That's right, I'm spending tonight figuring out how to make a Greek Chiton costume for my son, for tomorrow. Because... yeah. Apparently there were emails and notes sent home about this months ago?

I'm sure this king-sized pillowcase will work fine. (Hangs head in shame. It's Cave Day all over again.)

Work has hit a fever pitch again, and as always happens, my husband's work has ALSO hit the fan, meaning that one of us is travelling every other week, sometimes for week long stretches, between now and mid-June. Mercifully, most of the travel is his. That means, however, that most of the parenting is mine.

As I said. WEARY. But I'm picking up one foot, and placing it in front of the other.

By and large, though, we're doing great. Greatish. (knocking wood.)

I'm struggling with my weight (still, always) and have been having some really candid dialogues with my kids about why I need to watch what I eat, why I need to exercise better, longer, just more. As I mentioned a long time ago on my old ClubMom Blog, I don't want my kids to have a complex about being an idealized weight. I want them to know that food is fuel (while also being fun) and I want exercise and physical play to be a normal part of every day for them. I want health and physical ability to tackle any task they want to accomplish to be the rewards of eating well and moving often, rather than fitting into a certain size.

I want this for them, and I want this for me.

I've lost my way, though. I'm sitting on my exercise ball chair in front of a computer for 8+ hours a day (although I walk and stretch during meetings and calls when I don't have to be right in front of the computer.) My mom, and my sister, and my friends and coworkers all have lots of great advice, and what they know, I know. I know what I need to do, and I know how to do it, and I know when to do it, and I know why to do it, and I still am not doing it. I mean, I'm eating low-carb and writing down my weight and thinking about doing something, but other than that? Not doing it.

I am still not doing this, even though I want this for all of us. ANYWAY.

My thirteen-year-old daughter's primping routine far outweighs my own. She's a girly girl in all the ways I used to be. I'm glad to know that I passed on the Razzle Dazzle Jenny gene to at least one of my kids. She mixes her own lipglosses and creates complicated patterns with her eyeshadows and seems to be developing quite a look for herself.

She likes to have her hair in big, swoopy, wavy curls, and she often turns to me for help putting up her hair in buns before bed, hoping that this time will be the time it actually makes pretty curl, instead of weird, crispy, disordered frizz. I try my best, but a lifetime with hair that doesn't curl for nobody, nohow, has left me inept with hot rollers, foam rollers, rag curls and pin curls. I can do a curling iron, sometimes, but I get impatient and use too large sections of hair, resulting in unevenly curled and weirdly crimped.

The unveiling the next morning almost always results in my daughter getting frustrated and going to school with hair that looks like her mother attacked her with something bendy and her hair caught the worst of it. My daughter, sitting beside me now, just said that it sometimes looks like a dead cat. SO YEAH.

But one thing that I can do better than she can is paint nails. She loves to paint her nails, but she also likes to paint the surrounding skin and really glop that stuff on there. Yeah, she loves her some thick-ass polish layers. She polishes, and then removes, and then polishes, and then removes, and the entire family is gassed out of whatever room she's working in. There is much complaining.

As a nail biter, I rarely have nails to paint, but I've been growing them out and so I figured if you can't beat her, join her, right? So, I've been sporting some Klassy looks over the last few weeks. My daughter cracks up because I have a tendency to paint my left hand and then get bored, and so I end up with crazy nails on one side, and naked nails on the other. She says my left hand is the one I kill people with. The eeeevil hand, if you will.

Right now, I'm sporting bright yellow nails with golden glitter top coat, and boy don't I feel fancy. It's the worst color in the world for me. I'm already plotting the next polish change. The surprising thing about these spontaneous manicure sessions is that it brings my daughter and I back into harmony (most of the time, when she's not trash-talking about her polish being better than my polish or mocking my hairstyling skillz.) We can just sit together, and inhale fumes from wee bottles and enjoy the clacking sound of ball-bearings pinging against glass.

I don't know what the next few years hold for us, but I'm hoping that we continue to find these moments of camaraderie as we navigate the teen years.

An hour later found me crouched on the front steps, using a rusty box-cutter and an emery board to help turn a rectangle into a facsimile of a sword. No one lost any chunks of flesh despite some risky carving moves, but there were some really unpleasant words said (by me) and I'm still sneezing due to inhaling the sawdust.

The thing is, with the right tools, we could have accomplished a much finer finished product, and in half the time. I tried to tell my son that the time we were spending smoothing the hacked off edges with a piece of cardboard covered in cupcake-printed gritty paper was doing it like Ancient Artisans would have done.

In reality, though, I basically taught him to make a shiv.

My children have spent the last week crying from the hilltops that we have no food, and that I never grocery shop, and that they are being slowly starved because the food in our house must be *gasp* prepared.

And not in the microwave, in a specially designed microwave-friendly package. No! Like, actually cooked.

The problem, of course, stems from the fact that what they want to do is what we've trained them to do with our patented "Root Pig or Die" meal planning that happens when one or both parents becomes knee deep in work. They want to stumble to the pantry or fridge and find premixed can of tuna salad or a single-serving cup of soup, or a yogurt... or as happens in the witching hour between the end of school and the end of my work day, a bag of pretzels, a package of beef jerky, an ice cream bar or some other packaged treat.

If they are hungry, and we are busy, we figure that they can grab something for themselves. Most of the time they choose something healthy-ish, because I haven't been bringing in lots of junky foods. Since they've been home on break this week, I didn't buy any snacky things. I figured they could just eat meals.

And then I got busy, and they had to fend for themselves a bit - which meant selecting breakfasts and lunches from the available ingredients. Turkey sandwiches! Tuna sandwiches! Grilled cheese! Toast and soup! Yogurt! Fruit! Cold cereal! Oatmeal!

No. None of that worked. The poor little darlings are starving because there isn't anything worth eating in the house. Worth eating equals Mom cooked it.

I get it. I do. I would like to have all my meals prepared for me (and cleaned up after) and never have to think for myself. I would also like to reject the logical options presented and demand better options. I suspect they get this from their father, who delights in sharing random food pairings that I have not shopped for when asked what he would like for dinner.

Here's the thing, though. They should be able to make their own meals with a little input from me. My hands are not the only hands that can layer peanut butter onto bread. There is no reason that a 10, 11 and 13 year-old pack of children cannot assemble a simple breakfast from an array of options.

Instead, they whine about not having anything to eat. Time to volunteer at the food bank, methinks.

Poor Donna the Dog has separation anxiety. She doesn't like me to go anywhere, so when I leave the house, she sits in the yard and waits for me to get back.

We have a doggie door. And while I can lock her in the house, she likes to express her dismay by peeing on the floor if I do, so I just leave her in the yard these days. She CAN go back in the house if she wants.

But then she might miss me pulling up, and then who would bark and jump on me. Donna will be happy to tell you that is the Most Important Job ever, and she's not leaving it up to the cat. Oh no.

It's raining here today, buckets and buckets, so when I left to pick up the kids from school, Donna took up her post on the wet front walk. I shooed her back inside the house, and left.

As soon as I got back home, I was greeted by Barking Jumping Wet Dog, who seems to think that her extra effort should be rewarded.

So, now she smells like wet, muddy dog, my house has a delightful new floor pattern of muddy dog prints from front to back, and she's giving me the evil eye like all this is my fault. Because I do insist on the barking and jumping and keeping vigil.

The cat, meanwhile, is sleeping on the couch, and could give a crap.

My son never really got into the whole Hogwarts scene, although I think I might make him have another go at it. It's hard to be a middle kid so close behind a know-it-all older sibling, and I think that colored his experience with ole Harry and the gang.

She's crouched beside me, chin on her knees, book pinned by her toes as her eyes dart across the page. Watching her swift inhale as she gets to an exciting part, her eyes widening, it is almost as good as reading it myself.

I joke about my lackadaisical parenting style, but you know what? I'm raising some hardcore book lovers, and that means I'm doing something right.

We're attending ComicCon in San Diego this summer. There was much discussion around the dinner table tonight about possible costumes. Perhaps me and my youngest nerdling will Wizard it up for a day.

On another note, we had garlic fries for dinner and HOO I pity the fool who gets within breathing range of me tonight. Wonder if there is a breath-freshening charm. I don't recall.

And yet. I refuse to welcome one less hour of sleep.

My oldest turns 13 this month, and my God, I am not ready for her to be this smart, this beautiful and this smart-mouthed. She's a force of nature, but in her own quiet way. Last night, I had her alone in the car for 15 minutes while I ran a few errands, and she talked my ears off in that breathless, run-on sentence way that is common to tween-aged girls. Her conversation swings wildly from what she said in class to what she said to friends to what she thought about in gym and back to what she said to at lunch.

She especially likes to recount stories which end with her making a weird face or where she declares herself "weird" or "unusual." She checks my reaction out of the corner of her eye as she gestures and talks. She wants to see if I agree. Does she want my approval? Or just the chance to see herself through my lens, and get a gut-check on whether I consider something "weird" or "inappropriate."

This last week was Spirit Week at the middle school, which apparently involves dress-up days all week. My son wore pajama bottoms on Pajama Day but other than that, he didn't participate. My daughter, however, dressed up almost every day, although with her own spin on the theme. On Friday, it was Red, White and Black day, in honor of the school colors. My daughter came out wearing bright red lipstick.

Normally, we don't allow her to wear lipstick to school (lip gloss is okay though) but in that it was a costume-day, I figured it was no biggie. My son, however, recoiled.

"You shouldn't be wearing that!" he said. "I don't think that's right!"

My daughter gave him The Stank Eye.

"That lipstick is too bright," he continued. "I mean, it looks like you've been drinking blood or something."

Before she opened her mouth, I jumped in.

"She's not wearing that lipstick for you, kiddo. She thinks it looks good, she has my permission to wear it, and that's the end of it."

"But, Mom, I don't like the way it looks. It looks..."

I cut him off again.

"Buh buh buh buh, hey. Look, buddy. There are always going to be people walking around looking in a way that you don't like. That doesn't give you the right to share your opinion with them."

"But what if I don't like it?"

"Yeah, so, here's the rule. You can think it, but you don't say it. And if someone asks for your opinion, err on the side of being kind. You don't have to lie, but you don't have to be a jerk."

My daughter was silent through all this. But I saw her sit up a bit straighter when the conversation continued. We talked about how fashion and makeup and personal expressions are all decisions made by that person, and aren't up for a public vote. It's up to that person, their parents and maybe the school, if it is something against the rules, but basically, that's where it ends.

My son got it. My daughter got it. But I think this is just the first of many conversations about this kind of stuff.

Or as my son put it this morning, "Mom, we've laughed it off but YOU HAVE TO BUY FOOD NOW."

(In my defense, they had oatmeal, bacon and apples and pears for breakfast. So WAAAAAH.)

What we don't have on hand is pre-packaged snackies or anything that could be considered fun. Poor poor darlings. And okay, okay, we're officially out of milk, eggs and bread and butter now, too.

Shopping for a menu is so much cheaper and faster. I have discovered that although I can easily draft up a plan for a month's worth of dinners, it works best for me to shop once a week (and for me, on a weekend works best because I am not stealing time from work or the kids.) Here we are, into March, and that schedule, which was working great so far, is now OFF because it is Thursday and now I have to do Big Shopping on the wrong day.

I'm rolling my eyes at myself because:

1) I pride myself on being flexible to the point of ridiculousness - I don't schedule anything ever.
2) I can afford to do Big Shopping for my family and there are lots of people who are struggling
3) I need to shut up and just do it.

Today was the elementary school Walkathon. I had back to back meetings most of today, but I was able to sneak out and watch some of the fun. What I should have done was walk along, but I only had a couple of minutes to hang out snap a few photos and observe.

This week is also Spirit Week at the Middle School. Today was the day you were supposed to dress like a musician. My oldest pulled this ensemble together.

When I asked who she was, she shrugged and said that was her interpretation of "musician." I almost had her talked into letting me doll her up like Adele, but instead, we got Attitude.

This parenting gig is a trip.

Yes, that says "Butts"

I'm studiously avoiding any photos from the event that might have me caught in the background, because there was some dancing, and also some eating, and some more dancing. I'm not delusional enough to think that only attractive angles were captured, and only angelic expressions were on my face, and so I'm merrily going about my business, feeling grateful that most of the women I was pictured with or near aren't tagging me in facebook albums mid-finger snap, snarling along with the lyrics of whatever song was playing at the time.

One thing that strikes me when I look at the photos of me is how very unhealthy I look. My skin is sallow. My hair is flat. I look swollen and puffy and even in a full smile, at a time that I know I was relaxed and happy, I look... off.

I do love that dress, though.

I don't know what the deal is, but I need this to change. We've been cooking and eating at home almost every meal this year, and that's a start. I've been getting enough sleep, mostly. But exercise still isn't making it into my daily routine. Maybe that's the key?

Tomorrow morning, if I get up at 6 am, I can get in an hour of walking before the kids start clamoring for breakfast and the day sweeps me up in its current. I can do this. I can do this every day. I can do it and enjoy it. Right?

I have never attended a Blissdom conference before, so although I am sure I will see many familiar faces in Nashville this week, I am looking forward to experiencing another flavor of conference.

I am currently in a plane, flying over what looks like Nevada or maybe Utah. Snowy peaks and drifting clouds below us, the sun warm on my shoulder through the window. This is a horrible week for me to be traveling. Work is insanely busy and the kids are busy with activites and projects. Even as I cringe, thinking about what is going to be happening to my inbox (and the slack that will have to be taken up by my husband, kids, parents and coworkers) I am still grateful for the opportunity to get the chance to take these types of business trips.

Travel used to be a much bigger ordeal for me. I would have to shop for special toiletries, pack and repack multiple times, stress about everything from how early to leave for the airport to how to hail a cab. Last night, I threw a handful of outfits into my suitcase, tossed in my chargers and a handful of business cards, and added my toiletries this morning on the way out the door.

Part of this is due to the fact that I have an easier wardrobe to cram in a suitcase than I did in years past, and I have learned through trial and error that I need to wear flats, I need to wear layers, and I am always going to be dealing with swollen legs and feet when I fly, so I need to dress around hat. Also, I don't need 700 different lipsticks. Ha!

Of course, this last minute packing thing has left me with no warm layers, or no jewelry, or 5 pairs of jeans and no useful tops, so it is a bit of a crapshoot. We'll just have to see how I did this time once i get to my hotel.

But.

Someone needs to hit me with a sandblaster or something, because my 39 year old skin is giving me fits. My makeup makes me look older, not better. My cheeks are breaking out something fierce, and my eyebrows are a washed out ashy color and my skin is sallow and not elastic.

I don't know what I can expect at 39. My lovely Irish ancestry is not doing me any favors here, nor is the extra puffiness I am currently sporting. I've got bags, jowls and wrinkles, all of which I can and do accept, but man, do I wish I had a deft hand and the right products to emphasize the positive.

Leaving all that aside, I would like to talk about my chin hairs. Yes, multiple hairs. Also, multiple chins. I've been waging a war on three stubborn black hairs that sprout gleefully from my chin for years. I pluck, they grow back, I pluck, they grow back, I pluck... it's exhausting.

The other afternoon, while picking up the kids from afterschool activities, I popped a sharp pair of tweezers in my pocket to do some eyebrow shaping while waiting, because I've discovered that there is nothing like the harsh light of day and a mirror positioned at eye level in said harsh light of day to show you those special little eyebrow rebel hairs. A few quick plucks, and the eyebrows were back to looking okay.

I glanced around, and seeing no one else sitting in the cars parked around me, I tilted up my chin to see if one of the Three Stubborn Hairs was reappearing. As the daylight glanced off the contours of my face, I saw a startling crop of fine white hairs carpeting my chin. Like, seriously carpeting. AND THEN I noticed, to my horror, that I had like 6 black hairs that were like three inches long EACH growing on the underside of my chin, where they were laying sideways along the skin of my neck.

Furious plucking ensued for a moment, and then I realized that I was sitting in public, frantically yanking hair out of my double chin, and not just in public, but in the middle school parking lot. This is not what you want your friends (or teachers, or friend's parents) to see your mom doing, so I stowed the tweezers and seethed.

GIANT MONSTER GORILLA HAIRS. ON MY NECK. And nobody says a thing to me about it. Even people who aren't likely to pull punches, like my husband.

So, the plan for tonight is to wax everything from my collarbones to my eyebrows. Aging gracefully is apparently a hairy ordeal.