Dear RV park, about last night ...

Dear Hill Shade,

If you were outside last night, you might have experienced some confusion. Yes, you did hear a child's voice screaming an occasional "SHUT UP!" while simultaneously hearing a middle aged woman belting Karen Carpenter, Barry Manilow and most of the soundtrack of "Moulin Rouge."

A bout of crying (read: refusing to let me help them regulate) had ensued so I invited this child outside with me, in hopes of switching around their energy and avoiding a bigger battle. Instead of staying near me, they took off.

What? You thought you saw a child walking up and down the road, barefoot, with their hands over their ears? Yup. That, too. It happened. Perhaps you did have a few too many beers, but your eyes were not deceiving you. And yes, I DO know how to carry a tune, but last night was more about volume (the love songs reaching my child's ear as I declared my love for them). I apologize. I know it was painful for you, but it was important. However, let's be honest: the way I incorporated their name into "Close to You?" That was classic.

Um, yeah. If you were outside down near our home, you heard that, too. My kid call me a rather colorful name. I take credit for that one. You see, after returning to me on their own accord, I pushed a little too far and a little too quickly. I know better. I teach other parents how to do this, for Pete's sake. But I'll be the first to admit I don't always do the right things in the moment, even when I'm doing a GOOD thing. You see, I looked right into their eyes and said, "Honey, what can I do for you? You are hurting, and I'd like to help you. What do you need from me right now so we can be okay?" Yup. Too much. This child is dysregulated and will continue to be until some exciting events take place. I knew better. What I did was absolutely controlled and loving and giving and thoughtful and therapeutic, but it was the wrong thing for that moment. I figured that out about the time you did, when that lovely word was spat in my general direction as they walked away from me again.

But I did better. I immediately saw that my approach was all wrong in that moment. I sat, and waited. I asked my husband to bring me my jacket and some bug repellent. I then pulled out my phone and began playing "Words with Friends." I waited some more. Once again, my child returned to me.

I waited until they were very close, but in a VERY nonchalant sort of way, I simply said, "Dang it! Your dad is beating me so far. Wanna' help me kick his butt?"

And this child ... the one who had been crying and putting their hands over their ears and calling me lovely things ... nestled right up next to me on the step. They started to give me some ideas of words, and we made an excellent play. Little fist bump. Then I said, "We make a good team. I would like to hug you now, if that would be okay with you."

I didn't want to hug. I wanted to scream. I was still mad about the last 30 minutes. But I put on my big girl panties and decided to be the grown up. I HATE BEING THE GROWN UP! WHAAAAAAAA!

And my kid said, "Okay." And we hugged. And I did not ask any questions. I just stated the truth. "You are really stressed about all of the good things that will happen this month. You don't think you deserve them. So, let's talk about the truth for a minute." And we started to state things that ARE. My child IS loved. My child IS fun. Other people DO like to be around my child. My child IS creative. My child IS a gift to others.

And my child cried with all of these words. They don't believe it. But we said them anyway. And we healed a little more. And we talked through our plans for surviving this coming week.

So, yes. You did see the pacing child and the crazy singing woman hug after a game of Scrabble, by the light of the iPhone.

But hey, they won't bring cable out into our area of the country yet. So, consider us your prime time viewing ... for free.

You're welcome.

I am also available for parties and bat mizvahs.

Sincerely,

Christine
co-owner
Hill Shade RV Park

Magical Milk Pic-o-the-Week

"This woman is in her car on a hot day alone. To feed her child privately and out of the community sight. She is inherently in danger and she knows it. Which also puts a strain on her choice to continue breastfeeding her child with such pressures."

(photo by Rachel Valley - click on her name to join the conversation)

In case you forget your child is traumatized ...

... first, I assumed the extra acting out was a cyclical thing. But quickly realized that was not it.

... then, I thought it was a "we have a lot of new kids and people around" thing. But, again, it continued and didn't really add up.

... so, of course, it was the holidays, right? I mean, trauma and the holidays are toxic soup.

... then this morning, after some rather entertaining, "Will someone PLEASE consequence me for this?" random behaviors, including walking around outside in 40 degree weather while dressed for the Bahamas, I pulled us into the living room for some good, old fashioned prescribing.

"Let's go ahead and freak out. Get this stuff out there. Tell me what is going on. YELL IT. If you don't want to yell it, that's okay - I'll do it for you."

I'd get a quiet whisper about the holidays and then scream it at the top of my lungs. "I DON'T THINK I DESERVE GOOD THINGS!" I'd get another quiet whisper about not ruining yesterday and needing to ruin today, and I'd yell that out too (FYI - VERY therapeutic for Mom!!). "I DID GOOD ON THANKSGIVING AND SHOULD RUIN IT TODAY!" Remember, I'm in my bathrobe with a cup of coffee, jumping up and down and flailing when necessary - setting down my mug first, of course.

This went on for just a few minutes and then finally, just BOOM!

"And the T's are coming."

Dead silence. That was it. This all started when I announced the arrival date of some of our favorite people on the planet. They will be coming to stay a few weeks at the park.

"And the last time they were here I totally messed up the whole first day they were here and the whole last day."

Until my child reminded me, I had completely forgotten those very specific details. But this child never did. They were etched into their brain. They were terrified it would happen again and they would lose time playing with their friends. Their fear and self shame put them into a cycle that we have been witnessing for just over a week now. They just want to go ahead and blow it, because they do not believe they deserve to do well, and they aren't quite sure they trust themselves to actually DO it.

So, we have a plan. We will prescribe some poor choices and false consequences the day before they arrive - just act it out and be ridiculously silly with it. We will have a pow wow every single night until then, to discuss the stress level and the shame then focus on the truth.

We will set ourselves up for success.

And THEN we'll start dealing with Christmas.

Gluten free Thanksgiving, dang it!

My husband is a champ. He was thrilled to discover that gluten was his nemesis for 40 years. We found the culprit and we whacked its ornery little head right off. Wha-ha-ha-haaaa!

Of course, that left him in a world where pretzels were no longer his friend. Small town bakeries were the devil. IHOP pancakes mocked him across the table. The occasional Tex Mex place sneaks in some wheat with that corn, and he pays. We are an hour from a world of options - meaning he is constantly surrounded by no-no's. It has not been easy. There is a grieving process.

But by golly, there are also ways around it, and I'm a stubborn fart.

You see, my husband does not have a major sweet tooth, but there is one dessert that is very near and dear to his heart: pie.

His mom is known for whipping up an apple and cherry pie at all major family gatherings. They are her "thing." And him staying up late to eat every last crumb is his "thing." This always occurs over the holidays. He looks forward to it. Starts salivating days before. And while this year we will not actually be in her kitchen, late at night, eating straight out of the pie pan by the light of the lamp before his dad knows we didn't leave him any ...

I shall make pies.

I shall make pies that will be delicious and will not leave him reeling the next day. I shall honor all of the changes he has had to make without so much as a hint of whining or complaining. I shall put a smile upon that sweet face, and the only misery he will experience will be bloating from overeating.

And my heart will explode when I hear that fork hitting the bottom of the pan late tomorrow night.


(photo snapped several hours after writing this post - my friend, B, of the Tacky Texans did this with our leftover GF pie crust ... I love how he was equally excited to do all of this for my husband)

Magical Milk Pic-o-the-Week

(photo by Wendi, used with permission)

There is coercion in adoption

Would like to share a post with you titled, "Young Moms and Coercion in Adoption."

"I UNDERSTAND it’s heartbreaking for an adoptive couple to plan for a baby, get their hopes up for the baby, and to expect the baby… and have the mom change her mind. However, at the same time, they need to understand the heartbreak it causes a mom to actually sign away her rights and to walk away from her child." -OnceLost

This isn't an isolated incident. When a mother does not sign relinquishment papers, we have to see this for what it is - not a "failed adoption" but successful parenting. Wonderful. The best of all scenarios. We have to grasp this. This must change.

It's a week of parenting jewels

Karyn Purvis' book, "The Connected Child," was one of the first resources we read before beginning to parent children from the hard places. I gleaned many things from it, but it still wasn't practical. Like day-in-day-out, "What the heck do I do in this moment?" pracitcal.

Honestly, are any of them practical ENOUGH, outside of some expert living in your home holding your hand?

However, since seeing her in person at a conference this fall, I have since uncovered many, many more resources from her that do have a lot of practical application and they are .... my favorite thing ever ... FREE AND IMMEDIATELY AVAILABLE!!

That is why I do my YouTube videos. I want every parent to have immediate and free access to help and support. When our children heal, the world literally heals. It's a big deal, and as long as I'm breathing, I will keep looking for and fighting for a way for every hurting child to receive free therapeutic intervention.

In the MEANTIME ... I will keep sharing the gems I locate. First is an overview by Karyn Purvis:

The IDEAL Response for Parents from Tapestry on Vimeo.

That can eventually become a refresher. The actual presentation with all the nuts and bolts can be found below. It is faith-based, but everyone can pull the value of the therapeutic parenting within its framework:

Effective Discipline Strategies for Adoptive & Foster Families - Dr. Karyn Purvis from Tapestry on Vimeo.

You're gonna' hate some of it. Keeping it leveled at behavior? Going after a mosquito with an elephant gun? Yeah, I majored in that. I could teach classes on that! I am the Queen of Keeping Score. It comes naturally to me.

I needed this today ... this week. Good refreshers. Giving my children a voice. Not seeing compromises as defiance, but practicing new motor memories. Not keeping score. Good stuff, even though it sucks and goes against my natural reactions.

Brenda is handing over more goodness today, as well. How unbelievably valuable is it to have one of our own becoming an attachment therapist? AND SHARING?!?

SCORE!

Adoption: when your kids grow

My children who joined our family through adoption are now 7, 11 and 14.

And as they grow, things are different.

My entire perspective has changed as I acknowledge and honor their individual needs. One of them may love talking about adoption one day and despise it the next. One may crave the contact we have with their first family and extended family, while another may want nothing to do with it (pick any random day and that changes again). One may talk about their home country with pride, while another is indifferent. Of course, none of these reactions mean they don't care. If anything, it means they have massive feelings for their history ... their family. It is beyond important to them.

We have fully open adoptions with all of our children who joined us via adoption. They have relationships with their families ... and their families have full and complete access to us. In that, things are wonderful and fascinating and blessed and messy and complicated and occasionally very painful for our children. Sometimes they crave a relationship and it is not being reciprocated. Sometimes they don't get along with an extended family member. It's just ... ya' know ... family. The cousin that grates on their nerves this year may very well be their best friend next year. The cultural gap this year may be forgotten in several years if they choose to move back to their home country.

This is how we choose to be. This is the value we place on their very first families. They are not past tense. They are now and a part of all that we are. They are a part of our lives and our road trips and our phone conversations and our emails and our holiday plans.

So, I have had to wake up to a few things that were never even on my radar just a few years ago. For instance, I have one child whose stomach is turned by the word "orphan" or "orphanage." With good reason. Regardless of the status of this child's first parents, the word "orphan" sounds hopeless and awful and wrought with pain. It has been placed on them in the past, and continues to be connected to their people and their country. This child hates it. "Orphan Sunday?" Yeah. Not a positive thing for them. at. all. They see it as churches being cruel and calling children a name that is negative.

And they have every right to feel that way. I must always create an environment where they know they can tell me those things without fear of my reaction. It's not about me.

Again, your two year old does not yet have those feelings. My other children may not have those feelings. But my child who does? That child has the freedom to feel it, to say it, to be angry, to be hurt, to be comforted and to ask me to never, ever, EVER buy a bumper sticker or t-shirt with the word "orphan" on it.

And I don't.

Right now, most of my kids have no desire to talk to others about adoption. I protect them in that. They do not want to answer questions or educate others. They just want to be normal kids that don't stand out (as much as humanly possible in a transracial family where your mom has dreads and body art).

My kids rarely want to be the poster child for their country. They don't want to "share" with a group. They love their family and their people and their first home. But it is theirs and that is where they want to keep it. Close to their heart.

I am learning to give them space and have zero expectations on their feelings from minute to minute. It is theirs. I am not them. I have no right to tell them what to feel, how to feel it or when to feel differently. I am here to love them and meet their needs. To know that their first families are just as important to them as we are. Listen and hear. Allow them to be.

Stay out of the way, when necessary.

Big, giant therapeutic parenting nugget

"Parents of children with attachment disorders should not expect to change behaviour but to teach that limits can be safe and not shaming. The change in behaviour will occur through the process of the development of attachment as the child’s shame is reduced and self-regulation develops. Emphasis needs to be on relationship repair not punishment. Try to end the event with you and your child feeling as close as or closer than when it began. If fact, it isn’t over until you are." (emphasis is mine)

If you have not read Brenda's post today, stop right now and do it:

How You Be

Then read it again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again ...

Magical Milk Pic-o-the-Week

"Nursing Elisabeth, a 32 week preemie, when she was two days old."

(photo by Lucy, a reader)


*you can submit your own Magical Milk Pic to christinemoers [at] hotmail [dot] com*

You only know what you know

One of my kids barely crawled. She transitioned into our home at seven months of age. She was already not showing any interest in scuttling across the floor. Sure enough, she did very little and ended up going straight to walking.

She was always on the lower end of those developmental charts. We didn't fret. The charts are averages. Yet, it was obvious that certain things took longer for her. We have just waited and given her the time and freedom to learn and explore and develop at her own pace.

She wants to read.

Well, she wants to WANT to read.

It's painful for her. She has her moments, but then the exhaustion overtakes her. At that point, even the simplest of words is overwhelming. She wants to quit, but she doesn't want to quit. She's just plain mad. It has continued to escalate.

We back up. We repeat lessons. We have been trying so very hard to keep the pace slow and follow her interests. Yet, we still find ourselves in these immense battles. Battles we are trying to avoid, and have no need for - just let it flow as she wants it to.

It finally began to click. Just as I said. She wants to WANT to read. Yet, reading quickly becomes unbelievably exhausting and then crosses into "impossible" within minutes. In a lot of cases, just backing up and saying, "No biggie. There's no reason to learn to read right now," would be ideal. But she is surrounded by readers. She watches her siblings and friends curl up with books for hours.

And she feels left out. She feels like the whole world is leaving her behind. She can't figure out why people would purposefully grab a book and a blanket and curl up to torture themselves!



There are definite signs of dyslexia. And for every sign, there are approaches and theories and programs. I am spending more time talking to people who actually struggle with reading and writing. I'm immersing myself in the people who live their lives in a left brained world, while their reading insists on existing on the flip side. People are coming out of the woodwork.

There are a lot of dang dyslexics out there! Who knew? But it's not like it comes up at dinner parties. However, because I am broaching the topic, I am finding person after person in our lives who have found their own way, in their own brains.

I am currently struggling with the best ways to feed her interests. We are searching out every audio resource we can find that meshes with her passions and her developmental level. We're already documentary junkies. Now that I can see the struggle clearly, I'm doing all I can to create an environment for her that meets her needs while not dumbing things down.

Easier said than done.

I welcome your own experiences, and your favorite resources - particularly on the grade school level. Most of the people I have talked to suffered through early years of unaware school teachers, miserable homework battles or programs that just left them more frustrated. So, yeah ... I welcome the flip side. The, um, right brain solutions, if you will.

(photo by Elizabeth Knox Photography - elizabeth@elizabethknox.net)

Diary of an emetiphobe

PLEASE NOTE: some people with emetophobia cannot handle even reading certain words. I have not placed asterisks or edited words and phrases that may be a trigger for you!






Emetophobia is an intense, irrational fear or anxiety pertaining to vomiting.

And I have had experienced it, on varying levels, since I was a junior in high school.

I know what some of you are thinking - NO ONE likes to get the yuckies. NO ONE likes to witness the yuckies. NO ONE likes to clean up after.

That's not what this is.

My phobia grew as my depression and anxiety increased. The definition above really gets to the heart of it: "intense and irrational."

It is extremely embarrassing, now, to talk openly about how this has played out in my head over the years. I'm saying some of this out loud because I know there are plenty of you out there that know exactly what I'm talking about, and also keep it to yourself.

If someone talked about having been sick anytime in the previous week, I completely avoided them. If they had already shaken my hand, I created an invisible barrier around that hand. Until it could be properly washed, I made sure it did not touch any other part of my body, or any object.

When my kids were young, I would avoid travel and certain situations, for fear they may come down with something while we were away from home.

When someone in the house had been sick, I would put myself on the BRAT diet, barely eating for days. My thought process was that hopefully I would "only" have diarrhea, because my stomach would never be too full. When a big virus swept through the house, I would be utterly emaciated by the end of it all.

When feeling sick, I would do whatever it took to keep anything from making its way back up. Always kept Phenergan pills and suppositories on hand. I discovered my pediatrician would prescribe them if the kids had a really bad bout that was lasting for more than 12 hours. So, by the time we filled the prescription, they no longer needed them. I kept them on hand for myself.

Again, I told you. This is embarrassing. But it's true, and it was the way I functioned for years. I know it made no sense. That's the problem with phobias and panic attacks and severe anxiety. They don't make sense, but they are just as, or more real, than any other emotion you have ever experienced.

If I witnessed someone being sick, my entire body flushed. I didn't feel nauseous. I felt terrified. I had zero empathy for that person, but only cared about personal survival. Yeah, I just said survival. I felt as though I could die if I caught a virus. I mean, I KNEW I wouldn't. I knew how rare that was. But it didn't take away that fact that I thought I may actually die. It was sheer terror.

And after that flush, once I could get myself separated from the situation, I always had diarrhea. Adrenaline rush. I still do this. It's my last residual effect from my now diminishing phobia.

Last night my 11 year old son woke us in the middle of the night. He was sick for several hours. Good, old fashioned stomach bug, hitting him from all angles. Once we got everything cleaned up, had him settled in the bathroom ...

*note, I just returned to finish this post after yet another child went down for the count ... cause that's how we play this game in a house full of kids ... moan*

So, anyway. As I was saying ...

We had him settled in the bathroom with a movie, and I crawled back into bed, I had time to reflect. This particular child rarely gets gastrointestinal issues. In fact, the last time he had something like this, was six years ago.

Yeah ... SIX YEARS AGO! I remember it well, because it was one of my worst experiences with this whole phobia thing. I can look back now and understand that I was having panic attacks. Hearing him get sick. Waiting for the next round. Cleaning it up. Every little cough or wiggle or clearing of his throat sent me straight back into this frightening pit of despair. I was a mess. Pacing the floor. Could not sleep. Could not calm. My husband had a big event that weekend, and had to be gone the next morning. I called my mom and begged her, through tears, to come over and help out with the other two kids.

I could not be alone.

Have I mentioned it was "intense and irrational?"

I honestly have feared death ... over ralphing.

But last night, my sweet middle child came into our room during the night to wake us. He apologized for tossing his cookies away from any appropriate receptacle (yeah, he really is that kind and sweet ... he was apologizing!). I loved on him, in that awkward way a mom does with her now-11-year-old son who wants his Mommy but also doesn't necessarily want her in his business in the bathroom. I stayed up to help him with whatever he needed for the next few hours. Once I knew he was dozing off, I let myself fall asleep.

I slept. Like a rock.

Then, in the middle of this post, when my youngest got that look on her face and everything went into slow motion as I yelled, "Ruuuuuuuun tooooooooo theeeeeeeeeeee battttttttthhhhhhhhrooooooooooommmmmm!" ..... I just went into Mommy mode. Got her settled. And kept trucking.

Don't get me wrong. If I catch this, I will be MISERABLE and hate the whole process. But I won't think I'm going to die. I'll WANT to die, but not think I'm GOING to.

It may not seem like a big deal to most, but it is huge for me. To be sitting here typing away and checking in on everyone, and getting lunch made and EATING A FULL PLATE ... it is huge. In finding healing for my anxiety and depression, I have found healing from this, as well.

Now, off to disinfect something!





(photo by Michael Chambers, used with permission)

Some things were meant for harmony

I'm a music nerd.

No, not a musician. Although, some would argue that I am.

I am a music nerd.

I was the kid that made first chair in band ... every single time. I went to bed early in preparation for chair tests ... ya' know, while my friends were hanging out at the Sonic.

Nerd.

I was the kid whose mother sang harmony with every 80's song on the radio, and thus I did the same. FYI: Bon Jovi had some rockin' alto lines.

Nerd from the loins of the nerd.

My parents sang and played instruments. The kids sang and played instruments.

I taught myself to play guitar a few years ago. I love it. I'm pretty sure I suck, because ... well, I'm guessing my "form" or something is really jacked up, seeing how everything I know I learned on YouTube. But I love it, none the less.

Except for one thing. That friggin' harmony. There is nothing, nothing, nothing in the world like having someone beside you singing a little harmony. If they are singing it along to some old, totally cheese ball song - even better.

So, despite my husband's love for music, he would much rather watch the Vikings or Baylor get their patooties kicked in football, than come in and sing along with me while I pluck out "More Than Words," "Killing Me Softly," or anything by the Beatles. Yeah. What's his deal?

Loser.

My friend, R, comes over and we sew. Sometimes. We make stuff. Sometimes. We talk and drink coffee. Sometimes. But we always do something, and whatever it is - it's more fun doing it with someone else.

Harmony.

There's nothing like those harmonies in life, but dang do I love the good old fashioned singin' kind.

So, if any of you ever want to come crawl into bed with me and sing along one night, please do. I'm currently craving a first and second soprano who are up for some really tight three-part harmony on "Shaboom, Shaboom."

*side note: you must be able to pop your mouth at the end - otherwise ... what's the point?*



(photo by alfonso diaz, used with permission)

Magical Milk Pic-o-the-Week

On inducing lactation to breastfeed her son who entered their home via adoption: "I pumped for almost 7 months and took (and still take) domperidone. My agency worked with me and helped to transport milk to him once he was in respite care, where he waited out NC's 7 day revocation period. He hasn't had a drop of formula since he left the hospital at 2 days old, and he latched immediately. We've had our share of ups and downs with it: a bought of mastitis in the second week, several dozen clogged ducts, and having to cut out dairy from my diet. Even so, he's smart and active and growing strong. He's going to be a linebacker I swear!" (Notice big brother is helping!)

(photo by Megan, a reader)

I'm not perfect, but definitely mediocre

Sometimes I walk into a room and find myself saying something like:

I am about to be the best. mom. ever. You see, I am having a rough day. Can you see it? See that twitch in my eye? I'm tired, and your youngest sister has me on my last thread of patience. So, I'm telling you that. Laying it out there. Cause I'm the best. mom. ever. I'm giving you a head's up. You'll know to either avoid me for a bit, or handle me gingerly. *few more eye twitches followed by a forced smile not anywhere NEAR all the way up to my eyes*

Wasn't that nice of me? They appreciate it, as well. Funny how they clear a quick path on those days so as not to get between me and the coffee pot.

With all the healing that has gone on, we have also been able to pinpoint some patterns to the bad days/weeks. We are just now entering one. But we're aware of it. We're talking about it. Addressing possible triggers.

I'm drinking lots of coffee, and hoping my child can follow my lead above and just let us know when it's time to step out of the way for a bit.

I doubt we're there YET, but a girl can dream. Don't spoil it for me. Laugh quietly amongst yourselves.

Happy Dreadiversary!

Dearest Dreadies,

You are one year old this week. It was years of expectancy before I finally felt like I could birth you ... all 60+ of you. While it took a full week for all of you to finally meet the world, it was worth the labor.

To think of how you have changed each and ever day makes me swoon. You each have your own personality. Some of you are shy and stay hidden. Others are loud and constantly unruly. I am amazed at how your relationships change and evolve as you do. How some of you snuggle up so tightly that I have to literally rip you apart just to be able to give you a bath. How some of you gained your independence early and were never as cuddly as the others.

We have proven that growth charts mean nothing. We have anywhere from the 20th percentile up to the 98th. Yet you are all healthy and beautiful and perfect.

You are one year old! I love you more and more every day, exactly the way you are, and I'm so very proud and happy to call you my hair!

Love,

Christine











Steph wrote a sweet tribute to darlin's.

And a HUGE, PHAT pimpage to Kathleen (at Attachment and Integration Methods) who sent my dreads an AWESOME birthday wish and ... *drum roll* ...



Yup - she diagrammed the sentence! Found a way to get it to me digitally, so I (of course) took the extra time to download the necessary program to read it and then take a screen shot and THEN transfer it from .gif to .jpg so YOU COULD ALL SEE IT!

Bow to the Master, my friends. Bow to the Master.






(if you have a post you want me to link to, send it and I'll add it)

Simplify to survive

Over the last two decades of my life, I have watched things change around me as we have made changes in our home. Sure, there are always other factors involved, but I still can't deny it. When we go backward, so do these other things. It is painfully obvious now.

It is worth it to simplify.

There is a direct correlation between my family's emotional health and the pace of our life.

There is a direct correlation between the depth of relationships we are able to build with others and the pace of our life.

There is a direct correlation between the connection I have with my husband and the pace of our life.

There is a direct correlation between my therapeutic parenting and my kids' healing and the pace of our life.

There is a direct correlation between our physical health and the pace of our life.

There is a direct correlation between our overall happiness and the pace of our life.

There is a direct correlation between how we can truly be available to friends and family and the pace of our life.

Simplifying is also a constant battle. Want to know what it's like to truly be an alien in this world - in your community?

Simplify.

It is one battle, though, that I now pick and stick with until I win every. single. time.

I double dog dare you to say a very polite "no" to some unnecessary expectation or commitment this month and next. I then triple dog dare you to enjoy it.

(photo by Jan Flaska, used with permission)

Magical Milk Pic-o-the-Week

(photo by Daria Chernova, used with permission)

You may submit your own Magical Milk Pic by emailing it to christinemoers [at] hotmail [dot] com

We're gonna' paaaaaaar-tay

This week my dreads turn one.

I know, right? The time just flies! So do the frizzies.

On Friday I will be having a special party post to celebrate their special day. Since my dreads are basically on the same scale as Oprah, I expect to have celebrities posting YouTube greetings and the President to make a special appearance.

I'm sure ... that ... will happen.

Yet, what can actually come to fruition, in the little world of a thing called "reality," is that any of you can post or vlog a birthday greeting to my dreads, and I will happily post it while simultaneously pimping your blog, or business, or just general existence.

So, two things: send me your post link by Thursday night AND the previous sentence fully diagrammed.

If no one sends me anything, I will dip my locks in alcohol to help soothe their sorrows. If you send me something and you're super hysterical, then I will tell the world. I'll pimp your funny self, yo.

I can say "yo" cause I have dreads.

It's a real thing. I didn't just make that up.