Tonight I spent the dinner hour with my parents, sister and her family, and my grandfather.
It was humbling.
Quite often I forget what it is all about. Quite often I get lost in the "don't haves" and "can't do its" of my current moment in time. So let me frame my evening for you with the following facts.
First, both children had napped, and were clean and smiling. Second, my grandfather and I see each other every few weeks, but up until last year lived on the same plot of land, separated by a driveway. Third, my grandfather has dementia and it is following the usual course.
My youngest came out of the car seat and wrapped her arms around my father in a hug that lasted minutes. My grandfather was happy to see all of us and seemed especially happy to get cuddles from his great grandchildren. My oldest child was thrilled to be going to play with her "big cousin" and let out a shriek of joy when she saw him. The kids played nicely together, with the big taking care of the small, etc.
During dinner, my children ran, tipped things over, spilled, and did nearly everything but eat. Just as my patience was about to wear thin to the point of snapping. My grandfather looked at me and said "You've been blessed. You have two beautiful and happy girls." And you know what? He's right.
I am blessed to have them in my life. I am blessed to have time with them that allows us to get under each other's skin. I am blessed to have messes to clean up and teeth to brush and laundry to wash. All of it means we are family. We are living. We are living together as a family. It isn't always pretty, but it is a blessing.
And just one more thing, as we prepared to leave, my youngest climbed into her great grandpa's lap and leaned into his chest and began singing. For a moment, I was able to see my grandfather as he was when I was a child; A mountain of a man who felt like the safest place for a child to rest. Someone who would guard and guide me, protect and prepare me, and ultimately continue to teach me so much about life in very few words.
I have been blessed.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Oh for the love of...
I am not winning mother of the year. Phew! I feel better already. Here is a list of my transgressions in the last 24 hours:
My upbringing is one of total deference to the task of raising children. My parents did without, sacrificed and placed my sister and I at the top of their hierarchy. I'm grateful to them, but what I'm finding is that in doing so myself, there is nothing left for Mama. I can't allow myself to hire a sitter and do something independently because I feel guilty for being a working mom and not spending all of my downtime with my kids. I feel guilty for spending money to do something for myself, without them. I feel guilty. Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.
I know that it's time for a change because I caught myself snarling at a magazine that offered advice on parenting; "Oh yeah? Well I'll get you my pretty and your little twenty-something,photo-shopped, never-had -a-C-section, bikini-clad spokesperson too!"
I don't yet know what it will be, but in the words of Sheryl Crow, "A change will do you good."
- Lying about the time so that my oldest will go to sleep when she is tired versus when the clock gives her a number she likes.
- Further lying by telling her it was light out because it was a special sun holiday and therefore, it "really, really was night-time".
- Skipping three pages in the worst Cat in the Hat series book ever and refusing to go back and read them when caught. It was the book or my sanity and frankly, I'm the one paying the rent.
- Finally, losing my patience and refusing to let Miss 4 leave the dinner table last night until she ate her dinner. ( I am really, really tired of the "I'm hungry..... I'm not eating that. I'm already full" game.
My upbringing is one of total deference to the task of raising children. My parents did without, sacrificed and placed my sister and I at the top of their hierarchy. I'm grateful to them, but what I'm finding is that in doing so myself, there is nothing left for Mama. I can't allow myself to hire a sitter and do something independently because I feel guilty for being a working mom and not spending all of my downtime with my kids. I feel guilty for spending money to do something for myself, without them. I feel guilty. Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.
I know that it's time for a change because I caught myself snarling at a magazine that offered advice on parenting; "Oh yeah? Well I'll get you my pretty and your little twenty-something,photo-shopped, never-had -a-C-section, bikini-clad spokesperson too!"
I don't yet know what it will be, but in the words of Sheryl Crow, "A change will do you good."
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Just Do It
Right now I am in a sleep deprived funk. Oh yeah, it has also rained for at least a week straight. That isn't helping. So, after slogging through rain, being glared at by someone who felt I wasn't walking my girls fast enough in the BJ's parking lot in the pouring rain while wearing a walking cast, the final straw was my four year old, who has refused to nap, climbing me and screaming that I am not getting her a "squeezy yogurt" fast enough. Really, I just lost it. I'm not proud, but I will admit to quite sarcastically calling her "your highness" while handing her the entire box of 12 and going to the nearest bathroom to count VERY slowly.
I am clever enough to know this one moment isn't going to ruin her life, (I'm not even putting change in the therapy jar), but it does kind of smart to realize that I can be undone by a four year old. I am normally a calm and patient person. I am, dare I say it, really, really good at working with kids professionally. I just need some sleep.
In answer to the Barenaked Ladies call "Who Needs Sleep?" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BP67E0AfhAI, (Waving hand frantically, i.e. Arnold Horshack)."Me! Right here! Oh, Me! Please, oh please, dear God, me!"
This episode also brings into focus my huge anxiety that my kids don't sleep through the night with any regularity; that my four year old can only fall asleep with an adult settling her in and staying with her until she's out; and that on most nights of the week, there are at least three, if not four family members in my bed by morning. I love their little toddler and preschool presence. I love snuggling them and smelling their little kid-ness when they first wake up. I just want it to be closer to 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning and preferably after 6-8 hours of my own sleep.
I am apparently not alone. This week seventeen Mama-friends sent me a link to a spoofy children's book called "Go the F*** to Sleep". http://www.outsidethebeltway.com/new-childrens-book-go-the-f-to-sleep/ Why does it seem so hard to get little people, (who do have a routine- let me spare someone the time of suggesting it), to just go to sleep? I'm exhausted. They're exhausted and glassy-eyed. Please, dear ones, just do it?
I am clever enough to know this one moment isn't going to ruin her life, (I'm not even putting change in the therapy jar), but it does kind of smart to realize that I can be undone by a four year old. I am normally a calm and patient person. I am, dare I say it, really, really good at working with kids professionally. I just need some sleep.
In answer to the Barenaked Ladies call "Who Needs Sleep?" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BP67E0AfhAI, (Waving hand frantically, i.e. Arnold Horshack)."Me! Right here! Oh, Me! Please, oh please, dear God, me!"
This episode also brings into focus my huge anxiety that my kids don't sleep through the night with any regularity; that my four year old can only fall asleep with an adult settling her in and staying with her until she's out; and that on most nights of the week, there are at least three, if not four family members in my bed by morning. I love their little toddler and preschool presence. I love snuggling them and smelling their little kid-ness when they first wake up. I just want it to be closer to 5:00 or 6:00 in the morning and preferably after 6-8 hours of my own sleep.
I am apparently not alone. This week seventeen Mama-friends sent me a link to a spoofy children's book called "Go the F*** to Sleep". http://www.outsidethebeltway.com/new-childrens-book-go-the-f-to-sleep/ Why does it seem so hard to get little people, (who do have a routine- let me spare someone the time of suggesting it), to just go to sleep? I'm exhausted. They're exhausted and glassy-eyed. Please, dear ones, just do it?
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Mama CrankyPants and another quarter for the therapy jar
Little One has just enough hair now that, with some imagination, one can see the makings of a ponytail....well to be honest, it's more like the rat-tail thing that kind of caught on in the mid- to late-80's. So why is this important? Because I'm tired of this conversation:
Stranger: "What a handsome little boy. What's his name/How old is he?"
Me: "Her name is .../ She's 18 months."
Stranger: Was he named after someone in your family? That's an unusual name."
Mind you, most of Little One's clothes are pink, floral, frilly, girly, cute, feminine...I know it shouldn't bother me, and I honestly don't know why it does, but please, can we just keep comments on stranger's children more ambiguous so that neurotic Mamas like myself can stop worrying about the whole gender thing at 18 months?
And, I know I'm a stickler for this kind of thing, but if you are going to stop me in the middle of the store and ask me about my child, please know that I expect you to listen to the air flow I have effortfully forced through vocalic folds while simultaneously producing alternate voicing and devoicing and moving rapidly those articulators which shape the airstream into specific sounds at specific formants and frequencies to answer your question. In other words; you asked and I want you to listen to what I've said. "SHE is 18 months old. HER name is..."
This recent episode coincides with Miss 4 informing me that a peer recently told her she needed to wear "tighter clothes" if she wanted to be pretty. I still don't have a rational argument or response to this because I am so thrown off by the fact that four and five year-old girls are having this conversation. I am secretly pleased that my daughter was more concerned that her friend "didn't know she was wrong. Pretty clothes have sparkles. Tight clothes go to your little sister." So for a few brief moments I am relieved that the world has yet to define my daughter completely by her external self.
And yet I feel like I am part of the problem. On some level when a stranger comments on my "little boy", (and I react from a place that I am ashamed to admit is more about that stranger thinking my toddler is "handsome" rather than "pretty"), I know I am perpetuating the practice that looks are of some primary importance. And I wonder, would I be pondering things the same way if I were raising boys?
This one might deserve an extra quarter for the therapy jar. One for the kids, one for Me.
Stranger: "What a handsome little boy. What's his name/How old is he?"
Me: "Her name is .../ She's 18 months."
Stranger: Was he named after someone in your family? That's an unusual name."
Mind you, most of Little One's clothes are pink, floral, frilly, girly, cute, feminine...I know it shouldn't bother me, and I honestly don't know why it does, but please, can we just keep comments on stranger's children more ambiguous so that neurotic Mamas like myself can stop worrying about the whole gender thing at 18 months?
And, I know I'm a stickler for this kind of thing, but if you are going to stop me in the middle of the store and ask me about my child, please know that I expect you to listen to the air flow I have effortfully forced through vocalic folds while simultaneously producing alternate voicing and devoicing and moving rapidly those articulators which shape the airstream into specific sounds at specific formants and frequencies to answer your question. In other words; you asked and I want you to listen to what I've said. "SHE is 18 months old. HER name is..."
This recent episode coincides with Miss 4 informing me that a peer recently told her she needed to wear "tighter clothes" if she wanted to be pretty. I still don't have a rational argument or response to this because I am so thrown off by the fact that four and five year-old girls are having this conversation. I am secretly pleased that my daughter was more concerned that her friend "didn't know she was wrong. Pretty clothes have sparkles. Tight clothes go to your little sister." So for a few brief moments I am relieved that the world has yet to define my daughter completely by her external self.
And yet I feel like I am part of the problem. On some level when a stranger comments on my "little boy", (and I react from a place that I am ashamed to admit is more about that stranger thinking my toddler is "handsome" rather than "pretty"), I know I am perpetuating the practice that looks are of some primary importance. And I wonder, would I be pondering things the same way if I were raising boys?
This one might deserve an extra quarter for the therapy jar. One for the kids, one for Me.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
And so it begins...
Tonight, my darling toddler and Miss 4 joined forces. They rallied to fight the power. They rose up against the oppression forced down upon them by Mama.
It began innocently enough...(doesn't it always?)
It was time to change a diaper and while wrestling Little One to the floor, Miss 4 built a tent out of a quilt and dining room chairs. It had been raining all day and we are just getting back into the groove of being outside most of the time after a long winter, so anything that keeps them entertained is cool beans with me.
Another important detail...Little One is also fully capable of pulling off her own pants, (and diaper), and chose to do so as soon as she was turned loose.
Moments later I hear "Mooooo-ooo-ooom! My sister is peeing in the tent!" Now Miss 4 is at the stage of potty humor so I was not immediately as alarmed and reactive as I might have been a few months ago, so imagine my surprise when I flung back the quilt and found Little One commando, in a crouch, looking in amazement at the puddle of wee she was now standing in.
Stifling the sobs, I re-diapered Little One, cleaned up the wee, re-established the camp site in a less damp location and thought ever so briefly that I might have a moment to make a cup of coffee. (Poor dotty Mama. She used to be somewhat clever in her earlier days.)
As soon as the rear pocket of my pants hit the sofa, the wailing began. Miss 4 had "...accidentally, not on purpose Mama, really!" flicked Little One in the forehead through the tent door. Little One was setting up a noise to make an opera diva proud.
I comforted the little one, talked to the big one and garnered assurances that there would be no more flicking, poking, water-boarding, etc. and sent them both back to the tent with a starter idea for getting back into the game. Just as I was about to congratulate myself, I heard Miss 4 say, "C'mon sister...let's get away from Mama. I'll play with you!"
Are you serious? Already ganging up on Mama? That coffee is gonna need a little fortification.
It began innocently enough...(doesn't it always?)
It was time to change a diaper and while wrestling Little One to the floor, Miss 4 built a tent out of a quilt and dining room chairs. It had been raining all day and we are just getting back into the groove of being outside most of the time after a long winter, so anything that keeps them entertained is cool beans with me.
Another important detail...Little One is also fully capable of pulling off her own pants, (and diaper), and chose to do so as soon as she was turned loose.
Moments later I hear "Mooooo-ooo-ooom! My sister is peeing in the tent!" Now Miss 4 is at the stage of potty humor so I was not immediately as alarmed and reactive as I might have been a few months ago, so imagine my surprise when I flung back the quilt and found Little One commando, in a crouch, looking in amazement at the puddle of wee she was now standing in.
Stifling the sobs, I re-diapered Little One, cleaned up the wee, re-established the camp site in a less damp location and thought ever so briefly that I might have a moment to make a cup of coffee. (Poor dotty Mama. She used to be somewhat clever in her earlier days.)
As soon as the rear pocket of my pants hit the sofa, the wailing began. Miss 4 had "...accidentally, not on purpose Mama, really!" flicked Little One in the forehead through the tent door. Little One was setting up a noise to make an opera diva proud.
I comforted the little one, talked to the big one and garnered assurances that there would be no more flicking, poking, water-boarding, etc. and sent them both back to the tent with a starter idea for getting back into the game. Just as I was about to congratulate myself, I heard Miss 4 say, "C'mon sister...let's get away from Mama. I'll play with you!"
Are you serious? Already ganging up on Mama? That coffee is gonna need a little fortification.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe
My four-year-old has a STRONG fashion identity. This is not surprising really. She has made her desires known loudly clearly since she was about four months old when it came to clothing. There were sleepers she would, well, ...sleep in... and those that would create such a tempest of unrest that they were kept in the closet for sheer decoration and cuteness factor. She had a penchant for shoes as soon as she could reach over the shopping cart side and snag them with her own two hands. If Sex and the City staged a toddler revue, my daughter would be a contender based on sheer shoe volume.
Now given this, you might assume she is a Toddler and Tiara's kinda girl. Well....in a word, no. Is her hair brushed and neatly coiffed? Rarely. It still bothers me but I have to content myself for now with it being clean. I could poke at the lion in her cage every morning by insisting that she can't leave until it is tangle free, but for now, I'm erring on the side of maturity to help me with that battle. And, to my relief, I am slowly seeing signs of her caring that her hair is taken care of. Praise Be!
All Miss 4 wants to be right now is a pink witch. She saw a rather, shall we say, "provocative", Halloween costume last year and has not forgotten it. Clearly, the sparkly bustier and thigh-high tights are emblazoned on her brain. I am hanging on tightly to the notion that my being totally unbudging about her donning a bustier at four will not scar her for life. Or at least I am banking on it not being as detrimental as perhaps letting the blatant sexualization of little girls not begin in my house at four. Can she be a witch for Halloween? Sure! I'll help paint her face, buy the pointy hat, even find her some stripedy tights. Will they come with garters? Not so much. If I'm wrong, I'll put the extra quarter in the therapy jar. She'll have a nice tidy sum by adulthood.
...Stepping slowly off the soapbox...
Long ago, I decided that barring frostbite and sheer negligence, Miss 4's attire was not a reflection of my parenting and not something I wanted to battle daily. So I no longer offer "She dressed herself." with a nervous and apologetic giggle when we go out in public. I assume you will look at her red glitter shoes, floral leggings, camo skirt and neon green fleece and either get it, or not. So, given my total acceptance of all but the most illogical and unsafe of attire, I expected something similar in return. This week I donned a rather exceptional podiatric appliance. I now have a walking cast. Upon seeing me, Miss 4 immediately stated "I hate the color of your boot!" She is unfailing in her criticism. Because she is four, it is hard to separate her fashion sense from her fear of the unknown. So daily, I get to hear that she "hates" the color of the boot. We'll work on empathy as we go. For now, at least she's stepped away from criticizing my "brars".
Now given this, you might assume she is a Toddler and Tiara's kinda girl. Well....in a word, no. Is her hair brushed and neatly coiffed? Rarely. It still bothers me but I have to content myself for now with it being clean. I could poke at the lion in her cage every morning by insisting that she can't leave until it is tangle free, but for now, I'm erring on the side of maturity to help me with that battle. And, to my relief, I am slowly seeing signs of her caring that her hair is taken care of. Praise Be!
All Miss 4 wants to be right now is a pink witch. She saw a rather, shall we say, "provocative", Halloween costume last year and has not forgotten it. Clearly, the sparkly bustier and thigh-high tights are emblazoned on her brain. I am hanging on tightly to the notion that my being totally unbudging about her donning a bustier at four will not scar her for life. Or at least I am banking on it not being as detrimental as perhaps letting the blatant sexualization of little girls not begin in my house at four. Can she be a witch for Halloween? Sure! I'll help paint her face, buy the pointy hat, even find her some stripedy tights. Will they come with garters? Not so much. If I'm wrong, I'll put the extra quarter in the therapy jar. She'll have a nice tidy sum by adulthood.
...Stepping slowly off the soapbox...
Long ago, I decided that barring frostbite and sheer negligence, Miss 4's attire was not a reflection of my parenting and not something I wanted to battle daily. So I no longer offer "She dressed herself." with a nervous and apologetic giggle when we go out in public. I assume you will look at her red glitter shoes, floral leggings, camo skirt and neon green fleece and either get it, or not. So, given my total acceptance of all but the most illogical and unsafe of attire, I expected something similar in return. This week I donned a rather exceptional podiatric appliance. I now have a walking cast. Upon seeing me, Miss 4 immediately stated "I hate the color of your boot!" She is unfailing in her criticism. Because she is four, it is hard to separate her fashion sense from her fear of the unknown. So daily, I get to hear that she "hates" the color of the boot. We'll work on empathy as we go. For now, at least she's stepped away from criticizing my "brars".
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Don't ask...Just don't ask.
Upon arriving home from an extraordinarily meeting-filled day, one's mind drift ever so urgently to the possibility that the small members of the household will sit quietly while allowing you to drink a bottle glass of wine. And of course, the darlings were willing to comply...
Of course, first I had to do the following:
Of course, first I had to do the following:
- examine the mangled hyacinth and the trail of individual blossoms scattered across the yard, while agreeing that the crumpled, bedraggled mass was "pitty Mum-mum".
- determine whether the ants under my four year old's sneakers were "dead or just pretending, Mama?"
- Take a small rock out of the 18 month old's mouth
- Explain why Mommy couldn't read "Sing a Song of Sixpence", while pouring juice and extracting two gummy vitamins from the childproof jar.
- Explain why we don't have "Nakey" time in the front yard
- pull a baked bean out of the 18 month old's ear
- give a dissertation on the varying sizes of underwear on our clothesline and judge whose are prettiest
- and finally, try to work up some enthusiasm when the four year old says "Don't you think it would be lovely to have a nice bath"
Monday, May 9, 2011
Independence
Apparently, the joy of toddler-hood is increasing independence.
Our youngest, 18 months, has been a little slower to acquire words and phrases, but is making up for it now.
Today, no fewer than four times I heard "Nuuuuu!" (NO!) accompanied by wrinkled forehead and pursed lips. (Need a visual? Picture a dainty, elderly, church-lady type discovering that she has dog excrement on her Sunday best shoes. It's that face.)
This face and utterance have been used for everything from "nuuuu juuuush" (which of course means "Non maman. Je veux du lait, pas de jus.") to "nuuuu pup" (which of course means "Silly mother. Of course my pants are befouled, however I just do not wish to stop putting small pebbles in this knothole I have found. Go away silly woman and do not bother me again."
Perhaps the most exciting discovery was that she can open the corner cabinet unit and retrieve her own snacks. Initially I was delighted that her snack of choice was shredded wheat bites. Iron fortified! Full of wheatly goodness. Full of....(crap!)....fiber.
It's been an afternoon. And now I have just one thing to say. "Nuuuu pup!" I've had enough.
Our youngest, 18 months, has been a little slower to acquire words and phrases, but is making up for it now.
Today, no fewer than four times I heard "Nuuuuu!" (NO!) accompanied by wrinkled forehead and pursed lips. (Need a visual? Picture a dainty, elderly, church-lady type discovering that she has dog excrement on her Sunday best shoes. It's that face.)
This face and utterance have been used for everything from "nuuuu juuuush" (which of course means "Non maman. Je veux du lait, pas de jus.") to "nuuuu pup" (which of course means "Silly mother. Of course my pants are befouled, however I just do not wish to stop putting small pebbles in this knothole I have found. Go away silly woman and do not bother me again."
Perhaps the most exciting discovery was that she can open the corner cabinet unit and retrieve her own snacks. Initially I was delighted that her snack of choice was shredded wheat bites. Iron fortified! Full of wheatly goodness. Full of....(crap!)....fiber.
It's been an afternoon. And now I have just one thing to say. "Nuuuu pup!" I've had enough.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother's Day High/Low
So for mother's day, here's a snippet of the high/low...
- delicious breakfast with my sister's family and parents/ children who refused to eat it
- road trip to pick up building material/ full-blown four-year old temper tantrum, complete with high pitched shrieking, kicking and flailing
- Walpole Creamery ice cream/ too much ice cream=tummy ache (mine)
- "I love you so much and I'm so lucky to be your Mommy"/ "If you throw that toy at me again while I'm driving I'm going to toss it out the window for someone else to have!" ( I did apologize and own up to my poor behavior...)
Saturday, May 7, 2011
My four year old informed me that she has changed her mind. She has come to the conclusion after fifty months of living that she will, in fact, be getting married.
Imagine my surprise when she informed me that she already knows who she is going to marry! My darling child, who only four days ago told me she hated me and wanted a better Mom, has "proposed" to me. Yup, she wants to marry her mother. "When I'm bigger of course." she added.
Mind you, this is not the first big, life-changing conversation we've had in the last two weeks. On a recent car trip she burst into tears. Alarmed, I asked what was happening and she began in full wail "I don't want to have a baby!" ( I can only hope we don't have this conversation again at 15!) I tried to assure her that not everyone has babies; that she can choose when she is a grown-up. There was a brief, and I hoped calming, pause. "But Mom, how will my body know?!"
So twice now I have been offered a chance to tackle big issues and explain how life works, (or at least life as I know it), and twice I have dodged, hedged and otherwise avoided trying to explain. In my childless twenties I had such strong opinions about what the right answers to these questions should be. I knew how I would answer when these moments came up. What changed?
I actually live with the children asking these questions now. My oldest is at an age where information is its own currency and one piece of knowledge begets the need for yet one more. Trying to explain why she can't marry Mommy is only going to lead us to full-scale social observation at the grocery store. Gone will be the days of simply shopping and minding our own business. My preschooler will now be polling the populace, wanting to know marital status and why, or why not, are you married to this person. Sure, she's a cute four year old, but would you like to explain to her how your "...baby got in", (or for that matter, out of), "your tummy" in the middle of the rice cake aisle?
I thought not, so really, I'm doing a public service. I know, I know...you can thank me later.
Imagine my surprise when she informed me that she already knows who she is going to marry! My darling child, who only four days ago told me she hated me and wanted a better Mom, has "proposed" to me. Yup, she wants to marry her mother. "When I'm bigger of course." she added.
Mind you, this is not the first big, life-changing conversation we've had in the last two weeks. On a recent car trip she burst into tears. Alarmed, I asked what was happening and she began in full wail "I don't want to have a baby!" ( I can only hope we don't have this conversation again at 15!) I tried to assure her that not everyone has babies; that she can choose when she is a grown-up. There was a brief, and I hoped calming, pause. "But Mom, how will my body know?!"
So twice now I have been offered a chance to tackle big issues and explain how life works, (or at least life as I know it), and twice I have dodged, hedged and otherwise avoided trying to explain. In my childless twenties I had such strong opinions about what the right answers to these questions should be. I knew how I would answer when these moments came up. What changed?
I actually live with the children asking these questions now. My oldest is at an age where information is its own currency and one piece of knowledge begets the need for yet one more. Trying to explain why she can't marry Mommy is only going to lead us to full-scale social observation at the grocery store. Gone will be the days of simply shopping and minding our own business. My preschooler will now be polling the populace, wanting to know marital status and why, or why not, are you married to this person. Sure, she's a cute four year old, but would you like to explain to her how your "...baby got in", (or for that matter, out of), "your tummy" in the middle of the rice cake aisle?
I thought not, so really, I'm doing a public service. I know, I know...you can thank me later.
A Challenge...
In January I swore I would try one new thing a week for a whole year. It pretty quickly became apparent that this was a bit lofty and an immediate revision was necessary. So, the one-a-week, became one-a-month and then, well, let's just be completely honest here....I'm now shooting for one new thing per season.
What can you expect to find here? Hmm....Something along the lines of the Seinfeld premise of a show about nothing. On any given day you may find a rant or a recipe, a book review or a bad joke, a story about my two young children that I think is hysterical or illustrative of the struggle of trying to work, parent, relate and live well, all at the same time. In a nutshell, this is me...and motherhood, unscripted.
What can you expect to find here? Hmm....Something along the lines of the Seinfeld premise of a show about nothing. On any given day you may find a rant or a recipe, a book review or a bad joke, a story about my two young children that I think is hysterical or illustrative of the struggle of trying to work, parent, relate and live well, all at the same time. In a nutshell, this is me...and motherhood, unscripted.
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