Before I get started here, let me say a little something.  First, I have no fancy credentials which gives me authority to speak on this subject.  I’m simply passing on what I’ve read and sharing what I’ve implemented in my home.  You’ll have to read the information for yourself and decide what you think because there is a HUGE range of opinions about SIDS (just google “SIDS prevention” and you’ll see what I mean).  And the information seems to change all the time.

But anyway, I’ll get straight to my point. We wrap our crib mattress in plastic (think giant Ziploc) to prevent toxic gases from reaching the baby.  Here’s an article that explains it pretty well, with lots of references included.  It’s based on a study done in New Zealand.  Be aware, the study has not been scientifically proven and there has been a lot of question as to its statistical accuracy, but the claim is that not a single baby in New Zealand has died of SIDS while sleeping on a properly wrapped mattress since this study began in 1994.

My faith is not in a piece of plastic; my faith is in God.  God is the one who decides when my children’s time on earth is over and I rest in knowing He knows best.  Nevertheless, for me, that piece of plastic has provided a whole lot of peace of mind.

This post is part of Works for Me Wednesday over at Rocks in My Dryer.  Go on over there and find a whole lot more WFMW posts!

I’m turning comments off.

You know, once upon a time I was actually organized. Oh how I long to recapture my youth. It’s not that I don’t try to get organized–I assure you my intentions are stellar–it’s just that I always. get. interrupted. That and the fact that after having children my days are suddenly only 19 hours long and not 24. Not sure how that happens but it does. Yep, the days get shorter, the hips get wider and the boobs get longer. And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen: having babies in a nutshell.

Good night.

So we’re eatin’ lunch today and here’s what my 5-year-old busts out with:

Him: “Grandmas are moms without rules.”

Me: “Oh, where did you hear that?”

Him: “Nowhere, I just thought of it.”

So I’m trying to get things organized around here before the school year overtakes us.  This morning we were in my daughter’s room.  She’s 8 and is just entering the “tween” stage.   Oh my. This gives me a little stress, but that’s another post.

Regardless of how much the two of us need to stick together in a house with 4 other males, sometimes I’m baffled at how different we are.  Whereas I’m forever looking for stuff to get rid of, she likes to keep EVERYTHING.  She’s particularly partial to itty, bitty pieces of paper (what is it with girls and paper??), miscellaneous crafts she made last year, various notebooks and writing instruments, anything that grandma gave her (the girl WILL NOT throw away anything grandma gave her) and small, porcelain whatnots you might find at the garage sale of a 90-year old.

But today she rose to a whole new level.

I noticed a pair of athletic socks laying on her floor.  They were balled up so I assumed they were hers.  “Peanut,” I say, “put your socks in the sock pile.”

“Oh, those aren’t mine.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat puzzled. “Who do they belong to?”

“I don’t know.  Here are three more pairs,” she says as she shows me the rest of her stash.

“They’re not yours?”

“No, I just found them so I thought I’d start a weird guy sock collection.”

Here’s me: Trying my darndest to put into practice all the great parenting advice I’ve collected–you know, like setting healthy boundaries and providing a reasonable amount of structure and whatever else they say will help you raise the next president. You probably don’t have this problem, but my efforts at parenting often means someone in this house doesn’t get precisely what they want at the exact moment they want it…which, around here means someone might just flip their lid…which means I either (a) begin to second-guess myself mercilessly, as in, “Was I being totally reasonable there?” or (b) immediately and suddenly am transported back to fourth grade when my goal in life was for every single person in the whole wide world to like me, really, really like me. The psychological, inner-child circus going on inside my brain really hampers my positive parenting techniques.

But I’ve always been this way. When something goes wrong, I generally figure it’s my fault. When someone’s mad, I’m sure I did something to make them so. Even when good things happen, I excel at pointing out how they could’ve been better had I not [fill in the blank]. Do you realize how sick this is? Sick, people. I’m sick.

And now God wants me to raise children who are unhappy with me on a daily basis? Nice. Real nice.

The idea behind Infant Swimming Resource (ISR) was born in 1966 when its founder, Dr. Harvey Barnett, was just 18 years old. As an active lifeguard with a passion for water safety, Barnett witnessed the tragic aftermath when a neighbor child drowned. At that moment, he vowed to do everything possible to ensure not one more child drowns…To date, ISR has 788 documented cases of children using ISR techniques to save themselves from drowning.

I’m not an outstanding cook and this is probably not news to most of you, but I learned this trick from my mom and it’s so gratifying when something works right every time, don’t you think? Then I was watching Rachael Ray once and saw that she boils an egg the same way. I hate it when she copies me.

1. Put as many raw eggs in the bottom of a pan (the size will depend on how many eggs you want to cook) that will fit in one layer.
2. Fill pot with enough water to cover eggs.
3. Put the lid on and bring it to a boil.
4. As soon as you’ve got a nice, rolling boil going, remove the pot from the heat but don’t remove the lid.
5. Let the eggs sit in the hot water for 20 minutes.
6. When the timer rings, drain the hot water and fill it up with cold until cooled.

That’s it! No green/gray film and no undercooked yolk. Works every time!

• My dark year of the soul
• The bright spot in my dark year
• My rock bottom