Does Blogging Help You as a Writer?

"Enter the writing process with a childlike sense of wonder and discovery. Let it surprise you."

Charles Ghigna


You know, a lot of bloggers have asked themselves (or their readers) this question a lot. Why do I blog? I know why I started blogging. I know why I blog now, it’s the disconnect between the two brings me here today.

I believe this to be true: writers write. We’ve all heard it, some of us live it, but I’m sure we’d be surprised at the number of people who fancy themselves a writer yet rarely take the time to sit down and engage. Perhaps perfectionism kicks in and they think that if they can’t sit down and clack away until a few pages of the next Great [Your Country Here] novel is created, why bother?

I have stories inside me waiting for their release. I know they’re there. So when I figured out how to create a blogger account (one night back in December, in a fantastic example of Putting Off Important Things - in that case gift wrapping and a trip I was loathe to take) I thought, this will be the most important tool in my toolbox. I would blog. I would write. Maybe I would post chapters, snippets of my stories in the blog.

It wasn’t until several months later that I fully succumbed to the pull of blogging, when I began writing every day. At first I wrote for me. Then for the maybe three or four friends I knew were reading. Then I discovered several great blogs, and started leaving comments (something I had never in the past done before, even though I’ve been reading a blog or two for the past three years). Then, through the blog labyrinth built by commenters and blogrolls, I found myself bookmarking thirty or so blogs, reading them, joining in on memes and linking to posts that touched me.

Without quite realizing it, I had woven myself into the outskirts of a community. I liked it. A lot. Although I stay at home with my kids, I’m far from isolated. I volunteer, I have book clubs and girlfriends and dinner clubs. But each day, when I’m home with the kids, and the phone hasn’t rang and I’m quietly going about my day, I feel a pang reminding me that I’m a social creature who craves the company of others, most especially women. I treasure my friendships, even more so as the years slip away, because I realize how rare and special each true bond is. And somehow, I’ve started to form these alliances inside the blogging world. Based on the blogs I read, comment on, and those who visit my site, I have found an astounding network of women (and the occasional man). I still feel like the girl let in to the cool sorority by accident, who marvels at the company she gets to keep.

But the tool? What about the tool? As a writer, blogging has given me a gift: it has forced me into regular, consistent writing. But. But. I do not pain myself over my word choice when I blog. I do not write, delete, write, delete, reconstruct and agonize over structure, dialogue, or where things are going. I just write. It’s not very graceful. I do put thought into my writing, but it is more stream of consciousness than Chapter Ten.

Last week I started taking time to write outside of my blog. I figured enough was enough and I needed to work on that story that would get me on the Today Show maybe be published someday. Was it easier, because my writing muscles are flexed, stretched and exercised most days of the week? Um. No. In fact, it was painful. I was not writing to elicit a giggle from my readers, or to pose a question maybe a dozen kind soul would take the time to answer. I wasn’t writing a meme, or linking to anyone. I was writing for me. For my inner critic, and for the nameless array of faces all stamped “Editor’s Assistant Who Will Put This in The Slush Pile.” It was painful. But I kept on. I don’t think I can go back and read what I’ve written each night, but it's saved on my computer and there for future tweaking. I know it will never be posted.


I would no more post examples of my book on my blog than pictures of my children with their home address. I know that some bloggers do this. They talk about their book progress, they post snippets, they elicit feedback. I can’t imagine. Not only for the obvious reason of internet plagiarism and copy writing issues, but because I would feel naked. Naked while bending over and opening a tough jar of pickles.

I think that in order for me to find my rhythm with writing something outside of the blog, I will need to practice that dance, separate from my blogger moves. For me, blogging is a most spectacular warm-up with a group of friends. But in order to write, I need to go run down that trail alone. Thank God I need to warm up most days.

How about you? Does blogging help you as a writer? Does it define you as a writer? I’d really love to know.



I'm turning comments off over here, and if you'd like to give feedback, please hop on over to BlogRhet where this is posted.

God Doesn't Hate MY Vagina

Last week I read a blog over at The Huffington Post that was so absurd I couldn't believe it. I think the author was either a crackhead, or just trying to be Ann Coulter-ish and get a rise by being completely incendiary for the sake of pissing people off. In fact, I believe it's a little of both, because I looked for the post tonight, and couldn't locate it; it seems that the good people over at HP have the good sense I thought they did and removed it.

The blog purported to have solid evidence that God hates vaginas. That God, as evidenced by the world's major religions, hates women, hence our loathsome, naughty girlie parts, and that if you had the stones to call yourself a lover of God, then you absolutely, unequivocally could not call yourself a feminist.

Geeze.

What really got me about the whole piece? It was a piece of crap. Using marginally readable writing skilz, this woman used a few out-of context quotes and antiquated rules from some major religions to "prove" her assertion. Well, cripes. I could take enough stuff out of context from the Torah, The Bible and The Koran and prove to you that God is in fact an eggplant. How this woman could skew the love of God to make such an idiot claim and get it published on The Huffington Post is beyond me.

Sure, there are many, many instances of misogyny in just about every major religion out there. But, uh, der. When were these great religions founded and their books written? In the time of the Great Feminist Rising? In a cultural context that valued women? Nooooooo. Can I venture a guess that maybe people (namely those people with the considerably less repulsive naughty parts according to our Lord and Savior) are the ones who misinterpreted and screwed up religion, and that God plays no part in our idiocy?

I get so tired of the extremism that seems to be so de rigeur these days. It makes my head hurt.

I'm pretty sure I can love God and call myself a proud, Gloria-lovin' feminist.

I know, because my vagina said so.

Too Early to Drink, Too Late to Go Back to Bed

I always wear a bra. Always. Except for showering, that is, and trust me, if ever a shower bra is invented, I'll be the first to buy it. I've had four kids nurse the life out of me for roughly a year each, and the results? Pretty much what you'd expect. This is not a post for me to wax poetic on how my boobs are by far the lowest, most tube-sock like in all of blogland. Rather, it is to share some shame and move on.

This morning the doorbell rang before 8:00. It is summer. We're up late, and I was still in bed. For reasons I will not get into, I was in a t-shirt with no bra at the time of the egregious doorbell-ringing. So I grabbed some work-out pants, and using the door as a shield, I cracked open the door. It was the handy man, coming to take care of a few things before we close on the house. Before 8:00 in the morning. Shit. As long as he kept his eyes between my natural chest area and my eyes, we were fine. But I knew if he looked closer to the waistband of my workout pants, I'd be screwed. He would wonder why I had two hackey sacs about to fall out of my t-shirt. Oh, now would be a good time to tell you that I was wearing Bossy's BlogWhore t-shirt, that I so eagerly ordered to feel a part of the BlogHer "thing" going on without me. Can I interrupt the story for a moment to tell you that most people do not blog? And that they want to know why a mommy of four is wearing her BlogWhore t-shirt at the family gym? Yeah. Good times.

So this handyman comes in, asks me where some things are, and I use my words to the best of my ability. But I've had no coffee, and coffee makes me her bitch just like a heroin junkie perks me up in the morning. So I didn't have a lot of words, and at one point I had to release one arm from it's crossed position across my chest and gesture to the garage, where Mr. Early Bird would find the ladder.

He finally left, and I froze my position and slowly walked over to the mirror. One arm still across my chest, supporting the remnants of my left mammary, the other arm raised in an "over there" gesture. Let's just say one side of me looked normal, maybe the side view of a regular woman in her thirties. The other side?

Phyllis Diller.

Making Memories

It's monsoon season up here in the mountains. Most afternoons the lightening starts cracking, the sky turns black, and you can barely see across the street through the curtain of water that cascades off our roof like a waterfall. The other day, probably because global warming is letting us know she's here and she's not going away, gumball-sized hail started peppering the ground. The rain kicked up even more, providing quite the show for Jack, Jacob, Chloe and me. When the hail stopped, I looked at the kids and asked, "Who wants to rip off their shoes right now and run to the bottom of the driveway and back?"

Within four seconds we were barefoot and streaking through the rain, laughing and getting as soaked as if we had been standing under a shower head. It was a great early afternoon rush, and the perfect way to alleviate the sticky sweaty residue of a morning packing up the home in the summer heat

When we sloshed our way inside, I decided we needed a break from this moving madness and I loaded everyone up and we spent the afternoon shopping. We went out to eat, then to Target, the mall, and finally the bookstore. We bought new DVD players for the car, clothes for the wedding we'll be attending in Minnesota, and some crack books for our summer reading list. My debit card was smoking by the time we wrapped things up. It was delightful.

That evening I walked by Chloe sitting at the kitchen counter. She was writing a letter to her sister, who is away at overnight camp until August 1. "Be sure to tell her about your week, honey. You could mention the cooking class you took, or how Mr. Pickles is doing, or the new things we got today for the trip next month." I peered over her shoulder.

Dear Maddie,
Today was the best day. Mom and me and Jacob played outside in a rainstorm without any shoes on and got totally wet. We were screaming real loud and you couldn't hear it because the rain was coming down so hard.

After all this living I've done, I still need a wake up call to remind me that the things kids remember aren't things. Today? Go roll in the grass with your kids, or watch mud squish through your toes, or decide to eat your lunch without any silverware.

WWKD?

Welcome to the newest section of my blog, wherein I discuss many pertinent, thoughtful topics as a way of procrastinating and avoiding the task of packing up my home by next weekend. I have found, in my warm embrace of Putting Off Important Things To Do, that there is so much I need to think about. So much I can ponder, things that are so deep that I need to take yet another break from constructing a packing box. So welcome to my first piece in the series, What Would Kelly Do?

Say what you will about Kelly Ripa. Say that she's clearly sold out to media standards of beauty. Say that there is little left of the authentic Kelly (from her career as a soap star or her early days on the show), and that she's been replaced with chicklet teeth, orangey tan skin, hair that gets blonder by the nano-second, and weight loss so significant she's beginning to look like the newest Bratz doll (check out early picture of her in an interview and the top photo). Mock away, naysayers, because I just like her, okay? This is a woman who has an amazing job, three kids, a marriage still intact (amazing by any standards these days) and she was recently chosen to hawk my favorite product of all time. The Tide To Go Pen. Seriously, she can call it a day. She has it all.

I was wondering the other day, does Kelly really use her Tide To Go Pen? Is it tucked into her Hermes bag, ready to dab at the Pinot Grigio that splashed onto her Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress over lunch with her people? How does Kelly use the pen?

I can tell you how Kelly doesn't use the pen.

Even though Kelly has birthed three children, I have a hard time picturing Kelly enduring urinary incontinence of any sort. With all that "chasing after three kids" she does to keep her rail-thin figure (because they all say that, these people who weigh 84 pounds and are parents. They say it's because they're busy running after the little ones. I'm still waiting for the star who says she's tiny because she likes to throw up her All Bran), she's probably tightened up those muscles that control such things as urine flow in the process. Kelly's kids apparently like to run to Connecticut and back each day, while carrying large burlap sacks filled with potting soil. I guess my kids are just lazy, hence my weight remaining in the three digits.

Where was I? Ah, yes, urinary incontinence.

Kelly probably has never, say, sneezed while driving in her car. Then needed to exit said car to procure a take'n'bake pizza for her children. She's probably never looked at her Tide To Go Pen in her car's console and wondered, Hmmmmm. Works anywhere, eh? She's probably never taken that Tide to Go Pen and shook it vigorously, then pressed a little too hard on the tip, spilling Tide onto her crotch. Nope. Kelly wouldn't do that. Kelly would scoff at the woman with Tide crotch, holding the pen in one hand and waving furiously at her nether region to dry the Tide soaked area so she could just go in and get the damn pizzas and resume packing up her fucking house. Kelly, well, Kelly has probably had surgery for such inconveniences in life. Kelly wouldn't do that, because the paparazzi would have a heyday, and how would she explain the Tide To Go Pen in her crotch to, oh, her oldest child looking on with bewilderment? What Would Kelly Do?

Not that.

T.V. Tag, John Travolta Winner and More....

Saturday night we realized was our last night with every member of the family present in the home. Maddie was about to leave for overnight camp, and when she comes home, we will have sold it to a family from California. So home will be a hotel suite for a few days, then our car and a series of relative's homes. We thought it would be a fun! bonding! experience to pile in the car and drive to Minnesota to attend a cousin's wedding next month, since we're homeless and why not spend some time at the lake and mooch off of various relatives in the Midwest before figuring out which real estate market we get to sell our soul to next.

In true form, we decided the best way to mark our last evening in our home would be to play a great game of freeze tag. We're a little nuts for freeze tag at our house. A lot nuts, actually. We've sent non-immediate family members to the ER with torn ligaments in the past, such is our passion for a rousing game of tag.

After several rounds, our daughter suggested we play "T.V. Tag" to shake things up a bit. The biggest change is that right before being tagged, the victim must shout out the name of a television show or character, and no repeats allowed. Because of the ages of our kids, there were plenty of calls for "Sponge Bob!" or "That's so Raven!" or "Meerkat Manor!" before being tagged.

When I was "it" I deftly maneuvered myself to appear as if I were about to tag my son, when in fact, it was my husband I wanted. Right as I was about to tag him, victory something I could nearly taste, he yelled out, "Angie Dickenson as Police Woman!"

And he wonders why I call him Old Man.

On another note, the packing is coming along, the inspection is TODAY and I have picked at random a winner of the fabulous eBay book, John Travolta: Staying Fit!..... Would the proud owner of In The Trenches of Mommyhood kindly e-mail me and I'll get that off to you ASAP.

And if you have preteens in need of good summer reading, go check out the review blog for a great book.

Your Coffee Table? About To Love You

Intrigued? Is the siren call of John Travolta's lycra-clad groin just too much to bear? I know. I found myself on eBay last week and came across this fabulous hardcover book. John Travolta: Staying Fit! Can you blame me for not resisting? The pelvic thrust alone got me. There are pages, pages I tell you, full of awesome Travolta moves, including some titillating couples stretching.

So, to celebrate the sale of our home I am giving this book away. Because my coffee tables are going to be packed up for a while. And because I won't be writing regularly for a while, and I want to keep things interesting when I do get the chance. Because I'm pretty sure I'm going to have nothing new to say in the next thirteen days, other than maybe we ran out of bubble wrap, or those whores at UHaul are making a mint on packing boxes.

Thirteen days in which to pack up the home. I can totally do this. And then I may just disappear for a while, to nurse my lobotomy scars, because this is what I'm going to need in order to not over think every detail that must be taken care of in less than two weeks. I keep reminding myself how blessed we are to have even sold a home in this market. There are houses in my area that have been for sale for over a year. So who's complaining? Not me. Just, you know, venting a wee bit of steam so I don't end up in the corner curled up around a packing tape dispenser and a bottle of vodka.

I was starting to get a little emotional about leaving this place, even though we're really excited about the next stage. I've started to forget how cold it gets here in the winter, how the extremely high altitude (we make our home 7,000 feet up in the air) makes everything hard, from growing things, to breathing, to giving birth. I was getting sentimental when a drywaller came in to finish Maddie's room last week. He was in his late twenties, with tousled blonde hair and looked like the kind of guy at home with a beer bong in his mouth. When he came to the door, he told me, "Dude, I totally lived here in the eighties with my buddy's family." [insert Beevus or Butthead style laughter]. "Do you still have those gnarly lofts?"

"Yes, we do. We love those lofts."

"Oh man, so did we. We called them The Girl Lofts. Heh, heh. You know? We took girls up there."

"Huh. Great. My kids have their dollhouses up there. And, um, their sticker collections."

Which took me from, Dear God What Have I Done I Can't Leave This Adorable House to Get me Out Of Here Now, How Long Do Body Fluids Stick Around, Anyway?

So we're excited about the future, although we don't have a firm timeline yet, and I'm not going to miss the lofts. I'll check back here in a few days and pick a winner. I'll print out the names of commenters and pick one. I'll post the winner, and soon your coffee table will support some of the best pictures to come out of 1984.

Good luck, and wish me the same.

Throwback Thursday

I've read here and there on the internet about Throwback Thursday, and I'm jumping in. Today will be busy. More family coming in, our final counter-offer was presented last night, so we should know today if the house is really going to be sold to these people, and I've got another one getting ready for overnight camp.

Plus, this is more than appropriate, because yesterday at the gym I was really feeling my age. Not because my outfit wasn't right, not because I was unable to move my body, but because I managed to get on an elliptical machine next to some fetus who kept clicking her phone open and shut. There we were, both pedalling fast, and I kept hearing this incessant click, tap tap tap tap tap tap, click. Stupid me. I should have known. I looked over and there she was, working out as hard as her little fetus body would let her and texting messages at the same time.

For the record, I have only texted once and it took me several minutes to figure out each letter. It was in response to a girlfriend texting me at this year's Fourth of July Parade. Bob and the kids marched with the Italian American Club (we have a Norwegian last name and heritage on both our father's sides but Bob's maternal grandparents came over from Italy). I got a text from my girlfriend, assumed it would have something to do with why the hell were they in the IA club, but this is what it read. Nice socks on yur hub. They were pulled up to the knee, and they weren't white.

So throwback Thursday it is. Post your own pic from yesteryear (I'm on the far left).

Happiness? Check.

I love, nay, am ENRAPTURED with checklists. So when I was over at With Six You Get Eggroll's site and found the link to this, I wet myself.

Housekeeping checklists, room by room? Check. Shopping lists, neatly categorized? Check. Blank lists, garage sale lists, household item locater lists? Check, check and check. Sigh. I think I need a cigarette now.

It's free, and there are literally dozens of lists to keep you anal organized.

That's it for now. I have some printing and checking to do. Because that's how I roll.

Because I am a Glutton for Punishment, I Give You Mr. Pickles

Jacob recently graduated from his preschool. His teacher, Annika, had a menagerie of animals that she and the children tended to throughout the year, to include chickens, rabbits, snakes, lizards, spiders, and hamsters. And one hand-fed tame robin. Annika is a German-born bat biologist who baked bread every single morning for the children, then led them on a day of outdoor exploration and biology lessons to rival what some junior high kids get these days. Jacob went four days a week, and I am truly sad to see him leave as we prepare for kindergarten in the fall.

Annika is akin to God in our house, and many things I've done over the past year have been held against the Annika litmus test by my son. If I go to kill a spider, Jacob places his hand on my arm and tells me, Mom. Spiders are our good friends. They eat the bad bugs. Annika would put the spider outside. Actually, Annika would create a spider habitat and let the children feed it insects while she gives discourse on spinnerets and the life cycle of arachnids. I'm not proud to admit that my typical m.o. is to nod in acquiescence to Jacob, then smash the spider when he isn't looking and flush it away. Nasty things.

Last fall I accompanied Annika and the kids on a field trip to collect leaves. We went to a gorgeous location that had flat trails along a creek, with plenty of deciduous trees and large rocks for the kids to explore. I was walking on the trail behind Annika, noting how she is not only this gorgeous thing (poreless skin, pink cheeks and no makeup ever) who weighs next to nothing, she is smart and knows how to capture a child's imagination. Sickening. Annika was in front of me carrying two baskets full of leaves, a backpack with the remains of our homemade lunch on her back, and had a child's hand in her own. I was about to ask her if she colored her hair when she suddenly dove into the brush that lined the path. Within seconds, she was righted again, the baskets and backpack still in place, but now she held a large snake in her hand, holding it up. "Children! Who can tell me what kind of snake this is?" as the preschoolers gathered around her, no one talking, no bickering or jostling. Just listening to the impromptu lesson in herpetology. She was the Pied freakin' Piper.

I tried to joke with her, telling her she was my Newman. That Jacob mentioned her so frequently, often in the context of telling me how I could do something better, that I would mutter, Annika! much like Seinfeld would Newman's name.

*crickets*

Annika doesn't watch television. What, the bread bakes itself?

So when Annika offered up one of her baby rabbits, I immediately said yes. Even though we're moving. Even though my German Shepherd is wanting to eat it. Even though I am not really a pet person, unless you count shoes as pets. I would do something that met the Annika standards. I would learn of bunny things and share these morsels of knowledge as my children chewed wheat things. That I made, with wheat. And other healthy ingredients that do not have the word Lunchables in them.

My daughter came up with the brilliant idea of diapering the rabbit when he is inside, so the inevitable sprinkling of bunny pellets are at least contained. I know, Annika probably collects hers and uses them in some mulch to grow her wheat. And spins her sweaters out of the bunny fur.

Annika!

Oooh! Look! I Have A Title!

I know this has been an issue for several blogspot sites, so if you're not able to type a title into the "title" field, play around with your TAB key until you get it. It worked for several other sites, too.

Uh, that's it. Oh, wait! I'm going to post a picture of the best toy ever. It's by Cranium, and it's a mask designing kit with voice enhancer. It makes your kid sound a little like Darth Vader which is about as cool as it gets over here for a certain five year-old. Thanks to Cousin Joanie for the gift.

Oh, okay one more thing. Thanks to Hank and Willie's mom for nominating me as a Rockin' Blogger! I say if you have kids, and you still manage to get to your computer and share yourself, you're a rocking blogger, too. Really. Because right now I have four kids clamouring for lunch, and I keep yelling out, "Just one more second, guys!" Rock on, bloggers. Rock on.

We've received an offer on the house. It's a little low, but I have a feeling we'll be able to meet these people halfway. After all of this work keeping the house clean with the kids underfoot, praying for a sale in this horrible market, and lowering the price to the point of nearly breaking even, it's almost over.

I should be over the moon, freaking out, but two things keep sticking in my craw. One, this is an older couple with no children and four dogs. I was here at home when they toured the last time, and I was so surprised I actually blurted out to their realtor, "Why on earth would a couple with no kids want a house with this many bedrooms?"

They like the space. And they have four dogs. I guess those fun lofts above two of the kids' bedrooms speak to labs, too.

Also, they want to close in two weeks. Two weeks. Holy shit. We didn't think we'd be this lucky, and prayed to sell the home by January, at which point we would make the decision to stay in town through the school year or pick up and move. So, I may be packing up nineteen rooms, sorting through what we'll need until we actually move to our new destination, and living in an apartment (which we get through the company, so what a blessing there) until such time.

It's a lot to digest.

Also, I can't make Blogger accept a title for this blog, so I wonder what this means as far as Mondays go. Have a good one, enjoy the heat, and I'm off to dicker with realtors.

Four Children? Are You Done Yet?

Exactly one year ago today, Jack Thomas came into our lives. One year. I know, it sounds cliche, but the first year of any baby's life always is gone in an eye blink, isn't it?

Although with Jack, it seems even doubly the case. When our first was born, her initial year was filled with long days at home, the two of us navigating territory altogether unfamiliar as I became a mom and stay at home wife for the first time.

You remember those days, when it seems as if an eternity, a lifetime has passed and it's not even eleven in the morning yet. It seems impossible that you will get through the rest of the day without dying of the sameness. You're convinced your husband will come home and find you in a puddle on the kitchen floor, eyes glazed, PBS tinkling in the background. We've all had those days, no?

Jack has spent a large portion of his first year in the car. With siblings that have gymnastics, dance, swimming, Girl Scouts, school and music lessons throughout the year, I'm certain if he ever becomes a painter, his first images will be still lifes of Ford upholstery. The days, they now fly by so quickly, weeks seem to peel away like a morning once did. I relish the lazy summer day at home with my children now more than ever, and I welcome the occasional long day with nothing on the agenda.

Jack has completed our family, filled space in our hearts, and brought such joy to us and to others it is truly incomprehensible to imagine our family, my life, without him. I love each clue he gives us into his being, what kind of person he is unfolding slowly to us as he learns something new. He is slow to walk, shows no interest really. He sits and he stands, but is content to be carried, to be loved on and talked to. This would have terrified me as a young mom, but I'm pretty sure he'll walk eventually. First grade will come and he'll be talking. I'm not worried. Jack smiles in a way that is a salve to a frustrating moment or a bad day. He laughs and the whole family laughs with him. It's fair to say he has us mesmerized. I can yell for the kids to come to dinner or to do something, and child deafness ensues, their ability to tune me out is frequent and unnerving. Jack will laugh and they all stop what they're doing to echo his giggle, to try and coax another one out.

When I carried him through pregnancy, I was asked many things. But more than a few asked Bob or me this question, and it baffles me, the way people just say things without thinking. Four children? Are you done yet? Or variations on the theme. Our answers also varied. Sometimes I stole a line from Cheaper by the Dozen and told the interrogator that I just couldn't keep Bob off of me, so who knew how many we'd have. Or we'd tell them that only Jesus knew when we'd be done. Or we'd ask them how we could know if we were done or not, since we missed that class in seventh grade.

If we had decided that we were done before having Jack, our lives wouldn't be what they are today.

I have family in town, here to celebrate the completeness of our family, of a year passed for a baby boy who struggled so hard to come into this world. I need to go ready us for the day, and go kiss the head of Jack and thank him for choosing us. For deciding that we weren't done yet.

Today is a Parent Bloggers Blog Blast, asking us to share a "Don't you wish you could have just handed them this?" moment from pregnancy.

You Know You Need To Get to Church More Often When...

[Yesterday, while dressing son]

Me: Hurry up! We're going to be late, and we're meeting Hannah and Libby's parents at church.

Son: Is it Easter?

Today, I am so excited because I have found the GIANT Bonne Bell Lipsmackers from my youth. No rope, but still. This excites me to the point where I want to share my happiness with all of you, so I am leaving this post up through tomorrow, and then going through the comments. I'll number them, then pick TWO LUCKY WINNERS to receive a giant Bonne Bell Lipsmacker of their choice (well, you can choose between Strawberry and Dr. Pepper). Good luck!