Happy Valentines Day!

I don't like saying "happy v-day", because it makes me sound like I am wishing you a happy day for having the herpes. My mind, it's weird, I know.

I can't wait to show you B's Valentine's Day cards, they are most amazing!

I am usually all down for buying the cards in a box from Walgreens, taping the candy on, and foregoing names on the envelopes, however Pinterest happened to me. And Pinterest has taught me that I am not a good enough chef, dresser, mom, crafter, photographer, housecleaner, and so forth.***

So I try really hard to make it up to Pinterest by doing things like this:

My card is way cuter than the one I ripped off of Pinterest.

No candy for the kids, just fake mustaches. I'm like that lame house that hands out stickers at Halloween.

Pinterest is sad I didn't Photoshop my pores or lack of eye make-up.

Not only are these effing adorable, but so cheap and fun (<---not an alien abduction, I really did say fun) to make. Michael's had a $5 off $5 coupon, so I bought the sticks, cards ($1 for a pack of 8!), and black cardstock for a total of $2. I printed off the little ditty in the card. I ordered B's pictures from Ofoto, since I didn't want to pay $458 for a new ink cartridge.

*** Whilst I believe Pinterest is subtly evil, it is incredibly handy and made me much more productive. Ah, the sword that is double edged. If only I could block everyone's "thinspiration" shit.

Happy birthday to my hawt husband

He's 31 today and still hawt as h-e-double hockey sticks. We're going to celebrate with sushi tonight and Las Vegas this weekend.

You might be a hipster if...

Are we sick of these yet? Or are we not?

Anyway, the point is no one likes hipsters, yet we all have a hipster in us clawing to get out. Truth.

Every now and then my expresses itself when I get new glasses and the black (cuz it matches best) plastic (cuz I'm allergic to metal) frames bring out the hipster in me.

Though the hot chocolate, instead of organic tea, might quell the hipster.

Or when I dress my baby in Toms. 

 Hello, adorable! I love this little feet in those Toms. OMG. I want to run out and buy nine more pairs.

Why I love the Superbowl

I love the Superbowl because it means one thing. Football is over.

I hates the footballs. Fat guys running into each other, that's what I say. And the announcers say the stupidest shit. And it's so loud. And the commercials are all about beer, erectile dysfunction, and big trucks. And those douches are paid $100 million too much. Ugh!

(My mom and husband are rolling their eyes and gnashing their teeth if they are reading this.)

The thing that sucks in my house, though, is once football is over, NASCAR starts. Take everything I said about football and times it by two. I can't win.

Jeff took the boys over to his parent's house for the game. I had three hours all to myself. If you are my Facebook friend it might be dawning on you why I was the annoying Facebook chick who was updating her status every half hour.

Ok, I wasn't that bad, but I was bad for me.

I forgot how productive I can be in a couple hours sans bebes. I made some desserts. Wrote some thank-you cards.  Ignored my laundry. Got most of B's Valentines cards done. Tried a new hummus recipe. BOOM.

More on these bad boys to come. 

Roasted red pepper hummus. So nommy.

Pamped Chef Smores and Cookie Dough Cheesecake Bars. Jeff loves me so.

Not a failure.

We are going strong in the Dilbeck house. Our resolutions are still in effect.

Fer reals, I don't think my bed has been made so much, my toilet scrubbed so thoroughly, or my floors mopped so often in a single month. I can also count on one hand how many times we've been out to eat in the last month.

Oddly (and happily) enough, while B is still catching on to the committing to finishing a cleaning project, he gets very excited about what the daily chore is. He has incorporated the line of questioning (What's our chore? What are we going to do? How long will it take? Can I make my bed? What is for dinner? Whose turn is it to pick our family activity?). My ADD/OCD gene carried.

Dos is dos.

Dear Cashy,

You are two. Two. Two!

You are my willful, loud, brash, loving, not-a-baby, baby. There are so many ways to describe you, but I know in these 24 months I have only scratched the surface. There is so much more to learn and love about you, and being my second born, I have learned not to rush to figure you out. I love that you are such a mystery. What will you be? Why don't you speak? Why are you so unnervingly smart?

You are my one man parade. Announcing yourself with shouts and taunts. You are usually armed with celebratory items--balls, cars, blankets, shoes, food. Your smile, laugh, and hug is a joy for all to behold.

You are the child that makes everyone love you in a different way; there are so many facets to your personality. With Bradley you are a playmate, a pupil, a little brother, a tormentor, an experiment, an audience.

For Daddy you are rough and tumble, unafraid of his tools and the noises they make; you empowered him by letting him be your favorite for the first 20 months of your life.  You are two peas in a pod.

I've told you before that you taught me how to really be a mom--you were an unexpected, challenging, 180-degree turn from your brother. And even though it took you awhile to warm-up to me, we are best friends and have so many fun secrets, rituals, and ways to cuddle.

Little boy, know that we will always love you. No matter how many windows or hearts you break, we will always be here for you. You will be a strong leader and personality someday, and I promise no matter how far you venture out or how large the crowd is around you, we will always be at your side.

Loving you forever and a day,

Mama, Dadda, and B