personal

Spilled My Cocaine Supply

by Lucky Red Hen on February 23, 2012

Nah. I didn’t really spill my cocaine, but it sure looks like it! Naturally, I’m kinda klutzy. Thinking ahead, I decided to fashion some wax paper into a sort of funnel to easily pour the powdered sugar into this cute jar. The first couple pours did pretty well until a glob plopped out and crushed my funnel (like that pesky chunk of ice at the bottom of your cup when it comes loose and punches you in the face). Argh.

Since my bloggy is on the mend (from eating entire/partial posts before/after I’ve published them, oy), I’ll drop small posts and see where we end up. There are big posts on the back burner, and the swimsuit issue (don’t get excited, trust me), but for now let’s keep it simple (stupid… I’m kidding, you’re not stupid, it’s the old K.I.S.S. addage I can’t get out of my head; just like “Yes, we have no bananas.”)

My kitchen pantry has been known for being the favorite spot in my house for visiting friend’s (and I’m not only talking to you, LaYen). Just last Sunday someone at church asked me if she could bring the 12 year old girls from her Sunday School class to show them (word gets around because I don’t think that gal has ever been in my house.) I try to keep it organized, though it’s tough with three plus other people in/out of there every day.

After Christmas clearance sections are a great place to pick up containers (that may or may not be filled with seasonal treats) for a fraction of the price. These jars were at Sur La Table for only $3.50ish from $19ish. I used the innards to refill my vintage candy machine (which matches my red, white, & yellow kitchen) then repurposed the jars for raisins, craisins, corn meal, etc. Because I’m not sure what will stay in each container, I used a write-erase marker to label the outside and instructed my family that if they smudge it they die. Just kidding.

I wonder if that’s what happened at Las Margaritas once when we ordered five Deep-fried Ice Cream desserts. Something was strange tasting, though we couldn’t place what it was until about half way through. They didn’t taste gross or rotten, just… weird. Dun dun dun… it was salt (which is NOT in the recipe)! The manager figured that whomever assembled them must have grabbed the salt bin instead of the sugar bin to roll the ice cream balls before coating with the crust. We DID finish eating them, even though they were weird, but at least we didn’t have to pay for them ;)

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I’m Here: Really, I Am

by Lucky Red Hen on February 22, 2012

A quick to update you on what’s happening.

My blog eats 1/2 of what I come up with because it’s so yummy (I guess that’s the reason, I should ask). Since I’m not fond of doing the work, it getting deleted, then trying to come up with the genius I already had come up with the first time (my genius is limited, sorry), I’ve paused until the guy I sleep with (who happens to be my internal IT Department) gets something on the back end reprogrammed or someping.

Until then, check out some previous stuff or look forward to seeing me in a bathing suit. I can’t believe I just typed that.

I’m serious… on both the suit and that I typed it.

Yikes.

(looks around for the razor)

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NEVER Have I Missed A Flight : Until Now

by Lucky Red Hen on January 13, 2012

Mulling over the thoughts I have about what I’m about to write, I worry that I won’t get them out in letters the way you’ll understand what I’m trying to say. Thank you for trying to get it. I do have a point. Now let’s see where I put it.

(This post may be more about me needing to get out my feelings, not make a statement, or make sense.)

Tommy and I have known each other since grade school in New Mexico, spending most of our time together in school band (I played clarinet, he played sax) 5th grade through our junior year. We never dated, were just friends. Always a gentleman, very sweet and kind hearted, he once made me a wooden stand in his woodshop class to replace the pile of books I’d use to rest my bass clarinet; out of the blue, I hadn’t asked for it. That’s the kind of guy Tommy was back then, and continued to be throughout the years, even after I moved away the summer before my senior year. (Yeah, that sucked.)

He opened his home to me in 2009 for our 20 year high school reunion. Even though I hadn’t been back for about 19 years, those four days felt like no time had passed. We laughed, caught up, and reminisced about the good ol’ days (am I really old enough to say that?) He trusted me riding his Harley so we could ride around the area (heavenly). He introduced me to my favorite Mexican dish, Pozole (he had Menudo, a common hangover remedy, which made me gag and tasted like stinky zoo animal feet) at a local restaurant. The master bedroom with attached master bath was all for me; he insisted and slept in the guest room. He would tattoo anything I dreamed up, anything at all (I didn’t get any). Picked up a shirt for me at the Harley Dealership (fake tattoo sleeves; people freak out and think they’re real when I wear it.) I got to be with and photograph KP as Tommy memorialized our friend Tony Dodds, with his football number (76) tattoo’d on her heel (she will tell you it was the most painful thing she’s ever felt; and she’s had two babies.)

My wish was his command as he drove me past my old house, my friend’s old houses, former schools, favorite eateries, the zoo I volunteered at, the public pool where I had too many crushes on boys, the skating rink that was every teens rite of passage in that town, and to/from the airport that is two hours away. Two hours away. What kind of person drives that far to pick up someone from the airport then two hours back and all over again for the return flight… without expecting anything in return? An awesome friend, that’s who :)

(That’s a little shout-out for others who have and have offered to do so for me; forever grateful to have people like that in my life. [curtsy])

Then four months ago I went back for a late-80’s reunion. This time extending my trip to nine days because the four before seemed too darned short. There’s a Ben Franklin saying, “Fish and visitors stink after three days.” Tommy didn’t believe that. Not when it came to me, anyway. I insisted that I should stay at a hotel, or break it up and stay with other friends this time. He said he’d be offended if I didn’t stay with him (he was a lonely bachelor at the time). “What if I rent a car? You wouldn’t have to give me a ride to/from the airport and I would have my own transportation while I’m there so long,” I’d suggest. Tommy replied, “Don’t be silly. I will get you from/to the airport and you’ll use the truck anytime you want. Don’t get a rental, save your money.” That was HUGE. The thing about his truck, he never let ANYBODY drive it; not even his dad! I’m the only one. Ever.

We spent a lot of our time talking about deeper things than last time and than what we could over the phone or text. God was a big topic. Parenting was another. We’d discuss what life is all about and what happens when it doesn’t go according to plan. I cherish those more intimate moments with my friend. This time it was more laid back (instead of the rush getting to everything and seeing everyone in the four days the first trip). Having more time before the scheduled reunion events was perfect for us to be honest with what we were feeling, things we worried about, thoughts of what the future would be like. We went to a couple stores together, picking up bones for the dogs, ingredients for homemade Pozole that we made together, going back to the store to get another set of ingredients because the first batch burned, a John Deer shirt for me (I was looking for something Kelly green and joked when I saw this pink camo shirt, which meant we HAD to get it)…

Fast forward about two months to the first Tuesday in December. I was in Seattle for two weeks. As I was shopping at a mall with a friend, I started getting The Calls. A thunk landed in my heart as I stared at the phone. The first went to voice mail, (another thunk) then the second. (thunk) I knew something was wrong and I knew who it was about. William’s voice mail said I needed to call him as soon as possible so I texted him back…

Then KP called, followed by Mike. I knew I couldn’t answer the phone. In the middle of a mall during Christmas shopping season isn’t the best place for that kind of conversation.

I finally called back from my friend’s car. She drove while I got the news. Tommy is dead. His body was found a couple hours ago. As people were getting the news, they’d say, “Does Shannon know? Has someone called Shannon?”

Long story short, made arrangements (thanks to friend’s) to fly from Seattle to Texas then a two+ hour drive to New Mexico in snow and icy conditions in time for the rosary Sunday night. There was a 5:20am flight Sunday morning, I’d have to leave at 3:30am to get to SeaTac early enough to get a stand-by spot on that flight. A friend graciously offered to wake up at the butt crack of dawn to take me.

My bags were packed, wore the clothes I’d travel in to bed, loaded toothpaste on my toothbrush in the bathroom, checked my alarm, texted with my morning ride to make sure, and sent my visitor home at 9p so I could get to sleep and wake up at 3:15am to get to the airport by 4am.

I woke up at 4:35am O_O Was supposed to BE at the airport by 4am.

#&*()Q)_#&@#$&^!

My ride came on time, called and texted multiple times over a 15 minute period before heading back home (she didn’t know where I was to knock on the door).

I’ve NEVER not woken to my alarm. I’ve NEVER missed a flight. There was NO WAY I would make the 5:20am flight. How in the WORLD did this happen?!?

All I can think is that there was a reason. But it’s not like there was something that happened that proves I shouldn’t have been on that flight. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t beat myself up over it. “It is what it is.” I got on a later flight (stand-by all the way, with fully booked planes, not knowing if I’d get on each time), had to fly into a different city (which is a big deal when your ride is coming two hours away), took four hours to get home through icy and snowy conditions instead of the two, not making it in time for the Sunday night rosary service. Which was a huge bummer, although expected. There was a slideshow of Tommy’s life, photos that I took of him, and photos I was in with him, that was only shown that night. Sigh.

Why I didn’t make that flight will remain a mystery. It’s made me dig deep, wondering what’s truly important.

What matters most is the moments we share, memories that make our heart smile, having people in our lives we trust and can count on, and taking these kind of situations as a lesson on life. What do I want? Who should or shouldn’t be in my life? Am I willing to make changes for that to happen? Yes. A resounding “YES.”

Photo I took of Tommy in 2009 that was used in his obituary and the funeral program.

P.S. I am grateful to all my friends and family who helped me get to New Mexico, gave their support, sent me texts of love, provided rides, a place to lay my head, and meals. You put a smile on my heart that will never go away. XoxO

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Nachos vs. Chips

by Lucky Red Hen on January 12, 2012

After hearing about a drool inducing, new-to-me burrito place over and over and over on Twitter, I finally went this week with a friend who’d never been either. We were going to have so much fun, eating YUMMY food, we just knew it.

The man behind the counter charmingly greeted us. We told him Twitter sent us, it’s our first time and we needed to know what we should try. He insisted that just because it’s a burrito place, we don’t have to get one, all the items on the menu are as tasty as each other. Steak nachos for me, steak quesadilla for my friend.

I have a thing for food, particularly the kind that I didn’t cook, and I’m a stickler for good service. Excellent service is better, but I’ll settle for good as a minimum rank. Give me lousy service and you’ll likely hear about it from your manager if you didn’t get the message from me (because you weren’t around to tell, not because I’m shy, or maybe because I didn’t want to embarrass you by putting you on the spot; yeah, I’m not mean, usually). I’m even known for making friends with people in the service industry. Friendly enough that we trade phone #’s, I set them up on dates (one got engaged because of me), we have them over for Game Night, exchange Christmas cards, and give each other gifts. You know, like, REAL friends. I’m not one of those crazy ladies that servers draw straws to see who has to deal with her. Remember my salty-goodness story? That flight attendant dug me.

For example… we ended up with a new-to-us server at my favorite restaurant recently. Bless his heart and all, but he wasn’t very good that night. Instead of admitting that he didn’t know what I was talking about when I ordered off-menu (the kitchen staff & other seasoned servers are familiar with it, I’m not completely When Harry Met Sally-esque), he kept saying, “Absolutely!” I even told him the ingredients, “Absolutely!” It was delivered without grilled chicken, peas, and mushrooms. Basically, not at all what I ordered. Ben asked for spinach (“Absolutely!”), got broccoli. We were fine (mine was fixed) but have a new saying in our house when we don’t know what the other person is talking about… “Absolutely!”

Back to my Nachos. As I kept picking up naked chip after naked chip (just chips, no cheese or anything on them) and setting them aside in their own little nudist section of my plate, the guy came up next to me and asked how my nachos were. Mind you, I said this kindly with a lift at the end of my words, like they were skipping down the sidewalk on a lazy summer day, “I should’ve ordered the burrito because (rifling through the nudist section) look at all these naked chips.” Because he was standing next to me and I was doing a Vanna White with my food, I didn’t look at him as I spoke so I didn’t see his face or realize until I turned that he

WALKED AWAY.

O_O    >_<    O_O

(that’s a wide, open-eyed look followed by a blink and another wide, open-eyed look)

Yes, without a reply, gesture, or acknowledgement of my predicament, he turned around and left. Gone. Sayanara. Adios. Ariversdirty (my dad’s phonetic version of goodbye in Italian). Had he stayed there for us to converse about the ordeal, he would’ve heard me say how much I enjoyed the flavor of the food, the steak is a lovely smokey goodness and easy to eat because it’s cubed, but that next time I would like to see better spreading of the cheesy goodness and avoid the nudists. I have a thing about equal opportunity cheese love. Yes, it’s a thing. (The quesadilla had little cheese and not all of it was melted; but it was loaded with steak.)

My friend and I did the O_o look and laughed at the awkwardness of what just happened. We speculated that he might return with a burrito (it was my first time and I told him how I’d be Tweeting about our experience) or at least some cheese or salsa for the nudists. But he never came back. EVER. Just vanished. Well, not really VANISHED like in the Keiffer Sutherland movie, because we could see him behind the counter helping more customers have partial nudity nachos. Oh, and yeah, when we were there it was completely dead so there’s no excuse that it was too busy to handle my dilemma. It was just so Twilight Zone.

Then we speculated that I hurt his feelings, made him cry, or that he quit his job on the spot and sped away distraught with plans to leave the country and hide out in Mexico. I don’t know. I have a wild imagination. Plus, HE WALKED AWAY!

Don’t ask me what I think if you don’t really want to know or can’t handle the truth. Because I tell it. The truth. It’s all I know how to do.

P.S. I tweeted a little about it with my friends who knew I was there, but I didn’t tag the restaurant or bash on it because I think it was just a fluke thing because the food (minus the nudists) was tasty and I’d go there again… with an extra bag of cheese in my bag, just in case.

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The Hunger Games: I Don’t Get It

by Lucky Red Hen on January 8, 2012

Anyone I’ve talked to who has read The Hunger Games series vows that EVERYONE should read them. They claim they were hooked just a few pages in. Sleepless nights were had because they loved them so much. Waiting for the next saga sent them to a realm where they couldn’t understand what to do with themselves.

I. Don’t. Get. It.

Here’s why. I watched someone read the first book within a few days. Throughout that time, she described the story as sad and depressing, but she hoped for a twist, turning it into something positive and worthy of her time. She sulked more and smiled less.

The gist: It’s a story about starving children killing other children for food.

Um, excuse me? O_o

“But it’s MORE than that,” friends would claim. “If you get past that part of it, you’ll enjoy the books,” they’d press. “You won’t understand until you read them yourself.”

Nope. Not interested.

I’d rather watch stupid TV than read about children in pain, sorry. No, I’m not sorry, scratch that. I don’t mind not following the crowd and giving in to peer pressure. Call me feisty ;)

“But you read the Twilight series,” you argue? There’s an explanation for that.

I read it in the very beginning before anyone heard about it and was told (by a trustworthy friend) not to read the flap or find out what it’s about… “Just start reading it,” she instructed, “you will LOVE it!” Grabbing it on my way to the airport for a two-hour flight, I promised I’d give it a whirl even though I don’t read (oh, I mean, I can read, of course… Thank You, Mr. Bingley).

She was right, I did, and do, LOVE it. Not that it’s superbly written, has a strong female main character, follows proper writing technique, or deserves an award; but it did keep me occupied, gave me an escape from reality, and made me imagine what I would do in a similar situation.

Which, I think, we all THINK we’d behave a certain way when confronted with something crazy like a sparkling, supernatural hot guy (not that I’m saying Mr. Pattison is hot, he’s NOT what I pictured Edward would look like… Team Jacob!) But when push comes to shove our instincts either kick in or we retract/freeze with fear.

Having said that, my friends, I’m going to hit PUBLISH and run away from all the HG’s fans who will try and convince me it’s the best, most amazing, definite read EVER!!!

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Santa, Wishbones, & Chocolate

by Lucky Red Hen on January 1, 2012

Santa thought I was a GOOD GIRL this year because he gave me a new treasure (pictured above)! No, it’s not the blue and green floral couch, although it IS a gift to the eyes. Aaand he knew I wanted to take an Adobe Illustrator class from OlliBird.com so he gave me a class for the end of January! I’m SOOO excited!

Maybe I wasn’t a good girl but he was smitten by my delicious cheek last year…

The image on the left was circa 1979 (the sweetest orange bell bottom jeans, am I right?!?) and last year (in an orange hoodie) on the right.

Yeah, Santa and I had a moment that will last forever. LOVE YOU, Santa, thank you!

And this blondie got the surprise of her life from Mr. Claus… FIVE GIGANTIC POUNDS of pure milk chocolate :p I tell you what, if I were Mrs. Claus, I would’ve explained to my husband that there’s NO WAY this little tiny girl needs THAT MUCH chocolate! No matter if it was (which is was) her first word as a baby. Okay, it was more like chaw-at, but she knew what it was, knew what she wanted, and this girl ALWAYS wants chaw-at… I mean, chocolate.

And tonight, if you’re reading this December 31st, please be careful on the roads and don’t drive if you’ve been drinking a-a-a-a-a-alcohol or consuming mind/body altering drugs.

Happy New Year, I hope you all DON’T drop a 5lb bar of solid milk chocolate on your foot. Not that I would know what that feels like, but I’m sure it doesn’t tickle.

XoxO

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Parenting is Hard: Well, For Me It Is

by Lucky Red Hen on October 16, 2011

[written earlier this year, but thought it was a good follow-up to yesterday’s post…]

This isn’t what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I have errands to run and a wok to hunt down. Writing takes up so much time, but somehow I feel like I should be doing this right now. If not, then I might start bawling again.

I’m a cry-er. I wish I weren’t. What good does crying do anyway? It makes my eyeballs red, eyelids swollen, nose is both plus runny and I get a headache. This is NOT how I want to look when I leave my house. Not that I’m vain in the regard that I need to be perfectly coiffed, manicured, and fashionably diva’d, but I don’t want to look like I just got slapped with the ugly stick (not saying I’m ugly, but after the Ugly Cry it looks like I am). Maybe I should time how long it takes to un-swell, de-redden, and get to a presentable point so I can stop crying soon enough to de-swell.

The gist of why… ack… it’s making me well up again… inhale, exhale, mentally step out of the sad place…

Maybe I’ll try being a reporter. If I tell myself I’m just stating the facts then maybe my emotions will calm down a spell. (I wanted to say other words, because I’m feeling strongly, but gotta keep this PG.)

For the last three years I’ve heard about the 5th grade 3-day camp. And for the last three years I’ve told my oldest that there’s no way he’ll be going on an overnight excursion (I’m against sleepovers, but that’s a whole other topic that I won’t get into right now) for 3 days and 2 nights with a bunch of kids and parents from our school that I don’t know. (I only recently found out that there are two other schools involved which means two of his buddies will be there also.)

He’s not signed up to go. The camp is next week. This morning was drop-off for sleeping bags, etc. I haven’t seen paperwork on it because he knew he wasn’t going so no need to show me. I have NO IDEA what goes on at this camp, physically where it is, how it’s organized, who’s in charge, what they do, how sleeping arrangements are decided and executed, etc. Granted it’s my fault for not becoming informed, but it wasn’t an option because it’s overnight (and $150) so I didn’t think I needed to be informed of something not pertaining to me.

I had heard that there were about 5 students not going but found out today that mine is THE ONLY ONE not going O_O

Does that change things? My mom says no. She said there are hard decisions we parents need to make and stick with because that’s what we feel is right (she also said she supports my decision). Another mom friend comforted me with support that it’s our family decision and it doesn’t matter what other parents/students think.

The trick here is that my husband is all for it but he supports my position because I get the final say when it comes to the kids. If I say no, it’s no. He tells me not to beat myself up over it because I’m only wanting what’s best.

But what if I’m making the wrong decision? What if it’s the right decision? How do I know the difference?

Some will say, “Pray about it.” What if I’ve prayed about it and a clear answer hasn’t come to me? Maybe that’s an indication that my Heavenly Father wants me to stretch and figure it out on my own. Maybe there isn’t a right or wrong. Maybe it’s right that he doesn’t go and also right that he does. Yikes.

This isn’t a case about giving in to peer pressure either (well, you may think so but I don’t). I’m not pressured by my (or his) peers but I AM pressured with the responsibility of doing right by my kid.

He didn’t come with a manual or warranty. I am not skilled in parenting. I haven’t studied, been taught, researched, or absorbed how to be the best parent. I’ve picked up on things here and there from my parents, my in-laws, and other parents but I am by no means well versed in raising a child. This does NOT come natural to me like it does other women (and men, for that matter).

Food, shelter, and clothing are the only things I feel I can do without outside help. The safety, education, and the rest I’m just winging.

And I don’t have a problem with admitting when I’m wrong (which isn’t often, I assure you, haha, tongue in cheek) or taking responsibility when I need to (I think… I don’t know, you tell me). So if this whole thing turns out to be a giant mistake, whichever way it goes, I just hope it’s not to the detriment of my child(ren). Yeah, I guess this whole thing is going to trickle down to the other kid too. (sigh)

From the school… “When students don’t go to camp they are expected to come to school. The teacher has work for them and they will go into another classroom. If they don’t come to school they are counted “absent” and it is added to their school record. Please let me know what you decide.”

I asked if he’s the only one not going and what work he’ll have and what classroom he’ll be in. I was told… “At this point, he is the only 5th grader not planning to go to camp. If he doesn’t go to camp, we will place him in another classroom for the day. We have not decided for sure which classroom for which day, but it may not be the same room every day. He will attend specialists with whichever class he’s with for the day. We will give him some work to do while he is at school so that his time is not wasted. The work we give him will be additional practice on things he’s worked on before. The other students will not be expected to do the same work because they will be busy at camp.”

It sounds kind of willy nilly and like he’ll be punished for not going to camp. The other kids are out having a good time (because their parents can afford it and/or are better at this than I am). I’m torn and exhausted considering all the possibilities.

I wish parenting was easier.

EDIT: At the last minute, I changed my mind and let him go. He had a fantastic time, didn’t get hurt, wasn’t scarred for life by an inappropriate event, and has memories that he’ll look back on fondly. Hopefully he won’t realize the anxiety that was behind it all by his over-protective mother who’s just trying to do her best.

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Kids: I don’t like them.

by Lucky Red Hen on October 15, 2011

See? This baby thinks I'm the BEST (and I think he's the bee's knee's), but read on to hear more about the title of this post.

New Person, extending their hand:
Hi! I’m so-and-so. Nice to meet you!

Me, shaking their hand:
Hello :) I’m Shannon and I don’t babysit.

Everybody who knows me is aware of my distaste for children. They are not the first people I want to hang out with if given the option. I prefer teenagers, adults, old folk, animals, and inanimate objects before children.

“That’s an awful thing to say!” Yes, I guess it sounds bad but I’ve heard people say that they don’t like being around old people (they drool, have trouble keeping food off their face, stare at you blankly, move funny, smell funny, sound weird… hey, wait a minute, that sounds like children!), hippies (too loosey goosey), punk rockers (unpredictable!), teenagers (spazzy), quiet people (Una-bomber?), bikers (scary), men (they’re not women!), women (so emotional!)… you get the picture.

So, yeah, I’m not a fan of kids. Other people are fans of kids… YAY! At least I’m honest and you know up front why I’m ignoring your kid every time they stick their toy in front of my face or clutch onto my leg, waiting for a horsey ride. Some people aren’t dog people, some aren’t cat people, I’m not a kid people.

However, there are times where I, gasp, put aside my dislike and help a kid/parent out. I’d rather take your noisy/distracting kid out of a meeting and entertain them in the hallway than sit in there frustrated that I cannot concentrate on what is being said by the teacher/speaker because you think nothing of letting your little one wander the room (Hey, it’s a curtain! Hey, it’s a piano! Hey, look what’s inside this lady’s purse! Hey, I’m walking across the front of the room!) and babble/giggle noisily. (But, if we’re being honest, and I’m all about honesty, that’s your fault not the kid’s so I can’t blame them and that’s why I’m trying to be nice to them.) If you ARE the kind of person who tries to keep your child/baby quiet or occupied so they’re not disruptive and they happen to make some noise then I appreciate the effort and I’m not blaming you. It’s the people who believe (here I go making someone mad) that it’s OK for the baby/kid to do whatever they want and are inconsiderate to others around them.

Oh, you say I’m crotchety and should get over it because babies are beautiful and should be revered as such? (If you don’t say that, ignore the rest of this paragraph, it’s not for you.) How about you get over that I’m crotchety about this and don’t agree with your view on something. This is my OPINION, just like you get to have yours. Because we have differing views doesn’t mean one of us is right/wrong.

For instance, my children got into a fight a while ago. The 8yo, on purpose, threw a glass magnet at her 11yo brother, so he chucked it harder back at her putting a decent welt on her foot. At first, not knowing what happened, I was mad at the 11yo for hurting his little sister. But when I learned that he was retaliating (not that he should have, I don’t condone violence unless it’s in self-defense), I had less empathy for her pain. They both got in trouble for what they did (he CERTAINLY shouldn’t have retaliated, and she shouldn’t have chucked it at him in the first place), and I gave my daughter an ice pack (minus sympathy).

Yes, they’re kids, and kids will be kids… that’s what they do… I did the same thing when I was their age… they don’t know any better… they’re figuring out life… this is how they learn to deal with people… they’re JUST KIDS!

I know all the arguments but I just don’t have a maternal instinct to put up with all that. I am paranoid about my kids safety, yes. I worry about what they’re doing, choosing, seeing, hearing, etc. But the part where people get warm fuzzies being around kids isn’t innate to me. I wish it were… really I do!

Kids are hard for me. Making the right decisions for them isn’t easy. Knowing what to say when they need me to is almost impossible. I don’t have pearls of wisdom like I know other people do. We don’t have activities planned, crafts to create, outings scheduled, or bonding time checked off. I try to love them as best as I can and hope that makes up for the lack of warm fuzzies.

So if I have so much anxiety about my own kids, you know I’m going to have less patience for other people’s kids.

But I’m not a meanie (all the time) and I have been known to be nice (sometimes). And I’m BEYOND grateful for people who ARE kid people to my kidlets and are nice to my kid’s even though I might not be :) They certainly need to get it from SOMEWHERE! So, thanks :)

And a lot of kids, especially babies, seem to be drawn to me. I’m like a beacon, saying, “Hey, you child, I would rather you NOT be near me so come on over here and sit on my lap so I can read you a book!” Wanna know a secret? I will admit, I’m really good with babies. Which is weird because I don’t care for babies. You can’t REASON with them.

“Hey, baby, why are you crying non-stop?” I’ll ask. And they’ll respond with, “Waaaaaaaaaahaaaaahaaaahaaahaa!”

I don’t know what that means. O_o

P.S. I find it ironic that I happen to have babysat this morning… and it was (gasp!) MY IDEA! O_O See, I’m not crotchety ALL the time ;) To prove how good I am with babies (she’s in the midst of I-only-want-mom-or-dad mode), here’s a before and after photo…

BEFORE: she didn't cry and had fun playing with me

AFTER: she was so calm and happy that she laid down and fell asleep in the middle of the toys

In case anyone gets the idea that they should ask me to babysit… this was framily (friend’s who are like family) who came to town for a wedding and didn’t have ANYONE ELSE to watch the baby. So there. Don’t ask (or you can and I’ll just say NO so why bother?)

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