tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935148494585858062024-03-14T08:17:07.048-07:00Stand Back ... I'm Thinking!My thoughts about life ... specifically my life. They may make you happy, they may make you sad, heck! they may make you angry. I hope they all inspire you to consider what YOU think and apply what you think to your life ... today.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-25086018107811769342019-08-21T16:06:00.000-07:002019-08-21T16:06:23.065-07:00GOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL!!!I was dehydrated and very hungry when I got home from my very long, very hot errands today. One of the reasons for my errands was water. We didn't have any. Well, we have water coming from various faucets and taps, but that is water I allow only to pass over my body and not to enter it. Maybe it would be different if I lived in the Swiss Alps.<br />
<br />
It was after noon by the time I had brought in the last jug of water and I just needed a big drink and some nourishment, so I filled a quart jar with tepid (refreshingly tasteless) water, turned on the ceiling fan, turned off the light (what I did NOT need was another glowing source of heat here in sunny-114-degree AZ!), and sat in my mom-throne with my feet up. Then I turned on my device because it's 2019 and what else would I do?<br />
<br />
After 30 (ish) minutes my water was gone and I had watched a bunch of unnecessary brain sucking videos. I got up, famished and ready for the nourishment part. I remembered the avocado that I purchased while out and about. I grabbed a bowl and a knife and prayed that it would be ripe enough, but not too ripe...my prayer was answered with a lovely spot-free avocado. I smooshed it with a fork, poured in some Pace Picante Sauce (mild for the children with weak mouths) and grabbed a full unopened bag of chips.<br />
<br />
I decided to search for something inspirational on YouTube this time. It seemed appropriate considering my lovely and nutritious lunch. I found a video entitled "How to Live An Exceptional Life" (something like that, anyway). The speaker was great. I probably should have paid closer attention to her name. She was very skinny...in a healthy way, not in a skeletal way. She was engaging her audience. People were laughing at all the right moments.<br />
<br />
She asked a beautiful fashionably dressed young woman from the audience to join her on stage and had her sit in a chair facing the speaker. The speaker told this lovely young lady that she'd written this talk just for her and her alone. Very powerful stuff. (crunch, crunch...nom, nom) She said that the audience could listen if they wanted to. I, like the rest of the audience, was there to just listen. ...and to dip Santita's Tortilla Triangles into squished avocado and Pace Picante Sauce (mild).<br />
<br />
Sadly, the contents of the bowl didn't last nearly as long as her talk about how to lead an extraordinary life, but before I could swipe down the screen to make her disappear, the speaker told this girl to wake up each day, look at herself in the mirror, and say, "GOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL!!!" because the world would try to tear her down.<br />
<br />
I turned off my phone, set my carefully licked-clean bowl to the side, looked at the open chip bag nestled comfortably between my slightly lumpy arthritic knees, then down, past my double chin at my ample bosom and fluffy belly all covered in tortilla triangle chiplets, and said out loud, a little quieter and with a bit less enthusiasm than the speaker, "good morning, beautiful..."<br />
<br />
And then I laughed out loud.<br />
<br />
And also I meant it, chip crumbs, belly fluff, and all.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T8wCyYZu8SUpJnUM7pGEZKohZEm-E-Pf4Tcimf1ZmyZl-fgrH_c7L1jd1ZzHUu5khR8jUS97zEcul10b8nDmG1GjQlQJRbheh_yDUTS_IHDetClc-3d-Ao1Ow3sJRlMRQu1h1LveHU8/s1600/IMG_8268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2T8wCyYZu8SUpJnUM7pGEZKohZEm-E-Pf4Tcimf1ZmyZl-fgrH_c7L1jd1ZzHUu5khR8jUS97zEcul10b8nDmG1GjQlQJRbheh_yDUTS_IHDetClc-3d-Ao1Ow3sJRlMRQu1h1LveHU8/s320/IMG_8268.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-9992005046525543582019-08-13T06:52:00.001-07:002019-08-13T06:57:52.378-07:00The Daily Conundrum It is currently 6:01 Mountain Standard Time and I am “typing” a blog post lying on my back, in my black and white polka dot pajamas, in my bed, next to my sleeping husband, while my teenage children bustle about the kitchen eating cold cereal and preparing school lunches.<br />
<br />
I am using my phone. This cannot be good for my eyes, or my hands, or my neck, but I have been meaning to write a blog post for months...quite possibly years. Amazingly I remembered my Blog user password. Do I get a point? Yes. I will give myself an honorary point for that. (Yay! I got a point!)<br />
<br />
I should be at the gym... (I have a dream to run a marathon...in the mountains...with bare feet...while sucking on chia seed gel.)<br />
<br />
I should be helping my kids get a real breakfast... (Once upon a time I was a decent sort of mother who baked fresh whole grain muffins and cooked scrambled eggs for my children before they went off to learn all the importance things.)<br />
<br />
I should be planning out my day and my healthy food plan... (All the experts say you need a meal plan or you’ll just eat whatever is convenient. Making vegetables convenient takes way too long.)<br />
<br />
I should be writing in my journal and saying a morning prayer... (My children’s children will thank me. Also, I need God’s help.)<br />
<br />
I figure I have about an hour and a half before my day with kids begins and insanity takes over. Lately I’ve been prioritizing exercise for that time slot. (I can now jog a whole half-mile... I’ll be old and gray before my marathon dreams comes true...oh, wait...I’m already old and gray. Haha. Jokes on me.) Today, however, I decided to read a couple chapters in the scriptures and listen to a general conference talk...and write a blog post.<br />
<br />
Can I exercise later? I hope so. This body is is a study in painful joints, flabby cheeks (top and bottom), and dimpled elbows. In other words, I NEED to exercise. (Even if I never get to barefoot marathon status.)<br />
<br />
But I also need to do all of the other things and in my over stimulated brain I feel like I need each of those things to start my day off <u>right</u>.<br />
<br />
Aaaaaaagh!!!!!<br />
<br />
Usually, this thought pattern is immobilizing. This morning, though, I chose something. Maybe I chose right? I don’t know, but I guess it’s going to be okay...dimpled elbows and all.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRs1M68kUEVVk_ApLG4YFGcQe0IDUGuOEOJsU0zfmm9dFS-LQhj-Tk5oSwtWCF9O6Dz6-r4BjZwRCF85PlASGaqzQ0yDb04bScnjqCvBzOlS6oV3wyby_61IhISl4ZeVLaQ5xBf86ud7s/s1600/IMG_8422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRs1M68kUEVVk_ApLG4YFGcQe0IDUGuOEOJsU0zfmm9dFS-LQhj-Tk5oSwtWCF9O6Dz6-r4BjZwRCF85PlASGaqzQ0yDb04bScnjqCvBzOlS6oV3wyby_61IhISl4ZeVLaQ5xBf86ud7s/s320/IMG_8422.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-79764041434692533472018-02-14T12:21:00.000-08:002018-02-19T12:33:24.526-08:00Teary Eyes and Crepey Skin (A Valentine's Day Post)*After I initially posted this piece I realized that it was almost kind of appropriate for the holiday!<br />
<br />
I don't know for sure when I understood the principle that old people are just young people whose skin has gone and shriveled up on them, but I am so intrigued by the concept. I cannot help but look at random teary eyed, crepey skinned old folks and see a young person with their whole lives ahead of them. I try not to stare too long, but I want to stare as long as it takes to grasp the reality that I'm looking at someone that played in the dirt, learned to ride a bike, served in the military, tried out new recipes, felt new attraction and fell in love. I never feel like I have enough time to really let it sink in, it's always just out of reach.<br />
<br />
I've had a few experiences in the last little while that are stark reminders that my time for teary eyes and crepey skin is coming. I joined a basketball team a couple months ago. I've spent almost 20 years remembering how much I loved basketball as a teenager and young adult. I just wanted to have a chance to play again, so in a moment of irrational courageous midlife crisis I found an adult women's league, paid my $50 and waited for the season to start. I will write about my days as a chubby, middle aged, Mormon-mom-of-8-basketball player in a post all its own where I can really do it justice, but for now, suffice it to say that I was the proverbial black sheep on the team made up of much younger, much more in shape specimens. I felt old the first day I practiced with them, but I became comfortable and in essence forgot that there was a 20 year age gap with some of them.<br />
<br />
During one practice the girls on my team decided that we should invite the young men, off shooting hoops in a nearby court, to come play full court b-ball with us. I played for all I was worth. I was so focused, so intense. I was having the time of my life for about 5 minutes at which point, having wet myself, just a <i>wee </i>bit, about 3 times (I hadn't transitioned to the idea of adult diapers yet), I could no longer breathe or raise my arms. I took myself out before I passed out. There was a girl there on the sidelines, darling and young, with long blond locks and a tiny waist, that was attached to this group of men somehow. I used to be very shy, but as a more mature woman I have grown out of this and so I struck up a conversation. It was then that the force of reality hit me, almost enough to wet myself again. Every last one of those boys on the court was 18. For all intents and purposes they could have been my daughter's friends. As the realization of my comparative antiquity dawned on me, it was as if my graying hair and arthritic knee started laughing. "Hahahahahah!!! You forgot you were OLD!!! HAHAHAHA!!!"<br />
<br />
This morning I had an altogether different experience, but one that has kept me thinking all morning about aging bodies. I was driving Leah to school just after 9 so she could have the pancake breakfast offered by a teacher there in honor of late late start. (I remember when I used to get excited about pancakes, back in the olden days.) We were still in our neighborhood, which is a slightly sketchy part of town that is full of stray dogs and feral cats, when I noticed a darling white dog standing in the middle of my side of the road. Leah, fearing for the dogs life, while I was looking at it going 15 mph, said with much anxiety, "MOM! DON'T RUN OVER THE DOG!" I explained to her that part of my obligation as a licensed driver was to look straight ahead as I drove. I slowed down expecting the little white dog, with the floppy pigtail-like ears and innocent expression, to run when I got close. No. The dog just stared at me and then back at the object of her devotion, the Century Link guy. Now, I knew that the dog did not belong to the guy pulling equipment out of his work van but I looked at him anyway. Leah was chuckling, I was smiling and dumbfounded that a dog wouldn't run from the sight of a large approaching vehicle, and the worker guy was trying to ignore the cute little dog. Eventually realizing that it was up to him to unstop the small traffic jam (another car had approached in the other lane), the Century Link guy tried to shoo the little doting doggie away from him back across the street where she came from. It was then that I saw this initially generic worker guy's face. Oooohhhh! Girl! He was ca-UTE!!! He was tall, dark and handsome. Throw in the floppy eared puppy and the crooked embarrassed grin on the maintenance man's face and my heart reacted involuntary! It was as if the page from a calendar had come to life in front of my very eyes! ...It was like watching the Budweiser commercial from the Super Bowl ads on YouTube! I drove past the puppy who was still ignoring the danger, but was at least scooted enough that I wouldn't run over her. My heart was all aflutter and, chuckling, I glanced in the rearview mirror to see what my hair looked like. Dramatically I said to Leah,"he was cute!" She said, "what! The man or the dog?" Haha! Both!<br />
<br />
I don't know about you, but I have a lot of conversations with myself. I once read on the internet (so it must be right) that it was a sure sign of intelligence. That made me feel a whole lot better about myself. The conversation I had with Erica this morning, as I drove from the scene of the unexpected heart palpitations, was this, "Erica! You are a 42 year old happily married woman with 8 kids! You stop that right now!" It was very effective, but I did start thinking about "cougars." Isn't "cougar" the term people use in reference to older women who are with a much, much younger man? Hmm, I get it now.<br />
<br />
*Confession- I have no idea what gender the dog was.☺Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-1155513919872781652018-02-05T11:15:00.000-08:002018-02-05T16:57:02.607-08:00What Goes In Must Come OutI am writing this mostly so I can look back with fondness at the years of motherhood when my children still filled the house with stink and laughter.<br />
<br />
* PSA for those of you with weak stomachs. You may want to skip this one.<br />
<br />
Samuel fell asleep on my lap last night wearing his Sunday dress pants and no shirt. I did not have the wherewithal to change that. My recliner had been draped with a crib-sized quilt which we were sitting on top of. I assumed the quilt had been left behind by someone cozying up on my chair the night before because it was there when I got out of bed. Samuel, my sweet angelic caboose baby that is now 4, weighs about 50 pounds. Getting out from under him required a *<i>momanuever.</i> I leaned forward, picked up his legs from off my lap and dumped them behind my back, careful not to make him do a back flip over the armrest of my chair, and stood up. I was so grateful that it worked. Sometimes <i>momanuevers, </i>thought up in a moment of pure maniacal desperation, backfire.<br />
<br />
Somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m. Samuel climbed up next to me in my bed. Not an unusual occurrence. John woke up enough to ask if he was dry, which IS abnormal since Samuel is NOT the bed wetter. More on that later. Samuel said his tummy hurt and then "popped a toot" on my back, this is also not uncommon. Mothers get farted on a lot. I was not totally awake for all this. If I was awake then I was falling back to sleep in record time, drifting in and out of consciousness. My eyes popped back open to see John roll out of bed then walk briskly around it toward my side and our bathroom. Samuel suddenly staggered out of the bed behind me. I figured John was helping him to the toilet so I dozed off again, but only for like 2.5 seconds because then I awoke to the sound of John's voice pointing out the vomit pile on the carpet between our bed and the bathroom. He got Samuel all the way to the toilet and now I had to <i>really</i> wake up because what kind of wife pretends to fall back to sleep, making her husband do all the work of the vomit clean-up crew? Not me, I guess.<br />
<br />
We have 8 kids, as you may know, and as unbelievable as this might sound, in all of our 18 years of working on the vomit clean-up crew we have had almost no carpet pukes. Really, it's true! I thought briefly about that fun fact while contemplating this Chocolate-Peanut Butter-No-Bake-Cookie-mixed-with-stomach-acid splat on my carpet and I kind of didn't know what to do. I went and got my pancake spatula (Bet you just decided to decline any offers of pancakes at my house!), a grocery sack, a wad of paper towels, and started scooping. Samuel is really good at chewing his cookies or else Hannah, the cookie maker, used quick oats, either way my pancake-flipper-puke-picker-upper plan was not really working. I did the best I could at 2 a.m. and was just rinsing out my first wet rag attempt when John said that the chunks needed to be up out of the carpet before we used a wet cloth. He left and came back in with a butter knife and a soup spoon. I'm surprised he wasn't wearing a bib. He was on his own after that. I refuse to sit on the floor in the wee hours of the morning daintily picking up minute pieces of partially digested food particals with the good silver. Instead I went in to the couch where Samuel was now recuperating and told him a story about a magic mouse who could make cheese appear whenever he was hungry. In hindsight maybe that wasn't the best choice. Who wants to think about cheese when your stomach is manufactuing its own curds? He threw up again a few minutes later.<br />
<br />
Samuel didn't want to be alone. We came back to the recliner. It was a bit nippy so we stood up and I grabbed the quilt that was conveniently still under our bums. He situated himself across my lap so his head could rest on the soft arm of the chair, and as I fluffed the blanket over our laps, the smell of day old urine assailed our nostrils. Pee that had remained dormant all day and half the night night under this blanket was now soaking up into the seat of my pajamas. After a brief moment of horrified shock I made an executive decision... TO. NOT. CARE. Caring required a shower and new clothes and searching the house for a clean blanket. Some of you reading this will recoil in shock, some of you will just shake your head, but some of you know what I'm talking about. For some of us there comes that moment when all we can do is embrace the insanity and say to ourselves, <i>"at least I am warm."</i><br />
<br />
Before we were lulled back to sleep in our over stuffed urinal, I told Samuel how the throw ups can be contagious. I said that more people in our family would start throwing up just like him. His excited response, "then we can be MATCHERS!"<br />
<br />
He is currently settled into a movie downstairs with a "matcher." His big sister made it to my husband's office near her school before throwing up in his garbage can. They have matching gallon Ziplock baggies. Dreams do come true.<br />
<br />
*MOMANEUVER - the action taken by a woman desperate to get away from a sleeping child without waking them up. This can be anything from creeping at the pace of an ancient arthritic tortoise while rolling off of a creaking mattress after getting a toddler to sleep, to removing a sleeping 50 lb gorilla child out of the back seat of a vehicle while still wearing a purse and carrying ...stuff, stuff you refuse to make another trip for.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-60888696331285965142017-08-19T12:32:00.003-07:002017-08-19T12:32:38.175-07:00On Showers<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hasn’t this
happened before?” Yes. Yes it has. My 15 year old son was supposed to be AT his
Scout leader’s house at 3 am. The famous last words…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Me - “Will
you be okay getting yourself up?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Him - An
emphatic, “Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">3:23 a.m. I
am scrambling through my sleep to find the source of the ringing. Not such an
easy task since the cordless phone was invented. Sometimes I miss the
convenience of knowing exactly where to run when the phone is ringing… at 3 am.
I stumble toward the sound and end up in
the kitchen. My first thought is always to prepare emotionally for an emergency
or a death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No death. “Is
Levi up?” I stagger downstairs and there sits Levi in a fully lit up bedroom
with his clothes still all on looking like he’s not sure what planet he’s on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes. He is
now. He’ll be there momentarily.” I assume that my child is feeling the same urgency that I
am and will take 3 minutes to load up his gear and get into the car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He looks at
me with his vacant staring eyes, grabs a towel and walks past me upstairs to
the bathroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Are you
taking a shower?!” I’m incredulous. He’s almost a HALF HOUR LATE to go CAMPING!
Camping is about letting nature take over! Dirt, bugs, campfire smoke! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It
doesn’t matter. He must shower. So I wait sitting in my chair, the recliner I
resigned myself to sleep in the night before because after I came home late
from a meeting, picked up my oldest daughter from work, and listened to her
work stories (okay, I may have also done some talking) I found that my two youngest
children were in my bed, in my personal indentation. Who wants to carry two 43
pound dead weights to their beds at 11 pm? Well, not me, but I did manage to
put on pajamas as part of my effort to turn over a new leaf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
contemplate showers while I sit and wait, listening to the water as it makes its
journey through the pipes to cleanse my tardy offspring. If it were me I would
not have showered. I cannot stand the thought of people waiting for me. I feel
an intense amount of stress and guilt. I hate it more than head grease or dirty
underwear. And to be perfectly honest, I was exuberant when I read an article
posted on the internet that claimed that over showering was stripping people of
their much needed skin oils. So, when occasionally day 3 rolls around and I’m
not feeling too fresh and my neck feels like an oily slip ‘n’ slide, I just
smile. It is healthy after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">It took 20
minutes for Levi to get out to the car laden with his camping/canoeing/fishing
supplies. I was still in my black-and-white-3-sizes-too-big-polka-dot pajamas
when we went tearing around the corner without even taking the time to put on </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px; line-height: 15.3333px;">seat belts</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"> (calm down, it was only around the block), almost sweating
with the stress that my son was holding up the whole group. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Turns out a
couple of Scouts not only didn’t wake up in time, but completely <i>forgot</i> that the epic canoe trip was even happening. They were presumably
at home packing. All guilt washed away… like a warm shower on day three. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-41296945766139567322013-08-30T12:11:00.003-07:002013-08-30T12:12:45.677-07:00I've Had A Baby, Shout "Hooray"!!!I'm 37. I'll be 38 toward the end of this year. I have just given birth to my eighth child. He was huge. They were all "big" but he was huge. 12 pounds and 1 oz (1.5 to be exact) and 24 inches long. Him coming out of me was traumatic...and dramatic (that's a story for a different day/different post). My body doesn't really want to recover and my mental capacities are quickly diminishing with each passing day. In a nutshell, I'm a basket case (is basket case one word? hyphenated? what in the heck does it mean?).<br />
<br />
I suddenly have severe ADD, or ADHD or lost-my-mind-where-did-I-put-it-I-need-(a)-cookie(s) syndrome. I guess it's not suddenly - it's been coming on for weeks. Make that years. I have always gotten some form of postpartum depression so it's not a shock but it doesn't really make it that much easier. A little, but not enough to keep it from swallowing me.<br />
<br />
My husband has been helping out by doing all of the grocery shopping (let me repeat that ... ALL the grocery shopping) for many months now. I have mixed emotions about that but, again, that's a story for a different day/post. He feels a great need for our school-aged children to have something in their lunch bag besides a crappy self-made bologna or peanut butter sandwich and a whole peeled carrot (I'm a total cheapskate when it comes to school lunches AND I force them to make their own lunches. Sorry, it's called independence and the whole carrot is their choice. They are fully capable of making carrot sticks - you know the predecessor to the baby carrot.). So he has gotten into the routine of buying them cheap sandwich-style cookies (you know, like Oreo's but not as crunchy) and Cheese-its. Don't get me wrong. I'm not opposed to sticking a cookie in their lunch when they're available (I've even been known to bake a few on my good days) but I don't feed them treats every day for lunch when they're home so I don't feel an obligation to do so when they are at school. Interestingly enough,...I think it's HEALTHIER that way. <br />
<br />
I've got to pull myself off the school-lunch track because that is not the purpose of this post...<br />
<br />
Here is the reason for this post...THEY KEEP LEAVING THEIR MENTALLY AND EMOTIONALLY DERANGED WIFE AND MOTHER ALONE IN A HOUSE (the babies don't count) WITH AN OPEN PACKAGE OF STUPID GROSS COOKIES THAT I CAN NOT STOP EATING!!!!<br />
<br />
I will probably gain 20 pounds just from sandwich cookies. I'd probably eat less if they were too big to pop in my mouth whole (wishful thinking) but I go from the sink to the laundry room and my left arm shoots straight up and my hand dives into the plastic and comes out with 3 cookies...(plus one 'cause three are gone before I have time to acknowledge them). Then I've got one in my mouth and I'm feeling the endorphins pumping through my veins and I keep walking to the laundry room and maybe even remember why I'm there once I enter. Maybe. Maybe I've forgotten and I need to return to the fridge area to jog my memory. <br />
<br />
My dear husband gathered the family together a week and a half ago on a Monday evening and used a pamphlet on postpartum mental health to explain to our dear children ranging in ages from 14 down to 16 mo (not including the littlest one) how Mommy will be different for a while. "Depression, anxiety, fatigue, loneliness...CHANGE IN APPETITE," these are some of the symptoms that he listed off and discussed with the kiddos while I sat next to him feeling very...um...idiotic. I didn't add much to the discussion. We've been here before- after all, this is not my first postpartum experience. So, why the insistence on having cookies on the fridge? We ALL know better! Even (most of) me.<br />
<br />
I have sane moments. "I'm going to eat more healthfully for myself and my baby." Green protein smoothie for breakfast, snacking on raw almonds and Greek yogurt sweetened with banana and wild blueberries, turkey roll-up stuffed with lettuce for lunch, stir-fry chock full of fresh veggies for dinner (because the whole family needs to be healthier, too. Right?) Reality - sandwich cookies for breakfast followed by a quart of apple cider vinegar water because I feel guilty and I really need to get my bowels moving after a week of gut corking comfort/convenience food, sandwich for lunch (with creme filling, right?)...maybe more than one, followed by a green smoothie because I feel guilty for eating so many cookies, then for dinner I'll prepare something great (after all I cleaned the kitchen while powered by crunchy-creamy fuel!) while snacking on sandwich cookies to help me keep my focus and energy. I'll eat a generous portion of dinner (x2) because I've already failed to the point of no-return and at least this is "real" food (it's probably tator-tot casserole). It's a sad existence, a downward trend but by writing about it maybe<br />
I'm "owning" it and maybe, just maybe the creative release will act as an antidote to the poison I have been repeatedly injecting myself with (figuratively speaking, of course).<br />
<br />
Yesterday my 6-year-old boy came into the house from school, overheard me admit to a friend on the phone that I'd eaten all the lunch treats and fell completely apart to the point of crying himself to sleep on the couch. So my dear husband went to the store last night and bought a lovely carton of sandwich cookies. Thankfully it's Friday. The school lunch sandwich cookie crisis won't happen for 3 more days...<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifp0Q9rFMmLQ9VdE-PjoCVK68SOdIH4ESl02MgvViFjvxVevIwLr6yD6-sBYoNm2inoM8y5ucG3qqT-mh9FxLv2di78iJb70EX7zjPExj-Y6Vi-7pshd7jJDI4_bZNXRbe3uZb9Uq3ULo/s1600/Samuel+in+August+069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifp0Q9rFMmLQ9VdE-PjoCVK68SOdIH4ESl02MgvViFjvxVevIwLr6yD6-sBYoNm2inoM8y5ucG3qqT-mh9FxLv2di78iJb70EX7zjPExj-Y6Vi-7pshd7jJDI4_bZNXRbe3uZb9Uq3ULo/s400/Samuel+in+August+069.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom keeps giving me gas...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-10062386096810836622010-11-14T20:26:00.000-08:002010-11-14T20:26:34.537-08:00My Dream PainterI was perusing the painting how-to videos on YouTube this evening and discovered, much to my absolute delight, a painter who paints my paintings! Let me explain. For as long as I can remember I have looked up and seen tremendous beauty in the sky - clouds, sunset colors, vast expanse, even great granddaddy trees fall into the sky category. I have ALWAYS wanted to be able to paint those amazing views but have lacked the skills. <br />
<br />
A few years ago I started drawing again (dabbled as a child and young teenager) and ended up working a little with oil, watercolor and colored pencil as well as the graphite. Mostly I paint/draw faces, hands - people, but I <i>still </i>wanted to paint the clouds. Someone told me that sunsets and sunrises painted are gaudy and tacky and I believed them (there are some pretty awful attempts out there) until I stumbled upon William Hawkins site. Yeah!!! Clouds in all their splendor frozen and magnified for all who view them. And I have decided that I, too, will paint the clouds. I can't possibly tread upon his territory because there are <i>so many</i> unique clouds and I will have my own stamp of personality upon my work.<br />
<br />
So whether William Hawkins likes it or not (or even notices), he is my cloud mentor and I his humble fluffy cloud student.<br />
<br />
I won't commit some internet crime by copying this artist's paintings onto my blog but I will post a link to <i>his</i> blog. <a href="http://williamhawkins.blogspot.com/">http://williamhawkins.blogspot.com/</a> Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-52147846934783363702010-11-06T12:01:00.000-07:002010-11-07T17:09:04.610-08:00The Evolution of a SoftieMy oldest daughter was a 'binkie" girl. My young mother mind worried many hours over how I was going to wean her from it and eventually she "lost" it. She really <i>did</i> lose and I just didn't make any effort to find it. When it did show up I carefully concealed it in a drawer to keep for posterity. Most of my children haven't used anything except their fingers or thumbs and I am keeping those for sure ... but not in a drawer, don't worry.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJEFSIfYD6KiJj5Bv5WPghDzmgLg0RraB4raxu28JL92aF9X-kv9lgd6ZaDqq_5f23vFo9sZbfgmKgRdhQeL1V39lKsriDxDehRzWJAkI4IVnE0gkRVlCpI80MBaaV09TejaP02G63Zs/s1600/Leah's+softies+020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJEFSIfYD6KiJj5Bv5WPghDzmgLg0RraB4raxu28JL92aF9X-kv9lgd6ZaDqq_5f23vFo9sZbfgmKgRdhQeL1V39lKsriDxDehRzWJAkI4IVnE0gkRVlCpI80MBaaV09TejaP02G63Zs/s320/Leah's+softies+020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Enter "Lou" (obviously not her real name and chosen, not for how it sounds alone but because we usually tag it onto the end of her real name and <i>then</i> it is cute) child number four of six. There is technically no middle child in an even number, but if anyone has middle child syndrome it's her. She was a baby when Mom was at her craziest, a wild toddler when Mom was at her most depressed, she doesn't accomplish any firsts and she's grown out of the cute pre-school age. She didn't use a binkie, didn't use her thumb or two middle fingers, instead she found the love of a true friend in a life-sized Pooh.<br />
<br />
The older kids were given a couple of these Christmas Pooh's complete with scarf, Santa hat and, of course, the iconic little red Pooh shirt. When Lou was about 15 months she discovered her love of Pooh. She wouldn't fall asleep without him. Pooh was easily twice as big as she was and as she got older she would fall asleep on her back with her arms wrapped around this Pooh and wake up in pain because her hands were asleep. Pooh became more important to her than food (I may be exaggerating here a bit but not by much). Pooh became so filthy that I could not count myself any sort of a decent mother unless I snuck Pooh while she was otherwise occupied and washed his poor yellow Pooh fur. Every time I did that it was a complete catastrophe. "His ears don't <i>feel</i> good anymore!" she would wail. I'd reply, "what's different... they're softer? Cleaner?" "They just don't <i>FEEL</i> right!." Eventually, though, Pooh's ears would get back that knobby gritty feeling again and she would be content. <br />
<br />
I came to despise Pooh - Lou could not fall asleep anywhere without Pooh which caused many a public tantrum but also this Pooh represented my inadequate mothering for Lou. I knew that eventually Pooh had to leave. It's one thing to be attached to a little bear but a 2 1/2 foot tall one? They don't stuff into your purse very well. Well, one day my "Rage Monster" had a confrontation with Pooh and his ears were removed with a pair of scissors. Poor Lou was beside herself and when my fire had died down, I felt worse than scum. I called my husband sobbing. Lou was crying, I was crying and poor Pooh couldn't hear a thing.<br />
<br />
We happened to have a small blankie that came with a Pooh Bear newborn gift set (my new baby was only weeks old, which could explain the "Rage Monster's" visit) and I was inspired to take those ears and resurrect them onto this little two-foot-square "Pooh Bear Blanket" and thus is was dubbed. As it turned out the ears were not just her favorite part but the <i>only</i> part she needed to get her Pooh fix. Another year or so and that "Pooh Bear Blanket" got so much love that I was afraid to wash it anymore.<br />
<br />
<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNg28-pqY9ORjtiKMP38C4pw0bBdNkokhozZtHbHbWe0jBNYOIYZBBHQzSlNJwOaJ1X-SsrbGOaozZwYvI5e9x3RSDc_YtNP6q2GNCdwlXiJPjDgMVfhqOBKeSuinxfFPplgPcTwuI51U/s1600/Leah's+softies+004.jpg" /><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNg28-pqY9ORjtiKMP38C4pw0bBdNkokhozZtHbHbWe0jBNYOIYZBBHQzSlNJwOaJ1X-SsrbGOaozZwYvI5e9x3RSDc_YtNP6q2GNCdwlXiJPjDgMVfhqOBKeSuinxfFPplgPcTwuI51U/s1600/Leah's+softies+004.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNg28-pqY9ORjtiKMP38C4pw0bBdNkokhozZtHbHbWe0jBNYOIYZBBHQzSlNJwOaJ1X-SsrbGOaozZwYvI5e9x3RSDc_YtNP6q2GNCdwlXiJPjDgMVfhqOBKeSuinxfFPplgPcTwuI51U/s1600/Leah's+softies+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>The problem with the Pooh Bear Blanket was that it was so small. She lost it frequently. I made a rule that she couldn't take it anywhere but her bed. It didn't matter. Somehow it got lost many times a week and she cried and cried until I stopped everything and found it for her. Then we went on vacation. She lost it at the beginning of a two-week long vacation and spent an entire week without it. I was overjoyed. Turned out it was at my mother's house and when we stopped back by a well-meaning cousin came running up to Lou with this blanket. I was so disappointed. Then hours after we were on the road again, Lou wailed, "I left my Pooh Bear blanket!" Whew! She was habit free for months then ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHi0h1jkuVNZ8aM3TUaxMOkbY1iKW_do83lUiOkPv0CNKWupBHBOCCU9FAKKFjFUxymR2WT7MP5fjx74IiP8TwiYEqoevMv0a4s27omOT4BxfRuf8FqiWvq0ZXE6bIOdRvSNV3JPLI-o/s1600/Leah's+softies+010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHi0h1jkuVNZ8aM3TUaxMOkbY1iKW_do83lUiOkPv0CNKWupBHBOCCU9FAKKFjFUxymR2WT7MP5fjx74IiP8TwiYEqoevMv0a4s27omOT4BxfRuf8FqiWvq0ZXE6bIOdRvSNV3JPLI-o/s1600/Leah's+softies+010.jpg" /></a></div>... my sister-in-law gave our 1-year-old son this small panda bear (except it was new at the time ... and clean). Not 2 days went by before I realized that Lou's Pooh had been reincarnated in the body of this little panda. Aggggghhhhhhhhhh!!! Okay, so a year went by dealing with the exact same issues as we had with the Pooh Bear and the Pooh Bear Blanket - dirty, lost, sadness, falling apart, etc... Then Dad told her that she had to keep her bear in her room or she would loose it. Well, after a couple of warnings she did lose it - right into the back of Dad's closet. Now "Bear" resides in my relic drawer (along with my underwear and the "Pooh Bear blanket").<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJjzwO8D2qqRTwyrVZ7ihyc5ZTdwk3xDvmlDcSoicO5LY6oI4ID3-lpbcv-dR5B3lRmYb9qXS-WcIr8qBBKtGGb_h7GiQwPX66aOtnBFcuYXEEcaSZVGZHrz0eYkllkYieqwZpJOhNr0/s1600/Leah's+softies+011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJjzwO8D2qqRTwyrVZ7ihyc5ZTdwk3xDvmlDcSoicO5LY6oI4ID3-lpbcv-dR5B3lRmYb9qXS-WcIr8qBBKtGGb_h7GiQwPX66aOtnBFcuYXEEcaSZVGZHrz0eYkllkYieqwZpJOhNr0/s320/Leah's+softies+011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Poor dear got loved absolutely to death. She started carrying him around with her fingers crammed into his pie hole.<br />
<br />
The final chapter of the story of softie evolution (so far, she's only 7 after all) is that the day before her birthday her big sister came to me and asked if she could give Lou this bear she's been saving for her. She was so excited because she'd been collecting bear clothes and accessories for this bear. I didn't understand why she was asking. I said, "of course! Why are you even asking?" Famous last words. Had only a few months softie-free erased the pain of years? Who knows? But it wasn't until the evening after Lou's birthday party that I walked past her reading on the couch and realized what I'd done. You don't need bear clothes and accessories to fulfill this need.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUkr8TklwGVYS0SW-RSlZeUva8_fFNY236mKZelMREgZi6j8mC1McRXTGI7FctX3CAyAnZGKFsQ2ygGwcSY1uaBKa4SeDMglYyvNjVGfHBi5qgGq86ssjsx9v5TSHoMQwRRTsBwVztgQ/s1600/Leah's+softies+022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUkr8TklwGVYS0SW-RSlZeUva8_fFNY236mKZelMREgZi6j8mC1McRXTGI7FctX3CAyAnZGKFsQ2ygGwcSY1uaBKa4SeDMglYyvNjVGfHBi5qgGq86ssjsx9v5TSHoMQwRRTsBwVztgQ/s640/Leah's+softies+022.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-7559274960306682682010-11-05T12:20:00.000-07:002010-11-05T12:20:05.106-07:00Who Is A Maker?I make stuff ... a lot of different kind of stuff. Edible stuff, pretty stuff, useless stuff, ... stuff. Some would say that I have "talent". Okay, so I have talent. Doesn't everybody have talent? I think YES! There are people who will disagree with me, usually people who have decided for themselves that THEY have no talent, but I will disagree with them.<br />
<br />
As children we are (usually) given opportunities to try our hands at many different kinds of things - bike riding, finger painting, writing, sandwich making, bed making, etc. - and when we make an effort to try something usually someone (sometimes ourselves) tells us what they think of if. "Jimmy, that's fabulous! You'll be an amazing artist someday." Or how about this, "why can't you just color nicer like Sasha? See how she is choosing pretty colors and staying inside the lines?" Okay, now Bobby (Sasha's counterpart) knows in his little mind that his coloring is ugly and that he's no good at it but Sasha is. That, my fellow thinkers, begins a life of "I can't draw," or "I'm not good at this" or that, or whatever. His fate is being decided at age 5.<br />
<br />
As an adult is it too late for us to find and improve our talents? I give you a resounding, NO! If there is something that interests you, even if you've believed for your whole life that you cannot do it because once someone said something or didn't say anything, start trying it again. You'll discover something marvelous if you do. You've got gifts and pursuing your dreams, no matter how insignificant they may seem to others, will make you happier and better able to positively influence those around you. <br />
<br />
Make yourself a "maker" by making someone laugh, by improving your ability to juggle, by learning the art of baking, by learning cartooning, by learning to play the piano, by learning to bowl or make a bowl. Be a maker and make yourself amazing.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-60744504141616909742010-02-01T14:20:00.000-08:002010-02-01T14:20:27.048-08:00The AnswerI'm a Mormon, yes, I am. At a meeting Saturday evening we were edified by some great speakers. My honey and I got to sit together, sans children, and just absorb. The feeling was peaceful and I wished that I'd remembered to bring paper and pencil for note taking.<br />
<br />
The biggest thing (now the only one I remember) that struck me was a scripture quoted from Proverbs. The speaker (a wonderful woman that I've known for a few years now) was attempting to describe a "virtuous woman" using select verses from Proverbs that illustrated her point. "...eat not the bread of idleness." Bam!!! If you haven't read my previous post that "bam" will confuse you. The "bread of idleness" most udoubtedly means the fruits of laziness, but for me at that moment it meant something else. <br />
<br />
Here is what I took away from that good meeting:<br />
<br />
My perspective is narrow and needs to be broadened every day by doing, thinking and listening to good things like reading scriptures and uplifting articles and singing and listening to good music. If I work each day to fill myself spiritually then I will not feel so compelled to fill my mouth.<br />
<br />
My bread binges are an act of idleness and selfishness. I can be better than that...I am better than that.<br />
<br />
I made the most delicious bread last night. Today it was soft and oh-so-good. I've had one piece and not during nap time. It's not much but it's a start.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-44459511931618449202010-01-29T12:59:00.000-08:002017-08-19T12:54:27.875-07:00The Daily Nap Time DilemmaAs you most likely know, I have six marvelous children. While four of them are getting educated in one of our nations "Blue Ribbon" schools, two of them are hangin' out with Mom. On a regular (decent) morning, we clean, we read, we play reading games on the computer or we go on walks or errands. Lunch time happens around 11:30 and then, with great excitement, I send them off to find one nap time reading book and to go potty.<br />
<br />
The nap time ritual has evolved through the years, but lately we end up on my bed with me in the middle so that each child can see the book. I read, occasionally I sing, and then we close our eyes. Nine times out of ten I fall asleep. When I wake up I have this sense of freedom. Computer? Usually. Book? Sometimes. What I feel like I <i>should</i> be doing is working on the creation of some great piece of art and sometimes that happens. But no matter what I choose it's always accompanied by food.<br />
<br />
Food is the great nap time dilemma. I've eaten lunch, right? I shouldn't need food and I understand that fact on a logical level. However, my emotional mind craves love and relaxation. For me that equals food...and more food. If I didn't have this two hour window during the middle of the day where I eat like a cavernous beast, I would be in top model form. Well, maybe not, but I would definitely be smaller around the middle...and the bottom, and the top.<br />
<br />
I'm not terribly picky about what goes into my largest facial orifice. It just needs to taste good and last longer than a couple of minutes. I'm an awful good baker sometimes (sometimes not) and here I am in a house, mostly alone, with fresh homemade bread and soft real butter sitting on the counter. I will not totally shame myself by admitting to how much I can down in one nap time session. Let's just say it's a lot.<br />
<br />
This is a conflict without a resolution, as yet. There have been days and even weeks when I have overcome the beast within and even lost some weight. I guess you could say that it was in remission. But it keeps coming back. If I get it figured out I'll let you know. Until then...<br />
<br />
...Sorry, went back in for another slice.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-36011168311750838372010-01-23T22:54:00.000-08:002010-01-23T22:54:03.498-08:00Getting EditedMy husband hasn't found this Blog yet. Actually I'm not sure, but he hasn't offered to edit it yet. I'm feeling some feelings of humility because I believed that I was a good (sometimes great) writer and now I don't feel that way anymore.<br />
<br />
It started out with his comment to me on eHow. "I will edit your article for a backrub." Or some such. He's brutal and thorough. It's good for me though, really. I do want to write...and draw, and paint, and bake, and sew... He is a realist with some very good tools in his belt. I am a dreamer with a few great stories to tell<br />
<br />
I came into the office to check emails and wind down for bed. He beat me to the office chair and promptly pulled up my eHow account. I sat on the floor like an humble follower and tried not to cringe when he highlighted whole phrases and moved them or deleted them entirely. <br />
<br />
I am grateful for his efforts in my behalf. Someday I hope to know where to put the commas and how to be confident when I say the word "parentheses."Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-48860131113075288742009-12-06T19:28:00.000-08:002010-01-23T09:09:26.087-08:00"mishmallows"My dear in-laws kept my 6 kiddies for me on Saturday while I made my fortune selling bread at a "boutique" on a residential street corner in front of someone's house. When I returned to fetch them I was greeted by a row of ginger-bread style graham cracker houses each created with different levels of skill and creativity. They were covered with candy (of course) and mini-marshmallows.<br />
<br />
I managed to load everyone into the car with their houses on their laps except my 3-year-old boy. When I went in to fetch him Grandpa told me that he'd gone to the toilet down the hall. There he was, little bum hanging into the toilet, balanced on the front edge of the seat. This is his conversation with me;<br />
<br />
Adam: "I'm having poops...and it's hurteen' my neck. The poops are hurteen' my neck when I'm pushing them out."<br />
<br />
Me: "It hurts your neck when you poop?"<br />
<br />
Adam: "Yep. The mishmallows are hurteen' my neck when I poop because I ate too many and now I have a tummy ache."<br />
<br />
He is so right about that. When I eat too many "mishmallows" I get a tummy ache, too, but I'm not sure I've had a neck ache from them as well.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-50829643345298670912009-11-24T19:54:00.000-08:002009-11-24T19:54:21.813-08:00How to Stay Married During Financial Hardship | eHow.com<a href="http://www.ehow.com/how_5684414_stay-married-during-financial-hardship.html?shared=true">How to Stay Married During Financial Hardship | eHow.com</a><br /><br />Check out my eHow article and pass it along.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-39892910207265149472009-10-03T12:14:00.001-07:002009-10-03T12:20:05.181-07:00Hold On<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2e_JmLOomxjsQWypkLz6-zUSAZLUN-fkI5Y-ef60yUaqRnT7t3oCFEtlPsgsRy2A8KTwCkGaiafRhZ4zPQJewfSax1Jh8Umuq1DDYiD55Sm1GByflH4LTHIDQ5HnUtUocGb_wwsE_HY/s1600-h/Hold+On+015.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL2e_JmLOomxjsQWypkLz6-zUSAZLUN-fkI5Y-ef60yUaqRnT7t3oCFEtlPsgsRy2A8KTwCkGaiafRhZ4zPQJewfSax1Jh8Umuq1DDYiD55Sm1GByflH4LTHIDQ5HnUtUocGb_wwsE_HY/s400/Hold+On+015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388455623859770498" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-60FJmk3C6j9QKW6wDCz9zNXmew694qL9afHNvMZRmosRa8El7wfajOEk_5uGlMPn6uyuwb8hJ3eyr5rpJTY7HeORHXFJGu95GEMV1J9ikyflyRHr__Mkozc5CyxB-4qlxLQomzQX0o/s1600-h/Hold+On+011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-60FJmk3C6j9QKW6wDCz9zNXmew694qL9afHNvMZRmosRa8El7wfajOEk_5uGlMPn6uyuwb8hJ3eyr5rpJTY7HeORHXFJGu95GEMV1J9ikyflyRHr__Mkozc5CyxB-4qlxLQomzQX0o/s400/Hold+On+011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388455613926297586" border="0" /></a><br />This is my latest achievement. I saw the reference photo for this piece in a local news story. The subjects are the wife and newborn of a fallen soldier. He was killed just days after returning to Iraq after being home for this birth of his baby girl and this is wife as his body is returned to American soil. This is an 11x14 color pencil portrait on a smooth Bristol paper. I titled it "Hold On."Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-87923944669868119502009-09-27T08:51:00.000-07:002010-11-14T20:33:29.975-08:00AntiquesMy three oldest daughters and I were looking forward to meeting a family friend at the Tempe Center for the Arts yesterday (Saturday) to be her guests at a pre-show reception. After the reception the girls were going to be treated to their first theatrical performance by the the Child's Play Theatre. We were on time and thirty seconds from the building waiting at a tricky intersection for the light to turn green when I noticed a little white haired old lady peeking over the steering wheel of her late model orange Mustang in the lane to the right of ours.<br />
<br />
Since the street that we were both on ended there we were both required to turn right when the light changed. I made a mental note to give the Mustang as wide a berth as possible recognizing that her turn would be sharper than my own. Just as I turned into the new lane I saw the orange of the Mustang get really close before she hit my 2003 Chevy Suburban and shoved us up onto the median. She proceeded to gun it enough to propel her car up over the median until her Mustang was straddling the median where she finally found the brake.<br />
<br />
Mavis (as she later introduced herself to be) got out of her car unharmed and asked me what happened. I explained that she ran into me after crossing into my lane. She had no idea that there had been two right-turn lanes and was expecting to just make a wide turn. She called 911 from her cell phone while I called John (my husband) from Brad's (the name of the younge man who had witnessed the accident and kindly stayed around to help).<br />
<br />
After wating for about 10 minutes I got my girls out of the Suburban and the whole lot of us walked across the street into the shade of a nearby building to finish waiting for the police to arrive and tell us what to do with our cars. Brad called the police one more time after we had been wating for about 20 minutes. After a total of about 30 minutes two police cars arrived. The second about 5 minutes after the first.<br />
<br />
It was about 105 out there in the sun. I was wearing black slacks and was dying. I don't know how the police do it with an entire black uniform. Leah was dying of thirst, she assured me numerous times, and Hannah was complaining that we were missing our food and fun. The police asked me to move my car to a nearby parking lot and there I filled out all of the necessary paperwork. John showed up to take the girls down the street to the arts center to meet our friend who didn't know what had happened to us.<br />
<br />
We missed our play but when I finally showed up an hour late the kids were happily eating leftovers from the reception in the lobby and we were given the option of another group of free tickets to another showing of the same play. So all turned out well in the end. At least, it did for me. Poor Mavis Boyle's 66' Mustang was stuck on the median. The policeman offered to back it off for her but the median was too high and grinding the innards with every inch so a tow truck was called. I guessed my attacker's age to be around 75 but I was 11 years off. Mavis Boyle in her 66' Mustang was born in the Spring of 1923 which makes her an 86-year-old woman driving a 43-year-old classic without power steering. It was an accident waiting to happen.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-15922267607126000032009-09-08T12:21:00.000-07:002009-09-08T12:29:06.637-07:009 on 9/9/09I just now realized that my daughter is turning 9 on 09/09/09 I find that very interesting. I am posting this in case anyone else finds that noteworthy. <br /><br />When our first daughter was born on 09/02/99 we were very mildly disappointed that she hadn't been born on 09/09/99. I now feel closure to that hope of so long ago as our second daughter is having her 9th birthday on 09/09/09. <br /><br />Wow. I feel like I should do something grand to commemorate the occasion like, I don't know, put 9 candles on her cake and choose an ice cream flavor with 9 ingredients. Maybe I'll make sure she has 9 presents and 9 people at her party? Who knows, the possibilities of 9 are endless.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-10275508166650209322008-02-20T08:40:00.000-08:002008-02-20T08:47:52.435-08:00Acrobatic ArachnidThis morning, while driving home from taking my 7 and 8-year-old girls to school, my eyes focused in on a little spider dangling from his thread inches from my face. Lucky for all of us the only turn left to make was into our driveway. With only a few glances away from the spider I managed to pull into our driveway and put the suburban into park without hitting anything. As soon as I did, however, the spider decided to decend. I'm not a bug person. With my seatbelt still secure I attempted to jump out of my seat. He was dropping fast but I was not going anywhere. I finally figured out how to undo my seatbelt and propelled myself up onto the middle console where I stayed until I had calmed down. To be on the safe side I slapped and rubbed my left side briskly until I felt satisfied that the critter was squished.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-38899317092270737712008-02-20T07:47:00.000-08:002008-02-20T08:39:03.576-08:00A Close Encounter of the Nasal KindWith six children under the age of nine my life gets pretty funny sometimes. Yesterday evening was getting ready for bed as usual when I asked my 2-year-old to see her clean teeth. While looking into her mouth my 5-year-old decided to see what would happen when he banged our heads together. What happened was a horrible crunching sound that only I heard and stars. The blood came pouring out of my nose moments later as I ran up the stairs to the bathroom sink. I was sure it was broken and shook like a leaf while trying to cradle cold tap water against my nose. The good new is that I did eventually fall asleep despite the pain and this morning the only sign of my evenings collision is a sore honker.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-693514849458585806.post-37393087616896544672008-02-19T12:54:00.000-08:002008-02-19T13:02:36.597-08:00new discoveriesWe recently entered the world of technology with our own laptop and 4-in-1 printer. I don't know how to rationally deal with all of the possabilities now at my fingertips. I have so many responsbilities (6 kids) and not enough time for all, including learning how to use the computer to my advantage.Erica Mileshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15408596413709486179noreply@blogger.com0