Yesterday was the first day of school. The kids were so excited. We spend most of Sunday evening trying on new school clothes, looking for the perfect first day outfit. Although I always wear a happy, brave face - the first day of school makes me sad. I'm one of those nutty moms, I guess. I enjoy the company of my children. I hear so many moms talking about how they can't wait for school to start, they are sooo ready for their kids to get back to school. I am lonely when they are gone. Especially now that I am not working any more.
Don't get me wrong, I am thoroughly grateful to be home for a bit. I spent the last 2 years working for the Health and Human Services Commission - Food Stamp Office. Ugh! What a sulfur pit. I still have nightmares that it's time to get up and go back to the mines.
So, at least for the time being, I am home. Home is really where I want to be, if I had my druthers. I enjoy being here when the kids get home. I enjoy cleaning up while they are gone and planning meals. I will never enjoy laundry. But, for the most part I love being a SAHM.
But I do miss the kids. I was excited to see them after school yesterday. I could not wait to hear all about their day. I bombarded them with questions in the car on the way home. Where all of your friends excited to see you? Did they like your outfits? Did you have trouble opening your locker? (to my son - 1st day of junior high!)
It all went well. I'm glad. I look forward to football season. We will spend all of our Friday nights at the stadium up the street watching the Burkburnett Bulldogs, fight, fight, fight!
I'll buy the girls great big homecoming mums this year - with lots of streamers and bells and trinkets. Heck, I may even buy one for me. I'll buy the boys mum garters to wear around their arms.
Before you know it, it will be halloween. Dawn and Kim have a HUGE halloween party. We start with chili and games at Dawn's and then hay ride over to Kim's for a haunted house and bonfire. I love small town life.
Next will come Thanksgiving. A trip to my mom's in Dallas. The BIG Black Friday Christmas shopping trip. Just the girls. My mom, myself, my sister, my sister-in-law. Set the alarm for 3:00 am. Hit the stores by 5:00. Done by noon and off to ElFenix for enchiladas.
Christmas will sneak up on us, it always does. Back to mom's. Tons of gifts, family, food, love. I love Christmas.
Valentine's day! My favorite! CHOCOLATE! FLOWERS! Cute t-shirts for the girls. Presents to buy for the boy's girlfriends.
Spring Break! We always just hang out. Glad for some down time.
Last day of school!
Wow this year will fly by.
I still miss the kids today, though.
About Me
- Lovin Spoonful
- Eater, thinker, writer. Also, chef, wife, mother, lover, daughter, taxi driver, laundress, coach, cheerleader, friend.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
The Butter, The Baby, The Recliner and 911
My oldest son was born when I was 24 years old. My second son was born 16 months later. It was tough, 2 young boys, working full time at a very grueling job ( production manager for a weekly publication ) and a husband in the military working the swing shift, 4 pm to midnight.
I remember being utterly exhausted one weekday evening. I picked up the boys from the daycare, drove home and threw together some sort of a dinner. After rocking baby Danny for a good little while, he was finally asleep and I was sneaking down the hall with him in my arms, praying that he would stay asleep after I deposited him into his crib.
Toddler, Nick, was playing in the living room. Just as I placed Danny into the crib, I heard Nick make a fussy little cry. It wasn't in his normal vocal range, so I filed my own request for a bathroom break on my mental back burner and headed back into the living room.
My initial reaction to the scene in the living room was amusement. Nick had somehow popped the footrest out on the recliner and wedged himself down between the safety bar and foot rest. I remember thinking, if I wasn't so exhausted, I would go look for the camera.
Nick was really a hard kid to pin down ( we would later discovery that he had ADHD and NEVER stopped moving) so I found it almost a relief to see him pinned down. This feeling quickly vanished.
Nick was really kicking up a fuss by the time I got to him and was reaching up to me. I bend down to scoop him up, expecting him to pop loose after a tug. I tugged. He didn't pop loose. I tugged harder. He cried - loudly.
Now I am at the beginning edge of frantic. I lift up on the foot rest, thinking that might create some more room to pull him free. Instead, this only squeezed him harder and he let out a yelp. I don't know if it was just my mommy-panic playing tricks on me, but it looked like his eyes actually bulged when I lifted the foot rest. It reminded me of the way a frog looks when you squeeze him too hard (please don't ask me how I know that).
I am no longer on the edge of frantic. I have taken a nose dive off the precipice into full blown panic. I try to gather my wits. What would Bob (husband) do? That thought sent me into a mental meltdown and I filed away another mental note to be really, really pissed off at him for NEVER BEING AVAILABLE at a time of need. I took a breath and decided to take off Nick's clothes. Maybe, I thought, I could wiggle him free if his clothing wasn't in the way. It was difficult to unsnap his PJ's and wiggle them off while he was screaming and beseeching me to free him, but I managed. Of course by now, baby Danny was awake from the commotion and screaming from the nursery.
I ran to the nursery scooped up the baby and deposited him on a blanket in the living room. Nick was still screaming. Stripping him down still did nothing to free him. Maybe his diaper, too, I thought. So off it came. Still nothing, and with his clothing removed I could really tell how tightly he was wedged in the darn recliner. Why in the heck was that thing called a safety bar??
Both babies were really wailing. I ran to the shed and fetched a hammer. I beat on the safety bar, thinking I could knock it loose. Every thud of the hammer caused Nick to wail. I dropped the hammer and cried for just a moment. Then an idea sparked.
I ran to the kitchen and flung open the fridge door, hard. A jar of blackberry jam flew out of the door and smashed to the floor. I ignored it and snatched up the gigantic tub of Country Crock margarine. I rounded the corner to find two babies, red faced, howling, and an arc of baby pee coming from my little naked baby stuck in the chair.
Working quickly, I buttered my child from chin to ankle, front and back. I tugged and pulled. Nothing. I lifted on the footrest one last time and Nick let such a wail, that I stopped immediately and grabbed the phone. I did what every parent fears to do. I called 911. Calling 911 means I have failed. It means I can't save my child. It means I am out of options.
Screaming into the phone, I explained who I was, where I was and what I needed. The operator grew silent for a moment and then she said, "you need assistance getting your baby out of what?" "THE RECLINER!" "THE DARN CHAIR!" "HURRY!"
After I convinced the operator that I was not prank calling, and I knew help was on the way, I called Bob. I was so hysterical, he could not understand me. Finally, when he got it, he LAUGHED. If he had been home, I would have strangled him. He did, however, very calmly, almost jovially offer up a solution. "Have you tried pushing down on the footrest?" he said, most non-chalantly.
I sprinted to the recliner and pushed down on the footrest. Space magically appeared. Nick instantly quit crying, climbed out of the space and leaped to the sofa, asking for a Barney video in baby speak. I was numb. So many emotions at once, I was on overload and shut down.
The fire department arrived at about that time. They knocked. I said come in. They opened the door and there I stood, or some variation thereof. My toddler was safe on the sofa. He was buck naked, covered in Country Crock. The recliner was still open. The hammer was sitting on it. There was pee on the carpet. My newborn was still howling.
The fireman looked disappointed. He said, "Darn, we were looking forward to this one". I am not making this up, that is what he actually said.
After his comment, he looked up at me and his amusement wore off quickly. He left just as fast.
We got rid of that recliner the next day.
I remember being utterly exhausted one weekday evening. I picked up the boys from the daycare, drove home and threw together some sort of a dinner. After rocking baby Danny for a good little while, he was finally asleep and I was sneaking down the hall with him in my arms, praying that he would stay asleep after I deposited him into his crib.
Toddler, Nick, was playing in the living room. Just as I placed Danny into the crib, I heard Nick make a fussy little cry. It wasn't in his normal vocal range, so I filed my own request for a bathroom break on my mental back burner and headed back into the living room.
My initial reaction to the scene in the living room was amusement. Nick had somehow popped the footrest out on the recliner and wedged himself down between the safety bar and foot rest. I remember thinking, if I wasn't so exhausted, I would go look for the camera.
Nick was really a hard kid to pin down ( we would later discovery that he had ADHD and NEVER stopped moving) so I found it almost a relief to see him pinned down. This feeling quickly vanished.
Nick was really kicking up a fuss by the time I got to him and was reaching up to me. I bend down to scoop him up, expecting him to pop loose after a tug. I tugged. He didn't pop loose. I tugged harder. He cried - loudly.
Now I am at the beginning edge of frantic. I lift up on the foot rest, thinking that might create some more room to pull him free. Instead, this only squeezed him harder and he let out a yelp. I don't know if it was just my mommy-panic playing tricks on me, but it looked like his eyes actually bulged when I lifted the foot rest. It reminded me of the way a frog looks when you squeeze him too hard (please don't ask me how I know that).
I am no longer on the edge of frantic. I have taken a nose dive off the precipice into full blown panic. I try to gather my wits. What would Bob (husband) do? That thought sent me into a mental meltdown and I filed away another mental note to be really, really pissed off at him for NEVER BEING AVAILABLE at a time of need. I took a breath and decided to take off Nick's clothes. Maybe, I thought, I could wiggle him free if his clothing wasn't in the way. It was difficult to unsnap his PJ's and wiggle them off while he was screaming and beseeching me to free him, but I managed. Of course by now, baby Danny was awake from the commotion and screaming from the nursery.
I ran to the nursery scooped up the baby and deposited him on a blanket in the living room. Nick was still screaming. Stripping him down still did nothing to free him. Maybe his diaper, too, I thought. So off it came. Still nothing, and with his clothing removed I could really tell how tightly he was wedged in the darn recliner. Why in the heck was that thing called a safety bar??
Both babies were really wailing. I ran to the shed and fetched a hammer. I beat on the safety bar, thinking I could knock it loose. Every thud of the hammer caused Nick to wail. I dropped the hammer and cried for just a moment. Then an idea sparked.
I ran to the kitchen and flung open the fridge door, hard. A jar of blackberry jam flew out of the door and smashed to the floor. I ignored it and snatched up the gigantic tub of Country Crock margarine. I rounded the corner to find two babies, red faced, howling, and an arc of baby pee coming from my little naked baby stuck in the chair.
Working quickly, I buttered my child from chin to ankle, front and back. I tugged and pulled. Nothing. I lifted on the footrest one last time and Nick let such a wail, that I stopped immediately and grabbed the phone. I did what every parent fears to do. I called 911. Calling 911 means I have failed. It means I can't save my child. It means I am out of options.
Screaming into the phone, I explained who I was, where I was and what I needed. The operator grew silent for a moment and then she said, "you need assistance getting your baby out of what?" "THE RECLINER!" "THE DARN CHAIR!" "HURRY!"
After I convinced the operator that I was not prank calling, and I knew help was on the way, I called Bob. I was so hysterical, he could not understand me. Finally, when he got it, he LAUGHED. If he had been home, I would have strangled him. He did, however, very calmly, almost jovially offer up a solution. "Have you tried pushing down on the footrest?" he said, most non-chalantly.
I sprinted to the recliner and pushed down on the footrest. Space magically appeared. Nick instantly quit crying, climbed out of the space and leaped to the sofa, asking for a Barney video in baby speak. I was numb. So many emotions at once, I was on overload and shut down.
The fire department arrived at about that time. They knocked. I said come in. They opened the door and there I stood, or some variation thereof. My toddler was safe on the sofa. He was buck naked, covered in Country Crock. The recliner was still open. The hammer was sitting on it. There was pee on the carpet. My newborn was still howling.
The fireman looked disappointed. He said, "Darn, we were looking forward to this one". I am not making this up, that is what he actually said.
After his comment, he looked up at me and his amusement wore off quickly. He left just as fast.
We got rid of that recliner the next day.
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Pacifier and the Snapping Turtle
My seven year old daughter was the only child out of five who wanted a pacifier. I was glad that she did. She was a little fussy as a baby and the pacifier seemed to really soothe her. However, this lead to other issues. The pacifier pretty much dominated my every waking thought. Where was the pacifier? Did I have an extra in my purse? Did I pack an extra in the diaper bag? Glove compartment of both cars? My blue jean pocket? I became a little obsessive about the location of the pacifier. And you know, of course, Murphy's Law #201, when you need a pacifier - you can't find one. It doesn't matter how organized I tried to be about the spares, wherever we were, we were always scrambling for a pacifier.
So on our walk to the park that day, it wasn't surprising at all, as I loaded my daughter into the stroller for our walk around the pond, the only pacifier I could find was the one wedged firmly in her mouth. OK, I thought, we would be fine. Kylee has the paci in her mouth, this walk won't take twenty minutes. Just a quick stroll around the pond and over the bridge, a nice family outing.
My husband corralled our three boys. All I had to do was walk, push the stroller and WATCH THE PACIFIER. The walk started out pleasant enough. The weather was great, not too hot. We brought plenty of stale hamburger buns to feed the ducks. The boys were enthralled with the ducks and Kylee sat quietly sucking away on her paci.Because the outing was going so well (a rare occasion with three boys and a baby in a stroller - did I mention that I was pregnant with our final daughter too?) I let me gaurd down.
As we strolled up on the bridge that straddled the pond, I remember feeling the warm fuzzies. You know what I mean - especially if you are a mom. The warm fuzzies are the sappy, happy feelings that you get when your family is behaving, everyone is wearing shoes and fairly matching clothing, know one has cut a big chunk of their hair out lately and you feel as if you look like the perfect, happy little family. The warm fuzzies are usually an indicator that the bottom is going to drop out - soon.
As we reached the center of the bridge, we stopped to throw some more bread for the ducks. It was at that moment that it happened. My daughter reached up her pudgy little hand to me and grunted through her teeth, clenched firmly around the paci. She wanted more bread to push through the metal bars of the gaurd rail to feed the ducks. I guess I didn't hand her the bread quick enough, because the next thing I know, I am witnessing a gruesome scene of carnage and utter terror.
My daughter takes the pacifier from her mouth, rears back and tosses it out into the pond. As if that isn't trauma enough, a snapping turtle pops it head to the surface, grabs the pacifier and disappears into the depths of the murky water. I replay that scene over and over in my mind. My daughter stares into the pond with slight amusement. Slowly, the amusement turns to terror as she realizes that paci is gone, really gone. She turns her head from the pond to me. She looks at me with those huge puddly brown eyes and reaches toward the pond. "Paci", she says in a small, terrified voice. I immediately unstrap her from the stroller and hold her close. "Paci is gone gone." I tell her in mommy speak.
I know at this point that the outing is definitely over. I head back toward the car, with my daughter cradled in my arms. She begins to cry and I make small soothing hushing sounds. My boys stand dumbstruck for a moment, then hang their heads and head toward the car. They don't even put up a fight. The boys try to make her feel better. One son tells her that the snapping turtle was a mamma and needs a paci for a crying baby turtle on the bottom of the pond. My daughter is having none of it and continues to look to me for solutions.We return home, the drive was misery.
I fly from my seat to the house and locate a spare. My daughter goes from defcon 10 to all smiles as soon as she sees the pacifier. No more tears. More importantly, she looks at me with such gratitude. At that moment in time, I am her super hero. I wish I could freeze that moment.
You see, the obstacles get bigger as the kids get older. If only I could solve all of their problems by producing a spare pacifier. Unfortunately, I am no longer the super hero for my teenagers. I can't fix all of their problems anymore and it hurts. I crumble on the inside when any of my children are troubled or in pain. I want to fix it, produce a spare paci, and make it all better.
Parents are constantly doling out advice. It's part of the job description. Kids are constantly not listening, it's part of the job description. It would be so much easier if my kids could learn from the mistakes I have made in my life - but they can't. Just as I couldn't move fast enough to prevent Kylee from hurling her paci into the pond, I can't always catch my older kids from falling into situations that are not good for them. It's tough.I can't make it all better with the spare pacifier anymore. A strong shoulder and a hug will have to do.
So on our walk to the park that day, it wasn't surprising at all, as I loaded my daughter into the stroller for our walk around the pond, the only pacifier I could find was the one wedged firmly in her mouth. OK, I thought, we would be fine. Kylee has the paci in her mouth, this walk won't take twenty minutes. Just a quick stroll around the pond and over the bridge, a nice family outing.
My husband corralled our three boys. All I had to do was walk, push the stroller and WATCH THE PACIFIER. The walk started out pleasant enough. The weather was great, not too hot. We brought plenty of stale hamburger buns to feed the ducks. The boys were enthralled with the ducks and Kylee sat quietly sucking away on her paci.Because the outing was going so well (a rare occasion with three boys and a baby in a stroller - did I mention that I was pregnant with our final daughter too?) I let me gaurd down.
As we strolled up on the bridge that straddled the pond, I remember feeling the warm fuzzies. You know what I mean - especially if you are a mom. The warm fuzzies are the sappy, happy feelings that you get when your family is behaving, everyone is wearing shoes and fairly matching clothing, know one has cut a big chunk of their hair out lately and you feel as if you look like the perfect, happy little family. The warm fuzzies are usually an indicator that the bottom is going to drop out - soon.
As we reached the center of the bridge, we stopped to throw some more bread for the ducks. It was at that moment that it happened. My daughter reached up her pudgy little hand to me and grunted through her teeth, clenched firmly around the paci. She wanted more bread to push through the metal bars of the gaurd rail to feed the ducks. I guess I didn't hand her the bread quick enough, because the next thing I know, I am witnessing a gruesome scene of carnage and utter terror.
My daughter takes the pacifier from her mouth, rears back and tosses it out into the pond. As if that isn't trauma enough, a snapping turtle pops it head to the surface, grabs the pacifier and disappears into the depths of the murky water. I replay that scene over and over in my mind. My daughter stares into the pond with slight amusement. Slowly, the amusement turns to terror as she realizes that paci is gone, really gone. She turns her head from the pond to me. She looks at me with those huge puddly brown eyes and reaches toward the pond. "Paci", she says in a small, terrified voice. I immediately unstrap her from the stroller and hold her close. "Paci is gone gone." I tell her in mommy speak.
I know at this point that the outing is definitely over. I head back toward the car, with my daughter cradled in my arms. She begins to cry and I make small soothing hushing sounds. My boys stand dumbstruck for a moment, then hang their heads and head toward the car. They don't even put up a fight. The boys try to make her feel better. One son tells her that the snapping turtle was a mamma and needs a paci for a crying baby turtle on the bottom of the pond. My daughter is having none of it and continues to look to me for solutions.We return home, the drive was misery.
I fly from my seat to the house and locate a spare. My daughter goes from defcon 10 to all smiles as soon as she sees the pacifier. No more tears. More importantly, she looks at me with such gratitude. At that moment in time, I am her super hero. I wish I could freeze that moment.
You see, the obstacles get bigger as the kids get older. If only I could solve all of their problems by producing a spare pacifier. Unfortunately, I am no longer the super hero for my teenagers. I can't fix all of their problems anymore and it hurts. I crumble on the inside when any of my children are troubled or in pain. I want to fix it, produce a spare paci, and make it all better.
Parents are constantly doling out advice. It's part of the job description. Kids are constantly not listening, it's part of the job description. It would be so much easier if my kids could learn from the mistakes I have made in my life - but they can't. Just as I couldn't move fast enough to prevent Kylee from hurling her paci into the pond, I can't always catch my older kids from falling into situations that are not good for them. It's tough.I can't make it all better with the spare pacifier anymore. A strong shoulder and a hug will have to do.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Silver Spoon
I'm an eater. I'm an eater and thinker. I think while I eat. One day, not too long ago I was eating ice cream. Ice cream for me is close to a religious experience. When purchasing ice cream, I stand in front of the freezer counter and stare, almost trance like. I look at each little individual pint and read the ice cream titles. I say titles, rather than flavors, because ice cream is no longer simple. Gone are the days of chocolate, Neapolitan, strawberry and (shutter) vanilla. And good riddance I say! Ice cream is a decadent reward, and as such, deserves a decadent title.
As I read I free associate with the titles, until one of the flavors is too irresistible to pass up. For example, as I stand in front of the Ben and Jerry's pints, all lined up like little soldiers on the front line, I may read the flavor, Chunky Monkey. Monkey makes me think of my 5 little monkeys (my kids). If it has been a good day, that may evoke warm, fuzzy emotions and I may grab that flavor because I love my 5 precious little monkeys. If, on the other hand it has been a bad day (like the day that my 2 year old cut off her pony tail - TOO THE SKIN; or maybe the night that I went in, late to check on all my little sleeping beauties and found that my 16 year old son had "stuffed" his bed and snuck out the window) I might shiver a bit at the thought of that flavor and move on - but you get the picture.
I digress. As I was becoming one with my pint of Dublin Mudslide, I noticed the spoon I had chosen, and always choose when gorging on this decadent treat. It was a large silver spoon. I don't happen to own any silver, just plain ole stainless flatware. I don't know where this spoon came from, actually. I might have inadvertently brought it home from a church potluck, or maybe from my mother's. The point is, I love this spoon. It is large, really more of a serving spoon. It has a fancy curvy handle and it feels heavy in my hand. Eating my ice cream with this spoon has become a ritual, like a courting ritual. The ice cream deserves the silver spoon, I woo it with the silver spoon.
I was contemplating the spoon as I ate my ice cream that evening, where this particular spoon may have come from, which lead to, "I wonder who invented the spoon?". This lead to more philosophic thoughts on spoons, which lead me to my spoon theory. More like a cutlery theory actually. I'll try to explain it as I rationalized it that evening. Spoons have a deep well. They catch and hold everything that they are sunken into. They don't pick and choose, they accept. Spoons hold comforting foods. Ice cream of course, but also, soups, stews, Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries. They also deliver life saving medicines, like Pepto Bismal. Forks on the other hand are picky. They stab at bits of food, taking some and leaving some. Forks go for just exactly what they want, they sift, they don't take in the whole. They stab at the meat, but the delicious gravy drips right through. They are a hurry up cutlery, just fork in a few bits and go. The knife, ugh the knife. Slicing its way through life. The steak knife hacks through, the butter knife spreads through, the butcher knife - well you get it.
I began to assign all those around me to cutlery. I'm a spoon. No doubt about it. I want to relish it all, take it all in. I may not like everything I scoop up, but so what, it is only one scoop. I'll be more discreet next time, there is always time to pick and choose. I want to try it all, while I can. I married fork. He takes only what he wants, never tries anything new. It took me along time to realize that and it makes me sad. We are working on it. I would say he is a spork now. He is a work in progress. All five of our children are definitely spoons. I'm so glad. I wouldn't know how to mother a fork. I have worked with forks. I never understood them. They never understood me. I have gone to church with forks. They scare me.
The realization of all of this is that I know I am a spoon. I am thankful to be a spoon. I want to be a silver spoon. High quality, lasting, shining, proud of who I am. I want to raise my children to be silver spoons as well.
I'll always be an eater and a thinker.
As I read I free associate with the titles, until one of the flavors is too irresistible to pass up. For example, as I stand in front of the Ben and Jerry's pints, all lined up like little soldiers on the front line, I may read the flavor, Chunky Monkey. Monkey makes me think of my 5 little monkeys (my kids). If it has been a good day, that may evoke warm, fuzzy emotions and I may grab that flavor because I love my 5 precious little monkeys. If, on the other hand it has been a bad day (like the day that my 2 year old cut off her pony tail - TOO THE SKIN; or maybe the night that I went in, late to check on all my little sleeping beauties and found that my 16 year old son had "stuffed" his bed and snuck out the window) I might shiver a bit at the thought of that flavor and move on - but you get the picture.
I digress. As I was becoming one with my pint of Dublin Mudslide, I noticed the spoon I had chosen, and always choose when gorging on this decadent treat. It was a large silver spoon. I don't happen to own any silver, just plain ole stainless flatware. I don't know where this spoon came from, actually. I might have inadvertently brought it home from a church potluck, or maybe from my mother's. The point is, I love this spoon. It is large, really more of a serving spoon. It has a fancy curvy handle and it feels heavy in my hand. Eating my ice cream with this spoon has become a ritual, like a courting ritual. The ice cream deserves the silver spoon, I woo it with the silver spoon.
I was contemplating the spoon as I ate my ice cream that evening, where this particular spoon may have come from, which lead to, "I wonder who invented the spoon?". This lead to more philosophic thoughts on spoons, which lead me to my spoon theory. More like a cutlery theory actually. I'll try to explain it as I rationalized it that evening. Spoons have a deep well. They catch and hold everything that they are sunken into. They don't pick and choose, they accept. Spoons hold comforting foods. Ice cream of course, but also, soups, stews, Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries. They also deliver life saving medicines, like Pepto Bismal. Forks on the other hand are picky. They stab at bits of food, taking some and leaving some. Forks go for just exactly what they want, they sift, they don't take in the whole. They stab at the meat, but the delicious gravy drips right through. They are a hurry up cutlery, just fork in a few bits and go. The knife, ugh the knife. Slicing its way through life. The steak knife hacks through, the butter knife spreads through, the butcher knife - well you get it.
I began to assign all those around me to cutlery. I'm a spoon. No doubt about it. I want to relish it all, take it all in. I may not like everything I scoop up, but so what, it is only one scoop. I'll be more discreet next time, there is always time to pick and choose. I want to try it all, while I can. I married fork. He takes only what he wants, never tries anything new. It took me along time to realize that and it makes me sad. We are working on it. I would say he is a spork now. He is a work in progress. All five of our children are definitely spoons. I'm so glad. I wouldn't know how to mother a fork. I have worked with forks. I never understood them. They never understood me. I have gone to church with forks. They scare me.
The realization of all of this is that I know I am a spoon. I am thankful to be a spoon. I want to be a silver spoon. High quality, lasting, shining, proud of who I am. I want to raise my children to be silver spoons as well.
I'll always be an eater and a thinker.
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