Wait For Me. (warning: get your tissues)

I had the honor of meeting a serious Smarty-pants McGee who works with college consulting and what-not. Don’t ask me the specifics because I really don’t know what all that entails. I DO know that if she had been doing what she was doing now, 10 years ago, I may have finished college. 


Anyway. Jessica is an incredibly sweet woman with an incredibly powerful story. I think you should go watch her LTYM reading and possibly check out her blog here.

 And now, Jessica Peyton-Roberts reading Wait For Me.


An ACTUAL Story From an ACTUAL Story Teller.

Listen To Your Mother was an amazing experience. I am blessed to have been part of it. Truly. 14 women gathered on a stage in a tiny theater in Portland and told their story.
Real stories.
Raw stories.
Emotional stories.
Funny stories.

I think you should hear them all. You can.

Meet Nikki Schulak and hear her story “Dentistry’s Problem Children“.
It’s long. I won’t lie, it’s long but it is well worth your time.

Five Words. The Story I Told at Listen to Your Mother.


Im a picture taker. So naturally, when I got pregnant my little camera phone was never far from arms reach. My sweet girl came home from the hospital to face all her baby milestones with me armed to the teeth with an iphone, facebook, and a compulsive desire to document every last detail of our new life. From placenta to first poops in the potty, both from my daughter and from me post partum. I had this little family of three MORE than covered.

Soon we found out I was pregnant with little number two. My second sweet girl was still really well documented despite her sister dumping something, breaking something or flat out reverting to complete un-potty-trained-ness every. single. time. I touched the baby.

Then something amazing happened. Surprise (ish)! I became pregnant again. My wonderful husband and I flipped the positive pregnancy test over on christmas morning 2012, looked at eachother and said in unison “we need a bigger car”. Pregnancy and labor were completely unceremonious. They just were. My poor son. Its not that I dont want to capture all his sweet moments, I do! Its just that its so much harder! Where is my phone? Does the two year old have it? She learned how to take 46 selfies in a row by holding the shutter button down. Does the four year old have it? She’s probably camped out in her closet watching netflix.

Oh, hang on, its in the refrigerator… how did it get there?

No one knows.

Shortly after our son got here I learned something that every parent of three knows and actually anyone with basic math skills can tell you, we are outnumbered. The jump from two kids to three kids slapped me in the face, then poked me in the swollen perenium and then punched me in the boob.

You do what you can in situations like these, you have to figure out how to adapt and function like a normal human again and not just like a lactating, butt wiping, food prepping, laundry washing, never resting mom robot. For me, adapting looked like a trip to target. Dont ask why, I dont know.

In the car, my little chunkster screamed like someone was ripping his limbs from his body while my girls alternated singing “old macdonald” and yelling “shes singing ober MEEE!” the entire 30 minute drive. I would not be discouraged! This was my time! Back to normal! I crammed little dude into the front of my moby wrap and with the promise of popcorn and a slushie, I bribed my girls into quiet submission.I took each of them by a hand and led them toward those beautiful red doors. Thats when I heard IT for the first time. Ive heard it on an almost daily basis since then and I know that i will hear it frequently in the future, but I wont forget the moment that innocent and probably well meaning older gentleman said the five words that I have grown to hate… mostly because they are true.

“You’ve got your hands full!”

Every time I venture out into the world with my three beautiful little beasts, no matter if its a perfectly calm, peaceful, everyone is dressed and has their hair brushed kind of day or a “we’re lucky we made it out the door” kind of day, someone (or multiple someones) tells me I have my hands full.

*gasp* How did you know?!
Is it the crusted food/boogers on my shirt? Its my boobs isn’t it? They haven’t been supported by anything more fancy than a cotton sports bra since 2009.
Is it because you noticed that I only have mascara on one eye because I dropped the wand in the car at a red light while I was on my way here?
Oh I know, Its because you heard about the not one but, three potential housefires I prevented last week when I used kitchen tongs to remove crayons that had been shoved into envelopes from the baseboard heater.

I know I have my hands full! I have to drag two baskets around the grocery store if I actually want to do any decent amount of shopping. The kids sit in one and the food sits in the other!
I know I have my hands full because the majority of my makup, if Im wearing any today, was put on with my fingers and q tips because my children have repeatedly stolen the brushes to play with.
I know my hands are full because Its a special occasion when I get to take a shower! Special as in, there is vomit in my clevage and also in my butt crack.

No joke.

I know that I have my hands full because well, they ARE full.
In my right hand is the hand of my mini me, my sensitive, sweet, hilarious first daughter who will sit for hours singing to herself while she draws pictures of her five person family.
In my left hand I hold the teeny little paw of my feisty, blond, cray cray second daughter who can, and will, sing “what does the fox say” a hundred times in a row if you ask her. please dont.
And strapped to my body somewhere is my amazing little man whom Im only beginning to get to know.
My hands are full but my heart is overflowing. So from now on when I hear those five words, Im going to choose not going to feel the slight sting of a stranger judging me and my full hands, Im going to replace the word hands with heart and smile to myself because yes, I do have my heart full.


A journal entry for Averie

*forgive the spelling mistakes and grammatical flubs. I wrote this last night on my phone in the notes section because I’ve been so bad about taking time to sit and write. This seemed easier.*

So sweet Averie,

I took all your clothes and toys away. Yep. I did.
Katey and Anna came over to play on Monday and we busted out the bean box. I even dumped a crap load of new peas in there for you to mess with but my warnings about picking up all the beans that got sprayed around went unheard. Both you and zoey were dumping them all over the floor and when it came time to pick them up you both threw royal fits.

YOU clean it up mom. I just can’t do this. I’m too little and I don’t know how to!

The attitudes from both of you were just sooooo ungrateful and entitled. They’re beans for the love of Pete! All you have to do is swipe them into a pile and put them back in the box. I even said that I would vacuum the rice bits that got left behind.
But you guys huffed and puffed for like an hour. I got fed up. We went in the bedroom and I had you put all your stuffed animals and babies from behind the door in the zoo into plastic garbage bags. We got FIVE BAGS of that junk! Then I took all the clothes out of your dresser and all the shoes and all the coats.
I left you both with one pair of long pants, one pair of shorts, one t shirt, one long sleeved t shirt, two pairs of jammies and all your socks and undies.
I turned your kitchen around and covered it with a sheet. I put all your costumes into a bag and put big tape X’s on all the cubes in your expedit unit that I couldn’t physically empty.
I know that your attitudes are mostly my fault. I LOVE buying you guys clothes that look cute. Cute coordinated outfits on you guys are fun for me to shop for and it makes me look good as a parent. I want you to have a ton of fashionable clothes and shoes. I want you to have all the toys you could ever want to play with. Good ones too. Not just cheap garbage from Walmart. I want to make barbie clothes up the yin yang so that you guys can have cute barbie time. But you have absolutely no idea how to appreciate or take care of the things you are BLESSED with.
My clothes were rarely coordinated and often times second hand. My toys were not taken care of and I lost most of the pieces. I had terrible habits with cleanliness and organization as a kid. I think it wore my mom out. I think she got tired of nagging me to clean my junk up and she just let me live in my filth. I had a great childhood but I know that had it been at least a little more in order I wouldn’t feel so much chaos now.
I want you guys to respect the things you have. I want us to learn together how to put our stuff away as we go and not wait until a humongous pile of stuff has accumulated to deal with our day to day.
I have to learn this with you. I know one of these days you’re going to ask why I make you put away your clothes but my room is messy. I have to get better too. Grrrr.
So it’s been a few days since you lost your stuff. The first day was still pretty rough as far as your attitude was concerned (and zoey too. She just keeps bullying you and she has taken up spitting like a llama when she gets pissed. It’s frustrating to say the least.) you didn’t much care that you didn’t have anything to wear or play with. I think partially it was sort of nice to purge all the excess out of your control. The next day was better. I asked you what you wanted to earn back. You picked your peacock dressy dress and your brown and purple flats from gamma. So the day went pretty well. You had a bit of reminding but you did well and you got it back. You were proud to tell Emily and Susan that you earned the dress back. I thought that was pretty cool. Since then you’ve gotten a swim suit, a pair of pajamas, a pair of shorts and your big baby back.
I think this is working out nicely. Unfortunately it means that the living room is going to be sort of a mess for a while. But that’s alright. Reminding you to keep a happy attitude and a tidy space is going ok. I hope that it continues to go this well. I want you to have your stuff back. I want you to be blessed more that you understand but i want you to take care of yourself and your belongings.
Now I just have to figure out how to foster a relationship between you and zoey that equals best friend status. It would be so much easier if she would just stop being a punk!
I love you Averie Kate. Soooooo much. I hope you know that and you never for a second (even when I’m being a mean mommy and I’m angrily shoving all your toys and clothes into garbage bags or yanking you by the arm out of some stupid boys car) forget or doubt that.

The Story About Starting a Blog.

It shouldn’t be that hard right? Its not rocket science. I’ve picked a hosting site- or is it a platform? I’ve got a domain name, well not really. I’m not SEO, at least I don’t think I am. I have a genre, a target audience if you will. This blog is aimed toward moms.
Moms and crafters.
Moms, crafters, and smoothie drinkers.
Moms, crafters, smoothie drinkers and home schoolers.
Moms, crafters, smoothie drinkers, home schoolers and bakers.

Ok so I don’t have a genre.

What do I have?

I have me, sitting in front of my computer at 11 o’clock at night, bursting with thoughts and stories and anecdotes, and recipies, and projects, and encouragements, and questions, and hope, and love, wondering how to put it all into something comprehensive that someone can gain something from. I have me, too afraid to share any of it.

I’ve contemplated new blog posts almost daily but I keep getting stuck. Like this. Say I want to write a really important (if only to me) piece on snoodle-farts, but I know for a fact a few of the people that could read this DO NOT LIKE SNOODLE-FARTS. They don’t like snoodle-farts even a little bit and they might never read my blog or anything else I have to say agian, if I write one piece on snoodle-farts. I have a whole bunch of things that fall into the same category as snoodle farts but I don’t want to scare off anyone that might be against the snoodle-farts and other such ramblings. 

Can’t I just be me? Unapologetically me? Without worrying that someone might not like me or what I write about just because Im smitten with snoodle-farts? 

Will you, right now (yes you.) promise me that you will come back and read what I have to say even If I talk about snoodle-farts more often than you like? If I post about a smoothie, like every other blogger ever, or coconut oil and its 53 uses around the Yow house (that sounds promising), or cloth diapers, or welfare, or running, or chevron print things, or home school, or hooping, or zoloft, or Christ, will you come back and read? 

Will you come back and let me try to be encouraging, uplifting, positive, creative, genuine, kind, real, and transparent?
Can you please do that for me? 

In return, I promise that I won’t inundate glitterandgoldfish with posts about snoodle-farts or anything else. Just me. Trying to get my foothold in this completely saturated compendium of thought that is the blogging world.

Starting a blog is hard. Theres a whole heap of stuff that goes into it. Did you know, that readers don’t read long paragraphs? Generally they skip over long solid chunks of text. They stop and start with short little paragraphs. Hmm. Also, if you want someone to read your blog, you need to make sure it is SEO ( search engine optimized) which you can do by jumping through a variety of literary hoops. You should probably pay to have a domain name right off the bat because there are domain name scalpers that will go searching for recent inquiries about domain names. Those companies will go buy the domain name and then sell it to you at an inflated cost.
Yep. How lame is that?
There are fees! Lots of them too! Domain, hosting, platform, website design… GAHHHH! 

Starting a blog! Ahhhh. 

Bloggin’s a dance you learn as you go, sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow.

See, now I’m just rambling. Heres a picture of a smoothie I made… you know… just to tie it all together.  



I’ve been puked on.

It is 1:21 am.
This is not how I pictured writing my second entry. I was thinking it was going to be more hipster-cool mom. Sitting at my minimalist ikea desk, sipping some oregon chai out of my vintage strawberry shortcake mug, clacking away on my typewriter… Ok, maybe not that last one.

I did not think I was going to be sitting in the recliner at my mother in laws house (by the way my MIL is amazing. I’m sure I’ll touch on that at some point) rocking my congested, teething, vomitus five month old.
But what could be more inspiring than a sick, snotty, cranky baby? Well tonight, nothing. This is it people. The real deal.

[This is where my newbie blogger skills have failed me, I tried to add my picture here but it’s showing up on the bottom. Oh well.]

This is parenting at its finest. Actually this is mediocre, run o’the mill parenting. It could be a whole heap worse than being awake at 1:43 am (and it could be a whole heap better).
If you’re not prepared willing to clean up a pukey baby before you even remove your bile soaked shirt, or stay up until unholy hours of the night and/or morning rocking the afore mentioned Pukey McPukerton, don’t have kids.

A few days ago Averie asked me why vomit was called vomit and of course I know exactly why have no idea why it’s called what it is, but we started thinking of all the names we know for it.
Spit up

What did we miss?
Someone please tell me a good “I got barfed on story”.
I think I’ll have a budding blog barf story contest. Winner gets an “I got barfed on” shirt. No idea what that looks like but I’ll make it happen.
Tell yah friends.