We took the kids to see “Up” today. We all cried. And by we, I mean me. I’ve said a thousand billion times that I have movie love. And I do. I have that marriage where when one of us goes, passes away, forever, the other will slowly just sort of, go insane. Like TOTALLY COMPLETELY INSANE.
Or become an alcoholic.
Which has nothing to do with the movie, necessarily, I’m just sayin’.
So my 2 yr old and my 4 yr old both sat through the entire film with my True Love sitting next to me and we would glance at each other knowingly and smile and touch hands throughout and laugh at our children’s wonder and excitement and realize that childhood is always the same.
We also used a lot of run-on sentences because sometimes a movie is so great, it gets run-on sentences.
We loved it. All of us. Baby (Toddler) O said, “MOAH! MOAH!” And LB said she liked the first part but that last part was kinda scary. And Mr. Flinger and I hugged and I cried and we said we loved each other and he called me his Ella.
And then we came home and sat on the porch together and ate Fish Tacos because it’s what we do.
I love him.
So go, please, take your family. We loved it. We’ll own it. And then we’ll make everyone we know see it. Because seriously, sometimes? Movie love? Is just that damn good.
When I was five, or six, or maybe as late as eight (but I won’t admit to that), I used to lay on my stomach in my room and look through the bEST Catalog. Remember that store? The store with the roof that looked like it weathered four hurricanes, and probably did, and had THE VERY BEST TOY SECTION EVERRRRR. I mean EVERRRR.
Maybe it was a Houston thing, but I loved that store.
Think of the Sears’ Toy Catalog at Christmas: It was like that but year round.
So I would lay and look at the doll house section because there was nothing more that I wanted than the life-size doll house with the wooden dolls and real wood furniture and carpet and lights. I’d stare at it picturing myself playing with the dolls. In my head, I’d have them walk upstairs and switch on a light. :: BLING :: It would turn on and the wood mommy would start gathering her triplets together because she was just that awesome about everything. And her wallpaper was beautiful. And her husband was a rock star. And they were rich and had fancy cars and lots of friends and parties.
I have this dream still, but I don’t stare at the doll houses anymore. I look out the windows as I drive by their houses and picture those wooden moms gathering up their children in their perfect lives.
One of my favorite evening activities is walking at dusk along a quiet neighborhood street. I love looking in to people’s windows as the sky grows dark and see how they decorated their homes or know that all over America, we’re all the same, cooking dinner, doing the dishes, yelling at our children. We’re watching TV on our too-big screens and we’re gathering the family in the living rooms of our homes where the kids lay on their stomachs watching or playing with something. It’s comforting in a way, how alike we are.
This is why it’s so hard for me to understand the differences. Why one political view or one religious view could possibly take all those similarities and toss them out the (proverbial) window. I don’t get it. Aside from some ideals, we’re all pretty much the same, seeking the best for our families and friends and health. And I get that we all have different ways of getting there, I get that. But in the end, we have to answer to ourselves alone. You make your heaven on earth. I think I heard that somewhere. From someone. Kinda famous.
It’s the alikeness of people that almost got me on a plane to Oakland tomorrow to see my good friend Vdog. It’s because we’re so alike, in our ideals and relationships and selves, that I would hop a flight with 24 hours notice to see her. It’s the fact that we’re all people and we all need our people and we have people in our lives for reasons we might not know until the day we need to know.
It was the fifteen minutes while we talked about planning a quick trip: “What time to I leave?” “When do I get back?” “Oh, we can do this! and we can go here! And AND AND…” I was reminded of staring in to the doll house in the catalog, giving us the freedom to visualize the trip, seeing ourselves already in those places, laughing and giggling. It was the fifteen minutes before we realized maybe not this weekend, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, that we both were in the same page on the catalog, dreaming.
In this way I’ll never grow up, never stop wanting, never stop dreaming. But one day I will own my house with the lights and the stairs and enough rooms for all our children to have their own. And maybe even a little left over for a trip to see a friend on short notice just because she needs me.
Upon much recommendation, I recently read “Eat Pray Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. (It was a #1 best seller and what’s that? I’m slow on the uptake? Yes, I know.) Today as I was struggling with my strep throat.. again… and feeling just pretty much the lead in my pity party, I finished the last chapter on the porch of our tiny condo in Seattle.
She explains something the Zen Buddhists believe, that an oak tree is brought in to creation by two forces: One being the actual acorn and the other being the will of the future oak tree. That during the growth, the older version of the oak tree leans in and whispers “GROW” to its younger self urging it on to the final version of itself. She says she feels much the same way through her spiritual journey, that her self confident, peaceful self breathed wisdom to her younger, more uncertain self. She found that all along she knew it would be OK in the end, that God or Self or Universe is forever finding the balance of truth and happiness.
I grew teary reading this.
Perhaps it’s the hangover of antibiotics and the insane amounts of water I’ve had, or delusions from the fever itself, but there is a simple clarity to this ideal. Something inside me clicks. Something whispers “yes.”
After a sorted religious background trying on denominations like shoes, finding which fit and don’t squeeze too tight but give freedom and comfort and support, I find that I prefer to live barefoot.
This will send my mother in to fits of tears and my Christian friends to their knees on my behalf, but if I am being honest, and I see no other way to live if I am to find truth, sincerity, and peace, I can no longer pretend that I am seeking an external source of happiness. I am no longer seeking. I am finding.
I’ve been internalizing a great many things of late: not only of the spiritual, less tangible aspect to life, but also the physical wellness (not only brought on by a two years solid of illness and medicines and doctors). I am finding the link between wholesome foods, plenty of water, exercise and spiritual and mental health. There is no body without the soul and there is no fuel for your soul while your body fights toxins.
By god, I’m going hippie on you.
This isn’t sudden, nor is it a single product of one event, but rather the culminating of several events coming to head at once. I’ve seen Christians breathing hostility and anger and I’ve found Atheist to be loving, truthful, and honest. I’ve found a community that welcome all people and turns away none and I’ve walked in to churches judged before I sat down.
There is no correlation to religion and goodness within people.
I’ve seen that I am in charge of my own decisions, that I decide with whom to invest my heart and time with and where I spend my words and thoughts. I can use those for the greater good of my soul and my friendships and family members or I can use them to cook and boil the angry waters of unfairness.
This path is 9 years in coming, not a day, not a month, not a year. I’ll continue to share with you the path as it fell, starting one night on the Gulf of Mexico digging my feet in the warn Galveston sand talking politics and religion, to sitting on my porch in my tiny condo in Seattle, nine years, three states, two kids and one marriage later.
Welcome to the transformation.
Ok. So it appears that the following is true:
That pact about not blogging pissed? AM BREAKING.
(Aside: The douchebags that follow me because I said stripper? Pervs. The ones that follow because I said Chlamydia? Y’all really need to get that checked out. And the ones that follow because I said wine? Poor me one. Teh Enz.)
We will NEVER BE WELL FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES. I swear to god, hold me now, antibacterial? Is NOTHING against our body’s germ infestations.
We can’t even have a party for Little Man O because we infect people with our suckage.
:: queue music of pathetic self pity ::
It also appears the thing I love? THAT THING that I do like ALL DAY LONG? I can’t seem to get right here. Summin’ is UP with the comments here.
And y’all? NO IDEA.
So can you please comment and tell me what error, if any, you get? Like WHAT HAPPENS when you hit submit? And, yea, look, I get that I’m a lurker now and I get that CLICKING OVER is a pain in the ass, but do it? Please? If for no other reason than because you love talking LOLCATZ?
Because we totes got to meet the iCan Haz Cheeseburger guy (aka: Ben).
And we TOTES got him to take a picture with us:
And then we took him AND his cheeseburger in to the photo booth with us:
So iCan Haz Comment, Yo?
Here, caption this:
(iCan Haz Raur?)
(More pics updated soon and will get posted in this set. When I’m done fighting with the economy and the housing market and the strep and the family and the code ............... :: kaplow ::)
(Also, thank you to The PI for letting us crash your classy party.)
Birthday: May 20th, 2007.
Age: Officially TWO YEARS OLD. Today. (side comment: Weep)
Favorite Color: Three!
Literacy: Knows 25 of the 26 letters of the alphabet reliably.
Math Kills: Knows how to count to 10 and can recognize these in writing.
Performance: Is skilled at tossing footballs, kicking soccer balls, pushing trains on tracks and popping balloons.
Also adept at snuggling mommy and pretty much getting anything he wants from her via pout lip.
Able to completely navigate apps on the iPhone and pick the chicken sound EVERY FUCKING TIME.
Social Media Experience
Has been online since 2006, during conception. Grew in popularity when Amy linked to his wang during this announcement.
Is regularly the source of blips online.
Is a leading cause of comments on The Flickr Stream.
Goals of 2009
Start shitting in the toilet.
Become a leading expert on sharing life in few sentence.
Gain the confidence of Teh Ladies.
Post his follow up music video to this debut.
Ride in the car without freaking out.
Make his first debut on the radio giving reviews around Seattle.
Totes in it for the ladies.
“I love you little man. You have the power to change my entire day with one squee for Mommy. Your tiny hands around my neck and your light breathing on my shoulder at night is the reason I haven’t thrown you out the window when you still wake up each night at 2AM. That’s the kind of power you have over me. You are amazing and I love watching you learn and grow. Keep being you. We love you.” - Mom and Dad
“He’s getting bigger! Look! He can open the door by himslef!” - His sister
“ooooohhhhhhhhhh” - Grandma
“Best Nephew EVER!” -Aunt Kim
Damn you people.
So today I put on my ONE pretty bra because I get to play grown up and meet with a client. I didn’t realize, though, the busted-ness of this shirt. I somehow managed to forget that when I wear this bra I have cleavage. And by cleavage I mean I feel like I’m being choked by two fat fisted babies clutching for my wind-pipe.
I take The Girls up to the cashier to order a small sandwhich. Cashier: Tall, Young, Male, Single. Me: Scarred from two children being ripped outta my gut, not as thin as I once was, possibly bleeding at this minute but I couldn’t be sure… changes stance… yes bleeding at this minute, with roots from hair-color grow out. Oh! And boobs.
Me: I’d like a Tuna Sandwhich. Can I get that grilled?
Cashier: Glancing at chest Sure! I can grill that for you.
Me: And No chips please. I will just eat them.
Cashier: Laughs heartily. HOHOHO. Glances as chest Would you like a fruit replacement… leans in free?
Him: What’s your name?
Me: Getting slightly uncomfortable at the power of my boobs Um, uh.. Er… Uh…
Him: Your name? For the order? To call out?
Me: Oh! Right. Yea. Leslie. Sorry.
Just goes to prove: Having boobs does not make you smart.
But it does get you free shit.
When I was in High School, I wanted to move back to Houston.
When I was in College, I wanted to move to Nova Scotia.
When I was finishing college, I wanted to move to Colorado for Graduate school.
When I moved back to Houston after college, I wanted to move to Alaska.
When I moved back to Portland for Graduate school, I wanted to move to Seattle.
When I moved to Seattle, I wanted to move back to Bellingham.
My husband has put a one year moratorium on talking about moving. 2009 will be the year we (and I quote) “shut the fuck up about moving already.”
Which, honestly, right?
So when I tell you I’m a passionate, spontaneous person you are not at ALL shocked, In fact, you’re not shocked that I did a race (The Ski to Sea wherein I was the cross country ski portion of the race) without having ever, once, skied. You’re not shocked when I tell you I jumped out of an airplane. You’re not stunned that I say I wanted to move to Buhtan because I read a book, or that I wanted to live in the woods like Thoreau after reading Walden. (Which lasted until I read “Into the Wild” and promptly gave that idea up.)
Which means I’m always looking for new things. I’m happy in my marriage, I really do actually like living in Seattle (even if my gypsy won’t shutthefuckupalready) and I love my family and friends. I’ve never loved a job as much as I love this job and I feel like it’s a great fit since I can always learn new languages and improve my skillsets.
So, what does a passionate person do when they, shockingly, settle down? When they are content? When they are.. bored?
Why, the find a new hobby of course!
So it is that I’ve decided to go all up and Hippie on my food. That’s right. I’m going FULL ON HIPPIE. I’m seeking out ways to go Organic within a budget, ways to eat MACROBIOTICS (my god I’m a nerd) and whole foods. Raw foods. Real foods. Natural foods. Cooked-and-served-foods. (As opposed to boxed, frozen, and served foods.)
And I have no idea what or how to do it.
Wanna play along? I’ll let you know what I find out. Links are appreciated. Ideas are appreciated. Any sort of help is appreciated.
Let’s get our hippie on, people. My inner gypsy needs it.
And so it is that I have photos and video for you. Because that’s how we roll here at casa Flinger. Recently, anyway.
I love that Baby O is using the old bike LB outgrew too early. He loves to motor his feet as fast as he can go. I love the colors. And the angles. And his tiny-ness.
Mr. Flinger has joined twitter and blip which means we tend to sit near each other speechless but laughing without sound. So last night it happened that I was listening to him blip when I heard a song I could sorda get down to:
And now you know the secrets of The Flinger House. We party harty. Even if we’re lame.
:: cheers ::
I’m honored to be part of Mothers Day Rally For Moms Mental Health” today. This is my fourth mother’s day. The fourth year I’ve been figuring out how to be a mom, who I am as a mom, and what the hell got me here.
As someone who blogged her way through depression with her first child, the decision to stop medication during the pregnancy of her second, and the subsequent love and disgusting mush in a complete turn of events after the birth of her second, I’m honored you are here. I’m honored to be part of a diverse group of woman standing up and calling out that IT IS OK.
It is ok if it sucks.
It is ok if you cry.
It is ok if you aren’t sure what the hell you’re doing.
It is ok if you can’t nurse.
It is ok if you hate people that tell you your child is a joy when you are just SO MOTHER EFFING TIRED.
It is ok if you seek help.
It is ok if you decide to take medication.
It is ok if it takes you three months to honestly say you love your baby.
It is ok.
I know. Because I am ok.
It doesn’t last forever, the fear and pain and sadness. You won’t always roll the word “mom” around in your head like it’s someone else and not you. You won’t always sit and stare at your child and think, “Where did you come from?”
Or you might, but you’ll also stroke her cheek and thank god she is there.
One day you’ll realize you’re the mom. THE MOM.
And that is OK. Turns out? You’re pretty good at it after all.
(Please go take part Mothers Day Rally For Moms Mental Health”. Happy Mother’s Day. Even if you don’t feel so happy today? It is ok.)
I remember a night when I was five years old, maybe four, when a babysitter came to our house. I was sitting at the table eating dinner and my parents were getting ready to go to a baseball game. I don’t know why I remember all this detail, but I do. I remember “sitting” in the chair much the same way my four year old daughter “sits” in chairs now: bouncing from feet to bottom, feet to bottom. It drives me mad as an adult but I remember being paid a dime to sit still and quiet for five minutes. Bribery worked even in the late seventies.
As my parents got ready to leave, I launched myself off the seat and hit the edge of the table. CRACK! SPLIT! BLOOD! I oozed from my chin as my mother grabbed me. “Call the doctor” I heard her yell. Next I remember being whisked in the car to the doctor, my head in my mom’s lap watching her face as the scenery went by the open window.
I remember the nurse telling me I could squeeze her hand as hard as I wanted when they did the stitches in my chin. I remember my mom looking worried on the other side. I remember the doctor leaning over me. And I remember the scrunchy toy I got when I was all done.
* (In lieu of the actual photo of me at five years old with the bandage, you get this, because I am not organized enough to actually FIND that photo. I am SO talented. Cough.)
I don’t know if my parents made it to the baseball game. I don’t know if they sat up with each other after I went to bed and shook their heads wishing they had a their night away.
I do know, I’m the parent now and I know what it’s like to have your child ruin your plans.
Remember my “First Vacation in Five Years OH JOY JOY!” post? Yea. That.
Saturday night Baby O came down with Croup. He struggled for most of two nights, tossing and turning and waking up raspy breathing. We canceled our trip to Las Vegas, my plans for the Ruby conference went out the window, and we hunkered down for a week of illness and rain. Not exactly the fun sunny working / playing week we had in mind. At all.
But this is what it’s like to be a parent: The giving up of your self and your own expectations of how life will go. Or even how the next day will go. Or maybe even later that same night.
Parenting is not for the weak. Or those how like to plan anything. Ever.
Tomorrow we’ll go to salvage the last two days of our vacation. We’ll get two nights alone, without sun or geeky fun, but alone, together. We’ll drop the almost - better children off at the grandparents and catch the last two innings of the game.
Who knows, maybe our team will even win.
* Oh look at this! Apparently this isn’t the first time our plans got shit on by our spawn. Go figure. Trending hash: #shitonmahplanz.
10 guests here now.