Learn to Swerve.

Get real.

You've all been there.
That awesome hour after the kids have gone to bed.
The house is clean. Well. Cleaner.

There's nothing but the click of dueling laptops on opposite sides of the couch as you and your husband search for whatever it is you and your husband search for on the internet.

He gazes over at you with loving eyes, and you can pretty much tell where this is going, as you slowly close your screen, and then he says...

"Why do people like you?"

Um. Scuse me?

"You know what I mean. Why do people read your blog, and comment. Why do they want to be your friend, Why do the guys at work tell me their wives like you. Why do you think people like you?"

I'm about to open my mouth and begin spouting off the obvious reasons one would be so inclined to want to hang with yours truly... My looks, my charm, my wit, my sense of style. When it begins to dawn on me... I have none of those?

Why DO people seem to like me? What brings the small masses to my blog, or to wherever it is they seem to be going for a daily dose of Ruth?

I would consider the fact they merely got lost, and were trying only to navigate away from the page and that could account for some of the people. But chances are there is a greater reason.

Never one to just accept I don't know for an answer, I set out on a personal quest to discover the truth. I toyed with the idea that perhaps it was my scrapbooking skills that had lured some innocents to my page. But I know that there are those who could care less what I do with a 12x12 sheet of cardstock and a sewing machine.

Maybe it was my ability to create mesmerzing blog design.I'll stop there. That one is most certainly out as a possibility.

I begun to read through the bits of email I have recieved over the course of my blogging days. I went back over posts and read comments to try to untangle the web that was my husbands somewhat rude, but very much intriguing question.

Of all the things I read, and all the bits I managed to combine. ONe thing is clear. whether or not you care about me as a scrapbooker, a mother, a friend, a daughter, a family member, a fellow myspacer, or a innocent bystander who accidently found your way here in a totally misguided google search, the common thread seems to be, that people think I'm REAL.

Real. While I can vouch for the fact that I am the only one within a half mile radius who is still 100% just the parts she was given when she born, a little bit more if you count the weight I'm managed to add, I don't believe you've any interest in that kind of real. MOre the honest to goodness, tell it like it is. My life is really this out of control to a fault. REAL.

I've come across people in my 26 years, that could possibly fit the definition of what I am the polar opposite of. I don't dare call them fake, because I truly believe some people are able to work out at 5am, have the kids home-schooled by 9am, the fresh bread baked by noon, a homemade lunch on the table by 1, the laundry sorted by 2, and the children sitting on the couch in freshly pressed threads when father walks in around 5 from his job on wall-street, ready to recite Emily Bronte while mother whips up a turkey in her unsoiled white apron. They do exist.

I however, am not one of those people.

If being real means telling your children to take the gallon sized ziploc bag of fresh picked acorns out of my fridge, along with the "flowers" that are beginning to produce an odor only a 12 month old on solid foods could rival, and assuring them that when it snows, the squirrels will be able to find their own food, makes me a real person. Then yes. I'm real.

If being real means watching adorable babies in the parents magazine being swaddled with psuedo handmade blankets inside the pottery barn crib with the educational coordinated stuffed animals in the corner so as not to pose a choking hazard, only to look over at mine in her unbuttoned slightly wet onsie, which doubles as evening wear, on her wal-mart activity blanket sucking on her fist blowing spit bubbles as her sister, still in her pajamas at 11am, sings her frosty the snow-man in the middle of september. Then consider me real.

If by real you mean, walking out to my car on a routine trip to wal-mart the cart begins to lose it's balance due to the 3 children hanging on to the right side despite my explanation of equal distribution of weight being necessary to move the cart in a forward motion, only to have the groceries I so carefully placed around the baby seat begin to fall in random places as I try desperately to stop my pants from falling off (due only to the fact that I'm sweating, not that I'm losing weight). If being that woman, makes me real. That's a cross I'm willing to bear.

I like to think that somewhere in my travels, ( I say travels, but I don't even own a passport. The closest I've come to being a jet-setter is driving through Canada on many a trips to and from Alaska), somewhere in my life, I came to the conclusion, that while it wasn't going to be a spring picnic, it could certainly be a meal worth enjoying. I don't have any insight to the future, but I like to believe that one day my children will grow up and take with them the things that we've taught. They will turn out just as perfect, if not moreso, than I imagine them to be.
Whether or not they decide they want to go to college and become Dr's. Or in Mikey's case, they want to be a cashier at the dollar tree, they will never have to wonder if they were part of anything that wasn't "real".

So often I see people, living lives that on the outside seem enviable, and I often find myself coveting those things that seem so perfect. I don't for a second believe that I would be any happier, or any sadder if my situation changed.

I take the good with the bad. I cry over the spilled milk, I cry harder over the spilled grape juice on my carpet. I yell when I think the situation warrants it, I shut my trap when I know silence is the best thing for those involved.

I drive too much, and I waste so much time it's unreal. I double park, and I have enough dust in my house to start a full scale dust museum. But you know what. I don't pretend for a second that my world is perfect. I write about the feces. I take pictures of the dents in my brand new car. I forget to close the door when I walk by in nothing but a towel, and permanently scar the contractors hired to paint my house. I do these things, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Because that is who I am.

Take it or leave it. If you've come hoping for imperfect photos of perfect children, be prepared to be fulfilled. If you've come for awesome scrapbook ideas that will inspire you to create, be prepared to settle for a little less. If you've come for tips and tricks on how to lose weight, hit your back button, and keep on moving on. If you're related to me, and are here to find out how I'm doing, be willing to read through 14 paragraphs of meanderings to get your answer.

In short. NO matter what it is you've come here for, Whether you like me, tolerate me, or just plain dislike me, I make no promises beyond the fact that THIS IS ME. There is no perfect outter shell covering up a slightly fat and creamy filled inside. I am full of flaws, as is my life, but they are REAL flaws. And I'm not afraid to admit that.

I really don't think my husband knew what kind of can he opened up when he asked me that question, and to be honest, I'm glad he did. If you want to share your reason with me, why you read, why you talk to me on messenger, why you call me a friend. Or why you wish I'd develop hives and grow excessive amounts of facial hair, I'd love to know. I think my husband too would enjoy the answers.

If I'm way off base, and you find me faker than Pamela Anderson's chest, please feel free to post that too. I've got thick skin.

(Just in case you were hoping for one of the other things mentioned. Fear not. I've got you covered.)

cute kid. Check.

a layout. Check.

and for those of you who could care less, just wanting to know how I'm doing. It's safe to say. I'm keeping it real ;)

Big b little b, what begins with B?

Birthday and ball, Those begin with B.

They also pretty much sum up the last week of my life. Some of you might not have been aware of the festivities that were my 26th birthday. I was hoping that if I ignored it, I might not have to dwell up the fact that I am now closer to 50 than I have ever been. It became clear as I drove to wal-mart for some centrum SIlver, and hair coloring that covers grey, that I am being beaten at my own game. The game of age is one I will not win.

"Were you born when there were only horses and buggies mom?" No Mikey. Thanks for asking. My husband even made note that I now have wrinkles. My sister threw a real kink in my day by making sure I knew I Was officially too old to flip my hair when I talk on my cell-phone. Way harsh. (On the plus side, she didn't mention anything about text messaging)

My birthday was spent celebrating at a little Mexican restaurant that we adore. I intended on a quiet evening with the 4 children and Mike. HA. The words "quiet" "4 children" and Mike, will never flow off the tongue in one sentence.

My husband asked the man if they did anything special for birthday's. He mentioned a song, and desert. I figured Fried Ice Cream in exchange for a little birthday serenade was totally worth it. He sort of neglected to mention the part where they bring out the 12 piece Mariachi BAND, and the Sombrero that one would usually use to carry fruit baskets. THey put in on my head and I think, I can say with all honesty the entire restaurant watched Ruth turn 12 shades of red as the large hat slowly become a covering for her face. NO big deal, I thought. There's still the fried ice cream... Turns out Flaun is on the menu for cheap free birthday treats. All that and I got force fed flaun.

To further my birthday weekend fun, my husband invited his parents down to watch the kids. (YEs, they drove 6 hours in a car, to watch my kids, FOR FREE). That. Is grandparent love. We got all gussied up for the "ball". I use that term as loosely as one who has ever attended one of these functions can. It's more like a large buffet line, lots of speakers, and 100 women seeing who has the best cleavage. Being that mine is nothing short of a disaster, I opted for full coverage on the boob front, and fought my war with cute hair.

My intended hair:, and the actual outcome:
. You're a little miffed too arn't ya? I should have known pictures are a far cry from reality when it comes to getting your hair done. But it was ok. The venue they chose had no air conditioning, so my hair actually had more life than most peoples did before all was said and done.
My dress was not the princess ensemble I had envisioned with my flabby arms pretty much exposed, but mike looked cute. All in all, fun was had by all.

My children love their grandparents, and being away for one last night before Mike leaves wa probably a good thing. It might have ended better if we had not decided to leave Mia at home for 15 hours with my MOther in Law, who assured me, she could handle her.We had a hotel room that my husband had gotten us. Being that Mia has yet to take a bottle, I was a little shocked at the offer, though. She lasted til about 7:30 this morning, and decided to relinquish the feeding responsibilty back to me. So. A bit tired. But glad for the small yet, much needed break I was able to grab.

Other than that. Im still trying to keep my head above water for a few more months while I start packing up the house, and getting used to the idea that I will be living in my parents house for another 15-18 months. I do love them though, so that makes it easier. I still have a RAK to do, so don't go too far, have a few more piles to go through then I can give the gift that keeps on giving. Scrapbook stuff people. THat's what I'm passing out. Thanks for always reading, you guys are great. I promise to be more exciting soon. I bet you can't wait.

When in doubt...

Stick it out.

And that's exactly what I'm trying to do.

The cycle.

I don't know what to say. But thank you. Really.
I honestly never expected my quiet moments of anger and sadness put out on a blog to
reach out to so many people. I haave known for some time that my husband was leaving, I just didn't expect it to come as fast as it did.

I will be ok.
I am going to Alaska where I will be surrounded by my family, some awesome friends, and cold. What more can a heat hating, social butterfly, with a babysitting problem ask for?

I am on the mend. I am packing. I am cleaning. I am watching a little too much TV. I am having fun enjoying the things I should before I am left alone in my principles.

I have begun my phase of the cycle. The cycle. I'm a creature of habit. I am quite addicted to shopping. I mean, like if i had to pick between a diet coke no ice fountain, IN MY LIVING ROOM, and a days worth of shopping at no particular destination, I might be forced into a padded enclosure, because I would be that torn. However, being like most SAHM's with 4 children, and a less than stellar income, I usually have to decide when I have fun money, how I am going to spend it.

When I first joined the military, I was dunked into the world of "free money" with nothing of consequence to spend it on. I had no car payments, no bills, and nothing but the mall to my disposal. I shopped. ALOT. I still to this day find things that I remember buying, just because I had money. Sickening really.

After having Mikey, and having to resort to 1 income, and taking on new found "poundage", clothing was no longer something I enjoyed shopping for. I mean really, before 2005 plus size clothing meant T-shirts with cartoon characters on them, and stretch me pants with elastic stirrups to keep them from bunching at the muffin. SO. Began the cycle.

I started spending my money on the only person who I thought could appreciate it. My dear son.
I can honestly say, he had more clothes than any small person under 16 should ever be allowed to own. He didn't care. I didn't know how to take a decent photo for squat, and sadly, those clothes are now being sorted over at the local salvation Army, where I'm certain someone is wondering who in their right mind buys winnie the pooh embroidered pants for little boys. I claim no knowledge of these.
Point being. I had learned that I could shop for others, and still recieve the same amount of joy as if I were shopping for myself.

6 years down the road, the amount of children I have to shop for has greatly increased, and my budget is obviously a little more trimmed. It is a rarity for me to just wake up one day and say to myself "Self, today you are going to go hog wild and do nothing for anyone, BUT YOU". Well. Today, I did. And I have to say. I am really not at all ashamed.

I woke up, and went straight to the computer where I placed an order for the first time in 7 months!! HELLO. Withdrawls much? I bought fabulous printable swank labels at two peas. I bought Fancy Pants felt, and doiles, and www.amillionlittlethings.com. I went to hobby Lobby where I decided I absolutely HAD to have the Elsie stuff that I really never thought I needed. But I'm most excited about this Look up there in the corner. 4 oval and circle scalloped punches that are seriously making me giddy just to look at. I also had to stop myself at the scrapbook store when I got to the Papertrey ink section. Nichole HEady is a local celebrity here, who had I known had such fabulous stamps in her posession, I would have been delivering BFF necklaces, and store bought brownies to her door, in order to get a spot on her DT. I loved all of them but I stopped at the oval, just because shopping is fun, but it tends to lose it's luster when you spend the insurance and grocery money on adorable stamps. SO. I was thrilled about that.

I am a little scared that my cycle might not be so easy to move now that I have relished in the joy of spending on yours truly. I even got my toes done.... Ridiculous probably. I'm sure it'll be 20 below tomorrow just so I have to don winter boots to protect them from the cold, and noone will get to gaze upon them, but that's ok. They look cute.

At least I think so.

I'm supposed to be scrapbooking. Actually, being that it is almost 2am, I should be sleeping. But Mia is still convinced she was sent to earth to take over certain super-hero postions which might not be filled. As I type she is in the living room, assuming the hand up into the blue position. She does this for hours. It's half ninja, half superman. It cracks me up really.
I might laugh more, if she chose to do it in the hours of 11am-9pm. But, beggers can't be choosers. At least she's not crying. Silver lining, I suppose.

Ah well. Thanks again for all the sweet and awesome comments. I want to do a RAK here in a few days once I get some more stuff sorted through because I have an entire room of filth to load into a moving truck in about 2 months, and it's not all going with me. So. Keep an eye out.

Me and Mia the the Great, are off to bed. I will attempt to sleep, and she will most likely work on her magical sucking powers. Seems to be the only one she's interested in honing in on. Night =)

I don't.

I don't pretend to understand war.
I don't pretend to think I can escape the consequences of being an Army wife.
I don't have the ability to make it on my own for 15 months.
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to watch the strongest man I know break down and cry as he waves to his 4 children, including a 5 month daughter who will be 2 upon his return.
I don't have the courage to tell my children if something happens to their father.
I don't do well on my own.
I don't want to pack my life into a 20x20 storage unit and board a plane to Alaska.
I don't want my kids to have to change schools just because I need help raising them by myself.
I don't think it's fair that he got back 369 days ago, and he's leaving. Again.
I don't share my feelings with my husband, as it makes me look weak. And Army wives are supposed to be strong.
I don't remember the last time we shared 2 years of consecutive holidays together.
I don't forget the look on Charity's face when she saw her daddy for the first time after 12 months.
I don't scrapbook this picture, because it breaks my heart to look at it.

I don't care to discuss the importance of life insurance and wills at weekly meetings.
I don't have to like that my husband will watch his baby take her first steps on a television screen.
I don't want to argue about the right or wrongs of things in the world today.

But mostly.

I don't want him to go.
I don't.