Today is a sweatpant day. (Everyday I try to think of a reason to make it a sweatpant day - but today, it legitmately is a sweatpant day)
It's also a no shower day, no brush your teeth day, no clean your ears day, or wash your face day. At all cost, there is to be zero gussying up.
I made my decision based on this:
Mother went to Florida. And I really thought she was getting back today (Tuesday). Which affects me, because I am the picker-upper.
But wouldn't you know, I'm making dinner last night (Monday) - and I get a text (that resembles the Egyptian hieroglyphics) from Mother. Stating something along the lines that she's in Atlanta until 8:30 "boo-hoo".
And the only reason she contacted me, was to say that she had to tag her baggage, so to pick her up 1/2 later than her flight actually got in.
So . . . . Mother. If you didn't have to tag your bags, you were just assuming that I, your ride from the airport, knew your flight schedule - telepathically?
Yes, yes. That's how Mother works. She would call around 11 pm and say that she was "here and waiting, and on the lower level and where were we?"
Oh, Mother. Thank the Lord you had to tag your bags.
So what that all really meant for me - was to relay the message to Big D (who really is the airport chauffeur) And then I (lucky me!!!) had a whole extra hour to watch more RobinHood. (My latest tongue-slurping show on Netflix)
I guess to explain that more - I don't like to stay up by myself. So if Big D goes to bed, I have to scurry to make it to the bathroom first. And then of course bed first.
Big D has the. worst. bathroom manners. And it is a mood changer for sure, if I get stuck in the bathroom with him.
First, he pees for 17 minutes. Standing up. Which just makes me cringe to think about all the pee splatters splattering all over my teeth-brushing sesh.
But thee worst thing he does - is hog the entire sink when brushing his teeth.
We have a small bathroom. So when he's bent over the sink with a toothbrush down his throat (which is the entire time, full 2 minutes of teeth brushing) his large bottom sticks out so far - that anyone (large or small, male or female) is banned from entering or exiting. The entire doorway is blocked. With a large bottom.
Now that gets me real excited. Especially when I'm trying to race him to bed. Because I don't want to be the last person in bed. Because I hate closing up "shop". And sometimes I like to annoy him with mindless banter. And if he makes it to bed 0.0056878 seconds before I do - he falls asleep.
So every night it's a race. Stay up as long as I can, but get to the bathroom/bed first.
All of that to say, because Big D had to get Mother at the airport late, I had extra time to watch tv. And. I. Did.
. . . . . . . .
Finally rolling into bed around 11:30, half-way between pleasant thoughts and dreaming, I felt a very soft nudge of the bed.
So soft, that I was certain there was an intruder in our bedroom - who accidentally bumped the bed. And he was now going to have to kill me for seeing him.
I slowly rolled over, to face my fate.
It was just Murnice. Sometimes she can be more than stealth like. It's a curse for us parents.
She wanted to tell me her tummy hurt. We had a nice conversation. She didn't feel she needed the puke bowl.
But then she burped. And her eyes got real big.
The next part happened in slow motion.
She turned. I heard the splatter. I saw the silhouette of her slipping. Arms out. Hair whooshing.
And I yelled, "stay there!!!"
And she did. And puked and puked.
I started to giggle. Because there was nothing left to do.
It was midnight. The boy was in his nest - which meant he would wake up. There was a sheep-skin rug and pile of clothes on the floor. There was copious amounts of puke. And I heard the splatters. A girl is crying in the middle of our room. And Big D, 1/2 before, was complaining about how late it was then. Sleep will be limited tonight. And smelly. Praise the Lord.
In one foul swoop, Big D managed to sweep Murnice off her feet, throw her in the tub, and turn on the light. Where I observed the damage.
We had steak for dinner.
It looked like somebody had shot a cow in our bedroom.
Meat particles were everywhere. But not on my sheep-skin rug. God loves me.
And the night played out exactly the way a mother knows how it's going to play out. Big D disappeared for 30 minutes. Ed woke up. And cried. I Norwexed cow bits. We got to bed even later. With interrupted sleep of more puking. And wafts of stomach acid.
. . . . . . .
So I'm wearing sweatpants today. And I like it. And Big D is going to like it too. He may even pinch my buns. And appreciate the extra jiggle that sweatpants allow.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
You Can't Win Them All
It has been on my heart more and more - eating healthy.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
Monday, January 13, 2014
Heart Secrets
I feel bruised. Utterly battered. And it's not my body. It's my heart. And it's radiating to, throughout the rest of me.
Something happened last night. Something different than other nights. Although similar things happen most nights.
Have you ever woken up from sleep, and have walked in on a conversation between your spirit and God? It's overwhelming just thinking about the magnitude. The power. The thought, of what that means. The comfort. That there is something bigger than just us. Than just flesh.
I never remember details in the morning. But I do remember having a holiness visited.
I knew something was going to happen last night. But I didn't expect to feel so war weary. And that's what it must have been. War. Spiritual war, over my heart.
My favorite author of all time is John Eldredge. He is able to speak to my darkest, the way no one can. God has used him to ravenously rip open heart wounds, and allow healing.
And so I read his words with trepidation. Slowly. Knowing more work is to come. And exhaustion.
He is known to use classic reads to illustrate points. Illustrate the beauty of God's heart. But it always catches off guard.
Bear with me as I share thee story that opens to my story. (It starts slow, but it ends in beauty)
And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale . . . .
If the horse had been any good-or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse-he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.
"One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. It's voice was not loud, but very large and deep . . .
"Oh please-please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!" Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows." Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
"I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice. "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta. "There was only one lion," said the Voice. "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and . . . " "There was only one; but he was swift of foot." "How do you know?"
"I was the lion."
And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I."
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers."
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy) (Which I took from John Eldredge's Waking the Dead)
I read this as if it were a fairy tale. It's lovely. My heart felt an enlightening, as it does with any story that we are shown the greatness of the whole. . . . But that was it. Until John turned that story into our story.
He goes on to say that our life, is a story. Filled with twists and turns. Great moments. Horrific failures. Many firsts. And through all of these different experiences, our heart has "learned" something. Some truth. A lot is false rubbish that we cling too, and soon believe to be true.
He asks heart questions. "Is your heart good? Does your heart really matter? What has life taught you about that?"
I'm reading this with a quiet heart. Alert. The house is asleep. It's dark. And I'm primed to have my heart rummaged.
And then John says, "Imagine for a moment that God is walking softly beside you. You sense his presence, feel his warm breath. He says, 'Tell me your sorrows.'"
In the stillness, it was as if God took my weather-beaten, hardened hands in his and asked me what my sorrows were.
The simplicity and rawness of the question shook all around. And the hurted, angry, deeply-buried tears came so fast. Oh, to be asked that question.
But he wasn't done there. He wanted to know what I believed about my heart.
I didn't want to answer this question. And honestly, I couldn't think of anything. I thought naively that I must simply be wonderful, and have no beliefs about my heart.
And then it came. The ripping. Shredding. Of my innermost. A 31 year old secret that I haven't had words for. Felt, - yes.
Our most hurt, often starts with our family. Truth. Hard truth, but truth.
I don't know how to say the next part politically correct. So I'll say it, the way it is.
My heart was not seen, growing up. My innermost, God-created, was squashed. Disciplined. Re-directed. Ignored. Misinterpreted.
And that's what I believe most about my heart. That it's not seen. That it doesn't matter. And if anything, it's wrong. My heart is wrong. Even with the best intentions, I don't trust it.
What if I'm a self-made introvert? Because I believe that my heart isn't seen. So why bother? Why give it out? Every time I do, it's squashed. Rejected. Noses turn up. The weird glances. The appalled stares. Who wouldn't be driven to lead a loner life?
To have your deepest, darkest wound handed to you. The horror. The relief of truth. And the over-bearing burden of what to do next. With this knowledge.
John always says to invite God into our hurts. To reveal more, to bring healing. When we know truth, we know what we're up against. We know better how to protect, how to fight. How to pray.
I woke up many times last night to a spirit/God conversation. I woke up to thoughts and songs playing in my heart. None of it I can remember.
My entire chest is aching today. Not the inside, but the outside. As if I participated in highly strenuous activities. But I haven't. Because I sit on the couch.
There was war last night. And it was over my heart. And it was dirty and terrible. I know because I can feel the physical impact. The weight of evil fighting so hard, dragging it's claws through my chest. Fighting to hold on.
I know this is the beginning of this part of my heart healing. And with my healing history, it's years long. I'm in no rush. But I am looking forward to stepping out on the other side.
I do want to say, that I don't have resentment or hard feelings toward family members. It really is not there. As humans we do the best we can with what we know.
And thank the Lord, I'm done.
Something happened last night. Something different than other nights. Although similar things happen most nights.
Have you ever woken up from sleep, and have walked in on a conversation between your spirit and God? It's overwhelming just thinking about the magnitude. The power. The thought, of what that means. The comfort. That there is something bigger than just us. Than just flesh.
I never remember details in the morning. But I do remember having a holiness visited.
I knew something was going to happen last night. But I didn't expect to feel so war weary. And that's what it must have been. War. Spiritual war, over my heart.
My favorite author of all time is John Eldredge. He is able to speak to my darkest, the way no one can. God has used him to ravenously rip open heart wounds, and allow healing.
And so I read his words with trepidation. Slowly. Knowing more work is to come. And exhaustion.
He is known to use classic reads to illustrate points. Illustrate the beauty of God's heart. But it always catches off guard.
Bear with me as I share thee story that opens to my story. (It starts slow, but it ends in beauty)
And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale . . . .
If the horse had been any good-or if he had known how to get any good out of the horse-he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn't make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. "Who are you?" he said, scarcely above a whisper.
"One who has waited long for you to speak," said the Thing. It's voice was not loud, but very large and deep . . .
"Oh please-please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!" Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. "There," it said, "that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows." Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
"I do not call you unfortunate," said the Large Voice. "Don't you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?" said Shasta. "There was only one lion," said the Voice. "What on earth do you mean? I've just told you there were at least two the first night, and . . . " "There was only one; but he was swift of foot." "How do you know?"
"I was the lion."
And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. "I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you."
"Then it was you who wounded Aravis?"
"It was I."
"But what for?"
"Child," said the Voice, "I am telling you your story, not hers."
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy) (Which I took from John Eldredge's Waking the Dead)
I read this as if it were a fairy tale. It's lovely. My heart felt an enlightening, as it does with any story that we are shown the greatness of the whole. . . . But that was it. Until John turned that story into our story.
He goes on to say that our life, is a story. Filled with twists and turns. Great moments. Horrific failures. Many firsts. And through all of these different experiences, our heart has "learned" something. Some truth. A lot is false rubbish that we cling too, and soon believe to be true.
He asks heart questions. "Is your heart good? Does your heart really matter? What has life taught you about that?"
I'm reading this with a quiet heart. Alert. The house is asleep. It's dark. And I'm primed to have my heart rummaged.
And then John says, "Imagine for a moment that God is walking softly beside you. You sense his presence, feel his warm breath. He says, 'Tell me your sorrows.'"
In the stillness, it was as if God took my weather-beaten, hardened hands in his and asked me what my sorrows were.
The simplicity and rawness of the question shook all around. And the hurted, angry, deeply-buried tears came so fast. Oh, to be asked that question.
But he wasn't done there. He wanted to know what I believed about my heart.
I didn't want to answer this question. And honestly, I couldn't think of anything. I thought naively that I must simply be wonderful, and have no beliefs about my heart.
And then it came. The ripping. Shredding. Of my innermost. A 31 year old secret that I haven't had words for. Felt, - yes.
Our most hurt, often starts with our family. Truth. Hard truth, but truth.
I don't know how to say the next part politically correct. So I'll say it, the way it is.
My heart was not seen, growing up. My innermost, God-created, was squashed. Disciplined. Re-directed. Ignored. Misinterpreted.
And that's what I believe most about my heart. That it's not seen. That it doesn't matter. And if anything, it's wrong. My heart is wrong. Even with the best intentions, I don't trust it.
What if I'm a self-made introvert? Because I believe that my heart isn't seen. So why bother? Why give it out? Every time I do, it's squashed. Rejected. Noses turn up. The weird glances. The appalled stares. Who wouldn't be driven to lead a loner life?
To have your deepest, darkest wound handed to you. The horror. The relief of truth. And the over-bearing burden of what to do next. With this knowledge.
John always says to invite God into our hurts. To reveal more, to bring healing. When we know truth, we know what we're up against. We know better how to protect, how to fight. How to pray.
I woke up many times last night to a spirit/God conversation. I woke up to thoughts and songs playing in my heart. None of it I can remember.
My entire chest is aching today. Not the inside, but the outside. As if I participated in highly strenuous activities. But I haven't. Because I sit on the couch.
There was war last night. And it was over my heart. And it was dirty and terrible. I know because I can feel the physical impact. The weight of evil fighting so hard, dragging it's claws through my chest. Fighting to hold on.
I know this is the beginning of this part of my heart healing. And with my healing history, it's years long. I'm in no rush. But I am looking forward to stepping out on the other side.
I do want to say, that I don't have resentment or hard feelings toward family members. It really is not there. As humans we do the best we can with what we know.
And thank the Lord, I'm done.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Why I Feed my Kids GMOs
Back when I was responsible, I got up at 6:30 am. That's what they tell SAHMs to do. Its "key" to staying on top of the day. And the demands. That's how you know you're a "good" mom. If you get up before your kids. Put clothes on that don't stand up by themselves. Or reek of musty arm pits. Clothes that say "good morning beautiful children. I am eager to begin this special day with you. And later, I'm going to do your dad. On the kitchen table." And don't forget, your first cup of tea - by yourself - it's vital to good momship. And if we're really striving for greatness, a moment in God's word, to refresh our spirits.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Monday, January 6, 2014
A Few Words from FoxyBigLittleBits
Don't wizzle in your pants - or anything. I know I've been slacking horrifically. And have had many tongue lashings by "those" who feel they are allowed to give tongue lashings. . . . . . But the holidays are so distracting. And I've been slumped on my couch. And it's hard to have anything interesting and of worth to say when you're slumped and distracted.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
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