And the Oscar goes to.....uh, you.

Creative people really dig getting awards. It's so fascinating to me. I mean, I'm kinda creative. And getting an award sounds kinda fun in a way. I've always dreamed of giving a speech. Ever since I was little. Accepting an award for some film I worked on. Some story I've told.

But now I'm older and uh, tired. And giving a speech sounds a bit like a pain-in-the-ass to me. I would be as nervous as hell and inside I would be probably be chuckling because I would realize that me getting this award that I've been given doesn't mean a damn thing. In the grand scheme of things.

I'll admit that there are plenty of films and documentaries that have won awards that have actually made a difference. Stories that have shed truth on a subject that needed illuminating. And sure, a gold statue shaped like a dude sounds like a decent enough pat on the back for those kind of efforts.

But there are plenty of films, and people, and costumes and sound mixers and scripts that have taken home the coveted Oscar that are just, eh. Eh enough to have slipped only into the Oscar history book remembered only by Oscar buffs.

Tonight as I sit here completely unaffected by all that transpired at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood just 20 minutes from my home, I am thinking of the stories that do affect me. The stories that are told every day in the lives of many cool women I know. Specifically moms. 'Cause this mom scene is really my main point of reference these days. I'm swimming in mom stuff.
And I'm trying to keep from drowning each and every day.

So I'm hosting a little awards show in my living room right now and the fact that I'm not wearing a bra makes me more like the Oscar attendees tonight than I originally thought. The nominees for my lil' awards show are too many to list here but here are some of the main contenders for um, Outstanding Mom of the Year.

Kath, a mom of 3, who works so hard to ground her kids in one of the most stable homes I know and who spreads herself beyond thin taking care of her father who is battling cancer, and who works as a pediatric cancer nurse spreading her love and care to not only the sick kids but their parents as well. She should get an award.

Erin, my neighbor and mom of 3, who is so committed to her family that it's awe-inspiring. She bakes the most delicious chocolate-chip pumpkin mini-muffins and she can't seem to say no to anyone who needs help including the school where both of our kids attend. Give her an award.

My other neighbor, Eri, who has a son who is 2 1/2 (adopted from foster care), a son (1 1/2 who she birthed at home), a daughter (8 months old who she is currently fostering and hoping to adopt) and she's also uh, 7 months pregnant with a baby girl. AND Eri is never seen without a smile on her face. And she's often seen raking her front lawn. Smiling. Yep. Where's her award?

Deb, who has stayed home raising her boys, 16 and 13, and who has struggled with all that comes with having a son with Cystic Fibrosis. She's committed and smart and real and she's working to get a new project off the ground to support other moms of kids with chronic diseases. Award please.

Karen, who has given up her life as an award-winning television producer, to live a slower-paced life taking care of her man and her three gorgeous girls. The last girl being a miracle baby who really had no shot of survival. Karen has walked the walk so many of us fear and she has done it with such courage and grace. Her quiet strength is mind-blowing. Give her a shiny statue now please.

Heather, who has recently admitted she is an alcoholic and is working like a mad woman towards true recovery. She whispers "I promise you" each and every night to her little boys, ages 4 and 2, to remind her why she is taking these difficult, seemingly impossible steps towards a new way of living her days. Her honesty is humbling. Her award is well-deserved so please hand it over.

Amy, who empties her dishwasher first thing each and every morning, and then feeds her two dogs, and then gets breakfast ready for her two kids, 7 and 5, and then packs their lunches, and takes her kids to school, and then grocery shops, and then walks the dogs, and then helps her husband in his business, and then picks the kids up, and then makes dinner, and then feeds the guinea pig that her daughter wanted so badly but now finds that she has fallen in love with this little furry creature herself, and then reads bedtime stories, and then hugs and kisses her precious kids goodnight, and then starts the dishwasher filled with a day of dishes and then goes to bed. And then? She does it all again the next day. Does this mom deserve an award or what??

Steph, who has supported her man after he lost his job and his mom, all within a few months of each other. Who has sat through endless basketball games and dance recitals and soccer sidelines for her two children, 15 and 7. Who always bakes homemade birthday cakes and throws backyard parties. Who has been a rock in a sea of the kind of turmoil life can throw at you. I think an award should be coming her way. Like now.

And the list goes on and on and on. And on.

Although the designer gowns and loaner diamond necklaces will most likely never come our way, I'm feeling that the costumes and characters and plot lines of our mama lives are definitely Oscar worthy.

So if you're like me and you've always dreamed of giving a speech, here is your chance. Kids make an awesome audience. That is, if they listen. Which mine don't most of the time. If the kids aren't working out, you can always resort to the good ol' standby - the bathroom mirror.

To my mama partners-in-crime, I'm thinking of all of your hard work tonight. The second after second of the mundane and the grand, the stories you are creating for the little souls in your life, the creativity you use each and every day to stop a tantrum or whip up a meal or make a costume, for the dedication to your craft.

The most important job of all with indelible impressions to be left on creation.

And so really.

The Oscar goes to........

....you.

Now go dust off that shelf to make room for it.

An Olympian Goal for a Regular Mom Inspired by Apolo Ohno

Written by Karen, a mom without a blog

Over the past two weeks I watched the NBC Olympic coverage along with millions of other regular folks around the world, marveling at the prowess and spirit exhibited by these super-human athletes. Sometime during the overwrought feature pieces on a few select Olympians, I was struck by something that was said by none other than short-track speed skater phenom, Apolo Anton Ohno. While describing his intense preparation for his sport, he explained that every night before he goes to bed he asks himself if he did everything he possibly could that day in his quest to be the best.

Wow. It takes a special kind of crazy to make an Olympic athlete. How much do they need to sacrifice each and every moment of each and every day to be the best they possibly can be in their sport?

Ohno’s words really stuck with me as a regular mom trying to get my kids AND me through the day in one piece. I mean if you REALLY want to be great at something, you should have no problem pushing yourself past a minimal or even normal amount of effort. Right?

As I reflected on Ohno's statement over the last few days, I came to the profound realization that I wanted to start trying to instill this challenge of “did I do everything today to be the best” in myself as a mother.

What if I, as a semi-adequate regular mom, decided to ask myself every night before I went to bed, “Did I do everything today I could have possibly done to be the best mother I can be?” And if the answer is no (which of course it would always be) – I would have to be willing to follow-up with, “What can I do tomorrow to be the best mother I can be?”

But then I’m stuck. I mean, these are noble questions to ask, but I don’t want to set myself for what will inevitably be failure on a daily basis. How do you measure parenting goals and achievements? You can look at the children – but they are kids – they are intangible and wonderfully complicated. Every time they fight or throw something or talk back or lie – well, does that make the parent a total loser?

I think my expectations of myself as a mother should be high or I’m short changing my young charges in a huge, life-altering sort of way. Parenting is a daily commitment that requires sacrifice. A sacrifice of Olympian proportions!

Guess what?

This kind of sacrifice is already happening. Parents across the globe are trying to do what they can to nurture future regular humans! It's not making the headlines, but it is more than headline worthy. The proof is all in the little things, not in that once in a lifetime slide along an icy slope, track or rink.

Back to questioning my daily success every night. I’m gong to stick to those little things in my own quest for better parenting.

I know I’m not going to get a medal for emptying the trashcan just before the waste of our lives goes spilling all over the floor...

…Or for not losing my keys for seven days straight!

…Or for arriving EARLY to pick up my 9-yr-old from ballet!

…Or for fully completing a laundry cycle (launder, fold and put away) in one day!

…Or for turning off the Olympics for 5 minutes to read a book to my preschooler!

These small victories in my daily life give me a tiny bit of comfort and peace of mind – something that ultimately translates to a less-harried, more-present mommy. Who needs a medal when you have the ultimate honor – the love of a child.

My inspiration from Ohno and the other dedicated Olympians is to challenge myself to be the best me I can be in real, tangible ways – and mentally checking in on my progress once and a while as I go along -

Which is truly the best I can do.

Now let's put away that Caillou book so I can re-wind my DVR - Lindsey Vonn sobbing in her husband’s arms after winning the downhill never gets old!

My Children's Artwork. And How it Ends Up in the Trash.

Every single day my children produce art. Every. Single. Day.

There are stacks and piles of colorings and clippings and gluings and stickerings and glitterings and just so many ings of creative expression that I find myself utterly petrified wondering if I'm gonna get caught when I throw the majority of these masterpieces in. the. trash.

Cause I've been caught. Many times. And it sucks.

"MOOMMMYYYYYYYY!!!!!"

And when I run over to see what the problem is, there they are, pulling one of their absolutely perfect, never-to-be-thrown-away, pieces of art out of the garbage can.

"Mommy, how did THIS end up in the TRASH?????"

And then I lie.

Of course.

Because mama would never ever throw away a piece of precious, innocent artwork created by her precious, innocent children! No way!!

"Honey, I have NO idea how that got into the trash. That is crazy!! Maybe (insert babysitter's name here) accidentally threw it away when she was cleaning up the kitchen. Yeah, that's probably it."

And thank GOD they are young enough to buy whatever line I feed them.

But even though I have come to terms with the fact that MOST of their artwork simply must be trashed, I still have trouble in the moment when I'm deciding which pieces of art will be saved from the world of recycling so I can preserve it forever in my special artwork file thingy.

I mean look at this stuff:


Could you ever feel good about trashing that?

And look at Jane here...


She represents a whole new style of drawing that Claire, 7, is doing. And I kinda dig her.

And then even this crazy creature...


Sure it's borderline creepy. Okay, maybe not borderline. Like actually super creepy. But kinda lovable all at the same time.

The sifting through the piles always gets me riddling in my skull about whether or not I will follow through with the trashing or perhaps I'll just return it to the pile for the next sifting session.

But then when I come across things like this....


...it's kind of like a no-brainer.

I mean really. I'm totally looking like a grandma in that one by Claire. She says it's how I look in the morning.

Yikes.

I'm not gonna even make an excuse when she finds THAT one in the trash.

Now what do YOU do with all of YOUR kid's artwork?

Because deep down we ALL want to be movie stars

My first-born, my daughter, Claire, is 7-years-old and in the 2nd grade.

She has started some creative free writing in class and well, last night I flipped open her school notebook in a quiet kitchen after the cleaning had been done and all the kids were fast asleep.

This is what I found:

I had no idea my brilliant daughter was so connected with that "guy who was in charge of the movies."

I showed it to my man and then we laughed and laughed and laughed until we had tears streaming down for all of the reasons you laugh and cry about being a parent and watching your little baby's brain and soul grow and expand before your very eyes.

I know this might be one of those "you had to be there" moments but what the heck, I'm sharing it anyway.

Maybe it's just the kind of story that will kick off your weekend right.

Looking for Me

Written by Lee

Oh it was supposed to be sooooo fantastic. My day off from work. A day with my babies. A happy mama buzzing around in the morning with no place to be, just making lunches, attempting to braid some wispy hair, sitting on the floor to help with shoes, not feeling rushed to get out of the house myself, smiley kisses as they hopped into the van with daddy and promises to pick them up from school.

And after homework and a snack, we would head out on an adventure of epic Thursday afternoon proportions. A trip to the mall to find some dresses to wear for their upcoming Christmas program. My girls love their fashion, twirling and posing in all of their eclectic fabulosity. I don't think I've dressed them since they were like 2 and now Claire is 7 and Phoebe is 5. Their look is all their own. I love that.

Or at least I think I love that.

I don't know exactly why I thought it was all such an awesome idea to take the girls and my lil' train obsessed 2-1/2-year old Tommy to Macy's for Christmas dress shopping. I guess I just thought they would dig the idea of a new fancy get-up and then they would get to pop into a toy store to start compiling their Santa lists and maybe, just maybe, they would see the ol' guy himself and get to whisper in his ear some of their most outrageous Christmas wishes.

If only they weren't so deathly afraid of large bearded men in red suits.

My girls are fierce. Independent. Strong. Creative. And imaginations that make me wish I could shed my adult skin and jump into their raw alive child-minds and run fast and free in their ever-changing story-lines filled with fantastical characters and the silliest plot lines ever concocted.

And my girls are expressive. And loud. And opinionated. And bossy. And irreverent too much of the time it seems. And dramatic. And wow.

So when I stepped into that over-sized dressing room pushing my gargantuan stroller and holding my bag of tricks along with a slew of holiday dresses, I should have known that disaster was imminent.

But I was in denial. Slightly delusional. Blinded by the high expectations a working mama has when she has a day off with her kids that is supposed to simply be fabulous.

The road to destruction was a slow but steady build. The first 15 minutes or so of dresses going on and off and Tommy pushing his brand new Hot Wheels I just had bought him to keep him amused while we browsed the racks all went relatively fine. But then the voices started raising, the temperature started rising, the walls started shrinking and with each costume hoisted over their precious heads, the drama in their little souls let loose with reckless abandon.

I'm not sure exactly what made me snap but it happened somewhere between Phoebe sitting on the ground in the 8th large puffy snowflake of a dress screaming "I looooook ridiculoussssssss!" and Claire dancing around in a hot little pink and purple number that had no place being hung on a Christmas dress rack all the while making Tommy scream as she attempted to yank his cracker bag out of his hand because "I am hungry toooooo!!" Red-faced and teary-eyed, Tommy wailed and slapped at his big sister, and she cackled and grabbed the crackers anyway because that's what big sisters do sometimes.

And I felt my insides boiling. I hated the sound of my voice as I tried to keep it quiet for the sake of other customers being subjected to our own personal hell. I felt spent from the hour it took just to get the dresses off the rack and into the dressing room. I was hungry. I was tired from trying to be it all. A working woman. A working mama.

And I was speaking in harsh tones with my mouth tightly clenched and I told the kids I was done. I had warned them already multiple times. We had made a pact before we entered the mall that we would stay happy and work together and for our good behavior, we would get rewards. A trip to the food court. A romp to the toy store. But now everything was being ruined. There would be no new dresses, no fun at the food court, no Santa lists being made.

My fabulous day was being ruined and I. Was. Pissed. Off.

And while I hurriedly picked up the dresses off the floor and tried to hang them back on the hangars, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And it was not a face I wanted to see.

I remember in my younger, partying days in my mid-20's or so, I would do this thing that if I was altered in any way by a variety of partying uh, substances, I would every so often take a little look in the mirror and make sure I was still all there. And no matter what, I could always see me. Even through the altered brain.

But in that dressing room as a mama of three, I let my eyes linger for a moment at the face I saw in the mirror. And it was tough to see me right then and there. I have to be honest. It was not an expression I recognized. It was not a familiar face. I was really hoping that that person I was looking at was not me. It simply could not be me.

And my kids saw it too. Mainly my girls did. They saw something in their mama that made them feel sad and maybe even a little scared. And as they begged for us to stay and not to abandon our mission, I still silently and quietly picked everything up and firmly told them "Let's.Go."

They followed me out of that dressing room like good little ducks - all in a row. They were subdued and quiet and obedient. There were no tears just solemn faces of acceptance. There would be no new dresses today, they knew. No fun at the food court. No new toys to fantasize about.

And as walked past the rows and rows of holiday dresses on our way out of the store, Phoebe suddenly grabbed me around the waist and looking up at me she said "Do you forgive me Mama?"

And I stopped in my tracks. The tears welled and I said "Of course I forgive you Phoebes. I will always forgive you."

"Can we try again Mama? Can we try to find our dresses for our Christmas Program?" she said.

And with that face of light and innocence and 5-year-oldness that is palpable and precious staring up at me, my heart gave way and a part of me I recognized resurfaced.

I took a deep breath and said, "Sure Phoebes. We can try again."

And we grabbed some more glittery holiday costumes and headed back into the dressing room.

I don't know why I am still fighting so hard. To maintain the me that was. Maybe because I am working again and it's a tangible reminder of the person I used to be. Maybe it's because it's the path I am meant to walk on this eternal journey of surrendering to motherhood. Maybe it's because I, like my girls, am fierce and independent and opinionated and bossy.

But that glance in the mirror was a wake-up call to me. I didn't like what I saw in that Macy's dressing room that fabulous Thursday afternoon. And I hope I remember the visage that was staring back at me. 'Cause I believe it was telling me to find a new way.

It was telling me that I can't look in the mirror expecting to find the me that I used to find so many years ago. That me is gone. There's a new me in there. And it's the new me that I want my kids to see and know. The me that is head over heels in love with being their mother. The me that will always be willing to head back into that dressing room again and again and again.

December 2009 - Where we find ourselves on a Thursday afternoon

Coming Clean on My Thankfulness

Written by Kath, a mom without a blog

When my husband and I were first married, I only used on the weekends. We both worked full time during the week, so I limited my use to Saturday or Sunday only. It was all I needed at the time.

Once our first child was born, I found that I needed to use during the week as well. I just couldn’t seem to make it to the weekend; so inevitably, I’d have to use mid-week. That’s what happens when you have kids, I guess.

Fast forward 15 years and 3 kids later and I have to admit, I use almost daily. I just can’t help it. I NEED to. Yes, my friends, I “use” my washing machine nearly every single day.

Not one of my friends prepared me for the changes in laundry that come with having kids. Not one. Overnight, our laundry seemed to double…and that was only adding one 6 pound 6 ounce person to our family! How on earth is that possible??

Now with 3 kids, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my laundry is simply never caught up. There was a time in my life when laundry baskets were empty and I was able to have the sense of accomplishment that “all the laundry” was done. Not any more. The beast that is laundry has overtaken me in my home and I’m always struggling somehow to keep up. (But never quite achieving it).

This reminds me of when my oldest was getting ready for kindergarten. His school performed a “readiness assessment” on all in-coming kindergarteners to determine if they were ready for the demands of a full day at school. The interviewer asked my son a series of questions. As I sat in the back of the room, I overheard this conversation:

Interviewer: “What does your dad do?”

B: “He works on the computer.” (True, his dad is a computer consultant).

Interviewer: “And what does your mom do?”

B: “She folds laundry.”

Really. I wanted to stand up and scream, “Mama has a degree!!” But I sat there and bit my tongue. ‘Til it bled.

But I digress. Suffice it to say, I’ve never had a love affair with laundry. It’s one of those Mama chores I detest. Until recently, that is.

When I went out to my washer to remove the 75th (or maybe 6th) load of laundry for the day, I opened the door of my front-loading washer to find a massacre on my hands. The rubber seal around the door was hanging out in a grotesque fashion, warped and stretched beyond recognition. The inner drum was tilted at a strange angle. And my towels rolled out onto the floor. I swear, it looked as if my washing machine vomited up its contents right in front of me.

I grabbed my husband immediately. One of the many, many things I love about the man I married is that he can fix ANYTHING. He’s got that engineer brain that can figure any sort of machine out. I could tell by his face when he saw the carnage that he was worried too. But after 30 minutes or so taking things apart, he made his diagnosis. Fortunately he was able to order the part online. It would only be a few days until my dear washer was fixed.

“I can make it a few days without doing laundry,” I said to myself. No problem. But, long story short, the wrong part was sent, an exchange needed to occur, and 7 days later, I still did not have my washer.

At this point, laundry was literally everywhere in my house. The baskets had long since overflowed and piles were scattered throughout the bedrooms. We were all down to our last couple pair of underwear. What were we going to do??

My husband suggested a trip to the laundromat. Now, this was just something I could absolutely NOT conceive. I had done my time in laundromats, baby, and I had no intention of going back to one. Memories returned of college days where I hauled my laundry to the machines and waited patiently for a washer to open up. Then if, God forbid, I stepped away for a moment, there was always that kind person who removed my clothes for me and dumped them on the counter. Yeah, real nice.

Plus, there was the “ick” factor. Picturing my clothes tumbling in some washer used by hundreds of other people just sort of gives me the heebie jeebies. I guess I’m just a laundry snob.

Thankfully, on day 8, the part arrived. When I got home from work, I saw the empty box in the family room and my handy husband out in the laundry room putting the finishing touches on his repair. I stepped out to see what he was doing and he just smiled at me, proud of his accomplishment. I swear, he could have been standing there naked with roses and a bottle of wine in his hand and I wouldn’t have been happier. My washer was fixed!

This whole ordeal has made me extremely thankful for the luxury of my washing machine. It really is nothing short of a luxury, either. I am a very blessed woman to be able to do my family’s laundry in the comfort of my home. I don’t have to take the clothes to a stream and beat them with rocks. I don’t have to scrub them by hand and use a ringer to dry them. I don’t even have to load them in my car and take them to a laundromat. I am very, very lucky indeed.

So now I do my laundry with a little spring in my step. I’ll even pat my machine gently on its top and thank it for a job well done. I hum a tune as I fold the warm clothes and put them away, proud of this job I do for my family.

Yes, as my oldest once said, I “fold the laundry.” And I’m damn grateful that I can.

Memories of My Former Life in a Stack of Books

Written by Karen, a mom without a blog

What do the books on my shelf say about ME?

As we all know in the world of supermoms, one of the most important things to remember is that after the day of taking care of your brood, you absolutely need to spend a little time on yourself. Those end of the day moments where we do whatever it is we do to unwind and discover peace….

Truly, I would love to be able to spend some time at night to light some scented candles, bathe, take care of neglected hygiene issues, watch some TV or a good movie. But really, I just only want to get in bed and READ. And unfortunately for me, more often than not, once the house is quiet, I can eek out a few pages from a bedside book before I AM OUT.

I have ALWAYS been a bedtime reader, EVERY SINGLE NIGHT - until June 5, 1995, the birth of my oldest daughter. Since then, my reading has been VERY sporadic.

I miss it. I miss losing myself in a book for hours. I truly, truly miss it. Me time. Reading in bed is me. It helps me connect to the world, travel the world and appreciate the world around me all from the cozy comfort of my own queen-sized bed. It keeps me grounded and sane after a day of chores and children.

The other day, I was laying in bed, looking at the stack of books next to my bed. What to read? What to read? Then it became… wait, what are these books? How did this stack get so big? I realized I had started all of them save for two. Seven books. I tried to remember why each of them sounded interesting enough to me to bring them up from the basement bookshelves to the place of honor next to my bed. And then I tried to remember why I never finished any of them.

And what did these titles say about me? Or the “me” I think I’d like to be?

1) On the bottom of the stack: “Forever Blue: The True Story of Walter O’Malley, Baseball’s Most Controversial Owner, and the Dodgers of Brooklyn and Los Angeles”

HUH? You are really wondering about me now, aren’t you? I started this book five months ago and stopped just shy of chapter six. What was the distraction that kept me from finishing? – a busy summer, looking for mindless travel fodder, who knows?

What does this book say about me? I’m a Dodger fan and I’m glad to have it and I will finish it someday, but I’m going to have to start over – its been too long.

2) “Stephen King: On Writing”

Yes, I’ve always liked Stephen King, but not all of his books. But I like to write occasionally and I’m interested in reading his opinion on writing and how it became his life. It’s been sitting by my bed for a year…

I suck.

3) “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle” by Barbara Kingsolver

A family eats locally for a year – a great achievement. The book will make you either feel bad about yourself and what you and your family consume and waste or it will inspire you to change your life… and then feel bad about yourself as you fail to live up to your own unreal expectations.

Mostly, I aspire to be inspired. I’m not putting this book back in the basement quite yet. I made it to page 51 a few months ago, I can do it again.

4) “The Women on the Wall” by Wallace Stegner

A library book. That in itself makes me feel good because 1) it was free, 2) the amount of time I have to read it is finite, and 3) its local literature. Wallace Stegner is a Salt Lake author, completely smart and a bit intimidating.

The problem? It’s a book of short stories. You’d think that would be perfect for a tired girl like me –who falls asleep after a chapter or less in most cases. BUT, its not, I’ve never been able to get into books that are a collection of essays – I. don’t. know. why. What’s my problem – this guy rocks! My husband praises his name! Ugh…. I’ve renewed it twice and I’m still stuck on the 6th story of 18!

5) “Mansfield Park” by Jane Austen

I’ve finished this book – I’m just reading the Penguin Classics Appendix. Totally true. It’s almost more interesting than the book, which is a rough read by Austen standards (I’ve read two others that I loved). BUT the characters are interesting and the Appendix is explaining A LOT! Besides this is a library book as well and I’m waiting to take it back until I try to work my way through the Wallace Stegner book.

6) “Notes to Myself” by Hugh Prather

Just drug this out of a memory box last month. Its supposed to be one of those inspirational books you can read almost like a bible devotional – something to reflect on as you fall asleep, something to make you THINK. Yikes! It was given to me by an old boyfriend in my mid 20s when I was SEARCHING for meaning in EVERYTHING. Conversations were not simple then and it was a rush to feel smart and creative and analytical – does anyone remember these sorts of moments? Bringing it to my “must read” stack is probably my way of wanting to get my brain cells working again, especially as I may attempt to enter the adult world by getting a job again soon. But so far, my brain is having a difficult time going there…

7) “Wonderful Ways to Love A Child” by Judy Ford

Beautiful – read some of it and feel guilty for not reading all of it 15 years ago when it was given to me by a wonderful friend on the cusp of me becoming a mother. I found this in a memory box also and feel like I could always use a refresher in this area so my relationship to my kids stays real and not robotic…

Someday soon I hope to be able to get to all of these reads - when I don’t fall asleep after just a few pages every night. Maybe I should put most of them back in the basement to take the pressure off. I’m normally a one book at a time sort of girl and this stack is getting a little out of control!

But what should go and what should stay… I don’t know… maybe I’ll just plunk through them as I can – I don’t want to feel like I failed by giving up on any of them!

Honestly, I don’t know exactly what these books say about me – besides that they are dusty and under-appreciated while I snooze away the night, gearing up for another day of not reading…

It won’t always be this way, will it?

What’s on your shelf? And what does it say about YOU?

Hallelujuah! An Incentive Chart for Kids that Works! .... At Least For Me

Written by Lee

I've written about this before. Charts. And how in the past they have mainly been imaginary ones. Where if my kids did something awesome, I would suddenly proclaim "Hooray! I'm giving you a good mark on your chart!" And they would say "Yay!" Even though there was no chart. They were young enough to accept my pretend reward chart games. I guess.

Other times, I would make a chart and start keeping track of their good deeds but due to my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants parenting style, I would have trouble sticking with my own chart plan. And I guess I wasn't sure how to end the chart. What the rewards should be. And I think both my kids and I would lose interest in the chart. Too concrete. Too uh, charty.

I like spontaneity. I'm not rigid. I respect schedule and structure but I am not bound by it. I'd like to think that just because I like to blast some tunes and dance around with my kids in the kitchen that they would just want to do nice things for me. For the house. You know, contribute to the family.

Well, I was wrong.

As my girls have gotten older, 7 and 5 now, I have realized that I really needed to find a way to visually let them know that they're actions and behavior and contributions around the house were being acknowledged. And I wanted to give them real incentive to pitch in and help. I wanted to stop listening to my droning voice constantly reminding them to clean their room or brush their teeth.

I wanted help.

So one day I devised and drew up this chart.

I know all of you are like "Whatever Lee. You are so behind the times. I already use charts and I rule."

Well, I know you use charts. Some of my friends use charts but they almost always worked in this way:

The chart listed what was expected of the kid each and every day and the kid was supposed to do it. All of the things on the chart. Or on M, W, F do one set of things, and T and TH, do another set of things.

I'm just not into doing the same things all. the. time. I don't live that way so I realized I shouldn't expect my kids to live that way.

The chart I drew spanned a month of time. I came up with like 15-20 categories where I needed their help. Things like "Making Your Bed," "Putting Clothes Away," and "Listening to Mama." I explained to them that they didn't have to do everything everyday but the more things they did, the more stickers they would get which would mean a big fat reward at the end of the month.

(FYI, I had no real idea what the reward would be. I knew I had a month to figure it out.)

If they really made me mad with their incessant fighting or backtalk or something, I would put a big "X" through a sticker they earned. That would really upset them. Wow. Almost to the point of me wondering whether it was worth it. But I did it anyway.

What I love about this chart is that it has flexibility. I do not need to remind them to do the same. things. day. after. day. Making our lives one big frightening routine. With this chart, one day they can excel in cleaning their plate or cleaning up their toys. The next day they can do their homework without prodding and earn a sticker.

The possibilities and combinations are endless. This chart answers for me what I have had problems with in other charts. It respects the fact that we are not the same people each and every day. We have different moods. We are motivated to do different things. For all kinds of reasons. I dig that about this chart.

At the end of the month, I had decided that cash would be a good reward. My girls are always looking through catalogs asking for the next DS game or the newest My Little Pony toy so I decided I would give them 10 cents for every sticker earned.

At the end of the month - Claire, 7, earned $6.80 and Phoebe, 5, earned $6.40.

And they were beside themselves with pride and excitement. They even asked when I would be making the next chart.

Now I'm not saying every day is perfect because of this incentive chart. Hell, no. But, it has given me a new way to encourage my girls to jump in and help out around the house and I have to tell you, it has made for one happier mama.

And a happier mama is well worth $13.20.

So what about your chart tricks? Are you wondering what's taken me so long to figure this all out?

Spooky Stockings, Happy Pumpkins and I'm Afraid to Say I'm Starting A Real Job Today

Written by Lee

What a Monday it is over here. Frantic and new. Rushing around like I usually do but with a fresh adventure in my immediate sight. Immediate as in now. Like I shouldn't even be sitting here typing this post. I have to get ready.

I am starting work again after being home with the kids for almost two years.

Yikes.

I'm not gonna ramble on about all that this means to me and how it's affecting me, mainly my heart, but for now I will say that for those of you who don't know, I work freelance in reality/non-fiction television and I am starting work on a show for the Sundance Channel. It's a 22-week project. 4 days a week. For 22 weeks. And then it will be over. And my kids will have me back full-time. Until the next time.

The tv business is like this. I've worked freelance my entire career and I don't know it any other way. My man is a freelance editor in television so this is our life. Jumping from project to project. I actually like what I do when I do it so I thought the time was ripe for jumping into a little television gig. Keep my contacts alive and hopefully kick-start my brain again too.

So more on that later....

For now....

Check this out.



It makes me so friggin' happy and peaceful just looking at it. Taken at a farm about 45 minutes from my West LA home. Just one of the many reasons I really do dig LA. I have the ocean 5 minutes from me and these pumpkins 45 minutes from me.

I feel all fall-y when I look at these pumpkins. And then I start feeling spooky.

And then I start thinking about these.







These are felt Halloween stockings that my crazy, artistic, and crazily-artistic friend Tory designed and sewed on up. Halloween stockings. For your goodies. Aren't they cool?

You know I am all about digging Etsy stuff and in my spare time, I just love to sit around and play with a needle and thread.

But really. I totally appreciate those who can play with a needle and thread and when a needle and thread churns out something as funky and original and happy as these little stocking guys, it makes me feel as happy as when I look at that pumpkin picture.

My friend Tory and I go way back to our partying 20-something days around the walk streets of Venice Beach. We used to hang out, watch the old "90210" and make Femo stuff together. You know Femo? That clay stuff that you bake? Yeah, we were that cool. We would also drive down to Manhattan Beach together on Friday nights and dance to my dude's rockin' tunes when he played in his rock band. Tory and I are soul sisters in many ways and I have always completely admired her artistic way of living.

So now she's launching her own company called "Felt Up." Her little button is over there in my sidebar. I'm gonna link to her website once it's up and running as in soon.

For now, I am showcasing some of her hand-sewn stockings and if you WANT one of these spooky stockings, email me at:

leemwob AT gmail DOT com.

For a price (and they're not cheap 'cause they're like all handmade and sewn with care and love), I can secure you one of these original creations before Tory gets big and famous for her wacky Felt-Up masterpieces. If one of these ghoulish guys hits your spooky-bone, I'll make sure he gets to you by Halloween.

So how's that for a Monday morning smorgasboard of thoughts?

Wish me luck today.

Affiliate Friday: Heather of the EO on Being a Mama and Recreating the Dream

Happy Friday!

And it's a happy one indeed.... I am super psyched to kick-off MWOB's brand new feature called "Affiliate Friday" where we feature a blogger who is a devoted affiliate of Moms without Blogs and who supports our mission out here in the blogosphere. We're a virtual community of kindred spirits and in an effort to actually get to know each other a little more, "Affiliate Friday" was born.

Today's first affiliate voice comes from a woman and writer I simply adore. I totally remember when I first read her a few months after I started blogging and I thought "Wow, how come it took me this long to find her?" There is beauty in her writing, and the heart that is always interwoven in her words resonate so deeply within me that when I met her in July at BlogHer '09, I felt like she was an old friend the moment I first met her.

She's the real deal.

Which is all that really matters to me. Being real. I hope if you don't already read her, you will start doing so right after you read her today.

And so here's Heather of The Extraordinary Ordinary - aka Heather of the EO.

The Foundation of a Dream
by Heather of the EO

I'm starting to think there can be more of an ease to my life, coming from a place of contentment. I've never been that good at content, but I'm learning there's an acceptance and perspective that can free my mind of a whole lot of clutter that weighs me down.

This is probably something more seasoned Mamas have known a long time. I'm a bit of a slow learner, so bear with me.

I'm starting to realize that maybe nothing I once thought I needed has to happen in order for me to be content. I'm letting the truth fall fresh on my ears. You are a mother. It's enough. It's huge. It's everything you think you want and more.

I do love being a mother, more than I ever imagined I would. I've been thinking I should let myself really fall into it, to allow myself to change in the biggest way...learning to fully find joy in the selflessness of motherhood. There is joy there. Moving slowly from habits that are focused on serving myself to habits that are more focused on others is a beautiful thing. It took motherhood to start that movement in my life.

There's been a part of me that's been hesitating, trying to grasp at other things, other freedoms, thinking about what I want out of life and worrying that I might be letting something amazing pass me by...writing, traveling, changing lives, making a difference, maybe even famously! I've been trying to figure out how I can do the mom gig and so much more at the same time.

But ever so slowly, a change has been happening in me. As I've taken tiny steps at adjusting to motherhood, I've learned that it's not just a season to weather. It's not just something that covers my path for a time and then clears away and frees me to get back to me.

Motherhood is me. I'm Mom. I don't have to run from that, terrified that I might lose myself. I have been found here. And if other beautiful things fall in my path as I travel this road, that's just icing on the cake. I won't stop allowing other things to fill our lives, but I don't want to be so desperate to make sure I'm not ordinary.

I'm on a journey that has turned me upside-down and inside out. Having babies didn't mean I created a cookie-cutter existence for myself, one that looks the same as all the other families on my street, in my neighborhood, or in our city. We have our own story here, and it holds all the joy and excitement I've been looking for. I knew this, but I didn't really know this, not to the very core of who I am. I was secretly harboring a strange tension, a fight to continue to focus more on myself and anything I might be missing.

Because on this motherhood path I will travel and write, I will change lives and I will make a difference.

If I don't truly see motherhood for what it is, I have lost the chance to show up for my own life.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Notes on Heather:

The above post is one from her archives that I simply adore because wow. Those are my thoughts written way more eloquently than I could ever even think them. After much back and forth about a topic for her guest appearance, these were the words that found their way here today.

And here is a picture taken probably one hour after we met on the first night at BlogHer in July. Just so you can put a happy face with those beautiful words.

Deb, Lee, and Heather

Perfect Moms, Walking Clichés, and Wal-Mart

Happy Wednesday MWOB readers!

Today, we are introducing a new voice who contacted me because of our "Join MWOB" tab where I encourage moms without blogs to let me know if they want to write. Even though in the blogosphere it seems EVERY MOM has a blog, Amanda is one of the zillion moms who don't. But she writes. And she has a voice yearning to be heard like the rest of us. She's also a mom of four and a student so she doesn't really have the time to sustain her own blog - for now.

I am thrilled to introduce Amanda writing her first post for MWOB. Thanks for reading her and supporting our mission.

Written by Amanda, a mom without a blog

I am not a perfect mother.

I do pride myself on living a full and interesting life and my kids seem to appreciate it. Having said that, I must admit that I am prone to rambling soapbox speeches about the materialistic and corrupt lifestyle that is modern America. I loathe the feeling of spending a Sunday afternoon in "Babylon" buying crap I don't need and ingesting empty calories masquerading as food. That is why I refuse to indulge in any aforementioned activities whenever possible. I am guilty of people-watching, passing judgment and also contributing to and reinforcing stereotypes (much to my dismay).

I live in the epicenter of two corporate world headquarters (Wal-Mart and Tyson). Here in NW Arkansas we are in a pocket of financial stability and low unemployment rates due to these companies plus the University. Although I must indirectly benefit from this I do not condone many of the big corporate practices. I am of the entitled persuasion that can don a Che t-shirt like the rest of 'em and boycott Wal-Mart all year long - until we need organic raisins. The local organic food co-op thinks that the very same package should cost $3 more!!!

I don't set foot in Wal-Mart for ideological and energetic reasons. Clearly, I purchase a Smart Chicken if I need one. My family eats quinoa and millet, we raise some livestock, vote Democratic or Independent, heat only with a fireplace and cool without A/C. (Ask me about 98* and 98% humidity sometime) We do not drive Suburbans. We do not-repeat- Do.Not.Feed.The.Baby.Fast-Food!!!

Until I found myself in the throngs of a PMS craving for salty fried chicken (never mind that my PSYCH I course just went over the very real possibility that PMS is highly over reported and possibly not based in science). It was Thursday at 2:30 pm, way past lunch for a hypoglycemic nursing mom. On the verge of a killer migraine, I even ordered a Dr.Pepper for caffeine, something I gave up years ago and only indulge in on occasion. Much to my chagrin, I have reached that age where I have one failing organ to fixate on. Gallbladder related topics are heavily googled at my house. But, I was all "gallbladder be damned" and ordered myself and my two-year-old (gasp) a meal. What a hypocrite I am! Leaving the house without snacks for the baby (besides my boobs).

Who did I think I was kidding? I am as mainstream and unhealthy as the next guy and I'm over here feeding it to my little child. The "imaginary" PMS crept over me like a stealth fog and I was assaulted with guilt and melancholia. Holding back tears, I pull up to the window and retrieve my order. "She's never had fast-food before, y'all"! -Dude says "at least it's the best".

Agreed.

Then I am reminded by the beeping cellphone about soccer practice for the older kids. I am responsible for not only hypocrisy but overpopulation- Geesh! So, I'm off to caravan kids like a "good soccer mom" wondering all the while if I really am a walking cliché.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

About Amanda

Greetings from the Ozarks!
I am a mom without a blog who has 4 kids ranging in age from 22 months to 14 years old. My oldest are twins and not only are they amazingly agreeable (my fingers are crossed) but they are also still somehow boyfriend and cell phone-free girls who help with dinner and laundry. My middle child is the consummate middle child and is a real button pusher; she is a competing champion gymnast who loves being the center of attention. My youngest daughter is a real ham and will surely need to be some kind of rock star in order to get all her attention needs met. She is surrounded by big sisters who dote on her and teach her bad tricks. She is highly verbal and recently asked the grocery store cashier "Where's my yogurt, lady"?

I look forward to contributing to the hilarious, touching and insightful posts on MWOB, they are a great break from farm chores (we are raising 20 sheep) and college (I am trying to finish my Education degree). I can't wait to express my mommy concerns in this supportive atmosphere.

A Weekend of A Marine Layer Fog of Mothering with One Breakthrough of A Clear Sunny State of Mind

Written by Lee

I realize that I spend too much of my mothering days in a haze. A brain fog. A preoccupied state of mind with zillions of lists and to-dos racing through my head. A step away. An inability to live in the moment. With a look in my eyes and a smile on my face that may seem a tad distant.

Am I here?

Can anyone really grasp me as I fluctuate between guiding and ordering and forcing and bribing and smiling and yelling and crying and folding and cleaning and moving? Always moving.

There's no stillness in this gig of motherhood. Except maybe, just maybe, in the middle of a dark night when I'm sitting in my rocker with my 2-year-old dude in my lap while the moonlight streams in around the edges of the shades. And the slow creak of the rocker that has glided and rocked all of my babies for the last seven years seeps into my thick skull and lulls me into the moment. Finally.

Finally.

Maybe that's why I'm still waking up at least once a night with one of my kids. And deep down maybe I'm not that bummed about it. I'm okay with three-thirty AM. Only there is where I find the stillness and when I feel the quiet.

Moments of this weekend challenged my mama soul to the core. Defiance. Disobedience. Irreverence. Attitude. Sending me into my worst state of mamadom. That blood-boiling point where I feel raw with every nerve exposed and any minor thing makes my voice sound like a shriek no matter what I say. A squeal of laughter only sounds like a scream. Each voice yelling "MAAAAA.....MAAAAAA" sends me into a tirade. The stuff left to do crushes me and I stand pissed off at the kitchen sink mumbling under my breath about how damn annoying this mama gig can be.

And the haze thickens. That marine layer fog in my brain drifts in and hovers. And I am gone.

Am I here?

But as the weekend winds to a close and my three spirited souls are now simply my sleeping beauties and my boiling blood has started to simmer down and I'm able to take a few deep breaths and the tightness in my heart relaxes and the good vibes start to circulate once again, my mind decides to go to the sunniest part of our time together where clarity and calm and fun and love and just us broke through the haze and warmed my soul.....

A couple hours spent on the sidewalk with our hearts and eyes wide open and clearly able to see the stuff that truly sustains us through the blurry times.

Here's a glimpse of that sunny sky time. Phoebe's first day riding her bike SANS training wheels. Taken with our new gadget of a video camera that my gadget-obsessed husband bought for us.

Here's to sunny skies!!!!

Mother's Little Helpers: A Story of Panic Attacks, Loneliness and Drugs

Okay. I love my friend Karen. For so many reasons. And after reading this post, I love her even more. For always telling like it is and for being so willing to share her struggle and her soul in this space. I hope you take the time to read her post.

Written by Karen, a mom without a blog

What’s a mom to do when she can’t help herself?

It was one of the worst pains I think I’ve ever felt, save for childbirth. It was this searing, clenching, doubled-over kind of pain. It squeezed my heart and absolutely took my breath away. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time I felt this, so I knew exactly what to do…

I took a quick second to collect myself, calm my breathing, and lay down on the couch. I forced myself to think peaceful thoughts. But not for too long, just enough for the pain to subside, then I was up and continuing with my day.

No calls to 911, no trips to the ER, not even any panicked text messages to my husband. Because it would pass, just like the hundreds of other times it had happened. I knew I was back to square one with this beast I couldn’t shake…anxiety.

This was March 2008.

I finally came to terms with the inevitable – I needed help. I couldn’t cope with every day life with this kind of pain constantly coming out of nowhere. It was becoming a daily occurrence. I finally went to see my primary doctor for the first time since I moved to Utah in 2001. I told him my symptoms and described my history. His question? Why did I wait so long for help?

Good question.

I was treated for these same symptoms about a year after moving to Utah. Back then, my husband and I thought doctors were going to find something terribly wrong with my heart and that my death could be imminent. So really, we felt a lot of relief when it was diagnosed that my chest pain was from panic attacks! It took a while for me to start to obsess on why I could possibly be suffering from a mental illness for the first time in my life – a mom now, a 35-yr-old responsible for children on a daily basis, why was this happening to me? I didn’t understand it and I couldn’t control it – which terrified me.

A myriad of issues contributed, one of the biggest being major changes in my life – I left my career in television production in Los Angeles to move to Utah. I took a small research job that I could do from home in my newly minted basement office. (I don’t really recommend basement home offices… unless you are ultra organized and are able to provide yourself with nice background music, plenty of plants and peace-inducing zen objects strewn about).

I was NOT organized (we still had many unpacked boxes piled here and there) and I didn’t have the foresight to look after my mental health while stuck in the basement by myself in the winter in Utah. Can you say LONELY?

Anyway, this very nice physician’s assistant prescribed the drug Effexor and revealed to me that there were large percentages of women in Utah being treated for anxiety and depression – more than almost any other state per capita! Now, I never did do the research to confirm this statement, but it made me feel a little scared rather than comforted. Where was I living that all these women were needing drugs to get by? This didn’t help my situation. But miraculously enough the drugs did!

It was hard for me to admit that I was taking a mood-enhancing drug, let alone that it made a difference. I didn’t tell very many folks about it. Of course, I didn’t have any friends or family in Utah, so who was I going to tell anyway?

After about 4-5 months on Effexor, I become pregnant (not planned, of course). I decided to go off of the drug ASAP and weaned way too fast. I couldn’t believe the mind trip I went on while weaning off this drug. It truly feels like you could be undergoing some kind of shock treatment. I called it “brain zaps” – heinous, really. It made me decide NEVER to go on anything like this again.

Fast forward to Winter 2007.

I was in the 3rd winter of being a mom of a child with special respiratory needs - basically house-bound for several months to keep her exposure to germs down. It had been two years since I worked. My life consisted of my husband, my children, my pets and the confines of my 2300 sq. ft. home and the inside of my mom taxi, I mean mini-van. For some reason, the joy in having my sweet miracle daughter with us could not overcome this heavy feeling in my chest. I tried more “dates” with girlfriends (I had a few friends by then, thank God), more exercise, more “me” time – but I couldn’t seem to expel the pain.

I felt like such a failure as I scheduled my doctor’s appointment last spring. That’s what took me so long - I just wanted to try to help myself first. I sucked at it. It pissed me off that I couldn’t fix this – I always was someone who prided myself in my ability to help my friends in need and come up with solutions on the spot. I found no solutions for myself.

In April 2008, I started on Celexa. Within a month, I started feeling better. By 2-3 months later, I hardly had any attacks. And by the end of summer 2008, I was chest pain free! My doc made me commit to the drug for a year, especially over the winter, as this was my trouble spot the year before. I decided to let go and trust his treatment plan. It was worth it to help me shift focus from pain back to what really matters – a quality life with my family.

So here I am. I am looking at my LAST bottle of Celexa. Hopefully. I could get a new prescription, but I feel like I’m ready to be done. I’m ready to take this on myself. I’ve been SLOWLY weaning myself off for about a month. I’ve suffered a few minor “brain zaps” but nothing to temper my resolve to be drug free.

How is it going?

Well, I feel surprisingly good overall. I have to admit, I’ve experienced a couple chest-tightening moments in the past few weeks and that scares me a bit. But I still want to stick with the wean.

Please don’t think I’m discrediting the need for drugs like these in my life or in other people’s lives by saying I can simply quit taking them. I know it is not that simple. Drugs like Celexa work for countless people in our stressed-filled universe, and I would never judge someone’s need for them.

They absolutely worked for me when I couldn’t help myself. My family and I benefited LARGELY from the addition of Celexa to my life. It gave me the leg-up I needed to put me back where I am supposed to be… in the moment with my kids with a grateful and peaceful heart.

But that said, I’d like to try to get back to being me without the assistance of a drug. I truly don’t know if I will succeed. I just want to give it a try. Emphasis on the “TRY.”

I’ll have to keep you posted.

Especially as another long winter is around the corner…

Craigslist, Good People, and Dave Matthews

Written by Lee

I've written before in this post about strangers how I generally have a clean slate mentality about people in life.  Like why not give them the benefit of the doubt? Like most people cruising around the world truly are good people so why not operate from that belief instead of assuming that people are out to screw you.  

Well, even though I try to put my clean slate foot forward, there have been plenty of instances where life has thrown me a curve ball and I realize that my trusting instinct has become jaded. In my recent Expressing Motherhood performance, I actually spoke about this very aspect of life for me - becoming skeptical about the intention of others.  

As a mother, the pressure and responsibility I have to set forth a set of beliefs and a course of action to my kids comes into sharp focus.  Do I want them to first question the validity, intentions, and safety of the situation or do I want them to first believe that all is right in the world and to move forward with trust?  

I know parents who constantly remind their kids of the potential evil lurking around the corner and that any stranger could mean danger.  I've made a conscious decision not to over-enforce the concept of "stranger-danger" because I want my kids to feel safe walking in their world. 

Their world.  

Sure, I want them to be aware. And to use good judgement. But if a child can not skip through their neighborhood park feeling carefree and safe, then I feel they are being robbed of an essential childhood right.  Of course as their mama, I am right behind them watching my kids skip carefree through the park but I don't want to burden them with heavy thoughts as they live in their bubble of youth. The bubble of optimism and trust and faith in humankind.

As an adult who has traveled wide and lived fairly long, my bubble of optimism has been poked and prodded and busted a time or two, but when a new situation presents itself to me, I try to pump up my bubble and start fresh.  And more often than not, the stars align and the good people of the universe pull through to show me that having faith in them is indeed the way to go.

Case in point:

I love Dave Matthews. I just dig that dude and his tunes. I've had plenty of epic DMB live moments including one exceptional one on a warm Las Vegas October night at the first Vegoose music festival.  Whenever Dave comes to Los Angeles for a show, I usually drag my dude there to dance with me.  Next week DMB will cruise into town to play his first concert ever at the memorable Greek Theater in the Hollywood Hills.  My man and I have shared many a musical adventure under the stars at the Greek so I knew I did not want to miss this show.

Now being an overwhelmed mama of three, I never ever have it together enough to actually buy tickets when they go on sale.  I rely on Craigslist for all of our late concert ticket buying. There's been plenty of bad press on all kinds of Craigslist evil and for good reason.  But when it comes to people selling tickets to concerts, I have had nothing but good luck.

So this past weekend when I started my DMB ticket search for next week's show, I had my usual high hopes that I would get decent seats for a decent price.  What I didn't expect was to find another soul out there who had a little of his own faith in humankind.

When this particular seller and I had agreed that he had what I wanted to buy, we tried to coordinate the exchange.  Tickets for cash.  But after a couple phone calls and some busy weekend plans, we were having trouble finding a time to make it happen.  

And that's when he said - "Hey, why don't you just give me your address and I'll send you the tickets? When you get the tickets, you can send me a check.  You sound like a trustworthy person."

Well, right. on.

Yesterday, my tickets arrived in the mail. I emailed him to let him know that I received them and I told him I will put a check in the mail for him today.  And I will. And he knew that.  And I knew the tickets he would send would be good for some groovin' under a warm September LA sky.

And you know what?

That's exactly how the world should work.  And I think it does work that way most of the time when I let it.  

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Summer has taken its toll over at MWOB.  But Fall promises a new and improved scene over here. My kids start school tomorrow and within the next two weeks, we will have a plan in action for posting and some new stuff to reveal.  Thanks to all of the killer faith-filled MWOB readers. This little community is alive and well. :-)