Happily Ever After

It was brought to my attention recently that I am doing my kid some serious damage.  Not for the reasons you might be thinking of, although plenty of people would have comments about those. 

Not because she has two moms. 

Not because she isn’t allowed to eat many foods with HFCS (one person in my life actually told me I am making her a weirdo because I won’t let her eat processed foods very often). 

Not because we have chickens living illegally in our back yard (although I WAS told that this is giving her the idea that law breaking is OK).

Nope. It’s none of these things that will cause my child serious damage. (Thank the Lord, I was worried.)

Apparently, what is going to do the most damage is the fact that I have helped instill in her a belief in fairies and other magical creatures and ideas.  I have convinced her that I can heal her boo-boos with magical spells.  I keep a bottle of monster spray (lavender water) under the bathroom sink and I have a cool brown glass bottle full of healing potion (tea tree and lavender water) in a drawer.  Black Hair does an amazing healing chant (imagine something between a voodoo chant & speaking in tongues all ending in a yelled “BE HEALED” in her best tent revival accent).  I have often spent afternoons outside whiled away looking for garden fairies, building fairy houses and talking to her about which magical creatures ride dragonflies and who is brave enough to try to tame a bee.

An elf lives at our house for the entire month of December.  His name is Scooter and he has close personal ties to Santa.

My oldest now tells anyone who will listen that her invisible friend (not imaginary, invisible.  "She is REAL Mama, you just can’t see her.") is part girl ghost and part dinosaur.  Her name is Dinoria and she sleeps in the attic.  My girl tells everyone that she is a level 4-ghost hunter and plans to go to school to reach the highest level so that she can have her own ghost hunting team when she grows up.

Now here’s the thing people, it’s called IMAGINATION!  Does she really believe that I can make her well by magic? No.  She knows it took a trip to the hospital and 6 weeks in a cast to heal her broken arm.  She knows it took emergency surgery and 2 weeks of quarantine and seriously yucky tasting antibiotics to get rid of MRSA.  She knows hand washing is imperative.

Does she really believe that monster spray keeps the baddies away?  Well, she used to, but now she knows not to talk to strangers, never to let people into our house without my permission, never eat candy given to her by people she doesn’t know.

She knows that healing potion is tea tree oil and lavender and she knows that Black Hair’s healing chant only works in conjunction with rest, proper nutrition and possibly antibiotics.  It makes you feel better because it is attention given to you by someone who loves you very much and wants you to feel better.

If I’m not careful, she will soon have some ideas about the validity of the tooth fairy.  So far, I have convinced her that the day shift tooth fairy had to come because the night shift fairy had a cold and that the money under her pillow magically appeared while she brushed her teeth one morning.  Those were cutting it a little close…

Here’s the deal as far as I can tell-we only get to be children once. Soon enough we know that people do horrible things to each other in the name of politics, religion and power.  Soon enough we realize that while fairies may not exist, evil sure does.  Soon enough we hold a friend’s hand while she cries over rape, miscarriage, or the death of a loved one.  Soon enough we see family members and friends devastated by addiction and inner demons.  Soon enough we read horrible things in the newspaper or watch as politicians destroy one another in commercials.  All of that crap comes soon enough.

Therefore, while my children are young, I will happily spin tales of fairies.  I will listen to long pointless stories about the ghost girl dinosaur who lives in my attic.  I will spray the four corners of a dark bedroom with monster stray, mist the pillow of a sleepless seven year old with sleep spray and laugh as I listen to a healing chant being performed over a child with a snotty nose and a sore throat.  I will observe how happy an elf makes my daughter as he travels around our house at night and I will tell stories of witches who melt, bad guys who always get caught and couples who live happily ever after.

If I am ruining my children, so be it.  I will do it with abandon.

Rainbows & Unicorns,

Earth Momma

A Coop Full of Crazy (Part 2)

OK- SO now we were the proud owners of five little hens (hopefully).  Did I mention that the Feed and Seed doesn’t promise hens?  You have about a 50-50 chance of hens when you pick your chicks unless you order them on line or get them a breeder.  Apparently, “chicken sexer” is an actual job and according to what I later read on line, it pays quite well. 

Anyway, we took them home and I set up the brooder (a large Rubbermaid container complete with a heat lamp, hay, chick food and water.  Over the next several weeks we (by “we” I mostly mean “I”) hand fed them, loved on them and cleaned up after them.  All of the literature said handling them is important so they get used to being handled by people.  Mathilda (remember the ugly mean one that pecked me in part one?) was very dominant even though “she” was supposedly a Cochin (mini chicken).  “She” squawked a lot and treated her little chickie friends like crap.  She also figured out how to escape the brooder and poop all over the garage.  She also pecked me a lot and scared GC1 (you remember how she insisted we get this one because no one else would?) so much that she wouldn’t come near her anymore.

After several weeks in the brooder, the chicks moved to the coop, which was residing in the driveway because it was too heavy for Black Hair and me to move alone.  Around the time of the move, Mathilda started to crow. It sounded like the chicken had a head cold, a bad cough, and was singing a weird song.   Black Hair and Carly tried really hard to believe that Mattie was a hen even though she was quickly finding his voice.  Mattie crowed all the time.  ALL THE TIME!!!

In time, we got the coop moved to the back yard and surrounded by the dog pen that a friend had found on the side of the road.  (I drove over, convinced some men to load it into the back of the truck for me, and took it home to be a chicken pen.  With the help of some rebar, it worked quite well.  It doesn’t look great but I guess it could be worse.)

Anyway, we finally let the chickens out of the coop and clipped their wings.  Mattie kept on crowing and every night all but one chicken had to be chased down and hucked into the coop.  I had made a little ramp and Lily Sparkles would see me coming in the evening and march right up the ramp and hop into her nest for the evening.  The other four would run around like crazy and I would have to chase them down.  Or Black Hair would chase them down.

Now remember that BH said she would have nothing to do with this project.  Well, when I got pregnant in September and commenced to being the most sick and miserable pregnant person on the face of the planet, she couldn’t very well make me go out in the pouring torrential rains (the drought ended with months of never ending rain) every night and chase chickens in the mud while I dry heaved and cried.  She let me know that this didn’t make her happy but she did help out on occasion.  And on more than one occasion she came in covered in mud, scraped up and seriously pissed at me and the chickens because she had fallen down again while chasing them around the coop.  I have to admit, as soon as I knew she wasn’t seriously injured, I did laugh (only while hiding in the closet) because she has a talent for falling down rivaled only by that of our oldest child (who can fall face first out of her chair while eating dinner).

Around this time, we also had our 2^nd Annual Fall Party and the crowing rooster was a serious issue for those who were watching the football game on the back deck.  One friend even offered to slaughter the chicken for me for free if I would just make it shut up.  Our neighbor (who it turns out worked 3^rd shift) also begged me to get rid of the rooster.  I think he might have actually been crying when he begged me through the back fence to please kill it, send it to a farm, or call animal control.  That neighbor moved out after a year and I bet he has some great stories to entertain his buddies with about the year he spent living behind those crazy people with chickens, dogs and kids.

The next step in this saga was a bit sad.  I called a friend.  Who called a friend whose husband raised chickens.  He was willing to take Mattie off my hands and sent his wife over to get the rooster.  While waiting for her to arrive, I went out to see him one last time and noticed that 3 other of my chickens were starting to make the weird croaking noises that Mattie had started out making at the beginning of his crowing career.  They also had started to develop other physical rooster characteristics.  All but one chicken were roosters.  So they all got loaded up and went to “live on a farm”.  All but Lily Sparkles. 

You remember her?  The one smart chicken who put herself to bed at night?  The one chicken who spent her day running from the others?  Well, now she was my one lonely little chicken.  So I looked up chicken breeders on line and I asked around and I found a guy not to far away who guaranteed that his chickens were hens and charged a bit extra for the guarantee.  I paid the price. It was worth it.  I now understood why chicken sexers made such a good living.

To Be Continued

A Coop Full of Crazy (Part 1)

I have chickens.  Four chickens- to be exact.  Their names are as follows: Nettie Buttercup, Lily Sparkles, Esme Chrysanthemum and Sketchy Longneck.  Yep, they are all double-namers.  And yep, I know the names are hilarious.

I have had nine chickens since May of 2009.  In January of that year, I decided I wanted chickens.  I started the frontal assault on Black Hair.  It went something like this:

Earth Momma: I want chickens.

Black Hair: No.

Earth Momma: They would give us eggs and eat all of those pesky mosquitoes.

Black Hair: Hell No

Earth Momma: They would teach our child where her food comes from and how to be a good steward of the earth.

Black Hair: They stink so…NO.  Besides, where would you put them?

Earth Momma:  Oh.  Didn’t I mention that the neighbor down the street is willing to give me his rabbit hutch if I use your truck and get it out of his side yard?   And they only stink if you don’t keep their living area clean.  I can put their poop in the compost pile.

Black Hair: No.  I think they’re illegal.

Earth Momma: OK. Sure, I’ll make you a Power Point presentation of why we should have chickens and the laws don’t actually say I can’t have them.  It was a little vague.  And I won’t get roosters so the neighbors won’t even know they are here.

Black Hair: Whatever.  You don’t know how to make a Power Point and…No.

So in February I did a Power Point presentation (because I needed to prove that I could) and in April I brought home a rabbit hutch, which I cleaned up, rehabbed and painted bright red.  Black Hair wanted it to be orange and blue & GC 1 wanted purple but I trumped everyone and chose red because the mis-tint cheap paint I found was red.  Besides, red is very farm-like and I had visions of urban farming dancing in my deluded little brain.

In May, we took a family outing to the local Feed and Seed and we picked out our chicks.  It went something like this:

Black Hair- I want that one.

Earth Momma:  You don’t get to choose.  You don’t want chickens, remember?

CG1: I want that one.

Earth Momma: Are you sure?  That one looks like it might be a boy and it pecked me.  I think it might be mean.

CG1:  Yes, I’m sure.  I feel sorry for it.  If we don’t take it no one else will.

Black Hair: I want that one.

Earth Momma:  Fine.  But if you choose one you can’t fuss at me later about chicken stuff.

Black Hair:  I’m not making promises but I really like that one.

So, home we went with five little chicks in a cardboard box and enough feed to feed them for a century.  This was the easiest & cheapest pet I have ever purchased.  Or so I ridiculously thought at that moment.

To Be Continued

I'll post the rest of the story next time I have a minute.

Earth Momma

Girls and Trucks

We have a truck.  It’s a big truck.  It’s the kind of truck that ecological advocates sneer at and rage against as the big evil that is helping to taking down the ozone.  I know this because I am one of those people who rage against giant American automobiles as polluters & wasters of gas.  I am also the proud partner of a woman who is harbors a redneck teen-aged boy deep down in her soul. 

Black Hair is educated.  She comes from a good family.  She has a well paying job and she is a good provider.  However, lurking inside her is a teen-aged boy who dreams of driving a giant tricked-out red neck truck with huge tires and a muffler with noise issues.  She wants one that is painted orange and blue.  She wants one with four-wheel drive so she can go deep into the woods.  I don’t know what she plans to do once she gets in the woods since she’s afraid of spiders and snakes but none the less, she wants to be able to go there.  She wants a truck that will make other teenaged boys dizzy with envy.  Because she has so many great qualities, I accept this about her. I just laugh a little when we pass those giant trucks while we’re out running errands and she heaves a huge sigh of longing and stares after them as they rumble past us full of testosterone and teenagers.  This is also one of the reasons I am now the co-owner of a large, hard to park Chevy Silverado. There are other reasons but I’ll get to those in a minute.

When Black Hair and I met, she was the owner of a tiny little black foreign car.  I don’t remember what it was but it was little and affordable and a good steward of gas money.  I drove a Mazda covered in grateful dead stickers and filled with take out bags.  It didn’t take long before she traded the little black box for a little truck.  I think it happened right after I convinced her that we could bring four landscape timbers home from Wal-Mart if we lowered them through the sunroof.  We did get them home after having the Garden Center dude stare at us like we were insane while we loaded them in the car (picture me standing on the hood lowering them in and you’ll get why he was transfixed) but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t long after that that the first little truck came home.

I didn’t complain.  It was little and got decent gas mileage and she was so happy I just couldn’t say a word.  Besides, now I could pick up stuff off the side of the road with abandon and she really couldn’t complain.

See, that’s the real reason I don’t complain about the trucks.  I admit it.  I have a touch of Sanford & Son deep in my little soul.  I like to think of myself as an ultimate recycler but many might just call me a collector of crap.  That’s what my mother thinks anyway. Every car I have driven as an adult has to have a trunk big enough to pile stuff in and having a truck is even better.

The first thing I convinced Black Hair to help me haul home was a little red table that I found out by the curb in front of someone’s house.  We had to shove it in the back seat of the little black car.  She was humiliated and accused me of stealing.  When that didn’t work she mentioned dumpster diving but I was unmoved and that little table cleaned up nicely and is still in my house to this day.

Since that day so early in our relationship, I have brought home many treasures from the side of the road.  Black Hair now just rolls her eyes and asks where we’re gonna put it and then rolls her eyes again when I say I don’t know yet.  My oldest girl child has even become my accomplice, and helps me spot stuff we could use.  The truth be told, Black Hair even slows down the truck without having to be asked when we pass a pile of stuff on the side of the road so I can check it out for “recyclables”.  My chicken pen was free, my chicken coop was free, my raised garden beds were free and some really cool architectural elements in my house were free and are mine because Black Hair has a truck fetish and I like to sift through other people’s cast-offs.

OK- back to the trucks.  The first little truck just didn’t cut it when Black Hair decided she wanted a baby.  No back seat.  Therefore, off she went to the dealership and home she came with a four-door truck with a backseat.  It was still small but she was pleased.  Until Girl Child 1 got big enough to turn the car seat around and began kicking her with reckless abandon.  Not so pleased any more.  Plus, we looked like the Clampetts when we travelled.  She got a bed cover but you had to have a PhD in engineering, and the muscles of a linebacker to get the thing snapped correctly over the back of the truck.  It wore me out…it really did.  So then, we traded the truck for a very nice SUV, but for various reasons, one being it looked like a drug dealer’s car, we both hated it.  This could be incorrect in terms of sequence but the theme remains the same.  Black Hair needed a big truck.

So…this leads us to our current Chevy.  It’s huge.  It’s a serious gas guzzler.  It looks like a farm truck, and when she called & asked me if I wanted to look at it to buy, I was at the Humane Society holding a Cheweenie that weighed 17oz and was the cutest thing I had ever seen.  She drove over, picked up the dog and I, and home we drove in our new giant truck with our tiny little dog.

She still sighs dramatically when we pass the monster trucks but she is more content now that she has her own giant truck.  And I’m not complaining much, because as I drove to work this morning I glanced in the rearview and saw the free side-of-the-road toddler swing set in the truck bed.  We saw it on Sunday and she drove the kids and me home and went back for it in the truck without a single comment or eye roll.

 I plan to throw it in the garage with the two free couches, various garden implements, “art” parts and tools until Girl child 2 can sit up on her own.  And, just for the record, it’s Black Hair’s fault the garage looks like it does.  If she didn’t just HAVE to have a truck, I wouldn’t be able to bring home so much crap.

Earth Momma

PS- Does anyone need a couch?

For the past several weeks Black Hair has been working mucho overtime.  This means that I have been a bit of a single parent to our children.  This was not the plan when we decided to have another baby and it has taken some adjustment.  While my mom has been around to help out, I have still have to remember more than I am used to, be more places than I am used to and schedule my life within an inch of ridiculous to keep it all together.

This also means that our home is a tiny bit messier than I am comfortable with.  I just can’t keep it all the way I would like for it to be while providing the oversight and love that two children require and still get any sleep.  As it stands, I get up before 6 am most mornings and keep going until after 10pm most nights.  I am quite sure all of you with children can relate. I decided a while back that happy kids are more important than clean floors.

That being said let me tell you about my day.  I got up around 6:30 and hit the ground running.  Black Hair was out of here around 5am headed for a full day of work.  Baby care, breakfast, pet care, laundry, more baby care, time with my oldest child (girl child 1), vacuuming, straightening, throwing away (no matter how much I recycle, we still have a ridiculous amount of trash that has to be handled), cooking for various functions we attended today, chicken wrangling (more about that later), pumpkin decorating and then getting us all basically clean and dressed and out the door to the first party we attended today.  I was exhausted before I even cranked the car.  But I took a vitamin (which taste like gummy bears laced with fish. Something about Omega 3s and cod liver oil) and rinsed the fish taste out with a swig of cold coffee (don’t worry, there were mints in the car) and off we went to a birthday party.

Where Girl Child 2 promptly lost her danged mind and started to scream her head off the minute we walked in the door.  GC 1 headed for the back yard to play with the other kids where she promptly got herself stuck in a tree.  Literally.  Her thigh was wedged between some branches but thankfully a very handsome tall dude managed to extricate her sobbing self from the tree.  Another mom tried to calm GC 2 while I tried to make sure GC1 was not broken (again).  When I look up from wiping the snot off of GC 1, I notice that GC 2 is covered in long blonde golden retriever hair.  Completely covered.  Did I wipe her on the dog before we left?  I don’t remember it but it sure looked like I did.  I calmly took her back from the helpful mom (she was still screaming. GC 2, not the helpful mom) and took her to the birthday girl’s room and pulled out my handy hair remover roller thingy and rolled the hair off of the baby.  I almost started to maniacally giggle at this point because she was still yelling and having me use tape paper to roll the hair off of her wasn’t helping the situation.  I finally got her fed and calmed and rejoined the party. 

All was going well until GC 1 realized we had not brought a gift for the birthday girl.  Now, the parents specifically asked that no one bring gifts but apparently everyone but us did anyway.  I had to talk GC1 off the embarrassment ledge by promising that we would make a gift and bring it to the birthday girl next week.  This worked and everything else went pretty smoothly (except GC 1 fell down at least 2 more time and required one band-aid and one magical healing spell). 

Did I mention that GC 1 fell out of her chair while eating her lunch earlier today?  This required a magic healing spell on two different body parts and her pride.  Sometimes kids just have accident prone days but falling out of your chair while eating is…well, I don’t know what it is but this is about the 3^rd time she’s done it and I have to force myself not to laugh when it happens.  She is definitely her mother’s child when it comes to this area of her life.  One minute she’s eating a pb&j and the next she is on the floor.  I’m laughing just thinking about it.  She can’t sit still while eating and sometimes she just wiggles herself off into the floor. 

Anyway- Birthday girl smeared cake and icing all over her parents and was totally adorable and we left this party and went on to the next function.

Where GC 2 promptly woke from her car induced nap and lost her mind again.  I tried everything short of drugging her but finally just packed up our stuff (minus GC 1 and the cookie bars I made for dessert) and went home.  Black Hair arrived soon after I left and she is responsible for bring home GC 1 and bringing me some dinner.

When we arrived home, I stripped the baby, put on her pjs and stuck her in the bed.  I turned off the lights, turned on the sound machine and humidifier and as I exited the room she took a deep breath, stuck her thumb in her mouth and promptly conked out. I feel ya GC 2.  I totally feel ya.

  This lasted about 35 minutes.  She started to howl again so I fed her, swaddled her (minus the sucking thumb arm) and put her back to bed.  Yes I still swaddle my 4 month old.  I’ll swaddle her until she’s 10 if it means I get to sleep through the night.  Don’t judge me.  I’m tired.

Now I just have to feed all the critters, count chickens, wash and prepare bottles and maybe I will get some sleep sometime soon.  Who knows, maybe I will actually get to eat a meal prepared by someone else after I tuck a cranky, slightly bruised, kinda dirty GC 1 into her bed for the night.  I’ll worry about the dirt tomorrow.  One night of sleep while slightly dirty and maybe a little sticky from desserts at various functions never hurt anybody did it?  Black Hair may do the actual tucking but I have to perform the goodnight song complete with birdie cheeps before actual sleeping can commence.

Sure- dinner I didn’t have to cook is still tasty when eaten at 10 pm at night.  My life is often chaotic and sometimes stressful but I wouldn’t have it any other way and yes, I realize just how blessed I am.

Earth Momma

PS- GC 1 and Black Hair just came in and GC 1 promptly tripped over a toy in the floor and fell on Black Hair.  Maybe we'll get her into bed without her breaking anymore of her bones.

Boot Season

FYI-Today is the official start day of “Boot Season”. 

Never mind that we live in Alabama and while today it may be a balmy 70 degrees, tomorrow it could be 85 degrees or 65 degrees.  Alabama Fall is bipolar like that.  We never know if tomorrow is winter or summer again.  We adjust.  We keep short sleeve shirts and Capri- pants handy for a while after we unpack the winter sweaters.  It makes for messy closets but it is what it is- Fall in the South.

Anyway, you may be wondering who decided today is the official start of Boot Season and why today is the big day.  The answers are me & because I said so.  There’s a story here.  Just keep reading.

In August, my neighbor cleaned out the closet of her 9-year-old and sent a trash bag of shoes to my house.  My 7-year-old was awed by the wide variety and had to be sternly told that she could not wear the shoes that were two sizes to big for her out of the house.  She was shuffling around like an old lady in bedroom slippers.  This girl child of mine is a bit accident prone on a good day.  I couldn’t imagine that wearing huge shoes would improve her odds of making it through a day gracefully so I put my foot down.  Next, she found a pair of black knee high dressy boots, put them on with her tank top and shorts, and then didn’t take them off for 2 days.  She even tried to sleep in them but again, I put my foot down.  She looked like a go-go dancer but she was so obviously in love with these boots that I had to smile. 

Have you ever been in love with a pair of shoes?  I have and it is all consuming .  If they give you blisters, you forgive them because they are beautiful.  If they eat your socks, you make excuses for their eating disorder.  You do whatever you can to make the shoes feel loved because they make you so happy when you look at them, you almost can’t stand it.

So, I let her wear them while in the house but I still said “Absolutely not.” to her request to wear them to school or church.  It was August in Alabama and I am a southern girl who can’t make myself wear white pants after Labor Day so a boot wearing 7 year-old was out of the question.

Seven year-old girls are nothing if not persistent.  At least mine is.  We rarely fight about clothes.  We came to an understanding years ago that she can wear what she wants as long as it fits and it is seasonally appropriate and as long as it’s not a special occasion.  I just don’t have the energy to duke it out daily over clothes so I am the proud mother of a child with a “creative” interpretation of what matches what and how clothes should be worn.  Whatever.  Peer pressure will dictate her choices soon enough so I just smile when she goes to school looking a bit “colorful”.  She has a theory that socks don’t count and can be as colorful as you want them to be.  They are for fun, not fashion.  This theory means that she usually sports Halloween ghost socks in May or furry Christmas socks in July.  Again, I say whatever.

Anyway, back to Boot Season.  In August, I told her that she could wear the boots when boot season started.  She asked when that was and I told her I would let her know.  Every day since then she has asked if it is boot season yet.  EVERY day.  Seriously. 

When she saw some college girls at a football game wearing tiny dresses and cowboy boots even though it was 800 degrees outside, she asked why I wouldn’t let her wear her boots.  I tried to be diplomatic and non- judgmental when I told her those girls were nuts and probably had blisters and sweaty feet.  She just heaved a huge sigh, rolled her eyes and stomped away. And asked again the next day when boot season started.

Well guess what.  Boot season started at 6:30 am this morning because I was just too darned tired to say no again. And again.  And again.  I did tell her she would look silly but that I supported her need to wear the awesome knee high boots with a tiny little heel. 

Imagine my surprise when I entered the kitchen to see her wearing pink plaid sneakers.  She said she changed her mind.

She was wearing Easter bunny socks with her pink plaid sneakers and Halloween shirt. 

My oldest baby gave me the gift of being my baby for at least one more day. 

Thank you, baby.  Meme loves you.

Introduction to me.

I am starting this blog because several important women in my life told me I should.  Now, I am not really known for doing as I’m told but after serious consideration I realized that I think my thoughts as if I am telling someone a story.  Even in my own head I craft how I would tell a thought as a story were I telling it to another person.  So- here I am.  Telling stories.  Mostly I am writing it all down to clear the clutter from my head but I hope you enjoy the results of that process.

A bit about me- I am a 36-year-old mother of two daughters.  I have been with my partner for 13 years.  We have the same name.  Yes, it can be confusing.  People often think I am talking in third person when I tell a story.  Usually, I’m not but it has been known to happen on occasion. 

We live in smallish southern college town and we have 2 dogs, 2 cats, 4 chickens and a turtle.  We have had various fish and once had a visiting guinea pig but he had what looked like a nervous breakdown and went back to his nice safe classroom at the end of summer.  My home is nowhere for prey animals to live and enjoy a sense of safety.  However, I digress.  I will do that a lot.  I can’t help it.  It’s just how I think.

I work very hard at being a mama.  I didn’t really plan to have children and wasn’t one of those little girls who played with baby dolls and dreamed of having kids so when I was presented with the fact that my partner wanted a child and she wanted one NOW I was a little freaked.  Obviously, I adjusted and now we have two seriously amazing girl children that completely fill up our lives and give me more things to laugh about, cry about and freak out about.

 I work full time as does my partner.  Between us we have about 4 jobs.  She has three of those and luckily two of them are very flexible and are done from home.  These have been a blessing in a time of financial instability and even though getting it all done is taxing, we are grateful for every bit of it because it means Christmas will happen, clothes will be purchased and cars will continue to run.

Ok- last paragraph for today.  I am 36 years old.  I am “Generation X”.  I have tattoos. I have piercings. I have a college education.  I have kids, animals and a loving relationship.  I have funny thoughts and have been told I should write them down.  I like commas, run on sentences and useless details.  I love to cook.  I am a bit of a conspiracy nut and I have weird dreams on a regular basis.  Maybe I will remember to write stuff down and maybe it will make you laugh or think a little differently.  Maybe not.  I guess we’ll see.