Bad with Conviction

Bring Natasha Home!

2012-01-19T20:54:00.006-06:00

Do you have a credit card or Paypal account? Can you spare ONE single dollar? Please take a few minutes and donate that dollar to help bring Natasha from the orphanage in Russia to her new family here in Tennessee. Natasha has Down Syndrome and a heart defect that requires surgery. She has spent most of her life in a crib and can't walk yet due to low muscle tone (even though she's almost three). If she is not adopted before the age of five, she will be institutionalized.

A dollar isn't much, but if we spread the word on Facebook and Twitter, we could LITERALLY end up covering the entire adoption! Please, readers, help this little girl get home! You're sacrificing a soda or a larger size of coffee or a pack of gum. In return, you help give Natasha a family who will not only love her but who will also provide her with the medical treatment and physical therapy she so desperately needs.

If you'd like to give more, that would be awesome. But all I'm asking is one single dollar.

I want this to BLOW UP. I urge you to share this post on your Facebook Wall and/or on your Twitter feed. I want this little girl to be with her forever family! They could have her back in the U.S. as early as MAY if we can raise the money quickly.

We can do this.

Give a dollar. Save a child. Pass it on.

The link to the donation page is below. If you give through this link, Reece's Rainbow (an advocacy group for children like Natasha) will cover the Paypal fees so that the family gets your full dollar. So there isn't any confusion, please be aware that the Morse family who is adopting this little angel has decided to name her Natasha, but she is currently referred to as "Xenia" on the adoption site and donation page.

Donate Here to BRING NATASHA HOME

If you do not have a Paypal or credit card but would like to give, please send an email to badwithconviction@hotmail.com to find out where you can mail your donation.

For additional information about Natasha and her family, please see the links I have posted below.

The Morse's adoption blog where they chronicle their journey

Natasha's (Xenia's) Page on Reece's Rainbow (Please note that the $10,000 that shows up in her account WILL be used for the adoption, but it does not cover all of the expenses the family has prior to the actual adoption such as the agency fees, home study, travel, etc. The adoption will cost around $25,000 to 30,000, so what we raise will help make up the difference. )

I just wanted some coupons...

2012-01-08T23:56:00.001-06:00

In April 2011, I subscribed to my local newspaper, The Jackson Sun, so that I would receive coupons and advertisements each Sunday. Each week, I would bring my paper inside, clip coupons, review the ads (and the contents of my pantry), and plan my grocery shopping list. I always assumed that the paper I received was complete, and it never crossed my mind to check with someone to see if I had received all of the weekly coupon inserts.

On August 21, I opened my Sunday paper and realized that there were no coupons and that my Walgreens ad was missing. Since The Jackson Sun has a Facebook page, I posted a comment on their Wall the next morning. Within half an hour, my comment was addressed.

A few days later, I received a note from my postal carrier that I had a large envelope at the Post Office that was short on postage by thirteen cents. It was the Walgreens ad and coupons that the paper had sent me. It was annoying that I had to pay .13 to get my coupons, but I wasn’t going to complain over that little bit of money. However, I started keeping a closer eye on my paper. There were pieces missing here and there, but I was getting my coupons, so I didn’t complain.

On October 2, I received a paper that seemed a bit “skinny.” It had several coupons in it, though, so I assumed that I had what I needed. A couple of days later, I was talking to a friend who asked me if she could have a couple of coupons from Sunday’s paper if I didn’t need them. I told her I didn’t receive those coupons. She said they were in the Smart Source coupon section, which I didn’t receive (it turns out there were SEVERAL coupons I didn’t receive). I decided to address this again on The Jackson Sun’s Facebook page. Below is my original comment on their Wall, along with their reply and comments from another subscriber. I also left a follow-up comment after I received the new paper.

Notice that I made sure to point out that the paper was HAND DELIVERED to me, I believe by the publisher himself, Roy Heatherly. (They also returned my .13). After comparing the new paper to the old, I let them know exactly what I had been missing since I honestly thought this would be important to them. I thanked them AGAIN at the end of the comment. I felt I had been fair. The situation had been righted, and I acknowledged that.

So imagine my surprise when my brother called me, asking what in the world I had been posting on The Jackson Sun Facebook page. I told him that I hadn’t received all of my coupons and that I had posted this information. He then proceeded to tell me that a former co-worker (he used to work for the newspaper) had contacted him about me. Here is that brief conversation:

Up until this point, I was just a little irritated with The Jackson Sun. But after finding out that a Sun employee had complained about me to my brother, I was more than slightly peeved. Everything I posted on their Wall was FACTUAL. The only thing that could remotely be perceived as “bashing” is me calling the issue “ridiculous.” If I wanted to bash them, why on EARTH would I go back and PUBLICALLY say that they had delivered the coupons to me BY HAND? Why would I thank them TWICE in my comment?

Even though I was very displeased, I decided to just let it slide… for the moment.

That moment ended today—January 8^th—when I went to get my paper. I was excited because there had been quite a bit of talk on couponing blogs about today’s paper containing up to six coupon inserts. As soon as I picked it up from my driveway, though, I KNEW that there had to be something missing. I took the paper inside and unrolled it. I found the four sections of the actual paper, the USA Weekend, a Target ad, a Best Buy ad, a Harbor Freight ad, and two packs of coupons.

I immediately posted on my own Facebook page, asking friends to let me know what all they received. Once I found out that I was missing about half my paper, I decided to post to The Jackson Sun Facebook once again. I know they want me to send a private email with my complaint, but other people should know this is going on so that they check their OWN papers. I posted and I included a reference to the employee who had complained about me to my brother. Others who have had issues commented on my post. I waited for someone from the paper to leave a comment, but no one ever did (thought they DID reply to another complaint on their Wall from a woman who hasn’t received a Sunday paper in three weeks). As of right now, my post is still being ignored. Here it is:

Since no one was addressing my complaint, I went ahead and filled out a “Damaged Paper” form on my subscription page. I also tried to cancel my subscription, but I can’t seem to find an option to do that. I went to Kroger to buy a complete paper. I went through FIVE papers before I found one that had all of the coupons. I decided to buy a 2^nd paper to give to a friend. When I got home, I took my new paper apart to compare it to my original. There was such a difference between the two that I decided to take a picture:

That’s quite a difference, I would say. My original paper only had two coupon inserts. The new paper had FIVE if you count the one-page Wal-Mart insert that has coupons on the back. My new paper also contained comics, a real estate book, an Office Max sale bag, an ad for subscribing to the paper (ha ha ha ha), and advertisements for Kmart, Walgreens, Sears, and Fred’s. Oddly enough, it DIDN’T have the Best Buy ad I received in my original paper. I decided to open my friend’s paper, and it was also missing the Best Buy ad.

Now all of this might seem a bit overboard. Why would I spend the time and effort to write about this when it’s just some coupons and ads? I’m not even an “extreme” couponer since I only get one paper each week. Is this just me being contrary? Well, a little, I suppose. But it’s also about people paying for a service and a product and NOT receiving it. Yes, The Jackson Sun has righted the wrong the previous two times (and perhaps they will this time as well!), but I’m tired of this being an issue. I subscribe to the paper because it’s supposed to be more convenient. There is nothing convenient about having to call or email to ask for my coupons and then postpone planning my shopping trip until they arrive. Furthermore, I wonder how many other subscribers (as well as those who buy the paper in stores) are only receiving a partial paper each Sunday. How many people are like I used to be, assuming that the paper in their hands is complete?

I also have to wonder how the advertisers would feel if they knew that papers were going out without their ads enclosed. How many businesses lose sales each week because local customers aren’t aware of bargains and promotions that were advertised? What if I’m shopping for a new television and didn’t receive the Best Buy ad featuring one marked down to $299? What if I’m out of Prevacid and miss the great deal on it at Walgreens this week—a coupon and $10 in Register Rewards!) These businesses send out ads to draw in customers—customers like me who are trying to save money. I’m tired of subscribing to a newspaper that makes it more difficult for me to do so.

I will be cancelling my subscription to my local paper. I will have to drive to a store to buy one each Sunday, but at least this will allow me to check the paper before purchasing. I know I am only one person and my $8.75 each month will not “break” The Jackson Sun, but from what I’ve read on Facebook, I know I am not the only one experiencing this problem. Many people depend on these coupons to save their families money. Others just enjoy the thrill of a lower grocery bill. None of us want to pay for a paper and then have to ask for the rest of it. This issue needs to be addressed, especially if the paper is going to advertise “$380 worth of coupons inside!” on the front page.

*****UPDATE*****

(1/9/12)

This morning I received a private message from the paper's publisher, Roy Heatherly. He had seen the picture from above of the two papers. He told me that this WAS ridiculous and that he was looking into this problem.

A few minutes ago, a representative from the paper called me at home. She said that this a problem with my carrier who is responsible for putting the papers together for her route. I explained that this is not the first time this has happened and that it has also happened to others in my neighborhood. She said that they are implementing some sort of new process at the first of next month that will hopefully fix the problem. She also said that she will personally talk to the carrier and indicated that I am not the first person to complain about this particular carrier. I had not yet called and cancelled my subscription this morning, so she told me she'd credit my account for two weeks for my troubles.

She also told me that they do not receive enough coupons for every paper they place in stores, but that the papers delivered to subscribers should be complete. So for those of you who purchase in stores, make sure you check to see that you're getting everything you want.

She encouraged me to contact her directly from now on to get this corrected more easily. I explained that I understood that would be easier, but that part of the reason I post to Facebook is so that other people will know to check their own papers. I will contact the paper directly from now on, but I will also post to Facebook. If other people have carriers who aren't delivering the entire paper, they need to know to check.

I've decided I'm going to hold off on cancelling for now since the paper called and addressed this. I'm still not happy about the guy contacting my brother, and I said as much on the phone. I've been assured that this issue will also be addressed.

Recap

2012-01-05T12:59:00.001-06:00

Since I’m a terrible mom, I totally dropped the ball this year on keeping up with Amelia’s baby book/calendar. However, I did document pretty much everything on Facebook, so I went back and started pulling important dates and events from there. In the process, I’ve reached the conclusion that pretty much all I talk about is Amelia and the weather. I have also decided that if someone only knew me through Facebook, they’d think I’m pretty weird (then again, most people who know me outside of Facebook think I’m pretty weird). Just for fun, I compiled a few of my random, non-Amelia/weather related statuses from last year. I also threw in a few completely unrelated mobile uploads I posted to Facebook. Enjoy… or completely ignore. I’m okay either way.

Amber …

...is going to celebrate National Cheese Lovers Day. What's the equivalent to a cheese hangover? Oh yeah... constipation

Who buys these books???

…is counting the minutes until either John wakes up or Amelia naps. Between her fussing & my coughing, we kept the sleep fairy away last night. I'm so tired.

…is full of greasy goodness and Coca Cola. Not my finest moment but definitely a tasty one.

…learned a few things tonight: 1) even vampires have hearts, 2) some people SMELL crazy and 3) dry humping is not always a safe alternative to sex.

…needs a nap. And a drink.

…is conducting an experiment on the correlation between bladder fullness and perceived cleanliness of gas station restrooms.

…just heard the guy beside me at the red light sneezing. Neither of us had our windows down.

…is a bit puzzled by the young lady in Kinkos who requested her resumes be printed on pink paper.

…thinks the world needs more Asians. Wait…what’s that you say? Oh, I see. Well then, the world needs more DAVES.

…has Hobbit feet.

…has bedazzled boobs.

…thinks there should be an entire movie of nothing but Paul Rudd dancing and looking adorable.

…just ran into a cashier who is so helpful she's completely inefficient.

Did that pickle flip me off?

…is hiding in the shelter with John, Amelia, Momma, Daddy and all the dogs.

…is finally going to bed. Still laughing about air bunnies and Tijuana prostitutes.

…just finished getting her monthly dose of conspiracy theory.

…is covered in hand sanitizer.

…is now going by Fantasia Silverwhip.

…appreciates the city of Medina for sending me a ticket for driving six miles over the speed limit. Enjoy my 50 bucks.

…insists you cannot punch the handsome off of Anderson Cooper.

…hears the wind howling. Oh, wait, that’s Amelia.

…is getting the hookup on some skinny pills.

…saw a ninety something year old woman. On her cell phone. In her car. Stopped. AT A GREEN LIGHT.

The catalyst for my intervention.

…was just on the receiving end of a toilet intervention.

…don’t practice Santeria.

…is giggling at “nudist flutist.”

…has only been tempted to commit arson once in her life. Until now.

…wants to ticket the cop who’s texting while he’s driving. Ass.

…thinks the a-holes on The Weather Channel right now need some solemnity and decency beat into them.

…should load a Pez dispenser with Xanax and Zofran.

…is in the storm shetler with her farting dog. We may not survive.

…wishes this old lady would get out of my dance space.

…is in a pissy mood and has no business being in public or around any other human being for that matter. Too bad for me and everyone else that it's grocery day.

…wants to punch Mother Nature in the colon.

…believes there is no shame in anyone hiding in a bathtub.

…survived the Rapture.

Someone is a smartass.

…was mistaken for a meth head earlier today.

…refuses to apologize to the lazy ass bank teller just because I have $20 in quarters included in my deposit.

…sometimes feels like the guy from Looney Tunes who found the singing and dancing frog.

…insists she isn’t trying to force feed her toddler soylent green.

…is gonna be overbese if she don’t stop nomming on these here cheese balls and donut holes.

…bleached the shower. Mutating now.

…is gonna crap rainbows from now on.

I prefer restaurants that display
silver horse wangs.

…is trying to figure out which parts don't hurt. So far it's right ear and butt cheek.

…has no use for booty sweat.

…finally owns her kid!

…wishes Kroger wouldn't play "Puttin' on the Ritz." People look at me funny when I channel Young Frankenstein.

…doesn't trust people who always look constipated. Or like they smelled a fart. Or any other permanent facial expression related to fecal matter.

…is digesting a kidney.

...still insists that “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is the stripper national anthem.

...has been eating her feelings all day. Even my fingernails are gone.

…needs an IEP in decorating Christmas trees.

Because it's never too early to start that gambling addiction.

…needs a hug so much that I almost got out of my car and tackled Santa while he was ringing the Salvation Army bell. On a related note, where's my Prozac?

...has a holiday hangover. I just barfed up some tinsel.

Pancake Breakfast

2012-01-03T11:40:00.000-06:00

It's bitter cold outside, we both slept WAY late this morning, and I still have a holiday hangover. Definitely a pancake morning. And since Peanut turns 17 months old today, those pancakes need a healthy dose of chocolate chips.

This week last year we were excited because she rolling herself over. Now she's eating pancakes all by herself. It's almost sad that the time of our lives during which we change and discover the most is one we don't remember.

I love you, Peanut. I'm so proud of you, today and every day.

Racist Face

2011-12-21T01:40:00.002-06:00

Just so you know, some may find this particular post offensive due to the nature of some of the language. I feel like the "oomph" of these situations is lost if I gloss over the words that were used, though. It's like I tell my students when we read To Kill a Mockingbird--how do you expose the ugliness of something if you "pretty it up"? Oh, and if you find this post offensive because I'm describing you, I wish I could say I'm sorry but I would be lying.

Not even sure where to start with this.

Over the years, I’ve periodically found myself in situations where totally random people have—without warning—made racist comments to me. My reactions to these comments have ranged anywhere from “She’s just ignorant and/or doesn’t know better” to “Shouldn’t he be wearing a sheet?” A few of these people weren’t strangers, per se, but people whom I saw only occasionally through work or social settings. I knew their first names and enough about them to make small talk. However, some of the individuals I’ve encountered were complete and total strangers—people in line behind me at the grocery store, spectators sitting beside me at ball game, guests at the wedding of mutual friend. All of these particular people shared a common trait: they knew absolutely nothing about me—my background, my husband’s race, my religious or political beliefs, and so on.

So why on earth would they make such comments?

Let me start with what is possibly the best (well, worst) example. When I was teaching in Memphis, there was a maintenance guy who sometimes worked at our school. He was what some might call a “good ol’ boy,” but he was friendly enough, often making casual conversation with me when he would come to my classroom to replace the lights in the ceiling or install a new pencil sharpener. He was also responsible for installing projection screens and for replacing chalk boards with dry erase boards. This was especially crucial for me since I found out shortly after I began teaching that I have a sensitivity to chalk dust. Irony, much? It wasn’t until my 2^nd year of teaching that I discovered it was possible to have my boards replaced, so I placed a request and waited. And waited. And… waited. One day when Mr. Maintenance came by my room to replace some bulbs, he remarked that my dry erase boards had been approved and ordered and that he’d come by soon to install them. I was terribly excited and could already smell the markers in my hand. As he worked and I attempted to grade papers, he started chit chatting about a fight that had occurred earlier that afternoon in the hallway. I politely nodded, commenting that unfortunately some of the kids didn’t know how to handle their problems without aggression or violence. To which he replied:

“Yeah, guess you can’t expect much more from a bunch of niggers.”

I stopped reading the paper I was grading, hoping I had misheard him. Surely, I thought, surely this man did not just say that to me. He doesn’t even know me.” I looked up at him on the ladder with what I can only imagine was an expression of total puzzlement with a dose of horror.

“I’m sorry, did you just say…”

“It’s true. They ain’t got a clue how to act.”

It was so casual, almost nonchalant. Like he was commenting on the weather or the price of gasoline. I sat there a moment, not sure how to reply. Those who know me can attest that I am rarely at a loss for words, especially when confronted with something to which I am vehemently opposed.    And that word is at the top of my list, along with any other language that is used to hurt or disparage people I love. When my students step foot in my classroom, one of the very first things I drill into them is that I will not tolerate any type of language that is racist, sexist, or degrading in any way. I have always made it a priority to create a “safe place” in the four walls of my classroom because I believe learning cannot take place when a student is afraid.

So here was this man, standing above my desks, rather flippantly tossing out a word that—outside of a literary text like To Kill a Mockingbird—was and is completely banned from my classroom—and using it to describe students who sat in said classroom.

Completely oblivious to my reaction, he continued working.

My silence lasted maybe a minute, but it felt much longer. During that time, I’d like to say I was thoughtfully deciding how to approach his use of this word, devising some inspirational monologue that would both educate and transform him. Instead, I was totally frozen and flabbergasted, which I guess explains my choice of words when I finally did open my mouth.

“I want you the fuck out of my room.”

I didn’t yell it. I didn’t even snarl. My tone was completely even and my volume much quieter than normal.

He stopped and looked at me, his turn, I suppose, to wonder, Did she really say that?

“Seriously, get out. I don’t want you in here if that’s how you see my kids. Any of these kids.”

He just stood there for a moment, possibly waiting to see if I was kidding. He climbed down from his ladder and collected his things. He was talking under his breath, but I couldn’t understand him. He left my room and never stepped foot in it again.

C'est la vie...

He also gave my dry erase boards to another teacher.

After all was said and done, I questioned how I’d reacted. Definitely not my finest moment, and I felt I had wasted a chance to really engage this guy in conversation and try to understand—and possibly alter—his attitude and perception. Instead, I’d resorted to using profanity and kicking him out of my room.

What continued to bother me after the actual word had long since been uttered, though, was why on Earth he would use it? If it had been a slip up—a word he used with friends but was “polite” enough not to use around strangers—then wouldn’t he have been a little embarrassed? Maybe this word was such a “normal” part of his vocabulary that he didn’t even realize he’s using it. But then how did he survive working in a predominantly African-American environment? How did he work with mostly black coworkers if that word might fly out of his mouth at any time? It just didn’t make sense. So why did he feel so comfortable using a racial slur, this man who didn’t know enough about me to fill one side of an index card.

The only conclusion that seemed semi-logical was that he made an assumption: my skin is white, so I would not be upset by his language. He felt he was with “one of his own” and that we would be in agreement. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to assume this was his reasoning since I’d spent a decent chunk of two years on the receiving end of insinuations and accusations of racism from both students and teachers. It wasn’t because I did or said racist things; it was because they too saw my white skin and heard my accent and made an assumption, just as “Mr. Maintenance” had assumed he and I were of the same mindset because of our shared skin color.

Over the years there have been other incidents with strangers, though none quite as appalling as that one. Sometimes the comments are so offhand, I wonder if people even realize how bad it sounds. At other times, the comments have been so blatant that my jaw has ended up in my lap. I’ve learned to better handle people’s comments and to be more reasonable and less reactive. What has continued to bother me, though, is why people make these comments to me. Every time it happens I replay the episode in my head, trying to figure out if something I said could be misinterpreted as racist.

Me (standing in check out line): “What is going on up there? It’s taking forever.”

Random Customer in Front of Me: “She’s probably got a bunch food stamps. You know most of those people live off the government.”

*****************************************************************************

Me: “I’ll bet Elin Nordegren gets a fat chunk of money from Tiger Woods.”

Friend of a Friend I’ve Just Met: “I don’t feel sorry for her. What did she expect marrying him? They’re all gonna cheat.”

Me: “Yeah, those professional athletes don’t have the best track records at fidelity.”

FOAFIJM: “Well, that, too but I meant a black guy.”

******************************************************************************

Me: “I taught at a Memphis City high school for four years.”

New Colleague I’ve Just Met: “Weren’t you scared teaching all those blacks?”

Got this in an email from a relative.
She said, "Guess I failed the racist test
because I sure didn't think 'nuggets' ha ha
WHY ADMIT THAT????

I guess I can see how someone could take what I’m saying and assume I’m racist, but only if they are racists themselves! You can take almost anything and twist it to line up with your opinions and beliefs, which I have to believe these people are subconsciously doing when I talk. They are taking my words, running them through some prejudice generator in their brain, and then spouting off a response without even stopping to consider whether or not I might be offended by their assumption. What if I’m on food stamps? What if I’m married to a black man? What if I had a biracial child or had adopted a black child?

Does it even occur to them that they could be saying something terribly hurtful to me?

Recently there was another incident when we took Peanut to see Yo Gabba Gabba Live. We ended up sitting next to a woman and her young son. She was pretty friendly, though she overshared quite a bit of personal information in a very short period of time (including that she and her husband were in the middle of the divorce which was “for the best”). We would occasionally make comments to each other about the show, and I took some pictures of her and her little boy since she didn’t have anyone else with her to do it. At one point in the show, a group of children who had won a contest were allowed to come onto stage to dance with the characters. During the last couple of minutes of the song, a father on the front row walked to the edge of the stage and deposited his maybe three-year-old onto the stage to join the fun. I couldn’t believe someone would (A) have the audacity to do that in the first place and (B) allow such a small child to go onstage and be out of his reach completely. I nudged the lady beside me:

Me: “Did you see that? I can’t believe he just put his kid on the stage like that?

Lady: “It’s because he’s black."

Okay, I thought, she didn’t say that. The music is loud and I’m partially deaf and I heard something else.

Me: “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

Lady: “Black people always think they can do whatever they want.

I then found myself semi-defending the father on the front row, even though I completely disapproved of his actions.

Me: “Ummm… I doubt it has anything to do with him being black. A lot of parents just have problems saying no to their kids. His little boy was probably begging to go up.”

Lady: “No, they just do whatever they want.”

At that moment, I decided that having a good time with my family was more important than attempting to correct this stranger beside me. I started singing along and dancing with Amelia, hoping the woman would not say anything else. After a few minutes, I leaned over and told John what she had said. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Why does this always happen to me? Why do random people think it’s perfectly acceptable to make comments like that to me?”

John sat for a moment and then replied with a grin—

“Well, honey, I guess you just have a racist face.”

So there you have it. I have a “racist face” that prompts certain people to consider me a kindred spirit to whom they can spew their ridiculousness. Maybe it’s my big nose or imposing brow or the gap between my two front teeth. Maybe it’s my actual whiteness, the fact that I could shave my head and pass for Powder. Whatever it is, something about my face obviously screams, “I’m a racist, too.”

It makes perfect sense now that I think about it. The resemblance is uncanny.

All joking aside (and I have to admit that we’ve gotten some mileage out of my husband’s comment), is there anyone else out there who experiences this? Random acts of racial stereotyping or generalizations? Or even just blatant, in-your-face bigotry from a total stranger?

November 24

2011-11-24T23:42:00.000-06:00

Well, today is Thanksgiving. It's been a wonderful but very busy day, so this post won't be very long. Here's a quick rundown:

Woke up and got Peanut and me ready (which took longer than I expected because that little stinker has outgrown half of her wardrobe seemingly overnight!!!)
Loaded car while my parents played with Peanut.
We all headed to my husband's grandmother's house an hour away to have lunch with his family (he had to work unfortunately)
Spent time visiting with the family.
Drove back home to drop off food for Hubby
Drove half an hour to visit my grandmother
Came home, got Peanut ready for bed, and COLLAPSED ON THE COUCH

I love being able to see so many people I love in one day, but it is super tiring to do that much driving. So I'll just wrap this up by telling you a few things I'm specifically thankful for today:

Peanut is healthy and is growing and developing
I have so many loving people in my life
My husband's family is so warm and welcomed my parents like they were part of the family
Lots and lots and lots of yummy food
Peanut's behavior in the car and while visiting my Nani
Getting to come home to my husband at the end of the day

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I now return you to our regularly scheduled blogging.

November 23

2011-11-23T14:10:00.057-06:00

This may be kind of "rambly" because I'm functioning on virtually NEGATIVE sleep.

So I mentioned last night that I hit my head while out with my friends. It was kind of embarrassing, so I didn't tell the whole story. Basically, I was laughing and cutting up and I rocked forward. I slammed my head into plastic tea glass on the table. The glass didn't tip over, though, it just stopped my head very quickly. When it happened, I saw stars for a moment and my head was almost immediately sore. It passed, though, and I went home with the beginnings of a nice little knot.

A few hours later, I started getting a terrible headache on the side of my head closest to the "point of impact." It wasn't one of my usual headaches, and John was concerned that I could have given myself a concussion. He talked me into going to the ER and getting checked out. The problem was that it was 1 AM, and there was NO WAY I was dragging Peanut out of the bed and taking her to the ER. He suggested calling my mom, but she was sick. He suggested calling his mom, but she lives an hour away and it was the middle of the night. We finally decided that he would stay here with Amelia and get a little rest (he had to work today) and I would ask my brother to drive me to the ER. My brother--the dear he is--agreed and was at my house in less than 15 minutes.

We got the ER and there was almost no one there unless you counted the half dozen cops buzzing around the waiting area and parking lot. It took awhile for the nurses to call me back to triage, and it was there I learned that a gunshot victim had been brought in shortly before I arrived. They assured me I was safe (not that I was worried) and told me it would be best if I sit off in the corner by myself to "stay out of the mess." I wasn't sure what they meant until the gunshot dude's "entourage" arrived at the hospital. They had all come from a bar and were riled up about their friend.

I ended up not having to wait for long. Once I got to my room and explained what happened (totally awkward), the doctor told me I "could have just gone to sleep at home" but told me she would order a CT scan since she realized "it was the only way any of us would actually get any rest." She didn't say this in a supportive or comforting way. More like a "why are you people wasting my time" way. Whatever.

I spent my time waiting chatting with my brother who made me feel better and helped take my mind off my headache (and how exhausted I was). They finally did the CT and then I waited awhile longer (I fell asleep at some point).

Not that many new pictures of us
and this is much cuter :)

They looked at my head and discovered that (A) I have a brain and (B) it was okay. The doctor then asked me if I wanted something for pain, but I told her "no" since I refused to let her think I was there seeking. Then she insisted on giving me something to take before I left. I finally told her to do whatever she thought best, so she had the nurse give me a fioricet in one of those little ketchup cups. She also gave me a prescription for more fioricet. No idea why when I said I didn't need them.

I got back home 2 1/2 hours later, not bad for a trip to the ER right around the holidays. I finally went to bed this morning at about 5:00 AM and managed to get a few hours of sleep before Peanut woke up. I feel like crap today, but at least I know my head is okay.

Today I'm thankful for my mostly functioning brain and my awesome brother. He drove me to the ER, stayed with me, and seemed happy to do it. Made this crappy night much less crappy.

November 22

2011-11-22T23:12:00.001-06:00

I have long said that teachers make some of the best friends. Maybe it's because we understand each other's struggles better than anyone. Maybe it's because we spend so much time at school that we don't have time to make any other friends. Hell, maybe it's because we're all a little nuts and speak some strange moon language only known by educators. All I know is that over the past ten years, 95% of my closest friends have been other teachers.

I left the classroom a year-and-a-half ago to stay at home with Peanut. I love being a SAHM, but I do sometimes miss teaching. I especially miss seeing my friends on a daily basis. I worked with some awesome women, and I am so thankful that they are a part of my life.

I was able to spend a few hours with three of these ladies tonight. My face hurts from laughing (and my head from smacking it on the table WHILE I was laughing), and I feel like my "grown up conversation" tank is full again. Whenever we get together, there's no TELLING what we will say. In a fifteen minute period, it may be serious, hysterical, silly, perverted, dark, political, or loud... well, it's pretty much always loud. Our conversations tonight included (not necessarily in this order) education, oral sex, religion, ghosts, politics, high school, weight loss, assholes (the people, not the actual... um... holes), racism, and marijuana. And even when we disagreed, we laughed.

My toddler is a HOOT to be with, but I I won't lie and say I don't crave adult time. I sorely needed to see these gals' faces tonight and to reconnect with them once again.

Love my "lushous" ladies *wink wink* I am thankful for each and every one of you!

November 21

2011-11-21T16:32:00.016-06:00

I got to see my older sister today for the first time in over a year, and Peanut got to meet her for the very first time. My three older siblings are in Florida and Utah, so we don’t see each other much. I appreciate these rare occasions when any of us can be together.

Gina and I only had a few hours to visit, but it was great to catch up and spend some time together. We went to lunch with our Daddy and then came back to my house to relax. Peanut had so much fun playing with her Aunt Gina… and so did I! We are thankful she came to see us today!

November 20

2011-11-20T22:39:00.003-06:00

I don’t tend to be a person who loves “stuff” but I think I have feelings for my DVR. If my DVR were a person, I’d take it out behind the bleachers and make out with it. Since we limit Peanut to a very small amount of television, we rarely watch anything while she’s up. And to be honest, I’m not sure we watch more than a show or two that would actually be appropriate for her. My DVR is a loyal little friend, recording my favorite shows and letting me watch whenever it’s convenient. I can neglect my DVR for days and then show up at 1 AM to watch “Sister Wives.” My DVR is always there for me, accepting that I am selfish and needy. Thank you, DVR, for you dedication to my television watching habits. Because of you, I can be a good mommy and watch The Walking Dead in 45 minutes without commercials.

November 19

2011-11-19T22:35:00.004-06:00

I started reading The Hunger Games tonight. I’m about 75 pages in and it is very, very good. Since Peanut arrived, I've done very little reading outside of magazine articles and the news. I’m determined to start reading again and to work my way through the massive pile of books on my nightstand (in all honesty, they could BE another nightstand). I’m not sure how I’ll balance reading and writing since I already struggle to find time to do the latter, but I’ll figure it out. I am realizing more and more than it is essential to make time for myself, even if it ‘s only a few minutes each day. I think I’ve avoided picking up a book in my spare time because I like to be able to read until I’m ready to stop. I have to accept, though, that my days of reading until the wee hours of morning are over for awhile. I have to take what I can get, even if it’s 15 minutes before bed or 5 minutes in a drive thru. Perhaps I need to choose my books more carefully and focus on novels with shorter chapters so that I can get to a “stopping place” more quickly while I’m reading. So for today, I am thankful for good books and for finding the time to read one of them.

November 18

2011-11-18T17:39:00.006-06:00

We have the most fun in our
mismatched pajamas

Since John has to work this weekend (Boooo!!!) he was off today. It really makes me miss when he used to work four-day weeks. Those four days were long for him, but at least he got three whole days at home. And to be honest, he didn’t work any longer on those four days than he does now on a five day schedule! Anyway, the three of us got to be home together today, and it was so nice. I am so thankful for being able to spend the day with my precious little family. We didn’t really do that much, but those are my favorite days. I want to treasure these days because I know a time will come where they will be so few and far between. Once Peanut goes to school and I go back to work, we will only have the weekends. And I know those will be busy, busy, busy. For now, though, I am going to cherish every second with the two people in this world I love most.

November 17

2011-11-17T23:57:00.005-06:00

My bestie and I see each other all time, but it is usually when we have anywhere between two and four kids with us. We enjoy our time together and with the kids, but sometimes it’s so nice to have girl time that doesn’t involve sippy cups, time-outs, and dirty diapers. Back in August, Tiffy’s husband bought her two tickets to see one of her favorite singer/songwriters, Chris Tomlin. Since her hubby isn’t a big fan of Chris, I got to go with her to the concert tonight. We had a yummy dinner at Huey’s (seriously my favorite burger ever) and then had a great night of singing and fun. I am so thankful that we had this night together and hope our next night out doesn’t take so long to arrive. People always talk about needing “us” time with spouses, but our friendships need that nurturing, too, especially once we have children and focus our time and energy on them. I love my bestie and am so thankful for her!

November 16

2011-11-16T14:36:00.001-06:00

Yesterday I talked about needing one-piece, footed pajamas for my Peanut. Without going into detail, I needed them because I had to apply medicine to her entire little body (even her hands) and then cover her for eight hours. I actually sewed gloves into her pajamas so that she wouldn’t get the medicine in her mouth (it was that or duct tape and I didn’t trust her not to rip off the duct tape and eat it). All day yesterday I was a nervous wreck every time I thought about what I’d have to last night. Peanut is prone to flopping around like a fish and/or running away when I try to change her diaper or put butt paste on a diaper rash. In my head I could picture her Daddy and I having to hold her down while we rubbed in the medicine. I was convinced she would fight us while we put her pajamas on and that she would tear at the gloves. I spent most of the day cuddling her and apologizing in advance for the trauma we would both have to experience. So today I am thankful to say that everything when very well last night. Peanut took her bath early and didn’t try to run from me when I took her to her bedroom. She say relatively still while I rubbed on her medicine, and her Daddy only had to hold her hands for me. She actually seemed to like her pajamas. Even the gloves didn’t faze her—she acted like she didn’t even notice them! She played for awhile and then climbed up on the couch to watch a little Yo Gabba Gabba with us. She slept all night long and didn’t get up until close to 10:00 this morning! I guess it was silly to get so worked up, but even changing her diaper can be enough to make me start drinking again. I am so thankful that she handled it like a champ. Love that baby girl.

November 15

2011-11-15T16:44:00.008-06:00

Today I am thankful for my sweet, funny, gorgeous friend Sheree who kept me from having to drive to Walmart in the cold rain with a sniffly toddler to pick up ONE item. She saw my status on Facebook about needing to buy one-piece, footed pajamas with a zipper. Someone had left a comment that Wal-Mart carries them. Peanut’s nose has been running and she’s been kind of fussy today, so I hated the thought of dragging her to Wal-Mart in the freezing rain. I needed the pajamas this evening (long story) so that unfortunately looked like my only option. But without me asking, Sheree not only checked on the pajamas, but also bought and delivered them to my house! I’m going to have Peanut write her a nice “thank you” note. Okay, I’ll write it, but I’ll let Little Bit carry it around and wipe her loving all over it :)

November 14

2011-11-14T23:16:00.002-06:00

I’m not an “extreme” couponer like those featured on TV, but I do like to clip coupons and save a little money. On Sunday afternoon, I usually organize my coupons, browse the circulars in the paper, inventory my pantry/cabinets, and make a shopping list. Then I go shopping on Monday before the good deals are gone, snatched up by shoppers who feel the need to buy two dozen toothbrushes or 28 boxes of Ritz crackers. Today’s trip involved three stores: Target, Kroger, and Walgreens. If you have a small child, you probably know how challenging any sort of shopping can be. Peanut is generally a good girl when we shop; she’s good-natured, friendly to everyone she sees, and rarely cries or whines. But even when she’s being sweet, she can still be a challenge. I have to be cautions when I “park” my cart or she’ll grab anything on the shelf that she can reach. She also likes to play with items in the cart and will sometimes toss them in the floor. The worst, though, is that she wants to grab at my coupons which often results in her wadding them up, tearing them, or pretending she’s a billy goat and eating them. It is because of this behavior that I especially dread days like today when I need to make multiple stops.

I planned my trip meticulously, making a separate list for each store (mapped out based on the aisles). I separated my coupons by store and category for easy access and added two new sheets to my binder to hold them. I scheduled our trip between breakfast and nap time and even packed snacks and drinks for Peanut. I knew that even with my planning, the trip could be exhausting. Fortunately for me (and my fellow shoppers), Peanut was a doll 99% of the time. She was happy and talkative and even snuggly (she kept leaning over the handle of the cart to hug me). Our trip took longer than usual, but I think it was because I was enjoying being out with her so I didn't get in a hurry. We bought everything on our list, didn't lose a single coupon, and had time to stop at McDonald’s for a little treat. We were both totally pooped when we got home, but neither of us had cried all day. Our next trip may very well be a total nightmare so that balance is restored to the toddler world, but for now I’m thankful for a smooth and rather enjoyable day of shopping, saving money, and having fun with my Peanut.

November 13

2011-11-13T16:01:00.003-06:00

Christmas is coming which means this Momma can add about a million more things to her already lengthy “to do” list. One of my biggest tasks is to buy Christmas presents for about 186 people. And that, my friends, is why I am more than a little thankful for online shopping. While I am nowhere NEAR being finished, I have managed to cross off quite a few gifts from my list without leaving the comfort of my couch or office chair. Today I am especially thankful for the great deal Toys R Us is running. I got over half of Amelia’s Christmas presents bought for cheap AND I didn’t pay shipping.

November 12

2011-11-12T22:55:00.001-06:00

So it looks like today’s “thanks” will be pretty trite, but it’s the little things that make me happy so often.

As anyone on Facebook knows, the most recent batch of changes that took place left quite a few people pretty pissed off. It seems that Facebook now thinks it knows what is best for us and will determine what we read first (or at all). I’m not sure if today’s developments are due to the public outcry (i.e. online petitions and angry status updates), but I am definitely thankful to see the option to order my newsfeed CHRONOLOGICALLY instead of “by importance.” Perhaps now I won’t miss my friends’ updates that I actually want to read just because Facebook arbitrarily declares them “less important” than other updates.

I’m also thankful that Red Robin brought back Zukes and ‘Shrooms. Okay, not the ‘shrooms, just the zukes. ‘ Shrooms are kind of nasty. Zukes are a like an orgy in my mouth.

November 11

2011-11-11T18:47:00.033-06:00

Today is Veterans Day. I am thankful for the brave men and women who have served our country and for those who continue to serve. There are many veterans in my family and in the family into which I married. I am proud to be related to so many men who have helped protect our country and our freedoms. Here is a list of relatives (both mine and my husband’s) who have served in the military. I wish I had pictures of all of them in their uniforms.

Bill Jewell (father)

Melburn Connor (grandfather)

John Guthrie (father-in-law)

David Jewell (nephew)

Steven Jewell (nephew)

Ray Cowsert (brother-in-law)

William Archie (husband’s grandfather)

Jeff Guthrie (uncle)

Michael Guthrie (uncle)

Chris Guthrie (uncle)

I don't have pictures of all of them in their uniforms, but here are a few:

My Daddy

Another picture of my Daddy. Those boots are pretty cool with the chef's hat :)

My Pawpaw Connor who served during WWII

Another of my Pawpaw. Wasn't he handsome?

My father-in-law

My nephew, David

My nephew, Steven

November 10

2011-11-10T21:46:00.000-06:00

Well, no miraculous recovery. Thanks for nothing, Max.

I am now on Day Four of Bacterial Infection 2011 and it SUUUUUCCCKKKKSSSS. It started out with a sore throat, then turned into a sore throat and sinus drainage, and then turned into the sinus headache from Hell and very angry ears. Fortunately, my head has cleared how and I’m not longer in pain. Unfortunately, it’s all traveled to my chest and I’ve developed a painfully unproductive cough. I’ve run a low-to-mid- grade fever on and off since Monday night, which has made me feel draggy and cold. I’m so ready to get over this mess and get back to normal. Being sick is absolutely not conducive to being a SAHM. I’ve been lucky that my toddler has been in a relatively good mood and has wanted to snuggle the past few days (except that means she also wants to be RIGHT IN MY FACE). My hubby was off work yesterday which allowed me to get some extra rest, too. While I’ve been parked in the recliner, though, it’s given me ample time to stare at all the dog hair in the floor, to think about how little food (or milk or juice or…anything) there is in my fridge, and to reflect on the lack of quality children’s programming on television. My poor child has watched more TV in the past few days that she’s watched in her entire life, and if it weren’t for programs saved on the DVR, I’m convinced her brain would be total mush by now.

It’s hard to come up with a post for today since I feel pretty wretched (coughing 'til you puke, anyone?), but I have to say I’m thankful for the time I’ve been able to spend with my little one. Being sick forces me to do nothing but hang out with her and get my snuggles on, and I think that’s been good for both of us (except the TV part).

I’m also thankful for prescription cough syrup. Praise the Lord and pass the ~~ammunition~~ Poly-Tussin!

I'm sick and crabby. Deal with it.

P.S. I promise that tomorrow's post will not be about being sick. Unless my arm falls off or some crazy shit like that happens.

November 9

2011-11-09T23:13:00.000-06:00

Wonder if he WOULD rather starve now...

Today I am thankful for Chick-fil-a, Dominos Pizza, and McDonalds, for without them my family would have starved. I sincerely hope that tomorrow I get to be thankful for my miraculous recovery from this malady. That’s all folks.

November 8

2011-11-08T22:00:00.006-06:00

I am full-blown sick today. When the Hubby got home from work this evening, I decided to go to the urgent care clinic and get a flu test. When I arrived at the clinic to which I normally go, they said that all the rooms were full. There were also a dozen or more patients ahead of me in the waiting room. I filled out my paperwork and sat down, pulling out my phone to piddle on and pass the time. Within a few minutes I was freezing and feeling even worse than when I arrived. They hadn’t called a single name. I text the Hubby and asked him if he’d call another clinic to see how long the wait was. It was going to be 30-40 minutes at the 2^nd clinic. He suggested going to the walk-in clinic he uses each month. I hesitated because I knew it would mean filling out new patient material, but he assured me they would be fast. He called the clinic and found out there was no wait, so I got in the car and headed that way. Thirty minutes later, I was walking out to my car with a diagnosis and prescription—and that half hour included filling out paperwork, getting blood work and seeing the doctor. As I drove by the 1^st clinic, I wondered if I’d still be in the waiting room had I stayed. So today I am thankful for the Family Care Walk-In Clinic and their awesome staff. They got me in and out and home to my family before Peanut was in bed. Hopefully I’ll feel better tomorrow because today has been tough. I’m NOT thankful for the 6:45 wakeup call I got from Peanut this morning. Damn you, end of Daylight Savings!

November 7

2011-11-07T21:05:00.044-06:00

I was supposed to meet my parents at the Ag Center today to take some Fall pictures of them and Peanut, but I spiked a fever to go with my sore throat that started yesterday. I told them if they’d like, they could just come to my house and we could take some pictures in my backyard and at my neighbor’s house (she’s the “Yard of the Month” winner and her fall decorations are lovely). Peanut is getting to where she has little interest in having her picture made if it means she has to pose or sit still in one place.

I had no idea how she’d handle the pictures today. While she was a little wiggly, I managed to get some very sweet pictures of her with "Nana and Pawpaw."

As I’ve mentioned in past posts, one of my most fervent prayers is that my Daddy stays healthy—both physically and mentally—long enough for my little girl to know him and remember him. He’s already changed so much, so I hope that by the time she is old enough to really understand who he is and to begin making memories of him that he hasn’t gotten too feeble. I have no way of knowing what the future holds, though, so days like this—and pictures like these—are so special to me because I am creating a history for my daughter. And to be honest, I feel a little bit like this about all of the pictures we make. It’s easy to fear old age or sickness or dementia, but we never know when someone we love could be suddenly taken away. People on Facebook probably think I’m nuts to post so many pictures of my child and her “entourage” (ha ha), but I want to make sure that my Peanut gets to see all the fun she had as a baby and toddler—and all the people with whom she had that fun.

So for today, I’m thankful for another set of fun, precious pictures with people I love. And I’m thankful for each day my Daddy is still the Daddy I know. Though there have been some very dramatic changes, there is still a lot of spark left. I pray it keeps burning bright for many years to come.

A few more I will treasure...

November 6

2011-11-06T21:00:00.000-06:00

Peanut and I had lunch today with my husband’s family at his Memaw’s house. His mom has four sisters and all of them live in the same town (as do all of the grandchildren with the exception of us). Most of them attend the same church, and they all congregate at Memaw’s house every Sunday for lunch. They take turns making the main dish and everyone brings a side, making special dishes and desserts when it’s someone’s “birthday week.” It’s always very laid back and informal, with lots of talking and laughter. They’re a loud bunch of folks which means I fit right in. In the 10+ years I’ve been a part of their family, there have been births and funerals, weddings and graduations. We’ve celebrated many holidays and birthdays together and watched the children grow and flourish. Whether it is a crisis or a celebration, they are always there for one another. Several years ago when John’s first cousin was having a baby, the family congregated in the waiting room of the hospital, awaiting his arrival. That same evening, there was a family of Irish Travellers (or Gypsies as some people call them) in the waiting room with us. They were dressed in extravagantly tacky clothing, especially the little girls who wore full makeup and armfuls of bracelets. There were at least two dozen of them, and they had brought coolers of food and drinks for everyone in the group. My husband’s family thought the Travellers were odd and commented that they had “taken over” the waiting room. When I had my daughter, though, I had to wonder if people thought the same about “my” family as they swarmed the waiting room and—eventually—my hospital room. Though they don’t dress in flashy clothing or bring coolers, they definitely travel in a “pack” and definitely leave their mark wherever they go. They are an incredible group of people and are blessed to be related to one another. Today I am so thankful to have married in to such a close-knit family who treats me like I’m one of their own. I often hear people gripe about their in-laws and the families into which they married, so I feel incredibly fortunate to be part of a family who has made me feel welcome and loved.

November 5

2011-11-05T15:38:00.000-05:00

I have always taken for granted that grandparents are all mostly the same. Some are a little older, some are a little more spry, some like to buy spoil, some like to pass down their knowledge and skills. All in all, though, I’ve always assumed that grandparents are crazy about their grandkids and want to be a big part of their lives. This theory was confirmed when I gave birth to my daughter. All six of her grandparents came to the hospital—and not just after she was born. I was in labor for about 26 hours and they were there for most of it, even spending the night in the waiting room. Once my daughter made her grand entrance (and as soon as I pulled myself together and gave the green light), they swarmed the delivery room. And it’s pretty much been that way ever since. The first week or two after we came home from the hospital, I don’t think there was a single day that we didn’t have some combination of the grandparents in our home. And in the year that has followed, they have continued to be a steady and important part of my daughter’s life. I suppose some people would be annoyed to constantly have their parents and/or in-laws around, but I am so thankful that they love my little girl so much and want to be involved in her life. See, it turns out that not all grandparents go out of their way to spend time with their offspring’s offspring. I have been surprised—and kind of saddened—by how many people have told me that their parents or in-laws rarely see the grandchildren and don’t make it a priority to spend time with them. Now, I’m not referring to people who are separated by hundreds or even thousands of miles and literally can’t be a school recitals or summer picnics. These are grandparents who could be involved more than they are but choose not to be. I’m sure they love their grandchildren but for some reason they’re either just too busy or too focused on other aspects of their lives. And I’m not saying there’s necessarily anything wrong with not seeing grandchildren often. Everyone views family and relationships differently and quantity of time may not be as important to some people as quality of time. I’m not judging people who don’t go out of their way to see their grandkids; heck, maybe my daughter’s grandparents go overboard. All I know is that I am thankful that my little girl has six grandparents who are totally crazy about her and want to see her as much as possible. As she gets older, I want to make sure she understands how blessed she is and how appreciative she should be of these people who would do anything for her. Since her grandparents have always been there, I don’t want her to take for granted that they have to be there. They choose to be a part of her life and to make her a huge part of theirs. I’m also thankful that they are also involved in my life and John’s life, too. Everyone jokes about how the parents become “invisible” once the baby arrives, and I admit that the focus does shift. But John and I know that our parents are there for us, too. Having a child has only strengthened our bonds with them.

So to Nana, Pawpaw, Grammy, Pappy, Gigi, and Pop, thank you for loving my little Peanut and thank you for loving us.

Peanut and her grandparents at her 1st birthday party.

November 4

2011-11-04T21:38:00.001-05:00

This one will be rather short. I’m tired and want to spend the last couple of hours of my “family day” with my hubby.

Today I am thankful for DJ Lance Rock, Muno, Toodee, Foofa, Plex, Brobee and all of the Yo Gabba Gabba family. For her birthday back in August, we bought tickets to take Peanut to Yo Gabba Gabba Live. The show was today at 4:00, and it was incredible! Seriously, I may have had more fun that even she did. Judging from the looks some parents gave me when I sang every song, I’m pretty certain I’m not the average “parent fan.” But Peanut did have a blast herself.

The show started the same way it does on television, except on a giant screen. Peanut was pretty excited about that. But when DJ Lance walked out of the screen and onto the stage? I so wish I had a picture. Her mouth was wide open and she had this look like, “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME OH MY GOSH THAT IS DJ LANCE ON THE STAGE RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME I THINK I MAY THROW UP!!!” Alright, I may be reading a little into it, but she was super excited. She loved the whole show.

Imagine this look times about 3 billion...

We danced and wiggled and giggled and sang—and that was just her daddy and me!

So I’d like to say a big “thank you” to everyone in Yo Gabba Gabba Live for a great show. You gave us a great family day together and I am so thankful for the memories we’ve made.

November 3

2011-11-03T21:23:00.000-05:00

Up to something in her daddy's hat...

My little girl is 15 months old today. It’s both exciting and a little sad to quite literally watch time pass before our eyes as she grows. I’ve now celebrated my birthday with her twice, as has my husband. We went trick-or-treating for the second time earlier this week. Each day, she gets a little faster, a little smarter, a little more vocal. We never know what she is going to repeat, so the filters are firmly in place until she’s sound asleep. I’m amazed at how funny and clever she can be, even at her age. I’m even more amazed to see a reflection of myself in her funny faces and funky attitude.

I took her for a checkup and a flu shot today. She weighed just a tad less than 25 pounds, though I could swear she’s closer to 40. At least that’s how it feels once she’s been on my hip for two or three minutes. They also measured her height. She was 31.5 inches, but when the nurse wrote it on my form to take home, it said “2 feet, 7.5 inches.” I almost cried. It’s the first time they’ve ever written down her height in FEET instead of inches. I guess now that she’s walking, that’s appropriate. It is still a big reminder that my baby is a now a toddler.

She’s in the 75^th percentile for weight and height, and the doctor said she’s healthy and developing just as she should. He seemed a bit impressed that she sleeps as long and heavily as she does at night (12-13 hours, sometimes a little more) so I assured him I’m not slipping her a Mickey with her dinner. My little girl just plays hard all day—and I mean ALL day. She goes and goes and goes nonstop, so she needs a long night of sound sleep, I guess. (I am thankful for this since it means I’ve been getting to sleep until NINE!)

Because of Facebook, I frequently hear stories about babies and children who are sick or hurting. Rarely a week goes by that I don’t have friends or acquaintances asking for prayer for a baby born too early, a toddler who has been in a terrible accident, or a child diagnosed with cancer. And then there’s the less severe illnesses—the flu, strep, a broken bone. Meanwhile, my Peanut has never been sick outside of a stuffed up nose or slight fever while teething. She’s had bumps and bruises and even a busted lip once, but her only trips to the doctor have been for checkups and vaccinations. I am so thankful today that my little girl has been healthy these past fifteen months. I am also thankful that she’s growing and developing physically, mentally and emotionally. So often we take for granted when our children take their first steps or say new words or even behave during a meal. These are things we consider “normal,” things we expect them to do. But for so many children, these are milestones that are cause for celebration. A first step may very well be a miracle. “Mama” may be the result of hours and hours of speech therapy. We don’t always know what burdens the parents we encounter are carrying.

I am so thankful for my Amelia, my rambunctious, independent, fierce little Peanut. I somehow love you more each day.

November 2

2011-11-02T16:01:00.000-05:00

9:00 - Amelia wakes up. I change her diaper and put her in her high chair.

9:10 - 9:45 – She throws her scrambled egg in the floor, pitches her cup of milk at me and chants, “UP! UP! UP” at the top of her lungs (“up” is her word for anytime she wants to be unrestrained or set free)

9:45 – 12:00 – Amelia cries and screams pretty much non-stop. Normally, she’s a fairly resilient, even-tempered kid, rarely crying even when she falls down. Not today. Nope, she cries when she falls. She screams when she runs into the cabinet. She cries when she drops her toys. She screams when I tell her to stay out of the dogs’ water bowl. She walks over to her high chair and cries as she tries to climb it. She screams when I pick her up and put her in the high chair. She cries for Cheerios. She cries when she eats the Cheerios. She cries when I pick her up. She cries when I put her down. She screams when I leave the room. She cries when I come back. Cry, cry, cry. Scream, scream, scream. And after 2+ hours, all I want to do is cry and scream.

Finally, she walks over to me and lays her head on my leg. I reach down and pet her a little. Then she bites the piss out of me. I jump and yelp. She—of course—screams. I pick her up and lean her back. Sure enough, there’s yet another tooth coming in. I haul her to the bathroom, screaming in my ear, and give her a dose of Ibuprofen. I rub her gums down in Orajel and pop a pacifier in her mouth (let me do an early "thanks" here for Orajel). We go to her room and rock until she’s still and only whimpering. I ease her into bed with her lovey, Sassy, and cover her up. She whines as I leave the room but is soon quiet.

12:45 – She is screaming like a banshee. I don’t usually check on her immediately if she wakes up and cries, but she sounds like someone is pulling off her toenails. I go in and she tries to climb the crib to get to me. We rock again.

1:15 – She finally stops sobbing and put her back to bed to finish her nap. By this time, I feel like I’ve ingested a brick and my whole body is tense and sore. I’m quite certain I will suffer from mild PTSD brought on by the past four hours.

1:30 – In the shower with the water turned up as hot as I can stand it, praying that the only thing I hear over the monitor for awhile is the sound of Amelia’s noise machine. It’s so hard to see and hear my daughter suffer and hurt. I remind myself that she only has a few more teeth to go, thankful that this is one cross we won’t bear for much longer—and thankful that I have a sweet-natured, tough little cookie who is an absolute dream to be with 99% of the time. Perhaps that’s why days like this seem especially hard and tiring. It seems I’ve found the downside to a good kid.

November 1

2011-11-02T14:27:00.000-05:00

I ran by Walgreens today to pick up a couple of things and check out the Halloween clearance sale. There was a woman in the Halloween aisle who seemed quite flustered. She was probably mid-50s, nicely dressed, and spoke with that “Old South” drawl that generally ignores the letter “r.” She was talking to herself as she rummaged through the shelves, not a crazy kind of talking to herself, just the kind many of us do when we’re on a mission. I watched her for a few moments, mostly because she was blocking the aisle and I had nothing else to do. Finally she brushed past me and walked off to another part of the store. I grabbed a Reese’s pumpkin and a Dora coloring book that were on clearance and walked toward the back of the store to finish my shopping. As I made my way down the main thoroughfare in the middle of the store, the woman hustled around a corner, followed by one of the WAGS employees.

“Now I need you to come back heah and help me find those decorations. They wuh heah yestah-day, and I want them now that they ah half price.”

I could tell the employee was already worn out by the woman. I gave her a small smile and shook my head. She sighed.

A couple of minutes later, I decided to go back and grab another Halloween item I’d been debating. The woman was still looking for her decorations. She now had not one but TWO employees at her service—the first I saw with her and a second young lady.

“I just don’t undah-stand wheah they went. They wuh heah yestah-day.”

The newest “assistant” attempted to reason with her.

“Ma’am, we had a lot of people come in here yesterday evening at the last minute. And we’ve had a lot of people shopping today. Maybe someone bought them”

“Well, you had quite a few of them. Shuhly they ah not all gone.”

“It’s very possible, ma’am.”

“This is just ridiculous. Would the other Walgreens still have them?”

“I’m not sure, ma’am. It’s possible. Sometimes our stock is a little different, though.”

“Different? That doesn’t even make sense. Ahn’t you both Walgreens?”

By now, the original employee had walked away, quite possibly afraid that she would be permanently affected by the insanity. The second employee had little choice but to stick it out.

“Would you like me to call and see if they have it? They could hold it for you.”

“Finally, a good idea. Yes, call them.”

“Could you tell me exactly what it is you are looking for, ma’am?”

“Those things that go on tables.”

“Which things specifically?”

“The little decorations. They had pumpkins on them.”

“Can you tell me anything else about them?”

“How is that not specific enough, young lady?”

At this point, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or club the old bat in the head so that the poor girl could escape. I wanted to stick around and listen but half feared that a black hole of absurdity was about to open and swallow us all. So instead of remaining a spectator, I pushed my cart to the front of the store and checked out, thankful that my source of income isn’t dependant on my dealing with crazy old women on a mission to find random decorations the day after Halloween. I taught high school for almost ten years, so I’m used to my fair share of nuttiness, but my hat goes off to anyone in retail who can deal with that kind of bizzaro behavior on a daily basis and maintain any semblance of sanity.

30 Days

2011-11-02T11:28:00.000-05:00

It seems that I blog more when I have a “challenge” or daily assignment to inspire me. It’s not that I can't come up with writing topics. The problem is that I choose ideas that take several days to finish, and I either get busy with other parts of my life or lose steam in the middle of writing. Despite my embarrassingly low rate of production, I’m actually OVERLY ambitious.

I’ve noticed several people on Facebook who are doing “30 Days of Thankful.” I am going to try and join them and develop each “thanks” into a blog post. When I participated in the “30-Day Challenge” earlier this year, I wrote a great deal about my family and friends. I don’t want to basically recycle all of my previous blog posts, so please know that I am more thankful for them than anything but I want to keep my writing fresh. I know in the rush of everyday life that I don’t’ stop to appreciate the small miracles and circumstances for which I should be thankful. I’d like to stop each day this month and appreciate those moments more.

As usual, I will attempt from this becoming too terribly indulgent, though that tends to be the nature of the blogging beast. I’m already a day behind but should have posts for yesterday and today up by this evening.

Happy November, everyone!

Jumping Back In

2011-10-25T23:49:00.001-05:00

I know I have to start writing again. It is my cheapest and most effective form of therapy. Watching the words fill that white void literally feeds my soul. So here is my attempt to get back into the groove. Bear with me as I find my literary legs again.

I finished this blog last night. At 2 AM, it felt pretty solid. At 5 PM today I sat down to proofread and edit. It turned out to be a four-page, rambling diatribe. I considered scrapping the entire thing, but I have been grossly negligent toward my writing, so I decided I would try to salvage something and post it. There are some “nuggets” I like in the original, and I’ve pulled them out and included them below. This may leave this post a bit disjointed and choppy, but it would be indulgent (and boring) to post the entire ridiculous rant. I’ve tried to stitch it together as seamlessly as possible.

But doesn’t best mean BEST?

The last couple of weeks, I’ve found the word and concept of “friend” recurrently popping up in my life…It started a few weeks ago when I was around someone who refers to pretty much everyone as her “best friend.” Technically (and grammatically) speaking, one should only have a single “best” friend since the superlative form of “good” indicates that something is superior to all others. I am the first to admit, however, that it is possible to have more than one “best” friend. There’s no ranking system for friends, no “Bob, you’re friend #4, right above Janet.” But often there are a handful of people who surpass the simple title of friend and deserve a special designation. “Best friend” isn’t always literal, but a way to distinguish those friends who are dearest to us. But what about people who have dozens of “best” friends? Not only teenage girls, but also adults. You probably know one of these people…Do they mean well? Is it an attempt to make all of their friends feel special? Or are they subconsciously trying to make themselves look more loved and admired?

You have four friend requests…

Could Facebook be responsible for “friend” losing meaning and significance? I mean, how many of our Facebook “friends”… are a part of our lives outside of Facebook? How many people actually take pride in how many Facebook friends they have? To a degree, the concept of “friend” has been trivialized by social networking. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of Mr. Zuckerberg and his creation, but I’ve made a conscious effort to maintain realistic about distinguishing between my real world friends and Internet-only friends. Granted, there have been times when connecting on Facebook has led to a rich “real world” friendship, but for the most part these are two different worlds. The problem arises when people can’t seem to distinguish between online and offline friends. Since Facebook encourages us to share our lives minute by minutes, we do feel like we know people, even when we don’t. This often leads to awkward situations and circumstances. For example, I recently saw a post where someone complained about her job. There were several comments below, including one that essentially chastised the person for complaining about a job when so many people don’t. Now the comment itself wasn’t necessarily out of line, but this is something you would reserve for a family member or close friend—someone with whom you are “on that level.” In this case, the author of the status replied with her own comment: “Considering you and I have only met briefly once and I only accepted your friend request to be polite, perhaps it’s best if you either attempt to CHEER ME UP or kindly SHUT UP.” Ouch. But this is the hazard of allowing people you don’t really know to have access to your life, especially if their primary source of social interaction is via Facebook. The line of distinction between friends and “people I see on the Internet” begins to blur, as do the guidelines that dictate what is acceptable and what is annoying.

Recently, Facebook added new list options that include “acquaintances” and “close friends.” You’d think I would see that as an improvement, a way to distinguish between actual friends and just people I know. But who wants to log on to Facebook and see that you’ve been added to someone’s “acquaintance” list? While we do tend to categorize friends, this should happen in our heads, not on our profile pages. It’s bad enough that Facebook has turned friendship into a numbers game, but now there’s a filing system for our friends? (Note: I have no idea how many Facebook friends I have. This means I have never once looked at my number and thought, Gee, I wonder who deleted me.)

Did Tina Fey write my life?

If you get this reference, I love you.

I keep coming back to the scene in Mean Girls where Regina George—the head “mean girl—tells another student how much she likes her skirt, only to snarl to her posse in the next breath, “That’s the ugliest effing skirt I’ve ever seen.” Yeah, that’s where I’ve been a couple of times recently, on the receiving end of insincerity and plain old meanness. Not to my face, of course, because that would just be flat out unfriendly [insert painfully exaggerated eye roll]… Look, I get being mean to people, honestly I do. I don’t like it, but I accept that some people are just mean. Maybe it makes them feel better to point out others’ faults. Maybe their meanness was “taught” by mean parents. Or maybe they just get off on it. But why on earth go out of your way to say something nice just to set yourself up to say something heinous? Why waste the time and energy acting like someone’s friend only to tear them down as soon as they’re not in your presence? Wouldn’t it just be easier to not be someone’s friend? Or at the very least, to be cordial and polite but to not act all “buddy-buddy”? I have tried to make sense of this, but the fact is that it just doesn’t make sense… So I approached it from a different angle: what if someone just has a warped perception of what being a real friend means? What if in their minds, they actually are being a friend? Are there people out there who honestly believe they are being a good friend as long as they are kind and encouraging while they are face to face with someone? Like it cancels out any shitty, underhanded comment they make once the person leaves the room? Do they balance their friendships like a checkbook?

“Let’s see, I complimented your shoes and let you cut in front of me at the copy machine this morning. That totally validates the fact that I’m going to announce to the break room that your suits look like they came from Goodwill.”

No, that still doesn’t make sense. In fact, it pisses me off a little. There must be a reason people act this way, but any other theory I’ve come up with sounds like a case study in some sort of mental illness, and I’m under qualified to make those diagnoses.

Passing it on...

The biggest problem all of his presents for me—bigger than the devaluing of “friend” or people who stab those backs they should be protecting—is how my friendships influence my daughter… No one will deny that the way we treat our spouse or partner affects our children’s future relationships. But what about our friendships? How does that affect them? While children often learn about friendship from peers, they begin their education at home. From early on, we are providing examples of friendships for our children to mimic, including how we treat our friends and how we allow ourselves to be treated. What do we teach our children when they watch us “play nice,” only to verbally crucify a friend once we part ways? What about when we lie or make excuses to avoid doing something for a friend? Or when they hear us being critical or condescending? If our friendships are of the fair-weather variety or are only out of convenience, how will that affect our children’s friendships with their peers? Are we teaching our daughters to be queen bees? To be doormats? To be fabricators, flakes or “frenemies”? If so, how will we handle them when they become bullies? Or when they make poor decisions in an effort to “fit in”? How can we expect them to keep their word or to be loyal if we do not demonstrate it first?

I’m slightly OCD so you know there will be a checklist…

Our flawed friendships—both those with tiny cracks and those with crumbling foundations—take a toll on us and often those around us. Sometimes it is necessary to step back and evaluate the connections we have with other people… I’m all about the checklist and benefit from putting and seeing things on paper. One morning as I sat at the breakfast table and watched my daughter feed the remainder of her scrambled eggs to the dogs, I jotted down what I personally think a true friend should be like. As I read over my list later that day, I had a vague moment of déjà vu, like I’d read my list somewhere before. It took a few moments to realize that I had subconsciously written down most of the “love chapter” found in Corinthians 13. I recalled before I married my husband being told to replace the word “love” with his name to see if he was “marriage material” and then to replace “love” with my own as a set of guidelines for being a wife. Since the etymology of the word friend is rooted in the word love in so many languages, I looked up Corinthians 13 and replaced the word “love” once again, only this time with “a friend.” Regardless of whether or not you adhere to biblical teachings, this chapter could be a “Dummies Guide to Being a Friend.”

A friend is patient.

A friend is kind.

A friend isn’t jealous.

A friend doesn’t brag and isn’t conceited.

A friend does not dishonor (or disgrace or humiliate) others.

A friend is not self-seeking.

A friend is not easily angered.

A friend keeps no record of wrongs.

A friend does not delight in evil but rejoices in truth.

A friend always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

As I meditated on the list, I smiled, thankful to know people who have been my friends in action and in name. None of them have been perfect, but they’ve got it right more often than not, and I’ve never doubted their love for me or mine for them. But I found myself make a mental list of those who have repeatedly sinned against our friendship. It is on these people that I found myself dwelling, resenting their duplicity and chiding myself for allowing them to maintain the title of friend while their actions scream “foe.” But these moments of self-righteous indignation are dangerous since they blind us to our own shortcomings. It’s not just about whether or not my friends are legit but about appraising myself… I can’t look at that list without noticing that I am lacking in several areas of the friend department. In theory, it sounds easy because these are the things we are supposed to do for the special people in our lives, but at the end of the day, I struggle with being self-serving. How often do I put being a friend to myself ahead of the needs of others? How often does my “bad day” get in the way of comforting someone who is legitimately hurting? And I don’t blame Facebook or anyone else for that matter, only my own selfishness and laziness…

Challenge

I’m challenging myself…and not for the sake of having future blog material. I’ve spent several weeks dwelling on all of this, and it’s time to stop mulling and start acting. So here’s my new checklist:

1. Check out my real life “friend status.” Figure out who my real friends are and take the time to personally tell them how thankful I am that they’re in my life.

2. Address the “frenemies” and friends who tear me down more than they build me up.

3. Provide solid examples of friendship for my daughter.

4. Most importantly, evaluate my own words, actions and even thoughts toward friends. Am I the friend I want others to be for me? Would I be my friend?

I acknowledge that this may come off as “preachy” or even sanctimonious, but my relationships and friendships are such a vital part of my life, as they are for most people. I want genuine camaraderie, not plastic people… and I want my little girl to learn to choose friends wisely and to be a true friend herself. This is a responsibility I have taken lightly up until now…It’s time to focus more on the people in my life and less on the drama on someone’s Wall.

Scat

2011-07-20T01:14:00.000-05:00

I’ve been debating for over a week if I wanted to share this or not. It’s not the kind of story I generally post, but everyone keeps telling me it’s too funny/horrifying/relatable not to share. I’m going to offer a disclaimer, though: if you don’t have kids, this blog will probably not interest you. In fact, you’re probably going to wonder why on earth I would ever think this was appropriate to share. Heck, I’m willing to bet some of you who DO have kids might feel the same way. But I know that there are at least a few of you who will read this and think, I am so glad that has happened to someone else! So without further ado, I present my one and only scatological story (with pictures).

Sunday before last, my mom’s side of the family had their annual reunion/potluck. I dressed Peanut in an adorable new outfit so that she’d look “spiffy” when she saw all of her relatives. We loaded into the car to make the 45 minute drive to the church where it was being held. Not long after leaving the house, I heard Peanut grunting. Dang, I thought. She’s going to poop. I worried about her squishing poop up her back, as babies often do when they are in a car seat. It makes an awful mess, on the child and and in the seat. Then she began to cry. She cried for a few minutes and stopped. I could smell the gift she’d left me in her diaper and made a mental note to change her the moment we arrived at the reunion regardless of how many relatives wanted to stop and talk.

About twenty minutes into the trip, I stopped for gas. When I got back into the car, the odor had grown more offensive. I thought it was just because I had gotten some fresh air while I was filling up.

Not poop

As we drove, though, the smell grew stronger and more rancid. John didn’t seem to think it was any worse, though, since his nose had sadly become acclimated to it.

Worried about having a seat full of poop, I upped my speed a little and focused on getting to the church. Peanut sat in the back seat talking to herself and giggling. I glanced into the mirror at one point to see her putting something in her mouth. “What are you eating, Peanut?” She just smiled. I assumed she had found a Puff somewhere from the day before.

Suddenly, as we topped a hill, the smell became overwhelming, almost to the point it gagged me. John smelled it, too.

“We need to pull over,” I said. “It smells like it got out of the diaper.” I could already picture a trail of poop up her back. I couldn’t remember if I’d packed a change of clothes before we hurriedly left the house and wondered if she’d be attending the reunion in nothing but a diaper.

I pulled into an empty church parking lot. Grabbing the diaper bag, I went around to open the back of my SUV so that we would have room to change her. John got out and opened Peanut’s door to assess the situation. I knew from his reaction it was bad. I never dreamed it would be as bad as it was, though.

Not poop

She had indeed pooped. No, that’s not the word. She had exploded. My sweet little girl looked like she’d been taking a mud bath. The poop had not gone up her back as I’d feared; it had pushed out of the legs of her diaper and run down to her ankles. She had kicked her feet around and managed to smear it between her toes. But my curious little baby had to get a closer look. She reached down and stuck both hands in pools of liquid poop.

She had smeared poop across her face and into her hair. Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over me as I remembered my question from a few minutes earlier: What are you eating, Peanut?

My daughter smiled up at me from her poop smeared face right as the realization set in that she had been eating her poop. My baby put her poop in. her. mouth.

(In her defense, there was corn in it. What, too much? Deal with it. At least you weren't there to witness it.)

99% of me wanted to crawl into the back seat and cry. The other 1% ordered me to pull myself together and clean the child up.

The day before, I’d taken her travel wipes out of the diaper bag and put in a large pack to take to the sitter. Thank goodness I had or we would have been removing our clothes to wipe her down. It took the entire pack of wipes for the two of us to clean the radioactive poop from her stinky little body.

Fifteen minutes and 75 wipes later, she had on a new diaper and there was no visible poop on her body. She still smelled like the devil's armpit, though. By this point, my husband and I were both sweating profusely in the 100 degree Southern heat. I was miserable in more ways than one, struggling not to cry or scream in frustration and exhaustion. And repulsion.

At least it's not poop

I called my mom to let her know what had happened, so she was ready and waiting to assist when we arrived. We took Peanut to the bathroom and gave her a bath in the sink. I ran my fingernail under all of hers, trying my best to remove any remaining particles of poop since she’s constantly sticking her fingers in her mouth. She was very patient as I scrubbed her with soap and paper towels, even letting me wash her hair. We rinsed her off and my mom said she smelled fine. I stood back to take a look at her, looking for even the tiniest trace of fecal matter. Peanut grinned at me. Her mouth. Oh my Lord, what do I do about her mouth? I’m not proud of what I did next, but I don’t see what option I had. I squirted soap on my fingers and thrust them into her mouth before she could protest. I rubbed and scrubbed the roof her mouth, cheeks, tongue and gums. I wiped her four little teeth with a paper towel. She didn’t cry or resist or even make a face. Yes, I washed my 11-month-old daughter’s mouth out with soap.

My mom assured me that Peanut didn’t even remotely smell like poop anymore, so I let her carry my daughter out to see all of the family. I looked at myself in the mirror. A fuzzy halo of hair surrounded my face, courtesy of the humidity. All of my makeup had melted and there was mascara under my eyes. I scrubbed my own hands and arms and tried to make myself presentable. I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of tea and took a deep breath. While my extended family admired my precious, freshly-scrubbed little girl, I found myself laughing just a little. I had survived Poopageddon. I still had the task of scrubbing out her clothes, but I would just have to think about that later. At that moment, I felt like I’d earned some sort of “mommy badge.” My child finger-painted herself with feces, and I didn’t have an absolute meltdown. With the help of my brave husband, I'd done what had to be done. I shook my head, amazed at what I was able to tolerate for the sake of my own child.

Now it may be a different story the first time she vomits…

Snippets

2011-07-19T01:46:00.001-05:00

Here are few snippets from blogs I've been reading this week. Some of these are presented out of context, so if you want more, take a few minutes to check out the blogs. I've included links.

"The only unpleasantness was the smell of the smoldering ruins of my pride, self-respect, and civic virtue when I allowed myself to be fingerprinted for my new job. I understand why it is done. I believe the safety and security of children is sacrosanct. I do not believe, nor will I ever believe, though, that anyone's individual rights and protections should be sacrificed to the majority opinion. I will allow it to happen, though, despite private complaints and misgivings, because no one is coming for me. Pastor Martin Niemoeller is rolling in his grave, God rest his soul:

First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.

I did it for a job. I am not a felon, a bail jumper, a pedophile, a drunkard, junkie, or "deviated prevert." I am certain, nonetheless, that there will come a day when secular humanists are targeted, and I just hope that someone will have had to courage to stand up for me before that time. The quote is the bedrock of my personal philosophy. As a teacher, I believe this is the most important precept I can communicate to my students. I couldn't care less if they know that Lincoln didn't really free any slaves. I am a failure, however, as a teacher and a "human bean" if my students do not take this lesson with them and remember it forever. When the evil building engineer threw away my 25 years of teaching memorabilia (may a weeping boil on his nose never heal), this was the only poster that survived. If I were to lose everything again every year, and only one thing could be preserved, this would be my choice, year after year."

from Fall Down Seven Times Get Up Eight

**********************************************************************************************

We've been talking about disappointment lately--how to handle it, how to avoid it, how to purposely not avoid it. I told Lainey we had plans with her friend Aleena the other day and, as plans often do, they went bust. She was devastated. Stomach jerking kind of cries and tears she couldn't hold back.

"This is why you should probably wait to tell her about plans," Brett suggested. "She gets her hopes up."

"Oh, but it's good for her," I retorted. "Disappointment is part of life."

We volleyed good opinions back and forth in an important discussion that affirmed our dreams and hopes for what our kids will be someday. That ultimately we want them happy. But the meaning of happy is intricate and subjective and dependent on a lot of things. Facing disappointment is one of them, and finding the tools to cope and adjust is something that is learned. I want my kids to learn this just as much as I want them to be happy.

from Enjoying the Small Things

**********************************************************************************************

To say he faces challenges is quite an understatement. Every time we meet with a therapist or a doctor or have tests, I am overwhelmed. It seems that we continually have bad news or we have to pay an outrageous amount of money that we don’t have. I’m told he is cognitively 4 years old and can’t function in a normal classroom setting. Each doctor or therapist is so kind, loving and concerned…and honest. There are so many things that he needs. And today, I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t provide it.

I lose my patience with him. I expect things from him that he cannot accomplish. I am much too hard on him. I do not have the money to pay for all the therapy and tests that need to be done. I cannot hire someone to work with him one-on-one like he needs.

In my super weak, most human moments, I can’t help but think, “What else?” What else does he have to face? Wasn’t the lack of love and nourishment enough to suffer? What else do we have to sacrifice? Wasn’t it enough for us to bring him home?

But when I watch him, when I really stop to observe him, I see joy. I see happiness and fun and a carefree spirit. I know without any doubt that God designed him to be with me. Me with countless shortcomings and flaws, Andre with such love and forgiveness to offer. I see a child whose rewards are far, far greater than I can count and I see a child whose shortcomings are nothing compared to many other situations.

from Unconventional

*******************************************************************************

A little after midnight, I finally pulled into the campsite. As I tried to make myself comfortable somewhere between a toddler seat and a steering wheel, I wondered some more.

“Is it worth the drive?“

This journey through life is not easy. I am often cramped in a position I see no way out of, sitting next to someone I don’t always get along with thinking all the while that somehow everyone else has it a little better. And if only I could change this little bit, everything would be better.

And now that I have had a taste of real suffering, the veil has been lifted. The veil that allowed me to say, “Smile and be happy!” while all of creation groans under the weight of sin has been lifted and I groan alongside it.

I used to look forward to the future, to the adventures each day brought, to the fulfillment of dreams painted on a canvas of late night conversations and musings about all that life could be. But the color has gone out of my dreams as I realize just how unimportant most of my pursuits have become. How unimportant they always have been, though I never recognized it before.

But now I look forward to a different future.

The children are better at it than I am. LE sometimes prays that God would let Tiggy sleep in His big bed. Bug wants to know if Jesus plays chase with him the way we did. They talk about Heaven the way I used to talk about this property: full of work and play and loved ones and life.

Sometimes I listen to them talk and I get glimpses of Heaven. Of eternity. Of life with God and the saints and Tiggy. Forever. I imagine the brilliance of Heaven and all I ever hoped for in this world pales in comparison. Standing at the gates of eternity, it is hard to imagine that the temporal struggles of this world will have quite the same importance as they seem to now.

from Roscommon Acres

When the Change Doesn't Happen

2011-07-19T01:14:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I wrote about how my life changed when I had a baby and how I believe that I've adjusted to (and even welcomed) those changes because I planned to have my daughter. I wasn't really specific, though, about those changes. There are several types of the changes that (should) take place when you become a mom. These changes take place constantly, even daily. In addition to your child's developmental changes, there are changes to your own life. There are the obvious changes that you expect--less sleep, getting two people ready to go somewhere, possibly having your fun bags used as a source of nutrition, etc. Then there are the changes that are understood best once you have a child--becoming invisible for awhile when people visit, having to be constantly on your toes when your little one becomes mobile, the protective instincts that make you feel slightly crazy at times. There is no book, no website, no class that can truly prepare you for being a mother. You might learn what to do and how to do it, but it doesn't prepare you for what you'll feel and how you'll change--especially since every woman is different.

But the most significant change for me actually took place before I ever brought Amelia home. Though it may sound exaggerated or overly emotional or even cliche, the change that has affected me most was the moment they handed my daughter to me. When I felt that tiny, wiggling, purple baby against my skin and my eyes met hers, I literally felt like a completely different person. Scars I had clung to for years were wiped away. Anger and bitterness I'd been harboring dissolved instantly. All of the garbage in my life that could get in the way of being her mother was reduced to ashes. I was physically and emotionally exhausted from labor, but I have never been more clear in thought or set in determination. I knew in those first moments that I would go to the ends of the earth for my child. Though I knew love, I couldn't even fathom my own capacity to love someone until I had Amelia. She was only in my life for seconds before I knew that I never wanted to live without her.

As I've said in other posts, I can only speak for myself, not for other mothers. I know that these feelings are in no way unique to me, but do other women feel them instantaneously as I did? Do the feelings often need time to develop? And what happens when these feelings don't develop at all? When a woman looks at her child and doesn't think, "I would give my life for him." When a woman loves herself more than her baby? When she sees the changes that accompany motherhood as roadblocks for her own life?

Is this life-altering change something we control? Can we force motherly instincts and devotion?

I have refrained from blogging about the Casey Anthony trial because there is nothing I can say that hasn't been said before and in far more eloquent, intelligent ways. The Anthony case has been the first major murder case of the social media age and it turned into a total circus. But Anthony is not the first woman involved in (okay, accused of being involved in--are you happy?) her child's death.

As of January 2010, there were 61 women on death row. Eleven of those women killed their own children (counting one that was adopted). But the number of women who commit filicide each year is much higher than the death row numbers imply. Some studies estimate that in the United States alone, as many as 200 women each year kill their children. Often these deaths are a result of gross negligence, including failing to seek medical attention for their children. Other mothers give birth secretly and abandon the babies to die (this actually happened at the school I worked at in Memphis; thankfully the child was found and lived). There are those who physically abuse their children and those who do not protect their children from an abusive father or boyfriend (however a 2009 study by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services found that deaths from abuse were 12% more likely to be caused by the mother than the father). But he ones that generally make the news, though--the ones who dominate the headlines and become fodder for hacks like Nancy Grace--are the mothers who murder their children, often with their own hands.

What makes a woman murder her own flesh and blood? What goes wrong that makes the one person who should be biologically programmed to protect her child violently end his life?

In 1983, Diane Downs shot her three children at close range and then drove them to a nearby hospital. One daughter died; another daughter and her son lived. Her surviving daughter actually testified against her mother at trial.

Between 1991 and 1999, Australian Kathleen Folbigg smothered her four children, who ranged in age from 19 days to 19 months. It was only when her husband found her journal that detailed the murders that she was brought to justice.

In 1994, America watched as Susan Smith cried and begged for the return of her children after she claimed they were abducted in a carjacking. Nine days later, Smith admitted to strapping her sons into her vehicle and allowing it to roll into a lake.

Ten years ago this summer, Andrea Yates--a woman with a history of severe mental illness and depression--drowned her five children in a bathtub in her Texas home and then calmly called 911.

The list goes on and on: Marybeth Tinning murdered eight of her nine children over two decades; China Arnold cooked her 28-day-old daughter in a microwave oven; and most recently, a Florida mom named Julie Scheckener

These are the stories that turn our collective stomachs. But for those of us who have children of our own, these atrocities are more than we can begin to wrap our minds around. I can't comprehend how anyone can hurt a child, especially their own. How does a woman carry a child for nine months, give birth, hold that baby for the first time, watch it grow--and then kill her own son or daughter?

Andrea Yates, 2001

Most of these women are diagnosed with some type of mental illness. Andrea Yates had multiple bouts with post-partum depression and psychosis, hearing voices and struggling with delusions. She attempted suicide twice in the years leading up to the murder of her children. As horrific as her story is, it's difficult not to somehow pity the woman who believed she was saving her children from Satan. (If you aren't familiar with the Yates case, I recommend starting with The Yates Odyssey).

But what about the women who seem to have motives to kill their children, such as a desire to be a man who doesn't want a family? Why would a woman choose a man over her children? And what of those who have systematically killed child after child over a period of years? Where Yates seemed to have suffered at psychotic break, these latter women kill their children and often meticulously cover it up only to kill again.

So I ask once more: what happened? Did these women ever experience "the change," the total transformation of motherhood? At one point, did they feel the same as I do about my little girl? Somewhere along the way, did these women all malfunction (for lack of better word)?

Or do these women somehow lack the capacity to feel a mother's love? Are they so selfish that they are unable to relinquish their old lives and embrace the necessary changes of motherhood?

Are they broken?

Are they evil?

Why would most mothers die for their children while other women deny theirs the chance to live?

Which brings me back to a question that haunts me sometimes when my mind tries to rest. What if we don't have a choice? I can't help but love and protect my daughter--but what if my urges did not lean toward nurturing? What if I had looked at my daughter last August and felt nothing but contempt? What if I had only seen a burden, an inconvenience? I experienced a change that day as I was lying in the delivery room. But what if I hadn't?

I can't even fathom harming my daughter under any circumstance, so I can't help but wonder why these women seemed to harm their children so easily.

What determines which of us will be mothers and which will be murderers?

Planned Parenthood

2011-07-17T01:16:00.000-05:00

As Amelia’s first birthday approaches, I can’t help but look back on the past year. My little girl has changed so much and she’s done it so quickly. I want her to grow and develop, but I sure do wish I could hit a pause button now and then. Amelia isn’t the only one who has changed—I’ve changed, too. It’s not a secret that being a parent dramatically alters your entire existence, but nothing can actually prepare you for the highs and lows of having a baby. The past year has been the most exciting, terrifying, joyous, frustrating, beautiful, exhausting, fulfilling, draining, incredible experience of my almost 32 years. And while the adjustments haven’t always been easy, I believe I have transitioned to motherhood more smoothly than I might have because I (A) wanted a baby and deliberately got pregnant, and (B) I am at a point in my life where I am emotionally, mentally and financially stable. Even under the best circumstances, babies are challenging, but I have to believe that I would struggle so much more as a mother if Amelia had been unplanned, especially if it had happened ten (or even five) years ago. If I had a dollar for every time someone over the past years tried to talk me into having a kid, I could take you all to Sizzler for a steak dinner. People just couldn’t understand why on earth John and I didn’t have a kid when we’d been married “so long.”

I didn’t understand what the rush was (or why it was anyone’s business). I knew that I wasn’t ready for motherhood. I was still too selfish, too unsteady in life. There were areas of my marriage that needed to be addressed and worked through to provide a foundation for our future child. Having a baby wasn’t the logical “next step” for me—not at that moment. I will never regret waiting to have Amelia. My life isn’t perfect and I don’t have it all figured out, but I am existing on an entirely different plane in 2011 than at other points in my adult life. If I had become a mother earlier in my marriage, I wouldn’t have loved Amelia any less and I would have probably done just fine taking care of her. But I wouldn’t be the mother I am to her at this point in my life. Choosing to have a child was crucial for me. I didn’t spend nine months trying to accept that I’d be a mother. I was able to prepare to be a mother.

Now please understand that I am only speaking for myself. Every woman approaches and adjusts to motherhood differently, regardless of her circumstances. I have known single moms who stepped up to the challenge and are wonderful, nurturing mothers. I also know women who outwardly seem like the perfect “candidates” to raise children but who are selfish or unstable (or a dangerously unhealthy combination of both). And whether or not a pregnancy is planned does not dictate a mother’s success. There are many “accidents” walking around in the world who are happy, healthy, well-rounded people. And there are entire sets of “planned” siblings who are broken, scarred products of broken, scarred parents and marriages. All I’m saying is that I know me. And while I would have done my very best if I’d had a child earlier in my life, my “very best” would have been hindered by insecurities, unresolved anger, anxiety, and past mistakes I was still very much clinging to. I don’t think I would have totally screwed Amelia up, but I know I would have been less patient and more self-absorbed. I make mistakes as a mother every day, but I don’t think I would have been as conscious about them back then.

Image by Shawn St. Jean

I always hated when people told me I “needed to have a baby.” However, I find myself tempted sometimes to tell people they should wait. I know, though, that it isn’t my place to tell people what they should or shouldn’t do where babies are concerned. I do share with younger couples why John and I chose to wait. And I tell them how it has not only benefited Amelia but also our marriage. We still have our rocky times, but we had nine years to lay the groundwork for a stable, happy home in which to raise our little girl. Maybe some people can do this in a year or two, but we needed more time.

I love my little Peanut. I can’t imagine what life would be like without her and already struggle to remember what life was like before her. I gain nothing at this point by dwelling on what kind of mother I could have been, but I do believe I wouldn’t have been so willing to be a mother. When I make a mistake, I am conscious of it. I acknowledge my shortcomings and actively try to better myself. I don’t know if that would have been the case under different circumstances. It would have been difficult to focus on the needs and well-being of a baby if I were instead focused on my own hang-ups and selfish desires.

Almost every woman has potential to be a good mother, even under the worst circumstances. The key is having the energy, patience, wisdom, and desire to be a mother. I am thankful that I waited until I truly had that desire. Becoming a mother has changed every aspect of my life. I can’t help but wonder if I would be struggling with resentment or depression if these were not changes I had initiated and welcomed.

Itches

2011-07-07T13:13:00.000-05:00

Stanton Douglas opened his eyes as far as the bruises would allow. He stared at the wall and attempted to focus his thoughts through the suffocating haze of pain. The wall was most likely blue at one point but now it was the sickly grey of corpses. Stanton remembered Maggie saying that she painted her bedroom blue because the color has calming effects. Despite the swollen, pulp-like tissue he once called a mouth, he smiled as Maggie’s face flickered in his head. Beautiful Maggie. Beautiful, dead Maggie.

Behind his lips he could taste the bloody, metallic holes where his front teeth used to be. He ran his tongue around his mouth, searching for other gaps. Tooth. Tooth. Gap. Tooth. Gap. Gap. As his tongue worked its way to the other side of his mouth, it ran across something hard protruding from the inside of his cheek. He prodded at it with his bloated tongue until it was free and spit the tooth onto the ground. He wondered if he’d swallowed his molars and bicuspids or if they were lying somewhere on the floor near him. Not that any dentist could reattach them now, but they were his teeth. All those years of braces and brushing and flossing and fluoride—all for them to be unceremoniously removed from his head.

Stanton longed to stretch, to see if indeed he could stretch anymore. He had long since lost feeling in his arms, cinched behind his back at the elbows and wrists. Before the numbness set in, he had writhed in agony, attempting to push his dislocated shoulder back into its socket. Now he would welcome the pain, anything to give him hope that his arms weren’t irreversibly damaged. He concentrated on moving his fingers. He asked his body to move his fingers. He demanded. He begged. Staton could not move his fingers, though. He wasn’t entirely certain he even had all of his fingers anymore.

Stanton relocated his attention to his lower extremities. He turned his head as far as his neck would allow, straining to see his feet , tied to his wrists. What flesh he could see was blue. Not calming at all, he thought. With what will he still possessed, he willed his toes to wiggle. He felt tears sting his eyes, frustrated that he had no control over even the smallest part of his body. His thighs and knees ached, a sign that he still had feeling and wasn’t completely paralyzed.

Once again, Stanton stared at the once-blue wall. He wondered how long he’d been in this concrete room with the glaring lights. If he went by the number of times he’d regained consciousness, he had been in the room for at least16 days. That couldn’t be right. Rubbing the stubble of his chin and cheek against the floor, he estimated about four days. Four long, excruciating, piss yourself, curse God and eventually find some religion days. And not once in those four days had he contemplated how he’d get out of the blue room. Beaten, naked and hog-tied, he was unable to even flop around like a fish in the bottom of a boat. Escaping wasn’t even an issue worth considering. Survival was the only priority now. And, if by some miracle, he managed to channel Houdini or David Copperfield or Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, freeing himself from his current state would take more than some dislocated joints (which he had) and voodoo. Escaping this room would be impossible. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew that just outside were guards. Big guards, armed with big guns. Stanton had decided early on in his captivity to use no energy attempting an escape. He would need every ounce of strength he had to stay alive.

Stanton’s stomach gnawed at the organs around it. Long gone was the curry he had been eating when he was apprehended. His swollen tongue and cracked lips, testaments to his thirst. Periodically, his captors had come in and hosed the shit and piss off of him, once or twice spraying him in the face. The water tasted dirty but he seriously doubted that cholera was his biggest threat right now.

He wondered how long his beaten body could live without nourishment. How long before I’m desperate enough to use my few remaining teeth to gnaw off my tongue? A week? Two?

As Stanton stomach ached and moaned, he suddenly felt a small sensation between his shoulder blades. Just a tickle actually. At first he ignored it, but it wouldn’t stop. Stanton wondered if something was crawling on him. He strained his neck but saw nothing. The tickle continued as it divided and worked its way both north and south, following the highway of his spine. Without warning, the tickle mutated into something much more sinister—an itch.

Stanton had itched before. When he was eight, his mother exposed him to the neighbor boy who had chickenpox. Within two weeks, Stanton looked like his Aunt Louise had taken her red bingo marker to his body. Stanton couldn’t touch skin without coming in contact with a blister. His entire body was infested. The rash covered his scalp, the inside of his mouth, his groin, the crack of his ass, between his toes. Even his eyelids. Stanton would scratch until he bled, waking up with his sheets stuck to his body. His mother had tried everything—cool baths, warm baths, calamine, oatmeal, cornstarch, cod liver oil, aloe vera—but nothing worked. Stanton kept scratching. His mom told him that he would scar, but eight year olds care more about instant gratification. Besides, scars are cool to adolescent boys.

Finally, Stanton’s mother held him down and cut his nails off. Really off. “Off” as in into the quicks. “Off” as in his fingers bled. She then wrapped his hands in cellophane and duck taped the makeshift gloves to his arms. She added a pair of mittens, secured around his wrists with rubber bands. Stanton cried and begged his mother to scratch for him until he figured out that he could reach some of the itching with his feet. He dug his toenails into his calves, his thighs. He even hoisted his leg up with his arms and scratched his cheeks. Very limber, little Stanton was. Eventually his mother figured out why he wasn’t wailing anymore and subjected his feet to the same treatment as his hands. Stanton lay in the floor and screamed at his mother. He even cursed her with the few words he’d picked up on the playground at school. Tired of coddling her itching, screaming son, Stanton’s mother threatened to tie him to a bed-post and beat him. But when it came down to it, she was too tired to deal with Stanton any more. She simply told him what she’d done was for the best, then mostly ignored him and went about her chores. Stanton quickly became friends with the inanimate objects around his house—door frames, corners of tables, even his mother’s hairbrush that he laid on the floor and rubbed against. Stanton briefly contemplated leaning against the wood stove and burning off the itch.

The chickenpox eventually went away, but the scars—both physical and emotional—did not. Stanton forgot the best he could about the cellophane and threatened beatings, but he never forgot the itching. Just as his body wore the white pockmarks of a little boy who scratched, Stanton’s mind was scarred with the memory of the itching. The terrible, terrible itching. He lived in fear of dry skin and mosquitoes and poison ivy and dirty women. He swore that he would die before he ever let an itch go unattended or unscratched. He kept his medicine cabinet stocked with Benadryl and hydrocortisone cream. He kept his nails as long as a man could have them in polite, heterosexual society. At all times, Stanton was prepared to scratch.

Though Stanton’s ingrained defense mechanisms had been beaten out of him, one was still very much intact—scratching.

Stanton lay still in the blue room, hoping that the itch would go away of its own accord as itches sometimes do. The itch would not go quietly, though. Stanton felt the itch crawl up to the nape of his neck. He felt it squirming its way down to the top of his ass, stretching out over both the left and right cheeks.

Stanton tired to remain calm. He bargained with the itch. He pleaded with the itch.

But the itch continued its course, up and down the length of Stanton’s body.

Stanton thought about his missing teeth, his lifeless hands, his dislocated shoulder, his blue feet. The bruises and lacerations covering his body. The blood on the floor around him. His blood. He had endured pain that might have killed a stronger man—surely just this once he could handle an itch without scratching. Most of my body is completely numb, he thought. Maybe I won’t feel the itch after a while. But for now he could feel it. He set his jaw and stared at the wall. He focused on his mangled body, his dead Maggie, his own imminent death. Anything but the itch.

But the itch refused to be ignored Like Hannibal crossing the Alps, it made its way over the hills of his ass and down the back of his legs. It marched into his scalp, tickling each strand of hair. Within a matter of seconds, the itch had covered his entire body.

Stanton was eight years old again. He began to whimper. He imagined red, pus-filled bumps popping up all over his body as they did so long ago. The itch continued to migrate over the crown of his head and into his face. It spread across his swollen eyelids. His nose began to twitch. It infiltrated his four-day old beard. Sweat mixed with tears and blood as Stanton began to shake. He ground his face into the floor, desperately trying to catch the itch as it crept up toward his ear canal.

“Get the fuck off me!”

But the itch did not respond. Continuing its journey around his bruised and broken form, it explored every nook and cranny. Nowhere was sacred.

Stanton gritted his remaining teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He slowly rocked his body as far as his restraints would allow. He grunted and groaned. He cursed the itch, threatened the itch, bargained with the itch.

But the itch was determined to have its fun. It spooned his scrotum. It danced in his nostrils. It lounged in his navel.

Stanton began to sob. He cried out for his mother, begging her to scratch, to help him, to have mercy on her only son.

But the itch had consumed Stanton. He could feel it creeping inside of him, through his pores, his mouth, his nose. A guttural cry, a barbaric yawp, emerged from Stanton’s blood-caked lips. This was not Whitman’s wild cry, though. It was a man’s soul fighting to leave his body, his prison. Stanton’s body bent double, his head touching the tips of his blue toes. He pounded his face into the floor three times, gnawing at the concrete with his remaining teeth. He somehow managed to roll onto his side, his body convulsing to the extent the ropes would allow. His shoulder screamed again, but now he did not care. He had to scratch. He would scratch if he had to rip his hands from his arms and hold his bloody fingers in his mouth. The itch would not win. He was no one’s bitch, no one’s slave. He would not go gentle.

Somewhere beyond the itching and screaming and shaking, Stanton sensed he was not alone. Looking up, through his hysteria, he saw a large, blonde man.

“Please… for the love of God, please help me.”

The Blonde just stared, mesmerized by this grown man thrashing like an unhappy child in a department store. The Blonde recalled the time he backed over a sleeping cat, crushing its head beneath his tire. The body had jerked much like the man in the floor.

Stanton screamed and grunted as a man possessed.

“For God’s sake, help me! You don’t have to untie me just scratch me!”

The Blonde shook his head at Stanton.

“No not no not no not no. Scratch me, damn you! Scratch me! I can’t take it!”

The Blonde shrugged his shoulders and reached to his side, keeping his eyes trained on Stanton.

“You’re going to shoot me? After what you bastards have done, now you’re gonna shoot me? Because I’m itching? Then shoot me, you son of a bitch! Shoot me! Do it!”

The Blonde drew his 9 mm and pointed it Stanton.

“Stop screaming.”

In spite of the itch’s grip, Stanton began to laugh the desperate laugh of a desperate man.

“How fucking simple are you? I’m itching! I am itching! Scratch me…shoot me! Can’t… cant… stop!”

A dry, guttural sob burst from Stanton’s lips. The Blonde himself took a step back, as if the sheer anguish radiating from this man might infect him as well.

Stanton felt the bullet rip into his body. He hadn’t even heard the gunshot. He looked at his assassin—his savior. The gun remained aimed at Stanton, a trace of panic in the blonde man’s eyes. But it was too late—the first bullet had done the trick.

Stanton felt the itch begin to subside. He stared at the once blue wall, noting that the bullet ironically had an adequate calming effect. He could guards’ voices across the radio and outside the door but their words sounded suddenly foreign. He closed his eyes; the backs of his lids were blue. He tried to smile.

As Stanton felt his life pouring out onto the concrete floor, he gave a fleeting thought, quite literally, to where he would go now. Would the suffering he had endured earn him an eternity in a blue room with Maggie? Would his sins in this life damn him to a concrete room much like this? He would be fine if this were the end, if there were nothing else. Dead and cold in the ground, he would be forever safe from the itch.

Three Questions

2011-07-06T23:48:00.001-05:00

Tonight in my women's group, the speaker gave us three questions. These are questions that we should periodically ask someone who knows us, loves us, and whom we consider a mentor or "accountability partner." I jotted down the questions and put a little star beside them, reminding myself to come back and visit them later. Initially I thought, These are good questions! I'm going to send them to one of my nearest and dearest tonight! Now that I'm looking at them, I'm not so certain I'm ready to have them answered, at least not by someone who is going to be totally honest and blunt with me (which is what people like me need).

1. What is something about me that encourages you?

This first question isn't so scary unless you think there's the chance that someone will struggle with finding an answer. I wondered what people would say if I asked them that. I am generally an encouraging person, but that's not what the question asks. What do I project or do that encourages other people in some way? I have a hard time answering this. It's not that I'm some inspirational person with a compelling life story. I'm not sure anyone will look at my life and go, "Wow, if she can make it, I can, too!" What part of me would anyone look at and be encouraged? This makes me want to really step back and reevaluate how I present myself to the world. It's not that I want to change who I am since I'm pretty comfortable with myself and don't make an attempt to present any type of facade. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I feel like I'm one of those people that you meet and know within a couple of minutes if you're going to like me or not. I figure there's no use wasting time on formalities. The loud, goofy, "filterless" Amber cannot be suppressed for long, so why try to cage her? No, what I want to reevaluate is my attitude and reactions. I want people to look at my life and be encouraged, whether it's because of my disposition or something more specific. I think my mouth and tendency to act on emotion and not logic get in the way of that. I've always tried to be encouraging when my friends are in need, but what if my entire life radiated encouragement? How awesome would that be?

(Note: If I am making absolutely no sense here, feel free to ignore me and read one of my earlier, more coherent blogs. I do believe the next section will be a bit less abstract, though.)

This picture is so outdated and really has nothing to do
with the blog, but it made me giggle.

2. What is something you want to caution me about?

I like to think that for the most part, I have my life together. But there's a part of me that wonders if I'm just basing this on my life now compared to ten or fifteen years ago. You know, like the crackhead who says, "But I'm only smoking once a day now, not four. Go me!" There was a point in my life that someone should have taken a "Caution" sign and beaten me over the head with it--literally. Every time I turned around, someone was telling me, "You're going to get hurt" or "You need to be careful." Depending on who was saying it (and their tone), my reactions ranged anywhere from appreciation to indignation. I rarely receive any "cautions" now, but perhaps there are less obvious ways I am acting irresponsibly. I'm not "actin' a fool" and putting my life in danger, but are my attitudes or words tearing down people I love? Do I exhibit signs of some sort of mental illness that no one wants to address? I mean, it's one thing to say, "You shouldn't drink so much." It's an entirely different conversation that begins with, "I really think you need to see a doctor and get some counseling" or "It's your negativity that's ruining your marriage." I know those are extreme examples, but I need friends who will tell me what I should hear, not just what I'd like to hear. Are there harmful areas in my life--emotionally or spiritually--of which I should be aware? Is there something to which I am blind?

3. Is there anything else you want to say to me?

Okay, this last question just drives me nuts. Though I love creativity and freedom, I also need structure. Open-ended questions like this shut me down faster than anything, not because I can't think of anything to say but because I have so much to say that I can't begin to know where I should start. But you know, there does always seem to be at least one thing we want to say to someone, but the opportunity never presents itself in conversation. It doesn't have to necessarily be something negative or critical. Maybe it's a compliment that you don't know how to approach without sounding "weird." Perhaps it's a favor that you're embarrassed to ask. Then again, maybe it is something you've done to hurt someone or a situation that causes concern. Asking this question (and being prepared to accept the reply) could be instrumental in your personal growth or in the nurturing of a friendship. What would happen if we periodically went to those we love and said, "What do you need to say to me? What is weighing on your mind or heart?" The key is that if you give someone this opportunity, you can't use it against them or judge them or explode. We all want the truth but how many of us are ready to deal with it?

I want to live my life in a way that I'm not afraid of the answers to any of these questions. It doesn't mean my life is perfect--I just want to be aware of my weaknesses and of the areas in which I need improvement. The speaker tonight discussed not setting your expectations without first knowing your weaknesses. I am so prone to having these wonderful, grand ideas. But I get into the middle of executing the idea and realize that I lack the resources or talent or even will to complete it. I need to know me better. And while a great deal of "knowing me" starts with me, I think I have much to learn from those who love me most and know me best.

So I guess I'm asking. I know some of you know me well and some only in passing. Some of you only know me through my blogs. But based on what you DO know, how would you answer any or all of these questions? I'm not fishing for compliments and I don't need smoke blown up my ass. I need honest answers. I'm a big girl. I can handle it.

Facebook Feelings

2011-07-06T01:25:00.001-05:00

For the past several weeks, I've been debating taking a break from Facebook. I've definitely cut back on how much time I spend on the site, but I still log in at least once a day. It just seems like every time I log on, I end up angry, frustrated, sad, and/or disappointed. What used to be something I enjoyed now causes me more than a little anxiety. After the absolute shitstorm on Facebook today following the Casey Anthony verdict, I sat back, took a deep breath and spent a few minutes thinking about the issues I have with Facebook.

First, I see sides of people I don't want to see. This doesn't bother me so much when it's someone I don't know well, but it's frustrating when it comes to people I care about. I think most people are guilty off "whitewashing" the flaws of those they love. We tend to ignore or explain away the parts that would render anyone else unlovable . But it's hard to do when these people are spewing hate and ignorance on Facebook for the world to see. Even worse is when you begin to see a side you hadn't ignored because you didn't know it existed. On several occasions, I've actually sent people private messages asking, "Did you REALLY post that? Were you hacked or something?" Those messages tend to get kind of awkward.

The second thing that drives me nuts is people who post/repost something without checking its validity. Rumors or false information posted to Facebook can spread like a bad rash, and I have this little voice in my head that says I should be the one rubbing on the Cortaid. I've learned, though, that I can direct someone to a VALID source about their post, and they will STILL argue with me. I've just had to learn to let it go... and use the "Hide All" button.

I am a total supporter of free speech, even if your'e an a-hole. Seriously, say whatever you'd like on your Wall or in a comment. It's your right. But it doesn't mean that some of the things I read on Facebook don't appall or anger me. I guess there are people who mistake my tendency to get emotional as me being offended, but there's actually little that actually offends me. However, it does piss me off when I see people making jokes about young people committing suicide or Caylee Anthony's death.
I came to the decision awhile back that I will automatically delete these people. I won't waste time even addressing them about what they said because (A) it's their right to say it and (B) I don't see anything I say being well received. But I also have rights--mainly, the right to remove people from my friend list if what they write is cold-hearted and evil.

Which leads me to another problem--my friend list (and I use the term "friend" loosely). At least two or three times a week, I debate going through my friend list and employing my delete button. Part of me wants to whittle it down to just those people who are my actual friends. That doesn't necessarily mean it has to be people I know outside of Facebook. There are actually a few people whom I've met through Facebook (friends of friends) and whom I've gotten to know pretty well. I'm just feeling more and more that my Facebook friends should meet a few requirements of my "real world" friends. I don't mind people who challenge me and my friends don't have to share my views, but I do expect my friends to NOT tear me down or to criticize me all the time. Friends don't pick fights or try to embarrass me. Friends actually show concern when I'm having a problem instead of trying to point out the my problem is insignificant. Friends celebrate with me in the good times and mourn with me in the bad. Why should I keep around anyone who makes me feel bad about me? There are days that my only adult interaction (outside of when my husband gets home from work) is on Facebook. Being a SAHM can get a little lonely and the tiny bit of interaction I get with other adults is via Facebook. It's ridiculous that I find myself wasting that slice of "me time" on people who don't KNOW me and don't CARE about me.

So why haven't I deleted people? Good question. And one I can't honestly answer.

I'm sick of smugness and superiority. If you think you are that much better than your Facebook friends, then why do you waste time reading their posts or commenting? And stop being so damned passive aggressive. Either address the people who irritate you or keep your mouth shut. Stop posting status updates that are obviously directed toward an unnamed target. It's petty and annoying.

My Wall is MY business. You don't have to agree with what I post and you're welcome to offer your opinions , but don't criticize me for writing what I want to write. If I want to complain about a bad day, I will. And if I just want to say I'm having a bad day without offering details, I will. Personally, I'm not trying to solicit sympathy or a chorus of "What's wrong?" If I wanted to elaborate, I would. Anyone who knows me can tell you that I don't mind sharing. But sometimes people just need to vent a little. Instead of badmouthing their "friends" for posting "vague" statuses, maybe folks should ask themselves why they feel entitled to know every detail of someone else's shitty day.

After reading all of this, I realize that 99% of my issues would be resolved if I would clean up my friends' list. Again, I can't explain why I've avoided this task. I accepted a long time ago that I would have to deal with people in my life that I didn't like, whether it's a boss, co-worker, student or even family member. C'est la vie, you know? I can choose to make it easier for all of us and do my best to get along with them, or I can constantly be at war and make EVERYONE miserable. But in "Facebook world"? Why do I feel the need to surround myself with people who bring me down? Why do I struggle to click "Delete"? Why do I accept certain friend's requests in the first place. It's not a numbers issue. I honestly couldn't begin to tell you how many friends I have. I guess it goes back to my problems with worrying too much about other people--not about what they think but how they feel. I focus too much on everyone else's emotions, which is a foolish move when it comes to people who completely disregard my own emotions.

I don't really want to leave Facebook, even periodically. I do enjoy interacting with most of the people. And a few family members and friends expect their constant "doses" of Amelia pictures (ha ha). But it just seems to be bringing me down more than anything. Giving up Facebook would remove drama from my life (and head). It would also free up time I could spend elsewhere. But I'd feel disconnected, moreso that I'd ever like to admit.

Does anyone else ever feel this way? Does the BS of FB often seem to overshadow the good stuff?

To Have and to Hold

2011-07-04T01:24:00.000-05:00

Marriage has been a hot topic in the news lately. Who may get married? Who shouldn't be married? Is marriage "in danger"? It seems every time I turn on the television, log on to Facebook, or find myself in a group of people, some aspect of marriage is being discussed. Consequently, I've been finding myself thinking about marriage quite a bit, especially my own. This September will mark ten years since John and I tied the proverbial knot. Sometimes when people ask how long we've been married, they seem impressed when I tell them nearly a decade.  Part of me finds it a bit sad that a ten-year marriage is grounds for congratulations, but then again, I'm a bit impressed myself. Don't get me wrong, I'm not insinuating that I'm in some sort of matrimonial hell. I have a great husband and we have a strong marriage. But marriage isn't easy. Remember preparing for college and being told not to room with a close friend? I recall being warned that living in a dorm with even your best friend will fatally strain your relationship. Living with someone--sharing space, dividing responsibilities, learning their faults and quirks--is enough to chip away at the tightest, oldest bonds. Marriage is exactly the same, only it's magnified by the stresses of careers, bills, a house, kids. I'm going to be honest, I'm not the least bit surprised that the divorce rate is as high as it is. So many people get married while they're still in the "lovey-dovey, making out in the back seat, fairy tale" stage. Maybe people should be required to wait until they've gotten a bit more--um--comfortable. Maybe they should wait until the new wears off a bit and see if they still want to spend their lives together. I'm aware that this might drastically decrease the number of marriages, but that would hopefully in turn decrease the number of divorces and broken homes.

This isn't about whether or not people should marry, though, or how long they should be together beforehand. This is about the last ten years of my life--of our-lives--and how we made it through the past 3,800 days or so.

This morning, my little girl and I visited my husband's hometown and attended church with his family (he had to work). The pastor's message was from Ephesians 5, how the woman is to submit to the husband and the man is to love his wife as Christ loved the church. He made reference during the sermon to a couple in the church who have been married 73 years. Stop and let that absorb into your brain. Seventy. Three. Years. It's a small church with a very relaxed atmosphere, and the little man--who is in his early 90s--quietly (and sincerely) said, "And each year is sweeter than the last." His wife learned over and tenderly patted him on the shoulder. As I've gone throughout my day, I have found myself thinking about that precious couple and their remarkable marriage. What are the secrets of a a 73-year marriage, especially one without a trace of bitterness. There was a tenderness between this couple that cannot be forced or faked. They aren't the stereotypical, crotchety old couple of a sitcom. Though I can imagine they've faced their hard times, they've somehow survived with their love for each other intact.

I would love the chance to sit down with this couple, to soak in their wisdom. In the meantime, though, I've been reflecting on my own marriage. John and I married fast and we married young. Went went on our first date in February 2001 and were married on September 1st of the same year. I was 22; he was four days from 21. More than a few people expressed their disapproval and even their doubts that we would "make it." Fortunately, our families were supportive and have remained so throughout the years. I think this has been crucial; I honestly don't understand how marriages survive parents and in-laws who meddle and plant discord in their children's lives.  But even though it's true that you "marry the family, not just the person," ultimately it's the two of you who begin and end your days together.

I've been thinking about the ups and downs of our marriage and how we've made it through the hard times and somehow come out on the other side even stronger. What have I learned about marriage in the past ten years? What do I have to share with someone just starting out? Ten years doesn't even begin to compare to seventy-three, but every new married couple has to start somewhere. Perhaps my experiences are easier to relate to for a couple just starting out in their marriage than those of a husband and wife who "have it down pat." So I've decided to share a few things I've learned over the years. I openly admit that even though I know these things to be true, it doesn't mean I always put them into practice. It's frustrating that I find myself often running in circles, trampling a problem with the same old, stinky shoes instead of the new shiny ones that I know work.  But that's exactly why marriage is a challenge. Anything that involves people--that involves us--is going to be challenging since we are all so inherently flawed. Especially me.

I could never completely put into words what has made our marriage last, but here are a few ideas that have worked for me:

Marriage is easier if you're married to a friend - It's true that love helps you get through the hard times, but it helps even more if you like the person you kiss goodnight. If your wife or husband isn't your friend--your besta grudge instead of mercy. In an interview with Esquire, Barbara Bush said, "I think you ought to treat your spouse like you treat your friends. You clean your house for your friends, you make sure they're taken care of, and a spouse comes second. I think you oughtta treat him like a friend."   When our marriage has been most strained, I kept pushing and persevered, not only because I loved John but because I truly enjoy his company and can't imagine experiencing life without him.

There is no greater gift than forgiveness - Forgiveness that must be earned leads to resentment and insincerity. You should never have to "make it up" to your spouse in order to be forgiven. True forgiveness is given freely, often without the offending party asking or even deserving it. A bitter heart and resentful spirit are cancer to a marriage, eating it alive while e you both fake a smile. Just as we expect our spouse's apology to be sincere, our forgiveness must also be real. I'm not saying this is easy; deep cuts take ages to heal. But without forgiveness, those wounds are torn open again and again. If every time you argue with your spouse you bring up all of his or her past mistakes, you are withdrawing your forgiveness. And each time withdraw that forgiveness, you are showing your spouse that an apology is a waste of time since it is not truly accepted. If you want to show your husband or wife that you love them deeply, forgive and don't bring it up again. This is a precious gift and will lead to more openness in your marriage. No one wants to discuss a problem if there's a chance that old transgressions might be dug up and wielded as weapons. If I'm not afraid of having to pay again and again for past sins, I am more willing to be honest about how I feel or what is bothering me.

Pick your battles - This applies to so many areas in our lives but especially to children and marriage. Sometimes you just need to give your spouse the benefit of the doubt. Use some discretion before confronting. Ask yourself, "Is this really that big of a deal?" or "Am I taking out my frustration about another issue on him or her?" Anyone who has been married knows how quickly an "issue" can escalate into a full-blown fight. And how often are these issues insignificant in the grand scheme of things? Real problems in marriages must be addressed and sometimes it's not pretty. But there's a difference in something that irritates you and something that legitimately damages your marriage. You have to choose which things are worth spending time discussing (or fighting over).  And some things you just have to grin and bear, accepting that it doesn't hurt anyone and get over it without having a meltdown.  When you're getting to know each other (or have known each other long enough to figure out the idiosyncrasies that bug you), it's easy to find something to harp on and pick a fight. But it solves nothing and only chips away at your marriage. There's no award when you die for "Most Fights," but I can promise once you're gone there will be people who remember you being a "Bitchy Wife" or "Douchebag Husband."   If something genuinely bothers you, talk about it or even argue about it. But don't turn everything that bugs you into a shouting match.   Choose your battles wisely. In my field, I've come across teachers  who write kids up and send them to the office for coming to class without a pencil or walking to the garbage can without permission. Not only does this tell the students that the teacher is not in control, it makes the administrators less likely to take the referrals seriously. It's the same way in a marriage. If you freak out over everything, when something truly important or hurtful needs to be addressed, it may fall on deaf ears.

Don't assume your spouse knows how you feel, what's bothering you, etc. - Women seem to be more notorious for this behavior than men. I wear my feelings on my sleeve and am completely baffled when someone (especially my husband) can't figure out (A) that I'm sad/mad/scared and (B) WHY I'm sad/mad/scared. I mean, isn't it obvious from my body language? Usually the answer is no. My husband can detect something is amiss but he's not a mind reader. When we make our spouses play the guessing game, it only exacerbates the problem. While I'm waiting for him to figure it out, I'm growing more angry or upset. Meanwhile, he's growing increasingly more frustrated that something's wrong and I won't just tell him. By the time it finally gets addressed, I explode or break down. He become even more frustrated. Most or all of this would have been avoided if I'd just told him in the first place what was bothering me. This would have eliminated days of silence and/or passive aggressiveness, as well as the fight I'd already "pre-planned" in my head.   In her stand up special Money Shot, Whitney Cummings talks about women being "crazy bitches." Example:

Guys you ever get into a fight with your girl and she’s much more pissed off than she should be? And you’re like, “Woah, that argument escalated really fast.” It’s because for the last week we’ve been having a fight with you in our imaginations and in our head you said all the wrong shit.

I laughed and cringed when I heard her say that because it's totally true. I have had to learn the hard way (as well as repeatedly) that marriage is better if I just tell him why I'm upset in the first place.   Otherwise, I just end up more upset because I think he doesn't care that I'm upset when he is really just trying to figure out what on earth is wrong with me and why I'm slamming cabinet doors.

Sometimes it's okay to go to bed before the fight is over - Sometimes issues need to be worked out now. I get that. This is advice that is on a "case by case" basis. I just know that there are occasions when we've stayed up most of the night and reached some sort of solution to a problem. Then, when I have to get up the next morning and go to work on 17 minutes of sleep, I get pissed off again over staying up all night. There have been disagreements in our marriage that were easier to resolve the next day once we'd gotten some rest and calmed down. Seriously, there's no way to be logical at 4 AM when you've been screaming and/or sobbing for six hours. If you reach a lull in the disagreement, it's okay to call a truce and go to bed. I can't promise you'll sleep well and you may still feel like hell in the morning, but just maybe you'll wake up and with a new perspective or even think, "I was wrong."

A little kindness goes a long way - Kindness can manifest in a variety of ways: in our words, our actions, our countenance. In marriage, I've found that kindness works best when it is unexpected, unsolicited, and when it meets a need. And a kind word or deed cannot be offered with repayment in mind; there is no quid pro quo in kindness. We all know something we can do for our spouse to show kindness, and generally it's something that requires very little of our time or effort. However, these small rays of sunshine can light up some of the darkest corners in your marriage.

Foundation is crucial - My husband and I were married nine years when we had our first child. Now, I understand that not everyone has the luxury of (or desire to) wait that long. When to have children is a personal decision we should each consciously make if at all possible. However, I feel our marriage and our little girl have benefited from our waiting. During those nine years, we formed a foundation upon which we can build our family. We know each other. We know our strengths, our weaknesses, our fears, our hopes, our dreams. We know what the other is and is not willing to accept. And most importantly, we know the other person is in it for the long haul. Some people fear reaching a point in their marriage where they actually have the "should we stay together?" conversation. For many, this is a "no turning back" point, the place that defines the rest of their marriage (however long or short it ends up being). For some couples, though, it's the beginning, a renewal. My husband and I have crawled through valley together and emerged from the other side not as two, but as one. This foundation, as painful as it sometimes was to forge, makes us better as husband and wife and as parents. Though I know that we will still face difficulties, we've been through what I think is the worst. And we didn't drag a child through it with us. When our marriage was at its weakest, we had the chance to strengthen it, just the two of us. Now that I am a mother, I can't imagine having to balance a struggling marriage with a teething infant. I am so thankful we waited so that our daughter can grow up in a happy home with parents who are secure in their marriage.

*****************************************************************************

There is so much more that goes into a marriage, but these are some beliefs that have served me well. Even now, there are times I find myself making allowances for friends but not for my husband. I struggle not to let my hurt feelings hinder my ability to forgive. I choose the wrong battle to fight. Or I choose the right battle and carry the wrong weapons. I lock up my emotions and make my husband play guessing games. I get selfish and forget to be kind. These are not areas in my marriage that I have perfected, but they have come a long way since the beginning. At least I have the tools to deal with them now as long as I don't fall back into old habits. I also have the desire to make life happier for both of us.

I love my husband, and I feel incredibly blessed that we've spent the last decade together. When all is said and done, I remember the good days much more vividly than the bad. Maybe we'll get 73 years together, maybe not. It's not just about how long you're together, it's about how good you are together. Whether we get five years or fifty, I just want to spend them with him.

Week One Recap

2011-07-01T14:20:00.000-05:00

It's been a week since I began my "expectation makeover." I thought about blogging each day about my progress or backsliding, but I'm fairly certain none of you are interested in hearing about the mundane details of my daily life (that's what Facebook is for, right?) So I decided that unless I have a really good or really bad day, I'd just update now and again.
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In ways, this hasn't been quite as difficult as I'd anticipated; however, it seems like the parts I'm struggling with most are the ones that I didn't even realize were that much of a challenge. I have really been hard on myself about being hard on myself. Yes, that sounds contradictory, but every time this week that my mind (or when it was really bad, my mouth) started saying, "You suuuuuuuuck," I nipped it in the bud. I think just being more conscious of the fact that I do it helps tremendously.

As for the perceived workload, I'm still struggling with the urge to try and get everything done. I've been focusing on keeping thing picked up around the house and only cleaning what truly needs to be clean at the moment (dishes with food, the floor covered in dog hair, etc). I don't work while Amelia's awake unless it's something I can do without taking time away from her (like sitting in the floor folding clothes while she plays beside me). When she's asleep, though, I still find myself in Robomom mode, trying to cram in AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. Part of this has been unavoidable, though, since I've had a couple of HOA deadlines this week and the work just had to be done.

Maybe I need this...

The area in which I'm struggling the most is after Amelia goes to bed. I'm still spending most of the night "doing" instead of resting or spending time with John. The worst part is that I stay up until I get to a stopping point that I can accept--even if it means I'm not in bed until 2:30. I know this is bad for my physical and mental health, but it's borderline compulsive. This is going to sound terrible, but my DVR reflects my priorities. The hard drive is almost full with shows and movies I've recorded. Those of you who know me know that I love my shows and movies, but I just can't sit that long and not do.

When I sit and read all of this, I'm starting to fear that maybe I'm not getting better, I'm just shifting things around so that I seem to be more reasonable until I'm alone at night. Maybe getting this out will help. I seem to do better when I feel there are people possibly holding me accountable (file that under "Fear of Failing"--another issue).

Now I'm frustrated. I have been patting myself on the back, but I'm not so sure it was deserved. But this is where I've been improving. I'm not going to beat myself up. It won't help and won't undo the past week. I did take some time for me this week, and I need to focus on that. I had lunch with John, I took Amelia swimming for the first time, I took a long bath and shaved my legs (it's sad that's a luxury), and I finished a Sookie Stackhouse book I've been working on for six months (three pages at a time just doesn't cut it). Yes, I had to bargain with myself a bit to do these things. Yes, I fought the urge to "make up" for my "me" time by doing an extra few chores. Yes, I lost that fight a few times (including last night when I mowed the yard). But I guess what's important is that I am making progress. I am aware of what I need to change and am trying to change it. I can't forget that it's only been a week, and I can't undo years of living in Crazytown in one week.

Ultimately, I have to say that I've been happier this week. I hope it's been reflected in my attitude and the way I've spoken. Maybe I should ask the hubby if I've been more tolerable. I have to believe that what I'm feeling inside is coming through in my actions, words and countenance since the giant black rain cloud that's been following me is now more like an overcast day.

Thank you to everyone who has commented here and on Facebook. I appreciate you taking the time to encourage me; please know that I've read everything you've written multiple times.

It's a holiday weekend. Let's see if I can do it right...

Realistic Expectations: Day One

2011-06-24T15:05:00.003-05:00

Day One of my "realistic expectations" makeover couldn't have started at a worse time. I didn't get in bed until 3:00 this morning because poor Amelia cut two (possibly three) teeth last night. We both slept in super late this morning and then spent the time before her nap just playing and singing. Usually this results in my brain going into crazytown hyperdrive:

"You've already slept half the morning and now you're playing in the floor! Don't even THINK about sitting down during Amelia's nap. You have to make up for lost time. This house is a mess, you have neighborhood work to tend to, and Amelia's birthday party isn't going to plan itself. You're going to pay for this lazy morning, Missy."

When I got up this morning, though, I told myself, Today will be different.

As I said, I spent the morning playing with Peanut. After a couple of hours, I put her down for a nap. Typically, the moment I close her bedroom door, I go into "mission mode." Today, however, I went room to room looking at what needed to be done--not what I perceive needs to be done, but what a normal human being would deem necessary.

Our bathroom needs picking up, but it can wait. I decided to just gather all the dirty clothes and towels and take them to the laundry room.

The laundry room, on the other hand, has been ignored way too long. I'm proud to say MOST of the clothes in there are clean, but they are piled so high in baskets that we can't open the dryer.

Task #1: Fold the clothes

Then I thought, Wait, this is something I can do while Amelia eats her snack and watches her afternoon episode of Yo Gabba Gabba. Sweet, I can multi-task without taking away from time with Amelia.

Then I went back to our bedroom to check it out. I'm embarrassed to say that the dog hair is starting to pile up since the dogs hang out in there so much. But Amelia doesn't go in there, so it can wait until the weekend when John can help me move the furniture.

I went back into the living room. Not as much dog hair as the bedroom but a nice little layer forming on the floor. Plus, the couch has formula stains, the front door's glass is gross and there are toys everywhere. The toys are a moot point since as soon as she's awake, Amelia will go all Godzilla again. The formula stains aren't that noticeable and they aren't going to be any more ingrained in the fabric tomorrow. The front doors have been dirty for a month. Another day or four won't hurt. The floor is an issue, though, since Amelia is crawling. When I changed her diaper earlier, her knees and legs looked like she had a mild case of hursutism. Now, here's where I'm challenged: do I just sweep the floor or do I go all out and move the furniture, sweep, vacuum, mop and polish. Hmm... it's so hard for me not to do it all at once. You know, though, I'm tired. Let's just focus on the hair.

Task #2: Sweep the floor and vacuum up the hair

I got the hair up, though it just about killed me not to move all the furniture. I at least ran the hose under things. I also ran the brush over the furniture to pull up the dust and hair (but I didn't polish anything--another small victory).
With that done, I moved on to the kitchen. I figured I already had the vacuum out so I'd just run it over the tile to pick up any crumbs that Amelia might be tempted to eat (plus the hair--always the hair). The kitchen is always my downfall because it's the one room in the house that I feel should be clean. It's where we eat, where we keep our food. I can spend hours on the kitchen when I get on one of my tangents. I decided to only address what is actually dirty and could start to smell from last night.

Task #3: Unload dishwasher, load dirty dishes.

This is multi-tasking gone horribly wrong.

I noticed that I'm almost out of clean bottles and remembered that Amelia is on her last pacifier, so I decided to soak all of her "dishes" and come back to them later in the day.

At this point, I stopped and evaluated what I had done. Did I see other things that bothered me? Of course. But I honestly couldn't say that there was anything that couldn't wait. So here I am, drinking a glass of tea, eating a quick lunch, and writing a blog. It's almost time for Amelia to get up. I'm struggling just a little that I didn't do more while she slept, but I can admit that I was productive--without overdoing it or stressing. So now it's time to play some more and let Amelia "help" me fold the clothes.

Baby steps, my friends, baby steps. It's a long way back from Crazy Town.

(I'm sure some of you will say, "WHY DIDN'T YOU NAP?" Well, two reasons: (1) Amelia is spending some time with her grandparents this weekend, so I'd rather do a few things now and actually RELAX while she's gone; and (2) napping is hard when I'm taking phentermine. It doesn't "amp" me up, but I am not sleeping until it wears off unless I take something)

Retiring the Duct Tape

2011-06-24T01:52:00.001-05:00

I've been meeting on Wednesday night's with a group of women as we work through the book "Me, Myself and Lies." In a nutshell, it's about the lies we tell ourselves ABOUT ourselves--how we tear ourselves down and become our own worst enemy. This is most definitely something that I struggle with on a daily basis. I'm willing to say that a good 85-90% of my problems stem from my own insecurities, hangups and unrealistic expectations. I convince myself that I have to do it ALL--and then turn right around and tell myself that I lack the ability to do anything right. I run (and often crawl) in an endless circle of of guilt, anxiety and self-loathing. A peek inside my head on any given day might look like this:

1% of my brain: "Wow, the kitchen and living room floors are clean, the laundry is folded and dinner is cooking! Go me!"

Remaining 99% of my brain: "You didn't clean the toilet, you loser. You're a shitty wife and mom."

Now, I am the first to admit that when I look at that in writing, I think I should smack myself. That's crazy-people talk, right? Right? But the truth is that I give myself the "SWAM" trophy over and over each day. My emotional mantle is full of these ugly little awards.

This way of thinking seems to be the rut into which I've fallen and wallowed for about ten years now. I've always struggled with that nagging feeling that I'm "not good enough," but once I got married and started teaching (within a two-week span!), that nagging feeling turned into a dead, rotting slab of hopelessness that I dragged around behind me wherever I went.

For some reason, I've never been able to find balance in my life. I want to be good at everything I do. No, scratch that, I want to be great. I am in a constant state of attempting to be perfect in everything I do. So when I throw myself into something I love or am passionate about, I end up neglecting other parts of my life. Trying to balance being a newlywed and a first year high-school teacher was one of the biggest challenges of my life. In order to get my papers graded, I didn't do the grocery shopping. In order to get my grades averages and submitted, I didn't do the laundry. In order to plan my lessons for three different preps, I didn't clean the house. I was always tired and stressed and frustrated. Every time I'd try to keep up with the housework and my "wifely" duties, I would fall further behind at work. Every time I'd get to a point at work that I felt I had it under control, my house would literally be falling down around my ears. I always felt like a failure in at least one area of my life--most of the time both since I could always find some area in which I could improve. Unfortunately, it didn't really get much easier as the years went on. As we moved into the era of NCLB, it seemed like my responsibilities at work gradually increased--as did the amount of information we were required to teach.

"Here you go! Teach ALL of this to ALL of your students. It doesn't matter that half of them aren't reading on grade level and some of them can't write a complete sentence. There's no time to reteach what they should have learned years ago! Now, you're going to have 30 kids in each class. You'll see them 50 minutes a day for ten months (or 90 for five), not counting holidays, breaks, snow days, etc. Some of them will have IEPs. Some of them will NEED an IEP. Some of them will need medication or a kick in the ass (but don't even JOKE about doing that!) Don't forget to throw in as many stupid little games and activities as possible because we have to trick them into thinking they're having fun. When it's all said and done, they'll take a multiple choice test that we'll use to decide if you're a good teacher or a total failure. Uh-oh, there's the first bell! It will ring again soon. It will dictate when you start teaching and stop teaching, as well as when you eat and pee. Don't forget there will be a two-hour faculty meeting this afternoon during which we'll give you a massive stack of papers to fill out. These papers won't be used in any way that benefits you or your students, but dammit they'll look good sitting in that file!"

How can anyone be successful when you're set up to fail from the start? Any sane person would hear that and say, "You're just going to have to accept what I am able to do. I'm not a miracle worker." My mind hears that and says, "Work harder, loser! Stop whining and do what they say!"

As the years passed and I gained more experience in teaching, I learned to juggle the responsibilities of school, though they didn't become any less stressful. Meanwhile, my home life, my marriage and my mental health were a mess.   Remember that little 1% of my brain I told you about? At some point the other 99% smothered it while it slept. There was no little voice saying, "Way to go, Amber!" I somehow lost all ability to truly embrace my accomplishments or successes because projecting onto the back wall of my mind was a constant reel-to-reel of all the things I had neglected to do. Every victory was cloaked in a dirty robe of all the things I had to ignore in my life to get there: my husband, my family, my friends, my home, myself.

It wasn't until last May, as I packed up my classroom and moved everything home, that I realized just how polluted my attitude toward myself had become. I remember thinking, This is a new start for me. I don't have to juggle anymore. I can be a mom and wife now. I can focus on my home and my family.   Don't get me wrong, it's not that I thought it would be easy; I just thought it would be more manageable.

Yet here I am again. It's been a little over a year and I find myself back in that proverbial rut, peeking over the edge. I look around and think, How did I get back here?

It's because I duct tape my life together.

The most recent chapter of the book we are studying on Wednesday nights deals with "labels"--both the labels we give ourselves and the ones that are given to us (mother, widowed, cancer). As I try to nail down my own labels so that I can assess them, I keep coming back to the word "fixer."

Though I can't sew a button on correctly or use any type of tool without nearly maiming myself, I'm a fixer. I want to fix people's problems. Hell, I want to fix people. And in my own life, I want to fix everything. And. I. Don't. Want. Any. Help. I struggle with asking for help. Often it is because I don't want to burden anyone. Often it is because I'm too proud to admit I need help. But most of the time, it's because I have this jacked up idea that everything is my responsibility and that asking for help is admitting that I can't handle my responsibilities.

There's no way I can do everything, so I'm constantly screwing up which means I'm constantly fixing, doing whatever I can to make the problem better. The problem is I use duct tape. I get to a problem and I say, "I can fix that!" I grab my big roll of industrial duct tape and I go to work. Pretty soon, the problem is patched up. But that's just it--it's only a patch. I haven't fixed the problem, I've only managed to patch up the result of the real problem. I'm so intent on a solution and on moving forward, that I never stop, look back and say, "How did this happen?"

Which brings me back to the rut.

Here I am, sitting in my rut playing McGyver with my duct tape, trying to figure out how to make a ladder or a catapult or something to get me out of here again.

If I just keep the house cleaner...
If I just do more laundry...
If I just stop and count to ten...
If I just sleep less...
If I just manage my time better...
I... I... I...

It's time I put down the duct tape.

It's time to admit that I just can't do all of these things I tell myself I have to do.

It's time I ask for help.

It's time that filled in this rut so that I can't fall back into it again and again.

I'm so tired of being tired all the time, of spending every waking moment making lists in my head and chastising myself over all the things I didn't get done. I'm sick of criticizing everything I do to the point that I don't feel anything I do is ever enough. I'm through with feeling I have to juggle everything at once so that nothing in my life ever gets my full attention.

See, this is the part where I'd normally make some declaration about how I'm going to change. But I feel to do so just sets me up to fail. The first time I criticize myself, I'll remind myself about my "declaration." Instead of stopping and correcting myself, though, it will just reinforce my feelings of inadequacy. One of my biggest problems is that I have unrealistic expectations. I set the bar so high that the best I can hope for is to limbo underneath it.

I'm going to start small and work my way up. Instead of a patch or quick fix, I'm going to address the real problem. To get me started, I'm giving myself a few (doable) challenges, and I'm sharing them with all of you so that you can hold me accountable. I may not do them all at once, but I want to work toward it.

1. I'm going to keep a journal of the things I've DONE each day, both large and small. Whether I swept the floors or read a book to Amelia, if it's something constructive I did or finished, I'm going to acknowledge it in writing.

2. I can't always control what pops in my head, but I will not criticize or "bash" myself out loud, especially to anyone else.

3. I will ask for help, even if it means relinquishing a responsibility to someone else.

4. If I have more than one task in front of me, I'll choose the one that's more important and save the other one for when I have time. I won't try to do both at once and make a mess out of them.

I so desperately want to be happy and healthy, for my sake and the sake of my family. I don't want Amelia to grow up like me, constantly criticizing herself and pushing herself to the point of mental and physical exhaustion. I don't want her to ever be too proud to ask me for help. And I never want her to perceive me as too busy or too stressed to help her when she needs me. There is no test that will determine if I'm a success or failure--only how well my daughter turns out. I want my husband to have a happy wife and for our marraige to be a source of strength and joy, not stress or contention. How can I be there for him when I'm not there for him--if I'm constantly "doing" or my mind is focused on my neverending list of tasks? Why will he look forward to coming home in the evening if I'm anxious and angry all the time?

I must slow down. Our lives are not dictated by bells. I am in a perpetual rush for no reason besides it makes me feel more productive. How many precious moments and opportunities am I missing while I run back and forth?

So I'm using the duct tape one more time: I'm slapping a piece over that little voice that keeps telling me that nothing I do is enough. I'm getting out of this rut... and I need a hand.

Shopping Trip

2011-06-23T22:32:00.000-05:00

I am still couponing but haven't had the time to go and "sniff out" the bargains quite so often. The bigger Amelia gets, the more challenging trips to the store are--especially when I try to go to multiple stores in one trip.   I've still been saving anywhere from 10-20% on my weekly shopping trips, though, spending only about $400 each month on food, household goods (cleaners, toilet paper, etc.), diapers, wipes, formula, toiletries, cosmetics, etc. As I've said before, I'm not out to get everything for free or to buy anything I'm not going to use (even if it costs pennies). I just want to save money on what I need and normally buy.

Tonight I went to Walgreens and Kroger. I keep KICKING myself for not getting to WAGS earlier in the week. I try to go Sunday or Monday at the latest, but it doesn't always work out. Since I didn't make it this time until Thursday, I didn't get my NEGATIVE eleven cents aluminum foil, but I did come out pretty well. (Sorry no pictures this time... it was hard enough to just get stuff put up with Amelia digging in the bags). I bought foundation, powder (the cosmetic type, not baby), bobby pins, a large tub of Similac, and four bottles of Gillette body wash. My grand total before coupons was 58.42 plus tax. After coupons and a formula voucher from Similac, my total with tax was 35.50. And I got a $2 Register Reward back. Counting my RR, I saved $24.92.   I had promised I wouldn't buy any more body wash or deodorant for John (his bathroom drawer is starting to look like an episode of Hoarders), but when I can buy $4-5 body wash for a $1 each, I just can't turn it down.

I've done better at Kroger than I did tonight, but I still stayed under budget and that was after a couple of splurges for myself, some diapers and wipes that weren't on my list, and a toy for Amelia (it was TOTALLY necessary for my sanity).   Kroger just didn't have much on sale this week that I wanted to buy and my stockpile is starting to dwindle. On top of that, the coupons in Sunday's paper SUCKED. However, I managed to put together some meals that were mostly based on what I have in the pantry, what's on sale, and the coupons I have.

My shopping bags included:

1 lb. Sara Lee smoked turkey from the deli
Parkay "squeezee" margarine
4 large tubs sour cream (I freeze them to use in casseroles and other dishes)
2 packages shredded mozzarella cheese
1 package shredded casserole cheese
Laughing Cow cheese wedges (my treat!)
1 package frozen green beans
3 packages frozen corn
1 package frozen peas and carrots
2 cans crescent rolls
1 250-count napkins
1/2 dozen eggs
2 packs of "puffs" (Amelia's snacks)
2 boxes of Emerald Breakfast Mix (these are a huge splurge but I am ADDICTED)
1 package dish washer "pacs" (SO excited that Kroger makes their own version now that's $2 less!)
2 boxes baby wipes
1 pack of nighttime diapers
Baby toy/appeaser (ha ha)
8 jars mixed fruit baby food
Spaghetti noodles
2 bottles BBQ sauce
2 packs lean ground turkey
1 box Special K cereal
1 box Cheerios
1 box Frosted Flakes
4 cans spaghetti sauce
1 jar tomato paste
1 can cream of chicken soup
Two 1/2 gallons of milk
1/2 gallon chocolate milk

My grand total after coupons and tax was $94.58. If I subtract Amelia's toy, that brings me down to $89.59. I didn't plan to get the overnight diapers or two boxes of wipes (and don't really need them at the moment) but I got them for 7.72 after coupons (.02 for each wipe!)

I have to admit that even when it's stressful (Amelia snatching my coupons or screaming, rude checkout people, realizing that I have $6 of expired Register Rewards), I'm really enjoying this. Compared to a lot of people, I'm not saving that much but 10, 15, 20 a week adds up over time.

Hopefully next week's trip will be a little more productive. Amelia will be with her Nana and Grampaw on Sunday, so I plan on hitting Walgreens that afternoon before the truly crazy coupon people clean out their stock.

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-18T11:06:00.000-05:00

Amelia asked if I would help her write a blog about her daddy since this is his very first Father's Day. We worked very hard on this and hope he enjoys reading it (as well as all of you).

My Daddy & Me

This is the first picture of Daddy and me together. I wish I knew why he was crying. I only cry when I'm sad or mad or if I'm getting a new tooth. Mommy says he's crying because he's so happy and that someday I'll understand. She also said that this is her very favorite picture and that it will be my favorite picture in the world when I'm a big girl.

Now THIS looks more like the Daddy I know. He sure does smile a lot when we're hanging out. He looks like he's having fun here, but I can't imagine why. I'm just lying there like a lump. Mommy says that it makes Daddy happy when he holds me. I guess so, but I personally think I'm a lot more fun now that I'm crawling and pilfering all the time. Who wants to hold a little bitty baby when they can chase me all over the house? It's not rocket science. Anyway, I sure am glad to see him smiling!

This was my first birthday with Daddy (he turned 30) AND it was my first UT game. I'm even wearing orange like Daddy! Mommy tells me that it doesn't matter how I look in orange that I have to wear it anyway because the Vols are Daddy's favorite team. I have no idea what a "Vol" is yet but Daddy sure does get excited when he watches them. He yells a lot and jumps up and down (Pappy does, too!) Mommy said he used to be louder but he's learned to be quieter since I have little ears.
When I'm older, Mommy said Daddy will teach me all about football and I can be his little cheerleader. And Mommy is going to teach me all the verses to "Rocky Top." I don't know what all this means yet, but I know it will be fun if I'm getting to spend time with Daddy.

Sometimes Mommy and I go to see Daddy at lunch. It is so much better than sitting at home and watching Mommy eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (especially since she won't share!) Mommy says that Daddy works hard so that she can stay home and take care of me. I like having Mommy at home, but I miss Daddy while he's at work. Sometimes he has to work late and we don't get to play as much when he gets home, so it's nice when we can go and visit him at lunch. He's always so excited to see me and it makes me so happy! He gives me lots of kisses and loves on me. I wish lunch time with Daddy could last aaaaaallllll day!

This is Daddy and me on my very first Thanksgiving. It was kind of a bust since I couldn't eat any of the yummy food everyone cooked. Mommy says Thanksgiving is when we think about all the things God has given us. I think Thanksgiving should be every day because I'm always thankful for my Daddy. Even if he's tired when he comes home from work, he always plays with me. He helps Mommy at bedtime by running my bath or making me a bottle or putting my pajamas on me. Life sure is easier with Daddy around. And it's lots of fun, too! Daddy makes funny faces and noises at me to make me laugh--and it works! Mommy said Daddy makes her laugh, too, and that's one of the reasons she fell in love with him.

Christmas is awesome. Not as awesome as my Daddy, but it was pretty cool. Everywhere I went, people gave me colorful paper and tissue to rip apart and chew on. It was glorious. (There was also some stuff in the paper, I think.) This is a picture of Daddy helping me open a present from somebody named Santa. I kept insisting that I could do it by myself, but Daddy helped because that's what Daddy does. He helps me all the time. I don't know what I would do without him. Sometimes he looks kind of sad when I do things by myself, but I hope he knows that there will always be something I need him to teach me or help me do. Mommy says I'll never outgrow Daddy, no matter how big or smart I get. She said Daddy will always be here to help me. Daddy must really love me!

Mommy says this was my first snow. She says that someday I'll get really excited about snow because I won't have to go to school (I have no idea what any of that means yet). I also don't know why I'm dressed like a polar bear. Mommy says the snow is really cold and that's why Daddy is holding me so close. He wants to keep me warm and cozy. Mommy says Daddy would do anything to keep me warm and cozy and safe and happy. She says that I'm very lucky to have a Daddy who cares for me so much because some babies don't have a Daddy who wants them to be warm and cozy and safe and happy. I feel sad for those babies. I wish I could share my Daddy with them. He's the best Daddy.

Look at how happy we are! Daddy and I have so much fun when we're together. I love him soooo much!

I love going new places with Daddy. It's always an adventure. This was our first trip to the park. It was a little chilly, but Daddy made sure my ears stayed covered under my hat. Even going old places is fun with Daddy. I like when he goes to the grocery store with Mommy and me. Mommy is no fun. She won't let me play with her coupons or eat her grocery list. It's much better when Daddy goes because he can talk to me and entertain me while Mommy shops. Mommy said she's happier when Daddy goes, too, because he can "look after the billy goat." I hope I get to see the goat next time we're at Kroger!

Mommy says I look like my Daddy. She says our eyes squinch up the same way when we smile and that we when we laugh, it takes over our whole body. She says we both scrunch up our eyebrows the same way when we're mad or irritated. She says she hopes I have Daddy's red hair. She also hopes that I'm smart like my Daddy. Mommy says he is very, very smart. She says he's also very kind and has a big heart. Mommy sure does love Daddy, and she talks about him all the time. She says I'm a little piece of him and that makes me even sweeter. As much as I love Daddy, I think Mommy loves him more. She sure is crazy about him. Daddy calls us "his girls" and that's what we are!

One time, it had been stormy for days. We had to go to the storm shelter every night. It had been very stressful, especially for Mommy. Daddy decided we needed some family time together in the SUNSHINE! He took off work and took Mommy and me to the zoo! It was so much fun! Daddy made sure I saw all of the animals and helped me ride the panda on the carousel. My Daddy has the best ideas!

I'm not really supposed to play with that plastic thing on the orange rope, but sometimes Daddy lets me. Mommy says it's because it makes him happy when I smile. Daddy makes me smile all the time so he must be really happy!

I've only known my Daddy for a little over ten months, but I already love him with all my heart! Mommy says I am a lucky little girl because I have such a wonderful Daddy. But she tells me that there will be times when I'm older that I will get mad at him because he will not let me do something I want to do. She said that everything he does will be because he loves me, though, and he wants me to stay safe and grow up strong and healthy and happy. She says that I must always remember that my Daddy loves me--even if he doesn't let me have my way. She says that being a Daddy is wonderful but it can be hard sometimes. I just don't believe that, though, because my Daddy makes it look so easy! I just can't imagine ever being upset with Daddy. He is my hero! He takes care of me and he plays with me and he loves me so much.

Mommy says that we are celebrating Father's Day. She says it's Daddy's special day. She helped me write this blog to tell Daddy how special he is and how much I love him. But you know what? I think my Daddy is special every day. And I hope that he knows that I am so blessed to call him my Daddy.

I love you, Daddy. Thank you for all you do for me and Mommy. Happy Father's Day!