Things you cannot make up

Duck: Hey, Stealth, gimme that hook.

Stealth: No, Duck, I'm the hooker.

Duck: NO, Stealthie, I'M the hooker.

Stealth: I'm the hooker.

Duck: NO, I SAID, I'M A HOOKER. I'M THE BEST HOOKER IN THE WORLD!

**********************************

Duck: Hey Mom, is Mark Velma's Husband?

Me: Nope.

Duck: Yes he is, they just don't know it yet.

*************************************

Stealth: Wow, Mom, I love Bob Marley.

Me: That's awesome, Stealth. What do you know about Bob Marley?

Sage: He's my hero and his Mama named him after me.

******************************************

Stealth: Hey Mom, you know Daddy and Grandpa?

Me: Yes, we've met.

Stealth: I have a secret about them!

Me: You do?? What is it?

Stealth: My secret is this : Daddy is my Daddy and Grandpa is my Grandpa.

***************************************

Duck: Hey lady, my name is Duck and I'm 5 years old. Come meet my mom - I think you need her.

Upon seeing a very pregnant woman in the grocery store.

************************************

Duck: Hey Mom, you know Emily?

Me: Yes, Duck. Emily works at Willie's - she's a waitress.

Duck: NO, she LIVES there.

Me: No, Duck she just works there, I'm sure she lives somewhere else.

Duck: NO, Mommy. She lives at Willie's. She has to - she's all about the mayonaise.

**********************************

Stealth: Mommy, do you not have a penis?

Me: No, Stealth, I do not have a penis.

Stealth: Let me see.

************************************

Peek-a-Boo, I see you

One way or another

I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha

So, I've mentioned that I have two sons, but I see that I've nearly only written about and posted photos of Duck. That kid is just so out there! Yesterday, after a particularly intense "NO WIRE HANGERS" moment on my part, Duck came up to me and said, "That's okay, Killer. We all make mistakes." Seriously, how can you not write about that kind of stuff?

But, I have 2 sons and the other kid is just as much of a character.

Stealth, also known as Monkeyboy, Scrambler, The One to Keep Your Eye On. In Stealth's 3 years, he has managed to find all my buttons and create a few new ones. He makes me think. He challenges me. He is fiery and passionate and opinionated. He's a dare devil and couldn't give two shits about what anyone thinks (except maybe his hero, Duck.) He's an artist, a dreamer, a punk rock kid. He wears his emotions on his sleeve and couldn't hide his feelings for the world. He screams and kicks and spits and hits and throws things. And he cuddles and comforts and loves and kisses and gives. You can look into his eyes and tell that no matter what you're trying to front, he can see right through you. He's lived a thousand times over.

He's just like me. He drives me insane.

Stealth and I have been struggling pretty hard with each other over the last couple of weeks. He's probably spent more time in his room than out of it. He's just BARELY a Taurus, really really close to Aries, so he butts head with his Aries mom all the damned time. Frankly, what it boils down to is that we both just don't really know what to do with each other and neither of us will back down. Now, of course, I know that as the grownup, I should be open. I should listen. But, of course, I don't. We fight and argue. I know it's more important to be happy than to be right and if no one's going to die, well, then I should very well just make peace. But I don't - and I don't think he wants me to.

Don't get me wrong, Stealth is my baby and I love him more than Sushi (Shhhhhhhhhhh - don't tell ANYONE that I love ANYTHING more than sushi. You never want to anger the sushi gods.) The same things about him that drive me insane fuel my love for him like a Molotov cocktail. I could spend hours looking into his eyes trying to figure him out, knowing that he's known every single bit about me since before he breathed air. I know that he spends more than two thirds of his time just waiting for me to catch up. I know that he's met Bob Marley and Martin Luther King, Jr., and Jerry Garcia, and all the rest. I know he carries with him their power and love and truths. I know that Stealth's role in this world is to change it. He's going to shatter misconceptions. He's going to bring the truth to light. He's going to paint the sky.

But for now, he's gonna drive me up the wall.

Stealth is independent. He doesn't want to need anyone. He doesn't want anyone to know that he's aware that anyone else in the world exists. He is his own man.

But, he's only three years old.

When we butt heads and fight and push each other's buttons, we both pretend that we couldn't care less, that we don't need each other's touch. That we don't want to cuddle and kiss and laugh. That we could care less if the other one ran off to Vegas forever.

But it's a ruse.

Around 4 in the morning, the truth comes out. Around 4 in the morning, I feel tiny little lips on my cheek. I open my eyes and I see my puffy eyed, fuzzy headed revolutionary of tomorrow standing beside my bed. I pull back the covers and in he climbs. I wrap my arms around him, smother him with kisses, and he snuggles in close. He whispers, "Oh, I love you, Mama." And as we drift off to sleep, I can almost hear him thinking, "I gotcha again, Mom. I gotcha again."

What I know for sure

1. When they ask for an epidural at 1 centimeter, it's going to be a long night.

2. The only thing more precious than a brand spanking newborn baby is a brand spanking newborn Grandpa.

3. Cafeteria chicken strips and mashed potatoes at 1 AM will rival the Hoover Dam anyday - NOTHING gets past it.

4. An older male obstetrician can be so much cooler and with it than a young female OB. You know, anyone who will discuss the finer points of imports and microbrews in between pushes and hates Bud Lite is a good man.

5. A raging bitch can turn into a goddess - if you give her 3 years or so. Apparently, a nurse CAN learn from telling a laboring woman that she cannot make noise 'cause it will wake folks up and the subsequent verbal bitch slapping that came from saying just that.

6. Seeing a brand new family can make you miss yours more than anything in the world.

7. The best feeling in the world is coming home after a marathon and having your children and your husband climb into bed with you - just because they missed you and want to spend time with you - even if you're sleeping.

8. Slight shoulder dystocia can be resolved while keeping the perineum intact - but you'll never forget the sound of those shoulders popping free.

9. A placenta is NOT like a field of dreams - it will come even if you don't do a damned thing at all. Certain folks would do well to pay attention to this fact.

10. Every time a woman gives birth, she changes the world.

Sarah Magnolia

best day evah - proof of me wearing a bathing suit!

When my husband and I were dating (okay, we never dated - we moved in with each other 6 days after our first kiss,) he used to say that Sugar Magnolia reminded him of me. A long time Grateful Dead fan, this moved me beyond reason. Truth of the matter is that I also used to see myself in the song. I felt like Sarah Magnolia. 6 years, 2 kids, a business and a mortgage later, I've been feeling like anything but Sugar Mag, Sarah Mag, frankly, I've been feeling about as alive and thrilling as Milk of Mag. Until yesterday.

Yesterday was AMAZING. Just great. And today and tomorrow gonna be even better.
'Nough said.

Sugar Magnolia blossom's blooming
Head's all empty and I don't care
Saw my baby down by the river
Knew she'd have to come up soon for air

Sweet blossom come on under the willow
We can have high times if you'll abide
We can discover the wonders of nature
Rolling in the rushes down by the
riverside

She's got everything delightful
She's got everything I need
Takes the wheel when I'm seeing double
Pays my ticket when I speed

She come skimming through rays of violet
She can wade in a drop of dew
She don't come
and I don't follow
Waits backstage while I sing to you

She can dance a Cajun rhythm
Jump like a Willys in four wheel
drive
She's a summer love in the spring, fall and winter
She can make happy any man alive

Sugar magnolia
Ringin' that blue bell
Caught up in sunlight
Come on out singing
I'll walk you in the sunshine
Come on honey, come along with me

She's got everything delightful
She's got everything I need
A breeze in the pines in the summer night moonlight
Crazy in the sunlight yes indeed

Sometimes when the cuckoo's crying
When the moon is halfway down
Sometimes when the night is dying
I take me out and I wander round
I wander round

Sunshine daydream
Walk you the tall trees
Going where the wind goes
Blooming like a red rose
Breathing more freely
Light out singingI'll walk you in the morning sunshine
Sunshine daydream
Walk you in the sunshine

Get out your ice skates, hell just froze over

I've done it, that which never was to be done ever again.

I bought a bathing suit.

It has two pieces.

I need someone over here with a bottle of Jack Daniels RIGHT NOW.

At play in the fields of my truth

my coat of many colors

Okay, before we get started, let's address the cleavage in this picture. Duck took this picture of me yesterday and I really love it. For those of you who are offended, get over it. I HAVE BREASTS! Surprise. If this sparks up any of you, hush up about it, I don't want to hear it, and you're welcome.

Yesterday Velma and Mark came to visit. Can I just tell you that it was kind of like Christmas, a Rainbow Gathering, a good therapy session, and art camp all rolled into one? SUPER FUN. BTW, if you read this, Mark, good on you for attempting to muddle through Mid-MO's first day of summer and not hang yourself. If it gets too bad, you can borrow our pump to empty out your lungs.

Earlier in the day, the boys and I had painted some little wooden thingies and I had gotten a brush stroke of this gorgeous metallic purple paint on my shoulder. While sitting outside under one of our mulberry trees talking to Velma, it became undeniably clear that I had to have my arms painted. I couldn't find a single reason for this - but it was calling me. So, I thought about it as I had deep and wonderful conversations with Velma, while Mark played with the boys and occasionally brought us mulberries from the other tree to eat. Yep, had to be painted, so I asked Velma to do it. But, being the wise woman that she is, Velma told me that Mark should be the one to do it. AH yes, indeed. He is, after all, the cat responsible for the Swiffer logo (in case his rant isn't enough for you, you can see his work stuff here.)

So, with paints in hand and Johnny Cash blaring, Mark set off to work on my arm and my boys started painting my legs. Colors swirled and my skin tingled and the reason for all of this became VERY clear. I needed to paint away the false skin I'd been wearing for so long. The paint helped me to see the real colors inside. Keep reading - I'm going somewhere with this, I swear.

My children don't know my truths and it's because I foolishly have hidden it from them. Have I mentioned before that I have completely ruined my children? No one else seems to agree with me, but yep, I feel as though I've fucked them up for all time. No need to save for a college fund, I believe the money would be better spent on either therapy or bail. Okay, back to the subject at hand.

For some reason, I've been under some delusion that I had to be conservative and restrictive to be a good parent. For those of you who know me, stop laughing before you piss yourselves. Truth is that I've had these insane ideas of what I should and should not allow, what I should and should not enforce, what is and what is not important. I have never been very good at following this crap up, so I've been highly ineffective, which pisses me off, which makes me a bitch, which makes me go off on my kids, and thus, I have screwed them up.

HERE'S THE TRUTH - I can and should just raise them with my own ideas. For example:

At night, after the kids go to bed, I treat myself to something sinful - CANDY - about one week a month. This morning, my kids found my stash before Brian and I woke up. Any other day, I would have flipped out - today, I told them to enjoy it! Honestly, who cares if my kids eat candy for breakfast today? As long as they don't do it every day, what's the big deal?

I don't have to make sure that they make their beds, that they don't watch endless episodes of The King of the Hill, that they eat a fruit, grain, and vegetable with EVERY meal. They don't have to match. They don't have to wear a shirt if they don't want to. Their shoes don't have to be on the correct feet. Occasionally, my bras DO make wonderful super-hero helmets. It's OKAY if they fight. It's OKAY if they don't want to go to the library today (although, honestly, I've never seen a day where my kids weren't crawling all over me to take them to the library.) It's OKAY if they want to sit and look at floor when the big show is in the sky. Maybe their show is neater.

And it's okay to paint your skin instead of the wooden thingies.

My truth: motherhood can be fun. Motherhood does not have to be as hard as I've made it on myself. NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING has to be done exactly this second in exactly this way for exactly this reason. In fact, NOTHING has to be done at all. As long as we're breathing and moving, we're doing enough. Everything will get done. Maybe not the way that I envision, but who's to say that I'm right?

Thanks, Velma and Mark. The paint washed off, but the art remains.

Just look what I've done!

my best accomplishment

When the phone rings at my house, it starts the next round of the newest family game. Kind of like "Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral," we play "Playdate, Baby, or Fiber" on a daily basis. There's never a question of who the call is for - it's always for me. Anyone calling for my husband just calls his cell phone. He doesn't even bother answering the house phone anymore.

Playdate

Sometimes, it's a girlfriend of mine wanting to get together for a girlie playdate (usually involves sushi, beer, shoes, yarn, or all of the above.) Sometimes, it's a girlfriend calling for a kiddie playdate (it's an odd thing with kids - its almost easier handle a ton of them together than to deal with just a couple. They fend for themselves and each other if there's a herd.) Sometimes, it's my dear friend, JP, looking for an adults only dinner (she and her husband with me and my husband.) Elvis, those nights are so fun -but few and far between.

But, mostly, the phone ringing means work. And the phone's been ringing off the hook.

BABY

As my business partner says, "look at us -getting all the attention!" We've been contacted by oodles and gobs of gestating women in the last couple of weeks. We've had a couple of births, a couple of interviews, a million prenatals, and the calendar is getting full. It's good, what we do. We love it. We're good at it. And people know it. (SMOOCH, DDFF!)

Sometimes I have to take a step back and think, "Whoa, how the hell did this happen?" I'll tell you how - years of hard work and sacrifice. I have been into birthwork now for 12 years, in some form or another. I never imagined that someday I would be noticed on the street as "That doula Sarah," that folks would come up to me and say, "I've heard so much about you - I'm so glad to finally meet you," that people would honestly say to me, "It's an honor to finally meet you. I cannot wait to have a baby so you can be my doula." (I swear to Elvis, someone said that to me. I couldn't believe it.) Just this morning, I got a phone call from an old friend from whom I haven't heard in years. She said, "I Googled you to see if I could find anything at all about you and you're fucking all over the place!" Yep. All over the place - in more ways than you can imagine.

Fiber

Last night, I sat back and realized that you could theoretically find my fiber creations (sewn, knitted, etc.) in several states. Missouri, Colorado, California, Minnesota, Ohio, Illinois, Kansas, Texas to name a few. A few weeks ago, I attempted to make a new bag, but it wasn't looking right, so I finished it up as a hat. It just wanted to be a hat - stupid me for trying to force it to be a bag. Anyway - the hat became a birthday gift. At the birthday party, I got 2 orders for that hat! So, I made several to let the buyer have a choice. They all sold before the buyer got to pick. My husband, in his brilliance, held 2 back so that the buyer would still have his, but he no longer had a choice. I now have orders backed up for this hat that started out as a bag. It's highly likely that my stuff will be selling in a couple of our local shops by fall. I'm getting phone calls or emails everyday from folks who are asking how much I charge for this shirt, that skirt, this hat, that bag, these pants - and how much do I charge for shipping because they live in a different state! Where the hell are these folks hearing about me? I don't have a wesbite up yet. I don't really much care how they're hearing about me - I'm just stoked that they are!

Again, how did this happen? We grew up poor. Sincerely, I don't think I had real butter until I was 17 years old, had no idea that cheese should be made mostly of milk instead of vegetable oil, and wheat bread? Forget about it. We were poor, but my parents busted their ass to give us the best we could manage. My Mom made most of my clothes and I grew up at the side of her old Singer sewing machine. I used to design clothes and then tell Mom, "Here's what I want - you make it." And she always tried her best, but I could see that she was thinking, "Make it yourself, you little freak! There's no pattern for that!" So, I started making for myself. Crochet came out of desperation in my late teens and early 20's. I'm telling you, when you're in the desert and you're tripping your tits off, it gets COLD at night. Hats are handy. I'm no longer in my early 20's and I no longer trip (except over toys,) but crochet still serves me well. Knitting was just a short leap from there.

I've done so much more than I ever anticipated. I work for myself. I love what I do. I'm good at it. And no one, NO ONE, tells me what to do, how to do it, and no one does it just like me. Not bad for a gal who never finished college, who lived a rootless existence, who made some foul choices in my days.

I'm accomplished. I'm a business woman. I'm well known and recognized. I'm succesful. But that's not what makes me most proud.

I'm most proud of the family I've built. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if it's animal, vegetable, mineral, playdate, baby, or fiber. It doesn't matter when the baby is due, who's house we're playing at, what color that baby sling needs to be. At the end of the day, I look at my sleeping sons and think, "those amazing creatures came from me!" As I slide into bed and curl up behind my beloved husband, I think, "This is my partner for life," and I fall asleep dreaming of what we can accomplish, the four of us, together.

Sunshiney day

I think, every once in awhile, we have to do a reality check. I think that all too many of us are carrying around a grudge and chip on our shoulders. Or, maybe it's true that we are all just still holding onto that little bit of us that wore black all the time with either Docs or Cons and thought that no one had ever felt the suckage of the vast wastland of our lives nearly as much as we had - you know, the teenager in all of us. But, life goes on, life gets better, and sometimes we need to be happy about it. If you feel good, show it.

I'm feeling fabulous today. So, I'm gonna show it. And, I'm going to take a minute and list a few of the things that I'm so happy about - or, well, things that I'm so glad I have got going for me.

In no particular order:

I can get sushi in my area 7 days a week (although, the quality is better on 6 out of those 7 days.)

My boys are healthy and beautiful and smart.

My boys are incredibly forgiving when I screw up - which is often.

I can read and therefore the whole world is open to me.

I live in a country where I can say that the president is a total tool -and I do it every day.

I like myself overall, and I can face the parts of me that I don't like in order to fix them.

I honestly am learning to eliminate negativity from my life - and that includes people who suck the life force from me, family members, so-called friends, and all.

I feel safe and loved in my marriage.

I trust my husband implicitly.

He still makes my knees shake, my toes curl, and my heart race. And all of that happens just with the thought of him. I'm keeping what happens when he's in the room private. Heh Heh Heh.

My family has a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and love in our hearts.

I can hear music.

I have dear girlfriends who fit the following roles: The Cheerleader (you can do it, Sarah,) the Realist (are you out of your fucking mind, girl?,) the impulsive one (oh, Sarah, you just gotta buy that! When else are you going to find a glow in the dark can opener?,) the caretaker (You have cramps? I'm on my way. Do you want one pint of Ben and Jerry's or two?) The drop of the hat girl, (I'll be there in 2 seconds - do I have to put on pants first?) the smokey boozers (girls night out, Sarah. I'll pick you up and give you an ibuprofin and pedialyte IV.) I have girlfriends who inform me of new books, new music, new food. I have girlfriends who fill all those parts of me that need filling and that my husband just cannot fill. I am blessed to be around women, to love women, to appreciate women, and to NOT FEEL THREATENED by other women. I'm grateful to you all, ladies.

And I love men.

I have learned to be still and feel the air on my skin.

I get to see babies be born.

I love fibers and know what to do with them.

I have folks who will read this.

I could go on, but I have a kiddo who needs some lemonade and then we're going to paint wooden turtles. We might go swimming later or we might take a nap. But, whever we do, it'll be a sunshiney day.

Daisy Head

Flower Power

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I'd smoked my mind the night before
With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid
Playing with a can that he was kicking.
Then I walked across the street
And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken.
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost
Somewhere, somehow along the way.

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.

In the park I saw a daddy
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school
And listened to the songs they were singing.
Then I headed down the street,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,
And it echoed through the canyon
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalkAnd Sunday morning coming down.


Thanks, Kris, for writing the words.
Thanks, Johnny, for giving it soul.
I know exactly what you mean.
I know exactly how you feel.

What women want

Monkey and Sass

If you've read any of my recent posts, you'll remember that some folks who are important to me are splitting up. Naturally, this gets me to thinking and I have to admit, I've come very close to spilling some secrets, sisters. I've nearly told the man the truth about what women want. Forget Martha-gate, I'm on the verge of some serious insider trading. I feel, however, that it needs to be out there because I do, after all, have compassion for those poor lost souls trying to figure out women. So, here it is.

Girls want to be needed. Women want to be wanted.

When we're girls and young women (really, still just glorified girls,) we think we should be needed. That's what we want from our young men (boys with patchy facial hair and that one lonely wirey chest hair of which they are so proud.) There's nothing more romantic to the young woman than to hear, "I need you so much, baby. I'm nothing without you." When we're young, we want to feel like we are EVERYTHING to a young man, that the world revolves in our over sprayed hair and our Daisy Dukes. We like to "fix" our guys or, at least, show them the way. We love guys who are tormented and write Nyquil poetry (still lovin' you Gegan, wherever you are,) we love guys who are just "misunderstood." We want our guys to make us the center of their universe and the subject of their 3 chord garage band ballads. We long for the 3 AM phone call (for which we are grounded for a week,) because it's the only time said young man can sneak a phone call to us since his folks busted him with the dime bag.

So, our young men grow into full grown men believing that this is still what we want. But, oh they are sorely mistaken.

When we become women, we want to be wanted. Never is this more true than for a woman who has been married for a time and MOST ESPECIALLY if she has children. We're through with being needed. That penny has lost it's shine long ago. We've been needed to pour juice, wipe bottoms, kiss boo boos, fold laundry, drive the car pool, find the work clothes, make dinner, attend the oh so fun office parties and dinners with the boss, sew on buttons, and be thrilled with the three minutes of love that seem to happen once a month and are over almost before we enter the room.

Nope, the "I need you" boat has passed. We're cruising on the "I want you" ocean liner. And here, gentlemen, I give you the secret:

The difference between needing someone and wanting someone is this - when you need someone, it's all about what you NEED from that person, ie, what that person can do for you. When you WANT someone, it's all about what you can do for (with) that person.

Confused? Read on.

We don't want to complete anyone. We want someone to come to us whole already. We don't want to be needed because, dammit, being needed is constant work on someone else. Screw that. We want someone who can fix his own dinner, answer his own phone, figure out which pants match which shirt, can make a decision, have a hobby, whatever. We've been the center of the universe to young boys and children for YEARS and we're done with it, if we have a choice. We want a man to say, "Damn, baby, you've been working so hard. Go ahead, get some sushi with your girlfriends. I'll make my own dinner and play poker with the guys. You stay out as long as you want and I'll see you soon." We want a guy to say, "Hey, check it out - I figured that if you put water on the burner of the stove, it'll boil if it's turned on. Guess what all you can do with boiling water! It's amazing! Here, let me show you!" We want a guy who will share the deepest part of himself with us, not because he needs us to hear it, not because we're the only one he can trust with it, no, we want him to share himself with us because he can, he wants to, and because listening is enough. There's more to providing than bringing home a paycheck. We want you to give as much as you take. While jewelry is nice (oh Elvis, it's nice) we want you to give us things that you cannot hold in your hand.

We want a partner, not a project.

We want to *compliment* a man, not complete a man because a real woman is whole in and of herself and needs no completion - and we'd like the same in return.

Come to us whole or don't come to us at all. We've raised enough men in our lifetimes. We're done raising them. We want to walk beside you, not lead you. We want to delight in who you are, not help you figure that out.

No fear, men of the world, you are winners in this, too! Self sufficiency is an amazing tool to have in your arsenol. BUT, here's yet another secret: women are much more likely to do things for someone if they don't need us to do it. We'll be so much more giving if it comes to us organically and not because it won't get done if we don't do it ourselves. It's so much more enjoyable to make dinner for someone who can feed themselves than it is to make dinner for someone who will walk around like a lost puppy dog for hours complaining of being hungry.

WANT us, gentlemen. That's it. Just WANT us. Delight in us, don't demand from us. Let us hold your hand, not your leash. I assure you, if you can feed your own bellies and your own mind, together we can feed each others souls.

Okay, girls, I've spilled the beans. But, in all fairness, we cannot get what we want if they have no clue what that is. Show this to your guy. If he's worth his salt, I'll meet you at Osaka and we'll stay out till dawn.

One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small (the remix)

Americans are fat. According to the Weight-control Information Network (WIN,) a division of the National Institutes of Health, 129.6 million (64.5%) adults over the age of 20 are overweight. 61.3 million (30.5%) are obese. 15.3% of children (ages 6-11) and 15.5% of adolescents (12-19) are overweight. This blows me away. WHAT ARE WE DOING TO OURSELVES? WHAT ARE WE DOING TO OUR CHILDREN? If I hear one more person say, "Oh, my child isn't fat - he's just big boned," I'm gonna flip out. Yeah, he's got big bones - and he's got some big fat on those big bones! Get that bacon double cheeseburger out of his hand - it's bigger than his head! Ever hear of a damned carrot?

Don't get me wrong. I know that for some folks, it's entirely a medical issue. And oh, I know how easy it is to be one of the 129.6 million folks who are overweight. I was overweight for years. I love food. I LOVE FOOD. By the way, have I mentioned that I LOVE FOOD?

But I love myself more.

I've been dealing with weight issues my whole life. Seems that I've always been too fat, too thin, or pregnant. To be honest, I enjoyed the aspect of pregnancy that allowed my weight to balloon and no one batted an eye at it. When I reached, 160 pounds, however, it became an issue. At 5 foot 4 inches (on a good day,) I looked like a cube when I was 160 pounds. When I gave birth to my last child, I lost a bit of weight but not nearly what I would have liked. I thought, "Oh hell, I breastfeed my kids forever, it's normal and neccessary to keep some of the weight on." Then Stealth weaned. I lost a little more and thought, "Awesome!" But I couldn't break that 150 pound mark. Just couldn't. Until -

One night I was laying on the floor outside my boys' room (to scare away the monsters, you know,) and I thought, "Damn, I'm bored. I wonder what would happen if I did a sit up?" So I did one and guess what happened? NOTHING. Nothing happened. The world did not stop spinning, gravity did not suddenly reverse, my belly button didn't fall off. So I thought, "Hmm. I guess I'll do another one." So I did. And then I did another. And another. And then I moved my legs some. And then it occurred to me to do some every night. So I did. I decided to not eat the vat and half of ice cream that night. And I thought that maybe water instead of soda would be okay and if I had to have a soda, maybe one without so much sugar would work as well. The world kept on turning, I still was on the floor and not the ceiling and, yep, belly button still intact. But my pants didn't fit anymore. Hmmm. Long story short, I've lost about 35 pounds since Thanksgiving of 2004, the majority of it coming off in 2 months (February and March 2005.)

Everyone has asked me what I did to lose the weight. When I tell them the truth - I ate less and moved more - they look at me with disbelief and disgust. Everyone is looking for a magic answer, the magic pill, that makes them lose the weight. I don't have a magic pill for you (well, not one that will make you lose weight, anyhow.)

From CNN.com (Friday, June 10)
In a no-nonsense approach to weight loss, the American Heart Association's new diet book offers options for the weak. Can't give up pizza? Try eating two slices instead of your regular three. Craving ice cream? Try a sorbet.
"The intent on doing this was to try to get around the faddish diets," said Dr. Robert Eckel, president-elect of the American Heart Association and professor of medicine at the University of Colorado School of Medicine. "The theme is based on behavior, nutrition and physical activity."

SURPRISE! I guess all that we were taught in 8th grade health class is true. What's true today is the same that's been true forever and will continue to be true for the rest of time. There's no secret - eat from your brain, not from your heart. Move your body. The cold hard fact is that it took us all time to get to the weight we are, it will take time to get to weight we want to be. It's hard work, but it can be fun, (Go ahead, tell me that giving away all your fat clothes isn't a hoot!) It takes determination. It takes effort. But I'm worth it - and so are you.

You're more than welcome to come and sit on my floor and see if you, too, can do a sit up without chaging the rotation of the Earth. I'm sure there are more monsters to scare away -they're probably hiding out with the White Rabbit.

New note from Mamakohl:
I'm sure there are folks out there who will rupture a blood vessel in their foreheads reading this post. I hope you have insurance because if this pisses you off, just wait - you have no idea what might come flying out of my mouth / fingertips at any moment.

Seriously, if you have issues with it, seems to me that it's your problem and not mine. I think it would be wiser use of your time to examine why you have such issues than it would be for you to use the time to email me your frustrations. I've got enough of my own, thank you very much.

There are no words

I know of a couple, married for over 30 years, who are separating. I'm fairly close to both of them, so I'm emotionally effected and torn, but I'm not so close to them that I cannot keep some sort of distance and clarity. It's fairly clear to me that they have both done some things that have screwed it up - and probably have been doing those same things for all the 30+ years that they've been together. After all, if you do what you've always done, you're going to get what you've always gotten.

I think they both must trust me because they have both admitted some somewhat personal things to me. I feel honored that they trust me with their truths. How do I support them both? How do I stay true to myself and answer honestly when they ask for my opinion and still not seem to be taking one side over another? Truth be told, I have a few strong opinions for both of them.

BUT

1) the reality is that it's NONE of my business. Period.
2) these people have been married longer than I've been breathing air, so what do I know?

There aren't words for this. The only thing I can think of is, "Let's pour ourselves a tall one, and chop a line from here to Texas."* Well, they don't drink and I've never chopped a line, so that doesn't really work, you know?

At the end of the day, what do I say? What can anyone say?

*Mr. Ritchie, rock on.

Will the real Mamakohl please stand up

Self

My friend, Velma, is the bravest person I know. She might not jump in front of moving trains or run into blazing buildings to save someone's pet turtle, but still, none the less, the girl has balls. She does, on a regular basis, something that scares the crap out of me like no clown or Republican could - she takes self portraits and actually shares them with folks.

Velma's Self Portraits

Velma has not led the most charmed life, nor has she always made the perfect choices, but she's never apologetic for who she is. She's herself and she loves and honors herself and, in essence, has become flawless as a result. What would it be like to be her? To be okay with myself every day in everyway. If she sees something in herself that she doesn't like, she fixes it but doesn't berate herself for having less than perfect traits. She's honest and does a self check all the time *without qualifiers.* AMAZING. She is, I believe, the embodiment of an empowered woman.

And she's a hell of a lot of fun, to boot!

Last night, my husband and I stayed up waaaaaay too late watching home movies. What I realized is that I couldn't handle watching the parts with me in them. Oh I squirmed and looked away. I didn't like the way I sounded, the way I was acting, the size of my body. I could have erased myself from those videos and been totally fine. That is horrible! Why can't I just be Zen with who I am?

Jaime Lee Curtis has written some amazing children's books - I think that even adults should read them. Anyway, she has one out that's about self esteem and it has things in it like, "I'm gonna like me when I make mistakes." The whole thing is just about digging yourself regardless of your flaws. Just learning to like what you see when you look in the mirror and just loving yourself, warts and all. LOVE Jamie Lee. At 29 years old, can I learn a lesson I should have gotten when I was a kid?

I'm gonna try. I'm going to be unashamed of who I am. I'm going to explore myself and take pictures of myself and learn to be cool with them. I'm going to capture the less that perfect complexion, the large forehead and prominent chin. I'm going to accept that I'm not 18 anymore (thank Elvis I'm not 18 anymore,) and that sometimes I just look old and haggard because sometimes I look young and beautiful. I'm going to explore why I cannot handle images of myself.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to pick the real Mamakohl out of the lineup. But if not, at least I'll have some nice parting gifts.

Assorted rumblings in my head

SO. Some of you may have noticed that I deleted a post (One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small.) I got an email from someone with not so nice comments regarding the post and, in a moment of weakness, I gave two hoots about what they said. Favorite comments from the email:

my weight loss "isn't something that should be shouted about because it's just plain insensitive to those of us who aren't where you are,"

"sitting on your floor isn't the answer"

But the grand prize winner is

"Maybe the reason that 129.6 million Americans are overweight is because our government has a twisted idea of what normal weight really is."

Well, thanks so much for your opinion. Now that it's been voiced and your thoughts are read as well, I'm going to try to recreate the post. Look for it soon.

In all fairness, if Michael Jackson is not guilty, well, then I suppose it's possible that our government does have a twisted idea of normal weight.

And I was born a poor black child.

And in other news

My friend, Jill, has a blog now. This delights me beyond words. I've known her since 8th grade and our history together spans topics such as World Peace, turkey feet in lockers, amoebas, Eric Clapton (there is still a subsitute teacher out there who I swear will never show an anti drug video to a class ever again and, "it's alright, it's alright, it's alright ...",) well, you get the idea. Jill is refreshingly honest and uses phrases like, "Oh Balls!" all the time. Check it out. http://ohballs.blogs.friendster.com/balls_balls_balls/ Jill mentions that she's in Cork. For those of you who might be as geographically ignorant as I, Cork is in IRELAND.

I have some fabulous new clients. I love having great clients. It makes my job so much easier. Wahoo for right on folks having right on babies in right on ways.

My husband and father in law are going to be replacing our gutters, facia, and soffits this week. Sounds great (eyes actually rolling out of my head and across the office floor.) Let's hope that by weeks end, we still have a roof over our heads and everyone is still alive with all their digits. And, I'm hoping that by the end of the week, someone will have learned to make his own coffee.

I have wonderful girlfriends. I'm particularly holding a few of them in my heart right now. I love you, JP, DDFF, VJG. You make being a woman in Mid-Missouri border on fun. And JW? Thanks for remembering your roots and how badly they suck.

Anyone else have dirty laundry that breeds? Honestly.

My kids love Handel. The really love Water Music. I think they see colors when they listen. I know they feel sensations on their skin. I wish I could be as cool as they are, but I've forgotten how.

I wish that someone would take the time to educate the mass public on homeschooling. Yesterday I had to take the kids to a little appointment and the gal we were meeting says to me, "Oh you're homeschooling? Great, Duck, you can be our line leader! You'll have to do that a lot when you're in school." Mindless people really make me wish there was a law enacted to conserve oxygen and people who make comments like that should just be sacrificed for the greater good.

I gotta go get some laundry on the line. Or, start slipping my clothes The Pill.

12 Step Cha Cha

Someone I love is an alcoholic. Actually, someone I love is a recovering alcoholic with a week shy of 9 months of sobriety. This amazes and thrills me beyond anything you can even imagine. I don't know that I've ever felt more pride in someone. The change is mind blowing and, while I still have days that suck out loud, nothing in life nearly as horrid as it once was.

But the journey - crap on a cracker, the journey! It's torturous. You gotta get help. In a dyad affected by alcoholism, someone has got to have some help. So, when I had reached my own rock bottom, I started going to Al-Anon. I guess I just got lucky and stumbled into the right meeting, because I felt *immediate* ease. There was something so comforting about being in a room of people who didn't think you were crazy (well, okay, I guess we all KNEW that we were crazy, but that's another post,) who understood what was going on with you because they, too, had lived it.

Lots of folks are surprised to hear that members of Al-Anon also practice the famous "12 steps." To use the correct lingo, we "work the steps." It's all the same - our lives are out of control, we have no control over alcohol, we need help, etc.

It's hard for me to wrap my mind around some of the language that is used (GOD, prayer, helpless,) but you know, it's really REALLY good stuff. It works for damned near anything and everything. I have family members or friends that drive me insane? I find myself being compelled to make bad choices? Well, I can twelve step myself into sanity. Don't knock it until you've tried it - and I hope to Elvis you never have to try it.

But this language, the 12 steps, the meetings. It's a bit to overcome. The slogans are a bit easier to come by and to swallow. "One day at a time." "Easy does it." "Let go and let God."

See, that last one makes my teeth itch. Let go and let God. yeah, right. What??? But, you know, it's easier to swallow if you can say, "Let go and Let Elvis." Or "Let go and let Mother Nature." Or "Let go and Let Mastercard." Basically, let it go - you can't do it on your own, let something else help you out. "You didn't cause it, you cannot control it, you cannot cure it." Amen.

I actually have some slogans of my own.

"In the end, it will be okay. If it's not okay, it's not the end."

"Life is like a hair dryer - sometimes it's hot, sometimes it's not, and sometimes it just blows you away."

"When you've reached the end of your rope - hang on. You might not make it, but you'll have buff arms."

"Will this really matter in 5 years?"

"Never forget in the dark what you learned in the light."

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger - and it's good to have an inner badass."

"There's nothing in life that a little sushi, amazing girlfriends, and a good lip gloss can't ease - at least for a bit."

"Throw it in the Fuck-It-Bucket"

"I'm braver than I realize."

"It's all a part of the plan - wait, where the hell did I put that plan?"

"There's a story behind every decision."

"I have the strength of a million women inside me and they all have PMS."


Feel free to use my slogans if you'd like. Make up some of your own! And, if you need a good support group, I'll be at Osaka. I'll be the one surrounded by women, behind a mound of sushi, with the gorgeous pink shiny lips.

CHA CHA CHA!

High Street Heaven

BLISS!!

Here comes the sun

It's all right (taken by Brian)

For those of you who know me, you know that I am a music nut. There really isn't a whole lot that I don't love. Willie Nelson to Elvis Presley, Grateful Dead to Cat Stevens, Maria Callas to Verdi, Kid Rock to Metallica, Handle to Mozart, Tama Walo to Bob Marley, Split Lip Rayfield to Ani DiFranco. Andrea Bocelli to Pucinni. Picking a favorite song is impossible. I can tell you what my favorite song is that minute, but favorite above all? That would be like choosing my favorite strand of hair. But, there are some songs that have been my "favorite of the moment" more than others. "Here Comes the Sun" probably tops that list.

**************************

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,

And I say it’s all right

Little darling, it’s been a long cold lonely winter

Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun

And I say it’s all right

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces

Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun

And I say it’s all right

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting

Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,

And I say it’s all right

It’s all right

*******************************************

For those of you for whom these words are new, for the love of Elvis, get thyself to the library and check out Abbey Road. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, do not even stop to pee. Just go. Now. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Ah, don't you feel better?

There are so many things about this song that make me feel better - regardless of what is going on. It acknowledges that life sucks sometimes, but it also allows for it to get better. AMEN. We hear so many songs and are force fed so many things that either state that life sucks and then you die OR that life is wonderful 100% of the time, so shut up about it already. Give me a break. Anyone who has ever watched SNL for more than one season knows that sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad (even for YEARS at a time,) but constant never. Life is much the same way.

My last post was filled with Bark (thanks, BJ, wherever you are - Bark is a perfect description -and thanks for turning me on to John, Paul, George, and Ringo.) I think we all have those days and it feels soooooooo good to be able to bitch and whine a little bit, but today is a new day.

Here comes the sun

It's all right.

It's all about you, which is to say, it's all about me!

Here Mama, lemme take your picture!

If there would be music playing right now, it would have to be the mixed tape my boyfriend gave me when I was 15 years old called, "Angry music for those days with bark." The tape is long gone and I haven't seen the boyfriend in probably 10 years, but the memory of the tape remains.

Today most certainly has bark.

Seems as if my life consists of the following -

"Here, honey (mommy, friend, daughter, sister, etc.,) you sure have been working hard and I'm sure you could use a break. Why don't you take some time to yourself? But first, I need you to patch my jeans, can you run to the grocery store for me, I want to go have a smoke first, where are those shoes, have you seen the keys, I need some juice, can you burn this or that on your computer, run this to me at work, what's for dinner, Well, I don't know where those clothes go, I have to clean the garage, read me this story, rewind this movie, return this call, write this letter for me."

And then, 45 minutes later,

"I don't know why you're so bitchy - you've had ALL DAY to yourself!"

Here's my fantasy:

I wake up on my own.

I wear my own clothes that have recently been washed, folded and put away, stain free.

I have coffee that I drink while it's still hot. I drink it, not wear it.

I can watch the news.

I actually manage to go to the bathroom with the door closed in complete privacy.

I can eat what I want when I want.

I have an adult conversation with folks who don't want a damned thing from me.

I manage to take a shower by myself and have time to actually wash all of my parts in that single shower without being yanked out to answer the phone, fix a PB&J, clean up a broken glass, hold a rope, gun the engine so everyone can listen for that strange ping-ing sound, find a work shirt, CLEAN THE FUCKING HOUSE.

That cute little sushi dude comes and delivers my little slice of heaven and my dear girlfriends come and share.

Sounds nice, doesn't it? In reality, this is what I get:

"I don't know why you're so upset - the house is not a disaster - it looks like this EVERY SINGLE DAY!!"

Thank you, Captain Obvious, you have just proved my point.

Duck's picture

Everything as it should be.

Happy Birthday, Duck, I love you.

At exactly 1:47 this afternoon, my oldest child will be 5 years old. My cesarean scar will be 5 years old as well. One is turning into something more beautiful and joyful every single day. The other is fading into a distant memory. Everything as it should be.

*

Being the photographers that we are, Brian and I have raised 2 children who would rather play with cameras than cars. Difference being that they are allowed to play with cars, not so much the cameras. Since Duck is now 5, Brian and I thought it would be interesting to see what would come of giving him his own camera. We happened to find a children's digital camera within our price range for him. Now, of course, the quality of the pictures from this camera is slightly less than what you would get if you used a 110 camera that somehow managed to have a head cold, but it's a camera none the less, that does NOT require repeated film purchases or developing fees for pictures of the floor.

*

I wonder what Duck will capture with his camera. In my lifetime, I could have captured images of:

*

The Death of Elvis (I still grieve every August)

The fall of the Berlin Wall

Highway 63 becoming 70 mph

Republican 1 year, Democrat 4 years, Republican 8 years, Republican 4 years, Democrat 8 years, Idiot - half way through 8 MIND NUMBING years

The rise and fall of Jim and Tammy Fay Bakker (Praise the lord, pass your wallet)

*

And, of course, a million and twelve other things. I wonder what Duck will see??

*

An ethnic or (gasp!) WOMAN president?

The legalization of midwifery in Missouri?

An end to racial, gender based, sexual orientation based, religious oppression?

The legalization of certain herbs?

The return of Wavy Gravy? (Come on Ben, Come on Jerry, I need my fix!)

*

Who knows what he'll see. I hope that I am blessed to be one of the lucky with whom Duck shares his visions. I hope that I live long enough to see him wonder what his children (or dogs, or fish, or parrots, or sofas, or motorcycles, or pet rocks) will see in their life times.

*

And, above else, I hope that Duck's photos continue to grow into something more beautiful and joyful every day and that the pain and injustice in the world surrounding him fades into a distant memory. Everything as it should be.

W. Mark Felt and Me

It's out - the secret, that is. W. Mark Felt is "Deep Throat." 91 years old, neighbor, father, husband, friend, Deep Throat. Imagine waking up one day and thinking, "Well, I'll be damned, I've been Deep Throat's barber for 30 years!" Who knew about this? Surely Felt had been close friends with many people over the years since Watergate - did he tell anyone? How many people in his circle now wonder, "Who is this man, really? Do I even know him?"

Do I want people to question me that way? Maybe. I'll admit that the idea of leaving folks guessing is appealing to me. Truth of the matter, however, is that I am pretty much a chameleon and I frequently reinvent myself. I suppose there will always be a bit of mystery about me, simply because one of my selfish pleasures in life is to keep folks guessing and to always raise an eyebrow or two.

Today, however, I think I'll keep W. Mark Felt company and reveal a few things about myself that might surprise the folks who know me. It might not surprise anyone, but that's the risk I take, eh?

In NO PARTICULAR ORDER:

I'd rather forfeit my right to vote than vote Republican.

When I was 6 years old, I stole 50 cents from my sister's dresser. Sorry, Becky.

There are times when I'd just about cut off my arm for a good Bratwurst.

Clowns scare the shit out of me.

I love whiskey.

I never really learned to ride a bicycle - well, I can do it to save my life, unless the thing threatening me is chasing me and my only escape is said bicycle, in which case, I'm dead meat.

I LOVE Kid Rock. LOVE HIM. You'd be amazed at the lyrics that flow through my head as I sit around in pretty long skirts and respectable earrings. Heh Heh Heh.

I haven't shaved a body part since June 12, 1998. That's right, folks. 7 years.

I pray every day. Maybe not to the God I was raised with, maybe not to the God you know, but I pray to the God of my understanding every single day. And I'm a better person as a result.

Seeing someone drink milk out of their cereal bowl makes me vomit. 100% of the time, without fail, 25 years and counting.

There are days when I'd rather be ANYTHING but a wife and mother.

I've never completely read Moby Dick, regardless of getting an A on my final exam covering the book in college.

I've never seen The Princess Bride.

I could go on and on. I really could. But, if you read the part about my selfish pleasure of keeping folks guessing, you'll not be surprised that I'm stopping here. I don't want anyone to figure me out completely. I love raised eyebrows, surprised responses, "I had no idea" 's.

Who knows. Perhaps when I'm 91 years old, I'll reveal the secret to the universe. I may already have it now - you'll just have to wait and see.

In praise of aging

eyes

This morning I woke up, looked in the mirror, and sighed. It's true that time marches on - and it's marching across my face. In less than one full rotation around the sun, I'll be 30 (hush, peanut gallery, I don't want to hear it.) I always said that I wanted to age gracefully, that I welcome laugh lines and smile creases and gray hair and all that comes with getting older. I still believe all of that - but let me tell you, it's getting harder to be Zen about these kinds of things when I wake up to puffy eyes with dark circles under them and wrinkles around the edges! When teenage girls at the grocery store call me Ma'am, I never get carded, I'm among the few folks around who know what the hell 1.21 jigawatts means, why 88 miles an hour is such an important speed, and my favorite songs from my glory days are on the "oldies" station, well, let's just say I feel a little antiquated.

I made it down to my office and checked my email and found this gem from my cousin's wife:

An elderly woman and her little grandson, whose facewas sprinkled with bright freckles, spent the day at the zoo. Lotsof children were waiting in line to get their cheeks painted by a localartist who was decorating them with tiger paws."You've got so many freckles, there's no place to paint!" a girl inthe line said to the little fella. Embarrassed, the little boy dropped his head. His grandmother knelt down next to him. "I love your freckles. When I was a little girl I always wanted freckles," she said,while tracing her finger across the child's cheek. "Freckles are beautiful!"The boy looked up, "Really?""Of course," said the grandmother. "Why, just name me one thing that's prettier than freckles."The little boy thought for a moment, peered intensely into his grandma's face, and softly whispered, "Wrinkles."

It's just beautiful, yes? Wrinkles mean I have laughed a lot, loved a lot, cried some, and lived well. I've always marked my body to commemorate specific things - I am tattooed, pierced (metal detectors beware,) I was dreadlocked for years, and now I am starting to wrinkle. HOORAY for wrinkles - completely free body alterations to commemorate my life.

Now, I'm off to find some freckles.