No More the Training Pants! It's time for big girl panties?

Squiggle Bug learned to use the potty a few months ago and she's pretty much a pro now. It's great, sudden hollering of "my poopoo coming! I go potty!" echo through out our little house on a regular basis followed shortly by "I did it!" and "Bye bye my poopoo! Bye bye my peepee!"

So with regular success of bye-bye peepee and bye-bye poopoo, it was time to get Squiggle Bug some new undergarments. Panties. Deciding to couple the Target shopping expedition with family time, we first went to see Toy Story 3. I've waited a long time for this movie and was more excited than the girls. Cute flick, we all enjoyed it including 2 year old Squiggle Bug. After crying through Toy Story 3, we headed with a grumpy, napless Squiggle Bug and the rest of the crew to go buy the new panties. Buying new panties is an exciting time. No more the training pants and stretched out undies from big sisters, it's time to pick out your very own panties! The general rule regarding trademarked characters on clothing in our home is lifted and any panties with any character are permitted. Even if they have no idea who Dora is.


I fully expected princesses or fairies. She doesn't know who the characters are really but she knows a princesses is anyone in a pretty outfit. She really likes princesses. We found our way to the baby section with toddler panties and found the smallest size. In a regrettable move I picked out some Tinker Bell and Friends panties and showed Squiggle Bug. One look and she was screaming no and hitting the package in my hands. Shocked but a little bit pleased I hung the offending package of panties back up. Not having learned our lesson, The Piano Man presented her with a set of the Micky Mouse Princesses and received the same reaction. Over and over she stomped around saying "I want MY panties!" Bewildered, we attempted to show her other potential selections, each received with a similar reaction.

I was determined to throw something in the cart, anything. Plain white panties weren't easy to find but I wasn't going home empty handed. Between the 5 of us there that had any hope of understanding what it was she wanted, none of us actually knew. Loitering in the toddler underwear aisle for a while was starting to feel awkward when I spotted a set of Toy Story undies. Thinking she would calm down upon recognizing the characters we just saw in the movie I showed Squiggles. It worked. She calmed down. Well, actually, she did an immediate 180, squealing and jumping up and down. Snatching the package out of my hands she squeaked "my Buzz! My Woody! My Panties!"


I looked at The Piano Man over our now enthusiastic 2 year old and tried to ignore the giggles and shocked whispers of her big sisters. He shrugged. "Boy underwear!" The Storyteller giggled uncontrollably.


And so it came to be that I bought my first package of little boy underwear. Reluctant to hand her package of undies over to the check out girl, Squiggles had to be comforted for the few seconds while it was scanned before gripping it tightly to her chest for the rest of the way to the van. As soon as we got home she wanted them on. Her favorite pair are the lime green ones with both Woody and Buzz on the butt. Modeling them for me, she got concerned when she couldn't find her new friends until twisting to look at her rear-end and then beamed up at me "There's my Woody! There's my Buzz!"


At 2 Squiggle Bug has figured out the secret I only learned a few years ago: boy undies are way more comfortable than girl panties. Screw the princesses, cowboys and spacemen rock for girls too.

Pressing Memories

I finished singing the "last" song and told her it was time to go to sleep. We both laid down, her face just inches from mine with her Raffie, she tossed her delicate legs over mine and gave me a sleepy smile. For a moment we just looked at each other with sleepy smiles. Just as I was lifting my hand to stroke the hair out of her face and trace light circles across her nose and around her eyes, Squiggle Bug settled her hand on my face and said around the Raffie ear in her mouth "I love you mommy." Finger the sunshine strands on her forehead in the dim light, I smiled and whispered that I loved her too. My chest constricted and tears stung my eyes as she began to caress my face just like I do hers every night. Laying there caressing each others face I told myself to press this moment into my memory like a flower between the pages of a book to be discovered later as a sweet, faded surprise. I worried I would forget anyway. Then my mind scrambled to find other memories hidden in it's pages; first giggles, how she smelled the first time I held her, a small arm clutching my neck, cuddles in the early morning, blue eyes gazing intently into mine as I held her while she nursed. Beautiful memories but already so faded.


Her hand dropped, too drowsy to continue fingering my face and peeking through slits in her eyelids she asked me to sing again. I obliged, holding on to this moment for as long as I could. Would she? Would she remember those dusty memories? With so many more memories and knowledge coming to fill the pages of her mind, I doubted it. I reflected on my own memories as a child, realizing that the earliest one I had of even going to bed as a child was when I was at least 7 or 8, certainly not 2. Peering through the clouded lens of so many years I remember sitting next to my mom in a nightgown on the couch in my family room, the blue couch with flowers, and my brother and sister and dad there as well. Dad was playing the guitar and we had been singing. He launched into "Goodnight Ladies" replacing ladies with the names of my siblings and me, one at a time. To the tune of our names we circled the room giving hugs and goodnight kisses before dancing off to bed. I don't think my older brother cared for that part much but he awkwardly participated. In bed I listened to the end of the song for my brother and then my dad sang another song and I sang along softly. There are details missing, details like the ones I was trying to grasp to hold forever from this moment putting my own daughter to bed. No, she probably wouldn't remember.


So I'll have to tell her. Over and over again, describe how she smelled, her sweet sleepy voice requesting yet another song, her soft hand stroking my cheek as she tells me she loves me, the favorite cookie pajamas keeping her warm and snuggly, and the way her hair lays across her forehead in the gentle glow from the nightlight. And to press it in my memory I'll write it down in her journal. I know that many of the memories I have from my childhood are because of the spiral bound journal scrapbooks my mom would squeeze out time at 2am to fill for me, recording her perspective of the mundane and exciting moments of my childhood.


This weekend I'm going to go through one of those notebooks and share those musty memories with my own children. Then I'll record those precious details that slip away and press them into my memory to share with them again one day. I will continue the tradition of preserving memories in the written word to share one day with my children as my mom did for me. There may be long blocks of time between those moments but I will press every moment I can.

Better than Bling

(Squiggle Bug babywears Raffie)

I wear my baby. And my toddler. I'm a babywearing mama. No matter my outfit, they match. The perfect accessory, they go with blue jeans, silk skirts, and t-shirts and vintage jackets. Better than bling, they boldly proclaim my status to the world: I AM A MOM!

(Smunchie- 4 weeks and Squiggle Bug- 2 years, on me, iPhone pic by The Storyteller)

Because people couldn't already tell I'm a mom. Ok, so I don't babywear to look cool or make sure my status as MOM is known. I'm pretty sure that could be made clear with the constant spit-up decoration on my shoulder, the massive diaper bag and the fact that I have 5 small people running around regularly calling me "Mommy!" apparently just so they can declare who I am to the entire world. Not because they actually have anything to say. Make it 4, Smunchie isn't talking yet. I can't even imagine what it will be like with one more, children have an amazing ability to increase volume exponentially.

(Lolie wears her new baby in a kid tai by Sweet Slings)

No, I wear my babies for other reasons than making a fashion statement. Though babywearing does kind of save me from having to worry about fashion, nobody can tell what I'm wearing when there is a super sweet jelly kid on my back or front. In fact, people almost don't notice me, just the tiny people that seemed to sprout extra long legs and a head. I put my babies in slings, wraps, Mei Tais, and soft structured carriers for far greater reasons than fashion. I didn't have a kid (or 5) so I could look cool, even though I do.

I wear them for convenience. I mean, gosh, I need my arms, I can't stand around holding a kid all day. Sheesh.

(Multi-tasking, building an art piece while wearing and nursing Smunchie)

Alright, that's actually true but that isn't the only reason any more. It started out that way, to be sure and I don't think there is anything wrong with that. I have times when I wrap a little one on me so I can actually get the dishes done, vacuum the carpet (mom, stop laughing, I do vacuum... sometimes), or have a phone conversation but I keep my babies tied to my body with strips of fabric so I can be close to them and they can be close to me. There was a time when I bought the idea that we needed to make our little people as independent as possible from the get-go but over time and over the course of my parenting experiences, I don't feel that way any more. I actually think it is a good thing if my baby is attached to me and I am attached to them.

(My view of Smunchie in the wrap, iPhone pic)

However, I don't call myself an Attachment Parent-er. Or whatever. I don't like labels. I have a a label phobia. I'm label-phobic. Oh crap, now I'm labeled again! Gah. Anyway, there are principles of Attachment Parenting I love, The Piano Man and I do a lot of them instinctively but still we don't consider ourselves AP. It probably really does just go back to the label thing. We choose to wear our babies because though we started doing it for convenience reasons we noticed a few things about babywearing. For starters, we just like having them close, it feels good to them and to us. The stroller started to seem like a pain in the rear compared to the sling. Our babies were way happier on us than anywhere else. The easiest way to sooth an upset baby that didn't need to nurse was to wrap her close to us. On cold days it was so cozy and we could know she was ok. We felt like we didn't miss anything, smiles, talking, observing, all of it was right there. When we started thinking about it, it just seemed more pleasant for our baby to be up close to us being able to see what was going on around them clearly. I noticed that I talk to my babies more, interact with them more when they are on me and yes, talk to, not at. And the big one was just the contact, it seemed like an easier transition to go from the womb, to being snuggled up in a wrap, to hanging out on mommy or daddy's back, and then exploring the world, knowing they can come back when they need to.

(The Piano Man wears Squiggle Bug on a bike ride in a Beco)

So we are big time babywearers now. There has been some concern about babywearing safety lately, this post isn't about that though but check out some of these hyperlinks. We don't use the types of carriers that were recently recalled, we prefer wraps, ring slings, soft structure carriers, and Mai Teis. If you are a babywearing mama or daddy, check out my friend Shanna's blog for ideas on how to respond to the inevitable "you know those things kills babies, right?" concern you'll get now. I'm not in a hurry for my babies to grow up and not need me any more, most parents aren't. Ok, sometimes I am but those come from a place of feeling overwhelmed and tired. But most of the time, I'm trying to savor the moments because I know they go by all too quickly. What better way to do that than to have my baby on me for as long as we can?

ETA: There is a babywearing safety workshop this Saturday for Houston families. Facebook event link and the vital info:
Sling Safety Workshop

Date	Saturday, April 10, 2010
Time:	12:30pm - 1:30pm
Location:	3701 West Alabama Street

Books, parenting and some rambling thoughts.

We just got back from the bookstore. I love books. I love bookstores. They are awesome and I can loose myself for hours in them. Books are wonderful, opening doors to stories and places, lives you never would have imagined on your own. Ideas for cooking, crafting, creating, abound and in the leaves of a colorful book you may discover a passion for a hobby you didn't even know existed. Do-It-Yourself books, relationship advice, and spirituality titles boost confidence that we can do, be or become whatever we want. Every difficulty and challenge can be mastered if we're armed with the contents of the shelves in any given section. Need to know how to fix plumbing? Other than this book you'll just need a wrench! Going to build something? Get this book first. Want to understand your faith better? All laid out for you right here! In pursuit of happiness? Follow these 7 easy steps! Your husband an ass? Read this and have a new one by Friday! Your child is a handful? The answer is right here!

I get sucked in quickly. I start thinking I should get this book for cooking tips, this other one for knitting ideas, another one for home schooling, and yet another one for parenting. Today we were getting to spend gift certificates so I wasn't on a mission but because the girls needed help weighing their options (suddenly their gift cards seemed very small) I wasn't able to spend much time browsing myself. There was one book I was looking for that had been on my list for quite some time. When I had a moment I headed over to the parenting section and begin to browse. The book I was searching for wasn't on the shelf so I read through the titles to see if anything else caught my eye. It didn't take long for something else to jump out at me. The titles and blurbs on most of the books read as though children are problems. That if you just read this one book and follow their step by step instructions, you can turn your child into the perfect little mini-me you wanted. There were few books that seemed to focus on helping parents understand their child instead of telling parents how to change their children but in my eyes even those seemed to be lacking something. Something profound yet so simple. With the exception of special needs children, most of those books addressed what parents could naturally find in community with others, a community of parents and non-parents.


But more often when moms and dads get together and have the opportunity to share ideas and experiences, including the difficulties, it becomes a competition. Instead of finding support we often enter into a bizarre game of "my child is better/worse than yours, I have it better/harder than you." I think we miss the opportunity to actually support and learn from each other. Would we need so many books on parenting if we could realize that this parenting thing isn't a competition? That these books aren't manuals on how to win the parenting Olympics? Or that being the perfect parent is a myth? And that having the perfect child isn't possible? That what we're all really shooting for is to not screw them up too badly?

Want to hear a secret? No matter what it looks like at any given moment I know you don't have all your shit together and you know I don't have all my shit together.

Here's another secret: it isn't a competition and we don't have to go it alone.

What works for one family may not work for another but we don't need to go buying book after book to find answers. Books are great but they don't take the place of community. Being together with other parents, parents at all stages in their parenting, we can share so much more and not only save money but have true friends as well. Let's cut the crap people, we're all in the same boat and none of us have it figured out entirely. If we could silence the parenting games we may find that we have good instincts when it comes to rearing our children and when we feel at a loss, maybe there is a friend that can encourage us. It is possible, I really think it is.

Huggz Heal

I guest posted over here today. This was not an easy post to write for me personally and readers should know there could be triggers for abuse victims. In this particular post I talk about how even loving, devoted parents can slip into patterns of abuse with their children, in fact, I think often that is the case. The abusers rarely are the monsters we'd like to imagine them to be. The truth is, they are usually just like you and me. The danger of teachings by Michael Pearl and his wife Debbie Pearl is just that it is easy for parents seeking to raise their children "right" and to be godly people don't realize just how far it, how far they can go. My family was a part of ATI, then called ATIA or Advanced Training Institute (of America) and my parents really believed they were doing what was right. I believe that later their understanding changed. It is a slippery slope and the intentions are for the best. Unfortunately, that doesn't ensure that the outcome is.

Exactly Like Me

Ophélia, age 11.

(I wrote this several years ago and haven't done anything with it. The story is true and the lesson I learned is one I'm still working on everyday.)

"Get that thing away from me!" I shrieked. My then 8 year old Ophélia giggled and backed up a bit.

“Isn’t he cool?” She asked with an awe-struck grin on her face.

“If you say so.” I said, barely hiding my disgust, not wanting to send her the wrong message. Oh the irony.

“Look at its beautiful thorax mommy!” Her enthusiasm was almost contagious, but only almost.

I dutifully examined the dragonfly she was holding admitting that the colors on its thorax were quite beautiful and the translucent wings stunning, if you like that sort of thing. Less than enthralled personally I forced myself to connect with my daughter by actively engaging with her object of interest. Gross though it may be. I couldn’t help but be surprised that she even knew the terminology, I only remember the terms from her many explanations and sharing passages from her books. Though as a family we strive to live gently and without violence in peace with nature, this whole fascination was completely beyond me.

There was a time when I dreamed about my little girl growing up and wanting to be just like me. I thought there could be no greater compliment than to have a child that thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. I dreamed of this utopia for my daughter and I where we agreed on everything and saw eye to eye on each and every topic. Having a daughter would be so wonderful, she would be just like me! Secretly I worried that she wouldn't want to be anything like me and I wouldn’t know how to relate to this child of mine.

I hate bugs. For as long as I can remember I have loathed any kind of creature that could fall into the category of “bug.” Insect, arachnid, crustacean (though admittedly, I wasn’t opposed to eating some of those), worm, and others were all on my “EWWWW, gross!” list. Snakes weren’t too bad and I could tolerate lizards too as long as they weren’t touching me but if a flying creature that lacked feathers came near me, screaming would soon commence. I don’t really even like butterflies.

It wasn’t for lack of exposure as a child, I grew up in Florida after all. There are creepy crawly creatures there of impressive proportions and I encountered them quite often. The tropical climate of central Florida was a haven for beasties that wouldn’t survive in colder settings, many of them made their home around my home if not in it. My mother wasn’t a fan of these things either, working diligently to rid her lovely home of them and as far as I can remember my brother and sister didn’t exactly cheer the varmints on. However, nobody harbored the deep-seeded fear of bugs as much as I did. Perhaps it was this fact and it’s exploitation that perpetuated this fear into my adult life. My father didn’t seem to mind the presence of most bugs but he dutifully fulfilled his squashing, bug-riding duties when called upon by my mother. If I called him though he seemed to take a momentary delight in my frozen terror of whatever critter had crossed my path. My childhood is filled with memories of terror stricken bug encounters. One such memory happened on a rare evening of pleasant weather when my family was outside to enjoy a meal on our back porch. Apparently my family had learned my bug cries by this point as my shrieking reaction to spotting a large palmetto bug (AKA: American cockroach) on the wall was greeted with an exasperated “now what?” attitude. My mother came to soothe me, calling my dad over and I backed as far away from the wall as I could to watch the destruction of this intruder by my capable father. With one slight flick of my father’s wrist the details of the evening right down to the clothes I was wearing were forever embossed on my mind. Reaching to remove the bug that was a fairly safe distance from me my father casually rocketed the offender off the wall and right onto the chest of my royal blue velour sweatshirt. To this day there are no words for the fear that gripped me. The thing had seemed huge on the wall but now, looking down eye to eye with it I realized that it was in fact enormous. I screamed. It tried to fly away but to my further horror the prickly and sticky hairs on its legs that allowed it to crawl on the wall and ceiling caused it to be stuck in the velour. Antennae twitching, wings beating, the hideous thing began to move, towards my face. Yes, I was going to die. Though it seemed I jumped up and down in hysterics for an eternity in my 10-year-old mind, it couldn’t have been but a few seconds before my mother’s yells squelched my father’s laughter and I felt his large hand grab my shoulder and he plucked the roach off my chest. Nine years later I moved to Chicago where I heard bugs were of a more reasonable size and considered it a safe environment to begin a family.

I could be wrong, but perhaps memories like this one and others are at the root of my deep and abiding fear of bugs. I was never attracted to men that thought bugs and such were “cool” and I married a man that holds a strong dislike for bugs though he is capable of eliminating them so I wouldn’t have to if we encountered any in our life together. After our daughter began to walk my husband and I decided we would attempt to protect our daughter from our irrational fear of the creepy-crawlies and actually encouraged her interest in them. This wasn’t easy but we were certain that it must be healthier. Years later I question that decision.

The truth is, my daughter loves bugs. Living in Houston now, she has an endless supply of research opportunities within our own backyard and sometimes, even inside. A budding entomologist, her room is decorated with bugs: model ones she made, decorations from a bug themed party (where the party goers made bug boxes and took home live crickets), habitats for the critters, books, specimens and her drawings. One Halloween she dressed-up as an Entomologist and convinced her sisters to costume themselves as bugs. For birthdays and Christmas she asks for more bug paraphernalia without fail including live specimens to raise. She has raised and cared for worms, caterpillars, butterflies, moths, dragonflies, rolly-pollies, grasshoppers, praying mantids, ants and there would have been more if I had let her. As I write this there is a family of Walking Sticks crawling around a habitat in her room. I can’t understand how she is even able to sleep with the things in there but she is quite happy with her arrangement. I no longer hide my distaste for such critters and she handles it well. We are two different people after all and this fact doesn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. She catches tadpoles and baby frogs, names the earthworms in our garden and compost pile, picks up the grubs or other yuckies for me when we are gardening, and rescues insects and spiders from certain doom if found inside. Because of her fascination with insects we have all had to become educated as to the possible dangerous ones to be sure she doesn’t handle those but I have no doubt that she will one day be begging me for a big hairy spider (not an insect, I know) to live in her room. I’m just grateful we’re not at that point yet.

This isn’t the only area where my daughter and I show our individuality but it is perhaps the most pronounced at the moment. Our preference in style of dress is distinct already, her culinary tastes reflect not only her age but also her separateness, and her athletic prowess comes from someone other than myself. We share enjoyment of several areas as well, reading, music, and growing things but there is no doubt that she is her own person. I hate bugs, she loves them. When she was tiny I imagined all the things I would teach her and the ways we would grow to spend time enjoying the same things and there are many ways that we do. I never imagined her tiny fingers being the ones to rescue me from a stare down with a bug that I was terrified of yet this is exactly what has happened. She laughs at my squeaks and yells about the bugs in our lives and I promise to hug her after saving me as long as she washed her hands first. At first I was disappointed that there were interests we didn’t really share and I was confused by her attention to subjects I couldn’t stand. In time however, I have learned to appreciate her diversity and invest myself in learning more about what piqued her curiosity. This mysterious child bears my resemblance and is involved in a host of subjects I find intriguing but at the same time she has established herself as a unique individual developing and refining her own personhood. When it comes to bugs, she has left me far behind and I couldn’t be more proud.

The poor dragonfly she showed me that day didn’t have long to live due to its severe injury but I encouraged her from a distance in her care for the creature. I admired the iridescent blues and greens on its back and examined its compound eyes through her magnifying glass. After it died, though I didn’t touch it, I helped her display her new specimen in her collection, he really is the perfect addition. Weeks later I’ve helped her care for the Walking Sticks and hugged her today when she discovered one of them dead. I don’t know what will be living in her room next but as long as it’s not poisonous or dangerous in any other way I will support her, though I may not go in there for a while. We may not see eye to eye on the bug thing but I’m grateful that she’s not exactly like me after all.

NIP not WIP today.

Ok, so I'm nursing a new baby again which is... hard. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of nursing, it is good for mom and baby but I'm not going to sugar coat things and tell you how easy it as first, not even for a 5th time mom. C is cute, adorable and absolutely precious and as true as these things are every two hours or so I have to grab a glass of water, pull out my leaky boobs practice breathing techniques I don't even use for pushing in labor, and willingly let my baby suck on my sore nipples. Her perfectly sweet mouth is transformed into a device of torture, a pit of barbed wire churning around my tatas. Experts will tell you that it shouldn't hurt, that if there is pain it is because of a poor latch and can be corrected with proper positioning and getting the baby to get on the breast correctly and I've told women this as well. For the most part, I think that is true but there are times when mom and baby just can't get it worked out for a few weeks and for them it just isn't all rainbows and butterflies. This is me and C, the combination of my rather large nipples (TMI? Then don't read) and her tiny mouth plus this thing she has against putting her tongue forward have all combined to make this a difficult and painful two weeks of nursing so far.

But we'll get there. I had one other baby that gave me cracked and bleeding nipples and eventually we made it through and nursing became a bonding experience for us, special and easy so I have confidence that C and I can make it there too. When we do I'll be nursing her anywhere she needs to eat (for the torture sessions I prefer to remain at home at the moment) and doing so unapologeticly. Even in church. Since I believe that God made me to nurse my baby I'm not about to leave and go nurse somewhere else when we're there to worship- boobies nursing babies aren't a shock to God and if they are to the people around me, well, they are free to turn their attention back to God and leave me and my baby alone. Most of the time I won't be covering up and if I choose to do so it will be very special circumstances. I don't cover up for my dad, don't cover at church, don't cover around our friends... in fact, I can't think of such a special circumstance, interesting. I've heard all the arguments in favor of covering up but seeing as I believe breasts are for nursing babies and anything else is just a bonus I don't see me changing. Any man that is turned on (or grossed out) by a baby being fed has issues, that's all I'm saying.

And because I have a baby crying, a 6 year old needing some direction, a 2 year old needing a diaper change, an 8 year old "doing homework" that needs supervision, an 11 year old freaking out about a Greek test tomorrow, dinner that needs to be warmed up (thank goodness it is cooked thanks to wonderful friends!), a house in dire need of cleaning, laundry that needs to be folded and put away, dishes that need to be done, and a new lace pattern to try on that sweater, etc. I'm going to go now and just say: read this. She's obviously not as tired as I am and said it all so much better.

I wrote more about nursing in this post and now have a whole blog dedicated to nursing. A breastfeeding pub to support and encourage breastfeeding. We have lots of fun, share stories, give information, run an occasional contest and have give-aways. Visit The Leaky Boob for more!

Everyone's Beautiful- except me.

Deep breath. It's simple really, just write a few sentences about your day, life with kids, homeschooling and whatever is in the crockpot at the moment. Not hard, you can do this.

Yes, I talk to myself. Even to prepare to write a blog post. In fact, I talk to myself all the time though it's never really to myself but to some imaginary host of readers. A host. There are 7 followers of my blog, hardly a host. But I love you guys, even if it doesn't appear that way thanks to my gross neglect of my blog. They don't make it here often but I write post after post in my head through out my day, I'm thinking of you, I promise.

The neglect is over, it ends here. I'm blogging again. Last night I had dinner with an author, Katherine Center, a wonderful woman who nicely kicked me in the rear though I don't think she realized it. Blog, she said, and write. Constantly struggle with the balance but at least struggle. So here I blog. My confession, I want to be a writer, always have but have always dismissed it as something that would never happen because, well, there are millions of people that want to be a writer and last night I learned what I already knew with out numbers to back it up- something like one in 900 submissions to a publisher get published. The number could have been 9,000, I don't exactly remember and in reality it doesn't exactly matter, the odds are not good. Still, I'm going to try. Here's my first attempt, I'm telling the world that I want to be a writer and I'm working on a book. All 7 of you. Plus maybe my mom, and if she can figure out how to comment she might even say hi. Hi mom.

The question is what to blog about. In my mind, my life is boring, really boring. I see beauty in my life but I am not part of it, just the onlooker of beautiful moments that perhaps only I'd appreciate because they are created by the glue and painted covered hands of my offspring. Cooking, cleaning, home schooling, knitting, and occasionally writing, not exactly the stuff of captivating posts and I'm not about to have a specific theme to my blog, say homeschooling or crafting because I am far too unfocused and unorganized to achieve that well. My blog reflects my life, a little bit of everything and profoundly unorganized and the idea of recording that chaos somewhere and holding it up for the world to see (yes, even the 7) is rather intimidating. Sure, I could present something that is nice and polished, like a semi-precious stone cut and smoothed to shine as something of real value but in reality I would know, it's still just a piece of rock you can find on a hiking trip made to look pretty. No, that doesn't interest me, if for no reason other than I stink at lying. I'd be found out. All it would take is for one person that's been to my house to say something and it would be all undone. Sticking with the truth even if it is messy and unglamorous.

Enough about me. Last night my good friend, Monette (currently blog-less, this situation must be remedied) invited me to an event she planned for her club to have dinner with Katherine Center who is *gasp* really a very normal woman and mother. Borrowing Katherine's most recently published book, Everyone's Beautiful, from Monette, I read through it in about 3 days, give or take. I would have read it in less time, an easy read it's free flowing conversational style makes it hard to put down but I had a few distractions that required I feed and teach them at least once in a while. It was everything all the quotes and reviews said it would be and more. Mildly depressing for maybe three quarters of the book for me not because it's a depressing story, on the contrary, it's funny, poignant, real, and engaging, but because in the telling of a young stay-at-home-mother with three children under 4 it was a little too real for me. I squirmed at times in spite of my laughter with the feeling that I could relate with the main character a little too well. This is so much of what made it so I wanted to read it all in one sitting. Uncomfortable though I may be with the idea that I could relate to this character I had to see where the book was going, what was going to happen to her. She starts off the book declaring that she decided to change and I had to know what that change would be and how it would take place. The further I got into the book the more I had to know about this change, if for no other reason than to have hope for myself.
Read this book if you have been a mother of small children, are a mother of small children, want to be a mother of small children, or have a mother. Though it's a book about a mother of small children in reality it's about so much more, a book about feeling stuck and what we do to change it. A story of love, hope, promise, and the humor in life that accompanies us on whatever path we're on if we have the courage to see it. And beauty, a story of beauty. I'm attempting to find that in myself now too.

And that was more than a few sentences. I really need to write a book.