Artistic Endeavors

As I try each day to be "practical", to go to my "job" (the one that earns me money for things like food, shelter, clothing and medical care), I wonder what I'm missing. What am I giving up in order to have those needs met? My answer more and more has become a creative outlet. Yes, yes, I do legitimately need a home and the rest of the basic necessities. And, yes, most often, money is the most straightforward way of acquiring those things. But at what cost? What feels like too high of a price to me? In short, the way I've been approaching life is too high of a price, missing out on much of the boys' childhoods, missing out on chances to create my art in words, photography, crocheted objects d'art or whatever other medium happens to strike my fancy.

To that end, I have been endeavoring to start where I am, thanks in part to Chris Gardner, thanks in larger part to my family and friends who have always listened to my ideas, my hopes, my dreams with open hearts and who haven't faulted me for not always reaching as far as I perhaps could have.

What Gives?

Two words: I do.

No, this is not a "look how great I am because I have donated a bazillion dollars to XYZ charity."

No, this is not a "sing my praises because I gave selflessly and you should pat me on the back."

Really, this is more of a "I'm worn slap out and I feel like I'm drained of vital fluids - might you help me figure out how to refill my tank?"

There it is. I've done so much but managed to not do just as much. When does this checkbook get balanced because I seriously have a few more critical entries to make but funds are low and I'm on the edge.

The precipice is sneaking up on me, falling away a bit at a time, forcing me no alternative than to peer over the lip. I cannot see all the way to the bottom, what with all the fog and fire-breathing dragons.

I'm going to bed now and as I settle in for a (hopefully) pleasant snooze, I'll wonder if I could have made this entry more unusual or perhaps whether I might have worked in a few other random metaphors.

Quiet Memories

I think that anyone who contemplates the intrinsic mysteriousness of life has in their metaphorical suitcase an incident or memory that is, for them, the quintessential moment of connection with something greater than "me". Maybe that memory isn't infallible, but I'd like to think that it is the use to which we put our memories that is important, not the scribe-like quality we might hope that memory could have. I don't think I can link to the post that elicited these thoughts (as it's on a friend's Facebook page) and in the interest of maintaining her privacy, I'm not going to share her name here. The core of her piece that moved me to words is a belief she holds that she is destined, as it were, for something larger than even the amazing accomplishments she's already achieved - something greater than her single self in which she will take part and thereby improve by giving that most precious and abundant resource: love.

I've worked hard on a number of occasions to give voice to a similar feeling I've had for as long as I can recall. Perhaps it's become embellished in my mind, but I consider that serendipitous - that the idea, feeling, compulsion, drive has a life of its own which keeps it growing toward manifestation. That's a good an explanation of any that Spirit / Unity / God works in our lives without our having to be consciously aware of the connective force going about its business.

When I give myself over to stillness and quiet the thoughts that race unceasingly through my overcrowded cranium, it is very easy to sense that there's a larger whole of which I am a part and which simultaneously is a sum greater than its constituent parts. When I allow that sense to fill me up, push out the extraneous bits, "defrag my hard drive", I feel peace. The same peace I had as a child, standing in a newly mown field adjacent to our school playground, gathering up the dead, dried grass to make a bird's nest. What I couldn't have known then but see clearly now is that I was learning about cycles of nature: the death of the grass gave in turn a home for the birds in which they could raise their young. Just a small part of a large cycle, but holding the nest in my hands, I could feel the remnant life of the grass, clearly see it connect with the life inside myself. I could imagine myself a cat creeping through the tall grass, stalking the bird making its nest. I could imagine myself the bird, doing birdy things, soaring through the air, and gathering worms for my cheeping babies. All of which made re-entering the school building at recess end an endeavor of re-entering my physical body, taking back on the heavier feeling of walking about in this corporeal form. I would have been about 9 or 10 years old at the time yet I can recall enough scraps to reconstruct a beautiful picture that holds meaning for me now, 25 years later.

I've never lost that ability to set myself loose. Indeed, I've endured a fair bit of good-natured ribbing for being in my "own little world". I don't mind, and I never will mind - it is when I'm in my own little world that I feel most complete and connected to all elements of creation.

Oh, Are You?

"Oh, are you blogging again?"

This question, innocently asked by a dear, dear friend, has sparked yet another round of self-inquiry. For years I've felt like I was on the cusp of something. Something incredible, something wonderful, something life-changing. Then nothing happens.

At least, nothing happened with the fanfare I apparently expected. Ten years ago I was on the cusp of entering into a relationship with the man who would become my husband. That was something special. Nearly eight years ago that man became my hubby when we made vows to one another. That was something really wonderful. Five-and-a-half years ago, my eldest son Noodle was born. THAT was life-changing (to say the least). Two-and-a-half years ago I made a career change that has opened up a whole new world of employment opportunities for me. That was incredible. Just last Christmastime, my little munchkin arrived just in time to be a late but lovely gift. That, again, was truly life-changing.

Perhaps the reason I feel like "nothing" is what's happened is because I'm considering only the one part of the whole I consider "me" that I feel to be lagging behind: my writing. It's like a forgotten room in my brain that is occasionally cracked open so something else can be chucked inside before the door is slammed shut for an undisclosed duration. Sometimes I loll in the doorway, surveying the morsels and nuggets and hidden gems within. I smile sadly in their direction and close the door again.

What am I hiding in there? What am I hiding in my brain? Why am I hiding at all? What, in heavens name, could possibly cause me to be so afraid? I'm hiding behind very tangible walls: 50 lbs. of bodily "padding", pony-tailed hair, unremarkable eyeglasses, Mommy jeans. I am proud of my mind, humbled by both its capacity and its foibles. Why hide so deep inside this carefully maintained fortress?

I confess: I do not know the answers to my own questions. Perhaps it's time I break out.

Good Heavens - Great Scott!

Even though it's been a terribly long time and I've intended to get over here more times than I care to admit, I was nearly thwarted yet again. No, it wasn't a kid this time. No, it wasn't any other responsibility. It was Google! I swear that I used to be able to go through Google to get to my Blogger account... Apparently I've lost that ability somewhere along the line.

So, there's the perfunctory opening babble out of the way. Perhaps I ought to just skip it next time (did I just hear a "YAY!!!"?). Anyone who's spent any time around me at all knows that I talk a lot. I also tell stories. I talk about ideas I have for stories I'd like to write. I talk about books and letters and articles that I'd love to share. Yet... yet... I haven't.

I have a beautiful friend who blogs every day. I have another lovely amie who blogs quite frequently. They don't let the excuses of motherhood or responsibility stop them and I applaud them loudly (insert audio file of clapping here). Why aren't I more like them? Makes me think of that song on The Jungle Book. I wanna be like them! They write thoughtful, relevant, cogent pieces. (Have I mentioned how tickled I am to be friends with such incredible ladies?)

So, rather than beat myself over the head (yet again), I'll resolve to take another little step forward. Who knows? This time it could build on all the others just enough to give me the quantum leap forward that I'm really looking for!

Truly, Deeply

In Love - My husband fulfills me in ways that I didn't know I needed fulfilling.

In Mommy - For the first time, I love being a Mommy, even when there's spit-up on my bare shoulder.

In Awe - Of the hardships and challenges my family and friends endure and through which they find the strength to thrive.

Grace-full

An ex-boyfriend was fond of saying that I start every story with, “I was sitting on the toilet the other day when…” He was exaggerating (though only slightly) but I have become aware of a tendency of mine to tell stories on my friends. Let that be a warning to all my once and future friends – I will likely tell your story to someone else at some point in time. Important details, like your name, may or may not enter into the picture.

Upon further self-examination, I found that my reason for retelling others’ stories falls generally into one or the other of two categories: I’m trying to understand the story better myself or I feel that the story has bearing on the listener’s situation. I am not always conscious that I have engaged in one of these retellings nor am I often concerned with placing a story into a category or context before it starts spewing forth. The stories arise of their own volition and I suddenly find myself sharing things that the stories’ owners may or may not be prepared to share. Apparently, my storytelling apparatus cares not whether it is engaged in impropriety, however, because try as I might to apply a modicum of control, stories belonging to others continue to flow from me to new ears. This has caused some strife (especially within my family) though not enough for me to completely subdue my impulses.

Lately my difficulty has been even more perplexing. I have all these stories gathered and I’m being drawn to share them with an even wider audience, in written form instead of passed along orally. Since I was quite young, I’ve always considered myself a writer whether I am actively writing or not. Now that this new passion is gripping me, I find the words difficult to wrangle into their proper place on the page. Why do I want to share these stories? Why am I having such difficulty? Am I not supposed to share? Is telling the truth just really hard? Or is it that I want to be true to the content of the experience while learning how not to always share all of the TRUTH?

I argued ardently and at length with an exasperated professor in my first Creative Writing class during my sophomore year in college over telling the TRUTH. Two of my characters shared the same first name and he said that detail made the story difficult to understand. Why didn’t I just change one of their names? My impassioned answer was, “They have to have the same name because that’s how it really happened!” I railed on for quite some (yawn) time and never did concede during the course of the class that he was right. The duplicate names made the story unnecessarily confusing and just because “it really happened that way” did not make it a good story.

After a discussion about Elizabeth Gilbert’s wonderful book Eat, Pray, Love, a friend suggested that a couple of us choose words for ourselves and for each other: one word that exemplified or encapsulated us. I chose “blue” for one friend and “capable” for another. My own word was more elusive. Finally I rested on “sunshine”. I often feel bright and cheerful. When I don’t, I can be scathing. Other sunshine-related descriptors come to mind: warmth, life-giving, bold, harsh, center of the solar system, part of a galaxy, tiny speck in the universe. (I wonder if my husband might say, “Celestial body,” ha ha.) Sunshine is a word that can express those qualities I am proudest of as well as those I recognize as areas ripe for improvement. My friend who suggested this exercise blessed me with two words for which I cannot thank her enough: “beautiful” and “grace”. I find it difficult to simply accept these gifts with an honest and whole-hearted thank you. My tendency would be to find reasons why I don’t embody those words. Instead, I would like to express my gratitude by not slipping into self deprecation. When I looked up “grace” at Dictionary.com, I found a long, multi-part definition. Two particular definitions jumped out at me:

grace –noun
1. elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action.
2. the influence or spirit of God operating in humans to regenerate or strengthen them.

Obviously, the first one is amazingly flattering. The second one feels very comfortable to me, like returning home from vacation to a clean house. The “influence… of God” is something I’ve been feeling keenly during the past two years, especially in a regenerative sense. It might be worth a brief mention that my concept of “God” doesn’t equal the modern Christian definition of the same word, but it’s the word I still feel most comfortable using.

So here, then, is the point of this ramble: I would like to call on this Grace to strengthen my resolve to finally get my work “out there,” in the hands of publishers, without all the attendant fears, worries, procrastination and foot-dragging I’ve been doing these many years. It’s a prayer of sorts, that I have the right words to set down in the right order at the right time and I’m jumping in the water fully clothed, asking only that I don’t drown.

Good-for-Your Soul Food

This evening's dinner fare was inspired in part by my continued reading of The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. It was cobbled together from a slightly unlikely assortment of ingredients: whole clove garlic, hearty wheat bread loaf, corn, leeks, kale, olive oil, sweet balsamic vinegar, salt and pepper.

The garlic roasted whole in the oven while I sauteed the corn kernels (sliced from the cob) in olive oil with the sliced and halved leeks. When all was nearing completion, I turned the heat low under the corn and leeks, added the roasted garlic, vinegar and kale then turned the mixture over until the kale was bright green and wilted but not mushy. I ate the rather tasty concoction along with the wheaty bread dipped in olive oil, salt and pepper.

Heavenly: A meal you prepare yourself in full knowledge of each ingredient and whose sum total is greater than that of its parts, food which nourishes your body as well as your mind. (Also, the addition of a good book with which to sup cannot be over estimated.) Happy dining!

Why WFWY*?

The reasons are myriad.

I grew up in the southern, central part of Michigan, surrounded by crop fields of all sorts. Wait, that’s not entirely accurate. I spent my early childhood moving state to state across the United States and landed in Michigan for a greater period of time than anywhere else during my first ten years.

In retrospect, a great number of the places of which I have memories were more rural than urban. Living on the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia, we had a modest-sized garden, grape vines and goats. In western central Florida, we had direct access to the natural world – there was a canal bordering our backyard in which there were sometimes alligators. When we lived on a logging road in Washington, we could see Mt. Hood (Oregon) in the not-too-far-off distance. In Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, well, I don’t remember the landscape all that well because I was quite young, but I know it wasn’t “Big City”.

What does that have to do with eating whole foods? I think those experiences created for me a strong perception that it is possible to live off of the land. I admit that I don’t have the knowledge required to do so. (How many of us – there are some – do?) The time has come when I feel a strong desire to acquire more of that sort of knowledge. For me, knowing where my food comes from – and exactly WHAT my food is – has become of paramount importance to me. I am tired of eating just any cheap, readily available food. Furthermore, I am convinced that no one should WANT to eat “as cheaply as possible” and I’d like to bring as many of you along on my journey as I can.

Anyone game?

(*WFWY: Whole Foods for a Whole Year)

Whole Foods for a Whole Year aka WFWY

Before I begin documenting my progress toward a more whole foods-based diet, I thought a little explanation and planning were in order. Being (somewhat) realistic about the constraints on my time, I plan to post on a weekly basis for now. Those of you who peruse this blog's archives prior to today will find that this is actually a pretty ambitious goal for me. : )

I plan on using a loose template so all the posts will have a familiar structure - and so that I can keep my wits about me instead of flying all around the map!

A little more about my impetus: I've incorporated a number of natural foods into my diet over the course of my adult years. As a child and (broke) college student, I ate a rather deplorable diet of soda pop, hot dogs, snack foods and fast food. It was while I was in college that I first began to challenge my long held (though largely unconcious) beliefs about food. Now I'm a married mother-of-two who's always striving for a healthful alternative to mainstream gustatory fare... Though often enough falling short of the target.

As they say, when you put intention toward anything, it begins to take on new life. So here's to the life of my life. After all, what is food if not your link to continued existence?

Whole Foods for a Whole Year

Wooo - It's a big challenge. I'm throwing down the gauntlet for myself after starting to read Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. For the past several years I have strived, to a greater or lesser extent, to eat more whole foods than the average American. I avoid fast food much of the time as well as the middle of the supermarket. My commitment, however, has wavered on many occasions.

Sooo - what will it take for me to improve my eating habits and those of my family? I will acknowledge at the outset that I am fortunate not to have one particular obstacle that many people have: my hubby will (I'm sure) gladly follow me down this path. (Thanks, babe!)

Come join me - I'll be making the effort to blog my progress with the intent of reminding myself of what I've accomplished. What comes first? Looking at where I am right now, defining my starting point, and examining where I think I'd like to see myself in a year's time.

Let the games begin!

The Engineer

Okay, so I'm beginning to wonder if the Noodle Dude is going to be an engineer. He loves order and creating new things using unusual combinations of toys. Here's one such creation:

Now he's even starting to do it with words, too. This evening, we were sitting in the office and he was playing with letter magnets. His set isn't that large so that after he spelled "CAT" and "MAT", he didn't have any more A's left. What he wanted to spell was "A cat on a mat." Here was his (phonetic) solution:

Brilliant little booger!

Where's My Camera?

How often have you wanted your camera when it was inaccessible?

How often have those moments occurred when you were on the toilet?

No, this isn't going to be a sophmoric essay about massive poo. No, not at all. What captured my desire to have a camera available was a small train that came zooming under the door as I sat "enthroned". It was followed by a small hand I knew to be attached to the larger of the two small people in my home. The moment provided the quintessential image of parenthood - constant, never-ending, unceasing attention. To everything. Coupled with an utter lack of privacy.

Anyway, the scene made me giggle, always a welcome event, and I regretted the lack of photographic equipment.

And, yeah, it's been a while - I'm not interested in dwelling on the matter.

Once and Future Queen

Queen Bitch, that is.

I have been losing whatever patience I had with the Noodle Dude lately. Seems he's lost (or stifled) the ability to L.I.S.T.E.N. It doesn't much matter what I am saying, he apparently hears, "Wah, wha, wah, wha, wha" like the Peanuts adults.

Grrrr!

So, enter my past and present BFF: Bach Flower Essences Rescue Remedy!

These little bottles contain liquid calm - it is so effective that when I was smack in the throes of PPD after Noah's birth (gawd, that was an AWFUL time) and I took this stuff, I almost invariably passed out. Knowing it's effect, I was careful to take it when someone else was there to mop up the spit up and change the shitty-bum diapers.

Now it's more a matter of threshhold resetting. When my tolerence for the life of a 4-year-old is on a razor thin edge, I place a couple drops under my tongue or pop in a pastille and the borderline recedes to a safe distance. Flying blocks and banging magnets, scooters in the living room and random too loud noises are much less stree-inducing.

Funny warning comes with the pastilles - appears they have a slightly laxative effect. Good thing it usually only takes ONE to do the job! (Of keeping me calm, not getting things moving.)

As The Little Globe Spins

I'm feeling a little sleepy even though I didn't get up terribly early AND I took a nap this afternoon. This holiday weekend provided me with a well-timed break. I got to play in a lake all day on Friday with a good friend, just hang around and relax today, and I still have tomorrow to do "responsible" things, like laundry and bill paying.

There's one more thing I've been asked to do tomorrow as well: create a memorial DVD for a close friend who lost her mother on Thursday. Perhaps that's part of why I feel drained. Let me explain - I am honored to help my friend remember her mother. At the same time, I have to put up a wall to keep my own heart from breaking, protect myself from the inevitable worry about my own mother's mortality. I still have two living grandparents, so it's almost inconceivable to me that either of my parents could possibly pass.

Juxtaposed with those largely ignored feelings, I have been feeling the first little twinges of new life in my belly. My sister, currently pregnant with her first child, described it feeling to her like an "angel running in place". Probably my favorite description ever.

So the little globe spins and the cycle continues...

1779/1476

Stumped? Yeah, well, that's the number of emails in my inbox SLASH the number that are unread.

Scratch that. That's what it displayed this morning before I finally went through the mess and cut it down to less than 50. How the hell did it get so freakin' bad?!?! I'm essentially lazy. Wait, I've been here before. Okay, so perhaps I'm not lazy exactly, but I am a procrastinator. And who has time to adjust the settings on their email to get rid of more SPAM? Or delete the emails you've read and don't need to save (do we really need to save any emails ever)? Or unsubscribe from fifty-thousand sites that you don't even remember having given your email address to in the first place?

I dunno. Guess now that it's empty, it'll be easier to keep clean. Right? Hah! And I'll get plenty of sleep after the baby's born, too!

This Is What Happens, Part 2

This one was supposed to go with the first part, but Blogger ate the video.
Good ol' YouTube came to the rescue!

This Is What Happens...

... when you give a 4-year-old a camera.

... when he takes pictures of Mommy.

... when he gets a pretty good shot.

(Good thing it's a digital - he took THIRTY altogether.)

... when you find a gargantuan creepie crawly in your bathroom.

(He's waiting for transport outside. What? You didn't think I was going to take him out myself?!? He really was scary.)


... when you try to take a picture of your own butt because you can't believe it's growing as fast as it is.

(It's never a great thing that your arse is taking on larger proportions, even when you are pregnant.)

Sometimes I Wonder

I haven't left myself much time for a post today. I've started drafting two other posts, but neither is ready yet.

So I'll just go with what stumped me today. This is what was open in a browser window when I got home from work today:

So, the screen shot smaller than I thought it'd be and I don't feel like making it bigger. It's a video explaining why the moon landing is a hoax. I know the 4-yr.-old wasn't watching it. I doubt the cat was. Which leaves only one suspect.

What did we do before YouTube?!?

Oh, to be Pioneer Woman…

I had a post mostly ready yesterday then found myself too stretched for time. (Yeah, yeah, so I used my blogging time to post photos of my little dude on Facebook for friends and family.) Maybe I’ll blame it on Kyddryn’s lovely chicken! (Because, you know, I couldn’t have used her wireless internet to post last night or anything and did I really need that nap I took?)

On to today’s muse – to inimitable The Pioneer Woman. I fully admit that I have only read a very modest portion of her lovely site yet find myself in awe, jealous and ultimately inspired. (Over TEN THOUSAND comments on one post?!? One-zero-comma-zero-zero-zero?!? I know she was giving away a $500 gift card but DANG!) Her photography alone has a special sort of magic that most can only covet. Her storytelling and language is so free and honest and accessible. You literally forget that you’re reading words printed on a cold, unforgiving computer screen. Please, please, if you have not, check her out. (Though I’m almost sure you have, seeing as I’m a bit late in jumping on the bandwagon. Or maybe hers is a chuck wagon, eh?)

I might just have found a new girl-crush…

Insatiable

As of late, I've been experiencing an unsatiable lust for blogging - from reading and writing to commenting and even discussing with blogger friends. Want proof? It's not even 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, when I usually linger in bed until at least 8:00 or 9:00!

I've recently read posts that not only drew commentary from me, but have stayed with me, haunting me with fears, reminding me of pains I'd forgotten, informed me of trials I've yet to experience. Some women's writing has stuck me as so bold and audacious that I could only wish to express myself as they do - stark and clear and no room for weenies OR misinterpretation.

And, inevitably, I begin to feel a bit of blog envy when I see sites with comments consistently in the double or triple digits. I wish them well, wonder how they did it, realize there's a VERY good reason why their sites have made it to the top of the barrel.

For so long (the years are getting hard to count exactly, but more than a decade's worth have expired) I have wanted to earn my "bread and butter" as a writer. For all that time I've managed to forestall my own success by doing one simple thing: NOT writing. My husband has chided me gently (and sometimes stringently), my parents have nudged and supported me, and my dear, dear friends have always encouraged me.

So here I am, feeling great that I've written more posts in the past six days than in the past six weeks, wondering who my audience is (partly because I've forgotten the password to check my statistics), and hoping that I can find the magical key to keep myself relevant in this ever expanding and contracting blogiverse.

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P.S. Thank the Heavens for Autosave - I thought at one point when I was adding the links that I'd locked the browser up and was going to lose this post. I recalled that Autosave was one the job, took a deep breath, and patiently waited to see whether the page I was trying to load was just taking longer than the expected 2.5 seconds. (So impatient am I before sunrise.) It took just under thirty mind-exploding seconds and finally "DONE" appeared. Phew!

Pregger Dreams

My dreams have always been fairly vivid. I recall a few recurring dreams from childhood that seem to gain new layers of meaning with each year that passes. It's also fairly well established that the fabric of women's dreaming changes while they are pregnant (a quick Google of preganancy dreams yielded over four million forty thousand hits).

So it's not surprising, especially given my experience with the Noodle Dude, that I would have a dream about the new baby not wanting to nurse. Well, it was more than just that, actually. I basically "awoke" (within my dream) to find that my child had been born, I had no recollection of the event, and somehow had NOT needed another C-section (as I had with Noodle, for breech positioning). That's startling enough, but then to be handed my infant, who was at least a few weeks old if not older and who began to suckle hungrily, but became almost immediately uninterested was very unnerving.

As a really weird component, the child was distinctly (and beautifully) mulatto. Though I've never dated anyone other than Caucasian men (for no particular reason) and am married to a Caucasian man, I've always thought that mulatto babies were the most beautiful I've ever seen and wanted one that shared my genes. Especially a boy. I couldn't determine in my dream whether my baby was a boy or a girl (I didn't defrock them), but I think it was a girl.

Since it was the first pregnancy dream this go 'round of which I have more than a vague recollection, I figured I might as well document it. The baby won't be mulatto (unless aliens have swapped out the DNA) and we don't know the baby's sex yet. I do very much hope that I am not "absent" from the delivery and I have sincere hopes that breast feeding will proceed better this time than it did last time!

Perhaps I will enlist Noodles' buddies to assist with keeping the unpleasant dreams at bay - how could the boogeyman fail to be frightened away by these two:

He got SHOT!

The Noodle Dude had his four-year-old check-up yesterday and everything went fine. Of course, it’s a bit embarrassing to admit that your child eats NO fruits or veggies beyond apples (sometimes), grapes (sometimes), and hummus (usually, when he’s not horking it up on me). Unless they’re hidden and I don’t always have that much energy. It’s vitamins for us for the time being.

He weighs 41.5 lbs. and stands 41.25 inches tall. I found the similarity in the numbers amusing, but couldn’t come up with anything humorous to relate it to. It’s not the same as when one has the same height and circumference. (The mental image this always gives me is that of Violet Beauregard once she's stolen Wonka's gum.) That’s my humor devolving to its 8-year-old boy state.

So he did well enough with the exam, I suppose. I mean, the doctor hardly spends any time doing anything except throwing questions out to you and clicking through computer screens. I think maybe I’ll save that rant for another day.

When the exam portion was over, he had to get some immunizations. I don’t want to go into the whole “to immunize or not to immunize” argument – I’ll feel morbidly wretched and heartbroken if it’s ever proven that he has gotten autism or any other malady from the shots. Anyway, we told him that he was going to get some shots and I explained to him briefly what shots are because the look on his face (perfectly placid) told me he didn’t have the slightest clue what that word meant. He still seemed unfazed.

Then I told him the nurse would put a Band-Aid over the place where he got the shot.

That elicited a look of sheer terror and even engendered a few tears. Band-Aids. Just plain old Band-Aids and my kid’s horrified, scheming to shoot out of the examination room as soon as the nurse returns.

Well, needless to say, he quickly changed his tune after the shots started. I hate having to hold my baby down on a table while the nurse holds his legs and jams those things in. I am at a loss of what else to do just now, though. I remember getting shots at that age and not be horrified – what did they do differently back then? It hurt me, but it wasn’t awful and nobody held me down. Even when I was given allergy testing at the age of 6 and they gave me 19 shots in my right arm and 25 in the left. (Yes, I distinctly recall that adventure.) Again, it hurt, but I just sat on the nurse’s lap and tried not to cry. While mangling her poor thumb.

Family trauma (hubby was there, too) and a trip to the reward treasure chest later, Noah was actually enjoying the Band-Aids. Some turn around master, that kid. He even called them “Wicked Cool"!

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As an aside, I spoke with some other parents who suggested that I hold Noah on my lap the next time he needs shots so that he can see it coming and not feel so forced. Boy, there are a lot of things to learn about parenting - and there's not even a TRIAL run!

Walk A Mile

As understanding and accommodating as I generally attempt to be, I believe I have been, shall we say, exposed to an individual for whose behavior I cannot find any logical explanation. This person has entered the sphere of a close friend who has no real choice but to accept that the person exists and will continue to exist within their sphere for the foreseeable future.

I'm having a rather hard time keeping tongue in check on this subject - I try not to make snap judgments of people, especially those whom I have not had the "pleasure" of meeting. I don't make a habit of slandering folk nor do I generally entertain those who do. While I truly hope that I do not ever get the "pleasure" of meeting my friend's acquaintance, I will continue to hope that some ray of sunshine falls on this seemingly pitiful soul's damnable ground so that it might illuminate some other path to a more pleasant future.

Sounds like a lot of kerfuffle and wordplay with a side serving of feel-good pseudo-pysch...

Here's what's really boggling my brain: How does a parent come to a point where they feel such vitriol and spite toward their one-time partner in child creation that they will put energy into recreating that incredible negativity within their own lovely offspring? Not to mention the corrosive nature of this type of energy has to the target of the vehemence or within the person themselves.

I confess, it's currently beyond my powers of walking a mile in another's shoes to remove myself so far that I could imagine the situation that would create the special sort of hatred that would bring me to that point. It just wouldn't happen. I would rather walk away and disappear from my dear, sweet hubby's life forever than create the hellish sort of situation this other person has chosen.

That leaves me with only one option: Choose to send out the love that the person so obviously needs and allow the Universe to guide it there if there's ever the tiniest foothold in which for it to grow.

Feeling a Bit Preggers

The worst part is the caffeine headache. I don’t make a habit of overly indulging in this particular addictive substance (or any other, for that matter) regardless of whether I’m pregnant or not. However, I have made a genuine effort to resist having more than one cup of English breakfast tea in any given day since I determined there was a small person on the way. (It’s about the only thing I’ve resisted, given my lack of morning sickness!)

I have a favorite brand that I cling to doggedly but rarely take any to work with me because I also like to have organic cane sugar and organic fat free milk with it, neither of which I can get in the decidedly-Southern cafeteria in the factory where I work. The tea bags are easily transported but the rest is sometimes always too much of a hassle to bring along. Heck, if I’m going to tote all of that in, I might as well bring along my water kettle, too! (An aside: If you’ve ever chewed gum in your life, you’ve likely chewed one of the products our factory manufactures.)

Ooo! Now I want a monkeh!

Back to the point – I am left with few options for alleviating an already-in-progress, head-thumping, neck-ache-causing “haddock”. They have some “tea” in the café labeled “English Breakfast” that is more like scented dirt masquerading as a brew-able beverage, which has been my last resort on a few miserable days. More often I turn to pop – that’s a carbonated, high-fructose corn syrupy, heavily-marketed swill for those of you unfamiliar with the colloquialism. It’s not like they stock Jones, Steaz, or Blue Sky – just run-of-the-mill Co-coller and Perpsi. (Not that I didn’t drink GALLONS of that stuff when I was younger, but then again, back then I thought that canned French-style green beans were the only way to go.)

By some marvel of the printed typed word, my impending doom-style aching has receded into a don’t-forget-I’m-here, significantly dulled annoyance. This is good, because I am still a ways away from my kettle. Though not as far, chronologically speaking, as I was when I began composing this post. Miraculous, the power of creation. It manifests in so many unforeseen ways.

I hereby attest to the following: No soda or tea-like comestibles were consumed during the writing of this text… Though a nearby bag of chips is somewhat lighter than it was earlier today. Go figure.

Oh! And I've revived my other blog... Just to entice you to wander over, I give you Cheese Stonehenge. Link city, I know - Enjoy clicking about!

Sleeplessness and Peep

So I dreamed about blogging all night long, waking more than once with title or subject in mind, the post composing itself in my half-consciousness. Darn the Blog Bug! That's my cue that something is bubbling up which needs release. If I don't heed the call now, it will begin to whine then it will start growling. Howling will follow shortly thereafter and finally... well, you've seen Alien, right? The parallel is apropos because a part of me expires each time I ignore or otherwise disregard the creative impulse. Now, woe is me that I didn't at least jot down some of the thoughts I had in those early, dark morning hours!

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On the Noodle Dude front, one of his (and our) favorite shows is a Discovery Kids Channel program called PEEP and the Big Wide World. The characters learn basic priciples of science in a very practical way. The music is great, the show is slow-paced and straightforward, no crazy barrage to the system. You can even watch daily episodes online, commercial-free.

I think Quack is our favorite (he's the one with the hat):

Blogosphere Tripping

Been spendin' a bit too much time in the blogosphere... So I went from here to here and finally ended up here. And wished with all my heart for an endlessly flushing commode. Gotta love scatological humor. Ok, well, maybe I AM an eight-year-old boy trapped in a thirty-three-year old pregnant woman's body. Deal.

Nightwish - "The Islander"

This is a recent - and lovely - video from a band I found a couple years ago through their song "Nemo". The two songs could hardly be more different, but both are compelling. I couldn't remember the band's name when I started hunting for them, only that they were a Nordic goth-metal band with a female lead singer. Not hard task there, right. Pshaw!

All I can say is, "Thank goodness for Google and dogged tenacity!"

Also, please check out Sigur Ros, an Icelandic band I found over at Zoe. Another set of incredibly talented musicians and video-sticians... What the heck do you call people who create videos?!?!

Wasteland

My husband is right. Our house is a mess. Not a gross mess, just a very... er, distracting mess. Want proof? Okay... (Not for the faint of heart or neat freaks - Dad, that's you, just in case you ever happen to read this post.)

And the perpetrator of this portion of the mess (surrounded by his domain):

Yeah, it's hard to be upset, just as it's hard to get up off the couch and do anything about the mess when one is in the first trimester of pregnancy. (Good heavens, what's the THIRD going to be like?!?!) I have a good friend, the one who reminded me it had been a while since my last post, who has three little ones. That means she's been through three third trimesters. Try even SAYING that three times fast! Oy!

So, to say that I'm living in a bit of a wasteland at the moment is the unfortunate truth. My dear, sweet husband has tried to keep the nomadic tribes of wandering toys and mountainous piles of laundry confined to relatively small areas, but I think his patience with me is wearing (read: has worn) a bit thin. From whence do I beg, steal or borrow the energy after a full day of work to come home and clean? My perennial monkey-on-the-back question. I don't have the answer yet, but on my way home from work this afternoon, half falling asleep at the wheel, I thought - as I often have - it doesn't have to be like this.

Any suggestions?!?!

Mmmm... Hummus

So, I had a choice tonight - do laundry, clean up the living room or make hummus.

I chose... hummus!

Here's the process in pictures:

First, gather the ingredients. I make a lean, mean hummus with no frills and no tahini. Don't like the flavor, don't put it in my hummus. I start with a good quality Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Er, uh, Houston, we have a problem.



Oh, whew.



Then some lemon juice. I'm not as picky in that respect.



Add some garlic. Hmmm... This needs to go on my next shopping list, too.



The "equipment".



Garbanzo beans. I had soaked these a few days ago and then I cooked them this evening.



Chunk it all in the food processor together.



And... whir... Check out the obstinate bean.



Messy goodness. We're almost there!



Voila! The finished product.



The best part? Even the pickiest kid in the world loves it!