Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones But Names Are Worse Than Poison

Somebody posted the following YouTube video on Facebook today.  I don't tend to watch many videos that my friends post, mainly because I don't have a lot of time to spend on Facebook, but today I took a chance and I ended up crying my eyes out.  

Something that I don't tend to talk about is that my (later) childhood years were riddled with cruelties inflicted upon me by my peers.  I was treated like garbage on a daily basis, told I was a loser, ugly, stupid.  All of the above.  Because of this I grew up thinking I was stupid and ugly.  A freak.  Worthless.  

Before my 4th and 5th grade years, I was a relatively happy kid--I had friends, kind of enjoyed school--but then my family moved to Colorado where I was considered different.  Indeed, with my hispanic heritage I was not like the others--In 1989, when we moved to Colorado my brothers and I were the only kids of Mexican descent who attended the schools we attended.  Plus, I had glasses.  

I hate to pull the race card out and wave it around, but a lot of the mockery was race-related.  It's strange but I cannot say that my brothers had similar experiences.  They were just lucky, I guess.  

Anyway, it wasn't long before the incessant teasing caused me to be ashamed of myself.  For what, you ask?  Anything and everything.  I was wrong.  How dare I show my face in public?  How dare I speak in class?  Make friends?  Never, because who'd want to be friends with me.  I wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough, and I definitely was too disgusting to look upon.  It was these thoughts that made me retreat into myself, caused me to hate everything I was.  

I wasn't even 10 years old before I started wishing I was dead.  I didn't want to wake up in the morning, didn't want to go back to school where all I would learn each day is how my very existence was offensive.  

Fortunately for me time passed, I grew up and discovered how wrong those kids were, how wrong I was for believing them.  However it took years for me to see that I am so much more than nothing.  It took years for me to understand that I am intelligent, always have been, that I'm--bonus!--beautiful.  I learned that I matter.  


I will never know what my life would have been like had my mind not been poisoned, had I never been exposed to cruel children, and I try not to dwell upon it because my life turned out more than okay.  I am happy, I am blessed. 
  

That said, the emotional scars are still present.  I still struggle in social situations, still freak out on the inside when I hear people whispering and laughing.  I know better, that no one is talking about me, but the wounded kid inside me can't help but wonder.  

Because of my experience I pray my girls won't have to deal with playground bullies. I pray that they won't be the playground bullies. I pray they will be willing to stand up for the ones who are picked on because when I was their age I would have done anything for somebody to be on my side for once.

All I can do is teach my girls to treat everyone like they'd like to be treated and hope they actually do so. I hope that other parents are out there trying to teach their children the Golden Rule as well.

Bullying is among the worst kind of torture that can be inflicted upon a child. Yes, sticks and stones break bones, but that kind of pain goes away. You never forget all those times a whole classroom full of kids made you feel less than human while a teacher looked on.  That sort of pain does not fade.  

Stop bullying.

Michigan Winters: 50 Shades of Gray (with a Chance of Snow)

This is officially our eighth winter in Michigan.  I never thought I'd make it this far, that I'd last this long, especially during that first bitterly cold winter.  Duane and I barely survived that winter, or at least that's how it seemed, but we did and we were so glad when it was finally over.  Every single winter since has been about the same: long, bone-chilling, and so very gray due to the constant overcast.  

I used to hate going outside during these everlasting Michigan winters, and I avoided looking out the windows, for there was nothing worth seeing except for dead everything covered in dirty snow, or worse yet, no snow whatsoever.  It was oppressive, the lack of sunlight, of color, made me want to curl up and die.  Duane felt the same.

Of course we both suffer from SAD, always have, but until we moved here we'd never experienced anything like a gray Michigan winter, so our depression was so much worse here.  But there was nothing we could really do besides endure each and every one of them.  All the while we were counting down the days until winter actually ended–as winter doesn't actually end until well into spring–fantasized constantly about getting the hell out of Michigan, and envied anyone who did.

As you can see we're still here, but this winter is different from all of those others.  This time we're very much alive and kicking.  Sure, the blah colorless days and icy blasts of wind are as bad as ever, but we're alive and not just surviving.  

What's changed?  Our diets, the amount of sleep we get, the time we spend at the gym, we finally purchased a "happy light", and we cheer each other on every single morning (example: It's not unusual for either of us to say "Yay! We did it!  We got up early!  We're functioning!"  But you know what else has changed?  We have.  Our attitudes have changed.  

I don't necessarily know what's brought this change about, I suppose it has to do with the fact that we were sick of ourselves, of the pathetic non-people (robots programed to be ridiculously sad and nothing else) we became for more than half the year, every single year since moving here.  We didn't want to be those people anymore, and the economy being what it is, it's not like we could just up and move–getting a good job is difficult these days, and anyway we are so very grateful for Duane's current job.  

So yeah, we changed.  We decided to add a bit of our own color to these frigid gray days by appreciating all that we have because we are so very blessed.  See:

Blessed, amirite?

We decided to laugh instead of cry, because laughter truly is the best medicine, and honestly, we don't want our girls to look back and remember us as sad people.  They deserve more than that, deserve better, happier memories of Duane and myself.  

And sure, this change hasn't been easy.  Like I said, we have to cheer each other on.  Every morning.  We have to keep busy, otherwise time passes far too slowly.  We have to have to find humor whenever and wherever we can.  And of course we pray to get though each and every day.  It's not always easy, but we're doing it for the first time since we moved to Michigan.  

The real test comes in February, which is historically the absolute worst month for Duane and myself.  We're keeping our fingers crossed and hoping for the best.  If I remember, I'll post an update when the shortest-yet-somehow-the-longest-most-depressing-and-lame month is over.  

Dance Like Nobody is Watching (Because Nobody is Watching)

Let's just be honest here: no one visits this blog anymore, not even me.  It's just sitting here, un-updated and pathetic-like because I don't enjoy blogging all that much.  I mean, it's not like there is anything fascinating going on in Bitner Manor (and by 'Manor' I actually mean 'smallish apartment').  No big news to announce, and even if there was you can bet I'd be shouting it from the rooftops telling everyone by updating my status on Facebook.

Now that I've acknowledged the truth, embraced it, I feel freer than I have in quite a long time.  It's actually quite liberating, the fact that no one reads anything I post here.  I don't feel any pressure to be anything other than who I truly am: an opinionated mormon housewife with ADHD who--guess what?--doesn't enjoy socializing all that much (because I'm an introvert).

What I'm trying to say to all of the people who are currently not reading this right now: I'm kind of weird/sarcastic/ridiculous/prone to fits of sadness and sometimes anger, but that's cool.

What I mean is, I'm cool with all of that.  I've grown to accept that I'm not some perfect person, nor am I the type that enjoys acting as though I am perfect.  Even if I was that type of person I wouldn't be fooling anyone for very long.  Seriously folks, it's not like I'm all that coordinated.  Plus, my ADHD is a bear to deal with even when the medication is still pumping through my system, so I never really get things done on time and I've been known to say some really dumb stuff.  Fact.

But, whatevs, none of that matters because no one is reading this--yay!

Anyway, my point is, since no one is watching I'm going to be dancing like a maniac.  That's right, I'll be posting whatever I feel like posting from now on.  One day I might post about my family and other days I might captivate my non-audience with the fascinating details of my daily workout regime.  Yeah, I'm a real rebel, I know.

In the end, I hope to have a sort of journal that, if the powerless dystopia featured in NBC's Revolution doesn't actually happen, my kids or grandkids might stumble upon it and discover that I was really as strange as they remember me and they can show it to their future therapists for proof.  :)

Ten Years (And A Day) Later

Where was I on September 11, 2001?  I was at my home in New Mexico.  My husband and I had just moved there a few months prior because his company transferred him.  I was unemployed at the time, looking for a job as a legal assistant and coming up empty-handed.  Duane had just left for work and I started reading over the lesson I was to teach that upcoming Sunday at church.  This was a strange move on my part; a deviation from the usual as I, procrastinator extraordinaire, always waited until the end of the week to do so.  That morning I, for the first time in a very long time, wasn't watching the Today Show when Flight 11 crashed into the North Tower, nor was I watching when Flight 175 crashed into the South Tower.

I was ignorant of the whole situation until my mother called me, which was soon after the South Tower collapsed. 

Right away my mother asked if I was watching and I, confused by the urgent tone in her voice, asked what she was talking about.  She spat out, almost angrily, that I needed to turn on the television.  Alarmed, I did as she told me without further question.   Right away my eyes were met with live footage of a skyscraper on fire.  Still unaware of the severity of the situation, and unable to discern what city I was looking at, I asked her if it was happening in Colorado, my rationale being that that was the only reason my mother would be so frantic over a building being on fire.  She explained to me that it was one of the buildings in the World Trade Center, one of the buildings someone tried to blow up in the 90s.  She said the building just like it was also on fire but it had just collapsed a few minutes before.  I was thinking, yeah right, a building that tall collapsed in on itself.  Just now.  Uh-huh. 

Of course I didn't question my mother's sanity, I just figured she didn't see it right, or she was confused because that sort of thing did not happen.  Not in the world I lived in.    

While I was trying to figure out what was really happening, what the news anchor was saying, my mother went on to tell me that commercial airliners crashed into the buildings.  My mind couldn't quite process what she was saying, what I was watching, so I spent a few minutes convinced it was a freak accident of epic proportions, some crazy computer glitch that messed up the navigation equipment--"commercial airplane pilots don't go around crashing into buildings, not on purpose!".  Admittedly, I knew none of what I was telling myself made any sense, but neither did anything my mother was telling me, nor did the scene that was unfolding right before my eyes.

That conversation with my mother probably only lasted ten minutes or so, but due to my confusion, disbelief and horror I remember it lasting much longer.  Every moment seemed to drag by in slow motion.  Eventually I told my mother I needed to get off the phone, to call Duane--which, by the way, I didn't end up doing at first.  So we said goodbye and I just sat in front of the television, changing channels, the same burning building footage on every channel, even Telemundo--which, horrifically enough was actually showing fuzzy closeups of people falling, jumping from the building.  Stunned, I I quickly changed to ABC (and continued to watch their coverage for the rest of the day).

According to my journal entry that day, reports--not all confirmed reports, mind you, but were reported on national television nonetheless--were pouring in from everywhere of planes crashing into the Pentagon, Camp David, near an airport in Pennsylvania, a few others in Washington State.  There was even a report of a possible car bomb on the streets of Washington DC.  Nobody knew what was really going on but at that point it was clear, even to me, these were terrorist attacks.  

I came to a very important realization at that time: Not safe.  We aren't safe.  We never really were.  

This reality, so new to me, left me feeling naked; exposed; breakable.  I was sick with terror and alone.  So very alone. 

I called Duane.  I asked him if he knew what was going on and when he was going to come home--because in my head no employer would expect their employees to stay at work when the country was under attack.  He said he knew what was going on--everyone did--but he had to stay late that night as it was a Tuesday (he always had to stay late on Tuesdays--long story).  It was when I was in the middle of choking on my rage, a biting reply on the tip of my tongue, when the North Tower started to collapse.  As it crumbled I thought there was no way what I was seeing was real--because at that time I still didn't believe the South Tower had fallen, regardless of what I'd been told.  I thought there was no way it was going to completely collapse.  I thought it was going to stop halfway down.  I needed it to stop.  Prayed for it to stop.  Begged for it to stop.

About five seconds into the collapse I finally accepted that it wasn't going to stop, that it would fall all the way to the ground.  I started sobbing and shouting.  I was yelling at Duane, telling him what was happening.  Telling him that Peter Jennings had just said, minutes before I called Duane, that the New York City firefighters are known for staying in the building until the last moment.  That there were probably a ton of firefighters and civilians left in that building and that they were killed--murdered--right before my eyes and the United States was under attack, and I needed him.

The moments it took for the north tower to collapse felt like...I don't know how long.  Too long.  Not long enough--it still feels wrong so many lives were snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

I don't really remember what happened next.  The next couple hours are a blur, in retrospect I believe I was in shock at the time.  All I know is I was glued to the television and I cried a lot.

My journal entry from that day ends with something I tend to forget about when I think about the events of that day.  I wrote about how amazing it was that the American people were uniting, that all over the United States people were rolling up their sleeves and donating blood.   People were giving money to the Red Cross and displaying American flags with pride.  Also, the church held a prayer meeting that night and we were told to pray for President Bush and his advisers.  I feel like that day ended with a glimmer of hope. 

Why am I blogging about this?  Because I need to get it out, all that I'm feeling, regardless of whether or not anyone but my children read it.  The days and months leading up to the tenth anniversary of 9/11 I tried to figure out how I would explain to my girls what happened, why 9/11 is such an important day in our nation's history and why I will never--must never--forget.

In the end I didn't really end up bringing it up other than saying the date out loud, knowing my children would not have any idea that the day was in any way significant.   Later in the evening my husband and I gave a brief explanation to our 8-year-old--whom we decided was old enough to learn about it--of what happened ten years ago, but then went on to tell her that she shouldn't worry because it happened before she was born.  You could say that we chickened out, that we minimized the importance of it all, I'm not sure I would disagree.  It's just that how does one go about really explaining such a horrific series of events to a child?  I didn't want to sit her down and show her the footage of commercial airplanes crashing into the Twin Towers, because even I have a difficult time watching that.

Don't get me wrong, I'm well aware that ten years ago every child had to deal with the reality of 9/11.  I know many children lost parents that day.  Even more children lost uncles, aunts, grandmothers, grandfathers, cousins and family friends.  Not to mention all the others who have lost a parent since then because of the ongoing war.  So what makes my children so special?  Why shouldn't they have to know too?

It's not that I want my children to be ignorant of our nation's history--Because I don't.   It's just that once they really know, once they see the events that happened that day they can't un-know any of it.  They will have to share in the nightmare.  They're too young for that sort of burden.  They're too young to know what the rest of us know; that we're not really safe.  

The attacks on 9/11 didn't just happen to the victims and their families.  It happened to every American citizen.  We all mourned--still mourn--those who lost their lives that day.  We've all have had to deal with the fallout.  We all have an opinion on the matter (for the record: I don't entertain the conspiracy theories.  I cannot.  My heart can't go there; I just don't have it in me.  And in the end, no matter what, I believe every single person who was knowingly involved in the attacks will be held accountable at the judgement bar. *shrugs*)

It doesn't seem like ten years have passed since September 11, 2001 regardless of all that has happened since then.  I've come to the conclusion that it doesn't matter how much time passes, doesn't matter how much I try to put it behind me, it will always feel like it just happened.  Wounds like that don't heal, at least not completely; the scars remain.  I can never forget. 

Wherein I Talk About My Mother

One week ago my Relief Society president asked if I wouldn't mind sharing a little something about my mother during the Mother's Day lesson.  Now I'm the first to admit that I should never speak to a room full of people because of all the anxiety it causes me, but because of the subject matter I didn't think twice before saying yes.  Why is this?  Because there is so much to say about my mother.  I could write an entire book about my mother.   Also, I like to brag about my mother every chance I get because she is made of awesome sauce.

That's right, you heard it here: my mom is made of awesome sauce.  Jealous?

 No, adorable little girl, MY MOM is cooler than your mom.  Also, I'm 100% positive she could beat up your mom, if it came down to it.  Regardless, cute shirt.  I wonder if it's available in my size?

Don't get me wrong, I haven't always felt this way about my mother.  During my turbulent teenage years, though I loved my mother very much, we were not exactly what you would call close.  We were more like enemies, or at least that's how I saw it.  Looking back I see a very patient saint of a woman doing her best to raise an idiotic teenager.  Why idiotic?  Because I honestly believed I knew everything, and I was extremely disrespectful to boot.   But enough about my former self, let's get to the topic at hand:  my mother.

This is my mom, Elida.  She's 70 and she doesn't even look it, right?  You'd never guess she's the mother of 8 kids, grandmother to 28 (33 counting the step-grandchildren, which, by the way, she does), great-grandmother to 1 (+ 1 more on the way!).

When people find out she's the matriarch to such a large family they tend to ask her if she knows everyone's names (seriously, people ask her this) and birth dates.  The answer is yes, she totally does.  Not only does she know everyone's names but she knows everyone's birth dates by heart and sends a card to each and every one of us containing a personal message (plus a little spending money because she's thoughtful like that).  But that's just the icing on the cake.


The thing is my mother has a meaningful relationship with each and every one of us.  She knows the ins and outs of our day to day lives because she's the person many, if not all of us turn to when we just need to talk.  She's a fantastic listener and really great at giving advice.  In the rare times she doesn't know how to help, she prays for the family member needing help and puts their name in the temple prayer roll.

Some of my earliest memories involve me frantically looking all over the house for my mother, calling for her yet receiving no answer.  Where was she?  What was she doing?  Kneeling at a bed.  Praying.  Every. Single. Time.    

I used to wonder why she was always praying and, though I hate to admit it, sometimes her praying would bother me because I was a very impatient kid and I had Super Important things to ask her.  Now that I am a mother whose prayers are frequently interrupted by Super Important questions I can safely say my Super Important questions probably weren't as important as I thought they were.   For the record: my prayers are often interrupted by one or more of the following (supposedly) Super Important questions: "Mom, what do guinea pigs sound like?", "Mom, can I have an ice cream sandwich for lunch?", "Mom can I have a (insert any toy here) for my birthday/Christmas?", "Mom, why won't you look at me?  Why won't you talk to me?  Moooooooom! What are you doing?", and my personal favorite, "Mom, where's my (insert any toy here)?  Wheeeeere iiiiis iiiiit?  I waaaaant it! FinditIneeditnow!"  I digress. 

As a mother of three little girls, I've come to understand why my mother was/is always praying for us.  Sometimes it's the only thing a mother can do, especially when we need to take a little break, or just need somebody to talk to when we're frustrated.  My mother told me that she even prays for strength to keep moving when she's exhausted.  Guess what?  I've tried it, and it works.

I tend to joke that my mom and Heavenly Father are likethis which is why small miracles tend to  occur when she's praying.  All kidding aside, my mother does have a close personal relationship with our Heavenly Father.  She always has a prayer in her heart because with such a large family there is always someone to pray for.  I know my family has benefited from more then our fare share of her prayers, and for that I will always be grateful. 

 My mother has a happy heart and a joyful spirit.  While I was preparing to speak about my mother I started looking through pictures of my her and I noticed she's smiling in every single one.  Even in the pictures that were taken when she's so obviously tired because she's been dealing with a stupid teenager (*cough* me *cough*), or immediately after a 20+ hour road trip in a POS car full of smelly kids.  Even all the times she didn't know someone was taking a picture of her, she's still smiling. 

She has a great sense of humor and she loves when we get together to share memories.  A favorite topic of hers?  Embarrassing moments.  My mom has some of the best embarrassing moments.  She isn't afraid to share them and encourages us to share our own embarrassing moments in turn.  We can spend a couple of hours, at least, talking and laughing about all the mortifying things that have happened to us over the years.  I love that she's always encouraged this as we've all learned how to laugh at ourselves.  I feel that we've all learned that laughing is much better than crying.

You know how Snow White's dwarfs whistle while they work?  Well my mother sings/hums church hymns while she cleans.  It's probably one of my favorite things she does because it reminds me of my childhood, when I would follow her from room to room as she cleaned up after all of us.  Also, I've started to sing while I clean--admittedly, I usually sing songs by the Killers or Regina Spektor or Mumford and Sons, but on Sundays I stick to the hymns--and even though I don't have the best singing voice, I do notice the house work tends to get done a lot faster, which is always nice.

I have a ton of other things I could say about my mother and reasons why you should be jealous, but I won't because this blog entry won't end, ever.

Before I bring things to a close I wanted to say one last thing: even though I prepared a long list of things to say about my mom during today's Relief Society lesson, I didn't end up sharing most of it because I felt inspired to say something else entirely.

Today's lesson was based on a talk given by Julie B. Beck called Mothers Who Know and while there is a wealth of knowledge within, the parts that really stuck to me as I was waiting to talk about my mother was this:

"In the Book of Mormon we read about 2,000 exemplary young men who were exceedingly valiant, courageous, and strong. “Yea, they were men of truth and soberness, for they had been taught to keep the commandments of God and to walk uprightly before him” (Alma 53:21). These faithful young men paid tribute to their mothers. They said, “Our mothers knew it” (Alma 56:48). I would suspect that the mothers of Captain Moroni, Mosiah, Mormon, and other great leaders also knew.

The responsibility mothers have today has never required more vigilance. More than at any time in the history of the world, we need mothers who know. Children are being born into a world where they “wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places” (Ephesians 6:12). ¹ However, mothers need not fear. When mothers know who they are and who God is and have made covenants with Him, they will have great power and influence for good on their children."

And this:

"Mothers Who Know Stand Strong and Immovable

Who will prepare this righteous generation of sons and daughters? Latter-day Saint women will do this—women who know and love the Lord and bear testimony of Him, women who are strong and immovable and who do not give up during difficult and discouraging times. We are led by an inspired prophet of God who has called upon the women of the Church to “stand strong and immovable for that which is correct and proper under the plan of the Lord.” ⁶ He has asked us to “begin in [our] own homes” ⁷ to teach children the ways of truth. Latter-day Saint women should be the very best in the world at upholding, nurturing, and protecting families. I have every confidence that our women will do this and will come to be known as mothers who “knew” (Alma 56:48). In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

Why did these specific excerpts stand out to me?  Both describe my mother to a tee--actually, the whole talk describes my mother, but these parts stood out specifically.  My mother is a mother who knows, has always known, and like the stripling warriors I could never doubt it.  She's always had a strong testimony of the Church and because of the strength of her testimony she's been vigilant, always done everything she could to raise all her children to be good people, she has always exhibited Christ-like love.  Above all else, she stands strong and is immoveable.

I am truly grateful for my mother, for all that she's done for me, for the sacrifices she's made, for the example that she sets, and for all the love that she gives.  I'm grateful that she and I have grown close, that we've become best friends.  I am grateful I was sent to her, because if I hadn't been I wouldn't be the person I am today. 

Thank you, mom, for being crazy enough to raise 8 kids.

Love,
Penny (a.k.a. kid #8)

The originals

 

Most of the Galan gang

P.S. And because I know my mom loves it so much:  

 

I love my lovely family!

Mayah's Baptism

Hey, so Mayah turned 8 in February.  That was a while ago, I know, but better late then never, right?  Instead of getting baptized on the first Saturday of March we had her baptized on March 18 because we had family in town then--my parents.

It was such a nice experience, seeing my little girl get baptized by Duane.  It was also pretty surreal.  I mean, I still can't believe I have a child that's old enough to be baptized.

Anyway, Mayah was lucky enough to share her big day with Jacob Bellanger, a boy in our ward.  I was so glad that his mother, Christina, was kind enough to let us jump onto the program last minute.  You see, originally we were leaning toward having Mayah wait to be baptized, when we were out west during the summer months so more family could be there for the event.  But in the end we realized that the baptism was the most important thing, not having mass quantities of blood relatives witness it. 

Mayah was so excited, she's been talking about getting baptized ever since she saw her cousin Alexander get baptized when she was four years old.  It went well, for the most part, the exception being that Mayah had to be baptized three times.  The first time her left toe wasn't under the water.  The second time her entire left foot and ankle wasn't under the water--by the way, the power in the building went out, for no reason whatsoever, between the first and second try.

I guess the old adage is true: third time's a charm.  Mayah was able to keep her feet on the font floor, thus making the third attempt successful. 

At first I was sort of bothered that things didn't go super smoothly but I've since realized that it's better that way.  The imperfections made it a much more memorable occasion.  I doubt Mayah will forget much about that day--not everyone can say they had to be baptized not once, not twice, but thrice.  She was so happy to finally be baptized and confirmed with the Holy Ghost.  Such a happy day for everyone.

 ---

 Just for funzies: an outtake

Pretty much the norm when we try to take pictures.

I'm Back

Yeah, it's been a while.  No, my absence had nothing to do with illness or any other legitimate reason.  Turns out I'm just lazy when it comes to blogging and I had this crazy idea that only hilarious or interesting things were blogworthy.  Not that much happens 'round Casa Bitner.  No wacky goings-on, ya know?  

Also, much to my disappointment, I'm not a supermom.  I'm just a person doing regular-type things on a semi-normal basis.  Unlike most mommy bloggers, there are no super cute crafty things I do. 

Okay, that's a lie. 

Over the summer I did start crocheting amigurumi animals.  The results have been, overall, quite good.  See:

 Yeah, I made these cuddly-wuddly little animals.  The girls actually play with them, too.

I also make hair bow/flowery things for my girls hair--go me.  I digress.  My point is, other then my talent for making the occasional crochet animal or hair bow, I'm like the anti-Martha Stewart.  Not that I'm proud of that but what can I say, I'm just being honest here.

Now that I'm done confessing I just thought I'd announce that this blog is going to be under construction over the next few days  over the next few weeks  for an undetermined amount of time.   I'll probably be renaming the blog--you know something catchy or whatever.  The background will be changing as soon as I brush up my html skillz.  The format in which I blog will also change. 

This is going to be less of a family blog and more of a personal blog wherein I will sometimes blog about my family.  Other times, however, I will blog about other things.  Like books or politics.    Pie.  Charlie Sheen.  Fashion.  Religion.  The weather.  Stuff.   Look, I'm not sure exactly what I'll be blogging about, besides that's not the point.  My point is, this blog is going to change.  Super exciting, yes? 

Choose to follow this blog or not.  I'm cool either way. :)

Coming Soon: Mayah's Baptism!  So stay tuned.