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.
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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.
Showing posts with label Big D. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Big D. Show all posts
Monday, September 12, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
You Can't Win Them All
It has been on my heart more and more - eating healthy.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
I don't mean, drinking my milk and eating my greens. Because I don't do either of those things.
What I mean is, looking more into the quality of the food I'm eating. Going back to basics. Real material. Grandparent traditions. You know, junk like that.
Just because it's been on my heart, doesn't mean that I'm doing it all-together-now, style. I'm doing a lot of reading and researching. What will work best with my personality and our lifestyle. . . . .
I'd like to thank Mother Green Toes and The Prairie Homestead for kicking starting me. There are so many exciting things out there that I had no idea existed. Like eating dirt. And other things, that I did know about - but have never read an article that gave me the down-and-dirty (no pun intended), solid facts about - say, . . . . the health benefits of squatting while turding.
Moving on . . . .
With that being said, in the middle of all this exciting reading that I've been doing, Big D and I have really been get. ting. it. on. So much so, that there has been an alteration in my Ph level, leading to a collection of more yeast than normal. *ahem*
Ladies, let me encourage you to stop rummaging through your chemical drawers, and start looking on your kitchen counters. All's you need is a little of God's green earth crammed up into some-man's-land for relief and healing.
Healer of choice: fresh garlic cloves. Peeled of course. It smells incredibly divine. And makes me dream of fresh bread.
Midwife also suggested: taking shots of apple cider vinegar.
Ok, unbeknownst to the world (and Big D) I have been thinking about this for awhile. But it sounds overwhelming. And Easter eggish. And oh, so sour. And chore-ish.
But given the choice of being a walking bread machine, or not . . . .I'll take my shot. With a happy heart.
I have never (I say this with truth) felt more like a queen. The rush it provided. Screams came out involuntarily. Arms lost complete control, and flapped like a bird on crack. It gave me more of a rush than skinny-dipping at an illegal location with 3 male friends in the middle of winter. Would. (Did).
Yes. I will be doing this every night. And ANY time I need to feel alive.
So, with garlic cloves and apple cider vinegar under my belt (no pun intended) - I'm really starting to feel like I'm moving somewhere.
The next step was (yes, I said was) to take some fermented cod liver oil every day. It's such a small amount. And the benefits alone would want to make anyone open up and swallow.
The kind of CLO I got - recommended to me by none other than, M.G.T (she is the queen of CLO) ALSO had coconut oil (health) and butter oil (wealth) (not really, just more health - and a bonus of oral health - which is great, because I don't go to the dentist. Long story.) in it.
Today was the day to crack open the bottle. No reason why I chose today. Probably because I was feeling so brave from my shot of ACV.
I did take a whiff before scooping my spoonful, (It was a solid, because of the coconut oil) which caused me to stare long and hard at that spoonful. Thinking all sorts of encouraging and positive hogwash. And then I said, "it can't be that bad." And crammed it into my mouth.
At that precise moment:
a) I thought I was going to die
b) The phone rang
c) I started to gag and dry heave
d) Ed started screaming
I refused to spit it down the drain - because it cost so much money. And so I started to frantically flail around the kitchen looking for a suitable dish to spit it into. Now, once the offensive rotting fish liver is out of your mouth - it really isn't out of your mouth. CLO mixed with coconut and butter oil - makes the thickest, most liquid-resistant coating known in the scientific world. It also, somehow, swims up into your nasal passages.
You can gag and dry-heave all you want. Blow your nose. Cram your mouth full of chocolate cookies. It's there to stay. And you just have to go with it.
I answered the phone while cough-gagging. Took care of screaming Ed. And had 17 nightmares. About what to do with my daily allotment of CLO.
I decided the next step, was to make a smoothie. All sorts of yummy things. Liver juice included. I mixed it real good. Smelled it multiple times. I didn't gag. I tasted it. Didn't gag. In fact, I couldn't taste Nemo's guts at all.
Oh, I was feeling real proud. Until I got to the bottom of the barrel. Only to see that the oil had hardened onto the bottom of my blender. You know, with all the frozen fruits and ice cubes. . . . (idiot)
Two tries for a day equaled enough turmoil. And so I melted it with hot water and dumped it down the drain.
Except, when you mix fermented cod liver oil with hot water - you get a fine blast of death, in the face. That permeates throughout the entire kitchen. And fresh mingles with the old minglers - up your nose.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 2.
The cold water only hardened up the oil, which clogged the sink. Leaving me to have to reinstate the hot water.
Key the gagging and dry-heaving, scene 3.
I finally dumped about a gallon of clorox down the drain. And that seemed to neutralize the air enough to breath some.
I can honestly say:
1) I'm not giving up yet. One more recipe to try - and if that doesn't work, I'm going to choose to be ok with throwing it in the trash.
2) That was the worst thing I have ever, ever tasted and or smelled. It had me begging for my old offensive list of: coconut water, beets, fish eggs, and . . . . splooge. (TMI?)
3) You can't win them all.
My health-aware goals for the next couple of weeks/months:
To make my own bread
To make my own yogurt
To make elderberry elixer
To make vanilla extract
To make dishwasher tablets
To continue to be aware of what I'm eating. How is it being made? What the heckity heck is in it?
P.S. I can still taste fish lube. It must be stuck to my lips. They feel extraordinarily smooth.
Monday, January 6, 2014
A Few Words from FoxyBigLittleBits
Don't wizzle in your pants - or anything. I know I've been slacking horrifically. And have had many tongue lashings by "those" who feel they are allowed to give tongue lashings. . . . . . But the holidays are so distracting. And I've been slumped on my couch. And it's hard to have anything interesting and of worth to say when you're slumped and distracted.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
So this will be a boringesque-Christmasesque letter type of update.
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving at Mother's is always hectic, frantic, and somewhat overwhelming. Loads of people. Mostly family. But there are always some guests whom I've never met before. I always wonder in those situations what "they've been told". Because you know they've been given the run-through of who is who and all that nonsense. I know this happens, because I do it.
Everybody is required to bring some food contribution. And that's always fun cooking on a stove that has 2 burners that work (the small ones) and a poor oven that's over worked and under paid.
This year we fed the kids first and then sent them to watch a movie. It was also the first year that both I and Big D ate in peace. Full peace. I don't think I'll ever forget that meal. (I'm definitely getting excited just thinking about all the gravy I ingested.)
At Mother's, there is no such thing as sitting-and-letting-your-meal-digest. No. It's straight to work. Mother promptly starting handing out "work cards". This is where she wrote down all the jobs that needed to be done, in order to clean up from dinner.
Now this brought me great pleasure. NOTHING gets me more excited to see some lazy bottom, sitting around and letting "others" clean up a mess, that THEY have contributed to. And I don't mean to sound too sexist right now . . . . but it's mostly the men folk who participate in this rudely behavior.
So Mother passes these cards out. Well actually, we got to pick our own card (blindly). Some people got off real easy. Wipe off counters. Others had more challenging tasks. Wash all the pots and pans.
The most glorious part - everybody had to participate. The most laziest of lazys, new and old.
Then the fliers come out (black friday). And everybody gets a little frantic, and the breathing gets heavy. And with all the heavy breathing - somebody gets hungry. And they pull out all the dessert. And I think, "so soon?"
And that's Thanksgiving.
Christmas
I did all of my shopping online, from my couch. It was the most perfect decision I've made in a long time.
Big D and I don't give each other anything. So many less emotions to deal with that way.
Although, I did buy Big D some beer soap. Because it makes me feel crazy thinking about the chemicals he smears around his body in the name of cleanliness. So I found some homemade manly soap. But chose to give it to him immediately, instead of waiting for Christmas morning. His rate of appropriate approval is greater if I just give it to him versus wrapping it up and making a big "special" deal about it. And it worked in my favor. He likes his beer soap. And feels like a dragon king smearing it all over his manly bits.
The kids open their gifts on Christmas eve. Which frees up Christmas day of tears and anxious hearts of not wanting to leave their new junk at home while we visit all of the hometown family.
Christmas day is not my favorite. Although I love the spirit and preparation of it. Music included.
Ed
Ed is starting to play by himself. Key word - starting. It really is a Christmas miracle. He still prefers to sit on top of me on the couch. He poops in the pot like a champ. He is also a lazy pee-er. Which means that he squirts 42 pee dribbles on whatever he's wearing BEFORE he decides he should use the restroom. He is still sleeping on our bedroom floor in his "nest". And he'll be there until he's 17. He sleeps soundly through all adult activity. (I sleep through all adult activity too) (Kidding) When he's mad at somebody or something - he will call them or it a "stupid beagle". Yup, too much Merry Christmas Charlie Brown. And I think it's hysterical. But I don't let him know. I am somewhat of a responsible mother.
Murnice
Don't really have a lot to say about Murn. Once they reach a certain age . . . . it's like . . . . .she's hates everything. And everything is a fight. . . . So, a few months ago, Murnice thought it was funny to scare Ed. On multiple occasions. Let the punishment fit the crime I say. (And it's a punishment that will last many years) She is now responsible to go with Ed anywhere and every time he's "scared". It's magical. She's is also learning the hard lesson of showing grace and a generous spirit. And thank the Lord, she is starting to love reading. (But I still have to force the reading time)
Couch
The stains never end. I had a Norwex party a little bit ago. And Couch got a scrubbing for the guests. She looked pretty for 1/2 the night. I've also decided that Couch smells musty and uninteresting. And somewhat disgraceful. So she'll be getting a flushout soon. In the meantime, she's still super sweet and inviting to me. And never judges.
Words Spoken by God
It's really easy for me to get wrapped up in other people's misfortune. And then I feel guilty. Guilty that I'm not going through something horrific or that I don't have any hardships right now in my life. So I was chatting with God about all of this - I can't remember in what context - but I remember just feeling guilty that I have such a pleasant life. And then God said to me, "don't feel guilty for the things that I've blessed you with."
God is not the God of guilt. Guilt does not come from God. He brings truth and understanding. And I'm really thankful for his permission to be glad in what he has given.
For those of you that don't struggle with all of that - stop judging this baby truth.
And that's all I'm going to write. And hopefully soon, I'll feel the need to have another episode of diarrhea of the mouth.
Monday, December 16, 2013
False Advertising Deserves a Nose Tweak
So I got this email about a local production of the Nutcracker ballet.
Key juicy points:
1) It was rated on a professional level as: just below the city's Nutcracker ballet.
2) Tickets were only $5 a person.
3) The show was run by a Russian. And Russians know how to dance.
Things I planned:
1) Fun, family, Sunday-afternoon, culturalization time - for cheap. So if anybody pooped their pants in the middle of the performance, I wouldn't feel crazy about leaving.
2) It was a surprise for Murnice. Beautiful costumes and fancy ladies twirling. What 8 year old wouldn't feel like a queen?
3) I invited Friday Friends. That was a surprise too.
4) Dinner all together after the ballet.
5) Big family smiles, as we shared the day together with good entertainment, good fellowship (I hate that word - so I used it just to annoy other people who hate that word), and good food.
The way it really went down:
1) It really cost $8 per person.
2) There were about 37 people there. All parents and grandparents.
3) I don't have words to describe the horrific-ness of the actual ballet. But I'll try.
a. the music was crammed through ginormous loud speakers. I use the word "cram" because there are no other words for: way-too-loud-with-the-tone-set-to-make-your-eardrums-bleed.
b. we were only given two clues that we were actually watching the Nutcracker. Clue #1 they played Nutcracker music Clue #2 the first scene was Clara waltzing around with her nutcracker, in her see-through nighty
c. there is nothing more possibly maddening, then to be watching a performance - of any sort - only to have to watch a bunch of snotty-nosed little kids run around in circles with no rhyme or reason. What makes it ever worse, is when the mothers scream a little louder, clap a little harder, and bounce up and down in their seats. (Yes, that all happened)
d. the worst part for me, was when the Arabian dancers came out. Grown-ups. And they couldn't dance at all. Not in sync for a second. They did the same 4 moves the entire dance. One Arabian dancer put her pants on backwards. They tried being sexy - which only made it so much more uncomfortable.
4) Murnice cried. She hated every part of it.
5) Friday Friends never showed up. Nor have they told us why they didn't show up. It's all very fishy.
6) The show lasted 40 minutes. Worst $8 ever spent in the history of spending money.
7) The place we ended up eating at smelled of moth balls and musty car oil. And I'm pretty sure my burger was a rotting tortoise carcass.
8) Big D and I fought the whole time.
Do I sound like an ungrateful fleabag?
Once again I'm spit-fired, flustered at the way a simple afternoon was supposed to go. At least I didn't almost die again.
I guess it's just more confirmation that the couch is where I belong.
On a side note, I actually got dressed to leave the house. Big D said that I looked so lovely. And that my breasts looked lushishly large. (That's what happens when you put a bra on for the first time in forever)
P.S. Does anybody else love to sniff down their own shirt to smell their musty armpits? I am not ashamed.
Key juicy points:
1) It was rated on a professional level as: just below the city's Nutcracker ballet.
2) Tickets were only $5 a person.
3) The show was run by a Russian. And Russians know how to dance.
Things I planned:
1) Fun, family, Sunday-afternoon, culturalization time - for cheap. So if anybody pooped their pants in the middle of the performance, I wouldn't feel crazy about leaving.
2) It was a surprise for Murnice. Beautiful costumes and fancy ladies twirling. What 8 year old wouldn't feel like a queen?
3) I invited Friday Friends. That was a surprise too.
4) Dinner all together after the ballet.
5) Big family smiles, as we shared the day together with good entertainment, good fellowship (I hate that word - so I used it just to annoy other people who hate that word), and good food.
The way it really went down:
1) It really cost $8 per person.
2) There were about 37 people there. All parents and grandparents.
3) I don't have words to describe the horrific-ness of the actual ballet. But I'll try.
a. the music was crammed through ginormous loud speakers. I use the word "cram" because there are no other words for: way-too-loud-with-the-tone-set-to-make-your-eardrums-bleed.
b. we were only given two clues that we were actually watching the Nutcracker. Clue #1 they played Nutcracker music Clue #2 the first scene was Clara waltzing around with her nutcracker, in her see-through nighty
c. there is nothing more possibly maddening, then to be watching a performance - of any sort - only to have to watch a bunch of snotty-nosed little kids run around in circles with no rhyme or reason. What makes it ever worse, is when the mothers scream a little louder, clap a little harder, and bounce up and down in their seats. (Yes, that all happened)
d. the worst part for me, was when the Arabian dancers came out. Grown-ups. And they couldn't dance at all. Not in sync for a second. They did the same 4 moves the entire dance. One Arabian dancer put her pants on backwards. They tried being sexy - which only made it so much more uncomfortable.
4) Murnice cried. She hated every part of it.
5) Friday Friends never showed up. Nor have they told us why they didn't show up. It's all very fishy.
6) The show lasted 40 minutes. Worst $8 ever spent in the history of spending money.
7) The place we ended up eating at smelled of moth balls and musty car oil. And I'm pretty sure my burger was a rotting tortoise carcass.
8) Big D and I fought the whole time.
Do I sound like an ungrateful fleabag?
Once again I'm spit-fired, flustered at the way a simple afternoon was supposed to go. At least I didn't almost die again.
I guess it's just more confirmation that the couch is where I belong.
On a side note, I actually got dressed to leave the house. Big D said that I looked so lovely. And that my breasts looked lushishly large. (That's what happens when you put a bra on for the first time in forever)
P.S. Does anybody else love to sniff down their own shirt to smell their musty armpits? I am not ashamed.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Survival, Holy?
A question was posed to us (the congregation) at church, yesterday. Actually two questions.
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
1) What gets you out of bed in the morning?
2) What is your mission or goal in life?
There were a bunch of holy answers. After all, we were in church. And people try hard to be, act, and talk "holy".
"Jesus gets me out of bed"
Oh that's nice. You must be special to have Jesus personally get you up every day.
There were a few funny answers.
"Bacon"
That's a little more realistic.
And then some honest answers.
"My job - so I can survive"
Yes. That makes sense.
But what about us moms. Us, who stay home. Every liver-chewing, nightmarish day. What about us?
Jesus getting me up sounds beyond perfect. And lovely. Gentle. And soft.
Bacon would be too good to be true. Somebody cooking me bacon every morning. The smell - wafting to my ever-filled booger nose. Fatty fat fat dripping. Crunchy crumbs. Oh, the pleasure.
Even a job to go to. A reason to take a shower and brush my hair. A reason to change my underwear. The feeling of accomplishing - something . . . Getting a paycheck? Just so it can go to bills. A reason to buy new lipstick.
Do you know what gets me up in the morning?
Ed. (Shall I elaborate more?)(Yes, I think I will.)
Ed telling me (with arm motions) that he has peed "all yover" the bathroom. Right after he had a panic attack because he couldn't get his pants off as fast as he wanted to.
Yup. Is there anything more purposeful than to get wrenched out of bed to clean up a piss-ridden bathroom so the rest of the family can use the morning john?
No. No there is not.
Which leads me to the next question.
What is your mission or goal in life?
Survival.
Purely and simply - survival. Survival for the family.
And nobody can understand that answer, unless they stay at home full time, with beautiful children.
And you know what gets me really excited? When Big D doesn't like my answer of "survival". He thinks it should be nothing short of inspirational and holy. He thinks he is challenging me in a healthy way - to open my mind, and shoot for the stars.
I say, shit-balls to that. (that's how excited I am)
You see, Big D - when you walk in the door, you see the exhaustion. You see the mess. And the lack of showers. You hear the gravel in my voice. The kids clamoring for fresh new attention that smiles at them. But what you don't see is the inner-turmoil of my heart. The true messyness of being at home. The emotional struggles. The lies and lies that he whispers. The same old same old same old. Fight and reproof, fight and correction. You see none of this. Because you don't live it. And you will never understand the darkness of it all - unless you live it.
So don't sit there and criticize my mission for life. Accept my "less-than-stellar" goal. And know that that's the truth.
Jesus loves my disgusting life. My dingy wallowing world. And through the maddening fog, he showers me with a glimmer of hope, a moment of peace, and says "this is exactly where you're supposed to be".
So I work on reading the millionth-time story with inflection, and answering the question with a gentle response. And know that I am doing my absolute best at surviving.
*****************************************************************************
disclaimer
Even though I use the name "Big D", I'm not only speaking to him. But to all that feel the need to criticize, critique, judge, wrinkle your nose, offer unsightly statements meant to encourage, or blatantly think more highly of yourself/your mothering skills.
****************************************************************************
disclaimer #2
I am not saying that my job is harder than those that work and have children.
Question of the day:
What is your mission or goal in life?
Monday, November 25, 2013
The Day I Almost Died - Again
I didn't write about this earlier because I'm a lazy pig. And do nothing but sleep on the couch and ignore laundry and dishes. And bathing myself. (Which is actually perfect. Because that new hair color I just got - semi permy dye - will last about 7 times as long as it would on a normal person who cares about their hygiene.)(I never said I wasn't good at getting the most bang for my buck.)
A few weeks ago the circus came to town. In a way, it's a tad old fashion sounding, and that feels nice. Until I think about the poor animals. And then I get mad and wish I was protesting with the other protesters. Instead, I just sulk my way past sign holders and pretend I don't care about the poor elephants.
So Big D works down town - and knows about back alleys and secret parking spots, and all sorts of other non-family places and areas. But he still likes to take his family there.
I'm not sure if it's because his brain doesn't work properly, or if it's because his brain doesn't work properly. Still trying to figure it out over here - 9 years later.
The setting:
Pitch black. Middle of the city. Both kids with us. Semi-full bellies. Lots of farts. Hidden stash of water in bottom of "diaper-bag". Freezing.
Big D parked us in our semi-sketchy spot. And we booked our bottoms to a more appropriate family location - the sidewalk.
And in true Big D fashion, he took us on a special off-the-grid hike. The least beaten path, you could say. The path where nobody else was in sight. Because it was dark. With no lights.
Honestly, it wasn't too bad. We got to see all the trailers and trailers of the circus. But then, ahead of us, a dark ominous figure appeared, and started waddling toward us. Just one. In the dark.
But it ended up just being a nice, fat circus helper telling us we couldn't continue our walk in the current direction. Something about the horses being crazy. And there in the distance I could see horses whizzing in circles. I think they were fed crack. I guess crack horses would be more exciting to watch.
So instead of Big D taking us on a more family-friendly trip around the VERY large building, he some how scrounged up an even more highly alarming, secret passage, short cut.
A secret passage that took us right by the opening of the old aqueduct, that now houses the homeless and addicts. And in true Big D fashion, he thought it to be the most opportune time to have a family field trip.
Dear Jesus.
Big D was holding Ed. And Murr was in his hand. I stood back on the platform, in case something happened "I would be able to run and get help". Yes, I really thought this. And then I thought, "my goodness, you're being such a cantankerous panty wad. Go have a field trip."
Yup, so I had a field trip. I walked to the ledge of the old aqueduct. And it was beautiful. Well, I could imagine it was beautiful. It was pitch black. You could see through the windows on the other side. But inside the actual aqueduct, it was the black that made your eyes ache.
I listened to Big D give his presentation. I think it lasted about 20 seconds.
And then the voice of Satan appeared. It was incomprehensible. And loud. And so gravely, my ears got road rash. It was oh, so close to my face, but invisible.
I was so startled. And so angry. I grabbed Murr's coat, picked her off her feet. And threw her out onto the platform, grabbed her hand. And when I say "high-tailed it". Just imagine that to be an understatement.
Once I got to safety, I turned around to see where Big D was. . . . . . Big D, still holding my son - was still standing on the ledge - and I quote - "to try to see who was talking".
The rage. Oh the rage.
1) I knew this was going to happen.
2) Why would you take your family to a very well-known sketchy area?
3) Why would you just stand there asking to be dismembered, WHILE holding your son?
4) Was Big D dropped on his head as a baby?
And I have nothing else to say. Except I survived my 2nd close brush with death.
Maybe secretly I'm a cat. I guess technically a Fox is close enough.
A few weeks ago the circus came to town. In a way, it's a tad old fashion sounding, and that feels nice. Until I think about the poor animals. And then I get mad and wish I was protesting with the other protesters. Instead, I just sulk my way past sign holders and pretend I don't care about the poor elephants.
So Big D works down town - and knows about back alleys and secret parking spots, and all sorts of other non-family places and areas. But he still likes to take his family there.
I'm not sure if it's because his brain doesn't work properly, or if it's because his brain doesn't work properly. Still trying to figure it out over here - 9 years later.
The setting:
Pitch black. Middle of the city. Both kids with us. Semi-full bellies. Lots of farts. Hidden stash of water in bottom of "diaper-bag". Freezing.
Big D parked us in our semi-sketchy spot. And we booked our bottoms to a more appropriate family location - the sidewalk.
And in true Big D fashion, he took us on a special off-the-grid hike. The least beaten path, you could say. The path where nobody else was in sight. Because it was dark. With no lights.
Honestly, it wasn't too bad. We got to see all the trailers and trailers of the circus. But then, ahead of us, a dark ominous figure appeared, and started waddling toward us. Just one. In the dark.
But it ended up just being a nice, fat circus helper telling us we couldn't continue our walk in the current direction. Something about the horses being crazy. And there in the distance I could see horses whizzing in circles. I think they were fed crack. I guess crack horses would be more exciting to watch.
So instead of Big D taking us on a more family-friendly trip around the VERY large building, he some how scrounged up an even more highly alarming, secret passage, short cut.
A secret passage that took us right by the opening of the old aqueduct, that now houses the homeless and addicts. And in true Big D fashion, he thought it to be the most opportune time to have a family field trip.
Dear Jesus.
Big D was holding Ed. And Murr was in his hand. I stood back on the platform, in case something happened "I would be able to run and get help". Yes, I really thought this. And then I thought, "my goodness, you're being such a cantankerous panty wad. Go have a field trip."
Yup, so I had a field trip. I walked to the ledge of the old aqueduct. And it was beautiful. Well, I could imagine it was beautiful. It was pitch black. You could see through the windows on the other side. But inside the actual aqueduct, it was the black that made your eyes ache.
I listened to Big D give his presentation. I think it lasted about 20 seconds.
And then the voice of Satan appeared. It was incomprehensible. And loud. And so gravely, my ears got road rash. It was oh, so close to my face, but invisible.
I was so startled. And so angry. I grabbed Murr's coat, picked her off her feet. And threw her out onto the platform, grabbed her hand. And when I say "high-tailed it". Just imagine that to be an understatement.
Once I got to safety, I turned around to see where Big D was. . . . . . Big D, still holding my son - was still standing on the ledge - and I quote - "to try to see who was talking".
The rage. Oh the rage.
1) I knew this was going to happen.
2) Why would you take your family to a very well-known sketchy area?
3) Why would you just stand there asking to be dismembered, WHILE holding your son?
4) Was Big D dropped on his head as a baby?
And I have nothing else to say. Except I survived my 2nd close brush with death.
Maybe secretly I'm a cat. I guess technically a Fox is close enough.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Fifteen Ways? Double-Time With an Extra "Ew"
As if trying their hand at one list wasn't enough. They had to write another list. A lady list. And I thought the man list was as stupid as pie.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
The lady list is a joke. I think.
And just to make sure that I'm not cold hearted, mean spirited, and as rude as a rabid turkey, I asked Friday Friends what they thought.
Prepare yourselves. Gird your loins. . . .
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Wife
- Hug and kiss her every morning before leaving the house.
- Go to bed at the same time she does.
- Brush her hair while complimenting her eyes and appearance.
- When she's studying herself in the mirror, tell her, "You are so beautiful."
- Evict late-night television from your bedroom.
- During mid-afternoon, call or send her an email to ask how her day's going.
- Try your hand at making breakfast on Saturday morning.
- Put gas in her car, vacuum the floor mats, and clean the windows.
- Write her a short love letter. List several ways she has blessed you this year.
- Resurrect common courtesies: Hold the car door open. Offer her your arm.
- Put the toilet seat down.
- If you hear her engaged in a tough situation, compliment the way she handled it.
- When you're together in a crowd, find a way to brag on her.
- Help her put the kids to bed.
- Pray with her every day. Every day!
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Extra Saucy Kitty Kat.
1. Before leaving the house, tell me I sparkle like the sun and smell like the moon. And that I have the harder job
2. I don't care what time you go to bed, but when you do decide it's the right time - make sure the house is closed up in a proper manner and the kids are still breathing. Try your hardest to be thorough with this task. As it drives me completely wild when "close up time" is done haphazardly.
3. You touch me with a hair brush - I'll spank your bottom. But you can tell me that my old tired eyes have never looked more lively and lovely. And that my body is more magical than David Copperfield. And out of control, sizzily. And that if I were a steak, I would be extra well done.
4. I don't want to be caught looking at myself. So just ignore any glimpses you get of that happening, at all cost. But things that would be appropriate to say to me: a) your boobs have never looked perkier b) your buns are tighter than an over-done meat platter c) what fine chiseled legs you have . . . and other fine things of that sort.
5. Bring the tv into the bedroom. I may spend more time in bed. I may offer my body as a love offering in a more substantial manner.
6. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT call me during the day. Send me emails. And don't ask how my day is going. If it's that bad - you will be hearing from me. If you don't hear from me, then the chances of us all being alive when you get home, are great.
7. I am offended by #7
8. Don't waste your time. Although, I do love getting into my car and seeing a full gas tank. (I can't remember the last time I had to fill the gas tank - don't be hating ladies.)
9. Yes, yes. Write me lots. But write when you're pissed at me. It's a lot more fun to keep track of that.
10. Don't waste your time. Unless I get knocked up again. And then come pull me out of the car.
11. If there was ever a time you didn't put that seat down, I would scoop all the poopy toilet water up and dump it on your bed. And then you could swim your bare buns around in sludge.
12. When I start complaining about the stupidity of some people, agree with me.
13. When we're in crowds, try your best to keep me away from people you know. I tend to say things that make everyone involved feel weird. It's best to just stash me in a small corner and to bring me drinks and food. But if it's a crowd thingy with no food or drinks, keep me home.
14. This lady is a raging lunatic.
15. This is all manly and such, but you should pray for me, more. I sometimes get real itchy to throw something. Or dump dinner down the drain.
I have no closing thoughts or comments.
The end.
I puked.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Fifteen Ways?
I got an email from Big D this morning. It said this:
"Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."
And this is what followed:
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband
"Not sure who came up with these, but not even close."
And this is what followed:
Fifteen Ways to Please Your Husband
- Write him a letter and send it to his office, or put a love note in his lunch box or his briefcase.
- Prepare his favorite meal.
- Arrange an evening out for just the two of you.
- Wear his favorite dress with your hair done the way he likes it.
- Purchase something small and frivolous for him that he won't buy himself.
- Give him a nicely framed picture of yourself, or of you and the children, for his office.
- Surprise him with a trip to do something he likes.
- Put the children to bed early and prepare a candlelight dinner.
- Do something that especially pleased him back when you were dating.
- Pray and read the Scriptures with him daily.
- Take walks together.
- Keep your junk out of the garage.
- Greet your husband warmly after work.
- Wear his favorite negligee, or buy a new nightgown to add sizzle to your evening attire.
- Clean out the car for him.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
A Typical Day With Ed
My day with naughty Ed as gone like this:
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
6:58 am
*SCREAMING* "I want to get up" repeatedly. Loudly. With lots of "moms".
I said no. Because it wasn't quite 7. And that's the rule. And one more extra second I have to spend with Ed . . . .
I really thought he fell back asleep. There was so much quiet for the next 20 minutes. And I thought it was my lucky day. And the sleep fairy came to give me a gift. And maybe it was a Christmas miracle.
But then he started yelling again. And Witherhall-legally, I had to say yes.
And then there was much fawning over my breasts. Lately Ed has become very much in need of my breasts in order to snuggle properly. And the term he uses for a breast snuggle is "snuggle buggle". He's woken me up out of a dead sleep, on more than one occassion to ask if he could snuggle with my "boos".
Now, not to brag or anything. But my breast size gift is about on par of a 90 year old tortoise. I'm not really sure what he thinks he's snuggling with. But it's not soft. Or squishy. Or, lovely. On any level. But I do have nipples.
And then the morning screams for "he-de-ohs" (with a small roll of the tongue at the end of "he") began. I smiled nicely, and with as much love in my heart, I filled up a bowl (that was the wrong bowl) with cheerios and milk. I placed the bowl so lovingly on the table. In the wrong spot, of course.
And then more screaming. Because he wanted to be spoon fed.
Now not to be rude, but I do not think it's necessary to move from my warm spot on the couch to spoon feed a very capable child. My belief is, if you are hungry enough . . . .you can manage.
Well, that attitude really got him going. Ed grabbed his spoon, and all while roaring - he thrust his spoon in and out of his bowl with as much vim and vigor as his arm allowed. Disappointingly, only a small amount of cheerios and milk landed on the table.
In order to get a true reaction from mother, since I was ignoring the smallish, rude animal that Big D had let in while trying to leave for work . . . he put his spoon down. Picked up his bowl with both hands. And dumped his cheerios and milk - all out. Every last bit. And with a pleased as punch attitude, he put his bowl down with authority and looked at me.
That was how my day began. And THAT is why I demand Big D to yell from the closing front door, every morning - "YOU HAVE THE HARDER JOB". It fills my heart with pleasure, knowing that the father of these children know that staying home is 74 times more miserable than sitting in a boring suit-tie meeting.
I also had the privilege of holding down a flailing, kicking boy at the library. Which just sounds boringly naughty. It was. But it adds.
He also thought it was funny to reminisce about pulling "Murny's" hair at the grocer, while pooping on the pot. Followed by snickers and chuckles.
And then he asked me to sing "the big frog penis" while I put him down for his nap.
And then I find him at the table, thanking Jesus for showers.
I'm am becoming more and more horrified with this small ungrateful fleabag/screaming panther child everyday. #1 - It's kinda funny. #2 - how do I raise such a pig-headed, prideful monster that has the tenderest of hearts (sometimes still) and a sense of humor?
Take Aways
1) greet everyday with a pleadful prayer of grace.
2) and then stay home, forever.
3) I think all of my take aways are "stay home".
4) I haven't worn makeup in months. I just don't have the gumption to, with all the naughtiness in my life.
5) Today I'm wearing polka-dots and stripes. But in a really bad way.
6) I'm feeling self pity towards my lackluster closet.
7) Wah!
8) Maybe I'll have an extra glass of wine tonight.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Half-Way to Snow Bird Land
I left Big D again.
That's why I haven't been writing. I've been sitting on a different couch. With no gumption to say anything. Even though there are things to be said.
But this morning I've gathered my gumption.
I'm on my annual trip down south. (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it. But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)
Big D gets really nervous with my driving. He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down. Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us. I say things like: "I'm really fine. There is no need to drive us down. But you can make the call, being the family protector and all". And then he feels guilty without me being needy and whiny. And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured. And I let him chauffeur me in style. I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours) And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them. (They're just so cozy and perfect) And I smile gleefully. And my butt is happy.
My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops. Big D never shows his face with us. He pumps gas. But I can see right through his antics. He's horrified to be associated with us. So he pumps and we pee. And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way. And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.
For this trip, I was a real mom. I made food for the car. And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds. Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly. But I was way fancier than that.
I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets. And they rocked our world. So so tasty. And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter. The chauffeur was happy. I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)
And we listened to books on tape. And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.
Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house. And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour. And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.
And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home.
So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me. And wouldn't you know - he's missing me. Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.
Take Aways
1) My gumption has left.
That's why I haven't been writing. I've been sitting on a different couch. With no gumption to say anything. Even though there are things to be said.
But this morning I've gathered my gumption.
I'm on my annual trip down south. (Ok, it's only the second time that I've done it. But I think two times in a row makes it annual.)
Big D gets really nervous with my driving. He'd like to preserve the family for a bit longer, so he drove us down. Actually, I kind of manipulated him into driving us. I say things like: "I'm really fine. There is no need to drive us down. But you can make the call, being the family protector and all". And then he feels guilty without me being needy and whiny. And he takes care of his manly business and I get to be chauffeured. And I let him chauffeur me in style. I always wear my biggest granny panties. (There is nothing worse than having a wad of underwear stuck where you can't reach it for hours and hours) And without fail, I choose the sweat pants that Big D has vowed to never have intercourse with me again - if I wear them. (They're just so cozy and perfect) And I smile gleefully. And my butt is happy.
My favorite is when I take the kids into the restroom stops. Big D never shows his face with us. He pumps gas. But I can see right through his antics. He's horrified to be associated with us. So he pumps and we pee. And then when we're half way into the parking lot, he bolts from our car, straight into the rest stop - without a glance our way. And nobody would guess for a second that he is our hired chauffeur/father of the sewer rat children/husband of this hot piece of eye candy.
For this trip, I was a real mom. I made food for the car. And it was 100 times better than "packing food" sounds. Like - I imagine, smooshed, car-warm pb and jelly. But I was way fancier than that.
I made poo-tang sandwiches in mini pita pockets. And they rocked our world. So so tasty. And made our trip 3 times happier and 2 hours shorter. The chauffeur was happy. I packed other things too - but nothing was quite so trip-changing as those samiches. (That's how Big D says it.)
And we listened to books on tape. And stopped in the middle of a busy busy highway in the dark, to rush Ed to the edge of death - so he could pee.
Before we knew it - (only because I packed sandwiches) we made it to B.B. Chuck's house. And the kids ran around and screamed and squealed like banshees for an hour. And the adults looked at each other and smiled and wished so hard that it was bed time.
And then Big D woke up a few hours later and flew back home.
So in actuality, Big D is the one that left me. And wouldn't you know - he's missing me. Wishing he could catch a glimpse of this plush bottom in a pair of granny panties.
Take Aways
1) My gumption has left.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Some Days are Good. Some Days are Bad. This Week has Been Awful.
I wish there was something great to say to the world. ... I guess the greatest thing there is to say is: I'm still alive. And so are the kids. Big D . . . . . barely hanging on, ready to move into his own bachey pad.
I've been having quite a difficult week. So difficult in fact, I don't even have anything sarcastic to say about it.
The awfulness kinda started on Sunday, where the kids thought it would be grand to cry all day. I liked that so much. And then Murnice grew a fever.
Monday the kids cried all day. Except I was home alone, because Big D still has a job. And I reached an all time low of screaming and yelling, but not being satisfied with the decibel being used. I wanted the yelps and roars to be louder. I don't think that's ever happened to me before. Generally, raising the voice brings some sort of relief.
Normally, I can hold everything together like a regular old adult when Big D comes home at regular time. The count down begins at 4 pm. And usually everyone survives.
But Monday night, Big D attended the stupidest event of the year. Literally.
But, on our shared calender, it said that "relief" would be here at 7pm. That's what it said. And I literally believe the calender. Because I have to put my hope in something. I need to have some sort of count down. And 7 is only 1 hour later than normal. And I thought I might be able to be a normal adult and hang on to life in an orderly fashion for one extra hour that day.
And 7 turned to 7:30, and I had all the crying and screaming I could take for 3 years piled on top of each other. And then I turned really ugly. I think black tentacles crawled out of my butt. And maybe, but I'm not sure - I turned into her.
You're probably wondering what the "stupidest event of the year" is. And I would be pleased as punch to tell you all.
Stupidest Event of the Year:
Some big wig that probably only practices missionary position, who has way too much money and has the need to flaunt, feel important, flaunt some more and a whole array of other issues that I want to talk about but won't because I want to show Big D how much of a big normal adult I am sometimes. . . . . .decides that there is no other way possible, to show his appreciation to the world that he employs, then to throw a stupid dumb butt clam bake.
Big D finally came home around 8 - just in time to put Blessing 1 and Blessing 2 to bed. And I was in such a sour mood, I thought it highly appropriate to write more about flushing babies down the toilet.
That put the icing on the cake. I was in such a wicked mood when I was done. It marinated all night, and was quite potent on Tuesday morning.
At this point Murnice was feeling better but complaining about a slight sore throat. Ed, on the other hand could not keep his fingers out of his anus. He was itching and scratching so bad, to the point where he would wake up in the middle of the night and ask for "man-unders" just so he could scratch his poor anus. I thought it was a rash at first, but nothing was helping it. In fact it was getting worse. And then Mother suggested pin worms.
Glory be.
Our day Tuesday, was just as bad as Monday. So much gnashing of teeth. Mainly from Ed. Obnoxiously more so than usual.
By the time Wednesday came around, I was emotionally spent and done. All of my grace had been used up. Empty of patience. Sweet words and kind smiles ran away days ago. And I had nothing left to give.
I managed a doctor run where I was told Murnice had strep and Ed had a staph infection.
And then I went home and held my head in my hands and waited until 3, when I promptly called Big D and told him that if he cared about the sanctity of human life . . . . now was the time to show me where he stood on that whole debate.
So today is Thursday. I've had the chance to breath 40% more than the other days. I managed a trip to Marshalls with a 79% satisfaction rate. I fed the kids chemicals and dye for lunch aka mac and cheese. And I'm growing my armpit hair out. I can almost twisty it. I have passed out 4 kisses. And even muttered the words "I love you". AND I know what we're having for dinner, and it's only 4 o'clock. Feeling almost like a queen.
Take Aways
1) Be thankful for sperm donors who have the kindness in their heart to leave their plush, quiet offices to come hold screaming blessings.
2) Run Away.
3) Consciously breathe.
4) Embrace the all time lows, it makes any other day seem glorious.
I've been having quite a difficult week. So difficult in fact, I don't even have anything sarcastic to say about it.
The awfulness kinda started on Sunday, where the kids thought it would be grand to cry all day. I liked that so much. And then Murnice grew a fever.
Monday the kids cried all day. Except I was home alone, because Big D still has a job. And I reached an all time low of screaming and yelling, but not being satisfied with the decibel being used. I wanted the yelps and roars to be louder. I don't think that's ever happened to me before. Generally, raising the voice brings some sort of relief.
Normally, I can hold everything together like a regular old adult when Big D comes home at regular time. The count down begins at 4 pm. And usually everyone survives.
But Monday night, Big D attended the stupidest event of the year. Literally.
But, on our shared calender, it said that "relief" would be here at 7pm. That's what it said. And I literally believe the calender. Because I have to put my hope in something. I need to have some sort of count down. And 7 is only 1 hour later than normal. And I thought I might be able to be a normal adult and hang on to life in an orderly fashion for one extra hour that day.
And 7 turned to 7:30, and I had all the crying and screaming I could take for 3 years piled on top of each other. And then I turned really ugly. I think black tentacles crawled out of my butt. And maybe, but I'm not sure - I turned into her.
Stupidest Event of the Year:
Some big wig that probably only practices missionary position, who has way too much money and has the need to flaunt, feel important, flaunt some more and a whole array of other issues that I want to talk about but won't because I want to show Big D how much of a big normal adult I am sometimes. . . . . .decides that there is no other way possible, to show his appreciation to the world that he employs, then to throw a stupid dumb butt clam bake.
Big D finally came home around 8 - just in time to put Blessing 1 and Blessing 2 to bed. And I was in such a sour mood, I thought it highly appropriate to write more about flushing babies down the toilet.
That put the icing on the cake. I was in such a wicked mood when I was done. It marinated all night, and was quite potent on Tuesday morning.
At this point Murnice was feeling better but complaining about a slight sore throat. Ed, on the other hand could not keep his fingers out of his anus. He was itching and scratching so bad, to the point where he would wake up in the middle of the night and ask for "man-unders" just so he could scratch his poor anus. I thought it was a rash at first, but nothing was helping it. In fact it was getting worse. And then Mother suggested pin worms.
Glory be.
Our day Tuesday, was just as bad as Monday. So much gnashing of teeth. Mainly from Ed. Obnoxiously more so than usual.
By the time Wednesday came around, I was emotionally spent and done. All of my grace had been used up. Empty of patience. Sweet words and kind smiles ran away days ago. And I had nothing left to give.
I managed a doctor run where I was told Murnice had strep and Ed had a staph infection.
And then I went home and held my head in my hands and waited until 3, when I promptly called Big D and told him that if he cared about the sanctity of human life . . . . now was the time to show me where he stood on that whole debate.
So today is Thursday. I've had the chance to breath 40% more than the other days. I managed a trip to Marshalls with a 79% satisfaction rate. I fed the kids chemicals and dye for lunch aka mac and cheese. And I'm growing my armpit hair out. I can almost twisty it. I have passed out 4 kisses. And even muttered the words "I love you". AND I know what we're having for dinner, and it's only 4 o'clock. Feeling almost like a queen.
Take Aways
1) Be thankful for sperm donors who have the kindness in their heart to leave their plush, quiet offices to come hold screaming blessings.
2) Run Away.
3) Consciously breathe.
4) Embrace the all time lows, it makes any other day seem glorious.
Monday, September 23, 2013
4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 5
So I've kinda been ignoring this story. It's hard to write when I don't feel sad. I skimp on information, and hurry the story. And make it sound more lovely than it is.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time. I felt no bond. I was excited, but it was an outward excitement. My heart felt nothing. Except betrayal. I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.
I was desperate to feel pregnant. Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted a baby.
I was in an odd emotional state. Of wanting something, desperate. But not believing, accepting.
At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding. The wedding party had to wear all white.
5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby. I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white. I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding". I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".
I survived the wedding.
I played head games of: I think I feel a little nauseous. I think I feel bloaty. But I didn't. I felt nothing. I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests. I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant. My levels were good.
I named my fetus Ned. So when he died, I could say: "Ned is dead." And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy. Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.
I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine. Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.
In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee. I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier. I ran into an old neighbor. She asked if I was pregnant. I said no.
When I got home, I used the bathroom. And was bleeding. I told Queen Bee to go home. Big D had a friend over. He got kicked out too. I like to think about how that conversation went. Big D: "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home." Brandon: "Um, this is weird. Good-bye." (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)
The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday. I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad. Waiting for my baby to fall out. I cried all day. We went to the beach. I made 4 trips to the park bathroom. Waiting. Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.
Big D and I did the best we could celebrating. Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice. Celebrating what we had been given.
We put our new 4-year-old to bed. And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out. The finalization is hardest. Because there is always hope. The devastation, rampant. And Big D is in the shadows. Again. Unwilling to mourn with me, together. Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.
Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet. I did not have the heart to flush our baby. And I did not have the strength to scoop him out. He was just there. And I was stuck. Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.
Jesus was so kind. I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage. And it was. So peaceful, so gentle and complete.
The end.
Monday, September 16, 2013
The Day I Almost Died
I almost died.
I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware. This time, I was very aware.
It started out with a miscommunication problem. Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment. Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.
Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband. And watch the horse races. And gamble away our 3 pennies. I don't believe in gambling. But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.
But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem* And there would be no gambling. Which lead to tears.
And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?
Sounds lovely. The idea was pitched to me like this: "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys. We could pack a picnic. They have some fun little playgrounds. Even a zip line. And then a little hike if you want to."
Oh my, so low key. And manageable.
(Silly me to think such things.. . . )
We had a beautiful lunch. Perfect sunny warm and crisp air. Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of. Which made us sad.
And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines. And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster. And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.
And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location. I really am not sure what happened. But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people. And families. And picnickers. And backpacks. And hiking shoes. And I felt very nervous, because: a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.
I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy". That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.
And the hike began. It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down. Straight down the side of a mountain. Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement. Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other. Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways. Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.
Welcome to hiking. And death.
And then it went from bad to worser. At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.
Not so much with the rest of the hike.
The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain. The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up. To the left was mountain that went straight down.
Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?
Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?
Now, I'm not scared of heights. However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.) I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.
Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking. Or for any type of walking.
I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces. Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion. Or pure horror. And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day. Which made me even more grumpy. I could not identify with anyone. I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.
And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended. It was over. And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real. And signed it with my own blood. And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first. And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.
Take Aways
1) The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2) I do not like thinking about my scraping by. Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3) Big D thought the hike was grand. That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4) Which makes me really excited.
5) The pickles were nice.
The end.
I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware. This time, I was very aware.
It started out with a miscommunication problem. Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment. Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.
Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband. And watch the horse races. And gamble away our 3 pennies. I don't believe in gambling. But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.
But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem* And there would be no gambling. Which lead to tears.
And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?
Sounds lovely. The idea was pitched to me like this: "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys. We could pack a picnic. They have some fun little playgrounds. Even a zip line. And then a little hike if you want to."
Oh my, so low key. And manageable.
(Silly me to think such things.. . . )
We had a beautiful lunch. Perfect sunny warm and crisp air. Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of. Which made us sad.
And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines. And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster. And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.
And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location. I really am not sure what happened. But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people. And families. And picnickers. And backpacks. And hiking shoes. And I felt very nervous, because: a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.
I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy". That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.
And the hike began. It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down. Straight down the side of a mountain. Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement. Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other. Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways. Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.
Welcome to hiking. And death.
And then it went from bad to worser. At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.
Not so much with the rest of the hike.
The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain. The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up. To the left was mountain that went straight down.
Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?
Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?
Now, I'm not scared of heights. However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.) I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.
Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking. Or for any type of walking.
I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces. Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion. Or pure horror. And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day. Which made me even more grumpy. I could not identify with anyone. I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.
And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended. It was over. And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real. And signed it with my own blood. And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first. And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.
Take Aways
1) The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2) I do not like thinking about my scraping by. Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3) Big D thought the hike was grand. That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4) Which makes me really excited.
5) The pickles were nice.
The end.
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