Teaching my UT class tomorrow

I teach an informal class at UT once a semester on making your own sewing patterns.

I don't do it for the money. You make a whopping $15 an hour the the schedules hours of your class; mine is 3 hours long. It costs me $9 to park anywhere near my class. It takes me 3-5 hours to prepare for my class and the day of class I spend at least 6-7 hours preparing, driving to/from, and overseeing the class. Not a huge money maker.

I don't do it for the advertising either. Due to the complexity of the class and the need for hands-on involvement from the instructor (that would be me), I have to limit the class to only 10 students. So it in no way compensates in advertising to the public for the time or energy I put into it.

I teach the class partly to help myself maintain, even in a small way, a professional front. After so many years away from an office and constant interaction with people, I find the most basic work related skills are almost nonexistent. I also teach the class to stretch myself, to pull me out of my comfort zone and force me to interact with strangers. And it doesn't look bad on a resume either.

But this class happened to be scheduled less than 2 weeks from the day my younger sister committed suicide. And while life is moving on and I am learning to cope with my grief, I just don't feel up to facing a room full of strangers for 3 solid hours. Much less being nice to them.

Oddly, the thought to cancel the class never occurred to me. I teach this class to force myself out into the public and I figure I need that worse now than ever before. What I did was call my friend Charlene and ask her to attend with me. Knowing someone I am comfortable with will be in the room with me has made the though of class more bearable.

Now as I put in the laborious hours before class to make my whooping $3 an hour ($45 - $9 for parking = $36 divided by 12 hours of time spent on preparing/giving class) I feel comforted rather than overwhelmed.

Thank you my friend.

What I want to be when I grow up

We've all met them, those people who know from birth what they are going to be when they grow up. They don't need time to find themselves. They don't flop majors in college. Hell, they go to college; and not because they have nothing better to do.

Then there are those people that just do what they are told. Their family or counselor tells them what they are good at and they just go along the chosen path with no complaints. They go to college, get a job in their appointed field, and put in 20 years and retire.

The first group end up being the overachievers of the world. Working 60-80 hour weeks and fighting retirement like it's death, and to them it may well be. The second group work their 40-hour weeks, take two weeks vacation a year, participate in 401k, and don't shit the small stuff . . . because they just don't care. They retire early and enjoy their life.

I'd be happy to count myself in either group, but I'm not. I'm a "when I grow up kid". I still have no clue and I'm 42. If there was a sign along the way, I missed it. And there wasn't anyone who cared enough in my youth to guide me. Mom told me to find a husband before I was out of high school or the good ones would be all gone. Got to love life in a small southern town, or having a psycho for a mother; I'm not sure which. Not a single teacher or councilor ever spoke to me about college or choosing a career.

I have felt a reoccurring "buzz" throughout my life, a draw to writing, to putting a story down on paper. I wrote a complete story by longhand when I was 15 and it was the most amazing experience of my then very-young life. My characters took on lives of their own and wouldn't always act or behave in ways I tried to make them. Yeah, I know, now who's the psycho?

I also wrote TONs of poetry back then as well. In fact, I used the pseudonym of Lynn Collins and read my own poem at a UIL competition. Then when something so horrible I thought my life was over happened, and I can't even remember what it was, I burned everything I had ever written. And forgot about writing.

I spent almost 13 years working in the publishing industry in different capacities; but mostly associated with the editorial staff. I know, a hoot hu? While working for a map making company in my late 20s, I actually got to write up small filler articles, help compose text for atlases, and come up with different hightlight-text for pullouts. It was fun and fulfilled a side of me I hadn't even thought of in years.

In my middle thirties I once again started writing. I typed a complete novel in about 4 months. I had it critiqued and made edits. I submitted it to competitions. I even started a follow up novel. And it was wonderful. I was fulfilled and felt like I was doing what I was suppose to be doing. But then life happened; computer crashed and files were lost, laid off my job, new baby.

While relatives have gone on to pursue an actual writing career, I have not. I have placated myself by posting to places like e.how where you get paid for writing artifices. Hey, I actually get to claim royalties in my tax return . . . there are a lot of writers that will never experience that. I write up instructions for my patterns that go all over the world . . . there are a lot of writers that will never experience that.

Then I started this blog to help cope with the loss of my sister and to have a place to throw-up stuff I needed to just get out of my body. Then it became more. Now, it's my passion at the end of the day. The determination to write, to enjoy putting word to paper -- or in my case, finger to keyboard.

I've said all my life that when I grow up, I want to be a writer. Maybe I haven't turned out to be the writer I expected to be, but you can't be much more grown and I do write.

Will's costume

For the better part of the last 22 years I have been making my children's Halloween costumes. This year I was lacking a little enthusiasm for the entire concept, but still managed to through a costume together for Will in about 1/2 an hour.

I cut down a pair of waders I purchased from a resale shop for $1. Then I just started pulling things out from around the house; the hat, lures, stuffed fish, minnow bucket, stringer, etc.

Here's photos of my little guy all decked out.

And here is a photo of him sniffing his candy at supper.

I lied

Everyone tells little lies all the time, and if you deny it . . . your lying.

"You are as beautiful as the day I met you." Right, if you met them yesterday maybe.
"You look fine, Honey." Like he even really looked at you.
"That's the most beautiful painting I've ever seen." Maybe if you squint and look at it upside down when your drunk.

It's part of life, or more correctly, part of the toll of belonging to society. We don't want to hurt each other when their is no benefit to be gotten from it. We want to encourage our young and loved ones. We don't want to fall into the same old argument, so we just side step it.

We lie.

But, actual premeditated lying to get ones self out of a uncomfortable situation . . . I've always been against it. Once this guy kept calling Tori, and every time Tori would yell, "Tell him I'm not here." But I wouldn't, I would hand her the phone . . . or tell the guy, "Tori said she's not here," and hang up. Sometimes I would just hang up. Straight out lying goes against something in my personal code of honer (COH).

That doesn't mean I don't do it, but I do it rarely. And when I do lie, it bothers me for a long time. The length of torment is usually determined by the grossness of the lie.

One thing I have learned about myself over the years is that the regrets I have, the things that scar my soul, are all things that I did against my personal COH. I find it funny to even say those words; personal COH. It's not something that is talked about in our society today, but I believe we all have one.

I don't think your environment is 100% responsible for the development of your COH, as I have a large family and we didn't all grow up with the same code. Some things that bothers others not at all, bother me.

Anyway, tonight I lied. And when I tell you what I did you are going to think, "That's it? That's whats bothering you?" True, it's not that I did a horrible thing, just something against my COH.

It all started with the item and photo above. I made this little invention last year to wide thread onto cards. I was making my own sewing kits to send out as advertising media. It worked great. But when I added the time I spent making the kits and the cost of the additional items (needles, safety pins, buttons); it cost more to make them to buy them. So I just started buying kits.

I moved my office to Tori's old room recently. I am in the process of getting rid of things I no longer use, and this little baby qualifies. Now, it's really not made of much. Mostly it's scrap wood, a few safety pins, some paper clips, and dowel pieces. It would be really easy to just through it out on the burn pile. But I made it.

How many people have sit down and designed from scratch something you can't even buy in stores? It's not that pretty to look at. It's a little wobbly. But did I mention, I made it?

So I took a few photos and put it out on my local Craigslist for free. I had one flaky woman who sent two emails and I never heard from. Then I go the emailer from hell. Oh, you know her?

This is the retired ex-professional that just really needs to talk and communicate with someone, but all her family has stopped answering her calls or reading her emails. In three days I've gotten no less than 15 emails from her. Really, all I wanted to know was "What do you want to use it for," and "When can you come pick it up."

I finally stopped responding to every email she sent, but we managed to set up a time for her to come by on Saturday. She doesn't seem to have a clear purpose for it. She just thinks it's neat and wants to set it near her moms old treadle sewing machine. I think she's going to be disappointed; it's not much of a looker.

Tonight, I get an email from a nice woman who is part-owner of GAGA (Greater Austin Garbage Arts). They sell art made from recycled reclaimed material and teach workshops. They also host clothing swaps for people to trade clothes and alter them on their machines on site. She thought my kit maker was "AWESOME".

I checked out their website and they are a fun and lively bunch that believe a lot of the same things I do -- about recycling and making do. There really was no option; here is a group of people, some of whom are financially challenged, who will USE my product and it falls right into their frame of quirkiness. I told her she could have it.

In fact, I am going to drop it off with a load of things I purchased while making my kits. I want to check out the place and see what is going on and if there is anyway I can help out or contribute.

Now the lie . . .

I could have just written the over-emailer a note and explained things to her, but I didn't. I wrote her an email and told her that people picking up cabinets from my house today accidentally took it with them. I apologized for her inconvenience and signed off. People did pick up cabinets from me today and the threader was sitting on the cabinets when they came in. So it made it a plausible lie to me. Buy why lie at all? Because I didn't want her to think badly of me?

I don't understand my own motivation, other than maybe it would be less messy to handle it the way I did. But now I have another blot on my COH and I have to wonder if it was worth it.

Will playing on Blackie

Will named his horse swing Blackie. He'll beg Steve and I to push him all day and even into the night. He actually prefers Steve pushing him because Steve will run and push Will up over his shoulders. It's crazy.

This video was taking this evening after Steve got home from work. It's in our back yard. You can even see the cool playscape I made Will this summer in the back ground. If you listen to the video you can hear Will getting the hiccups. He does that every time he laughs to hard, something his papa does as well.

Even after all this fun, Will cried for 10 minutes later in the evening because Steve would not go out and swing him again. The only way to quiten him down was to tell him Blackie was sleeping.

Mom came to visit

Yesterday morning, I set Will up to play games on the computer and I went to get dressed. I was across the house, but I could hear his game playing fine when all of a sudden he yells, "MOM!"

He's gotten a real annoying habit of yelling lately and I just decided to ignore him. As I continue to dress he yells "MOM!" about every 10-15 seconds. Each one louder than the last; if that was even possible.

After a few minutes I say loud enough to be heard, and in a terribly controlled voice, "Do not yell at me. If you want to talk to me, come into my room and talk to me." He's quite for about 2 minutes and it starts up again.

"MOM!" "MOM!" "MOM!"

It continues for 10 minutes. After a while, every "MOM!" reverberates in my skull and my whole body is shaking with nerves, stress, an over-abundance of "moms" . . . I don't know.

But his prolonged and loud incantation of "MOM" opened up a whirling temporal portal and there she was . . . MOM!



I don't even remember moving, but all of a sudden I am standing over him in the computer room yelling -- in mom's voice --, "I DO NOT LIKE TO BE YELLED AT. IT MAKES ME FEEL BAD AND IT MAKES ME ANGRY."

Then she left.

I look at Will and he is cowering in his chair and looking at me like he's seen a demon -- and he has. In a very quite voice he says, "I am very hungry." A large part of me is greatly ashamed of what just happened, but a part of me is still shaking and upset beyond expression about the entire episode.

I tell him that I will find him something to eat, and I calmly explain to him that he should get up and go to where I am when he wants to talk to me. I ask him, "Did you like it when mom yelled at you?" Of coarse, he hadn't. "Then why would you want to yell at me?"

I got him breakfast and he went back to playing. I went back to my room to deal with Mom's visit and try to get back to myself. Will pops up a few minutes and slowly comes into the room. "I am very thirsty," he says in a normal tone of voice.

They say we all turn into our mothers. No one mentioned we can just randomly be possessed by them. While I don't feel good about being a portal to evil, I was able to dampen the spirit enough to make her words less hurtfull; or she's lost some of her viger thorugh the years. That old woman could really injur a person with words in my youth.

Slogging through Soup

The first few horrible days after Becky's death I seemed to return to normal. I perform my daily duties, talk and joke with family, plan for my future . . . it seems the same as before. However, I've noticed that everything I do feels like I'm doing it in slow motion.

Well, I guess technically it more than feels that way. I am moving in slow motion. Apparently not bad enough that people in the street stop and stare at me in awe (or is that trepidation?).

But every day I get up, get dressed, check my emails, fill my orders, dress Will and then I look at the clock and go WTHH (What the Hell Happened?)! I got up at the same time I always do. I did the same things I always do. Yet, its hours later than I normally am able to accomplish them in.

It doesn't just happen during the morning either. There will be 4 or 5 times a day that the same since of loss time grabs me. It doesn't help that at the same time I've developed a bad case of forgetfulness.

I'll find myself just staring into a cabinet in the kitchen and I'll have no idea of why I'm there or what I'm looking for . . . nor how long I've been there. Okay, so maybe you've experienced that in your life. But have you ever found yourself standing in front of the oven, with the door open, and had the same feeling. All I could think was, "Jesus Christ, I wasn't thinking of jumping in was I?" If that was the case, I definitely need a bigger oven.

Then there are the actions of which I should never tell anyone in case they start looking for a room for me next to mom. The gallon of milk I put in the cabinet. The day I came in from running errands and tried to put my purse up in the oven (I have an oven issue obviously; must be on my mind because I need to clean it). Trying to cook over a non-lit stove.

When I try to explain my condition to people the words that come to mind are, "I feel like I'm slogging through soup." Today at lunch, Tori asked if that was like walking in quicksand. And it is, and it's not.

Soup is warm and lulling: it makes you want to pee yourself.

Good cheap fun

I had to get out of the house yesterday, so we took Will out to climb Mt. Bonnel. I haven't been out there since I've started putting on my winter weight; about 4 years ago. And it was a lot more of a work out than I expected.

However, it was fun. It seem to clear my head being out in the fresh air. And Will loved it. You would have thought we'd taken him to the biggest Mr. Gatti's party ever. We're going to try to do that more, communing with nature.

My legs are complaining today, but I'm going to ignore them. It was fun, it was cheap, it was easy. We'll do it agian.

The younger of my sisters . . .

I decided last week that these five words have the power to bring me to my knees faster than any others right now . . .


The younger of my sisters


They don't look very scary, but the emotions they are capable of instantly bringing to the front of me are tremendouse. Which is odd, as I generally am a person that feels little at this point in my life.

Oh, I feel love for my children and spouse, concern for family members, etc. But as we go through life and get hurt along the way we subconsously build little walls of protection. Sounds like a good thing, and I think it is to a degree.


But if we don't re-evaluate our walls at some times you end up in your 40s or 50s with walls so thick you can bearly remember what REAL emotion -- the kind without walls -- felt like.

As it turns out, the wall around China didn't fall, it just relocated. Over the years I've found nothing really shakes me up any more. Kid moving out? See you later. Mother disinheriting you? One less person to buy presents for. Lost your job? Get another one. Car broke down out of the blue? Oh, well, we'll stay home or walk.

But those five little words almost brought me to my knees the first time I said them after Becky's death. "The younger of my sisters . . . ".

I was raised with two sisters and two brothers; all younger than me. Every time I'd refer to them, I'd use their age in proximately to each other to identify them for strangers. "The older of my sisters works in a nursing home." "The younger of my sisters has two children and is a stay-at-home mom." The day after I learned of Becky's death I was talking to my friend about the arrangements and how things were being handled and I was telling her that Byjo, the younger of my sisters . . .

Then it dawns on me that Byjo is now my only sister.

As bad as it hurts you would think I wouldn't have uttered them again. And yet through the next week of visiting family, the funeral, and coming to terms with my new life they kept popping out. I've never noticed this tendency towards self-flagellation before; so I can only assume the expression is so common to me I didn't realize how often I used it.

My sister, Byjo, and I decided we would officially adopt our Aunt Cindy so we could keep the quota of two sisters . . . but even as we joked about it I knew it would never work. The older of my sisters has always been Becky; and it always will.

Oh yeah, I ment to send this to you

I was going through photos and came across this one I ment to send my sister Becca. She mailed me a birthday card in 2007 that had this removeable sticker in it. I wore the sticker all day and I knew she'd get a kick out of that.

The sticker said:


I am the sister

of a Wonderful

and Thoughtful

person.

And I was.

Matlida, Faith, and Decka

I've always had a love/hate relationship with plants. I would love to grow beautiful plants, in- or out-doors, and they hate me. I have the perpetual black thumb. It's so bad that when I see plants any where and start gravitating towards them my family and friends quickly divert me.

I've often said, upon seeing a particularly lovely plant, "I'd love to take that home and kill it." Not that I'm homicidal at all, just realistic.

In my 40-some years I've had three major plant loves. As the oldest of 5 siblings I didn't get my own room until I was 14. One of the first things I did was buy a plant for my room. I read up on raising plants and felt totally prepared. I bought a very small ivy and a HUGE pot -- as I read that the plant will grow to fill the pot. I purchased the best potting soil out huge metropolis of 5,000 had on hand. I water it, spritzed it, played it music, and talked to it. I even named it Matilda. It manged to hold on about 4-6 weeks before it became obvious it was never going to make it.

As I was taking it down stairs, on my way to dumping it out, my mother told me just to sit it down in the dining room and she'd take care of it. At this point I didn't see that there was much she could do to hurt it, so I left it.

Within a year Matilda was so big she trailed around the entire 10x20 room. She had single leaves larger than a grown mans palm. I never actually saw Mom water, dust, spritz, or talk to Matilda. Matilda was the focal point of my mothers houses for over 20 years. Hell, for all I know she may still be.

My second case of plant love was with a Christmas Cactus. Oddly, I can't even remember how I ended up with that plant. I didn't plan on falling in love with Faith in the beginning. In fact, I didn't even name her until well in our second year together. I know, shocking she was still around then.

Faith came to live with me when I was around 16 or 17. It was during the time I was really beginning to have doubts about the faith I had been raised in. I hadn't really learned anything from my experience with Matilda and I over-watered and over-cared for Faith as well. Well, it was that or she wasn't too fond of the music I was playing in those days. Within a few weeks of coming to live with me I declared Faith dead and dumped her in the back yard.

Oddly enough, it happen to be during a time when I was feeling very negative towards religion. Three of four months later with my life back on the narrow, boring, and very straight path . . . I happen to glass down as I'm walking outside and there is a small twig of Faith growing from nothing in the back yard. In shock I dig it up and plant it in a pot and put in back in my room. For months it is the happiest and healthiest looking plant you can imagine.

Then about the time the restrictions imposed upon me by my church began to wear me down, I notice Faith drooping. Another week or two and she's out in the back yard again. Several months later, when I'm happily attending church again I make a trip outside just to sure and D A M B. There she was.

This same cycle is repeated for probably 3 or 4 more times over the next few years. I can't remember what happened to Faith. But as she seemed unbelievably tied to my religion, which I quit in my early 20s, I figure she finally died for real.

They were not my only attempts at growing plants inside or out. But they were two plants I will never forget. This week, I brought home another that will mean a lot to me and I have no idea how are life together will be; her name is Decka.

The last day in Brady, just hours before we headed for home, I took the car and drove out to the cemetery to tell my sister, Becca, goodbye. I would have preferred to have gone alone, but I have this 3 feet tall shadow who goes by Will.

Being surrounded by loved ones for the two days prior to -- and the day of -- the burial, I knew I was going to break down once I was alone. I drove out to the grave site with no clear plan in mind; just the knowledge I needed to say goodbye. I started snivelling on my way out and Will wanted to know where we were going. "To see Becca," I told him. I tried explaining why I was sad. I told him that Becca was my sister, just like Bonnet and Tori are his sisters. Then I explained how Becca was in the box we had buried the day before. Since we had a closed casket, this was a very hard concept for him to grasp.

Once we got to the cemetery, it looked like Becca's flowers had just been tossed upon her grave with no care at all. So I got out and straightened up. I found some silk flower arrangements and dug a hole deep enough at the top of the grave to hold them upright. I removed the standing wire frames from the arrangements and laid them out neatly over her grave. I took the limp roses and pulled the petals off and scattered them over the entire grave site. Then I found water and filled all the vases and wet down the arrangements. And the entire time I allowed my self to cry like my sister had died.

As you can imagine, it freaked Will out a little. "What's wrong momma?" "Don't cry momma." I tried to calm down a little and let him know I was okay. Then he starts saying, "Let's find your Decka, Momma." "Where's your Decka?" It took me a little while to clear my head enough to realize what he was saying. He thought finding my Becca would make me stop crying . . . and I cried harder.

After we left the cemetery and drove around a while we went back to load up the trailer to leave and my sister-in-law had put a potted plant from Becca's funeral into my trailer. That was the beginning of my new plant life; Decka.

She made it home and I watered her. She's all perky looking right now and I've got her in my new sun room . . . where she is the only plant around. She looks sturdy and hard to kill and I have a determination like never before that she'll live. At least long enough it doesn't kill me to loose her too.

Depressing Posts

I realize that several of my posts are sad and depressing. Well, I did just bury my sister this week. This seems like a good outlet for my grief. And it's not like I have a "following" yet to worry about.

So if you stumble upon my blog by accident and find it very depressing . . . go read someone else's blog.

The Gift that Makes you Want to Stop Giving

If you are capable of creating any art or craft type item, you have probably gifted your friends and family with them from time to time. It happens. I have always taken pride in giving handmade gifts for about 60% of all gifts that go out of my house. I enjoy it. For the most part, I don't even care what the person recieving it thinks about it. If it made me happy making it and I was satisfied with the item when completed, it makes me happy.

Now, if the person actually likes the item enough to hang onto it and tell others about it. You feel sort of like you won the lottery. It sort of lights a candle in your soul that warms you for years and feeds your creativity. I have encountered people incapable of appreiating a handmade gift -- not to mention any names but she goes by the initials MOM -- and you just quit making them gifts. If they prefer a $10 gift certificate to Walmart, I save give it to them.

But over the last few years I've discovered something that actually has the ability to make me want to stop making gifts for people. Receiving them back after the recepient dies.

This first time this happended to me was with my grandmother-in-law. She was a very sweet woman I knew about 5 years. She lived across the country, so I only met her 4 or 5 times. For her 90th birthday, I organized the making of a family quilt for her. Her younger daughter, my husbands mother, died almost 20 years ago. So I got all 5 of her children to decorate 5 fabric blocks any way they wanted. I provided the fabric squares and several pages of directions and options for them. When the squares were returned I sewed them together and quilted them. We gave it to her for her birthday and she cried she loved it so much. It stayed on her bed until she died and they displayed it at the funeral home. Then as we were leaving to head home they gave it to me.

I barely knew the woman. I don't care for a quilt with my in-laws personal gifts/thoughts for their grandmother sewn into them. I've politely tried to give it to each of the other family members and no one wants it. But it's not the kind of thing you feel free to throw away. So every time it starts getting cold and I'm digging through my linen chest for a blanket I have to bypass the quilt I'll never use, don't want, and can't give or throw away.

Now, that's bad enough. But much worse is coming.

My sister that was buried this week was a devote lover of handmade gifts. She was also born on Dec 20th, so her birthday was always overlooked. I made it my goal in life to ensure she always got a birthday and Christmas gift in December . . . and they were usually handmade. She loved angels and cuddeling up on the couch and watching old movies covered up in a blanket.

I made my first, and only, pieced quilt for her for her birthday one year. I made it in different blue tones (because her house was all done in blue) and each square was an angle. It was just barely lap size, but she loved it. She said she used it so much for the first year it started coming apart and she took it to Mrs. Campbell to repair it for her.

I know she loved it and I loved her like crazy. Right after I found out she died I emailed my other sister, who was in charge of storing her stuff, and asked her to bring the blanket down so we could put it in the casket for Becky. I knew she'd want it with her and it did offer me some comfort to think of a little part of me going to rest with her.

My sister didn't get the email in time. She called me later, after it was already stored in storage, and offered to call someone who would go somewhere and dig it out of somebox and give it to someone else who would bring it down to us somehow and . . . something else, I forgot.

It wasn't really that important. It was more for me than Becky; really, it's not like she's going to get cold or cuddle up with a good book. What's more, I'm a big girl and I can get over it. Until my sister said something that made my blood run cold . . . "I put it aside with some other things I knew you'd want."

The thought of seeing something so connected to Becky, something that bespoke so clearly of the love we shared, on a dialy baises scares the SHIT out of me. Just thinking about it has me crying so hard I can barely see that keyboard -- not that it seems to be affecting my spelling or anything. I never could spell.

The more I think about it, the more things I remember making her over the years. Now, I'm faced with the very real possiblity of getting them all back. It's like the scarriest case of "Indian giving" I've ever heard of.

Now, a huge part of me realizes that 2, 5, maybe 20 years down the road. I will be able to hold that blanket and feel good thoughts and remember only love. But right now, I'm looking forward to receiving it like I would waling into a giant mouse trap. Come on the cheese!

With my luck, my sister will read this and think she did (or is going to do) something wrong)and she hasn't. In fact, I will love and cherish everying she saw fit to sit aside for me. Every memory of Becky. It will just hurt. And it damb sure will make me think about giving any more handmade gifts to people I love.

Take a Chill Pill Dude!

I took Will to the park today. It's a pretty decent park and the parents generally watch their kids and obviously care about them. Generally.

Today, there was a couple in their early 30s there that just made me wish they were eating poisoned food. Not the "kill them" kind of poisoned food, just the "very sick" kind. Oh, don't act all shocked. Surely, once in your life you've wished someone a severe case of the runs.

I was first drawn to them because the father looked alot like my youngest brother, Paul. But as soon as they caught my attention it was like I couldn't stop listening to how they talked to their children. They had a girl about 6 and a boy around 3.

As far as I could tell, both children seamed well behaved, polite, and pretty normal. Only they were too quite. That "too quite" that constantly yelling at your children results in. I heard the father figure (and I use that term loosly) yell at the 3-year old for taking a sip from his mothers drink without asking first. Yeah, okay. I understand some people are picky about that. But I'm not talking a simple "don't do that" or "i've told you not to do that". He YELLED at his son, "You need to learn to show respect for others things, boy!" "What do you think you're doing," as he grabbed the drink away from his wife, splashing her and his son.

It never really stopped. The kids got yelled at for drinking with out asking, going to play without asking, getting dirt on their clothes, not eating their food, interupting their parents, not stopping when they were called. Everything. And it wasn't like the parents were even nice. The dad grabbed the son from a toy and almost knocked me down when he whipped around with out checking where he was going. Sure, he grumbled "sorry", but it sounded about as sincere as when my three year old says it.

It wasn't just the husband, although he was the worse, the wife was just as likeable and quite. The thing that bothered me as I left the park was the knowledge that people generally behave BETTER in public than they do at home. I'm left hoping they were just having a bad day. Surely, some things would be bad enough to excuse treating your child like that . . . you got deported . . . evicted with no where to go . . . the world ended.

Old Moms

I had two children by the age of 22. I clearly remember going to parks, or other public locations, where I would run into older moms and their children. I was always amazed at how undisciplined their children were; they could get away with any thing. The older moms would just sit there and watch their kids with a vacant look at their face. Me and my friends, also young moms, would talk about how "some" people shouldn't have chidlren if they couldn't take care of them. Loudly.

I definately remember feeling all superior. My children toed the line, did what I told them, were watched and directed every step they took. If they didn't immediately respond to me when I told them to do something they were corrected or punished. After all, that was the only way to insure they grew up right. That they would be orderly, contributing members of society.

What hog wash.

As an older mom, now in my 40s, I go to those same places and smile at those young moms who spend all their time chasing their children, yelling their heads off, and micro-managing lives. If they would ever bother to talk to me I'd tell them the basic truth that I know, and they don't.

For the most part, a person is born with their personallity and preferences and very little you do during your life is going to make a great impact on it. The best, greatest way to assure you end up with a happy, well adjusted adult is simply to enjoy the child.

Besides, I'm tired.

The BROTHER that gave me the MONEY that bought the HORSE from which the PATTERN was made

THE HORSE

I spent a few days at my brother Jessy's house this week. He has two sons under 4, and my 3-year old had a blast playing with all their toys. A huge hit were two horse swings they had handing from a big tree in the front yard.

Now I've seen horse swings before, and honestly, not that impressive. But these horse swings were the Rolls Royce of horse swings. They seem to cradle the children, allowing them a sense of freedom. They were also adorable. They had manes, provided back support way beyond the height of their heds, had stirrups, and so much more. It's just hard to explain how cool they were. But this post isn't really about how cool they were . . . so much as where my facination ended up leading.

The last 4 years I've been making patterns for hard-to-afford baby items. I started doing this for my own use and it developed into a way to make extra money and give other moms the say opportunity to provide for their children. The result has been that every time I see something child-related that I know someone would like for their child, but probably wouldn't be able to afford, I want to make the pattern.

It didn't take me half a day to start speculating on how the horses were made. First I started "joking" about taking one apart to trace it. Apparently, my husband started getting nervous when he noticed me looking in the garage for a wrench. Hey, I would have been happy with a pair of plyers. And he told me, "You are not taking those Horses' apart." Really, what could I say? I told him I was just joking.

Really, after bed time, who would even know? Well, assuming I managed to get them back together correctly by the next morning. Things don't always go back together the way they come apart. Go figure.

THE BROTHER

Not to be discouraged, I borrowed a ruler the next day and set out in the front yard taking measurements, drawing diagrams and instructions, and taking tons of photos. By this time my brother is watching me with the most confused look on his face.

I haven't lived near my brother in over 13 years. He probably couldn't even tell you where my website is, much less 2 items that I sell on it. (By the way it's at http://www.makethemyourself.com/, go buy something.) He's definately never been exposed to me in deep consentration as I setup a new design. He told me at least 4-times where he bought them at; just up the road, open until 7, lots of designs to choose from. And he seemed really confused when I didn't run right up and get one.

I told him I was going to make one. And every time he'd see me making notes on my diagram or showing it to someone, he's just shake his head. I was showing it off because I was very excited about getting home and making one up. Planning on having a working prototype by Christmas for my son and having the pattern available shortly afterwards for others. I even had my husband show me how to identify the tire size.

Next thing I know, my husband is telling me that Jessy wants to buy Will (my son) a horse swing.

THE MONEY

If you've read my earlier post, you know this week we buried my sister. That's why I ened up visiting my brother. It's also probably why I fixated on the swing so much. It was just something non-painful to think about. Besides, I was really shocked that people paid $70 for these things made from recycled tires. I would NEVER pay $70 for a swing I could make myself. I'm financially-challenged, as well as penny penching. I just can't make myself pay for something I can make myself.

My brother is usually doing better than us. He has a contracting company that does pretty well. But his shop burned down a few months ago and it was grossly under-insured. Not to mention his new Harley was parked there; only one payment ever made. Then my sister died without insurance. Jessy took out a loan to help pay for her funeral and he feed all the family for 3-days while we congregated around our home town.

There was no way I was taking money from him for a horse swing.

Today as we were packing up to leave, Jessy's wife left to run an errand. She made it back just in time to walk us out to the truck with the rest of her family. After we say our goodbyes and get our hugs, Jessy tries to slip some money into the truck. Steve immediately tells him we don't want it. Jessy's response was, "It'll be easier for her to make a pattern if she has something to take apart first." And I wanted to cry.

He may not have understood my point of view, but he was trying to understand what I needed and give it to me. I decided right then I wouldn't fight him about it. Jessy gave the money to my son and told him to buy a horsey. After we drove off my husband asked me what I wanted to do with the money and I told him to stop at the store. And we bought a horse.

THE PATTERN

I may, or may not, ever get the pattern designed. It's way different than the type of thing I normally sell on my site. But hanging it in my back yard was the first thing I did when I got home. And every time I push my son in it, or watch it sway in my back yard, I'll feel love and think of my brother.

Thank you Jessy.

My Space . . . NOT!

My oldest daughter got her first My Space account about 5 years ago. It sounded cool and after she'd been posting on there for about a year I decided to check it out. After looking over her main page, I decided I didn't ever want to check out the My Space of anyone else I knew. There are just some thing you do not want to know about your family and friends.

Over the years, many of my relatives and friends have ended up with their own My Space. They tell me about it and it sounds like fun. I've even gone out twice in the last 4 years and set me up an account. But I get bored to death before I ever get finished setting up the profile and loading photos.

It's not that I'm computer- or technology-illeterate. For my age, I consider myself pretty savy. I designed and setup my own website, with HTML and scripts (no package deal). I design my own patterns using digital software. I promote my patterns in tons of places on line and have 5 different store options (ebay, etsy, ioffer, etc.).

I also consider myself a relatively smart woman. I teach classes for UTs informal classes, offer online assistance to people who purchase my products, design new patterns, handle all the finacial stuff for my business and my home, I've even written a few novels -- never published, and appeared on a talk-show dedicated to non-custodial mothers. I may not be one "hot" momma, but I am one "smart" momma. (Excluding the spelling thing . . . it's always been an issue.) :)

Really, it can't even be an age thing. My Aunt Cindy, who is only a few years older than me, is MAJORLY into her MySpace. In fact, one of the people she talks to often is my brother-in-law, Dave. Dave is also older than I am. I have considered the fact that they are both still kids at heart. My aunt is the fun HS nurse everyone loves and wants to be friends with . And Dave? Well, he's fun to be around too. Me, I'm kind of boring. Oh, don't get me wrong. I like myself and who I am. But I can definately see where most teenagers would not choose to spend their days hanging out with me.

But after much debate, and years thinking about it, I've come to just one conclusion. It's just NOT my space.

HIGH taxes, FROZEN fingers, and TINY tubs

My husband bartered labor for a 21-foot RV about a year ago. It's a nice RV. It has a queen and a twin size bed, full kitchen, small bathroom, TV/VCR combo, and AC/Furnace. We've only used if 4 times in the year we've had it. Three times we've dragged it to visit relatives as a "home away from home" and once we actually went camping.

I love it for both adventures. It gives me a comfortable place to excape to when I need a break and a bed I have control over as far as how firm it is. As you age, both of these things become more important.

However, there are disadvantages . . .

HIGH TAXES
The yearly taxes on RVs is easily double what a vehicle of the same value is. No one warned me. I showed up at the tax office prepared for $160-$200 and ended up paying $360, with only $400 in my bank account. Ouch!

FROZEN FINGERS
We have two propane tanks that hook up to our trailer. The stove top and furnace both run off propane. We spent several days this week away from home in our RV, attending my sisters funeral. We are in central Texas where it is seldom cold and wouldn't you know it a cold front blew in. In the middle of the third night the propane ran out and not only did we have no heat, but the furnace blew cold air into the RV.

I ended up with my son practically under me, covered with a heating pad and every blanket in the RV. Somehow, I still came out with frozen toes and fingers. It's been hours since I left the RV and they are still COLD.

CRUMBS
When you don't use a RV the concept of a table that folds down into a bed seems sensible. The truth is that it's to much trouble to make up and take down the bed daily so you end up sitting on your bed all day. And not just you. Any one that comes by ends up on your bed too. And anything they eat on ends up on your bed.

TINY TUBS
After checking out most RVs in our price range I was excited we ended up with one with a tub. But, maybe I should have been excited it had a shower instead. The tub is less than 2.5 feet long and about 1.5 feet wide. And the back end has about a 8 inch "shelf". It works for my son. I can sit him on the shelf and feel the tub a few inches to use to wash him. Of coarse, I have to lean over the tiolet to bath him . . . but he gets clean. There is no way to fit my chunky self on that shelf. And if I had a video of my trying I'd submit it to funniest home video.

There are many, many benefits to having an RV. Just a few gripes about adjusting to RVing.

Sad Soul Laid to Rest

My sister committed suicide last week and we will lay her to rest on Thursday.

As expected, I feel a great loss and sadness at the chance to never see or interact with her again. I keep recalling special times we spent together, moments I will never forget.

She came to visit me and my new husband the first year we celebrated Christmas. My husband gave me a bowling ball, which of coarse did't have holes drilled yet. As a new bowler I was stumped. I had no idea why there was no holes and didn't want to insult my new spouse by saying anything. But Becky understood immediately and started laughing. By the time it was over, all three of us were laughting so hard it hurt.

When Becky was still in her late teens she would always complain to me and my (now ex) husband about not having a middle name. It made her feel like no one had cared enough to give her one. I have to admit it was odd. There are 5 of us siblings and all of us have middle names except Becky. Anyway, my husband jockingly told her that he would give her a middle name and decread that from that day forth she would be known as "Becky Sue". It stuck; a lot longer than the ex.

About 5 years ago I went up and spent a long weekend with Becky. I'm a pretty staid, unassuming, boring person . . . but Becky brought out something wild and free in me. In everyone really. She took me to my first Kariokie bar and we drank too much. So much, in fact, that while dancing together on the dance floor, I slapped her ass when she wiggeled it at me. We got back to the table and she looks as me real sober (as sober as someone who's had 10 Smirnoff Ice can look) or maybe that was as sober as I (with 10 Smirnoff Ice under my own belt) could see. And she asked, "Did you spank me?" I told her, "Damb straight. And if you shake your bootie at me again, I'll do it again."

Becky was almost always "on" when people she cared about were around. She would do her best to make you laugh and enjoy being with her. She was the most appreicative person of any small gift or courtecy bestowed upon her. And she got enjoyment from the small things.

Becky worked at retirement homes her whole life and even though the work was hard she wouldn't ever do anything else for long. She LOVED the elderly and taking care of them. She'd spend her days off running errands for them and buy them little gifts from her own pocket.

She LOVED Little House on the Prarie. She use to watch every rerun she could find and she eventually ended up buying the entire series on DVD. When she came home from work, she'd plop in a story to watch. I think she was drawn to the simple, close-knit family that always supported each other. And the happily every after.

Knowing this about her, you are probably wondering why she would commit suicide. The truth is Becky had a damaged soul. One of the clearest memories I have of her as a small child is her sitting in the doorway hitting her bare thigh with a heel so hard it was bruising. She didn't cry and she didn't stop when I asked her to. She couldn't have been more than 4. She was a wild teenager and ended up pregnant at 15. She married the father and that lasted less than a year. She ended up living in a goverment spounsed apartment with a baby that she didn't know how to take care of. Due to abuse charges my mother managed to get custody of her child away from her.

Becky immediatly got preganant again and was talked into giving away that child and getting her tubes tied; at 17. She was always drawn to men that abused her. She would have long standing relationships with them. The first ten years or so, she would call me crying and telling me what was happing and I'd beg her to leave. To get help. Tell her she was worth more. She never did and one after another she kept repeating the cycle.

Drugs, alcohol, sex, abuse; that was pretty much her life during her 20s. She seamed to settle down some in her thirties, but the basic condition of her soul never changed. She deaply loved her son and always regretted his loss. She tried to be in his life as much as our mom would let, but to also protect herself from the ongoing pain. She regretted not being able to ever have and raise a child.

Along the way she became a "cutter". She tried to explain to me that it wasn't about hurting her self, it was just about releasing the pressure. She said there was so much pain she had to let a little of it out. She attempted suicide several times in her life; pills, slit her writs, etc. But it was always when or where she would be immediatley found and taken care of. She talked about suicide often. Becky probably called me 15-20 times over the course of her life telling me she was thinking about it. I'd stop what I was doing and just talk to her.

While she smiled, danced, flirted her way through life . . . Becky was essentially a sad and damaged soul from the day of her birth. When I think of her now I feel a deep sense of peace and I know that FINALLY she is no longer in pain.



Now I just have to learn to live without her.

Marie-Therese Gown GIVEAWAY !!!!!!!

A member of my yahoo group just forwarded this to us and it is AMAZING. If you have a small girl that likes to dress up you will not want to miss particiapting in this giveaway. Marie-Therese Gown GIVEAWAY !!!!!!!

The invisible Stay-At-Home parent

There are definatley joys and rewards from being a stay-at-home mom and I don't want anyone to think there are not. I see every step my son takes in his developement. I over see his total development; who he plays with, what he watches on TV, how he plays, every thing he's exposed to. My first children were born while I was in my early 20s and I was so busy trying to figure out what I wanted from life and who I was that I didn't have an opportunity to truely enjoy their childhood. So I was bound and determined that it would be different this time.

The bad part of being a stay-at-home mom is that I pretty much have ceased to exist to the outside world. The first 6-months after I started stay at home I heard from the occasional old co-worker. The next year, only 1 or 2 outting with ex-coworkers. Now? I ran into someone I worked with for 3 years. Someone who I went to her house on several occasions, worked out with on a regular baises, dieted and checked weight with on a weekly baises. She didn't know who I was. Oh, she tried to hide it. Hugged me and immediately started asking how my son was doing and how I was. But she never mentioned my name, the company, and she didn't introduce me to her boyfriend.

Sure, it could be that this woman was the expection . . . but she wasn't. I have become invisible. To bill collectors and our neighbors; I am "Steve's wife". At play-dates, preschools, soccer; I am "Will's mom". Even when I go to visit my daughters or run into them in town; I am "Tori's mom".

I think my becoming invisible is partially my own fault. As a working profesional your "self worth" is calculated by: how much you make, your office size/location, your friends, the clothes you wear, what you accomplish during a day/week/month, your ability to exceed expectations, etc. There are a million ways you can judge yourself of being worthy. And more importantly, there are tons of people to reinforce your worth: co-workers, bosses, HR heads, clients. Hell, even the cafeteria people. LOL

But, once you become a stay-at-home parent, where do you find your self-worth and more importantly who's there to reinforce it for you? It should be simple; we keep house and raise our kids. The problem is that you do the same thing every single day for years on end and nothing changes; no deadlines are met, no house that is "finished" and doesn't need more cleaning, no "finished" child. We never really meet a "goal." And, while our spouces may be really supportive at first, that too changes. I don't know a single stay-at-home parent who doesn't eventually hear "I'll swap you", when they try to share their frustrations. It always looks simple to the person "not" doing it.

As time goes by we began to think of ourselves as of less value than we use to have. The odd thing is, as soon as we began to feel that way, we are treated that way. I live in Texas, where most men will still open doors for women, and almost anyone will open a door for a women with children. I can't tell you how many times over the last few years I've nearly walked right into a door following someone in. I've been sit on while in a waiting room. People arriving after me are called up before me. Every time I get in line somewhere, some one WILL step right in front of me when it's finally my turn. And if I say anything about it the response is always the same; "Sorry, I didn't see you." I can't figure out how they missed all 200 pounds of me. But if there is something wrong with them, it's an epidemic.

Shy, Stuck Up, Uncaring?

I am the oldest of 5 children and we were raised in a small town of under 2,000 with all of our cousins close by. Sounds great hu? It was, but . . .

The result of always being around people you know and in situations you are comfortable with is that you don't know how to react when you meet new people or are in unfamiliar situations. Which, combined with my personality, lead to a major case of shyness I've never totally outgrown.

"So what?" you say?

The "so what" is not my being shy or even the ways I've managed to live and slightly overcome it. The "so what" is how being a shy person has made people perceive me.

When I was young, every one knew I was shy and it was adorable, expected, and I was not punished or put down by others for being shy. "It's okay honey, you don't have to look at me." "Don't worry about it, she's just shy and she'll out grow it." "Just be glad she is shy." It wasn't such a bad thing to be.

When I was a little older, and dare I say "hot", I was perceived as being stuck up or seeing myself as above everyone else. "She thinks she's too good for us." "Thinks she's all that." Not such a good place to be, but hey, I was HOT!

Now that I'm older, grayer, and heavier . . . it's changed again. I don't know if people honestly don't expect a woman in her 40s to be shy or what. "She never waves at me when she's outside." "She's never come over and said a single word to me."

Yeah, I know. Everyone who is "not" shy is thinking . . . there are things you can do to help overcome shyness. And there are. And I have. But, being terminally shy never goes away, regardless of age.