Mrs Hannigan's Home for Girls

OK, my theory is that humans are designed to move, a lot and that’s all we really need to do for fitness. Babies are in constant motion, flailing around until they realize they can turn over, then flailing around until they figure out how to propel themselves and after a while they grow into little kids that constantly zip around simply for the joy of zipping around. It’s a good thing. They always come back, especially when you feed them.

I’m always amazed that people don’t connect the rise in obesity among children to the fact that more and more of them are spending their days confined in small spaces and eating things that aren’t really food. I’m also constantly amazed at the amount of people who allow their small children to be drugged into compliance, just for the privilege of participating in things like “all day kindergarten.”

But that’s beside the point, right? I don’t really know anything about obesity and kids because mine don’t sit still long enough to eat a full meal, so I’m not concerned about that. I’m concerned about the idea of taking a body that’s supposed to be in near constant motion and training it to subsist on an hour of motion a day. And not just ANY hour of motion, an hour of specific motion, directed by another person, and injected with competition and skills assessments.

Is there a connection between the fact that busy active kids are trained to sit still in school & grow up to be adults who sit still at work, then go to the gym for an hour, replicating PE class?

I always wondered exactly WHAT was “educational” about being told to play volleyball with the other kids in my class, or doing 100 jumping jacks in 8th grade (I think the teacher was a pervert) or running through any other series of specific exercises simply designed to make us sweat and get our blood pumping, then being forced to sit still for the rest of the day.

And don’t even get me started on the lack of dignity involved in the high school PE showers. I mean, come ON- even the WORST gym or adult fitness center has a few private showers available, y’know.

Anyway. Shouldn’t physical education actually be something that results in learning to appreciate the wonder that is our bones and muscles working together? Can it really be accomplished in a group setting? What if high school had worked like the gym does, with yoga, spinning, water aerobics and other courses students could CHOOSE and change at will, in order to get the workout they WANT and NEED without the stupid pretense of “physical education” that’s planned out in the mind of a teacher who doesn’t live in your body or mind? Fitness should be personalized. That’s why the rich and famous choose personal trainers over Richard Simmons Videos (except Sweatin’ to the Oldies is so much fun)

Today, when I take my kids to the park, I PLAY. I have to, it’s part of my “Let’s not get depressed again, you idiot” plan of action. And it’s extremely fun. I absolutely love hanging from the monkey bars and doing flips. I’ve scoped out all the best (highest) swingsets in town and I can push the merry go round faster than any of my kids. I can also do the splits in all 3 directions and one day I will beat my 9 year old in consecutive cartwheels. She’s teaching me how to do walkovers, too. I have a friend with a trampoline and whenever the kids are done playing on it, I climb up and jump until I get sick of it. I don’t count them, I don’t time myself and no one is telling me to jump differently. All that stuff isn’t necessary for fitness. I’m in motion and I know what feels good. I know what makes me sweat, I know what makes my muscles work. I can FEEL IT. Instead of paying attention to someone outside of me who is “teaching me” about fitness, I’m just doing it. Isn’t that what Nike said? (after it yelled at the little Asian kids to hurry up)

Are we trained by PE class to be oblivious to our own inner workings? A personal trainer can help you with specific goals, but are they always necessary? My favorite routine is 20-30 minutes on the swings, followed by deep stretching and THEN flips on and off the bars. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that that jives with what the pro aerialists recommend.

Why all the talk about aerialists? When I was a kid, I wanted to take gymnastics. I’ve always been flexible. In fact, I stayed limber throughout my pregnancies, doing the splits just to freak people out. Anyway, when I was 12 I wanted to take gymnastics. I wanted it so badly that I made my parents come in for an appointment at the gymnastics school to enroll me in classes. They said no The following month, my 2 yr old brother started karate classes. Yeah, I was pissed.

I can’t change the past, but nothing is stopping me from doing it now.

I think the idea of institutionalized physical education for small children is really kinda evil. Look at any playground full of kindergarteners and they KNOW how to move. They’re climbing, they’re running, they’re jumping and totally having a blast. In kindergarten, PE kids learn the rules to different sports games and that’s all fine and dandy, but don’t call it “PE” call it what it is, games, competition, exercise or something else. At 5 years old, they know their limits. I’m sure the rate of muscle & bone injuries goes up with age, because kindergarteners are perfectly capable of managing their own physical activities.

I’m often amazed at the park to see moms NOT playing. At what age do people LOSE the ability to occupy themselves on the playground? Oh wait— I know the answer to this one. PE class stole that desire, training people to exercise during a specific hour each day and to sit still the rest of the day. Recess stole that desire with 250 kids on a playground with 2 slides and 4 swings.

I wonder if there’s a personal trainer out there who recommends people climb trees, run up a hill as fast as they can and roll down. I wonder if there’s one who specializes in helping me remember how to do really fast flips on the bars. I wonder if there’s one out there who really knows that swinging works your arms, abs AND legs. I wonder if there’s a personal trainer out there who says “don’t count the reps, just play.”

I’m always thinking of new business ideas, and one that I’ve come back to several times is a gigantic playground.

Remember when you were a kid and the slide was five times as tall as you. Remember how it felt to climb that ladder, your heart racing faster and faster as you got to the top, the inner debate about whether to turn around or keep going, until you turned around and freaked out about how high it was. The feeling of letting go, the sliding down and the bliss of reaching the bottom intact and wanting to do it again? Adults need this just as much as kids. How often do you feel that as an adult?

Remember when you were a kid and you learned how to jump from the swing; slowing it down just enough to get the courage to leap off and hoping you wouldn’t fall on your ass when you landed? Then you’d look around to see who witnessed your jump?

Remember climbing on the monkey bars, to the top of the dome, then squeezing through the triangle to hang upside down or pretending to be a monkey or gymnast on the bars?

As an adult who plays on the playground, I have to say that it’s not nearly the same kind of fun now as it was when I was a kid because all the equipment has shrunk. I can stand under the dome of the monkey bars and touch the top. I know, it sucks. I used to think it was cool when my parents could reach the top, now I realize it’s NOT COOL AT ALL.

But back to this wild business idea I had… Someone should build a gigantic, grown-up sized playground, like in an airplane hangar, and have giant tubes we can crawl through and slides that are 30 feet tall and monkey bars we can’t reach the top of and things like that.

It would be a great business because they can sell memberships just like the regular gym but there’s never rain on the slide, which is never scorching hot from the sun. Being indoors, they can cater to adults’ pansy-ass need for climate control and seasonal allergies.

It can accommodate both organized and spontaneous games of kickball, volleyball, basketball and tether ball.

It would have a giant tree with a tire swing big enough for 4 adults to sit on. And a giant sit-n-spin, like the teacups at Disneyland.

It would have a smoothie bar where we can get fresh organic juices and smoothies, with or without kelp, blue-green algae, brewers yeast, flax seed oil or whatever else grown-ups like to spike their smoothies with.

It would have a heat-sensor camera photo booth so you could SEE which muscles you worked and personal trainers on hand to drool at because they often have the best bodies challenge you to climb higher, see if you can pull yourself up from THIS position and point out that your love handles are shrinking.

Speakers would pipe in the sound of little kids laughing and playing, because when I go to the park with my kids in the evening, sometimes the working parents act like they’ve never heard that sound before, which is the most joyous and free kind of noise on the planet (unless it’s coming from my kitchen at 2am)

Yeah- so this magical giant playground would be called “The Playground” and in the commercial, two big guys in suits would be in a heated boardroom discussion when one looks to the other and says “Meet me on the playground after work” and in the next scene, they’re competing to see who can swing highest, or even boxing in a ring with one another while the secretaries cheer them on.

So there ya go. If you decide to build this business, I think I deserve a free membership. Until then, I’ll just play with my kids on the equipment that’s not quite my size. Did I mention that my husband is building me a 30 foot trapeze unit, so I can practice real aerial acrobatics. I’ll keep you posted on that one

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First of all, here are the top 5 reasons every woman needs a riding lawnmower for mother’s day

1- they’re white-noisy, which allows you to THINK – because listening to any thought that isn’t in your head is impossible
2- even if someone is yelling, you can’t hear anything and they can’t hear you either
3- so you can sing as loud as you want or yell or curse as loud as you want and no one will hear you
4- mowing the yard is fun
5- the engine vibrates

Everyone does things differently. In adults, we allow for this truth to be honored and respected. At work, everyone has a different job and that’s “his thing” No one would dare rearrange another man’s workspace, tell him to arrange his belongings a certain way, forbid him to listen to music while he works or check each step of his final process to ensure he “did it right”, though it happens to children. All. The. Time.

In adult relationships (except for religious courtship and arranged marriages), partners meet one another and spend a lot of time getting to know one another; learning how to make eachother happy and how to communicate, finding mutual hobbies, building memories and discovering what their preferences and tastes are and then, they may or may not consciously choose to call one another “family” through marriage.

But children don’t have that luxury. They’re born into our homes and unfortunately there’s a lot of people out there masquarading as “child development experts” that don’t even bother getting to know children. They force them into an “arranged marriage” of a relationship whereby the other partners (the parents) have already decided EVERYTHING.

Imagine how frustrating that would be.

But you’ve heard it. You’ve probably even DONE it. I used to say “My child will never play with a toy that isn’t made of natural materials, there will be no plastic in my home” or “My child will never wear shoes with cartoon characters on them, we’re not free advertising for corporations.” And I called these “responsible parenting decisions” because I was protecting this poor little thing. But what was I protecting her from?” LIFE? Making her own decisions? Reality, or do you prefer the term Pop culture?

Would you do that to ANYONE else out of love?

But children come in and surprise us. Every one of them has their own unique personality and identity from the DAY THEY are BORN.

But here are the experts saying “you can put ANY Child to bed at 7pm” and “At 2 months of age they need to drink 4 ounces every 3 hours and poop 125 grams at a time.” WTF? People buy that crap. People need to stop looking to parenting experts and just mow the lawn more often. So instead of buying into the idea that “In the 3rd month of 4th grade, students must memorize the capitol of every US state” and “the letters of the alphabet must be memorized in THIS order” and “the multiplication tables MUST be memorized in order to proceed…”

Remember being a kid. Do you remember what made you happy when you were a kid? Was it drawing, playing in the mud, swimming, wandering around aimlessly in the woods, building with blocks or boxes? What made you happy? How did you feel when someone told you not to do it? Or worse, criticized you for WANTING to follow your bliss all the time? Why did they tell us that THEIR agenda was more important than ours?

You were BORN whole and complete. Nothing you can think or want is wrong. We are here, in physical bodies, living in a world filled with stuff. This is a reality. Interacting with the stuff of the world can’t possibly be bad. Clearly, it cannot be denied that our minds function in order to decide what to DO with this physical body, this LIFE and the stuff that comes with it. The only way to do that and be true to our own design is to do the things that bring you joy, the things you’d CHOOSE to do without the influence of another human being. And allow our children the same respect, as humans.

that’s why it’s so important to rethink everything. Rethinking yourself, that may be a new way to look at depression. Each depression I’ve been through has represented a turning point in my life, I wonder if other women do that? I know many of us tell time by the ages of our children. I’ve looked at a photo and dated it by saying “That must have been in 2000 because I was standing by the blue chair I bought when I was pregnant with Gabriella but there’s no rip in the side, so it must been taken between April 25th and June 5th of 2000.” Surely, then, it’s not strange at all to look back and say “This was before the dog-death-depression” It almost sounds normal after the other example.

Anyway- so I’m mowing the lawn- 4 acres merits a riding lawnmower- and I realize that I have this crazy fucked up method of mowing. My husband (let me preface this for you) he makes perfect lines that run from one edge of the yard to another. Each one is spaced uniformly, as if he has placed cones as he was turning each corner or something. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it. Or why. I mean, sure it looks nice and all. If you like that sort of thing.

I have a different approach.

I’m arts-minded. I see the starry night of obstacles on my green canvas, OK. There are sprinklers to contend with. Trees, randomly sprinkled throughout the area. It’s an organic environment, we’ve got a mound of gopher holes here, sprinklers, like a graph, dotting through here. We’ve got “old doughboy pool, which, incidentally has a life of its own as my kids’ play area. There’s also “parked boat” and “big hole in the ground” and a bunch of other things. There’s 4 acres, man and it’s a busy place.

So- my lines are (in my opinion) just smarter than his.

Anyway, so here are my sweeping, flowing, ZEN lawnmowing lines. And here’s my husband’s industrial looking, hard, repetitive, BORING mowing lines.

Honestly, so why do we tolerate one another’s strange lawnmowing techniques? Because that’s what it means to be human. If wavy artsy lines inspire me, then that’s part of who I am. It’s the same reason we tolerate a messy desk, shoes that don’t quite make it into the closet and constant singing. because there’s really no reason to fight about these things.

There was a time when my husband and I would have fought over the lawn mowing. When we were first married, we bickered a lot.

“How come you can’t just do it RIGHT?”
“Right? so there’s a right and wrong way to cut the fucking grass? Come on- who the heck cares, it will grow back in a few days anyway- those lines don’t show up all the time and so what if they did? Are wavy lines THAT offensive? Let me tell you if a helicopter was looking for survivors on this landscape our wavy lines could SAVE YOUR LIFE, OK. So don’t tell me there’s a right and wrong way to mow the lawn because I see way more benefits to MY WAY, OK?”

But we never had that conversation, we’ve matured a lot over the years. Instead, he just decided just to mow the lawn without me around and keep it mowed so I couldn’t get to it. One day, though, as it happens, I heard him mowing and it sounded like so much fun. I’d been writing descriptions of hairstyles for a client for nearly 5 hours and was restless. So I went out and asked him to give me a turn. I covered about an acre with beautiful wavy mowing lines, watching the grass change colors by each row, rejoicing in not shredding anything messy, watching the grasshoppers hop away and hoping not to hear a field mouse’s squealing death (it happens). I was enjoying being alone; just me and the mower and a few of my favorite musicians. I sang at the to of my lungs to Paramore, Pink, Evanescence and a little bit of Nine Inch Nails and probably a few others, I forget. And that was the point. For a few long minutes I got to make art of my yard, feel the wind in my hair and SING as loud as I could.

But there’s more to it than that (There always is)

Once the kids got wind that mommy was mowing, they wanted rides, too. They’d ridden with Dad earlier and wanted to ride with me now. One by one, we made yard art.

Gabriella had a thousand questions for me about the engine. she also orally calculated the amount of days between everyone’s birth date. Then we had to discuss the various grains that grow like grass does, and speculate whether we were mowing rice, wheat or barley.

Madelyn was queit, watching the cut grass spray out of the sides and performing the Heimlich maneuver on me each time we went over a bump.

Evelyn shouted “woohoo” in my ears every 2 seconds and narrated for me, like a sportscaster. “We going this way now, we gonna hit tree mommy, can’t hit the tree.” and then again like Dustin Hoffman in Rainman “gotta go around it, gotta go around the tree”

And it hits me- this is how humans are supposed to co-exist. I’m BLISSFULLY doing my own thing- mowing the lawn and the girls are welcome to come join me. I learn about myself and the world from the girls by just watching them be whoever they are than I would ever learn by trying to make them be something else. In addition, they get to explore and experience new things every day, by my side. Never abandoned, never alone, never un-parented as the unschooling naysayers would imply.

There’s nothing wrong with mowing in lines, mowing wavy or mowing a herringbone zig zag. In fact, you might win some kind of award for that last one, surely that’s a recognized art form. I’d vote for you.

There’s nothing wrong with narrating the day, examining the infinite combinations of numbers in your world or holding on for dear life. This is who we are. I am me and you are you and if I want to truly serve ANYONE then I need to see that I’m not taking away from the happiness of those around me. Servitude isn’t lowly, it’s not a burden. Caring for the kids IS heaven. I chose this and they deserve to have me approach each conversation with as much love and open-ness as a ride on the lawnmower. See, they don’t care what the path looks like, they just want to be with us. I was waiting for one of the kids to point out my wayward mowing technique, but they never did. Even as I criss-crossed over my own lines and looped around obstacles, leaving crop circles in the yard, they never noticed. They were just enjoying the ride.

So next time someone asks “Why unschool?” my answer will probably not be very helpful. “You can learn a lot from mowing the lawn.”

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I’ve changed this post- edited it a bit from its original form. It’s been a month or maybe more, since I wrote it and I hate having it up here. I tossed around the idea of deleting it. The original title was “Why no one talks about depression” but the post doesn’t really answer the question. I changed the name. I think if Sylvia Plath was a blogger today, she might have lived. I’m glad I’m not intellectually oppressed by society, and that I have an electric oven.
————————————————So, here’s my depression post…
———————————–
There’s weather in my head. Winter is ending. Outside of my head, spring has been busy for a little while. Daffodils are still in bloom, the ground is covered in low-growing dandelions that have yet to see the lawnmower blades and my first vase of lilacs hasn’t even wilted on the kitchen table yet.

Inside my head, it’s windy- random thoughts are scattered, memories like hailstones and pictures like dead leaves are swept across the landscape faster than I can write. Nothing blooms here. It’s a lonely, desolate, black-and-white place that I don’t like to visit.

I tried to write my way out. During times like this, I can pick up a pen or sit down to the keyboard and the words write themselves, bringing my blizzard of thoughts onto the paper. Purging feels nice, there’s a part of my mind that can read what I’ve written and make sense of it all. But that part of me is lost in the storm. The words come quickly. For work purposes, I write about 2500 words a day but this mental storm of thoughts and feelings ended up taking me about 28,000 words to purge. Frantically typing away, every few days, thinking each time that I was “done” examining. I must have relived a thousand moments in life, from a perspective not quite my own, as I questioned my own memories and paradigm every step of the way. Retrospect is a good thing. Looking back at the way things have gone and re-evaluating them is really an important thing to do periodically. Perhaps I should believe myself to be efficient, examining so many things at once. It didn’t feel that way. I confessed to a couple of close friends that I’d gone crazy and when they tried to comfort me I sought out more and more “proof,” thinking that if they understood how crazy I am, surely they’ll agree.

Depression bugs me. It’s so self-centered. I want to give, I want to help, (I know each of these statements begins with ‘I’) and spending a couple months with a blizzard in my head is not productive. I want to say it’s not in my nature, but apparently it is.

I do this every few years or so. It’s just a fact.

A few months ago, before I saw the storm coming, a friend of mine asked a group of unschooling moms “Does anyone here ever deal with depression?” At the time, my most-recent bout of depression (not counting 2 yrs ago) was almost 5 years old, so I thought I’d beaten it. I shared some of the things that helped me through at that time. The advice that I gave was to make a list of things you used to find pleasure in and DO THEM. Basically, get back to living. Life is good.

That was the farthest thing from my mind last week as I was lost in my mind, being beaten against the wall by my own thoughts. I had a few close friends who knew I was suffering, but I hate being a burden, a whiner. Even though I was, completely.

If 1 out of 3 women suffers from depression, why is it that I look around and see so many happy people? I didn’t begrudge anyone their happiness, but I felt so deeply and hopelessly alone.

A few weeks ago, before I saw the storm coming, I started to write a blog post about depression. Let me confess, I have more posts “in draft” than I have published. Some are about my teenagers, who don’t care to have their details publicized. Some are too personal for me to share, some are written solely for a book I’d like to publish. Some, I’ve recorded more for the scrapbooking aspect of blogging. Some are just unformed thoughts, and this was one of them:

“Periodic depression, is just how some of us operate. Instead of wasting time asking “Why am I depressed?” or looking for a cure, medicating it away or escaping into vices, maybe we should just embrace it. Allow ourselves to fall into the hole for a while. Cry. Be sad. Wear ugly clothes. Lay on the floor and have a temper tantrum. Just BE down, BE depressed. Trust that it’s an important place to be and just do what your inner self says it needs to do. When you’re done, get up and take a shower and move on.”

But in the middle of the storm, I just wanted out.

In one of my psychotic ramblings, I likened it to the transition phase of childbirth, where you just KNOW you’re going to die. The pain will never end and you just give up, release all will and purpose and (ironically) embrace the next sensation, which soon enough, turns to relief because you have a goal, a purpose, a drive to PUSH.

I’m pushing now, not quite sure what’s going to happen next- but with or without depression, are we ever sure? A day or so ago I was determined to get professional help, against my intellectual beliefs about the dangers of pharmaceutical medicine. I gave up and made an appointment for a mental health evaluation. Surely, medication would help. In fact, the hope of becoming a zombie through medication was actually exciting. I could do the dishes without bursting into tears. I could go for a run and just feel the wind in my hair, without being chased by monsters. Yes, medication seemed like a good idea. And the appointment was made for the first available time slot, which was over 2 weeks away. Imagine that- 2 weeks they’d expect a person to go- after asking for help- before getting it.

Thank goodness for that 2 weeks.

After purging all my insanities, when I finally ran out of words to write, when I’d cried myself into a useless floppy heap of nothingness, I was motivated, if only to pass the time. I tried escaping into television shows, and discovered that they were funny. I was laughing. I tried escaping into my children’s projects and discovered that they loved me even though I sucked, and were so happy to just BE with me again. I came back to life, little-by-little, by involving myself in the things that used to bring me joy. Imagine that, accidentally following my own advice.

All the insanities that were purged, are out of my mind. There was a point during this process that I felt I had to bring order to these details, that I had to make some big decision in order to reconcile my affairs and move forward, but that’s not the case.

I’ve continued to journal because (you might have heard me say this before) I don’t know what I’m thinking until I write it. My recent entries have been more optimistic. I’m writing happier endings now. I’m sure that I have some sort of new understanding or wiser perspective now but it’s too fresh for me to analyze. And that’s the point. 5 Years from now, if another storm happens to brew in my head, I know that I’ll get through it. It’s impossible to lose myself in the process, I’ll always be back.

I’ve concluded that the reason there aren’t a lot of people out there talking about their own depression is because it feels ugly. Self-centered, obsessive, insane, crazy and just ugly. It’s easy to blog about how great life is when you’re not depressed, but when you’re down, where I just was, there’s not much to say. Who the hell cares? But it’s not true, really. Everyone’s been there. 1 out of 3 women suffer from depression and I’ll bet $50 that it cycles, whether it’s hormonal or some undetectable trigger. And in the long run, it’s part of who we are. That doesn’t mean we’re doomed to suffer forever, though.

And if you happen to suffer from periodic depression, just know that you’re not really alone in the real world, just in your mind, and that’s how it’s supposed to be. Sometimes it’s a sunny place with a hamack strung between palm trees and other times it’s a winter storm on a lonely mountain. But it’s yours and nothing that happens there is wrong. Embrace the darkness, don’t make any big decisions, and don’t be afraid to ask for help.

For the record, I’ve canceled my appointment.

My dear friends, I love you. Thank you for your kind words, happy thoughts, friendly emails, smiling avatars, beautiful souls and generous hearts. I can’t wait to go to Texas this year.

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”~ Anais Nin.

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Six or seven times this week I’ve heard the term “terrible two’s” and honestly, I thought it was gone; dead, like the notion that it was OK to leave infants to cry alone in a crib and that women were less intelligent than men. I haven’t ever experienced a terrible two year old. Ever. Two has developmental distinctions from other ages and perhaps it’s the exploring, investigating and vocalizing that parents have a hard time dealing with. It’s always been one of my favorite ages, though, even when I was a mean mommy.

Personally, the developmental stage I’ve most often called “terrible” occurs around age 4, but since we’ve learned so much about peaceful parenting my current 4 yr old really doesn’t seem terrible. Translation- I have learned to be a better mom, our family is more sensitive to the kids’ needs, so I’m not having a “terrible” time understanding her, like I did with my older children.

I have full faith that the ease with which we’ve navigated the teen years thus far is also credited to a developmental understanding and open, honest communication. Genetically and historically, there’s absolutely no backup for the idea that any specific “age” in childhood be any more “difficult” than any other. Parenting is a relationship, not a set of hurdles.

Anyway- I find 2 yr olds amusing and amazing, here’s a list of things my 2 yr old has done today (in order)

1-wake up & tickle my neck saying “you want yours coffee mama, come on yets make yours coffee now, time get up”

2- “Nooooooooo” upon seeing me turn over & try to steal a few more minutes of sleep “It’s sun shining mommy, geeettt uuuupppp ppllleeassee”

3- “gankgoo” which is her word for thank you because I just couldn’t resist her saying please to me, I don’t want to teach her that good manners don’t work, so in our house, please really IS a magic word. I’ve noticed that if I ignore my kids when they’re two they become demanding and repetitive. Do you know any kids like that?

4- We arrive in the kitchen (she’s pulling me by the hand) and she gives me step-by-step instructions for making the coffee. I’ve noticed that I can be lazier if I keep her talking, so I just ask “What do I do next?” and she enjoys telling me. If her instructions are vague or worded wrong, I smile & enact a literal translation which simultaneously frustrates & amuses her. We make it as far as putting the cup on the counter when she says “You do the rest yo-self now, I need go potty” I offer to help & she yells “NO- I do myself, I big girl”

5- She yells from the bathroom that she needs help. Removing the TP from the roll is hard for her, she hasn’t quite figured out how to rip it off. I often leave a few squares removed for her, but today there were none. I didn’t detect any shame at having rejected help, then needing it. I pondered for a while if that was a natural feeling, or if we’re taught to feel bad asking for help. I return to the kitchen. and hear her washing her hands and flushing the potty

6- I’m playing farmville on facebookmaintaining online relationships with family and friends all over the world and she climbs up on my bed with my wallet. It’s a daily ritual of hers, to remove the contents, separate all the coins, cards and receipts into three stacks and count everything. Today, I notice, she has a few different stacks of coins. it looks like nickels and dimes are in one stack, there’s another stack for pennies and another for quarters. She’s counting everything. She counts 18 pennies, 7 nickel/dimes and 18 quarters (even though there’s only 12 there) After she’s done counting, she puts everything back very carefully and puts it back into my purse.

7- After disappearing for about 45 minutes, my FaceBook time is over and she wants something to eat. She heads into the kitchen to see what everyone else is eating. At one end of the table, there’s a jelly sandwich, then leftover corned beef & cabbage, then plain noodles with butter. After discussing their food with each sister, she decides upon the plain noodles. The other girls and I are amused at the way she “works a room” making eye contact with everyone, then having a brief conversation “Whatchoos eating?” and “It’s yummy?” and “Oh, yous make it for you?” and “Is any yeft for me?” and, when offered a bowl of it, replies “No gankyou, maybe yater, OK- I talk to Maddy now” I think the girls decided to eat slower, so that they could have a turn discussing their food with her. When she decides upon the noodles (I had a hunch) I put them in front of her high chair and she ravished me with hugs and kisses and “thank-you’s” and proceeded to eat with her sisters while I took a shower.

It’s only 9am. I can’t really record her entire day’s worth of activities, but here are a few other things she’s probably got on the agenda:

Changing her clothes after she’s done eating. She changes her clothes several times a day because whenever she spills the slightest thing on them, it bothers her. Who am I to thwart a child’s preference for being clean? I just make sure that her laundry is always done because she usually knows EXACTLY what she wants to wear. The funny thing is, she calls it all “jammies.”

Coloring- she likes to draw pictures. She prefers a fresh sheet of computer paper and a variety of crayons, colored pencils and pens. She makes several scribbly shapes and then rolls it up & folds it in half. Then, she comes to me to tell me what’s in her picture. It usually takes her longer to interpret her artwork then it takes to actually draw it. When she’s done telling me about it, I ask her if she’s done coloring. The answer is usually no and she runs away to color the back of the page. (lather, rinse, repeat)

Going on a hunt- this is what they call it when Grace (4) draws a map and they wander around the house on an imaginary search for something (usually saving a Princess)- this map apparently leads them through every room in the house and makes them collect things from one room and bring them to the next. later when we clean up, I will hear the details from both of them, in case I missed them the first time.

“Helping” me in the yard. When we moved into this house, part of the deal was that it was filled with shit- for lack of a better term. Room after room the carpet was covered in 30 years of cat and dog pee. the previous resident left all kinds of crap behind- furniture, broken appliances, and garbage. We were in a hurry to move in & the guys that were helping us hauled it all to a back corner of the yard and every week I spend a few hours filling up our dumpster to get rid of it all. When I work in the yard, I’m either getting rid of the crap or I’m maintaining our vegetable garden. She likes to “help,” either way. while we’re outside, we discuss the plants and animals we see. it probably lasts about an hour a day.

A bath, after she’s played outside in the afternoon. She enjoys looking at worms and bugs, she’ll pick up a rock to LOOK at the roly-poly bugs underneath, but she doesn’t like touching them. Every time she comes in in the afternoon, she wants to wash her hands and then her feet. When she discovers that she’s mostly wet and cold, she decides to take a bath.

SUGAR- she tends to want a sweet snack after her bath. Usually fruit will do, but if we happen to have other sugars in the house she likes those, too She went through about a week where all she wanted was a spoonful of plain white sugar. that was hard for me, but it passed quickly, thank goodness. Today she’ll probably eat grapes and a spoonful of strawberry jelly.

Unload the dishwasher- She really thinks this is her job. I try to load it while she’s in the tub. It’s not because I want to rob her of hot water, it’s just because she likes to climb inside of it and I kind of enjoy loading it, I listen to my iPod and rock out, trying to invoke a feeling of bliss to be mentally associated with providing my family clean dishes. It’s a lot more fun than grumbling about it. When she helps me unload, I grab all the sharp knives & put them away while she’s walking back & forth with cups & bowls. She likes to do the silverware, pushing a chair up to the counter and placing each piece in its spot. I prefer that she does it, because I tend to just dump it in the drawer)

Caillou or Kipper the Dog- these are her two favorite shows. Sometimes she’ll watch Dora the Explorer, but I think she’s mostly grown out of that now. She watches for about an hour. Sometimes she falls asleep, sometimes she stays awake. I call it her “nap” because she’s restful. Wherever I am, she climbs up to the computer (because that’s where she watches, on Netflix) and yells “MOM, I WA WATCH CAILLOU NOW” and wherever I am in the house, I put it on for her. If there’s an older sister around who can do it, she sometimes tolerates their help. other times, she insists that “Only mommy do” which is fine

After her show is over, it’s usually near dinner time. She’s always “starving, mommy” when I’m cooking, so we sneak little bites of dinner. She pushes a chair over to the counter and “helps” while I try to set aside jobs that she can do. She rarely asks for specific jobs, but when she does, I let her do it. When dinner is served, she always tells the girls “I made dinner for you.”

After dinner, she sometimes goes in for a second bath, sometimes with sisters. If I have the energy, I load the dishwasher again.

When the final bath is over, it’s time for real jammies. She loves bedtime stories, and usually has one picked out before her hair has dried. She tends to fall asleep during stories.

I really honestly have never experienced a terrible 2 yr old. It can’t possibly be genetic, or a coincidence. It HAS to be environmental. Our lifestyle allows them to live at their own pace, 2 yr olds are on a mission. The way she explores her world matters, and having the freedom to do what she wants when she wants, to forge honest relationships with her siblings and live life on her terms really makes her rather agreeable and fun to be around.

This week we had a round of some sort of vomiting bug hit our house. So far actually only 3 of us have been affected, but one was me, so I feel very much attached to this affliction. I really don’t like vomiting, I never did it much while pregnant and I also never really went through any kind of drinking rebellion, so I can’t say I’ve vomited much ever- for any reason- YUCK.

I was hunched down, losing my lunch when she runs past, playing. She sees me & says “Awww, you pooking, mommy?” “Yes,” I moan and she replies “Awww, pooking no fun, huh mommy.” “Nope,” I tell her, “it’s no fun at all.”

Each day, she reminds me to be grateful for our freedom, to not get worked up about the stupid things, to embrace whatever may come and to explore the world as if I’ve never seen it before. How can that be terrible?

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People always think their dog is the best in the world, but mine really was. He had the most gentle, loving soul. He always let the kids play with him. They’d dress him up and put wigs on his hair. They once gave him rainbow colored streaks with sharpie markers. He was the very best dog a kid could ever have. When someone was sad he’d lay his head on their lap. He was so snuggly.

Today we were headed out the door, like every day, to dance class. My oldest had some follow-up labwork to prove officially that she does not have thyroid issues. Everyone else was just happy to be wearing their St Patrick’s day stuff. Evelyn wasn’t feeling too hot. After she vomited all over me, I ended up wearing a raggedy old sweatshirt. Still, we were off. Except the dog wouldn’t come into the house. I started the car and he hobbled over toward the house. He wasn’t walking straight. Something was wrong. I went over to him, to get him into the house so we could leave and he wouldn’t get up. I tried to lift him & I noticed he wasn’t breathing well. He was filthy. He had mud caked on the side of his face. His mouth was foamy and every labored breath he took was making his lip puff out. He wasn’t responding. He was breathing but in a lot of pain.

I carried him straight to the trunk of the car. He couldn’t stand at all. He whined the entire time. Every time he exhaled it was with extreme pain. It was whiny-bark noise, it was horrible.

We drove straight to the nearest vet. I don’t even know what I said to them, I was so confused. She had a million questions. She wanted to know how old he was and he was born the same week my Madelyn was born, so I said he was 6 but she wrote down 2004 and I was confused. Maddy was born in 2003. It seems like such a stupid thing to correct her for, but I had her change it.
I planned to carry him inside, but I was afraid of hurting him even more. The vet’s assistant carried him in and knew instantly that something was terribly wrong. She said there was air under his skin, coming from his lungs. His chest wall had been pierced and his body was filling up with air. Additionally, he’d suffered spinal trauma and he had no feeling in either of his back feet.

His only visible sign of injury was a hole in his cheek. I was thinking maybe he’d been bitten by a rattlesnake or another dog.

He kept looking me in the eyes and I just wanted to tell him to GET THE FUCK UP DAMMIT IT LOVE YOU. And the doctor was basically telling me he’s not going to make it and I didnt’ want to hear it and he kept talking and talking and all I could do was sit there and stare at him in pain, he was in so much pain.

I had to call my husband, I couldn’t do this alone, He’s on location in Alabama right now, filming a movie and I needed him. I felt like I was outside my body telling him “He has a lot of injuries” and “it could cost thousands of dollars” repeating whatever the doctor said.

My husband’s response was to tel the Dr we’ll paywhatever it takes to make him OK. I told the Dr to do the Xray and then we’ll discuss the exact injuries.

It didn’t occur to me that they’d have to sedate him in order to give him an Xray. Did they? I could have guessed that he wouldn’t survive sedation. He was working so hard to breathe, every breath was hard for him. Couldn’t they start treating him without sedation? Without an Xray? I don’t know. I brought the kids into the room, I wanted them to know that this might be the last time they see Charlie alive. I knew they’d be unhappy, but I didn’t want them sitting in the car, wishing they could see him again. I just wanted them to be able to say goodbye. But they didn’t say goodbye.

I said goodbye. He was in so much pain. He was the best dog. I’ve had him longer than I’ve had half my kids.

When they gave him the sedative, we headed home. My intention was to get the kids ice cream, but we didn’t make it all the way when the vet called back to tell us Charlie was dead. Bla bla bla the vet was explaining things to me about bla bla bla, my dog was broken in so many places. My heart was just plain hollow. My kids were moaning with sadness. I had to call my husband and tell him.

We got home & went upstairs to mourn in the middle kids’ bedroom. After some sobbing, I hear a honk out front.

We live on a country road. There’s only 2 houses past ours, so I knew that if he’d been hit it was one of our neighbors.

Sure enough, there’s a neighbor in the driveway. It was the nice family, not the cranky old man. They wanted to know if the dog was OK. I said “No, he’s dead.” and there really wasn’t much else to say. I wasn’t angry with the neighbor for hitting the dog, I’m sure it was an accident. I just want my dog back. I just want my dog back.

And part of me feels so stupid for being so sad about it. I have friends who have lost babies, husbands, parents and siblings. I should be glad, right? I should be glad that all I’ve lost is my dog. Well, I’m not. I want my dog back. I just want to hug him and hold him and snuggle with him some more. I just want my kids to be able to play with him again. I just want him back.
Video of Charlie, playing with Meagan. This must have been taken at our old house, after the remodel & before the foreclosure. Happy days.

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So the other day I was feeling defeated in the “Trying-to-be-my-best” category. I was probably tired. Probably because my husband was out of town leaving me to do everything by myself. I fell asleep wondering why I even bother.

We all have days like that.

I awoke about half an hour after I laid down to a high pitched scream right in my ear. Evelyn had a nightmare, I guess. She was crying “it’s gone” and “she taked it.”

I was shooshing her. Not very nicely, either. I think I said “Oh my god go to sleep.” With Daddy gone, my room turns into a King-sized nest. Grace (4) sits up, bleary eyes and pats Evelyn on the back and says “It’s gone?” Evelyn replies “yeah.” and Grace says “I will get it for you, just lay down sweetie. I love you.” And Evelyn lays down and goes right back to sleep. Gabriella lays her hand on my cheek and says (still half asleep) “Mom, you are the best person in the world.” I said “Thank you honey” feeling totally unworthy but flattered nonetheless.

That’s why I even bother. If even one of these kids is going to grow up thinking I’m awesome, I damned well better do my best to live up top that.

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It’s about 9:30 p.m.

My 2 yr old is reaching for a basket. She’s in my arms and it’s just out of her reach. She grunts and says “Help me reach it mommy” (but not like that, it’s more like 2 words “hewlpme reachitmommy”) and I lean over so she can reach.

I discover she was really reaching for the crochet hook inside. It’s hooked around one of the basket’s bottom pieces of straw, so the basket comes, too. She laughs “gottit bakstick mommy” and I turn to see why she’s laughing. She’s fumbling to get the basket off the hook.

I’d rather her play with the basket than the hook. It looks like she’s caught a fish. I tell her so and she thinks it’s funny.

She frees the crochet hook and looks in the basket. (which seems way more fun than the hook now, luckily) There’s nothing in there, obviously. She gives me a funny look. “Got fish in there?” She asks me. I said “You do?” and she decides that this is fun and plays along.

“Yeah, I got jellyfish in there, hold it.” I had a traumatic jellyfish issue in Hawaii when I was 9. Portugese man-o-wars, to be exact. I strung them all over my arms and stomped around the beach like a sea monster. A few hours later I was soaking in the tub with herbs and potions under the supervision of the local witch doctor, waiting for the swelling to go down and for signs of emergency, which would involve an air lift to the hospital. It wasn’t much fun. Nor was it fun that my Grandma stood over in the doorway, alerting everyone in the neighborhood that my breasts had begun to develop. To this day, I think she scared them. I’m not messing with jellyfish, I tell my daughter.

“No way, jellyfish sting, I don’t want to hold jellyfish.” “Oh” she looks down, a little dismayed, so I suggest she catches another kind of fish. She dumps the jellyfish back into the imaginary sea and catches “nahwahn fish” (another one fish) to show me. We admire the fish. it’s wet and floppy. She says that it “yooks yummy” but I’m not so easily convinced. She wants to go upstairs and show the girls. But first, she dumps out the new fish in order to catch more jellyfish.

So I go upstairs with her because it’s time for the nightly bedtime ritual anyway. I’ve mentioned before that we don’t have bedtimes, instead we just hang out and the kids still fall asleep.

Just because we don’t have a bedtime, it doesn’t mean we don’t go to bed, and it doesn’t mean we don’t have similar bedtime rituals. Ours are just more fun

Generally, We snuggle in on the 9 yr old’s bed, I go through a nightly checklist “did you brush your teeth?” and when the answer isn’t “yes of course” I sometimes ask “are you going to?” (only one sometimes doesn’t want to. A piggyback ride down the stairs usually solves it, she doesn’t like to be downstairs alone) Then we make sure feet are clean, especially in the summer. We make sure jammies are on, I collect the dirty clothes basket, helping make sure their toy are put away and sometimes we watch a movie.

The other day we had a great time making friendship bracelets. Sometimes we just tell stories or play word games or board games. Usually we read books, They each pick one (because I can guarantee I won’t fall asleep through 1 book each. If I’m still conscious when those are done, I’ll read more. The limit of 1 book is imposed because I tend to fall asleep reading and jumble the words, which the find amusing until they discover I can’t read anymore.

Tonight, I went in to escort Evelyn & her jellyfish, then read to them (not knowing exactly what was in store, I never do).

When we reached the top of the stairs, she goes in to my 16 yr old’s room first. “Embahlee, yookit, i got jellyfish. see jellyfish. yookit me bakstick (basket)” and she proceeds to show Emilee her basket and Emilee is notably impressed. Then we head out (cordial goodbyes and goodnights included) While I’m busy giving Emilee a goofy look, Evelyn is yelling to me from the hall “gum on mommy yets go” We arrive into the younger girl’s room and Evelyn goes from girl to girl, telling them about her jellyfish. They’re almost completely ignoring her and she’s annoyed, so I announce out loud. “Evelyn has caught some jellyfish in her basket and came all the way upstairs to show you girls.”

Within 5 minutes, we’re all sitting on the bed, pretending to catch fish in the ocean from our boat (the bed).

So yes, it’s true. We don’t have bedtimes.

But we do have bedtime rituals, which consist of enjoying each moment together until our bodies would rather sleep.

We sing songs, we make art projects, we watch documentaries, web videos, broadway shows and silent movies and old musicals or music videos, we draw or write or work out puzzles in schoolbooks or coloring books. Our bedtime stories, when we read them (sometimes 20 minutes a day, sometimes 90 minutes, sometimes zero minutes a day, even a week at times) may be fiction or nonfiction, color or black and white, classic or new or used, bought with allowance or given as a gift. They may be bestsellers, and sometimes they suck. Sometimes they’re not even in English, or a language we understand. It’s not about the books, it’s about the time we spend together. And falling asleep should be a pleasant part of one’s day.

So no, we don’t have a bedtime and we don’t fight about going to sleep. I’m not concerned about their sleeping habits because I don’t make a habit of scheduling things that will interfere with their natural sleepy times.

I’m not afraid that they won’t “learn to sleep” because they already know how to sleep. I don’t feel the need to manipulate their sleep times. It’s exhausting enough keeping up with their awake times.

After the deep-sea fishing expedition, we settled down. When the girls agreed upon tonight’s bedtime plan, we were to watch Dora the Explorer, then the 2nd half of Hannah Montana (they fell asleep last time, so we agreed that we’d have to watch the rest tonight)

The kids laughed at me when I mistakenly referred to “The Hoedown Throw Down” as “The Barnyard Stomp.” I was impressed that they knew the entire dance. That’s Gabriella’s favorite song. Because Gabriella got to play her favorite song for me, we needed to play Madelyn’s, too. She’s 6 and teeny, shrimpy, petite and squeaky. But she knows all the words to “The Climb” and I really had to fight back the tears. Who knew Hannah Montana had such a positive message? I sure hope she maintains her good-girl image.

Anyway, I asked the girls where they wanted the dolls (because the bed was covered with barbies, all of whom were arranged in rows, with swimsuits and beach blankets (made of socks and washcloths)

Grace swooshed them all off the bed into a pile in one motion. I started picking them up & said “Which toybox do these belong in?’ and Gabriella (not at all offended by Grace’s swooshing, by the way) said “They don’t go in a toybox, mom. They have a life, you know. They each go to their own houses, and she proceeded to place them all over the room, carefully into lifelike positions. The other girls seemed to know where each doll’s house is and what position they should be in. Most of the dolls were in beds, but some were sitting and reading, others were on their computer, one had to get in the car & drive all night to get to the airport and some were on the phone (presumably with each other)

The putting Barbies “away” took about ten minutes and when it was complete, I asked that the light be turned off so we could watch the movie. Someone pushed play & we watched the rest of the film, snuggled in together. By the time it ended, only I was awake.

I headed downstairs feeling like the luckiest mom in the world. When I hear other moms say “I know you don’t have a bedtime but I need to put my kids to bed at 7:30 or I will go crazy” I just shake my head. I’m not sure what they picture, but nothing is more fun or relaxing than allowing sleep to come, giving in to what the children want and just being present with them, approaching the end of the day with love and patience, allowing things to be put in order and letting love define the time, rather than the clock.

So what if it was almost 10:30 when I left their room. Instead of going in at 6am to wake them up (before the sun rises) for school, I get to sip my coffee (relishing one of the rare silent moments in my day) tiptoe in and kiss their foreheads. I get to make pancakes in peace and quiet, wondering which child will wake up to the smell & greet me with stinky kisses first. I’m not a morning person. Peacefulness and love, to begin and end each day, that’s what I need for my sanity.

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Because honestly I just want to talk about the calendar I bought. I feel like my blog is somehow related to my calendar now because of what happened last year and everything.

So, my kids got a Borders gift card for Xmas and I brought them in on the 28th to spend it. While we were there I picked up a calendar (because we can’t go waiting until the last minute, right? And I do have mental issues regarding starting the year with no calendar.

The one I got was so cute. It’s not a desk-sized calendar (for the first time in many years) but I do think it will have enough room because each page is a week. It’s also got adorable little Mary Engelbreit drawings and quotes about motherhood, a new one each week. It’s called the Mary Engelbreit’s Moms Can Do Anything: 2010 Weekly Wall Calendar

And, as if the universe was catering to my calendar-insanity, I opened it up to the first page and the very first day was Dec 28. Was it fate? Was it luck? Was it the Law of Attraction? I don’t care, I took out a pen and wrote “buy calendar.”

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I know people who think kids shouldn’t go to weddings or funerals. The first time I came across this perspective, I was shocked. Those are really important things in life- why shouldn’t children be included? The answer I was given is that “Old people don’t want a bunch of kids running around” in reference to the funerals and “People spend a lot of money on weddings, they don’t want to pay for other people’s kids.”

That concept was so foreign to me. I was raised in an environment where children brought joy. When I was a child, everywhere we went, old people were happy to see us. We had big family gatherings and very rarely were children banished to a “kids table.”

At gatherings with the “no kids allowed” crowd, I noticed that there was a kids table. I also noticed that the old people actually DID want to be around the children. I wondered if any of the wedding couples actually may have enjoyed the presence of children.

I stopped attending “no kids” events and decided to bring my children to things, like my heart was telling me. I stopped discussing it with the leader of the “no kids crowd” and no one said anything rude to me about it. No one was rude to my children. Sure, there were whispers. In my opinion, if you’re whispering something naughty you KNOW you shouldn’t be saying it. I don’t care if people whisper. I care that my kids are exposed to life’s rituals and experiences as children. Keeping children away from weddings and funerals is downright abusive to everyone involved.

In my world, children bring the light.

At a funeral, children are given the opportunity to mourn with a group, to see that everyone cries, to cry with others and know that all is well. Experiencing raw human emotion is VERY HEALTHY. After the funeral, while children may not want to sit inside with the adults, eating comfort food and retelling memories, their laughter in the backyard brings a REALITY CHECK perspective to everyone inside.

Kids give good hugs
kids don’t judge, they’re honest and REAL with their feedback
Kids remind us that LIFE still exists.
Kids give us a REASON to go on.

Weddings are often a magical, love-filled environment. How can we withhold that from children? The centerpieces, the flowers, the decor, the mini lights, the music, the fabrics, the candles are as close to real-life fairytopia as it gets. Why on earth would the spirited, loving presence of children be unwelcome?

In my opinion, weddings without children are hollow, empty, and just plain depressing. Standing around getting drunk is really NOT what life is about.

I am sure that it’s one of the consequences of institutionalized education that makes people believe that children should go through life without attending weddings and funerals. The belief that childhood is about “preparing for life” rather than living is truly EVIL.

Imagine going through your whole life and not even seeing a baby until yours is born. It happens. Or how about never seeing a wedding until you’re an adult. No wonder we have BrideZillas. They think the wedding ACTUALLY MATTERS. It’s not the wedding that matters, dear, it’s the marriage and the life that you build together. Will it be a life of excluding children because they’re inconvenient (or more likely, can’t afford their own gift)? What next, will you exclude the elderly, too?

As a mother of six girls, I look forward to up to six amazing weddings, filled with children in pretty dresses. My younger children will attend their older sister’s weddings (not any time soon) and my first grandchildren will probably attend their Aunt’s weddings. I have 4 nephews, 3 nieces and another (neice, I think) coming soon. They’re all very small and are already invited to my oldest daughter’s wedding (not any time soon) because my girls love kids and because if children aren’t welcome, I’m not going.

Children are an important part of society and NEED to be included in rite-of-passage events and life transitions, both for the benefit of the child AND the benefit of everyone else that’s present.

An environment without children is not natural. It’s not normal. It’s not healthy. Children provide perspective (what’s important in life) and a sense of wonder.

The inability to tolerate the presence of children is a sign of serious mental illness.

Wanna talk about children’s behavior?

I know a lot of people hate that word, a lot of unschoolers hate that word, but that’s what comes up when you talk about having children at fancy restaurants and at weddings.

Children learn by practicing and by experiencing.

A child who can think will not climb on the table at a white linen restaurant. It’s painfully obvious to even the most dimwitted of humans that certain situations require a certain level of decorum.

Kids feed off of the energy around them and in a quiet place where conversations are low, they will generally only make “inappropriate noise” when no one is talking to them. It’s a parent’s job to keep children engaged in activities that befit the location. THIS is socialization, not “recess.”

I have an entire rant on ‘recess” that I’m saving for another day.

Children “behave” the way they’re expected to. Period.

A culture that’s critical of children for wearing their energy-level on their sleeve is ill-equipped to handle all SORTS of reality, not just the fact that kids exist.

I am sure that if we all ran around as much as children do, we’d be more fit and healthy.

There’s absolutely NOTHING that a child can do in public that’s of much consequence in the long term. Nothing they break can’t be fixed. Their presence will NOT cause me to enjoy myself less. If anyone present finds that they are enjoying themselves less because a child is present then I would speculate that they weren’t welcome as children and are, perhaps, in need of child-therapy, to learn that children NEED to be included in life. Children are the present, not JUST the future.

Kids exist. Kids are alive NOW. Kids don’t need to get older before they take part in life. Weddings and funerals are important parts of life. Kids belong at weddings and funerals. Weddings and funerals need children. Their “behavior” is irrelevant. Their presence is invaluable.

(Edited 11-13-09 to say that the National Organization for Women agrees with me and said it better, even though I said it first)

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I am not a “morning person.” I wake up confused, my eyes are blurry, my voice is gritty and my body moves slowly. I tumble into the kitchen, straight for the coffee pot and stare at it cross-eyed until there’s enough to fill my cup. Sometimes I squat in the kitchen so I don’t have to use any muscles or energy to stand up.

Because of this (and the fact that it’s easier for me to work when they’re asleep) I get up between 5 and 6 a.m. while my kids don’t start waking up until 9 or so.

I have a happier day when I can wake up to peace and take care of my needs for coffee,solitude and silence before tending to the needs of the children. The kids have a happier day when the first words they hear are “Good morning sunshine” rather than “quit stomping on the stairs please.”

Most of my kids wake up chipper and happy, eager to get on with the business of whatever they’re interested in. Sometimes in the night, they find their way into my bed. There’s always someone extra in there when we wake up. This morning it was Grace, she’s 4 years old. She wakes up and rubs her eyes a little, looks around the room and smiles when I say “good morning.” Then she turns and snuggles in, saying “good morning” to the baby, kissing each one of her little toes. Within minutes, they’re giggling, kissing and hugging and asking for pancakes.

When the pancakes are ready, they come to the table, holding hands and Grace insists that their plates be identical this morning. Matching plates are rare in our house

Madelyn (6) comes down the stairs, we can hear her stomping. She’s a skinny little girl but sometimes I think she’s trying to press her foot through the stairs. Her first words to her sisters are “good morning” and she gives them each a kiss before sitting at the table for pancakes.

The other kids are asleep, it’s just me and the younger half most mornings. I don’t usually eat breakfast, I usually zip over to my computer to finish up whatever it is that I was working on when they woke up. As they finish their breakfast, they’re planning their first adventure for the day. “Grace, wanna go pick flowers with me?” or “Maddy I’m going to take a bath.” Every day it’s something new.

Some days I have surprises planned. Whether it’s an art project or a “field trip” (is there a non-school-y term for this… going somewhere just to learn more?) they’re usually excited about the plans I make. Since we both work from home, everyone doesn’t HAVE to go with us.

So what do your mornings look like? I was listening to a call-in radio show where the caller said something about how he can’t work from home because his kids go to school, the house is too loud in the morning. The host said “I know what you mean man, mornings are the worst.” Which was followed by an article I stumbled across that was trying to teach parents how to help their kids wake up in the morning for school.

I found the advice a bit sad, “Don’t let them press snooze” was probably the most painful. I remember how much I hated waking up for school as a kid, especially in high school. I’ve often thought that the “answer” to some of the problems schools have would be to operate a set of classes between noon and 6pm instead of forcing everyone to comply with the 8am-2pm thing. What’s wrong with waking up and getting a good start to the day. With school kids and their parents so over-scheduled, a 12noon start-time might help everyone start their day with a hearty breakfast and a peaceful home instead of the yelling, stress and rushing around that I hear so much about. Sure, some people function better in the morning, I’m not one of them, though.

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In my quest to live at a child’s pace, and just let my kids “be” I’ve been making a point each day to accompany my 21 month old on a walk to the garden each afternoon. She gets “itchy” to go outside with the older girls, but she’s too small to play in their games, so we walk to the garden.

Our house is on 4 acres and the vegetable garden is less than 100 yards from the door. I didn’t plant much this year; two kinds of tomatoes, six kinds of peppers, 2 kinds of eggplant, pickling cucumbers, zucchini, yellow squash, strawberries, a few herbs and pumpkins. The pumpkins are her favorite.

“Pukkin mommy, pukkin now mommy” That’s the signal that it’s time to head outside. “Do you want to go see the pumpkin in the garden now?” “Yeah pukkin garnin mommy pukkin now, OKAY mommy” She can be a bit impatient when I’m putting on my shoes, it takes all of thirty seconds to slip on my flip flops but in that time, she’s said “NOW” about three times. Persistence is a good thing, right? “Let’s go” I say, and she runs for the door.

We’re finally out the door and I’m headed for the “garnin.” “Uh-oh” she says. She kicked a rock off of the porch and absolutely must put it back into place before we proceed. Finally, she finds the rock and puts it back “yets go” she says “see pukkin garnin okay mommy” and we’re off.

The grass is tall, she steps in a hole and trips a little. I stop, waiting to see if she’ll cry or need me, she stands and continues walking as if nothing happened, until she sees me stopped “Mommy yets go see pukkin garnin” as if I’m holding her back somehow. “I’m coming,” I say “Want me to carry you?” “No mommy no carry you. See pukin garnin Okay.” She’s not put off, or upset about falling, and she continues.

For about 4 feet. She notices a broken branch on a peach tree. “Uh oh mommy, broken, uh oh figgits (fix it)” I tell her “I can’t fix it honey, it’s a tree. it’s broken. It’s OK, let’s go see the pumpkin.” And we’re off. yet again.

For about 3 feet. A butterfly is in the grass. Clearly having flown over for the sole purpose of making her laugh. She covers her mouth as she’s laughing, and holds her side. I wonder, did that little giggle give her a side cramp or is she copying the gestures we were making last night as we skimmed through a website of riotously hilarious photos as a family last night ( funnybabypictures.net- I dare you not to laugh) Anyway, she tells me “buhfie mommy, see buhfie? buh fie get me (laughs)” “Did that butterfly get you? that silly butterfly.” Her focus on getting to the pumpkin isn’t blinding her to beauty along the way- wow. I should walk slowly more often.

But I’m still me, y’know. Eyes on the prize…” Look, Evie- I see the pumpkin” We’re not even halfway there yet but it’s taken five minutes to walk fifteen feet and obviously my mind is wandering. So she runs toward the pumpkin, giggling.

For about 5 feet. Then she stops. “walking now mommy okay” and she reaches up to hold my hand. For about 2 feet. Running was just too exhausting.

About ten minutes and twenty distractions later, we finally reach the great pumpkin. A predictable conversation ensues, whereby we discuss that it is round, orange, big, bigger, growing, on the ground, dirty and still orange, still round.

This, in case you wondered, fulfills some of our state’s requirements for kindergarten math, by the way.

Then, we have to check out everything else. While she’s reciting her daily pumpkin speech, I munch the yellow pear tomatoes. Yes, they’re yellow, some are green and they’re not round. She tastes a tomato, just like she does every day and spits it out, to tell me that it’s “yucky.” I could have told her that she wouldn’t like it, because every day she tastes one and decides anew that it’s yucky. That’s OK, she’s reseeding. It reminds me of my sister being forced to taste just one pea at the dinner table as a child. Why does this baby CHOOSE to continue tasting something she doesn’t like and at any point in her life, will she end up liking it eventually? I don’t know, I’m just enjoying the show.

She notices that some of the peppers are red. “Wed mommy wed, wed pukkin” I break the news “That’s not a pumpkin honey, it’s a pepper.” So I pick the pepper and hand it to her, along with 5 or 6 other peppers. Gypsy peppers, fajita peppers, jalapenos and Big Jim peppers. She can’t carry them all in her arms, luckily there’s a little basket in the grass, leftover from the older girls’ play, so I put the peppers in the basket and she’s jumping up and down, wanting to show Daddy the peppers. So, we’re off…

At least seven times between the garden and the house, she dropped the peppers. Each time, she cheerfully said “uh oh” and bent down to pick them up. I offered to carry them for her, but she wanted to carry them herself. The basket was kind of small and the shape of the peppers was such that if you didn’t put the long Big Jim peppers upright, there would be no room for the round peppers. Lying down, the Big Jim peppers filled the whole basket. She tolerated me helping her rearrange them in the basket as we picked them up.

A couple times, she attempted to “count” them, to make sure they were all there “one two one two one two fee six one two SEVEN” In edu-speak, she’s expressing a preliminary understanding of one-to-one correspondence, indicating that she understands that numbers can be used to represent physical things, for record-keeping purposes and for tracking quantity.

Then, she steps on a thorn. This time, when I offer her a piggy back ride, she consents. We’re six feet from the door, but I know that can mean at least two or three more instances of dropping a pepper and bending down to fix it all. When we reach the door, I ask her if she wants to get down and walk the rest of the way to the kitchen. She drops her peppers twice on the way to the kitchen and screams at the top of her lungs when one of her sisters tries to pick them up for her. She can’t figure out how to arrange them in the basket, so one-by-one, she runs them back and forth to the kitchen counter. When the last pepper is in place, she looks for me “Awwdone mommy, peppers done” and I cheer for her.

She’s exhausted, she snuggles in to nurse and crashes for at least an hour.

I stare at her in her sleep, trying to find that place inside me where I am just as persistent, non judging, patient and focused. Then, I give up, simply grateful that I got to share that moment with her, and hoping I remember the lessons when I need to.

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Today it doesn’t matter that the floors are crooked (wavy, actually) or that the bathroom is…. horrid- completely horrid, if we were owners not renters, I’d dynamite the bathroom and press a port-a-potty against the door. and it doesn’t even matter that while we were gone, my dog shed a 2 inch layer of hair onto my living room floor. We’re finally home:)

We drove 25 hours in one day (OK, 25 consecutive hours because technically that’s longer than a day) before we arrived in Park City, just north of Wichita, Kansas. We stayed at a Best Western (free wireless, free hot breakfast buffet and an indoor courtyard with a pool, foosball, pool tables, miniature golf and other stuff). The following day, we drove the remaining 6 hours into Dallas.

In Oklahoma we stopped at a roadside “scenic outlook” that showcased the geologic formations, which was interesting. More interesting, though was that on the BACK of the interpretive sign, several people had signed it and left messages. Some were funny, some were obscene and others were just a “hey I was here.” it reminded me of Facebook, especially when my 8 yr old asked if she could “sign the wall.” I stammered- writing on things in public is bad. I relented. This was the back of the sign, everyone else had done it, it won’t turn her into a vandal and I wonder, what does she have to say to the world? While the girls signed, I walked a little way down the hill to the edge of the overlook. on the railing, someone had adhered a custom-made die-cut sticker that said “I’m Already There” If you’re familiar with the country music song by Lonestar, then you know what this means. if not, Check it out on Youtube. I couldn’t believe someone went to all that trouble to leave their message, and what a perfect spot.

Once we arrived in Dallas and got checked into the hotel, my biggest fear was negated (people really did member me) and the older kids disappeared. I saw glimpses of them off and on throughout the week, but they were having so much fun with their friends and the many many many activities that the Rethinking Education Conference had planned.

I had a whole busy schedule of workshops and classes I wanted to attend. Instead, I spent much of my time with my children, I can’t complain about that, it was the most fun we have EVER had together. We went swimming each day, we rode up & down the elevators just because we could, we jumped on the beds, we snuggled until noon, we watched the Disney Channel and I didn’t work for even half a minute. I had the pleasure of sharing a few glasses of wine with like-minded moms at the mom’s night out (twice that week) and failed to convince my husband to go to the Dad’s night out. I got to visit with special friends, women who I know mostly online. our kids played together. Several times, I was told that my kids are amazing. I didn’t get to see them much, but I know they were random-huggers, making sure that everyone at the conference felt the love. They enjoyed making duct-tape things- a cell phone cover, a purse, a wallet. They performed in the talent show, they went to a few workshops and got very little sleep. Brandon and I made it to a few workshops. Between the audio book we listened to on the drive and the workshops we attended, we had plenty to discuss.

After the conference, we drove 20 hours to visit my sister, then a little over an hour to visit Brandon’s mother, sister and brother as well as their families, my kids were so excited to meet their cousins and it was really nice seeing my sister-in-laws (or is it sisters-in-law?). Even Uncle Ernie came over. We had our first hot meal of the week (hotel- no microwave in the room, no worries)

We crashed on grandma’s couch. Have you ever seen 8 people on a sectional sofa? Technically, a few of the kids snuggled with Grandma. The smoke from the Southern CA fires was still in the air and breathing was hard, I kept coughing.

The next day we drove another hour and a half to visit with friends, our very favorite family friends. I first met the Spargos when I was doing hair at Supercuts in Palmdale. I used to chat with her while her husband got his hair cut. Our daughters were the same age (not yet a year old) This year they’re both turning sixteen.

After dinner with the Spargos, we had dessert with Brandon’s sister and her husband then drove- 18 hours, home. We arrived around 2pm. We logged over 75 hours in the car with 6 kids, not nearly enough sleep, very little nutrition and more than enough love to make up for it all.

Last year I came home confused, my head was spinning from back-to-back workshops with very little time to decompress and reflect upon all the new information. It was like cramming for a test on a subject I’d never heard of before. This year, though, I’m relaxed, focused, more purposeful. I didn’t need all the workshops, I just needed a break. I have some new goals, some new memories and my little Universe has expanded. What more could I ask for?

Silly high-point, opening the swagbag to discover that I had an article published in the Home Educator’s Family Times. I get the email version, I guess I just forgot that there was also a printed version. It’s pretty cool to see my words printed for real. What is it about online publishing that’s so “not real?”

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I’m kinda sick of seeing so many programs for kids in poverty.

All over the place, it’s like saying that it’s expensive to help your kids be healthy or to learn or something. That could not be farther from the truth. Knowledge is everywhere, information is free. Everything a child could ever want or need to know can be conveyed without spending a dime, simply through conversation or google.

There’s absolutely no logical reason that a child from a family with an income of x should be at a disadvantage upon entering kindergarten than a child whose parents earn xxx,xxx. no reason at all. In fact, I will speculate that a mom who makes it her job to communicate with her kids all day, playing games and having fun, instead of working outside the home will bring down the family’s income base and possibly cause her kids to be “at risk” from a financial standpoint.

Oh wait- our government offers financial incentives for working women, bringing down their base income so that they can afford childcare. Does that mean that two-income families can also be “at risk?”

I think we need to change the terminology here because raising kids on a low income doesn’t automatically make them less intelligent, less healthy or otherwise place them at a disadvantage, period. In fact, I reckon that the TRUE cause of poor health in children is not poverty, but poor nutrition and lack of exercise, both of which our country promotes and encourages by spending so much money funding the processed food industry and promoting “early childhood education” which involves turning active, interested and engaged little children into mindless lazy robots.

Growing your own food and eating fresh local produce is not expensive. Eating processed foods causes malnutrition. For children to get exercise, all they need is open space outdoors. Most parks don’t charge admission. If you have a yard, that’s even better. People give away bicycles all the time if you don’t have the $100 or so that it takes to buy one brand new. You could also get one at a yard sale. Working in that homegrown garden is also a great way to get exercise. Perhaps children who aren’t getting exercise, regardless of their parent’s financial situation, are lacking energy from proper nutrition or aren’t allowed to play outside.

Where is this information that impoverished kids are at a disadvantage? Seriously, I’d like to see something that proves, statistically (because that’s how I am) that children of any race are at a disadvantage simply because of their parent’s economic situation, and not because of the rest of their lifestyle.

There isn’t any, because money is just a SYMBOL. Money is made up. Our income level means absolutely nothing when it comes to the health or intelligence of our kids, it’s WHAT WE EAT and HOW WE LIVE that puts kids at risk, not the income. When “poor” families choose to grow a vegetable garden, they can eat like kings on a grocery budget that’s just a fraction of what the average American spends eating junk.

In poorer areas of the world where they grow all their own food, they don’t have the health problems we have here (obesity, diabetes, cancer) because they’re eating REAL FOOD and not high fructose corn syrup or other garbage, refined flours, isolated starches and preservatives.

The numbers in the checkbook don’t mandate which books I read my children. In fact, did you know that “The Classics” which are supposed to make kids smarter as per the Thomas Jefferson method of education and the Well Trained Mind, are available for free download because they’re in the public domain. So don’t go complaining that your extensive literature collection cost a fortune, that’s a CHOICE. Once again, an impoverished family could share the same exposure to The Great Books that a family with money can. And libraries are free.

I know plenty of families who manage to live well on a low income. I also know plenty of moms with high family incomes who are saving and investing much of their income, rather than spending it on whatever it is that is supposed to make their kids smarter, and basically enjoying the same free and cheap lifestyle choices that the “poverty” moms do. The children are experiencing the same lifestyle, and both thriving. It’s not the bank balance that gives kids an advantage.

We’ve had our financial ups and downs over the years and there are advantages to both. That’s right, there are advantages to poverty and disadvantages to having money.

Our health care needs have not changed over the years, we rarely get ill. Mainly, what we miss when our income is low would be traveling. Surely there are studies showing that kids who travel are at an advantage, right? And how do they define disadvantaged anyways?

I’m not that impressed by all these programs that spend a fortune buying formula (with taxpayers money) for women who could be nursing (for free) and so called “nutrition” programs that buy a certain number of dairy products and processed cereals, with no regard for their cost, instead of actually teaching women how to read nutrition labels and grow a garden (SURPRISE- real food doesn’t even HAVE labels) Then, when kids are pumped full of high fructose corn syrup (subsidized by the government) they get state-funded health care for all the cavities and medical problems that the processed foods cause.

It’s not poverty that causes children to be ill or lack intelligence, it’s stupidity and well-intentioned “solutions” that presume to know all the answers without factoring in the importance of frugality, honoring nature’s design and the importance of healthy human relationships.

Even my very favorite magazine, Mothering, is guilty of this. So many times I’ve seen articles about “America’s poverty crisis.” In my mind, it’s not the poverty that’s a problem. It’s the decisions that families make about how to live, what to eat and how to entertain and transport themselves that impact a child’s experiences.

These programs for poverty do ONE productive thing, and that’s to send a message to parents and children that without money, you have no hope. Without money, you can’t take care of yourself. Without money, you have to depend upon the government for help. Why are these programs so widely publicized? Because a fearful population is easy to control.

Surely the IRS could raise funds by operating an opt-in mailing program, distributing information to families whose income ratio meets certain requirements, based upon tax returns. That would probably be cheaper than having each individual poverty-based-resource out there posting billboards, television and magazine ads perpetuating the myth that lack of income is the sole factor in determining a family’s effectiveness, instead of focusing on the OTHER factors like lifestyle, nutrition and happiness.

Poverty is a symptom, or perhaps a side effect, but not a disease.

And with that, I leave you with a video that you simply MUST watch if you’re making any kind of car payment.

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The other day at midnight, Gabriella brings me this paper she’s written titled “I love my ourth” (ourth=earth) I’ve pasted a copy of it here, but if you can’t see it or can’t read it, let me just plagiarize her so we can proceed.

I love my ourth
by Gabriella Russell

I love my family so so much
I love all my sisttir’s
I love Emilee I love Meagan
I love Maddylinn I love Grace
I love Evalinn I love my Dog
Charly I love my Mom and I love my
Dad I love the world
I love my town I love my
doll’s I love my teddy biers
I love my home I love my
clows (clothes) I love the sky
I love my room I love my
chourch the UUCY I love my
Piggy Bank. I love my bed I love
my Grandma and Grandpa I love
my aunt and unkill I love my
dresir (dresser) I love the park
I love firys (fairies) I love firytiels (fairy tales)
I love casills (castles)

I DO NOT LIKE THE END

It was all sweet and wonderful until the end. OK- I;ll be honest, it’s still sweet and wonderful but what exactly does she mean by the end? This is the same child that gave me a mother’s day card telling me I wasn’t worth waiting for.

It’s like some huge truth is staring me in the face and I’m so blind I can’t see it.

What is this child trying to say? Does she have some secret sixth sense of insider knowledge that the world is ending or something? The end of what? I asked her and she said she didn’t know what she meant, she was just sick of thinking of things. Perhaps she’s going to grow up to be a writer and end all of her novels with a twist that drives readers crazy.

We were watching that National Geographic Special, I think it’s called “Aftermath; Population Zero.” it’s about what happens to all of the buildings on earth if humans disappeared. She wasn’t interested, amused or disturbed. All she said was “This is stupid, there will never be an end to humanity.”

Thank goodness, because I was a little worried for a minute.

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Last weekend was a busy weekend on stage for the Russell girls. On the Friday before Mother’s Day, Emilee played Sleeping Beauty in a local production of Cinderella (Or how a guy named Pauly turned out to be a fairly good fairy godmother) She’s in the big pink froofy bridesmaid dress, centerstage. The show is interactive, and with an audience of children they tend to get, um, noisy. My hats off to the cast who was able to integrate the audience into the show, it was great, from what I saw. Evelyn was running circles trying to escape, she loves the playground, and the show was in an elementary school auditorium. She was running around like crazy.

I’m so glad she was able to participate in this production, she had so much fun. She actually pulled a few all-nighters and painted all of the backdrops for the set, too. I was proud of how she managed her time and made conscious, planned-out decisions about how to execute the task.

On the same exact day, Meagan was 3 hours away in Seattle. She was on the Melody lane Spring singing tour. They visited Safeco Field, saw a show at the Seattle Children’s Theatre, and did lots of other stuff. I’m sorry, all I really know is the drop off time, the pickup time and the shirts were bright gold. She performed- somewhere. She had fun. She took a thousand pictures.

On Mothers Day, Emilee sang at church. It was the Beatles Song “Maybe I’m amazed” but they changed some of the words around to include the word “mother.” Once again, Evelyn was being wild in the pews, so I missed a lot from the wiggling, but that’s OK I would have just cried anyways.

Weekends like this make me long for the city even more. The girls are so “in their element” on stage. Being that I didn’t witness Meagan’s show, I could be wrong. Meagan’s in her element whenever there are several giggling girls and a few cute boys around. Still, once we get to the coast, I know the girls will enjoy that there are more opportunities to perform there. Until then, we’ll continue working the local scene. See you at the show, I’ll be the one chasing the baby in the back.

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And my 8 yr old creeps into my room to bring me a mother’s day card. We have a little box full of greeting cards because even though I suck at actually giving anyone a thank-you card, I try to encourage my kids to harness the skill and they do pretty well with it.

Anyways, I have a little stack of Mary Engelbreit cards, with a little girl watching a coccoon as a butterfly emerges. At the top, it says “Some things are worth waiting for”

Inside, my daughter writes “But definitly not you mom Happy Motirs day mommy love Gabriella”

Apparently she thought the front said that Sometimes you have to wait for things. So she’s saying she never has to wait for me? because sometimes I tell her to, not that she does. Should I really concern myself with translating this, weighing all the possible things she could mean by this? I think not.

Mental note to myself- don’t make her wait because you don’t deserve it

Mental note to myself #2 – save this card for when she’s older because she’ll get a kick out of it

Bonus Art Interpretation Question- there are six pieces of fruit drawn on the right side page, can you identify them all?

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It makes my blood boil just to write that. I had to say it, though. It’s not the slightest bit true, by the way. I really don’t hate you. It’s just what this post is about.

Last week I needed to wrap my head around the whole graffiti-mural thing, and writing about it, combined with some advice and perspective from my amazing readers, really helped. I didn’t puke in my throat at all when I drove past it yesterday.

So give me a hand with this one now, OK.

Why do my kids say that they hate one another? Before I had a houseful of kids, way before my kids ever became official homeschoolers, life was sweet. We were gentle and wholesome. There was no fighting. What happened?

Sometimes I blame it on the years I spent working. The kids bounced around to babysitters and supervised themselves twice a day during the lunch & dinner rushes at the restaurant.

Blaming won’t solve it and neither will complaining about it. What the heck will, though? Does it need to be solved? Must I know how this started in order to put an end to it, or am i thinking too much?

It used to be a pet peeve of mine, kids who fought with each other all the time. Surely, their parents were failures, right? I mean, what kind of family breeds hatred. Maybe it’s karma, I should have strived for more understanding? Maybe it’s karma, my sister and I fought a lot as kids. I know that blaming isn’t productive, but at least if I have the power to own it, I have the power to solve it.

I once wrote about how sibling rivalry prepares kids for adult conflict. I’m a really good B.S. er and really good at rationalizing and justifying, so I’m not sure if I ever believed that or if I just wrote it.

Maybe I also think that actions speak louder than words, and even though my three year old shouts “I hate you” every time she’s the slightest bit upset with her sister, she also grabbed her head to kiss her when the chicken pecked her in the eye. That was love, right?

Are they just repeating the angry words that bounce around between them? I’m sure they are. Why do I get so freaked out about one stupid little word? True and ugly hatred doesn’t look like my little girls. It’s just talk.

If they knew what true hatred could look like they’d be horrified. If you have suggestions, please share them in my comments, because I am listening.

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I’m having a party and you’re invited. last year I participated in the 5 minutes for Mom Ultimate Blog party and this year, I’m doing it again. Only way better.

Because my husband conveniently missed his vasectomy appointment. So instead of playing games and fighting with him about it, I’m just doing it myself.

No- not the vasectomy, that would be horrible. I’m getting fixed on the 19th.

So to celebrate, my party theme for March 20-27th is NO MORE BABIES. I’ll dress up the blog here with a special new masthead image and prizes- every day I will be giving away FIVE prizes- themed prizes. All of the prizes will be either pregnancy and baby related. I applied for a program to give away sex toys because I thought that would be appropriate for my theme, too. Let’s hope I get approved.

To prepare for this party- you need to subscribe to my blog via email, so you can be notified as soon as I announce the giveaway.

Also- share the info with your pregnant friends, because surely they MUST want some of these really cool pregnancy things, that have yet to be announced. Have them subscribe.

and Finally- follow me on twitter because somehow the Twitter note goes out before the email does, I’m not sure why.

If you get a chance, head over to the 5 minutes for mom blog party during the week of May 20-27 because we’re giving away a bottle of our Good Stuff seasoning blend to one lucky winner.

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Unfortunately;
I haven’t completely finished unpacking from this move
Fortunately;
I discovered a forgotten box of clothing that I thought I’d never be able to wear again
Fortunately
That box had a few pairs of pre-sixth-pregnancy jeans and they fit
Fortunately
There was a $20 bill in the pocket

Imagine that- what’s better than discovering you fit into your old jeans? Finding cash in the pockets.

Here’s another one

Fortunately
I wrote a new article and it’s already got more visits than any other article on the site (not this site)
Unfortunately
I’ll have to begin writing more in that topic area and I’m not really interested in it
Fortunately
Readers are, and my lack-of-knowledge will make them click on advertisements just to get away from the bla bla bla of my writing
Unfortunately
I don’t really want to be a writer that writes such crappy articles that make the advertisements more attractive
Fortunately
I’ll get paid better for it

Imagine that, it’s the web-writer’s conundrum. We get paid when people click on the ads, so if Company X is the answer to part of their dilemma and we place a link to company X in our article, they’ll click on it instead of the ads. Hopefully none of the sites I write for will fire me for saying things like “Check the ads on this page for a convenient, clickable link to Company X”
Continue reading Fortunately…

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