Of The Princess and The Pea

One Final Announcement

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 17:41:00 +0000

I want to thank you all for your years of readership, support and friendship. I truly cannot express how grateful I am for the connections made, the revelations had, the memories made both online and off with each and every one of you.

After an incredibly wonderful, life-changing experience in Chicago this weekend at BlogHer 09 I have decided it is time to distance myself from the mommyblogging community. While Of The Princess and The Pea will (for now) remain as an archive of old content it will no longer be an active blog.

But don't worry - I'm still writing! For new, relevant work by me please come visit me at my personal site DianaPrichard.com

I've even already started posting my BlogHer re-cap posts there!

A Few Random Bitchy Things About Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 02:48:00 +0000

1. Stop trying to get me to friend your pet, blog and/or business. It's my FRIENDS list, people. And I am not friends with your snotty nosed cat or your blog about toe jam. Seriously. Make a page, I'll fan it. But stop signing up for random accounts like your business is a person. If it was YOU WOULDN'T FUCKING OWN IT!

2. Your high school nickname? Not cool. Bewbs Johnson? Probably not going to be friending her. Kathy Johnson on the other hand, who happens to mention her stupid high school nickname in her profile... it could happen. Be a human, with a normal ass name. It's okay. It's 2009. Robots are not taking over the world just yet. You don't have to deny your species for safety.

3. Stop putting up pictures of your children as your profile image. Ditto pictures of your cat. And your dog. And your horse. And your car. You are not your children (or your cat, dog, horse or car). They are their own entities and they like it that way. Try it sometime. Be your own person. WITH YOUR OWN PICTURE. Or don't. Chances are if you're that attached I don't want to be your friend anyway.

And It Will Suck; My Only BlogHer 09 Fear

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 03:14:00 +0000

Tis the season.

Halls across the country are decked. (With clothes thrown astray in pre-packing jitters)

People are kissing. (Mostly on twitter, not under a mistletoe. And mostly asses, not lips. You know, in hopes of making new friends before the big arrival day comes lest they be left travelling the streets of Blogger-filled Chicago alone. But it works.)

BlogHer '09 is right around the corner. Excitement, expectations and anxiety are all high in both the blog and twitter-spheres.

People are worried about what to wear, how to do their hair, whether or not they'll fit in, what sessions and parties and meet-ups they'll attend. And while many, many of those I've seen tweeting and blogging about these fears are new to BlogHer, I'm here to tell you the anxiety doesn't disappear entirely on your second go-around - it just takes a new form.

Last year I was a wreck. Did I have the right clothes to wear? Did my 'do look alright? Would I make an ass out of myself more than usual? Would I have anyone to talk to or would I end up wandering the halls aimless and alone?

This year. I can honestly say I'm not worried about it. Any of it. I still haven't even thought about what I'm wearing. I leave on the 23rd, figure I'll shop on the 22nd. I know that BlogHers really are very welcoming and I'll have no problem finding someone to talk to, hang out with, drink with, sleep with, eat with - even if I walk into a party or session alone. My hair is a mess, as usual, but I also know no one is actually going to be looking at it. And honestly? We all make asses out of ourselves. People seemed to like me best when I was myself -- like when I wrote cuss words on my name tag at Guy's house. They loved the assholeishness of it all. And I loved them for it. (Also, yes, Guy Kawasaki and I are on a first name basis - he's just not aware of it yet.)

No, I am not worried about any of that this year. No, there is just one thing I am worried about this year. And while I guess it does have a little bit to do with making an ass out of myself, it's not about just that anymore. I am worried that I was not memorable enough. (Because I wasn't memorable AT ALL, perhaps.) And that people who I met and spent time with last year will not remember me.

So, I imagine when I go skipping up to them all jolly and gay they'll not know who the fuck I am. They'll just nod and glance at each other sideways all "Who the shit is this chick?" and then they'll walk away. And I'll be all "What a bunch of bitches!" And they'll be all "What did you say?" And I'll be "Hitches. Are any of the vendors giving away free hitches? I totes need one. A hitch. Not a bitch."

And they won't believe me.

And it will suck.

I Get a Little Pleasure From Other Peoples' Pain

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 03:01:00 +0000

Completely without rabbit food, you know because it is really hard to see that it's getting low before we run out entirely, and in dire need - no really, NEED - of coke to mix with my Captain Morgan we ventured out this evening after The Knight got home from work. While out, in the soft drink aisle of the nearest evil-mart, we stepped through a time warp and ran smack into an earlier version of ourselves.

She was adorable in her black capris and striped, fitted tee. He was staring at her ass and almost knocked over an entire display of 7-up with the cart. His tennis shoes cost half as much as the payment for his shiny truck I rest assured was parked somewhere outside, freshly waxed. Her pedicure included tiny hand painted flowers on her big toe. And no, that wasn't a WNBA basketball under her shirt. Her pregnant belly was sickeningly, perfectly round and yes, cute.

And the best part was? They were completely unsuspecting.

Their faces were so innocent. So naive. You could tell she'd read one too many of those fluff-and-stuff parenting magazines that will have her doing postnatal yoga and baking fresh bread four hours after giving birth. And he was clearly just along for the ride. I imagine he had read a few of those articles but gotten overwhelmed at the one about achieving the perfect 'latch on' and given up. He's trusting she knows what she's doing and that it'll all just come to them. He was especially cute. *sigh*

So I stealthily attached a tracking device to their ankles like the ones scientists use on birds. I can't wait to track them down three months from now at 3 am when their new baby has shit up his own back, down his thighs, and has them on night four of a seven day, no-sleep, bender.

New parents are fun.

Mostly because I am never, ever doing that again. Ever. And the two heathens on my own side of the aisle who were meanwhile arguing over who would get to feed the rabbit it's first carrot crunchy when we got home were testament as to why.

I Don't Make Them Be Nice

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 13:41:00 +0000

I'm fully aware that it may only be my perspective of the world that sees this spectrum as so, but I think there exists a grey area between nice and mean. And when you don't have anything nice to say, it is okay to say something that's just not mean. Something that is grey. Or even not say anything at all.

It's a well-accepted tradition that friends of family members are more than welcome to our gatherings at the lake. It's not uncommon to see entire families that you've never met before fishing from the pontoon boat, jumping off the zip-line and helping themselves to smoked pork sandwiches. This past weekend was no different.

Our immediate family - aunts, uncles and cousins - all were there, joined by some extended family and even some friends. One of those friends was a husband and wife duo with their eight-year-old daughter. The husband was a nice guy, the wife a bit quiet from what I could tell, and the daughter? She was an asshole. No that is not a typo. She was a complete and utter asshole. An ungrateful, ill-mannered, confrontation-seeking asshole.

She was rude, argumentative, unsupervised, and made-up like a two-cent hooker. That is not an exaggeration. The kid had enough lip-liner and lipstick on to polish up every whore on the Vegas Strip for a week. It didn't even come off during her two-hour long swim in the lake (during which her mother spent all of five minutes watching her - because we ARE free-babysitters, you know, but that's another story for another day)

And yes I do realize none of this is her fault. It is all a salute to an EPIC failure in parenting. I understand that.

What I do not understand is the predominant notion that we need to be, we MUST BE, nice to people, even if they are children, like these.

Because there is a grey area between nice and mean, no? There is being neutral. Not nice, but not downright mean either. There is ignoring. There is respectfully, but clearly communicating that no you do not want to play a game, or make a craft, or talk to, or be friends with a person. And none of that is nice, but it's not mean either. And it's okay. And it's what I teach my children.

Because lets face it, as much as it is not the child's fault she must learn. She must learn that being an asshole will get you nothing in the long-run of life. She must learn that arguing with the gracious hostess you were dumped on about how you can swim in forty-feet of water without a life jacket at the age of eight will get you out of the lake completely. That demanding marshmallows and more sparklers when others are asking for them nicely will get you placed swiftly at the back of the line. She must learn that walking into a band of kids who have known each others personalities, quirks, thoughts, ideas, families, and preferences since the day they were born on their turf and trying to stage a coup will only get you a spot on the outside looking in. And lets face it, we can't wait for the parental unit that made her that way to teach it. Because if they were going to, one would think they would have taken the opportunity at some point in the past eight years, no?

So I teach my children to utilize the grey area; the beautiful thing that it is. I teach them to be straight forward. Not to sugar-coat. If they don't want to be someones friend because that someone is mean? I teach them to say so. And they do. And it sometimes pisses other parents off. And you know what else, I don't care. Because their kids are assholes, and at least I didn't teach mine to say that. Because they know it, make no mistake. But they also know the grey area. And they use it. And here's the thing, if you don't like it, don't raise an asshole. Because someday, I'll also teach them when it is okay to be mean.

'Why There Are Guns in My House' Redux for the Fourth

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 16:00:00 +0000

You haven't heard? I'm someplace rustic, vacationing and calculating my prime amount of availability on an abacus. No, really. In the meantime, I've revived an old OPP favorite for your enjoyment - it's July Fourth-ish in that it has to do with our rights as Americans. Or something like that.

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Why There Are Guns in My House, Originally Published August 15, 2008

Recently Izzy of IzzyMom fame and glory posed the question:

I’m curious to know where I stand in comparison to other Americans as well as other world citizens, parents and non-parents, I’d like to know your views on gun control and the second amendment.

Aside from that fact that they're essential pieces of equipment for, you know, hunting. Which we do, a lot. There is a deeper reason that we keep guns in our home, properly stored, unloaded, and safely put up, of course. A reason why I fully support the second amendment, and a citizen's right to bear arms.

Before I go on to explain that reason, I'd like to give props to Izzy's own reasons for supporting the right to bear arms. I think far too often, in our comfy American ways, we forget that governments are corrupt, they do infringe on their citizens, and it is possible that it could happen here, to us.

That being said, I support the second amendment right for our citizens to bear arms for a deeply personal reason. As a child guns were not allowed in our home, despite the fact that my step-father was a hunter. My mother went so far as to demand that his shotgun, the only gun our family owned, be kept in the garage, with a trigger lock, inside it's locked gun case, inside a locked cabinet, behind a locked door. Clearly, there was an unhealthy amount of Fear of God!!! surrounding that gun. Any gun, actually. My step-father kept the gun in the house anyway, inside it's locked case and unloaded, but it still remained a great source of tension and my mom made it clear that GUNS. ARE. EVIL. Evil, dangerous, killing machines. They could fire at any moment, shooting off your toe, or your ear, or your best friend's head. Even if you didn't even have it loaded. I have yet to figure out where this position on guns came from, her having grown up on a farm with four brothers and a father all active in hunting and none having ever been injured in a gun related accident.

As time wore on guns became those things. Foreign, forbidden, dangerous things. So, during an afternoon unsupervised at a friend's house, us in our preteen years at the most, when she mentioned that her parents kept loaded guns positioned around the house for protection, and offered to show them to me, naturally my curiosity peaked. Because kids are curious, especially about things with which they've been forbidden experience. Clearly I am still here today, so we know a horrible accident did not take place that afternoon huddled in her upstairs hallway, crowded around one of the three guns she showed me. But now, as an adult, the image of the barrel of that gun pointing directly into my face is ingrained. At the time, looking down that dark, cool shaft did not scare me. It exhilarated me to the very core. I was scared, yes, a fear of guns had been mentally beaten into me, but that fear only made the experience that much more of a rush. The adrenaline pumped and I stared it down, while tossing it back in forth in my palms. It was an old-style revolver, heavy and cold. I'll never forget it.

About one and a half years later I befriended an older boy, he was in high school, but my mom liked him and he was essentially harmless so I was allowed to befriend him, go shopping with him, "cruise" in his shiny blue truck. One day, in his backyard in the country, he talked about his guns. He was an avid hunter and when I mentioned my fear of them he offered to get his .22 and teach me to shoot. With him in a lawn chair ten feet away directing my every move I shot a gun for the first time that day, but the fear was far from over. With that tiny .22 it was intimidating, but manageable. I couldn't kill a deer with it so I clearly couldn't kill myself, right? Wrong, of course, I realize that now, but at the time it made it all manageable in my mind and I shot. He taught me how to carry it, how to load it, how to aim it, and yes, how to shoot it. I was actually a damned good aim, the first thing I had ever found that I was just good at.

Later though, when another friend placed a 12 gauge, a big, heavy, long barreled 12 gauge in my hands and directed me to shoot towards the open field, I shook and when he gently wrapped his arms around me and then my finger around the trigger I started to cry. I do not cry. The reasons for that are numerous, but suffice to say I am not a crier. But that day, I did. I was so scared of the trigger. I was so scared that the bullet would fly out the backside, or flip into a circle, or bounce off the tree I was aiming at and thwack me right between the eyes. I cried, and shook. And finally looking towards that long, open field through my tear blurred vision I squeezed, as slowly as I could, the trigger. The gun barely kicked, though I had been squeezing it into my shoulder so tightly I'd left a little mark, and just like the booming waves of sound coming from its barrel fear radiated from my body. I felt it spill from every pore and I started to laugh. First as a giggle but it was a giggle that grew until, finally, I was bending over and laughing so hysterically I couldn't stand straight. The release was the most amazing thing I'd ever felt. I was freed. I was also hooked and I shot over and over again until every last bullet we had that day was gone.

Standing on the edge of a field that cold, fall day shooting at trees I learned to respect the gun but not to fear it. I learned that the gun is not that which is evil. I learned what was dangerous about guns was my own misunderstanding and lack of knowledge. But most of all I learned, that no one should have to go through what I went through in order to figure all of that out. And for that reason I believe citizens should have the right to bear arms. I believe that American homes should be healthy environments for learning about firearms, and that cannot happen without firearms present.

There are guns in our home, several of them, actually. They're unloaded and locked in their cases appropriately. They are brought out on lazy evenings and long weekend afternoons. They're used for hunting and target shooting. They're used for recreation, but also for education. One of those guns belongs to my daughter, who is less than a week shy of seven today. She does not fear her gun, or my gun, or her father's gun but she does respect them. She knows how to properly carry it, load it, and shoot it. She knows the dangers that it can present but also knows that she is the first line of defense in preventing them. She knows what a gun is capable of, she sits with us yearly during deer season, and has both seen and eaten the product of a bullet shot.

I do not fear that she will harm herself or someone else with a gun. I do not worry about the day she will look down its barrel, because for her a gun is not a thing. It is not mythical or forbidden or dangerous, though she knows it can be. A gun is powerful, but also familiar. It is an object with which she knows how to act, it is a possession that she respects. Every child should be afforded that privilege. The privilege of knowledge and experience. The privilege of not being left to take learning into their own hands, where it can, too often, go wrong.

I am not opposed to simple safeguards to ensure the wrong guns do not get into the wrong hands. I've personally purchased all of the guns that we now own and each time I've happily filled out the forms needed, waited while my background check was processed, and taken all precautions required in transporting them home. Those things I am not opposed to, what I am opposed to are restrictions that put the right to bear arms for everyday American families, families like mine, who desire to teach their children safe, respectful, cautious firearm use, at risk. I am opposed to making guns, on a mass scale, things; forbidden, dangerous things.

I Don't Care About Your Kids and I'm Not Really All About Mine Either

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 19:04:00 +0000

Here's the funny thing about mommyblogs, the good ones are about mommies. Sure they include a few posts now and again about the kids that make that woman the mommy she is, but for the most part, they're not about the kids. They're about the struggles those kids put her through, but not about the kids themselves. Because? As George Carlin once said, "I don't give a fuck about your kids. That's why they're yours!"

And really, truly we don't. Do we? Care about other bloggers' kids? I don't.

I don't want them to run out in front of a car, or jump from a third story balcony, or drown in the community pool. I care about them to the extent of not wanting them to die, but lets face it that only rates them right about equal with the neighbor's dog on my list of priorities. Unless we're talking about the neighbor's dog down the road to the west, in which case they rate a bit higher because I'd like to run that little fucker over with my car. Twice.

No, really. Twice.

But I digress, it's about not being about the kids. And it applies to real life too. What I've observed is that the good mommies, the mommies I want to hang out with, the mommies I want to be? They're not about the kids. They have kids, hence the title 'Mommy', but they're not about them. They're about the hot lifeguard they saw at the pool, the kickass documentary they watched during naptime last week, and if I'm lucky they're about a mojito and a long day in the sun. And it doesn't make them just good mommies for me to drink myself out of stress with, either. They're damn good mommies at being mommies for it.

And you know what, so am I.

I'm not about the kids and mommy isn't my only title. As a matter of fact, it's not even the one I bear most proudly most of the time. It's not the one I mention first, it rarely defines even a portion of me, and that's OK. It's really, really OK. I love my kids and I make more sacrifices for them everyday than I have ever made previous to them in my life; probably more than I ever will again. But those sacrifices, if I'm to be honest with myself, are only a marginal part of those days. They're not worth dwelling on. And those kids? They're not what defines me. And so, yes most of the time I don't have much to say about them. They're doing well. They're growing, they're learning, they're making me go gray. They're doing all the things kids should do and man is it an amazing thing to watch, but lets do eachother a favor, next time we get together lets not talk about that. Lets talk about the cute waiter, the sinful chocolate cake we both want for desert and the best book of the year that just came out. Because yes, we're mommies, but we're women too and don't we deserve a break from being about the kids sometimes?

Or if you think I'm a terrible mother for even thinking these things and can't help yourself but talk about your kids and all their accomplishments, at least try not to blame me when my eyes glaze over and I bury my head in my margarita, knodding only occasionally. I warned you, after all. I just don't care about your kids and I'm really not all about mine either.

Call me what you will.

How and Why I Compensate My Kids

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 01:31:00 +0000

Karen Walrond of Chookooloonks recently wrote at BlogHer her thoughts On Allowances for children. Her own daughter is only five and not yet a Kindergartner, but Karen is planning ahead for when Alex is old enough to receive an allowance and asks at the end of her post there how other parents compensate their kids. I had originally begun this post there, in the comments section, but soon realized I had much more than a comment to say and moved here.

I don't pretend to think any given allowance structure will be right for every household. Having been there and done that however, I do think our experience with managing a mini-economy for the purpose of education via allowances with our girls is valuable. You know what they say, live and learn. And that we have.

Much of the fundamental philosophy behind Karen's own allowance plans I whole-heartedly agree with. Karen wrote:

In my parents' thinking, chores were not something for which a child received pay; instead, in exchange for doing chores, the child got to remain a tenant of the house. Money was another thing entirely.

And I think that I sort of like that philosophy.

Like Karen's parents we believe children need to reap natural reward, rather than monetary compensation, for contributing to the upkeep of the household. Anything we've ever instituted in our home has been based on a simple principle of operation; keep things as simple and natural as possible. If our kids refuse to put their coats on in the winter, for instance, so be it. The cold they suffer through is their consequence. And consequence enough it has always been. We saw no reason to change that principle when it came time to teach them the ins and outs of money management.

When it came down to it we knew we could not - in good conscience - pay them for completing the simple tasks of daily living. After all, no one was paying us for doing the dishes or vacuuming the floors. And no one ever would. Unfortunately, this also left us struggling with for what exactly it was that should we compensate them. Because let's face it, just as much as no one was paying us for keeping up our living quarters they also weren't forking over money simply for the fact that we were alive, either. We have to earn our cash, and so will our children have to. And therefore, we thought, so should they have to now

What ultimately came to be from the many conversations and google searches we conducted during that time was a system of "optional employment" that would allow them to earn money, but also reinforced the idea that they had to contribute to keeping their own lives and environments running smoothly in order to be able to do those jobs. Not only were the jobs we were willing to pay them for doing "above and beyond" the call of what we believe to be a child's duty in the household, but they also weren't made available for them to complete unless all of their personal chores were done first. If their rooms weren't clean first, we certainly weren't going to pay them for weeding a portion of the garden or cleaning out one of the vehicles. So what exactly do we consider personal responsibilities not worthy of monetary compensation, and what do we consider "optional employment"?

Personal Responsibility:
• The up-keep of one's own area of the home (for us their bedrooms and jointly the bathroom they share)
• The responsibility for one’s personal belongings (if their toy, shirt, backpack or shoes are in the main parts of the house, it’s their job to clean that up)
• The Care Taking of any personal pet (family wide pets, are care taken by everyone)
• Contribution to any activity they directly benefit from (they eat off the dinner plates, they help with dishes. They throw trash in the waste basket, they help take it out. They walk on the floors, they help sweep. And so on.)

Anything outside that realm we are willing to compensate them for. If my car is messy (and it’s not kid stuff making it so) and they want to clean it for me? I’ll pay them. If The Knight’s giant change bank is getting full and the coins need rolling and they want to do it? We’ll pay them. If they want to weed my flower bed? Or clean my bathroom for me? We’ll pay them. This way, they have to take care of their things and contribute to the household as any member would (cleaning up after themselves, pulling their weight) but they also get to earn money through work just as they will have to as adults.

Now, how much do we pay them? Well, that depends. They’re certainly not experienced enough to be salaried employees, I can tell you that. So, naturally the pay is based on the work they do. The going rate around here stands at about fifty cents per job, unless of course the job is incredibly large or gross. In which case, we’re open to a temporary raise in pay. Why fifty cents per job? Well, as it so happens a bit of calculation went into that particular number. We decided early on – with The Princess being the over-achiever she is – there had to be an overall cap on the amount we would pay out weekly. We’re not made of money. Five dollars per week is what we ultimately settled on (more on that in a moment.) So, we needed a nice round number of jobs done that would equal that amount. A number that would both make them realize earning money is in fact work, but also not overwhelm them to a point that would make them think it’s too much work and not worth it. As much as we wanted to teach them how to earn what they desired in life, we also didn’t want to discourage them from pursuing even their loftiest goals. At fifty cents per job that means they can do just ten jobs to reach the weekly cap. Add two jobs per day and weekends off to school and extracurriculars plus keeping up with their personal un-paid responsibilities and it seemed plenty enough. And it has proven so over the years we’ve had it in place.

Now, back to that cap. Why five dollars? We originally set the cap lower, and thus the per job pay lower as well. Originally we thought five dollars per week was an awful lot for a small child. What we found however was that a lower amount actually encouraged in them the very emotions about money that we were trying to avoid; taught the very principles we were trying to instill the opposite of. Even the smaller trinkets they want to buy for themselves cost anywhere from two to five dollars each. When we were paying a smaller amount it didn’t take long for us to start noticing despair in the girls at the store. In putting part of their allowance away for savings and having only the leftover to spend saving up enough for the things they wanted to spend on took a very long time. They began to feel like it was pointless, that they would never make enough progress. As a result they started to see a portion of their money for the long-term as a barrier to the reaching of their goals – since it took so long to save enough in the spend fund to buy something, to them even that seemed long-term.

There was a small, horse figure that The Princess had her eye on for months near the beginning of our foray into allowances and we told her “save your money for it”. The figure cost $14.99 plus tax. At the time we were paying only two dollars per week however and with fifty percent of that going into savings for the long term this meant she only was getting one dollar for spending. (We don’t do the charity thing, but that’s another post for another day.) In seeing that experience through her eyes, we soon realized our logic was a bit flawed. At that rate it would have taken her four months, a third of an entire year, just to save enough spending money for a small horse figure. Not to mention even at a young age putting a weeks worth of work in only to see your wealth grow by one dollar per jar is more than a bit disheartening.

So, we slowly increased the amount she could earn and over the course of a few months came to an amount that seemed to balance it all out, five dollars. It’s enough to encourage her at the moderate growth of her wealth at the end of a hard week’s work, but not so much she can run out and buy, buy, buy with her spending portion. She still has to save for those things she wants, just not so long for them that she gives up out of frustration at the seeming impossibility of the task.

So there you have it. That’s how we do it. So far, so good. It’s been in place for almost three years now, without further tweaking beyond the original playing around with amounts. And we've had good results.

Recently we’ve introduced for The Princess, who has proven herself responsible with her money over the years a form of credit. But that’s a beast all its own, and one for another time – a time in which we’ve had more than a few successful rounds with it.

Peace - or Not - In Public Schools

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 06:37:00 +0000

If you know me, you probably know that for no less than the past year I have struggled with what is the best schooling arrangement for The Princess. Also if you know me you know authority is not one of those things I cling to readily like a teddy bear in the night.

Yesterday I spent twelve hours at the Flea Market with my aunt, uncle, and younger cousin. At one of the booths, as my aunt, cousin and I gathered around a large board scoping out their international flag selection - my aunt is an English as a Second Language teacher in a public school and a damn good one at that. She wanted the flags for her classroom to help her students, who often just recently emigrated, to feel more at home - an interesting and somewhat depressing story came about.

In a nutshell, a teacher in the high school my younger cousin attends was forced to remove a flag bearing a peace sign from her classroom by the district's school board. The reason? Peace signs encourage governmental rebellion.

Also, foos-ball is the devil.

Now, don't 'get me wrong'. I understand. I do. The Peace sign was once a symbol - remains a symbol - of an anti-something-the-government-is-doing-movement. The Peace sign stirs emotions of ill-will in some of our own pride and joy, Vietnam Veterans. The Peace sign embodies the very anti-Christ to others; those who I can readily admit I think take things entirely too far, but nonetheless. I understand it is controversial. But really? Remove it? Entirely? On the basis of it encouraging governmental rebellion? That I do not 'get'.

I am not surprised. I am disheartened. Even more so than I already had been.

Is activism both for and against; is independent free-thinking analysis of the things our government does not what makes the United States of America, THE United States of America? Should rebellion not, in the very essence of what it embodies, be encouraged in our youth? Are we so very removed from our not so distant historical past that we have forgotten that we owe governmental rebellion for the country we call home?

We owe everything we have to those before us and those among us with the guts to rebel. Truly and wholly.

Is this one story enough to make me give up on our public education system? Of course not. But it is another drop in an already overflowing bucket of small, but significant instances that make me question everything I stand for.

I want so very badly to support the educational system that has brought the people of this country so far already. Even more than that I want to support the men and women like my aunt who have dedicated and continue to dedicate their lives to that system and to the children who filter through it. Public school teachers, barring the bad-apple exceptions present in any group, are amazing people; dedicated, passionate, hard-working, under-paid people. They are people who are stuck. They are stuck in the middle of a long, spiraling, oft times quarrel-filled descent between the parents who want badly to do the right thing - for both their children and the greater good - and the system that fails them. As one of those parents foremost, but also as an activist who would do anything to contribute to the repair of that system, I wonder if there really is any way out. And I fear, more and more every day, that the answer is no.

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Related Posts:

Palin Dissed by The O?

An Open Letter to Teachers

Will Dream for Children

June 101 in 1001

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 14:40:00 +0000

If someone had told me as recently as just a few years ago that I would willingly be up to my wrists in dirt, bugs and grime on a daily basis I would have laughed in their face. Truly. And yet, I am really, really enjoying numbers one through seven on this list. While it's not going as well as I would have liked for it to have gone (almost all of my seedlings started here at home died, I had to buy new plants and don't have as many as I would have ultimately liked to have had) I am incredibly pleased with our results. Because so many of the seedlings died we won't be able to grow as much of our own food this year as we had intended, but we are growing a lot of it. And if nothing else, progress is progress. No?

Key: Not Yet Started In Progress Done Fail

1. Grow most of our own food in 2009 (excluding flour, sugar, "exotic" spices, oils, dairy, etc.)
...2. Raise chickens. Butcher. Freeze.
...3. Plant an indoor herb garden.

...4. Start seedlings for big outdoor garden in February/March.

8. Ride at least one 25 mile limited-distance endurance ride
9. Have at least one date night with The Knight every month. (5/33)
10. Have at least one family night every month. (5/33)
11. Buy cloth napkins and use them instead of paper towels.
12. Install a patio in our backyard.
13. Have at least one article published in a major magazine.
14. Paint Dining room and Living room
15. Reduce electrical usage 15% from same-month last year in 2009. (0/12)

16. Go soda-free for 30 days (30/30)

17. Read the Bhagavad Gita
18. Write a book (note I did not say anything about it being published!)
19. Comfortably fit in a size 8.

20. Meditate 30 minutes each month (5/33)

21. Read 10 non-fiction books (3/10)
22. Bake a pie with wild-blackberries
23. Learn to make at least one new Indian dish

24. Paint at least one Painting per month (5/33)

25. Open an Etsy shop
26. Dance every single day. Like no one is watching. (143/1001)
27. Give all handmade/Artisan gifts to family/friends Christmas 2009
28. Get rid of 101 things (101+/101)

29. Run 5k five days per week (weeks completed: 6/143)

30. Build a compost container
31. Volunteer for a community service project as a family
32. Print ten of my photos and display them! (0/10)
33. Set up a more efficient filing system

To be filled in no later than January 1, 2010
34. Run a 5k (in a real race, not on my treadmill)
35. Keep Up with 1 Picture per Day for Project 365 From Here Out! (001/350)

36. Kick Kids' Stuff out of my home office

37. Work somewhere outside the home once per week (library, cafe, park) for inspiration (16/139)

38. Take my camera everywhere with me (at least 90% of the time)

39. Try the ghetto middle eastern cafe we noticed on date night - I have an unhealthy obsession with small, scary, ghetto restaurants serving any type of "ethnic" cuisine

40. Spend at least three weekends at the Cabin in 2009 (1/3)

41. Purge all plastic dishes once and for all - still proving harder than I thought.

42. Hobble Train both Horses

43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
48.
48.
49.
50.
51.
52.
53.
54.
55.
56.
57.
58.
59.
60.
61.
62.
63.
64.
65.
66.

To be filled in no later than January 1, 2011
67.
68.
69.
70.
71.
72.
73.
74.
75.
76.
77.
78.
79.
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96.
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98.
99.

100. Blog Updates for my 101 in 1001 monthly. (5/33)
101. Put $5 in savings per goal accomplished, $10 for each not accomplished. ($5: 0/101, $10: 0/101)

The One in Which He Lost Our Kid

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 11:03:00 +0000

Last Thursday morning, before The Knight headed off to work, we gathered up our meat chickens, loaded them into the back of the truck, and the girls and I took them to the butcher to be slaughtered. That night while I stayed to watch the last three innings of The Princess' softball game The Knight and The Pea returned to retrieve them.

An hour and a half later the game ended, The Princess, her friend who had plans to spend the night and I stood waiting for another half hour for The Knight to return. The butcher is only a short drive from the field at which they were playing. All he had to do was pick up a few coolers full of butchered chickens. It had taken me only an hour to drive there, drop them off, and drive home that very morning when they were alive and our house is another fifteen minutes in the other direction.

As I waited I stewed to myself how I'd just love to know what was keeping him; which was in turn keeping ME standing outside swatting blood-thirsty mosquitos from my every appendage. What I would soon find out, when he did in fact return, is that I really wouldn't love to know what was keeping him. The following is how that conversation went.

Me: *getting into the passenger's seat* "Dude! How long does it take to pick up a couple of dead chickens?"

Him: "Sorry. They were in the back when we got there and then I lost The Pea and I had a hard time fitting them all in the coolers"

Me: "What?!"

Him: "I had a hard time fitting them in the coolers. We'll have to take an extra next year."

Me: "No, the part before that!"

Him: "They were in the back?"

Me: "No the part about you losing our child. At a SLAUGHTER HOUSE!"

Him: *nonchalantly* "Oh. Yeah. I couldn't find her any where. Anyway, so we need to write down..."

Me: "Anyway? ANYway? You lost our child, once again AT A SLAUGHTER HOUSE, and you just said 'anyway'?!"

Him: *blink*

Me: "How in the hell did you lose her?"

Him: "I don't know. She was petting the dog, I went inside to pay and when I came back out she was gone."

Me: "She was gone?"

Him: "Yeah. But I found her. She was petting some kittens in one of the barns."

Me: "Kittens. She was petting some kittens in a barn. Nice."

Him: "What?"

The Pea: *finally chiming in from the backseat; as proud as a peacock, I might add* "There was this little black and white one with a spot! It was so cute!"

Me: "You lost our child at a slaughter house and it was all because she fell for the old kitten trick."

Him: "Yeah, we need to make a note to take an extra cooler next year."

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On Kids and Wounds

Out of The Mouthes

Am Sick, Married and Sexually Frustrated

Unintelligible Blather on Working at Home

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 16:15:00 +0000

*Note: This draft has been sitting open on my browser for three days. Every thirteenth hour I have time to write 4.7 sentences. Therefore I cannot be held responsible for it's utter lack of any value. I blame the busyness.

As it turns out working at home WITH KIDS is not a walk in the park.

I know! Surprise!

With kids not much work gets done at home. Not of the actual work variety anyway. And certainly not prior to what we'll just call very, very late at night. Or very, very early in the morning perhaps. Sure gardens get watered and laundry gets done; the dogs get fed, the floors get swept, the beds get made, random crafts of macaroni and Elmer's glue and a touch of Daddy's shave cream are created, but work work does not get done. At all. Even when they're being ridiculously well-behaved.

This is why a couple of months ago I arranged for childcare two days per week. I'm more fortunate than most in that I have a rocktastic mother-in-law who lives right next door, is home all the time, and actually seems to enjoy my children's company in moderate amounts. Yes, we are pretty sure she's crazy for it! She agreed Tuesdays and Thursdays would fit her schedule best - just send them over.

Intermission: Yes I did just use the words "rocktastic" "mother-in-law" "fortunate" and "right next door" all in one sentence. Who knew?!?! And to think that our relationship started off with her calling me a hussy and demanding The Knight not allow me to set foot in her home again. In her defense I kind of am a hussy. There was once a conversation that went something like this:

Her: Premarital sex is wrong.

Me: Would you buy a car without test driving it.

Her: *look of disgust*

Father-in-law: *chuckling silently standing a few feet behind her*

Her: *snaps head around to look at him*

Father-in-law: *immediately stops chuckling, furrows brow, shakes his head at me*

It's one of my favorites.

Another favorite:

Me: Hmm, I wonder what's keeping The Knight. He is usually home from work by now.

Her: It's not like you have dinner ready for him.

Me: He doesn't come home for the dinner, if ya know what I mean.

She doesn't seem to appreciate my humor, but from what I hear, as mother-in-laws go, she's still near the top 'o the I-am-a-very-very-lucky-daughter-in-law scale. Anyway... /end intermission.

Unfortunately, as I may have mentioned once or twice or eleventy-hundred times previously The Pea tends to go wherever the hell she wants to go when she wants to go there. This is not a dramatization. So, while it's quite convenient in dropping them off, picking them up, checking in on them and other such things to have the childcare location right next door it is not convenient in keeping The Pea in said childcare.

It's not that she doesn't like being at Grandma's. As a matter of fact, on the three days per week she is supposed to be home I'm continually having to remind her that she cannot in fact just walk over to Grandma's whenever she so pleases. On those other two days however, the tables completely turn - she wants to leave Grandma's and come home. She apparently is just never happy where she's at.

So, imagine here I am deep in a project when the kid just *poof* appears beside me when she's not even supposed to be home. Usually she's also carrying something dangerous, disgusting or at the very least she simply isn't supposed to have. Jolted out of my deep, meaningful state of work mojo I then have to wrestle away from her whatever it is she's carrying; explain to her why no, she may not play with the rusty old hacksaw out of the shed; why she shouldn't go into the shed, where snakes have been known to live, alone; why no it's really NOT cool that snakes live in the shed and a myriad of other things one should never actually have to explain to another human being that presumably has a brain of their own. And then I have to escort her back to Grandma's. You know, in order to make sure she actually makes it there.

Meanwhile my brain has lost all train of thought on the project it was scooting right along on previously. So when I finally return from taking her back to where she belongs I sit down and all that comes from the tips of my fingers is: "AGGGHHHHHHHH!"

Publishers do not appreciate pages and pages of half finished sentences followed by "AGGGGHHHHHHHH!". (As it turns out.)

Where was this post going again? Oh yes, working at home with kids in tow makes me want to stab my eyes out with rusty forks. Or maybe I'm just having a really, really craptastic week and it makes me want to right now. Check back with me later on it.

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Of The Guilt I Absolve You

Women Who 'Glow'; A Rant

When it Rains it Comes Down in No Less Than a Heavy Drizzle

Why My Daughter Will Need Gastric Bypass Surgery at Twenty-Two

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 15:10:00 +0000

Today I bribed The Pea. With food.

Something I said I'd never do.

In my defense I hadn't actually intended to bribe her with food. I had simply meant to bribe her with regular things. You know, like small plastic pieces of Chinese goodness. Or maybe a string or two of the Mardi Gras beads I, eh hem, acquired last St. Patrick's Day. It was she who turned the tables.

You see, The Pea is a very independent thinker. She's, as I've written before, quite free-willed, but when it comes to certain things she insists on being waited on. Such is the life of a second child, I suppose; a child who has always had someone at her beck and call. When she was an infant and even during the younger half of her toddler years The Princess was always at her side. All The Pea had to do was grunt and The Princess was jumping to figure out what she wanted and deliver it to her.

Fast forward to now however, and times have changed. Not only does The Princess not desire to wait on her little sister, neither do the rest of us. Still, The Pea sees no reason for things to go any other way. So, despite the fact that we all know she can accomplish certain tasks herself she insists we do them for her.

One of these such tasks is buckling herself up in the car. Whenever she's asked to buckle-up there are a lot of "I can'ttttttt!!!!!!"s and "I'm too little!"s. Finally tired of the charade, when she started to climb into the backseat this morning I decided to up the ante.

"Pea," I spoke in my most enticing mommy tone "if you buckle yourself up with no help. I'll give you a treat when we get back home..."

Her eyes widened. "What kind of treat?"

"A really good one!" I answered. And since I had no freakin' idea what kind of treat to be safe I added "It will be a SURPRISE treat!"

She seemed pleased. And before I was able to plant my own behind in the driver's seat in front of her I heard the unmistakable click coming from her area of the car.

We ran our errands and each time she loaded into the back seat she quickly and almost effortlessly buckled her own seat belt. When we pulled back into the driveway at home, I hadn't forgotten our bargain and neither had she.

"Where is my treat?" She questioned before the tires came to a complete stop. "Is it in the fridge? Or the pantry?"

"The fridge or the pant... Who said your treat is food?" I slyly danced around her inquiry.

"A treat is food." She was very sure of herself. "A present is something that is not food."

I pondered her logic.

"You said TREAT!" She added. Clearly I'd paused too long.

And so I had. I had bribed my child with, though entirely unintentional, food. Because let's face it, a treat is food. So I gave her a yogurt smoothie and made a mental note to offer her a present next time I'm feeling feisty.

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Slammed Back to Earth

Stickin' it to the Boy

To Spank or Not to Spank It's Not So Much a Question

Letting Them Go To School Angry

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Wed, 27 May 2009 17:02:00 +0000

This morning as I pulled up along the sidewalk at The Princess' school to drop her off, I heard a gasp from the back seat. She was rummaging through her bag when I came to a stop and turned to look over my shoulder. "I don't have my jacket!" her face twisted in distress.

"Well," I responded calmly "we're already here. It's your responsibility..."

I was about to explain further when she not-so-gracefully interjected with her signature grunt. Seven going on seventeen, I tell ya! Her face twisted further and a few tears welled into her eyes.

The child was about to cry over a jacket on a day when the forecast was calling for a mild 71 degrees. I stared a little bit in disbelief.

Here's the thing, The Princess has always been very independent. We pride ourselves on fostering independence in both the girls. Never in the past and never in the future will they be coddled. If there is one parenting principle we stick by most stringently it is that of instilling personal responsibility.

She picks out her outfits, gets herself dressed, is able to pack a lunch, pack her bag, make sure her homework is in that bag, and yes, put on a jacket if she deems the temperature requires one - among other things. If she doesn't do those things; those things that are her responsibility she quite simply has the suffer the consequences. She rarely lapses on the same responsibility twice; living the natural consequences have always been enough reinforcement to keep her on her toes. Even more so, she's always taken it in stride.

So, when she teared up and grunted and huffed and was about to hop from the car in a fit of anger at my obvious unwillingness to right her snafu this morning I was caught a bit off-guard.

Who is this child?

I stopped her. If I'm not about to let The Knight go to bed angry I wasn't about to let her go to school that way either. Or atleast not that angry.

I explained it was her responsibility and she nodded her head to agree, but still a single tear ran down her cheek.

I assured her that while foggy and a bit drizzly now, the forecast was calling for warmer temperatures and plenty of humidity to keep her warm in the jeans and t-shirt on her back. The tears cleared, but her bottom lip stuck out further.

I ran out of explanations, points of discussion. I let her go. She walked with mixed-emotion swagger to the front door of the school as I watched on. And for some reason, her going to school angry - even if not that angry - has bothered me all day.

I know she knows that her lack of jacket is her consequence for shirking her responsibilities. I know she understands the reasons we do the things we do as her parents. I know she knows if it'd been freezing or pouring rain I'd have made sure she was reminded to wear one this morning, but that because it was mild the decision was left up to her. I know she understands we are teaching her the responsibility-consequence connection for good reason.

But more than all of that, while I also know she's old enough, experienced enough to navigate those emotions and to come to a constructive conclusion on her own? Sometimes being the parent and making her do so when you just can't be there while she does is really, really hard.

Operation Staycation: A Day-One Recap

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Tue, 26 May 2009 18:19:00 +0000

At the last minute Thursday Afternoon I considered planning a staycation for the Memorial Day weekend. Nothing fancy, I reckoned. Maybe just some good old beaks 'n feet over an open flame; dinner like it's 1990 and all that jazz. I mean who wouldn't go for s'mores - last minute or not?! Below is the cliff notes version of what ensued.

Plans were put into motion.

Plans were dampened just as quickly as they were brainstormed up.

Plans were rescheduled to kick-off Saturday Evening.

Plans actually kicked-off on time, according to the second set of plans.

The Knight built a boyscout-patch worthy campfire in our backyard ring.

I broke out the hot dogs, buns, chips, and s'more making ingredients.

Hot Dog roasting skewers came up missing.

The children rung their hands with worry that their hot dog roasting dreams were about to be squashed.

The Knight sprung forth into mad stick whittling action and saved the day.

We fed our children meat packing plant rejects off random dirty sticks out of the woods.

THEY LOVED IT.

And then we skewered marshmallows with those same sticks and fed them those as well.

On graham crackers. With chocolate.

And then we sent them to bed.

Staycation, Day One? Success. Come back soon for the Day Two Dirt (interestingly enough off which we did not feed our children.)

A Long-Overdue Update on the State of my Fatness

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Sat, 23 May 2009 01:31:00 +0000

One might be inclined to think that since this update is so very, very overdue there would be much actual substance to update about. One would be wrong. Don't get too excited over there.

I did manage to shred for thirty days straight. Not on the first try, but by the third time I started the program, by god, I made it! Truth be told it was all just very stab-me-in-the-eye-with-a-rusty-fork-already-I-surrender BORING. For the first three to five days of each level I had a blast, but after that, while I still felt like I was getting a kickass workout, the monotony of doing the same thing over and over and over made me want to throw my hand weights at the TV.

Also, I didn't lose any weight.

The cookies probably did not help this matter.

Still, it was a good experience, one that I do believe set the stage for moderate success in my next endeavor. Getting back into pre-holiday running shape had been rough with a capital R prior to shredding. Post-shred however, I've had a much easier time easing myself back into things. Well, post-shredding and with the motivation and accountability provided by DailyMile.com of course.

Which brings me to my next topic of bloggity goodness - smooth transition, no?

Sitting in the local public library one afternoon this week I flipped through the pages of Runner's World magazine while The Pea browsed the kids' book selection. There nestled within the pages was an article that seemed written just for me. It bore the title "For Slow-Asses Who Can't Stick With a Program and Therefore are Perpetual Beginners" ... or something like that. I ate up the words on that page like a cookie on a plate... or bowl, or counter, or cookie sheet, or shit right out of the mixing bowl a la dough style - SHUT UP! I do too bake from scratch sometimes!

And then I came to this wonderful piece of advice, "Pace yourself" which seemed logical enough. It went on to say, "Don't overwork," I nodded my head, mmmhmmm. Sounds good. But then it threw in a little tidbit of wisdom I just couldn't quite wrap my head around "If you get out of breath, you've run too fast"

What the...

And then it hit me, the article hadn't been written just for me. The horror! Or for any slow-ass beginner runner who just so happens to be carrying around an entire preschooler worth of extra fat to slow her down.

No, the article I had been so excited to see; the article that made me feel as though I can be a runner even if I'm slower than molasses in January. IN THE ARCTIC! Was. Not. Written. For. Me. It was written for moderately fit, skinny bitches. Because? I sometimes get out of breath walking to the pantry for a cookie. Slight exaggeration? Yes, but what the fuck. If I kept it slow enough to never get out of breath I would be DEAD.

So then I decided Running Magazines suck. But before placing it back on the shelf I jotted down the recipe for their Mocha Chocolate Recovery Shake. I'll be using it to recover from my walk to the kitchen later.

That is all.

The Great Generational Divide of the Mommy Bloggers

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Thu, 21 May 2009 16:02:00 +0000

Having been around the mommy blogging block a few times, both here at OPP and previously at another blog now lost somewhere in the deep, dark, dusty archives of the world wide web I can tell you that the conversation we're having is not new. Not only is it not new, it seems that we're having it more and more often than we ever have before. As a matter of fact, I wrote about this less than three months ago and in that post I eluded to the only compromise, in my opinion, that is going to bring any sort of solution to the table.

"I'll defend to the death another mom's right to post what she pleases on her blog, but I won't defend what she posts itself. The fact of the matter is that while the right to try to make a quick buck off blogging is one to be had by anyone who so chooses it, taking that path is not something that benefits women's blogging efforts overall. "

This is not an issue of who is using advertisements or accepting freebie products. Contrary to the twitter firestorm of this morning this has nothing to do with anyone being hypocritical. What we have here is a simple generational divide. Yes, because I identify with one generation and not the other I do believe one of those generation's viewpoints is more accurate, more valid, more important than the other. I would never claim to be completely unbiased. But the divide is what it is regardless of where I stand in relation to the lines it draws.

There are those of us mommy bloggers, regardless of our traffic now, who remember a time when mommy blogging as a whole was revolutionary. We remember when every word written was rebellious and provocative. We remember when they got written regardless of whether or not a swiffer wet-jet was on it's way to the blogger's doorstep for free. There are those of us who write what we write for reasons much bigger than Disney, Ford, Wal-Mart, Nintendo or any other company could ever even begin to understand.

Like the elderly who view our high-tech tools of today frivolous and the youngsters who can't imagine living without them, we must understand that in the mommy blogging world there are two generations just the same. Do the bloggers who support one theory or the other always fall neatly into their by-blogging-birthdate generation? Absolutely not. Just as there are some youngsters who eschew iPods and WiFi and some elderly who love them more than I do. The lines will never be perfectly drawn. But drawn they are, and generally speaking they're between generations.

As hopeless as it would be to convince my daughter's great-grandma that she needs an iPod Touch and to Twitter, so would it be hopeless to convince the older mommy blogging generation that mommy blogging for the freebies is worthwhile - or the younger that littering content with paid reviews is watering down the very purpose of mommy blogging to begin with.

We will never convince one another of the other side of things. We will never tell the women who open a blogging account today for the purpose of making a buck - or a free pack of hot-dogs - that there is so much more to mommy blogging than what she sees in front of her. And I can readily admit that those same mothers will never convince me that the blogging they do is not watering down the very blogosphere I feel inextricably tied to. All we can do is agree to disagree. All we can do is defend to the death each other's right to write; turning our cheeks to the things those posts contain - those things we do not agree with.

Arguing about this topic will get us no where; taking others' opinions personally will only draw more lines of divide. Uniting behind causes we can all agree about on the other hand, will move mountains.

She's Something

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Thu, 21 May 2009 01:35:00 +0000

I had grand plans to blog here tonight. It was about something important, too.

Yet, as I sit here staring at the blinking cursor on the page all I can hear in my head are the high-pitched cries of The Pea as she writhes in her bed in agony. And yes, here I sit. Allow me to tell you why.

The sheer agony she's in? Is because a misquito bit her. Two hours ago. A mosquito. A singular fucking mosquito. Two hours ago.

It didn't bother her AT ALL until we put her to bed. But then, then all hell broke loose and don't you know her "skiiiinnnnnnnnn is buuuuurrrrnnnniiiinnnnggggg! Burning! MOM, MOM! MOM! It hurts me so bad!"

It doesn't.

This is the same kid who at the age of two, when she didn't get her way in the store, collapsed her upperbody over the side of her buggy in anguish. She hung there limply yelling "I have to POOP! Please, please, please Mommy! Let me go POOP!" What she had wanted and had been told no about had nothing to do with the movement of her bowels. She knew she'd embarass me by screaming about needing to poop however, so scream she did. Complete with granduer theatrics.

Since the moment of conception The Pea has been a difficult child. She is free-willed, high-spirited and determined. She is persistant, confident and fearless. She is compulsive and spontaneous. And quite frankly at the end of a long day, she is exhausting.

For all the reasons I admire her, I also sometimes loathe her. Her free-will, her spirit, her determination and persistance; the confidence and fearlessness I can see all serving her very well, but they can and do also serve her very poorly already. When her power is harnessed she is amazing and unstoppable. When it is let loose and undirected on the other hand, she is pure evil blowing in the wind. And sometimes that really, really scares me.

For the most part she is under control. For the most part both she and we have a handle on her... unique combination of traits. But every once in a while, like when a singular mosquito bites her at dusk or she doesn't get what she wants in a store or I tell her no when she really wants to do something she is completely out of control, she is dangerous, reckless, illogical, irrational... and unstoppable. A bad combination.

And in those times? Those times when she is out of control, I worry. I worry that she will never be 100% in control of herself. I worry that consequences will never phase her, never be enough. I worry that she won't maintain direction with what she has; that she'll end up pure evil blowing in the wind. I worry more so than I ever have with her sister.

Perhaps even more I worry that the real reason I worry is because she is so very much me. And I don't know how to fix that.

On Kids and Wounds

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Tue, 19 May 2009 13:28:00 +0000

Sometime around the age of three The Princess stepped on a piece of glass in our kitchen. It had been a terrible summer for glasses around here. I am only slightly exaggerating when I say we broke at least three per week from June to September.

Gently putting a glass into the dishwasher? Bam! Shattered. Sat a glass down on the counter and walked away? It mysteriously fell off the counter and busted into a million pieces. Walking with a glass in my hand? Dog jumped on me and knocked it out.

As anyone that has broken a glass knows even the most dedicated, thorough broom-wielders can easily miss the tiny shards that were propelled half the house away - even on the eleventy hundredth sweep. Unfortunately, the emergency room physician we so luckily won in the random drawing of craptastic new doctors that day had never. ever. broken a glass.

"How did this happen?" He titled his head and stuck one eye out further than the other as he drew out the question, still holding The Princess' foot mere inches from his face.

"She stepped on a piece of glass."

"Where at?"

"In the kitchen."

"Hmmmm." He reexamined the piece of glass lodged in her tiny, pink flesh. "Why was there glass on the floor in the kitchen?"

He glanced at The Knight.

The Knight looked to me, I read his mind through his eyes "What the fuck does he mean why was there glass on the floor in the kitchen, clearly because shit happens!"

I answered for him "A glass got broken the other day, we must have missed a piece."

The doctor shot back quickly, "Did you SWEEP?"

Now he was annoying me. I supressed the urge to smack him. "Yessss." My voice was getting drawn out. And sarcastic. And why the hell is he still holding her foot. Take the fucking glass out already!

"I see." He really didn't sound like he did. "I'll be right back." He half-smiled and then disappeared behind the vomit-colored curtain.

There was mumbling and whispering behind the curtain and then he returned, removed the glass and reluctantly told us to have a good afternoon. All the while looking at The Princess with pitiful puppy-dog eyes before letting us go. It was the single most bizarre visit to any doctor I've ever had.

If the piece of glass had slid straight into her foot, I'd have pulled it out myself. It hadn't, though. It was lodged in an odd way just below the surface of the skin making it all too easy in my mommy-mind to accidentally push it deeper. So, in the interest of my child's well-being we sought the help of a real. live. M.D. Who clearly thought we were abusing our child. With stray pieces of glass!

And this is why I now have an irrational fear of taking my children to any doctor other than our regular pediatrician in the summer - because it became painfully obvious that day four years ago that every bump and bruise may give someone the wrong idea. But, our regular pediatrician knows them. He knows me. He knows that kids bruise! And bump! And scrape, and scratch and fall down. And yes, sometimes get random pieces of glass lodged in their feet (or in the case of The Pea, right now? random giant slivers that I can't get out) Because? That's what kids do, right? Right!

Kids who go outside and play. Kids who go barefoot, dig for worms and drink out of the garden hose. They get hurt and lots of times they can't even remember how or when that particular bruise happened. It's called childhood and even if it means I get a few suspicious glares from young, childless and fresh out of med school E.R. doctors, my kids will continue to experience it. Or at least that's what I've always vowed. Combine The Pea's tendency to bruise easily a la her mother with her fear of absolutely nothing at all however, and I'm being forced to put my money where my mouth is.

A Picture of The Pea's Legs, Taken Yesterday.

On Saturday a well-meaning elderly lady stopped to stare at the farm market. "Oh my, honey. Look at those bruises." She pointed to The Pea's legs. I sighed. The Pea looked down and then back up with surprise. Her face seemed to say Well, look. at. that! I am bruised.

"What happened?" The lady cooed at her, bending down a little closer.

The only battle scar The Pea could offer an explanation for? The now pink and almost healed scrape on her right knee. "I was running at sissy's school and fell down! It was a bleeding one. That's why mom said not to run." She grinned proudly, her tiny finger pointing to the healing wound like a badge of honor.

The lady smiled at me and walked away. What she was really thinking I'll never know. Perhaps should never care.

Spandex Anyone?

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Fri, 15 May 2009 20:06:00 +0000

I know, I know some pregnancies are absolutely wonderful. Some women feel like they've been stripped down, massaged with magic sexy-oil and rolled in hundred dollar bills every day for nine months.

These women are freaks. I'm sure of it.

Because? Even with The Princess whose pregnancy, aside from the whole being born premature thing, was actually pretty much a walk in the park I did not feel sexily oiled or like I'd been rolled in pennies, let alone da Franklins.

So, while making the bloggity rounds today when I ran across a gem of an ad on Sweetney that is - I am equally as sure - directly responsible for such illogical misconceptions as the idea that such fantastic pregnancy experiences exist in REAL LIFE, I simply had to share. After all, that is what mommy blogging is about. Is it not? Disspelling the ridiculous myths surrounding such things as pregnancy and parenting? I thought so.

Allow me to zoom in for you. Because I'm so very accomodating like that.

Yo Mama! Comfy and cute looks for expectant moms...

Say WHAT?

Did they LOOK at those pictures?

Did ANYONE on the team for either the design or marketing of these monstrosities ever actually, you know experience pregnancy. Real pregnancy? The kind with raging hormones and canckles and cravings for Dr. Pepper and Pickles? Any. Body?

Because I assure you, when there is a small alien-like creature growing within your abdomen, your ankles are blown up like hot air balloons, and you can't even tie your own shoes there is nothing cute - nor comfy - about looking like a bloated dolphin, circa 1981 - a la Olivia Newton John.

I assure you.

That is all.

May 101 in 1001

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Thu, 14 May 2009 01:33:00 +0000

This public service announcement brought to you in part by the loss of my mind: It's May.

I know! I was surprised too. Actually, it seems it's not only May, but according to my blackberry it's almost half-way to June. Tom Cruise! Where does the time go?

That was a rhetorical question of course, but I'll answer it anyway. It goes straight to the losing of my effing mind. (Please reference the above PSA for no further information.)

You see, I've been busy lately. Very, very busy. Busy trying to track down my four year-old after she runs away. Five times. Every single day. She doesn't run away I suppose, as much as she just runs places.

Yesterday I needed to you know, SHOWER. I shut all the doors. I locked all the doors. I gave her a talking to. "I am getting in the shower. Do NOT. I said DO. NOT. Under any circumstances leave this house. Not even to go out on the walk. Not even to check on the chickens. Not EVEN to sit on the back deck. DO NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE."

I took a five minute shower, tops. She was outside on the swingset when I emerged.

I can't even shower, so you can imagine how much actual work is getting done around here. None.

As a result of all of that and so much more? My mind is lost.

Today I logged onto facebook to congratulate a couple on news we'd heard through the grapevine. I congratulated, I posted it to their wall, and then I realized three minutes later that I'd just seen them in person a couple of days ago and congratualted them personally then. I'm sure they are now thoroughly confused about my state of mental health. Luckily, they're not alone. So am I.

Lost. You see?

And so, really does it come as any surprise that I'm just now getting around to posting a May update for the 101 in 1001? I didn't think so.

Without further ado.

...4. Start seedlings for big outdoor garden in February/March.

...5. Plant seedlings outdoors and maintain garden thru summer.
...6. Can salsa, tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, chiles. Freeze beans, peas, broccoli, etc.
...7. Purchase at Farmer's Market/U-Pick and can additional foods needed. (Peaches, pears, etc.)
8. Ride at least one 25 mile limited-distance endurance ride
9. Have at least one date night with The Knight every month. (4/33)
10. Have at least one family night every month. (4/33)
11. Buy cloth napkins and use them instead of paper towels.
12. Install a patio in our backyard.
13. Have at least one article published in a major magazine.
14. Paint Dining room and Living room
15. Reduce electrical usage 15% from same-month last year in 2009. (0/12)

16. Go soda-free for 30 days (30/30) - Oh yes this did happen. Of course now I'm thoroughly addicted to iced tea, but it's a step in the right direction.

17. Read the Bhagavad Gita
18. Write a book (note I did not say anything about it being published!)
19. Comfortably fit in a size 8.

20. Meditate 30 minutes each month (4/33)

21. Read 10 non-fiction books (3/10)
22. Bake a pie with wild-blackberries
23. Learn to make at least one new Indian dish

24. Paint at least one Painting per month (4/33)

25. Open an Etsy shop
26. Dance every single day. Like no one is watching. (112/1001)
27. Give all handmade/Artisan gifts to family/friends Christmas 2009
28. Get rid of 101 things (101+/101)

29. Run 5k five days per week (weeks completed: 6/143)

36. Kick Kids' Stuff out of my home office

37. Work somewhere outside the home once per week (library, cafe, park) for inspiration (12/139)

38. Take my camera everywhere with me (at least 90% of the time)

39. Try the ghetto middle eastern cafe we noticed on date night - I have an unhealthy obsession with small, scary, ghetto restaurants serving any type of "ethnic" cuisine

40. Spend at least three weekends at the Cabin in 2009 (0/3)

41. Purge all plastic dishes once and for all - proving harder than I thought.

42. Hobble Train both Horses

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To be filled in no later than January 1, 2011
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100. Blog Updates for my 101 in 1001 monthly. (4/33)
101. Put $5 in savings per goal accomplished, $10 for each not accomplished. ($5: 0/101, $10: 0/101)

Out of The Mouthes

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 17:11:00 +0000

The following is a conversation had over dinner with The Pea after she had spent the previous night at my mom's house.

Me: How was your day?

The Pea: Well, I had to sit in time out because I was naughty.

Me: What did you do that was naughty?

The Pea: *takes a slow, drawn out bite of her dinner, sighs and then speaks* You know, it's a long story.

Someday I hope she has ten just like her.

April 101 in 1001

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 15:16:00 +0000

...4. Start seedlings for big outdoor garden in February/March. - Turns out it's taking longer than I anticipated for the seeds and plants I ordered to be shipped so I haven't gotten the seeds started yet. I have however, prepped little newspaper pots for them and will be putting them in as soon as they arrive. That should be next week.

...5. Plant seedlings outdoors and maintain garden thru summer.
...6. Can salsa, tomato sauce, diced tomatoes, chiles. Freeze beans, peas, broccoli, etc.
...7. Purchase at Farmer's Market/U-Pick and can additional foods needed. (Peaches, pears, etc.)
8. Ride at least one 25 mile limited-distance endurance ride
9. Have at least one date night with The Knight every month. (3/33)
10. Have at least one family night every month. (3/33)
11. Buy cloth napkins and use them instead of paper towels.
12. Install a patio in our backyard.
13. Have at least one article published in a major magazine.
14. Paint Dining room and Living room
15. Reduce electrical usage 15% from same-month last year in 2009. (0/12)
16. Go soda-free for 30 days (0/30)
17. Read the Bhagavad Gita
18. Write a book (note I did not say anything about it being published!)
19. Comfortably fit in a size 8.

20. Meditate 30 minutes each month (3/33)

21. Read 10 non-fiction books (1/10)
22. Bake a pie with wild-blackberries
23. Learn to make at least one new Indian dish

24. Paint at least one Painting per month (3/33)

25. Open an Etsy shop
26. Dance every single day. Like no one is watching. (82/1001)
27. Give all handmade/Artisan gifts to family/friends Christmas 2009
28. Get rid of 101 things (101+/101)

29. Run 5k five days per week (weeks completed: 6/143)

36. Kick Kids' Stuff out of my home office

37. Work somewhere outside the home once per week (library, cafe, park) for inspiration (8/139)

38. Take my camera everywhere with me (at least 90% of the time)

39. Try the ghetto middle eastern cafe we noticed on date night - I have an unhealthy obsession with small, scary, ghetto restaurants serving any type of "ethnic" cuisine

...New this month...
40. Spend at least three weekends at the Cabin in 2009 (0/3) - I'm not a camping kind of girl. I'm just not. I like my home. I like to go to the lake, cook out, swim, play volleyball and then just come home for the sleeping and showering and you know, central air part. The Knight, The Princess and The Pea on the other hand loooove camping. They could camp for the entire summer and never tire of the effing bugs and heat and sweat and fish. So, I've decided this year I will try. I will try to set aside three weekends on which I can sacrifice and be utterly miserable for their camping pleasure. I will try.

41. Purge all plastic dishes once and for all - Seriously where do these things come from? I was just having this conversation the other day about how we switched to drinking from aluminum and glass only when Wham! I come home to find that the few plastic dishes we do keep around had multiplied like horny rabbits on spring break in Cancun. Good lord, where do they come from?

42. Hobble Train both Horses - Of course I should probably focus on convincing the poneh that it is not in fact necessary for her to attempt to kick my head in every single time I try to pick up her hind hooves. You know, since that's daily maintenance and all. Fucking Pony.

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To be filled in no later than January 1, 2011
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100. Blog Updates for my 101 in 1001 monthly. (3/33)
101. Put $5 in savings per goal accomplished, $10 for each not accomplished. ($5: 0/101, $10: 0/101)

I Was Almost Murdered. By a Celebrity.

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 17:06:00 +0000

Because Netflix failed me - in quite epic fashion, I might add - and did not send the Shred DVD I so carefully ensured was at the top of my Queue, today is actually the first day I have Shredded with Jillian Michaels. I've worked out every other day (with the exception of the day I spent entirely too much time in the ER and didn't get home until 11:00 pm, of course). Up until last night however, I didn't even have a copy of the DVD to Shred with. I know. Am a horrible #shredhead.

So, since I was feeling not only incredibly behind in my commitment to shred along with my bloggity pals but also guilty for not keeping up I decided - because you know, despite the misleading love handles and bat-fat arms I am active - that I'd just skip level 1 and go right to level 2 in order to keep up with the other shredders in spirit. It couldn't be that hard, I reasoned.

I reasoned fucking wrong. Jillian Michaels tried to KILL me!

Those V-raise thingy-ma-jiggers? I was pretty sure my arms were going to just fall right the hell off. And when I was done I almost fell over, just standing there and BAM! fell over because my thighs wanted so, so, soo badly to just. quit. living.

That said, the abs? Not cutting it. I'm not really thinking this is going to shred my muffin top. I'm willing to wait the 30 days and see though. I mean, I've had love handles for seven years; what's one more month, right?

And even more sadistic, because you know I actually (sarcasm aside, no seriously I do) love pain. I mean not in a twisted clamps-on-the-nips-during-lovin' way but in a sore-muscles-ROCK way; I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Looking. Forward. To it. That's wrong.

Also wrong? The pictures I'm going to take and post here and on the Flickr group for all the world to see some more of my fatness. Because you know, the world would not be complete without it. No, siree.

Slammed Back to Earth

noreply@blogger.com (Diana) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 19:56:00 +0000

There's nothing like a little second grade math to keep one's feet planted squarely on the ground. Or in my case my ass. Because that's where I tend to land these days. I think it has something to do with the unusual way in which my mass is distributed.

You see, a funny thing happens decades after second grade. You just know what 52-6 is. You don't know how you know, but you know. You know you can't just go about willy nilly taking 6 away from 2, you have to do that thing where it makes the five smaller but in your head it just happens. You. Just. Know.

Your second grader however, the one that's been home from school for the better part of a week sick and relying on you to be her teacher and her nurse? She doesn't just. know.

And that's when you realize. What the FUCK?! Everyone doesn't just. know. this shit? Tom Cruise! What is this the twilight zone?

And then the kid mumbles something about "Is this where I re-group?" and she whips out some sort of newfangled stick of blocks that looks like a tower of teeny-tiny legos except when you try to take them apart? They're STUCK! And you're even more confused because really, if someone takes all the time to group something it seems a bit rude to just jump in there and regroup it. I mean, if I group six cookies on my plate and you come and take a couple for yourself and call it regrouping, I'm gonna kick your ass. And then you imagine that's how the magical elfish lego-but-not-lego sticks feel when you try to break them apart. And you scream "No! Those are my cookies!" without thinking and the child just looks at you like you've lost your mind because what the HELL do cookies have to do with 52-6?

And then you remember something. Something from back in the day when that boy you had a crush on dared you to eat a counting bean and it tasted so disgusting that you had no choice but to puke it back up into the classroom trashcan and then some tattle-tale of a bizatch told the teacher you puked so you had to call your mom and go home but... *sigh* ... it's all about the counting beans now.

And with that, you suddenly remember what regrouping is.

But, alas, you're too tired to do the actual regrouping, because lets face it the memory of eating the counting bean has made you a bit nauseous and now you're not only craving cookies but also terribly paranoid that someone is going to come and try to regroup your cookies before you're able to consume them. You know, after the nauseousness passes. So, you must take a break. For the cookies. And the nauseousness. And for the reveling in the memory of naive, early elementary crushes. Which unfortunately, as you remember them, often end in someone throwing up in a trashcan and trying not to get caught at it. Because that is so romantic.

So then, by the time you're able to get back to the regrouping? The second grader has not only finished the worksheet and three others but also whipped her dad's bee-hind at Wii golf. Twice. And you're still not sure you remembered the right way to regroup. But it appears from the correct answers, she did. Maybe, you think, she'll give you a lesson. But not with cookies. Definitely, not with the cookies.

Those are your cookies, after all.

***While based on a true story this post may or may not be dramatized for hollywood-like effect***