Monthly Archives: August 2011

All in a year

I am amazed at the difference a year can make in the lives of my little human beings.  Sometimes even in mine (if I’m not in an omigosh this phase is dragging funk).

Last summer you may remember this post where my youngest was apprehensive (and bordering the indications for therapeutic intervention) of our little Tiki Man water toy.

365 days later and wa-la…he discovered the pure joy of Mr. Tiki:

He was content with the quality time he and Mr. Tiki were having

Yes, this is safe but thanks for asking Mr. Tiki

Dancing the Tiki

Drinking the Tiki

Constipating the Tiki

Wait, this constipation is fun....let's put him in the grass and see just how much pressure I can create!

Until….he discovered the raw power he held in his hands….

I'm holding a weapon!

Let's kill some grass

But grass killing is boRRRING!

It all began with this look

And there was not a sibling in sight to “bond” with.  Well, not a human sibling anyway.  He did spot a sibling of sorts. And off he went.

C'mere my sibling!

And our fur child entered into some forced bonding time with the Tiki possessed being.

MOMMY HELP ME! I'm TIED down!!!

I know I'm a water loving Lab but this is grounds for animal cruelty!!

See, sometimes I am just too engrossed in my footage that I forget to intervene.  Happens. all. the. time.

Eventually I came to my senses and called off the Tiki weapon wielding child.  It was this intervention that brought the realization of my interactable human status into the equation. Before this, I was just a camera holding prop.

But no longer…

Ready....

AIM...

SATURATE!!!!

I believe you can even see the splatter on my lens with that one. After he was content with the status of my saturation he went on to the enivitable.  In fact, being a boy, I was surprised that this was not the FIRST and possible ONLY activity he engaged in with Mr. Tiki.

Mr. Tiki, the appendage

Then in true boy fashion he turned proudly to face all of creation (who, after watching what happened to our Lab, screamed and hid in horror).

Look out world. Here my appendage and I come!

I can’t wait to see what happens next year.  Or, maybe I can!

This is how the REAL women do it.

At least that’s what I’ve been told.  By women.  I’d be slightly more suspicious if it were the men who were dishing out this info while dishing some of the fruits of the real women’s labor into their traps.

Three generations of us real women (the 14yr old 4th generation was exercising her right to protest in front of the TV) gathered in my kitchen today and bulked up our biceps, triceps, glutes, fingers, and sweated buckets, almost as heavy as the ones we were lifting…

….to and from my stove.  Here are some of this year’s kitchen sights:

The prep

My peachies in their new homes

The trap filling goods of real women. All in a day's work! Much more bicep building ahead.

This sweat labor includes peaches, salsa, and pickled green beans.  Next on the agenda is massive amounts of plain ‘ol greenie beans (which are next to impossible to find this year!)

If it were not for the crack that my mom secretly snuck in those beans last year (I just know she did) then I wouldn’t be taking on this time sucker.  But once you take a bite, you fly like a kite (at least your taste buds do).

So what’da think?  Do you feel we sweaty and questionably bulked up women are real women? Now I know why farm girls can be scary and sport biceps rivaling that of their male counterparts.  OR do you believe as my daughter, who took one look at our living off the grid faces and repeated multiple times,

Real women go to the store!”

Do they?  I am at the store a lot.  And I can food (this year I actually did ’cause my Mom wouldn’t let me play the learner card).  Does that mean I am a real woman squared?!  All of you bulked up real women raise your canning jar or shopping bag because this is how the real women do it.

Enjoy this post that I wrote last year during another real women feat.

GUESS WHAT MY MOM TAUGHT ME TO DO?!?

Here’s a hint…..

Yes, we busted out her pressure cooker, blew off the dust, brought it to my home and began the adventure.  I respect those individuals who can because it is a lot of work!  Truth be told my mom did most of the work since I was “learning” but still, we’re talking hours here people.  Even with all of the work there is just something satisfying about looking over rims and rims of jars.  See….

….and thinking ‘I did that!’ Wow.  Now, one may consider tomatoes to be enough for the day but not my mom.  She is a true slave driver and we tease her mercilessly about her whip crackin’ demeanor.  In addition to the gazillion tomatoes, she brought a bushel of green beans too.  My 80+ year old Grammie began slaving away with those experienced bean snapping hands.

Grama threatened instant death…like snapping my neck rather than the beans death….if I placed anymore than a photo of her hands on this site. Sooooo, I will comply since I have a fondness for my cute little neck.   Since Grama is hands off, enjoy more photos of the beans!

OK, enough of the bean photos.  My mom did not say anything about keeping her photo off this site so here is the woman who taught me all I know 🙂
Thanks MOMMY!!!!

The girl (Mom) with the (fake) diamond earrings

I heard the closet door open.  Then the sloshing sound.  Considering that the closet serves primarily as a home to our linens, I knew the sloshing could come from the only liquid taking up residence there. The jewelery cleaner.

I heard the clinking of my jewelery into the liquid followed by my youngest yelling (his version of asking permission),

MOM, I’m cleaning some of your stuff!”

Given that My Stuff consists primarily of junk jewels, I smiled and hoped that he didn’t grab (and was now drowning) anything of sentimental value.  Ya’know how some of those junk jewels are right?  They melt and flake and downright disintegrate upon contact with liquid or soap.

He came out glowing partly from the blinding light reflection off of my now clean, overly large (we’re talking massive carat weight), CZ earrings that he held in his dirty little hands.  After convincing me to put them on he gasped,

Oh Mom, you look sooo BEAutiful…just beautiful!!!”

I love this age when beauty is so easy to achieve.  To them, right now, everything is just beautiful.  My stretched out ear lobes (not reaching the African tribal stretch yet) thanks to the huge CZs currently hanging on them are beautiful.  My morning bed-head is beautiful.  My eye bags are beautiful.  My face is beautiful.  My PJ’s are beautiful.  My voice is beautiful.  My aged skin is beautiful. To my 6yr old, I am beautiful.

This Beautiful Mamma, of three has been a good sport like all Beautiful Mammas before her.  I’ve worn awful proudly because one of my darlings thought it was divine.

I’ve had my neck turn green, my fingers nearly fall off and I have sustained raging cellulitis of the ear lobes thanks to cheap costume jewelery purchased by my beloveds at their school Santa’s Workshop.

I’ve worn hand strung dyed noodles and buttons around my neck.  Tacky pins on my chest.  Tye-dyed T-shirts that looked like baby diaper blow-out.  Bows in my hair, charms on my shoes.

And there was the time that one (only time) when I went out in public after being “made-up” by my, at the time,  young 2 1/2-year-old daughter.  I looked like a cross between The Mad Hatter and The Joker.  I was sleep deprived (and sucked dry dehydrated from my pro breast-feeding infant) and clearly functioning at the rote level.  And we needed milk (not the kind that my highly effective mammary glands were springing forth).  Incase you didn’t know, milk is what drives all house wives, in various states of decay, from the shelter of their homes.  It wasn’t until I saw a reflection of myself in the frozen section aisle that I understood why elderly ladies were flocking to me.  One even informed me she liked my bright red lipstick.

So, you see, for this Beautiful Mamma wearing a pair of gaudy bling in my ears was NAA-THING. I pranced around the house as he ooh’ed and aww’ed and then I went to the grocery store with my now 14yr old daughter, the same daughter who morphed my face into some hideous many years ago.

I was talking to myself (to the products actually) as I usually do.  My mouth and I moved up and down the isles to our well-practiced beat.  The grocery store is therapeutic.  I find that I have some of my best conversations with the store items.   And when I get odd looks from the other store patrons, I either pretend that I have a blue tooth attached to my ear (if I am feeling people opinion conscious) or ramp up the conversation with my spinach (if I’m going for leave me alone crazy).  Works every time.

My daughter looked at me as I was talking to my produce.  I know THAT look.  The long, long stare…the pause…then the verbal spewage.  I expected her to comment on my mental stability or ask why I felt the need to inquire of the carrots quantity amounts.  Instead she said,

“Those earrings make you look ghetto.  Never wear them again.”

I cleared my throat and itched my now burning, flaming red lobes as I informed her (and my carrots – not the carats flashing on my ears) that one day she will also be sporting cheap, fake bling in the name of love.  She silently understood.  I got the eye roll.

I may not have the sexy babushka towel wrap on my head or the non-itchy, real pearl earrings but for now, to a 6yr old, I am the most beautiful creature on the planet.

I am the Mom…his Mom with the (fake) diamond earrings and that’s just beautiful.