Posted in Uncategorized

Hey Mr. Postman

When I first started suffering from my sciatica, I did quite a bit of Googling, trying to find help. Many people suggested using a maternity pillow to get comfortable. Since I was pregnant anyway, I decided to give it a shot. After looking online, I found they were running upwards of $80 and I was skeptical enough to not spend that kind of money. 

(Lucky for me?) Amazon tracks my searches and sent an email informing about one that was $35. I checked it out and decided to give it a go. All the other ones with Chevron patterns in mint green colors were high dollar, but this one was beige. That’s cool. I didn’t care about color, I cared about comfort. 

I placed my order and anxiously awaited my package delivery. It only took one day for it to leave California and get to Arizona. Progress. The next morning, it arrived in Texas! I was over the moon. That was five days ago. Little did I know my maternity pillow would be on a road trip from West Texas to North Texas to Southeast Texas, then back to Central Texas. (I’m kinda jealous.) I watched my package travel via Fed Ex Tracking multiple times a day. They do an excellent job of updating. I was getting more and more anxious for it to arrive. My expected delivery date was Monday, April 10th, but when I got home from work there wasn’t a 7 pound box on my doorstep. I was disappointed. 

Today was my day off and as soon as I woke up, I checked my Fed Ex tracker. My pillow had arrived in New Braunfels last night and was out for delivery via USPS at 7:43 am. Today was the day!

Unfortunately, we had terrible weather. It was pouring, thundering, lightning, even hailing. We were under a tornado and flash flood warning. The skies were dark and foreboding, but I knew my box was on its way come rain, come hail, come snow or sleet, the postman always delivers. 

Here I am, laying (uncomfortably) in bed, watching for the mail truck, day-dreaming of my maternity pillow. Olive was down for her afternoon nap and I was afraid the door bell would wake her. Plus, I didn’t want the box left on my porch in such wet conditions. I must have stared out the window for 30 minutes, but it felt like 3 hours. When I finally saw him approach my mailbox I jumped up, ran to the living room, flung open my front door, and watched him stuff bills in the box before driving away. 

“Wait!” I wanted to yell. “You forgot my box! I know you have it. Fed Ex told me.” But I didn’t want to run out in that weather any more than he did. I knew that’s why he didn’t bring me my box. I closed the door, hung my head, and went back inside, defeated. I would have to wait another day.

My husband got home a short time later and I couldn’t hide the sadness on my face. He asked what was wrong and I felt petty. There was flooding in areas near us and I was pouting over a pillow. I admitted that I was upset overy my box not arriving. “Well baby, it was hailing. I’m sure he didn’t want to get out in that. Maybe he will come back.”

I knew he was right, though I doubted he would come back. In weather like that, you just want to finish your job and go home. I have two very close friends that are postal carriers and I wouldn’t want them out in these conditions. I let go of my selfishness and started cooking. I got into my groove, baking banana bread, thickening my carne guisada, and rolling out tortillas. (I had to include that, since it’s out of the norm for me.) I stepped out front to discard some cans in the recycling bin when lo and behold…

There was a mail truck pulling into my driveway!  Long after his shift was over and the weather had cleared, he returned to bring me my coveted pillow. He was kind and even apologized for not dropping it off in the hail. I was so grateful. 

Hey Mr. Postman, you’re the bees knees.

Posted in Culture, Family, Home, Personal, Relationships

Revenge of the Fifth

sound effects

 

Some call it karma. I guess I had it coming. I had spent nearly twenty-three years professing how amazing my pregnancies were. Hardly any nausea, minimal weight gain, no swelling, quick labors, fast delivery, angel babies that slept through the night and caught on to nursing at the first latch… Yes, I lived the dream.

Just before my 42nd birthday, I found out we were expecting. This would be my fifth birth, but I had an additional four I earned through marriage. I was no stranger to being a mother of “Advanced Maternal Age.” My fourth child was born when I was forty, but like the others, she was easy peasy. I am now in the second trimester of this pregnancy, or as some like to call it, “The Honeymoon Phase.”
Listen honey, if this is the honeymoon, I want a divorce.

I am tired. So very tired. Maybe it’s my age, maybe it’s because I have a toddler with more energy than a hydrogen bomb, but my guess is, it’s the new baby growing inside me sucking the life from my soul. Literally.

One morning last week, I woke up with a debilitating back ache. If I turned the wrong way, lightning would strike my spine and shoot down my leg. My right butt cheek would be left on fire. Apparently, our pending bundle of joy has caused my uterus to expand in such a way that I now have a pinched nerve. Sciatica during pregnancy is very real and very painful. I’ve been walking around hunched over like an old lady in need of a walker. I wince every time I sit. I can’t pick up my toddler out of fear of paralysis.
My best friend bought me a heating pad and I sit on a pillow at work. Also, if you’re wondering what that smell is, it’s Tiger Balm. Holy Christ on a cracker, this balm is the bomb! I slather that shit on like it holds the Fountain of Youth.

balm

As I waddled up to the check-out at Walgreen’s yesterday, the clerk looked down at my purchases (tennis balls and an electric massager) and gave me a solemn look.
“Pinched nerve?” she asked knowingly.
“My baby is trying to kill me,” I replied as I stuck my card in the chip reader. That card doesn’t even have a chip. I sighed, swiped it, and gimped away.

I had done my research. Google, Pinterest, and my faithful Facebook Mommy Group (shoutout to MoNBU) all offered the same advice. It was jumbled mix of foreign words I didn’t understand like, “exercise, stretches, yoga, workout, asana,” and something about remaining “active.”
…Basically, there was NOTHING I could do except lay around and complain to my husband in between naps.

He’s been a good sport about it. Just last night he cleaned the entire kitchen. He hasn’t said a word about my acne outbreaks, bloating, whining, uncontrollable hunger, daily mental breakdowns, or when I complain about the painful cramping that turns out to just be gas. Ooops. Sorry, baby.

loveme

 

 

 

Posted in Uncategorized

You’re Welcome, World

For the past eight weeks, I’ve put a lot of thought into this pregnancy. Lord knows I’ve had some struggles as of late, and adding another baby to the mix seems like bad timing, but I was nonetheless over the moon with joy. 

I believe in God and I believe in His plan. Who am I (or anyone else) to question His plan? I may not understand why He decided to gift me with another child, but I whole-heartedly embrace this gift.

Besides, so far I have a 100% success rate at bringing amazing souls to this Earth. My children are beautiful, caring, empathetic people that touch the lives they meet. All of them make this world a better place. Honestly, it would be disservice to humanity if I didn’t improve the gene pool by adding more folks like this to the world.

Just in case you thought my reproductive system is your business (it’s not) the answer to the question you want to ask, but haven’t is…

No, I will not be getting my tubes tied, a hysterectomy, or anything “fixed” because that implies that there is something wrong with me. (Hint – there isn’t.) In order to get fixed, something must be broken and it’s clear there is nothing broken here.

Guess what? We have a clear understanding of “what causes this,” we are familiar with birth control, and we have grown to despise the term “Fertile Myrtle.” To the vast majority of our friends and family that have congratulated us and share in our excitement – we thank you from the bottom of hearts! To the few that have questioned us and God’s plan, to the few that have gossiped, sneered, and brought negativity to our special news – you’re the reason we are thrilled to bring another happy, positive, glowing soul to the universe. Our new bundle of joy will cancel out your shittiness. 

You’re welcome, World.

Posted in Culture, Family, Home, Personal, Relationships

Another Revolution, Another Resolution 

Most years I don’t make any resolutions. I tell myself I’m happy just the way I am. I’ve never been a person who said I would try to lose weight, eat healthier  (frankly, my eating habits are none of my business and I should just stay out of it,) or do something about my batwings. (Lord help that arm flab.)

Last year I did decide to try the New Year jar where you write down a happy moment, place it in the jar, and read all the happy memories on NYE. That lasted until spring when I decided to use the jar as a homemade lemonade container. Now it looks like nothing happy happened in our lives after March in 2016. *sigh*


I also resolved to be less of a pushover. The basic definition of a pushover is a person who rarely says no, so in that regard, I failed… but did I? I’ve always taught my children that if someone asks a favor of you and you can do it, by all means do it. A small effort on your part can make a huge difference for someone else. I rarely said “no” in 2016, so I call that fail a win.

I also promised myself I would complete my first book and I did. It was sent to a renowned children’s publisher on November 9th. They said it could take four months to hear back from them so I’m holding my breath until March 9th. Even if it never gets published, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I wrote it and I think it’s pretty damn good.

I’ve started writing my next book in the style of my favorite author, humorist Erma Bombeck. It’s a comedic autobiographical acount of what it’s like for me to be a 20th Century mom raising a 21st Century baby. Basically, it’s just a longer version of some of my funnier blogs and hopefully relatable to parents everywhere. I hope to complete it in 2017 and have higher hopes of it getting published. I don’t have delusions of grandeur. I’m not expecting it make the best seller lists, but I would like for it to hit home for many parents out there.

I do strive to be a better wife and better mother. I don’t need December 31st to make those goals. It’s something I strive for daily.

For the past week, I’ve tried to think of what resolutions I’ll make tonight and I’ve come up empty-handed. I don’t want to set myself for failure, I don’t want to set any meaningless goals, but I do want to have something to strive for in the new year. I’m a list maker and love the satisfaction of crossing something off my list.

So what will it be? Sky-diving? Learn to play the piano? Decide what I want to be when I grow up? Teach myself how to fishtail braid? Clean out the thousands of emails in my inbox?

Whatever it is, I may not choose it tonight and that’s okay. January 1st may represent a clean slate, but you know what else does? Every single new day.

If 2016 has taught us anything, it’s that having the chance to wake up every morning – no matter the day of year, and have the oppurtunity to make a decision to better your life in some small or significant way is more than some less fortunate are able to say.

Happy New Year, All. Make it a great one!

Posted in Community, Culture, Family, Personal, Relationships, Work

Life After Maternity Leave

Before I shared the news of my pregnancy with the world, I decided to tell my boss and co-managers first, in the form of a five person group text. They deserved that much, after all we were like family – a very, very dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. Apparently, they all found this news to be so unbelievable that not one single person responded. I waited a day before making the announcement on Facebook. That’s when the comments from co-workers flooded in. My boss even called me in to his office to confirm. He congratulated me and I assured him that after nine years of being a faithful employee, I would not be leaving.

Throughout my pregnancy, my employer was amazing. My boss never took issue with me having to leave work or schedule myself off due to doctor appointments or not feeling well. He checked in on me often and was very supportive. After my last pre-natal check-up, I returned to work. He asked how everything went. I told him Doc said I was dilated to three and 75% effaced. It would be any day now, in fact, I could go into labor that night. It was already two in the afternoon, so my boss told me to go ahead and go home. It would be my last day until after the baby was born. That was a Thursday; my daughter came into this world that Sunday morning.

I am not a salaried employee. I don’t have health, vision, or dental insurance, a 401K plan, sick days, vacation days, or paid time off. There is no maternity leave program. I earn an hourly wage and have a company provided (and paid for) cell phone. There are some pretty amazing perks at my job. My family can tent camp for free and float the river in a raft or a tube for free. We stay in cabins at an extremely reduced rate. I’m not required to wear a uniform – tank tops and flip-flops are perfectly acceptable. I have my own office with unlimited internet and little to no supervision as well as my own kitchen. We enjoy company paid for lunches in the summer and my boss is very flexible with my schedule. If you’re an outdoorsy person with no desire for material things, this is a dream job.

I am still humbled and overjoyed that my employer paid me a partial weekly salary while I took my leave. I am grateful for that.

When my daughter was two months old, I returned to work. It was the off-season and I was still nursing, so I brought her to work with me. The rock ‘n play was set up next to my desk and she slept most of the workday. When she was ready to nurse, I just closed my office door. My boss walked in and I held my breath. I was 98% sure he would be okay with my new office mate, but 2% of me still worried. (Yes, in retrospect, I should have asked first.)

He stopped by my office and we exchanged warm hellos as he welcomed me back. He had a new puppy on a leash with him that was very excited to meet my daughter. He fussed at the pup before saying to me, “I’m sorry I brought my dog to work.”
“I’m sorry I brought my baby to work,” I replied and that was the end of the discussion.

My daughter is one now and no longer sleeps most of the work day. I have exchanged the rock ‘n play with a pack ‘n play. She spends her time watching Chu-Chu TV on YouTube (and if I never hear the Mommy Finger song again, it will be too soon.) Sometimes I take her out of “baby jail” and let her crawl around my office as she tries to unplug my computer or just sit on my lap while I attempt to type one-handed. She loves for me twirl her around in my swivel chair.

My boss still brings his dog to work, too. She’s not a puppy anymore and he no longer keeps her leashed in his office. When they arrive, she promptly runs to me, licks my face, then goes to do her “job.” She has become the official “Guardian of the Baby.” She walks in circles around the pack ‘n play, making sure everything is as it should be. She licks my daughter’s feet through the netting, then settles down in place, right next to the play pen. If someone dares enter my office, she jumps up and stands at attention – her ears sticking straight up and her tail pointing straight out. Once she determines they are not threat, she lets her guard down.

Most days my daughter doesn’t interfere with my work, but some days… well, it can be tough. There are times when she is splayed across my desk as I change her diaper while she kicks and squirms. My office now reeks of fresh baby poop. Occasionally I take a call while she is saying, “Mommommomm” in the background. I get tired. So very tired. I wonder how I will ever get my work done while spoon-feeding a baby and wanting to rip my hair out after hearing the “Johnny Johnny” song for the umpteenth time today. It’s times like these that I have to remind myself she won’t always be here.

I don’t know what the cut-off age will be, but I know when she starts walking, talking, and getting into everything in sight, I’m going to need figure something out. Finding childcare makes my stomach turn. I don’t want to let her go. I want her with me until she has to go to school. I have no back-up plan and no idea where she will go while I’m at work. It’s a problem that sits in the back of my mind constantly and it weighs me down. I was not afforded this luxury with my older children and now that I am able to take my child to work with me, I can’t imagine not having her.

Believe me, I know I am incredibly lucky to be in this position. It’s a struggle moms all over the world face when their maternity leave ends. I am so thankful. I love my job and I love living this camplife. I’m proud to raise my daughter in this environment and will probably only retire when my hands are too arthritic to type. Until then, I hope to take my daughter to work with me as long as possible.

camplife

Hashtag camplife.

Posted in Community, Culture, Family, Home, Personal

Call Me Old-Fashioned, but…

I wandered into a local children’s boutique on a mission. I was in full-on nesting mode, decorating the nursery for my soon to be born daughter. The item I was searching for? Crib bedding. It had already been decided that yellow and gray would adorn the walls and decorations. It had been eighteen years since I had a baby and I remembered being able to purchase a bed-in-a-bag with all the matching sheets, crib skirts, blankets, and throw pillow.

“Can I help you find something?” The sales clerk asked.
“Yes, I’m looking for crib sets.”
“You mean like crib sheets?”
“I’d like to find a whole set with blankets and bumper pads, too.”
“We don’t sell bumper pads anymore. They’re too controversial!”
“I didn’t know bumper pads were controversial,” I said, confused.
“Oh honey, what’s not controversial these days?”

She was right. As I began to prepare for the birth of my daughter, I was learning that many things deemed “normal” when I had my older children were now considered taboo. I fed on demand, co-slept, and didn’t abide by a stringent feeding schedule or practice sleep training. Apparently I am a bad parent because of that. How could things have changed so drastically in the course of two decades?

After my daughter was born, my husband and I were excited to get her ears pierced. In my family, girls getting their ears pierced was a rite of passage. In my husband’s Hispanic family, it was a cultural tradition. I had taken both of my older daughter’s to get theirs done after their four month vaccinations. I expected to do the same with this daughter, but I wasn’t sure where to get it done. Naturally, I asked my Mommy Group on Facebook.
Oh boy.

If you belong to a Mommy Group, you know that at times, they can be the most supporting and understanding group of people on the planet. Other times, they can be the most judgmental, mom-shaming gang of mean girls you’ll ever encounter.

“How can you justify mutilating your baby’s body just for your own selfish wants?” One mom responded. Another mom said, “Piercing your baby’s ears is equivalent to child abuse.”

SHOTS FIRED.
Child abuse? Mutilation? Whaaaaat?

There were other moms offering advice, suggesting the local pediatric clinic as well as piercing parlors. I learned that it was better if needles were used rather piercing guns, though I am still not sure why. I did not expect to be met with such disdain. The post turned into a full-on contentious debate between pro and anti-piercers. I had never seen the words “body modification” tossed around so much on one thread. It even sparked an argument about circumcision.  Uh, yes, my twenty-one year old son is circumcized, just as his father and grandfather before him. My ears are pierced just as my mother and grandmother before her.

Call me old-fashioned, but I would like go back to the time when you parent your way, I parent my way, and we all bring our favorite dish to the potluck block party in peace.

…now get off my lawn.

ears

Posted in Culture, Family, Home, Personal, Relationships

I Dry-Nurse My Granddaughter and I Don’t Care What You Think

She was inconsolable. I tried everything. I had foolishly considered myself an expert after raising four children and step-mothering an additional four, but nothing in my bag of tricks was working. My two month old granddaughter’s uncontrollable sobbing set off my one year old. They cried in unison. Ten minutes prior, everything was fine. I had dinner going on the stove and cartoons going on the television.

When my oldest daughter was twenty-one, I gave birth to my youngest daughter. Eleven months later, my granddaughter was born. Having a child and grandchild less than a year apart certainly has its advantages. I don’t feel guilty spending money on clothes and toys, knowing they will be passed along. We have the same pediatrician, belong to the same Mommy group, and our girls have matching car seats.

None of my children ever had colic, so when my daughter asked for advice, I had none to give. She spoke with the doctor, the pharmacist, and other moms. She tried gripe water, tummy time, swaddlers, white noise, and every pacifier on the market – to no avail. I got a frantic call from her one evening. She was overwhelmed and exhausted. Through her tears, she explained that she hadn’t bathed in four days and it had been longer since she slept. My granddaughter would only rest in twenty minute intervals and they both needed relief. I offered to take the baby for the night.

“No Mom,” she protested. “She won’t take a bottle and I don’t have any pumped milk, anyway.”

A couple of months went by and my daughter was ready to go back to work, just in time for Christmas. Naturally, I offered to babysit. Her first shift was only three hours. This would be the first time they were apart for longer than a speedy shower. She arrived at my house with an over-packed diaper bag, enough pumped milk to survive the Apocalypse, and apologies. She worried that it would be a burden for me, but I assured her I was thrilled for some time with my granddaughter! We hugged, she kissed the baby, and left for work.

So there I was, holding two crying babies, one on each hip, scolding myself for thinking I was an “expert.” I set the babies down, raced to grab the Bjorn, and strapped my granddaughter in. My own daughter was jealous and wailing. I scooped her up to my hip while trying to calm them both. Their combined screams pierced my ears, but there was something else…

…the smoke detector! It blared loud enough to drown out the babies and alert the neighborhood that I burnt the potatoes on the stove. While wildly flailing a kitchen towel at the alarm, I realized my face was wet. As I went to open the back door, I passed a mirror in the hallway. That’s when I saw my face covered in tears. I was crying with the babies and hadn’t even realized. I felt helpless, useless, and defeated. I felt what my daughter felt daily. I wanted to be a good mom and grandmom, but I felt like a failure.

With my head hanging, I worked my way down the hall, singing the ABC song. I looked up and saw my husband standing in the open doorway. We must have been a pitiful sight. I was frazzled, my knees buckling, make-up smeared from tears, and snot across my daughter’s face. He eased her off my hip and disappeared to the bedroom. I sat on the sofa, took off the Bjorn, and cradled my granddaughter in my arms. She was rooting around and I felt the “let down” even though my milk had been dry for months. It was a phantom sensation, but my maternal instincts kicked in and I latched her on my breast. I didn’t think about it really. She rooted, I offered, she accepted. Within a few minutes she was sound asleep.

My husband wandered in the living room and was surprised to see my granddaughter latched on. He asked if it was okay to do that. I didn’t see why not. All my children had comfort nursed. I was used to being a human pacifier and I was sure my daughter would be happy I consoled her, by any means necessary. And she was. When she arrived to pick up the baby, I told her the whole story and we laughed.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” she told me.
I didn’t mind at all!

I’ve taken care of my granddaughter several times since then and each time, she’s needed a breast. I understand that to some this is seen as controversial, but truthfully, I don’t care. I love my daughter and granddaughter and will continue to do anything and everything I can to help them both – even if it means dry-nursing.

 

emmm.jpg

Posted in Culture, Family, Food, Relationships

Chicken (Tortilla) Soup For the Soul

I was an adult before I had ever heard of or tried Chicken Tortilla Soup. The only time my mother ever served me soup was when I was sick. Even then she would usually warm up a can of Campbell’s Chicken & Stars. (Chili and stew don’t count – Momma rocked those!)

I once got food poisoning from old broccoli and cheese soup at a Black Eyed Pea Restaurant and I refused to eat it again for thirteen years. True story. Ever since, I always choose salad over soup at a restaurant. But Chicken Tortilla Soup is good – I mean really good. So about eight years ago, I decided to make it for the first time. My kids loved it! In fact, my oldest loved it so much, she wouldn’t stop eating it. I think she had nine large servings before she finally threw up un-digested chicken tortilla soup all over my kitchen floor. She begged me to never make it again and after the great broccoli and cheese incident of ’91, I was happy to oblige. We were kindred. Soup had scarred us both.

Now that it’s November in Texas, the temperature has dropped below 100 degrees. ‘Round these parts, that means soup! (Or chili – whatever.) Last night I decided to make it again. I also made a very small pot of vegan tortilla soup for Parker (recipe below.) My house smelled of garlic, cumin, and lime. The cilantro, avocado, and sour cream were fresh. I couldn’t find the cheese grater so I used dental floss to finely slice the block of cheddar. I still don’t know where that grater is.

Our front door was open, letting in the cool autumn breeze (and possibly airing out the kitchen after I burned the first round of tortilla strips in oil.) I was just about to scald my tongue when I heard a woman’s voice saying, “knock, knock” from the open door. It was our friend, Ally! She stopped by to drop off gifts for Olive. We exchanged pleasantries, chatted about her parents, and she was on her way. I finally took my first bite and it was awesome.

After some silence, I asked my husband if his mom made Chicken Tortilla Soup when he was growing up. He gave me “the look” which means, “Are you serious?” (Some people that know him interpret it as, “Are you fucking stupid?” There’s a fine line.

“Chicken Tortilla Soup isn’t a real thing, baby.”

Not real? It looked real. It smelled real. It tasted real. The jalapenos and green chilis were really making my forehead sweat. It took a really long time to make and real dollars to pay for the real ingredients. Was this somehow the Emperor’s New Soup?

“It’s just a made up thing,” he explained.

Well, of course it is made up. At some point, some person threw all the ingredients (whatever they had in the fridge, most likely) in a big pot, added some spices, and called it Chicken Tortilla Soup. It’s not like there is some natural body of soup out there that we can just take soup from…
Split Pea Springs
– River of Creamy Potato
– The Egg Drop Ocean
– Lake Lentil

I understood what he was trying to say, though. He meant that it wasn’t a traditional Mexican dish. His mother made caldo; trendy restaurants made Chicken Tortilla Soup. I didn’t know that. My mother’s dinners were mostly spaghetti, tacos, meatloaf, BBQ, burgers, and her signature dish – pork chops, ranch style beans, and mac & cheese. It’s not like I grew up eating diverse foods, unless we were at a restaurant. (My first experience with curry was revolting.)

My Vegan Tortilla Soup is, in fact, made up. By me. Last night. Hope you enjoy!

Ingredients:
3 cups vegetable broth
olive oil
1/3 can of green chiles & tomatoes (I used Ro-tel)
1/3 can of sweet kernel corn (rinsed and drained)
1/3 can whole black beans (also rinsed and drained)
1/4 cup diced celery
1/4 cup diced onion
cilantro, avocado, lime, garlic, cumin, and cayenne pepper to taste

optional: tofu

Directions:
Pour vegetable broth, Ro-tel, corn, and black beans in a small pot over medium heat. Add tofu chunks (optional.) Sprinkle cumin and cayenne pepper to your preferences. In a separate pan heat olive oil until it simmers. Add celery, onion, and garlic and saute until tender. Add contents of pan to pot. Voila!

Serve with fresh avocado chunks, chopped cilantro, fried tortilla strips, and a squeeze of lime!

soup2

Posted in Uncategorized

Remember When Safety Pins Were Punk Rock? 

Remember when safety pins were punk rock? 

There is a new movement on Facebook and the news encouraging people to wear safety pins as a sign of solidarity with groups such as the LGBT, minorities, and women.
“You are safe with me.”
It began in the UK following Brexit and was picked up in the US following the election results.

I remember when safety pins were punk rock. I wore tons of them on my jean jacket along with band buttons, patches, and anarchy signs. We thought we were so cool. (And we were!) Just recently I wore 89 safety pins in one evening. It was my no-sew Halloween costume. I was a monster from Where the Wild Things Are.
I won’t be wearing a safety pin to prove that you are safe with me. These days, if I am wearing one, it’s most likely due to a wardrobe malfunction.

My no-sew 89 safety pin Halloween costume. 

It’s not that I’m against the movement, in fact, I support it. There are people genuinely scared and I love to see our society coming together. I have dear friends that are passionate about this, handing them out at bars and street corners. I think that’s awesome. But I’m still not going to participate.

I don’t copy and paste. I’m pretty sure Jesus knows I love Him without me having to share a meme. I don’t own a dipped, powder coated, bedazzled, monogrammed Yeti. I didn’t put a rainbow flag across my profile photo when marriage equality passed, I didn’t do the ice bucket challenge, I  didn’t check into Standing Rock, I don’t watch Game of Thrones, I never bought a Chevron print rug for my bathroom, and I didn’t do the things we were supposed to do about Kony. I don’t even remember what that was. Maybe a change.org petition was being circulated or another image across our default photo on Facebook? Whatever happened with Kony?

It’s so hard for me to jump on the social media bandwagon. It’s like, if I’m being told by the masses or media that I should be doing/watching/buying something, my immediate reaction is to not do the thing. It feels trendy and disengenuine.

I’m not a monster. Well, except on Halloween. Yes, I support marriage equality, encouraging other to feel safe, I want clean water for all humans and animals, I don’t believe children should be exploited, I think coffee should stay hot and tea should stay cold, and I’m quite certain GoT is an amazing show. 

I have nothing but love for those that do these things. I am in no way trying to put them down. I respect the passion! It’s just not for me.

I will continue to do my part. I smile at every single passer-by, wink and wave to every small child, and reach out when I can. Some days, that’s all I can do, other days, I quietly move mountains. I won’t be posting my random acts of kindness to social media, or touting my efforts against social injustices.

That’s just me, and maybe in some small way, that’s just a little punk rock.

Posted in Community, Culture, Family, Personal, Relationships

Cart to Cart

Picture it: Grocery store, 7:00 pm, Health & Beauty Aisle

Olive’s barefeet are dangling through the leg holes of the basket while I’m trying to select the right conditioner for me. Color treated hair? Deep conditioning? Repair & Restore? Avocado, Coconut, or Moroccan oil? Is there a product that has all of these things, because I think I need all of these things. My husband is exercising his patience while silently praying that I’ll just make a damn decision before the store closes. I ask Olive for advice and she stares back at me with her goofy little grin, exposing her 3 bottom teeth. Her smile is crooked and it always reminds of Popeye without the pipe.

An elderly man in a motorized shopping cart rolls up, eyes sparkling as he sees Olive flutter her eyelashes at him. She giggles. His USMC trucker hat sits slightly awry on top of his balding head. His white collared shirt is so thin after seven thousand washes that I can clearly see his v-neck undershirt.

He raises a gnarled, arthritic hand to the basket and gently pats Olive’s. They are in awe of each other, both winning the staring contest. Decades stand between them; he could be her great-grandfather. I marvel at the circle of life right in front of me, clutching my bottle of Pantene as they both sit in their respective age-appropriate carts.

“Well hello, sweetheart,” he says to her. “Aren’t you just the most precious thing God ever created?” It’s possible I’m biased, but I nod my head in 100% agreement. Olive cocks her side to the side and then in response she…

…blows him a raspberry.

OH MY GOD. I want to slink down the (invisible) drain the way my last bottle of conditioner did when it was left on its side with the cap open in the bath. (Thanks, kids.)
“OLIVE!” I admonish. She looks at me, smirks, and blows me a raspberry, too.

“Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll leave you alone now little girl,” he says to her and we hear the reverse beep on his scooter. I see the sadness in his eyes. He is visibly hurt. I want to apologize, I want to hug him, I want him to stay so he can see adorable Ollie really is. He is looking the other way while backing up, but he does say good-bye. Olive knows this word all too well and she immediately starts waving. I desperately want him to see this.
“PLEASE TURN AROUND!” I am yelling at him inside my head.

He gets his cart into position and finally looks back at us. He smiles. I sneak a peek at Ollie, hoping she is still waving. She isn’t. Instead, she is eye-locked with him again, but this time she…

…blows him a kiss.

olive

Ollie

dally

My oldest Dallas and my grandson Lyric Cody

arg

My daughter Mikayla and my grandson Mason