Our shining star. (Name and happy face compliments of mom.)
If there’s a part of my stereotypical “at-home mom” job I’m failing, it’s the not-so-fine art of crafts (or “crappy crafts” as affectionately called by a friend of mine). You know the kind, cheap, chintzy and usually adorned with some kind of edible item (macaroni noodles, beans, o-shaped cereal).
There are three reasons why I’ve hardly pursued crafty activities since I’ve been home with my girls for the past eight weeks.
1. It seems like such a waste. You use up all of the glue, paper, stickers, etc., and then end up throwing it in the trash after the refrigerator magnets will no longer hold up the weight. I am cheap. I don’t like throwing things away. (Ask my husband, he calls it “hoarding.” Whatever.)
2. I don’t …
We began preparations for the swimming pool at 12:02 p.m. We actually left for the swimming pool at 12:57 p.m. Here is my interpretation of the 55 minutes in between.
Where is your swimsuit? Put on your swimsuit!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Where are your sandals? Put on your sandals!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Where is your towel? Go find your towel!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Where is the sunscreen? Stand still while I put on sunscreen!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Where is mommy’s phone? Give me back my phone!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Where is your floatie? Go get your floatie!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Do you have to potty? Go potty now!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Where did your sandals go? Put your sandals back on!
Where is your sister? Erica? Erica!
Where is my sanity? …
Today, I took my daughter fishing. For the first time in her short three years on earth, she threw a line into the water, and watched with giddy anticipation as the bobber floated and danced. While I realize a child’s first fishing trip is usually a right of passage reserved for fathers or grandfathers, I felt it was my motherly duty to take her down to the creek.
After all, I’d like fishing to be “our” thing. Something for the girls, an opportunity to bond over waiting and watching. While we may enjoy side by side mani-pedis someday (that sounds pretty good about now), I’d like our quality time to have, well, a little more quality. She’ll learn patience, persistence and most importantly, how to be stronger woman than her mother. …
Our engagement photo. We’re just as mad about each other now as we were then, and just as goofy.
He is not the mac to my cheese, or the peanut butter to my jelly. He is no Prince Charming, and I am certainly no princess. Our romance busts the mold of canned love analogies. He is the wind…to my windmill.
He is powerful and steady, a constant force of change and movement. I am a vessel, carefully crafted to harness his strength and refine it for a greater purpose. We are never stale, never stagnant. Together, we are productive.
He is gentle like the morning breeze when caressing our infant daughters, steady like the Kansas wind when holding my hand through tragedy, and mighty like a wild twister when he needs to be.
He gives me power, and …
I’ll never understood why city folk think that living out in the boonies is boring. After all, where else can you chase after a chicken barefoot through the front yard (with a diaper-only baby on your hip) just to capture a picture of a mouse hanging from the yard-bird’s beak? Yep, that’s right. A mouse.
I have seen many strange things while living out in the country, but this was by far one of the freakiest. (Turns out this is pretty common, but we’re relatively new to raising chickens. You can see a video of such activity here.) My husband told me he’d seen it a few days ago, but I didn’t quite believe him. He’s not prone to making things up, but I have to see things to believe sometimes. (I’m sure he …
You’re accepted. Completely, lovingly accepted.
To be honest, I don’t want to tell this story. I’d rather forget it ever happened, keep it hidden with the other skeletons in my closet of shame. But, there are some stories that just have to be told. I hope the beauty and deeper meaning in this message surpasses my ugly deed. I hope.
January 2010: A blizzard was descending upon Wichita, and I was anxious to leave my office to make the 45 minute drive home. I sat white-knuckled in the seat of my Honda, eyes carefully trained on the road ahead, careful to avoid and slick spots or crazy drivers (truth be told, I drive like a grandma, and inclement weather brings on a high level of paranoia). I made it to the opposite side of town, and …