When my Children Were Little Their Faith was Simple

A Reminder that Faith Can be Simple and Sincere and Sweet

Welcoming the Baby Jesus

This week has been so busy and I so wanted to write about Christmas because I love Christmas. So instead I will repost a sweet blog about Bean and Abu and their innocent faith being put into action with the help of Barbie, Ken, and a few toy animals.

http://justtheothermoment.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-four.html

A little Christmas Cheer from Last Year

Happy Friday!

Check out my last year's blog about Gibson eating Santa. Gibson is still a puppy this year but he's growing up. Now instead of eating ornaments he just likes to drink the Christmas tree water dry. Mmm, pine sap flavored water. Delicious!

http://justtheothermoment.blogspot.com/2013/12/gibson-ate-santa.html

Medication, Weaning, Nursing, Or how Choices Just Pull on Your Momma Heartstrings

But when she does finally pass out...it doesn't matter where she's at.

Do you know how late a baby can stay up when 

they drink the rest of Dad's coffee?

 

Baby Blueberry and Gibson wrestling. 

The house is quiet except for...hold on, the Baby awakens again, calling for 'Momma'.
     I tell her, "It's night-night. Night-night." I'm trying to keep patience, but sleeping has never been something she has taken too and now that she knows that complete weaning is imminent, she has become even more clingy.
     I pick her up and she whispers, barely opening her eyes, "O-tay. O-tay night- night."
     We nurse for less than five minutes and she has fallen back asleep.

    I think I have become her security blanket. Oh, boy.

   A few months ago we had a well baby check-up where the doctor insisted it was beyond time to wean her, after all she's two.

(Never mind that in other parts of the world nursing until a toddler is between 2 or 3 is completely normal. It's just in the United States where we have this weird thing of - it's okay to show boobs on HBO and on the beach- bikinis barely cover anything, but heaven forbid a Mom discreetly nurses a baby in public.)

  The doctor proceeded to explain how to start that process of letting her cry herself to sleep and it would only take four nights. Baby Blueberry listened intently to every word he had to say.
    Every word.
   Never underestimate the ability and vocabulary of a two year old.
   Ever since then, she has been extra protective and needy of nursing.

 It's the last well baby check-up she goes too.

   I know what's she thinking, "Heck no, Momma is not weaning me." 

  And since I'm weak and can't stand to hear her cry- we haven't completely weaned. She doesn't nurse during the day but only at night.

   And then my stupid-ass Crohn's had to flare up on me. It's been giving me trouble for the last six months and I suppose in the next few weeks I'll write a few blogs about it, but in the meantime my choices are:

    keep nursing and allow the inflammation to get worse

or

wean so I can go on some steroids.

And I suppose I didn't even realize how much this decision was bothering me until I sit down to write a blog, with a million different ideas in my head and this is the thing that bothers me the most.

Weaning. 

 Because it's going to be hard on Blueberry.

Hard on my Momma heart.

For one night we couldn't nurse because of sedative in my blood from one of the procedures I had to agree to and she cried for two hours straight-- ON MY LAP. Of course, I'm half out of it from the sedative lingering in my bloodstream, but it was still tough that no matter what I said, no matter the hugs, no matter the cartoons we put on the television- she wouldn't be comforted.

And Baby Blueberry is such an easy going kid. She hardly ever cries.

But this change...is hard on her.

And I've tried everything...bottles, sippy cups, the promise of a new toy when we're done, telling her she's such a big girl...

She responds by saying, "I'm the BABY."

I think the kid has a little bit of my stubbornness and love for change. I'm sure of it.

A few days left of nursing. Nursing the last baby. From here, it's big girl stuff. And it's time...


In the meantime, last night she drank the rest of Dad's coffee that he forgot and left at the kitchen table.

She was up until almost 1:00 in the morning.

Note to Hero Hottie: Don't leave your coffee out! Or you get to stay up with her next time.

What depth I see in those eyes! 

 

One Baby, One Puppy, and One Red Balloon

Kindred Spirits Share a Moment

I love this thing! 

As a child I loved helium-filled balloons as most kids do. They float, they can make your hair crazy, you can bounce them- they're awesome.

As a parent, I'm not so thrilled with the helium-filled balloon. The girls have fun with them and then they do what all balloons do...they POP.

And then the tears start.

But the other day we unfortunately were given a red helium-filled balloon and for a few moments- bliss was absolute. I'll let the photos do most of the talking this time.

Isn't this the best thing, Gibson? - Yes, kid, you bring home the best things to chew on. 

I tried to explain that sharp puppy teeth and balloons don't mix, but Baby Blueberry wouldn't listen. Around and around she would run in the living room, letting Gibson chase her. Laughing and giggling. And he loves to play with her. Jumping up on furniture, following her around the room, trying to play with her.

For a few moments- pure joy and bliss. And then...

Puppy, what happened?

Both babies stopped in shock, not sure what happened to their toy. Gibson started sniffing around, trying to figure out how it disappeared. Baby Blueberry wondered how it went from a wonderful- bouncy toy to something so boring and flat.

Sadness

 

 

A helium balloon always bring sadness. Great joy and then POP. That is just the way of the balloon. And just when Baby Blueberry and Gibson decide that a piece of latex can be fun, Mommy takes it away, says it's now considered a choking hazard and it's gone.

And somehow all that sadness will be forgotten as soon as another helium-filled balloon is found.

Adventures in Sewer Back-ups, Ruined Basements, and Insurance Companies

      Sewer Germs are so GROSS-in case I forget to mention that- GROSS

     With most of my friends this year packing up and leaving for exotic places and new adventures, I wanted a grand adventure of my own.

     What I settled for was sorting our stuff and getting rid of clutter so we would be ready to move should the remote possibility arrive and fix up our house in case we needed to sell it in hurry. A girl can be hopeful, right?

     Tuesday I got my wish- just not the way I had envisioned it.

    My fairy godmother sucks.

    Bean was in the shower when the water started raising. She hurried out, hastily putting her clothes on as the water started to come out of the toilet. When she came rushing up the stairs and said the toilet was overflowing, I grabbed the plunger.

      “No, Mom. You don't need that. It's not plugged.” She's trying to explain to me as we rush back downstairs.

     I stop at the bathroom door, shocked by what I'm seeing.

The towels stopped the gushing, which I wished I captured in a photo, but you can see the water still coming out of the toilet and this is towards the end of the 45 minutes.

      Water is like a geyser shooting out of the toilet, with debris of toilet paper and branches and who knows what else, (I don't really want to know). The shower is overflowing, and the floor is already covered in an inch of water and it's quickly flowing into the other parts of the downstairs.

     “Get your Dad.” I holler at her, not sure what to do. This is more than a blocked sewer pipe out to the main sewer line.

Gross

      The next few minutes pass in a hurried blur of shouting at each other as Hero Hottie comes rushing down the stairs and realizes we can't do anything to stop it.

     The older girls and I start to grab things off the floor before the water can reach it and throw them onto top of beds and counter tops, trying to save as much as we can. From the photos you can see we couldn't save everything.

     And for 45 minutes we watched as water kept pumping into our house, ruining half our house.            

      Destroying the girls' bedrooms, the downstairs bathroom, the living room. Inches and inches of sewer water flowed everywhere.

     The cause: The construction company up the street had busted a water main, causing sewer to back up into six different homes on the blocks. Our house was hit the worse. But all the houses would need new flooring.

     We sent the girls' over to Grandma's so they could clean up and get the sewer water off their bodies. The upstairs was contaminated by our footsteps.

     My house was a bio hazard.

What's this brown stuff?

     Gross. Totally gross and just a little – no, completely gross.

     Sewer water. People's poo. Covering my girls' bed. My couch. My Blueberry's toys. I wanted to cry. And scream.

    Hero Hottie was upset. He marched down the street, still in bare feet because he didn't want to put sewer water covered feet in his shoes and started demanding answers.

   Mostly who is fixing this and they better start right now.

   Hero Hottie and I are pretty easy going people. Except when a company pumps sewer water into our home for 45 minutes and RUINS our house. Then we're a little bit more demanding.

   Which was a good thing. Because within a couple of hours, the construction company had professional cleaners, Stanley Steemers, at the house, decontaminating the floor so we could safety walk through and grab our personal items that were savable.

Clothes, baby potty, Abu's retainer and waterpik all totally gross and ruined

   

Blueberry's toys completely ruined. You can't clean those toys enough. Not for this Momma.

Who wants toast?

Sorry Gibson, it got your dog food too.

    In the last few days, the company has taken the flooring out of Abu's room, ran 13 giants fans to dry the sheet rock, tore out most of the bathroom, and spray all kinds of germ killing chemicals into cracks and around edges of walls.

   Bean and I have spent the last four days, not doing schoolwork as planned, but sorting through the damaged items, making an inventory with photos, and then finding the replacement price of the item on the Internet. That way they can see how much damage they did, at least the monetary side of it.

   They can't replace the sack of letters I had from loved ones who have already moved on, and they can't replace the box of teenage memories, the photos that Bean looked at and said, “Wow, Mom you were pretty when you were a teenager.”

   “Thanks.” I said sarcastically.

   “No, I just meant...you're pretty now too. It's just, you didn't have wrinkles.”

   “Just stop talking.” I said. 

It's just stuff. But it was the stuff I used to take care of my family.

These are the things that can't be replaced.

And you want to know the irony of this? We are in the process of fixing up our upstairs shower, so this was our only working shower. Guess what kids? We're all taking showers in the kitchen sink. Or with the garden hoses out back. It's only a little cold outside this time of year. Brrr.

These giants fans, 13 of them, run for 72 hours to help dry everything. There is a constant hum upstairs and the cove heaters are turned up to 90 to heat things up. The smell upstairs is stomach turning. Damp, and hot and coying.

    They can't replace the container of dance costumes I had been keeping from all the girls' dance recitals since they were five and tiny and just my little girls. And they can't replace a Blue Blankie that was Abu's security blanket, especially when I was sick. She carried that thing everywhere, quietly watching me, wondering if Momma was ever going to get better.

    The couch, the beds, even the toys are replaceable. We won't get new price for it, but as long as we get enough, Hero Hottie and I can rebuild the downstairs and give the girls' their rooms back.

    But in the meantime, my mother-in-law is kindly doing all our laundry since my washer and dryer is off limits until they have been decontaminated. We have been staying at my in-laws' house too, until we can buy another mattress and set up three girls in the tiniest room in our house.

    

     A teenager and a toddler in one room. What could go wrong?

   When Blueberry finally saw our house, her bottom lip quivers, her eyes filling with moisture and she whispers. “House broken.”

     Yes, little sweetie, our house is broken.

     So in a way I have been granted my wish. We packed up part of our house and MOVED it to the garage. And we're redoing our entire downstairs. And I'm having a grand adventure of the character building sort.

     Blah, character building adventures are for literary novels. I wanted sun, sand and fun. I swear, one of these days, I just going to move to New Zealand. Their website says they're the happiest place on the Earth. I'm assuming after Disneyland, of course. 

Some beach in New Zealand, works for me- I'm not picky

  

The Case of the Sneaky Parents

Or How a Two Year Old Has Toy Radar

For Blueberry's 2nd birthday we had bought her a collection of toys called Calico Critters. There are many different family sets, ones that look like cats, dogs, mice, beavers, and pandas. She has a phobia about rodents, so we picked the pandas.
       Since she has recently watched the movie, Kung Fu Panda- the main character is a huge, funny panda named Po- when she opens up the package, she hugs it and says, "A family of Pos."
       So when you ask you to explain them to you, she says, "This one is the momma Po, and the Dada Po, and the Baby Po."

A Family of Pos

       At this lovely local toy store downtown, where they actually know us by name, not because we buy much except around birthdays or Christmas time, but we like to go in there and look at the toys- and they encourage such behavior. Who knew a toy store could be so kid friendly. They have a train table set up to play with, and a little grand piano, shopping carts that are Blueberry's size, a funny mirror, and a table with the Calico Critters. That's where Blueberry fell in love with these toys,- ohh, that's why they let you play with the toys. ;-)

The toy store also had a booklet with all the available sets and accessories a parent could grow broke buying and at night, while she was going to bed Blueberry would look through it, always stopping on the page with the red, shiny car and telling me she wants that for her family of Pos.

So for Christmas, Hero Hottie and I already knew we were going to purchase the red, shiny car perfect for a family of Pos for Blueberry.

One day we went in the toy store just to let the kids have some fun and there it was - the red, shiny car and if we bought it today, we would get the $15 roof rack set for FREE.
That's like a fifteen dollar coupon, even though we wouldn't have purchased the roof rack set for her otherwise, but we couldn't pass this opportunity up.

So Hero Hottie makes his way casually over to the cash register, while I distracted the Blueberry by the train set. While he's purchasing the car with the FREE roof rack, Blueberry takes off, running purposely next to him, and looks at him.

Eye contact has been made. But has she seen the gift being wrapped in bright green Christmas paper?

She doesn't slow down so she must not see what we're doing. I take a big sigh of relief.

We exit the store with the most neatly wrapped presents that will be under my tree. Can I take all my presents down here to be wrapped?

But our plan of Sneaky Christmas presents starts to unravel. She keeps touching the boxes and saying, "presents. presents?" Her little eyebrows are arched and she holding back her excitement.

Apparently the kid doesn't know the difference between birthday wrapping paper and Christmas wrapping paper, because all she's seeing are presents.

We hide them in the car and sneak them into the house. Hopefully, out of sight will be out of mind. But chaos breaks out when we enter and I stick them in my room, setting them near the closets, without hiding them.

A few hours later, after supper and the bigger girls are off to bed but little stinker butt, who has the most horrible time going to bed is still up, Hero Hottie and I are talking in the living room, and she's going back and forth between her bedroom and us.

Or so we thought. Nope, the Blueberry was busy doing other things.

She comes into the living room, sets down the unwrapped car on the floor where we're sitting and says, with a big flourish,

"Ta-da"

"What? You unwrapped your Christmas present?"

"Car, Momma. Car for Pos." Her little finger is poking the box, a huge grin on her face.

Hero Hottie and I are laughing so hard. We completely failed as sneaky parents. The little stinker must have known FROM THE STORE, that we had bought the car for Pos. And she had just been waiting for us to leave the presents unguarded.

And she unwrapped the bigger present and left the little present alone.

The FREE Roof Rack is in the STILL wrapped Christmas present. She knew which one to open.

Pleasant Peasant Soup anyone?

The Mortification of Lois Lane

 

A pleasant pheasant

     So sometimes in this big goop of neurons that are busy inside my skull, information doesn't always flow in the right order.

     That's why I have the tendency to say the wrong word, because somehow the image that is in my brain is the not the sound it hears, and then when it leaves my mouth it's completely mangled and people are staring at me wondering what I just said. Thank you English language for your words that don't pronounce the way they're spelled. My brain doesn't appreciate you.

      Case in point:

        Yesterday, I was interviewing a cook for my most recent article for the paper. First of all, I was tired, but I beginning to think I'm always tired- and I was in the process of royally screwing up on completing this article.

       

        (I was interviewing and writing on the day of my deadline, yet I had known about it for weeks. If that is not last minute...I do actually have excellent reasons for not getting it done sooner but really it doesn't matter. So yesterday morning when I awoke, I laid in bed telling myself it was going to be a really sh*tty day for a variety of reasons, my last minute article one of them, and I just laid there---

Accomplishing nothing except perfecting the art of self pity. Something I have to work on because I was raised by a Mom that most of the time when faced with a problem, told me to pull up my boot straps and continue on. Actually, the advice isn't all the bad. I've learned to counter it with a little bit of sulking every once and a while, and in the meantime through all the hard stuff in my life, it's been the motto in the back of my head.)

       But back to my story: I finally grew disgusted with myself, just laying there and complaining and whining.

       “Christy,” I said to myself, but not aloud because then people think you're a little weird for talking to yourself, even though I'm sure most people do it in their heads most of the time, “You can't just call your editor and whine and tell her you're not doing the article. It needs done and failure is not an option.”

      I'm so bossy.

      I sat down, with coffee, and mulled over my angle for this story. I had nothing. Didn't know my angle. I had been trying to call someone for quotes and they were ignoring me.

        “Because I'm sure 'she's in a meeting' every time I call is code for ignore her. Especially when the receptionist says, “You're that freelance writer, right? Hold on. Oh, yeah, she's in a meeting.”

       

     Sure.

      Finally, I decided I would call the food vendors that were going to be participating in this event I was supposed to be writing about.

     Bingo.

     I call the burrito lady with the food truck. Quotes, quotes and more quotes.

    And now I was suffering from a grumbling stomach, apparently half a pomegranate was not a big enough lunch. And Buffalo Green Chili sounded good to my hunger pains.

     And then I called the catering guy who will be preparing game bird for this event.

    “Hi, so I read you're going to be making a peasant soup?”

    Silence and then a bit of laughter.

    “Umm, you mean pheasant? I'm making a pheasant soup.”

  

     Mortification.

    “I suppose you don't want to make soup out of peasants, huh?” I asked, when I could speak again.

    “No, we'll be making it out of pheasant, you know it's a bird.”

    After that I wouldn't even pronounce the word 'pheasant'- referring to it as the bird.

   “You mean the pheasant?” He would fill in the blank. I think he was mocking me.

    But I know my brain, if I mispronounce a word once, it gets stuck on that pronunciation and I will mispronounce again.

     So success. I wrote the article and submitted it.

     And then I read it this morning and realized that instead of writing about the pheasant, I wrote about the pleasant bird.

     My catering guy was cooking pleasant soup.

     Yikes!

     I was really starting to hate this bird.

    I emailed my editor and explained that although I'm sure the catering guy's soup will be pleasant, if she could correct my pleasant soup for pheasant soup I would really appreciate that.

     She emailed me back a smiley face.

     At least she didn't wish me a pheasant day.

Homeschooling by the Seat of my Pants

Farmer's Markets, Social Skills, and Old-fashioned Math

Always chasing sisters.

      It's probably not a good idea that Blueberry has put all my drying hot peppers in her sippy cup. Somehow I don't think spicy water is appropriate for babies, even Blueberry who likes hot sauce and curry. I had the peppers up high, but I turn around and she has climbed on top of the stool all by herself and is very busy exploring her new world called the 'counter top'. Luckily, she hadn't drank the water.

      Blueberry has increased the size of her world map lately, with gaining the ability to escape her crib, climb onto sisters' beds, and being able to reach up and pull things from the counters.

      It is a busy time- this time of the Tremendous and Terrific Two's. The world of a two year old is a world of newness, and excitement. Things are like magic. Water comes from the sink. The lights turn off and on. Sisters have the best things. And Mommies always have the best hugs.

     Oh, and Frozen songs are the only approved songs to play while driving.

     One day, when the kids are all grown and highly successful, I will be asked to write a book on my method of homeschooling and I will be unable to offer any constructive advice because I will have to say:

   

      I just winged it.

     Naw, that's not completely true. There is actually a plan to the ways I'm doing things but it's not rigid.

     It's structured. And I have clearly defined goals written down for us to reach.

     But I don't have a chart with gold stars and I don't have ribbons for participating.

     I don't have massive amounts of tests and quizzes.

Instead, I have experiences to give them. Questions to make them think. Books, and National Geographics to read.

      And the other day I had the Farmer's Market. It was too nice of a day to learn inside, so we took the classroom outside, because that is one of the greatest thing about homeschooling- the flexibility.

      Our Farmer's Market consist of a row of white tents, lined against the parking lot of one of our city parks. There are fruits- melons, apples, and peaches. There are veggies of many kinds- heirlooms and oddities, white cucumbers to catch people's attentions, and black cherry tomatoes that appear at first to be rotting, but are sweet and low acidity. And skinny eggplants that don't look like the fat and sassy eggplants in the store.

        The girls tried slices of peaches, so fuzzy and sweet, the juice dipping down their chins. And Blueberry smelled the herbs.

       We decided that for our lesson that day, Bean was going to make a salsa and Abu was going to try her hand at pickles.

      We went to the pepper guy, who I had interviewed for a newspaper article, which means I should have known better because he had given me samples to try and his idea of hot is vastly different than my idea of hot.

      But we were discussing sweet peppers and so when he offered Abu a bite of pepper, I didn't stop her from trying it.

     Her eyes start to water and her cheeks flushed. I thought she was going to start crying.

      It wasn't a sweet pepper.

     He offered her a fuzzy yellow cherry tomato, which she ate out of desperation because she doesn't like tomatoes but her mouth was on fire.

    Luckily it helped.

I felt bad. I had not taken them to the Farmer's Market to burn their tongues.

     While I worried about Abu, Bean searched the containers of peppers, picking ones by how hot they smelled.

     Blueberry wanted to help search and she couldn't understand why I wouldn't let her coat her little fingers in volatile pepper juice.

    We found pickling cucumbers, and squashes.

     And left, forgetting that we needed tomatoes for the salsa and dill for the pickles.

    After running an errand, we swung back around to the market and I made Bean get out and purchase the tomatoes and dill on her own. I watched from the car as she had to convey what she needed. A conversation happened between her and the young lady running the booth.

Social skills for the day. Checked.

This homeschooling stuff was getting easy.

We went home and spent the morning making salsa and pickles. 

   And then we worked on math, without – wait for it because Bean still couldn't believe I would make her do long division without it – a calculator.

I'm such a mean mom, expecting my child to perform math without an electronic device.

But I just tell them it's good for building pathways in the brain.

They just roll their eyes and ask if we can go to the Farmer's Market again.

She might not be the most articulate person in the room but when she is- it's because she blogged.

Or how referring to one self's in the third person either makes you 

look crazy or super cool.

 

         The ball of fire was lodged in my throat- not a real fire mind you, with my history of clumsy- should I take up knife throwing or fire eating- I would probably be mortally injured. But anyway, back to my tale...

          The ball of fire was lodged in my throat, settled against my vocal cords and I couldn't speak. My chest was tight, like a vise...no, too cliché... like a boa was slowly wrapping around me, squeezing tighter with every breath I took.

I've definitely been watching too many episodes of 'Naked and Afraid.' For people that hate snakes, this is probably not your type of show.

        My anger was thick like molasses. Umm, this is why I shouldn't write in metaphors. Does anyone ever cook with molasses anymore? My grandparents had a bottle of it in their cupboard, it was like over twenty years old. They never used it but they insisted it was still safe to eat.

        So lets try this again....my anger was thick like when you're on Facebook and the news feed won't load. How am I suppose to stay updated with everyone's coffee drinks and meals out if I can't see their pictures? Or worst yet, I might miss a funny cat video!!!

       (Disclaimer: I actually enjoy connecting with family and since I have a big interest in food, seeing what people are eating or cooking does not bother me. When my family or friends go on vacation, I will beg them for details about every meal they ate. They get annoyed, I just want to know if the butter had fresh garlic in it.)

      (Second disclaimer: I love funny cat videos. Or puppies video. I always have been enjoying YouTube channels, List 25 and Danger Dorian. I've learned the craziest things watching their videos. Check it out.)

     So where was I...It was a dark and stormy night... No, no, no. That's not right. It was a bright and sunny day and I was rolling my eyes because it was better than the harsh and unforgiving words heavy on my tongue.

      Of course, rolling one's eyes is probably not the best method of communication a grown woman in her thirties can use. But in this case it was the most respectful thing I had to say to this person. (And no, we're not talking about Hero Hottie. With his new work schedule we don't even get to see each other at this point, but that's another story.)

      So where does this blog leave us, my loyal readers? I won't go into details of the situation because it would be disrespectful of me. And maybe just a little passive aggressive. But the incident did remind me that it's hard for me to communicate when I'm upset.

       That's how I ended up swallowing fire instead of standing my ground. But out of respect for where the situation happened I wasn't going to unleash like a dragon blowing fire either. Mmm, I like that metaphor.

      I think everyone in the world can agree that communication is one of the hardest skills to learn, to use, to apply, yet if you think about it, it is the foundation of our entire lives.

      If we don't learn to communicate our feelings, than we turn around and blog about it.

      But communication is difficult, just ask Blueberry who is in the stage of throwing herself on the floor, belly down, performing the typical stereotype tantrum as if she read it in a baby manual.

-How to Perform the Perfect Tantrum-

Step #1: Always wait until Mommy is tired and in the middle of the store. Preferably, near the candy aisle.

Step #2: Gently placed yourself on the ground and start kicking your legs and pounding your fists.

Step #3: Scream. Look up, make sure Mommy is watching. Should you make eye contact with her, continue with the tantrum. Should Mommy be ignoring you, than give it one more good scream but realize Mommy might just keep ignoring you.

Step #4: It only has to work once, after that Mommy will be ready to hand you some candy as soon as you look like you're going to scream.

But onto a slightly more serious note.

The best advice I can give doesn't come from me, but I'm sure this lovely woman won't mind me sharing. –-After all, she wanted Bean and Abu to fully take these words to heart. --

Do not let the small-mindedness of people hold you back. Do not allow their insecurities to ruin your sense of self worth. Because in the big picture, the world is a wonderful place full of things to learn, people that will like you for who you are, and things to experience.

If you allow small-minded attitudes to hold you back, you won't go exploring. You won't live.

And she also said, give something back. Find a way, because not everyone has the same way of showing kindness, and give back.

Heck, I could use that advice. It's taken me too long, probably because I have a touch of people-pleaser in me, to realize that there are people that like to dwell in the miserable, and they will drag you down to the murky depths with them.

To those people I say: for the words I should have spoken, no longer need said, I have found my sense of self and it is not in your hate.

 

Baby Blueberry Turns Two

            Navigating Life Or Did I Ever Tell You About My Mad Map Skills

I Can Do It Myself

        Why is it the thing we want them to do so badly is the thing that breaks our heart? I want my children to be independent. Strong. Kind.

(Although I did not see that yesterday in Bean's and Abu's behavior with each other. Which lead me to ignoring them for an entire afternoon, which was followed by them trying to make dinner, watching the Baby so I could have a break(which translates into a sulk while I contemplated why I had kids), and wait for it...being super nice to each other.)

        But back to my sappy blog about how I'll miss them when they're independent, even while I'm super mad at them for being mean to each other. Only in parenthood can we feel a dozen different emotions about our children -SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Mmm, that's not right. Relationships. It's in relationships that we can feel more than one emotion at a time. So preschool really screws a person up. Because the teachers holds up a card that depicts SAD, MAD, HAPPY, or CONFUSED and tells the child that when they have that face on, that is the emotion they are experiencing.

The teachers don't pull out the cards where it shows you can experience sad and happy at the same time. Or mad and love. Or confused and every other emotion with it. No one explains that you can experience happy for someone with envy. Or intense love for your spouse at the same time you're volcanically mad over some situation. (Usually involving one of three things: money, parenting styles, or stealing the covers. I'm starting to think people should give HIS/HER comforters as wedding presents.)

So parenthood involves having your heart experience sweeping waves of being proud of your kid for doing normal everyday things such as eating with a fork or walking - at the same time you're sure they will grow up, move out and never come to visit.

Which BTW- we had to tell the teenager, Bean, good job with eating with a fork the other night. She couldn't understand why we were praising the Baby for EATING. She wrinkled her nose at us and laughed. Point taken and she joined in telling Baby Blueberry what a big girl she was for using a fork and not throwing all her food on the floor.


But anyway, we want our children  ready to navigate the world and follow their dreams. Even though we start to miss them with every little step they take towards that goal.
 
  And it starts so young. Before they start to walk but you can really see it when they finally figure out the sweet success of putting one foot in front of the other. A task we take for granted, but one that took each and every one of us many times of falling down and trying again.

 
    Baby Blueberry took quite a while to walk. Crawling was her mode of transportation. She was speedy too. She could crawl faster than most other babies could walk. And so she didn't learn to walk until after her first birthday.
   Why? It was slow and torturous. Falling down. Bumping. It took forever to wobble over to the object she wanted, whereas with crawling she could reach her destination in no time at all.
   Why change the status quo? She was perfectly happy without walking.

   And then, one day, it finally occurred to her. Heck yes, walking was faster.

  She hasn't slowed down since.  So even though every baby moment I knew we would have, I tried to savor because I knew from past experience it would move oh, so fast, -it still flew by and now my Baby is a toddler.

   My oldest is a teenager and my Abu is starting to show signs of being a teenager. (hint: drama, mood swings, and demanding more independence)

  One time, long ago, Hero Hottie and I drove down to Texas. I was navigating, thinking that my map reading skills were so awesome. I managed some of the other smaller states pretty well, until I told Hero Hottie we had about three hours in Texas to reach our stop for the night.

  Three hours later and we still have a whole lotta of Texas to drive through. Hero Hottie pulls over, an impatient Baby Bean in the back, and studies the map.
   He starts laughing.
   At me.
   I had misread the scale to measure miles, which had changed since Texas is so much bigger than the other states. My inch of Texas included so many more miles than my inch of the other states.

   He pats my knees, trying to be encouraging and avoid a fight.
   I haven't lived it down but my map reading skills have gotten better since that trip.

   But sometimes I think life is like that. I'm always using the wrong scale to determine the length of my journey.

    So somewhere this blog entry is about the confusion that is life. How super excited I am that it is Baby Blueberry's 2nd birthday tomorrow and how melancholy it is making me feel.

  
   But mostly this blog entry is about how fast life moves, especially after they learn to walk. Because then it's all about chasing them until they move out.
  
   And teaching them map reading skills.

   Oh, and that Texas is a huge state.

Barking Toddlers, Part Time Public School, and Being the Weird Parent

Otherwise the Busy Life I'm Leading While Trying to Market The Cowboy's Sexy Songbird and Having No Idea What I'm Doing

 

Gibson and Blueberry have a quiet moment together

My life lately, has turned into a boat ride- on a cargo ship, chugging through the cold bitter waters of the Atlantic Ocean, being whipped back and forth from wave to foamy wave. The salt water splashes over the crews' head, filling their mouths and eyes with the salty and gut turning seawater---

and I'm desperately holding onto the side rail, my stomach churning and losing my lunch over the side.

That's where I'm at lately. Mentally. Not physically.

Physically- I'm a landlocked lass, dreading the impeding doom of yet another winter -(has anyone ever asked Mother Nature why we can't change the seasons a bit- perhaps only have winter every other year? That would be great. Currently I'm on a campaign to convince Hero Hottie that we should move to New Zealand. Anyone ever been?)

Mentally- I feel tossed around like a salad- look at me being pun-ny. I think it's the contradictions I'm living right now. I'm grateful to pay for braces for Abu, but staying up at night stressing about paying the heating bill this winter because I used my saved heating money to have a torture device installed in her mouth.

Which BTW- an expander needs turning by a little 'key'- sounds innocent enough until you're in the middle of turning this key and you realize you're stretching and tearing apart the flesh of your child. Then I start to feel a bit sick to the stomach.  But we are on the last day of turning that damn key- yay Abu- and it has definitely started to reshape her jaw. Which had to be done- not just for looks, but she couldn't eat before we started the orthodontic work.

I have released my first fiction work, The Cowboy's Sexy Songbird, but now I'm stressing because I don't know how to sell it. So far I have heard good reviews and that warms my heart. No writer likes to release a piece of work and have people hate it.

Baby Blueberry will be a toddler next week. How did she turn two already? And she's busy barking at people. Everywhere. In the store. Down the street. Out the front window. And it's a good bark too, sounds just like a puppy. Many people have been startled by her barking, because they weren't expecting a curly head, blue-eyed toddler to be the source. It's just one more thing Gibson has taught her. The art of communication. 

Abu and Bean are going to public school part-time. For fun classes. Electives. At home we're focusing on math and writing. I will say right now, I'm not fond of the current methods of teaching math. Not at all. And in the future I will write about it in my blog.

We are also covering science, which have consisted mostly of field trips so far and it's only the second week.
Last year I stressed over how to home school Bean. I borrowed books from the school district, which we stopped using after the third week. I bought workbooks, which we finished but yawn. And finally towards the end of last year, because Bean was bored- I pulled out my college science books and had some success.
This year it's all college books or books from the library. I'm skipping textbooks, workbooks, and the stress of having to do something a certain way because there's an expectation of the ways things should be done.
So far, second week in, math is done -old school- science has been enjoyed and topics have been discussed for writing.  I feel more success already than the entire six months last school year combined.

I know the crazy ways I look at running my life don't make money. Trust me, you have a money question ask my brother or sister-in-law, not me. And my main goal right now is to make money- I suddenly had this overwhelming fear occur that I didn't want to be the old lady eating cat food forty or fifty years from now, so I thought I better shift gears now, while I have time to make money.
   But writing my own script has worked for me. So we're writing our own script for their education too.
   Abu wants to be an engineer. We're going to focus on math, and taking apart garage sale appliances, building things, and art.
   Bean wants to do something that isn't in an office. Which I have known since she was seven and couldn't sit still. I want her to learn determination.
   Blueberry wants to be a musician. I know, she's only almost two. But you should see her with music. It is what makes her soul sing.

  And hence, why I'm the weird parent. At least according to Bean's friends, after I made them pick their supper from the garden when they came over for a sleep-over. And it was one of the best salads they had ever ate.

   I may just have to accept that my life is messy right now. And it's okay. Because it's not a total disaster.
   But if it does get messier, than I'll just dream about New Zealand.
  Or start barking at people. Works for Blueberry. 

Starting a new Adventure

Porch Dog Press. The Cowboy's Sexy Songbird. A new adventure in publishing.

 

To my blog readers: I'm excited to announce the release of my first fictional book.

The Cowboy's Sexy Songbird also featuring, The Sheriff's Passionate Princess

I started my own publishing company, Porch Dog Press, to publish my writing. After years of going the traditional path to becoming an author and never quite reaching it, I decided to strike out on my own. We live in a digital age, with the ability to offer our stories directly to the readers.

It took a lot of thought on my part to decide to go this route. I didn't want people to think I was self-publishing because I wasn't good enough. I didn't want to offer stories that screamed self-published.

I decided if I was going to publish myself then I was treating it like a business. Because that's what publishing is- a business.

I found a company, The Editorial Department that would edit without holding anything back.

And they weren't afraid to tell me exactly what they thought.

But a long story, short: After a lot of hard work, perhaps some tears I'm not admitting to, and realizing that owning a publishing company is a huge learning curve-

Oh, and marketing. What the heck? I wrote and published a book. Shouldn't people somehow magically find it on their own? -

I have accomplished the biggest hurdle. Publishing the first title of a new company. 

I love the story. It's fun and serious and humorous and sad. It has a strong and independent female and a sexy hero.

It has adventure because I don't like romance novels that are just a big, long mooning session. And it has a touch of paranormal, because I love superheroes. And so it was fun to create a female character, who has a special ability to solve the problem. To help the hero. To not be the total damsel in distress.

The first title is in the past, mixing historical with paranormal- and I created a fictional town, Rocky View, Colorado and a fictional ranch, The Rusty Halton Ranch, for my setting.

The second title will be coming out this fall or early winter.

I'm so excited about this adventure and I hope you join me in Rocky View. I have included the link to Amazon.

Also, you can like Porch Dog Press on Facebook.

And if- no, when you like it, please write some awesome reviews at Amazon or Goodreads.

Because now, apparently it's all about marketing.

Lois Lane Drives a Minivan

Do you wanna play with me? 

     I have a confession to make: While I write this blog, Baby Blueberry is munching cold left-overs for breakfast, the weeds are starting to take over my front yard, and in two weeks I have to start homeschooling two children- who will never be the poster children for the perfectly agreeable homeschooled child who doesn't argue when it's time to do math.
     In the meantime I have two articles due and I just released my first fictional book on Amazon.com. Yay!! (More on that next time, with links. Because if any of my readers love romance stories, than I will be begging them to purchase a copy and if they like it, to write a review on Amazon for me. If you want and be so inclined. Just a small flavor to start getting the word out. )

      This summer has not turned out the way I hoped, which I had some inkling of when it started, there was a general feeling in the breeze, in the chilly wind that has not warmed up yet and continued to stay on the cool side right into August. Even this day started with a fog weaving through the leaves of the trees, a cloud mist sinking to the ground.

    A fog is fitting for the state of my mind.- dealing with confusion and a general sense of being overwhelmed. I can kinda feel the warmth of the sun through it, and I know eventually it will burn off- this sense of lostness- but in the meantime...
   It's starts like this: Yes, I agree that putting Abu through orthodontic work would be considered a 'first world problem' Blah. - And I AM NO LESS GRATEFUL that Hero Hottie and I can scrimp and save and somehow magically pull money together to pay for this. We are gladly giving up dinners outs, new clothes, work around the house, trips, etc. to make sure she has a healthy mouth, a painless smile and bite.
     This does not mean that I am not overwhelmed with the amount of money I owe on this or the juggling to my finances it takes to pay the 'car payment' size bill every month.
    I know financial experts say money is just a tool but when I pick up a hammer my stomach doesn't tightened into a knot. My thumb might try to hide but that because I have a tendency to not hit things on the head. - I look at my bank statement and my Crohn's threatens to kill me. Hasn't been a great month for the whole gut and emotion connection theories that I can attest to as probably being fact.

     I think someone can be grateful for something and still be overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. So when I complain about how much this is costing, I'm not any less full of gratitude- I just know every time I pay the orthodontist it's the same as taking a loaded cannon and aiming it at my bank account.    
    And I know myself enough to realize I will continue to stress about it until it's paid.
   
    I also realized a few other things this summer.

First:
   If the truth can set a man free- it does not restore things to their previous order. A man will still have to claw, as if in a fight and struggle for survival, against the dark lies that put him in a position to have to defend himself in the first place. Truth may shine brightly, but it does not give a man back his position in the community, his livelihood, his honor.
    The truth ends one battle- which is proving that the lies are nothing but that- and sets a man on another path- which is regaining what he has lost.
   I guess I had a fairytale version of truth, which was once truth won- everything was bright and shiny again. I was wrong.
  
   But the other thing I realized: truth gives you back your soul and that has value of immeasurable worth. 

Second:
    That life is an endless, sloppy mess of joy and grief- all mixed together. And there isn't any balance. Sometimes you will have more joy than grief and other times you will definitely experience more grief than joy.

Grief:
Currently my parents are having to relocate. The rental house they are living in is up for sale by the landlord. I'm not sure if the realtor knows this is just a desperate attempt on his part to sale the house before the banks takes it- but I don't think it matters. My parents have to find somewhere else to live and it's not going great.

And I had two wonderful friends move this summer, far, far away. So missing people always make me a little sad.

Another friendship is drifting and I don't understand drift. I always moved before any of my relationships could enter that weird zone of being someone I used to know.

But joy is always present in my life and these are the moments that help me deal with this strange existence called being human.

Joy:
Watching my children grow. And lately with the world in such burning chaos, I have made the hugs a little longer, the listening to their stories more attentive, just spending more time with them. Grateful to have them in my life. Grateful that they are safe, and have full bellies, and shoes on their feet.

Gibson. He drives me nuts but he is also a character who we took to the dog park and now he knows where heaven is. - It's at the dog park where they have that creek and all the dogs play together. Life is so good there.

Pretending to be Lois Lane as I drive to interviews in my minivan, hoping that the nose wipe on my shoulder that the Baby just sent me off with will dry by the time I arrive. Hoping that I can find a blank sheet of paper in my notebook when I open it up and realize someone else had used it for their drawings. Trying to keep my mind focused on my questions and the interviewees' answers as I also fall into mommy mode and plan dinner and wonder what is causing Baby Blueberry's diaper rash. 


Next time I will talk about my new book, The Cowboy's Sexy Songbird.

In the meantime:  the dog park is apparently heaven. And running through a creek, chasing each other for a stick is the answer to finding happiness.

   

How to Avoid Change

      My parents grew up as Army brats, moving place to place, never settling- never finding their roots. A rolling stone collects no moss which is funny that during my childhood they should end up in the Pacific Northwest because everything collects moss there. Get lost in the woods there- don't look for the moss on the North side of the tree.
      The moss also grows on the West, South, and East side. And if you stand too long it will grow up your legs too.
         When they had me- what they wanted out of life and what it took to carve out an existence were on two separate ends of the stick- so they moved- often. It's a side effect of being poor.
           We moved every few years, about the time it took sensitive me to make a friend, it was time to put all my belongings in the vegetable and fruit boxes collected from the stores and become the 'New Girl' at school.
          And I didn't do 'New Girl' well when I was little. Heck, I don't do it well now.
          Damn insecurities. So God has been spending the last four months trying to push me out of my comfort zone.
         Stepping away from your comfort zone requires change.
         Something else I realized I'm not all that great at. I thought I was better with it, with my childhood of moving but nope, I hate it. Just about the time I find my place and it's fitting me like a well-worn slipper, something changes.
        Since I have spent the last four months quietly fighting the fire and the sharpening, I will give you my tips for avoiding change.

        1. Pretend it doesn't matter. If the change is something you can't handle, just pretend you don't care. Develop and master a shrug to give when someone brings it up.

        2. Lock your heart away and never give any part of it away. Or like on the TV show, 'Once'- learn how to take your heart out of your chest and bury it in the backyard. I love the fantasy aspect of that show, the scientist in me says, 'uhh, how can the blood move through your system without a heart?'

        3.  Learn the fine art of cussing at kids scooting down your sidewalk, while you water your yard and complain about the weather. Complaining about the weather is a great cover. You can bitch and moan about it being too cold or too hot. Too windy, too stale, too anything. It doesn't matter. Your heart doesn't hurt when you complain about the weather.

        4. Blog about avoiding change, so you can avoid further change. It's like a form of procrastination, but even better because you feel like you're doing something useful at the same time- giving advice- while still managing to avoid change.

       5. Refuse to move from your comfort zone until God pushes you out of it. And don't worry- God, the universe, the smarter part of ourselves,- is great at reminding us that we have to change to learn and grow. Otherwise, I suppose we end up like every rock and tree in the Pacific Northwest, covered in moss.

     6. Don't get a Gibson. Seriously, with a dog that chews up everything you own, including shoes, toys, and furniture, your environment is constantly changing on a daily basis. Also, you have to avoid growing attached to anything because it might be a chewed up mess of broken parts and dog drool the next morning. -But he's always sorry. It's not his fault that the expensive, unused baby diapers rip apart in such a fun way.

    7. Don't have children. Just about the time you get use to a stage- they change. Talk about change in motion. Childhood is a constant collection of changes, perhaps that's why we don't like to do anymore changing when we reach adulthood.

   So there you have it. Why I've been gone for three or four months without a peep. I've been avoiding changes. But I'm at a point where I can no longer avoid the changes coming -so here's my leap of faith- which for a writer always comes with the written word.

   Or perhaps I'll take my own advice and start to complain about the weather.

Why Banning the Word Bossy Actually Hurts Women

     I know there are already plenty of people weighing in on the #banbossy campaign. I also realize I'm not usually one to step into the muddy waters of the political arena in my blog except this idea has bugged me from the second I started watching the commercial.
     I have three girls. Three strong-willed, independent, and creative girls.
     And yes, sometimes a bit bossy.
     Did I just call my own kids a word that has suddenly become politically incorrect to say in public?

    Yes, I did. My children, who I love dearly, CAN BE BOSSY.
     I was a bossy child- just ask my siblings.
     I have worked with many children and on the whole, most of them can be pretty bossy. Have you ever been around a three year old? A four year old? A teenager?

    Being bossy is selfish. It's a self centered way of thinking. I want this...I want that...You're going to do this...Because I said.

     A child has to be taught how to be assertive, how to have compassion and empathy, how to be a leader.
     Because I'm sorry, if someone is calling you bossy- it's probably because you are. That person is saying, 'hey, you're not letting me have any say in this."
    (Unless of course, they're just not nice and then we need to teach our children to worry less about what mean people think about us.)
  
    When my older girls were little they played really well together but I would hear, 'you're taking all the imagination." Basically Abu was telling Bean- 'you're being bossy with me."
 
   I don't want my girls to grow up and be the boss. The word 'boss' implies someone that doesn't care about anyone else, or anyone else's ideas. It's a word that says, 'hey, I think I'm better than you because I'm the boss.'

    Ha, try that in a marriage. It's not very healthy, on either side.
   We all hate the boss at work, right? Because we feel he/she doesn't care about us. Because we have no say.

   But a leader. They inspire. They direct. They take the best of people and bring it out. They allow others to shine.
  So I don't want to ban the word 'bossy' because it won't ban the negative behavior that a child- boy or girl- exhibits.
   Banning a word won't automatically make leaders. Besides, if you're going to ban words, lets start with the really nasty and hurtful ones. Other 'B' words that aren't flattering to women. Oh, but wait- than all these female singers would have to rewrite their songs. Because somewhere in this mixed up world we live in, it's okay to call other women hurtful names. But boy, use the word bossy and we have totally destroyed the dreams of all girls everywhere.

   The website has a quote, "When a little boy asserts himself, he's called a “leader.” Yet when a little girl does the same, she risks being branded “bossy.” Words like bossy send a message: don't raise your hand or speak up. By middle school, girls are less interested in leading than boys—a trend that continues into adulthood. Together we can encourage girls to lead."

   Actually, as a woman and a Mom of three girls, let me explain to you what messages hurt the self esteem. What keeps a woman from finding her potential.

1. Allowing verbal, mean girl bullying to continue rampant in our schools. The word bossy is nothing compared to the crap that can come out of some girls/women's mouth.
    If you're smart in school- than another girl will call you names for it. Guarantee.
    If you like to play sports, perhaps you're even super good at it and you like to compete against the boys at recess. Some other girl will say you're doing nasty things with those boys.
    
    The word bossy? Bullies don't even use that word. They go for ones that hurt: like hoe, whore, bitch, and more. -In elementary school.-
    And it continues into adulthood. You want strong female leaders, than women: stop with the rumors, and the backstabbing, and the petty comparing that happens.
    I have been around so many women that instead of building each other up, instead of sharpening and strengthening they say things like:
    You want to stay home and raise your kids? Then you're lazy.
    You want to go to work or you have to go to work? Then you're the worse kind of mother for allowing other women to raise your kids.
    You don't want to take that CEO job because you choose more family time over a 80 hour a week job? Then obviously someone called you bossy and prevented you from finding your full potential.

2. Stop the damn photoshopping of models and women in images. I can't believe it's gotten to this point that we have to take a skinny person and digitally remove more 'fat' from her. Seriously? What the hell is wrong with our culture? I don't want my girls to think they have to look like they just walked out of a concentration camp to be beautiful.
      That is not beauty. That is sick and disgusting and wrong. Lets just say it the way it is. It's WRONG! When our girls start worrying about fat on their butts and their stomachs and they start hating the way the look, then we have done something WRONG.
    Every women I know, myself included, have stared in the mirror and made a mental list of everything that was wrong with our bodies. And it's sad.
   The female body is beautiful, in all shapes and sizes and curves. I want my girls to think healthy and fit but I don't want them beating themselves up every morning because they don't look like the model on television or the actress in the movie or the gal on the cover of the magazine cover.
   Because not only do most of these women spend a lot more time than the average women doing things to look good as part of their image- they also have a TEAM of make-up artists, hair stylists, and photographers that understand the importance of lighting.
    On top of that: THEY ARE PHOTOSHOPPED beyond just normal color correction and such. They AREN'T REAL.
    Yet, our girls compare themselves to these faked images and find themselves wanting.

3. If a girl is afraid to raise her hand in school, it isn't because she's afraid of being bossy. It's because our education system doesn't encourage free thinking, it doesn't encourage creative expression. It is developed to pass a test and I can guarantee a child that gives too many answers outside that drawn box of thinking, will stop raising their hand and reaching for their potential. A leader does not develop while filling out worksheet after worksheet.
     A leader develops because of many different factors, one of them being having good role models. And I'm sorry, but having Beyonce as your spokesperson is not the role model I want for my girls. I don't want them singing songs about sex and dressing trashy and giving stripper numbers on stage. That's not empowerment of women at all.
    Could we have some women role models that teach about building each other up, that speak with compassion and passion, that show girls that we don't have to bash men and bring them down- to prove we're strong and capable? 

4. We need to teach our girls right and wrong and morals. And we need to teach them that they shouldn't care about what society thinks of them because society at this point is about being too thin, putting other women down, and idealizing 'role models' that think a women is only reaching her full potential if she is living their definition of what it takes to be a strong women.


     Try raising strong, caring, compassionate, independent women in our current society- it's tough. Because as a Momma of three wonderful girls- I really feel like the world, the media, our culture, and society is against me.
  
    And banning the word bossy doesn't even start to fix the problem.