tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49982641037168142282024-03-05T14:58:11.432-07:00Why Mothers Eat Their Youngthe occasionally unappetizing truth about motherhooddanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-8213863017841639942014-07-26T11:39:00.002-06:002014-07-26T11:42:35.900-06:00I'm Moving, otherwise known as, Why the Poop Can't People Follow You on Blogger<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So my peeps, I've moved. I've packed my bags and all my baggage and relocated to a more upscale part of town.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm having a house warming party every day for the next several years, so stop by and check out the joint!</span><br />
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<a href="http://whymotherseattheiryoung.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">whymotherseattheiryoung.com</span></a>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-81668152873633024222014-07-24T09:06:00.001-06:002014-07-24T09:15:43.597-06:00The Trouble with Parenting, otherwise known as, Why Mommy Drinks in the Morning<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1zU6KivDNkJCz5vzPhxCgril_MGzIFX992cyqxizKPj2yjhHhZzGpNr0rLvBiR-z66RkOY4zmAvRkrxWACXYuDGrFgMEdeT945KwKLN5EiJFQocIu6L9aJIWiifUd3GfM0z86f-YM-0/s1600/2x05-Chrissy-s-Date-threes-company-25638797-720-540.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1zU6KivDNkJCz5vzPhxCgril_MGzIFX992cyqxizKPj2yjhHhZzGpNr0rLvBiR-z66RkOY4zmAvRkrxWACXYuDGrFgMEdeT945KwKLN5EiJFQocIu6L9aJIWiifUd3GfM0z86f-YM-0/s1600/2x05-Chrissy-s-Date-threes-company-25638797-720-540.bmp" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know the trouble with parenting? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why it's so exhaustingly, frustratingly comic (like an old episode of Three's Company--you know you're gonna cringe every time you watch but you just keep going back again and again--I think it's Susanne Summers ponytails--I mean, you gotta watch to see which part of her head they'll be sprouting out of next)? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The kids. The trouble with parenting is, in a word, kids. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Case in point: the 12-year old boy. Here's my conversation with one this morning:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Me</b> <span style="color: #444444;"><b><i>(standing in the bathroom, with my pants undone, looking into toilet water that's a shade rather close to lime green)</i>:</b></span><span style="color: #666666;"> </span>Moses! Get in here and flush the damn toilet!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Him</b> <i><span style="color: #444444;"><b>(two octaves above his normal tenor, from three rooms away:) </b></span></i>Wh<i>aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa</i>tttt??!!! It wasn't me! Why do you always blame me!!! Arrrrggggghhhhh <b><span style="color: #444444;"><i>(a </i></span></b></span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><i>cupboard slams and </i></span></b><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444;"><i>foot pounding ensues, not unlike an old school Appalachian country clog dance, as he approaches the bathroom)</i>.</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I didn't doooooooo it!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Me </b><i><span style="color: #444444;"><b>(irritation-level ratcheted up to match said 12-year old octave change)</b>:</span></i><span style="color: #666666;"> </span>Get. In. Here. NOW.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Him</b> <i><b><span style="color: #444444;">(he enters the bathroom, rigid, grunting, stomping and pre-teen-want-my-parents-to-hear-me-mumbling-mumbling):</span></b></i> I <i>SAID</i> I didn't do it! Why do you always say I <i>do</i> it?! I flushed. I didn't even go!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Me</b><i> <span style="color: #444444;"><b>(eyes narrow, lips compressed, blood pressure rising. Pointing ominously into the bowl):</b> </span></i>Look in there and tell me: Is there any toilet paper in the toilet at this particular moment? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Him<i> <span style="color: #444444;">(fiercely <u>not</u> looking in toilet):</span></i></b> I flushed! It wasn't me. I didn't even GO!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Me<i> <span style="color: #444444;">(fiercely looking at <u>him</u> not looking in the toilet):</span></i></b><span style="color: #444444;"> </span>Hmmmmm. Well as you haven't looked, I'll tell you. There is no toilet paper in the toilet filled with pee. There are exactly four people in this house right now, and three of us have vaginas. If it wasn't you then one of <i>us</i> is walking around with a drippy crotch. Girls drop your pants for a pantie inspection.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Him<i> <span style="color: #444444;">(round-eyed, horrified, and ready to flee):</span></i></b> MUM! I didn't do it!!! You always blame me!! I <i>always</i> get left out!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Me<i><span style="color: #444444;"> (wondering why the Hell I didn't just flush the toilet myself):</span></i> </b>Left out? Left out of what? Having a vagina?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><b>Him <i><span style="color: #444444;">(with previously unregistered volume and turning a new shade of My-Mom-is-Horrible purple):</span></i></b><span style="color: #666666;"> </span>MUM!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Me <i><span style="color: #444444;">(realizing that my coffee is getting cold, my pants are still undone, and my bladder is not getting any emptier):</span></i></b><span style="color: #444444;"> </span>Oh! Just go brush your damn teeth! <i><b><span style="color: #444444;">(Flush).</span></b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Him <i><span style="color: #444444;">(yanking open a drawer, pulling out a dry, paste encrusted toothbrush that looks like it hasn't seen the inside of a mouth since Christmas, slamming the drawer, and storming out of the bathroom):</span></i></b> I already d<i>iiiii</i>ddddd!! Why do you always say I didn't brush my teeth!! I already d<i>iiiii</i>d!!!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>10-year old daughter<i> <span style="color: #444444;">(bouncing into the bathroom wide-eyed and innocent, ready to pounce on the I'm-the-good-kid-right-mom? opportunity that has just presented itself):</span></i></b> <i>I</i> brushed my teeth mom, <i><b><span style="color: #444444;">(baring her teeth in grin that might be considered threatening in the animal kingdom)</span> </b></i>see!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Me <i><span style="color: #444444;">(eyes glazed, bladder bursting):</span></i></b><span style="color: #444444;"> </span>Yes babe, I see. Very nice. Now go get mommy the green bottle in the cupboard that says Tanqueray on it, okay? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhkiRGoz9GEewCX82OVCYp9LFO01U2YOH8WfxAQDSfkvdya4FEVTZ7iKOeRrfjH7ze-Uz_M9inDpQFqXnIO0dq41_UIrUdAu3L2SthGC0q12YFzMWebIznAoWZDk2iedaF8jvyp8sdfo/s1600/tanqueray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOhkiRGoz9GEewCX82OVCYp9LFO01U2YOH8WfxAQDSfkvdya4FEVTZ7iKOeRrfjH7ze-Uz_M9inDpQFqXnIO0dq41_UIrUdAu3L2SthGC0q12YFzMWebIznAoWZDk2iedaF8jvyp8sdfo/s1600/tanqueray.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></span></div>
danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-79387572210820723692014-07-23T17:52:00.001-06:002014-07-24T08:00:11.166-06:00The Myth of Motherhood, otherwise known as, How to be a Quintessential Mess<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1vKUFnOcXC6bDgaNf7NbXquwt5eFDQ_n1s8BO0XSbJA1uBUDYo89KmsAm2fz42x0NV8EJcSvxCH5_uacO4c_prUoB7sMA3C4qNQYJobRq6xzI-TbIWQincccgqrie5qkVrMwMeaLP8E/s1600/city-of-calgary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1vKUFnOcXC6bDgaNf7NbXquwt5eFDQ_n1s8BO0XSbJA1uBUDYo89KmsAm2fz42x0NV8EJcSvxCH5_uacO4c_prUoB7sMA3C4qNQYJobRq6xzI-TbIWQincccgqrie5qkVrMwMeaLP8E/s1600/city-of-calgary.jpg" height="178" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">www.silverhorn.ca</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I ran into a friend yesterday. We don't see each other very often. We both have these insane lives filled with jobs, kids, partners, drama, passion, boredom, boogers, and occasional body secretions our mothers curiously forgot to warn us about when we dreamed of having kids. But we have this funny reoccurring meeting place: summer camp. We don't see each other all year and then out of the blue there we are hugging and laughing at the fact that in a city of over a million people we've registered our kids in the same summer camp in the same week, again, completely unplanned and unscripted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every time I see her I remember what kind of woman I always hoped to be: smart, elegant, classy, thoughtful, accomplished and absolutely beautiful (yes, she is real! She is <i><u>not</u></i> my imaginary friend!) And every time I see her I'm excited to catch up on what she's doing and how she's doing it. And then invariably, like most mom's, even smart, accomplished, thoughtful, gorgeous ones (her, not me, I can barely dress myself!) our conversation turns to kids.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6ccDKOL8VKs_G7W7MV7ff-xLxNbKdLjWZGWVNN6aVAzPx3sj9iAk1z0boj5p5oGCrDs-roX9bXg2a52vErcXr4Ig5rO5IURO1TN0F6ghiPSPXZdbOT5bjsDK9GL1IKSmxNWz4PLC39k/s1600/buckyballs-standard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX6ccDKOL8VKs_G7W7MV7ff-xLxNbKdLjWZGWVNN6aVAzPx3sj9iAk1z0boj5p5oGCrDs-roX9bXg2a52vErcXr4Ig5rO5IURO1TN0F6ghiPSPXZdbOT5bjsDK9GL1IKSmxNWz4PLC39k/s1600/buckyballs-standard.jpg" height="200" width="166" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her youngest is four and in his first year of camp. Those are glorious and terrifying days when your children are finally old enough to go to pre-school or kindergarten or camp, in fact, any activity that doesn't have them stuck to you like a wad of Bucky Balls to the fridge, and I commented on it. She breathed out that praise-the-Lord-I-finally-have-10-minutes-to-myself breath and said sheepishly, "Yes. It is. Ya know, I kinda found out, I'm not really a baby person. I didn't really love when they were little." Then she paused and looked at me from under her naturally lush eyelashes and said, "But I shouldn't say that to you....you're the quintessential Mom."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait. Stop. Just wait. Queue screeching car tires a la Dukes of Hazard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Quintessential mom? Me? No, no, no, no, no.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not really at all. Nope. Not at all. I'm not that woman and I'm not that mother, but it wasn't that that made my tires squeal. It was this beautiful, accomplished, amazing woman looking at me, concerned that I'd judge her, that really hit me squarely in the uterus.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know that for many, many women motherhood is a spectacular, life-enriching endeavor. One that fulfills them and makes them truly happy. They make it look easy and beautiful: through tantrums and teenagers, through poop and puberty. I am <i>not </i>one of them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm one of those women who makes motherhood look hard, and messy, and entirely unkempt (you'd recognize me: the one in pharmacy line up with the tube of Yeast Infection cream, the red wine stain on my shirt, just over my left boob, the smell of gin on my breath, and the cart full of frozen french fries and cheese string).</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkM0tN-8fzF-qCLpTSIauTqcW9r2PCsQnidWjQb-84ZEy-2_d8012twOV55UYk9u_vDvlnTTExTRo89A5hUHSjS5_Wpas632AdA0d7U7BRQBhvqxCRyRXphu2V7Ir3-dVLkv38LBQOpWs/s1600/mom04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkM0tN-8fzF-qCLpTSIauTqcW9r2PCsQnidWjQb-84ZEy-2_d8012twOV55UYk9u_vDvlnTTExTRo89A5hUHSjS5_Wpas632AdA0d7U7BRQBhvqxCRyRXphu2V7Ir3-dVLkv38LBQOpWs/s1600/mom04.jpg" height="320" width="220" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">www.allthingsclipart.com</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I came to this understanding about myself rather ungraciously, and I fought the knowledge for years (which incidentally, the fighting-self-knowledge part, I'm convinced is the real reason for stretch marks). I grew up, like many little girls with the insidious belief that my life would be full and complete when I found a partner (a male partner to be exact), got married, and had children. I couldn't have been older than 9 when I started choosing names for my future kids, or writing my first name with the last name of some cute boy in my class, or planning my wedding, or deciding how I'd decorate my first family home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't even have pubic hair and my entire future happiness hinged on this glorious family life I planned and carefully constructed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, I had what I spent my entire life dreaming of. I had a husband, three beautiful preschoolers, a nice home, and the financial option to be a stay-at-home mom: in essence, I had the life I believed was perfect. The only snag? I was hanging on by my broken, tatty fingernails (and shocking cuticles).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wasn't happy. I had a lovely life but<i> I</i> wasn't so lovely. I was frustrated, snappish, tired, and overwhelmed. I loved my kids like the sea loves the sand, but I was miserable. I believed for years that something was wrong with me. Really, really wrong with me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It turns out, there was nothing wrong with me exactly (actually there's plenty wrong with me but I'll save those tidbits for other blogs, shall I?), though it took the collapse of that marriage, years as a hungry, tired, absolutely flat broke single parent, and the ensuing fall-out to teach me that it wasn't me, it was us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>All of us</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Especially us women.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We have a secret language, we women, one that carefully rewrites and revises the truth about motherhood. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcT5KdMrLZrQeMj6eV768OFYbSnWI2dRwuq97U4LpgIsZCDGAknmNuM5uaFO6te1rp2j-aAZlu9EbLxfrCrPvIezq0hZbLKaIn4vDByWinXcQUu53MTAwfYbdlPwQFlA8uaer4bP150Iw/s1600/vatican-library_1646255c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcT5KdMrLZrQeMj6eV768OFYbSnWI2dRwuq97U4LpgIsZCDGAknmNuM5uaFO6te1rp2j-aAZlu9EbLxfrCrPvIezq0hZbLKaIn4vDByWinXcQUu53MTAwfYbdlPwQFlA8uaer4bP150Iw/s1600/vatican-library_1646255c.jpg" height="200" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Vatican Library <br />(not unlike the vault of motherhood secrets)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And our secret language comes from our secret club where we store all the dirty little secrets in a vault and demand silence from our members. We may laugh or sigh or commiserate at the stories of diaper rash days or throwing up nights, but we don't allow each other to say the really troubling things in our hearts. Things like, "I'm not really a baby person" or "I really hate being pregnant" or "If I hear one more person tell me they're bored, or I make one more pot of macaroni I'm going to stuff the little buggers in the coat closet and hoof it to Mexico where I'll live on the beach with my Latin lover eating crab and sipping tequila all day!"</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5nY5v3pHwZb-_fzhJHNiDCSg_PoOJFy6Y2LV1Im5yyEDPIr8_T1GtIwYWm-NeHFkMMy_Y3MqZX1jPBMcbHeoQAJU78AqMVqX1QIScCxmtyXTAW7THH13WoQbuXVXhj9zZQkf-764XDY/s1600/truth-hr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5nY5v3pHwZb-_fzhJHNiDCSg_PoOJFy6Y2LV1Im5yyEDPIr8_T1GtIwYWm-NeHFkMMy_Y3MqZX1jPBMcbHeoQAJU78AqMVqX1QIScCxmtyXTAW7THH13WoQbuXVXhj9zZQkf-764XDY/s1600/truth-hr.jpg" height="254" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">rorytrotter.com</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The truth is we don't tell each other the truth. The truth about how devastating it can be to become someone else's everything. The truth about how unfulfilling it can be to stay home day after day changing diapers and wiping bums. The truth about how tedious it is to make supper and wash floors and clean toilets. The truth about how lonely and hard and emotionally challenging and intellectually depleting it can be to be a mom. And we certainly don't tell young women and girls these truths. We perpetuate the myth of motherhood: the myth that says we aren't complete or whole women without children, and so another generation of girls are brought up believing that their lives will <i>only</i> be complete when, not if, they have a husband and a baby.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, and here is my fervent hope, we can unlock the vault and start being honest. We can start telling each other it's okay to not love the baby stage: that it doesn't make you a bad mother. Just another entirely human mom, loving her kids and struggling with them at the same time. We can start by listening to each other and hearing the frustration, anguish and loneliness, and instead of reacting with judgement because we're afraid of those feelings in ourselves, acknowledge them and expose them to the light so we can learn to support each other through this gorgeous, filthy, joyous, overwhelming, exhausting endeavor called motherhood.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So let's rewrite the myth to allow for motherhood to be <i>everything</i> it is: fulfilling as well as not nearly enough to make a whole woman, wonderful as well as devastatingly hard, joyous as well as heart-shattering, uplifting as well as endlessly challenging. Let's blow the doors off the Motherhood Club House and invite in all the amazing, brilliant, exhausted, fed-up, frustrated, elated, angry, thrilled, resentful, less than perfect moms. We can use one of my own Mom's phrases for our motto: "Motherhood is a life joy, a life challenge, a life pleasure, and a life sentence." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But damn! I have to run....my 10-year old daughter just dared my 12-year old son to swallow 27 Buckyballs, so this quintessentially harried mother is off to emerg! Just another day in paradise.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3PFdFxivmM1DHMMMpqh1jVcSOPb2Zrmu2fgAUt5Ac8iTw7sRqUPYMG36C8JByid92EI4_6Bd6slvD-BAFr25_5RXO-BJPXQCt6W6GVUgVY-LWzT6WxWDd8GN_e-RCSagFYpEli_b3qM/s1600/abc_payton_bushnell_xray_ss_w_jp_120305_wblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3PFdFxivmM1DHMMMpqh1jVcSOPb2Zrmu2fgAUt5Ac8iTw7sRqUPYMG36C8JByid92EI4_6Bd6slvD-BAFr25_5RXO-BJPXQCt6W6GVUgVY-LWzT6WxWDd8GN_e-RCSagFYpEli_b3qM/s1600/abc_payton_bushnell_xray_ss_w_jp_120305_wblog.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<br />danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-75663651628607713742014-07-22T22:06:00.004-06:002024-02-07T15:26:07.711-07:00<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's something I know to be unassailably true: words have power. A lot of power. Like cauldrons full of double, double, toil and trouble power.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hey, you! The one in the blue! Yeah you! I can hear you rolling your eyes (with 3 kids post-teen and 2 pre-, I can guarantee that any parent worth their weight in peanut butter can hear an eye roll, blind-folded in a bouncy house: it's a heavy damp grinding punctuated with gusts of unbrushed-teeth breath. Oh I know that sound, so cut it out, right now!).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But, this old argument? you say. This over-chewed, tired-ass discussion. Not again! Well my jaded, jaded friend, yes. This old tired-ass argument again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Words are like</span><br />
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<br />danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-60162718173290849112014-07-01T10:22:00.003-06:002024-02-07T15:26:07.595-07:00Mama's Magic Touchdanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-6813843655087976042014-06-29T00:15:00.002-06:002014-06-29T00:21:07.721-06:00The Reluctant. Otherwise known as The Great Kitchen Knife Fiasco<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt75v1thiH6J8yyrS-ueYo6yze363cRBEsgFrQvuGD2EVVwrJYi-4wtoFdOZ4x_zCpI1VyoU5_V1QBE8egJcLXYkNUMfTFuVWKGOHZxAVHeJxqH5vYg8aDL-irSVAAF8znUaRIaXsRmxU/s1600/itcurves.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt75v1thiH6J8yyrS-ueYo6yze363cRBEsgFrQvuGD2EVVwrJYi-4wtoFdOZ4x_zCpI1VyoU5_V1QBE8egJcLXYkNUMfTFuVWKGOHZxAVHeJxqH5vYg8aDL-irSVAAF8znUaRIaXsRmxU/s1600/itcurves.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wiffle Ball. Why?P</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Know what I'm not good at, besides rollerskating, wiffle ball, knife-skills, and deep frying? Owning things. As an owner of things, I earn a complete and epic fail. Go straight to Jail. Do not pass Go. Do<i> not </i>collect $200.00.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Take for instance, my car, okay, less car more Dodge minivan (oh sweetbabyjesus save me now). It has, since the day I cracked open the dual sliding doors, smelled like 2-day old hamster shavings (don't ask me how or why. <i>I don't know</i>!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or take my glasses....OH! So it was <i>you</i> who took my glasses!! I haven't been able to find them for the last 4 hours, and here I was thinking I'd misplaced them when <i>you</i> had them all the.....crap. Nevermind. I have them. They're on top of my head. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Or, or, my house. I love my house. I REALLY love my house. Love like we were separated at birth love. It's what Goldilocks would say is<i> juuuuuussssstttttt</i> right. The right size. The right colour. The right neighborhood. The right rightness (never mind that the old fella that lived here <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpJK4jd6yoWbVWG1yEUzgVTth9OZfMAbt8DUzTe5zneR-k5slGVPx2yMhh8tWN7tjm7Gr2f34_lQaDPetoXaaWyHJ8II0xgQdj5ysdFNBunsxMWKmpeweDC0V5XEbiCP-op2XeJ_ASK0/s1600/our+house.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpJK4jd6yoWbVWG1yEUzgVTth9OZfMAbt8DUzTe5zneR-k5slGVPx2yMhh8tWN7tjm7Gr2f34_lQaDPetoXaaWyHJ8II0xgQdj5ysdFNBunsxMWKmpeweDC0V5XEbiCP-op2XeJ_ASK0/s1600/our+house.JPG" height="320" width="318" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Our actual house!</span></td></tr>
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before died in it and had to be removed rigor-stiff, with no Will, leaving crazy-ass relatives locked in probate for 3 solid years to get a piece of my little heaven), I <i>love</i> it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I hate owning it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Owning something suggests responsibility toward it: you care for it. Look out for it's future. Have hopes and dreams for it. Oh Lord. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just give me one little sec (and some Listerine) while I regroup.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not an owner. Just the idea scares me. I don't own jewelry...too much responsibility. I don't own art...what if I tripped and spilled coffee--alright smartass, Scotch! What if I tripped and spilled Scotch on it. I don't own fancy cars, I don't own lake front property, I don't own designer dresses. Hell, I don't own more than one bra! It's just too much responsibility. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now I know that doesn't make any sense. I am now and have been for more than 26 years responsible for lives--<i>human </i>lives! Yet here I am: a reluctant mom. A reluctant wife. A reluctant home owner. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay...take a breath (and <i>yes</i>, I'm talking to <i>you</i>). I did not explicitly say, nor did I imply in the previous sentence that I was unhappy or unwilling in any of those endeavors. In fact, I jumped in merrily, eyes wide open, and with both feet. What I am is reluctant and poop-inducing scared. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtwY0eHiqHfARfL47JG3V-IwwmcYJ-LcfZJ6QisoMAZ7e4OozP_XAgILW7DqmGIq_GMPxtGWbQDpoKTOhHF-HVaUVw9upGIuEIipwx1jORXnXsqiAFVIW-5gNzFagQ8u-cpLD9jX8Irw/s1600/adele+dazeem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtwY0eHiqHfARfL47JG3V-IwwmcYJ-LcfZJ6QisoMAZ7e4OozP_XAgILW7DqmGIq_GMPxtGWbQDpoKTOhHF-HVaUVw9upGIuEIipwx1jORXnXsqiAFVIW-5gNzFagQ8u-cpLD9jX8Irw/s1600/adele+dazeem.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Idina Menzel, otherwise known (by John Travolta) <br />
as Adele Dazeem</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let me explain what I mean: the other night was I night I was looking forward to for weeks. My delightful, truly wonderful husband had an over night, out-of-town business trip. Lord! The glory of sleeping, diagonally, in a king-sized bed with no one (except me) rolling themselves burrito-like in the blankets or snoring like a hibernating grizzly sang to me like Adele Dazeem. I had the entire night planned out and it was breathtaking. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I executed my plan, with CIA-like precision: kids, in bed. Wine, chilled and at the ready. Sheets crisp. Blankets turned down. Classic novel, open and ready. Clothes, off and piled on the floor (ooooooh, too much information, sorry 'bout that). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I crawled into bed, book and beverage at the ready. It was glorious. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Until....<i>creeeeaaaaak.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What was that? What the Hell was that?! Oh! Lighten up dan (that's what I call myself when I'm talking to myself, dan, and yes, always with a lower case 'd') it's just the house going to sleep.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVvn5RJNOJBW2RUfMA6hfDbb4-gDMJU4cHB2cY4VV9NeEjX5w-8mnsVQ7309zjG0Ik4LH2aR8cMt9wnLNkyWud5uzJR7DW85G5PXNkUoSoWuVcqG98lf4fALkskS_X0yLnezJpPdofd4/s1600/chocomouth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVvn5RJNOJBW2RUfMA6hfDbb4-gDMJU4cHB2cY4VV9NeEjX5w-8mnsVQ7309zjG0Ik4LH2aR8cMt9wnLNkyWud5uzJR7DW85G5PXNkUoSoWuVcqG98lf4fALkskS_X0yLnezJpPdofd4/s1600/chocomouth.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I went back to my book and beverage combination. Until. Until the water ran through the pipes, a motorcycle raced down a nearby street, a cat howled outside somewhere within my hearing, a 10-year old bellowed at her brother in her sleep. And each time I jumped like a 4-year old chocolate addict at Easter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I decided the best course of action was to, of course, polish off the bottle of wine and top it off with a night cap of muscle relaxants (stop judging!). As I was drifting off to sleep, something startled me. I don't know what it was...but I was suddenly wide and suddenly completely awake and absolutely terrified. And it was just after my heart decided to settle back near the upper middle of my chest that I realized that what I wanted more than anything was to know that if something was going to happen, I had someone there to protect me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, (oh that awful but!) but, it dawned on me in the very next moment, I didn't have that: I <i>was</i> that. I realized that </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">when my beautiful kids wake up scared in the night, they fall back asleep in the knowledge that if something <i>is</i> happening<i> I'll</i> protect them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm the safety net. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How did <i>that</i> happen?! I can't even use kitchen knives safely!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So here I am. Responsible for people, responsible for property, responsible for myself, and it's a strange and scary place to be. I wonder: do other parents feel this way? Do they long, like me, for their mom to bring them baby aspirin and a cool cloth for their forehead when they're sick rather than dragging themselves out of bed to tend a sick and sticky child? Do they long to wake up from a bad dream and fall back asleep in the knowledge that someone will protect them no matter what?</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvCY20jK5ox3-7V-C1BJCUTYZtaM6VoqAjinXDQwXB70p_Io7glRz5CPHcyWPXRHWLeXGS90iRkI_I8F_AFo21jpuLPCrBFjXfPnqWfKQjJhsJtKMwSOcVPQT4sDKDHby19Qyc2zKkEE/s1600/Knife-Safety-Signs-91822-001-ba.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQvCY20jK5ox3-7V-C1BJCUTYZtaM6VoqAjinXDQwXB70p_Io7glRz5CPHcyWPXRHWLeXGS90iRkI_I8F_AFo21jpuLPCrBFjXfPnqWfKQjJhsJtKMwSOcVPQT4sDKDHby19Qyc2zKkEE/s1600/Knife-Safety-Signs-91822-001-ba.gif" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe. Maybe not. But in the end, it doesn't matter. I'm here, at the front, at the head of a family. A loud, raucous, maddening family. And I love them, each and every one of them. And maybe that's enough, even when I'm scared. Because while responsibility may not come easy to me, it comes. And as long as I get to bring them a little comfort, I'm okay with it...just, please don't let me near the knives, 'cause if you do, all bets are off...asking me to mince something just puts everyone (and their digits) at risk. </span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-12881244455524752172014-06-26T18:14:00.001-06:002014-06-30T10:21:45.693-06:00The Work-From-Home Blues otherwise known as the Trials, Tribulations, and Triumphs of a Homer<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9UFpbYKQvInLP3eTkJR8nthqWXJ94YLUSakOqmgPB6xKVRcpE0sdm_KdWE5zE6d6k8lS59OnMjyG1tzjxxN6yU_AF25o41DCP6geAv4fzKj7cWOTp6JWMjXUil3nI50gFoJMo_sHou4/s1600/cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9UFpbYKQvInLP3eTkJR8nthqWXJ94YLUSakOqmgPB6xKVRcpE0sdm_KdWE5zE6d6k8lS59OnMjyG1tzjxxN6yU_AF25o41DCP6geAv4fzKj7cWOTp6JWMjXUil3nI50gFoJMo_sHou4/s1600/cow.jpg" height="308" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Not me. My editor Belinda.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I work from home: I'm a Homer. My office, which I share with assorted guitars, a drum kit, and an overly large painting of a cow is in the north-east corner of a bright, chilly room in our house (which is no surprise to any Canadian. <i>Every</i> room in the north-east corner of <i>anywhere</i> is chilly). When I tell people I work from home they always say, "Oh! You're so lucky!" or "Oh! You must love that!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well........<i>okay</i>. I see where they're coming from:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">my commute consists of 17 steps (only 6 of which hold any difficulty: I have to walk past the laundry room and the odour occasionally threatens to overpower me. But don't worry, that's easily fixed, I just hold my breath and walk briskly). I'm not cemented to my chair by the eagle-eyed, steely gaze of an OCD-suffering manager (I've had one of those....<i>not </i>pretty!) And my work attire is similar to my just-rolled-out-of bed attire (similar in that it <i>is </i>my just-rolled-out-of-bed attire). </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiblnNe526nDaYueUowxTCPQWl9xqQ16pqxyxuMEwuv490qAe-h75fvMcemz9cU1cTgA8bMTMtqIP4PAebjWjv_86LbudG9n9UidE6gL93I8CIs7GO54GZjtWC-hzbmV9ydgrVlHFGoig/s1600/Hugh+Jackman+new+pic+2012+05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But (notice I said <i>but</i>? You saw that coming, didn't you?), but, there <i>are</i> challenges, even considering I love what I do and the people I do it with (and <i>no</i>, I do not work as an underwear stylist for Hugh Jackman! Though I would if he offered me the job! <i>Sigh</i>......Hugh Jackman in his underwear.....<i>insert dreamy music</i>.......</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where was I?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">)</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiblnNe526nDaYueUowxTCPQWl9xqQ16pqxyxuMEwuv490qAe-h75fvMcemz9cU1cTgA8bMTMtqIP4PAebjWjv_86LbudG9n9UidE6gL93I8CIs7GO54GZjtWC-hzbmV9ydgrVlHFGoig/s1600/Hugh+Jackman+new+pic+2012+05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiblnNe526nDaYueUowxTCPQWl9xqQ16pqxyxuMEwuv490qAe-h75fvMcemz9cU1cTgA8bMTMtqIP4PAebjWjv_86LbudG9n9UidE6gL93I8CIs7GO54GZjtWC-hzbmV9ydgrVlHFGoig/s1600/Hugh+Jackman+new+pic+2012+05.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh yes, working from home. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are some real struggles and challenges to working from home, and when I name them: the struggles, challenges, speed bumps, hurdles and roadblocks sound eerily like the names of my kids.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let me elucidate:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>6:45 am:</b> </i>David and Angela wake me, ever so gently, with their bright voices and amusing banter (and for those starry-eyed among you, no, David and Angela aren't my kids. They're the hosts of the <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/eyeopener/">CBC Eyeopener</a>. Kids waking you gently! Oh you comedians!)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>7:45 am:</b></i> I consider getting up.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>8:10 am:</b></i> I roll out of bed, slide on my best sweat pants for the day, and attempt to wake the kids only to find them attached to technology like an infant to a breast (and just as hard to detach).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>8:40 am:</b></i> I hustle them out the door to school and work so I can start my day. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh you crazy optimists! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>That'd</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> be too easy. No. One of them has diarrhea and is pretty sure she just pooped her pants, which wouldn't be insurmountable if she had any clean underwear--Tide Stick where are you? One of them is ever so slightly hungover and late for work and wants to borrow the car again, but it has no gas, so do I just have a $20? 'cause all she has is a roll of quarters. And one of them needs to have a full-sized scale model of the Universe by 9:30. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>10:30 am: </i></b>I have a Skype meeting and am just signing in when the phone rings. It's the grade 4 teacher saying explosive diarrhea is strictly prohibited on school grounds and I need to scrape my daughter (and assorted bodily secretions) off the cot in the nurses' room immediately. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>10:40 am: </i></b>Drive a ripe Saran-wrapped 10-year old home while Skyping on my phone with my boss about my looming deadline, hands-free of course, while repeatedly and silently shushing the assorted moans, nosiy gas expulsions, and rabid borborygmi.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLA9tWXbRTPaJXg6oDwdFu0X6I66wCAVfKua3xp8BOc2A0sQ23TynIK6c8XnrwjHoEkYh4Pgv1qIe4xVPn6qR1AB_sf-qO3c5nE8PYvFWcGoUjc0cJZ0u7VMt4H7pcvRVjr5Dna7JVaY/s1600/IMG_8630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLA9tWXbRTPaJXg6oDwdFu0X6I66wCAVfKua3xp8BOc2A0sQ23TynIK6c8XnrwjHoEkYh4Pgv1qIe4xVPn6qR1AB_sf-qO3c5nE8PYvFWcGoUjc0cJZ0u7VMt4H7pcvRVjr5Dna7JVaY/s1600/IMG_8630.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>11:15 am:</i></b> Daughter showered, dried with a pillow case (refer to earlier reference to ongoing laundry challenges), large dose of Imodium administered, and latest episode of <a href="http://www.nick.com/shows/house-of-anubis/">House of Anubis</a> (choice TV for only the best home-from-school-sick pre-teens) teed up, I head to my office to work.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>11:45 am:</b></i> Brush my teeth.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>12:00 pm:</i></b> Rewrap 10-year old in Saran and pick up 12-year old for orthodontist appointment. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>1:30 pm:</i></b> Drop now hangry 12-year old with sore teeth back at school with a bag of french fries and caramel coloured lumps of somethings that are purported to be a protein source and hurry home for a conference call at 2:00, with only a brief stop at Wal-Mart to get new panties--size 12, 14 new towels, and an industrial roll of plastic wrap. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQQvc3l_PV4-SqJtgg5dyYx1Zqu7I8WQ77fCD0XgtGMxOIaOKjaEufyGaKlhDHwYu2eFB7pLeS3xfP6AOGs65TJk-A-BgbXnHee5XlkcamoiAqBQEYdhyphenhyphenAIr5qvbtYXv6sKQg_96weF4/s1600/one-day-my-hair-will-be-so-big-my-life-will-suddenly-have-meaning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQQvc3l_PV4-SqJtgg5dyYx1Zqu7I8WQ77fCD0XgtGMxOIaOKjaEufyGaKlhDHwYu2eFB7pLeS3xfP6AOGs65TJk-A-BgbXnHee5XlkcamoiAqBQEYdhyphenhyphenAIr5qvbtYXv6sKQg_96weF4/s1600/one-day-my-hair-will-be-so-big-my-life-will-suddenly-have-meaning.jpg" height="281" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://nataliedee.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">nataliedee.com</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>1:50 pm:</i></b> Comb my hair, after all, I do have <i>some</i> self-respect! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">2:00 pm: </i>Attend conference call where I sound informed, thoughtful and professional while cleaning feces from under my fingernails with an HB pencil, and try <i>not</i> to hear the poo-cano shouting, "Maaaawwwwmmmm! I need some toilet paper!! <i>Maaaaaawwwwwmmmmmmm!!"</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">3:00 pm: </i>Start to work. The actual work that I actually get paid for so I can buy toilet paper. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>4:00 pm: </b></i>Hear the front door slam accompanied by the unmistakable 12-year old stomp, and the bickering start almost instantly. Decide to be a responsible employee and ignore it. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>4:30 pm:</i></b> Head to the kitchen to make healthy snacks, check backpacks, distribute hugs and accolades and....no, wait, that's Leave it to Beaver's mom. I stomp to the kitchen, ping a couple of fruit snacks off the nose-miners heads to stop them bickering (if they pick them up fast enough they <i>get</i> a snack), rifle through school notices, and tell them that while I love them more than the grass in the fields and a cool breeze on a hot day if they don't pipe down I'm going to duct tape them to the apple tree in the front yard. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>4:45 pm:</i></b> Head back to my office, put in ear plugs, and work.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>6:45 pm: </b></i>Am interrupted when my office door opens and my fresh-as-a-daisy, handsome, well-dressed husband walks in and asks, "Have the kids eaten yet?"</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>6:45.21 pm:</b></i> Watch my husband run for his life.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>7:25 pm: </b></i>Hear the doorbell ring as the pizza guy arrives.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><b>7:30 pm: </b></i>Am interrupted again as my office door opens. Someone slides 2 pieces of pizza and an extremely large glass of wine on a tray through the opening with a broom handle. I hear footsteps retreating swiftly.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="font-style: italic;">8:30 pm: </b>Realize I'm out of wine and that everything I'm writing is absolute drivel, so give it up for another typical day. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sooooooo, basically all the stuff you leave behind when you go out the door to work every day: dishes, laundry, appointments, distractions, and the full-time responsibility of kids in all their messy neediness, are a daily inextricable parts of the work-from-Homers life. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, considering that all these things are the things working moms do whether they work out <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvA6NjetINhtsx045iG1xRpdPOd6_zOl-JajlLT5q6QIxlQ_N1TryGO7CmhFvBTgK_rDx4SJ3fjre58_JA1-pwA9IqiTy9G5KAxIerDbbNo6O89q2QzbJWvvh9abD5zEBpjvJo7xc8uG8/s1600/Fried+Baloney+(thecountrycook).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvA6NjetINhtsx045iG1xRpdPOd6_zOl-JajlLT5q6QIxlQ_N1TryGO7CmhFvBTgK_rDx4SJ3fjre58_JA1-pwA9IqiTy9G5KAxIerDbbNo6O89q2QzbJWvvh9abD5zEBpjvJo7xc8uG8/s1600/Fried+Baloney+(thecountrycook).jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">thecountrycook.net</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">of the home or in, I suppose I really have nothing to complain about: except the lunches. My business lunches typically consist of scrounging a two-day old baloney and mustard </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">sandwich from the back of the fridge. Oh! And the fact that regardless how many times you explain that you have a <i>REAL</i> job with <i>REAL</i> deadlines, and repeat loudly and often, <i>DO NOT</i> interrupt me when I'm working, every single breathing entity in your house thinks your just playing, 'cause they just have to ask you this one little thing, just this one little thing!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then benefits though? The things that makes the struggle and the long nights of working to make up for all the hours I <i>should have</i> put in during the day? The things that makes it worth it happened today, on the last day of school (a day that strikes terror in the heart of all Homers everywhere! Kids home <i><b>all day</b></i> for two (yes <i style="font-weight: bold;">2</i>!) solid months--goodbye productivity!): </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGWhOMAlglx7oeQbIC5gHpa2eBTaQVgz3DCxzTPgv95qtMwuxqNRUOqQwuBSQf2xcjYat1wKygU4lyveCuEmWIJHWPkB1_5ys1GhFLs8ceQiUfACAaD07ijg0izII2TEf0X3TWlItZus/s1600/x11415918.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGWhOMAlglx7oeQbIC5gHpa2eBTaQVgz3DCxzTPgv95qtMwuxqNRUOqQwuBSQf2xcjYat1wKygU4lyveCuEmWIJHWPkB1_5ys1GhFLs8ceQiUfACAaD07ijg0izII2TEf0X3TWlItZus/s1600/x11415918.jpg" height="200" width="161" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I got to sit on the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">couch and with my arms wrapped around my broken-hearted 10-year old daughter as she cried her eyes out because (sweet girl) she's going to miss her teacher. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And this Homer? I wouldn't trade that chance for all the power suits or martini lunches in the world. </span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9G-_SXeuaQaV0orXRPF5fFycuedaVOWTOP7NGaw-VGYvK-hmyYQAQ9F0CixtpDWPaaJ0XiEVm3uKfDHTpo5LeFi_KIB0swKhViToCATQ5x_NKkBegOq_NAWGyMjH4Xb7KIWo8iWTeZeA/s1600/article-1355346-0D17F93B000005DC-420_468x350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9G-_SXeuaQaV0orXRPF5fFycuedaVOWTOP7NGaw-VGYvK-hmyYQAQ9F0CixtpDWPaaJ0XiEVm3uKfDHTpo5LeFi_KIB0swKhViToCATQ5x_NKkBegOq_NAWGyMjH4Xb7KIWo8iWTeZeA/s1600/article-1355346-0D17F93B000005DC-420_468x350.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not me. My left eye wanders, remember?</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Sooooooooooo</i>, I've been reading again. Which is bad news for my hapless and hungry family (they're still waiting for dinner), the blogosphere, and the general vicinity of the local laundry facilities (meaning my basement), with the lingering and ever-present scent of mildewing bath towels on the laundry room floor (as there they will remain, to mold another day). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This time my wandering intellect (and left eye, but my optometrist is working on that) took me to the comically ridiculous musings of Federal Justice Minister Peter Mackay; Canada's answer to <a href="http://www.dailykos.com/story/2013/01/07/1177030/-A-demoralized-James-Dobson-admits-his-defeat#">Dr. James Dobson</a>, the doctor who's penned such stirring sentiments as:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"My observation is that women are merely waiting for their husbands to assume leadership."</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 26px; text-decoration: none;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/jamesdobso593522.html" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; line-height: 26px; text-decoration: none;" title="view quote">Although individual temperaments vary, boys are designed to be more assertive, audacious, and excitable than girls are.</a>"</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">Our own fresh faced Justice Minister is fresh off of a fierce and rousing defence </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">(on Facebook no less: that sassy, social network savvy politician) </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">of his remarks </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">that there are are a lack of women in Canada's high court because, naturally, women have a special, special bond with their children so are obviously reluctant to leave their them, </span></span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">especially</i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;"> to pursue a career populated by the "ol' boy's club." We girls being just too unsure and fragile to look the cigar smoking cronies in the eye. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">But wait! There's more! 'Cause Peter steps in it again (Poor stupid, stupid man! He keeps this up he'll needs to make sure his internal surgeon is on stand-by to remove assorted footwear and shoelaces from his esophagus).</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;">This time Pete proved himself to be not as web-wise as he imagines: he thoughtfully and warmly </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">offered, through email, both Mother's and Father's day wishes to about, oh, a thousand or so of his employees....you know, just a smattering of folks. Just a full grand of them. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">And oh, what wishes they were! </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">He singles out the moms with his kind regards by empathizing with their busy, hectic lives. He says, </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="line-height: 20px;">“By the time many of you have arrived at the office in the morning, you’ve already changed diapers, packed lunches, run after school buses, dropped kids off at daycare, taken care of an aging loved one and maybe even thought about dinner.”</span></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mighty thoughtful of him. I mean it warms the cockles of my heart to hear one of the lofty ol' boys himself recognize a parent's daily struggles.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then he sends an email to the hard working dads, and says, </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“[You're] shaping the minds and futures of the next generation of leaders.”</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“Needless to say, it can also be daunting to consider the immense and lifelong influence we have over our children. Our words, actions and examples greatly mould who they will become. <span style="background-color: transparent;">We can only hope that the moments we spend teaching, guiding and loving them will sustain them throughout their lives.”</span></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">Ah, again, how kind to recognize the shared struggle of parentho.....<i>wait! What?! </i>Thanks moms for changing diapers and chasing after the bus? And thanks dads for shaping the minds of the next generation of leaders? Sorry. That can't be right. Give me one sec. That <i>can't </i>be right! I just have to go back and read that again....</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">Nope. That <i>was</i> right. In black and white and read <i>all </i>over Justice Minister Peter Mackay reduced my role and the role of every mom, working for pay or working (for <i>no</i> pay, and less regard) at home with kids, to diaper changers and dinner-planners. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">I'm not sure I need to tell you this, but I'm incensed. I'm burning like a patchouli-scented hippie stick.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now I could rant, and I mean I could <i>really</i> rant about how demeaning those statements are, spilt as they are on gender lines. I could go on and on about what it means to <i>all </i>women to hear that we should be proud to be ass-wipers while our partners get to shape teach, guide, love and sustain our children. But frankly, I'm too sick to do it. I'm too sick to my stomach. Too sick at heart. Too overwhelmingly sick to rage against the machine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No.....Hold on.....Got my second wind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is absolutely <i>unconscionable </i>for anyone, let alone a person in a privileged position of power to define and differentiate the struggle, hardship, joy and fear of being a parent based on what we keep clean and dry tucked up in our underpants. What a monumental bloody jackass! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a mother, I have spent more than half my life sweating tears to help guide and shape my children to be kind, compassionate, intelligent and inclusive members of our society. And my really, truly remarkable husband has spent months worth of nights covered in spit up walking and crooning to sick, angry, sleepless babies and distraught teens (though they spit up a good deal less than infants). It does both of us such a disservice. It diminishes the hope of equality that men <i>and</i> women, mothers <i>and </i>fathers, have been fighting for for decades. I don't say this very often, but shame on you Peter Mackay. Shame on you. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9v3tnMUXlhRLAQb8lo6W0xVwZikh5Jdn_dcjC18PJ8JX3BpE0JJ_1rNHHaZIa1AbeoabwtqIanKzqxWdjtmjR6ym8F1VmlygAafRWG-jna9rKtGQCIWGIMaapjnnvO61r1XFV6WSj28/s1600/89694811_XS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9v3tnMUXlhRLAQb8lo6W0xVwZikh5Jdn_dcjC18PJ8JX3BpE0JJ_1rNHHaZIa1AbeoabwtqIanKzqxWdjtmjR6ym8F1VmlygAafRWG-jna9rKtGQCIWGIMaapjnnvO61r1XFV6WSj28/s1600/89694811_XS.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But perhaps, just perhaps I should think again.....how do politicians put it? Sober second thought? M</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">aybe Pete and Jimmy Dobson are on to something....maybe we need to turn back the clock to a better time: when women knew their roles and revelled in baby poop and bottle feeding. A time when having a vagina meant knowing your man was boss. A time when the right to vote was reserved for individuals with a grasp on difficult concepts, like thinking. And a time when women were illiterate. At least then, <i>I'd </i>spend less time on these pesky habits like reading and writing, and my family could bathe knowing there were fluffy, freshly laundered towels available at a moments notice!</span></div>
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</span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-28676961732795312722014-06-24T10:10:00.000-06:002024-02-07T15:26:07.499-07:00Passive Aggressive Waxingdanihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-88829450678533935102014-06-22T21:40:00.000-06:002014-06-22T22:54:59.078-06:00Am I Pretty? Yes, Babe. Pretty Awesome!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4dL-SKZ6SKobUQBa0xTXpMIUZnUJT0MPWeC9dL3ZYs-dUwVFY_66IH9XG5iIQDe3q8Y_muEev9B_wajxWulNPPyYWkdaQsiIgMZ8HaoOBVp7s-Eg6Owg83dSsnn5s3LysCnctklu4TI/s1600/am+i+fat+am+i+pretty+am+i+three+years+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir4dL-SKZ6SKobUQBa0xTXpMIUZnUJT0MPWeC9dL3ZYs-dUwVFY_66IH9XG5iIQDe3q8Y_muEev9B_wajxWulNPPyYWkdaQsiIgMZ8HaoOBVp7s-Eg6Owg83dSsnn5s3LysCnctklu4TI/s1600/am+i+fat+am+i+pretty+am+i+three+years+old.jpg" height="320" width="224" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I read another parenting blog recently. It's smart and interesting and earnest. Mom-blogger's post (we'll call her Mom-blogger to protect the innocent) was about her 8-year old daughter asking one afternoon, <i>"Mom? Am I pretty?"</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I pretty? Am. I. Pretty. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Insert hearty sigh here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How do you answer such a loaded question? On the surface, it seems innocuous. Every child is pretty to their mother (when they're sleeping! Most other times they're sticking, smelly, noisy, nose-pickers.....Oh! Alright, I'll admit it! Every child is gorgeous, nose-picker or not.) But what's bubbling and seething beneath the surface of this question terrifies me to the bone--and it terrified Mom-blogger too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're so awash in these pervasive images of physical perfection that our sense of beauty is skewed. Hell, our sense of "normal" is skewed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, with her daughter's weighty question dangling guillotine-like, Mom-blogger asked: how can we make sure our girls feel pretty? How can <i>I </i>make sure my daughter feels pretty?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her answer froze me to the marrow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay. Quick disclaimer (Alright!! maybe not so quick...<i>I'm</i> writing after all!): I am not, do not purport to be, and have singularly given up trying to be a perfect woman, wife, person, or parent. Hell! Most days I'd settle for mediocre woman, wife, person or parent (so would my therapy-bound kids and increasingly twitch-developing husband)! So I am in <i>no</i> position to judge Mom-blogger. Instead I'm going to judge and shout and rant and rail against a culture that objectifies us all, but worst of all our little girls.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know Mom-blogger means well. She cares enough to blog about it for cryin' in a bucket. But how can we expect to create a world where girls and women are judged by the weight of our intelligence instead of the weight in our bras? Judged by the width of our compassion instead of the width of our ass? Judged by the fullness of our independence rather than the fullness of our lips?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think Mom-blogger misses by epochs when she worries and laments her daughter's doubts about her attractiveness. After all she's asked her precious daughter all these years, "<i>Who's the prettiest girl in school? You are!"</i></span><br />
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<i><b>Sigh.</b></i></span><br />
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My heart hurt a little when I read that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We: mothers, women, people, have to do better. We <i>have </i>to do better by our children!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean, how can we expect our girls, our daughters, to see themselves as more than a collection of features when <i>we, </i>their mothers, define them that way? How can we expect our daughters to ask us instead, <i>"Mom? Am I smart?"</i> when <i>we</i>, their role-models, allow their highest ideal to be tiara-wearing Prince-Charming chasing? How can <i>we</i> expect our girls to define themselves by what <i>they</i> can do rather than what plastic surgery could do for them?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are all kinds of people, and all kinds of marketing campaigns, trying to answer this question (and pocketing a fair amount of money in the process!), but it won't do to wait for someone else or some<i>thing </i>else to provide the answer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It just won't do!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 35px; text-align: start;"><a href="http://photovide.com/delightful-portraits/"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="-webkit-transition: color 0.3s ease, background-color 0.3s ease, border-color 0.3s ease, box-shadow 0.3s ease, opacity 0.3s ease; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px; box-sizing: border-box; transition: color 0.3s ease, background-color 0.3s ease, border-color 0.3s ease, box-shadow 0.3s ease, opacity 0.3s ease;">Eunique Jones</span> http://photovide.com/delightful-portraits/</span></a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>I</i></b> have to provide the answer to my daughters. I have to define them and myself by our intelligence and humanity. I have to ask them, on the first day of school, <i>"Who's the smartest, bravest, kindest, funniest kid in class?"</i> And answer, "<i>You are darlin', you are....but that little girl over there looks pretty smart and brave too. Why don't we go introduce ourselves and find out."</i></span><br />
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danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-15455629759493374102014-06-22T00:05:00.001-06:002014-06-22T00:06:12.599-06:00My love...<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have only one thing in my heart and on my mind. It'a simply the most beautiful thing any one, any where could ever possibly imagine. It's life: and the life I'm celebrating is a new one. My grandson. Isaac. The most perfect, most precious thing anywhere.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCgUmTRkee0Up3aCFxL4BD1odARwiONvnv25UvEwY2vd5Y4Hc0H3I9ffp-J5yDQZ-iqekr2-v0cwz0b6c4jZGY54HxA_TRyW8Xz19Yl1-JD1yjrE2zYI7DMK-pA6KpTihg8U8aMpXxp8/s1600/10414463_10151903765023239_531998705691799603_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYCgUmTRkee0Up3aCFxL4BD1odARwiONvnv25UvEwY2vd5Y4Hc0H3I9ffp-J5yDQZ-iqekr2-v0cwz0b6c4jZGY54HxA_TRyW8Xz19Yl1-JD1yjrE2zYI7DMK-pA6KpTihg8U8aMpXxp8/s1600/10414463_10151903765023239_531998705691799603_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-47985202019277582102014-06-21T17:27:00.002-06:002014-06-21T17:29:00.588-06:00Straddle-vision<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay........</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sheesh.......</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's been so long since I've blogged that I almost forget how. <i>Almost. </i>But as Oscar Wilde (or maybe it was General McArthur, no wait, I think it was Rocky Balboa.....oh, forget it!) once said, "You can't keep a good man down." Of course, none of them were the mother of 5, with a full time job, a bad attitude, an inability to pay bills on time, an increasing struggle with unruly facial hair, <i>and</i> the looming terror of a long, slow preteen filled summer, so what they know about a "good man" wouldn't fit in a hot dog bun.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcoWQQACG9uhnjvuyU5etJtr9gd83dIhJnMexzkLPwl5qn0BKjpndb4eordDHtZx8p0Im4SB2wDrM04vvr7AYLd2Uk8mJbRG1QHpCI-Wv0Ec-2iWQ-dRIbzqj0XPUdJQ0PpMgJl_i6LM/s1600/122-50956-1-1378419362-245x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcoWQQACG9uhnjvuyU5etJtr9gd83dIhJnMexzkLPwl5qn0BKjpndb4eordDHtZx8p0Im4SB2wDrM04vvr7AYLd2Uk8mJbRG1QHpCI-Wv0Ec-2iWQ-dRIbzqj0XPUdJQ0PpMgJl_i6LM/s1600/122-50956-1-1378419362-245x300.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx8ivUeWpTEI-WAmFWl47MmcFkrsxkCdtax6_ZuUhUiCyqrJu9uGNc3j4a9t434DyXlrlQs81-oCwom4HXb71fC5q1tvhGUiLGylVFOEMUrCeHZbpMUEZbFu2KK00Zoe9TpRl9-JbzXrU/s1600/m_SdfXzq0oXGWvsSH70GlLw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And hot dog buns are all my family are likely to see for the next few months is someone else in this family doesn't take control of the kitchen! I so badly want to be good at this mother/wife/happy housekeeper thing, but after 26 years trying my hand at it, you know, dabbling here and there, I think it's time to admit defeat! I really and truly am an epic underachiever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And there's no one to blame but myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's a sad admission. But true. However, (let me say that again more emphatically) <i>HOWEVER</i>, there are significant extenuating circumstances. And those? Bad decision making.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It all comes down to bad decision making (you might have already cottoned on to that little flaw in my make up by noting my inability to pay bills on time--clearly it takes me somewhat longer to make the connections!) But it isn't my monumentally questionable decisions that I need to discuss, it's where they've landed me...and by landed me I mean <i>stranded</i> me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ever since I gave birth to my first child, a beautiful bouncing baby boy, more than 26 years ago, I've been straddling worlds. I was 20 when he was born (stop gasping! I know I was young. Refer back to previous mention of bad decision making). I was standing with one foot firmly planted in motherhood and the other dangling somewhere in footloose fantasies of my friends. I would sit, on a Saturday night, in my little basement apartment, feeding chicken noodle soup and playing this little piggy with my little piggy knowing that my friends were out at parties and night clubs. They were going to school, doing homework, sleeping late. I was going to playgroup, doing dishes, and not sleeping at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then at 28, with 3 kids and a failed marriage in tow, I went back to university and my contortionist routine changed. I sat in classes, drank coffee, and did projects with kids little more than half my age. I thought I was cool. Funny, sarcastic, erudite: a regular Ellen Degeneres. They thought I was old. This was made abundantly clear one night whe I was sitting in the university bar with a bunch of people in my program, having a beer and listening to a band (don't worry! the kids were with their Father! I did't leave the little ankle biters to fend for themselves! That time at least.). I was really having fun: laughing, flirting, imbibing, and feeling entirely free when a girl (when I say girl I mean <i>Girl! </i>She was probably wondering if her Dad was there yet to pick her up to make it home in time for curfew!) turned to me and said, "Don't you feel old hanging out with us?" All I could say was, "Ummmmmmmmmmm. I do now."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Time passes, kids grow, and I fall in love. I meet the best, kindest guy on the planet and for some reason (silly man!) he kinda likes me back. We buy a house, get pregnant, get married (yes I know those seem out of order....stop paying such close attention!) and suddenly I'm straddling different worlds again. I have an infant (a really cute non-sleeping one again) and teenagers. I attend playgroups and I'm too old to be one of the cool moms (that suggests that there was once a time I <i>was</i> a cool mom. I choose to leave that possibility open, thankyouverymuch.). I meet old friends for a glass of wine and they're horrified at the spit up on my blouse and the faint scent of baby poop that surrounds me.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZovsftj7K-p8VEGLfG04wZAMIZY6MBmBrlYrRkBCgzpCCWmRhTuYmfANuANFpOa6x6U_9gS3bhBq2jxrnWXTrSzYEY_XI7qzVlF4Q_klttTTW7fUvfpfeOuzA8zWZ1KJ0IlrIEdZq9vg/s1600/f1c90ac1314033f170ed3af008d03a3c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZovsftj7K-p8VEGLfG04wZAMIZY6MBmBrlYrRkBCgzpCCWmRhTuYmfANuANFpOa6x6U_9gS3bhBq2jxrnWXTrSzYEY_XI7qzVlF4Q_klttTTW7fUvfpfeOuzA8zWZ1KJ0IlrIEdZq9vg/s1600/f1c90ac1314033f170ed3af008d03a3c.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And now. Now that my kids are grown and growing. Now that I am finally seeing the light at the end of my perpetually spread-eagled tunnel, now that I'm not always the only mom or the youngest mom or the oldest mom, life throws me a beautiful, breath taking curve ball: my oldest son, my lovely, lovely Jonah, has made me a Granny. I'm a grandmother. A grandmother.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a G<i>RANDMOTHER! Aaaaaaaaand,</i> I have a 10-year old.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shit. This straddle nearly dislocated a hip!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, because of a decision I made 27 years ago (and one I thank my luck stars for, though it wasn't the easy one: I always just have to be a little difficult!) I'll spend my life straddling worlds: always with one foot in one world and one foot in the other. I'm never just one woman. Never just a girl, or just a mother, or just a crone. I'm always a little of each. It's a strange place to exist: it's a little scary and a little lonely sometimes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, there are perks (if not perk-y anymore!): if I'm too old to jump on the trampoline with my 10 and 12-year olds (at least without bladder protection undergarments--you try squeezing 5 human beings out of your body and see where your bladder ends up! Somewhere around your inner thighs, with mine I expect) at least I'm still young enough to hold my precious, priceless grandson steady as I twerk without breaking a hip.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UKH22-0yQLIHXx64JknFvcp-MK0mNzD6LbpF88iJcTLuhNJM607SrQK85zvzSkg4qJ0ChX6XGnx2K-LboYXhxuQfBKT62Osbul5uny6HnCQYipSd01gE-Ns77Qf4uArtCRTQbrBlIJw/s1600/justfab-com-twerkin-grandma-large-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UKH22-0yQLIHXx64JknFvcp-MK0mNzD6LbpF88iJcTLuhNJM607SrQK85zvzSkg4qJ0ChX6XGnx2K-LboYXhxuQfBKT62Osbul5uny6HnCQYipSd01gE-Ns77Qf4uArtCRTQbrBlIJw/s1600/justfab-com-twerkin-grandma-large-4.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></span></a><br />
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<br />danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-27635719197400069932014-06-20T09:33:00.000-06:002014-06-20T13:41:47.054-06:00Make Me Your Poster Girl<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQitPAhN7Agz-uu2yJ0S16cfT2oeS-DN0pgpfxrkUlQfkUjlH3s-WhcVItyW3O7tAwGTYq1yA-gvYle-_QXMWyfnGYdIrSaSuskiKPIiN4xyZ1j4L9s-UmJqXADIfShx_d1cnyQf2Yj0/s1600/funny_retro_mom_cant_scare_me_greeting_card-rfa8b9525adc64890856b353202ea7be3_xvuak_8byvr_512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQitPAhN7Agz-uu2yJ0S16cfT2oeS-DN0pgpfxrkUlQfkUjlH3s-WhcVItyW3O7tAwGTYq1yA-gvYle-_QXMWyfnGYdIrSaSuskiKPIiN4xyZ1j4L9s-UmJqXADIfShx_d1cnyQf2Yj0/s1600/funny_retro_mom_cant_scare_me_greeting_card-rfa8b9525adc64890856b353202ea7be3_xvuak_8byvr_512.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><i>Parenthood:</i></b> The overwhelming conundrum of finding oneself joyfully loving nose-picking-bum-scratchers who whine, refuse to listen, insist on blaming you for everything, and ceaselessly tell poop jokes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What a mad combination of emotions is parenthood. I very often stand on the brink of throwing myself on to a reasonably sharp object from a moderately high place (in my most desperate imagination these are a rusty old pitch fork and the rather low peak of my garage, but where I'll find the pitch fork is yet to be determined). Then, in the next instant (alright, who am I trying to kid? It takes me way more than an "instant" to get down from anywhere these days) I am so in love with my family that I'm overwhelmed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Talk about bi-polar parenting. I should be the poster girl. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-16266102938981283782014-06-20T09:31:00.003-06:002014-06-20T13:55:17.873-06:00I Quit...Again?<div style="text-align: right;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;">Here's a post I wrote more that 3 years ago. It, all by itself, decided to jump the queue and head to the front of the line, so I'm giving it it's day in the spotlight. Again. Enjoy:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">March 17th, 2011 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Sirs/Madams,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I fully appreciate the great distinctions you have bestowed upon me in these last 23 years of life-consuming and life-altering employment, I would like to officially tender my resignation from the positions of:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chief Decision-Maker <b><i>(CDM)</i></b>,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chief Lunch-Packer <b><i>(CLP)</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chief Cheerleader <b><i>(CC)</i></b>,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Chief Getter-Upper-In-The-Nighter <b><i>(CGUINT)</i></b>,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and finally, but not exclusively, Chief Head Whine Reducer, General Referee, and occasional Short-Order Cook (<b><i>CHWR</i></b>, <b><i>GR</i></b>, and<b><i> SOC</i></b>). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While I have been thoroughly honored to have possessed the positions of <b><i>CDM, CLP, CC, CGUINT, CHWR, GR</i></b>, and <b><i>SOC </i></b>simultaneously, I might add, I feel, Sirs and Madams, that to preserve my sanity, sense of self, libido, and baby-soft hands (earned from years of dishwashing in Palmolive), I must humbly and immediately relinquish my positions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wish to thank you for the years and years and <i>years</i> of experience I've gained, and, while feeling somewhat maudlin at our parting, I feel confident that I have given my all, and that you have, without reservation, taken it (leaving me bereft of taut skin, a sense of humour, my finely ground-down back molars, and/or any or all sex appeal).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, upon my leave taking, I would like to wish you all the best in your future endeavors. </span></div>
danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-69660029426404602402014-06-20T09:31:00.002-06:002014-06-20T13:48:43.384-06:00These Aren't Wrinkles....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BRzxdSD1IKJg2V7DaSQ0JdDrywdKIA_R7Yd4DaeJiVEkCQrulgTaGf3TSmFNTam_h820HlXh_2ULZDK3-ntUJPhxR7OjNzMWNXBFHb97FXbRO9iwng5_ysh2fS1IxfvZqZq6Qp2s82g/s1600/painted-wood-wall-Savannakhet-Laos-Micka-Perier-NOI-Pictures-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6BRzxdSD1IKJg2V7DaSQ0JdDrywdKIA_R7Yd4DaeJiVEkCQrulgTaGf3TSmFNTam_h820HlXh_2ULZDK3-ntUJPhxR7OjNzMWNXBFHb97FXbRO9iwng5_ysh2fS1IxfvZqZq6Qp2s82g/s1600/painted-wood-wall-Savannakhet-Laos-Micka-Perier-NOI-Pictures-15.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love the banister in my house. The dark stain overlaying the slick smooth patina. 40 years of hands and bums that have slid over and down, over and over, smoothing the chunks and slivers of wood into sweet little dimples. Each lump, bump and divet telling the story of years</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These aren't wrinkles, it's the glossy, glorious patina that life has given me.</span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-71225576467210466092011-11-04T11:52:00.007-06:002014-06-20T15:44:10.144-06:00What to Say. What to Say.<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was asked to speak at my son's wedding. He asked about 3 weeks before the event. So I laid in bed, night after night, and wrote script after script in my head of what I'd say, how I'd say it, how everyone would laugh and cry, how fabulous I was, and how great I'd look. Then, I wouldn't write it. I wouldn't commit anything to paper because it all sounded wrong. It sounded tinny and insincere. It all sounded wrong, and tinny, and insincere, <i><b>and</b></i> I'd put on 3 pounds since I bought my dress for the wedding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I did what I always do. Nothing. I avoided thinking about it, and I secretly worried (about the speech, and my growing Buddha-belly--egads!).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the day of the wedding came, as they inevitably do, and I sat through the service alternately crying and laughing and clenching my butt chakra. Afterwards, with a glass of champagne, a full heart, and a mouthful of cheesecake, I asked him, <i>"Do you still want me to say something?"</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Yes. I do. You are going to say something, <b>aren't you</b>?"</i> He sounded trepidatious, like I might let him down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Of course!!"</i> I say, full of conviction and terror. But now what? What now? What was I to say?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was nothing for it but to write. So I slipped off my shoes, found a quiet spot, and on the back of the wedding program I wrote my speech. Here it is:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXCQWSDvUJc7Wjvl6HpBX9Xq-gTF_C86rSdRLNFYHOPN5zBF8_IPBDd7OC77wBbW0Ssc4XXjL811vcV2tcSzNVKCIG4NUFPIgkevP8vSkCaPyyXtj3CLGBug5k0ebv5cLpX3n4cCIdjo/s1600/302953_2610127291231_1196452992_3117987_287515631_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXCQWSDvUJc7Wjvl6HpBX9Xq-gTF_C86rSdRLNFYHOPN5zBF8_IPBDd7OC77wBbW0Ssc4XXjL811vcV2tcSzNVKCIG4NUFPIgkevP8vSkCaPyyXtj3CLGBug5k0ebv5cLpX3n4cCIdjo/s320/302953_2610127291231_1196452992_3117987_287515631_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>What is a mother to say on her son's wedding day? I've thought and struggled to find the words, and as many times as I've put pen to paper, I've tossed it aside--unsatisfied and unsure. So I've decided to do two things: share the wisdom of another and speak from my heart.</i> </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Jonah told us he was marrying Richelle we were overwhelmed. We were surprised: what should we think? what should we do? what should we say? We didn't know. </span></i><br />
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</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then we met Richelle--and as a family, fell madly in love. But it was our 7-year old, Bronwyn, that said it best when she said to me, "Mom, you know what I think? I think Jonah is too young to get married, but he sure picked a beautiful, pretty girl to marry." And Bronwyn was right--Jonah picked the most beautiful, pretty girl to marry--inside and out. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But it's a strange thing seeing your child in love. A strange thing knowing the scraped knees I bandaged when he fell off his bike, the sweet green eyes I dried when he was hurt or overlooked, and the small, cute bum I wiped when he......well.....when he.........are another woman's to care for.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I stand here feeling strange, proud, emotional, and a little lost--but happy. Happy to know that there is such a woman. Such a Richelle. That she loves my boy, and will love him as long, and longer, than I will.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you Jonah--with my heart and soul. And Richelle--you are part of us now. Our big, mad, crazy crowd, and we love you too.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, to Jonah and Richelle.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the end, I think I did okay. And it probably helped that most of the audience was Dutch and didn't understand half of it. What I learned was that it doesn't really matter what you say, just that you say it, whether you look like a sausage in your too-tight dress or not. </span></div>
danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-26500023558619867152011-08-08T23:00:00.001-06:002014-06-20T09:33:35.887-06:00Today's Grade: F-<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8gmGeMFEjszGl6r-KeAkV62Xwg26zeZU9ye5-XMM73Gm2UROIgwEqVhzz-1dh9QyGl-hepmf-d-kfZtt2jWVdrR-iUBeQMWMskyo_YtxE-nk0CNoCgQLyIvIDR2H7pprtxjNa9Fuge4/s1600/Naramata_View3-resized-560x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8gmGeMFEjszGl6r-KeAkV62Xwg26zeZU9ye5-XMM73Gm2UROIgwEqVhzz-1dh9QyGl-hepmf-d-kfZtt2jWVdrR-iUBeQMWMskyo_YtxE-nk0CNoCgQLyIvIDR2H7pprtxjNa9Fuge4/s320/Naramata_View3-resized-560x300.jpg" height="171" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ahhhhh. Today: another stunningly spectacularly beautiful day in <a href="http://www.discovernaramata.com/">Naramata</a> (our favourite family vacation spot). The weather is perfect, the fine, white sand squishes through our toes as we run down the beach to get ice cream, the bottle of<a href="http://www.poplargrove.ca/"> Pinot Gris</a> that we bought right from the vintner is tart and bright.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The kids splash and swim; we read and talk and smile at our children. Then we laugh and run and dive in to the cool, refreshing water.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The ideal family vacation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Except that we forgot the sunscreen back at the house and our sparkling 7-year old is a fine shade of crisp. We cooked our daughter. Currently she's a perfect mid-rare.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE7U_rd1_hrR-ZXxdmllCYNdSrXaibJQvy_SfuXflCNHh9XOTu2cMJ6rMUrczW0NdigdqWDciKpnxy-bTasDYotdg36VLT66vyQZ9Kr3uwG5ZGe-z0SW0AOv6ZXv3Qh4iuBkJM6jcJNl4/s1600/failing-grade-m-430x262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE7U_rd1_hrR-ZXxdmllCYNdSrXaibJQvy_SfuXflCNHh9XOTu2cMJ6rMUrczW0NdigdqWDciKpnxy-bTasDYotdg36VLT66vyQZ9Kr3uwG5ZGe-z0SW0AOv6ZXv3Qh4iuBkJM6jcJNl4/s320/failing-grade-m-430x262.jpg" height="194" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, as parents, we fail--epic fail. Oh, the shame.</span><br />
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danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-91613798465563754702011-07-23T17:04:00.002-06:002014-06-20T09:50:33.291-06:00It's Good<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ND5NsTx_b0_6Vl41gEyg4onLXGXXS015zIXwwVCW0CMvn1XcWEU3-N3beqRaMJ173F0iT0OyGUvvnIaJTYkGSKrHETZk2UY4QwmlQrjHq6_LPZCfux5W7klrNTRslcMthRj73EV9xdk/s1600/mutluluk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ND5NsTx_b0_6Vl41gEyg4onLXGXXS015zIXwwVCW0CMvn1XcWEU3-N3beqRaMJ173F0iT0OyGUvvnIaJTYkGSKrHETZk2UY4QwmlQrjHq6_LPZCfux5W7klrNTRslcMthRj73EV9xdk/s320/mutluluk.jpg" height="255" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;">“Mutlulugun Resmi”, which translates into “The Portrait of Happiness”, <br />
is the work of a famous Turkish artist, Abidin Dino</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think, most times, as a parent we're so mired in the chaos and clutter of everyday we don't see the forest for the trees, the house for the stucco, the head for the hair, the cake for the icing, the cow for the milk, or even the thought for the metaphor (I hope I'm being clear. I always struggle with getting my point across.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today though, I had a moment of clarity--the veil was lifted from my eyes (it'll drop back in place soon enough I expect). Today I saw my life and my family through someone else's eyes and to my surprise, it looked pretty good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was happy. It was loving. It was successful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel so grateful. As if I've been given a gift I didn't expect, and it was a good gift to boot. So, today, for the first time in a very long time, I appreciate what I have. Through someone else's eyes I see that I'm content with who I am, what I've done, and the uniquely remarkable children I've raised.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know whether to thank the Goddesses (as one friend would do) or pat myself on the back (as another friend would), all I know is I'm grateful. My children are healthy, kind, smart, loving people, and whether I actually had anything to do with that or not, I'm thankful.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1-vBRA0XQP3ySac9bB8qHEFNaTmmLF9QXzNH9m3Kcd1PsU4w7qemvUUOqEtphzcOtkiqTdV_Shxw08y7vHnSlRVRaKIUglZidQw2bMNADH0jaeFDbG8Ro1lFkt7rjVV6senOdDpHlrA/s1600/happiness-is-the-key-to-life_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1-vBRA0XQP3ySac9bB8qHEFNaTmmLF9QXzNH9m3Kcd1PsU4w7qemvUUOqEtphzcOtkiqTdV_Shxw08y7vHnSlRVRaKIUglZidQw2bMNADH0jaeFDbG8Ro1lFkt7rjVV6senOdDpHlrA/s320/happiness-is-the-key-to-life_large.jpg" height="282" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, as a woman and a mother, it's good.</span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-84853879505858616492011-05-09T00:20:00.007-06:002014-06-20T09:32:50.542-06:00Why Love is a Sickness<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2ncqqRujSfHuqBOx5gluCKD-B7UkjaC_2GVI5ylvKb-rYQEO4LUvb3Lm82VTgLmjSR_oWqjWTV92la3rr4jyMXInObDwXiG71dXo3DBlzw1VhsXoyhGEEtwC3lCYq4PWlHdwYvKxPf8/s1600/mban1256l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2ncqqRujSfHuqBOx5gluCKD-B7UkjaC_2GVI5ylvKb-rYQEO4LUvb3Lm82VTgLmjSR_oWqjWTV92la3rr4jyMXInObDwXiG71dXo3DBlzw1VhsXoyhGEEtwC3lCYq4PWlHdwYvKxPf8/s320/mban1256l.jpg" height="320" width="270" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another day. Another day as a woman. Another day as a mother. Another Mother's Day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I started blogging about my life as a woman in the deep, dark throws of parenthood, my first post about this Hallmark holiday was--dare I say--kinda dark (I was just entering into my angry phase, <i>again</i>--<a href="http://whymotherseattheiryoung.blogspot.com/2010/09/oh-its-nice-to-be-appreciated.html">read all about it</a>).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then I posted about finding a moment of simple joy in the chaos of my life and the swirling, whirling dervish of my family around me on "my" day (<a href="http://whymotherseattheiryoung.blogspot.com/2010/09/happy-mothers-day-everyone.html">check it out</a>). And again, I posted about another Mother's day--that time in reflection, about my own wonderful, entirely flawed Mom (<a href="http://whymotherseattheiryoung.blogspot.com/2010/09/happy-fathers-day-mom.html">read that one here</a>).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But today, when another Mother's Day winds down, and I'm weighed down with homemade cards, paper flowers, sweet, slightly self-centric 7-year old poetry, and a belly full of cheese fondue, I'm happy (and not just because I have a belly full of cheese).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love my insane, irritating, nose-picking, bum-scratching children. I love them all. With all their faults, and complaints, and dirt, and noise, and sticky-fingeredness, and rather individually annoying peccadillos. I love them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How can I explain the kind of love a mother feels for her children? The kind of love I feel for my children (you know I'm going to try to explain, don't you?)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My love is like this overwhelming, overheated, slightly nauseating feeling--like the feeling you get, just before you throw up. You know, when your body is hot all over and you're so full you're sure you're going to burst. You're sure you're skin is stretched so thin it simply can't contain that much of any one thing--you're just going to explode. Explode with white-light-blinding love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I fully understand that comparing the intense love I have for my children to vomiting is perhaps not the most elegant analogy, but, <i>please</i>, try to be kind--2 pounds of swiss cheese in my stomach is bloating me like a bloody life raft and clouding my thinking (and I'd bet, dollars to donuts--<i>of God, don't mention food--</i>that I won't poop for a week, bloody, bowel-binding, delicious, delicious cheese). But, for today, I'll lick my fingers, and fork, and plate, and the pot, and kiss my kids, and be glad I know what it feels like to be filled up with love (and dairy). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Good night my darlings. Sleep well. I love you.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6PNxb5qta6yTj6_c7UidAmuM4UmAvOYUHYDfyLC8eDyUO9yKLnA_V-KQ58IydBkO2La55zFp3m1BhANP1JXKW5nzZUr5nXMIFPgF2eJBfAGpzZ7uB9v2C33sUwha2ruD3EIpF4F3akY/s1600/tumblr_lie49ir5xA1qf4wako1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk6PNxb5qta6yTj6_c7UidAmuM4UmAvOYUHYDfyLC8eDyUO9yKLnA_V-KQ58IydBkO2La55zFp3m1BhANP1JXKW5nzZUr5nXMIFPgF2eJBfAGpzZ7uB9v2C33sUwha2ruD3EIpF4F3akY/s320/tumblr_lie49ir5xA1qf4wako1_500.jpg" height="166" width="320" /></span></a></div>
danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-53187347765802664892011-04-28T23:16:00.003-06:002014-06-20T09:32:39.128-06:00And She Snaps (and Snips)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuP-jHKmxuGs-5QZ4swOMPXn-_YVcgyO2A9HULfTt05TeDTh42OwnfNIU3CF1_cZwU4ZKsG0NalNmAryHnjP7LDKyD8kdbNLm3rogzmJfgtoVw2VA8xB3G368ioSaa1SjZ-UXaO7th_Y/s1600/Frans_Hals_Youth_with_skull.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisuP-jHKmxuGs-5QZ4swOMPXn-_YVcgyO2A9HULfTt05TeDTh42OwnfNIU3CF1_cZwU4ZKsG0NalNmAryHnjP7LDKyD8kdbNLm3rogzmJfgtoVw2VA8xB3G368ioSaa1SjZ-UXaO7th_Y/s320/Frans_Hals_Youth_with_skull.jpg" height="320" width="281" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Painting by Frans Hal </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When did I become a joke? I mean, I'm just askin'. When did I become the source of family entertainment? This mixed-blended-multi-surnamed-upside-down family's skull-juggling <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yorick">Yorick</a>?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just, and here I mean <i>just--</i>like, 10 minutes ago--entirely snapped (a full-fledged eye-bulging throat-vein-pumping melt down) at my entire family, including my 21-year old brother-in-law, and ever one, EVERYONE, laughed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I have to grant, they laughed quietly. Into their cups of tea and glasses of wine, for fear of pissing me off <i>more</i>, but laughed nonetheless.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I'm sitting here wondering how, behind my back, or really, in front of me, while I wasn't paying attention, I've become the butt of jokes. They find me funny!! Funny? <i>ME?!</i> Give over you pissants!!!! There's nothing funny here. Move along!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And upon reflection, it's occurred to me that this just might be a "laughing at me" scenario rather than a "laughing with me." In fact, maybe there's been a lot of that in my life and I've failed to notice it (something I should definitely think about, or not, which entirely depends on how difficult I find thinking tomorrow).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So what to do? How to proceed?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel I have two reasonable choices: take the high road and ignore the bastards, or brow-beat them all to within an inch of their lives and strike the Fear of Mom into them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And while I feel my beneficence bubbling up (no, wait, that's just gas), I am inclined to act completely old-school-burning-bush and rain down my wrath. But, alas and alack, they'll just laugh!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I need to concoct another plan and since I can't actually smite anyone, I'll look to good old Godfather-style retribution. To keep them complacent, I'll pretend to ignore the snickering and sniggering (at my delicate, sensitive expense). Then, while they're not looking, I'll get my own back and I'll leave them a message (and since I don't have access to any horses or newly severed horse heads, I'll leave the next best thing: toe nail clippings. Toe nail clippings in their beds. That'll teach 'em!</span><br />
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<a href="http://valuestockphoto.com/downloads/41023-3/toenail_clipper_7376.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://valuestockphoto.com/downloads/41023-3/toenail_clipper_7376.jpg" height="268" id="il_fi" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay, maybe that's just gross. But at least I'll be laughing at them, and not with them!</span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-1358189590292335852011-04-26T21:39:00.004-06:002014-06-20T09:32:28.795-06:00Love is The Answer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOir-V-BSh5HAl081op5HgihJ2wcXDKdiwrudL2eplo_7JQPLpohx1n-eHP8CQTDcoefPuTxdKB0IDBiERY7l9wHYxHEgzjF39ZtWSrPDLw9UixrDW8GYtY0iQ0KVGrnIf134227KTr34/s1600/3681316721_b73965cbea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOir-V-BSh5HAl081op5HgihJ2wcXDKdiwrudL2eplo_7JQPLpohx1n-eHP8CQTDcoefPuTxdKB0IDBiERY7l9wHYxHEgzjF39ZtWSrPDLw9UixrDW8GYtY0iQ0KVGrnIf134227KTr34/s320/3681316721_b73965cbea.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know how, when you expect something to happen, you gird your loins, and mentally and emotionally prepare for it? Like, you've applied for a job and gone for the interview. You figure it went pretty well: you were delightful, engaging, gave bright, erudite slightly self-deprecating answers, and looked like you knew how to balance in heels while carrying a brief case. You even managed to notice, and spit-wipe, the dried toothpaste stain off your blouse before the interview started.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then you go home and pour yourself a big glass of wine and tell yourself and everyone, that while the interview went well, you probably won't get it (though secretly you think you might and you go to bed at night and whisper little prayers to the universe, "Please, just let me get the job. Just let me get the job and I'll never blog bad things again, and I'll lose 15 pounds, and I won't stay up until every one's asleep and eat all the chocolate chip cookies, and I won't drink too much at my husband's Christmas party and fall on my ass on the dance floor (again), and I'll even invite my mother over for dinner more often. Jut let me get the job. Thank you Universe. Amen.")</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You think you're prepared for the news either way, but every time the phone rings or you get a new email your heart flutters and skips a beat (taking minutes off your life every damn time).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, you're able to go your way, not spending every other moment in diarrhea-inducing anxiety and life carries on. Then. <i>Then,</i> the phone rings. You casually pick it up while your shouting down the house for the ankle-biters to turn down the T.V. while wiping something suspicious out of the inside of your left slipper, and it's <i>The Call.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All the days, nights, weeks, and heartbeats of steeling yourself for the news is wasted. You're a puddle, and there is nothing you can (or could have) done about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well. That's what I became this week. A quivering, quavering puddle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After months of hints and speculation, I picked up the phone, in the middle of a glass of wine, while reheating Chinese food, while entertaining my oldest daughter's boyfriend, while she ran out to pick up the nose-miners from a play-date. It was my oldest son on the other end. My 23-year old son, whom I still see as the clumsy, sweet, gentle, messy-haired, funny little man terrified of going to play school. He was calling from Asia to tell me he's engaged.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My child. <i>My</i> child is engaged. Engaged to be MARRIED!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know whether to sit, stand, cheer, poop, celebrate, or throw up. I'm a messy, messy puddle of motherhood.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It didn't matter how many times he told me he loved this girl. Or how many times he told me she was the one. Or even, how many times I responded to these statements with class and aplomb (not many, but I do my best), I was totally unprepared. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ten million things ran through my brain, including:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What!? </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You're too young!! </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's bloody amazing!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love you and I'm so glad there is someone else who loves you as much as I do!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How did this happen?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Are you happy?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I happy?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Where?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why? </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How? </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now what?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wait. What?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How the Hell did I get old enough to have a child getting married?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Can you repeat that last statement? Because I thought I just heard you say you're engaged and I know you can't be engaged because last time I looked you were still too young to have pubic hair.</span></li>
</ul>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNnHtbr-iH0iR9uXQrnIjqdO5rf346VwIzIFtgH44vhOIx5AJZhPWxGeUeSTPZ873nB-3rWbsqoHpOGSlX5oCAxfkrmVHZaMl0VEnWbb6wYH-2_19cuQv88V89CfYTb1keOlhoL2MdlE/s1600/217408_2009504157761_1248421365_32383224_5045139_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtNnHtbr-iH0iR9uXQrnIjqdO5rf346VwIzIFtgH44vhOIx5AJZhPWxGeUeSTPZ873nB-3rWbsqoHpOGSlX5oCAxfkrmVHZaMl0VEnWbb6wYH-2_19cuQv88V89CfYTb1keOlhoL2MdlE/s320/217408_2009504157761_1248421365_32383224_5045139_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My son and his beautiful bride-to-be</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So here I am, at last, the mother of a soon to be married young man and I'm a little scared. I'm scared about what this means for him, and frankly, I'm scared about what this means for me. Did I raise him right? Will he make a good husband? Will he respect himself, his new wife, and their relationship? Will he pick up his socks? Will he forever fry his eggs on High and burn the Teflon off of every pan? Will I have to wear an unflattering pastel coloured mother-of-the-groom dress to the wedding?</span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm a full basket load of sheer nerves. But as I calm myself and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth (<i>after</i> swallowing my Scotch, of course) it occurs to me that I do know one thing. I know that all I know for sure is that my son is in love, and if love is the answer, who cares about the question. </span></div>
<div>
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danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-73376444821134517342011-04-18T14:37:00.002-06:002014-06-20T09:32:17.526-06:00The Other Passion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPUUYyi3gg1L8nwS-7OBqJISHR1p_W3nnEGOLklclYfl0T1AXuzBiWY0V72vQpw0aMKFpOggyG8clq3TAi_TIuBHp2BAHIg7bN7QxcQtC3n5aKzQ0pg4Q_zfhKzzf0XVWH-C3f59jSeo/s1600/KRUHXforFabricated-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPUUYyi3gg1L8nwS-7OBqJISHR1p_W3nnEGOLklclYfl0T1AXuzBiWY0V72vQpw0aMKFpOggyG8clq3TAi_TIuBHp2BAHIg7bN7QxcQtC3n5aKzQ0pg4Q_zfhKzzf0XVWH-C3f59jSeo/s320/KRUHXforFabricated-1.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I indulged my other passion this week--my other passion besides Scotch, the Real Housewives of NYC, bi-daily naps, and writing: I spent the week designing and creating hats (if you love hats you can see some of my work at <a href="http://redwhinedesign.etsy.com/">redwhinedesign.etsy.com</a>). Then, I attended the <a href="http://www.getfabricatednow.blogspot.com/">Fabricated</a> fashion show to show and sell my wares!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The week, and the show, were both a complete panic, utter mayhem, and blindingly fun.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I met some fantastic, incredibly fashionable people. Got to hang out with my oldest daughter Emma, as well as a good friend, Dale, who came to drink wine and people-watch. And I sold some hats.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was one woman I'll never forget. She was about 60 years old, absolutely beautiful, and impeccably dressed. She approached my table with the excitement and conviction of a woman who knows who she is and what she wants (the woman I hope to be someday!).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She went like a radar-guided missile to a chocolate brown pill box with tulle and feathers. She picked it up. She tried it on. And she started to glow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She literally beamed. She beamed at me. She beamed at her reflection. She beamed at her friend. It was a pretty special moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She bought the hat and wore it.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLymoXytj3aPq9slKZ-GDyKOIOSUzPp9PGLcYY_HF_n-OKoX9aQe8830I_WgAcehkWXKHVinqNCVhgmb_eFWJt3SHxRd68ffJ1vXAH-GA1_IzZ71LpvrYif-SqDm1gtp2MuNCCLOoTRd4/s1600/IMG_7798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLymoXytj3aPq9slKZ-GDyKOIOSUzPp9PGLcYY_HF_n-OKoX9aQe8830I_WgAcehkWXKHVinqNCVhgmb_eFWJt3SHxRd68ffJ1vXAH-GA1_IzZ71LpvrYif-SqDm1gtp2MuNCCLOoTRd4/s320/IMG_7798.JPG" height="319" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My gorgeous girls wearing my glamorous hats</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I saw her, later that night, sitting across the runway from me, and she was still beaming.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I struggle with who I am and what I'm suppose to be (besides a occasionally reluctant mom and difficult wife). I make hats, I illustrate, paint, and write poems for a children's book (my own vanity project), I fiendishly style my husband and kids, and I design, redesign our house regularly (which seldom gets done owing to the fact that my husband refuses to live without a roof for 6 months), so I decorate and redecorate, and I write, and edit, and write, and edit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm sure there's an artist in me somewhere, and frankly, I'm a little afraid to let her out, but Saturday night, when that beautiful woman put on the hat I'd made, and felt even more beautiful, I knew who I was--if only for a moment--and it felt good. Almost as good as a new hat.</span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-141067714377117332011-04-07T23:31:00.002-06:002014-06-20T09:32:07.558-06:00I Love a Good Reprobate<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love trouble. No. Let me rephrase: I love causing trouble.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hate being in trouble, dealing with trouble, or sorting out kids in trouble. But, alas, as is inevitably the case, my trouble-lovin' is catching up with me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've just been roundly scolded, by one of my kids, for something I wrote**. Something racy, outrageous, salacious, tasteless, and highly unseemly for a person in my position (which is a person who's squeezed an even handful of individuals out of this now flabby vagina--too much information, right? Probably. If you can erase that image from your mind, you undoubtedly should.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But in my defence, what I wrote wasn't even my line! I stole it from my Mom*. It was something I heard regularly growing up, along with, <i>Ahhhh, go play in the traffic;</i> the ever popular, <i>You little twat!;</i> and the never to be forgotten family classic, <i>Be quiet or I'll drop kick you in the crotch!</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yet, my line or not, I've been held accountable for my glib fingers and taken firmly to task.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zQgnxVRVhW5inKaGl4iR4uTLVosXQSD5SCFmNcimCdjrz-3twfILwl8EMwwWVk6d193ufs2d4dC_oM0fdgfuaquwVk3LeWR0q9atdYjopTTtk2d404cx9vW4PNSKAseUkcWQBXSeZ9E/s1600/elmerheader.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0zQgnxVRVhW5inKaGl4iR4uTLVosXQSD5SCFmNcimCdjrz-3twfILwl8EMwwWVk6d193ufs2d4dC_oM0fdgfuaquwVk3LeWR0q9atdYjopTTtk2d404cx9vW4PNSKAseUkcWQBXSeZ9E/s320/elmerheader.jpg" height="320" width="315" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am, without reservation, always sorry and occasionally devastated when I hurt someone's (anyone's) feelings. I don't ever want to intentionally cause another person pain (unless they're willing, of course!), yet I find myself back here blogging and walking that razor's edge between saying too much and saying <i>waaayyyyyy</i> too much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What can I say? Simply this: I am, alas and alack, an unreformed trouble-making reprobate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Not an easy mom to have certainly, but, well, at least I'm never boring!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">* The offending sentence, makes an appearance courtesy of K.J. (my mom).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">** Said offending sentence can be viewed on my twitter account at </span><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/undonemom"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">undonemom</span></a></span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-57873035796391739932011-04-06T00:01:00.007-06:002014-06-20T09:31:57.918-06:00The Great Toothless One<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thursday.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">March 31st.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1:47 P.M.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Spring Break 2011.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My fabulous, glorious, smart, sweet, gigantic-toothed 9-year old son smacked his face on a water slide and knocked out his front tooth.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7oaDlxa4P0YXMOL4_-t_ciLHgpu7eJoNPfrd4WwjOBek97yA9bKVpiIBkbey-iCBcNO-YRT0alnPP8Yy5jaY-EPS8nJmxaoQmt7L8rjlc7JXEc65AYh3i9DMEkmoqWdLsX2Hpx6sUiA/s1600/IMG_7461_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7oaDlxa4P0YXMOL4_-t_ciLHgpu7eJoNPfrd4WwjOBek97yA9bKVpiIBkbey-iCBcNO-YRT0alnPP8Yy5jaY-EPS8nJmxaoQmt7L8rjlc7JXEc65AYh3i9DMEkmoqWdLsX2Hpx6sUiA/s320/IMG_7461_2.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His <i><b>permanent</b></i> front tooth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Poor little poop-shitz.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cried (when he went to bed). His dad cried, his two older sisters cried, his Grannie cried, his older brother Skyped from China and kindly, warmly, and lovingly told Toothless he looked good. And his younger sister, well, she was at a play-date and became wickedly jealous that he got 2 milkshakes for supper. Life's hard when your 7 and your brother is getting all the attention.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Himself, the ferocious toothless one had only one concern: that he not get the replacement tooth they bond to the other teeth. No. He wants the "flipper tooth," so he can pop it out and scare the little kids.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me? I want to have a ceremony (though we have nothing to bury--the tooth itself being somewhere in the drainage system of the wave-pool). I want to host a wake to say goodbye to "the tooth." A wake where we sing laments to the tooth's courage, encourage spontaneous eulogies from tipsy cousins, and drink copious toasts to the lost money we were going to use for a holiday that's now in the hands of our dentist.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My poor, sweet little man. His poor, huge lost tooth. Life will never be the same.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0A0H1M6T7XdcEs1mSR7zyf9UApZBkqqPcTCM41NcPACjgwjo_gWNl9G9cSETql7fq7Fk85SAoyRRoHrbHav6eQy-bPIUy_JsLYMuxPUFN1yaxhc8I1OxRWCvjRDcX5dhVW_RctWb-sT4/s1600/IMG_7769.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0A0H1M6T7XdcEs1mSR7zyf9UApZBkqqPcTCM41NcPACjgwjo_gWNl9G9cSETql7fq7Fk85SAoyRRoHrbHav6eQy-bPIUy_JsLYMuxPUFN1yaxhc8I1OxRWCvjRDcX5dhVW_RctWb-sT4/s320/IMG_7769.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, it could have been worse, I suppose. He might have lost one of his <i>permanent</i> teeth--oh shit! wait. It was a permanent tooth. Alright, it couldn't have been much worse.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Poor little poop-shitz.</span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4998264103716814228.post-7829423795409732462011-03-20T23:08:00.002-06:002014-06-20T09:31:48.294-06:00Barbies and Boogers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZcfTEZcF536DvEv46hOhAHEUVS_4bvZRYLwSsewyqdarMV4gYNz7TmKR_N9XutVH3C2RMIcTGh-jRh7X20HYbWE926dclaQW1y9tRYhdtbpFAp4snpegdVForujGq2ckdguyuoPEFVA/s1600/purple-unicorn-with-rainbow-mane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZcfTEZcF536DvEv46hOhAHEUVS_4bvZRYLwSsewyqdarMV4gYNz7TmKR_N9XutVH3C2RMIcTGh-jRh7X20HYbWE926dclaQW1y9tRYhdtbpFAp4snpegdVForujGq2ckdguyuoPEFVA/s320/purple-unicorn-with-rainbow-mane.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm up to my boobs in Barbie's and boogers. I thought I'd gotten through the worst, most exhausting part of parenting (and if such a magical place existed it would be populated with rainbow unicorns and tinklingly sweet apple juice rivers) but, alas, I hoped in vain.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No such luck. I am mired in demanding, nose-picking, genital scratching, MOM!-I'm thirsty-get-me-a-drink (at 4 AM) people who live on nothing but Cheerios and Cheese-String. And to add insult to injury, I have a MOM!-I-need-a-big-envelope-RIGHT-NOW-and-we-only-have-small-ones (at 11 PM) stropy teenager on my hands.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I suppose it could be worse.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Somebody could have diarrhea.</span>danihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13807272740681225222noreply@blogger.com1