early birds

  Confession # 9:  I'm not a morning person.

No matter how early I go to sleep, I stagger out of bed every morning, bleary eyed and squinting in the light like a drunk at last call. 

And I'm bitter for those first few minutes of the day.

I understand at a fundamental level that the "early bird gets the worm", and that so much can be accomplished in the early hours of the day.  I know that productive people get everything done that they need to because they get up early and begin about their tasks while day is still young. I have become one of those people.  3 children and a job that starts at 7am mandates that my body wakes up at 6 am every day, even on holidays. Earlier if my youngest child demands it.
I am an early riser now by neccessity.

But I don't have to like it.

My husband has learned to quietly maneuver around me, and not speak unless spoken to, lest my fury at being awake in the early morning hours before sunlight has kissed the earth, be unleashed upon him.  

He's a good man, that man of mine.

I don't understand people who wake up refreshed, energized and ready to conquer the day at the crack of dawn.  And.... then I married one.  And then I gave birth to two.

Only my oldest, Jamie (child of my heart) is made very much like me. She is a "night hawk". She can stay up late with ease, and be at her best no matter how far past her bed time it is. 

But, regardless of the time when she finally sets her head down on the pillow and surrenders to deep slumber she is slow, bitter and un-manageable in the morning.

Unfortunately, with 3 out of 5 Walmsleys being early risers the majority rules.  We are up and at it early almost every day of the week.  3 are perfectly happy about this and 2 deal with it as best they can.

I thank God for a family that tolerates the worst in each other while also bringing out the best!

my latest creations

Neglected all the housework and made Easter cards instead.  I didn't get a picture of my favourite one, but I  might try to re-create it for mother's day.
So I thought I'd post them before the tornado outside takes the house down.

the mythical unicorn

After my first of the season jog (which was depressingly short and has rewarded me with a burning sensation in my thighs and butt in spite of my living room work outs all winter long) , a few days of rain with nothing to do but facebook stalk people and their photos, I must now write about a certain kind of mythical woman.

You know the kind. The ones that are perfectly pulled together at all times, sporting the latest fashions, have zero body fat in spite of a large brood of children, have energy and time enough to hit the gym, run a successful business, and make a delicious, organic dinner from scratch that she grew herself, in her backyard .
The ones that make women stare and men drool without their realizing it.
They are apparently mythical creatures who don't really exist like the white and purple unicorns of every fairy princess' dreams.

 All the latest self-help books and positive self-esteem seminars will tell you that the models that grace the covers of the hottest magazines are air-brushed, digitally enhanced, blemishes magically removed and  likely have eating disorders. They're not "real" the myth goes.  Well, I'm not buying it.

 I take exception to all those sources who claim those kinds of women that are thin (even after a handful of children), beautiful without cosmetic assistance, and always well put together don't exist.

They do!! Not only do they exist but I am constantly bombarded by their lastest tropical island vacation pictures on my facebook news feed page. Mythical indeed!

I have read that the average women is under 5'7" and probably closer to 160 lbs.  Fabulous.
True beauty is within, and more than skin deep. Beauty is not about outward adornments but about the heart, and is made by the Creator. Beauty is not based on our cultures images of women.
Yep. Got it. I'll buy that.

The problem is that it doesn't matter that these women don't represent the majority of the female population.

It only takes a few of them to ruin it for the rest of us.  

If you are one of those women or you know one (or several), and are reading this blog, please don't take offence.
I salute you.  Silently under my breath, I also curse you, but mostly I stand in awe of you.

I want to know how you do it.  I want the secret. How do you eat your kid's left over macaroni and cheese because you're starving and don't have time to make something else for yourself,  run a gourmet fudge business, go shopping, hit the gym daily and not only leave the house without spit up, snot stains or some left-over stickyness on your clothing but manage to perfectly co-ordinate your purse and shoes. How is this achieved???!!!??? How is this even possible???
Do us normal gals a favour will you, and share the secret or stop posting your perfect photos all over our facebook news feeds so we can try to maintain healthy self-esteems.

As for the rest of us,  here's to not being a unicorn, a thing of lore and legend but no real substance, and to hoovering down our kid's Easter chocolates when they're not looking!
God made us beautiful too , even if the only way we get men to drool is with a calorie loaded cheesy meat lasagna.  Take that Cindy Crawford, Jennifer Lopez, Jessica Biel and all the rest.


Cheers!

inked

So I have a tattoo just to the right of my left shoulder blade. It's a small chinese character for joy. Or at least that's what it was supposed to be.

I confess that I didn't put any thought into it. In fact, I hadn't even planned on getting it.

 After 3 days of pouring rain on a family vacation in the maritimes, and being bored to the point of tears in a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere, my sister and I found a touristy tattoo shop. It was doing a crazy amount of business alongside shops that sold maritime collectable spoons and snowglobes.

She was the one that convinced my mom to let her get a tattoo. She was only 14 at time so she needed my mother's permission.
She chose Chinese symbols for angel and heaven if memory serves.  Originally, she was going to get three done, but after seeing the first two she decided that three would be too many.  Enter older sister.

My sister has always been far more avant-garde than I could ever hope to be.

And that's how she suckered me into getting one too.  One accusation of being a goody-goody and never having done anything spur of the moment or daring, and I was choosing a symbol from a huge binder full of Chinese symbols. 10 minutes later, the deed was done.
Unlike the tourists purchasing over-priced fudge and playing cards with lighthouses on them, my tourist purchase would last a lifetime.

I can't say that I regretted it.  In the years following I liked it.  Somehow, it was the symbol that I could do things at the spur of the moment with a little encouragement, and that it was a side of myself not every one (myself included) knew about or expected

When I got home from vacation, my best friend in the wise words of Bart Simpson, "had a cow".
I didn't think I had been openly critical of tattoos or the people who branded themselves with them, but apparently it was such a departure from the person he believed me to be that I left his jaw hanging.
It made me smile inwardly.

Many years later, in between pre-birth contractions a nurse asked me about the tattoo she spied between the ridiculously open halves of my hospital gown.
She asked me if I knew what it meant, so naturally I answered "joy".  To which she responded "yeah, sort of."
Sort of??? I never did get to ask what she meant by "sort of" and the impending birth of a child took over.
But since then I have often thought of the apparently ambiguous symbol permanently etched on my back.
I have since toyed with idea of getting inked again, but have been hesitant because of what others might think.
And something about that annoys me. Why should I care what other people think? Besides which it's not as if I plan to get my face or half my body done.
So... now the debacle is continuing. I'm considering asking a tattoo artist if is possible to get the ambiguous symbol turned into (at the very least) something a little more meaningful.
I think part of the fascination is that I'm not likely to be suspected as someone who would get a tattoo.
I'm not the type, in a matter of speaking.
Or maybe I'm stereotyping. Is there a type? It's a lot more mainstream and accepted today than it was 13 years ago when I first got mine.
Then I figure, I've already got one, what difference would it make to change it?
Lend me your thoughts on this!

domestic dump

I suck at laundry.

I can't keep up with it.  It never ends. No matter how much effort I put into it, or how dilligent I am about it,  it just keeps coming back.  Like mould in a warm moist place or a bad fungal infection.

Before I was married, it didn't really bother me. It was a fact of life. I even did my boyfriend's laundry.

Once I got married, I noticed how alarmingly fast the laundry multiplied, but I just did laundry more frequently and it was under control.

11 years , 3 kids, and many Power Stream "peak consumption hours" later..... this is what happened when I got sick on Saturday (laundry day).

That would all be dirty but my hubby (bless him) brought it all down and washed 95 % of it, while I was ill and in recovery.

It makes me cringe to post this. But you just can't appreciate the full breadth and measure of our laundry situation without seeing it.

Since 3 out of 5 of us have had the stomach flu, and because my youngest randomly takes her diaper off and pees and poops on everything there are still at least 4 more loads to go.

I could rail about the unfairness of the higher rates of "peak consumption" for hydroelectricity being all of the regular week's waking hours (making it virtually unaffordable to do laundry before 9pm unless you want to re-mortgage your house to pay the electricity and water bill when it shows up), which leaves only the option of doing it all on the weekend.

Or I could whine about how my body simply refuses to do laundry after a day that started a 6am with a toddler's screams for milk, cereal and tv, a 10 hour work day, prep, cooking and cleanup that takes up the hours of 5 -7pm,  the lunch making or child bathing, toy tidying or work out time, but I won't.

Rather, I shall post this horrifying before photo and a satisfying after  photo showing off my mad domestic skillz- what what!


BEFORE

The "after" photo is nothing dramatic but I guesstimate that I easily folded over 400 pieces of laundry.

AFTER

Actually 2 baskets are missing from this picture.

It only took me the entire week to accomplish this (insert sarcasm here). Just in time for tomorrow when the process starts all over again.  Feel free to applaud my hard work. And to all you Moms out there who go through the exact same thing, give yourself a pat on the back.  The world would be a dirtier, stinkier place without us. :)

Loves

 Not the normally sanctioned and obvious loves like my husband and family, rather it is those that are best served with restraint and a side of guilty pleasure.

Confession # 1 -  I love to read.

 Not so bad, some might think.  Except this love can border on an OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). As previously blogged, once I start a book I can't stop.  I will go through the motions of life only when necessary and likely in a half hearted-manner. Cooking, bathing children and laundry to name a few. I do as much as possible whilst still reading.  If interrupted too often by my children I will snap at them.  Time ceases to exist. I will risk sleep deprivation, starvation and slothfulness to finish a book.  In my defence I am a fast reader.

Confession # 2 - I love sappy anything.

I am the biggest sap that ever lived.

For example, star crossed lovers whose relationship is opposed at every turn and are forced to wait years and overcome obstacles to finally be together and love triumphs, I'm hooked.

Dying cancer patient who reaches through the wretchedness of disease to heal a broken family and show guarded widow how to embrace life and live again. Spellbound.

Rough and tumble cowboy with broken heart that loves puppies, children and can whip up a mean chocolate souffle.  I'm done for.

 I know right? Roll your eyes and gag.
I'm a sap. I beg absolution.

Confession # 3 -  I love (some) yummy actors.

Before I talk about this I have to say this always feels a bit guilty and I must preface this by saying this in no way is to take away from my husband who I find the yummiest man alive and the TOTAL package. Everything I could ever want in a man. I don't want there to ever be any question about that.

 Having said that, I am human (and let's face it, he's a normal guy and I KNOW that he thinks the same way about beautiful women, he is just smart enough never to tell me and I'm good with that). And while for the most part I regard Hollywood with great disdain there are a few that I can't help but enjoy... for purely superficial and shallow reasons.
Ryan Gosling, Channing Tatum, Chris O'Donnell (I think that has to do with an ex but that's another story), Gerrard Butler, ( tell me that isn't the most delicious accent EVER), Hayden Christensen.  The ones that aren't just easy on the eyes but seem to have a hint of broken, be slightly inwardly tortured or have a streak of bad-boy in them. Just a touch.  I will even put up with a crappy movie for one of the aforementioned.  Sorry. It's the truth.

Confession # 4 - I love chocolate

This is actually a love/hate relationship.   Lindor milk chocolate or white chocolate by Lindt to be precise. I know there is probably better out there, and worse, but this stuff almost makes me euphoric.
It's the only thing that makes me close my eyes when I eat it. It's so good, and yet it soooooooo bad for me.  Might as well just attach the lard to my thighs and butt immediately.  And I know they say chocolate has anti-oxidant properties and can be good for you.....bah! That's only if you are talking about the dark chocolate which is always slightly bitter, leaves a weird after taste and is slightly disappointing and only if you indulge in small amounts.  And frankly, if I'm indulging in chocolate the chance that I'm only going to ingest a small amount is a pipe dream. Why oh why does something that is so good have to also be soo bad?

Confession # 5 - exercise

This is another love/ hate relationship.  I exercise regularly. I have long been a living-room exercise junkie. I take a kick boxing class.  I love the way it makes me feel afterwards.  The before and during not as much. Why does something that is so good for you have to be so difficult?
I love that afterwards I am filled with a sense of accomplishment and a flooding of positive endorphins, and that I have done something to preserve good health and strengthened my body. I love that.
But dragging my butt through a work out after being on my feet for 15 hours straight, or getting myself to class in a snowstorm or when there is a pile of laundry rivalling Everest waiting for my folding pleasure when I get home is aggravating on the best of days.
And yah, yah, I know things that are worthwhile always cost something, you get out what you put in, nothing good comes for free, I know all that jazz.  But why does it have to be so difficult to get something that is so good for you.  Time, energy and money. Exercise costs you all these things.
And quite frankly, I'm coming up short on all of those. -sigh-

Well that's it for today. Anyone reading this will likely conclude that I'm a complete mental case.
Well it's probably true. :)   Cheers!

Fail

Well the first confession of this blog shall be that this is my second blog. I confess, while I have courted the idea of blogging for quite some time, the concept has somewhat baffled me.  What the keck is a blog? Is it a journal? Is it a form of self-expression, a place to show off your great achievements, a way to entertain an audience, a confessional, a chronicling of your latest activities?

My first ( very sad) attempt at a blog waffled between a journal of my thoughts and a righteously indignant soap-box.  Neither of which suits me. Journalling has simultaneously bored and terrified me. I am privy to my own inner thoughts, why would I want to write them down for someone else to read and mis-construe? All the crises would be exposed without the counter-balance of context.  Forget that.
And soap-boxing has never held much allure. Therefore, my infatuation quickly waned.  Epic fail.

My excuse has always been time... I'm too busy...but now even that excuse is sagging. Busy? So is everyone else. As my husband I say often, "Join the club, take a number, get in line."
 I consider myself a writer, and it seems I do everything BUT write, so here it is. The birth of a new blog.

Henceforth,  I decree that this shall take on the form of a daily confessions!  This seems a bit more fun. Okay maybe daily is a bit ambitious.  Frequent confessions.  That meanders nicely in the middle.

 Confession # 2.  I had to think really hard about what to call this blog. I couldn't think of what it would be about, or anything that really summed up myself.
It's like Seinfeld.... a blog about nothing. My inner ramblings.
Do I begin.... Dear Audience / readers or do I flatter myself to think I shall have an audience/readers?

Finally, I think... who CARES? If someone reads it great, if they like it all the better, if not whatever, stop reading... at least I am courting the long lost love of my life... writing.

Confession # 3 (wow this is turning out to be quite a cathartic morning). I have no current specific area of expertise, trade, skill or study. I just dabble in many things.  Mommy-dom, domestic goddess, child care dynamo, scrapbooker, amateur gardener, reader ( this is bordering on a superpower for me but also leans toward an OCD. I ingest books in a ravenous fashion. Moderate size books in a day or two, larger volumes a few days to a week, but once I start I can't seem to stop) -let me qualify that last statement by saying I mean ingest in the figurative sense and not literal before you nominate me for some TLC show about people who have mental illnesses that cause them to eat inedible objects-, Christ follower, exercise lover/hater, cook, baker, writer, to name a few and throw all modesty to the wind. And finally, confessional blogger.
Love it.
All right. Enough verbal diarrhea.  That shall conclude todays confessions.  Jill of all trades, master of none!