I'm THAT mother.

                  I promised I would never be the mom that had a gazillion pictures of her oldest, and two of her youngest.  I promised I would never be the mom that was too tired to relish the birth experience of number two, or three.  I promised that I would never make a big deal out of some kids and not others.  I was wrong.  Fleming number three, aka Jebediah Crockett Fleming, is about to pop out any day, and I haven't even posted cute belly shots.  I've taken a few, but they are sitting on my digital camera in my closet, waiting to get dumped on the computer and then transferred to the blog.
                  I have been sicker, more tired, and stressed with this baby than the others, but it doesn't mean that I wanted him any less.  I want him to know that yes, he was a surprise, but Heavenly Father told me that I was going to have another one eventually and it is an answer to many many many prayers regarding my "broken girl system".  I really wanted and tried for my first two babies, and Heavenly Father blessed me in his own time, but this baby was the Lord telling me that we were supposed to have another one.  It was taken out of my hands and now we will have a new Flemlett to grace our Texas house.
                  From all mega complicated ultrasound accounts, he is built like Kizzie:  a big head, long torso, and little legs.  However he has his brother's stubbornness and spunk:  he's currently fixed in the breech position with legs up by his face, determined to scare me daily and make me think that he's coming early.  We're on the final countdown.  34 weeks, OB trying to get me to at least 37.  Children at school screaming at each other and turning into "Lord of the Flies" and I'm just trying to survive with sanity intact.  This is number three, possibly the last depending on the state of my lady business after this experience.  I can't wait to hold this little one in my arms and fast forward to the fun part of the newborn experience, when you are healed and the baby smiles and life is good (and the house looks like junk and you're in your sweatpants, but it doesn't matter).

Kizzieisms

So every day I call my mom and sister and tell them something funny that Kizzie said for the day.  The other day, my mom told me that I need to write them down, before I forget.  I realized that Max said some really funny things as a toddler, that I don't even remember now, and since this is my attempt at some kind of online journal with pictures, I decided to share a few recent tidbits of wisdom here:

Experience 1:
We dropped off one of Jack's prints at a Ft. Worth art gallery the other day.  On the way into the building Kizzie looked very seriously at one of the sculptures on the front lawn and said, "That's a donut hammer mommy".  I began telling her, that even though she was probably hungry, that it wasn't really a donut, when I realized that it really did look like a donut, with an empty center and a handle.  I'm not sure if that's what the artist was going for, but hey it was a sincere interpretation!

Experience 2:
My children have a really bad habit of following me into the bathroom and freaking out if I try to even close the door.  For some reason they are perfectly content to play by themselves until I have to pee, then it's clingfest 2013.  One day I was using the facilities, with the door closed like a civilized person when Kizzie comes bursting in with a very perturbed look on her face (she does that well). I asked her to close the door so that I could have some privacy.  She slowly closes the door, looks around her in pure bewilderment, and asks, "Where's privacy, I don't see him?"

Experience 3:
This just happened.  While unpacking the kid's rooms, we have unearthed some toys, etc. that haven't been seen in awhile.  I just realized that Max's ceramic piggy bank is anatomically correct (and a boy, if you know what I mean).  The kids were giggling and shrieking while pointing to his delicate piggy parts and Kizzie said, "Mom, he needs to go potty, he's pooping!".

I'm afraid to believe in my goal . . . HELP ME!

I began a really noble goal a few weeks ago, and I am in danger of quitting.  For my entire life, I have HATED EXERCISE!  So badly that when I watch the motivating workout scenes with fanfare trumpet music in the background on Rocky I almost want to puke.  I have been inspired by my husband, and dear friends such as Kara, to give running a try.  I figured that granny walking wasn't really exciting enough.  My husband didn't start running until he turned thirty a few years ago, and he swears that your prime for running isn't until you pass thirty anyway.  He got to where he was running over eight miles at a time.  (I was secretly envious)

The problem is, I have horrible mental associations with running.  I used to tell people in high school (when I was eighty pounds thinner) that I would only run if someone was chasing me.  However, I was forced to run a mile weekly in my PE class with the coach that we not so affectionately called "Forrest Gump".  I want to get past the pain that I'm feeling now.  By pain I mean the jarring jittering sensation that I get when I run my measely half of a mile now.  I want it to look and feel effortless, like the African man that runs across campus daily.  When I see him run, he looks like a graceful gazelle, and like he just really enjoys it.

Jack swears to me that it will get better.  And I almost believe him.  I am made of the same bones, sinews, and body parts as the swift African runner, why can't I do it too?  I'm shamefull of my hatred and pessimissm.  My eighty five year old grandfather is in better shape than me.  He really is, I promise.  The man walks three miles every day.  I secretly long for a leaner body that glides along the pavement like butter.  However, I just really really want to overcome my inner running demons.  Three days a week Jack serves as my coach. "Ya Bum" he calls to me as I'm out the door to the field outside.  I try to ignore my inner voice who swears that I look like jabba the hut in running shoes.  Please don't look at my butt as my feet hit the pavement!

Giuli

Happy (And Sad) Mardi Gras!

Today my husband and I celebrated Mardi Gras (I think that we're the only ones in Arizona that do so) by eating leftover chicken and sausage gumbo and by listening to Dr. John and Professor Longhair on YouTube.  The gumbo was stinkin good, but in our hearts we really wish that we were eating a fresh, hot muffaletta from Po Boy Express, with maybe some bengets for dessert.  I've been thinking of Mardi Gras a lot this past weekend, not just with wistful fondness of parades gone by or memories of good food and good times, but with extreme sadness that I'm missing that culture right now and that my college and former town got creamed on Sunday by a wicked tornado.  Hattiesburg, USM, and it's vibrant family was devastated here and there by this horrible event, and my best friend's house got squished (again) by the wrath of trees.  We survived Katrina in Hattiesburg a year or so before moving to Arizona, and this brings back sad and really good memories.  I won't even dwell on the sad ones right now, but I will think of the good ones.  How much our community gathered together (especially our neighborhood) to help each other out, laugh together, and cry.  How the buzz of chainsaws and the smell of barbecue grills wafted through the air for over a week.  How hard my babies from Thames hugged me when school finally resumed.  How resilient and strong Mississippians are in the face of tragedy.  Sometimes I wonder how we could have left a town that still calls to me, usually in the night when my face is wet with tears, or when I'm looking at pictures that my Thames children drew for me.  My husband and I are different than we were ten years ago.  Every place that we have lived since then has left it's mark on us, good or bad.  Somehow Hattiesburg has become part of my fingerprints, or DNA.  I'll never forget how I felt when I stepped onto campus the first time as a very young freshman.  Those live oaks were spreading their green leafy branches out in a huge hug just for me.  When Jack and I bought a house on 13th Avenue, we had three huge oaks in our backyard (the biggest I named "the general") that had survived Camille and goodness knows what other storms, and then Katrina.  They shed their large branches all over the yard, got a good shaking, but stayed put.  Maybe Jack and I should have done the same.  I want my roots to grow somewhere, anywhere where they feel at home and loved, where I will look at them years from now and be astonished at their strength and breadth.  I pray every night, "Heavenly Father, help us find our place, and then help us stay put".

CURSE Jack Frost!

I have something to admit.  I really don't think that my body is capable of experiencing much colder temperatures then it has lately.  I think that I lifetime of living in the Southern region of the country has affected my body's ability to warm itself up.  We're talking negative 9 degrees F this morning, with a high of 19.  Ummmmm, yuck!  Some of you reading this might be scoffing, "Well, in ALASKA it gets negative a bigillion" or something.  I don't care!  There is a reason that I'm not living in Alaska, or Siberia right now.  Luckily we don't have to pay utilities, so last night as I was doing lesson plans at night, the heater was on and I kept feeling a draft from the windows and under the door.  I kept inching the thermostat higher and higher.  When Jack woke up this morning, he said that it was set to 85 degrees.  When I was younger and stupid, I once made the statement that I preferred being cold to being hot, because you can always put on more clothes, wheras you can't take your skin off.  Wrongness.  I enjoy watching the snow capped peaks from my window, and that is all.

Should I keep the kids?

I have to tell you that five minutes before I took this video, I would have sold my kids to the circus.  Then the magic happened.  Kizzie took Max by the hands and said, "Dance, Ma-well" and then she starting singing softly and leading him around the house in an imaginary waltz.  Max was totally game, and they were twirling, running, and jumping with hands clasped and smiles on their faces.  If you have multiple kids, or grew up with a sibling, I'm sure that you can relate.  When they are playing together it's precious, when they are fighting I want to gouge my ears out.  I hope that you can still see, even though it's grany. 

Happy Halloween from the Munsters!

Last night's trunk or treat was a blast!

 

 

Our creepy, warty pumpkin.

 

 

Max as Eddie Munster. (Thanks mom for the cute suit!)

 

Family portrait: Lily, Marilyn, Herman, and Eddie.

 

Me and my beautiful girl!

 

Max with his woof woof.

 

Max fell asleep with his glow regalia on.

 

Hope your Halloween was memorable, fun, and involved chocolate!