Taleah the Pack Mule

It's not a very glamorous title but it's what I am. I realized it yesterday when I was carrying 13 pound Maia in the Baby Bjorn, my 10 pound purse (complete with granola bars and half empty water bottles, no banana) on my right shoulder, and Maia's 5 pound diaper bag on my left shoulder.  I probably completed about 4 miles walking around the church carrying all this stuff in heels yesterday. Then, later when Ricky came with Noah, I somehow ended up with another 10 pound diaper bag and Noah. Ricky ended up with Maia. As we were heading to our car after church, walking uphill, Noah decided that he no longer wanted to walk and wanted me to pick him up. I yelled ahead to Ricky, telling him that Noah wanted to be carried. He told me to just make him walk without even glancing back. I muttered a few almost profanities under my breath, and slowly bent down as to not drop any of 3 bags on my shoulders and lifted 26 pound Noah onto my hip and proceeded to walk up the stairs. By the time I got to the car, Noah was hanging on to my shirt for dear life as he was sliding down my waist, the diaper bags were ripping into my forearms leaving red burn marks as they slid down my arms, sweat was dripping down my face, my back was pulsating in pain, and my feet were screaming at me to let me know that I was over my weight limit for them. When Ricky finally looked at me, I shot him a murderous stare and dropped everything on the floor including Noah (he landed on his feet by the way and almost took my shirt with him). Then, my chivalrous hubby burst into laughter and I couldn't help but laugh too at what a sight I must have been. He didn't realize how much I was carrying until I dropped it in my dramatic fashion in front of him. He was probably embarrassed too thinking of all the people we passed who saw a big 6 foot 1 guy holding his tiny baby girl and his wife walking 12 paces behind him loaded down like a pack mule, slowly losing her kid and her shirt. 

 Anyways later that night, I found myself holding my 10 lb purse, Maia's 5 lb diaper bag, and a 30 pound car seat with Maia in it. There really is no way around it. I must always be carrying something heavy because I have 2 babies. I have been told that my arms are looking toned . People always comment on how I lost weight so fast after my second baby. They ask where I find the time to work out. I now have an answer: "I am a Pack Mule."

P.S. I am hoping to include a picture soon just so you can see how ridiculous I look and feel sorry for me. Stay tuned. 

How Do I Go About Inspiring?

My friend Tony who happens to be a pastor wrote on his blog that people will find my blog "inspirational." I read that and immediately went into panic mode: Shoot I need to head over to my blog right now and write something inspiring. My last blog will only inspire people to be completely grossed out by me and never come near my purse. Think quick...ummm...inspiring...hmmm...I changed a gag inducing diaper today, not inspiring...I wore a shirt with a stain that I noticed when I put it on but left it on anyways and when someone pointed it out to me, I acted like that was the first time I saw it, so they wouldn't think I was a slob, soooo not inspiring...I did a load of laundry, that's a stretch. Oh dear! 

This whole thought process almost threw me back into pity party mode. But then I got to thinking...Maybe I inspire other moms to see the humor in their everyday stressful, mundane-task-filled lives. Maybe I inspire them to laugh. Maybe I inspire them to feel like good mothers because they compare themselves to my stories and realize that they have clean purses and boys with clean shirts and well-behaved kids in restaurants. Whether or not all this is true, it made me feel better about my blog promising to inspire. People are inspired by many different things and I guess it's a long shot, but they could be inspired by my blog!

  

Why I Will Never Own a Louis Vuitton Purse

I went to a mom's group this past Monday at my church and one of the activities was a purse scavenger hunt. I attribute the loss of my team to the amount of trash that I had to shovel my way through to find the needed items in my purse. I felt like I had let my team down and was inspired to do my once a year cleaning of my purse that night. Because I am so low maintenance I buy myself a purse once every two years or so and I never switch it out. I use it whether or not it matches my outfit or the occasion. Thus, it has multiple functions, trash bag, diaper bag, pill box, garment bag, lunch bag and acquires many random items and interesting odors. Allow me to take you on a tour through my purse...

First, we have a pile of trash. Notice how some articles in this pile are moist. As I was digging these items out, I kept noticing that many of the items were soaked but I couldn't seem to find the source. I also smelled a familiar odor but could not quite put my finger on it.

The next group of items I discovered were drugs...Oh don't get your panties in a wad people! I don't have a drug problem. I've got asthma, low milk supply, and cramps...don't ask about the orange bottle...I don't know why that one is in there.

Amidst the disturbing content, I found a cute item...one pink baby sock. I have no idea where its partner is. I think it got eaten by the other items in my bag. The sock was a little gooey and smelled kind of like bananas. Weird!

I think I have a subconscious phobia of going hungry. I found four smashed granola bars. I don't know why I keep putting them in there. These were also quite sticky.

Drum roll please...the next item you are about to view may require you to grab a paper bag to vomit in.  I dug to the bottom of my purse and felt something really squishy and it seemed to be oozing something. Slowly, I pulled it out and realized that I had found the source of the moisture and odor. It was a black, I am guessing 4- week- old banana. My explanation: my one-year-old son loves bananas and can be bribed to obedience if promised one. I must have thrown it in my purse before a quick trip somewhere and forgotten about it. Since it is now indistinguishable, I don't think it would work to bribe my son so I decided to photograph it and throw it away.  (Totally coincidental that the piece of trash on which it is laying says "My favorite way to cool down this summer").

This, my blogger world friends, is why I can never own a Louis Vuitton purse. Louis does not deserve to be subjected to the oozings and foul odors of a 4 week-old-banana. 

Technical Difficulties

I hopefully will be back to regular posting this evening. My internet has been down for 5 days and I can't really post while I am at work...too much work to do. I currently am broken out in a cold sweat and have the "shakes" from facebook/ blog withdrawals. I need my fix and will hopefully get it tonight if Time Warner does their job right.

Clothes for Boys are a Waste of Money

Why did I think buying a white shirt for Noah was a good idea? Well, because a white t-shirt goes with almost anything. It's an easy outfit that I don't have to think about. As you can see from this picture, that white shirt was a waste of money. My child looks like he mopped the floor with his shirt (which he probably did since he likes to army crawl around the house sometimes). There really is no point in dressing my kid. His clothes are usually stained by the time breakfast is done. But, I can't let him run around in a diaper because 1. people will think I am a horrible mother 2. I'd have a huge mess on my hands because Noah knows how to take his diaper off. I guess I will just have to keep wasting my money on clothes for him. 

A Model? I Think Not

  I am blessed to work with some of the sweetest ladies in the world. Since arriving with my new hair cut, I have received a few comments from these wonderful ladies saying I should be a model. I wave off the comments but... before exiting the bathroom, I can't help but strike a pose giving myself a second glance in the mirror before leaving. My confidence builds and I begin to walk with my head held high around the office like it was my very own run way. When stopping to talk to people I stand with my weight on one leg and my hands on my hips picturing myself at the end of a cat walk in a fashion show.  I flip my hair, catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall, and realize that it's time to pump. I strut my stuff down the hallway and into my office.

   I close the door, shut the blinds, sit myself at my desk, plug in my pump, hook myself up, and am lulled into a daydream about my modeling career from the rhythmic sounds of the pump. Suddenly, I feel sweat dripping down my arm and notice that I am developing pit stains because my breast feeding hormones are kicking in. I snap out of my daydream, grab some napkins left on my desk from lunch and stick them under my arm pits making a mental note to shave the two week old unsightly stubble that dwells there. While putting the napkins in place, one of the pumps slips off and milk spills onto my jeans.  I blow on my jeans to dry the stain. Sweat beads develop on my forehead. As I maneuver my forehead under my armpit and use the napkin there to dry the sweat on my brow, I hear my name being called and nearly jump out of my seat. The voice approaches and I frantically glance at the door praying that I remembered to lock it. The girl calling me, gets to the door, knocks, calls my name through the door and tries the handle. Thank God Almighty! It does not open. I locked the door! I pretend not to be there, hoping she will go away but she keeps calling me and asks me why my door is locked. Just as I am about to tell her that I am indisposed, someone comes and helps her out with whatever it is that she needed. Phew! Can you imagine the trauma I would have caused her if she would have walked in? The "office model" looking like a cow hooked up to a noisy pump, with pit stains, hairy armpits, napkins hanging out of her shirt, stained jeans, and sweat soaked hair pasted to her forehead.  A model? I think not! 

  My bathroom pose striking, cat walk strutting, hair flipping, hands on hip standing days ended almost as soon as they began. Thanks to the nice office ladies for boosting my ego for a few minutes and thanks to motherhood for causing it to come crashing down into oblivion. 

Mission Impossible: A Good Picture With 5 Kids

The Mission: To get a decent picture of 5 kids (4 under the age of 4). To my displeasure and her delight, my sister-in-law suggests we try this every time we have a Murray get together. She finds the process entertaining. I find it torturous! 

  First we have to gather all the kids, which involves a lot of whining and/or crying as we have to pull the kids away from whatever toy or activity they are playing with or participating in. Then, half of the adults retrieve their cameras and get themselves in position for lightning speed picture taking. A few of the other adults position themselves behind the camera holders to be attention grabbers. The remaining adults get the two older kids positioned on the couch and then proceed to bring the little kids in when the camera holders are good and ready to pull the trigger. Most of the time this involves me bribing Noah. This time my object of choice as you can see in this picture was keys. Once all the kids are on the couch, the positioners move far enough away to be out of the picture but close enough to catch a falling kid before he/she hits the ground. The attention grabbers jump up and down, wave their arms in the air, make funny noises, clap their hands, and call the kids' names to get them to look in the direction of the cameras. The camera holders simultaneously take as many pictures as possible in about 5 seconds. After about 2 seconds one of the kids is climbing off the couch and another is poking the baby in the eye and we've got 3 cryers and the photo opportunity is done. We rush to get our kids before they trample each other trying to get off the couch. My sister-in-law tries to contain her uncontrollable laughter and I take a deep breath and thank God that it is over. Then we all go through our pictures and realize that the result of the whole complicated production is what you see above: My son eating dirty keys, not looking at the camera and trying to make his escape, Tyler looking like he is trying to take a nap, Hailey poking Maia in the eye, Kayla multi-tasking: smiling for the camera while holding Maia and trying to keep Hailey on the couch, and Maia lying in her cousin's arms wondering why her Mama would subject her to this torturous process.