Undone.

Like so many other things in my life, this wall is still undone.

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I’m sure I’m not the only one with things left undone.

But it’s not that piece that gets me; it’s the voice in my head that in order to do a project well and good and lovely, it needs to be done in a certain way and time frame.

“Do it perfect,” it whispers.

“Not right,” the voice reminds me in my thoughts before bed.

Most days I wonder why I listen to this voice – this little naggy, uptight voice – at all.

So a little something for all of us to remember when the voice of perfection gets too loud:

 

You can have it all, just not all at the same time. Or, in my wall scenario here, for me, not within in a day, maybe. Unless you bring in lots of help.

For you with little ones: Hold tight. The years go quickly, but the moments last forever.

And one day (this story I’m preaching to myself) you’ll have shiny clean floors, new carpet, and well, perhaps a freshly painted house.

But right now?

Time to rejoice in the life here. Fingerprints everywhere. Toys on floors. Chortles of laughter through the hallways with the terrible carpets.

And a real-life reminder that contentment and fulfillment never mentioned anything about perfection.

#truth

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Mom of the Year

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Mom of the Year

Let her kids eat a dinner of Cheetos and fruit, blessed it, and called it good.

Mom of the Year

Forgot to put sunscreen on the children on at least a handful of visits to the pool.

Mom of the Year

Almost drove home with an extra kid in her car (carpool works well when you remember to drop that last kid off at their own home.)

Mom of the Year

Lost her patience with her family this season more times than she can count.

Mom of the Year

Decided one night to paint her toenails instead of reading that last, final story and of course instead of doing the long piled-up dishes.

Mom of the Year

Was sure her children would be shoeless wherever they went, as the shoes went on slow as molasses EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

Mom of the Year

Gave into every whim of hers, including losing her cool and letting all the kids have all her energy and forgot to save any for her husband. And proceeded to sigh more than once when all he wanted was just some time with her.

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Mom of the Year 

Listened to that story that she’d her already a hundred times and nodded politely, made eye contact and in an instant, made her three-year-old feel valued.

Mom of the Year

Withheld judgement (and cuss words) about the state of how many diaper changes she did that day and just did them without complaint, without fanfare, and certainly without pay.

Mom of the Year

Waited patiently while someone learned to put on their shoes, pour their own cereal out, complete with milk spills.

Mom of the Year

Chose the extra story and snuggles one night.

Mom of the Year

Infused her car with music, laughter, and a bit of magic when she sensed the carpool friend was feeling a little down.

Mom of the Year

Cleared her schedule, reset her heart, and let the laundry go and listened to her husband’s day and with him, just spent time. 

Mom of the Year

Made a proper dinner, complete with vegetables, all the food groups, and carried on with a smile despite all the complaints about said vegetables.

Mom of the Year

Is wise enough to know that her mothering is the sum of all of her days, not just one, not just a season. And knows that she is doing alright, despite life not being always okay. She knows, deep within, that mothering neither lies in the accolades nor the failures, but showing up for her family day after day.

I’m still here

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I’m still here, yes, despite what I imagine feels like a lot of silence.

Blog posting: Clearly a discipline I have to still work on. Sigh. Along, clearly, with the laundry.

In the meantime, though I haven’t been consistent on this medium (and apologies about that! If you want more of my writing, I suggest you follow me here and here, to ahem, hear from me more often) I have been writing.

Lately, I’m flexing all sorts of different writing muscles – speech writing (I’ve written four, and working on several more for fall,) children’s stories (many still in draft form, but with a goal of sending them off in winter, and one piece with Highlights, eagerly awaiting an answer) and still writing my heart: non-fiction writing, which happens to focus on parenthood/motherhood and a life among children.

And that last category, the non-fiction parenthood/motherhood stories–I’ve received an acceptance from one of my favorite websites on one of my pieces. Hooray!

So, just a note that I am still here. Just writing, mostly, but not so much talking about it. Just writing. And laundry.

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Not a moment too soon

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There is a children’s book  called The Cloudspinner – a book about a boy and the environment. A favorite of both the adults in our family as well as the children. It’s a beautiful book–its message, story, and the theme all wonderfully working together to compliment each other.

One of the wonders of the book (at least for me) is the use of lyrical language and the phrase “Enough is enough and not one stitch more” which reinforces the theme of the story. I’ve thought about that phrase on more than one occasion during the back to school bedlam of emotions that I’m still in the throes of.

One of my friends has a blog called Right Where We Are. It’s a homeschooling blog primarily, with some personal insight on her family and joys and the struggles of what it means to be a family. Meaning: A good mix of the pain and the beauty of life.

While not new to the school rodeo (and no new transitions with new schools, or changes or anything new of note) I’ve been holding these phrases close, as it perfectly describes my feelings about life at the moment. Well, at least in my tiny little hemisphere of writing, children, family and laundry. While I’m not going through any new transitions or changes or anything notable personally, these phrases–not one stitch more and right where we are–have been the anthem to what I feel lately. Meaning: I can’t feel or be what I want to be until I acknowledge where I am.

Which for the past three weeks apparently translates to eating everything in the house that’s not nailed down.

Add in a couple of ice cream treats too, because hey–summer’s ending. Or a chocolate piece or three because – well, children and bedtime. Sometimes you have to bring in reinforcements. Especially when bedtime is a hot mess, sometimes nothing comforts or heals quite like a square of dark chocolate.

I’ve been admonishing myself these past weeks; after all, I’m on a plan! I need to take care of my health! Liz, you don’t do this! You need to clean up your act and return to the familiar routine that includes more fruit than say, Oreos. Zucchinis over frappuccinos!

And yet in all of this I’ve realized: This is right where I’m at emotionally.

That sometimes, emotionally, you can’t move on until you see the landscape of where you are. And apparently, that landscape involves cookies and other comforts for me. Which didn’t stop, or couldn’t stop for that matter, until I sat down with coffee and quiet a couple of days ago and thought about all the feelings (justifiable or not) that the returning to the school year brings out in me.

Regardless of whether or not I’m the actual person returning to school.

I’ve found that for me, I have to sit quietly to slow down enough to catch with my emotions (mine tend to run wild and free like unbridled ponies unless I help corral them) and remember that each one of them, crazy and strange as they are, are ok. And whether or not it’s “right” to have this specific emotion for such a minor event as back to school – it’s ok. Transitions–big or small–effect everyone differently.

And back to school – the bedlam and chaos that ensues from a disruption of the summer routine and involves me getting my act together (and my pants on) much sooner than I’d like or am ready for – well, apparently I need treats and coffee and time to finally realize that I’m a bit emotional about the passing of time and need a moment to catch up with those thoughts.

And sometimes, with a piece of cake.

Back to school. Back to serious.

 

August 2016

So…it’s August.

The time of year I breathe a collective sigh of relief in anticipation of cooler weather coming soon and getting the kids back in school. Which, is a totally different sigh of relief that may or may not involve drinking hot, steamy coffee. ALL.by.myself.

Sometimes it takes a lot to take me to my happy place. And sometimes it takes just a little coffee and some quiet.

Meanwhile, back to school is also back to seriousness for me. I’m already in the trenches, desperate to get children back to their pre-summer routines (joke’s on mom, really). While the kids try to work a coup d’etat on bedtime, I’m getting myself in back to school mode – serious attempts with my writing, blogging, and building this little thing called a writing career.

All that to say this: coming soon, a whopping twice a month, you’ll see new posts.

As fascinating as my child calling a peacock a mohawk as well as the update on what I cleaned this week, perhaps. But hey! At least it’s not an update about how slow the grass grows…right?! And yes, perhaps now’s a good time as ever to check that subscribe option to see if you really want to follow all my updates. Grass included.

Anyways, so cheers to the new year, the new routine, and perhaps, just perhaps, mama getting a tad more time (and brain cells) all to herself.

Last note – I’ll be aiming to blog (about anything and everything, yes…so buckle up your seatbelts) about twice a month, on the 1st and the 15th.

Meanwhile, I’m daydreaming about new notebooks and smelling the hint of freshly-sharpened pencils in the air. You too, friend?

Motherhood: A progressive feast

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Thanks to OZphotography and freedigitalphotos.net for the imagery.

Motherhood is a progressive feast.

Motherhood is a progressive feast, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Sure, you can have it all. Just like you can at a progressive feast-you can have it all if you don’t eat too much at one place. You eventually have it all, the long and short of it, the braised ribs and soufflés, just not all at once, in one spot. Nothing is truer of that then motherhood.

All together frustrating and beautiful at once, this “have it all” bite by bite through life.

Its similarities are astounding: that meatball skewer appetizer at one house wasn’t your cup of tea, and neither was the terrible twos. The pork loin roast – a delicious slice gone in an instant – your daughter at six years old. The delectable pear dessert that was immeasurably satisfying and deeply pleasurable? The rocking chair years, the baby giggles, those fat, dimpled knees.

I don’t know about you, but I get lost in these woods sometimes, the ones that tell me I’m supposed to “have it all.” The thing is, though, only after giving up my big time career have I come to realize I have it all already. I’m just choosing what’s important to me in this season of my life, my family’s life.

We can have it all, eventually. (Italics emphasis for me, really as I’m reminding myself of this.) Just like my writing career – as much as I’d like an illuminating, fast-paced writing career, I can only build small towers at a time; small blocks of work and articles, one bite, one nap time at a time. I am still in the baby phase, a career growing at the same pace (or slower, if I’m being honest here) as my family.

And maybe eventually, I can say I was a best selling writer, an author, someone who writes a regular column.

But right now?

I’m still working slowly through the appetizers savoring each mouthful, most of which are pretty good.

The Mom Diet

Because we all need a diet that can work with our lifestyle. And a little humor in the midst of upcoming Swimsuit Season as well.

Enjoy-

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Thanks to tiramisustudio and freedigitalphotos.net for the image.

The Mom Diet

Also known as how to keep you at a consistent, constant weight!

Note: Start on a Monday.

Week 1:

Day 1:

Breakfast: Coffee with cream

That one last yogurt that’s left in the fridge

Lunch: Pure, untouched pb and j sandwich crusts

3 leftover goldfish

Coffee

Dinner: Sweet potatoes and grilled chicken.

Eat three portions, because, rebellion from the troops about eating food that’s “good for us.”

Exercise: Loudly encouraging eating our dinner that’s “good for us.”

Day 2:

Breakfast: Coffee

A square of stashed chocolate. Before 9am.

Lunch: The soup no one wanted to eat.

Cast off vegetables from last night.

Raisins for snack and mostly dinner too, since you’re overdue for the grocery store.

Exercise:

Taming the beasts who do not want to eat leftovers

Bathing the children who do not want to be bathed

Day 3:

Breakfast: Coffee

Leftover party favor cookie from kid birthday party last weekend

Lunch: Out

At the store, hit up the samples: Shot glass cup of a new Dorito flavor, yogurt raisins from purse, and a communion cup’s worth of the new overtly marketed Orange Berry organic juice from the sample man at Kroger.

Dinner: the piece of pizza that fell on the floor.

The salad that was declared too many “soggy leaves”

Wine. Lots of wine.

Exercise: Running after children at park

Day 4:

Breakfast: Coffee and wine regret

Lunch: Turkey cheese rollups, air popped popcorn, mini baby carrots, and gummis.

More or less, your toddler’s lunch. That he more or less did not eat. Because of all the vivid, healthy colors.

Snack: Sand in the face from the afternoon trip to the park.

Dinner: Spaghetti squash casserole that you loved. And lovingly ate.

While everyone took tiny bits and drank at least three cups of milk (or beer) instead.

Exercise: “dancing” at the library story time hour

Day 5:

Breakfast: Coffee. Mad rush out the door for drop-off, so no time for breakfast.

Lunch: Mini kid food, from tiny tray at Big Kid’s cafeteria, and tinier chair to sit on. This is good. This overweight elf feeling could work to your advantage to remind you to lose some weight!

Snack: Home-baked cookies for everyone!

Dinner: Breakfast for dinner. Since you didn’t have any breakfast earlier. And don’t have to cook.

Day 6:

Breakfast: Oatmeal and berries. Green tea and virtue.

Lunch: Picinic in the park. Your own sandwich, chips, and mini carrots. Plus everyone else’s sandwich crusts, carrots. Juice box.

Snack: None. Forgot to bring snack to GS troop function.

Your daughter’s disappointed and has a mad scowl. That may last a lifetime. Or at least a solid two weeks.

Dinner: Random assortment of mini-appetizers and desserts from two separate birthday/celebration parties.

Day 7:

Breakfast: Husband wakes up, makes coffee, wrangles children and flips pancakes.

Joy, divine joy and hot coffee for breakfast.

Lunch: Sunday dinner at in-laws. YES. ALL the things. Including ROLLS.

Snack: Half of the chocolate bar no one knows about.

Dinner: French meal. Or, grapes, bread with butter, and several cheese selections.

Recipe also called Don’t Have Enough Energy to Cook Tonight.

Net weight gain/loss: Lose 7lbs

Week 2:

Day 8:

Breakfast: Green tea and oatmeal.

Then coffee. And chocolate.

Lunch: Cottage cheese, banana and coffee.

Snack: Chips. Whoops.

Dinner: Half drive-thru, half homemade: One burger, two mini bags of mini carrots, one (and a half of the toddler’s) French fries. Gummis.

Exercise: Running late to soccer practice.

Day 9:

Breakfast: Coffee.

A leftover mini quiche that no one but you loved.

Lunch: One piece of cheese, a handful of spinach leaves and other assorted rejected sandwich parts. The second half of a banana.

Snack: Chocolate. In the guest bathroom so no one hears you and/or makes a comment about it.

Dinner: The Good Mother special: Grilled chicken, peas and salad.

Exercise: Running after the kid that wanted to run away from the park.

Day 10:

Breakfast: Coffee. Lots of coffee.

Last crumbly bits of Cheerios, and milk dregs.

Lunch: Out. Can’t remember if you ate lunch at home, so soup, salad and sandwich while you’re out (glorious!) and the sitter is watching the little one.

Snack: Coffee.

Dinner: Pork chops, mac and cheese, squash.

Eat pork chops, miss out on the mac and cheese since kids ate all of it. Eat squash to your heart’s content. Because it was rejected as “part of dinner.”

Exercise: The gym. Finally.

Day 11:

Breakfast: The hot water heater broke, the kids are a cranky mess and “we” forgot a science project and a book report. Special Coffee Day, a la Venti Mocha Frappucino with whip on the top yes, and a cake pop.

Lunch: Crackers and cheese with cranky toddler.

Snack: Cheetos with a side of wood chips in the park.

Dinner: Various casserole samples and dessert from Bible Study.

Exercise: The heart quickening exercise of stress, and then bigger stress of trying to let the stress go.

Day 12:

Breakfast: Coffee.

Donuts on the way home from drop-off.

Lunch: Turkey roll up and fruit.

Snack: Smoothies and errands in the car.

Dinner: Who cares? Date night! Out of the house! Drinks! Dessert!

Day 13:

Breakfast: Hangover, so coffee. And buttery IHOP deliciousness for everyone else.

Late lunch: Scrap of pizza, half an orange and the cupcake bottom from soccer team party.

Dinner: Your weight in flour and cheese products from the local Italian place in town.

Exercise: Reviewing the estimate for replacing the hot water heater,  followed by fainting.

Day 14:

Breakfast: Coffee. Random, non-chocolate chip granola bar shoved in mouth while herding children into car.

Lunch: Baked potatoes and fruit.

Snack: Sundae on a Sunday.

Dinner: Lasagna and garlic bread, just enough time to fling in the oven before the whole bedtime/bath routine/debates start.

Exercise: Getting everyone to church on time, so sweating and yelling .

Net weight gain/loss: Gain 11lbs

Week 3:

Day 15:

Breakfast: Coffee. Toast crusts for breakfast accompanied by a shot glass of milk since apparently you’re out of clean dishes, milk and apparently, anything resembling a proper meal with real portion sizes.

Lunch: The all-organic vegetable dish that was made just for the little one. Who didn’t eat it all.

Dinner: Coffee and sighs while the kids argue it out about if they would rather have to eat snot or ear wax for dinner. Daydreams of another date night soon with dining room buzz so loud you can’t hear anyone else’s conversation. And especially not conversations about ear wax.

Exercise: Running to the car to get into the carpool lane on time.

Day 16:

Breakfast: Coffee and the half of a banana deemed “too yucky.”

Lunch: Well-balanced lunch out of half of a grilled chicken breast, half of a serving of green beans and 3 bites of a dessert at Board of Directors meeting. Because you swore you read that they provided childcare at this meeting, but you were wrong. Spend other “fine dining” experience chasing little one and shushing.

Snack: Reminiscing about those missed bites of dessert all afternoon.

Exercise: Walk to park.

Snack: Soccer treat day: Eat only one fruit snack pack and 3 mini Goldfish packs before doling out to kids. Feel like epic self-disciplined goddess.

Dinner: Dinosaur chicken nuggets for everyone! Mac and cheese on the house!

Exercise: Trying to fit into last year’s shorts. Sweating, swearing.

Day 17:

Breakfast: Donuts with Dad, so luxurious early a.m. omelet, alone before toddler wakes up.

Green tea because you are a Healthy Lady.

Lunch: Leftover snubbed vegetables from last night’s dinner.

Kid-sized applesauce for snack. Time to run to the store. Again.

Dinner: Netflix, popcorn, pizza and night.

Exercise: Trying to calm the loud tantrums coming from your cart at the store.

Day 18: (Almost there!)

Breakfast: Coffee. Forget to eat breakfast due to epic meltdown about shoelaces and walking to school.

Lunch: Chick Fil A – one third portion of a salad since your toddler is apparently going through a growth spurt.

Snack: Coffee. Three jelly beans shared with you from daughter’s school event.

Dinner: Meatloaf, cornbread, and green beans. Because you finally got it together, did the dishes and went to the store.

Day 19:

Breakfast: Coffee. Green Tea. A handful of vitamins chugged down with OJ. Oatmeal. With chocolate. Because you are an adult and can make those sorts of decisions.

Snack: An apple with three bites taken out of it. Coffee cake.

Lunch: Leftover soup that didn’t have the goldfish on top of it.

Snack: A Ho-Ho from the Ho-Ho stash that no one knows about. Yet.

Dinner: Pizza and exhaustion.

Day 20:

Breakfast: Healthy quiche because you got up early. And alone. Also because no one had an early a.m. game and/or practice today.

Lunch: Chili’s of course. And half eaten portions of kid’s menu broccoli, rice and mashed potatoes.

Soccer treat day: Eat only one fruit snack pack and 3 mini Goldfish packs before doling out to kids. Feel like epic self-disciplined goddess.

Dinner: Steak, wine and peace. Make note to love husband the rest of your life.

Day 21: (Hooray! You made it!)

Breakfast: Half a cold coffee and fruit roll-up in the car. Ain’t no one got time for a peaceful breakfast when everyone has to look nice AND be ready at the same time for church.

Lunch: Drive-thru tacos and relief.

Snack: Chips. Everyone’s asleep and no one can hear you. Or bother you.

Dinner: Half of a piece of supposedly “perfect” fried chicken. Recipe fail.

Late night snack: half of a pizza. Since you are still hungry from the earlier fail and need to go to the store again.

Net weight gain/loss: Lose 4lbs

Congratulations! You did it for 21 days! You should feel recharged and ready for the pool. If you’ve followed the diet faithfully, you should see something similar to these results:

Net loss: 0 lbs.

Net gain: 0 lbs.

Back to original weight!

See how easy it is to maintaining your weight for 21 days?! Hooray for you!