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Monday, September 1, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
The Technical Difficulties
So I have not abandoned this beloved adventure, but we are movin' and groovin'.
I am currently building my own website to host this blog. Seriously, I bought a real name and have spent more hours than I like to admit with HTML code. But cross your fingers and say prayers (because I am not tech savvy and I just want to write) but hopefully it will come together soon. The big announcement should be at the end of this week and I will post on here the new place to follow your favorite little Misfit Mama. Thanks to every reader! Now let's go bowling, and drink some White Russians, and find a rug to tie the room together.
I am currently building my own website to host this blog. Seriously, I bought a real name and have spent more hours than I like to admit with HTML code. But cross your fingers and say prayers (because I am not tech savvy and I just want to write) but hopefully it will come together soon. The big announcement should be at the end of this week and I will post on here the new place to follow your favorite little Misfit Mama. Thanks to every reader! Now let's go bowling, and drink some White Russians, and find a rug to tie the room together.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Paint it Pink
There are no gender roles in our home. I do not cook. I do not clean. In the words of Rhett Butler "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." When company is coming for a Christmas Eve, Thanksgiving, or an Easter dinner then I give a damn. I light the Yankee Candles which give off the appropriate scent for the season and I clean. But otherwise, my house is where I live. It is not a showroom. My husband does most of the cleaning. He vacuums, does dishes, and laundry as well as most of the cooking. My son, as all little boys do, wants to be like his father. He loves his vacuum and his broom. Toy companies have not realized the times are a changing as almost every vacuum and broom are covered in Minnie Mouse. Meaning they are mainly pink.
My son's favorite toys are a broom and a toy swiffer which we tell him is a vacuum. I searched locally at department stores for a neutral non-pink vacuum and broom. They were not available. I could order them off Amazon for a semi inflated price and pay shipping costs. I chose not to because I came across a deal at Marshall's around Easter time. It was a cleaning cart set consisting of a broom, swiffer, and a little fake spray bottle. It was all pink, hot neon pink. At $12.99, I wasn't passing it up.
Friends come over and see the little cleaning cart. The question is always the same. "Why does your son have a pink broom set?"
"Because he loves to use his broom and vacuum," is always our answer. This is why he loves it so much.
Daddy vacuums. He wants to be like his Dad. He mimics the roles he sees his father play. Cleaning is not a woman's role in our home, and if it was well..it would never get done with the exception of holidays. We have had the next advice handed to us on more than one occasion.
"You can always paint his broom. They make spray paint that will cover the pink."
My answer is "he doesn't know pink is a girl color. And it's his broom, I wouldn't change it." His pink broom is one of his most beloved items. Changing the color is showing him at the age of 18 months, he is not allowed to play with pink toys. He can play with pink, purple, blue, yellow or any color of toy he chooses to play with. They are his toys. If they make him happy, I won't change them. We are not defined by the color of our toys. A pink broom doesn't make him less of a little boy.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be the first girl to play in Major League Baseball. I would go out every day and practice mainly by myself. And everyone said "you can't play baseball, you are a girl." And I believed them. They were wrong.
A girl can be whatever she chooses whether it is a ballplayer, a writer, a mechanic, or anything in which she devotes the time and effort into learning. A boy can sweep the floors. He can be happy in doing chores which were once labeled a 'woman's job.' A woman's job ended when she left the house, got a job, and contributed to providing to her family.
A man is not less of a man because he assumes household chores. He is a damn fine catch. I will never paint your broom, baby boy. I will, however, take it away when you hit windows and glass after I repeatedly tell you to stop. But your pink broom is your broom. It's just a broom, the color never mattered anyways. Seeing your face light up because you could be like your Daddy is the only feeling that ever truly mattered to me.
Friends come over and see the little cleaning cart. The question is always the same. "Why does your son have a pink broom set?"
"Because he loves to use his broom and vacuum," is always our answer. This is why he loves it so much.
"You can always paint his broom. They make spray paint that will cover the pink."
My answer is "he doesn't know pink is a girl color. And it's his broom, I wouldn't change it." His pink broom is one of his most beloved items. Changing the color is showing him at the age of 18 months, he is not allowed to play with pink toys. He can play with pink, purple, blue, yellow or any color of toy he chooses to play with. They are his toys. If they make him happy, I won't change them. We are not defined by the color of our toys. A pink broom doesn't make him less of a little boy.
When I was a little girl, I wanted to be the first girl to play in Major League Baseball. I would go out every day and practice mainly by myself. And everyone said "you can't play baseball, you are a girl." And I believed them. They were wrong.
A girl can be whatever she chooses whether it is a ballplayer, a writer, a mechanic, or anything in which she devotes the time and effort into learning. A boy can sweep the floors. He can be happy in doing chores which were once labeled a 'woman's job.' A woman's job ended when she left the house, got a job, and contributed to providing to her family.
A man is not less of a man because he assumes household chores. He is a damn fine catch. I will never paint your broom, baby boy. I will, however, take it away when you hit windows and glass after I repeatedly tell you to stop. But your pink broom is your broom. It's just a broom, the color never mattered anyways. Seeing your face light up because you could be like your Daddy is the only feeling that ever truly mattered to me.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Clueless from the Beginning
Oh, the first kiss. Remembering some strange awkward boy who I met on Kelleys Island, and how he licked my face. It was an epic fail. Slobber ran down my chin and my gut reaction was to push him away and run. Gross, unromantic, and terrified are the words to summarize this milestone. Parenting feels similar. My first child has provided many gross and terrified moments. This is my first child and I truly have no idea what I am doing, much like my first kiss.
Maternity leave was romanticized as a bonding experience. It was not. Before having a child, and on most days now, I visualized moments where my child and I would sit learning important life lessons. I didn't realize the first life lesson would be plunged upon me shortly after he was born. I had to teach him to eat. After being handed a tiny bottle with a red nipple, I was told he needed to learn how to suck so he could be taught how to eat. No one prepared me for this first. It never crossed my mind that he wouldn't know how to eat. Within the first week of bringing him home, I knew I had to readjust my thinking. Because the baby I had imagined spending my maternity leave with was more on the 8 month old baby level and not the newborn we had brought home. Newborn baby was way different than the 8 month old baby.
Eight month old baby could sit up and crawl around. He was aware to some extent of his surroundings. Newborn baby couldn't even hold his head up. As a first time parent, I was unaware these things would have to be learned over time. A lot of firsts followed. I didn't know you had to suck out their boogers because they didn't know how to pick their nose or blow out boogers. We are now reaching the point where a finger is finding the way up his nose. I try to tell him it's a private thing and we shouldn't do that in public. I have to teach him about picking his nose. I am on the fence about whether a car is a private or public place, it seems to be where I witness many strangers participating in a private activity.
These kind of human behaviors go along with other disgusting things like teaching him what poop and pee actually mean. Son stands up in bath tub. I ask "do you need to use your potty?" He shakes his head "no." Then he does it. He just pees while shaking his head "no" in the bath tub. I reconcile again, he must be taught about bodily functions. Everything to him is a constant learning experience and he is discovering their meanings and the appropriate words.
My son started day care last week. He goes for two days because I want him to become socialized. It is yet another lesson for him. He is not the only little person his age and there are many other little people just like him in the great big world. Plus since he is our only child and the only grandchild on both sides of his family, lessons in sharing along with how to treat others is a good experience for him. After his first two days of daycare, our family was treated to another first. We let him out of his bubble and within two days he was sick.
Oh his second day at daycare, we had to fill out an incident report. My child bit another kid. I am pretty sure the kid he chose to bite got the last laugh as my child has slung green and yellow snot EVERYWHERE. And both of his ears are infected. He could have also obtained the disease from licking another kid's shoe, or finding some half eaten food on the floor which is something he just always has to eat. Who really knows where he got it. But it was another first for us. Since he hasn't learned to properly blow his nose yet, he just uses his hand, or a sleeve, or a blanket, or his pillow, or the couch, or any place he feels like rubbing his infection all over the house. Within a few short days, we were all infected.
From each experience, I am constantly reminded I am a first time parent and I have no idea what I am doing. And since our son is our first little human, he is learning right along with us. He doesn't know either. He won't know until he is taught things like how to blow his nose, or what pee pee actually means. He doesn't understand enough to say "Hey guys, I just had the biggest blow out in my pants so we are gonna be late for our play date. And Mom, I left some on your sleeve so you might want to change too." Nobody in this house has any idea what we are doing. We are flying down first kiss lane at a rate of a thousand miles per hour.
Maternity leave was romanticized as a bonding experience. It was not. Before having a child, and on most days now, I visualized moments where my child and I would sit learning important life lessons. I didn't realize the first life lesson would be plunged upon me shortly after he was born. I had to teach him to eat. After being handed a tiny bottle with a red nipple, I was told he needed to learn how to suck so he could be taught how to eat. No one prepared me for this first. It never crossed my mind that he wouldn't know how to eat. Within the first week of bringing him home, I knew I had to readjust my thinking. Because the baby I had imagined spending my maternity leave with was more on the 8 month old baby level and not the newborn we had brought home. Newborn baby was way different than the 8 month old baby.
Eight month old baby could sit up and crawl around. He was aware to some extent of his surroundings. Newborn baby couldn't even hold his head up. As a first time parent, I was unaware these things would have to be learned over time. A lot of firsts followed. I didn't know you had to suck out their boogers because they didn't know how to pick their nose or blow out boogers. We are now reaching the point where a finger is finding the way up his nose. I try to tell him it's a private thing and we shouldn't do that in public. I have to teach him about picking his nose. I am on the fence about whether a car is a private or public place, it seems to be where I witness many strangers participating in a private activity.
 |
| campaignbrief.com |
My son started day care last week. He goes for two days because I want him to become socialized. It is yet another lesson for him. He is not the only little person his age and there are many other little people just like him in the great big world. Plus since he is our only child and the only grandchild on both sides of his family, lessons in sharing along with how to treat others is a good experience for him. After his first two days of daycare, our family was treated to another first. We let him out of his bubble and within two days he was sick.
From each experience, I am constantly reminded I am a first time parent and I have no idea what I am doing. And since our son is our first little human, he is learning right along with us. He doesn't know either. He won't know until he is taught things like how to blow his nose, or what pee pee actually means. He doesn't understand enough to say "Hey guys, I just had the biggest blow out in my pants so we are gonna be late for our play date. And Mom, I left some on your sleeve so you might want to change too." Nobody in this house has any idea what we are doing. We are flying down first kiss lane at a rate of a thousand miles per hour.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Yes I Am.
Mommy the Magnificent will capture the Terrific Toddler. A chase ensues where each tiny footstep is echoed on scratched hardwood floors. Mommy the Magnificent knows a great battle is at hand. Because once the Terrific Toddler is captured, Mommy the Magnificent will place the Terrific Toddler in an invisible bubble so he is never allowed to grow up. She will keep him little forever. She will protect him from the Big Bad World and never allow an ounce of harm to find the Terrific Toddler. No mean words will cross his ears. He will never face a bully. He will never have his heart broken.
We play this game almost every evening. After the work is done and the computer is closed, a rambunctious game of cat and mouse is played. I always let him escape to the safety of his castle which is a lion mat and his blankie. Because there is no invisible bubble. There is no way from stopping the inevitable. He will grow up. And there will come a day when my imagination can't compete with the technology. I can't compete with a little girl who he finds to be so pretty. Or a woman he chooses to marry.
Looking beyond his almost 18 months on this earth, I carry the greatest hope in the fact he will find his mate. I know our phone calls will become shorter. Our breakfasts, lunches, and dinners will cease to exist in my every day life. But I am not sad. Because I never look at him finding happiness and creating a home as a loss.
When we read "The Giving Tree," I am always shaken into the reality. He will one day not want to climb a tree and swing from her branches. He will one day want a home. He will want love, and a wife. He will not be my little boy. One day, manhood comes a calling. As a mother, I hope I have prepared him. This is my greatest job. To teach kindness, to teach caring for others, to teach compassion and respect. I hope to teach him that strong women are not to be feared, but admired for their beauty and strength.
Today I received my third rejection letter for my first short story. It didn't break me. It made me stronger and more determined. It made me want to write something beautiful. Tomorrow my son begins his journey outside of his family confines to a day care. He will meet little people just like him and I hope he finds friends. Because Mommy the Magnificent can't keep him in a bubble. I can't keep him little forever. All I can do is shelter him from the Big Bad World the best I can. When the time comes, I hope I have prepared him for the world.
And when the world says "you are not good enough," it is my hope that he will give the world the big middle finger with every vein exploding persistence and determination, and he will say loudly "Yes I am." Because this is who I am raising him to be.
We play this game almost every evening. After the work is done and the computer is closed, a rambunctious game of cat and mouse is played. I always let him escape to the safety of his castle which is a lion mat and his blankie. Because there is no invisible bubble. There is no way from stopping the inevitable. He will grow up. And there will come a day when my imagination can't compete with the technology. I can't compete with a little girl who he finds to be so pretty. Or a woman he chooses to marry.
Looking beyond his almost 18 months on this earth, I carry the greatest hope in the fact he will find his mate. I know our phone calls will become shorter. Our breakfasts, lunches, and dinners will cease to exist in my every day life. But I am not sad. Because I never look at him finding happiness and creating a home as a loss.
When we read "The Giving Tree," I am always shaken into the reality. He will one day not want to climb a tree and swing from her branches. He will one day want a home. He will want love, and a wife. He will not be my little boy. One day, manhood comes a calling. As a mother, I hope I have prepared him. This is my greatest job. To teach kindness, to teach caring for others, to teach compassion and respect. I hope to teach him that strong women are not to be feared, but admired for their beauty and strength.
Today I received my third rejection letter for my first short story. It didn't break me. It made me stronger and more determined. It made me want to write something beautiful. Tomorrow my son begins his journey outside of his family confines to a day care. He will meet little people just like him and I hope he finds friends. Because Mommy the Magnificent can't keep him in a bubble. I can't keep him little forever. All I can do is shelter him from the Big Bad World the best I can. When the time comes, I hope I have prepared him for the world.
And when the world says "you are not good enough," it is my hope that he will give the world the big middle finger with every vein exploding persistence and determination, and he will say loudly "Yes I am." Because this is who I am raising him to be.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Pure Hell: A Guide to Toddler Torture
Last weekend was all about how my husband and I could torture our little boy. We started with taking him to our local amusement park. Because it claims to have 'Fun for All.'
Although the park does not have the latest and greatest thrill rides, it is a quaint place where every child who has grown up around this region is guaranteed to make fond first memories. How dare we try to make first memories with our child? Especially at the place where his Mommy and his Grandfather worked their first jobs. I was unaware this type of behavior is forbidden in toddler world. What to do next since we are at a fun place? Well, if you are even remotely familiar with Camden Park it is a must-do to eat the local fare known as the "Pronto Pup." So with anxious hearts and stomachs, we purchased our son's first Pronto Pup. He snubbed his nose at it and decided the Larabar we had brought with us was a much better option than a deep fried corn dog. Yes, in theory he is right. But this was supposed to be a treat.
Can you imagine the torture of being offered a rare fair treat? How dare we do such a thing? The final act of torture to culminate our first family adventure to the local fun place was something absolutely horrendous. Since we were scared to leave him on a kiddie ride because he has no fear and severe separation anxiety, we....ohhh, I can't even type it. Hanging my head in shame at this very moment. We took him on a carousel ride where I could hold him.
You read this correctly. We took him on a ride. Not a ride where you throw your kid on and get adorable pictures. Because we knew if we did this he would barrel back to us with all his strength and put others and himself in danger.
As we climbed on the carousel. I chose a cream colored horse and attached the safety belt around him. He begins what we call 'meltdown mode.' His next great move is to hurl his body weight off the horse directly to me with the death grip on my shirt. As I look around, I notice an empty bench on the carousel and decide that may be a better place to enjoy his first ride. I unbuckle his safety belt and begin to move towards the empty bench. A bell rings signaling fun is about to begin. There isn't enough time to make it to the bench before the carnival music begins and we go spinning round for what felt like forever. I immediately grab the bar attached to our chosen smiling horse and bear hugged my son. Other children laughed and posed for cute carousel pictures. Mine screamed, round and round we went with a red faced waling toddler.
We were done with fun for all after this. So on the next day, I followed the horrific event known as an amusement park with something equally as traumatic. He was treated to his first haircut. Here he also screamed while throwing his body weight around, except this experience had more snot involved. And did you know the phrase 'spitting mad' is not just a phrase? If my child is angry enough, he spits. First time parent learns yet another lesson. So here you have it, your very own guide to toddler torture. Amusement park, deep fried food, a carousel ride, and one hair cut is all it takes to thoroughly piss off a toddler.
You read this correctly. We took him on a ride. Not a ride where you throw your kid on and get adorable pictures. Because we knew if we did this he would barrel back to us with all his strength and put others and himself in danger.
As we climbed on the carousel. I chose a cream colored horse and attached the safety belt around him. He begins what we call 'meltdown mode.' His next great move is to hurl his body weight off the horse directly to me with the death grip on my shirt. As I look around, I notice an empty bench on the carousel and decide that may be a better place to enjoy his first ride. I unbuckle his safety belt and begin to move towards the empty bench. A bell rings signaling fun is about to begin. There isn't enough time to make it to the bench before the carnival music begins and we go spinning round for what felt like forever. I immediately grab the bar attached to our chosen smiling horse and bear hugged my son. Other children laughed and posed for cute carousel pictures. Mine screamed, round and round we went with a red faced waling toddler.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Corsets Laced with Hope Strings
Perfection is the goal. To present ourselves as golden rays beaming happiness. It's not always so. I can redefine beauty in the terms of motherhood, but I still play another role. The role which began almost 12 years prior.
He didn't have a ring and we had only been dating for 8 months. I was crying and an emotional Pisces can break through the thickest Scorpion skin. He had never felt such an emotional attachment combined with fireworks every where else. And he knew, we both knew from the beginning. I called him my 'kismet.' I didn't know at the time when I rejected the first proposal it would be seven years later before I heard those words again.
And it wasn't perfect. It has been one of the briar patches in our relationship. He told me to pick a ring off the internet, keep it under a grand, and I did. He tried to take me to the museum to make it some kind of a real thing, but the roads were icy and too steep. It was a week before Christmas and I already knew the proposal was coming. It was either coming, or I was on my way out the door. I had waited long enough. So we headed back to our little apartment on this particular not special evening and he asked me to marry him. I asked him to get down on one knee because it was proper.
I hate telling this story because it hurts. He robbed himself of the excitement for not going out to find a ring on his own and doing the surprise proposal instead of the forced one. And I sold myself short. As I look at this unbearably hard lesson, I also look around where we are five years later. Despite a bad engagement story, we have created a beautiful home and filled it with the most precious toddler in the world (I know I am being bias on this because that toddler is ours, but he is pretty damn cute.)
Beauty is felt on the inside as I play the role of mother. However as a wife, I struggle. I struggle to want to be sexy. To feel sexy. To broadcast any sort of sex appeal into my relationship. I keep hearing these words pour out of my mouth "I am only a mother now."
Throughout the maternity leave, I told myself it would pass. It was postpartum depression and once I returned to work, and started putting makeup on in the mornings again that these feelings would pass. It didn't pass. It is almost two years later and it hasn't passed. When my son was four months old, I dyed my hair pink in some hopes to reclaim a bit of femininity.
But it was just pink hair. It didn't spark me into wanting to get all dressed up. It didn't make feel more womanly. It was just pink hair.
Looking back, the roles changed. And I am adaptable. I was a girlfriend who became a fiancee. Then I transitioned into a wife and finally a mother. And I stopped caring about any role I had once my son arrived. I want him to have the best childhood. And that is my main care. As my husband robbed himself of engagement excitement, I know I am robbing myself of the experience to be a wife and a mother. Women can be both. Once upon a time I was lady who loved corsets, thigh high black boots, and hours spent on my sexy makeup look. I don't know where that lady went. I don't know when one has a child if that lady dies. But I can't find her. And I really am not looking too hard for her either. I'm too tired to look.
We have a running joke in our house. "Poker sounds awesome on Tuesday." Because before the baby came, we played poker with our friends almost every Friday for over ten years. And on Tuesdays we are excited about having friends over and playing. Then Friday comes, and we are exhausted. And staying up till 1 or 2 a.m. is like running a marathon after you smoked a pack of cigarettes. There just isn't enough breath. We are the same way about going out to dinner. It sounds great on Tuesday. But on a Friday night where a grandparent watches the little one overnight, we want to be lazy. We indulge ourselves in relaxation.
People will say "you always have to work at your relationship." And I know this is true. I work a full time job along with writing articles, short stories, and this blog; I don't want anymore work. I've worked since I was 15. I know how to work but I don't know how to be someone that I don't want to be.
Sexy isn't in my vocabulary right now. And I make no apologies for that. As with my engagement, in five years a lot of things change. A Pisces always has one thing, we always retain hope. Maybe one day a glimmer of the old me will return, maybe she won't. For now, this lady is perfectly fine in her white stained tank top and plaid pajama pants with her corsets locked away in a closet.
He didn't have a ring and we had only been dating for 8 months. I was crying and an emotional Pisces can break through the thickest Scorpion skin. He had never felt such an emotional attachment combined with fireworks every where else. And he knew, we both knew from the beginning. I called him my 'kismet.' I didn't know at the time when I rejected the first proposal it would be seven years later before I heard those words again.
And it wasn't perfect. It has been one of the briar patches in our relationship. He told me to pick a ring off the internet, keep it under a grand, and I did. He tried to take me to the museum to make it some kind of a real thing, but the roads were icy and too steep. It was a week before Christmas and I already knew the proposal was coming. It was either coming, or I was on my way out the door. I had waited long enough. So we headed back to our little apartment on this particular not special evening and he asked me to marry him. I asked him to get down on one knee because it was proper.
I hate telling this story because it hurts. He robbed himself of the excitement for not going out to find a ring on his own and doing the surprise proposal instead of the forced one. And I sold myself short. As I look at this unbearably hard lesson, I also look around where we are five years later. Despite a bad engagement story, we have created a beautiful home and filled it with the most precious toddler in the world (I know I am being bias on this because that toddler is ours, but he is pretty damn cute.)
Beauty is felt on the inside as I play the role of mother. However as a wife, I struggle. I struggle to want to be sexy. To feel sexy. To broadcast any sort of sex appeal into my relationship. I keep hearing these words pour out of my mouth "I am only a mother now."
Throughout the maternity leave, I told myself it would pass. It was postpartum depression and once I returned to work, and started putting makeup on in the mornings again that these feelings would pass. It didn't pass. It is almost two years later and it hasn't passed. When my son was four months old, I dyed my hair pink in some hopes to reclaim a bit of femininity.
 |
| Picture taken by Tammylynn's Photography |
Looking back, the roles changed. And I am adaptable. I was a girlfriend who became a fiancee. Then I transitioned into a wife and finally a mother. And I stopped caring about any role I had once my son arrived. I want him to have the best childhood. And that is my main care. As my husband robbed himself of engagement excitement, I know I am robbing myself of the experience to be a wife and a mother. Women can be both. Once upon a time I was lady who loved corsets, thigh high black boots, and hours spent on my sexy makeup look. I don't know where that lady went. I don't know when one has a child if that lady dies. But I can't find her. And I really am not looking too hard for her either. I'm too tired to look.
We have a running joke in our house. "Poker sounds awesome on Tuesday." Because before the baby came, we played poker with our friends almost every Friday for over ten years. And on Tuesdays we are excited about having friends over and playing. Then Friday comes, and we are exhausted. And staying up till 1 or 2 a.m. is like running a marathon after you smoked a pack of cigarettes. There just isn't enough breath. We are the same way about going out to dinner. It sounds great on Tuesday. But on a Friday night where a grandparent watches the little one overnight, we want to be lazy. We indulge ourselves in relaxation.
People will say "you always have to work at your relationship." And I know this is true. I work a full time job along with writing articles, short stories, and this blog; I don't want anymore work. I've worked since I was 15. I know how to work but I don't know how to be someone that I don't want to be.
Sexy isn't in my vocabulary right now. And I make no apologies for that. As with my engagement, in five years a lot of things change. A Pisces always has one thing, we always retain hope. Maybe one day a glimmer of the old me will return, maybe she won't. For now, this lady is perfectly fine in her white stained tank top and plaid pajama pants with her corsets locked away in a closet.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Two Questions One Answer
A few years ago I asked a question. What is two girls one cup? If you don't know what it is, don't go looking. JUST DON'T DO IT. My ears were assaulted by the answer. My mind is still haunted in the fact that two fame whores would go to such an extent and post such filth on the internet. I am aware there is probably far worse done before their stint with shit. And it has probably been followed with even more shittier shit. Sometimes, there is an answer. The answer I wish to have been told is "it's none of your business." But they put it on the internet and everyone was talking so I made it my business when I asked the awful question.
Lately there isn't much filth I let filter in. I don't seek it either. But I am confronted by questions where the simple answer is "it's none of your business." Two questions have affronted my modesty. Strangers find it okay to ask these questions. It is not okay.
1. Did you breast or bottle feed? Wait a second, let me look at something.
Oh, those fun bags are still attached to me. Who knew?! Yes, I had a child and what I chose to do with my breasts are my business. Simple answer, "it's none of your business." No, you can't shame me because we chose a bottle. In fact, some women are never given the choice and I am one of those. So let me shame you for asking a personal question. Because the simple answer is "it's none of your business." Now if you happen to stumble upon me being all "There Will Be Blood" like and giving my son a whiskey bottle, then yes, please society ask personal questions.
This scene is screaming to ask personal questions. Wonder if he breast or bottle fed?
The second question I am hearing more and more of every day because my son is at a certain age where strangers in the grocery store deem it appropriate to ask.
2. Are you planning to have another baby or when are you planning to have another one? It's really the same damn question either way. The "misfit" in me wants to answer like this:
"Well I have this app on my phone that tracks my ovulation so let me just pull it out and track my handy dandy menstrual cycle and I will let you know when my husband and I plan on doing the deed. Give me a minute to pull the app up. Damn phone takes forever. By the way, I am Pisces and my husband is a Scorpio. You should totally Google how great our chemistry is. It's probably the best EVER!"
The truth and the honest answer is I got fixed. I can't have anymore kids. I wasn't supposed to get pregnant and carry the cute little bundle of joy people are suddenly ignoring. They ignore him only because they are so interested in when I will breed my next cutie patootie.
And the last time I checked, people usually make babies by:
Being intimate. Yes, I know there are other ways to conceive but it is a private matter. It is not something I want to discuss openly with strangers in the grocery store. The answer to this question is the same as the answer before, "it's none of your business." So let me shame you again for asking a personal question and you will hear the answer. "No, I have one kidney and would like to be there when my son grows up so I have decided to not have anymore children. God has blessed me with one miracle."
Sometimes it is small talk. I am guilty of asking the second question and the minute the words puked out of my mouth, I wished they could be returned. In much the same fashion when I asked a few years about those disgusting two girls. There was only one answer I wished to have heard "it's none of your business." Because the truth is I didn't want to hear the real answer.
Lately there isn't much filth I let filter in. I don't seek it either. But I am confronted by questions where the simple answer is "it's none of your business." Two questions have affronted my modesty. Strangers find it okay to ask these questions. It is not okay.
1. Did you breast or bottle feed? Wait a second, let me look at something.
Oh, those fun bags are still attached to me. Who knew?! Yes, I had a child and what I chose to do with my breasts are my business. Simple answer, "it's none of your business." No, you can't shame me because we chose a bottle. In fact, some women are never given the choice and I am one of those. So let me shame you for asking a personal question. Because the simple answer is "it's none of your business." Now if you happen to stumble upon me being all "There Will Be Blood" like and giving my son a whiskey bottle, then yes, please society ask personal questions.
This scene is screaming to ask personal questions. Wonder if he breast or bottle fed?
The second question I am hearing more and more of every day because my son is at a certain age where strangers in the grocery store deem it appropriate to ask.
2. Are you planning to have another baby or when are you planning to have another one? It's really the same damn question either way. The "misfit" in me wants to answer like this:
"Well I have this app on my phone that tracks my ovulation so let me just pull it out and track my handy dandy menstrual cycle and I will let you know when my husband and I plan on doing the deed. Give me a minute to pull the app up. Damn phone takes forever. By the way, I am Pisces and my husband is a Scorpio. You should totally Google how great our chemistry is. It's probably the best EVER!"
The truth and the honest answer is I got fixed. I can't have anymore kids. I wasn't supposed to get pregnant and carry the cute little bundle of joy people are suddenly ignoring. They ignore him only because they are so interested in when I will breed my next cutie patootie.
And the last time I checked, people usually make babies by:
Being intimate. Yes, I know there are other ways to conceive but it is a private matter. It is not something I want to discuss openly with strangers in the grocery store. The answer to this question is the same as the answer before, "it's none of your business." So let me shame you again for asking a personal question and you will hear the answer. "No, I have one kidney and would like to be there when my son grows up so I have decided to not have anymore children. God has blessed me with one miracle."
Sometimes it is small talk. I am guilty of asking the second question and the minute the words puked out of my mouth, I wished they could be returned. In much the same fashion when I asked a few years about those disgusting two girls. There was only one answer I wished to have heard "it's none of your business." Because the truth is I didn't want to hear the real answer.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Beautiful Redefined
Girl things used to be a staple. The love of high heels, the meticulous routine to smell good, or an afternoon spent playing with hairstyles; it is all a part of my past now. My shoes have changed. A staple to my former wardrobe consisted of shoes that were high and glittery. Any chance to rock a pair of high heels were eagerly grabbed, strapped on, and a night ensued where I always hoped to not twist an ankle.
I still own these shoes plus several more, but I don't wear them. After pregnancy, I became more comfortable and at ease in shoes like these. These are my so called mom shoes. Vans slip ons, Nike running shoes, and I LOVE TOMS. Toms are better than any pair of slippers I have ever owned and I will rock them to work, the store, or pretty much anywhere.
No these are not the stylish golden shoes I used to wear. These shoes have no heels. They are a comfort selection and I can put them on in under 2 seconds and they ensure I don't drop the toddler when carrying him. I am knocking on wood at this moment because I know these shoes have no guarantee against my own clumsiness.
I've tried to wear a pair of heels since having my son. It lasted only two hours before my feet rebelled in tremendous pain, I could barely walk in them. As a girl, it felt like I was fifteen again trying to learn to walk in my homecoming dance shoes for the first time.
Another habit has also changed in girl world. I rarely use these products anymore.
Don't get me wrong, I still love to smell pretty. Somewhere I just stopped taking the time to use the body wash followed by the body lotion and finishing with the matching body spray. My scent is based now on shea butter soap and deodorant (on the days I remember, which I try to remember every day because no girl wants to walk around as smelly girl.) These lotions and sprays used to be a daily ritual for me. Daily girl days have truly changed into a woman rushing to have more time with her son.
The time I spend with him does not matter if I am in 5 inch heels. The time does not require me to smell like Paris Love or Rainkissed Leaves. Most of the time, he looks at me as a stranger when I am in my nice work clothes and have my face painted on. He is used to this lady.
The mom he knows. The mom in her glasses with no make up and smelling like shea butter walking around the house in her Toms. There is no glamorous high heels in this world. No fancy designer dresses. Only his pajama clad glasses wearing mama, that's the person he loves.
And somewhere along the way, I have learned to love this person more too. The less maintenance means more face time where I get to roll around in the floor and wrestle, or we are out in the yard barefoot splashing each other with water. My treasured girl time where I felt so pretty is replaced by a boy who loves to throw dirt (he will eat it too if you don't catch him fast enough.) I have become a girl who is replaced by being a mother. And although society doesn't see the beauty in this, I see it. I see the mothers in their yoga pants and running shoes with their hair quickly thrown into a ponytail. And these women are taking care of their children and they are more beautiful than any super model.
Beauty isn't about the person we see on the outside and how long it took them to become that way. Beauty is not caring about the looks, the high fashion, and the even higher heels. Beauty is born on the inside. It is a person caring only about another person, never giving a second thought to their own looks.
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| Photo taken by Tammylynn's Photography |
No these are not the stylish golden shoes I used to wear. These shoes have no heels. They are a comfort selection and I can put them on in under 2 seconds and they ensure I don't drop the toddler when carrying him. I am knocking on wood at this moment because I know these shoes have no guarantee against my own clumsiness.
I've tried to wear a pair of heels since having my son. It lasted only two hours before my feet rebelled in tremendous pain, I could barely walk in them. As a girl, it felt like I was fifteen again trying to learn to walk in my homecoming dance shoes for the first time.
Another habit has also changed in girl world. I rarely use these products anymore.
Don't get me wrong, I still love to smell pretty. Somewhere I just stopped taking the time to use the body wash followed by the body lotion and finishing with the matching body spray. My scent is based now on shea butter soap and deodorant (on the days I remember, which I try to remember every day because no girl wants to walk around as smelly girl.) These lotions and sprays used to be a daily ritual for me. Daily girl days have truly changed into a woman rushing to have more time with her son.
The time I spend with him does not matter if I am in 5 inch heels. The time does not require me to smell like Paris Love or Rainkissed Leaves. Most of the time, he looks at me as a stranger when I am in my nice work clothes and have my face painted on. He is used to this lady.
The mom he knows. The mom in her glasses with no make up and smelling like shea butter walking around the house in her Toms. There is no glamorous high heels in this world. No fancy designer dresses. Only his pajama clad glasses wearing mama, that's the person he loves.
And somewhere along the way, I have learned to love this person more too. The less maintenance means more face time where I get to roll around in the floor and wrestle, or we are out in the yard barefoot splashing each other with water. My treasured girl time where I felt so pretty is replaced by a boy who loves to throw dirt (he will eat it too if you don't catch him fast enough.) I have become a girl who is replaced by being a mother. And although society doesn't see the beauty in this, I see it. I see the mothers in their yoga pants and running shoes with their hair quickly thrown into a ponytail. And these women are taking care of their children and they are more beautiful than any super model.
Beauty isn't about the person we see on the outside and how long it took them to become that way. Beauty is not caring about the looks, the high fashion, and the even higher heels. Beauty is born on the inside. It is a person caring only about another person, never giving a second thought to their own looks.
Monday, July 7, 2014
The Last Notch
In the movie "The Shawshank Redemption" the character Brooks talks about his new life outside the prison walls. He says "the world went and got itself in a big damn hurry." He was right. Each moment is rushed. We are constantly rushing to the next moment. When did we stop just being here?
In the first few months we had our son, and he wouldn't sleep longer than an hour or so at night, I have the memory of taking him into his nursery. I rocked him to sleep and put him in his crib. I prayed with all my might he would just sleep there for awhile. I missed my bed. I missed sleeping next to my husband. I missed sleep. I stumbled into my bedroom and fell into the bed next to my husband. This lasted about ten minutes. My son wasn't ready for his crib. He wasn't ready to be thrown into a strange room called his nursery and I was rushing a moment.
Moments are rushed. Each day I am excited for his next big milestone. Each day I look forward to when he is older and we can go see movies together, or have conversations (like real ones not him babbling gibberish and I just nod pretending to understand. I don't understand or have the slightest idea what he is saying most of the time.) And I know what I am doing...and it is so wrong.
Wishing away life, waiting for what I think will be the next breath of fresh air. We always need air and we should be grateful in the fact that we are breathing. We are in the moment of now. When we returned from our vacation, we lowered his crib to the last notch. I don't know why I put off this milestone for so long. At the beach, I rented baby equipment from a wonderful business called Baby's Away of Charleston. And they anticipated what my child needed. They set up a crib and it was at the lowest notch. And I knew, it was time. Time to lower his bed. He is climbing. He is literally running and bouncing off the walls. He is living each day in his new moment.
As I look at his new lower crib, I know what will happen next. He will outgrow his crib. He will then need a toddler bed, and before I know it he will have his own room with a real bed. He will be playing Playstation 6 or whatever the current gaming system is, and I won't be allowed in his room, and all these little moments will be gone. They will be a memory just like the one where I put him in his crib for the first time and prayed he would sleep.
It's going too damn fast. The world really is in a damn hurry. And just like Brooks, we are all here. We are present in the now. Not looking to the next moment, but we are living in this precise exact moment. And in a few seconds, it will be gone. And the memory is all we will have.
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| whatculture.com |
Moments are rushed. Each day I am excited for his next big milestone. Each day I look forward to when he is older and we can go see movies together, or have conversations (like real ones not him babbling gibberish and I just nod pretending to understand. I don't understand or have the slightest idea what he is saying most of the time.) And I know what I am doing...and it is so wrong.
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| tumblr.com |
As I look at his new lower crib, I know what will happen next. He will outgrow his crib. He will then need a toddler bed, and before I know it he will have his own room with a real bed. He will be playing Playstation 6 or whatever the current gaming system is, and I won't be allowed in his room, and all these little moments will be gone. They will be a memory just like the one where I put him in his crib for the first time and prayed he would sleep.
It's going too damn fast. The world really is in a damn hurry. And just like Brooks, we are all here. We are present in the now. Not looking to the next moment, but we are living in this precise exact moment. And in a few seconds, it will be gone. And the memory is all we will have.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Pee Pee Hands
Although vacation was pretty perfect, there were set backs. Things a new first time Mom, or a forgetful first time Mom, was not equipped to handle. Things which ended in semi-mortified moments where you could feel the glances of other more prepared mothers burning holes into your soul. This is the story of Pee Pee hands.
After a delightful morning of swimming, we decided to stop at our favorite tavern for lunch.
I didn't have the necessary change of clothes. I was clad only in my sheer swim cover up with my bathing suit underneath and flip flops. The child had on his trunks, swim diaper, and a long sleeved terry cloth cover up. We were lucky enough to pick a booth which was walled on both sides so there was some privacy. On this trip the child discovered french fries, and he was happily wolfing down his new favorite treat which we ordered as an appetizer.
Then it happened. Have you ever seen a horse pee in the street? This happened in our favorite eating spot. The swim diaper gave way and then there was a gush. The sound of a waterfall hitting a hardwood floor. My feet were covered in my child's pee. On a side note, all readers should know that in a panic situation I am a freezer. I become paralyzed with a deer in headlights look. I state "Oh my God, he just peed all over the floor." A person who will remain nameless in this post, throws down a wad of paper towels, wipes up the pee pee mess the best they could and continues to eat lunch with pee pee hands.
I had no hand sanitizer. I had none of those cute little Bath and Body Works hand sanitizers strapped to my purse. No back up diapers. No shred of dignity was left in me after this lunch because I know someone had to witness this incident. If for some miracle no one noticed as it happened, my face was screaming with "Oh My GOD! What do we do?!!" Eat fast, tip HUGE, I take the baby to the car, and nameless person uses every napkin on the table to wipe away our mess. The next plan of action is to get the hell out of there, not to return for the rest of our trip, and everyone proceeds to shower. To my favorite tavern, I apologize for this story. I will also allow the eating establishment to remain nameless, which is the least I can do....and I say to myself, thank you to my child for only allowing that moment to be a number one potty moment instead of a number two. Hand sanitizer is now a staple in my purse.
After a delightful morning of swimming, we decided to stop at our favorite tavern for lunch.
I didn't have the necessary change of clothes. I was clad only in my sheer swim cover up with my bathing suit underneath and flip flops. The child had on his trunks, swim diaper, and a long sleeved terry cloth cover up. We were lucky enough to pick a booth which was walled on both sides so there was some privacy. On this trip the child discovered french fries, and he was happily wolfing down his new favorite treat which we ordered as an appetizer.
Then it happened. Have you ever seen a horse pee in the street? This happened in our favorite eating spot. The swim diaper gave way and then there was a gush. The sound of a waterfall hitting a hardwood floor. My feet were covered in my child's pee. On a side note, all readers should know that in a panic situation I am a freezer. I become paralyzed with a deer in headlights look. I state "Oh my God, he just peed all over the floor." A person who will remain nameless in this post, throws down a wad of paper towels, wipes up the pee pee mess the best they could and continues to eat lunch with pee pee hands.
I had no hand sanitizer. I had none of those cute little Bath and Body Works hand sanitizers strapped to my purse. No back up diapers. No shred of dignity was left in me after this lunch because I know someone had to witness this incident. If for some miracle no one noticed as it happened, my face was screaming with "Oh My GOD! What do we do?!!" Eat fast, tip HUGE, I take the baby to the car, and nameless person uses every napkin on the table to wipe away our mess. The next plan of action is to get the hell out of there, not to return for the rest of our trip, and everyone proceeds to shower. To my favorite tavern, I apologize for this story. I will also allow the eating establishment to remain nameless, which is the least I can do....and I say to myself, thank you to my child for only allowing that moment to be a number one potty moment instead of a number two. Hand sanitizer is now a staple in my purse.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Blessed Be
Vacation was pretty picture perfect. And on the day after I wrote my last post, I saw this in my Facebook news feed. Even on Fakebook, a message will come exactly when it is needed. And I needed a major reminder before I entered full breakdown crying in the floor mode, which I tend to do. Mainly I reserve these occasions for a bath.
My bath was a much needed baptismal in the Atlantic. There I found strength and happiness. I actually was able to witness true joy. Nothing will compare to the memory I have of my son and the first time he saw the ocean. He questioned the vastness. He looked at us for security and once he knew he was safe, he charged into the surf screaming with zeal. He was, in usual fashion, fearless. There is no greater joy I can hold in my heart than replaying his high pitched shrieks which only exuded the excitement. If he had his words, his screams and shrieks would have been translated into "THIS IS THE BEST DAY I HAVE EVER HAD!" But only his delightful screams and his eyes could say these words.
He has my eyes. Eyes which can't hide emotion. All emotions are displayed on our faces for the world. It's a funny thing because until you have a child, you are never able to witness certain features about yourself. On this vacation, I saw my own happiness reflected in my son's eyes.
It is easy to say children are blessings. Because they are the closest we can come to seeing the last bit of heaven before they conform to the world. That within itself is a blessing. The blessing doesn't end here. Watching a human see the ocean for the first time is a blessing. And in my last post, I regretfully wrote that he probably wouldn't remember this trip anyways. I let the stress of a preparation, and worry, and the doubt override a great blessing.
As we sat on the beach, especially our last day, I looked into those happy eyes and asked him "to please remember these days. These are special days." Throughout his enthusiasm, he was overwhelmed by the greatest play place he had ever seen, he cuddled with me. Our cuddles are always brief because he is a great explorer. But on the last Friday, on the eve before we would have another early wake up and be stuck in the car for another 9 to 10 hours, he cuddled with me. We didn't have a care in this moment. We were blessed. May all travelers have these moments, may every family and loved ones find at the end of their journeys the experience in "blessed be."
He has my eyes. Eyes which can't hide emotion. All emotions are displayed on our faces for the world. It's a funny thing because until you have a child, you are never able to witness certain features about yourself. On this vacation, I saw my own happiness reflected in my son's eyes.
It is easy to say children are blessings. Because they are the closest we can come to seeing the last bit of heaven before they conform to the world. That within itself is a blessing. The blessing doesn't end here. Watching a human see the ocean for the first time is a blessing. And in my last post, I regretfully wrote that he probably wouldn't remember this trip anyways. I let the stress of a preparation, and worry, and the doubt override a great blessing.
As we sat on the beach, especially our last day, I looked into those happy eyes and asked him "to please remember these days. These are special days." Throughout his enthusiasm, he was overwhelmed by the greatest play place he had ever seen, he cuddled with me. Our cuddles are always brief because he is a great explorer. But on the last Friday, on the eve before we would have another early wake up and be stuck in the car for another 9 to 10 hours, he cuddled with me. We didn't have a care in this moment. We were blessed. May all travelers have these moments, may every family and loved ones find at the end of their journeys the experience in "blessed be."
Monday, June 16, 2014
Picture F*&kin' Perfect
I have been breaking my first rule of parenting A LOT this week. I am magically planning how every moment of vacation will be. I am building things up in my head knowing they will not turn out as pictured. I do this more than I probably know about and way more than I will ever admit. In my head is this image:
Except we have a little blonde hair boy, not a little girl. And damn, don't I look skinny in this picture and my husband is super fit and tan. Wow, this really is a great little family pic of us running in our white clothes with not a stain anywhere. Yea, this isn't us. We get stains. We get dirty. We sure as hell probably won't ever hold hands and run through the surf. We, mainly me, also cuss a lot.
Yea, the images I get in my head rarely ever come true. And it is okay. This week I am stressing myself the fuck out because I want a perfect first family vacation. Here is a little selfie.
Well at least I am having a fabulous hair day while I worry about how magical our vacation is going to be and all the shit I forgot to pack. And worry about the extremely long car ride. And did I pack enough snacks? Did I pack the little man's toothbrush? I only brought 5 sippy cups, I hope that is enough. I gained three pounds before going on vacation, I am going to look like a turquoise beached whale in designer sunglasses. I hope some of my new mom clothes look hot.
I have been going with this kind of thought dialogue for about 3 months now. And I'm fucking exhausted. I need a vacation from preparing to go on vacation.
Rewind. Rewind three months ago. Let go of the negative thoughts. Put on your big girl mom panties and say fuck it. Life is never going to be perfect. I can't plan perfection. Savor the moments in which we are given and quit trying to turn every minute into a Hallmark card Kodak moment. It already is, stains and all. It is already perfect. We are a family going together to one of my most favorite cities. We will feel sand in our toes and things may not look like what I imagined in my head but they will be the memories I am blessed with and they will be AWESOME. Remember to be in the moment and be grateful for the moment.
Besides, the toddler doesn't know what perfection looks like or how things are suppose to be, so in theory it will be perfect to him anyways? Right? Ah shit, he's only 16 months...will he even remember this trip anyways?
Note to self, you need to have a few of these. This is vacation. PLEASE, BEACH HOUSE, HAVE A BLENDER.
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| homeaway.com |
Except we have a little blonde hair boy, not a little girl. And damn, don't I look skinny in this picture and my husband is super fit and tan. Wow, this really is a great little family pic of us running in our white clothes with not a stain anywhere. Yea, this isn't us. We get stains. We get dirty. We sure as hell probably won't ever hold hands and run through the surf. We, mainly me, also cuss a lot.
Yea, the images I get in my head rarely ever come true. And it is okay. This week I am stressing myself the fuck out because I want a perfect first family vacation. Here is a little selfie.
Well at least I am having a fabulous hair day while I worry about how magical our vacation is going to be and all the shit I forgot to pack. And worry about the extremely long car ride. And did I pack enough snacks? Did I pack the little man's toothbrush? I only brought 5 sippy cups, I hope that is enough. I gained three pounds before going on vacation, I am going to look like a turquoise beached whale in designer sunglasses. I hope some of my new mom clothes look hot.
I have been going with this kind of thought dialogue for about 3 months now. And I'm fucking exhausted. I need a vacation from preparing to go on vacation.
Rewind. Rewind three months ago. Let go of the negative thoughts. Put on your big girl mom panties and say fuck it. Life is never going to be perfect. I can't plan perfection. Savor the moments in which we are given and quit trying to turn every minute into a Hallmark card Kodak moment. It already is, stains and all. It is already perfect. We are a family going together to one of my most favorite cities. We will feel sand in our toes and things may not look like what I imagined in my head but they will be the memories I am blessed with and they will be AWESOME. Remember to be in the moment and be grateful for the moment.
Besides, the toddler doesn't know what perfection looks like or how things are suppose to be, so in theory it will be perfect to him anyways? Right? Ah shit, he's only 16 months...will he even remember this trip anyways?
Note to self, you need to have a few of these. This is vacation. PLEASE, BEACH HOUSE, HAVE A BLENDER.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
To the Men
Little boys become men. Some may even become fathers. They may raise their own sons or daughters. As I watch a little boy so excited by stop signs, trucks, and planes I am blessed with hope. The hope to instill in him the values of what it is to be a good man. I stopped celebrating Father's Day many years ago. A man may have claimed to be a father but the virtue of having a child does not entitle every man to the claim of 'Daddy.' I began celebrating this holiday again last year because my husband became a father, and a damn good one I might add.
I hope my son will see in both of his parents what it truly means to be a good man. In becoming a good man, I have the highest hope that one day he will become a great husband, and beyond this title may he become the best Dad. So to my baby boy, I am teaching you manners for a reason. I ask you not to hit for reasons bigger than I can express in words. I try so hard to instill love and kindness because these values are seemingly forgotten in this age.
Men open doors for ladies. They open car doors, restaurant doors, or every door they encounter so a lady can walk through. And when a woman is at her wit's end with grief or is unsure of herself, a real men will find the door she needs to walk through. He will open it for her. They do not wish to hold a lady behind them. They will prop open the smallest window of opportunity and push their lady through it. In seeing their lady become the best she can be, real men know they are already doing the best they can. They encourage and inspire with no hope other than success, gender does not matter in this success.
A true man will bring flowers, say 'excuse me,' and realize romance is the most vital component to love. Flowers need water, sun, and earth to grow. Every lady needs the same. Attention, respect, and small gestures will turn a relationship into ivy. Ivy spreads, covers, and is irritatingly hard to kill. Seek this in your relationships. If it is pure, it will never die. It will cover and protect you in the darkest of times.
A man never uses his fists when he is intelligent enough to use his words. Do not hit. Do not bring forth the anger in a woman. To my son, here is a great little secret in the girl kingdom. We were never good at fist fights. We weren't made to fight a physical battle so we have learned to rely on other methods which will cause more pain than if we had punched you in the face. Don't go into a fight to hurt. Don't go to win. There are never any winners in fights. There is only hurt to be found. Be the man which is needed. Be a listener. Be understanding. Above all, be the love that many women have never been shown.
When I speak of kindness, I speak from a place you do not know about. I was not shown true kindness. No father gave me love. He provided a scary place built on fear. The scars he left may last me my entire life. Do not be a scar on a woman's heart. Instead, be the hand to hold even when you are angry. Be the arms that hug when she is crying mad. Be kind. Don't place a word out in the air which you can't reclaim. Anger is darkness and it can destroy a life. Love is the light. It will bring so many great aspects into your life. My love brought me you.
You hug tight a teddy bear. A teddy bear I held tight for many years before you existed. Inside this bear is a heart. A heart I made a wish upon before I stuffed the bear at "Build a Bear." I wished not for the beatings and the manipulations to stop. I wished for love. Love rises above all.
You will fail a woman or a man at some point in your life. If it is real love, if it is true, they will hold your hand. They will hold open your doors. They will be your ivy. They will show you kindness and love when you least expect and deserve it. This is the markings of a true and great man. And may one day a little human look towards you to understand what it is to be great father.
This is dedicated to the men who taught me what a father is. Happy Father's Day and thank you. I never knew a good man till I knew these men, my husband and his father. And finally, my son. All true great men.
I hope my son will see in both of his parents what it truly means to be a good man. In becoming a good man, I have the highest hope that one day he will become a great husband, and beyond this title may he become the best Dad. So to my baby boy, I am teaching you manners for a reason. I ask you not to hit for reasons bigger than I can express in words. I try so hard to instill love and kindness because these values are seemingly forgotten in this age.
Men open doors for ladies. They open car doors, restaurant doors, or every door they encounter so a lady can walk through. And when a woman is at her wit's end with grief or is unsure of herself, a real men will find the door she needs to walk through. He will open it for her. They do not wish to hold a lady behind them. They will prop open the smallest window of opportunity and push their lady through it. In seeing their lady become the best she can be, real men know they are already doing the best they can. They encourage and inspire with no hope other than success, gender does not matter in this success.
A true man will bring flowers, say 'excuse me,' and realize romance is the most vital component to love. Flowers need water, sun, and earth to grow. Every lady needs the same. Attention, respect, and small gestures will turn a relationship into ivy. Ivy spreads, covers, and is irritatingly hard to kill. Seek this in your relationships. If it is pure, it will never die. It will cover and protect you in the darkest of times.
A man never uses his fists when he is intelligent enough to use his words. Do not hit. Do not bring forth the anger in a woman. To my son, here is a great little secret in the girl kingdom. We were never good at fist fights. We weren't made to fight a physical battle so we have learned to rely on other methods which will cause more pain than if we had punched you in the face. Don't go into a fight to hurt. Don't go to win. There are never any winners in fights. There is only hurt to be found. Be the man which is needed. Be a listener. Be understanding. Above all, be the love that many women have never been shown.
When I speak of kindness, I speak from a place you do not know about. I was not shown true kindness. No father gave me love. He provided a scary place built on fear. The scars he left may last me my entire life. Do not be a scar on a woman's heart. Instead, be the hand to hold even when you are angry. Be the arms that hug when she is crying mad. Be kind. Don't place a word out in the air which you can't reclaim. Anger is darkness and it can destroy a life. Love is the light. It will bring so many great aspects into your life. My love brought me you.
You hug tight a teddy bear. A teddy bear I held tight for many years before you existed. Inside this bear is a heart. A heart I made a wish upon before I stuffed the bear at "Build a Bear." I wished not for the beatings and the manipulations to stop. I wished for love. Love rises above all.
You will fail a woman or a man at some point in your life. If it is real love, if it is true, they will hold your hand. They will hold open your doors. They will be your ivy. They will show you kindness and love when you least expect and deserve it. This is the markings of a true and great man. And may one day a little human look towards you to understand what it is to be great father.
This is dedicated to the men who taught me what a father is. Happy Father's Day and thank you. I never knew a good man till I knew these men, my husband and his father. And finally, my son. All true great men.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Dreams Come True for One Week a Year!
Vacation time is almost here. And I am excited, nervous, and filled with the anticipation which I can only liken to Christmas Eve. South Carolina has been my home away from home since I was five years old. Myrtle Beach holds as many memories for me as it does grains of sand scattered through it's landscape. After a few disappointing trips back to Myrtle Beach with my husband (then boyfriend at the time) we no longer visit the beach where condos and timeshares overrun premier locations. On the last trip there we drove for two hours just trying to find a restaurant with less than a hour wait. It ended in an uncomfortable dinner which was neither romantic or had any air of vacation in it. A pissed off hungry woman is not good dinner company.
So we moved our vacation spot to Charleston, South Carolina. And there is no shortage of good low country fare. And I am so excited to introduce my baby to the beach. To take him to Sullivan's Island and sit at Poe's Tavern. To walk the open air market, where I hope we can share a Kaminsky's Most Excellent Dessert. This is how I know I am truly a pudgy mama. I DREAM ABOUT THIS CAKE.
I have entire dreams where I am trying to get to this dessert joint. Finally it is the time of year where I get to actually eat my cake! And I guess I should share a bit with our newest family member since it is his first beach vacation.
The love of cake is really being overridden by this fact. My little man will finally put his little toes in the sand. He will see waves. He will smell the salt air. The air which has always felt more like a home to me than the mountains ever have. When he was in my belly, I would tell him about the beach over and over again. It is my happy little space. And each year I plot and I save just to get back there. Almost twelve months of the year are spent thinking about this one week, where work is a distant memory and I am so alive and happy in my little rented beach vacation home. And I can't wait to share this little heaven with my baby. To watch him play. To see his face light up at a new destination. To enjoy our first real family vacation down by the sea.
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| tattoodonkey.com |
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| Kaminskys.com |
The love of cake is really being overridden by this fact. My little man will finally put his little toes in the sand. He will see waves. He will smell the salt air. The air which has always felt more like a home to me than the mountains ever have. When he was in my belly, I would tell him about the beach over and over again. It is my happy little space. And each year I plot and I save just to get back there. Almost twelve months of the year are spent thinking about this one week, where work is a distant memory and I am so alive and happy in my little rented beach vacation home. And I can't wait to share this little heaven with my baby. To watch him play. To see his face light up at a new destination. To enjoy our first real family vacation down by the sea.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Even an Oak can Bend
I wasn't expecting to get pregnant with my little boy when I did. We had tried, tried, and tried some more. I finally made the appointment to see the doctor and he prescribed medicine to help the process along. The year of trying was a miserable one, mainly for me. Women are always the first to be aware of the disappointment. When June 29, 2012 came, I did not know within a week's time, my life would change forever.
This day is a special one for me. First, it is my sister's birthday. So to me, it is the day I got to be a big sister. But I also got another lesson on this day, because the days to follow 2012's 29th day of June showed me how important power was. I don't mean your inner power. I mean actual electricity. The local weathermen called it a "Derecho." We live in West Virginia, so you can see what came our way.
After trying for a year to conceive, I had given up hope. Then a storm came, and I had never seen oak trees almost break in half. They bent side ways. These trees line our streets and are over hundreds of years old. They blew sideways on this fateful June day. My husband fussed at me to come in off the porch. I wasn't moving. I had never seen trees go sideways. I had never seen sky scraping monuments which existed in a neighborhood long before inhabitants did, and they bent at the wind's will. They did not hesitate. Instead, they folded as a napkin laying on a lap.
The next day, gas was gone everywhere. Power was still out. It would stay dark for three more days. We slept in our basement. My husband, the unknown embryo, and I cuddled in the darkest room of our home. It was miserable and our basement is small. It is also creepy as all basements should be.
Humble, small, and much cooler than the top three floors our home. I didn't care how creepy it was, we would sleep and hang out in the basement to escape the scorching heat. And I slept here unknowingly pregnant. I like to tell my son the story about when his soul first came to earth. When it first came to inhabit my body. And I tell him about how oak trees bent in half when he came to his Mommy. Because at the end of this week everything changed. Our power was restored and then on Sunday morning, I awoke at 6 a.m. I told myself I had to pee on another stick and face disappointment. I told myself to not get my hopes up because I had only been taking the medicine for a month. I vowed not to say anything when it came back negative. We would try again.
This time when I peed on the stick it was different and I went running through our upstairs hallway. I ran into the bedroom, shook my husband awake, and said "Look!!! LOOK!! I'm pregnant!" Then I called everyone I knew and I didn't care it was 6 a.m. It was a happy moment. We had power, we had food, we had ice and we had a little one on the way.
This day is a special one for me. First, it is my sister's birthday. So to me, it is the day I got to be a big sister. But I also got another lesson on this day, because the days to follow 2012's 29th day of June showed me how important power was. I don't mean your inner power. I mean actual electricity. The local weathermen called it a "Derecho." We live in West Virginia, so you can see what came our way.
After trying for a year to conceive, I had given up hope. Then a storm came, and I had never seen oak trees almost break in half. They bent side ways. These trees line our streets and are over hundreds of years old. They blew sideways on this fateful June day. My husband fussed at me to come in off the porch. I wasn't moving. I had never seen trees go sideways. I had never seen sky scraping monuments which existed in a neighborhood long before inhabitants did, and they bent at the wind's will. They did not hesitate. Instead, they folded as a napkin laying on a lap.
The next day, gas was gone everywhere. Power was still out. It would stay dark for three more days. We slept in our basement. My husband, the unknown embryo, and I cuddled in the darkest room of our home. It was miserable and our basement is small. It is also creepy as all basements should be.
Humble, small, and much cooler than the top three floors our home. I didn't care how creepy it was, we would sleep and hang out in the basement to escape the scorching heat. And I slept here unknowingly pregnant. I like to tell my son the story about when his soul first came to earth. When it first came to inhabit my body. And I tell him about how oak trees bent in half when he came to his Mommy. Because at the end of this week everything changed. Our power was restored and then on Sunday morning, I awoke at 6 a.m. I told myself I had to pee on another stick and face disappointment. I told myself to not get my hopes up because I had only been taking the medicine for a month. I vowed not to say anything when it came back negative. We would try again.
This time when I peed on the stick it was different and I went running through our upstairs hallway. I ran into the bedroom, shook my husband awake, and said "Look!!! LOOK!! I'm pregnant!" Then I called everyone I knew and I didn't care it was 6 a.m. It was a happy moment. We had power, we had food, we had ice and we had a little one on the way.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Jump Jump Jump
If I could tell my son just one thing, it would be this lesson. It took me a little over thirty years to learn the lessons of self respect and self love. Approval is not necessary to thrive.
In the evenings my son and I have a dance we do. We jump jump jump, we shake shake shake, and we wiggle wiggle wiggle. I started this dance as a fun game for him and I to play together. He never really jumps. He crouches down and raises up. And he is so proud of himself. I exude excitement over his jumping skills, and I really am proud of him. I do not care if his feet never leave the ground. When company comes over or when we meet new people, one of the first things my son does is show off his superior jumping ability. He seeks approval and attention. In the first year and a half of his life he has already learned love equals the approval and attention of others. That is not true.
Let's not even begin to fake because we are adults and we are better than a toddler. We are no better. We go on Fakebook and parade a life which doesn't resemble reality. We do it for a click of a button so people may 'Like' us. We desire a retweet. And I have to ask, if we do this behind a computer screen then what are we doing in our real life so people may 'like' us?
We may chase a boy who never wants us. We may sacrifice our pride, our self dignity, and our own morals in order to gain love, so we are finally accepted. The seeking of love, the chasing of approval, and the proud accomplishment we feel because we've gained a hundred 'likes' will only end in people who consistently sell themselves short. Opinions and acceptance doesn't make your talents. Your talents are your own God given right. They are yours. We are all self made.
Hear me baby. Hear me loud and clear. Mommy and Daddy love you no matter how high you jump. We love you when you fall. We love you when you are angry. We love you when you smile so big that every heart in the room melts. You do not need our approval to be great. You are already great. Be you.
Jump because you want to touch the sky.
In the evenings my son and I have a dance we do. We jump jump jump, we shake shake shake, and we wiggle wiggle wiggle. I started this dance as a fun game for him and I to play together. He never really jumps. He crouches down and raises up. And he is so proud of himself. I exude excitement over his jumping skills, and I really am proud of him. I do not care if his feet never leave the ground. When company comes over or when we meet new people, one of the first things my son does is show off his superior jumping ability. He seeks approval and attention. In the first year and a half of his life he has already learned love equals the approval and attention of others. That is not true.
Let's not even begin to fake because we are adults and we are better than a toddler. We are no better. We go on Fakebook and parade a life which doesn't resemble reality. We do it for a click of a button so people may 'Like' us. We desire a retweet. And I have to ask, if we do this behind a computer screen then what are we doing in our real life so people may 'like' us?
We may chase a boy who never wants us. We may sacrifice our pride, our self dignity, and our own morals in order to gain love, so we are finally accepted. The seeking of love, the chasing of approval, and the proud accomplishment we feel because we've gained a hundred 'likes' will only end in people who consistently sell themselves short. Opinions and acceptance doesn't make your talents. Your talents are your own God given right. They are yours. We are all self made.
Hear me baby. Hear me loud and clear. Mommy and Daddy love you no matter how high you jump. We love you when you fall. We love you when you are angry. We love you when you smile so big that every heart in the room melts. You do not need our approval to be great. You are already great. Be you.
Jump because you want to touch the sky.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Baby Gold
Almost everyday I am amazed at the objects which bring my son the most joy. These are the things I don't ever notice in my day to day life but he notices them. He will say "babababa" at a rapid pace and an excitement will buzz over him. These are the things that make my son happy. And since they make my baby happy, these things have become pretty big deals in our little world.
1. Flags (it doesn't matter what kind of flag.) He LOVES FLAGS! He can spot them a mile away and the funny thing is I never noticed how many flags hang in our local grocery stores or are flying all over my small little town. I notice them now. The best part is when we decorated his nursery, I hung prayer flags above his crib and on his door. He was never so happy as when he realized he had his own flags.
2. Stop Signs, actually any road sign. My child has what our family likes to call the "Hawk Eye" to spot every sign which has been stuck and cemented in the ground. When he goes for a walk he will let you know that he wants to touch every sign along the way. You never realize how many random signs your town has until you are beckoned by a 15 month old to touch every single one of them. And big points are scored to our neighbors for their handicap sign. This makes it convenient every time my son goes into the front yard to play. The handicap sign causes him to run towards the street which makes me a freakin' nervous wreck.
And in true
mom fashion, I had a shit fit over him ripping a page out of a book
because we don't destroy books. We love books. We treasure books. Books
are knowledge.
4. Balloons. ALL BALLOONS. BALLOONS ARE BABY GOLD! Babies and toddlers go bat shit crazy over balloons. And guess what? In "Goodnight Moon" there is a red balloon. It is not even a real balloon and my son goes nuts because we are talking about balloons.
It was advised to not let the baby swallow any pieces of balloons because it will apparently mess up their digestive tract and they can't pass it. So don't let your child swallow balloon pieces. Still remember, Balloons=Baby Gold.
5. Water, not in the drinking form but in the 'I am gonna toss this cat bowl full of water into the floor and flop in it like a fish form.' This can also mean a bucket of water. Because the bucket can be dumped as well. Pretty much any kind of water which can be thrown into the floor, this is usually proceeded by laying on the floor and thrashing around. It is easily mopped and our floors look like the peacock's tail, SHINY. On the downside to this, my son knows no fear of water and will run at a lake or a creek without a second thought. And then once again, I am a freakin' nervous wreck.
Adults seem to lose joy. Balloons, water, flags, and other simplicities do not make us happy. We don't even notice them, much rather get excited about them. We grow up and become excited over money, over stupid material possessions. Not all that glitters is really gold. I do have one small thing which makes me feel young. It creates my own personal heaven covered in buttercream dreams. Every time I get this thing, I am so happy. I am even happier to share this joy with my child. My little joy is CAKE. I freakin' love CAKE!
1. Flags (it doesn't matter what kind of flag.) He LOVES FLAGS! He can spot them a mile away and the funny thing is I never noticed how many flags hang in our local grocery stores or are flying all over my small little town. I notice them now. The best part is when we decorated his nursery, I hung prayer flags above his crib and on his door. He was never so happy as when he realized he had his own flags.
2. Stop Signs, actually any road sign. My child has what our family likes to call the "Hawk Eye" to spot every sign which has been stuck and cemented in the ground. When he goes for a walk he will let you know that he wants to touch every sign along the way. You never realize how many random signs your town has until you are beckoned by a 15 month old to touch every single one of them. And big points are scored to our neighbors for their handicap sign. This makes it convenient every time my son goes into the front yard to play. The handicap sign causes him to run towards the street which makes me a freakin' nervous wreck.
3. Goodnight Moon and this one page from the book "Tails." Seriously, he has major giggle fits over this one page. He loved it so much he ripped it out of the book so he could conveniently carry it around with him. Because you don't need an entire book when you
love the SHINY peacock tail.
4. Balloons. ALL BALLOONS. BALLOONS ARE BABY GOLD! Babies and toddlers go bat shit crazy over balloons. And guess what? In "Goodnight Moon" there is a red balloon. It is not even a real balloon and my son goes nuts because we are talking about balloons.
It was advised to not let the baby swallow any pieces of balloons because it will apparently mess up their digestive tract and they can't pass it. So don't let your child swallow balloon pieces. Still remember, Balloons=Baby Gold.
5. Water, not in the drinking form but in the 'I am gonna toss this cat bowl full of water into the floor and flop in it like a fish form.' This can also mean a bucket of water. Because the bucket can be dumped as well. Pretty much any kind of water which can be thrown into the floor, this is usually proceeded by laying on the floor and thrashing around. It is easily mopped and our floors look like the peacock's tail, SHINY. On the downside to this, my son knows no fear of water and will run at a lake or a creek without a second thought. And then once again, I am a freakin' nervous wreck.
Adults seem to lose joy. Balloons, water, flags, and other simplicities do not make us happy. We don't even notice them, much rather get excited about them. We grow up and become excited over money, over stupid material possessions. Not all that glitters is really gold. I do have one small thing which makes me feel young. It creates my own personal heaven covered in buttercream dreams. Every time I get this thing, I am so happy. I am even happier to share this joy with my child. My little joy is CAKE. I freakin' love CAKE!
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| Cake made by Sweet Confections Bakery |
Thursday, May 22, 2014
The Wife who Became a Mommy
She was never uptight. She was always fun. She could drink and laugh a night away. Then she became a Mother. Now, she is stressed. She can't remember how to have fun. And she can't relax by drinking because she doesn't want to be hungover when he wakes up. She still laughs though. She laughs even more now but with the laughs also come a harping nag which is neverending. In the beginning of our marriage, she vowed she couldn't stand Kate Gosselin from "John & Kate Plus 8" because Kate always nagged John. I do give Kate credit, she was watching over 8 little humans who each had 8 little poops and 8 different little personalities. Nagging was a way to protect 8 little children while trying to keep them safe and alive for that particular day. Still, my wife has only one little human who she is trying to keep alive and safe. And I know she is doing the best job she can, here is a sweet picture of our son playing outside.
Haha, just kidding. Our son only wears bubble wrap and his special helmet outside because she doesn't want him falling down. She thinks the big bubble is too dangerous and he would smother in there. The other day she let the child play in the bathtub and then she had a panic attack because the child stood up in the tub. Since then she started bathing our son in this thing. I really don't know where she found this contraption. She probably built it while I was asleep the other night. She's crafty like that. But our kid is super safe in whatever this thing is and he can't stand up. And she doesn't have panic attacks during bath time anymore.
I really miss my old wife. She was a lot of fun. This wife is fun in her own way. She sings songs like "Row Row Row your Boat" and "London Bridge is Falling Down." She won't sing "Rock-a-bye Baby" because she thinks she will scare our child and he will not become a secure adult. She stopped singing "Pat-a-Cake" because it encouraged hitting. Here is a pic from an old Friday night where I'm with my wife and friends dancing. And I really miss it.
I love my wife. I really do. She is trying to raise a child. It can't be all fun and games anymore. Yea, she gripes at me a little more (okay, a lot more) than she used to. She wants our baby to be safe and healthy. And no, she doesn't sing her old "Queen Bey" songs anymore but that's okay. The new songs are fine and the boy seems to like them. He always smiles. I might hide the bubble wrap and that tub contraption though. The tub creeps me out. My wife became a Mommy and even though it wasn't the person I married, she is the person who gave me a beautiful son. I love her for that reason. And I will always love her mad dancing skills. Most of all, I love that each new day is pretty neat and it's always a great adventure. Through the nagging, she is still able to make everyday pretty awesome.
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| reelz.com |
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| Almightydad.com |
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| figmentdotcom.tumblr |
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| bbeingcool.com |
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