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.

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.

There is a Brachoisaurus in my Shower

Abu's House (copyright Christy Hammond)

    As Abu tries to zip up her backpack this morning, she grins; a mischievous look I haven't seen in weeks; and says, "I have too much useless stuff in here, Mom. It won't zip up."
     I frown, peering at her backpack. "Isn't it full of your homework from last night?"
    Her grin widens. "Exactly. Useless stuff."
    She waits for me to laugh at her joke, her expression barely shifting away from her humor, but it's there, a slight crease in the smile as she waits anxiously for me to respond.
   I chuckle, because it is funny, especially if you look at it from a kids' point of view and not as a parent. How many of us have briefcases full of necessary 'useless stuff'?
 
   Her expression relaxes and she finishes zipping up her backpack; her mood light and cheery. Score a point for Mom this morning.
    I grew up as the bossy first child who knew (knows) everything. :-) I wasn't the middle child and I certainty wasn't the baby of the family. I was so opinionated about things, that I didn't even believe that there was positions of childhood.
   Until Baby Blueberry came along. And Abu slipped into the role of middle child like it had been hers for the taking since she was little.
   But I'm not going to talk about how difficult that place has been for her; not today anyway. I'm just going to simply share the wonders of Abu. So one day, when she's old enough, and she comes across the crazy, zombie filled ramblings of her blogger Mom, she will finally realize what I see in her.

   Abu came into this world like lightening. And that is what I tell her. Out of all my labors, hers was by far the easiest and quickest. Six hours of light pushing and laughing, anxiously awaiting baby. Forty minutes of hard labor and there she was. Adorable, cute, and with such a petite nose.
    The next day we took her home, where an excited Bean was so overjoyed to have a baby sister. And over the next two years, while Abu grew into toddlerhood; I spent a lot of time chasing after Bean and Abu and cleaning up after all their antics.
  Bean was the instigator. But Abu wasn't innocent. She would quietly watch, and laugh, and clap her hands, loving every idea Bean came up with and happily joining in the trouble.
  
    One time when Bean was four and Abu was two, they decided to decorate the couch. And not just a little bit of it, the entire back seat of it. Eight long, irresistible feet of white floral fabric apparently just asking for more color.  Hero Hottie and I walk into the living room to find them standing on the couch, fiercely scribbling away as quickly as their little pudgy arms would go. The entire length was 'decorated' with blue and RED crayon. They grinned at us and showed us their Artwork. Two chubby face smiles, dimples in their cheeks and joy in their eyes.

  Abu, being only two and discovering the joy of crayons and color decided to do more decorating around the house on her own. We had just moved into our house and finished hanging up all the picture frames. One day, there is a drawing underneath one of the them.
     In black crayon.
      Bean insisted that she didn't do it. But Abu won't confess either. The next day, again another drawing underneath another picture.
   Bean is my main suspect because she's four and usually tries to find trouble when I'm not looking.
But she's still insisting it's not her.
  A few more days, this goes on, which is difficult to believe because I don't hardly ever leave them alone in the room, just while moving between rooms and cleaning. But there are scribbles under nearly every picture in the house and still I can't find the black crayon.
   Or the culprit.
   Then one day, I leave the room and wait a few minutes. Quietly, I sneak back into the living room, and there she is...
    Abu, black crayon in hand, underneath a picture, adding her own art to the walls.

    Abu of a thousand expressions, always making faces for my camera. Always passing out smiles to those who have lost there's.

   When Abu was five she had her first loose tooth. And the joy she found in that one simple event is the spirit of her and something I hope is never destroyed or tainted.

   But one day, while she was eating breakfast, or at least attempting to, she stops, frowns and says to me, “There’s something wrong with my tooth. It hurts.” At first I thought that her chipped tooth had worn down enough to cause her pain.

            “Open up.” I said and started looking at teeth. I wiggled one of the front ones. Nothing. Then I wiggled the one next to it and it wiggled. Just a bit, but enough.

            I grinned. “You have a loose tooth.” 

            She grins back, “I do?”

            I nodded and watched her grin grow. “I have a loose tooth.” She says and feels it with her finger and her tongue.

            “This is such a happy day for me.” She says. “I’m having a happy day.”

            And she whirls around the living room, smiling and talking about her tooth.

    

    The other day I go to take a shower and there is a solid plastic, eighteen inch brachoisaurus in my shower. I'm not sure what the creature was waiting for. All his other dinosaur buddies were on the other side of the tub, taking up valuable floor space in our tiny bathroom. But there he was, as if patiently waiting for another bath time. 

   Abu is slowly outgrowing play time with toys. Less and less, she spends time with toys, and so for many years, I cleaned up toys, straightened toys, put away toys, yelled at children to put away toys and then one day, the house was not being taken over by Barbies, dinosaurs, and Polly Pockets. 

    I grinned at the dinosaur in my shower and was glad to see him there. Just a small reminder that Abu isn't totally grown yet and I have time to enjoy her childhood. 

   She drew me a picture of our house. A house that I feel is too small sometimes, or missing character, or isn't quite my dream house. 

   But when I look at that picture...I see something immensely wonderful. I see how the pine tree out front is given a bit of the spotlight, because she has spent hours playing under its branches. I see the light colored door ready for its family to arrive home. I notice the furniture inside where we have dinners together. The hose container out front, which holds the hose that we play with in the summer. 

    I see an inviting house. 

    A house full of love and spirit. And it warms my heart.

    And that's what Abu, if she should ever read this, needs to remember. Part of that house full of love and spirit comes from her. 

   Wonderful, joyful Abu.

  

Land of Confusion Or Why Don't We Put More Value on Education

 Before Bean was born I already had a bookshelf of newly bought, brightly illustrated children's books lined up and ready to go. While I was pregnant with Bean, hero hottie would read out loud books about screenwriting and screen plays. Perhaps that's why she wants to be a director. :)
   When she was born, we read to her constantly, sometimes only getting through a couple of pages before she would crawl off in search of trouble. But as she grew, she started to realize what these books meant and suddenly she couldn't hear enough stories.
     We continued her education by taking our bright and curious toddler to museums. We encouraged her to touch and feel everything she was allowed to and even as a small child she knew a ton of facts about dinosaurs and fossils.
     We spent hours outside, exploring nature. Leaves, flowers, sticks, rocks, and feathers were our learning tools. As we played, I explained science to her. How do trees grow? Why is the sun important? Why do birds need feathers?
   When Abu was born she joined us on trips to the museums and from her stroller she would try to touch everything Bean was. It didn't matter that she was only eight months old, she was curious and we encouraged it.
    Then Bean went to school. She continued her learning.
    During the summer I forced Bean and Abu to study an hour or two a day. I know, what a horrible Mom I am. It's summer and I'm making them do school work. But every fall, instead of falling behind like most kids had, they had leaped ahead. And it wasn't so bad. We could work on subjects they hadn't fully mastered in an one on one environment, overcoming difficulties. I could introduce subjects to them that I knew they would need extra time with the summer before; such as cursive writing for Abu. That summer it was frustrating for her but when she had to start writing it in third grade she was so confident about it.
   Sure of herself.

  I take educating my children very seriously. Knowledge is key to life. And knowing how to learn is even more important than just having a head full of facts. I don't want my children to ever stop learning.
  Bean is highly intelligent and parenting a smart child can be a test in patience. :) But a week ago I was still quite surprised to receive a letter from her school district offering her a chance to take this smarty pants test from some big wig college. She's fifth grade. Wow.
   Hero hottie and I discussed it and even asked for advice from his Uncle who is involved in academics. He recommended that she take the test, since it might offer her opportunities for scholarships and summer camps later on.
   This sounded like a great plan to us. So I emailed the contact person in the gifted department to arrange for the test. The email went unanswered.
   I called the high school where her office is located. The deadline for registering was closing in. The school district had only given us a week to decide and register for the test.
   Two days before the deadline we still had not heard from the contact person. I tried calling again, this time the phone number to the local high school wasn't even answered. (As a parent I love the thought of sending my child to a high school where I can't even get a hold of anyone. -Sarcasm.)
   I had hero hottie call. The secretary took a message.
   Finally...The contact person calls us back.  She was a teacher in charge of the gifted department at the local high schools. We started talking about the benefits of the test, why Bean was selected to take part in it, what would happen after the test and how the test is internationally known. She chatted about how the gifted department of the district arranged for the students to take the test.
    After fifteen minutes of chatting about the test and I was quite ready to register her, the contact person pauses.
   "Bean's in fifth grade right?" She asks.
    "Yes."
    "Oh, well. That's going to be a problem. There isn't actually a test being conducted in our town this year. She'll have to wait until next year."
    "I'm confused. You sent me a letter?" I was shaking my head and trying to rub away the deep frown in my brow.
    "Well, I sent out the letter before I realized there wasn't going to be a test this year. Last year it was at the local college and I just assumed it would be again. So I sent out the letters before I knew for sure. But don't worry...she gets to take it next year. I'll make sure."
    "So there's no test?"
    "Right. I got all the information off their website about dates and times but I didn't realize until the last few days that there wasn't going to be a test in our town."
    "Okay...Well, tell me about the gifted program, like when Bean gets into middle school. I know elementary school doesn't have anything."
     "Oh, we don't really have a gifted program, even for the high school students. It's horrible." She really did care that there wasn't really a program for the kids that were ahead of their grade level. "Budget cuts, you know. That and the school board just cares that they score advance on the test. They're not going to spend time on kids that don't need any more help to boost up test scores. They need to worry about the kids who aren't scoring well on the tests. The government requirement you know."
     "So your job is?" I was fairly confused at this point.
      "Just to work with the parents to connect them with other outside resources. Online classes, camps, etc. It's on our website."
     "I'll check it out."

     Later I checked out the website for the gifted program through our school district. Half the links didn't even work for the camps and online classes. I had to Google the info and find the correct website links. I hate broken links; I'm really disappointed in broken links on a website for a gifted program.
     I like living in a small town; most of the time. Not so much this week. And then to top off insult to injury; the contact person finally emailed me back, thanking me for taking the interest in my child and then she said,

-I encourage you to continue being your child's "teacher".-

   "Teacher" Quote - Unquote

        How was all my time and effort to educate my child (children)  turned into a diminutive form of the word teacher? 

    I value great teachers, don't misunderstand me.  Just see my blog entry about Mrs. Tracy. On top of that; my children have had some awesome teachers at their school.
    But a teacher isn't just someone that holds a degree in education. The Webster guy defines it as "one that teaches"

    Doesn't that apply to almost everyone? And then especially as a parent, isn't one of our first jobs is to teach our children?
     "Teach our children well?"

      As parents we teach our children to talk, to walk, to brush their teeth, to eat, to enjoy reading, to write their names, to remember their manners, to love...
      I am more than my child's "teacher." I am one of  my child's TEACHERS. Capital Letters.

     I am a partner with my child's grade school teacher and apparently since our school district lacks any sort of programs for smarty pants kids, I'm going to be a huge factor in making sure Bean and Abu reach their academic potential.
     So, since I will play a huge part in how far my children's education goes; I wish a teacher; especially a teacher that kept telling me the value they placed on education; wouldn't lessen my value as one of my children's teachers.
    I wish our society would just put more value on education. We focus on test scores and labeling children, until only children that score well on test are considered 'gifted.' Other children are struggling, or they have learning disabilities or they aren't smart.
    Do we value education? Or do we value test scores? There is a difference. And somehow I think when we value the wrong thing, all our children lose something special. Important. Vital.

     In the meantime, I have to find a way to teach my girls to shoot for the moon when we live in Smalltown, USA. ..When we live in a country that has confused education with the outcome of tests. When we forget that all our children are failing in their full potential even when the test scores are high.
     Perhaps by the time Bean and Abu have children; things will have changed and learning will be a wondrous adventure by all the child's teachers and more value will be placed on all children reaching their potential and less time on test scores.

Day Twenty Four- The Rhythm of the Heart

The Heartbeat

  
     The sound of Bean's heartbeat from the Doppler fetal monitor filled the hushed silence. For a wonderfully still moment, recorded in my heart for all time, her fetus heart pounded out a quick galloping rhythm. And suddenly, after this pregnant woman had questioned herself time and time again in amazement, wondering if a little life actually grew inside her -I could hear her.
   It would be a little while longer until I would be able to feel her movements, her kicks, and hits and her stretches and her bouncy movements to music but before all that I had heard her heartbeat.
   It was strong. Steady. Miraculous.

   Every doctor appointment I held my breath while the doctor pressed the Doppler fetal monitor against my chilled belly skin until the wondrous sound filled the air, bringing a reassurance that Bean was still safely snuggled within my womb.
   What we shared before she was born was the rhythms of our hearts. For, as I could hear hers- nestled within my body, she was listening to my steady adult heartbeat every moment of her days.
   Beat after beat she could hear the familiar drumming of my heart as she grew, as she slept, as she moved in her tiny world. How important is this sound to our babies? Some researchers have tried to studied it, to measure the value of hearing the maternal heartbeat and of course, it's difficult to form a concise statement of importance. Newborns can't explain what they heard in utero and or explain what was important. But place that babe against your chest, with their tiny ears pressed against you and I have to wonder, as they settle down, if they aren't listening to our hearts, to the familiar rhythms that have surrounded them since before they took their first breaths.
  
   Late in the night, as Bean would wake asking for milk, I would feed her and then cuddle her against me, watching her chest move with the beating of her heart, with her even breathing, all working together in the rhythm of life.
   This would never change either, checking to see the heart beat, the breathing moving through her. Even as toddlers and young children, I would quietly tip toe into their rooms at night, before I went off to bed, watching these movements of life to reassure me that Bean and Abu were alright. They would roll over in their bed or flop around, clearly okay since they were moving and still, I would have to see that beat of their heart and hear their breathing before I felt like things were right in the world.

   And then I would cuddle with hero hottie, my ear pressed to his chest so I could hear the strong, masculine beat of his heart.

   From the moment we can hear we are surrounded by the heartbeat. When we are still and quiet, we can pay attention to our own, feeling it beat continuously, sometimes controlled by our emotions, for surely there has to be something about the heart being the center of our emotions. When I'm happy, my beat is sturdy and relaxed. When I'm excited or hyper, it beats frantically, as if to join in with my joy. Fear will make it race. And sadness or grief will make it feel heavy.
   Scientists will explain that the different hormones we produce in relation to our emotions affect the heart. There are physical explanations to all these different things. Regardless of this information, our hearts play a momentous part in regulating the beats of our life.

  We give our hearts away when we are in love...our hearts our broken when love is not returned...our hearts are bursting with joy...our hearts are fragile and vulnerable.
  
   Home is where our heart feels safe and loved.

Day Twenty- To Blog or Not to Blog

   I started blogging last year because a literary agent suggested in her newsletter that all good little writer wannabes that wanted to make it in the publishing world should have a blog to build up their readership.
   And not just any sort of blog but one with actual readers. And lots of them.
  I'm sure someone forgot to tell her that if you're spending time on a blog then you're not spending time writing novels. And if you can't get your novel done than what is the point in having a blog to build up readership before you're published?
  I bet she gets confused with time travel stories too.

  When I was first trying to get published, you just needed to make sure your query letter was professional and didn't contain spelling and grammar errors; for some reason agents start to doubt your ability as a writer if you send them a letter that has tons of errors.  :)
  This was on top of a lot of stringent rules that had to be followed or they wouldn't even acknowledge your existence.
   Sort of like don't feed agents after midnight, don't get them wet, and no bright lights. Otherwise, sane and normal agents turn into angry agents that like to say things like, 'What? You actually thought you could write?'
  
   Then they started demanding a list of previously published works. I sigh heavily since my publications had only been published locally. This gave me a slight edge, but no more than say the Postal Carrier that brings them their mail.

   And then they wanted blogs. So I started one. And I called it 'Just the Other Moment; because life is made up of moments interwoven together to form life. My life. 
 Plus, Just the Other Day was already taken which was my first choice.

  Well, this agent didn't sign me on even though at first she was interested in my work. Didn't even tell me why she didn't want to represent me. Just a no thank you after all but keep on following your dream. It would have been nice to know why she decided against it. But sometimes rejection by agents start to sound like bad relationship breakups, 'No, it's not your writing. It's us, we just are looking for something else. But don't worry, it's not you."

   This was a major disappointment that took three different things to get over.

    One: lots of hugs from Abu and a reminder that I'm the best Mom ever and she loves my stories. (I love it when kids are young. They are so unconditional.)

     Two: A reminder from Bean that I can't give up because I never let her give up on anything and it wouldn't be fair if I could and she couldn't. Ah, it's the 'I'm a role model since I'm a parent' thing.

    And Three: A stern warning from Hero Hottie that I wasn't allowed to give up and what could he do to stop my tears because nothing else he was saying was stemming their flow.
    "Just tell me you think I'm good enough to succeed...Someday...At something...Preferably writing." I cried, wondering if there was something wrong with me to pick a path in life that requires you to be constantly rejected just to reach small goals. Yes, I'm crazy because I'm sure there are things easier in life than writing. Like teaching high school math. Or running a restaurant. Or working in customer service.
    He interrupts my moody thoughts with his gruff reassurance. "Yes. You are. A good writer. Now stop crying. We aren't going to worry about silly agents that had dreams of being writers and didn't make it so they're dealing with the pain by shooting down other writers."
     "Are you saying I'm going to end up being an agent?" I cry harder. Oh, I don't want to be an agent.
     "No. But can I get you some chocolate?"  He's sounding quite desperate at this point and ready to call the agent on the phone and yell at her for making me cry.  This makes me feels better, that he's willing to face the mysterious creature they call, an 'literary agent' and tell her off. I turn down his offer of assistance in battle but I willingly take the chocolate.


    But a few days later I decide that since agents wanted to see blogs than I was going to make a blog. What I was going to write about I wasn't sure. Or how often. Or how to obtain readers.
    I dove headfirst into 'writing a blog' thing, almost expecting it to bring agents to my doors. After all, they were the ones who had demanded it.
    The door was sadly silent. But not my email, it continued to fill up with rejections.
    I kept plugging away at my blog, surprisingly building up a readership...from around the globe. I may not be published but I've been read internationally. It's an awesome and weird feeling.
   Now I enjoy having a blog. It's challenging. Especially when I try to write a new blog every day in the month of December. What was I thinking? Grin.
   But I have to thank my readers. For reading my writing. For enjoying it. For encouraging me with their kinds words. I would have quit by now if it haven't been for those kind words. Thanks.

   Now, agents want you to follow them around to every conference they attend and try to get their attention that way. I think I'm going to worry about improving my writing instead.
   And I rather see where this blog takes me than spend endless hours worrying about ways to capture the attention of a literary agent. 
   So perhaps having a blog wasn't my idea but I'm glad started one.

Day Eighteen- The Wonders of Grocery Shopping Alone

   Since winter arrived today and I'm missing the nice autumn-like weather of the last two weeks I'm going to write a bit of humor today. So yes, I'm grateful for grocery shopping by myself. It is so much easier to accomplish buying groceries when you don't have your own personal helpers to point out everything you  should be buying; like ice cream, cookies, chips; you know, the healthy foods. 
    Shopping alone and in peace, well almost in peace. It's difficult to ignore the piped in music and the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting otherwise it's almost like a spa day or like a mini vacation.
   Almost...if I wasn't going to Wal-Mart. 

Great things can happen on a solo shopping trip.

1. You actually can shop without it becoming another chance for the children to test your patience level. Of course, you still have to deal with shoppers that turn their carts horizontal across the aisle while they're shopping and talking on their cell phones. And you still have to avoid grouchy old ladies that will literally push you out of the way with their carts. What do they do with their cars?
     But you don't have to listen to kids complain about going shopping with you. And when you get up to the check out lane, you don't have a dozen unplanned items that you don't need.

2. You can buy a treat for yourself...and you don't have to share because they don't know about it. The chocolate is finally all yours.

3. You can blare the music in the car while you're driving and its not Backyardigans or the sound track to Shrek. You can play... grown up music.

4. When the hunk in the convertible glances your way, you know its because you're one hot mama and not because the kids are making weird faces that involve straws and nostrils.




5. You can purchase underwear and other unmentionables without your child broadcasting to the entire store personal information about the size and color of your underwear.

   There's plenty of reasons to shop solo. But if I didn't have a budget, I wouldn't go at all. I would hire one of those grocery services that deliver to your door and I would sneak off to the spa instead. Now that's a mini vacation.

Day Seventeen- Abu the Great

   Abu is a character of the funny and cute sort. That kid spreads joy where ever she goes. I remember one time we had gone to her regular dentist for a cleaning and it was right after a friend of his had died and Abu, who was seven at the time, took one look at his long sad face and must have decided to spend the next half an hour trying to cheer him up. She was goofy until she worked a small smile from him and then she was really goofy until he actually laughed. Around the dental equipment she would keep grinning at him until he had to respond because her joy was contagious.
   I'm not sure if she knew why she felt the need to cheer him up but it worked. And she wasn't afraid to either. How many times have been around people lost in grief and didn't say anything because we were afraid of saying the wrong thing?  She was just herself.
   And I have to say I feel blessed to be the Mom of a kid that possesses such a beautiful heart.

   She also has a quirky sense of humor that I would like to share.

When Abu was five, she raided the bathroom for some lotion. I had given her permission to use some. I should have known better. :) 

           Abu comes out, telling me she used all the wonderful colors of the lotions she could find. It had blended together into quite a strong smell but she was excited about something so I hid my grimace. 

            “Smell me, Mommy.” She offers, holding up her leg.

            I smelled it appreciatively and told her that her leg smelled nice.

            “I smell like a rainbow.” She says.

            “Why?” I ask.

            “Because I put all the different lotions on my leg. So they would smell like a rainbow.” She grins.

    One time Abu was eating a bit of Cool Whip, when she comes into the bedroom, white, fluffy Cool Whip was over her face and the biggest grin from ear to ear. And she throws out her arms and proclaims,               
      “Powered by Cool Whip. I am Powered by Cool Whip.” 
    
     (I have seen the power of a kid hyped on Cool Whip. It's too bad they can't bottle the energy of an over sugared kid. It would be cheap, clean and efficient energy.)

   We have a wonderful art cupboard for the girls. I knew Abu thought it was great because her pencils, paints, stickers and paper were in there but I didn't know just how wondrous it was until one day Aunt Stacey and her are searching for a pencil. Abu stands in front of it, grandly gestures towards it and tells Aunt Stacey. 

    “This is where the magic is.”  

   We were getting ready to play math games when Abu says, “I have a little idea.”

            “A little idea?” I asked with a slight chuckle, because my girls never have little ideas. 

           She shakes her head,  “Pretty much a big idea.”

      Ah-ha, now that sounds like the Abu I know. 




   I'm grateful for people like Abu, who pretty much always have big ideas, they believe in the magic of imagination and they're powered by Cool Whip. :)
   Us adults, we're fueled by coffee. And sometimes lots of it. Cool Whip sounds much tastier.

Day Sixteen- It was an accident!!

   Parenting is not for the weak of spirit. It's takes courage, guts and a strong stomach. A tons of patience, quite a bit of self sacrifice and the ability to laugh.
   If you don't want to clean bedsheets in the middle of the night or search poop for swallowed toys or be mortified by the outrageous things kids can say, then I would stay away from parenthood. It's not for you.

   If you want a new adventure all the time, if you want to feel just how much love the human heart can hold, and if you're up for sleepless nights, then parenthood will be your grandest venture.

   I hope, by being in this world, I have at least raised two wonderful children, ready to make the world a better place just by being who they are. And that's as sappy as I'm going to get in this blog entry. Because I'm a Mom, I could go on for pages about all the great things I think my kids are capable of or how many things they have done that have made me smile. I won't but I will share a funny story about Bean to remind us that children are a blessing, even when they have stretched our patience.

  Bean, age 4 and Abu, age 2, are quick. And they're good at working together when they want to. I had only left the room for a few minutes when I came back into the living room to find that my beautiful white couch had been colored with Crayola crayon on the entire back. 
  Their movements are fast, as their little hands work on this big blank canvas. And it's not light crayon colors they have picked to make their masterpiece. No, it's blue and red. On a white couch. Their 'painting' is loud and vibrant. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before I speak. It's better for them if I take a few extra seconds to compose myself.
   They just grin and show me their picture. Oh, kids. After a bit of scolding and reminding them that they can color all they want on their art paper. But not Mommy's furniture. I clean the couch and surprisingly it comes completely off with nothing more than warm water and some Dawn soap. Amazing.

   Then a few days later Bean decides she needs to draw a picture on the wall near her toys. I sighed and scrub some more. It comes off, mostly.

   Next, Bean paints the kitchen blue. I had just left to use the potty for one minute while they were busy painting some paper. One minute. That was it. A Mom does have to go potty sometimes, after all. And while I was gone she decided the cupboards needed new fronts. Most of the blue comes off them. Even today I can still see a bit in the seams. Oh, well.

   This went on for quite a few weeks, where she was just constantly testing us. It was taxing and I was growing impatient with her. And she knew it too. Because with every new offense I was quick to send her to her room and not even listen to why she was trying to paint the walls or climb into the cupboards or push things down the drain. It didn't matter anymore, I was so tired of cleaning up after her. Part of me loved that she was a little scientist and was trying to figure out how things worked, the other part of me needed a break.

  One day I had finished making spaghetti for dinner. I had dished out the girls' noodles but the sauce was still in the jar. It would be easy enough to spoon a couple of spoonfuls of the sauce on the hot noodles when we set down to eat. Bean was hungry and impatient to eat but I told her to wait a second while I went and got hero hottie from the bedroom.
    He was on the computer and wanted to show me something. So quickly I looked but it was too long. Not more than a minute or two but we had young children. It was a minute or two too long.
   Suddenly Bean comes running into our bedroom. Her eyes are wild and panicked. Her voice is frantic when she speaks. "It was an accident. It was an accident."
   Oh, no. What did this kid do now? Hero hottie and I rush into the kitchen and freeze. My mouth falls open as I survey the damage done to my kitchen by a tiny four year old. It's beyond believing and we just stand there for a second, trying to collect our thoughts.
   Bean is right behind us. "It was an accident." She's not being blamed for this mess.
   Spaghetti sauce covers every surface of the kitchen from floor to ceiling. The red sauce forms nice patterns of splatter droplets all over the white walls and ceiling and it looks like a crime scene. The heaviest drops are on the ceiling right above where she had been standing and travel across the entire breadth of the kitchen, where they go right on down the opposite wall from where she was and onto the floor.
   We look at her about to ask her how it happened. She interrupts, shaking her head. "It was an accident."
   She's definitely thinks she's in trouble for this mess. And a mess it is.
   I glance at Hero hottie and we both break into uncontrollable laughter. It was the worse mess she had ever made and 'It was an accident.' What must she have thought when she saw the spaghetti sauce everywhere and knew I was tired of her making messes on purpose. I'm pretty sure she thought she would be in time out forever.
   She probably thought, "Oh, no. Mom's really going to mad this time. I have to convince her right from the start, even before she sees it, that 'It was an accident.'"
    Apparently, she couldn't wait for us to dish up and she decided to put her own sauce on her spaghetti. But somehow, she got her spoon in the jar at just the right angle that when she went to pull it out, she must have caught it on the inside edge and it went pop, sending an arc of mess everywhere. Somehow, and only Bean could make a disaster of this size in less than one minute, the spoonful of spaghetti sauce managed to cover everything in round splats of wall staining red.
    It took over two hours for me to scrub up that mess and it was still stained no matter how much elbow grease I put into it.

   Now days, when ever a mess is to be had, we know which kid to ask first. And her first response is always, "It was an accident." She never means to make a disaster zone, it just seems to happen.
  But at least, now she's old enough to clean up her own messes. :)

  

Day Thirteen- Halfway There and Further Away

  So we're halfway there, a couple of days behind schedule and I feel further away from finding an answer than I did before. But I think this is what happens when you get close to some new understanding, obstacles are put in your way. On purpose, I'm sure of it. By who, I can't say. It is God, the universe, ourselves? But why it is when it rains, it pours? Or when we're so close to success, everything goes wrong that could? Like Murphy's Law but with a cosmic twist.
    I had my furnace quit on me. It decided that it couldn't break down during tax refund time or perhaps even after Christmas, it has to go on hiatus two weeks before the holidays. And not only that but it was taunting us. We had air blowing, except it was cold. There's nothing like blowing cold air in a poorly insulated house when it's twenty degrees outside. Brrr.
   The furnace is stuck behind the coat closet, so I emptied out the space into my hallway and living room. How did that much stuff accumulate into one tiny area? And who keeps bringing these things in that we don't need?
    I have a sneaking suspicion of who the culprits are and it's funny how as a Mom, we are prone to believe guilty until proven innocent. But after all, Bean's favorite saying is, "It was an accident."
    Today, I found a bucket of bird feathers under Abu's bed. I'm not sure what the intended purpose of them is or if that is even healthy but they had obviously been carefully collected and saved. Why is this info important, probably because children notice the little things in life that we have become too busy and hectic to pay attention to. Finding their little treasures reminds me, to use a cliche, stop and smell the flowers. Or if I don't have time to collect bird feathers with Abu than I'm probably doing too much. Just like most Moms. Just like most parents.
   But how hard is it to find time when life falls apart around you.

    Luckily with hero hottie's uncle working in the repairing business our furnace fix was cheaper than it could have been. It was only $450 instead of $800.  The gift of heat is priceless though.
    This number will either make you cringe for me or you'll shake your head and wonder why this is such a big deal for me. Money is based off perception. For people that have plenty of it they don't understand that obtaining the basics is a struggle. Daily. Relentless. Without break.
   The movie, 'In Time' tells this story for survival quite well I thought. And I'm not even a big Justin Timberlake fan, I thought the movie was fairly well done. Sad though. Just switch money for time and it's no different.

   Bean, Abu and I are going to make ornaments this weekend- in between getting ready for Christmas and finding time to catch up on my blog entries. Sorry about my daily blessings being a bit behind. It's ironic that I'm writing about finding faith but then I get so busy I'm having trouble finding the time to practice it. And if the furnace was the only thing this week I would dismiss it but since it's only one of a long list of things that have gone wrong, I almost feel like it's a challenge. The universe is asking, "Are you serious about finding faith or can you be easily dissuaded if a few more problems come your way?"
   I would have to answer, "It depends on the problems. I would have to bow out if I have to eat rotten cow brains, like on Fear Factor. Yuck!"
   Joking aside, I think we all have times where we feel like things grow tougher when they're already tough and I don't know why this happens. There has to be rhyme and reason to it but it's a question I don't have an answer for.

  So sometimes I have to say having faith feels like a game of Fear Factor. Which I'm not sure if it's proper to compare it to a game show but that's just the mood I'm in right now. You have to have humor to make it in this world without turning bitter in the end.
   Perhaps a little glitter on the floor, left over from our ornament making, will remind me what's important.

Day Nine- Middle School Hell

   Some times the things we don't realize are blessings at the time end up being some of the most important events in our life. They're path changers. Forks in the roads. Speed bumps so big they threw us onto another street. And often times that's what it feels like too, a kick in the rear.

   
    Half way through fifth grade my family had to move. The rental house that we had lived in, the one right across the street from my elementary school, was being sold. I had been attending this elementary school since half way through first grade and I had friends, buddies, boys that I had known for years that I like to beat at wall ball and math. It was a decent school and I was finally inside the building for class. I had waited years to be a big kid.
    (Fifth and Sixth grade were in the actual school building, they had lockers and a warm hallway. The other grades opened to the outside and you had to travel across the courtyard to reach the music room, the library, the office and the lunch room.)
     But all that didn't matter. I had to tell my teachers and friends I was moving, pack up my room, sit in the trees in my yard one last time. The trees that I would spend hours in. Sitting in their big, beautiful branches reading books, or playing pretend or waiting for Mom to get home from the grocery store because I was so high up I could see the road she would be driving on.
    It was change and I thought not such a great one, especially when we had to move to a completely different town to find an affordable rental house. My Dad's commute was now longer and we would have to ride a bus to school, instead of just walking across the street.

   Next to our house, right across the road and then a small field was a railroad track. That night in our new house, Dad laid all our mattresses on the living room floor, since he hadn't had time to put the beds together. It was strange, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the new house. Watching the odd shadows play on the walls. And then, the Amtrak train, traveling at around eighty miles per hour, rumbled past our house. The windows shook, my mattress vibrated and the sound roared loudly in the ears. My parents sighed and I knew they were just as unhappy about the move as us kids were.

   The schools in this district were divided differently than my last school. Fifth through eighth grades were in middle school. Suddenly I went from being an elementary student to being a middle schooler. Yikes. My fifth grade teacher was crazy. She had a metal stool she liked to pick up and smack against the linoleum when ever she was upset with us, which was just about every day.
   We had gangs in the school, luckily not into a lot of on-campus violence but there was more than enough vandalism, thievery, and bullying to keep the school in a constant state of tension, fear, and anger.
   By sixth grade, the battle field lines were drawn between the girls, you were either on one side and popular or you were on the other side and clearly not popular. I made things complicated by being friends with JD,one of the popular girls at the same time while also being considered teacher's pet because I enjoyed school.
   This wasn't an ideal situation and pretty soon JD wasn't my friend and I was deemed an easy target by the other girls. I was still a kid in sixth grade and not ready for the 'Mean Girl' environment. I only had one bad teacher in sixth grade, he came to school high on something and unable to teach math. We scrapped by just enough to count for test scores.
   By seventh grade I had a knot in my stomach every day before school. I had an hour bus ride in the morning and whereas I had a funny bus driver, his jokes were highly inappropriate and dirty. On top of the way he would flirt with the high school girls, it was not a great bus ride. My brother would get on the bus with me but he had to stay on longer than I did and was picked on horribly as soon as I wasn't there to protect him. In school he was losing ground in math and my sister was being taught that you can spell a word any way you want and it's correct.
   The girls were horribly cruel to each other and all the jokes were demeaning and heartless. The P.E. teachers were sadistic if you weren't athletic and my science teacher would threaten to kill us and stuff us in the cupboards if we didn't behave.
    It was not an ideal learning environment. And probably not even that safe.
    So I suggested to my parents that they should home school me. A couple of weeks later, when the situation had reached a boiling point for all of us siblings, they decided to take us out of school and do it at home. I'm not sure if my siblings were in full agreement, my brother didn't like school no matter where it was and my sister liked being around other kids. But the school district had failed us in so many ways and we couldn't transfer some where else.
 
   Home schooling was easy for me. I was already a good student, it wasn't any different at home except it only took about three hours a day to finish my work. What kid doesn't mind being done in less than half the time as before? We took field trips, studied things that were important and interesting, my Mom read Mark Twain to us, I read the other classics, and we volunteered at quite a few places to interact with people and the world. I wasn't stuck in Middle School Hell anymore, I was out in the real world and it was wonderful.
I didn't even wake up with a stomach ache anymore.
    I had freedom to be myself. I had time to think, to learn, to feel safe. I still had friends, but I didn't have bullies.
   At the end of that year I was testing beyond the high school level. The person administering the test suggested I skip high school and move right into college. I didn't because I wasn't ready emotionally for such a huge step but it was a confidence boost for my parents.
   They took us out of school and took on the task of being our teachers. Especially my Mom. She didn't have a background in teaching but she was going to take that leap of faith and cross her fingers that it worked because she knew we couldn't stay at the schools we were going to.
    It took courage and faith. And sometimes in life we have to take that leap. Sort of like Indiana Jones when he has to cross the bridge except he can't actually see it...he just has to have faith that it is there.
   We can make all the plans we want but when it comes down to it, sometimes the best things are the changes we make with nothing more to guarantee that we're on the right path than our faith.
    That's a tough one to follow but I'm sure glad my Mom did.

    

Day Six- The Blessing of Being a Parent

   I was pregnant with Abu and tired. It was winter and bitterly cold outside. This meant I had spent an entire day stuck in the house trying to entertain Bean, who was just a toddler.

    And if there is one thing I realized quickly, is that as soon as my kid could walk; parenting in nice weather is a heck of a lot easier than in bad weather. We love being outside. My girls practically live outside in the summer, cutting down on our chances of being bored.

    But back to my parenting tale. Hero hottie and I decided we were going to watch movies for the evening since he was exhausted from working all day and I was pregnant. Sitting down and doing nothing sounded great. Wonderful. Blissful.

    We bundled Bean in her thick winter coat that makes buckling her car seat nearly impossible and we were off to Blockbuster.
     Slowly we made our way down long row of  New Releases with Bean toddling slightly ahead of us and looking at all the video cases at her eye level.
     Towards the end of the row she pauses and frowns heavily.
    All day I had ran around chasing her, or telling her 'no' or feeding her. Her list of things to accomplish for the day hadn't included a nap, she had been so active. But suddenly she was looking quite pale and just a bit green. What had seemed like just normal tiredness was suspiciously looking like something a bit more sinister.
     Then, without any sort of warning, she projectile vomits over the video cases, the shelf and the floor. Hero hottie and I gasped. Puke is all the place. And we're shocked that someone so little could produce such a foul smelling mess...and so quickly.
     It takes us a moment to collect our wits. How can one small toddler contain so much puke potential in her tiny belly? I can't believe how many video cases she has managed to cover in one powerful shot.
     Hero hottie finally snaps into action and goes looking for some cleaning supplies while I use some baby wipes to clean up Bean's face. She looks like she's going to throw up again and I have a feeling we better head home quickly.
     The clerk at the desk is young, under the age of eighteen and you would think that he has never dealt with vomit before because it appears from the revealing shade of green he has turned that he's experiencing some shared queasiness.
      Hero hottie cleans up a bit and the -ready to puke- clerk heads over to the spot to finish up.
      Luckily, Bean manages to make it home before vomiting anymore. By this time she's sick and fussy and demanding.
      I sigh. At least I have hero hottie to help me care for her.
      Or so I thought. As we get home and settled in, changing Bean's clothes and cleaning her up, he rushes for the bathroom.
      At least he didn't puke in Blockbuster.
      The rest of the evening was spent between two sick rooms and cleaning a lot of buckets. Oh, life.

 
      I thought about starting this blog article with just telling you that being a parent is a blessing even though some things stink. But I decided on using humor to show  you that some times being a parent really does stink.    
      Literally.  :)

      It's a hard job, being a parent. The hardest. In what other job are you responsible for the happiness, care, growth, general well being and forming of a decent human being? Not just part, like what a school teacher does, or like a nurse or doctor, but for practically every thing?
      It makes you stronger being a parent. You have to be or no one would get fed, or dressed, or have school papers signed. Thinking back to my pre-parent days I know without a doubt that young Christy couldn't juggle every thing I have to do as a parent. And yes, not all of it is fun. Dishes and laundry could do themselves and I would be so over joyed. I'm so happy that Bean and Abu are getting old enough to fold laundry and dry dishes. It makes life easier. (They disagree with that statement.:)
       But I LOVE being a parent. Even on the worse days, like when my kid is using puke as a weapon to stink up the entire Blockbuster, I enjoy and cherish every smile, every I Love You, every hug and every drawing. The things I have learned from being a parent are incredible.
      Being reminded of childhood and all the innocent joys of it, while being allowed the special privilege of traveling the beginning part of Bean's and Abu's journey, is priceless. There is not a single thing in the world I would ever trade in exchange for being their Mom.
     
      So being a parent is a blessing. I've learn so much about:
      love, (a baby curled under your chin while rocking them to sleep is one the best things in the world)
      curiosity, (because your head will get stuck again in the rails if you try it a second time)
      strong wills (thanks Bean, who when told to stay sitting on the chair in time out simply moved her chair to reach her toys),
      humor (Because there's something uniquely funny about a child's humor in the fact that burps, gas, and sneezes are always something to laugh about)
      patience (because for as many times as you can say 'no' they still manage to ask one more time)
      laughter (they know the secret to managing stress and it has to do with belly laughs)
      priorities (children remember what is important in life- taking time to play, laugh, and snuggle)


     Children are blessings. No doubt about it.

     - I just hope Blockbuster cleans their video cases from time to time. :)

The End of the World by Zombie Apocalypse

I apologize for my tardiness in posting, I've been busy preparing for a possible zombie apocalypse and the end of the world in the same week. On top of being a Mom and writer, that makes for a very busy schedule. Do I wash the kids' clothes and try to get their grass stains out? Or do I let them watch Shaun of the Dead and Zombieland so they know how to survive brain eating, slowing moving, groaning pale people? I did not see any articles about 'How to Prepare Your Children for Zombie Attacks' in the parenting magazines. What's a Mom suppose to do?

And then there was the end of the world that was supposed to be last Saturday. Zombies and the end of the world. Two completely different scenarios to think about, which makes preparing difficult. If you have to prepare for a zombie apocalypse then you have to think about food, water, a brain protector because brains are zombie's favorite food, and perhaps where to find a huge get away truck, flame thrower and other zombie killing devices.
      If you're preparing for the end of the world you have to question yourself. Do you go and party for a week, give away all your money, and do things you normally wouldn't? Or do you act extra good, racking up brownie points to hand to Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. Do you go out and help as many elderly women cross the street as possible, looking up into the sky and yelling that you just scored another point after each time?
     It's a tough question. Some people are going to forget all the rules and try to convince other people to join them. And other people are going to be really, really good in the hopes that they can avoid the other place opposite of heaven.
      Just so you know, I did neither. I don't have any life savings to give away to people predicting the end of the world and  who are already worth millions of dollars (which brings up an interesting question, if you're expecting to descend to heaven, why do you have people donate millions to you? Does Saint Peter take American dollars?) and I'm not going to use such a lame excuse as the end of the world to do something I wouldn't normally do. As far as counting my brownie points to enter the pearly gates, I'm pretty sure it doesn't quite work that way. But I do subscribe to the golden rule, including having forgiveness even when it's difficult to not be spitting angry at the woman who tried to run me over with her shopping cart at Safeway yesterday. (Yes, literally. She thought I was going to steal her spot in the check out line when all I was doing was trying to negotiate the tight spaces in the crowded aisle to reach the other side of the store, so she used her cart to block me, including pushing me out of the way with it when I tried to walk pass her. I was so mad. Still am, apparently.)

      To catch anyone up on the news and so you know what I'm talking about;  the Center for Disease Control's blog on May 16th (http://emergency.cdc.gov/socialmedia/zombies_blog.asp) wrote an entry about surviving a zombie apocalypse. Throughout the vast expanse of cyberspace it generated quite a buzz. Some people calling it a tongue in cheek article to grab the attention of people who wouldn't normally think about preparing for a 'regular and boring' disaster.  To another group of people thinking that the CDC is bluntly warning us about upcoming zombie attacks. (Of course, have you ever been to Wal-Mart or watched a teenage clerk try to count change nowadays? I think we've already had the zombie apocalypse.)
      Either way, on top of everything else I had to do this week, I needed to prepare for zombies. The CDC mentions the basics; water, food, medicines, copies of important papers and planning your escape. They left out the pick up truck, flame thrower, and shot gun. They also said that they would send in the scientists to solve the mysterious outbreak and cure the zombies. I don't recall a movie where the zombies are ever cured and usually the scientists are tasty morsels. So really, I would hate to be a low level CDC scientist during a zombie apocalypse. The odds aren't good. But if they want to be hopeful then good luck.

      The second item was Harold Camping predicting the end of the world last Saturday, even though in the nineties he had predicted the end of the world and obviously his prediction was incorrect. Millions, I mean millions of people around the world believed him. Donating their life savings to either his church or to charity, because they weren't planning on being here this week. Well, guess what. Saturday came and went and here I am blogging. Word of advice, no one can predict the end of the entire world. And if they want all your money to believe in them...run. The world is changing and things do seem chaotic but it's a shame that someone can scam so many people out of their money and their faith.

       I had hoped this week would be quieter but stormy weather brings horrible winds. I'm afraid for people in the mid-west that they have real problems to worry about. They don't need zombies and scam artists to destroy their world. I couldn't even imagine how you start repairing a town  (this week, Joplin, MO) that is almost completely damaged. How do you repair so many destroyed businesses, schools, houses, and the hospital? The footage just makes me cry.
       Life is fragile and precious. And being the idealistic person I am I would hope we never have a zombie apocalypse, I would wish that we wouldn't have scam artists anymore, and I pray that people find their hope again, even if it's buried underneath the rubble which used to be their lives.
      In the meantime I just read that Mr. Camping has a new prediction; the end of the world will be on October 21st. Which only gives me less than six months to start racking up my brownie points.