Confession.

I suppose I should start by confessing that I have been trying to write this post since about 8:45 this morning. It is now 11:04. Any wagers on what time I'll actually hit publish? (Now, no fair, that's cheating. You're obviously checking the timeline!)

My actual confession is now even more appropriate having seen the image floating around the interwebs with various versions of the "Mom enough" Time magazine cover.

I wasn't really planning on going there. I know enough people have and many have done so very eloquently. I have nodded my head. Shook it fiercely from side to side. And sat, mouth agape, as I read the discussions about this piece. And then the magazine showed up in my mailbox. And I didn't open it.

Anyway - my confession for today is this.

I HATE paper dolls.

Hate them.

Loathe them.

OMG, how I cannot stand these things.

My mother-in-law (bless her heart) has taught my child how to make them. It is something special that they do together, which is fine. Wonderful even (thank goodness it's not ME!).

But you know what happens when she leaves to head home?

These danged things are everywhere.

EVERY.freakin.WHERE.

I've tried to come up with a place for them. But if you have kids, and let's face it, even if you don't, you know how it goes when you try to organize. I won't pretend I was better at it pre-motherhood. I wasn't. I'm a cluttered girl. I'm a hoarder-lite. But these things? I have no use for and I try to sneak into the trash now and then when the kid isn't looking.

It's pretty easy. But then sometimes when she does notice? Guess what happens?

She wants to make MORE!

Argh.

Which in the past was easy because I turned around and said something simple, like: "Mommy doesn't know how to make paper dolls." End of story. Sort of. She'd go off and try her own. Cutting paper left and right and all over my table, floor and close enough to my couch to lead me into ballistic-mommy-mode screaming about the scissors and if you cut my couch I will ... you get the picture.

But now she has learned, at the tender age of five, how to turn the paper correctly and make them herself. Which is cool with me. Maybe now there will be fewer scraps of unattached paper floating around? Ha! I kill me.

And so, this brings me back to my confession. And wanting to know yours. What gets up under your grill and drives you bonkers? Anything in particular that you want to share? Feel free to do so in the comments here, or head on over to my FB page and rattle on for as long as you'd like. I'd love to be talking to someone besides myself over there. Heh heh. I wish I were kidding ...

Oh, and it's 11:12 right now. And the ONLY reason I was able to write straight through for about 5+ minutes was because after the hundredth time of her asking me, "Mommy, can I put nail polish on? Please? Can I? Please? Please?" I said yes. Go. Do it. Sit at your little table. Good luck. GO!

Sooo, yeah. Wish me luck on that one. Anyone expecting another confession, you're likely right. So stay tuned!

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