Confession: I can be rude.

As a stay-at-homer, my adult conversations are limited. It’s awfully disappointing that most of my adult conversations are peppered with rudeness. It’s to the point that I feel like outfitting my kids in matching tees reading, “Please don’t ask my mom rude questions and/or make rude observations.”

It wouldn't be effective but at least the general public would be forewarned before I unleash the pent up rage I have in regards to impolite, pointless questions.

“Are you going to try for a boy?”

We have 4 girls. We obviously tried. Don’t you think? Furthermore, what’s wrong with girls?

“Don’t you know how you get babies?”

Obviously, we are competent in this area. Thanks for noticing.

“How are you going to manage 4 kids?”

A minivan, lots of coffee, naps and wine. I think I read that in a parenting book. No, wait I just made that up. Oh, well, sounds good to me.

“This one doesn’t look like you.”

Wow, I appreciate you taking the time to notice our genetic differences. Did you have a reason to point this out? Because I can assure you she’s mine.  See the whole birth process is pretty unpleasant so that you’ll remember which kid is yours.

“You look tired.”

I am so I guess it’s a good thing that I can convince others of my exhaustion. Maybe it’s necessary to look tired so that others will leave me alone so I can sleep.

Now that I’ve unloaded what I really want to say when I’m asked the same rude questions over and over again, perhaps I can continue to grin and bear it. I can’t guarantee that though.

Confession: I'm not so brainy.

 I have a tendency to think of myself as intuitive rather than cerebral. This last Sunday, I unintentionally proved this idea. 

Over spring break, Lexi spent the week with an Evansville friend and her family in Destin, FL. After church, Emmi, Livi & I trekked the 2 ½ hours to Evansville to pick her up. We chatted with our friends for a bit, had a restroom break, grabbed some snacks then headed back to Brownstown. Notably missing, I didn’t double check a map. My cop out answer could be “that’s Paul’s job” (since I humbly admit that I am a better passenger than navigator) but he wasn’t there to blame so I’ll just chalk it up to relying too heavily on my intuition.

Somehow by spiritedly talking to Lexi, pulling over for a carsick toddler and ordering Lexi to wipe noses, pass out drinks/snacks and hunt for lost toys (the poor thing has to take over my duties when I’m the lone driver), I managed to get a speeding ticket. I was speeding but I was being passed by another car at the time which irritated me more. After the hi po slapped a ticket in my hand, I inaudibly muttered curses at him until he zoomed away then we were off. Or so I thought. It took a while but I eventually realized that I missed my turn by 30 miles. In my defense, most Indiana highways look the same and I was headed in the right direction, north, but I forgot that I needed to go east as well.  All my surroundings were familiar so my intuitive side continually argued to my cerebral side that everything was A-OK. Plus, let’s face it. I was not in navigator form. I assumed that I would naturally slip into let’s-go-home mode but I was more focused on keeping everyone comfortable and happy (and they were). At least I did something right.

Anyway after my cerebral side talked some sense into my intuitive side, we made another stop for restrooms and map checking. I found the sanest solution was to back track to an eastward rural highway. Obviously already peeved about the ticket and getting lost, I gave up on being bothered and decided to treat the whole misadventure as if I wanted it to go that way. Not necessarily my exact feelings, but what are you going to do? To be honest, it was a far more picturesque drive and took the same amount of time once you factored out our lost hour. The girls and I discovered more of rural Indiana like Loogootee, IN, the home of Jack Butcher, Indiana’s Winningest High School Basketball Coach. To see that awkward phrase in its entirety on a water tower is unforgettable. We pointed out other interesting sights, shared more stories about our week apart and laughed about our misadventures. Aside from a few hiccups, it was a good road trip.

So maybe my intuition isn’t all that bad, but neither is taking the time to plan carefully. I learned two things from that experience: 1) Pay attention to speed limit signs, especially on boring Indiana highways 2) Despite your best (or not best) effort stuff happens and when stuff happens just roll with it.

Paul added 3) Bring your husband to drive so you can enjoy the trip.

I agree.

My name is Megan and I'm a hypocrite.

I confess.  I'm a hypocrite.

The following will completely contradict itself but I 'm not clever enough to help it.

I'm about to complain about complainers. 

December 19, 2010



Dear Mr., Mrs. or Ms. Chronic Complainer (myself included):

Please quit complaining. By complaining, you continually tell others about some horrible thing and by retelling and complaining about this horrible thing you ultimately bring yourself down and those unfortunate enough to hear your complaining.

Do yourself and others a favor. If compelled to complain, then find a volunteer who will not judge you or offer pointless solutions (Husbands are you listening?). Suddenly, your complaining is transformed into venting, a close cousin to complaining and a necessary component of a healthy life. 

Venting is a way to let go of complaints so they don't become the central focus of your mind and that long angry speech you have at the ready is forgotten. Please don't live with your woes because it's exhausting and unproductive for all involved.

Thank you and please feel free to vent (not complain) about the absurdity of this blog.

Kind regards,

Megan Keller

Confession #2

Confessions of a Stay-at-Homer

For the love of breakfast!

Confession #2: I don't whip up hot, nourishing breakfast in minutes. Grab something and go before you're late.

The simple reason is my breakfast efforts are wasted on my family during the week (with the exception of Thing 1 and Thing 2). I used to slip out of bed early to bake cinnamon rolls or stand in front of the stove carefully scrambling eggs until they reached the perfect texture.

I would even go upstairs and announce to the Big Sister and Daddy, "Breakfast is ready."
The response was usually, "Ok, be there in a minute."
Waiting to eat breakfast with them, I sipped my coffee and grew more and more irritated as breakfast grew colder and colder.
"BREAKFAST. NOW!"

Then, they would stomp downstairs peeved at my yelling and stuff their mouths full of cold food, running out the door and leaving behind more food than they ate. Basically, weekday breakfasts are impossible due to my family's sluggish morning routines. I can't really say anything, after all, I'm still in my pajamas.

Presently, I have an array of fruit, granola bars, string cheese, yogurt or other snacky foods for the Big Sister to select from. She's such a grazer anyway so I let her choose. The girl has been known to eat anything for breakfast, including steamed green beans once. I can't really prepare for that so I let her decide when she finally saunters into the kitchen. For Daddy, I make sure to have his travel mug full of strong coffee with a splash of milk and some manly to go food like a meat filled bagel.

Breakfast may be deemed the most important meal of the day but I'm not going to convince my family nor myself of that. Sleep is far more appealing than a hearty breakfast. I'm just happy to recognize that my family doesn't really prefer a weekday sit down breakfast. It's far more important that they're eating something at home instead of zipping through a drive-thru. Also, it's a lot less annoying for everyone.

Confessions of a Stay-at-homer

Dear Santa, I'd prefer an enamaled cast-iron Dutch oven in red.

Confession #1: I hate ironing. I never perfected the art of ironing nor do I want to. 

What is remotely enjoyable about ironing? I'm not the graceful sort and I hate fighting a clumsy ironing board and arranging miles of cord. Another thing, where is a good place to iron? Just like a litter box (We have a cat free house), there is not a good place for an ironing board. Luckily, there's always more than one way to do tedious chores.

My hubby learned quickly never to bring me a shirt and say,"Can you press this?" After it took 20 minutes for me to very poorly press his first shirt, he resorted to tossing his wrinkled clothing in the dryer. This method of "ironing" became unreliable and tiresome, especially when he was running late. Finally, he went on one of his lone shopping outings. When he returned, he burst in the door like a proud hunter with his first kill.  I knew I was in for a surprise. His kill turned out to be a steamer and one of his best purchases. It was only $20 and we've had it for over 3 years. Now I have to find a use for that nearly new iron I have in the laundry room.