Dana Gribbins, a faith driven woman, wife and mother of five, runs her life between gluten-free oils and lard cupcakes. She uplifts and connects with others through candid tales of every day experiences, homeschooling, and “what on earth?” moments of her family.
The week before last, our neighbors had their granddaughters in town for a visit, and our girls love to have a couple of other girls to hang and play with who are just a couple doors down.
So, while they visited, they played a lot outside and in one another’s homes.
It was a great time and I’m always excited for them when they can all be together.
After they left to return home, Sprite asked me, “Mom, do you like my friend?”
I said, “yeah. How come you ask that?”
“Well, she said she doesn’t think you like her because you always give her the face.”
“The face?”
“Yeah, it makes her think you don’t like her.”
I’m slightly offended, then remember I suffer from resting bleep face.
So, I replied, “sweetie, it’s just my face. It has nothing to do with how much I do or don’t like someone. Don’t I give you that face all the time?”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what I told her.”
Now I’m trying to stifle the belly laughter that is quickly developing.
So, disclaimer: I have a medical condition.
It’s my face.
Don’t take it personally.
But, in the same breath, it’s a great filter for those who can see past the “it’s just my face” condition.
Roughly 9 months ago, I took a part time job working in Family Ministry at our Church.
It came at a time when my husband was without employment due to his employer closing some campuses and the pandemic putting a damper on finding reliable employment.
As the months went by, I found myself deliberating with Brent about whether or not I should look for a part time job.
Something sustainable I could partake even after Brent finds one.
Then, I find this it.
Part-time, remote work, pouring into people, etc.
I talked with Brent about it.
We prayed about it.
I accepted it.
A working, stay-at-home, homeschooling mom.
Piece of cake.
*wide-eyed*
Piece of cake my butt.
So much crap goes down when you need to spend some time working while you’re at home.
Like…
When I’m just a few feet away from the living room, sitting at the kitchen table working on some things and the baby, Torpedo, decides decorating my floor with any and everything is a great idea.
Whatever – I’ll allow it because I don’t have the mental energy to write an redirect simultaneously.
Or…
When my kids take advantage of the fact I’m not watching their every move and decide to take a partial mud bath outside…
And…
The baby has also joined in on the shenanigans of ‘mommy is working, let’s do all the things’ attitude as well.
Or…
Look at me! I can open the pantry door while and spread some healthy pancake joy onto the freshly swept and mopped kitchen floor.
Genius!
Oh, and this gem…
Torpedo wanted a snack so I gave her a small bowl of peanut butter and a spoon.
But, instead of eating it, she spreads the love onto the glass front door.
Just awesome.
Oh yeah, this one…
I was finally able to prep and throw dinner into the oven, and these two thought throwing animal crackers down my stairs was a rockstar idea.
Which, I might add, I just vacuumed.
But, whateves, right?
Yall, sometimes I just want to eat cake and let someone else deal with the extra things.
This past weekend, my friend and I took a trip to Nashville, TN.
Her and I take a trip roughly every 2-3 years, where we take a weekend excursion to a city a drivable distance away, explore attractions, and enjoy some space from the everyday routine.
It’s always a great time and much needed.
On this trip, I booked us an Airbnb experience: a helicopter ride of Nashville.
I’m not gonna lie, as I was perusing their experience site, I was slightly suspicious.
The price seemed acceptable, which honestly made me wonder if it was legit.
But, out of hope, and possibly ignorance, I booked our experience.
Though, I did not share this information with my friend until the ride was complete.
*awkward smile*
Anyway, we’re driving there and it’s taking us deep into what I would label an industrial park.
Driving. Driving. Driving.
“I sure hope we don’t get murdered.” my friend says.
*me looking around out of curiosity*
*shrug*
“Guess we will find out.”
We pull up and the place looks legit.
*wiping forehead*
Thank goodness.
We walk in and are offered a cocktail.
If these people want me to throw up in their helicopter, by all means, give me one of them.
I graciously decline and excitement builds.
We’re stoked.
Finally we’re escorted to the helicopter via golf cart.
And, seriously, I had to anchor my knee under the arm rail on the cart, this chick was zooming.
Anyway, we arrive and are given VERY specific instructions – we are to remain toward the front of the helicopter, because we would literally die if we meander to the back with the tail end blades running.
She escorts us over and we get in, buckle, put on our headsets, and introduce ourselves to the pilot.
*all the nerves*
We’re prepped and ready.
Honestly, one of my favorite parts was the headsets.
Instead of the familiar momentum building with an airplane, we immediately go straight up.
Such a bizarre feeling.
I look over to my friend and she is gripping the seat handles in front of her.
*me too, girl, me too*
And, of course, I took a video of the take off.
We’re in the air zooming atop the city of Nashville.
The Batman building (ATT building), an old abandoned prison where The Green Mile was filmed, a glass factory that looked like sparkling water from the sky, and a Grand Prix was happening as well.
Tiny little cars flying around the city at upwards of 100 MPH.
This trip seriously made the city feel like I was looking at a miniature cityscape.
It was awesome.
I’m also super glad we didn’t have lunch until after.
Side note: I have had a recurring dream (a couple of times anyway) of falling out of a helicopter – which I also did not share with my friend until we were done.
Because, fear.
But, I didn’t fall out, so that was cool.
We made it!
Anyway, if you’re ever in Nashville, or any city for fun, check for helicopter rides.
I had a completely different post I had planned for today, but instead I share this:
These kids man.
They fight ALL THE TIME.
Without fail.
EVERY SINGLE DAY.
And, I am completely over it.
My oldest two are the absolute worst.
In addition to their personalities, sharing a room doesn’t help either.
This room share also includes shared chores of said space.
As they complete these each morning, the fighting erupts.
They just can’t help themselves.
They’re in a room together and immediately have to stir trouble with one another.
“Get off me!”
“Get off my bed!”
“Don’t throw that at me!”
“Ow!”
“Stop it!”
“Quit it!”
*suspicious noises*
*stomping down the hallway*
“Mom!”
Every morning.
And, today was no exception.
I actually had the audacity to load the dishwasher.
And, while doing so I hear fighting erupting from down the hall.
I honestly waited a minute or two to see if they could figure things out on their own, but no.
So, I interrupted the yelling and screaming, “Both of you sit in your beds for 10 minutes – If I come in here again, both of you will stand with your noses to the wall for 10 minutes and your popsicle stick chores double.”
-popsicle stick chores are tedious chores that they randomly pick, written on popsicle sticks, and are a part of their every day routine.
-These chores range from wiping walls, dishwasher, fridge, doors, etc. Scrubbing toilets, cleaning windows, and more.
They couldn’t last 5 minutes *complaining and yelling*
“Alright, both of you out and noses to the wall.”
*disgruntled noises*
They served their 10 minutes, reluctantly, and were released to finish their room chores with notice that another instance and their time increases to 15 minutes and their popsicle stick chores triple.
Listen, not even 2 minutes in and they’re fighting again.
*eye roll*
So, down the hall I go.
They’re back in their spots for an additional 15 minutes.
Once complete, they were given the run down of increased time and a quadrupling of popsicle chores if this happened again.
They literally spent almost 30 minutes standing with their noses to the wall because they just couldn’t get it together and complete their room chores.
During their second stint in time out, I went into the kitchen to stress eat some cake.
Tempest is the ‘I’ll do something funny or tell a funny joke a million times’ style.
Take a wild guess which style lands a consequence.
Yep, the prank style.
Let me explain, we aren’t prank haters, we just prefer them when it’s not bedtime and mixed with poor attitudes and disobedience.
I know – killjoys.
Anyway, Banshee comes out of the bed to use the restroom and claims there is something white on the toilet seat.
*inquisitive looks from Brent and myself*
He gets up to take a look.
He discovers lotion spread onto the toilet seat.
And, bonus, everyone claims they didn’t do it.
Fantastic.
Let the interrogation begin.
But everyone holds tight to their lack of involvement.
Tempest sobs because she didn’t do it and no one believes her.
Sprite begins complaining that we always think she’s lying and we also never believe her.
*eye roll*
We instruct Sprite to clean the toilet seat.
With much reluctance and attitude, she does so.
Prior to our bedtime, Brent and I were unable to get a confession.
And, our conversation as we’re falling asleep is having a firm belief Sprite did it, but because we didn’t find it funny, she wouldn’t confess.
So, we wake up the next morning with consequences in place to encourage a confession.
No television and chin-up continuous chores until someone confesses.
But, I became frustrated and impatient.
I’m standing in the hallway with eyes on Sprite in the main bathroom, and Tempest in the living room.
“Ok, I’m over it. I’m gonna ask who did it and if no one confesses, I am going to add a consequence with each ask.”
They both stare at me.
“Who did it?”
They both replied they had nothing to do with it.
“Ok, you will have to clean the bathroom on your own.” (they daily divide and conquer the bathroom chores)
“Who did it?”
*silence*
“Ok, now you will be cleaning my bathroom.”
This is when Sprite began shifting her facial expression.
Finally, something concrete.
“Sprite, I already know you did it. So, why not go ahead and admit.”
She looks at me.
“Here’s what I think. I think you put the lotion on the toilet seat as a prank, but since we didn’t find it funny you were afraid to admit you did it. Correct?”
*Downcast face*
“Yeah.”
“Now what consequence would mommy and daddy give you had you confessed when we asked?”
“Clean up the lotion.” She said begrudgingly.
“Exactly! Then we would be done with all of this. But, now we have to consequence and discuss the lying.”
Y’all.
*frustrated stare*
This is constant.
This is our thorn.
Lying.
In our discussions with Sprite about the why for the lying, it comes down to shame and disappointment laced in the confession.
It’s so difficult.
We tell her we love her, even when she makes mistakes.
That our love isn’t based on how good or bad she is.
As Banshee has grown into a big girl, as she says, she’s been asserting her independence.
This includes the realm of picking and pouring her own beverages.
Picture with me, a 3, almost four year old, holding large, full containers of liquid and pouring them into cups.
Yeah.
Exactly.
A particular instance a few weeks ago, she wanted to pour her own glass of milk.
BAD IDEA.
This decision came about as I was nursing Torpedo.
Because all great ideas happen when I am literally unable to move.
So, I’m projecting my voice from the living room in the direction of the kitchen.
“Banshee, no, I will help you as soon as I’m doing feeding Torpedo.”
“No, mommy, I can do it!”
*wide eyes of frustration*
I’m sitting there wondering what is actually transpiring – because I can hear her, but I can’t see what is taking place around the wall separating our living room and our kitchen.
Then it happened.
*loud boom and splatter sounds*
*audible sigh*
*Banshee shrieking*
She comes around the corner with her hands out, milk dripping from her hairline to her chin and on to her clothes.
She is absolutely beside herself.
I am, of course, still feeding the baby.
“Go, to the bathroom and clean your face. I will be in there in a minute.”
*continued shrieking as she heads down the hallway*
And, also of course after the incident, Torpedo is now done nursing and I can check what is happening.
Sprite and Tempest already started cleaning up the milk – which I greatly appreciated.
So, what I witnessed milk-wise on the floor wasn’t as bad as I anticipated.
But, as I picked up the milk jug, the handle was completely split up the seam of the handle.
I sign and shake my head
Tempest gives me a play by play: Banshee went to the outside (garage) fridge and brought in a new gallon of milk and accidentally dropped it on the floor.
She lugged this heavy gallon container of milk up some stairs, probably became fatigued, and accidentally dropped said gallon causing the lid to blast off the carton and milk erupt out of the top directly into Banshee’s face.
I was called a nasty b**** the other day while at lunch, with all of my kids, meeting a new friend and her almost four year old.
Because, this is just what lunch with me looks like.
I’m sitting at the table in a frequented restaurant, El Nopal, having lunch and getting to know a church member, when all of a sudden a gentleman, I’m guessing around 80 comes over and says,
“I came here to have a nice, quiet lunch, but I wasn’t able to do that because of all the noise.”
My new friend and I are both listening, waiting for a follow-up line similar to, “but, I really enjoyed watching your children.”
Instead, he continued, “your children disrupted my lunch.”
I quickly realized this was not going the way I thought.
So, I calmly replied, “I am sorry they disrupted your lunch.”
I, then, had the audacity to think the conversation was complete.
He complained—>I apologized—->conversation done—->seemed logical and complete to me.
But, no.
He continued the complaint, “You are very inconsiderate to bring your children to a restaurant and have them treat it like a playground and make all kinds of noise. It’s very rude.”
So, I apologized again, “I am very sorry they disrupted your lunch. I hope the rest of your day is better.”
I sincerely meant it.
BUT, also no.
He wasn’t done.
Here comes round three.
He looked and asked my new friend, “do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Ok, we’re done here.
I stood up.
My enneagram 8 was in FULL MODE.
He turned to me and continued.
I interrupted his verbal assault and firmly and assuredly said, “this conversation is over.”
I honestly think I ticked him off.
He shifted to leave – but, negative.
Round four: he shifted back in my direction and laid into me again.
I interrupted this attempt at another verbal assault with increased fervor and volume, “You need to leave now.”
This time he legitimately looked like he was going to leave, but then swung back around for another verbal lashing.
So, I took a step towards him and with even more fortitude and said, “you need to step away from me and my children now.”
He retorted, “nasty b****!”
And, walked away.
I couldn’t believe it.
I have NEVER been called that in my entire life.
I have had a person or two complain about my kids, but its usually a complaint, followed by me apologizing, and the conversation coming to a halt.
But, this dude was seriously looking for a fight.
He would just not walk away.
I kept thinking, this fella is older, be cool, Dana, be cool.
I was NOT feeling cool.
What he said, talking to me that way, calling me a name like that, was NOT COOL.
After he left, I sat down and began shaking.
My adrenaline went into complete fight mode as the interaction escalated and dropped just as quickly.
The verbal aggression was palpable.
My girls could feel it and began asking questions following his departure.
Their safety was rocked and they needed to know I had a plan for the ‘what ifs’.
“What if he wouldn’t leave?”
“What if he followed us out to our van?”
“What if he tried to hurt you?”
I responded with my step-by-step plan to ensure their safety, and mine.
After I gathered myself, we left the restaurant.
I hugged and said bye to my new friend – this was quite the bonding experience!
Later as I was processing everything, I wondered something: would this person have come over with such tenacity and audacity had mine or my friend’s husband been present?
I debriefed with my new friend and others, and this was a recurring observation.
I shrugged it off thinking that couldn’t be the case, but then I talked more with my husband and he confirmed the truth of this thought.
So, now I wonder even more, was I targeted because I was some kind of vulnerable, frail woman?
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