Lately my daughter loves to make lists. Grocery lists, lists of animals, list of toys – you name it. She’ll list it.

I readily admit that this is a habit she picked up from me. I am an avid list developer. Right now in my sight there are four, no five, different lists that I have created. Mostly to-do lists. But when one gets too long, I’ll start another and try to keep it more focused.

• This one will be my to-do’s just for today vs. to-do’s for the month.
• This one will be my to-do’s for my blog (I am a lazy blogger…I don’t even tag my posts. Tsk tsk. But I intend to. Someday. It’s on my list.)
• This one will be my to-do’s for the house.

And so on.

You may be thinking, “Hey Amy, I bet if you spent time completing some of those to-do’s instead of just making more lists, you might actually get something done.”

Good point. Let me write it down on my List of Ways to Be More Productive. Thanks.

Sometimes my daughter likes to write the lists herself (we tell her how to spell the words), and other times she prefers that we do the writing while she dictates. And believe me, she can be a dictator.

Written by Daddy, dictated by daughter

In the past couple weeks, we’ve noticed signs that she is starting to read words here and there – including on my lists. Now, I don’t want to overstate anything, BUT I’M PRETTY SURE THIS MEANS SHE IS A GENIUS.

I also can’t help but wonder if all this list-making isn’t partly responsible. I mean, how many times can the girl make a list of princess fairies, or things to buy at Target, before she is capable of passing the GED?

You see what I’m doing here? It’s called spin. I am making you believe that my unproductive and ineffective habit is teaching my child to read. Next thing you know you’ll be paying me to make lists with your kid too.

Of course the only downfall of a child who can read, is that she can read. By that I mean, you can’t go writing lists of swear words anymore or Lil Miss Spelling Bee will find it and start calling you a c*cks*cking motherf#cker.

Amy, do you really make lists of curse words? Maybe you should see a therapist about this.

I may also have to start thinking twice before using the oldest parenting trick in the book. When my husband and I want to say something to one another incognito, we spell it out.

“Let’s have some i-c-e c-r-e-a-m after the kid goes to bed.” “Where is the c-a-n-d-y I hid in the cupboard?” “You’re acting like a real a-s-s-h-a-t.”

But for the most part I am excited for my child to learn to read and write. She can start to help me make grocery lists, packing lists for vacation, lists of lists I still need to create. The list of possibilities is endless.

And if the below example is any indication, this girl will invent new categories of lists that I haven’t even thought of yet. This is a list of household dangers written by the little list maker herself.

Mama is so proud. Also a little creeped out about the biting spiders.

Last weekend we cleaned the garage. We were on the verge of losing a small child amidst all the plastic tubs full of who knows what. One of those tubs housed my collection of bags and purses.

I don’t consider myself a clotheshorse. But back when I had an income and no kids, I had a tendency to spend my cash on handbags and blow. Just kidding. Only bags. I’ve never done blow, it just sounded cool.

Anyway I promised my husband I would weed through the bin and cut the clutter.

Purses are like time capsules. Most of these bags pre-date my childbearing years, and some even pre-date my marriage. So as I dug through their pockets, readying them for the Goodwill pile, it was like a walk down memory lane.

This little number I bought on a work trip to DC about 10 years ago. I was young, fun, and thought hey – a purse with a bird on it! So kewl and hipster. Reminds me of this hilarious Portlandia skit. Put a Bird on It!

I never used this bag. Not even once. I gave it to my daughter for dress up. She loves it. And I think we can all agree that’s a much more suitable demographic for this itty bitty birdy bag.

These next two purses were a painful reminder that having kids quadruples the size of the purse you carry. My current wallet would not even fit in these mini bags, let alone anything else. Much like my designer thong underwear, these are now useless.

The red one had several old tampons in it, so I saved those. Those things don’t expire, do they?

These next two are from my early 30’s, and reflect a departure from traditional fabric choices. Oddly, I found a ton of old business cards in these. Nothing says, “I’m a working professional who hates dressing like a working professional” like a corduroy purse or a sling satchel. Honestly, I should’ve seen the writing on the wall.

Note that they both have two front pockets – a feature that when you first see a purse, you think, “Oh sweet – I’ll put my phone in there so I can find it easily.” And then you never ever actually remember to do it, and repeatedly curse as you dig for your phone in the main pocket amid a sea of dried up pens, crumpled receipts and tampons – so much menses!

These next two I saved.

The orange moon purse I purchased on a trip to Italy with my sister. We were both single and it was a fabulous trip filled with gutbusting laughter and fierce fighting like only sisters can do. So even though I haven’t used it in years, I can’t part with it. Besides – Italian leather! (I don’t know what that even means – are cows better there?)

The smaller one was a gift from my sister. It’s made out of 60’s French lawn furniture fabric. C’est groovy, non? I still use it on the rare night out.

This next one I used a couple years ago. In it I found the business card of the marriage counselor we saw during the tumultuous year that followed the birth of our first child.

Uffda does that bring back memories. I love my babies, but oh lawdy they can throw a wrench in a marriage.

When I first pulled the card out, my husband and I laughed about it and agreed we are in a much better place now. Phew! Then later that afternoon he saw that I had saved the card and put it in the junk drawer. He was confused why I kept it, so I explained that it’s a safety precaution. We are only 6 years into this lifelong commitment. Mama ain’t naive enough to think that tide can’t turn again.

Buried within all those bags I also found this:

It was my grandpa’s belt. He was one of the coolest cowboys around – a soft-spoken, wise-cracking, humble man, who was so dear to me growing up. I always intended to wear this, but I never got around to poking another hole in it to fit.

I brought it up to my closet so I remember to finally do it. It’s also a good reminder that life goes by quickly. When there’s something I want to do or try, I need to avoid dragging my feet and just giddyup.

Saturday I felt like I was coming down with some sort of flu bug. Chills, sweats, a rager of a headache. When the baby went down for a nap I went upstairs to take one myself (not technically a Nap Attack, because the husband was aware and in support of this escape). He agreed to stay outside with the 4-year-old.

Trying to take advantage of a child’s nap time to squeeze in a nap for yourself can be stressful. You know if you don’t fall asleep immediately, chances are slim that you will actually clock enough z’s to make a difference. And then you’ll just be pissed when the child wakes and you have to get up, probably worse off than you were to begin with.

So I was straining to fall asleep. Willing myself – please oh please self, just relax, ignore the pain, go to sleep. This type of rest is no fun. Too much work involved. You can probably pull a muscle.

Finally, I started to drift into that peaceful neverland. A sea of calm took over. This is just what I needed. Ahhh.

Suddenly my daughter burst in my bedroom, walked up to my bedside, came within an inch of my sleeping face, and loudly asked, “Mommy, can you fill up my water bottle?”

Are you f*cking kidding me?

She knew I was taking a nap. Her father was two inches from her outside. But instead of asking him to help with this life-or-death request, she opted to march herself upstairs and ask sleeping mommy.

I should note that this Saturday nap interruptus was on the heels of a challenging Friday with this child. She pushed damn near every one of my last buttons with her newfound love of sassing and ignoring discipline. So I was in desperate need of this break for more than one reason.

She stared at me, expecting me to spring out of bed and race to the sink. I stayed as calm as possible, in hopes I could fall back asleep (wouldn’t happen), and told her, “I am napping. GO ASK YOUR FATHER.”

Then I laid there. Thinking about how I would write a blog post about how parenting is just give, give, give. Like squeezing a sponge until you can’t possibly wring out another drop. Does it ever let up just a little?

A couple hours later we had to go get my car from the shop. Just a standard maintenance check – don’t you worry.

I hadn’t showered in two days, I was sweaty and dizzy, and I was still wincing from my failed nap attempt.

As the chipper car service man explained the details of my tire rotation, blah blah blah, I thought to myself, “I bet he can smell my breath. I should apologize. But then he would just have to smell more of it. So I’ll stay quiet and just stare at him with my dead eyes. Did I just see a cat fly overhead? I hope I don’t pass out until after I’m in my car.”

Somehow I made it home. My husband had wisely taken the kids to the store in his car so I had a few quiet moments alone. I used them to sit in my stink and fume about the unfairness of life.

Then as I walked past the bathroom mirror I caught a glimpse of myself and saw this:

That’s right, I left the house with that hair.

At breakfast my daughter had attached a pen to my hood. This little act of ingenuity brought her great joy because – duh, a pen…on a hood? Hil-ARious!

I forgot about it and walked around all day with that pen hanging off my hood, including at the car dealer. That guy probably thought I was bona fide crazy, stinking up the joint in my sick stupor with mangy bedhead, death breath, and a writing utensil within arm’s reach for emergencies.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Dang it kid, why you gotta be so awesome? Totally ruined my plans to sulk and feel sorry for myself. Also? Life was so boring before you were around.

Now please go back and read this post title and give me bonus points for my witty wordplay.

Most mornings my husband has already left for work by the time I wake up. He starts early, and let’s be honest – lately I’ve been struggling to get my butt out of bed before the kids are up. And when I say “lately,” I mean for the past 8 months. I haven’t used an alarm clock since December. (In my defense, I also haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in 8 months. Thanks, baby.)

But I digress. Point being, I rarely see what he wears to work until the end of the day.

But last night when he came home wearing this, I realized I might need to stage an intervention.

Born to be a fashion model, as you can tell by that totally natural pose.

What on earth?! You can’t even tell where one khaki ends and the other begins! The bland color palette isn’t helped by standing against our beige wall, on our brown carpet. It’s like a lifesize Triscuit. What? I don’t know either.

But seriously, if it weren’t for the faint glimmer of a black belt to break up that monotone, you might think he’s wearing a jumpsuit.

The only reason he allowed me to photograph this fashion atrocity is because even he knew it was bad. The moment he entered the kitchen, he saw my eyes open wide as I looked him up and down. Before I had the chance to say anything he muttered, “I know. This looks terrible, doesn’t it.” On the upside, we shared a good laugh about his cracker outfit (cracker like a Triscuit, not a racial slur).

To be fair, I am no fashionista. My forte, if I have one, is jeans and turtlenecks. I always struggled to find work clothes that felt both comfortable and stylish. I hated collared shirts, loathed most dress shoes, and wanted to set the house on fire the few days I had to wear a business suit.

So I sympathize with the challenge of finding work attire. And it can be even more challenging for men, without the ability to mask a blah outfit by throwing on a cute scarf. (Some men can probably rock a handsome scarf, but my husband is not one of them. His clothing taste is khakis and button ups. Peas and carrots. Vanilla and vanilla.)

Fortunately he welcomes my input, and is open to shaking things up with a shopping spree. But there are a few obstacles, namely a) I am so unplugged from the work clothing scene that I lack insight and inspiration for what may look good, and b) our budget is tiiiight.

Last week one of my former coworkers told me she got loads of compliments on a dress she recently bought at JCPenney. She said their recent makeover led to some cute stuff and it’s all pretty cheap prices. So maybe we’ll try that.

We also have a gift certificate to Men’s Wearhouse. Can’t turn down free, so that’s a must. But every time I go there, I feel like the salesmen are just one breath away from trying to sell me a vacuum or home appliance. But hey – if I leave with a new Swiffer mop, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

However my main concern is finding items that can add a bit more pizzazz, while still being something he would actually wear. I can’t stomach the thought of spending what little cash we have on 4 new sweater vests only to have them gather dust.

If that sweater vest mention doesn’t strike fear in the heart of fashionable readers, it should. Because that is truly the only thing I can think of beyond his usual peas and carrots. Any ideas? Bueller? If not, stay tuned for an update on this unfolding fashion saga.

Today I cleaned out some of the papers and boxes from my office. Only 5 months since I quit – what’s the hurry? I got a tad nostalgic for a minute, and then I discovered this:

I’ll take one in beige, and one in khaki.

It’s a wrist brace that I had to wear a couple years ago when I started to get carpal tunnel from too much typing at work. Sexy, eh?

I’m going to keep it handy (pun!) for those days when I haven’t showered, I’m exhausted and my back hurts from lifting too many children or piles of laundry. I will tell myself, “At least I am not wearing a wrist brace due to a computer injury.”

Awesomely, this was not my first wrist brace incident at work. About 10 years ago I was taking a work trip with a client, for which we had to travel to multiple U.S. cities. On Day One I arrived at the airport to meet him, and he was wearing a large wrist brace. He informed me that he had sustained an injury from “keyboarding.”

This was the first time I heard “keyboard” used as a verb.

Unfortunately this left him unable to lift his own suitcase. So he asked if I could assist in putting it in the overhead compartment.

I think it’s worth noting that I was an almost 6 foot tall 20-something. He was an almost 5’5″ 40-something.

I spent the next week of my life following this wee man around the country, shlepping his luggage up and down, to and fro, all the while smiling and making small talk with someone with whom I had absolutely nothing in common. I am horrible at small talk. It was excruciating.

And yet in hindsight I’m grateful for the experience. It’s moments like those that make you feel like you really ‘earned’ your living. Plus bad work stories make for good happy hours.

Today I decided to wear the wrist brace for old time’s sake, and to see if it could still be useful with my new daily activities.

It helped me make egg salad.

Sidenote: I used this egg salad recipe, which links to Martha Stewart’s method for making a perfect hard boiled egg – which totally worked. Who knew you weren’t supposed to boil it the whole time??

It helped me slice a watermelon.

Do a craft with my daughter.

And made sure I didn’t hurt myself when lifting an end of day beer.

I could get used to this. It kinda makes me look like a badass, no? Like some sort of domestic ninja. But I don’t want to intimidate the other mommies at the playground, so I’ll keep it in retirement until I really need to whoop some arse. Or, until I fracture my wrist cracking an egg. Whichever happens first.

Lord knows blending two parenting styles when you have kids is hard. And you aren’t just blending your own styles, you are blending your parents’ too – since for good or for bad, many of their ways became your ways (I am buying stock in Post-Its now).

Thankfully my husband and I tend to agree on the majority of major parenting decisions. One area we have been tackling in the past year is teaching our 4 year-old about manners. Neither of us wants to raise a disgusting creature who talks with her mouth full or sasses her elders.

But there are a few subtle distinctions in the manners our parents instilled in us, which have become a constant source of conflict conversation between us.

I will openly admit that my husband grew up in a household with a more stringent sense of dinner table etiquette. One of the biggest offenses a person could commit in his home was to put their elbows on the table. To this day, the sight of elbows on the dinner table drives him crazy.

The greatest offense known to man. And I’m not talking about the dino nuggets.

This rule was not enforced in my home. It’s not like we ate in a barn or anything, but we are a more casual folk when it comes to dining. We converse, we laugh, we relax – and in so doing, we end up with our filthy wenis* on the table now and again.

*Holy shit – did you know that ‘wenis’ is slang for the skin on your elbows?? In researching another word for ‘elbow’ I came across this discovery and now I’m not sure I can complete this post because I can’t. stop. laughing.

I think it’s important to look at manners in the broader context. While my family may have unruly elbows, we are overall a respectful and polite crew. We also care deeply about maintaining a clean home. My father’s garage is cleaner than most people’s bathroom.

My husband’s family, on the other hand, may have obedient elbows, but let’s just say they leave something to be desired in the cleanliness department. I’m gonna guess if you had to choose where you’d want to dine for an evening, you’d pick my family’s casa (in part cuz we could talk about our WENIS all night) over his.

However, as much as I have mocked my husband for caring so deeply about this issue, over the years I have worked to correct my crude behavior and keep by elbows in check – at least until the meal is finished. After that, when I’m crippled over in pain from eating one too many bratwurst, all bets are off. Mama needs to lean on something while she unbuttons her pants.

But my family, particularly my father, still violates this sacred rule frequently. I usually don’t care or notice, but now that my husband has brainwashed taught our child, she has taken it upon herself to be the Elbow Police at all meals and will forcefully berate offenders.

At a recent family dinner, she authoritatively scolded her grandfather by screaming loudly in his face, “NO ELBOWS ON THE TABLE!”

So while she has mastered the all-important elbow etiquette, it appears we’ve still got some work to do on the ‘sassing your elders’ thing.