tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74580344832544991552024-03-14T04:15:30.444-04:00My Blog Is BoringUnless you're awesome.Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.comBlogger783125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-59050436759469710842023-01-25T20:43:00.001-05:002023-01-25T20:43:25.901-05:00I had no idea what I was getting intoDoes anyone? Surely not. Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-59536019052062542992019-12-25T22:41:00.002-05:002019-12-25T23:01:27.474-05:00Egg-Throwing Supers are the Heroes We All Need<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Another magical Christmas in the books for the Fowler Clan. Santa brought everything the girls wanted, except, as was pointed out before the first piece of wrapping paper had been torn, he only brought ONE dress for Geneva, when she had clearly specified that a "Princess Set" includes TWO dresses. Yeah? Well, Santa was out of money, kid, and you're already spoiled. So Merry Christmas and get over it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">(And when I say "everything they wanted," I feel like I should clarify that they didn't ask for much. A stuffed bear, a doll, some dress-up things. Nothing extravagant or crazy.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">I made a breakfast of biscuits and bacon and fried apples, like the apples my Granny used to make. I was so excited to share that with them - somehow, I've been a mom for almost 7 years and I've not made my kids fried apples? I waited too long, they both claimed it was gross and wouldn't eat. Fine, I said, more for me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">We eventually made it over to Mom and Dad's. We opened presents (they bought us too much, like always) and had a great lunch of Thanksgiving foods because for actual Thanksgiving this year we declared it Thanksdonnakah and had an Italian feast instead of the traditional meal and my Dad and brother were really missing Mom's homemade dressing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">We watched A Christmas Story while we ate, but after that was over, Dad pulled out the VHS-to-DVDs he recently had converted and we took a trip back in time 30 years. I saw my grandparents again and heard their sweet voices sing. I cried. We watched my brother's third birthday, and fifteen-year-old Natalie and Tabitha camping at The Property in July of 1995 - that was the time with Dad and the snake skin we all thought was a snake. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Brooke Hudson popped up in some videos from 1988 and 1989. Brooke was my best friend in an awkward stage of my life. She was a little older than me, probably 10 to my 8, but not enough for it to make too much of a difference yet. She spent a lot of time playing at my house. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Mom was upstairs in the kitchen when I was telling Geneva about Brooke. "What was her name?" Mom asked. I told her. "She was the one who lived just up the street here, right?" Yep. Then she said it:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">"That's whose house me and Pam egged that time."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">**Record Scratch**</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Me: "What?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Mom: "Yeah. We egged her house. Well, her mom's house. We were just talking about that the other day. Why did we bring that up...?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Me, incredulous, but already knowing the answer and not yet believing: "Really?! Why?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Mom: "Her mom said something to you that hurt your feelings, I don't remember exactly. So Pam and I egged her house." Then, to make it okay, "It was Halloween."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">I knew exactly why my mom had egged that house. I never in a thousand years would've imagined that my mom would have ever egged a house, much less in retribution for some mean thing some grown-up said to me, but I knew...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">**********</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><i>(This is where we travel back in time, to 2010, where I told a story from 1990ish. This next part is from a blog entry titled "I'm a little sensitive, okay?!" dated December 10, 2010. I apparently remembered a lot more details then than I do now about the incident in question.)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><i></i><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">When I was a child, about 10 or 11 years of age, my Momma bought me an outfit from one of those fancy children's clothing boutiques. I can't remember the reason - if it was for a birthday or Christmas - or if I was with her when she bought it (I seem to think I was). I just know it was, at that point, the most expensive outfit I'd ever been given (as memory serves, Momma spent close to $80 on it), and I loved it.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
It was a knee-length skirt (again, I was a kid) and a jacket made out of shiny black vinyl that I pretended was leather. The jacket had cool silver zippers and buckles and snaps that made me feel "tough" in a "I'm a pretty princess" sort of way. The shirt that went under the jacket was stiff, 3/4-length sleeved, and lime green. </span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
I had the outfit for months before I finally wore it. The more I remember, it must've been Christmas when it was gifted to me - I think it was too cold to wear it at first. I remember it was a warm day in Spring when I finally pulled it out of the closet and decided "this is the day. I'm wearing this today." I was a, um...stout child. I wasn't fat, but I was never skinny. The outfit was a bit snug, and I really did recognize that my favorite closet-dwelling get-up was made of black vinyl, not leather. And I knew I didn't see a lot of kids out and about wearing black vinyl. But I felt SO COOL when I wore that skirt and jacket around the house. I had to show it to the world; I had to share it with the world.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
It was a Saturday. I was brave, but not brave enough to wear that outfit for the first time to school. My best friend Brooke, who lived 3 doors up the street, came over to play. She loved my outfit. I beamed. The day progressed, and at one point we had to go to Brooke's house. Her mom was weird, and kind of a bitch, so I stayed outside rather than following Brooke into the house. Her mom came to the door to talk to me anyhow.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
Brooke's mom (I can't remember her name, of course) was a big woman. The sort that if you hug you'll kind of sink into, but she wasn't a hugging sort of person; she used her size to intimidate. She always had a helmet of box-colored red curls always perfectly styled around her head - that remained the case until her firefighter husband left her a few years later, after which she would sometimes answer the door in her pajamas with half of those curls matted to one side, even at 3 in the afternoon. </span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
So she came to the door to talk to me after Brooke disappeared into the depths of her home in search of her Ken doll so we could even up the odds back at my place or to get her My Little Pony board game or maybe to grab her electric razor because she'd forgotten to shave her legs that morning and suddenly realized it needed to be done RIGHT NOW. (Brooke was a year or two older than me, and she did shit like that. She was a little odd. She also had a missing tooth, with a fake on a retainer that she liked to take out and use to scare me.) The woman stood on the stoop of her porch, looking down on my 10-year-old self standing on the walkway below her, and she said,</span></span></span></span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
"What are you wearing?" </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I knew from her tone this was not going to go well. I willed her to not say it.<span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">"This is my new outfit. My Momma got it for me. Do you like it?" I'm chanting in my head now "Don't hurt my feelings, you mean witch. Don't make me cry. Please don't be mean to me." I'm just a kid.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
Brooke's mom sneers. "It looks like a garbage bag."</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
My heart was crushed. </span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
I laughed as if she'd made a joke. She said some more words about the material and zippers I was wearing. Brooke appeared from inside the house and walked back with me back to my house, where I quietly changed out of my skirt, out of my jacket, out of the stiff, 3/4 length sleeved, lime green shirt. I hung them in the closet. I never wore them again. </span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; display: inline !important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 1.4; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
I felt guilt for years when I thought of that outfit. Guilt because my Momma paid so much money for it and I only wore it that one time. Guilt because she and Daddy worked hard to earn that money and it was only worn once and then hung in the closet to moulder for years before finally being donated to Goodwill. Eventually the guilt turned into anger. Anger at Brooke's mom for being such a raging bitch. Who says shit like that to anyone, much less a child? </span></span></span></span></span></span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">**********</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">I don't remember telling my mom what Brooke's mom had said to me. I am sure I didn't come home and cry about it, make a fuss. I was too embarrassed, ashamed. That woman had made me feel self-conscious in a way that no adult had ever done. I was used to being teased - that was par for the course at school every day. But to have an adult shame me, to make me feel small...that was a new experience. In my home, in my world, grownups said things like, "you are so smart" and "you're so pretty" and "you can be anything you want to be." Grownups did not insult your new outfit and then pick apart the things that made it wrong. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">As an almost-40 year old, though, I know my mom must have noticed that outfit I'd been so proud of was hanging in my closet unworn. I know my mom didn't spend that kind of money on that outfit and not notice that it was hanging in the closet unworn. So I guess at some point the story came out - the why of why I wasn't wearing the special clothes I'd been so happy to wear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">And my Momma got retribution. That woman probably thought forever and always that her house was egged by rowdy teenagers; I'm certain she never knew that her house was egged by a couple of 30-something-year-old women pissed at her because she was a bitch who said mean shit to a little kid. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">To my Momma and my Aunt Pam, I love you forever. I've always loved you, but this - this brings a whole new facet. From now on, all I want for Christmas is stories of shit you two did that you wouldn't tell us before because we were kids. Start writing. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Merry Christmas, Friends! May you all have an egg-throwing superhero in your corner. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-90052689896014125222019-05-17T23:19:00.001-04:002019-05-17T23:48:48.927-04:00Shut up about vasectomies.It's not going to happen. It's not going to become law. Comparing that bullshit to the reality of men regulating our uteruses is a false flag and it's not going to actually help our cause.<br />
<br />
Stop it.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's a great idea, yeah. We KNOW men cause unwanted pregnancy - that is a legitimate undeniable fact. But since when have legitimate undeniable facts shaped our legislative policy?<br />
<br />
Please - show me a time? Can we go back there?<br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, fucking vote. Take your friends to vote. Call your state legislators and congress-people and fucking vote.<br />
<br />
We are living in scary times. Please, let's not go backwards. Please. I know we're all busy and tired, but seriously, are there really more pressing issues than our actual bodily autonomy? <br />
<br />
Vote. Stop sharing memes that don't vote and fucking vote. Drive your neighbor to the polls and fucking vote. Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-42462143839922737912019-02-15T00:04:00.001-05:002019-02-15T00:04:48.617-05:00Because sometimes a facebook post should be a blog entry.<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #1d2129; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">
Driving home in the shitshow tonight that was Louisville traffic, I had this niggling feeling in the back of my brain that one of us, in some recent past year, had maybe had a car incident of some sort - maybe that time a firetruck drove over Jimi's tire? Nope- according to Facebook memories, today is the 5 year anniversary of the day I wrecked my Honda Civic, the first new car I'd ever bought. I'd been driving it for 9 years at that point - 5 years later and I'm on my 3rd Subaru because apparently I'm a sucker for a low payment and fancy bells and whistles. </div>
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Another fun Valentine's Day related fact, at least in my mind - 5 years ago, I was a momma to one little girl, and knew in my heart that she was going to be our only child. On February 15th, <a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=716097513&extragetparams=%7B%22__tn__%22%3A%22%2CdK-R-R%22%2C%22eid%22%3A%22ARCQevq8f_5IpdhkZC7POTQmQtc34VpBxVs-t0g6NpITBrfROU4BUarsYbK-oLHoX32FS5-u_hq7JCA1%22%2C%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/Ravenhawk1?__tn__=%2CdK-R-R&eid=ARCQevq8f_5IpdhkZC7POTQmQtc34VpBxVs-t0g6NpITBrfROU4BUarsYbK-oLHoX32FS5-u_hq7JCA1&fref=mentions" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;">James</a> and Sage got married. Karen Battoe went home with us that night because she and I were both "overserved" - Jimi slept on the couch, Karen and I passed out in our bed. I swear there was no funny business, but 10 months later, to the day, Cora was born. I don't know what sort of witchcraft Karen pulled off that night, but I still threaten to go after her for child support. </div>
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We never celebrate Valentine's Day. Two days ago he asked if I wanted to do something this year and I reminded him we never do anything - he said, "I know, but I wanted to check and see if your feelings had changed." You know, because this is our 12th Valentine's Day together, and I guess you never know. He's a really smart man. But I didn't want to do anything; I hate the pressure of Valentine's Day. He shows me every day how much he loves me - he does the dishes and helps get the girls ready for school and gives them baths and watches Game of Thrones without rolling his eyes when I can't remember a single effing thing that happened and keep asking dumb questions even though we've obviously seen all of this before. Sometimes I wonder what it is that I do for him to show my love - it's been over 12 years and our kids are small and life is hard sometimes even when you have it really good, and the last year or so has been really hard inside my head. Laughingly I want to say I show him that I love him by going to work every day and then coming home at the end of each day, by not breaking things when I get pissed off, by doing the laundry - because honestly, some days, that feels like absolutely all that I have to give of myself. I don't even know when I last made a meatloaf for him. </div>
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If you've known us since the beginning, you'll remember how gross we were, how gross I was with all of my gushing and mushy over-sharing. Sometimes I try really hard to remember that time, to remember the newness and the excitement, to recapture those feelings. I remember, but they're fleeting feelings, as all of the best things in life are. You can't hold onto it forever. The beauty, though, is the foundation those feelings built. All of this mundane, all of this living when things aren't new and exciting, all of this real life bullshit, it's built on a foundation of that magic, and that is a solid, real, actual thing. It's what carries us when the days are long and the nights are short and our tempers are shorter. It's what carries us when things are hard - it's what reminds us of why we're doing this thing, how we made these people, how we're going to get through the lows until the next high comes along and we can take a breath. </div>
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Not for one moment in the last 12+ years have I wanted to leave. Not for one moment have I wanted him to be anyone else. I love that man with every part of my being, even when I'm angry with him and even when I'm pissed off at the world- I'd never want to walk my path in this life without him by my side. He's my best friend, my partner, and I love him forever. </div>
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What else is there in a Valentine?</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-16657493366329440422018-10-27T07:01:00.000-04:002018-10-27T07:01:55.128-04:00Saturday morning love.Have you ever had the best part of your entire day happen before you've even turned on a light?<br />
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Cora was in our room at 5:45 a.m., wide awake, happy, ready to face the day. She's always so happy when she wakes up, and today is no exception. Jimi and I were tired, though - I'd personally been hoping she'd sleep in a little and let me sleep until at least 7. I tried to get her to lay down with us, hoping maybe she'd go back to sleep, but she was chatterboxing away - "Daddy LOVES his Batman shirt" and "Kitty Wibby scratched me yesterday" (he didn't, that was forever ago, but everything is "yesterday" right now). Jimi got up to start getting ready for work (overtime, yay!), and I tried again to get Cora to cuddle up with me and settle in. <br />
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From the other room, Geneva, sounding a little sleepy and confused, yelled out, "Cora?"<br />
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"What?" Cora hollered back.<br />
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"I love you." <br />
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Cora yelled back, "I love you too!"<br />
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Oh, be still my heart. Geneva continued, "If you want to come lay in my bed with me you can."<br />
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The only thing in the world better than mommy and daddy's bed is big sister's bed, so Cora bolted up and scrambled to cuddle with her sis before sis changed her mind. I could hear them talking as they got the covers situated, Geneva giving directions and peppering the conversation with little drops of "Good morning, little girl" and "I love you sweet girl". <br />
<br />
Jimi called from the bathroom, "Well, that's the sweetest thing I've heard all week." <br />
"Yep," I replied, "My heart is melted."<br />
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Happy Saturday! Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-7138782467777060852018-10-09T23:05:00.000-04:002018-10-09T23:07:21.119-04:00I blog to avoid the internet. <span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Fifteen minutes tonight filling out permission slips and volunteer forms and her reading log - I feel so grown up! There's never a moment I drop the responsibility, never a moment their care isn't a live current running underneath everything else happening in my brain, but sometimes, when I have a quiet moment to sit and really think, it blows my mind that I am a mother, responsible for the lives and well-being of two other entire humans. What they eat, what they wear, when they bathe, how they play - I have a say in all of it. Not just a say - I damn-near control it entirely. It's crazy to me that someone let me have this much responsibility without checking to make sure I'm qualified in any way for this much power. No Pressure.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">G had her first parent/teacher conference today, and it lined up perfectly with C's follow-up pelvic ultrasound, so Jimi took the phone conference in the car with G in the backseat while C and I went inside for her appointment. They were done with her so quickly, we were back to the car in time for the last part of the conversation. Basically, she's awesome. She's reading and writing at nearly a first grade level, which is awesome. She's ahead of most of her class in math, but she needs to keep practicing on her counting (that jump from 29 to 30 fouls her up every time). She's a little ray of sunshine, a joy to have in class, friendly and helpful to all of her peers. I heard the part about how they had to move her to a new table because she was too social, and how they expect they'll have to move her again eventually when she gets social with this table too, and I grinned because, yep, that's my girl.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">They told us not to expect C's results for a few days. The technician took the pics, the radiologist "reads" them and sends results to our doc, then we should hear from our doc in a few days. I want to hold a goshdang Kaizen event to get these people in line - can't we remove a step or two here and multitask to improve turnaround? For gosh sakes. Anytime you're in an ultrasound of any sort, you desperately just want to know, "Does everything look normal?" She didn't halt the test and go get a doc for a second opinion or anything, so there's that, but when she was done, she did say that she needed to check with her doc and asked us to wait for just a moment. I felt a small pit of dread drop itself into the center of my stomach, but she came back within a few minutes and said we were all set, good to go. That doesn't answer any questions, though. So we wait. And keep sending out into the universe good vibes for no big deal. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">My head is a mess, guys. I'm so sad when I scroll through my social media pages - pictures of new babies and family gatherings sandwiched between horrid tales from sexual assault victims and memes joking about sexual assault survivors posted by men I previously believed to be Good Men. I want to stay informed, but I've realized my desire to be informed is not so much keeping me abreast of current events so much as depressing the fuck out of me. I can scroll for hours in twitter and facebook and Instagram, but I'm not gaining any new knowledge or enlightenment from it - I'm just following the crowd into the hole of chaos and awfulness. I tried to step back last night; I drew myself a warm bath, threw in a bath bomb, turned on a YouTube meditation video to help with stress and anxiety, and tried to let it all go. When my bath was over, I didn't feel any better, I felt lost and still so sad. I asked Jimi if he would hold me; I just needed to lie in bed with his arms around me and feel safe. He did, and I cried and cried until I couldn't breathe through my nose anymore. I sobbed the big shaking sobs you cry when you're heartbroken, because I am heartbroken. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">"I want to live in a world where everything is fair, where everyone is treated equally, where everyone has to follow the same rules." Why is that too much to ask?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">I am aghast at the state of our nation today. I am appalled. But I've been doing a little learning, and I'm learning that I shouldn't be all that shocked. To paraphrase a post I saw somewhere by someone on some social media something: </span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">The United States </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">was formed by </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">wealthy white supremacists </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #444444;"><i>t</i><i>o promote their interests and agenda. </i></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">The system is working </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">exactly as it was designed. </span></i></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #444444;"><i><br /></i><i><br /></i>
In-fucking-deed. </span></span><i></i><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">So yeah. I'm having a hard time over here, but I'm taking steps to get better. A social media hiatus between now and election night is on the agenda. I'm even avoiding some of my favorite podcasts, because they're political and informative and the facts they give stress me the fuck out. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Self care, right? That should be the word of 2018. It's the only way most of us will survive it. </span><br />
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<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-62718902084824148002018-10-09T22:14:00.000-04:002018-10-09T23:07:53.088-04:00Finnegan 2<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">G drew a picture of a cat and taped it to her wall a week or two ago - it was a white cat, and she wrote "Cat" above it. She likes to label things, now that she can. Today, I found her with a black crayon, making black spots on the cat. She'd marked out "Cat" and written "Dog", and underneath that, "Finn". She drew a black mark at the bottom of the page, "that's his fur that he leaves everywhere."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">*Sigh*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">We picked up his ashes yesterday; I had both girls in the car with me when I called to see if he was ready. I should've thought better of that - Cora piped up, "We're getting our puppy back?" The hopeful melody of her sweet voice broke my heart. I had to explain again that we're just picking up his ashes. That he's still dead, that he's not coming back. "Ashes?" G was curious. "They turned him into dust?" We talked a bit about that, what it would look like. I told them to imagine the ashes under the grill, the ones they like to play in. I sent out a silent thank you to the universe when we got through the conversation again without them asking how they turned him into ashes - I can't think how I would explain cremation technique without them being horrified. "Did they turn his fur to ashes too?" G asked. She had that sad, tentative voice that she uses when something is bothering her and she's trying to understand. "Yes, baby, his fur too." "Oh," she said, looking down. "I wanted to feel his fur again." Somehow I managed to not cry, but it took effort. I lost it last night when I shared that anecdote with Jimi - he did too. It's almost too much to bear, to think of his soft fur and what a good boy he was. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">We got him picked up, though, got him home, on the mantle. They included a paw print pressed into some sort of soft dough that will firm up permanently in a few days. I don't know if that was great or terrible. I cried last night for a long time. It wasn't all for him, but a lot of it was. I have so much guilt - I was not the greatest dog mom over the last 5 years, and I don't know how I'll come to terms with that. I can't make it up to him. I can't tell him I'm sorry. I can't redo any of it. I keep replaying this night in my head, one of our walks in his last few weeks, before I realized he was hurting - we were walking our usual route and he was being so slow, and I was in such a hurry, like I always am, to get to the next thing, whatever it was. I lost my patience with him, I assumed he was just being pokey, taking his time, and I pulled on his lead and griped at him to "Come ON - hurry up!" I would love to not have that memory anymore. When he was slow the next night too, that's when I noticed something was not normal. Also, the weeks leading up to that, when he was so slow to get up and come to the door to go outside in the mornings; I assumed he was being lazy, or ignoring me - as if he ever did those things - and I would lose my temper and yell at him, "Finnegan, COME!" I didn't realize until later, when I put the entire sequence together in my head, that he obviously was aching and sore and having a hard time getting up to go out - I was just so engrossed in my own bullshit, worried over my own morning checklist and timetable, I didn't even notice my best boy was having a hard time. And if I go further back in this memory lane of self-hate - the days when we'd come home and he would be waiting there for us, and we'd blow into the house full of kids and to-do lists and walk right past him without much more than a "Hey Finn, you need to go out?" and we'd let him out, but then ignore him nearly completely until it was time to feed or walk him. I noticed when he wasn't greeting us at the door any more, but I figured he was napping. I didn't realize that those door-meet declines coincided with the slow mornings, or that our walks were gradually taking longer and longer, until it was just obvious, and then it was too late. He deserved better than that. I owed him more than that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #444444; display: inline; float: none; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I want to defend myself, to tell how I was good to him, and to the other dogs in my life before him. But then I remember that night on that walk, when I hurried him along when he must've been in pain, and I just hate myself. </span><b style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></b><i style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></i><u style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></u><sub style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11.06px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></sub><sup style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 11.06px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></sup><strike style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: line-through; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">I had this ridiculous thought yesterday: "Dog is God spelled backwards." </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Then, "If the way we treat our dogs determines if we get into Heaven, I don't know if I'll get to go." </span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Then, just now, "If Finn is the one who determines if I get in or not, he'd let me in. He was always so forgiving."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><span style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">He used to love it when I'd squat down in front of him and hug him. He'd lay his head on my shoulder or in the crook of my arm as long as I'd stay there, my face buried in his neck, my hands rubbing along his flank and back, telling him what a good boy he is and how much we love him. I can almost smell his doggy smell, remembering it. How soft his fur was, the way he'd lean into me. I feel like if I get to meet him again, we'll do that, and I'll tell him all of this, and he'll understand, and he'll still love me like he always did. In the meantime, though, I get to live with the memories, of both the good times and of when I was not a good friend to my best friend.</span> <br />
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Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-87935277037250430812018-10-05T00:20:00.000-04:002018-10-05T00:20:39.472-04:00Scrapbooking<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="erkjd-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="erkjd-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="erkjd-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">When I was a teenager, starting at 14, I kept a scrapbook. It wasn't full of cutesy stickers or pictures with scalloped edges, that wasn't a big thing until a few years later. This one was a photo album, the kind made from a 3-ring binder full of pages that are sticky on each side and covered with a sheet of clear plastic, crafted into a baby book - you know, those things moms-to-be get at their baby showers and then keep in the box it came in, shoved in the closet or basement ,until you find it long after those babies are no longer babies and you stick it in the yard sale or donate it to goodwill? This one was given to Momma when she was pregnant with Dylan. It had a gender-neutral mother goose fabric and was trimmed with alternating blue and pink lace. The fabric was quilted, and lightly stuffed, and had a picture-frame sleeve sewn into the front cover. But, as a 14 year old girl suddenly with a new life outside of my family, I felt a primal urge to document the important and awesome things that were happening in my life, and it was full of those pages that are sticky on both sides, and so when I found it in the back room downstairs and mom said I could have it, cover be damned, this would fit the bill. I called it "my book". As in, "Do you want to come over and hang out and look at my book? I made a new page last night." Or, "I have an entire page of my book devoted to him," or, "here, look at this page in my book, it'll explain how I feel better than out loud words can." </span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="aoqft-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="aoqft-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="aoqft-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="1smek-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1smek-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="1smek-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I spent hours physically formatting pages with high-school class schedules and picture-day wallet-sized photos of my friends, cutting out, with normal straight-edge scissors, from-film pictures taken at Kat's house, at Drill meets, at family events, so I could paste them into my book. I pasted in Valentines from classmates, comic strips, and handwritten poems. I poured over old copies of Readers Digest (from Granny & Pappaw's house) and cut out the best quotes that seemed so epiphanic, so important and new and big to my young 14 year old brain:</span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="774om-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="774om-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="774om-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="4doa7-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4doa7-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="4doa7-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">"We are born with our eyes closed and our mouths open, and spend our entire lives trying to correct that mistake of nature."</span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="d0kc9-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="d0kc9-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="d0kc9-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="54osk-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="54osk-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="54osk-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">"The words penalty, restrict and violate appeared more times in President Clinton's health care bill than in his crime bill."</span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="6ale1-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6ale1-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="6ale1-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="5mr2p-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5mr2p-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="5mr2p-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">"When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us."</span></span></div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="dd7lb-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="dd7lb-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dd7lb-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="5rmfr-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5rmfr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="5rmfr-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">"An apology is the super glue of life; it can repair just about anything."</span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="fe2bb-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="fe2bb-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="fe2bb-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
</div>
<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="1gmtr-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1gmtr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="1gmtr-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I drew pictures with pencil, practicing the shading skills I was learning in my freshman art class. I cut article titles from Cosmopolitan (mine) and Home & Gardens and Woman's Day and Ladies Home Journal (all mom's) to paste into collages to express my heartache when my boyfriend kissed another girl. I made pages filled with birthday cards from my aunts and grandparents and friends. And more Reader's Digest quotes:</span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="6onm-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6onm-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="6onm-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="1ails-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1ails-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="1ails-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">"When one finds himself in a hole of his own making, it is a good time to examine the quality of workmanship."</span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="2gq9l-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
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<span data-offset-key="2gq9l-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="cp15o-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cp15o-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="cp15o-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">"Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is what makes it permanent."</span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="cl5ht-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cl5ht-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="cl5ht-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="aseni-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="aseni-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="aseni-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">Newspaper articles from my friend's rappelling accident, the one that nearly killed him. </span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="ih1q-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="ih1q-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="ih1q-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="2fm19-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2fm19-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="2fm19-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">There's a pretty definitive line where I find my dad's old Time Magazines. All of a sudden, there's a political spin on the pages - they're not just about my day to day life, my relationship drama - there's all of those things, then you turn a page, and there's a black and white cartoon of a man holding a gun on a doctor who's standing between the legs of a pregnant woman who's lying on a table, and the doc is holding the pointed edge of a knife over her belly. The caption says "Justifiable homicide?" The question mark is in the shape of a fetus. Other additions to this page include cut-outs of protest posters that read "choose life, abortion kils" and "why not kill the baby killers?" The next page has pics of flag code violations titled "Do you salute the dog?" and a "Powell '96" button. Turn the page - A cartoon from 2/15/93 that shows a line of people waiting in front of a sign that reads "white house tour" - the guide says "The Clintons ask that there be no smoking in the white house." one of the citizens in line asks, "What if we don't inhale?" </span></span></div>
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<div data-block="true" data-editor="8aj9t" data-offset-key="9d0fu-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-spacing: 0px;">
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<span data-offset-key="9d0fu-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><br data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;" /></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="3asb6-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">TIME didn't change my scrapbooking style, but it definitely gave me a new facet of my opinions to explore. The traditionally "women-focused" magazines I was drawing from didn't invite me to have a political opinion, and while I am appalled at much of what I apparently believed back in 1994, and while I know none of that was geared toward me, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for that first introduction into political conversation. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="94nab-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I said all that to say this: The girls who find their dad's old TIME magazines today are working with way better material than I ever had. I'm going to go find a few copies of this one tomorrow to keep on hand.
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-32104823699864473442018-09-29T11:10:00.001-04:002018-09-29T11:10:54.178-04:00Finnegan. I just couldn't do it yesterday - it was too sudden, too soon, too much. And after the awful start to the morning, he seemed okay after we got home. Sort of. I felt rushed. The girls needed time to comprehend what was happening. I needed time to love on him just a little bit more. <br />
<br />
The dog who had barely eaten in two days wolfed down the T-bone I grilled him, and gnawed on the bone off and on throughout the evening. Mostly he just lay on the pillows and blankets and yoga mats I'd laid out in the living room for him, breathing in a way that didn't quite sound right to me - too shallow, too raspy? - his body trembling the slightest bit with each rise and fall of his chest. We picked the girls up early and explained as best we could what was happening. I think they get it; we're reminding them to talk and ask questions and that it's okay to be happy and sad at the exact same time. When the sun came out, we all went out to the front yard and he meandered and sniffed and then went to lay under a tree. That was his favorite tree back in the day, back before we had a fence and he always went outside to the front yard on a tie-out - he liked to lay there and smell the air and watch the world go by. Friends came by to love on him one last time, to tell him what a good boy he's been - and to love on us, because they know how awful this is. <br />
<br />
Eventually he decided he was ready for bed, I guess, and he went and lay in the middle of the floor in the girls' room. He would move from side to side, but was not interested in getting up for any reason for the rest of the night. We talked about how it would maybe be better if he just went to sleep and didn't wake up. Jimi and I stayed up listening to folk music that somehow was all about losing people you love and reminisced about our lives with him - all the crazy antics that drove us crazy and infuriated us back then - things we wish he could do again. <br />
<br />
He had terrible separation anxiety in the beginning. He bent the bars of his kennel trying to escape it. He destroyed all of the blinds in our houses - the one we lived in when we got him, and the one we moved into the next year - trying to get to us when we'd leave for work. We took the best walks through the parks together, and he scared the kids because of his one blue eye and one brown eye. "Ghost eye," Jimi called it. He was always sweet and dopey, though. He was always the best boy. <br /><br />He loved to explore, and I spent the first 4 years in this house chasing him through the neighborhood when he'd escape through a hole in the fence; once, there was a foot of snow on the ground and I was in slippers, until I lost a slipper. Then I was just in one slipper. Fucking dog. When we'd go to camp, I'd irritate the shit out of Karen because I was constantly yelling "FIIINN - AAAA - GAAANNN!", trying to find him after he'd wander off into the cornfield or around the corner to someone else's camp over and over again, coming back covered in something stinky and gross more often than not. Using a tie-out was a pain in the ass out there - he'd get wrapped around stuff or tangled up, and besides, what dog wants to be tied up out in the woods? <br />
<br />
He loved to be with us. If we weren't here, he loved to be with our things. At first, when he was little, he'd love our things too much with his mouth - we lost a lot of shoes. Eventually, he just wanted to lay with our things. He'd make a pile, in the middle of our bed, of shoes and shirt that we'd worn most recently, and then he'd lay there. All day. Waiting for us to come home and scold him for making a pile of our things in the middle of our bed again. Nah, we never really scolded him for that - we'd scold him for the shoe he'd destroyed or the harness he'd cut through again with his scissor-like teeth or the bag of bread he'd shredded and eaten while laying on a pile of our things in the middle of our bed. <br />
<br />
When G was born, we sent the little cap they first put on her head home with Stacy, who was keeping Finn for us. She gave it to him, and says he carried it around with him everywhere for the next few days, whimpering. When we came home, he watched over her constantly. When I'd sit in my spot on the couch and nurse her, he was there, right there next to us, with his head next to hers. He showed extraordinary patience with both of the girls, and was almost always exceedingly gentle with them. (He nipped at G one time, but she deserved it. We used it as a teaching moment to remind her to be kind to her puppy brother.)<br />
<br />
He did an awesome job keeping our floors crumb-free, though he did contribute what I feel is probably more than his fair share of mess in the form of hairs shed. <br />
<br />
He was the best boy.<br /><br />I slept in the girls' room, so I could be close to him, in case he needed anything in the middle of the night. He didn't.<br />
<br />
We got up late today, just before 7. G turned the light on and told him good morning and kissed his head - he thumped his tail a few times. I gave him a few minutes to wake up, then asked if he wanted to go outside. He got right up and headed for the door, more steady on his feet than he seemed yesterday. He went straight out the door, down the steps, into the yard. He peed, sniffed around a bit. Stood, sniffed the air. Then he came up the stairs and stopped, stood for a moment, then his back end started to wobble and he fell over on his side. I caught him and helped him down. He was panting, but not too heavily. He lay there for a few minutes before he was able to get up again, but he made it back inside on his own and lay down on his bed. He drank some water, seemed okay. Just okay. It was so obviously time.<br />
<br />
We had to wait for the vet's office to open at 9. I cooked him another steak and he ate the parts I'd cut from the bone, but didn't have any interest in the bone itself. He drank some more water, rested his head. <br /><br />I pulled the girls together and explained again what was going to happen. I told them to go tell him they love him, that he's been a great puppy brother. "Goodbye?" Geneva asked. "Yes, baby, goodbye," I answered. <br />
<br />
We'd talked about taking the girls with us, about having someone keep them both, or just Cora, but in the end, I decided I wanted to do this on my own. The vet's office has tiny examining rooms, for one thing. And the chaos - I just wanted my boy to be able to go in peace, and when we come as a group we bring the chaos. Usually it's fine - this wasn't one of those situations, though. So Jimi said his goodbyes, the girls gave their last kisses and hugs and belly rubs, and I asked, "Hey Finn, wanna go for a ride?" He perked up, ears alert, and got up. He trotted across the living room, down the short hall, through the dining room and kitchen. He hesitated at the steps, but only for a moment, then he was down them, through the gate, sniffing in the yard. He didn't try to jump into the car, but he was waiting patiently for me to lift him into it. I opened all of the windows and we drove the short drive. There were lots of people in the small office already - I'd left him in the car to let them know we were here. After checking in, I went back out and let him down onto the ground to sniff - there are great smells for a dog in the parking lot of a vet's office, I imagine, and that's before you factor in the chicken place next door. <br />
<br />
When they were ready for us, I carried him into the small room. They lifted him onto the table. I held his face and looked into his eyes and told him how much we loved him, how he's the best boy, how thankful we were that he was part of our family. It felt like he understood. He was not scared, he was not panicked, he was not stressed. As the medicine took effect, he lay down on the table, into my arms, and breathed a few last deep breaths, and then he was still. It was done. And it felt okay. Deeply sad, but okay. <br /><br />
That's how I feel. Deeply sad, but okay. <br /><br />I'll miss that good boy. He was the sweetest boy. <br />
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<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-40502007733843957312018-07-29T18:47:00.000-04:002018-07-29T18:47:05.935-04:00I'm going to do this regularly again one day i swear...I saw friends last night I hadn't seen since before I was a mom. I met people with whom I've run in the same social circles for years, but had never had an opportunity to get to know. I watched as this group of intelligent, giving, wonderful people formed a circle of lawn chairs in my backyard and shared stories and laughter - and it made my heart grow three sizes and reminded me of how lucky I am to know such awesome people. <br />
<br />
The occasion was a birthday gathering for a dear friend - she wanted the night to be full of her closest and most beloved, so I let her handle the inviting and Jimi and I took care of the rest. I made a chicken shawarma that was out of this world (thanks <a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1017161-oven-roasted-chicken-shawarma" target="_blank">NYT</a>!), and Jimi spent all day smoking a pork shoulder. The food was yummy. And somehow, we've ended up with way more alcohol than we began the night with - good or bad, that will be determined. The guest of honor cried happy tears and rapped to Biggie Smalls; I call that a fucking win. <br />
<br />
I loved it so much I've decided I'm going to make it a weekly thing. Starting next week, I'm going to invite all of my friends to my house each Monday night - open house style - come and go as you please, bring something or have whatever we're having - bring the kids and let's throw them upstairs or in the back yard to play while the grownups talk and drink and whatever...fill our buckets, our cups, our mental health meters. It's so fucking hard these days to just exist. Last night, the conversations I had, remind me that IT'S NOT JUST ME. We are all fighting the same fight, struggling in the same ways. Well, we're not, but we are. You know? You know what I mean. And being with people who tell us it's okay, that we're not alone, that we have people in the world who love us and support us even when shit gets hard, well, that's super important. And despite the fact that we're living in a technologically advanced age of social media and oversaturation connection with every detail of each others lives at our fingertips - I think a lot of us are feeling really lonely and isolated. Talking to my friends in person, seeing them in person, hugging their necks in person - it makes ME feel better. and I'm guessing IT'S NOT JUST ME. <br />
<br />
The girls stayed at Dot's last night, and since my house is "company clean" today, I decided I had time to take the girls somewhere fun after I picked them up. We got bathing suits on and headed up to Iroquois Park - we go there a lot, but it's a special treat for them to get to play in the spray pad water thingy. When we pulled up, I noticed two young black men getting out of a car two spots from us, and a family of white people getting out of a car across the parking lot. The older man of the white family met the older of the black men halfway between their cars in the middle of the lot and shook hands - somehow I gathered that the white family was looking to buy the car the black men were driving. I got the girls out of their car seats and set them free - as I was walking to catch up with them, I noticed the family walking around the car, as if inspecting it. I peripherally noticed when it drove off, as if someone was taking it for a test drive. I thought one of the black men stayed behind. I thought, "Yeah, that makes sense, if you're meeting someone in a park to buy a car, take a second with you, and leave someone behind to assure everyone everything is legit." <br />
<br />
I walked around the playground as the girls played in the water - I was trying to get steps in. I was hung over and not hydrated enough to try to do any real cardio today, but I could get some steps in walking circles around my kids, like the helicopter mom that I am. <br />
<br />
I don't know how long it had been since we showed up since someone drove off with the car for a test drive, but on one trip around the playground, I saw a woman coming up the sidewalk in front of the park, and she seemed to be yelling, and crying...I was confused, was I hearing what I thought I was hearing? My girls were squealing and yelling - I couldn't be sure, but it sure looked like this woman was crying and screaming...and then her people, the family, were running toward her, and I'd walked closer and could hear her saying "...told me to go around the circle one more time and that noise would stop...<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">put a gun to my head....took my purse...</span>" oh no oh no oh no...<br />
<br />
She'd been robbed, at gunpoint, by the two black men who'd posed as people selling a car. <br />
<br />
I fucking hate people. <br />
<br />
The older white man, the one I'd assumed was the father, he looked to be in shock, stunned. The mother-lady, she was calling 911. The woman who'd been robbed, she looked to be in her 30s somewhere, she just stood there, sobbing, trying to hug herself and gasp out the story. No one hugged her. No one was hugging her. That still really bothers me. I just wanted to go and hug her, but G was suddenly by my side, asking why that woman was crying, asking what was wrong, and I led her away trying to explain in 5 year old terms what had happened and that everything is fine and she shouldn't be scared even though I was shaking with adrenaline and rage and fear and the urge to scoop my babies up and run even though the rational part of my brain said "they've gotten what they were after, the police will be here in a moment, they're not coming back, the girls are safe." The feeling of violation, the audacity, was so strong, despite that this was a situation that didn't happen to me, that didn't harm mine. With the family, there was a 13ish year old girl, and a 9ish year old boy - the girl was so sad and scared - her pale face was red from crying. The boy seemed to be in shock. Ugh.<br />
<br />
I'm so angry. That poor woman, who probably just needed a good reliable cheap car to get her to work, she's been traumatized for life. Her family has been traumatized. Those kids... And now they all have a story to help endorse and perpetuate the tale of evil black men in our society.<br />
<br />
And those black men. What were they thinking in those moments when they first met that family? I'm so glad she brought her family with her. What situation made them so desperate for a little cash that this was the best plan they had? The forethought and premeditation and trickery that went into it - it makes me sick. What made them so desperate? Part of me hopes they have some dire circumstance that lead to this, because alternately... well, I like to try to not think about the part of the world where people do this sort of shit just because. <br />
<br />
I started wrangling the girls to go home shortly after the first police car showed up. I generally don't like to hang where there are police anyhow, but I was so skeeved out, so uncomfortable, so uneasy, I just wanted to get my kids home to where I knew we were all safe. <br />
<br />
This all happened hours ago. I'm still struggling with it mentally a bit. It's a fucked up thing to witness, the immediate aftermath of a trauma like that. I'm so sad for that woman, that family. I'm so sad for those men, and angry with them too. Goddammit. And I'm angry with our society, with our reality, that makes it easier for people to make money doing horrible things than to make money doing noble things. <br />
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I discovered this morning that blogger I'd loved forever, who stopped blogging a while ago, stopped blogging basically because her life went to shit. All of the things in her world that looked really awesome from the outside were crap on the inside and exploded in a bad way. It made me really sad for her. I think a lot of the time people only ever want to tell the good part of the story, the happy ending, the silver lining. I keep finding, over and over again, that the best part of the story is the part that makes you cringe when you tell it, the part that you think makes you look the worst, the part that hurts the most. Those words, they're the ones that heal, the ones that resonate, because they're the ones spoken with the most truth. <br />
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<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-83556229737420737522018-06-30T23:24:00.000-04:002018-06-30T23:24:17.974-04:00I can do hard things.This week was hard, but I've survived it, apparently. It's not the hardest thing I've ever done, I don't think, but maybe top 10? Definitely Top 10 Most Stressful Week. <br />
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<span data-offset-key="5o8eq-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I've ignored the internet and news for days and days. I've snuck peeks, and immediately regretted it. My little bubble, my safe place, it got real scary for a moment, and I was glad I hadn't been keeping up. There were rallies everywhere today, and I should've been there - I'd even half-heartedly asked Jimi last week, after sneaking a peek, if he wanted to try to go to DC. Fuck. Maybe that's what cursed this week - the last time we tried to go to DC, we ALL got sick. This time it was just Jimi, but damn, what a doosie. I'm disappointed in myself and ashamed that I didn't make it out today, that I didn't put my own shit aside for a moment to do what I know we have to do in this moment, as Americans. I don't even have any money I could throw at it right now, to help assuage my guilt. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="347ul-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">Can I mention again - just be patient with me - how thankful I am for this life? For our Village? For the privileges with which we've been so blessed? And I am so very humbled - what makes us so special? Why isn't everyone able to have this same experience when shit goes bad? </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="8j6b7-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I'm not trying to be cryptic: my sweet husband has been in the hospital since Thursday, and it's been a little stressful. Scary. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="6i31p-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">For some reason the fact that our yard hadn't been cut in weeks - because of his finger injury, and then the rain, and then because it's apparently hard as shit to find people to take cash money for actual work - was causing me SERIOUS anxiety, because I guess I had nothing better to focus my energy on? (Because I like to make passive aggressive points as often as possible: The dudes who showed up at my house at 5 o'clock this afternoon after getting a call at 3 pm on the Saturday before the 4th of July in 98degree weather? Hispanic. Did a fantastic job in just over an hour that would've taken me at least 4 hours. I paid them enough that they each got an extra $20 on top of the rate they quoted me, because they saved my MFn sanity. They tried to give me the extra $$ back. The two white guys I'd booked previously both ghosted me. I'm so excited to tell all my friends about how fabulous these guys are - I'll post their business card later.) </span></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9f8au-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="9f8au-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I wasn't going to write a novel tonight, but I guess I am. Pull up a chair.</span></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b01oo-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="b01oo-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">We are so lucky to have the friends and family we have. The offers of help and support that have poured in are overwhelming and I feel unworthy. I'm so thankful to have so many people willing to lend a hand. It's really really hard for me to ask for help, to risk inconveniencing anyone. (Even thought sometimes I feel like I only call my poor sweet Momma when I need a babysitter!) I don't have the words to say how much it means to know so many people are willing to help out, to support our family. </span></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5oue7-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="5oue7-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I've been really down on the state of our nation, in case you haven't noticed. I'm eternally optimistic, but goshdang it's getting harder and harder. But for all the wrongs I see, we really are so very lucky to be here, of all places. Aren't we? I want to feel this unabashedly, but then I realize my awe at seeing my sick husband surrounded by the best technology and most well-trained medical professionals is still obtained with a badge of privilege that is not available to everyone. I remember that in other parts of the world people don't even have clean water, much less portable X-ray machines. (Do they have X-ray machines in Flint, MI?) </span></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b7jn2-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="b7jn2-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">But we, Jimi and I, we have access to these things - portable X-ray machines and potable water. He was surrounded by doctors and nurses and aides and medicines and technology all dedicated to making him well. And he will be well again. And we can afford this emergency room visit that resulted in a 4 day hospital stay with a private room and round-the-clock care and meals and cable television and air conditioning and a fabulous view, because we are gainfully employed in jobs that offer a comfortable annual salary with reasonably affordable medical benefits and vacation days and holiday pay. And we each only have to work one job to live this American dream. We are the best case scenario for your average middle class family, I think. </span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="jl4j-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">Then I mentally poll my friends list - how many of you fit that same description? What makes us so special? </span></span></div>
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<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="diq38-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; position: relative; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="diq38-0-0" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;"><span data-text="true" style="font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif;">I just want to be thankful for what I have. It doesn't feel right, though, to have all of this when I know that it's not the same for everyone. </span></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-52845081616187250162018-05-25T07:43:00.001-04:002018-05-25T07:43:38.524-04:00Moving on...Need to get the post with the word "Fuck" in the title, twice, off the top of the page, perhaps. As good a reason as any to write something down, huh?<br />
<br />
It's 7:30 a.m. on Friday May 25, 2018. I've taken the day off as a little mental health gift to myself. I'm going to spend my day working for my family, and for myself. Here in a minute I'm going to go take Finn for a walk around the block - Jimi and I were watching Versailles last night and I skipped his walk and so I will make up for it today. It's really nice outside right now, about 60 degrees. When we get back, I'm going to mow the yard, front and back. Then I'm going to take a shower, clean the bathroom, and fold laundry while watching a documentary of some sort or another. Or maybe Orange is the New Black. I'm going to read on the front porch for an hour, then do yoga in the sunshine. I'll clean the kitchen while I listen to the last episode of<a href="http://podcast.cdsporch.org/seeing-white/" target="_blank"> Seeing White</a>, the most amazingly eye-opening piece of education I've ever experienced on the topic of race and what it really means to be white. (You should check it out - seriously. It should be required listening for every American.) I'm going to reorganize my pantry today and get my dining room straight. I'm going to condense all the cardboard amazon and diaper and toilet paper boxes and get them ready for recycling. For dinner, I'm making, per Geneva's request, tuna casserole, with peas and lots of extra love. <br />
<br />
Once these chores are finished, these tasks accomplished, my house will be ready for a 3-day weekend of playing and fun, not cleaning and straightening. I'll be refreshed and ready to enjoy my favorite people. I'm so excited!<br />
<br />
Okay, I'm 10 minutes behind schedule already. Typical. At least I'm my own boss today. :)<br />
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Happy Friday y'all!Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-22804524422449097002018-05-18T09:15:00.000-04:002018-05-18T09:15:22.777-04:00Fuck right the fuck off.<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have a different opinion and your opinion is making me
uncomfortable so please stop talking about it.
I can’t listen to you have a conversation that doesn’t involve me
without becoming offended and insisting you shut down your conversation.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But liberals are the sensitive ones; liberals
are the snowflakes</span>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-10085178796187563072018-03-29T22:55:00.000-04:002018-03-29T22:55:12.185-04:00All I Really Want<i>...Is some patience. A way to calm the angry voice. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Fuck yes. I can recognize and relate to that. <br />
<br />
I had to turn Alanis off, though. I switched to Yanni. Way better for thinking, sorting your thoughts. Still reminds me of my adolescence. And reminds me that we need a piano in our lives. I would like to play again; the girls would love it. I need to make that happen.<br />
<br />
Also: I want to paint. I bought oils and canvas over 2 years ago - I've not opened them yet. It's past time. <br />
<br />
I need to leave social media. I recognize it plays an addictive role in my life and I use it the way an addict uses and it is sucking away my time, making me agitated and angry. The bad is outweighing the good. <br />
<br />
I fucking suck at blogging anymore. I don't know what stories to tell. I don't know how to tell them anymore. I want to record our lives, to document our day to day, but fucking facebook and Instagram are so much better for that than a blog - so much easier and convenient when you feel like you never have any time. Of course, if i gave up the facebook and Instagram and twitter, i guess I'd find some time...<br />
<br />
I'm going to be 38 next month. Heh. In a week and a half. 38. That sounds way older than I feel. I don't know what that means, I just know that I have an idea in my head of what a 38 year old woman is, and that's not me. Except...stable career, married, couple of kids, house, lease, dog, cat - okay. Maybe. I also want to say "my life is not at all what I imagined it would be at 38," but that's not true either. The truth is that, while I full expected I'd be making fuckpiles more money than I currently am, I never pictured many details in my adult life beyond "married" and "kids". I got that going for me. So true, I've not published a book or jumped out of an airplane or traveled the world - YET - I'm really not doing bad for 38. Not by my personal standards, at least.<br />
<br />
The truth is, I'm happy as a pig in shit with my boring little life. I have this fabulous man who loves me and made the most beautiful children with me and he is just the best daddy in the whole world and my boss thinks I'm awesome and my parents are the absolute best and my brother, well, I love my brother, and we have this great dog and cat and our jobs pay the bills and leave a little left over and we've got a house with good bones in a safe neighborhood and our girls will go to a decent school...I mean, what else is there, at 38? At any age? I'm not being facetious, or sarcastic - I'm thankful. I went to the doctor earlier this week for my annual health-insurance-required physical, and as she was filling out the form, the doc commented, "Your numbers are great, I wish all of our patients had these numbers." They were all in normal range. WTF? Seriously, so far, 38 is killing it.<br />
<br />
I need to make some changes, though, if I'm going to live my best life. I've been doing a great job of focusing on self-care, of being more social, of reaching out to my friends more. I need to do better at home, truth be told. I still come home and spend too much time on my phone when I should be playing with my girls. I excuse myself by saying I'm tired or that I need to take just a few minutes for myself, to clear my brain, but it always becomes more than a few minutes and I end up letting them sit in front of the TV so I can scroll through the nonsense. I do need a few minutes for myself, to clear my brain, but social media sure isn't the answer to that. I can find better, less distracting outlets to clear the day from my mind so I can be a good mom. I'm typing this here because if I put it in writing then I'm acknowledging it and maybe I'll be more inclined to actually do something about it. Maybe. Probably.<br />
<br />
I need new hobbies, or to focus on the ones I've tried to cultivate in the past. I have a partially-knitted scarf for Jimi in a bag hanging on the inside of the coat closet door in the living room. I started it 3 years ago, unraveled it when I fucked up a few rows, then began again this past winter. I'm maybe 8 inches into a 36 inch (minimum) scarf. I'll finish it one of these days. "I do what I want," is what I say when Jimi asks if I'll ever finish his scarf. <br />
<br />
I also have a lot of garden spots in my yard that have been pretty much ignored since summer of 2015 when I planted the garden in the spot that was sunny in January but not-so-sunny in June. I moved in a few raised beds the summer after that, but their yield was mediocre and i think i was in the full throes of my personal version of postpartum funk by then - it was hard to give too many shits about too much of anything - If it wasn't easy, fuck it, it wasn't happening. There's something to be said for living that way, but you can't live that way and be a gardener, probably. <br />
<br />
Hiking. I want to hike so much - I wish I could get into the wood every day. But it rains. Or it gets cold. Or it rained for the last 4 days, so all the trails are muddy washouts. Or it's in an area where they say you shouldn't hike alone as a female because there have been "incidents". For a city with so many parks and so many trails, it sure it difficult for me to find the right alignment of the stars to be able to get out into/onto them. It's frustrating. But the girls are bigger and bigger - I started taking them last year, and we'll do more, so much more, of that that this year. G has already asked when we're camping again. "Soon, baby," is what I tell her. Camping and hiking go hand in hand. My girls will love the woods and the outside at least as much as I do - hopefully more. <br />
<br />
Camping - we're going to camp so much this year. Jimi and I have both missed it since the girls came along. I know it's possible to camp with babies and small children - for other people, it totally is. It wasn't for us. I mean, we could've survived it, but it was never going to be easy. Maybe that's because my brain chemistry was all fucked up so everything was hard, but whatever the reason, we've only camped a handful of times in the last five years and now our children are big enough to enjoy the great outdoors so we're going to go get all up in it this summer. It's good for the mind, body, and soul. I need it. I miss it so much.<br />
<br />
I wish we had The Property to go to - my grandparents owned 20ish acres in Adair County Kentucky, we dubbed it The Property. When they bought it, there was no road leading to it - it was just a large field and a couple of hills and hollers back off a county road. Papaw mowed it and laid gravel and rebuilt the barn, and although there was no running water or electricity at first, it was the perfect campground. My mom's brother and sisters and their spouses and granny and papaw and their brothers and sisters would all drive out, pitch tents in a circle we'd call tent city, and the men would build a huge bonfire and sit around with their guitars, pickin' and grinnin' as they'd call it - singing songs old and new. It was Papaw's dreamland, and eventually they built a house on the land and moved there full time. He got 3 years or so there before he died. He was getting the soft dirt from under the treeline to add to his flowerbeds in front of the porch. Heart attack. Granny lived another 6 years. They sold the place after she died. I still keep some little fantasy in the back of my heart that one day I'll have the cash to walk up to the front door of that house and make the owners an offer they can't refuse - to move and leave The Property to me. Not that it's even that great of a house or land - but it's my childhood.<br />
<br />
Roller skating. Bike riding. Reading. Giving myself a facial. Listening to music. Writing. And that's before I even dive into the mile-long list of mom-related things I should be doing to better the lives of my children. Not that they're wanting for anything at all, but you know how mom-guilt is - i could always improve, right? <br />
<br />
I've got half a mind to do something drastic - like cut off my social media access completely. At least Twitter and Facebook - they are the main source of my time-suck. <br />
<br />
I'm struggling with this social-media thing, can you tell? Like, a lot. The internet is the best and worst of all the things. Like parenting. And cheesecake. <br />
<br />
I'm not making any promises or declarations tonight. I will promise to come back here and hash it out with myself a bit more at a later date, because frankly, I'm sick of talking about it and it's getting late and i need to get to bed.<br />
<br />
Sweet dreams. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-40795592746188202802018-02-20T22:18:00.000-05:002018-02-20T22:18:48.171-05:00It's Tuesday. Here's what I think:I'm so damned impressed by these kids in Florida. I hope they change the world. I'm trying to convince Jimi we need to go to Washington DC in March. I may just go by myself.<br />
<br />
Arctic ice is melting. Russia totally fucked up our last election. More people died because someone's feelings were hurt. Are we great again?<br />
<br />
So many complicated thoughts. So many things to worry about. My kids ate cupcakes at 8:30 tonight. WTF?<br />
<br />
But. Mountain pose. Pay attention to your breath. Be in the moment. Calm. Steady. <br />
<br />
It isn't all bad. There's Sheli and Dot. And Mom. And Jimi and those sweet babies who love you so much. And the puppy and the kitty. Life is sweet and good. <br />
<br />
And Sheli made sables and I brought some home. I'm going to eat one now. One of the ones with strawberry jam, because those are amazeballs. <br />
<br />
The world is really fucking scary. There are lots of bad things happening every day. Remember to look for the helpers.<br />
<br />
Dot moved her momma into her home tonight. Her momma took a train all the way from Oregon to Chicago, then she and Dot's sister rented a car and drove down, but there were lots of roadblocks and hiccups along the way, so they arrived about 24 hours later than originally planned. But there was Dot, with a smile and a hug, and a warm healthy dinner, and a houseful of beloved friends, to welcome her momma home. She's a real helping helper. It warms my heart to think of her selflessness in this - the work she put into making sure her mom's room was just right, the details she watched. She's a good woman. I hope her momma can feel the love tonight. <br />
<br />
Geneva did not get into the school we wanted her to get into. Knee jerk reaction from me is to look into private schools. I went to my 20 year high school reunion this past weekend, and I had a conversation with an old classmate of mine who is a teacher now. As I found myself in the middle of telling this woman that I think public schools aren't the best choice for my little angels, I realized I'm an asshole. This woman paid thousands and thousands of dollars to go to school for years and years so she could make a barely-livable wage to have the privilege of working in a public school. She's signed up to buy her own work supplies because her employer can't. These days, she's signed up to be an actual human shield should some gun-wielding nut decide to shoot up her school. And she does it happily, because teaching is what she loves. And there I was, saying that wasn't enough. What in the actual fuck, Natalie? <br /><br />So. Maybe we're going to try out this public school thing. I won't lie, these kids in Florida give me great hope for our future. They are starting a movement. If the Russian trolls are against you, I'm with you. And I'm thinking - if I can find the money for private school, why can't I find that same money to donate to my child's public school? Why can't I help boost their resources, literally put my money where my mouth is? Maybe I can talk to some people and get them to feel the same way. Maybe we can start a thing. Maybe. <br /><br />I went on a tear this weekend - I believe the issue of school shootings is absolutely a gun issue, BUT, if you don't, that's cool. If it's an education thing, let's fund the shit out of our public schools and give teachers and counselors the tools they need to educate and support and guide our children. If it's a mental health thing, let's fund health programs and make mental health services readily available for everyone. If it's a parenting issue, let's fund family leave policies so parents can attend to the individual needs of their children without fear of losing their jobs and/or going bankrupt. <br /><br />There has to be an answer. If we are the greatest nation on Earth, we can find a way to stop these massacres. Doing nothing is not an answer, and it's not okay. I think we're seeing the beginning of a movement that will make something happen. I have hope. <br />
<br />
When Trump was elected, my Daddy told me, "The US has survived things far worse than Donald Trump." True. But he's still pretty fucking bad. The indictments that came out this past weekend show that Russia was actively working to get him elected because they believe that was literally the best way they could hurt America. Our sitting President was elected by people swayed by Russians trying to harm our country. That's a pretty fucking big deal. <br /><br />I'm waiting for the leaders to emerge - the ones who lead the charge of infuriated and outraged Americans who demand justice for our democracy. Surely we have elected someone to a higher office who is up to this task?Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-65587716128792443022018-02-08T22:42:00.001-05:002018-02-08T22:42:49.693-05:00Catholic huh?Catholic education is the topic tonight. Catholics. Catholicism. The Church.<br />
<br />
I don't want to send my kids to Catholic school because I don't want them to be indoctrinated into the Catholic faith. <br />
<br />
I've grown up thinking that the Catholic church is a sham that turns its back on people in their time of need. <br />
<br />
I think that because I was told, I think, that when my Dad's Dad died, when my dad was 14 and his youngest sister was 9 months old and there were 5 kids in between the two of them and suddenly Mamaw found herself alone with 7 kids, she went to the Church to ask for some help, because JFC she probably legit needed some help. I heard she didn't get it. That my dad left the Church because of that. <br />
<br />
Cool. Not cool, but okay. I get it.<br />
<br />
Tonight, discussing Geneva's kindergarten school placement - she didn't get into our first choice, but got into our second choice which was only our second choice because it was the best ranked school in our cluster at a 5 out of 10 - the other 5 schools we could've chosen were 2s and 3s out of 10. This is the education system in America, folks. If you don't live in the rich neighborhood, you can choose between mediocre, okay, or absolute shit when it comes to your kids' public school options. W00t.<br />
<br />
We've thrown out there for discussion the topic of private school because, well, we can't home school and because our public school options were collectively not great. But we don't have private school money, truth be told. We're already stretched paying more than our mortgage each month for daycare for 2 kids - daycare plus private school tuition is more than daycare for two kids and we spent 13K on daycare in 2017. Still, education. It's important. A big damned deal. <br />
<br />
I asked my Dad tonight for his opinion on Catholic Schools. He shocked me when he said, "If you can afford it, I think it's the best choice. I don't think they could get a better education." <br />
<br />
WTF, Dad? I'm confused.<br />
<br />
He went further, "It's a deep topic and we should talk about it alone another time." The girls were both on his lap, as he sat in his recliner. "I think it's the one true Church. But the Church and the people, those are different..."<br />
<br />
Mind. Blown. <br />
<br />
I'm so confused. <br />
<br />
This will definitely have to be continued. I wish I could call him now and be like, so, um, talk to me yo. Not tonight, though. Soon.<br />
<br />
<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-60014028429628117722018-02-06T23:05:00.000-05:002018-02-06T23:05:08.170-05:00Things I'm worried about tonight:. How much difference does it really make in the entirety of your life, which kindergarten you attend? I suppose not much. Unless you go to a really bad one.<br />
<br />
. How does a parent identify, from the outside, a really bad kindergarten? <br />
<br />
. Is our president working for Putin? <br />
<br />
. What are we going to have for dinner tomorrow night? <br />
<br />
. Today I've heard three separate tales of how white people, as a culture, actively worked to destroy people who were different from them. Three separate cultures, too. WTF, white people? <br />
<br />
. Why haven't white people realized yet that we're the problem?<br />
<br />
. What happens to someone who is deported from the US, after living here for most of their lives? <br />
<br />
. Why can't I stop arguing with my 4 year old? <br />
<br />
. I give my kids most of the things they ask for; they usually respond by complaining about it. How do I break that in them without beating them?<br />
<br />
. How many members of Congress are working for Putin?<br />
<br />
. I'm pretty certain the NRA is working for Putin. Okay, not really. Well, maybe. But it's fucked up how much of our nation they control. <br />
<br />
. What is a religious person's objection to making sure peoples' basic needs are met? i.e. Universal healthcare, welfare, food stamps, WIC and SNAP, etc.<br />
<br />
. Why can't I find the motivation to move my ass on a regular basis? I want to exercise more, to lift more, why don't I do it? <br />
<br />
. Is my husband reading this over my shoulder, or did he really want to stand next to me and pet my head in the dark dining room for 45 seconds?<br />
<br />
. Is the weather really turning to shit tonight? Man, I hope the roads aren't bad in the morning. Will need to get up a little early. Maybe I'll get to bed a little earlier...but it's almost 11, so that's unlikely.<br />
<br />
. What am I going to wear to work tomorrow? <br />
<br />
. I still didn't play GO Fish with G tonight. We've been talking about playing Go Fish since Saturday. I suck at momming sometimes.<br />
<br />
. Is Cora ever going to be potty trained? I'm so over buying pullups.<br />
<br />
. My 20 year high school reunion is a week from Saturday. What in the fuck am I going to wear to that?<br />
<br />
. I really should spend more time paying attention to my sweet husband. <br />
<br />
. I should've gone to bed 2 hours ago. I'm tired. <br />
<br />
. How can I convince my boss I deserve a raise?<br />
<br />
. I should walk Finn more. Damn it, it's so cold, though!<br />
<br />
. He really does need a good brushing.<br />
<br />
. I need there to be more hours in the day.<br />
<br />
. I still need to get my damned oil changed. Shit. <br />
<br />
. Ugh. I need to get a copy of TurboTax and get started on our taxes. Do i know where all our forms and receipts are? Ugh.<br />
<br />
. Are we going to take an actual vacation this year?<br />
<br />
. Speaking of vacation - my balance was only 40 hours when I checked online today. I need that fixed. <br />
<br />
. Why am I writing out a list of this stupid shit at 11 p.m., as I sip my hot tea and try to get myself ready for bed? I already did my bedtime yoga, even. Probably should've let this shit out before then.<br />
<br />
. Geneva and Cora's bedroom is a disaster; so is the entire upstairs, again. And my laundry is piling up. Nature loves chaos - i wish it didn't make me feel so fucking anxious.<br />
<br />
. And the kitchen sink is full of dishes. I just can't, not tonight. I have no energy, no drive. It's no wonder my back aches, you should see the way I'm slouched in this chair. (I straightened up, though, because that was dumb.)<br />
<br />
. I still need to make sure mom can keep the girls Friday night. <br />
<br />
. What are Maria and I going to do Saturday?<br />
<br />
. I forgot to tell Jimi Mom wants us to come over for dinner Thursday night.<br />
<br />
. When can Patricia and I get together in the next week? <br />
<br />
. That's a lot of socializing and it's starting to freak me out. <br />
<br />
. I've got to get over this social anxiety bullshit. It's making me a terrible friend. But dammit. Some days it just feels impossible to even read a text message, much less respond to one. Natalie from 10 years ago would be aghast. <br />
<br />
. Stacy never emailed me today - I need to make sure I check in with her tomorrow. We need to get the girls together soon, too. More socializing, but they don't really count.<br />
<br />
. I hope I'm not screwing my kids up too badly. I just want to be a good mom.<br />
<br />
. Jimi and I won't always be the parents of tiny children - it'll get easier to find time together, and it won't always be this hard to just get through the day to day. Right?<br />
<br />
Not even gonna read through this again. Just gonna post it. My Crazy: A Sample. :) Sweet dreams, friends. <br />
<br />
Feel free to leave a list of your crazy brain commentary below. Show me I'm not the only one.<br />
<br />
<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-78610441327281590922018-01-02T22:23:00.000-05:002018-01-02T22:23:01.030-05:00Resolutions v. 2018My house is as neat and straight as it's ever been, maybe. My laundry is handled - not completely, but it is no longer in the realm of out of control and is now my bitch. My sink is clear, my bathroom is clean, my daughters have a freshly-vacuumed carpet. My living room is also vacuumed, and there's a fresh coat of paint on one wall. I have a new clothing-storage solution in my bedroom, and that alone is worth cartwheels. There are a hundred million things that still need to be done and it will take a hundred million years to get them all done, but I feel like I'm off to a great start. My mind is more calm than it has been in a long time. I walk from room to room in the middle of the night, reminding myself that the chaos is at bay, and I breathe a big sigh of relief and contentment and go right back to sleep without a single toss or turn.<br />
<br />
I have a new journal and I don't think I love it, but I love the idea of it. There may be another sort that is better suited - I think I saw it on an Instagram ad, but I'll figure it out. This one will do for the first three months. <br />
<br />
I have a new self-love routine, and it doesn't involve a vibrator, no matter how that sentence started and sounded. I'm focusing on meditation - at least a few minutes at least once a day - and yoga, specifically the newest 30-day program on <a href="http://true.yogawithadriene.com/" target="_blank">Yoga With Adriene</a>. I'm also working in a little ab-specific focus, and hopefully there will be more lifting by the end of the month, but for now, i'm starting where I feel I need to start and will get the most mental benefit. <br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I am going to read more books - I remember books and remember loving them, but I haven't read in such a long time, unless it's bullshit on the internet. I just don't need that in my life anymore - I need paperbacks. Also, painting. I've had canvas and oil paints and brand new brushes and a brand new desk easel downstairs in the basement, unopened, untouched, for at least 2 years now. Fuck that. I'm going to paint. (I have to finish my laundry project to make a space - oils are messy and I need room to be messy. Work in progress.)</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline !important; float: none; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Also, hiking and roller skating.</span><br />
<b><br /></b>
All of this is so I can be better - a better wife, a better mother, by being a better me. I'm trying to identify the things that make me happy and do those things - instead of reading about all of the things that scare me that I can't change. And I need to spend less time on my phone - especially when the girls are awake. It's inexcusable and I need to do better, for them and for me. <br />
<br />
Resolutions, I guess these are. Cross your fingers for me - I need them to stick.Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-36246074945002774992017-12-27T23:07:00.002-05:002017-12-27T23:07:41.598-05:00JournalingToday's Wins: <br />
1. Spent time with an old friend I don't see often enough<br />
2. Cleaned up the dining room and a lot of the living room.<br />
3. Got the girls to go to sleep without a parent laying with them or patting them. <br />
<br />
How I'll Improve:<br />
1. Was the middle of the night, but still technically today - yelled a lot when they woke me up 4 times in 2 hours. Will work on the yelling. Once I start getting better sleep.<br />
2. Probably could've folded a basket or two of laundry instead of standing around wondering what project to start on next.<br />
3. The girls watched maybe an episode too many of Bubble Guppies. <br />
<br />
On a scale of 1-10, how productive were you today? 6<br />
<br />
Did you accomplish all of your goals and tasks? If not, what got in the way? No, have you seen that list? There aren't enough hours in the day. I made good progress, though.<br />
<br />
What was today's most memorable moment? Geneva laughing that fabulous belly laugh when we were playing Silly Street - we'd each had to run into the kitchen to make crazy faces at Daddy and Cora. Cora singing "I can't help falling in love with you" in a Louis Armstrong voice at bedtime - we all collapsed into laughter and laughed for at least a full minute. <br />
<br />
What's one thing you learned today? My buddy James has a new girlfriend. Guess I can't hook him up with Stacy. Also, you can make brittle, as in peanut (or macadamia nut) brittle, in the microwave.<br />
<br />
What's one act of kindness you performed today? Hmm. I fell down on this one today. Will fix tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*******************</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I have a new journal. It is fabulous. I won't be able to use the daily pages until 1/1, but I'm dying to follow these steps, use this format to help me focus on the good and important things in my life each day. There's a monthly and weekly overview, then a morning plan and evening review, as well as weekly and monthly review pages. I'm so excited to have something as a guide to help keep my jumbled thoughts a bit more cohesive and coherent. I hope, at least. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I also bought new pens. They're sweet. </div>
<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-41631330073474671452017-11-13T22:43:00.000-05:002017-11-13T22:43:23.396-05:00a day in the life...The girls lost TV privileges last night for not listening. For three days, because that's the number that came out of my mouth with exactly zero forethought or consideration when I was doling out their punishment. They're actually being punished because they poked a hole in Daddy's air mattress, by jumping around on it when they'd been told over and over not to do that, to lie down and watch their movie or we'd put it up. It was patched easily, but still, when you don't listen and you break things that belong to other people, there needs to be repercussions. Television and candy are the only currencies my children recognize and in my efforts not to give them food issues I'm trying really hard not to give them candy and treats as a reward for good behavior and, as such, I don't withhold those things when they've been naughty, either. But TV, that magical rabbit hole, I can take it away and they feel it to their core. They're like little junkies, and those first few hours without are always rough, but even more so if you don't have something else planned, which, of course, I did not last night as I capriciously bellowed out their sentence. But whatever. It's not like I planned the second kid, either - living life by the seat of my pants over here.<br />
<br />
Cora is in a phase. She'll be 3 in two short days, so I'm going to rely on the old fall back and straight up blame her wild behavior lately on her tender age. She is wild, though. WILD. If you're reading this, maybe you've noticed the Instagram feed over there on the right - did you catch the picture of her covered in enamel model paint? She'd been upstairs for a few minutes. Geneva was up there too, but it's a large space for two little girls, and it's not unusual for them to play separately. I don't know what I was doing downstairs - laundry, dinner, cleaning, drinking - but I realized I hadn't heard from her in a few full minutes. I started up the stairs as I called her name, and I smelled it immediately - you know the smell, that fumey paint smell. Oh shit was my only thought, and then she came around the corner and I said it out loud, "Oh shit." Her right arm was a swirl of sticky purple and red and white and black enamel paint, the sort that comes in tiny glass jars to be applied to miniature figurines with tiny little brushes; her left hand was the same, up past her wrist, and her chin and cheeks were similarly styled. Cora had found these 10 year old glass bottles on a shelf in a closet, unscrewed the lids, and had, I can only imagine, poured the paint into her hands and rubbed it onto her face and arms as if it were lotion. <br />
<br />
In a blur, I checked her over with my hands and eyes the way a mom will, making sure she didn't have it in her eyes, her nose, her mouth - somehow, she didn't. I was yelling for Jimi at the same time, thinking in the back of my head, "He'll know what to do, he'll know an easy way to fix this, he knows something about everything." When he put his head into the stairwell and saw us there, saw colorful Cora, I saw the oh shit in his eyes, and his words only backed that up - he had no idea was to do, and he sounded a little higher pitched than normal. I don't want to say he was panicking, but he was close - he was scared, and that scared me too, but also, strangely, it made me calm down nearly immediately. I used my calm serious voice, the one that is very matter-of-fact, and as he stripped her down in the bathroom, I walked into the kitchen, grabbed the Dawn dish soap and my phone and delivered the Dawn to the bathroom as I googled "how to remove testors model paint from skin". The answer, if you're not interested in googling, is vegetable oil and glycerin soap. We had vegetable oil, and the CVS up the road had glycerin soap I figured, so I left Jimi and the paint-covered child in the bathtub with a gallon-bottle of Crisco Vegetable Oil and headed to the CVS. They had glycerin - not soap, but in a little squeeze bottle. I figured it would work well enough, and it did, with the Dawn, and with poor Jimi rubbing and sudsing for nearly an hour. He even got it out of her hair. <br />
<br />
That's sort of the way it is with her right now. The Friday before the paint incident, thirty minutes after I'd left to head over to visit a friend, she apparently decided to try to change her own poopy pull-up and covered the bathroom in shit. I missed that completely, thank goodness. Poor Jimi.<br />
<br />
But yeah, 2 days before 3. She's sunshine and rainbows and silver linings - she wakes up happy every single morning; she's quick to tell me she loves me and that I'm her favorite and that I'm beautiful; when she gets in trouble she says "I'm so sorry, Mommy. I'm so so sorry." But she's also into everything, like a little tornado. She bounces from one thing to the next without a break in between. I'm regularly surprised to find myself cleaning one mess while she makes another mess, again, for the 4th time, and we've only been home for an hour. I should stop being surprised, probably, but how realistic is that? I'm still ever the optimist, thinking all day at work about how much I miss my precious little angels and how they are going to be so sweet and loving and well behaved once I pick them up from daycare and we head home to a fabulous evening of family dinner, a game or two, maybe a walk around the block, then bath, story, bed...and then I actually pick them up and one of them is in a shitty mood and the other just wants to play but it's at the absolute most inopportune time because we're in a parking lot and there are cars and also other parents but I don't give much of a fuck about what they think but I do still care a little because i'm not going to yell "get the fuck over here right now!" the way I'd really like to do. And then the pouty one pouts her way into her carseat as I wrestle the playful-turned-screaming-banshee one into hers and by the time I'm buckling myself into my seat I'm angry and my heart is racing and what the fuck I looked forward to <i>THIS</i> all day?!<br />
<br />
But I am still an optimist, because some nights are nights like tonight, when Geneva had a good report from her teacher and was giddy with the praise, and Cora ran into my arms and hugged me and said "I missed you so much!" We laughed our way to the car, the three of us, and got buckled without any breakdowns. Cora is newly forward-facing, so she can talk and interact in a brand new way. We talked and sang the new Taylor Swift song on the drive home, then we danced to Katy Perry and Psy in the dining room until it was dinnertime, when we changed the playlist to The Avett Brothers. Dinner was delicious, and so was the piece of Halloween candy they each got to choose from their stashes after dinner. <br />
<br />
They wanted to paint, so we made it happen. Cora had a shower, then we played Baby Store. We can't watch the store being built, aka them getting naked down to their underwear/pull-up (presumably because new babies are naked under their blankets?) and into their blankets, so if we don't hear them the first time they call us to come shopping, or if we don't come to the store quickly enough, Geneva - who up to this point has given instructions to us in her lilting sweet voice "Pretend you wanted two little girls who were perfect for you but you had to go to the baby store to buy them and me and cora were the babies you buyed" - will break character and scream out in her angry voice "Mom!! You have to come buy us!" When we go into the store (usually the living room), they'll be laying on the floor or on the couch in pretend baby beds, wrapped in bedsheets or quilts that have probably been found in the basket of clean blankets and sheets I've just carried up from the laundry room, where said blankets and sheets were just as likely to have been washed because they'd been drug across the floor by these two versus having actually been used as bedding on a bed. They'll be goo-ing and ga-ing and making little baby-like noises, and my job as the mom is to walk up to each one of them, fawn over how precious they are, and then ask them if they want to come home with me and be my new baby girl. They always say yes, and I never have to actually pay anyone - I just pick them up and carry them to whatever part of the house Geneva has designated our pretend home, and then we either play kitchen or start all over. Sometimes Cora is already my baby and she and I go to the store together to buy her a sister. Tonight the game was Jimi didn't want any babies, but said I could have some if I wanted them. I went to the store, picked out each baby individually, then carried her to her daddy, who cooed and gooed over each girl in turn. <br />
<br />
They were both thrilled with their game of make-believe, and didn't argue a bit when I announced bedtime/story time. We read a PeppaPig story about George and his dinosaur balloon. I held Cora a moment and snuggled her, but she wanted down - and promptly climbed over the rail and into her crib, where she covered herself up and said, "Goodnight, Mommy, I love you." Jimi came in to pat her as he sang to us all. Geneva was mad when I said I was going to sit with her rather than lie down in her bed - I've slept in there a lot the last few nights at her request and my back is a wreck because of it. She pouted, but I held her until she was over it and she let me tuck her back in without argument. She told me she loved me, I fluffed her blanket three times, and the night, that part of my night, the awake electric bright white part of my evening, was over. <br />
<br />
And here I sit with the dregs of hot tea turned cold, surprised at how long it took to tell you those things and at how good it felt. At how good it feels. These are the days I want to remember. These are the stories I want to tell. <br />
<br />
Also: Last night, Cora fell asleep early, so we sat at the table and ate dinner as a family of three. We were probably 2 hours in to our television moratorium. Geneva loved the mashed potatoes and asked for seconds. She loved her family. She was so happy to be eating dinner as a family. She liked the green beans a little. (These are all things she told us, verbatim.) She and I played Go Fish after dinner until bedtime - we tied once and I won once. She didn't even pout - she kept proclaiming how much fun she was having. There's seriously something to this no TV thing. I think our Netflix is suddenly broken...Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-7647801556227035532017-11-05T06:49:00.002-05:002017-11-05T06:49:26.118-05:00Fall backCora is up at 5:30 every morning. Every. Morning. Last night, she fell asleep on the couch at 5 p.m. and slept through, with a short break around 8:30 when she woke for a new pullup and a glass of water. Last night was also the end of Daylight Savings Time, the magical night when grownups get a whole extra hour of sleep. Most grownups - in this house, the extra hour means you're getting up at 4:30 instead of 5:30. Fortunately, that sweet girl wakes up happy and full of sugar - this morning, she gave me a huge hug and said, "Momma, I love you so much!" then cupped my face in her hands, looked me in the eye, and said, "You're so beautiful, Mommy." It's hard to be grumpy when you're waking up to such sweetness. <br />
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I'm trying to teach them Go Fish and Crazy 8s. Cora is too little, I think, but she's smart. I am a terrible teacher and get frustrated that I can't explain the rules one time and go. We're getting there, though. Cora just won a game of Go Fish and G didn't even pout. Baby steps. <br />
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<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-7945414601860806132017-09-17T23:34:00.001-04:002017-09-17T23:34:28.184-04:00Cuppa<p dir="ltr">Tea at 11. P, that is. Caffeine fee, of course.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Thinking. Always replaying. I could've i should've done that so much better...</p>
<p dir="ltr">Tomorrow I will... Tomorrow, I will. I will, tomorrow. </p>
<p dir="ltr">What if tomorrow never comes? What if I never do better than I did today? What if today was my absolute best?</p>
<p dir="ltr">I know better. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It's hard. All of it. Everything. Even when it's easy, it's still hard. </p>
<p dir="ltr">And beautiful. And perfect. And everything I always said I'd always wanted. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Tea finished, hour late, alarm early. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Goodnight. Until tomorrow. <br>
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Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-69568512031020282572017-08-27T07:55:00.003-04:002017-08-27T07:55:33.810-04:00RamblingI've been running for weeks and my poor house looks like it. I think I have, literally, 8 baskets of laundry to fold. I'm going to wear these girls out somehow this morning, and while they're napping, I'm going to find something grown-up to watch and I'm going to fold the shit out of these clothes and blankets and towels. I also want to arm-sweep every horizontal surface into a big box until they're all clear, then I'll clean them and only put back the things that actually belong there. And throw everything away that I can't find a home for within 24 hours. Ahh...cleaning porn. <br />
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It's Sunday morning, and it's already been a super relaxing weekend and exactly what I felt I needed when 5 o'clock Friday finally arrived. We don't have any plans today, either, and I'm loving the freedom of not having to be anywhere. Sometimes I just like to do nothing. A lot of the time, in fact. It may be my favorite thing.<br />
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Jimi's bike was stolen out of our garage last night. After I'd left it open. Fucking fuck. It wasn't a cheap bike, either. He's really upset about it. I'm more pissed. Fucking thieves. There are two bikes in my garage I would've given someone, if they needed a bike. But no. They took the expensive one. Of course. Fucking fuckers.<br />
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We "camped" last weekend with Mom and Dad and Dyl - stayed in a cabin on Green River. It was the best trip - the girls got to swim at the beach and play at the playground, and mom and I had a really great night Saturday night, sitting around the campfire sharing a bottle of wine until well after midnight. She told me stories of growing up and young adulthood and motherhood - it was really really nice. And maybe reframed a bit of my childhood, in a really great way. <br />
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Geneva and Cora are awesome. They've started playing together even more, especially after last weekend with no TV, and they're so sweet together. They look for each other when they get up in the mornings, and then they snuggle together. I'm so glad they are good to each other. I'm so thankful they're friends. Fingers crossed this never changes and only gets better as the years go on. <br />
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<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-10327649235293166472017-07-30T09:49:00.000-04:002017-07-30T09:49:26.862-04:00Today is a good day. I rode my bike last night. Only for 20 minutes or so, but my butt is sore this morning, so it totally counts for something. It felt so nice outside, and feeling that breeze on my face as I pedal along - I really love that feeling. I told Jimi last night I wanted to get up and go to the gym this morning - some mornings he stays in bed while I get up with the girls, and I wanted to make sure he knew I had a plan for the morning and it required him to be up and at 'em. (He's so good to me, I am trying really hard to not set him up for failure, and I know that if I hadn't said anything, and he tried to catch a few more minutes of sleep, I'd end up pissed at him for ruining my plans I made in my head and never shared with him. That's not very fair, and he never does that crap to me but I do it to him all the time. So I'm working on it.) Cora had us all up by 6, and she and I were both super congested and coughy. I nearly talked myself into skipping the workout, but dammit, that's what I do every other day. If I want to feel better, to do the things I enjoy, like working out, I have to stop making excuses and skipping shit all the time. I'm 37 and I've never stuck with anything I've started except this marriage and parenting these girls and I'm probably only sticking to these things because Jimi is just amazing and parenting isn't one of those things you can just quit doing. So I went to the gym. I walked Finn first, even. And then I went to the gym, and it was as awesome as I remember. I felt strong and got sweaty and my muscles got that awesome shaky feeling - I love everything about working out except trying to get myself to go do it. <br />
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The girls are sweet today. Loving and laughing and playing together without fighting and not whining. I bought mini ice cream sandwiches and some fruit snacks at the grocery yesterday - they are a hot topic of conversation today. Geneva has been asking for fruit snacks and trying to negotiate her way into some all day - the final agreement is she can have some with snack, at 10 a.m. She has to eat her carrots first, though. (She chose carrots - the other options were broccoli and cauliflower, but carrots won out.) That's good - she eats carrots by themselves. Broccoli and cauliflower require Olive Garden Italian Dressing for dipping, as does salad. But they eat veggies, dammit. <br />
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Looks like we have a Costco trip in our future today; Cora needs more Claritin. I still need to address that laundry. Oooo! Tonight is Game of Thrones. I love Sundays. I love today. I love this silly little life. Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7458034483254499155.post-44321099668326224692017-07-29T20:59:00.000-04:002017-07-29T20:59:07.980-04:00Priorities.Oh, it was so good. Almost all of it. We went to the library for preschool playtime, where the girls listened to stories, played games, made crafts, and had a snack. Then we went to the park. Cora was asleep when we got there, so Jimi stayed in the car with her while G ran for the playground, and Finn and I hit the trail. I let him off leash a little ways in, and it was going fine until he pooped. I stopped to pick it up, he kept going and disappeared around the corner. I called for him for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should backtrack or continue on. I'd just decided to keep going when I heard his tags and saw his fluffy white tail bobbing along in the green of the trees. To my pleasant surprise, he wasn't covered in poop. I fully expected him to be covered in poop. He likes to run off, find poop, and roll in it. Good boy, Finn. When we made our way back to the playground, Cora was just waking up and the girls were both ready for their hike, so we went back into the loop again. We kept Finn on his lead this time. G kept saying how wonderful this was, and how much she loved hiking with her whole family, and saying, "Thank you, Mommy, thank you, Daddy, for taking us here today." She is so stinking sweet. Cora wanted to run, which is good, because she's a slow walker, but when she runs she keeps right up. She also wanted to run along the edge of the trail and wiped out a few times because of it. I just knew the child was going to end up down in a holler, but she managed to keep her footing along the most treacherous parts. (There were no treacherous parts.) We stopped at the grocery on the way home and I ran in alone to grab the few things we needed, then we went home and the girls at ham and carrots and cauliflower and had a special fruit snack treat when they were finished. Then I let them watch something, because we were all tired. After their show, they played upstairs a little, but G really wanted to ride her bike, so Jimi took them outside while I stayed in and took a nap. I've washed one load of laundry. I've folded zero loads of laundry. We had a great day, though, so we've got that going for us. Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11642130855047361118noreply@blogger.com0