I believe in activism. I believe in standing up. I believe in speaking out. Power. To. Da. People.
What I don’t believe in? Slacktivism. That is, the act of sharing and shaming online without actually doing your homework or better yet, getting your hands dirty. Getting involved. Getting your boots on the ground.
I was recently invited to do just that when I went on the #FarmFoodTour, sponsored by Kansas Farm Bureau and the Kansas Soybean Commission. It was a three-day trek from Kansas City all the way to Scott City and back again to tour various elements of our agriculture landscape. While I’ve grown up in a farm community and have written for ag publications for several years, there’s SO much I have to learn. And more importantly, I wanted to see for …
It may have been the end of the year, but my first grader wanted to use her new backpack!
I know, I know, it’s a weird time of year to talk about backpacks. I mean, shouldn’t that wait until the beginning of the school year? Well, maybe, but if your kids have been out of school for any more than 2.5 days, you’re already thinking about sending those little stinkers sweethearts back to school. Sure, I was ready for the school year to end, but now that my girls have been home together with hours upon hours of unstructured time, I know I’ll be ready to send them packing come August. And by packing, I just mean back to school. I’m not kicking them out or anything, geesh!
Here’s the deal. I can joke and kid …
“You should open a dessert stand! You’re the best cooker.”
My two daughters sat devouring their berry crisp, their short hair a mess, their ever-longer legs dangling from the bench seat at the kitchen table. A blueberry/strawberry/crumbly mess gathered at the edges of their stuffed mouths. Was this thrown-together dessert really that good? To them, it was. It was just sweet enough, warm, and made on a whim. A little, I suppose, like the way I mother.
As a mother of three, I’ve just now begun to take stock of the way in which I’m raising my children. I no longer pore over pages of parenting books and while I still read parenting blogs and turn to others for advice, I’m standing pretty firm on my own two exhausted legs. For the most part, I’ve got this …
The contractions hit harder and faster than I imagined. This couldn’t be the real deal, though. While I’d been dilated and effaced for weeks, with an induction scheduled the next morning, I didn’t let myself believe this was actual labor. After all, I’d had two false alarms before, and I knew they’d just send me back home if I wasn’t officially 39 weeks. I SO wanted it to be go time though. I wasn’t quite miserable yet, but I’d always dreamed of that quintessential “honey it’s time” labor sequence you see in the movies. I’d grip my belly and grab his hand while we raced to the hospital. My other two were scheduled inductions, and I always felt like all the fun was taken out, even though I enjoyed the predictability.
This month has been crazy. I mean craaaaazy. With a baby on the way (who thought about showing up early for a bit) and the general chaos of family life, I wasn’t sure I would even have a chance to make it to Whole Foods to fulfill my monthly Blog Ambassador commitment. And I use the term commitment loosely. If I can write a post, awesome. If not, no big deal. It’s not always possible for me. It’s an hour drive, and I don’t often have business in far East Wichita. But yesterday, I decided to take the trip. I always enjoy going, and I wanted to pick up a few special things for our family Super Bowl party on Sunday. Again, I’m using a term loosely. By party, I mean the four …
Soon. Soon love will fill this corner of the bedroom.
The wee hours of the morning. That delicate span of time when either you’ve stayed up very late, or gotten up very early. My husband is the latter. He leans to kiss me in bed, my hour tousled unattractively against my pillow. I tell him I love him, words spoken through my lisp-inducing mouthpiece used to prevent nighttime teeth grinding. Baggy black sweats with holes in ever-increasing places sit across my hips, purchased when I was 10 weeks pregnant with my first baby. They’ve served me well. I wear a soft-because-it’s-old faded gray t-shirt, screen print of a sporting goods store cracked and disappearing on the front. It’s his. Just like this squirming life inside me.
I’m 36 weeks pregnant with our fifth child. Two are in heaven, …