It's been brought to my attention by a certain wonderful friend (Hi Michelle!) that I should really start writing down the ridiculousness that happens in our house on a daily basis.  Not the normal ridiculousness like messy houses (check.) and crazy children (also check.), but the things that happen that I couldn't make up if I tried. The times where I'm caught running through a freshly plowed, muddy field in Korea with one shoe shouting "That's it! We're going home!" Or the times when I have to look up how to make eye makeup remover that I can use on the dog, because mascara very stubbornly clings to dog fur.  With the alarming frequency these happen, maybe it really is best that I put pen to paper (or Muppet movie to toddler, thus establishing a few minutes of fingers to keyboard); if for no other reason than to show those I love that my level of sanity is completely understandable given the current whirlwind of chaos.

  14 March 2013: A chance to pretend like I'm super mom by taking one inquisitive three year old to a strawberry farm that clearly states their pro-strawberry consumption platform (eat as many as you can pick... my kind of place).  The scene in my head involved discussion of how to determine the perfectly ripe strawberry, lots of tasting strawberries, quality time spent with my daughter, and adorable pictures of her with strawberry juice smeared on her face. Perhaps my ambitions were lofty.  There WAS a lot of delicious strawberry consumption, and there was quick discussion of how to pick a ripe strawberry ("No no no! The red ones!  No that's green, no that's a flower, don't touch that bee, yes, THAT one! Oh... we don't throw strawberries on the ground.") Mostly there was manic running around and me trying to duck under rows of strawberry plants with my pregnant belly to snag my kid by her collar as she tried to run off into a strawberry frenzy.  But she had a great time and I was feeling supremely smug and proud of myself for creating this fun and teachable moment for her.

I should know never to get cocky.

Next thing I know, she's 200 meters away in a muddy field and I only have had time to put one shoe back on while I try to shove the second one on (curse you Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars! Why do you have to fail me now?!) as my daughter is making a very committed break for sweet, sweet pre-schooler freedom from tyranny (i.e. Mom). First the boots got stuck in the mud, then came the perfectly timed butt plant right into the squishiest spot she could find, followed by two adults almost ended up with a face full of mud to get her out (thanks Lauren!).

All that time and she never let go of the candy the ajumma at the strawberry farm gave her. That's dedication.

And she was SO angry that the mud adventure was over. She wasn't shy in informing me of this fact.

This did not pan out as I had intended. You can see that the entire back side of her is covered in mud and I had to MacGyver a skirt out of a zip up fleece jacket so she had some kind of pants for the ride home. (Because she had also dressed herself that morning, and conveniently neglected underwear.)

"Curse the tyrant maternal overload. My plans won't be foiled so easily next time."