Life of ART

The Fresh Market - A Trip OTP

2013-09-27T12:04:00.001-04:00

Do you know what Recycle Bank is? Well, a few years ago they did an Urban project, and our neighborhood was selected for it. That means we get a free full-sized hurby curby for recycling, and we get points on Recycle bank each time we put it out on trash day. Easily, thousands and thousands of points collect, and they are redeemable for prizes and high-dollar coupons to stuff.

I cashed in several hundred on 'free reusable shopping bags from Fresh Market' and then I realized that I have to actually go and pick them up. They don't ship them to me. Damn. I never go there.

Fast forward to yesterday, when I had a research study at 400 and 285. This is the only time I ever go outside of the perimeter. I will only do studies for $100 or more, too, so lately this is getting more and more rare. I just so happened to be an extra yesterday, so they just handed me my $100 and told me hi/bye. I was free to run all of my errands!

First I asked Siri to take me to The Fresh Market, and she did. It smelled like apple cinnamon cake (not the apple cinnamon broom smell, like at Publix) but CAKE. Naturally, I decided to look around before cashing in on my six free bags. I had a choice between a regular shaped (but miniature sized) shopping cart or an alien-looking thing that held two plastic shopping baskets. I chose the strange new thing. It was top-heavy, and it tipped as I zoomed it through the beautiful flower section.

My tummy made a desperate rumble. It was not begging me for cake, either. It was begging for a potty. I did my best to maintain a clam, aloof, suburban mom expression, and I sauntered toward the front of the store. An eager cashier waved me over as he jumped in front of his cash register, "I can take you here!"

I gave him a natural-as-possible smile and a breathy, "Oh Thank you! I just need to go to the restroom first." And I parked that wonky, wobbly faux cart as I dashed in the restroom before shitting my pants.

As I re-entered apple cinnamon cake land, I traded in my alien for a tiny regular cart and began my tour anew. I was stopped in the baking aisle by a nice lady enquiring about chia seeds and whether or not I used them. I explained that I needed to make a vegan cake (egg substitute) for my son's birthday since his friend has an egg/peanut allergy. She seemed nice at first, so I gave her three of my vouchers for free bags. Then she wouldn't leave me alone. She told me her whole medical history as if I were standing in front of her with a chart, nodding my head. Well, I was nodding, but still. No chart. No MD. Lots of walking backwards. I wanted to take my vouchers back, but I just ran.

I bought a cute bunch of organic carrots because they still had the 'hair' on top. My kids love eating whole carrots like bunnies. I bought some salted caramel mini cup-cakes because..., well why not? And two peaches because they smelled good, even though one of them tasted grainy and had to go to the freezer already. *sigh* Oh! And some toffee covered chocolate dipped pretzels from the 'serve-thyself' aisle. Couldn't wait to dig into those!

As I stood in line with my few items and my three remaining bag coupons, I handed the coupons to the cashier right away so that she could bag my groceries in my new bags. It took her a LONG fucking time to figure out what a coupon was and how to use it. I had to go pick out the bags (didn't care what kind of bags, just give me the bags) and when I got back, my groceries were packed in plastic bags, stuffed into a green plastic shopping basket (that the alien holds) and my reusable ones were nestled in beside it all.

I looked at the patient lady behind me who had been waiting this whole time without rolling her eyes at all, and she was just checking out with a single peach. I offered her a bag for her kind patience, and she gushed at the perfect timing of this gesture. She really needed a bag that day, I guess.

I stumbled out of the bizarre store toward the van, and I felt like I was in a strange land. Really, the suburbs are so different in ways that it is hard to put into words. As I was lost in thought I just slid the groceries (green shopping basket and all) into the side door of the van and slowly sat in the drivers seat wondering about my next destination. Yes, I took the basket. I'll get back to that. I really had no idea; I was in a fog.

The next stop really needed to be a gas stop, so Siri took me to the nearest 'Chevron' because she's trendy like that. It happened to be in the same parking lot where I sat, but I didn't recognize it because it was dressed up like a small villa in Nantucket. Seriously! The pitch of the roof could withstand months of snow, and the brick exterior arched its way around four garage openings for cars that needed tending to. The gas pumps were also adorned with a brick structure, and a guard building, stocked with cigarettes and gas-station things. I ran over an old-timey black hose that made a bell ding, and I swear that I looked around for some dude who might come try to pump my gas. I would have died!

I carefully stepped out of the van, and as I put the pump in, I realized that it didn't ask me for my credit card until I selected the grade and began pumping. Did it trust me? Where was this place? I looked around to see if anyone was in eye-contact range. No one that I could see. I took out my phone to take a picture of the gorgeous building, and my WiFi reminder popped up. That's when I noticed that the gas station had FREE WiFi for guests! WHATTHEHELLMAN! I was so distracted that I just put the pump back, took my receipt, and asked Siri to take me to Target.

There was not much to exclaim about at Target besides the deals I found on clearance shoes for the whole family, and from there I hit the Trader Joes of the north and continued on home, south on Roswell Rd. into the city. I began to feel hungry, and I was wishing that my groceries weren't all the way in the back of the van. I would chow down if I could get my hands on something.

That's when I remembered the toffee, chocolate pretzels! They were right behind my seat, I thought! And my brain recounted the act of sliding the whole shopping basket into the van. OH damn. Oops.

Traveling OTP for me is not always a bad experience, but it almost always is a sensory overload. My brain ceases to function properly outside of my little fish bowl.

I'll have Coffee. How about you?

2012-07-01T13:13:00.001-04:00

Possibly my favorite part of our Mega Dens renovation is our dining room table. They made it from an old - very very old - animal feeding trough. I call it our 'manger table'. We joke about laying Nola there while we all eat, and I care for this table as if it is made of delicate China. It's certainly not, though. This thing is sturdy enough to please a mountain man, but it's absolutely gorgeous! I could have never chosen this piece of furniture for myself, but while I value what a dining room table stands for, I was unsure of what it meant to me for one to be truly beautiful. This table does it for me. It's the kind of furniture that future memories are made of.

One of my future memories was made this morning as I snorted my coffee all over its beautiful top. I was drinking coffee while my six year old Aubrey was sitting with me and talking. She reminded me of a time when I said something that was funny and made no sense to her. She said, "Remember when you said you wanted to be an old lady sitting ON this table?"

I giggled and clarified for her that I wanted to be sitting AT the table. Then I gave her an imaginary story of the future, which is something she gets totally into - imagining entire scenes. I put it to her this way, "One day I'll be sitting here at the table with you, waiting for my great grand kids to come and visit. You and I will be drinking our coffee and talking about the funny things that those kids have been up to."

Aubrey had a frozen smile on her face and a far-off look in her eyes. She was there. She was toe to toe with the future me, sitting at the beautiful, worn, manger table. But she added something different, "I'll be drinking beer."

I can't wait!

Sad Fings

2012-02-08T15:20:00.001-05:00

Soon after Abram recovered from crying over a visitor leaving the house today, he came to me with a tear on his finger and asked for permission to taste it.

"I twy dis sad fing?" He asked with his little finger held up.

"The sad thing?" I asked for clarification.

"Yea, duh sad fing when I cwy." And he showed me the tear on his finger.

"Oh, the tear. Yes, you can taste that. It's salty."

He tried the tear and decided, "Yea. It's good. My sad fing is good."

Boobs Come Full Circle - Part Five - Boobs Sustain Life

2012-02-04T20:45:00.001-05:00

Even though my milk was, as my ten month old said, "All gone," my perception about breast feeding had changed. I considered our ten months total, three of which were super successful, as an over all success. I could not figure out why that math made sense, but there is something magical beyond sense or words that just happens when you finally make that real breastfeeding connection. To a teacher, it would be equivalent to the Ah-Ha moment when a student's eyes light up and let you know that you just did your job well.

Do you remember when I mentioned that my experience in Tennessee changed not only the way I parent but also the way I live? Well, after that trip I became intensely inspired to put myself into my sewing business, and the little shop took off. I had bibs on every drooly baby within five miles of Atlanta and several on the outskirts as far as China! One of my return clients was a family in China, and I thought that was ironic. Doing this not only made me appreciate hand-made items, but it opened my eyes to how easy and natural it was to re-use things. It started with re-purposing fabrics for my for-sale creations, and it blossomed into much much more. We turned into a paperless family one small step at a time, and I was introduced to other fellow local artists who inspired me to lead a more natural and local life.

Instead of just taking herbal supplements from a capsule and using them while cooking, I learned how to grow herbs in a garden. Being immersed in a gardening community only sky-rocketed my love of dirt and all things that grow in it, and pretty soon Aubrey became the youngest natural gardener I had ever seen. Her ability to calm down and connect with the Earth was all the encouragement I needed to learn as much as I could about the tips and tricks for each of the plants that filled our lives. As I dreamed of having another baby, images of mothers wearing their babies while tending to their plants filled my head and my heart, and when Aubrey was just nineteen months old we learned the good news of our baby-to-be.

Everything about my experience with Abram from conception to present day was different as night is to day when compared to that of Aubrey. Sure, they are two very different people, but I believe it has much to do with the different person I was when I met each of them. When Abram was born, I fed him immediately, not much differently than when Aubrey was born, but that time I had a better idea of what I was in for. The hospitals prefer that you log feeding times and wet diapers, but I felt no pressure or guilt for handing in a blank sheet of paper, and I was just more confident that we were doing just fine. Baby Abey left the hospital weighing a pound more than he did at birth, too! He was an EATER, and even though my milk had not officially come in, I suppose I was making more colostrum than before. I don't know. I didn't measure it. I didn't pump it and give it to him with a syringe like I did in the hospital with Aubrey. I just put boob to mouth and let chips fall, and I am not sure if I ever put him down.

When we returned home, our house was completely a wreck. We had torn the roof off our house just two months before that, and our second story was being built right over our heads.We carried our newborn through a front yard of straw, past the dumpster and the port-a-potty, and across the plywood bridge that marked the spot of our future front porch into a house with large plastic walls dividing rooms and fine white dust covering every surface. It was paradise.

My chunky baby boy never experienced a crib until at least five months later, and with a dirty house, a rowdy two-year-old, a dog, and strangers in and out of the house constantly, I never put him down. On the occasion that he sat in a bouncy seat, he was promptly accosted by his loving but rough and clumsy sibling, and we were all so busy that I never felt like I had the chance to sit and stare at him the way I did with Aubrey. The least I could do was just hold him constantly and feed him whenever he grunted. Yes, he grunted.

Abram hardly ever cried, and when he did it was a process that began with a long series of heavy breathing sounds and grunts that finally erupted into the calmest, smoothest, sweetest cry you have ever heard. I never experienced with him the desperate cry of a baby that makes your milk come in so hard that your bones feel like they are bleeding. It was so easy and so peaceful - perfect - to feed and hold and be with this baby that I have never been able to explain it. His needs were so basic that I never even gave the act of feeding him a second thought. In fact, when I would catch myself in one of the perfect moments and reflect on my past, that is when I would empathize with the boob Nazis. I actually had the moment of drinking tea while feeding my baby and sitting on the front porch, and it was pure bliss. I can remember the smell of wet dirt from my garden that day.

I fed him through church, a funeral, an on-camera interview on the news, many dinners with many friends and all of our family, and the places/situations go on and on. I fed him with a sandy boob at the beach and a sweaty boob in the garden, and I fed him while sleeping right through it on many occasions.

There's no way I can possibly relate to you how thankful I was every moment and still am to this day that I was able to not only have one of the most perfect breastfeeding experiences for eighteen straight months, but that I was also able to experience such a painful, stressful, and difficult experience as my first experience. Boob Nazis are probably just ladies who had Abram first and never realized the struggles that are real and present with so many other mother-baby combinations. I can not help but feel sad for the mothers who never make it past the struggle to experience the blissful peaceful happy ending that I was able to with each of my children. If I have ever come across as a pushy boob Nazi, it is not for my hatred of formula or my fear of the baby not getting what he or she needs most. It is for my mourning for that mother's lost chance at that one-of-a-kind feeling that comes with a full-circle nurturing experience of sustaining a life with one's boob.

Boobs Come Full Circle - Part Four: It Can Be Simple? Natural? Easy?

2012-02-03T22:00:00.000-05:00

The day my friend Lindi gave birth to her second child was the day I really wanted to seek her advice on what do to about Aubrey biting me every time I fed her. After all, Lindi was my one close friend who had been there before. She exclusively breastfed her first child for a year, and she was headed into her second go 'round. When she had her son, he was breach, so she knew scheduled her c-section, and like so many second time moms of previous cesarean sections, she planned and scheduled her second one. I refrained from seeking her advice since she was recovering from surgery, and I just waited patiently for the update phone call from her end.

When the phone call came, I was informed of Lindi's situation which was an unstable one. After days of symptoms due to an infection at the incision site, she was transferred to a different hospital, better equipped to handle such trauma, and she had a second surgery to drain infection and search for possible cause. Following that surgery she continued to have trouble recuperating, and the real issue by that time was that her support network was growing weary. Time had passed, work had been missed, and she required two people around the clock; one kept her two-year-old son, and the other had to stay with her and the baby since the baby was not a patient at this second hospital and needed a guardian other than her sick mother. I prepared myself and Aubrey to make the trip to Nashville to stay with Lindy when she returned home to help her settle in.

Conversations I had before making the journey included such details as the list of medications she had to be on, her general (poor) health, and the situation regarding the baby, who was being breastfed and was a thriving success. Initially my thoughts went in the direction of, "Wow, that's probably not breast milk that the baby should be getting." Updates came my way about times when Lindi would pump and dump, feeding the baby with formula, but mainly she was feeding her new baby girl while she was in a horrible, painful state herself.

On the night before Aubrey and I were about to leave, I came down with a cough and a fever, and I felt obligated to disclose this to the mother of a newborn. That's when I fully understood the dire nature of her situation. In a weak sounding voice, she dismissed my caution and explained that if I was still able to come that I was really needed there. It was decided, and we set off for a trip that would eventually change the way I parented and the way I lived in general.

While in route to Tennessee Lindi had to be returned to the hospital, unsure of whether or not they would keep her. Her fever had spiked, she had a terrible cough, and they went back in for observation. By the time I made it to her house, though, she was just returning with her mother. I entered her house with my eight month old on my hip, and I just went right into the bathroom where she was sitting on the toilet, and I kissed her head. Already I was just so glad to see her, no matter her fragile state, and we began what ended up being a very long 48 hours of fever watch.

I watched as my friend sat wrapped in a blanket in a chair while she held her baby, and any time baby Ava made a little noise, she simply breastfed her. She never logged which boob she used, nor did she check the clock to see what time it was. Every so often, I picked up baby Ava, careful not to breathe on her and spread my germs, and I would change her diaper and give her back to Lindi in the chair. When Lindi's fever would spike, I would check it with a phone in one hand, ready to call her doctor and take her back to the hospital, and when it would break, she would sweat through her clothes and that blanket she was wrapped in. At that point, I would help her get out of her soaked garments and into some others with a fresh blanket. During this time my eight month old was probably exploring the house while the newborn rested in a nearby bassinet. After I changed baby Ava, she would then go back in the arms of her mother, and we would repeat the process over and over again through the whole night.

During one of my many nursing sessions with Aubrey, who was fully standing up beside me on the couch, bent over at the waist and breastfeeding upside down, I looked across the living room at the shell of Lindi, peacefully and easily breastfeeding her happy content newborn. There is something powerful that hit me in that situation that cannot be explained with words. It was a calming, intense realization that it did not matter what was going on with the mother or any outside force. She was dealing with something major, but the smallest, easiest thing she could do was care for her baby. She did this without stressful pumps, loads of supplements or herbal teas, or clocks and logs. Baby cries = baby is fed. Period.

When we came out on the other side of that frightening situation, we were both changed people, but I would dare to say that I did the majority of the healing during my stay in Nashville. I vowed to read Aubrey's cues more, and I vowed to do things differently the next time I had the chance with a newborn.

Aubrey continued to bite me every time I nursed her, and we continued to breast feed peacefully until she was ten months old. We woke up one morning to our same routine. I would nurse her on one side until she bit, which she used to signal 'done.' Then I would nurse her on the other side until she bit, which was when I would usually get her a bottle and lay back down with her while she drank it. That morning was different, though, because instead of actually pulling any milk, she sort of marked her motions on either side and then asked me with words, "Bottle?" I knew then that we were done, and it was more peaceful to me than I ever thought it could be. She never asked for a boob again until I was nursing her baby brother, but she did feel the necessity to explain to everyone we met that my milk was 'all gone'.

Boobs Come Full Circle - Part Three: My First Boobs-On Experience

2012-02-02T20:11:00.000-05:00

The first days home with Aubrey proved to be more challenging and even painful than I could have ever imagined. They were magical, beautiful, and wonderful, too, but with regards to feeding her, it was very difficult for me. I had strong painful surges that ran down my thighs when my uterus contracted as a result of feeding. That meant that each time I sat down to nurse her, my husband would have to forcefully rub my legs. Then on top of the normal nipple sensitivity that most new moms experience in the very beginning, I had burning flames flowing through my breasts any time milk was flowing through them at all. Three years later I would learn that what I was experiencing was thrush, which did not show signs in my baby so it never occurred to me then. I figured that was normal, and again I just soldiered through.

Extreme emotional fatigue took the place of what should have been elation and enjoyment. I could only physically tolerate about two or three minutes MAX on each breast before I gave her a bottle of pumped milk. After that, I would lay her down, pump the rest of the milk in my breasts, transfer that milk to a bottle to refrigerate, tend to the baby for a few minutes before laying her back down for another nap, and during the nap time it was time to wash the pump for use within the next thirty minutes. It occurred to me that heterosexual women just were NOT suppose to think about their breasts on a 24/7 basis, and that's all I was doing. Because in between all that pumping and feeding, I was logging everything to remember which breast's turn it was the next time, and...well, I don't know why else really. Did I think I had to turn that homework in? It makes me almost cry to look at that pretty pink journal now at my stressful logs of numbers and frowny faces. FOR REAL! I gave myself frowny faces for low volumes and failed attempts.

When two weeks, three weeks, and eventually six weeks passed and I was still having such a hard time 'enjoying' the process of feeding Aubrey, I thought I had just reached whatever level of 'normal' that I would reach with breastfeeding this beautiful child. I burned up when I heard women refer to breastfeeding their child in a lackadaisical fashion. One comment I remember was, "...sitting on the front porch in the rocking chair, breastfeeding my baby and drinking sweet tea...," and that really pissed me off. I was still crying from the pain of nursing Aubrey in the middle of the night. I couldn't imagine how one could manage to lay down and feed a baby. My baby was also too long for the football hold, and latching on is something that she was great at...she just did it over and over and over again in the same feeding. Feeding her in public was not an option, whether or not I was comfortable with it. Because unless I was prepared to stand on a table and do a strip tease, I didn't dare feed her in a display that would definitely cause heads to turn and mouths to drop open.

I am not sure at what point we started supplementing with formula, but it happened at some time, and just when I started I began to feel the weight of the stress of breastfeeding leave me. I still had no intention of stopping, but it was such a relief to know that if she pulled off the breast obviously unsatisfied I could satisfy her by shaking up a bottle. This expensive habit was not one we were prepared to fund, but somehow we managed. I remember one day having a playdate at the park with some friends and their babies, and they all took a nursing break, so I thought, "What the heck! Let's join 'em." And we did. It was exhilarating. I don't know why that day stuck out to me so much, but other moms had an idea of how long their child would want/need to nurse, and I was just going with the flow. Aubrey was so unpredictable, that I didn't know if she would just pop off, grab my nipple, and say something witty. (Did I mention she talked way early? And clearly? It was funny and bizarre.)

The final blow to our breastfeeding experience came when Aubrey turned six months old and cut her first tooth, quickly followed by her second, third and fourth all within two weeks. She learned to bite. OUCH. And she did it every time I fed her. I read about and talked to friends who had had this experience before, and once I had tried every suggestion (sitting her down - baby just crawls away; stern warning or word 'ouch' - baby thought it was funny) I tried slapping her cheek. It was something that I half decided and half responded to, actually, but it was horrible. She was scared of me, and she was too little to understand that I would not hit her regularly, so she flinched each time she went to latch on. This happened all day long, and when my husband got home that day, I sunk into a bath with a glass of wine and the worst feeling of my life. In that moment, I came to terms that our experience was most likely over, and then by some stroke of grace, I was able to nurse her that evening with no problem. She bit me EVERY single time we nursed after that, and I just went with it.

What happened next, a phone call from a dear friend four hours away from me in extreme need after an unsuccessful c-section, changed my outlook on breastfeeding forever.

Boobs Come Full Circle - Part Two: The Big Boop Preparation

2012-02-02T17:37:00.000-05:00

Eventually the time came when I had to consider whether or not I would breastfeed my first baby. Early on in the pregnancy, especially after reading obsessively to prepare myself, I decided to give it a try, but as the pregnancy waned on, I found myself more and more anxious about the process. I still had never seen anyone do it, but I read every piece of literature I could get my eyes on, hoping to be prepared for the eventual day to come when things would just naturally fall into place the way they are supposed to.

A few weeks before it was my turn, a friend of mine gave birth to her first child. When I went to visit her and her newborn for the first time I became witness to my first ever latch-on and breastfeeding session. Instead of politely averting my eyes the way I had become used to, I studied her every movement as if my life depended on it. She was a fairly modest person, and it being her first time as a mom, I'm sure she felt like anything but a pro, but I took in every motion that she made and committed it to memory.

Very soon I got to experience the wonder of feeding my child 'naturally' as well. Even though I was prepared for my milk to take a few days to come in, I went into the experience padded with knowledge that the colostrum I had to offer was enough to sustain my new baby until the milk finally made the magical descent. I was even prepared to ward off medical professionals who shoved a bottle in our faces, claiming that we need to feed our newborn formula to make her happy and/or healthy; however, I found the process of breastfeeding to be anything but natural. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and it did not seem to make my baby happy, but I powered on. Each person who had come in to check on us from the moment she was born asked me how it was going, but when I presented questions, I got the same answer, "You need a lactation consultant." But hard as I tried to get one to visit me, I was left alone to suffer and questioned regularly about how we were getting by on our own.

The night before we were to check out of Northside, we had sent Aubrey to the nursery for a couple of hours to try and get some sleep, but a nurse brought her back after a very short time with the information that she was 'inconsolable' Whether or not that piece of information was delivered in a rude way, those words fell on the ears of this new mother (mother to the most perfect baby in the WORLD, of course) as horrible insults.

In the middle of that night I made up my mind that no one in that stinking place would lay another hand on my baby. I became a fierce mama tiger for the first time, and I took action, gathering our things, showering myself, dressing my angel, and making plans to escape. I let my husband sleep as I did all of this while nursing her on a strict schedule, and correctly logging, down to the minute, each visit to each breast and the outcome of that visit. Just before we put Aubrey in her new carseat we caved to the final nurse who suggested we should give her something to eat since she had lost 'ten percent of her body weight' which meant one pound since delivery. Feeling like you are starving your child is a desperate one for a mother, but somehow feeling the pressure of others who think you are starving your child is even worse! That tiny bottle that the pre-made formula came in was just too cute, too, so I gave her some of the stinky stuff before we headed home. We left the hospital that day unaware of the difficulty I was about to experience with what was supposed to be a natural and beautiful process.

Boobs Come Full Circle - Part One: Mothers in Prison

2012-02-01T18:20:00.001-05:00

Prologue:

Breastfeeding, to endure or not to endure, that is the question. At least it was for me during my first experience with it. Lately I have been doing some major reflecting on my history and journey surrounding breastfeeding in general, most likely it is because I am expecting my third child in early April. Like many one-eighty experiences in life, my view and success with breastfeeding revolved largely around one eye-opening, life-changing experience that I will forever cherish. To be a breast-feeding advocate and stand on the side of encouragement and support, I want to share my story and hope to not sound like what I came to refer to pushy boobie gals as a boob Nazi. Having experienced both sides of the [boob] coin, I can relate at least somewhat to where those folks are coming from, because if you have had a good experience with breastfeeding, it was likely powerful enough that you wouldn't want any woman to miss out on it for anything in the world.

Mothers in Prison:

Once while driving somewhere, when my husband and I were still dating, we were having a casual conversation about babies and parenting. He asked if I planned to breastfeed my children, and I gave him the most honest answer at the time, "I don't know."

Just for a little background on my views of breastfeeding, I was not breastfed as an infant and neither were either of my siblings. Actually, except for one lone family member (to my knowledge) we were a bottle-feeding family for as long as I could remember. That family member only nursed her baby when he was a small child, and she hid away while she did it, so I never saw someone I was close to feeding her baby except for with a bottle.

Then there was a time in Jr. High when our cheer leading sponsor carried us to an over-night week-long camp in the summertime, and she brought her infant along with her. To our horror and dismay, she would sit in view of everyone in the entire camp and breastfeed that baby, and for that we talked in disgust behind this lady's back.

In a different instance, I distinctly remember a family member being pregnant and my mother asking her how she was going to feed her baby, and that woman had chosen formula. The reaction from my mother was an approving and positive one with the reasoning that breastfeeding did not allow other members of the family to feed the baby, and for that it was considered an almost selfish thing to do. (Disclaimer before I go further: My mother became a real supporter for me and my siblings when our choice was to breastfeed. This was just a 'back-then' kind of memory.)

So this was my general opinion of breastfeeding. It was not necessary, it was not desirable, and things I had heard and read about it deforming breasts, being gross and sexual, and being inconvenient were other perceptions I had of the practice. In fact, by the time my friends were having children, I was so far removed from them, living in a different state, that I never experienced even second-hand what they went through to feed their children, and until Reid asked me that question in the car, I probably hadn't considered it before.

That brings us back to the question in the car; one I considered to be a light conversation starter. Am I going to breastfeed my children? Well sir, I don't know. You would have thought I admitted to considering drowning my firstborn. He was horrified!

In shock he retorted, "MY mother breastfed ME!"

Still calm and not feeling the weight of the discussion, I came back calmly with, "Well, mine didn't."

This ruffled his manly feathers all the more, and my debater of a (husband) boyfriend blurted out, "Do you know who ELSE doesn't breastfeed their children?!" He waited for my silence, "Mothers in PRISON!"

I burst out laughing at that comment, but truthfully, it stuck with me. I knew where he stood on the subject, and I figured he had spent way more time pondering this than I had, so it was something I would maybe look into further.

Mega WOW

2012-01-30T23:08:00.001-05:00

We never would have dreamed just two and a half months ago that we would be siting in a renovated house, but here we all, and it all went so quickly! We are both wiped out completely, and we are eager to share everything, details and all, with the world, but it's all so overwhelming that we have shut ourselves away. This will explain a few FAQ's about the process.

At the end of November (or maybe the middle) I walked into a neighbor's house, and a mutual friend was there. That guy told me that he heard through his work that the show Mega Dens on the DIY network was casting in our area, and they were looking for a family with details fairly specific to our own. This show specializes in transforming a non-functioning (or low-functioning) space into a 'tricked-out, high-tech mega den'. With that, I applied through directions that I found on their website. I sent photos of our living room/dining room/kitchen, which could all be combined into a cohesive 'den' space. We stated things like, "We love watching movies together, entertaining friends with football games, and hosting neighbors and family for large dinners."

Before we knew it, we had enthusiastic response from the casting director, and it snowballed from there. At some point in between our process of casting is when I got the news that I would have to be on a restricted rest with the pregnancy, and we just went along hoping that enough time would pass between our wait-and-see with the baby situation and the wait-and-see of the casting. The timing could not have worked out better, as I was released from rest only about one week prior to being accepted for the show. It never had to be an issue, and we prepared for a very fast-approaching date to begin shooting the show.

We had input on styles of decor that appealed to us, but we had little to no design/lay-out input. The show features an interior designer who is the talent with the vision for making appealing spaces as well as the ability to 'read' people and what they prefer. The other two 'stars' include an innovative contractor and a highly skilled carpenter, who are brothers, and this team of three loves to choose a 'green' model of renovation. They re-purpose and reuse materials to create other different pieces of furniture or decor, for instance.

Once the date was very close, we were introduced to our liaisons. One was our go-to-girl for off camera stuff and the other was our go-to-girl for on camera business. We were coached to find a place for all of our things inside the space (from furniture to rugs to wall decor and window treatments) and these things had to stay put for the first day of filming, because the 'before' walk-through would feature these things. Clutter was even encouraged, as it makes for a more dramatic transformation. This all means that leading up to the big day, I had the task of assigning either a new location in our house for each of the things inside the space or selling it (or the piece it would replace) with the arrangement of a pick-up on the afternoon of the first day of filming.

As luck would have it, the three days prior to the big day as well as the first two days of the project were complete down-pours complete with floods in Atlanta. Our yard was already a mess, but come Monday when a crew of 50 or more folks walked through our front and back yards setting up pop-up tents and all of their equipment, the messy wet yard became a total sloshy mud pit. NAS.TY. Our down stairs bedrooms had to be cleared out to allow room for 'back stage' stuff like sound, make-up, mobile office, and other behind-the-scenes necessities.

This meant that we were limited to the upstairs portion of our home. We would walk straight in the front door (with a plastic wall blocking the rest of the house) and go straight up the stairs into our quarters when we were home. There we pretty much only slept, or if we were home during a filming day, we waited for our turn to come down and be on camera.

The first day we got a sneak peak of the general lay-out of the new Mega Den, and that's when we learned almost all of the surprises that we would learn until Friday - the big reveal. They did an excellent job of keeping every single thing under wraps.

The first day that I was set to be on camera (besides the family interview on Monday) was Tuesday, and all I was told moments before the big event was that I would be doing an art project with the host. This had me excited, and I felt like whatever it was, I could totally swing it. Then the sound guy came up to wire me correctly, and following him was my on-set liaison who guided me through the top-secret house, instructing me to look at my feet and follow her without looking around out the back door, through a city of tents (seriously like 5 or 6 circus tents) and to the other side. Once in the clear I could see a tarp spread on the ground with Anitra, the host, getting her make-up refreshed. There was also the camera guy, a couple of sound guys, some other crew members with clip boards, and they were all standing in a semi circle with huge goofy grins. On the tarp was a blank canvas, an array of acrylic paints, and a trowel.

I was greeted on-camera by Anitra who cheerfully asked if I was ready to paint the art for the centerpiece of my new mega den. Fear welled up inside me, not because the idea of painting on a canvas is a scary un-attainable thing, but just because I have never done it before, and this seemed like a high-pressure way to break into such a thing. It got worse from there. I had to choose colors without even having an idea of the wall colors that had been chosen already, and I was suppose to come up with an 'inspiration' while the pressure of a camera and crew waited anxiously. From there, we got started, and my next challenge was actually painting the masterpiece while having witty conversation about how it made me feel. I don't think I have ever felt so awkward in my whole life. Even junior high rivaled this.

The result was a painting of a forest full of tall, skinny trees that we jokingly named 'Forest of Happiness' because that's how the forest was making me feel as I painted it. (or at least that's what we discussed - that it was making me feel very happy.) Later I renamed it my 'forest of stress' but either way it doesn't suck. It's alright. The experience was immediately laughable.

Any time I had to leave the house or return to the house I had to call or text my liaison for permission. This made leaving and returning take a bit longer than usual, especially when I had to wrangle one or both children in the process. We were lucky enough to not have to spend a great deal of time there throughout the week, and we ate dinners at friends houses each night. By the time we returned home, it was time to get straight in the bed and start over again.

On the day that the kids got to do their on-camera project, they really became stars of the show. Abram had specifically asked to paint a wall, so they saved a wall especially for us. I'm not sure what all they will cut of that shot, but the Tank kids sure did give the cameras enough to choose from. It was simply hilarious. They had great one-liners, funny paint mishaps, and they even sang a song together as they painted everything in sight.

Half way through Thursday we had to pack our bags and head to a friend's house to stay for the last night, and they did the majority of putting things together in that day and a half. They called us at 7:00 PM on Friday to let us know that we were expected at the house in thirty minutes to experience the big reveal of our house. We showed up, butterflies and all, and we took the plunge into the gorgeous new space that was all ours. It really doesn't feel like any of it is ours yet.

As for the new electronic gadgets, I couldn't even begin to tell you what was included, because I do not understand the specifics of any of it. But the coolest thing in the living room to me is the built-ins on either side of the new 'fire place' (with a gorgeous mantel). One of the built-in cabinets actually hides my laundry-room door! It's brilliant!! In the dining room, my favorite thing is the gorgeous table that was custom made. The base is an antique trough (or manger if you ask me - it's a manger table) and the top is a thick, beautiful wood that is super wide and long, with seating enough for 10 people! They built an L-shaped bench seat under the windows with storage all around as the majority of the seating for the table.

The kitchen received such upgrades as brand new floors, counter-tops, and a fancy under-mount sink with new faucet. Reid's present was a kegerator with a custom-made bar surrounding it, and the creative storage solution for bottles is just one of the many treats you will get to see when we finally can share pictures, after it airs in June.

When the last person headed out the door on Friday night, we began the aftermath that we didn't realize was there for us. The clean-up has been massive. There is a long laundry list of to-dos that fill our plate still, and we have spent the last three days putting things back together as well as putting new things together for the first time. If we could make one suggestion to the folks, it will be that they communicate this stage openly with others before it begins. This would have not swayed our decision any about whether or not to do the show, but it would have been nice to be able to prepare for this stage. Being clearly out of shape for this kind of hard labor, I have been a less than cheerful worker, but we look forward to being done with this stage and moving onto the next one - the one when we just get to relax and enjoy the fantastically awesome new space.

What these people accomplish in 5 days is nothing short of a miracle. They are a crew of super positive, friendly, hard-working folks who show up on time, work their fingers off, and skip away at the end of very long days. It was a true pleasure to have the chance to hang out with them for the week, and it was a new kind of experience that would be hard to top.

The kids' perspective on what went on was completely entertaining. Aubrey kept telling people that the house was broken and people were in it. Abram still thinks that our house is GONE and someone else's house is downstairs. He saw a picture of our old furniture in the old space, and he perked right up today. He said cheerfully, "Yea! Das ow-uh house! Ow-uh house is away." I wonder if that poor baby thinks it's coming back. When I dug a little deeper with him, he revealed that the house we were sitting in was not our house, and he didn't believe me when I told him otherwise. It's not coming back, but we will settle into the new with just a little bit of time.

The house all lit up for the big reveal.

A Thankful Morning Walk

2011-11-03T11:37:00.002-04:00

Many of my Facebook friends are doing the 'thankful days' thing leading up to Thanksgiving, and I am enjoying reading them. I would join in myself, but little things like that end up overwhelming me and add to my guilt spiral when I forget one. It was one of these posts combined with other things going on in life lately that got me thinking as I stood looking out my kitchen window and drinking my coffee. Within the boundaries of our fence in our backyard there are more things than I could list to be thankful for. No, I don't mean 'possessions' that I am thankful for, but the meaning behind each of the things I can see from standing in one spot, so I decided to take a little thankful walk and snap pictures of things just as they were today.

The first picture is taken from the back of the back yard. From this angle, I notice the beautiful architecture of our home, and I remember clearly that day in August when I first saw the new frame in the roof during the first stage of our home renovation. I stood there hot, pregnant, tired, and in awe of what our house looked like. It was so TALL. And instead of the boring horizontal roof line, it was interesting and home-like! This would be where we would live after this period of homelessness. Meanwhile, my mosquito-bitten two-year-old Aubrey relished her playtime on her swing-set that she missed that summer. As she played behind me, I stood looking at the house and the rubbish of lumber, nails, roofing trash, and God knows what in the yard, and I was excited that day.

Then I turned around and took a picture of the ground beneath my feet. This stone not only marks where my baby dog Chip was buried six years ago, but it reminds me of my friend and neighbor Ashley, who was thoughtful enough to have this stone made for me. Ashley is currently living out of the country, but neighbors like this are always 'neighbors' even when they live far away.

This shot has so many things that remind me to be thankful that I could not list them all. The tree trunk from the tree that crashed during the tornado in March of 08 reminds me of the wonderful neighborhood where we live. Our community came together to help neighbors out, and while this tree and smashed fence in our backyard looked small to us in comparison to the damage our neighbors suffered through, to our back yard neighbor it looked like an opportunity to help us. He came over with his large equipment and pulled that giant stump out of the ground, and he drug it off for us.

The frame of a tent reminds me of our gracious neighbors Amanda and Jon, who gave us that tent. It survived two snowstorms, but crashed during Snowpacalypse 11. What a fun time that was!! Through the tent frame you can see a trampoline, which we snagged for free on our neighborhood discussion board, and the trees that frame it bring me great joy each spring when they fill my yard with the sweetest perfume. I think about the day that my hard-working husband cleared our dumpster of a back-yard in our 'new' house. He threw away every fence, large appliance, auto part, and weed in his path, but I liked those two little privets. He kept them for me, and I love them so much now.

This firepit was the product of my loving and hard-working brother coming from TN to be the head foreman of this project. We built it mostly from materials gathered throughout the neighborhood, and it has been the spot of many a social gathering with close friends who we call our neighbors. The wood stacked behind it came mostly from a huge crashed tree in the Clayton's yard, and it has brightened up our back yard countless times and will continue to do so throughout the season. The stamp on the fence reminds me of where I am from, and it marks this spot as its own.

This shot makes me thankful for fun summer evenings spent with friends, a grandfather who made birdhouses for my children, a spring day when Aubrey and I painted the swing, an large empty vase that held flowers from a dear friend during an especially hard time, and countless other memories made right on our back porch.

Of course I am thankful for the most important things, healthy children, loving husband, supportive neighbors, and caring family. But this one little stroll around the backyard brings many details into perspective of how touched we are by so many people who surround us.

The Tooth Fairy Rumor Begins

2011-10-06T19:38:00.000-04:00

I have never mentioned the tooth fairy in this house, or at least I haven't to my knowledge. This is not something I knew how to bring up as a total lie to my kids, so I just waited. As it turns out, kids learn about this fairy way before they actually lose the first tooth, and the conversation between my five-year-old Aubrey and three-year-old Abram went like this, with some interjection from me:

Aub: If I fall on Arlen [dog] and my head hits his head, my tooth might break. And then the Tooth Fairy would bring me something.

(she turns to Abram)

The tooth fairy brings you whatever you want like a popsicle or a lolipop, and I want a Repunzle in a box.

Abe: [some indistinguishable words] Tooth Fairy will SAVE you!!

Aub: No, she doesn't save you. She will have fairy wings like my Tinkerbell, and I hope she has her hair in a bun like Tinkerbell.

Mom: Do your friends say that they have seen the Tooth Fairy?

Aub: No, because they would scare her away. She is only around at night.

Abe: She's in her HOUSE!

Aub: I think I'll break my tooth so I can try to meet her...[Aubrey begins tugging at a solid tooth]

Mom: NO! Don't break your tooth.

Aub: [with fake dramatic tears coming on] Are you saying that the tooth fairy will not come see me?

Mom: No, I am saying that you shouldn't break your tooth. It would be painful. And stupid.

Aub: Saying 'stupid' is not nice.

Mom: Neither is breaking your tooth.

Oh boy. She'll be disappointed when she learns how broke this fairy is.

A letter of confusion and rage.

2011-09-22T13:01:00.003-04:00

To the members at Martha Brown and its UMC district:

Lately I have been feeling full of emotions surrounding the subject of Martha Brown but devoid of words, and today I am going to try to turn that around. Maybe since I have so many unanswered questions, I could ask them aloud and maybe come to a point of my own understanding of our current situation.

The situation as I see it began to deteriorate over a year ago when our congregation, holding on by a thread, was faced with a change in pastoral leadership. This is a practice of Methodists that has been explained to me, and it still makes no sense. It left the majority of us feeling abandoned and vulnerable; unable to give our new pastor the deserved support that she needed, this being her first appointment and herself being a little rough around the edges.

Although I had sensed the detachment between my spirit and the sermons, I wanted desperately to support and uphold this pastor who showed a desperate desire to do good things with our church and community. Community. That brings me to the next obvious problem in our church.

It is no secret that we are a church divided. To put it plainly, we are divided into two groups, old and young. To stick that nail further in our coffin, almost every single member in the 'Old' group fled the community years ago during white flight, and every member of the 'young' group are the forward-thinking families who took their places 20 or 30 years later. This makes nailing down a 'mission' a difficult task for our church.

If you ask me, the mission I am called to support is our community, and more specifically the children in our community. Even if the old people nod heads to that and agree, it's not like they have a single plan or desire to put forth any energy toward that or any other mission because church for them is simply showing up with their tired butts on Sunday and hearing what they can of the message. They call themselves Christians because of this, and they go right along judging, complaining, and secretly sabotaging the church as if this were the 'good ol days'.

Personally, I feel connected to Martha Brown, or at least I initially did years ago, because of the thriving, positive energy felt from the pulpit as well as the congregation, and this aliveness was made comfortable and familiar to me with a traditional worship service. It was my perfect piece of cake. Liberal Christians enjoying a bit of tradition - YUM. And the Lord truly spoke to me. On a regular basis I enjoyed the presence of the Lord both in the sanctuary and with me all week long. Sadly for over a year now, I have had to seek the Lord diligently on my own to feel that refreshing, calming peace, and to hear His message. Once upon a time I got a distinct message that THIS church was going to do great things.

That brings me to the present. No matter the mission we declare for ourselves as a congregation, the one lacking piece of this puzzle is funds. I am a devout believer in a solid tithe. This is ever difficult for our family (and I know we are not alone in this, so I state this as to make a point, not to complain) but we tithe literally anything we have on us each week. I have sold pieces of furniture or any number of things on Saturday just so that we could tithe on Sunday, but the truth is that we are on a one-paycheck income, and that comes once a month. I am a frugal shopper, and we live on very little, but many months we see our last dollar go out more than a week before our next paycheck. Since I know that we are not alone in this, I know that the church surviving on a group of paupers like ourselves does not stand a chance.

AND THEN! Whether by mere coincidence, or as our former pastor David would say, "God-incidence" we found ourselves across the street from one of the ONLY businesses that opened just prior to the crash that is not only surviving but THRIVING. What does this business do? Well, my initial encounter with it was when the owners showed up to a community association meeting to show their support in their new community. (QUESTION 1, TO THE LETTER WRITERS OF M/B: How many of you have been to a community meeting in the last 5 years in East Atlanta?)

After that encounter with this dance studio, only more and more positive things came from them. They not only financially support lower-income children who would not have the opportunity for something like a dance class, but they inspire them to become citizens that they otherwise would not have the chance to be. This dance company teaches dance in a holistic way. They teach a wide enough variety of dance to reach each and every kind of citizen that we have in East Atlanta. From pole dancing to pre-natal yoga to a summer camp for 4-12 year olds.

The owners realized that they needed additional space to teach some of their classes that conflicted with other classes of theirs, so they tried the large, empty building across the street who also boasts a commitment to community and children. Sound logic, right?

These owners, who happen to also be philanthropists and parents and neighbors, sat though excruciating and embarrassing meetings with our trustees board, and they calmly and happily accepted every crude remark that came from those meetings. You know what else? They still wanted to be our tenants and to pay us the amount of money that would TRULY help in our achieving our mission. Not to mention the people they would have brought across our doorsteps.

In an effort to be democratic, we brought this to a council vote, which overwhelmingly was decided that they would move in. What did that 10% of the congregation do? Oh, they wrote nasty letters to the district secretly.

So here goes my questions 2 through 6 which will help me decide what to do.

To the letter writers of M/B:

2. What is your sound plan for helping our church survive financially? Are you looking to the struggling young people or do you think your struggling peers are going to cough it up?

3. When is the last time you showed up to represent the church at a community event?

4. What would you name as the mission of the church? And do you really care anyway? What have you done in the last year to reach the goals of that mission?

5. Do you actually *have* children who would be adversely (or otherwise) affected by these lewd dancers? (Pssst, of the ones of us who do have kids, at least half of us have paid Dance 411 at one point or another to care for and/or teach our children)

6. Do you think it will be better when the liberal young ones abandon your old asses for a more progressive church who actually seeks to do God's work in the community? Will you proudly take this dying church with you to your grave?

And my final question is for the 'District' whoever you are. This faceless, nameless beast who sits on a suburban thrown and decides the fate of an entire village.

1. Do you know our community? Do you know its needs? Have you spent any time getting to know anyone here besides the few warm bodies who show up to a meeting when you ride into town with your doors locked and windows up? Do you know what scrutiny we face here among so many decent, loving, good people who would give the shirt off their backs to help a neighbor but wouldn't piss on a self-righteous 'Christian' if he was on fire? Do you know how hard it is to love the Lord and know his truth, but be brutally ashamed to associate with a church body of people who back-stab and sabotage?

Ok, so that was more than 1.

Sincerely,
Adrienne Tankersley

City Kids on the Mountain Part 2.

2011-07-02T15:01:00.000-04:00

Afternoon on day one in Ellijay, and the kids had a fun day exploring the great outdoors. They climbed rock piles, waded in the creek, pulled some weeds, freed a worm by sending him downstream, peed downstream, ate lunch on a bridge, saw fish and tadpoles, saw a snake, skipped a few rocks, explored a scary barn, and ate some twizzlers as they waded some more. They are passed out for a nap, and we'll put them through another round when they get up. Oh boy!

City Kids on the Mountain Part 1.

2011-07-02T11:06:00.001-04:00

I'm not sure if there will be a part two or not, but I figure this is what people do in the mountains. They write. I'm just writing because the kids' reactions to everything out here in the mountains of Ellijay, GA are cracking me up. These are the kinds of things I want to save in my memory, but I cannot remember more than three grocery items at a time without a list, so I will just write it down.

We arrived late last night to a far-away cabin in the mountains that some friends of ours own. They are out of the country, so we have the great fortune of enjoying their mountain home for the first time during the holiday weekend. The kids were asleep in the car when we got here, so we came in, opened the windows, and started the fans everywhere for a nice cool place to lay their heads. That place was in the loft of a cool wood-from-floor-to-ceiling cabin. As we laid the kids in their little beds, I knew that they would wake up terrified of where they were.

I was right. Sometime very early morning I awoke to a screech from Abram, "MOOOMMMEEEEE!!" And by seven o'clock both kids were in the queen-sized bed with Reid and I. When the sun was up and the kids could explore the cabin, they left our bed to go back upstairs, and they saw a deer just outside the window. Their excitement scared the deer away, and the kids came barreling back downstairs to tell us what they saw. We got up soon after that and made banana muffins from scratch, and I brewed a pot of coffee to enjoy out in the cool mountain air. What a breath of (literal) fresh air from the hot, steamy Atlanta that we left just hours before!

With muffins and juice/coffee in hand, we all set out to 'explore' the land surrounding the cabin. We waded through tall grass, swampy ground, and steep inclines. We rested on a bridge over a creek. The kids discussed the tunnel that the creek ran through (under the driveway) and whether or not there was a robot in there, or maybe a troll. We all decided that snakes and spiders are probably in there.

The kids asked if they could put their feet in the creek, if they could put their hair in, and if they could walk under the bridge. We decided this would be best done later when it's hot outside and they are not wearing pants and tennis shoes. Aubrey commented that we were in the jungle, and Abram informed us that there was a robot in the barn. He wanted to 'hop on the robot and drive,' which led me to believe that he imagined a riding lawn mower in the barn. We couldn't walk to the barn because the ground was soaked (at least ankle deep) with creek water. Maybe we can walk there later in the afternoon.

It Takes a Village

2011-06-15T10:59:00.001-04:00

Newly married and renting in an upscale in-town neighborhood, my husband and I were tentative first-time-home buyers. In 2005, we bought our home in the hip, bohemian neighborhood known widely as East Atlanta Village and did it with the mindset of surviving there for three years, selling for a profit, and moving to a different neighborhood more suitable for raising a family. The first of many surprise turns in our life was the news of our first baby to arrive in the middle of 2006. The second surprise turn was the realization, after just over a year in our house, that this neighborhood was exactly where we wanted to call home; for we were among the best group of neighbors we could ever imagine.

Realtors have boasted for close to ten years now of East Atlanta Village, “Location, location, location,” and they have that one right. From our doorstep, we walk to unique restaurants, the bank, the Post Office, concerts, and I currently walk with a neighborhood group to and from our local elementary school each day. Located only three miles from the center of down town, we have quick and easy access to the countless amenities that Atlanta has to offer. What your realtor may also point out is that living in an eclectic in-town neighborhood, especially one not designated an historical neighborhood, gives you freedom from restrictions on home construction and yard maintenance. This allows the neighbors to display individuality that speaks through face of one’s home.

Allowing yards to speak for the owners could be the first test of an EAV patron’s ability to accept differences and love thy neighbor. Just on my block alone, if yards could speak for their owners, we would hear, “I am a hoarder!”, “I am a college student.”, and “I bought a flipped house complete with matching perfect yard.” And in East Atlanta there are many yards that say, “I love gardening with all of my soul!”. Some of those passionate gardeners rallied together on a day’s notice one spring when I was pregnant with my second child, and we were about to enter into an extensive home renovation. They showed up with buckets and shovels to harvest all of my perennial plants. From there they took them home to foster in their own yards for the winter, and they dug them up and brought them back to me the following spring!

These are the juicy details that your realtor might not have to share with you. You see, years ago while we were still in the process of purchasing our house, we joined an online discussion board for EAV (called affectionately ‘The Buzz’), and it was through this online community that we built and strengthened our actual community. On The Buzz, we discussed at length with neighbors, who we eventually met in person, topics ranging from the flavor of ice cream we prefer to world events, and we spent a great deal of time reviewing local businesses. In a time when most neighborhoods are comprised of people working eighty plus hours with kids’ soccer practices, and organization meetings in the evening, people have lost touch with the people who live right beside them. Most of our friends in other neighborhoods do not know all of the people on their block, and many do not know more than one! The Buzz has allowed us to really discuss cocktail-party topics with our actual neighbors, and what we have gained in return is an old-fashioned ‘it-takes-a-village’ kind of village!

Through The Buzz people in our community are able to swap furniture, children’s clothing, recipes, plants, and fire wood as result of the occasional downed tree. We found our church home by talking with people on The Buzz, and we also made decisions on doctors, plumbers, and other service providers. In 2008, a tornado wreaked havoc on the city of Atlanta, and our neighborhood was well in its path. Before the sun rose the following day, a rescue group formed from our online discussion board, and neighbors took to the streets with chainsaws and pick-up trucks to clear the roads and people’s drive-ways. Other neighbors helped care for those folk’s children, delivered food to the volunteers, and checked on elderly neighbors’ needs.

This gave me a deep sense that we were home. The more I thought about it, we had all of the ingredients of home in the people who surrounded us. There are the sibling-like folks our age with kids our kids’ ages who have been friends with our babies since babyhood. Then we have the more parental friends, who regardless of age have looked after us and cared for us like we were their own. Two sets of these parental figure neighbors actually provided a roof over our heads while the roof we owned was being rebuilt. Also in our neighborhood we attach ourselves to grandparent figures, and we care for them by helping with minor home repairs or by donating a dishwasher to a sweet hard-working grandmother who has never had one. Many work-force aged folks in Atlanta are here without any family nearby, and we are among those. This makes having a real sense of home more important than I could ever express in words.

A friend of mine from high school visited once, and as we passed through our business district in the village, she just smiled and waved politely as I conversed with friends and neighbors. Finally she commented, “I just keep trying to figure out how you fit in here.” Since I had never considered that thought, it took me a minute, but I summarized by saying, “When no one is the same, no one feels the need to be like anyone else. It’s nice that way.” We do things a little differently ‘round these parts. While it may have the same small town feel that our little hometown had, the sheriff here is a guy who actually thinks he IS a sheriff, and we all play along. He is what other neighborhoods might regard as a street character, but he keeps us all safe according to the charade in his head, and boy is it entertaining!

We celebrate holidays with traditional fiestas such as an Easter egg hunt in the park, and a group trick-or-treat called EAV-O-Ween complete with costume contests for people and dogs. But I would have to take a chance and say that we are the only neighborhood who had not only Santa Claus show up to our tree lighting, but we also had a circus elephant from Imperial OPA.

The generosity shown by neighbors has blown us away over and over. For the first two whole months of our son’s life, our meal calendar organized by a friend from The Buzz, was packed full, and we forgot how to cook for ourselves. This same group of folks came to our aid on Christmas Day this year as we were trying to make it to Tennessee before the snow-storm hit. Just as we loaded our family vehicle, two children, dog, and all of our Christmas loot and hit the downtown connector, our electric system started shutting down. We had to turn the car around, and we did not even make it the full three miles back to the house before we broke down in a parking lot. Snow was already falling, and there was no foreseeable way we were going to make it to Tennessee to spend the holiday with family, and then, without even ticking fifteen minutes off our clock, three neighbors showed up with an extra vehicle for us; they helped us swap all of our things into that vehicle, and we were on the road again. It still makes me weep when I think about it.

It is because of our selfless and giving neighbors that our neighborhood elementary school, has a volunteer-built organic garden that is integrated into the curriculum. This happened because two of those neighbors are master gardeners, and aside from volunteering time in the garden, they volunteer time in the classroom for every child in the school weekly. They partnered with school officials as well as Georgia Organics to create a program that could help the children not only learn to appreciate the Earth, but also allow the Earth to assist in teaching them the skills to pass tests. This was enough to attract the attention of First Lady, Michelle Obama, and the one school she chose to visit in the United States on the anniversary of her “Let’s Move” campaign was our own Burgess-Peterson Academy.

While many factors attract people to visit, hang out, or even buy a house in our area of town, it is the community of one-of-a-kind people that make it a place to call home for us. If it truly takes a village, the only one that we love to call home is East Atlanta Village.

A simplified version of this article was recently published in Modern INC this month.

A Two-Year-Old Watercooler Convo

2011-05-24T11:40:00.000-04:00

Abram and Rowan, after an exhausting morning of playing in the sand box, gathered in their sand-covered T-shirts and undies to share a snack. They each held a cheese stick in hand, and Rowan pointed to Abram's and asked, "What's that?"

Abram replied, "It's mine."

Rowan gestured toward his own cheese stick and asked, "What's that?"

Abram answered insightfully, "That's yours."

"Oh," Rowan pondered. He patted his sweaty head of curly locks and added, "Sunny Day."

Monkey Gun Day

2011-05-13T15:52:00.000-04:00

Recently my mother visited from Tennessee, and Aubrey, who is recently fascinated by stories of my childhood, asked her to tell a story from when I was a little girl. Strategically, Mama chose the story of Monkey Gun Day, one that I had all but forgotten.By 'strategically' I mean that she wanted to help me plant a seed of good behavior being rewarded, and there may have even been the slightest intention to remind me to reward good behavior. Either way, it was the right time for this kind of tale.

Once upon a day in the 80's in Lynchburg, TN, a hard-working and fun-loving mother decided to reward her two children for being so well behaved while she worked. She took them to the store and told them that they could pick out one toy for their good behavior, and the little girl (me) picked out a monkey with plastic hands, one holding a plastic banana; and the little boy (my brother, Faron) picked a toy gun. This was a rare treat for the two children, and they were ever so grateful. That day stuck in their heads, and whenever they felt like they were being extra good kids they would ask their mother, "Will we ever have another Monkey Gun Day, Mama?" From that point on, whenever the mother rewarded very good behavior she referred to it as 'Monkey Gun Day' and the kids cheered with excitement!

This week has been a reflective one for me as a parent and as an advocate for our local school. I have conflicting feelings about the school, the Pre-K inside the school, run by a state organization, and my bundle of pure-sun's-energy daughter who is ending a tumultuous year of said Pre-K. As a parent, I know my own child's brilliance as well as her short-comings, and I know all too well how trying it is to instruct her and keep her in bounds in any way whatsoever. I also happen to raise my voice more times than I would care to admit, even though I do not think it's always the most effective way of guiding or showing leadership.

When I hear my child's teachers raise their voices at 4 and 5 year olds, though, and on a more sensitive scale use harsh, degrading tones and hurtful words with the children, my insides cringe. Generally, I do not like to criticize unless I can put myself in that person's position and declare how I would react in the situation. This instance is unique specifically because I have been in these teachers' shoes, and I know that I raised my voice as well. Even though I feel like I conducted myself in a more professional manner (using correct English, and refraining from personal insults) I will admit that by losing your temper in the classroom, you lose your control of it. The step that I took, however, was to remove myself from the classroom. I realized that besides my extreme love and care for the children and my heart that bled for those in difficult situations, I did not have the patience that it took to effectively teach a group of young ones.

Then this week came and brought a few back-burner items to a head. I am a member of three different education councils in Atlanta, and one of them is specifically geared toward improving our school. In that meeting this week I was informed of a disheartening story involving my daughter and her teacher, and while I am close enough to the situation to know that the teacher loves and cares for my daughter almost as much as my daughter loves and cares for her teacher, I eventually decided that I was not OK with this at all. Many times this year I have had to hold my breath and bite my tongue when it came to someone else disciplining my child, since this is a new thing for both me and the kids, but when three of my friends, two of whom have known my daughter and have been directly responsible for her in the past, all expressed their extreme discomfort with witnessing the situation and even considered stepping in to intervene, I declared "enough."

What do I do right here in the last few days of school, though? That question will be answered in a couple of different ways, as Adrienne the mother and Adrienne the school advocate. Last night, I babbled and ranted to my husband until he was bored of the conversation, but having the words out in the open helped me to wake up on this Friday morning and make a decision as Adrienne the mother. It became a non-school day. The kids and I would take it easy, wake up when we wake up, and cuddle in the bed for a while after we do. After that they would watch cartoons as I made their favorite breakfast, and we would all enjoy the day. Before too long into the day when my peaceful children were sailing along just beautifully I declared it Monkey Gun Day, and we all made the trip to Value Village to pick out a couple of toys, which ended up being a dump-truck and stuffed-Stitch, and still we called the day by name.

Adrienne the mother will also see this last week and a half out with half days, most likely, beginning with an explanation to the teachers her reasoning for doing so. Most of those days are ones I can be present, at least partly, and before we know it, we will be enjoying a summer break before entering the fantastic school officially in Kindergarten. The school that has professional, compassionate, and equipped teachers who display ownership of the school, their integrity and the integrity of those who attend it.

As Adrienne the school advocate, the decision is a more difficult one, and it will involve sharing feelings with other board members and touchy, uncomfortable encounters. Hopefully it will be filled with good judgement that exceeds emotions, and hopefully the outcome will be the next crop of Pre-K babes landing in more competent hands. In a way, we could all celebrate Monkey Gun Day if this one is pulled off correctly.

A long rant about Easter, my day, being a mom, and it has no wrap-up.

2011-04-22T23:32:00.000-04:00

This Good Friday was one that I am not sure I would qualify as 'good' if I was being a strict judge. Sure, there are the obvious things to be thankful for, mindfully as an example that a man died for my sins many years ago, brutally so, that I may blog in aggravation as a privilege. But that being said, I am haggard and in need of an outlet.

A year leading up to this point has me on knees begging for the reason why I have to be in the same hypothetical boat as those who consider themselves Christians. "Christian" to me is a title that means, "One who believes that Jesus is Christ, son of God, and Lord - a man who died washing sin away for all who believe and know him." To me, that is a simple yet complex sentence that does not bleed far into anything else. I know him; I love him; and it did not take all my life, thankfully, to get to that point. But I do not proclaim to have all of the answers to this world, nor do I think any man is capable of having simply by reading scripture alone. Shouldn't we keep it simple? Why do self-proclaimed Christians get it so wrong and have so much fear and judgement inside?

Sure, life is not simple. We have many different variations of days that make us search scripture and read into it what we will, but basically as Christians do we not believe that God IS Love? We are to love God and love one another, and Jesus was a human example of that beyond-human love? I am a fairly literal person, and as I read this, I think 'anyone'. That means any body that I personally encounter EVERYWHERE. Alright.

Then a day like today presents itself, at first in a very "I'm a much more relaxed sort of day than you have had this week," sort of day. It was a day that I was able to get some laundry, toddler cartoon-watching, and other stay-at-home-mom sort of day things done before noon. Then mid-day hit, and the tsunami that I felt coming hit.

Suddenly my in-laws converged from cities on either side of me, swapping gorgeous perfect children from spring breaks ended, grand-parents to parents. This happened an hour after my baby boy received a hair cut which spring-boarded him into adulthood with its dramatic man-like changes, and my in-laws expressed a desire not to be burdened with the presence of my hyper-active four-year-old's early dismissal from school, which would disrupt the quick exchange of children (interrupting their fast food lunch in between.)

Upon deciding what was best for my own daughter, and going early to receive her from Pre-K to experience the rare visit from her cousins, I was met by her teacher who was worn-out with trying to guide my child in learning. The teacher had struggled all week with my child with specific behavioral issues, and she was as tired as I have been at times struggling with the same issues with that same adorable little girl. She is a handful. If anything, I at least feel comfort in the fact that a trained and experienced Pre-K teacher feels my pain.

After a lengthy discussion with the teacher, I returned with my children to greet the anxious in-laws, and we had as lovely a visit as could be expected in a thirty minute window, and then we were back to life as it was before. This day, however, had a new factor. The factor that decided what was the most effective and appropriate punishment for a week's worth of torture on a teacher and misbehavior on the behalf of my daughter was to be decided on Good Friday. Remind me again, What is 'good' about it?

Don't get me wrong. I am not asking, "What is it that I have to be thankful for?" Because I could not name all of the reasons for that question. I am just saying on a purely honest platform that I will feel like the biggest witch in history by taking my daughter and son to an egg hunt tomorrow morning and instructing my daughter to sit out of it. It may seem extreme to you, but you probably do not have a child that is as difficult to reach as mine. She cares nothing about toys or tangible items, at least not enough for those to be a motivating initiative for her to 'do good'. What a fantastic trait, right!? I mean seriously. My child is not swayed by material things, and how happy could I be about that as a parent and a person who totally shares that mindset with her?! But come ON! How am I to teach behavior and other important traits with no leverage?

In a day when Christianity is such a curse word, even to real and true Christians, how are we to wrap our arms around such a day as Good Friday, when historically we are suppose to be remembering the death of our savior fallen, temporarily as it were, to the hands of his friends the Jews who are then (and again now) our friends? All people who He loved to the very last breath. I read on Facebook about my Jewish friends who are conflicted about Easter Egg hunts and the joy versus pain of the season, and I cannot help to forget that creepy bunny who I am also suppose to 'Be' in a few days.

Sure, the sport of hunting eggs is one I can get behind. It's a non-contact sport for the most part in which kids of all sizes can compete, and it's a darn good neighborly experience. But do I really have to relate this to our holiday and our lives? Really? Who deemed me capable of such a task? I have habitually been solemn in the observance of Easter, and to switch artificially to an Easter Bunny Cheerleader seems unnatural to me for some reason.

As much as I would like to wrap up this open thought with an insightful finishing sentence or paragraph, I just am unsure of how to do it. At the end of the day I am just Mom (as painful as that can be), Christian (as painful as that can be), and Easter Bunny (What the Hell is that about?)

2011-04-12T22:36:00.000-04:00

Is Facebook life? I have friends who have given up Facebook for Lent for its time-wasting properties, but how many people hate it for the cult it has become without considering what a network it has actually created? People argue that they should be spending time with people face-to face, but how much time and how many miles are you capable of traveling to accomplish such a task? No matter the number in your 'friends' space, I would be willing to bet that you are not even capable of keeping up with those folks either by phone or in person the way you are able to online in this open network fashion.What is comparable to the fact that my grandmother was able to bring up an inside joke with me about my kids after not seeing any of us for months?! That's brilliant!

Most people consider the amount of time I spend with friends, neighbors and family to be more than most family gals with small children and a husband, and still my personal time spent with those that I love are only a fraction of the experiences I value day to day with friends and relatives who I miss and never get the opportunity to spend time with any more. It makes our times together in between visits carry on seamlessly as if we haven't missed a beat, and that is so special to me. Some of these are people who, after 10 or more years I didn't realized I missed until I see their beautiful families and get to keep up with their daily lives without living in the same state as them anymore.

These are things I have been pondering for a little while, and anytime I find myself in deep prayer for one of my elementary school teachers who have grown daughters who I adore and gorgeous perfect grand babies, I feel thankful for the opportunity this silly online connection we share provides us. A prayer of comfort and strength goes out to the McKenzie family tonight.

My Exhausting Application

2011-03-07T16:40:00.000-05:00

An entire day spent doing grown-up (a.k.a. not fun) things with my two-year-old strapped to my back followed by greeting my unruly four-year-old after school has me wanting to submit an application for a beer.

Submitting applications, after all, is what the majority of my day consisted of. Recently I have partnered in business with a friend, and we had to get some official things accomplished today while our two-year-old boys tagged along. What started as a trip outside of the perimeter of Atlanta, which is something that happens more rarely than the full moon, turned into a visit downtown following said trip with both boys and no lunch or a chance to lay them down.

The kids were as well-behaved as you could have asked, given that we did not supply them with the necessary means to be comfortable, but for this mom it meant that the little guy had to be strapped on my back from ten in the morning until after two in the afternoon with a few run-around breaks. Lots of whiny "I wan duh WAAAAMP. I wan duh WAAAAAMP. I wan duh WAAAAMP MOOOOMMMEEEEEEYYY." In case you do not speak my son's language, he was begging me to go back to an extra-cool handicap accessible ramp so that he could run instead of sitting in a dark waiting room full of grumpy impatient people.

As a comedic aside, there was a guy who was clearly mentally ill in the filing office where we were waiting, and this guy showed an aggressive interest in Abram. Don't get me wrong when I say 'aggressive' and assume that I mean he was aggressive toward Abram. No, it was his clingy interest in him that was so aggressive. He was interested in Abram's toys, and in the cleanliness of Abe's hands, and he was intensely interested in Abram's emotional well-being. When Abram threw one of his many fits of sleeplessness, this guy broke into song, "Don't cry for me Argentinaaaaaa, the truth is I never...." No kidding! It was hilarious, but Abram screamed even louder, and I had to ask the guy to stop.

Shortly after that, a lady came in the waiting room in such a hurry that she felt the need to cut line in front of my business partner. Normally, I may have let it slide, but we really did not have the emotional capacity to deal with an extra delay, so I announced to the lady, "I am the line monitor, and you belong here," as I gestured to the spot behind my partner.

As the crazy dude took it upon himself to further peak Abram's interest, my phone rang, and it was my husband. I answered thinking that since he was calling me during office hours there may be something pertinent. Instead, "Hey! What are you up to today?" cheerfully asked my hubby. Just the thought of how to answer that cracked me up, and I had to get off the phone.

By the time we skirted out of there sideways, business license in hand, and making a break for the school to pick up our four-year-old daughters, we had no time to stop for the quick lunch we had discussed. Instead, we compromised that we would pick up the girls, go to my partner's house in Grant Park to have a snack, and we would have a celebratory toast to opening our business. If only the kids could play along according to plan, though.

As we left the school with a car full of kids in East Atlanta and arrived at her house in Grant Park, we were notified of the fact that my child (the older child) had drawn all over the back seat of the car as well as the side of the vehicle with crayon. The fact that crayon is easy to wash off surfaces, obviously, is not the burning issue. It is that I have to STILL keep all writing, cutting, and pasting instruments behind lock and key from my child who is in school. This is beyond frustrating.

With an exhausted salutation, we had to excuse ourselves from the generous afternoon date offer and return to our house instead as punishment for Aubrey's uncontrollable artistic urges. I packed my whiny, complaining, crying kids away in my car and returned to East Atlanta with my music blaring loud enough to drown out the sounds they were making. My nerves were about as raw as could be at that point.

Right as I put the car in park in our driveway, Aubrey pulled out a toy horse from her backpack, and she said with fake surprise, "Oh look! Chloe's horse!" That one set me over the edge, and I just put the car in Reverse to head back to Grant Park. When asked where we were going, I replied, "Maybe I should take you to jail? That's where vandalizing thieves go. Maybe the police officer will help me decide."

God is cunning that way, because less than two miles down the interstate I got pulled over by the Police. A sweet young police officer came up to my window, and my kids were continuing to wail uncontrollably. I handed the officer my license and hung my head out the window to ask him, "If you are going to give me a ticket anyway, do you mind helping me teach my four-year-old a lesson? I have been downtown all day with my two-year-old on my back, and within 10 minutes of picking her up she managed to deface property and steal." He was willing to help.

I asked the officer to tell my daughter what it is called when people destroy, write-on, or otherwise mess-up someone's things, and he said, "Vandalism." Then when I asked him to tell her what it is called when people take things that do not belong to him, he answered, "Stealing." And furthermore, when I asked him if he arrests people who do these things, he told her, "Yes." He was very matter-of-fact but much more gentle than I was, and I explained that we were on the way to return an item that was not ours.

The officer took my ID back to his car, and I began to cry silently at that time. Partly it was because I felt mean for doing that to Aubrey, partly it was because I knew we could not afford what he was about to hand me, and mostly it was because I have a hard time holding back tears in the face of authority. As he walked back to the car, I wiped my tears to greet him, and he handed me only my license with no other paper attached, and he kindly said, "You are doing a good job raising your children. Just please slow down for me."

Once we returned the stolen pony and returned home, I turned into a deaf, mute, piece of stone who did a load of laundry, a pile of dishes, and started making dinner while giving the kids a snack. Some days desperately need a restart button, but for now, I'm submitting my application.

Abram on duh wamp

Fog From a Different Perspective

2011-02-17T09:08:00.000-05:00

If you were like most people getting up to get ready for work this morning in Atlanta, you probably noticed the heavy fog that settled over our city. Maybe you gave it some thought since it would affect your commute. Maybe you have a check-list style of brain like mine, and you simply noted that there was fog [FOG [CHECK]] then moved on uninterrupted. Whatever the case, I wanted to share with you the thoughts regarding fog from our little group of walkers on the way to school this morning. For many of them this was only their second or third time remembering fog, and for a couple of them it was their first experience with it since they have known the words to describe things.

As Aubrey (4) opened the front door for Jack (4) and Leila (6) she noticed the fog and commented, "Oh WOW there's FOG!"

Jack corrected her, "No, it's mist."
Aubrey, "Fog," Jack, "Mist," Aubrey..., it was a rousing debate between two four-year-olds.

I moved the kids off the porch so that I could put Abram (2) in his stroller. Abram noticed the fog, and he waved his hand in front of his face and said in a whispery careful voice, "Hottt." I acknowledged that it looked like steam, but it's just wet, not hot.

Then as we were in full stride on our way down the sidewalk, my dramatic Aubrey came to me with a worried tone, "Mama! The fog is getting in my mouth, and it's going down my throat!"

This made Leila wonder what the fog would taste like if she could taste things. She was just getting over a cold, and things taste different when you have a cold. She decided, "This fog would taste better if I didn't have a cough. Today it just tastes like raw eggs." Admittedly, she has never tried raw eggs, but that was the taste she associated with how her mouth felt at the moment. She could not project what she thought the fog would taste like to a kid without a cough.

Our little walk to school this morning was a good reminder of how cool it is to be present as these fantastic little people discover each small wonder of the world. Without their engaging conversation I would have moved on with my day immediately following, [FOG [CHECK]].

Aubrey was Cranky

2011-01-21T14:59:00.000-05:00

Aubrey: I'm feeling cranky.
Mommy: Oh really? What makes you feel cranky?
Aubrey: I started feeling cranky at naptime.
Mommy: (trying not to lead, but trying to get some answers) What are some of the things you do when you start feeling cranky.
Aubrey: I say WraaahWraah (grumble noise)
Mommy: Did Ms. Gray (teacher) tell you that you were acting cranky?
Aubrey: Yes.
Mommy: What did you do right before she told you that?
Aubrey: I spoke a different language
Mommy: (assuming she meant the language of frustrated noises) Which language was that?
Aubrey: Spanish

"I have your Grandmother!"

2011-01-21T08:38:00.002-05:00

"Shut the door and grab a paper towel!" I quickly demanded, and through the crack in the door I added, "I have your grandmother!"

This is not how I thought the situation would end, but it sure did. Today as I had my sleeping Abram in the jogging stroller, returning home from Aubrey's school, I passed by Flossy May's house, which is just three doors away from me. Miss Flossy and Tracy, my partner in crime on our block, were standing in the driveway, and Tracy explained that Miss Flossy was locked out of her house. As much as they tried to get in, Tracey's daughter had a dentist appointment that they had to get to right away. They had been trying to reach me on my phone, which was at my house, so from there I took Miss Flossy home with me.

Inside the house we called her daughter, who was at work and could not leave, and we left a voice mail for her granddaughter. Neither of these ladies are people that I know, but Miss Flossy is good company, so I hang out with her whenever I get the chance. My next phone call was one to reach my friend Michael, who even though is a fine citizen upholding the law, is surprisingly good at breaking into houses. We know this because he has helped us out a time or two without doing any damages.

Michael had some tips for me to try since he was still at work for another hour or so, and I ran down to Miss Flossy's place to try out each tip while she sat in my house with my sleeping baby. Eventually I got the thought that the door might be solid enough to hold up if we kicked the door in, since the door knob was the only thing locked. I ran that by Michael, but he suggested against it since it could damage the frame. Still, I figured worst-case scenario if we had to do it, I would check the solidity of the door.

The final tip Michael had me try was to spray WD40 in the key hole, since we had a key that was suppose to work, although I had my doubts about it being the right key. Off I went with the can of WD40 and a key, and Miss Flossy stayed at my house watching her stories while Abram napped.

The first thing I did was give the door one great big pound with the back of my fist. Yep, solid! The next step was to bend down and spray that grease right in the key hole, but I was a little sloppy. The stuff started dripping off the doorknob, and it occurred to me that there was carpet on the other side of the door. I knew that I would have to quickly shut the door and get a paper towel from my house when I sent Miss Flossy home. Just about the time I was heading toward the knob with the key, the door opened!

I was so shocked to see her granddaughter, and feeling like I was caught red-handed breaking in her house, but all I could think to blurt out was, "Shut the door and grab a paper towel!" And through the crack in the door I added, "I have your grandmother!"

Did you ever have one of those moments when the tension was so high and you couldn't begin to explain yourself, but all you really wanted to do was hyperventilate laughing? That was then. I went on to explain to this young girl that we had been considering kicking down the door. She was so much more calm than I would have been in her situation, but if we kicked the door in on her, I'll bet she would have been the one wetting her pants instead of me.

Brown Daughter

2011-01-14T21:16:00.000-05:00

On the third snow day of Atlanta's Snowpocalypse, Snowcation, Snowmageddon, or whatever you call it, we hosted neighbors at our house for happy hour. Many hours into our happiness in the evening that we affectionately refer to as our 'snow cone party' Aubrey and her friend Evan came strolling into the room dressed in elaborate costumes.

For anyone who does not know Aubrey's friend Evan, it is relevant to the story to mention that she is African American. These girls as babies first discovered difference in skin tone by remarking to each other that one girl was 'yellow' and the other was 'brown'.

So in walk the girls, fully in character, and Aubrey was the spokesperson. With her head held high, speaking in a distinguished accent, and peering down her nose at her father, Aubrey announced, "Hello. We come from the North Pole."

Reid answered, "Oh! You must know Santa Claus, then!"
Aubrey shifted her snobby nose in another direction and motioned with her arms wide in a wings-open position, "Yes. I am Missus Claus. And this is my daughter," motioning dramatically to Evan, and keeping her slowly drawn-out language she finished, "And she's broooown."

At whatever point we adults picked ourselves up from the floor where we were rolling in laughter, I am not sure the girls were still there.

Snowman Mommy

2011-01-14T21:06:00.002-05:00

As an unexpected surprise I found two finger puppets in the pockets of an old warm sweater. One is a snowman and the other is a reindeer. When I presented these gifts to Abram, he lit up inside, gave me a breathless 'Thank You!' and began his imaginary dialogue between the two.

Snowman: hello

Reindeer: hi Snowman

Snowman: I'm a snowman mommy

Reindeer: I daddy! [good morning]

Keep in mind that these characters speak Abramese.