To which there is no title

So here I am, finally attempting to post something on this here blogola. I have 1,001 things to share so it's hard to know where to begin. Very huge things to share such as how I was all superior-than-thou (thou being my former self, in this case) because my one boob wouldn't leak when I nursed with the other. Amazing! Glory of glories! Well. That was short lived. Just when I was about to audition for America's Got Talent.

You can say it - you've missed me and my particular brand of *exciting*!

In other huge and exciting news, I just went through all of the girls' shoes - shoes currently in their rooms, in every corner and crevice everywhere - I swear they multiply - but only in singles - and boxes and boxes in the garage, forcing them to try on shoe after shoe after shoe determining who fits what. Or, more accurately, who won't go into convulsions from being forced into wearing something flower, pink or sparkle-less. Cough, MARY, cough. Our carpet just got over looking like it was made of shoes. I came upon a box that is a size-ish down from what Mary is now - a box brimming with CUTE, EXPENSIVE, INSERT LOTS OF ADJECTIVES shoes that I FORGOT ABOUT when she was that size. Hello. Third girl. Lots of shoes. Where did the girl to shoe to hand-me-down connection go in my brain? So the kid never had shoes. ALWAYS LOOKING FOR SHOES. KEPT BUYING MORE SHOES. Punch self in face. Seriously, somebody please schedule a brain scan for me (<-- that is a link, WHERE THE HECK DID THE COLOR BUTTON GO SO THAT YOU KNOW IT'S A LINK AND I DON'T HAVE TO SAY <-- THIS IS A LINK!?! I stop blogging for a minute, ok, eternity, and everything changes?!). This is becoming habitual.

Also exciting is the fact that Halloween is on Saturday and all the other moms are lovingly creating costumes and I will require my kids to shuffle through the play clothes we already have and pick something, anything, that doesn't show one's bottom.

But oooh, look!:


Swoon. Melt. Explode. Repeat. Repeat some more. Pete and Repeat were in a boat. Pete fell out. Who's left? Repeat.

Also, getting little sleep!* You totally couldn't tell, could you?

So I'm here thinking of all of the *exciting* things to write about and then realized - who's up for wife of the year award?! NOT ME. It just dawned on me today is Justin's birthday!!! and here I am writing about shoes and thinking of writing about unruly tree roots, the gloriousness of peppermint mocha creamer and Dentistland (shall be explained later).

SO. My husband. I dig him. At least the pro/con list is substantially heavier on the side of 'pro' (must.remember.when.trash.overflowing.). But am not in the mood to be mushy gushy at the moment. So suffice it to say, he's 37 - within 37 days I will write 37 things about him. Mostly good, even!

For now, I must close because the living room is being swallowed by mountains of clean laundry. Wonder twin power**, UNITE! Or is it ACTIVATE! ?

*Not Baby Dude's fault. Much. He's perfect. I, on the other hand, have issues.
**Me and coffee with peppermint mocha creamer. Have I mentioned: Yum. !!