The (Somewhat Lengthy) Story of Our First Love

Our number one. 
That is what Geoff calls her. 
And she was. She is. 

She came as a surprise. Not completely unexpected, because I know how a body works and what causes pregnancy, but definitely a surprise. A very scary one. 

I was doing laundry at the laundromat. 
I was twenty-one years old. 
And I knew. 

I pulled the laundry from the washing machines and threw them into the driers. Probably eight loads, because I usually waited until I had nothing left to wear and ended up hauling clothes by the trash-bag full into the 'mat, wearing a prom dress or men's wranglers and a pillow case as a shirt. Classy, I know. 

After piling about twenty dollars worth of quarters into the machines, I went to the dollar store and drove home with a pregnancy test in hand. I knew what it would say. I'd already had a dream about the child in my womb, and I knew I was pregnant, and that I was going to have a girl. 

The test's positive result only made it real... and very, very scary. 

In true class fashion, I returned to the laundromat to retrieve my dry clothes. My face red and wet with tears, I piled load after load into laundry baskets and trash bags. 

What. The. Hell. 

Some friends showed up after receiving my frantic phone call. I sat in the backseat of the car, in the laundromat parking lot, and I smoked a cigarette - maybe three, I can't remember - and I cried. 

My life was just beginning. I'd only been with my boyfriend (fiancee) for three months. We were having so much fun, getting to know each other, and drinking, and living, and loving. And it was over. My life was over at twenty-one years old, before it had even really begun. What had I done?

I showed up at the bar where Geoff was tending, the “He’s Not Here Saloon.” He knew why I was there. And he hugged me tight and told me it would be okay. I didn’t believe him, but at least I knew he was on my side.

We went to my parents’ church the next Sunday. Afterward, we sat in their living room, wondering how to say what it was neither of us wanted to say. I don't remember if my dad preached that day (he’s a deacon), but I knew I was about to shame him. My mom, angel in the choir, about to be railroaded by the news that no parent wishes to hear from their flighty, irrational, playful, unstable, dramatic, unmarried little girl. 

“We’re going to have a baby.”

Now, we'd already given them some cause for concern, though they took it like champs. We were together only a month when we got engaged. I think they'd met him once. But we knew we were in love, and we were getting married. 

The news of my pregnancy was shocking, but my mom already knew. She saw it in my face when she looked at me in Mass that morning. My dad knew, too. Parents are like that. 

They reacted in a way that would shame other parents. They were not angry. They did not yell.

Me, the preacher's daughter, engaged after only a month to a marijuana smoking hippie, then only a month later pregnant with his child.  

And they did not yell. They did not cry. My mom did not slap me and faint, and my dad didn't yell at Geoff to "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" 

In my memory, my mom said "Praise the Lord," and my dad said "Hallelujah." 
And that was that. 

They weren’t smiling. They were disappointed and shocked. But they were grateful that we told them, and for the life that we conceived.  They knew what was done was done, and that I was carrying their grandchild. They knew we'd made mistakes, and that we'd had sex before marriage. They knew that we were too young and too poor to parent. They knew this baby was going to change our lives forever. And they also knew that society pushed kids like us to seek an abortion, and that, in rejecting that option, they would get to meet their grandchild.  

Growing up my dad had always told me "Don't have sex before you're married. If you screw up and end up pregnant, don't you DARE kill my grandchild." 

Looking back, I am so grateful that he gave me that. When we were prepping to tell them, I didn't consider the shame I would bring on their name. I didn't consider how angry they would be. I knew they would love me, and love our child. So many young girls can't say the same. 

The next few months were precarious, speckled with very difficult and trying moments, and beautiful, joyful, loving ones. But they were hard. Very hard. We moved in to a small efficiency in an up and coming ghetto. The rent was $350 a month, and we struggled to even pay that. 

We were so young, and so stupid. We’d lived with booze and drugs and parties and friends and stupid decisions, and this being thrust into sudden adulthood was… tricky. We struggled with all of the above, and I was lonely and afraid. 

We loved each other so much, and we danced barefoot in our little backyard to Shady Grove. We hated each other with a dark passion, and we called it quits a hundred times. 

Our relationship was only just beginning, and to begin with such a huge responsibility was trying, to say the least. 

My friends tried to stay involved, but they were living their 21^st years, too. Their bars and parties were my Braxton-Hicks and Storks Nest classes. Some of them stuck it out with me, but my life was too much of a wreck. I was a project, a pregnant project, and though I grew more and more in love with the child growing inside my womb and my heart, I was a mess. 

We were a mess. A beautiful disaster, trying to make ends meet and coming up short. Close friends and my family, who supported us in every way possible (prayers, love, baby supplies, a baby shower) made it bearable, and, as my pregnancy progressed, more and more joyful. 

We were in love. That baby, moving on the sonogram, our love child… was perfect. We didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl, and we never found out (though, like I said, I already knew – I’d dreamed about her, and we already had her name). We didn’t care if she was healthy or not, deformed or hosting ten fingers and toes (though we prayed for health, of course). We just fell in love. Every time we saw her, with each sound of her beating heart, we fell deeper and deeper in love with her. 

We were so poor that we couldn’t pay rent, but our landlord didn’t evict us because he knew I was pregnant. We ate Ramen or cereal or potatoes and ham, if we ate at all. But it didn’t matter. 

The baby’s crib sat in a tiny little breakfast nook, which I’d painted to look like a sky with grass and flowers, and a tree in the corner with a cute little owl on a branch. There was no fancy nursery or theme. Her crib barely even fit. But it didn’t matter. 

Friends disappeared. But it didn’t matter. 

We struggled. But it didn’t matter. 

That baby… became all that mattered. 

August first, two thousand and four, God gave us a miracle that we didn’t deserve. And she was perfect. 

I was twenty-two years old, and had been married for two months. 

We named her AnnMarie Eve. AnnMarie, after our mothers’ middle names (along with the Grateful Dead lyrics “the first one’s named sweet AnnMarie, and she’s my heart’s delight). Eve, because she was the first girl (though it was changed at the last moment. Was to be Eva, after Eva Cassidy, the woman whose music was the soundtrack of our falling in love). 

Six pounds, three ounces. Tiny little body, head full of thick, black hair. 

And my world changed forever. I thought having a baby meant that it was over. And certainly certain parts were. 

What I didn’t know was that when they say “a baby changes everything,” it doesn’t mean for the worse. 

My heart ceased being mine that day. 

The next several years were not good in the Kelly home. We struggled financially, physically, spiritually. We battled addiction and poverty. 

But we stuck it out. We fought, and it was hard, but we did love each other, and we also laughed and danced. We knew from the first day together that we were meant to be Geoffica. Tragedy pulled us apart, but love always put us back together. 

And in the times when we didn’t know if we were going to get by, there was this perfect little person who relied on us, who had complete trust in us, and who kept us going, day after day after day. 

Our first, our number one, turned nine last month. I somehow can’t even believe that this is our true story. When I think about it, it feels like I’m reading a story that is not my own. 

But it is true. And she is still my heartbeat.

And, though a young and unexpected pregnancy came with years of struggle and heartache, it also came with more joy and love than I could have ever dreamed of experiencing. 

Our life is so very different than it was. We still have struggles, but they’re nothing in comparison to the ones we faced a decade ago. 

Our AnnMarie is still our heart’s delight. She is bright and beautiful, funny and witty. She knows more weird facts than she should. She is prayerful and honest. She is strong but gentle, and the perfect older sister to her younger siblings. She is a teacher and a listener. She is a nurturer and a goofball. She loves her dad and I more than we could ever deserve. And she is our number one. She saved my life. More than once. And to think I thought having a baby would end it. 

I’m grateful. 

I’m grateful that God trusted us enough to know that even we, a couple of screw-ups, would grow into loving and hardworking parents. I’m grateful that He gave us the responsibility of raising such an amazing and talented little girl. 

I’m grateful that my parents did what parents are supposed to do – and loved us. They didn’t take me to a clinic so they wouldn’t have to deal with a kid or to cover up the shame my mistakes would mean to them, or to make my life "easier." They loved me, and that's what made it easier. 

I’m grateful that, even though it took years, Geoff and I were able to grow up and become the parents God intended us to be... and that we make a really, really good family.

More than anything, I’m grateful that our number one came at a time that was so terribly perfect.

I love you, booger. You will never, ever be able to comprehend just how good you made us. 

Be good family.
And never underestimate the joy and love and utter happiness that can come from the most unexpected and seemingly devastating surprises. 

Cheerio.
Jessica

Littlest Sleepers

Geoff and I are considering moving in to a one bedroom house. We don't really see the point in our kids having their own rooms if this is what we find on our bedroom floor each morning...

Now, I'm not saying this is a bad thing. Who wouldn't want to wake up to this smiling little boy, and cuddling daughters? I love seeing their faces first thing. But some parents think I'm crazy. I think that people who have never been co-sleepers can't get it.

"WHAT? Your kids still sleep in your room?!"

Yes, yes they do. All three of them. I kick them out of the bed if more than one climbs in, and they're required to make their own pallet on the floor if they come in at midnight. But, yep, they do. Especially in the summer, when all rules take a hiatus (no bed time, no wake time, no schedule... yes, we're THAT family. I REALLY love summer).

We're not parents that really care if our kids come in to our room, as long as they're not trying to pool into our queen-sized bed, they start the night out in their own beds, and they bring their own blankets. During the summer, and during the winter, there is a kid-bed on the floor (like a dog-bed, but made of layers of blankets and pillows), and that is their pallet. So be it.

The littlest A does sleep with us. Yep, she does, and yep, she's almost two (in about two months). She went through a brief period where she slept in her crib, when she was about a year, maybe 14 months. I started putting her in her crib to sleep (I was a "co-sleeper" and nursed her through 10 months. After that, I just needed sleep, so she slept with us then, too). 

She slept in her crib for, oh, about a night or two. It was amazing! Best sleep I'd had in years! Then, one night, I heard her crying. I thought, of course, that she'd cry herself back to sleep. But she didn't. The cry got louder, and louder, and then, she was standing beside my bed. :| She learned to flip her body over the side of her crib, cling on with tiny little fists, then drop to the ground. And it was all over.

Basically, the only way I'm going to get her to sleep in her room is to 1: to put a lock on the outside of her bedroom door, take out any furniture, and line the walls with rubber just in case she gets crazy, or to 2: wait until she's old enough to understand, and make her start the night in her room. This will be about six months from now, and I'm okay with that.

Now, understand that the kids don't come in every night, and most nights its just one kiddo or the other. Most nights littlest A starts out sleeping on the couch (GASP! BAD MOM!), and when she wakes up crying (which, yes, she still does), I bring her to bed with me.

For now, we are a bunch of cuddlers. And I stay at home. As long as Geoff is getting the sleep he needs, and I'm getting a decent amount, and we're getting the alone time we need, and the kids start the night in their own beds, I'm good with that. If they wake up at night and need to feel the comfort of their parents, at one, or three, or even nine years old, who am I to reject them? They'll grow out of it soon enough. (Eldest A started growing out of it at about 6 years old. She comes in on occasion, but the vast majority of the time she sleeps in her own bed.)

My most-given advice to new parents is about bedtime rules: do what works. Books do not know your kids or your desires or your sleep cycles. If daddy hates co-sleeping, don't do it. If you prefer to get out of bed and keep putting your kiddo back to bed each time he pulls out of the crib, do it. Who cares if your baby is still being pulled into your bed at a year or two years old? As long as you're getting sleep and your husband isn't suffering (you know what I mean), who cares? Putting timelines on kids is like wrapping a string around a tiger and expecting it to hold still.

Build healthy boundaries, make sure you're not making your kids uber-dependent, that you're teaching them how to pray and calm themselves down if they wake from a bad dream, and then, just enjoy the fact that they're still little, and they still need their parents.

After all, it's not like my kids are still going to be piling in to my bed when they're 13 years old. At that point, they'll probably be wearing black lipstick and listening to goth music in their dungeon-themed bedroom (GOD, help us!).

Cheerio!
Jessica

Summer Bummer

I'm sitting on the couch, with the laptop on my, well, lap. I haven't showered in three days. My hair, long - almost to my buttox by this point, is up in a disheveled bun. No, not a cute "messy bun." A gross "I've given up" bun.

Last night I washed my face before bed, but I didn't take off my eye makeup. Too much trouble. Instead, here I sit, with a face spekled with adult pimples (SERIOUSLY?! Into my THIRTIES?!), and mascara and liquid liner forming raccoon circles around my already sleepy eyes. It's almost noon, but I haven't even put on a bra, yet. Looking awesome in Geoff's baggy (non-flattering) t-shirt and biker shorts, because there is laundry yet to do.

A3 (my beautiful, blond haired, blue-eyed toddler daughter) is running around the house, butt naked, screaming bloody murder, holding a handful of Legos, using them to punch her brother. Apparently she broke his Lego ship, and he retaliated by stealing some Legos from her homemade Lego hut. She is NOT happy. She ripped some Legos off her hut, threw them at him, then picked them up and is after him, screaming "MIIIINES! MINES!" 

She is also using her "call the exorcist" voice between screams. Picture Emily Rose saying "Myyyyy Legoooooooos." If your child has never adapted this low growl, consider yourself lucky.

A2 (my 3 year-old sweet red-headed boy) is trying to exercise control and not hit back (perhaps because, as he's learned, hitting a girl makes him go to "jail" - under the table, locked in by chairs), but screaming "NOOOO! NOOOO!" and crying.

Oh, now he's jumped over the back of the couch, grabbed a handful of unfolded clothes, and is pelting them at A3. Awesome. 

A1 (my 9 year-old sweet but sassy daughter) sits completely oblivious, playing Smurfs on the Wii. She keeps asking me to play it with her. But I can't. I just... can't. 

I've got the summer bummer blues.



The couch is littered with two loads of laundry (which are making their way onto the floor, you know, sibling wars).

My kids had oatmeal and Cool Ranch Doritos for breakfast. 

There is no movie planned this week, no swimming trip, no zoo. In fact, I don't think I even want to venture to the grocery store. 

Nope, we're done. We're stir-crazy, but I'm not crazy enough to try to go anywhere.

It is the last week of summer.Oh, bitter, bittersweet end to summer!

I'm so glad we're finishing it with a bang. 
Go mom! THIS will be a memory for their scrapbooks. 


Cheerio. 

Prude? Or Prudent?

I think I might be a... gulp... a... ugh, a prude!

There. I said it. 



Once Upon a Time

Back in the day (I'm a prude, but I might be a little ghetto, too), I dressed a bit like a slut and had a terribly foul mouth. 

My tongue was laced with ugly words, and if you talked trash about my gurlz, well, you wuz gonna get a verbal lash like you never had.

My thighs were laced. Yeaaah, I had a pair of lace-top thigh-highs that I'd wear with a short plaid skirt and white button-up shirt (with the top buttons unbottoned juuuust enough) and sometimes a tie. I was Britney's "Baby One More Time" before Britney was famous. I think I took some cues from Clueless, but at least her clothes were cute. 

I dressed how I wanted, and how I could afford (which meant I mixed and matched and cut and tied and tucked - possibilities to my wardrobe were pretty endless). Sometimes my outfits were funky-chic (pronounced sheek). Sometimes they were funky-floozie. Sometimes, they were just funky. But I was, um, "unique" and wasn't afraid to push the envelope stylistically.  My shirts showed too much, and my shorts covered too little. My dad would say "Hm, guys are really going to appreciate you for your mind in THAT shirt."

I flirted. I didn't care if my boobs were ogled. I didn't care what I said, or who heard it, or how I said it. (Except my mom and dad. I NEVER spoke like that in front of them. It would be highly disrespectful.)

I watched whatever movies I wanted, and if they had sex-scenes or filthy language, I just tuned out the "bad" and focused on the "really good story line." 

My music, oh, don't even go there. And dancing at the club? You better watch out.

I was wreckless and imprudent. "I DO WHAT I WAONT!" 




The Change

And then, at 22, suddenly I was a wife. 

And then, a couple months later, I was a mother.

And something changed. Not overnight. But gradually, something changed. I changed. 

I learned. I grew. 

My trucker tongue disappeared, and my manners calmed. (Mind you, my parents did NOT raise a foul mouth daughter. They never cussed. Ever. They taught me that vulgarity is the offspring of ignorance. That you only cuss if you're not bright enough to come up with something creative. I believe this, now, but then... meh, I just ignored it and talked how friends and movies and music talked. Yeah, original, I know.)

My taste in music changed. I listen now to songs I loved then, and, though they bring a nostalgic smile, I'm all like WHAA?! I have to turn them off. I can't have my kids hear that crap! They're soooo trashy -  sex and grinding and cussing and money - GROSS! (Sorry Mom and Dad. Surprise!) As the mother of a daughter, the possibility of her listing to that type of music makes me nauseous. (Strange, too, because I was raised in a home with really, really good music. My dad had/has an awesome music collection, and I'd hock a lung for his old records. Beatles, Buddy, CSNY, Bee Gees, Ola Tunji, and, man, there were sooo many. We had a musical home. I don't know what happened when I left it!)

My neckline slowly started working it's way up, my hem line worked toward my knees and beyond, and my clothing has grown more flattering and less, um, painted on and trashy? Now understand, I'm a big girl, with lots (of large) curves. And dressing modestly has been the trickiest part. It is really, really hard to find chic and trendy clothing for a girl like me. But I do try. 



A Modest Spirit

As my modesty in behavior and speech and demeanor and clothing began a refining process, my spirit did, too. The changes started in me not because I wanted to be better than anyone, or because I thought that people who cuss were lame, or because I think that women should be locked in a kitchen and never dress sexy, or because I don't want to have any fun. 

I changed naturally, when I came to respect myself, because modesty and self-respect go hand in hand. 

I changed spiritually because I came to realize what my sins are, and made the conscious decision to avoid the near occasion of sin. I've never read 50 Shades of Grey. I've never seen Magic Mike. Movies or music with excessive cussing make me cringe. I sought my spirit, and I found what is important for me to avoid. My spirit was tainted, and sin flowed in when I let my guard down. I searched my life and what it was that made me let my guard down, and I found it. And it kind of sucked. 



Jessica the Prude

Over the last few years, especially, I've become a prude. 

*Language

I don't cuss. And I think that cussing, especially in front of - or at - children demeans them. I'm not saying that an occasional slip-up doesn't happen, or that if a parent accidentally says the "s" word their kid is doomed to juvenile delinquency. But I do know that cussing at or in front of my kids is something I will never do. Simply because I want to challenge them to think, to be creative, to NOT BE THE CROWD. Plus, I screw up enough as a parent as it is, and don't need to add ugly words to that mix. (Aaaand, the face of this little girl at JCPenny back in the day stands out very clearly in my memory. Her mom told her that she'd better "stop that shit, or I'll beat your ass." The girl was probably 7, and she was acting like a 7 year-old. And I remember that precious little face, and the damage those words caused in her eyes and in her spirit - even physically, she slumped over a bit. She looked like she felt unloved and worthless, degraded and embarrassed, and I will NEVER make my child feel that way. I am the adult, and, though I may lose my temper, I will NOT act like a child.)

*Booze

I don't get loaded. I do drink (I LOVE wine. Love it.), but I very rarely get drunk, because losing control of my tongue or my actions is inevitable, and I do NOT like NOT being in control. I want to know what I'm doing, and why, and when I see people around me losing control to alcohol, it makes me very uneasy. Partly because parts of my life were seriously damaged by alcohol, but mostly because I just don't want to act shameful, and I don't want anyone else to regret anything, either. If I let myself get smashed and start cussing, telling my kids to go away, acting flirty with any man other than my husband, oh, the list could go on and on... I regret it. I've done it. And, I learned. I regret it, and I'm ashamed. And I do NOT want to feel ashamed. I'm too proud of how I've grown to let myself be ashamed or regret my actions. 

*Duds

I try to dress appropriately and modestly. I still fail at this sometimes. Mostly because I don't want to dress in a neck-to-ankle burlap sac, and I really like fashion and trends. If I had a million dollars, my closet would be stacked with clothing from ModCloth and Shabby Apple (both modest but adorable clothing sites). I dress like a mom. A cute mom, I hope, but a mom. No, I do not wear "mom jeans" and embroidered sweaters - they're not me. But I do dress like I have children who are watching my every move, and who will mimic what I do. Including what I wear. I dress sexy for my husband. And I've explained to my daughter that the only person she dresses sexy for is her husband, out of respect for herself, and respect for him.  

I also plan on strictly prohibiting hoochie shorts and tiny little dresses from my waaaay-too-beautiful-to-dress-like-that-and-have-horny-teenage-boys-lusting-after-them daughters' closets, and I don't want them to be all "But MOOOOOM! YOOOOU wear them!" I already prohibit bikinis. My eldest is way too cute to have some nasty man at the pool looking at her belly, or to cause boys her age more pain than they are already experiencing while entering puberty. (I don't have the body for one, but I don't think I'd wear one, either. My husband is the least controlling person ever, but out of respect for him, I'm gonna keep all this goodness covered up - available for his eyes only. :) )
 

The Problem with Prude

The problem? I don't necessarily LIKE to do or not do any of these things. I LIKE to wear tiny shorts and a tank top to Wal Mart when it is one thousand degrees on a Texas day. 

Doesn't every woman want men to look at her and feel beautiful or lusted after at one point or another? Who wants to be that Debbie Downer who has to tell people to please stop saying the "f" word in a crowd, most especially where there are elders and children? (Takers, anyone? Yeah, NOT pleasant and VERY embarrassing to be the one to do it!) Rap music is FUN. 

Being the sober one when everyone around me is laughing and totally relaxed and just letting go of any inhibition - that is NOT FUN (though I have to say that I must be a blast, because I can have a very, very good time anywhere, any time, no matter what I'm doing or who I'm with. It's one of the perks of being delusional). I WANT to get drunk. I WANT to feel hot. I WANT to say what I want when I want. And I DO NOT like being THE prude that other people don't want to invite places because they think I'm going to judge them. (This usually doesn't happen. I happen to be a very fun prude, most of the time. Ha!)

I went to Confession once and had to confess that I hate being a prude. Seriously. I had to confess that it makes me envious that everyone else gets to read 50 Shades, and watch Magic Mike, and wear those cute little dresses from Target that look cute on them but would make me look like I have a bazooka in my upper shirt region... and that I want to fit in. What an embarrassing confession! (said the blogger as she posted this for the whole world to see.) I DO NOT WANT TO FIT IN! Do I? 

Geoff Loves a Pru-ude! Geoff Loves a Pru-ude!

I told my husband once that I hate being a prude. 
Me, while feeling sorry for myself: "Geoff? I'm a prude."
Geoff: "Thank you." (then he put his arms around me and hugged me tight.)

I was shocked! Thank you?! He was grateful! 

After reflection I figured it out. He's grateful because he doesn't have to worry. He doesn't have to worry about other men ogling me (though they might, anyway. Men will be men, and breasts will be breasts). He doesn't have to worry about me getting drunk and flirting with his friends or with some stranger at the bar. He doesn't have to worry about my embarrassing him in front of his mother because I can't control my tongue.

And that makes total sense. He loves it that I'm only sexy for him, but that I can still look beautiful and make him proud in public. He loves that I'm his arm candy without being his piece of meat. He's grateful that, even though I'm a loud mouth, I try to reserve myself so I don't make a fool of US.

He is grateful. And that is why I could post this.

Though at times I'm still embarrassed to not get to do the things that others can do, though at times I still struggle with being jealous that EVERYONE IN THE WORLD has read 50 Shades except me... my husband is proud of me, and doesn't have to worry that when I'm laying with him I'm thinking of what he's not doing that Christian Grey does do, or that I'm wondering why he doesn't look like Matthew McConaughey in chaps, sweaty on a stage. 


He made me realize that being prude isn't a bad thing... that maybe, maybe there is something to it?

Prude? Or Prudent?

As I was thinking about this subject, and decided to blog about it, I had Google define "prude" for me. Merriam-Webster said it is "a person who is excessively or priggishly attentive to propriety or decorum; especially : a woman who shows or affects extreme modesty." (Priggish means irritatingly smug or arrogant.)

This struck me. Am I one? I'm not extreme in my modesty. I am modest, but I still let a word slip on occasion, drink a bit too much from time to time, watch occasional movies or tv shows that have risque characters or dialogue, show a bit too much skin from time to time. I'm definitely not PRIGGISH for goodness sake. (What a terribly delightful word it is, though.)

Can a person be "sort of" prude? And why is prude a bad thing? 

So I searched the etymology of prude. "...a discreet, modest woman," from Old French prodefame: "noblewoman, gentlewoman; wife, consort," possibly from Old French prude, prode, preude: "good, virtuous, modest."

I found the words "noblewoman, gentlewoman, WIFE, good, virtuous."

This led me to look up a word that seems directly related to prude.

Prudent: Marked by wisdom and judiciousness. Acting with or showing care and thought for the future.

Sooo, am I prude? Or am I prudent? 

I'm just trying to make good judgements of how I should look and dress and act. I'm trying to be wise, though I'm a far, far cry from it. I show care in what I do. I think about the future - namely, what my daughters will see, and who they will become, if I let my guard down and act without intention. I think about my son, and trying to model the type of woman I want him to marry - one who does not dress for other men, who does not embarrass or demean him or her children with vulgarity.

Perhaps I'm only partly prude after all. But I am trying to be fully prudent. And prudence is good, not something that should make me feel like I have to run to a confessional and cry because I didn't get to see Channing Tatum in some stupid movie with "a really great story line."

And so, today I shake the embarrassment and envy that my misunderstanding of what being a prude means. I am a wife and mother, trying to be good, and virtuous, and noble, and gentle. I will unlikely ever be all those things, but I'm trying!

Please note that I blogged this KNOWING that I'm risking looking like some high and mighty snob, or seeming like I'd think less of anyone who does any of the things I avoid. Plain and simply, I don't. I don't care what you do. Your choices and your sins and your qualities are your business - as long as you're not cussing at or in front of my kids, cause then I'm gonna have to get ghetto. Haha! My choices, and my sins, and my understanding of what I can do and what I have to avoid for my own conscience and motherhood and entrance to Heaven... THAT is what this blog is about. My spirit, my conscience, my choices - brought to me in prayer and soul searching. And I'm proud of myself. Because I fail, often, but I try really, really hard to be good. And, surprisingly, I still have a blast, and haven't missed out on anything! (Except Channing Tatum in chaps, which, I've heard, means I'm probably going to die unhappy ;) Whoop!


Cheerio!
Jessica

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Definitions: dictionary.com, merriam-webster.com

A Month of "Somedays"

Warning. It's a long one. 

Dear all supermom bloggers, 
If you could please slow down and give me a chance to catch up, I'd appreciate it. I just need a minute to adopt a child, make a t-shirt scarf, distress a coffee table, sew some ruffle leggings for the girls, create a charity, buy a Canon or Nikon camera with installed editing software, and open an Etsy shop. 

Sincerely, 
The Newbie

I feel that way. When I'm reading hilarious blogs and looking through all those amazing DIY sites, my heart screams DO! NOW! But in my head there is a very real and present, saddening whisper. "Someday." 

At times it seems there are all these thing-clouds looming over my head, taunting me with the un-done and not-good-enough. I'm creative and crafty, and I have a pretty good eye for photos. I have canvas stacked up in my craft closet, and drawers full of acrylic paint. I have a Cricut on my wish list and about a dozen "to do someday" notes saved on my desktop. I have a little sewing table that houses an old olive green Singer that my mom picked up for me at a consignment sale a couple years ago. 

But it seems, no matter how many things I need or want to do, they're all hanging out in "someday." I haven't ever used my sewing machine. Not even once. It still has the scrap fabric that my mom used to make sure it worked sitting under its little silver foot, waiting patiently for "someday" to happen. 

I don't have inspirational quotes on my chalkboard-painted wall. I don't even have a chalkboard. I don't have any awesome Ikea art or furniture spunking up my crib. 

Much to my dismay, most of my walls are blank. Not because I hate art. On the contrary, I'm a bit of an art fanatic (post to follow). I just hate spending money on it. I am thoroughly convinced that I can paint anything I see, so I take pictures of the easy stuff (pieces that would take me less than an hour, because I don't have the time or patience at this point to do much more than that) when I'm at Target or World Market. I pin quotes and pictures and other "someday I will" crafts to my Pinterest. And then, my walls sit blank, and my "someday I will do that" settles in to my month of somedays. 

I look at all these amazing things that all these supermom or supertrendy DIY bloggers do and have and show... and, though I draw inspiration from these finds, I also find myself feeling ultra, ultra lame. 

Someday, my kitchen will have wooden letters spelling the word E A T down the wall. I will have a painting that lists our Kelly Family house rules. I will have my kids' silhouettes cut out and mod podged on painted wooden plaques, placed between vintage garage sale-found frames that I spray-painted red or turquoise to match some one of a kind red, turquoise, and mustard yellow throw pillows that I made myself (don't forget the round pillow made from felt rosettes... that will be there, too). Oh, and a sunburst clock or mirror.

Someday my blog will be littered with amazing photographs that I've taken of my kids and pets and sunrises with my fancy camera. 

Someday my toddlers will have a bookshelf full of serious homeschool curriculum that I imagined, created, and organized myself. 

Someday I will have really amazing organizing tools all over the place. Crates, spray painted and screwed to the wall, pallet furniture on my back patio, a sandbox made out of foam and plaster (ok, maybe not that). 

Someday every meal in my house will be colorful and healthy, and nothing in my house will contain preservatives, high fructose corn syrup, or artificial coloring (or carbs). 

Someday I will walk proudly into the health food mart with an arm full of canvas bags to purchase finely selected fruit and veggies so I can feed my kids their delicious and healthy green smoothies in the morning. 

Someday I will talk about my charity, and let you know how you can contribute if you feel compelled. 

Someday I will be at my book signing.

Someday, someday, someday.

I may sound trivial right now, but make no mistake. I am not trivializing any of these things. They are, quite seriously, on my "someday" list.


Alas, for now, I am a busy wife and mom. My days are spent cleaning up spilled pudding, playing bike taxi and leading trampoline cheer practice with the kids, looking at the floor and wondering how it got so gross when I mopped and vacuumed yesterday, taking crust off PB & Js, giving baths and changing diapers. My someday seems so far away. It seems I hardly have time for the things that I need to do on a daily basis (I swear I can't even find time to exercise - but I think I could probably fit it in if I tried hard enough). And it's defeating.

For now, my walls are bare. My kitchen walls are decorated with a splatter of spaghetti and curtains that are attached to the pull by a paper clip. My kids faces will go un-silhouetted, and I'll have hand-me-down pillows on my Craigslist sectional (with zipper, removable covers so I can toss them in the wash), and dreams of art and canvas and sunburst mirror-speckled walls. 

For now, my camera is on my Wal-Mart pay-by-month phone, and my pictures may or may not ever make it to print.

I will homeschool with whatever tools I've got (paper and pencil, unless the pencil needs sharpening), and even then, maybe only a day or two a week. My organization tools will be cut up cardboard boxes that I haven't even covered with cute paper and mod podge. 

My patio will be bare or host mismatched furniture without cushions, and I will shop produce at Wal-Mart and reach my car with a cart full of plastic bags (and a screaming toddler or two). 

My charity and adopted children will remain in my grand prayers and imaginings, and my book, well, hopefully that will be written (someday). 

My month of "somedays" holds all kinds of magical hopes and fantastic dreams, but the problem with SOMEDAY is that I tend to find myself overlooking TOday. 

I get so caught up in all the things that I might have the chance to do, that I sometimes ignore the magnificent blessings that are sitting right in front of me. I think that - because blogging and Pinterest and the internet have made all of this sharing of crafts and ideas and love and charities and giving and living so available - if I don't do or have these things, my family will suffer and I'll be that loser mom who doesn't even make homemade playdoh or footprint fossils or send out photo Christmas cards. 

Things were different when we were kids.

Pinterest did not tell my mom what she needed to make our house welcoming or adorable. Our photos were snapped with a camera, and the pictures were either captured on a roll that was then dropped off in an envelope for a week-long development period, or developed by my dad in the dark room at his office (man, those were cool. Red light, liquid, photos dripping into development, hung from clothespins on a wire). I think our family photo was the one taken for the church directory.

We had home-cooked meals from my mother's Better Homes & Gardens Cookbook, which was cluttered with at least a thousand typed (on a typewriter) recipes or magazine clippings shoved and taped in here and there. My favorite meal was potato, canned green bean, sauteed hot dog and celery casserole stuff that my mom invented and probably cost about thirty cents per serving, if that.

And I'm FINE. (Though that may be debatable.) My childhood was happy. My parents were happy. Our walls were covered with art or crosses received as gifts, we didn't have family craft nights or funky throw pillows, and yet, somehow, we had a beautiful and loving, fun and magical life and family.

I doubt my parents ever lived in someday. They lived in today. Which is what we're told to do in that big book of wisdom. Hebrews 13:5 says "Let your conduct be without covetousness; be content with such things as you have. For He Himself has said, "I will never leave you nor forsake you.” 

It also says, "This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it." (Psalm 118:24)

And "Do not boast about tomorrow, for you know not what a day might bring." (Proverbs 27:1)

Oh, and what about Jesus' direct instruction, "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." (Matthew 6: 34)

It seems that God is pretty intent on our NOT living in a month of somedays. He calls us to live for TOday. It is okay to hope, and to dream, and to pin one thousand and one ways to make a chandelier out of household objects on my Pinterest board. But it is NOT okay to live in a month of somedays or to covet the lives that others have made for themselves. 

TOday, I have to be grateful for THIS life. TOday, I have to realize that just because another mom can go, go, go, go, while maintaining a perfectly lipsticked smile and finding time to paint and distress a table, hit the gym, fill her house and closet with amazing Anthropologie finds and homemade ottomans, put her daughter's hair in a braid that looks like a dove, bake and ice a two-tier birthday cake and then blog about it all, that doesn't mean that THIS mom has to.

TOday, my kids are happy and healthy. They don't care about the walls, or that they don't have ruffles on their leggings or adorable headbands and pearls. 

TOday my son will pull a wicker laundry basket with a rope and tell me that it is his pet dog named Tomorrow City. 

TOday my husband really, really enjoyed his bean and cheese burrito on a non-homemade tortilla. 

TOday I may or may not paint a flowerpot. 

TOday my house is semi-clean, and my walls are mostly bare. 

And TOday, that is okay. 

Here's to my effort to avoid stifling my talents and my writing and my blogging, because I'm afraid of not being able to keep up with the blogging supermoms who have super busy and productive lives. Here's to realizing that their lives are no more busy or productive than mine. (Except Jen Hatmaker. Hers is probably both busier, and more productive. But I really like her, so I'm okay with that.) 

We're all just in it to get by, be happy, make some sort of impact on somebody (hopefully a good impact on our children and friends, mostly), and get to Heaven.

Here's to embracing my ordinary, silly, bare, messy, hopeful life, without worrying about if and when I'll ever accomplish all of those things that, in the big picture either don't matter at all, or will be provided in God's time. 

Here's to trimming down my month of somedays and pulling away from the idea that I have to do and make and have and be all of these things that may or may not ever be. And here's to learning to appreciate all the grand and not-so-grand things that I have done, and will do, TOday. 

Cheerio. :) 

Jessica



image: http://veronicaparkauthor.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/calendar.jpg

Get to know me in a list of bullet points. 

(Not because I think I'm fascinating. I'm quite normal, actually - though that is probably debatable. It just seems that many blogs have these "here's a bit about me" sections, so I thought I'd try to fit in.)

• I really, really like God. I try to talk to Him every day, but I lack communication skills in that manner. I'm trying. I give all glory to Him, and any success my life brings is brought by my Maker, who is too legit to quit on me.
• Jesus, too. He's my homie. He turned me from someone lame into someone of whom I've grown quite fond.
• I am naturally blond, but I sometimes put a $3 box 'o' blonder on my hair to turn it from dishwater mucky into more of a color that doesn't resemble dried hay.
• I cook every meal. Though by "cook" that sometimes means a can of refried beans in a tortilla. 
• I'm a grammar junkie. If you catch me using incorrect grammar, correct me. I do not like making a fool of myself in this manner. This includes punctuation (aside from my excessive use of commas and periods - artistic rights) and spelling.
• I coin words. Often. I also use lots of periods to break up thoughts and sentences. 
• I'm scatterbrained.
• I love coffee, so much that I am going to start using 3/4 decaf, and 1/4 caffeinated, so I can drink several cups without jicking out.
• I have New Jersey blood, so I'm loud. Very loud. I try to be quiet. I really do. But it doesn't work. I am trying to learn to embrace this part of me. 
• I play the guitar, the djembe, and the ukulele. I play none of them well. Well, except the djembe, my first love.
• I am in the midst of writing my first novel. I never, in one million years, thought I'd be writing a college sci-fi supernatural romance. Never. But I am. I have almost 40,000 words so far. Some of them are good. Some, notsomuch. 
• When I'm on a roll, I can be hilarious. Well, I laugh, anyway. And if I think I'm funny, that's all that really matters. Delusion is fun. 
• I like walking around in my backyard in daisy dukes and my swimming tankini, probably much to the chagrin of my neighbors (if they're bold enough to glance over my cinder block fence. 
• I'm a bit overweight. (See chagrin of my neighbors in previous bullet.)
• I love Zumba, but don't have a class I visit at the moment. It's been months and months, really. But I do love it. (See previous bullet about being overweight.)
• I love to eat good food. And I live in Texas, where good food and pot luck dinners are plenty. 
• My younger daughter - age 22 months presently - growls at me to get my attention. She is crazy and beautiful, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a mean left hook.
• My oldest daughter (9) is brunette and seriously pretty, and she likes to make ugly, I mean ugly, faces at me. She also loves to cook, and is presently in the kitchen making mac n cheese by herself.
• My three year-old red-headed son is probably a genius, which causes me to beat myself up because I haven't taught him all the states, capitals, and presidents, yet. 
• I love crafts, and am crafty, but don't ever do them. When I DO do them, they generally turn out crappy because I'm always in a hurry to finish. 
• I'm a songwriter. Some are good. Some are terrible - but I play and sing them anyway, because they're mine. 
• When I'm tired of talking about something, I just stop. 

I'm a tad O.C. and A.D.D.

In all things I do, outrageous or fantastic... blame my gypsy soul. 


O.C. and A.D.D. 

I've started a half dozen blogs in my time. I've left each one hanging. I want to blog. I LOVE to write. I just can't pick a topic. I want to post IDIM (I Did It Myself) crafts, and amazing accidental recipes, and funny things that my kids do, and songs that I've written, and fights and lovely things I pick and find about/with my husband, and random rants and raves that fill my head on a daily basis. I dream of my name in lights as one of those mom-bloggers that gets famous because she's hilarious and creative and supermom. (Yeah, a far cry. I know.)

I've started blogs about much of the above. But I'm done with all that. See, here's the thing. I'm a tad O.C. and A.D.D. 

O.C. = I don't think I'd classify as having a disorder, but I'm definitely obsessive compulsive - but only about things that don't really matter. I've often wished that I'd be O.C. about having a clean house, or keeping my kids faces clean (though I do have my moments with both of those), but no. 

Instead, I keep all my canned food categorized with labels facing out (I mean, who DOESN'T do that, right?!), and my dishes and silverware are completely organized. If you help me unpack my kitchen (which I've done 14 times in the last 13 years - no, we're not military. We're gypsies.), I will wait until you leave then re-unpack my kitchen. No offense, I'm just O.C. Mainly about my kitchen, it seems. 

A.D.D. = First, I know it's ADHD, not ADD. But I say A.D.D., and I'm right in my little world. I'm pretty sure if I saw a doc, I'd be diagnosed with Adult Attention Deficit Hyperactivity - need to grab coffee and vaccuum the living room. 

See? I can't help it. Some blame it on multiple pregnancies and motherhood. But I've been a scatterbrain since high school or before. I find it a stretch to have a conversation about one thing. I usually deviate at least, oh, a dozen or more times in any conversation. And I'm okay with that. It's because I'm emotional and a knowledge and fact-seeker, you see? 

If you say "So, my mother-in-law gave me this dresser," I'll say "Cute dress, by the way. So, what ended up happening on Thanksgiving when she blew up on you?" It's not that I don't care about the dresser. I do. And we'll get back to that. It's just that "mother-in-law" triggered another conversation, and I want you to know I listened and I care. Yeaaaaaah. That's it. 

ABOUT ME

All that being said, there are a few things you should know about me. I write like people are going to read this. I write to my imaginary audience, of which you are a part - unless you are a real person, reading this, and then - I actually have an audience of one member, which is great. 

*God

I'm a child of God first. Yep, I said it. Religious mumbo-jumbo and "God is so good to me" lullabies may end up making their way onto my blog. 

*Husband

I'm a wife to a heck of a man, Geoff. (That's a pseudonym to protect his identity. His name is actually Jeff. I usually refer to him as Husband.) He has a crappy job that allows me to stay home with the babes. No, literally, his job is crap. As in, cow manure. He works for a manure compost company, which recently relocated us to a tiny little town on the Texas/New Mexico border. Texas side. When his new plant opens, he'll slowly pull himself out of manure and in to cattle feed (Sweet Bran, working alongside Cargill, for those of you ag types out there). 

Geoff and I love each other like crazy. But we also yell and fight. I'll never pretend like either of us is the perfect spouse. People who do that give me a bit of a nauseous knot in my throat. As do people who always bash their spouse. I like happy mediums (no, not cheerful fortune-tellers. Finding a smart balance. THAT kind of happy medium. But I bet cheerful fortune-tellers are cool, too). 

For future reference, when I call Geoff's job "crappy," I say it with great endearing love and respect. He's been our sole provider since I left work upon the birth of our second child, and he's incredible. His job is a grand blessing, it just so happens that it also allows for all kinds of "crappy" connotations. :)

*Chilluns

I'm a stay-at-home mom to three beautiful children. They're perfect. Brilliant. Exercise complete control over attitude and manners, especially around company. They test at genius levels, and I never, ever have to raise my voice at them. Hahahahahah! Just kidding. 

They are beautiful. A blonde, a red-head, and a brunette (yes, they're all by the same dad. :| ). They really are smart and usually very well-behaved. They're also real-life kids. They wear clothes that don't match, and their faces get dirty. They have these incredible (and sometimes frustrating) little minds and ideas, and I LOVE them! They don't dress in Persnickety, Olive Juice, Matilda Jane (though I'd give an arm for a line of any of the above. I love clothes, we're just green. We want to only shop at thrift stores... or at least I'll tell myself that until I can stop window-shopping these sites and actually shop at them.)

My "As" are a true delight, but, because I'm O.C., I do find myself raising my voice at them more than I should. Nonetheless, we have a lovely, lovely life. And I love them like I never thought I could love a smack of little people. (A smack is actually a group of jellyfish, but it's probably the coolest name for a group - ever, so I'll apply it here, to my coolest little group - ever.)

Their names are sponsored by the letter "A" which was unintentional, until the A #3 was born. The first two were already As, so we kind of had to not deviate. I fought for the name Hazel for our third, but Husband declined. Also in the running were Opal and Pearl. He said no. 

*Learnin'

I have a degree in Restaurant, Hotel, Institutional Management from Texas Tech. GO RAIDERS! (I put my "guns up" as I said that, aloud. My kids are looking at me like I'm crazy.) Before you say that's an easy degree, know that I chose it because I love it. I love the service industry, and I'm good at it. I'll run something someday, but that'll have to wait til babes are grown and I'm able to clean the poop and toothpaste off my hands (I have toddlers. Don't ask.).  

*Additional information that is none of your business but I'm going to tell you anyway to help you see a bit of who we are. I am NOT a material girl, though I would like to be sometimes... 

We've never bought a house. Yep, we're perpetual renters. We'll buy someday, but right now we're a one-income crap job family, and we're happy moving around like gypsies to find what we like and don't before building a multimillion dollar dream house. 

I drive a beat-up, dented minivan. I hate minivans. And minivan drivers. And I have one, and am one. Yeeeeep. Alas, it was given to me before the birth of our youngest, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. Hahaha, just kidding. I would. But for now, it is a blessing that I give grit-teeth gratitude for every time it starts! (About 8 times out of 10.)

*Fun Little House

We laugh. We jump on the trampoline. We talk about the manure-lined air in our little town. We ride our bikes to the post office and park. We do crafts when I get a wild hair. We have a dog (Jake), a turtle (Littlefoot), and two guinea pigs (Lucy and Lego - or Diego, depending on my son's mood). We go to church every Sunday.

And we have a fun little house. (see what I did, there?)


WHY HERE, WHY NOW

Basically, my sister, the lovely and creative author of That Cat by the Bar blog (http://thatcatbythebar.blogspot.com/) - who also happens to be the one who gave me my all-telling "blame my gypsy soul" shirt pictured above - has been urging me to quit trying to pigeon-hole my thoughts into one blog. I believe her last command was "don't start a specific blog. Too hard to pigeon-hole yourself. Just do a blog that can be rants, raves, recipes or ridiculously cute stories about the kids! But do it already, the world néeds your writing!" 

(Yes, I realize I just used "pigeon-hole" twice in that paragraph. I don't even really know what that means... I also realize that my sister put an accent on the first "e" in "needs." It's the proofreader in me. Whatev. It gives it some flavor.)

So, here we go. Let's see if I can obsessively compulse over this blog, and focus some of that a.d.d. where it might do me some good - namely, an outlet that people can choose to read, or not to read, so I can stop clogging up my Facebook with Notes and status updates that probably annoy much of my "friend" population. 

Mainly, I want to document my mind, so that, some day from now when I'm long gone, my kids will have a glimpse into who their mother was - the good, the bad, the happy, the ugly, the wonderful, the magical, the lame, the tired. I want them to know it, and to have it in writing. 

Happy reading! Cheerio! (No, I'm not English. I mean, I speak English, but I'm American Texan. I just decided, right now, that I like the word "cheerio", so I'll probably use that as my signature good-bye line until I a.d.d. my way out of it.)

Cheerio! 
Jessica

(Etymology of "pigeonhole" - which I just found out is actually one word, not hyphened.
pigeon +‎ hole.
Originally literal hole for pigeons, later similar compartments for papers, then extended metaphorically in verb sense of narrowly categorizing or deferring.)