Bat Shit Crazy

Sometimes I nut up and act crazy and run around the house sneaking toys out to the recycle bin when no one is watching.  

Big Al, my OB, recently put me on birth control pills. For the first time in over 6 years I realized I am completely capable of bat shit crazy. 

I go to therapy every week. Seasons are hard y'all.  I have recruited several of my friends.  I can't decide if I am surrounded by crazy people or if I am making everyone around me crazy.   
Every week I have to talk about how I feel. Why I feel. What I feel. 

I have to look at this feelings poster and pick my feel. 

I recently asked D if she would take my picture and post it up there. Right next to "smug". D is my therapist. My sweet, sweet therapist who was hand picked straight by Jesus to be my champion during this season. Under my mugshot, snapshot, I asked her to write: Bat Shit Crazy.

Cause that's an emotion too. A feel. 

So about three weeks after Big Al put me on the pill, Coop and Finn were playing in their ginormous Lightening McQueen pop up tent. Only they weren't playing. They were acting the fool. Hoodlums all up in the playroom. Pop up tent gangsters. They would get a running start (halfway across the family room), run full speed AT the tent, man handle it, plow over it, and throw themselves into the furniture. Mama don't play hoodlum. 

So I went a little crazy.

First I winky face reminded them that we are Davises and we don't go gangster on the pop up tent. When that didn't work after three, no four tries, I nutted straight up. I went all Poltergeist on their little people selves. I wrestled the tent to the ground, karate chopped it into pieces and took it straight out to the garbage. 

Ok I didn't take it out to the garbage. Yet. But I'm going to. As soon as no one is looking. 

Having too much stuff is problematic. It makes my skin crawl and overwhelms my soul. Less is more. Less is more. 

Right after I went Poltergeist on the pop up tent, I threw my phone across the foyer in a fit of rage because auto correct kept changing the word "grace" to "grease" when I was texting my mama about my lack of it.

The struggle is real. Because sometimes you have to karate chop a pop up tent. Because I am beyond blessed to be able to be at home with my most important little people and wouldn't trade if for anything in all the whole wide world. Because sometimes I just want to face-plant on the floor and not get up from there til next week. Because it's hard. And I give the kids too many GMOs. And I didn't use cloth diapers. Or breastfeed. And I don't let Coop and Finn play with sidewalk chalk because it's chalky and dirty and gives me the eebyjibbies. Because I fail daily. 

But also because "I can do this". And you can too. This is for you warrior mamas. Bat shit crazy warrior mamas. March on.

On the subject of dry bars.

I used to wash my hair every single day. I also used to wear sassy, coordinated, and well thought-out outfits. 

I now wash my hair every two three days {if I'm lucky or have someplace other than the carpool line to go} and live in my monogrammed fleece tunic with handy side pockets. Perfect for carrying puffs and/or ninja turtles. 

So the concept of a dry bar is absolutely fascinating to me. You go there. They wash and dry and style your hair. For you. While you sit there. And read a magazine. Or stare at the wall. So why did the lady look at me so crazy when I asked if I could get a weekly pass? JK. You know I haven't gotten to check one out. Yet. 

You know what concept I adore even more than a fabulous hairdresser blowing out your hair? A Kroger or Publix employee who would sashay up to my driver side window and let me ask {beg} them to run to the far back side of the store and snag me a gallon of milk {whole, not skim- we got growing brains in this grocery-getter mommy mobile Holmes} and a box of mini muffins so I would not have to do the car seat shuffle with two babies. In the rain. And the cold. 

Would that not be a dream? If that happened, I would probably be able to go back to washing my hair. And wearing well thought out, coordinated outfits. 

To Blog or Not to Blog

It's been a long time, Between the Lines. Shoowee. I got an aching in my soul that drove me to dig through my purse {diaper bag} on my flight from ATL to Vegas Baby 3.0 and out pen to paper.

I miss writing. I really do.

I didn't abandon this little blog on purpose. It just somehow got pushed to the bottom of the list of priorities in this incredible season of joy for our little family. And also I lost brain cells with my last pregnancy. I'm sure of it because I tried to do a suduko puzzle on the plane and I honestly could not count to nine to save my life.

The girl in the seat next to me tried not to let me know she was watching me and silently mocking me but I know she was. That's ok because I was silently coveting her Chickfila Combo Number One that she magically produced from her Kate Spade bag and chowed down on mid-flight. 

Instead of sitting in front of the computer screen I sit behind board books these days. Instead of getting struck with silly thoughts to hammer out out late at night, I get struck with thoughts of diaper ointments and kindergarten registration (Wait. What? It can't be). And Letter P Show and Tell assignments. And bedtime prayers. And did we remind Coop to brush his teeth tonight?

And I could not be happier. It's in the fabric of my being. 

God has fulfilled His mighty promise to us. It was touch and go there for a while but His JOY came at just the right moment. His Grace covered us and created in us a spirit of humility that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. 

Sneaking a way for a few days is always good for the soul. Plus you get to go to the bathroom by yourself. {Side-note: I almost did not know what to do in the airport bathroom without Coop and Finn giggling at my feet. "Mommy your booty is big" "Mama tee tee?" "Can I have a drink?" "Have you seen my nun chucks?"}. How can so much happen in 23 seconds while you just try to go to the bathroom?? 

No matter how much I wish I was there to tuck our sweet babies in tonight and whisper prayers over them, I know the value in respecting the need for purposeful, sweet time together as a couple.{Interpreted: Eating loaded chicken nachos together at 3 AM and watching back to back episodes of Shark Tank while snuggling in a giant fluffy bed.} A giant fluffy bed that I did not honor my OCD tendencies with and make up this morning when I crawled out of it. Small victories!

How could I waste time making up that silly bed when I caught a glimpse of the high powered cosmetic magnification mirror in the bathroom? I have a mustache? Why didn't someone tell me? 

I digress. 

I'm happy to be back at this little blog. If nothing else, I need to remember these musings when I am old and gray. Like how Coop calls Darth Vader "Darth Thader" and how Finley Jane carries her babies around by their heads and dances in her highchair when I sing "Ain't No Sunshine". 

No judging if my next post does not happen until 2037 though, mmkay?

"Write what should not be forgotten". ~Isabelle Allende