I'm so angry. And tired. But not like physically tired, just tired emotionally.
I took a few weeks off because I wanted to be kinder to my body. It was hard writing everyday. It took a few hours. Hours that I should have been reading to the men. Or hours I should have been sleeping. Or hours I definitely should have been watching tv.
But today is a good day for an update. A humorless update. Because I'm angry and tired. And looking at the computer screen is making me nauseous.
I finished my 30 day worm cleanse and am still alive. I had a really REALLY good week towards the end. My lungs felt great. I had great energy. I felt me-ish. I went to my ND while feeling this great and I left with a good report. The first good one I've had from her. My treatment plan was beginning to show signs of breakthrough. It felt so good to hear that. I've cried many times in her office getting worse and worse news, so to have good news was beyond magical.
Do you know that when I get a bad report, she asks my body if there is an emotion holding back healing? Guys, nothing can break you faster than when your body tells the practitioner your deepest secrets. Your pushed back, hidden. When your practitioner tells you that your body can't heal because of too much terror. . . . Not anxiety. Not fear. Not uncertainty. But hard terror. You just cry. Your ugly that desperately needed a name has a name. And it's the truth. And now you have a name to pray against.
All of this journey is ugly and lonely and filled with terror. Because I don't know what tomorrow looks like. It's a centimeter forward and 14 giant leaps back.
The constant questions of: is your diet helping you? Are you feeling better? The answer is: I DON'T KNOW!!!! But I do know that I DO feel better than I did back in April. I can see marked progress. I know that I'm on a healing journey that's headed in the right-ish direction. I know that for the rest of my life I will have this autoimmune disease. There is no cure. Just the constant conscience decision of being kind to my body. Making beneficial choices when it comes to eating. When it comes to social situations. I LOVE saying no. It's really my favorite. And I NEVER feel guilty.
Marriage is hard right now too. I don't have the energy to try to put my thoughts into complete and comprehensible sentences. That's how I feel with praying too. I just need to be telepathic with Jesus and Big D for awhile. There is so much messy going on that needs so much work. And I literally am sweeping it all under the rug until formation of thought and word can happen.
The kids do nothing but fight. It just sounds like a continual 911 phone call being made, that tone of a ridiculously high-strung human. That tone . . . . . The fighting and fighting and complaining . .. . . And I think to myself, heaven sounds so wonderful.
WW sleeps in our bed every night. It's not the end of the world, but it makes sleeping not as wonderful as one could hope.
Hence the anger. Because nothing is going right. It's just chaos. At home. In the world. On silly stupid facebook. And all I want to do is: be warm naked, do yoga on an incredible beach, drink some form of delicious drink, and hear and feel peace. Where people love each other because of each other. Because we're such gifts to each other and we forget that. To see the good and THAT to be focused on. To speak only truth to each other.
And all of this not-righness, can start with me. I need to be ok that life isn't heavenly. That time will come. I need to greet this mountain with freakin' joy. I need to be a restful place for others. I need to speak with as much tongue control as I can muster. And I need to believe and give myself permission to LIVE WELL now. In the really ugly, messy. I don't need to, nor should I ever wait - for good, before I allow myself to enjoy, or smile, or engage. Or whatever "living well" means to me in that moment.
On a worm note:
Lots of stuff came out. I am looking very forward to my next cleanse in another 90ish days. Right now I'm doing my lung cleanses. So far I feel like it's a complete waste of my time. After that I'll move on to the kidney cleanse. And then I'll begin the "waiting" protocol until I can do another 30 day, kill the worm cleanse.
My diet:
Continues to be strict. But I have been cleared for sweet potatoes, peas, and rice. I have also added in beans occasionally. It is AMAZING how those 3 simple foods make eating that much easier and more enjoyable.
And now I'm going to go disappear for another stretch of time, desperately hiding in the moments of peace, willing my adrenal glands to heal.
Can I give you permission to live well, now, too?
Monday, October 10, 2016
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Day 16
I'm struggling with anger today. A wise lady once told me that when you struggle with anger it generally is because there are things in your life that you have no control over. And you're mad about it. And stressed about it. And clearly not kicking them off to God to deal with. "Them" being our stressors.
I'm glad I've been given this wisdom. I'm glad for people speaking truth into my life. Can we all do that a little more to and for each other? Gosh darn it, lets all stop being offended by so much silly stupid stuff.
So I'm angry today. I don't notice it until I'm just trying to eat my blasted breakfast. And I can't. I can't even sit down to cram day 58th's worth of eggs down my throat. It's constant stupid mothering. (Read "stupid" right. I'm not saying mothering is stupid. I'm saying stupid mothering, as in - break up this fight, clean up the pee that was thrown out of anger, find my cup before I die...)
And before I know it, I'm angry. I'm not angry because I can't eat. Frustrated, yes. But the anger comes from that which I can't control. The stuff where I literally have to take second seat and just wait and watch and hope. So much hope.
I think the parasites are having a hay-day in my bladder. It's awesome. And frustrating. Waiting, watching, hoping.
The parasites are also effecting my lungs (which I haven't talked about) Which is 399573 times frustrating. More waiting, watching, hoping.
As another dear old goat said to me, "I guess I never realized how much truth there is with the 'stress can kill you' "thought/scientifically proven piece of awesome evidence. Yup, living and breathing (sorta) the dream over here.
So I'm angry and worn down. It's only Thursday and this week should have had 14 Thursdays in it - according to how slow it's moving.
Side comment/story - Sometimes God speaks to us directly. And sometimes very indirectly. Sometimes gently and sometimes it's like a cold hard slap across the most tenderest of fatty bits on your body. The past few days I think He's speaking indirectly but very forcefully. Can that even make sense? There's no other explanation.
I'm not a good "housewife". We live like pigs. We have a semi-picked up house, and that's only because the kids do it. But cleaned? Never. And I think God is trying to make a point.
The first 3 pee piles were awesome. My floor was starting to look and feel quite clean with all the mopping. Throwing mother's flipflops through the kitchen while she was cooking dinner and knocking over her FULL glass of fresh lemon water, only brought more joy. And clean counter stools. The shattered raw almond jar from the freezer, made me gulp slightly. That was only $7 worth of almonds that needed to be thrown out. But at least I got to vacuum my freshly mopped floor. The cracks between my tiles are so crumb-free and magnificently fine looking. But the best part of all yesterday, was the fine cherry of a shit storm, on top. Slash Hansel and Gretel, slash Easter egg hunt, slash how much is God and the entire heavenly host laughing right now, slash this much poop is not possible - unless your kid ate a cup of raisins without chewing. So I guess that would be swallowing.
I would love to spend more time talking about:
A) How Big D thinks he could be on the high school girl's swim team.
B) How the tea I'm drinking tastes like a moldy tampon.
C) How I found a worm that resembled a chia seed in my underwears. All rolled up. And I saved it for Big D.
Also, I ate a sweet potato last night. I could hear Christmas bells ringing as I was preparing them. And then when I cut into them to portion out. Steaming and so sweety soft, I found them riddled with worms. We each ate a teaspoon worth of worm-free sweet potato. Which classified last night's dinner officially as Tiny Tim's Christmas Dinner.
PS - writing this much as taken 2 1/2 hours. That's how wonderful life is over here.
I'm glad I've been given this wisdom. I'm glad for people speaking truth into my life. Can we all do that a little more to and for each other? Gosh darn it, lets all stop being offended by so much silly stupid stuff.
So I'm angry today. I don't notice it until I'm just trying to eat my blasted breakfast. And I can't. I can't even sit down to cram day 58th's worth of eggs down my throat. It's constant stupid mothering. (Read "stupid" right. I'm not saying mothering is stupid. I'm saying stupid mothering, as in - break up this fight, clean up the pee that was thrown out of anger, find my cup before I die...)
And before I know it, I'm angry. I'm not angry because I can't eat. Frustrated, yes. But the anger comes from that which I can't control. The stuff where I literally have to take second seat and just wait and watch and hope. So much hope.
I think the parasites are having a hay-day in my bladder. It's awesome. And frustrating. Waiting, watching, hoping.
The parasites are also effecting my lungs (which I haven't talked about) Which is 399573 times frustrating. More waiting, watching, hoping.
As another dear old goat said to me, "I guess I never realized how much truth there is with the 'stress can kill you' "thought/scientifically proven piece of awesome evidence. Yup, living and breathing (sorta) the dream over here.
So I'm angry and worn down. It's only Thursday and this week should have had 14 Thursdays in it - according to how slow it's moving.
Side comment/story - Sometimes God speaks to us directly. And sometimes very indirectly. Sometimes gently and sometimes it's like a cold hard slap across the most tenderest of fatty bits on your body. The past few days I think He's speaking indirectly but very forcefully. Can that even make sense? There's no other explanation.
I'm not a good "housewife". We live like pigs. We have a semi-picked up house, and that's only because the kids do it. But cleaned? Never. And I think God is trying to make a point.
The first 3 pee piles were awesome. My floor was starting to look and feel quite clean with all the mopping. Throwing mother's flipflops through the kitchen while she was cooking dinner and knocking over her FULL glass of fresh lemon water, only brought more joy. And clean counter stools. The shattered raw almond jar from the freezer, made me gulp slightly. That was only $7 worth of almonds that needed to be thrown out. But at least I got to vacuum my freshly mopped floor. The cracks between my tiles are so crumb-free and magnificently fine looking. But the best part of all yesterday, was the fine cherry of a shit storm, on top. Slash Hansel and Gretel, slash Easter egg hunt, slash how much is God and the entire heavenly host laughing right now, slash this much poop is not possible - unless your kid ate a cup of raisins without chewing. So I guess that would be swallowing.
I would love to spend more time talking about:
A) How Big D thinks he could be on the high school girl's swim team.
B) How the tea I'm drinking tastes like a moldy tampon.
C) How I found a worm that resembled a chia seed in my underwears. All rolled up. And I saved it for Big D.
Also, I ate a sweet potato last night. I could hear Christmas bells ringing as I was preparing them. And then when I cut into them to portion out. Steaming and so sweety soft, I found them riddled with worms. We each ate a teaspoon worth of worm-free sweet potato. Which classified last night's dinner officially as Tiny Tim's Christmas Dinner.
PS - writing this much as taken 2 1/2 hours. That's how wonderful life is over here.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Day 14
I imagined I would be writing only about worms. But the truth of the matter, it's hard to write about something when they hide so well. In you and out of you. So I've come to terms with writing about the whole healing journey. (As if i haven't been doing that all ready) I've just come to terms with it today, and that's why I'm saying all this.
So today's daily dose of article reading is going to be on the Epstein Barr Virus and how that affects our bodies. I would love to know, did the chicken or the egg come first? In layman's terms - really, how did I get here? Because my whole previous life was a big shooting arrow straight to Hypo/hashi Land. What if I didn't eat gluten? Would that have made a difference? Or what if I didn't get mono ... ..would that have been the golden get out of Hellish Land for free ticket?
I think it was just meant to be. I think it was ordained and orchestrated, and the question remains - what am I going to do with it? It's almost as if I'm a real living Job. Just minus all the death and destruction and open skin wounds and ashes and sackcloth.
My next article is about bath time and how important baths are for cleaning and clearing out the toxins in our bodies. Actually that article doesn't say too much, just how to do it - but this one does. (If you scroll down) Ha! It's kinda like an oxymoron. Bath time and cleaning. Everybody knows that bath time is sit-in-your-own-filth time.
That's all I'm going to say today. I want to say more on the topics of beauty and marriage, but I don't want to. And I can't force it out. I'm not a faker. Including in the marriage bed. There. I said it.
I'm going to go eat now. Leftover dinner from last night. WHICH WAS AMAZING. The next person to come over for dinner is getting it. And they better pretend they like it.
Also, there's no dinner tonight. It's too warm out.
So today's daily dose of article reading is going to be on the Epstein Barr Virus and how that affects our bodies. I would love to know, did the chicken or the egg come first? In layman's terms - really, how did I get here? Because my whole previous life was a big shooting arrow straight to Hypo/hashi Land. What if I didn't eat gluten? Would that have made a difference? Or what if I didn't get mono ... ..would that have been the golden get out of Hellish Land for free ticket?
I think it was just meant to be. I think it was ordained and orchestrated, and the question remains - what am I going to do with it? It's almost as if I'm a real living Job. Just minus all the death and destruction and open skin wounds and ashes and sackcloth.
My next article is about bath time and how important baths are for cleaning and clearing out the toxins in our bodies. Actually that article doesn't say too much, just how to do it - but this one does. (If you scroll down) Ha! It's kinda like an oxymoron. Bath time and cleaning. Everybody knows that bath time is sit-in-your-own-filth time.
That's all I'm going to say today. I want to say more on the topics of beauty and marriage, but I don't want to. And I can't force it out. I'm not a faker. Including in the marriage bed. There. I said it.
I'm going to go eat now. Leftover dinner from last night. WHICH WAS AMAZING. The next person to come over for dinner is getting it. And they better pretend they like it.
Also, there's no dinner tonight. It's too warm out.
Monday, September 12, 2016
Day 13
Day 56 of eating straight eggs for breakfast. Literally, 56 straight days of eating eggs. And only eggs. No toast. No bacon. Sometimes an avocado. One day I made coconut flour pancakes and pretended they were amazing. And one day I made chia coconut milk pudding, and decided that eggs were actually a gift from Jesus himself. "Oh but Foxy, chia pudding is amazing! So much health in one little cup." Yeah, well. did your pudding have delicious things? Like berries and chocolate wisps? And some honey or maple syrup? And some fairy wing sparkles and unicorn dandruff? Well, mine had some unsweetened coconut milk, chia seeds and a few twigs and 14 pebbles. I gagged most of it down, focusing on the health benefits. But it literally tasted like cow snot. So it's eggs over here. Tomorrow it will be day 57. Thank you Jesus for chickens.
I continue to poop. I continue to assume/makeup/wish really hard, that the white things I see embedded in the poos are the cursed wildebeest worms.
Yesterday my mood was significantly low and testy. I also didn't poop. There is a large and significant probability that holding onto all those toxins for an extra day did NOT help. I wish I had realized this before I went to bed. Next time, enema for sure. Guys, for real. Toxins don't just affect physically, but also emotionally. I also was dealing with a lot of anxiety. Because basically I'm going to die any second. The anxiety could be coming from thyroid, candida, wormlies, adrenal, just pick one.
Talking about adrenals. Do you guys even know you have something called your adrenals? They sit on top of your kidneys. They're a pretty big deal slash, important. I'm going to add this article. Because I think Dr. Axe makes it's pretty simple to understand. And then this article mainly because I liked the picture.
My poor poor adrenals. I think they're about as dead as doornail. I even read that it's really important to not watch tv shows that are exciting. That's like everything I watch. So I'm not watching anymore. I guess it's going to be me and Doc Martin for awhile. That and medicinal, unsweetened tea. And a granny bedtime of 9:00. And a silky soft pastel pink nightgown that goes down to the floor. With puffed sleeves and 17 pearl buttons that go up the front, clear to my adams apple.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Guys, my beautiful Queenie got married this weekend. Big D and I went sans babies. First of all, it was 401 degrees. And I was pleasered than a punch bowl that I wore a shorter dress. But it did make it awkward when beads of sweat starting running down my legs. That happened. Also, with my ridiculously ridiculous diet, I had to leave the reception to go eat a boring piece of meat at the local pub on the corner. . . ... .... . . So much fanciness I had to pass up. "Ma'am, would like a whole bunch of fancy drenched in something you can't eat, topped with the devil himself?" Oh the Self. Re. Straint. I had to maintain.
Also, one of the best parts happened all too quickly. Big D and I were trying to dance. I say "trying" because we're old. And this new music they have out there is stuff that makes dancing hard. For old people. But let me tell you, there were some not old people who were dancing just fine. Anyway, so we're out there. Clapping off beat. Clucking our tongues. Trying not to step on the 47th wine glass that got dropped. Attempting to shake our skeletal money makers. . . . .. And this magical thing happened. This drunked girl grabbed Big D and threw him into this mini dance circle. 2 guys and 1 girl and Big D crammed into the middle. There was so much grabbing and twisting and humping and grinding and touching. I thought it was the most spectacular event. And over all too soon. And Big D almost started crying.
I need to wrap this up because I'm starving.
Dinnner
A plain burger on a bed of greens topped with sauteed onions
Asparagus
Boiled potatoes and carrots drowned in butter - not for me, of course.
And on an ending note, a question for all of you from Ed. Who is 5.
"What's worse than fake rocks at San Diego?" His answer is bad angels.
The end.
I continue to poop. I continue to assume/makeup/wish really hard, that the white things I see embedded in the poos are the cursed wildebeest worms.
Yesterday my mood was significantly low and testy. I also didn't poop. There is a large and significant probability that holding onto all those toxins for an extra day did NOT help. I wish I had realized this before I went to bed. Next time, enema for sure. Guys, for real. Toxins don't just affect physically, but also emotionally. I also was dealing with a lot of anxiety. Because basically I'm going to die any second. The anxiety could be coming from thyroid, candida, wormlies, adrenal, just pick one.
Talking about adrenals. Do you guys even know you have something called your adrenals? They sit on top of your kidneys. They're a pretty big deal slash, important. I'm going to add this article. Because I think Dr. Axe makes it's pretty simple to understand. And then this article mainly because I liked the picture.
My poor poor adrenals. I think they're about as dead as doornail. I even read that it's really important to not watch tv shows that are exciting. That's like everything I watch. So I'm not watching anymore. I guess it's going to be me and Doc Martin for awhile. That and medicinal, unsweetened tea. And a granny bedtime of 9:00. And a silky soft pastel pink nightgown that goes down to the floor. With puffed sleeves and 17 pearl buttons that go up the front, clear to my adams apple.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Guys, my beautiful Queenie got married this weekend. Big D and I went sans babies. First of all, it was 401 degrees. And I was pleasered than a punch bowl that I wore a shorter dress. But it did make it awkward when beads of sweat starting running down my legs. That happened. Also, with my ridiculously ridiculous diet, I had to leave the reception to go eat a boring piece of meat at the local pub on the corner. . . ... .... . . So much fanciness I had to pass up. "Ma'am, would like a whole bunch of fancy drenched in something you can't eat, topped with the devil himself?" Oh the Self. Re. Straint. I had to maintain.
Also, one of the best parts happened all too quickly. Big D and I were trying to dance. I say "trying" because we're old. And this new music they have out there is stuff that makes dancing hard. For old people. But let me tell you, there were some not old people who were dancing just fine. Anyway, so we're out there. Clapping off beat. Clucking our tongues. Trying not to step on the 47th wine glass that got dropped. Attempting to shake our skeletal money makers. . . . .. And this magical thing happened. This drunked girl grabbed Big D and threw him into this mini dance circle. 2 guys and 1 girl and Big D crammed into the middle. There was so much grabbing and twisting and humping and grinding and touching. I thought it was the most spectacular event. And over all too soon. And Big D almost started crying.
I need to wrap this up because I'm starving.
Dinnner
A plain burger on a bed of greens topped with sauteed onions
Asparagus
Boiled potatoes and carrots drowned in butter - not for me, of course.
And on an ending note, a question for all of you from Ed. Who is 5.
"What's worse than fake rocks at San Diego?" His answer is bad angels.
The end.
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Day 9
Something really great happened. Great = Gross. I poo'd. And when I whipped around to look, there was something glorious to behold. Two drinking-straw, in size, 1/4 of an inch in length THINGS were hanging out. OH. DELIGHTFUL. The problem being: we don't flush after we pee. We let our pee marinate and then go into the fermentation stage where it takes on a petrifying odor and thick sludgy color. So I can't explain my worms any more. I don't know what color they were. Or if they represented a tapeworm or a hookworm. Who wants to buy me a poop strainer so I can really really know? And who wants to write me a worm chant? Because every worm pooper needs a chant.
Confusing moment: Yesterday a truck drove by me with some sticker decal on his back windows. In the center of the window was a white, cut-out of Jesus's head at the time of his crucifixion. Thorns and tears, obviously. To the right and left of Jesus were stripper silhouettes. So . . . . we like Jesus AND strippers? We are showing Jesus's disapproval and sadness towards the art of stripping? (Notice I said "art of stripping" and NOT "strippers".) Or . . . .......... so many questions. Were they bought at the same time? What was the thought process? "I got Jesus and my girls. Gotta have both. At all times." I just. Cant.
The reality of my inabilities: I am petrified of spiders. That last sentence is an understatement. Odd bodily functions happen when spiders are seen and involved. And yesterday was a 3 for 1 day. And all of them I had to face alone.
The first one I call a ghost spider. They generally move slow and hide where the ceiling and the wall meet, but not corners. And they're very light in color. Not intimidating at all to the normal. But the worst to me. He was eye level in the shoe closet door jam. I decided a flip flop would be a logical killing device. I crammed that flip flop with much force into the corner and missed completely. I moved the flip flop away to attack a 2nd time, but ghost spider got some of his annoying sticky web on the flip flop, so when I pulled away to cram again, that spider came off the wall and was now attached to the flip flop. Of course screaming and dancing pursued and persisted. The spider is still missing. Which makes me very uncomfortable.
Number two was a large daddy extra-long legs. In the tub. Their favorite place. I grabbed the largest bottle we had on the tub ledge, and let. it. drop. With as much force as an almost empty bottle can muster. Missed him. DL starts running. I slam the bottle down harder and get one of his legs. He crumples in a heap, unmoving. And I think I've done it. I get an extra large wad of toilet paper, because far be it for a leg to soak thru and touch my delicate skin - and as I touch his leg, he jumps up so perfect and makes a limpy dash for it. Where ever it is. And then I begin the smash war. It was terrifying, but I persisted and won.
The last was the worst. The cursed bedroom spider. Black. 1000 legs. On the ceiling. And Big D out of town. Those are ones where you say a big prayer. "Jesus and the whole heavenly host, do something. Amen." I watched it for along time. It didn't move. I turned the light off - it moved. Clearly the answer was, light on. No sleep. I looked down for 1/2 a millisecond and WW gasps. (Why yes, he's in bed with me. Because ............his name is WW.) That dang spider was gone. WW doesn't talk so he couldn't tell me. But I did know that my nightmare just got a whole lot more exciting and exciting. I still have a dump-truck load of clothes on the floor, which everybody knows is the worst when it comes to a missing spider. Literally I would have to smash all my clothes with a baseball bat before moving them to the washing machine. AND I wouldn't be able to touch them with my bare hands. The use of a pole would have to be involved.
Guys, can I tell you that Jesus hears us and miracles still are happening? That gory creature dropped to the ground, missing all of my clothes by 2 inches, and literally just sat there. Stone still. I grabbed a shoe and threw it with all my might, and smathered him all of my floor into dead tiny pieces. The shoe will stay there until Big D can mop the floor, because a smeared tissue pick-up will never do.
That's my life. That's my story.
How am I overall feeling? Tired. Mostly tired. That's been a common theme for all of this sickness. But it does move around to fatigue, exhaustion and just simple tired. I'll take tired any day.
Dinner
Steak with avocado chimichurri
Leftover riced cauliflower
Broccoli
Grilled asparagus
Confusing moment: Yesterday a truck drove by me with some sticker decal on his back windows. In the center of the window was a white, cut-out of Jesus's head at the time of his crucifixion. Thorns and tears, obviously. To the right and left of Jesus were stripper silhouettes. So . . . . we like Jesus AND strippers? We are showing Jesus's disapproval and sadness towards the art of stripping? (Notice I said "art of stripping" and NOT "strippers".) Or . . . .......... so many questions. Were they bought at the same time? What was the thought process? "I got Jesus and my girls. Gotta have both. At all times." I just. Cant.
The reality of my inabilities: I am petrified of spiders. That last sentence is an understatement. Odd bodily functions happen when spiders are seen and involved. And yesterday was a 3 for 1 day. And all of them I had to face alone.
The first one I call a ghost spider. They generally move slow and hide where the ceiling and the wall meet, but not corners. And they're very light in color. Not intimidating at all to the normal. But the worst to me. He was eye level in the shoe closet door jam. I decided a flip flop would be a logical killing device. I crammed that flip flop with much force into the corner and missed completely. I moved the flip flop away to attack a 2nd time, but ghost spider got some of his annoying sticky web on the flip flop, so when I pulled away to cram again, that spider came off the wall and was now attached to the flip flop. Of course screaming and dancing pursued and persisted. The spider is still missing. Which makes me very uncomfortable.
Number two was a large daddy extra-long legs. In the tub. Their favorite place. I grabbed the largest bottle we had on the tub ledge, and let. it. drop. With as much force as an almost empty bottle can muster. Missed him. DL starts running. I slam the bottle down harder and get one of his legs. He crumples in a heap, unmoving. And I think I've done it. I get an extra large wad of toilet paper, because far be it for a leg to soak thru and touch my delicate skin - and as I touch his leg, he jumps up so perfect and makes a limpy dash for it. Where ever it is. And then I begin the smash war. It was terrifying, but I persisted and won.
The last was the worst. The cursed bedroom spider. Black. 1000 legs. On the ceiling. And Big D out of town. Those are ones where you say a big prayer. "Jesus and the whole heavenly host, do something. Amen." I watched it for along time. It didn't move. I turned the light off - it moved. Clearly the answer was, light on. No sleep. I looked down for 1/2 a millisecond and WW gasps. (Why yes, he's in bed with me. Because ............his name is WW.) That dang spider was gone. WW doesn't talk so he couldn't tell me. But I did know that my nightmare just got a whole lot more exciting and exciting. I still have a dump-truck load of clothes on the floor, which everybody knows is the worst when it comes to a missing spider. Literally I would have to smash all my clothes with a baseball bat before moving them to the washing machine. AND I wouldn't be able to touch them with my bare hands. The use of a pole would have to be involved.
Guys, can I tell you that Jesus hears us and miracles still are happening? That gory creature dropped to the ground, missing all of my clothes by 2 inches, and literally just sat there. Stone still. I grabbed a shoe and threw it with all my might, and smathered him all of my floor into dead tiny pieces. The shoe will stay there until Big D can mop the floor, because a smeared tissue pick-up will never do.
That's my life. That's my story.
How am I overall feeling? Tired. Mostly tired. That's been a common theme for all of this sickness. But it does move around to fatigue, exhaustion and just simple tired. I'll take tired any day.
Dinner
Steak with avocado chimichurri
Leftover riced cauliflower
Broccoli
Grilled asparagus
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Day 8
I can feel my brain withering of words. It's over here like, "Foxy, you done good thinking of things to say, last week. But that tired us out so we're going to leave you high and dry okbyebye."
I said I was going to write during this cleanse and by golly I'm going to do it. Even if I have to recite poetry.
So, yesterday was my 50th day of being on the candida cleanse. And somehow it slithered by without fanfare, or toots from a horn, or even a clap parade. I literally feel jipped and now I have to wait another whole 50 days till I can properly celebrate with ... . ..... ..um ..... .......... . . . cooked cauliflower .... . . . . and water .............. . . .and maybe some chicken. I'll add some extra salt just to give it a good party flavor feel.
Extra thought for the day: you know when you get a small hunk of food that just sits in your throat cavities, and after a bit you notice them so you decide to hack them back up to re-chew and re-swallow? It doesn't happen to you? Apparently I'm supernaturally blessed in all forms. (minus the boob form) Anyway - so what if it's a worm that somehow is exiting through the mouth cavity, and I think it's food so I chew it up and then swallow. ................. I think that's more terrifying that pooping a head with fangs.
I received some great news today. I went to a doctor and didn't walk away with another disease. Yippee for me. No, really. I'm celebrating profusely in my heart. There are literal balloons and confetti.
I guess I'll back up a little bit. When I first got really sick, one of the symptoms I had was tingling in my face, hand-arms, and feet-legs. My pcp insisted that I go to an ophthalmologist to see if MS (multiple sclerosis) was a factor. I didn't go and didn't go, because nobody likes to hear about their body sucking and death looming. But that last time I saw the old pcp, she spanked me twice for not listening and then twisted my arm until I agreed to make an appointment. So, that's what that was all about. Also, the tingling has stopped. B-12 deficiency? Thyroid? Either or, or either - my body is getting what it needs and appears to be happy and tingleless. At least for right now. Praise Jesus.
I have not had to administer an enema in the past few days as my bowels are performing nicely. I do fear at some point an enema will be administered and I will not be able to get off the floor (yes, I'm lying on my right side on the bathroom floor - except our bathroom is very small, so head in the bathroom legs in the bedroom) quick enough, and the holy heavenly loads of liquid that have just been crammed up will have the unsightly urge to exit ceremoniously with great fanfare, clear across my bedroom, hitting everything in it's way including, but not limited to: my statue lady, the dump-truck load of dirty clothes, curtains, dresser, and the musical instruments - because every bedroom deserves a band.
Side note of our marital bliss report: Big D thought it was funny to come home from his precious swim this morning and greet me with a kiss, all while smirking. First of all, your smirk gave you away. Maybe I'm not sure what was given away, but I knew it wasn't a kiss from the heart. Number two, kissing me while completely and utterly despising me is also a dead give away of something not right and holy. It comes down to the truth of him just wanting to see how I'll respond. Kids, this is what you call playing with fire. And apparently Big D is a pyromaniac.
Py . ro . ma . ni . ac - a person suffering from pyromania.
Pyromania clearly is defined by Wikipedia as: an impulse control disorder in which individuals repeatedly fail to resist impulses to deliberately start fires in order to relieve tension or for instant gratification.
And THAT completely and wholly describes Big D.
Dinner
Garlic Thyme Chicken
Riced cauliflower
Green beans
Ps - does anybody want to tell me about how glorious their cheese was today? I need real, cheesy details. I am missing cheese so much and I need to live vicariously through others besides Big D who nibbles cheese like a rat and makes me nauseous.
Takeaways
1) Can I challenge you to read a chapter of Proverbs every day? There are 31 chapters, so basically it's perfect. Today I read about the man void of knowledge who ran straight into the arms of the harlot who's husband was away for awhile. She promised sweet love all. night. long. At first I was thinking "this is weird" and "this is not applicable to me at all". But what if it were switched in words/verbiage to Foxy, the woman who's brain is full of fluff who ran straight into the arms of (something unhealthy and life-squashing ie:) cheese, bad attitudes, . . . . ......(that's all i can think of) So, it's completely applicable. Can I challenge you to some wisdom this month?
I said I was going to write during this cleanse and by golly I'm going to do it. Even if I have to recite poetry.
So, yesterday was my 50th day of being on the candida cleanse. And somehow it slithered by without fanfare, or toots from a horn, or even a clap parade. I literally feel jipped and now I have to wait another whole 50 days till I can properly celebrate with ... . ..... ..um ..... .......... . . . cooked cauliflower .... . . . . and water .............. . . .and maybe some chicken. I'll add some extra salt just to give it a good party flavor feel.
Extra thought for the day: you know when you get a small hunk of food that just sits in your throat cavities, and after a bit you notice them so you decide to hack them back up to re-chew and re-swallow? It doesn't happen to you? Apparently I'm supernaturally blessed in all forms. (minus the boob form) Anyway - so what if it's a worm that somehow is exiting through the mouth cavity, and I think it's food so I chew it up and then swallow. ................. I think that's more terrifying that pooping a head with fangs.
I received some great news today. I went to a doctor and didn't walk away with another disease. Yippee for me. No, really. I'm celebrating profusely in my heart. There are literal balloons and confetti.
I guess I'll back up a little bit. When I first got really sick, one of the symptoms I had was tingling in my face, hand-arms, and feet-legs. My pcp insisted that I go to an ophthalmologist to see if MS (multiple sclerosis) was a factor. I didn't go and didn't go, because nobody likes to hear about their body sucking and death looming. But that last time I saw the old pcp, she spanked me twice for not listening and then twisted my arm until I agreed to make an appointment. So, that's what that was all about. Also, the tingling has stopped. B-12 deficiency? Thyroid? Either or, or either - my body is getting what it needs and appears to be happy and tingleless. At least for right now. Praise Jesus.
I have not had to administer an enema in the past few days as my bowels are performing nicely. I do fear at some point an enema will be administered and I will not be able to get off the floor (yes, I'm lying on my right side on the bathroom floor - except our bathroom is very small, so head in the bathroom legs in the bedroom) quick enough, and the holy heavenly loads of liquid that have just been crammed up will have the unsightly urge to exit ceremoniously with great fanfare, clear across my bedroom, hitting everything in it's way including, but not limited to: my statue lady, the dump-truck load of dirty clothes, curtains, dresser, and the musical instruments - because every bedroom deserves a band.
Side note of our marital bliss report: Big D thought it was funny to come home from his precious swim this morning and greet me with a kiss, all while smirking. First of all, your smirk gave you away. Maybe I'm not sure what was given away, but I knew it wasn't a kiss from the heart. Number two, kissing me while completely and utterly despising me is also a dead give away of something not right and holy. It comes down to the truth of him just wanting to see how I'll respond. Kids, this is what you call playing with fire. And apparently Big D is a pyromaniac.
Py . ro . ma . ni . ac - a person suffering from pyromania.
Pyromania clearly is defined by Wikipedia as: an impulse control disorder in which individuals repeatedly fail to resist impulses to deliberately start fires in order to relieve tension or for instant gratification.
And THAT completely and wholly describes Big D.
Dinner
Garlic Thyme Chicken
Riced cauliflower
Green beans
Ps - does anybody want to tell me about how glorious their cheese was today? I need real, cheesy details. I am missing cheese so much and I need to live vicariously through others besides Big D who nibbles cheese like a rat and makes me nauseous.
Takeaways
1) Can I challenge you to read a chapter of Proverbs every day? There are 31 chapters, so basically it's perfect. Today I read about the man void of knowledge who ran straight into the arms of the harlot who's husband was away for awhile. She promised sweet love all. night. long. At first I was thinking "this is weird" and "this is not applicable to me at all". But what if it were switched in words/verbiage to Foxy, the woman who's brain is full of fluff who ran straight into the arms of (something unhealthy and life-squashing ie:) cheese, bad attitudes, . . . . ......(that's all i can think of) So, it's completely applicable. Can I challenge you to some wisdom this month?
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Day 5, 6, and 7
Checking in to say:
1) Literally, nothing of worth.
2) Something came out of my ladybits. (So, I guess we're best friends now since you read that and are now probably feeling weird that you know that much about me. But it's part of the cleanse. Worms come out of any orifice you have. And sometimes even your skin. So there, best friends.)
3) I see white stuff in my poop. It has to be worms. These aren't little flecks. These are glorious, white shining hunks peaking out of turd formations. I'm sure it's a head suffocated by fecal matter.
4) I completely and wholeheartedly see why some people have gloves, chopsticks, and strainers in their bathroom. You want to see the good work of your death pills. I'm not scared anymore. It's more of a victorious feeling. Probably how soldiers feel after an incredible massacre. Like really, I want to sing loud and boisterously while marching.
5) I pooped twice in one day over the weekend, and that made me feel like I just graduated from preschool and got the kindygarten ticket.
Ok, I'm going to leave you with my weekend tirade topic. NOBODY is caring what they put into their bodies. Do we even have a little bitty bit inclining or concern about what we are slowly doing over time? No. Obviously. I am discovering that EVERYTHING is related to the gut aka what we eat. EVERYTHING. Minus: bloody noses from brick throwing and broken legs from falling out of skyscrapers. The rest is completely linked to the gut. Here's a little controversial tear-inducing read.
Takeaways
1) Start learning about what you're putting into your bodies. What are those things that are on the ingredient list? What exactly is GMO and how does it affect us? (If it's not organic, it most likely is gmo, ps.) Did you know that soy is in almost everything? And do you know how and where citric acid comes from? (that's in everything too.)
2) They say, (the worm people) that by day 7 most of your parasites are dead. Now I just need to get them out. But realistically, I have such a raging case of worms, I'm going to have to go on the hefty defty duty pill for the next 7 years. (7 is the number of completion)
1) Literally, nothing of worth.
2) Something came out of my ladybits. (So, I guess we're best friends now since you read that and are now probably feeling weird that you know that much about me. But it's part of the cleanse. Worms come out of any orifice you have. And sometimes even your skin. So there, best friends.)
3) I see white stuff in my poop. It has to be worms. These aren't little flecks. These are glorious, white shining hunks peaking out of turd formations. I'm sure it's a head suffocated by fecal matter.
4) I completely and wholeheartedly see why some people have gloves, chopsticks, and strainers in their bathroom. You want to see the good work of your death pills. I'm not scared anymore. It's more of a victorious feeling. Probably how soldiers feel after an incredible massacre. Like really, I want to sing loud and boisterously while marching.
5) I pooped twice in one day over the weekend, and that made me feel like I just graduated from preschool and got the kindygarten ticket.
Ok, I'm going to leave you with my weekend tirade topic. NOBODY is caring what they put into their bodies. Do we even have a little bitty bit inclining or concern about what we are slowly doing over time? No. Obviously. I am discovering that EVERYTHING is related to the gut aka what we eat. EVERYTHING. Minus: bloody noses from brick throwing and broken legs from falling out of skyscrapers. The rest is completely linked to the gut. Here's a little controversial tear-inducing read.
Takeaways
1) Start learning about what you're putting into your bodies. What are those things that are on the ingredient list? What exactly is GMO and how does it affect us? (If it's not organic, it most likely is gmo, ps.) Did you know that soy is in almost everything? And do you know how and where citric acid comes from? (that's in everything too.)
2) They say, (the worm people) that by day 7 most of your parasites are dead. Now I just need to get them out. But realistically, I have such a raging case of worms, I'm going to have to go on the hefty defty duty pill for the next 7 years. (7 is the number of completion)
Friday, September 2, 2016
Day 4
Just a regular blahedy Friday.
Poop? (Since everybody's waiting. Waiting for the horror to happen. I really hope it does happen. Not for the sake of my nerves, but for the sake of the satisfaction and glory of it all.) I have a turd just sitting in the doorway. Just sittin'. So there's nothing to report - moving on.
Apparently God thinks I'm doing a pretty bad job at being joyful. Or maybe he's just being a constant reminderer. Either way, I'm getting bombarded with spanks or love. Like I said, I'm not sure.
A few nights ago when I wasn't sleeping, God told me to read Psalm 113. "Yup, I'll do that as soon as I get up, cuz .. uh ... I'm pretending to sleep now."
I can hear the "how do you know it's God"? Yeah, everybody is different and so God speaks differently to all. But for that instance: pretend sleeping, lamenting that I'm not sleeping, lots of grumbling, bad attitudes, hateful thoughts - that's all going on in my mind. And then Psalm 113 comes out of nowhere. That clearly is not my brain, because I'm not thinking about that. I'm not lying there counting the chapters of Psalms like you would be counting sheep. I'm nowhere near THAT holy. So Psalm 113 is just there, and since it wasn't me, and it certainly wasn't the devil - that leaves one other choice. JC.
I did what I said I would. Cuz I'm a woman of my word. (sort of) Psalm 113 summed up: Praise the Lord, all the time, forever and ever, never end the praising, just keep going, night to day, day to night, even if your leg is chewed off by an alligator, just keep it up, and the lady who can't have kids - I'm going to give you a house and kids. Amen. Look it up yourself. I'm not really kidding.
Next spank/love/reminderer - I think I'll just like to think of it as an encouraging message. I don't know why I have to look at everything in such a negative light. *David kissed me goodbye. He must be leaving me for good and finally running into the arms of Perky McBig Tits. Oh well, it was a mediocre run. I suppose I'll survive without him. Hooohuuummmm*
Blogpost that came in on the email this morning, talking about Joseph and the coat of many colors, Joseph: ..."Joseph, unjustly imprisoned, might have prayed to be released. We know that he sought help from his fellow prisoner, but when the prisoner - Pharaoh's wine taster - was relased, the man forgot Jeseph. For a couple more years.
It's easy to forget this period of the story, because we know the ending so well, when Pharoah dreams, the wine taster pipes up, Joseph is relased and becomes second in command over all Egypt, and the prophetic dreams are all fulfilled.
But during this time in prison - that's not so pleasant to think about.
And yet, Joseph had to be there, so that when Pharaoh dreamed, Joseph the dream interpreter was ready.
....If the Lord puts you in "prison", trust that he has a purpose for you there, and don't seek to leave prematurely. Seek to be faithful where Goad has put you, whether that's in prison or in the Pharaoh's court."
Taken from a Sonlight post
Dinner?
TBD or maybe it's just not going to happen because fall is sorta here. And it's almost too cold to eat. Or maybe we'll just have a pizza quiche. Or maybe we'll have pho.
PS - the world sang my praises for feeding them bleeding meat last night. They sang with glorified and uplifted voices. Even a few twirls were added in.
Takeaways
1) Eager Beavers are the absolute WORST types of people.
2) Can we just all work on being real with each other?
3) Remember how my brain doesn't work reeeaall well right now? So, yeah - my takeaways don't have to really match the mutterings of the day. Maybe I should name it instead: Random Brainfog Last Thoughts. Or even, FYI.
Poop? (Since everybody's waiting. Waiting for the horror to happen. I really hope it does happen. Not for the sake of my nerves, but for the sake of the satisfaction and glory of it all.) I have a turd just sitting in the doorway. Just sittin'. So there's nothing to report - moving on.
Apparently God thinks I'm doing a pretty bad job at being joyful. Or maybe he's just being a constant reminderer. Either way, I'm getting bombarded with spanks or love. Like I said, I'm not sure.
A few nights ago when I wasn't sleeping, God told me to read Psalm 113. "Yup, I'll do that as soon as I get up, cuz .. uh ... I'm pretending to sleep now."
I can hear the "how do you know it's God"? Yeah, everybody is different and so God speaks differently to all. But for that instance: pretend sleeping, lamenting that I'm not sleeping, lots of grumbling, bad attitudes, hateful thoughts - that's all going on in my mind. And then Psalm 113 comes out of nowhere. That clearly is not my brain, because I'm not thinking about that. I'm not lying there counting the chapters of Psalms like you would be counting sheep. I'm nowhere near THAT holy. So Psalm 113 is just there, and since it wasn't me, and it certainly wasn't the devil - that leaves one other choice. JC.
I did what I said I would. Cuz I'm a woman of my word. (sort of) Psalm 113 summed up: Praise the Lord, all the time, forever and ever, never end the praising, just keep going, night to day, day to night, even if your leg is chewed off by an alligator, just keep it up, and the lady who can't have kids - I'm going to give you a house and kids. Amen. Look it up yourself. I'm not really kidding.
Next spank/love/reminderer - I think I'll just like to think of it as an encouraging message. I don't know why I have to look at everything in such a negative light. *David kissed me goodbye. He must be leaving me for good and finally running into the arms of Perky McBig Tits. Oh well, it was a mediocre run. I suppose I'll survive without him. Hooohuuummmm*
Blogpost that came in on the email this morning, talking about Joseph and the coat of many colors, Joseph: ..."Joseph, unjustly imprisoned, might have prayed to be released. We know that he sought help from his fellow prisoner, but when the prisoner - Pharaoh's wine taster - was relased, the man forgot Jeseph. For a couple more years.
It's easy to forget this period of the story, because we know the ending so well, when Pharoah dreams, the wine taster pipes up, Joseph is relased and becomes second in command over all Egypt, and the prophetic dreams are all fulfilled.
But during this time in prison - that's not so pleasant to think about.
And yet, Joseph had to be there, so that when Pharaoh dreamed, Joseph the dream interpreter was ready.
....If the Lord puts you in "prison", trust that he has a purpose for you there, and don't seek to leave prematurely. Seek to be faithful where Goad has put you, whether that's in prison or in the Pharaoh's court."
Taken from a Sonlight post
Dinner?
TBD or maybe it's just not going to happen because fall is sorta here. And it's almost too cold to eat. Or maybe we'll just have a pizza quiche. Or maybe we'll have pho.
PS - the world sang my praises for feeding them bleeding meat last night. They sang with glorified and uplifted voices. Even a few twirls were added in.
Takeaways
1) Eager Beavers are the absolute WORST types of people.
2) Can we just all work on being real with each other?
3) Remember how my brain doesn't work reeeaall well right now? So, yeah - my takeaways don't have to really match the mutterings of the day. Maybe I should name it instead: Random Brainfog Last Thoughts. Or even, FYI.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Day 3
Oh, the mood swings. How can one be perfectly perfect one second and then growling the next. I literally growled at Big D this morning. And flung dung. At his head. But that was in my head. I flung dung at his head in my head. Why? Because he kissed me goodbye. Naturally that deserved a cursed growl and dung flinging.
But when I was sitting and crying and flinging dung, the most magical thing happened. It happens every few weeks. And every time it happens, the feelings you get when you see a shooting star surface.
There's this dad in the neighborhood. Ghost dad. Because who really knows where he lives. Or even if he's a real human. But, he wears his roller blades and pushes the stroller with the baby in it. He flys. It's not a gentle baby ride. This man is going full-out, sweaty drip-balls workout. And it happens so fast that you feel lucky to have caught it.
I have a friend who has to make up a story in her head before she partakes of the goodness of the marriage bed. And it's not a fast story. It's a whole, big-kid chapter book. Scenes. Play-by-plays . . . Anyway, I saw GD and immediately my mind went into story-mode:
GhostDad: Hon I'm going to go to the gym
Baby: Wahhhhh
GhostWife: Richard!! I am trying to look beautiful. I have 4 more coats of mascara to apply and then I have my hair. You know how long it takes me to do my hair??!!! If you're going to the gym, you can just take the baby!
GhostDad: Petunia, I can't take him cuz kidwatch isn't open yet. It's only 7:15. . .
Baby: Wahhhh
GhostWife: Well, then why don't you put your stupid little rolleyblades on and go for a roll around the neighborhood!!
I do this thing where I like to imagine other people in the mornings. Getting ready. Or, not getting ready. I have this romantic notion that mornings are quiet and filled with warmish hot coffee and big fluffly robes and little sneaky kisses between lovers and clean rumpled sheets and soft sunlight streaks.
But probably the reality is, that it's exactly like my house. Growls and tears and filthy sheets and cold herbal coffee that tastes like a used enema.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I read a statement today that said: For every month you were sick, expect 1-2 months of healing. So, if I've been REALLY sick since April, and now we're in September I should start to feel or see healing changes in 5-10 months. But really how long have I been sick? I don't know. In November I noticed my hair starting to thin, but that's all I can go on.
You've probably heard the saying, "everything causes cancer". Well, I feel that way with thyroid junk. Everything causes thyroid problems. I learned today that a copper IUD can contribute to thyroid issues. Yup. had one of those. Also I have used steroids my whole life for skin pleasantries and lung function. And have swum in a chlorinated pool 3/4 of my life and have eaten brominated everything. And gluten! Gosh, apparently gluten is the devil himself. I even had mono. But you know, I'm just over greeting that mountain with joy. Blessed blessed joy.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Can I be honest? I really thought I was going to keel over and die on this parasitic cleanse. I know it's only been 3 days, and whole lot can happen in the next 27 - but I'm feeling pretty confident that life will remain.
So another part of my healing process is the use of coffee enemas. Yup, I give myself an enema. And I enjoy it. And it has come to my attention that I have horrific bowl control. The longest that I have retained said enema is 3 1/2 minutes. I'm supposed to do at least 15 minutes. The average that I can retain is about 54 seconds. So today was enema day since I didn't poo this morning. And remember, expelling the toxins is key to not feeling terribly sick.
I did indeed manage to poo right before the enema. And satisfaction was had when I saw 2 thread like ... threads sticking out. They must be worms because I will not take any other answer.
Dinner?
Bleeding meat on the grill
Brussel sprouts
Salad
WHERE ARE THE CARBS! There are none. Ever.
Takeaways
1) Do not look down on others oddities They're doing the best they know and believe how.
2) Question everything and believe nothing.
3) Educate yourself on candida. If you catch it early, you could save yourself a lot of , a lot ofs. (Dr. Axe is quite generous with his rules compared to everybody else FYI)
4) Schedule the most awkward sex of your life tonight. You won't regret it.
But when I was sitting and crying and flinging dung, the most magical thing happened. It happens every few weeks. And every time it happens, the feelings you get when you see a shooting star surface.
There's this dad in the neighborhood. Ghost dad. Because who really knows where he lives. Or even if he's a real human. But, he wears his roller blades and pushes the stroller with the baby in it. He flys. It's not a gentle baby ride. This man is going full-out, sweaty drip-balls workout. And it happens so fast that you feel lucky to have caught it.
I have a friend who has to make up a story in her head before she partakes of the goodness of the marriage bed. And it's not a fast story. It's a whole, big-kid chapter book. Scenes. Play-by-plays . . . Anyway, I saw GD and immediately my mind went into story-mode:
GhostDad: Hon I'm going to go to the gym
Baby: Wahhhhh
GhostWife: Richard!! I am trying to look beautiful. I have 4 more coats of mascara to apply and then I have my hair. You know how long it takes me to do my hair??!!! If you're going to the gym, you can just take the baby!
GhostDad: Petunia, I can't take him cuz kidwatch isn't open yet. It's only 7:15. . .
Baby: Wahhhh
GhostWife: Well, then why don't you put your stupid little rolleyblades on and go for a roll around the neighborhood!!
I do this thing where I like to imagine other people in the mornings. Getting ready. Or, not getting ready. I have this romantic notion that mornings are quiet and filled with warmish hot coffee and big fluffly robes and little sneaky kisses between lovers and clean rumpled sheets and soft sunlight streaks.
But probably the reality is, that it's exactly like my house. Growls and tears and filthy sheets and cold herbal coffee that tastes like a used enema.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I read a statement today that said: For every month you were sick, expect 1-2 months of healing. So, if I've been REALLY sick since April, and now we're in September I should start to feel or see healing changes in 5-10 months. But really how long have I been sick? I don't know. In November I noticed my hair starting to thin, but that's all I can go on.
You've probably heard the saying, "everything causes cancer". Well, I feel that way with thyroid junk. Everything causes thyroid problems. I learned today that a copper IUD can contribute to thyroid issues. Yup. had one of those. Also I have used steroids my whole life for skin pleasantries and lung function. And have swum in a chlorinated pool 3/4 of my life and have eaten brominated everything. And gluten! Gosh, apparently gluten is the devil himself. I even had mono. But you know, I'm just over greeting that mountain with joy. Blessed blessed joy.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Can I be honest? I really thought I was going to keel over and die on this parasitic cleanse. I know it's only been 3 days, and whole lot can happen in the next 27 - but I'm feeling pretty confident that life will remain.
So another part of my healing process is the use of coffee enemas. Yup, I give myself an enema. And I enjoy it. And it has come to my attention that I have horrific bowl control. The longest that I have retained said enema is 3 1/2 minutes. I'm supposed to do at least 15 minutes. The average that I can retain is about 54 seconds. So today was enema day since I didn't poo this morning. And remember, expelling the toxins is key to not feeling terribly sick.
I did indeed manage to poo right before the enema. And satisfaction was had when I saw 2 thread like ... threads sticking out. They must be worms because I will not take any other answer.
Dinner?
Bleeding meat on the grill
Brussel sprouts
Salad
WHERE ARE THE CARBS! There are none. Ever.
Takeaways
1) Do not look down on others oddities They're doing the best they know and believe how.
2) Question everything and believe nothing.
3) Educate yourself on candida. If you catch it early, you could save yourself a lot of , a lot ofs. (Dr. Axe is quite generous with his rules compared to everybody else FYI)
4) Schedule the most awkward sex of your life tonight. You won't regret it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Day 2
I'm still alive.
But never have I ever walked around with tighter/flabbier clenched buns. The whole point of a worm infestation cleanse is to get rid of the worms. And I'm walking around keeping them in like they're the greatest. Or something special.
Petrified. To release my anal sphincter. I did it. Twice so far. I did find that having a stool under my feet (like the squatty potty) encouraged relaxation.
Poop 1
I got out of bed this morning feeling tired. And wouldn't you know, I'm stumbling around trying to find dirty clothes on the floor to put on, and a hairbrush to brush my remaining 103 hairs on my head - those worms start knocking. HELLO! Let the girl put on some deodorant before she has to face the fangs.
I clenched real good till I was ready for the day aka the worms. I even frushed my teeth. I was completely ready. Like, if the UPS man came - I was that ready. And then I answered the call of the wild worms.
It doesn't do anybody any favors to whip their body around after every ker-plop. It's a fine way to have to clean the bathroom a few times a day. Patience is a virtue. And a fine virtue to put into practice.
Alas, I saw nothing. And was completely relieved. And completely disappointed.
Poo 2
Every time my poo stalls, I imagine a long worm stuck, half in-half out, writhing wildly. Guys, fangs are real.
So, yup. Moving on.
But never have I ever walked around with tighter/flabbier clenched buns. The whole point of a worm infestation cleanse is to get rid of the worms. And I'm walking around keeping them in like they're the greatest. Or something special.
Petrified. To release my anal sphincter. I did it. Twice so far. I did find that having a stool under my feet (like the squatty potty) encouraged relaxation.
Poop 1
I got out of bed this morning feeling tired. And wouldn't you know, I'm stumbling around trying to find dirty clothes on the floor to put on, and a hairbrush to brush my remaining 103 hairs on my head - those worms start knocking. HELLO! Let the girl put on some deodorant before she has to face the fangs.
I clenched real good till I was ready for the day aka the worms. I even frushed my teeth. I was completely ready. Like, if the UPS man came - I was that ready. And then I answered the call of the wild worms.
It doesn't do anybody any favors to whip their body around after every ker-plop. It's a fine way to have to clean the bathroom a few times a day. Patience is a virtue. And a fine virtue to put into practice.
Alas, I saw nothing. And was completely relieved. And completely disappointed.
Poo 2
Every time my poo stalls, I imagine a long worm stuck, half in-half out, writhing wildly. Guys, fangs are real.
So, yup. Moving on.
Anyway, I consorted to patience this time. And when I was done I saw lots and lots of tiny, minuscule white line thingsies. Complete satisfaction knowing that something was dying. Smug. And pleased.
How I'm feeling:
Day 2 was when others started to feel gross from the toxins starting to multiply due to worm death. I am pleased to say that I feel no different minus being slightly more tired and slightly nauseous. Sounds like I'm pregnant. Maybe I am! (with worms) I've been following my tea and crumpet aka worm killer pills schedule like a kindygartner. And once again feeling smug that I have managed to stay on track for 1 1/2 days.
Dinner?
Lets talk about last night first. Chicken and beans are a common occurrence around here. But throw in some rutabaga soup and literally, batten down the hatches, secure your valuables, life is no more as it once was. Big D threw an entire chopped up jalapeno pepper in his small portion. Murn ate hers for breakfast with much lamenting. Ed cried and gagged his one required spoonful until daddy bribed him with a whole chicken leg if he finished his 1/8 of a cup serving. (Didn't you know that chicken legs are cool? And worthy of gagging and choking down 4 spoonfuls? They are.) WW wasn't even offered any. And I ate my bowl, pleased as punch, knowing that I was killing off candida.
Big D called me this morning (because we never see each other) to ask how I felt. Awkward, and what is that supposed to mean . . . ? Well, somebody had a tummy ache and wasn't feeling very well and wanted to know if it was the soup. *Why yes! You figured out my life squelching secret - I was trying to poison you all with rutabaga soup* 2 things: a) maybe your tummy doesn't like the entire pepper you crammed down your throat or b) maybe when I said you have too much yeast in your body, maybe I was right. Those are my best two guesses. All other guesses are not my best.
But dinner tonight? It's going to be equally as awesome. As dinner is, every night.
Sahwid with avocado green goddess dressing aka tear and gag-reflex inducing pig slop
Takeaways
1) When naming a blog, be wise. Never name it something you'll regret. Like, "Whispers of Love" or "The Witherhalls's Happenings" or "Bluebirds Sing the Beauty of the Earth". You're going to wake up someday and not want to talk about how love whispers anymore. Or fun zoo trips. Or how you gathered a whole bouquet of wildflowers on your evening walk. Maybe you'll wake up some day with your mind a fizzled mess of slow fog, and the best you can do is talk about poop.
2) Life is a continual of changing seasons. Really really embrace each one. I know that I won't be talking about poop forever. Someday I'll have life altering epiphanies and wisdom words and life giving faith speaks. But that's not today. And I'm ok with that. And you should be ok with the season that you're in too.
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Mountains and Day 1 and Worms
Guys it's been so long that I totally forgot how to even find my blog, to write a new blog.
Anyway, I found it.
So remember when I had WW and stopped writing all together? Yeah, he was kinda the straw that broke the camels back aka my body. He didn't sleep for 22 months. Which meant that I didn't sleep for 22 months and that mixed with life and lifestyle habits and stressors, and food that was poisonous to my body led me to a whopping case of hypothyroidism (possibly and most likely hashimotos) a delightful overgrowth of candida and a delicious batch of over aggressive parasites. Not to sound like I'm cool and special or anything, like I'm the only one - 70% of the population has an overgrowth of candida and 90% of the population has awesome parasites. Mine just all collided at once and started to attack my thyroid.
I went to the mds after a week of what felt like a hangover. They took a lot of blood and clarified that my thyroid was dying and I was doomed to medication for the rest of my life.
I did some research and some talking, some webinar watching and more reading and decided that I wasn't going to take that as the final answer. One person telling me that meds is the only way doesn't seem to fit my bill, and I decided to go see a Naturopathic dr.
(I should have been blogging this whole journey, because there are so many good stories to tell)(But I didn't - because I couldn't, because my body was a shell of a human)
Long story short - I'm on the Candida diet. I cried much when this became a reality. I literally went through a week of mourning food. I mourned. And was angry. And cried, alot. And I'm not a big food person. I don't love food. But I found out that I survived many mothering moments with food. A glass of wine at night. An ice cold vanilla coke mid afternoon. Ridiculously creammmy mac and cheese for lunch (always homemade) The weekly Friday night take out dinner, mom doesn't have to cook meal.
All of that was taken from me with this new diet. I needed to starve the overabundance of yeast in this old temple. So, I'm allowed to eat non-starchy vegetables, chicken and beef, eggs, quinoa ..... yeah, that's about it. A few things here and there: some nuts, olive oil, avocado, Mmmmm and water.
So I'm doing that. Yes, I've lost weight. I had finally learned to love my extra, thank you WW, weight - and now it's gone. So I'm back to learning to love my newold self. The granny nips are hard to get over though ..
I'm taking a thousand supplements to boost and support and give strength to, and ease, and betterment, in Jesus name.
Anyway, now that my brain fog is S-L-O-W-L-Y lifting, (did I mention "slowly"?) I want to blog this mountain.
I said mountain because - In the very beginning, when it was so dark and bleak. When I had no idea what was going on or what to do or who to see - I woke up one morning with the words, "greet the mountain with joy". OBVIOUSLY I knew that it was God giving me these words. But it really bothered me that he said "mountain". Singular. Why not mountainS? Did I say "bothered"? I meant pissed.
It took me a few weeks to realize that THIS, this awfulness that my body was giving, was the mountain. God specifically told me to walk through the absolute worst part of my life thus far, with joy.
I would give myself a C-.
Oh, but the most important thing right now is that I'm on a parasitic cleanse. I started today. I am petrified of what is going to come out of my anus. Somebody wrote about an inch long head with fangs that came out. I am nervous. Frightened. Scared to death. (say a prayer for me please)
Remember that time that I named my blog "Undignified Mutterings"? Yup, I'm going to talk about poop for the next month. And I can, because I already warned the world that I was going to say a bunch of undignified stuff. Also, I can write my sentences anyway I want to. In any which format punctuation order feels best.
It's kinda like that time that I was a kid growing up, and my mother made me put the clean silverware away perfectly perfect. And she always said, "when you have your own house you can do it anyway you want to." Well, every freaking time I have clean silverware to put away now, as a full grown 34 year old - I stick it to my mother and any other person who has to have neat silverware, and I throw, *ahem* dump the silverware into the drawer. I can. Because it's my own house.
On to day 1
I am a nervous wreck. I feel tired, with a very low, light, slight, stomach ache. (Please be dying worms) My poop was quite green in color. No worms yet.
I'm nervous about getting the tea and the worm-killer pills all right at the proper time. If I don't, severe nausea will ensue. And the worms won't get the proper killer dosage. And then I'm just wasting my time . . .
What's cooking for dinner you ask?
Rutabaga chipotle soup
Crockpot rotisserie chicken
Green beans
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Was this a mess of a first-back-at-it-post?
Yup. I guess that pretty much sums me up right now. An absolute mess. Trying to do it with joy.
Takeaways:
1) ...blah ... there's so many, but I guess I'll give you this one: try a new vegetable this week and say a prayer for me while you choke it down :)
Anyway, I found it.
So remember when I had WW and stopped writing all together? Yeah, he was kinda the straw that broke the camels back aka my body. He didn't sleep for 22 months. Which meant that I didn't sleep for 22 months and that mixed with life and lifestyle habits and stressors, and food that was poisonous to my body led me to a whopping case of hypothyroidism (possibly and most likely hashimotos) a delightful overgrowth of candida and a delicious batch of over aggressive parasites. Not to sound like I'm cool and special or anything, like I'm the only one - 70% of the population has an overgrowth of candida and 90% of the population has awesome parasites. Mine just all collided at once and started to attack my thyroid.
I went to the mds after a week of what felt like a hangover. They took a lot of blood and clarified that my thyroid was dying and I was doomed to medication for the rest of my life.
I did some research and some talking, some webinar watching and more reading and decided that I wasn't going to take that as the final answer. One person telling me that meds is the only way doesn't seem to fit my bill, and I decided to go see a Naturopathic dr.
(I should have been blogging this whole journey, because there are so many good stories to tell)(But I didn't - because I couldn't, because my body was a shell of a human)
Long story short - I'm on the Candida diet. I cried much when this became a reality. I literally went through a week of mourning food. I mourned. And was angry. And cried, alot. And I'm not a big food person. I don't love food. But I found out that I survived many mothering moments with food. A glass of wine at night. An ice cold vanilla coke mid afternoon. Ridiculously creammmy mac and cheese for lunch (always homemade) The weekly Friday night take out dinner, mom doesn't have to cook meal.
All of that was taken from me with this new diet. I needed to starve the overabundance of yeast in this old temple. So, I'm allowed to eat non-starchy vegetables, chicken and beef, eggs, quinoa ..... yeah, that's about it. A few things here and there: some nuts, olive oil, avocado, Mmmmm and water.
So I'm doing that. Yes, I've lost weight. I had finally learned to love my extra, thank you WW, weight - and now it's gone. So I'm back to learning to love my newold self. The granny nips are hard to get over though ..
I'm taking a thousand supplements to boost and support and give strength to, and ease, and betterment, in Jesus name.
Anyway, now that my brain fog is S-L-O-W-L-Y lifting, (did I mention "slowly"?) I want to blog this mountain.
I said mountain because - In the very beginning, when it was so dark and bleak. When I had no idea what was going on or what to do or who to see - I woke up one morning with the words, "greet the mountain with joy". OBVIOUSLY I knew that it was God giving me these words. But it really bothered me that he said "mountain". Singular. Why not mountainS? Did I say "bothered"? I meant pissed.
It took me a few weeks to realize that THIS, this awfulness that my body was giving, was the mountain. God specifically told me to walk through the absolute worst part of my life thus far, with joy.
I would give myself a C-.
Oh, but the most important thing right now is that I'm on a parasitic cleanse. I started today. I am petrified of what is going to come out of my anus. Somebody wrote about an inch long head with fangs that came out. I am nervous. Frightened. Scared to death. (say a prayer for me please)
Remember that time that I named my blog "Undignified Mutterings"? Yup, I'm going to talk about poop for the next month. And I can, because I already warned the world that I was going to say a bunch of undignified stuff. Also, I can write my sentences anyway I want to. In any which format punctuation order feels best.
It's kinda like that time that I was a kid growing up, and my mother made me put the clean silverware away perfectly perfect. And she always said, "when you have your own house you can do it anyway you want to." Well, every freaking time I have clean silverware to put away now, as a full grown 34 year old - I stick it to my mother and any other person who has to have neat silverware, and I throw, *ahem* dump the silverware into the drawer. I can. Because it's my own house.
On to day 1
I am a nervous wreck. I feel tired, with a very low, light, slight, stomach ache. (Please be dying worms) My poop was quite green in color. No worms yet.
I'm nervous about getting the tea and the worm-killer pills all right at the proper time. If I don't, severe nausea will ensue. And the worms won't get the proper killer dosage. And then I'm just wasting my time . . .
What's cooking for dinner you ask?
Rutabaga chipotle soup
Crockpot rotisserie chicken
Green beans
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Was this a mess of a first-back-at-it-post?
Yup. I guess that pretty much sums me up right now. An absolute mess. Trying to do it with joy.
Takeaways:
1) ...blah ... there's so many, but I guess I'll give you this one: try a new vegetable this week and say a prayer for me while you choke it down :)
Friday, November 21, 2014
I Put My Back Into It
Every once in awhile, every great, great while, I do something that I like to call: GNO. Girls night out. Generally we eat dinner, have a drink or two, throw our heads back and laugh, and talk about sex.
Last night it was something new. We tried that Painting with a Twist thing. You know, where everybody paints the same exact thing and then takes a picture. . . . . .
38 girls and 2 guys crowded into this room. The music was dance club, obscenely loud. And I'm guessing it was only to mask the 38 wine filled, estrogen overdriven, shrill screams that inevitably erupt from . . . nowhere. The 2 men were obviously dragged there. And I cried a little for them.
There is a reason that they encourage wine at this sorta thing. Participating in this activity, can cause abrupt waves of intense anger. The type of anger that makes you want to throw your dirty paint water in your neighbor's face. Followed by death jabs of paintbrush on: not-so-fine master piece.
The paintbrush, SOMEhow manages to do what it isn't told to do. And everybody knows it's not always the best choice to try to fix a painting when there is little experience involved. . . . . Even Ed knows that blue and yellow makes green. And green is never appropriate for snow. Except for my painting.
Minus the anger, it was fun. It wasn't great. It wasn't awful. It was just fun.
And then, the highlight of all highlights happened. *shudder*
It was time to go. I went over to the coat hooks, which were in an "L" formation. (I will also preface this with: my bottom is much larger than it normally is.)(baby weight) I started looking for my coat which ended up in a frantic search that lasted 1.462 seconds. I couldn't find my highly, desirable, brown Land's End jacket. (It was just buried by all the other not-so-small parkas) But in my frantic pawing, I knocked someone's gigantic power mitten out of their coat.
I bent my large bottom over and somehow, SOMEhow, managed to lose my balance. I did however, swing the main girth of my weight aka Mrs. Mcgillicutty aka my dimpled backside up against the wall to regain lost balance. Or, what I thought was the wall. Or, where the wall used to be. Or, the wall that was still there, but was hiding. I felt this odd sensation on my buns. Something that didn't quite feel like a wall. And feeling very confused, I literally put my back into "it". I put every ounce of lady lumps I own, and gave it an "all or nothing" but chose an "all" and slammed my goods (still bent over) into the wall that definitely was NOT a wall anymore. And still feeling very confused as to what was happening, I stood up, straight and tall - Carmen Electra style - all the while pushing every bit of my womenhood backwards. When I finally got to the upright position, there was a cozy, plush landing for my back.
And then, and ONLY then - did I realize that I had just given a man a lap dance. Somehow, in stealth mode - ONE of the 2 men that were there, decided to slip behind me for a simple coat grab - oblivious that an R-rated moment was about to happen on him and to him. There were no mysteries left to the imagination. ALL was experienced. We became one, if that is possible with your clothes on. (Which it is)
And then I left in a complete horrified stupor. And the pizza flag whipping in the wind, whipped my painting. My green snow painting.
Take Aways
1) If you're going to become familiar with a complete stranger, do it thoroughly and quickly.
Last night it was something new. We tried that Painting with a Twist thing. You know, where everybody paints the same exact thing and then takes a picture. . . . . .
38 girls and 2 guys crowded into this room. The music was dance club, obscenely loud. And I'm guessing it was only to mask the 38 wine filled, estrogen overdriven, shrill screams that inevitably erupt from . . . nowhere. The 2 men were obviously dragged there. And I cried a little for them.
There is a reason that they encourage wine at this sorta thing. Participating in this activity, can cause abrupt waves of intense anger. The type of anger that makes you want to throw your dirty paint water in your neighbor's face. Followed by death jabs of paintbrush on: not-so-fine master piece.
The paintbrush, SOMEhow manages to do what it isn't told to do. And everybody knows it's not always the best choice to try to fix a painting when there is little experience involved. . . . . Even Ed knows that blue and yellow makes green. And green is never appropriate for snow. Except for my painting.
Minus the anger, it was fun. It wasn't great. It wasn't awful. It was just fun.
And then, the highlight of all highlights happened. *shudder*
It was time to go. I went over to the coat hooks, which were in an "L" formation. (I will also preface this with: my bottom is much larger than it normally is.)(baby weight) I started looking for my coat which ended up in a frantic search that lasted 1.462 seconds. I couldn't find my highly, desirable, brown Land's End jacket. (It was just buried by all the other not-so-small parkas) But in my frantic pawing, I knocked someone's gigantic power mitten out of their coat.
I bent my large bottom over and somehow, SOMEhow, managed to lose my balance. I did however, swing the main girth of my weight aka Mrs. Mcgillicutty aka my dimpled backside up against the wall to regain lost balance. Or, what I thought was the wall. Or, where the wall used to be. Or, the wall that was still there, but was hiding. I felt this odd sensation on my buns. Something that didn't quite feel like a wall. And feeling very confused, I literally put my back into "it". I put every ounce of lady lumps I own, and gave it an "all or nothing" but chose an "all" and slammed my goods (still bent over) into the wall that definitely was NOT a wall anymore. And still feeling very confused as to what was happening, I stood up, straight and tall - Carmen Electra style - all the while pushing every bit of my womenhood backwards. When I finally got to the upright position, there was a cozy, plush landing for my back.
And then, and ONLY then - did I realize that I had just given a man a lap dance. Somehow, in stealth mode - ONE of the 2 men that were there, decided to slip behind me for a simple coat grab - oblivious that an R-rated moment was about to happen on him and to him. There were no mysteries left to the imagination. ALL was experienced. We became one, if that is possible with your clothes on. (Which it is)
And then I left in a complete horrified stupor. And the pizza flag whipping in the wind, whipped my painting. My green snow painting.
Take Aways
1) If you're going to become familiar with a complete stranger, do it thoroughly and quickly.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Homskul iz Grat
These are the days that I love, love homeschooling. These. This. It happens once every 5 million years - but in these very rare instances, when all the stars align in the most glorious way. When I can breath for two seconds. And love, grateful for most. I love homeschooling.
First it starts with the weather. And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather. But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall. Dark. Miserably dark. Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark. Misty and sometimes rainy. Leaves still on the trees. But half on the ground. And cold. It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.
I have one lamp on in the house. I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.
The kids: One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.
Me?: Yes, yes. Still looking like Miss Hannigan
This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery. Take a break from the brow beating. We've worked for 11 weeks without a break. So, well deserved for all. But mostly me.
I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle. He won't stop talking. And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP". But I don't. I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come. And what if I squashed it, and then it never came? So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence. And 99 out of 100 times it's something like: "mom, do you think this piece goes here?" But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it. "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"
Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother. So much imagination in the corner.
And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great. Always together. Naked or not. Imagination growing and working. We can move slow, or we can move fast. I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.
Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom. It will still be there tomorrow. I will drink another cup of tea. I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over. And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch. I will strive to make dinner. And if not, we'll have toast. With lucky butter. And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing. Fall is for sewing. And re-vamping. And freshing-up and re-decorating.
Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic. The middle of the blade snapped. My birthday knife is no more.
Take Aways
1) Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2) Eat chips only more than not
3) Be naked more than not
4) Stay away from garlic more than not
5) Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever
First it starts with the weather. And there is no set perfect "love homeschooling" weather. But today is the most perfect, most quintessential day of fall. Dark. Miserably dark. Turn-the-lights-on-so-you-don't-trip dark. Misty and sometimes rainy. Leaves still on the trees. But half on the ground. And cold. It must be cold for a quintessential fall day.
I have one lamp on in the house. I figured I would take my chances tripping. And haven't so far.
The kids: One is completely naked, one is wearing a swim suit cover-up, and one is properly clothed.
Me?: Yes, yes. Still looking like Miss Hannigan
This week, I have decided to take off from the drudgery. Take a break from the brow beating. We've worked for 11 weeks without a break. So, well deserved for all. But mostly me.
I have a 3 year old, naked man figuring out a 60 piece puzzle. He won't stop talking. And I dream about yelling with the all the strength of 1000 earthquakes, "please, please SHUT UP". But I don't. I don't know when the next magical moment is going to come. And what if I squashed it, and then it never came? So I let him talk, and say "mama" 14 times in a row before he forms the rest of the sentence. And 99 out of 100 times it's something like: "mom, do you think this piece goes here?" But that 1 out of 100 times is so worth it. "mom, when you were a little boy, did you have a big scrotum?"
Murnice, hiding in the corner with all 20 Beanie Babies we got from Great Grandmother. So much imagination in the corner.
And this, all this, is why homeschooling is so great. Always together. Naked or not. Imagination growing and working. We can move slow, or we can move fast. I can look like a swamp donkey and snuggle just as effectively.
Today, I choose to ignore the pee-laden bathroom. It will still be there tomorrow. I will drink another cup of tea. I most likely will ignore lunch time and just pull our a bag of chips for the naked man and half clothed girl to fight over. And they'll feel like kings and queens eating chips for lunch. I will strive to make dinner. And if not, we'll have toast. With lucky butter. And if the stars stay aligned, I will attempt to start my fall sewing. Fall is for sewing. And re-vamping. And freshing-up and re-decorating.
Also, I broke a knife on a head of garlic. The middle of the blade snapped. My birthday knife is no more.
Take Aways
1) Attempt to look like a swamp donkey more than not
2) Eat chips only more than not
3) Be naked more than not
4) Stay away from garlic more than not
5) Don't paint your lamp in Easter egg colors, ever
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Sex, Apparently
Sex. I am fully aware that sex is not the highlight of a marriage. But right now, it seems like it is. It's there, the holy grail of full fledged adulthood. I can see it peaking at me from dusty corners and poopy toilet lids. It hides in the grease film that engulfs my head and the toe hairs that feel the need to party. It taunts me playing catch-me-if-you-can. And because it's so close and so unachievable, I think about it ALL. DAY. LONG.
I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. With lady bits. Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.
And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is. And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat. (At least he used to. It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)
We do all the right things. Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home. We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed. We smile at each other nicely. We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout". We talk about it all. With smiles of course.
But here's the problem.
WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME
For real. I have another baby. And all of that ^^^^^ is true. Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.
And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child. *sigh* *giggle* that was fun. A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional. And overrated. And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home. And sometimes I like to show him that I love him. And homeschooling. And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet. Laundry. And enzyming the poop stains away. And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist. Especially when you don't go grocery shopping. You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled. Not an ounce. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce. It's stuck. And boy, do I feel like a woman. Well, surfacely. My thighs not only touch each other. They smoosh and smack and dimple. And when I walk they do their own dance. Actually, everything does its own dance. Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money. Because apparently I stress spend money. And amazon prime is secretly my lover. And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it. Too tired to yell at me. And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.
It's dreadful. I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it. Did you know that almonds are amazing? As in superfood amazing. And they make really good milk for WW. Because apparently my super power right now is making milk. But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw. At least in the US. They have to be pasteurized. And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away. Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath. And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds. With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds. How incredibly stupid is that. I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND! Straight from the tree. Pick the damn almond and hand it over. Apparently, it can't be done. Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.
So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags. But I do want to tell you some good news. We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting. It actually happened.
Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage. No pun intended. For real.) The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment. Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.
Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?
And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means. It's not too difficult. But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was. (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)
I'll end with this: there is always hope. That's my take away. And my two cents. And my best advice. And the coolest thing I could come up with to say. And what I really believe.
Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again. To be and do my absolute best. And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.
I JUST WANT TO FEEL LIKE A WOMAN. With lady bits. Who is in a relationship with somebody who thinks my lady bits are neat.
And you know, I am in this relationship with this man who knows what a spanking is. And he thinks my lady bits are pretty neat. (At least he used to. It's been so long I'm not even sure he knows what lady bits are anymore.)
We do all the right things. Write messages on pieces of paper that float around in the dustbowl aka our mole hole aka the place we call home. We even use our phones, because a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes words are worth as many words as you typed. We smile at each other nicely. We talk (in person) how wonderful it would be to "play that old banjo" and "eat at the clam bake" and "fox trot around the world" and "twist and shout". We talk about it all. With smiles of course.
But here's the problem.
WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS NAME, WAILING WILLIAM IS HIS GAME
For real. I have another baby. And all of that ^^^^^ is true. Without an ounce of writers exaggeration.
And so all the time that I could be spending "filling up the old urn" and "walking the bat cave" I instead spend feeding forever my first love child. (For real, he is my first love child. *sigh* *giggle* that was fun. A time when my body was a wonderland. And sleep was optional. And overrated. And sometimes, downright stupid.) And washing dishes for Big D because he's never home. And sometimes I like to show him that I love him. And homeschooling. And laundry and cleaning the pee pool that collects at the back of my toilet. Laundry. And enzyming the poop stains away. And making up things to eat, because that takes a real artist. Especially when you don't go grocery shopping. You would think that my baby weight might have dwindled. Not an ounce. Not. One. Bloody. Ounce. It's stuck. And boy, do I feel like a woman. Well, surfacely. My thighs not only touch each other. They smoosh and smack and dimple. And when I walk they do their own dance. Actually, everything does its own dance. Quite an interesting sensation . . . .bunny trailllllll .......................And I spend money. Because apparently I stress spend money. And amazon prime is secretly my lover. And poor Big D is stuck smack in the middle of it. Too tired to yell at me. And too in love with me since I washed his dishes.
It's dreadful. I sit and feed WW and then just think. Think about all the neat things I should look up to see if AP has it. Did you know that almonds are amazing? As in superfood amazing. And they make really good milk for WW. Because apparently my super power right now is making milk. But did you know that raw almonds aren't really raw. At least in the US. They have to be pasteurized. And that happens with either a steam process that cooks most of the goodness away. Or, with a chemical toxic waste fumigation bath. And so if you want almonds, simple simple almonds. With all the goodness that they're supposed to come with, you have to dig hard to make sure you're getting plain old almonds. How incredibly stupid is that. I JUST WANT A BLOODY ALMOND! Straight from the tree. Pick the damn almond and hand it over. Apparently, it can't be done. Sorry WW, you have to have half-ass milk.
So that's the trouble I get in, just by pulling out my milk bags. But I do want to tell you some good news. We (Big D and I) found a time to have our genitalia go a courting. It actually happened.
Dinner was sizzling on the stove, at the verge of being done (sausage. No pun intended. For real.) The kids were 5 minutes from the end of their movie they were watching, WW was at the very last seconds of his evening nap, and Friday Friends were to arrive at any moment. Yes, all of this was happening, and it was the most prime(al) time to reacquaint ourselves.
Does it count if you lift the lid of a garbage dumpster, peak inside at all the goodies, snatch one thing, and then leave . . . does that count as dumpster diving?
And I'll leave you to figure out what all of that means. It's not too difficult. But I will say, that's how incredibly awesome it was. (sarcasm dripping like a diarrhea explosion)
I'll end with this: there is always hope. That's my take away. And my two cents. And my best advice. And the coolest thing I could come up with to say. And what I really believe.
Because if I didn't believe that, there would be no reason at all to try again. To be and do my absolute best. And so I make the conscious choice to choose to hope.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Heart-Lead with No Guilt
So . . . . ice bucket gallore . . . .filling up my newsfeed. (AHEM!!!!!) I am a desperate SAHM who needs to be entertained a tad more than to watch everybody (literally) and their brother, father, sister, and mother . . . .AND NOW CHILDREN????!!!!!!! dump semi icy water over their head. In the name of bringing awareness to a disease.
I'm going to guess that this post will cause some mixed emotions. So be it.
1) I am aware of ALS
2) It is a horrible disease and way to die
3) I watched a family friend fade
4) I truly feel awful that humans die this way and that family members and friends can only watch helplessly
5) I am not passionate about this disease
6) I will not be doing the ice bucket challenge
7) And I don't feel guilty for feeling this way
I can feel empathetic, but that doesn't mean that I need to feel guilted into doing some sort of silly stunt just to let the world know that "I'm a good person".
In the privacy of our own home, where the world can't see - besides Big Brother - Big D and I are bombarded with hurts of this world. Sorrows, misfortunes, turmoils, wrongs - all results of sin. So much illness and disease. So much death, in horrible ways. So much struggle just to survive. And in our privacy, we open our hearts to hear what God has to say to OUR FAMILY, personally. Where does he want us to quietly give. Doesn't he tell us to not let the right hand know what the left hand does? (I think - somewhere)(Yup, Matthew 6:3)
....................................................................................................................................................
Honestly, I'm kind of disgusted. All this outrage over ALS. But what about so many other things. Why is nobody vomiting all over my newsfeed in the name of abortion? Or the ISIS crisis? Or sex trafficking? Or child pornography? Or orphans? Or a million other things that are plaguing our society and world. Are those things too big? Or too far away from OUR world? We can't touch them personally, so we jump on the ALS bandwagon because our friend's dad's cousin died 11 years ago.
I'm not trying to make fun of this, I'm just completely wondering why? Why ALS? And why did the world literally ALL decide at once that THAT was a good thing to do?
And who's sending the money? If you read what most people write - dump ice water over your head in 24 hours OR get penalized and send $100 to ALS. Is there some sort of ALS ice bucket police out there? And is the money being sent, guilt money? Who wants guilt money?
The whole thing is bizarre and makes me shake my head. Those who feel passionate about this disease are already doing what they feel is right according to their heart. Donating anyway. Supporting in the ways they can, anyway.
But telling everybody to feel the same way, and do the same thing - because facebook told me too . . . . . . . .
I think the world would be a much better place if we just did what Jesus told us to. And that being - love our neighbor as our self. If we all looked inside our inner-souls, and listened to what spoke to our hearts - and then gave in whatever way we could to THAT - wouldn't it be a much grander thing? The whole world would be touched in someway. Because we all are different. With different thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, convictions. Our hearts are all pulled differently.
Why can't we be heart-lead? Instead of facebook lead.
And on a sidenote, I kinda liked this article regarding the whole thing.
I'm going to guess that this post will cause some mixed emotions. So be it.
1) I am aware of ALS
2) It is a horrible disease and way to die
3) I watched a family friend fade
4) I truly feel awful that humans die this way and that family members and friends can only watch helplessly
5) I am not passionate about this disease
6) I will not be doing the ice bucket challenge
7) And I don't feel guilty for feeling this way
I can feel empathetic, but that doesn't mean that I need to feel guilted into doing some sort of silly stunt just to let the world know that "I'm a good person".
In the privacy of our own home, where the world can't see - besides Big Brother - Big D and I are bombarded with hurts of this world. Sorrows, misfortunes, turmoils, wrongs - all results of sin. So much illness and disease. So much death, in horrible ways. So much struggle just to survive. And in our privacy, we open our hearts to hear what God has to say to OUR FAMILY, personally. Where does he want us to quietly give. Doesn't he tell us to not let the right hand know what the left hand does? (I think - somewhere)(Yup, Matthew 6:3)
....................................................................................................................................................
Honestly, I'm kind of disgusted. All this outrage over ALS. But what about so many other things. Why is nobody vomiting all over my newsfeed in the name of abortion? Or the ISIS crisis? Or sex trafficking? Or child pornography? Or orphans? Or a million other things that are plaguing our society and world. Are those things too big? Or too far away from OUR world? We can't touch them personally, so we jump on the ALS bandwagon because our friend's dad's cousin died 11 years ago.
I'm not trying to make fun of this, I'm just completely wondering why? Why ALS? And why did the world literally ALL decide at once that THAT was a good thing to do?
And who's sending the money? If you read what most people write - dump ice water over your head in 24 hours OR get penalized and send $100 to ALS. Is there some sort of ALS ice bucket police out there? And is the money being sent, guilt money? Who wants guilt money?
The whole thing is bizarre and makes me shake my head. Those who feel passionate about this disease are already doing what they feel is right according to their heart. Donating anyway. Supporting in the ways they can, anyway.
But telling everybody to feel the same way, and do the same thing - because facebook told me too . . . . . . . .
I think the world would be a much better place if we just did what Jesus told us to. And that being - love our neighbor as our self. If we all looked inside our inner-souls, and listened to what spoke to our hearts - and then gave in whatever way we could to THAT - wouldn't it be a much grander thing? The whole world would be touched in someway. Because we all are different. With different thoughts, feelings, emotions, ideas, convictions. Our hearts are all pulled differently.
Why can't we be heart-lead? Instead of facebook lead.
And on a sidenote, I kinda liked this article regarding the whole thing.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 6
I woke up the next morning. Ned was a memory. He was completely gone.
I'm a light sleeper. The bathroom is inches from my bedroom. Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.
I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me. He took him home. And left me to heal. To feel. To believe in goodness and hurt and grace. He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me. What will you do with this, for me?"
You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness. Perfectness. Great life - if we choose to love him. No, instead he promises to never leave our side. To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness. Strength, when we feel we can't. A second more. And grace. Oh, so much grace.
I hid from the world. And told no one of my empty hole. Business as usual, for what needed to be done. Work, etc.
I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice. We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique. I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit. My mental state was so raw. And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill. The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door. And Murnice asks why there is blood.
That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.
I hid for months. And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house. Looking into their scar-free lives. Feeling every moment. Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through. Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt. I did not give myself a timeline. Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond. I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.
....................................................................
The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order. But in my mind, they happened close in time.
Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .
There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself. He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that. We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness. One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies. And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one." And then he ran away.
(update: within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife. And that whole conversation came up. He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier. I told him the power those words held. So much hope.)
..........................................................
I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"
HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words. The first time that I was real with myself and with God. Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire. Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were.
You see, for 3 years we prayed like this: Dear Jesus, we are so grateful for Murnice. Healthy, wonderful Murnice. But we would love to have another baby if it's your will. Because we want your will. And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us. And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies. Above all, we want what you want.
Which is fine and great. But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him. To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details. Nitty-grits. Just because he loves us that much. He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance. Just as any lover would desire to do. He wants to know us intimately. And intimacy comes with details.
So we changed our prayer. We asked for a baby. Send us a baby. Not, "if it's your will". Or, "if you deem it appropriate". Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.
The end.
I'm a light sleeper. The bathroom is inches from my bedroom. Nobody flushes the toilet in the middle of night.
I think Jesus scooped Ned up for me. He took him home. And left me to heal. To feel. To believe in goodness and hurt and grace. He left me with a hole in my heart, and said, "for me. What will you do with this, for me?"
You see, God doesn't promise blissfulness. Or loveliness. Perfectness. Great life - if we choose to love him. No, instead he promises to never leave our side. To bring joy in the morning after a night of wretchedness. Strength, when we feel we can't. A second more. And grace. Oh, so much grace.
I hid from the world. And told no one of my empty hole. Business as usual, for what needed to be done. Work, etc.
I have a vivid memory of being out in town with Queen Bee and Murnice. We wanted to go to an upscaley boutique. I needed to use the restroom, as I was still bleeding quite a bit. My mental state was so raw. And the horrific-ness of how I was treated because I needed to use the restroom would have brought poop-flies to a standstill. The lady who brought me to the bathroom had to stand right outside the door. And Murnice asks why there is blood.
That my dear, are the remnants of your brother, who is no longer.
I hid for months. And stalked everybody on facebook in my darkened house. Looking into their scar-free lives. Feeling every moment. Allowing every bit of mourning to surge through. Allowing myself to feel what needed to be felt. I did not give myself a timeline. Or beat myself up for still feeling so sad, months beyond. I just remember opening my heart, and wallowing.
....................................................................
The next couple of things that happened, I do not remember the order. But in my mind, they happened close in time.
Up to this point, we had been trying to conceive for 3 years... . . . .
There was this guy at church, who for some reason was drawn to Big D and myself. He always made a point to say hi - but it never went any farther than that. We always thought it was a little strange, but there's nothing you can do about strange-ness. One Sunday we must have looked exceptionally down, and it came out that we were struggling with infertility and losing babies. And he looked at Murnice and said, "she's not your last one." And then he ran away.
(update: within the last year, we have started to build a relationship with him and his wife. And that whole conversation came up. He was horrified that that came slipping out of his mouth 4 years earlier. I told him the power those words held. So much hope.)
..........................................................
I was driving by myself one Sunday, praying my mamsy-pamsy prayer (I'll get to that later) and Jesus reached down into my car, slapped my little cheeks, and said, "Foxy, what do you want?"
HOT DAMN, I WANT A DADGUM, REAL-LIVING BABY, THAT I PUSHED OUT OF MY OWN ALREADY TRAIN-WRECKED VAGINA. THAT'S WHAT I WANT.
And that was the first time that I had ever uttered those words. The first time that I was real with myself and with God. Real, with not feeling unworthy of having a desire. Real, with screaming from the rooftops what my selfish wants were.
You see, for 3 years we prayed like this: Dear Jesus, we are so grateful for Murnice. Healthy, wonderful Murnice. But we would love to have another baby if it's your will. Because we want your will. And we recognize that you see all and know all, and maybe another baby just isn't in the cards for us. And if that's the case, just give our hearts a peace and take away this desire for more babies. Above all, we want what you want.
Which is fine and great. But we were totally missing the point, that Jesus wants us to be real with him. To share our desires, as silly or earthly or spiritual, he wants us to give him details. Nitty-grits. Just because he loves us that much. He wants to shatter our earth-ridden minds with extravagance. Just as any lover would desire to do. He wants to know us intimately. And intimacy comes with details.
So we changed our prayer. We asked for a baby. Send us a baby. Not, "if it's your will". Or, "if you deem it appropriate". Just plain and simple, give. us. a. baby.
The end.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Wonder No More
Oh, it's happened. The thing that parents - probably more so mothers, than fathers - expect, know, is bound to happen. Someway or another. That really awkward happening. Where you don't know how to prepare for it. Or even know how you're going to respond to it. You just hope that all the stars align and make it, the "happening", happen as smoothly as will allow.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
This past weekend came straight out of heaven. The weather, that is. 80 F. With full sun. So much hope glittered that day. I was feeling needy, as usual. And Big D thought it incredibly appropriate to do his best at avoiding the fact that I needed a Dr. Pepper right then and there, on the spot.
You might be thinking I sound a little bratty at this point. But I can assure you - I was not bratty. At least in the beginning.
We stopped at the grocer after church. (Yup, went to church) Big D needed to get milk and pickles.(another long, ridiculous story) I asked him to also grab some Dr. Pepper. My tongue was drowning in saliva, just from the thought of chemicals and cancer.
Now, I don't think it's very good natured of a wife to ask . . . *real whiney voice* "did you get milk? did you get pickles? did you get Dr. Pepper?" when he gets back to the car. It's 3 items. I expect that a grown, reasonably minded-man can remember 3 things. And I should really restrain all my nagginess.
So I restrained. And it wasn't even hard for me.
I even let him eat his lunch before I brought up my Dr. Pepper. And by bringing up, it was just a simple "where did you put the Dr. Pepper?"
And the next part, is the part in the story where I roared. And displayed everything so natural and unlovely that every woman possess. I think I stomped once or twice. And made some ugly faces. Maybe some curse words thrown in for good measure. And demanded. DEMANDED, immediate action.
Even with the fine display of displeasure and urgency, Big D still thought it was appropriate to ride his bike to fetch the forgotten beverage.
And what's a girl to do? He already made up his mind. He wanted to ride his bike. He knew I was beyond rabid tiger-like. There's only so much of a fit that can be thrown over something as childish as a drink.
So I chose to trust that Big D would move his very-out-of-shape legs, very fast the few miles and mountain he needed to ride. (I'm working on trust) (that's why I didn't naggy ask at the grocer, the first time, if he had remembered everything)
Let me tell you, I really think only 7 minutes went by before he was back in the house. Puffing, red-faced and slightly miserable looking.
And I looked as pleased as a spoiled brat on Christmas - waiting for my pony to be presented.
............................................................
Um..................Yup, the "pony" was left at the stable. Because somebody forgot to bring their wallet.
And then I shut down. Because you can only get so mad before it becomes too emotionally exhausting.
I felt a little bad for Big D. . . . .butmorebadforme.
The third time, he drove. And remembered. And by the time he got back, I was so relieved. And needy. He was so pumped full of anger, frustration, and testosterone - that we agreed to take care of business. Adult style.
To set the tone: 80 degrees, sunny and bright, middle of the afternoon, windows open, both kids outside - and had been outside for awhile - playing like kings and queens.
At this point, the adult as to make a choice. Go out and tell the children to NOT come inside unless there is blood oozing from some body. Or, believe in fairy tales and all things false and movie-like and just do "it" because the chances of the kids coming inside on this incredible day - are slim to none.
We chose choice B - believe in farty-tales.
And with that choice, we then had to make another choice. Close the bedroom door, and have no warning of when child A or child B or child A and B could come barging in. Or choose to keep the bedroom door open so that we could hear the little warning pitter-patters and apply appropriate coverage.
Once again, we chose choice B. Keep door open.
I also will preface the next part with the key point, that the consummation of our marriage, plan - was indeed going to happen fast. In other words, a "quickie". Two minutes - tops.
1:27 seconds - we hear the toilet lid slam down and the faucet turned on.
For those of you that have been to our mole-hole, you know very well that the bathroom door is directly across from our bedroom door.
List of thoughts and actions that happened in the next .005683 seconds:
1) How did any child walk by our door without me seeing them
2) It must be Murnice, because she can be stealth like
3) But that slamming of the lid was definitely boyish
4) Panic from Big D
5) Hysterical giggling from me
6) Very nervous "what do we do?!" from Big D
7) "They've already seen everything, so just hold still" from me
8) Audible yell from me, "nice job kids"
And then I found out it was just Ed. I really really think an angel carried him into the house, plopped him on the toilet, and caught his pee in his own angel hands - because there is just no other explanation as to how a bumbling, chatty-Kath, trippy-slap-feeted, pigpie - almost 3 year old boy could have walked through my house (hard wood floors) past my bedroom door, and peed without a scent of a sound.
When I yelled, "nice job kids", Ed interpreted that as "come into the bedroom and take a good peaksy. And while you're at it, lets talk for awhile."
"Hey dad, why are you snuggling with mom? Can you get Murny the gum down. She wants the gum. Mom, I see your ninnies. Haha, dad - you have a big butt. Can you get the gum. It's in the garage. It's too high." etc - for another 2 minutes. Just round and round. "Gum" - meaning Big D's cross bow. . . . . (I feel like I should be a disclaimer here that says, we have never allowed our children to play or use the cross bow. Or any cross bow.)
So I finally said, "Ed, daddy wants to spend time with mama's boobies" (earlier that week, he and Murnice got into a verbal altercation over what Dad liked better - boobies or nipples. I don't think that's ever a phone call, over lunch, you expect to get from your kids. . . . . . Dad picked boobs - for the sake of the children. Don't judge what happens over here in this family. I have bizarre children)
And then he snickered a few more times about things that strike a 2-year-old as humorous, and finally left.
Approximately 21 seconds later, I HEARD (this time) both blessings come into the house, and tramp down the hallway.
I start whisper screaming "THEY'RE COMING!!!!!!" And I'm not sure if Big D was taking the scripture of "doing everything as unto the Lord" aka giving it your all and applying it at that moment. Or . . . . if he just didn't care. Or . . . .if there was no level of comprehension of "they're coming" ...................................
. . . . . Yup . . . . . . .and then we had 2 kids in the bedroom with us. Giggling at the-picture-is-worth-a-thousand-words, display.
Things I am grateful for:
1) The modest position we chose to consumate
2) That we don't ever have to waste another speck of a wonder, dreading the "great reveal"
3) That the children do not seem to be struggling from any forms of PTSD, OR have asked any questions
4) That Big D and I were able to not "be weird" causing confusion and tears
And now I'm going to run away, and not make eye contact with anybody for awhile.
Monday, April 7, 2014
I Am Not 23
It's never a good feeling to hear that your spouse finds somebody that they see on a regular basis, attractive. But not just attractive, hot. And not just hot, but they also have a tight ass.
Now I know that I'm going out on a limb airing a very difficult conversation. But I have never been one to hide things. Or to pretend our lives were anything but real. And messy.
I normally don't struggle with self confidence. I'm pretty good with "what you see is what you get. And I'm really ok with that." I'm working on my ever changing new body as babies come and babies go. Every time there seems to be a new body that is left behind. A little extra skin. A little more flop. It's hard. It's something that every mother has to work through. And it's something that no baby partner/spouse will ever be able to understand. The emotional struggle of being ok, agin and again, with what can't be changed.
Every woman wants to feel good. To feel queen like. And different things make different lady-loos shine.
Me personally, I feel the most queenlike when I have an astronomical amount of beads around my ankles, wrists, and neck. And to top it truly off - every finger would have a ring. Or maybe two. My hair would be in some sort of quasi-greasy mess. And my clothes, - yes, they would appear raggish to some. Flowy. Lovely.
If you see me in this sort of fanciful attire, I'm having a great day. I feel great. You could say, I wear my feelings. Literally.
Big D on the otherhand . . . .*ahem* finds things such as *gag* sneakers *puke* *choke* attractive. Yoga pants. Things that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight. Bordering on slutty. (But he wouldn't say that) Everything that I'm not. Sexy business clothes? He says yes. Workout attire? He says yes. Modern look? He says yes.
And I'm over here, on the couch with my 30 year old threadbare skirt on, feeling magical. Most of the time.
I kinda compromise by keeping my undergarments a tad more flare-y.
I believe in staying true to yourself. Not changing who you are for somebody else to accept you. But, that doesn't mean that every once in a while I'll pull out a pair of pants that show off how flat and unattractive my bottom has grown with the years of marriage and number of children that I've acquired and have lived through.
And that's me, most of all the time.
But I am human. And I am woman. Which means that I do become a crumbly mess topped off with a large shot of hormonal whipped cream. Sometimes.
Sometimes, on those weepy waily days. Where you just want the world to tell you that you are enough. That you are desirable. That your ass is tighter. And the cheese-dimples are just lust sprinkles. And sorority Honey Buns, that's only made it to year 23, has got nothing on all that you have created. All that you have made your life. And everything that your dimples have brought with sacrifice.
My human self is crushed with not being "good enough". Crushed with not being worthy of "tight ass" status. (so silly, I know) . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there's another part of the story. The part of the story were I've fought with Big D for almost 10 years on being more transparent. More truthful, in the way of not leaving out by omission. By sharing the hard stuff, that could dig a deep nasty hole. And make for tears. Hurt feelings. Feelings of self-loathing. That could crumble my self-confidence.
And he is finally hearing my heart. And he is stepping out onto a scary limb. That no man wants to be a part of. The messy part. The part where a man thinks that it's better to just keep things to himself. Quiet. To not wake the dragon. Because they don't have the energy to go to that dark place with their wife.
He's choosing hard over easy. He's choosing transparency over blind. He's choosing honor over pride. I am so loved.
As utterly crumpled in spirit as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm not as confident as I think myself to be. Or maybe I'm just having a weak moment. Or maybe I need to find fresh-faced Honey Bun's a couple of 30 year old, threadbare skirts to wear to class.
Now I know that I'm going out on a limb airing a very difficult conversation. But I have never been one to hide things. Or to pretend our lives were anything but real. And messy.
I normally don't struggle with self confidence. I'm pretty good with "what you see is what you get. And I'm really ok with that." I'm working on my ever changing new body as babies come and babies go. Every time there seems to be a new body that is left behind. A little extra skin. A little more flop. It's hard. It's something that every mother has to work through. And it's something that no baby partner/spouse will ever be able to understand. The emotional struggle of being ok, agin and again, with what can't be changed.
Every woman wants to feel good. To feel queen like. And different things make different lady-loos shine.
Me personally, I feel the most queenlike when I have an astronomical amount of beads around my ankles, wrists, and neck. And to top it truly off - every finger would have a ring. Or maybe two. My hair would be in some sort of quasi-greasy mess. And my clothes, - yes, they would appear raggish to some. Flowy. Lovely.
If you see me in this sort of fanciful attire, I'm having a great day. I feel great. You could say, I wear my feelings. Literally.
Big D on the otherhand . . . .*ahem* finds things such as *gag* sneakers *puke* *choke* attractive. Yoga pants. Things that leave nothing to the imagination. Tight. Bordering on slutty. (But he wouldn't say that) Everything that I'm not. Sexy business clothes? He says yes. Workout attire? He says yes. Modern look? He says yes.
And I'm over here, on the couch with my 30 year old threadbare skirt on, feeling magical. Most of the time.
I kinda compromise by keeping my undergarments a tad more flare-y.
I believe in staying true to yourself. Not changing who you are for somebody else to accept you. But, that doesn't mean that every once in a while I'll pull out a pair of pants that show off how flat and unattractive my bottom has grown with the years of marriage and number of children that I've acquired and have lived through.
And that's me, most of all the time.
But I am human. And I am woman. Which means that I do become a crumbly mess topped off with a large shot of hormonal whipped cream. Sometimes.
Sometimes, on those weepy waily days. Where you just want the world to tell you that you are enough. That you are desirable. That your ass is tighter. And the cheese-dimples are just lust sprinkles. And sorority Honey Buns, that's only made it to year 23, has got nothing on all that you have created. All that you have made your life. And everything that your dimples have brought with sacrifice.
My human self is crushed with not being "good enough". Crushed with not being worthy of "tight ass" status. (so silly, I know) . . . . . . . . . . . .
But there's another part of the story. The part of the story were I've fought with Big D for almost 10 years on being more transparent. More truthful, in the way of not leaving out by omission. By sharing the hard stuff, that could dig a deep nasty hole. And make for tears. Hurt feelings. Feelings of self-loathing. That could crumble my self-confidence.
And he is finally hearing my heart. And he is stepping out onto a scary limb. That no man wants to be a part of. The messy part. The part where a man thinks that it's better to just keep things to himself. Quiet. To not wake the dragon. Because they don't have the energy to go to that dark place with their wife.
He's choosing hard over easy. He's choosing transparency over blind. He's choosing honor over pride. I am so loved.
As utterly crumpled in spirit as I am, I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm not as confident as I think myself to be. Or maybe I'm just having a weak moment. Or maybe I need to find fresh-faced Honey Bun's a couple of 30 year old, threadbare skirts to wear to class.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Ezer Kenegdo - I Do Not Serve
I could start this blog out a million different ways.
I don't serve.
I am a feminist.
Ok, two ways. . . . .
So recently this topic of serving has come up in conversation. Serving your husband, that is. And what rampage I'm about to unleash on is purely and only my undignified opinion. I am not trying to ruffle feathers, or change your mind. I'm just executing my right to have diarrhea of the mouth. I would also like to say, that this is today's opinion. As a woman, I tend to change my mind a lot. On a regular basis. But today, this is how I feel regarding this whole topic. Serving.
I think it's a bunch of boulder crap.
And I will do my best to explain why I believe that.
When God created woman, he said to Adam that she, his wife, Eve, was his ezer kenegdo. This phrase is apparently quite difficult to translate. (So the translater says) In our simple English language. Man-driven, man-applauding society, we use the words: helper. Or help meet.
I am utterly repulsed by this verbiage. I was not created, the crown of glory, to be a helper. A helper is somebody like a mother. A helper can be a slave. A helper can be secretary. Or anybody who can make somebody else's life easier. I was not created to make some man's life easier. Oh, no. (my pulse rate is quickening quite rapidly)
I was not made to be down-trodden, dinner maker, drink getter, bender-over to make peeners happy. I am not a sex object or baby maker.
I will not be talked down to. Or put into "my place" by some man. I will not cower in fear because I said the "wrong" thing. Or feel bad when sex didn't go the way that "he" expected. I will not feel guilty if I say, "no".
I am a war partner. War partners are equals. They fight together. Equally. Hard. They're rough. And do things that don't make sense to others standing around them. They're risk takers. And brave. And don't allow guilt to fill their souls. They speak the truth. For there isn't time for mind games, for resentment, for bush hiding.
........... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...........................................
I'll share what the translater discovered.
Ezer is used in only 20 other places in the Old Testament. And everytime it's used, God is being described. (Besides that one time it was used for Eve) And it was used when God was needed to come through, desperately. Most of the contexts are life and death, and God is our only hope. Another way to translate ezer, would be "lifesaver."
Kenegdo means alongside or counterpart.
It goes on to say, why would you need a "lifesaver" if your mission is to be a couch potato? You need an ezer when your life is in constant danger.
We as women desperately want to share life together as a great adventure. Is there truly an woman who deeply desires a life of rubbing cheese-covered toes and being mommy to lazy-ass husband? Is that the real desire?
Wanting to share in this life adventure comes straight from the heart of God, who also wants this. God doesn't want to be an option in our lives. An appendage, a tag-along. And neither does any woman.
(Taken from Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge)
We were created for bigger and better than what we allow ourselves to believe. We are ridden and riddled with guilt. Which doesn't come from God.
When did we start thinking it was normal and our duty to play mommy to our husbands? When did this start being ok? And when did we start feeling guilty for NOT playing mommy?
God says that I am to respect my husband. (Full-fledgedly agree) (although I suck green slimy balls at it)
My heart of hearts wants to respect my husband. I don't want to cut him down with words. Or ignore his trying attention. When he has a conviction, I want to honor him in his conviction. Because it's not about me, at this point. It's between God and him. And he is held accountable to what God has for him.
God says that we are to serve others. (I full-fledgedly agree)(although I struggle 39.4970 lbs with this) There are so many different ways to serve. Time, listening heart, money, action, words. Of course this all comes down to giving. Yes, yes! Serving is good. We need to meet others where they need to be met. In the messy dirt. With humility. We are called to this.
BUT, I draw a line in the sand when it comes to my husband. And this is where the confusion comes in. Women interpret serving their husbands as being there for their every beck and call. And heap coals of guilt upon themselves when they don't perform to a certain level of slave-hood.
Servanthood is something that you do when their is a legitmate need. Getting my large and ever increasing, cheese covered bottom off of the couch to fetch my husband (who is sitting in the next room at the computer on his even larger bottom) a nice cold, refreshing drink - because he asked for it - is not servanthood. THAT is slavehood.
Another part of this whole conversation . . . I (obviously) stay at home. Which doesn't mean that I'm lazy. Or that I struggle finding things that need to be done. Mothers, wives - you know that our work is never done when it comes to tending to the house and children. But that's exactly what it is. Our work. I choose to stay home. Therefore I choose to take care of the tasks that need to be accomplished for a smooth sailing ship. I enjoy laundry. If I didn't - I wouldn't do it. I enjoy making dinner 3-4 nights out of the week. If I didn't, I wouldn't cook. I enjoy homeschooling. I enjoy cleaning my bathroom once a week. And vacuuming once everyother month. I choose to not live in a land filled with resentment. It does not work for me. Or my marriage. I do not sweep under the rug. Instead, I tend to pull that rug up and give it a good shaking a few times a day.
I don't like doing dishes. And I don't do them. I don't like putting the children to bed. And I don't do it. I don't like going to church right now. And I don't go.
But, if Big D asked if I could put the kids to bed for him, so he could study longer, I would. For him. Probably not with joy in my heart. (I never said I was perfect) But for him, him whom I want to respect. He, who has needs to. He who never abuses my ezer kenego - because he respects my position next to him in this war. He knows I am his lifesaver. Not quite the lifesaver he had in his fantasy mind, but he respects the choice God had for him. Specifically.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I am looking so forward to all of your comments regarding this hot topic. Because it is a hot topic, filled with confusion. Share away, my lovelies!
*Disclaimer* please forgive every and all misspellings. I'm working on the tabby cat - and I don't know how to set up spell check.
I don't serve.
I am a feminist.
Ok, two ways. . . . .
So recently this topic of serving has come up in conversation. Serving your husband, that is. And what rampage I'm about to unleash on is purely and only my undignified opinion. I am not trying to ruffle feathers, or change your mind. I'm just executing my right to have diarrhea of the mouth. I would also like to say, that this is today's opinion. As a woman, I tend to change my mind a lot. On a regular basis. But today, this is how I feel regarding this whole topic. Serving.
I think it's a bunch of boulder crap.
And I will do my best to explain why I believe that.
When God created woman, he said to Adam that she, his wife, Eve, was his ezer kenegdo. This phrase is apparently quite difficult to translate. (So the translater says) In our simple English language. Man-driven, man-applauding society, we use the words: helper. Or help meet.
I am utterly repulsed by this verbiage. I was not created, the crown of glory, to be a helper. A helper is somebody like a mother. A helper can be a slave. A helper can be secretary. Or anybody who can make somebody else's life easier. I was not created to make some man's life easier. Oh, no. (my pulse rate is quickening quite rapidly)
I was not made to be down-trodden, dinner maker, drink getter, bender-over to make peeners happy. I am not a sex object or baby maker.
I will not be talked down to. Or put into "my place" by some man. I will not cower in fear because I said the "wrong" thing. Or feel bad when sex didn't go the way that "he" expected. I will not feel guilty if I say, "no".
I am a war partner. War partners are equals. They fight together. Equally. Hard. They're rough. And do things that don't make sense to others standing around them. They're risk takers. And brave. And don't allow guilt to fill their souls. They speak the truth. For there isn't time for mind games, for resentment, for bush hiding.
........... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...........................................
I'll share what the translater discovered.
Ezer is used in only 20 other places in the Old Testament. And everytime it's used, God is being described. (Besides that one time it was used for Eve) And it was used when God was needed to come through, desperately. Most of the contexts are life and death, and God is our only hope. Another way to translate ezer, would be "lifesaver."
Kenegdo means alongside or counterpart.
It goes on to say, why would you need a "lifesaver" if your mission is to be a couch potato? You need an ezer when your life is in constant danger.
We as women desperately want to share life together as a great adventure. Is there truly an woman who deeply desires a life of rubbing cheese-covered toes and being mommy to lazy-ass husband? Is that the real desire?
Wanting to share in this life adventure comes straight from the heart of God, who also wants this. God doesn't want to be an option in our lives. An appendage, a tag-along. And neither does any woman.
(Taken from Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge)
We were created for bigger and better than what we allow ourselves to believe. We are ridden and riddled with guilt. Which doesn't come from God.
When did we start thinking it was normal and our duty to play mommy to our husbands? When did this start being ok? And when did we start feeling guilty for NOT playing mommy?
God says that I am to respect my husband. (Full-fledgedly agree) (although I suck green slimy balls at it)
My heart of hearts wants to respect my husband. I don't want to cut him down with words. Or ignore his trying attention. When he has a conviction, I want to honor him in his conviction. Because it's not about me, at this point. It's between God and him. And he is held accountable to what God has for him.
God says that we are to serve others. (I full-fledgedly agree)(although I struggle 39.4970 lbs with this) There are so many different ways to serve. Time, listening heart, money, action, words. Of course this all comes down to giving. Yes, yes! Serving is good. We need to meet others where they need to be met. In the messy dirt. With humility. We are called to this.
BUT, I draw a line in the sand when it comes to my husband. And this is where the confusion comes in. Women interpret serving their husbands as being there for their every beck and call. And heap coals of guilt upon themselves when they don't perform to a certain level of slave-hood.
Servanthood is something that you do when their is a legitmate need. Getting my large and ever increasing, cheese covered bottom off of the couch to fetch my husband (who is sitting in the next room at the computer on his even larger bottom) a nice cold, refreshing drink - because he asked for it - is not servanthood. THAT is slavehood.
Another part of this whole conversation . . . I (obviously) stay at home. Which doesn't mean that I'm lazy. Or that I struggle finding things that need to be done. Mothers, wives - you know that our work is never done when it comes to tending to the house and children. But that's exactly what it is. Our work. I choose to stay home. Therefore I choose to take care of the tasks that need to be accomplished for a smooth sailing ship. I enjoy laundry. If I didn't - I wouldn't do it. I enjoy making dinner 3-4 nights out of the week. If I didn't, I wouldn't cook. I enjoy homeschooling. I enjoy cleaning my bathroom once a week. And vacuuming once everyother month. I choose to not live in a land filled with resentment. It does not work for me. Or my marriage. I do not sweep under the rug. Instead, I tend to pull that rug up and give it a good shaking a few times a day.
I don't like doing dishes. And I don't do them. I don't like putting the children to bed. And I don't do it. I don't like going to church right now. And I don't go.
But, if Big D asked if I could put the kids to bed for him, so he could study longer, I would. For him. Probably not with joy in my heart. (I never said I was perfect) But for him, him whom I want to respect. He, who has needs to. He who never abuses my ezer kenego - because he respects my position next to him in this war. He knows I am his lifesaver. Not quite the lifesaver he had in his fantasy mind, but he respects the choice God had for him. Specifically.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I am looking so forward to all of your comments regarding this hot topic. Because it is a hot topic, filled with confusion. Share away, my lovelies!
*Disclaimer* please forgive every and all misspellings. I'm working on the tabby cat - and I don't know how to set up spell check.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
It's a Glorious Day for Sweatpants
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.
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.
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