I've been reviewing long enough now that I'm starting to form an opinion on the format of pre-release books that I like. Multnomah and Integrity send out those big spiral bound monstrosities and Bethany House the one that looks like a book, sort of. Every one else I've done sent the completed book even when it wasn't out yet.
I kinda like the monstrosities. Funny, huh? You can just whip it around and leave it open. No bookmark, no dog ears and it garners attention.
Yes, I am important. I do get to read books before you common people.
I sat in a coffee shop with Reluctant Burglar, Jill Elizabeth Nelson's debut novel for something like three and a half hours yesterday. Sure, everyone else in there was typing away on their laptops, but I'm sure they were coveting my book.
I've waited a long time to read this book. I've been in ACFW for just over a year now and on the "loop" I get email from Jill. Not personal, mind you, but they are written by her. And her sig line has this list of books that she's written. When Armchair sent out the list of Multnomah books that needed a review this month I jumped on that one. Lucky me, I was sitting at the computer when the email came through. Otherwise I'd never have gotten it. You gotta move fast with all those bibliophiles on the loose (back off, people, it's mine!). I can't tell you how many great books I've missed out on because I wasn't at my computer at the right time.
So, Reluctant Burglar. Have I mentioned how I don't read Romantic Suspense usually? I ALWAYS know who did it in the first five chapters. ALWAYS. And of course the girl gets the guy. It is usually the guy she hates at the beginning (Okay, so Jill held to this mold). So you know that neither of them will die. It is just fact. And usually the bad guy, the one who ties up all the loose ends in the second to last chapter? He's the non-hero guy who has been painted as the good guy the rest of the book. All the rest of the guys mentioned are bad. Bad guy, bad guy, hero, bad guy, good guy. The good guy "dunnit." Not so. Kudos Jill. If I give you all the other reasons why you'll never expect it, you'd expect it, so I won't. But I will say, I was quite satisfied. She even got my blood pumping.
So, that said. I hope that when book two comes out in my email I'm sitting in front of the computer. I may just like Romantic Suspense, after all.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Who is the Saddest?
Today I took my almost-three-year-old out to buy a G.I. Joe. Which of course no one carries. Apparently it is more politically correct to carry monsters, demons and terrorists in the action figure aisle than it is to carry an Army Man. But, as usual, that isn't my rant--even if it should be. Okay, I'll rant a little longer. What kind of country do we live in that our little boys can't have a hero that isn't a freak? I mean, come one!
Shake it off, Jamie.
So, he was going to get the GI Joe because he quit sucking his thumb. Yes, I resort to bribery. It works. There is a reason that parents use it. I've been bribing his sister with a Barbie for quite a while. He decided he'd quit sucking his thumb for a Barbie even if his sister wouldn't. I said that was okay with me. Hey, I figured I could buy him a Ken doll and still be telling the truth. Besides, I didn't figure that he'd actually quit. But he did. And his daddy said that Ken was out and GI Joe was the ticket.
But no one sells GI Joe.
Any-hoo....he carried his lamby into the store. Other mommy's will recognize the fated words lovey, blankie, maybe binky? I knew better. He knew better. He always loses it in the store and I charge around the store looking until I find it.
More than once today I looked down to find it perched over the rails of the cart, rescued it from certain doom and stuck it where I thought it was safe. It was not safe.
For more time than we were in the store shopping, I tore around the place looking for the lamby getting more and more irate. Growing hotter. Fuming. Both figuratively and literally. Finally, he said "sorry mom, I wost my wammy."
"Oh, you'll be sorry alright. You'll be sorry when you have to go to bed and you don't have it because for once someone walked by and threw it in the trash and you won't have it anymore." By now I'm crying.
The child didn't shed a tear. The child who has gone into hysterics over the lamby. That can't possible sleep without the lamby. He announced to his daddy over dinner, "I wost my wammy and they throw it in the trash."
He didn't even ask for it at bedtime. I still want to cry. I wanted to save it for him. Sniff. Sniff.
But of course he doesn't need it. He no longer sucks his thumb. If only it would work for his sister.
Shake it off, Jamie.
So, he was going to get the GI Joe because he quit sucking his thumb. Yes, I resort to bribery. It works. There is a reason that parents use it. I've been bribing his sister with a Barbie for quite a while. He decided he'd quit sucking his thumb for a Barbie even if his sister wouldn't. I said that was okay with me. Hey, I figured I could buy him a Ken doll and still be telling the truth. Besides, I didn't figure that he'd actually quit. But he did. And his daddy said that Ken was out and GI Joe was the ticket.
But no one sells GI Joe.
Any-hoo....he carried his lamby into the store. Other mommy's will recognize the fated words lovey, blankie, maybe binky? I knew better. He knew better. He always loses it in the store and I charge around the store looking until I find it.
More than once today I looked down to find it perched over the rails of the cart, rescued it from certain doom and stuck it where I thought it was safe. It was not safe.
For more time than we were in the store shopping, I tore around the place looking for the lamby getting more and more irate. Growing hotter. Fuming. Both figuratively and literally. Finally, he said "sorry mom, I wost my wammy."
"Oh, you'll be sorry alright. You'll be sorry when you have to go to bed and you don't have it because for once someone walked by and threw it in the trash and you won't have it anymore." By now I'm crying.
The child didn't shed a tear. The child who has gone into hysterics over the lamby. That can't possible sleep without the lamby. He announced to his daddy over dinner, "I wost my wammy and they throw it in the trash."
He didn't even ask for it at bedtime. I still want to cry. I wanted to save it for him. Sniff. Sniff.
But of course he doesn't need it. He no longer sucks his thumb. If only it would work for his sister.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
I Am From
I first saw this on Mary's blog and had to do it myself. Update here: I first linked to Mary's new I am from post, but you gotta read her original one here.
I Am From...
I am from sawdust, from Chevy and wet cement handprints.
I am from the gray brick ranch surrounded by wheat fields and sprouting houses and tarantulas marching down the street.
I am from pink hued petunias by the front porch, the breath of new lilac on the fierce spring wind.
I am from banging pots at the New Year, from Santa’s kicking legs in the chimney, NOEL and the winter wonderland even when there was no snow, and blue eyes, from Lynn and Charlotte and Devon and Amy.
I am from the smell of coffee wafting out of the yellow cup at four AM on the road to New Iberia and from brown bananas in front of “Ragget Ears.”
From “don’t bug your sister” and “you can drink water.”
I am from “For God so loved the world…” and church every Sunday and Wednesday at Emmanuel whether we wanted to go or not.
I’m from Liberal and Scotland and the Prince of Orange, goulash and tuna noodle casserole.
From the javelin thrown farther than the Germans would believe, from the umbrella it slashed, and the statement, “I’m thared of Thanta Clauth.”
I am from cardboard boxes on the top shelf of the closet that hold the photos of the moments of our lives. Of Mom caught on camera behind the tree again and feathered hair and graduation caps where future melds with past in a thing called love.
I Am From...
I am from sawdust, from Chevy and wet cement handprints.
I am from the gray brick ranch surrounded by wheat fields and sprouting houses and tarantulas marching down the street.
I am from pink hued petunias by the front porch, the breath of new lilac on the fierce spring wind.
I am from banging pots at the New Year, from Santa’s kicking legs in the chimney, NOEL and the winter wonderland even when there was no snow, and blue eyes, from Lynn and Charlotte and Devon and Amy.
I am from the smell of coffee wafting out of the yellow cup at four AM on the road to New Iberia and from brown bananas in front of “Ragget Ears.”
From “don’t bug your sister” and “you can drink water.”
I am from “For God so loved the world…” and church every Sunday and Wednesday at Emmanuel whether we wanted to go or not.
I’m from Liberal and Scotland and the Prince of Orange, goulash and tuna noodle casserole.
From the javelin thrown farther than the Germans would believe, from the umbrella it slashed, and the statement, “I’m thared of Thanta Clauth.”
I am from cardboard boxes on the top shelf of the closet that hold the photos of the moments of our lives. Of Mom caught on camera behind the tree again and feathered hair and graduation caps where future melds with past in a thing called love.
Best Mom Ever
...and how that was short lived.
So last week, about Wednesday, I took my kids to Wal-Mart to pick up some Claritin--very important stuff in the Spring. We had to walk past about fifteen carts full of clearance Easter stuff at 50% off. My son wanted to spend his money on one of those pre-filled baskets. I okayed it. Then he decided he wanted a bigger basket with bigger jets in it. He didn't have the money for that one. Big disagreement. Declared "unfair." Even though I explained, patiently, that the transforming jets basket was only $5 and the big jet basket was $10 and he only had $5 (and should be thankful that I would cover the tax).
Fast forward to Friday. I went to Wal-Mart again for something else (Wal-Mart is superclose to my house). Baskets are now marked down to 75% off therefore the big jet basket is now $5 and I point that out (see son, how patience is a virtue and works out for good?).
He decides he wants the transforming jets instead. How about that? His sister also wants a basket which I let her pick out. But I can't really let the two of them have one and not let the three year old (with no concept of money except that his siblings and parents like it so it must be good) have one. When we get to the check out counter I pay. My eldest son keeps trying to pay and I tell him it is a gift.
Declared for the rest of the morning, "You are the Best Mom Ever."
How I wish he could remember that today. But I'll revel in my glorious, though short lived, title.
So last week, about Wednesday, I took my kids to Wal-Mart to pick up some Claritin--very important stuff in the Spring. We had to walk past about fifteen carts full of clearance Easter stuff at 50% off. My son wanted to spend his money on one of those pre-filled baskets. I okayed it. Then he decided he wanted a bigger basket with bigger jets in it. He didn't have the money for that one. Big disagreement. Declared "unfair." Even though I explained, patiently, that the transforming jets basket was only $5 and the big jet basket was $10 and he only had $5 (and should be thankful that I would cover the tax).
Fast forward to Friday. I went to Wal-Mart again for something else (Wal-Mart is superclose to my house). Baskets are now marked down to 75% off therefore the big jet basket is now $5 and I point that out (see son, how patience is a virtue and works out for good?).
He decides he wants the transforming jets instead. How about that? His sister also wants a basket which I let her pick out. But I can't really let the two of them have one and not let the three year old (with no concept of money except that his siblings and parents like it so it must be good) have one. When we get to the check out counter I pay. My eldest son keeps trying to pay and I tell him it is a gift.
Declared for the rest of the morning, "You are the Best Mom Ever."
How I wish he could remember that today. But I'll revel in my glorious, though short lived, title.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Organizational Envy
As promised, Allie Pleiter, author of Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom and Bad Heiress Day, is guest blogging for me. And she is much more humorous. Or is it just that anyone's problems are funnier than my own?
Without further ado...HEEEEERRRRRRE'S Allie!
She walked in with a color-coded computerized calendar.
Now, that’s no news to me, I’m addicted to my computerized calendar. I’m the queen of time management. A consummate list-maker. I prioritize. I live for timetables and spreadsheets.
But hers had colors. One for each family member. Oooo…
Hypnotized, I drew closer. I’m reasonably sure I even “ooo”ed and “ah”ed. I asked her how she did it, and resisted the impulse to take notes as she told me the simple instructions.
It’s amazing, isn’t it, how quickly we can crave an improvement? Even if organization was already a strength of mine, I was astounded at her “superiority” and how much I wanted it. And boy, I wanted it.
Entire industries are built on women’s ability to do this. In our area, we have a whole chain or stores devoted entirely to organization. Not that this is a bad thing, but it’s scary how easily I can be convinced that a product is just the thing to solve my organizational problem. That the end of chaos is just the right gadget away. Did I really need a saltine keeper? Or did just the concept of ever-crispy crackers lure me with its promise of better housekeeping?
It’s a false promise. If I were really committed to better housekeeping, I’d dust more than once a year. I’d clean my fridge before it resembled a science project. I’d own shelf liners and you couldn’t feed a small nation off what you’d find beneath my couch cushions.
Am I tackling any of these much-needed tasks this morning? Nope. I’m sitting at my laptop, spending a few hours trying to color-code my schedule. Because sometimes, “cool” is so much cooler than “clean.”
Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction. An avid knitter, harp player, and non-reformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, doing laundry, running carpools, and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, spent 15 years in the field of professional fundraising, and currently lives in suburban Chicago, Illinois. The "dare from a friend" to begin writing eight years ago has blossomed into a career that includes numerous public speaking engagements, two books on parenting; BECOMING A CHIEF HOME OFFICER and FACING EVERY MOM'S FEARS, and four novels: BAD HEIRESS DAY and QUEEN ESTHER AND THE SECOND GRADERS OF DOOM out now, MY SO-CALLED LOVE LIFE coming in August, and THE PERFECT BLEND in 2007. She has been married for 15 years, is the mother of two children and, most recently, a Havanese dog named Bella. Visit her website at www.alliepleiter.com.
Without further ado...HEEEEERRRRRRE'S Allie!
She walked in with a color-coded computerized calendar.
Now, that’s no news to me, I’m addicted to my computerized calendar. I’m the queen of time management. A consummate list-maker. I prioritize. I live for timetables and spreadsheets.
But hers had colors. One for each family member. Oooo…
Hypnotized, I drew closer. I’m reasonably sure I even “ooo”ed and “ah”ed. I asked her how she did it, and resisted the impulse to take notes as she told me the simple instructions.
It’s amazing, isn’t it, how quickly we can crave an improvement? Even if organization was already a strength of mine, I was astounded at her “superiority” and how much I wanted it. And boy, I wanted it.
Entire industries are built on women’s ability to do this. In our area, we have a whole chain or stores devoted entirely to organization. Not that this is a bad thing, but it’s scary how easily I can be convinced that a product is just the thing to solve my organizational problem. That the end of chaos is just the right gadget away. Did I really need a saltine keeper? Or did just the concept of ever-crispy crackers lure me with its promise of better housekeeping?
It’s a false promise. If I were really committed to better housekeeping, I’d dust more than once a year. I’d clean my fridge before it resembled a science project. I’d own shelf liners and you couldn’t feed a small nation off what you’d find beneath my couch cushions.
Am I tackling any of these much-needed tasks this morning? Nope. I’m sitting at my laptop, spending a few hours trying to color-code my schedule. Because sometimes, “cool” is so much cooler than “clean.”
Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and non-fiction. An avid knitter, harp player, and non-reformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, doing laundry, running carpools, and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in Speech from Northwestern University, spent 15 years in the field of professional fundraising, and currently lives in suburban Chicago, Illinois. The "dare from a friend" to begin writing eight years ago has blossomed into a career that includes numerous public speaking engagements, two books on parenting; BECOMING A CHIEF HOME OFFICER and FACING EVERY MOM'S FEARS, and four novels: BAD HEIRESS DAY and QUEEN ESTHER AND THE SECOND GRADERS OF DOOM out now, MY SO-CALLED LOVE LIFE coming in August, and THE PERFECT BLEND in 2007. She has been married for 15 years, is the mother of two children and, most recently, a Havanese dog named Bella. Visit her website at www.alliepleiter.com.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom
I know what you're thinking. At least I was. No she isn't a teacher. Not in the traditional sense. She teaches Sunday school which presents its own special set of circumstances. At least I assume so.
Can I just say this book is hilarious?
Not your traditional mom-lit. At least the mom-lit I've read. Most mom-lit out there has mothers of teenagers. (Actually Allie has one of those too--Bad Heiress Day--you should check it out)Or the standard working woman juggling house and job. But Queen Essie (Okay Allie, fess up....you came up with this AFTER too many renditions of Veggies didn't you?) is my kind of gal. She sarcastic, but not acidic. She's feisty,but not mean. Her husband has his moments, her kid does as well. Well, there is the ear infection thing. I'm one of the have nots--thank you Jesus!--so I don't get it, but I know many who will.
No, just a regular young mom, doing her part and teaching Sunday school to a bunch of bratty kids (age appropriate behavior, of course) and dealing with their bratty, ahem, I mean obsessive moms. And she comes to care for the kids, AND their moms. And there are nifty side stories about returning to work, all or nothing personalities, and breast cancer. All good stuff. Not preachy, just real. REAL, people.
And the author, Allie Pleiter, is guest blogging for me on Tuesday. Come on back. She's got some great things to say.
On another note, guess who is the best mother ever? I'll tell ya all about it later this week.
Can I just say this book is hilarious?
Not your traditional mom-lit. At least the mom-lit I've read. Most mom-lit out there has mothers of teenagers. (Actually Allie has one of those too--Bad Heiress Day--you should check it out)Or the standard working woman juggling house and job. But Queen Essie (Okay Allie, fess up....you came up with this AFTER too many renditions of Veggies didn't you?) is my kind of gal. She sarcastic, but not acidic. She's feisty,but not mean. Her husband has his moments, her kid does as well. Well, there is the ear infection thing. I'm one of the have nots--thank you Jesus!--so I don't get it, but I know many who will.
No, just a regular young mom, doing her part and teaching Sunday school to a bunch of bratty kids (age appropriate behavior, of course) and dealing with their bratty, ahem, I mean obsessive moms. And she comes to care for the kids, AND their moms. And there are nifty side stories about returning to work, all or nothing personalities, and breast cancer. All good stuff. Not preachy, just real. REAL, people.
And the author, Allie Pleiter, is guest blogging for me on Tuesday. Come on back. She's got some great things to say.
On another note, guess who is the best mother ever? I'll tell ya all about it later this week.
Friday, April 21, 2006
The Doubt Sets In
I'm so frustrated I could cry and it's not because I just sat down on a wet toilet seat (when will I learn?).
No, the thing is, I know that I'm supposed to have another baby. I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to adopt her. Or maybe this is my own evil desires overriding my obedience. But there is no money to pay for this adoption as far as I know. Under those circumstances, it seems that agencies and international are out. Which leaves foster care. Which practically eliminates infants in Kansas at least.
You know, back before we were married we had a plan. We agreed on this plan. It was a good plan. The plan didn't happen. Instead of the plan--marry, get pregnant, graduate (college), have baby, have three more babies, when babies are in middle school adopt a sibling group, have large, colorful family--instead of that we got what we got. Marry, fail to get pregnant, graduate, hear hints that we should get pregnant, call foster system, get told off (too young, too stupid(okay she didn't use the word stupid, but she insinuated it)), get pregnant, miscarry, again, minor fertility testing (ovulating (duh)), find agency, wait, find another agency, wait, get call , get another call, get another call, actually get baby, get another call (other agency), get pregnant, have baby, finalize adoption, get pregnant.
Now, six years later I want to jump back into the system, except the first time we did this was in 2000. Do you remember the stock market in Y2K? Let's specify that, do you remember the stock market in March of Y2K? We made a lot of money. We lost a lot in April, but March was good and so was God and we managed to get enough out to pay the fees.
Yes, I know about the tax credit. The thing about tax credits, at least the adoption tax credit is that you have to actually owe the government the money to get it credited back to you. Did I mention we haven't made a lot lately? Enough to live on and a little extra, but not exactly $10K credit worthy (yes I know it can come over several years).
Part of the problem is we want a baby, a girl baby, a brown girl baby. We aren't picky or anything. Sigh.
Only God.
I just wish He'd let me in on the secret of how she is coming, because I'm out of ideas.
No, the thing is, I know that I'm supposed to have another baby. I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to adopt her. Or maybe this is my own evil desires overriding my obedience. But there is no money to pay for this adoption as far as I know. Under those circumstances, it seems that agencies and international are out. Which leaves foster care. Which practically eliminates infants in Kansas at least.
You know, back before we were married we had a plan. We agreed on this plan. It was a good plan. The plan didn't happen. Instead of the plan--marry, get pregnant, graduate (college), have baby, have three more babies, when babies are in middle school adopt a sibling group, have large, colorful family--instead of that we got what we got. Marry, fail to get pregnant, graduate, hear hints that we should get pregnant, call foster system, get told off (too young, too stupid(okay she didn't use the word stupid, but she insinuated it)), get pregnant, miscarry, again, minor fertility testing (ovulating (duh)), find agency, wait, find another agency, wait, get call , get another call, get another call, actually get baby, get another call (other agency), get pregnant, have baby, finalize adoption, get pregnant.
Now, six years later I want to jump back into the system, except the first time we did this was in 2000. Do you remember the stock market in Y2K? Let's specify that, do you remember the stock market in March of Y2K? We made a lot of money. We lost a lot in April, but March was good and so was God and we managed to get enough out to pay the fees.
Yes, I know about the tax credit. The thing about tax credits, at least the adoption tax credit is that you have to actually owe the government the money to get it credited back to you. Did I mention we haven't made a lot lately? Enough to live on and a little extra, but not exactly $10K credit worthy (yes I know it can come over several years).
Part of the problem is we want a baby, a girl baby, a brown girl baby. We aren't picky or anything. Sigh.
Only God.
I just wish He'd let me in on the secret of how she is coming, because I'm out of ideas.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Dove Unconditional Chocolate Ice Cream, a Poem
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee when my son attempts to behead his brother with a garage door.
I love thee when my heart recovers its normal rhythm.
I love thee when my husband has left for yet another business trip.
I love thee when I hear wretched news.
I love thee when my confusion overwhelms my brain.
I love thee when my stomach grumbles.
I love the caress of your ganache on my tongue.
I love the hug of your creamy goodness across my lips.
I love the fullness of your chunks.
I love each and every one of your eighteen fat grams.
I love that your taste lasted through bedtime.
I love that I could remember you while reading The Dawn Treader yet again.
I love that one coffee-spoon-full will stave my craving.
I love that you wait frozen for me.
I love that you care not whether I final.
I love that you caught my eye at the store, even before I knew I would weep.
Above all, my Dove Unconditional Chocolate Ice Cream, above all,
I'll love you forever if you will just ignore the siren call of my hips.
I love thee when my son attempts to behead his brother with a garage door.
I love thee when my heart recovers its normal rhythm.
I love thee when my husband has left for yet another business trip.
I love thee when I hear wretched news.
I love thee when my confusion overwhelms my brain.
I love thee when my stomach grumbles.
I love the caress of your ganache on my tongue.
I love the hug of your creamy goodness across my lips.
I love the fullness of your chunks.
I love each and every one of your eighteen fat grams.
I love that your taste lasted through bedtime.
I love that I could remember you while reading The Dawn Treader yet again.
I love that one coffee-spoon-full will stave my craving.
I love that you wait frozen for me.
I love that you care not whether I final.
I love that you caught my eye at the store, even before I knew I would weep.
Above all, my Dove Unconditional Chocolate Ice Cream, above all,
I'll love you forever if you will just ignore the siren call of my hips.
Too Much Stuff
I have too much stuff. And I have plenty of excuses. Here they are.
I live in a place that experiences all four seasons.
That means four seasons of clothes. Or more like six. We have warm, hot, cool, cold, super cold (two weeks a year, but one must be prepared), and super hot (this one lasts about a month for me). My closets are bursting. Yes, I really only need one or two thick fleece shirt things for the super cold, but I stare at them all the rest of the year, hating them and wondering if I could get away without them. (I'm always glad they are there the next year.)
That means four seasons of bedding, for five people. It requires a minimum of flannel sheets, down comforter, electric blanket, high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and silk sheets for me (just because I'm a silk kind of girl). Because I birth my babies at home, and on the off chance that I should get pregnant again I have to keep a minimum of two extra sets that are designated "birthing sheets."
I have two genders of children.
That means that I must keep everything that could possibly fit the younger version of the older. I have finally given up on the girl stuff. For one, my daughter went through toddlerhood in the flare leg era and by the time girl number two (from whence we have yet found out that she will come) comes through, I have little doubt that those will be hideously out of date. But I still keep a ridiculous number of boy things. Plus I garage sale, so I buy ahead at least one season and usually four. I mean sales happen in summer and so I really NEED to buy for summer, fall, winter, spring and next summer, right?
That means two genders (and two ethnicities) of toys. Yes, they cross play. My boys play with dolls, my girl plays with cars and trains, heck, my pink girl plays with brown boy dolls, and my brown boy plays with pink girl dolls, that's just the way we are. Regardless, double genders still means more toys because they really do prefer different things no matter what the sociologists try to tell us.
No one thinks I should "fling boogie" their stuff.
Granted it happens, but it is usually followed by, "Honey, where is my......?" and "You aren't getting rid of that are you?" and "But I love this shirt that is too small for me!"
Did I mention that I garage sale?
I never knew I needed it until I found out that it was only a dime. Or until I accidentally found a set of books for 20 dollars that I ebayed for closer to 400. Now I wonder if I can ebay lots of things and unless they are books (and sometimes if they are) they rarely get ebayed. I have overcome this particular problem but I still have a little residual effect.
Yes, I've heard of Flylady. Yes, she does work, as long as I do. But a lot of my problem would not be helped by flinging, it would just make me broke because I'd have to re-buy it.
Suggestions?
Update: I neglected to mention shoes. Snow boots, rain boots, sneakers, church shoes, sandals for play, sandals for church. And silverware for my fantacy baby. As if I couldn't buy one pack of the rediculously priced stuff should fantacy baby arrive.
I live in a place that experiences all four seasons.
That means four seasons of clothes. Or more like six. We have warm, hot, cool, cold, super cold (two weeks a year, but one must be prepared), and super hot (this one lasts about a month for me). My closets are bursting. Yes, I really only need one or two thick fleece shirt things for the super cold, but I stare at them all the rest of the year, hating them and wondering if I could get away without them. (I'm always glad they are there the next year.)
That means four seasons of bedding, for five people. It requires a minimum of flannel sheets, down comforter, electric blanket, high thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and silk sheets for me (just because I'm a silk kind of girl). Because I birth my babies at home, and on the off chance that I should get pregnant again I have to keep a minimum of two extra sets that are designated "birthing sheets."
I have two genders of children.
That means that I must keep everything that could possibly fit the younger version of the older. I have finally given up on the girl stuff. For one, my daughter went through toddlerhood in the flare leg era and by the time girl number two (from whence we have yet found out that she will come) comes through, I have little doubt that those will be hideously out of date. But I still keep a ridiculous number of boy things. Plus I garage sale, so I buy ahead at least one season and usually four. I mean sales happen in summer and so I really NEED to buy for summer, fall, winter, spring and next summer, right?
That means two genders (and two ethnicities) of toys. Yes, they cross play. My boys play with dolls, my girl plays with cars and trains, heck, my pink girl plays with brown boy dolls, and my brown boy plays with pink girl dolls, that's just the way we are. Regardless, double genders still means more toys because they really do prefer different things no matter what the sociologists try to tell us.
No one thinks I should "fling boogie" their stuff.
Granted it happens, but it is usually followed by, "Honey, where is my......?" and "You aren't getting rid of that are you?" and "But I love this shirt that is too small for me!"
Did I mention that I garage sale?
I never knew I needed it until I found out that it was only a dime. Or until I accidentally found a set of books for 20 dollars that I ebayed for closer to 400. Now I wonder if I can ebay lots of things and unless they are books (and sometimes if they are) they rarely get ebayed. I have overcome this particular problem but I still have a little residual effect.
Yes, I've heard of Flylady. Yes, she does work, as long as I do. But a lot of my problem would not be helped by flinging, it would just make me broke because I'd have to re-buy it.
Suggestions?
Update: I neglected to mention shoes. Snow boots, rain boots, sneakers, church shoes, sandals for play, sandals for church. And silverware for my fantacy baby. As if I couldn't buy one pack of the rediculously priced stuff should fantacy baby arrive.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
The Robins, One More Time
So, she builds up what looks like a nest and the next time I pass, it has all come down. She works again (I do actually see her dropping twigs and grass into the crevice) and next time I pass it is all down. I remember this from last year, but it didn't seem to last quite this long.
I had a hunch that she just needed a couple days of quiet (no kids tearing in and out of the front door) to get her to finish the nest and lay her eggs. Considering we would all be out of the house for four days last weekend I thought I'd come home to a nest with four blue eggs.
Not so. I came home to nothing. Huh, guess she changed her mind....
Anyway, yesterday morning I walked out and overnight she'd built up the whole crevice and was beginning to mud in the round portion of her nest. And then? Two hours later, she'd knocked it all down.
Meanwhile, there is a massive nest building taking place over our back porch light that I didn't know about. I discovered it mid-morning.
There is a lot of grass, hay, horse-hair, man-hair, stuffing, straw (anyone read THE BEST NEST? Cute.) that gets dropped under the nest site in the nest building process. I discovered the nest because of the pile of junk that my kids almost got in trouble for. I ignored this particular nest because I think it is doomed, but (shrug) no one told the bird.
So, remember when my son ran through the back door? Well, it left the screen portion curled up obnoxiously. And the second aforementioned robin decided to incorporate it into her nest. I pushed open the door and down came nest all over me.
I don't think it dissuaded her one iota.
So this morning, robin number one built up the crevice again and tore it down again. Robin two has not yet incorporated the screen into her nest today but it is still precariously perched over the halogen light that angles down.
I have a feeling that these robins are not meant to procreate. Darwin awards anyone?
I had a hunch that she just needed a couple days of quiet (no kids tearing in and out of the front door) to get her to finish the nest and lay her eggs. Considering we would all be out of the house for four days last weekend I thought I'd come home to a nest with four blue eggs.
Not so. I came home to nothing. Huh, guess she changed her mind....
Anyway, yesterday morning I walked out and overnight she'd built up the whole crevice and was beginning to mud in the round portion of her nest. And then? Two hours later, she'd knocked it all down.
Meanwhile, there is a massive nest building taking place over our back porch light that I didn't know about. I discovered it mid-morning.
There is a lot of grass, hay, horse-hair, man-hair, stuffing, straw (anyone read THE BEST NEST? Cute.) that gets dropped under the nest site in the nest building process. I discovered the nest because of the pile of junk that my kids almost got in trouble for. I ignored this particular nest because I think it is doomed, but (shrug) no one told the bird.
So, remember when my son ran through the back door? Well, it left the screen portion curled up obnoxiously. And the second aforementioned robin decided to incorporate it into her nest. I pushed open the door and down came nest all over me.
I don't think it dissuaded her one iota.
So this morning, robin number one built up the crevice again and tore it down again. Robin two has not yet incorporated the screen into her nest today but it is still precariously perched over the halogen light that angles down.
I have a feeling that these robins are not meant to procreate. Darwin awards anyone?
Monday, April 17, 2006
Two Moments in Time
Seven months ago I was in a hurry. I had a plane to catch. I was running late. And I NEEDED two things from Wal-Mart. Dressed in high heels, I ran across the parking lot and into the store where I found the two things I needed and ran to the "speedy" twenty-items or less lane. There was only one lady in front of me and she had two things also. One of those pink rubber bracelet things and a pair of white socks with the pink awareness ribbon on them.
"I'm in luck," I thought, "in, out and on my way."
No such luck. The cashier saw what the lady was purchasing and they opened this obnoxiously long dialogue about breast cancer and awareness and walks they had participated in and products they could purchase and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. (See you thought I was a whacko because I still remembered what she bought, but you would too, wouldn't you?) I was about to pull out my hair. I HAD A PLANE TO CATCH! THIS WAS THE SPEEDY LANE! DIDN'T THEY KNOW I LOOKED FRANTIC TO GET OUT OF THERE? WHO STINKING CARES THAT YOU CAN BUY SO MUCH STUFF WITH PINK RIBBONS ON IT THESE DAYS?
A lady noticed my wild eyes and opened the next lane. I made my plane.
Fast forward to the end of February when my very calm, very protective older sister opened a phone call with something along the lines of, "I have some news that is probably nothing but...."
The next call said, "It's still probably nothing, but...."
The next call said, "It's bad news, but it's still good news..."
Breast cancer.
We are young. We are not supposed to have to face this ugly thing. And oh, it is ugly. A few weeks ago, when it was still "probably nothing" I said, "Cut 'em off, I'm not attached, now my husband....(chuckle, chuckle)."
I'm stupid.
Thankfully there are many many people out there who are not as stupid as I am. Those two ladies at Wal-Mart, for example. Or the clerk at Dillards who helped us find a well fitting bra and good camouflage (until the reconstruction is finished)this weekend. She walked right into the dressing room, didn't flinch at the scars and knew just what to do. (The 8 dollar smoothing pads doubled up work a lot better than the 50 dollar weighted silicone thingie.) And lets not forget the two people who have already donated to the 60 mile walk in my sister's name. I thank you.
Suddenly I find myself tearing up at every pink ribboned coin drop. Hopefully, my stupidity is over. But I wouldn't count on it.
If you would like to donate to breast cancer research, click here.
"I'm in luck," I thought, "in, out and on my way."
No such luck. The cashier saw what the lady was purchasing and they opened this obnoxiously long dialogue about breast cancer and awareness and walks they had participated in and products they could purchase and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. (See you thought I was a whacko because I still remembered what she bought, but you would too, wouldn't you?) I was about to pull out my hair. I HAD A PLANE TO CATCH! THIS WAS THE SPEEDY LANE! DIDN'T THEY KNOW I LOOKED FRANTIC TO GET OUT OF THERE? WHO STINKING CARES THAT YOU CAN BUY SO MUCH STUFF WITH PINK RIBBONS ON IT THESE DAYS?
A lady noticed my wild eyes and opened the next lane. I made my plane.
Fast forward to the end of February when my very calm, very protective older sister opened a phone call with something along the lines of, "I have some news that is probably nothing but...."
The next call said, "It's still probably nothing, but...."
The next call said, "It's bad news, but it's still good news..."
Breast cancer.
We are young. We are not supposed to have to face this ugly thing. And oh, it is ugly. A few weeks ago, when it was still "probably nothing" I said, "Cut 'em off, I'm not attached, now my husband....(chuckle, chuckle)."
I'm stupid.
Thankfully there are many many people out there who are not as stupid as I am. Those two ladies at Wal-Mart, for example. Or the clerk at Dillards who helped us find a well fitting bra and good camouflage (until the reconstruction is finished)this weekend. She walked right into the dressing room, didn't flinch at the scars and knew just what to do. (The 8 dollar smoothing pads doubled up work a lot better than the 50 dollar weighted silicone thingie.) And lets not forget the two people who have already donated to the 60 mile walk in my sister's name. I thank you.
Suddenly I find myself tearing up at every pink ribboned coin drop. Hopefully, my stupidity is over. But I wouldn't count on it.
If you would like to donate to breast cancer research, click here.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Separation Anxiety
I again had the moment that every mom dreams of and yet dreads. I packed my kids into the van, kissed them goodbye, and sent them to their grandma's.
And I'm weepy, why?
For days I've said I needed some time alone. I've had NONE. Not even at night. Even when one makes it through the night without invading my bed another takes a turn. I really needed a quiet night. But it was so unexpected.
I expected them to leave tomorrow, just after ice skating lessons. Not tonight before I even had a chance to experience separation anxiety. So when the decision was made, I had to compound twelve hours of emotion into less than 30 minutes.
Thankfully my "baby" awakened so that I could say a proper goodbye.
As I will now say to you. Back Monday.
And I'm weepy, why?
For days I've said I needed some time alone. I've had NONE. Not even at night. Even when one makes it through the night without invading my bed another takes a turn. I really needed a quiet night. But it was so unexpected.
I expected them to leave tomorrow, just after ice skating lessons. Not tonight before I even had a chance to experience separation anxiety. So when the decision was made, I had to compound twelve hours of emotion into less than 30 minutes.
Thankfully my "baby" awakened so that I could say a proper goodbye.
As I will now say to you. Back Monday.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
The Secret Life of Becky Miller
Think you have a rich fantasy life? I'd muster a guess that you've got nothing on Becky Miller. While most moms of preschoolers fantasize about visiting the restroom alone, Becky is dreaming about being Samurai (okay, she doesn't say that, but some kind of Asian body-guard), a race car driver, shipwrecked (with her kids--what's that about?) on a deserted island, saving the world, and exceedingly more. Yet in reality, Becky lives the mundane life of an at-home mom: over-committed, undervalued and often the target of explosive stomachs.
To quote Meredith Efken: mothers are mired in the "morass of the mundane." I love that. Though I think she is quoting an editor's rejection letter....you should ask her.
At face value, The Secret Life of Becky Miller seems to be mom-lit, and yet I didn't find myself laughing much. Don't get me wrong, I found a few chuckles...I particularly identified with chapter three, but I saw a little too much of myself in Becky (excepting possibly the too-good-to-be-true husband). Regardless, there is much value besides laughter within the book. Becky, like many of us, wants to do Big Things for God, and she has a pretty good idea of what she thinks that means. And, like most human effort, her good intentions crumble about her--whether or not her well-meaning church ladies spout the appropriate platitudes.
This is where I would ex-postulate on how much I HATE to be told "It's just a season!" Except this isn't all about me and my irritations.
I could really identify with Becky. My friends all seem to have their lives together. I often feel like mine is falling apart. And sometimes I fill my life up with things that I can accomplish and get recognition for rather than things that I'm supposed to do. The Secret Life of Becky Miller is a much more serious take on Christian motherhood than first glance will indicate. Don't go into it looking for a barrel of laughs (that is if you struggle with the same issues as Becky and I) but go into it expecting.
I'd quote my favorite line here, but there is a note on the title page that asks me not to quote this not final version. My paraphrase won't capture it, but let me say; it can be so much better than this if we will just get on God's boat instead of swimming in the unfulfilling mire of our own creation.
Visit Sharon Hinck's website for more info.
And while I'm talking about it, go pick up Captivating by Stasi Eldridge. I have spent my entire day crying over chapter six.
To quote Meredith Efken: mothers are mired in the "morass of the mundane." I love that. Though I think she is quoting an editor's rejection letter....you should ask her.
At face value, The Secret Life of Becky Miller seems to be mom-lit, and yet I didn't find myself laughing much. Don't get me wrong, I found a few chuckles...I particularly identified with chapter three, but I saw a little too much of myself in Becky (excepting possibly the too-good-to-be-true husband). Regardless, there is much value besides laughter within the book. Becky, like many of us, wants to do Big Things for God, and she has a pretty good idea of what she thinks that means. And, like most human effort, her good intentions crumble about her--whether or not her well-meaning church ladies spout the appropriate platitudes.
This is where I would ex-postulate on how much I HATE to be told "It's just a season!" Except this isn't all about me and my irritations.
I could really identify with Becky. My friends all seem to have their lives together. I often feel like mine is falling apart. And sometimes I fill my life up with things that I can accomplish and get recognition for rather than things that I'm supposed to do. The Secret Life of Becky Miller is a much more serious take on Christian motherhood than first glance will indicate. Don't go into it looking for a barrel of laughs (that is if you struggle with the same issues as Becky and I) but go into it expecting.
I'd quote my favorite line here, but there is a note on the title page that asks me not to quote this not final version. My paraphrase won't capture it, but let me say; it can be so much better than this if we will just get on God's boat instead of swimming in the unfulfilling mire of our own creation.
Visit Sharon Hinck's website for more info.
And while I'm talking about it, go pick up Captivating by Stasi Eldridge. I have spent my entire day crying over chapter six.
Mornings, How I Hate Them
It's my husband's fault. He's just loud. Actually, recently I've figured out that we all are loud people. I know this because I drove my niece and my daughter to go ice skating a couple weeks ago. My niece was sitting right behind me while my daughter was sitting in the far back row. I heard my daughter loud and clear. My niece? Couldn't hear a word. Not even when I told her to speak up. And no radio was on. She can be standing right in front of me and I can be looking at her mouth and have no clue what she is asking.
And I knew I yelled a lot. Not anger yelling (though I'm not immune) just "what do you want and why are your fighting again, and quit sitting on your sister's head." Would you walk across the backyard in your bare feet to tell them quietly when you could holler it from the back door? My neighbors probably think I'm crazy. Actually they know I'm crazy. They are all original occupants of our subdivision and chose to not have children so they could have vacations in Hawaii. How I can't wait until I get to go and can tell them so.
ANYWAY.....So my husband can not get up and showered and dressed in the morning without waking the house. He is incapable of dressing on the part of the floor that doesn't squeak. He's just loud. And the spring sunlight is trying so hard to filter its way through my blinds. And the birds are twitterpated and I just want to sleep until the kids get up. Which will be shortly because my husband doesn't know how to go down the stairs and skip the squeaky ones.
And I want to run screaming from the house in frustration.
Because the thing is, it isn't that the kids get up early. It's that if my husband sleeps in, so do the kids. Which makes it his fault that I am so grumpy on the mornings that he gets up early to go to toastmasters which usually corresponds to his working late nights. ('nother subject)
Am I right, or am I right? Right. Right. Right. Right. Right.
And I knew I yelled a lot. Not anger yelling (though I'm not immune) just "what do you want and why are your fighting again, and quit sitting on your sister's head." Would you walk across the backyard in your bare feet to tell them quietly when you could holler it from the back door? My neighbors probably think I'm crazy. Actually they know I'm crazy. They are all original occupants of our subdivision and chose to not have children so they could have vacations in Hawaii. How I can't wait until I get to go and can tell them so.
ANYWAY.....So my husband can not get up and showered and dressed in the morning without waking the house. He is incapable of dressing on the part of the floor that doesn't squeak. He's just loud. And the spring sunlight is trying so hard to filter its way through my blinds. And the birds are twitterpated and I just want to sleep until the kids get up. Which will be shortly because my husband doesn't know how to go down the stairs and skip the squeaky ones.
And I want to run screaming from the house in frustration.
Because the thing is, it isn't that the kids get up early. It's that if my husband sleeps in, so do the kids. Which makes it his fault that I am so grumpy on the mornings that he gets up early to go to toastmasters which usually corresponds to his working late nights. ('nother subject)
Am I right, or am I right? Right. Right. Right. Right. Right.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Time Flies
Tonight, as I often do on Sundays because of the "all 80s weekend," I cranked on the radio while I cooked supper (pancakes), turned it down for eating, but when "Wild Wild West come on, I cranked it back up and danced a jig in the kitchen with my daughter.
I know better than to start that. One dance is never enough. But, as I often do with leftover pancake batter, I was trying to finish the batch and pled "must cook, dance with Daddy." I even threw on "he's a good dancer" even though it was a blatant lie. I give him credit, he will dance with me, but he grew up Mennonite (they converted me for a bit) and dancing is just not their thing. Tee-hee.
Anyway, Journey was on. Journey reminds me of us when we were young. Hubby, cornered, stood to dance with Daughter and put her on his toes to dance in what he called the Middle School Fashion--swaying back and forth. We got to giggling over that as I placed my hands on his shoulders, stiff armed him and we all three swayed. Until I had to flip the pancakes.
As I cooked, I caught them out of the corner of my eyes and I was stricken by my husband all grown up. We are living the life we dreamed when we were fifteen. I'm not dancing with my Daddy and dreaming about Mr. Right, my daughter is.
My husband turned 30 last week. Considering I beat him to that milestone by a good six months, 30 doesn't sound ALL that old. 'BOUT STINKIN' TIME! But we have known each other longer now than we haven't. I am amazed at the continual marching of time.
When I look at him now, I see someone comfortable. I forget that he used to make my stomach flutter just by brushing past me in the hall. I caught his smell this morning in church. And it isn't the smell I fell in love with. (We get that one when we spend a week with his parents--Ummmmm) But it smells like him. Like my pillow.
Something about the juxtaposition of Journey, a song I equate with falling in love with him, and him dancing with OUR daughter just makes me feel all romantic and nostalgic inside. I may have to go put the CD on and see if I can get him to dance with me.
I know better than to start that. One dance is never enough. But, as I often do with leftover pancake batter, I was trying to finish the batch and pled "must cook, dance with Daddy." I even threw on "he's a good dancer" even though it was a blatant lie. I give him credit, he will dance with me, but he grew up Mennonite (they converted me for a bit) and dancing is just not their thing. Tee-hee.
Anyway, Journey was on. Journey reminds me of us when we were young. Hubby, cornered, stood to dance with Daughter and put her on his toes to dance in what he called the Middle School Fashion--swaying back and forth. We got to giggling over that as I placed my hands on his shoulders, stiff armed him and we all three swayed. Until I had to flip the pancakes.
As I cooked, I caught them out of the corner of my eyes and I was stricken by my husband all grown up. We are living the life we dreamed when we were fifteen. I'm not dancing with my Daddy and dreaming about Mr. Right, my daughter is.
My husband turned 30 last week. Considering I beat him to that milestone by a good six months, 30 doesn't sound ALL that old. 'BOUT STINKIN' TIME! But we have known each other longer now than we haven't. I am amazed at the continual marching of time.
When I look at him now, I see someone comfortable. I forget that he used to make my stomach flutter just by brushing past me in the hall. I caught his smell this morning in church. And it isn't the smell I fell in love with. (We get that one when we spend a week with his parents--Ummmmm) But it smells like him. Like my pillow.
Something about the juxtaposition of Journey, a song I equate with falling in love with him, and him dancing with OUR daughter just makes me feel all romantic and nostalgic inside. I may have to go put the CD on and see if I can get him to dance with me.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
In Over my Head and Tree Ring Circus
I wrote this wonderfully witty post about reviewing and especially about a book I reviewed and when I went to post it up, blogger crashed. Now I can't recover the thing and I'm not sure I have it in me to re-write it. Particularly since a recreation of a post that you thought was witty, is almost never as witty as the first one. Even if it is wittier in fact, it will never measure up. Besides, an hour has passed and now it's practically bedtime.
Sigh.
But I'll try. So, on Tuesday I got four books in the mail to review. I kid you not. FOUR! You tell people you'll review for them and they promise to send the book and ..... nothing. So you tell more people you'll review for them and they say they'll send it and ... nothing. And then one day they start coming. And they come and they come and they keep coming and before you know it, the floodgates have opened and you are so far behind you'll never catch up. Thankfully only two of the books have a deadline to get done and both of those are picture books and both are done. They were two of my Tuesday four. I gave myself three days to read them to my kids, analyze whether it would be a long term hit versus and new book flash in the pan, wrote my reviews and sent them to Connie at Armchair.
The rest I have in a stack and will take them in the order that they came. I'm about five deep. And they are all novels. Not picture books. How smart was I to agree to review children's for the deadline people? Nah, I'll get them all done in the very generous four-week time period. Even unenforced.
Anyway, let me tell you about Tree Ring Circus by Adam Rex. The entertainment starts on page one folks. I kid you not. I spend several moments (as many as my children would allow) inspecting the subtleties of the title page. Now that I can sit and read it alone, let me tell you, it is hilarious!
What an awesome book! It has everything. The illustrations (by the author) stay true to the circus theme and incorporate the text (making you wonder if you are supposed to be reading it right up until you notice that the pictures are beginning to rhyme and build in intensity). This is a parent friendly book. The kind that you will helpfully suggest when your kid toddles over with one of those books that you just hate to read. And the kid will go for it. I mean why not? The illustrations are full color, vivid, and entertaining. The text reads flawlessly (no clunky cadence). And there are monkeys (what kid doesn't love a good monkey?).
I love, love, love this book. It reminds me of the reason I'm not published instead of making me wonder why others got that way. So, Mr. Rex, when is the next one coming out? (Asks the reviewer who got this one three months before it is available....)
And just in case you wondered. This is no where near as witty as the first post. Rats.
Sigh.
But I'll try. So, on Tuesday I got four books in the mail to review. I kid you not. FOUR! You tell people you'll review for them and they promise to send the book and ..... nothing. So you tell more people you'll review for them and they say they'll send it and ... nothing. And then one day they start coming. And they come and they come and they keep coming and before you know it, the floodgates have opened and you are so far behind you'll never catch up. Thankfully only two of the books have a deadline to get done and both of those are picture books and both are done. They were two of my Tuesday four. I gave myself three days to read them to my kids, analyze whether it would be a long term hit versus and new book flash in the pan, wrote my reviews and sent them to Connie at Armchair.
The rest I have in a stack and will take them in the order that they came. I'm about five deep. And they are all novels. Not picture books. How smart was I to agree to review children's for the deadline people? Nah, I'll get them all done in the very generous four-week time period. Even unenforced.
Anyway, let me tell you about Tree Ring Circus by Adam Rex. The entertainment starts on page one folks. I kid you not. I spend several moments (as many as my children would allow) inspecting the subtleties of the title page. Now that I can sit and read it alone, let me tell you, it is hilarious!
What an awesome book! It has everything. The illustrations (by the author) stay true to the circus theme and incorporate the text (making you wonder if you are supposed to be reading it right up until you notice that the pictures are beginning to rhyme and build in intensity). This is a parent friendly book. The kind that you will helpfully suggest when your kid toddles over with one of those books that you just hate to read. And the kid will go for it. I mean why not? The illustrations are full color, vivid, and entertaining. The text reads flawlessly (no clunky cadence). And there are monkeys (what kid doesn't love a good monkey?).
I love, love, love this book. It reminds me of the reason I'm not published instead of making me wonder why others got that way. So, Mr. Rex, when is the next one coming out? (Asks the reviewer who got this one three months before it is available....)
And just in case you wondered. This is no where near as witty as the first post. Rats.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Mary E. DeMuth
I have the distinct pleasure of posting a guest blogger today. Unfortunately, I am technologically inept and cannot post photos, but if you want to know what Mary DeMuth looks like(she is beautiful), link over to her page. Shoot, link over anyway, and then link forward to her blog. She has good stuff to say.
Mary E. DeMuth has been crafting prose since 1992, first as a newsletter editor, then as a freelance writer, followed by a fiction and nonfiction author. Mary’s articles have appeared in Marriage Partnership, In Touch, HomeLife, Discipleship Journal, Pray!, Bon Appetit, Kindred Spirit, P31 Woman, and Hearts at Home. For two years she penned a lifestyle column for Star Community Newspapers in Dallas (circulation 100,000). Mary’s books include Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God (Harvest House, 2005), Sister Freaks (Time Warner, 2005, one of four contributing authors, Editor Rebecca St. James), Building the Christian Family You Never Had (WaterBrook, 2006), Watching the Tree Limbs, and Wishing on Dandelions (NavPress, both novels releasing in 2006). In 2003, she won the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference’s Pacesetter Award. Mary loves to speak about the art and craft of writing as well as the redemptive hand of God in impossible situations. She’s spoken in Munich, Vienna, Amsterdam, Portland, Dallas, Seattle, and San Jose. A thirty-nine-year-old mother of three, Mary lives with her husband Patrick in the South of France. Together with two other families, they are planting a church.
Today I read about a Homeland Security honcho getting arrested for trying to seduce what he thought was a 14 year old over the Internet. The terrible story is here. And congress is now (finally!!!) investigating this.
Every time I speak to a group of people and bring up childhood sexual abuse, I get knowing glances from many, many folks. My guess, though, is that the incidents of this abuse is much higher today because of the Internet and the further breakdown of communities and families. It makes me sick. Angry.
Livid.
Children are our future, but they are systematically victimized on the altar of sick pleasure. I've had to endure years of pain because of my own issues dealing with childhood sexual abuse from neighbors. I ache for every single person who has had to live through that hell.
I wrote Watching the Tree Limbs as a response. I wanted to offer hope to people who had been violated as children. I wanted to portray an honest wrestling with a God who seemed far away. I wanted a character to grapple with, "Where was God when I was being abused?" I wanted, through the vehicle of a page-turning story, reveal God's tender mercy toward the abuse victim.
I hoped to put the reader in a victimized girl's flip-flops, in a similar way Harper Lee walked us around in Boo Radley's shoes.
So, yes, I'm sickened by these recent reports. It makes me mad. The Bible says Satan comes like a thief to steal, kill and destroy. I have a sinking feeling childhood sexual abuse is one of his most powerful tools to destroying humankind.
There's a song, "Make a Joyful Noise to the Lord," I love to sing. In the bridge it repeats, "I will not be silent, no. I will not be silent anymore."
That's how I feel about this issue. Silence is deadening our children. It's time to speak up.
Mary E. DeMuth has been crafting prose since 1992, first as a newsletter editor, then as a freelance writer, followed by a fiction and nonfiction author. Mary’s articles have appeared in Marriage Partnership, In Touch, HomeLife, Discipleship Journal, Pray!, Bon Appetit, Kindred Spirit, P31 Woman, and Hearts at Home. For two years she penned a lifestyle column for Star Community Newspapers in Dallas (circulation 100,000). Mary’s books include Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God (Harvest House, 2005), Sister Freaks (Time Warner, 2005, one of four contributing authors, Editor Rebecca St. James), Building the Christian Family You Never Had (WaterBrook, 2006), Watching the Tree Limbs, and Wishing on Dandelions (NavPress, both novels releasing in 2006). In 2003, she won the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference’s Pacesetter Award. Mary loves to speak about the art and craft of writing as well as the redemptive hand of God in impossible situations. She’s spoken in Munich, Vienna, Amsterdam, Portland, Dallas, Seattle, and San Jose. A thirty-nine-year-old mother of three, Mary lives with her husband Patrick in the South of France. Together with two other families, they are planting a church.
Today I read about a Homeland Security honcho getting arrested for trying to seduce what he thought was a 14 year old over the Internet. The terrible story is here. And congress is now (finally!!!) investigating this.
Every time I speak to a group of people and bring up childhood sexual abuse, I get knowing glances from many, many folks. My guess, though, is that the incidents of this abuse is much higher today because of the Internet and the further breakdown of communities and families. It makes me sick. Angry.
Livid.
Children are our future, but they are systematically victimized on the altar of sick pleasure. I've had to endure years of pain because of my own issues dealing with childhood sexual abuse from neighbors. I ache for every single person who has had to live through that hell.
I wrote Watching the Tree Limbs as a response. I wanted to offer hope to people who had been violated as children. I wanted to portray an honest wrestling with a God who seemed far away. I wanted a character to grapple with, "Where was God when I was being abused?" I wanted, through the vehicle of a page-turning story, reveal God's tender mercy toward the abuse victim.
I hoped to put the reader in a victimized girl's flip-flops, in a similar way Harper Lee walked us around in Boo Radley's shoes.
So, yes, I'm sickened by these recent reports. It makes me mad. The Bible says Satan comes like a thief to steal, kill and destroy. I have a sinking feeling childhood sexual abuse is one of his most powerful tools to destroying humankind.
There's a song, "Make a Joyful Noise to the Lord," I love to sing. In the bridge it repeats, "I will not be silent, no. I will not be silent anymore."
That's how I feel about this issue. Silence is deadening our children. It's time to speak up.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
I Have a Robin!
Last year, a mommy robin decided to build a nest on our porch light. I encouraged her behavior. My daughter and I cut up a bunch of yarn and scattered it in my flower beds and the robin wove it into her nest. She took about a week to lay her four blue eggs, but they all hatched in the same 24 hours. We watched her bring her babies food and we watched them leave the nest. It was so much fun that I thought I might really be able to handle homeschooling. We learned so much about robins.
Side note: They are very clean. When I exclaimed my glee about my robin my neighbor made a face and shuddered. Robins are not barn swallows folks. No gigantic piles of stinky poo on my porch. Just sweet baby robins.
So anyway, I've watched the robins scoping out my yard for nesting grounds and have pled through my kitchen windows, "Pick us! We'll be good to you." Yesterday I saw her begin her nest. I should go look it up and see if mothers return to their same nesting grounds or if this is one of the babies returning. I think of it as my fellow mother of multitudes.
Anyway my daughter and I scrambled to cut up some wrapping paper ribbon (all out of yarn this week) and scatter it in the flowerbeds again. This morning we saw it delicately placed in her nesting spot. It will take her several days to build up the area underneath her nest, but she'll build the actual nest overnight if last year is any indicator.
I love spring.
I have 25 hyacinths blooming in my front flower bed. I have daffodils blooming in a couple spots. My holly have tiny red blooms or berries. My lilac is leafing out. My tulips are budding. My lilies are coming up. My Rose of Sharon hedge is planted. And my flowering bushes that I've planted at random are in full bloom.
My heart soars in the spring. I love the smell of the air and the feel of the breeze on my face. I love sleeping with the windows open. And being in Kansas, I love the sound of a thunderstorm racing across the prairie, bringing thunder and lightning and rain and the smell of wet earth. Not so fond of the hail and tornadoes, but hey, with all that is good about Kansas in spring, I'll take the good with the bad.
So now you can understand why the robin is such a big deal to me. When the robins come back and begin their nest, spring is upon me. Ahhhhhh......
But what's up with Amazing Race being on Wednesday?
Side note: They are very clean. When I exclaimed my glee about my robin my neighbor made a face and shuddered. Robins are not barn swallows folks. No gigantic piles of stinky poo on my porch. Just sweet baby robins.
So anyway, I've watched the robins scoping out my yard for nesting grounds and have pled through my kitchen windows, "Pick us! We'll be good to you." Yesterday I saw her begin her nest. I should go look it up and see if mothers return to their same nesting grounds or if this is one of the babies returning. I think of it as my fellow mother of multitudes.
Anyway my daughter and I scrambled to cut up some wrapping paper ribbon (all out of yarn this week) and scatter it in the flowerbeds again. This morning we saw it delicately placed in her nesting spot. It will take her several days to build up the area underneath her nest, but she'll build the actual nest overnight if last year is any indicator.
I love spring.
I have 25 hyacinths blooming in my front flower bed. I have daffodils blooming in a couple spots. My holly have tiny red blooms or berries. My lilac is leafing out. My tulips are budding. My lilies are coming up. My Rose of Sharon hedge is planted. And my flowering bushes that I've planted at random are in full bloom.
My heart soars in the spring. I love the smell of the air and the feel of the breeze on my face. I love sleeping with the windows open. And being in Kansas, I love the sound of a thunderstorm racing across the prairie, bringing thunder and lightning and rain and the smell of wet earth. Not so fond of the hail and tornadoes, but hey, with all that is good about Kansas in spring, I'll take the good with the bad.
So now you can understand why the robin is such a big deal to me. When the robins come back and begin their nest, spring is upon me. Ahhhhhh......
But what's up with Amazing Race being on Wednesday?
Monday, April 03, 2006
Finding Faith
It came in the mail Thursday and boy was my son disappointed. He thought it was Jimmy Neutron. I was not so disappointed. I put my other books down and started it.
Fab-u-lous.
Listen to these lines:
"...he'd been as distant as Australia since he drove her home."
"There should be a proverb explaining how to get out of the web once it was already woven."
"Anxiety tiptoed across Paula's skin."
Who can come up with stuff like that? And that's not the half of it. In the middle of the book, I actually gasped. And then I shrieked, "She didn't!" She being Denise. I never saw it coming. Never. And I won't tell you any more about it because you need to have the gasp moment. Afterward I kept wondering how I didn't see it coming. But I didn't. And I consider myself a pretty see-it-coming type gal.
All I know is that you (and you and you and you) need to read this book. Finding Faith by Denise Hunter. You won't be disappointed.
Seriously.
Come visit Armchair Interviews and read my review.
Fab-u-lous.
Listen to these lines:
"...he'd been as distant as Australia since he drove her home."
"There should be a proverb explaining how to get out of the web once it was already woven."
"Anxiety tiptoed across Paula's skin."
Who can come up with stuff like that? And that's not the half of it. In the middle of the book, I actually gasped. And then I shrieked, "She didn't!" She being Denise. I never saw it coming. Never. And I won't tell you any more about it because you need to have the gasp moment. Afterward I kept wondering how I didn't see it coming. But I didn't. And I consider myself a pretty see-it-coming type gal.
All I know is that you (and you and you and you) need to read this book. Finding Faith by Denise Hunter. You won't be disappointed.
Seriously.
Come visit Armchair Interviews and read my review.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
I Feel Woozy
Can't you just hear Madame Blueberry saying that? I've been quoting her for over a week now. It is as if I've been walking around with about a point one percent blood alcohol level and I haven't taken a drink.
I have this nasty head cold. Sinus infection? I don't know. And I'm a nose breather so it's been pretty ugly the last few days. I'll have dreams that I'm under water. Or trapped in a cave. Or breathing, but for some reason there is no oxygen in the air and I'll wake up and gasp because it is that ingrained in me to breath through my nose when I sleep. But that isn't the worst part.
For several days I've thought I must have a lot of pressure on my inner ear because when I flopped over onto my back, my world would spin. I've had inner ear infections before and it feels much like that except it really only happens with sharp head movements or in just the right angle.
But other days? Dang. I blink and blink and blink and can't focus. And my heart races. And the world just tilts and I wonder if I should be driving but my daughter has ice skating lessons and I have to go!!!
I have two theories and I remembered them both on the same day. Thursday night just after I'd spent the whole day "drunk," I remembered that my mom told me psudophedrine causes heart palpitations or racing or something (don't sue me drug guys...I don't know what it does exactly and I still use it) and I've been taking TONS. Not more than the recommended dose. Not even as much as is allowed in 24 hours, but two in the morning and two just before I go to bed. Unless of course I take a shot of the Wal-Mart version of NyQuil. And no, I don't do that in the morning or I'd know what was causing the drunkenness. Anyway, four a day is a lot more than none which is normal life, or one just before bed which is pregnant and nursing life and I've been living it up lately without being responsible for someone else's brain development.
Anyway, feeling that crazy out of control is scary for a girl that considers herself very healthy. I worry enough about it that I wondered if my blood pressure shot up, or I was going diabetic or something. And THEN I remembered that the last time I was freaking out that I was on my way six feet under, I'd been taking pseudopherine and my mom had told me to stop and lo and behold I got better (couldn't breathe mind you, but I could see again). So I've gone cold turkey since Thursday and no more drunk.
But my head still spins when I turn it a certain way. (And I have those drowning dreams.)
And then I remembered last month when I tried to demonstrate a backwards somersault to my daughter and messed up my upper back that although I no longer have excruciating pain, it is still tight. So I'm wondering if I have a pinched nerve.
See the hysteria that sets in when you walk around inebriated without having imbibed?
Hopefully I can think clearly enough tomorrow to tell you all about Finding Faith. I actually gasped out loud while reading it.
I have this nasty head cold. Sinus infection? I don't know. And I'm a nose breather so it's been pretty ugly the last few days. I'll have dreams that I'm under water. Or trapped in a cave. Or breathing, but for some reason there is no oxygen in the air and I'll wake up and gasp because it is that ingrained in me to breath through my nose when I sleep. But that isn't the worst part.
For several days I've thought I must have a lot of pressure on my inner ear because when I flopped over onto my back, my world would spin. I've had inner ear infections before and it feels much like that except it really only happens with sharp head movements or in just the right angle.
But other days? Dang. I blink and blink and blink and can't focus. And my heart races. And the world just tilts and I wonder if I should be driving but my daughter has ice skating lessons and I have to go!!!
I have two theories and I remembered them both on the same day. Thursday night just after I'd spent the whole day "drunk," I remembered that my mom told me psudophedrine causes heart palpitations or racing or something (don't sue me drug guys...I don't know what it does exactly and I still use it) and I've been taking TONS. Not more than the recommended dose. Not even as much as is allowed in 24 hours, but two in the morning and two just before I go to bed. Unless of course I take a shot of the Wal-Mart version of NyQuil. And no, I don't do that in the morning or I'd know what was causing the drunkenness. Anyway, four a day is a lot more than none which is normal life, or one just before bed which is pregnant and nursing life and I've been living it up lately without being responsible for someone else's brain development.
Anyway, feeling that crazy out of control is scary for a girl that considers herself very healthy. I worry enough about it that I wondered if my blood pressure shot up, or I was going diabetic or something. And THEN I remembered that the last time I was freaking out that I was on my way six feet under, I'd been taking pseudopherine and my mom had told me to stop and lo and behold I got better (couldn't breathe mind you, but I could see again). So I've gone cold turkey since Thursday and no more drunk.
But my head still spins when I turn it a certain way. (And I have those drowning dreams.)
And then I remembered last month when I tried to demonstrate a backwards somersault to my daughter and messed up my upper back that although I no longer have excruciating pain, it is still tight. So I'm wondering if I have a pinched nerve.
See the hysteria that sets in when you walk around inebriated without having imbibed?
Hopefully I can think clearly enough tomorrow to tell you all about Finding Faith. I actually gasped out loud while reading it.
Friday, March 31, 2006
The Mailbox Dance
Before I get to the subject at hand I have to tell you I am sitting here in a stunning outfit. My sons waited to pick out what I wore today and I sort-of agreed (with the ability to play mean mom and say no). Out came a shirt that was acceptable--dusty blue with three-quarter length sleeves, perfect for the weather. I agreed to wear it and next thing you know they have presented me with a pair of strappy glittery high-heeled sandals. "I'm not wearing those shoes." "Why not?" "Because I am a mother and I'm not wearing high heels to clean house all day." "But they match." And they do. Perfectly. So for the moment (until I go out in public) I am wearing my blue tee shirt, blue jeans, and sparkley blue high heeled sandals. I made quite the picture this morning as I scrambled eggs. I'd be a mother in the fifties if, you know, I wore a shirtwaist and my shoes were more conservative. LOL!
There has been a lot of talk lately about the mailbox dance. And I do it. Shoot, the only acceptance letter I ever got DID come in the SASE. And I got a rejection in very fancy publishing house stationery. You never know. But since most of my proposals were sent out electronically, I expect my rejections to come back electronically, therefore I'd get jittery when I checked my email if I didn't get fifty messages a day. Truth be told, I don't expect rejections in the mail, I expect good things like all the free books that I've won on various blogs this month. I've decided that if I was going to play the lotto, this would have been my month. I won something like three books this month. Marilynn Griffith's PINK, Tamara Leigh's STEALING ADDA, and Denise Hunter's FINDING FAITH. Waaaa-Hooooo!
But even better, this week I got my first words in print in the mail. I did a review for Book Talk News for Siri Mitchell's Something Beyond the Sky (great book) and I got my copy of the newsletter. The review is anonymous. My name is no where on the newsletter, but I know that I wrote it. I kind of floated all day. Now the article I sold to Focus on the Family Magazine November 2004 (not a typo) has never been printed. When I signed the "first printing rights" I didn't know I'd have to sit on it forever, but hey, I got paid. It gets tricky though, when I try to say what I've done. "I've written an anonymous review for a cafe newsletter and I was paid for an article that never got printed and I was a finalist in a contest that for the most part people couldn't figure out why and flamed me as a person." Nevertheless, I have words in print!
Waiting expectantly by my mailbox for the next manila envelope.
Hey, I heard that an editor stopped by a couple days ago and thought I could write. So if you are out there....I've got a proposal to send you. VBG. Durn it, why don't I have a link to my synopsis when it really matters? Could it be that I am technologically inept and can't even figure out how to set up those edit-me links on the side of my blog? Where is my husband???? This is critical!
I have a problem. Im reading too many books at once. I started Hearts Under Construction, but Bet Me came in at the library so I put down the one I owned for the one I had to return. I finished Bet Me but by then Streiker's Bride came in at the library so I started it. And then yesterday Finding Faith came in. Well I NEEDED to read that one so I started it. I figure I can finish Finding Faith before the day is out if my kids will go play outside. How I love spring weather.
Go read a book, it keeps your mind young.
There has been a lot of talk lately about the mailbox dance. And I do it. Shoot, the only acceptance letter I ever got DID come in the SASE. And I got a rejection in very fancy publishing house stationery. You never know. But since most of my proposals were sent out electronically, I expect my rejections to come back electronically, therefore I'd get jittery when I checked my email if I didn't get fifty messages a day. Truth be told, I don't expect rejections in the mail, I expect good things like all the free books that I've won on various blogs this month. I've decided that if I was going to play the lotto, this would have been my month. I won something like three books this month. Marilynn Griffith's PINK, Tamara Leigh's STEALING ADDA, and Denise Hunter's FINDING FAITH. Waaaa-Hooooo!
But even better, this week I got my first words in print in the mail. I did a review for Book Talk News for Siri Mitchell's Something Beyond the Sky (great book) and I got my copy of the newsletter. The review is anonymous. My name is no where on the newsletter, but I know that I wrote it. I kind of floated all day. Now the article I sold to Focus on the Family Magazine November 2004 (not a typo) has never been printed. When I signed the "first printing rights" I didn't know I'd have to sit on it forever, but hey, I got paid. It gets tricky though, when I try to say what I've done. "I've written an anonymous review for a cafe newsletter and I was paid for an article that never got printed and I was a finalist in a contest that for the most part people couldn't figure out why and flamed me as a person." Nevertheless, I have words in print!
Waiting expectantly by my mailbox for the next manila envelope.
Hey, I heard that an editor stopped by a couple days ago and thought I could write. So if you are out there....I've got a proposal to send you. VBG. Durn it, why don't I have a link to my synopsis when it really matters? Could it be that I am technologically inept and can't even figure out how to set up those edit-me links on the side of my blog? Where is my husband???? This is critical!
I have a problem. Im reading too many books at once. I started Hearts Under Construction, but Bet Me came in at the library so I put down the one I owned for the one I had to return. I finished Bet Me but by then Streiker's Bride came in at the library so I started it. And then yesterday Finding Faith came in. Well I NEEDED to read that one so I started it. I figure I can finish Finding Faith before the day is out if my kids will go play outside. How I love spring weather.
Go read a book, it keeps your mind young.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
How Many Times Have I Said....
I discovered yesterday that I really do love my child. I mean, I knew that I did, it isn't that, but sometimes I spend so much time correcting them and aggrivated with them and I wonder if when something really important happens will I do the right thing, or will I blow up and sputter venom all over them? Well, yesterday I got my chance to find out.
I have read the parenting books, and yes there are some that I think, "OVERBOARD!" But for the most part, the books I agree with say not to belittle your child when they make a mistake. By belittle, they don't mean not calling them stupid, because that is a well duh. They say we should not tell our children, "Well I told you that would happen" or "How many times have I told you" or "Well, what did you expect?" And I admit, this does cross my lips. And everytime it does, I think, "Bad Mom!"
So for a good four and a half years I've told my son, who runs everywhere, to not run at the glass doors full speed. Because he does this with one hand up to hit the latch and the other to push open the door. And everytime he does it I warn him. "Please don't run at the door like that because one day you may hit the latch after you hit the door and the glass could break and you could get hurt." Sometimes shorter like "quit running at the door!" and sometimes longer where we discuss how much blood would be involved.
So yesterday my son charged toward the back door, which incidentally doesn't have a latch and swings free, and his fist went straight through the glass. As I heard the first crack I screamed his name and I saw terror on his face. But this is what I'm so excited about, the next thing out of my mouth was "don't move!" Because glass was raining down around him and though I was worried about him being cut as the glass fell, I was more worried about him stepping on it also. I went to him in my bare feet, scooped him up and carried him to safety, and to the bathroom where we cleaned the cuts on his hand and assessed whether he would need stiches (I decided no). Thankfully I had a friend over who kept the kids out of the mess while I cleaned it up.
But I didn't once mention (in his hearing range) "I told you so!"
God protected him from glass and He helped me protect his psyche. Thank you God. Every now and then I have success.
I have read the parenting books, and yes there are some that I think, "OVERBOARD!" But for the most part, the books I agree with say not to belittle your child when they make a mistake. By belittle, they don't mean not calling them stupid, because that is a well duh. They say we should not tell our children, "Well I told you that would happen" or "How many times have I told you" or "Well, what did you expect?" And I admit, this does cross my lips. And everytime it does, I think, "Bad Mom!"
So for a good four and a half years I've told my son, who runs everywhere, to not run at the glass doors full speed. Because he does this with one hand up to hit the latch and the other to push open the door. And everytime he does it I warn him. "Please don't run at the door like that because one day you may hit the latch after you hit the door and the glass could break and you could get hurt." Sometimes shorter like "quit running at the door!" and sometimes longer where we discuss how much blood would be involved.
So yesterday my son charged toward the back door, which incidentally doesn't have a latch and swings free, and his fist went straight through the glass. As I heard the first crack I screamed his name and I saw terror on his face. But this is what I'm so excited about, the next thing out of my mouth was "don't move!" Because glass was raining down around him and though I was worried about him being cut as the glass fell, I was more worried about him stepping on it also. I went to him in my bare feet, scooped him up and carried him to safety, and to the bathroom where we cleaned the cuts on his hand and assessed whether he would need stiches (I decided no). Thankfully I had a friend over who kept the kids out of the mess while I cleaned it up.
But I didn't once mention (in his hearing range) "I told you so!"
God protected him from glass and He helped me protect his psyche. Thank you God. Every now and then I have success.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Susan May Warren
Last September, as I was packing my things to attend the ACFW conference, my MIL handed me a $100 bill for my 30th birthday. I already knew there was supposed to be a book sale and signing so I knew where I would spend my money. I just had no idea how much I would spend.
I started out with the plan to buy Deb Raney's latest, Over the Waters, for my MIL for her birthday(now I wish I had a copy). I knew I would snatch Siri Mitchell's latest (at the time), Chateau of Echoes, if she got them in time (she did!). I hoped for Kristin Billerbeck's first in the Spa Girls series (not there). And I figured that I'd find a couple more that I might want and that I'd do my Christmas shopping early.
ROFLOL!!! Can you see my hysteria?
Book lover. Room full of books. Many cheaper than the cover price. Room full of authors willing to put down signatures. Complex situation. I decided that unless I knew I liked the author, the book had to be priced lower than I could get it at home. Not that that limited me much by the end of the week. I bought so many they constituted an entire carry on for my flight home. Which is good because I would have had to pay extra to check that heavy bag.
So, Susan May Warren, whom I'd never heard of had several books there and three of them looked a little chick-lit-y. I'm sure they are considered romance, but the covers are so fun and so not dreamy romance that I was drawn to them. It didn't hurt that she had it marked that one was $10, two for I-don't-remember, and three for, hmmmm, was it $25? $20? Doesn't matter. I know a good deal when I see one. At least I hoped, because I brought all three of her Deep Haven series.
Now I wish I'd bought one of everything she had there to sell.
Yes, it took me long enough to get to them, but once I read the first one it was all over. Such depth of character, such descriptive writing, such great books! I feel like I've been there. I like these people. Sure, you know they will end up together. Such is the nature of romance. Sure, you know that the bad guy will be caught. I would be disappointed if he wasn't. But that a person could write such tremendous books that propel the reader through them while making sure that the reader isn't disappointed well, that takes talent.
Great job, Susan. Watch out for me next year at conference, I'll be the one with the huge paper bag full of your stuff.
I started out with the plan to buy Deb Raney's latest, Over the Waters, for my MIL for her birthday(now I wish I had a copy). I knew I would snatch Siri Mitchell's latest (at the time), Chateau of Echoes, if she got them in time (she did!). I hoped for Kristin Billerbeck's first in the Spa Girls series (not there). And I figured that I'd find a couple more that I might want and that I'd do my Christmas shopping early.
ROFLOL!!! Can you see my hysteria?
Book lover. Room full of books. Many cheaper than the cover price. Room full of authors willing to put down signatures. Complex situation. I decided that unless I knew I liked the author, the book had to be priced lower than I could get it at home. Not that that limited me much by the end of the week. I bought so many they constituted an entire carry on for my flight home. Which is good because I would have had to pay extra to check that heavy bag.
So, Susan May Warren, whom I'd never heard of had several books there and three of them looked a little chick-lit-y. I'm sure they are considered romance, but the covers are so fun and so not dreamy romance that I was drawn to them. It didn't hurt that she had it marked that one was $10, two for I-don't-remember, and three for, hmmmm, was it $25? $20? Doesn't matter. I know a good deal when I see one. At least I hoped, because I brought all three of her Deep Haven series.
Now I wish I'd bought one of everything she had there to sell.
Yes, it took me long enough to get to them, but once I read the first one it was all over. Such depth of character, such descriptive writing, such great books! I feel like I've been there. I like these people. Sure, you know they will end up together. Such is the nature of romance. Sure, you know that the bad guy will be caught. I would be disappointed if he wasn't. But that a person could write such tremendous books that propel the reader through them while making sure that the reader isn't disappointed well, that takes talent.
Great job, Susan. Watch out for me next year at conference, I'll be the one with the huge paper bag full of your stuff.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Button Pushers
The following message has not been fabricated.
My kids have me figured out. Unfortunately, it took me a little longer to figure myself out, but we won't visit there today. Now that I've caught up with them, I'm on to them and life will surely improve.
Excuse me, I have a child who wants me.
So, anyway, excuse me, I have a kid who needs me.
Like I was say--excuse me, I have a kid who needs me.
Where was I? Oh, yes. As I was saying, my kids know how to push my buttons. I knew they did, but since I didn't know exactly what they were up to, I didn't know how to deal with it. I just delivered my expected response--understanding the first time,
excuse me, I have a kid who needs me.
irritated more and more as the day progresses, and finally the grand finale,
excuse me.
the blow up where I (bad mom!) scream something along the lines of "Stop it! Stop it! I don't have to spend every waking minute with you guys! Why do you think there are three of you? Entertain yourselves! Go Play!"
They always manage to look (and I think genuinely feel) hurt and sulk off for about 30 seconds so that I can feel guilty and by the time they come back (31 seconds later) I will quit whatever I'm doing and jump to.
Excuse me, my child needs me.
And when do they do this? You tell me. See, if I'm cleaning house (which I'm more than glad to stop doing just about any time of day),
excuse me
they leave me alone or help. If I'm cooking with a deadline (mealtime when everyone is starved) they fight, or "need" me, or want something to eat ("If you would just stop asking for food every ten seconds, I'd have food and you'd quit being hungry!"). If I'm stan
excuse me.
If I'm standing in the kitchen looking out the window they leave me alone. No wonder I know so much about my neighbors that I've never met. If the kids aren't in the room I may decide to sneak towards the stairs so I can check my email. I kid you not, they
excuse me
hear the stairs squeak and come running. They may have played alone for 45 minutes but they hear my behind hit the desk chair and it's all over. What should have taken me four minutes to write has now lasted probably 30 minutes. I've changed CDs, wiped noses, called down the name calling,
excuse me
"been with," made toast, cleaned up marker boy, given out jobs,
excuse me,
listened, encouraged, praised...the list goes on and on.
excuse me
None life threatening, but sanity threatening? You betcha.
Don't even get me started about the phone.
excuse me.
If any
excuse me,
If anything, I didn't put in as many interruptions as there really were.
My kids have me figured out. Unfortunately, it took me a little longer to figure myself out, but we won't visit there today. Now that I've caught up with them, I'm on to them and life will surely improve.
Excuse me, I have a child who wants me.
So, anyway, excuse me, I have a kid who needs me.
Like I was say--excuse me, I have a kid who needs me.
Where was I? Oh, yes. As I was saying, my kids know how to push my buttons. I knew they did, but since I didn't know exactly what they were up to, I didn't know how to deal with it. I just delivered my expected response--understanding the first time,
excuse me, I have a kid who needs me.
irritated more and more as the day progresses, and finally the grand finale,
excuse me.
the blow up where I (bad mom!) scream something along the lines of "Stop it! Stop it! I don't have to spend every waking minute with you guys! Why do you think there are three of you? Entertain yourselves! Go Play!"
They always manage to look (and I think genuinely feel) hurt and sulk off for about 30 seconds so that I can feel guilty and by the time they come back (31 seconds later) I will quit whatever I'm doing and jump to.
Excuse me, my child needs me.
And when do they do this? You tell me. See, if I'm cleaning house (which I'm more than glad to stop doing just about any time of day),
excuse me
they leave me alone or help. If I'm cooking with a deadline (mealtime when everyone is starved) they fight, or "need" me, or want something to eat ("If you would just stop asking for food every ten seconds, I'd have food and you'd quit being hungry!"). If I'm stan
excuse me.
If I'm standing in the kitchen looking out the window they leave me alone. No wonder I know so much about my neighbors that I've never met. If the kids aren't in the room I may decide to sneak towards the stairs so I can check my email. I kid you not, they
excuse me
hear the stairs squeak and come running. They may have played alone for 45 minutes but they hear my behind hit the desk chair and it's all over. What should have taken me four minutes to write has now lasted probably 30 minutes. I've changed CDs, wiped noses, called down the name calling,
excuse me
"been with," made toast, cleaned up marker boy, given out jobs,
excuse me,
listened, encouraged, praised...the list goes on and on.
excuse me
None life threatening, but sanity threatening? You betcha.
Don't even get me started about the phone.
excuse me.
If any
excuse me,
If anything, I didn't put in as many interruptions as there really were.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
I Promise I Didn't Breathe a Word
So get this, Friday night my daughter comes schlumping into her brothers' bedroom while I read to them at bedtime. Now she'd already had her stories, but I don't mind if she wants to mooch off theirs usually so I glanced up with my most welcoming mom face (not the get-back-in-bed scowl).
"I'm lonely in my room."
"Well, bring you pillow and blanket and come in here. We just started The Great Brain. You can read with us." (shameless plug, but it is so good! Um, with caveats. We don't read it all to them. Don't turn you seven year old loose on it. This is a family read aloud.)
"But I want a sister to share my room." (raised eyebrows)
"Oh, you do, huh?"
"Yep. We can just move some of my toys out and you can put her crib in there." (crib? I thought she meant a playmate, not a baby! Do you know how long it's been since we've had a crib set up in our house?)
"Well that sounds great honey, but I don't know where she's gonna come from."
"Well, Mom, we just go to the orphanage and pick one out."
Would that I were making this up. Does this sound like confirmation to you? Holey schmoley. She's talked about getting a big sister before. She's talked about moving her cousin into her room, but a baby? This is new. And she didn't tell me to just grow one in my tummy.
And lest you question me, I am certain I didn't mention my desire for a baby to her.
Now tell me, where is there an orphanage in the US? Where is this baby coming from? Lots of questions. Still waiting on the answers. But I do know this. God cares for the orphan, and he's put that passion in my family. Hopefully soon it will all become clear.
"I'm lonely in my room."
"Well, bring you pillow and blanket and come in here. We just started The Great Brain. You can read with us." (shameless plug, but it is so good! Um, with caveats. We don't read it all to them. Don't turn you seven year old loose on it. This is a family read aloud.)
"But I want a sister to share my room." (raised eyebrows)
"Oh, you do, huh?"
"Yep. We can just move some of my toys out and you can put her crib in there." (crib? I thought she meant a playmate, not a baby! Do you know how long it's been since we've had a crib set up in our house?)
"Well that sounds great honey, but I don't know where she's gonna come from."
"Well, Mom, we just go to the orphanage and pick one out."
Would that I were making this up. Does this sound like confirmation to you? Holey schmoley. She's talked about getting a big sister before. She's talked about moving her cousin into her room, but a baby? This is new. And she didn't tell me to just grow one in my tummy.
And lest you question me, I am certain I didn't mention my desire for a baby to her.
Now tell me, where is there an orphanage in the US? Where is this baby coming from? Lots of questions. Still waiting on the answers. But I do know this. God cares for the orphan, and he's put that passion in my family. Hopefully soon it will all become clear.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Um, Did I Happen To Mention....
...last week, when I posted my "Death of a Dream" that I had been rather ill, I'd been up with kids all week, that I'd waded in poop and could still smell the stench in the house, that my in-laws (lovely though they may be) were coming, that a loved one had been diagnosed with cancer, and that I had um, PMS?
Yeah, well, I do want another baby. I knew that would come back to bite me in the patooty, I just didn't think it would happen so soon. Last night I had the almost sickening urge to hold my daughter. Preferably of one of the darker shades of melanin, but I can be flexible. So consider this my official call to arms. I'm on the hunt, if you know of any available.
I knew it even while I typed, drat it. I'm sure that is why I was so sad thinking I was "done."
On another note, last week my house was filthy, my (immaculate) in-laws were heading directly towards us and my vacuum no longer worked. As that particular vacuum was not a cheap one and it got broken by my careless children who think vacuums are to be walked upon, I was in a quandary trying to decide whether to buy the very expensive Dyson or el-cheapo, $50 vacuum from Wal-Mart. You know, you can break a lot of $50 vacuums before you have bought a Dyson. Besides, I already had an expensive vacuum that had a half life it didn't live up to. I bought el-cheapo bagless.
Man I never saw so much dirt in my life. We were living in filth.
The good thing about this bagless thing is I feel such a sense of accomplishment every time I sweep. I look in the canister, show it around, we all oo-yuck and I feel like I've done something. All by 8 AM.
Yeah, well, I do want another baby. I knew that would come back to bite me in the patooty, I just didn't think it would happen so soon. Last night I had the almost sickening urge to hold my daughter. Preferably of one of the darker shades of melanin, but I can be flexible. So consider this my official call to arms. I'm on the hunt, if you know of any available.
I knew it even while I typed, drat it. I'm sure that is why I was so sad thinking I was "done."
On another note, last week my house was filthy, my (immaculate) in-laws were heading directly towards us and my vacuum no longer worked. As that particular vacuum was not a cheap one and it got broken by my careless children who think vacuums are to be walked upon, I was in a quandary trying to decide whether to buy the very expensive Dyson or el-cheapo, $50 vacuum from Wal-Mart. You know, you can break a lot of $50 vacuums before you have bought a Dyson. Besides, I already had an expensive vacuum that had a half life it didn't live up to. I bought el-cheapo bagless.
Man I never saw so much dirt in my life. We were living in filth.
The good thing about this bagless thing is I feel such a sense of accomplishment every time I sweep. I look in the canister, show it around, we all oo-yuck and I feel like I've done something. All by 8 AM.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Grandmaitis
I'm not sure who is suffering the greater case: me, or my children. But my Mother-in-Law leaves tonight and I'm sure the recovery will be prolonged and painful. No longer can I run out to the store alone when the sun is still in the sky. No longer can I (not intentionally) leave the nasty crockpot in the sink and come back into the kitchen to find it clean. No longer can I step out to rehearsal and come home to find my children bathed and dressed for bed. No longer can I justify eating a cookie because someone else made it. No longer can I type my whole blog without getting someone juice.
Sigh.
No longer can my children have a fit to get what they want (quit smirking Amy!). No longer can my children have cookies for breakfast. No longer will we rent all the new children's videos and watch them ad nauseum. No longer can they stay up way past their bedtime. No longer can they have a meal consisting completely of french fries. No longer can the words, "I want...." produce the thing they want. No longer will their rooms be cleaned up for them (well, maybe). No longer can whining about a meal that looks healthy produce an alternative. No longer will they have a constant play companion over the height of five feet.
Man, tomorrow will be painful for all of us. And yet...
I won't have to beg her to stop doing the dishes so that I can watch American Idol. I mean who can sit on her lazy butt in front of the boob tube when her mother-in-law is slaving away in the kitchen? I won't have to throw in a load of laundry every time I descend the stairs to check my email so that I look like I'm being productive. Although, at some point I think we crossed over from, Boy Jamie is being really productive to Dang, how much backlog of laundry did she have anyway? Never mind that if three socks are the same color, that justifies a load at this point.
Not that she would ever say such a thing, but I have a vivid imagination of what I would be thinking. If she read this she would probably be horrified that I would think such a thing. You can't win.
And just so that I can be clear, this was to make fun of me, not her. I have the best Mother-in-Law on the planet. And I'm not just saying that in case she reads this.
Of course I would have to give her the web addy. [Mua-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha!]
Sigh.
No longer can my children have a fit to get what they want (quit smirking Amy!). No longer can my children have cookies for breakfast. No longer will we rent all the new children's videos and watch them ad nauseum. No longer can they stay up way past their bedtime. No longer can they have a meal consisting completely of french fries. No longer can the words, "I want...." produce the thing they want. No longer will their rooms be cleaned up for them (well, maybe). No longer can whining about a meal that looks healthy produce an alternative. No longer will they have a constant play companion over the height of five feet.
Man, tomorrow will be painful for all of us. And yet...
I won't have to beg her to stop doing the dishes so that I can watch American Idol. I mean who can sit on her lazy butt in front of the boob tube when her mother-in-law is slaving away in the kitchen? I won't have to throw in a load of laundry every time I descend the stairs to check my email so that I look like I'm being productive. Although, at some point I think we crossed over from, Boy Jamie is being really productive to Dang, how much backlog of laundry did she have anyway? Never mind that if three socks are the same color, that justifies a load at this point.
Not that she would ever say such a thing, but I have a vivid imagination of what I would be thinking. If she read this she would probably be horrified that I would think such a thing. You can't win.
And just so that I can be clear, this was to make fun of me, not her. I have the best Mother-in-Law on the planet. And I'm not just saying that in case she reads this.
Of course I would have to give her the web addy. [Mua-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha!]
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
What Happened to Thirty?
You know, there ought to be some benefit to being thirty. As I just passed my half birthday, I can no longer in good conscience say "turning thirty," sigh. And the clock rolls on. Yet, I digress. Among other things, like increased respect (yeah, right), feeling comfortable in your own skin (har-humph), and not being in college (unfortunately I wrote this over Spring Break), a thirty year old woman should not have acne.
The occational pink spot or two you-know-when doesn't concern me--much--but this explosion on my face has transformed me from halfway to thirty-one, to sixteen, and not of the sweet variety. For about a week now I've been asking the mirror, "What's going on?" Occasionally my husband answers. Which would be good except he doesn't say anything helpful. Like the way I've washed my face for the last seven years or so has suddenly become unacceptable to my skin.
But after my dreams the last few nights, and the fact that I sit on the couch at night and just fret--not usually sure over what, I just feel anxious--it occurred to me this morning. I am totally stressed. And not just because there is laundry to do. I have a whole lot of things going on in my life right now. Many of them not directly associated with me, but associated with people I love and there is absolutely nothing I can to do help. And many that taken alone would be totally bearable. I think I've hit the multi-tasking level where my face gives in to the pressure. Because not only do I have to Mom as usual, I'm spending everything else running scenarios in my head. College all over again--minus the Mom thing--and without Spring Break.
I know what I'm supposed to do: Let Go and Let God. I even feel like I've done it to a degree, but after my dreams last night I know my head still wants to Figure It Out.
There I stood in a field of what I think was supposed to be milo, watching my uncles harvest with a combine (I'm not even sure they harvest Milo with a combine) and it isn't working. Instead of going in the truck this milo is packaged in what looks like a transparent seat cushions and flies all over the place. Meanwhile a semi drives by and a blue Mercedes falls out the back end. I stop my car that I am suddenly driving to wave down the semi. Several cars stop behind me. I finally decide to drive my car over to a highway patrol building when a cop stops and tells me to get moving. I park my car in this cavern and realize it is the day of my sister's surgery and I've totally spaced it off.
Does any of this make sense? No, but I remember it, clear as day. And I'll probably add another pink bump on my face just by thinking about it all morning.
You're probably wondering why that dream bothers me. Great. Another thing to fret about.
The occational pink spot or two you-know-when doesn't concern me--much--but this explosion on my face has transformed me from halfway to thirty-one, to sixteen, and not of the sweet variety. For about a week now I've been asking the mirror, "What's going on?" Occasionally my husband answers. Which would be good except he doesn't say anything helpful. Like the way I've washed my face for the last seven years or so has suddenly become unacceptable to my skin.
But after my dreams the last few nights, and the fact that I sit on the couch at night and just fret--not usually sure over what, I just feel anxious--it occurred to me this morning. I am totally stressed. And not just because there is laundry to do. I have a whole lot of things going on in my life right now. Many of them not directly associated with me, but associated with people I love and there is absolutely nothing I can to do help. And many that taken alone would be totally bearable. I think I've hit the multi-tasking level where my face gives in to the pressure. Because not only do I have to Mom as usual, I'm spending everything else running scenarios in my head. College all over again--minus the Mom thing--and without Spring Break.
I know what I'm supposed to do: Let Go and Let God. I even feel like I've done it to a degree, but after my dreams last night I know my head still wants to Figure It Out.
There I stood in a field of what I think was supposed to be milo, watching my uncles harvest with a combine (I'm not even sure they harvest Milo with a combine) and it isn't working. Instead of going in the truck this milo is packaged in what looks like a transparent seat cushions and flies all over the place. Meanwhile a semi drives by and a blue Mercedes falls out the back end. I stop my car that I am suddenly driving to wave down the semi. Several cars stop behind me. I finally decide to drive my car over to a highway patrol building when a cop stops and tells me to get moving. I park my car in this cavern and realize it is the day of my sister's surgery and I've totally spaced it off.
Does any of this make sense? No, but I remember it, clear as day. And I'll probably add another pink bump on my face just by thinking about it all morning.
You're probably wondering why that dream bothers me. Great. Another thing to fret about.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Have You Seen My Marbles?
Because I've officially lost them.
My husband and I are seriously considering (so seriously, in fact that he's probably on the phone with the banker now) moving. And not moving up, mind you. Moving to a less desirable location, where property taxes are higher, away from the swimming pools and shopping, away from blue ribbon schools, away from our church, to a home that is in worse shape.
It is basically a lateral move in mortgage, square footage and bedrooms. It is a move down in woodwork, kitchen(ack!!), busyness of road, off sewer on to septic, bedroom size, bathrooms (though there are more toilets, fewer showers) and there is a chicken farm next door. What we would get though is three acres, a huge basement that can be finished to add four more bedrooms and a game room, and potential.
Yikes! When I write it like that I know I've lost my marbles. What are we thinking? And yet, I know we will continue to progress forward.
It just all doesn't add up. The house should be worth more. And though I am totally freaked out, I think this is a God thing. I told Hubby last night during out "why does this look like too good of a deal to pass up?" conversation, "Maybe this is a huge gift from God and we are just too daft to recognize it."
I pray that if it isn't, God will slap us silly and shock us out of our insanity.
My husband and I are seriously considering (so seriously, in fact that he's probably on the phone with the banker now) moving. And not moving up, mind you. Moving to a less desirable location, where property taxes are higher, away from the swimming pools and shopping, away from blue ribbon schools, away from our church, to a home that is in worse shape.
It is basically a lateral move in mortgage, square footage and bedrooms. It is a move down in woodwork, kitchen(ack!!), busyness of road, off sewer on to septic, bedroom size, bathrooms (though there are more toilets, fewer showers) and there is a chicken farm next door. What we would get though is three acres, a huge basement that can be finished to add four more bedrooms and a game room, and potential.
Yikes! When I write it like that I know I've lost my marbles. What are we thinking? And yet, I know we will continue to progress forward.
It just all doesn't add up. The house should be worth more. And though I am totally freaked out, I think this is a God thing. I told Hubby last night during out "why does this look like too good of a deal to pass up?" conversation, "Maybe this is a huge gift from God and we are just too daft to recognize it."
I pray that if it isn't, God will slap us silly and shock us out of our insanity.
Monday, March 20, 2006
How Do You Squeeze?
After nine and three quarters years of marriage, I think I've figured out why people get divorced over toothpaste tubes. I never got it before. I think it is because both Hubby and I are middle squeezers. We both understand that if you squeeze from the end of a full tube, the tube topples over, and when all the toothpaste that is left is at the bottom of the tube, you squeeze it to the top. How hard is that to understand? We won't discuss that I can get a good week out of the tube after he has abandoned it for a new tube because it isn't a marriage breaker to have two tubes on the sink for a week. And he's learned to let me decide when it is time to throw the tube in the trash (he learned that the hard way).
Nope. Not irritated at Hubby. Irritated at son.
My five year old has taken over my bathroom sink. It wasn't enough for him to squeeze all the kid toothpaste all over the kid bathroom counter, sink, and tube, oh no. No, he decided he didn't like kid toothpaste and needed to use adult toothpaste (not that I blame him that fruity stuff is nasty). Since he has two younger siblings that like to eat toothpaste, I encouraged him to use ours in our bathroom.
Silly me.
Now we have fruity toothpaste all over the kid bathroom and so much on the tube that even I can barely get any out of an almost full tube AND we have minty clean CREST all over MY sink, My counter, and MY tube. And he doesn't put the lid back on so that squirt that eeked down the side and dried there prevents me from getting nice minty clean toothpaste out of MY tube.
This is the stuff that divorces are made of.
I never knew I could get so exasperated over toothpaste. It's a good thing he's my kid and not my husband. Because Hubby would have been moved to the guest bathroom (in the dark scary basement) faster than you can say, "Put the blamin' cap back on or else, buddy!"
Nope. Not irritated at Hubby. Irritated at son.
My five year old has taken over my bathroom sink. It wasn't enough for him to squeeze all the kid toothpaste all over the kid bathroom counter, sink, and tube, oh no. No, he decided he didn't like kid toothpaste and needed to use adult toothpaste (not that I blame him that fruity stuff is nasty). Since he has two younger siblings that like to eat toothpaste, I encouraged him to use ours in our bathroom.
Silly me.
Now we have fruity toothpaste all over the kid bathroom and so much on the tube that even I can barely get any out of an almost full tube AND we have minty clean CREST all over MY sink, My counter, and MY tube. And he doesn't put the lid back on so that squirt that eeked down the side and dried there prevents me from getting nice minty clean toothpaste out of MY tube.
This is the stuff that divorces are made of.
I never knew I could get so exasperated over toothpaste. It's a good thing he's my kid and not my husband. Because Hubby would have been moved to the guest bathroom (in the dark scary basement) faster than you can say, "Put the blamin' cap back on or else, buddy!"
Friday, March 17, 2006
Cough, Cough, Choke, Sputter...
Do you hear that? It's the death of a dream. I witnessed several of those this week. Mostly my own. I can't even really focus in on exactly which dream of mine is breathing its last. I just carry this sense of dismay.
I look at my beautiful children and I remember that I was going to be a good mom. Not only to three children, but to a multitude. We played around with having a dozen. You know, there are quite a few people I know that set out to have "one or two" children and ended up with these huge families because they just loved their kids so much. But before we were married we were sure that we'd have at least four, on our way to eight, and might re-evaluate ourselves to twelve. Not all biological. I did have that much sense. But I was so sure that I could make a large family work. I was the expert. Relax. Let your kids be kids. Love them unconditionally. Discipline consistently. And from that would evolve this beautiful machine where people cared about one another and rotated around each other in this fabulous organic family.
I can't even keep all three of my children dressed with their hair combed.
Not that I don't try. I try to relax, let my kids be kids, love them unconditionally, discipline consistently. But here's the thing: When you let kids be kids, they fight, they argue, they undress in public, they pull out one of two pigtails while in their car seat on the way to get their picture taken, and sometimes they look you right in the face and say, "NO!"
So I feel done. Really, really done. And it makes me sad. Because I didn't spend my last pregnancy thinking it might be my last. I thought it was just one more on the way to a huge family. I didn't get to adopt again like I'd hoped I would. Sure I keep toying around with the idea, but just as I get set to call the social worker to update my homestudy, I have a really bad mom day and I can't help but think, "Why on earth would another child benefit from my lousy parenting?"
I can see this blog coming back to haunt me in four years when the social worker says, "Now Jamie, in 2006 you didn't think you were a fit parent. How have you changed?" I didn't say I wasn't fit (did I?). I'm just not sure I'm the best choice out there, right now, for another one.
Maybe once this whole potty training nightmare is behind me and the memory has dulled, my dying dream will breathe a fresh breath and find new life.
I look at my beautiful children and I remember that I was going to be a good mom. Not only to three children, but to a multitude. We played around with having a dozen. You know, there are quite a few people I know that set out to have "one or two" children and ended up with these huge families because they just loved their kids so much. But before we were married we were sure that we'd have at least four, on our way to eight, and might re-evaluate ourselves to twelve. Not all biological. I did have that much sense. But I was so sure that I could make a large family work. I was the expert. Relax. Let your kids be kids. Love them unconditionally. Discipline consistently. And from that would evolve this beautiful machine where people cared about one another and rotated around each other in this fabulous organic family.
I can't even keep all three of my children dressed with their hair combed.
Not that I don't try. I try to relax, let my kids be kids, love them unconditionally, discipline consistently. But here's the thing: When you let kids be kids, they fight, they argue, they undress in public, they pull out one of two pigtails while in their car seat on the way to get their picture taken, and sometimes they look you right in the face and say, "NO!"
So I feel done. Really, really done. And it makes me sad. Because I didn't spend my last pregnancy thinking it might be my last. I thought it was just one more on the way to a huge family. I didn't get to adopt again like I'd hoped I would. Sure I keep toying around with the idea, but just as I get set to call the social worker to update my homestudy, I have a really bad mom day and I can't help but think, "Why on earth would another child benefit from my lousy parenting?"
I can see this blog coming back to haunt me in four years when the social worker says, "Now Jamie, in 2006 you didn't think you were a fit parent. How have you changed?" I didn't say I wasn't fit (did I?). I'm just not sure I'm the best choice out there, right now, for another one.
Maybe once this whole potty training nightmare is behind me and the memory has dulled, my dying dream will breathe a fresh breath and find new life.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
What Happened to Flashcards?
Last year I bought my daughter a Barbie laptop--because I'm STUPID. It was really marked down, I read the reviews on Amazon and decided it would be a good idea. People raved that their child learned so much and blah, blah, blah.
BLEAH!
Let me just say now that it is intended for a child with AT LEAST a first grade education and many things require a third. So she follows me around the house and asks me when I can "help" her do it. I can almost stand the times tables when she miracuously chooses them. Barbie says "nine times nine" and without looking at the screen I can say "eighty-one...eight...one." Barbie says, "Way to go!" Daughter gets her kudos and we go on to the next problem. And, granted, I think she is learning her numbers. Not her times tables, mind you, but she recognizes the eight now. If we keep at it she may learn them anyway. I'm trying to stay positive.
But the games where you have to chase the dot across the screen, the games where you pluralize the words, the games where you guess the animal name? The bane of my existence. I have to sit there, stare at the screen and do the typing. Now tell me, who's helping, and who's just rejoicing at the time spent on my lap?
Somebody get me a book, I'd rather read to her.
BLEAH!
Let me just say now that it is intended for a child with AT LEAST a first grade education and many things require a third. So she follows me around the house and asks me when I can "help" her do it. I can almost stand the times tables when she miracuously chooses them. Barbie says "nine times nine" and without looking at the screen I can say "eighty-one...eight...one." Barbie says, "Way to go!" Daughter gets her kudos and we go on to the next problem. And, granted, I think she is learning her numbers. Not her times tables, mind you, but she recognizes the eight now. If we keep at it she may learn them anyway. I'm trying to stay positive.
But the games where you have to chase the dot across the screen, the games where you pluralize the words, the games where you guess the animal name? The bane of my existence. I have to sit there, stare at the screen and do the typing. Now tell me, who's helping, and who's just rejoicing at the time spent on my lap?
Somebody get me a book, I'd rather read to her.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Excuse Me?
There are few things in my adult life that I have looked forward to like I’ve looked forward to having my home 20% paid off. That may be an indicator that I live a sheltered or very boring life, but so be it. And it isn’t so much the reduction of debt that had me looking forward to this milestone either, though that doesn’t hurt. No, it is the PMI that I detest. Twenty-five dollars a month flies out the window whether I like it or not and only because my house was only 19.32% paid off.
As the 20% milestone approached, I eagerly checked against my amortization schedule to see how close I was. Finally we crossed the 20% demarcation. And my mortgage didn’t go down by $25. I narrowed my eyes at the statement, tilted my head, but decided that maybe, maybe, they would drop it next month and this month’s $25 was really for last months PMI.
Nope. They kept charging us. When we hit the 20.8% mark I sicked my husband on the mortgage company (I’m a phone-phobic you know). They assured him they would be more than happy to drop that PMI if we would just order a $250 appraisal, payable to them of course, to ensure that our house was still what we paid for it back in 2003. And would it be a full appraisal? No. Of course not, it would be a drive by. And this would be different than the tax appraisals, how? Well, see in the tax appraisals, the mortgage company doesn’t make the previously mentioned $250 so they are therefore suspect.
Later that night, who should call us but our mortgage company. They just wanted to offer us a home equity line of credit. Guess how much money they decided our home was worth? Twenty thousand dollars more than we paid for it.
Excuse me, could you do me a favor and call your PMI department to let them know?
As the 20% milestone approached, I eagerly checked against my amortization schedule to see how close I was. Finally we crossed the 20% demarcation. And my mortgage didn’t go down by $25. I narrowed my eyes at the statement, tilted my head, but decided that maybe, maybe, they would drop it next month and this month’s $25 was really for last months PMI.
Nope. They kept charging us. When we hit the 20.8% mark I sicked my husband on the mortgage company (I’m a phone-phobic you know). They assured him they would be more than happy to drop that PMI if we would just order a $250 appraisal, payable to them of course, to ensure that our house was still what we paid for it back in 2003. And would it be a full appraisal? No. Of course not, it would be a drive by. And this would be different than the tax appraisals, how? Well, see in the tax appraisals, the mortgage company doesn’t make the previously mentioned $250 so they are therefore suspect.
Later that night, who should call us but our mortgage company. They just wanted to offer us a home equity line of credit. Guess how much money they decided our home was worth? Twenty thousand dollars more than we paid for it.
Excuse me, could you do me a favor and call your PMI department to let them know?
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
It Was Bound to Happen
It's not like I didn't expect it. The thought that it might come through email yesterday did flit across my mind. Many, many days I even forgot the potential was out there. Because it was so far out there. But today I have that song, I think it was called "Suspicion," running through my mind. But it goes a little like this:
Ahhhhh Rejection....
That's all. I can't get past that line. Can't hear any more of that song. And I can't be disappointed. What kind of whacked writer must I be that I am almost relieved to have another rejection under my belt? And a form letter to boot. It did give me a good chuckle. One year, one month, thirteen days, and eighteen hours for a form letter. That's how long I waited to be rejected by these people.
I was getting too big for my britches. Too many great things said about my first few pages by people who should know. When the rejections came, they came with personalized comments, suggestions for betterment.
Maybe that is my problem. I followed many of the suggestions. Now I'm getting form letter rejections. I've probably sucked the life right out of my story.
Now, even I hate it. YES! IT IS BORING! YOU'RE RIGHT! SHE IS WHINEY! I KNOW! WHAT AM I TRYING TO SAY?
If I can just get two more rejections in my inbox, I can shelve this stupid book and go back to sitting on my couch and watching bad reality TV.
Better yet. Read other peoples books that made it past the slush pile.
Sounds heavenly.
Ahhhhh Rejection....
That's all. I can't get past that line. Can't hear any more of that song. And I can't be disappointed. What kind of whacked writer must I be that I am almost relieved to have another rejection under my belt? And a form letter to boot. It did give me a good chuckle. One year, one month, thirteen days, and eighteen hours for a form letter. That's how long I waited to be rejected by these people.
I was getting too big for my britches. Too many great things said about my first few pages by people who should know. When the rejections came, they came with personalized comments, suggestions for betterment.
Maybe that is my problem. I followed many of the suggestions. Now I'm getting form letter rejections. I've probably sucked the life right out of my story.
Now, even I hate it. YES! IT IS BORING! YOU'RE RIGHT! SHE IS WHINEY! I KNOW! WHAT AM I TRYING TO SAY?
If I can just get two more rejections in my inbox, I can shelve this stupid book and go back to sitting on my couch and watching bad reality TV.
Better yet. Read other peoples books that made it past the slush pile.
Sounds heavenly.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Mother's Rant
My husband told me I needed to rant about this and send it to Everyday Hogwash. The problem is, I don't think they like these kinds of rants. There are no customer service people involved, no crummy products, just life in all its un-justness--at least from where I sit.
So, my mother warned me, I'm sure. I don't remember, I was probably too busy barfing on her toes to listen. A mother doesn't ever get to be sick alone.
I was tired, but functional four days after the puking in church episode. Number three still had a leaky behind and it was getting exponentially worse, but I was getting by. Yes, I called my husband hysterical a time or two. I was wading in it after all. But I was getting by. But Thursday morning I woke up with a very full day planned and I couldn't shake the early morning chills. It got so bad I went to huddle under the covers with the electric blanket on. I still couldn't shake them. Eventually I took my temperature (yes, with no symptoms but the chills). You guessed it. Sick.
That, in and of itself, was bearable. Mostly the kids played in my room while I shivered. My daughter made me get well cards and my sons brought pillows and stacked them on me. But then number three had an "episode" that I had to clean up. By now my head was pounding. And then another episode.
About this time I remembered that I was supposed to be at a friends house, complete with her dinner. I made a few calls, drug myself out of bed and got the food packaged and to the door for its pick-up. Squirto starts complaining of a "tummy hurts." I haul myself up the stairs to brush my teeth and I hear him screech. Dash, slowly back down stairs and find him in a pool of puke. Mind you, I'm burning at 101.5, not deadly, but certainly uncomfortable, and my stomach is now, um, not liking the sight and smell of all that this entails.
I threw a towel on the puddle, picked up the kid, plunked him in the bath, scooped the whole mess up together with the messy clothes from before, tossed them in the laundry, lysoled the whole area, washed my hands and heard the door open to reveal my knight in shining armor. I mumbled a few directions, turned a 180 and crawled straight in bed.
I miss the good ole days when I got a fever and my mom put me to bed and made me stay there. But no, I wanted to get up and watch The Price is Right. What an idiot.
So, my mother warned me, I'm sure. I don't remember, I was probably too busy barfing on her toes to listen. A mother doesn't ever get to be sick alone.
I was tired, but functional four days after the puking in church episode. Number three still had a leaky behind and it was getting exponentially worse, but I was getting by. Yes, I called my husband hysterical a time or two. I was wading in it after all. But I was getting by. But Thursday morning I woke up with a very full day planned and I couldn't shake the early morning chills. It got so bad I went to huddle under the covers with the electric blanket on. I still couldn't shake them. Eventually I took my temperature (yes, with no symptoms but the chills). You guessed it. Sick.
That, in and of itself, was bearable. Mostly the kids played in my room while I shivered. My daughter made me get well cards and my sons brought pillows and stacked them on me. But then number three had an "episode" that I had to clean up. By now my head was pounding. And then another episode.
About this time I remembered that I was supposed to be at a friends house, complete with her dinner. I made a few calls, drug myself out of bed and got the food packaged and to the door for its pick-up. Squirto starts complaining of a "tummy hurts." I haul myself up the stairs to brush my teeth and I hear him screech. Dash, slowly back down stairs and find him in a pool of puke. Mind you, I'm burning at 101.5, not deadly, but certainly uncomfortable, and my stomach is now, um, not liking the sight and smell of all that this entails.
I threw a towel on the puddle, picked up the kid, plunked him in the bath, scooped the whole mess up together with the messy clothes from before, tossed them in the laundry, lysoled the whole area, washed my hands and heard the door open to reveal my knight in shining armor. I mumbled a few directions, turned a 180 and crawled straight in bed.
I miss the good ole days when I got a fever and my mom put me to bed and made me stay there. But no, I wanted to get up and watch The Price is Right. What an idiot.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Fever
I've had this stupid high fever and have almost no energy to even type. Crazy. It's wierd to have an excuse to be lazy.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
(BLEEP!!)
Yesterday was a [bleep] day. Now mind you, I was up to my eyeballs in [bleep] so it isn't so far off that my day might be described as [bleep]. As my husband, the ex-milker, says, "When you are in it up to your knees, that's just what it is." Even his grandmother and mother, both very devout Mennonite ladies, refer to it as [bleep]. And boy was I in it up to my knees..And beyond.
My whole house reeks.
You know, it's one thing to have a child with a stomach bug. It is quite another to have a child who you are potty training and almost there with a stomach bug. Do you put him back in diapers to save yourself the mess? Or do you do as I chose and know that if you go back to diapers for even one minute, everything you've worked so hard to instill will go totally to waste.
And he prefers boxer shorts.
They were my downfall yesterday. Today we may not go to diapers. I'm even going to try to avoid pull ups (although when we go to Sam's later, I think I will bend on that--[bleep] and Sam's don't mix for me), but I am going to insist on tidy whities. And old ones because I refuse to run another pair of those nasty pants through the washer. Yesterday I had to run a load twice to get the stench out.
It is not my imagination. I promise.
Last night I spent a fortune on those odor sprays for my carpet and furniture. Today I have to buy more laundry detergent. By the way "Odor Ban" actually works, and quite well. When I said my house reeks, I was lying. But last night when I got home from the store I could still smell the "accident" that happened at 2:30 in the afternoon. Either that or the 5:30 "accident." Both of which I cleaned with my handy-dandy (that doesn't work so well) portable carpet cleaner and left all the doors open to air out the stench even though my husband closed them after I left.....But I came home and sprayed the odor ban and this morning I was greeted with the sweet clean smell of odor ban which reminds me of hairspray.
Hey, I'll take it.
So this morning, I planned to come down here and rant about the injustice of my life and blah, blah, blah but first I read my Bible and God sent me to Haggai. "Haggai?" you say. Yeah, I know. Who knew that God would send anyone to Haggai? I would have contentedly spent my morning in 1 Peter like I planned, but no... I thought, "Okay?? Whatever." And expected to read about the dude who had to marry a prostitute. Now you know how often I'm in Haggai. But I was greeted with the bold letters of "Caught up with Taking Care of Your Own Houses."
Yeah? I thought that was the right thing to do. I thought that when I quit all my involvement in extra stuff at the church (well I still work nursery) I was tending to my family, my holy priority. But I prayed this morning and asked God why it was so out-of-control hard and he sent me to Haggai.
I could type the whole book, but you're going to have to go read it yourself if you want to know. Apparently I need to get my behind back involved if I want things to ease up around here. And I don't mean financially. I learned way back in my newlywed days that God takes care of you if you tithe, so even when it hurts(and it almost always does), we do that. I think I need to start giving of my time. Of which I have none, but even though it hurts, surely I have some to give. And even if I don't, I have to.
He answered, now it's up to me.
My whole house reeks.
You know, it's one thing to have a child with a stomach bug. It is quite another to have a child who you are potty training and almost there with a stomach bug. Do you put him back in diapers to save yourself the mess? Or do you do as I chose and know that if you go back to diapers for even one minute, everything you've worked so hard to instill will go totally to waste.
And he prefers boxer shorts.
They were my downfall yesterday. Today we may not go to diapers. I'm even going to try to avoid pull ups (although when we go to Sam's later, I think I will bend on that--[bleep] and Sam's don't mix for me), but I am going to insist on tidy whities. And old ones because I refuse to run another pair of those nasty pants through the washer. Yesterday I had to run a load twice to get the stench out.
It is not my imagination. I promise.
Last night I spent a fortune on those odor sprays for my carpet and furniture. Today I have to buy more laundry detergent. By the way "Odor Ban" actually works, and quite well. When I said my house reeks, I was lying. But last night when I got home from the store I could still smell the "accident" that happened at 2:30 in the afternoon. Either that or the 5:30 "accident." Both of which I cleaned with my handy-dandy (that doesn't work so well) portable carpet cleaner and left all the doors open to air out the stench even though my husband closed them after I left.....But I came home and sprayed the odor ban and this morning I was greeted with the sweet clean smell of odor ban which reminds me of hairspray.
Hey, I'll take it.
So this morning, I planned to come down here and rant about the injustice of my life and blah, blah, blah but first I read my Bible and God sent me to Haggai. "Haggai?" you say. Yeah, I know. Who knew that God would send anyone to Haggai? I would have contentedly spent my morning in 1 Peter like I planned, but no... I thought, "Okay?? Whatever." And expected to read about the dude who had to marry a prostitute. Now you know how often I'm in Haggai. But I was greeted with the bold letters of "Caught up with Taking Care of Your Own Houses."
Yeah? I thought that was the right thing to do. I thought that when I quit all my involvement in extra stuff at the church (well I still work nursery) I was tending to my family, my holy priority. But I prayed this morning and asked God why it was so out-of-control hard and he sent me to Haggai.
I could type the whole book, but you're going to have to go read it yourself if you want to know. Apparently I need to get my behind back involved if I want things to ease up around here. And I don't mean financially. I learned way back in my newlywed days that God takes care of you if you tithe, so even when it hurts(and it almost always does), we do that. I think I need to start giving of my time. Of which I have none, but even though it hurts, surely I have some to give. And even if I don't, I have to.
He answered, now it's up to me.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Mail Call!
I had an interesting mail day yesterday. A whole lot of nothing, but interesting nonetheless.
First, there was a letter from the organization who sponsored the children's book contest I obsessed about last week. My heart skipped a beat. Could someone have turned them down and I was a runner up? What could it be?
My official notice that I was not accepted for publication. A vanity publisher they are not. How nice that I got official notice that I'm a loser. Scholastic could learn a lesson or two from them.
Second, I got a manila, book shaped package. As I am expecting one from my review site, Armchair Interviews, I told my son he could open it (it is middle reader fiction and therefore for him, really). He pulled it out and it was a book that I wasn't expecting. I looked at it, puzzled, grabbed it, turned it over and then my body took over. An unexpected giggle erupted from me and I did a little hop skip.
Silly me thought, Ohmygosh! People are just sending me books to review! I am some-BODY! I grabbed up the phone and dialed my husband to share my good fortune. Mid ring I realized it was a book that the author promised to send if I helped with ideas for a booth last month. "I" being anyone on the ACFW loop with an idea worthy enough of a free book. I guess mine was. Oh well, I still got a free book, but my pride is again in tatters. Oh, and get this: Infertility book. Whaddayaknow? I'll tell you about it next week.
Third, I got notice that a review I wrote will be published in the April edition of Book Talk News...And I get paid for it! And my father-in-law said you don't make any money reading books.
Still reading Happily Ever After by Susan May Warren. I thought I was done with romance after the last one, but this is a cute story so far.
First, there was a letter from the organization who sponsored the children's book contest I obsessed about last week. My heart skipped a beat. Could someone have turned them down and I was a runner up? What could it be?
My official notice that I was not accepted for publication. A vanity publisher they are not. How nice that I got official notice that I'm a loser. Scholastic could learn a lesson or two from them.
Second, I got a manila, book shaped package. As I am expecting one from my review site, Armchair Interviews, I told my son he could open it (it is middle reader fiction and therefore for him, really). He pulled it out and it was a book that I wasn't expecting. I looked at it, puzzled, grabbed it, turned it over and then my body took over. An unexpected giggle erupted from me and I did a little hop skip.
Silly me thought, Ohmygosh! People are just sending me books to review! I am some-BODY! I grabbed up the phone and dialed my husband to share my good fortune. Mid ring I realized it was a book that the author promised to send if I helped with ideas for a booth last month. "I" being anyone on the ACFW loop with an idea worthy enough of a free book. I guess mine was. Oh well, I still got a free book, but my pride is again in tatters. Oh, and get this: Infertility book. Whaddayaknow? I'll tell you about it next week.
Third, I got notice that a review I wrote will be published in the April edition of Book Talk News...And I get paid for it! And my father-in-law said you don't make any money reading books.
Still reading Happily Ever After by Susan May Warren. I thought I was done with romance after the last one, but this is a cute story so far.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Novellas and Nonsense
I've decided that I don't care for novellas. At least the novellas that fit four to the book and have large print. Sometimes I like the idea behind the novella. Sometimes I can enjoy a phrase or two from the novella. I even enjoy the fact that if I start a novella, I know I can finish it before the day is out. And I distinctly remember enjoying the Victorian Christmas novella collection that I found after I read Kristin Billerbeck's What a Girl Wants because I couldn't get enough of her and that is the only other book with her name that popped up at our library. (It didn't satisfy my craving for her distinct style, BTW...but I did enjoy it.)
No, novellas don't have enough time to develop the character, the relationship, the why. I finished The Bachelor Club last night and I was so glad to be done. I really enjoyed the prologue. I enjoyed the idea. I did not enjoy how quickly they "fell in love." Like, three weeks? Wow. Doesn't seem like enough time to develop a life-long relationship. Granted the guys were all pushing thirty. Granted one of them knew the girl "forever." (Actually, that one I can understand.) I don't know, I really can't complain about the stories. The were relatively well written. They didn't insult my values. I just never got the time to develop any feelings for the characters. Just when I started to enjoy someone, we went on the the next couple.
Therefore, I don't think I like novellas.
Now, besides that. I have been obsessively checking my email like I'm just sure something of excitement (or depression) is on its way. I admit I'm waiting on news, but I expect that is coming over the phone line and wouldn't come until about now. So how do I account for my email obsession over the weekend?
Someone send me some news. It's driving me crazy!
No, novellas don't have enough time to develop the character, the relationship, the why. I finished The Bachelor Club last night and I was so glad to be done. I really enjoyed the prologue. I enjoyed the idea. I did not enjoy how quickly they "fell in love." Like, three weeks? Wow. Doesn't seem like enough time to develop a life-long relationship. Granted the guys were all pushing thirty. Granted one of them knew the girl "forever." (Actually, that one I can understand.) I don't know, I really can't complain about the stories. The were relatively well written. They didn't insult my values. I just never got the time to develop any feelings for the characters. Just when I started to enjoy someone, we went on the the next couple.
Therefore, I don't think I like novellas.
Now, besides that. I have been obsessively checking my email like I'm just sure something of excitement (or depression) is on its way. I admit I'm waiting on news, but I expect that is coming over the phone line and wouldn't come until about now. So how do I account for my email obsession over the weekend?
Someone send me some news. It's driving me crazy!
Sunday, March 05, 2006
We've Got a Live One, Folks!
This morning, as I began to dress my two-year-old, he took one look at the clothes, burst into tears and exclaimed, "I don't want to go to church!" He's developed this sudden fear of the nursery. I'm fine with him staying with me and I told him so--he's a quiet kid. Or he could go to the pre-school class even though he's too young because he can sit still and talk in complete sentences. Anyway, you can see why I just got him dressed and ignored his pleas to stay home.
Ten minutes into worship, he begins to yawn and lay his head on my chest and I'm thinking, good, he can just stay with me. My husband tried to take him (we are standers at our church and he is heavy) but he didn't want to go and I didn't want to make a scene. Meanwhile, he keeps yawning.
The yawns get louder and louder and I'm thinking he's being pretty dramatic for a kid who doesn't know that yawning loud is kind of like saying you're bored with the service. I asked him, "Are you sleepy?" He nodded yes, yawned and puked all over me.
Lovely.
I gasped, made a quick turn and exited the sanctuary. Noting that my family didn't follow I sent a friend in to retrieve my husband. Eventually I convinced him we needed to go home.
Now I feel puky. I think it's probably all in my head, but ew.
I sometime wish kids had an indicator light on their foreheads so we would know..."Beep, beep, beep! We've got a live one here!" Sick to stomach! Not just trying to get out of the nursery!"
Ten minutes into worship, he begins to yawn and lay his head on my chest and I'm thinking, good, he can just stay with me. My husband tried to take him (we are standers at our church and he is heavy) but he didn't want to go and I didn't want to make a scene. Meanwhile, he keeps yawning.
The yawns get louder and louder and I'm thinking he's being pretty dramatic for a kid who doesn't know that yawning loud is kind of like saying you're bored with the service. I asked him, "Are you sleepy?" He nodded yes, yawned and puked all over me.
Lovely.
I gasped, made a quick turn and exited the sanctuary. Noting that my family didn't follow I sent a friend in to retrieve my husband. Eventually I convinced him we needed to go home.
Now I feel puky. I think it's probably all in my head, but ew.
I sometime wish kids had an indicator light on their foreheads so we would know..."Beep, beep, beep! We've got a live one here!" Sick to stomach! Not just trying to get out of the nursery!"
Saturday, March 04, 2006
A Little Humor, A Little Depth
Tonight I stood at a birthday party for a friend who turned 50 this week. How did I get so old that I have friends who turn 50? But that isn't the point. As I stood at this party, a friend (not yet 50) and I discussed mamograms. Bad ones and good ones and whether a geriatric doctor has any business doing an exam on a nursing mom because they just feel different--i.e. lumpy, therefore suspicious--we decided no. But since he ordered a mamogram, she had one. Apparently while the radiologist took the films for her she asked him, "Could I get one of those in wallet size for my husband?"
Oh, trust me, her delivery made it hilarious. I laughed and laughed. More than I laughed about the mood ring last weekend. Just when I decided to quit laughing, I started again. I got myself under control when she told me, "He wasn't amused." I roared. I almost wet my pants. No, I imagine a man wouldn't be amused.
All this because I told her I didn't feel my feminity was wrapped up in my chest and that I would go without if I had to...all the time thinking, "But I'm not so sure how my husband would feel." On the way home my husband was talking business--I have no idea--and my mind went back to the conversation and I began to grin.
"What?"
"My mind was somewhere else." Started chuckling. Told him. Roared again. I think I'll laugh about that one until I'm 50.
On a deeper note, I found this blog today from a sister ACFWer and it is awesome. I think it is titled "Why I Believe in God." I highly recommend you go over and read it.
http://www.janicemary.com/2006/03/why-i-believe-in-god.html
Oh, trust me, her delivery made it hilarious. I laughed and laughed. More than I laughed about the mood ring last weekend. Just when I decided to quit laughing, I started again. I got myself under control when she told me, "He wasn't amused." I roared. I almost wet my pants. No, I imagine a man wouldn't be amused.
All this because I told her I didn't feel my feminity was wrapped up in my chest and that I would go without if I had to...all the time thinking, "But I'm not so sure how my husband would feel." On the way home my husband was talking business--I have no idea--and my mind went back to the conversation and I began to grin.
"What?"
"My mind was somewhere else." Started chuckling. Told him. Roared again. I think I'll laugh about that one until I'm 50.
On a deeper note, I found this blog today from a sister ACFWer and it is awesome. I think it is titled "Why I Believe in God." I highly recommend you go over and read it.
http://www.janicemary.com/2006/03/why-i-believe-in-god.html
Friday, March 03, 2006
You'd Think I'd Learn
You know, after five and a half years of this mom business, you'd think I'd start getting smarter, but I'm pretty sure I have brain cells dying by the second. Take yesterday for example. My daughter had a little dance program since it was her last class, but the dance program didn't start until the class was half over. We had library books due and a movie on hold (Jimmy Neutron, Boy Genius--a reward for a certain potty feat attained) and my boys hate to sit through dance class.
Let's back up. My daughter didn't want to go to dance class. YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO DANCE CLASS?????? She always wants to go to dance class. She askes everyday when dance class is. On dance class day she puts her leotard on first thing. But, as I said last week, we all thought her last class was the week prior and apparently she decided she was d-o-n-e done. I'm super glad I didn't enroll her in the extended class which I strongly considered. Anyway, it was like pulling teeth--permanent teeth, not those weak baby teeth--to get her dressed and out of the door so I should have just packed it up and gone home right then. But I didn't.
Nooooo...I grabbed her by the hand and dragged her towards the door to class while I left my boys in the van that was parked illegally. But her teacher wasn't there. I dragged her back to the van, threw it in gear, parked legally, got them all out of the van, dragged them all to the class where the teacher was waiting. Kissed daughter, grabbed boys and dragged them back to the van chanting, "Hurry! Let's go! Don't you want to go to the library?" (They did, they just wanted to go on their pace.)
We went screaming to the library, ran in the building with me saying, "One movie each, only one and we are out of here. We aren't playing, we aren't reading. Grab your movies and let's go." I distinctly remember having my keys in hand. I distinctly remember thinking at one point that I should drop them somewhere--pocket? purse? bookbag? shelf?--while I helped the boys with something. Of course I had overdue books (still wondering about that). Of course I had holds. Of course I had books due (one of the reasons we went). Twenty-seven clicks of the computer screen later we headed out of the library. I got the boys strapped in (is this when I lay down my keys?) jumped into the driver's seat and couldn't find my keys. They weren't in my purse, they weren't in my bookbag, they weren't in my pocket. I dumped them all out, all over the floor. I had to be at the dance thing in fourteen minutes my husband was twenty minutes away. I unstrapped the boys, we ran back in to the library, no keys. Ran back out, shuffled through all the stuff piled on the floor of the van. No keys. Hysteria. I have abandoned my daughter to her lonesome self and I have no way to get to her or to let her teacher know that I have done it. I also will miss the program that I told her she must go perform because I wanted to see it.
Bad Mom.
Then out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the magnetic spare key holder. I snatched it up, opened it and deflated. No key. Of course not. Otherwise the magnetic key holder would be strategically placed in its secret location under the van. I dug through my purse one more time and found the spare that was supposed to be in the magnetic key holder, lit the engine and tore over to the dance thing chanting the whole way, "Boys when we get there, unstrap and jump out of the van. We are gong to have to RUN! What are you going to do when we get there?" They knew. They were also very quiet. I think they've finally figured out there were no buttons left to push.
Good boys.
I parked the car, scooped my baby up and we ran. And we made it with less than a minute to spare.
I still don't know where my keys are.
Finished Newlywed Games.
Started The Bachelor's Club.
Need to go do The Firm: "Calorie Killer."
Will probably go read....
Ugh! I mean will probably go do laundry.
Let's back up. My daughter didn't want to go to dance class. YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO DANCE CLASS?????? She always wants to go to dance class. She askes everyday when dance class is. On dance class day she puts her leotard on first thing. But, as I said last week, we all thought her last class was the week prior and apparently she decided she was d-o-n-e done. I'm super glad I didn't enroll her in the extended class which I strongly considered. Anyway, it was like pulling teeth--permanent teeth, not those weak baby teeth--to get her dressed and out of the door so I should have just packed it up and gone home right then. But I didn't.
Nooooo...I grabbed her by the hand and dragged her towards the door to class while I left my boys in the van that was parked illegally. But her teacher wasn't there. I dragged her back to the van, threw it in gear, parked legally, got them all out of the van, dragged them all to the class where the teacher was waiting. Kissed daughter, grabbed boys and dragged them back to the van chanting, "Hurry! Let's go! Don't you want to go to the library?" (They did, they just wanted to go on their pace.)
We went screaming to the library, ran in the building with me saying, "One movie each, only one and we are out of here. We aren't playing, we aren't reading. Grab your movies and let's go." I distinctly remember having my keys in hand. I distinctly remember thinking at one point that I should drop them somewhere--pocket? purse? bookbag? shelf?--while I helped the boys with something. Of course I had overdue books (still wondering about that). Of course I had holds. Of course I had books due (one of the reasons we went). Twenty-seven clicks of the computer screen later we headed out of the library. I got the boys strapped in (is this when I lay down my keys?) jumped into the driver's seat and couldn't find my keys. They weren't in my purse, they weren't in my bookbag, they weren't in my pocket. I dumped them all out, all over the floor. I had to be at the dance thing in fourteen minutes my husband was twenty minutes away. I unstrapped the boys, we ran back in to the library, no keys. Ran back out, shuffled through all the stuff piled on the floor of the van. No keys. Hysteria. I have abandoned my daughter to her lonesome self and I have no way to get to her or to let her teacher know that I have done it. I also will miss the program that I told her she must go perform because I wanted to see it.
Bad Mom.
Then out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the magnetic spare key holder. I snatched it up, opened it and deflated. No key. Of course not. Otherwise the magnetic key holder would be strategically placed in its secret location under the van. I dug through my purse one more time and found the spare that was supposed to be in the magnetic key holder, lit the engine and tore over to the dance thing chanting the whole way, "Boys when we get there, unstrap and jump out of the van. We are gong to have to RUN! What are you going to do when we get there?" They knew. They were also very quiet. I think they've finally figured out there were no buttons left to push.
Good boys.
I parked the car, scooped my baby up and we ran. And we made it with less than a minute to spare.
I still don't know where my keys are.
Finished Newlywed Games.
Started The Bachelor's Club.
Need to go do The Firm: "Calorie Killer."
Will probably go read....
Ugh! I mean will probably go do laundry.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
The Last Spark of Hope
...has departed.
I'm so disappointed. Especially considering that I didn't care for last years winners so very much. I really hoped I had a shot, at least at a finalist position. But nope.
On the bright side, I couldn't sit in watch of the UPS truck all day yesterday without something in front of me and I pent my time searching through listings in the Children's Writers and Illustrators Guide and I think I have a couple of places that sound like a good match.
I always maintain hope when I lose something that God "allowed" it so that I could actually make money from it someday instead of being published for free (and hoping for the name recognition associated with said publishing).
A girl can dream. You never know.
I'm so disappointed. Especially considering that I didn't care for last years winners so very much. I really hoped I had a shot, at least at a finalist position. But nope.
On the bright side, I couldn't sit in watch of the UPS truck all day yesterday without something in front of me and I pent my time searching through listings in the Children's Writers and Illustrators Guide and I think I have a couple of places that sound like a good match.
I always maintain hope when I lose something that God "allowed" it so that I could actually make money from it someday instead of being published for free (and hoping for the name recognition associated with said publishing).
A girl can dream. You never know.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Update
USPS: no certified mail. The postman laughed when I suggested it.
FedEx had the audacity to drive right past.
DHL did NOT drive by at 10:45....he did at 1:20.
I never saw the UPS truck today and trust me, I was at the window from 1pm to 4:30. What's up with that? He drives by every day. Seriously. (Harboring secret fantacies that he missed my route today and will be by tomorrow!)
And I answered two "Unknown Caller" telemarketer calls. I didn't want what they were selling.
FedEx had the audacity to drive right past.
DHL did NOT drive by at 10:45....he did at 1:20.
I never saw the UPS truck today and trust me, I was at the window from 1pm to 4:30. What's up with that? He drives by every day. Seriously. (Harboring secret fantacies that he missed my route today and will be by tomorrow!)
And I answered two "Unknown Caller" telemarketer calls. I didn't want what they were selling.
Sike!
You know, I just don't feel like being funny today. I feel like pouring my heart out in frustration (actually may do that), but my most faithful readers are four of the people who most hope I'll give them a smile today. So this if for you and you know why. The rest of you, please pray for my family, we could use some encouragement and pray for my sister who needs to hear a good report tomorrow.
Back to your regularly scheduled programming.
I'm sure it is spelled Phyche! but I was a youngun in the 80s when Sike! was the catch phrase and we not only didn't know what Sike! was short for, we couldn't tell you what Psyche(ology) was. Not really. So, at least those of us in grade and middle school spelled it Sike!
So I entered two children's book contests last fall. The finalists for the first one were supposed to be notified on January 6th. If you weren't a finalist, you didn't get notified. No web address to check, no "I'm sorry "email, no nothin. I guess WestBow spoiled me with the WORLDview thingie, man we knew it and we knew it instantly. Actually I knew it much later than a lot of other people becaues I didn't get my email until about 10:30 at night and they apparently posted it earlier in the evening on the blog (which I didn't check). But this Scholastic contest, they only notified the finalists.
I hoped. I dreamed. I prayed. And when the mailman pulled up in front of my house and got out of his mail truck, I screamed. Think: certified mail.
Nope. Package for my husband.
Then, ten minutes later when DHL pulled into my driveway. I screamed again. And sprinted out the the DHL guy with a huge grin.
Nope. Package for my husband.
Four minutes later (I do not lie) when FedEx stopped in front of my house, I looked at my kids with a wide eyed expression, then raced out to meet him.
Nope. Package for my husband.
So. That's what I call build up for serious failure. I still had one left. UPS always drives past my house at just before 2 pm. Here he comes.....there he goes. And I gave up. I finally found the list of winners a couple weeks ago, but man, I had to work hard to get it. And, shocker, I wasn't on the list.
Anyway, today, March 1, the second contest is supposed to be announced. Except the rules say winners will be notified by March 1. Does that mean that winners would have been notified say, Monday?
Guess who pulled into my driveway? DHL. I've stopped screaming everytime he drives up. For one, I think he sees me as just a little off my rocker. But I did race out to meet him (sans screaming).
Right address. Wrong label. Street, not Terrace, fool!
I'll be doing the mailbox dance today. The way I see it, postman will be here about 10:30, DHL 10:40, FedEx 10:45, UPS 1:58. Otherwise, I'll be camped in front of my computer hoping for the email.
Please, oh please, oh please.
Back to your regularly scheduled programming.
I'm sure it is spelled Phyche! but I was a youngun in the 80s when Sike! was the catch phrase and we not only didn't know what Sike! was short for, we couldn't tell you what Psyche(ology) was. Not really. So, at least those of us in grade and middle school spelled it Sike!
So I entered two children's book contests last fall. The finalists for the first one were supposed to be notified on January 6th. If you weren't a finalist, you didn't get notified. No web address to check, no "I'm sorry "email, no nothin. I guess WestBow spoiled me with the WORLDview thingie, man we knew it and we knew it instantly. Actually I knew it much later than a lot of other people becaues I didn't get my email until about 10:30 at night and they apparently posted it earlier in the evening on the blog (which I didn't check). But this Scholastic contest, they only notified the finalists.
I hoped. I dreamed. I prayed. And when the mailman pulled up in front of my house and got out of his mail truck, I screamed. Think: certified mail.
Nope. Package for my husband.
Then, ten minutes later when DHL pulled into my driveway. I screamed again. And sprinted out the the DHL guy with a huge grin.
Nope. Package for my husband.
Four minutes later (I do not lie) when FedEx stopped in front of my house, I looked at my kids with a wide eyed expression, then raced out to meet him.
Nope. Package for my husband.
So. That's what I call build up for serious failure. I still had one left. UPS always drives past my house at just before 2 pm. Here he comes.....there he goes. And I gave up. I finally found the list of winners a couple weeks ago, but man, I had to work hard to get it. And, shocker, I wasn't on the list.
Anyway, today, March 1, the second contest is supposed to be announced. Except the rules say winners will be notified by March 1. Does that mean that winners would have been notified say, Monday?
Guess who pulled into my driveway? DHL. I've stopped screaming everytime he drives up. For one, I think he sees me as just a little off my rocker. But I did race out to meet him (sans screaming).
Right address. Wrong label. Street, not Terrace, fool!
I'll be doing the mailbox dance today. The way I see it, postman will be here about 10:30, DHL 10:40, FedEx 10:45, UPS 1:58. Otherwise, I'll be camped in front of my computer hoping for the email.
Please, oh please, oh please.
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