tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48512789037414969082024-03-13T13:23:44.262-04:00East Coast MusingsWelcome to the musings of this mediocre mom. If you’re looking for nuggets of wisdom about perfect parenting, you’re not going to find them here. But if you need someone to celebrate your parental mistakes with you or if you’re curious about what to do when you find your child eating poop, stick around. Drink some wine with me. You might not be a better parent after reading my blog, but you will feel like one.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.comBlogger182125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-46956009149833714562013-02-02T18:16:00.000-05:002013-02-02T18:17:48.464-05:00Ashes and Beauty<br />
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iZ6aPc2a-jQ/UQ2cYShaaMI/AAAAAAAAAos/YbqcLpCS-vY/s1600/housefire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iZ6aPc2a-jQ/UQ2cYShaaMI/AAAAAAAAAos/YbqcLpCS-vY/s320/housefire.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who knew fire could renew, not just destroy?</td></tr>
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It’s been exactly
one year since my last blog post. I figured this would be a fitting time to try
and re-enter my blog; introduce myself to it again, see if I can attempt to
make room for it in my life once more. </div>
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My fingertips
have missed the feeling of the keys beneath them. My heart has missed the
honesty it is allowed to show here. It’s like my life inside out—this blog
bearing witness to my guts and innards. Ewww. I know. I get it. No one likes to
look at guts and innards. Let’s just look at the pretty stuff please. </div>
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So, where did I
go after my last post in 2012? What has happened to keep me so far away from
this hobby I had come to love? Well…</div>
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My grandma died
on this day last year. That much you know. Two weeks later (to the day) my other
grandma (Grandma McCauley) died as well. And in between those two weeks, two of
my chickens were eaten by hawks. I thought about writing a blog post titled, “How
to lose two grandmas and two chickens in two weeks,” but that really is such a
niche market I didn’t think anyone would be able to relate. And not that losing
chickens is even comparable to losing two grandmothers you dearly loved, but
when things start dropping dead in such a small amount of time, everything
feels equally important. </div>
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I think the
coffee maker shit the bed that week too. And the iron. </div>
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I had already
planned a trip to Arizona later that month (originally to see my grandmothers
one last time and show them my recently published book project) but instead I
ended up attending both of their funerals. I guess if there has to be a benefit
of dying within two weeks of each other, it was that I could go to both
services in the same vacation. My Grandma McCauley would have appreciated the cost
savings in that. </div>
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One evening in
May, I found out that a neighbor who had lived one house away from us (their
family had only just moved the previous summer) died in her sleep. She was only
a couple years older than me. She just died. Went to sleep after her night
shift at the hospital (she was a nurse) and didn’t wake up. Her daughter and son
(good friends of my children) found her when they got home from school. Yes,
she had a heart condition, yes they knew about it, but nobody knew that morning
would be her last. Her daughter called my daughter that night on the phone. I
listened in. “Did you hear about my mom?” she asked my daughter. “She died
today and I found her.” That’s pretty rough shit for an 11-year-old to hear. And
literally hours after it had happened.</div>
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On June 21<sup>st</sup>,
my Aunt Debi died. She was just 10 years older than me. I was very close to her—her amazing
photographs fill my walls with close up shots of my children as babies. Our
family. Their smiles. Her passing less than one year from her being diagnosed
with aggressive brain tumors. The good news is that while I was in Arizona for
the Grandma funerals, we spent time together: had breakfast out, did a little
shopping, got pedicures. Vented. Chatted. Ran errands. We managed to squeeze in
quality time before her headaches and fatigue kicked back in and I returned her
home to sleep. I wasn’t able to attend her service though, which I deeply
regret.</div>
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In June I also
found out that I didn’t get a job that I was really, really hoping to get. I
came in second to a guy with more advertising experience. Which of course is
nothing really, after losing your Aunt. It’s not a brain tumor after all. It’s
just a job. But I still wanted it.</div>
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At the end of
August, my marriage ended. He moved out in September. In the interest of full
disclosure, I’m the one that filed. I’m sure he’d want me to publicly own that,
which I have no problem with.</div>
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I also lost two
more chickens to hungry hawks. Fucking hawks. Not that losing chickens is the
same as losing a husband you still loved, but again…things start to feel
equally important when they happen so close together. </div>
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2012 was a year
of losses. Of grandmothers and chickens, friends and aunts and husbands, jobs and
dreams, and illusions. Depressing, I know. Who wants to read about all this
shitty shit? How could I possibly blog about what was going on in my head, or
my heart, or my life? Where’s the <i>funny</i>
in the kind of year I had?</div>
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Well, I haven’t
gotten to the good part yet. Hang in there. I haven’t told you about the
miracle yet. </div>
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Because after a
person has that kind of year, especially culminating in the loss of 13 years of
marriage, you reach a point where there are two options: despair or prayer. </div>
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I tried despair
and couldn’t do it. Too dark. Plus it reminded me too much of my morose teenage
years except without the cool 80’s clothing. </div>
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I brought
everything that’s happened in the past year; all the ache and pain and loss and
yuck and questioning and worries and obsessions and dead people and marriage
issues and I laid them all at the foot of the cross. </div>
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Yes, <i>that</i> cross. </div>
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I know. I’ve
never really blogged about my faith or my religion and maybe that part of me is
new to you. You weren’t ready for this turn all religious-y. That’s okay. That’s
where you’re at. But if you quit reading now you’re going to miss the miracle
part. </div>
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And after I laid
all this stuff before the cross (quite literally, on my hands and knees in
front of the blessed sacrament during adoration one day) I let it go. All of
it. I gave it all back to God to take care of. I couldn't do it anymore. The weight of all those things was just too much. </div>
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And I found something. Well, a
lot of somethings. </div>
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I found myself. </div>
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The me that I
buried under roles and expectations and life and worries and regrets and fear. I got her
back. </div>
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I also found
peace. And joy. And serenity. And Truth. And happiness. And contentment. All
those things I’ve been fighting to find for so long, came to me once I let go. </div>
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2012 was quite
possibly the worst year of my life to date. </div>
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2012 was also
quite possibly the best year of my life to date. How is that—that such a
beautiful, wondrous existence is possible even amidst the flames that have
turned so much to ash? </div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><b>That, my friends,
is the miracle. </b></span></div>
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“Now I can trade
these ashes in for beauty<br />
and wear forgiveness like a crown<br />
coming to kiss the feet of mercy<br />
I lay every burden down<br />
at the foot of the cross.” </div>
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(lyrics from At
The Foot of the Cross, by Kathryn Scott)</div>
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-8922515224125216052012-02-02T23:23:00.000-05:002012-02-02T23:23:38.050-05:00My Letter To You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D8kBKTgIkrg/TytfECVPfBI/AAAAAAAAAoU/kgoJGGgg_Es/s1600/Grandma+Stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D8kBKTgIkrg/TytfECVPfBI/AAAAAAAAAoU/kgoJGGgg_Es/s200/Grandma+Stone.jpg" width="165" /></a></div>
<br />
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Dear Grandma
Stone,</div>
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Last night I
stepped out of the shower and grabbed a clean towel from the closet, started to
dry my face, and stopped. I took a long, sweet, inhale of that towel which
smelled exactly like the ones I’d pull from beneath your bathroom sink as a
child. That wood-soaked, fresh-laundry smell, hinting slightly of shelf liner
and extra bars of soap, transported me back into your house, into the hall
bathroom, and I was 5, 7, 13 again, stepping out of your shower and onto the
yellow carpet. There were the Picasso-esque New Orleans jazz players on the
wall at my right, the brass floor rack that held extra towels by the double
sink, the soap dish that cradled mysteriously shaped soaps I was always too
scared to use. I didn’t want to mar them. I used the pump dispenser.</div>
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And when I went
to bed last night I couldn’t get you or your house out of my mind. Was it
because it was your birthday and I hadn’t called? Was my obsession motivated by
guilt? I laid in bed for over an hour and walked through your home in my memory.
Like a 360-degree video clip I scanned each room; the walls, the contents of
the cupboards, the index card labels on each box and carton written in black sharpie.
Walking into your home always filled me with such a sense of peace; the smells,
the quiet jazz station playing from the radio on the counter, the cleanly order
of each room, dusted and sparkling perfection. Your home was one of the few
places I felt I could truly escape, even amidst the turmoil of life and work
and motherhood, and no matter my age, where I could stretch out my arm for the
soft caress of your fingers. I imagined all this and for a brief, fleeting
moment, felt like things were still as they were. And you still lived there on
Manhatton Drive and I could still go to you for respite. In your presence I
could always breathe deeply, unencumbered by life.</div>
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Dad had taken me
through your home when it was empty and cleaned, the walls sterilized with
fresh white paint, the new windows draft and rattle free. Walking in sucked the
breath from my body as if every beautiful thing and all the magic and all our
history in those rooms had been wiped clean, existing only in particles of
eraser dust on the crisp, virgin carpet. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to that
house then. I’m not really ready to say goodbye to you now.</div>
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Is that why I
imagined your home so vividly last night? Did you know about today somehow, and
send me those beautiful memories to help make today easier for me? It did a
little. I think. </div>
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You’d be glad to
know I’m surrounded by you in my home. I go to bed and wake up every morning
seeing your painting; the nude you painted in art class hangs in gold frame on
my ice blue bedroom walls. It’s the most perfect place for that piece, the room
bringing out the best in the aquamarines and browns. I stare at that painting
and try to imagine what you were like at that age, try to imagine you painting
it, what you might have been wearing, the strokes of your hands as you laid the
oils on canvas. Your other painting hangs in my living room, your dishes are in
my kitchen cupboards, I pour tea from the crystal pitcher you gave me, your
beautiful crèche adorned my holiday mantel. You are everywhere here. And yet, you
live most vibrantly in my memories of plywood play sets and green felt advent
trees, red suitcases filled with special toys, and dolls from faraway lands. Wicker
ducks and chickens that laid candy once a day, and a closet full of strange and
exciting toys I’d never seen and didn’t have at home. The smell of your
lipstick and Bill Blass perfume. Your closet that housed a menagerie of
necklaces and jewelry. The way you set a beautiful table. Your gift for
gracious hostessing. Your bible verses and quotes on the side of your
refrigerator. Your never ending lists of things to do, to make, to order, to
cook, to prepare for. </div>
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I was coming to
visit, in three short weeks (now three long weeks), to hold your hand and sit
by your bed and keep you company. I would have brought you chocolate covered
ginger even if you could have only smelled it. I wanted to show you the book I
just published, even if I only read you a few pages. In my heart, did I suspect
this might happen? Perhaps. But even when we know what the future holds, it’s
still difficult isn’t it Grandma? And although I know there was rejoicing in
heaven today when you got up there and that this day was the best of your life,
right at this very moment it doesn’t console me much. </div>
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I could wax
poetic forever about the childhood memories you gave me and the endless ways
you made me feel special. But the value of those recollections matter to no one
but my own heart. And now, in heaven you know them all. There is nothing left
to say except I’m sorry I didn’t call you yesterday. </div>
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I love you.</div>
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I'll miss you.</div>
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Rachel</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-49438151959784827492012-01-06T22:30:00.002-05:002012-01-06T22:30:19.618-05:00It's a....BOOK!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-le4tFrx8II0/Twe6WxKY9jI/AAAAAAAAAn0/FxRncj4urrw/s1600/P1050001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-le4tFrx8II0/Twe6WxKY9jI/AAAAAAAAAn0/FxRncj4urrw/s320/P1050001.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rachel Vidoni and her new baby, <i>Little Changes</i>. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p>I just wanted to let you all know,
officially here on my blog, that I had my baby. Well, it was a joint labor
really, but the book that <a href="http://www.choosewiser.com/meet-kristi/">Kristi Marsh</a> and I have been working on for the last year
and a half arrived in the mail two days ago, in actual <i>pages</i>. With a <i>binding. </i>And
amazing <i>illustrations</i>. It was
certainly the longest labor of my life; 13,148.7 hours. Not that I was
counting. And while I didn’t need an epidural, there were quite a few hours in
there that required numerous glasses of wine and a lot of sustained breathing
exercises.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When I first signed the contract (over margaritas and
Mexican food) to ghostwrite/edit this book, I had little idea of what it would
entail, but was excited for an opportunity to actually be part of a
book-writing process. Kristi didn’t really know me. I didn’t really know her. I
didn’t know much about the book she wanted to write and I had absolutely no
clue how to work on a project of this nature (which I’ve kept a secret until
now). Honestly, I didn’t know if I was even capable of such a feat, but the
book proposition presented itself, so I pretended I was an expert writer who
could transform anything she handed me into spun gold. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Which of course, I did. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Not very humble sounding, is it? That’s
terrible, I know. I’m not a big one to toot my own horn, but after a labor and
delivery like this one, I’m pretty proud of the book we created and I want to
show it off to the world—just like a first-time mom holding up her newborn
baby. “Isn’t she <i>beautiful</i>?” I know.
How much more narcissistic can I get?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Well, a little more is always
possible apparently. </div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oGGogEhagA4/Twe66ty-0ZI/AAAAAAAAAn8/dWYKqUrforM/s1600/P1050002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oGGogEhagA4/Twe66ty-0ZI/AAAAAAAAAn8/dWYKqUrforM/s320/P1050002.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Changes; Tales of a Reluctant Home Eco-Momics Pioneer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>That’s my name right there. The
little blue one under the big pink one. My name is in print <i>on the cover</i>. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The honest truth is that it’s a
fabulous story. It’s easy to make a delectable, mouthwatering burger when you
are working with 100% grass-fed, free-range, happy meat. <i>Little
Changes</i> has an amazing and important message. Somewhere around the middle
of the project Kristi asked me, “Why are you doing this? Why are you working so
hard for this book and for me?” </div>
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<br /></div>
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I honestly didn’t have a very
scientific reason for her. The contract I signed notwithstanding, I worked on
this book because I believe in its message. And more than that, as the project
continued, I had this gut-feeling that this book was going to be big. </div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 2.25in; text-align: center;">
As
in, <span style="font-size: large;">BIG.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And just so you know, I’m going to
be blogging about this book A LOT. Mostly because our marketing budget is,
well, smaller than we had hoped. Which is why I’m relying on my family,
friends, and the three other people that read this blog to help me spread the
word. And if you are a blogger/writer and would like a copy to read and review
on your blog, PLEASE leave a comment or send me a message. I’ll make sure you
get a copy pronto.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As things have progressed and the
book is in our hands and so many AMAZING opportunities are coming her/our way,
all I can say is;</div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 2.25in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #134f5c;">HAVE
YOUR ORDERED YOUR COPY YET?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 2.25in; text-align: center;">
It’s
not too late! You can do it <span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.choosewiser.com/shop/products-page/little-changes/little-changes/">HERE</a>. </span></div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-23442478106524048892012-01-03T20:32:00.000-05:002012-01-03T20:32:29.913-05:00The First Test<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rrsKqSUPIYo/TwOnwG0qOjI/AAAAAAAAAns/w6nKkGZw_qA/s1600/P1030017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rrsKqSUPIYo/TwOnwG0qOjI/AAAAAAAAAns/w6nKkGZw_qA/s320/P1030017.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The forgotten trumpet. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s January 3<sup>rd</sup>, and I
was already given an opportunity to put my <a href="http://eastcoastmusings.blogspot.com/2012/01/my-only-new-years-resolution.html">only New Year’s Resolution</a> into effect.
As is typical, this morning my son was late getting out the door, with my
husband waiting for him in the driveway, car running. My son always announces
that he’s “ready” for school, even though he’s sitting at the table, barefoot,
sporting bed head, with cereal milk dripping from his mouth as he says it. The time between the words, “I’m ready,” to his butt actually hitting the passenger seat is
about 10 minutes. At least. Such is the life of pre-teens. </div>
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<br /></div>
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About 20 minutes after he left,
the phone rang. I was elbow deep in my daughter's french braid so I
let the machine get it. I heard:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mom. It’s me. Can you bring my
trumpet to school? I need it. Thanks.” Click. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I finished my daughter’s hair and
assessed the situation. I was dressed and ready, but my four year old was on the
couch in her pj’s, and another daughter who needed to get to the bus stop in 15
minutes, and it was colder than a witch’s….well, it was just <i>really, really</i>, cold outside. We’ll leave it at that. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I flew through the house,
grabbing his trumpet from his room, his music folder strewn about his floor,
trying to unhook my parka from the closet, mentally checked the fact that I
had 15 minutes to get there, drop it off, and return home or either my middle
daughter was going to miss the bus, or my four year old would be home alone, and
it was getting hard to breathe, and I realized…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey. I have choices here. Am I
making this decision <i>On Purpose</i>? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No. I wasn’t. I was trying to be a
<i>good</i> mom. You know, that good mom who brings the trumpet to school when her
pre-teen son should have been getting his things together but was instead
watching cartoons on TV at 6:30 a.m. I was doing what I’ve been trained and conditioned to do,
which is rescue people/children from situations they get themselves into, and
while certain circumstances do call for a mom to bring things to school
(medication or a project that won’t fit into a bus seat) this was not one of
those times. So I shelved the instinct to be <b>good</b>, and settled for what I do best, and that is <b>mediocre</b>. I was selfish and chose sanity over saving my son's arse. Sealing my decision with a grain of reality, I also rationalized that band was only the first period of the day. Chances were good
that even if I got the damned trumpet to school, the class would soon be ending
and he wouldn’t be able to play it anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I made a different decision. I
hung my coat back inside the closet, grabbed a new cup of coffee, and had a
very pleasant, non-stressful morning. Making that decision On Purpose was so
liberating! I made another decision On Purpose and moved my son’s trumpet and
music folder to the front door where he would see it when he left for school
the next day. You’re welcome son. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best part about my decision?
When my son came home he asked me, “So, did you get my message this morning?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yep,” I replied. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You just didn’t feel like bringing
it?” he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nope. I didn’t have time. Did you
get in trouble?” I asked, silently hoping for some logical consequences here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. I just changed the subject and
my teacher didn’t say anything else about it.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, no consequences, but overall
the experience was win-win. My son didn’t get into trouble (this time) and I had a
fabulous, productive, stress-free morning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Purpose. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-49401012923263698632012-01-01T15:12:00.001-05:002012-01-01T15:12:43.782-05:00My Only New Year's Resolution<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--mJDJ2z6WnI/TwC8lG1Ji1I/AAAAAAAAAng/stT6uKR2QWw/s1600/Albert+Einstein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--mJDJ2z6WnI/TwC8lG1Ji1I/AAAAAAAAAng/stT6uKR2QWw/s1600/Albert+Einstein.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year I’m only making one New Year’s Resolution. Broad
enough that many things could count toward its progress, yet vague enough that
if I miss the mark in some areas, I won’t feel like I’ve failed. My goal for
2012 is simple really;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;">Live Life On Purpose. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What kind of
ridiculous resolution is that?</i> you may be asking. <i>How the heck else do people live life? On accident? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes. Exactly my point. For a long time I’ve been living my
life on accident. But no longer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m no philosopher—heck, I’m mediocre across the board—but
it occurs to me that many people want results in their lives but don’t actually
want to <i>change</i> anything. We make
resolutions to lose weight and then refuse to seriously cut out the calories or
forgo the pasta and refined sugar. We vow to work out and exercise more, and
then show up at the gym twice a week and only when it doesn’t interfere with
our other commitments. We want the payoff without the pay; the prize without
the contest rules. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Albert Einstein said it best when he said that, Insanity was
doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2011 showed me I’ve been insane for a long, long time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But no longer! It’s a new year and I’m a new person and I’ve
been given another chance to get it right. The good news is that everyday I
wake up I get this chance again. It really doesn’t just happen on January 1<sup>st</sup>.
That’s purely American Marketing talking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I <span style="color: #b45f06;">HATE</span> exercising in the cold, but I know that I feel better
when I go for my walks which clear my mind and help me put things into
perspective. I’m going to go walking as much as possible, even when it’s
snowing and freezing and I’m swearing under my breath about how damned cold it
is. Normally I would stay in bed and relish my warm covers. But now I’m going
to pull my sorry ass up, blindly yank on four layers of clothing, and go
walking. On Purpose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I <span style="color: #b45f06;">LOVE</span> posting my writing here on this blog, but tend to
shelve this desire when life gets busy or stressful. But writing actually frees
me, see, and even if I’m tired or stressed, maybe by writing and actually
posting, I’ll get rid of some of the weight on my shoulders and feel better.
Normally I would choose to sleep, but I’m going to resist that urge and make a
decision to write. On Purpose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2011 also made me realize that for far too long <span style="color: #b45f06;">I’ve given
the reigns of my life to the wrong people.</span> There I’d sit in the passenger seat
of my life and order the drivers around, telling them which way to go, yelling
when they’d go too fast or when they’d fly by the patch of flowers I wanted to
stop and admire. I’m not sure why I gave up those reigns or what I hoped to gain,
but I’m in charge of driving my own buggy and taking care of my own horses and
oiling my own leather saddle. It’s taken me a long time to find that joyous
part of me again. I’m going to live each day with the joy and excitement I’ve
shuttered for years because other people wouldn’t be joyful and excited with
me. Or out of fear that they’d think I was crazy. Stupid. So what? So what if
I’m the only person dancing in my living room to Lady Gaga while wearing my
fuzzy, drawstring pants and sporting morning bed head? So what if no one laughs
at my jokes, or acts silly or goofy with me? This year I am resurrecting my
authentic self, dusting her off, and letting her shine once more. On Purpose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My resolutions don’t involve doing anything <i>more, </i>or anything <i>less.</i> I’m not counting calories. I’m not striving to be more
patient. When faced with a decision I’m simply going to ask myself, <i>“What have I done in the past? Did I get the
result that I wanted? Did my old actions/behaviors bring me joy? Is that what
the REAL me would have done?”</i> And based on those answers, I may make a
different decision. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #b45f06;">A decision made On Purpose.</span> Not because I've always done it that way. Not because it's acceptable. Not because that's what other people want me to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only thing I’m giving up this year, is insanity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who's in YOUR driver's seat? How are YOU going to live differently in 2012?</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-50625253909327664402011-12-30T16:24:00.000-05:002011-12-30T16:45:44.453-05:00The Girl Who Played With Fire in 2011<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mMUMIxiZIf8/Tv4qideFibI/AAAAAAAAAmw/Pnl1oPy-qOY/s1600/burned+forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mMUMIxiZIf8/Tv4qideFibI/AAAAAAAAAmw/Pnl1oPy-qOY/s1600/burned+forest.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I figured it would be well worth my time to take one last
stab at posting in 2011. Being December 30, I’m pretty happy that I didn’t wait
until tomorrow to try and write this. While stress and procrastination do tend
to help my creativity, it doesn’t exactly make me the nicest mother ever.
Feeding my darling children takes a backseat when mom has a deadline and I end
up declaring cereal the main course. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2011 hasn’t been a great year. You can tell from how often
I’ve posted on my blog…when silence hits here on my page of musings, you can be
sure of one thing: I’m busy. Or stressed. It’s not that I’ve run out of ideas,
mind you, or that I’ve stopped coming up with clever things to say or that
nothing important is happening in my life. On the contrary, silence is the biggest
indicator of my dysfunction; of life handing me so many things to deal with,
think through, and process that I simply cannot fathom sitting still for two
hours to write them down. Or that sharing the goings-on would be a breech of
the marital confidentiality agreement, which I don’t remember signing, but
operate within nonetheless. Very often the cacophonous noise in my head and in
my life leaves me silent. Speechless. Any spare moments I have I use to sleep.
Avoidance is my salve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2011 started in tears. Quite literally, honestly, in tears
and questions and deafening silences. The rug of reality I firmly stood on was
ripped from beneath my feet and I fell, hard, onto a cold cement floor and
struggled to get up for months. At the height of this struggle I found myself
sitting on my couch, in the silence of midnight hours, in such a state of shock
that I quite literally felt something inside myself break. It was a tangible
pop or rip or shatter—a noise I can’t define—but I remember that moment as
being so void of answers and so black and so painful I did the only thing that
came to my mind, the absolutely only thing I knew to do. I opened my bible and
started reading. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever broke inside me, started a migraine headache that
didn’t go away for six weeks. Dr.’s looked, MRI’s were ordered, the audiologist
suggested, the neurologist assessed, and after all the tests were analyzed and
the dots connected; the answer was crystal clear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing was wrong with me. Healthy as could be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Must be stress. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They eventually went away, those headaches, but for two months my operational level was barely functional. Ibuprofen became my new best friend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those months of learning to stand again were like that scene
in <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYj2m1yVpGU&noredirect=1">The Truman Show</a>, where Jim Carrey’s character rows the boat in the ocean,
trying to prove to himself that the life he’s living is real and not a
construct of another's creating, only to hit the backdrop where the sky meets the
ocean’s horizon. And he knows. Nothing was what he thought. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s pretty much how my 2011 has been. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, this year has been wonderful. I’ve written more and
worked harder than ever before. I finally finished a book project I started on
with <a href="http://www.choosewiser.com/meet-kristi/">Kristi Marsh</a>, and now have a tangible product containing a funny,
poignant, and inspiring story. I’ve fulfilled my life’s dream of publishing a
<a href="http://www.choosewiser.com/little-changes/">book</a>, even amidst the broken glass surrounding me. Accomplishing a life dream
is monumental in the best of circumstances, but the fact that I have been able
to complete this during one of the most difficult years of my life leaves me
feeling empowered and strong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This year I also found something I had lost for a long
time—misplaced really. Myself. And I’ve given up something I held onto dearly,
for fear that being without it would leave me vulnerable. Control. And in that
moment on the couch when I broke—when that tiny plastic piece snapped inside
me—and the only thought in my head was <i>read
the bible</i>, that moment set me on the path that has saved me. That has led
me to find the beginnings of peace. That all is well. Even when things are
terrible—all is well. I don’t have any more answers than I did before, but I do
have the peace to exist without them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2011 burned through my life like a forest fire, getting rid
of dead wood and allowing the conifers to release seeds into my charred earth,
ready to start new life growing. With a little time and rain and sunshine and
patience, a new forest will take its place. It’s not a wishful hope but a
certainty. Instead of grieving for the devastation, I search through the
blackened remains for tiny, green sprouts. They are already there, those
sprouts. Miniscule trees and bushes waiting to rocket forth in 2012, changing
my landscape in ways I can only imagine. For my last post of this year, I wish
everyone joy and peace in 2012.<br />
<br />
Would you share with me? What is your biggest triumph and trial of this year?</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-85249827822336126462011-09-18T11:12:00.000-04:002011-09-18T11:12:26.607-04:00Eggs, Cocks, and Peckers<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uj51odwaYes/TnYItlsNhNI/AAAAAAAAAmk/u8rfGU2B-w4/s1600/P9011397.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uj51odwaYes/TnYItlsNhNI/AAAAAAAAAmk/u8rfGU2B-w4/s400/P9011397.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first little brown egg of many. Compliments of Julia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well hello. I didn’t use an exclamation point there because
that would imply energy, or excitement even, and since I am just coming out of
my blogging coma, energy is not what I have.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes. Three months is a long time to not post. Summer hit and
the kids were home all the time. I feel like I tripped over a sand bucket
somewhere around mid June and by the time I stood up, the kids were back in
school and September was half over. Or maybe my memory is playing tricks on me.
I am getting old. Next month I’ll be<i>
almost</i> 40.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And since I left off in June with chickens, and since so
much has happened in three months, I figure chickens is just as good a topic to
start with as any. Because something really exciting happened a few weeks ago: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few of my girls started <i>laying</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, not my daughters. They are only four and ten. My <i>other</i> girls; the feathered, beaked, worm-eating kind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My husband came into the bedroom one evening and said to me,
“Get your shoes on and go check out the coop.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you find an EGG?” I asked, with childhood excitement. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go see for yourself.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, even though I had
already showered and my hair was still wet, I threw on my mucking boots and ran
across the lawn to the coop. If you know anything about me, you’ll know that
this is significant for a couple reasons; I do not go anywhere after I shower
where I might encounter chicken poop, and my hair was wet. I do not go outside
at night when my hair is wet for fear that bugs might fly into my hair and get
stuck there. Yes. I understand that I am a tad off. Nonetheless, out in
pajamas, wet hair, and mucking boots went I, to see what my husband was talking
about. There, in the nesting box by the window (those chickens are a little
like me and no doubt appreciate the peacefulness of a cool breeze) was a little
brown chicken egg. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And when I say little, I mean little. Like it might take
three of these suckers to equal one Grade A Large egg. Size notwithstanding, my
excitement was something I haven’t experienced in a long time. I wasn’t simply
excited for the fact that we would now always have some type of food source
(breakfast for dinner when groceries run low!), but this egg was a symbol. A sign.
Proof that I hadn’t (in some way) screwed up when raising my chicks, that I had
in fact done something right, that clearly all the yogurt, bananas, fruit
peels, and pasta I had given my chickens wasn’t in vain and had actually
provided them the nutrients they needed to lay eggs. There is a section in my
brain that understands that chickens the world over lay plenty of eggs without
these things and that my role in this process wasn’t needed in any form, (a lot
like a birthing coach, who while he/she feels pretty important in the birth of
said baby, is really just a prop in the room because the baby is coming
whether he/she is there or not) but what the hell. I’ll take any type of credit
I can to prove I don’t suck. And now I know I do not suck when it comes to
raising hens. (The jury is currently out on my role as human mother.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now we have eggs. On a normal day we get about three
because my Auricanas aren’t laying yet, and of course, they lay the blue-green
eggs. Everyday my youngest yells, “What color are the eggs today mom?” When I
tell her they are all brown, she smiles and yells, “I’m SO excited for the blue
ones!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And while she is excited to gather eggs, freshly laid and
still warm, she is a tad reticent about being around the chickens in flip-flops.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because chickens are chickens and when the hens see little
tiny toes with bright pink toe nails I’m sure they look quite like worms with
pink hats on. And being good hunter-scratchers that they are, they want to make
sure they aren’t missing a tasty morsel so they go after tiny pink toes with
their beaks. You can imagine how well this goes over with a four-year-old. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fact, back at the end of June, we discovered one morning
that one of our hens was in fact, a rooster. “May” was <s>her</s> his name (short
for Maynard now) and May liked to go after little toes, but also after little
girls (both the feathered and the human kind). Because we didn’t bargain for a
rooster, and the last thing I needed was more chicks running around, we found
May a nice farm out in Middleboro. Really. (Not the proverbial “farm” in the
sky, but an actually farm with real people farmers. Promise.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few weeks ago, while watching the hens eat bugs and
scratch around in the mulch, my youngest said to me, “Mom, you know how we got rid’a
May?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” I replied. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, can we get rid’a Blackie and Julia too?” she asked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why would you want to get rid of Blackie and Julia?” I
questioned. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because they are peckers,” she said. “And I hate peckers.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ahhhh, yes. It’s a pretty good attitude to have all in
all—hating peckers, I mean. Unless they lay eggs. In which case I’m happy to
overlook their peckerness. I’ll get rid of the cocks, but the peckers I’m
keeping. Because I frequently run low on groceries and need to serve breakfast for
dinner. </div>
<br />
Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-67681489771338797502011-06-14T08:23:00.003-04:002011-06-14T08:26:56.864-04:00Chicken Update: The Girls in June<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Well, they aren't laying eggs yet, but the girls are getting used to their new digs. I try to let them out to roam around for a few hours each day...although I try to stay outside with them. When we were working outside on Sunday, Molly wandered up the hill behind our house (into the neighbor's back yard) and was chased around by a cat. The sqawking and sound of ruffled feathers alerted me and I went running to her rescue. Needless to say, the rest of the day the group hung out in our own yard.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t90uo4vYYkk/TfdK-Mwn52I/AAAAAAAAAl8/b5AEzYzdEk0/s1600/chickens-June+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t90uo4vYYkk/TfdK-Mwn52I/AAAAAAAAAl8/b5AEzYzdEk0/s320/chickens-June+%25282%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> This is Giraffe. I'm pretty sure that she's my Rhode Island Red. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Still waiting to see what happens to Julia's feathers.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9heCWmSKlmE/TfdLDiQdM4I/AAAAAAAAAmA/YoekJSner2U/s1600/chickens-June+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9heCWmSKlmE/TfdLDiQdM4I/AAAAAAAAAmA/YoekJSner2U/s320/chickens-June+%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Milly has beautiful blond neck feathers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Her and Molly are the largest chickens so far, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and the ones who are the slowest learning to fly around. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oNIQg-kWhyk/TfdLEZuXtSI/AAAAAAAAAmE/1pmTajDOUac/s1600/chickens-June+%25285%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oNIQg-kWhyk/TfdLEZuXtSI/AAAAAAAAAmE/1pmTajDOUac/s320/chickens-June+%25285%2529.JPG" width="313" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Blackie is still my curious girl. She's also the one most I hold most of the time because she's not as flighty.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D9dnm27YwxU/TfdLLotQKuI/AAAAAAAAAmI/Obdc3nWQsH0/s1600/chickens-June+%252810%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D9dnm27YwxU/TfdLLotQKuI/AAAAAAAAAmI/Obdc3nWQsH0/s320/chickens-June+%252810%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> A rare moment when I grabbed hold of Milly.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dmn8KM8E-Us/TfdLPUR-d_I/AAAAAAAAAmM/JFkjZ_A2KAE/s1600/chickens-June+%252811%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dmn8KM8E-Us/TfdLPUR-d_I/AAAAAAAAAmM/JFkjZ_A2KAE/s320/chickens-June+%252811%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Remember that little yellow ball of fluff, so stereotypic of baby chicks?<br />
Yep, that's her above. I'm thinking that Julia is my Buff Orphington,<br />
but we'll see. She's pretty good natured and is<br />
another one who will let you hold her.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SDMhTRldraw/TfdLQ8CYz7I/AAAAAAAAAmQ/X2ih2UoQUfs/s1600/chickens-June+%252812%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SDMhTRldraw/TfdLQ8CYz7I/AAAAAAAAAmQ/X2ih2UoQUfs/s320/chickens-June+%252812%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">The girls out for their daily forage. Molly is front and center,<br />
scratching up the leaves looking for worms and bugs. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Thankfully, there are a TON out back.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7cegVLkDc_Q/TfdLSftDwgI/AAAAAAAAAmU/go0ZkZrbWXc/s1600/chickens-June+%252814%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7cegVLkDc_Q/TfdLSftDwgI/AAAAAAAAAmU/go0ZkZrbWXc/s320/chickens-June+%252814%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> A side view of Molly. I love her feathers! She is one of my Americauna's, </div><div style="text-align: center;">and should lay blue-green eggs come October.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vhdo71-VdNc/TfdLTsAEYtI/AAAAAAAAAmY/mCE7Rsn6anU/s1600/chickens-June+%252815%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Vhdo71-VdNc/TfdLTsAEYtI/AAAAAAAAAmY/mCE7Rsn6anU/s320/chickens-June+%252815%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">The inside of the completed coop! My husband did such a fabulous job on their house! They sleep in the nesting boxes every night, and use their chicken door to access their porch. At night, we shut up the porch and close the door to the coop, preventing any predators from access to the inside.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FPEvlvPDoC8/TfdLUkgafHI/AAAAAAAAAmc/hlwBMhQEDbo/s1600/chickens-June+%252817%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FPEvlvPDoC8/TfdLUkgafHI/AAAAAAAAAmc/hlwBMhQEDbo/s320/chickens-June+%252817%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Here's their outside porch. They spend a lot of time on the roost and love</div><div style="text-align: center;"> to scratch around for bugs in the dirt out here. I like knowing they always have </div><div style="text-align: center;">access to sun and fresh air, on days when I can't let the roam the yard. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QG4wZpSwRY4/TfdLVubpquI/AAAAAAAAAmg/Wawf_n4d9KQ/s1600/chickens-June+%252818%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QG4wZpSwRY4/TfdLVubpquI/AAAAAAAAAmg/Wawf_n4d9KQ/s320/chickens-June+%252818%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>This is a treat I gave them the other day: Greek yogurt, bananas, and arugula. They LOVE bananas and arugula, although the yogurt was new for them. Mostly they just walked around in it, but I'll introduce it again. Yogurt is supposed to be really good for chickens, and you know, it helps keeps those chicken-yeast-infections away.<br />
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I know I haven't posted much lately, but I've been busy working on a writing project. I'm trying to be better about posting more often, but it ebbs and flows. I'll post a garden update in a few days; it's raining now (so sick of the rain) and I'll wait to take pictures of the garden when it's sunny. So far, though, I've planted summer squash, zucchini, potatoes, tomatoes, green beans, garlic, cucumbers (slicing and pickling), beets, shelling peas, and sugar snap peas. The blueberries are looking wonderful, and the blackberries are budding out well too. My raspberries as always, are a pain in my ass, and we'll see if I keep them in the garden after this year! Oh, and did I mention 10 pumpkin plants are now taking off in the back yard? Looks like it will be a fun fall!Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-48449891289558283102011-05-23T10:15:00.000-04:002011-05-23T10:15:31.534-04:00Fathers, Daughters, & Disco Sticks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>Today's guest blogger is Ted Ten Eyck. He's extraordinarily funny, even more so when you meet him in person. If you enjoy his wry humor you'll love his take on <a href="http://eastcoastmusings.blogspot.com/2010/05/how-does-that-make-you-feel.html">therapy</a>, as well as his feelings about <a href="http://eastcoastmusings.blogspot.com/2011/02/picking-battles.html">picking zits</a>. Don't read the zit one if you're eating.</i> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IbTOVaJ7OXw/TdpqV_Ug3xI/AAAAAAAAAl4/fx2gzkwk_nY/s1600/Ted%2527s+pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IbTOVaJ7OXw/TdpqV_Ug3xI/AAAAAAAAAl4/fx2gzkwk_nY/s400/Ted%2527s+pic.JPG" width="275" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">When my wife finished watching the coverage of the recent royal wedding, she confessed the following to me: “I’m glad you’re not a prince, because I don’t think I would make for a very good princess.” Having learned a thing or two over the past twelve years of marriage, I knew I had to respond carefully: “Don’t be silly. Of course you would be a good princess.” My wife appreciated my lame attempt to sound supportive. But she went on to explain why she felt she would be a less-than-exemplary princess: “I probably would have just flipped off all of those spectators at my wedding.” Oh. Well in that case, you definitely are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> good princess material. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My wife can breathe a sigh of relief because I certainly am not prince-like material. Luckily, I don’t want to be a prince. Hell, I don’t even want to be Prince. (But that is mainly because he is a full sixteen inches shorter than I.) Even though my wife knows she wouldn’t be a good princess, I am sure that doesn’t stop her from still having a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">desire</i> to be a princess. Because, as far as I am aware, most people born with lady-parts have some yearning at some time in their life to be a princess. (Don’t worry; I make sweeping, stereotypical comments about men later on.) This desire is reinforced with weddings and proms and, as I discovered last year, the beloved Father-Daughter dance. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My understanding is that the dance has its origin in basically forcing fathers to spend time together with their precious daughters. Fatherhood was very different “back in the day.” It was, after all, a time when it was socially acceptable for the likes of Don Draper to get drunk at a bar while his wife was in labor. An awful lot has changed regarding the role of fathers since then. Today, for example, men are expected to not only be (1) present and (2) sober for the birth of their child, but to also (3) pretend that their wife did not just have a bowel movement on the birthing table while awaiting Junior’s arrival into the world. Yet despite all of these changes, year after year, the Father-Daughter dance keeps on happening. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And this is a really special night for the girls. The girls are typically wearing a new dress...and new shoes...and new jewelry. Some go to the hair salon on the day of the big event; some go for a manicure and pedicure. They get flowers from their father. And the girls are absolutely beautiful. They look like little princesses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, these little princesses don’t have a proper audience who can fully appreciate just how beautiful they look. I paid close attention this year, and discovered that the girls themselves really don’t care what one another look like. As long as they tamed their bed-head and are not still wearing the same Justin Bieber t-shirt they had on at school earlier that day, all is apparently good. And the only other people in attendance at the Father-Daughter dance are, appropriately enough, fathers. The fathers will make a big deal about their daughter’s appearance. They will even throw in a perfunctory, “You look beautiful!” However, all fathers really care about is making sure their daughter is never, ever wearing sweatpants that proudly proclaim “JUICY” across the ass. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, the only people who will truly appreciate all of these efforts are the only people who will not actually be attending the dance. Yes—the mothers. The same ones who bought the dress and the shoes and dealt with their daughter’s tears because the hair stylist made her hair too curly. So the mothers latch onto what they can; namely, posting the pictures on Facebook for all of the other mothers to appreciate. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite the fact that my wife was already sharing her photos with all 252 of her Facebook friends before my daughter and I even entered the event, we still got suckered into paying for the professional pictures at the dance. And then we had to walk past the refreshment table, and another table where they were selling glow sticks. (I refused to buy one just on principle; I don’t need to give my daughter practice for what she might experience when she finally gets to go to her first rave.) Then it is finally time to enter the ballroom (a.k.a. high school cafeteria) where the magic happens. And I have learned from experience that the night will only play out one of two ways: the first scenario happened to me last year, where my then six-year-old daughter clung to me the entire night because she was overwhelmed and over stimulated with the chaos of the event. The second option is what happened this year: we walked in and my precious offspring dropped me like a hot potato. “Dad, I’m gonna go dance with my friends!” Fine by me. At the age of 41, I am pretty sure that I have more than met my lifetime quota of having to dance to “Y.M.C.A.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That means that I am then on my own to mingle with the other fathers who were also ditched by their dates. So what is created as a result is a cafeteria full of men left to make small talk with other men. And everyone knows that striking-up conversation is not a strong point of people born with dangly-parts. That is why men prefer to get together with a planned activity in mind to give them something to talk about; activities such as playing poker or watching a stripper. So, if the organizers of the Father-Daughter dance really wanted to raise some serious money for the school, they would do more than just sell soda and candy bars; they should offer a full cash bar. Not only would the alcohol provide the much-needed social lubrication, but the sales would bring in enough money for the school to most likely build a new wing. (I can hear it now: “Today’s assembly on scoliosis will be held in the Anheiser-Busch Multi-Purpose Room.”)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Although I have been tempted to bring my own flask to the dance, I have so far used my better judgment. So I have to resort to using my patented conversation starters that are specific to the Father-Daughter dance. Let me give you a few examples: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, Bob? Doesn’t it seem odd that the kindergarteners are all dancing to Katy Perry going on and on about losing one’s virginity?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Am I the only one here who finds it creepy that our seven-year-old daughters are chanting ‘Boys wanna touch my junk’ along with Ke$ha?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good to see you. Nothing like Lady Gaga proclaiming that she ‘wants to take a ride on your disco stick’ to build lasting memories for girls and their dads, eh?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I really, really wish I was joking about these particular songs being played at the dance. But believe you me, these are the selections. Luckily, the songs that are played for the slow dances are surprisingly free of sexual innuendos. So, I have nothing to carp about regarding what we are dancing to; I do, however, have some things to say about how the dancing actually happens. Some pairings opt for the isn’t-that-cute daughter-standing-on-Dad’s-shoes move. Let me tell you from experience that that is enjoyable for the fathers for approximately seven seconds. Then there is the traditional option where even though the two dancing parties are holding hands, there is enough distance between said parties as to not catch cooties. (I wish that this image did not conjure up for me so many memories of dancing this way with uninterested partners during junior-high mixers while Journey’s “Open Arms” played in the background.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I had been cooler in middle-school (or in high school, or in college...), I would have had the chance to dance really close with a girl, with our bodies pressed up against one another and the girl’s head resting on my shoulder. Surprisingly, this is the move that many Father-Daughter pairings resort to. Unfortunately, because of the massive height difference between most adult males and their elementary-school-aged daughters, the girl’s head inevitably ends up resting on her father’s lower abdomen. And that is a sight that you will never see, rightfully so, in any of those Disney princess movies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I can bitch and moan all that I want, but it doesn’t matter. And that is because the Father-Daughter dance is not about me. It’s about my daughter, the princess. And my princess has a magical time at said event, because she feels special on that night. And hopefully later in her life she will find someone who can make her feel that special each and every day. In the meantime, she is stuck with me, her father, who is still closest at being prince-like only when I play the soundtrack to “Purple Rain” on the drive home from the Father-Daughter dance. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-28436054937673118672011-05-19T22:13:00.000-04:002011-05-19T22:13:39.399-04:00Four Year-Old Manipulation<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZKRYT7-tqpQ/TdXNWI5dZuI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/KBmDYuAWI30/s1600/P2090943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZKRYT7-tqpQ/TdXNWI5dZuI/AAAAAAAAAlQ/KBmDYuAWI30/s400/P2090943.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With enough bows, clips, and saliva, you too can have this look.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">My youngest daughter turns four in two weeks, and while she knows exactly how to inflict you-never-play-with-me-guilt, she’s yet to figure out how to use threats appropriately. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I mean, any good mediocre mother worth her weight in wet coffee grinds knows how to threaten a kid and get results, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My soon-to-be four year old desperately wants long hair (just like her best friend at school, and Kiki and Mirena on Fresh Beat Band) which is fine with me. The poor girl didn’t inherit any thick, lush hair genetics from my husband or me, consequently her hair is thin and wispy and requires a sufficient amount of saliva to keep it in place. Keeping it ultra short is not only darling on her tiny, pudgy face, but also a great way to make those locks look a bit thicker. Sadly there aren’t too many cartoon characters or TV show personalities that have short hair (unless you count Dora and while you may want to speak Spanish after watching her show, you definitely don’t want to replicate her head) which is why, my daughter now wants to have long hair. Like her best friend. And Kiki and Mirena. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don't mind if my daughters have long hair, but I do mind them looking like field mice nest in it. My rule is that females in this house can have long hair as long as it’s fixed for school—that is, having some type of comb or brush go through it and making sure it is pulled back out of their eyes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But my daughter does not particularly like to have her hair fixed. Especially when she is tired and hasn’t had her morning <s>coffee</s> breakfast yet. We had yet another battle of the wills this morning when I finally used my mom threat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Fine,” I said to her. “If you don’t want to fix your hair then I’m going to cut it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">She was silent. I’m thinking that she’s going to finally cooperate.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Do you want me to cut your hair right now?” I asked, smug smile on my face. </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes,” she replied. “Cut it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shit. I hadn’t planned on that response. But it was 8:00 a.m. and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> have my coffee so I quickly switched to plan B and did what all moms do when their threats backfire and said, “Fine. I’m going to get some scissors.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I searched the kitchen where we keep scissors and the junk drawer where we keep scissors and even my daughter’s craft desk where there are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always </i>scissors, but guess what I never found? I had great visions of my marching back into that bathroom with a pair of sharp, pointy cutting utensils and pretending to cut her hair—an effectively loud snip! snip! to startle her into fixed-hair submission, but now I had nothing. Just empty threats. Empty threats can work, mind you, they just aren’t very good for story telling later. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I walked back into the bathroom, ready to tell her we’d have to wait on our haircut, she said, “I’m ready to fix my hair now.” And we proceeded with two ponytails and a barrette. Easier than I thought but it could have had a more exciting ending.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As parents we know what will motivate our children; what works for some doesn’t always work for others. We figure out exactly what will devastate our kids the most—losing video games, being grounded from friends, no TV extra chores—then dangle it just above their heads or take it away all together to produce the desired behavior, or as sufficient punishment for some misdeed. Parents hone this skill with time so that eventually we can even make it sound like losing the item was the kid’s idea. Those moments are pure parenting joy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But my youngest doesn’t quite know how to hit below the belt yet. Her threats inevitably still only affect her. Most days if she doesn’t get her way, she threatens:</div><div class="MsoNormal">“FINE! THEN I’M NOT GOING TO PLAY WITH MY FRIENDS OR EAT MY DINNER!” Which is okay with me because that’s one less playdate I have to supervise and meal I have to make. Another one of her more popular threats: “FINE! THEN I WON’T HAVE ANY DESSERT AND I WON’T PLAY WITH YOU!” Again, these are okay with me since we’re trying to cut out needless sweets and I’m off the hook for<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Polly Pocket pretending.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tonight I told her she couldn’t have any more snacks which<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>included chewing gum, when she yelled, “FINE!” THEN I WONT BE A PART OF THIS FAMILY!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This was a threat I hadn’t heard before. I’m pretty impressed that she’s clearly stepping up her game and trying to find the salt for my wound. Sadly, that one didn’t work on me either. I’d miss her if she left, don’t get me wrong. But in the evenings while I’m trying to make dinner, I fantasize about the day when everyone is gone and I don’t have to prepare a meal that is healthful and colorful with the five available items in my pantry, when I can in fact, resort to a bowl of Raisin Nut Bran in front of the TV. So if she’s not a part of the family anymore this time will come much sooner. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sure. Maybe it’s not a good thing that she’s constantly threatening things when she doesn’t get her way. And I probably should be concerned that she uses the word FINE with such vehemence; I really don’t know where she gets that little tid bit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fine. I do know where she gets it. But one thing she hasn’t gotten from me is how to use threats appropriately and then how to follow through with them when they backfire. Maybe she’ll learn those things when she turns four.</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-37555132006091563762011-05-16T08:45:00.003-04:002011-05-16T08:49:15.172-04:00The Usual Run of Things. Shocking, I know.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Todays' Guest Post is from Tara over at <a href="http://twohandsandaroadmap.net/">Two Hands and a Roadmap</a>. I'm pretty sure that we are twins, separated at birth and raised in two different cities. If you like my humor, you'll love Tara, because she swears and has <a href="http://twohandsandaroadmap.net/2011/05/15/7-perfectly-pathetic-goals-for-this-week/">mediocre goals </a>just like me. Plus she preserves tomatoes and <a href="http://twohandsandaroadmap.net/2011/05/09/letter-from-the-past/">cans fresh peaches</a>. Another reason to love her! I'm guest posting over on her blog today, in case you want to take a read. Enjoy!</span><br />
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I should be offended by this. I should rail against gender stereotypes in general and the use of "Mr. Mom" to refer to a man who nurtures children and keeps house in particular. I should, at the very least, be disdainful of the country twang and cliches.<br />
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But I'm not. I enjoy this song. It makes me happy to know there's someone out there as bad at the stay-at-home thing as I was. With a procrastinating nature, a fundamental inability to stay organized, and a phobia of the telephone, I wasn't exactly a natural. Plus multi-tasking is physically painful to me. Make dinner while entertaining toddler? No way, no how; I could do one or the other, period. It all added up to a hot mess of crayon-marked walls and smoke detectors announcing that dinner was done.<br />
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Now that both kids are in school full-time and I'm away at work -- leaving my husband in charge of a lot of morning household tasks -- you would think I have limited opportunities to screw stuff up. Yet I manage, over and over.<br />
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A classic bonehead maneuver involved an elementary school Christmas party that I volunteered to organize for my younger son. His teacher gave me a list of names and numbers of people who had signed up at the beginning of the year to bring stuff to the party. My job was to call them (uh-oh), and organize all the dishes coming in from different parents (holy crap). Oh, and <i>not to lose the list</i>. Teacher chuckled as she handed it to me; it seems the parent who volunteered to run the Halloween party LOST THE LIST and the whole party had to be run in a most unacceptable way. How ridiculous. We're not letting her do that again. Ha ha, freaking ha.<br />
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The smart readers just figured out where this is going.<br />
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I shoved the paper, cleverly stapled to thick purple construction paper to make it unlosable (um, ha?) in my van and forgot about it. Plenty of time.<br />
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Two weeks later and a mere three days before the event, I decided I'd better remind the people who signed up (in September, remember) to bring stuff. I knew I'd have to apologize for being so scatterbrained and late, but it would be OK.<br />
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<b>The paper was gone. </b>Gone. While I sorted various piles of paper in my kitchen and office, I imagined the humiliation of calling the teacher and telling her that another mother has lost a party signup sheet. I saw my picture up in the teachers' lounge, with blacked-out teeth and surrounded by epithets scrawled in Sharpie markers. When I had to move my paperback copy of <i>ADD-Friendly Ways to Organize Your Life </i>to continue searching, I had a private laugh. It sounded like the giggle of a madman.<br />
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I finally found the paper. It was on the floor of my van. There were no staples. No thick, purple construction paper. It was a regular printout, on green printer paper. I picked it up and marveled at my ineptitude. There wasn't much time, though, to figure why I had mentally manufactured such a strange and erroneous detail. I made calls; I made apologies; I made recommendations for party contributions. I did not lose the list. My mind is another matter altogether.<br />
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So if you need me, I'll be the one folding laundry and laughing like Renfield. It's the only multitasking I can manage.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-87409245054989091232011-05-15T13:19:00.001-04:002011-05-15T13:20:22.660-04:00Chicken Update Part Deux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YVugKts2Ciw/TdAEssROXNI/AAAAAAAAAkc/Nsh4mBsXD48/s1600/P5140955.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YVugKts2Ciw/TdAEssROXNI/AAAAAAAAAkc/Nsh4mBsXD48/s320/P5140955.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Suffice it to say, the chickens are growing rather rapidly and can now eat their weight in chicken mash. I also need to change their water at least twice a day because they insist on pooping in it. They bring the concept of "water with floaties in it" to a whole new level.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r-sXo1Ua3mo/TdAEs-Wzx7I/AAAAAAAAAkg/JuvWW5a82p4/s1600/P5140957.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r-sXo1Ua3mo/TdAEs-Wzx7I/AAAAAAAAAkg/JuvWW5a82p4/s320/P5140957.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Julia, once the cute, fluffy, yellow chick you think of on Easter and color in springtime coloring books is now the epitome of ugly. Her snowy dander is now being replaced by orange tinted feathers and if you didn't know what stage she was in, you might think someone ws plucking her feathers instead of new ones growing in. I'm 70% certain that she's my Buff Orphington, even though that's the chicken my middle daughter wanted. I'm pretty sure that Giraffe (middle daughter's chicken) is in fact, the Rhode Island Red.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o4ZHQtm1_M0/TdAEtEyL_zI/AAAAAAAAAkk/3uwhdR9QgHk/s1600/P5140958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-o4ZHQtm1_M0/TdAEtEyL_zI/AAAAAAAAAkk/3uwhdR9QgHk/s320/P5140958.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><br />
Here is Giraffe. She actually has beautiful color and her feathers are gorgeous. I mean, if you can call a chicken in this tween stage gorgeous. It's all relative.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DlKRx9ztuiQ/TdAEtQqEgMI/AAAAAAAAAko/Fryc4wbibjs/s1600/P5140959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DlKRx9ztuiQ/TdAEtQqEgMI/AAAAAAAAAko/Fryc4wbibjs/s320/P5140959.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
All the pictures I have of Blackie are out of focus. That's because she's nosy and wants to see what the camera is all about. Her feathers are coming in black and white..slightly reminiscent of houndstooth pattern. Poor Blackie seems to get picked on by the other chickens. She's a tiny bit slow, I think, and you know how chickens pick up on things like that. She also always has poop stuck to her butt, which I'm sure is why the other chickens cluck and cackle at her, wondering why the heck she can't poop with dignity like the rest of them. Needless to say, when I hold Blackie, I always have a towel.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p2iH2dHFZsY/TdAEtnTpTWI/AAAAAAAAAks/qGpOb4eG8KA/s1600/P5140960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p2iH2dHFZsY/TdAEtnTpTWI/AAAAAAAAAks/qGpOb4eG8KA/s320/P5140960.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
May is the flock bitch. I'm sorry to say it, but she's clearly got Napoleon Syndrome, and she throws her weight around acting like she's the chicken in charge. She forces the other chickens out of the food and the water and then waddles her fat butt up to take their place. Blackie is usually the target of most of her scorn, but she's an equal opportunity bee-otch. I'm pretty sure you won't see her sleeping outside during the winter; she'll have the best roost in the chicken coop and she'll let everyone know it. All I have to say is that her eggs better be gorgeous. (They are supposed to be blue-green.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-leTzuqefd6A/TdAEuc8xYII/AAAAAAAAAk0/8tSLgsaFOvM/s1600/P5140962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-leTzuqefd6A/TdAEuc8xYII/AAAAAAAAAk0/8tSLgsaFOvM/s320/P5140962.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Here are the girls going after the food I just put in their cage. Mind you, they have food in this thing 24 hours a day, and yet when they run low they squawk like they haven't been fed in years. A lot like my kids, come to think of it. I can't wait to put the chickens outside because it will be six less things-that-breathe complaining that they are hungry.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r5aIZcv4JRk/TdAEuiejtmI/AAAAAAAAAk4/kNENrI0hH9U/s1600/P5140963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r5aIZcv4JRk/TdAEuiejtmI/AAAAAAAAAk4/kNENrI0hH9U/s320/P5140963.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
Yep. The girls still live in this pack n'play, which is now covered with a baby gate so they don't fly out. Much like taking their first baby steps, the tweens can now fly a bit and a couple of them have made it to the edge of the playpen. The last thing I need is to clean up chicken poop from flying chickens, so gated they have become. And here's a toast to not getting rid of all the baby paraphernalia!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3BJpmfaYlBY/TdAEu8JW1UI/AAAAAAAAAk8/3lWc8Lzasus/s1600/P5140964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3BJpmfaYlBY/TdAEu8JW1UI/AAAAAAAAAk8/3lWc8Lzasus/s320/P5140964.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
This, ladies and gentlemen, is the new door for my chicken coop! Isn't it beautiful? The open part will be covered with chicken wire eventually, and it hinges on the left so the door can open almost all the way around the wall. In theory, this should make it easy to clean the coop. That remains to be seen since the chickens aren't outside yet. But dang the coop is looking good!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ud68bXcr2-U/TdAEvbBvdzI/AAAAAAAAAlA/T5TWPTf2LFA/s1600/P5140965.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ud68bXcr2-U/TdAEvbBvdzI/AAAAAAAAAlA/T5TWPTf2LFA/s320/P5140965.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Hubby installed the shelf a little differently than planned, but I like it even better. The shelf will stay where it is and the nesting boxes will be removable for easy cleaning. Under the nesting boxes Hubby cut a chicken door that will lead to their outside back porch. We'll be able to open and close this door from the outside.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YqHlUuQ2f2A/TdAEvzuGGzI/AAAAAAAAAlE/RBzLEzq6TWY/s1600/P5140968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YqHlUuQ2f2A/TdAEvzuGGzI/AAAAAAAAAlE/RBzLEzq6TWY/s320/P5140968.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Here's what the door looks like on the outside. Once cover this area with chicken wire, the girls will have access to outdoor air and sunshine during the fall, spring, and summer. During the winter I think they'll want to avoid the snow.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QMblW0NJiCE/TdAEwE9CSPI/AAAAAAAAAlI/CTKflNyA-IU/s1600/P5140969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QMblW0NJiCE/TdAEwE9CSPI/AAAAAAAAAlI/CTKflNyA-IU/s320/P5140969.JPG" width="231" /></a></div><br />
This is the new sliding door that closes in the coop and the storage. The other door was rotted and warped. Hopefully this new door will also keep out the predators looking for a nice chicken dinner.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_FsV1vKeLI/TdAEwZ9mWZI/AAAAAAAAAlM/dC8QJLUm4XM/s1600/P5140971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G_FsV1vKeLI/TdAEwZ9mWZI/AAAAAAAAAlM/dC8QJLUm4XM/s320/P5140971.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Here is the old door. Pretty sorry looking isn't it?Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-79396865588192004662011-05-13T13:14:00.000-04:002011-05-13T13:14:46.630-04:00Thoughtful Thursday: Progress<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://jdwphotog.blogspot.com/search/label/industrial" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" j8="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ev54sfldHbk/Tc1lljlHZoI/AAAAAAAAAkY/8oHltLbSXTc/s640/brick+walls.jpg" width="384" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: <a href="http://jdwphotog.blogspot.com/search/label/industrial">Jared White Photography</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">We spend a lot of time building. Most of life is about building something; a life, a career, a resume, experience, knowledge, an empire. We see building things as a sign of progress, an attempt at making things better, a way to conquer ignorance, or earn more money, or provide a future for children you have or hope to have. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are all architects and engineers of our own design. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Most of what we spend time building are walls. We construct houses to keep out the elements, reinforce doors and windows to keep out thieves at night. We build fences around our lawns to define what is ours and ensure our privacy. We work in cubicles designed to give us our own “space,” to hang pictures of our children and set our hand painted coffee mugs that hold pencils and pens. These spaces are sacred. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When our hearts break for the first, and second, and third times, we build walls around our heart to protect it from possible trespass. Maybe these walls are little at first, but time adds mortar and experience adds bricks and before you realize what’s happened there’s a six foot wall in front of you and you don’t remember consciously building it but there it is just the same. And you’re not sure how to take it down or if you even want to, so you don’t. That wall feels safe somehow. You come to love that wall and feel safe within its shadow and you spend so much time caring for that wall it becomes one with you and you with it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We build walls of Coach purses and Jimmy Choo shoes, plastering the gaps in the drywall with labels and dollar signs and rings with many facets; sports cars and boats and flat screen TV’s, man caves and pool tables and high end Italian leather shoes imported from Florence. These walls travel with us protecting us from the negative impressions of others, keeping us safe from the fear that we won’t measure up. Or that we don’t belong. And it’s proof that we’re building something big. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We live our lives and make more money and build more walls to define our space and we sit in our private backyard around private pools and bask in thankfulness that we can’t see our neighbor’s ugly back porch. Because our neighbor doesn’t value space like we do, clearly isn’t building success like us. We toil in cubicles making money for the corporation who signs our paychecks and we hope that making more money for the company will earn us a larger cubicle with more space to call ours. Where we can have more privacy and be even more productive. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the walls around our heart make us stronger and independent and those are two traits we admire and respect so we search for someone to love us who is also strong and independent. Who doesn’t want to love someone who is strong and independent? We assume this common ground will be ties that bind us together, but all it really means is that someone picked up their wall and set it right next to yours. You chisel away tiny holes in the brick and mortar for communicating and holding hands, but you both keep those walls erect because you remember what it was like when you were 13 or 28 and your heart broke into a million pieces and you were humiliated. But now that you found someone with a wall just like yours who is strong and independent, that can’t possibly happen to you again. And if it does, well, you’re prepared.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The problem is that after awhile you look around your well-planned space, the space you own, the walls you built, the perfectly manicured yard and realize:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re all alone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And you don’t like it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For all the space, and notoriety, and social class, and money, and stuff you’ve gathered and built over the years the only thing you’ve really earned is loneliness. You couldn’t possibly know that your next door neighbor also struggles with depression like you do, or that your co-worker is battling cancer just like your wife, or that man who lives behind you has a solution to the sump pump in your basement that is never working during a rainstorm. Your basement floods and ruins your precious things because he doesn’t know you need a sump pump and you don’t even know his name. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because the walls are too high and we’re all too busy toiling behind them trying to keep others out of our personal space and earn more money so we can build more walls so we can point to our products and say, “Look what I did. Isn’t that something?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But we realize that we need some kind of contact; our loneliness drives us to finally seek company, but because the walls proliferate and they are thick and heavy to move, we refrain from tearing down a wall and meeting the person who’s sitting an arms length away and instead we reach out online. We find people that help fill our emptiness with time which is what we have, but not our space which we don’t have, and besides that these time-people require less effort.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Virtual communities open up before us and there is safety in knowing these millions of people here on the computer because they can’t hurt us and can’t judge us and we don’t feel ashamed of our clothes or our hair or our dirty minivans because they can’t see us and don’t know us anyway. This companionship offers the best of both worlds; convenience and community when we’re seeking company, and peaceful solitude when we’d like to be alone. No guilt. No repercussions. No expectations. The push of a button turns the interaction on and off at our will. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We think we finally have it all! We have the walls we’ve built and the things we own and the space we’ve created and now we’re not lonely anymore because we’ve got virtual relationships and a place to play cards, and forums to join where we can meet people from all over the world just.like.us. In fact, we fall asleep at night feeling like we have hundreds of friends indeed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But we don’t. Not really. We have words on a screen and an idea in our heads and perhaps an avatar representing someone’s ideals of themselves, but it’s all smoke and mirrors and we know it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So we drink. Or get high. Or smoke cigarettes. Or eat a gallon of ice cream with a spoon in our sweats in front of the TV night after night. That makes us feel better for awhile. In those moments of painless abandon, we try to figure out where the disconnect is because we’ve built a house and a yard and a life and a career and we have things and our children have things and yet we still feel empty. We are strong and independent, and people who are strong and independent are supposed to be….strong. Right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And in our attempt to find the peace and answers we seek we go back to the only thing we’ve done with any success: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Building.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Building things is always a sign of progress.</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-34103876136584245952011-05-10T10:14:00.000-04:002011-05-10T10:14:16.369-04:00Poetry Tuesday: Many Haiku for reading: It won't take you long<div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Thoughtful<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lies we believe</div><div class="MsoNormal">Only keep us safe until</div><div class="MsoNormal">We choose to wake up</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The line in the sand</div><div class="MsoNormal">Again washed away by waves</div><div class="MsoNormal">She draws another</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">On Gardening<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Potatoes planted</div><div class="MsoNormal">Refuse to send shoots upward</div><div class="MsoNormal">Where the hell are you?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My nemesis taunts</div><div class="MsoNormal">Choking my efforts at growth</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mother f*#@ing weeds</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">On Chickens<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My fresh free-range eggs</div><div class="MsoNormal">Better be worth all the sh*t</div><div class="MsoNormal">I clean from the pen</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I don’t understand</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why they poop in their water</div><div class="MsoNormal">It can’t taste that good</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">On Children<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Peacefully breathing</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rise and fall of their chest</div><div class="MsoNormal">Watching children sleep</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Loud obnoxious trolls</div><div class="MsoNormal">Destroy things and ignore me</div><div class="MsoNormal">I call them my kids</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Daily Prayers</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thank you for today</div><div class="MsoNormal">Help me use my time wisely</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I seek Your will</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Forgive me when I</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fail to help a hurting soul</div><div class="MsoNormal">Open my eyes Lord</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Say What?</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From my fingers drip </div><div class="MsoNormal">Words onto paper like ink</div><div class="MsoNormal">Meaningful blotches</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I shiver though warm</div><div class="MsoNormal">Exhausted and can’t find sleep</div><div class="MsoNormal">Blue is flavorless</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-29445735763266401712011-05-09T21:01:00.002-04:002011-05-09T21:01:48.004-04:00Garden Update: So far, so slow.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3aT9VRJxBaw/TchLXvDSmuI/AAAAAAAAAjk/u2nnRjS_HMI/s1600/P5010928.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3aT9VRJxBaw/TchLXvDSmuI/AAAAAAAAAjk/u2nnRjS_HMI/s400/P5010928.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">The Bleeding Heart in my backyard. I thought this was a weed when I first moved to MA, until I saw the very same plant for sale at Lowes. Who knew?</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
So far, it's been a slow start to the gardening season. Our cold, wet weather has made it difficult to get much of anything in; not necessarily because the ground can't support it, I simply don't want to be planting things outside when it's cold. As far as cold season veggies go, the only thing I wanted to plant this year was sugar snap and shelling peas. I'm not particularly good at growing lettuces or spinach, and the bunnies and insects seem to eat it faster than I can grow and harvest it. It's also pretty cheap at the farmer's market, so last year I decided to purchase those and grow things like peas, which are a tad more expensive. Especially the shelling peas since you pay per pound and then shuck all that weight off those tiny peas and throw it away.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zoPZomrrA0c/TchLX8H4ssI/AAAAAAAAAjo/19FSQ0mJF60/s1600/P5010929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zoPZomrrA0c/TchLX8H4ssI/AAAAAAAAAjo/19FSQ0mJF60/s400/P5010929.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
These are my sugar snap peas. I planted two batches seven days apart to extend the harvest, but as you can see, not many plants came up. This bed probably contained about 200 pea seeds, and this is how many sprouted. Peas can be fickle that way. This year I also put wire over my pea beds because last year we had an abysmal pea turn out. My hypothesis is that birds would eat the pea seeds after we planted them, but my husband thinks that's silly. Needless to say, you can see how many shelling peas came up in the picture below.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fI8IGjw3bhQ/TchLZLk_-SI/AAAAAAAAAj0/5Q2IsnoLypk/s1600/P5010932.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fI8IGjw3bhQ/TchLZLk_-SI/AAAAAAAAAj0/5Q2IsnoLypk/s400/P5010932.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
Looks like shelling peas will be a good crop this year. Probably not enough to put away in the freezer--I'll have to go to the Farmer's Market for that--but we'll have enough to eat. And we'll be eating them so often it'll force the kids to like them. Ha.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-taYwcMRVc-U/TchLZpcFBmI/AAAAAAAAAj4/Q2awxgx7xEA/s1600/P5010933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-taYwcMRVc-U/TchLZpcFBmI/AAAAAAAAAj4/Q2awxgx7xEA/s400/P5010933.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
My rhubarb is alive and well and always grows like gangbusters in my garden. This is despite the fact that noone in my family likes to eat it, including my husband who eats just about anything. I've tried to make believers out of them with strawberry rhubarb crisp, rhubarb pecan bread, and strawberry rhubarb jam. Nothing seems to change their mind. I love it mind you, and I'm sad that the one vegetable that grows so well in my garden isn't appreciated by this family. Sorry rhubarb. I'll harvest you and use you best I can, but that's all the love you're going to get.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t51VWylLEPY/TchLaQd0zWI/AAAAAAAAAkA/ETumDrZ5BkI/s1600/P5010935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t51VWylLEPY/TchLaQd0zWI/AAAAAAAAAkA/ETumDrZ5BkI/s400/P5010935.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>These lovely little sprouts are not supposed to be there. These are all the raspberry cane suckers that have grown into my mulch area and are formulating plans to stage a red berry coup. This may just be the year that I pull all the raspberry bushes out entirely. We don't harvest enough berries from these ladies to make it worth my while. They mostly serve to keep Maria busy eating right from the canes when I am working in the garden. If I don't get to the berries before she does, she even eats the moldy ones and the berries that the wasps have half eaten. I try not to think about that too much because it makes my stomach hurt. On top of that, these raspberries have sharp, hair-like thorns down the entire stalk of the canes; after weeding or thinning this area, I look like I've gotten into a fight with a bunch of drunk alley cats. And that's WITH the long sleeves. Pretty much, these berries suck.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KcHA3oCSOXQ/TchLb2je2cI/AAAAAAAAAkE/s-o-ITQtd08/s1600/P5010954.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KcHA3oCSOXQ/TchLb2je2cI/AAAAAAAAAkE/s-o-ITQtd08/s400/P5010954.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Ahhhhh. My herbs are back! Well almost all of them anyway. My oregano and thyme have yet to show new growth this year, but I'm holding steady for a few more weeks. This year I bought two rosemary plants (because I use so much of it) and also another parsley. I don't use a ton of parsley, but it grows well and is pretty to look at.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Gf7sg7q4Mi8/TchLdYgdTKI/AAAAAAAAAkM/LAWp6wNO6pE/s1600/P5010956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Gf7sg7q4Mi8/TchLdYgdTKI/AAAAAAAAAkM/LAWp6wNO6pE/s400/P5010956.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">My chives and dill. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nl3MBFPU4EQ/TchLeB9L7tI/AAAAAAAAAkU/W8iS49vz2uQ/s1600/P5010958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Nl3MBFPU4EQ/TchLeB9L7tI/AAAAAAAAAkU/W8iS49vz2uQ/s400/P5010958.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sage and lavender. Don't really know what I'm going to do with the lavender, but it smells amazing and looks pretty hearty. I'll have to find some recipes that use lavender. (Besides shampoos and body soap.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-81049485945771358432011-05-08T11:30:00.001-04:002011-05-08T11:32:27.779-04:00A Mother's Day for You<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tApRp5SBm5Q/Tca08yu-Y9I/AAAAAAAAAjg/x8ooFVWNU2I/s1600/-2091-209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tApRp5SBm5Q/Tca08yu-Y9I/AAAAAAAAAjg/x8ooFVWNU2I/s640/-2091-209.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Debi Stone.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I slept in today and woke up to a hot pot of coffee and a warm mug waiting for me in the microwave. My husband served up my favorite bagel and cream cheese, my 10-year-old planned a scavenger hunt for me to find my Mother’s Day gift. My husband will give me all of today to do what I will, without guilt or worry; a grass-fed beef brisket is currently roasting over hot coals in the kettle grill, dinner is planned, he is playing with the three year old in the back yard. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">This morning I started a Novena, dedicated to Beth, a mother who isn’t here to celebrate the day. My day is wonderful and beautiful and supported and I am surrounded by love; and yet, a tiny shadow hangs over my head. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Mother’s Day is a celebration of all the visible things we do for our children; the fact that we birthed them being most important of all. We’re recognized for the cookies we bake for class and the projects we help our children craft the night before a due date; the scratches we bandage, the monsters we chase away, the bed time stories we force ourselves to read when we can barely keep our eyes open. We tickle and we wrestle, we support and encourage, we wave when the school bus leaves and the car for college leaves and the Bride and Groom leave and the grandkids leave. We are always saying hello and goodbye. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">But this Mother’s Day I’d like to celebrate the silent struggle of motherhood; the things that go unnoticed save for the spaces in our soul only we know about and rarely speak of, not even to our husbands and possibly not even to best friends. Today I’d like to celebrate that 10-year-old girl that lives within each of us; the one that still hurts when put down, the spirit that continues to dream, the child who’d like to make a wish and blow that fluffy dandelion before she knew that would create a hell-of-a-mess in the yard. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">For the dreams you gave up or put aside to raise your children: <b>this day is for you</b>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">For the ways your heartbreaks for your children when they are picked upon, or put down, or picked last, or going through a divorce, or lose a child of their own, or struggle with addictions: <b>this day is for you.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">For the pain you fight through because your children still need a mother; the headaches, achy joints, cancer treatments, extreme fatigue, or depression, that can make getting up in the morning a chore you’d rather not perform, yet you do it anyway because someone needs to eat breakfast: <b>this day is for you.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">For the single mother who plays two roles, who is lonely and heartbroken and pushed to her max because she is the one holding it all together; for the desire for companionship and love she craves but doesn’t have time to find: <b>this day is for you.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">For the women who thought they’d be mothers and aren’t; whether by circumstance or inability to conceive; for the emptiness they feel and the coming-to-terms of a life without children: <b>this day is for you.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">For the mothers who feel hopeless; whose pain goes unrecognized until the horrible, awful happens; for the mothers who live in darkness and cannot see light nor hope, whose struggles envelope and suffocate them: <b>this day is for you.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">For the mothers who've lost a child, born or unborn; for the space inside of you that died that day, and the tiny ache that never quite goes away; for the tears you wept for your child and the emptiness you feel without them: <b>this day is for you.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;">For the mothers who are unappreciated by their husbands or children; the ones who are abused or forgotten, and especially the ones who die at the hands of their family: <b>this day is especially for you.</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Today I celebrate <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">me</b>; the mom my children see, the girl who whispers within me, the woman I hope to become, my inner secrets, my quiet failings, my disappointments, my mediocrity. My joys. My gifts. My talents. My tears.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Today I celebrate you. I recognize YOU. I see you as you ARE. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Wholly imperfect and perfect. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">You are beautiful. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I wish you all a blessed Mothers Day.</div></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-56386983492033571022011-05-07T22:03:00.000-04:002011-05-07T22:03:27.027-04:00The Chicken Picture Diary<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A4wkb7PxSQA/TcX1K6mDYhI/AAAAAAAAAic/O7EAh0vjtNE/s1600/P5010922.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A4wkb7PxSQA/TcX1K6mDYhI/AAAAAAAAAic/O7EAh0vjtNE/s400/P5010922.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the dividing wall my husband built, which separates the chicken coop from the lawnmower storage. Our first compromise was that this space had to still fit the lawnmower. Thanks to hubby's handiwork...done!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dwcgLCKeipc/TcX1LQVUBII/AAAAAAAAAig/NypeVTYbDHw/s1600/P5010923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dwcgLCKeipc/TcX1LQVUBII/AAAAAAAAAig/NypeVTYbDHw/s400/P5010923.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three-year old scoping out the new chicken digs.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d7ER3N_skR0/TcX1L_7_yTI/AAAAAAAAAik/N1RG452SCmc/s1600/P5010924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d7ER3N_skR0/TcX1L_7_yTI/AAAAAAAAAik/N1RG452SCmc/s400/P5010924.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hubby also built these four nesting boxes for the coop. He'll build two more so that everyone has a cozy, warm, bed to lay their eggs. He's also going to rig it so that the nesting boxes hang higher on the wall and come out easily for cleaning. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iOIALvQbULo/TcX1MH7s7TI/AAAAAAAAAio/o9f6rA5v9Jk/s1600/P5010925.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iOIALvQbULo/TcX1MH7s7TI/AAAAAAAAAio/o9f6rA5v9Jk/s400/P5010925.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Right now this is the back of the playhouse. Kids for two generations have jumped off the ledge there and onto that disgusting mattress buried beneath the soil. The former owner piled leaves behind the playhouse and his children would jump off into the leaves, consequently there is fantastic mulch there. Thanks to the chickens, this space will now be their sun porch. We'll enclose it with chicken wire and add a small animal door so the chickens can go in and out.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wkXpCCV0afo/TcX1MtP4KWI/AAAAAAAAAis/VK_VN3HMYrA/s1600/P5010926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wkXpCCV0afo/TcX1MtP4KWI/AAAAAAAAAis/VK_VN3HMYrA/s400/P5010926.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thankfully the coop has two windows which we will help ventilate the poop smell.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qSYCTs9RR-I/TcX1M5eXToI/AAAAAAAAAiw/YOVF8bBvpd8/s1600/P5010927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qSYCTs9RR-I/TcX1M5eXToI/AAAAAAAAAiw/YOVF8bBvpd8/s400/P5010927.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the lawnmower storage. The fact that it's cleaned and swept out makes me want to take a million pictures of it. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0LP6ArXld0w/TcX1NW6KJVI/AAAAAAAAAi0/3vTVzZBVgwA/s1600/P5010936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0LP6ArXld0w/TcX1NW6KJVI/AAAAAAAAAi0/3vTVzZBVgwA/s400/P5010936.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've been taking the girls outside whenever it is warm and sunny. These pictures were taken three or four days ago. They look nothing like this now. They are much larger and have a TON more feathers. We let them run around inside of a baby gate.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qfMizT2nteU/TcX1NysLwwI/AAAAAAAAAi4/Q7fFflTm76A/s1600/P5010937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qfMizT2nteU/TcX1NysLwwI/AAAAAAAAAi4/Q7fFflTm76A/s400/P5010937.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giraffe and Milly.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jxoTI1YY3Ek/TcX1OMvlAMI/AAAAAAAAAi8/kUGKmxd9iPA/s1600/P5010938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jxoTI1YY3Ek/TcX1OMvlAMI/AAAAAAAAAi8/kUGKmxd9iPA/s400/P5010938.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giraffe, eating random things on the ground.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-02N20ajfhJU/TcX1OZ78-wI/AAAAAAAAAjA/HWJtMxQ7epU/s1600/P5010939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-02N20ajfhJU/TcX1OZ78-wI/AAAAAAAAAjA/HWJtMxQ7epU/s400/P5010939.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IH4111G-ehs/TcX1PN7n_6I/AAAAAAAAAjE/UGbkBM8Q73Q/s1600/P5010940.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IH4111G-ehs/TcX1PN7n_6I/AAAAAAAAAjE/UGbkBM8Q73Q/s400/P5010940.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JHB787RATbU/TcX1PfUb-8I/AAAAAAAAAjI/amDpILEYpcA/s1600/P5010941.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JHB787RATbU/TcX1PfUb-8I/AAAAAAAAAjI/amDpILEYpcA/s400/P5010941.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blackie is the most curious of all my girls. She comes up to me easily and is always pecking around trying to figure things out.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-69Is_qV1Nvg/TcX1Pj-ds9I/AAAAAAAAAjM/2sTYpg-bzQ8/s1600/P5010943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-69Is_qV1Nvg/TcX1Pj-ds9I/AAAAAAAAAjM/2sTYpg-bzQ8/s400/P5010943.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">May is the smallest in size, but is the most feisty. She's actually kind of a bitch. She flys at the other chickens and pushes a lot of them away from the food and water. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QY_nqNigSZ4/TcX1QZ-GJ7I/AAAAAAAAAjU/J1ulM9g5bKo/s1600/P5010945.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QY_nqNigSZ4/TcX1QZ-GJ7I/AAAAAAAAAjU/J1ulM9g5bKo/s400/P5010945.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julia and Molly eating their chicken mash. I can tell you that this is full of roughage for them and very frequently is not absorbed by their bodies, resulting in extremely gritty chicken poop. Which is probably why that poop is so good for gardens.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4WmDfX_DAXY/TcX1Q9-C3tI/AAAAAAAAAjY/-1A-PJA1ISw/s1600/P5010946.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4WmDfX_DAXY/TcX1Q9-C3tI/AAAAAAAAAjY/-1A-PJA1ISw/s400/P5010946.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r_9IGbBPBvc/TcX1RdsZSjI/AAAAAAAAAjc/4cHsLnE_Dlk/s1600/P5010948.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r_9IGbBPBvc/TcX1RdsZSjI/AAAAAAAAAjc/4cHsLnE_Dlk/s400/P5010948.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fluff from all the chickens is quickly being replaced by feathers. I'm not sure where I thought all this fluff would go...perhaps I was hoping the fluff itself would turn into feathers...but alas, they do not. This means that I have enough chick fluff on the floors of my laundry room to make a toddler sized down pillow. I have used my vacuum more in the last two weeks than in the four years I've lived in my house.</td></tr>
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Well, that's the girls in a nutshell. They are still cute, but that cutness is waning a bit as they grow older. They are starting to fly around the bottom of the pack n' play, so I cover the top with a baby gate. I'm getting some serious mileage out of old baby equipment. But now they are also starting to stink, which means I have to change their pen every two or three days. Oh well. I'm not mucking the coop yet so I'm not going to complain.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-74932455379635977222011-05-06T21:51:00.001-04:002011-05-06T21:53:13.370-04:00Expanding Ourselves<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HaCWK82Vxgw/TcSjI-oPnoI/AAAAAAAAAiY/7EeIcuoXrms/s1600/weighing-scale-image-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HaCWK82Vxgw/TcSjI-oPnoI/AAAAAAAAAiY/7EeIcuoXrms/s320/weighing-scale-image-1.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Today I took my oldest two children—Mr. 12 and Miss. 10—to the doctor for their yearly physical. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>The Good News</b></div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Neither had been to the doctor since their last physical. The doctor likes to think it’s because they’ve been so healthy, but really it’s because I’m a cheap ass and don’t want to pay a twenty buck co-pay so they can tell me my child has a cold and there is nothing they can do about it. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">My son and daughter both grew two inches in height this year. Say YEAH! to TWO INCHES!</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">It looks as if nature is rolling along at a steady pace and they will both, at some point, mature into adults. Whew. Sometimes I think they’ll be stuck at this pupa stage forever, but according to the doc, wings will be in our future. Thank you Jesus. </li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><b>The Bad News</b></div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both my children exceeded the average weight gain for the year.</li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Like, by a lot.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Like, by so much that to average out the weight gain they would have had to grow three additional feet taller. (I'm guessing here because you all know how much I suck at numbers.) The doctor told them he didn’t want them to gain anymore weight this year at all. Hang steady. Maintain. (And no, I’m not going to divulge the amounts here. If you’re family, you can call me.) I'm supposing that the doctor doesn't really care that my kids are part Italian and they can easily eat their weight in all products made from white refined flour and pasta sauce. This is probably not helpful information. Or a helpful diet for that matter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He told the kids to cut out snacks, cut down on the amount they’re eating, and no more soda. That’s when my son passed out. No soda? For a pre-teen? Are you kidding? (But again, I was quiet about the pasta.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The good news is that now I can institute all kinds of new eating habits and rules (that I was very good about enforcing once upon a time) and I’m not the bad guy. The doctor is. Which is fine with me because we see him once a year. I'm thinking that maybe my kids weren't at the doctor sick this year because they are <i>hearty</i>. <i>Strong</i>. A cold germ comes along and the energy they have stored in their tissue helps fight those cold germs off faster than thin, scrawny kids. I know, I know. Excuses, shmuses.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the doctor’s office appointment I nixed the idea of taking the kids out for ice cream (which was my original plan, but even I couldn’t have lived with that guilt) and went to Walmart instead. Where my son asked for soda. Of course I didn't buy him one. I bought him Gatorade instead. That's a good compromise, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tonight we had pizza for dinner. And fries.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m instituting our new meal rules and rituals tomorrow. </div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-33508441444047304652011-05-05T23:02:00.001-04:002011-05-06T06:56:50.038-04:00The Middle Place<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0eZ4uYuHT8o/TcNi_SLVOxI/AAAAAAAAAiU/sYTPbNpBUvw/s1600/spider+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0eZ4uYuHT8o/TcNi_SLVOxI/AAAAAAAAAiU/sYTPbNpBUvw/s1600/spider+web.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by: Jared White Photography<br />
See the original photo <a href="http://jdwphotog.blogspot.com/2010/09/twohundredsixtyonethreehundredsixtyfive.html">here</a>.</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-size: x-small;">Each Thursday I'll be posting my "Thoughtful" writing...it's a change from the usual funny stuff but I hope you'll enjoy it just the same. And I'd love to know what you think about it...if any of you are also in the middle place. And while it might seem bizarre, I'd like to dedicate this to a certain Beth, whose trials in the middle place are now over. I'm sorry I didn't know you better, but I prayed for you just the same.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve lost track of time since I arrived in this middle place; where days seem to disappear in a breath and yet minutes in those days stretch on for eternity. I neither know what I want or who I am any better than I did when I was 12, or 16, or 25. As the days pass I simply know more about who I am not, but this knowledge produces no new answers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The thing I like least about becoming an adult is witnessing and experiencing the pain in life and understanding that it is now my job to keep that from settling onto my children like caustic volcanic ash—affecting their views, their dreams, the delicate fibers of their safety net constructed by ignorance, illusion, and hope. I sit and lay and dance and sleep with my arms outstretched trying to filter the ugliness from this world, so that for a time, my children can focus on the sunlight streaming in through morning windows or giggle at the ant struggling to carry a crumb twice the size of his miniscule body. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As an adult I know that too much sun will blister their skin. And that ant may be a bird’s next snack. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This middle place in inevitable. When you are young you envision how you’d like your life to be—where you’ll live, the things that will motivate you—you dream and plan and prepare and then you meet Mr. Right. or Miss Perfect.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Together you both dream about a shared union of compromise and compassion, talk of kids and jobs and kitchen colors, promising to always, always keep communication open. You laugh about each other’s iniquities and peccadilloes; the toothpaste tube squeezed from the middle, the urine on the toilet seat, the nail clipping she leaves on the bedside table. In naive earnest you promise each other you won’t let the kids change you, you will always talk through everything, and most importantly—you’ll grow and change together. Forever. Promise. Whatever it takes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You awake the next morning and ten years have gone by and you find yourself wondering over morning coffee and a sink load of dirty dishes how you ever got to this place and what happened to the goals and dreams you had and the promises you made to yourself, and wait a minute…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">just who are you anyway? A glance in the mirror reveals the child you were just yesterday, in fact you’re pretty sure you graduated from high school last week, but suddenly there are more wrinkles and lines, and you don’t recognize the face staring back at you. Where did you go? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This middle place produces casualties; marriages of your friends ending around you because maybe they too woke up one morning and wondered who was lying next to them in bed and it occurs to them they don’t know this person any better than they know themselves. They’ve slept angry for years. The nail clippings and toothpaste tubes and peed on toilet seats become F-5 tornadoes that threaten to destroy the house, ripping out walls and scattering crayon pictures and homemade popsicle stick frames. The storm is always brewing just beneath the how-was-your-days and the peck-on-the-cheeks. All us middle people smile and dance because there are always little eyes watching and tiny ears listening and their dreams at night are scary enough. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The middle place house is not the one you pictured before, in that previous life before children and calendar boxes crammed with fine ball point writing. The leggos and Barbies, school backpacks and homework piles, have all settled in next to your furniture and on the floors and stacked on the kitchen counters. There are bins in the hallways filled with last season’s winter jackets, coats, and scarves that must be put in the attic, adding to the inventory of clothing and baby toys and luggage. And also up in that attic are the boxes of your wedding china that never made it into any china cabinet, let alone got used for a dinner because wedding china isn’t practical. Your life has been about practicality forever. And those crystal vases you loved so much and golf clubs your husband used to take to the course every weekend gather dust up in that attic too, because you’re saving your pennies for summer camp and braces and private school and there just aren’t any more pennies for fresh flowers for that vase or a round of 18 holes. You start wondering if maybe that attic contains more of you than you do anymore, because you’re still not sure who’s staring back at you in the mirror. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The middle place makes you question. Yourself, your choices, your life, your situation. The most important question—and yet the one that could change it all…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is this it? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is this life that I’m living right now….it? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And what of the answer?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And there you are an adult again, realizing there are no easy answers, that with each different answer there are deaths: of your dreams, or yourself, or your hopes, or your children’s innocence, or your marriage, or your happiness, or the very family and life you’ve created that has ironically led you to this very question.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Should you continue to sit lay dance sleep with your arms outstretched over your precious children regardless of the price to yourself or your marriage? But how long before your arms fail or your children grow past your reach and the soot of knowledge comes to slowly settle on your children’s heads? Can you protect them forever? And if their learning will eventually come one day, why not tomorrow? Would tomorrow be soon enough to revitalize yourself? Resurrect those old dreams? Find the happiness you think may have escaped you? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Beware of emerald fields viewed from afar. The mirage dissipates only after you’ve made the journey, and you find yourself with the very same body and the very same mind asking the very same questions just with a different zip code or mailing address.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hindsight is 20/20. The future is unknown. The middle place is filled with What Ifs and Why Nots and If Onlys. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In this middle place I have no answers. I have right now. I have the silence ringing in my ears and the stained couch beneath my body and three sleeping children with sparkling eyes who love to laugh and tickle and wrestle, whose safety nets—for too short a time—still remain delicately held together by ignorance, illusion, and hope. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And I pray I’ll have tomorrow, with the morning sun streaming through my finger-smudged windows and the ants crawling around on our cracked driveway carrying food too big for their tiny bodies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The ants are always there.</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-28070743540124329172011-05-04T21:02:00.000-04:002011-05-04T21:02:00.536-04:00Writing Books? Now There's a Compelling Topic<div class="MsoNormal">Well. Here we are on Day 4 of blogathon and I’ve actually posted everyday. Is there a prize for getting this far? This year I’m patting myself on the back every chance I get. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today is scheduled for a Theme Writing day: the topic being, “My Top Five Favorite books on Writing Are..”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>Seriously?</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know I’m a writer, but that topic just doesn’t make me want to grab a cup of coffee, put my feet on the couch, and snuggle up with my computer. Perhaps the problem is I don’t read a lot of books on writing. Maybe if I did, I’d be making a hell of a lot more money in this career, or at least know how to market myself better. I have grabbed a couple books on writing in the past year, and (though my checking account balance wouldn’t show it) have read them. I did find them very helpful with a lot of great advice. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Six-Figure-Freelancing-Kelly-James-Enger/dp/0375720952">Six Figure Freelancing</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Goodbye-Byline-Hello-Big-Bucks/dp/145372480X">Goodbye Byeline, Hello Big Bucks</a> both by <a href="http://www.becomebodywise.com/">Kelly James-Enger</a> were both a wealth of information, even if I’ve yet to see six figures. Or four, for that matter. Or<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>big bucks. I haven't seen those yet either. But that’s less a reflection on the books as it is about my ability and comfort zone with marketing myself. Really selling my work. Cold-calling PR firms and publishing houses, and sending out Letters of Introduction in CitiBank-credit-card-application volume. I know. If you’re one of those writers who make six figures (and chances are you’re not because you certainly wouldn’t have time to waste on this blog, being busy with paid writing gigs and all) then I say, congrats to you. And if your six-figure salary is a direct result of those books, I say, Boo-yah! to you twice. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The other writing book I read and enjoyed was <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Renegade-Writers-Query-Letters-That/dp/1933338091">The Renegade Writers Query Letters That Rock</a>. I read that over three years ago. To make use of that book effectively, one has to actually write query letters. Oh, I’ve written them, again, just not in the amount you need to be successful. To illustrate this point: four weeks ago I planted sugar snap peas in my garden. I planted half a package and seven days later planted the other half to extend my harvest. Out of approximately 200 peas, 12 plants sprouted from my first batch and seven plants sprouted from the second. That’s 19 plants out of a possible 200. Maybe some seeds were eaten by birds. Maybe some seeds were duds. That’s approximately a 10% return rate on investment. (And I only know that because I used an online math calculator to figure it out.) But query letters are exactly like that. You must send out 200 to get a few yes’s from editors, but most of those query letters die in the ground. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which would make sense that I’m not doing very well, seeing as how I’ve sent out a total of seven query letters since January. Statistically speaking, my chances are nil before I’ve even begun and I totally suck at math. But let me tell you, they were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i> queries. C’est la vie, Important Editors. Your loss. (It’s really more my loss, but saying that makes me feel better.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, writing books isn’t what really moves me to read, honestly. I’d rather be reading a great fiction novel, or a book on raising chickens. That’s one bit of non-fiction I’ve been ear marking and reading over and over. Because the chickens in the basement playpen are starting to fly around in there and I'm not exactly sure what to do with them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But if you are looking for a great fiction read, the latest books I’ve read are:</div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Running-Books-Adventures-Accidental-Librarian/dp/0385529090">Running the books; The Adventures of the Accidental Prison Librarian,</a> by Avi Steinberg</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/This-Where-I-Leave-You/dp/052595127X">This is Where I Leave You</a>, by Jonathan Tropper</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Paris-Wife-Novel-Paula-McLain/dp/0345521307">The Paris Wife</a>, by Paula McLain</li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While they were all great, the one I loved the best was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This Is Where I Leave You</i>. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed out loud so many times reading a book. There’s even a great scene with a lit birthday cake and a naked man’s butt. Oh and for the bookclub we sat Shiva and dined on bagels and lox. If you need a good read, choose that one. Heads up though; it wont’ tell you how to be a better writer. It won't tell you how to earn six figures, or even how to pay off one credit card. But it will make you want to curl up on the couch with a good cup of coffee and read.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-16179812278386265512011-05-03T17:16:00.001-04:002011-05-03T17:18:07.242-04:00Sorry, folks. Dogs are not people too.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z6EHWg8wJxY/TcBwAfhgDBI/AAAAAAAAAiM/QLtcsT9k3gQ/s1600/-1818-135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" id=":current_picnik_image" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-z6EHWg8wJxY/TcBwAfhgDBI/AAAAAAAAAiM/QLtcsT9k3gQ/s400/-1818-135.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These ears belong to a dog, not a child. Just to be clear.<br />
Even though they are very, very, cute. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(Photo by Debi Stone.)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">The other night I was tucking my 10 year-old into bed when she said, “Mom, I’m a lot like a dog.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I took a deep breath. There were many ways this topic could go. Worst-case scenarios popped into my head as I wondered what I’d be explaining next: Bitch. Doggy-style. You’re a “dog.” Since we’d already discussed the difference between pimps and gangstas, I should have figured this conversation wouldn’t be too far behind. I mentally geared up for a discussion about self-esteem, ready to scold her for thinking so poorly of herself as to liken herself to a dog. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What are you talking about?” I asked. (Good, non-committal opener, allowing her to explain more.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well,” she replied. “I live here in this house, you feed me, give me water, and love me…just like you would a dog.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ahhh. So nice she is only making comparisons. “Well yes, in some respects I suppose. But unlike a dog, I have to feed you more than once a day. If I could figure out how to only feed you in the mornings, I’d be all set.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ha, ha, very funny mom,” she retorted with 10 year-old attitude. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It goes without saying that kids and dogs are not the same, and yet when you think about it, have striking similarities. All of us know people who own dogs they consider to be their “children.” People get dogs to test their pre-parenting skills all the time, figuring if they can love, train, and take care of animal without killing it, perhaps they will have some success at rearing a live human. For some people it’s just the opposite: they own a dog because they can love it, play with it, take it for rides in the car, and kennel them while vacationing in the islands. Those people love dogs because their animals will never talk back, need to have an allowance, or vomit strained peas down their backs. They love their dogs because they do not love children (or perhaps just don’t want children for now)—and again, you only have to feed the animal once a day. I’m pretty sure people that do this to their children are put in jail.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes people get dogs because their own children are grown and past the point of wanting any nurturing; maybe those kids are out of the house or have children of their own, or are simply teenagers who’d rather get chronic acne than be hugged or snuggled by mom or dad. Dogs come in really handy in these situations because suddenly a tiny, furry, warm body needs you and loves you, and you can fulfill the need to be needed while your very own flesh and blood rebuffs and rejects you. And you never want to beat a puppy which helps dissolve some of your desire to thwack your teenager in the head. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll fully disclose now that I do not own a dog and am a fan of dogs on a case-by-case basis only. I’m not a dog hater per se, I just prefer cats, for reasons that would require another blog entirely. For me dogs are fine, as long as they respect my personal space (which is never), don’t slobber on me (which is never), or make my hands smelly when I pet them (which is never). I’m sure you can see why I’m such a big fan. (Yes, yes, I now own chickens, but again….that’s another blog.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While hiking with my family in a public reserve a few weeks ago (with three children in tow including my three-year-old) we were approached by no less than five dogs, all of whom were unleashed and running ahead of their owners. While these dogs were sniffing my three-year-old’s face (while we clamored to pick her up as she’s crying nervously), and shoving their heads into our crotches and butts, their owners called out, “IT’S OKAY. SHE’S A REALLY FRIENDLY DOG!” or “DON’T WORRY, HE WON’T BITE, HE LOVES KIDS.” Hear me when I say your excuses do not make me feel less annoyed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Perhaps if I let my children run up to these people, jump on their backs, beg for a piggy back ride, and then wipe their boogery noses and chocolately hands all over their white t-shirts, while I call out, “DON’T WORRY! MY KIDS ARE NICE, THEY JUST LOVE TO PLAY!” these people would understand how irritating it is to be accosted by a dog you don’t want to know. I don’t care if the dog is nice. Even the “nice” dogs can bite in certain circumstances. Like if my child kicks the dog away out of fear. Not that this has happened, but then whose fault would it be? Mine for not keeping my child from kicking a dog, or the owner’s from letting them run around? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I can see how it might get confusing. Like my daughter pointed out to me that evening, there are many similarities between dogs and children. </div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both children and dogs require food, water, and shelter. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both require regular grooming, including baths and haircuts.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both can be trained to perform tricks (snapping the bone from their nose and peeing in the toilet. I’ll let you guess who does what.)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">When it comes to males (humans and dogs) they both pee standing up.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">When they are small, both require a lot of care, which also includes getting up in the night with them. As they both age, this care decreases. (Hopefully.)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Dog owners and parents always think their “children” are the most beautiful creatures <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i>.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">They both get ticks. Some species more than others, but ticks just the same. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both like to dig holes.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">When they are sick, both vomit and have diarrhea. Both types of owners go out of their mind with worry. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Vet bills and doctor bills are usually both outrageous. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both children and dogs will love their owners (parents) unconditionally if treated right.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both dogs and children have smelly farts. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both can follow basic commands.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Both enjoy a biscuit every now and then.</li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>With so many similarities (and I only listed a handful) I can see why dog owners might have trouble remembering that a dog, is not in fact, a human. I can also see why some parents might be wondering what the hell they were thinking as they look at their children. Pets would have been so much easier.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But dogs are not the same as children. There are quite a few big differences.</div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">You can feed a dog once a day. They will drink water from a bowl on the floor.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Children don’t smell when they get wet.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Children don’t crap in your lawn or pee on your mailbox.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Children don’t shove their noses into your butt or crotch. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Dogs are cheaper. I don’t care how much they eat or how often they have a date with the groomer, dogs will never go to college. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Children don’t eat sundries from the garbage can and drag it all over the house.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">A dog can’t reason with you about why they need the car. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">And when in the car, children don’t stick their heads out of it.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">You never have to shove your child’s nose in a pile of excrement so they don’t poop on the floor again.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Dogs do not get baptized. (Yes I realize some children don’t either. But it’s always an option for them. Not so much with dogs.)</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">If my child bites another person, or chases something around the yard and then kills it, I do not say it’s because “it’s in her breed.”</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">Children will not eat your shoes.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;">You can euthanize your dog for around fifty bucks.</li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><o:p> </o:p>As you can clearly see, dogs are not children, even if it feels like it behind closed doors. Even if you love them all the same. I’m not meaning to pick a fight with dog owners—my sister is one, our neighbors are one, and many of our friends own them. We can keep the peace by making a deal. I’ll keep my children from shoving their heads into your private areas and licking your hands, (even though my kids are cute, friendly, and never bite) but you dog owners need to do the same.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">But the next time I’m at your house and your dog starts toward my drawers; be forewarned. I’ve got a pocket full of melted chocolate bars for my children, just in case.</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-43243165718586988662011-05-02T13:05:00.000-04:002011-05-02T13:05:21.214-04:00For Your Reading PleasureLast year during the blogathon, there were just over 100 bloggers signed up to write every day for the month of May. This year over 191 bloggers will be swearing, sweating, and stressing about posting everyday. The list is so long, I only included A-K below. I'll post the others tomorrow. The links should take you directly to their page. There were many great blogs last year and I desperatley tried to read everybody's at least once, but I didn't get all the way to the end of the list. With 191 bloggers, I'm sure to fail. But I'm going to try and visit as many as I can. If you click on the links below and find a blog that you loved, please comment and let me know!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><b>A</b></span><br />
<br />
<strong>Ahil Amar</strong> - <a href="http://ahilamar.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Ahil Amar </a>- Thoughts from Ahil Amar<br />
<strong>Alana Mautone</strong> - <a href="http://ramblinwitham.blogspot.com/" modo="false" target="_blank">Ramblin’ With AM</a>, Living in upstate New York<br />
<strong>Alexandra Grabbe</strong> - <a href="http://chezsven.blogspot.com/" modo="false" target="_blank">Chezsven Blog</a>, What it is like to be a green innkeeper and live on Cape Cod year round<br />
<strong>Alison Law</strong> - <a href="http://alisonlaw.com/lawthenticityblog/" target="_blank">Lawthenticity</a>, Personal and professional stories and observations<br />
<strong>Alison Preston</strong> - <a href="http://themoxstopshere.com/" target="_blank">LadyMoxie</a>, Relationships with an added pinch of food, music, and bacon in the dish<br />
<strong>Amanda Steinhaus</strong> - <a href="http://missamandapanda.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Ms. Panda’s Blog</a>, Writing because I love to write!<br />
<strong>Ana Gonzalez Ribelro</strong> - <a href="http://www.ournewcasa.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Our New Casa</a>, Purchasing and remodeling a home; <a href="http://livelovelaughtravel.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Live, Love, Laugh, Travel</a>, tales of a traveling family; <a href="http://www.acethejourney.com/" target="_blank">Ace the Journey</a>, Making decisions about life and money<br />
<strong>Andrea Parker</strong> - <a href="http://www.autismfundraisingguide.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Autism Fundraising Guide</a>, Advice from the trenches<br />
<strong>Angela</strong> - <a href="http://babyhellfire.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Baby Hellfire has a Blog</a>, Peace and Tofu Chicken Grease!<br />
<strong>Annie Daniels – </strong><a href="http://anieldaniel.tumblr.com/">Aniel Daniel</a>, Random occurrences and my ever-changing interests as college student<br />
<strong>Anjuli </strong>- <a href="http://unbirthdayescapades.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Unbirthday Escapades</a>, Blog of memories past and present<br />
<strong>Anne Wainscott-Sargent</strong> – <a href="http://thewritingwellus.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Writing Well</a>, Mastering the power of prose in business and in life<br />
<strong>Annette Gendler</strong> - <a href="http://www.annettegendler.com/" target="_blank">Memoir, Writing & Life</a>, Writing, teaching and publishing memoir, and creative nonfiction<br />
<strong>Anyes </strong>- <a href="http://www.farawayinthesunshine.com/p/who-am-i.html" target="_blank">Far Away in the Sunshine</a>, A woman pursuing her creative dreams<br />
<strong>Arial</strong> - <a href="http://www.nuestrocontrapunto.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Contrapunto</a>, Happenings in Panama<br />
<strong>Ashley Lyon</strong> - <a href="http://bookworm84.livejournal.com/" target="_blank">You know I love You More</a>, Book reviews and fandom excitement!<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">B</span></strong><br />
<strong>Barb Freda</strong> - <a href="http://www.babettefeasts.com/" target="_blank">Babette Feasts</a>, I write about cooking and I stew about writing<br />
<strong>Barb G</strong> - <a href="http://neveranotherdiet.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Never Another Diet</a>, Finding Enough, the Quest for a Diet-Free Life<br />
<strong>Bebe Bahnsen</strong> - <a href="http://www.bebebahnsen.com/www.bebebahnsen.com/Blog/Blog.html" target="_blank">Bebe’s Blog</a>, Politics, religion, life in the South and general musings<br />
<strong>Becky Leung</strong> - <a href="http://www.tummytime.com/" target="_blank">Tummy Time</a>, Fixing digestive issues with a healthy lifestyle and good nutrition and exercise<br />
<strong>Betty Draper</strong> - <a href="http://bettsdraper.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">BettsDraper</a>, Applying Jack Canfield’s success principles one step at a time<br />
<strong>Bill Lascher</strong> – <a href="http://lascheratlarge.com/">Lascher @ Large</a>, Travels of a freelance journalist raised by a pack of lawyers<br />
<strong>Billie Noakes</strong> - <a href="http://www.billienoakes.com/the-billiegram/" target="_blank">Billie Noakes</a>, General musings (usually light-hearted)<br />
<strong>Bree Hays</strong> - <a href="http://penslave.livejournal.com/" target="_blank">PenSlave</a>, My move to Guam<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">C</span></strong><br />
<strong>Cara Law – </strong><a href="http://caralaw.typepad.co.uk/blog/">Cake Me Home</a>, Because life tastes better with cake<br />
<strong>Carrie </strong>- <a href="http://randomgirlgeek.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Random Girl Geek</a>, Reviews of things that catch my eye<br />
<strong>Catherine Canaceli</strong> - <a href="http://www.periwinkleconfessions.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Periwinkle Confessions</a>, Finding God in Everything<br />
<strong>Christina Leach – </strong><a href="http://chrisscraps.blogspot.com/">Chris Scraps</a>, A blog about my life and crafts<br />
<strong>Christianne</strong> - <a href="http://cyanne99.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Cyanne99</a>, Inner Thoughts and Ramblings<br />
<strong>Christine Calvin</strong> - <a href="http://inspire-to-create.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Inspired Life</a>, Current events, women’s issues, randomness, sometimes silliness<br />
<strong>Christine Evans</strong> - <a href="http://52crafts52weeks.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">52 Crafts in 52 Weeks</a>, Exploring a new craft every week for a year<br />
<strong>Claudine M. Jalajas</strong> - <a href="http://bellejewelrydesigns.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Belle Designs</a>, Jewelry-making resources<br />
<strong>Connie</strong> - <a href="http://unbirthdayescapades.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">bhulbhulaiyan</a>, Travel and memories<br />
<strong>Conrad Zero</strong> - <a href="http://www.conradzero.com/" target="_blank">Conrad Zero</a>, Tips, tricks and resources for authors of all genres<br />
<strong>Craig Motlong</strong> - <a href="http://pacificwriting.com/blog" target="_blank">Pacific Writing Company</a>, Writing for writers<br />
<strong>Cynthia Rosi</strong> - <a href="http://www.simplyhugyourself.com/" target="_blank">Simply Hug Yourself</a> – Enjoy your whole self in Columbus, Ohio<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">D</span></strong><br />
<strong>Daisy</strong> - <a href="http://compostermom.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Compost Happens</a>, Family, garden, crunchy green eco-writer<br />
<strong>Dawndela Webb</strong> - <a href="http://insomniacimaginings.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Insomniac Imaginings</a>, Musings and rambles of a stay-at-home mother of three; <a href="http://eroticimages.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Erotic Images</a>, Erotic fiction<br />
<strong>David Allen</strong> - <a href="http://amazing-ipad.com/" target="_blank">Amazing iPad</a>, All things iPad<br />
<strong>Dayle Fraschilla</strong> - <a href="http://ishallbeatoad.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">I Shall Be a Toad</a>, Passions, both big and small<br />
<strong>Deb Wolf</strong> - <a href="http://countingmyblessings.typepad.com/" target="_blank">Counting My Blessings</a>, Gratitude at God’s amazing grace<br />
<strong>Denae Darcy</strong> - <a href="http://www.denaedarcy.com/" target="_blank">Denae D’Arcy</a> – TV journalist, freelance writer, social media enthusiast living near the Great Smoky Mountains<br />
<strong>Don Gonzalez</strong> - <a href="http://www.dgonz15.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Gonzo’s Gab</a>, Pontificating on Catholicism, technology, politics, cigars, writing, homerdogs and teaching<br />
<strong>Dylan Fogle</strong> - <a href="http://discordianzen.com/" target="_blank">DiscordianZen</a> – Dark and it’s different<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">E F</span></strong><br />
<strong>Elizabeth Humphrey</strong> - <a href="http://www.thewriteelizabeth.com/" target="_blank">The Write Elizabeth</a>, Writing. creativity. play. life.<br />
<strong>Elizabeth</strong> - <a href="http://dreamboat-kicks.livejournal.com/" target="_blank">Amnesia Lane</a>, Journey through the shows, books and characters that inspired my love of writing<br />
<strong>Estelle Sobel Erasmus</strong> - <a href="http://musingsonmotherhoodmidlife.com/" target="_blank">Musings On Motherhood, Midlife and Other Forms of Madness</a>, A Running Commentary On My Transformative Journey Through Motherhood<br />
<strong>Esther Rumfelt</strong> - <a href="http://www.millenniumcoaching.com/" target="_blank">Health and Wellness Coaching</a>, Helping you live well, be healthy and enjoy life<br />
<strong>Frances Barker</strong> - <a href="http://feltingneedle.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Felting Needle</a>, City and Guilds felt-making student, textiles and Suffolk living<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">G</span></strong><br />
<strong>Georgia Fogle</strong> - <a href="http://gotpma.com/" target="_blank">Got P.M.A.?</a> – Positive Mental Attitude. Get Some.<br />
<strong>Gerri Curless</strong> - <a href="http://www.gerrisspace.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">50 Is the New 40</a> – Wife, mother, grandmother trying blogging, crafting and sharing what I’ve learned with others<br />
<strong>Ginnie</strong> - <a href="http://nuafeileacan.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Nua Feileacan</a>, 30-something woman on a journey of discovery<br />
<strong>Glenneth</strong> - <a href="http://www.letstalkandwalk.com/">Let’s Talk and Walk</a>, Getting healthy through walking, eating better, and having fun<br />
<strong>Gloria Marie</strong> - <a href="http://gloriamarie.com/" target="_blank">GloriaMarie.com</a>, Personal blog, mostly about photography.<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">H</span></strong><br />
<strong>Haley Shapley</strong> - <a href="http://www.haleyshapley.com/travel/" target="_blank">Girl About the World</a>, Travel writer’s tales of wanderlust<br />
<strong>Harry Marks</strong> - <a href="http://www.curiousrat.com/" target="_blank">Curious Rat</a>, Chewing on the tech industry’s wires<br />
<strong>Heather</strong> - <a href="http://www.discoverwashingtonstate.com/" target="_blank">Discover Washington State</a>, Life in the Evergreen State<br />
<strong>Heather Brooks</strong> - <a href="http://www.serveinlove.net/" target="_blank">Serve One Another in Love</a>, An online ministry for Christians of all ages<br />
<strong>Heather Williams</strong> - <a href="http://thisblogwillgiveyoucancer.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">This Blog Will Give You Cancer</a>, Talking about nothing<br />
<strong>Holly Green</strong> - <a href="http://withoutado.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">WithoutAdo</a>, Bible and secular articles<br />
<strong>Hope</strong> - <a href="http://dreamingmommy.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Life of a Daydreaming Mommy</a>, Mommy blogger<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">J</span></strong><br />
<strong>Jackie Dishner</strong> - <a href="http://bikewithjackie.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Bike with Jackie</a>, Turn obstacles into opportunities and other self-development lessons<br />
<strong>Jan Culpepper</strong> - <a href="http://www.preachermom.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Life and Times of a Preacher Mom</a>, Juggling life, ministry, parenting, a relationship and whatever else life throws my way<br />
<strong>Jan Udlock</strong> – I<a href="http://janudlock.com/blog/" target="_blank">mperfect Mom</a>, Professional writer, parenting expert, mom of five<br />
<strong>Jane Boursaw</strong> - <a href="http://www.reellifewithjane.com/blog/" target="_blank">Reel Life with Jane</a>, Home to Jane Boursaw’s syndicated family movie and TV reviews<br />
<strong>Janis Price</strong> -<a href="http://whispersroars.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"> Whispers & Roars</a>, Life of a writer when your full-time job is not writing<br />
<strong>Jenn</strong> - <a href="http://www.kepkanation.com/" target="_blank">Kepkanation</a>, Politics and pop culture<br />
<strong>Jenni Derryberry Mann</strong> - <a href="http://mamahhh.com/" target="_blank">Mamahhh</a>, Navigating the labyrinth of motherhood one breath at a time<br />
<strong>Jennie Phipps</strong> - <a href="http://www.freelancesuccess.com/blog/" target="_blank">Freelance Success Blog</a>, Freelance Success outtakes<br />
<strong>Jennifer Walker</strong> - <a href="http://mymorningchocolate.com/" target="_blank">My Morning Chocolate</a>, Delicious inspiration for people who wake up thinking about food<br />
<strong>Jennifer Willis</strong> - <a href="http://jennifer-willis.com/" target="_blank">Jennifer Willis</a>, Journalist, writer and editor.<br />
<strong>Jennifer Woodard</strong> - <a href="http://wordzopolis.com/" target="_blank">Wordzopolis</a>, DIY marketing and public relations<br />
<strong>Jenny Beikes</strong> - <a href="http://jenwriter.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Out of My Head</a>, Musings on life events<br />
<strong>Jessica Braun</strong> - <a href="http://jessicacrb.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Pink Rose, Blooming in Generation Y</a>, I write about me, my life, my VISTA experience<br />
<strong>Joan Lambert Bailey</strong> - <a href="http://www.popcornhomestead.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Popcorn Homestead</a>, Gardening and living in Tokyo<br />
<strong>Joanna</strong> - <a href="http://mydailymooosingsinthenetherlands.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">My Daily Mooosings</a>, Simplifying life and culture in the Netherlands<br />
<strong>Joanne Mason</strong> - <a href="http://www.aboutenglishidioms.com/" target="_blank">About English Idioms</a>, What they mean, how we use them, where they came from<br />
<strong>John P. Jones</strong> - <a href="http://writingatgunpoint/" target="_blank">Writing at Gunpoint</a>, When writing is not a comfortable experience.<br />
<strong>Jon Bell</strong> - <a href="http://onmounthood.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">On Mount Hood</a>, All things Mount Hood<br />
<strong>Judy Downing</strong> - <a href="http://customerapproach.com/" target="_blank">Customer Approach</a>, Connect with customers to grow your business<br />
<strong>Julia B.</strong> - <a href="http://auntyjuju.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Aunty JuJu’s Perspective</a>, Thoughts on subjects that come up in daily life<br />
<strong>Julia Munroe Martin</strong> - <a href="http://www.wordsxo.com/" target="_blank">WordsXO</a> – Words, writing, and life!<br />
<strong>Julie</strong> – T<a href="http://virtualwebwriter.com/blog/" target="_blank">he Write Place to Be</a>, Being a freelance writer<br />
<strong>Julie Sturgeon</strong> - <a href="http://www.knowledgewebb.net/blogs/335" target="_blank">KnowledgeWebb, Don’t Sweat the Tech</a>, The quirky, fun, interesting and very useful in social media technology.<br />
<strong>Julie Tolbert</strong> - <a href="http://culturallyspeaking11.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Culturally Speaking</a>, Through technology the world is getting smaller; <a href="http://todaystea11.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Today’s Tea</a>, About tea in 2011<br />
<strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">K</span></strong><br />
<strong>Karen Bannan</strong> - <a href="http://naturalaspossiblemom.com/" target="_blank">Natural as Possible Mom</a>, Because being natural isn’t always possible – or easy!<br />
<strong>Kari Wolfe</strong> - <a href="http://www.imperfectclarity.net/" target="_blank">Imperfect Clarity</a>, Literature and the writing and editing life<br />
<strong>Kate Megill</strong> - <a href="http://teachingwhatisgood.com/" target="_blank">Teaching what is Good</a> – Teaching younger women according to the Titus 2 model<br />
<strong>Kate Reilly</strong> - <a href="http://www.polkadotsuitcase.com/" target="_blank">Polka Dot Suitcase</a>, Family fun through creative living<br />
<strong>Kathy Murray</strong> - <a href="http://thatchinagirl.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">That China Girl</a>, A reluctant teen expat’s life in Beijing<br />
<strong>Katie Jett Walls</strong> - <a href="http://oneperweek.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">One/Week</a>, Blogging, finding my voice, and identifying my passions<br />
<strong>Katy Manck</strong> - <a href="http://booksyalove.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Books YA Love</a>, Recommending standout young adult books, especially from first-time authors and small publishers<br />
<strong>Kelly Morga</strong> - <a href="http://www.littlesillylife.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">My Little Silly Life</a>, The silly things, situations and people that make my life special<br />
<strong>Khadijah M. Britton</strong> - <a href="http://betterbio.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">BetterBio</a>, Journalism that explores the intimate connection between life and science<br />
<strong>Kris Bordessa</strong> – <a href="http://www.attainable-sustainable.net/">Attainable Sustainable</a>, Reviving the lost art of self-sufficiency, one small change at a time<br />
<strong>Kristi Bernard</strong> - <a href="http://kristibernard.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Kristi Bernard</a>, Information for new writersRachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-17786395987651368542011-05-01T22:44:00.000-04:002011-05-01T22:44:06.977-04:00Mediocre as usualSo. This year I joined the blogathon again, vowing to post everyday for the month of May. Today I woke up and realized it was the first day of May.<br />
<br />
Damn. It's been a busy weekend. Wasn't it just April, like, yesterday?<br />
<br />
So here I am, posting at the eleventh hour om my iPad of all stupid things, because my husband is sitting here in be next to me with my computer writing emails. This handy little gadget isn't exactly a productive tool for lengthy typing..unless you have the additional keyboard attachment, which I don't. <br />
<br />
But I was extremely busy today, even if it wasn't writing a hysterical first blog, or adding to the family income with my labor, or cleaning my house, or doing laundry. Here's just a snapshot of the last 15 hours of my life.<br />
<br />
Things I did today:<br />
-went to 8:30 am mass<br />
-took my son to baseball pictures<br />
-frosted cookies for my daughter's bake sale in front of our house<br />
-helped set up bake sale for daughter<br />
-helped my son with his school project<br />
-went to Lowes with my neighbor and bought herbs for my planters and a really cool ornamental grass. I have no idea where I'm going to plant it, but I bought it anyway.<br />
-took my son to his baseball game. Even brought my daughters so my husband could have a few hours to work on the chicken coop. I am so selfless.<br />
-forced my son to finish his school project<br />
-bathed my youngest and told my middle daughter to get in the shower<br />
-argued some more with son about his school project<br />
-went to my monthly book club, where we discussed "The Paris Wife." Loved the book and had a very enlightening discussion at book club.<br />
-came home, showered, put away all the remaining baked goods fromearlieer sale, still sitting on the counter<br />
-got in bed and wrote a log on the iPad after having three (small) glasses of wine at book club<br />
<br />
If you ever decide to tune back in after reading this pathetic first blogathon post, I promise it will be worth your time. Unless you don't like reading about chickens. I plan on posting a lot about them.Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-90075125520814432242011-04-26T16:02:00.001-04:002011-04-26T16:04:01.397-04:00Decidedly, The Chick Came First<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SOYTJ8pKCN4/TbcjkEorzyI/AAAAAAAAAh4/qd5McXALyKo/s1600/julia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SOYTJ8pKCN4/TbcjkEorzyI/AAAAAAAAAh4/qd5McXALyKo/s320/julia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet Julia. She belongs to my three-year-old.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Last week while the kids were on vacation, I picked up six new chicks and brought them home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> kind of chick. (My husband would have reacted much differently if I brought home <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those</i> kind of chicks.) Chick, as in baby chicken. Six of ‘em. Cute as can be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Currently these little balls of fluff are living next to my washing machine in an old Pack n’ Play on loan from my chicken-owning-guru-and-friend, <a href="http://www.choosewiser.com/">Kristi</a>. We’re into week one of chicken ownership and I must say, it’s been enlightening. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been wanting my own laying hens for over a year now and started working on my husband long ago because I knew that having chickens catapulted me into a different category altogether. No longer content to grow my own vegetables or make jam from my own blackberries, now I wanted food producing animals. What was I anyway? A closet farmer? And what would I ask for next? A milking cow or grass grazing goat? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His first response over a year ago was, “Hell no.” (Or something to that effect.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next came, “We are NOT having chickens in the yard.” (Again, I’m paraphrasing.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d make a comment to him and let it simmer. Try again a few weeks or months later. Finally one night after more chicken talk, he tried a different tactic and said, “When you publish your book you can get chickens.” I know he meant it to motivate me to get off my arse and publish my book (or at least work on it) but the comment felt more like what we say to our children about their grades… “You can get a cell phone when you earn all A’s…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Look,” I said to my husband. “I’m a grown woman with a Masters degree. If I want to get chickens, then I’m going to get chickens. I’m asking you out of respect. I’d like you to be on board with me.” I knew I would need his help with the coop and set-up, in addition to how much easier it would be to have his support. After that we shelved the chicken conversation for quite some time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fast forward a few months and while he may not be all the way on board (as in, I’ll never ask or expect him to clean or muck the coop) he is being extremely supportive. He’s already built me four nesting boxes and is going to trick-out the coop for me, even making sure the thing has a sun porch. Gosh I love that man. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve also gotten a pretty mixed review from my neighbors, who think I’ve all but gone mad and perhaps over-the-top with this sustainable-eating-fresh-food thing. Worried that I’m going to turn this neighborhood into a live-action set from “Beverly Hillbillies,” the comments I’ve gotten are:</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i>?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Have you ever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">been</i> around chickens?” (This is coupled with an incredulous, dumbfounded look.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Do you know how much they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">poop</i>?” (Add curled lip in disgust.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Tell me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> you’re doing this again?” (Tilt head, add above.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Are they going to be just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">roaming around your yard</i>, or what’s the deal?” (Peer at me over bifocals.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the best from my sister-in-law: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rachel</i> wants chickens? Is this the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">same</i> Rachel that doesn’t like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">germs</i>? Is this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> sister-in-law we’re talking about?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While their response doesn’t shock me much, it certainly isn’t the egg-colored-glasses perspective that I’ve been reading about in my chicken bible. Yes, while Jesus is present in this one, albeit omnisciently (seriously, how does chicken mash and a worm turn into something I eat for breakfast with toast? Amazing!) Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John have nothing to say about the matter. My chicken bible, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Joy-Keeping-Chickens-Ultimate-Raising/dp/1602393133">The Joy of Keeping Chickens, by Jennifer Megyesi</a> was a gift from a neighbor’s daughter who knew I was interested in having laying hens. Her mother (my neighbor)—while she admires my chickens currently because they are palm sized and therefore not loud or smelly—can’t quite be labeled “enthusiastic” yet about my new adventure, and I secretly wonder if she’d like to kick her daughter for getting me my poultry bible to begin with. But that’s all water under the feeder now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Everything I’ve read online and in my book (and I’ve done a lot of research) paints this lovely, picturesque painting of hen owning, one that is not only filled with emerald green meadows, bird chirp, and a fresh spring breeze, but also touts the myriad benefits of owning chickens. They eat ticks. They eat worms. They are fabulous for your garden. Their poop is great fertilizer. They are docile, loving, and smarter than people give them credit for. They are easy to maintain. They are maternal. Oh, and their eggs are pretty good too. Full of vitamins and nutrients. With yolks the color of the setting sun. You’ll never find a yolk like that in the grocery store. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then there were my neighbors and anyone who ever owned a chicken or lived near people who owned chickens who cock their head to the side (much like a chicken, I might add) and inquire as to what exactly I’ve been drinking or smoking lately to make me want chickens. For a moment I was confused that there seemed to be two completely opposite camps: haters and lovers. Haters were real people. Lovers were published. Hmmm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I suppose a book titled, “Why Keeping Chickens is a Pain in the Ass,” wouldn’t sell very well. Or, “Shit That Makes You Gag: 1001 Reasons Not to Own Chickens.” That probably wouldn’t be a very good title either. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In fact, this epiphany reminds me a lot of a conversation I had with my priest-friend some years back on the subject of birth control, specifically vasectomies. “Most of the married people I talk to say that having a vasectomy was the worse thing that happened to their marriage,” he told me. It didn’t occur to me until later that people who invited vasectomy into their marriage and loved it wouldn’t exactly go running to their neighborhood priest to tell him about it, would they? “Hey Father, just so you know, you were wrong about the vasectomy thing. We should’a done it years ago.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s all about the audience really. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So the truth about owning chickens resides somewhere in the middle grey area of my happy-go-lucky book and my neighbors’ aghast astonishment. While I’m not regretting my decision, it would have been good for me to have this awakening before I actually bought the chicks. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But there they are, regardless. Six little balls of molting fluff and feathers living in a Pack n’ Play in my laundry room. My neighbors ask me frequently how it’s going and how the chicks are. I know that silently they are biding their time, knowing at some point I’m going to complain about the chicken poop smell, the frequent cage cleaning, the messy, grossness of it all, which will open the doors for them to nod their head with that I-told-you-so look on their face. I say bring it. Of course I’m going to complain. What’s a good blog without complaining? But I also have the final product in mind: fresh eggs, with deep sunny yolks, from chickens who lived a happy life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And while I promise my intention isn’t to ruin the neighborhood with my bohemian tendencies and free-range birds (c’mon; my children are almost always clothed and we don’t hang our underwear on a clothesline yet), I am keeping chickens and a garden in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">south</i> part of Easton; once known for its peasant and archaic traditions such as farming food and raising animals. I mean, it’s not like I’m out of my element or anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And you, my dear readers, get to be with me all the way. You can live vicariously through my foibles. Lucky <s>ducks</s> chickens.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AXioWiaY83Q/TbckOOTdhlI/AAAAAAAAAiA/pUGmTlFpl6I/s1600/the+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AXioWiaY83Q/TbckOOTdhlI/AAAAAAAAAiA/pUGmTlFpl6I/s320/the+girls.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet the girls! From Top to bottom, clockwise: Molly, Giraffe, May, Blackie, Milly, and Julia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851278903741496908.post-10199960789725405512011-04-19T20:02:00.001-04:002011-04-19T20:04:58.073-04:00Coming out of the fog <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ILHivnRPdw4/Ta2Ss3zmZmI/AAAAAAAAAg0/Icla0wNdsHI/s1600/sunrise-Jared.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ILHivnRPdw4/Ta2Ss3zmZmI/AAAAAAAAAg0/Icla0wNdsHI/s400/sunrise-Jared.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm finally coming out of a long winter's fog;<br />
the sunrise slowly lighting the road ahead of me.<br />
My cousin Jared White took this picture. He's a brilliant photographer. Check out more of his stuff on his blog, <a href="http://jdwphotog.blogspot.com/">Photology: Project 365</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06; font-size: large;">Fortunately & Unfortunately…March pretty much sucked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Quit looking at me like that. Rolling your eyes in disappointed-mother fashion. I know you tune in here for your daily (well, maybe monthly) laugh and I’ve been absent. Well, if you don’t know by now that us humorists are really just normal, occasionally depressed people who may have trouble dealing with crap in their lives from time to time, wearing clown costumes and face paint to make you laugh, well then, you’ve never heard of Richard Lewis. Or Richard Jeni. Or Richard Pryor. Or any comedian that’s had a stint on SNL. Two things you clearly want to avoid: naming your child Richard or having them work on SNL. My name’s not Richard, but it starts with R. Close enough.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To recap my life since my last post in….February (has it really been that long?), I’m going to do it in child-story format. We’ll ease back into this blog writing/reading thing together in 10-15 minute increments. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">My Life Since February</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, after a really long winter, a huge snowstorm, and a few issues with my husband, I woke up one morning at the beginning of March with a headache. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I was still breathing and I had plenty of Ibuprofen in the house. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, the Ibuprofen didn’t work. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I had made plans to go to Arizona (and escape the grey New England winter) to visit my grandparents and family. Unfortunately my original flight was cancelled because of snow, but fortunately I rescheduled my trip for the beginning of March.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, my grandfather died before I got to Arizona. Fortunately, I was able to attend his service during my rescheduled trip as well as visit with my two grandmothers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, my headaches continued during my trip, despite good weather, supportive family, and lack of snow. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I returned back home safely.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, my headaches decided to hang out with me twenty-four hours a day. And ibuprofen wasn’t working. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I went to see my Primary Care doctor, who was concerned about my<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>specific head pain and told me to get an MRI. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, I have a problem feeling trapped, but fortunately my husband came with me. Using the black eye mask I made it through the hour and a half MRI without freaking out. Bonus.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, I was expecting the worse possible outcome. MS. Brain tumor. Acoustic Neuroma. (I looked that one up online. It’s amazing what you can find when you google “head pain.”)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, my MRI was clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had nothing wrong with my brain. No lesions. No tumor. I was normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” my PC asked me. “Yes,” I replied. “A tad.” Hmmmmm, she said, jotting down notes in her notepad.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, the headaches, ear ringing, pain, and general malaise continued. I didn’t clean. I didn’t do errands. I didn’t do anything but want to stay in my pajamas and sleep, sleep, sleep. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I made an appointment with an ENT to have a hearing test and figure out what the ringing in my ears was all about. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, I was worried that my hearing test would hurt my already hurting ears. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, my hearing tests were normal. My ears were not infected. They looked beautiful. My inner ear was fine. I was pronounced, normal, normal, normal. “Are you under any stress?” the ENT asked me. “Well, yes,” I replied. “A bit.” His professional suggestion was to do nothing. Wait it out. But just in case, I should see a neurologist because of all my headaches. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, I couldn’t see the neurologist for two weeks. I made the appointment anyway. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I woke up one Saturday morning two weeks ago and my headache was gone. Gone, just like that. As quick as a sneeze or a fart, they were gone. Five weeks of wanting to sever my head vanished like an apparition. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, I still didn’t know what caused them. What triggered them. What cheapy-plastic part in my brain snapped to make them last so long. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I still had my appointment with the neurologist who I hoped would have some answers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, my appointment with the neurologist lasted two hours, during school vacation, and my children were home alone. Thankfully the doctor’s office wasn’t far away. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, he gave me a complete exam. I answered a million questions about the life of my headaches. When they started (in college). Do I feel nauseous? (yes). Do I have urinary track problems? (what?)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, after reading my file and visiting with me, the neurologist told me...wait for it….that I was normal, normal, normal. Yes, I had migraines. I also had tension headaches caused by….tension. Was I under any stress lately? Ummmm,.... Try acupuncture, he said. Take magnesium oxide (but don’t confuse it with magnesium <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hydroxide</i>, which is used to treat constipation. These are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> interchangeable). Use a heating pad on your neck for 35-40 minutes to try and release the knots that are your shoulder and neck muscles. And stretch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I am normal, normal, normal. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, the five weeks of headaches were apparently triggered by stress. Stress, that abstract noun without form or personality—you can’t feel it, touch, taste it, or put it in a paper sack, and yet, it can make you feel like a tumor is growing in your head. It tightens your muscles and fills your feet with cement. Covers your eyes so you stumble. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I’m in a better place now. The sun has actually come out (literally) and I’ve been able to prune my fruit trees, plant my sugar snap and shelling peas, and rake up the lawn debris from the winter. I’m back to doing laundry and picking up the house and occasionally preparing a meal. (Or ordering pizza.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately, there is a part of me that worries I’m going to wake up with another five weeks of headaches; or that the tiny headaches I feel everyday will morph into something larger. And of course I worry that all those many specialists missed something. But my husband would tell me that’s my worse-case-scenario-personality talking. Our counselor would agree.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately, I’m back. And not only am I back, but I also just signed up to do the monthly blogathon again this year, starting in May. And spring is here. Mostly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s been my life in a nutshell, at least as much as I’m willing to divulge on the internet. I hope I haven’t lost you and you join me back here on Musings. I have a lot of stories to tell you when you return. Like I’m getting chickens. And my three-year-old told me she likes to eat boogers. And my son brought home THREE C’s on his last report card. And my husband built and installed a bat house. You’ll have to tune back in to get the juicy scoop on everything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Happy spring!</div>Rachelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621642738507969116noreply@blogger.com6