I’m Plugging My Ears And Singing La La La. Because It’s The Olympics. In Another Freakin’ Time Zone.

This was me before the Olympics:

 

This is me now that the Olympics have begun:

I love the Olympics. Especially the summer Olympics.

I’m a former competitive swimmer and coach.

My daughter is a former gymnast. She has even dabbled in rowing since we live so close to the Atlanta ’96 venue.

My boys are big into soccer and baseball.

I also love the internet. I log on in the morning to check emails and do a little banking. I log on in the afternoon to craft a blog post and sneak in a little blog reading.

My home page was msn.com. “Was” because they kept telling me the results of the swimming competition before I could see it on TV. So, I switched to yahoo.com. They were a little more vague about their headlines. Until a few days ago.

So, now, my home page is Google. With their cute, clever images:

I hate knowing the results before I’ve had a chance to experience it with the rest of the television viewing audience. Today when I logged on I found out the the women’s gymnastics team blah-blah-blah-blah and Michael Phelps blah-blah-blah-blah and it all won’t be televised until this evening.

That’s it. I’m done. No more news for me until after the Olympics are over.

I sure hope nothing earth-shattering happens between now and then.

If I need to know about it, would someone please shoot me an email?

Shame On You, First Baptist Church In Crystal Springs, MS!

Shame, shame on you, congregation of First Baptist Church in Crystal Springs, Mississippi!

Members of the church, who just happen to have black skin, wanted to be married. In their own church. And a few bad apples, who just happen to have white skin, pitched a fit – threatened to fire the pastor if he married them-because there had never been a “black” wedding in their 129 year old church.

News flash, First Baptist Church. It’s 2012. Prohibiting marriage because of skin color is old, old, even ancient, news. We’ve moved on to the gay marriage debate. Get with the program!

To my great relief, “the vast majority of Crystal Springs residents, blacks and whites alike, were “blown away” by the church’s decision.” (There is a God.)

But to my great embarassment, we made international news. (A God with a wry sense of humor and an obvious lesson in humility.)

The venue chosen. Invitations printed. RSVPs received. And then, the day before the big event?

Outrage from a few bad apples.

For shame!

To avoid marring their special day (and save his job), the pastor found another church so that the wedding may proceed.

Considering the outrage from local citizens and other church members, how about rallying around this couple and their guests, overshadow the few bad apples and allow the wedding to take place?

Just a thought.

Whatever.

It’s sad. It’s pathetic. And I apologize to my husband for not believing him when he told me about this story. (Yes, I admit it. I really was Googling it because I didn’t believe you. It wasn’t research for a blog post like I said.)

On this beautiful Sunday morn, whatever your beliefs, please say a prayer and/or send loving thoughts to the Crystal Springs couple, their family, their congregation and those few bad apples.

Not because it’s the Christian thing to do.

Because it’s the RIGHT thing to do.

I Want To Live In A Fairy Tale World. A World Where People Won’t Steal My Flip Flops.

Have you seen my flops?

My favorite pair of knock-around flip flops went missing.

I’d like to think I misplaced them. (Nope.)

Or that some husband mistakenly grabbed the wrong pair for his wife. (Doubtful.)

Or maybe the call of the surf was too powerful and my beloved pair of Nike flip-flops just had to test the waters. (I may live in a fairy tale world but even I know that flops don’t walk off by themselves.)

…..

We were eager to get on the beach. It was early in the morning on our very first day. The boys were hopping like jumping beans.

“Let’s go take a walk on the beach! Can we? Can we put on our suits? Please?”

We shoveled breakfast down. We threw on our suits. I grabbed a couple towels and we started downstairs. On the wooden path, over the dunes, other early morning beach-goers had left their sandals.

“Should we just leave our shoes here?” my husband said, doubtfully.

“Sure,” I said, “They’ll be fine. And if anyone needs our shoes that badly. Fine. They can have ’em.”

Of course I was kidding. We were staying at a fancy condo. Cars nicer than ours in every other parking spot. Security in the lobby. Gated entry. Anyone that could afford a condo here could afford a pair of flip flops.

We frolicked in the surf. We played in the sand. Everyone wanted to stay for the day. We rented a couple beach loungers and a sturdy umbrella and I headed upstairs to pack us lunch.

Back to the wooden sidewalk. Slip on my flops. Up to the condo. Pack sandwiches, grapes, Chex Mix, drinks. Back downstairs. To the wooden sidewalk. Slip off flops. Head to our shady oasis.

“Mom? Did you pack cherries?” and “Honey, I need to reapply sunscreen.” and “Mom, I have to pee.”

So, back to the wooden sidewalk. #2son and I slip on flops. Up to the condo. Pee. Grab cherries, sunscreen, more water and cookies. Back downstairs. To the wooden sidewalk. Slip off flops. Head to our shady oasis.

Enjoy the sun, the sand and the surf for a blissful 2 more hours. But now, we’re a bit tired. And showers must be had before dinner.

So, back to the wooden sidewalk. Slip on flops.

Wait. One pair. Two pair. Three pair….

“Where are my flops?”

Gone. Conspicuously absent. All other flops are coupled with their families. Our family is the only one with an empty spot. My spot. My beloved pair of Nike flops are gone.

I pouted. I acknowledged the irony. And I tried to get over it.

That night, shopping for souvenirs after dinner my husband said, “Don’t you really like this brand?” and he pointed to this adorable pair….

“Yes, I love my other pair.” (Sanuk yoga mat flip flops. If you haven’t tried them you are missing the ultimate in summer comfort!)

“Well, why don’t you get them? They’re brown just like the pair that went missing.”  (I love this man!)

So, I did. I replaced the stolen pair with a worthy substitute.

But I was still sad. Still melancholy. And I wondered why.

It wasn’t because I was so attached to the Nike pair. I liked them, sure. But I was over it.

I was sad because it was that icky moment when you realize you live in a world with people who don’t share your same values. Logically, I get it. But this time, I felt it.

And I was wondering how another person could walk up to the row of sandals, glance down and spy a pair they liked, slip them on even though they belonged to someone else and then walk away. Oh yeah, and then sleep like a baby that night. And every night after that.

How?

I don’t want to live with people like that.

I want to live in a place where I can leave my lovingly worn sandals on the wooden boardwalk while I play in the waves and then find them when I need to wear them back up to the condo.

A  fairy tale world?

Sigh.

I guess so.

Ahhhhhh! (Yes, You Heard Right.) Ahhhhhh!

See you next week!

Inquiring Minds Want To Know Or Mystery Of The Chipped Tooth Revealed

It’s not an exciting story. It’s not even a very interesting story.

But it is a story that should be told. If only, so that you, my dear readers, may benefit.

Suffice it to say, these:

and these:

….do not mix. Ever.

And the really scary thing is? Just before I tried to remove that pesky staple from my daughter’s homework because I couldn’t find one of these:

I said, shaking one finger at her with a stern expression on my face:

“Now. Don’t EVER do this!”

The next thing we heard was a little crack and part of my tooth broke right off.

So, I looked like this:

Only worse. But without the beard because, well, I haven’t sported a beard in years.

It looked more like this:

(Sorry. I only used the bearded picture because I thought it was funny. Yep. I’m easily amused.) 

And then, I’ve looked like this:

…three times. Once to get it fixed when it initially happened ten years ago. And then twice since then because of where the chip is located/my bite/the fact that I won’t wear a night guard – the dental work has come out.

Reminding me all over again of my stupidity years ago.

I share this embarrassing story with you so that you may learn.

Murphy’s Law does indeed exist.

If it can happen, it will.

Your teeth are not tools.

They should only be used to eat this:

Now, I highly recommend you go here – The Kitchen Witch – and here – Tomatoes on the Vine so you can put your pearly whites to good use. They are my two favorite blogs that inspire me in the kitchen.

Because, I’d rather be in the kitchen than in the dentist’s chair any day of the week!

10 Things You Need To Know About Jane

10. You may not have a need to know these things but these are 10 things about me that I feel are share-worthy.

9.   I’m good at wasting list-space by rambling about things that probably don’t need an explanation.

8.   Currently, I am sporting an adorable chipped tooth look. The front one. Yep. Adorable. (I wonder if there are any Beverly Hillbilly sequel auditions nearby?)

7.   I have that annoying habit of providing way too much information when you ask me a simple question. You know the type. Giving much more background info than is necessary. I even annoy myself.

6.   My parents gave me the delightful nicknames of “Chatterbox” and “Dumbo” while I was growing up. Yes, I talk too much and yes, my ears stuck out. (I wouldn’t know because now I hide them behind my hair.) Isn’t that sweet? (No wonder I have such self-esteem issues.)

5.   I am a Mama-Bear to the nth degree. At least, that’s what my husband says.

4.   I used to have champagne tastes on a beer budget. Now, I have champagne tastes on a decent bottle of wine budget. Do you think that when I catch up to the champagne budget my tastes will morph into a glass of  1997 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti? It goes for about $1500 a bottle. A bottle! I don’t know about you, but I’d be sick to my stomach after drinking a house payment.

3.   Who am I kidding? I’d be sick to my stomach after drinking an entire bottle of wine. Of any variety. I am a lightweight. One and a half glasses is my limit.

2. But give me a 32oz. tub of coke and I’ll polish it off like nobody’s business. Maybe I do need Mayor Bloomberg looking over my shoulder.

1. If you ask me, point blank, if you’ve offended me? No matter how non-confrontational I am, I will tell you the truth. I will. That’s just how I am. And how much I value my friendships. And there’s not much that truly offends me since I love a great debate and seeing things differently and having my values agitated a little. So, lighten up. Relax. I won’t bite.

Competitive Yoga? It’s Official. Now, I’ve Seen Everything.

There’s a reason I don’t share everything about my life with some people.

Competition.

My husband calls me a competitive person. And he may be right. Maybe. I like to think of myself as driven. I’m a bit of a perfectionist. I enjoy success. But I don’t think of myself as competitive.

There is a certain frequent house guest of mine, to whom I may or may not be related, who is very competitive with me. While we were growing up we’d compare music collections, swim times, who had the “fattest” thighs. (She won.) 

Even now, as adults, I feel her critical eye whenever she visits. Who has the better relationship with her kids? Who has the nicer things? Who has the fatter thighs? (I win.)

I encouraged her to try yoga. And now when she visits, she wants to practice together. And check out who is more flexible? Who can hold a pose the longest? Who has the fatter thighs? (I still win.)

This past trip, I think I hurt her feelings when I said, “It’s really the only time I schedule just for me. And since I always end my practice with lots of meditation, I’d prefer to do it by myself.”

I feel bad that I hurt her feelings. But I’m glad I stuck to my Zen guns.

“Did my first handstand in yoga today!” – was her latest Facebook status.

(Cue subtle eye-roll.)

Her status got me thinking if other people were annoyed with competitive yoga-mates.

I had barely Googled “Competitive y…..” when the auto-suggest popped up “Competitive Yoga.” And not just 6 0r 8 hits. We’re talking 12,000,000+. A competitive yoga slide show, with an article in the New York Times, and another article about an Asana competition, topped off with a Youtube video entitled “Inside The Vicious World of Competitive Yoga.”

Vicious and yoga in the same sentence? Seriously?

It’s official. Now, I’ve seen everything.

And I had to giggle when 2011 Yoga Asana Champion Kelsea Bangora said, “I don’t want to show off. I mean, my own students don’t even know I’m a champion.”

Hmmm. Don’t want to show off?

Maybe you shouldn’t enter competitions?

Just a thought.

Must….Get…..Motivated.

Trying to get motivated today…..

Played around with Google….

Found these…..

Enjoy!

My daily To Do list….

And my personal favorite…

Completely Random. Because That’s All I Have Time For.

• Seriously? Is anyone truly surprised that Tom and Katie are divorcing? And that Scientology is playing a part in Katie’s decision to fight for sole custody? This is news?
• Sitting on the porch, supervising our son’s lemonade stand. Husband and #2son get into a disagreement about how to handle the customers. #2son is being argumentative. (Surprise, surprise.) Husband turns to me and says, “Oh. My. God. I’ve given birth to my father.”
• I think to myself, “Uh, no. I gave birth to that 10lb representation of your father. And spittin’ image of you.” Because, as we all know – Like father, like son. Ab-so-f-in-lutely. 
• Other than the similar hair color and same hair style, I don’t see this “amazing” transformation of Naomi Watts into Lady Diana. I just don’t see it.

• Issac Asimov is the only author to have a book in every category of the Dewey Decimal system. (Raise your hand if you know what the Dewey Decimal System is?) 
• I ask this because my elementary school age sons aren’t familiar with this yet. (Huh?) And my college age daughter hesitated in her response. (But got the answer right in the end.) When I asked her how she found books in the library at school she said, “They get the books for you.” Yep. She goes to the computer, finds the book she wants, clicks a button and behold! An automated robotic arm retrieves the book from the stacks and a human person (I hesitate to call this person a librarian) hands her the book after she shows her ID.
• Sigh. No more browsing through the stacks like the old days.
• I miss the old days.
• Speaking of old days, I turn half a century next year. How in the heck did that happen?
• Even my favorite Disney site published a full copy of the Declaration of Independence in honor of July 4th. A perfect reminder of why we have parades and potato salad and “pop-crackers” (as my #1son called them many years ago.)
• “…We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. –That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness….” 
• Beautiful words, indeed.
• Twenty-two days until the Olympics!
• Wishing for warm, lazy days in the beautiful month of July. Days without forest fires, tornadoes, killer heat waves and bored, whiny children. For all my favorite peeps out there.
• OK. Wishing for days without bored, whiny children is pushing it.
• But one can hope.

Hi. I’m Jane. And I Nursed My Son Longer Than 2 Years.

(Jane clears throat and steps gingerly onto her soapbox.)

Hi.

My name is Jane.

And I nursed my son longer than 2 years.

Go ahead. Start slinging the arrows. Label me crunchy granola. Slap the handcuffs on my wrists and haul me away to crazy-mommy-jail. (Do they have Starbucks? If so, I’ll go willingly.)

I didn’t plan on nursing for so long. I knew I wanted to breastfeed. (Because, after all, that IS what my breasts were designed for, contrary to popular belief.) So when my pediatrician asked me if I’d given any thought to weaning I answered, “Yes. I read it’s best to nurse until a year old. And that’s when I’m planning on stopping.” She smiled a knowing smile and handed me a pamphlet on the latest statistics (7 years ago) and said, “Well, the World Health Organization now recommends breastfeeding until age 2 or longer, whichever is best for both mother and child.”

This was new thinking for me. But after exhaustive research (because I’m really a research nerd-junkie at heart) I decided to practice “child led weaning” or natural weaning. Yes. I said natural weaning. Because if it’s forced, it is un-natural. (I’m on my soapbox so I can say this.)

Now, I wasn’t the perfect crunchy-granola mom. I tried to practice a “don’t offer, don’t refuse” approach to the “natural” weaning process. But I succumbed to societal pressures. If we were in public, if guests were visiting who wouldn’t understand, I’d gently redirect and say, “Not now.” Sometimes I’d offer an explanation. But he didn’t really care. A redirect was fine.

But the fact that I was still nursing at (OK. I’ll admit it.) 3+ years of age? It was my dirty, little secret. (And not THAT kind of dirty, little secret. If that’s what you were thinking? Please. Just leave now. There isn’t enough room in the blogosphere to convince you otherwise and I’m not about to try.)

Frankly, I find it pathetic that only 57% of women in the U.S. even try to breastfeed their baby, compared to the 98% in Sweden, Norway and 94% in Rwanda. I understand that for some women, breastfeeding isn’t an option due to health issues. I get it. I truly do. But when a 6 month pregnant woman in my bookclub says, “Oh, no. We’re not going to breastfeed. My husband  and I just aren’t comfortable with that.” And she shakes her head with disgust, with a grimace on her face? I’m the one who is disgusted. (And I tried to hide MY grimace but as you all know, I do not have a poker face.)

And I tried. I really tried not to make a comment about the fairly recent Time magazine cover “Are You Mom Enough?” with the 3-year-old nursing. But hold onto your hats, because here I go.

First of all, I never, ever, ever nursed my 3 year old standing up with him on  a step stool.

Second. If you can’t nurse for whatever physical reason? You get a big, fat automatic pass at breastfeeding. No questions asked. But if you “can’t” nurse because it grosses you (and your husband) out? Maybe you aren’t mom enough.

Third. I understand that Time was trying to elicit a response with their shocking cover. But really. Natural weaning and attachment parenting practices should be a non-issue. They are practiced all over the world. ALL the heck over. We’re the ones with the issues that we need to just get over. Plus, different strokes for different folks. Stop the judging and start supporting each other. Maybe more moms would see the light.

And D (now you really know I’m angry because I’m mixing up my argument structure), that blog that wants to punch people in a place that would really hurt because they tick them off? You can be on your soapbox but please back up your argument with facts. Attachment parenting does not mean that you nurse until your child can spell “delicious and refreshing breast milk” and they co-sleep with you until middle school. I know you’re trying out the Time magazine shock technique, but honestly? You come across sounding mean, angry, hostilely judgmental and insecure in your own parenting skills.  But since that’s the point of your blog, I’ll just stop there.

Yes. I’m a crunchy, granola mom. By accident. Because that’s what felt right for me and my child. At that time in our lives. In that moment. I didn’t ask for anyone’s permission. I didn’t ask for anyone’s opinion. I just did it because that’s what felt right. And sadly, for me anyway, I honestly can’t remember the last time my son nursed. It had tapered off to a point that one day, a day I will never remember because it felt like any other day, he decided it would be his last. He didn’t need it anymore.

As it should be.

(Stepping off my soapbox, and ducking from the arrows, I just want to say whatever is was that YOU did about feeding your infant/toddler/child? It’s your business and your business alone. I don’t care what you did. I know what I think is best but that’s just it. It’s MY opinion. Not yours. You go off and have your opinion. Just don’t want to punch me in the throat because of mine.)