Use Your Words: Mittens and Sassy Sauce and Face Masks, Oh My!

It's hard to be three-and-a-half years old. 

No, it's not. When you're three and a half, life's a breeze. When you're three and a half and the youngest of three children, life is a DOUBLE-breeze. Everybody does everything for you. All you have to do is point and whoever's around plays real life search-and-find, rummaging through the cupboard shelves, trying to locate the delicious snack item that you have your mind set on. Goldfish? No. Cheese-Its? Double-no. Granola bar? FOOT-STOMPING NO! All of this while you don't use your words. Because you don't have to use your words. Because you're three-and-a-half and the youngest of three children and somehow, sometime, people decided they just don't care anymore about teaching you to be a civilized human being.

My little Buckaroo, the time has come for to use your words.

This is a picture of my darling, wonderful, adorable almost-four-year-old, Foster:

Foster Watts, aka, Patootie

I know, right? Cutie-patootie. Unfortunately, right now, he's more of just a patootie. And that's me putting it nicely.

The phrase "terrible twos" is very deceptive. The twos have troubling moments, to be sure, but that year is a cakewalk compared to the threes. The twos are "terrible-lite." If you have a two-year-old and you're thinking, "Surely she doesn't know what she's talking about, because the twos have been the pits in my house," I advise you now to sit down. Pour yourself a cold one. And prepare yourself for the truth bomb that's about to be dropped on you. Ready? The threes are worse. Everyone who has a child who's three or older is nodding their heads right now, silently pitying you because they know the storm that's headed your way. There's no escaping the tortuous threes. I'm sorry.

When your little cherub turns three, you too might be dealing with scenarios like what I'm about to describe. Don't look away; I know you'll want to, but don't do it. Consider it my gift to you, some preparation for what's to come (because it doesn't just happen to me, right? RIGHT???).

SCENARIO 1

A note from his preschool teacher: "Jordan, Foster had a very hard day today. He hit Ana in the face and he keeps following boys into the bathroom, waiting for them to pull down their pants to pee, and then pinching their butts. He was on red* today [obviously]." 

SCENARIO 2

A note from his preschool teacher: "Jordan, Foster did not have a good day at all. It started well, but then he told me that he was going to 'kick me in the face,' and things went downhill after that. He was on red* today [again, obvious]." 

SCENARIO 3

A phone call from his preschool teacher: "Jordan? It's Shannon. Listen, Foster  just bit Connor because he wanted the toy Connor was playing with. Normally he would get sent home for this, but I'm going to give him a little grace [probably because he's cute]. Needless to say, he's gonna be on red* today." 

*every day the kids' behavior is reflected by a green/yellow/red chart... 

These are just a small sampling of his behavior as of late. It happens at home, too, but the events at school are more embarrassing. I know it sounds like he's undisciplined and probably gets away with murder, but, all joking aside, we are on that kid like white on rice. We are consistent. We are loving. We teach him the truths of God's Word and we don't put up with hitting or biting or pinching or telling people they are going to get a swift kick in the face.

And still he perseveres. I will give it to him, he sticks to his guns! I am praying it serves him and the world well one day, because right now it's just resulting in consequence upon consequence.

His problem is that, especially because he's the baby, he's been under the impression that he doesn't have to use his words. Someone takes his crayon? He hits them. Someone has a toy he wants? He bites them to get it. Someone goes pee? He pinches them. (Okay, I can't explain that one away...it's just weird.)

In the Watts house, we get creative with discipline. I learned from the master herself, my mother. My hubby is also creative, and sometimes it's very hard not to laugh while we throw down the fiery wrath of consequences upon our kids.

In order to explain, let me give you an example of the way we discipline in relation to the three scenarios listed about.

SCENARIO 1 - FOSTER HIT A GIRL (YES, A GIRL) AND PINCHED BOYS' BUTTS

In this case, Foster earned himself the privilege of wearing wool mittens for an entire day. In the 80-degree temperatures. Because, simply, if he can't use his hands for kindness, then he will wear gloves on his hands to remind him that his choices have consequences, and that he should use his words if someone takes his crayon and not his hands. He was given the "opportunity" to wear these gloves to preschool and was told he could not take them off unless he was eating or going potty. His hands got sweaty. He had trouble holding his crayons. He was clumsy with toys. It was perfect.

SCENARIO 2 - FOSTER SASSED HIS TEACHER ("I'M GONNA KICK YOUR FACE")

Wow, even typing that description is horrifying. I promise you, he's not "that kid." You know, the one society needs to fear? I have no doubt he's going to be something great, because God sure did give him guts! He's not afraid of much, including saying things for the sheer shock value. In our home, we don't call names and we SURE don't threaten bodily harm to adults (or anyone, for that matter). We have a little bottle of what we affectionately refer to as "sassy sauce" for situations such as this. He received a healthy dose. I think I can still smell vinegar on his breath, too.

SCENARIO 3 - FOSTER BIT CONNOR (SORRY, CONNOR'S MOM!)

I'm sure you guys understand how it feels to have your kid bite the new kid in class. Anyone? No one? Here's how it feels in one word: horrifying. It feels horrifying. Biting is a big deal, and my other kids didn't really deal with habitual biting. They did it once or twice and that was that. Not Foster. Like I said, he sticks with it. We tried (almost) everything and even then I got that dreaded phone call from school. Count Dracula strikes again! I was steaming mad, I won't lie. After weeks of dealing with his stupid choices and bad behavior, I was tired. of. it. With my mom's help and great advice, I decided to take extreme measures. Thank goodness we have a random supply of surgical masks for situations such as this (or Ebola, of course).

How do you communicate to an almost-four-year-old child that he has to learn to use his words to solve problems, not his body? How do you teach him that words count, even things said as a joke and simply for shock value? Yes, I know, he's not even four. But he's smart and he knows better.

How do I teach him to use his words when I misuse my own words, and often?

It starts with me. And with you, moms and dads. It starts with us, unfortunately. Before we can throw Proverbs out to our kids, before we can come down on them for not handling conflict well and with love and gentleness, we have to practice it ourselves. We have to learn to use our words in a healthy way.

Proverbs is full of wisdom on the subject of using our words for good:

"The words of the reckless pierce like swords, but the tongue of the wise brings healing." - Prov. 12:18

"Kind words are like honey - sweet to the soul and healthy for the body." - Prov. 16:24

"When words are many, transgression is not lacking, but whoever restrains his lips is prudent." - Prov. 10:19

"Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruits." - Prov. 18:21

And of course, one of my favorite Psalms:

"Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer." - Psalms 19:14 

Sometimes I need a dose of sassy sauce. And I don't pinch or punch or bite anymore, but my words often do just as much damage. Maybe even more. We have to lead this way for our kids, and obviously I need to do a better job!

I pray that the words of my mouth, and yours, will be acceptable in the sight of the Lord, and that my words are a sweet and healing balm for all who hear them.

I also pray that Foster quits acting like a little turd. Well, crap, there go my words again...

They're also made at the cute factory.

Feel free to laugh!

Adventures In Babysitting (Get the Popcorn Ready)

Have you ever had one of those completely magical, seemingly perfect, carefree days with your kids, the kind that you never want to end and that feel completely utopian in every single way?

Me either.

Honestly, I really haven't. Don't get me wrong - we've had great times, even idyllic experiences. But, and this is a big BUT, the picture-perfection never lasts all day long. I think it's literally impossible to make it through an entire day without dysfunction, because my house is full of a bunch of sinners. Big sinners and little sinners, old and young. Sinners with perfect pitch and the kind that are tone-deaf (yes, my children are tone-deaf - sad but true).

I've learned to adjust my expectations and to expect conflict and frustrations and stress. If I don't expect those things, I know I'll be sorely let down again and again and again.

If I didn't know this already, yesterday shattered the illusion of the perfect day for me once and for all. I don't mean to share this in a woe-is-me-kind-of way; it's actually not like that at all. It's just reality, and it's actually refreshing, because it reminds me that all of you out there in social-media world who like to create the illusion of perfection in your homes are L-I-A-R-S. (In case you're just finding this out, the whole world knows that your kids are little sinners, too.)

Yesterday was day four of Daddy being out of town, and day (seemingly) 9778 of constant rain. Softball? Cancelled. Tball? Cancelled? Outdoor play options? Nada. Three stir-crazy, full-of-energy kiddos who were bouncing off the walls? Roger that.

I tried my best to give them an outlet for their energy. I took them yesterday morning to an indoor play place, where I paid $31.79 (yes, that is DOLLARS...to PLAY in a germ-infested jungle gym...by my OWN CHOOSING) for them to play for an hour and then have to pack everyone up to leave because my middle child was "tired" and wanted to "go home" and started to have a breakdown. Miraculously, he perked right up after we got home and started building Legos.

I made it through a rainy afternoon solely based on the knowledge that, come 5pm, my babysitter was coming to take over, and I was going out. Alone.

I showered (maybe for the first time since Wednesday - you're welcome, world), got ready, and hit the road faster than Wiley Coyote chasing the Roadrunner. "See ya, don't call me unless someone's bleeding" was pretty much the extent of my instructions.

I had a great night out. Did a little shopping. Met a friend for dinner. We even sat in the restaurant long after we were done with our meal and talked without interruption (I know, right?!). It was such a nice reprieve.

Then I came home.

Here's the part of the story where I encourage you to grab a bowl of popcorn and settle in, 'cause this is one of those "these-things-only-happen-to-Jordan"type things.

I opened the front door (at this point is was close to 10pm), and expected to hear quiet and calm. Instead I heard the TV blaring and my three-year-old talking loudly. #awesome

As I walked into the front entryway, I quickly noticed that my rug was covered in popcorn kernels. Not popped popcorn, but the kernels. #interesting

I ventured ahead into the living room where I found popped popcorn strewn across the room and two kids cups knocked on their sides and slowly leaking onto my fairly-new rug. The rug that the kids aren't allowed to eat or drink on. #perturbed 

I backtracked and made the turn into the kitchen. There I found a half-eaten pizza on the counter, picked completely clean of cheese and pepperoni on top. Basically, I was left with half a slab of bread with tomato sauce on it for leftovers. #yummy

All over the kitchen counter and floor were more popcorn kernels. Hundreds. I'm still finding them today, like tiny little painful surprises to the soles of my feet that keep on coming...and coming...and coming. #ouch

At this point I call the babysitter who was with the three-year-old in another room, and she walked into the kitchen.

"How'd it go tonight" I asked.

"It was a rough one," she said. #understatement

She explained to me that everything had been going well, that the kids had played and eaten and then wanted to watch a movie. She attempted to pop popcorn in our hot-air popcorn machine and overfilled it, cause it to smoke and burn. In an attempt to get that situation under control, the bottle of popcorn kernels accidentally got knocked off the counter and spilled everywhere. Literally, everywhere. As in, this morning, in my bedroom at the other end of the house, the first thing my foot touched when I rolled out of bed was a popcorn kernel. #GoodMorning

She ended up getting the popcorn thing happening, and the kids sat and watched a movie in the living room...on the rug. So that explained that.

Then came, as Oprah likes to call it, the "AHA moment" for me. My sitter explained that, because the kids had been SO well behaved, she gave them a treat. A candy treat, to be more specific. Right before bedtime.

They discovered a bag just like this in our kitchen cabinet. They were, in actuality, for my seven-year-old's Earth Day class project next week. However, upon finding the Trolli Sour Brite Crawlers, my three children proceeded to eat every last one of them. The. Entire. Bag. #UhOh #JustALittleTreat

Apparently that's when everything went south (as though that hadn't happened already). They got amped up on an enormous sugar high and couldn't calm down for bed. They discovered silly putty and green PlayDoh in the kitchen cabinet, and started running through the house with it, throwing it at each other and being stupid. There was evidence of this stupidity on my walls. And on my floors. And on my new living room rug.

And on the 60-inch flat-screen TV that they broke when they threw a big ball of Silly Putty through the living room and it smashed into the television. #YouCan'tMakeThisStuffUp

Yes, that's right, ladies and gentlemen. They broke our flatscreen. #Cuss #CussAgain

After all of this went down, the sitter somehow got my older two sinners kids to bed, and then she attempted to get Foster to bed. He refused. And so, I guess, that is how I found him watching TV when I returned home at 10pm. 

To give my sitter credit, she had been so busy corralling the troops that she hadn't had time to clean up a single thing. To give my kids some credit, my sitter thought it was a good idea to give them an entire bag of gummy worms moments before bed and then expected them to calmly and quietly go to sleep without a fight. #NotGonnaHappenJustLikeGeorgeWSaid

I got #3 tucked into bed and started the clean-up process. And what a process it was! Sweeping. Vacuuming. Peeling Silly Putty and PlayDoh out of my rug, and off my floors, and off my walls, and off of kitchen cutting boards (I don't even know, people, for realz). Cleaning up liquid spills and popcorn kernels and actual popcorn and cold pizza. Just what every mom wants to do at the end of a night out, am I right? #I'mWrong

I started out feeling surprised upon arriving at home. Then I grew frustrated. Then annoyed. Then angry.

And then I laughed. #FeelFreeToLaughWithMe

And I realized in that moment, as I sat down in my favorite armchair and surveyed my now-cleaned-up house, that life is all about expectations and reality. 

I had expected to come home to a quiet, clean house after a long week of single-parenting it, and I didn't get what I expected (Me thinks it wasn't the evening my babysitter expected either - hehehe). My expectations can make or break virtually any situation that comes my way, and I'm guessing yours can, too.

Take, for instance, last Sunday morning. I had to leave early in the morning to go and lead worship, and my husband was at home with the kids. His job that morning wasn't easy by any means. Our home was on the market, and so, along with feeding and dressing the kids and himself for church and getting out the door on time, he had to leave the house in spit-spot condition, impeccably clean and ready for the two showings we had scheduled while we were out. I gave him a detailed list of instructions, and he assured me that he could handle it and that I should "chill." When we arrived back home after church I walked onto our front porch to open the front door only to find a bag of trash and an empty Target shopping basket (don't ask) sitting in front of our door. The door with the lockbox where the realtors entered with their clients.

This was not quite what I had in mind when I asked him to have the house ready to show before he left for church. 

At first I was irritated. Beyond irritated, actually. But then I realized that, really, he had done a great job on the rest of the house. Not perfect, but really good. The problem was that my expectation was perfection. And that's not reality, especially for a dad of three kids who's juggling a million balls all before church on a Sunday morning. I was disappointed by the lack of perfection, which was unreasonable to expect, and I responded out of my disappointment. At first I didn't respond well, if I'm being honest. #SorryBoo

When we hold others (or ourselves, for that matter) to the impossible standard of perfection, we will be disappointed over and over again. When we want life to fall into place in a picture-perfect way and we expect nothing less than that, we are bound for frustration and disillusionment. 

The worst is part, I think, is that when life isn't idyllic or people let us down or we fail ourselves, we project that imperfection onto God Himself. I've done it before, and so have you. 

When our circumstances are dire and we see no light at the end of the tunnel and we're disappointed because we expected God to change our situations and save us from the pain and misery, it's easy to decide that God is a fraud. That He's not who He says He is. That He doesn't care.

When people mistreat us and let us down and wound us to our cores, it's easy to decide that no one is worth trusting.

When we let ourselves down and give in to sin and darkness even though we know better, it's easy to decide that we are ourselves the definition of failure and that we deserve for Shame to name and define us.

If our expectations are perfection, or even just basic goodness, we will be let down time and again.

Because humankind is a hot mess.

However. The grace of God covers all of our imperfections, and His perfection is the best gap-filler. When life disappoints us, He is perfect and in control. When people disappoint us, He is our friend and Father and picks up the slack. When we disappoint ourselves and loathe our own reflections, He shows us our new faces and our new names, found in the person of Jesus Christ.

We must expect the world to fail us, and we must cling to the truth that God never will.

"This God, His way is perfect; the word of the Lord proves true; He is a shield for all those who take refuge in Him. For who is God but the Lord? And who is a rock except our God?" - Psalm 18:30-31

If we do this, our expectations will no longer be rooted in fanciful illusions, but instead rooted in He who never changes and never fails. Disappointment will be no more because He is always good, and, as it says in Psalm 52, we can fully and evermore "trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever." 

I know I can trust Him. As for my children, or my babysitter...well, the jury's still out on that. For now, we'll just have to be creative.

Feel free to laugh!

Applause For the Single Mom...No Seriously, Way To Go!

So I'm manning the ship solo this week. #PrayForMyChildren

My partner in crime has been gone for three days, and there are still three more to go. In the days since he has left, I have lined up a buyer for my house, put a contract on a new house, manhandled a kid who succumbed to the dreaded Strep Throat, and of course put in the daily 6:00am-8:30pm work hours that included cooking, cleaning, taxi driving, homework helping, and bedtime routine-ing.

Oh yeah, and it's been raining for five days straight (and is supposed to rain for at least three more).

Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful for the workload and for three healthy kids who keep me busy. But man, this single-mom thing is hard.

I find myself thinking hourly about how soon my hubby will be home, and then I find myself thinking about the moms I know (and the ones I don't) who don't have a countdown. The moms who do the whole mom thing day in and day out without reprieve, without a teammate. 

Let me be the first to say, and say clearly: THOSE ARE SOME AMAZINGLY STRONG WOMEN.

Single moms are single for a myriad of reasons, and usually their stories involve pain and hurt in some form or fashion. What amazes me, at least for the single moms I know, is how they find love for their children that's bigger than their pain, and how they continue to give of themselves even when they're hurting. Even when they're tired. Even when they want to crawl in bed and close the curtains and throw in the towel.

They wear multiple hats. They play different roles in their children's lives. They work hard, definitely harder than I do! They wake early and close their eyes to sleep late and are tired a lot. They sacrifice, many times to extremes, to provide for their children. They carry the weight of parenthood alone, and they are awesome.

Single moms, be encouraged. We notice all you do. We champion you and want to support you as you shepherd your little ones toward the cross of Christ. And they notice, too, or at least they will one day. 

"Her children rise up and call her blessed!" - Prov. 31:28a

And your Heavenly Father notices. He is so proud of you and He wants to bring you rest that only comes from knowing and trusting in Him.

"Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." - Matt. 11:28-30

Basically, what I'm saying, sweet single mama, is that you're the bomb.com. #YesIJustWroteThat #Don'tBeHaters

As for the Watts clan, be praying for my sanity and for my children's emotional well-being. This mom puts the "fun" in "dysfunctional," that's for sure!

Feel free to laugh!

Spring Struggle

Whoever invented Spring Break only named it for all the teachers out there. #truth

DISCLAIMER: If you're reading this while sipping a Mojito on the beach in Sandestin while you watch your kids frolic in the ocean, you might just wanna stop right here. Seriously. 

Spring Break starts like all other school breaks in the Watts house. It's anticipated with the greatest of expectations. The idealist mommy in me starts by dreaming of sleeping in, no alarms set for an entire week! I plan fun breakfasts to make that take too much time to prepare on school days when everything is coming unraveled hurried. I plan playdates with friends and craft projects to do with the kids. I picture evenings spent watching movies and eating popcorn and staying up late while I cuddle with the kids on the sofa.

Those of you who know me can stop laughing now.

The idealist in me doesn't come out to play very often, and when she does it's short lived, mainly because reality sucker-punches me in the face. Let's take the art of breastfeeding, for example.

I was the mom who was sure I'd have breastfeeding in the bag. Since I'm not lacking in the breast department, I figured it'd be a success, naturally. This was idealism at its finest. After my first child was born, it only took three weeks for reality to come and do a total number on me. It was a TKO, really. Two rounds of thrush for the baby AND for me (google it, then gag) and a round of double mastitis later, and it was formula for baby and antidepressants for me.

There was also the time I was sure it would be fun to take the kids bowling. Idealist Mommy whispered deep into the recesses of my mind that it would be a "Fun Family Saturday," and that once the glow of Cosmic Bowling fell upon my children, it would be an hour of utopia. In reality, we arrived, spent 20 minutes trying to get shoes that fit my kids, and then walked toward the bowling lanes, passing the laser-tag arena on our way. My middle child decided then and there that he wasn't interested in the bowling we had yet to do and that all he wanted to do was play laser tag, so he spent the remainder of our time together crying on the bowling alley sofa. My youngest threw a fit because his shoes were ugly, and my daughter dropped her bowling ball on her foot.

Needless to say, an hour felt like eternity to my husband and me.

Back to Spring Break. I had great plans, truly I did. And after the first day of Spring Break, my idealistic plans were out the window.

Let's start with the plan to sleep in. Nothing wakes a mom up faster at 6:03am than the sound of glass magnets being throw at the refrigerator by a three-year-old. I mean, who doesn't wake up at the butt-crack of dawn and think it's a good idea to take all the magnets off the fridge and use them one by one to assault the faux stainless patina?

The argument that followed between my two sons was a nice follow up to the magnet episode. It was loud enough to wake my daughter, and I understand, really. Whether to watch Transformers or Inspector Gadget is cause for a heated debate when it's 6:05am.

After I commandeered the remote control and chose a show that was neither Transformers nor Inspector Gadget, I went to work in the kitchen. I had a plan, a real treat for the kids. Homemade french toast, made with brioche and a yummy vanilla-bean sauce. It's not the kind of breakfast you make when you have 10 minutes to get the kids out of the door to school, so I was excited to make it for the kids. It smelled heavenly. It looked amazing. It tasted delicious. I dusted their plates with powdered sugar and drizzled warm syrup overtop their toast, then I called the kids to the table.

"Yuck!" 

"What IS this?" 

"I don't wike this for breakwust," said the three-year-old before even tasting a bite.

Oh, they'd like it. Yes, they would.

After they gagged down their disgusting breakfast, I realized it was 7:17am and we still had the entire day in front of us. Lord, help me.

The rest of the day was full of activities. Activities like scrubbing toothpaste off the bathroom mirrors after little Mr. Trouble decided to "paint" the glass from top to bottom. Like setting the kitchen timer for ten minutes increments as each of my kids inevitably rotated through the time-out circuit. Like trying to stay a step behind the kids to clean up their crumbs because our house is on the market and has to be ready for a showing at any time.

There was no crafting. No playdates. No family-movie-cuddletime-lovefest to end the night. Heck, I put them to bed at 6:15pm and set their clocks ahead two hours so they wouldn't argue with me about it. #MomWin

The thing is, this parenting gig is hard. And family togetherness ain't always picturesque. I lose my patience and, as they so eloquently put it, "speak loudly"to my kids. They still hit and pinch each other. They call each other awful names like "baby chunkin" and "doo-doo head." I make them do awful things like read books and clean up their rooms. I don't keep every craft my kids make and I throw away most of their papers from school, which sometimes results in tears. But seriously, I don't want your page of addition and subtraction problems from yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that...

When you're a parent, the idea of a break is nothing but an illusion. Spring Break. Summer Break. Christmas Break. I personally think all school holidays should be renamed.

Spring Struggle. Christmas Confinement. Summer Servitude.

You may think I'm a bad mom for writing what you're secretly thinking. That's ok. You see, I know the truth. The truth is that I love my kids. I adore them. And I wouldn't trade the time with them for anything.

But that does NOT mean it's usually always fun.

It's work. Hard work. And when everyone's home, together, all the time, it's harder and more work.  A vacation it is not.

And that. is. ok.

My kids are worth the hard work, and so are yours. Scripture tells us that "children are a blessing from the Lord (Ps. 127)." That they are not mistakes, that God knitted them each together in our wombs, and that they are "fearfully and wonderfully made (Ps. 139)." They are awesome, funny, sinful little creatures who are entrusted to us by our Heavenly Father to love to Jesus. I need these reminders from the Word sometimes when it seems like God missed a stitch or two.

Every time instructions are given to parents in Scripture, I've noticed that there's always a verb involved. A "do this" instruction. A call to action. Parenting is a constant state of doing, and doing is working. Therefore, parenting is hard work. And when everyone's home on "break" and there's togetherness and no personal space happening, the workload is increased.

Bring it on. More time means more influence in my kids' lives. And even when I want to bail, I have to dig my feet in and love my kids to Jesus. And so do you. It's all that matters.

"A refusal to correct is a refusal to love; love your children by disciplining them." (Proverbs 13:24)

"Young people are prone to foolishness and fads; the cure comes through tough-minded discipline." (Proverbs 22:15)

"Discipline your children; you'll be glad you did. They'll turn out to be delightful to live with!" (Proverbs 29:17) 

"Point your kids in the right directions; when they're old they won't be lost." (Proverbs 22:6)

"Take your children by the hand and lead them in the way of the Master." (Ephesians 6:4)

I'm in it to win it during the Spring Struggle. Are you with me? Let's do this!

Also, I'm keeping it in the back of my mind that in four weeks from tomorrow I get to go on a cruise in the Caribbean alone. Literally, alone. As in ALL BY MYSELF. Might sound like torture to some of you. To me, it sounds like four days of heaven. So yeah, there's that. #Don'tBeHatin #It'sOkayYouCanHateALittle

And next week, when the final stretch of school-dom starts back before we get smacked in the face with Summer Servitude, you better believe this is gonna be me:

Feel free to laugh!