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.
Showing posts with label forbidden. Show all posts
Showing posts with label forbidden. Show all posts
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Why I Feed my Kids GMOs
Back when I was responsible, I got up at 6:30 am. That's what they tell SAHMs to do. Its "key" to staying on top of the day. And the demands. That's how you know you're a "good" mom. If you get up before your kids. Put clothes on that don't stand up by themselves. Or reek of musty arm pits. Clothes that say "good morning beautiful children. I am eager to begin this special day with you. And later, I'm going to do your dad. On the kitchen table." And don't forget, your first cup of tea - by yourself - it's vital to good momship. And if we're really striving for greatness, a moment in God's word, to refresh our spirits.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Yes, those are all key to being a good mom. Personally, I didn't know this until I started reading other people's blogs.
I tried it for a while. It was nice. But it made the day longer. And quite frankly, this season that I'm in - cold, winter - calls for sleeping. As long as the children allow. I get up with the sun still. (I can't help it that the sun wants to sleep too. And doesn't get up until almost 8.)
A key component to a longer, more peaceful sleep, is to provide cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator. Murnice is becoming more independent by the day. (With much encouragement, as she likes to be served on all levels.) (She is also learning the fine lesson of serving others - her brother.)
Her getting breakfast for them both is magical. It allows for so much more peace and love to reside in my heart.
But three things have entered into the picture.
#1 I'm getting more and more skived out by GMOs.
#2 There remains only $6 left in the food budget for the next 1 1/2 weeks.
#3 We have officially run out of all cereal, that doesn't resemble and taste of rotting air and cardboard remnants.
All of this means that pure terror and havoc have replaced my once beautiful wake-up moments. These children are waking up like hibernating bears. Who is that hungry upon immediately waking up?
The heart-shattering roars of "FEED US!!!!!!" make me only want to crawl under my mattress and dig a secret passage to the neighbors house.
I try to squash their hollering, if only for a few minutes, by playing sweet games with them in bed. Like "kitten". Kittens snuggle quietly. And purr. I do get the occasional lick though.
And then the two of them see through my games. And decide together, silently, to begin the upheaval. To begin the overthrow of the peace that did once reign.
The children care nothing for any living being, besides themselves. They could care less if I was stark naked standing in the ice-box of a kitchen, while peeing my over-night load all over the floor. Just as long as I was serving them. Flipping eggs. And pouring morning juice. Putting their slippers on.
I am not allowed the luxury of throwing something on my ever-growing, hibernating bottom - without getting a tongue lashing. The screams and squawks that come from such small, selfish creatures. They send me straight to the hell-hole of insanity.
This morning I decided, there are just some things that are needed to keep the queen somewhat subdued. And it may not always be the healthiest choice. Or the choice that we feel good or proud about. But it's a season. And. Seasons. Don't. Last. Forever.
We have to weigh. What's a healthy choice for mom? For right now. For this season. And choose to be confident in our choice.
And I guess I'm choosing to be confident in a morning bowl of GMOs.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
I Will Not Swallow
I named her Mother Green Toes, because that's what she is. She's a mother to a large car load of kids. And she does things that would put a green-thumber to shame.
I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.
These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1) Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2) Doesn't own a chemical
3) Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the best there is
4) Homebirths
5) Grinds her own flour
6) Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7) Her make-up is from the holy earth
8) Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9) For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into
But she does like her fancy cheese. And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method. (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)
The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner. And it's good stuff. But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.
Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time. And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion. Eggs and muffins. Naturally I agreed.
Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs. So perfect.
But the next thing that happened was not perfect. It was quite confusing.
I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex. I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.
And then I didn't know what to do. I was a guest. And I had a hostess. And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more. And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".
No, that's not appropriate at all.
But that's exactly what I did. I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too. There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid. And you can't think. And you don't care. But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.
Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?
Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?
I got real lucky when B.B. Chuck married her.
These are some of the things that M.G.Ts does:
1) Cloth diapers and cloth wipes
2) Doesn't own a chemical
3) Researches every bloody thing there is too research, and finds the best there is
4) Homebirths
5) Grinds her own flour
6) Eats Great-Grandmother's Soggy Old Feet on a regular basis (oatmeal)
7) Her make-up is from the holy earth
8) Garden and cans like she's on a witch hunt for peace and love
9) For snacks and lunch, her car load of kids eat out of the garden and bushes and trees
10) She doesn't drink soda, or eat any processed food
11) She gets all of her teeth proceedures (fillings, root canals, etc.) done without any pain killers
12) Kidding with #11
13) She only wears Birkenstocks, Dansko, and Toms
14) She never growls
15) She cooks from scratch for all of her meals
16) She has an egg lady
17) And she makes her own yogurt, that she dumps too much evaporated milk into
But she does like her fancy cheese. And her even more fancy coffee that's naturally decaffeinated using the Swiss Water method. (Who has ever heard of this?)(I told you M.G.T. researches everything.)
The only only thing I have ever caught M.G.T. doing/using mainstream chemical U.S.A. - would be her shampoo and conditioner. And it's good stuff. But that's because she researched it and found good stuff.
Anyway, so M.G.T. was a real swell hostess when I stayed with her for that extra long amount of time. And she offered to make me breakfast on occasion. Eggs and muffins. Naturally I agreed.
Steamy hot pumpkin muffins and jiggly-jelloey eggs. So perfect.
But the next thing that happened was not perfect. It was quite confusing.
I took an extra large bite of egg runnies and muffin crumbs, and was immediately punched in the gag reflex. I tipped my head back, as to not spew my load across the table and into M.G.T's face.
And then I didn't know what to do. I was a guest. And I had a hostess. And it is not normally appropriate to lunge from the table while making guttural heaving grunts, and race to the sink - spitting and spitting and sighing and heaving some more. And saying things like, "ew" and "gross" and "wow".
No, that's not appropriate at all.
But that's exactly what I did. I don't know about you, but if you ever had a rotten egg crammed in your mouth, you would do the same thing too. There's just something about that experience that turns you all ape-like and rabid. And you can't think. And you don't care. But you do know that that egg needs to come out, at all reputational-ruining, feeling-hurting, never-invited-back cost.
Can you believe that M.G.T. blamed her feeding me a rotten egg, on account of her egg lady?
Did I mention what a lucky lady I am to have M.G.T. as a sister?
Thursday, September 12, 2013
The Worst Night And Why I Hate Being A Lady
Dear Diary,
Being a woman is very difficult for me. I'm not completely upset with being a woman, I like having boobs (as stretched and pancaked as they are) But I have an extra amount of dysfunction when it comes to relating to woman.
I'll start by listing all the things I love about women.
1) I love their bodies. All shapes, all sizes. How they carry themselves. How they accentuate. How they compensate.
2) I love their comfort. Through looks. Through food. Through snuggles.
3) I love their ability to be honest, when asked.
4) I love their vulnerability.
5) I love their hope.
6) And I love that they were created, because life, the world, was incomplete without her.
"Given the way creation unfolds, how it builds to ever higher and higher works of art, can there be any doubt that Eve is the crown of creation? Not an afterthought. Not a nice addition like an ornament on a tree. She is God's final touch.....She fills a place in the world nothing and no once else can fill. . . . . . The whole vast world is incomplete without (you) . . . ."
(An excerpt from Captivating. One of my favorite books)
And now I will list why being a woman is mind numbing and awful for me.
1) I can not handle all the crying. Sobbing. Whimpering. Snuffling. That occurs. And I'm not talking about legitimate crying. Because there is such a thing.
2) I can not handle the fakeness, the putting on aires. The wanting to be liked and accepted by all. The need to lie in order to not hurt feelings, to keep up reputations, to answer a question the way you think the other person wants the question answered. Not wanting to appear less than holy.
3) I can not handle the blatant inseccurities. The nonacceptance of who women are. Not knowing what type of love they deserve. And the inability to act like a lady.
I feel I relate better with men. But as you know, married women don't like their husbands hanging out with a lady girl. Which has left me to flounder in search of lady girl friends, since that's the appropriate thing to do. The socially acceptable thing. (Blah and gag)
. . . . . . .
Which has led me to try new things.
I walked into a death trap last night.
I would have rather gone to 3 baby showers and 1 mother daughter banquet. (Which is saying a lot - if you know me.)
Now I'm not dissing lady groups. A lot of lady girls benefit from such events. But put me in one of those *ahem* situations, and I get a little desperate with A LOT of excited. Nothing makes me start searching for excuses of some sort, to disappear. Or a weapon of deadly force to end the agony of my poor, nonlady girl self.
I will say, I was lead blindly into the death trap. And as soon as I walked in - to the intimate sized room with a large conference table, round robined with ladies . . . .I gagged. And if I were smart enough, I would have just excused myself right then and there announcing my diarrhea condition.
But I had hope. And I was feeling hopeful. And I wanted to extend myself in hope. That maybe. Maybe there would be something grand. I do want more connection. More intimacy with the lady types, since this is my lot in life. Being a lady, that is.
I will not go into details. But my night consisted of hearing and watching A LOT of sobbing and wiping of tears. Doodling on paper with colored pencils. Praying which included touching. A lot of touching. And sighing. And giggles. And more giggles. And more crying. And more touching. And tissue grabbing.
I do want to say again, nothing wrong with any of that. It just happens to be the part of ladyness that I get very nervous about. (I use the word nervous, lightly.)
Take Aways
1) If you know yourself well and thoroughly, stay away from things that make you hurl dinner chunks.
2) God knows the personality you have, be free in who you are.
3) Don't fit to the form of who you're not.
4) Because that's what somebody says you're suppose to do.
5) Ed likes to spit, so it all runs down his tum tum. And then he smears it into his belly button.
Being a woman is very difficult for me. I'm not completely upset with being a woman, I like having boobs (as stretched and pancaked as they are) But I have an extra amount of dysfunction when it comes to relating to woman.
I'll start by listing all the things I love about women.
1) I love their bodies. All shapes, all sizes. How they carry themselves. How they accentuate. How they compensate.
2) I love their comfort. Through looks. Through food. Through snuggles.
3) I love their ability to be honest, when asked.
4) I love their vulnerability.
5) I love their hope.
6) And I love that they were created, because life, the world, was incomplete without her.
"Given the way creation unfolds, how it builds to ever higher and higher works of art, can there be any doubt that Eve is the crown of creation? Not an afterthought. Not a nice addition like an ornament on a tree. She is God's final touch.....She fills a place in the world nothing and no once else can fill. . . . . . The whole vast world is incomplete without (you) . . . ."
(An excerpt from Captivating. One of my favorite books)
And now I will list why being a woman is mind numbing and awful for me.
1) I can not handle all the crying. Sobbing. Whimpering. Snuffling. That occurs. And I'm not talking about legitimate crying. Because there is such a thing.
2) I can not handle the fakeness, the putting on aires. The wanting to be liked and accepted by all. The need to lie in order to not hurt feelings, to keep up reputations, to answer a question the way you think the other person wants the question answered. Not wanting to appear less than holy.
3) I can not handle the blatant inseccurities. The nonacceptance of who women are. Not knowing what type of love they deserve. And the inability to act like a lady.
I feel I relate better with men. But as you know, married women don't like their husbands hanging out with a lady girl. Which has left me to flounder in search of lady girl friends, since that's the appropriate thing to do. The socially acceptable thing. (Blah and gag)
. . . . . . .
Which has led me to try new things.
I walked into a death trap last night.
I would have rather gone to 3 baby showers and 1 mother daughter banquet. (Which is saying a lot - if you know me.)
Now I'm not dissing lady groups. A lot of lady girls benefit from such events. But put me in one of those *ahem* situations, and I get a little desperate with A LOT of excited. Nothing makes me start searching for excuses of some sort, to disappear. Or a weapon of deadly force to end the agony of my poor, nonlady girl self.
I will say, I was lead blindly into the death trap. And as soon as I walked in - to the intimate sized room with a large conference table, round robined with ladies . . . .I gagged. And if I were smart enough, I would have just excused myself right then and there announcing my diarrhea condition.
But I had hope. And I was feeling hopeful. And I wanted to extend myself in hope. That maybe. Maybe there would be something grand. I do want more connection. More intimacy with the lady types, since this is my lot in life. Being a lady, that is.
I will not go into details. But my night consisted of hearing and watching A LOT of sobbing and wiping of tears. Doodling on paper with colored pencils. Praying which included touching. A lot of touching. And sighing. And giggles. And more giggles. And more crying. And more touching. And tissue grabbing.
I do want to say again, nothing wrong with any of that. It just happens to be the part of ladyness that I get very nervous about. (I use the word nervous, lightly.)
Take Aways
1) If you know yourself well and thoroughly, stay away from things that make you hurl dinner chunks.
2) God knows the personality you have, be free in who you are.
3) Don't fit to the form of who you're not.
4) Because that's what somebody says you're suppose to do.
5) Ed likes to spit, so it all runs down his tum tum. And then he smears it into his belly button.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Not the Safe Choice
I haven't really talked about this - but I have been interviewing for a job. A nursey job. It's been a 2 month process.
It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about. It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.
First interview went great. And that was because I didn't have to say much. They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about. And before I left we had set up a second interview.
Second interview was a tad more challenging. I had to do a lot more tongue flapping. There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say. And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.
But I was. For a third time. And I had the best time at my 3rd. Maybe I was just getting used to the process. Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self. It was glorious. I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.
Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough. Such a good lie. And I believe more than I would like to admit.
I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".
For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.
First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough. Then I cried 37 tears. Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them. Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions. Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.
And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best. And that this was a gift. And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.
So I'm choosing, choosing this gift. Refusing the lie, the best I can. And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time. To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time. I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.
I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening. But I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision. I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year. Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.
Take Aways
1) Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2) Or at least try.
3) Say no to your lie.
4) And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world. Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!
It was a perfect opportunity, doing something that I'm ridiculously excited about. It could not have been a better set up for me - being a stay at home mom - or shall I say, SAHM.
First interview went great. And that was because I didn't have to say much. They just wanted to let me know what their business was all about. And before I left we had set up a second interview.
Second interview was a tad more challenging. I had to do a lot more tongue flapping. There were a lot of forehead crinkles at things I would say. And honestly, I was not expecting to be invited back.
But I was. For a third time. And I had the best time at my 3rd. Maybe I was just getting used to the process. Or I just decided to be my snazz-sparkle self. It was glorious. I walked away expecting not to get the job, but relishing in the fact that I was true down to my toes and that I got a bunch (and I mean a bunch) of funny looks and squirms.
Let me preface what I'm going to say next, by saying that my lie (and everybody has a lie that they're told) is that I'm not good enough. Such a good lie. And I believe more than I would like to admit.
I got the call yesterday that let know that they had "found somebody else that fit the job requirements better".
For those of you who have gotten this call for an opportunity that you were a bit stoked about - know the hurt.
First I believed the lie - I'm not good enough. Then I cried 37 tears. Then I wondered why it took two months and 3 interviews for them to tell me that I was too rad for them. Then I started to question myself on how I answered the questions. Then I got angry at their lack of open heartedness and their inability to take a risk and hire somebody who would rock their world on all the levels that their world is built.
And then I remembered that Jesus only gives us the best. And that this was a gift. And I wouldn't cry or feel rage for a perfect gift handed to me from Sally Jones, why should I feel grumpled over this gift - that I know is perfect.
So I'm choosing, choosing this gift. Refusing the lie, the best I can. And believing that God is allowing me the chance and opportunity to stay home full time, to homeschool full time, to have playtime with friends full time. To continue to cook dinner 3x a week and wash poopy underwear full time. I'm going to choose to trust the bigger and better picture that I can't see, but I'm learning about through experience.
I know in my heart of hearts that I was indeed the perfect person for this job opening. But I was not the safe candidate, and I understand a business wanting to make a safe decision. I wasn't safe because I still have young children at home and the probability of me leaving the company within a few years is great - and training takes up to a year. Also, they need somebody a tad more conservative in the vocal arena.
Take Aways
1) Choose to look at the unpleasantries as a gift.
2) Or at least try.
3) Say no to your lie.
4) And look at pictures of all the sweet babies that have entered their new world. Welcome Miles, Evelyn, Benaiah, and Isaac!
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Receive-Me-Not Lines
I do indeed have major issues regarding my bubble. Bubble of space. Space that is mine. All mine. No sharing. I think my bubble is a good 4 feet on each side/all around me. When my bubble is invaded I either:
a) sweat like a hairy toe in a polyester sock
b) panic and can't hear a word that is being said
c) am unable to comprehend words and or actions
d) suffocate
e) think violent thoughts
f) become statuesque
All big people - take note, STAND BACK. And I will be much more pleasant. I might even say something nice to you. Tell you that I like your socks, er something. If you want to chat, you should get out of my bubble. I like talking to people through my bubble windows, not in my bubble house.
Oh, and I don't like being touched. But I do accept massages. Only the professional kind. Because I'm a professional and I don't appreciate nonprofessional touches. (just being real) (aka - I am a LMT, just not practicing)
Also, I hate. HATE - kissing, making-out, pecking, smacking nobs, exchanging saliva, rubbing faces and touching chin juice. Major invasion of bubble. I seriously feel like I'm suffocating. Actually, I was kicked out of a boy's house one time because I wouldn't kiss him anymore because I felt like I was suffocating. (hehe) (for real) (his nickname was: Morgasm) (stop judging)
I don't like seeing kissing in movies. I start suffocating, just thinking and seeing what's happening to their bubble space.
Hugs are hard for me too. But I can survived them. And have never been kicked out of somebody's house because I refused to hug. Actually I'm pretty critical about hugs. Maybe another post for another time.
Moving on . . .
But one of the WORST occasions for me to have to endure, is the receiving line. Wedding, funeral, and highschool shows. I actual writhe just thinking about them. I purposefully ignore them. They are awkward and more awkward. And what are you supposed to do with them? (them being the people in the lines) Hugs? Talk? Whatever happens in these lines = bubble invasion on the highest level.
So how does a grown woman go about these lines? (in case I ever feel like being a grown woman and trying out a line)
Do you go through the whole line ignoring those you don't know? Acknowledge ONLY the people you do know? What about the people you know, but not that well? Is there a level of acknowledgment? Strangers = ignore (look straight ahead), Acquaintances = high five, Good friends/family = hugs?
But what if you know them, and they don't know you? Then what?
So, here's what I did at the latest receiving line: walked out of the line, made a BIG half-moon shape and walked straight to the person I came to see. Exchanged a few words. Then panicked, because the people standing next to thepersonIcametosee was expecting some sort of congratulatory acknowledgement. So I gave them a thumbs up. And then ran away. (they didn't like the thumbs up) (even though I smiled)
Take Aways
1) It is never appropriate to grow up when you feel as awkward about life as I do.
2) Stand back.
3) Children don't bother my bubble boundaries.
4) Ok, the truth is, I panic about hugs too.
5) Big D is welcomed into my bubble. But no mushy face. Not joking.
Fun Fact
The time we went to Friday Friends house for their 6-year-old's birthday party, and Ed pooped a few logs in the grass. And then their 6-year-old told her mother that next year she was going to ask that nobody pooped in the grass at her birthday party.
a) sweat like a hairy toe in a polyester sock
b) panic and can't hear a word that is being said
c) am unable to comprehend words and or actions
d) suffocate
e) think violent thoughts
f) become statuesque
All big people - take note, STAND BACK. And I will be much more pleasant. I might even say something nice to you. Tell you that I like your socks, er something. If you want to chat, you should get out of my bubble. I like talking to people through my bubble windows, not in my bubble house.
Oh, and I don't like being touched. But I do accept massages. Only the professional kind. Because I'm a professional and I don't appreciate nonprofessional touches. (just being real) (aka - I am a LMT, just not practicing)
Also, I hate. HATE - kissing, making-out, pecking, smacking nobs, exchanging saliva, rubbing faces and touching chin juice. Major invasion of bubble. I seriously feel like I'm suffocating. Actually, I was kicked out of a boy's house one time because I wouldn't kiss him anymore because I felt like I was suffocating. (hehe) (for real) (his nickname was: Morgasm) (stop judging)
I don't like seeing kissing in movies. I start suffocating, just thinking and seeing what's happening to their bubble space.
Hugs are hard for me too. But I can survived them. And have never been kicked out of somebody's house because I refused to hug. Actually I'm pretty critical about hugs. Maybe another post for another time.
Moving on . . .
But one of the WORST occasions for me to have to endure, is the receiving line. Wedding, funeral, and highschool shows. I actual writhe just thinking about them. I purposefully ignore them. They are awkward and more awkward. And what are you supposed to do with them? (them being the people in the lines) Hugs? Talk? Whatever happens in these lines = bubble invasion on the highest level.
So how does a grown woman go about these lines? (in case I ever feel like being a grown woman and trying out a line)
Do you go through the whole line ignoring those you don't know? Acknowledge ONLY the people you do know? What about the people you know, but not that well? Is there a level of acknowledgment? Strangers = ignore (look straight ahead), Acquaintances = high five, Good friends/family = hugs?
But what if you know them, and they don't know you? Then what?
So, here's what I did at the latest receiving line: walked out of the line, made a BIG half-moon shape and walked straight to the person I came to see. Exchanged a few words. Then panicked, because the people standing next to thepersonIcametosee was expecting some sort of congratulatory acknowledgement. So I gave them a thumbs up. And then ran away. (they didn't like the thumbs up) (even though I smiled)
Take Aways
1) It is never appropriate to grow up when you feel as awkward about life as I do.
2) Stand back.
3) Children don't bother my bubble boundaries.
4) Ok, the truth is, I panic about hugs too.
5) Big D is welcomed into my bubble. But no mushy face. Not joking.
Fun Fact
The time we went to Friday Friends house for their 6-year-old's birthday party, and Ed pooped a few logs in the grass. And then their 6-year-old told her mother that next year she was going to ask that nobody pooped in the grass at her birthday party.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Scandalous Cooking at Mothers
I write a lot about grocer trips. I think it's because they're interesting places. Or it could be that I have low humor when I enter these facilities - and witch mode is in high alert and easy access.
So I'm at Mothers, and I try to bring ingredients to make a smashing dish for one of the way too many dinners I'm there/here for.
I completely forgot to bring my cooking wine from home. And Mother's house observes strict prohibition. Even the appearance of any sort of ridiculously tasty adult drink is banned. Sparkling grape juice = banned. IBC rootbeer = banned.
AND to make matters even a tad more tricky, if the family knew a smackeral of alcohol was in dinner - it would have been boycotted. Now I will not give in to such ridiculousness. And so I planned my sneaky attack of the *gasp* cooking wine shopping spree.
Sneak Attack #1
Head to the local grocer in town to purchase devil juice IMMEDIATELY after work.
Sneak attack denied when I had to take a guest back to Mothers.
Sneak Attack #2
Drop guest off and run to local grocer.
Nailed it.
I crossed my fingers twice hoping I would not run into anyone I knew. It can always be expected running around home towns and such. And it always happens when you are looking less than a queen and smell on par with a rotting skunk carcass.
I pulled into the parking lot - looked around to see if I could catch a glimpse of somebody I knew. Checked my booger status, smoothed my chlorine frizzed hair - and marched into the joint.
I did my own quick survey of where the cooking wine would be in the 3-aisled store, and ran into a nice fellow who was stocking shelves. He had no idea of what I was talking about or where I would find such a thing. It was his first day.
In the mean time I kept seeing the same, but different scene play out over and over again. Extra large parents. Large children. Running amok. Hollering like banshees. Touching everything. Running the cart through the aisles like they're a bowling ball and I'm the pin. The whole store experience was like walking into a movie titled "Whose Mother can Yell More?". Yes, mothers screaming, SCREAMING at their children. Babies screaming out of sheer horror. (why are there more babies if the first 3 can't be controlled?) Why am I even in this store?
Thank the Lord I found somebody who knew what cooking wine was AND where it was located. I also found the new guy who was stocking shelves and said, "PSSST - (and then I held up the bottle of cooking wine and waved it around violently) aisle 1, for the next customer who wants to know!!" He ignored me. Which was rude of him because I told him "good luck", and he should have acknowledged my helpful attitude.
Finally got in the check-out line, tried to hide from gross leers. Was run over once from a gross leerer. (thank you sir) And then the worst, worst part happened. If you know me - you know that I hate plastic bags. I will try to avoid taking a bag at all cost. Plastic bags make me feel crazy, the waste of all of them. But I had to take one. I had to hide the wicked sauce in something in order to get it into the house. My heart hurt for the next 3 1/2 hours just thinking about the terrible waste of that plastic bag. What would become of it? Fish killer? Tree killer?
When I finally got home, there was then the obstacle course of getting it into the house (not difficult) to getting it measure out (very difficult) and into the pan to reduce ( impossible).
Let me tell you, when dinner was finally finished. And eaten. And everybody felt like kings and queens. And couldn't believe how insanely divine it was. And told me all sorts of nice things - I pulled that cooking wine out. I unscrewed that lid and danced around them all. In a circle and saying, "you all just had wine *laugh laugh laugh* now what?! NOW WHAT?!!!!!!"
Kidding. I said thank you and smiled awfully smugly.
Take Aways
1) Teach your children control when they're babies so when they're 14 I won't get run over by them with a shopping cart.
2) Number 12
3) I did not run into anybody who recognized me - aka I performed my mission well.
4) Don't ever forget the cooking wine from home, one less plastic bag will be floating out in the world.
Fun Fact
Ed calls pubes - nay hair. I love that kid.
So I'm at Mothers, and I try to bring ingredients to make a smashing dish for one of the way too many dinners I'm there/here for.
I completely forgot to bring my cooking wine from home. And Mother's house observes strict prohibition. Even the appearance of any sort of ridiculously tasty adult drink is banned. Sparkling grape juice = banned. IBC rootbeer = banned.
AND to make matters even a tad more tricky, if the family knew a smackeral of alcohol was in dinner - it would have been boycotted. Now I will not give in to such ridiculousness. And so I planned my sneaky attack of the *gasp* cooking wine shopping spree.
Sneak Attack #1
Head to the local grocer in town to purchase devil juice IMMEDIATELY after work.
Sneak attack denied when I had to take a guest back to Mothers.
Sneak Attack #2
Drop guest off and run to local grocer.
Nailed it.
I crossed my fingers twice hoping I would not run into anyone I knew. It can always be expected running around home towns and such. And it always happens when you are looking less than a queen and smell on par with a rotting skunk carcass.
I pulled into the parking lot - looked around to see if I could catch a glimpse of somebody I knew. Checked my booger status, smoothed my chlorine frizzed hair - and marched into the joint.
I did my own quick survey of where the cooking wine would be in the 3-aisled store, and ran into a nice fellow who was stocking shelves. He had no idea of what I was talking about or where I would find such a thing. It was his first day.
In the mean time I kept seeing the same, but different scene play out over and over again. Extra large parents. Large children. Running amok. Hollering like banshees. Touching everything. Running the cart through the aisles like they're a bowling ball and I'm the pin. The whole store experience was like walking into a movie titled "Whose Mother can Yell More?". Yes, mothers screaming, SCREAMING at their children. Babies screaming out of sheer horror. (why are there more babies if the first 3 can't be controlled?) Why am I even in this store?
Thank the Lord I found somebody who knew what cooking wine was AND where it was located. I also found the new guy who was stocking shelves and said, "PSSST - (and then I held up the bottle of cooking wine and waved it around violently) aisle 1, for the next customer who wants to know!!" He ignored me. Which was rude of him because I told him "good luck", and he should have acknowledged my helpful attitude.
Finally got in the check-out line, tried to hide from gross leers. Was run over once from a gross leerer. (thank you sir) And then the worst, worst part happened. If you know me - you know that I hate plastic bags. I will try to avoid taking a bag at all cost. Plastic bags make me feel crazy, the waste of all of them. But I had to take one. I had to hide the wicked sauce in something in order to get it into the house. My heart hurt for the next 3 1/2 hours just thinking about the terrible waste of that plastic bag. What would become of it? Fish killer? Tree killer?
When I finally got home, there was then the obstacle course of getting it into the house (not difficult) to getting it measure out (very difficult) and into the pan to reduce ( impossible).
Let me tell you, when dinner was finally finished. And eaten. And everybody felt like kings and queens. And couldn't believe how insanely divine it was. And told me all sorts of nice things - I pulled that cooking wine out. I unscrewed that lid and danced around them all. In a circle and saying, "you all just had wine *laugh laugh laugh* now what?! NOW WHAT?!!!!!!"
Kidding. I said thank you and smiled awfully smugly.
Take Aways
1) Teach your children control when they're babies so when they're 14 I won't get run over by them with a shopping cart.
2) Number 12
3) I did not run into anybody who recognized me - aka I performed my mission well.
4) Don't ever forget the cooking wine from home, one less plastic bag will be floating out in the world.
Fun Fact
Ed calls pubes - nay hair. I love that kid.
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