A Mommy Mantra?

It's occurred to me today that I'm closing in on sixteen years of being a 'mom'.  My first experiences of mommy-hood included hanging out with my then boyfriend's six-year-old daughter watching Aristocats and shopping for Easter Basket prezzies for her.  Sixteen years later, in addition to my step-daughter, we added two more girls and a boy to our brood.  Life is never boring with this bunch and I've learned a few things along the way.  Not all of these are to do with being a mom as some of them have more to do with being a woman, but as so many of us are both, I thought I'd call it the mommy mantra.  So, whether you're mom to a brood of pups, cats, hamsters, fish, or live human folks, this might apply to you.  Randomly and in no order: 

1.  Read.
2.  Read things that are good for you.
3.  Read things that are bad for you.
4.  It's okay to like songs like P!nk's "F*ckin' Perfect."
5.  It's also okay to like the explicit lyrics to Maroon 5's "Payphone."
6.  Learn a couple clean jokes to make your kids laugh.
7.  Children's laughter heals practically any wound you have. 
8.  Be silly.  I think that's one of the most important lessons I've learned as a parent.  Being silly doesn't make you foolish.  It just lets your kiddos know that their parents have a sense of humor.
9.  Sing along to the radio.
10. Quiz the kids on current and past singers.  It's a fun game.
11. Share what you love.  If you love a book, a band, a food, a special brand of gum, share it.  If you share the things you love, then, maybe, your kiddos will share what they love with you.
12. Be human.  If you're hurt, say you're hurt.  No one likes a martyr and no one, but no one, is a mind-reader.
13. Be a good friend.  I think kids learn by example and if they see nothing but judgement and derision from you, how are they ever going to learn to forgive and enjoy and share things with other people?  Having friends and keeping them is one of life's best experiences.
14. Say I'm sorry and mean it.  Pretty self-explanatory there.
15. Smile.
16. Plant a garden and watch it grow.
17. Go swimming with your kids, build sandcastles, float on an inner-tube, find tadpoles, go fishing, pick up rocks that are smooth & warm, get muddy, stomp in puddles, laugh about it.  Trust me, the clothes that they ruin won't matter in a week.
18.  Be quiet.  Not everything is a circus.
19.  Listen.
20.  Either get a pedicure or learn how to do one at home.  Either way, you feel better and your toes are pretty.
21.  Wear a dress now and again.
22.  Wear funny hats.
23.  Play Mario Kart.  Seriously, it's fun.
24.  Try new foods.
25.  Drink lots of water.
26. Count the stars.
27.  Catch Fireflies.
28.  Breathe.
29.  Roast marshmallows.
30.  Pray.

Anything you all think I should add to this?  Lemme know.  <3 

Loving a music man ain't always what it's supposed to be...

Holy shit. It's been like four months since I've posted on here. In that short period of time, I've acquired an eight year old and a 14 year old. Birthdays, man. Those runts grow up way too fast. Don't even get me started. Urgh.

Either way, I'm taking a break from cleaning of all the things and listening to Jason Mraz's Sleeping to Dream. Which made me ponder the question about how music affects the writing process. When you're in the middle of a story/article/poem, how do the words of the artist singing shape the story you're writing? Sometimes I listen to the LOST soundtrack, to Michael Giacchino's instrumental works, and it helps block out the world and helps me concentrate on what the characters are trying to say to me or to the reader.

 Right now I'm working with a friend on a story about a band (rock, pop, whatevs) but finding the dynamics of four people who are making music together as something that binds them together and their words, songs, lyrics tie them to other people, their fans, and what's it like to fall in love with a band. Remember that? Falling in love for the first time with a band?

I mean as a kid it was New Kids on the Block for me, granted they didn't play instruments. I take that back. Oh god, I can't believe I forgot this. I fell in love with a country band that played our local area when I was about fifteen. Ripe age for that shit, yes? But the drummer had blonde curly hair, blue eyes and could hammer out a beat that matched the one of my heart beating in my little chest. His name was Matt and he had a killer, killer smile.

I can remember my small hometown was having some sorta huge centennial celebration with a street dance. This four man group had played earlier in the day and I'd gotten permission from my grandparents to go. The July sun was wicked hot and causing sweat to drip down the small of my back but it didn't matter because everything was 'Amarillo by Morning and up from San Antone...' and George Strait and Matt playing away on those drums. Sure, the lead singer was great and so was the lead guitarist and bassist. Someone broke out a fiddle now and again, too.  Do you ever forget the haunting melody of a fiddle?  Not really.

But, more often than not I was watching those sticks flying through the air as Matt drummed and twirled his way into my heart. 


My best friends and I sat out on my lawn that night hearing the music waft up the main drag in our small 'burg.  We sat on those lawn chairs and giggled like 15 year old girls do about boys, especially older boys.  Lisa, the boldest one of our bunch, probably brought up what it'd be like to kiss him.  Pretty sure I had a set of mini-palpitations with the thought of kissing Matt, let alone any boy back then.  (My first 'real' kiss would come at the end of the following school year on the last day of ninth grade courtesy of a boy who had a crush on me.  The only thing that sticks out in that memory was the watermelon gum he'd been chewing and how it might be really rad to French kiss, but it sure as hell wasn't with this kid.  Anyway, back to Matt.)  I talked to Matt a few times and we hit up a couple dance halls that Summer, following our band around and each time was just as magical as the first until we got up enough guts to go and talk to him. Bless Matt's seventeen year old self back then. He was kind, gracious, and funny. We teased him about getting his autograph - I think I still have this somewhere (I'm a Cancer. We hoard memories like some people hoard china dolls) - and he supplied each of us a rendering of his name on a cocktail napkin written cleanly and clearly with a sharpie.

He also winked a lot. I remember that pretty distinctly.

Matt faded away as first crushes often do and as Summer faded into Fall and we all got back to school, life, dreaming, and eating the small world we lived in then.

There's probably three things I took away from that Summer with that country band: 1. My on-again off-again love for Country Music (Seriously, I still have my George Strait's Greatest Hits Cassette somewhere and to this day I can't hear Amarillo by Morning without smiling). 2. My love for anything musical that 'speaks' to me in one way or another. 3. Loving music men.

Now, for the record, I didn't marry a music man. But in my mind there's nothing sexier than a guy and his guitar (or drums, or piano, or jeez even his cello). Talent is intoxicating. Otherwise, how else could anyone explain David Bowie and Iman. I digress. Either way, who speaks to you?

Knitting and Writing, two of these things are kind of the same...

So, here I am at the end of a finished product, finally. It took the better part of a year and I don't know how many episodes of LOST I've rewatched while knitting this thing (seriously, it should be dubbed The LOST scarf - LOL) but it's finally done.



Before I get to the thinky think portion of my post, I'll just share a few details for you knitters out there. The pattern for this lurvely thing is by the equally lurvely Stephanie Pearl-McPhee (aka The Yarn Harlot). It's called The One Row Handspun Scarf and I made it with two strands - held together - of Paton's Mulberry Stripes. I love, love, loooove self-striping yarn but let me tell you when I hit the end of the first two balls and had to add in the next, the striping was not working too well and had to disassemble and reconstruct.

(Now onto the Thinky Think portion of my post):

Which, of course, got me thinking about writing when it's compared to knitting. I mean, when you start out you're equipped with the tools of the trade (a pattern, your knitting needles, and your yarn)(for writing: a plot-bunny/outline, your laptop, and coffee) and things start off quite swimmingly. Things are fluid and linear and your stitches are fine and true. And your hands are literally flying and things are going quite smoothly. You want it to be beautiful and you're so proud of it and it's not even finished yet.

And then, then comes the seven-year itch.

You're halfway through.

You're not far enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel yet and worse yet, this yarn is making things crazy. It's supposed to self-stripe and it won't. So you tie things off and realign and realign again. You think you've got it only not. Again, you tie things off and restart. You're so frustrated even though you think you've lined it up that you put it down for a day, which turns into three, which turns into six months. And then when you're cleaning up the office and wanting to work on a small project, there it sits, waiting.

This scarf wants nothing more than to be finished, than to get to the end of the rows and to be bound off, and wound around someone's neck to keep them warm against the winter chill.

That's all it wants.

You pick up the needles again. You remind yourself of why you wanted this scarf in the first place other than it's very pretty and the pattern is relatively easy to commit to memory. It was the joy of finally finishing a lengthy project and to have something to show for it at the end. You grab your needles and start knitting. It's good, it's very good. You're flying along again, stitches true. And then you find yourself nearing the end at midnight on a Saturday - watching Lost or Sherlock. You've got little yarn left and it's time to bind off. You carefully take those last stitches and fold them over each other so everything will finish off neatly, tidily, and won't unravel for Pete's sake. There, there you are. You grab those loose ends and weave them seamlessly into the scarf itself so it won't show overmuch except for that tiny bulging in the middle but who will notice? Another knitter, that's who. But, you know what another knitter will notice? They'll recognize the yarn, the pattern, and the utter love for the time that it took to make that scarf and they'll compliment you on a job well done.

And there you are at 2:00 a.m. with a beautiful scarf around your neck and the glow of a project finished.

It's finally done. And you smile.

Mason Jar Memories

In an effort to cheer myself the eff up, I'm writing. SUCH FUN. But I was thinking about my mason jar fetish. I love 'em alot as previously evidenced.

So, here's the question for the day: If you wanted to tell me about you or the world around you by filling a mason jar of things from your life, what would fit in there? What would you put in there?

Me?

Laughingly, I'd put corn in there as Iowa is full of corn. I'd put a lilac bloom in there as they are one of my all time favorite things ever in the springtime here. I'd put in some dirt from the baseball diamond that's across the riverbed where Arik plays ever summer. I'd put in some sand from the beach that's on the lake north of town. My memories of playing there with my bestie and our girls are some of my favorite things ever. I'd throw in a pen to tell you that I love to write - whether it be a grocery list on the back of a deposit slip to an epic love letter to my fandom at the time, I love it. I'd take a leaf from the autumn trees that surrounded the river from teh day that kenny and I caught 22 fish and laughed more than I can remember in a long time. And lastly, maybe a cork from a bottle of wine from the first time my mom and I stayed up late drinking a bottle of wine and talking for the first time in a long time.

And then I'd put a zinc lid on it and twist it tight and put in a shelf so I could tell you about some of the best days I've ever spent, ever.

You?

You know what I love?

Source

I love Mason Jars. In particular the blue ones, but on a broader level, I just love mason jars. I love the itty bitty tiny jelly jars to the long and tall jars that might be a vessel for someone's garden's year end giardiniera. I love the pint and quarts with the wide and narrow mouths. Our first set of Flour/Sugar/Coffee/Tea canisters were a set of Blue mason jars. I still have them and use them regularly. Right now they're getting ready to house cold brewed coffee when I put it together later on tonite for it to steep overnight. I love putting tea light candles in the little guys and putting them on a picnic table or around the patio to make little glimpses of soft light during a summer evening.

One of my favorite memories was of having walking pneumonia (no, that's not the favorite part - I'm getting there) and my grandma sending me home with a quart jar full of homemade chicken and noodles. Nothing tasted better than cracking that lid open and putting the ring and lid aside, grabbing a spoon, and helping myself to some of her special cooking. I can still taste it on my tongue.

Another memory I have is walking into my grandparents basement and seeing the shelves full of these jars. The damp musty smell would greet you before you walked down the wooden steps and as you turned the corner - as the basement was divided into two sections - the room would open up to floor to ceiling rough wood shelving. And there were literally hundreds of jars on those shelves. My grandmother used to have a large garden when they had lived out on the acreage and would can everything. Since moving to town she had less use for them but couldn't give them away. I remember when Kenny and I got on a canning kick after my granny had passed away, Grandpa had mentioned all those jars that were auctioned off and had wished he had saved them for us. Bless his heart.

In our built in china hutch in the kitchen, there is a whole shelf full of jars of varying colours and sizes. And every year when we go to can in the winter time, I love opening up the door and finding all these little vessels waiting to be filled with homemade goodness.

We have a full set of pint glasses with wide mouths that we use for drinking glasses. Nothing too fancy for the Fleming household. But, with children of all ages, they're sturdy and durable.

There are many uses for these little guys. But, I definitely enjoy using these little blasts from the past.

...or better yet, date a girl who writes...

Source

(found this on my tumblr dash and just instantly fell in love with it)

“Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag.She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilightseries.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”

~ Rosemarie Urquico

Source

Snow...snow....snow...

It's snowed again, dear friends and they're (and by "they" I mean the powers that be on KCRG TV-9 out of Cedar Rapids....not sure I trust that Kai O'Meara. I'm sure he's a nice Irish boy and everything, but he looks a little shifty about the eyes.) calling for more this Sunday. So in true Hez fashion, I'm schlepping about the house in my fleece jammies and pink chenille robe with my new coffee mug (Frankie! They're Godiva Choclatier mugs! I thought of you when I bought them! Great steal at 99cents a mug). All I can say is thank God for French Vanilla Creamer.

In other news:

- Our knitting coach, Alice, brought out some of her stash again and let us go through it and abscond with some yarn. I was daring and took two skeins of sock yarn. You heard me right, knitters...sock yarn. I'm thinking of starting to make a sock or three and see how I do. But, I've got to finish off a scarf and a pair of wrist warmers first.

- Another small knitting story. Someone delivered a bunch of old "Workbasket" magazines to our knitting club as they contained knitting patterns. Well, in addition to knitting patterns they have gardening advice, canning tips, go to gifts, and other fun stuff. Some of them are circa 1966, but I found a cute pattern for a baby doll bunting for knitting and another skating skirt for a Barbie in there. Well, when I brought some home I happened to glance at the address label on a couple of the magazines. I about died. They were our address. The gal that used to live here many moons ago (and raised a couple hooligan boys, but they're damned fine gardeners) was on the address label along with our current street address. I pointed out to Kenny later on that these magazines had come home to roost. ;) Small world, ain't it?

- Next project for Hez enlightenment (besides the socks) is making soap. I've been following Rhonda Jean at down to earth for some time and she has her own cold pressed soap. Plus there is so much deliciousness on etsy. If you've never before shopped on etsy, I suggest a perusal. It's all homemade/handmade and there are some lovely things on there. But, I found a gal who makes beautiful cold pressed soaps with names like raspberry truffle. There is so much lovely on that website. It gives me inspiration and ideas for baby showers, my girls, myself, and a little bit of everything. (Pssssssssssst, Kit, there's yarn on there, too!) So, that's my little PSA for today. Buy handmade/homemade if you can!

That's enough of Hez for today. I hope you all have a GREAT weekend!