Be Careful What You Ask A Four Year Old

Poo Alert!
If you have a sensitive tummy,
you may not want to read any further.

Four-year old's are incapable of understanding when a question is rhetorical. If I had any doubt, it was put to rest today.

Will, my four year old son, came down with the runs while we were shopping today. He messed in his pants. We stopped by the bathroom and cleaned him up as well as possible and headed home.

Even thought I had thrown away his undies, and wasn't that going to be a pleasant surprise for the janitor, when he sit in his seat he made a face. "Yuck, poo poo pants!"

"Feels gross hu?" I said as I put on his seat belt. "Just think, babies poo in their pants all the time and it doesn't bother them. How do you think they do that?"

"Like this . . huuuuu"

The Anniversary of Death

Everyone in my family has always been HUGE in being hung up on people's death anniversary; for 10-15 years after the deceased has passed away. In some instance, you can hardly stand to go around them the entire month.

The people we have lost have been just as related to me as to them; cousins, uncles, grandparents. I was even torn up by the passing of my step-father, thought I have no doubt his actual children were more so . . . that one I'll give them.

However, year after year I have not felt the need to commensurate their death.

This month has me worried. This is the month my sister committed suicide last year. And not to sound selfish, but it's taken me nearly an entire year to start living again. Based upon my past lack of interest in mourning the departed, I didn't expect an issue.

Maybe I should have.

The first day of October was when it hit me. I realized it was close, the anniversary of Becky's death. Memories started playing in my subconscious. Not bad memories, just painful now that she's not around. I got the shakes and started crying. Today is the end of the 4th day of this month and as I write this my eyes are filled with tears again. I messed up my medication for the first time in months the other day. I'm having trouble getting to sleep.

Knowing how badly I needed a break from life, my friend and I are planning one of our scrapbooking weekends for later this month. The third weekend of the month.

Do you want to know where I was the third weekend of the month last year? At a scrapbooking weekend with Charlene, screaming in agony as Steve told me over the phone about Becky's suicide.

I've always been a person that believed in just yanking the bandaid off. Getting it over with.

Well, this should do it.

Assuming no other sibling decideds it's a nice weekend to bite a bullet.

The Perfect Snack

It's funny how you can live your entire life and not realize certain things, like what the perfect snack is. Well, you can live in ignorance until you have a four year old.

Last month I caught Will with numerous snacks on the coffee table. He was pouring things out and arranging them just so in a big lump.

I asked him what he was doing and he replied, "Making the perfect snack."



Just in case you were wondering, the perfect snack consists of gold fish, fruit chews, and original potato chips.

I'd rather be Crafty

I've always had problems with the word and concept of being "crafty". The very word bothers me, as it should.

The actual definition of Crafty is: Skilled in or marked by underhandedness, deviousness, or deception.

In the ten different dictionary sources I pulled up on the Internet, not one of them listed a description of a person having the ability to participate in many different crafts.

No, but if you look up arty (and who even knew that was a real word?) you find the following description: Of or relating to artists or the fine arts.

Fine arts? What the hell is that? I think of ballet, sculpture, painting, singing . . . things that have little to no impact on my life.

I have often had non-crafty people assume that since I can do so many things I must be able to draw, or paint, or sculp, or . . .

I can't.

Over the years I've come to realize that anything that requires a certain set of steps to produce a reaction, I can do. I can sew, do stain glass, crochete, bake, etc. But if something requires a great amount of artistic input -- choices on color, design, layout . . . not so much.

At different points in my life, enjoying crafts has subjected me to near second-class citizenship. Stand around a room of executives talking about their interests and just imagine the look on their face when sailing, painting, dancing, etc, is followed by sewing. LOL

As we age, we not only gain a better understanding of ourselves and our needs, but an acceptance. In my twenties, my mother-in-law told me that while I was a "Jill-of-many trades, I was a Queen of none". My interest in most crafts has been in the ability to conquer them. As soon as I feel half way confident in my ability to do anything I want, I loose interest and move on.

I have never sought to become an artist in any field. This simple thought released a life-time of feeling inadequate about my skill of being crafty. I've never spent years, hell, not even months, polishing an ability. Never taken more than one class on any subject. Never poured over every book about a craft I could find.

When it comes right down to it, subconsiously I've always preferred being crafty to arty. And it's only takem me forty years to figure it out.

Got Pepper?

I had lunch with Tori today and as always after every meal we've eaten together since she turned twelve of so, she looked at me and flashed her teeth, tilting her head from side-to-side. While no longer accompanied by the words, "Is there pepper in my teeth?", I can still hear them resounding loudly from years past.

As I sit there listening to her and my best friend talk, I actually noticed pepper in Tori's teeth and it got me to thinking. Tori is the only person I have ever known who is so fanatical about checking her teeth after every meal. If there is no one at the table she trusts for her pepper check, she'll take a napkin and wipe each tooth off, just in case.

While that's odd enough for me, the really strange thing is that Tori is the only person I have ever known who always gets pepper stuck on her teeth. Seriously, I've been married the majority of my life. Have eaten at least one meal a day with the same person sitting across from me, and may have seen pepper on his teeth once. Tori, every other time I check.

So I got to wondering . . .

Does the fear of something happening, i.e., getting pepper stuck on your teeth, make it a reality? Or, did the fact that pepper always got stuck on her teeth make her fanatic about checking for it?

It's the age old question, which came first, the pepper or the fear of the pepper?

I'm Bored

You may not believe this, but it's taken me all week to realize what this odd feeling I've been experiencing is. Boredom.

I've conquered the challenge of cleaning my house. I'm tired of reading. I just finished a chapter in my book and am just not ready to jump into another one yet.

I haven't been officially bored in years. Because, lets face it, depressed people don't get bored. Getting bored requires looking forward and giving a shit; not big items on the 'to do' list of depressed people.

On one hand, I'm insanely excited to have found myself bored. But mostly, I'm just bored. I want to do something FUN! Something that excites me.

A friend of mine, and I, are planning a three day get away next month. One of our scrapbooking weekends. They're great and it's exactly what I need. But it's three weeks away. I need something NOW.

Is it just me, or am I beginning to sound like my four year old?

Oh well, the computer is boring me so off I go to find something else to fiddle with for a few moments.

Am I done?

I finished cleaning my house today. Over the last three and a half weeks I've managed to deeply clean every single room in my house. Each closet, cabinet, floor. Every piece of furniture moved and cleaned under.

I've given away no less than 10 trash bags of items and hauled out closer to 30 bags of trash.

When I completed the bathroom today I was sort of let down. In fact, I was wondering what I'd do tomorrow. While checking laundry, I realized I had not cleaned the laundry room. Then I got to thinking, I didn't clean the ceiling fans. I didn't wash the walls down. I didn't . . .

I had to stop and ask myself when was I going to stop? I could continue. It would take a month to clean our garage. A week to clean the attic. A week to clean the driveway. A week to clean the back yard.

What exactly is my goal here? My original goal when Will started school was to use the time he's gone to increase the sales on my website. I have a three prong approach to doing this. 1)Add new patterns, 2)Convert existing patterns to digital so they can be sent via email, and 3)Post links to my website and comments through the web to drive more customers to my site.

I only decided to clean the house because it really needed it. I never expected it to take this long. So why am I LOOKING for more things to clean?

On one hand, I'm kind of addicted to being able to accomplish something so obvious in a morning. When I tackle a new room, it is shocking the difference at the end of the day. I can pat myself on the back and say, "Good job!" When you work for yourself and no one else is involved in your business, you get no 'good jobs', pats on the back, or noticeable recognition.

But it's really the other hand holding me back, fear. It's been a long time since I jumped in with both feet and swam with the big fish. Since I decided 'this' pattern needs to be made and just made it. Remade it and remade it. Found poeple to test it. Wrote up directions the average Jane Doe can follow and marketed it.

While I've come a long way the last couple of months, I still don't have the self confidence I use to have. But I do know how to get it . . . by jumping in with both feet. Sink or swim, baby!