Pretty Pants and Crafty Crafts

 Occasionally, my inner crafty person comes out. It's not often, and usually ends in failure. Thus the "not often" part.
  This past weekend, a friend and I decided to take on a challenge that might have been a little much for the both of us; Re-dying old jeans.
   It didn't sound so difficult. Old jeans turned cute. All you needed was some bleach, jeans, and dye. And a whole lot of time.
  First, you have to bleach the jeans. Which apparently takes an eternity. Plus a day. Watching and waiting doesn't exactly help either. Or putting too much water in with the bleach. I'm a very impatient person who wants instant gratification ALL the time, so this was definitely the hardest step.

The Bleachy Before

 After that eternity finally passed, the jeans were ready! Sort of...there were a few small, faint denim blue patches on a pair or 2 that decided to give us a little trouble later. And did you know the string on jeans doesn't bleach? What the heck..
  Okay, so as a pro tie-dyer, I didn't expect to have any problems. Perfection. That's what I expected, but not what I got. 
  First, we dyed 2 pairs of jeans a bright green. One came out perfect! So exciting! The next...well...they kind of looked like acid wash jeans. Apparently, they didn't get enough time in the bleach. Darn those blue patches!

Perfection!

 Next, we decided on pink. BIG mistake...the pink we bought was an awful shade of fushia. You dipped the pants in, and they came out more pink than a flamingo. We hoped they might fade a little if we rinsed them, but it just wasn't meant to be. Back to the bleach they go, and we begin a new search for a less bright pink dye.
  See why crafting really isn't my thing? Great ideas, bad ending. Every time. Except my dad's Christmas cat sweater. That came out great. ;)
  Failure is not an option this time, though! This idea is just too cute to give up on. We WILL dye these pants, and they WILL be the cutest thing ever. End of story.

"Pool Honeys!"

I don't think I'm emotionally ready for swimsuit season. I used to be so self conscious about how I looked in a bathing suit (or so I thought). Now, I really am. I mean, I don't want to show off my super sexy stretch marks. Let's be honest here...They'd just bring all the boys to the yard. So after MANY days of searching for my latest obsession, the retro swimsuit, I found one that had good reviews, was affordable, AND cute. Of course, it was out of stock. So naturally, I vultured for days, multiple times a day. Then, one day, there it was! The elusive swimsuit, back in stock. As soon as I clicked "add to cart", it was gone again. Seriously? A few more days of the above routine, and the suit was mine. Victory at last! Upon receiving said suit, I was a little disappointed that my booty was a little too small to fill it out and up top, I was a little too big filling it in. I decided I'd give it a go anyway (and hope I didn't fall out of the top or flash too much bum) since it was super cute and had potential as I finally figured out the few kinks in sizing.
Today, the little boy had his first trip to the "big boy" pool. It wasn't a public pool or anything (I'm afraid of floating poop, you see), but it was still a lot bigger than his little blow-up pool the size of a large yorkie. After putting on THE swimsuit and managing to smack myself in the face with his little folded floatie, I finally got it all set up and ready to go. Well, almost. I had to sunscreen and dress the babe. Which is like trying to lasso a chicken. 30 minutes later, I was ready to go. I feared the worst upon getting in the pool, the boy would hate it and scream since he couldn't touch the bottom or my swimsuit would fail me. I braced myself, but no! The swimsuit stayed, and the boy LOVED it! He kicked and giggled, splashed and squealed, even lounged and watched the cousins as they played. Win. After an hour and a half, he got tired, so we went home and he promptly napped for another hour. All in all, a successful day. I think if he could talk, the boy would tell me I'm the best mom ever.

Sucker Punch

So, this morning, an unfortunate accident happened. I was the recipient of a beautiful fat, swollen, and split lip. The story behind this? A very unlikely one. As my dear mother would say, 'if it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all'.
At 7:04 this morning, I staggered into "Taylor's room" (also known as the living room) to get him out of his crib and put him in our bed like I do every other morning. This shows how tired (or lazy, take your pick) I really am. All I want is 10 more minutes of sleep. That's it. But that's beside the point, back to the story. As I was saying, I staggered in, picked up Taylor, and crawled back into bed.
Now, I'm still not exactly sure what happened next. I was putting Taylor in the middle of the bed so he would be between Josh and I and couldn't roll off the bed. I guess Josh was trying to pull the sheet up over the top of himself (very forcefully, I might add) and my face got in the way?
Essentially, my husband sucker punched me. Yes, you read correctly. I was sucker punched.
As soon as it happened, Josh shot up and asked if I was okay and kept saying what sounded like a continuous stream of "I'm sorry"s. Taylor laughed. I said I was fine and went into the bathroom to make sure I wasn't bleeding. Nope. No blood, but it was definitely split open (having big teeth is more of a curse than a blessing in SO many ways...) and starting to swell.
I got a bag of ice and went back to bed while holding it against my mouth. Taylor thought this was the perfect time to crawl on top of me and suck on the bag, as it was on my mouth, which ended with him smashing his noggin into my already painful lip. Oh, motherhood.
Well, the swelling is down, but I can't say it's any less painful. I don't think Josh will be forgetting about this for quite some time. Or ever, for that matter.
Eternal marriage: the way to make your spouse feel guilty. Eternally.

Since when was I old?

I'm not sure when the transition happened, but I realized as I was watching the Thunder game (go OKC!), I was too tired to go on. I was snapping at the husband and I had to go to bed. When did my bedtime become 8:45? When did I stop staying up past midnight? I'm not really sure (probably when the baby started waking up before the crack of dawn), but...It's official. I'm becoming that crochety old woman who has to go to bed before the sun has completely set...this has been one of the saddest realizations I've ever come to. Next thing you know, I'll be drinking prune juice and playing canasta.

There's a First for Everything

  After reading everyone else's nifty little blogs, and being told that only young moms who like to brag about their kids have blogs, I decided to start one. I like to brag about my little boy. I'm a young mom. I fit the criteria. So here it is.

  THE Blog.

  What do you blog about anyway?