One is silver and the other gold.

There's something to be said about making new friends.  Today, I jaunted up to see two dear friends while Papa B and Girl C were at the farm for a few days.  I decided that I needed a road trip and these ladies provided me with an excellent excuse.

My first stop was to S. She's a lawyer who pretty much drools over any and all farm goodies she is gifted with.  She's smart, witty, and gorgeous. Just the way I like my women :-).  Since she is a working gal, I had to leave so she could make her 12 pm conference call (did I mention how I love being a SAHM?).  I then zipped over to see M and her husband C, who are staying at a hospital sponsored "family house" for families of patients.  They have a set of twins who are downright off the adorable scale. The little miss hasn't gotten her walking papers yet, so I was able to visit with her husband and the other half of the twosome while M went to feed her daughter. 

You know when you meet someone and you just instantly love them?  Not romantically, of course, but this is how I felt when I met M's husband.  He's a military guy and pretty tough as nails.  He and M had been dealt a pretty crummy hand, but the way they have made it through it all with humor, love, and a bit of foul language makes my respect for them completely immeasurable.  He would go to hell and back for his kids, and due to their significant medical challenges, it seems like they are halfway there.  Sure, his language is salty, but the love that just pours out of him is amazing.  My friend is so lucky and blessed, and for her sake, I'm thankful she has him to be the dad he is.  If I were in her shoes, I'd want one just like him, too.

We had a great visit and promises to meet again to share life and its amazing bounty and wonder. 

The things I won't do for free food.

It being 7/11 today, apparently, there are a few free deals out there for those who are inclined to go out and get them.  Free Slurpee from 7-11, free Chick-Fil-A (if you're dressed like a cow), and (really cheap so it might as well be) free Krispy Kreme donuts.

But, I enjoy other types of free food.  Thankfully, our property and its surrounding areas are loaded with wild edibles.  I particularly love how when one food is waning another is ripening and will be ready to eat.  My kids love going outside with me and picking black raspberries.  Those came in first.  If you're curious, there is such a thing as giving a one year old too many black raspberries.  Oh, the diaper mess!  But, despite the aftermath, I'd rather him stuff his face full of fruit than anything else.  Next came the wineberries.  If you've never had a wineberry, you're missing out!  It was originally imported as an ornamental plant and from what I understand, it fell out of fashion, and it went wild.  Well, I'm pretty cool with it as an invasive species since it yields me an abundance of sticky sweet red berries.

And finally, the blackberries are just starting to ripen.  This morning, I took the four-wheeler out to my favorite spots to pick some. It's hard to go out with the kids in tow since little hands don't care much for getting stuck by the thorns of the blackberries.  I was content to go by myself.  I hit one spot and then went to the next which was a little bit more difficult to reach.  So, I aimed my four-wheeler, threw it in reverse and backed myself into a huge tangle of berries, leaves, and thorns.  I'm perched precariously on the bed of the vehicle, and teetering over what is best described as nature's razor wire.  needless to say, my legs and arms are all scraped up (not to mention a touch of poison ivy). but I've scored a huge bowl full of berries to whip up into a blackberry cobbler.

UPPOTD

I wonder what it sounds like when a movie is filming a scene where the actors are playing instruments that they clearly have no idea how to play.

I'd forgotten how easy one kid was.

Easy and boring.  Papa B took Girl C to the farm for a few days.  Since I have stated my position in that I will not return to the farm until there is running water, I got left at home with Boy C.  Four whole days of no princesses, My Little Ponies, Littlest pet shops, and Mr. Potato head.

Instead, I had 4 days of peek a boo, chasing a baby up and down the steps, cars, and blocks. It was great spending time with my youngest, but I really was bored.  Maybe it was because I was used to going 94 miles an hour all the time when both of them were awake.  I had two glorious naps from Boy C a day, I could just toss him in the car and go and not have to worry about making sure Girl C had pottied, was dressed, and somewhat presentable to the public.  I got loads of laundry done, I weeded the garden, I made scads of jams, I cleaned the house and I made a big hunk of cheddar cheese.  I was so productive!

But, they came home in one piece.  Smelly and grimy, but in one piece.  I'm glad she had fun with Papa B and he enjoyed spending time with her as well.  I'm so happy to have my baby girl back and even though the house was pretty much trashed within 6 minutes of her being home, I wouldn't have it any other way.

UPOTD

If for some reason I'm filming a movie and my scene is a waterslide - I'm likely to screw up the takes on purpose so I can slide over and over again.

Of size and jeans

All throughout my formative years, I can always remember my mother insisting she wore a size 8.  If it wasn't a size 8, it really wasn't considered as a clothing option for her.  SIZE 8 FOREVER.  My sister, mother, and myself all were slim women when all was said and done.  Our body shapes differed, but the mass and volume was about the same.

I've been on a quest for jeans that fit me for a while now since I've put holes in a few pair in recent months.  I usually would find jeans in resale or thrift shops and that suited me fine for a while.  But no pair was perfect.  One pair would fit in the waist, but not the thighs.  Or yet another would be fine lengthwise, but the crotch would be riding up uncomfortably high.  I settled on a pair or two from Aeropostale from a resale shop.

But they were a size 0.

Size 0??

In high school, I was a 6.  In college I was a 4.  Then 2.  Now I'm a 0.  My age is increasing, but my waistline is like a countdown to a shuttle launch.  Now, I'm no Twiggy, but I'm slim.  I have no caboose and my hipbones protrude.  But there are women out there slimmer than me with no curvature.  What size are they?

Are women really that vain that they care so much about the number on their tag more than they do the fact that the clothes actually fit?  I really don't care about the label.  I care that my pants fit, don't drag on the floor, don't show my ass crack, and make me feel as good as possible while wearing them.  If the tag says 8, then fine.  If it says 10, then fine.  But I wish manufacturers were held to a standard like shoes or bras.  Sure - there'll be variants from retailer to retailer, but at least I know what general size I am or should be.

Back to being a size 8.  My mom has lost weight (probably due to her mild anorexia, but that's a whole other novel in and of itself).  She needed new pants.  Badly.  So I bought her some pants that looked about right.  Guess what size?  0.  She took one look at the tag and said, "There's no way I'll fit in those!"  Lo, and behold - they fit her.  Of course she won't wear them because for some sick reason she likes wearing baggy ill-fitting clothes.  She seems to think that martyring herself by wearing clothes that don't fit, all while sighing, "I went so many years without buying clothes for myself so you and your sister could wear new clothes..."  Right.  then why do I remember size 8 so vividly?

I hope that retailers don't eventually go overboard on the vanity sizing.  We'll all be some variant of size 0.  Or 0 to the negative power.

Love and the domestically minded mother.

Recently, I spent time with a mom friend of mine.  Like me, she has two adorable babies.  We get together frequently because our girls play well together, and we have similar personalities, interests, and, most importantly, senses of humor.  Since her youngest daughter has been born with some health concerns, her world has been re-arranged into a series of surgeries, doctor visits, after-care, and worry.  She is a supremely strong mama, and she is way stronger than she realizes.  On this visit she mentioned that she had a case of the “fuckits”.  If you’ve never had a case of the fuckits – it’s best cured with wine. Anyhow, her domestic upkeeping had gotten a bit behind, and while I was over for a play date today, I just went to her kitchen, and began doing dishes.  There was no, “What can I do to help?”  I just did.  When faced with hard times, I’ve learned that vague offers for help are usually met with, “I’m fine, really.”  When deep down, you’re screaming for help but just can’t articulate your needs because sometimes, there’s just so much on your plate, you don’t know what to start with. 

I asked her if she had read The Five Love Languages.  She hadn’t, so I said that this is my love language.  I do things.  Acts of service.  I enjoy doing dishes and cleaning.  I get into a ‘zone’ and I really enjoy the finished product.  Papa B often works nights and I usually spend the evening cleaning up the house.  I feel that, as part of my stay-at-home mom duties, keeping a clean house is part of my job description.  This friend mentioned that my house is intimidatingly clean.  I never mean to use my domestic inclinations to intimidate other mothers.  I told her I realize that my way of running my house is not for everyone, and some nights, I myself get a case of the fuckits and I sit on my ass and play Candy Crush (or writing blog posts) until it’s time to go to bed.  I’m not ashamed to have someone see my house when the littles have torn apart all the toys, bits of leftover dinner riddle the dining room floor and table, or a certain little someone has left piles of clothes and underpants all over the house.  I just wanted her to know that I care about her, and I showed her in a way I knew how and by what looked available to me. 

I certainly hope that my act of love was met with a sincere appreciation of my act, and not as mocking that I can keep my house clean and yours too.  I read this article when I came home from her house.  It really resonated with me.  

Not to sound full of myself, but do I really intimidate people with my put-togetherness?  On more than one occasion, I’ve had women comment to me about remarks their husbands have made to them about me being on the ball or more sympathetic to the male perspective of domestic situations.  I am who I am, and I don’t put on airs to impress people or put others down.