This is not such a shocking admission, really. But, there have been a few things that have brought this front and center this week so I thought I’d lay it out there.

I have an uncontrollable addiction. It is taking over my house. It borders on compulsion. And, it is beginning to rub off on my kids in very obvious ways.

I am a book-a-holic. A bibliophile. A collector of the printed word. And I just can’t stop myself.

Have you seen the bookcase in my Tackle it Tuesday post? You know, this one:

Well, it is filled on both sides with books. And, I have about 6 large boxes of books in my basement. And books by my bedside. And an overflowing bookshelf in the girl’s room with kids books.

Everywhere you turn in our house there are books. Bathrooms, bedrooms, playrooms, laundry room, kitchen. Everywhere. And, yet, I continue to fill up my arms at trips to Barnes and Noble and bring more and more and more home.

Years ago I had an English professor who told me she had so many books she had them stacked in her bath tub at home. She had literally lost the use of a bathroom due to her collection of books. So she and her husband just used the other bathroom. And let the books take over.

That is where I am headed, friends. And I’m hoping that if my kids start having to find somewhere else to bathe due to a book filled bath tub someone will come stage an intervention. I know it won’t be my mom since she’ll be in the same boat, so will one of you please intervene if it gets out of hand? I promise to listen if you tell me it is out of control.

Maybe.

Well, probably not. But, thanks for your concern anyways. I really can quit whenever I want to. I just, you know, don’t want to. So, you can just mind your own business, thank you very much.

What about you? Do you have any seemingly harmless addictions taking over? Anyone out there in need of their own intervention?

Ever since we moved the girls’ bedroom into the playroom we’ve had a bit of a dilemma. Our flat screen was mounted over the fireplace and the new bunkbeds made it all too easy for Kai peek into the family room and watch tv from the top bunk of her bed.

So, my dad (who is shockingly helpful with interior design) suggested we do a little moving around in our house. His recommendation? Flip the family room and dining room.

And switch we did.

The best part? Our new dining room is looking beautiful! Our old family room was bigger and has an awesome painted brick fireplace. So perfect for entertaining friends and family at our dinner parties. In fact, I can barely resist the urge to get this table. I’ll be posting pics of it as soon as I get our new cupboard from Eddy West!

I wasn’t going to do this to you, my faithful readers, because I figured “who really wants to see my Christmas pics?” But then 5 minutes for Mom gave me a reason to do it by having a Christmas photo carnival and, well, I just couldn’t resist.

So, here you have it. Our Christmas pics. Feel free to ignore until tomorrow when I promise to have some real content. With words and thoughts and everything!

For more Wordless Wednesday, head over to 5 Minutes for Mom!

Every year at Christmas I do the same thing. I profess for weeks in advance my desire to have a “simple” Christmas. I declare my refusal to get caught up in the commercialism of Christmas. And, I am successful every single year. Up until December 19th. And then I have some sort of bizarre attack of commercialism where the relentless Christmas marketing catches up with me and I falter. In a huge way.

I then go on some ridiculous Christmas present buying spree. And pick up things that were never on my list. Because I secretly adore the look on my kids face when they see all the shiny, colorful presents beneath the tree on Christmas morning. Even though it means I risk breeding society’s preoccupation with materialism in my own kids.

Then every year, after the dust has settled, I feel insanely guilty for caving in. I have some sick, emotionally unhealthy, codependent relationship with Christmas shopping. It’s like that crazy, dangerous “bad boy” you go out with an that you want to stop dating because you know it’s just wrong, but it is so exciting to be with him that you just can’t stop yourself. Or so I’ve been told.

Of course this year was no exception. I staunchly refused to buy into commercialism this year. I declared my righteous indignation at the shopping craze going on in the malls. I professed my commitment to making my girls’ presents or buying handmade or, at the very least, buying only American made.

And, then my girls began their love affair with their Barbie dolls. And they played with them for hours every day. And they dressed them up and drove them around in their Barbie minivan and created a whole make-believe Barbie world for them.

Little by little, my resolve began to weaken. Until I found myself buying Mariposa Barbie and Fairy Barbie and Hannah Montana singing Barbie-ish dolls.

So, while my girls will have American made wooden puzzles and lacing beads and educational toys under the tree, there will also be a hefty dose of good old American commercialism with a dash of anti-feminist archetypes and unrealistic female body images thrown in for good measure.

But, they will be giddy with excitement come Christmas morning. And, I’m hoping all the Advent and Bible stories and Sunday school lessons will be enough to make them remember Baby Jesus when they’re dressing their Malibu Barbie in her bright pink stilettos…

It has occurred to me before now that I am not entirely normal. But the extent of my strangeness was never more real to me than last night at my fantastically romantic Anniversary dinner with my husband.

As part of our night out Thomas took me downtown to “Big Atlanta” to go out to a restaurant that we went to on our 1st anniversary. It is a great old downtown restaurant. Dimly lit, romantic, delicious food. You know, everything an anniversary destination should be.

Knowing where we were going I had a chance to prepare a wardrobe choice for the evening. Which is a good thing since it takes me hours to dress this belly of mine lately.

I ended up in the same black dress I always wear when we go out, a pair of tall black boots (because I know you care what shoes I was wearing) and a pair of pre-pregnancy skinny jeans.

Okay, so here’s where you begin to get a glimpse into my weird, weird brain. See, when I’m preggo I try and use my regular jeans as long as possible. With a 6 month belly (that is apparently STILL measuring 3 weeks ahead) you might be able to guess that these jeans don’t button. But, I’m creative. I think of ways to keep them up.

Last night I decided to just wear a long tight shirt under the dress to function as a makeshift belly band and keep them up. Of course, it didn’t work well and I spent several trips to the bathroom hiking up my pants to avoid losing them in public.

On one such trip I was contemplating ways to make my pants stay up easier. The rubber band trick never works. I am too lazy to go out and look for a belly band. And maternity pants? No way. I’m more than halfway through this pregnancy. The next pair of cute jeans I buy will be post-pregnancy jeans.

And then, in some flash of twisted genius it occurred to me. I should wear a pair of my beloved maternity panties on top of the jeans to hold them up. Because pants can’t fall down with a pair of those over-the-belly underwear on top, right? And since I almost always wear a short dress over these particular jeans no one would be the wiser. There was a brief moment when I really, truly thought I had discovered something quite genius.

But, I’ll be honest, the idea of wearing underwear over my jeans cracked me up right there in the middle of the ladies room. Because, I imagined what would happen. I knew the first time I did something like that I would end up in some minor accident that would send me to the hospital where I would have to explain the reason I was wearing my underwear on the outside. And then I would end up in some compilation of the “weirdest patients” at an end of the year hospital party.

You know it’s true.

When I finally made it back to the table I was still giggling about it. ‘Cause I could just envision the post-accident/panty revelation post that would come out of such a ridiculous scenario. When I began to explain my sudden fit of giggles to my husband, he looked at me adoringly and said, “Why not just use a belt?”

Because, friends, that is what a semi-normal person uses to hold up their pants, right? A belt. And yet my mind went straight to wearing maternity panties over my jeans. That right there is why I will ultimately never run out of blog material.

I am simply too weird for my own good.

Mailing our letters to Santa via the Macy’s Make a Wish Foundation mailbox.

For more Wordless Wednesday head over to 5 Minutes for Mom!

Though my undergraduate degree is in English, I have earned an honorary Ph.D. in Swearing. And here’s the Total Truth for today: I have the potential for a potty mouth that would put a longshoreman’s vocabulary to shame.

Lest you think I am bragging about this Total Truth, let me assure you, I most certainly am not. I am quite aware that it is a disgusting habit. And though I have made great strides in eliminating bad language from most days, I’m hoping that maybe by admitting this problem I will finally shame myself into quitting for good. The thing is, swearing can be ridiculously therapeutic. It is, unfortunately, also incredibly contagious.

Which is why each of my children have said their first swear words before the age of two. Not that they swear, mind you, or use these words in conversation. I’m just saying they’ve each managed to catch and repeat a word that mommy has used and that she most definitely should not have. On a possibly slightly positive note (in a most convoluted way, of course) they both know what a swear word is and that these words should not in be uttered by their mouths in any circumstances. And we don’t actually have problems with them slipping up and saying naughty things. I have the feeling that this will not be the case once they reach, oh, middle school age unless I get my act together.

Now, BlogHer would prefer that I not swear on my blog and so I will be attempting to document and expose this problem without actually using any of the words in my repertoire. But, people, I’ve got some amazing swear word combinations. And that is all I’m going to say about that.

So, here’s how this whole swearing thing began. First, I grew up a good girl. Then, I went to girl’s school. And, I found out that if sugar and spice and everything nice was what girls were made of it meant that sometimes the “spice” involved was a bit more cayenne pepper than cinnamon. I got quite the education in swearing. But, I must have been storing up the skill and waiting until later to practice because it wasn’t until I turned 21 that the swearing was unleashed full force.

For years, I justified it. I mean, I’m an English major. I can argue all day long. How can you say a word, in itself, is immoral? I never argued that it wasn’t ugly to hear. Or hurtful. Or just foul. But, immoral? Really? What about shag? Obviously (thanks to Austin Powers) we know that it is a naughty word in England, right? And yet I have “shag” carpet in my bedroom. The goodness (or badness) of a word was, in my mind, purely subjective.

And then it happened. One day, on our way home from Easter Sunday service with my mother in the car, my darling Kai (then just shy of two) took one look at the church traffic ahead of us and oh-so-sweetly shouted, “Move it, Dumb*ss.” And, that is when I knew whether people could convince me of a moral problem with swearing or not, it was just plain ugly to hear.

Now, mind you. I’ve admitted that both of my children have said swear words and obviously Ivy wasn’t born when Kai was just two so I have clearly not been successful in eliminating these bad words completely. But, I have gotten so much better. And found many, many alternatives. Take for instance, Doughnut Hole. As in, “A green light means GO, Doughnut Hole!” Or even F. Because, it is the less abrasive nickname for another word that peppers my vocabulary. I mean, clearly not a nice alternative, but much better than it’s dirtier cousin. And, since it is simply a letter, it is at least helping to teach the girls their alphabet (um…totally kidding by the way).

Kai has helped me find other words to use as well, her suggestions include: booty hind, snap-a-doo, flip, blast, son of a nutcracker (thanks Elf!), and the slightly modified son of a motherless gun.

She thinks these are terribly clever. And using said modified “swears” actually turns yucky situations into something comical so it’s actually working for me. Of course, when the situation calls for swearing and nothing else will do I have a tendency to send them to their room so I can swear behind closed doors. And there are days when that is essential as well. Like when rude and uncaring government employees are reeking havoc on your taxes due to pure stupidity and you can’t quite tell your husband to tell those “sons of motherless guns to flipping get off their booty hinds and get it right.” It just doesn’t have the same effect, you know?

Okay, so I saw this recipe online for Christmas Confetti Bubble Bath and thought it would be the perfect little project for the girls and I to do one afternoon. After all, what is more fun than homemade bubble bath?

Making the bubble bath really was fun. And with a bit of tweaking the end product could be quite the success.

Step One:

Shred (with regular cheese grater) one bar of soap. It should be noted: soy soap flakes do NOT turn into bubbles in the bath. More on that later…

Step Two: Add food coloring gel to soap shavings. Add a few drops to each bowl and mix. Tip: Be careful what colors you choose!

Step Three: Spread on wax paper to dry. Isn’t it lovely?

Step Four:

Add to bath water and watch Red and Green turn into a horrible, horrible Brown colored water with strange floating soap flakes in it. Listen as your children exclaim with glee that it is like having a bath in lake water!!

Apparently, bathing in lake water is all the rage among preschoolers these days so luckily the girls didn’t seem to notice the lack of bubbles and the hideous color of the water. (Note to self: next time stick with regular soap and consult a color wheel before choosing colors!)

I’m just glad I tested it out on my girls before giving it away as gifts for Christmas. ‘Cause, you know, not everyone likes the idea of bathing in the Loch Ness Monster’s natural habitat!