Jack: 2 Years 11 month (AKA 3 years old) snapshot.

Jack you're almost three. That's bananas. You are your own person now. You have definitive opinions on life. You know the way you want things. You know exactly what you like and what you don't like. You talk from sun up to sun down. You're inquisitive, smart, humorous and exhausting. You're a fan of telling people how to do things. If I had a sudden amnesiac fugue I have no doubt you would put me straight and tell me exactly how to prepare your chicken nuggets, tie my shoes, drive the car, sleep etc. Speaking of sleep.....

Sleep: You go to bed at 8:30. Ok I'm lying. We PUT you to bed at 8:30 and a lot of the time you have reasons why you can't go to bed. You need a tissue. You need a drink. The smoke detectors beeping. P.S its not beeping. Your closet door is open. We left your shoes in your room. You don't have the right book in bed. You have a boo-boo on your left leg that needs repeated kissing. I am happy to report you are getting a lot better with this though. We know it's a lot. You are in a new place, you have a new brother, you don't go to daycare anymore, we took away your pacifier 4 months ago. We are cutting you some slack. It seems to be working. Either way we love you but seriously GO TO SLEEP. Oh and when you wake up in the morning? You come running into our room and make us watch Cars. Is it that you think we are missing out because we are sleeping? "Mom, open your eyes, you need to watch this!" Jack, I am going to let you in on a little secret. I have watched Cars 3,948,576,903,857,600 times. I close my eyes and see Cars. I wake up in the middle of the night and have the urge to belt out, "LIFE IS A HIGHWAY, I WANT TO RIDE IT ALLLLL NIGHT LONG!"

Play: You just discovered Legos on the Xbox. You love to play with your Dad. You are insanely good for not knowing what the hell you are doing. You have erased the game from our hard drive 3 times. You love to build with your blocks, paint, color, blow bubbles. You also love to dust. You are the best big brother. You like to play with Wes. You are gentle and kind. you like to make Wes laugh. It makes my heart melt.

Eating:
Foods you eat:
chicken nuggets
vanilla yogurt (all other flavors apparently have bugs in them)
homemade waffles (but not pancakes or french toast and syrup is gross)
hot dogs
bananas
french fries (but not the ones I make you....sigh)
bread
cheese (American only. That sound you hear is your mother banging her head on the table)
pasta (don't look now but your eating whole wheat pasta kid. Mooohahahaha)
english muffins
peanut butter
watermelon
crackers
mac and cheese
calimari (I think you would eat a shoe if it were deep fried)

Foods you wont eat:
everything else ever invented.

Mostly I sort of wring my hands at your food situation. I have tried virtually all tricks and sneaky attempts to increase your nutrition and you have thwarted my every attempt. You won't eat ketchup, ranch, ice cream, banana bread, or juices. You won't drink smoothies because they are too cold. You told me that you only eat raisins at Neema's house. I worry that you'll get rickets or scurvy or some weird medieval disease.

Speech: You talk a lot. You are learning all your letters and numbers. You can pretty accurately tell me what each letter is. Sometimes you are easier to understand than other times. Sometimes I think you speak Finnish...or maybe you're secretly German. Your favorite word right now is "Schtum." We don't know what it means. I am fairly certain you don't know what it means either. It has become our households catch all word. "Pass me that schtum will ya?" "Will you get this schtum out of my way?" "Ouch I stubbed my schtum!" You get the picture. Schtum gets a lot of use around this joint. Watch it be some totally crass swear word and we are yelling it from sun up to sun down. Oh well. this week we had a ten minute argument about how something wasn't your fault. It suddenly dawned on me that you wanted it to be your fault because you thought it was a good thing.

Me: "Its ok its not your fault. "
You: "No it's MY fault."

Lather, rinse, repeat. I am embarrassed at how long we argued about this.

Here are my favorite Jack-isms from this week.
"Mom are you having a wrong day?"
"Mom is cranky. She needs coffee. That make her feel better."
"I'm not bossy, I'm bratty!

I love you Jack. Never change. Keep being you. Keep your curiosity and love of the world.

Boys will be boys

I know that I am outnumbered in my home. The male to female ratio in my house is not in my favor. It's not like I want to watch The Notebook, have tea parties, and put the boys in pink tutus, but it would be nice to every once in awhile have a conversation about something other than farts, cars, poop and Legos. I actually really love being a Mom to two boys. I love the way they are starting to play together. I get all warm and fuzzy thinking about them playing catch in the back yard. That being said there are times that the reality of being out numbered smacks me right in the face. Yesterday Jack walked by a magnet we have had on our fridge forever. He apparently had never noticed it before and yesterday it caught his eye. He walked by the fridge and then did a double take said, "Look Dad, a boob!" Classic male. This afternoon while putting him down for his nap I was about to leave his room when he said, "wait, wait, wait, Mom! I have to fart and I want you to hear it before you leave." Wow. Oh wow. Its like I suddenly felt the house get more male. I swear the house grunted, blew a snot rocket and started barbecuing. Get me some pink nail polish and a kitten, stat! We need some estrogen in this joint.

Wes: 5 month snapshot of life

No, I haven't perfected my nap time tranq dart that's just Wes being Wes. Oh Wes, my darling sweet Wes. You are such an easy going baby that you didn't even make a peep when you were tired and you just conked out right in the jumperoo. Sometimes I wish my life were that simple again. Then again I like being able to coordinate my movements, talk, and well, I am pretty attached to using the bathroom rather than voiding myself every 30 minutes.

Sleep: You like it but you don't LOVE it. You sleep three hour stretches at night if I am lucky. Sometimes you wake up and just want to chat. Sometimes I want to explain to you that its 3am and not time to discuss world events. Or sing. You mostly don't care. Here is the good news: You are totally content to just talk to yourself! Or maybe you are secretly carrying on with the walls of your co-sleeper. Who knows. As long as I can sleep in three hour stretches I am happy. You're still swaddled every night. We flirted with taking the swaddle away but you kept punching yourself and scratching your eyes out. You will be 35 before we experiment with removing your restraint garment.

Play: You like your jumperoo but mostly you love your brother. You also like my hair. Or hate it. Either way you grab it a lot. You love your hands and sometimes eat them so much that you make yourself gag and then you puke. You don't seem to mind. You like to play on your play mat. You would eat paper if I let you. I don't.

Eating: You haven't started solids yet but they're coming. No, paper doesn't count as a food. Hair doesn't either. Oh, and that cheese from in between your little chubby hands? Sorry that isn't considered edible either.

You are the sweetest baby that ever existed. You are happy as a clam 99% of the time and when you aren't its pretty easily resolved. I love you, hand cheese and all.

Lesson #6 Guilt...virtual and otherwise

Lesson #6


I can feel guilty about anything. Anything. I feel guilty that I have pairs of socks I don't wear often enough. They're perfectly good I tell myself why don't I wear them more often? Are they lonely in that drawer? Am I really having this conversation with myself about socks? Oh my God its come to this. I am having internal conversations about SOCKS. I need a hobby. I know! A hobby where I can wear more socks!

Guilt can have a stunningly cumulative effect on ones life. My experience with guilt is that it's a slippery slope. Before you know it you are feeling guilty about having a name no one can ever spell correctly (it's not that hard people!), apologizing to your children for not cutting the crusts off their sandwiches, watering the plants (“You're going to feel bad when the Earth has no water in 2034 and be all, “I shouldn't have watered the damn plants”) and so on. When I became a mom my love hate relationship with guilt intensified. There is nothing like parental guilt. You can easily be consumed by the hundreds of decisions you have to make each and every day about the well being of your child and come to grips with the reality that you just can't control everything. Sometimes you can't control one thing, let alone everything. As a parent, I know I have felt guilt over the minor to the major including delaying solids, getting vaccines, daycare, diaper rashes, pacifier use, falls etc. The list could go on and on. I have become keenly aware that there are no do overs and as Eminem would say, “success is my only option.” I just quoted Eminem in a post about parenting. "And the parent of the year award goes to: …......." I did edit it though. He used some other colorful language. He's right though. Success is your only option when you are a parent so I think that plays a large part in my recurrent guilt about the job I am doing. Recently, I have been experiencing two recurrent guilt trips. One seems valid and the other seems insane. I feel guilty that I haven't kept up the boys baby books. I haven't been dutifully cataloging important life events in the way a doting mother should. I started a baby book when I had Jack but stopped at the part that wanted me to chart his teeth and when they grew in. I still feel guilty that I stopped. I imagine him picking the book up one day and looking at me and with a choked voice saying, “Mom, when did my left incisor grow in? You just stopped right here in the book.....I have no documentation of molar growth! You are the worst mother ever!” And then he would go cry and hide in the bushes or something. Ok so while I know that sounds completely asinine I do picture him being disappointed that I wasn’t more caring. More attentive to documentation. Cue the blog! This has been my virtual attempt at guilt reversal. My other and less valid guilt trip has been that I don't spend enough time with my children. In case you don't know I am now a stay at home mom. I spend virtually all waking time with my children. I have a 5 month old who doesn't go more than 2-3 hours in between feedings around the clock and yet I feel guilty that I don't spend enough time with my kids? There is no explanation other than: Guilt is a crazy beast, man. It can crawl inside your head and just set up shop. My guilt monster is pretty happy these days and quite frankly I need to kick his sorry ass to the curb. My plan to avoid baby book guilt is to just document the crap out of stuff here. The things that looking back my kids would want to know about. The funny things they say, the milestones, and even the times they drove me to the brink and back. Every time the guilt beast starts up I just remind myself that I CAN feel guilty about something but I don't have to. In the words of a dear old friend, you just don't have to believe everything you think. Amen.

Lesson #5 Animals are weird....but so are we

One of my earliest childhood memories is a trip I must have taken to a zoo. I remember riding on some sort of double-decker tour bus and I distinctly remember feeling the wind in my hair. The bus stopped in front of the gorilla exhibit and the tour guide started to tell us about the gorillas. One gorilla, who was clearly the head honcho, had mostly gray hair. He was running back and forth in his cage. He wanted us to know he was pretty awesome. I think gorilla for awesome is running back in forth in your cage. Either way he was definitely strutting his stuff. Suddenly he stopped running and he cocked his head to the side as if he was listening to the tour guide. He then put his hand to his butt and proceeded to defecate in his hand. Its what memories are made of people. Gorillas, feces, you know, the good stuff. So Gramps the gorilla then takes said handful and starts to smell it, and then, wait for it......wait for it........takes a bite. I remember feeling so confused and baffled. What in the sam hell was this dude doing? Gramps's grand finale was to hurl said handful at the tour bus. Pretty sure that wasn't in the brochure but maybe I didn't read the back. I learned pretty clearly that day that animals can be really weird. I mean really weird. Over the years I have learned that people can be weirder. The thing is we are all weird. I am not saying we are all secretly shit slingers, pardon my French, but that really no one is immune from being human. We are all weird. It's true, some weirder than others, but weird none the less. I spent a lot of my teen and adults years thinking that I was the only one who was weird and that most people were normal. I thought for a very long time that people were effortlessly put together and as nice as pie first thing in the morning. For a time I struggled with feeling like a failure because I wasn't like everyone else. I didn't have shiny hair, I didn't look cute first thing in the morning, I would forget to floss, I looked retarded in skinny jeans, I didn't get jazz, and the list could just go on and on. Accepting that we all are human and therefore imperfect was a hard lesson for me to learn and one I am still learning. So every time you start to beat yourself up about being weird just remind yourself that as long as your not hurling human waste there are other beings in this world weirder than you, in fact being weird is probably more normal than you think!

Since when do turtles have hair?

You know how they say that people start to look like their pets? Or is it that people pick pets that look like them? Well either way I think Wes and his toy turtle are seeing the same hair stylist. While I am willing to suspend reality enough to allow for the turtle to have a mirror in his belly, I just can't get on board with the hair. Wes sure does love his little hairy turtle buddy though.

File this under things I shouldn't have to say twice...or once

Ever have those moments where you can't really believe you just said that? I routinely find myself saying something and then thinking, "did that really just come out of my mouth?" Inevitably when you find yourself spouting random sentences at your little one someone is bound to be listening. Those people will invariably give you weird looks. Ignore them.

"We don't monkey with butts in this house!" (So people in other houses monkey with butts? What in the hell was I thinking on this one...I used the word butt AND I had just opened the window and I am sure someone on the block heard me holler this delightful number.)

"We don't lick fans." (brothers, socks, floors)

"No I didn't just poop, I said I AM pooped. Never mind. I'm tired.

"Let's not discuss your butt in Target."

Overheard in the Kelley household

Captain Safety: There are opportunities to move to pretty cool places. We could go to Copenhagen for 3 years!

Me: I don't want to move. I don't want to live in Copenhagen. I mean the kids would have to go to school in a foreign country.

Captain Safety: Jack do you want to move to Denmark?

Jack: Yeah, wait I need my shoes. (runs grabs shoes) Mom? You stay here mom, we going to Kenmark. Bye!

Sigh.....And no. We are NOT moving. Unless of course we are told we have to move. :)

Life Lesson #4: Common sense....or lack there of

I just purchased my child a robot hamster. Or gerbil. I don't know what it does, or why it will be fun, but Jack seemed pretty interested in it and, well, they were on clearance. That and his birthday is coming up. See how I can find an excuse to do anything? The pictures on the box lead me to believe that my goal in purchasing said robotic rodent is to to build some sort of hamster armed forces. I knew the house was missing something but I just couldn't put my finger on it. There is also a warning label on it that cautions me to avoid playing with it near my hair. Well there goes my whole Saturday night. I was going to let the Zhu Zhu pet style my hair. Damn.

This can only end in disaster. You see, the truth is, I don't really have good luck with warning labels. I find them completely ridiculous and tend to ignore them. I pretty emphatically believe that you just have to use common sense in life. Want to get cranked on some Vicodin and joy ride on a tractor while sipping a Robitussin cocktail? Go for it but don't come whining back to me when you lose a leg-it's just common sense. Here is the thing: Sometimes I lack common sense which is why maybe I should use the warning labels as a reboot to my common sense meter. Take for instance the time I managed to get my entire face stuck to the side of an ice cream maker. You see I was handling the inner metal core of the machine which had been frozen solid for a week. I rinsed my hands and without thinking picked it up. Wham! Both hands were locked solid on that puppy. Lacking the ability to operate the sink I immediately had the ingenious idea to spit on my hands to free them. Sadly this just resulted in getting my mouth stuck on the machine too. I wildly looked around for someone or something to help get my face off the ice cream maker. Ok, wow, that was never a sentence I thought I would type in my life. My poor mother, who was on the phone with someone in Japan for business, was the lucky winner and I asked her to get me unstuck.

Me: “uhn... UHNNNNNNN....I dam duck.....het deeeeeeee (that's help me when you have your face stuck to something. Write this down, you might need it someday if you find yourself translating for someone in a similar predicament)

Mom: On the phone: “Oh! Um can you hold on a second?”
“HAHAHA what the?”

Commence dousing with kitchen sink sprayer. Thank goodness for sink sprayers. This did the trick and I was freed. I should have read the warning label. I should have just used some darn common sense. Lesson learned! Or wait, have I really learned that lesson? I just bought myself a robotic hamster that has the capability to leave me with bald patches. Get that Zhu Zhu pet away from my hair kid, that is one warning label that I might just be paying attention to.

Learn something simple. Lesson #3

Ok, so if you have been reading we are now up to life lesson numero tres. Thus far I have learned how to unclog a drain, but really, just cope with my hair. Additionally, I have accepted my complete inability to ambulate gracefully and for me the lesson has been to play to my strengths and just sort of get used to tripping over imaginary curbs. So basically the good news for you, is that if you're trapped on a desert island with me, I can unclog our imaginary drains and break my neck collecting our dinner of sea urchins. I'm also fairly certain that my hair could be fashioned into some sort of flotation device so we have that going for us too.

So on to lesson number three. While pregnant with Wes, (now 5 months) I was put on bed rest. Bed rest sounds romantic. It sounds relaxing. Its not. I was allowed to get up and pee but that was pretty much it. I did a lot of day dreaming about doing things while on bed rest. One particular day dream was what I would make my house look like once I got off of bed rest. I would fantasize that I would re-organize my linen closet, scrub my tub, vacuum for three hours straight etc. I was virtually nesting if you will. In one such day dream I decided once I was given the free and clear I would learn once and for all how to fold a damn fitted sheet. I mean, really, it can't be that hard, can it? So I googled You-Tube videos on folding fitted sheets. It had come to this my dear friends. Me, my couch, my laptop, and endless You-Tube videos of super chipper southern women showing me how to fold sheets. Pretty scary stuff. The medical community doesn't really educate you about this side effect of bed rest that's for damn sure. Bed sores? Dizziness? Yep those are talked about but not once was I warned that I would start obsessively tracking down how to fold things correctly. In one of the videos the woman instructing me says, "one of the biggest challenges you are going to face in your life is folding a fitted sheet." Really? Seriously? I think not. I took it as a challenge. So once I was cleared from bed rest I sat down to fold my first fitted sheet the correct way. I really don't recommend doing this nine months pregnant. The long and short of it was that I learned how to fold a fitted sheet and now when I open my linen closet I feel happy instead of crabby. I think learning how to do something simple, really well, can only serve to make you happier. Think about it. If you learn how to do something you have always wanted to be better at then every time you perform said task you are bound to feel better.


What are you wanting to master?

Curious about what video I watched? Here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Z5k9nWcuFc

Oh how the mighty hath fallen....

Most pictures of Wes seem to indicate that his hair sort of has a mind of its own. It kind of does its own thing. It doesn't really like to follow rules or obey the basic laws of gravity. Its kind of a rebel like that. Honestly, I derive more joy from Wes's hair than is probably normal, but lets face it, its just fun to see what the heck his hair is doing on any given day. Talk about the circle of life, its like my hair legacy is complete. My children have hit the genetic jackpot so far on traits inherited from Mom. Crazy hair? Check. Inability to walk a straight line? Check, check.

Fast forward to this morning when I realized Wes's hair was looking decidedly like hair. It was doing a normal hair thing and just sitting on top of his head. It wasn't pulling an Alfalfa, wafting in the breeze, or swooping. I knew there would be a day when Wes's plumage would fall. What was once part partridge, part peacock, was now just minimal blue jay.

I decided to post today to pay tribute to the swoop that has defined my sweet baby's head for the last 5 months but in some sort of weird and eerie twist the swoop has revived itself-while writing this post. Its as if it can hear my inner most thoughts, or read my blog, or maybe, just maybe, you just can't hold this kids hair down.

3 going on 83

Jack's latest string of excuses at bedtime. I am not making this up. I just couldn't even come up with the random assortment of reasons why he needs to delay falling asleep. I have taken the liberty of estimating the average age of someone who utters these phrases.

1: My eyeball hurts (85)
2: My back hurts (73)
3: The smoke detector is beeping (PS it wasn't) (3 or a deaf 78 year old-your choice)
4: My shoes aren't in the closet (3)
5: You left the closet door open when you put the shoes away (3)
6: I picked the wrong CD and need to put in different music (3)
7: I'm wearing the wrong pajamas (3)
8: I have to play two more levels because I am about to beat this game (18)

Preparing Jack's bed for his bedtime is an elaborate ritual in and of itself. I am quite certain that with just a quick glance even a novice psychologist would conclude that the bed belongs to someone with a raging case of OCD. Let me be clear. Jack does not have OCD, but like many other almost three year olds, needs his surroundings to be a certain way. The right pajamas need to be worn, his pieces of flair (IE: 42 stuffed animals) need to be appropriately arranged, the right amount of tissues need to be present and easily locatable, his sippy cup must be full of water, pillow appropriately fluffed, closets shut, door to the room open, books in alphabetical order arranged by category. Ok, so I made that last one up, but you get the idea. I'll give him points for creativity but that's about it.

According to my latest mathematical calculations and based on his average use of the above excuses my best estimate is that Jack is actually 104.

What excuses from your little one drive you nuts?

In my head I am a really good dancer.

In my head I am a really good dancer. I can tap dance, samba, do a little ballet and on really good days I can bust out a fierce Irish step dance. In real life I am movement challenged. I could trip and break an ankle just getting out of bed. In fact, I routinely walk into my bedroom wall on the way to the bathroom. Its just that things (IE: walls) kind of creep up on me. I would be lying if I told you that I haven't fallen into a couple of bushes in this lifetime. Once I was walking into work and the strap on my flip flop broke which of course sent me reeling into a large hedge. The hardest part wasn't the fall. It wasn't that someone had witnessed my fall, or that the only thing they could think to say was, "Oh wow...WOW," it was trying to get out of the bush. You can't really get out of a bush gracefully. People will tell you that you can do anything with grace, but they're full of it. Take for instance the time that I managed to tear my left quad putting away a monopoly game. Yes you heard that correctly. I just stooped to put the game away and BAM I was screaming, “man down.” I don't know that I can accurately capture the humiliation of being taken out of your living room on a stretcher because of a Monopoly injury, but friends, I have felt that shame. My dear husband insisted 911 was the only course of action to take. I still haven't forgiven 'Captain Safety.'

So I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that Jack has inherited my intense inability to coordinate limbs when in motion. Tonight Jack wanted to add some water to our backyard pond. We indulged him and let him monkey with the hose for a bit. I then told him it was time to put the hose away because the small pond was full. REALLY full. He didn't want to listen to what I had to say and started to jump up and down and screaming. Come to think of it, it sort of looked like Irish step dancing, only with a lot more yelling. Before you know it, Jack is butt first in the pond. I have never wanted to say, "see, I told you so," more in my life but I restrained myself and fished him out. Life lesson number 42: Do not jump, stomp, or even yell near any standing water. Sorry Jack, we're just not coordinated enough to pull it off. Trust me, I have been in a couple of bushes. I know these things.

Do you have something you wish your kids DIDN'T inherit from you?

Time marches on

Jack is learning the concept of time. He is struggling to learn that time is defined only by certain numbers. This morning he said in earnest, "open your eyes mom its 3:89." I told him it was 6 and that it was too early to wake up. He didn't really like my answer.

Yesterday he woke up after his nap and asked why it wasn't darker out. I told him that it doesn't get darker until its later in the day and he said, "well mom it needs to get nighter out."

Me thinks someone wasn't ready to wake up from his nap.

My name is Lily and I have hair trauma

I have a weird relationship with my hair. I used to have really bad hair. I mean REALLY bad hair. It was short which made the hair in the back really straight and the hair in the front super curly. People often thought I was a guy. Are you a boy or a girl isn't really a question you want to field at any time in your life. I used to have a hair dresser who would wildly exclaim after cutting my hair, “don't be afraid to fluff it up!” I had a bad 80's mom 'do and I was only 13. I didn't really want big fluffy hair. I wanted normal hair. You know, hair you can just throw up in a pony tail and with no effort at all look chic and polished. So now, I am pretty attached to having longer hair, but my hair is just nuts. My children are straight up scared of my hair. If I wear my hair down Jack will usually say, “Mom put that hair away.” It's big, bushy and it gets everywhere. I pick long strands off of the baby's hands, find hair stuck to my sock, find balls of it in the dryer vents; its just epic. It's a hair-pocalypse, people. If you have hair like mine you know that the drain is your worst enemy. I am pretty sure that if a beaver found just two strands of my hair it would be so excited it would give its beaver buddies little beaver high fives. Just two strands of my hair and the dam would be complete. Air tight. Nothing would break through that bad Larry. Entire wigs could be fashioned out of the hair I pull from my drain. Gross? Totally. Because my hair endeavors to take over my house like creeping Ivy I perform a little drain maintenance every month to keep clogs at bay. I take some baking soda and pour it down all of my drains. I then chase it with vinegar and get excited because it bubbles up. Fizzy stuff is pretty awesome. If you have hair like mine you are going to want to use liberal amounts of both baking soda and vinegar. I let that hang out for awhile and then chase it with some really hot water. If its a shower or tub drain I will sometimes pour boiling water down if I am in the mood. Don't use the boiling water though if you have older pipes. Its bad. I don't know why, but it is. This little 7th grade science experiment, turned drain maintenance technique, has saved me a lot of work (and chemicals) over the last couple of years. It was my first thought when I asked myself what I had learned over the last 30 years.

I am now an adult....please hold all applause until the end of our program

This is not a test. This is not a dress rehearsal. I am now a full fledged adult.
I have the bills, kids, marriage and age to prove it. I can no longer flirt with the idea that I am a "young" mom. It seems silly that turning one year older would really make any huge difference. It seems silly that turning 30 would somehow make me feel older or wiser but the truth is that in a weird way it does. Except that I just feel older. Not wiser. I couldn't stop asking myself, "Lily, what the heck have you learned about life in the last 30 years?" My first response to said voice inside my head was, "I know how to unclog a drain using baking soda!" The voice was not content with this proclamation and so I had the idea to document 30 things I have learned over the last 30 years. So here it is all trapped in a bloggy blog for your viewing pleasure. The truth is I have been thinking about writing for awhile. When I say awhile I mean a realllllly long time. The problem has always been me. You see whenever I think of the idea of writing on a blog I sort of internally cringe. Who would want to know what the hell I am thinking about? Why would anyone care to hear from me? So I am turning that idea on its head and convincing myself that this is just a vessel to capture life's moments-the good, the bad, the indifferent.