John McCain is a GOOD man...

So says my three year old.

I'm so guilty. So guilty of using my three year old's innocence to promote my political agenda. But I'm in good company. My uber-liberal, Obama-volunteering best friend abuses her mommy power to indoctrinate her preschooler, too, so if I'm guilty, I'm in good company.

A few moments after my son was born, before he was even dry, my dear husband exclaimed, much to the delight of my obstetrician..."A little Republican!" And now, in this heated election he wears his "Little Republican" shirt proudly. Just not to the Montessori School, where he probably would never be welcome again.

We have a little dialogue in our family these days. It goes like this...
"Harrisen, who you gonna vote for for President?"
"John McCain!"
"What about Obama?"
"OBAMANATION!"

Ok, it's funny. Especially out of the mouths of babes, ya know?

In Denver, at my best friend's house, the dialogue goes like this...
"Tommy, who's Obama?"
"Our next President!"
"Who's John McCain?"
"An OLD MAN!"

So tonight, as we watch thirty long, agonizing minutes of the Barack and Michelle show, Harrisen says, "John McCain is gonna win cause he's a GOOD man."

I wish, Buddy, I wish.

No matter what the funny dialogue is in your home this election year, the Smith family prayer is for a safe, strong America. God Bless Her.

Monkeys and Zebras and OH MY!

I am quite proud of myself. Unlike most things in life where I make myself somewhat miserable trying to make mountains out of molehills, I have made a tiny step towards simplicity this Halloween.

Halloween brings out the creative genius in a lot of people. I always know it's getting to be that time of year when I have to *gasp* wait in line at the friendly neighborhood fabric store to have my selections measured and cut. I always get inspiration from the people closely examining the pattern books for costumes, arguing with their mother in laws, and looking generally overwhelmed at the task of creating a costume from a flat piece of fabric or two. Inspired, because I can totally relate, even though the actual construction, thankfully, does not overwhelm me.

Halloween is a prime time for MOTY elections. Remember back in the 70's? I always felt bad for the kids in the vinyl smock with matching mask. I remember feeling so thankful that my mother could sew and create my costumes. I guess a little bit of that elementary school snobbery remains to this day because I put a lot of pressure on myself when it comes to my kids halloween costume.

For Harrisen's first "big" costume, I actually bought a serger. I had never used one, never thought I needed one, but I wanted the seams of his little monkey outfit to look professional. I cringe now thinking how I learned to use that machine on FUR of all things. (Not a great learning curve, looking back, but how was I to know?) And you know what? Aside from one ear a little askew, it was indeed, fabulous.

So fabulous, in fact that Evangeline is wearing it this Halloween. Therefore easing my workload, and conquering my obsession to be an over-the-top Halloween mom. A hand-me-down costume...and I'm totally ok with it! Score one for me!

Now Harrisen's costume...that's another story. I actually broke the above-mentioned serger doing the tail of his zebra costume. So, aside from materials and time, his lovely little zebra costume, including the authentic tail that I researched on Google, cost me $69 plus tax. But I learned a very good lesson. Never try to serge a zebra tail.

Journey into the unknown...

I recently escaped from one of the most damaging experiences of my life.  You know, the kind that makes you all "woe is me" and "why me" and a plethora of other pitiful and embarrassing emotions?  Well, this one really did a number on me.  I spent the better part of a month recovering from the trauma this "experience" inflicted on my psyche.  2 days after the great escape I was standing at my kitchen sink washing dishes, Fox news blaring in the background, husband arguing with the talking heads on television and my two kids wrestling on the floor and it's like a switch flipped on, and I could see again.  I stopped what I was doing, and said, "Scot, I'm home."  I had been present but absent for almost 3 months, and the weight of that realization really hurt. 

So, unwilling to let a poor (ok, poor is a really tame word.  But it's a PG rated blog. So there.) choice keep me down after it knocked me down, I started really looking for the lemonade.  I sure had a lot of lemons, so it just made sense.  I realized that maybe what I was doing wasn't what I was supposed to be doing, and God was setting me on a new path.  

Long story a little shorter, signs have been coming at me hard and fast.  The latest of which was just last night, when I found out I would not be returning to the NPO world right now, as I thought I might.  I've spent the better part of a decade raising money for very worthy causes...and I was pretty happy.  I was good at it.  It made sense and filled a need within me to do something that mattered.  But I can't help but see now that I have neglected my own creative soul in the process.  Surely, there is a way to do both.  So, I'm beginning the journey now. And it's exciting as can be.

Seashells...

We recently took our annual family trip to the beach. Yes, we go in February...it's usually still a little cold, but this year was fantastic. Wonderful weather, warm sunny days, and a new little girl to experience the joys of sand for the first time.

On our way down to the Gulf, there was a pretty significant storm which churned up the water a bit, which meant the seashells were plentiful. This is an especially fun thing for a two-and-a-half-year-old. Seashells are just magical to kids, and the beach was littered with them.

The problem was, because the storm was pretty violent, only the smallest of the shells were unharmed. Most of them were gorgeous, but missing parts...a little battered, splintered, and not quite whole.

I remember as a young girl (heck, even a young adult) searching for seashells on the beach and only choosing the whole, perfect beautiful specimens for my bucket. The broken ones were...well...broken. I only wanted the pretty seashells that looked like they were supposed to look for my collection.

It's funny how age and wisdom, and the trials of life change our perspective. I realized this time that I really loved the battered, broken seashells on the beach. The big beautiful orange fans of shells that were missing the top half of their glorious curve. The dark grey and maroon twirly shells with the tips missing. The sand dollars that were cracked open, showing the intricate maze inside. I found myself wondering where these shells had come from, and what they had been through to end up at my feet. What magnificant wave crashed on top of them to give them the scars they carried. I wondered if it is necessary to go through the storms and waves in life to see the beauty of something that has been broken.

I found myself pointing out shells to Harrisen with my sandy big toe, and watching him squeal and gasp at how shiny, how bright, how big, how small each and every one was. I wondered what he would go through in his life before he recognized the beauty of broken-ness. I wanted to protect him from it, knowing all the while that I can't.

I now know this. Nothing is perfect. Nobody that has truly lived life goes without being hurt. Nobody that has experienced great joy has done so without great pain, and scars can sometimes make us beautiful. Just like the seashells.

Each time we visit a beach on our travels, I bring back some shells and sand to save in a little glass bottle, labeled with the name of the beach and the date we visited it. I usually look for perfect little shells to sit atop the miniature beach in a bottle.

Not this time. Orange Beach, Alabama. February, 2008. Beauty out of broken-ness. The shells sitting atop the sand in this little glass jar will be beautiful. But they won't be perfect.

S-M-I-T-H

Good Lord in Heaven.

First, let me preface this by saying, this might not be exactly P.C. I have the utmost respect for people trying to get by in a language other than their native tongue. I'm the gal who asked a Senegalese holy man to "Sleep with a Slave" while living in West Africa. Did you know that in Wolof, "Sleep with Peace" is very very very similar to "Sleep with a Slave"?

That being said. Sheesh. The Indian out-sourcing of every.single.company is driving me totally batty.

I call Brother because I have lost the install disc to some very expensive software for my embroidery machine. The call goes something like this:

Them: Hello. May I have your name?
Me: Katie Smith

Them: Can you spell that please?

Me: Smith? S-M-I-T-H.

Them: Ok, that's Haiti. H-as in....

Me: No. Katie. K-A-T-I-E

Them: Thank you Mrs. Smith, for that information. What is your street address?

Me: 805 Cobblestone Drive. One word.

Them: That's Cuble, C-U-B-L-E

Me: No, Cobblestone. C-O-B-B-L-E-S-T-O....

You get the picture. She didn't do very well with Shreveport, either. Or my email address, which is uber long.

Then we get to the problem. My missing software disc.

Them: What is the name of the product?

Me: PED-Basic.

Them: TED-Basic? T as in....

Me: No. PED. P-E-D. It's your product. PED-Basic. It's a Brother software product.

Them: Thank you for that information, Mrs. Smith. What is the model number of your equipment.

Me: It's not equipment. It's software. A disc. I lost it.

Them: Which disc did you lose?

Me: PED-Basic. The software. The install disc.

Them: Thank you for that information, Mrs. Smith. May I put you on hold while I research your problem?

Me: What the fuck? (I didn't actually say this part out loud.)

When she comes back on the line she tells me that she cannot help me with my problem and she was transferring me to someone in "that department".

I thanked her and waited patiently.

When the person in "that department"....(what department is it? The department that deals specifically with morons who need to embroider their baby's easter dress and have lost their disc in a pile of sewing rubble?) answers the line, I have never been happier to hear a whiney nasal midwest accent in all my life.

Turns out I can download the software right on the website. *sigh*

Bless that poor Indian woman's sweet heart. I can't imagine spending all day every day on the phone talking to people I can't understand. And I imagine I was probably the kindest customer she spoke to all day.

Are Americans really too spoiled to take jobs like that anymore?

Dr. Phil

Sooo...we are in the middle of potty training purgatory with Harrisen. This morning, I asked him, "Harrisen, are you needing to sit on the potty? Do you need to poop?" "nooooo....mommmmmy." Ok.

2 minutes later, and ONE minute before we need to leave, he's pooped in his diaper. GAH!

I guess I was obviously irritated when I was changing him...this is our conversation....

H: What's wrong, Mommy?
K: I'm just having a bad day.

H: This could be a changing day in your life! Goooooooo Dr. Phil!



Oh. My. I think I watch too much Tivo. But I must say, it made me smile!

The Joy of Multiplication.

Wow.

You always hear it...that when you have another child, the love doesn't divide, it multiplies. You nod...sure that they wouldn't lie to you...but unsure how it's possible.

Well, get ready to nod.

It's all true. It's true that after months and months of waiting, and hours and hours of labor, when they put that wet, screaming little human that you created right on your chest, your heart just swells and fills and the love really does multiply. And somehow, God recreates the most miraculous moment of your life, all over again.

Welcome to the world, Baby Girl.


Evangeline Kate
7/18/07
4:24 pm
7lbs, 12oz
20 inches
absolutely gorgeous