Look Ma! No seams!
Awhile back, I posted a desperate plea on my Facebook page. Nearly every morning, my preschooler was causing us to run late. Why? Her socks. She would agree to put them on, only to fling them off in a fit of rage screaming, “They’re goofy!” Her voice was desperate. I knew this wasn’t simply a tactic not to leave the house. She loves to go, anywhere, and this was legitimately bugging her. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. She comes by it honest. My brother suffered from the same seam sensitivity. My daughter is also highly sensitive to other things at certain times (noise, light, textures, etc.).
It turns out she’s far from alone. Friend after friend online told me their stories of sock woes. Some of them even suffer from this same …
She doesn’t need a prince on a white horse to ride her off into the sunset. She’s got her own little red sports car.
She shrugged her shoulders, and set the box aside. Should I have been surprised? My girly-girl, wanna-be princess ballerina, got a belated Christmas gift from her great grandmother–remote control cars. Not pink ones. Not purple ones. Not sparkly ones. Just a red one, and a police car one.
“Can I keep looking at my dresses now?”
Along with her Christmas gift, she also got a black plastic trash bag full of hand-me-down clothes from an older cousin, filled with frilly dresses, fun slippers, and Disney-themed pajamas. Now that was more her style. While she disrobed and slipped the new-to-her Tinkerbell jammies over her head, I headed to the kitchen with my hubby to put …
So often, my eyes gaze on the greener grass of some other’s home, and neglect to appreciate the beautiful spaces inside my own home. Yes, my house is typically a mess, and yes, it’s old. The floors are scratched, the wallpaper peeling, the lath and plaster cracking, but there are some spaces that are very delightful indeed. Like my baby’s bedroom. With the lights full glaring, it’s not too special, but with the lights off and sun filtered soft through the curtains, it’s wonderful. All pink and cozy and…lovely.
A glittery pink E marks the door to her lovely room.
I love the way the curtains filter the sunlight all warm and pink.
The cozy corner where she was nursed, and rocked, and read to.
A sweet Pottery Barn shelf snagged for a dollar, with sentiment on top.
The sweet …
One of my goals for 2013 is to organize those areas of my home that I consider “rat’s nests.” The closets, junk drawers, etc. So, for inspiration, I turned to the one, the only, Pinterest. As I browsed storage ideas, organization tricks, “thrifty” home decor options, something happened. I started to feel…insecure. Inadequate. Less than. My home, not one square inch of it, looks anything like the pictures I see. It’s cluttered, dated, worn, scratched and definitely not a “Pin-Up” home. But you know what? It’s our home. And it’s full of love. It more than meets the needs of my little clan. So why, then, do I let a site like Pinterest make me feel dissatisfied?
So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. Why not bring a little reality to Pinterest? Why …
Easier said than done. But it must be done.
The last thing on my mind this morning was gratitude. In fact, the first thing on my mind was a string of curse words. While I didn’t let them escape my lips, I felt that if an innocent bystander were to view my body language, they would probably be offended. I was stressed. Angry. Irritated. I slammed doors. I barked commands at my daughters. We had to get out the door NOW! We were going to be late for the doctor! Shoes ON! Coats ON! I was frustrated with the situation, not with them. We’re going on week number three of illness in my house, and the pressures of care taking are starting to wear on me. Little sleep. Constant demands for attention. To-do lists with little actually done. …
“Run the bathwater. She’s puking again.” Not quite the way I envisioned our Christmas morning to end. Santa had come, the gifts had been opened. Breakfast consumed. Our toddler just got over a five-day stomach bug of doom four days ago, and I was ready for the Lysol/non-stop laundry days to be over. But once again, she was throwing up. I knew it was probably a new virus, one picked up from one of several family Christmas parties we had attended over the weekend.
After a phone call to my parents, my fears were validated. “Everyone’s got it over here. I’m the only one not sick…yet,” my brother quietly said over the line. Everyone there was sleeping off a night of sickness. We’d all squished into my parent’s living room the evening before, sharing laughter, food …