister.
I have always rooted for the underdog. That hasn’t always worked out in my favor.
I am a momma to three beautiful and slightly deranged little boys. They are my reasons to get up every morning — largely because they wake me up at the buttcrack of dawn every. damn. day.
I love Diet Coke and would drink it by the case if I didn’t think it would kill me on the spot.
When I was growing up, I wanted to be a writer. …that clearly didn’t pan out.
I also wanted to be a pilot and an interior designer. I don’t mean to brag, but I chauffeur my kids around like nobody’s business and I can feng shui the hell out of some Legos.
My most favorite book is To Kill a Mockingbird.
I love murder-mysteries in any form — except for in real life. Don’t nobody got time for that.
Murder, She Wrote is my JAM.
I love to explore and would pack my family up to become adventurers if given the chance.
Ireland is on the top of my “Places to Go” bucketlist.
I talk with my hands.
I’m a hugger (comes with that Southern territory — sorry, not sorry).
Daisies are my favorite flower with tulips following at a close second.
I love all things history, emphasis on Early American and European history.
I am fascinated by the lives of people from the past. I think I romanticise it all and get it in my head that they lived these super intriguing lives when, in reality, they were probably pretty ordinary for the times.
I romanticise a lot of things, come to think of it.
I was a single mom for two years. Not a very long time at all by most standards, but it taught me a lot and helped me really appreciate life and, more importantly, my son’s life. On a more serious note, he truly did save me from myself.
I met my husband through my ex-brother-in-law via Facebook. Truth be told, I only met Evan to shut Jake up. Little did I know…
My abhorrent punctuation skills aside, my favorite subject in school was English.
I plan on taking the leap one day and writing a book. God bless the editor that is assigned to that hot mess!
I am terrified of deep water.
I wish I were a bit bolder.
Sometimes I feel altogether useless as an adult and parent. But don’t we all?
I really love deep conversations. I know that’s not a super popular thing these days, so I have to censor myself lest I become a real buzz kill.
My mouth is absolutely horrid. Seriously, I don’t even realize I swear half the time. I’m working on it.
One day I hope to explore an old house and find a secret passageway. That would be the equivalent of finding gold for me.
I have no idea what I’m doing most days.
Writing this list made me realize how little I really know about myself, which is oddly scary.
And finally, I hope to lose minimally thirty pounds by the end of the year. Not just for myself, but for my kids as well.
So there you have it. If you made it through that somewhat redundant list, then bless your heart. I’m off to celebrate the morning at IHOP with my kiddos, because prying sticky pancake off of my four-year-old is the best thing EVAH.
A SAHM’s take on her three-ring-circus and the three Converse wearing monkeys who live there.
the time at which a normal person usually goes to bed
the time at which my children shift gears to FULL. FLIPPING. TROTTLE.
Bedtime around here has always been a bit painstaking. When Gabe was first born, he had serious acid-reflux that, of course!, always triggered at nighttime. His tummy finally settled as he grew and when he was about two he would put himself to bed. He still does this (thank God!), but now he wakes up during the night to either a) pee or, B) have a full-on night terror. Good times, y’all. Connor has never, I mean NEVER, been a good sleeper. Not even now. He’s four and an acrobatic, ass-kicking ninja from the fiery ball pits in the sky. Co-sleeping with him is less like co-sleeping and more training to kick Chuck Norris’ ass — with your eyes closed. To date, Mason has been by far and away my easiest to put to sleep and the most likely to stay asleep — until lately because: erupting teeth. Can’t really fault him for that, and most nights he still sleeps pretty well. HALLELUJER.
Those of you who are parents know my plight well. You probably read all of that and pictured your own sleep-anxiety-riddled spawn and experienced a cold chill down your spine. No, that’s not winter coming; it’s bedtime. In t-minus eight(ish) hours.
For those of you childless individuals, I have a pretty graphic example of what bedtime is like — around here, anyway. I’m sure there will be some Betty Badass momma who is scoffing at my inability to keep my children in their beds (we’re not even going to talk about their pajamas). But this example is coming from a real, live, nannyless parent.
Imagine, if you will, a less-chaotic opening scene from Titanic. “Rated E for Everyone” Rose and Jack are enjoying each other’s company playing, I dunno.. freaking Rook. And then, out from nowhere, an alarm sounds. A band of pirates (read: the children) ram into the ship, causing it to collide with an iceberg (read: your patience). Your recently thought “unsinkable” vessel plummets into the abyss.
THEN SHIT GETS REAL.
I’m gonna let you guys in on a little secret: there is a way to train for bedtime. It’s painful and a bit legendary — but it’ll save at least a few hairs from being ripped from your noggin. If you’re still hangin’ in there, then follow along:
Journey to the worst part of your town and find a group of stray cats.
Pick the leader of the cats and bring it home (make sure you’re up to date on your shots).
Give said stray cat laughing gas and a wine cooler.
Now try putting that cat in a bubble bath.
THE FLOOR IS LAVA.
If you can survive that, then there’s a 62% chance that you’ll survive putting children to bed. Notice, please, that I said survive. I didn’t say you’d be successful in getting your kids to stay and sleep in their beds. I mean, I’m not a miracle worker here and Jesus has bigger fish to fry than making my kids stay in bed.
I’m not going to lie to y’all, though; there is something infinitely more terrifying than sleep-allergic children that exists (and oddly enough, my preference). And that is when the kids who never put themselves to bed… PUT THEMSELVES TO BED. Gah, y’all — I just made myself dry heave a bit.
When Connor puts himself to sleep it isn’t because he’s trained himself, or that he’s super tired, or just needs some quiet time (what is that, anyway?!). No, no. It’s because at 1:15AM he’s going to be puking. In his bed. And down the hallway. And then in my slippers — in my room. I mean… I just can’t even. And then after the puking?! He’s totally fine and ready to roll, leaving me a gagging, half-asleep, pants rolled up to my navel hot freaking mess.
You may be thinking, “There’s an obviously better option here, Sarah; pick your battles!”
Oh no, friends. It may seem obvious. Sure, most people would rather be a bit sleep deprived than swim in an ocean of Kool-Aid vomit. But I’m not necessarily one of those people. I can’t say I’m one of those, “If I don’t get my eight hours of sleep…” people, because let’s face it: I haven’t gotten more than 4 hours of sleep (not consecutively) in going on nine years. But I am one of those, “If I can get at least forty-five minutes of sleep I won’t hit anyone with chicken nuggets at Walmart” people. Y’all — I’m not trying to go to Walmart jail for assault with frozen foodstuffs. So as terrifying as it is to watch my kid’s head spin around like he’s in need of an exorcist, all the while spewing what I can only hope was something he didn’t find off of a public restroom floor, I’ll take puking kids over sleep-deprived Mombie any day. Because kids are going to throw up, anyway, and I’d rather be somewhat alert to deal with it.
I can’t be the only one here who deals with that bedtime struggle. Hit me with some of your favorite bedtime stories below!
**The above post was written entirely out of humor. No animals were trapped and given wine coolers or laughing gas, nor were children harmed in the making of this post. I, on the other hand, might possibly have a bruised lung courtesy my ass-kicking ninja child. All crappy, can’t-take-a-joke comments will be kept on this page so that people with a sense of humor can see what a turd you’ve been.
A SAHM’s take on her three-ring-circus and the three Converse wearing monkeys who live there.
As a kid growing up in the South, I learned the difference between sarcasm and sincerity real fast. I learned that tone only makes up about 40% of each individual way of speaking; the other 60% is all in the body language. And y’all — ain’t nobody got that tone and body language down-pat quite like we southern mommas.
Before I had kids, I only thought I’d inherited the gift prematurely. Psh! I was a timid little dormouse until I had kids. These days I speak sarcasm so fluently, most people think I’m the nicest, most sincere person they’ve ever laid eyes on. My kids are little smart-asses, too, but they don’t got nothin’ on their momma. Y’all call it being passive-aggressive; we call it issuing a dare.
Oh, sure; we mean what we say. But the true brilliance of SM language is the ability to almost speak in code with the eyes. You may HEAR, “Go right on ahead and touch that fence”. But if you’re paying real close attention to the shifting of our gaze and the clenching of our fists, then you know what we really mean is, “Go ahead and touch the fence, smart ass. But we’re not going to the hospital and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna listen to your bitchin’.” So this brings me to the topic at hand: stuff southern mommas say.
Excuse me?! Y’all, when you hear this you better hit the ground runnin’ and hope to God we can’t get our flip flops off in time to chuck it at the back of your head. I have said, “Excuse me?!” so many times to my kids that the last time I sneezed, the boys both cleaned the entire house and offered to cook dinner. Poor babies hadn’t even done anything — that time. But momma don’t play. And if momma ain’t playin, ain’t nobody playin’.
Go ahead and touch (insert object here) after I said not to. This is the ultimate “don’t even think about it”. Most of the time I don’t even have to come through with a punishment because whatever it is my kid(s) has (have) touched is punishment enough. Case in point: I told Connor not to touch my straightener the other day. Now, I’m not above baby-proofing and there’s no way in hell I’d have that thing low enough for Mason to get to it. But Con is old enough to know (and I’ve reiterated enough) that the damn straightener is HOT, and just like the oven, we don’t touch it. So what’s he do? Well, the little smart-alec went in and just barely touched the plate. I mean just barely; it didn’t even leave a mark. It scared him more than it hurt. But he knew to “suck it up, buttercup” because I’d already told him, “Uh, don’t touch that”. However, sometimes the kids slip up and still come running after doing something less than intelligent. In those cases, we hit ’em with…
Don’t come runnin’ to me. I don’t want to hear it. Here’s the phrase that often gets us southern mommas in a fair amount of hot water, but we don’t care. Listen, a kid’s gotta learn at some point in his or her life how not to do stupid things. We like to call this “experience”. If you haven’t experienced something, you’ll never know the rewards or pitfalls that whatever-it-is can bring you. It’s kind of like riding a bike: once you learn, you never forget. So in the bicycle ride of life, you gotta bust your ass a few times before you’re riding a Tour de France. Also, on a less logical basis, this really means, “I TOLD YOU SO.”
Bless your heart. This one has been done to death, but there are so many possible meanings to this phrase. Sure, we may mean we’ll pray for your momma and them — but probably not. Generally speaking, we’re telling you in the nicest way possible to get over yourself. Hey, sometimes we all need to hear it.
“Oh, honey” is simply a less condescending way of saying, “Bless your heart”. Sometimes we even mean, “Oh, honey”. However, the sincerity is limited to the death of a loved one, a bad hairdo, or getting into Ole Miss but not LSU. If you’ve been “oh, honey-ed” recently but haven’t experienced any of the above scenarios, then someone out there thinks you’re a few bricks short of a house.
Lemme say it one more time. For the love of God and all that is holy, don’t make that woman repeat herself. Unless, of course, you enjoy frostbite. Then go for it.
God don’t like ugly. Stop runnin’ your head about your cousin’s sister’s fiancé.
Did I ask who put it there.
No, I didn’t mean to insert a question mark. This is a STATEMENT, y’all. Not a question. And if you value your hide at all, you’ll pick up whatever it is that’s on the ground, table, or couch FAST.
I know you did not! Gabe’s teacher reminded me of this one yesterday and I laughed out loud. I’m constantly saying this to my boys. The look on my boys’ faces when they hear this — Lawd. I can’t even put it into words. It’s definitely a “deer-in-headlights meets aliens are coming” kind of face. For those of you who are lucky enough to have never heard ya momma say, “I know you did NOT!”, let me fill you in on the meaning: your ass is grass. You will soon to meet your Maker. Hit the deck, Bud, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. In short: you’ve really screwed yourself and there’s no gettin’ out of it.
You’re killin’ me, smalls. Okay, so this one may not be limited to us southern moms. But I know for certain we say this A LOT. And, really, it speaks for itself. Say the kids aren’t really being bad, just… “plentiful”. Coming in and out, in and out, in and out… letting out the “bought air”. Or runnin’ wild in the heat of the day, all up in your house? You don’t really want to jerk a knot in anyone because your own momma taught you to pick your battles. So the next best thing to clotheslining your own spawn is to simply let out an exasperated, “YA KILLIN’ ME, SMALLS!” The kids get the message, count their blessings that there is still breath within their lungs, and for a solid two minutes there is peace. It’s only fair — about ten minutes into more rough-housing, one of the aforementioned statements is going to come rushin’ out of your mouth faster than a Nascar at Daytona.
Lastly, You are my sunshine. I don’t want anyone leaving this post thinking that us Scarlett O’Haras, Blanche Devereauxs, or Ousier Boudreauxs do anything less than love our kids. They are the lights of our lives. Our reasons for loving anyone from the mud to the moon. And, yeah — sometimes they are our emergency trips to Target for a big-ass bottle of Tylenol and a box of wine. But they teach us as we teach them. They love us as we love them. And one day they’ll leave the nest and have children of their own. Until that day comes, we’ll be back porch sittin’, summer day spendin’, and on the couch cuddlin’ with our littles.
Hey, y’all! So sorry for the long absence; the past few days have been absolutely crazy. However, I’m back with our fourth edition of the Mother’s Day Gift Guide. Today, I’m going to share with you two of my favorite brands from two of my favorite leading ladies: Joanna Gaines & Ree Drummond. I love these two mommas’ charming personalities and am constantly impressed by their moral compasses — even in the face of their individual fame.
Joanna’s line “Hearth & Hand” (a Target exclusive) is simple yet stunning; her attention to detail is absolutely exquisite. Ree’s “Pioneer Woman” takes a different approach, but is equally charming and detail oriented. I have provided two separate boards each complete with links to the products.
What momma wouldn’t love getting some new decor inspiration?! I know I sure would. Here’s to finding some beautiful ideas for mom that I just know she’ll enjoy for years to come.
There are days that us moms feel like dressing up (read: the good leggings and non-stained top) and there are days that we have to shave our legs, put on good jeans, and a nice blouse. But I would say most of the time, for me anyway, the go-to uniform is a kitschy t-shirt, lightly distressed denim, and trusty Chucks. I love a cute tee that expresses my mood for the day — whether that mood is light or dark is generally pretty up in the air. But today, for lightness’ sake, I’ve rounded up a few of my favorites. You may be thinking, “Who on earth would get their mom a TEE SHIRT for Mother’s Day?!” Trust me. If she has toddlers, puking babies, or if she’s recently cleaned a toilet, she’d love the new top (and you!) forever.
We’re back for the second part of the Mother’s Day gift guide. Most moms these days are either into fitness for fitness’ sake or, if they’re like me, are into fitness because: toddlers. Either way, there are so many great gift options available that encompass fitness and health. You don’t have to weigh mom down with dumbells and gym memberships in order to meet her interests (although if she’s into that, the what the hell). Today you can find neat water bottles that infuse natural fruit flavoring, punny tops that motivate, fitness trackers, etc., etc. I’ve rounded up a few of my personal favorites to show y’all today. I hope you find something for mom so she can have her cake and eat it too — so to speak.