I have been {hearted}, and some BOO!

I'm guesting over at 'Joy's Hope' today.

{HOORAY!}  

Check it out here.

I hope your Halloween was

spooktacular!

If your little chickens had

half as much fun as mine,

I would say it was a success.

BOO!

a few things.

First off, I cleaned out my closet this morning. 

Yikes!

Before:

After:

The bags:

The prize:

I found my sister's 'go to' black dress.  MIA for longer than we can remember.

I'm pretty sure this will officially get me off of her hit list.

And, no, I'm not kidding.  Lately, she wants to end me.

Secondly, I wish to tell you that I am a clean, clean person.

You could eat out of my toliets.  I mean if you're freaky like that.

Closets and junk drawers do not fall under my must-be-clean-at-all-times umbrella.

They did before kids, but now, it's just a losing battle.

Think Monica from friends. Remember her mysterious closet full of crap-o-la?

Anal-retentive/OCD, but with a twist.

My dirty little secret is starting to make me feel crazy.  Institutional crazy.

Something had to be done, and this is the start.  Thanks to this.

I hope it snowballs from here.

Finally, will someone puh-lease help me find this elusive 'spell check' in the new editor. 

Otherwise, I will resort to screen capturing my editor page and showing you all that it doesn't exist for me.

Does.  Not.

That, or I need glasses, or an entry level Computer class.

Both are probably completely & utterly true.

I know nothing about computers.  I had a party the day I learned how to enlarge my photos. 

Punch, cake, the whole she-bang.

Here's proof.

If you have a quick tip on the spelling situation shoot me an email or a comment.

And, as always, be patient with me...

I'm a constent work in progress.

Spell check lament.

Oh, spell check...

where have you gone?

How I miss you so.

I'm not really sure why the freaky web guys at Blogger got rid of you.

And, all for what?

To add a strike through key?

I, mean, don't get me wrong I love the strike through key, but that editing option didn't come cheap.

It cost a total of my blogging sanity.

Seriously, I'm about to call it quits.

No spell check means a total of 2.4789276 more minutes a day I spend on this contraption.

I'm about ready to quit this blog thing altogether. 

Did I already mention that?

Maybe that's what the Blogger people want.

To frustrate the living hell out of exactly 96% of bloggers who use Blogger. 

I think they're all up in their ivory towers, wearing Gucci suits, sipping exspensive French champagne, and having a hearty laugh at our expense.

Saying things like,

"Learn to spell you pasty white, mini-van driving, casserole making, Mid-Western, suburban housewife."

or

"Didn't they offer Spelling 101 in grad school, you big dumb-dumb?"

I think they're drunk with power. 

So, I say, whudeffer ewe Bluggre giyz!  I down't neid speel cheek!  Down't nied id I telll yuo!

Just wait until the angry mob of mommy bloggers show up at their pads with pitchforks & torches. 

We'll see who's laughing then.

Am I right, ladies?

Who's in?

Grrrrrrr.

I'm pissed off...

Yes. I just said that.

Yesterday, Pete started bleeding from the head.  Blood everywhere.  He was freaking out, Jake was crying because he was responsible.  It was a typical Grebe mess.  I asked what happened so I could get a handle on the situation and Jake said that he threw a chopstick at Pete. 

A chopstick?  Seriously?

Only in our house.

photo of the actual kind of chopstick which was thrown

which, if you're in the market for kids' chopsticks,  I highly recommend purchasing these

Then, to make matters worse, once things calmed down, naturally, I read an article the 'The New York Times' published about 'mommy bloggers' that made me want to spit nails.   Which I wish I could do but, alas, I can't, so I just cursed a lot using internal dialogue only.  Worse than a sailor.  Did you all know I have a muddy mouth?  Having kids made it real tough for me and my oral cavity.  It took a lot of cranial retraining.  But, I think I censor quite well now.  Anywho, while lately I've been struggling with what fuels my own blogging desires, I felt disappointed to read such chiding words. 

Blogging for my own self worth has never been a motivator for me.  I'm not a very insecure person.  Particularly in certain areas, and I certainly don't need people patting me on my back for painting a dresser with a faux finish or a posse telling me how incredible my homemade pillow cases are.  I was fine before I blogged in that department, and I'll survive the day after I decide to hang up my blogging hat. 

I don't ignore my kids (unless they're on my last ever loving nerve) or the housework (except when I'd rather eat chocolate and watch my stories) or the dog (except when he escapes out the front door and I wish he'd really just run away because he is so freaking high maintenance).  By the way, I'm totally kidding. I'm not sure how many times I have to say it, but it takes a max of 20 min. for me to post.  Apparently I can't say it enough.  In fact, since blogging I feel more motivated than ever to get my crap together.  To do more, create more, share more. 

funny, no?

I'm not trying to market myself or increase my search engine optimization.  I don't do it for freebies because, well, frankly I've never been offered any.  I don't do it becasue I think my kids are so cute the world would cease spinning on it's axis if they weren't shared or exploited.  I don't do it because I think my ideas are the best or my house the prettiest.  Believe you me...I know plenty of people in the blogosphere with far more outstanding ideas and much more stunning homes.

I mean, doesn't everyone that chooses to do certain things well or hone their particular craft do it to to get some sort of self-satisfaction.  Is that wrong?  We are all guilty of seeking the approval of others in some capactiy.  If that weren't the case, no one would strive to do anything to the best of their ability.  It seems like a debate that ends no better than a dog chasing his tail.  It could go on and on and on with no real winner.  Except let's face it...I think that tail outsmarts that dog any day.

I like to write and I like the resulting 'therapy' I seem to get from it, I like to make people laugh, or to inspire, or to get people think beyond what they're making for dinner or even to help them figure out what TO make for dinner.

Do I like to read blogs with meaty, sink-your-teeth-into-it, profound writing?  Yes.  Do I like to read blogs with tutorials on how to put pockets in dresses?  You bet'yer @$$.  Is one less important than the other?  Absolutely not. 

It really can't be explained.  Blogs/blogging...you either get it our you don't.  It's really that simple.

If you don't get it. I'm not sure why some of you continue to read or leave nasty comments or judge.  In that case, you're no better than what you seem to hate.  Munch on that.

So, if you know me personally in the UNvirtual world, you may want to turn right around and find something else to read (although, I wish you'd hang around with an open mind). I have a tendency to unintentionally blow the minds of those handful of people in the worst possible way.  I would suggest 'The NYT'  but, well ...

Writing.

I have recently been told that I "am a good writer, but nothing ever good comes of it".

Hmmmmmm?

First off, let me say, that, personally, I have never claimed to be a self-professed anything. Writer, advocate, juggler, seamstress. You get the idea. I belong to the school of thought that there are all kinds of people. Some are really good at one thing, some are a little good at a lot of things, some are blessed with excelling at all they turn their hands to, and still, others, float through this life not really mastering an expertise of anything, and are perfectly okay with that.

I never set out to write on this blog in the hopes of curing cancer, ridding the world of hunger or poverty, changing people's minds, or turning them onto God. I started for, I suppose a selfish reason...calm the storm of my own mind during a difficult time. Not because I was invariably depressed or miserable. In fact, I am, generally, a content, satisfied, happy sort, who loves to love and be loved, and be surrounded by those that care about me, and I, in turn, care about bunches.

I started to write to try and reach someone who understands what it's like to have a child like our Betsy. I was encouraged to join groups here in St.Louis, to mingle at special education classes and seminars, but I am, also, quite introverted with new people and situations. It takes the right kind of person and personality to put me at ease and crack my exterior. In the place my heart was in, I wasn't up to the challenge of finding that person in a sterile meeting room.

Maybe that was a mistake, maybe I should have taken advantage of the resources Delta Gamma and our special school district offered, but I hadn't the energy for it. The mommy face I wore all day, and the broken-heart, unsure face I wore alone at night depleted my energy and its reserves.

One day, at random, I discovered a blog.

It didn't really have anything to do with my situation, but it was a mom, just like me. She seemed to have an affinity for many of the same things as me, she had a wicked style, her life and her family's were spelled out in pictures, ideas, and recipes. It was brilliant. The blog was Design Mom.

Let me say, here and now, I was never a computer person (blogging has since changed that). The big ole dinosaur sat in the basement for, at least, a year without internet service, basically, an over sized typewriter. I could have cared less about email, social networking, or shopping on the web. But, that one blog changed me.

From there came Nie, Whatever, Little Bit Funky. All mothers, all inspirations, all present in what they were doing at this pivotal point in their lives. They were thinkers, bakers, theologians, philosophers, chefs, carpenters, crafters, novices, experts, and somehow, were all these things together, at the same time, and still are.

So, I started to blog. I wrote in the beginning through tears. Just putting my family's story and Betsy's story on the screen was therapeutic. I was certain no one would read it, but I didn't care. With every word, every tear, I felt lighter, brighter, better.

People tried to understand my initial grieving over Betsy, but no one I knew got it. No one could really understand how I felt, not even my mother. I felt lost, and those around me felt lost, too. We all just kind of milled around each other, never knowing what to say, what to do.

In that year, Pete & Jake learned what it meant to take second seat, and, now, there has been damage done. With any luck and God's good grace, it's of the reversible variety. They seek out Jake's and my attention, sometimes in inappropriate ways. They are learning how to move on in the wake of that time. We all are. Everything was about Betsy. Not intentionally, but that is how it had to be. Therapists in and out of the house 4 days a week, doctors appointments, diagnostics. Blech!

So, I wrote, and I wrote. Some days about nothing much at all, some days it was all heaviness. But, I got rid of the 'junk'. Gave it away. To anyone caring to listen, but most of all, God.

I started getting emails, and comments from readers expressing their gratitude. Their thanks for simply making them be more grateful than they ever have been before for the children they were given. How my story helped them learn to ask friends questions if they were going through something similar, to not be afraid, to just lend an ear, or a squeeze.

Then, one day, I got a comment from an amazing woman who had a daughter with cerebral palsy. A blogger. Oh, the surprise, the relief, the happiness. She knew. She cried at things I, at some point, probably cried about. She felt the same grief, but also the same joy, in having a child with special needs. Her blog is a lot like mine. Family, crafting, sewing, cooking, photos, life. Daisy & Dots (check Trish out).

Things have, since, snow-balled over here at 'Odd Girl Out...?'. I have sold invitations, tu-tu sets, onsies, tees. I have been asked to write on other blogs, asked to share pictures of my home, and since asked for decorating advice, gift giving advice, recipes. I have inspired other women I know to begin blogging, too. Sure, it makes me feel good, but that was never my intention. My life is as mish-moshed as this blog indicates, NOT perfect. And, I love that.

I blog for myself, and my kids. That one day, when I am long gone, my babies might have a bit more insight into who their mom was. Not just a mom, but a friend, a daughter, a sister, a wife, even, I suppose, a writer. They will have these memories, a scrapbook of what we did together, what they said that I thought was funny, or insightful, what made me angry, or, simply, that, they, themselves, plain and tall, have always been enough for me. They will gain a better understanding of what their father and I went through with their sister, and they will, maybe, hopefully, forgive me for those difficult first years. They will not only know, but SEE that I loved them. With everything I am. That is why I blog. All of those rewards by only spending 10-15 minutes a post.

If something else 'comes' of it, good or bad, that is, really, just secondary.

XO!

pretty please...with a cherry on top.

I recently entered a contest on stltoday.com about breastfeeding and what it means to you. I tweeked an old blog post, and used that as my entry. (Gosh, blogging really comes in handy sometimes, no?)

I just found out that a panel of St. Louis Post Dispatch journalists have chosen my essay as one of 15 finalists. Now, it is up to the internetting public to vote. You are allowed to vote one time per day per email address. It takes, literally, 7.987352 seconds to register, and you won't get any stupid spam. Aaaaaand, you can vote EVEN if you don't live in the lou. Yipee!

To help this blogger out...go HERE. (My essay is the second one. First row, on the right side of the screen, entitled 'Aunt Mo and Breastfeeding?').

After you register, and click to fill in the vote circle, you must scroll back up or down and click 'save vote'. That's it! Then you go back for the next several days (because you love me) and vote again, until I am declared the awesomest breastfeeding 300-word essay contest writer ever! See how that works?

I have the utmost confidence that you will all help me out, so, in advance...

Thank You!

200, 200, 200, 200, 200, 200, 200!

Okay, that's all!

seasons.

I have been off the past week or so. I am not sure why. I suppose there are seasons to everything. Climate, harvest, life. Don't misunderstand. I love my kids, my husband, my life. I've just been blue. My winter. It usually doesn't last for long. An extended PMS, if you will. It struck me how we all go through this at sometime or another. It only reinforces my belief that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Karma. Life kickin' our a** es back into shape. Balance takes work, happiness takes work, love takes work (it is an action, after all, not an object), life takes work (I mean, if you want to try and get it right). I am sure there are exceptions to the rule. There always are. Some people float through this life on cloud 9. No real effort involved. Good for them. I have always struggled with my "seasons". Ask anyone who knows me well. I'm not clinical or anything, just a lil' crazy. The normal kind. Personally, I think it only makes things interesting. I prefer the roller coaster to the merry-go-round. More thrilling, less monotonous. Up and down versus around and around. (Isn't that from a movie? Parenthood?) It's true, though. For me anyway. Faith gets me through. Not only faith in God, but faith in myself, my family, my friends, my peeps. I'll eventually get it right, and beat the blues. I'm not worried. I have too much going for me. Too good of a team. This, too, shall pass.

So, Momma, don't you worry!

READ. NOW.

Couldn't have said THIS any better!

Invisible mom.

image from psychobabyonline.com

disclaimer: I DID NOT WRITE THIS...Actually, it is an excerpt from the novel, The Invisible Woman, by Nicole Johnson (Thomas Nelson Inc., Nashville, TN, 2005). I really like it. I hope you do too.

***

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken to the store.

Inside, I'm thinking, "Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

Obviously, not.

No one can see if I'm on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all.

I'm invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, "What time is it?" I'm a satellite guide to answer, "What number is the Disney Channel?" I'm a car to order, "Right around 5:30, please."

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history and the mind that graduated sum a cum laude - but now they had disappeared in to peanut butter, never to be seen again. She's going; she's going; she is gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England...

Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in.

I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself.

I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, "I brought you this."

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe...

I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription:

"To My Dear Friend, with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees."

In the days ahead I would read - no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:

No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names.

These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.

They made great sacrifices and expected no credit.

The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, "Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it." And the workman replied, "Because God sees."

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place.

It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, "I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked, is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what will become."

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life.

It is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride.

I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on.

The writer of a book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my son to tell the friend he's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, "My mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table." That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, to add, "You're going to love it there."

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we're doing it right.

And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

****

I know some terrific moms. And, I hope that I have a little bit of each of them in me. It's a tough job, ladies, but someone's gotta do it!

Keep up the good work!

Happy.

Go here,

&

you will know why!

Thanks!

a couple things...

I found the blog of my dreams. The whole reason I started this craziness in the first place. You can find it here. It's a place full of other mommies who know just what I feel like some days. The trials, the rewards. It is won-der-ful. I have also been asked by its creator, Tara, (read about her little princess, Chloe, here) to share Betsy's story. I am not sure when it will be posted, but add the link to your favorites and keep an eye out. Yea!

I 'heart' bloggers!