tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90703495391757792352024-03-21T04:12:29.337-07:00WolfpeopleMichelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.comBlogger346125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-84079032775730121352020-02-23T04:48:00.001-08:002020-02-23T04:48:40.699-08:00365 | sapphires, allodynia, elves, and dragons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eJqSys1fZdVWmkwdgktdLzgIOVy4RTqjSdNyaGVB9QwPosh2crLmiYY43HhZLrCj3QkWXeNeo63_VWYqMc4u47EWgnHqB20qHVJTcbVFnA8aNRvtXyGmRirVeX5Zmhe6r-zjTD6907A/s1600/055+365+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eJqSys1fZdVWmkwdgktdLzgIOVy4RTqjSdNyaGVB9QwPosh2crLmiYY43HhZLrCj3QkWXeNeo63_VWYqMc4u47EWgnHqB20qHVJTcbVFnA8aNRvtXyGmRirVeX5Zmhe6r-zjTD6907A/s640/055+365+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipbg5WlAKgaoOYaIkvZJu70sY9VHMS7TxPVxkdTfh8dOUJtzUyMj4UBFsyC3tLy6Ocgak-pkLcvCwuXw16_U61swYuhAOViq_DYyxILL7J66bpAwLZZU3cvGj7hiYRgVmCnfhhaFtvVDw/s1600/055+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipbg5WlAKgaoOYaIkvZJu70sY9VHMS7TxPVxkdTfh8dOUJtzUyMj4UBFsyC3tLy6Ocgak-pkLcvCwuXw16_U61swYuhAOViq_DYyxILL7J66bpAwLZZU3cvGj7hiYRgVmCnfhhaFtvVDw/s640/055+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>055/365 | Sunday 29 December 2019</b> - I am grateful for the little strawberry pastries my co-worker, Kirk, buys us that taste like Spring. I am grateful to all my neighbors who recognize and compliment Atalanta's beauty as I walk her. I am grateful for my dainty antique sapphire ring and the pleasant ghost of the tiny woman who wore it before me.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ8vZ4NKVlpGVJTowTvgJsqxkP35k_i9uMmxGHKZ6lOb4mPHSLzRVT-88I3TY5r31wq5XfJqqUsEimRX4lSl4d-ppVdYcTVn-R6Nx5M6ma4TCy1Nb8u4yPYI3VFT-s_OiVsYkBSNIgX8/s1600/056+365+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJ8vZ4NKVlpGVJTowTvgJsqxkP35k_i9uMmxGHKZ6lOb4mPHSLzRVT-88I3TY5r31wq5XfJqqUsEimRX4lSl4d-ppVdYcTVn-R6Nx5M6ma4TCy1Nb8u4yPYI3VFT-s_OiVsYkBSNIgX8/s640/056+365+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1cw_dVSaGbWP4JPcwFTKSsfcZ0F-EftZ3NY6-JyE3QyIHD9txNtmBtcS3_eSSS-VqVBt7ds3AZ4K0KodOojIphWVWKW3jnwtudY2eHYCxK86lVbhfUTdnMspyFrKDAVznp9JHzPZwLY/s1600/056+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1cw_dVSaGbWP4JPcwFTKSsfcZ0F-EftZ3NY6-JyE3QyIHD9txNtmBtcS3_eSSS-VqVBt7ds3AZ4K0KodOojIphWVWKW3jnwtudY2eHYCxK86lVbhfUTdnMspyFrKDAVznp9JHzPZwLY/s640/056+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>056/365 | Monday 30 December 2019</b> - Me and my little man had a rough morning together, butting heads. I was out of sorts, my feelings hurt, and then I watched him squeal and yell with delight as his kite picked up air and sailed over our heads, in the yard but especially on our walk with the dog, Mads running ahead of me (precariously, in crocs). Life is like this.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBtc3sTc6z_JTtONt7RLuOdcaty7jl8sjQVscpFMRdXGW9MbtgAacI7Qa4-wPterVBzV1ua5wHrSVKS8tQ3jKzA4iLslegIVx0cxwuq5pgCZqnAwDHbYBhyphenhyphenQtw7ewT7YwCu7leHyE1jE/s1600/057+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlBtc3sTc6z_JTtONt7RLuOdcaty7jl8sjQVscpFMRdXGW9MbtgAacI7Qa4-wPterVBzV1ua5wHrSVKS8tQ3jKzA4iLslegIVx0cxwuq5pgCZqnAwDHbYBhyphenhyphenQtw7ewT7YwCu7leHyE1jE/s640/057+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>057/365 | Tuesday 31 December 2019 - </b>Journal prompt: Who is the person you are when you're with your person? How does being in your (romantic) relationship make you feel? Who does being in your relationship make you feel you are?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnck17qyt34DFEQNg5X0LWjyPJRncpf4AvU7p18Dqc3Ajn1HqJRujBLbAg2VEPPGk7AO2O99GfgX2nCMv2JhvqG6-e3_7BUGVtNth6WOMHXYsmmigQpu4RbeIy6iTOtjeDno3Xmxh1xqw/s1600/058+365+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnck17qyt34DFEQNg5X0LWjyPJRncpf4AvU7p18Dqc3Ajn1HqJRujBLbAg2VEPPGk7AO2O99GfgX2nCMv2JhvqG6-e3_7BUGVtNth6WOMHXYsmmigQpu4RbeIy6iTOtjeDno3Xmxh1xqw/s640/058+365+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLselMQ_2Wh6V_1rLlXCRUS6W8uCLwlVOAOrs1MqxGPGm12B5Jlj5Uq2rDvgzWPzyiwZl8kPIMW3AthosxNzBnmyzDSFrv0S4hvp2l1W-Mo-72wRCACei5c6U7Rc0P3HiJir7lqSpRNQ/s1600/058+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkLselMQ_2Wh6V_1rLlXCRUS6W8uCLwlVOAOrs1MqxGPGm12B5Jlj5Uq2rDvgzWPzyiwZl8kPIMW3AthosxNzBnmyzDSFrv0S4hvp2l1W-Mo-72wRCACei5c6U7Rc0P3HiJir7lqSpRNQ/s640/058+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b><span id="goog_228293713"></span><span id="goog_228293714"></span>058/365 | Wednesday 1 January 2020 - </b>New year, new look.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksDrjX7wHT4nQxhz-3U8LluJTPyFhJNchd0q5UFbkGZ4qWbn-oX6QQasat3RNbEnPzwq-RT7wjRrE6MLAmZm-Gx2vCSVVQZKYxGgpsViKH7Jesp6XWdECtgL_v8KUeIueliEJfCmhDDM/s1600/059+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiksDrjX7wHT4nQxhz-3U8LluJTPyFhJNchd0q5UFbkGZ4qWbn-oX6QQasat3RNbEnPzwq-RT7wjRrE6MLAmZm-Gx2vCSVVQZKYxGgpsViKH7Jesp6XWdECtgL_v8KUeIueliEJfCmhDDM/s640/059+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>059/365 | Thursday 2 January 2020</b> - I like to dip into Middle Earth at the Yuletide. We got a late start this year and powered through these, which is how this tradition began as newlyweds--all three LOTR movies on Christmas day.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGT1honzbVM6t6eF9CItqfqkZp3YZIccB3u9JwDJY0rfcZgpOTyzEe0nT3W6m9mS0-BlS7Te9roH1gTu9N7QOmZhd7VUZpla5OWhs0mZK-R5QovdNEO7z_eJOTMpiCjwdHLaZ3lu4rzbI/s1600/060+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGT1honzbVM6t6eF9CItqfqkZp3YZIccB3u9JwDJY0rfcZgpOTyzEe0nT3W6m9mS0-BlS7Te9roH1gTu9N7QOmZhd7VUZpla5OWhs0mZK-R5QovdNEO7z_eJOTMpiCjwdHLaZ3lu4rzbI/s640/060+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>060/365 | Friday 3 January 2020</b> - Nothing like being knocked-on-your-butt sick at the beginning of the new year.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbtch0767O7j5ERzcXVkA1CdugimO8HbO0IphSsHIUR4KdXe2vzbxuGgYbpBSVIylRg3h6gMZvb1oHJPJxL1KP2FwECatkj_pkIXJdgF_u182qb5L55aDU8ofwAdRiYfhb-Pws4Dkp32M/s1600/061+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbtch0767O7j5ERzcXVkA1CdugimO8HbO0IphSsHIUR4KdXe2vzbxuGgYbpBSVIylRg3h6gMZvb1oHJPJxL1KP2FwECatkj_pkIXJdgF_u182qb5L55aDU8ofwAdRiYfhb-Pws4Dkp32M/s640/061+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>061/365 | Saturday 4 January 2020, work</b> - Wall! Of! Fortunes!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlVsCxGeU9aNQ7ijyczTQ2pF7ZgNrsmReV8DlMBSgdp6Ps4u9jof15g23aHWhu7Xg3x_cEs0y_Pf2JSKVUpQNCcbrqUdtPW4lvKAtpwBs6e2tvbs8xx2f29YhCjX5sSFrcE36jQ_hc_A/s1600/062+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtlVsCxGeU9aNQ7ijyczTQ2pF7ZgNrsmReV8DlMBSgdp6Ps4u9jof15g23aHWhu7Xg3x_cEs0y_Pf2JSKVUpQNCcbrqUdtPW4lvKAtpwBs6e2tvbs8xx2f29YhCjX5sSFrcE36jQ_hc_A/s640/062+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>062/365 | Sunday 5 January 2020 </b>- We buried Granny today. Afterwards, we picked Mads up from Grandma's house, and he was very impressed with his dad's suit. I told him, "Baby, your daddy only wears suits to funerals," which is no exaggeration (he did not even marry me in a suit). Unlike his dad, Mads appreciates the lines of a good suit and dressed in his own approximation of one when we got home. He ate a dinner of star fruit and deviled eggs and watched a Scooby Doo in a jacket and tie.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9rqBM9Fersvb3_czCkRBvpjOc_TLmiBMh7xz-PItyiHorpani9PqMjlo00hpi9a956pHhgHqB6KOEsWg5rTxMD-wm4U6DGbMrqB5k669RxWacniGL31kfI9ru1wIc3ti1v46Uv75k8g/s1600/063+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY9rqBM9Fersvb3_czCkRBvpjOc_TLmiBMh7xz-PItyiHorpani9PqMjlo00hpi9a956pHhgHqB6KOEsWg5rTxMD-wm4U6DGbMrqB5k669RxWacniGL31kfI9ru1wIc3ti1v46Uv75k8g/s640/063+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>063/365 | Monday 6 January 2020</b> - Ludo follows us on our walks. Between the cat trailing us on our walks and the life-size skeleton on our porch, we've established ourselves as the neighborhood eccentrics in record time.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2s7EKrWAJ9D0I4_ukdrGXjD7rJ2cBy81zNGAnVUW38epDeDooI-lX0zOg1QCwBrndwg-sLNhVU12EXdAOVFN8QisaY5yoO4X6TF1AepDe5QfJ75adSwRrxD_J01bvi-7eO6kQQjogxXc/s1600/064+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2s7EKrWAJ9D0I4_ukdrGXjD7rJ2cBy81zNGAnVUW38epDeDooI-lX0zOg1QCwBrndwg-sLNhVU12EXdAOVFN8QisaY5yoO4X6TF1AepDe5QfJ75adSwRrxD_J01bvi-7eO6kQQjogxXc/s640/064+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>064/365 | Tuesday 7 January 2020</b> - Tonight Mads had me sing every single bedtime song I've ever sung him--we sang through our entire six-year catalog before the bedtime kiss.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgYJa5N62_4WyLCCNiJlSKt04UofWwMQDLKNbVmB19TiqQXBKJ2YKt1dHr4Z1yG4rSeua0DbMEmDB77Q-Bo_BanVtoYE3cHliwhEOHlRs_y5JBRVeR7yKSDYF641g59_-HfWHskd4ZkU/s1600/065+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgYJa5N62_4WyLCCNiJlSKt04UofWwMQDLKNbVmB19TiqQXBKJ2YKt1dHr4Z1yG4rSeua0DbMEmDB77Q-Bo_BanVtoYE3cHliwhEOHlRs_y5JBRVeR7yKSDYF641g59_-HfWHskd4ZkU/s640/065+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>065/365 | Wednesday 8 January 2020</b> - A gift from my beau, who knows me so well.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTinGjYd_dDfHAQGY5ttMyAjNp6kqRQTAv693NKXcw28Cmb7rvwULDDq9nLO6Yc5riux3L2rWIPRqsvPNYtxBJ0pqu6y_VrzyqwjtG5siAR5qdYPHUfH-V8CL-t8Tr7HlZmlH1JioR0wk/s1600/066+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTinGjYd_dDfHAQGY5ttMyAjNp6kqRQTAv693NKXcw28Cmb7rvwULDDq9nLO6Yc5riux3L2rWIPRqsvPNYtxBJ0pqu6y_VrzyqwjtG5siAR5qdYPHUfH-V8CL-t8Tr7HlZmlH1JioR0wk/s640/066+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>066/365 | Thursday 9 January 2020</b> - Atalanta Strawberry Vaughn<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyFp7LWE8mu3KEEBUP9WwrwdwYLL8YE6Yo_tLY49MEfoH_W3kS9gmoowIA_bgorA59AFFuY1ZLMVRoPZ4jz2pboPCboPZhZSnWO-aPpzl5vDi6e2lKtQblDPfZc3vhHAZq22oBtR8sQw/s1600/067+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyFp7LWE8mu3KEEBUP9WwrwdwYLL8YE6Yo_tLY49MEfoH_W3kS9gmoowIA_bgorA59AFFuY1ZLMVRoPZ4jz2pboPCboPZhZSnWO-aPpzl5vDi6e2lKtQblDPfZc3vhHAZq22oBtR8sQw/s640/067+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>067/365 | Friday 10 January 2020</b> - Mads has been forbidden to sing Christmas songs by his exasperated father, but it doesn't stop him. I've polished off the last of the mulled wine, we've finished watching the Lord of the Rings, our Christmas decorations are tucked away in the attic, and it is a relief.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidiRt4TE1L3h1wn-pmIv59T_enHrjXH9AdbIJ0Z55uDPqLzUpc1JbjtqSc5NnL5iTbM5Gh5W7LObDIaUi0xKKartyi61_Xbm2uq8Snk8akcxJCTMfIMZ7ccxYfRBWou__c_mrYZg62k-Q/s1600/068+365+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidiRt4TE1L3h1wn-pmIv59T_enHrjXH9AdbIJ0Z55uDPqLzUpc1JbjtqSc5NnL5iTbM5Gh5W7LObDIaUi0xKKartyi61_Xbm2uq8Snk8akcxJCTMfIMZ7ccxYfRBWou__c_mrYZg62k-Q/s640/068+365+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEnsqWETwk0k8xiubWnxZsA_citUSYIUqzdNH5_vO1RdScFvDAz9DcbT5HPK2GQeK4TjDwP9-JvKTSYk5-H5sxV9ZK2CANhWlhfnNdwhC8be5DFaLr-IUwjHNPh4dnSTuBNUMTfiULWE/s1600/068+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjEnsqWETwk0k8xiubWnxZsA_citUSYIUqzdNH5_vO1RdScFvDAz9DcbT5HPK2GQeK4TjDwP9-JvKTSYk5-H5sxV9ZK2CANhWlhfnNdwhC8be5DFaLr-IUwjHNPh4dnSTuBNUMTfiULWE/s640/068+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>068/365 | Saturday 11 January 2020</b> - I try to strike a balance with the kids between firmly setting my boundaries and expectations and meeting their needs with active listening, respect, and compassion. Ella is easy. Mads is a rebel.</div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-8506482020273125322020-02-02T05:35:00.000-08:002020-02-02T05:35:02.233-08:00365 | you can say there's no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa, we believe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0V1Qu1hXwrqNmFgk4YqW3tc7UN9dvK-i3I_jOihNPC_-ZmkJilOavblwDo1WS8DiAnLCdsYq7PcJkbtslGuFYYfQeKdsxC_CwXuIRB_z23LcY7zrZEXgesoW0qvhKD__HqGgPOsGH04E/s1600/041+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0V1Qu1hXwrqNmFgk4YqW3tc7UN9dvK-i3I_jOihNPC_-ZmkJilOavblwDo1WS8DiAnLCdsYq7PcJkbtslGuFYYfQeKdsxC_CwXuIRB_z23LcY7zrZEXgesoW0qvhKD__HqGgPOsGH04E/s640/041+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>041/365 | Sunday 15 December 2019, Tutu School's Bravo Bash at NCMA, Raleigh</b> - After the recital, we took the kids to Gypsy's Shiny Diner with Grandma, Grandmommy, and Aunt Theresa. Grandma handed me a bunch of quarters, and the kids and I picked out Christmas songs to play from the jukebox. When Mads chose "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" (one of my favorites), I teased him, "How dare you! There are three grandmothers present, sir!" </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWIDW3Wu1T-j2H4KNrjjMo1JZxb141HiCBp9QbTriinrmtx91MHGGhMm05bxAwPBlZrTbh9_DffT1w9J5UhA1DFHktw5kq4vc4cmYLBN9NapTwtfbdCMuYIw1OHXbhT6vTbmbteRWtTg/s1600/042+3651.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWIDW3Wu1T-j2H4KNrjjMo1JZxb141HiCBp9QbTriinrmtx91MHGGhMm05bxAwPBlZrTbh9_DffT1w9J5UhA1DFHktw5kq4vc4cmYLBN9NapTwtfbdCMuYIw1OHXbhT6vTbmbteRWtTg/s640/042+3651.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWax8HSbtBB8xIyP-nXIJTLoT0dBQl9-icOnb2MZcLrxHmPG3CWw2RYkG-_YU8jBcQPCYXTCZwphnKr8h9_9_qR7GavIQflnjQjipvpbiSjBKjJAifBYeZ1jf_rRzYTR3qg7dvjSBkNk/s1600/042+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWax8HSbtBB8xIyP-nXIJTLoT0dBQl9-icOnb2MZcLrxHmPG3CWw2RYkG-_YU8jBcQPCYXTCZwphnKr8h9_9_qR7GavIQflnjQjipvpbiSjBKjJAifBYeZ1jf_rRzYTR3qg7dvjSBkNk/s640/042+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>042/365 | Monday 16 December 2019, Grandma's House</b> - Grandma & Grandpa's master bathroom exploded early in the month (the opposite of a Christmas miracle) and now the slow re-construction and salvage has begun. Grandpa tells me his mother would've lost her mind over a toilet sitting on her front porch. She would've packed her bags and left in shame.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfoXQ4ev9cdYpZsN3E6wl7hIVN971uJksbwy5IhMPX_ezdxlMhBL-DMCeYwr64zKjXI47aMXPvNwGkiiQiUIXk6OC7iTB1Fn1vUmmY1-9LxGmf_cM_Ubd2Wjp81w-YlBWDv3wSSLLWWE/s1600/043+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpfoXQ4ev9cdYpZsN3E6wl7hIVN971uJksbwy5IhMPX_ezdxlMhBL-DMCeYwr64zKjXI47aMXPvNwGkiiQiUIXk6OC7iTB1Fn1vUmmY1-9LxGmf_cM_Ubd2Wjp81w-YlBWDv3wSSLLWWE/s640/043+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>043/365 | Tuesday 17 December 2019, downtown Cary</b> - Mads being rude to me consistently all morning. I take a knee and tell him he's hurt my feelings. He starts to whine and protest. I tell him, "You're not in trouble. I'm not yelling at you. I'm just telling you how I feel," which he accepts without comment.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlCV6J-7VbRGbiTo83-A5ie2vbTj9A-EJ3KS6VV17gMXjPaFNpx08zpLnWEvFLsB5NVslt146uAAsZDsW5aEdtbm1jQ6nucH5X6fxqBANDCCazy0b2LlbNVWmZxhioq7TTih-3JEmVKs/s1600/044+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlCV6J-7VbRGbiTo83-A5ie2vbTj9A-EJ3KS6VV17gMXjPaFNpx08zpLnWEvFLsB5NVslt146uAAsZDsW5aEdtbm1jQ6nucH5X6fxqBANDCCazy0b2LlbNVWmZxhioq7TTih-3JEmVKs/s640/044+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>044/365 | Wednesday 18 December 2019</b> - I wrote my yule cards this year sipping St Remy brandy and listening to Timi Yuro.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgGNQJE_ko8e-qz-1YkwJgiX3VQk82cuHHtrO39G48_sBC1fgoAZu7msD3R6N-n9Xk48yXtGxFVNsDBE_jRPc9YCqUI9juZ3NfCl3uB31kemzqBqbH4b47TYkLVTLOUYab4DRk-reM5k/s1600/045+365+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgGNQJE_ko8e-qz-1YkwJgiX3VQk82cuHHtrO39G48_sBC1fgoAZu7msD3R6N-n9Xk48yXtGxFVNsDBE_jRPc9YCqUI9juZ3NfCl3uB31kemzqBqbH4b47TYkLVTLOUYab4DRk-reM5k/s640/045+365+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVonx4uTItBLomUeJiO3LHlqbJPpQJ3MUfwk1NlOom8z9TDW8zxoPQB9j5VvR3JubURlb4Y7WwPYdK22-MShNvc_fM_YB3BVYgl7AiJiDPzW-D3UtbRHI-gqAmhpW9-D7EvcWrn6I1hMk/s1600/045+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVonx4uTItBLomUeJiO3LHlqbJPpQJ3MUfwk1NlOom8z9TDW8zxoPQB9j5VvR3JubURlb4Y7WwPYdK22-MShNvc_fM_YB3BVYgl7AiJiDPzW-D3UtbRHI-gqAmhpW9-D7EvcWrn6I1hMk/s640/045+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>045/365 | Thursday 19 December 2019</b> - Martigan's ensemble for riding his bike to the post office with me: flight suit, motorcycle jacket, wizard cape (and dinosaur helmet because safety first).</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ksArFudgZ7B4rT2nprARL3Z_lXI0s0DugbArHoPbZnAacJqMZ5Mp70QUaNhShTHlINTtrx5YoV1nZ2IEQDSXA-VlaOIV2OKcLdByfdzWTORaW3jl_XtaU0hY-ZVYO9yPzA8bZy2jaJg/s1600/046+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ksArFudgZ7B4rT2nprARL3Z_lXI0s0DugbArHoPbZnAacJqMZ5Mp70QUaNhShTHlINTtrx5YoV1nZ2IEQDSXA-VlaOIV2OKcLdByfdzWTORaW3jl_XtaU0hY-ZVYO9yPzA8bZy2jaJg/s640/046+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>046/365 | Friday 20 December 2019 </b>- Today is Grandpa's 80th birthday, the 11th anniversary of my first kiss with my husband, and our first day in our new (old, rented) house.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wXZyg9PQ6zhtH0rFQMgh9FSBm1YG-2qnDR_hJfC-DTpRUULB3izlxhN3gLFj_WPAggkAu77f5F9mTfnJILcTwyKwGdUvS3hFhFUTOSGc8WYDukGpu1jD41cuIB2YaB_CYiizItqhj7M/s1600/047+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4wXZyg9PQ6zhtH0rFQMgh9FSBm1YG-2qnDR_hJfC-DTpRUULB3izlxhN3gLFj_WPAggkAu77f5F9mTfnJILcTwyKwGdUvS3hFhFUTOSGc8WYDukGpu1jD41cuIB2YaB_CYiizItqhj7M/s640/047+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>047/365 | Saturday 21 December 2019</b> - Wolfman is the creator and bestower of nicknames in our house. He's the one who started calling Atalanta "Abadamba," who first called Ludo "Dude-o," and now these are practically their names. (The animals answer to these affectionate play names, recognizing the affection if not the name itself.) Lately, with Ludo's transformation to meaty outdoor bruiser, Wolfman has taken to calling him "Steve French," the name Bubbles gives to the mountain lion the Trailer Park Boys find in their weed fields.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50DAoUfSsPALFUpRHNdd7d_bHKaIAc93MTI9yeK6wzyp1g2G9mQIcab5r_bJVuEHBdsWMHh7bQTVBs4faLeQdrA-pqZLS9bJIJxzi5NWt3xZR4Aj9kbQ2FWdqPoBlgXxXFInHClTmgdY/s1600/048+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50DAoUfSsPALFUpRHNdd7d_bHKaIAc93MTI9yeK6wzyp1g2G9mQIcab5r_bJVuEHBdsWMHh7bQTVBs4faLeQdrA-pqZLS9bJIJxzi5NWt3xZR4Aj9kbQ2FWdqPoBlgXxXFInHClTmgdY/s640/048+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>048/365 | Sunday 22 December 2019, Apex</b> - I ventured reluctantly to Walmart after work to do last minute shopping. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but I don't want this to happen again next year.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAQnGSAyujgn4wNbU3p3_Lyg9yn8SCVspOcc50q9lMhENMQC2-SQSx1NiyaLjivFGMW-9EzLsGnEwy23tUW7D26YRMag4G3Igsb4xiOvv6Ci7UYGQC6xbpUMWYAhmUcdYGRcoPgwg15LQ/s1600/049+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAQnGSAyujgn4wNbU3p3_Lyg9yn8SCVspOcc50q9lMhENMQC2-SQSx1NiyaLjivFGMW-9EzLsGnEwy23tUW7D26YRMag4G3Igsb4xiOvv6Ci7UYGQC6xbpUMWYAhmUcdYGRcoPgwg15LQ/s640/049+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>049/365 | Monday 23 December 2019, Work</b> - Pepper onion relish and Laryssa's beautiful girl, Lexy, at work today. Not bad. (Better for me than Lexy, at least.)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLS90pc243PJvcu8dnx44RsA0GHr0VKtiYjfd5KKKvmeDOVVBEJqcndoSeMNdgAK-YhLRJ5gKsx75M4Bd8dCUbp01n9zmEeJp88NiM9WqHYvNxaOMfEyUtlk34Cjrs69M91vqimdBzzfs/s1600/050+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLS90pc243PJvcu8dnx44RsA0GHr0VKtiYjfd5KKKvmeDOVVBEJqcndoSeMNdgAK-YhLRJ5gKsx75M4Bd8dCUbp01n9zmEeJp88NiM9WqHYvNxaOMfEyUtlk34Cjrs69M91vqimdBzzfs/s640/050+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>050/365 | Tuesday 24 December 2019, Christmas Eve</b> - Started the day with a walk, accompanied by my friendly neighborhood Batman. Then work, where we keep the Santa Trackers up on the computers, and I wear my Metalocalypse tee and eat too many sweets. Then, to my father-in-law's house where we drink rum barrel coffee and listen to Django Rhineheart. Then home, to watch Gremlins and drink mead and eat kielbasa with brussels sprouts and sauerkraut. Good Eve.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-ZRP0AU_AfDUcI2P_C3NHExZQ5V4wKN_k0mjR7qsxpGw7sxwUBDD0ViPNUd-yVd-jGx9sMxFO0xSV9PZM9gPQ-JP6YiMHEVg6hmWXvAtp7yydIaY-g8SjOEYqEyIn8JX2oHiqC85E-o/s1600/051+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-ZRP0AU_AfDUcI2P_C3NHExZQ5V4wKN_k0mjR7qsxpGw7sxwUBDD0ViPNUd-yVd-jGx9sMxFO0xSV9PZM9gPQ-JP6YiMHEVg6hmWXvAtp7yydIaY-g8SjOEYqEyIn8JX2oHiqC85E-o/s640/051+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>051/365 | Wednesday 25 December 2019, Christmas at Grandma's house</b> - While my brother, Jordan, taught Mads & Wolfman to Bakugan battle, I helped Ella apply glittery temporary tattoos to her wrists like bracelets.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5uRsyNyb5Bcd3xAad4zYpvMd7jcKDl0wsbDo80-u8wdrD8SgAMT7a16YJLYO_tj7s3ZiA8aNr-WnIOclQy2VQg_8o-6V3xrw09Ua2KKjZ6xaIXZRJsMmndnlzkXBSk7lATpflS6OAdP0/s1600/052+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5uRsyNyb5Bcd3xAad4zYpvMd7jcKDl0wsbDo80-u8wdrD8SgAMT7a16YJLYO_tj7s3ZiA8aNr-WnIOclQy2VQg_8o-6V3xrw09Ua2KKjZ6xaIXZRJsMmndnlzkXBSk7lATpflS6OAdP0/s640/052+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>052/365 | Thursday 26 December 2019, Prowlandia</b> - Still packing and cleaning up at Prowlandia. We are so scattered; this moving feels like it will never end. I'm sad standing on this property, sad it didn't work out, but relieved too, and I let all that feeling wash over me, and then I get to work.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3f3xnbBNqr9HUdoIB1HhLg1V1yjZHIiQ6kQPAfnIAVlCmDZioJIj87K3Evy7VuSr3lPzBJgGs9Y-AwdL7hDTP4xF5Nb56c0fJxs-mJ4AdYUuCq7kEmDduZEd8WBTVRltLGgsBKn7UZE/s1600/053+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb3f3xnbBNqr9HUdoIB1HhLg1V1yjZHIiQ6kQPAfnIAVlCmDZioJIj87K3Evy7VuSr3lPzBJgGs9Y-AwdL7hDTP4xF5Nb56c0fJxs-mJ4AdYUuCq7kEmDduZEd8WBTVRltLGgsBKn7UZE/s640/053+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>053/365 | Friday 27 December 2019, Currently Reading</b> - "Recognizing the structure of your pyschology doesn't mean that you can easily rebuild it. The Chamber of Unreasonable Guilt is part of my mental architecture, and I doubt that I will ever be able to renovate that particular room in this strange castle that is me."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtphIrVV5f5BUpSwXHj7ZS7JuISc6ejhqHUijH5vRs-7FYbiWp6-ay12DHgcpE5WRFFckyYDVde5p7Yc_2Y06tRanGAp-Dy_95faAYe4Rm65ugU3ekMGAoUq_kDm9Tg5q0hjpI27j_oQ/s1600/054+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtphIrVV5f5BUpSwXHj7ZS7JuISc6ejhqHUijH5vRs-7FYbiWp6-ay12DHgcpE5WRFFckyYDVde5p7Yc_2Y06tRanGAp-Dy_95faAYe4Rm65ugU3ekMGAoUq_kDm9Tg5q0hjpI27j_oQ/s640/054+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>054/365 | Saturday 28 December 2019</b> - There is a faded note on the dryer door, left by a previous tenant, cleaned away but the imprint remains: "I love you more today, yesterday, and tomorrow." We decided to take a note from this unknown Lothario and write each other dry erase love missives of our own. Also, a grocery list.</div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-63654035944233101142019-12-18T02:00:00.000-08:002019-12-18T02:00:00.503-08:00365 | I wish I had a river I could skate away on<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjied-jlzjEWV-7bFxqg-p_6NXY7IuD68ovVb9l5AQ1q1XHTNEjRO57VVUezjukhZChCvIN0BWZW875LGYOQz4MmtzkMHAsW-If9TyjxdWTNN4OEFUkGOGxk2RZL5ZLuYoNyUR96r8oMRw/s1600/027+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjied-jlzjEWV-7bFxqg-p_6NXY7IuD68ovVb9l5AQ1q1XHTNEjRO57VVUezjukhZChCvIN0BWZW875LGYOQz4MmtzkMHAsW-If9TyjxdWTNN4OEFUkGOGxk2RZL5ZLuYoNyUR96r8oMRw/s640/027+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>027/365 | Sunday 1 December 2019, Work</b> - I work with Christmas people. I don't know how to feel about Christmas. This time of year I waffle between being Sandra Bullock slumped over a counter, separated from humanity by a plexiglass window, wearing a stocking cap and fingerless gloves, counting change apathetically and Meg Ryan decorating her tree alone, listening to sad Joni Mitchell songs and thinking of her dead mother and failing business.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoFYUS_PWbEpJQwdsfU9dQ5erp222Hgy9FMT3jdR9vyBO0axFDH5X-5fAczpoaqAdtwHw0HHHFxi535zKt2vCmohZb1eJPB3BFsqUoj7Gqb1e7yJtXIsSiYw5rfKfJGUOEz6_d5XmPyxg/s1600/028+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoFYUS_PWbEpJQwdsfU9dQ5erp222Hgy9FMT3jdR9vyBO0axFDH5X-5fAczpoaqAdtwHw0HHHFxi535zKt2vCmohZb1eJPB3BFsqUoj7Gqb1e7yJtXIsSiYw5rfKfJGUOEz6_d5XmPyxg/s640/028+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>028/365 | Monday 2 December 2019, Cary</b> - This pizza gave me a bellyache so I left the last slice as an offering to the Kids Together Playground squirrels (who have lion heads only figuratively).</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhonW0vocDjvlI1vzF4DPWKQsUA51E_KcSoN07jQ8trTrJJmYoeBDM4tghN2yGtVzas0-UB5rorCBGv-A9rncsl9UB0-1v3864IsbUXSlwPkZJs6UmChXdUfeUPqe393AaQ_gAq9yrMinE/s1600/029+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhonW0vocDjvlI1vzF4DPWKQsUA51E_KcSoN07jQ8trTrJJmYoeBDM4tghN2yGtVzas0-UB5rorCBGv-A9rncsl9UB0-1v3864IsbUXSlwPkZJs6UmChXdUfeUPqe393AaQ_gAq9yrMinE/s640/029+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>029/365 | Tuesday 3 December 2019, Work</b> - Communicating with ease, directness, humor, and aplomb today. It is Day 28 of my cycle. I often feel that the days leading up to my bleed I am at my sharpest, moving through my own life like a blade.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG2QGKJJgBdryO84RPdGc1o_f2wPEUBNBk_0TMgOYuDPhiokpYwo1zHhK0qapchOE8rzjyE51OcfVsD80gzuntaRa1voAAaV8ZER_bmQePcxs8sP5MehReNdS4E4NH4rHX-FP9IYigkvQ/s1600/030+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG2QGKJJgBdryO84RPdGc1o_f2wPEUBNBk_0TMgOYuDPhiokpYwo1zHhK0qapchOE8rzjyE51OcfVsD80gzuntaRa1voAAaV8ZER_bmQePcxs8sP5MehReNdS4E4NH4rHX-FP9IYigkvQ/s640/030+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>030/365 | Wednesday 4 December 2019, Grandma's House</b> - I believe Entenmann's "rich frosted" chocolate donuts are the greatest donuts in existence. Mads almost agrees with me but says the Duck Donuts maple bacon "kill the chocolate ones dead."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSsrjcKnrcksXYLLNke-gq39d2-drT2EJTTwwbMMHcKVcV700PxC6HMuRlRR5YuTjuG655OT5HS0tLkzNWi4JIxD8kqTFZpimChVUikHSpUN7J1UEmywT3LOLF0dPx2WUTM0M8-4j6Fo/s1600/031+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSsrjcKnrcksXYLLNke-gq39d2-drT2EJTTwwbMMHcKVcV700PxC6HMuRlRR5YuTjuG655OT5HS0tLkzNWi4JIxD8kqTFZpimChVUikHSpUN7J1UEmywT3LOLF0dPx2WUTM0M8-4j6Fo/s640/031+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>031/365 | Thursday 5 December 2019, Bond Park</b> - A hike with some of the homeschool group today. We started out at the back of the group but somehow ended up at the front with most of the older kids (over 10s). As Mads and the other kids stood off the trail at the water's edge, tossing rocks and examining mussels, Wolfman stood above them, dad-ing (reminding them not to throw rocks bigger than their fists and to aim carefully, guiding them, complimenting them). He can't help himself. He's been dad-ing since he was just a kid, himself.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiczXWXNGzAxcEawOid8AjR8TkyBYjUdzrmFPRooVgqTxCtL4ugU6cLpUEYyC1xjPzs3QRhFCip72u_lE3cmV7T8CTOEW77Y_t0XIWWn4AMT9_HDB6wDZQQMc41rXqM2Di7JLTcy8jxyek/s1600/032+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiczXWXNGzAxcEawOid8AjR8TkyBYjUdzrmFPRooVgqTxCtL4ugU6cLpUEYyC1xjPzs3QRhFCip72u_lE3cmV7T8CTOEW77Y_t0XIWWn4AMT9_HDB6wDZQQMc41rXqM2Di7JLTcy8jxyek/s640/032+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>032/365 | Friday 6 December 2019</b> - Photo by Mads<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQ9JTepicm9Y0bE7jU67HyHkdkhcnW5LKNmJ_Usqyr66KKrYCXLtUzpYTZB_JHS9V8MmitNS2NQTyS6KpbhHenQIQDwN2BKloY-J3X5ZbO-0gdmYFw3ERYS6nBetoy4rKfb3QpaKNk0A/s1600/033+365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="1200" height="402" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVQ9JTepicm9Y0bE7jU67HyHkdkhcnW5LKNmJ_Usqyr66KKrYCXLtUzpYTZB_JHS9V8MmitNS2NQTyS6KpbhHenQIQDwN2BKloY-J3X5ZbO-0gdmYFw3ERYS6nBetoy4rKfb3QpaKNk0A/s640/033+365.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>033/365 - Saturday 7 December 2019, Work</b> - Santa Paws Day is like our Rex Manning Day.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMY9yDoUEZZl1sjKDHjL_Q_JN84YRPNQZJrrSyFy-RL5KTOWYJAagsagKqBepqJBY5V_p5GxMjF2qvEqLljlPmzD2P9nMwunzaBRR-VitlpAuH-LAxs4spoSUP49uvPjUSxZmWz0KseZ8/s1600/034+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMY9yDoUEZZl1sjKDHjL_Q_JN84YRPNQZJrrSyFy-RL5KTOWYJAagsagKqBepqJBY5V_p5GxMjF2qvEqLljlPmzD2P9nMwunzaBRR-VitlpAuH-LAxs4spoSUP49uvPjUSxZmWz0KseZ8/s640/034+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>034/365 | Sunday 8 December 2019, Work</b> - Special delivery of assless chaps for Shamble Pill. I did my training for this company in early spring (2017), and one of the employees referred to the upcoming Easter holiday as "Zombie Jesus Day." I knew I'd fit in just fine.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkwOnXd3JP9kLEsFU3oT3AF-zE3eJ55aBVkrmFt_INPZfgr8yVd5nYHyfOmB9dzITY5NFXWisbIi0bCLs2cyrkwFuSDrxs7vrQ6FXYqH0-oNpzD_TAxiNy5ZtrP9Z_YEKXqKIzubtr-qM/s1600/035+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkwOnXd3JP9kLEsFU3oT3AF-zE3eJ55aBVkrmFt_INPZfgr8yVd5nYHyfOmB9dzITY5NFXWisbIi0bCLs2cyrkwFuSDrxs7vrQ6FXYqH0-oNpzD_TAxiNy5ZtrP9Z_YEKXqKIzubtr-qM/s640/035+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>035/365 | Monday 9 December 2019, Grandma's house - </b>My new morning routine living at Grandma's house includes turning on the kitchen faucet for this running-water-obsessed cat, Billie Holliday. She may die of thirst when Mads and I leave for our new house in January.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBVlSXLE2F0NK4-LLIPeEL039DNeNG4kodr6mXh84g2zx_bW3j7Lb15SGQxZSXOwQwSOEsXFHWj_owVfXPTOT4J8St_SLqCulCESTVv8l6Ka95hYMTgafUivvvAq8G2bAcsPa5aojk1Y/s1600/036+365+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBVlSXLE2F0NK4-LLIPeEL039DNeNG4kodr6mXh84g2zx_bW3j7Lb15SGQxZSXOwQwSOEsXFHWj_owVfXPTOT4J8St_SLqCulCESTVv8l6Ka95hYMTgafUivvvAq8G2bAcsPa5aojk1Y/s640/036+365+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidu8arYou9M2FeCccF4bFC9P1Z00adcrsvzzzvvsWdVKE8B8lzz42GqfWQDZAahlDzfb0_AhqwyrujTZ6MLqSMCqvLCAZQiGfN6oju0Y5FmjfsEx0bjzrllKMEcDGbqlVNuOXSZkQSh-U/s1600/036+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidu8arYou9M2FeCccF4bFC9P1Z00adcrsvzzzvvsWdVKE8B8lzz42GqfWQDZAahlDzfb0_AhqwyrujTZ6MLqSMCqvLCAZQiGfN6oju0Y5FmjfsEx0bjzrllKMEcDGbqlVNuOXSZkQSh-U/s640/036+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>036/365 | Tuesday 10 December 2019, Grandma's house</b> - The dolls are not what they seem.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJtkvqSWNorMoacWvnXRoxaymGRByWRi0w4ma-hAWNYtnI0l8DmDAR1kFTIBkkRkAt39sG4c2wkBndoQcaz6pIp7zVR76pyIvwOeZesv55w3sTDeVNzijV-ipp46S39fSOwwjL6yP3kA/s1600/037+365+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJtkvqSWNorMoacWvnXRoxaymGRByWRi0w4ma-hAWNYtnI0l8DmDAR1kFTIBkkRkAt39sG4c2wkBndoQcaz6pIp7zVR76pyIvwOeZesv55w3sTDeVNzijV-ipp46S39fSOwwjL6yP3kA/s640/037+365+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlPBopE11atIJFSJMTKN5YLJQyvgUk04kmKBQfxESJ45NimrkAhpoj7SFz_rPsyB45KiAc-2bPcOAKvpJMFCPzUhmvRKPLBou_RWs-uFChpRHT18kHu3L81n7Ue0qzy_9iBEUn3Sv2U5c/s1600/037+365+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlPBopE11atIJFSJMTKN5YLJQyvgUk04kmKBQfxESJ45NimrkAhpoj7SFz_rPsyB45KiAc-2bPcOAKvpJMFCPzUhmvRKPLBou_RWs-uFChpRHT18kHu3L81n7Ue0qzy_9iBEUn3Sv2U5c/s640/037+365+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>037/365 | Wednesday 11 December 2019, Cary</b> - A teenage girl at the downtown fountain offered to take a picture of us. I wasn't sure she'd ever used an old point-and-shoot camera like mine, but she managed one perfect picture which I'll send out with my Christmas cards this year. It took until December 11th, but I'm finally feeling kind of festive, or at least less outright ba-humbuggy.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUIC1ltPAhn_o-bnVNXDKLNY6k3h4UZTnk3O1XhVsxgZuPHO25N9kan0Z7hAOyM_WQzvqwr1Emo71ukRRVwLWNBfJqDYR9-SvfszMNaTmX2ElTxrxHmis1wpl4WLvVdEyhaU5HFQNL3Y/s1600/038+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDUIC1ltPAhn_o-bnVNXDKLNY6k3h4UZTnk3O1XhVsxgZuPHO25N9kan0Z7hAOyM_WQzvqwr1Emo71ukRRVwLWNBfJqDYR9-SvfszMNaTmX2ElTxrxHmis1wpl4WLvVdEyhaU5HFQNL3Y/s640/038+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>038/365 | Thursday 12 December 2019, Grandma's house - </b>Ludo tried to leave with Wolfman, Mads, and me this afternoon. He has a bad habit of trying to hop into cars and go for rides if we let the doors linger open too long in the drive way. Wolfman carried him away, into the yard, and whispered a secret in his ear. I think I know what the secret is, but I won't say it out loud.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0u5nj6MFEL6AGSnJ1WthN0FHlxjIEW5trHtEc36mvhu4ztnj45oZg_o2BXo0qM1PTeCZIN00HWHsivs9OZkDQdeAHzYWVGqHb2ZDatC_BGbvnUpYVGCoR5NhWoJCsBmyfChFJh1cYVJY/s1600/039+365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0u5nj6MFEL6AGSnJ1WthN0FHlxjIEW5trHtEc36mvhu4ztnj45oZg_o2BXo0qM1PTeCZIN00HWHsivs9OZkDQdeAHzYWVGqHb2ZDatC_BGbvnUpYVGCoR5NhWoJCsBmyfChFJh1cYVJY/s640/039+365.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>039/365 | Friday 13 December 2019, Apex - </b>These two are a planet until themselves, and I am a satellite, circling them, admiring them.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXKFy9ba4glT-yerHZ4RPpxAVgAJ2UtCwvaoKPch_-VObhEymY789o7lbqVuTRf8b_FOh9LrLHfDfF47T-78dS6ylM63ReX21C_Lt8YtkHm1CJVKSj8_7Tp1VfSiJ3af0kufIgUOy9bU/s1600/040+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfXKFy9ba4glT-yerHZ4RPpxAVgAJ2UtCwvaoKPch_-VObhEymY789o7lbqVuTRf8b_FOh9LrLHfDfF47T-78dS6ylM63ReX21C_Lt8YtkHm1CJVKSj8_7Tp1VfSiJ3af0kufIgUOy9bU/s640/040+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>040/365 | Saturday 14 December 2019 - </b>This Fittonia has been with me since April of this year (my only pink plant). It survived two moves and then nearly perished from neglect when I forgot about it in the window of an upstairs bedroom at Grandma's house. I thought it was surely dead but soaked it in the bathroom sink, with many apologies and laments and curses against myself. And here it is, a couple days after its long drink, very much alive and very forgiving.</div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-73782175273228388262019-12-12T05:16:00.001-08:002019-12-12T05:16:42.448-08:00365 | well I'll be damned<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIafPl6fwy0zWj9ESt0X_HvBQmTew0LFMePCmptiL8wjjIeAWfmwTVc2vF4E1Y2iI5fo-fy_crDpTgcrw9OrtNEAVuMK8EcGEsEPCPZmspU102j7cZxE11f_AxqzRLEebA8-utLDgyGg/s1600/014+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIafPl6fwy0zWj9ESt0X_HvBQmTew0LFMePCmptiL8wjjIeAWfmwTVc2vF4E1Y2iI5fo-fy_crDpTgcrw9OrtNEAVuMK8EcGEsEPCPZmspU102j7cZxE11f_AxqzRLEebA8-utLDgyGg/s640/014+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>014/365 | Monday 18 November 2019, Grandma's 72nd Birthday</b> - He Who Kept Me Up All Night, Yowling and Rattling Doors</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2yzO0_TshHAfa7CsCI9UuTWvSlVo8B6xKKXv4V2Ke90scGdbGIT1qklIh152kQbFwo6YLNxHyNEgbCWMkmeEqc4ZOx9fEJqaJ7dgqAeSDuLfE1wjviviYhdhqi7jfjwnNPvKUzHd4Cs/s1600/015+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2yzO0_TshHAfa7CsCI9UuTWvSlVo8B6xKKXv4V2Ke90scGdbGIT1qklIh152kQbFwo6YLNxHyNEgbCWMkmeEqc4ZOx9fEJqaJ7dgqAeSDuLfE1wjviviYhdhqi7jfjwnNPvKUzHd4Cs/s640/015+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>015/365 | Tuesday 19 November 2019, Cary</b> - This flight suit was packed away with clothes too big for Mads. Only, clearly, the jumpsuit isn't too big for Mads; it is, in fact, just a touch too small. The realization that my baby isn't a Small anymore but a Medium hit me hard.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_dRMnNP0C5A-T4XmvVeQZBTI9RdrzyNEFs8PWxkxJtF13HirBFQmVWhwfxmLQH0wWsaDc8leu9OM1jjBL3lQFmb0IEe2ZkvZw_bGv-ijnjVqdDxsFcj5U7lOV3Skb5aEX_gTUUHgmq8/s1600/016+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_dRMnNP0C5A-T4XmvVeQZBTI9RdrzyNEFs8PWxkxJtF13HirBFQmVWhwfxmLQH0wWsaDc8leu9OM1jjBL3lQFmb0IEe2ZkvZw_bGv-ijnjVqdDxsFcj5U7lOV3Skb5aEX_gTUUHgmq8/s640/016+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>016/365 | Wednesday 20 November 2019, Doc Holliday & the Furbies, Grandma's house</b> - Even for my grandparents the impeachment hearings have lost their draw. Grandpa switches channels, flipping from Fox News to Midsommer Murders on PBS.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYSmHoH6OuxdfZIsG7_uoHB5rFS0d77CVeI_56dyqg0fOeIUZ11WT0MDs-Ky97SwnF7n4EkKpJJ99QBRQkJRkwx-TthJDwyhLQ-gs-BsbxE7dz009nRItV76Rv1n96CefDd0AFSvFHKg/s1600/017+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHYSmHoH6OuxdfZIsG7_uoHB5rFS0d77CVeI_56dyqg0fOeIUZ11WT0MDs-Ky97SwnF7n4EkKpJJ99QBRQkJRkwx-TthJDwyhLQ-gs-BsbxE7dz009nRItV76Rv1n96CefDd0AFSvFHKg/s640/017+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>017/365 | Thursday 21 November 2019, Cary Towne Center</b> - Currently Reading: <i>Free to Learn</i> by Peter Gray. "The things children learn through their own initiatives, in free play, cannot be taught in other ways."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigePHmCIJUgE-cxSC8FPrjj6-OgoBFCaVIauItBREdcWexm-gtkq2CJHZr7Cn-vdicDWfztJdYfw-foxxq0sZf4b2KgS_lB8E2slkHLBVztm8dTbSk56C80NGkz4zoPa6NBCD9_r1USXQ/s1600/018+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigePHmCIJUgE-cxSC8FPrjj6-OgoBFCaVIauItBREdcWexm-gtkq2CJHZr7Cn-vdicDWfztJdYfw-foxxq0sZf4b2KgS_lB8E2slkHLBVztm8dTbSk56C80NGkz4zoPa6NBCD9_r1USXQ/s640/018+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>018/365 | Friday 22 November 2019, Apex</b> - Mads sings, "Mommies are the worst!" at the tail end of our walk because I will not carry him. "You don't know what it's like to be me," he says, philosophically, angrily.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKueDMd3j5GXRpz0q3TXHUwXSHyKchVvGV5DK3fa8pGwgoQR_J_xlV7bk4_BtKFzU3cV8ACvV3TrRAb9uu22YBNk1p_mAlLKyLYZ0hsgdoyuTSF1EN9UxjUvsUITEjPuXnxivdF2KRC0/s1600/019+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKueDMd3j5GXRpz0q3TXHUwXSHyKchVvGV5DK3fa8pGwgoQR_J_xlV7bk4_BtKFzU3cV8ACvV3TrRAb9uu22YBNk1p_mAlLKyLYZ0hsgdoyuTSF1EN9UxjUvsUITEjPuXnxivdF2KRC0/s640/019+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>019/365| Saturday 23 November 2019, Cary</b> - I'm on the phone with Wolfman, my love. I remind him, we survived that first rocky year of marriage and that first tormented, sleepless year with a new born. I say, for my own benefit more than his, if we can survive our failed attempt at off-grid living and this subsequent two-month separation while we get our ducks in a row, we'll die old together. He doesn't want to die old, but I insist on it.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qlvfv59g1UJIBovGewAZ5jqnbZpRAzVFmjQDCUooXgQL2QlkEAwtk41AbGOodrOLwMY5nTFp5zsG9GAQVRBUIEV03apeLbKEc7lbKAZ1FEJlE-XvkFDZfkdHWywsrRSVjuERY6zSmCQ/s1600/020+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qlvfv59g1UJIBovGewAZ5jqnbZpRAzVFmjQDCUooXgQL2QlkEAwtk41AbGOodrOLwMY5nTFp5zsG9GAQVRBUIEV03apeLbKEc7lbKAZ1FEJlE-XvkFDZfkdHWywsrRSVjuERY6zSmCQ/s640/020+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<b>020/365 | Sunday 24 November 2019</b> - Kath writes of her grandmother-in-law, "She does that thing some older women (I guess, really, some of all women) do where they always seem to be apologizing for their presence and existence while also refusing to stop adamantly loving/worrying about you." This describes my own grandmother, too. I always have to remind myself when I'm feeling oppressed by her worry that this is a privelege, a blessing, to be loved and worried over.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfCS3UECoaXfBPsCC-jbJ4U-CHwKVvIOf39R3DsJDQ3vuDHq1gyUSrehKegcqMHmFk69lokaflyJ6wD9q0kYbg3dPPkMv5daM2J-42EWK0yrgYfi9c2LGFa3-OwTNOrilzac4alTerHQ/s1600/021+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOfCS3UECoaXfBPsCC-jbJ4U-CHwKVvIOf39R3DsJDQ3vuDHq1gyUSrehKegcqMHmFk69lokaflyJ6wD9q0kYbg3dPPkMv5daM2J-42EWK0yrgYfi9c2LGFa3-OwTNOrilzac4alTerHQ/s640/021+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>021/365 | Monday 25 November 2019</b> - Kombucha is the closest thing to drinking a beer at work. I drink a lot of kombucha at work.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOC76knIgXvQi7o_VW4ZhWyH9gbZQ_94wY-8jVXzBDII_pXuAGAbGzkMNpHbmFMhyljwGiPv3cul_SBCN2YzlnixQOV47aH05PiLtHqdPblFyGwP7vpGtTo05hzgpdDAHUKxfwGQyiVDw/s1600/022+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOC76knIgXvQi7o_VW4ZhWyH9gbZQ_94wY-8jVXzBDII_pXuAGAbGzkMNpHbmFMhyljwGiPv3cul_SBCN2YzlnixQOV47aH05PiLtHqdPblFyGwP7vpGtTo05hzgpdDAHUKxfwGQyiVDw/s640/022+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>022/365 | Tuesday 26 November 2019 </b>- Wolfman Was Here.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcejfQafNvvhcs5KXrXPtXq2MYKcbe9YXmctkbWzMObTp8eX37Gbt1klO7jnkykqUgRxhzrxaqijLfMlgMG03puWB41aTnvI2mSPBb1dfyp0McAPtQQpGyoG_FQRZfX_4cBhYUW7Oai_s/s1600/023+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcejfQafNvvhcs5KXrXPtXq2MYKcbe9YXmctkbWzMObTp8eX37Gbt1klO7jnkykqUgRxhzrxaqijLfMlgMG03puWB41aTnvI2mSPBb1dfyp0McAPtQQpGyoG_FQRZfX_4cBhYUW7Oai_s/s640/023+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>023/365 | Wednesday 27 November 2019 - </b>I like watching movies about women with Type A personalities. I find the idea of a woman having her shit together--even if the point the movie tries to make is that her rigidity is a personality flaw and must be remedied by some roguish man with a big dick (probably)--aspirational. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWjPp3lQPe4TIXlhr-0g-jw2JXmowIoa2zzxu5SbaCo_8uYa09C4hchlkLpNZUzq_i5JatXT6CTcv6qBrodj3MSmMADMTwRqknBtrxMNyOD5xOxHyYDLAgcZp9yO6YuQdoe-ldf1TaDc/s1600/024+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWjPp3lQPe4TIXlhr-0g-jw2JXmowIoa2zzxu5SbaCo_8uYa09C4hchlkLpNZUzq_i5JatXT6CTcv6qBrodj3MSmMADMTwRqknBtrxMNyOD5xOxHyYDLAgcZp9yO6YuQdoe-ldf1TaDc/s640/024+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjr9CYmXOLtn1zfNjZX0DyP13A5PENVXFksJt0uqPe0F7ImL5VHptikzeccp3aZMr6NAaPBWmLchrft5JrlrGdbqAgu4_ET-VyY15XXt5iXgaHmBCXkOhqbXFiAH2x0e24EAzkz5jMEXU/s1600/DSC04184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjr9CYmXOLtn1zfNjZX0DyP13A5PENVXFksJt0uqPe0F7ImL5VHptikzeccp3aZMr6NAaPBWmLchrft5JrlrGdbqAgu4_ET-VyY15XXt5iXgaHmBCXkOhqbXFiAH2x0e24EAzkz5jMEXU/s640/DSC04184.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>024/365 | Thursday 28 November 2019, Thanksgiving - </b>My little brothers, Jordan and Josh, stopped by the house today. I can't get over how grown up they are. (Josh has a mustache.) They showed me a picture of our little sister, Savannah--now a teenager; the last time I saw her she was barely in elementary school. She looks so much like our mother now, I gasped. Grandpa looked at the photo and said, "Well I'll be damned."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGS5ifyWuyz6_iGav-9Uw3tvLpVhywD1EOu7NVJhhyphenhyphen20DqKMhrFSwS2J9eNla3qTrxjKQMyp6ASox6umh70pC8UMhlldE-c51qhGgZw1b10CilupiW_uF4n6yOIdWq6F4X-wUplvf_6k/s1600/025+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGS5ifyWuyz6_iGav-9Uw3tvLpVhywD1EOu7NVJhhyphenhyphen20DqKMhrFSwS2J9eNla3qTrxjKQMyp6ASox6umh70pC8UMhlldE-c51qhGgZw1b10CilupiW_uF4n6yOIdWq6F4X-wUplvf_6k/s640/025+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>025/365 | Friday 29 November 2019 -</b> Here was our Thanksgiving menu: turkey (by Wolfman), stuffing (Grandma's recipe), collards (Wolfman's recipe), Michelle's cranberry sauce, canned cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes & gravy (by Grandma), broccoli casserole (for Grandpa), green bean casserole (for Wolfman), beer bread, deviled eggs, pumpkin pie (which I forgot to add the evaporated milk to, but it turned out just fine).</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJkLgyICjgCaXQBtg4nsJZYQHIlzSh68xHnV9a3BFBN7kjVrgVvcFmgoEVoJsCrZx2cEV7KPiDiYgBQhB8N-AQxI2HkAtHe0rLBJFN_DOuIyb4p7uONZpjg_Cd5lFBSskL5ziA0UP824/s1600/026+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJkLgyICjgCaXQBtg4nsJZYQHIlzSh68xHnV9a3BFBN7kjVrgVvcFmgoEVoJsCrZx2cEV7KPiDiYgBQhB8N-AQxI2HkAtHe0rLBJFN_DOuIyb4p7uONZpjg_Cd5lFBSskL5ziA0UP824/s640/026+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>026/365 | Saturday 30 November 2019, Cary - </b>New ballet slippers for Mads & Ella. They both wear a size 12, Mads a wide, Ella a narrow.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-702325733191608732019-12-04T19:59:00.005-08:002019-12-04T20:04:22.829-08:00365 | talking and cooking biscuits and getting drunk on the porch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-3y3zjvY-28gbVSKTChyphenhyphen9o1k49TJItQ_0xy_UU_eDhM_9EoAEJNIj8-h0OdOusSXEXymtqbyaFNJFuVhTtJ3hWCug2FsVU9rrP0RjVBfbH-wzglj2SLFchb1jWzguMBP5mObHd5_08k/s1600/007+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-3y3zjvY-28gbVSKTChyphenhyphen9o1k49TJItQ_0xy_UU_eDhM_9EoAEJNIj8-h0OdOusSXEXymtqbyaFNJFuVhTtJ3hWCug2FsVU9rrP0RjVBfbH-wzglj2SLFchb1jWzguMBP5mObHd5_08k/s640/007+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>007/365 | Monday 11 November 2019, Cary - </b>Early to work today, so I get to take a walk and admire the leaf show. Autumn doesn't properly start in North Carolina until November, but it is glorious (perhaps because so short-lived).</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLGQt7iaZI2Lpc4pII64016zbvSGvKjRIhcU2BB1gEJfosygTzJoMq6SPoS93QNE5D1ORkbFqYVvGbOw3IUQnVG8L5fRLXJBP7kkbLexI7dsutNmsf-hSyyD9EwwBXTsCbW6wjCdca4A/s1600/008+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioLGQt7iaZI2Lpc4pII64016zbvSGvKjRIhcU2BB1gEJfosygTzJoMq6SPoS93QNE5D1ORkbFqYVvGbOw3IUQnVG8L5fRLXJBP7kkbLexI7dsutNmsf-hSyyD9EwwBXTsCbW6wjCdca4A/s640/008+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>008/365 | Tuesday 12 November 2019 - </b>Discovered today that the CD player in my little Ford Ranger works perfectly. I love this little truck; it is the little truck I was always meant to have. I call him Gus after Augustus McRae. I once had a cat named Woodrow Call. Now I have a truck named Gus.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisZzuSoX_o7_sHHsWfqFb7aqktz1K3roEE6mcbrYPks_PJZTRMs617J4TbqS9nhUx13xNOzY6dn5VFFazVWRNDvYzOfTTRQk4bUwNtvA7d3WY96zieUTc1s4btpyjkd9uFTyPVq1uWrTQ/s1600/009+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisZzuSoX_o7_sHHsWfqFb7aqktz1K3roEE6mcbrYPks_PJZTRMs617J4TbqS9nhUx13xNOzY6dn5VFFazVWRNDvYzOfTTRQk4bUwNtvA7d3WY96zieUTc1s4btpyjkd9uFTyPVq1uWrTQ/s640/009+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>009/365 | Wednesday 12 November 2019 - </b>Grandma's house is like a Museum of Childhood--my childhood, my son's, my niece's.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3K7hAJYCVhxqaAAcLfFRy3vZ54bICuKX_0Ne075fUy84oBxSit0_xs5d0i_tiD5cqoHv7bCkV8FQHpnso24-iljrtdV4DLpya0hjWo1SSIockEszsxjp9oC7QRH1vlFYEmy5r4P-LTA/s1600/010+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg3K7hAJYCVhxqaAAcLfFRy3vZ54bICuKX_0Ne075fUy84oBxSit0_xs5d0i_tiD5cqoHv7bCkV8FQHpnso24-iljrtdV4DLpya0hjWo1SSIockEszsxjp9oC7QRH1vlFYEmy5r4P-LTA/s640/010+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>010/365 | Thursday 14 November 2019, Cary - </b>I read an article in the paper about a man sentenced to 10 years in prison for the death of his son, involuntary manslaughter; the boy died of blunt-force trauma to his stomach. I cried. Dismissed myself from the kitchen and cried for that little boy while Jared sat on the kitchen floor with our son, the two of them playing with plastic dinosaurs.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfoi6NiSYZtVFCrxl7Q2U0APvujLOugwy8zz5sjYelJTg4PVOIJOo3sNs7IWCFFj54D7BPohe_FZ86mfdhy-ALJ5MWefOvWxejUi8zlO6oHXVBPCtzd5xMpsEd36Z5IyM_Hxa8wAN4UDQ/s1600/dogandboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfoi6NiSYZtVFCrxl7Q2U0APvujLOugwy8zz5sjYelJTg4PVOIJOo3sNs7IWCFFj54D7BPohe_FZ86mfdhy-ALJ5MWefOvWxejUi8zlO6oHXVBPCtzd5xMpsEd36Z5IyM_Hxa8wAN4UDQ/s640/dogandboy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>011/365 | Friday 15 November 2019, Wake Zone, Apex - </b>My world on Friday mornings is this dog and this boy. Nothing else exists but these two.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPzaJwjwUeoMQ9jvx1Oit1402VZ5RDPUx-2SmW6YMQB6bJBvIgnlAazEQU7UJCwtj5li1A463ECVcHJh71Z__uZQFfYHH5u86umV1OtRF1dlPMnt8fAvzlHZKMcRCN9mMMy710uPAAp4/s1600/012+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjPzaJwjwUeoMQ9jvx1Oit1402VZ5RDPUx-2SmW6YMQB6bJBvIgnlAazEQU7UJCwtj5li1A463ECVcHJh71Z__uZQFfYHH5u86umV1OtRF1dlPMnt8fAvzlHZKMcRCN9mMMy710uPAAp4/s640/012+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>012/365 - Saturday 16 November 2019, Cary - </b>Peter Gray's 7 Sins of Compulsive Schooling: 1. Denial of liberty without just cause or due process 2. Interference with the development of personal responsibility and self-direction 3. Undermining of intrinsic motivation to learn 4. Judging students in ways that foster shame, hubris, cynicism, and cheating 5. Interference with the development of cooperation and promotion of bullying. 6. Inhibition of critical thinking. 7. Reduction in diversity of skills and knowledge.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebi3yYZ11el7E2ad4_lMX0e-cjOgk4JlMLNKYDcMAsbVk9NxwXTZi0s65CDXVOn7CU8CVxp_sKcLkm4Y60_8hfPJnk2REEOQM6-B92Hypx4RhHBeFx7Idfqlco8ME1i-n0gRk06zrgig/s1600/013+365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgebi3yYZ11el7E2ad4_lMX0e-cjOgk4JlMLNKYDcMAsbVk9NxwXTZi0s65CDXVOn7CU8CVxp_sKcLkm4Y60_8hfPJnk2REEOQM6-B92Hypx4RhHBeFx7Idfqlco8ME1i-n0gRk06zrgig/s640/013+365.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>013/365 | Sunday 17 November 2019 - </b>I blew off a customer to flirt shamelessly with my husband. I'm liking these little visits Wolfman's paying me at work. (Did I mention how handsome he is?)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-24050106296256458532019-11-21T06:49:00.003-08:002019-11-21T06:49:54.071-08:00365 | the most ridiculous thing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7BdovlRnkufBewUi_l5n-WGmgAqffxiuZhS3RRcRJnrlnfOSuaEODZ4xOPEFw_PllFNRQMkADd0Uv7oTTrYVI5xBSSacxo_U9qxiHhgn7DZuEJKzYFRzT7q8HC9vKRw5aUbKzqvPAGg/s1600/DSC04014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7BdovlRnkufBewUi_l5n-WGmgAqffxiuZhS3RRcRJnrlnfOSuaEODZ4xOPEFw_PllFNRQMkADd0Uv7oTTrYVI5xBSSacxo_U9qxiHhgn7DZuEJKzYFRzT7q8HC9vKRw5aUbKzqvPAGg/s640/DSC04014.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTDj99E0ZqcXyobnF9q94R4N06qA47WRMnuF7d4wv44wqE5_s0UulkB09vMmb4xfXEEUPWQQllZywJaL6ompdtkbLTR83UGodoRW4M6C9Ad2DWwi7gDlVrT5GYkE_WSMmD8FyE5OtAC8/s1600/DSC04015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTDj99E0ZqcXyobnF9q94R4N06qA47WRMnuF7d4wv44wqE5_s0UulkB09vMmb4xfXEEUPWQQllZywJaL6ompdtkbLTR83UGodoRW4M6C9Ad2DWwi7gDlVrT5GYkE_WSMmD8FyE5OtAC8/s640/DSC04015.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>001/365 | Tuesday 5 November 2019, Prowlandia</b> - It is Day 33 of my cycle. My bleed is imminent, and I am feeling fragile and on edge. Reminding myself to be gentle, to be soft--with myself, with others. A quiet day. A few moments of tears springing to my eyes for no real reason except Day 33-ness.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwj8zwnJemhx6m2Vm7ID5hB6tyo0U_HUuBVPqxJpHuhrERmK4nntuxFqLMDISEjEJ0WqT1JJvK329Q2ufxhoP8utQf9jzFmnKOpGDd3bbNySHYyDA07_asMvmjWT5m_nuylJbmGYFLWes/s1600/DSC04019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwj8zwnJemhx6m2Vm7ID5hB6tyo0U_HUuBVPqxJpHuhrERmK4nntuxFqLMDISEjEJ0WqT1JJvK329Q2ufxhoP8utQf9jzFmnKOpGDd3bbNySHYyDA07_asMvmjWT5m_nuylJbmGYFLWes/s640/DSC04019.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<b>002/365 | Wednesday 6 November 2019, Prowlandia</b> - Though Mads rides a bike sans training wheels at Grandma's house, he's convinced himself that his Batman bike is too heavy to ride without them. So, when one training wheel rattles off on our morning walk/ride, he is thrown into crisis mode. I tell him: "Look, I know it sucks to be forced to do something before you think you're ready. It so completely sucks. Believe me, I know--that's all adulthood is, bud. You just have to get on your bike and ride. Maybe it will be hard. Maybe it won't." I walk his bike for him and give him some space and time to wail and rant and then, soon enough, he's riding.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSsv0bfVgUoroXX0LMmE2oROo1p2ehF5prXXJKtvxIIPFOEwPF6S0i3SEaq603LzZtuPeTQRST6o4Gm4tI171Zunp137cAWBHQhSBKGM4_u-UpjzsCqU71uFWqxDQc5jNas4Tt3snoRM/s1600/DSC04025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSsv0bfVgUoroXX0LMmE2oROo1p2ehF5prXXJKtvxIIPFOEwPF6S0i3SEaq603LzZtuPeTQRST6o4Gm4tI171Zunp137cAWBHQhSBKGM4_u-UpjzsCqU71uFWqxDQc5jNas4Tt3snoRM/s640/DSC04025.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>003/365 | Thursday 7 November 2019, NCMA</b> - "Nothing is worth more than laughter. It is strength to laugh and to abandon oneself, to be light. Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing." - Frida Kahlo </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzMHR1mVxha33kI33U-27YGPpugq4l8_b2GJPJEjAmpMJwnOrvokLc2MD-EdpvngUp2TEfsFOSiBSYgaIsYD5BIeBfUYCX8dhtBxX0hzLW12gROGkGywKXZ8P31eq58nIoJcBQWf5eDk/s1600/DSC04032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidzMHR1mVxha33kI33U-27YGPpugq4l8_b2GJPJEjAmpMJwnOrvokLc2MD-EdpvngUp2TEfsFOSiBSYgaIsYD5BIeBfUYCX8dhtBxX0hzLW12gROGkGywKXZ8P31eq58nIoJcBQWf5eDk/s640/DSC04032.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>004/365 | Friday 8 November 2019, Wake Zone, Apex </b>- A woman approached us before we'd settled at the cafe, and Attie attempted to greet her in the enthusiastic Attie way (i.e. knocking her down to slime her with a film of kisses and love nips). I held her harness tight, foiling her efforts. "She's in training," I told the woman. "Training for what?" she asked. "To be a good girl," I said.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtbTjFHpviwSpmJLK6PTIZzooTXG_iaGhFvgvTraLA2xhQrRcTx58SVmGoU17fOWNnueALoNMhFQmeuovU7I13WWcS6PqRbz1GeC9cbR0SMPiTjwyv4eI1q8HdgqOjP1lVTvGYwxole8/s1600/wolfman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtbTjFHpviwSpmJLK6PTIZzooTXG_iaGhFvgvTraLA2xhQrRcTx58SVmGoU17fOWNnueALoNMhFQmeuovU7I13WWcS6PqRbz1GeC9cbR0SMPiTjwyv4eI1q8HdgqOjP1lVTvGYwxole8/s640/wolfman.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>005/365 | Saturday 9 November 2019, Phydeaux, Cary</b> - Grandma asks me out of the blue, "Are you still crazy about your husband?" I feel myself grin and blush. I gush, "Yes! When he walked in the door last night, after a day of not seeing him, I was knocked over by how handsome he is. I couldn't take my eyes off him." Grandma says, "He is handsome, but there's something else..." And I know what she means. It's the something else that counts.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8CHfZiccdQGCbmGfnAsrDcabvV_tYzDyE7UXYnImOPtnaThRzFQyRgS0ATOWCnsr5T71DDiT70R0pDe0b7Z3a8u0XWJtGPHAwe7aQrFg4VJar0wTmbVOLQm06O-EsdxR_eyCI3jr1bgA/s1600/DSC04036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8CHfZiccdQGCbmGfnAsrDcabvV_tYzDyE7UXYnImOPtnaThRzFQyRgS0ATOWCnsr5T71DDiT70R0pDe0b7Z3a8u0XWJtGPHAwe7aQrFg4VJar0wTmbVOLQm06O-EsdxR_eyCI3jr1bgA/s640/DSC04036.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>006/365 | Sunday 10 November 2019</b> - I knew when I prepped November in my daybook (read: bullet journal) that I'd run out of pages before the month was out. Daybook Volume 4 has covered the shortest time span of any daybook yet. I think Ryder Carroll would say I'm doing it right.</div>
<br />Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-59712500815137071562019-11-08T09:37:00.003-08:002019-11-08T10:08:41.109-08:00Julie & Michelle (& Julia) & Meat & Trailers<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwAMlBHMm9xFc5nVUrWPzxKKHVxD6ALQp5Q_1Iagy3bD0eukBYvTZOXbbI-ZOtlhQt9MW2094AqzotFLVbV5aev9ed292OQWFmNWEnmeLCDfRJ0b86dEe4ZITn3b-QHgmBMejpggIZpo/s1600/DSC03978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwAMlBHMm9xFc5nVUrWPzxKKHVxD6ALQp5Q_1Iagy3bD0eukBYvTZOXbbI-ZOtlhQt9MW2094AqzotFLVbV5aev9ed292OQWFmNWEnmeLCDfRJ0b86dEe4ZITn3b-QHgmBMejpggIZpo/s640/DSC03978.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDgVNijLFaAaAEtTE3Zi5M4ptcFwb3b6mEY1G9SdUlSqaKJHcTaJDnSKcvCjOO90RLiq_vv8zGt2kt5kTC5gMsVfiVHGakvy3F3uJ975dQOlS-yCDkmFX3vjJG_jhwhuc8VVMmneW-6o/s1600/DSC03975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDgVNijLFaAaAEtTE3Zi5M4ptcFwb3b6mEY1G9SdUlSqaKJHcTaJDnSKcvCjOO90RLiq_vv8zGt2kt5kTC5gMsVfiVHGakvy3F3uJ975dQOlS-yCDkmFX3vjJG_jhwhuc8VVMmneW-6o/s640/DSC03975.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
In the course of our marriage (10 years) Wolfman and I have done a lot of talk about living adventurously, about making our life together as a made thing, building it in our hands, together, making something. We've talked of <a href="http://wwoofinternational.org/" target="_blank">WWOOF</a>ing in New Zealand or Norway. We've talked of living in a yurt in the Appalachians. We've talked of opening a cafe/herb shop called NAME REDACTED (as in, I don't want to share the name because we haven't given up on that dream, not that the cafe would be called, in all caps, NAME REDACTED).</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
None of these projects have come to fruition; none have even come close to happening. These have just been dreams we've woven together, aloud, over coffee in the morning, laying together in bed at night. We are dreamers, but too practical and poor. We've loved and made a baby, that magnificent creature who fills and defines our lives, but with the exception of our odd senses of style and creepy, demonic laughs, we've lived a pretty conventional life. We've settled in (what became) Money Magazine's Best Place to Live 2015, worked hard to pay bills and with whatever energy and money we had left over after the working and bills, made haphazard attempts at celebrating our life.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm reading Julie Powell lately, poor much-maligned Julie Powell. I finished <i>Julie & Julia</i> (while also watching Julia Child videos on Youtube with my husband and son) a few weeks ago and am now reading her follow-up, <i>Cleaving</i>. Julie Powell is a messy gal, about which she is not shy in admitting and not particularly apologetic. And I don't mean she is messy in that self-deprecating way we're trained to believe will make us more likable and relatable; she is messy in the nitty gritty way that is answered in horrified and disgusted Goodreads reviews. Despite all this, despite even the painful extramarital affair which makes up the bulk of her second book, I can't help but feel Julie Powell is a kindred spirit. I admire her. Yes, following Faith Lehane's "Want. Take. Have." as a personal, life-long, mantra is ultimately not the best way to live (wasn't this the lesson Faith had to learn on <i>Buffy</i> and <i>Angel</i> over and over again?). But, I recognize the impulse to shake up your life, to do something that gives it meaning, and I admire Julie Powell's ability to follow through.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I never worked on a sheep farm in Norway, can barely even picture what that life might have been like. I never built a yurt in the Blue Ridge mountains. I never traveled. I never wrote. I've got all the dreams in my pocket, but I lack follow through. (I cry when I hear Kermit sing "Rainbow Connection," the INFP theme song.) I never get further in these fantasy lives than scribbling in my journal some version of the thing and a "wouldn't that be neat?," "if only."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
In <i>Julie & Julia</i>, Julie writes of how perplexed family and friends were as she tortured herself torturing lobsters and roaming the city in search of offal. Why? Why do this thing? And why force yourself to do it in only a year? Why make things hard on yourself? Well, writes Julie, it has less to do with the readers of her blog (though she does cite them) and more with the need to DO SOMETHING, to not resign herself to a humdrum little existence but to shake things up, to give herself a challenge and to discover herself through that self-inflicted adversity and strain. If she didn't do this, if she didn't complete it, if she gave up--who would she be,what would she be? Nobody. Nothing. And, of course, this isn't true. She'd still be Julie Powell, wife and cat mom and doer of the things in her life she did do, but I wouldn't be writing about her now, would I?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And, again, a couple years later, after she'd written a book of her first challenge, after she'd turned the frustration and panic and maggots in her kitchen into a bonafide success, she took on yet another pipe dream--she became an apprentice at a butcher shop. She learned the craft of boucherie for no other reason than that it had always interested and intimidated her and she was bedeviled by the desire to not settle into the status quo.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
All I do is settle into the status quo. It is my great burden and my darkest shadow, this incapacitation--which has all kinds of roots and stems and knots which are long and, frankly, boring, and which I will not get into here. But, take it from me, I am a classic settler, with the briefest moments of inspired, spasmodic kicks against the cage I build myself (I married that good-looking man, after all, and we made this beautiful baby together).</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Prowlandia is my <i>Mastering the Art of French Cooking</i>. Tiny Living is my boucherie and charcuterie. And, let me tell you, if you were reading this in my memoir or watching a movie version of this starring a more adorable version of me, Mila Kunis or Amanda Seyfried maybe (oh I flatter myself), you would be saying to yourself "why is she complaining so much, what a whiny drag, even Mila Kunis can't make here likable," and I am sorry/not sorry about that. Unraveling the status quo you've quilted around yourself like a protective cocoon is hard fucking work. I am in the midst of deprogramming a lot of fearful bullshit from my mind that I've been carrying for far too long. And, also, living in a tiny home with a man, a boy, an 80 pound meathead dog, and a cat who just MUST eat at 5 in the morning is hard, even if it's a life you've chosen for yourself, and turning a dusty lot filled with broken glass and, probably, ticks into a Wolfpeople utopia is hard fucking work, too. I'm dealing with some stuff. It's hard. But, I'm doing it. Wolfman and I are making something, with our hands, together, and it sucks, and it's glorious.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfzGMMOAmT-g0R5_2eA0aZFalyWUeb2wk3D5d-WqLHEX8LnIyR6ENMG2KbVp8aClu2YWI8vlC4q-60oG1H0BLBtuqHa6oTHbzfHYhWevhyphenhyphenH3I6Kr9QS2RdDLJ-lpVEVEpSBlQJTofBkA/s1600/DSC03976.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpfzGMMOAmT-g0R5_2eA0aZFalyWUeb2wk3D5d-WqLHEX8LnIyR6ENMG2KbVp8aClu2YWI8vlC4q-60oG1H0BLBtuqHa6oTHbzfHYhWevhyphenhyphenH3I6Kr9QS2RdDLJ-lpVEVEpSBlQJTofBkA/s640/DSC03976.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf10yOChomhZYIGagHjjosqeBqHmIbikfDW-IxB2cmSz14B8S8_efynhyphenhyphenRXsjKj1Pmpq5zBHZqw7INKgf3HgZHr6KtZZC02sgMQIAYwodNsghbgjWVPGpSR98mEDreSrmxQ6pW03s62Ek/s1600/DSC03982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf10yOChomhZYIGagHjjosqeBqHmIbikfDW-IxB2cmSz14B8S8_efynhyphenhyphenRXsjKj1Pmpq5zBHZqw7INKgf3HgZHr6KtZZC02sgMQIAYwodNsghbgjWVPGpSR98mEDreSrmxQ6pW03s62Ek/s640/DSC03982.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-55990724100128606662019-09-07T04:17:00.003-07:002019-09-07T04:26:35.350-07:00Boredom and Frustration in Prowlandia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOAS8GWrIBHuudJ6oLNQFD5D361skOSvV60dU2Yu9ZLNojnicKx_PiGTmQ2m3qUfOVGq2hprOlnAHtqZDs_857zc_3DtlH1TiKcQW2VLlL4PoNAs9krcfn8Ou3WXVaBIu0zfoOtOGQYE/s1600/DSC03947+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOAS8GWrIBHuudJ6oLNQFD5D361skOSvV60dU2Yu9ZLNojnicKx_PiGTmQ2m3qUfOVGq2hprOlnAHtqZDs_857zc_3DtlH1TiKcQW2VLlL4PoNAs9krcfn8Ou3WXVaBIu0zfoOtOGQYE/s640/DSC03947+%25283%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
My dishware and kitchen appliances have been culled (in a haphazard Konmari that probably cannot even be called that--both practicality and joy were consulted in the weeding), and yet I stand in the narrow dinette of our tiny home, Prowler, looking into my blissfully open cabinetry (the heavy mirrored doors were the first thing to go--I broke one in the grass as I tossed it out of the trailer in my haste to be rid of them and then continued to walk the yard barefoot all summer, forgetfully pushing my luck), defeated. I've always wanted open cabinetry in my kitchen, and here it is. The only thing keeping my grandmother from flipping her lid over the tiny home is that I've been talking about it for years, and here it is.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But, it's tiny.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What looked like generous-to-the-point-of-unfairness (like the game was rigged for us) storage when Prowler was empty I now realized, in this moment, was shit. How am I going to fit all our <i>stuff</i> in here? Meanwhile Wolfman is outside in the sticky heat building a makeshift fence, alone, and I feel guilty and frivolous for focusing on how this open cabinetry will <i>look</i> (because it is the first thing we will see when we arrive home). I think--has Instagram and Pinterest mashed my brain to useless goop? But then I think, no, this is important; I'm making a <i>home</i>, not just a place to sleep and fart. And then my little guy--one of the people I'm making this home for (the VIP, actually) interrupts my furrowed brow with his need.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He's bored. He wants me to play with him---the make-believe game where his cousin's Rapunzel doll (that's me) doesn't realize the new airplane she just bought is actually a Transformer (him) and then, eventually, after the shock and confusion are settled, they must work together to defeat Darth Vader.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's the same scenario every time, the same game, which is part of the reason I'm reluctant to play but, also, where am I going to hide this ugly propane burner now that all my cabinets are blissfully open?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It's really easy for Wolfman and I to spout tough love in our morning (and afternoon, evening, before bed, geez we're obsessed) talks about our son. "He's just going to have to get used to being a little bored. He'll figure out what to do with his boredom eventually." It's another thing to face it head on as you're bleeding and sweating and standing in the place that is supposed to be your home, your <i><u>heart</u>h</i>, and it looks like nothing but a jumbled collection of odds and ends unearthed after a natural disaster, a volcano maybe.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Perhaps I'm not conveying to you the existential dread I experienced standing in that dinette, looking at all the objects before me, cataloging all the objects still at home and thinking, not for the first time, this is not going to work. Also: I'm crazy. Also: I'm damaging my son. All these uncertainties and fears crashing down on me in my own voice and also the voices of people I hate, people whom I have fought who take up residence in my head when I'm sad or scared.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
After the third or fourth "I'm bored," I snapped at Mads. I wasn't particularly cruel or harsh, but I was exasperated and frustrated. I spoke to him as a person, not a mother.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yes, of course, motherhood did not negate my personhood, and so perhaps I should not be so hard on myself. But, motherhood did elevate my personhood, or maybe just complicate it. Motherhood, at the very least, has added layers to my personhood. My son, Mads, does not know me as Michelle. He knows that is my name, but it is not what he calls me. He knows his dad calls me Shelly, but, again, that's not Mads' name to use for me. And he knows practically nothing of when I was a little girl called, dismissively, Mouse. No, Mads knows me as Mom-Momma-MOM! My role in his life is a big one, arguably the biggest one (we once shared a body, after all). My relationship with him will build the parameters and foundation of so many of his relationships, particularly with women. And my voice will become his inner voice. If he is ever standing in a kitchen, mid-move, feeling overwhelmed, I don't want the voice in his head to be one of exasperation and frustration, directed inward--frustration with a situation, sure, but never himself. I don't want him carrying my very particular and dramatically weary sigh with him through manhood like a boulder strapped to his back. (Have you ever heard me sigh? I could do a voice acting spot where all I do is sigh, my sigh is that pronounced and definitive.)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Wolfman and I are devoted to kind, patient, <i>respectful</i> parenting of our son. But we have our limits and shortcomings. Very occasionally one or the other of us will use a careless astringent tone with Mads, and I become a child again myself. I hear it and step away from myself, and I am Mouse, shame and anger bubbling up in my belly--anger at the unfairness and tyranny of adults. Then, in combination with whatever irritant caused that tone and those words in the first place, guilt--a wave of it. What can I do in that moment but tell Mads, "I've hit my limit, bud. I'm overwhelmed. I'm hot. I'm cranky. I'm bleeding. I'm sweating. I don't feel good." I'm sorry. Give me a minute. I am just not feeling up to the challenge of motherhood in this particular moment.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
At six years old, Mads has a lot of compassion for me and my moods (fears, shortcomings). He also, however, reserves the right to be bummed out by them and a little exasperated himself.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I read one parent's account in How to Talk so Kids Will Listen and Listen so Kids Will Talk. He wrote, "the more comfortably you can accept bad feelings, the easier it is for kids to let go of them. I guess you could say that if you want to have a happy family you better be prepared to permit the expression of a lot of unhappiness."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I'm bored," is not my favorite thing to hear my son say. But I'm sure he doesn't love it when I say, "I'm frustrated." Not every human emotion is pleasant, and none of us are perfect. Mads knows his parents are not infallible. We're just people, but we're his people. He's not being raised inside a floating incandescent bubble in the sky by angels with perfect teeth. He's being raised by Mom and Dad, whose teeth are less than perfect, and who struggle with the awkwardness of humanity and the caprice of bad feelings and are honest with him about it. Just as I have to be honest with myself and face the facts that not every kitchen appliance I own is display worthy.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y3OL0bqD9HLJsvhIyFNPL3iFFAJL5WFn35A90B6Sr_eUeseDCHjJj16lPcbkzrVQKNfsmzeF341H2lylO4jWiR92Zus0V7dQoC6Sa0KOMpWbbhB6oMb7kYTMGn1TSD-fCcXun07mfbI/s1600/DSC03948+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_y3OL0bqD9HLJsvhIyFNPL3iFFAJL5WFn35A90B6Sr_eUeseDCHjJj16lPcbkzrVQKNfsmzeF341H2lylO4jWiR92Zus0V7dQoC6Sa0KOMpWbbhB6oMb7kYTMGn1TSD-fCcXun07mfbI/s640/DSC03948+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdYXPqwhFDw2_uAXhOZlAN844FlUPURp8TkmO8M7T7q_UxWmomW61PW01kw4YBg9juleKgyp8qitn8g1wj-4OSXplRKSk7kUA_3CoZ-1nIFnbGhMoXoOTq4pVdyykd3SKhjYRrk4uhnw/s1600/DSC03949+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDdYXPqwhFDw2_uAXhOZlAN844FlUPURp8TkmO8M7T7q_UxWmomW61PW01kw4YBg9juleKgyp8qitn8g1wj-4OSXplRKSk7kUA_3CoZ-1nIFnbGhMoXoOTq4pVdyykd3SKhjYRrk4uhnw/s640/DSC03949+%25282%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-73584017273998149762019-04-26T11:59:00.000-07:002019-04-26T12:01:04.017-07:00Dreams Don't Come True (with kittens)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSM8ev3IvTOwz_7xr5icf8scs1n8AqWC6kp_wuoIA_75WhSbUUj4EvtBC4Y8fRTMG8ZXSiUyv8dl1yrz8wk8qau_z1wgJ_hrJBLO-tv1pC8K4kZEZrLk_32nx7vfiPK4ZVGdJx5pudmo0/s1600/8747050961_78389ececb_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSM8ev3IvTOwz_7xr5icf8scs1n8AqWC6kp_wuoIA_75WhSbUUj4EvtBC4Y8fRTMG8ZXSiUyv8dl1yrz8wk8qau_z1wgJ_hrJBLO-tv1pC8K4kZEZrLk_32nx7vfiPK4ZVGdJx5pudmo0/s640/8747050961_78389ececb_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fierce and adoring Grandma, the day-dreamy and whimsical me, and Mads (kicking and punching in my belly)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The <a href="https://breakingbadnewswithbabyanimals.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Breaking Bad News With Baby Animals</a> postcard I sent to Grandma the other day announced (with kittens), “Dreams don’t come true.” It just happened to be the one I grabbed from my stationery box, but also, it seemed a particularly astute message for her, regarding me. My grandma had a lot of big dreams for me--she has dreamt bigger, longer, wider, in more vivid technicolor for me than any other person ever has, myself included. And I wonder: if she is disappointed (and how can she not be), is that disappointment directed at me or at the unfair, chaotic, unsympathetic world in which I live. Is it the economy’s fault that when my name is Googled one finds - </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">nothing </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-. Or is it mine?--my timidity, my lack of ambition and resolve, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>my</i></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> belief that the world is an unthinking, unfeeling place and a person like me never had a chance?</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-49f9a709-7fff-f36f-4b3c-9ae075bcd6d9"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I never became a writer (not in the way that counts, anyway). I don’t have any money and struggle constantly upstream. Since high school, I’ve managed to keep my figure more or less, but even my once beautiful mop of wild, curly hair has since diminished into a straggly, thin, lackluster mess.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-a728b28c-7fff-4ddc-b26e-7c0b1f7c5953"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">My grandmother believed me to be not only a great beauty, but a great mind. And here I am toiling away in the service industry--I am a retail automaton--the highlight of my work day when a sales rep brings in grocery store deli cookies as a bribe. I am dropped off at work most days, wearing a backpack and carrying a lunch bag, like a child.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-f12793d6-7fff-9ea0-6d41-03d4b70ee8c7"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Has my lack of success and mobility hurt my grandmother, the one who dreamed for me?</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-67135d99-7fff-2045-3390-df0b4b89d05d"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">I think about this a lot because now I dream. I dream not for myself but for my son. Even if I make nothing of myself, I have made him--a great beauty and a great mind. How could he </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">not</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> make more of himself than I have? It’s so obvious he’s destined for great things. He is better than me. I love him, and his dad loves him. I was damaged, you know, by people who did not dream for me so ardently as my selfless, obsessed grandmother. But my son--he’s not damaged. He doesn’t need to struggle.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-e2dcd181-7fff-6956-614c-f244c12b4445"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">But what if he does anyway?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-a3e7f6be-7fff-b39a-056d-6623661ae378"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">When I talk about, ponder aloud, the things my son will become, am I doing him a disservice? Should I shut my mouth and just give him the </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline;">space</span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"> to be and breathe and become?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-d4fc9002-7fff-0109-44f8-f33fe7f57b9f"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;">Or, is my dreaming for him a vote of confidence, one which will bolster and sustain him when he's a man making his way in the world? Will he pack my dreams for him into his rucksack when he leaves my arms and home to go to college or travel the world or protest tyranny or divide and conquer or whatever it is he will do?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Grandma's dreams for me have certainly never felt like a burden, but they haven't done much to propel me forward either (through no fault of my grandmother's). And, I suppose my attitude regarding my son's future, the weight on which I put success, depends in part on what my definition of success (for him or in general) <i>is</i>. Do I want him to be happy more often than he is sad? Absolutely. Or, at least, content. Do I want him to give and receive love freely and gracefully? Yes, of course. Do I want him to have money? -- Well, it's not the most important thing compared to contentment and love, but I imagine having just the right amount of money might make his days run that much smoother.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I consider the example I set for him in reaching those goals. I am hard on myself, often aloud. I get frustrated not because my life is not as my grandmother imagined it, but because it is not as I imagined/imagine it. I'm not talking about my family, my home, my town, or even my job; I'm talking about the little daily burdens and messes that trip me up--the unending dishes, double booking events for my son, poorly planned and hastily tossed together holiday and birthday celebrations, the inability to consistently schedule in time for my creative pursuits (like this), the list of projects and To Dos with not a thing crossed off.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My son has witnessed me cry and tantrum because we arrive at the Dorthea Dix sunflower field one week too late and discover all the flowers have shriveled up and died. He has heard and felt me snap because I wake too late and now must hurry through my day without transcribing that nagging thought/reverie/idea onto paper.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">And, my son has wailed at a busy playground at the realization that he and Ella won't be able to play on the swings at the same time, that image he held of the two of them side-by-side and in the air after a week apart, squashed. He has groaned, "I can't do anything," and "it won't be perfect," when attempting to paint a portrait of himself doing barre work at his ballet studio. He has the paper, the pink and grey paints, but when he puts brush to paper he is dissatisfied and hurt.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I tell him, "there's no such thing as perfect," and when he still grumps and thrusts his paintbrush down ask, "Do you believe me?"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is the work of his childhood and my parenthood (and adulthood). All my dreams for him, however loose and magnanimous, will mean nothing if we cannot get over this hump and heap of defeat regarding the disparity between expectation and reality--our imaginings of what life <i>should</i> look like and what we <i>should</i> be capable of, he and I both.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The lesson, of course, the one I am learning on behalf of myself and my son is not that dreams don't come true, but: Dreams Aren't Real (with kittens). </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-31702343973252191722018-11-24T04:19:00.002-08:002018-11-24T04:29:11.196-08:00Madmartigan, 5 Years Old | bee vomit sandwiches<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4904/44980777795_30096aef65_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4904/44980777795_30096aef65_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can only save so many little scraps of paper. I wish I could save them all. I wish, actually, that he wouldn't draw on little scraps of paper at all but use the primary composition notebook decorated and designated as his journal (my one effort at making him too much like me, I admit freely and without shame). But, no. He can't be boxed in by the constraints of a bound notebook. When he has an idea, he must scribble it immediately, on whatever medium is nearest--including the whiteboard where we write grocery lists and the little Melissa & Doug easel slate board. I can't save those masterpieces at all except to take pictures. Actually, he prefers the whiteboard and slate because he can so easily erase that which does not fit his vision. I worry sometimes about his erasing habit and gently remind him, "Don't worry about perfection; nothing is perfect," especially when he expresses frustration before erasing--with his fingers or the felt brick that looks transported directly from my elementary classrooms. Without pausing for anguish or reflection he just says, "It's not very...as I planned it to be," and continues.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He draws mostly at the kitchen table, sometimes in the car and so we keep a tote bag of spiral notebooks and art supplies there next to his seat. Sometimes, he begins drawing the moment he wakes, his eyes barely open against the yellow kitchen light. More often it happens mid-morning, after breakfast, after <i>Scooby Doo</i> or <i>Rescue Bots</i>, before our morning walk as a way to pass the time while we clean breakfast dishes and get ready to leave the house. Sometimes, he does not pick up a pencil (or pen, crayon, marker, chalk--he does not seem particular, really) until the evening in that quiet space of time Wolfman designates for art and music and conversation.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What does he draw? I've mentioned his "weather reports" taped to my walls. He draws maps. Lots of maps and mazes. He draws intricate designs for implements and tools, "for help," based on things he's seen out in the world, like the lifts used to stack high shelves at home improvement stores. (Often, I have not even realized these objects and machines have made such an impression on him until they show up on his paper, a version of them drawn by his hand.) He drew elaborate plans for Halloween costumes in September and October (at one point, his cardboard and paper <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">mâché</span> Hulk Buster armor half-way complete, he decided he wanted to be "No Noggin," from <i>Curious George's Halloween Boofest</i>, and Wolfman gamely discussed with him practical ways to accomplish the headless effect while trick-or-treating, all of which Mads drew). In one of those quiet morning art sessions, he set down to the slate board and without saying a word began drawing something that Wolfman pointed out upon completion looked like a rune casting circle, spookily so.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What I collect and save of his drawings are not family portraits or landscapes of our homes and trees and flowers with a grinning sunshine overhead, no horses or dogs or mermaids, none of the things I drew as a child. I collect what appears to be Pollockian blue prints, and I awe at this mind.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4849/45893855541_381e224036_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4849/45893855541_381e224036_b.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the Seaboard caboose in pjs made by Granmommie</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4895/44980886425_04c79d1bdd_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4895/44980886425_04c79d1bdd_b.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">NCMA</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4836/32022746968_5876c4000e_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4836/32022746968_5876c4000e_b.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">selfie!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4878/46026270111_e1fceec0eb_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4878/46026270111_e1fceec0eb_b.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4876/30954665387_36b3964e3a_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4876/30954665387_36b3964e3a_b.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">DJ's <strike>Berry</strike> Pumpkin Patch</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4817/44077251850_b320deff3b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4817/44077251850_b320deff3b_b.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dance Party at the Cary Arts Center</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">About Mads, 5 Years & 3 Months Old:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span>
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mads sometimes requests that I read books backwards, particularly the ones we've read to memorization, and when I do, he belly laughs.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At <a href="https://tinkergarten.com/" target="_blank">Tinkergarten</a>, when Mads would not focus on the class activities because he was too intent on spraying things with the class-provided spray bottles I told him, "Martigan, I'm feeling a little exasperated about the water botle. Do you care?" He answered honestly and without malice, "No," and so what could I do but let it go.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mads gets bored quickly with the little kindergarten workbooks we sometimes use and will begin creating his own lessons. For example, on a shape-recognition page in which he is meant to trace all the diamonds, he does just that but alternating between his left and right hands, then using both hands at once, practicing his ambidextrousness and coordination.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mads says, "When I get too scared, by heart turns into a bat."</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He refers to honey as "bee vomit" (accurate, if crude) and requests a "butter and bee vomit" sandwich daily.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lately at bed time when I ask what or who he wishes to be before singing our version of Que Sera Sera instead of Batman or Flash, his old stand-bys ("will I be Batman, will I be cool?"), Mads requests "the lover," and then crawls into my lap for snuggles while I sing/ruminate about his future and all the hugs and kisses he will get and give.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When he overhears an innocuous cuss word in conversation between his dad and granmommie, Mads interjects, "Oh yeah, I know a lot of badass words."</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In October, Mads attended his first yoga class and now refers to himself as a yogi and, if we ask, he'll lead Wolfman and me in morning sun salutations.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With a little organizational help from his dad, Mads created a board game called, "Something's Near," the object of which is to move through a frightening land filled with ghosts, zombies, a banshee and other dread creatures to do battle at a castle with either a giant spider</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mads favorite shows/movies lately: Power Rangers (especially <i>Mighty Morphin</i> and <i>Ninja Steel</i>), Scooby Doo (especially <i>Aloha Scooby Doo</i>), <i>Transformers: Rescue Bots</i>, <i>Goosebumps</i> (especially <i>Night of the Living Dummy</i>)</span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mads favorite books lately: Bruce Hale & Guy Francis' <a href="http://brucehale.com/series/clark-the-shark/" target="_blank">Clark the Shark</a> books, Roger Hargreaves' <a href="https://www.mrmen.com/" target="_blank">Mr. Men & Little Miss</a> books, <i><a href="http://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Sick-Simon/Dan-Krall/9781442490970" target="_blank">Sick Simon</a></i> by Dan Krall, anything we can find by <a href="http://www.benhatke.com/" target="_blank">Ben Hatke</a></span></li>
</ul>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-61688394458063881962018-08-14T04:12:00.003-07:002018-08-14T04:15:46.347-07:00Madmartigan, 5 Years Old | he says he doesn't want to grow up but already tells me stories about leaving me<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/845/43097460331_bb91afa3ee_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/845/43097460331_bb91afa3ee_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
As Martigan splashed in his bathtub the other night and I sat with him, he told me this story (which I have elaborated only in language, not detail):</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Mads and I are on a walk one day when he falls into a puddle. But the puddle is deep, a hole, a well. As he splashes around, he turns into a fish. I scoop him up and run home with him. Once home, I set up the biggest fish bowl I can find and place him inside, fretting, begging him to become a boy once again. He grows bigger every day and soon, I must release him into the sea. Every morning, I sit in a boat, not far from the shore, drinking coffee, reading, hoping to catch a glimpse of my sonfish. (I know him by the pattern of scales on his belly spelling out his name.) Not every day, but occasionally, he swims close to the boat and lets me pet him, and I plead with him to turn back into a boy and come home with me. The sea is big; there are sharks in its depths. One day in my boat, I see not my sonfish, but my fear, a shark, who swims close to my boat. I am afraid and distraught until the shark leaps out of the water and I see the scales on his belly--M.A.D.S. But now my sonfish is too big and powerful to live so close to the shore. After petting him and speaking to him one last time, I tow him out to the deep, dark sea, the Mariana Trench. I cut him loose and watch him swim away. He leaps out of the water one last time in goodbye, and now he is a whale.</div>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1814/29091240887_f1c4010145_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1814/29091240887_f1c4010145_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">5 years old & 34 years old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4361/36322878622_f2d647631d_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4361/36322878622_f2d647631d_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4 years old & 33 years old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8675/28282741163_a316c1c053_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/9/8675/28282741163_a316c1c053_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3 years old & 32 years old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/378/20446306481_6706756eca_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/378/20446306481_6706756eca_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2 years old & 31 years old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3907/14874913406_2c6710faf5_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3907/14874913406_2c6710faf5_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1 year old & 30 years old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3756/12325721393_8a7da758b7_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/4/3756/12325721393_8a7da758b7_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shelly's 29th birthday, with her greatest birthday gift</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-46387037445707550782018-07-09T03:46:00.000-07:002018-07-09T04:07:56.668-07:00Home & Konmari, pt. 1 | The Life-Stalling Habit of Worshipping Stuff<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4729/27283883009_8f68e8512e_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4729/27283883009_8f68e8512e_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
Marie Kondo is a witch. <i>The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up</i> is truly that--magic(k). I read both her books in the beginning of the year (though I'm barely able to finish reading anything these days). I get Marie Kondo. She speaks to me, and I find I am often disappointed with the way people talk about Konmari. People, in the fashion of people, tend to focus on the practical and ignore (or openly disparage) the woo woo. People pretend this method has only to do with the tidying, when Marie Kondo herself describes it as "magic." Like she recommends, I really do say thank you to my dirty socks (and to my spoon after stirring honey into my tea, and to my computer after I type clumsily on it, and to my car after she settles safely into my drive way at the end of the day once more), and my relationship with all these things (all the things) is better because of it. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I love that Marie Kondo's methods are based in animism. She says that each object in our life has a desire to be utilized and, therefore, loved by us. Each object in our life desires to serve us. Okay, so maybe you're reading this and thinking to yourself, "my toothbrush is inanimate and this whole 'desires to serve me' thing is bogus." Fair enough. But. It <i>does</i> serve you, doesn't it? And therefore, isn't its purpose in being created to serve you? How far did that thing travel, through how many hands, across how many oceans and state lines, just to sit on your bathroom counter waiting to be held between your fingers and clean your teeth, an intimate job, twice daily. When we sit down to meals as a family, I paraphrase Thich Nhat Hanh aloud for my husband and child, "In this plate of food I see the Universe supports my existence." I believe the same about my copper tongue scraper, the mason jars I drink water from and store leftovers in, that little stool that sits beside my reading chair painted black and white with the pink wooden utters hanging underneath it. These things are manifestations of the Universe supporting me, healing me, quenching my thirst, making me laugh. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don't think I'd even finished <i>Life Changing Magic...</i> when I cleaned out my wardrobe. In my years of thrifting and working at my beloved little second-hand store, I'd accumulated quite a lot of clothing. I defended my overstuffed drawers and racks by telling my husband (and myself) that I was a collector. And yet, after throwing myself into a new job where I am frequently hucking forty-pound bags of cat litter and down on all fours wrangling dogs into harnesses, my daily wear became much more stream-lined, much more practical. The <a href="https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-4/" target="_blank">Type 4</a> of me puts up such a fight against practicality, but you're hard-pressed to find me wearing a dress these days, even on my days off work. So, I cleaned out my closet. I thought this would be the hardest part, but actually the process moved along swiftly once I got going. In the end, I culled my wardrobe by 50%. And though I still step into thrift stores about once a month, it is <i>only</i> once a month, and I am so much more discerning when I go. Often, I walk out with not a thing in my hands.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Like the wardrobe, I also had no problem cleaning out my old writing suitcase. In a tacky decorative suitcase, I had saved every single piece of writing I'd ever worked on--finished and unfinished--since high school. I thought I'd return to those pieces one day, edit them, spiff them up, or take bits and pieces of them to form something else--single lines, descriptions, pieces of dialogue. Instead, it went untouched in a corner of my room, and I actually fretted over the thought of dying and my husband and family sifting through all that nonsense. I chucked all but a couple pages--literally: two pages. Then, I donated the suit case.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Household objects--tchotchkes, mugs, wall hangings--have been the most difficult for me to sift through. I've been inspired by maximalist decorating my entire life. My grandmother keeps a proper Witchy Cottage, stuffed to the brim with books, plants, fish bowls, gargoyles, dolls, all the instruments Dumbledore kept in his office (I think my grandma inherited them after Dumbledore died), framed photos, unframed photos sticking out of the pages of books and tucked into the corners of mirrors, mirrors, ornate boxes and cabinets with tiny little drawers (all occupied), musical instruments, glass bottles in rainbow hues, specimen vials, rubber novelty bats hanging in the hall closet, faux butterflies and spiders and lizards and caterpillars and slugs pinned and glued to the walls and windows. I could go on. I love her house, every corner a surprise. I love her pink polka-dotted toaster and turquoise coffee maker. I love that the rainbow elephant I colored in kindergarten, the one the other kids made fun of me for, is still taped up in her kitchen. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For a long time, I thought my house would look like this, but I didn't find my version of it as charming. Nor did my husband. I've gone through several declutterings--moving five years ago was one, then cleaning out the storage shed a year after moving--but we were still surrounded by an increasing amount of clutter. We have lived with so many things in corners gathering dust! The past couple years, the impermanence of our current living situation has been nagging at me and the amount of things I've accumulated in my adult life weighing me down. At the start of this year, I was ready to toss every single thing into garbage bags and start over, completely, radical minimalist style.<br />
<br />
But, I know me. I know I am sentimental and animistic and place high value on objects. I know that if I were to get rid of everything without discernment, I would regret it later. Enter Marie Kondo and her ritualized tidying.<br />
<br />
I am a <a href="http://thewolfpeople.blogspot.com/search/label/just%20joy" target="_blank">seeker and collector of joy</a>. I have already trained my mind and spirit to recognize moments of pure joy as I encounter them in my life--fleeting, small, winged things that are difficult to butterfly net. I have studied and practiced the art and sport of recognizing joy, savoring it, scribbling it down so I can return to it later. I know what joy feels like in the heart. I know what joy feels like in the body. I know what Marie Kondo means when she instructs to hold a garment in your hands and wait for your body's cues. Honestly, while reading her book, I couldn't help thinking her philosophy so easy and obvious, I should have already thought of it.<br />
<br />
So, it should be done, right? Six months after reading her books and beginning my own Konmari, I should be sitting <strike>smug</strike> enlightened on the other side. Spoiler: I am not.<br />
<br />
Watch this space for Pt. 2, Lessons Learned & Stumbled Over.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4684/38351147704_94c4eda349_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4684/38351147704_94c4eda349_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-81137277588128081212018-06-30T03:26:00.005-07:002018-06-30T03:30:34.936-07:00Gratitude | wasting time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1728/41974110525_dcaa05901a_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1728/41974110525_dcaa05901a_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1730/41063968340_89dc928282_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1730/41063968340_89dc928282_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I was in the car the other day, driving home into the five o'clock sun (the most yolky, rich of suns), and "The Dock of the Bay," came on the radio. The kids were in the car with me, both quietly staring out their respective windows, a sure sign that sleep was over-taking them--a little early for that this afternoon, but they'd just spent an hour bouncing around, literally, at the trampoline park. I turned the radio up. I sang along. I told them, though I knew they weren't listening, "This is one of my favorite songs." I'd never thought about it before, but, yes: this is one of my favorite songs. This song that almost wasn't released, and then was only released because Otis Redding died young, and his label needed something to offer people who were sad. I did not know about this while I sang along in the car the other day, but I have since learned that Otis Redding had had a throat surgery that left him worried for his voice and future, and "Dock of the Bay" was quiet, poetic, soft--and easy for someone like me to sing along to, someone whose voice is only what it is because she sings to children, tucking them into bed at night, and because she sings to herself, in her car, though not a natural singer at all.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I heard the song in the car, I thought about my life. How happy I am singing along to songs on the radio in cars--two minutes of bliss. How I told my co-workers the other day that drinking beer by a pool is one of the greatest pleasures to be had on this planet, in this life. How a day spent fixing good, simple meals with my menfolk, pruning plants, walking in the yard barefoot--this is perfection, this is my personal joy. I beat myself up sometimes. I am hard on myself for not being more or doing more, but the truth is that while, yes, at some point I think I'd like to travel, I'm more happy in my own backyard than anywhere else. And when I worry I'm not doing enough, not being enough, isn't most of that worry based on comparing myself to others and what I believe the expectations of others to be? That has nothing to do with me and my path and my heart. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I live a modest life, and I like it. This is the life I've carved for myself; I have created this from nothing. I have lived with chaos and despair, yet here I am: in love with a good man, my life's companion, as we raise our son together, this beautiful, healthy, smart, charismatic kid. We don't have much, but we have each other, and we know how to be quiet, and we know how to laugh, and we work hard, and we know how to laze around like it's an art.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1762/28228621907_638f12129e_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1762/28228621907_638f12129e_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/916/43097444371_d525860c7d_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/916/43097444371_d525860c7d_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
I Am <i>Great</i>ful:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I am grateful for the way Ella does not fight bed time, but leans into it, like every part of our night time ritual is a luxury.</li>
<li>I am grateful for my husband, who makes me sushi for lunch and draws little sriracha smiley faces on them.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the photo on the front page of the Sunday News & Observer, of a lovely and lovey lady pit bull comforting a grieving mother.</li>
<li>I am grateful when Mads says, "Look, Mom," and I respond, "Uh huh," and he tells me firmly but without anger, "You're not even looking, Mom," and I am snapped out of my head and into the present moment; I am grateful for these reminders of mindfulness from my guru son.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the soft way my husband kisses my cheek and thanks me, everything else pausing, his hands on my arms.</li>
<li>I am grateful for weather reports broadcast on the radio on stormy nights.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the adult courage to peek under beds and into closets after dark.</li>
<li>I am grateful for Grandma telling me, with admiration and approval, that I am so patient with my son.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the last gritty sip of French Press coffee.</li>
<li>I am grateful for a few minutes to zone out, looking at the Instagram accounts of yogis on tropical islands while eating chips and guac, without feeling bad about myself--just letting my mind rest, looking at something beautiful while eating something tasty.</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-81407735280280899472018-06-20T03:47:00.004-07:002018-06-20T04:10:51.970-07:00Madmartigan, 4 Years Old | seaweed salad & smudge<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1821/29002107778_b461f3dcf8_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1821/29002107778_b461f3dcf8_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1732/41974075975_d50625e9e0_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1732/41974075975_d50625e9e0_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-7e6313e9-085b-3d49-de75-e1eb6b69a5bd"><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There’s that Phyllis Diller joke, “Cleaning the house while your children are growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing.” The first time I heard it, Mads was barely walking yet somehow getting his hands on board game pieces and Apples-to-Apples cards and scattering them all over the kitchen floor every time I had my back turned. Now, I feel like I need that joke inscribed on a plaque and hanging on my wall, a bit of household wisdom to ease my mind and a warning to visitors--this is where we’re at right now . That, or the<a href="https://www.someecards.com/usercards/viewcard/MjAxMy0wYjRiNGE2MjNmNzhjMWQz/"> Someecards update</a>, “Cleaning with kids in your house is like brushing your teeth while eating Oreos.” (That one is filed under “Cry For Help Memes” on the Someecards website.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">All this is to say, my house is a disaster, and I don’t want any shame over it. I’ve got a full-on kid at home. The living room is a chaos of cardboard. Blue electrical tape holds up scraps of construction paper all over my walls with my son’s interpretive “weather reports.” I’m trying my damndest to teach him to put his things away, because I think it will make not only my life easier but his as well (how many mornings screech to a halt when we must search for The Other Croc before leaving the house), yet there are still Legos on every surface, in every corner of the house--both Duplo-sized and “Big Boy” sized (as we confusingly call the impossibly tiny ones, to which Mads has graduated this Spring).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The state of my home is partly my fault. I’m an enabler. I bring cardboard boxes home from work and store cracker boxes, egg cartons, and the paper grocery bags my grandmother sends home with me in a corner of our dining room designated, loosely, for “art supplies”. And, I encourage my little boy to bring home odd scraps of plastic and paper he finds when we’re out and about, more things to reuse; since reading </span><a href="http://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Rain-Fish/Lois-Ehlert/9781481461528" style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">Lois Elhert’s <i>Rain Fish</i></a><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> (an instant favorite, which Mads and I refer to as </span><i style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Garbage Fish</i><span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">), we’re constantly on the look-out for, well, garbage.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I suppose a mechanic’s workshop or an artists studio is also constantly in a state of muddlement and flux--it’s part of the process. With a nearly five-year-old boy, our home is both workshop and studio, as well as discotheque, test kitchen, laboratory, and about a hundred other things, depending on the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As far as the cleaning goes, Wolfman and I are doing the best we can.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/825/41976241162_a65c987d84_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/825/41976241162_a65c987d84_b.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/976/41123070735_490030f80b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/976/41123070735_490030f80b_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/973/41978954252_9847f19297_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/973/41978954252_9847f19297_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/943/28147731118_ab606c9994_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/943/28147731118_ab606c9994_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/966/28147724018_cd5bbb94dd_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/966/28147724018_cd5bbb94dd_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">About Mads, 4 Years & 10 Months Old:</span></div>
<br />
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mads is finally beginning to share my love of <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O2yd4em1I6M" target="_blank">Labyrinth</a></i>. He recognizes David Bowie as "The Goblin King," and his favorite part of the movie is the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kiUt5HuW3xc" target="_blank">Fireys</a>. However, Mads has also begun wailing, "That's not fair!" whenever he doesn't immediately get his way.</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">One evening, while we sit in the back yard eating grilled pineapple and the juices run down Martigan's naked chest, I light a stick of citronella incense, and Mads uses it to invoke Odin and cast spells for health and longevity. He announces he is a wizard, and he runs around the yard naked in a cloud of perfumed smoke. (He repeated the same indoors only once--we had to put a kibosh on the baby shamanism after he pressed the red tip of the incense into the covers of his bed and burnt a little hole in his duvet.)</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wolfman and Mads often utilize our community center's open gym hours, especially on hot days or rainy days; Wolfman reports that though he's tried to teach the basics of basketball and volleyball as he remembers them, Mads prefers to invent his own games (and he is rather bossy about it). </span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wolfman and Mads also spend many an evening in the community center game room playing air hockey, and Mads is legitimately, without any parental stacking of the odds, pretty good at it (and getting better).</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mads uses my tablet to scroll <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thedogist/?hl=en" target="_blank">The Dogist</a> Instagram feed.</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mads loves seaweed salad and <a href="https://bubbies.com/sauerkraut" target="_blank">Bubbies sauerkraut</a>.</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I'm feeling cranky one morning, Mads makes the effort to soothe me by requesting I read him a book, which he knows I love, and choosing a particularly dreamy one (<a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/253042/123-dream-by-kim-krans/9780553539325/" target="_blank">Kim Krans' <i>1,2,3 Dream</i></a>).</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">When Wolfman has <a href="https://theclassicalstation.org/" target="_blank">The Classical Station</a> on in the car, Mads informs him, "Daddy, I don't like this music. I only like Rock n' Roll."</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Preparing to read Curious George to Mads and Ella one night, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28114410-curious-george-subway-train-adventure" target="_blank">the one where George gets on the wrong subway train</a>, (one of Mads' favorites), Mads informs his cousin in preamble, "The subway is a train that goes underground in New York City. That's far away from North Carolina."</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mads went through an entire box of Paw Patrol bandages, wrapping them around his fingers when he should have been brushing his teeth. Now all bandages in our house are plain and kept in the parents' bathroom.</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I tuck him into bed each night, Mads gets squirrely and wild, fighting sleep, and tells me, "I want to hug you with my legs!"</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mads writes his name--M.A.D.S. (in all caps, and the 's' is almost always backwards). He asks us how to spell words (words like "octopus," "zebra," "berry," or "bear") so that he can write them or construct them on the refrigerator with magnet letters. He spells "Mama" completely on his own, without help, much like the first word he spoke was "Mama."</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mads calls fudge and brownies "smudge," though he knows that's incorrect. He always shakes his head and asks, "Wait. What's that stuff called?" Maybe it's because I giggle when he says it, though I try hard not to. His baby words are dwindling--"cunchtable" for comfortable, "titar" for guitar, and smudge.</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mads says, "Mom, you know, every once in a while I get a spit storm in my mouth."</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I tease Atalanta one morning, nuzzling my face into her neck and asking, "When are you going to learn you're not the boss; I'm the boss." Mads pipes up and says, "You're not the boss, Mommy. Daddy's the boss." I ask, "Oh? Why do you say that?" He answers without pause, "Because Daddy's the grumpiest."</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Martigan attended a pre-k class in the Spring. He was smart and social and a natural leader, and Wolfman and I often arrived early to pick him up so we could watch him from the door window of his classroom, in awe of his ease.</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In May, after watching several of his cousin's ballet classes, Mads requested to join her. He took to the class immediately, as if he'd always been there. He wears all black, like a ninja. After his first performance this month, he informed us that he wants to do that again, and soon.</span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Martigan's favorite books lately: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23871119-shark-detective?from_search=true" target="_blank"><i>Shark Detective</i> by Jessica Olien</a>;<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/946086.Chicks_and_Salsa?from_search=true" target="_blank"> <i>Chicks and Salsa</i> by Aaron Reynolds and Paulette Bogan</a>; <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31491773-creepy-pair-of-underwear?from_search=true" target="_blank"><i>Creepy Pair of Underwear</i> by Aaron Reynolds and Peter Brown</a>; <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/37538788-here-comes-destructo-saurus?ac=1&from_search=true" target="_blank"><i>Here Comes Destructosaurus</i> by Aaron Reynolds and Jeremy Tankard</a></span></span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Martigan's favorite shows and movies lately: <i>PJ Masks</i>, <i>Transformers: Rescue Bots</i>, S<i>uper Wings</i>, all things <i>Power Rangers</i>, all things <i>Scooby Doo</i></span></span></li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/895/42826050622_d0dfac4647_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/895/42826050622_d0dfac4647_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1804/28005231937_90ab60a8f1_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1804/28005231937_90ab60a8f1_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/944/42026350021_912cf70811_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/944/42026350021_912cf70811_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1754/28005609557_aee1ff02f2_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c2.staticflickr.com/2/1754/28005609557_aee1ff02f2_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-88092654362736216222018-03-08T19:11:00.002-08:002018-03-08T19:30:34.463-08:00Madmartigan, 4 Years Old | it's only fair to tell you, I'm absolutely cuckoo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4650/40273263831_7061e95ace_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4650/40273263831_7061e95ace_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I never used this space to really explore and write about my breast-feeding experience. Breast-feeding was just a thing I did. It wasn't, alone, an incredibly important or emotional experience for me. I follow many breast-feeding moms on Instagram who frequently post photos of themselves nursing their babes and write long-form captions about the emotional weavings of the breast-feeding experience, and it makes me feel like I missed something. I remember nursing a barely 1-year-old Mads at a friend's wedding, in an effort to keep him from wiggling and running about and interrupting the ceremony more than anything. At the reception, the mother of the bride, whom I've known since I was 11 and is a member of the La Leche League, took the time to pause her revelry (and the general soaking-in of her beautiful daughter's beautiful wedding) to tell me she'd seen me nursing my baby during the ceremony and it had made her so incredibly happy. I was touched, and I was glad she was touched (I was touched by her touchedness, and by her expression of her touchedness), but, also, breast-feeding was just a thing I was doing back then. You know? I wasn't shy about it (I had no qualms about nursing my baby sans cover in many public places), but I wasn't precious about it either. Sometimes Mads and I gazed lovingly into each other's eyes, and sometimes I swatted his diapered butt and told him not to lizard crawl all over my lap, and sometimes he'd get squirted in the face with milk when I'd unclasp my nursing bra, and I'd have a giggle fit for many minutes afterward, and sometimes I nursed him just to get him to pass out milk-drunk so I could sneak off and make out with his dad. I breast-fed my son, mostly on demand, for two years. We also co-slept, and while he would not stand for being held close to me in a sling or carrier, he demanded to be held close to me in my arms and on my body in his every waking and sleeping moment. In short, my baby was touching me, feeding from me, laying on me or against me, held in my arms, for two years. <i>That</i> is the big, important, emotional experience, <i>altogether</i>--the constant physical contact. Breast-feeding was just part of it. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Martigan was weaned out of necessity. An opportunity opened for me, to work full-time for a business I was excited about, and off I went in my prettiest hippie duds. I became a full-time working mom. At that point, Mads was nursing before his afternoon naps and before bed. The first little step toward weaning I'd taken when he turned a year old, which was to stop those public feedings--not because I was embarrassed, but because I needed boundaries, and I needed to decide (at least a little) when and how my body was available to him. We'd stopped night feedings shortly before he turned 2, because up to that point he spent most of the night literally attached to my breast, and my hips were beginning to ache from sleeping on my side for two years straight. We'd experimented a little with weaning those before-nap feedings, but he wailed and carried on as if his world was crashing around him, and it hurt my heart, and I didn't know what to do. Then, I went to work and was saved from the hard choices. For the first week, I would nurse him as soon as I got home. But those honey-I'm-home feeding sessions got pushed back later and later as we settled into a new rhythm, and soon, he didn't ask to be nursed at all. He only asked to be held.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Which brings me to my point: At fast-approaching-five, Mads still asks to be held. There's no more "wan-nur!" (which was, by the way, how he asked for boob, as in, "wanna nurse"), but at about the same intervals as breast-feeding occurred during his infant days, he wants to be hugged close. He wants to sit my lap. In the mornings, first thing, Mads gets into bed with us. He must start the day with snuggles, pressing his little cheek against my chest and announcing sleepily, "You're so warm. I love you so much." After breakfast, before I've even finished what's on my plate, he wants to sit in my lap. At lunch he wants to hold my hand. He still wants to be picked up periodically through the day and carried on my hip, though he's quickly becoming too big for me. Essentially, our days of nursing ended abruptly and are far behind us, but he still comes to my body for comfort and nourishment. I know one day, he won't climb into our bed in the morning. One day he <i>will</i> be too big to pick up. One day he won't want to rest his face in the crook of my neck. On days when I'm feeling touched-out, I think about this, like I did when he was an infant on my breast--these days are not forever. They'll be over before I know it, and I'll wonder how time moves so fast, and what happened to this boy who was practically an appendage of my body, he was so close and so constant.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4779/26828530368_52afe2c79d_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4779/26828530368_52afe2c79d_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4775/40657599882_9afa2b8373_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4775/40657599882_9afa2b8373_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
About Mads, 4 Years & 7 Months Old:</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;">When his dad gives him instructions, Mads responds, "At your service!"</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Wolfman and Mads have started their first Dungeons & Dragons campaign. (Mads is a wizard who can burn and freeze things with his hands.)</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">A sleigh bell hangs from the handlebars of his bike, and a joker card rattles against the spokes of the back wheel (Get it? A Joker card on a Batman bike?)</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">According to Mads: Mom is sweet as watermelon. Dad is sweet as pickles (bread and butter pickles, that is).</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Mads can set up the Rube Goldberg game "Mouse Trap" completely on his own (and his dad is so proud and tells everyone, even complete strangers).</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Parenting win: when we started turning reggae music on to calm our dog when she seemed particularly antsy (studies have shown shelter dogs respond positively to easy listening and reggae), we discovered reggae also calms a particularly antsy Martigan.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Martigan, accepting my stick figure drawings of our family but never once attempting to draw a stick figure of his own, has finally begun drawing humanoid shapes (see above). He starts with the legs and moves up.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Officially, Martigan's first musical (as in, the first musical he's watched and musical soundtrack he's listened to on repeat) is <i>Little Shop of Horrors</i>.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Mads tells me he's going to use "ballet pink" in his painting and holds up the soft baby pink bottle of acrylic paint. I ask, "how did you know that's ballet pink?" He answers, "It's the color of a ballet shoe; it's ballet pink!"<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Here and there, Mads has been getting dressed on his own in the mornings, without prompting, without help. Getting dressed and undressed have always been big struggles for us, so this is HUGE.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">We introduced Mads to <i><a href="https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510208/car-talk">Car Talk</a></i>. I skipped to the end of that first episode so he could hear the, "Don't drive like my brother" bit, and he recognized Click and Clack's voices as Rusty and Dusty from <i>Cars</i>. Later that same day, while he was playing independently in the living room, he asked to listen to more "Rusty and Dusty." </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Mads has been taking a theatre class for the past month, and he loves it. He insists on showing up early each week. He loves his class, loves wandering the halls of the Cary Art Center before class, and maybe also he loves that this is his first class where I drop him off, wave good bye, the door closes, and he gets to experience something that is totally his own, without me. </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">After his theatre class, Mads likes to go to Firehouse Subs with Grandma and me. He's obsessed with Firehouse Subs.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Mads builds transformers with his duplo blocks, making robot transformation noises with his mouth as he switches up their bodies, removing wings and etc.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes Mads announces that he's not Martigan, he's "Martigod." Martigod is very stinky, and often we respond to this announcement, "Oh, no, not that guy; he's the worst!" Mads then reassures us, "Oh, guys, I'm just joking! I'm Martigan!"</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">He says, "I love ya, Mom. I love ya, Dad," at least five times a day.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Martigan's favorite books this month: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/33590259-valensteins"><i>Valensteins</i> by Ethan Long</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31491773-creepy-pair-of-underwear?ac=1&from_search=true"><i>Creepy Pair of Underwear! </i>by Aaron Reynolds and Peter Brown</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18352657-naked?ac=1&from_search=true"><i>Naked! </i>by Michael Ian Black and Debbie Ridpath Ohi</a>, all the <i><a href="http://www.curiousgeorge.com/">Curious George</a></i> we can get our hands on</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Martigan's favorite shows and movies this month: <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2139371/?ref_=nv_sr_1">Transformers: Rescue Bots</a>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt3600266/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">Super Wings!</a>, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0267913/?ref_=nv_sr_1">Scooby-Doo</a></li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4783/38889886530_d6b04aef20_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4783/38889886530_d6b04aef20_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxyhCm_vTMc">"Absolutely Cuckoo," Magnetic Fields</a></span></div>
</div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-91845905075402562142018-03-01T00:00:00.000-08:002018-03-01T06:26:38.785-08:00Thankful Thursday | a matchbox of our own, a fence of real chain link<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/414/31512447375_83ae3a6699_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/414/31512447375_83ae3a6699_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/201/31396946431_3363cfd72f_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/1/201/31396946431_3363cfd72f_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I love describing my husband to people who don't know him. Or, rather, I love attempting to describe my husband to people. He is enigmatic and my stories of him, the things he says, the way he is, sound, surely, full of contradictions. Is he kind or is he surly? Is he serious or is he absurd? Is he crazy-eyed intense or is he even-keeled and steadfast? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and always. He is all of the things (and none of them, or at least, none of the things succeed at summing him). He is the man I love yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and always. I love him when times are good, and we are laughing--I can say aloud any crazy non sequitur that pops into my head, and he will respond in kind, and our talk becomes a layered babble of nonsense, like we're orating R-rated Seussian poetry. I love him when times are hard, like this past year, and I need to tell someone my pain because telling takes some of the burden away, and he is there for me, listening, warm and strong, his body made to hold mine, and his mere presence in a room is enough to lift me up and keep me moving. I love this man. I heard on inspirational talk radio once that the most important thing you can say to your partner isn't 'I love you,' but, 'thank you,' and I felt so proud of myself for getting something right for once. Not a day goes by that I don't thank this man in my life, for making coffee, for teaching our son, for loving me so good. I am so grateful to him and for him yes, yes, yes, yes, and always.</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the joy on Attie's face--her grinning gob, the sparkle in her eyes, the lift of her chin--as she chews on a bully ring.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the way Ella mimics Martigan's affections with me--somewhat awkwardly, but so precious because of that awkwardness.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for sticky monkey bread, shared at a bakery with my husband, at a table too little for our gangly legs, on a date morning.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful when Wolfman plays guitar and grins and thanks me for the wau pedal I bought him for his birthday; I am grateful to have given him something he loves and can use; I am grateful for his joy.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the pride with which Wolfman shares an audio recording of weird improvisational music he and Mads created during the day (Wolfman playing an out-of-tune acoustic kiddie guitar and jingle bells, Mads playing harmonica and drum); I am grateful so much of Martigan's (un)schooling has fallen to my husband, who is so naturally inventive, smart, irreverent; I am grateful the musical instruments I've been collecting since Martigan's birth are getting use.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful when Wolfman whispers to me, "I've always loved that song," as "Somewhere That's Green," ends in the Raleigh Little Theatre's production of <i><a href="https://raleighlittletheatre.org/shows/little-shop-of-horrors/">Little Shop of Horrors</a></i>.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the wave of relief that comes after clearing off surfaces whose clutter seemed immovable and permanent, going willfully unnoticed and untouched for <i>years--</i>like the top of the fridge and the shelf in our laundry cabinet; I am grateful for my resolve; I am grateful for Marie Kondo, who taught me something that makes sense and is helpful and speaks to my woo woo, animistic inclination.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful to put my healthy, funny, smart, good-looking boy to rest at night; I'm grateful we've been granted another day together in this chaotic, sometimes brutal, often beautiful, very strange world.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful when Mads tells me he wants to grow his hair long again.</li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIvpOIUqKKA">"Somewhere That's Green"</a>, Ellen Greene</span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-80124789805843008402018-01-18T19:00:00.000-08:002018-01-27T06:23:23.831-08:00Thankful Thursday | when you press me to your heart, I'm in a world apart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4731/24200137647_b628c818f2_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4731/24200137647_b628c818f2_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4480/37954958351_4b20e2857b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4480/37954958351_4b20e2857b_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4664/38743868155_323fa2296b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4664/38743868155_323fa2296b_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
I Am Grateful:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>I am grateful for the Duplo blocks that quiet Mads and capture his interest.</li>
<li>I am grateful for every part of my body that jiggles because I'm made of flesh not paper.</li>
<li>I am grateful when I hear sirens, for the people who make livings of helping others.</li>
<li>I am grateful for my grandpa, steady and good and full of love.</li>
<li>I am grateful to come home to a house full of good cooking smells after a long day at work.</li>
<li>I am grateful for little gifts left in my cubby at work from co-workers.</li>
<li>I am grateful to Grandma for picking us up and taking us to dinner at Martigan's favorite, Firehouse Subs, and I am grateful to her for her good humor when Mads eats only chips and does not touch his sandwich.</li>
<li>I am grateful for citrus-scented dish soap.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the jingling tinkle of my many charm bracelets (Christmas gifts from Grandma this year) against china coffee mugs as I put them away in the cabinet.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the way salt patterns swirl on roads and look like some ancient magic runes, and like snow, impervious to sun and heat.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the competing morning sounds of Uriah Heep on the turn table on one side of me (in the living room) and Wolfman tuning up his guitar on the other (in the bedroom).</li>
<li>I am grateful for the tradition of wearing my husband's boots and coat (so much more practical than my own) to tromp around in the snow.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4491/38071566706_d9b57ce7bd_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4491/38071566706_d9b57ce7bd_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4675/38743803245_3f0e1c2f8f_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4675/38743803245_3f0e1c2f8f_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4729/39061029791_bc2e274c7a_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4729/39061029791_bc2e274c7a_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4562/26349437359_ecf8e194f2_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4562/26349437359_ecf8e194f2_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4262/34322098594_9280bccc0a_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4262/34322098594_9280bccc0a_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4736/39061167731_18880213cb_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4736/39061167731_18880213cb_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtfJj8oF6xM">"La Vie En Rose," Louis Armstrong</a></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-51596279008613172482018-01-11T18:41:00.002-08:002018-01-11T18:52:06.916-08:00Madmartigan, 4 Years Old | I'm a man you don't meet everyday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4610/27862472289_9c1fa80d1b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4610/27862472289_9c1fa80d1b_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
My guy, he hates the snow. He hates the cold. He wants to watch the same episode of <i>Rescue Bots</i> over and over (the first episode; he loves watching the autobots choosing their earth disguises). He tells me, "I just love toys! That's the thing I really love." Some days he's not much interested in food and meal time is a struggle; other days he is ravenous and eats two adult sized sandwiches for lunch. He talks, from the moment he wakes up in the morning until he falls asleep at night. I know him by his little voice, his chatter, his questions, his games, the songs he sings. He also tells jokes. He also lets the people he loves know he loves them. I worry I let him eat too many sweets, and I worry that he is a little soft (see the last photo, of my supposedly wild boy wailing his dismay at the existence of weather), but he is articulate and hilarious and so full of love, so I'm doing something right.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4696/27862311409_f2a815187e_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4696/27862311409_f2a815187e_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4678/39640458011_d26104163b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4678/39640458011_d26104163b_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
About Mads, 4 Years & 5 Months Old:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;">When he plays with transformers and action figures, his Big Bad is "The Nothing" (from <i>Neverending Story</i>).</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">While sick, he woke suddenly one night crying out, "I ran out of batteries!" then fell back asleep.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">We've done away with television in the mornings, and instead, to much objection and with many failed attempts at negotiation from Mads, we listen to music, play games, and I read from magazines and books of fairy tales. Mads objects the least and engages the most when I read recipes. And, in fact, once or twice he has even requested we flip through recipe books together. We have big plans to make pretzels this week.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">As his dad and I giggle together in the kitchen, Mads demands, "You tell me your secrets or you're fired!" </li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">His big Christmas gift this year was a bike, from his grandmommie, Sandra (a Batman bike and an Iron Man helmet). He got sick almost immediately after Christmas, and then we had record low temperatures the following week, so he hasn't done much riding yet.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">He can draw a perfect circle.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">He is not a fan of Dim Sum.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Favorite books: <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24727107-sam-s-sandwich?ac=1&from_search=true">Sam's Sandwich</a></i>, <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/930241.Twinkle_Twinkle_Little_Star?ac=1&from_search=true">Twinkle Twinkle Little Star</a></i>, <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2241348.Little_Blue_Truck?from_search=true">Little Blue Truck</a></i></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Favorite shows & movies: <i>Transformers: Rescue Bots</i>, <i>Boss Baby</i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4661/38931767964_316f1663b6_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4661/38931767964_316f1663b6_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4674/24771937197_87f21aff72_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4674/24771937197_87f21aff72_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4702/38744230985_dfdfe3038e_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4702/38744230985_dfdfe3038e_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4672/39610665432_d184303f53_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4672/39610665432_d184303f53_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJt4y4fH938">"I'm a Man You Don't Meet Everyday," The Pogues</a></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-92026353138905791702018-01-04T07:56:00.000-08:002018-01-04T08:02:37.932-08:00Yule 2017 | the sky is a hazy shade of winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4601/38634957114_31c9d5b242_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4601/38634957114_31c9d5b242_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4685/39313129842_5c0a22eb48_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4685/39313129842_5c0a22eb48_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
There was a time when I passed harsh judgment on my neighbors whose Christmas trees lay used and discarded on the curb on the 26th of December. Now, I am one of those people. I had to be at work at noon the day after Christmas and so started early dismantling our tree that morning. By second breakfast, I was dragging our tree into the thicket beyond our back fence for the wild things to use as they see fit. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Is it only when you work in retail that you're asked, constantly, "Ready for Christmas yet?" in the month of December? Or is this a thing we say to each other regardless of occupation as the holidays lurch nearer, a seasonal replacement for all that chatter about weather? My standard, if unwholesome, answer quickly became, "Ready for it to be over." My poor tree was also pooped out on the yuletide, just a couple weeks into the month. Promptly and without notice, it died. The thing was dry as good kindling, and I feared that's what it might become what with all that incense burning I do in the house (keeping all the Ghosts of Christmas Whenever away). I didn't spend nearly as much time this year happily arranging and rearranging my ornaments on the tree as I did <a href="http://thewolfpeople.blogspot.com/2017/01/yule-i-want-alien-for-christmas-this.html">last year</a>, so I didn't immediately realize exactly how dead it was. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Unlike my tree, however, my holiday spirit was only Mostly Dead, not All Dead. There were moments to be had, both holiday-specific and not. For instance:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>As I travel back and forth between the front porch and back yard, carrying rotting jack o'lanterns to the compost bin, I am watched by a little brown lizard, poking his head out of the trailer-shaped bird house hanging near our walk, his little claw curled around the doorway of the house.</li>
<li>In the kitchen in the morning, still in our pajamas, I join in on a hug between Mads and Wolfman, wrapping my arms around them from behind, kissing the back of Wolfman's neck and Martigan's plump baby cheek, his face resting in the crook of his dad's neck. Mads repeats, "I love you. I love you guys. I love you..."</li>
<li>It is the night before Thanksgiving and Mads is cranky and done as we walk out the door at Grandma's house. Grandpa gestures him forward, puts an arm around him, and they turn their backs on Grandma and me, like they're sharing a secret. Grandpa says, "What did I tell you we're going to do tomorrow? Watch the parade. Watch the dog show. Watch football. And eat until our stomach's hurt."</li>
<li>I've just come home from work. Mads is asleep. The radio is on, playing George Michael's "Last Christmas." Wolfman rolls his eyes and says this is the kind of song to be drunk to at an office Christmas party. We begin dancing as a joke and then, my arms around his neck, we dance in earnest.</li>
<li>On the road, driving to Grandma's house, Mads and I sing "Holly Jolly Christmas," along with the radio. I have no idea where he learned this song, but he knows nearly all the lyrics. </li>
<li>Wolfman and I meet each other's eyes with a spark of joy and humor. We've just won the Worst Parents of the Day award for letting our 4-year-old son eat ice cream and sip boba tea at swanky new <a href="https://www.facebook.com/milklabcafe/">Milk Lab Cafe</a> at 9:00 at night. 4-year-old has responded, predictably, by having a complete meltdown on the sidewalk just outside the cafe. (When I ask, laughing only a little bit, "Baby what's wrong?," he wails into the night, "I DON'T KNOW!")</li>
<li>My boss has just appeared, at the front door of the store, like a customer (which I mistake him for at first) instead of slipping in unnoticed through the back. He hands Nicky a stack of envelopes, says something nice probably. I don't know what because inside my head is a voice that sounds very like Prince Gristle squealing, "Christmas Bonus!" It's like I've just eaten a troll. I am that happy.</li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4517/27283872729_cb5e31c4ba_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4517/27283872729_cb5e31c4ba_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4687/38790109154_b242ff5cd4_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4687/38790109154_b242ff5cd4_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4641/38350995514_58514feb21_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4641/38350995514_58514feb21_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/2GB8OypbvrvCee61FKx5dp">"A Hazy Shade of Winter," Simon & Garfunkel</a></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-1728298038845758972017-12-28T00:00:00.000-08:002017-12-28T00:00:40.505-08:00Thankful Thursday | you with the sad eyes, don't be discouraged<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4571/27283894349_0e2f54e107_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4571/27283894349_0e2f54e107_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4692/38179541345_3e1cb09cf7_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4692/38179541345_3e1cb09cf7_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have lived within the pages of my journal, lately. I have dived deep into these cheap composition notebooks and paper-mached myself in layers of National Geographic photos and Martigan's artwork and other paper ephemera I come across, like the <a href="https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=126556246"><i>O. avoseta</i> bee who makes a Thumbelina cocoon of flower petals</a>. I have explored and experimented more than, perhaps, ever before, and it has been therapy. I am grateful to the journaling inspiration gathered from various social media platforms. I am grateful for old books and magazines full of beautiful images and the glee of ripping into those pages to construct something new and personal. I am grateful for the patience of my husband as I sit down one more night, not to snuggle with him, but with the open journal on my lap. I am grateful for smooth-writing pens with heavy, dark ink. I am grateful for the particulars and peculiarities of my handwriting. I am grateful, again, to my husband for bringing home a stack of composition notebooks (my preferred medium), snagged for 30 cents each at the pharmacy up the street.</div>
<br />
I Am Grateful.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>I am grateful for FM radio in the morning--the happy chatter, the recognizable commercial jingles, that one Tom Petty song every station plays.</li>
<li>I am grateful when I drop a plate and it doesn't break; I am grateful for each of the vibrant, mismatched plates I've collected over the years, unwrapped from thrift store newspaper like treasures.</li>
<li>I am grateful when Mads cannot wait to get home and asks me to read the books we choose at the library, right there, sitting in the aisles.</li>
<li>I am grateful when I hear Wolfman's key in the door and the dog's wagging tail thumping against the sofa as she hears it and is grateful as well. I am grateful for the memory of Lunchbox's tail thumping against sofa, mattress, and floor. I am grateful for every dog who ever wagged a tail in my presence and the ones who will wag tails for me and my loves in the future.</li>
<li>I am grateful turning the store sign over at the end of the night to announce to the dark parking lot "CLOSED."</li>
<li>I am grateful for that moment driving in the rain, when the car drives under a bridge and all sound is sucked up into a vacuum, so briefly--a half second of eerie silence--before the sound of pounding rain on our roof commences again on the other side of the bridge.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the fleeting softness of brand new, never-worn, never-washed socks.</li>
<li>I am grateful for minty toothpaste on my baby's breath as I carry his sleeping body into the house at night.</li>
<li>I am grateful to finally squeeze out a couple tears at the end of a long day (and longer summer), and I am grateful for Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors" for getting me there.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the sound of stew bubbling on the stove.</li>
<li>I am grateful for the way Atalanta blushes pink when she's happy.</li>
<li>I am grateful when Wolfman tells me, "I'm lucky to have you," and I get to respond, "I think I'm the lucky one."</li>
<li>I am grateful for all the little messes in our home, because they show how we live and play here.</li>
<li>I am grateful for Grandma's beef stew, the taste of my childhood in her home--warm, hearty, a touch spicy.</li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4550/38179547135_c61b3c0f29_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4550/38179547135_c61b3c0f29_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4685/38179552675_7c236b8cbd_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4685/38179552675_7c236b8cbd_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4530/27283955399_0f0092e3c3_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4530/27283955399_0f0092e3c3_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/2A6yzRGMgSQCUapR2ptm6A">"True Colors," Cyndi Lauper</a></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-1711388971510594452017-11-15T17:44:00.001-08:002017-11-15T18:23:37.438-08:00Madmartigan, 4 Years Old | everybody's got a thing, but some don't know how to handle it<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4550/37714475204_15e7a9a2fc_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4550/37714475204_15e7a9a2fc_b.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
This afternoon Mads has a smudge of chocolate on his chin, like a goatee. Together we made s'more bars (thus, the chocolate). Mads crushed graham crackers while I melted chocolate chips. When he realized he could not eat them immediately but had to wait an hour for them to cool and set in the refrigerator, he left the kitchen in a huff, announcing, "Shit! We just made shit!" I followed him, laughing, and, incredulous (but still giggling), asked him to repeat himself. He gave me a cheeky smile before hiding away in a living room fort. "I said spit, Mommy. We're making spit. Isn't that funny?"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Martigan is three months into being four-years-old, a real kid. He loves playing hide-and-seek, but always hides in the same spot. He paints nearly every day. He is frequently what we term "stinky" (his dad and I "call stinky" on him when he's being bad), especially after eating sweets (I will pay for the chocolate on his chin later). But, he is also a giver of hundreds of kisses and compliments. Today at lunch he told me, "You're a good mommy."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4506/26179093119_9e9cb3d1ea_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4506/26179093119_9e9cb3d1ea_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4505/26179364809_d1c781eea7_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4505/26179364809_d1c781eea7_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
About Mads, 4 Years & 3 Months Old:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;">He is tall enough to reach light switches.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">He is in the 30th percentile for both weight and height (a little guy), and in his doctor's medical profession, absolutely perfect.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">The key to a perfectly well-behaved sweetheart of a child with nary an episode of stinkiness is no sweets or television (all day), but Mads has rotten, indulgent parents, and this rarely happens.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Once, when sent to his room in punishment, he snuck out with his Spider-Man mask over his head and seemed surprised and outraged when he was ordered back to his room, Spider-Man or not.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">When he wears a combination of Spider-Man, Batman, and Capt. America costume parts, he becomes Captain Spider-Bat USA.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">When I ask Mads to finish eating his breakfast, he tells me, 'I'm all hungried out, Mom."</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">He prefers the Curious George stories when George and The Man live in the city to the new country ones.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">After re-watching <i>The Lego Batman Movie</i>, Mads asks, "Don't they know they're legos?"</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">He consistently points out letters--either lines and shapes that remind him of letters or actual letters on signage, etc. He is particularly keen on 'M' and 'W'. ('M' is for Martigan; 'W' is an upside-down 'M').</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Martigan's favorite toys and games this month: Candy Land, Baymax action figure, Rescue Bots</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Martigan's favorite shows/movies this month: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transformers:_Rescue_Bots"><i>Transformers: Rescue Bots</i></a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qPgK_u4vX8"><i>Sing</i></a></li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Martigan's favorite books this month: <i><a href="http://www.curiousgeorge.com/">Curious George</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25779146-batman-s-dark-secret?from_search=true">Batman's Dark Secret</a>, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/16667646-i-am-a-witch-s-cat?from_search=true">I Am a Witch's Cat</a></i></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4509/37245752334_5e12709cb3_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4509/37245752334_5e12709cb3_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4553/38397614222_db0963e88f_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4553/38397614222_db0963e88f_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4483/26349400419_00bcc276e3_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4483/26349400419_00bcc276e3_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4498/37416800394_a4b304db37_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4498/37416800394_a4b304db37_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/1QvWxgZvTU0w8rlPRE5Zrv">"Don't You Worry 'Bout a Thing," Stevie Wonder</a></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-60418487047154911902017-09-28T00:00:00.000-07:002017-09-28T00:00:11.878-07:00Thankful Thursday | I kinda like to be the president, so I can show you how your money's spent<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4412/35952208264_0c4bb54043_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4412/35952208264_0c4bb54043_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4387/36281326333_4d8b00ba6b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4387/36281326333_4d8b00ba6b_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4412/36905910196_1cb534ac56_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4412/36905910196_1cb534ac56_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4413/36905887256_e4b07d51f6_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4413/36905887256_e4b07d51f6_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the rumble of the dryer which puts my tireless kid to sleep.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful when I open the blinds in Martigan's bedroom and catch a rabbit in the yard on the other side of his window.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for thunder so loud and booming it shakes the building and sounds like a giant approaching.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful that only moments after I come inside from my walk, a downpour starts, and I am grateful for the percussive sound of rain on the metal roof at work.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the arrival of autumn in grocery stores--mums out front, trick-or-treat candy bags on end caps, orange and black Halloween greeting cards, plastic trick-or-treat pails with jack-o-lantern faces grinning, pumpkin Krispy Kreme donuts.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful to come home to a bouquet of orange flowers and a black & orange circle scarf (with little black tassels!), out of the blue gifts from my honey on a day I feel particularly achey and unapproachable.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the Scooby Doo movies Wolfman and Mads bring home, the familiarity of those voices, the way they feed my inner child and make me laugh, the joy of my son experiencing and loving these characters and scenarios that were so beloved to me and his dad when we were kids.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for Mads singing War's "Why Can't We Be Friends" in the back seat of the car.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the imprints of last night's rainfall in the sandpit at the playground.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for my 90s era paisley Victoria's Secret robe--thrifted by Grandma and generiously given to me when I expressed admiration for it--because it could've been worn by Vincent Price or Christopher Lee's Dracula; it is flamboyant and jewel-toned, lush and luxe.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful to pick up my son's toys from the floor when he is asleep at night, because it reminds me that he is real and he is here--to be blessed with a son is more than I could've dreamed or hoped for.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the way my husband makes me feel worshipped under his gaze and hands.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the patience and tenderness and humor of Wolfman as he explains <a href="http://www.gocomics.com/lio">Lio</a> comics to our son.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for the first customer to ask me, "You have a dog?" on the day I've adopted Atalanta.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am grateful for a spider web in the trees, blowing in the breeze like a sheet on the line.</li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5jnZMW8C6wA">"Why Can't We Be Friends," War</a></span></div>
<br />
<br />Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-13637853555163595622017-09-14T18:18:00.001-07:002017-09-14T18:22:31.303-07:00Madmartigan, 4 Years Old | <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4407/35655941314_4611a723a6_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4407/35655941314_4611a723a6_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4352/36322862102_3ce6e49504_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4352/36322862102_3ce6e49504_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4353/36323722232_3594de9b06_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4353/36323722232_3594de9b06_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4427/36647301851_251db8f26b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4427/36647301851_251db8f26b_b.jpg" width="380" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
About Mads, 4 Years & 1 Month Old:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>Rather than "cannon ball," Mads shouts, "Canny Ball!" as he tosses his Bumblebee transformer into the full kiddie pool in the back yard.</li>
<li>When he wears his Spider-Man web slinging glove in combination with his Batman mask, he is Spider Bat (a hero of his own invention).</li>
<li>He practices new words and their definitions like so: "He's a bandit. He takes things that aren't his. He's a bandit."</li>
<li>Mads is also practicing good manners and politeness diligently. For example, "Mommy, I would like it if you would please wipe my butt." </li>
<li>Mads sometimes refers to his dad as "your husband" when talking to me.</li>
<li>Mads says, "Mommy, I'm going to throw up on you," and mimics vomiting first thing in the morning. We're working on not making rude noises (vomit, farts, burps) in restaurants, which is difficult when I'm not as strict about not making those noises at home in our kitchen.</li>
<li>Mads says, "Remember when I was 3, and you picked me up all the time and you were always close to me?"</li>
<li>This month: Mads wrote his first song, he got his hair cut at a barber shop with his dad, he did a lot of art projects including learning how to collage in his journal.</li>
<li>Favorite books: Curious George and Batman easy readers</li>
<li>Favorite movies/shows: Justin Time (always)</li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4352/36277052494_d2b6434cc1_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4352/36277052494_d2b6434cc1_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4376/36905903966_10e97e7d1e_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4376/36905903966_10e97e7d1e_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<center>
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/342422468&color=%23ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false" width="100%"></iframe></center>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4415/36277344214_d9e4ab2db8_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4415/36277344214_d9e4ab2db8_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-73453326642224608272017-08-17T18:49:00.004-07:002017-08-17T18:49:54.445-07:00Just Joy | sidewalks, feel me strut so good; gutter, don't forget this face<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4289/35147106256_fb2349da7b_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4289/35147106256_fb2349da7b_b.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: justify;">We are at the circulation desk checking out this week's book haul when one of the librarians (one I remember from my own childhood visits to Cary Public Library) compliments Mads on his Batman mask and gloves. Mads is exasperated and corrects him, "No, I'm The Flash," and I translate/explain that Mads is actually The Flash <i>disguised</i> as Batman. Mads tells him, "Actually, Batman is my brother and he let me use his mask." The adults have a good chuckle at this. One librarian says, "Nice brother!" As we're walking out the door, Mads turns and <i>shouts</i>, "Remember, I'm The Flash and I run <i>really </i>fast, but Mommy doesn't like me running in the library!" I am doubled over laughing as I usher him out the door.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Mads has fallen into a limp, heavy sleep on the drive home. I lift him out of his car seat and cradle him, shushing with "my sweet boy"s and "mommy's here"s. 93% asleep, he reflexively lays a smacking smooch on my neck.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">I am a nearly 33-year-old woman, riding a horse on a 96-year-old carousel, calliope music and pastels washing over me.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Cars slow down and honk, drivers wave, as we light fireworks in our drive way. A shower of sparks rain down, silhouetting my baby's excited face as he looks back at me, making sure I'm sharing this spectacle with him.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">We are having a great, slow morning together--the kind of morning I want to have more of, the kind of present, mindful morning I am proud of. I turn on Queen of the Stone Age's "Misfit Love" and Mads plays along with a pink plastic whistle. Wolfman picks up Mads' tiny play guitar and begins to strum along.</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">It is Sunday morning, and I have to wake Mads at 7 so we can take his dad to work. He's happy when he opens his eyes as I pull up the blinds in his room. When I lay next to him to snuggle a bit before we're off, he asks dreamily, "Mommy, can you scratch my back?"</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Grandma is standing in my kitchen, and Thorn meows at her feet. She leans down and groans as she picks him up. "I forgot what it's like to have a big cat like this, a T-shell cat," she says (her favorite cat, T-Shell, was maybe even bigger than Thorn). I ask her how much she thinks he weighs. "I don't know? Thirty pounds?"</li>
</ul>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LT_kDj4Xzo">"Misfit Love," Queens of the Stone Age</a></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9070349539175779235.post-43138631415832937652017-08-10T18:10:00.001-07:002017-08-10T18:17:35.136-07:00Madmartigan, 3 Years Old | Mr. Blue Sky please tell us why you had to hide away for so long<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4323/35812497330_5d774e0d64_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4323/35812497330_5d774e0d64_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
An interview with Martigan, early on the morning of his 4th birthday:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: How old are you?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Four!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: What is your favorite color?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Blue!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: What is your favorite food to eat?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Apples and blueberries and strawberries.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: What is your favorite show or movie?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Justin Time.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: Who are your favorite super heroes?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Thor and Iron Man and War Machine and Wonder Woman and Rescue Bots.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: What are you thankful for?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Strawberries and bananas.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: What is your favorite thing to do?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Play!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: Where do you like to play?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: At the playground. At the trampoline park.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Q: Where do you and daddy go during the day? Where have you been going lately?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
A: Markets!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<center>
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/337377210&color=ff5500&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false" width="100%"></iframe></center>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4330/36039790292_8c990b3456_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4330/36039790292_8c990b3456_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4318/36165216596_e646dda813_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4318/36165216596_e646dda813_b.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4327/35812634120_4975b09191_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4327/35812634120_4975b09191_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4318/36164896746_62188ba7a1_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="714" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4318/36164896746_62188ba7a1_b.jpg" width="570" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4294/35369177354_7c2cb62382_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4294/35369177354_7c2cb62382_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4322/36070823141_53a3ec17b6_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4322/36070823141_53a3ec17b6_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4297/36070779551_67413a9ca7_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4297/36070779551_67413a9ca7_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4309/35812567250_923437593d_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4309/35812567250_923437593d_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4315/36039392232_f2c6f135b8_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4315/36039392232_f2c6f135b8_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4308/36038120812_1d6f7e406d_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="480" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4308/36038120812_1d6f7e406d_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4295/36206359075_5dcfdf1d59_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/5/4295/36206359075_5dcfdf1d59_b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-6Pe-hVkbc">"Mr. Blue Sky," Billy Kelly & Blah Blah Blahs [cover]</a></span></div>
Michelle V.http://www.blogger.com/profile/13299418869644109711noreply@blogger.com0