Last known picture of Kate sitting with Santa.
Kate, age 2 ….
Kate, age 3 ….
Kate, age 4 ….
Let’s give Kate some credit here. She did smile for me while shopping at a furniture store this week.
I wanted to hear what my family was thankful for before Thanksgiving.
By the time Thanksgiving dinner is served later today, I probably won’t hear their answers. Kate doesn’t like attention on her during family gatherings so she won’t talk. Scott is well on his way to being a six pack deep with his brother and cousins. And Emma will run off with her cousins after one bite.
Here is, word-for-word, our conversation as I sat in bed with my laptop:
Scott, what are you thankful for?
Two awesome girls.
And my loving wife.
I have a good job.
Can you be funnier?
You just want me to praise you.
No, no. Not true. I just said that was corny. This is not Facebook. Be real. I’m really just waiting for you to say it.
You’re thankful for your resources to allow you to hunt. You’re like an Indian.
I don’t know. I just got a visual of you killing a buffalo or something. Hm, I guess our family would never stave if we lived in the 1600s.
You see? You get annoyed with hunting but I can provide for the family.
Nope. I am the one that grocery shops. We’re back in 2013 now.
Emma! Come here!
What are you thankful for this year?
What do you want me to say?
Whatever you want. If your teacher asks what you’re thankful for before you leave for Thanksgiving break, what will you tell her?
Uh, tell me.
No! Emma! Everyone has their own list. What makes you happy in your life?
Hm. I would say the planet earth.
The planet earth. Scott, she just said the planet earth. She covered her bases. Ok, thanks Emma. You can go back to play now.
What are you thankful for?
I don’t know.
I know your teacher asked you this. What did you say?
The whole world.
You told the teacher the whole world? Did Emma tell you to say that?
Mom, just go back to work on your computer.
But no one asked me – what I am I thankful for? A loving husband and two funny daughters who are thankful for the world.
I realize I just went all Facebook on you. It happens.
Our family wishes your family a Happy Thanksgiving! Cheers!
Jimi Hendrix. Caroline Kennedy. Bruce Lee.
And Jaleel White – aka Steve Urkel. We’ll just ignore that one.
You know what they all have in common? November 27th. They all share a birthday with me.
This is not the greatest day to pop out of the womb. Now, I know we really can’t control our birthdays. But people – is it really necessary to have sex on Valentine’s Day? Is it really necessary?
I say no. There’s no need for that. It’s a Hallmark holiday. Wooing consists of a mass produced “I love you” card and a dozen overpriced flowers. Do not cave for this, ladies. Not in February. Have your way with men in, oh I don’t know - July. Show ‘em some real FIREWORKS! If you are a romantic and get some booty smackin’ by Cupid then you better double up on birth control -
You risk conceiving a child with a Thanksgiving birthday.
My mom and dad let Cupid take aim and fire.
Any child born between November 22nd and November 28th will eventually have a Thanksgiving birthday. If not on the day, the birthday will get gobbled up Thanksgiving week and forgotten.
Thanksgiving birthdays are mapped out and decided for you. It doesn’t matter if you’re turning 32 or if you’re turning 50. Thanksgiving birthdays are always the same. The Indians and Pilgrims steal your birthday thunder.
I know. I do exist. I can’t really complain about the day I was born. So thank you for making me, mom and dad.
It’s just not my choice day to pop out of the womb. My birthday is the day before Thanksgiving this year. Next year will be the one that really sucks.
This is all Cupid’s fault – AIM FOR THE TURKEY, YOU FLYING BABY!
Moral of the story here is just say no to sex on Valentine’s Day.
Scott: Emma, we should go hunting tomorrow after school.
Emma: No, I don’t want to. I never see any deer when I hunt with you.
Scott: Yeah but now it’s the rut! The deer are running all over the place! Remember how I told you the bucks chase their girlfriends?
Emma: Why are they chasing their girlfriends?
Scott: Uh…well…wouldn’t you want to?
Emma: Oh yeah, they’re making babies.
Scott: Yeah! They don’t even realize we’re sitting in the woods because they are having fun chasing each other!
Emma: Hmmm. I think…I think I wouldn’t want to do that if I were a deer. That doesn’t sound fun to me. That sounds like it would hurt.
Scott: Yes. Yes, it would hurt, Emma. Very much. So how was your day at school?
I have secrets. I am going to tell you one.
I debated skipping this week on Play-at-home Blogger Idol: tell a secret your readers don’t know about you. No word limit. Include pictures.
Everyone wants to hear a good secret. Secrets can be small white-lies to completely world shattering news. The moment someone says they have a secret, the listener cannot deny to let them continue on. Secrets aren’t always bad either; sometimes they are good. Maybe there’s a mom out there that knows she’s pregnant. That’s a good secret.
No, I’m not pregnant.
I had a hard time coming up with a secret to write about. I nagged Scott to think of something about me that my readers don’t know. Scott knows everything. He couldn’t come up with anything worthy of a simple blog post. I got desperate: I googled “secrets.” Yeah, I know.
Asking Scott and the Internet didn’t help. I am the only one that knows me.
So here’s my secret: I question whether I should make this blog private.
Maybe it’s not so much of a secret. It’s just something I have never admitted openly.
Blogging freaks me out. Every time I hit that publish button, my stats rise. My heart races. I stomach flips at the email dings on my phone notifying me of new comments. My body gets ready for an attack of negative comments. I know this stems from Emma got in trouble at school. I haven’t really gotten over the criticism from that post.
It’s rare if I get a negative comment now.
Do people judge me for using my kids’ real names? And pictures? Am I a terrible mom for publicly writing about my kids? My kids know I write about them. But how long will they let me? Are people just reading to be nosy? All of these questions could be asked to any parent who include their kids on any social media. Scott tells me I probably have stalkers. But I mean, really, a good stalker would know Scott is a master sniper from a tree stand. You’d be a fool to stalk us.
I’m amazed to read my blog from the beginning. The writing goes from horrible to decent to friends telling me,
“What?!! YAY!! I made a Julie blog!”
Complete strangers have approached me around town. Don’t worry – my town is apparently very small. They all tell me how much they love my blog. It encourages me to keep writing for them. Friends will tell me they drop everything when they see a new post go up. I love hearing from people that they love to read my words. You couldn’t give me a bigger compliment. I see my stats continue to rise. My subscribers, my Twitter followers, my Facebook followers all continue to go up. It’s exciting and scary at the same time.
But I get frustrated with the Julie blog. I don’t care how many readers I have – give me a few hours reading other blogs and I will put myself in my place. This blog is not that great, people. I compare myself with other very talented writers. I want to write like them. Be funny like them. Stalk them.
Writing is an art form. Artists go insane, right? I believe this is the point where I go insane with my masterpiece. I question every single word. I am constantly editing. I can’t stop writing at night. I can’t stop reading other blogs.
The Internet is scary. It can be discouraging to a writer. People get brave with typing insults. I don’t know one child that hasn’t been on the Internet in some form. But the Internet is not always bad. It’s a place where creativity can be taught – uh, Pinterest. You can meet someone from across the world just sitting at your desk. The Internet is a place to turn for laughs about a little family in Kansas.
Why are you even reading this??? Oh, sorry – there’s the insane coming out.
So there’s my secret, readers. Little did you know it is about you.