me too

This piece was inspired by the art of Magic Jelly. We share a love of anything vintage.

I have this friend name Brene Brown. You might know of her. She's become pretty well known over the last few years.  She studies shame and vulnerability.  Sounds morbid, but she's not at all a morbid person. Quite the opposite.

Anyway, a few months back I had somebody leave a mean comment here on the blog and it really upset me. So I tweeted some vague thing about hating being so vulnerable and hurt. Brene sent me a direct message that basically just said she hates it too.

Earlier this week somebody left a nasty comment for Brene. Really mean stuff about her appearance that had nothing to do with the message she was giving.  It upset her. So I direct messaged her that, yeah, it sucks. It happens to me too.

Another really good friend sent me a text saying that her life has completely changed since she started connecting with other people through social media.  She lives in a very small town. She never realized there was a whole world of women out there struggling with the same stuff she struggles with.

Social media is a double edged sword. As you read this, I'm guessing there are other things you should be doing. Chores. It's easy to waste a lot of time online. Believe me, I have internet loafing down to a science. 

But I believe the good of having the internet out weighs the bad because of one big reason that tips the scales.

Connection.

I live half my life in total fear of rejection.  I care. I wish I didn't. I wish I could blow off nasty comment and people who don't like me. (Bastards.) 

But I can't.  I care.

And it really helps me to know that other people are as scared as I am.  It helps to know that other mothers worry about not being what their kids need them to be. It helps to know that other artists hold their breath when they put their art out for other people to see.

I have met so many wonderful people through the internet. I have friends from all over the globe. That thought makes me so happy.  I have learned things I never would have discovered if I didn't connect via the world wide web.

For me, the real value in having this network of amazing people is that I constantly hear those precious words: me too.

I've learned to be very picky about what I expose myself to on the web. There are so many beautiful blogs out there, that look like the nuclear family living in a Pottery Barn catalog eating food made by Wolfgang Puck everyday.  I'm looking for authenticity.  I much prefer the blogs where the children are running around the  backyard in their diapers and the mom is still in her pajamas at two in the afternoon. Because, you see, this tells me that I'm not the only freak living in a world of normal people.  

This is not to say that I don't like pretty. I do. I try to surround myself with beauty. It's just that at my stage of life, beauty is peppered with dirty diapers and peanut butter on the bar stools. 

So today, I just want to say to you, me too.  I'm scared and vulnerable and half looney. It's not just you.

This is Brene talking about all this stuff in her second TED talk she did a few months ago.  She's says it so much better than I ever could.

I decided to bump the final workshop class post in order to write about this because it's been heavy on my mind. You can learn more about Prospector Artisan Letterpress class on Friday!

to thine own self: part the second- the satisfaction cup theory

Happy Friday friends.

I meant to have this message up first thing this morning but, well life happened.

First off, a big thank you to all of you who have contacted me about my post "To Thine Own Self".  I have received more emails, facebook messages and phone calls about that post than anything else I have ever written.  All of you are thanking me for having written it, but the truth is, I need to be thanking you for all your feedback. It has been a long journey for me and it makes my heart sing that others can also benefit.

I wrote the basic bones of what I do in my life to stay the happiest possible.  There is more. I never intended to write "how to" guides on being happy. I feel like I am much more adept at writing about hot glue and paint, than self improvement. However, I also want to share the things that make my life better. I think we should all be a lot more forth coming with the things that could help other people.

So I'm writing today to share with you the theory of the "Satisfaction Cup".  My father came up with this theory some years ago. Our entire family has adopted it into our lives. It goes something like this:

Everyday you wake up with an empty cup to fill.  During the day, you will fill this cup with the things you do. Every person has a different recipe for what they need to fill their cups with in order to feel happy and satisfied by the end of the day. For example, I have learned that everyday, I need to have a few hours of productive work, a few hours of creativity, some quality time with my family, exercise, a little play and down time.  If I can fit all these things into my day, I go to bed tired and very happy.

Like I said before, everyone is different. My best friend needs a lot of play in her day to feel satisfied. Another friend needs a little service to others to be happy.  You might need reading time or religious worship or lot of time to sit and do nothing. You must get real with yourself and figure out what it is you need to feel satisfied at the end of the day.

Keep in mind that there are days that vary. For instance, if you go on vacation, your day will be very different. Sundays at my house are different from other days of the week. The satisfaction cup is a general application to your everyday routine.

You will know at the end of the day if your cup isn't full. The feeling is unmistakable. You feel hungry. Maybe literally hungry, maybe figuratively hungry. If I find myself snacking late at night it is most often because my cup didn't get filled for the day. I'm not really hungry for food, I'm just trying to satisfy. Sometimes I do other things at the end of the day like waste time on the internet shopping or channel surf on t.v.  Most often the things we do when our cups hasn't been filled are negative and unproductive.  Sometimes they are even destructive, like picking fights with people or gossiping.

Yesterday I filled my cup to overflowing. I got up and got the kids bathed and dressed. Took The Boy to school and then took the two babies to the doctor for check-ups (work). After the doctor we went to TJMaxx and I shopped for a birthday gift (play). Then we went home and we had a picnic outside for lunch (quality family time). Then I ran on the treadmill and did sit-ups (exercise). I cycled the wash, did a little work on the computer, did a general pick-up through my house and baked a cake for Frankie's birthday party tomorrow (work). I took The Boy to scouts and then I spent some time creating party hats and favours for the party (creativity). We had dinner together and studied spelling words and then it was time for pajamas and bed and then a little veg time holding the babies and watching kids shows (down time). At this point I was absolutely exhausted and I ended up falling asleep instead of writing this post. But it didn't matter because my cup was already full and I was satisfied.

Not everyday is this busy or this productive. But if I can squeeze in just enough of everything I need to feel happy and satisfied, in the evening I know that my overall outlook on life will be healthy and upbeat.

Everyday you empty the contents of your satisfaction cup into your "Life Satisfaction Cup". If this cup isn't kept full, you will start to feel the effects. You will have a searching feeling. You will feel unsatisfied with the life you are living. You will tend to focus on the negative things instead of the things that make you happy.

So here's what you need to do: 

First, identify what it is you personally need in each day to feel happy and productive. Be honest. I wish I could say that giving service was one of the things I need. Alas, it is not. Think about how your long term goals play into this.

Second, check yourself throughout your day to make sure you are managing your time so that you will be able to get in all the things you need.

Third, know that everyday is different and be flexible.  If you work like a dog one day, you might not need much work in the days that follow to feel satisfied.

As I said before, happiness is not an absolute. There are so many factors that happen in our lives that play into how we feel emotionally. But the point is to work on those things that we can control.

Working toward happiness is always much better than the alternative.

Next Friday I will share with you the last aspect of my own person happiness plan. I hope you find these things as pertinent as you did the concepts in the first post.

Now carpe the diem out of today!

Sharing pics of Frankie Valentine's second birthday on Monday!

a mother is a mother is a mother

rob-sheridan.com

I've been thinking about women.  I've been thinking about how throughout the world we are so different. We lead such different lives. And yet, we are fundamentally all the same.

Did you see the documentary called "Babies"? It illustrates this point beautifully.

If you are a mother, or even if you aren't a mother but someone who has loved a child more than yourself, you are part of the collective.

Your skin might be different. Your clothes might be different. Your religious beliefs might be different. But when all that is stripped away and you are left with only your soul, I think we will see that we are daughters of one God. Sisters.

I honestly believe that the love parents have for thier children is the strongest force on Earth.  It matters not if you live in Chicago or Peru or Russia. I wish that I had more oppurtunity to meet women from other walks of life that are crazy about their children the way I am crazy about mine.  Motherhood has a way of creating insant friendships.

Anyway, these are the things that have been on my mind.

Also, I'd like to add that the two babies at the beginning of the "Babies" trailer act exactly like my two babies. That fight plays out in my house everyday. Only the skin color is different.

to thine own self: thoughts on happiness

Many years ago I was living in a place I didn’t like. I was working at a job I didn’t like. I was struggling with infertility and what I thought was my only bright spot in life, my husband, was gone all the time with work.

It was at this time that a friend of mine happened to come into the office where I was working. On his way out the door, he made an off hand comment about going to have his weekly treat.

I was curious and asked exactly what he was going to do. “I’m going to go get my weekly cigar and smoke it on my commute home. I give myself a treat every Friday afternoon as a reward for making it through another week of work.” He explained.

Now, I am completely against smoking and if I had been a more brazen girl, I might have challenged him to quit and find another treat. But at the time I wasn’t brazen. I was bitter and unhappy and I really didn’t have it in me to worry about other people and their bad habits. After all, it is pretty hard to love others, when you do not love yourself.

But I thought a lot about the concept of treating one’s self. I was no stranger to treats. I regularly went home and “treated” myself to a heaping bowl of Ben and Jerry’s. But what I was really doing is medicating. Losing myself in calories.

Today I can say I am a happier person than I’ve ever been before. That is not a comment I make lightly. It has taken me a lot of time and practice to get to this point. I have had to make changes that at times have been painful. There is no concrete formula for happiness, but I want to share some of the things I have learned along my journey.

The first thing I want to share is an absolute truth. It is this: Nobody can make you happy. Only you can make you happy. People can add to, or take away from, your happiness, but ultimately relying on another person to change your mental state is folly.

The next truth I’ve learned is that I am enough. Like most mother’s I put a lot of pressure on myself to live some sort of imaginary life where I am superwoman and everything is hunky dory. What I’ve come to realize, and remind myself of when I forget, is that people aren’t going to love me less because I am not superwoman. I am loved because I am me, with all my flaws. People are much more interested in how they feel when they are with me than my latest accomplishment.

Another thing I have come to realize over the years is that I must try my best at the things that are most important to me. For instance, fitness is important to me. When I slag off and get out of shape, it affects my happiness. No one else cares or even knows that I didn’t get a run in or go to the gym, but it bothers me. I’ve learned that to be happy, I have to feel that I am trying my hardest at being a good parent and wife, staying fit, and developing my creative mind. This doesn’t mean I have to be perfect. I just have to feel like I’m giving it my best.

I’ve had to stop medicating and start treating. I remember looking at a photo of myself as a child and thinking, what a great kid. I like me as a kid. If I were to meet me as a child I’d want to take her out for a treat just to spend time with her. And then I thought, you know, I treat my kids to certain things when they work hard or show some sort of behavior I like, why don’t I treat myself?

The beauty of treating instead of medicating is that treats are always better than medicine. Just ask a kid.

Today my treats are things like a new pair of shoes or a nice bar of French milled soap. I do still love Ben and Jerry’s, so once a week or so I have dessert. I’ve heard it said you shouldn’t treat yourself with food. You are not a dog. BUT, I really love dessert and if I’ve been good all week, by damn I’m having dessert.

I also got rid of all the proverbial “pebbles in my shoe”. I found I had small things in my life that didn’t bother me enough to feel an urgency to fix them, but they bothered me enough to affect my overall happiness. For me, these things were a forgiveness I had to give and an overdue task I had to get done. Proverbial pebbles can be anything from a nagging body pain to a wounded relationship to an unpaid bill. Once I plucked the pebbles from my life, I realized the weight that they had put on me. Don’t underestimate the toll that small annoyances take on your happiness over time.

The last thing I’ve found that has profoundly changed my happiness is spending time alone. This means no kids, no husband, no friends, no social media. At first it was hard. And a little boring. I am so plugged into my crazy life that it took me a while to get used to quiet.

My alone time is when I run. I used to only want to do long runs with friends, but when I moved I found myself with no running partner. And I discovered my stream of conscience. I find that my best ideas come when I am alone with my thoughts. Funny how that works. And the added bonus is that good ideas have a way of boosting your ego. Even if you never share a good idea or implement it, just having it will make you feel pleased with yourself.

Happiness is always a work in progress. Life happens. Profoundly sad things happen. Sometimes people need professional help to get back on the right path towards happiness. But working towards happiness is much better than the alternative.

If you feel that it is time to quit wallowing and start living, here are my tips to get started.

1. Decide what you want to treat yourself to and what you will do to earn it.

2. List the things that are most important to you. Keep the list where you can see it often to remind you check yourself in these areas.

3. Get rid of the pebble in your shoe.

4. Schedule alone time.

5. Practice saying, “I am enough” to your self. When you start to compare your life to others stop and think. “I am enough. I don’t need to do what other people are doing to be the best me.”

I hope you are happy. I hope my discoveries are something you have known all along. But if you are not, and you want to make some changes, give them a go.

They have changed my life. They have made me a better mom, wife, friend and artist.

But I still claim my rightful spot in the Work in Progress Society. 

image by bubbla loo photograhpy

for the record

Henry Wyatt 10 weeks old

I've been thinking about infertility. Not sure why.

I don't have any grand bit of wisdom to impart.  I don't understand the complex emotions involved. I can't tell you how to deal with it.

But I know I made it through something like twelve years of wanting a child.  I know I am now standing on the other side of that trial and au revoir to that thankyouverymuch.

As I sit here on my sofa typing this, with slobber spots on my pants and little finger prints all over the furniture, these are the things that come to my mind. It's not wisdom. It's just what I know.

The joy we experienced when our children finally arrived was equal to, and may have even exceeded, the sorrow we felt at our darkest moments.

Unlike childbirth, you never forget the pain of not being able to have a child.

Just because you wanted children for much longer than most people doesn't mean your kids won't drive you up the wall. Just because you went through hell to get them here doesn't mean they will appreciate it. At the end of the day, you are just a parent like any other.

Refraining from buying baby things until you are pregnant is just a silly way of trying to insulate your feelings. Go ahead and buy stuff. It will put you ahead of the game when it finally happens.  Wanting those little baby things means you still have hope.

Feeling bitter and nasty towards others who are having babies is completely normal. It doesn't make you a bad person. However, if you behave badly in these circumstances, down the road the bitterness you feel will be of regret.

When you have infertility you must think of it as a war. You will loose battles. It will be expensive.  Plans will be made and then cast aside for new plans.  If you want to win, you will not retreat.  You will regroup and press forward.

And you will need a good mate for the fox hole. If this relationship isn't right, you might want to lay low and reconsider.

Here's the last thing I know. It took me years to realize this. In fact, it only dawned on me a few months ago.  I could never figure out why I had to go through infertility. What was I supposed to learn? Why was that part of my life path?

Here's what I know today. I had to experience infertility to lead me to adoption. I had to wait for my adopted children because at the time I started wanting them their birth mother was only fourteen. My children were to be born by this girl and only this girl. That was the plan. Sometimes the Lord has to work with logistics.

I'm not at all sure why I am writing this today.  Maybe there is someone out there that needs to hear this? I don't know.

But I'm writing it down. For the record.

damn good jam

I was in Target with all my kids. You'd think I'd learn. But I don't.

So I was in Target and harried and trying to get out as fast as possible but I needed to get some pectin to make the strawberries into jam.

The strawberries had been sitting on my counter, ripening for two days.  Strawberries rot all too quickly if you ask me. I always feel it's me against the time clock of rotting berries.  Waste not, want not. Or whatever.

The berries were picked mostly by yours truly. I learned that taking two seven-year-old boys as cheap labor to the berry fields does not yield good results.   I think they picked a combined total of thirteen measly little green berries.  Jokers.

Anywho, the berries were ripening and I was under the gun and by damn I needed some pectin stat, along with other miscellaneous sundries.  And the babies were causing a ruckus in Target even after popcorn peace offerings were made. So I resorted to asking an employee.

"Hey do you carry pectin?"

"I'm sorry, what do you need?"

"Pectin"

"Um. How do you spell that?"

"P-E-C-T-I-N."

"Hum. One minute. (Gets on her walkie-talky.) I have a guest here who is asking for pec-tin."

Here's where Birdie lets out her trademark pterodactyl screech because someone has touched her bag of popcorn. And the Boy has found a box of latex rubber gloves he can't live without.

And the employee on the other end of the conversation appears to help the first employee figure out how to type on her little handheld gadget.

"Pectin? What is pectin?" employee #2 says to me as if I were asking for uranium.

"It's used to make jam. It would be in the canning section if you have one."

"Oh. Let me see. (And now she's back on her walkie-talky asking someone named Shayla if she knows anything about pectin.)

At this point the popcorn has been dumped. Frankie's got his mouth on the handle of the cart getting all kinds of diseases and the Boy is mad because there are no rubber gloves in his future.

And here comes Shayla. And she looks promising. Like she is in charge and knows stuff.

"What is it? Pec-tin?"

And now she has the handheld gadget and she's typing away.

"Yes," I say, "it's used in canning."

"It's used in canning." Says employee #1 as if she knew all along.

"Oh yes. We do have that. Just a moment though. Just let me show these girls what I did here..."

I'm dying now. I'm so ready to pull out the ugly witch scream and let all my children have it. But you know, I'm in Target.

So finally Shayla leads me to the other side of the store, down the baking aisle.

And she hands me a box of gelatin.

Now. People. It took all I had to nicely say that isn't what I need and walk away.

As I drove home to the market I was thinking to myself, who doesn't know what pectin is? I mean really? Who are these people? 

But then I realized something. I'm lucky.  I know what pectin is because my mother taught me to make jam. I have never bought jam or jelly from the store. And maybe that's one of the many, many ordinary amazing things about my life.

And P.S. I make damn good jam.

Oh and P.P.S. Target does not carry pectin.

bangladesh?

The Sugar Daddy flew away to Hong Kong. 

Now, I want to fly away to Hong Kong like, oh, a billion times a day. But he really did.

He had meetings to go to. 

I'm thinking I want to start setting up meetings with people on the other side of the world too. Who wants to meet me for lunch in, say, Bangladesh? We could talk jewelry and blogging. Serious stuff.

Anyway, I was left behind. Alone. With the beasts kids.

My children are wretched when their father is on the other side of the world.   I have said three serious cuss words, eaten two huge cupcakes and cried once.  

Single parenting is ridiculously hard.  I have a true reverence for those of you who do it on a permanent basis.  

Anyway, today he is finally back and we are headed out for a "fun" family day.  At Disneyland. Right now,  "fun" to me is sitting in a silent, clean room with ne'er a child in sight.

And while I sit in my silent clean room, I'd like to get online and buy some tickets to Bali.

In fact, I think I'll check on those flights right now...

it was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

June desktop wall paper download here

It really is the best of times.  And the worst of times.

Everyday I get to kiss and hug my babies.  I find pure delight in watching them move and play.  Their laughter makes my heart race.

Everyday there is screaming and crying and whining.  Everyday I have two absolutely determined babies fighting for my attention. Everyday, at some point, I want to crumble to the floor and cry in frustration.

How lucky am I to get four chubby little legs to kiss? Twenty dimpled fingers to hold. Two heads with golden hair to nuzzle. Just how did I get so lucky?

Two babies require almost all of your time. Every waking minute they are into something. Pulling something apart. Putting something in their mouth. Dismantling a kitchen appliance.  They are always there.  While you try to do laundry. While you try to talk on the phone. While you try to get a bathroom break. Always. There.

It is the very best of times. My children are young and full of life and they still want me to hold them and love on them.  We go everywhere as a family and we get to watch these kids learn and grow.

I guess I don't really know if it is the worst of times. Who knows what lies ahead? But I know it is hard. It's really hard. And I know that sometimes I feel like I'm not up to the task.  I want to throw my arms in the air and call it a day.

I made the June wall paper for myself mostly.  I need to be reminded.  That little grin Frankie just gave you? That's a big thing. The way The Bird dances on the patio? That's big too.  The way the Sugar Daddy hugs you in the kitchen every morning? Stock pile these memories.  Because Thom is already almost eight. And his baby fat is gone. And it will never come back.

waltzing matilda

Here's a little hard core truth for you this Monday morning.

I used to eat bugs.

It's true.  

When I was little my family lived in Australia. Let me show you where exactly.

See where it says "NOTHING"? Right there. That's where we lived. In the middle of the outback.

This is not my map. I don't think Australia is all that bad. I have rather fond memories of it. But I do think that the whole country looks upside down.  Is is just me? But then again, maybe they are upside down. Don't their toilets flush the opposite way? Maybe the equator is the only true right side up place to be. Wow. I'm confusing myself.

So yeah. We lived in Alice Springs.  And I was a scrappy little dirt monger.  Who ate bugs.  I think the aboriginal children taught me that.  I had lice and worms and the soles of my feet were like three inches thick with calluses because I never wore shoes. I was a virtual waltzing Matilda.

And I was happy.  I was a very very happy child.  My bum itched a little because of the worms, but other than that life was good.

And now I'm a mother. And although my first baby was kept hermetically sealed in a germ proof environment until the day I got a grip, I let my kids grub in the dirt on a regular basis.  Because I have this theory.

I think that maybe, just maybe, when a human being puts their hands in the soil of the Earth, it's transformative.  It's almost as if we soak up life the way plants do.  When a child is allowed to explore nature with all of their senses they are happier and more well rounded.  That's what I think anyway.

We don't live in an area where my children can roam free the way I used to.  This makes me a little sad. But we do have a big backyard and plenty of fun nature places to visit.  My kids are yet to have lice or worms but Frankie has been known to suck on a snail or two.  I think they are getting a fair dose of nature. And they seem like happy kids.

And I have another theory. I think it might have been the bugs that made me bionic. Yep, I definitely think it was the bugs.

Photo of me by Bubba-Loo

Waltzing Matilda

i hate mother's day

Thom came home from school yesterday in a foul mood.  He whined. He sassed. And when he slammed the refrigerator door I snapped.  I grabbed him by the shoulders and said, “You have been a beast since the minute you got in the car. What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ll tell you what!”, he said, because he talks just like me.  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter! I was playing soccer with Jake and Hayden and Jake kept making goals on me and Hayden was the coach and he kept saying good job to Jake and laughing at me and I felt really mad and then Hayden made a trophy for Jake out of an orange cone and he gave it to him. AndIfeltlikeIwasn’tnanybody.  And I wanted to cry and I almost did but then I soaked it up because I didn’t want to cry. Cuz’ that’s embarrassing. So I just soaked it up.”

People. I’m thirty-seven years old, but I can tell you right now that I wanted to go kick that little Hayden’s butt.  By the flag pole. Old school, play yard style.

This is motherhood.  It’s passionate love and excruciating vulnerability.  It’s letting another human being carry a piece of your heart around. Come what may.

Thom used to think he was the coolest thing happening.  He oozed self esteem.  These days he’s “soaking” up other people’s crap.  He’s swallowing what they tell him.

I want to shake it out of him. I want to scream “YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!” But he’s a boy. And that’s soooo not cool. And moms don’t know.  They are just moms.

So yeah I kinda hate mother’s day.  I don’t need everyone to be nice to me for one day.  I don’t want pancakes in bed or fuzzy slippers.

Don’t buy me a corsage. Get me a sword and shield to fight a safe path to lead my kids through this life.

I told Thom I know how he feels. I told him sometimes people are mean and it’s important to remember what it feels like so you will never treat anyone unkind.

I did not tell him that “kind” never defines mother bears, and Hayden better watch out.

life with this boy

Thom:  Mom! Look! Look! Look! That lady looks just like you. Like exactly. She's like your body double!

Me: Where? Who are you talking about?

Thom: That lady. Moooom. See where I'm pointing? That lady by the elevator.

Me: (looking)

Thom: Right there with the white pants.

Me: (shocked and appalled) That lady?

Thom: Yeah. Yeah. She looks just like you mom.

Me: That lady is fat. Thom, that lady is really fat!

Thom: Uh.

Me: You think I look just like her? Is that what I look like?

Thom: Uh.

Me: That's great. That's just great.

Thom: No mom her hair. See her hair? It's your color and she has a bum on the back of her head just like you.

Me: A bum?

Thom: Yeah. You always have a bum in your hair.

Me: Thanks.

Thom: You're welcome.

-----------------------------------------------

Yes, I do favor the messy bun look.

No, I do not usually point out people's weight to my children.

Yes, I have some weight to loose myself.

No, I did not buy him the Captain Underpants book he asked for shortly after this conversation.

it's good to be queen

When I quit my job and became a SAHWADANM (Stay-at-home-work-all-day-and-all-night-mom) I quickly came to realize that had joined the cast of women toiling away in a thankless, promotionless, very stinky occupation.  But I also realized that I had become Queen of my domain. (Stop it right now all you Seinfeild fans.)

Baring unforeseen tragedy, I vow to never punch another time clock. Dress code, schmess code. And you can take your performance reviews and stick em where the sun don't shine, thank you very much.

I stand in my living room and look out at the world.  Terrible things are going on all around us.  War, famine, abuse.  I can't change these things.  I can't even do anything about the port-a-potty my neighbor put in her front yard for the guys she has working for her.

A good queen is a public servant.  She works relentlessly to bring peace and prosperity to her land. Queen bees spend their entire life giving birth.  Can you even imagine?  My friend Rachel has six kids. Maybe she can relate.

These queen bees work day and night.  They don't get out much. They hardly have time to brush their hair and heaven knows they never get to go to the bathroom without some other bees hanging around talking their ear off.

If a queen bee is taken from the hive, the hive ceases to exist.  Such is her importance.

Being queen doesn't mean I rule my house.  No, no. It's quite the opposite. I only wish my people would listen and obey.  That's a pipe dream.

Mostly they dictate how the day will go. If I will be allowed a shower or a sit down meal.

But that's okay, because I know that my position here is secure.

Even if my performance reviews suck.

you scream, i scream, we all scream

This may come as a shock to you, but my kids fight.

Like the dickens.

And what may be even more shocking to you (it is to me) is that I say things like, "I'll turn this car around right now!" and "So help me, just wait until your father gets home."

I hate that I say these things. They just come flying out before I can stop them.  They are so cliche'.  So housewife. You'd think I could come up with something more original.  

But really. The babies are only one.  I thought I'd have a little more time before they grew to hate each other.   

It seems to me that we have an exponential amount of screaming in our house.  And I used to work in a book store. Because I like quiet. And peace.

Oh and did you know that babies have tiny little vocal cords can reach a pitch at the very tippy top of the human audible zone, right before the sound turns into a dog whistle?  It so happens to be the exact frequency used by the military in devices that cause victims to become dizzy and vomit.

So if you happen upon me in the fetal position, covering my ears and rocking despondently, in a puddle of vomit, you can assume there has been a baby smack down at the Meeker house.

Please Lord, grant me patience.

scary

I have come to believe that I am a fearful person.  Not a worrier per say. Fearful.

I have a lot of special types of fears in my life. Take for example my constant fear of being hit in the face.  This is a fear founded in real life experience.  My babies regularly whack me in the face with toys and books. And on more than one occasion they have bucked and the special hard spot on the back of their cranium has smashed my perpendicular plate of the ethmoid bone (looked that one up, a girl likes to know what exactly has been crushed in her face).

The pain of having a hard little head crash into your nose is acute.  It brings tears to your eyes and swears to your lips.

So I live my life with something akin to post traumatic disorder. Constantly flinching when I catch a swift movement in my peripheral vision.

And there's the goo factor.  I live in constant fear of what goo I might encounter.  Coming across a wet patch of carpet makes me shudder. There's no telling what it might be.  If I'm lucky it's just a pool of spit. That's if I'm lucky.

I also have the special fear called nudophobia.  Fear of being nude in public.  Most phobias are unfounded, but mine is not.  My children consider my clothing to be scaffolding.  My neckline is the go-to grip used to hoist themselves up.  If I wear a skirt, they think I have a brought along an extra blanket for them to pull over their heads.  I am forever checking to make sure my boobs aren't exposed and my butt is covered.

So when I say I'm a fearful person, you can see, I'm not just blowin' smoke. 

I got issues people.

I'm planning on a lot of therapy later in life.

P.S. It's been really warm and the caged animals have been let out.

the art of living with caged animals

It's been raining.  Which is really good for the plants, but not so good for me.

The rain makes me feel like a complete blob of laziness.  I want to crawl back into bed with an old black and white movie and Milkduds.  And please don't bother me you needy children.

The rain also turns my kids into little crazed varmints.  Which in turn makes me want to flee the house.

It's an ugly business.  Rainy days.

Yesterday, the babies decided if they weren't allowed to go out, they would make as much noise as humanly possible.

They banged silverware on the tile. They screamed bloody murder at nap time. Birdie gave us a nice, albeit, very loud rendition of "Oh No".  A little known classic.

At three-thirty I realized I was pacing. Frantic, really to get out.  But there was nowhere dry to go. So I unloaded the dishwasher and changed wet diapers and sat slumped on the couch trying to tune out all the noise.

It turns out there is no art to living with caged animals.

Like I said, it's an ugly business.

fatty

In case you didn't already know, fat baby bodies are God's gift to the world.

And you thought it was George Clooney.

Well, he is delectable, but friends, have you kissed any baby fat lately?

Let me tell you what I have on my hands here.

When I go to get Frankie out of his crib in the morning he greets me with a huge body smile and shakes the bars of his crib like a little gorilla.  His pajamas stretch tight across his belly. And when I pick him up, he kicks his legs like mad and then clamps onto me and buries his chubby face into my neck.

I don't mind the slobber. It's Frankie's way of claiming me as his own.

Next it's down the hall to retrieve the Bird.  She pops up when the door opens and instantly starts an indiscernible dialogue about who knows what. Usually something about books and babies and jammies. I lift her up and stand for just one moment alone with her in the sunlight that streams in through her windows.  She allows me to stroke her hair as long as she is sure that I'm paying complete attention to what she is saying.

I love to tickle her cheek along her jawline. It's just a circle the disappears into her neck.  Particularly kissable.

The Boy hasn't an ounce of fat on his entire body.  It's sad.  He's all elbows and scabby knees.  When I try to hold him in my lap his bum bones dig into my leg.  He feels like a robotic octopus.

I reminds me that the fat is fleeting and I better get my fill.

Wish my own fat was fleeting.

Thanks to everyone for your kind comments over the past few days.  I read them all. More than once. And I carry them around in my head during the day.  They make laundry bearable.

tales from the bionic woman

So I went to the doctor and you're not gunna believe what he said is wrong with me.

I'm really quite stunned and disappointed truth be told.

He said there is absolutely nothing wrong with me. I am super healthy.  No mono. No thyroid problems. No anemia.  No pneumonia. Not even high blood pressure.  I'm like, the epitome of good health. I'm the freakin' bionic woman.

He was talking. I could see his mouth moving. But I was thinking, Then why the hell do I feel like I'm dragging day in and day out?  Surely there must be something wrong. Why have I been sick ALL winter?  Why do my limbs feel like Jell-O at three-o-clock everyday?

And then I tuned back in to hear him say that dreaded of all diagnoses- stress.

How very obtuse and non-commital of him.

But deep down in the scratchy dark corners of my being I thought he might be right.  Just maybe.

So I have a little stress. I do. I know. What?

Then the good doctor went on to prescribe exercise.  Four days a week. Reaching my anaerobic threshold for at least fifteen minutes. It has something to do with adrenaline levels and a bunch of other scientific stuff.

In my brian I'm all, Are you kiddin' me? For the love of Pete man! You are sitting here telling me I suffer from too much stress, and, oh yeah, you need to add more things to your schedule?

Seriously?

Here's the deal-

Nothing is wrong with me and that means everything is wrong with me. I can't be the person I want to be without losing it.  I can't do all that I want to do without feeling like the living dead.  I can't.  I'm not cut out for it.  

I'm not the person I always thought I was.  That hurts to realize. It's a little like when you are a kid and you realize your not as cool as your mom told you are.

So I have a choice.  I can start cutting things out of my life. I can simplify.  I can give up blogging and Secondsister. I could walk away from my studio. Shut the door for a few years.  

Except I can't.  

So I'm left with the doctor's solution.  To have enough energy to keep up with my crazy life I'm gunna have to run faster, harder.

I'm going to have to get up early and go to the gym. Ew.

It's going to be hard.  

But I owe it to the littles.  They deserve to have a mom that can keep up. How can I justify running a business if I don't have the energy to make them dinner?

This is it. No excuses.  I'm putting this bionic body to the test.

*Que Eye of the Tiger*

Damn it all anyway. I was sure it was mono.

a ride with god

I'm not sure why my sub-conscience thinks God is a llama.  In my dreams, God is always a llama. And he wears a monocle. Go figure.

Two years ago I had this dream.

Last night I dreamed I was riding an old carnival ride with God the llama.  It was one of those that have individual cars that go in circles and you feel like you are riding a huge protractor.  Our car was glitter lavender with mint pin stripes and red leather seats.  Many of the light bulbs on the ride were broken or missing and it made me worry that the ride was old and unsafe.

When the ride began so did the music.  It was "Bleeding Love" by Leona Lewis.

God the llama was sitting with his legs crossed on the outside seat and seemed hardly phased at all by the centrifugal force that was pulling me into him.  My hair whipped around wildly and I kept trying to hold it out of my eyes with one hand and hang on to the car with the other.

He was talking but I couldn't make out his words and I kept saying, "What? I can't hear." And the music was so loud. And the ride was old. And I felt a little desperate.

And then it was if time slowed down and everything was in slow motion and I heard him say clear as day, "I hope you are doing your best my dear.  What a waste it would be if you weren't. A shame."

And then he said, "And don't forget to bring more toilet paper upstairs."

That was it. The whole dream.  Oh, I forgot to tell you I was wearing overalls and Converse sneakers. And now I'm kind of hoping that overalls make a come back because they were really comfortable. I can skip the Converse. They make my feet sweat.

God the llama isn't white like the above photo. He's brown with white spots.  And very fluffy.

So now I'm thinking that I'm not really doing my best. At anything.

But does anyone ever feel like they are doing their best? Strike that. Does any mother ever feel like she is doing her very best at everything?

But I'm going to go ahead and try harder. Because, you know, God said to and all.

image by banana republic

moryfolk

Every so often I look at myself in the mirror and I don't recognize the girl staring back.  You know, I recognize myself.  I know it's me standing there. But there's a little bit of me that sees my face as a strangers face.

It's a very strange and curious feeling, and when it happens I try to hang onto the moment as long as possible so that I can try to see myself as others see me. But it is a fleeting sensation and seldom lasts very long.

A friend once told me that it is a phenomenon called moryfolk. I really wanted to get to the bottom of the whole thing so I called the radio show called "A Way With Words" and I asked them if they knew of this word, moryfolk.  Well, I asked their answering machine.  I have actually called them three times and they have never returned my call.  I think it is because they don't know the answer. Sugar Daddy thinks it's because it just isn't that interesting.

I have Googled the crap out of the word, trying all different spellings and such and I got nothin'.

But here's what I do know: (C.S. Lewis said it perfectly.) You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.

I know I am not my body.  Every time I look in the mirror and see a strange girl staring back, I know this to be true.

I am in here. In this body. Sometimes I wish I had another body, but mostly, I'm just happy that mine is healthy and strong.

Every so often,  Birdie will give me a look and all I can see is her birth mother.  A roll of the eyes or a lazy smile.  And at these moments I get the same strange feeling as when I don't recognize myself.

And I've come to realize something wonderful.

When I look at my children, I see their souls.  I see them for who they really are.

My children have beautiful healthy bodies.  I sincerely wish I could lay claim to Birdie's almond eyes and Frankie's button nose. Alas, those good genes were a gift from another beautiful girl.  I would like to point out, however, that The Boy got my childhood sprinkling of freckles across his nose, which makes him uber cute and irresistible.

No one would argue, (as least not to my face) that my kids aren't gorgeous.

 I love their little bodies.  But their souls, well, they take my breath away.

matters of the heart

I've been thinking.  Which gets me into a wee bit of trouble most of the time, but this time I've been thinking about how a girl like myself might keep out of trouble.

I've been wondering if it is possible to be kind and still get exactly what you want, when you want it, most of the time.

Take for example the Costco pharmacy.  It has been my experience that if you want to get your prescription filled correctly and in a timely manner, you must approach the little window as the Queen of Sheba.  Kindness and consideration haven't gotten me very far with Phil the pharmacy tech.  He seems to respond much better to haughtiness.

And then there are my children.  If asked to do something in a kind voice, they don't seem to hear me at all. It's actually quite astounding how their little ears don't pick up my voice until it is raised a few decibels and made to sound like Cruella Deville.  

I don't want to be that mom.  Or that woman at the pharmacy. But I do want things done well in a timely manner.

Look. I'm not a fighter. (Small disclaimer here that I can be a fighter if backed into a corner.) I'm a lover. I like peace and good will toward men.  I like cupcakes and sparkly things and long walks on the beach.  And I like for people to do their jobs well.

I have my big toe into the business world. Not my whole foot. Just the toe.  The right brained one. I'm starting to have business type interactions with people regarding illustration and other such businessy things.  

And I want people to do things for me and I want it done promptly and correctly and by damn don't screw it up. And I want to say all this in a very kind way. 

It's not personal. It's business. But don't these businessy people have feeling too?  I don't want to use the Cruella voice anymore. I'm pretty sure I look really ugly when I'm talking like that. I need to find a way to express my expectations without sounding spiteful or bad-tempered and still get good results.

So is it possible?  Do they teach these things in business school? Kindness 101?

As for Phil, he will still get Cruella. He seems to like her.