Category Archives: Guest-posts

5 Things Thursday: Reclaiming the Bathroom


I hope you’re ready to laugh. Seriously. Finish your drink. Swallow that last bit of…whatever. Because I don’t want to be responsible for your choking or ruining your computer screen when a geyser of Dr. Pepper shoots out your nose (ew).

Today, I’ve got Kristie from Five in Tow taking over 5 Things Thursday, and I honestly couldn’t be more excited. This woman. She has a gift. A true wordsmith, she is.


She has FIVE children—3 singletons and a set of twins as numbers 4 and 5. Sound familiar?

Yes, this is a woman after my own heart, and I am going to back away from my keyboard now and let her take over before I gush so much that I flood my laptop.

Take it away, Kristie!


This is our hall bathroom.

Reclaim the Loo 

Nice, huh? You’d think it would be the perfect place to go whenever I need a moment to…reflect.

Except I have a problem.


My children think going to the bathroom is a group activity. They can be playing nicely two rooms away, but as soon as the bathroom door shuts, everyone rushes into the hall. Mass hysteria ensues.

There is crying.

There is screaming.

There are people demanding things from me now that they did not need from me two seconds ago.


A typical bathroom excursion goes something like this: I go into the bathroom and shut the door.

Suddenly, someone’s little eyeball peeks under the door. “What are you doing, Mom?”

What am I doing?

“I’m eating a giant lollipop!”

“You ARE?” My child bursts into the bathroom.

“No! I am not! What do you think I am doing in the bathroom?”

“I dunno.” He stares at me, disappointed. His four siblings stare too since the door has been flung wide open for all to see.

Right about this time, I decide that it is time to take back my bathroom. It is time to reclaim the loo.

Apparently, hanging out with mommy in a room where the primary activity involves a toilet is not discouraging enough to my children. I’m going to have to pull out the big guns. From now on, anyone who bursts into the bathroom without knocking is going to get one of five horrific punishments.

Be afraid.


See that bathroom vanity in the background? I’ve got a pile of Russian classics stowed in the bottom drawer. Anyone who sticks his fingers under the door and tells me he’s bored is going to find himself plowing through a chapter or two of War and Peace. Unabridged.



If War and Peace doesn’t discourage my bathroom groupies, perhaps being made to match an endless supply of socks will! I have a whole pile of socks waiting for the next person who knocks on the bathroom door. I almost want them to interrupt me just so I don’t have to match them myself.

“But Mom! This is going to take forever!”

I know. Bwahaha!



Given the amount of bathroom interruptions I endure each day, there’s a good chance I’ll run out of mismatched socks before these kids get tired of bursting into the bathroom.

Good thing there’s a lot of grout to clean. In fact, I can probably finish an entire shower in the time it takes my twins to clean the slate. With a toothbrush.


This is not supposed to be fun.



Interrupting Mommy in the bathroom should come with a severe consequence, and nothing is as severe or agonizing as long division. Nothing. Most kids would rather swallow worms than be made to do long division. So be forewarned, little bathroom bargers! I’ve got a stash of worksheets and I’m not afraid to use them.



If all else fails, I will employ the most ruthless trick of all. When my little darlings bang on the door and beg me to break up some little fight, I’ll say, “Come on in! I’m just kissing Daddy in here!”

Kissing is like kryptonite to children. The very word makes them writhe in agony. They can endure and in fact be interested in any activity that happens in the bathroom, but if you say “kissing” you can bet they’ll run away faster than you can get out that long division worksheet.


So even if my husband is nowhere to be found, you can bet I’ll be “kissing” him in the bathroom.

A lot.



I’m laughing (again), and I’ve already read this post 3 times!

Kristie. Girl. I have two words for you: Pad. Lock. Okay, so that’s supposed to be one word, but it was more dramatic that way.

Anyhoo, if you want to experience more of Kristie’s storytelling and insights into life (with 5 children), head on over to her blog and say hi. You’ll be so glad you did!

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Move-it Monday: A Guest Post from Emmeline, the (disgruntled) DIY Tufted Ottoman

Hi there, Five days…5 ways readers.

I would start with all that mushy stuff that Abbie’s other guest-posters do about feeling so excited and happy to be here, but, quite frankly, I’m not. I do deserve to be here, though. It’s my right. And Abbie knows it, so let’s just skip the malarkey and cut straight to heart of the matter, shall we?

I’m Emmeline, the DIY tufted ottoman.

(Abbie added that “disgruntled” part in the title; I’m not disgruntled; okay, so maybe I am…a little; but mostly I just want justice; geez, with the labeling and stuff; she’s so passive aggressive; ANYway…*deep breath*).

You guys might remember me from this post, when I looked a little something like this:

Purdy, huh? *Sigh* Those were the days.

Back then, Abbie was super-proud of me. See how she even put me up there at the very top of the left-hand side of her blog-page, thingy, deal.

And she should have been proud. After all, she put a good 10 hours into making me. And I repaid her by bringing her lots of new friends.

I even got pinned (ouch!) a lot of times on something-or-other called…Pinobsession….no, that’s not right. Pin-it-and-then-never-actually-do-it? No, that’s not it either. Anyway, it’s some sort of internet phenomenon that has all these women sitting and staring at it for days without eating or drinking, much less doing laundry or feeding their children.

But I digress.

The point of this guest-post is to draw to your attention a betrayal of the worst sort.

Because you deserve to know what Abbie’s truly like.

You see, after suffering all kinds of indignities over the last year and 1/2—countless juice spills and peanut butter smears, innumerable pillow fights where I took at least as many shots as what those little hooligans Abbie calls her children were actually aiming at, and even several instances of serving as a handkerchief to sop up the snot of that little bitty thing with the flowy hair—she’s replaced me. (Abbie, not the little one).

Here’s how it went down:

She spent a whole lot of time sitting on the couch after Thanksgiving, staring at her computer screen and muttering about Black Friday deals, whatever those are. Mostly, I just blocked her out. Believe me, she talks to herself enough and does more than enough hollering at her offspring that if you didn’t turn a deaf ear to most of it, you’d go as batty as she obviously is.

But then she sat up a little straighter, and her eyes got brighter, and she started jabbering things like “French yellow tufted ottoman in linen.” And I started to get worried.

Turns out for good reason.

I mean, sure, I wasn’t exactly looking my best.


Those darn little ankle-biters pulled off all but two of my buttons!

And then there was the fact that Abbie never actually bothered to finish my nail-head trim.


I overheard her tell that really cute tall man who’s always around that they should do it “this weekend,” but apparently, it never was “this weekend,” because it didn’t happen.

I just kept hanging onto hope though, content in the knowledge that she wouldn’t—no, couldn’t—forget my loyalty.

I did start to worry, though—when she popped out 2 (TWO!) more future juice-spillers—that she might never get around to restoring me to my former, blog-worthy glory.

And then—THEN—a big box showed up…and out came this:


Okay, so maybe it is kind of pretty in all its French yellow linen…ness.

And it doesn’t have any juice stains (yet) and has all its buttons.

And it was a pretty good deal with free shipping even (I took a peek at her receipt when she wasn’t looking).

But seriously? I’m DIY. And that thing’s…not.  That makes her a total faker, right? Right!


Ugh. I just can’t stop myself with the pictures.

Anyway, I just thought you ought to know the kind of girl you’re dealing with.

Sure, she claims that she intends to revamp me (someday), but we all know how that’ll probably never happen with all those little people running around.

Honestly, the only consolation I have is that pretty soon, little Miss Yellow Britches is going to look like this:


{Unless, of course, Abbie actually makes that protective covering she keeps talking about}.

But, for now, she looks like this:


Grrrrr…Must. stop. looking.

And I’ve been relegated to a corner of the workshop.

I mean, there really is no justice in the world, is there?

But at least now you know. I’ve been replaced. Feel free to leave multitudinous comments expressing your outrage.

Until we meet again…Adieu (take that, Frenchie!)

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