Holla.
This is Miss Becky.
Miss Becky is my sista.
This is Miss Becky’s blog.
If you have nothing to do, then stop by cuz she has nutin to say.
Splenda. (a.k.a. sweet.)
We’ve all done it. Used our socks to pick up a little dust here and there. A scant dribble from a glass of kool aid. The dusty remains of breakfast toast.
Hey, if you own the right kind of socks they can easily multitask.
It’s all about working smarter, not harder.
(I once used Alina’s 3 year old body to dust under her bed, when we had hard wood floors, but that’s another story.)
I want to get hard wood floors just so I can slip these puppies on and glide my way to a clean living room.
Music to my ears.
So, yesterday… I was driving around, nowhere special… just an errand here, and errand there, and I decided to try some different music.
The first new channel I switched to was a classical music station. I thought, hmmm… this might be soothing. I have been feeling a bit stressed lately, y’all. So I left on the channel. But… Do you know how in movies when they reach a climatic part, things slow down, and they play classical music? That’s what I felt like. I felt as if my day was a movie and it was being edited with music. It felt like that music was MY soundtrack. And I must say, it did not relax me. But rather, made me a bit paranoid.
I was motivated enough to change the channel.
The second channel I turned to was an easy listening instrumental type channel. I rather liked it. (Like jazzy 70’s elevator music.) It made me smile. Until I realized, it was like the music played in indie films during those portions of the movie when the actor is doing something mundane and you always wonder… “What the heck does this have to do with the film?”. Again, I felt like my day was being “edited” for a soundtrack.
In the end, I stuck with the 70’s elevator music.
Rambling. At 7. am.
The art of time management is indeed a gift. One that I lack. (Case in point, I am here on my computer. Rather than, well, pretty much anywhere else.)
I have laundry to do:
I need to collect it all and smoosh it down the chute.
I need to sort it into piles of different color. (I think I do that wrong. I am pretty sure laundry should be sorted by material?)
I need to get a load in the wash, then remember to revisit the basement in 47 minutes to flip the load in the dryer.
Then in an hour, I need to remember to go back down and pull out the massive heap. (My mother in law tells me I put too much in. But she doesn’t get the rarity with which I do the laundry. I try to make the most of it.)
Then I sort it out by child or adult, putting the frocks in corresponding baskets.
At this time we will not be discussing taking the child’s or adult’s clothes upstairs to their rooms and eventually their drawers or closets.
Why does the seeming clear cut chore seem to be such an ordeal to me?
And why does my lack of domestic abilities make me feel utterly deflated?
And who knew I could fill a post (with 255 words no less) about the process of laundry and my inability (seemingly so) to keep up with it?
I think I need breakfast.
Applejacks are calling me. (Eat your heart our Neil.)
The talk.
I am a very involved parent. I go to all class parties. Field trips. Conferences. Meetings.
Alina’s in 5th grade now. Her school has decided the time has come for:
THE TALK.
You know which talk I mean. We all remember it. Every detail. The lack of eye contact. The overuse of medical terms. The scattering of giggles. The squirming of our behinds on those plastic chairs.
Tomorrow is Alina’s fateful day. I called the school. I want in on this. I am curious what they tell our kids. (BTW, Alina has already been given full disclosure on the talk… we had it when she was 8.)
So I called the school nurse who informed me the principal was discouraging parents from attending. Citing, “It would just make them uncomfortable.” (#1. Who would be uncomfortable, the kids or the teachers? #2. I would think making it a secret from parents would further propell the kids into hiding, adding to the idea that, “This is shameful and bad.”… if you can’t talk about your body with mom and dad when you are 10, how the heck is that supposed to go down when they are 16 and pressured? anyhoo… I digress.)
So, being the proactive Mom I am, I left a message for the principal to call me back, which she did within 10 minutes.
Tomorrow, I will attending the class. Wiggly, giggly 10 year old girls and all. And I will not be ashamed. The principal invited me to take notes, and offer tips on a better approach for talking with the kids. How forward thinking of her.
For my Pumpkin.
Alina, likes to read my blog, (what can I say… she’s a fan.) Anyhow, her Grammy sent her this story and she liked it so much she asked me to post it so everyone can read it.
Hope everyone’s having a great Fall so far!
Living for Christ is like being a pumpkin. God lifts you up, takes you in, and washes all the dirt off of you. He opens you up, touches you deep inside and scoops out all the yucky stuff– including the seeds of doubt, hate, and greed. Then He carves you a new smiling face and puts His light inside you to shine for all the world to see.
