What's a Blog?

Did you know I have a blog? Me neither. 

It's been ages.

Lately the need to write has been nagging. It will pop into mind as I drift to sleep, when I struggle with my daily tasks, when I sit for two minutes in silence.  And it just seems so. hard.

When did life get so busy? Like it's always been busy, but right now, it seems ultra busy.  Everyone. Are smartphones to blame? Probably.  Distractions keep us from thinking and feeling. Which is nice when those thoughts and feelings speak of dissatisfaction, stress, or regret.

I'm older now. Life has shifted and stayed the same. I can't claim to be new at this adulting thing, but I still feel like I don't get it. I have so many things I want to be when I grow up, I guess I'd better get to it.

Being Jack

Caroline is either Jack Frost or Jack from Mother Goose Club every day.  It's annoying.  She insists we call her Jack.  She reminds me which Jack she is all the time. When she's running into traffic I have to remember to call her Jack or she won't stop.

Chickie used to wear her Cinderella dress every day, and while that was obnoxious in its own way, it at least had some endearing value.  It was cute. People recognize Cinderella and smile. We all know the story and can relate.

Caroline had to pick obscure characters who no one even knows.  Jack Frost is OK, I guess.  Because Chickie is usually Elsa, Jack Frost is a close second when playing pretend. They have the same freezing powers so there's that, plus he has a cane and a cape, which makes it cool. 

But come on, Jack from Mother Goose Club? Weird. He doesn't have any powers. He's wearing an ugly yarn head hat thing and the whole Mother Goose Club gang in general is super creepy (thank you YouTube). 

Happy 3rd Birthday Craze Bear!

An open letter to Momma B.

Dear Momma B.,

I am writing at the request of my four year old daughter.  She has a crush on your son, Matty B.  She watches his YouTube videos all day long.  She props up the iPad and dances along.  She is somewhat obsessed.  She trolls Matty B. videos for clues about his age, where he lives, what he likes, and how to get in contact with him.

My daughter would like to invite him over for a play date.  In fact, she has asked if he could sleep over.  Before you get the wrong idea Momma B., let me assure you that she is not that kind of girl. Does that matter to you?

Before I extend the official play date invitation, I have a few questions.

Whose idea was it to start creating these music videos? It looks like he started when he was seven.  I know, I know, it's super cute to see a blonde, blue eyed boy singing and rapping with his suburban homies. Believe me, it's got appeal. Who comes up with the revised lyrics? The video concepts? You most certainly aren't using your phone to record these choreographed masterpieces, are you?

Now that Matty is the ripe age of 12 I'm wondering how you feel about all the so-called "B. Girls"?  I assume you welcome the attention based on the gang of young girls that appear in the later videos. How do you feel about a four year old B Girl? Inappropriate?

How do you plan to tackle the whole coming of age thing that inevitably happens to young celebrities? Throw a few house parties? Give him unlimited access to Twitter where he can tweet to all the "single ladies" out there? Oh, you already did that?

One last thing, what are you going to do when Matty's voice changes? Do you remember Ben Lee? I loved his "Grandpaw Would" album.  Did you know he recorded it when he was something like 15? But then something happened-- his voice changed and he could no longer sing like he used to.  It was really hard on me as a fan. So, for the sake of my daughter, tell me you have a plan. Please, don't let puberty kill Matty B.'s career.

Thanks for your time, effort, and marketing expertise in regards to your son,

Momma W.

Chickie update

The other day Chickie told me she wanted to invite a boy to our house so she could hide from him and pull him into a closet when he walked by. Today she said when she's five she's going to have boys over. I don't know what that's about except that I'm pretty sure it's too mature for a four-year old and I'm pretty sure she saw it on YouTube.

I hate YouTube. 

I love a minute (or 45) to myself. 

It's time to try this blogging thing again.  I mean, how long has it been?  I've been pretty much drowning in four kids for two years.  I still feel like I am just barely recovering from the baby that sent me to the brink.  But that's boring and we don't need to go into that right now. 

I've started trying to chronicle our lives through Instagram (and subsequent Chatbooks) but I fear I'm overloading my "friends" with family pictures no one really cares about. Plus most of my photos are of my two youngest. Is it because I love them more that the other two? Likely. Actually, I realized that they are in the prime story-making time of their young lives.  This is the season of cuteness and I need to record it as effectively as I did for my older two. 

And speaking of my older two... they are in the prime of their formative years, and depending on the day, that can be painful if not exciting.  I guess I'd better figure out how to chronicle their efforts to survive as well.  

But mostly, and I've said it before, the blog is for me and my sanity.  I have felt the pull sporadically in the last four years and I finally feel like I might be able to fulfill the need to record and write.  At this point I am not going to advertise my updates on "social media" like I was, mostly because I need to get back into the swing of things without feeling the pressure to be understood/likable.  Whatever that means.

So here's to round two:  I restarted my blog and it was OK.

My life according to Pinterest

If I lived according to my Pinterest boards:

My house would be filled with natural light, colorful furniture, handmade slipcovers and quilts, wallpaper, and embroidery.

My kids would never hear a harsh word because I would have the 10 essential things to tell them memorized and at the ready for any situation.

I would give my friends handmade gifts wrapped in butcher paper and fabric twine (made from quilting scraps) with a witty hand lettered card attached.

My container gardens would keep us stocked all season with a variety of produce because I knew exactly when to plant the seeds I self started during the dreary months of winter.

Oh yeah, and my house would be sparkling clean (with just a little Dawn and white vinegar) and organized because my kids would do their age appropriate chores without a fight.

Forget about the food-- I've tried enough of those recipes to know they don't really taste as good as they look.  And the exercising-- I know enough about genetics to know it is physically impossible to change the girth of my hips.

Instead I'm stuck with this:

Road Rage, Podcasts, and Hot Chocolate

So I know it's not socially acceptable, and even dangerous, to text and drive.  I try really hard not to do it.  I mean, I have enough distractions in my car at any given time. I really don't need to try to compose a witty tweet, scream at and possibly pinch my kids, turn on the DVD player, and apply my makeup while I change lanes without my blinker at a speed probably at least 10 miles over the speed limit.

I'll let you decide if I'm exaggerating.

You know I love my podcasts.  I wish I would have cashed in on this whole podcast thing when it was just getting started.  What better medium is there for an NPR junkie who lives in her car? Or the anti-social employee (or former employee- more on that later) who doesn't want to be bothered while entering mind-numbing data or formatting a dry technical report? Or the disgruntled housewife who hates laundry but can be found with her phone blasting in her back pocket while traipsing around the house solving the murder of Hae Min Li?  Podcasts! I can't get enough.

The other day I dropped John at school and waited in the line of traffic to exit the middle school parking lot.  The traffic flow is slow and cycles with the light at the exit of the lot.  While creeping along I used my phone to turn on my podcast and answer a quick text from Kitty asking for hot chocolate.  As I put my phone back and looked up at the line of cars I noticed the woman in front of me elaborately reprimanding me for what I can only assume was "texting while driving". I mean, she was shaking her index finger into the rear-view mirror.  Shame on me.

I, in turn, raised both arms in the universal "what's your problem lady?" sign.  She continued with her finger and started shaking her head.  I felt the road rage boiling up from my feet. Why do some people feel like it is their duty to police everyone they come into contact with? I did not put anyone in danger while my foot was on the brake and my finger was on my phone. There is a drop-off zone so it's not like the parking lot was busy with people running around. But I think what bothered me most was the nerve of that lady.  The nerve!