1. Go ahead, there’s some leftover birthday cake in the kitchen. Please eat it so that it’ll stop screaming to me from inside its little plastic box.

2. The urge to clean: I keep hoping I’ll get that soon!

3. Don’t worry, God’s got this…whatever “this” may be! (Reminder to self...)

4. I have not yet eaten all my calories for the day. So I can, like, splurge on a carrot stick or something. Whee.

5. Pretty much have decided that trying to lose weight when battling PCOS sucks no matter how positively I try to paint it, no matter how I try to call it a “lifestyle change” or gear myself up for what basically amounts to a long period of self-sacrifice — wash, rinse, repeat. I hate the process. Hate it. But I want the result. So there’s no choice but to suck it up and carry on.

6. May the Lord richly bless all the poor souls who journey down this diet path with me, whether they volunteer or are inadvertently dragged along. For I am hungry and cranky and my last nerve is continually exposed.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to chatting with my friends in Uganda, tomorrow my plans include grocery shopping for YUMMY DIET FOOD and Sunday, I want to enjoy church and hopefully come outta there with a better attitude than the one I have tonight! LOL!

Find fun Friday Fill-ins here!

When I was pregnant with my first child, Zach, I made a statement that came back to haunt me. It was in response to the outpouring of unsolicited advice I received from experienced parents.

Parents who’ve been around the block a few times tend to offer a lot of advice to newbies: “Put a hat on that baby—it’s cold outside! Don’t let him suck his thumb—it’ll make him buck-toothed. And make sure you enjoy every minute because time flies!”

I’ll admit I’ve been guilty of saying that last sentence to new moms myself.

One thing they told me was how much I’d need regular breaks away from my kids to keep my sanity. I honestly felt mortified when I heard that—and I openly disagreed with them. After struggling with infertility for seven years, I couldn’t imagine I’d ever want to be apart from my delightful little blessings.

Granted, my kids are delightful. But now that I’ve been in the trenches a while, I get it. Nothing resets a mom’s Happy Meter like a date night with the husband, a ladies’ night out, or a weekend trip away. So, needless to say, I have eaten the words I uttered in ignorance.

That experience makes me reluctant to share what’s on my mind this week. Because here I go again, talking about uncharted parenting territory, acting like I know what I’m talking about. I’m afraid that I’ll soon be asking someone to pass the honey mustard to help me choke this statement back down.

But I’m going to say it anyway: I really don’t think the teenage years are going to be as awful as everyone has warned me.

It’s hard to believe, but my oldest son turns 14 tomorrow. So we already have one year of adolescence under our belts. And parenting my way through it was not scary at all. Now, I think that’s largely because Zach is a pretty awesome kid. I’m not going to say he’s perfect, because he’s not—no child, or parent for that matter, is perfect. He has his faults. We all do. But overall, I am just so proud of him, so thankful for the man I’m seeing emerge from the boy I’ve loved so dearly. I look at him sometimes and know that God must really love me, to have given me a kid like him.

Everyone said that teenagers are moody. Mine’s a little moody—but I’m worse than that even without PMS. They said he’d be sarcastic, that he’d talk back. Yeah—I’m afraid that trait got passed down on my DNA and pretty much reared its ugly head in each of my kids as soon as they started speaking.

Which, if you’re reading this, Zach Apted, is not an excuse for that behavior. We all need to work on controlling what comes out of our mouths.

I’m sure we’ll be facing new challenges once he’s able to drive, and works away from home. Just the thought of those things makes my heart sink a little. I guess that extra freedom could bring with it the terrible battles everyone says I should brace myself for?

Maybe it’s my naivety speaking, but I just don’t think the teenage years have to be a nightmare for any of us. Zach even has great friends, people that are likable and kind. He does his chores, and helps with his baby brother, and when I told him about a group of Ugandan orphans, the first thing he wanted to do was send all of his money to them. And then he brainstormed for days about other ways to help them out. That kid truly has a heart of gold.

So does it have to tarnish? Is it truly inevitable that the teenage years are turbulent and full of strife? I’m just not believing that it has to be that way.

No one ever told me that I’d enjoy my older kids as much as I do. So I plan to continue on, optimistically, hoping for the best. I might have to eat my words again someday, but don’t pass the honey mustard just yet.

(Can you tell I’m procrastinating on a project?) LOL

But first, a pic from my files, because what fun is a blog post without pictures?

That’s my cutie-pie Zach when he was about two. I am still in denial that he is >THIS< close to turning 14!

Now, on to the questions…

1. How did you cope with your biggest heartache?

By writing about it, and by talking with (and looking for opportunities to help) others experiencing the same.

2. Who was the last person you visited in the hospital?

It’s been so long, I don’t remember. I’m thinking it might actually be my grandmother, who passed away in August 2010!

3. How many jobs have you held in your life? How many of those were part of your chosen career field?

I am not up to counting how many jobs I’ve had — but there are a lot! Starting with Dairy Queen at age 16, to now, freelance writing from home and also doing face painting and cake decorating for birthday parties. My chosen career field was graphic design, and I do still use my art degree to some extent. But I only held two “official” graphic arts positions — one as a graphic artist in an in-house agency in Kissimmee, Florida and the other as an art director at a small sign company in Georgia.

4. How did you discover Saturday 9?

By searching Google for Saturday-themed memes.

5. If you could take the train from anywhere to anywhere, where would ‘anywhere’ be?

From here to San Francisco for a little vacation.

6. When was the first time you cooked for someone else?

I remember cooking for my family when I was about nine or ten. I remember the stove top being at chest level as I did so!

7. What is the worst beverage you’ve ever tasted?

Ooh, just one? I can’t decide on just one. Weak coffee or tea. Mint tea. Malta. That cucumber-flavored Thai version of Coke that they serve at the World of Coca-Cola in Atlanta.

8. Is there anything in life you are “certain” about? Firm in your beliefs? Strong in your convictions?

There are so many things I’m certain about. God loves us all. He has a plan for my life and works all things together for my ultimate good. Salvation comes through belief in Christ. Caring for orphans and widows is everyone’s responsibility. Liberal political policies that appear to help ultimately cause more harm than good. And I should probably just stop because I’m an opinionated ol’ girl and feel quite certain about a whole lotta things!

9. Do you know anyone who has as very unusual pet?

Yes, several. More power to ‘em! Nothing in the rodent/insect/reptile/amphibian categories will ever be called a pet in my house. (Sorry, kids — I just can’t do it!)

How ’bout we close with another picture of my cutie from that day at the park?

1. Discussions about politics are already getting old. And it’s only January.
2. And yet I still feel compelled to say that this time next year, I hope we get to wish the Obama administration a hearty goodbye.
3. I think it’s time for me to have a couple of days alone.
4. Because having some refreshing downtime alone always puts a smile on my face.
5. Maybe sometime I’ll get to visit Uganda and the sweet orphans at Blood of Jesus Ministries.
6. God alone gives me strength.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to (I have no clue), tomorrow my plans include things yet to be determined and Sunday, I want to figure out what the heck I’m doing!

For more Friday Fill-ins, click here.

Not to start the New Year off on a downer, but I just read the first blog post I made in 2011 and realized how poorly I did at meeting the goals I set for myself 12 months ago. Someone once said that New Year Resolutions were just a “to-do” list for the first week of January. I’m not sure I even made it a whole week on some of these goals.

I didn’t lose 50 pounds—I did lose ten pounds, a couple of times, but found them again the moment I fell off the dieting wagon. I did not start any new book manuscripts, nor did I follow a successful writer friend’s advice and directly contact the editors of a couple of national magazines and convince them to publish my work.

I meant to do that one. I really did.

I didn’t work on my sons’ scrapbooks at least once a month. Actually, I don’t think I even glanced at the darn things all year long. For the past few years, the only scrapbooking I’ve done happens on a few frantic evenings in late December, when I rush to create photo calendars for the grandmothers and aunts in the family.

My eldest son, Zach, will be 14 in a few weeks. I am still scrapbooking his kindergarten Christmas play, if that gives you any indication of how far behind I am on that project.

I did not plan monthly menus and stick to them while grocery shopping, nor did I fully master couponing. My bank account wishes that I had. But I didn’t.

And forget that comment about embracing the FlyLady.net’s cleaning routines to get my house in order. If anything, it is even more chaotic than it was a year ago, and being disorganized is biting me now in the most painful way.

However, not everything was a totally epic failure. I’d say my spiritual life is about as healthy as it was this time last year, neither greatly improving as I’d hoped, but not deteriorating, either.

I didn’t keep any weight off, but I exercised more than I have before, and had a better attitude about fitness in general. While exercise didn’t become a routine part of every day, we joined a pool over the summer and will likely do that again. So my commitment to exercise more often was at least partially fulfilled.

I don’t know if I was a more patient teacher with my kids during our homeschooling time—I guess you’d have to ask them that question. I’d like to think I’m continually improving in this regard, but I am not convinced that I’m where I need to be yet. I won’t be happy until my patience level falls somewhere between Mother Teresa and June Cleaver.

Speaking of the Cleavers, I can say that I kept my commitment to make my husband a higher priority, and I hope that he noticed. I think he did. I know that I feel closer to him than I did a year ago, and I hope that he feels the same way, too.

I am not giving up on my poor house, either. Before I sat down to write this, I worked on a new daily schedule and created a weekly checklist for our FlyLady chores. Doing so actually sparked the idea for this column. So I’m hopeful that 2012 will bring improvement in that regard.

Of course, I’m always hopeful in January—and I refuse to believe that past failures have to influence what I choose to accomplish this year. Actually, I find that’s the real value in creating New Year Resolutions—the power is not so much in defining the goals, but in looking back a year later and examining yourself to see how well you met them, or attempted to, and how life has or hasn’t improved because of your actions.

I don’t need a new list of resolutions—every item on last year’s list is still worth pursuing and fulfilling. It might take a few years to meet all these goals, but that’s OK—it’s my list. I’ll accomplish it in my time.

I know this probably sounds strange, but one of the most profound moments of my entire Christmas season happened while I was in the kitchen, making candy.

I make a mean peppermint bark. It’s basically crushed peppermint candies mixed into melted white chocolate, then broken into chunks after being spread out and cooled. I also add dark chocolate drizzle or chopped Andes mint candies to mine, because who doesn’t like a little extra chocolate with their chocolate?

In years past, I delegated the candy-crushing to my husband. Those little round Starlight mints are very difficult to break, and Donnie, with his greater upper-body strength, could always accomplish the task in no time.

But last week, Donnie wasn’t home and our guests were due to arrive any minute. I had no choice but to handle the pulverizing myself.

I placed the candies in a zip-top bag, and smacked it a few times with my heavy rolling pin. It barely flaked the edges off a couple of the mints. So I tried rolling the pin over the bag, pressing hard, and still—nothing. I realized that if this candy was going to be made, I had to mimic my husband’s actions and really put some muscle behind it.

So I did. I slammed that rolling pin as hard as I could onto one of the candies and watched it shatter into a hundred tiny bits. Then I moved to another, and another, and suddenly, it felt very satisfying, like doing something deliciously wrong.

And that’s when an experience at a therapist’s office came to mind. Years ago, while my husband was deployed to Iraq, I saw a therapist to help me through the experience. Next to her sofa was a basket of foam baseball bats. I asked what they were for, and learned that they were useful for venting anger; clients could use them to hit the sofa pillows to let out their angry feelings.

I laughed. I told her that I could not imagine doing that, or even needing to do that. It seemed so barbaric. She just smiled her quiet smile and said, “Perhaps that’s a sign that you, more than others, might actually need to do it.” And I thought her response perhaps indicated that I wasn’t the crazy person in the room.

But last week, as I smashed that candy, something clicked. And I knew exactly why she thought I needed a little “bat therapy.’ I also wondered why it took me 43 years to figure this out.

I began to put faces and feelings onto those mints. Bam! That is for the person who totally used me. Slam! That’s for the relative who is rude to my two-year-old because he doesn’t behave like she thinks he should. Crash! That is for the extreme poverty that is hurting my friend. Smash! For the person who lied about my family.

Oh, it felt so stinking good.

And that was the finest, most gloriously crushed peppermint I’d ever worked with—by the time I was done venting, some of those red and white chunks were reduced to pure powder. The resulting candy was probably the best-tasting batch I’d ever made.

I already run a small side business making birthday cakes. Maybe I’ll add a candy component to it as well: Kari’s Krushing Kandies, featuring Powerfully Pummeled Peppermint Perfection, or P4 for short.

Just know that if I ever show up smiling like a Cheshire cat, bearing a bag of P4—you’ll know it’s been a rough week.

Maybe making peppermint bark is the secret to world peace? Because if more people found positive ways to vent their anger, they wouldn’t have to hurt each other.

Thank God for my kids and the Christmas gift they inadvertently gave me. If it hadn’t been for their friends coming over, I wouldn’t have been rushing to make candy on short notice. And who knows how much longer this woman, who was raised to believe that nice girls didn’t act out, would’ve missed out on the delicious, peace-bringing release of physically venting negativity.

Every morning in December, I enjoy a laugh as I look out my front window and see our 8-foot-tall inflatable Santa flattened on the ground. It’s just so funny to see the jolly old man face-planted in the dirt, quite realistically reflecting the way I feel at the end of every December day—totally, utterly deflated.

All this merry-making is exhausting, don’t you know?

Decorating my yard with an assortment of giant inflatable Christmas characters isn’t quite my first choice in holiday décor. If I had it my way, the house would be elegantly trimmed in white lights, draped in real evergreen garlands entwined with yards of lustrous ribbon, accented with oversized, antiqued ornaments. My front porch would feature topiaries in urns, with sparkly baubles on their branches; my front door’s wreath would project an equally beautiful grace.

But a couple of years ago, my father-in-law gave us several blow-up lawn characters, and my children love them. They simply adore them. So how can I say “no” to their annual pleas to blow them up? Zach and Eli engage in great debate every year over which ones we’ll display—because even though I can’t say “no,” I can’t bring myself to allow all of them to appear at once.

This year, Santa, Snoopy, and a snowman snow globe won. I guess they are kind of cute, in a kitschy sort of way.

Of course, it’s rather hypocritical of me to call those lawn ornaments kitschy after doing what I did to my outside refrigerator. Yes, like all proper middle-class Southerners, we have an outside fridge parked on our carport. Most call it the beer fridge, and ours has occasionally hosted an adult beverage or two. This extra refrigerator came with the house, and the main reason we kept it is that I wanted the freezer space for stocking up on groceries at case lot sales at the Fort Gillem commissary.

But now the commissary is closed, and I can’t afford to stock up anyway, so except for when we fill it with leftovers at the holidays, our “beer fridge” usually sits empty.

Enter Pinterest.com, also known as “Crack for Crafters.” I would say go there at once, request an invitation to join, and dive right in. But for anyone with even one creative gene, Pinterest proves highly addictive. I’ve already led too many friends astray down that burlap-strewn, glitter-sprinkled, creatively destructive path. Perhaps someone will start a 12-step group for us soon.

When I saw the refrigerator snowman on Pinterest, I just had to make one for myself—immediately, if not sooner. I originally planned to decorate the fridge in my kitchen, but then I recalled the wisdom of choosing my battles as a mother. It’s hard enough to keep the toddler-boy away from the Christmas tree; I knew Jonah would dismantle my snowman daily if he had easy access to it.

Anyhow, even the most craft-impaired can manage this project. Simply cut the snowman’s features from colored cardstock and apply them with masking tape. The whole thing takes about 30 minutes. You could decorate any solid white door in this manner for a quick, festive accent. I even saw someone make smaller snowman features and apply them to alternating white kitchen cabinet doors—not that I would have the time or patience for that.

So if, like many of us with kids at home, you find your Christmas décor trending more towards kitschy than elegant, maybe add a Frosty the Fridge to your home this December. He coordinates ever so well with an eight-foot Santa and friends.

And speaking of friends, while I might sometimes yearn for a more elegant holiday decorating scheme, our crazy, colorful décor always makes people smile. And even I can admit that smiles and laughter are worth much more than quiet nods of stylish approval.

I wouldn’t have believed it if someone predicted I’d give birth to two picky eaters. My older sons actually refuse to eat fresh fruit. I struggle to understand this behavior.

Both of them opened up like baby birds for pureed peaches, plums, even prunes when they were infants. Zachary loved Gerber bananas, but the first time I gave him the real fruit, he gagged on the texture and has hated them ever since. Eli consumed his “nonnies” like a proper monkey until he got old enough for Zach to influence his choices. Sadly, it’s been a year since he’s eaten a banana.

I look at these darling, intelligent children and wonder how they can refuse fruit? What is there not to like about the honey-sweetness of a crisp red grape, or the heady perfume of fresh golden pineapple? Other kids eat this stuff. I know, because I’ve seen them. Heck, I was one of them.

I don’t remember being allowed to dislike much when I was a child. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always eaten just about anything. I can only recall three things I refused to eat back then—fried green tomatoes, rutabagas, and liver.

I’m a proper Southern lady, so I always wanted to find a fried green tomato that would knock my socks off, something so delicious that I wouldn’t notice the sour sting of unripe tomato. After years of recommendations to try them at the Blue Willow Inn, I finally did. Good heavens, they were fabulous, like no green tomato I’d ever tried before, topped with a sweet red tomato chutney. If you’ve never had them, you must go.

I’ve also outgrown my aversion to rutabagas. My mom and my grandma, Honey, taught me how to cook them right. I get the whole pot to myself because the men in this house abhor them. They gripe about how the house smells when I boil a rutabaga. They have a lot of nerve. It’s not all that different from the air quality when they eat too many baked beans. Rutabagas are my sweet payback.

I still cannot force my lips to open for a piece of liver. I remember crying at Honey’s table because I couldn’t bear to eat the fried chicken livers we had cooked together. I loved to help her cook, and I owe much of my culinary ability to her example. But seeing that yellow Styrofoam tray of blackish, bloody blobs before they were breaded and fried made it impossible for me to eat them.

Several years ago, my husband and I had lunch with friends at a Scottish pub. Liver and chips was the daily special, and my husband and our friend Steve actually plunked down perfectly good money for the foul stuff. They relentlessly teased me to try a bite. I finally caved just to silence them.

“I’ll be nice and give you a piece without too many tubes,” said Steve, smiling as he began surgery on his plate. Too many what? Sure enough, he sliced around something white and hollow embedded in that horribly dark meat. It looked exactly like a wobbly piece of cooked macaroni. Steve removed it, and then offered me a liver chunk as big as my thumb.

I protested at the size of it. He cut it in half. I made him cut it in half again and again until it was the size of a pencil eraser.

Oh, it was vile. Even without a tube.

So, it’s not as though I can’t understand food aversions. I just get stuck on anyone disliking something as heavenly as fresh fruit. I have to admit that my sons have made some progress. Both now enjoy applesauce, along with apple, peach or blueberry cobblers and pies. They eat fruit in yogurt and smoothies, often without realizing it.

Steve’s wife, Heather, insists that once our boys become teenagers, they’ll be so hungry that they will wolf down everything we set before them. I can’t wait until they’re happy to see me coming at them with a big bowl of fresh fruit. But they are on their own if they ever want to try liver.

I have a relative who travels a lot and often brings me shampoos and soaps from the hotels at which she stays. She is very persnickety about what she chooses — no cheap-o Dial soap here. She’s graced me with lots of lovely little bottles from Bath and Body Works and Crabtree and Evelyn. One of my favorite scents is this:

Crabtree and Evelyn’s Citron, Honey and Coriander. Yum, yum and YUM! I have the shampoo, conditioner and tiny bar soap. I use them on those nights when I want a little extra “somethin’-somethin’” in the shower, a break from my usual Dove products. But, sadly, the little bottles are only good for two showers at the most. And I want to enjoy that fragrance longer.

But check it out: on the C&E website, a bottle of hand soap in this fragrance is $22.00 before shipping!

Yeah, I love it, but I don’t love it enough to pay THAT much for one lil’ ol’ bottle of hand soap.

SO, brilliant domestic goddess that I am, I had an idea: how about refilling a foam hand soap dispenser with a trial-size shampoo bottle and fill the rest of it up with water?

It works, and how well it does! It leaves my hands so soft, and with that beautiful, lingering fragrance.

And it’s free. Did I mention the free part?

Remember this when you get down to that last bit of shampoo in the bottle. Just add about 7 ounces of water to each ounce of shampoo and voila — instant foam hand soap for pennies!

You’re welcome.

1. In November, I most look forward to Thanksgiving.

2. Halloween is over…phew!

3. It’s right there, in the place you left it. Where it doesn’t belong. (Guess how many times a day I say THIS?)

4. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but having enough of it might purchase a little peace of mind.

5. Water is my favorite beverage.

6. “Well, hang fire!” is what my grandmother used to say!

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I’m looking forward to family pizza and a movie night featuring Donnie’s homemade pizza, tomorrow my plans include taking Eli to a birthday party and Sunday, I want to relax. I won’t have time to, but I’ll want to just the same! LOL!

For more Friday Fill-ins, click here.