The Final Affiliate Friday of 2009: Loren Christie - "Making My List"

I met Loren in an elevator somewhere between the 8th floor and the lobby at the Sheraton in Chicago during BlogHer '09. What struck me about Loren right off the bat was not so much that she was alone at this insane convention with all kinds of people who knew each other but that she was totally cool and relaxed about it. She's the kind of chick who emanates that vibe that she totally knows who she is. And I love that. And then I started reading her blog, "Dude, Where am I?" and I was all, "Okay, this is one unique voice with a commitment to writing that I do not possess." She is a researcher to be admired and a writer I totally respect. I am so honored she is our final affiliate post as we bid adieu to 2009.

Enjoy!


It’s the first week in December and all through the house echoes of coughing and sneezing abound. All the Christies are sick with colds. Even the dog is sneezing and nursing a scratch she received from the cat (who was not happy to be hit in the ear with snot). A general sense of misery is in the air, although the stockings are successfully stuck to the banister with sticky tape and letters to Santa are secured with a dozen magnets on the refrigerator door.

Mama is wishing (hard) for a long winter's nap. I’m tired and feverish, never really resting because my three young children wake up several times per night. I grab a bottle of cough medicine and take a teaspoonful. Then I read the label.

“Controlled substance. Dangerous unless used as directed.”

Hmm, sounds…yummy. I think, picturing me sleeping with a smile plastered on my face.

At midnight I’m immersed in a dream involving an eight months pregnant version of me smacking myself in the forehead repeatedly with a list I once wrote titled “When I’m a Parent.”

In 2003 I put ten naïve pre-parent promises in writing, because I had read two books on the subject of raising children, and was therefore, prepared to be a totally awesome, never tiring, always sticking to the rules, never screaming “Calgon, TAKE ME AWAY” sort of mom. Yes, I was determined to be perfect. Try telling me that could not be done. I’d shout:

“Bah Humbug!”

Number 10 on my list was:

“I will never let any of my children sleep in my bed.”

In the final second of my cough syrup-induced dream, the old list turns into a Thomas the Tank Engine book, and suddenly, I’m awake. My two year old is standing beside the bed, flogging me with his favorite coloring book. What, toddlers don’t create art at midnight?

My legs feel very heavy, but I manage to walk him to his room and tuck him back into his toddler bed, just like Super Nanny advises. In the hall I see the shadow of a girl in the mirror, and I say hello. Oops, that’s just me. Hiccup!

I crawl back into bed too groggy to laugh at myself, as the wind picks up outside my bedroom window. The drip, drip, drip of the rain turns into a fierce storm. Lightening flashes, and then comes the loudest crack of thunder I think I’ve ever heard, followed by what I imagine is hundreds of angry buffalo charging toward my bed. For some reason, I can’t move.

The thunder rumbles again, and I realize that this storm is not a dream. Neither is the stampede. First the family dog, (a big, fat Collie-Beagle mix) flies up onto the bed. Next comes my two year old out of his bed again and climbing over me, followed by my four year old daughter who is in tears. Finally my six year old son runs into the room as if he is being chased by zombies and leaps on top of his dad who yelps in pain.

Now my husband and I are clinging to the covers at opposite sides of the bed, nearly falling off. I slip back into a dream. This time I’m hanging down from the plank on a pirate ship full of laughing, naughty children and family pets with eye-patches.

In reality, the toddler is between us, propped up on pillows with ten of his favorite stuffed friends. The dog is at my feet, snoring and sneezing in her sleep. The two older kids are curled up in the center of the bed. We’re like a litter of puppies all snuggled together in a box. I’m wallowing in self-pity, utterly defeated by Mommy Push Over Syndrome; Super Nanny is scolding me in my mind. I picture my children in their fifties with me and hubby as very old people, all still in the same bed. I’m horrified at the thought,

BUT

Something about this less-than-ideal sleeping arrangement is actually…nice, I think.

Super Nanny gasps at my thought. Her disapproving image pops out of my mind like a balloon as my toddler grabs my hand in his sleep and sighs. The rain is still falling outside, but we’re all safe and warm.

Oh well, lists are for Santa, I think, pulling myself back from the edge of the bed and drifting back asleep.

***************************

Read more of Loren on her blog "Dude, Where am I?"

Affiliate Friday: Karrie McAllister on Making Traditions to (Unfortunately) Last a Lifetime

Before I introduce our Featured Affiliate, I must tell you that our DVD Giveaway Extravanganza is still going on and you can still win awesome titles like "Night at the Museum 2" and "Ice Age 3." So click here and enter. Chances are very good that you will win something.

The blogospshere never ceases to amaze me with the quality of writing I can happen upon out of nowhere. That is exactly how I felt when I happened upon Karrie, our featured affiliate, who is a "Mother, Writer, and Dirt-Lover." She, like other affiliates, somehow found us and emailed me about joining forces. Whenever I get those emails, I click on over to check out the blog that is mentioned, and when I first visited Karrie, I was struck by her crisp style of creative, intelligent writing. And when I spent a little more time checking our her space, I learned that not only is she an engaging, interesting writer, but she can also....shoot a gun. And once you see this gorgeous, sweet-looking mama, you will be just as amazed as I was. Check her out.

Enjoy this quintessential Karrie holiday piece!


*****************
Once, just once, I’d like to sit Norman Rockwell, Martha Stewart, and Mrs. Claus down at my kitchen table. I’d give them a five-pound bag of flour, a pound of butter, three bottles of tacky glue, and enough glitter and yarn to sink the Titanic. Along with them at the table sit my children, all dressed in special holiday sweaters. They have exactly 20 minutes.

Their only instructions: MAKE MEMORIES.

I have come to learn the hard way that children, no matter how we try to squeeze them into last year’s shoes and pants, continue to grow at incredible speeds. I’m quite certain that if I blink just a little too long they’ll be asking to bring their boyfriends and girlfriends to our Christmas Eve dinner, so I try, with all of my might, to make each and every holiday special.

This means wearing myself to near exhaustion in attempts to recreate even the first draft of any Norman Rockwell piece, which I’m pretty sure had a little kid throwing a temper tantrum in the corner and the dog’s ears glued together. (That’s why he probably did a second draft.)

There is something to be said for tradition. Tradition is the name we give to activities and events that are really a pain in the neck, but we force ourselves to do them because of tradition. Somehow, in our delusional holiday minds, we think that we need to provide our families with ever-lasting memories and these traditions so they can relish the nostalgia when they torture their own families with the same stuff in years to come.

For example, when I was little we had our own set of traditions. We always listened to Bing Crosby while baking Grandma’s butter cookie recipe, the one with the candied cherries in the middle. Another tradition was the crafting and gifting of a special ornament each and every year, so that by the time I was in my teens, my poor parents and grandparents had so many gooped up ornaments on their trees that they tended to pull the entire tree over. Then, on Christmas Eve, we would gather with the extended family and all partake in Wigilia, a Polish Christmas Eve dinner and celebration with its own set of quirky rules and traditions, not to mention less-than-tasty food. After dinner, the opening of one present (always a pair of pajamas), and the reading of The Night Before Christmas.

But as it is when two families unite, we’ve also adopted the traditions of my husband’s family. There are tree decorating parties, and game night sleepovers. There’s a brunch here, and a ladies lunch there. There are Santa hats to wear during opening presents on Christmas Day, and a ton of cut-out cookies, the kind with the four pounds of frosting on the top.

Put it all together, and the only time we might actually sit down during the month of December is during my dreamy get-together of holiday greats. Mrs. Claus could supervise the baking, Martha could improvise glue, glitter, and probably some paper scraps stuck under the table into a few marvelous and memorable ornaments, and Mr. Rockwell can sit quietly by, sketching while he rubs the glue out of the dog’s ears, humming a Bing Crosby tune.

However, here’s an update. I ain’t any of those people. I have yet to create a cut out that isn’t an undistinguishable blob of rock hard cookie, which I attempt to disguise with bright green frosting and sprinkles, and when my children were very young I could get away with gifting a mere pair of popsicle sticks glued together. But now that they’re older, the bar has been raised and soon will no doubt require [gulp] permanent paint. Thankfully, no matter the chaos we can still manage to turn on a favorite Bing album now and then. The tricky part is actually hearing it over the commotion and yelling when I force my kids to eat those Polish delicacies.

They may not be up to some standards, but we are indeed carrying on traditions. Not because we have to, but because it just feels like the right thing to do. We’ll spend the entire holiday season happily and wearily MAKING MEMORIES, because even the best parents know that come January, we will be MAKING A DRINK and putting our feet up, resting, and dreaming up new and fancier projects for the next year.

Karrie McAllister writes and mothers from Northeast Ohio. Contact her and read more at www.KarrieMcAllister.com.

Affiliate Friday On Profanity: Where'd You Learn to Talk Like THAT?

For me, it's been pretty rare to happen upon a mommy blog, read it for the first time, and think "Wow, that is one clear, strong voice." But that's what I thought the first time I read Cristin of Tiptoeing through the Tulips. Cristin is a mom of a CDH kid, a potentially life-threatening condition that my dear friend Karen faced when her daughter was born with CDH 4 years ago, and if you want to see mama strength in action, check in on Cristin any day of the week. She does NOT beat around the bush, she never holds back, and sometimes you get more than you bargained for during your cruise around the blogosphere. To me, she is so damn refreshing and I am thrilled to have her straight-talking ways grace these pages on this Affiliate Friday.

Enjoy!



I considered the different approaches I could take to this subject; historical, linguistic, sociological, discarded them all and decided on personal.

My personal journey through the world of cursing.

When you are a child, you think that every family is just like your own. Everyone has a Dad who works too much and a Mom who stays at home. Everyone has a dog and a yard and lots of siblings and neighborhood playmates. Everyone wears hand me downs and has to share a room.

Everyone swears.

Swearing was something that all grown-ups did. They drink wine with dinner, they know how to write checks, they watch the news, and they swear.

Sh*t, A**hole, B***h, were probably the ones I heard most of. Not all the time. But when the situation seemed to call for those words, out they came. I heard the more colorful ones from older siblings and friends. I listened and learned.

Throughout my childhood, I fine tuned my potty mouth in the confines of my room, friends' houses, whispers on the school bus. Always striving to find that golden cuss combination that would elicit squeals of laughter from my friends. We especially enjoyed the F-bomb, having no clue what it actually meant, we knew that it was the mother of all swears and delighted in its use. Always careful not to slip when an adult was present.

I noticed my older siblings throwing around the milder sh*t, and a** hole when they were in high school, with no consequences from Mom and Dad. I waited patiently for this rite of passage, and around my junior year in high school, tried them out. It thrilled me to reach this milestone of being allowed out into the swearing world. Sweet freedom!

Having been very aware of the unspoken rules of profanity, I knew to keep it clean around certain company, to hold back the F-bomb until I knew a person could handle it. I grew into quite a discriminating expletive user.

After college, out in the real world with a real job, around real grown ups, I was realized that what I thought as a child had some truth to it; that most people do swear, at least a little. Adults do not have the luxury of throwing themselves on the floor like a toddler and having a nice screaming fit when something upsets them. Instead we have swears.

You are trying to find a parking space at the grocery store, you have to pee so bad it hurts, the kids are fighting, someone is crying, someone pooped their pants, you see the perfect parking space, turn on your directional just as another car swoops in and steals your spot.

What is that person? A meanie? A jerk? No. They are a G**D*** M*****F*****. Even if you mutter it quietly enough so the kids don't hear (a skill I have yet to perfect), you still feel so much better.

I've known prolific potty mouths of all ages, professions, and faiths; all kindred spirits.

My son's surgeon is obviously highly educated, well respected in his field, famous even in the world of fetal surgery, a professor at Harvard if you weren't impressed enough. We've had an easy, comfortable relationship since the day we met.

Before a major surgery, my husband and I were waiting and waiting to get the party started, wondering where his surgeon was as he was never this late. He finally came barging through the door, clearly angry, apologizing profusely about the delay; there was a mix up in reserving the surgery suite because;

"Someone doesn't know what the f*** they are doing."

I was taken aback by the F-bomb. Not offended in any way. I was flattered. That he thought enough of me, knew me well enough, trusted me enough to show this side of himself. It warmed my heart and made me love him that much more.

I understand that swearing is not for everyone, I do try to watch my mouth around the kids, especially the one that can hear.

I will confess though, that I look forward to my kids reaching the cursing milestone, to welcome them into the fold. There will come a day when Graham has his heart broken by a girl (or a guy, who knows?), he'll need to tell me what a f****** d*****bag they are, and I'll need to agree.

"F***** right they are Sweetie, f****** right."

Affiliate Friday: Swirl Girl on A Big World Resting on Little Shoulders

Swirl Girl from Swirl Girl's Pearls lives not far from me. She's basically a Los Angeleno although maybe she doesn't consider herself one. I'm not sure. I know there is only about a 30-40 minute drive that separates us and yet the only place we have connected as of yet is through our blogs. The blogosphere's cool like that. Hopefully we'll share a drink together sometime soon. For now, she is sharing a bit of her heart with us in this Affiliate Friday post. It's a different tone than her usual fare but she always speaks straight and true, in MWOB fashion, and that's why we adore her. Thanks, Swirl Girl for jumping in on this fine Friday.




In our humble town (and not only here,but around the country as of late) there was a tragedy - of epic proportion. A young father facing economic ruin in the throes of a nasty divorce and job loss killed his two young children before taking his own life. Emily Rose, my 10 year old, was asking me if that would ever happen to us. At that point, I wasn't sure if she meant the divorce part or what. So I answer. "Sure Dad and I fight sometimes...but we fight because we care. I think it's important to be open - because if you hold things in - they fester and you wind up resenting the other one."

Then she asked if I had ever contemplated suicide, and she used those very words. I told her that as many times in my life as I have been depressed or angry about anything (and there have been quite a few) I never thought there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I always knew that something would change, whether magical, mystical or spiritual , and I would be okay.

Emily Rose said there was a positive side to this tragic story - She said in her very 10 year old way, that the only good thing to come from this story was that the children don't have to suffer anymore. "Because," she said, "if the father had something genetically wrong with him - at least the cycle stopped because his children wouldn't pass it down to their children."

That my 10 year old even fathoms the concept of depression as a genetic illness scares the crap out of me. Such big words and bigger concepts . I don't think when I was 10, I worried about much - okay, maybe I did. But my worries were more along the line of hoping that nobody outed me for actually liking the chicken fricasse on the hot lunch line at school, or if that boy really 'like-liked' me. Or would I ever get boobs. At 10 years old, you should just not have to be sad for anything other than stuff like that.

It's sad that these young children were yanked from the innocence of childhood and slammed into adulthood. It is sad that some adults are saddled with sadness and depression so great that it crescendoed and culminated in that horrific act of violence. It is sad that our community has been rocked by this tragedy.

So, the next time I complain about our shrinking household economy, or that Hubby has to work late again, or that nobody listens to me when I talk around here - I, for one, will try to remember this conversation I had with my daughter. I hope I can use my words more carefully. She is listening...maybe too much.

If life could only be swirled like a wine glass to release its bouquet or decanted to let the sediment fall to bottom only to savor the best juice intended.

Affiliate Friday: Under the Influence on "What's for Dinner?"

There are a few blogs that I actually remember reading for the first time and thinking, "Wow. I totally relate to this chick." And that is how I felt when I read Jo from the infamous Under the Influence. She wrote about her love for prescription painkillers and what can I say? I love 'em too. I remember being sent home with Percocet after having my first kid as a true highlight. I'm actually not sure what I was more in love with - my newborn baby girl or my pain meds. Okay, I'm exaggerating. I think. Anyway - Jo is always on my radar and I love her fresh, frank approach to life. She likes to wear sexy red lingerie for her man (right?) and she is responsible for my current love affair with Hanky Panky thong underwear. She's a proud affiliate of MWOB and I'm thrilled she's gracing our space today on "Affiliate Friday." Check her out if you don't already. Happy Friday.


I don't know how it is in your house, but it seems most families have at least one picky eater. I don't mean a little fussy. You know, those kids who don't eat much or try something and don't like it. I mean P-I-C-K-Y. As in refusing to eat anything that is not a piece of breaded, processed chicken meat, pizza or a hamburger. Along with some chips and chocolate. All with ketchup, except the chocolate.

Well, I have that kid. I blame myself, really.

When he was a baby, I think I waited too long to introduce solid food. Shortly after I did, we were out to dinner and he choked on a carrot piece that I had not cooked long enough. Just as my husband and/or I were about to yank him out of his wooden restaurant high chair to perform the baby Heimlich Maneuver, he coughed up the carrot piece and proceeded to vomit all over the restaurant floor. Oh yeah, we were dining with friends who didn't have kids. It was a lovely moment and I quickly developed a fear of him choking. I'm sure had I entered therapy for this, it would now be a real mental disorder with a real name, like "Fear of baby choking" disorder, and my picture would be next to the definition in the medical journals.

Fast forward to age 12, and that kid has got to be the pickiest child I know when it comes to food and eating. The ketchup thing? Ketchup ON.EVERYTHING. My in-laws live in Pittsburgh and every year they buy him a Heinz Ketchup t-shirt so he always has one that fits him. For Halloween, two years in a row, he was a bottle of ketchup. It was perfect.

After years of beating myself up, wanting to beat him up, threatening him with liver and onions (which no one in this house even eats!) and many missed meals on his part because I long ago stopped making a separate dinner to suit his palate, he came up with the idea of once a week allowing a family member to pick the dinner menu for a night. Everyone in the family has to eat what is on the menu. Well, at least taste it. If you don't like it you can choose to sit at the table with the rest of the family and NOT EAT or you can choose to choke it down, but there are no additional foods made.

All three kids loved the idea and hubs and I thought it would be a great way to get them to try some new stuff, with their buy-in since they all agreed to it. It hasn't stopped the griping, complaining and whining, especially since Picky Eater thinks I shouldn't get a menu night since I choose dinner menus 99% of the time anyway. We still hear "I don't like that" or "Yuck, that is gross!" or "This stinks!" or "Who eats this shit?" (that would be me). But it's something we all agreed to do and the griping, complaining and whining and the comments are minimized with a reminder of who wanted to do this in the first place. The one big caveat is if you choose not to taste the food, you forfeit the next time you are supposed to choose a meal.

Let me tell you, people, this picky kid of mine will not hesitate to give up his menu night in order to not have to taste something he THINKS he doesn't like. As for me, if anyone actually ever picked liver and onions, I would be choosing NOT to eat, or even taste, our dinner that evening. I would sit quietly at the table, knowing I was forfeiting my next menu night. Then, after everyone went to bed, I'd eat a bowl of cereal.

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