Without My Words, Who Am I?

 

Dancing Still

Words are my world. They are my comfort and my solace, they are my protection,  they help me find peace inside when there is non to be found elsewhere. They open me up and empty me out and yet. And yet. And yet.

They are my weapon. They are my barrier. They keep a deep high wall between me and those I love. As much as I find threads of myself with words, I lose them again in the chatter. Those tender strands need to be found, yes, but they need to be followed in quiet, in awe, in silence. In order to hear the words of the heart, the sounds of Spirit, the call of the wild, there must be silence, hush, space.  I fill the spaces with words, questions, curiosity, anxiety, guilt ridden searching. I would rather talk than make love. Talk than hug. Talk than sit in the quiet embrace of a friends non-conversation. I would rather see than feel and speak than listen because that has always been my way.

Before I was a writer I was a dancer. I emptied out my sadness and anger with movement that came from deep within myself. I allowed the language of my heart to flow through all of my limbs and not just my hands. When you dance you are fully present to each moment, to each emotion and after the dance comes stillness. A warm, softened stillness. A prayer has been offered and answered and all is well.

And then youth started to flee. Age and responsibility began to weigh upon me. Time was scarce, other people’s needs began to outweigh my own. It was easier to write my feelings than to really feel them, to work them out. I started to believe that it was too ridiculous, to embarrassing for me to dance. I stopped believing in the beauty of my body’s graceful prayer. I allowed myself to become stagnant with inertia, heavy with words my mouth couldn’t shape. I hated feeling foolish when I danced. I hated the way my once strong and graceful body now sagged and lumped along. I watched myself with a cruel and critical eye and I judged myself unworthy.

I cannot tell you when this became my truth. When did I began to care more about the messenger than the message? I only know that it truly doesn’t matter to Spirit what I look like when I dance, only that I dance, only that the prayer is offered. Even if it is offered imperfectly and halteringly and in shame and embarrassment. Even if it is offered by a short, fat, middle-aged woman, flapping chubby arms and stomping chubby legs and balancing on little toes and stretching out long fingers to meet the unknown presence, the Beloved, who dances unseen with me. Even then – the silent prayer is sweet. I don’t know when I forgot that but I’m remembering it now.

And so I wonder, who am I without my words? Who am I without my humour armour and my wit weapons? Who am I with my mouth closed and my heart, my mind, and my ears open?

Who am I when the page is blank?

Who am I?

Nourish Me:: Week Eight - I Spy

Only dance, and your illusions will blow in the wind 
Dance, and make joyous the love around you 
Dance, and your veils which hide the Light 
Shall swirl in a heap at your feet. – Rumi

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This Deep Longing

The Highlands of Scotland

The Highlands of Scotland

Some days are just tightly strung with this unbidden longing for the wild places of my home. The places that stir my breath and my heart into quickened beating, where my soul expands beyond the confines of this life and into empty cold air, dancing on the rain driven winds. I am not a child of summer. I am an autumn changeling, a winter wisp, twinkling in the frosted air, creeping in the ponderous fog towards the tiny cabin and the glittering lonely fire shining in the deepening dark. I ache for the wind to kiss my face with it’s salt encrusted lips. I ache for the dark smell of wet earth as night trails in blazing stars. I ache for the silence and the solitude, the ancientness and the awe and the tingling fear of aloneness that lives in me there.

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My life is full. It is brimming over with needs and wants and I am happy to give most of the time. Grateful I am called upon to give in these limitless ways to these cherished hearts. But there are just days when simply looking at an image of some part of my far away homeland startles a cry of sorrow from my mouth. Unbidden, unwanted, misunderstood – it is soft and yet so broken. I can look into the reality of this place and see where so many joins don’t fit. I can see the reality of that place and see how many parts of my soul have fled there in the deepest wretchedness of my darkest nights, despite its many imperfections. There will always be a healing hum that comes from the place of my birth. Not the place my mamma lives. Not the places I have necessarily dwelt, though they were splendid too, but the deep dark green, the grey, green ocean, the slate grey skies and the wind, the cruel, cold, enlivening winds that smack your face and wake you to full attention. The high places and the low, the forest and the glen, the shore and the cliffs that crown it, the cave and the fossilised remnants of a life no longer mine. These all call to me because I am a part of them and my many lives there float around me keening a howling lament to the north. And I, here where I have found a different kind of happiness, hear my whining rejection of the south and all it’s strangeness. An ancientness that does not connect with my soul but leaves me hungrier, ever hungrier for the taste of deep dark soil in my mouth and for the weak and watery sun that lights up the mist as it coils itself around my feet and the soaking earth that I walk upon. I miss it like a lost child. And yet. I am here and here I must forseeably stay. And that is the source of the keening in my soul. That is the source of this restless spirit and the brackish taste of resentment in my mouth. This knowledge that the little hearts and the mighty loves that keep me here, hold fast that part of me that beats in the wildness that remains so far out of reach.

And so I ache.

What The Heart Wants

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Ooh look! Something shiny! And with that she was gone for nearly 2 years.

Ahem. I realise that I am now talking to myself and the big void of space that lies beyond this post but hey ho, here we go. Again. After a somewhat prolonged absence. I think it was the glitter, it got in my hair, in my eyes and other, weirder, places and it took me so long to get rid of it that, well, etc.

So what have I been doing with myself for these last 2 years? I honestly couldn’t tell you. The only thing I know for sure is that my then 5.5 yr old, is now a wild and excitable 7 yr old and my then 2 yr old is now a cantankerous wee beastie of a 3.5 year old, mostly dressed up like a pirate (fairy wings optional), who enjoys shooting people through their eyeballs. Still, rather than banging on about all the things I seem to have banged on endlessly about for the last 7 years, I’m going to give it a rest. At least for this post. Just know this, motherhood is like raw cheesecake, it looks all lovely on the outside but ultimately you are chewing through a big bag of nuts.

In the last 2 years of not writing here, I have done many things none of which seem at all important right now. I’ve half knitted many things and then left them so long that I no longer know how to finish knitting them. I have sewn things that are almost wearable. I have negotiated people I love no longer loving each other and dwelt in the sadness of that.  I have wondered if things will ever change or if I should quietly acquiesce to the inevitable. I know how to hold on but I just don’t want to be that guy in the corner with the saxophone who doesn’t know when to quit. I have started study and stopped study, despite doing exceptionally well – toot toot!, because I’m not sure what my heart wants. And I have tried to sit with what my heart wants while my life rages around me. You can tell Adele that setting fire to the rain is a snap after that.

What Women Want – is not a man that fulfills all their unspoken desires, it is to know what their own unique and vulnerable heart wants. Plus maybe enough courage to follow it, even if it’s not pretty. I fear the not pretty. I’ve been balls deep in the not pretty and I have no desire to go there again, but the heart wants what the heart wants, as someone famous and obviously forgettable, once sagely said. It seems that, for me at least, talking endlessly about my problems does not get me to what my heart wants (blog notwithstanding). I want to listen to my heart talk, not my neuroses. There are many good books out there I’m sure that deal with exactly this and I’m sure they would be helpful but I don’t have time to read books. I’m too busy fighting the fires of motherhood on the nature/nurture frontline to sit down. Plus my hair is singed and it smells weird.

So I am looking forward to slowly dropping into the dark mossy goodness of Autumn in the Southern Hemisphere because I know that with the Autumn and Winter, my favourite two seasons, will come  answers. (Or at the very least open fires and mulled wine – answers enough for some. And by some, I mean me.) They won’t be BIG, LOUD, DEFINITIVE answers, they will be teeny, tiny nudges to do more of something or less. To pay attention to the questions that pour from this bloody wound I call my heart, to follow the signs or maybe simply allow the questions to hollow me out until I remember who and what I am. I doubt any of it will be easy. I seem to be hardwired towards doing things the hard way. I just know that in the last two years not much has changed, so it must be time to change the things I’m doing.

And with that, I am here.

Peace out.

The Beautiful Darkness

Emerging From The Darkness by Tim Rosier (via DeviantART)

Emerging From The Darkness by Tim Rosier (via DeviantART)

Emerging

In which I will write in the first person, because it feels important.

It’s an odd thing to realise that I have been cocooning myself away from the world without even realising that I was doing so. Slowly winding layers and layers of soft ‘not coping’ around me to protect myself from the rigorous expectations of others and the punishing expectations of my own self. Hiding in the darkness of my PND and using it as a barrier between me and the world ‘out there’, where I am ‘talented’, ‘strong’ and ‘capable’. The ‘out there’ where the bar is set so high in every area of my life, I have no hope of ever getting close to it.

In here, in this beautiful darkness, I am safe. It is quiet and peaceful and manageable. Out there is push and shove and noise and chaos and there is always drama and limits must be met and exceeded. In here, I am slow and sometimes melancholic and often angry but I have been given permission by my illness to simply put one foot in front of the other until the end of the long mothering day. In here, it is tight and restrictive and often uncomfortable, both mentally and emotionally, because it is the safety of failure, of ‘not good enough’ and in this small, tight darkness I have companions like Shame and Guilt and Anger. Yet squashed in here is still so much better than bearing the weight of all that other ‘stuff’ that waits for me, like a hungry wolf, out there.

I have come to realise that I have been cowed under the weight of everyone elses expectations of me. That carrying these expectations around on my shoulders has caused me to feel like I am simply going around and around in circles as I slowly grind myself into the ground. I was raised (unconsciously to be sure) to be ‘better than’. To always pit myself against the best and win. And if i didn’t? Well, there was sadness and guilt and shame. If I did, it was the best feeling in the world. I was loved and accepted by those whose love and acceptance I so desperately craved. Moreover, I was ‘Special’ and that seemed to be the most important thing to be. The problem with this type of early conditioning is that it becomes a part of your DNA without you even being aware of it. It’s not like, at the age of five, I had some kind of bullshit radar which kicked in  with a, ‘Hang on just a damn minute! You don’t have to better than X,Y & Z – or achieve X,Y, Z medals/distinctions, you just have to enjoy what you are doing!’ I only had the quiet urging in my ear to be the best. I am not blaming here. I want to make that absolutely clear. Everything that was said and done was said and done with the best of intentions. I am also aware of the old adage about the ‘road to hell’ being paved with such intentions. We do what we do when we know no better. And let’s face it, I am hardly without ‘sin’ when it comes to this shit. But still, since then I have always carried those expectations of greatness, high achieving and ‘better than’s’ with me and unconsciously tried to live up to them. The problem with this is that they are impossible to attain. Seriously. Equally problematic is the fact that logical argument (especially my own) never made me give up anything, let alone these deeply held beliefs about my own magnificence. I have, quite simply, grown up with the expectation that I will be something extraordinary and with an absolute horror of being ordinary. I am not tooting my own horn. I am stating a plain fact. I have always believed I was meant for something better. Something much more magical than a plain and ordinary life.

My lovely therapist, Kat, thinks this belief stems, not from unbelievable arrogance – as it may first appear, but from being ‘incorrectly mirrored’ as a child. I was a very clever little girl, precociously so. Because of this and the realisation that I was a bit smarter than the average bear, and also because of the many un-lived lives of my mother, I was expected to become something amazing. With all this cleverness, (and later with all the talent for dance and drama and such), I was expected to really excel at something. I was pitted against every other little girl or boy in every area of my life until I became so stressed out and so guilt ridden at the thought of failure, I began to experience severe migraines, vomiting and awful stage fright. I literally became sick of the pressure I was under to achieve. It was never enough to be good at things and I was and still am, naturally pretty good at stuff. I can pick things up very easily. At least, I could.  And I was always pretty capable. But it was never enough. I was never enough.

Slowly I am coming to realise that maybe I was not meant to be extraordinary or to live an extraordinary life. Maybe my talent is simply for enjoying life and enjoying the many and varied things it offers. Maybe my talent is to be a great writer. Maybe it’s to be a mediocre writer (look how well many of them are doing!) or maybe it’s to be no kind of writer at all. All that pressure, all those weighty expectations, all they ever did was make me afraid to fail. Afraid to really try those things to which I was most drawn in case I did badly and lost the love and respect of those I most dearly needed it from. And so. When my beautiful, challenging, heart expanding, anxiety inducing children came along, I again had a bar set so high for parenting that I couldn’t hope to ever attain it and I began the fast and angry descent into PND where I became one with this Beautiful Darkness. And here I have been ever since.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have thought all along that I was trying to climb out of this pit of self-loathing and angry parenting. Trying to escape from the feelings of overwhelm and terrible sadness at my own inability to parent well and with real heart. And I do believe I have. The trouble is that the pay off for being inside this angry little cocoon is that I am not expected to do or be or achieve ANYTHING. I don’t have to strive to be a perfect anything because just getting through an average day is achievement enough. I am not expected to have it all together because I clearly don’t have it all together. My husband comes home earlier, takes a bit more care, gives me more time and parents a bit more than I fear he will when I am well. He doesn’t expect a home cooked meal on the table every night or a perfectly clean house or a sexy little minx in the bedroom. He expects an exasperated, frazzled, chubby little house frau who may or may not be writhing in a puddle of parenting self loathing, when he comes home. And that means I don’t have to try so damn hard all the fucking time. I mean, it’s just so exhausting – all this stuff we are supposed to do/achieve/become. Being broken means never having to carry that heavy burden of other people’s expectations.

I know. It’s faulty logic. I will be so much happier without this black dog stalking me through every day. I know that I will be able to experience more joy if I can just let go of my little black cloud, but I’m scared. I’m scared that when I am well all of those expectations will come crashing back down on me like a comet and I will find myself pushing and pushing and pushing myself uphill, trying to achieve every last one of those golden dreams until I break. Out there, there is always more to want, more to need, more to achieve. In here, it’s just me. For better or worse.

The Boleigh Fogou in Penzance Cornwall

The Boleigh Fogou in Penzance Cornwall by Richard Stocker (richard_stocker via flickr)

Sadly, the cracks in the cocoon are showing and the light is starting to filter in. I know that I can’t stay in here much longer. I honestly don’t want to – not really. I know that I have to try to figure out some kind of middle ground, some bar setting skills that are not so cruel and remorseless. I have to find a way to put one foot in front of the other and see where that takes me, without looking up for the bigger and better dream all the time. Because, and I know this down to my boots, I need to live life at a pace that can be sustained by me without lots of support, because support won’t always be available. I need to find a way to live my life that makes me happy, that allows for more moments of ordinary grace, that gives me room to BE without always trying to be more. I need to find a lower bar and be ok with that.

I am Emerging – slowly – from this safe little hideaway. I am learning to put down the heavy burden of expectation. I am unravelling all the ideas, the beliefs, the un-lived lives – to see what remains at the end.

And that’s the journey my friends.

That is the journey.

She Walks In Beauty

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Grace. It moves invisibly in our being and, at spectacularly awkward moments, abandons us completely. Such is the way of all things which rely on our free will.

I have this friend. She has grace in spades. I suspect she does not know it. A simple afternoon with her always reminds me of how generous is this grace in her. How she handles the rough curves of her life and still holds on to her soft and gracious heart. Even in the midst of true heartache and loss.

She is strong and so very kind. I am blessed indeed that she sees goodness in me and shares her love with me. I do not give nearly so much as she does but, as with all true meetings of the Soul, I get so much more in return than I truly deserve.

I watch her woodsy green eyes fill up as she talks about her struggles. They are not major by many peoples standards, I am sure, but they cut her sweetness to the quick. I tell her it is not her fault. She has done nothing wrong. Her honesty, her desire to be transparent, open, real, can sometimes be a challenge to others. But she can be nothing else and she does not need to try. I love her rawness. I love her fudgey insides. I love that vulnerability even when it discomfits me. I am grateful that she has the courage to be so in a world where few people can do the same. She does not know what a gift it is especially when it costs her so much sometimes. This is her grace.

I sit with the edges of her sadness caressing my skin and feel lucky that I am here. That I am able to reassure her of her truth. I know that I am right. Hopefully she does too.

There are always more smiles than tears in our friendship. We share so much more than an equally wicked sense of humour. I am seen by her. That is a rare indeed. I am nourished by our connection and always I am left with a desire to let my grace flow more freely. To be more vulnerable and embrace the uneasiness it provokes in me. She does that to people.

So now as I sit and wind my way home, I feel sated with my brush with grace. Filled by her twinkling and her thirst for honest communication. And so, though one precious door has closed firmly in her face, I would like to remind her that mine will always be open to her. Just like my heart.

Here’s to you Lausy

I love ya.

Oooh Look! Something Shiny…

Pocket Detail

Pocket Detail

Well, if you are anything like me, those are the things that distract the most – shiny, pretty things that make your little heart go pitter pat. I’ve been getting mighty distracted recently, let me tell you. At least it’s creative distraction – or that’s what I tell myself anyway.

I am in deep with Pinterest. Seriously. If they were loan sharks, I’d be quadruply  screwed and about to wear some seriously heavy (and unattractive) boots underwater. I cannot seem to drag myself away from all the shiny pretty things that other people pin and that make me go ‘Ooooh! Must. Make. (Be. Do. Bake). That! Worse is that I have friends on Pinterest who have wonderful taste and every time they pin something, well, I simply must repin it. I LOVE Pinterest with the giddy passion of someone who goes all limp and drools with ecstasy at the mere sight of a free tutorial. I have THOUSANDS of pins. As my hubble likes to continually point out. His favourite question is, “When are you actually going to get around to using these pins?” And that’s a fair point. But the truth is that I DO use them. All the time. I cook from them, bake from them, make pretty clothese from them. And to prove that I am not simply just a slack-jawed mouth breather who does no more than grin inanely at the screen pressing, ‘Pin It’ at regular intervals – I created a board especially for things I have actually made from my pins. That should shut the hubble up nicely, especially as some of those pins are food related. Nobody can rag on you with their mouth full.

So – do check out what I have been doing and what I think of the things that I have tried. It’s really pin-teresting… har de har har. Here’s the wee linky:

I won’t reveal exactly how long it took me to get back to this page after I left to get the above link. It’s too embarrassing. Instead I will give you a link to the tutorial I used to make the above skirt. Go here if you like it enough to make one for your own wee girlie. The pocket was from the Market Skirt tutorial at MADE. I recommend her site too. She’s a genius!

Apart from that, I’ve been doing a fair bit of repurposing. I finally got around to cutting up and making something funky with my favourite (accidentally felted) striped wool jumper. The wee Bear now has funky new trews to dance in.

Stripey Bum

Stripey Bum

Funky Front

Funky Front

I swear, he’s not possessed. Just camera flare. Honest.

The jumper also made a couple of cosy winter hats for the kidlets and I even managed to create a little flower out of the leftovers to decorate Beanies hat. I’ll try and get photo’s of them wearing their hats soon. It’s certainly getting towards that kind of cold up here. I’ve extended the legs of a favourite pair of Beanie’s dungarees, so she can wear them without discomfort and I’ve added an extra couple of inches to one of her denim skirts, so that she can wear it a bit longer. Now that I know how to do this kind of stuff, I can see myself never having to throw things away again. That could get messy.

Beanie, Bear and I also spent some time dipping the beautiful autumn leaves in beeswax (to preserve their colour) and hanging them up in our dining room. They make quite the pretty garland and I can chalk up another thing from my pins to my ‘done it’ board. Good Kitty.

Knitting wise I’m busy working Beanie’s Nova dress. I would have been close to doing the sleeves by now but unfortunately, I made a mistake and had to unpick several inches of knitting, a now familiar pastime for this rookie knitter. I will eventually re-pick up my tea leaves cardigan and figure out what the hell I did wrong – or, you know, frog it completely and start again. There’s always that option. I’m also about to start on the Hudson Hat from Ravelry. It’s too cute (and too cold) for my boy to go about hatless and I have just the loveliest wool, so there will no doubt be pictures ad nauseum about that when its complete.

So I’ll leave you with these shiny pretties and be on my way. I’ve been up since around 4.30am doing the resettling sleep thing with Bear. He seems to think that 4.30am is a perfectly good time to get up and want breakfast. I disagree.

Until next time.

Un-Medicating Mamma


Holy Mother,

I hardly know where to begin. I have had absolutely no desire to write. Not just here but anywhere, and if you knew me well enough, you would know that this can only signify Bad Things.

I have, of course, been busy with life, the universe and everything. My wee Bear approaches two (TWO!) with unseemly haste, my Beanie girl has started school and is loving it as only a preppy can. The hubble and I have decided to up sticks and move to Maine (in America! – more on this later), and I have been squashing in any crafty bigs of goodness, sewing, knitting, needle felting etc, that I can manage. Bear and I have just come back from four days in a ‘sleep school’ *sigh*. I don’t know how I feel about any of that to be honest. It was a desperate attempt by a desperately tired and resentful mamma to get some much needed sleep for the wee man and, more importantly, myself. And – three weeks ago – I decided to come of the anti-depressants.

I know. And I have felt like I have nothing to say.

I guess I just don’t want to re-cover old, OLD, ground about how difficult I have found this mothering journey etc. Yet I am still so stuck in this place of extreme tiredness and, often, desperation for things to change, to turn a corner, to improve. And the truth is, the medication has only served to separate me even further from my true emotions. I have difficulty identifying how I really feel at any given moment. As someone who detaches emotionally when things get tough, or threaten to overwhelm, this is not a better scenario at all. In fact, it has been interesting to note just how far back into myself I had retreated. I reduced my dose by half and suddenly there I was again. Not in a happy, clappy, all is well kind of way. But neither in a mad, bad and dangerous to know kind of way. So that’s, if not fine, then manageable. In fact, my (super awesome) therapist (also called Kat) noticed the difference straight away. And yes, the emotions have come flooding back to the surface. They are not comfortable emotions – rage, anger, resentment, grief, sadness, guilt – the usual all star performers in a mother’s emotional repertoire – but they are real. And, for some reason, that’s ok with me. The week after I reduced my dose, I cried for the first time in at least 9 months, if not longer.

In some ways its been interesting to experience the anti D’s. I am someone who will try all alternative and natural remedies before I finally give in to medication, for the most part at least, yet the meds did take the edge of the unbearable anxiety I felt at times. They even kept the lid more securely on the simmering pot of my anger. They did NOT help me process that anger though and so, here I am, a year and a half later, still simmering, still struggling to find a way through these tempestuous emotions and still fighting to escape the attention of this big black dog that has been following me for nearly six years.

And yet.

There is a subtle shift. It’s not visible yet, merely a sort of soft haze around my consciousness telling me that things are changing. My therapist is helping me to investigate a little and yes, I am still Miss Resistance 2012 – (retaining my crown since 2006!), but I am showing up and being called to pay attention. And I am so ready for this part of my life to be over. I am ready to walk in the sunshine of motherhood finally and to really connect to my babes. I am ready to find more mature ways to handle my frustrations, my anger and my resentment.

Sleep school has helped a little in this. It has at least helped me see how attached my son has become to me being his pacifier. He wakes every hour or two to reassure himself that I am still there (and I always am) and goes back to sleep with a gentle pat and some loving words. And now I don’t have to boobie feed him every time he wakes. We have weaned him from his during the night feeds (which were comfort not nourishment) and his during the day feeds, which, as he approached two, feels right. Sadly, the night waking has increased in frequency as he adjusts to this new approach but I am hopeful that with some gentleness and yes, some firmness, he will learn to sleep without my constant presence and that will do us both the world of good. Seriously, don’t underestimate the damaging power of long term sleep loss. It is NOT good. So my attachment parenting approach has taken a bit of a battering recently but I would rather let go of some of that, than continue to be the Banshee mother that this much chronic sleep loss has created. It’s five and a half years and counting since I had any kind of regular sleep pattern or uninterrupted sleep. I think I’m going to let myself off the guilt, just this once!

As to other things, like Maine, I guess I just finally reached a point where I knew that I needed to be back in the Northern Hemisphere again, for a while at least. The opportunity to move there came about through my husband. He finally found an agency he wants to work at in Portland and so we are in the process of negotiating the who, what, where, when, why and how much of the move. I honestly cannot wait. I cannot wait to see snow. I cannot wait to have the seasons in the right order again, to celebrate Hallowe’en in true crazy over the top American style, to feel Christmassy right up till the day and maybe even a little after it. I cannot wait to have an adventure, even though I know it will be tought to uproot, leave behind my many, hard won, deeply loved friends here and my support network of family. I will be more alone in Maine than I have been before, but I will also be experiencing something new. Hopefully, I will be able to connect with other crafty mammas and forge connections that will be nourishing and fun and enjoy time away from my Southern Hemisphere home.

So much change is in the air. So many things to be thankful for. So much to prepare for. It’s good. It’s scary. It’s exciting. I think life is good when it’s like that, don’t you?

Until next time. Here’s some pretty pictures of what I have been doing with my (complete lack of) time.

Leaving Behind Nothing But…

Tread gently...

This is what happens when you leave a 4.5 yr old alone with a full tube of glitter. And then her mamma can’t resist joining in. Beanie’s feet are more visible than mine but I still had sparkly toes for a few days. Glitter seems to be water resistant!

This is what Beanie looked like after our little shennanigans.

Gold Fingers (and toes)

These little piggies.

And a good time was had by all.