Coloring Outside The Lines - A Mom's Perspective On Challenging Kids To Think With Humor

Moved

2011-04-15T22:47:00.000-05:00

I have finally moved. New site..new start.

I can be found at

Color Me Happy

All old posts have been imported there.

April 13, 2011

2011-04-13T14:14:00.000-05:00

After much thought, I will be moving this blog soon. My life is opening up into a new chapter and after all that has happened (and a very wise friend's advice) it is time for me to let go of "Crayon Wrangler". After letting that go...who better to be than just myself?!?

For now as I am working with some awesome people getting my new blog up you can reach me at
alyciaestok@gmail.com

and follow me on Twitter
@alyciaestok (sorry for having to follow yet ANOTHER account)

Thanks again to all of you who have loved on me, offered advice and just really exemplified what a friend is.

Alycia

April 9, 2011

2011-04-09T23:30:00.001-05:00

As of today I will not be blogging here for a while. Do not follow me on Twitter or Facebook as those accounts have been hacked. Do not believe anything that you see "me" say unless you hear it from my voice.
My gmail account and my cell phone are the only way to get a hold of me.
I apologize for the confusion and hope to be on my feet soon. Thank you to all who have contacted me with prayers, support and resources. I appreciate you.
Alycia (Crayon Wrangler)

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Up - Go Have An Adventure!

2011-04-06T09:09:00.001-05:00

One of my favorite movies to watch with my girls, is "Up." I don't really know why they like it because it seems a little old for them. Yet, they ask for it and I smile inside; grabbing some popcorn. (Is there a movie that you like? Go join the discussion HERE at the Pixorial BlogFrog community)

If you haven't watched this movie, I'm about to slide into some possible spoilers. Oh...and if you haven't seen the movie; let me know. I'll come pull you out from under the rock!

There are two scenes that choke me up every time I see them. The very first time I watched it, the tears fell unbidden. Its scenes that are gut wrenching and somewhat cleansing for an adult.

The first scene is when the Carl Fredrickson and Russel finally reach a destination in the floating house. The fog is thick and the disappointment of believing they are not where they want to be is even thicker. Swirls of the fog cloak shapes and their eyes strain to make out where they have landed. The dark gloominess does nothing to compare the shadow of their emotions.

Out of nowhere come a great gusting wind, causing the pair to cringe and shield their eyes. There is almost a touchable feeling of "Oh God what next?"

But the fog lifts and sunlight pierces through illuminating in front of them a land of dreams. The dreary gray is replaced by the striking color of a lush forest and a waterfall painted with a rainbow.

Their eyes can scarcely take it all in and to see the "I made it to where I want to be" cross their expressions is the sweetest gut wrench. They are still standing on a cliff, miles away from where the heart wants to be, but it's there in front of them. It's obtainable. Tangible.

How many times are we so blinded by our disappointment with where we are that we don't see what is right in front of us just waiting to be revealed? There may be cliffs and miles, but if you keep your eyes on that waterfall and put one foot in front of the other; it's there waiting for you.

The second scene is where Mr. Fredrickson is looking through a book of "Adventures" that he and his wife had lovingly put together. Sharing their joys, memories and dreams in snapshots. The strength in their union was that they shared every page, every dream and worked together for a goal.

He lovingly caresses each page of the past; the bitter sweet memory of a moment lost forever. As he flips to the last page, there is a tender sentiment to him in his wife's handwriting to keep having adventures. A dying love's last wish that life be continued and dreams be fulfilled.

So many years he had spent mourning that he had quit living. He believed that because he couldn't reach out and touch her, that love and the lust for life was gone forever. He realizes in that moment that she was still there. Love was not lost as he began to live again, instead love was stronger than ever. He was still sharing his adventure with her by living.

Are we ever to a place where we feel that our dreams are gone because life didn't go according to the pages we had hoped to fill? Do we shut ourselves up and close our shades in mourning?

Don't wait until the last moment when yellowed pages of memories is all that you have.

Go have an adventure!

The End.

Ivory Silence

2011-04-05T01:09:00.004-05:00

I'm linking up with The Red Dress Club today, but I am also guest posting at Four Plus An Angel

RemembeRED

This week's assignment was to write a post about a sound or scent that brings you right back to your past.

*Disclaimer - my wonderful writing partner and editor did not get a chance to see this. It was a last minute submission and therefore she should not be stoned for missing my standard errors.

**Below I speak of a song. To hear my favorite interpretation click HERE

Ivory notes of "What Child Is This" hung in the air and every part of me wanted to snatch the harmony back. My fingers poised in perfect position.

Trained. Willing. Stopped.

I look back now and I see that it had been a hard day. I now have children so I understand the pushed feeling. Today I have no recollection of what was said, how it started or how it ended. I only know that moment.

My dad had spoken sharply to me. He wanted me to stop playing the piano.

I had been at this song for almost the full amount of time that was set on the oven timer. Rushing through the notes as I always did for the achingly slow Christmas Carol. For me it wasn't about perfecting the song, it was about giving it my own rhythm. Fur Elise came out like a rock song for me. Putting On The Ritz I spun into lounge music. I even learned how to hang over backwards on the hard piano bench and play upside down; never looking at the keys. Someone else wrote the song, but it was mine to interpret. I loved when I finally heard me in every song.

I am not sure that I was the first to express interest in piano lessons. I remember the looming box always sitting in the corner and one day I began to play. Next thing I remember is sitting beside Ms. Watson getting my knuckles hit over and over while my mom waited in the car at the curb. Ms. Watson and her gnarled fingers couldn't play much anymore herself, but a stern, wise teacher she was. She had a way of coaxing me to let the music play through me. Instead of focusing on Allegretto or Adiago, she instructed me to play the beat of my heart.

She would chastise me for watching the clock at times, impatient to get on with life.

"Bloom where you are planted." she would say.

I have always hated that saying. I don't believe a palm tree can bloom just because it is planted in the arctic. I believe sometimes you have to decide where you are best suited and pull up your own roots. Bloom because you are so happy with where you are that you can't help but unfurl your petals.

That hard wooden bench was certainly not where my energetic body wanted to be planted, but bloom I did. I learned each song, each note was a feeling. I could make it whisper as a lover, welcome you as a friend or cry out in personal torture. I took each troubled emotion that a maturing girl stumbles into and poured it into a song.

With all my passion for the notes I could caress, I couldn't bring myself to put another finger down that moment. I felt my bloom fade a little and my petals begin to pull back in.

I sat in silence and he moved on to do something else. My timer hadn't gone off yet releasing me to perform anything else, so I starred a hole into the sheet music.

I tentatively struck a note and paused. In my next breath, the haunting notes of the song began to come alive. Slow and with purpose. As the song wove into the air, my tears finally began to fall. The melody of disappointment.

Disappointment in self.

Disappointment in a parent.

The song reaches out year after year through the radio or through my own fingers. The slow notes still contain an ache, but I've come to embrace the feeling. I allow the sadness to wash through me and recognize that although disappointment is a part of this life, its not the ending note.

People will fail you.

You will fail others.

I have the choice to continue playing, for me alone. To make every life song my own and bloom.

*Author's notes: In the note I do not want it mistaken that my father and I have a turmoiled relationship. This was merely a take on the prompt. My daddy and I are good! This was a moment that my dad was having a hard time (as adults get from time to time) and I had my heart on my sleeve (as young girls get from time to time)
Also, one of my favorite moments with Ms. Watson was years after I stopped taking lessons from her. I was volunteering at a nursing home and ran into her, a new resident. In the lobby there was a piano and we sat down together. I played a few songs for her and showed her that although she had quit instructing me; I never quit learning. At that time I was deep into teenage rebellion, but beside her at that moment...I bloomed.

We Rock

2011-04-04T09:48:00.000-05:00

Thump Thump Thump

My husband gives me the side eye and I just wearily shake my head. There is nothing more I can do.

"Do something!"

Bitsy is rocking again. Not strumming out on an air guitar and flinging her little curls to some Queensryche. She's just rocking.

Into a doorframe.

Against a wall.

Thump Thump Thump

I finally reached out to Twitter last night, since our darling backwoods, black bag toting grandpa farm doctor just said "she'll out grow it" or "find her a good glass of sweet tea and a rocking chair." Even Buzz knows. She's likes to deem her little sister as "special like me." Sometimes (although she was never a rocker) she will sit beside Bitsy and rock with her.

Dear Twitter....you guys are awesome!!!!

I was at wits end (not a real far trip, but every mile is precious to me) and to the point that I just wanted to lean up on the wall with her; rocking and crying. Each thump on the wall echoed a thump of pain in my heart that I can't fix her. I can't seem to ease what is causing it. She has no words at almost 16mos and very few sounds (We are thinking another Speech Delay child) so how long until she can express her frustration? How long until she can tell me what is too much for her to process?

Until then we rock.

Not against the wall though or a door frame. We rock just being who we are. For all our quirks, for everything that makes us different; we rock. For being mother and daughter who don't speak the same language; we can still show our love and we rock. For being a family cast in the chaos of special needs and making it through the day; we rock.

UBP11!!!

2011-04-01T16:10:00.002-06:00

My UBP Welcome Vlog and some crazy outtakes :)

More Outtakes if you didn't get enough courtesy of my handy cameraman's mad editing skills....

Broken Strength

2011-03-31T09:59:00.000-06:00

The minutes drug by as I struggled not to give in and cry. Sitting alone on the table I felt so very small, cold and helpless. A grown adult I attempted to belittle myself about my pain.

"You see kids running around with broken arms all the time. Come on...grow up. Quit sniveling! No seriously...STOP. Oh geez...you are going to start again."

A nurse came in the room at that moment, saw my eyes and immediately asked if I had taken the pain medication that had been given me. I didn't want to be bothered, so I said "Yes." The truth was I hadn't taken it since I had to drive myself. She began laying out all the things the doctor would need to set my arm in its final cast. Chirping about her day, attempting a cordial bedside manner and then she lied.

"You know your bone will grow back stronger. You'll be even better than before."

I knew better than that, but for a moment I laughed and said, "tell the doctor to come in and break all of me then."

During the weeks of healing, I felt the weakest I had ever felt. Handicapped. Dependent. I would go to the store and someone would always offer to help me. I would deny them and learn to do it by myself.

Then came the day that the cast came off. The doctor sat and looked at it; a frown taking the place of what I expected to be a smile and a cheery wave as I skipped cast free from that office. More xrays and more time waiting on that table. He finally came in and held my arm at the healed break.

"We are going to have to rebreak this. It didn't heal the way it should have. Did you use it? For appearances you will always have a lump there."

I snatched my arm back as though he had ripped a baby from my arms. Indignant, but mostly scared.

"I will not have my arm broken by someone again."

There was no smile or cheery wave as I left the room without being excused and never looked back.

The truth was I had used my arm. I worked through the pain because I couldn't handle being weak. I couldn't force myself to wait for the healing.

In reflecting I find this to be a theme for my life. I can't handle being weak when I am broken. I don't wait for the healing as I try to rush through the pain. The moments in my life that pushed me to my knees, I would defiantly stand back up on my feet and deny proper healing time. I think about that nurse and her lie.

"You know your bone will grow back stronger. You'll be even better than before."

Although it was a lie about my arm, it wasn't off the mark about my spirit. At the moment of the break; when weakness fills me; I need to allow myself time to heal properly. The pain of healing is sometimes unbearable but when allowed, can actually make you stronger.

There may be people who see the real you when you are weak, no matter the brave face you put on. They offer to help because you can't always do everything alone. I'm learning to let people help and let them see me weak. It can be painful to admit I can't do it, but then again they already knew that or they wouldn't have offered to help. Sometimes they can't actually help, but like the cast; they can surround you and protect you as you heal.

Being broken hurts. Healing is agonizing. Yet, in the end...you will be stronger.

Piercing Life's Grain

2011-03-29T22:15:00.000-06:00

It's too early for a diagnosis officially for our Bitsy, but we know.

We've been here before with Buzz, but this time we aren't afraid or ashamed.

We've learned that these two precious girls do not flow with the grain of what is "normal;" they dig in and make a mark. Piercing deep and experiencing life, leaving a few splinters that wound the heart of their parents.

Wounds of wishing others saw their unique view of life.

Wounds of desiring life to be a little kinder to them.

Sitting last night beside Bitsy's bed while she flapped her hands, rocking back and forth into the wall, I wept. Not out of pity for her, nor the need to change her. I wept because I understood that I will never understand. I will make accommodations for her when the lights are too bright, when noises are too loud, when emotions are jumbled, when a certain texture frightens her and when her words can't be understood.

Yet, I can't understand with the mind that I was given. I can't process life the way that they do.

All that I can do is mother and thankfully, that's all they need from me.

As they pierce deep into the grain of life, they teach me.

They better me.

They have pierced my heart in a way that I would never want repaired. A nail of difference.

Spring Flowers

2011-03-29T15:19:00.000-06:00

Handling Instructions

2011-03-28T10:21:00.000-06:00

Remember the movie Gremlins where a set of specific instructions are given that keep the cute and fuzzy Gremlin from going berserk, evil and homicidal?

We all have them. That little list of things that keeps us fluffy and friendly.

After a conversation with a friend this morning (who was not aware of every item on my list and became a victim of my gnarly side) I have decided to take this opportunity to share with you my "Handling Instructions".

Do not engage me for at least 1 hour after I have woken up or until you see my first empty coffee cup. Whatever comes first. - I am a horrible morning person and I make little apology for it. One thing that will make my fangs show faster than anything is to expect me to perform in any way upon first opening my eyes. There are some things I will do, but its on my own terms and should not ever be expected. Suffice it to say that I could never be a Fireman or little Suzy's kitty cat would probably be shot out of the tree instead of safely delivered into her arms with a smile and a pat on her little grateful head.
I live by the rule of balance - Regardless of what is said, I do not believe that any one person can be 100% kind, patient, creative, etc. all of the time. It's not good for you. Sometimes the fur has to fly and you must raise the pirate flag as you rip out an evil cackle through your adventure. There are days that I have had to be extremely patient with my children, caring with a client, etc. and I must balance this out by a little snark here and there or by throwing a water balloon at my kids, loosening the salt shaker lid at the dinner table or prank answering a telemarketer by allowing them to believe that I'm an opera singer in practice or I am hiding in the closet from evil pirates...AURGH.
Save your compliments for your Grandma's biscuits - I don't do compliments. It's not that I don't think I deserve them...I do (see...I am humble too) When I have done something for someone, I would rather you pass it on then go on & on about what I did, how it affected you, how it could affect the jet stream in Africa and knock a bee off course...I don't care after I have done it. I just did it for you. Let's move on..the last time I needed my butt powdered was 34 years ago. If you like my hair...thank Clariol (it's their work, not mine) If you like my clothes...thank (insert label here) I didn't stitch them, I just display them. If you like the way my kids behave...thank God, because I can't seem to do it right.
Don't surprise me. Ever. - I have a tremendous range of emotion, but for some reason the "Surprise" emotion got looked over upon installation. My children haven't seemed to gotten this concept yet. Everyday I get a new surprise. "Look Mom...the baby CAN fit in the toilet" "Look Mom...I can do makeup on me and my sisters with a Sharpie" "Look Mom...no don't look at all the flour and broken eggs on the floor...I made you breakfast (which clearly violates rule #1 anyways)

Those are some basic handling instructions to keep me cute and fluffy.

What are some of yours?

The Son, Moon and Star

2011-03-24T20:20:00.000-06:00

This week's prompt is simple: write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, inspired by the delicious shot. Word limit is 600.

“Stop, you little thief”

Moon’s fingers gripped the scrap of cloth holding her prize as her bare feet pounded the uneven cobblestone. Her tattered skirt fluttered like a sail behind her as she navigated the familiar path leading to her escape. Angry shouts faded behind her as the distance grew between her and the baker.

Pushing her way through women’s thick skirts and men’s trousers, she barely noticed the way they cringed from her path as if her poverty and despair were a plague. No one chastised her for her crime, only a handful of people even knew her name.

Two years ago, as they huddled together behind the bakery, Star, with all the wisdom of a six year old, suggested Moon pick her own name. Contemplating her choices, Moon knew she wanted something that would always be close to Star.

Star had been the one who had carried her as a toddler away from the fallen woman in the alley, the woman who was known as Mother. Two years was a lifetime to Moon. It was longer than the unwanted girl ever had with a “family.”

Moon twisted her body between the tin walls of her riverside fortress.She clutched her bounty close to her so it would be unblemished when she presented it to Star. Cautiously, Moon picked her way to Star’s bedside.

Her breath caught for a moment until she saw her sister’s chest rise and fall with another shallow breath.

She placed her small hand on her feverish forehead and waited. Eyelashes fluttered open, revealing Star’s pained eyes. Without a word, Moon slowly unwrapped the richly frosted donut and broke off a small piece, placing it on Star’s swollen tongue.

A smile, so slight it could have been imagined, crossed her face as peace took the place of anguish.

She carefully tucked away the luxurious delicacy. The lingering smell reminded her of the other times they had shared a stolen pastry. They had dreamed of being royalty and how anxious they were to return to the loving arms of their parents. In those brief moments, Star and Moon were no longer street tramps but princesses, adorned in fine dresses and dining to their hearts’ content.

Rustling jerked Moon back into the present and she spied the hungry eyes of a child peering through the sheets of tin. Drawn by the sweet scent, the child cautiously approached her. So not to frighten the child, Moon reached out to the fragile little boy and offered him the wrapped donut.

“You got a mommy?”

His sad eyes told her a familiar story of pain. She settled down beside him as he devoured his treasure, savoring the sugary icing. Using her torn skirt, Moon tenderly wiped the crumbs from his sunken cheeks.

“You got a name?”

The boy would need a name. Moon suggested he choose his own.

Just For Her...

2011-03-24T10:00:00.001-06:00

She hugs my legs for just a moment and then runs out of my sight. She hasn't gone far because I can hear the patter of her bare feet accompanying her hysterical giggle. No more than ten seconds will pass and she will be back. I know this game so I sit cross legged on the floor and wait for her. Her chubby legs toddle her back to my waiting arms and she smiles in satisfaction that she was right...I was there waiting for her. We do this dozens of times in a row and no matter where she goes, I wait until she comes back.

Hugs, giggles, kisses and smiles; waiting just for her.

It's a game, but it's not.

She's testing to see if I will always be there when she comes back. She's learning that she can exist without me.

Every time she goes off on an adventure, her feet take her a little farther than before. The dining room, the living room and an attempt to tackle the stairs; each place is more distant than the last and she looks back a little less than before.

Kindergarten, High School, First Car, First Date, College, Marriage and an attempt to tackle this life. Each place will be more distant than the last and she will look back a little less each time.

She will learn that she can exist without me, but she'll always know that I will be here waiting for her when she returns.

Hugs, giggles, kisses and smiles; waiting just for her.

The Phantom Cry

2011-03-23T07:18:00.000-06:00

I thought it was just me, but I found out it was you too.

Yesterday I took a chance and mentioned "The Phantom Cry" and you said you heard it too. Sometimes it disguises itself as a cough or just a funny sound that must be investigated, but it is a real phenomenon that is causing sleep disruptions for parents everywhere.

Night time is not the only time the cry will present itself, although hands down the most frequent. Sometimes you hear it during the day. Working in your kitchen, running a vacuum or inside a store, you hear it. Calling you, pleading with you and causing you to get up to run to your child's aide. Sleep finally claiming you, body relaxed and then you hear the beckon of a little one. For a moment you question its validity.

Was that my child or the house settling?

Was that a cough or did a bed spring sigh?

I don't think that's what that was, but it could have been.

Perhaps I will just get back to what I was doing.

I better go check.

Just in case.

The child is probably asleep and I'll just disturb their sleep.

I still better go check.

I won't be able to go back to sleep if I don't.

You check and see a sound asleep child. Smiling, acknowledging "The Phantom Cry"; you turn to leave the room. Proud of yourself for checking, but knowing you were just a victim to "The Phantom Cry"; you shake your head and promptly trip over a toy left in the center of the floor. Favoring the toe, you hop and lose your balance falling into the toy chest.

"WAAAAAAHHHHH.......MOOOOMMMMMMMAAAAA"

The Phantom Cry is now real. Good job, momma. Yet, for all the times it wasn't real...where you questioned your sanity and your hearing...you aren't alone. All of us parents are casualties of "The Phantom Cry".

I also found out that you casually rock back and forth in a grocery line cradling a jug of milk or loaf of bread and your house is also missing most table spoons and socks disappear with no explanation.

Have you experienced "The Phantom Cry"? What other phenomenons do you think are universal of parents?

Magic With Kids

2011-03-21T08:37:00.000-06:00

During the weekend I sent out a tweet that I was hiding and spray painting rocks with glitter. After a little explaining, I still was receiving emails and direct messages about "what on earth was I doing??" So I wanted to take some time today to share how I create magical memories for my kids. You can also go HERE to join in on a discussion. (That is the Pixorial community where I am a community leader. Lots of great discussions about memories, preserving memories, video, pictures, etc. going on there)

Wishing On A Star:

What you will need:

Rocks (your choice of size. Just make sure that they aren't big enough to go through a window or bonk a baby's head)
Silver or Gold glitter spray paint
A decorated "wish" box that will house your "stars" (Let your kids decorate with paint, glitter, gems, etc.)
A special toy that you know your child has "wished" for.
A few hours by yourself (Good luck with that!!!)

How to:

After you have collected your rocks, give them a good coating of your glittery spray paint. Make sure you have plenty of time for them to dry because once they are dry you are going to throw them all over the backyard. (Count your rocks and make sure the kids collect them all. Otherwise if you break your lawnmower blade with a glitter rock, it's not my fault)

Get your box and craft supplies and take the afternoon with your children making a "Wish Box". Tell them that this is where they will put their collected stars that hold their wish. They will set this box of stars on the front porch at night and in the morning will get to see if their wishes came true.

Once it is dark and you and the kiddos are doing your normal routine. Casually approach a window and exclaim with great delight that you saw a falling star! (It is imperative that your children know all about the whole "make a wish on a falling star" thing or else this is not going to work at all)

Go outside (and I hope to heavens you remember where you placed your "stars") and let your kiddos collect their stars.

Once back inside, prompt each child to make their wish on their star and place it in the box outside. Suggest that toy they have been wanting and usually (not always...there is always that one kid that wants a flying unicorn that smells like rainbows) they will go along with the toy wish.

After they have gone to sleep, place their toys along with the empty wish box outside. (Do not sprinkle glitter around to add to the magic on your porch...this is a pain to get off)

The final step is just to wake them up in the morning and do a big "TA-DAH!!!!"

That is all it takes to create a magical memory. A little time, some creativity and glitter! Have fun making your wishes!!!

Detoured

2011-03-17T21:10:00.001-06:00

Red Writing Hood - Detour

This week's prompt asked you to write a piece - fiction or non-fiction - in which you or your character take a detour.

There would be screaming, panic, wailing and gnashing of teeth. Total pandemonium. Only I held the power to calm the masses.

“Where is that stupid flashlight?”

Wide eyes; three pair of them; followed my every move. Tension hung in the air much thicker than the electricity coming from the approaching storm.

“Ahh...here is it!”

I held the sacred light above my head and clicked the button to show my children that Mommy was every bit of “The Light Goddess That Chases Away Storm Fear” that they had built me up to be.

Nothing. Not even a promising flicker of a bad connection.

“Probably needs batteries. Oh well, come on Lady Troop. Let’s go get the batteries out of my closet”

“Momma, can I have some juice first?”

I laid the flashlight down and grabbed the waving sippy cup from the dancing three year old. Filled with juice and released back the clogging and pirouetting Princess, two more sets of empty cups were shoved towards me before I could even blink. Reaching back into the fridge, I realized the carton was empty. I rushed to the pantry to grab another juice, before chaos could set in. Immediately I was anointed the “Goddess of the Liquid Orchard” by “The Sippy Cup Mafia” as I filled up the rest of the cups.

Heading to the closet I snapped a misplaced Lego in half between my toes and became known as “The One That Uses Daddy Words”. I began to pick up the Mattel and Tyco landmines and realized that one was stuck firmly to the wood floor by “I-probably-don’t-want-to-know” stuff. I ran back to the pantry and grabbed the mop. This delighted “Those Who Like To Ice Skate In Socked Feet.”

“Momma, the baby’s butt stanks.”

Childish giggling followed me in another trip to the pantry, this time for diapers. When I returned I found a hunkered baby with a mischievous “guess what I did” smile waiting for me.

“Whoa girl!!! That is some serious stank”

More giggling could be heard behind me as I deftly changed the baby’s diaper in my usual 4.3 seconds flat, a skill I have developed from changing diapers for the past five years. From a seated position a good nine foot away, I banked the diaper off the lid and with a winning 3 pointer in the can. Just another talent I’ve achieved in the past five years. Applause and cheers flooded my ears as the children celebrated another victory.

“Alright my little minions...to the closet. CHARGE!!”

Like a mother duck followed by her waddling ducklings, my sippy cup sucking troop made their way with me to my room. “The Closet” was a magical place that transformed them into little mothers or “Ladies Of The Tu-Tu And Tea Society”, but strictly forbidden by “She Who Has Cool Purses And Shoes”. The siren call of fancy sandals and sequined clutches forced them to venture into “The Closet” at least 4 times a day; the penalty of entry worth the cost of accessorising in the name of fashion.

I reached out to flick the switch.

The bulb blew, plunging us into darkness.

“Dangit...we are going to need a flashlight!”

I sprinted to the kitchen. Hurdling and skipping over the mess that never got cleaned up, I slipped on the wet floor and executed a perfect swan move reserved for only the most professional “Socked Feet Skaters”. I chastised myself for somehow getting detoured and creating such a hazardous condition for myself. I snatched the flashlight from the counter and clicked the switch.

Nothing.

“Where are those stupid batteries?”

**Many thanks this week to my fab writing partners who helped me maneuver through this piece. Thanks for all you did!!!

Sprung

2011-03-17T11:35:00.000-06:00

Spring has finally sprung

New life coming back from sleep.

Reaching back to the sun who kissed it awake

Delighting in warm light and embracing growth

Small treasures that caress the soul

Sun touched smiles and growing laughter

This is my happy ever after (OK so they won't let go of their snow boots)

On a side note...this is where we are in construction. We have spent the morning climbing massive dirt piles.

PUSH

2011-03-16T11:58:00.000-06:00

Today I am linking up with Shell to "Pour My Heart Out". It's her 1 year anniversary today and you've got to check out all the links and the *ahem* prizes!

Today there was more concrete poured at my house and I wanted to write a word in it before it dried. Something that would speak to me...

Push.

When in labor, this was the word I heard most often.

Push through the pain.

Push with a purpose.

Push with focus.

Push to bring forth life.

Take a deep breath and push again.

I could think of no better word to inspire me. There are times I need to be reminded to "Push" through each day. Days that I am weary and seemingly have no purpose; what would change if I "pushed"? Taking each day as a birth. The pains will be there, but that is what is required to bring new creation.

So if I leave you one word, it's "PUSH". Then when you get tired; take a deep breath and keep on "PUSHING". Focus on your purpose and nothing else. "PUSH"

There is the off-chance that someone will see it as a literal challenge to "Push" that area on the concrete. I will die laughing and that's good too.

Happy Place

2011-03-14T23:27:00.001-06:00

A small spot, a seemingly insignificant space.
It was made just for me; my happy place.
I See The Moon And The Moon Sees Me,
“Father help me be the best mother I can be.”
The worries of the day, the fears of my mind,
are swept far away and peace I find.
Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Baker’s Man.
Lord, help me guide them the best that I can.
A tender touch and the softest sigh,
Sleepy yawns and a lullaby.
Baa, Baa Black Sheep, Have You Any Wool?
Thank you God for my babies, my heart is full.
Small baby curls and softer skin,
Dimpled cheeks, a gentle grin.
Five Little Ducks Went Out To Play,
“Father, Bless these children” silently I pray.
The creak of the rocker in perfect time,
With giggles from a recited nursery rhyme.
Minutes creep by and mourned as they pass,
Until sleep claims their eyes at last.
Yet, still I rock, watching a dreaming face.
Holding my children is my happy place.

This post was prompted by a conversation I had with some friends about our "Happy Place". You can read @fourplusanangel emotional response HERE.

Bitter Memories

2011-03-14T12:13:00.002-06:00

RemembeRED
This week, we'd like for you to write about your favorite fresh fruit or vegetable.

Share a memory of when you first tasted it, where it came from, when you last had it, a favorite way to prepare it, and such.

On the second bite I was able to declare with no reservations that this peach was the worst I had ever tasted. I spit the fuzzy skin that tickled my tongue a little too much onto the ground. Surfacing as though they heard a siren song too faint for my ears, ants eagerly discovered and celebrated my waste. A trail of bitten peach casualties behind me on the grass. The summer hadn’t been particularly hot and there had been no Biblical plague of insects on the orchard, but the peaches had gone bad.

Since my grandfather’s diagnosis, everything on his land mirrored his own life fading. Friendly animals that clucked and mooed welcomes were long gone. The grass that softened the landing steps of my running feet seemed sharper and more painful. Weeds choked the garden and blistered under a sun that felt as if it glared down in disapproval. Fruit trees bore their usual offering but with a grudge that said their heart wasn’t in their work. The peaches, along with life; had lost the sweetness.

Many harvesting seasons were behind me and I felt as though peach juice intertwined in my blood somehow. I surveyed the withering orchard and my heart sunk. Most everything had flourished under my grandfather’s watch. I had sampled everything that he had lovingly coaxed from the ground, bushes and trees; it was always perfect. Reaching out I rubbed a leaf from the peach tree between my fingers. Untrained and slightly ignorant of being a horticulturist, my only conclusion was that the trees were in mourning and missed their Master’s touch.

Perhaps one day someone would live on this farm and once again bring sweetness and beauty back. There might even be a little girl who would sit among bushels of peaches beside her grandfather on a covered porch cooled by a forgiving breeze. She would delight in the velvety texture of a peach’s flesh and would be able to work out her preteen angst under the silent companionship. For a moment under a peach tree she would be able to shed her insecurities and twirl with an imagined partner; declaring life as sweet as the peaches. Sticky, sweet peach syrup would adorn her lips as she kissed her grandparents good night and was given the freedom of being a child a little while longer.

Until then, I will mourn with the trees and leave a trail of bitter tasting memories behind me.

I'm just too old for this...

2011-03-14T10:00:00.000-06:00

In my years here on Earth I have considered myself a student. Lately I have begun learning that there are some things that you are are just too old to do. I can't tell you the magic age number of this transition, but you will know it when you get there. Always wanting to help my fellow man, I have compiled a list for you.

Eating sugar laced items for breakfast - There was a time in my youth that I could throw down a buffet of Chocolate Covered Sugar Puffs With Candy Coated Marshmallows, Sticky Buns and Chocolate Milk. Those days are behind me. Instead of the eagerly anticipated massive sugar rush that kept me going well into my P.E. class of school now I get a headache combined with the undeniable urge to puke. I was the kid who always licked the frosting bowl clean, so when recently presented with a ton of icing left over from making The Scribblers some morning cinnamon rolls; I did what any self respecting bowl licker would do. I indulged. As I am fighting the rollercoaster of Blech-ville, I have learned I'm just too old for this...
Walking barefoot on the driveway. When I was a child I could swiftly transitioned from grass to asphalt, mud to concrete, sand to gravel as if it was nothing. My feet carried me with little regard to what material was under them. These days if my arches come close to gravel or heat, I do the crouch and prancing pony walk. My body believes that by crouching slightly at the waist and pony prancing that perhaps my feet will make less contact with the offending surface. This does NOT work and I have learned I'm just too old for this...
Being outside in extreme temperatures. I would run like a gazelle in 100+ degrees and roll in the snow like a deprived Polar Bear when I was a kid. Hours upon hours in extreme weather never phased me. What I lacked in common sense, I made up for in enthusiasm to just be outside. Now days when the temps hit 90 I find myself pulling a Wicked Witch Of The West scene...."I'm melting" (insert nasally witchy awesome voice) and when the temps dip below 40, I channel my inner elderly person and bundle like an Eskimo and make plans for a community lifestyle in Florida (I even found an awesome gold metallic tracksuit to wear) I have learned I'm just too old for this...
Staying up late to eat snacks and watch a movie. After spending the past 5 years with some form of newborn/teething/bedtime potty training routine, I just don't have it in my to stay up late anymore. With the ever growing "mom spread", I don't do the snacky thing so much either. (Unless it contains copious amounts of fiber. Ice cream sundae = bad. Bran muffin = good) Every now and then, I try to have a surprise movie night with The Scribblers and break all the mom rules. Before the first opening sequence of the movie, I begin doing the math in my head of how much sleep I can hope to get. My brain whirs through the numbers like Scrooge counting his precious coins. I mourn every minute into the movie of precious snoozes that I will never get back. Sleep has become a hot commodity for me. While trying to choke down some chocolate syrup and sprinkles as the movie drags by, I have learned I'm just too old for this...

Is there anything that you have learned you are just too old for now? Tell me about it!!

Twisted Wire - TRDC Prompt

2011-03-10T21:39:00.001-06:00

This week's assignment is to write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly - and find the beauty in it.

Word limit is 600.
Tears fell on the back of Sarah’s mud encrusted hands. Fingernails brittle from malnutrition peeled away every time her fingers struck a solid object. Bloodied, bony knees ached from the simple task of supporting her frame in the sinking mud. Smells of bile and the distinct metallic bite of blood hung heavily in the air. It was a smell Sarah was quite familiar with, yet it shocked and sickened her every time. Cramped hands and blinding tears couldn’t stop her search. It had to be here. Somewhere lost in this thick sludge was the only reminder she had left of those she had loved and violently lost.

Sarah could still see her mother lying on the dirt floor covered in human waste. Even though her skeletal hands should not be capable of any fluid movement; they twisted the small piece of coveted wire. Every manipulation of the wire brought forth stories of every cherished memory that her mother could recall. . Her mother had brought the warm, soothing bowls of Saturday soup back to Sarah’s memory as surely as she had a steaming bowl before her. Her mother’s tales brought back the soft comfort of the family quilt that Sarah’s grandmother tucked around her while reading classic novels by the candlelight to young, eager ears. Recollections of her father with his strong hands that caressed her face with an ironic tenderness that betrayed the hard earned callouses, left a memory trail of heat to her chilled, sunken cheeks.

Another nail ripped away as Sarah’s fingers discovered something metallic pushed deep in the mire. Her heart caught for a moment and then begun to flutter like a trapped, caged bird as she lifted her fingers to her face to reveal the small piece of twisted metal. As her mother fell to the sound of stuttering guns and piercing screams she had clung to the piece as if it were a talisman that could transport her from this place. Sarah clutched it to her breast and felt the faint, delicate touch of her mother’s hand slide across the wind to wipe away her tears. Stories woven into the wire by her mother’s words tumbled with a ferocity in her heart that propelled Sarah back to her cracked feet.

The sharp, barbed wires and smell of death faded away as Sarah stumbled away from her recollections, just as she had stumbled into freedom away from the camp. Looking into her granddaughter’s eyes she knew the role she had played in the story was complete. Sarah pulled the twisted piece of wire from the pocket of her cardigan offering it to her granddaughter in her outstretched hand; the faded numbers of a tattoo peeked from under her sleeve. Still in silent reverence from the memories that had been spilled, her granddaughter plucked the wire from the gently withered hand and turned it over several times examining the sharp ends and rusted surface. Although crude in shape and harsh in material there was no mistaking the shape of a heart or the transporting beauty of a mother’s love for her child..

Your Sadness Swamp

2011-03-09T13:16:00.000-06:00

The scene above is from the popular movie "The Neverending Story" and to this day can wring tears from me like nothing else. I watched this movie last night with my kids and found myself bombarded with questions as to why the horse wouldn't fight the sadness. Every now and then the girls ask me a question that I can't answer because the reality of it sucks. Luckily this movie does have a happy ending for the horse, but in real life when we are in the Swamp of Sadness or know someone else who is; there is not always that happy ending.

When the horse first begins to sink, Atreyu (the boy) slightly jokes around that it is hard to fight the sadness.

How often when we are in that swamp do our friends and family, joke around that we can beat this? Think of happy things? Just pull yourself out of it. It's not that easy though is it? Often we are already up to our chest in the muck and it just seems easier to sink.

As the Atreyu realizes that light words aren't going to work, he begins to scream in anger at the horse. He tells him that he "HAS TO FIGHT THE SADNESS."

The horse makes no move to fight. He is consumed in the sadness and no amount of tough love is going to help him see that he needs to fight and get out. When it gets to that point, those around us get angry. They seem to think that their love should be enough for us to fight; to want to live. Like the horse though, sometimes it's too much and it's just easier to give up.

At the ending of the scene we see Atreyu alone in the swamp with nothing. He is broken. He couldn't force his best friend to fight. He is grieving that his love wasn't enough to battle the sadness.

There is not a happy ending at this scene and sometimes there isn't a happy ending in real life.

If you only take one thing away from this scene and my words, I urge you to fight. For yourself or for someone you love that is in their swamp. Yank on the reigns with all of your heart and scream your love to them. Fight against the sadness because you are stronger. You are stronger than the mud that is weighing you down and it doesn't have to be the end.

A Chalk Line

2011-03-09T09:11:00.000-06:00

Today I am delivering a rant over at Away We Go...Be sure to check me out there as well. Click the button below AFTER you have read my current post.

There is a chalk line in my driveway. A perfect outline silhouette in dust. This is far less exciting that you would think and nothing criminal has happened. It's all part of the construction stuff, but it has caused much jabbering in my house. A chalk line is perfectly magical to a 5 year old and a 3 year old.

Who put it there?

Why did they put it there?

Why did they pick that color?

Can I write my name too?

The constant chalk line talk was abruptly put to an end by the appearance of the Port-a-Potty.

A couple of days ago there was a knock on the door. I peered out at an unmarked van and friendly Hispanic face. In broken English he told me he had my toilet. I'm thinking the one that is going in the new bathroom that has yet to be built. He wants to know where to put it. I tell him I can open the garage door and we can put it in there close to where it will be used. He is very confused and says something about it can't go there. Not wanting to adorn my yard with a porcelain throne, I insist that we should just put it in the garage. He looks at me in utter disgust at my suggestion and wants to know how he will clean it from in there. I am thrilled to learn that not only do I have a new toilet but it comes with a person who is going to clean it. I finally call the head contractor and tell him that someone just showed up with a toilet. He replied, "Oh...the portable toilet for the crew?"

D'uh.

So now I have a fancy, schmancy Port-a-Potty in the front yard and I am already imagining who I am going to tip this sucker on. I'll be watching Mr. Loud Hammer who wakes the baby from nap time. First chance he goes to settle down his bum.....He's mine. *evil laugh*

The girls are fascinated with the outdoor potty room. My mother-in-law is less than thrilled that we taught them to say that is "Nana's new house" They want to know all about it.

How does the door work?

Where does the stuff go?

Is it like the magic elevator in Willy Wonka? (Well I don't know about up or down but when Mr. Loud Hammer goes in there it is certainly going sideways)

The joys of construction. The joys of construction with kids.

Have you recently done a construction project with kids? What was their favorite part?

International Woman's Day

2011-03-08T10:49:00.000-06:00

Today is International Woman's Day.

Dear woman at the grocery store,

I saw you clearly although in your hurried state you never saw me. I saw you correcting your children, juggling your coupons and tallying up the bottom line in your checkbook. You showed me that you cared about discipline, value and responsibility. I saw you.

Dear woman behind the counter at the doctor's office,

I saw you clearly although in your frazzled state you never saw me. I saw your desk adorned with pictures of people you love, the calendar with the beach scene and the never ending pile of paperwork. You showed me that although you would be happier being somewhere else, you focused on the work in front of you with diligence doing what had to be done. I saw you.

Dear woman holding her mother's hand at the pharamcy,

I saw you clearly although in your comforting of your mother you never saw me. I saw you gently, patiently mother the one who had mothered you. You showed me that your willingness to sacrifice and provide clarity through confusion gave you both a strength to get through the day. I saw you.

Dear woman campaigning with a cause,

I saw you clearly although in your intent focus on your speech you never saw me. I saw you boldly stand up for what you believe and pass your passion and knowledge onto others. You showed me that when you fight for something, you can cause a wave of change. I saw you.

Dear woman shopping for a wedding dress,

I saw you clearly although in your whirlwind of romance and dreams you never saw me. I saw you swirl in your new dress with a smile of what was yet to come. You showed me that love is still present when you are willing to step out and embrace it. I saw you.

Dear woman with the pregnancy belly,

I saw you clearly as you excitedly shared the name of your unborn daughter, then you saw me and shared your birth date. We chatted for a moment of your hopes and dreams for your little girl in the years to come. You showed me that regardless of our surroundings, our place in life or the troubles these times bring us, our faith and hopes lie in our daughters.

Dear Women Readers
I wish you a happy International Woman's Day because I saw you.

The Red Chair

2011-03-08T02:36:00.000-06:00

Remembered Prompt: Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.

Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self.

A red chair that sits in the middle of a landscape deep in hibernation. Harsh, drab and brittle, with blades as jagged as knives the grass surrounding me threatens the bottom of tender feet. The trees offer no shelter from their desolate branches. Its prismatic face covered, the sky is a glacial blanket of gray. The wind cuts with no promise of relief. The very air around me feels as though its been inhaled sharply with no sound within its vast vaccuum.

I am affected by none of this because it is not what I choose to see.

From the chair I see a supple field rich in tones of green dotted with the regal presence of brilliant sunflowers and graceful daisies. The trees are dripping with rich foliage. Their branches eagerly offer a welcome home to the birds whose singing fills the indigo sky with my favorite song. The wind caresses me gently and whispers across my skin a promise filled with laughter and warmth.

The chair is my heart. It saturates the bleak horizon with its brilliant color. It pierces the ground with purpose even though it’s very existence defies the harsh nature around it. Its presence overflows with bubbling laughter over the irony of where it has been placed. The strong frame that holds it steadfast in the strongest winds frame the soft, easily damaged cushions. These cushions have supported heavy weight at times and although some of the natural spring has wilted; they have endured.

In the middle of the bleak landscape the chair has stood open for others to sit for a moment. It has offered its comfort in the hopes that others would see the fertile field for a moment and hear a song brought to them on the wings of the wind. It has asked for others to listen for the laughter that was buried under the cover of repose. Its cushions have absorbed spilled tears and mummers of trusted confidence. The red fabric has been torn by carelessness and ripped with impetuous purpose. It will continue to stand open because that’s the very nature of its intent.

A red chair that sits in the middle of a landscape deep in hibernation; this is who I am.

Tea Party With A Wolf

2011-03-07T08:36:00.003-06:00

This is written from the prompt: Childhood Dreams

I sat at a tea party with a doctor, a teacher and a fireman. While I sipped my tea and listened to their childhood dreams, a flock of birds danced gracefully in the sky above me awaiting my next move.

The pirouetting birds had been following me for a while. Their eyes were my own and often one would swoop down and light on my shoulder to whisper tales of what had been seen from above. They had told me more than once of a place where I could rest next to bubbling streams, gather fruits from a tree or informed me of a danger that awaited me that I could not see. Many times I owed my ability to find adventure and treasure to the birds who observed from the skies. I sometimes would tell the doctor of these sky dancers and our adventures together. She would shake her head in mirth and disbelief. She claimed she never saw the birds.

Slightly to my left and standing a safe distance away was a elegant Arabian stallion carrying my recently found treasures in a pack from my latest archeological dig. His graceful arched neck revealed his regal heritage and although my pack had been slung on his muscled back, he carried the fire in his eyes that showed he was still as wild as the day I had found him. His gratitude towards me is what caused him to stand calmly, awaiting our next moment when I would cling to his hair as he flew across the ground. The moment I had taken the ropes off him that were meant to bind, to subdue and control, is what had created our unique friendship. I would tell the teacher of the irony of the wisp of a girl and the wild stallion sometimes. Her laughter bubbled off her lips, but her eyes always danced in time with the tales. She claimed she never saw his pricked ears or heard his soft whinny.

Next to me lounged a white wolf whose wise eyes revealed that he indeed understood every word that was being said. We had been together the longest and shared the most treacherous adventures. I had found him as a pup in the dark woods, abandoned by fate who had taken his mother. I had raised him to be in the wild, but he found his purpose protecting me. Faithful, discerning and brave, he was my best friend. I had trusted him with my life when we had been attacked by the grizzly bear who was a man killer, when we had discovered the museum's treasures protected by a gang of over muscled criminals with blood thirst in their eyes and when I was lost inside the deep cave I clung to his hair as he guided us back to the sunlit opening. I would tell the fireman of his heroics and fierce loyalty sometimes. He sat wide eyed in disbelief of what true bravery was. He claimed he never saw the soft white coat or heard the low growls.

As we had our tea with the eyes of my friends waiting nearby, I listened to the reality of their childhood dreams. I tried to focus on their dreamed purpose, but my heart was flying on the back of a stallion pounding the earth towards true adventure. I knew my friends would never hear the thundering hoofs, but I had to tell them even though they snickered in disbelief.

I should have told them I wanted to be a writer and one day they would be able to stroke the wolf's luxurious fur, they would hear the whisper of a tiny bird in their ear telling them of the crystal clear streams and they would be able to feel the wind rushing by on the back of a wild stallion.

Did you ever have a tea party with a wolf? What were your childhood dreams?

Child In My Dreams

2011-03-06T14:35:00.000-06:00

I was asked recently by a long time reader to write about our years of infertility because of her own struggle with infertility and heartache. This one is for you J ~

I curled my arms around ribs in attempt to cushion myself from the crushing sadness. The next moment I chastised myself for even grieving. Logically, did this even qualify for the despair I felt? I wanted to reach out to someone. Someone who would let me mourn. Someone who would understand. Instead of my supporters wearing black and tears, they would smile and joke that at least I was having fun trying. As another wave of tears threatened to pull me into the undertow, I had to acknowledge that this was not fun.

Two years had passed and I had buried 24 babies within my heart. Nobody had seen their rosy cheeks, their tiny hands or their wispy hair that laid on their heads like tiny halos, but I had seen them all. I had delighted through my pregnancies, cradled them next to my heart at birth and seen them toddling after butterflies and frogs in the yard. I had whispered their names tenderly, yet nobody knew their names. Only I had loved them. We only had maybe a few days together at most, but that’s all I needed to love them into my reality.

Surrounding me was held breath of expectations and the gurgling of laughing infants held in their mother’s arms. Blessing had been bestowed upon my friends and in their single focus of their delight of a tiny hand curled around their finger, they denied me my pain. Perhaps my failure was talked about in hushed whispers or boldly laughed about during their play dates. Because I had not produced a child that entitled me to the secret club of motherhood, my mind could only wander wildly with what was being said.

In the back of the closet was a box containing my husband’s childhood baseball glove and a soft pink blanket I had purchased to argue the need of a baseball glove. There was a time that these items sat boldly on top a small white dresser awaiting the arrival of one who would use them. As the reality of a baby begin to fade, our hopes were packed into that box next to the glove and blanket. Although they were pushed firmly into the dark, back corner of our closet; they were glaringly present in our mind as if they still sat in awaited anticipation.

One day perhaps we would be blessed with a child and I would know the reality of being able to touch their dimpled hands and brush their downy hair as I rocked them in the deep hours of night. Until then I would laugh with my friends that we were having fun trying and there is always next month. I would tickle the cheeks of their infants that lay in their arms as my heart crashed into a million pieces while my own arms remained empty. I have buried 24 babies back inside my heart. Our few days together where I gave myself the hope of their existence in life was all it took to love them. Whether I ever had a rosy cheek to kiss, I was a mother because I loved them in my dreams.

TRDC - Water

2011-03-04T07:01:00.000-06:00

Red Writing Hood - Water

The prompt I used was: Water gives life

The grainy image on the screen showed a delicate hand dancing with grace. Hypnotized by the motion, I watched my daughter in the waters. She appeared to delight in the movement. Buoyed by natural surroundings, she stretched and curled up next to where she could hear my heartbeat the best. There will come a time to leave the familiar and each heartbeat brings that trickle of time crashing to the bottom of the hourglass. Each grain of sand deafening in its landing as time that has passed.

Pushed violently from the common into the unknown; the dry air was an invasion and the blanket that intended to swaddle her was offensive. When cleansing water was finally offered it was in the form of abrasive scrubbing and offered no comfort. Her strong cries of protest were not of the scrubbing, but of the uncertainty of the air. Her hands that I had watched gracefully, fluidly dance were clenched until the dimpled knuckles had whitened. I longed to watch her in wonder of this new world. I craved for her to feel comfortable and at ease cradled in my arms instead of where she had nestled beneath my heart.

Days passed and we were finally home. My feeling of relief did not transfer to her and unloosen those tiny hands. I needed us to have a moment in which we were in the familiar together. I sat in the warm waters of the bath tub with my newly born daughter. I supported her head with my hands. I watched my daughter float and glide with ease. She settled into the weightless movements and feel of the fluid as her hand began to dance again.

The crying that had continued for days and hours had stopped. She was hypnotized by the motion and I watched my daughter surrounded in warm comfort. I slowly and carefully began to pull her out of the water; to leave what had been so familiar. Although the towel I offered her was coarse and stiff, it dried the warm water droplets from her dampened curls. I laid the towel back on the side of the tub letting her nuzzle and curl up to my chest. Easing her gently into this world and let her find comfort where she could hear my heartbeat best.

Dog or Baby: A Chart For The Undecided

2011-03-02T23:31:00.001-06:00

So you have announced yourself Mr & Mrs and now everyone wants to know when you are going to add a new bundle to your family. You are a little nervous about the prospect of taking care of a human where there is potential to send that little darling straight to a therapist’s couch to tell of all the dastardly things you did for the cause of parenting. You flip a coin on just starting with a dog or going all out with a human model.

Here is a little chart to help you compare and make your ultimate choice.

Dog	Baby
Poops in floor	Poops in floor
Slobbers on you	Drools on you
Chews on your shoes	Chews on your shoes
Barks when the doorbell rings	Screams when the phone rings
Eats off the floor	Eats off the floor
Requires shots	Requires shots
Leaves hair on the furniture	Leaves crumbs on the furniture
Humps stranger’s legs	Takes candy from strangers
Best controlled on a leash	Best controlled on a leash

Have you made the ultimate choice? In what ways have you found the two to be comparable? Would you recommend one over the other?

I Will Be Stout

2011-03-02T09:33:00.002-06:00

I stared at a line.

A simple black slash on a crisp piece of white paper.

I looked at my husband's signature scrawled confidently on the line next to mine. He hadn't paused. No reservations. Confident as always.

My line was empty. I needed a moment.

I would sign my name. I would be stout. I needed a moment though.

A moment to grieve.

A moment to hope.

I didn't have to look up to notice the pause. Even though I was not stout, I signed.

The contractor whisked the paperwork out from under my hovered pen and shuffled it in the rest. I would take my moment later. I always take my moments later. Chatter began about getting permits and when we could expect the first drop of concrete to be poured. The wheels were finally in motion to build the in-law suite. From now on there will always need to be seven plates prepared for dinner. Doctor appointments will reside on the calendar next to play dates. The whirr of a oxygen machine will keep time with sounds of a cartoon. I will hold my daughter's hand as she walks into her first day of Kindergarten just as I will hold my in-laws hands as they face surgery or a confused moment.

This is a journey in life.

We are always on a path towards the end. This is where two separate paths will converge. We will be on this path together now.

Those lines on that piece of paper are weighted down by our signatures now. The responsibility is now on us.

I will be stout.

I will still need a moment.

*I also wrote here about this for Studio 30 Plus Magazine

Need A Boost? A Special Offer

2011-03-01T11:32:00.000-06:00

Do you remember last week when I took the girls out in the woods for some Lewis & Clark exploring? It turns out that both girls are quite the monkeys when it comes to trees. The problem was that they had never climbed a tree before and as much as it looked like fun and they really wanted to...they were unsure of where to begin.

They stood looking at the tree, sizing it up, examining the bark and where the branches were and did the most reasonable thing.

"Mom....help me climb this tree."

So I spent hours showing them where to grab a hold, where to put their feet, how to balance and even how to fall. Sometimes in life when we are facing a project, opportunity, etc. it is a lot like climbing a tree for the first time. We need someone to help give us a boost and show us what steps to take.

Where to grab a hold:
When first deciding to climb a tree, you must decide where you are going to take hold and like it or not...it's going to be at the bottom. This is also where you will probably get the most support. The bigger branches are easy and will support you on your climb to your goal.

Where to put your feet.
So you grabbed a hold of those low branches, you feel their support and now you are ready to start making the climb up. You have to get your feet off the ground and moving up as well! It's a little scary when you leave the ground of what's familiar, but you must decide to get those feet off the ground in order to move further up the tree!

How to balance:
You made it to those first low branches and committed yourself to getting up to the top of the tree. Just as your feet left the ground, you are going to feel slightly off balanced on those limbs. It's different. When you begin to get the feel of balance, you are ready to continue your climb. You will begin to use every branch that you take hold of, that you put your feet on as support. Each achievement will be your new balance as you reach for the next.

How to fall:
Let's face it...falling is going to happen sometimes. This does not mean that you can't, shouldn't or will never climb a tree; it's just life. We take a wrong step. We weren't supported where we thought we were and so we trip and lose some ground. Heck, you might even hit the ground a couple of times. This is the time that instead of walking away from that tree, you should reassess the tree. Look at it from another angle. Look for better support branches. Take a rope. Take a ladder. Falling is not the end to climbing a tree. It's the time to begin again.

So, do you have a tree you are ready to climb? I have someone who is willing to help you up that tree! Sandi with Deva Coaching has a special offer just for you! Go right HERE to check it out! I have worked with Sandi in the past and on current projects and let me tell you that this girl knows her tree climbing!

Check it out and get ready to dangle on the branches of success!!!

Blog Topic Wrangling

2011-02-28T11:08:00.000-06:00

So last week I gave you a bare bones lesson in blogging basics. I covered important topics like it takes 20,000 bloggers to change a light bulb, word verification on comments kills puppies and a bunny with a pancake on its head. Today we are going to be a little bit more serious and discuss a common problem with blogging.

Topics: Who, What, When, Where, Why.

Who:
There are so many "who"s in a blog conversation it sounds like a forest of Hoot Owls. "Who Who Who"

1st Who is YOU. You are the writer. Period. Be yourself and yourself only. If you try to blog in someone else's voice you are going to crash, be found out and suck. If you want to write about the danger of platform shoes, but you feel that everyone else is writing about the Academy's and you want to trend...at least write about someone's platform shoes that made them have cankles at the Academy's. If you don't write about your passion, then your writing will have NO passion.

2nd Who is your subject: This is where many newer bloggers make a mistake. Your boss ticks you off because he switched the office to single ply toilet paper. You find your on-line voice to be a perfect one for ranting about it. Your boss finds your blog. You will now be wiping with your hands. Be careful anytime you talk about someone. If you won't say it to their face, don't put it on your blog. It's that simple.

3rd Who is a guest star: So you simply can't think of anything to write or you are going out of town and you need material. Find you a guest star for the time. Loads of bloggers love to guest star, so reach out and grab you one. Just make sure that your guest star and you have similar values. If you have a "G" blog make sure your guest poster is aware that dropping the "F" bomb is not going to work and that they will have to stay up and hit the thesaurus to find other descriptive words. If they are single with no children, don't write about marital spats about disciplining children who stop up toilets.

What:
As I said earlier..."If you don't write about your passion, then your writing will have NO passion." I can't tell you how many times I tried to write about something that was trending that was really important (like politics, etc.) when I really wanted to talk about nasal pea removal. My post would fall flat and had no pizazz. Let me chat about 30 unique pea removal methods from an ear or nasal cavity...I could have knocked your socks off. Always write about what is ON your heart. Don't just try to put your heart into what you are writing.

When:
When do you blog on a topic? Whenever you can and as often as you can. If you can't get to a computer when you have a great idea, write it down. Right then. Don't hesitate, because you will NOT remember it later. If you get your ideas from the bathtub, keep those bathtub crayons for kids and jot it down on your bath wall. (Word to the wise: clean those words off your tub within 4 hours. I didn't know to do that and had this permanently on my bath wall for almost 3 months

Yup...fun times when I was showing the house to potential buyers.

Where:
On a blog. Duh.

Why:
Because it is your voice, your passion and you want to. That's really the only reason you need. If you need help finding a topic there are a ton of resources geared towards blog topics. Often though your topic is right under your nose. The best blog posts are your stories. Even a trip to the grocery store with your kids can make a rockin' blog post if you look for the adventure and life lessons in your activities.You always write better when it is something you have experienced and can put your true voice into.

Possessed Chair Ad - TRDC

2011-02-25T10:40:00.002-06:00

Red Writing Hood - For Sale
This week's assignment was to write a humorous ad, a la Craigslist or eBay, where you're selling things after a breakup.

You will need to click on the picture below to enlarge it so you can even read it because I do not possess mad techie graphic skills...

Disclaimer: Although I was super excited at the prospect of this prompt, I am not happy with how it turned out. I got really caught up in the design (which I am not skilled at) that by the time I needed to write...I feel like I blew it.

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night - Writer's Prompt

2011-02-24T11:10:00.001-06:00

Today I am participating in Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. I had the most perfect post ever planned, but I need my muse to help write it and she is still in bed. Seems that she went to bed kind of late last night and found that someone had crushed Fruit Loops all over her sheets. After 30 minutes of brushing them off only to be moving them around, she crashed on the crushed bits. Several hours later we had a huge thunderstorm that scared all three girls into my bed. In all the fidgeting frightened sleep thrashing, somebody peed in my bed. Mixed with Fruit Loops. So if anyone ever asks....yes, someone can pee in your cereal and ruin your day.

The prompt I chose was: 2.) What did they get into now? Describe a time your toddler got into something they shouldn’t have.

It was a dark and stormy night. OK, so it wasn't but I am still a little traumatized from the pee-soaked Fruit Loops bits. It was probably a average night of average darkness and average temperatures. That's how we roll around here....totally average. I digress...so on the average night came a not so average sound over the baby monitor. It wasn't the usual sigh or cough that we are so used to battling whether we actually creep from the warmth of our beds to investigate or dismiss as a usual sound only to get up 5 minutes later because what "if" we were wrong. It was most certainly a "better go check that out" sound.

I opened the door to my oldest daughter's room. She had recently graduated to a toddler bed...Ok, well that's a lie. I had just delivered her sister so she had been evicted from her beloved crib just so that it could sit empty in the nursery while I ended up co-sleeping with the baby. But it was there just in case I needed to deposit a newborn in it. Anyways...the door opening...

I had no need to turn the light on because the stench of poop enlightened me to what had occurred. Since I still can't change a diaper in the dark, I reached for the light switch and my fingers hit something warm, soft and my imagination kicked in filling in the rest. I took another step into the room and something squished between my toes. Then I felt little hands grab my bare legs. The little fingers were warm and squishy too. I began the crazed scream of a banshee for my husband and realized that nobody was coming to my rescue. No white knight on a noble steed. No bald guy dressed all in white with a magic eraser. My husband was out of town on business, so this damsel was on her own.

Most moms will tell you that they have grown accustomed to the smell. It doesn't bother them. They have iron-clad stomachs and dulled olfactory cavities. I am not that mom. My stomach began churning, my eyes watered and I got that tell-tale taste in my mouth. As I finally got the light on, I wanted to turn around and turn it off. Run from the house screaming in the night. Call 911. Anything but have to clean this up. It was everywhere. She must have copped a squat at least 14 times to produce that much poo. On walls, toys, carpet, bed, bedding, up noses and in the hair. I had a friend in the business of residential cleaning for crime scenes. I knew she was asleep. I called her anyways. I believe she cussed me out, but not before instructing me to remove all evidence and bag it.

Seemed smart to me, so I grabbed a trash bags and picked up all toys and bedding that had fecal splatter and tossed it. We'd go tomorrow and buy new. I picked up my precious poo princess and tried to hold her as far from me as possible on the run to the shower with the removable nozzle.

She touched me.
With poo fingers.
On the mouth.

The dam was breached and I puked all over me, her and the crap crusted carpet. We spent that average night with average darkness and average temperatures curled in the corner of the bathtub. We hosed down like criminals and huddled together as survivors. On morning light, I closed the door to her room and wished I had some of that "Caution" tape to warn my husband. He was due on that white steed any minute and he had some chores to do. We had PTSD to work through.

Remember When We...

2011-02-23T09:15:00.000-06:00

Yesterday on Facebook (by the way if we aren't friends you can find me here) I asked my friends to tell how we met. The kicker was that they had to lie. Yup, just make something up. Turns out I am pretty adventurous if you didn't know it! I thought it would be fun to include some of them here for you to read so you could see all the great ways I have made friends. For some reason copy & pasting from FB provided all sorts of little "query" boxes and stuff. Sorry about that! Feel free to join in on FB or leave a comment about how we "really" me...

Totally rockin Black Sabbath concert!! You were head banging and slammed into my head. We both woke up in the parking lot with matching tattoos. You were wearing my shoes and I smelled like White Diamond, but other than that, it was a pretty normal first encounter.
20 hours ago ·
Crayon Wrangler
Connie,
I totally remember that. That was a rockin' concert and I look back on my tattoo of the Geico lizard driving an 18 wheeler across my forehead with much fondness of how we met.
I'm glad that you finally got out of prison for mauling t...hat sweet little old lady for her platform shoes that you just had to have. If you hadn't had used her "White Diamond" perfume from the purse you lifted from her, the blood hounds would have never found us in that boxcar eating all the Girl Scout cookies that we could. To this day I can't eat a Samoa cookie without thinking of you.

TRDC: A Sister's Scar of Love

2011-02-22T09:33:00.003-06:00

Writing Prompt: Memory and Reflection

Our memories are powerful—whether they actually happened the way we remember them isn’t as important as what we remember and why. So something I would like you to try this week is to hone in on a memory and then interrogate it. One way to incorporate more reflection in your writing is to constantly be asking yourself questions.

This is a writing exercise in two parts:

Part I

Make a list of some of your most vivid childhood (or more recent) memories. (Maybe it’s an image of your father or mother doing something they did regularly; maybe it’s a visit to a grandmother’s house.)

Jot down a few memories and then pick one and write it down in as much detail as possible. (Take 10-15 minutes to do that…)

Part II

Now I want you to investigate what this memory means to you. Ask yourself the following questions: Why has this stuck with me? What did this mean to me at the time? Why did I (or someone else in the scene) react the way I (they) did? How does it feel to look back on it? How does it still affect me (or not)? (Take 10-15 minutes to do that.)

__________________________________________________________

She stood and looked at the mark I just left on her as one thousand emotions scattered across her eyes. Her mouth worked itself into a scream and I knew I had crossed the line. My twin sister and I had been in more than a thousand fights by now, but this one had turned into something more serious. I can't tell you how old we were at this point or what we were fighting about, although I am pretty sure that she remembers. After all, she's the one that still bears the physical scar 20 plus years later.

I stood and held the hot curling iron still in my hand as the scorched smell of burnt skin filled the small bathroom upstairs at my Granny's house. I can't remember if I started apologizing or stood there defiant in my action. I do remember the sinking feel that I had just caused her an unjust amount of pain and I felt sick at what I had done. I was also very aware of not just the amount of pain she was in but the unique position of power she held over me. I had been warned and punished numerous times for my hot temper. I had been told that I took things too far, but in my defense I rarely started any of the fights we had. I did end them though, by whatever means necessary.

The moment was on top of us now. The moment that silent scream was going to find its voice and my Granny's wrath and disappointment would color our short visit with her. My sister had to have known that the minute she screamed and pointed the finger at me I would be in a deeper trouble than I had ever seen. I looked at her and suddenly realized as our Granny loomed over us that she had been screaming. Somehow as fear had begun to run through my veins, I had become deaf to the cries that had already begun. Granny's eyes flew wide as she examined the burn that was the same length of the curling iron and thankfully I had already put the weapon down so there was no immediate smoking gun to alert her of my guilty role. As she herded us up to take us down to the drugstore immediately for some salve, it began to soak in that my sister had said it was an accident. She never pointed the finger at me that I deserved.

One the car ride to the drugstore Granny worried and fretted over the injury, my sister cried with the pain and I sat in numbed silence.

Why had she not pointed me out?

Was she just waiting until my parents arrived to pick us up and then let the guillotine fall upon my shameful, guilty head?

What was her angle?

It was at that moment that she turned around and delivered a slight, sympathetic smile to me. We were never those types of twins that you hear about that share feelings or could read minds, but that whisper of a smile told me that she was not going to rat me out. She forgave me and was going to keep my evil deed a secret. She forgave me. I hadn't asked for it and I didn't deserve it.

20 something years later and we have since told my parents what really happened. They learned of the fight that caused the scar the way that adult children reveal truths to their parents in a laugh about it being the past. I'm sure my parents were horrified, but it is the past. We fought many times since that day and we still get into arguments, but that day I learned of a true sister's love and forgiveness. She knew the "pain" that I would have received for such a horrendous action against her and she choose to shield me from it. She choose to carry the pain and suffering by herself.

I can't tell you that moment changed our relationship forever, but every time we are together these days and I catch a glimpse of that scar I am reminded. I am reminded that sometimes no matter how bad it hurts that there are those people in our lives that we love so much that we are willing to suffer for them. We bear the burden of their pain and shield them. We discern that they deserve a touch that is severe and we muster up a small smile that tells them that they are forgiven based only on the love we share. My sister has a scar that was created from my anger, but is more of a symbol of a sister's love.

Lessons Learned - Blogging

2011-02-21T11:31:00.002-06:00

There have been a ton of blogging basic posts done recently. If you are looking for information on blogging, social media, FaceBook and Twitter please check out these wonderful posts.

Belle Bean Dog - Being a Bad Blogger
ThetaMom - How to invest your blogging time wisely
ByWordsMusing - Not a big blogger?
ccnoffi - Blogging Pet Peeves Part 1 and Part 2
Kludgy Blogging - A whole whoppin slew of blogging must reads with a side of nougat!

If you just want some bare bone lessons, you've come to the right place.

Lessons Learned - Blogging

Once you come up with a subject for your blog post you will quickly discover that it does take 20,000 bloggers to change a light bulb. After you hit publish you will be slammed with comments that "I just wrote a post on that topic!" Upon reading it you will feel like you sucked. BIG TIME. It's fine to continue to write on the same topic but be unique. Do something big like offer your readers a picture of a bunny with a pancake on its head for them to laugh at.
Unless you can handle staying up until 4am with the only company being Mr. Disappointment, never ask for a few more followers so you can hit a milestone. Watching the number stay the same is not good for your esteem and trust me...you'd rather have someone who wants to be at the party to dance than someone who comes to just look at your appetizers and punch bowl and leave to never be seen again.
So you finally hit it big and some online retail place has offered you to do a review/giveaway. They want you to use the keywords lampshades or headboards. When you do your post we all know that you are being forced to use these keywords to be in giveaway compliance. Don't patronize your reader into thinking that you have been looking for a lampshade for 6 months and it wasn't until you hooked up with this company that you found the perfect one. *eye roll*
Word Verification and/or Auto Reply Responses on your comments. These services are extremely annoying to your readers who actually had something important to say. Plus I believe every time they are used a puppy is killed somewhere. Let the guilt lie on your shoulders alone because I don't want to kill a puppy. Take it off and save a puppy.
Back to blog topics. You will soon discover that your best ideas come when you are driving, dozing off or you are up to your elbows in a nasty diaper. Your memory is not your friend and unless you have some way of quickly jotting it down (please wash your hands if you were the person up to your elbows) you are not going to remember it and will spend a minimum of 3 hours trying to hone in on a lost thought. If you still can't retrieve it...go read those 20,000 other blog posts on the same topic. Yup...that's what you were going to write about.
Receiving comments. Folks this is a conversation and things go better if you look at it that way. Picture yourself listening to someone give their thoughts on a topic. You respond back with your thoughts on what they said. Then they just walk away without looking back. Hello rudeness! If someone has taken the time to actually read your blog (Praise the heavens because you have a reader!) and give their thoughts, take a few minutes to talk back to them. This does not apply if you have a commenting system that allows people to comment with no way of getting back in touch with them via email, Twitter, etc.
Getting big. Let's face it (this is where I throw cold water on your face and slap you for good measure) unless you got something really special, you will probably not be the next best thing with a book deal. Here is the thing though...let's say you have 10 followers that are not family or real-life friends and they comment...HOLY CRUD!!! You have 10 people who actually want to listen to something you have to say. This is time for a celebration! I have 3 little girls that I gave LIFE to and feed cookies and they don't listen to anything I have to say. All you did was write and 10 random people listened??? This is amazing! Congratulate yourself!

So there you go. Some short lessons for your blogging adventures! Good luck and try to keep the puppies safe!!!

Lewis and Clark...Girl Style

2011-02-19T19:50:00.000-06:00

It's been a while since I just posted some regular pictures of the girls. After my adventure yesterday with Forester Tim (read previous post) I took the older two girls out on an adventure through the forest. We had a ton of fun, saw lots of neat things and I doubt I will ever be able to keep them inside from here on out. So meet my Lewis and Clark...Girl Style.

If A Blogger Falls In The Woods...

2011-02-19T09:56:00.000-06:00

Yesterday if you followed my tweets in the morning, you would know that I went on a little jaunt with a Forestry Expert through my property. There is this little thing called Green Belt taxes and it was time for us to re-certify. In order to do that we had to have a Forester come to the property and walk it to do an analysis of our amount of land vs. timber available for logging. I won the coin toss with my husband and went to go grab my hiking boots.

Our appointment was for 9am and around 9:15am Forester Tim called and said he needed better directions to my house...he was lost. Friends, I was about to go into the wild wilderness with this guy and he is lost on asphalt roads with clearly marked street signs? Are. You. Kidding. Me? I hid my hiking boots and challenged my husband to another coin toss. I lost and quickly got on to the Android market to download the compass app for my phone. Just in case.

Forester Tim finally showed up and the first thing I saw was a little old man with a walking cane and a handicapped plaque dangling from his rearview mirror.

Now I have nothing against the handicapped and believe that they can do anything they put their minds to, but when it comes to hiking in my woods down a ravine...well, I was hoping for more of the Grizzly Adams look than the little old man from the movie "Up" As he talked he informed me that he had been a Forester for almost 55 years (I started doing math in my head for his exact age) and that he would not only be doing the analysis but would be teaching me all about the forest at the same time.

See that metal pole about halfway down the picture on the right hand side? That's his walking cane. Turns out that is one handy sucker to have walking down a ravine and I envied him for having one by the third time I tumbled down. (By the way...sorry for the quality of the pictures. I took them with my phone because I was afraid of dropping my camera) Let me just tell you this man was awesome! Not only could he identify every plant, tree, animal dropping (ewwww) and rock, but he could tell me history about them. I began to fall in love with him a little until...

...he got us firmly stuck in a bramble patch. This was necessary because he had to take a sample from a Yellow Poplar and apparently we just "had" to go through this way to get to the illusive tree that could be found on the top of the ravine on the other side. While inside the patch it felt strangely like the time that I was wrestling with the 3 girls and they all needed to have their fingernails cut. This patch is about 3 acres wide and while that doesn't seem like a lot, you try having your arms scratched and hair ripped out for 3 acres. It is an ETERNITY.

When we finally made it from the patch and to the bottom of the ravine (Yes, we still had to walk all the way up the other side) we discovered a stream on the forest floor. I told him it was my love of nature, but I am pretty sure he knew I was too pooped to pop...I convinced him to stop and take a break by the water edge. We sat there and listened to the water run by (HEAVENLY SOUND) and he took the time to show me a gray fox den (empty...boohiss) a place where the deer had bedded for the night, a tree that was hollowed out that served as a hotel for raccoons, squirrels, birds, etc. and pointed out the coolest Sassafras tree I have ever seen. I am totally going back with some kind of bush hog to take out the brambles and putting a park bench right at this spot.

We finally journeyed up the other side and made it to the top of Mt. Crayon. If it weren't for all the trees there would have been a heck of a view! I felt like a real Explorer and was bummed to realize that I had no flag to stake there. I may or may not have burst into a round of "This Land Is My Land This Land Is Your Land" While I was belting out a song, he had located the Yellow Poplar and took a sample to check its maturity and growth rate. 9 rings. This was the clincher for him and as he handed me the little toothpick like sample from the tree, he also showed me that the sap had not risen in the tree yet. This, my city friends, means that spring is not right around the corner, but another cold snap is on the way. BOOHISS!

After our mission was complete and we made our way back to my homestead, he became full of jokes and we laughed all the way back. We skipped the journey through the bramble patch this time and he surprised me by showing me that sometimes the best way through the woods is to find a neighbors adjoining property that has been cleared and to take a nice leisurely walk through a cattle pasture. As I resumed my tweeting because I had a signal again, he kindly did not point out the HUGE pile of cow poop and allowed me to see the danger of walk/tweeting/cowpoop/notlooking scenario. Thanks Forester Tim. I shall now just burn my hiking boots.

I am so glad I won that coin toss with my husband and see many years of spending time in the woods. I guess it takes about 55 years to gain that type of knowledge about the nature that is contained in there, but only about 2 hours to gain a love for it.

TRDC - The Fairy Princess Dress.

2011-02-17T21:51:00.002-06:00

This weeks prompt: Write a piece - 600 word limit - about finding a forgotten item of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet. Let us know how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character.

It's a good thing that I had thrown all the clothes into a pile in the middle of the floor outside my closet because when I flopped to the floor in "Muffin Top Despair" it softened the landing. Perspiration and frustration gave my face a glowing sheen as I rolled my eyes at my reflection in the full length mirror on the closet door. I puckered my lips and blew up my cheeks until I resembled the Pillsbury Dough Boy, which is exactly who I felt like. My oldest two daughters came wandering in the bedroom to see what I was up to and flopped into the pile of clothes beside me.

"Whatcha doin Mommy"

"Mommy is trying to find something to look pretty in so I can go on a date with Daddy and knock his socks off."

"You gonna take his socks off?"

Giggles filled the room as they imagined Mommy wrestling Daddy to get his socks off. My big eyed 3 year old in all of her fashion sense that thinks snow boots, tutus and undershirts is the new "black dress" began to hold up some of the items discarded in the floor.

"What 'bout this? This pretty? This take socks off?"

Her chatter continued as my 5 year old began to look at the items still dangling from the hangers in the closet. She reached in the back and tugged until the velvety blue dress fluttered to the floor. Her fingers rubbed the soft, luxurious fabric and I heard her suck her breath in.

"Ohhhh Mommy, it's a princess dress"

"I can't wear that one sweetie, I've grown a bit since I wore it last time."

"Please Mommy, be a princess."

Her deep brown eyes pierced mine as I took it from her hands where she offered it as though it was some type of magic fabric. How on earth do you explain "Fat" to such young girls? How do you explain what they did to your bodies for 9 months and how nothing is where it used to be? Deciding to just humor her for a moment I began to slip into the soft folds. Slipping isn't quite the right word. Slipping into it is what I used to do 5 years and 3 kids ago. This was more like shoving biscuit dough back into a popped can. I finally got it all the way up but there was no way the zipper was going to budge an inch up the back.

"Mommy! You are beautiful like a fairy princess!! Look at you! I wanna be like you when I get big."

I refused to turn around and look into the mirror. Looking at my daughters eyes dance while they grabbed my hands to dance with them, I closed my eyes and dared myself to see myself as they did. The dress had once fit a more slender woman. A woman who had control over herself and a confidence that dared her to buy the low plunging tight blue velvet dress. A woman who sat across from the restaurant table from her newly married husband and dared to run her foot up his leg while whispering bold innuendos. I blushed as I recalled that night and quickly opened my eyes back to the moment I was in.

That fairy princess that my daughters danced around was really there. She was in that moment. As I took the dress back off and hung it back where it belonged in the back of the closet, I was tempted to berate myself a little more about how I had let things go. How after having my 3 daughters nothing was where it used to be anymore...then I realized that everything on me had to move to make way for how large my heart had grown. A heart enlarged and overflowing with the love I had for my children. I may not actually be a fairy princess, but as my fingers rubbed the fabric of the hanging dress I prayed silently that my daughter would indeed be just like me when she got big. That she would be someone's fairy princess in a blue dress as she was celebrated for being beautiful just the way she was.

*This story is NOT fiction...I AM a fairy princess.

On The Road Home

2011-02-17T09:50:00.000-06:00

Usually a hairpin turn in the road causes me to grip the steering wheel tighter. I try not to imagine spinning out of control and shooting off the asphalt into the side ditch, but not on the road home. As soon as I have finished my errands and I turn the car towards home, my whole body relaxes. I turn off the main road and leave the hurried commuters behind me. As they speed off to wherever life has required them to be, the first thing I see is the weathered, gray barn looming close to the road home. The speed limit down this curvy, narrow road is 25mph, but my heart always makes me go 15mph.

There have only been a handful of times that I have ever met another car on the road home and although you must slow to a crawl and straddle off the road to allow them to pass, it's nice to see their smiling face through their windshield. Along with the smile is the customary wave that you see in the country of a friend. When you live on a country road you know the cars, their occupants but rarely their names. There is the old rusted truck with just a whisper of the bright blue that used to cover its body. You can hear it coming well before you see it and it will be driven by a old man that wears a ball cap. His face is so wrinkled that the smile is just a deeper crease below his crinkled eyes. His wave is big with purpose and the black and white dog that bounces around the bed of the truck will run to the side, tongue flopping and greet you as well with a friendly bark. You might pass a golden Buick luxury car. The outside gleams with fresh polish but is not nearly as bright as the smile of the polished little old lady that guides the car on the road home. Her wave is friendly but just as regal as the car she drives when she goes to pick through the veggies at the local market.

After I pass the weathered barn that is no longer capable of providing shelter from the winds through the gaping cracks in its boards, I turn into the first hair pin curve. Rather than grip the wheel with whitened knuckles, I feel the stress of the day whoosh out of me in a breath that says I am on the road home. The trees alongside the road begin to grow closer together as if tightening their guardian force against the outside world. Their branches lean over the road providing a natural tunnel allowing sunlight to dapple the road. After a few more turns the trees open up again to allow for the split log fence that houses the friendly faces of lazy cows that hang through the wires to eagerly snatch the moist grass that is bound to be better on the other side. As my car passes by them, they pause only a moment to nod their greeting through their munching. The reddish bull always stands a little back from the fence watching sternly as the new calves kick up their heels and scramble behind their mothers at the foreign sound of a car engine. In time they will know the sound of the cars that pass and will nod their heads while barely stopping their grazing.

After the first field of cows, I will pass the rusted gate that has a chain hanging through it that used to hold it closed. It has never been locked as long as I have lived here, but is slightly pushed open which allows for the three brown dogs of the country fraternity to bound through it and greet or warn anyone that comes down the road. As my car bounces past them on the old, broken asphalt that needs some attention from the county we are escorted by several other dogs that come to join in the great chase of the day. They always tear up the ground behind us until we reach the first pond and then they relinquish the prize of catching the car to the job of busily sniffing through the tall brush that borders the road. The brush blocks all view of the hay fields behind it, but as much as it seems like a narrow corridor that should be claustrophobic it is actually the most open, free feel as birds flush from the growth as I pass by.

As I begin to climb the hill towards my home, I pass another field of cows. These are my neighbors and I know them all by sight. The white fuzzy matron who watches over all the calves born is usually closest to the fence. She's learned that when the faded yellow school bus stops there every afternoon that the children who get off often have sugar treats in their pockets and her greedy nature stands patiently waiting for those lumps of sugar and pocket lint. The cautious black cow with her white face stands a little behind her. She draws courage to come for those treats by always allowing the matron to go first. They are always the first I see on the climb to my home.

The brick of the house always looks a little foreign in all the nature around it, but never unfriendly. No matter how the sun hits our home it always looks warm, drawing you closer. The porches on the front and back shelter the rocking chairs and benches that just wait for us to come sit and watch the clouds float by, a sinking sun or the acrobatics of the birds that grace our skies. As I turn off into our driveway a sparkle often catches my eyes. The pond across the street with its two ducks catches any available light and rather than hold it captive; shoots it into a million different glittering reflections. The diamond sparkles off the water magically dance around the always paddling ducks. I am home.

No matter where my day took me the road home always strips off the stress and replaces it with an earthy dust that cleanses my spirit. On the road home I am renewed.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-02-16T13:21:00.000-06:00

Time for Spring

TRDC - 5 Minutes That Mattered

2011-02-15T11:06:00.001-06:00

The assignment is: after you have died, your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see?

I could see the brick house from where I crouched in the woods. The sun was still slightly warm on my shoulders, but the minutes counting down to the creeping chill of approaching dark where not far away. I was still breathing heavy from the exertion of jumping logs, moving stones and narrowly escaping the clutches of an evil sorcerer. It had been a ingenious plan of escape with only the birds that hovered in the trees above to witness. Behind me the last specks of magic were falling to the woods floor. Their tinkling sounds muted by leaves that had recently fallen heralding in another season. In front of me, the house. Real life complete with hushed whispers surrounding my dying grandfather and the heaviness of time that magic can't heal.

My beloved grandfather was dying and was spending some of his last days at his farm. It was one of his many ventures, this farm; with its now untended fruit orchards, barren vegetable gardens, a pasture where cows now longer grazed lazily and woods that still held fleeting magic for a young girl precariously balanced between being a princess battling a sorcerer and a young adult dealing with the death of a loved grizzled old man.

In the next five minutes I was going to have to emerge from the woods and open the door to the house. The door that used to open to a weary and triumphant princess. Welcoming her back with the smells of warm bread sticks, seasoned meat and a pie if lucky. PawPaw would be sitting in his recliner watching National Geographic and complaining about how late dinner was although it was always right on time. Nana would be scurrying around like a little sparrow tending her nest and making sure that everything was in its perfect place. There was just enough time before I had to scrub up to rattle off to PawPaw what adventures I had. It was these few moments that I could make his eyes sparkle. He could see the magic.

This time there would be no complaining about dinner. He rarely ate anymore. There would be no sparkle in his eyes. His eyes no longer focused on the magic. I picked up a small stone from the edge of the woods and ran my finger over its texture. It was a stone just like this that I had used to line the path to my cottage that I had spent the summer building out of twigs and branches. There was still magic in this stone. If I closed my eyes tight enough against the pain of life I could feel it pulse in my hand. In those last five minutes I made a choice for the rest of my life. I knew this would probably be the last time I would be in those magical woods. I knew that in the coming weeks I would say goodbye forever to the magic sparkle in my PawPaw's eyes. With the stone clutched firmly in my hand I pushed myself away from the shelter of those woods, but the magic was coming with me.

No matter what stabbing pain the life outside of the woods would bring, I would hold onto that small pulse of magic. I would share it with whoever would be willing to see it and I would always see the sparkle in someone's eyes. In those last five minute, I was choosing to hold onto something that would not die as long as I held tightly to it and believed in its power to always take me back to the woods where my heart and the birds hovering in the trees held witness to the power of magic.

We are way past that fluffy heart thing...

2011-02-14T09:30:00.001-06:00

Sometimes the whole squishy fluffy heart ordeal of Valentine's Day gets to me. By "gets to me", I mean throw up in my mouth a little and roll my eyes. Especially the commercials for jewelry companies. Way to make light of my love by throwing a little you must purchase bling out there. It's as if my love isn't real if I am not in a remote cabin during a thunderstorm with my man there to wrap his arms around me and slide a chain around my neck....wait...doesn't that sound a lot like a slasher film?

Anyways, my man and I...we are way past that fluffy heart thing. We've moved past the conversation heart that says "Love ya" and into the screaming from the bathroom when the paper roll is empty, "I need you!!"

I think the "I need you!!" phase is so much more indicative of true love, lasting love.

"I need you!!" (the kids just flushed a wonder pet, whole roll of toilet paper and my wallet. I'm now standing ankle deep in some sort of sludge that is making my skin crawl. Actually I think something is crawling around down here.)

"I need you!!" (I thought I would hang some curtains and somehow I got twisted around to where I am stuck on a ladder with fabric swirled around my head.)

"I need you!!" (I just suffered a finger slice from the kitchen knife you keep way too sharp and although I am not going to bleed to death here, I need to be over dramatic and get a band-aid)

"I need you!!" (I'm standing in the parking lot of a huge store and actually forgot where I parked the car. I've been wandering the aisles for 20 minutes in the rain and just needed you to remind me to hit the stupid panic button on the car remote. Oh...look that blinking, honking car 3 spaces over is mine.)

"I need you!!" (I was walking up the stairs with our dinner from take-out and my water just broke. We should go to the hospital. What do you mean you are going to eat first...seriously???)

This is not my husband either nor a depiction of my husband - Google Images

The romantic gestures are just that....a gesture. When you have been married for a while you need more than a gesture; you need ACTION. That's where the "I need you" part comes in. It's about the rise to action. I know that I am loved more than ever because my husband is constantly in ACTION for me. Rising to the occasion. White knight on a charging steed. Battling dragons and evil queens (alright...so we still have issues with the mother-in-law from time to time) All that good jazz that requires love to be more than just words.

This is not my husband but Google Images - Thankyouverymuch

I know that if there is ever a time that I am stuck in the bathtub again screaming like a banshee "I NEED YOU!!!" he will be there. Laughing, pointing, getting the video camera for YouTube....but he will be there. (True story: I was 9 months pregnant and thought soaking in baby oil would stop a case of itching skin. I'll just let you imagine that one for a minute...you're welcome.) I know that we are way past the fluffy heart thing and into ACTION love.

Because I choose to be a mom...

2011-02-11T12:31:00.000-06:00

There is a book club meeting and coffee in half an hour from now. I am missing it because I choose to be a mom.

There is a movie coming on tonight at 7pm that I really wanted to see. I am missing it because I choose to be a mom.

Some of my friends are leaving on a weekend drive and concert. I am missing it because I choose to be a mom.

My husband has the day off for Valentine's Day and our favorite restaurant is having a Sweetheart Special. I am missing it because I choose to be a mom.

My favorite clothing store is having a sale and the perfect pair of jeans is almost affordable. I am missing it because I choose to be a mom.

There was a perfect sunrise this morning that I got to see while feeding the baby. I didn't miss it because I am a mom.

My oldest daughter pointed out the way the snow sparkles like diamonds in the sun and her little sister told a fascinating story about snow fairies, pirates and tea parties. I didn't miss it because I am a mom.

I got the wettest kiss ever from the baby because I made her a grilled cheese cut into perfect triangles. I didn't miss it because I am a mom.

I have a beautiful picture of 5 smiling stick figures on my fridge that is supposed to be our family. I didn't miss it because I am a mom.

I walked into the 3 year olds bedroom last night and kissed her. She sleepily opened her eyes, smiled and said "I love you, mom." I didn't miss it because I am a mom.

NOW...let's define "IT" in all the above situations.

There is a book club meeting and coffee in half an hour from now. I am missing TIME AWAY because I choose to be a mom.

There is a movie coming on tonight at 7pm that I really wanted to see. I am missing ENTERTAINMENT because I choose to be a mom.

Some of my friends are leaving on a weekend drive and concert. I am missing ME TIME because I choose to be a mom.

My husband has the day off for Valentine's Day and our favorite restaurant is having a Sweetheart Special. I am missing DINNER OUT because I choose to be a mom.

My favorite clothing store is having a sale and the perfect pair of jeans is almost affordable. I am missing SHOPPING because I choose to be a mom.

There was a perfect sunrise this morning that I got to see while feeding the baby. I didn't miss BEAUTY because I am a mom.

My oldest daughter pointed out the way the snow sparkles like diamonds in the sun and her little sister told a fascinating story about snow fairies, pirates and tea parties. I didn't miss MAGIC because I am a mom.

I got the wettest kiss ever from the baby because I made her a grilled cheese cut into perfect triangles. I didn't miss SIMPLE PLEASURES because I am a mom.

I have a beautiful picture of 5 smiling stick figures on my fridge that is supposed to be our family. I didn't miss WHAT'S IMPORTANT because I am a mom.

I walked into the 3 year olds bedroom last night and kissed her. She sleepily opened her eyes, smiled and said "I love you, mom." I didn't miss LOVE because I am a mom.

TRDC - The World Shifted

2011-02-11T10:51:00.000-06:00

Red Writing Hood - The World Shifted
This week's prompt asked you to begin your piece with the words, "I could never have imagined" and end it with "Then the whole world shifted."

I could never have imagined what that one phone call would mean, which seems like a crazy claim considering I had been imagining it my whole life. As long as I could remember the writer inside me had constructed every possible sane and slightly insane outcome. The dreamer inside me had accepted each of those outcomes in a dramatic fashion reserved for future red carpet appearances. Yet with all those years of careful study under my belt, I stared at the phone ringing and felt ill prepared for whatever was about to happen. A mere 24 hours earlier my search for my birth family had been completed. Years of wondering about what really happened, whose eyes did I share, who could I blame for the premature gray in my hair; it was all down to answering the ringing phone.

A random stab in the dark at a library archive had given me the answer that calling government offices never did. Finding information on a closed adoption in the 70s had proved more difficult than the whole "was there a second shooter on the grassy knoll" question. Add to that a stack of paperwork with blacked out names and locations and I might as well walked up to NASA with a snorkle and fins and announced my intention to board the next shuttle for the moon. Paperwork that contained facts that couldn't be right. In handwriting and type it detailed a sad story of twin girls that were born to a family and then shut away because we cried a lot. Cried for food. Cried because our diapers needed to changed. Cried for love. Cried for someone to listen. Nobody did for months.

My mind had decided that this story had to be one of those "Choose Your Own Adventure". Somebody had written it wrong. I called the librarian of the very small town I was born in and asked if there had been a birth announcement printed back then for twins. I can almost imagine the little old librarian adjusting her glasses and racing to the exciting task of a mystery buried in her beloved papers. Within an hour she called me back with their names. I had my birth last name and it was so unusual that with a little googling I had tracked down an aunt, my grandmother and an unknown sister. I had talked in length to these three people who were preparing me to talk to the fourth. My birth mother. The one who had listened to the cries and done nothing.

The phone was ringing and to answer it was sending a knife of betrayal through my heart, but I had to answer it. I had to confirm or deny the stories I had heard. I kept picturing my adopted family in front of me. Every one of my cries had been answered by them. Ever since my adoption I had never cried alone. I had been warned by the people who really knew her, that she was crazy. She was never a mother. As my finger hovered over the button that would accept and connect the call, I could have never prepared myself for the sound of her voice. I didn't just push the button, I stabbed it on in a desperate act of courage.

"H...He...Hello?"

"This is your birth mother (outrageous uncalled for laughter) They all lied to you. You know that right? You'll listen to me, right?"

As the sound of her laughter faded into an echo, I realized that upon hearing her voice that I felt nothing. I had no desire to hear another word and I needed no explanations anymore. It was that moment when I realized that I no longer cared. I felt that I could live my own life even without a past. It was then the whole world shifted.

I almost quit

2011-02-10T13:34:00.001-06:00

First thing...see that new button over there to the right? The one that is about your child talking? I am thrilled to announce a website/blog/resource by a wonderful woman all about speech and your child!

Secondly, I am in a funk. DEEEEEEEEEP funk. It's probably the weather, the being stuck in the house, the being stuck in the house with kids, the being stuck in the house with little kids with BIG attitudes. A couple of nights ago I was sitting in front of this screen waiting for bloggy inspiration.

Waiting. Waiting. Nothing.

I was signed into Tweetdeck watching fascinating conversations going on and had nothing to contribute.

Waiting. Waiting. Nothing.

I made a decision. I slammed the screen of the laptop down and screamed at the ceiling. "I QUIT! I quit this stupid blog. I quit stupid Twitter. I quit, I quit, I quit." I may or may not have even stomped my feet like a 2 year old and then consumed a bag of peanut M&Ms.

The whole next day I grumbled about the stupid blog. I turned off Twitter. Why should I blog? Who is really reading? What does it matter if I do or I don't? I'll never be the writer that so-and-so is with their 100 comments per post. I'll never get the super great job that so-and-so did with her writing even though I've been doing it so much longer. I. Am. Unimportant.

My voice was silenced.

Then my family came over for a while. I had recently written the post "We Not The Same" about my oldest daughter and some of the struggles that she had faced. It was a hard post to write but it was one that I was proud of. My brother-in-law came to me and hugged me for that post. Told me about how it made him cry because it reminded him of his brother that passed away last year that had the same struggles. It touched him. His words have stayed with me these past few days. His words are what prompted me to not delete the blog forever but start writing again.

This blogging thing is not as easy as you think. There are so many days where you feel like your voice isn't heard, your point not made and your passion is not understood. When I sit down to write, I do it to touch someone, to make them laugh, to have them reconsider a point in their life or to just not feel so alone. I got so caught up in the lack of comments that I didn't realize that I had done what I sat down to do. I touched one person. His hug, his words...that's why I write.

If you are a blogger, a reader or a lurker. Take the time today to find that one blogger whose words have stuck with you, a story that still makes you laugh or a time that their words helped you through a difficult time and TELL THEM. Let them know that their voice matters.

I won't quit again...I won't silence my voice.

Firing Squad Momma

2011-02-07T20:10:00.000-06:00

For about 3 weeks now we have been battling some sort of dark evil. At first I thought it must be a cold, but the way this entity lurks and resurfaces; it must be pure evil. I have learned that evil is immune to Lysol. After spending the night imagining that I was on the beach lying among a herd of seals barking, I loaded up The Scribblers and took them on into the doctor.

To the lady in the waiting room that was obsessively rubbing large amounts of hand sanitizer on her poor toddler's hands..."THAT WILL DO YOU NO GOOD IF HE CONTINUES TO LICK THE FISH AQUARIUM THAT 15 KIDS HAVE SNEEZED ON IN THE PAST 5 MINUTES!"....Just sayin'

After the annoying and ineffective game of "let me shine the light in your ear and look for an elephant" in equally annoying and ineffective baby talk (cringe) I finally convinced the nurse that my kids are way smarter than believing she is going on African safari in their heads and just get it done already. By the end of the exam it was discovered that bronchitis, strep throat and croup are our newest residents.

The doctor came in a merrily announced that she was writing three Rx for antibiotics and steroids. Visions of holding down The Scribbler for 7 full days or until all medicine had been spilled in the floor filled my head and I asked the wisest question a mom can ask..."Doesn't that come in a one time shot"

Horror filled The Scribblers eyes as they heard their mother just order in the firing squad. Oh yes...I went there.

Nurses filed in ready to hold The Scribblers down to receive their shots. Yes, I said nurses, as in plural. My kids have a past record of being fighters, biters and brawlers when it comes to medicine of any kind. Within 5 minutes shots had been dispensed and the howls of The Scribblers filled the clinic terrifying every child in the waiting room including the little aquarium licker. To try and silence the shrieks the nurses promised suckers as soon as we left and then they ran from the room.

Once pants were pulled up and kisses delivered, we went towards "Checkout" to collect on the sucker promise. As I stared at the empty basket I could have punched those nurses. There were no suckers. How on earth does a pediatrician office plan to run on no suckers? Maybe that's why that little kid was licking the aquarium glass. Sucker withdrawal.

Now we are home and hopefully on the mend. I really can't spend another night on the beach with barking seals. The kids are pretty peeved at me for ordering the firing squad, but one day they will be wrestling their own child trying to get down the thick pink liquid and spilling half the dose...they'll understand.

The View From Across The Street

2011-02-06T10:26:00.000-06:00

From where I sat the house was the same. The bricks were the same as the ones my sister and I used to paint with water on hot days when there was nothing else to do. The tree that littered acorns all over the ground to torture bare feet looked no different. The shrubs that turned into magical jungles for my toys had not changed either. Something was different though from the view across the street.

I was barely a teenager and in an act of defiance and imagined wisdom, I had run away from the injustices of the home. An injustice that was so extreme that 20 years later, no matter how much I search my mind, I can't remember what it was.

Across the street I sat and tried to build the courage to admit I was wrong and enter back into the family. The house and I were different now, changed. I reflected back to a book I had read about Huck Finn. He had faked his own death and attended his own funeral. He had been welcomed back into the family. I hadn't done anything quite that bad. In fact I am pretty sure that the mother of the friend that I had stayed the night with had called my family to tell them of my appearance while she served me spaghetti.

image through Google images

Yet as I slow walked to the front door, I was terrified. The garage was open as it always was. The door that led into the house from there was always unlocked. Our family was used to the neighbors dropping by for a visit. It's how it worked in our neighborhood. Dear friends and family always used the garage door, but I wasn't part of that now. I had chosen to walk away from that classification. The front door with its deadbolt loomed in front of me. Because of my choice I would have to knock and wait to see if the door was opened.

A heavy wood door with no glass except a tiny peep hole. If I knocked would my mom or dad be peering through that peep hole, judging me to see if I deserved to be let in? Would they scoff at the audacity of my return and turn away?

I knocked.

Waited.

The door was opened.

To this day I don't remember what I said or what they said. I don't remember if I was hugged or if I ran to my room. I'm sure there was a lecture, but I don't remember a word of it. What I remember is the door was opened and I was let back into the house. All thoughts of the house looking strange from across the street disappeared as I walked across the familiar carpet. My hand rubbed the familiar wood of the bookcase that I always touched as I walked by and my room felt the same as I flopped onto the bed.

Although I made the choice to walk away from the house, the door was opened on my return back into my family. The view from across the street was strange that day, but the feeling when I walked back through the door was home. Years later I still use the front door when visiting my parents. I knock and I wait. There is no fear now because I know the door will always be opened for me. I use the front door because there is no better feeling than being welcomed home.

Dear Customer Service,

2011-02-03T17:07:00.001-06:00

Dear Customer Service,

First let me tell you that I have worked in your field for 13 years so I know how tiring and aggravating it can be to follow the 1st law of good customer service; "The Customer Is Always Right." Yes, we grumble to ourselves that the customer is technically not always right, but when it comes to customer service you should do everything that you can to let the customer know they are important.

For 2 months I have spent time battling 3 of your Customer Service "warriors" and let me tell ya. FAIL!

True Story #1 - Breaker dies. We purchase a new breaker and after looking at some jacked up wiring, husband decides to just call the home warranty people instead of possibly performing a Frankenstein experiment on himself. Home Warranty people send out a contractor (name withheld because if he has a strange accident I don't want it blamed on me as a suspect because I obviously have motive) Contractor is responsible for parts and labor. He comes to the location after a detailed description of what the problem is and doesn't have the part needed. This guy was either not a Boy Scout or thought we were fools who didn't know a dead breaker from a crow in the yard to show up without the part. He begins to rummage through bags on the counter and finds the Holy Grail that he seeks along with its bag and receipt where we were going to return it rather than use it as a $42 paperweight. He merrily does his repairs and rides into the sunset. I find out and call the office for a reimbursement on the part because its their responsibility to supply the part. Rather than say "my bad" (because it was) I was told that I shouldn't have left it lying there where it could be used accidentally. Um...used accidentally? *I* shouldn't have left it lying there? So if I had left $42 in cold hard cash on the counter, your service man lacks the integrity to NOT pick it up and use it because he needed it? *crickets chirp on other end of line* For almost 2 months I battle back and forth with the Home Warranty company (who did say I was right but lacked the backbone to scare the contractor enough to do the right thing) and with the actual company who has caller ID and would refuse to pick up the phone unless I called from the pizza place down the street. I finally got my check but not after I decided to call every other company this works with and tell them what they had done. After a snotty "I-wish-you-hadn't-involved-X-Y-Z companies and my mother" phone call, I got my check.

True Story #2 - My heat was working but not efficiently. I call the company to come make the tweaks needed so that I don't receive another "poop my pants" $500 electric bill. Your jackwagon employee that shows up is not capable of making a repair and talk on the cell phone at the same time. He wounds another area of the heater and now must order a part. Heat is still limping and 1.5 month later we receive word that the all important part has arrived. I called over and over and finally came to conclusion that some swell guy over in China sweated his life away making my part by chopsticks and rowed the stupid thing over himself by boat. Employee comes over like my savior in a gleaming white truck (insert trumpet sounds) and promptly cracks the board. This board is what makes the whole thing work. Now I have NO heat. I call the next day after discovering this myself because he didn't think it necessary to tell me before he left that I had no heat and I was told that I was the top priority. 6 hours later I call back and they can't ask him about an ETA because he is at lunch and has been swamped. HURMPH...I thought I was first priority, not your greasy cow sandwich. Next day I call again, they are waiting for the store they use to get the part in and that could be another 24-48 hours. REALLY? Is this the only store in our area that sells this part? REALLY?!?! Could you at least call our buddy in China with his chopsticks? We now have electric and kerosene heaters positioned around the house (lots of fun when you have a nosy must touch everything baby who has probably burned off all of her fingerprints by now) and my savior is surely sitting in his toasty house in a Hawiian shirt having another greasy cow sandwich. Until then...at least I know I am first priority.

True Story #3 - Get a wonderful note from our health insurance company saying that all the medical bills from the past year for my 1 year old have been denied because she doesn't exist in their system. (Throw up and faint in floor) I'm not going to even detail the conversations that were done concerning that one because my mother reads here and she wouldn't be proud of me. What had happened was Bitsy was born under coverage of husband's employer with company A. 1 week after birth, employer switches to company B. We were told that although switching companies, we would never notice a shift other than new shiny cards. Apparently company A did not give company B any documentation about our 3rd daughter so all the fun visits and vaccinations with a baby were not covered. I was then told that if I faxed in the birth certificate that it would be corrected. Done.....THEY LIED. I then receive a letter that says they deny her completely because they never received a fax. (throw up and faint again) I battle back and forth with some guy from India and after a month get no where. I call HR for my husband's company. Crying, swearing and pleading I tell them about what has happened. She checks the system. Bitsy is in there, she always has been. Disregard all notices. WHA....I'm supposed to feel better but I'm mad. I've stressed like no other time (well there was that one time that the high school baseball star asked me to dance and I had major body odor and I just knew he could smell it thus ruining my cool points in high school) for over a month, tried to learn India-English jabber and this was a clerical error?

So, customer service...I'm not happy with what you have evolved into. Your motto now is that the customer is an idiot, if something goes wrong it's the customer's fault, a sandwich is a higher priority than a customer and the flippant excuses when you are wrong are very old.

Signed,
Still freezing in my house while I am first priority.

Dear Brain From Heart

2011-02-02T00:14:00.000-06:00

Dear Brain,

I'm pretty sure that you are the one responsible for all the bad choices and mistakes that have been happening lately. You've been 50 miles away and I need you to buckle yourself down and come back. You've grabbed onto a concept, a decision or a feeling and just had to add in your own two cents. You've overcomplicated, rehashed and basically made a mess of things because you can't seem to multitask basic functions with thinking.

Maybe you feel like you have too much on you right now; too much expected, but it's pretty easy to sort out.

You do what you do best and let me do what I do.
Quit trying to read in between the lines on matters of the heart.
Don't assume that you can over-rule me and decide what is best for me.
When I clue you in to a "gut feeling" go back to listening to me.
Don't apply your logic to it. Go with the feeling.

Remember that one time that you got that great opportunity and you kept telling me that logically it wasn't possible? You were wrong then.
Remember that time that you held the test in your hand and tried to tell me all the reasons you couldn't be pregnant? You were wrong then.
Remember that time that you royally screwed things up and tried to tell me that there was no way he could love you anymore? You were wrong then.
Remember the time that friend jerked you around time and time again? How you reasoned it out and your mind and kept giving more chances because it might have been you in the wrong? You were wrong then.
Remember that time that person went out of their way to do something kind and you said you didn't deserve it? You were wrong then.
Remember that time that you were so afraid to leap into the unknown because it didn't make sense that any good could come of it? You were wrong then.

Don't get me wrong, my friend. You've had your times that you have shined. You have been the one right and I was wrong. But let's get this straight. When it makes no sense, when it seems unreasonable or when it just doesn't figure right; stop, listen and let me do my job.

Yours,
The Heart

We Not The Same

2011-01-31T21:55:00.000-06:00

"Tell her goodbye and Happy Birthday"

Deep brown eyes turn to me in obvious pain. I place a tender hand on her shoulder and try to touch her fragile heart.

"Go on...it's OK. Just say goodbye"

I feel a shudder go through her, her eyes cast downward and my heart crashes to the floor. No words were spoken. No gesture of friendship. The friend who is just 11 months older already knows to expect this. At 6 years old she has the wisdom and gentleness to reach out to my daughter and hug her anyways; knowing there will be no hug back. Knowing though that she is loved fiercely by my little girl.

We walk to the car. Silent. She feels lost. She knows I understand. She feels insecure. She knows I understand. Halfway home and I hear the words I knew would come.

"Mom, I love her."

I stay quiet, letting her get it sorted out into words.

"We not the same."

No matter how many times I hear it, It suffocates me in its simple truth. For years we have fought the fear of social situations. We have battled having a friend who will accept. We have fought the fear of the simple of act of saying "Goodbye". We haven't lost. We will not lose. We will continue to fight and one day we will win.

She's different. I've had well meaning people make the comment that "a wire is somehow crossed" As if she has some kind of programming malfunction. "She'll grow out of being shy." Yet, she is not shy. She is exuberant and infectious. Yet there is that part of her that doesn't understand that "Goodbye" is not forever. She is obsessed almost every time her dad goes to work. She cries and rages against her feelings that he is forever lost to her. She sleeps every night with a framed picture of our family that was taken 2 years ago that includes grandparents and my sister's family. It's the only way for her to be content with the fact that they are out there and not lost.

"We not the same"

She knows there are differences. Those differences shatter her as much as me, probably more. Yet, it is those differences that cause her to stare at a rose colored sunset in complete awe until it disappears and weep that its over. Those differences gave her the gentlest touch that bonded her littlest sister to her more than anyone else. That difference gives her an intuition to emotions that has led her to hug me when I needed it and nobody else knew. The difference is what caused her to lay in the floor beside her injured puppy all night and stroke it while it still shook in terror after its attack for hours, gently wiping away blood and spoon feeding her water.

I wouldn't uncross that wire for anything.

"We not the same" but in some ways she will be better than any of us could ever hope to be.

Blissdom Teachers

2011-01-31T10:19:00.001-06:00

Today's Blissdom friends are a few of my favorite teachers. Click on the picture to be taken to their blogs!

The first is Saving For Someday. I have adored her for a long time and when getting ready for the first day of Blissdom and rocking out to "Beautiful" by way of a hairspray microphone (Don't judge...I always play Amercian Idol in my bathroom) she was one of the people I was chanting..."I get to meet her today...I get to meet her today"
I knew I liked her a lot, but when we got to really chat, I decided that I loved her. She's one of those people who is gentle, authentic and makes no apologies for it. (Oh and she laughs at all my jokes which makes her the ideal friend in my book) She spoke at Blissdom about the legal aspects of the blog world and I twisted a ton of arms to make sure I got to be there for that. I just HAD to be in the audience and I had a great time hearing my friend. I do have to work on my basic alphabet dancing as every time I tried to do the "YMCA" I kept getting my "C" backwards and hitting my friends.
The best part of her...she saw ME (read this post) and encouraged, loved me and was just who she is.

Next up is Belle Bean Dog. Who will forever be known to me as "Stinky Bean Dip" This is not an inside joke you aren't intended to get to make you feel out of the loop, but rather a nice mistake by my husband. He knows about all of you. He knew who I was excited to meet and as is common practice, I tend to call my friends by the Twitter handles rather than their real names. It goes both ways..most people call me "Crayon" He has heard me for months talk about Belle Bean Dog. Just like I can't do the "YMCA", he can't keep Twitter handles straight. He tweeted me to ask me if I got to meet "Stinky Bean Dip" yet. It was too good of a name slaughter to keep to myself.
This girl is an amazing writer and an even more amazing woman in real life. Best part...she doesn't live far from me so I am starting to see our halfway point as a beam of hopeful light. She's the kind of person that everyone wants to sit next to. Thankfully I got the opportunity many times!
She didn't speak at Blissdom, but she is an amazing teacher. From the way she handles herself in communities, her writing and her authentic voice...there is much to learn from "Stinky Bean Dip"

The last "teacher" for today is Shell from Things I can't say. We started off the conference meeting each other thing with a BANG. She tweeted something about her outfit (which was always fab!) and since I saw her I said "Boo". If you followed the stream it looked like I was "Boo"ing her outfit choice. FACEPLANT. I quickly followed it up with an explanation but there is nothing like insulting someone right before you meet them. (Sigh...I do this a lot!)
Shell is one of those power women. When she walks in a room, you notice. When she writes, you notice. When she speaks...you feel like you are chatting with an old friend. Don't let her good looks scare you. You may want to hide in a paper bag when you see her, but this lady is down-to-earth, welcoming and humble. I've been following her advocating (is that the right word?) for a while and she has taught me that when you are affected by something to let it move you and affect others. Use it. Own it.

Catch My Breath

2011-01-31T00:11:00.001-06:00

When I hear about a car wreck that happened moments after I drove through an area; I catch my breath.

When I hear about someone close to me being ill; I catch my breath.

When I see a splendid sunrise veiling the sky; I catch my breath.

When I see our flag blowing against a sapphire sky; I catch my breath.

When I see someone help another in need; I catch my breath.

When I see a child fold their hands to pray; I catch my breath.

When I see a groom kiss his bride for the first time; I catch my breath.

When I see an elderly couple still holding hands; I catch my breath.

When I see the face of a newly born child against my skin; I catch my breath.

When I see the arms of my child raise for the first time to be picked up; I catch my breath.

When I see the peace on a sleeping child's face; I catch my breath.

Catch my breath. When I think of that I think of the physical movement of taking my air in and choosing when I let it go. It's a conscious effort to take the next breath. The choice to live in the next moment. All the hope, fears, joy and relief that can be found in that breath. For that one moment that I choose to hold my breath though, everything pauses and I take those few seconds to realize that I am in the moment. Moments that I catch my breath often take my breath away.

Will you catch your breath? Will you choose to exhale with intention and purpose for your next moment?

Got My "Bliss"ter - Recap

2011-01-30T10:15:00.000-06:00

In the whirlwind of Blissdom and the enormity of Opryland hotel, I bet every single attendee went home with a blister on their feet. I also bet that you got a "Bliss"-ter as well. This is that little spot inside of you that got rubbed raw. That is why I went to Blissdom, to take that little part of me that I call a blogger and get it rubbed until it throbbed and swelled; causing me to take notice.

I've been a blogger for a long time. An antique in this virtual space. Antiques get dusty and sometimes lose their original purpose. An antique dough bowl starts being used as a conversation piece and forgets its purpose as a dough bowl. Although still nice, its not doing what it was created to do. Likewise this blog has forgotten its purpose.

Now that I have my "Bliss"-ter I intend to put this antique back into is purpose. The 365 pictures were fun, but it had nothing much to do with "Coloring Outside The Lines" (I will continue to do them John, but they will be available on my Flickr stream, so they don't clutter the purpose here) I will go back to writing here with INTENTION and not let my unique voice be silenced. I will strive towards a consistency and integrity with all of you. I will go back to taking the voices of others who are "Coloring Outside The Lines" and sharing them with you here. I will go back to strengthening my community, which is a place where we laugh at the crayon on the walls together.

I will write with intention and make no apologies.

I had a wonderful time while I was getting my "Bliss"-ter. I learned as much from my fellow bloggers as I did from speakers and panels. Each of us there had a unique lesson to teach and some taught me even though they assumed they were just attendees. I know this post is getting long (for me) but let me introduce you to some of my teachers. I'm going to introduce you to just a few a day for the next week.

Dutch Being Me and Erin - I met up with these two for several weeks before Blissdom and we shared our fears of the whole "conference" bit. If any of the two of them were nervous at all, it never showed. Both of them have a powerful voice and magnetic personalities. Wherever they went they were surrounded by others. Their graciousness and willingness to share their experiences make them powerhouses in this virtual space. It seemed every single moment I began to feel my introvert showing like a slip under a dress; they were there. Taking my hand and leading me back in, I felt safe and confidence was renewed!

This picture is of me and LawMomma.
I have followed her, stalked her, laughed and cried with her for a while now. I couldn't WAIT to get to meet her in person. When you meet these bloggers in person, you have shared so much it is certainly like just getting together with an old friend again. But some of these blogger, like LawMomma...you blog worship. They speak to you in a way that inspires you, crushes you, makes you giggle and bonds you. I finally had a free moment that I got to look her square in the eyes and tell her how much I truly idolize her. When she looked back at me and opened her mouth....I LEARNED. She was stunned that I liked her that much. Shocked that I thought she was worthy. She seemed to act as though she felt that I was better than her. Talk about a teaching moment. When we use our voice on the internet, we don't know who we are reaching...who we are affecting...and who can't wait to really meet us. I am no better than she. My voice isn't more powerful. We are both bloggers. We are the same. There were several times that someone walked up to me and said they couldn't wait to meet me and like LawMomma; I was shocked. Shocked to learn that my voice was powerful. Shocked that I was worthy. We both learned something. To someone out there we are something worthy.

Project 365 Day 19

2011-01-24T23:24:00.000-06:00

This post is a little early due to the fact that I am going to be busy all day tomorrow. Before bedtime I started getting the camera out to do my 365 picture and Belly (pictured above) immediately went into meltdown mode.

"MMMMOOOOOMMMMYYY.....I WANNA TAKE PICTURE"

So today's 365 picture (and the following pictures) show me as mommy. I don't think I could take a better picture than the following and the one above. It's not a self portrait, it's a love portrait.

Project 365 Day 18

2011-01-24T10:19:00.000-06:00

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary...” ~ Edgar Allan Poe

Last night at 2am, or maybe it was 3am or 1am? I sat in the floor of the baby's room rocking her and singing lullabies through gritted teeth. My curly headed angel with the happiest smile was screaming as though her crib was a torture chamber. This has gone on every night for the past 3 weeks. I wonder if Old Poe ever spent time with a newborn because he sure nailed the feeling.

I checked her diaper, looked for new teeth, ran my hand over her sheets making sure there wasn't a lump, checked the room temperature, check for fever, gave a lotion rub, etc. I never can find what is causing this screaming, but still I check. I feel worn out, but checking? It makes me feel like I'm doing everything I can to ease her discomfort. I am weak and I am weary.

By the time the other girls get up for the day, I already feel stretched. A simple request for breakfast feels monumental. Being asked to sit and do crafts feels like an intrusion.

As I am sure, dear reader, that you must know by now...this week I go to Blissdom. I will not be here for the breakfast requests, craft times or bed times. There have only been two times since I gave birth to my first daughter that I have been gone and away from home responsibilities. Those two times were when I gave birth to the other girls. I know I will miss my girls and wonder if they are missing me, but I need this break. I need to refresh the woman who is behind the weary mother. I need to feel challenged and inspired by other women.

But if by chance you see me at Blissdom and I am curled on a park bench under the tropical foliage... bring me a pillow and don't wake me up.

Project 365 Day 17

2011-01-23T17:48:00.005-06:00

No time to really post today, but couldn't miss the 365 picture. I had a busy day in the studio today. This means a night full of editing. I took a break between sets to jump in front of the camera. This is the "Worker" me. Casual and needing to be 4 places at once.

Project 365 Day 16

2011-01-22T11:33:00.000-06:00

“There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.” ~Washington Irving

I have always loved this quote because it describes me. Most of the time I appear happy-go-lucky, I lean on my husband and I seem to just float from one day to the next. I never thought about having strength or what it meant to be strong and "blaze in the dark hour of adversity"

Consider a cotton ball. It is soft, pliable and appears weak. Yet if you take a coin and put in on top of the cotton ball, it will hold it there as long as you ask it to. There have been many times that I have been that cotton ball. It wasn't until a coin was placed on top of me that I found I had the strength to hold it for as long as needed.

There was a time just a few days after birth when I should have been home rocking Belly and rejoicing in her newness, that I found myself hovered over a hospital crib watching my daughter as she was put through test after test for a hole in her heart we never knew was there. I was exhausted from giving birth, my body ached but I couldn't leave her side. No matter how weak I thought I was, I found the strength to stand for my daughter. I found the strength to speak positively to my husband who couldn't be there and give him encouragement and peace. I wanted to crumble, but I found the strength.

There have been times that I held the hands of family members and provided a shoulder during the death or illness of a loved one. I wanted to crumble, pound the ground and scream at the heavens about how unfair it was; but I stayed strong. It's not because I really wanted to, but I had a coin placed upon me.

There have been times as an adult where I have been asked to be strong. I don't want to be strong, but I will hold that coin as long as it is asked of me. It's amazing the amount of strength we find that we have when we are asked.

Project 365 Day 15

2011-01-21T15:26:00.000-06:00

I've been asked a lot recently what is the deal with the crayons. Am I really THAT crazy about crayons? Well...yes. Crayons play a big part on my blog, because of my kids. Yes, we like to color. It's more than that though.

I see my kids as crayons. Each one has its unique strengths. Together as they blend they can create beautiful pictures of life, but separately each one shines. As they find their "color" in life they learn how to create their future by using their "color".

Whether it the brightness of a yellow. Warm and inviting.

The calmness of a blue. Relaxed and fluid.

The strength of a red. Powerful and arresting.

Their "color" makes them unique and defines them. We use our knowledge of these colors to help guide them as they are learning who they are and why they should be celebrated.

...and that is one of the reasons that we "color outside of the lines" and I call myself "The Crayon Wrangler"

Inspired Captures

2011-01-21T13:31:00.003-06:00

I love Lynda's photography. Always have. Always will. But yesterday I ran across these shots and was inspired. This is what I came up with.You can click on the pictures to make them larger.

OK so that last one isn't technically a running water shot, but I couldn't help myself.

Moms Hear Everything

2011-01-20T23:26:00.000-06:00

Moms. We are unique group. We hear things most people don't. A child sigh in the night. A cough all the way across the house. If you have had the experience of being cooped up in the house for a long period of time with only small children to talk to, you begin to hear other things. I have heard these "other" things and while I probably shouldn't admit it to you, these conversations have actually enlightened me and entertained me.

Overheard while trying to sweep behind the couch.

"Stop trying to push me towards her. What are you doing? You are going to get me killed! After all I have done for you. Time after time I have anticipated her movements and kept you out of harms way."

"What do you mean you have kept me out of harm's way. The last time she had the vacuum cleaner out you all but tripped me in a desperate attempt to escape it. I almost got sucked up that time."

"I never did any such thing. It was my idea to push the little pieces of plastic out from behind the couch so that the baby would grab them and shove them in its mouth. I knew it would make that woman stop sweeping to rescue the child so that we could escape."

"Oh you are right! Us Goldfish crackers don't have the gift of strategy like you Dustbunny Clans do."

Then there was the conversation I heard when I opened the fridge to clean it out.

"Come on guys, where is your sense of self preservation. Hug that wall"

"I can't scoot back any farther, she's gonna see me. I'm headed for the trash and after all this work to grow this fuzz long! Such a waste"

"Don't give up yet! Just push that bowl of chocolate pudding towards the front again. She never makes it past that! Push men...Push as though your green fuzzed black-eyed peas bodies depended on it"

"Holy cow, I don't believe she fell for it again. Well, we are safe for another few days. At ease, men."

Moms. We hear all kinds of things. I think the most frequent one is this conversation. It gets played every day.

"Mom! She's touching me"

"I didn't touch her. She was on my side"

"Mom! She's doing it again"

"Quit snitching. Snitches get stitches"

"Mom! She just said I was going to get stitches. What's a stitch?"

"It's that funny blue thing that is with Lilo in that movie, Stupid"

"Mooooommm....she called me stu...hey, you wanna watch that movie?"

"Yes"

"Mom, can we watch Lilo and Stitch?"

*This prompt is from The Red Dress Club. The prompt is all about dialogue. Click on the link to see what others are "talking about"

Project 365 Day 14

2011-01-20T10:25:00.000-06:00

Boom Boom Ain't it great to be crazy...

So the Scribblers and I have been cooped up in the house for almost a solid 3 weeks. First it was because of the snow, then sickness, ~~then I was being a selfish jerk and didn't want to do anything~~, more snow, more sickness and now more snow on the way.

I have done everything humanly possible to entertain and to keep us from going stir crazy. We have filled up about 14 coloring books, had dance parties, dress up, tea parties, played dollies, hide-n-go seek, dialed 411 on my cell and asked the operator for "Sanity" and many other various games/activities. My husband drew the line when I tried to get them to play Houdini and bind them in the closet. He's such a spoil sport.

I think this is one of the times when being a mom is the hardest. The moment when you realize that your bag of tricks is empty, there is no rabbit in your hat and nothing is up your sleeves. The childrens' eyes start to lose the sparkle when they realize it's just another day just like yesterday. Let's face it, my eyes are sparkling either. We are going crazy and sometimes that is just not fun.

I strive so hard to challenge my kids to be creative, to make the most out of nothing and to find things to laugh about. So after breakfast this morning when I realized that I was indeed staring at an empty hat with no rabbit inside. It was time to embrace the Bozo and have a clown party. We will learn how to slip on banana peels (because someone hasn't cleaned up after breakfast) squirt water at each other (because that's the most effective way to clean smeared banana off a child) juggle (because that's the only way to serve lunch to three kids who all want something different) and perfect the "Sad Face" (because we are so sick and tired of being impounded within this house)

Project 365 Day 13

2011-01-19T13:24:00.000-06:00

This was going to be an awesome picture until the Youngest Scribbler farted right on my foot. I lost the serious look and laughed. Strange thing...it's still an awesome picture because it is more me.

All the years I wasted trying to be that serious girl. The one with the right words. Totally wasted those years trying to squash who I was inside. I was so worried that my jokes wouldn't come out right. So worried that the dry wit would be seen as sarcasm. (For the record, sarcasm rocks in my book!)

I actually spent about 5 years in self-imposed laughter prison. Trying to learn to be more serious and thinking that was what it was going to take for me to ever be a success in life. I read books by deep thinkers who reeked of solemness. I was squashed.

Then came my Scribblers and I couldn't hold the laughter back anymore. It could have been to keep me from crying on days that someone cut all their hair off, stopped up the toilet with 8 bananas (who knew that wouldn't flush?) or swallowed a $50 bill (never got my change back on that one!) However it happened, the laughter came bubbling back and overflowed into just about every minute of every day.

If we have met online or in real life, I guarantee we have laughed together. I probably have poked fun at you in some way, but that's just because I want you to laugh at yourself and your life. I can be serious when the moment warrants it, but it never lasts for long. It's not a defense mechanism from being nervous, its just me. It's not that I don't see the seriousness of certain life changing situations, it just me. It's me living life unsquashed.

I did take another picture as well. One where I looked directly at the camera. I simply hate taking these pictures. I feel like the camera is dissecting my very soul. I feel like it reveals too much. I feel this way because when I am playing the part of the photographer, that's what I am doing. I am looking for that one moment that shows the real person inside my subject. That shy moment, that moment of explosive laughter or that mischievous smile. I frankly, don't like doing this with myself. Here is the picture though. It doesn't look like the me picture above. This "me" is squashed and she needs to laugh.

Project 365 Day 12

2011-01-18T09:50:00.000-06:00

Mom Down. Mom Down.

Well John...you knew there would be bad days, but I won't fail "The Project"! Pbbbt!

No matter what super powers Moms may have, there are just so many times you can be puked on. Apparently 6 times within 24 hours is the magic number.

My stomach started rolling a bit last night like a theme park ride. You know at the end of the ride there is that clown? The evil little one that laughs in your face? I saw that. Well, actually it was one of the girls who had made it to my bedside just so she could shake me away and then puke all over my shoulder, arm and sheets. (Maria...if you are laughing...and I know you are...karma, lady. Karma)

So I am staying in bed today. With the exception of taking care of the kids, cleaning up, encouraging crackers and hydration....what I mean to say is that I will be a mom and wish I was staying in bed,

Project 365 Day 11

2011-01-17T10:54:00.000-06:00

I have a dream...

We are all consumed by dreams, they creep in every day.

Things we wish we would have done or wish that we could say.

Time that has flown right past when we were too busy see,

The chances and opportunities and what could actually be.

The dream is the music of the soul; the essence of our heart.

Yet what if we let our dreams define us? Where would we start?

Would we begin our day different with our dreams leading our way?

Should we do the things we dream of and say what we want to say?

Your reality will never become your dream if you don't step aside.

Let your dreams define you and let your dreams decide.

*I am participating in Project 365 - Self Portraits. All pictures in this collection are taken by either timer or remote. The pictures taken are used to recreate an emotion for that day. Contrary to comments that have been received this is not a "narcissistic display" but rather a project to improve my photography skills, creativity and self image. All comments are appreciated and photography advice is welcome!

Project 365 Day 10

2011-01-16T20:51:00.000-06:00

The sun has been out for two days and I could have laid there forever.

Well, I laid there just long enough for the mud to completely soak through my shirt and pants. That has got to be the nastiest feeling ever. We have to accept though with the sun and thawing snow, there has got to be mud puddles left behind.

I'm sure there is some really awesome life analogy in there somewhere, but I am too tired to think of one right now. I'd love for you to leave me your opinion on an analogy though in the comments.

*I am participating in Project 365 - Self Portraits. All pictures in this collection are taken by either timer or remote. The pictures taken are used to recreate an emotion for that day. Contrary to comments that have been received this is not a "narcissistic display" but rather a project to improve my photography skills, creativity and self image. All comments are appreciated and photography advice is welcome!

Project 365 Day 9

2011-01-15T21:30:00.000-06:00

Before someone else asks...Yes I dyed my hair. Well, didn't really dye it but went back to the original color (or as close as I can remember) I had been dying it almost black for a long time because....well, I don't have a good reason. I think I thought the red was too fad-ish even if mine was naturally auburn. 'Course the goth look wasn't too great on me either. So I stripped it down. I did however allow my skunk stripe to stay. I was going to try to match it to the auburn, but really??? I'm not going to try to keep up with it anymore.

So anyways, Project 365. I took this post inside the door way to my studio. The truth behind the picture is that I am feel like I am hovering in the "doorway" of my business. I've been taking these bright photographs for so long because it was what was safe for me. Recently I've noticed a shift towards low-key and cross processing. I adore the low-key because it is dramatic, but my eye sees the cross processed as washed out. The photograph above has some mild cross processing and I don't like the effect too much, but I like the portrait as a whole. It works with the pose. I'm trying to step out of my "doorway" and learn new techniques, but its hard to leave what I knew. What felt safe.

It's like this in all aspects of my life. I tend to cling to what is safe. I'm not a "bungee jumper" in life and I don't like risks. I take a lot of risks, but never putting something on the table that I can't stand to lose. Guess that doesn't make it much of a risk, does it? My oldest daughter is so much like me. I watch her caution towards new things and it kills me because I know she would love the new experience. Yet, I understand. The timidness towards the new, it's in me too.

So I stand in the doorway trying to take a step into a new light. Because I am "me" I will probably be looking over my shoulder from time to time at what was safe.

Hello Blissdom...This is me.

2011-01-14T19:37:00.001-06:00

After if was decided that I will be going to Blissdom, I started to faithfully watch the Twitter stream to see what all was being said about it. After clicking through links on what to wear, pictures that will be taken and seeing person after person fret about their first impression; I began to start feeling nervous myself. So I wanted to knock all those formalities out of the way and give you an honest first impression. That way you will know me when we meet for real.

This is me. I have wrinkles. I have gray hair. I am on a diet because I need it. I'm not comfortable in my clothes and I'm not buying anything new to wear because it would be purchased on emotion and that's never good for me. The last conference I went to I purchased a dress that was classy. I didn't feel too classy because I had to suck in the entire time and felt very light headed by the time it was all over. I laugh a lot and I have a natural knack of one-liners. I'm also very sensitive. I really want to meet you, but it's probably going to feel awkward at first. This is OK because you and me...well, we are strangers and it takes time to feel like yourself. You people are about the only ones who listen to me. Heaven knows my kids don't. The main thing about meeting you...I don't want to impress you, I want to make an impression on you. If you don't regularly read here, I'm just a mom. That's it. I don't want to compare labor stories or poop stories. I'm not going to tell you about how perfect my marriage or my mothering is, because apparently I have a lot to learn. I do want to hear about you and your passions. Once the conference is over (unless there is a picture of you and I) I will not remember what you were wearing, if it was the latest fashion or if you were sucking in. I will remember YOU and the stories that we shared together.

So hello Blissdom...this is me.

Project 365 Day 8

2011-01-14T00:23:00.001-06:00

I need to get away sometimes. I need the closeness of family and friends to ground me.

I need to back out on obligations. I need the feeling of success in a project.

I need to disappoint people. I crumble at the thought of disappointing someone.

I need to be a nobody. I need to be somebody.

No expectations.

There are times I run away inside myself and hope that nobody finds me. There are times I need someone to search me out and show me that I matter.

Sometimes I need to cry when I am expected to laugh. Sometimes I laugh when I want to cry.

Sometimes I want to push away when I am in an embrace. Sometimes I don't ever want to be let go of.

Sometimes I want to cover my ears when I am expected to listen. Sometimes I really need to hear what is said.

That's who I am.

Project 365 Day 7

2011-01-13T08:00:00.000-06:00

There are a ton of captions for this picture, but who am I fooling...I just wanted to copy this.

Seriously though, there is nothing like being snowed in for days, having limited internet and feeling cut off to give you a sense of what Will Smith's character was feeling like in "I Am Legend". OK So we don't have zombies running around (that I know of) and it's more than just me in the house...you get the point. Maybe not?

Disclaimer: Before somebody comes on here to point out the weapon and barrage me with comments...Yes, it's real. It's unloaded. I don't normally cradle any kind of weapon while I am sleeping. The only thing unsafe about this picture is the dog toenail that you can't see that is digging in my chest during this picture....wait...now you are going to think that I was being cruel to the dog too...

Disclaimer #2: No animals were hurt or forced against their will for the creation of this photo. Sam (pictured above) is a highly photogenic animal who regularly takes baths in the big bathtub. He like to soak in the bubbles, drink a glass of wine and nibble of a piece of cheese. He also enjoys walks on the beach. Alright, so that was a lie. He doesn't know what a beach is. I'm sure he would enjoy it though. His toenail was only digging into me because of the limited space we had and the glaze on the tub was slick. Geez...someone is going to think that the bathtub was harmed in the making of this picture...

Disclaimer #3: No bathtubs were scratched in the making of this picture. If you actually read this disclaimer because it applied to your way of thinking...you are seriously messed up and need a new cause to rant against.

Project 365 Day 6

2011-01-12T13:16:00.000-06:00

It is a blustery day. Nothing like a steaming cup of coffee and good book to start the day off right.

What do you do to start your day off?

Project 365 Day 5

2011-01-11T13:58:00.001-06:00

If you follow my tweets you know that I have internet troubles. After finally getting a hold of someone who spoke layman terms I learned that someone close in location to me grabbed my wireless signal and for the past several weeks has used my connection to hack into other computers. So they have been monitoring my IP and been following my internet usage to see if I was the hacker.

Me.

The chic who cant set the clock on the microwave. A hacker? The only thing i have hacked in my life was a ham. I didn't even do that well.

They would block my IP when other computers got hacked. Important computers. The kind of activity that gets black helicopters following you and a flower delivery van parked across the street. Whoever this basement dwelling, cheetos eating geek was also gave my computer a fun virus in the operating system. Thanks a lot jerk.

So everytime for the past week that I have been connected to the internet, "They" have been watching. Every time I logged into "People of Walmart", "Cake Wrecks" and those episodes of Myth Busters on YouTube where it shows if you can actually be sucked out of a airplane due to a bomb (I swear to the guy in the florist van, it was just curiousity and not research)...THEY were watching me.

My tinfoil hat is on. Thanks a lot, you Star Trekkie with your posable Star Wars figurines watching over your copy of "Catcher In The Rye". Now I know longer feel safe looking at the live feed from Chiapet.com.

Tinfoil secure. Laugh it up Cheeto boy.

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Project 365 Day 4

2011-01-10T10:41:00.000-06:00

Psst....I get to use my actual computer now!! Whoohoo!

Day 4 - I am so tired of all the white outside! There is a massive stir crazy event going on in my house. It's not that we have had foot upon foot of the snow. Just a consistent white layer to everything. It's not even the right kind of snow to build a snowman, snow fort and with the teen range temperatures I'll be darned if you see me out there long enough to produce a Crayon Wrangler snow angel. I am not rolling around in that stuff. Period. They are calling for more snow throughout this week and I am trying to envision warmer climates, happy days and a little bit of color outside.

Are you currently snowed in? What are you doing to stay sane from being cooped up?

Project 365 Day 3

2011-01-09T12:51:00.001-06:00

Another day blogging on this itty bitty phone with its itty bitty keyboard. Hopefully its the last day of this and our home internet will be working tomorrow. Murphy and his stupid law always seems to find me though.

Which ties in seamlessly with the Project 365 Day 3 picture. While my husband was in town trying to get the workhorse van started since the battery/starter/something mehanical is broke, i decided to run to the store before our "winter event" starts. Luckily he had jumper cables in his hand when I found out our jeep battery was dead too. The bummer was he was 30 miles away with those jumper cables.

See...told you Murphy has it out for me. Perhaps i tripped him once in playschool or spit a spitwad at his head. Nevertheless he searches me out.

So Day 3 finds me with a bummer of a day.

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Project 365 Day 2

2011-01-08T12:26:00.001-06:00

This post is brought to you from my itty bitty keyboard from my itty bitty phone. Thanks alot internet service for messing up some DNS and IP thing. On top of that i sincerely appreciate you being closed over the weekend and almost causing me to screw up this whole Project 365.

So...Day 2

Psst...i have no idea how this post is gonna look so 1000 pardons for that and my no spell check phone. I did however learn how to take a pic with my darling Niki (Nikon) upload to computer and then transfer the file to my phone by the USB cable. Yes. I rock and you can be jealous.

I got sick kids today. Buckets of dripping snot. Weapons of mass disgustion. I've been up all night being the Cough Monitor. That is a whole lot less fun than being The Crayon Wrangler. I'm slappin foreheads, guessing temps, cropdusting with Lysol and there are bags under my eyes I could fill with enough stuff to fly somewhere warm and germ free for 3 weeks. In fact, if one more child does their impersonation of Slimer off the Ghostbusters while hugging me; i may just hop that jet plane with my beautiful black bags that coordinate nicely with my ladden saddle bags.

So there is Project Me 365 and its not a great portrait but its real.

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Project 365 - Day 1

2011-01-07T12:44:00.001-06:00

I have been wanting to do something different on my blog for a while. Wanting to still be me, but different. One of my dear photography friends, Kimberly, shared a cool project and I decided to take part in it. It's 365 days of self portraits, but I am taking the angle of showing you the "real" me for 365 days. The good, the bad and the ugly. Using props, angles or whatever it takes to show you how I feel for that day. I will then tell you the truth of what is behind the image.

This 1st day is somewhat staged but I wanted to do it for Day 1 to introduce you to me. This IS me. It's showing you that I'm a mom and I am a mess. I am scatterbrained and I don't always make the right choice.

If you were to walk into my house this is exactly what you would find. I always have one out of three children orbiting me, there are toys everywhere, I probably can't find my shoes, hair up but dangling because I have attempted to pull it out on several occasions, coffee cup present but more than likely cold and my journal for ideas. My phone would be in the picture, but I am sure I couldn't find it either.

A Cursed Season

2011-01-06T18:51:00.000-06:00

I am cursed.

There is a voodoo doll out there with 50,000 pins sticking out of it and it looks surprisingly like me.

If I actually believed in voodoo that would be a believable explanation to this recent phenomenon. These past few weeks everything I have touched has "poo-poo"ed under my hand. If I had a pet rock it would have died. Yes, it is that bad.

I have burnt clothes with a iron, burnt dinner, forgot how to make bread and had to watch my own vlog on it. (Psst....I still couldn't make the stinkin' loaf after watching myself make one. How's that for "poo-poo"ed) I have broken dishes, gained 10 lbs, cut the kid's hair too short, lost a deposit, broken a lens....the list keeps going. I refuse to write anymore because it is going to make me crawl in the closet to hide. Although if I did crawl in a closet I would probably break the door handle off, trip, smash a toe and pull the whole clothes rod off on my head. Yes, it is that bad.

My husband has asked me not to cook, not to do laundry and just sit still in a corner. I thought to myself he was being ungrateful and in my head threatened him with arsenic in his next burnt dinner. I accidentally said that part out loud. I can't even talk to myself correctly.

I am having a season of being cursed.

Have you ever had an extended vacation in "Poo-Poo"ed Land?