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I don't blog here anymore. It was good while it lasted.

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Click here and visit. I have have some juicy dirt sometimes. OK. Maybe more than sometimes.

Writing About Writing...

OK, so I guess I am starting this entry with a fact that irritates me to the bone about the seed that has been placed in my heart...I love to write. I am sure it is not a huge secret that I would love to do so professionally and am starting to do just that but as I begin to figure this complicated little craft out, I am realizing that it is so not something that you can create a list for and expect it to be done by 5 p.m. so you can go home to your wife and kids. The talent of writing is a gift and curse and let me just expound a little more and tell you why...See, I believe we are all born with a talent that God intends for us to use to the best of our ability to set the world on fire. It has taken me only 35 years to figure this out but I know that mine are 1) working with children, hence my years as an elementary educator and 2) writing. Both are professions in which you can run but you cannot hide - the popular idiom "you can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl" - applies to both of these personality gifts/curses as well. Not a day goes by in which I see something and think "Oh, what a fun unit that would be...Maybe I will need to do this with my children..." or "I need to write about that" only to forget the topic three minutes later because I have laundry to fold, coffee to drink, and french toast sticks to make. I am not bragging on these gifts but simply stating a fact - you have gifts as well that I don't and I will not think you are bragging should you happen to mention them to me. That aside, I must admit that writing is something I wish I could run away from as fast as humanly possible. It is the dark shadow that lurks at you when you want to just fall into bed and read "People" magazine, it is the dream that will constantly nag you and say "what if..." and it is the idea that will pop into your head at random times of the day and won't go away even if you beat it with a stick. For example, I hopped on my little blog here this evening fully intending to write a piece in which I had entitled in my mind "Finding the Light." I will still probably write it on a better day but to give the gist of it away, it was about the greatness of my husband and how he always leaves the porch light on for me if I leave and return after dark. I love this small sign of his caring that is unspoken between us - we have never discussed it but it is something we do for each other that communicates "I love and care for you and want you to be brought home safely to me." Truthfully, I can't write about it now. For reasons I would rather not detail at this point, I am feeling mostly like smacking his face off. Of course, this is a huge figure of speech because I am not really a violent person in the least, but alas, these are the words that came to my mind. This is not a "smack your face off and get a divorce" that I am feeling but rather a common annoyance that pops up in the life of a married couple that is raising a four, two, and one year old child. I simulataneously love and hate him often - albiet mostly love but a handful of times during a month, hate. I know I can say this in front of the masses because I am pretty confident that he feels the same way about me at any given time. We are a great team but like all great, close teams who have made a life-long committment, we sometimes look at each other and say "You have GOT to be freakin' kidding me..." So here I sit, writing about not the light that he leaves on for me but the damn craft of writing that is a gift and curse. I can't write about my given topic tonight because truthfully, I am not feeling lovey-dovey towards the topic (which truthfully, every topic that is written upon is a "baby") I had planned to write about so I chose to write about writing. Hopefully that piece on the porch light will be written soon...

Recent Photos of My Chillens...

My Favorite Load of Laundry...

My Sweet One, who is, well, my sweet one...

Missy Moo the Mermaid

Bubba Boo's Cinco de Mayo photo

A Letter to My Children

Sometimes I catch myself in the ho-hum of my everyday craziness beginning to sweat the small things that really don't matter in the light of eternity and it is often something that knocks me over the head like a "Tom and Jerry frying pan" moment that brings me to reality. I recently had an experience with a little girl that rocked my world for the rest of the day. It was around Mother's Day and I was dropping Missy Moo off at her preschool. As she was settling her belongings into her locker, I noticed Jessie, a little girl who is sweet and a little quiet, hanging out in the hallway. As I approached her, I said hello and asked how she was doing. I always try to go out of my way to give her an extra smile because at the ripe old age of five, Jessie has already lost her mommy to cancer. She was "reading the hall" which is teacher-speak for reading the environmental print that surrounds her. She asked me several questions - "What does this say?" "Hooks" I would reply. "What does this say?" "Sarah" I replied. Next, she pointed to a picture that was leaning against another child's locker, obviously created to present to his mommy on Mother's Day. "What does this say?" Jessie asks, pointing to the word "Mom". "It says 'mom', Jessie", was my reply. Immediately, she stopped reading the hallway and went back to the classroom. Her joy of learning new words was over for the day. I hugged Missy Moo extra hard and scurried to the car with tears in my eyes. My tears were for this sweet child whose mommy was unfairly taken from her just too darn young. My heart aches for her and also her mother, who had to have been scared beyone measure to be leaving such young children behind. Truthfully, it is one of my worst nightmares behind losing one of my own children. I admit that it is selfish - I want to be the one to attend parent-teacher conferences, soccer games, ballet recitals, eighth grade graduation, and shop for prom dresses and tuxedos. I want to be the one they turn to when a friend has hurt their feelings, when they don't make the school play, when they get cut from baseball, when they have their heart broken for the first time, when they fall down and have to pick themselves up. To know that this would not ever come to pass as I lay on my deathbed would be unbearable. I am confident as to where I will go when that time does come; however, the end part would be unfathomable. This also got me to thinking about what I would say to my children should I be taken suddenly, as we all know is always a possibility, given the fragility of the life we live on this side. I could write novels to each of them individually about what I want for them and advice on things I have learned through trial and error but here is what I would tell them:

I am with you always, always. You will see me when a Gerbera Daisy blooms in the spring, especially if it is hot-pink. I will eat popsicles or any other frozen sweet treat with you on a hot summer day. I will be with you when you open your report card and see all A's. I will also be with you when you open your report card and see all F's. It is not what you DO that makes me love each of you - my love for you is not based on performance. My love for you is based on you. You are deeply and intensely loved for the unique beings God created you to be. I will be with you when hormonal changes take over your body. I am there when the first fool, and fool they will be, breaks your heart. I will overjoy with you when you are chosen for something special like a play, a sporting team, a recital, an award. I will be there whispering "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again", when you fail. And you will. I am there to encourage you to grow that "tough outer skin that is not too tough but tough-enough," and I am there to tell you to soften just a bit. I will be there when you hear good live music. I will dance with you to "Into the Mystic" by Van Morrison. I will be there when you finish a great book that stirs you in a way that forces you to move or think outside of your comfort zone. I am with you on a summer evening with a good, crisp glass of Chardonnay or a margarita (of course, once you have turned 21 - I am still your mother after all...) I will be there with you telling you to add chips, salsa, con queso, and guacamole. I will tell you to wait for sex. I will tell you to please not abuse the beautiful shell you have been given with cigarettes or illegal drugs. I will be with you anytime you eat chocolate, especially Hershey's Toffee Almond Nuggets. I will be with you on the first day of your first job when you are feeling insecure and maybe not really ready for this "real-world" thing. I will be with you when you walk down the aisle, when you have your first baby, when you realize how much you are really and truly loved. The love I have for you, my children, is not understandable until you have your own babies. As I say to you every night when I put you to bed, "I love you always, always. There is nothing you could ever do to make me not love you and you are fearfully and wonderfully made." You are my joy. You are my love. You are never alone.

In Scooby Doo We Trust

Before I get into the meat of my writing this evening, I want to apologize to my resounding nine followers (thank you for reading, my friends!) for falling off the face of the blog world. Try as I may, I just can't write daily though I am accepting that this is just simply a season in my life. I plan to do much more writing in general this upcoming fall, so we shall see. However, the main reason I have not been on so much is that, truthfully, my head hurts. It seems as though my oldest two children, Missy Moo and Bubba Boo, have reached the age in which they argue over things. Big things. Little things. Medium things. Pretty much all things. Since I am an only child, this incessant bickering between a two year old and a four year old is new territory for me. A few nights ago, my beloveds were arguing over something so insignificant that I can't even recall what it was and I simply looked at Classic Old Spice and said, "You have GOT to be kidding me..." to which he responded with "Welcome to the world of siblings, dear." This, of course, made me chuckle a bit because he often likes to think he is the resident expert on sibling relations in our home. Now don't get me wrong here - I respect that man more than any other person on this planet. However, when the love of my life was born, his oldest sister was 22 years old, his brother was 16, and his other sister was ten. I am a little incredulous when he makes comments about sibling rivalry because really, he was an only child. Classic Old Spice was the cute baby that everyone carted around and pretty much always had the attention on him. I am guessing, though I don't know for sure, that not many of his siblings actually fought much with him. Neither Missy Moo or Bubba Boo are free of guilt from the myriad of arguments that occur within a given day - sometimes Missy Moo provokes and Bubba Boo screams, sometimes Bubba Boo provokes and Missy Moo screams, yells, cries, and pretty much gives him exactly the reaction he is seeking. Of course, he always goes back for more with an extra little glean in his eye because he enjoys the consequences of his small pinches, hits, pushes, and climbing. I've tried to explain this to Missy Moo to no avail so the cycle continues. Bubba Boo is the one who makes me fall into my bed at night - he is ALL boy and I mean ALL. If I do say so myself, the child is beautiful. He has long lashes, curly brown hair, deep-brown-almost-black eyes and dimples that even the nurses in the hospital swooned over when he was born. He is also two and experimenting with his lot in life. He likes to test for consistency and equally loves to see what he can get away with. For a long while, his chosen form of communication was screaming. He screamed when he was happy. He screamed when he was mad. He screamed when he was sad. Sometimes he screamed to just, well, scream (hence why my head has been hurting). Lately, this has improved, to which I say at the top of my lungs "Hallelujah!!!", however, he has now officially traded this behavior for that of typical little brother behavior. Truthfully, there are times I don't blame Missy Moo for the irritations but after all, Bubba Boo is just doing his job. He is SUPPOSED to do these things - he is her little brother. Who else would pinch her while she is trying to watch a show? Who else would take her Littlest Pet Shop animals from her hands and run? Who else would push her when she did not give in to his every whim? The ironic thing is that Bubba Boo can melt my heart like no other. The other day, we were in Family Chrisitan Store purchasing a few books. Luckily, Bubba Boo was drawn to the children's area which was my saving grace because otherwise I would have spent the time chasing him around the store with My Sweet One, who now weighs 24 pounds at 11 months, in my arms. He plucked a monster truck from the shelf and proclaimed it as his and while I don't buy everything for my children when they want something, today was different. I told him he could indeed have the monster truck if he chose to be a good boy while mommy browsed for a few more minutes. He did well so we proceeded to the checkout to purchase our items. He had some trouble with releasing his firm clutch on the monster truck so the man quickly scanned it and gave it right back to him. Immediately, without being prompted, he said "Thanks, Mama." I mean, first of all, the child calls me mama and it's like sweet music to my ears. On my worst days, to hear Bubba Boo call me "mama" is enough to snap me out of any snit I might be experiencing. Secondly, to show such gratitude for something I purchased for him at such a young age shows me that I MUST be doing something right even when I worry that his antics are indeed due to my inadequate parenting. In addition, if I cough, sneeze, or even simply utter the word "ouch" he flies in from wherever he may be in the house to pat my face and say "You OK, Mama?" My ALL BOY boy is also a sweet, caring, sensitive soul who is curious about bugs, loves to play soccer, will scream "Look, Mama!" anytime he sees a Daddy Long Legs, and loves popsicles. He screams, he throws fits, he tests his boundaries - he is two. But when I see the character that is emerging from him, I know he will be just fine. He is just starting to be molded and it is fun. The journey will be long and wonderful and I know this but I thank God for making him the way He did. Missy Moo and Bubba Boo have had a small obsession with Scooby Doo during the past three months - yes, three months. It is not a fleeting one - it seems to be here to stay. Missy Moo refers to Classic Old Spice as Freddy, I am the winner of the nerdy Velma character (though I tell Missy Moo I would rather be her because she is the smart one), she is, of course, Daphne, Bubba Boo is now known as Shaggy, Ellie the WonderDog is Scooby, and My Sweet One is Scrappy. She often refuses to answer if you have the gall to call her by her God-given name. If you call her Daphne, she's all yours but slip and call her by her real name and you are toast. Missy Moo has pulled Bubba Boo into the Scooby club and he, too, is now obsessed. A few nights ago, after a particulary irritating day of about 75 arguments between the two of them, I found myself rejoicing that it was bedtime and I had everyone in jammies with the "night-night" movie (Scooby Doo of course - "Jeepers It's the Creeper" was our episode of choice for that particular evening) playing. I looked up from mixing My Sweet One's bottle to see the backs of my older babies - newly out of the tub with still-wet hair, jammies on, leaning on the ottoman together like best friends. It stopped me dead in my tracks because nothing, I mean nothing, would have gotten these two together throughout the day. Nothing, except for good old Scoobs. Thank you, Scooby Doo - in Scoob the Snapp's trust.

RIP Brain

I mourn the loss of my brain. I really did at one time be a functioning, responsible adult who could easily read directions and actually show-up to scheduled appointments. However, that individual is no longer with us. She is gone. She has left in her wake this new person who is very flighty, forgetful, and at times, irresponsible. I am not sure if the old one will ever return and this of course, is the most frightening thought of all. My dear hubby, Classic Old Spice, is a dentist. He has complained to me at times about patients who do not show up to their scheduled appointments to which I have always replied in a rather heated manner that it is not difficult to simply pick up the phone and call. After all, they are taking up the spot of someone else who might actually show-up to said appointment. "Irresponsible and inconsiderate" is what I mutter often followed with an unasked-for suggestion that he charge a $50 no-show fee because of course, that would help people to remember to show up to their appointment by golly. Sadly enough, this has come back to bite me in the arse because currently to date, I have missed three appointments since September. This may not sound like a lot but to someone who has never missed an appointment, this is shattering. I worry that Bubba Boo's ENT will no longer see him as a patient. I am certain my chiropracter, whose appointments I have missed not once but twice, thinks I am the supreme flake and I have had to eat a lot of crow and just nod sympathetically when Classic Old Spice complains of the no-shows. I am one of them now and we are bonded - I can't betray their trust as we appointment-skippers have to stick together. In fact, I recently was a no-show for my own dental appointment with my husband and he informed me that he is passing my charts on to another local dentist - he has officially kicked me out of his practice. Here's another scary example: I was recently diagnosed with an eye problem and my opthamologist (I made it to that appointment) prescribed a strong medication. After taking it for five days, I began to develop a rash on my neck so I promptly quit taking it and called his office the next day. I was told to halve the dosage and I should be good. I shared this story with Classic Old Spice and he asked the original dosage. We then moved on and talked about what we would do for lunch. Two hours later as we were standing at our kitchen sink, he looked at the directions on my prescription and realized that the half-dosage that I started to take was really what I was supposed to be taking all along. No wonder I broke out in a rash - I was taking twice the daily dosage I was supposed to take. As you can only imagine, Classic Old Spice simply thought this was hilarious. Just yesterday, I attempted to purchase my Clinique Touch Base for Eyes that I have been wearing now for four years. I love it and it is a staple - back in the day, I could rattle that color out in my sleep. As I stood in Nordstrom with hubby I could not produce the name of the color. Even worse, when the sales rep began to name them, none of them sounded familiar. I had to look at the one I thought could be it to determine if in fact it was. Just plain scary.
The list goes on - this was just this past week. Things like this are a common occurrence now. I recently read a quote by Louisa May Alcott (author of "Little Women") that said "she has read too many books and it has addled her brain." I think the appropriate term for me would be "she has had too many children in too short of time and it has permenantly altered her brain." Good-bye, sound mind. May you return at some point and if not, well, I won't remember you anyway.

Pampering?

I am not exactly sure at which point I began to lower my standards of what is appropriate appearance-wise for myself before I leave the house but I do know that somewhere along the way, this has indeed occurred. Back in the good old days, I would not have even considered leaving the house in the morning without a shower (which includes washing my hair), makeup applied maybe not perfectly but way more precise than it is now, and clothes somewhat unwrinkled and clean. Back then, I did know what the word “pampering” meant—I actually use to take time for manicures, pedicures, and a facial every now and then. I loved time in a spa and looked forward to treating myself to these luxuries if not on a regular basis, certainly more often than now. Fast forward four years to the present and I must admit there are moments when I catch a glance at myself in a passing mirror or window and I chuckle—the new me often has hair that has not been washed for three, maybe four days, my makeup consists of haphazardly-applied eyeliner and mascara (on a good day), and I usually can’t tell you the last time I showered. I also shudder to admit that there are times when I want to wear something that I have not had time to wash yet and I simply pluck it out of the dirty clothes pile, give it a sniff and if it is OK, I slide into without hesitation. Of course, writing this makes me think of the guys I used to know in college who did this as a regular part of their routine, but they were college guys—not me! However, somewhere along the line of this parenthood game (especially which each subsequent baby) my standards lessened and I could focus on what really mattered. Yes, I do miss those old days sometimes. I miss showering like the rest of the world does in the morning before they start their days. I miss having clothes that were regularly laundered, ironed, and stored away perfectly in my closet awaiting their next usage. I miss taking time to apply makeup in a non-hurried manner and I certainly miss the regularity of the mani’s and pedi’s I used to treat myself to back in the days of yore. This all being said, I must admit that if I were given a free time travel ticket, I would not go back to those days ever again. Those days did not include giggles so sweet that you had to stop what you were doing and simply bask in the joyous sound. Nobody cried when I left the house and nobody screamed with joy and jumped up and down when I returned home. Nobody ran to me with crocodile tears in their eyes when their feelings were hurt or they needed some love after a boo-boo. I did not have any little people saying cute things that made me run to my notebook to record their phrases so I could share them when they got older. Life now is so much richer, so much more fulfilled and so much more steeped in love. Pampering has taken on a new meaning now—I am pampered in giggles, kisses, hugs, and sometimes tears. I am pampered in knowing that I am making a difference to three little beings who will hopefully grow-up to be God-loving adults who strive to make their world just a little bit better. I am pampered in knowing that as I age, it is not the outside that really makes such a difference but instead what resides in your heart that will set the world on fire. Pampering is relative and I must admit that I prefer this new form of pampering. This being said, a mani/pedi every now and then never hurt anyone...

Just Call Me Oscar

I am a grouch. A big one. Since I was awakened by my six-month-old alarm clock this morning, I have been nothing but grumpy and on the verge of emotional collapse. I am not exactly sure why as it would make perfect sense if my friend, Dottie, was about to pay her monthly visit or I had a restless night of little sleep - neither is the case. I am just a big grump...I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and have been acting like Cybil since 7:30 this morning. I am cheery and calm one moment then I launch into crankiness over the smallest of things the next and I am certain I have done long-term psychological damage to my children. Missy Moo commented that she thought I was a little grouchy (understatement) and of course, I felt horrible so I apologized for mommy's lack of patience and told her I would work on changing my heart. This being the language I use with her, she understood completely and told me she would forgive me and, gasp, that she loved me very much. Of course this made me think of the loyalty our dog, Ellie, exhibits even when she is treated not so nicely - it seems when I am at my ugliest self, Missy Moo can sense it and will say "I love you, Mommy" which makes me feel worse for just having launched into hysterics because she did not pick up her fish game - for the hundreth time that day. Bubba Boo is at that oh so difficult age of wanting to play with only things that are dangerous or could make a gigantic mess (yes, in a house full of toys) so I feel as though I am constantly saying "no" to him. I have read a million positive parenting books about how to redirect him or use positive language (as in instead of saying "No feet on the table" you would say "your feet belong on your chair") but quite frankly, I don't see it working any better and by 5 p.m. I am done. So basically what I do is play policeman all day and rotate the little things I find throughout the house to their rightful spot and today, I just wanted a day off. Don't get me wrong - I love my children and my husband more than anything. I literally would give my life for any of them. But for some reason, today I felt like I just wanted to get in my car and drive. For a long time. I am certain that no one told me this mommy gig was so difficult but of course, if we all shared this with childless women, our population would end promptly because let's face it, there are some not-so-glamourous days. When I was working full-time when Missy Moo was six months old until she was 14 months old, I was distraught over the fact that I could not be with her all of the time. I envisioned play dates and lunch dates with friends who had children of similar ages as Missy Moo. I dreamed of mornings at KinderMusic and Gymboree and of taking long walks along the Monon Trail after we had practiced our alphabet and played with Play-Dough. Of course, there are many days in which this stuff does happen but I never envisioned the days/moments of utter hysteria when you think you just might die if you have to pretend that the "dancing girlfriends" are really here with us right now (these are Missy Moo's imaginary friends. Long story.) Being a stay-at-home mommy is all I have ever wanted to be and I am the happiest I have ever been in my life at this moment right now - so why on earth am I such a crankpot? I have so many blessings and know that many would look at my life and say "Oh puhleeeeeeeze, get a grip". I must say that I have to agree with them but then I also must say that I am human. So as I sit here and have a glass of Chardonnay and eat peantut M&M's, I liken it much to the tantrums Missy Moo and Bubba Boo throw out - sometimes mommy's have to throw tantrums, too. It is often not pretty and the guilt that comes afterwards is enough to think I should hand my children over to someone else to raise but it happens. I am not proud of it nor would I have ever thought, when I was childless and when I only had one child, that I would have days that I just wanted out, but this is the reality. Blessed I am and know it - human I am and can't help it. Tomorrow is a new day. Thank God.

The Sweet Curse of Motherhood

I can't watch the news anymore. Or read a newspaper. Or have an intelligent discussion about the topic of war. I cannot hold my tongue when I see a mommy or a daddy tug a little too hard on a child's arm at Wal-Mart and I will risk being accused of a being a pervert if I see a child who looks like a hug could brighten their little life even for just a moment. I am now a mother and have realized how deeply and intricately this gift, though sometimes a curse, weaves through the nooks and crannies of your being. There is no question that I could quite possibly be the biggest idiot on the planet concerning current events mainly because it is never quiet long enough in my household to hear the complete coverage of any news story so it's a bit like playing the game of telephone - I only pick up bits and pieces of a story and before I know it, I could cover the beat at the "National Enquirer" with just a little bit of truth to said story. Secondly, and probably the main reason why I can't tune in, is that I just simply cannot take it. I melt when I hear stories of 14 year olds shot and killed for no reason other than the fact that they were either in the wrong place at the wrong time or were so lost and lonely that they looked to violent street gangs to be their family. I can't help but conjure the image of the now-deceased 14 (14!!) year old as a baby being fed his first round of vegetables or watching him roll over for the first time. I picture the mother who might have played "This Little Piggy" with his chubby, tiny toes and laughed as her little one let out the giggle that is absolutely the most wonderful sound on the planet. I realize that for many of these tragic cases there may not have been a mommy or a daddy who adored and treasured that child in the way I do my own but I have to believe that the biological response that many, and I would venture to say most, of us feel is present more often than not. I am not so naive that I think all children are raised in loving and healthy environments but my dream is that they are and now there is a shattered mommy or daddy who grieves the broken dream of a life that was just too darn short. If there is no one grieving for them, I do. Every sad case is someone's son or daughter and by my own personal definition of a mommy this, in my own roundabout way, makes them mine as well. I once read that we as mothers have not just a responsibility of raising our own children but every child on the planet as well. When I first stumbled across this passage, I had to reread it several times to be sure I was understanding the author's message correctly as how could I possibly have an impact on a child being raised in tribal Africa? My favorite author, Anne Lamott, wrote a book about writing entitled Bird by Bird. She explains that she came to the title after watching her father, who was also a writer, attempt to assist her brother, who had procrastinated on doing a school project on birds until the night before it was due. The said brother sat at the kitchen table with books and notes spread all around him and was utterly overwhelmed and frustrated - he had no idea where to begin because the task was just too daunting. Anne's father simply said, "Son, you just take it bird by bird." What a great idiom for our lives - if we focus on impacting child by child, then maybe, just maybe this chain of goodwill could reach a child in tribal Africa. Quite possibly there is some truth to the cliche statement that one person truly can make a difference and it all starts with the simple emotion of compassion. When one becomes pregnant, no one mentions that you will soon release your heart to the outside of your body where it will stay for the rest of your life. I can't watch the news or read a newspaper because I value that person's life in a way I could not possibly begin to fathom until I had given a life of my own. I am certain this is the reason that police officers instruct children to look for another mommy or daddy in a store who has children if they were to become lost because that person will not leave the lost child until his or her parents are found. We do this because we know how scared our own children would be if they were to become lost and we want to alleviate some of that child's anxiety while at the same time making sure that he or she is safe. I am sure there are childless people who would do the same thing for a lost child which brings me to wonder "could other people reach this level of compassion without becoming a mother"? Most likely, however, this is what did it for me. This is what sealed the deal and made me a card-carrying member of the "weeper's club". I shed tears for the broken hearts, for the hurt feelings, for the lives cut too short, for the children living in violence and hate every day. I long to have the resources to build a home large enough to house the unloved children, the ones whose photos are not on anyone's desk or bureau or whose artwork does not adorn any refrigerators, and give them the life their sweet innocent selves deserve. I can't do it alone but I know I am not alone in my emotions - there is an army of mommy's out there who believe the same as me. One of my very favorite quotes of all-time was said by the ever-so-wise Helen Keller: "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart." So true, Helen, so true. And felt they are.

New Writings

Hello, all - I am back into writing a little more regularly now so I plan to do more postings...Yes, I know I have said this before but hey, give a girl some grace...These next few postings are coming from the newsletter I write for my MOPS group (Mothers of Preschoolers) so you will see a more spiritual side of me since this is a faith-based group. I try to tie my subject into our theme for the day and add a relevant verse from the Bible so enjoy! I am continuing to write in both the secular and non-secular so don't pigeon-hole me! :) Enjoy!

The Stockings WERE Hung

‘Tis the season has officially begun and as always, the day after Thanksgiving my hubby and I decided it was time to pull out the Christmas decorations and get the tree up so the holiday cheer could spread throughout our family. It was like a walk down memory lane as I unpacked the many decorations and ornaments that made me think of people I love or events, such as the first Christmas with my hubby and “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments, that forever changed my life for the better. I am a lover of traditions—my mother always made sure that I, as an only child, had plenty of holiday traditions and this desire has carried over to me as well. Needless to say, now that my oldest is almost four years old, it is becoming very fun to discuss the holidays with her and begin our own family traditions. With this in mind, we put the tree up on Friday afternoon but waited until Missy Moo was home (she was visiting my mother) to decorate it. After our pizza dinner, we all retreated to the living room where we had holiday music on the iPod (my husband is particularly fond of “Mele Kalikimaka” so this kicked off our tree-decorating event) and a fire burning in our fireplace—it was all very “Norman Rockwell-ish”. Or so I thought…
Quarrels began to break out over various ornaments (Bubba Boo wanted to look at the Cinderella ornament and Missy Moo would not allow this because, God forbid, he is a boy and boys don’t look at Cinderella ornaments) and where they would be placed. Bubba Boo, having just mastered the word “ball”, began to pelt the glass Christmas balls around the living room while delighting in the fact that he could say the word associated with the object and Ellie, our five year old yellow Labrador Retriever proceeded to let out what we like to call “green smoke” after a particularly tough day on her digestive system. As I realized that my Norman Rockwell moment was just not really like I had planned it to be, I remembered that I did have a fun new tradition tucked in the closet called “The Elf on a Shelf”. It is a cute story accompanied by an elf that sits on a mantle, or anywhere else, in your house and I thought this would save the moment for sure. Hubby and I rallied everyone up to take baths and put on jammies because we have a “guest” coming (the elf) so they did so eagerly and happily. When it came time for us all to pile on the couch and read the story, it was wonderful—just as I had imagined. After the story, I then got up to place the elf on the mantle and Bubba Bool followed me, curiosity in tow. The stockings were held in place by wrought iron stocking holders in various Christmas shapes and Bubba Boo, with the curiosity of a 19 month old, pulled on one of them only to send the iron Christmas Tree stocking holder straight down on top of his little face that had been looking up at it so innocently. Blood began to spurt, tears began to fall, and screams could be heard, I am sure, for miles. Not quite how I had planned to end our evening, but after I got the children down for the night, I had to chuckle at the quote for the day from my motherhood inspirations calendar I purchased from Jill Savage (love it and highly recommend it) - Julie Barnhill stated “Motherhood ushers in (often with trumpets) a dawning awareness that things just aren’t going to go as we’d first planned or imagined.” Doesn’t God have the funniest sense of humor? Bubba Boo now has two big gashes on his left cheek - just in time for our family Christmas card picture! Regardless, that little face is beautiful no matter what so it will have to suffice for this year and make a great story in the future.

“For unto us a child is born…” Isaiah 9:6

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you...

During this period in time in which we all reflect on what we are thankful for in our lives, I find my mind wandering to one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott, a sometimes controversial, VERY liberal writer who tells it like it is with such gifted use of the English language that I can oversee some of her ideological views that clash with my own. Anne is a devoted Christian and regularly attends a gospel church in Marin County, California. She is in constant conversation, or so it seems, with God and I must admit, her faith is such a solid rock to her that you can’t help but find yourself trying to focus on doing the same. Two years ago, I had the pleasure of attending a lecture she gave at St. Luke’s United Methodist Church in Indianapolis and a small group break-out session the following day with just Anne. To say it made me love her even more is an understatement—there were so many great pieces of wisdom that flew out of her mouth that I decided to stop trying to write it all down and just focus on listening and being in the moment. Perhaps the most wonderful thing I walked away with was the simple prayer she says throughout the day of “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” I realized that, hey—I can do that! Prayer does not necessarily have to be a time in which we isolate ourselves from everyone and sit down to meditate though it is certainly wonderful when I am able to find the space to do so. Prayer and being thankful to God can come while rinsing off the breakfast/snack/lunch/snack/dinner dishes or while we fold another load of laundry (assuming that you fold laundry, of course!). It can be as simple as talking to God about the difficult concept of grace and how God gives us so much that we cannot possibly fathom his ability to do so. It can be while we are changing yet another stinky diaper and it certainly can come when we are drying tears from a skinned knee or hurt feelings. Thanking God is easy to do when we remember that he is always there—his omnipresence allows us to know we are not alone when we think we are and assures us that he does indeed have a plan for us. The other aspect of this prayer that I love is just the sheer gratitude that saying “thank you, thank you, thank you” expresses to God. It is a short breath prayer but yet communicates so much. You don’t even have to list specific things you are grateful for as God knows your heart and He knows what you value and cherish in your life. So during this sometimes overly-scheduled holiday season when we feel a little overwhelmed by cookies that need to be baked, turkeys that need to be cooked, and potatoes that need to be whipped, let’s remember to stop and simply say “thank you, thank you, thank you.” After all, to put things in perspective, we are all far richer than anyone could ever imagine. I once read that if you don’t ever have to worry about where your next meal will come from, you are blessed beyond belief—wouldn’t it be so wonderful if we all just remembered that simple thought throughout the busy holiday season? Breathe in, breathe out, and “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
In everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.
1 Thessalonians 5:18

The Good Enough Hostess

I remember a time in my life when I so looked forward to entertaining friends and family members in my home—good food, good wine, good music, good conversation... What’s not to like? Back in those days of yore, I would have a clean and well-decorated home, Diana Krall could be heard wailing from the iPod, and I had red wine and white wine glasses, fancy cheeses for appetizers, and candles in the guest bathroom. As I prepare to host my book club in my home at the present day, I must chuckle at the difference between now and then because, well, back then, EVERYTHING HAD TO BE PERFECT. Now, it’s OK if things are just “good enough”. Today, you will be a lucky guest in our home if you are not served your beverage in a sippy cup and you do not accidentally roller skate in our foyer due to random Matchbox cars underfoot. Laurie Berkner or Raffi will likely be our featured entertainer and instead of the fancy cheeses I used to purchase at specialty stores, you will most likely be munching on the Mickey Mouse cheese from Wal-Mart. It’s a possibility you could leave with a splitting headache from enduring an evening of the loud screeching my 18 month old is fond of and you may even be treated to a lesson in fashion and nail polish color selection by my three year old daughter. You might find a sticker stuck to your hind end after sitting on our couch (as was the case recently—I actually had a woman in Target stop me and tell me that I had a Cinderella sticker stuck to my seat) and if it gets too intense, I might thrust a four month old baby into your arms and allow you to feed him. He will then likely vomit on your shirt thus giving you the pleasure of smelling like my favorite fragrance, Eau de Good Start Formula. You will be a lucky guest if I am not in my pajamas/bathrobe when you come to the door and even luckier if I have brushed my teeth for the day. As crazy and unglamorous as this all sounds, to be honest, I would pick it any day over the childless hostess I had once been. I now know the value of handprints on my sliding glass door and purposely don’t dust them off. I realize now that no one really noticed if I had red wine glasses for red wine and white wine glasses for white wine. The fancy cheeses could have been replaced with more economical versions and no one would have known the difference. Though the screeching might make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, I prefer his natural music to Diana Krall (though I do still love her…) Maybe it is because I am older and therefore wiser (HA!) or maybe it is because I have little people in my life that show me what is really important—regardless of the reason, I try not to put my family through misery before we are hosting guests in our home. Though I like the house to be clean for you, it won’t be perfect. You might have to tell me to replace the toilet paper in the guest bathroom or that there was a dirty diaper left in the kitchen trash can. You won’t leave our house hungry but you may not have the most gourmet meal on the planet. It’s really all about spending time together and at least you will know that we enjoyed your company and you will get a glimpse into the real life of our family. I stopped trying to be Martha Stewart and now just try to focus on enjoying our guests—the “good enough” hostess is “good enough” for me.
Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling—1 Peter 4:9

At the Pump

Since I can remember, one of my "most-inspiring-hall-of-famers" is Annie Sullivan, teacher of Helen Keller. I love her because she took a child who had been labeled as "unable to be educated" and actually did just that - educated her to go on to be one of the world's most brilliant minds despite the fact that she could neither see nor hear. That aside, Annie Sullivan used real-world examples and context to teach little Helen so that it was meaningful instead of relying on the drill and kill method that is so often utilized in this obsessively mandated test-taking world. My favorite scene of "The Miracle Worker" is when Annie takes Helen to the water pump, runs water over her hands and signs the word "water" directly into her palm. I love the lightbulb that goes off for Helen as she frantically runs around her lawn touching everything and holding out her hand for Annie to sign the word for her. So the other day I was dangling Bubba Boo over our kitchen sink in an attempt to wash his grubby paws before lunch. As the water poured over his chubby little fingers, I said "water" and his little face beamed as if to say "Cool mommy - I am getting this word thing” and I immediately thought of Annie and Helen at the pump. This then led me to reflect on what exactly I want to teach my children as well as HOW on earth am I going to do it and a few things popped into my head. First of all, there is no canned program, method, or theory that can educate your child more effectively than your actions. For this reason, I make sure that my children see that I am indeed human. I speak about my emotions freely, in fact, almost to a fault for just the other night as I was helping Missy Moo set the table for dinner she said, "Mommy, are you feeling grouchy?” I lose my cool and say things that make me feel like a horrible mommy that will psychologically damaged my children for the rest of time; however, I know that the right thing to do is say that I am sorry and admit that mommy was wrong. The world is not perfect and neither are we - we have good days, and days that are almost comical they are so bad. There are people who will wrong you, people who will put you down and make you feel like you are less than you are, and there are times when an hour feels like the longest period of time on earth. But on the other hand, there are more people who will right you, more people who will build you up, and days when you think an hour is just not enough time to do anything because it goes so fast. A moral compass cannot be changed or rocked in any way - regardless of the trials and tribulations one experiences, that core, that foundation should remain the compass and drive who we really are. No outside occurrence can shake this or take it away from you as it is your soul which was molded in your early years and is constantly shaped throughout your life. I remember telling the parents of the students in my classroom (yes, before I became a SAHM I was a second/third grade teacher) that they are their child's first teacher but I never really understood the power and magnitude of this statement until I had my own. Emotional core development occurs between the ages of zero to three years old so how can any teacher mold this part of my children? It's up to us to guide this development which is probably going to be my most valuable contribution to this planet after I am gone. To know that my hubby and I will work fervently to encourage our children to always do what is right makes me believe that it will sink in along the way somewhere and then when THEY have their own babes, they will do the same. It is how the cycle continues and the only way that I can foresee to truly leave the world a little bit better than how I found it. Life experiences take us back to the pump every time and force us to continue to mold who exactly we are and who we strive to be.
One generation will commend your works to another; they will tell of your mighty acts.
Psalm 145:4

Under the Big Top

Well, it’s official—this past summer I birthed my third, and last, installment of the Snapp Family. It is also official that I am now operating a full-blown three ring circus as many mom’s do; however, the entertainment at each ring seems to be so much more intriguing and demanding when the featured acts are three and a half years old, 16 months, and seven weeks. Upon reflecting on this year’s theme for MOPS, Adventures in Mothering, I had to chuckle—isn’t everyday a new adventure for each of us? God has entrusted us to bring up His little beings for such a short time and though I am often exhausted, disheveled, exhausted, scattered, exhausted, flighty, and did I mention exhausted?, there is no other adventure I would choose to take. Each of our homes are the “big top” that house our circus rings and girls, we all have rings regardless of if we have one child or ten! One never really knows what may happen in the course of a 24 hour period but the wise mom knows to begin each day with a “general outline” (never use the word “plan” - it is the quickest way to put that said plan into derailment) of what the day may entail but allow for some “excursions” to occur as well. In fact, my circus troop and I experienced a welcome excursion this past summer that became one of our biggest blessings. Bubba Boo, my very busy 16 month old, took hold of his daddy’s car keys one summer evening and unbeknownst to us, pressed the “lock” button on mommy’s key. The next morning, as my two children (third was still in my tummy at the time) and I went to the garage to embark on a myriad of errands, we were unable to get into our van since mommy always leaves her keys inside (I would never be able to find them otherwise)! Yes, our little Bubba Boo had successfully locked mommy’s keys in the car and our day of many errands had been halted! I irritatingly called hubby at work and expressed my frustration of not being able to do the one million things I needed to do before number three arrived, then went to Plan B—finding entertainment. We ended up just playing—no plan or structure—just playing. We blew bubbles. We played cars. We colored and did Play-Dough. We ate cookies. We splashed in our alligator pool and we had a picnic lunch. When my sweet hubby appeared during his lunch break to unlock our van, no one, especially me, was motivated to do anything other than what we were doing. God had planned for us to have fun that day, not run around in a hot car. Once my third little person, Spencer, arrived, I was grateful for that “last day of fun” that my other two children and I were able to have. Though I love my last baby dearly, my adventure with two children was about to change for a just as sweet, but different, adventure—an adventure with three children. God always has a plan for us and as we serve as the “Ringleader Under Our Big Top” it is best if we just acquiesce to His plan and follow his directives. He loves us and always works for the good. Here’s to a wonderful new year of adventure—new friendships, new discoveries, and most importantly, strength in our relationship with God, our husbands, our children, and love for all.

Are You a Follower?

Yes, I know I have been a slacker lately and have not kept up as much as I would like with my blog, but gosh darn it, I am trying to get better. There is now a new feature which allows you to follow my blog and post it on-site - simply look to the side and click on "Follow this Blog". I would love to see you!

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

When Classic Old Spice and I met, I immediately knew he was "it" - he was the "one" and I began to fantasize about our wedding and the adorable children we would create before the Chicken Picatta was even served. Since he is a dentist and works with all women and was raised by a single mom, we laughed about the fact that we would very likely have all girls and he would continue to be the lone soldier in a female-dominated world. Truth be told, I was secretly thrilled with the thought of this - I love little girls. I love pink, princesses, Tinkerbell nailpolish, tea parties, dress-up games, glitter lip gloss, and pigtails. Since I was a little girl, I have wanted a sister and dreamed of having all girls that would forever be there for each other - what could be better than built-in best friends? When I became pregnant with our first child, I couldn't wait until the ultrasound to confirm my dream of a pink-dominated world and lo and behold, on September 20, 2004 our ultrasound technician confirmed that we could indeed decorate a pink nursery. It was happening - Classic Old Spice WAS going to be the lone soldier and I could begin shopping for girl clothes with reckless abandon because ALL of our little girls would be able to wear the cute frocks I was spending way too much money on. After Missy Moo arrived, I was unsure I would ever have another child again as she was unbelievably colic and I was so unbelivably tired to the point that I thought I really just might die. Of course, we moved through that stage and she soon became the joy she continues to be to this day (well, for the most part...:)) We forgot about the difficulty of the newborn phase (I am pretty sure this selective amnesia is God's way of ensuring we will adequately continue the human race) and began to discuss trying for the second when Missy Moo was 18 months old. Much to the dismay of my husband who will forever bemoan the fact that he never got the "luxury" of having to try to conceive, we scored a goal after the first try and I found myself pregnant. Since I had pretty much planned on having all girls and was certain this was going to be our fate (I mean, really...Looking back on this, what was I thinking? Who am I to think I could actually predict this?!) I assumed our second would be another bundle of sugar and spice and everything nice. As with the first, I looked forward to our ultrasound to confirm this and couldn't wait for Missy Moo to have a little baby sister...Of course, you probably know where this is going - when the ultrasound technician revealed I was carrying a baby boy, I was dumbfounded. What on EARTH was I going to do with a BOY of all things? I was a former elementary teacher and while the boys in my class could melt my heart like you wouldn't believe, they made me tired. Really tired. They were OH so active and truthfully, just never stopped. They were forever falling over in their chairs and well, just wiggling. They wiggled all of the time - it was a constant state of perpetual motion and good Lord - they were loud. Very loud. Not that the little girls were not, but for the most part, all you had to do with a little girl was either raise an eyebrow or give a gentle reminder to get back on-track and you were pretty much back in business. Not so with little boys. I spent the rest of my pregnancy constantly reminding myself that I was going to actually have a SON. I was going to be responsible for raising a little boy and truthfully, terrified at the thought. What would I ever do with a boy? Imagine my pleasant surprise when I realized that, just as I had felt with Missy Moo, I would literally die for this little bundle the second he was born. I loved him with a depth of my soul that only another mother could even remotely understand. His dimples melted me and now, as a toddler, they still do. His eyes are so dark they look black, his lashes so long he looks like he is wearing the best mascara on the market, and of course, those darn dimples. Oh the dimples... Before I had a little boy, I never understood why reinforced knees in pants would be a good thing. I never realized that couches were for climbing and bookshelves for scaling. I never knew their unique ability to let out Tarzan-like cries when excited and I never stressed about what to do when he started to hit everyone in sight. I never had a Matchbox car in my house nor a tractor or a Dumpy the Dump Truck book. I never had purchased a pair of Osh-Kosh overalls and I had never had to be sure that I cleaned around the top ring when I did a diaper change (mommmy's of boys know what I mean!). I never had to take Missy Moo outside and literally make her run down the sidewalk to get her "wiggles" out but of course, this is a daily occurence now that Bubba Boo is 18 months. I never knew about the Island of Sodor or that Emily was the lone female among Thomas and his friends. Sir Topham Hat sounded more like someone I might have seen at a Phish concert from days of long ago rather than the man who runs the trains on the Island. Before I had boys, I did not realize that they ate all of the time. It seems as soon as I finish with breakfast, it is time for snack, then after snack, it is time for lunch and so on...I did not know that I would fall for him in a way that makes me want to just stare at him while he sleeps, kiss him so much that he sometimes wiggles away from me, and actually makes me WANT to buy boy clothes. He is my child and as with Missy Moo, I would die for him. I would put my own needs aside so that they could flourish and grow into healthy beings. I loved him instantly even though he was not clothed in pink. When I unexpectedly became pregnant last fall, I had it all planned again. Her name would be Susannah Evelyn and three years would be a perfect amount of time between sisters. I could FINALLY see all of those cute clothes I had once put on Missy Moo again! You would think I would have learned as our last baby, of course, was another baby in blue. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way. Though I will be insane from having two boys 15 months apart, I will be able to keep my sense of humor in check and myself young. I will have my Missy Moo to clothe in pink and paint fingernails with. I will be her mommy but I will also do the best I can to be her sister, too, without being too much of a friend. The boys, well, let them be boys. I love them for it already.

The Tired, Apolitical Mother

So apparently I have led people to believe that I actually am keeping up with this upcoming election because I keep getting emails from friends, family, and acquaintences that rail and support both sides. This leads me to believe that maybe I am somewhat of a social chameleon - do I change my opinions and ideas based on who I am with? How is that some people are believing that I am a staunch Republican while others think I am for sure a Dem? Upon further reflection on this topic this evening (this occurred after one glass of one of the best chardonnays under the sun that Classic Old Spice recently bought me for my 35th) I realized that no, I am not really a social chemeleon but rather the world's biggest fence sitter, swing-voter, non-political person out there. I cringe once political discussions begin because let's all face it - when have any of these ever gone well? Has anyone ever successfully convinced someone to cross to their side during on of these arguments? The second people start bickering and talking over one another on CNN or MSNBC, I have to change the channel regardless of how good they are because quite truthfully, I hear enough bickering during the day that I don't need to hear anymore anytime soon. Before you think I might be Maxine from one of those greeting cards, let me set something straight - I do care. Really, I do. I just don't have the time or the energy right now to really care enough. There is a difference and a distinction here and while this could launch many into a "Oh how pathetic and unfortunate...She used to be so smart and have so much going for her but now that she stays home her most pressing concern is the destroyed "Thomas the Tank Engine" DVD case from the library that Bubba Boo teethed to death and forced her to pay a $5 damage fee. How very sad that her little pea brain can't grasp today's policital agendas and plans. Another one bites the dust..." Why is it that I just don't really care right now? Well, let's look at Exhibit A...

I begin my day with my newest alarm clock, My Sweet One (name comes from my favorite Phish song called "My Sweet One" in which I now have all of my family singing and for some reason, I immediately began singing to my newest little guy as soon as he was born, hence why he is now called "My Sweet One") I get him fed and changed then have to get Missy Moo who refuses to leave her room in the morning until Mommy comes to get her. We change our pull-up and put on underpants while I juggle My Sweet One who just might at any moment belt out a frat-boy burp that shakes the walls and then we head downstairs to start breakfast. Notice that I did not get Bubba Boo at this point - this would be because he still cannot maneuver going downstairs yet and must be carried and while I can do many things, I choose not to carry both babies down the stairs at the same time (I am sure mom's of multiples are laughing at me right about now but hey, this is my world). Once I get some kind of peace going in the kitchen and get my coffee brewing (the holy grail to all mothers), THEN I can get Bubba Boo who is often about to catapult himself out of his crib and usually has a nice, fresh poo almost up his entire back ready to greet me. Once we get that little scene taken care of, he then eats breakfast and my day of herding cats and spinning plates begins. I am not going to drone on and on about the rest of my day because quite truthfully, while there is some semblance of a schedule and routine, there is really not what one would call a typical day ever. Plans often get derailed. Shoes get lost that slow us down. Sippy cups get flung across the room onto heads. Stinky pants emerge just as we are getting into the car. Ghost bottle feedings pop-up unplanned and halt everyone for about thirty minutes. In other words, stuff happens. Heck, I am just impressed when I can actually get out of my jammies and out the door with all three of my muffins also dressed, snacks and sippies in hand, and securely fastened to their seats. Let's just say that we have preschool, Mom's Day Out, tumbling class, and Parent-Infant-Toddler classes peppered with doctor's appointments, trips to the grocery store, and trips to the grocery store. Did I mention we go to the grocery store a lot? Suffice it to say, when it comes to the elephant and the donkey, I immediately think of my children's Little People farm - not the upcoming election. Am I stuck in my own little world? Am I pathetic? Am I going to hear from people who say "Well, don't you care about your children's futures?" My answer to those questions would be yes, probably, and yes. However, while none of my children have a completed baby book (you would not BELIEVE the looks of shock I get when I tell people this - talk about mommy guilt! Missy Moo has one that I wrote in sporadically and neither of the boys have them yet. I promise I remember everything...I promise...) and I often worry they will grow up to feel like they were not important enough to their mommy to warrant the time of filling one out, I am often jolted back to the fact that the time I would likely spend writing in their baby books is the time that I prefer to be on the floor playing with them. Rolling cars off the overturned chair in the play room that only an 18 month old boy would think to do. Playing Littlest Pet Shop. Coloring. Finger-painting. Dancing, laughing, baking cookies - you get the drift. Will my children be sad that they don't have a baby book or will they reflect and love their childhood memories of playtime with mommy? In a nutshell, this stuff takes time and lots and lots of energy (again, thank you dear Lord for coffee) By the time I flop into bed at the end of the evening, I really just want to read People magazine. Regardless, I am going to try to bone up on the Decision of 2008 once the debates begin - if I can stay awake long enough to actually watch them...Until then, I will be turning off my television once the bickering begins and changing the subject when friends start to go off on political tangents because really, life is just too darn short. I don't have a lot of spare time and I don't want to spend it debating over oil, health care, education, and, the hot-button of all hot-buttons, the war. I do believe we need to see some reform and change for the better but I also readily admit that I don't have the answers and may not be able to hammer any out anytime soon. Does this make me apolitical? Maybe. Do I not care? No - I am just tired.

So Unhip I'm Hip

I can't exactly put a finger on when I started to somewhat lose my "coolness" factor but I am thinking it was somewhere in the past five years...I must admit that while I won't blame this entirely on my children, there is somewhat of a correlation between when I had my first child and when I started to slip a bit on the "cool" barometer. Though I certainly don't want to sound like I am ridiculously full of myself, I must confess that there was indeed a time in which I was a pretty cool chick. I enjoyed my free time sipping good wine, doing some fun shopping in which I wore pretty trendy, cute clothes, and jetting around the Broad Ripple area of Indianapolis in my convertible Cabrio with the stereo up and a not a care in the world. In those same days, I would often stop in at La Jolla for an after-work margartia, go home and read People magazine before drifting off for a nap and then get ready to hit the scene for the evening by 9 p.m. I would then eat a late dinner and hit the bars in which one could always count on a somewhat lengthy evening. I mean, come on - there was an entire circle of us that did the same thing every weekend and we were indeed quite hip and fun. In other words, I had a darn good time in my youth, dammit. So now fast forward to about eight years later and I find myself recently walking through a Walgreen's with Missy Moo and Bubba Boo about six days after giving birth to my third child. For starters, I am a bit sore but so completely excited about getting out of my house that I am actually really jacked to go to the drugstore - not to mention proud of myself that I could get both of my older kiddos out the door and leave my newbie behind with our wonderful sitter for just an hour. As those of us who have given birth know, there is sometimes a problem with being able to go to the bathroom after delivery - and I am not talking about urinating. Docs often recommend that one take a stool softener for a while until things begin to "regulate"*. Let me also mention that I live in a Big Ten college town in which there are always very cute, innocent (at least they look that way to me) students who call me "ma'am". So here we are walking through the aisles of Walgreen's and I am looking for Colace. Well, wouldn't you know I can't find the dang aisle of "laxatives" and here I am by the pharmacy anyway so I decide that I just really don't care what people think. Let me just state that this is the first sign that you are getting along in years - you just don't really care what people think. Truthfully, I am going to admit that I like this about being in my mid-thirties - it is very liberating to just simply put yourself ou t there and whoever doesn't like it, well, so what. La di freakin' da! I am who I am. On the other hand, I do want to shake the shoulders of these youngin's and say "Stop looking at me that way just because I drive a Honda Odessey and am looking for laxatives with my two babies in tow! I once went to the H.O.R.D.E. Fest, played Quarters and ate "burritos as big as your head" at three o'clock in the morning, too! You will be here someday!" Thankfully, I have a small amount of a filter left and to date, I have yet to do this to a poor unsuspecting soul who is simply trying to just do his or her job. So here we are looking for Colace when I stop to ask the very cute 20-something male pharmacy technician where I might find this wonder-drug. Instead of flirting with the darling boy as I would have done in my carefree twenties, I now look at him and think of either of my two boys and what they will be like when they will be in college and then I also think that he is someone's son and his mom is probably wondering what he is doing and wanting to squeeze him so hard that he shirks away in embarrassment though he will secretly love it... Of course, said cutie has no idea where the Colace is located and must ask someone else, thus getting another person involved in my laxative hunt at Walgreen's. Once the cutie emerges to escort me to the laxative aisle (could there be anything more humbling? I mean really...), Missy Moo begins to turn this little quest into her newest littly ditty - have I mentioned that she is a budding songwriter? "Colace, Colace, mommy needs her Colace!" begins to be sung at top volume as we journey through the aisles behind the darling technician. It is not until we reach the checkout line that I realize that I didn't even care - in fact, it gave me a much-needed laugh at my own expense. Yes, there was a time when I would have been mortified at this but now, I have to relish in the fact that frankly, I don't give a damn. I have caught myself looking so scary and smelling so funky and yet still piling the crew into the truckster to go on an outing because there is just no time to attend to anything other than getting snacks, drinks, diapers, formula, pacifiers, and shoes. One must is my travel coffee and this always outweighs the need for primping, therefore, when I do catch sight of myself in a passing mirror, I am a little scared but hey - who has time for that? I like to think I look more real now and this would reflect who I am now in the inside of my soul - more real. The reality is that we are not always going to look perfect and care who is dating who and wearing what. At some point, we all grow up to realize that there is just so much more than that and my so much more is the world of snacks, boo-boo's, sippy cups, Laurie Berkner music, princesses, and trucks. My "so much more" is so much more that I am content with the new "unhip" of me. Besides, isn't it always the mortifyingly unhip that eventually becomes hip again? Well, here I am...

Excuse Me - Where is my Red Tent?

So I had a baby a month ago...Needless to say, things in this world have been a little on the, shall we say, chaotic side. Classic Old Spice and I are now officially outnumbered as adults - there are three small charges to our two older beings which certainly makes it interesting when everyone is screaming at the same time as was the case yesterday and will certainly happen at least a million times before we die. During my pregnancy, I read a great book entitled The Red Tent by Anita Diamant in which she tells a somewhat fictionalized account of the biblical story of Dinah, the only daughter of Leah who was the wife of Jacob. Leah's sister, Rachel, was also married to Jacob who in turn raised Dinah as well. Since Jacob seemed to really enjoy his right as a husband, it seemed as though someone was always pregnant, which of course, I can relate to since I feel as though I have now been pregnant for four years...The Red Tent was literally a tent in which women were required to inhabit while menstruating or for the month following the birth of a child. During either of these times, the women were expected to rest, eat well, and generally do nothing but just wait out their menses or heal from the vigors of childbirth. When a new baby needed to nurse, someone would simply take the baby to the mother, let them nurse and cuddle for a bit, then send the little person back to whoever was taking care of him or her for the month in which the mother is in the tent. So this gets me to thinking, as I was experiencing throbbing pain in the perineum and my breasts were so sore that I would have hissed like a rabid raccoon should someone accidentally brush up against me, where the h&^% is MY red tent? I think the women in the biblical era were on to something that we as a modern society we now get jipped on - our world moves so fast these days that we can only spend 48 hours from the time in which our baby is born in the hospital then we are expected to go home and jump right back into the swing of things as if we just had a little tetanus shot instead of actually delivering a watermelon through a straw-hole. Now I know I am not one to moan too loudly as I have been blessed with a lot of help; however, let's face it - having a newborn is freakin' exhausting. No one tells you how incredibly difficult it is for the first couple of weeks and if they do, for some reason you thought this would not apply to you. The thing is, when one is so sleep-deprived that their contacts are pasted to their eyeballs and their speech is slurred and distracted, nothing good can happen. Small things that would not even be a blip on my radar screen suddenly become huge issues of drama in which I feel that I will only be able to work through with intense counseling. My fuse is MUCH shorter with my other two children who are also trying to figure out what this new little person means in their world - Missy Moo has decided that she loves Number Three so very much but she still cannot stand Bubba Boo and likes to make little songs up about how much she does not like him. She is now obsessed with being a cheerleader and wears her cheerleading costume ALL of the time and insists that everyone call her PomPom. When I mistakenly referred to her as her birth-given name the other day it was a full-on meltdown that would have put my post-partum weepiness to shame (this would be good work) then pushed Bubba Boo because he had the unfortunate timing to round the corner and tug on her hair a little at approximately that time. While on the subject of Bubba Boo, he thinks it is funny to hit the new baby and poke at his eyeballs to see how he will react. Classic Old Spice is hot and cold as am I - we are a great pair but nothing upsets the equilibrium of our relationship more than a new baby. Some days we are on the same page and other days I think I am going to poke his eyeballs out (maybe this is where Bubba Boo gets this desire to do so to Number Three?). We will get back on-track as this is our pattern following childbirth but in the meantime, we take it day by day. It would be so much easier if I could simply escape to my red tent - in fact, I would just now be emerging! Now that we are approaching Number Three's fifth week of life, we are starting to see glimmers of a new norm that will someday feel like this is the way it has always been. In the meantime, Classic Old Spice has begun construction on his "mini-house" as I am referring to it though it is technically a shed. This "shed" will be wired for electricity and will have heat and air conditioning so I am thinking, could this be my red tent? If I put a bed in it, do we think I could go there once a month for a few days while my menses decide to pay a visit? Do we think anyone would believe that a mysterious condition might develop and cause me to have my menses a few times a month thus requiring me to have to go to the red tent? Something tells me that this is not going to be an option even if I change my name to Leah or Rachel..