Uncategorized – Page 6 – Angel Wheeler

Halloween 2013 wasn’t a total bust

Months ago, I mean months ago, I saw a darling handmade owl costume on Pinterest. You know Pinterest? That website that will suck the hours right out of your day?

I pinned it on my board entitled Possible Attempts.

Around September, I knew I needed to get started, so I gathered the felt and began the process of cutting out owl feathers.

I just knew EK would look precious. I never imagined EK wouldn’t wear the costume.

But that’s how it all came down.

Our town had a fallfest carnival the weekend before Halloween. I was ready with the owl cape and hat. I’d bought sweats to go underneath it. She had glittery boots. Glittery boots!

And she refused to wear it. She threw her arms back throwing the cape off like it was burning her flesh. If I managed to get it put on, she tugged at the neckline, crying and fighting.

I decided to give up, and I carried her costume around the whole time.

The only time she put it on was in my lap and we managed to get a couple of pictures of her on a hayride with me.

That was the Saturday before Halloween. I decided to revise the costume and added a button, thinking maybe the tie was a little too choking.

I was up for another attempt.

I noticed a few years back that Halloween lasts a week these days. When I was a kid, Halloween was on October 31, no matter what. But this day and age, if it doesn’t fall on a weekend, there are Halloween events the weekend before and sometimes the weekend after. You’ll even find churches participating on Wednesday night, no matter what day it fall on. Then there is, what I call, “Real Halloween” the day people actually dress up and go trick or treating.

After the Saturday fallfest, we had 3 more events to wear our costume. Our play group was having a party on Tuesday, our Library Story time was having a party Thursday morning and then there was “Real Halloween” that night.

Attempt #2: On Tuesday, she wouldn’t wear her costume. I kind of threw a fit, but not as bad as the Saturday one I threw.

Attempt #3: On Thursday, I didn’t make a big deal out of it at all. I just merely asked if she wanted to wear it, and lo and behold, she did. So we donned the owl for Library time and she kept it on most of the time.

She was so tired after that, we didn’t do anything else for Halloween, which was fine with me.

I bought some Twizzlers for the trick or treating crowd, but ended up not having any trick or treaters. I might have, but I had to turn my light off at 7:30 after Ashlynn came in with a church group in the big middle of a scavenger hunt and took all our candy.

I guess I can’t complain since I did get a couple of decent pictures, although no smiles.

Even though we didn’t get to do “Real Halloween” and got trick or treat, I bet you can still guess “whoooooooo” was the cutest owl in town?

Hiking the PCT

I woke up this morning moaning.

The first thing that came into my mind was, “oh my neck, oh my back. Oh my neck and my back”.

It’s nothing more than a mass of knots and pain. Caused from carrying EK on my back yesterday on a hike in the woods, you know in one of those backpacks that holds kids.

This one to be exact.

You see, I read a book called Wild, by Cheryl Strayed and it’s kind of sent me into a frenzy. I can’t explain it. The book is a memoir about a lady who hiked the Pacific Coast Trail by herself. If you’re not familiar with the PCT, like I was, it is a stretch that runs from Mexico to Canada, through California, Oregon, and Washington. It took her three months, carrying everything she needed to survive on her back, living, eating, sleeping, and pooping in the wilderness. All alone. A switch went off in my brain. A desire to do the same.

Then a flash of reality went off in my brain reminding me I am 1) married 2) a mother 3) nearly forty 4) smarter than that.

So me and my brain, we compromised. I may not be able to hike the PCT, but I can go hike in the woods around me, my own personal PCT known as Perk Canyon Trail. So me and EK decided to do just that.

I strapped her on my back and we headed up.

About 14 steps up a very easy trail, I questioned my decision. It wasn’t easy.

It proved to actually be pretty hard. And I was reminded of a poster that hung in the Dyslexic teacher’s classroom at my former school. In big bold letters it read, WE CAN DO HARD THINGS.

I can do hard things, I kept telling myself.

In the book, Strayed keeps mentioning the weight of her pack was heavier than most backpackers. She never said the weight, but said it was at least half of what she weighed. I’m figuring an average 26 year old lady at about 120-130 pounds, so she’s probably carrying at least 60 pounds. Me, on the other hand, I’m carrying probably 25–30. And it ain’t easy for me.

A little ways up the trail, the air became a little nippy, so I stopped at a log to remove EK and put her jacket on her. It was a welcome relief. She then wanted to walk a little ways, and I was glad to have to only carry the pack without the added 22 pounds.

It is a real joy watching her exploring the woods, considering how she’s gonna cross this bride.

With mama’s helping hand of course.

Even getting off of logs proved to be a challenge.

Of course she had to stop and tie her “untie able” shoes after watching me tie mine, since she had been the one to bend over and untie mine, of course.

Later, I strapped her back in and we continued on. The leaves this time of year are remarkable. The colors are vibrant, although pictures don’t really do them justice.

The silence surrounds you. The only sounds are the crunching of your feet, the occasional call of a bird or flutter of their wings, and the rush of the water in the nearby stream falling over the rocks.

Eventually, EK fell asleep, her head bumping into mine, forbidding her to get a good sound rest. She finally laid her head against mine, pushing my neck forward, causing the tension in my upper back to increase. I lifted up on the pack, adjusting it, trying to relieve some discomfort without disturbing her, but it was only temporary.

It was a great time. It wasn’t the PCT. Thank goodness. It wasn’t 3 months but only shy of 3 hours. But it was enough.

If my back didn’t hurt so badly today, we might even do it again. Maybe.

I hope EK learns to love nature. There is just something about it. Something everyone should experience. We need to escape this modern world every now and again, and find solace in the wild.

And sometimes, we need to trade in our hiking shoes for some heels.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

****The youngest to hike the real PCT was 9 years old. Something to think about.

My Journey as a Writer

I’m beginning. I’m still at the beginning. I’m no longer at the starting line, and I don’t know the route or the way to the finish line. But I’ve begun.

Not long ago, my mom gave me a green folder that had special mementoes she had discovered while cleaning out. There were notes and letters. A child’s drawings of hearts and flowers. A book report in the shape of Oklahoma. Just a few things she had saved of mine during my elementary school years. I looked through them, not seeing much more than a pile of faded construction paper hearts with “I love my mom” scribbled in crayon.

Not until I dug deep, did I find something significant. It was a story I’d written, actually two. My mom had written on the back, “Angel came home today so excited to be a writer. An author visited the school. Here are two of her stories she has written so far.” The stories were lackluster and quite morbid. There were no happily ever afters to them. It actually made me sad to read them and there wasn’t much talent there at all, just a childhood imagination.

I don’t remember the day the author visited. I don’t remember writing those stories either. I’m grateful my mom saved them, though. It’s seems to confirm that writing is something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. I like to think it’s engrained. It’s stitched in the fibers of my soul. It holds me together with big sloppy stitches. I guess somehow, throughout the years, my childhood dream of writing got pushed beneath all the glamourous, or high paying, or practical jobs that the teachers, parents, and society dictated instead. The little girl who desired to be an ice skater, then a psychiatrist, who settled on a teacher but not before becoming a waitress forgot her aspiration. No one valued writing that I can remember. No one encouraged that. Instead it was the doctor, lawyer, dentist, Dallas cowboy cheerleader kind of jobs to strive for.

I started this blog a few years ago. It’s one of my most valued treasures. I’ve nurtured it and it is my life memoir, so to speak. Some people actually read it. And those same people actually told me I should write more.

So I did.

Last month, I had a small (not so great) ebook published. That was the first hill of my journey.

Today I turned in a second book, and conquered another hill. It is actually a ghost writing project, meaning my name will not appear on it. Someone else will take my story, put their name on it, and pretend they wrote it. For now, that’s okay with me. If I were them, I couldn’t sleep at night, but that’s their issue not mine.

Tomorrow I begin another story.

And then, I have another one after that.

It’s good. It’s all good.

I am beginning to think of myself as a writer. Not a novelist, not even an author, but a just a little bit of a writer.

I’m not getting rich and famous. I’m not even being paid much, but it gives me a little Christmas cash, so I’m pleased.

Maybe somewhere down my journey, I might be considered a novelist. That would be so cool. Maybe at mile marker 1,458, I might have an agent, and an editor, and a publisher.

Dream with me just for a moment. Close your eyes.

Can you see it? I’m wearing glasses and a scarf to hide my old neck. My hair is grayer and I’m autographing a book.

Yes, I can see it. It makes me smile.

When I arrive at mile marker 1,459 I’ll look back on this little post right here, and all the ones before it, and see my beginnings. The ones where I wrote while my baby napped beside me in the bed. The late nights of lots of coffee while the rest of the house slept, the times I took my laptop to the backyard while EK played with the dogs and chickens and I slaved away and on plot twists and character sketches.

It’s an exciting journey, and at times it’s hard and long. But I’m not alone.

Lots have gone before me, and many are with me now.

You’d better listen.

This morning I sent this 14 year old off to school.

It’s Homecoming here. Last night there was a bonfire, today a pep rally, tonight a football game, tomorrow a dance.

We be busy.

So later, I was replying to some comments here on my blog and I ended up clicking on something that took me way back to some of my first posts. I saw comments from my dad, which made me smile and brought a touch of sadness as well. Clicking here led to clicking there until I came across this post from a few years back that is entitled “Listen.”

I think it’s my favorite blog post of all time.

It’s a voicemail from that sweet 14 year old above when she was a bit younger. A bit more innocent. But still as fun. And crazy. And tender.

You have to listen to this message. It shows her heart.

A beautiful heart.

Here’s the original post from 2010:

My niece called me. She left the sweetest, most precious voicemail.

Before you hear more, I must tell you this.

“Mama” in the message, works in bail bonds. They were at the jail to bail someone out. Thankfully, not a member of the family…….this time.

My niece had been prostrate weeping and wailing for hours because her friend Perla couldn’t come over after she had been planning it for a whole entire week. She was devastated.

And lastly, Jesus is her homeboy.

Click on the link below. You must. It’ll make you smile, I hope.

http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10255644-023

Authors Note: It took me 17 hours, 904 online tutorials, and ten of my own dollars to learn how to post this to my blog. I have yanked every hair from my head and am now forever changed, not to mention bald. So it had better make you smile.

Thanks for listening 🙂

My Heavy Heart Needs Lifting

Lately I’ve found myself in a very deep place of sadness. I can’t seem to shake it. I’ve tried prayer, meditation, positive thoughts, reading His word, music, exercise, even sitting alone and forcing myself to smile for a minute at a time. I’m about to resort to shopping. I may temporarily feel better after these endeavors, but it is short lived.

No one knows I’m sad. Not even the people I share my house with. They just think I’m constantly in a bad mood because I mask it with irritability. My heart’s hope is by blogging and sharing my struggle, it will help me find my happiness.

I could blame it on the rainy weather that threatens to linger through 2017 or through Christmas at least. But I think that isn’t the cause of my sadness, but only exacerbates it.

There’s other factors as well. I’ve been fighting an infection for over a week, and in other body news my thyroid which revolted against me 20 years ago is completely out of whack right now. I’m not sleeping and I just feel overwhelmed. I know these physical conditions can affect the mind. But again, I don’t think they are the cause.

I am battling with my weight, exercising all the time, and then counteracting the good effects by eating much more than one woman ever should. This is a troubling cycle which only causes frustration. Each day, I stand again on square one.

I am not a crier, but fighting tears has become too common lately.

When I delve deeply and truly question it all, when I sit still and don’t distract myself with the boring household chores or the internet, when I truthfully look at my situation, I realize the reason for my melancholy is that I feel all alone. I am living in a beautiful place, surrounded by glory and majesty and color. A place where people escape to. I’m surrounded by people and yet I am all alone. I have no family here. I have no friends here. It’s not even that I’m a big friend person. It’s that if I wanted to call someone up and say, “Hey let’s do something”, I wouldn’t have that option. Sure, me and EK have a play group and story time and church that we attend each week, but those are just people I see every week, not people who know me.

Is it also that I feel purposeless? Yes. Being a housewife is boring and tedious and repetitious. But do I even want to leave this messy house? No. I want to stay in bed, letting the raindrops make trails down my window and imagine God is crying with me.

I know there’s many people who suffer from the blues. I’ve not been one of them really, until now. Down in the dumps usually last only a short time for me. I don’t want to call this the D word, because it will pass, but while I’m here in it, it really sucks. I also feel really guilty for feeling this way, because I’m super blessed and I have no reason to feel sad. So then I throw guilt in the mixing bowl with all my other emotional ingredients and I end up with a batter very unappealing.

But anyway, I’ve said enough. I do feel better, strange as it seems, to open up my soul and show all of you my ugly insides. It’s like a release. And because I know many of you after you read this will stop and send happy thoughts my way, all the way across the states, the plains, hills, and streams, all the way to this valley that I’m sitting in right now. And I will see your happy thoughts coming on the winds, like little messenger pigeons bringing me your well wishes, your smiles, your “everything will be okays”.

I will look to the sky and wait for them. As they approach, I will open my heart and reach out my hand and catch them as they flutter to the ground. I will clasp them to my chest, close my eyes, and then send you one back.

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Moment Dwelling

Last night a physical sickness hit me and I couldn’t sleep because of it.

I crept out of the bedroom leaving my husband and EK snoozing soundly, grabbed a down comforter, my robe, and headed to the couch where I still couldn’t sleep.

I got my laptop and for a reason unknown, I began looking at pictures I had stored on it. For three hours, I looked at my baby’s pictures and videos from way back.

Oh my heart.

My cheeks began to hurt and I realized I’d been wearing a smile for a very long time.

You tried to tell me how precious, beautiful, adorable, etc., etc. she was and boy, were you right.

Now that I’m a bit removed from that baby-baby stage, I can’t hardly believe how wonderful she was. And she still is, just bigger.

It’s just that when you’re in the big middle of it, sometimes you see through a glass darkly. Or as J-Dub would say, your tail lights are brighter than your headlights.

But last night, everything carried a new light. The way her hair grew. The dimples on her hands, her budding teeth, the way her rolls of fat lay upon one another, her grins and her frowns.

I sat and watched each little video from before she was born where I videoed her kicking in the womb, to her cooing, to rolling, to her wounded soldier crawl, to sitting, and all the beautiful steps in between.

After breakfast this morning, I sat her in my lap with the computer and continued my nostalgic trip. She knew that was baby Emma on the screen and her face wore the most proud expression as she watched herself growing up and doing this little things that we praised.

Our movie watching didn’t last long. She wanted to read a Monkey book, and color on the TV with a blue marker, get in the clothes I was folding, eat fish and peaches, then play with the dogs and chickens.

Now she stomps around in too big play shoes, puts Cheerios in her ears, and throws a mean temper tantrum.

We’re just doing life over here.

I have to remind myself that these mundane, day-to-day chores are the little things that become the big things. In another year, I’ll be watching the videos and studying the pictures from this season of our life together and realizing how precious, beautiful, adorable etc., etc., she was.

Then……

And now….

I must tell myself to live in the moment.

I’m trying.

18 months old

Dear Emma Kate,

Today you are 18 months old. One and a half. You are a delight to this world. You make it a better place to live already, in just 18 short months you’ve truly made a difference in many people’s lives. Remember to always strive to add beauty and make this world a better place.

Let’s see……there is so much to say about you. First off, you are talker! You aren’t easily understood except by those close to you, but you talk up a storm, and I don’t just mean you babble.

You like to pray, and that makes my heart so happy. When we sit down to eat, you remind us to “pay” and you reach for our hands. You bow your little head, but still peek out from under your hair (we know that because we’re peeking at you too). When we’re finished, you say Amen and squeeze three times. It is so precious.

You love books as always and want us to read to you all the time.

You are so smart. I know I’ve told you that since you were born, but you were born smarter than most adults ever manage to become! You love to write your letters. You call them all E, A, and O’s.

You sing songs. Your favorite is Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and you have these sweet hand motions that go with it that you learned from play group. You also sing If You’re Happy and You Know it, B-I-N-G-O, You are my sunshine and lots more!

If you had a choice, you’d be outside! You are not a prissy pants, although you do like dressing up in necklaces and grown up shoes and calling yourself “toot” (cute), but you also eat dog food, waller in dirt, and don’t mind a little grit under your fingernails.

You love our dogs Drew and Grace and it is so funny to hear you talk to them. If you’re not giving them hugs and kisses, then you’re telling them “Go, Move, and No”! You also love the chickens and you hug their butts all the time.

You are just a little thing. We’ll be going to the doctor soon for a check up but I bet you weigh just barely over twenty pounds. You can still wear 12 month clothes and the 18 months are just a little roomy for you. You are super healthy and have never been too sick!!! I’m so happy about that.

As far as your personality goes, you are adorable! You like familiar people, and it takes you a good while to warm up to others that you aren’t around much. It hurts their feelings sometimes I think, but they’re grown ups and can deal with it. So you keep on being careful around others and be choosy in your friends. You are a watcher and an observer. You don’t just jump in and do things, but you analyze situations and sit back rather than dive right in.

You are a mommy’s girl! And you’ve even started being jealous if someone else touches me or tries to love on me. You yell “no no no” and wring your little hands. It’s so cute. I know you won’t always be a mommy’s girl, and there will be times that you, dare I say, will even think you hate me. But I will love you no matter what. Through all the highs and lows and ups and downs. You are my baby girl. You’re growing up and I am so proud to have you! Always know how much you are loved!

I love you!!!!!

xoxo

Mommy

Breast Weaning Woes

I’m categorizing this blog under the Public Service category because somethings just need to be said, that no one said to me. And also because I feel the need to vent.

I’m a little bit peeved at the female race right now. Yes, women, you. Don’t point at yourself with your eyebrows raised in surprise like that. Yes, you. I’m feeling a bit uninformed, a bit left out in the cold, and a whole LOT OF shocked at the fact that nobody told me how painful weaning my baby from breast-feeding would be.

To my male readers: don’t check out quite yet, I have something for you too.

To the mothers out there: you told me how much pregnancy sucks, you told me how painful labor would be, you warned me of the pain of beginning breast-feeding, how badly it hurt when they latched on. You told me about the hard recovery from a c-section, the hormonal swings, the postpartum depression. But no one, I mean NO ONE mentioned how painful weaning would be.

I chose to breast feed because I believe in it. I believe in its goodness. I never expected to last 6 months, never mind last a year and onward. My little EK loves to nurse. She asks for it all the time. “muck”. It has been beneficial to her, to her health, to our bonding, etc., etc., etc. I could go on.

I must be honest, I felt a little weird nursing a toddler, even though deep down I knew I shouldn’t. But Western Society sexualizes the breast, rather than embracing its intended function and breast feeding a toddler or older is frowned upon. Dare I even say stigmatized.

I slowly began to wean the baby around 12 months. First we night weaned, then we began dropping a feeding here and there. Finally we were down to 2 feedings a day. I kept it like this for several weeks. And then the tantrums began. When I had to postpone her desire for “muck”, she got mad. She cried. She pouted. She hit whatever was closest, sometimes me.

This past Thursday, after a hitting episode, I just said. “no more, there’s no more milk”. I’ve stuck to it, but it’s a lie. It’s one big whopper of a lie, because let me tell you folks, there’s still milk. There’s a lot milk. And my bosoms are engorged! The pain is almost unbearable. They’re hard, and hot, and lumpy and leaky. Originally XS, they’ve expanded to a size XXX. It’s not fun.

To my male readers: I think I now know how it feels to have testicles. You know how you guys are always protecting yours? I get that now. If something comes near you; a ball, a small child, you instinctively put your hands up to guard your jewels. I get that now. Because they hurt. And especially when they get bumped. I get that. You have no idea how much I get that now. I cry out like a little girl. And feel like hitting back whoever or whatever has bumped them.

You have no idea how badly I want to allow my girl to nurse again to relieve the pain and discomfort, but I feel like I would really be taking 300 steps backward. She still asks for her “muck” but the fits have stopped and she seems to be happy with substitute nourishment and comfort. It’s not really her suffering from weaning. It’s me.

I think I did this the smart way. I weaned gradually. There was no “cold turkey” . And yet, I still have an overabundance of supply. I’ve pumped a little just to grant myself an ounce (pun intended) of relief. And now I have cabbage leaves in my bra as a home remedy to help drain and dry up. So guess what? Not only do I hurt, I am uncomfortable, I am downright grouchy, but now……I smell like slaw. All I lack is fried chicken. Just add that to my woes.

Which brings me to my advice. To all you young mothers or ladies thinking of becoming a mother or thinking of breast-feeding. Do it, it is a wonderful thing, don’t get me wrong, the benefits are astounding.

But for me it has not been a piece of cake to wean, I’m here to tell you.

Since no one else will.

But can anyone bring me some fried chicken?

Five Dollar Advice

When you’re unemployed you have to think of creative ways to make a little cash. Lately I’ve been wheeling and dealing on the various selling sites on Facebook. Basically every community has a “for sale” site where you post your wares: those clothes that are too snug in the waistband, the mini food processor you’ve used twice in the last 15 years, your old tires, your velvet hanging of “THE KING” with the microphone cocked and his hips swiveled.

It works out good when the buyer actually follows through, shows up to buy the merchandise, and doesn’t try to haggle you down to a buck twenty five. Recently I sold a little whatchamacallit and made arrangements with the buyer to meet in a parking lot of a fast food joint. She’s waiting on me when I get there. Nice lady, had a daughter with her about, oh 13 maybe?

We greet one another. I’m happy to be making five bucks.

She stays in the car, cigarette hanging out her windows, while her daughter hands me the cash. I stand there leaning through the passenger car window explaining how this contraption I just sold works. Suddenly she interrupts me.

“I have to say something, and I hope you don’t get offended.”

Oh boy I thought, here it comes. When someone starts a statement like that, you really never know what to expect. I braced myself.

“You look so much better in person,”she said smiling a big toothed grin.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Should I be offended?

“Ok, thank you?” I say not sure if this is a compliment or an insult.

She went on.

“I mean, really. You look great. You look younger. You look great. I’m not even sure I would’ve recognized you.”

Her teenage daughter, experiencing one of many embarrassing moments that her mother will cause, looked over at her, earrings dangling to her shoulders and said, “Really, Mom?”

Obviously she was not concerned with how her deal of the day worked. I handed over the five dollar buy convinced this sale was final.

As if I didn’t quite get the lady’s point, she continued. “I don’t know, you look great. Maybe you should rethink your profile pic.”

Well I just had to laugh. My favorite way to be complimented is when it’s rolled up in an insult.

I’m not insulted. Actually, I’m thankful for her insight. If I ever use one of those online dating sites, I’ll be sure to use my current profile pic. That way when I meet face to face with my potential beau, they’ll be as blown away as this lady was.

I took my five bucks along with her smidgen of wisdom and hit the road.

Dreaming Like a Baby

Our local library launched its summer reading program this week with the theme Blazing the Trails. It is phenomenal and the librarians have put an immense amount of work into this.

On opening day for the Tiny Tots, we dug for pennies in sand, panned for gold, lassoed ponies, raced stick horses and sat real ponies. EK loves the library and loves the books. She wouldn’t put her book down before getting on the pony. She walked around with her book open like she was reading it.

The next day at the library, a trick roper entertained us with his horse, his rope, and his dog.

Understandably, EK’s new favorite word is “hosh”.

Early this morning, still sleeping but stirring, eyes shut, she rolled over in bed and let out a soft “neigh”.

Ah, the sweet dreams of babes.