I live in a snow globe.
They say the world is getting smaller and smaller. I don't know about that. Yes, I know communication across the oceans is instant--all types: written, spoken and visual. We can watch history being made on every continent before it gets a chance to make it in the history books and see the untamed exotic lands afar and outer spaces. But really we don't see it, really. We only look at it through the screen on TV or hear it on the radio waves or read it online. Our so called, global perspective is more of a couch kind of perspective. Technology in a sense, only reveals how inclosed our life can really be, untouched by the outside world. The world is still big, our lives, however, are getting smaller and smaller in a way. I think it's better to say that we live in a big world comprised of billions of tiny separate little worlds, like a gigantic cluster of snow globes orbiting the sun.
Anyone who has traveled to any country other than their own knows that when you are there, it's hard to rightly remember your country of origin. One's senses become completely overtaken by the world that you are in now; the smells, the sounds, the textures and landscapes consume the cells of your brain and the memory of the previous world becomes foggy at best. It's like your brain can only handle one snow globe world at a time. It knows you came from a different country but it only knows it like a dream knows your awake world or like a long echo in shiny tall cathedral knows its caller.
It is Christmas today. I saw only half of my family this holiday. The other half lives in a different snow globe. Right now in their little world, the air is warm and smells like sweet trees and woodsmoke. You can almost lick the air it's so sticky. They live in the snow globe where I used to live.
I wonder about my daughter. Will she ever know what it's like to play in the glittery rain with her cousins? Ten years from now, will she point something out in a store that she just knows Emily would like, or happen to know that the guitar part in the song on the radio is Caleb's favorite, or know Julia's two favorite colors, or tell me that she's going over to Grandma's on Friday night to bake Christmas cookies?
Or will we always live snow globes apart?
My hubby tells me I can't think like that too far into the future. I hope he is right. For now, I will tell my Penelope dreamy, echo-y pretty stories of the snow globe mama came from and teach her songs and dances I used to play with my loving sisters and brother.
This Christmas night, I press my face against the thick glass of my snow globe; it feels cold. I close my eyes and I can almost feel the glittery sun on my face.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Today
Least Favorite Momont: Trying to get stuff done at work with the Little Miss whining in my right ear as she dangled from my hip.
Most Favorite Moment: The Little Miss looking at me and saying, " I wove you, Mom. I wove you much," then squeezing me tight and patting my back as we hugged.
Most Favorite Moment cancels out Least Favorite Moment.
Most Favorite Moment: The Little Miss looking at me and saying, " I wove you, Mom. I wove you much," then squeezing me tight and patting my back as we hugged.
Most Favorite Moment cancels out Least Favorite Moment.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
"I'm Gama"
I was cooking dinner when I heard a little voice say, "I'm Gama (Grandma). Name is Gama" I looked to my left and in hobbles Penélope with her makeshift cane (the handle to my Brazilian flag, actually). She was imitating 93 year-old Nana Dilly that we recently visited in North Dakota. 
Is she a riot or what?
Is she a riot or what?Thursday, September 18, 2008
Mr. Moose
Last night the Little Miss didn't sleep very well. I know, that's so shocking. That means that Little Really Tired Mom didn't sleep much either. Oh, well, right? Not so unusual in this household.
However, what's really unusual is to see fire at 2am. I was rocking the Little Miss and naturally at this time of the night when I'm-supposed-to-be-sleeping-but-am-not-and-cannot I had my eyes closed. Minutes later I opened my foggy eyes and much to my horror the bookcase next to her bed was on fire! I FREAKED, in a very sleepy kind of way. Adrenaline scurried to every inch of my body instantly only to realize moments later as my eyes focused that it was only Mr. Moose warming himself by the campfire.
I didn't think Mr. Moose the nightlight was working. Apparently, he was dormant for months and suddenly decided to wake up and warm himself by his little campfire at 2am! Funny thing, it wasn't working for the picture.Hmm, I'm thinking he's got more scare tactics up his sleeve.
P.S. Consider yourself warned, Mr. Moose. You will be cold tonight, no campfire for you!
Monday, September 15, 2008
A Hug, a Dance and Coldplay
We have a rule at our house: I never let go of a "Penélope" hug first, we hug until she lets go.
Yesterday, she was, shall we say, CRABBY. I don't like crabby. Usually, it means I get crabby. So after listening to the moaning and whining and crying I decided we should dance. Well, Little Miss Crabby did not want to dance; she wanted to "crab." And after the coercing didn't work, I simply picked her up into my arms.
Immediately, she wrapped her little arms, still sticky with bits of snack, tightly around my neck and the moaning stopped. I cued the music to Coldplay's, Strawberry Swing. She rested her snotty-dried cheeks onto mine and we swung to the dreamy sound of the music.
To my surprise, Strawberry Swing was long gone and four tracks later, her clasp was still tight. We twirled and swayed and every once-in-a-while I'd peak at her face. She wasn't laughing or being goofy, just content, every so often closing her eyes and soaking in the hug. Little did she know that it was me who was soaking it all in...
Yesterday, she was, shall we say, CRABBY. I don't like crabby. Usually, it means I get crabby. So after listening to the moaning and whining and crying I decided we should dance. Well, Little Miss Crabby did not want to dance; she wanted to "crab." And after the coercing didn't work, I simply picked her up into my arms.
Immediately, she wrapped her little arms, still sticky with bits of snack, tightly around my neck and the moaning stopped. I cued the music to Coldplay's, Strawberry Swing. She rested her snotty-dried cheeks onto mine and we swung to the dreamy sound of the music.
To my surprise, Strawberry Swing was long gone and four tracks later, her clasp was still tight. We twirled and swayed and every once-in-a-while I'd peak at her face. She wasn't laughing or being goofy, just content, every so often closing her eyes and soaking in the hug. Little did she know that it was me who was soaking it all in...
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Puffy, Round and Magic Pills
Three days ago I was handed a bottle of Magic Pills. That's right. My cousin, Tricia McLeod was the one responsible for doing that. She is an Arbonne consultant and she said that these pills are magical. Actually, she didn't say that, but I like to think that she did.
You see, I have a problem, a big fat one. Yep, it's a round puffy kind of problem. My 2008 New Years Resolutions was a bold and noble attempt at making very low key, accessible, impossible NOT to reach kind of goals. I said that I wanted to lose 3 pounds.
OK, I did not realize how hard that actually is. I've been hungry and I've been sore from working out and the roundness and puffiness of my pounds simply will not deflate. I'm thinking I wasn't noble enough. I should have said ONE pound. Yeah, that even sounds nobler.
This round little (OK, not so little) annoying problem does not make Michelle happy. Michelle likes to feel happy. Michelle, however, has been feeling upset, angry, irritable--HUNGRY, for Pete's sake.
In light of this lack of happiness and ever growing bitterness, I have felt the noble urgings of finding and buying Magic Pills. It's all natural, no side effects, herbal, earthy, green kind of product (doesn't that sound magical?) that is supposed to speed up my dead beat metabolism. Apparently, it's forgotten how to function at all. If the pills work, I might just have to call them my Happy Pills. It is a month's supply, so I will give an update when all the magic is gone.
Tricia said that I could lose fifty pounds in one month. Actually, she didn't say that at all, I just like to pretend she did.
You see, I have a problem, a big fat one. Yep, it's a round puffy kind of problem. My 2008 New Years Resolutions was a bold and noble attempt at making very low key, accessible, impossible NOT to reach kind of goals. I said that I wanted to lose 3 pounds.
OK, I did not realize how hard that actually is. I've been hungry and I've been sore from working out and the roundness and puffiness of my pounds simply will not deflate. I'm thinking I wasn't noble enough. I should have said ONE pound. Yeah, that even sounds nobler.
This round little (OK, not so little) annoying problem does not make Michelle happy. Michelle likes to feel happy. Michelle, however, has been feeling upset, angry, irritable--HUNGRY, for Pete's sake.
In light of this lack of happiness and ever growing bitterness, I have felt the noble urgings of finding and buying Magic Pills. It's all natural, no side effects, herbal, earthy, green kind of product (doesn't that sound magical?) that is supposed to speed up my dead beat metabolism. Apparently, it's forgotten how to function at all. If the pills work, I might just have to call them my Happy Pills. It is a month's supply, so I will give an update when all the magic is gone.
Tricia said that I could lose fifty pounds in one month. Actually, she didn't say that at all, I just like to pretend she did.
Monday, September 8, 2008
7 de setembro
Well, folks, I'm reentering Blog World. Summer is over and Penélope and I are back to work, and so the blog must go on. We anticipate the fall with great trepidation because of what comes after....no, I will not say that "s" word.
Yesterday was 7 de setembro, Brazil's independence day. In honor of my beloved country I took out my flag and tried to be as Brazilian as I could. We had Brazilian coffee from Minas Gerais, my home state (for those interested, Christopher found it at Caribou. It's a seasonal blend called Poço Fundo) and crusty bread for breakfast. I also hooked my little flag to the window of my jeep and it flew proudly, eventually, humbly, as we drove around town. I say humbly because by the end of the day half of the flag had unraveled in the wind...
We finished it off by going over to Michael and Cari's for pasteis, a fried, Brazilian snack food...oh so good.
I took some pictures of my brasileirinha...they are all out of focus, but she still is so cute out of focus that I couldn't resist posting some of them...
Yesterday was 7 de setembro, Brazil's independence day. In honor of my beloved country I took out my flag and tried to be as Brazilian as I could. We had Brazilian coffee from Minas Gerais, my home state (for those interested, Christopher found it at Caribou. It's a seasonal blend called Poço Fundo) and crusty bread for breakfast. I also hooked my little flag to the window of my jeep and it flew proudly, eventually, humbly, as we drove around town. I say humbly because by the end of the day half of the flag had unraveled in the wind...
We finished it off by going over to Michael and Cari's for pasteis, a fried, Brazilian snack food...oh so good.
I took some pictures of my brasileirinha...they are all out of focus, but she still is so cute out of focus that I couldn't resist posting some of them...
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Father's Day
Can I just brag for a minute? Christopher is an amazing father. He is so loving and gentle with his Penelope. He doesn't always like to admit it, but his heart is a big mush for his little girl. I used to think of myself as patient, but Christopher beats me and every other parent.
Oh, did I mention that he is, also, helplessly good looking? (ok, so maybe that's for my benefit, not hers)
Penélope is a blessed little girl...
Oh, did I mention that he is, also, helplessly good looking? (ok, so maybe that's for my benefit, not hers)
Penélope is a blessed little girl...
Saturday, June 14, 2008
A Good Neighbor
Christopher and I celebrated Dia dos Namorados on Thursday. (the Brazilian equivalent to Valentines Day). This was the first year we decided to do this. Valentines Day will be a day of Family Loves and Dia dos Namorados will be just for the two of us.
Being that it was the first time I didn't remember until the morning of. The plannings, therefore, were rushed and so perhaps it was not quite as romantic as Carol's day but a lovely time nonetheless. We chose to go see Indiana Jones (my second time at the cinema in the last two years!). Since we hadn't eaten dinner, after the movie we went to Culver's Drive through. When we approached the window to pay for our food, the cashier informed us that the person in the car ahead of us had paid for our meal in full!!!! Apparently it was a Good Neighbor effort promoted by the local KTIS station (which I have been known never to listen to, but offer many critical comments about it, OUCH!) Go KTIS!
If you happen to be behind me at a drive through in the next few days, don't be surprised if I turn out to be a Good Neighbor to you!
P.S. Marilyn, thanks for watching Penélope so last minute!
Being that it was the first time I didn't remember until the morning of. The plannings, therefore, were rushed and so perhaps it was not quite as romantic as Carol's day but a lovely time nonetheless. We chose to go see Indiana Jones (my second time at the cinema in the last two years!). Since we hadn't eaten dinner, after the movie we went to Culver's Drive through. When we approached the window to pay for our food, the cashier informed us that the person in the car ahead of us had paid for our meal in full!!!! Apparently it was a Good Neighbor effort promoted by the local KTIS station (which I have been known never to listen to, but offer many critical comments about it, OUCH!) Go KTIS!
If you happen to be behind me at a drive through in the next few days, don't be surprised if I turn out to be a Good Neighbor to you!
P.S. Marilyn, thanks for watching Penélope so last minute!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Funky La La Hippie Land
The other day my dear sister-in-law, Cari, started telling me an unsettling story about a mom who lives in I don't know where, with a bunch of kids, (a whole litter of them, apparently). The unsettling part is that she homeschools, makes organic-homemade-from-scratch kind of food and has time to write about it. This is the type of mom that makes me feel like Little Miss Small.
As Cari was telling me about this person, I did what seemed most natural to me, I promptly brought my hands over my ears in hopes of droning out the sound of the story.
Sometimes it's just easier to live in La La Land. It's prettier there. Heck, I'm prettier there. I do a lot of cool stuff there. I like La La Land (a hippie sort of one).
I go to Funky La La Hippie Land often. Usually, I go there when I'm in my car driving home from work. When the sun is shinning the birds are singing and my baby is quiet in the car I get over inspired. I have visions of myself getting up early the next morning, BEFORE my baby wakes up, making myself a cup of coffee and spending time praying, reflecting and reading. It sounds so glorious to be awake by myself, calm and serene. Once Penelope is up I would then proceed to the making of fresh vitamina (fruit shake) with a calm, serene look on my face to accompany our oatmeal. Our day would be filled with educational activities and long walks and earthy snacks.
I would then energetically and happily prepare a healthy dinner comprised of many fresh organic vegetables, whole grains, hummus and tofu and rice milk. I would be dressed in funky thrift store finds and leather sandals, long hair parted in the middle and smelling like patchouli oil. My house would always be clean and it would smell like lavender and chamomile.
I know, I know, what am I thinking? As soon as the early morning comes I'm thinking I'm the biggest idiot who comes up with stupid plans like waking up BEFORE my baby does. As if. Once she does wake up I'm thinking that sugar filled, BHT invested Life cereal is looking like a great option for breakfast. Fruit? I don't like fruit. I only like having it around because of all the colors. (Christopher always asks me why I buy fruit if I don't eat it. My answer is always the same, "It's so pretty.")
By the time I get out of my pj's I realize I don't own anything funky. Let's face it. I don't live in Uptown and I'm not funky. I live in Suberbiaville and the only thing I've got going in that whole look it the long hair parted in the middle. The only problem with that is without the patchouli oil and without the funky clothes my hair makes a different kind of statement: frumpy.
Educational activities? Does Elmo count? I LOVE Elmo time. (It's Elmo time right now, that's how I can be on the computer. Computing, by the way, is an activity in my book.)
When time for dinner comes around, I'm thinking buttered noodles sounds remarkably nutritious. It's whole grain noodles, after all.
So there it is. Whenever I hear of a mom who is actually doing some things that I only imagine myself doing in moments of over inspiration, the thing that feels most natural to do is to plug my ears and wait for another hippie la la moment to come around. I don't know, maybe next time I'll actually buy some patchouli oil.
Note to self: Do something about the hair.
As Cari was telling me about this person, I did what seemed most natural to me, I promptly brought my hands over my ears in hopes of droning out the sound of the story.
Sometimes it's just easier to live in La La Land. It's prettier there. Heck, I'm prettier there. I do a lot of cool stuff there. I like La La Land (a hippie sort of one).
I go to Funky La La Hippie Land often. Usually, I go there when I'm in my car driving home from work. When the sun is shinning the birds are singing and my baby is quiet in the car I get over inspired. I have visions of myself getting up early the next morning, BEFORE my baby wakes up, making myself a cup of coffee and spending time praying, reflecting and reading. It sounds so glorious to be awake by myself, calm and serene. Once Penelope is up I would then proceed to the making of fresh vitamina (fruit shake) with a calm, serene look on my face to accompany our oatmeal. Our day would be filled with educational activities and long walks and earthy snacks.
I would then energetically and happily prepare a healthy dinner comprised of many fresh organic vegetables, whole grains, hummus and tofu and rice milk. I would be dressed in funky thrift store finds and leather sandals, long hair parted in the middle and smelling like patchouli oil. My house would always be clean and it would smell like lavender and chamomile.
I know, I know, what am I thinking? As soon as the early morning comes I'm thinking I'm the biggest idiot who comes up with stupid plans like waking up BEFORE my baby does. As if. Once she does wake up I'm thinking that sugar filled, BHT invested Life cereal is looking like a great option for breakfast. Fruit? I don't like fruit. I only like having it around because of all the colors. (Christopher always asks me why I buy fruit if I don't eat it. My answer is always the same, "It's so pretty.")
By the time I get out of my pj's I realize I don't own anything funky. Let's face it. I don't live in Uptown and I'm not funky. I live in Suberbiaville and the only thing I've got going in that whole look it the long hair parted in the middle. The only problem with that is without the patchouli oil and without the funky clothes my hair makes a different kind of statement: frumpy.
Educational activities? Does Elmo count? I LOVE Elmo time. (It's Elmo time right now, that's how I can be on the computer. Computing, by the way, is an activity in my book.)
When time for dinner comes around, I'm thinking buttered noodles sounds remarkably nutritious. It's whole grain noodles, after all.
So there it is. Whenever I hear of a mom who is actually doing some things that I only imagine myself doing in moments of over inspiration, the thing that feels most natural to do is to plug my ears and wait for another hippie la la moment to come around. I don't know, maybe next time I'll actually buy some patchouli oil.
Note to self: Do something about the hair.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
"Where's 'da cake?"
Penélope is officially two years old as of yesterday! I cannot believe it! We are going to have the birthday party once my parents are in town from Brasil in July. We did try to make her day special. As she was waking up I started singing "Happy Birthday." I sang as I walked down the hall into the living room. Her sleepy head tilted to the side as she tried to look around the corner at the kitchen table. She then said, "Where's 'da cake? Where's 'da cake?" There was no cake. I did not know two-year-olds were already in tune with that concept. Oops.
She got cards, ecards, emails and phone calls from her Tia Reesha and Tia Patricia and Grandma Dugan in Brasil, from Tio Jeremy, and Grandpa Hunt, the Dahlens, Tia Debora and the Grovers! Thank you, thank you!
Opening a birthday card full of stickers from Grandpa Hunt and Melissa. I LOVED it!Instead, she got to watch cartoons AND eat breakfast at the same time (always a request; always denied)! Does chocolate cookies count for breakfast?
Then we went to Bethany's play room to meet up with her Hunt cousins and Dugan cousins and two of her tias and one of her grandmas. She got presents which included a dress she wanted to put on immediately and dress up shoes, a purse and a tiara (she added the word, "princess" to her vocab as well). It was hilarious watching her try to play ball with her cousins with all of that on!
We missed Dylan, Eric and Emily and Baby Julia. We wish you could have played with us...
Tia Cathleen and Tia Cari
Tio Fernando and Tia Marci
Penelope and "Bubbe" (Grandma Hunt)
Papa brought balloons and a pizza for dinner. Then she finally got her chocolate cake (the ugliest thing I've ever made, but she didn't care). Another tia and tio came with gifts, another dress that she didn't want to take off! Her day was complete. Best of all, she got lots and lots of love.
She fell asleep in her dress and hugging one of her shoes...Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Whining Sometimes Works
That's right! I'm pleased to announce that BOTH Michelle and Little Miss Insomnia slept through the night. Not even a peep was heard from the Little Miss. So,whoever does the arranging of stars lined them up just right for us. I guess whining sometimes works.
Christopher, however, was awake for a long arbitrary stretch. Maybe we just got our stars mixed up for the night. Sorry, Columbus. (Actually, that was kind of fake. I'm not REALLY sorry, I think you sleep more than I do.)
Christopher, however, was awake for a long arbitrary stretch. Maybe we just got our stars mixed up for the night. Sorry, Columbus. (Actually, that was kind of fake. I'm not REALLY sorry, I think you sleep more than I do.)
Monday, June 2, 2008
Written In The Stars
So my Little Miss Insomnia slept through the night (well, OK, she did wake up once for just a second, literally) Yeah, anyone who knows the Little Miss knows that such a thing should be celebrated across the globe.
It just so happens, however, that Michelle, yeah, that's me, did NOT sleep! For whatever cosmic reason, I was arbitrarily wide awake for almost three hours. Michelle was not happy. Around five am or so, Christopher sort of woke up and I used the opportunity to make my plight known. I said in a very whiny voice, "It isn't written in my stars that I should EVER sleep."
It just so happens, however, that Michelle, yeah, that's me, did NOT sleep! For whatever cosmic reason, I was arbitrarily wide awake for almost three hours. Michelle was not happy. Around five am or so, Christopher sort of woke up and I used the opportunity to make my plight known. I said in a very whiny voice, "It isn't written in my stars that I should EVER sleep."
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Gush
I rocked my baby to sleep on Mother's Day. (OK, so maybe I rock her to sleep other days too, but this day was different.)
It was a lovely Mother's Day, my second one to date. Christopher made me breakfast and entertained the little one as I lounged around. Then for lunch he took me to a Brazilian restaurant per my request. I felt so blessed to have a wonderful husband who is my dearest friend and an adorable Penelope as my very own daughter. At the same time I felt pain for the many lovely women who ache with longing for a baby of their own but for some unfair reason cannot have one. It made me feel that I have been graced with the daunting privilege of being a mother.
All the while I thought about my wonderful mom who, most likely, was dotting over her newest grandbaby born the day before to my little sister, Patricia. Julia Joy is her name. I remembered what it felt like when I saw my Penelope for the first time and held her.
Penelope, 1minute old
I can still feel her buttery soft skin on my bare chest... The delight over the faintest sweet little sound she made was almost unbearable to contain. I remember being utterly mesmerized by the slightest movement of her fingers or her tiny red lips. All I wanted to do was stare at her for hours; there was such contentment in that simple thing. My chest actually ached as though my heart had suddenly become too large for my body. There is nothing like meeting your baby for the first time...
Although Mother's Day was special, it was also humbling. I was probably too introspective for good mental health, but nonetheless, I was ultra aware of all my shortcomings. It all culminated at the "tantrum-mania-of-brushing-teeth-before-bedtime show." I was feeling so tense, I'm pretty sure you could see my skin crawling away from me it was so scared. I wanted to throw a tantrum myself and then once I was done, promptly run out the door. Instead, I kept saying to Christopher, "I don't think I'm cut out for this, being a mom and all. I don't think I can do this." I felt so inadequate.
That's when I decided I would rock her to sleep. Yes, yes, I know, that's probably why my baby still doesn't sleep well at night. I know I'm inconsistent and so very far away from whatever is perfect. Usually, if my baby goes to sleep being rocked it is out of desperation after an entire hour of trying to get her to sleep on her own and she is still awake, or just good honest impatience and irritation. This night I wanted to rock her to tell her something. I wanted to gush.
That's when I decided I would rock her to sleep. Yes, yes, I know, that's probably why my baby still doesn't sleep well at night. I know I'm inconsistent and so very far away from whatever is perfect. Usually, if my baby goes to sleep being rocked it is out of desperation after an entire hour of trying to get her to sleep on her own and she is still awake, or just good honest impatience and irritation. This night I wanted to rock her to tell her something. I wanted to gush.
Penelope, 1month oldI have no doubt that as Penelope grows up she, too, will be well aware of my shortcomings. But I want her to be just as aware of all my love for her. Not just the polite and even keeled I-don't-want-to-spoil-you part of love or the part of love that I will hopefully have acted out for her by my choices and not-so-popular choices made for her. Or the part of love that is humble enough to say sorry. But also, the part of love that is not afraid to gush all over you for no good reason, just because.
So I did. I gushed and gushed. I remembered what it was like to meet her for the first time...I curled her up into a little bundle and hugged her as tight as I could. We rocked and rocked as I kissed her soft cheeks, over and over again. As my warm tears fell on her face over and over again, I told her how much I loved her...over and over again, just because of who she was. I reminded her that Jesus loved her even more.
Penelope, 1month old
She fell fast asleep, nestled tightly in my arms. I decided to rock her a bit longer and gush over her some more, just because.
Friday, May 9, 2008
My Little Sweetpea
I'm happy to announce that Penelope has her own blog now. It was created for her family that live too many miles away, Grandpa and Grandma Dugan, Grandpa Hunt, Tio Leno and Tia Reesha, Emily, Eric, Tio Neval and Tia Patricia, Baby Julia. So if you come upon a little time that you're bored out of your mind and cannot think of a single thing to do, check it out.
www.mysweetpeapenelope.blogspot.com
www.mysweetpeapenelope.blogspot.com
Sunday, April 20, 2008
It's official...
...I'm ridiculously spoiled and I don't cook.
Monday--My brother, Michael and the kids took me and Penélope out to Olive Garden for lunch. (My dear sister-in-law, Cari, was sick so she didn't get to go and neither did my dear husband since he was at work. We did kind of feel badly about that but not enough to say away from Olive Garden, I guess.)
Wednesday--Cari cooked dinner for all of us, including Grandma, who was in town for a few hours. It was way too good, mashed potatoes and gravy, Greek salad, and a roast!
Thursday--My dear brother-in-law, Jeremy, came up with a great plan for no good reason: he gave Christopher and I a gift certificate to the movies and he and Cathleen watched our baby Penélope. We felt like kids sitting in the movie theater sipping on a drink and munching on candy and popcorn. So fun!
Friday--Valeriana and Jerry, our good friends, had us over for dinner. She made our favorite meal: rice, beans, garlic homemade french fries and bife acebolado (thin brazilian steaks). Yum!
Saturday--We hung out with Michael and Cari all day. Michael bought pizza for all of us for lunch then he cooked dinner, another favorite, taco salad!
Today, Sunday--Christopher is on his way to pick up some coffee and french bread for lunch. I said I didn't feel like cooking. I feel moderately guilty for making such an assertion after what I just wrote. But on the other hand, I'm spoiled. Spoiled people don't have to feel guilty, right?
So thank you to all who make my life a breeze and keep my stove clean. Christopher, Michael, Cari, Cathleen, Jeremy, Valeriana and Jerry, I expect great things for next week.
Monday--My brother, Michael and the kids took me and Penélope out to Olive Garden for lunch. (My dear sister-in-law, Cari, was sick so she didn't get to go and neither did my dear husband since he was at work. We did kind of feel badly about that but not enough to say away from Olive Garden, I guess.)
Wednesday--Cari cooked dinner for all of us, including Grandma, who was in town for a few hours. It was way too good, mashed potatoes and gravy, Greek salad, and a roast!
Thursday--My dear brother-in-law, Jeremy, came up with a great plan for no good reason: he gave Christopher and I a gift certificate to the movies and he and Cathleen watched our baby Penélope. We felt like kids sitting in the movie theater sipping on a drink and munching on candy and popcorn. So fun!
Friday--Valeriana and Jerry, our good friends, had us over for dinner. She made our favorite meal: rice, beans, garlic homemade french fries and bife acebolado (thin brazilian steaks). Yum!
Saturday--We hung out with Michael and Cari all day. Michael bought pizza for all of us for lunch then he cooked dinner, another favorite, taco salad!
Today, Sunday--Christopher is on his way to pick up some coffee and french bread for lunch. I said I didn't feel like cooking. I feel moderately guilty for making such an assertion after what I just wrote. But on the other hand, I'm spoiled. Spoiled people don't have to feel guilty, right?
So thank you to all who make my life a breeze and keep my stove clean. Christopher, Michael, Cari, Cathleen, Jeremy, Valeriana and Jerry, I expect great things for next week.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Pretending to be Mama...
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
I Promise...
...Penélope is not saying what it sounds like she is saying.
Mamae, Papai and Tia Marci were getting ready to go out when we took this video. This word she uses for shoes presents slightly awkward scenarios in public, especially because she loves to talk about shoes to everyone!!!!
Mamae, Papai and Tia Marci were getting ready to go out when we took this video. This word she uses for shoes presents slightly awkward scenarios in public, especially because she loves to talk about shoes to everyone!!!!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Ordinary Life
I recently stumbled across a picture of my life. I saw it in a song, an image, and words. I sat there kind of stunned, looking at it. I read about it then stared at it some more; I listened. It wasn't at all about the superficials in the picture that made me pause, it was everything that it didn't say out loud, from the implicit details to the music that sang from it. Then I realized that I wasn't looking at my life at all; that life belonged to someone else.
I love being a mom, but sometimes my identity feels disjointed. Yes, I am a mother and I cherish that part of my life. But before becoming a mom my identity was comprised of other things and other dreams. Many of those things were also good. I guess maybe what I'm trying to say is that I don't always know how to morph the "Michelle before Penelope" and the "Michelle after Penelope." At times it's like I hang on to one and not the other, namely that of being a mom and forget the dreams of before. (Let's face it, it's easy to forget to when all I have to do is peek under my shirt at my belly full of stretchmarks and too much skin.) Then suddenly something will come across my path and remind me of the other Michelle. I confess, it comes with a little bit of sadness. It's not sad in the least to be a mom, rather, the sadness comes from feeling like my twenties never got to finish telling their story.
In high school I read a book called, Addicted to Mediocrity, by Frank Schaeffer. He argued that Christians should be the leaders and innovators in the arts, but instead we succumb to mediocrity and stick a Bible verse on it (creativity) and say that it's for the glory of God. Looking back at it I'm not sure if the book was superbly written but his point took root in my very core. From that point on I determined that my life would be about making music that truly reflected the beauty of God. I was going to do something BIG for God. In essence, my life would be filled with meaning and deeply significant, something out of the ordinary.
Well, my life seems pretty ordinary these days. It resembles nothing of the picture I saw recently. Changing lots of messy diapers can do that to a person. Or walking around the mall without your baby and to find out once and ONLY you got home that you had snot smeared on several different places on the clothes that you only THOUGHT you looked cute in. Or getting ready for a wedding and realizing that you only have one pair of jeans that fits (this word is used very loosely here, it's more like "able to put on") that you wear every single day. Or realizing for the hundredth time that you forgot to brush your hair as your pretty friends talk about their hair routine. Or hearing yourself talk and sounding like a broken record, "eat, poop, sleep." Let me tell you something, that can make any person's life feel very ordinary. Yet I know all the right things people would tell me. "Your life is significant and full of meaning, you are raising a daughter. There's nothing more important than that, etc." I would agree. I would never change the part of being a mom. I guess I want my life as it it right now PLUS doing something significant for others that has eternal value.
I guess, the bottom line is that being a mom doesn't always feel like enough. It seems wrong to say it that way. Yet it also seems wrong to say that all other desires, dreams and giftings should be put on hold indefinitely. I don't know how to weld it all together and make a "cohesive Michelle."
What seems very right to say is that this post is getting very long and I need to stop. More later...
I love being a mom, but sometimes my identity feels disjointed. Yes, I am a mother and I cherish that part of my life. But before becoming a mom my identity was comprised of other things and other dreams. Many of those things were also good. I guess maybe what I'm trying to say is that I don't always know how to morph the "Michelle before Penelope" and the "Michelle after Penelope." At times it's like I hang on to one and not the other, namely that of being a mom and forget the dreams of before. (Let's face it, it's easy to forget to when all I have to do is peek under my shirt at my belly full of stretchmarks and too much skin.) Then suddenly something will come across my path and remind me of the other Michelle. I confess, it comes with a little bit of sadness. It's not sad in the least to be a mom, rather, the sadness comes from feeling like my twenties never got to finish telling their story.
In high school I read a book called, Addicted to Mediocrity, by Frank Schaeffer. He argued that Christians should be the leaders and innovators in the arts, but instead we succumb to mediocrity and stick a Bible verse on it (creativity) and say that it's for the glory of God. Looking back at it I'm not sure if the book was superbly written but his point took root in my very core. From that point on I determined that my life would be about making music that truly reflected the beauty of God. I was going to do something BIG for God. In essence, my life would be filled with meaning and deeply significant, something out of the ordinary.
Well, my life seems pretty ordinary these days. It resembles nothing of the picture I saw recently. Changing lots of messy diapers can do that to a person. Or walking around the mall without your baby and to find out once and ONLY you got home that you had snot smeared on several different places on the clothes that you only THOUGHT you looked cute in. Or getting ready for a wedding and realizing that you only have one pair of jeans that fits (this word is used very loosely here, it's more like "able to put on") that you wear every single day. Or realizing for the hundredth time that you forgot to brush your hair as your pretty friends talk about their hair routine. Or hearing yourself talk and sounding like a broken record, "eat, poop, sleep." Let me tell you something, that can make any person's life feel very ordinary. Yet I know all the right things people would tell me. "Your life is significant and full of meaning, you are raising a daughter. There's nothing more important than that, etc." I would agree. I would never change the part of being a mom. I guess I want my life as it it right now PLUS doing something significant for others that has eternal value.
I guess, the bottom line is that being a mom doesn't always feel like enough. It seems wrong to say it that way. Yet it also seems wrong to say that all other desires, dreams and giftings should be put on hold indefinitely. I don't know how to weld it all together and make a "cohesive Michelle."
What seems very right to say is that this post is getting very long and I need to stop. More later...
Monday, March 31, 2008
I Danced With a Felt Chicken
This morning when Penélope and I were having our little worship time (we listen to worship music and sing and dance along). Today Penélope thought I should have a dancing partner. She handed me a tiny felt chicken, that goes with her felt farm. It's less than an inch long. Her partner was a little felt cow.
With the tips of my fingers I clasped the chicken's beak and feet and Penélope held on to the cow's hooves and we danced and danced. A little later she let go of the cow and raised her hand and exclaimed over and over again, "sesse BOM!!, sesses BOM!!!" (Jesus is good!!! Bom is Portuguese for good).
I'll dance with a little chicken any day.
With the tips of my fingers I clasped the chicken's beak and feet and Penélope held on to the cow's hooves and we danced and danced. A little later she let go of the cow and raised her hand and exclaimed over and over again, "sesse BOM!!, sesses BOM!!!" (Jesus is good!!! Bom is Portuguese for good).
I'll dance with a little chicken any day.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I've been tagged...
This past Monday I was delighted to discover that I had been tagged by my Aunt Linda! I guess that means that I say 10 things about me that you may not know then tag 10 of my friends. So here it goes:
1. I have two kids, a boy and a girl who I adore.
2. Besides being a mom I am a working actress.
3. I've been skydiving.
Wait a minute....that's someone else.
1. I don't like bananas.
2. In high school I told a new student that my name was actually, Luca, but because I was so embarrassed by it I called myself, Michelle. I made her promise never to tell anyone. I assumed she knew I was joking. Several months later, we were on the beach and I spelled my name in the sand. She asked me why I didn't write my actual name, Luca, since no one else we knew was around. After convincing her that my name was NOT, Luca, she was gracious enough not to be upset with me for my silly joke and was actually relieved since all the while she had been feeling badly for telling her parents my "real'' name! Needless to say I was the one that felt really bad and really stupid.
3. I spent one week trekking in the Himalayas in the country of Nepal.
4. I don't watch scary movies.
5. I dislike amusement parks because I get horribly frightened.
6. Two things that can make me growl: brushing my hair and opening jars. I'm afraid my husband could come up with several other ones. But it's fun to pretend that I only have two. I find that it paints a better picture of me, one that I enjoy looking at.
7. I love U2.
8. As a teenager, I had a short-lived music career in Brasil in my parents band: My first song hit #1 on the Christian music charts in a couple big cities. I was asked to record with another artist which eventually lead to performing on national TV. The biggest audience I ever performed for was 20,000 people. That sounds kind of cool and it was. But most of the "career" involved traveling (often getting very lost) to little towns around Brasil carrying equipments to and fro the bus, playing on top of flatbed trucks on a street corner, singing with a smile on my face while large insects flew up my skirt and then trying to make it look like I was doing some awkward dance moves, having drunks yell at us while we played and on and on I could go....
9. I love listening to National Public Radio.
10. As a teenager I thought about music so much and sometimes I slept under our baby grand piano.
Now I tag, Rosie, Kristi, Janet, Ana Carolina, Vivian, Susie, Luca, Melvin, Burt and Ernie (some I made up).
1. I have two kids, a boy and a girl who I adore.
2. Besides being a mom I am a working actress.
3. I've been skydiving.
Wait a minute....that's someone else.
1. I don't like bananas.
2. In high school I told a new student that my name was actually, Luca, but because I was so embarrassed by it I called myself, Michelle. I made her promise never to tell anyone. I assumed she knew I was joking. Several months later, we were on the beach and I spelled my name in the sand. She asked me why I didn't write my actual name, Luca, since no one else we knew was around. After convincing her that my name was NOT, Luca, she was gracious enough not to be upset with me for my silly joke and was actually relieved since all the while she had been feeling badly for telling her parents my "real'' name! Needless to say I was the one that felt really bad and really stupid.
3. I spent one week trekking in the Himalayas in the country of Nepal.
4. I don't watch scary movies.
5. I dislike amusement parks because I get horribly frightened.
6. Two things that can make me growl: brushing my hair and opening jars. I'm afraid my husband could come up with several other ones. But it's fun to pretend that I only have two. I find that it paints a better picture of me, one that I enjoy looking at.
7. I love U2.
8. As a teenager, I had a short-lived music career in Brasil in my parents band: My first song hit #1 on the Christian music charts in a couple big cities. I was asked to record with another artist which eventually lead to performing on national TV. The biggest audience I ever performed for was 20,000 people. That sounds kind of cool and it was. But most of the "career" involved traveling (often getting very lost) to little towns around Brasil carrying equipments to and fro the bus, playing on top of flatbed trucks on a street corner, singing with a smile on my face while large insects flew up my skirt and then trying to make it look like I was doing some awkward dance moves, having drunks yell at us while we played and on and on I could go....
9. I love listening to National Public Radio.
10. As a teenager I thought about music so much and sometimes I slept under our baby grand piano.
Now I tag, Rosie, Kristi, Janet, Ana Carolina, Vivian, Susie, Luca, Melvin, Burt and Ernie (some I made up).
Monday, March 24, 2008
I Have A ''Flipping Channels'' Issue
I was flipping the channels like it was my last day with my proverbial remote, when I heard the song of a bird outside. It was around 10:30am this morning and I was still pathetically dressed in my PJ's. Normally, I would have acknowledged that to be a pretty sound and gone back to flipping channels. Today was different. I wanted to experience the beauty for a bit longer. So I opened the heavy sliding glass door to my porch, hugged its frame and rested my head on it. My body became still as I listened. I felt my skin becoming cold from the early spring breeze, but I didn't mind. Within 3 or 4 seconds I realized that there were several beautiful spring songs being sung.
You see, a few days past I discovered that I have a "flipping channels" issue. It hit me when I listened to a conversation between Krista Tippett from "Speaking of Faith" on NPR and Jean Vanier, Canadian philosopher and founder of the L'Arche communities for mentally disabled people. He is now 89 and has spent his life devoted to the outcasts of society. I first heard about him through reading Henri Nowen's In the Name Of Jesus (a must read). The entire conversation they had is worth listening to, but the point that found a home in my heart was when he said, "the big thing for me is to love reality, and not live in the imagination [of] 'what could have been,' 'what should have been,' 'and what can be.' [But] to love reality and then discover that God is present...to be a friend of Jesus."
I often feel like I live in the imagination of "when my daughter will be sleeping better through the night," or "when I lose the pregnancy weight" or "when that project is done" etc, then I will feel fill-in-the-blank or do fill-in-the-blank or be better at fill-in-the-blank. What happens then, is when the wonderful is being lived I don't stop to notice it, it's like I never even experience it. It reminds me of watching TV with someone who just can't stop flipping the channels like they have a nervous twitch or something. It's scientifically impossible to discover if there is anything good or bad on.
The ''flipping'' issue began to dawn on me the other day. Christopher and I were driving home from somewhere at night and the full moon was out. It was hugely round, overwhelmingly so and still low in the sky. It made my chest fill with marvel. Yet, because we were driving I could only get second-long glances at it between the trees and the skyscrapers. Yet here was a gloriously beautiful reality right in front of me that I didn't have to pay to see, it was without pretense or demand, it was just there, naked for me to see. But it did require me to stop. Stop. We didn't, we just flipped right by it.
It's hard for me to stop sometimes, whether it's in midst of beautiful reality or ugly reality. It's rarely convenient. Often times, it's just plain painful. How can I love reality if reality happens to suck, quite frankly, today or over the past couple of years? Maybe, it's only when we stop flipping the channels that we can finally see that Jesus is there, even in the muck and pain. I don't know how to do this exactly. I wish I just knew how and didn't have to learn how. I don't always like to learn, because that implies that I'm going to make mistakes along the way. I don't like that.
Later on, after I heard the songs of the birds, my baby made the very opposite kind of sound: a tantrum. She didn't want to go down for her nap without being rocked. So she decided to throw an ugly fit that lasted about 10 minutes (which any mom out there knows that it's a solid hour's worth of emotional energy spent) until she laid down quietly and fell asleep instantaneously. Usually, I would quickly exit the room like I had some super power of disappearing at will. But today I decided to stay there at least for 10 minutes. I buried my lips into her milky soft cheek. I could smell a little spaghetti sauce that didn't get wiped up after lunch. I put my cheek against her nose to feel her warm breath on my skin. I laid my head on her chest. I felt it move up and down to the rhythm of her breathing. I could hear her heartbeat, steady and strong. That used to be the only sound I could hear her make when she was still in my womb and only at the midwife's office... It still sounded just as beautiful. I realized Jesus was there, too. The 10 minutes flew right by...
You see, a few days past I discovered that I have a "flipping channels" issue. It hit me when I listened to a conversation between Krista Tippett from "Speaking of Faith" on NPR and Jean Vanier, Canadian philosopher and founder of the L'Arche communities for mentally disabled people. He is now 89 and has spent his life devoted to the outcasts of society. I first heard about him through reading Henri Nowen's In the Name Of Jesus (a must read). The entire conversation they had is worth listening to, but the point that found a home in my heart was when he said, "the big thing for me is to love reality, and not live in the imagination [of] 'what could have been,' 'what should have been,' 'and what can be.' [But] to love reality and then discover that God is present...to be a friend of Jesus."
I often feel like I live in the imagination of "when my daughter will be sleeping better through the night," or "when I lose the pregnancy weight" or "when that project is done" etc, then I will feel fill-in-the-blank or do fill-in-the-blank or be better at fill-in-the-blank. What happens then, is when the wonderful is being lived I don't stop to notice it, it's like I never even experience it. It reminds me of watching TV with someone who just can't stop flipping the channels like they have a nervous twitch or something. It's scientifically impossible to discover if there is anything good or bad on.
The ''flipping'' issue began to dawn on me the other day. Christopher and I were driving home from somewhere at night and the full moon was out. It was hugely round, overwhelmingly so and still low in the sky. It made my chest fill with marvel. Yet, because we were driving I could only get second-long glances at it between the trees and the skyscrapers. Yet here was a gloriously beautiful reality right in front of me that I didn't have to pay to see, it was without pretense or demand, it was just there, naked for me to see. But it did require me to stop. Stop. We didn't, we just flipped right by it.
It's hard for me to stop sometimes, whether it's in midst of beautiful reality or ugly reality. It's rarely convenient. Often times, it's just plain painful. How can I love reality if reality happens to suck, quite frankly, today or over the past couple of years? Maybe, it's only when we stop flipping the channels that we can finally see that Jesus is there, even in the muck and pain. I don't know how to do this exactly. I wish I just knew how and didn't have to learn how. I don't always like to learn, because that implies that I'm going to make mistakes along the way. I don't like that.
Later on, after I heard the songs of the birds, my baby made the very opposite kind of sound: a tantrum. She didn't want to go down for her nap without being rocked. So she decided to throw an ugly fit that lasted about 10 minutes (which any mom out there knows that it's a solid hour's worth of emotional energy spent) until she laid down quietly and fell asleep instantaneously. Usually, I would quickly exit the room like I had some super power of disappearing at will. But today I decided to stay there at least for 10 minutes. I buried my lips into her milky soft cheek. I could smell a little spaghetti sauce that didn't get wiped up after lunch. I put my cheek against her nose to feel her warm breath on my skin. I laid my head on her chest. I felt it move up and down to the rhythm of her breathing. I could hear her heartbeat, steady and strong. That used to be the only sound I could hear her make when she was still in my womb and only at the midwife's office... It still sounded just as beautiful. I realized Jesus was there, too. The 10 minutes flew right by...
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Where It Rains in December
It rains in December where I come from. Not the kind of rain that makes your eyes sad, but the kind that drips warm water on your head. As a kid I remember loving the feeling of warm wet sidewalks on my bare feet, then walking my feet on the grass, thin but wide blades of grass.
I felt that rain last night. My little sister called me from home, Brasil. She played me a beautiful song by a artist named, Vanessa da Mata. As the melody streamed across the oceans and peered out from my laptop, I felt as though it played a whole reel of old movies through my soul. It came into my chest and out my back. In those few moments I could taste the salty sea on my sun kissed lips. My nose could smell the fried snacks of coxinhas and pasteis in the hot air mixed with cigarette smoke. I could hear the music blaring from the cheap speakers along the store fronts and in the background I could hear the sad song played loudly from the gas truck announcing to the neighborhood that if you needed a new propane tank for your stove you better rush to the door. I never understood why the song had to be sad. And Portuguese being spoken all around me, I could hear it, it sounds more like a song. In the background, Vanessa was still singing the beautiful melody, her voice so soft and full of longing... Brazilian music is happy, nostalgic and full of sorrow all at once. I could still feel the December rain falling all around me...
It's a strange thing, really, not only to live far from home but far from family. I just put my Penelope down for the night. I wonder for a moment if she will know what rain in December feels like on her face...I remember that I cradled my little sister many a times in my arms. It's strange to think that you can spend every waking minute with your parents and siblings because you have no choice, then as adults hardly ever see them. My sisters still haven't met my baby. How could this be? All of my formative years were shared with my sisters and brother, yet somehow this part of my life cannot be adequately shared. My baby still has no idea what her aunties' kisses feel like on her cheek and how I just know they would know how to make her giggle...
Vanessa stopped singing and just like that the rain in December stopped. My eyes, though, still had big raindrops on them...
I felt that rain last night. My little sister called me from home, Brasil. She played me a beautiful song by a artist named, Vanessa da Mata. As the melody streamed across the oceans and peered out from my laptop, I felt as though it played a whole reel of old movies through my soul. It came into my chest and out my back. In those few moments I could taste the salty sea on my sun kissed lips. My nose could smell the fried snacks of coxinhas and pasteis in the hot air mixed with cigarette smoke. I could hear the music blaring from the cheap speakers along the store fronts and in the background I could hear the sad song played loudly from the gas truck announcing to the neighborhood that if you needed a new propane tank for your stove you better rush to the door. I never understood why the song had to be sad. And Portuguese being spoken all around me, I could hear it, it sounds more like a song. In the background, Vanessa was still singing the beautiful melody, her voice so soft and full of longing... Brazilian music is happy, nostalgic and full of sorrow all at once. I could still feel the December rain falling all around me...
It's a strange thing, really, not only to live far from home but far from family. I just put my Penelope down for the night. I wonder for a moment if she will know what rain in December feels like on her face...I remember that I cradled my little sister many a times in my arms. It's strange to think that you can spend every waking minute with your parents and siblings because you have no choice, then as adults hardly ever see them. My sisters still haven't met my baby. How could this be? All of my formative years were shared with my sisters and brother, yet somehow this part of my life cannot be adequately shared. My baby still has no idea what her aunties' kisses feel like on her cheek and how I just know they would know how to make her giggle...
Vanessa stopped singing and just like that the rain in December stopped. My eyes, though, still had big raindrops on them...
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
All By Myself
I got a call out of the blue from my dear sister-in-law, Cari, suggesting that I take my little one over to her house to play with her little ones. But this is the best part: while the little ones were playing she said for me to go out, all by myself!
So like a good little submissive sister-in-law, I obeyed.
I stepped out into the cold with delight, all by myself. First stop, Caribou coffee. I felt this moment begged for a splurge, so I got a Mocha. Everything looks better, smells better, feels better when I have a warm fresh cup of coffee in my hand. Second spot: window shopping. This kind of shopping is the best, no money gets spent but the itch for shopping goes away. I looked at beautiful things for an entire hour while sipping my delectable coffee, all my myself.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Cari.
So like a good little submissive sister-in-law, I obeyed.
I stepped out into the cold with delight, all by myself. First stop, Caribou coffee. I felt this moment begged for a splurge, so I got a Mocha. Everything looks better, smells better, feels better when I have a warm fresh cup of coffee in my hand. Second spot: window shopping. This kind of shopping is the best, no money gets spent but the itch for shopping goes away. I looked at beautiful things for an entire hour while sipping my delectable coffee, all my myself.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Cari.
Monday, March 3, 2008
He got rid of my lumps of clothes.
When Christopher and I got married I had a major goal to accomplish: to rid him of his "clothing chair." I had learned that as a single young man he had adopted a horrible tidy technique. He always kept a chair in his room devoted to clothes that had been worn, but were not in need of a good wash. Naturally, before long no chair could be seen, only an ugly pile of clothes.
As a good obsessive little wife, I told him that this was not acceptable once we were married. The first phase in this weaning process was that we would keep no extra chair in the room. And eventually, Little Miss Obsessive got her little way and the little ugly "clothing chair" was never to enter her little husband's life, and more importantly, her little obsessively organized home again.
Well, sort of....
8 1/2 years later...
When I was 9months pregnant I decided to paint my bedroom while my man was gone on a business trip. In the process of doing so, I managed to stuff so many things in the closet in addition to the many things that were already there. Of course the goal was always to reorganize the grand mess which I never did. (In fact, messes in general don't seem to go away.)
Instead, since then I've been developing and perfecting my own very well-thought out tidy technique. I call it, "clothing lumps." After a given set of clothes have outgrown their welcome on the floor near my bed and closet I lump them. What I do is, I make, cute little, OK, sometimes not-so-little lumps of clothes. The lumps can be comprised of one piece of clothing or a nice combination of several pieces. Once the lumps are formed I stuff and push them forcefully into my side of the closet. If I'm grumpy, I throw them in, to the soundtrack of my growling, huffing, puffing and complaining that I have no room, hoping they will land somewhere reachable.
Christopher was home alone for a couple of hours the other day while Penelope and I were out doing something, I don't know what. When I got home I noticed that all my lumps of clothes were gone--nowhere to be found! In fact, for my birthday he gave me a closet organizer, a phrase that I utter often while I'm putting my lumps of clothes away when I'm grumpy.
I ended up using the organizer in Penelope's room...but the plan is still not to have many more lumps of clothes until we get another organizer...I'm pretty sure Christopher has his fingers crossed.
As a good obsessive little wife, I told him that this was not acceptable once we were married. The first phase in this weaning process was that we would keep no extra chair in the room. And eventually, Little Miss Obsessive got her little way and the little ugly "clothing chair" was never to enter her little husband's life, and more importantly, her little obsessively organized home again.
Well, sort of....
8 1/2 years later...
When I was 9months pregnant I decided to paint my bedroom while my man was gone on a business trip. In the process of doing so, I managed to stuff so many things in the closet in addition to the many things that were already there. Of course the goal was always to reorganize the grand mess which I never did. (In fact, messes in general don't seem to go away.)
Instead, since then I've been developing and perfecting my own very well-thought out tidy technique. I call it, "clothing lumps." After a given set of clothes have outgrown their welcome on the floor near my bed and closet I lump them. What I do is, I make, cute little, OK, sometimes not-so-little lumps of clothes. The lumps can be comprised of one piece of clothing or a nice combination of several pieces. Once the lumps are formed I stuff and push them forcefully into my side of the closet. If I'm grumpy, I throw them in, to the soundtrack of my growling, huffing, puffing and complaining that I have no room, hoping they will land somewhere reachable.
Christopher was home alone for a couple of hours the other day while Penelope and I were out doing something, I don't know what. When I got home I noticed that all my lumps of clothes were gone--nowhere to be found! In fact, for my birthday he gave me a closet organizer, a phrase that I utter often while I'm putting my lumps of clothes away when I'm grumpy.
I ended up using the organizer in Penelope's room...but the plan is still not to have many more lumps of clothes until we get another organizer...I'm pretty sure Christopher has his fingers crossed.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Penelope's idol and friend...
"I want to be just like you, Bewa (Bella)..."
"I like you, Caleb..."
"I like you, too, Penelope..."Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Babies and Hidden Cameras
My baby only thinks she's outsmarted me! Not the case, sweet, little, sneaky Penelope! It turns out that my baby it quite savvy when it comes to anything to do with technology. I'll explain in a minute.
Penelope has the uncanny ability, until now I thought of it as a magical ability to know the precise moment that I am beginning to enter the realm of sleep.
I've even tested this ability by changing the variables. For example, I've gone to bed at different times, 10pm, 11:30, or 1pm. It doesn't matter. She wakes up crying as soon as my dreams are calling me. Also, I've put her to bed at different times to see if I can mess up her sleep pattern. It doesn't help. Right at that moment when the world around me begins to fade into the past, I'm jolted right back into it by a cry.
Then it hit me. We always talk about kids these days being great with computers, cell phones, video games, etc. Well, we forget that babies, the next generation, are even more advanced. I then realized that Penelope's nightly wakings were no mere coincidences. She doesn't have any special magical ability or intuition. It's calculated, planned and crafty. You see, she installed hidden cameras in my room and special sensors in my bed that measures my breathing and body temperature. It sends her a signal as soon as it detects that I am falling asleep. I haven't figured out where she keeps all the equipment which I'm guessing she has a ton of footage of me, tumbling out of bed, often with a grumpy look on my face, stumbling into her room. I think she's been having a hay day, probably holding in the giggles right before she fake cries.
The interesting thing is that as far as I can tell these sensors are only on my side of the bed and the hidden cameras apparently only point to me.
Well, Penelope, I'm on to you, baby. I know all about your secret little covert operation. We'll see who wins this little contest. I have tricks up my sleeve, too, you know.
Note: Last night I think her equipment malfunctioned or the computer crashed or something. I fell completely asleep for several hours before she woke up.
Penelope has the uncanny ability, until now I thought of it as a magical ability to know the precise moment that I am beginning to enter the realm of sleep.
I've even tested this ability by changing the variables. For example, I've gone to bed at different times, 10pm, 11:30, or 1pm. It doesn't matter. She wakes up crying as soon as my dreams are calling me. Also, I've put her to bed at different times to see if I can mess up her sleep pattern. It doesn't help. Right at that moment when the world around me begins to fade into the past, I'm jolted right back into it by a cry.
Then it hit me. We always talk about kids these days being great with computers, cell phones, video games, etc. Well, we forget that babies, the next generation, are even more advanced. I then realized that Penelope's nightly wakings were no mere coincidences. She doesn't have any special magical ability or intuition. It's calculated, planned and crafty. You see, she installed hidden cameras in my room and special sensors in my bed that measures my breathing and body temperature. It sends her a signal as soon as it detects that I am falling asleep. I haven't figured out where she keeps all the equipment which I'm guessing she has a ton of footage of me, tumbling out of bed, often with a grumpy look on my face, stumbling into her room. I think she's been having a hay day, probably holding in the giggles right before she fake cries.
The interesting thing is that as far as I can tell these sensors are only on my side of the bed and the hidden cameras apparently only point to me.
Well, Penelope, I'm on to you, baby. I know all about your secret little covert operation. We'll see who wins this little contest. I have tricks up my sleeve, too, you know.
Note: Last night I think her equipment malfunctioned or the computer crashed or something. I fell completely asleep for several hours before she woke up.
Monday, February 25, 2008
A Rude House
My husband asked, "Why are you looking forward to going to the cabin this weekend?" I answered with, "What?" You know, the kind of "what" that is loaded with all kinds of other sentences and grimaces and attitude. OK, so I'm not very proud of that "what." But that's the kind of "what" I said.
His question was sincere. He was making conversation. I was sitting on my overstuffed chair in the living room when he asked me. This offered a great vantage point for my next eloquent discourse. To my left was the little bar cabinet. On top of it was a filing case of magazines, a little pile of fabric, a box of embroidering threads, and a Valentines gift basket. I could swear that I saw that little mess frown at me. My eyes moved a foot over to the right to the kitchen table and there sat a small pile of puzzles that my Penelope had dumped on the floor days previous. They were joined by several other odds and ends. I could tell they were giving me a dirty look.
Unfortunately my eyes kept going to the right where they ungraciously landed on the queen of all messes! This area used to be a surface, but that has been long gone. Instead one can find an item of any given category just laying there, all scrambled up with each other screaming amongst themselves and at me anytime I walk by. A candle holder, a spool of thread, many many coupons that will most definitely never get used, pictures to be hung, a telephone, the hospital bracelet that Penelope wore as a newborn (I know, that's awful, it's meant to be in the adjacent pile for her scrapbook. I know, I know, who am I kidding?), a picture frame, postcards, note cards, things that I don't know how to describe, all of them living together for too long.
I wish I could stop there but my eyes kept making its way around the room while intermittently rolling for venting purposes. The armoire’s piles have a miraculous quality to them. It's like they think they're the modern day version of the five loaves and two fish. I'm always trying to show them why they're not, theologically speaking, but I think they are just delusional. Not to mention that everything in my house yells at me, "Dust us, already!!!" They start chanting this anytime I think I'm going to sit down for American Idol or anything that suggests, sitting. In fact, they even make up little songs about how dusty they are.
I told Christopher all of these things. He graciously listened, per usual. I said that I just want to go somewhere nice, not rude, like my house. Somewhere where I could go to any corner I wished to simply sit in it and not have it yell at me. We did. We had a great time.
The underlying message is this, I like to use this kind of technique, giving inanimate objects a "real" voice. I feel it portrays me as the victim and all the inanimate things as the villain. It works out very nicely, thank you.
His question was sincere. He was making conversation. I was sitting on my overstuffed chair in the living room when he asked me. This offered a great vantage point for my next eloquent discourse. To my left was the little bar cabinet. On top of it was a filing case of magazines, a little pile of fabric, a box of embroidering threads, and a Valentines gift basket. I could swear that I saw that little mess frown at me. My eyes moved a foot over to the right to the kitchen table and there sat a small pile of puzzles that my Penelope had dumped on the floor days previous. They were joined by several other odds and ends. I could tell they were giving me a dirty look.
Unfortunately my eyes kept going to the right where they ungraciously landed on the queen of all messes! This area used to be a surface, but that has been long gone. Instead one can find an item of any given category just laying there, all scrambled up with each other screaming amongst themselves and at me anytime I walk by. A candle holder, a spool of thread, many many coupons that will most definitely never get used, pictures to be hung, a telephone, the hospital bracelet that Penelope wore as a newborn (I know, that's awful, it's meant to be in the adjacent pile for her scrapbook. I know, I know, who am I kidding?), a picture frame, postcards, note cards, things that I don't know how to describe, all of them living together for too long.
I wish I could stop there but my eyes kept making its way around the room while intermittently rolling for venting purposes. The armoire’s piles have a miraculous quality to them. It's like they think they're the modern day version of the five loaves and two fish. I'm always trying to show them why they're not, theologically speaking, but I think they are just delusional. Not to mention that everything in my house yells at me, "Dust us, already!!!" They start chanting this anytime I think I'm going to sit down for American Idol or anything that suggests, sitting. In fact, they even make up little songs about how dusty they are.
I told Christopher all of these things. He graciously listened, per usual. I said that I just want to go somewhere nice, not rude, like my house. Somewhere where I could go to any corner I wished to simply sit in it and not have it yell at me. We did. We had a great time.
The underlying message is this, I like to use this kind of technique, giving inanimate objects a "real" voice. I feel it portrays me as the victim and all the inanimate things as the villain. It works out very nicely, thank you.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Navally
That's right. I've been feeling very navally lately. I know that's not technically a word, but I like how it sounds. What I mean by that is I've been staring too long at my proverbial naval lately. It's dark, it's stinky, wrinkly and ugly. No light can be shone into the pitiful hole. Nothing can be seen with clarity and certainly nothing that is seen can be called lovely. Unhesitating light, brilliant and arbitrary, is needed to see the beautiful.
Last night, my daughter woke up as soon as I was falling into a coveted sleep. So I got up and tended to her, moderately annoyed, and soon she was asleep again. I went back to my bed and just as sleep was closing my eyes she woke up again. This time I nudged her dad and he went to her. For some reason nothing would console her. I could not sleep to the persistent crying soundtrack of the night, so I, too, got up, this time extremely annoyed. She eventually settled back down, with me at her side in her bed. I was very uncomfortable and could not sleep. One hour and a half later I found myself back in my own bed still trying to fall asleep. Finally, I could feel sleep whispering softly of dreams I was about to sink myself into and my droopy eyes closing for the final time. So I thought. Right then, my baby started crying AGAIN.
Where does a mother go from being extremely annoyed? What's the next level called? My eyes couldn't roll enough times to vent away the frustration.
What could be wrong with her? I thought about our previous day. We had left our house in the morning and only came back at 9pm. That wasn't the plan but that seems to be our way, always on the go in search of something different and fun to do. I realized that she had not had a proper nap. I remembered that while we were at my brother-in-law's place she started crying and crying wanting to take a bath. It was 7pm., the time she usually takes a bath before going to bed. But since my head was stuck in my naval, I only concerned myself with the fact that I was having a good time, even though it was kind of fuzzy and claustrophobic in there.
By this time my baby was asleep again, on her side, facing me with her little hand gently resting on my shoulder, I was laying next to her. And just like that, I popped my head out of my stinky naval. Suddenly, brilliant light cut sharply through my self-ridden heart. It cut to the place in my heart that was not putting her needs before my own. Her room was dark but I could make out the curve of her sweet face and the slight dimple in her chin. I touched her face, her little ear and her silky hair. I did not hesitate to kiss her face. In that moment, in the dark, my heart was finally light enough to recognize it, she was the beauty before me that my heart was begging to see. And I saw it. I finally did.
Last night, my daughter woke up as soon as I was falling into a coveted sleep. So I got up and tended to her, moderately annoyed, and soon she was asleep again. I went back to my bed and just as sleep was closing my eyes she woke up again. This time I nudged her dad and he went to her. For some reason nothing would console her. I could not sleep to the persistent crying soundtrack of the night, so I, too, got up, this time extremely annoyed. She eventually settled back down, with me at her side in her bed. I was very uncomfortable and could not sleep. One hour and a half later I found myself back in my own bed still trying to fall asleep. Finally, I could feel sleep whispering softly of dreams I was about to sink myself into and my droopy eyes closing for the final time. So I thought. Right then, my baby started crying AGAIN.
Where does a mother go from being extremely annoyed? What's the next level called? My eyes couldn't roll enough times to vent away the frustration.
What could be wrong with her? I thought about our previous day. We had left our house in the morning and only came back at 9pm. That wasn't the plan but that seems to be our way, always on the go in search of something different and fun to do. I realized that she had not had a proper nap. I remembered that while we were at my brother-in-law's place she started crying and crying wanting to take a bath. It was 7pm., the time she usually takes a bath before going to bed. But since my head was stuck in my naval, I only concerned myself with the fact that I was having a good time, even though it was kind of fuzzy and claustrophobic in there.
By this time my baby was asleep again, on her side, facing me with her little hand gently resting on my shoulder, I was laying next to her. And just like that, I popped my head out of my stinky naval. Suddenly, brilliant light cut sharply through my self-ridden heart. It cut to the place in my heart that was not putting her needs before my own. Her room was dark but I could make out the curve of her sweet face and the slight dimple in her chin. I touched her face, her little ear and her silky hair. I did not hesitate to kiss her face. In that moment, in the dark, my heart was finally light enough to recognize it, she was the beauty before me that my heart was begging to see. And I saw it. I finally did.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
My Funny Valentine...
Christopher and I met on Valentines Day twelve years ago. That same night he wrote me a letter that he did not plan on giving me... thankfully, he changed his mind. All these years later we are still in love and we have our very own valentine, Penelope.
Making a valentine card for her "papai"
She's so darn cute, don't you think? And she's mine...
Monday, January 21, 2008
Before You Can Say, Jiminy Cricket!
I get a kick out of reading stats on risk assessment. For example, "if you eat so many helpings of broccoli per day you will reduce your risk of getting cancer by such and such a percent," or "if you exercise three times a week..." and blah, blah, blah it goes.
When you get pregnant there are a host of other ones like anything from caffeine intake to highlighting your hair. The idea is to minimize any potential risks of harming your baby, a very good thing to do. However, in my opinion that whole idea gets tossed out the window the minute your baby comes out. Before you can say, "Jiminy cricket," you've been launched into a carrier that you cannot change your mind about with absolutely no previous experience.
Imagine: someone wakes up and decides he/she would like to be a doctor. So without going to school for it this person sets up an office to see patients. Sure, this person has been a patient him/herself and has seen a lot of shows on TV about doctors and seems to have a general idea of what a doctor does. But seriously, would anyone ever go see such a "doctor?" Obviously not, it's a no brainer, right? Observation does not equal qualification.
I know people say that nine months of pregnancy is to help prepare a woman for becoming a mom. But let's face it, it really doesn't. It might be uncomfortable to be pregnant or even difficult to sleep well or turn corners, but it offers absolutely no experience at being a mom. I'm surprised there are no universities that offer a BA in Motherhood. What's up with that? For everything else there is a degree. In fact, so many menial jobs require a degree. That makes no sense. We're talking about baby humans whose physical, emotional and spiritual development and well-being are reliant on rookie care.
I remember when my baby was born Christopher and I were worried we were going to break her, she seemed so fragile. Was she starving? Was one eye bigger than the other? Is she still breathing? Was she comfortable? Was she in pain? Would her belly button fall off OK? Why was she rolling her eyes back? Was the soft spot on her head too big?
Many, I think, would say that I was well prepared to have a baby. When I was only six years old I changed my baby brother's diapers and gave him baths. As an adult I was in charge of two age groups at a daycare for several years, babysat all kinds of babies in all kinds of situations. Yet when I had my very own baby I still felt overwhelmed at times and still do.
As I write this my baby is sleeping peacefully surrounded by all her little fluffy friends and two sippy cups. She is wearing a green skirt over her pajamas and her right hand/arm is adorned by a pink striped knee high sock (she seemed very pleased by how she looked). Somehow she has survived her rookie parents' care thus far and she seems to like me and her papai quite a lot and we definitely like her.
I'm happy to report that her eyes are the same size, she's been breathing well ever since she came out, her belly button fell off just fine, the soft spot on her head turned out to be the normal size and she only rolls her eyes if she annoyed (wait a minute, I'm the one who does that).
Maybe that is why there is no degree in Motherhood. You can only learn as you go. There is no other way.
When you get pregnant there are a host of other ones like anything from caffeine intake to highlighting your hair. The idea is to minimize any potential risks of harming your baby, a very good thing to do. However, in my opinion that whole idea gets tossed out the window the minute your baby comes out. Before you can say, "Jiminy cricket," you've been launched into a carrier that you cannot change your mind about with absolutely no previous experience.
Imagine: someone wakes up and decides he/she would like to be a doctor. So without going to school for it this person sets up an office to see patients. Sure, this person has been a patient him/herself and has seen a lot of shows on TV about doctors and seems to have a general idea of what a doctor does. But seriously, would anyone ever go see such a "doctor?" Obviously not, it's a no brainer, right? Observation does not equal qualification.
I know people say that nine months of pregnancy is to help prepare a woman for becoming a mom. But let's face it, it really doesn't. It might be uncomfortable to be pregnant or even difficult to sleep well or turn corners, but it offers absolutely no experience at being a mom. I'm surprised there are no universities that offer a BA in Motherhood. What's up with that? For everything else there is a degree. In fact, so many menial jobs require a degree. That makes no sense. We're talking about baby humans whose physical, emotional and spiritual development and well-being are reliant on rookie care.
I remember when my baby was born Christopher and I were worried we were going to break her, she seemed so fragile. Was she starving? Was one eye bigger than the other? Is she still breathing? Was she comfortable? Was she in pain? Would her belly button fall off OK? Why was she rolling her eyes back? Was the soft spot on her head too big?
Many, I think, would say that I was well prepared to have a baby. When I was only six years old I changed my baby brother's diapers and gave him baths. As an adult I was in charge of two age groups at a daycare for several years, babysat all kinds of babies in all kinds of situations. Yet when I had my very own baby I still felt overwhelmed at times and still do.
As I write this my baby is sleeping peacefully surrounded by all her little fluffy friends and two sippy cups. She is wearing a green skirt over her pajamas and her right hand/arm is adorned by a pink striped knee high sock (she seemed very pleased by how she looked). Somehow she has survived her rookie parents' care thus far and she seems to like me and her papai quite a lot and we definitely like her.
I'm happy to report that her eyes are the same size, she's been breathing well ever since she came out, her belly button fell off just fine, the soft spot on her head turned out to be the normal size and she only rolls her eyes if she annoyed (wait a minute, I'm the one who does that).
Maybe that is why there is no degree in Motherhood. You can only learn as you go. There is no other way.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The Unnatural Mom
People say that being a mother is natural; it's instinctive, intuitive, and like second-nature. Lately, I've been wondering if that is indeed true or not.
For starters, during pregnancy many women, including myself, feel lousy, especially in the beginning, the nausea, the vomiting (thankfully, I never did vomit, but my sister-in-law, vomited like it was the latest fashion trend, all the time, everywhere), not to mention all the exhausting excursions that our emotions take. Later on the belly gets strangely large and the most menial of tasks become quite insurmountable, like picking up a stray sock from the floor, or picking up the car keys that you dropped. Forget about giving yourself a pedicure.
Can a person be intellectually honest and still maintain that having a human being grow inside of you then a few months later come out of you from a small opening is natural? It really doesn't feel natural at all, trust me. Then the baby comes and before you can say, "Jiminy cricket," you're a mom (more on that later). What soon follows are many sleepless nights, diapers and more diapers and being a human feeding trough as my husband would say. A few nights ago I was up with my baby for two and a half hours. Somebody tell me what is so natural about that? Giving up of my own plans and wishes doesn't feel second-nature, let me tell you. Not to mention that when I'm at Target and my baby is screaming, I don't feel any sort of intuition floating around in my being telling me what should be done, instead I usually just second-third-seventeenth-guess myself and feel horribly embarrassed. Being a mom often feels like the exact opposite of my first instinct.
That said, the funny thing is that since becoming a mom I haven't really been too shocked at how much work is involved. I worked in a daycare and watched the lives of those around me with kids enough to get a clue into the amount of work that it takes. My quandary is more of the so-called innate capacity to care for my baby perfectly. I guess, looking back at it, I thought that my profound love for my baby would enable me to always feel like doing the work. It's supposed to be natural, right? Maybe I picked up on such a notion because of my dear mother. She definitely made it look easy. I never remember her raising her voice at me; I never heard her complain about anything, really. Had I been able to articulate this before I before I became a mom, I'm certain anyone who already was a mom would have grabbed me by the neck and thrown ice cubes in my face or something to wake me up from la la land, including my own mom (OK, she would have done something nice, she is always nice). I know I shouldn't be surprised by my own pathetic selfish humanity, that's pathetic in of itself. So there it is, my naiveté collapsing before me as I grapple with this being a mom thing.
It is not unlike the idea and more importantly the reality of grace. In my overconfident and self-righteous youthful teens and early twenties I would talk about how wonderful it was to know with certainty that whatever came my way, the grace of God would see me through it. I would say this to people and preach it to anyone who worried about their future. This might seem like sound theology. However, once I struggled through 7 years of relentless day-long daily headaches, grace seemed like some kind of joke. I would tell God this. I didn't feel any supernatural force carrying me through every day. It just seemed like there was Michelle waking each morning and figuring out a way to get out of bed and facing another day in pain, alone. It simply felt like a tremendous amount of effort and work. Yet now that I look back I can see that grace was indeed there, weaving itself through my pain, quietly. The fact that I did get out of bed (most mornings) and did the tasks at hand is proof that grace was at work.
Perhaps that is what people mean when they say that being a mom is second-nature. It's because we do it--everyday--smelly diapers and screaming babies at Target and all. Then again, I didn't know I could love a person as much as I love my baby. I don't naturally love other people like that. The moment I first looked at her I loved her deeply. Before she even looked at me, or smiled at me or hugged me back, I simply loved her. My heart swelled up so much with love that it pounded against the walls of my chest, begging for more room. It actually ached. It's a strange thing, really. Typically, we love people because they give us something in return like, friendship, admiration, forgiveness, their time; they love us back in some capacity and depth. Yet, with my baby, I love her, even in the moments when I feel frustrated or tired. She doesn't have to give me anything in return, I simply love her. I think all moms feel this way. Maybe that's what makes being a mom so naturally, beautifully unnatural.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
The "New" New Years Resolution
Every New Years Day I get over-inspired and over-motivated. My mind gets creatively lofty with miraculous goals for the year ahead, things that can only be accomplished in one's mind, never in reality. This year will be different. I was inspired by my bottomless laundry basket of clothes begging to get out of there. You see, in the last several weeks I have made a new goal regarding these desperate clothes. Instead of telling myself that I will fold them that day, I will fold them in one week's time. That way, if I fold them in one week's time I can feel great about it, but if I happen to get them done before I can still feel great. (Last week, though, the baskets were overflowing, so I came up with an "emergency only" clause which says that stuffing them back into the dryer if guests are coming over is OK). This has done wonders for my sense of self-accomplishment, I've been patting' myself in the back left and right.
So, I figure I should capitalize on this new kind of principle by applying it to all aspects of my life. It might offer wonderful ego boosts all throughout the year. Keeping true to this principle, my motto for this year's resolution is, "keep it simple, keep it vague, keep it low-key, keep it mediocre." Here it is:
Michelle's Goals for 2008 (in the case of emergency, this list may be edited)
1. I will always clean my house once-in-a-while.
2. I will lose 3 pounds.
3. I will do my best to try to be nicer sometimes.
4. I will hope to exercise four times this year alone.
5. I will do more in every sense of the word.
6. I will think of others first as much as I can.
7. I will always fold laundry.
8. I will always cook food.
9. I will be a good friend, if all goes well.
10. I will always do my very best to a be a good mom and wife.
Wish me well...
So, I figure I should capitalize on this new kind of principle by applying it to all aspects of my life. It might offer wonderful ego boosts all throughout the year. Keeping true to this principle, my motto for this year's resolution is, "keep it simple, keep it vague, keep it low-key, keep it mediocre." Here it is:
Michelle's Goals for 2008 (in the case of emergency, this list may be edited)
1. I will always clean my house once-in-a-while.
2. I will lose 3 pounds.
3. I will do my best to try to be nicer sometimes.
4. I will hope to exercise four times this year alone.
5. I will do more in every sense of the word.
6. I will think of others first as much as I can.
7. I will always fold laundry.
8. I will always cook food.
9. I will be a good friend, if all goes well.
10. I will always do my very best to a be a good mom and wife.
Wish me well...
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