82 ways to succeed at costco, without really trying.

tires-5

1.  Decide that getting tires at Costco for your own thread-bare set is a great idea.

2.  Decide to go to Costco with half of Oakland, San Leandro and Hayward in attendance, on a Friday morning.

3.  Decide that it’s a Super Great Idea, exclamation point, to take your two and a half year old and your seven month old with you.

4.  See the queue in the tire shop five people deep, and think to yourself, Well, this is really no big deal.  I’ve got this.  

5.  Realize, ten minutes into waiting, that you will be attempting to entertain your children without any food, any coloring books and crayons, any balls, any toys, any anything. 

6.  Do nothing about #5.

7.  Begin to play hide-n-go seek in the tires.  It’s secure! It’s safe! Your toddler cannot escape!

8.  Begin to play “Race” in the tires. Try and wear out said toddler in hopes of an afternoon nap.

9. Make your toddler sit on the floor.  Ahem.  Try and make your toddler sit on the floor.

10.  Fail miserably.

11.  Pull out your journal, and the one pen in the bottom of your purse and instruct him to draw. Anything.

12.  Chase after your toddler as he attempts to escape.

13.  Catch toddler by shirt.

14. Comfort wailing escapee.

15.  Calm now-crying baby at chest, whom you’ve nearly forgotten about.

16.  Apologize to said baby, for Mama really does love you.

17.  Chase after escapee again.

18.  Consider why you haven’t purchased a leash for the prisoner.

19.  Hem and haw along with the other patrons in line.

20.  Secretly hope someone will let you cut in line. [See #s 1-19]

21.   Put jaw back in place after old man standing behind you calls you ma’am and asks if he can cut in front of you.  “Because I only need to return and exchange and get one new tire, ma’am!”

22.  Muse over his question. Wonder if you’re a bad person for saying No.

23.  Say No, as you point to Exhibit A (Toddler) and Exhibit B (Baby).

24.  Avoid eye contact with the old man for the next 25 minutes while you continue to wait in line.

25.  Hope that he doesn’t hate you.

26.  Shush yourself as you chase after Exhibit A, again, and vow to stop being a people-pleaser.

27.  Run to tackle Exhibit A off the ladder he’s climbing.

28.  Run to tackel Exhibit A off the cart he’s pretending to be a cowboy on.

29.  Breathe a Thank you, Jesus sigh of relief that you’re finally at the front of the cash register.

30.  Let Exhibit A color with the tire department’s assortment of highlighters, Sharpies and Magic Markers.

31.  Wonder why you didn’t visit the cash register earlier.

32.  Be told by Very Nice Tire Man that it’s going to be a three-hour wait.

33.  Realize that staying another three hours is nothing shy of Stupid.

34.  Leave the tire center without ever having purchased a set of new tires.

35.  Wonder if you’re having an out-of-body experience as you find yourself dragging two humans over to Big Costco.

36. Watch numbly as your toddler starts shouting “GAPES! GAPES! GAPES!” at the top of his lungs after you deny him access to four pounds of grapes.

37. Decide to pick and choose your battles: toddler can hold said grapes.

38. Detour to the alcohol aisle.

39.  Consider the phrase, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

40.  Treat yourself a nice bottle of Chardonnay and promise to keep to Pacific Standard Time’s five o’clock.

41.  Eat sample #1: raviolis!

42. Avoid purchasing any discount books and give yourself a pat on the back.  You WILL support the independent bookstores.  You WILL read the 89 unread books waiting patiently on your shelves.

43. Listen as toddler proceeds to scream “PYJAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAS” when you won’t let him put on his new pajamas in the middle of Costco.

44. Eat sample #2: salad!

45. Become Those People as you race through the Costco maze, toddler wailing for pajamas, tears streaming down his face.

46.  Let strangers give you the stink eye as they wonder what bad thing you, Ms. Denier-of-All-Things-Happy-to-Precious-Little-Children, must have done.

47. Thank the Good Lord for sample #3: coffee!

48.  Make your way to the check out line, hoping your calculations for the shortest wait time pan out.

49.  Feel eyes widen as Toddler yells “POTTY!!!!”

50.  Leave your perfectly-picked line, racing in the direction you hope the restrooms reside in.

51.  Realize your hunch is nearly accurate, but for the chain link fence blocking your path.

52.  Remember how you once attempted to hop a chain link fence in the 9th grade and got your stretch pants and long sweater and penny loafers caught at the top.  Remember how your Esprit bag flapped violently, mockingly in the wind.  Recall how you were late to Grease practice and arrived with bloody hands.  Vow to stick to the promise you made as a 15-year-old to never try and climb a fence again.

53.  Scurry with Baby in Ergo and Toddler in arms around the chain link fence.

54.  Neglect to realize that your older son is actually in the process of peeing on you while you waddle.

55. Get to the stall, and plop Exhibit A on the toilet, facing you.

56.  Touch the side of your hip and wonder why your shirt is wet.  Unlock the answer to #54.

57.  Scream in horror as Exhibit A, who’s used to facing backwards on the toilet, lets a stream shoot straight onto your leg.

58.  Wonder if the other restroom patrons are enjoying the ruckus coming out of your stall.

59.  Give your son Grace-Grace-Grace because accidents happen.

60.  Wonder if other people are going to give you Grace-Grace-Grace for your urine-soaked smelly self.

61.  Make his day by allowing him to put on the previously-denied new pajama bottoms.

62.  Do a little dance and fist pump the air because this Costco Nightmare is almost over.

63. Imagine Cuteness Overland when you picture your two sons, bonding in the front seat of a Costco shopping cart.

64.  Imagine the Instagram possibilities.

65.  Strap your baby into the cart, and miss grabbing your toddler who is now running full-speed in the opposite direction.

66. Stand there in horror as he ignores your plea to STOP!

67.  Start going through your options – cart or no cart – as he ignores your shouts to WAIT!

68.  Watch as he keeps running.

69. Leave your baby, your food, your purse, your everything in the cart to chase after the miniature human.

70.  Think you are faster than him.

71.  Realize that you aren’t, and vow to go to the gym.

72.  Watch in disbelief as he rounds the corner.

73.  Mutter, “I really don’t get paid enough to do this,” as you pick up your pajama-clad toddler.

74.  Arrive back at your cart and notice a little old lady starting to push your cart forward.

75.  Hope little old lady isn’t trying to steal your baby.

76.  Say, “Um, thank you?” and steal back your baby.  And your cart.

77.  Strap a wailing and screaming toddler into the cart next to Baby Brother.

78.  Remind Big Brother that “We’re gentle,” as he attempts to claim the entire seat area for himself.

79.  Be reminded that your “we’re” is not always a part of his vocabulary.

80.  Secure a place in line, again.

81.  Neglect to take the Instagram picture.

82. Lament over your bill, for everything you never knew you needed…

When all you came here for was a new set of tires. 

Happy Friday!

So, how was your day?  Tell me a story.  Make me laugh.  In this with you.  Xoxo, c. 

look who’s talking, 3 (a screenplay).

One of the handiest parts of mama-hood involves trading childcare; even if it’s just once a week, that’s three more hours I have to write, or be reminded that I am an adult who has the ability to speak in sentences longer than four syllables.  [See also: Baby, no no; Car?  Car?  Car?  Car?; Say bye-bye!]  Of course, there then exists the realization that “swap” is a two-way street, which takes us to this past Tuesday where the almost 17-month olds, Cancan and Baby Ruth, found themselves at play in our living room.

Photo cred: IMDB.  Look Who's Talking.
Photo cred: IMDB. Look Who’s Talking.

The two littles have been playing nicely in the living room for an hour or so.  The Parental Unit is giving herself kudos for her most excellent child-rearing skills, when she decides to give them each a snack-time mini-carrot muffin treat.  The following ensues….

CanCan: Wabada!  Baby Ruth, take my muffin!  No, really, I don’t want it – let me forcefully cram it into your mouth!  Now, now!  

BabyRuth: Ga!  Ga!  I don’t want your stinking muffin!  Get away!  You’re mean!  Shoo!  

CC: Haaaaaaaaaw!  Baby Ruth, I insist.  Eat my muffin.  Here, I’ll help you: let me shove it down your throat.  

Tears well in Baby Ruth’s eyes, for she is not about to eat Cancan’s muffin.  She begins to cry; at this point the Parental Unit decides to intervene, using such words as “Gentle, gentle” (and other four-syllable sentences), but to no avail.  Baby Ruth cries louder.  And louder.  The Parental Unit decides that she must need comforting, so she picks her up and takes her to the couch.

BR: [Between hiccuping tears] Uh, uh, uh!  I just wanted to eat MY muffin …and, and… he wouldn’t let me.  He made me eat HIS muffin.  He stinks!

The Parental Unit doesn’t exactly have the most emotionally sensitive of a child, so she’s not sure what to do.  She must want comfort, the Parental Unit decides, so she rubs her hair, she rocks her slightly, she whispers sweet toddler-nothings into her ear.  Meanwhile, Cancan is ready for friendship again, so he toddles over to the couch.

CC: Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  Want to play with my car?  Want to catch the ball?  Want to eat the gravel in the backyard with me?  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  

BR: Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!  Oh-no-he-di’nt!  You did NOT just enter my space.  This is a Ruth-only zone, man!  Get away from me, booger-head!  

CC: Garbalarbadarb.  It’s okay, Baby Ruth.  We’re besties.  Here, let me pat your legs violently and reassure you of our relationship.  

BR: WAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!  You’re not picking up what I’m putting down, buddy.  I do not want you in my space, and I certainly don’t want your toilet-water hands touching my legs!

The Parental Unit continues to try and soothe Baby Ruth, now cradling the 17-month old in a newborn rocking position.  This is a silly idea on her part.  The Parental Unit whispers, “Shhhhh, shhhhh,” to Baby Ruth in order to produce a calm environment, while Cancan continues to throw punches and reassure her of their friendship.  Chaos ensues.

CC: [Grunt, grunt] I know!  I’ll crawl up on the couch, and sit on the other side of my mama; that way, we can really be friends.  

BR: AH! GA BA BA WAHHHHHH!!!  You are not hearing me!  I don’t want to see you!  Your proximity makes me ill!

The Parental Unit continues to rock and soothe, rock and soothe, with one arm whilst trying to keep her son away with the other.  “Uh-uh, no no,” she whispers, in between hushes; Cancan looks at Baby Ruth, he looks at his mama, and he reacts the only way he knows how: he begins to fake-cry violently.  

CC: Wah!  Wah!  Wah!  Look Baby Ruth, I am crying sympathy tears for you. Faux cry, faux cry!  I’m an empathetic little dude, I swear!  Look: I can even match your pain and cry harder.  Wahhhhh!  Wahhhh!  Wahhhh!

BR:  [Hiccup, hiccup, hiccup.]  Is this really happening right now?  Are you MOCKING me?  The nerve!  WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

The Parental Unit is besides herself, so she copes the only way she knows how in a high-stress situation: she laughs.  The littles continue to wail for the next five minutes.  She texts Baby Ruth’s mama to see if she can give her a bottle of milk: a reply “yes” comes in.  Handing Baby Ruth a bottle, she cannot get up from the couch now, for she cannot leave the littles alone in a room to fend for themselves.  12 more minutes go by.  Then she realizes: maybe Baby Ruth needs her diaper changed!

BR: Uh n mama n baga babaaba.  Wahhhhhhh!  Who is this lady?  Where is she taking me now?  And why does that kid want to follow me everywhere I go?  Can’t a girl get any privacy anymore?  Wahhhhhh!!!

CC: Ca ca ca ca ca!  Whelp, I’m done crying, but what?  We’re going upstairs?  I love the stairs!  Let’s play!  Mama, I can beat you, watch!  [Cancan hustles up the stairs, eager for his room.]

The Parental Unit attempts to change Baby Ruth’s diaper.

BR: WAHHHHHHHHHH!!!  That’s not what I’ve been crying about!  I don’t care about my diaper!  You are not my favorite person right now, lady!  Where’s my mama?  Ma ma ma ma?  [She hiccups and gulps for air.]  WAHHHHH!!!!

CC: Bagiwawagigigigigig.  And this, Baby Ruth, is my throne.  This is where all the magic happens.  These are my books.  This is my ball.  This is my bear.  Welcome, welcome.  

The Parental Unit places a wailing Baby Ruth on the floor; she should probably call the other parental units by now.  Consolation is nowhere to be found.

BR: Ga?  Ga.  Gaaaaaa.  [One last hiccup.]  Ga.  Well, why didn’t you take me up here in the first place?  I love oversized stuffed animals that I can slam myself into and hug, over and over again.  And books?!  Gimme, gimme!  My favorite!  I am happy!  I am in love!  I am happy Baby Ruth baby!  

Baby Ruth slams herself into the giant Costco bear, comfort gained with each impulsive hug.  Cancan, Baby Ruth and the Parental Unit sit on the floor, reading books for the next 45 minutes.  And all is calm, all is bright with the world.

THE END.

And the moral of the story is: Keep Calm and Read Your Book.  And Slam Your Body Into an Oversized Bear Whenever Humanly Possible If You Feel Sad.  And…

What about you?  What’s the best conversation – imagined or not – you’ve heard between children lately?  And, more importantly, when was the last time you therapeutically slammed your body into a giant, oversized bear?  

Mama’s Losin’ It

a walk, a song & the return of joy.

It was just an ordinary Friday afternoon: Cancan and I had driven to the local BART station to drop off the car for Daddy.  See, we’ve embraced City Life for all its worth by only having one car – I, in return, toss labels like “sexy” and “living simply” and “eco-savvy” onto our choice of transportation [the choice of transportation that equals out to me getting the car most of the week], while the HBH (…rightfully) guffaws at the hassle of it all.  But there we were, on the corner of Ocean and San Jose; Baby strapped in the stroller, I checked to make sure the car was clear of belongings and subsequently texted Husband the address.  Earphones in place, I steadied myself for the long upward descent home, and then it happened.

Music started playing.

Mind you, I realize this is considered normal to the great majority of 21st century Americans, particularly those who pop earphones into their ears and wait for a listening reaction to occur.

But for me (First World Problem, First World Problem…), in order to save space on my phone, I’d purposefully not synced the itunes album on my computer with the album on my phone.  And then the break-in happened, and all of our pictures and my Masters coursework and that which could be considered my livelihood of writing and speaking documents were lost, along with the music, too.

And a slew of emotions ensued: I was angry and I was sad and I was bitter, seemingly all at the same time.  I mourned and I shook my fist and I grew paranoid at the very thought of the Comcast man parked obtrusively in front of our house, as the police said it was a group of thieves posting as service workers who likely broke in to our residence.  I drove around the block three times and then I parked in our driveway again, and I ran inside and grabbed the new laptop and the borrowed iPad because I would not let this happen again.  I cussed and I screamed, but then I pulled to the side of the road, and with deep breaths I said, FEAR, You will not get the best of me.  Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, come…

So here we were, just a couple days after circling the block, when the music started playing.

And walking up the sidewalk, I looked to my right to see if the sound was coming from the park, and across my shoulder to the other side to see if a parked car was playing the haunting, soul-searching echoes of the cello and its accompanying strings.  But then I realized that it was coming from my ears – my ears – and it was my music – my music – and with tears in my eyes, I picked up my phone from its hiding place, and I looked at the screen in disbelief.

Zoe Keating - check her out.  Photo cred: NPR.
Zoe Keating – check her out. Photo cred: NPR.

Somehow, the magical world of iCloud had saved my music, even if it took me six weeks to realize it.

So, my legs began pumping faster as the hill started to rise, purposeful, purposeful, as Hope started to sing its way into my soul, as Beauty opened my eyes to her Already-In-Existence self.  I listened to the mournful cellist, Zoe Keating, pour her own self into her stringed instrument, to my favorite of songs, “Sun Will Set,” and I was again reminded of new beginnings, each day, every day, given anew.  Grace massaged my tired shoulders as I pushed the stroller up the hill: the sun will rise and the sun will set, but tomorrow is a new day.  And with it comes the unimagined, refueling abundance of more Hope and more Beauty and more Grace.

The smile would not wear on my face, but grew with each step, the depths of its very existence filling my insides and reaching out its gnarled fingers to strangers I passed on gritty street corners, to the old man crossing the street with suitcase in tote.

Because I guess for a little while there, I’d forgotten what joy was like.  

But then – as often happens, I suppose – that gentle reminder, that loving nudge pushed its way in …and this time, I said yes.  And it wasn’t that my music was saved, per say, but it was that reminder of Hope Remaining, the combination of the song and the day and the loveliness of God cupping me in the palms of his hands, saying, I’ve got you.  

I’m grateful.

(I’m also really, really glad Apple products are smarter than the average user.  Ahem).

What about you?  What’s given you Hope lately?  What’s brought back joy and put a pep in your step lately?  

a letter to my mine.

Every once in awhile I get mushy and mama-y and need to remember these times, this present-tense adventure with the Little Bugger – so, for today, a Letter To My Mine.  And I know, it’s so, so mama-bloggeresque, which makes me slightly cringe as a writer, but it’s the truth – my truth – today.  Enjoy.  

1390780_10151902225032988_164974211_n
Cancan the Professional Rocker. 

Dear Baby,

You cray-cray.

You are lovable and huggable, never pausing for a moment’s rest.  You are smart and you are daring and you are courageous; you give me a new appreciation for the phrase “All Boy.”  I get it.  I understand its full meaning now, in a way I never did before.

The world is your jungle gym, quite literally, upon which you flounce your little body and climb to the highest of heights, looking back not for my help, but for my approval.  And Baby, I approve.  I cheer you on.  I see you and I believe in you and, like you, I wish I too could flail my body without consequence toward the massive pile of blankets and sleeping bags and camping pads propped up against giant Bear-Bear in the corner of your room.  Life is simply one big adventure for you, and I acknowledge now that this will likely end in a visit to the Emergency Room before the age of five.  And when that happens, I’ll cry along with you and I’ll hold you if you’ll let me, but – just warning you – I’ll probably close my eyes if there’s a needle or blood or puking, no offense.

For Cancan, you are one independent, spirited tiny human.  You won’t let us feed you anymore, preferring to spoon-feed your face and your shirt and your hair and a little bit of your mouth your favorite applesauce-yogurt-peanut butter mixture.  You loathe the process of being strapped into your carseat and stroller now, because it means that you don’t get to walk and run and toddle freely.  And you’re even attempting to dress yourself, mimicking the way Mama and Dada put your shoes and socks on, hoping to mirror the same actions.  You are a brilliant being, you are.

And those words – ugh, you little talking fool.  You call us by name, and you call your loafers “sh!” and you call every person you meet Baby.  Hello cute little old church lady – Baby. Hello Mr. Illegal Pharmaceutical Sales Representative on the corner of Ashton and Holloway – Baby.  Hello San Francisco State college kid skating down the street, late to class – Baby.  And in a way, I think you’re right: for at one time or another, they too were babies, they too (one can hope) had their mamas who stared at them with wonder and delight, changed by their very existence.

For that’s who you are: you are an existence changer.  And for that, I’m most grateful, and I’ll continue to throw the mush out there if it means realizing how you’ve changed me for the better, for the always.  Because Baby, there’s no place I’d rather be than learning and adventuring and being with you in this life.

Now come and give Mama loves.  Please?  

xo, mama.

Who’s changed you?  What letter do you need to write to your Mine today?  And seriously, how cute is my kid?  

my help-thanks-wow.

It happened just a few days ago, I swear: I woke up and my baby, my mine, had officially become a Little Man.

No longer is he this…

Fresh-plucked from the wombie.
Fresh-plucked from the womb.

but he’s this:

Playground professional.
Playground professional.

In the blink of an eye – in 100-400 milliseconds, according to Google – he’s begun toddling and waddling around the house, my very own tipsy little sailor swaying side to side, step by step.  His pudgy baby cheeks have been replaced by thinner and more defined cheekbones, Little Caramel emulating more recognizable traits of his daddy’s racial heritage.

Be still my heart.  

His hands are sticky all the time, and from what, I’m really not quite sure (although I’d venture a guess that it has something to do with his profound fascination of garbage cans, toilet bowls, toilet seats and the diaper pail, in general).  His feet are always, ever dirty, which obviously has nothing to do with the state of our hardwood floors, and his poop has long since carried with it the faint newborn scent of buttery popcorn – for Lord, he stinketh.  

He’s dropping his morning nap – at least, according to the sleeping adventures (or lack thereof) of the last week or so – and this dynamic, far-from-linear child is climbing up on couches while flinging himself fearlessly toward the ground just seconds later.  He’s a skydiver in training, and I’m just hoping he remembers to pull, or at least reach for, the safety cord.

He’s squawking and grunting and speaking new syllables every day, tongue darting in and out of his mouth like an 11-year-old tween practicing the art of kissing on her pillow.  He’s rounding the dining room table, one time, two times, three times more, a fast-talking Clint Eastwood, exaggerated waddle of a cowboy-swagger his signature stride in the 11th lap that morning.

As a mama, as a parent, I heave a big sigh and I smile a big smile.  I pick him up and I squeeze him tightly, and I whisper, Mine, Mine, as I kiss him over and over again.  I lean into the moment, I embrace the tension, I marvel in the miracle of the everyday.  I let myself wear my sappy hat for a few minutes if need be, because I’m a mama, and oozy, drippy sap is part and parcel of the outfit I sport.

And then when it’s hard – because it’s tiresome and thankless and monotonous, a lot – I put on my Big Girl Panties.  When Cancan is having a Sleepless in San Francisco week [see: the past week and a half], I give myself a pat on the back and I whisper sweet nothings to myself because, Lovely, This Too Shall Pass.  I make the HBH hug me and hold me for a couple of extra seconds each evening, and then over margaritas with a girlfriend, we clink glasses, and with sparkly, teary, knowing eyes, say to each other, You got this, you got this.  I pray to the One who gives me strength, because sometimes when it’s really, really hard, I don’t know how to keep going on my own (and quite frankly, it’s pretty freeing to admit this truth).

And before I know it, a new day is dawning, a minor resurrection of sorts and in mercy and in grace, I’m given a whole new chance.

So I utter my help-thanks-wow’s*: thank you, God, for this little miracle-man, for the past and the present and the future.  Thank you for the beautiful, messy, lovely here and now, and for my waddley, toddley miniature Clint Eastwood of a son.

Thank you for my mine.  

What about you?  What do you say help-thanks-wow for today?

* = Anne Lamott, Help, Thanks, Wow

 

The Canon Chronicles, 7.

Some celebrate today’s heart-worthy, red and pink-filled holiday of LOVE – we here at be, mama. be celebrate the 7-month birthday of the little man with the favorite recap of the last month’s journey. You’re welcome.

I love the eyes.  I love the eyebrows.  I love the smile.  I love the energy expended in the Johnny Jump-a-roo.
I love the eyes. I love the eyebrows. I love the smile. I love the energy expended in the Johnny Jump-a-roo.

Current nicknames: Cancan, bubs, baby, chunk, little man.

Weight & length: more than (last month’s) weight of 16 lbs, 10 oz & length of 26 inches long, but truthfully, I have no clue where the measuring tape is hiding, and I don’t feel like both doing math and stepping on the scale this morning to figure out his weight.

Sleep story: Things were getting pretty rough there with the combination of teething pain + just having traveled + the general woes of being a little person, but they seem to have subsided for a bit meaning we both get SLEEP! We have figured out – much to the HBH’s chagrin – that if Cancan does wake up in the middle of the night, and Daddy goes in to check on him, often a quick pop-the-paci-back-into-his-mouth move does the trick. Meanwhile, if Mama steps in for said 2:35 AM cry, he quickly moves to a gut-wrenching MILK, MILK, MILK 5-alarm scream, and hang out time commences for the next hour and a half. Hats off to you all you single parents out there – wowzas.

Poop story fact: it happens, a lot. It happens, a lot, after anything over a 20 minute car ride. It happens, a lot, in the teeny tiny hipster bathrooms of San Francisco restaurants that don’t believe in real, live changing tables. I find that I could write a story of such poo woes EVERY SINGLE DAY, but as to save some readership, I try and limit it to a weekly basis. (Click here to read last week’s episode of poop and grace).

Baby Daddy story: Baby Daddy has taken to doing a home work out in the morning before leaving for work; generally, this means that Cancan then gets plopped down in the bouncer where to his absolute and utter delight, he’s entertained as the HBH dances and jump ropes and does his high-knees like there’s no tomorrow, sweat dripping down his face.

Feeling: in a word? Healthy. Healthier. Take your pick and add “so, so much” in front of it.

Musing over: how funny it is that I feared that staying home to take care of the baby and write a wee bit here and there would mean utter loneliness, and an end to this social butterfly’s life as we know it. I guess I’m daily debunking my own myths.

Learning: that if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. [But really, I’m realizing how my own un-health this past fall had a negative effect not only on my own psyche, but also on my two favorite men – and, I desire health all-around. Welcome to this new year, new goals, news desires, a new being.]

Reading: Daring Greatly; a bunch of reads for my current Anglican Theology class; One Day; Beautiful Ruins; The True Story of the Whole World, Les Mes (which I am now 14% of the way through – at this point I’ll finish in a year).

Read in the last month: TORN – if you’re at all interested in bridging the gap between the LGBT community and the church, please, please pick this up.

What are YOU reading? What do you recommend?

Anticipating: boundaries. being. more writing. book writing. mmm.

Love to all.