The Milk Bomb, Of Course

It's Thursday morning in Winchester, Virginia.  Good morning!

My name is Kristin.  I am a Domestic Engineer.  A Familial Law Enforcement Officer.  A Stay at Home Mom.

I have some other titles, too.  I am an insurance agent, part-time, mostly from home.  I also profess to be a college football blogger (random, right?), an insurance blogger, and well, now I guess I'm a lifestyle blogger.  I am a preschool volunteer at church, and also a greeter (both once a month).  And when I can, I cook meals for families in need via a church group called Cooking for Christ.  

I am a wife.  

I am a mommy to four munchkins... or terrorists, depending on the day.

I do not negotiate with terrorists.

The "milk bomb" blog has been a dream for a while now.  It's time to get this baby up and running!  

Milk Bomb

noun   \ˈmilk ˈbäm\

: a white liquid produced by a woman to feed her baby or by female animals to feed their young; especially : milk from cows or goats that is used as food by people

+

: a device that is designed to explode in order to injure or kill people or to damage or destroy property

: something that is a complete failure

=

That obnoxious, frightening, hideous milk catastrophe that happens when a child drops anything containing milk (whether in a supposedly spill-proof cup or not).  It covers such a large area that the viscosity of milk begs to be studied by science.  Parts of the fall-out hide, waiting to curdle and turn into inedible cheese.  It is the bane of my existence as a mother.

It can also be a failure at parenting.  No one is perfect, especially this lady.  

I hate the milk bomb.

So, there it is.  

Right now, I am being used as a pillow (luckily, I have some extra padding) by an 18-month-old that seems to think she is the Dictator of this house.  All hail Cassidy of the Size 5 Huggies!  Terrible twos have always come early to my children, and she is no exception.  I think it is God's way of telling me that we don't need a fifth child.  This whole terrible twos thing gets really old when you are in your mid-30s.  

The current Master of the Milk Bomb in our house is my second youngest, Jesse.  He has had to go into the kitchen to drink his milk for quite some time now.  His drinks have been banished from the dining room.  He has a knack for not paying attention and has quite a little attitude problem at times.  I think both of these characteristics are integral to professional milk bomb-making.  Jesse is 6.

My other bomb-makers are Calvin, 9, and Natalie, 8.  Although they have had their moments, they are both competent enough right now to house a cup at their place setting at the table.  Success!

So that's it.  This is my life; I hope you can relate.  If not, enjoy the show!

I am off to destroy the planet, aka, do enough laundry to clothe a small village.  

Say a prayer for me,

Kristin