JoJo, DIY, & Buckshot

It’s spooky scarf weather!!

I know what you’re thinking. “I really thought she’d get less enjoyment out of dressing her dog once she had a child.” False. Still very entertaining to me. A dog in a scarf? That’s comedy in Sarah-land.

JoJo

JoJo (momma Sparks) came to visit this week.

You know how a parent’s love is “unconditional”? That means their love for you will never run out – at least not until you have their grandchild, then you’re dead to them.

That’s not fair to say. You’re not entirely dead to them, you just morph into strictly the car seat carrier and occasional baby-feeder.

I kid, I kid.

We had a great time taking pictures of baby B, shopping, taking more pictures, going to a new Bible study*, forgetting about bobby pins hanging down our foreheads while meeting tons of people for the first time (no names, JoJo), and dining at Tres Casas with Jared.

My favorite activity while she was here was probably handing the baby to her so I could shower and get ready alone. It was glorious.

Sometime between the paper rose wreath and the chalkboard frame I made from pins I saw, I truly believe I can make everything I see.

I have an overinflated sense of craftiness.

Because of this newfound interest, I have also started following every do-it-yourself blog I can find. Do you realize there are people who make money sitting at home blogging about crafts they did?

It’s like Macguyver gone Martha Stewart.

You give these people a toilet paper tube, a piece of scrapbook paper, some Mod Podge, and before you know it they’ve redecorated their whole kitchen.

I’d love to sit at home and blog or craft all day, but first I need some sort of profitable talent. Currently all I have going for me is a humorous outlook on life with a poop machine. Well, and life with Beckett and Mack. You can’t sell that on Etsy.

Anyway.

I’m up for a craft party if you’d like to join. The only minor setback is that this aforementioned party has to occur between the hours of 1-3 pm, aka naptime for Beckett.

Buckshot

You know those family traditions you grow up with that seem completely normal until you explain them aloud as an adult? Yea, that.

Last week Taylor and I went to dinner with his parents where we were telling our Thanksgiving plans.

We’re headed to Pocahontas (pronounced Pocahuntas), Arkansas, this year to have Thanksgiving with my mom’s side of the family. I love Pocahontas because it’s a small town with great people and a very popular Walmart.

I started telling about our Thanksgiving traditions there, one of which includes eating a pheasant-and-dressing casserole instead of the traditional T-day turkey. My grandpa is an avid bird hunter, so they have a plethora of pheasant and quail in the freezer.

I then busted out with, “And we always play a game of ‘find the buckshot’ in our casserole at dinner. Whoever finds the shot in their bite of food wins.”

Pause.

Rewind.

What just came out of my mouth?

We eat pheasant? And we play a game of finding bird bullets in our food? And we’re excited to win this game?

This seemed so very normal to me until I said it aloud.

Most American households have nice, fancy holiday meals comprised of dress clothes, fine china, candles, and cloth napkins.

My family tries not to choke on buckshot, and I love every second of it.