Why are you here?

My oldest child suggested I write a blog again.

Oh yes.  This isn’t my first rodeo.  Back in the mid 2000’s, my sistah friend Stephanie made me get an email address (I resisted, she insisted), and we both started clever blogs.  Back then, it was how you saw what your friends were thinking about and any creative goo that was falling out of their heads.  Think Facebook, only without the nasty, voyeuristic narcissism.  Anywho, we did some pretty fun stuff there, and even wrote a few posts that prompted serious contemplation.  We bookmarked our favorite blogs (no feeds back then sister), which consisted solely of people we personally knew, and as time and life ran on, it outpaced our interest in typing out our personal musings.

Which brings me to this morning.

Katie, the aforementioned oldest child, whipped up this blog in the span of a few hours last night.  She even went back to my old blog (it’s still there!!) and started moving old posts over here!  I don’t remember agreeing to ANYTHING.  Our conversation went something like this:

Katie (use a higher pitched, pushy teenage girl voice) - “Mom, you really should write a blog. I’m sure you’d have fun with it.”

She begins pulling up some blog template site on her computer, (did you know they had those?  I didn’t.) creating the very blog you’re looking at.

Me (use a sophisticated, kind womanly voice) – “Gee honey, I don’t know, I already have a lot to do.  Sounds like another commitment to me.

K – “Oh no! It’ll be just for fun! You can write once a week – it’ll take like 30 minutes tops.  You don’t have 30 minutes to do something you enjoy?”

Me – “Well, I do like writing, but I’m already doing stuff I enjoy.  I wasn’t really shopping around for a new hobby.”

She then begins asking me questions about myself…”What’s your favorite food?  What’s your favorite color?  How many children do you have?”

Trying to be an accommodating mother, I good-naturedly began my answers:

“Well I do love steak and pasta and seafood, but you know a good salad with croutons and cheese is a wonderful meal.  Actually, steak or pasta or seafood ON a salad is even better.  Of course I don’t guess you meant what I like for dessert right?   I could give you some answers that go that direction too…are you getting all this?”

She typed stuff out, picked out colors, forced me to give ideas for a blog name/subtitle, made me decide which sidebars and menus and barrettes and jewelry to put on the thing.  I patiently tried to please her every wish.   And before I knew it, she was trying to announce at supper that I was an authoress.   Of course, I smiled ingratiatingly at her and said, “Please pass the croutons”.

She continued to tell me how she could help me get more viewers or trackers or readers or whatever. I say again, I don’t remember agreeing to ANY of this.   But that’s okay, I thought.   I’ll just let her have fun setting this up and humor her tonight.  I reminded myself that this was a way I could help my daughter stir up her creative juices.  I hoped she had thoroughly enjoyed this little design session.

And then I woke up this morning an hour before my alarm, (our youngest, Polly, consistently screeches cheerfully at 6:30 every am) and guess why I couldn’t roll over and enjoy that last blissful snoozy hour?  I was thinking about my first new blog post.

Pushy girl.

Leave the sinklight on for me

I was washing dishes after supper the other night and realized something.

My mother often finished cleaning the kitchen, after our evening meal, by the light above the sink. She would wipe off the counters and leave that light on for a while after her nightly chores were done, and before she went to bed, she would turn if off. While that light was on, everything was winding down. My brother and I got our baths, the table was cleaned off, Daddy was home watching tv (or snoring in the bed!).

The wet countertops shining by the light of that dim sinklight meant that things were as they should be.

So, what I realized is this: that the little 60watt bulb above the sink means alot to me. It says, "Someone is home that cares about cleaning the kitchen, getting things readied for the morrow". It reminds me of my sweet, safe childhood.  (I know how unusual and blessed that is)  That sinklight means to me what the front porch light means to other people - someone is thinking of me, and has prepared for my needs. It has become another representative of love to me.

I love that sinklight. And I love my mama - the sinklight user of my childhood.

Now that I'm the mama, I don't use our sinklight much, but I might try to a little more.

When my children are older, I hope they can remember little "sinklights" from their childhood - mundane, everyday things that have become important to them simply because it reminds them of how loved they are.

The Thinkin' Chair!

I do some of my best thinkin' in the bathroom. I don't just mean upon the john. I mean generally, as in the room named after the luxury of sitting in a luke-warm mini-pond of your own filth.

I've heard others say the same thing - that they do their best thinkin' and prayin' in that particular room. Now why do you think that is?

Some may say, "Well you are often in various stages of undress there, and this lends itself to self-examination and transparency with God."

Too symbolic.

Others agree that, "We spend time in this room eliminating waste and relieving ourselves of "encumbrances" so we are freer to think there."

Gross.

Ya' know what I think?

I think it's the only room where you get left alone. Most of the time.

My father-in-law, Paw-Paw, as he is called by most, claims he never spent an alone moment in the "restroom", as it is also called, (but why?) during his child rearing years, and my husband confirms this claim. Paw-Paw said the kids would sit and visit with their Dear Ole Dad, he upon the pot, and the children on the side of the tub. He would often have a newspaper with him, but I suspect that was only a ploy to make the younguns think he was otherwise occupied (since just being in there didn't do the trick). I hear it never worked. The way he tells it, I think he sorta misses the company.

I too have experienced the interrupted time in the bathroom. In fact, with an 18mo old in tow, I find no "business" is too serious that she will not intrude with talking, (read: jabbering), digging in off-limit drawers/cabinets containing toxic cleaners/toilet paper, and continually coming in and out of the saloon-style swinging half-doors that a bartender must have installed to lend "privacy" to those on the potty.

With 2 bathrooms and 8 people, I also must share these quarters with others during bath time/shower time in the evening, so really, nothing seems to be sacred to these short people.

However, I truly don't prefer being alone, so children really have solved that small problem. It's good to have these little friends around me, all the time, even when I'm "thinking".

Sweat is good!

Yes friends, it is I, your friendly friend who is living out in the aforementioned country. (the closest reasonably large town is 15 minutes away).

We have had baby #6, who isn't called that anymore. We call her Emmy Belle.

Currently....

We tend 17 chickens, who make breakfast for us - can your pet do that?
We tend 9 guinea fowl who eat ticks and 'squitos for us.
We tend 3 ducks, who look purty on our pond.
We tend 7 cats (anyone need a good mouser?) including 4 kittens who clean up rodents on the place.
We tend a nice size garden that is givin' out squash, zucchinis, and purple-hull peas...we'll see if the other veggies and fruits come in. Some say "don't count your chickens before they hatch", I say "don't count your cantaloupe 'til they're ripe".

Then there's the swimmin' pool to play in and clean, the flower beds to water, and children (my personal favorite thing to maintain around here) to raise.

So my comment to the Tim man last night was, "anything that needs maintenance will require work". This was my pithy reply to his observation that "You sure are sweaty". He seemed to be concerned that I was having to expend alot of energy on the baby guineas in the evenings. I explained that the keets continue to try to roost on the roof of the chicken house at night, and I am afeared that they will unwittingly become a tasty treat for our sneakiest cat, Bilbo. So nightly, I chase the ungrateful little birds around to put them back in their pen for the night.

He questioned if they were worth it. With a shocked expression, (the impertinence!) I said the same could be asked of his riding lawnmower - since we got it a year ago, Tim has replaced the blades 3-4 times and about 2 or 3 other smaller parts. True, he runs over unseen stumps and fallen tree limbs on his joyrides, (don't drive the thing in the dark, I don't care if it has headlights!) so it's not the mowers fault. Still. Lots of maintenance.

Anyways, my point is, don't be afraid of a little sweat. Anything worth having will need maintenance, and that will mean work, and for most of us, at least those of us in Texas in July, that will equal sweat. The fruits of your labor will be worth it (grown guineas that keep the insects at bay, or a beautifully maintained piece of land...) and you can take a shower when you're done.

Chores aren't a bore!!

It's been my observation that chores come with their own rewards. Not just the "a job well done is it's own reward" deal, though that can be true, but actual perks, I'm sayin'.

Examine, if you will, vacuuming.

It is, by far, my favorite traditional household-cleaning chore. Such satisfaction in seeing the vacuum tracks as you go, and a completed room all fluffed up with parallel rows covering the carpet! Oh yeah, and it's clean too. Gives me a little lift.

There too, is the laundry. There is reward in each step:

Sorting? Easy money in forgotten pockets!
Putting into the washing machine with soap and softener? Smells delightful!
Moving clothes to the dryer? It's fun to clean the lint filter!
Folding warm clothes? Not so fun.
But stacks of folded clothes sitting on the couch, ready to be put away? A success!!

I really don't despise any chore, though some are less savory than others.

Take cleaning up the floor after the baby has "eaten". Wiping up steamed (read: smashed) broccoli florets with a wet paper towel is a little unappetizing. Especially if I'm about to eat my lunch. However, kissing said baby after having rinsed off his little hands and face (read: sponge bath) is a favorite reward of mine!

I may be easily amused, but I'm endeavoring to always be lookin' for the bright side (often, it is the right side!) of things, and honestly, perspective is a big part of how content you are.

So, dear reader, when it comes time again to mop and scrub those floors, and it's all clean and still shiny with wetness, do what I do: put each foot on a paper towel, and slide around like you're ice skating, til it's all dry! It'll cause your kids to question your saneness, and put a smile on your face!!

Let the river flow!

Let me begin by saying that water conservation "runs" in my family. (unintentional pun!) Literally. My mother's father owned the water system in his small Texas town of Iola. At his passing, my Uncle Kenneth inherited it, and still runs it today. Uncle Ken also owns a jet system company that replaces outdated "tank" septic systems for the efficient and water/money saving "jet system". Also, my other uncle from my mother's side owns the water system in his small Texas town of Bedias, which is 11 miles away from Iola.

My brother and I were taught all the practical water conservation techniques early on, and were especially expected to use them when visiting the aunts and uncles!

That being said.....

Low-flow toilets? Hate 'em.

Now, there are some of you out there who know of the escapades of the "Manuel bowels", and just to be fair, I admit that any toilet is at risk when we are around...

HOWEVER....

When even my little 5-year old girl consistently has trouble getting the toytee to flush everything down, and yes I know she is my daughter and therefore may have inherited the Manuel bowels, then I know the pot is, excuse the pun, a piece of CRAP! Everyone who lives in this house has to flush the worthless lo-flows at least 2-3 times anytime we do anything besides "make water".

I find myself cheering the toilet on, hoping that all my cajoling will help things to "go down smoothly". It doesn't help. And it doesn't have to do with girth or volume, people! This is about lack of velocity.

So, as happy as I am to help the environment, and save valuable water and all, I still want my toilet to perform it's main function - get the crap and other toilet bound waste outta my house. No matter how much water it takes.

I'm listening....

Alright Steph.

"Ask and you shall receive."

So Stephanie and I were talking today, and I mentioned that whenever I have struggled with something the Lord was doing, I was temped to "pull a ___ "(blank left to signify a person who shall remain nameless. On second thought, let's call him "Tom".) What I meant was that "Tom" has, in the past, on occasion, decided to,.... shall we say,.... thumb his nose at God.

To be fair, the situations that "Tom" had to deal with were fairly difficult, and under the same pressure, I'm sure I would've faired much worse. However, "Tom" found some solace in washing his hands of the whole circumstance by mumbling "Screw it", or some-such-other, and effectively throwing in the towel. If only for a few hours. (Long enough to eat a burger, fries, some donuts, and wash it all down with a coke.)

Really, it was only a bluff. Just a mindgame "Tom" played on himself to relieve a little pressure. (Still, I don't have the liberty to tell God to "step off", and apparently, he did. )

So, anyhow, I have considered this option, on rare occasion, and I dubbed it "pullin' a Tom".

That got me and Steph to thinkin'.

What would be "pullin' a Bonnie"?

It would have to be something unflattering, because I think that's what the term insinuates. Also, it doesn't have to be done very often at all, but must have been done consistently in the same situation.

So, maybe... arguing a point until I'm very indignant, emotional, and loud, and then breaking into tears because I can't stand the strain that anger puts on me and the relationship.

Maybe "pullin' a Bonnie" would be having conversations with guests while simultaneously sweeping, clearing the table, and answering questions from children. (Rude! very Rude.)

Anywho, perhaps you will share a bit about the dark underbelly of your soul with all of us here at "Bonnie Life". I will not laugh at you, but I may "pull a Bonnie" and dust the keyboard while I read.