The one where I talk about my Honey-Do list.

There is nothing I like better than looking back on a day and seeing everything I've accomplished. So, looking back on an entire weekend of accomplishments makes me really, really happy.

This weekend I decided to be intentional about getting things done. I had the hubs home for three days straight and I wasn't going to waste him. I never create a honey-do list for him. (He hates those.) Instead, I try to make my honey-do list that doesn't exist sound as appealing as possible.

Honey, I want to add a little color to the back yard. Will you go with me to Home Depot to buy flowers?

And before he knows what hit him, he's covered in dirt and doing most of the work. He's pulling weeds and fixing sprinkler heads and I'm, well, I'm a happy lady.

That is exactly how our weekend went down. I made several suggestions disguised as "favors" and the hubs dutifully agreed to each. He cleaned out his closet and then promptly took the five (yes, five) large trash bags full of clothes to Goodwill. He took P to the park so B and I could stay home and read our library books (more on than adventure in a future post.) He helped me cook (i.e., he did the grilling) and then helped me clean. The best part was that we did it all together. He is a good husband and I will keep him forever.

Most days, for both me and the hubs, are filled with tasks. Things we have to get done. Things we have to do in order to be successful in life. We aren't always good at it; good at getting it all done. It's chaotic. Busy. Hectic. We're forgetful. We're disorganized. We get frustrated and embarrassed at our constant lack of ability. And we're constantly tired. Always tired. And that is what it's like. Week...after week...after week.

So why on earth would we intentionally fill a weekend, a free weekend together, with more stuff to do?

Why? Because I discovered the hard way that life doesn't stop just because it's the weekend. Every weekend can't be a mini-vacation no matter how much we want it or need it. There are things to do and taking a weekend off only makes those things pile up. And when those things pile up it makes me crazy and I'm no good when I'm crazy. Just ask the hubs. Which, of course, is the reason why he's always quick and willing to be so helpful around the house. One completed honey-do list a day helps keep the crazy wife at bay.

Yep, there's nothing I like better than checking everything off of my honey-do list that doesn't exist. And let's face it. There's freedom in getting stuff done. Even when it's the smallest of things like putting the laundry away, there's a serious sense of accomplishment when that laundry basket is empty. I realize that makes me sad and pitiful, but I don't care. Check it off. Sigh. And smile.

Honey...can you do me a favor?

The one where I talk about why my dreams won't come true.

Turing 40 has caused me to realize several things:

• I will never be interviewed by Barbara Walters. I used to have this reoccuring daydream of Barbara Walters interviewing me for her "10 Most Interesting People" show. That's never going to happen and I'm okay with that.
• I will never sing on stage. This was another daydream, usually involving some type of Christmas spectacular. I was always wearing a long red velvet dress while singing Mariah Carey's version of "All I Want for Christmas is You." That's never going to happen and I'm okay with that.
• I will never host Saturday Night Live. (Disappointing, but okay.)
• I will never be a cover model. (Which is probably a good thing.)
• I will never become a best-selling author. (This one still makes me sad, but I have to be okay with that.)
• I will never host my own show on HGTV. (Although I'd totally rock it and it would be everyone's new favorite show. Yeah, I'm not quite ready to give up on this one yet.)
• I will never star on MTV's show "The Real World." I always thought I'd be the perfect candidate for the "good girl" roommate that is constantly shocked by all of the nutty shenanigans of her fellow roommates. MTV is never gonna call and I'm more than okay with that.
• I will never win the coveted, quadruple E.G.O.T. (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar and Tony) hence the reason why...
• I will never walk a red carpet. The only red carpets I'll ever be walking on will be the ones that lead into Mexican food restaurants and I'm okay with that because who doesn't love Mexican food? Speaking of food...
• I will never have a six-pack. I love food. I love food that is bad for you. I will struggle against that love my entire life. It's not the greatest but it is what it is and I'm okay with that.
• I will never be a fashion icon. I prefer a good pair of yoga pants over a sequined gown any day of the week and twice on Tuesday. My face/body/clothes will never grace the front page of the Image section of the LA Times. I will always be one of the fat armed women wearing a boring black dress in the background and guess what? I'm okay with that. Although I would like to do something about my arms.

I will never be famous or have some massive talent to display on stage. I will never have a reason to wear gorgeous couture gowns or have the body to fit into them. I will never look into a camera and scream, "Live from New York..." and students all over American won't be standing in line to buy my next book. The fame game doesn't need me as a participant. Because the truth is, it was never God's will for me to be anything of those things and that is the reason why I'm okay with that.

The one where I talk about my Easter candy addiction.

Some people can sit and eat an entire bag of potato chips in one sitting. I can do that with a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs and a bag of chips. And just in case you're wondering, sometimes I eat both at the same time. One after the other. Salty followed by sweet. In that order. I wish I was exaggerating for comedic effect, but I'm not. Yeah, I don't know how I don't weigh 400 pounds either.

I am ready for all of the holiday candy to go away. It has been present and readily available since Halloween and I'm ready for it to stop. Like some kind of shady, back alley dealer, all of the grocery stores have been pushing these sugar-laden drugs on me for months now. Today my will power finally gave out. A choco-holic can only hold out for so long.

I had been good. I didn't buy the candy corn at Halloween, avoided the peppermint bark at Christmas and didn't eat a single candy heart during Valentine's. I have been so good for so long. But now the Easter candy has appeared and I just can't take it.

This morning, after dropping the kids off at school, I headed YogaWorks. I learned the hard way that it's best not to eat prior to this Sculptworks cardio class, so after a 55 minutes workout that made me want to throw a kettle ball at my instructor, I was starving. And that was putting it mildly. I was what a friend calls "hangry." Hungry+Angry=Hangry. You know that person that gets extremely grumpy when they're hungry? Yeah, I'm one of those. And as luck would have it, the errand I needed to run after the class just happened to be to the grocery store.

You probably know where I'm going with this.

I only needed a few things: a loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter. (If you don't get that joke, you didn't watch much Sesame Street in the 70's). You've probably heard the saying, "Never go to the grocery store hungry." We'll add to that, "...especially after just coming from a workout that has left you believing that you have earned the right to eat whatever your heart desires."

I didn't even pretend to avoid the Easter Candy aisle. All of my enemies were there waiting for me: Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs. Jelly Beans the flavor of Starbursts. Whoppers Robin Eggs. And Peeps. Don't leave out the Peeps. Those things are made by Satan himself.

My grocery cart was filled with a lot more than just a loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter. The amount of junk that I loaded up with was embarrassing. The guy at the cash register saw all of the candy and asked, "Working on the kids' Easter baskets?" Yeah, sure that's it. It's all for the kids.

Except it wasn't. It was for me. And I took it home and ate it as quickly as possible to avoid having to share any of it with my children. If I can't be proud, at least I can be honest.

Stop judging me and hand me another Peep.

The one where Bentley turns 11 and the Birds and the Bees arrive.

:: birthday boy, 2006 ::

Eleven years ago today, the doctor looked at me and said, "He's not going to come out on his own. Your birth canal is very narrow so we need to do a C-Section."

The only place on my entire body that is narrow is my birth canal. That sounds about right.

Bentley safely made his way into the world, narrow canal be damned. He had a little trouble breathing at first and his right eyelid wouldn't open all of the way, but he was here and he was ours.

Bentley is eleven years old today and I don't like it. I'll admit it. I'm one of those moms who doesn't love the idea of her little boy growing up and yes, I realize how selfish that sounds. But turning eleven means that he is basically a pre-teen. Turning eleven means that he's getting closer to driving and dating. Turing eleven means that it's time to sit him down and talk to him about things like body odor and girls.

Bentley is a quiet, unassuming boy. I once mentioned to Derek that I doubted Bentley thought much about girls yet. Derek just grinned and said, "Honey, you know better than that." And I do. I know that even though he is still just a little boy, he is already being exposed to lots of things that are beyond his chronological years. Sure, as parents we try to stay on top of and know about everything that his mind is ingesting, but let's face it...we can't be with our children all of the time and we don't hear or see everything that our kids hear or see every second of every day.

Back when I was still teaching, I overheard a conversation between several of the 5th grade boys in my class, the same grade Bentley is in now.

"You know Mountain Dew makes it hard," one of the boys told the others. And by "it" he of course was referring to his penis.

Yeah, 5th grade boys are the best. A constant source of amusement and amazement. As much as I wanted to correct them that day, I chose not to for lots of reasons. I imagined that most of them would go home, test their theory, and find out the truth on their own. No need for me to ruin it for them.

I can almost guarantee that Bentley is already learning about sex, including all sorts of crazy Mountain Dew type theories. At a young age we are exposed to lots of information about boys and girls and sex. And then when you get older, if you're lucky, you learn the truth.

My cousin was the one who taught me about the Birds and the Bees. She is four years older and even though we only saw each other every couple of months or so, she was like an older sister to me. I'll never forget laying under the covers in our grandparents front bedroom, the sheets tucked under our heads, our knees propped up to make a tent, the glow of her Casio watch night light giving us just enough light to see. It was there that my cousin taught me the basics about sex and that I had no interest in any part of it.

My mom had already given me the "talk" (or her version of it anyway.) She bought a book about body change that was extremely vague and lacked essential details (granted, it was the early 1980's.) On the pages where it showed a cartoon drawing of a naked boy, she used her hand to cover "it" up. And by "it" I mean his penis.

My mom wanted to teach me about sex, and she also didn't want to teach me about sex. I don't blame her. What parent actually wants to teach their children about sex? The older I got, my mom's "talk" was reduced to the reverse of a Nike commercial: Just don't do it.

It's no different in 2013 than it was in 1983--if you don't teach them the truth, someone else will. Will having the talk with Bentley be weird and strange and embarrassing? Yes. Will I make his father do most of the talking? Yes. And when together we read the book that we bought to share with him I'll have to resist the urge to cover up the pictures.

Tonight we will eat cake and celebrate our sweet boy. And in the near future, his dad will plan a day for the two of them to go on a hike where eventually, when they reach the top of the mountain, they will sit for a water break and start the first of many talks to come.

And I will nervously sit at home wishing that he was three year old again.