Yesterday I finally convinced my six year old that it was time to buzz his hair. He has 3 cowlicks, going all different directions, so we usually just buzz it ('cause it's impossible to do much else to it). He had been resisting, so his hair was very long--3-4 inches. He has inherited just enough curl from his dad to have his hair puff out and be all poofy--the result is that he looks somewhat like a dandelion puffball when his hair is long, but his hair goes in 3 different directions because of his cowlicks.
Anyway, finally buzzed him for the summer. He looks sharp, in my opinion. We loaded in the car for a memorial service celebrating the life of my DH's grandfather (who died last Memorial Day) and he says, ever so seriously and forlornly: "Mom, I don't think a buzz cut captures the real me..."
Ah, such serious words from my usually light-hearted boy! We agreed that we would let his hair grow long again and then he could cut it any way he wanted. Something that would "capture" the "real" boy.
What are you doing today to "capture the real you?" Leave a comment and let me know!
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
On the Brink
I've had this feeling for the past couple of days that SOMETHING is coming, and it will change my life. Don't really know what yet, but I can feel it on the fringes of my day. It might be a new resolve to change some things about my self; it just might be the new paper I ordered for the store. But something's coming, this I know. I've had this feeling before, and it's usually right.
I've had a fascination with Victorian houses lately. I found a book called "Victorians House of the Northwest" or something like that, and there are three houses in Albanymentioned in it. One of them is for sale, and I find I am fascinated by it. For one thing--it's huge! Nearly 5000 square feet. Our current home has 1760, which is the most we've had, but when I think about what I could do with 5000, I get a little light-headed and giddy, and have to slow down and take a deep breath. It also has a lot of the original features--a plus for someone with a romantic attachment to historical things. On the downside, it's surrounded by icky apartments. The somewhat scary kind. They kind I've lived by before, and NEVER want to live by again. As they say, real estate is all about location, location, location.
But I have to admit, I want to know what happens to this house. Originally built in 1880, it was at that time one of the most expensives houses in Albany. The builder was also the owner, and he took extra care with it so that it would "advertise" the quality of his work, and be a nice place for him to live. I think that the fact that it is now one hundred and twenty-five years later says something about the quality of his work! I hope that whoever buys it has the ability to do it justice. If it were me, I'd buy the lot next door, tear down the nasty little 4-plex, and put up a huge walled garden to block the view of the scary apartments. I hope whoever buys it loves it like George Hochstedtler, the builder who built it well enough to last over a hundred years and still be pretty. I'm truly tempted to call up the realtor and take a look around inside the house as well, but that will only increase my desire to live in that house. (5000 square feet! Think of all of the scrapping space I could have! And still have bedrooms left over for other things!)
Anyway, back to my niggling feeling of change in the air. I've been rolling around the phrase "live a purposeful life" in my head. I think it's time for me to start being more purposeful with my goals. I've had this list of things I've wanted to do for a long time. Things like: Have kids (check), Travel more (check--but I still plan to travel more), sing a real, hour-long recital (check), be on national television (check--I was a contestant on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaiare" in its heyday), grow out my bangs (check), open a scrapbooking store (check), get my degree (check--2 bachelor's and a master's) sing the National Anthem at a sporting event (check), get published in a scrapbooking magazine (still working on it), finally have the body God meant for me to have (this is the hardest one of all). You see, I've struggled all my life with my self-image and my body size. I know that God does not want me to be this out of shape and overweight. Yet here I am. I've exercised, I've dieted, I've studied the human body. I know I will never be a teeny-tiny thing. But I also know that I can improve on what I am now and go back to where I once was. (I hope that made sense...). And I think THAT change is the one I'm feeling. I've achieved a lot of my major goals in life--and it's time for me to really work on that one. I know it will be a struggle--it's been a struggle. Losing weight and finding time for exercise right now in the chaos of my mundane life is incredibly difficult. I'm sure I'll write more about it later, but you have to believe me when I tell you it will be the hardest thing I've done in a long, long time. But it is time. Time for me to be purposeful with myself. Because if you can't be purposeful in caring for yourself, there isn't much point in trying to care for others. If George Hochstedtler can build a house well enough to last one hundred and twenty-five years, I can care for my body so it will last at least another fifty. Wish me luck! (and maybe I will go take a look inside the house...just for fun!).
And that's the other side.
I've had a fascination with Victorian houses lately. I found a book called "Victorians House of the Northwest" or something like that, and there are three houses in Albanymentioned in it. One of them is for sale, and I find I am fascinated by it. For one thing--it's huge! Nearly 5000 square feet. Our current home has 1760, which is the most we've had, but when I think about what I could do with 5000, I get a little light-headed and giddy, and have to slow down and take a deep breath. It also has a lot of the original features--a plus for someone with a romantic attachment to historical things. On the downside, it's surrounded by icky apartments. The somewhat scary kind. They kind I've lived by before, and NEVER want to live by again. As they say, real estate is all about location, location, location.
But I have to admit, I want to know what happens to this house. Originally built in 1880, it was at that time one of the most expensives houses in Albany. The builder was also the owner, and he took extra care with it so that it would "advertise" the quality of his work, and be a nice place for him to live. I think that the fact that it is now one hundred and twenty-five years later says something about the quality of his work! I hope that whoever buys it has the ability to do it justice. If it were me, I'd buy the lot next door, tear down the nasty little 4-plex, and put up a huge walled garden to block the view of the scary apartments. I hope whoever buys it loves it like George Hochstedtler, the builder who built it well enough to last over a hundred years and still be pretty. I'm truly tempted to call up the realtor and take a look around inside the house as well, but that will only increase my desire to live in that house. (5000 square feet! Think of all of the scrapping space I could have! And still have bedrooms left over for other things!)
Anyway, back to my niggling feeling of change in the air. I've been rolling around the phrase "live a purposeful life" in my head. I think it's time for me to start being more purposeful with my goals. I've had this list of things I've wanted to do for a long time. Things like: Have kids (check), Travel more (check--but I still plan to travel more), sing a real, hour-long recital (check), be on national television (check--I was a contestant on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaiare" in its heyday), grow out my bangs (check), open a scrapbooking store (check), get my degree (check--2 bachelor's and a master's) sing the National Anthem at a sporting event (check), get published in a scrapbooking magazine (still working on it), finally have the body God meant for me to have (this is the hardest one of all). You see, I've struggled all my life with my self-image and my body size. I know that God does not want me to be this out of shape and overweight. Yet here I am. I've exercised, I've dieted, I've studied the human body. I know I will never be a teeny-tiny thing. But I also know that I can improve on what I am now and go back to where I once was. (I hope that made sense...). And I think THAT change is the one I'm feeling. I've achieved a lot of my major goals in life--and it's time for me to really work on that one. I know it will be a struggle--it's been a struggle. Losing weight and finding time for exercise right now in the chaos of my mundane life is incredibly difficult. I'm sure I'll write more about it later, but you have to believe me when I tell you it will be the hardest thing I've done in a long, long time. But it is time. Time for me to be purposeful with myself. Because if you can't be purposeful in caring for yourself, there isn't much point in trying to care for others. If George Hochstedtler can build a house well enough to last one hundred and twenty-five years, I can care for my body so it will last at least another fifty. Wish me luck! (and maybe I will go take a look inside the house...just for fun!).
And that's the other side.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Since When Did I Become a "Ma'am?"
Again, this is a "reprint" of an essay I wrote a couple of years ago. You'll figure it out when I refer to myself as being 33--and you know I am now THIRTY-FIVE! Yes, say it with me thirtyfive. That still doesn't feel exactly real....oh well...
Enjoy!
The other day I was returning a cart to Costco. I approached the fellow collecting carts at the front of the building. “Can I just give this to you?” I asked. “Yes Ma’am!” was his hearty and cheerful reply. As I walked back to my car I thought, “Ma’am! When did I become a ‘Ma’am’? I just had his job a few years—pause for quick mental calculations—FIFTEEN YEARS ago!” I was honestly surprised at how long it had been since I was the one corralling carts at Costco. “Hmm,” I continued to myself, “Maybe I really am a ‘Ma’am.’”
I had a conversation with a gal at church this week who was turning 33. “Ah,” she said, “Seventeen. Seventeen was really good. I wish I could have stayed seventeen forever.” Again, that made me think to me about my own year at seventeen. I was a college freshman, going off to school just about ten weeks after my seventeenth birthday. So not only was I seventeen, I was a young seventeen. We moved to a new town two weeks after I graduated from high school and I left for college about eight weeks later. I felt rootless. Lost. I didn't know exactly where I belonged. When people asked me where I was from, I didn't know how to answer them. "Spokane." I would say, and then quickly add, "But my family lives in Oregon." It was scary and uncomfortable. Talk about teen-age anxiety! Stay seventeen forever? No Way!
Now Twenty, Twenty was good. At twenty, I had just begun dating my future husband. I was a junior in college and thrilled with my studies. I was living with my grandmother, whom I loved deeply, and we were getting along well. My future husband brought me a dozen roses for my twentieth birthday. We were beginning to think that maybe we had something worth pursuing further. Life was exciting and thrilling! I seemed to have the self-confidence and self-esteem I lacked at Seventeen. I loved Twenty! I could possibly stay twenty forever.
But if I stayed Twenty forever, then I would have never had Twenty-Two. At twenty-two, I married my husband. We were caught up in Newlywed Bliss. I was working on my second degree, in music, and I loved it even more than my first. We found ways to pay rent, eat, and pay bills on about $600/month. We lived in a tiny studio apartment. We watched television and movies sitting on the bed and used fruit crates for chairs because we had no other furniture. We were In Love and life was good. We had friends over, we played board games, and we often barbecued on a tiny little hibachi that I think I only paid about $10.00 for. The first time we used it, all of the paint peeled up and cooked off. Still, those were some of the best hamburgers I had ever eaten. Twenty-two was definitely good. A possible stopping place.
If I never left Twenty-Two, however, I would never have had Twenty-Four. That’s when my daughter was born. Suddenly I went from Student and Wife, to Student, Wife and Mother. Having my daughter was the most fulfilling accomplishment I had made up to that point. Twenty-Four is a strong forever candidate. But if there was only Twenty-Four, then I would never have experienced Twenty-Eight. That’s when my son joined our family. That’s when I began to understand both delight and completeness. What about staying Twenty-Eight? Absolutely possible.
By staying Twenty-Eight forever, then I would have not been able to turn Thirty. Now, I realize that for a lot of women Thirty is scary; Thirty is to be avoided and never admitted. Not so for me. When I turned thirty, I finally felt like myself. I felt like the person I wanted to be inside and the person I was were at last the same. When I turned thirty, I decided to have the courage of my convictions, to say what I felt needed to be said, to start doing the things I always wanted to do. I loved being Thirty. I could easily have stayed Thirty forever. However, if that had happened, I wouldn’t have my baby—and I love my baby. Really, really, love my baby. He came along just before I turned 33. I love being a family of five in our first house. I love finally being able to be a stay-at-home mom.
I guess my point is that rather than mourn for our lost, past, selves, we should celebrate and improve the self we have now. If we stay frozen in the past, we can find no enjoyment in the present. Love the skin you’re in. Love yourself for what you have accomplished and even more--for what you have yet to accomplish. Think about it--we all have places yet to go, things yet to accomplish. After every valley, there's usually another mountain to climb somewhere in the future.
And if we ever meet in the Costco parking lot, (or anywhere else…) go ahead and call me “Ma’am.” I’ve earned it.
And that’s the other side.
Enjoy!
The other day I was returning a cart to Costco. I approached the fellow collecting carts at the front of the building. “Can I just give this to you?” I asked. “Yes Ma’am!” was his hearty and cheerful reply. As I walked back to my car I thought, “Ma’am! When did I become a ‘Ma’am’? I just had his job a few years—pause for quick mental calculations—FIFTEEN YEARS ago!” I was honestly surprised at how long it had been since I was the one corralling carts at Costco. “Hmm,” I continued to myself, “Maybe I really am a ‘Ma’am.’”
I had a conversation with a gal at church this week who was turning 33. “Ah,” she said, “Seventeen. Seventeen was really good. I wish I could have stayed seventeen forever.” Again, that made me think to me about my own year at seventeen. I was a college freshman, going off to school just about ten weeks after my seventeenth birthday. So not only was I seventeen, I was a young seventeen. We moved to a new town two weeks after I graduated from high school and I left for college about eight weeks later. I felt rootless. Lost. I didn't know exactly where I belonged. When people asked me where I was from, I didn't know how to answer them. "Spokane." I would say, and then quickly add, "But my family lives in Oregon." It was scary and uncomfortable. Talk about teen-age anxiety! Stay seventeen forever? No Way!
Now Twenty, Twenty was good. At twenty, I had just begun dating my future husband. I was a junior in college and thrilled with my studies. I was living with my grandmother, whom I loved deeply, and we were getting along well. My future husband brought me a dozen roses for my twentieth birthday. We were beginning to think that maybe we had something worth pursuing further. Life was exciting and thrilling! I seemed to have the self-confidence and self-esteem I lacked at Seventeen. I loved Twenty! I could possibly stay twenty forever.
But if I stayed Twenty forever, then I would have never had Twenty-Two. At twenty-two, I married my husband. We were caught up in Newlywed Bliss. I was working on my second degree, in music, and I loved it even more than my first. We found ways to pay rent, eat, and pay bills on about $600/month. We lived in a tiny studio apartment. We watched television and movies sitting on the bed and used fruit crates for chairs because we had no other furniture. We were In Love and life was good. We had friends over, we played board games, and we often barbecued on a tiny little hibachi that I think I only paid about $10.00 for. The first time we used it, all of the paint peeled up and cooked off. Still, those were some of the best hamburgers I had ever eaten. Twenty-two was definitely good. A possible stopping place.
If I never left Twenty-Two, however, I would never have had Twenty-Four. That’s when my daughter was born. Suddenly I went from Student and Wife, to Student, Wife and Mother. Having my daughter was the most fulfilling accomplishment I had made up to that point. Twenty-Four is a strong forever candidate. But if there was only Twenty-Four, then I would never have experienced Twenty-Eight. That’s when my son joined our family. That’s when I began to understand both delight and completeness. What about staying Twenty-Eight? Absolutely possible.
By staying Twenty-Eight forever, then I would have not been able to turn Thirty. Now, I realize that for a lot of women Thirty is scary; Thirty is to be avoided and never admitted. Not so for me. When I turned thirty, I finally felt like myself. I felt like the person I wanted to be inside and the person I was were at last the same. When I turned thirty, I decided to have the courage of my convictions, to say what I felt needed to be said, to start doing the things I always wanted to do. I loved being Thirty. I could easily have stayed Thirty forever. However, if that had happened, I wouldn’t have my baby—and I love my baby. Really, really, love my baby. He came along just before I turned 33. I love being a family of five in our first house. I love finally being able to be a stay-at-home mom.
I guess my point is that rather than mourn for our lost, past, selves, we should celebrate and improve the self we have now. If we stay frozen in the past, we can find no enjoyment in the present. Love the skin you’re in. Love yourself for what you have accomplished and even more--for what you have yet to accomplish. Think about it--we all have places yet to go, things yet to accomplish. After every valley, there's usually another mountain to climb somewhere in the future.
And if we ever meet in the Costco parking lot, (or anywhere else…) go ahead and call me “Ma’am.” I’ve earned it.
And that’s the other side.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Warning--Oooky Topic Ahead!
Okay. Some days I feel like my life is surrounded by poop.
That's right, poop. You see, I have a two year old who is at least a year away from even thinking about potty training. He has a healthy diet. Hence poop. Who changes most of his diapers? Me. Lately I have been doing some childcare for a good friend of mine who also has a two-year-old boy. Oh Goodee! More poop! Add to that the fact that Mom is the only one in the house who cleans the 3 toilets (my older kids share in the cleaning of the sinks and the tub, but refuse to touch the toilets) AND figure in that my Super Hero name is "The Flusher!" (seems that not only am I the one who cleans the toilets, I am also the only one who can FLUSH the toilets as well) AND add to that when the toilet clogs, I am usually the only adult home, and it's easy to see why I feel surrounded by poop.
So where's the other side to poop? I don't know. I don't have a pithy, thought-provoking perspective to poop. Poop comes--you flush--poop goes. That's basically it.
We all have rotten days where poopy things happen. Days where we feel like we are the ones being flushed. And sometimes, there is nothing we can do about it. Rotten things come--rotten things go. Sometimes, all we can do is wait for the poopy things in life to go. And hope that there isn't a clog waiting somewhere down the line. That's basically it.
And that's about as close to the other side as I'm going to get today.
That's right, poop. You see, I have a two year old who is at least a year away from even thinking about potty training. He has a healthy diet. Hence poop. Who changes most of his diapers? Me. Lately I have been doing some childcare for a good friend of mine who also has a two-year-old boy. Oh Goodee! More poop! Add to that the fact that Mom is the only one in the house who cleans the 3 toilets (my older kids share in the cleaning of the sinks and the tub, but refuse to touch the toilets) AND figure in that my Super Hero name is "The Flusher!" (seems that not only am I the one who cleans the toilets, I am also the only one who can FLUSH the toilets as well) AND add to that when the toilet clogs, I am usually the only adult home, and it's easy to see why I feel surrounded by poop.
So where's the other side to poop? I don't know. I don't have a pithy, thought-provoking perspective to poop. Poop comes--you flush--poop goes. That's basically it.
We all have rotten days where poopy things happen. Days where we feel like we are the ones being flushed. And sometimes, there is nothing we can do about it. Rotten things come--rotten things go. Sometimes, all we can do is wait for the poopy things in life to go. And hope that there isn't a clog waiting somewhere down the line. That's basically it.
And that's about as close to the other side as I'm going to get today.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Love Yourself Today...
From the Reader’s Digest:
Playing baseball alone in his backyard, a boy announced, “I’m the greatest hitter in the world.” He tossed the ball into the air, swung hard, and missed. “Strike One!” he yelled. He picked up the ball and said again, “I’m the greatest hitter in the world!” Feeling confident this time, he lobbed the ball, swung—and missed. “Strike Two!” he yelled.
The boy examined his bat and then his ball. He spit on his hands, rubbed them together, then tugged his cap and repeated, “I’m the greatest hitter in the world!” Again he tossed the ball, swung and missed. “Strike Three!”
“Wow!” the boy exclaimed, “I’m the greatest pitcher in the world!”
I love this little story because of the boy's attitude. How often do we put ourselves down when all we really need is a different perspective on things? Truly, we are our worst critics, comparing our perceptions of our worst faults against our perceptions of other's best attributes. So my thought for today is to love yourself more. Cut yourself some slack if you need it. Reach for a higher level of personal standards if you need it. Sometimes we love ourselves best by taking better care of ourselves, our homes and our loved ones. No one else can live your life; make sure you are doing the best job of it you can.
And that's the other side.
Playing baseball alone in his backyard, a boy announced, “I’m the greatest hitter in the world.” He tossed the ball into the air, swung hard, and missed. “Strike One!” he yelled. He picked up the ball and said again, “I’m the greatest hitter in the world!” Feeling confident this time, he lobbed the ball, swung—and missed. “Strike Two!” he yelled.
The boy examined his bat and then his ball. He spit on his hands, rubbed them together, then tugged his cap and repeated, “I’m the greatest hitter in the world!” Again he tossed the ball, swung and missed. “Strike Three!”
“Wow!” the boy exclaimed, “I’m the greatest pitcher in the world!”
I love this little story because of the boy's attitude. How often do we put ourselves down when all we really need is a different perspective on things? Truly, we are our worst critics, comparing our perceptions of our worst faults against our perceptions of other's best attributes. So my thought for today is to love yourself more. Cut yourself some slack if you need it. Reach for a higher level of personal standards if you need it. Sometimes we love ourselves best by taking better care of ourselves, our homes and our loved ones. No one else can live your life; make sure you are doing the best job of it you can.
And that's the other side.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
So That Explains It!
At least, a little....
You Are 50% Normal (Somewhat Normal) |
 While some of your behavior is quite normal... Other things you do are downright strange You've got a little of your freak going on But you mostly keep your weirdness to yourself |
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Time is Flying!
I haven't written for awhile--not because I didn't have anything to write, but rather because I had TOO MUCH running around in my head and it'll take me a bit to sort it all out.
Last Saturday was my birthday. I am now thirty-five years old. Yep. 35. T-H-I-R-T-Y-F-I-V-E. I had to keep saying it to make it more real to myself. You see, when I was a child, thirty-five was the age in my head that was OLD! Really, really old. Really, really, very, really old. I don't feel really, really old. In fact, thanks to good skin care, I don't look really, really old. And yet, here I am, THIRTY-FIVE! (whisper it with me once: thirtyfive). Thirty-five is kinda close to forty. I'm not sure I'm ready to be kinda close to forty.
I was reading a Family Circle article the other day about women in their 90's. One of them said, "Don't forget, there's still a little girl inside of me!" That's how I feel. All of the hopes and wishes and dreams of my childhood, the insecurities of my teen-age years, and the confidence of my early adulthood all rolled into one. But someone else's body--other than my face, I don't really recognize this one. But that's going to have to be another blog entry.
I guess that it's official: I am now a Grown-Up. Yep. I have responsibilities, a mortgage, bills, the longest relationship I've ever had with anyone outside of my parents and siblings, (I'm talking about my husband), and children. And I couldn't, wouldn't trade them for anything. Especially the children. If I have to be thirtyfive I'd rather do it with them than anyone else. Being THIRTY-FIVE is worth all of the good things my husband and children have brought to me. Absolutely worth it.
And that's the other side.
Last Saturday was my birthday. I am now thirty-five years old. Yep. 35. T-H-I-R-T-Y-F-I-V-E. I had to keep saying it to make it more real to myself. You see, when I was a child, thirty-five was the age in my head that was OLD! Really, really old. Really, really, very, really old. I don't feel really, really old. In fact, thanks to good skin care, I don't look really, really old. And yet, here I am, THIRTY-FIVE! (whisper it with me once: thirtyfive). Thirty-five is kinda close to forty. I'm not sure I'm ready to be kinda close to forty.
I was reading a Family Circle article the other day about women in their 90's. One of them said, "Don't forget, there's still a little girl inside of me!" That's how I feel. All of the hopes and wishes and dreams of my childhood, the insecurities of my teen-age years, and the confidence of my early adulthood all rolled into one. But someone else's body--other than my face, I don't really recognize this one. But that's going to have to be another blog entry.
I guess that it's official: I am now a Grown-Up. Yep. I have responsibilities, a mortgage, bills, the longest relationship I've ever had with anyone outside of my parents and siblings, (I'm talking about my husband), and children. And I couldn't, wouldn't trade them for anything. Especially the children. If I have to be thirtyfive I'd rather do it with them than anyone else. Being THIRTY-FIVE is worth all of the good things my husband and children have brought to me. Absolutely worth it.
And that's the other side.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Creative Avoidance
I've already told you about my movie-lovin' 2 year old. (That's improving, by the way--thanks for asking) His favorite flick right now is Disney's "Dinosaur." This movie came out in the year 2000 and was the first time real picture scenes were superimposed with computer animation (or so the propaganda says). I can see why he likes it; gorgeous visual images, soaring music, a baby getting loved by a family, cute lemur antics. He's mesmerized. That is, until the meteor hits and it gets scary. Sometimes he watches (especially if someone is snuggling with him) but usually he gets anxious and agitated. When that happens, he cries out "help please! help me! help me!" followed by a bunch of gibberish (his vocabulary is small right now) as he ejects the dvd and starts it over. We've seen the beginning of that movie at least a dozen times this week.
That made me think a little about the trials we face in life. How many of us would like to cry "Help Me!" when the meteors hit the water near our little island sanctuary? How many times would we like to start the movie over when we are in the middle of something scary and awful--just to see if the ending changes?
I've actually fast forwarded the disc to the end just so he could see that everything ended well. At two, he doesn't really need to know that life can and probably will be ugly at times. I'd rather he focus on the happiness of family, of babies getting their needs taken care of and being loved. And even though there have been times I would have liked to fast forward through the trials in my life, I am grateful for the lessons I've learned from them. It's a little corny, but it's true.
And that's the other side.
That made me think a little about the trials we face in life. How many of us would like to cry "Help Me!" when the meteors hit the water near our little island sanctuary? How many times would we like to start the movie over when we are in the middle of something scary and awful--just to see if the ending changes?
I've actually fast forwarded the disc to the end just so he could see that everything ended well. At two, he doesn't really need to know that life can and probably will be ugly at times. I'd rather he focus on the happiness of family, of babies getting their needs taken care of and being loved. And even though there have been times I would have liked to fast forward through the trials in my life, I am grateful for the lessons I've learned from them. It's a little corny, but it's true.
And that's the other side.
Monday, April 25, 2005
What if?
This essay was originally written in October, 2003, just before my orange-lovin' boy's 5th birthday. It's still one of my favorites. I hope you like it too!
My five year old likes to play a game I call “What If?” Those of you out there who are exposed to four and five year olds will probably recognize the game as I describe it. Usually it takes place in the car, while I am trying to concentrate on driving. He’ll land on a topic and imagine amazing things about it, requiring some input from me as he concludes. Here’s a typical game:
“What if our car could fly? What if we could just push a button and zoom to the grocery store? No! Wait! What if we could be invisible while we fly? No! What if our car could also be a rocket and we could go to the moon? No—wait! What if while we go to the moon we could zoom to Ben’s house and pick him up and take him with us?”
And so on. Eventually, our car is not only an invisible flying rocket, but it has room in it for all of his favorite cousins and other people, decorated with flames, and when we arrived at our destination, all we have to do is push a special button to make our car fold up into it’s own carrying case so we can put it in our pockets and not worry about having to find a parking spot.
My usual response—carefully thought out so that I don’t squash his exuberant enthusiasm or his desire to imagine the possibilities is, “That would be something!” As things become more incredible and amazing, my response changes to “That would be something” and later as his imaginings border on the truly fantastic, “That really would be something!” This satisfies him, and allows me keep the car on the road where it is supposed to be, as opposed to ending up on the sidewalk, around a tree, or up the tailpipe of the vehicle in front of me.
As his mother, I smile and wonder to myself what other mothers do in these creative and imaginative settings. I like to think that when Oliver Wright said, “What if I could build a machine that could fly people around like the birds?” or Thomas Edison said “What if I could get this little piece of tungsten wire to light up?” or Mr. Nokia (or whoever pioneered the cell phone) said, “What if we could talk on radio waves?” the response from those close to them was “That really would be something!”
Now my version of the “What If” game is a little different. Sometimes it’s “What if your room was always clean?” or “What if our five-month-old really did sleep through all of the night?” or “What if the dishes really did wash themselves?” But if allowed to let my creative imagination truly run wild, I would also say to this precious five year old boy, “What if you always stayed just the right size to snuggle here on my lap? What if you always stayed just as you are, right now? What if I could make the world so safe and all of the people in the world so kind and nice that you would never have the chance of being in danger or getting your feelings hurt?”
That really would be something.
And that’s the other side.
My five year old likes to play a game I call “What If?” Those of you out there who are exposed to four and five year olds will probably recognize the game as I describe it. Usually it takes place in the car, while I am trying to concentrate on driving. He’ll land on a topic and imagine amazing things about it, requiring some input from me as he concludes. Here’s a typical game:
“What if our car could fly? What if we could just push a button and zoom to the grocery store? No! Wait! What if we could be invisible while we fly? No! What if our car could also be a rocket and we could go to the moon? No—wait! What if while we go to the moon we could zoom to Ben’s house and pick him up and take him with us?”
And so on. Eventually, our car is not only an invisible flying rocket, but it has room in it for all of his favorite cousins and other people, decorated with flames, and when we arrived at our destination, all we have to do is push a special button to make our car fold up into it’s own carrying case so we can put it in our pockets and not worry about having to find a parking spot.
My usual response—carefully thought out so that I don’t squash his exuberant enthusiasm or his desire to imagine the possibilities is, “That would be something!” As things become more incredible and amazing, my response changes to “That would be something” and later as his imaginings border on the truly fantastic, “That really would be something!” This satisfies him, and allows me keep the car on the road where it is supposed to be, as opposed to ending up on the sidewalk, around a tree, or up the tailpipe of the vehicle in front of me.
As his mother, I smile and wonder to myself what other mothers do in these creative and imaginative settings. I like to think that when Oliver Wright said, “What if I could build a machine that could fly people around like the birds?” or Thomas Edison said “What if I could get this little piece of tungsten wire to light up?” or Mr. Nokia (or whoever pioneered the cell phone) said, “What if we could talk on radio waves?” the response from those close to them was “That really would be something!”
Now my version of the “What If” game is a little different. Sometimes it’s “What if your room was always clean?” or “What if our five-month-old really did sleep through all of the night?” or “What if the dishes really did wash themselves?” But if allowed to let my creative imagination truly run wild, I would also say to this precious five year old boy, “What if you always stayed just the right size to snuggle here on my lap? What if you always stayed just as you are, right now? What if I could make the world so safe and all of the people in the world so kind and nice that you would never have the chance of being in danger or getting your feelings hurt?”
That really would be something.
And that’s the other side.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Feelin' Otherworldy
Today I am in a surreal state of mind. I found out yesterday that one of my dear friends of the past was burying her daughter Megan. Megan would have been 20 this July. She'd had since birth some mild cerebral palsy and epilepsy--but you would have never known it. She had some paralysis on her right side so did everything one-handed--even tie her shoes. She was fiercely independent. She worked in a bakery, went hiking, canoeing, rode zip lines, loved her siblings, did chores around the house, went to school--all with one hand. The last time I spent time with her, I was wearing my Mary Kay beauty consultant hat and asked by her mother to teach her how to wear makeup. "It'll be easier for her to hear coming from you rather than me." her mom said. It was fun.
Megan was fun to be around. She was bright and cheerful. She never complained. I didn't know her well, but I liked being around her when I was. I only found out about her funeral about an hour and a half before it started. I just knew in my gut that I had to be there. As other's shared their stories about Megan, as her beautiful mother, my friend spoke about her daughter without breaking down, I cried. Even though my religious faith tells me she is in a better happier place without the constraints of her handicapped body, it was easy to see that she is leaving a hole behind.
Her dad told this amazing story at the end of the funeral. Her parents were having a hard time choosing a cemetary for her. After driving around all of the ones in the area, they decided that it should be a family decision. So the next day they pulled the other kids (5 of them) out of school and drove around again. When they got to a small, out of the way, kinda in the middle of nowhere, they unanimously got a strong feeling that this quiet cemetary was the right cemetary for Megan's final resting place. They made the appropriate phone calls, and waited for the caretakers of the cemetary to arrive. As they waited, they walked around looking for the right plot. Far away, down at the other end of the cemetary an old man jumped up, waved at them and called "Hal....Hal!" Since no one in their party was named "Hal," they shrugged it off and kept looking. After the man did this a second time, Megan's aunt said, "I think he's saying "Help." Megan's dad admitted that he was selfishly caught up in his own grief and worries to give it much thought. (I probably would have been too!). Her aunt went to investigate, and found that the old man was bleeding badly from a cut in his arm, and had been crawling around the cemetary for well over a day, trying to get help. They called 911, and got him the emergency care he needed. He was dehydrated, and slowly bleeding to death. If they hadn't been there at that time, he would have died. Megan's father felt that it was her influence from the other side that led them there--so that they could help him. Megan loved people and she loved helping.
I'm going to make her mother a card and mail it to her. I didn't have time to make one before the funeral. In it I will tell her mother again how glad I am that we were close once, and how I cherish her friendship. Then, as per her mother's wishes as to how we knew Megan, I will tell her mother that I thought Megan was beautiful and bright. I will tell her that I never saw her handicap.
I have a poem brewing, and when I finish it I will share. For now it's just:
The world is dimmer today.
the Light you brought to it has
followed you home.
Farewell Megan, even though I wasn't a big part of your life, you made an impression on mine, and I will miss you.
Megan was fun to be around. She was bright and cheerful. She never complained. I didn't know her well, but I liked being around her when I was. I only found out about her funeral about an hour and a half before it started. I just knew in my gut that I had to be there. As other's shared their stories about Megan, as her beautiful mother, my friend spoke about her daughter without breaking down, I cried. Even though my religious faith tells me she is in a better happier place without the constraints of her handicapped body, it was easy to see that she is leaving a hole behind.
Her dad told this amazing story at the end of the funeral. Her parents were having a hard time choosing a cemetary for her. After driving around all of the ones in the area, they decided that it should be a family decision. So the next day they pulled the other kids (5 of them) out of school and drove around again. When they got to a small, out of the way, kinda in the middle of nowhere, they unanimously got a strong feeling that this quiet cemetary was the right cemetary for Megan's final resting place. They made the appropriate phone calls, and waited for the caretakers of the cemetary to arrive. As they waited, they walked around looking for the right plot. Far away, down at the other end of the cemetary an old man jumped up, waved at them and called "Hal....Hal!" Since no one in their party was named "Hal," they shrugged it off and kept looking. After the man did this a second time, Megan's aunt said, "I think he's saying "Help." Megan's dad admitted that he was selfishly caught up in his own grief and worries to give it much thought. (I probably would have been too!). Her aunt went to investigate, and found that the old man was bleeding badly from a cut in his arm, and had been crawling around the cemetary for well over a day, trying to get help. They called 911, and got him the emergency care he needed. He was dehydrated, and slowly bleeding to death. If they hadn't been there at that time, he would have died. Megan's father felt that it was her influence from the other side that led them there--so that they could help him. Megan loved people and she loved helping.
I'm going to make her mother a card and mail it to her. I didn't have time to make one before the funeral. In it I will tell her mother again how glad I am that we were close once, and how I cherish her friendship. Then, as per her mother's wishes as to how we knew Megan, I will tell her mother that I thought Megan was beautiful and bright. I will tell her that I never saw her handicap.
I have a poem brewing, and when I finish it I will share. For now it's just:
The world is dimmer today.
the Light you brought to it has
followed you home.
Farewell Megan, even though I wasn't a big part of your life, you made an impression on mine, and I will miss you.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Shoes, Wonderful Shoes!
This was originally written in September of 2003. I think it's worth reposting.
Okay, let me say right now, that this essay will deal with women and generalities. While I know that it is impossible for ALL women to love shoes, it is a common idea that MOST women love shoes. It is on that platform that some of my remarks today will be made.
I am one of those women who love shoes. I especially love black shoes. I think I am safe in saying that most women have more than one black pair of shoes and really couldn’t part with any of them. At this time, I own over seven pairs of black shoes; each has their own special place and purpose in my closet. If you could love shoes like children, then sometimes I do.
Speaking of children, my nearly-nine-year-old daughter is discovering shoes. Her feet are on the brink of fitting into Women’s sizes. She is finding out what her shoe personality is, as the shoes in her size go from decidedly little girl sandals and mary janes to shoes with heels (to get the proper emphasis, you should say the word “heels” in hushed and reverent tones…as she does). This new stage of her life is fun for me; we are bonding over shoes. We were shopping in Goodwill the other day (my favorite place to find shoes, as I almost always walk away from the store with a new pair of $80 shoes for about six bucks) when I asked her to point out what kind of shoes she liked. Oh the response I got! She started pulling a pair of shoes off of the rack. The first pair was a little strappy sandal, more girly than grown-up, with a chunky 1-inch heel. “These are nice” she said, but I could tell she was still in what she felt was safe territory—answering mom with what she thought I wanted to hear. “Yes,” I answered, “but they are your size right now, and you don’t really need them.” She took this statement for what it was—permission to find what she liked, not what I wanted her to like. Immediately she began grabbing shoes—a high-heeled wedge here, a colorful spiky heel there, the occasional purple mule, and landed finally on a two-strap platform slide—black chunky heels, leopard print straps. These shoes were somewhere between trendy and trampy. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I love these!” Wouldn’t you know that they fit perfectly? She wore them around the store, and all I could do was smile at her, knowing that she was too young to know that high heels hurt after awhile. Even though I didn’t really like her choice of shoes, I couldn’t help but enjoy her youthful enthusiasm about growing up.
That’s when I realized that shoes have become a female ritual in our modern non-ritualistic society. Gone are the days when you knew a girl was becoming a woman because she could now wear her hair up. Gone are the debutante balls, the cotillions, and the change from pedal pushers to shirt dresses. Instead, girls today get their first pair of heels. Heels are grown-up shoes for grown-up girls. They are a tangible proof of maturity, an unmistakable sign of adulthood.
I eventually talked my daughter into a different pair of shoes. We bought shoes that were appropriate for a girl nearly nine—a girl who is somewhere between little girl and grown-up. A pair of Doc Martins (remember, $80 shoes for six bucks…)—a great pair of shoes with a chunky, platform-like heel and mary jane straps. Shoes that were tough, yet feminine. Of course they were black.
And that’s the other side.
Okay, let me say right now, that this essay will deal with women and generalities. While I know that it is impossible for ALL women to love shoes, it is a common idea that MOST women love shoes. It is on that platform that some of my remarks today will be made.
I am one of those women who love shoes. I especially love black shoes. I think I am safe in saying that most women have more than one black pair of shoes and really couldn’t part with any of them. At this time, I own over seven pairs of black shoes; each has their own special place and purpose in my closet. If you could love shoes like children, then sometimes I do.
Speaking of children, my nearly-nine-year-old daughter is discovering shoes. Her feet are on the brink of fitting into Women’s sizes. She is finding out what her shoe personality is, as the shoes in her size go from decidedly little girl sandals and mary janes to shoes with heels (to get the proper emphasis, you should say the word “heels” in hushed and reverent tones…as she does). This new stage of her life is fun for me; we are bonding over shoes. We were shopping in Goodwill the other day (my favorite place to find shoes, as I almost always walk away from the store with a new pair of $80 shoes for about six bucks) when I asked her to point out what kind of shoes she liked. Oh the response I got! She started pulling a pair of shoes off of the rack. The first pair was a little strappy sandal, more girly than grown-up, with a chunky 1-inch heel. “These are nice” she said, but I could tell she was still in what she felt was safe territory—answering mom with what she thought I wanted to hear. “Yes,” I answered, “but they are your size right now, and you don’t really need them.” She took this statement for what it was—permission to find what she liked, not what I wanted her to like. Immediately she began grabbing shoes—a high-heeled wedge here, a colorful spiky heel there, the occasional purple mule, and landed finally on a two-strap platform slide—black chunky heels, leopard print straps. These shoes were somewhere between trendy and trampy. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I love these!” Wouldn’t you know that they fit perfectly? She wore them around the store, and all I could do was smile at her, knowing that she was too young to know that high heels hurt after awhile. Even though I didn’t really like her choice of shoes, I couldn’t help but enjoy her youthful enthusiasm about growing up.
That’s when I realized that shoes have become a female ritual in our modern non-ritualistic society. Gone are the days when you knew a girl was becoming a woman because she could now wear her hair up. Gone are the debutante balls, the cotillions, and the change from pedal pushers to shirt dresses. Instead, girls today get their first pair of heels. Heels are grown-up shoes for grown-up girls. They are a tangible proof of maturity, an unmistakable sign of adulthood.
I eventually talked my daughter into a different pair of shoes. We bought shoes that were appropriate for a girl nearly nine—a girl who is somewhere between little girl and grown-up. A pair of Doc Martins (remember, $80 shoes for six bucks…)—a great pair of shoes with a chunky, platform-like heel and mary jane straps. Shoes that were tough, yet feminine. Of course they were black.
And that’s the other side.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Here's to Joyce!
I love to watch "The Amazing Race." It's one of about 3 shows I watch anymore. I don't think I've missed much more than one or two episodes in seven seasons. It's been fascinating to see these ordinary people cry, strive, laugh, fight, bicker, get lost, get hurt, push past their fears, cheat, lie, and love as they race around the world for a million dollars. The full spectrum of human behavior unfolds against a backdrop of the wonderful and exotic in the world. Some events are shocking (Jonathon and Victoria) and some are marvelous (I can't remember their names right now, but I'm still impressed by the sister team from Utah where one of the sisters unrolled hay bales for over eight hours searching for the clue. Every other team had moved on, but she kept unrolling those hay bales. She never quit. Phil, the host of the show, finally came to her to tell her that they were eliminated from the race. It was dark, and they estimated she had unrolled close to 200 ginormous hay bales. There's stamina and integrity for you!). I especially love watching these people test their courage.
Today I am especially impressed by Joyce. http://www.cbs.com/primetime/amazing_race7/ She and her husband Uchenna entered this race with the twin hopes of rebuilding their relationship and winning the money so that they could afford to battle their infertility difficulties. In the last episode, they chose to go after the elusive "Fast Forward"; by earning the Fast Forward, they earn the right to skip all tasks and go right to the pit stop. Teams winning the fast forward are usually in first place and are ahead of all the other teams. This race is almost over, and winning the fast forward now could mean winning the race. Now the Fast Forward is usually a daunting task--more difficult than the others. In this task, racers had to undergo a Hindu good luck ritual--shaving their heads bald. No problem for Uchenna--he's already shaven. But Joyce wasn't. They took a lot of time finding the fast forward. Going back without winning it would have surely meant elimination. Joyce was mad. "I frickin' knew it!" she yelled. "All right then, go ahead!" she said, ripping off her bandanna. Uchenna tried to stop her--"You don't have to do this honey." "We are DOING THIS!" was her reply. You could hear the frustration and hurt and fear in her voice. She cried as the scissors started cutting her hair off. Not only was she losing what had to be an important part of her female self-definition (I mean, what woman isn't a little vain about her hair?)--she was about to be bald on national television.
It was marvelous to watch as her tears of anger and loss changed as her hair got shorter and shorter. "It's only hair--it'll grow back. It's just the outward appearance." You could feel Uchenna's pride and love for his wife radiating from the tv screen. "You are so beautiful!" he kept saying to her. And it was true. She was absolutely regal. She was stunning. She was inspiring.
I don't know if Uchenna and Joyce will will the million dollars or not--but maybe they have something better. When they started this race, they admitted that their relationship was in a rocky place. After watching them earn that fast forward, and watching them grow together and work as a team, I would be surprised if they still felt that way. They have integrity and obvious love for each other. Uchenna respected and loved Joyce enough to lose the race if she wanted to keep her hair. She respected and loved him enough to let her hair go. I hope that if I am faced with the choice of losing something important to me (but ultimately trivial), I'll have the courage to make the choice. Would I give up my hair for a million dollars? Maybe. Would I give up my hair to make my relationship with my husband better? Definitely.
And that's the other side.
Today I am especially impressed by Joyce. http://www.cbs.com/primetime/amazing_race7/ She and her husband Uchenna entered this race with the twin hopes of rebuilding their relationship and winning the money so that they could afford to battle their infertility difficulties. In the last episode, they chose to go after the elusive "Fast Forward"; by earning the Fast Forward, they earn the right to skip all tasks and go right to the pit stop. Teams winning the fast forward are usually in first place and are ahead of all the other teams. This race is almost over, and winning the fast forward now could mean winning the race. Now the Fast Forward is usually a daunting task--more difficult than the others. In this task, racers had to undergo a Hindu good luck ritual--shaving their heads bald. No problem for Uchenna--he's already shaven. But Joyce wasn't. They took a lot of time finding the fast forward. Going back without winning it would have surely meant elimination. Joyce was mad. "I frickin' knew it!" she yelled. "All right then, go ahead!" she said, ripping off her bandanna. Uchenna tried to stop her--"You don't have to do this honey." "We are DOING THIS!" was her reply. You could hear the frustration and hurt and fear in her voice. She cried as the scissors started cutting her hair off. Not only was she losing what had to be an important part of her female self-definition (I mean, what woman isn't a little vain about her hair?)--she was about to be bald on national television.
It was marvelous to watch as her tears of anger and loss changed as her hair got shorter and shorter. "It's only hair--it'll grow back. It's just the outward appearance." You could feel Uchenna's pride and love for his wife radiating from the tv screen. "You are so beautiful!" he kept saying to her. And it was true. She was absolutely regal. She was stunning. She was inspiring.
I don't know if Uchenna and Joyce will will the million dollars or not--but maybe they have something better. When they started this race, they admitted that their relationship was in a rocky place. After watching them earn that fast forward, and watching them grow together and work as a team, I would be surprised if they still felt that way. They have integrity and obvious love for each other. Uchenna respected and loved Joyce enough to lose the race if she wanted to keep her hair. She respected and loved him enough to let her hair go. I hope that if I am faced with the choice of losing something important to me (but ultimately trivial), I'll have the courage to make the choice. Would I give up my hair for a million dollars? Maybe. Would I give up my hair to make my relationship with my husband better? Definitely.
And that's the other side.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Ode to a Nap
Ah Sleep. That elusive elixir of life. At least for me. I've been blessed by children, who as babies, were rough sleepers. Now that they are older (my youngest just turned 2), and are sleeping better, somehow I'm not. I'm still programmed to wake every couple of hours. I just listen a second and then roll over and try to go back to sleep. Sometimes my 2 year old is crying--he still wakes at least once a night and needs some attention. (and yes, we've tried all of the "help your baby to sleep on his own" tricks. More than once. More than twice. Thanks for thinking of them.) Usually everything is fine, and I am only conscious for a second or two.
Then, however, I am floating in that in-between conscious and sleeping unconscious stage for about 20-30 minutes. Just to go through the same thing again in a couple of hours. It makes for one tired Mama! Today I woke up a little before 6 am and couldn't get back to sleep. I survive by getting a nap. Today will be a nap day.
Things must be just right for me to nap; my baby must also be down for his nap (terrible at night, great during the day--go figure!). I have a little nap corner on the extra bed in our office/scrapbook nook area. I must lay across the bed at a funny angle. I must lay on my right side. I must have a pillow to cover my face. I must have my favorite quilt all cocoon-like around me. My son must have something to do that will occupy him for at least an hour. Then I can nap.
If all is well with the "musts," I can power nap. I can slip into a nearly unconscious state in minutes. Many's the time I have awakened so relaxed I have been in what we call "the drool zone." My DH is adept at reaching the "drool zone"--not so much for me. I try to only nap for 30-45 minutes. More than that and I am still funky-tired and irritable. If anything wakes me up before the requisite 30 minutes--the phone, a child needing attention, etc., then the nap is lost to me and I and everyone around me just have to suck it up and deal.
Nothing quite matches the euphoria of waking up from a good nap. I feel more like a person. I remember myself better. I am more balanced. Naps are essential for my well-being.
Today is a Nap Day. And that's the other side.
Then, however, I am floating in that in-between conscious and sleeping unconscious stage for about 20-30 minutes. Just to go through the same thing again in a couple of hours. It makes for one tired Mama! Today I woke up a little before 6 am and couldn't get back to sleep. I survive by getting a nap. Today will be a nap day.
Things must be just right for me to nap; my baby must also be down for his nap (terrible at night, great during the day--go figure!). I have a little nap corner on the extra bed in our office/scrapbook nook area. I must lay across the bed at a funny angle. I must lay on my right side. I must have a pillow to cover my face. I must have my favorite quilt all cocoon-like around me. My son must have something to do that will occupy him for at least an hour. Then I can nap.
If all is well with the "musts," I can power nap. I can slip into a nearly unconscious state in minutes. Many's the time I have awakened so relaxed I have been in what we call "the drool zone." My DH is adept at reaching the "drool zone"--not so much for me. I try to only nap for 30-45 minutes. More than that and I am still funky-tired and irritable. If anything wakes me up before the requisite 30 minutes--the phone, a child needing attention, etc., then the nap is lost to me and I and everyone around me just have to suck it up and deal.
Nothing quite matches the euphoria of waking up from a good nap. I feel more like a person. I remember myself better. I am more balanced. Naps are essential for my well-being.
Today is a Nap Day. And that's the other side.
Monday, April 18, 2005
How Cool is That?!?!
Okay, I'm about to share a deep secret part of me. I want to be a Scrapbook Celebrity. At least I want to rub shoulders with them and have good parts of me come out in recognizable ways because of what I've learned from them. I would be thrilled to death if they included me in their circle of things. I've been reading all of these great Blogs by these ladies--Ali Edwards, Donna Downey, Cathy Zielske and Tara Whitney (I limited myself to these for starters--I have to get off of the computer SOMETIME during the day to take care of the mundane little details of my life--like feeding my kids, loading my dishwasher, rotating laundry...etc., etc.,). Anyway, I posted to the Simple Scrapbooks message board (SSMB) that I really liked DonnaD's blog and she read my post. And then read my blog. And then she posted a comment that said that she liked it--and me by extension! HOW COOL IS THAT!
So why aren't I a Scrapbook Celebrity? Ah, there's the rub. I haven't tried out. I've been furiously devouring these great books and pages and magazines and layouts and ideas to make MY scrapbooking better but I've not entered anything. Well, I guess that's not quite true. I've sent in a handful of pages. Like three. Not a lot. And not enough to get noticed. So now I'm on a quest. I'm going to work this year to get noticed. And that scares me spitless.
One of my online girlfriends has a quote in her signature line that goes something like "What we risk is also what we value." Well, what I am risking by putting my work out there to be noticed is me. Myself. I. So the real question then, is, how much do I value myself? Do I value myself enough to go through the effort to take some digital pics of my layouts and size them to the right dpi so I can submit them electronically? Do I value myself enough to figure out what the heck a "dpi" is? Do I value myself enough to just try?
One step...a journey begins with one step. Time for me to make that step. It's better than not trying at all.
And that's the other side.
Here's my self-portrait, courtesy of Ali's challenge. (see above)
So why aren't I a Scrapbook Celebrity? Ah, there's the rub. I haven't tried out. I've been furiously devouring these great books and pages and magazines and layouts and ideas to make MY scrapbooking better but I've not entered anything. Well, I guess that's not quite true. I've sent in a handful of pages. Like three. Not a lot. And not enough to get noticed. So now I'm on a quest. I'm going to work this year to get noticed. And that scares me spitless.
One of my online girlfriends has a quote in her signature line that goes something like "What we risk is also what we value." Well, what I am risking by putting my work out there to be noticed is me. Myself. I. So the real question then, is, how much do I value myself? Do I value myself enough to go through the effort to take some digital pics of my layouts and size them to the right dpi so I can submit them electronically? Do I value myself enough to figure out what the heck a "dpi" is? Do I value myself enough to just try?
One step...a journey begins with one step. Time for me to make that step. It's better than not trying at all.
And that's the other side.
Here's my self-portrait, courtesy of Ali's challenge. (see above)
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