Ribbon Cutting!

Well.  It's official.  We opened a farm.  Had the ribbon cutting ceremony today.  It was remarkable.  I gotta say *clears throat* some mega scissors and some majestic music and an audience...*clears throat* and some ribbon would have made it really remarkable.  But.  None the less.  Welcome!  (arms spreading)

Yup.  I named 'er.  You kinda have to.  Haven't you ever seen Sarah Plain and Tall?  You have to write your name in the dirt.  I wrote mine in letters from Porters, some barn paint, and wood.  But the essence is the same.  We named it Crooked Row Farm because upon planting our first seedlings this year with the kids... nothing was straight.  Nothing looked clean and pristine like I pictured it in my head (or how I sketched it in the agricultural blue print.).  So.  I embraced it.  And then made this sign.  It's about to blow up Pinterest.  Every one is gonna be naming their backyard. 
In March we got 5 chicks.

They became my little beebees.  They were soft and cuddly.  And poofy!  And would peck little food seeds out of my hand.  I was always checking in on my chickies.  I worried about them and would get out of bed in the middle of the night to make sure they were warm and okay.  They were literally like my newborns.  But heavens to Betsy...have they grown fast.  Just like my real human chickies.

They went through a weird phase...Can you see the resemblance?

They kinda turned into crabby old bitties.  It was always something with them.  I never had their water just the right temperature.  They wanted their meal at 5:30 not 5:15.  Fresh bedding twice a day not once a day.  So.  I built them their own place where I couldn't hear them squawk.

 I know what you're going to say.  It needs a little wreath about the door, huh?  Or a house number.  Or a plaque.  I keep telling The Kenmo, "I want to name the chicken coop."  But the only name I can come up with it Pollo Fundido.  And that's what he orders at Garcia's.  PLUS!  With that name I'd have to stucco this whole thing- add some blue tile... it could get pricey.  And naming a chicken coop seems to be beyond Ken's level of tolerance.  So.  Probably a wreath.  And flowers will go in with warmer weather. Naturally.

Every good running farm has a farm dog.  So...Check!

Dook at doze eyez.  We adopted Oreo four days after we got the baby chicks.  It was an animal overload for the first 36 hours.  But turns out Oreo is about the lowest maintenance dog in existence.  I have to beg him to take a walk with me because all he ever wants to do is snuggle.  Which I love.  I love dogs for their unlimited snuggling capabilities.  The only down side to Oreo's snuggling is sometimes he Steamies me.  A Steamie is when a dog (or Ken) is really close to my face and then breathes hot air breath onto it and a muggy warm layer of thin condensation forms on my cheek.  Worst sensation.  A Steamie.  Do it to somebody.  They'll hate it.
We started seedlings when we were deep deep in the Winter Doldrums  and have slowly been moving them into the Great Outdoors as we've slowly moved out of our Winter Doldrums.  And we plugged about 30 raspberry starts out there. 

 

 It is such a feeling of accomplishment to see growth.  A little plant that will provide food for your family.  It's incredible!  I guess Mother Nature's real name is Patty Poulsen.  And, don't worry, to ensure that feeling of accomplishment and triumph persisted through the Spring, Summer, AND fall- I planted ONE HUNDRED strawberry plants!  A Hundy.  (If those were dollars I'd be rich.)

But they're not dollars they're strawberry plants.  Ha-rumph.  I did get to thinking though.  Even with all the Cool Whip in the world; can I eat all the strawberries 100 plants will produce?  I don't doubt much about myself- but this is indeed doubtful.  So!  I had the greatest idea to sell my surpluses at the local Farmer's Market!  I got into a late night text cahoot with my friend about a booth we'd start with my berries, her honey from her backyard swarm, and maybe some crafts or something.  We were drawing up our business plan and designing our logo to put on our jars of homemade preserves when Ken asked me what I was so excited about.  "I'm going to sell all my extra strawberries at the Farmer's Market!  We can use all the money I earn to go on vacation!"  Ken stared.  I squealed "Isn't that fanTASTIC?" in response to his silence.  He said, "You might have 2 pints of extra strawberries from your strawberry patch.  It's not as big as you think."  PSHZzzzzzzuuuuuuuuuuuueeeeewwwww. <--- That's my dreams deflating.
At any rate.  I'm so proud of my farm.  It's becoming a lifestyle for me that I am so comfortable in.  I love working in the dirt all day.  Tending to the land.  And teaching my boys how to become self-sufficient. I feel like I am on a good and well trod path.  It's idyllic and romantic and makes my heart beat harder.  Or... it could be all that shoveling and tilling that is making my heart beat faster...

I can't dig a hole without kids climbing in!

 

Yup.  Those are mine.
I'm really into Duck Dynasty right now.  And these really are extremely functional.
And East Coast Yuppie Meets Farming For The First Time with a Martha Stewart thing going on.

Come on by anytime you want.  Admission is free.


P.S.  I am considering an egress from Facebook.  If you want to keep up on the blog posts- subscribe!   Right over there on the right-- there's a button. 

Goldfish: Past and Present

I had goldfish as a little girl.  I remember when my Dad took me to Kmart and bought me a 10-gallon aquarium. He let me pick which rocks I wanted (azure blue) and which statue I wanted (a magenta and purple grotto) and finally which fish.  Out of the tank of 89-centers I picked my fave.  And named him Goldy.
When Goldy died, I got Goldy 2.
Followed by Goldy 3.
And then Goldy 4.
And the suffixed numbers in their name were pronounced.  If someone asked my fish's name I would tell them, "Goldy Three." 
After Goldy 4 my next fish was Neptune.  He was also a goldfish.  Maybe it was a break of the Goldy Curse but I had Neptune so long and he go so big I called and donated him to the Pittsburgh Zoo.  He needed a bigger habitat than I could provide.  As an adult, this story seems far-fetched.  I was 10.  I had a goldfish I thought was outgrowing it's aquarium so I called the zoo.  And with my altruistic heart, donated my .89 cent fish to the zoo.  What a philanthropist!

When we moved back to Idaho Falls, this past Thanksgiving, I took the boys over to see my neighbor Lee.  He and his wife are also from da Burgh and live right behind us.  In his basement he had 3 huge 'UGE aquariums.  The big 55 gallon monsters.  The boys were mezza-merized.   The next day Lee called and said he was gonna give the boys one of his aquariums for Christmas if I was okay with it.  Psht.  Hell Yeah!  Lee kept his fish and we got one gorgeous tank.  In time (after the proper bacteria had accumulated) we got three little fish of our own.  I named mine Ari Gold, Ken named him Gilligan, and Kole was at a loss on what to name his.  I started naming some names he liked; "Gordon," "Thomas," "Scotty," "Koley," "Charlie," "Tony,"
At which point Kole yelled, "Yeah!  PONY!"
So Tony became Pony and we had our fish named.
Now little Pony had some birth defects.  He looked like a hunchback goldfish.  His poor fin was stunted and he looked like he'd been picked on a lot.  I felt bad for Pony.  There goes that over-sized heart again.  I did my best to treat Pony well...nay.  I did my best to treat Pony way better than the other fish.
Which, I mean, is hard to do with fish.
But I'd put in extra food in where he was swimming and... well... that's it.
Come on.  What other ways are there?
I did always tell Kole and Joey to be nice to him and not talk about his funny fin.
He was our fish. And we were happy to have him. And we loved him no matter what.
I really felt good to have Pony safe in our tank.
Where no other fish could pick on him.
Or call him mean Fish Names behind his dorsal.  Or post rumors on their Fish Facebook pages.  Or unkindly mimic his crooked swimming.
He was safe from all the bullying in my tank.  Under my aquatic maternal wing.
Things were calm under the water.
But then one day, at dinner time, I noticed Pony chasing Ari and Gil away from the food.  He'd just swim real fast by them and kinda surprise them so they'd swim away.
I was shocked!
"Pony!  Be nice to them!"
Which probably sounded like "OOOnnnnnnN!  Ooouu gauoouuu mmmm!"
You know.  *clears throat* Under water sounds weird.
I tapped on the glass by him as a warning.  You know.  I'm in charge, Pony.  You listen up!
Needless to say my disciplining had no effect WHATsoever!
Pony just kept pestering the other fish. And not just at breakfast and dinner.  He was bullying them for pleasure.

 The drilling is Ken working on our shelving- but it kinda fits the scene.  Does it not?

When I discussed the issue with Ken- he was completely flippant.
"They're fish, babe."
"Yes.  They are.  And one fish is mistreating the other fish."
He didn't seem all too bothered by it.  Where's your heart, man!

I stayed up thinking about Pony:
He was probably bullied at some point in his life.
He looks weird.  He swims funny.  I bet he's been made fun of.
He's probably had a hard time making friends.  He's just passing it on.  He doesn't know any better.  This is how bullies are.
Maybe he comes from a single-parent home.  Maybe he's missed out on loving relationships.
Maybe he's suffering from depression or anxiety.  Maybe he misses the big tank at the pet store.
Maybe he views himself negatively and just needs steady positive reinforcement.

At this point I started dreaming up my business cards:
Patty Poulsen, PhD
Fish Psychologist

For 3 days I watched Pony bully my other two fish.
I watched Ari and Gilligan try to make themselves shrink and swim in smaller and smaller circles.
No amount of glass tapping and above-to-underwater scolding was reaching this dang fish!
One morning.  I woke up.  And Gil and Ari were hiding in the plant while Pony swam circles around them occasionally nosediving at them.
That was it!  I could justify his behavior...NO MORE!
I got a Mason jar.  Filled it up.  And scooped Pony into it.
"You're in Solitary Confinement today, Mister!  That's right The SHU!  Get used to it, Meanie!"


My next step was obvious.
Call the pet store.
They told me their policy for aquatic animals was 14 days for full refund.
So, after the kids went to bed, and after a full day in The Box for Pony I toted him back to Petco.
Their first question after realizing he wasn't dead was "Is he sick?"
I explained he was perfectly healthy and that he was just mean.
The two men just stared at me.
"What?," I said.
"You are returning him... because... he's mean?"
"Yeah." (I was not getting their surprise.)  "He's a bully.  And he's terrorizing my other fish and I don't want him in my aquarium.  He's too mean."
They just kept staring at me.  Mouths a-dropped.
So I continued, "Your return policy stipulates 14 days.  I'm under that mark.  I no longer want this aggressive fish.  I am returning him.  I have my receipt."
At which time I handed over Pony.  In the jar.  With my receipt.
And you bet your butt I got my dollar sixty-five back. Psht.  I also told the pet store people they should let prospective buyers know about Pony's past.  But I think they quit listening after they handed me my change and dumped Pony back in the tank with 35 other one-inch goldfish.

A few days later, after Ari and Gil felt comfortable swimming in the open water again we got 3 more fish to complete our aquarium.

And, thank heaven, they all seem to be getting along swimmingly.

Harvey

Gilligan (Gil)

CiCi

Shelby

Ari Gold

Preschool Problems

In September Kole started preschool.  His classroom is idyllic.  Little chairs, little tables, little computers.  Well.  I guess the computers are normal sized just on little desks.  He likes preschool and he likes that he gets to go by himself.  Without Joey.  As much as he has taken to Joey lately- it still seems like Joey is the pebble in the shoe of Kole.  Joe Joe sure is a happy pebble though! 

Most days Kole is so happy when he comes home.
Mom!  We sang about Scat the Cat!  She's blue!
Mom!  We had GRAHAM CRACKERS! (He was so happy about this.  I was like, "What?!  CHILD!  I be giving you graham crackers every day!)
Mom!  I can button my shirt! Look! Peek-a-boooo, Pull It Through!
Mom!  They have a new turntable for the trains!
Mom!  I like Rockwell.  He's my friend now!

But a couple times Kole comes home all weighed down by the Preschool World.
His shoulders are drooped and he says he is "just very tired." 
(But he can't say "j" so it's "I'm woost very tired.")

One day he was especially low.  When I asked what was wrong he just sighed and looked away.

What is it little cub?
Today, I really wanted to sit by Bridger.  But somebody else sat in the seat by him and the teacher told me to pick a different chair.

And then Kole sobbed.  He sobbed until his face was blotchy and his body was limp.

The most practical part inside of me said: This kid. Poor guy thinks he's got it rough because he couldn't sit by Bridger.  PREschool problems.  Itty bitty preschool problems.  Life is so easy for him if all that's wrong is he can't sit by Bridger.  He has no idea.

And then I realized...
Preschool problems happen our whole life.
There will be more times he won't get to sit by the person he wants to sit by.
And more than once it'll probably be someone telling him that he can't sit by them instead of him just not getting there fast enough.  There will be friends that aren't really his friends.  There will be people to call him names and call him out and not call when they say they will.  He won't make every team he tries out for.  There will be times he'll only get 2nd place.  And times he won't place at all. He'll have break-ups.  And college rejection letters.  There will be jobs he won't get.  There will be unfair consequences to unfair rules. He will fail even when he works hard.  He will be hurt.  A lot.  And there will be many days when he'll want to sob until he is limp.
He will have preschool problems for the rest of his life.

Because Preschool Problems are real-life problems that start too young.

And when I realized that...
I put his head up on my shoulder and told him,
"Today was just a bad day, Cub.  But, don't worry.  Its probably your last one."

And I broke out the Double Stuffed Oreos* and we went out to watch the tractors.






*Gotta start eating through emotions at an early age.

Maid, Arise.

Sometimes we lose something- we very much needed.
It could be lost hope.  Lost faith.  Lost confidence.
Maybe you lost a friend, or your job, or your child.
The hurt is deep inside of us.  And we don't want to share it.  With anyone.
It's an actual physical pain.  And it's hard to breathe.
Or feel like yourself. Or be happy.

When we're hurting...
When we have a terrible loss....
We want more than anything for everything to go back to normal.
Back to the way they were before.

But they will never be the same.

Pain changes us.
And we try to find the way to tell someone that it's changed us.

But when someone asks if everything is okay...
.... we say "Yeah.  I'm fine."
But we're pleading.  Pleading....

I feel heavy inside... it hurts by my heart.
I can't hope for things anymore.
I feel like I'm on a boat.  By myself.  And I don't know anything about boats.
I'm terribly sad.
My heart is...is... not the same.
I'm grieving for...something.
I feel like everything in me has crushed.

I've never been able to find the words to really express the pain you feel when you lose... everything.  When you lose all emotion. When you're completely empty.

Then I found it.
In Jacob 2:35

"... many hearts died. Pierced with deep wounds."

"Hearts died."  That's it.  A heart can die.  My heart died.  It pushed too hard until it couldn't push anymore.  It couldn't take anymore bad news.  It couldn't survive.  The hurt and the pain was too much.  My heart couldn't keep going.
And.
It died.
If that happens you no longer feel recognizable as the person you were.  My body is still alive.  I'm still functioning.  But it's motions.  It's a well trained routine.
When your heart dies- it can't pump life into you anymore.
And you're just... there.

I've been thinking this for a couple weeks.
There is no other option to death.  No way to come back from it.
It's final and irrecoverable.
When your pain is that severe.
When you've lost everything that made you hope or believe...
...that's it.


But then, I thought, Jesus raised people from the dead.

His friend, Lazarus, was dead four days.

 "Jesus wept.  Then said the Jews, Behold how he loved him!...  Jesus cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth.  And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go."

John 11

 Jarius' Daughter

  "Thy daughter is dead; trouble not the Master.  But when Jesus heard it, he answered him, saying, Fear not: believe only, and she shall be made whole.  And all wept, and bewailed her: but he said, Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth.  And he put them all out, and took her by the hand, and called, saying, Maid, arise.

And her spirit came again, and she arose straightway."

Luke 8

The Son of the Widow of Nain

"Now when he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow: and much people of the city was with her.  And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother."

Luke 7

I remember the day my heart was pierced with deep wounds.  And over time it slowly died. But when I found these stories... I knew that Jesus has wept because my heart died.  And He's been saying, "Weep not."
But with a heart that has died isn't it hard to hear compassion?

My favorite scripture is in 2 Kings 20:5
"I have heard thy prayer, I have seen thy tears: behold, I will heal thee."

If Christ can bring people back from the dead I know He can bring hearts back from the dead.
He can heal.

I know He can take my heart in His hands and say, "Maid, arise."


More thoughts:
One Year Ago
Surfacing
I'm A Survivor

Girl. You Better Work.

I had multiple fights/arguments/tiffs with each of my teachers last semester.  They all taught a section on classical conditioning which included a lesson teaching that, "Pretty people get what they want."  The teachers (and literature) explained that people who were pretty had more success in life, they got higher raises more often, they landed the job interviews, they got special treatment at restaurants and doctor's offices.  Pretty people are assumed to be trustworthy, friendly, and helpful.  Pretty people are likable.  This subject is driven home by research studies, psychological journals, statistics, and hours of lecture.

And it just gets under my skin.
I refuse to believe that pretty people get what they want based solely on their looks.

Then this happened:

My mom has a picture of my sisters and I on her desk.  A colleague stopped in, saw the picture, and asked about us.  My mom listed our recent accomplishments:

This one just won a Photoshop Guru Award.

This one ran a marathon this year and is editor of TABLE magazine.

This one has practically started a DIY enterprise with her blog

This one is single-handedly raising her 3 kids and really focuses on meditation and inner peace.

This one is at The University of Utah and just made the Dean's List and she's my favorite.
(That last part was about me and I elaborated on it a little.  Wert.)

She ended with something like, "They are all very successful women."
To which the other teacher responded:
"Well.  That's because they're pretty."

Stop.
Right.
There.

"They're pretty?"  Really?  "They're pretty."  And THAT'S why they're successful?


Pretty's got nothing to do with it.

You want a job?
You kick ASS on your resume.
You prep for your interview.
And you dress the part.

You want a raise?
You put in the hours.
You work harder.
You don't mess up.  Ever.
You be polite.
You don't procrastinate.
You earn it.

You want the big house?  The picket fence?  The pool?
You save your money.

You want a date with someone?
You ask them.

You want people to like you?
Be yourself.
Help out.
Tell the truth.

The way I've built my life was on purpose. 
I chose the man I married.
I asked him out.
I'm at the school I want to attend.
Getting the degree I want.
Getting the grades I want.
I ask questions.
I pick up new hobbies.
I sweat it out.
I push and I push and I push.
Kindly.
But I push.

I have dug in my heels over and over again.
I.  Don't.  Give. Up.

I work for it.

If that's a GPA, a job, or belting out some Cher on karaoke night.
I know I have what it takes.

You have what it takes too.
So, quit selling yourself short.

Quit saying, "They get their way because they're pretty."
That's insulting.
To me.

Because I have substance.

If you put this much more work into it.
If you tried.
You'd be amazed.

There's nothing more annoying than hearing, "I could never do that" and "I don't have the time."
Because 1.  Yes you can.  If someone can, you can.  If no one ever has... you still can.
And 2.  Everyone has the same amount of time. 24 hours.  You have the time.  Quit being lazy.

So the next time you call me pretty... and I say "Thanks"... know it's because I assume you also know that I am wickedly smart.  I am talented.  I've got a lot more to offer than just my billion dollar smile.


 

On a test last semester the following question was posted:

You are in charge of planning the debate for your political party's campaign this Saturday afternoon.  The topics are heavy and not very interesting.  Based on what you've learned about Classical Conditioning who would you pick to be your speaker?

A.  A non-attractive person who is funny but does not know the material very well.
B.  An non-attractive person who does not know the material very well.
C.  An attractive person who may or may not know the material.
D.  A person who knows the material very very well.

The correct answer was "C."  I put "D."  And wrote under it, "You'd be stupid not to."

The Baby Hummingbird.

A few weeks ago I found a baby hummingbird in our yard.
He was the size of a quarter.
But couldn't have been as heavy.
Small.  Fuzzy.
I thought he was a big bug at first.
But when me and Kole went out to see what was hopping around and making all that fuss...
It was a baby hummingbird.
I didn't touch him.
I watched him try to fly.
He was stuck under a blade of grass.
I wanted his Mom to be able to find him.
So I moved the grass.

Me and Kole went back inside and watched him flitter from the window.

I worried about that little hummingbird.
How did he end up in our lawn?
Did he fall and get hurt?
How will he eat anything?
Should I feed him something?
Like what?
Can he fly?
Is he old enough to take care of himself?
Does his Mom know where he is?
Does he know where his home is?
Is he scared?
Is he making a noise his Mom can hear that I can't?

His Mom flew down and hovered over him.
And I quit worrying as much.

I watched the Mom fly down and hover around him.
She'd wait until he looked up at her, and saw her.
She'd feed him.
She'd hover.
She'd feed him.
She'd hover.
Then.
She stopped flying.
And she rested next to him.
With her head on his body it was like she was saying Don't worry, little guy.  I'm gonna get you home.

Then.
She'd fly away.

In 10 minutes or so she'd be back.
Feeding, hovering, feeding, hovering, and resting.
She reassured her little hummingbird that he would be okay.

After the visits the baby would beat his wings.
Trying tremendously to follow her.
But he couldn't get lifted off the ground.
He'd beat himself into a tired tizzy.
And the Mom would come back and rest by him.

When Ken got home I showed him our little baby hummingbird.
I told him how the Mom had been coming to take care of him all day.
I told him I worried that it was getting dark.
Our yard has a lot of animals.  Something is going to get him.
Ken showed me the baby hummingbird had a bent wing.
Ken built a nest out of a blueberry box and nailed it to the tree.
We placed the baby hummingbird into his new safe home.
I smiled.
He was safe.

But.
After dinner, I was watching out the window.
And..
that Mom came back.
She fluttered right down to the spot in the grass where she left her little baby.
He wasn't there anymore.
We put him in a nest.
I told her.
He's safe!
Fly higher.
You'll find him.
Fly higher.
He's safe.

But that Mom just kept flying down to the same spot.
Right where she had last cared for him.
At first she flew down.
Circled.
And flew off.
Within 10 minutes she was back.
But she landed on the ground.
Then, she flew off.
Her visits became more frequent.
She'd fly in and float.
Then fly off.

On one visit, she flew in and
She just hovered in one spot.
The spot where she left him.
Panicky.
Frantic.
Searching.
She couldn't see him.
5 feet away.
She couldn't see him.
Where is he?
He needs food.
It's getting dark.
It'll get cold.
He's hurt.
Where is he?
This is where he has been all afternoon.
Maybe he is flying.
Maybe he is ok.
Where is he?
He needs food.
It's getting dark.
It'll get cold.
He's hurt.
Where is he?
 
Up until dark (when I couldn't see anymore), every time I looked out the window, that Mom was drifting in the spot where she left her baby bird.


And.
And.
That little baby hummingbird in the dumb new safe nest I made for him.
Was probably terrified.

Where am I?
Where is my Mom?
Why isn't she here anymore?
I'm getting hungry.
And tired.
Everything hurts.
Where is my Mom?
She was coming to take me home...
Where did she go?
She'll come back.
I need her.
She'll come back.
I'm hungry.
I'm tired.
I hurt.
Where is she?

She was 5 feet away and he couldn't see her.
He didn't know how hard she was trying to find him.
How she wasn't giving up.
How she flew and hovered with urgency.
And soon, with desperation.
He didn't know that she quit flying away.
And that she just stayed there.
Floating.
Hoping to see him again. 
And take care of him.
He just...
...didn't know.



It's been nearly a month.
I haven't seen any hummingbirds in my yard since that day.

Me and the Kids..and Strangers

I feel constant pressure, constant gazes, constant spoken and unspoken opinions about what I'm doing as a mother.  There's news articles, entire magazines, blogs, and forums all about how to be the best mom.  How to throw the best party.  How to "do it all."  How to cook gourmet with toddlers.  How to paint murals with the help of your kids.
They'll tell you what to put it your diaper bag.  What NOT to put in your diaper bag.  The optimum speed to drive for kids to sleep in the car.  The perfect age for potty training.  The best time to start play dates.  The minimum and maximum time limits for sleep, reading, TV, and learning.
How long meals should last.  How to effectively use time-out. How to decorate dinner to make it look like a clown face.  How to make your own Halloween costume and host a neighborhood costume party for 300+ people.  
Then there are humans with their advices. "You're so smart for bringing toys to the sandbox."  "Oooo, you should have brought more water."  "Oh, you let your kids pick their own outfits?"  "If he were my kid I wouldn't let him use markers yet."  "Trust me, counting to 3 never works."  "Your kids are so well behaved."  "Church is really hard with little ones, you are so brave."  "You can let him play with your iPhone, you know."  "You need to read more to them."  "They should be outside more."  "You need to spend more time teaching." "Take more time for yourself."  "You're playing with them too much.  Make them play alone." "You should put his shoes on him if he's going to play outside."


I don't know if it's because I'm young.  (Not that young peeps.)  Or because I look like I need advice on rearing children minute by minute.  Or if people just know I'm polite and am good at making them feel good about themselves at the cost of my own feelings being hurt.  But this is alllllll the time.  And I just want to say, "It's my OWN backyard!  I know where all the broken glass and used needles are!  He doesn't need shoes!  Lee-me-alone!"


Ugh.
*sigh*
I've had enough of it.

My kids are well-loved.  They feel love all day and all night.  They like being close to me.  They like being held and snuggled.  Kole will pick 15 books, snuggle on my lap, and not move until all 15 are read.  Joey smiles every time we make eye contact.  He rubs his head against my leg like a little puppy when he wants picked up.  I know when their cries means hungry, tired, there's been an injustice, or finger stuck in drawer, respond quickly.  I know that Koley needs physical touch, lots of hugs and smooches, and chuggy chuggies and cuddles to feel loved.  I know Joey needs one on one play time to feel loved.  Well, ha, that and applause.  He's such a lime-light lover. 

And you know what I just figured out?

Kole and Joey love me.  That's why they are always smiling at me and laughing at me when I fall off of my chair on purpose.  That's why they want to be as close to me as they can be.  That's why they are always handing me things... trains, trucks, things they broke, garbage they found, crusty old food pieces.  They are sharing with me because they love me.  They copy my dance moves out of love.  Kole corrects me when I call a backhoe an excavator because he loves me. 

That's what matters.

I don't care what your opinion is of how I raise my children.  I'll listen to it because you'll say it loudly and to my face (and because I am a moral giant).  But it's not going to sink in.

My boys love me. 
They think I am the best Mom ever.
And they are what matters to me.

A Fundamental Code

"[Their] instant liking for each other had been rooted in their mutual recognition that the other was a woman like herself....  They shared a fundamental code, and were therefore secure in each other's company in a way that they were not with other women."
-A Casual Vacancy, J.K. Rowling

I've just experienced this in my life.

It doesn't matter that you like chocolate and candy in your icecream and she prefers fruit.
It doesn't matter that you're 4 or 9 or 13 years younger.
It doesn't matter that you never exercise and she runs marathons. (And halfs.)(And 5ks.)

It doesn't matter that you recommend book after book and she doesn't read.  Ever.
It doesn't matter that you root for opposing teams in sports, politics, and Twilight.
It doesn't matter that you don't like any of her favorite TV shows.
It doesn't matter that your kids are different ages and genders.
It doesn't matter that you love the smell of cigarettes and she is appalled by them.
It doesn't matter that your house is smaller, your car is older, and your bank account is tinier.

It doesn't matter.

She is like me.
And realizing that means I'm like her...(sigh) made my heart explode.

Give a Little, Take a Little

Back at election time I signed on to help President Obama campaign.  My efforts went as far as registering to vote and pledging to vote for him.  Of course, they asked for my e-mail address and dag nab it I was feeling so patriotic I gave them my real e-mail address.

At first, it was awesome.  I'd get e-mails from local supporters and the Bidens... and every once in awhile I'd get a gem from the First Lady 'erself.  Ol' Mikki and me.  She was always calling me her friend and asking for favors to help Barack.  And, since I consider myself a grade A friend, I was always willing to help out my new famous friends. 
Barack needs help pushing a bill through?  You got it, Sir!
Barack needs me to organize a calling tree and hold town hall meetings?  Anything for you! 
Michelle wants me to share what I love about her husband, the President?  Sure!  What's not to love! 
They need more likes on Facebook?  Why not!  It only takes two seconds. 
The election came, we won and I got a personalized thank you note. The deepest places in my heart, where I hide all my doubt, were warmed. 
Barack and Michelle appreciated me.  They called me Patty and I just felt certain that if I invited them to dinner, they'd show up.  Right on time.  Probably toting along a warm dessert.  And Michelle would compliment me on my outfit and ask to borrow my button up cardigan. 

Things were pretty rose colored there for while.  Barack took time out of is schedule to write me and tell me how much he needed me to stay close.  And I assured him I would be there every step of the way.

But I gotta tell ya.  Since then... you know...since the big inauguration... I haven't gotten as many e-mails from Michelle.  And I haven't gotten any from Barack.  I was getting one every couple a days from a Jon Carson.  Asking me to do this or that.  Pledge money, buy a t-shirt, pledge more money, call my senator or congressman, or pledge more money.  And, you know, he never once called me Patty.  It was always "friend."  Sorry Jon-o.  When it was Michelle calling me friend, she meant it.  With you... it feels a little pushed. 

It's been months since I've heard from Michelle.  Never wrote, never called, never said thanks after I mailed that hand written letter.  Broke my little democrat heart.  And then, last week I get an e-mail every day from Michelle.  All the sudden she needs something.  And she's asking me to step up and do what needs done to help her and Barack.  You know what, Michelle?  What about me?  What about MY needs?  I'm here giving everything all the time and I never get acknowledged.  I stand up for you guys and support you when things are bad and when things are good.  You only e-mail me when you need something.  How bout every once in awhile shooting something over just to check in, huh? Or here's one even better.  Why don't you e-mail me when you're going to do something for me.  Not when I have to do something for you.  Once, just once, send me an e-mail saying:
"Patty Old Friend, I've been doing a lot of thinking.  And you've helped tremendously.  I'm going to implement your idea to get rid of the national debt, send that Nobel Prize your way, and top it off with a Gap gift card as a way to say thanks.  You're the best Patty.  And I love your style.  Love always, Michelle"

Maybe then I would feel like I mattered.  You're the president's wife, after all.  You should be helping me.  Not the other way around, missy.

To be clear, I still love you both.  These kinds of (abusive) relationships are hard for me to let go of.  And I think you're both super hip and you have good intentions at heart.  But I'm just running on empty here. 
Maybe it'd be better if you didn't e-mail me for ahwhile.  I just need some time to think.

Thanks to me.  Good luck being so victorious without me holding your hand every step of the way.

F is for Fasebuken

Anytime Ken takes out the iPad Kole says, "You Fasebuken, Dad?"
Facebook.  Instagram.  Twitter.
We're all kinda up in each others' business.
At times it's amusing... I love those postcards with old fashioned people saying modern things.  Or just regular people saying funny things.

And sometimes, it's a little crushing.  It's easy to feel inferior.  Below par.  And inadequate.
My sister, Andi, sent me an article this morning from Relevant Magazine written by Shauna Niequist.
It's been what Andi and I have been realizing, what we needed to hear, and what I want to share.

The danger of the Internet is that it’s very very easy to tell partial truths—to show the fabulous meal but not the mess to clean up afterward. To display the smiling couple-shot, but not the fight you had three days ago. To offer up the sparkly milestones but not the spiraling meltdowns.

True, right, RIGHT?!  Why aren't people... people anymore?  Everyone (according to the Internet) has perfect families, perfect homes, and perfect BMIs.  What's the other option, Shauna?


Community happens when we hear each other’s actual voices, when we enter one another’s actual homes, with actual messes, around actual tables telling stories that ramble on beyond 140 pithy characters.
 
But seeing the best possible, often-unrealistic, half-truth version of other peoples’ lives isn’t the only danger of the Internet. Our envy buttons also get pushed because we rarely check Facebook when we’re having our own peak experiences. We check it when we’re bored and when we’re lonely, and it intensifies that boredom and loneliness.

Some days, I feel like I have nothing to offer, like I must be the only one who isn’t a graphic designer and hasn’t yet managed to display her entire darling life online with lots of chevron and mint accents. I feel so certain that my life is a lot less darling than other peoples’ lives.

But that’s the Internet. The nature of it. I so easily fall prey to the seduction of other people’s partial truths and heavily filtered photos, making everything look amazing. And their amazing looking lives make me feel not amazing at all.

Although we come on here for entertainment, how often are we left truly entertained?  Or uplifted?  Or do you sign off feeling belittled?  Inferior?  Deflated?  Or Disheartened.

If that's the case when you read my blog then by all means break up with me.  I mean- look at my pics and you'll be able to tell I'm a 26-34-26.  And my kids are angelic messengers from above who ne'er step out of line.  And my house... oh pardon.... my mansion is spic and span thanks to my maid.  But even if something I once said- or how I portray my life leaves you feeling less than who you are.... this needs to be our goodbye.

Shauna ended in the same way I wish to end:

Let’s choose community. Let’s stop comparing. Let’s start connecting.

Her full article is here.

Last year's A to Z: F is for Fluffer Nutter.  It's about growing up with all sisters and how the "F-word" evolved in our house.

Joey's Veggie Tales

Joey has Cradle Cap.  Which I often call Cradle Crap on accident.  It's a tongue twister in my book.  The name Cradle Crap makes more sense.  It's crappy that there is no reason for it.  It's crappy there is no real cure for it.  It looks crappy.  And makes me feel like a crappy mom when people look at Joey's head and then give me one of those squinty eyes head shaking looks.  That say, "Give that poor urchin a bath.  Scrub his poor peeling head."
I do!, I plead, It doesn't go away!  Nothing makes it go away!  Cast your looks elsewhere!

This is the Wikipedia's baby.  He has Cradle Cap too.

 It doesn't cause any pain or discomfort.  It just looks snake-y.  And not in a cool Slytherin way.  (Who am I kidding? Slytherin isn't cool, you Death Eater.)  When Joe had his 6 month check up the doctor said he heard a wives tale that you could rub oil on it and let it soak for a half hour and then it would be gone.  When I asked what kind of oil, I expected to hear something like Patchouli Oil imported from Egypt.  But he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Baby oil?"
Yeah.  Duh, Patty.  Baby oil.  That makes sense.  And it's like $1.50 at Walgreens.
However, Joey's appointment was over a month ago and I still haven't committed that $1.50 to help his head.  So, I got it in my head that if Baby Oil would work... wouldn't any oil?
Wouldn't Vegetable Oil?
Wouldn't Wesson's 100% Natural Best Blend A Blend of Pure Vegetable & Canola Oils ?

I had that in the cupboard.  Couldn't hurt.  Right?
I convinced Ken to rub it onto Joey's little head.  Joey just smiled and smiled.  Like all puppies, Joey likes getting his head rubbed.
We let it soak in for 30 minutes and then threw him in the tub.
And....

Healed.
Plus... his hair is super soft and shiny now.  I'm thinking I might bring the Wesson bottle in the shower with me and see what happens.  Couldn't hurt.  Right?

Anonymous

Remember when Anonymous was associated with something nice, pleasant, and usually uplifting?  Someone "anonymously" raked all my leaves.  An "anonymous" donor gave the money for the library. Or you got a letter from your secret admirer signed "Anonymous."  Well, maybe you did- but I wasn't ever really secretly (or openly) admired in 4th grade when those letters were all the hype.  Psht.  Don't know why.  I thought bluish old lady glasses, fully buttoned shirts, brushed out perms, and Chiclet teeth were what the boys were after back in '94.
Anonymous was so mysterious and generous.  To be Anonymous was the Ultimate in brotherly kindness.  You did something compassionate and then didn't take any credit for it.  You were Anonymous.  Highly regarded among mystics and library card holders.
But now, with the Internet, Anonymous means something completely different.  It means you can say whatever you want without consequences. Being Anonymous has given people the liberty to say things they would never say to some one's face (or even out loud) and post it where everyone and anyone can read it and jump on the Anonymous Band Wagon themselves.  Often without using a form of spell check.

Being Anonymous has always seemed cool to me but when did being mean also become cool?

The Anonymous Commenter needs to stop.  Belittling and attacking someone simply because they don't know who you are doesn't provide entertainment for that long, does it?  Calling someone a bad mom, a bad person, or swearing?  Really?  Do you know that hurts.  To be called those things?  No matter what level of self-esteem you are soaring on... those comments hurt.  Because the person reading them is real.  The person reading them is not Anonymous.  Real.  And attacked on a personal level being called by their own name. 

Anonymous doesn't mean invisible.
What you say is visible.

However... if you insist on being Anonymous... get back to the roots.  Bring Anonymous out of the mud and back to the gold standard it previously enjoyed!  Leave an Anonymous comment.  A nice one.  A comment that will leave the author smiling for days.  Partly because they have no idea who sent it.  Become the secret admirer.
Stay Anonymous.  Change the stereotype.

Valentine's in 3 Parts

PART I

Top 10 Reasons Ken Loves Me (I Bet)

1.  I ask but never force him to participate in Harry Potter Marathons.
2.  I clean the kitchen once every 24 hours.
3.  I'm very good about shutting the door when I'm in the bathroom.
4.  I work out in order to keep up a sexy physique.   Shooting for two trips to the gym this week.  Wert.
5.  I make sure his shirts are ironed.  Sometimes he does the ironing.  I just make sure their done before work.

Uh oh. I could only come up with 5.  5 semi-good reasons.  I serious married up when I married Ken.  And he reminds me alllll the time.  No.  Not really.  I remind him though.  And I like to tell him how lucky I feel and how loved I feel with him in my life.  Because I do.

PART II

Top 10 Reasons I Love Ken

1.  He can watch a really boring show about engineering bridges and by the end I am totally into it and want to learn more about how exactly they make the steel do that?  And how many other areas can benefit?  And is there a sequel to "Bridges of Northeast Vermont"?
2.  He cooks dinner.  Every.  Night.  Not kidding.  And it's the good stuff.  Nothing frozen.  He enjoys it.  Which is totally awesome because the few nights I've volunteered to make dinner to take a load off of him... it's been awful.  The food is awful (and not cooked enough) and the experience is awful.  
3.  He is really good at driving in reverse and pulling into parking spots.  
4.  He reads.  All kinds of books.  I think he is on his 7th or 8th book this YEAR!  
5.  He grew his beard again.
6.  He wants to spend time with the boys and gets his version of upset if one of them is in bed early before he gets home.
7.  His version of upset goes no further than mildly irritated.   
8.  He's book smart and mechanically smart.  
9.  He'll take a short shower so I can have all the hot water.
10.  He laughs at my jokes.  
11.  He can see potential in unwanted things.
12.  He keeps a journal.
13.  He tells me when my clothes don't match.
14.  He makes the weekends special without having to go somewhere.
15.  If I have a plan or an idea or a dream he makes it happen.
16.  Everytime he burps he acts like he's never done it before.
17.  He knows when the teasing has reached a not fun point and is able to stop.
18.  He makes really good angel food cake.

18!  Already!  Yoiks!  It's easy to love Ken.

PART III

When we were growing up our mom taught us that Valentine's Day is about love.  Not about relationships.  Growing up my mom would make cut out hearts and they'd be laying at our spots at the table when she called us in for breakfast and morning scripture study.  She'd write "Cutie Pie" or "Honey Bun" on it and it'd be accompanied with a little candy treat.  It always made me feel very special.  And loved.  I think this helped me feel like it didn't matter if I was "alone" on the Big Day.  I was loved.  Valentine's Day is a day to eat the foods you love.  Wear the clothes you love.  And tell anyone you love- that you DO love them.        
I'm teaching Koley the same thing.
Today we had his favorite food for breakfast.  Donuts.  We made valentines for our neighbors (because we love them) and he put his favorite (Cars) stickers on them.  We are going to have corndogs for lunch and we is wearing his favorite outfit.  Sweat pants and a Thomas shirt.  
Today is all about Love.

I can remember being little and having the Valentine's Day party at school coming up.  Mom and Dad said we should make our Valentines.  And bear in mind... this was 20 years ago.  WAY before homemade stuff was "cool."  Dad made them in Word and we cut them out.  Colored them.  Glitter is coming to mind.  And wrote PERSONAL messages to our classmates. Not just signed our names!  We expressed ourselves! I can still remember one of the valentines had monkeys laughing in a barrel and it had typed something like "I Like Monkeying Around With You!"  I didn't want to give that one out to anyone.  But at the end of the night... it was the last one left and I had one more classmate to write one to.  I gave it Michael Lakatos.  Who I didn't want to give one to at all.  Probably because I was in 3rd grade and liked him.  And giving him a valentine would make my crush very obvious.  

I don't remember what happened at the party.  Did he notice?  Did he cherish it?  Did he embarrass me and I have blocked it out?   Hmmm.  Not sure.  Not sure.

Doesn't matter.  I've got my Valentiner- Kenner.
And two little wanna-be Kenners here that love me.
And it's totally mutual.