Well, this is it. I’m shutting down this computer. I’m moving all my files to a jump drive. I’m burning all my music onto CD.
This is, obviously, the final step.
The U-haul is loaded. Fully packed. Done.
The house is… mostly clean. Still a few projects. But basically, we’re done.
Tomorrow we drive to our halfway mark. The next day, around midday, we arrive at our new house.
I can hardly believe it.
For those of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you know that I’ve been in limbo for a very, very long time. In fact, I started blogging in March of ‘07 from my Mother-in-law’s basement, where I was living while I was trying to figure out the next step in my housing issues.
It’s almost over.
Of course, it’s not over yet. Two more days. Two more painful, exhausting days. And then? Well, then there’s the unpacking. But I’m not thinking about that yet. Nope. I’m only thinking about my pretty new house.
Mine.
What does this mean for us? For you and me? Well, it means that I will be offline for a bit. Who knows how long. Once we’re moved in, we’ll have to get a wireless connection set up. Who knows when that will actually happen. So, if you don’t hear from me, don’t fret. Don’t scream. Don’t think that the U-haul tipped over somewhere in the tippy tops of the Rocky Mountains and that I’m stranded. While that would make for a better blog-post, I assure you that it will not be the reason for my absence.
In the meantime, remain merry. I can’t wait to catch up on your lives. When I’m settled and up and running, you’ll be the first to know.
Hej, I’m JM! I blog sporatically over at Jan vs. Wild (janvswild.blogspot.com). I’m a 25-year old astronomer, originally from the US, but currently living in Denmark where “Jan” is exclusively a boy’s name. But, I am in fact a girl. There is no end to the fun my name has caused. I have been reading Brillig’s blog forever, but being a lazy lurker, I never actually made contact with her to tell her how cool I think she is. So this guest post can be my way of fixing that. Brillig is awesome! There, I finally said it. Now, down to brass tacks…
I had this super-awesome idea for a post for Brillig’s blog, but then I got bogged down writing a HUGE astronomy paper which is due shortly, and I didn’t have time to write the amazing post I had imagined. So, instead I decided to just edit a recent email into a less-than-brilliant, but hopefully somewhat passable post instead. Here goes:
Today I was looking for a good recipe for yeast rolls, and I was getting so frustrated with all the recipes that say “one stick butter.” Me being me, I blamed all Americans and ranted to my brother “I hate how Americans think that everyone in the world is just like them! Does it not occur to anyone that maybe butter isn’t sold in the same sized “sticks” everywhere in the world?! Couldn’t they put a real measurement like “1/4 cup” or something?” (I realize that would still be ambiguous to those people here in Europe that measure in grams and such.) Then we started talking about how so many recipes call for “one package yeast” and how we have only ever bought yeast in packages weighing a pound or more, so making the conversion to tablespoons or something was also frustrating. Honestly, I STILL have no idea exactly how much a “package” of yeast is….
Eventually these somewhat trivial topics led to a discussion about how so many people don’t even realize that maybe other peoples’ lives are different than theirs. It doesn’t even occur to them, so they don’t think about it. My brother works in accessibility and he said “that’s the biggest challenge with accessibility and the whole disability thing, is just getting people to recognize that not everybody in the world is exactly like them.” They always say not to judge someone until you have “walked a mile in their shoes,” and I totally believe that. I think if everyone made an effort to think about other people’s situations, and wonder if maybe they were fundamentally different in some way, there would be fewer arguments, fights, misunderstandings, wars, etc. One of my favorite songs has a verse that says, “In the quiet heart is hidden sorrow that the eye can’t see.” I just love this. I think if we could all see the sorrows that were hidden in others’ hearts, we would interact with them so differently. Maybe we wouldn’t get quite so annoyed with the bank teller than was short with us, or get mad when the guy ahead of us on the road cut us off, or whatever.
My brother and I concluded that one of the biggest problems in the world is that so many people assume everyone uses “sticks of butter” and “packages of yeast” and so even though they aren’t necessarily “bad” people, they just don’t understand when something is different than the way they think it is, or the way they have always known. So they react in perhaps a negative way. I always thought the word “awareness” was mostly just a buzzword, and most people who used it didn’t even really know what they were talking about, but I think now I understand what it means, or should mean.
So, I shall end this post with a challenge for everyone to try to increase their “awareness.” Be it awareness of a disability, of a struggle someone else is going through, of a difference in measurement systems between countries, or something else entirely. I promise it will change the way you interact with people. At least, it did for me.
Let me apologize if this post seems a little incoherant or choppy. I hope it makes sense. I am in the middle of writing a paper (whoo-hoo) and just took a break to finish this before I forgot about it. Thanks for reading!!!
Hi, I’m Cheryl from over at A Little Chaos Theory. I have three sons, one husband, three cats, two dogs, and a revolving array of fish (although we have none right now and my husband is currently growing lettuce in the fish tank). I’m a full-time mom, full-time student, full-time wife, full-time lunatic. And my family is planning on a cross-country move this summer. We make a habit out of those; this will be our 4th since my 7-year-old was born and we can’t even blame it on the military.
I want to start by thanking Brillig for the opportunity to write on her blog. I’m sure goat herders in the Swiss Alps could hear squeals of glee when I opened the email with the date for my very own guest spot. The challenge would be deciding what to write about while providing some sort of cohesive whole to the post. Would I write about school? Moving? The challenges of autism? Road trips with kids? There were so many possibilities for one guest post.
Giddy with ideas for potential blog articles I very carefully marked the guest post date on my Outlook calendar and promptly forgot about it in the midst of my usual flurry of juggling way too many activities for one person. And Outlook didn’t help because the computer I was using back when Brillig sent out her gracious email died (just when all my final papers for the quarter were due sending me into school overload – but that’s a story for another day). I enjoyed the guest posts that scrolled across my reader (as well as the posts where Brillig actually had time to write something) and it wasn’t until June 21st when I realized that wowza, it’s time to send in MY post. And I had no idea what to say. The profound words that I just knew were there didn’t want to surface.
As I sat staring at my monitor I was saved by my toddler. He entered the room with a woebegone expression, his dishwater blonde hair a lovely shade of reddish pink because his brother had poured Gatorade over his head.
Mommy: Why did you pour Gatorade on Roegen?
Jude: Because he wasn’t napping.
While I was talking with Jude about how it is my job to keep his brothers in their beds if that is where they need to be (he desperately wants to be a parent which scares me – that’s been what he wants to be when he grows up for several months now and I devoutly hope that he outgrows that wish before he’s a teenager), Breydon came running into the room waving a tooth. It’s the third baby tooth he’s lost, but I didn’t even know one was loose this time.
So we had to find an envelope for him to put the tooth into so that the Tooth Fairy can leave him a dollar coin tonight. Breydon’s hoping that this one will have John Tyler’s picture on it but he’ll have to make due with Thomas Jefferson.
In the midst of the tooth excitement, while Jude was screaming about being on the naughty wall, Roegen came running up with a pair of Elmo underwear on his head.
Mommy: We can get you your own Elmo underwear when you go potty on the potty.
Roegen: I don’t want to.
Then the dogs started barking.
This is my life. The words may not be profound but I treasure it nonetheless.
1. I’m listening to INXS’s “Never Tear Us Apart” and laughing about how when I was a kid I thought the song said, “they could never tell us apart.”
2. We close on our house in Denver (Highland’s Ranch, to be specific— a delightful little suburb in the southern metro area) on Wednesday. We picked the one with the deck, view, and yard. All the T’s are crossed, the I’s are dotted, it appears that this is actually going to happen. I know! It only took, oh, TWO MONTHS LONGER than it was supposed to. But I’m grateful.
3. I was able to actually SEE said house last weekend. Yup. I loaded four kiddos into the minivan and drove the eight hours on narrow, winding roads across the Rockies… on three hours of sleep, no less. Possibly not the smartest thing I ever did, but hey! I lived! We met up with that hot hubby of mine that night and stayed with him at my brother’s house– my brother and his fam were in Hawaii, so they offered to let us crash there in the meantime. It was wonderful, though a bit hectic since Chris’s house is SPOTLESS and my children are… um… not good at spotless. Neither am I, for that matter. Anyway, we saw the house (and the others that we passed up on… or lost to the STUPID FRICKIN’ BRACKIN’ BRACKIN’ FRICKEN’ STUPID Federal Government— but I’m over it, can’t you tell?) and I was almost surprised that I actually LIKED it! Some things will have to be dealt with, of course. A loft will have to be converted into a bedroom (by simply adding a wall)— apparently we’re not in Utah anymore, and they don’t make houses (in my meager price range) with enough bedrooms for families like mine. Also, the cabinetry in the house is a gorgeous cherry wood, but the previous owners painted the kitchen red. Now, I really have no problem with a red kitchen—I’ve done that myself in the past. But this makes the cabinets blend right into the walls and therefore the beautiful woodwork is entirely lost. And we can’t have that. No, we can’t. So, I shall wield a mighty paint brush and transform it to a rich buttermilk color… or something. Okay, I’m rambling. Done now. But besides those little tiny changes that will need to be made, it’s the perfect house for our little clan and I’m excited.
4. While in Colorado, I went to church in what will be my new ward (congregation). When I got to Relief Society (the women’s group), I was asked to introduce myself. “I’m a writer,” I said. I think it may be the first time I’ve ever actually said that out loud in public. I felt like such a poser. I mean, I AM a writer, right? And yet… what exactly have I written? I don’t know. It just feels wrong to claim a particular talent that I may or may not have. Still, maybe if I say it out loud in the mirror every day— like a daily affirmation— then it will be true. In the meantime, though, you may call me Brilli-Vanilli. A total poser, who doesn’t deserve the title I apparently claim.
In fairness, though, I’ve been working on my book a lot, despite the mass chaos in my life. I have a story I like, characters that I care about (or hate, in a few cases). I’m still trying to find my voice— that’s been an interesting process. I went through a mind-shift, like, “I must put away the blogger in me and be the YA fiction-er.” I was working that way for a while, but I didn’t like it. It’s not me. Last night I thought, “I was told to write a book because people like my blogging. What if I can’t actually write a book? Or… maybe I should write a book with the same voice that I write my blog!” So I’m working on that angle now. I’ve re-vamped everything and made my voice sound a little more like my voice sounds here. I’m not sure it’s working. How on earth would I know? I mean, it’s not like I’m a writer or anything, right? Wait…
5. I then drove home from Denver. By myself. With four kids. Four very young kids.
6. …And I arrived home to an excessively messy house, full of half-packed boxes. Everyone’s belongings are strewn all over the house, including mine. I have less than a week to get this stuff in order. I know, I know. I’ve had two months to get all of this done. But keep in mind that I’ve been Single Mother to four little tiny ones with very big needs. Plus, I haven’t had an exit date until now, and how could I possibly have known what to pack if I didn’t know when I was leaving? But now. Oh now. The mind-bloggling insanity begins. I have no idea—NONE— how I’m going to do this. If you looked at my house right now, you’d think that a burglar came in and ransacked the place, desperately searching for some hidden treasure, and when no treasure was found (unless you count the endless supply of hotwheels…) he trashed the place out of anger. Can you picture it? Really, I’m afraid that my neighbors are about to call the police. It will be embarrassing to have to explain that actually it was just me. *I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…*
7. My husband just hung up on me. I’m pretty sure it was an accident. Then again, I was being REALLY obnoxious. Then again, he was laughing his head off. That’s one of the things I love most about that man— he thinks I’m hilarious. Wait. Perhaps he really DID laugh his head all the way off, and his ridiculous bluetooth ear piece fell to the ground and hung up on me. Seriously, though, people. What is UP with the freakiliciousness of those bluetooth ear pieces? It turns my hot hubby into an icky-looking sci-fi creature.
I don’t like icky-looking sci-fi creatures.
All sci-fi creatures are icky looking.
Not a fan of sci-fi.
Moving on…
8. He hasn’t called me back yet.
9. My angelic mother-in-law is taking the kids all day tomorrow. Wow. Now I can sit around and watch The N all day. Yeah…
10. I’ve been nominated for a few awards. I know. How crazy is that? I’d be honored if you’d vote for me… (Meaning, I will hunt you down and attack you with a plastic butter knife if I don’t see your name next to the list of people who’ve voted for me. Don’t think that I won’t.) Just click the little image and it will take you there:
This is the one I like the sound of the best:
Or, though I don’t call myself a “mommy blogger” I’d be okay if YOU call me one:
11. Now I have Milli Vanilli songs stuck in my head. “It’s… a… tragedy for me to see-ee the dream is over! And I never will forget… the day we met. Girl, I’m gonna miss you!” Haha! Now YOU have Milli Vanilli songs stuck in YOUR head!
Oh my gosh, this is a YouTube moment if I ever heard one. Go on. Click play and remember how much you liked these guys…
Sigh. I’ll admit it. I still love them.
12. Going now. Thanks for staying with me. Remember that Soap Opera Sunday is over at Kate’s for “the duration.” And thanks again to my awesome guest-posters, every one of whom as come through for me in a huge way these last couple of weeks. We’ve got just a few more for you this week! And then I’ll have to go back to actually blogging MYSELF! What the…?
Hi everyone. My name is Karlene and I live over on Inksplasher. [link: www.inksplasher.blogspot.com] I’ve been blogging since January 2006. I met Brillig at a blogger luncheon several months ago. I guess that makes me one of the few who’ve actually seen Brillig’s gorgeous eyes and eyebrows in person. Brillig is just as fun and entertaining in real life as she is here on her blog. I’m excited to have the wonderful opportunity to be a guest blogger here—my only claim to fame.
A little history about me: I’ve worked as a writer, editor and publisher at various times in my life. Now I’m taking it a little easy and doing freelance copy editing and book design, layout and other pre-press work. I also blog a lot. The coolest thing in my life, however, is that I became a grandmother last year. Grandson #1 just turned 1 year old; grandson #2 is almost 7 months. I’ll be gaining a granddaughter in August when my son marries a sweet girl with a 2 year old. I do “Grandma Day” once a week when I tend my two grandsons all day. It’s tiring, but lots of fun. It’s with this in mind that I wrote the following post.
Grandmother’s Hands
I don’t know why the image of your hands comes to me this morning, but I see them, folded together, resting on your kitchen table, right-hand fingers embracing the left hand, slowly rubbing, stroking, kneading. Do they hurt? Is it arthritis, that dull cold ache of bone against bone that I sometimes feel in my own hands?
You open your hands, stretching your fingers out flat, pressing them onto the tablecloth. I can see little ribbed drawings of apples and oranges playing peek-a-boo with me between your fingers—the pattern of the plastic tablecloth.
Your hands are bare but for the single, thin, gold band on your left hand—the symbol of your love for Pappaw, your commitment to the eternal family, your devotion to the family the two of you created that grew from two, to six, to sixteen, to thirty-seven and 7/8ths.
Are you proud of that? As you look down at us from heaven, are you pleased with who we have become, who we are becoming? Or does your heart ache over our weaknesses?
Your nails are short, but not too short. They stop just at the tips of your fingers, a thin white crescent at both top and bottom. They are smooth but unpolished, unbuffed. No pretensions here. They are working hands, practical hands.
Your hands are creamy tan, covered with the darker spots of age. Liver spots, some call them. I prefer to think of them as medals of honor, hard won through life’s trials, markers of wisdom gained, experiences shared; the many wrinkles that criss-cross the back of your hand and gather in clumps around your knuckles are ribbons awarded for effort and endurance.
Your hands reach across the table, across the worlds between us, and clasp mine. They are softened by love and warm with courage and strength. Your hands give mine a squeeze that says everything—how much you love me, how you’re there for me even when you’re so far away, how you’re proud of me no matter what I’ve done, or do. You give my hands another squeeze and a pat, glad that I understand. Your hands grip my fingers tight, as if by force of will alone you could push all the wisdom and knowledge and experience from your hands into mine, to make them stronger, warmer, softer.
The pressure of your hands begins to lessen as they gradually fade away. My hands are all alone now, folded together on your table, right-hand fingers embracing the left, stroking, kneading, as if to convince myself that it is okay, that my hands are up to the task ahead, whatever it may be.
My hands are not as bare as hers. I wear two rings, symbols of my family—all nine and 7/8ths of them—and my faith in the God she taught me to love. My nails are short, but not too short. They fit well on practical hands, working hands. I have a few wrinkles and medals of honor of my own. A few scars, each with a memory of experience archived, lessons learned.
My grandson cries out as he wakes from his nap. I spread my hands out on the table, fingers wide as I push myself up to go get him. I watch my hands reach into his crib, pick him up, gently stroke the damp hair away from his face. His smooth and chubby hands reach up to grab my older spotted ones. He chews my knuckle. I feel the wrinkles move and the loose skin provides padding between his gums, soothing the pain of teething.
This is not a conscious act on my part, nor his. It is automatic, instinctual, bonding the hearts between the generations. I am glad for the hands I have, so much like my grandmother’s, yet still my own. I am proud of each spot, each scar, each wrinkle.
I look at my grandson, still biting at my fingers. He smiles at me and in the moment of that smile I know that I will always love him, always be proud of him despite the challenges and weaknesses he might face in his future. That is a grandmother’s job. That is my job—to reach across the table and give his hands a squeeze and a pat as they earn the scars and the spots and the wrinkles that will define him, that are his very own.
Please welcome the always hilarious and fantastic Jenny of Absolutely Bananas!
———————-
When Brillig asked if anyone would like to guest blog for her, I raised my hand with excitement. “Pick me! Pick me!” I shouted, (as much as you can shout in the comment section), “I want to do it!” Deep inside me I could FEEL this burning, broiling THING that needed to get out. This was my chance to write about whatever I wanted in a place where no one who knew me in real life would ever see it.
I have things to say!!!
So Brillig signed me up to guest post.
And I promptly forgot what I so urgently wanted to blog about.
I find myself stewing over THE GUEST POST. What will I write? What do I say? Why all this pressure? You may be asking, Brillig’s a stand-up kind of gal. She won’t fault you for giving her something less than your best. A movie review? Funny anecdote? Rant about the weather? All fine with Brillig, I’m sure.
And I’m sure you’re right.
But here’s the thing. Having the opportunity to write a post on someone else’s blog is big. Really big. HUGE.
Every. Single. Time. that I sit down to blog, I am haunted by the awareness that THIS POST (along with the other 5,432) will be delivered directly via email to my Father. And there’s this little voice that never shuts up whispering in my brain, “Do you really want him to read that?”
Then there’s the knowledge that every week my mother-in-law sits down at her computer, puts on her reading glasses, and peers into the screen and directly at my blog. There go another 201 topics, right out the window.
And if that wasn’t enough, my mom is certain to call with concerned tone if I blog anything that seems to be at all sad, angry, or despondent.
“I read your post, honey,” she’ll say, “and here’s what I think.”
And good though her intentions might be, I DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT SHE THINKS.
I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!
MY BLOG IS NOT A LAUNCH PAD FOR DEEP AND MEANINGFUL CONVERSATIONS!!!
Then, like my own personal demons, there are the hoards of ex-coworkers, neighbors, relatives, friends, friends-of-friends, enemies, playground acquaintances and MORE.
AAAGGGHHHH THE PRESSURE!!!
Do you feel the pressure?
Cause I’m feeling the pressure.
There’s many good things about having an “open” blog. Like, for example, you don’t write mean things about people, which they later find and hate you for. Then there’s the fact that people sort of “get” what you’re doing and “support” you in their own special ways.
But there are definitely the moments where I would give my right leg and maybe my left one too for the chance to blog in total anonymity.
How freeing would it be to be able to say whatever I want?!
The problem with freedom is that, without walls and restrictions and guidelines, you get bogged down by the available possibilities such that you can’t think of a single thing to say.
And then you’re stuck, right back where you started.
Hmmph.
Jenny is an award-winning TV-watcher, peanut-butter-from-the-jar eater and chore-avoider who usually can be found blogging at Absolutely Bananas and Seattle Mom Blogs.
Ok, ok, so she actually didn’t win awards for any of those things. But she should have. She definitely should have.
Hi people! This is Jill from “Thou shalt not whine” at http://andimeanit.blogspot.com
I’m excited to be guest posting for Brillig today! I had the pleasure of meeting Brillig at a Blogger lunch a few months back, and I will say that she is as delightful in person as she is on her blog. She kept us laughing the whole time.
I was watching a local daytime talk show a few months ago, and one of their guests for the day was a lady who they referred to as a “fashion expert.” She was there to tell us all about the new fashion trends.
Just the day before, this fashion expert (we’ll call her Laverne) had gone through the closet of one of the ladies hosting the show, (Let’s call her Shirley) and removed a large stack of clothes, and brought them to the television studio, and picked through them on live television.
She told Shirley that her that her clothes were out of style, and she just couldn’t wear them anymore.
Shirley was shocked “But I love those clothes!” she protested.
“No” Laverne told her, picking up a really cute skirt “Nobody wears skirts that length anymore.”
Shirley: But that’s my favorite skirt! It’s so comfortable, and it looks so cute with that pink blouse that I you told me to buy.”
Laverne: No, I’m sorry, it’s got to go. You really shouldn’t even have this in your closet, it’s quite dated.
Shirley: But I just bought it last summer!
No, it’s just not in style anymore. You can’t be seen in it. Donate it to charity.
Laverne went on to pick apart this poor lady’s wardrobe. There was something wrong with everything.
Laverne: You really need to get rid of this suit also. The color is all wrong. This year turquoise is the “HOT” color. Everybody will be wearing turquoise.
Shirley: I thought that gray was the hot color this year. Just a few months ago, you told me to buy everything gray.
Laverne: No, not anymore. Turquoise is now the hot color. Nobody will be wearing gray this year, everybody will be wearing turquoise!
I really felt sorry for this television host, and if I was anywhere near the size she is, I would have gladly offered to take the clothes off her hands. They were darn cute.
My question, where does this “fashion expert” lady get all this information, and why does her opinion matter so much?
Who is it in the big scheme of things that decides what’s “in” and what’s “out” as far as fashion trends go? Who is it that decides what does and does not look good? Why do we all need to follow what they decide?
This past winter, we were just leaving a movie theater, and a group of teenage girls came running in the door. Outside it was snowing heavily, and quite cold. These teenagers were all wearing shorts, flip flops and hoodies. The girls were all huddled together shivering, goose bumps all over their bare legs, and complaining about how cold they were.
Hello! McFly! Put some clothes on!
I would really like to know which girl in the group decided that it would be cute to wear shorts and flip flops in sub freezing temperatures, and why the other girls in the group were compelled to follow her. I wonder what would have happened if one of the girls had rebelled and worn, oh I don’t know, maybe A COAT! Would she have been shunned from the group and not allowed to participate in the group activity? Would the other girls have left her alone, and then made fun of her saying how stupid she looked in her warm clothes while they stand shivering in the snow?
Why are we all such a bunch of “fashion sheep?”
What do you think, are you more likely to buy something you like that is comfortable, or something that someone else has decided looks good?
(Of course, this post doesn’t apply to shoes, because most fabulous shoes just can’t be comfortable )
Hey, Brillig here. Please welcome today’s guest-blogger, a dear bloggy friend who never fails to inspire me, Dr. Bolte.
————————-
when i was little, according to my mom, i ran everywhere.
ran on the beach.
ran in the field.
ran from here to there, ran to do anything.
i was sassy and on the move.
i’m still sassy, but for many years i have been definitely not on the move.
on the day that my mom told me that, she was in the midst of
transferring old super 8 home movies onto dvd for my granddaddy’s
father’s day present. every time i would talk to her during the week,
she’d have new stories for me, of the time when she went to the grand
canyon as a teenager and forgotten how much they were in the car until
she saw the movies, which were just a succession of images of children
in the requisite 1960s tourist wear waving from beside a station
wagon.
on the day that my mom told me the story of my running toddlerhood, i
had been on the elliptical for an hour. i realized, in the midst of
the hour as i was counting iPod songs in an attempt to keep track of
my goal, that i really liked it. i should hate it. i thought i would
hate it. i was doing it to do it, not to love it. but i did.
at that moment, i began to wonder if maybe i am a runner after all.
i’ve never been athletic. not once in my life. i have fond memories of
bright shining moments of athletic effort, like the time i played
football with my friends in the park and loved it or all of the times
i rode my bike as a kid and found freedom in the wind in my ears. but
for the most part, i’ve lived a book life, a very sedentary book life.
but somewhere down deep, i always wanted to know if i could play
soccer. just never tried. i was never quick enough for something like
softball, because i always got tagged out before i could make it to
base. but what about basketball? it, too, was on my list of things to
know how to play…but i just never did it. i always thought it would
be incredibly cool to run a marathon, to be that kind of long-distance
runner. but i never tried. i never thought i could do any of those
things. i just didn’t think it was in my nature.
until i realized, that day on the elliptical, that maybe i have that
nature somewhere in me, just waiting to come out.
and when my mom told me that i ran everywhere as a child, that i was
unstoppable, i think something clicked for me.
we can be anything we want to be.
so i’m a book person. i like to be lazy sometimes and read all day in
my bed. that doesn’t mean that i can’t also be a 5K person. that
doesn’t mean that i can’t train myself to be whatever it is that i
want to be.
we put ourselves into too many boxes, i think.
i have put myself into too many boxes.
i am tired of boxes. aren’t you?
we are who we are. we all have innate talents. we all have gifts. when
we refuse to believe that we might have a gift and a talent and a
passion for something that just might be completely different than we
ever thought we could be, we lose out on cultivating a flicker of the
divine within us.
so, i’m working on being a runner.
i’m also working on being a runner who believes in her capacity to do
anything she wants to do.
i may never make it to a marathon. some days, i’m lucky if i make it
to the elliptical at all. and i may look like an idiot on the
treadmill as i try out these new running legs. but in october, i will
be running a 5K for breast cancer, in honor of my mom who puts one
foot in front of the other every day with courage and a great deal of
spunk. and on that day, i will prove to myself that i can do anything.
Welcome to dear Jo Beaufoix, a dear friend across the pond, who did not include a picture of Barbara, so I will have to do it here…
Now, see why I love her so much?
———————Wow, I’m on Brillig’s blog. I’m a little tempted to go through her drawers and check out her fridge, but I suppose that would be a bit rude. My name is Jo Beaufoix, http://www.jobeaufoix.com, and I live in Nottinghamshire in the UK. I’m mum to Miss E (7) and Miss M (3), and am married to Mr B, drummer and knower of weird facts. I’m an aspiring writer and am just editing my first novel which is a book for children, and I also write daft poems. Come and say hello if you get the chance, my Ostrich Bab’s will make you smile even if I don’t.
I first ‘met’ Brillig about this time last year. I think I may have found her through lovely Corey at ‘Living and Loving Every Minute of it’. I thought she was kind of fantastic so I hung around. I have met so many good blog friends through Brillig. I nabbed an invite for cre8buzz from her and my world just widened.
The post I’ve chosen to share with you is one from June last year when I was very new at blogging. It was an answer to a question set my Mama blogger, and I loved writing it, but a lot of people won’t have read it as it was in that tumbleweed period of blogging we all have near the beginning.
I promise it’s not too cheesy, so even if you don’t have kids you might enjoy it too. ‘3 things I want my kids to understand…’
1. That I will love them no matter what.
But that that doesn’t mean they can smear my lip balm all over the wall, Miss M (aged 2), or that they can have a food fight when their friends come to tea, Miss E(aged 6).
It doesn’t mean they are allowed to feed chocolate icecream to the gerbils, put raisins in their daddy’s sock drawer, or paint my face if I drop off for a minute.
It doesn’t mean that they can use my credit card whenever they want to buy bad music or barely there outfits.
It doesn’t mean they can borrow the car without asking or get very very drunk and vomit in their dad’s slippers.
But it does mean that if they do all these things, my love will not change.
But their view for the next month or so might.
2. I want my kids to understand that it’s ok to make mistakes.
Grown ups do it too and that is also ok.
As long as their daddy understands that mistakes do not include forgetting our anniversary, doing a whites wash with a pair of red boxers as company, or videoing over our kid’s baptism.
That would just be wrong….
3. I want my kids to understand that there is some stuff we just have to do.
I know tidying up is boring.
I now brussels taste a bit like old socks and can lead to unpleasant gaseous explosions.
I know homework time muscles in on fun time.
I know.
And Daddy would rather not be at work, or be stuck in traffic on a rainy day with only cheese on the radio, or play Barbie’s with his 2 small girls after a long day, (or probably at all.)
And Mummy would rather not have to wipe sticky hand prints from every visible surface, pick fruit flakes out of the carpet or read the nasty bill shaped letters that come through the door on a weekly basis.
But, all the stuff we don’t want to do is generally going to make our lives better in some way.
So yes Miss M, you do have to wear clothes, otherwise when you’re a grown up, people will avoid you.
Ask your dad….
Hi, I’m Jen of a2eatwrite. I’m a long fan of Brillig’s, and despite the fact that I have many years on her, I wish I could be her when I grow up.
For my guest post today, I thought I’d come up with some moving tips for Brillig:
I have moved many times in my life. I’m not sure I’ve moved as many times as Brillig has. If you read her “About Brillig” section, you’ll see that not only has she moved many times, but she’s moved to and from all kinds of interesting places.
Nevertheless, I’m seeing fit to give Brillig moving tips because obviously she really needs to hear this from me, a much less experienced mover.
Be that as it may, I really have moved a number of times, and I can prove it from my mortgage application. In said application (completed two moves ago), I was asked to list all places of residence for the previous seven years.
I listed ten.
For each of these places, I had a system down. Do it all myself, and what I couldn’t do myself, I bribed big, burly friends to do. I’ve found that pizza and beer is a good bribe when you want household stuff done. There’s a current commercial by McFastFood’s that says that Sweet Tea is the proper bribe. Not. So. Beer, pizza or diamonds. Trust me on that one.
By the time I married D., I could fit all my worldly goods, including furniture, into the back of a Dodge Omni. For those of you who don’t remember this gem of engineering, it was a VW Rabbit knock-off. For those who don’t remember the Rabbit… think Golf, only smaller. In terms of “furniture” this included a futon frame and said futon, folding chairs and card table, and various knicknacks to make it all pretty. I usually bought a couple of other things at used places and then sold them back to used places when I moved.
Then, as I said, I married D. D never met an object he didn’t think he could eventually find a use for. D’s parents had about 1500 square feet of basement filled with glass jars, stacks of newspaper, scrap metal, etc., etc., in case it “came in handy.” My in-laws are the most wonderful folks in the world, but they survived the Depression and are Yankees from Vermont.
‘Nuff said.
So by the time D and I were ready for our first move together, I knew the Omni wasn’t going to figure into it. Maybe for the contents of his desk drawers, but no more than that.
Now, I should also mention that D had a bad back in those days, and couldn’t really lift heavy objects. (And all of his objects were heavy, because “useful” objects always seem to be). I also had background as a theater technician and had spent many, many hours loading and unloading trucks and carrying objects that seemed to be three times my weight or more. So guess who was in charge of moving?
And yup, the pizza and beer trick worked again, too.
Our move across country, however, was into yet another apartment. This apartment served us very well until I was about 7 months pregnant and decided that going down three flights of stairs and through two locked doors every time I wanted to do laundry would be a bit much. Especially while carrying said laundry AND the baby. So as pregnant women can sometimes do, I convinced harangued, threatened and pleaded shamelessly D that maybe this would be a good time to buy our first house.
Then my OB stepped in. Lift things? Moi? BAD idea. She wanted it all done for me.
Voila.
Now I knew the secret to moving. So I sat there, eating pizza (no beer for the pregnant lady, obviously), while various friends (and D, whose back miraculously healed upon learning I was pregnant) lifted and grunted and placed things, and I sat like a princess.
Brillig, Dear, I know you have your hands full and probably don’t need any pitter patters of more feet just at this moment, but think… just think… about packing a pillow. After all, Mr. Brillig hasn’t seen you for awhile, right?
)
br>
