I’ve decided to start writing and posting, instead of writing then losing things in countless folders on my computer. Or carrying on an inner dialogue with myself to the point where I start to voice my thoughts out loud to no one in particular. Maybe it’s just that I need a way to dump all these thoughts before I explode.

Honestly, the problem is I don’t have enough friends. The few I have, I don’t want to express all this stuff to for fear they will think I’m completely insane and never speak to me again. I guess I should say then they will know I’m completely insane and never speak to me again. I’m actually a pretty good friend to have. I’ve always practiced being a good listener. But sometimes the listener needs to voice a few things as well.

I’ve started many journals in my life. I have at least a dozen of them, dedicated to one subject or another, one period in my life or another. Most are at least partially filled, some with entries many years apart. All were eventually abandoned to a fresh start, with my belief that with new blank pages would come new dedication.

This time I will have new virtual pages to fill. Endless sheets of crisp, blank whiteness, ready to receive whatever random thoughts I pour forth. I have no idea if this will be the one that will “take” so to speak, the journal the won’t be abandoned to whatever complications life throws in the way. I think it will be interesting to see what happens.

I briefly considered writing some quick synopsis to introduce myself. However, I rejected the idea pretty quickly. It seems very boring and cliché.

Instead I’ll let whatever of myself I choose to reveal a bit at a time. That might be just an attempt to make myself come across are more interesting than I really am. Deep down, I do fear that I’m far too ordinary to ever interest anyone in what I have to say. The one thing that continues to amaze me is exactly how mundane my life has actually turned out to be. I think this is something I will have a lot more to say about in the future.

Then again, I’m not sure that I’m doing this because I seriously want anyone to be reading what I say. It’s more intriguing to think of writing to a vacuum, sending words off into empty space not considering when and if they will every land somewhere. I guess we shall see.

I’ve been spending a ridiculous amount of time tweaking the random photos. It’s driving me a bit nuts. There are two different scripts that run the things, and one seems to get stuck a lot, and on my least favorite photos every time of course. I’ve tried a few things to do it differently, but I just don’t know enough about the code to fix it the way I want.

The photos are all mine, or my kids. I have a nice collection of really weird things they’ve taken shots of. Finally, something to do with them! Animal photos are easy to come by around here too. Then there are the various attempts at artistic shots of things that have caught my eye. Check out the random images every time, and start to get little glimpses of who I am. There are even hints as to where I am if you are paying attention.

Unfortunately the photo quality isn’t that great in all of them. I have a cheap camera, plus I’m still experimenting on how to get a nice balance between file size and photo quality.

It should be obvious that I don’t really know what I’m doing in setting up the site. I’m in the very earliest stages of “self-taught.” I managed to have everything set up, choose the template I liked best, then I started tweaking. Really I’m rather proud of myself for the things I’ve made work. But there are some little odds and ends of weird things showing up that I can’t seem to get rid of. It would be helpful if I could work interrupted for longer than 5 minutes at a time, but around here, that just isn’t going to happen.

At least if I blow the whole site up with my experiments, I’ll only hurt myself.

I’d have a pretty dumb name for my blog site if I wasn’t, don’t you think? So yes, I’m a Mom. I have three kids: wonderful, frustrating, fantastic, trying, incredible kids. There is so much I could say about all of them; of course as a Mom I could go on for hours about each one. But briefly, here they are:

TR is my oldest; at 15 he’s my claim to quite a bit of experience at this Mom stuff. He’s a big bundle of attitude crossed with loving kindness and rolled up into a bundle of nerves and noise. Being a teenager is hard, and some days he clings to childhood for dear life. Other days he’s the picture of maturity. It’s such a hard time in life; I wouldn’t go back and relive it for anything. Being the oldest, unfortunately everything with him is new ground for me. For the most part he’s patient with me though, and exceptionally good at accepting my apologies. He has some additional challenges in his life, but I’ve watched him grow more and more accepting of himself as time goes by, and I truly believe he has a wonderful future ahead of him.

Next there’s SW, my wonderful second son. He’s 12 years old now and a universe in and of himself. This is my truly exceptional child, and the biggest learning experience of my life. SW has Autism. He was diagnosed at the age of 5, and the last 7 years have been both a struggle and a series of amazing accomplishments. I have learned so many things from him. Ways to look at the world that never would have occurred to me otherwise. He has a sharp, logical way of looking at things, and a keen wit and charming sense of humor. In mothering this child, I’ve had to grow as a person, and learn a lot about balance, creativity and ingenuity just to get through the days sometimes. But I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

Finally, there’s our little surprise miracle, RM. She’ll be 10 months old next week. She is our sunshine, she’s laughter and brightness and joy. SW says, “I can be sad, then I look at her and she smiles, and I don’t feel sad anymore.” She loves her big brothers so much, her face lights up with happiness when they just walk by. And they adore her as well. It’s amazing to be blessed one more time after so many years. Watching her grow and learn and delight at everything new in the world makes it look fresh and new to all of us as well. She’s a gift to all of us in so many ways.

OK, a little sappy here, I know. But who can blame a Mom for that? And I did promise no boring, unoriginal summary about myself - but come on, this was about the kids!

I should not be allowed to watch craft shows. Searchwords like “Sewing” “Crochet” “Yarn” “Fabric” “Pattern” and “Crafts” should be blocked on my computer. Likewise I should not be allowed into crafting, fabric or yarn stores. I need to be stopped.

I have this obsession with starting new projects. I see an idea for something I like, I want to go out, get the supplies, and start making it.

Now honestly, I do finish things, about half of the time. I finished the little dress for RM with the crocheted yoke and fabric skirt. I didn’t finish the stretch flannel sleeper. But in my defense, the pattern was really too big and I hated the snaps I bought. It might fit this fall, I can do it then.

Let’s see, I finished the basket weave baby afghan, not the black and bright color granny square one. But there’s time, maybe if I do a square a month I’ll have it ready to put together by the winter after next.

I’ve finished a whole set of crocheted wool diaper wraps and shorties, not the crochet cotton string shopping bag. It’s in my basket of projects; I’ll get bored and get around to it someday.

I’ve finished two reversible cotton calico dresses, but not the fleece jackets. I put together one of two tied fleece blankets. Filled two of three picture frames with photo mosaics, never hung them though.

I made a set of lace looking candles, and a bunch of lavender votives. Never did anything with the beeswax.

Made wire star Christmas Tree ornaments for everyone I knew one year. I didn’t finish any of the little cross stitch ones.

Completed, but never framed, a celestial themed cross stitch sampler. Still haven’t finished RM’s birth announcement.

There are so many other things I want to try. I’d love to crochet some wool socks from this great pattern I found. Saw the cutest wool kids’ afghan in a Crayon pattern. Then there’s the patchwork trellis afghan I’d love for me. Have a great pattern to sew a play cube for the cats, they’d love that. I always wanted to learn to knit too. And scrapbooking, haven’t tried my hand at that yet.

See, I should be banned from the craft stores. The online ones too. Take my keyboard away, quick.

I am neither the world’s best nor the world’s worst cook. Like so many other things about me, I fall somewhere in the middle of the road on this one. What I serve is mostly edible, occasionally creative, somewhat varied, and presented to my family as a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. I don’t take requests.

I can’t say that I particularly care for cooking. I look at it as one of those household chores to be completed for the day so one can move on to more pleasant tasks. Say, dirty diapers for example. I wouldn’t attempt to elevate my cooking to an art form any more than I would turn my daily laundry folding into an origami exhibition.

Still what I turn out is not anything horrible. I avoid the exotic spices and for the most part stick to the fairly normal American family fare. I can turn out a decent pot roast, whip up the standard tacos, spaghetti or meatloaf almost with my eyes closed, and I do know more than two or three ways to fix a chicken breast. I’ve put together a Thanksgiving dinner that passed inspection and served Lasagna to company without sending anyone to the Emergency Room. I can even bake a birthday cake from scratch.

But were it not for Peanut Butter TR would surely starve. And I mean that as no exaggeration. At the age when I expected his tastes to begin expanding as his palate matures, his list of acceptable menu choices grows more restrictive every week. Even the things I could once count on to please him are now rejected in favor of the PB&J.

Meatloaf is an absolute no. The last time I served spaghetti, “the noodles tasted funny.” Chili? Forget it. My homemade pizza is “not that good.” Of course, all of these fall into the category of “Things Mom Might Put Onions in That Should Not be Eaten Due to That Mere Possibility.” But these aren’t the only puzzling rejections. He no longer finishes fast food cheeseburgers or fries. Devil’s Food cake with white frosting gets turned down.

One evening he asked for his Chili Dog “without the chili.” That shouldn’t have surprised me. But wait; didn’t I say something about not taking requests?

Story #1

I bought some new wool for my continuing crochet projects. It’s beautiful Cascade Tweed, one is a red with pretty flecks of color, another in a yellow. It comes in twists that needed to be wound into balls, and I pressed my oldest son into service to help.

The minute I have yarn draped across his hands, TR suddenly develops itches. He’s experiencing tons and tons of itches, everywhere. His eye itches, his nose, one on his back, then the foot, then his elbow. Loop after loop of yarn unwinds, and he quickly uses the tip of his thumb to scratch here, then there, trying not to drop or tangle the yarn. Then he loops the yarn around his foot to free a hand to scratch his back. Twisting his neck like a stunted ostrich, he tries to rub out the itch on his nose against his shoulder. It’s an unbearable compulsion, to try and catch every itch, as a new one pops up every few seconds. By the time we’re done, he’s completely exhausted.

Now, it’s possible it’s some creeping reaction to the wool, where the body develops itches even in places where the wool isn’t touching, but I doubt it. Instead, I’m pretty sure it’s a psychosomatic reaction to being required to sit still in one place for more than two minutes. Or a reaction to being forced to help mom. Actually, it’s probably a bit of both.

Story #2

SW and I are out shopping with the baby one particularly warm day. After finishing in yet another store and getting everyone strapped in to the steaming hot car, I pause for a minute to try and do something with my frizzed out hair.

So SW asks me, “Why do girls worry so much about their hair, and wearing makeup, and having all those nice clothes?”

I give a not so politically correct answer, maybe a bit of a feminist one. “I don’t know, probably because men expect us to.”

He follows that with a very insightful reply. “So why do you keep doing it if you are already married?!!!”

Why indeed.

Story #3

RM loves to crawl into her brother’s rooms to see what’s up. On this particular day, they are building something, an addition to the house maybe, with Legos. So the floor is covered with lots of teeny, tiny Lego pieces. Being the conscientious big brothers they are, they continually carry her out of the room to avoid exposing her to any choking hazard.

So Grandma brings to her a plastic tub full of used but perfectly wonderful Duplos. These of course are nice big pieces, suitable for all the chewing and drooling a little girl can do. We place her on the floor in the living room with her new box of treasure.

She proceeds to stand, leans on the tub, and pushes it out of the living room and down the hall and attempts to deliver it into big brothers room. It’s as if she’s saying, “OK, I brought my own toys, can I come in and play now?” This time, they bring both the tub and the baby sister back to the living room. So she, again, pushes the tub out of the living room, and down the hall, but comes to a halt outside the now closed door to big brothers room. This time she announces her presence by climbing into the tub, and kicking the Duplo blocks around in a way obviously designed to make as much noise as possible.

That’s my clever girl.

I believe in respect. I think all people deserve to be treated with respect.

Now you would be hard pressed to find someone who would disagree with you on this. However, there are a lot of people around who only pay lip service to the idea. Of course they agree, people deserve respect, but their actions betray the idea.

Today I had the opportunity to speak to my State Representative on the phone. He’s running against the incumbent in the primary for State Senator. This man is highly educated, has been in politics for years, and in many ways is far more intelligent and respected in the world than I am. However, in speaking with him, I never feel patronized, put down or foolish at all. This man treats people with respect. Not with phony political schmoozing, but genuine respect. He makes people feel good about themselves, and truly give you the impression that he is listening to what you have to say. He deserves a great deal of respect himself.

Today I also had a chance to interact with another person as well. She’s someone I’ve been helping out with a new project. The only communication I get from her ever are requests, instructions or criticisms. She talks to me as if to imply I am less intelligent, foolish or inferior. She publicly puts me down, and does not apologize for doing so. She says “it’s just the way she is.” She will sometimes apologize for her mood, but not for hurting people when she was in that mood. This is a person it is much more difficult to respect.

We all have a great deal of control over the way we are, don’t we? Honestly, each and every one of us has the capability of considering our words and actions, what effect they will have on others, and acting in a way that is respectful.

Its very cliché, but it really would be nice if people didn’t speak unless they had something good to say. Or at least didn’t speak until they found good way of saying what needs to be said.

Most of my days are spent with a 12-year old and an infant, and part of the day with my 15-year old as well. My husband works odd hours and often is sleeping when the rest of us are awake. I have to say, I love them all, but none of them are sparkling conversationalists.

Last weekend my husband tried to engage me in a conversation to determine what to call the shade of blue of the sheet we were putting on the bed. He was once able to go on for about three days, off and on, as to what hue exactly one would call purple. I guess color is a bit of an obsession for him, especially if we are talking about the hair color of some Hollywood actress. I’m not saying everything out of his mouth is equally meaningless. He babbled at me for a good 10 minutes the other day on how the style of the Beatles differed from the style of Ricky Nelson. It took him the whole 10 minutes to realize I wasn’t paying the least bit of attention. Now if I were actually interested in the starting lineups of both teams in the 1969 World Series, I’d be in good shape for a chat partner. But this is honestly the extent of what I get in terms of adult conversation.

With a 15-year old around you would think maybe our talks would be beginning to have a little bit of substance to them. But you’d be wrong about that. Mostly what TR likes to tell me about is whatever he last watched on television, or the latest exploits of one of his video game characters. I do once and awhile get him to talk a bit about his friends at school. He lets me know what video games they are playing. He especially likes to remind me over and over that their parents, unlike me, let them play the “Mature” rated games. Honestly, for the most part, the most adult sentences coming out of his mouth are the ones where he’s angry and telling me how I’m ruining his life and he never wants to talk to me again.

Now SW is capable of some very interesting insights. He occasionally astounds me with the cleverness of his observations. This is in between telling me he’s hungry, or he would like for me to buy him some more toys. We must be on the edge of some growth in maturity though. He has a fantastic, although sometimes stinging, wit. One day I made a wrong turn, and pulled into the nearest parking lot to get turned back around the right way. It happened to be the library. My son piped up with the question, “What are you gonna do here Mom, get a map?”

So that leaves the baby. I have to admit; sometimes the most intelligent sounding exchanges heard in my house all day are between her and me. They go something like this:

Mom – “How’s the little girl doing today?”

RM – “Aah bah ba ba buh.”

Mom – “Really? That good huh?”

RM – “Mum mum, ba mum aah bah.

Mom – “And what would you like to do this afternoon.”

RM – “Ack aah, ack ack oooohhhhhh.”

I’m not very good about keeping the baby books up to date. For the older kids, obviously it’s way too late, although I do every once and awhile jot down something I’ve remembered, or at least hope I’ve remembered right. But for RM I’m trying hard to do a good job of recording all those memories. It’s obvious to me now that I won’t remember everything a few years down the line, I’ve forgotten so many little things with the boys. It’s kind of sad really. I guess I’m either getting way too old, or maybe the mind just gets entirely too cluttered with all the stuff of life.

So I’m busy filling in all those little things like when she first slept through the night, clapped her hands, ate solid food or stood up. I’ve marked in the dates when the first of the teeth came through, or at least the date when she first let us look at them. I’m waiting for the day she takes her first steps.

Then I got to thinking about all those milestones they don’t have little spaces for. How about the first time she peed on Dad when he was changing her diaper? There’s the memorable first time she tumbled headfirst off the edge of the bed. (Come on, admit it, that happens to everyone at some time or another.) Don’t we want to remember the first time she used those nice new teeth to bite while nursing? What about the first time she pulled the cat’s tail? Followed immediately by the first time she got scratched by the cat. Or there’s our latest, the first time she had a temper tantrum when we had to tell her “no.”

We need new, more realistic baby books. There should be places to record all the stuff, good and bad. After, development is development no matter what!

Of course, maybe it would scare off the new moms.