The King and I have been holding family prayers with Babboo since he was born. A few months ago he started being able to say the prayers, with a little help from mommy and daddy. Last night, before bed, he asked to say the prayer all by himself. His first family prayers went something like this:

“Bless Jesus be happy. Bless we watch shows. Bless we eat. Bless we play with toys.”

This morning before I left to catch the bus, and before Babboo woke up, I told The King how sweet I thought it was that the first thing Babboo prays for is for Jesus to be happy. The King looked at me and said, “He isn’t praying for Jesus to be happy, he’s saying ‘bless Isabel be happy’.“

Does my toddler really know that I haven’t been feeling very happy lately? Can he sense it?

I need to be happy for myself, for my husband and for this sweet little boy.

You know what sucks? Going to pick up your kid from daycare on Monday night and being met with a very small sign that read:

Don’t forget we’re closed tomorrow for Veterans Day.

(Except it wasn’t in bold. It was a tiny little sign. Easy to miss.)

Yeah, a little bit more of a reminder would have been good. Even if the sign would have been put up MONDAY MORNING WHEN I DROPPED MY KID OFF and not just Monday evening. Dude, that way I would have at least had time to make a few phone calls and find something to watch him. They could have hung it up last week. But that’s a lot to ask, apparently. So mostly I’m just asking for more then 12 hours of a notice.

The King was in Austin, Texas for the day which meant, hello, I was calling in “can’t come to work today because my daycare sucks” to the office.

Instead of slaving away in front of my computer I stayed home and worked on potty-training and time-outs with my toddler who, at 2 1/2 years old is just now entering into The Terrible Twos and must throw everything. Including the items mommy was putting together at the table to sew.

It also included his belt. Which he threw at my face. And then, upon being scolded, told me he did it on accident.

Yeah, the welt on my face sure didn’t feel like an accident.

On a much nicer note, one that does not include yelling at my toddler or banishing him to time-out……

Guess who is getting a little something something in the mail?

Hooray for Janssen over at Everyday Reading for winning last week’s give-away. Send me your address and I’ll post your new jewelry item, courtesy of Kate, asap.

Don’t forget, Kate and I will be doing another give-away every Friday until Christmas.

So tell me, should all sewing and craft activities only take place during nap time?

I walked into work this morning with a spring in my step. Maybe it was because it’s a little brighter then usual out. Maybe it was my kicky boots or my new jacket. Maybe it was the Old 97’s on my iPod. Maybe it was the ticker tape I was stepping over.

Or maybe it was the smell of change in the air.

Whatever it was, it’s thrilling and I’m excited to be a part of it.

Now that election season is over (!!) I know the top question on everyone’s mind is “what was Babboo for Halloween?”

He was a pirate, thanks for asking. Except that in our house we refer to pirates as garibaldi’s. (It has something to do with a pirate sticker book with a pirate named Garibaldi that My Sweet Babboo loves.) Babboo was rocking a skull and cross bone (knitted) beanie, an eye patch, a sword, a sash (also known as one of daddy’s old ties) and a pumpkin flashlight.

ARRR! Ahoy mates. Swap the poop deck. And any other pirate phrase I can think of.

He made out with a hefty sized bag of goodies that is still sitting on our kitchen counter. The kid really didn’t understand what was going on. All he knew was that mommy kept telling him to say “trick-or-treat” and “thank you” and that his friend Vesper kept asking him to say “swap the poop deck”.

It was Babboo’s first time going out on Halloween (he was sick last year) and The King’s and my first time doing this as proud parents. I admit it was pretty fun. But also, pretty nerve racking. I was worried about poisoned candy and unruly teenagers and scary costumes and drunk drivers.

Whatever. Mostly I just wanted to go home and dig into his candy.

So tell me, how was your Halloween?

(And just admit it, this is the cutest Garibaldi you’ve ever laid eyes on!)

———————————

Did you get out and vote last night? While I’ve been voting since I was 18, last night was the first time I’ve ever voted in person and it’s my latest New Thing!

And don’t forget to read my post over at Amalah’s Advice Smackdown. Make sure you leave a comment about your favorite drug store brand products!

There was girl that lived one block over from me in high school. She was a year younger, but way more mature then I was. Or rather more mature looking. If you know what I mean. (And I think you do.)

She came from a family of a million kids. They had a kid in every grade at my high school. The family lived stuffed inside their three bedroom house. They were poor. And yet, she always dressed super trendy and cute. She had the perfect cinched waisted GAP jeans (this was the early 90’s, remember) with huge belt and baggy top. Her hair and face always looked pristine. I never understood how she could look so hip and yet, be so poor. One day I learned her secret. She had an older, richer cousin who lived in California. Apparently this older cousin sent her bags and bags of trendy hand-me-downs every summer. Just in time for the new school year.

I had other friends with this same mythical older, well-dressed, cousin. My best friend Marci had an older cousin who would hand-down her formal dresses. I dreamt of received garbage bags full of new hand-me-downs. I longed for the day that my cousin would ask me if I wanted all her used skirts and tops.

The thing is I was the oldest girl cousin in my family. I didn’t have anyone to hand their clothes down to me. There wasn’t anyone in my life to share their wardrobe bounty with me.

Not even an older aunt.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve been the proud recipient of an overabundance of a quite divine hand-me-down maternity wardrobe courtesy of my good friend Marci. And let’s not forget the hand-me-down goodies that Mrs. Squirrel has sent me over the years. I’m talking shoes and skirts and sweaters.

I know some people don’t like hand-me-downs. Let’s make one thing clear; I’m not one of those people. I love having something new-ish to hang in my closet and wear to work. I love knowing that my new favorite skirt was once loved by someone that I love. It just makes my heart feel good.

My little family had dinner over at some friend’s house last Friday night. They served us a glorious artichoke and chicken soup with the yummiest salad I’ve ever had. And bread. And ice cream. Not to mention the lovely conversation and fun kids for Babboo the play with. It was just a good night with people we love. At the conclusion of the night my friend asked if I wanted to go through the boxes and piles and bags of clothes her son had recently grown out of. She was planning on donating them the next day.

I tried to hide my excitement as I told her I’d love anything she had to offer. She took me upstairs and I was giddy when I saw the piles of winter pajamas. Babboo has needed some bigger and warmer jammies, but I just haven’t been able to justify spending all the money just yet. It just hasn’t been cold enough. Yet. My friend put pajama after pajama in a pile for me to take home. Before she was done I had more pajamas for Babboo then I’ve he’s had in his entire life. The kid is set for the next two winters. And I couldn’t be more grateful.

Last night I was folding all of his new jammies after getting them out of the dryer. Babboo recognized that they were new clothing items and kept asking me, “Mommy, what that jammie?” I explained to him that his friend William had been nice enough to give him all of these new clothes. Babboo got excited and proceeded to call them all “William Jammies” and requested to wear the firetruck “William Jammies” to bed last night.

I have a pile of clothes Babboo’s grown out that I can’t wait to pass on to his little friend “Cabub”. It’s like a piece of my baby that I’m passing on and I want them to go to a good home.

So tell me, what has been your favorite hand-me-down?

I’d have to say mine was the gray maternity shirt Marci gave me. As seen here when I was just barley pregnant with Babboo.

———————

Holy crap, I’m guest blogging for Amalah today over at the Advice Smackdown.  This is like my wildest fantasy come true.  Head over to read about my favorite drug store products and make sure to leave a comment about your favorite drug store products.

And also, check out my latest New Thing. I tried out some new make-up, but only because I had a $5 off coupon.

Every morning I get dressed for work while feeling sorry for myself for having to wake up at the crack of dawn.  I usually walk past Babboo’s bedroom on my way out of the house to make sure he’s still sleeping.  My gut starts to hurt at this point it the day.  This is the time of day when I’m reminded that I won’t see my kid for another nine hours.   I’m always tempted to wake him up, just so I can get a hug or a “bye Mommy” from him.  But It’s too early for him to wake up.  I know he needs to stay asleep.

Every other morning I walk to the bus stop and dream about what it would be like if we could afford for me to stay home.  I think about all my lady friends from my church congregation and about the fun things they have planned that I’ll be missing while slaving away at the office.  I missed their trip to the pumpkin patch last week.  I’ve never been able to go to their Thursday morning playgroups.  I can’t join their 9am book club.  I’ve yet to attend one of their Ladies Luncheons.  I am left out of their little club 100% of the time.  All because I work and they don’t.

Most of them don’t know my kid’s name and they really have no idea who I am.

And most morning, I feel sorry for myself about this. I feel left out.  I feel like the world is working against me, all because I have a career and they don’t.  I know it’s wrong, but I’m typically jealous of them.  I know The King and I don’t have a lot of money and that’s why I work.  I know it’s the best thing for our family right now.  And yet, why do these SAHM have nicer clothes then I do?  Why do they all drive better cars?  How is it that their kids dress so nice?  And dude, really, how do you afford those new DVD players in your van?  How can they afford to go to the museums and the zoo every week?  Why do they get to put their kids down for their naps everyday and potty train their own toddlers?

And why am I so darn jealous?

Until last night.

Today is the first day, in a very long time, that I was happy about being a full time working mom.

I hung out with some of the SAHM’s from church last night.  It was their monthly Girls Night out.  I hadn’t even planned on going.  You see, I only get a few hours a night with Babboo and The King so to give up my one chance to see them is a hard choice to make. But this night out was scheduled late in the evening, so I would still have a little bit of time with Babboo. And so I decided to join the ladies.

And dude, was it a mistake.

I had no idea that these SAHM could be so catty. And over dramatic. And just plain mean to each other. In the first thirty seconds of the evening out unnecessary drama was introduced to the party. I’m talking about scathing e-mails, mean words about people’s kids, family secrets of (those not in attendance) shared, and tears. Actual tears.

These women are all adults. They are married and have kids and families and they were acting like we were all back in high school junior high. Apparently this type of drama is uber common in their SAHM group.

And I felt like an outsider. But this time I was okay with being the outsider.

I didn’t want any part of this drama. I didn’t want to know why they all hate Rebecca’s son. I didn’t want to know why Ginny’s family all hate each other. I didn’t want to read the e-mail Samantha sent Amy before the party. I felt like all eyes were on me and that I needed to choose sides and make alliances right that second. But I don’t want to make any alliances. I don’t want to be on one side and not the other.

I just wanted to go home.

But I couldn’t. I was stuck there for the rest of the evening until my ride was ready to go home.

I finally got out of there and returned to my house. I started to recount my unbelievable evening to The King. I told him I didn’t know what to do  or how I was going to keep peace with all of these ladies. I mean, I have to serve with them at church. And I like them. I do. I just don’t want to be around this negativity.

So today, I’m thankful to be sitting in my quiet cubicle busily working on my tasks while listening to my iPod. There aren’t any sides to choose and nobody is talking bad about me or my kid or my husband. Nobody is judging my outfit or my kid’s clothes.  And I don’t have to prove that my husband is the most romantic husband in the world.

And so what if I can’t go with them to see High School Musical III today because I’m at work. And who cares that I’m missing the luncheon.

This is where I’d rather be today.

So tell me, you SAHM’s out there, is this what it’s like for you? And if so, then I’m sorry.

Long gone are the days of me waking up at every sound Babboo makes during the night. Now days I sleep right through it. But not The King. He jumps right out of bed and races to Babboo’s cribside before I even realize my son is screaming for me.

One night last week The King and I woke up in the middle of the night to Babboo screaming out for both of us. And like has become the tradition, The King ran to see what was wrong. Next thing I knew Babboo was snuggled in between us in our Big Bed. He’s always so warm and willing to snuggle up to one of us when he’s in bed with us. Both The King and I enjoy the occasional night of Babboo being added to our bed. Unfortunately having Babboo in bed with us means that he is woken up at the butt-crack of dawn when I get up for work. It makes his day at school long and doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll sleep better the next night.

Needless to say, the following night, when getting Babboo ready for bed he and I talked about how he’s a Big Boy now and needs to sleep in his crib and not cry to come into the Big Bed with Mommy and Daddy. I explained that his crib is much nicer for him and it’s where he needs to be at night. He listened to me as I talked and put his jammies on.

And then he said, “But The Guy scares me.”

“What guy?”

“The guy in my crib! He scares me.”

The air suddenly got heavier and Babboo’s bedroom seemed a little darker.

“There isn’t a guy in your crib. You don’t need to be scared.”

Babboo slowly walked over to his crib and pointed to the space between his crib and the wall.

“The guy lives right here.”

Not only was the bedroom now darker but I’m pretty sure I felt a cold draft hit me from underneath the crib. And then the lights flickered and I might have wet myself.

It was clear, by the look of sheer honesty and terror in Babboo’s eyes, that he believed what he was telling me.

I admit it, I was scared. There was no way I was looking under the crib to prove to my toddler that there was NO GUY LIVING UNDER HIS BED! And no matter how many times I told him, out loud with my voice cracking, that no guy lived between his crib and the wall did I believe what I was saying. Sure, I know there isn’t a man that secretly lives in my kid’s bedroom. I’m smart enough to know that’s true. But dude, what about a monster or a ghost or something else even creepier?

I’m the adult here and even I’m not convinced.

I assured him, with the most adult voice I could muster, that he was safe and that Mommy and Daddy would never let anything bad happen to him. And I told him that if he was truly scared in the middle of the night that all he needed to do was call for us (well, mostly for Daddy since I don’t seem to wake up) and we’d The King would come and get him. He seemed to understand what I was saying and I’m pretty sure he trusted what I was saying.

But here’s the thing, I’m a little freaked out by this. Here I am the adult and I’m just a little too uncomfortable with the fact that I’m not automatically assured that there isn’t something in our house. I mean, again, I know there isn’t a guy living in our house. And yet, I’m not 100% comfortable with the whole situation. It isn’t keeping me up at night, but it making my skin crawl a little when I stop and think about. Especially if I’m in his bedroom.

I guess I just assumed that the second a child passed through my own private birth canal that I’d become an adult that is confident, secure, and knowledgeable. I’d no longer be worried about noises in the night and shadows that seemed to move. I thought that once I was the parent all of my childish fears would vanish.

But they didn’t vanish. Apparently. And now I don’t know what this means. I hate that I now question my parents own confidence. Were they not convinced that nothing was living under my bed when I was Babboo’s age? Was my mom afraid on the nights that my dad was out of town for work? Did she sleep with a heavy flashlight like I’ve been known to do when The King’s out of town? Did my dad hate it when he had to go into our dark basement?

I guess most of us adults are just faking it. If we say we’re not afraid loud enough and enough times we might start to believe it ourselves. At least that’s what I’m hoping for.

And in the mean time, I’m still not looking under Babboo’s bed.