Today my Little is 11 weeks old. I made it a memorable one by trying her in her Moses basket for the first time last night. Brant didn't think she would stay in there. Even fast asleep, that girl will wake up 15 minutes into sleeping alone. She needs a body next to her to remain asleep. When lights are out it is a little different though. I was more concerned that I would be the hindrance to her staying in there. The last I remember I was reassuring myself, through asking Brant to confirm to me, she -- ahem, I -- was going to be okay. Next thing I know..."Whaaaaa." I checked the clock. It was 1 a.m., her normal mid-evening feeding time. Wow, that went fast and we survived. Now that I knew we could survive, I lighted the Little out of her basket and snuggled her into bed with me. In the morning I rejoiced that we did it, and Brant just had to remind me that I didn't put her back in after her 1 a.m. feeding. Baby steps. Baby steps.
Sunday was my birthday. Thirty-one years old. The years are just going to keep getting higher, aren't they? I quite enjoy saying I am in my thirties, it's that more stable decade in-between sloppy adult and young grandma. Geez, I can't even think about that. Five more years and Amira will be eighteen. I am constantly telling her that she will live at home until she is married, even through college if she chooses that route. I am not even kidding when I say I am imprinting in her mind that we three led by God will even choose that husband. I am praying even now God open our eyes to the young man whoever he may be, whenever he comes around. Yesterday as I was driving home from dropping Brant off to work I was even planning out which lines from "Sunrise, Sunset" I would sing at her wedding.
Back to my birthday. It was a typical adult mom birthday -- you know, the kind of birthday where you make your own cake and fancy dinner. It isn't so much that you want a cake on your birthday, but from the moment the kids woke up they were desiring that cake on behalf of your birthday. You almost say it is their cake to you, except it is for them. I cannot go out to eat because of Elisha's food allergies. I don't want to make it sound like I begrudged my birthday though. All of this is fine. I thoroughly enjoyed my birthday and I made the cake I wanted. It was a raw food carrot cake, a recipe share courtesy of my bestie Michelle. Click here for recipe. If you have not tried raw cakes before, let me tell you that they are small recipes. The cake will not come out as big as the link's picture. However, the flavors are very rich and will more than suffice one family. Both this cake and the raw chocolate one I made before were eaten in 2 sittings each -- that is how rich raw cakes are.
Brant actually ordered my gift a month ago. To be honest, I picked it out. Why do we women do that? I think we have our gifts picked out for every special occasion for the rest of our lives and then get upset when the men ask what we want thinking they should already know. I'll stick it to myself and say men are as good at reading minds as women are at submitting. Especially in the gift giving we find it hard to refrain from leading. Next year. There's always trying to submit to a real surprise gift next year.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving -- the pilgrim-established attempt to reinstate Sukkot. It is a day which has been changed a couple of times throughout our history, most recent for economical benefit through consumerism. It drifted further away from being in line with Sukkot, and closer to the world's purchasing holiday of Christmas. It cracks me up when I see comments of how it is ridiculous that now Black Friday has moved right into Thanksgiving when today's date for Thanksgiving was set for consumerism. It doesn't mean don't be thankful, but the switch did little to honor the memory and pure attempt (a reconstitution) of Thanksgiving's original establishers. Outside of Thanksgiving, no other cultural holiday originated from pure attempts, which is why my family still celebraties it; however, those who want the thankful-for-the-harvest spirit of Sukkot that enveloped the pilgrims can only really find that in Sukkot.
It's all about the pie. Pecan used to be my absolute favorite, but in all these 9 years of practical veganism I have yet to come across a decent vegan alternative. I have since done pumpkin pie with soy, but am attempting a soy-free alternative tomorrow. It won't be gluten-free though. After my gluten-free bread bowls last week, which turned into hurling stones, I have given up on all-purpose gluten free flour. I will still make my own crust of course. Click here for my filling choice. If you have a vegan pecan pie recipe, tested and tried, I would appreciate you likewise share the love. Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Me, Myself, and Mine
I'm not doing a very good job keeping up with this blog site. It isn't that there is a lack of things worth recording, but that there are so many things to record. I am so focused on living my memories instead of trying to log them. My family is so humorous -- each of us in our own way -- and the Little's personality along with our impersonations of her to make things a little more light-hearted in light of having a demanding newborn, makes for such a fun family.
Nevertheless I realize that even in living instead of logging, I am still sharing my family memories...with myself. I know I am not the only Mom who often refers to herself in the 3rd person. It has happened with each baby and lasts until that baby makes it to at least Bam's age -- I still do it with Bam. Why is that? It is like a universal truth. Moms refer to themselves as "Mommy" not "I" nor "me." "Mommy doesn't like that." "Go get ---- for Mommy." It's like we imply there are two of us. What I also notice is that it is universally true that moms act like the age of their child with their baby talk. Sometimes moms will even impersonate the child to the child and themselves. For instance, while the baby is crying I have found myself looking at her and saying, "Milk, Mommy?" in question form to take the place of me in the first person asking her in the second person if she wants milk. I think the thought is that we are teaching them exactly how to say it, word for word, but while doing so this is what it sounds like: I am impersonating the child saying she wants milk to me, while the question form of it also means I am myself asking her if she wants milk. Yup, moms have split AND multiple personalities.
Then there is the 3 different age groups of my children that contribute. I act as both kindergarten and 7th grade teacher at the same hours. Lately in order to get my workouts in, I added it to my multi-tasked mornings. So while I am working out with the baby as my weight system, Amira's reading out loud from her textbook and I'm overlooking Bam doing his writing assignments. I am whiplashed from baby talk, to memorization rhymes, to intelligent-speaking. Have you seen that ecard that says moms on the phone sounds like they have tourettes -- "Yes, I'd like to have lunch --don't lick that! -- Where would you like to go?" With my kids at different stages of their lives, and the call upon a mom to be a chameleon to their children's development, my Mommy-tourettes is amongst my own children. I like it said better that way -- no multiple personalites, just a chameleon one. Although this still doesnt explain how we talk to ourselves. The only thing I can say is that moms also live such insanely busy lives, frequently in such precious and hilarious moments, that their nearest girlfriend to share it with is themselves.
My daughter turned 13 this past month. I am not sure if my mother ever really knew me as a child, especially my struggles. I was molested from ages 7 to 11 and kept it in. It marred my view on acceptance amongst others and my view on love. I know that by the time I was my daughter's age, I could assuredly say that she far from knew me. I don't want that to be Amira and me. I want to know her struggles, and I also want her time lest the world takes it up. I am troubled on how much of the real world I should tell her about, and how much would only taint her mind. When I come to the realization of things within the real world, it taints my own mind. Even evil deeds of not just ISIS and the government, but others close to me -- the replay in my head keeps me in a constant melancholy of this world. I don't want her to be that way. I quite enjoy the light-hearted girl I spend my days with.
However, I also can't leave her blind, loving though deceived. Years ago my family had an intervention for my youngest brother in his oxycontin addiction. I flew in from Germany, my mother from Georgia. I kids you not, everybody except for my grandma and one of my friends, that I saw and that was even a part of this intervention, had been exposed in my eyes as a substance abuser. My brother said, "Everybody has their poision." My reply was, "No. Not the people I know." I looked at them as if they were strangers to me, because they were. I guess in reflection of true-character revelation of people I thought I knew, I would rather continue talking to myself for company than the alternative.
That's what we release our children to -- to a world of deceivers, abusers, hypocrities, liars, stealers, drunkards, murderers. Considering all this, I happily live my nonsocial busy life as a stay at home Mom and teacher. It is the dire need of my conscience to be saturated in their lives, their teacher of all things spiritual and intellectual, that they would be unspotted from the ways of the world and keep themselves from being hurt by it.
Nevertheless I realize that even in living instead of logging, I am still sharing my family memories...with myself. I know I am not the only Mom who often refers to herself in the 3rd person. It has happened with each baby and lasts until that baby makes it to at least Bam's age -- I still do it with Bam. Why is that? It is like a universal truth. Moms refer to themselves as "Mommy" not "I" nor "me." "Mommy doesn't like that." "Go get ---- for Mommy." It's like we imply there are two of us. What I also notice is that it is universally true that moms act like the age of their child with their baby talk. Sometimes moms will even impersonate the child to the child and themselves. For instance, while the baby is crying I have found myself looking at her and saying, "Milk, Mommy?" in question form to take the place of me in the first person asking her in the second person if she wants milk. I think the thought is that we are teaching them exactly how to say it, word for word, but while doing so this is what it sounds like: I am impersonating the child saying she wants milk to me, while the question form of it also means I am myself asking her if she wants milk. Yup, moms have split AND multiple personalities.
Then there is the 3 different age groups of my children that contribute. I act as both kindergarten and 7th grade teacher at the same hours. Lately in order to get my workouts in, I added it to my multi-tasked mornings. So while I am working out with the baby as my weight system, Amira's reading out loud from her textbook and I'm overlooking Bam doing his writing assignments. I am whiplashed from baby talk, to memorization rhymes, to intelligent-speaking. Have you seen that ecard that says moms on the phone sounds like they have tourettes -- "Yes, I'd like to have lunch --don't lick that! -- Where would you like to go?" With my kids at different stages of their lives, and the call upon a mom to be a chameleon to their children's development, my Mommy-tourettes is amongst my own children. I like it said better that way -- no multiple personalites, just a chameleon one. Although this still doesnt explain how we talk to ourselves. The only thing I can say is that moms also live such insanely busy lives, frequently in such precious and hilarious moments, that their nearest girlfriend to share it with is themselves.
My daughter turned 13 this past month. I am not sure if my mother ever really knew me as a child, especially my struggles. I was molested from ages 7 to 11 and kept it in. It marred my view on acceptance amongst others and my view on love. I know that by the time I was my daughter's age, I could assuredly say that she far from knew me. I don't want that to be Amira and me. I want to know her struggles, and I also want her time lest the world takes it up. I am troubled on how much of the real world I should tell her about, and how much would only taint her mind. When I come to the realization of things within the real world, it taints my own mind. Even evil deeds of not just ISIS and the government, but others close to me -- the replay in my head keeps me in a constant melancholy of this world. I don't want her to be that way. I quite enjoy the light-hearted girl I spend my days with.
However, I also can't leave her blind, loving though deceived. Years ago my family had an intervention for my youngest brother in his oxycontin addiction. I flew in from Germany, my mother from Georgia. I kids you not, everybody except for my grandma and one of my friends, that I saw and that was even a part of this intervention, had been exposed in my eyes as a substance abuser. My brother said, "Everybody has their poision." My reply was, "No. Not the people I know." I looked at them as if they were strangers to me, because they were. I guess in reflection of true-character revelation of people I thought I knew, I would rather continue talking to myself for company than the alternative.
That's what we release our children to -- to a world of deceivers, abusers, hypocrities, liars, stealers, drunkards, murderers. Considering all this, I happily live my nonsocial busy life as a stay at home Mom and teacher. It is the dire need of my conscience to be saturated in their lives, their teacher of all things spiritual and intellectual, that they would be unspotted from the ways of the world and keep themselves from being hurt by it.
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