The Greys Of Life

As a child, I often played "When I grow-up..."  

When I grow-up, I'm going to be a Momma to 8 perfectly behaved,  always happy, always healthy children.

When I grow-up, I'm going to be a wake-up every morning smiling at my husband.  

When I grow-up, I'm going to be a teacher to a classroom full of equally gentile children.

When I grow-up, I'm going to live in a house with a white picket fence and flowers that grow year 'round.

When I grow-up, I'm going to cook all our meals from scratch.

Well, I grew up.   And much to my surprise, my 8children 2 cchildren sometimes are defiant.  Sometimes they get angry.  Sometimes they get sick.   Sometimes they get hurt.  

Sometimes when I wake-up, the last thing I want to do is smile at my husband.  Sometimes I am to tired to even open my eyes to see my husband.   Sometimes my breath is so bad my husband doesn't want me to open my mouth to smile.  

And that classroom full of children I envisioned didn't include anything about endless funding paperwork, or politics, or catty co-workers, or when those gentile students call you names you aren't even exactly sure what they mean. 

I had no clue that you'd have to pressure wash that fence and water the flowers, nor the cost of the house it surrounded.  

And little did I consider the fact that some days many days by the time supper rolls around I have already worked 13 hours and someone has swim lessons or church or one of the dozens of other obligations that are part of life here at the Hen's House.  

The truth is that life is a lot more complicated than I could have ever guessed or, for that fact, believed. What once was so black and white has now become a complex and puzzling world of greys.   I am at a point now, though, that instead of that being frustrating that I find comfort in it all.   The grey is what makes it beautiful. 

The Dachshund Pocketbook Incident

I mentioned this here before, but thought you may enjoy reading the full story.  

When I was 5 years-old I got a black and tan Dachshund (a.k.a. Weiner Dog for my visual readers... visual readers, wait, is that an oxymoron.  What? Huh?  Where am I?  Er.... Anyways) that spent most of her time growling at people and running away from me.   I swore that I was gonna love her, and hug her, and call her George Biscuit.   And I did.  

Biscuit, despite her persnickety personality and desire to run, was a really good dog.   And you may not know this if you have never personally owned a Dachshund, but when you do people have a tendency to give you Dachshund themed gifts.   I got stuffed Dachshunds, Dachshund brooches (what child doesn't love a gold plated brooch of her favorite dog?),  shirts with Dachshunds on them, books about Dachshunds, even little figurine Dachshunds.   I could have easily opened a gift shop from my bedroom.

Out of all my mementos honoring my favorite pooch was actually one I chose myself.   While at the beach the summer before starting high school I found the perfect accessory that just screamed to me to be the perfect mix of "sophisticated 9th grader" meets "fun, funky, and carefree".  

That accessory was a Dachshund shaped pocketbook. 

I could hear the acclimates now.

How cool, LeeAnn!

That thing is the bomb!  It's a dog!  It's a purse!  It's a dog-purse!

LeeAnn, you are so awesome.   Let's hang out with our stuffed animal handbags. 

Oh yeah!  That baby was going to be my icebreaker into the world of high school.  

I can still remember my first day of high school it like it was yesterday.   I got up and excitedly got my stuff ready.   The outfit was an ankle lenght skirt that was blue tie-dyed with a matching tie-dyed short-sleeved button-up blouse (get all that?).  To really send it over the top, it was all made of a nylon type material.   To round out the outfit, I had on one of my first pair of cork, wedge heeled shoes.  

My hair was pulled back into a (very) tight ponytail and hair sprayed down to ensure not a hair was sticking up.   I hadn't really gotten into make-up much yet, but I think I remember something about a red lipstick.  

I grabbed my new pocketbook and gave myself one last look in our hallway bathroom.  I knew I was ready to meet my destiny. 

I go to first period.  Things go well.  I'm rockn' cork wedges and the purse.   I whip my hair back and forth.  I'm ready for second period.

Now, for those who are not familiar with Gibbs High School, I probably need to set this up a bit.   Between my first class which was nursing downstairs underneath the Home Ec rooms and my second period class which was in the science hall there are two long hallways.   Connecting those two long hallways is connector hallway where it was traditional for the senior boys to gather between classes.   And that connector hallway has a ramp.   A ramp with a handle.  

And that ramp with the handle is where I met that destiny I envisioned just hours earlier.   I don't know if it was my anxiety of getting to my class on time, or my natural grace, or the cork heels, or perhaps it was the trifecta that caused the following to happen.  

But, right as I began up the ramp, my Dachshund Pocketbook got caught on the handrail resulting in me hurling through the air landing with me in a heap on the ground.   Miraculously, I believe that all 850 students who attended Gibbs High School were standing in that small connector hallway during that very moment.   I think I remember someone whispering "Is that a Basset hound purse?"

The rest of the day was a blur, but I do remember going home and putting my pocketbook with my Dachshund brooch to never been seen again.  

Thank you and Amen.

He is Ready for a Change

One of the best things about having a 4 year-old is that they totally march to the beat of their own drum.

The best thing about having a 4 year-old little boy?  The tempo of that beat tends to be in the fashion of techno music.

And the best thing about my 4 year-old little boy?   He encourages everyone around him to dance to that beat with him and it is impossible to refuse.  

I have said it before , but I love Bub's personality and hope it never, ever changes.   Today was a reminder that even if his personality doesn't change, he is still growing up a little bit each day.

I have finally figured out to prevent frustration on both our ends I need to give Bub as much time as possible to get dressed.  Unfortunately, the warmness of the bed held me captive an extra 30 minutes this morning.  So, I was running around like the Girls when the neighbors dog pays a visit.

In the mist of the chaos that is my home, Bub came and asked me a question I was not quiet prepared to answer.  

You may be thinking he asked me "the baby" question?  Um... no. 

Or some deep, meaningful question about the depths of my love for him?   Not that either...  

Or even a question about the omniscience of God?   Naw.

Bub:  "Hey mom, I need to ask you something." 

Me:  "Make it fast, Baby.   Momma gotta put on her compression garments clothes."

Bub:  "Well, uh, you see.   I wanted to know if I could wear my underwear the right way now because I'm growing up."  

Me:   Speechless, near tears.  

If you are scratching your head, thinking, "Say what?" I probably should explain.   You see, I have never asked Bub to wear his underwear backwards. 

Heck, I'm just glad on the days he actually remembers to put them on.  

But, shortly after Bub became potty trained he decided that his preferred style was to wear them with the picture in front.  His rational?  If the picture is in the back he can't see it.  

Perfect sense, right?  

Right.  

Next thing I know, he will decide that he is too big to try to bite his own toenails.  

Who are You Going to Be??

Do you ever think back to what type of play you enjoyed as a child?  What, given all the choices in the world, you would choose to do?  

Did you enjoy pretending that you were an architect building huge structures with blocks or Lego's?   Or did you prefer to play outside that you were on an expedition looking for dinosaur bones?   Or did you favor making your own library where you were the librarian?  

As a child I had two primary types of pretend play I enjoyed.   The first was that I was a mommy.  At one point I remembering deciding that I wanted to be the mommy to 8 babies.   My friend Shelly quickly shot that idea down telling me that she sometimes pretended she had 10 babies, but then days would go by without thinking about one of them and that was just wrong to forget about your children.  Her rational made sense at the time. 

And today as the mother to two, who lucky has not forgotten about either of her babies, I realize Shelly had a good point.  I do not think I could adequately keep up with eight.

The second type of pretend play I enjoyed was playing school.  I would have a classroom bedroom full of Cabbage Patches and Barbies ready to learn.   

Reflecting back, it is odd that I chose this second type of play because I did very poorly in elementary school (related to a diagnosed learning disability).  Middle and high schools were better academically, however, socially it was a negative experience for me throughout.  

Remember this picture:

I pretty much looked like that all through school.   Not exactly the coolest girl on the block.  And add to that a heaping helping of quietness

What is even more odd is that regardless of that negative experience I had in school I went on to get a degree in education and have been a teacher in one way or another since.  

I have given this a lot of thought.  Why is it that I decided to pursue a career in a setting I hated so much?  My family wanted me to become a nurse, but I quickly dismissed it.   Why?  I would have certainly made more money and I could have still been in a "helping" career (which was important to me).  

But, nonetheless I went into education and though I no longer teach in a school, I am still in that field.  

I believe that the play I enjoyed as a little girl lead me to the path I am on.   I had an aptitude for working with young children and then I was given an opportunity to foster that aptitude through the type of play to which I was given access.  

Now, as a mother to a preschooler and toddler I think a lot about the kind of people they are going to become.  Please don't mistake what I am saying.  I fully am enjoying the people they ARE now, but I do think about who they are becoming. 

I love to watch them play and how they each have distinctive interest and styles in their play.

Bub loves to pretend his is a policeman, or a bounty hunter, or a monster hunter, or animal rescuer, or detective, or any other role he can think up where he helps the good guy and gets the bad.   He loves to collect clues and figure mysteries out. 

Bub on a mystery hunt while in the hospital.

I wonder if this is a sneak peek into who he is going to be someday?   And more importantly, if this is something he has an aptitude towards, what can do to encourage it so he can develop it to his fullest potential? 

Goose is just beginning to formally engage in pretend play and it seems to focus largely around animals, but I am equally as interested to see what it is that makes her tick. 

Goose, the Dog Trainer.

 And, perhaps, they may go on a totally different path and that will be just as great.  But, in the meantime I will try to encourage their interest anyway I can. 

What are your thoughts?  Do you see traits of the type of play you enjoyed as a child in the type of work you do (or would like to do) today?  How about your children?   What do they enjoy and what do you do to encourage them? 

My  bounty hunter and puppy.

How Are the Children?

I think I have mentioned on here once before how much I love my job?  I am not able to go into detail about what I do, but a bare bones description is that I get to help improve the quality of care for infants and toddlers.  

Pretty awesome job, huh?   I really do love it.  

The only real downside is that semi-frequently I am required (mostly in-state) to go on overnight trips.   And really, aside from being away from my family that isn't so bad either.  I mean, really, where else am I going to go dancing on bars (sober), listen to a gay man critique his "gaydar",  watch 16 and Pregnant while crying my eyes out with other grown women, or hear unending stories about the fuzz...  And I don't mean the police.  

And, also these trips have other upsides.  I get to become more knowledgeable the subject I love best while hanging out with some of my favorite people.   It really isn't so bad.  

Through these many trips, there has been a tradition set forth that at our larger meetings are opened with the question of "How are the children?"  This is then followed by some story or recent study findings regarding the welfare of children in our state or country.  

This "how are the children" opening actually from a really cool tradition from the Masai tribe of Africa.   Apparently they were considered to be some of the most intelligent and fearsome warriors of the region.  Yet, surprisingly when fellow Masai warriors greeted one another they would say "Kasserian Ingera," meaning "How are the children?"  If the community was safe and free of danger than the fellow Masai would answer that the "Children are well." 

The Masai knew that the welfare of their community was dependent upon the well being of their children.   If the children were well, the all was well in their world.  

This is kinda how families are, aren't they?  The well being of a family is dependent upon the well being of their children.

This past week countless friends and family have been asking us in various ways, "Kasserian Ingera?"   I haven't had the time, clarity of thought, or strength to type out all that happened last week (though I will), I am grateful to now say that the children are well. 

10 Things That I Found in My Van

Last night I posted something that alluded to one of my dirty little secrets.  

My van...  oh, my poor, poor van.   It is kinda like that drawer that everyone has in their kitchen.  The one that never seems to stay organized and you can find the most bizarre combination at anyone time.  Yep, it is a little less swagger wagon and a little more hoarder mobile.  So, today I decided to give it a little TLC.  

So here are 10 things that were found in my van while cleaning it out:

10.  Various pieces to at least 2 different Halloween costumes.   Yes, we are nearly a month out.

9.  A pair of underwear that does not belong to me or anyone in my family.  

8.  Enough toys to supply a small village in West Africa.  

7.  No less than 5 empty sippy cups.  

6.  Poison's Greatest Hits on auto-repay of the "Sad cowboy song" per request of Bub. 

5.  Something (likely one of those toys) that sings "If You're Happy and You Know It" every time I slam on my brakes.  

4.  26,000 Silly Bandz (that is an actual count). 

3.  A 2008 Knox County Schools Coupon Book. 

2.  A gigantic wagon that smells like mothballs.  

1.  An application to the NRA though I've never shot a gun.

The Things We Keep

It is funny what motherhood has done to me.  No, I'm not talking about the dark circles under my eyes no amount of make-up will cover or the toys and sippy cups that come falling out of my minivan every time the door opens.  



  Just wait...



I'm also not talking about my absent mindness or the likelihood that I have somebody's body fluids on me at most times.  

I'm not even talking about the fact that my own mortality or, God forbid, my babies' is ever present in my mind.  

What motherhood has done for me more than anything is made me desperate.   It has made me deeply desperate to remember.  

Of course I am going to remember the big things. 

Their births.  

Their first baths.  

Their earliest smiles.  

The way they looked when they discovered something new. 

Their first day of school. 

Seriously, when did he get big enough to go to school?  

I tell you, it has made me so desperate...

I can still feel that tiny weight and the roundness of his little head.  I can still see the way he stretched his whole body, but still took up less than two feet of space. 

I can still smell the sweetness of her head after a bath and feel the way she would nuzzle her face in my neck for comfort.   

My heart aches to hold those tiny bodies just one more time.   Kiss those perfect little ears, and toes, and fingers, and noses.

To watch their daddy fall in love with them, and in turn fall deeper in love with him.  

One more day spent watching them discover everything around them because everything is brand new. 

I know this is a wish that is shared with every mother, my own included.  I am sure her heart aches, just as mine, to have "just one more day" while fully knowing that it is a fruitless wish. 

And since that wish will never come true, motherhood has made me more than anything desperate to remember the little things that could so easily be lost.   Every day I find myself in silent, redundant prayer of asking God to, "Lord, please let this be one of the things I keep."  

The way Goose shyly smiles when she is nervous and excited at the same time.  

The way Bub sings along with every song that comes on the radio. 

The way I can count on hearing the scraping of a kitchen chair across the floor anytime I am cooking because she wants to help.

The way he always insistent on being Fred and me being Daphne.  

The way she runs to the door announcing "Daddy's home".  

The way he tells me every day that "Even when I'm mad at your, I still lub you."   

The way she tells him "I lub you, brutter."  

The way we have dance parties in my van. 

The way that once again I get to momentarily feel that small weight in my arms as we have a family hug.  

The way they laugh.  

The way they smell.

The way they love each other. 

I desperately want to keep the day to day things that are knitting the fabric of the person of whom they are becoming.  

And I don't know how to do that other than to once again pray that God will let me have those be some of the things I keep.  

King of the Pooters



This is Goose, King of the Pooters.   Or at least that is what she told me tonight. 

Goose has always had an extremely high level of receptive language (the words in which she understands).  

Sometimes the expressive language (the words she says) gets a little mixed up.  

However,  because she won't be 2-years-old nearly long enough, there's no way in the world I am going to try to figure out what King of the Pooters really means. 

Because I love it! 

Confessions of a Chicken Farmer

Okay, so I think that my most regular readers are my mom, mother-in-law, and husband.  I am truly appreciative of their encouragement and following of the blog. 

But, for the rest of the folks who may poke their heads in here who don't already know this.... well, I have a confession.  

As you have likely gathered there are chickens that live at my house. 

Well, in my backyard.... in their coop... up on the hill.... across from my back porch. 

We call them "The Girls".  

Hey Girls!

Yep, we have 3 laying hens.   Well, they aren't really laying too much right now.  I bet you didn't know this, unless you a fellow chicken farmer yourself, but as the days get shorter hen's egg production declines (and sometimes stops).   

Pretty interesting, huh?

Another little factoid that I get a lot of questions concerning The Girls is could we be raising baby chickens out back?  Well, because we live in a subdivision and because we actually like our neighbors (well, most of them you may need to read about the Unabomber to know that whole story) we do not have a rooster. 

So it would be impossible for The Girls' eggs to become fertilized and produce baby chicks.     

And that has been your biology lesson of the day courtesy of LeeAnn the Chicken Farmer.  You're welcome!

Oh... that reminds.  My confession.  

You see Chicken Farmer probably wouldn't be a completely accurate description of the contribution I make to the quality of life for The Girls.  

Maybe Chicken Observer would be more accurate.   Well, no, that's still a little bit of a stretch.  

How about Occasional Chicken Observer?   Yeah Occasional Chicken Observer. 

Not really hands on with things, but hey!  From time to time I will a stick a piece of dry grass in their coop to watch them scramble for it.  

And maybe once every few weeks when I'm out there I will talk to them. 

Never mind that conversation is me telling them they need to stop stinking up my backyard or their fate will be Original Recipe or Extra Crispy. 

I joke, I joke. 

I don't hate them.  At least nowadays I don't hate them.

And since I'm giving confessions about my status as a Chicken Farmer  Occasional Chicken Observer if I am going to come completely clean then I could say I have kinda embraced them.  

Well, from the distance of my porch where I'm not down wind.

7 Years

7 years...  

Has it really only been 7 years?   Because it seems like it was a lifetime ago. 

No, it couldn't possibly have already been that long.     But, it also it feel so recent.

7 years next week, the day after Thanksgiving actually, will be the anniversary of when I knew that the Rooster loved me the way I loved him.

7 years...

...since I found out that there would be no more first dates.

...since my heart felt whole.  Really, really whole.

...since I knew, that I knew, that I knew what truly being  in love felt like. 

...since I knew what being in loved back felt like.  

...since I knew I was the most beautiful girl to the only person I wanted to feel that way about me.

...since I first tried on his last name.     

...since I pictured the precious babies that would be part of our lives one day.

...since I told him I cared deeply for him and his reply to me was that he more than cared about me, but that he loved me and knew that he would always love me.  

7 years...

...and the dates aren't as frequent

...but, the wholeness of my heart has grown as our love has grown into a deeper, stronger, more mature love

...and my confidence in knowing, that I know, that I know, that I know I am still in love with him

...is equal to my confidence of knowing that he is still in love with me 

...and I know he still thinks I'm the prettiest girl he knows because he tells me frequently.   Even when I don't agree.   Especially when I don't agree.

...and that last name is now mine. 

...as well as our two precious babies'. 

...and I know that the promise he made me 7 years ago that he is going to love me always is a promise he's keeping.  

I love you, baby!