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thoughts on life, parenting, news, and crazy shit

Month: June, 2013

A Letter For My Daughter

Yesterday I wrote a letter to my son.  And today I will write one to my daughter.  I think this may be my last post until after Buddy is here.  It seems like a good place to take a rest and then come back to share the story of his entrance with the world.

Dear Twee Destroyer of Hearts,

As I wrote to your little brother to be yesterday, things are about to change. You have spent the last two years delighting us and teaching us and not having to share your spotlight.  And now, as we wait the arrival of your Buddy, that spotlight is going to widen and be shared.  But I want you to know that your light is so very bright that it will never go unnoticed.  Ever.

We will still have those moments together, just you and me.  Or just you and Daddy.  You will be as important to us and special as the day that you were born, always.

You see, you changed us.  The moment that you were born my vision and philosophy changed. My perspective changed.  I’ve talked a lot about how you changed my perception and made me believe that there is hope in this shitty world. You have this amazing ability to make me look at the crazy things and just laugh.

You put patches over all of those pieces of my heart that had defects.  You showed me what true love really is.  You helped me learn to be patient and to do things through kindness, not frustration.  You made me better at everything I do.

And you will continue to do this.  Because you are special.  You always were, and always will be.

I feel guilty for cutting our time together short.  I feel like you deserve to have my undivided attention forever.  But I know that you have this ability to make people love you, and I suspect that you will expand my heart and yours to welcome Buddy.

It might get a little bumpy for a while, but we’re in this together.  And we can figure this shit out.

I love you.

Ready?

A Letter For My Son

Dear Little Buddy,

I’ve spent a good deal of time complaining about the discomforts of carrying you.  I’ve tried to make light of the moments that are difficult and awkward.  That’s what I do.  I deal with things that make me emotionally uncomfortable with humour.  But I’ll tell you a secret.  I wouldn’t change one second.  Not one single moment.  Because I love you, and it will all be worth it a million times over.

These last few days are tough.  It’s hot.  I’m having a hard time moving around because you’re getting a bit heavy.  My feet are dry and itchy.  I have heartburn.  I now have some stretch marks as you push my little body to its extremes.  But in a few days, I won’t remember and I won’t care.  Because you’ll be here and your face will erase the price of bearing you and passing you into this world.

So, I should remember today.  These could be our last few days or hours or minutes together, just us.  You are a part of me and I am a part of you.  You are mine and I am yours, nothing will ever change that.  But these are the last few moments that we don’t have to share each other with anyone else, and I should stop complaining about them and remember how special that is.

When you get here, there will be a lot of people around, and they are all going to be so excited to meet you.  Don’t get freaked out, because I’ll still be there too.  You’ll know the sound of my voice, and the feel of my skin and the smell of my breath.  You’ll know, because you and I know each other like no one else can know one another. And I pray that you’ll have that security always.  Always knowing where I am and that I am here fro you.  Because I am yours, and you are mine.

I can’t wait to see the face I’ve dreamed about. To see if you have curly hair.  If it is dark like mine and Daddy’s, or light like your sister’s.  I can’t wait to let your little fingers curl up around mine and smell your perfect skin. But a part of me will miss you.  Because for 40 long weeks you belonged to me alone.  I felt every movement and hiccup. I saw you roll around and stretch and I will miss you.

No matter how much I complained, I will miss you.  I will look down at my scars of motherhood, and sometimes wish I could have you all to myself again.  Because no matter what the cost, you are worth it.

See you soon.

Helicopters Belong In The Sky, Not The Playground

I think I had one of those moments this morning.  You know, where you suddenly realize why you feel the way you do about something?

I read this article about helicopter parenting, and I realized that the reason I’ve never been a fan of the attachment parenting is because I’m afraid it leads to helicoptering.

Does it?  I’m not sure.  But what I’ve observed in this generation of children is hat they are a whole lot less independent and willing and capable of doing things for themselves.  There is an expectation that mom and dad will care of everything for them.  An inability to fuck it up and then figure it out.  I mean, the guy in the article called his child’s college professor and argued about his kid’s grade.  Are you kidding?

So.  Here’s the thing.  I don’t have a problem with breastfeeding and babywearing and all that stuff.  And the article makes no mention of parenting style used since birth, although I strongly suspect that these parents were attachment parents.  It doesn’t seem logical to me that someone would evolve from being a “cry it out” mom to a helicopter mom, does it?  But attachment parenting is supposed to lead to greater self-confidence and independence by them feeling secure all the time in infancy, is it not?  So how come some of the kids are turning out all needy and weird?

I talk to my parents almost daily, as the kids in the article do.  But I’m not asking them for shit.  They give me stuff all the time, especially now that I have baby(ies), because they feel that it is their right and duty as grandparents to do do.  Fair enough.  But the last time I actually asked them for anything?  Maybe to see if my dad could drive me to a doctor’s appointment when I was too pregnant with Destroyer to fit behind the wheel.

The hard part is that we all love our children so, so much.  I know that.  I see the panicked look on some women’s faces when they see their kid fall down across the playground. But if you go running every single time, how will they ever learn the difference between an inconvenience and a crisis?  Do you want you child to feel as though they are always in the midst of a crisis that they surely are incapable of solving on their own?  And it’s not that I’m not watching, and assessing the situation, but Destroyer know where I am, and knows that I am available.  And most of the time?  It’s too inconvenient for her to come over to where I am and interrupt her play.  So she figures out how to dust herself off.  My heart kinda breaks a little, but I am patting myself on the back at the same time.

I also find it interesting that as we have more split families and double income families, the more helicopter we become when we are around.  But I don’t think you can make up the lost hours.  Like I mentioned in an earlier post, I think kids just need us to spend time with them.  It’s enough.

Anyway, read the article.  It’s interesting.

I’m going back to gestating.  Sigh.

 

What Does The “N” Stand For In Mac “N” Cheese, Paula Deen?

scrapetv.com -

scrapetv.com –

Has anyone out there been paying attention to the whole Paula Deen mess?  Does anyone out there really care about what she thinks or says unless it’s how to make fried chicken?

I don’t want to make light of racism.  Because deep down, I truly believe that we are all equal, and if we could find a way to just stop making it matter, well, it just wouldn’t matter.  Maybe I just can’t fully understand how the colour of someone’s skin can make an actual difference in their importance and worth.  It makes no sense to me.

But I don’t know how to make race not matter.  I can’t erase hundreds or thousands of years of persecution.  I can’t erase the suffering and segregation and cruelty that people have endured.

But Paula Deen used the “N” word, and all of a sudden people have their shit flying all over the place, and she is getting fired from every job and endorsement deal she ever had?  I’m not saying who cares, but really, it’s Paula Deen.  She is a southern girl brought up in southern fashion and she used racial terms and slurs in the past?  And this is supposed to surprise me how?

It’s not like she made some outrageous offensive statement recently. I t appears as though she was honest about something she said in the past which does not necessarily represent her feelings today.  Because when we know better, we do better.  Right?  It sounds like some assistant of hers got pissed off for some reason or another, and is now holding her personally accountable for behaviours of staff in her restaurants because she used a racial slur in the past.  Seriously.  If we all got sued and fired over something we said in the past, I would be so beyond fucked.  People say asshole things all the time.  There’s a stature of limitations on a lot of serious crimes out there, but there isn’t on bullshit things that come out your mouth?

Now.  Calm down.  The “N” word is offensive and awful and off limits.  Unless you are a rapper, apparently, but the context under which this is deemed appropriate will have to be explained to me some other time. So please pardon my ignorance.

Furthermore, while the restaurants are under her “brand”, I doubt that she has much to do with their day to day operations.  And I’m sure she has official policies in place about zero tolerance of racist or discriminatory or any other inappropriate behaviour.  Having said that, have any of you ever worked in a restaurant?  It is one giant sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.  That is the culture.  We don’t behave ourselves very well.  Is it right? Probably not.  But no one reports it because everyone participates.  It’s banter, not criminal, in my opinion.  And it’s not the CEO’s job to micromanage those behaviours.  That would be impossible.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic.  The huge shocker that a southern belle may have been a racist.  Is she still?  Maybe.  Does it affect her mac and cheese recipe?  No.  Because she doesn’t call it “Hating All Black People Mac “N” Cheese”.  Unless, of course, that’s what the “N” stands for………

I just think that in terms of racism in the world, there are a whole lot bigger fish to fry other than stupid Paula Deen.

Thoughts?

Foot Massage Or Not, The Kid Is Still In There

caseydecker.deviantart.com

caseydecker.deviantart.com

39 weeks.  That’s how long there has been a human living inside me.    I know, technically he is allowed up to 42, but let me tell you a secret.

fuck that.

Seriously, pregnancy is wonderful.  Until about 34-36 weeks.  Then it gets down right uncomfortable and miserable and nothing but a giant ball of intense anxiety about getting him out.  So you can imagine my delight this weekend when I started having regular contractions.  For two fucking days .  That stopped and have yet to return.

Sigh.  So now you are stuck with yet another pregnant blog.  But you know what?  I have something fun for you this morning.  Because if there’s anything I’m better at than complaining, it’s making fun of other people.

Enter:  The reflexologist.

On Friday, I decided to try reflexology.  I had done the spicy, the sex, the walking, the bouncing.   All of it.  Then I went to the local witch doctor  health food store and got some oils to burn that are supposed to help get things going.  They mentioned reflexology.  A foot rub that induces labour?  Fucking right on, bitches!

Did you know that the term reflexology is such a quack term that my spell check won’t accept it?  I didn’t even try and put a Canadian “u” or anything in it, Don.

Anyway, supposedly there are pressure points in the feet and hands that can and do help induce labour.  So I thought, what the hell do I have to lose?  Besides 50 bucks, that is.

So I go to my appointment, and as with all massage, etc, the room is lowly lit and set up for “relaxation”.  Except for the dude giving the foot magic is jacked up like a fucking gerbil on bath salts and will NOT stop talking ever.  Not for one second.  I hate it when hair dressers/massage therapist/pedicure people assume that I want to fucking talk to them the whole time.  I talk to people all day.  I listen to a toddler babble gibberish at me non stop.  When I pay someone to help me relax, I want them to shut. the. fuck. up.

So as I’m in this “anti-gravity chair” thing that has my feet and legs up in the air, and me halfway upside down, I start wondering if I will run out of oxygen before the end of my appointment.  Somehow, I manage to figure out a way to breathe, while Chatty Cathy fails to notice me gasping for air.

As he’s rubbing my feet, he’s sort of closing his eyes and talking about my lymphatic system not draining and how I must be experiencing inflammation and my stomach protruding.

Are you fucking kidding me?  NO shit, asshole.  I’m 1010 months pregnant.  You know, the WHOLE reason why I came here in the first place?  For you to massage the baby out of my goddamn feet?  Stop trying to prove how amazing you are at your quack therapy by stating obvious things and get this kid out.  I bet that the inflammation and protruding stomach will go away in a big hurry.

Then, as I’m trying to “relax”  he starts talking about how the Americans are killing all the bees in North America.  And how that will kill the bees everywhere.  And how other countries are willing to go to war for their bees because the world is going to starve to death in 4 years without them.  And that this will be WWIII, and it will consist mainly of cannibalism.  And that cocoa bean cure cancer.  And doctors are no good.  And I should make my own baby formula.

And I’m thinking:  Women go into labour from the stress of spending an hour with this fucking asshole. Seriously.

So finally the end of my appointment comes.  He lifts my legs up and exclaims excitedly about how much the swelling has gone down in my legs.  Really?  Cause they were just elevated for an hour.  You must be a healer!

So.  My review?   Having someone rub your feet for an hour doesn’t suck.  But I betcha the kind of foot massage I could get at home for a case of beer and  really good BJ would relax me a whole lot more.  And there are probably a few other aspects of the “do it yourself” kit that would likely evict this kid too.

Keep your money, or go for a pedicure instead girls.

Dogs, Babies. They’re All The Same.

I’m not sure that this is going to qualify as a HOTTF post.  Maybe we can just give me a break because each day that I gestate, my IQ drops 2-3% lower.

But I read a lot of parenting articles.  Not because I really follow a lot of other people’s advice, but because I’m curious about how everyone else survives the shitty moments.  How the rest of you decide on rules and boundaries and discipline.  I like to watch on the sidelines and make mental notes about how not to raise an asshole.

And as I read and observe, I am starting to come to the same conclusion over and over again.

We are making life way too fucking complicated.

I have an uncle who always raised dogs.  And the dogs tended to be obedient and good-natured and well trained.  So I asked him one day what his secret was to raising such easygoing, pleasant pets.  And his answer was really simple.

Just spend time with them.

And you know what?  I think he is absolutely right.  And I think it applies to our children as well.

I mean really, what is the biggest difference between this generation and a couple of generations ago?  Time.  Family dynamic.  Supervision.  Imaginative play.  Free play.

Now, in our busy lives, we are always looking for “30 minute meal ideas”, or instructions on how to raise a kind or compassionate child.

Here’s a 30 minute meal idea:  Defrost chicken.  Add sauce.  Bbq said chicken.  Toss salad.  Cut bread.

Seriously.  Do we need an entire article describing to people how to keep life simple?  They key to keeping it simple is to stop thinking/worrying/wandering helplessly about while your kids are in the video game abyss and just make it simple.  Right?  Or am I being entirely too optimistic?

I am guilty of allowing my child to watch too much tv, I think.  I’m not sure exactly what to do about it.  I wonder if there is a plan somewhere to help me wean my child off of the tv and teach them to be happy playing outside or colouring.

Or I could just turn the fucking thing off and pay attention to her.  Take her for a walk.  Or to the park.

So anyway.  I think I will raise my children the way I raise my dogs:

1.  I am in charge.  Non-negotiable.

2. I will spend lots of time with them.  Just hanging out.  Making myself available.  Making them feel supported and secure.

3.  I will say no and correct them.  Sometimes they won’t like it.

4.  They will eat what I feed them, whether it is from the 30 minute list of things kids will eat or not.

5.  I will keep it simple, so they always know what is expected.

What do you think?   Do we go too far to get this parenting thing right?  Or is it necessary in this age?

Can we just make rules that need to be followed and consequences that are given out when these rules are broken?  Can we spend a little less time in the car chauffeuring our children to spend time with other people and allow them to just be kids a while longer?  Can happiness come from simplicity?

I sure hope so.

Yeah. I Leash My Kid, But You’re The Douche.

Hey it’s Thursday!  Guess what time I woke up today?  4am.  Yes!  Isn’t that fucking awesome?  I can hardly wait for the rest of the world to wake up in about 5 hours and complain about how tired they are.

So I perused the “family” section on Canada Msn, and came across a debate about whether or not you should leash your toddler.  This should probably be a Friday topic, but I am so seriously infuriated by this one bitch’s comment that I almost went into labour.  Which would have of course meant she was instantly forgiven.  But since it didn’t happen, fuck her.

“I think parents who use leashes look lazy. It seems cruel to yank a child around town rather than take the time to teach him or her how to behave in public.”

Well pardon the fucking HELL out of me you perfect, fucking, mother of the year.  Shall I just rush out and get you your crown and bouquet of flowers and just shrink back to the dark corners of my shit ass life?  I can’t even believe that someone would say this.

1.  I am 1010 months pregnant and counting.

2.  I live on a busy residential street.

3.  I am still trying to take my almost 2 year old daughter out for walks even though the pain in my crotch and pelvis is borderline torturous some days.

4. I cannot possibly catch her if she starts running towards the street.

5.  All it takes is ONE time.  ONE FUCKING TIME where I don’t get to her in time and some asshole is speeding down the street.

6. I am not lazy.  I am being practical and working within my limitations.

7. Go fuck yourself.

Then she goes on to talk about how it isn’t surprising to see leashed children misbehave.  I guess it’s because us lazy shits don’t take time to teach our children any boundaries.  Last time I checked, every toddler on the face of the earth has thrown a fit over something or other.  I suspect that the reason an unleashed tot is not freaking out is partly because they are getting their own way at the moment. And for the record, I don’t leash my toddler every time I go out.  I leash her when her safety trumps your judgemental bullshit.  Such as busy street, or if I’m by myself with her in a busy place and I’m worried I can’t keep up to her.

And yes, while teaching my child rules is my job as a parent, so is going to whatever means necessary to keep her safe.  So while you are shouting commands to your child from across Target, I will have my kid safely in the cart.  Or attached to it.  Or attached to me.  And I will look at you and think you are just as big of a douchebag as I am.  So there.

Women like this really get on my tits, you know?  Why is it that because something worked for you it automatically makes the rest of us wrong for not doing it your way?  Because at the end of the day, you cannot guarantee that your child, especially a toddler is going to listen and give a fuck what the rules are every single time.  They are not capable of it because they live in a world of instant gratification and cannot predict the outcome of their actions.

So yeah.  I leash my toddler.  Because I don’t trust her.  Not because she’s an asshole and I suck at parenting, but because she’s fucking two years old.

ONE TIME.  That’s all it takes.

My kid may be on a leash, but at least she’s not on a milk carton or tombstone.

Grocery Shopping In Bitch Infested Waters

I just realized that seeing as I am now officially done with my students, I am technically a stay at home mom for the next 3 months.  That means my primary job duties include laundry, cooking, cleaning, and mostly,  keeping two children alive until relief gets home.

One of my designated chores that I actually don’t mind doing is the grocery shopping.  I like to cook, and so I go off to the store sans list and have at it.  My two special talents in life make this easy.

1.  I always find a parking spot close by the door.  Always.  I don’t know how, but ask anyone.  People take me places just for the free valet.

2.  I can literally keep our grocery budget within a 20$ window without actually budgeting or making a list.  I have some sort of weird number thing inside my brain I think.  Rain Man’s long lost sister.

Of course, these days my grocery habits are a little off and I am realizing how weird other people can be.  I usually go to the store early in the morning, but yesterday, I went around supper.  The trip seemed to have a different flavour from the beginning.

First of all, for some reason, my usually oh so comfortable maternity knickers felt like they were falling down. In fact, they kept falling down no matter how slow I waddled around.  It was awkward, because I had a sundress on and I was worried they might fall all the way down. So I had to be that weird chick, pulling up her underpants as she walked.  At one point  I actually considered going to the bathroom to take them off.  Unfortunately, the small purse I had brought with me might not have accommodated the enormous size of maternity knickers.  You. Have. No. Idea.

The other shoppers leave something for humanity to desire as well.  The woman are all bitchy and rude and annoying.

Karma did step in and restore my faith in the universe when one cunty bitch watched me drop an entire thing of cauliflower at her feet.  I thought for sure she would have seen me try to pick it up from the counter using my swollen hand-stumps, drop it and at least pretend  to gesture to pick it up for me.  But no.  She turned her attention promptly back to the celery.  And proceeded to get soaked by the sprinkler system over the produce.  Ha ha.  Fuck you Cunty Nohelp.

And here’s a shout out to Mrs. Takeupthe-Wholeaisle.  When you see a 1005 month pregnant woman waiting patiently for you to move your fucking cart aside so she can pass by, you should say a silent prayer that she hasn’t bitched you out.  So when you move it and make the blocking of the aisle worse, you should drop to your fucking knees and pray I don’t kick you in the groin.  And when I politely move your cart aside for you because you are to fucking obtuse to take the hint, you really shouldn’t be rude to me, because at any second, I could whip out an english cucumber and start using it as a weapon.  Christ.

I fucking hate people.  The End.

Mine, Mine, Mine

So here we go.

Not the labour.  Because apparently this child will continue to grow in me until he is a calcified mummy like that woman in Africa who gestated for like 40 years.  Thanks for that, by the way, Bestie.

Here we go with “Mine mine mine”.  Yes.  Destroyer has learned to say the magic word.  Everything is “mine”.  It’s actually super cute until you are trying to actually do anything productive around the house, or make a phone call.  The object could be laying around the house for days, but as soon as I need to use it.  It’s “mine”

Oh and super fucking duper, she is discovering just how cool temper tantrums are.  Cool for her, anyway.  Did you know that it is possible for a child of this age  to dissolve into the mother of all fits in about 12 nanoseconds?  You probably did know that, because you probably don’t suck at this as much as I do.

So yesterday, she is playing happily as a clam with one of those giant exercise balls.  Until all of a sudden she decided she must instantly go outside.  Ok.  Cool.  Get your hat and let’s go.

Oh but mommy, you fucking retard.  We can’t go to the backyard through that door.  We must go through the front door, through the garage and….oh wait.  I don’t want to go in the backyard at all.  I want to go for a walk.  In that person’s yard.  NO?

Then I’ll throw myself down in the middle of the street and shit myself.

Fucking. Toddlers.

We were having a perfectly wonderful day.  Daddy was off, the weather was nice.  And then all of a sudden, around 4:30, someone’s mood turned foul.  The dissolved into to anger management for two year olds.   And it royally sucked.

So we did what any reasonable parent would do.  We put It in It’s room.  Mostly because we didn’t want to listen to the whine/cry/scream thing anymore, but also to give the poor child some space.  I suppose it was kind of like a time out.  But not really, because I don’t believe in time outs, per say.  And seeing as I know everything about parenting, you should pay close attention to my commentary here.

So. Do you folks have one of those “time out” chairs someone in the living room?  And how the hell do you get a screaming, kicking, monster of a child to sit on one for a time out?  More importantly, why the fuck would you try?Doesn’t it just make it worse?

Because as far as I can tell, at this age, the time out is more for me than for her.  I put her in her room and let her have at it, and she usually calms down in about 10 minutes or so.  And so do I.  Because if it weren’t for this, I’m not sure I could have restrained myself from throwing a stuffed animal at my child’s head.  I’m too pregnant for tantrums. And way too sober.

So, kids. Tell me your tantrum taming secrets.  Besides food, of course. That one I’m familiar with. The other day I avoided one in Safeway by snagging a bag of cookies off the shelf and opening it at the meat counter.  But all other advice is welcome.

Just don’t be douchey about it.

 

No Wild Raspberries For My Uterus

commons.wikimedia.org

commons.wikimedia.org

For the record, I didn’t have a baby over the weekend.  I really, really wanted to, because this whole pregnancy thing is starting to get ridiculous.

So what’s my problem?

Part of my problem is that I am totally a hypochondriac.  I am a hypochondriac to the point that even when something is feeling off, I am afraid to take something for it for fear that there will be adverse reactions.

And it’s not just because I’m into the crazy sauce, you know.  I don’t have a very good tolerance to drugs.  Two thirds of the available antibiotics give me hives/swelling/anaphylaxis.  Morphine produces projectile vomit, same with codeine.  Any kind of cold medication with pseudoephedrine in it makes me feel like I did a few lines of coke and washed it down with 10 pots of coffee.

So yeah.  I’m pretty much a suck it up princess kind of woman.  Which made me a shitty friend yesterday.

Bestie was coming over for Sunday dinner as she always does, and she was super excited to tell me that she had a present for me.  OOOOH!  Presents!  She had some raspberry leaves to make tea with.  To help my uterus feel happy and compliant and ready to shoot out a baby.

I thought that was really nice.  Until she told me she picked them out of the wild.

Oh dear sweet Jesus.  Something wild?  Who are you exactly?  Fucking Katniss Everdeen?  Did you shoot me a couple of squirrels with your bow, too?   Oh my God.  How can you expect me to drink your poisoned uterus tea now?  I mean, I eat the fish I catch at the lake and all, but they come out of the water.  Nothing poisonous in the water, right?

Then I felt really, really bad, because she crashed through mosquito infested parkland in search of wild raspberry bushes for my uterus.  She worked up a sweat, people.  And I rejected her efforts.  Crazy.Fucking.Pregnant. Bitch.

The my other friend who was pregnant texted me to say she was going to take some castor oil and have her baby.

And you what?  It bloody well worked.

So now of course Husband is right up my ass to take some too.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Little Buddy has apparently set up shop on top of my pelvic bone instead of settling into my pelvis to get ready for the journey to personhood.  Which means he’s not ready.  Which means you know what castor oil will do?  It will give me the pleasure of explosive diarrhea for a couple of days.  I already spend enough time in the bathroom, thank you very fucking much.  And despite the amazing deal I found on toilet paper over the weekend, I’m in no hurry to go through it that quickly.

My solution for everything is tea tree oil.  I feel comfortable with it.  it stinks, but it doesn’t make me feel weird.  I pour it on everything and it seems to work.  I wonder if I put some in bath water if he’ll just slide right out, no labour or anything.  That shit is THAT good. I’ll try it today and get back to you.

Most of the time I just drink some rum and go to bed. Just a couple more weeks max, right?

If I ever deliver this baby, that is.

AfterOtis

Written by Natalie Oldham

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Letting it all hang out

lifebeyondmommy

A stay at home mothers guide to self discovery

The Shameful Sheep

shit storms, shame, and stories that make you cringe

Luminous Blue

a mother's and daughter's journey with transformation, cancer, death and LOVE

The Secret Life of Emily Maine

a place to shout my secrets

Dramatic Momologue

The juggle is real.

andrea shawcross

comedy writer & maker of filmstuffs.

Ben's Bitter Blog

"We make bitter better."

David McVety

A Spiritual Shepherd's Thoughts on Faith and Family

Beating Myself Into a Dress

First a wedding dress, then a maternity dress, now I'm just trying to fit into ANY dress.

The Fat Chick Memoirs

Dealing with my Weight-Loss One Funny Story at a Time

Stephanie Bernaba

Writer | Photographer

The Science of Mom

The Heart and Science of Parenting

The Fat Bottom Bard

Waxing Poetic and Penning Tall Tales

Jeneral Musings

A personal potpourri of thoughts

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