My Son : The Furball

Several of my friends have recently joined the world of motherhood, an exclusive club, full of advice and unsolicited opinions. The further a mommy travels in her journey of motherhood, the more she eventually appreciates the sage wisdom, “This, too, shall pass.” Colic? This, too, shall pass. Expensive formula? This, too, shall pass. Having to carry an extra outfit everywhere you go for both the child and yourself? This, too, shall pass (maybe). Sleepless nights…well…

I read a Facebook post by one of my friends, who had her baby last week. She asked her friends if it was normal for her to be so sleepy but so unable to sleep. It reminded me of the first three months of Baker’s life and all of our battles, which, among other things, included very little sleep.

Before Baker was three months old, we purchased five different types of beds for him, in hopes that one of these beds would help him to sleep better. By the time the child was three days old, I was absolutely convinced that I had given birth to an asthmatic goat. Each night, we would swaddle him, and we would lay him in his swing, which was situated at the foot of our bed, and Baker’s erratic symphony would begin. It was a melody of alternating short and long bahhhh-ing sounds, interrupted with an occasional chorus of short shrieks, gasps, coughs, and sighs. His pediatrician later told me that this was acid reflux, and the magic of modern day medicine turned my baby goat into a real boy.

Sometimes Baker’s tangents would be abruptly shattered by a fussy cry that Dave and I began to call, squiggy. I don’t know where squiggy came from, but it describes the squished up face that he would make and the way that he would stretch and wiggle his body from side to side. On the night that today’s story takes place, Baker was being very squiggy. And I was very tired. And Dave was very asleep.

Baker began to fuss and squirm, and I, believing that every cry that came from my child was an absolute emergency (as new mommies do), sprang to action. By sprang to action, I mean that I sat up in a dumbfounded haze and crawled to the foot of the bed to pick up my baby goat.

I should note that my brain is not fully functional until I have been awake for at least an hour and even then, there are those who question my definition of fully functional. I am also blind. Very very blind. My glasses prescription is similar to that of my 87 year old grandmother, sans bifocals. But when your child is having an emergency and must eat right away or risk starvation, you don’t think to grab your glasses…at least, I didn’t.

“Shhhh, Bubba, you’re okay. Shhhh.” I stroked the top of his head and kissed him. “Mommy is right here. Shhhhh. You’re okay.”

Baker cranked up the volume a bit, and I reached for his bottle. Shifting Baker in my arms in order to get him into a position where I could both feed him and rest my head against our headboard, I noticed something. It was something strange. It felt like hair, much, much more hair than Baker, who at the time resembled an 8 lb. Danny DiVito, had.

Maybe it was his blanket. I glanced into his swing to see blurry outlined shape the blanket carelessly draped and dangling from the bottom of the swing.

By this time Baker was really angry. He belted his high notes as I tried to get the bottle into his mouth, but I couldn’t see his face, and he wouldn’t quit squirming. The more he squirmed, the more hair I felt.

“Is it my hair?” I wondered. It couldn’t be.

In my immensely sleep-deprived wisdom, I concluded that my baby had come into contact with an allergen, causing him to sprout massive amounts of hair all over his body.

No wonder he was crying!

“It’s okay, baby!” I kissed him, and in a panic, I rushed back over to the foot of the bed to investigate the contents of his swing and determine why my baby was so furry. After all, I’d only joked about Baker being a goat because of the sounds he was making, and now he was growing fur, too! What kind of jacked up genetics was this???

Searching through Baker’s swing, I found more than one answer.

Answer 1: The first thing I felt was the soft skin of a very ticked off newborn, now shrieking like a rabid cat. I shook the fog from my brain and looked closer. Sure enough, there was my son, laying in his swing, mouth wide open, screaming his brains out.

Answer 2: In utter confusion, still not comprehending exactly what was happening, I looked down into my arms. “If Baker is there, what am I holding?” A closer look revealed to me my ten-year-old Yorkshire Terrier, Bailey, who was now embracing the luxury of being held like a baby, stroked, and kissed.

Answer 3: Sleep deprivation ain’t cool.

As Baker has gotten older, he has learned to sleep through the night, and he is really great about it. But I have resigned myself to the idea that “sleeping in” is a thing of the past. Some things in life do pass, but some things stick around and evolve.

Runners High...and Lows

Warning: This blog contains content that is not suitable for the easily grossed out or offended.

I’m almost certain that OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) has some correlation to ADHD (attention deficit hyperactive disorder). In the world of psychology, the existence of two diagnoses at once is called comorbidity. I know this, because in a moment when I am sure that I was supposed to be focused on something else, I was obsessing about the coexistence of these two “disorders,” although I do not view them as disorders at all. Difference? Yes. Disorder? Only if I let it be.

You see, ADHD deals with one’s attention and impulsivity. It does not mean that I cannot focus. It means that it takes more effort for me to focus on what I am supposed to focus on. It means that I can become completely immersed in a subject and pay perfect attention without veering off at all. Unfortunately, that subject is not always what I am supposed to be focused on, and I have great difficulty getting back on track once I am derailed. I was fortunate enough to have a mother who is a psychotherapist and who taught me about how my brain works. I know all sorts of coping skills in dealing with ADHD, and I use them on a daily basis. Where ADHD deals with impulsivity, OCD deals with compulsion. Both deal with one’s abilities to say no to the urge to act on a behavior. Someone with OCD can get trapped in a looping cycle, where they actually cannot stop themselves from repeating the same behavior, routine, or ritual over and over. I have never been diagnosed with OCD, although I have rather obsessive behaviors (that’s for another blog), one of which has become running.

Hello, my name is Emily, and I am an addict. I have been sober now for twenty three hours, but I plan to get another fix before the end of the evening. My addiction is a dirty, sweaty place of black outs, vomit, rabies, urine, snot, blood, blisters, bruises, and dead animals. It wakes me up before 5 a.m. It has caused me to lose 29 lbs. since July of last year. If I have to, I’ll even bring my child with me when I need to get another fix. I leave my home every day, except for Sundays, in search of the rush, and I have even gotten friends and family to join me. I have to buy new paraphernalia every three months or my body hurts and I can barely walk. Running is the drug that has, like the dirty bearded man who wanders the streets of Dallas talking to himself, altered my mind, body, and especially, my sense of modesty.

Crossing the finish line at my first 10k, I was relieved. Relieved that the race was over. Relieved that I beat my goal time of one hour by nearly four minutes. And, to my surprise, I relieved my bladder, as well. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I peed myself. And not just a little bit.

I crossed the finish line, ran off to the side, turned to see Dave crossing the finish line, and it hit me. And it was not waiting on me to find a port-a-john. It was already beginning to run down my leg. So I did the only thing that I could think to do. I walked the three feet to the nearest curb, casually sat down, and answered nature’s call. Right there…in public…with at least a thousand people standing nearby.

“Come on, Emily. Don’t sit down. You have to keep walking, or you will get sore,” Dave coached me as he came walking up.

“Errr….I…um…can’t.” With my stare, I directed his gaze down to the stream leading from his beautiful bride (ha) down to the wet leaves that lined the curb.

“Oh…um…oh.” He was speechless. I can’t really say that I blame him. After being married for almost five years, there’s not much that I do anymore that really surprises Dave. But this didn’t count as one of those times.

I sat there and peed for what seemed like forever. Then, I did the most logical thing I could think of. I doused myself in water from an Ozarka bottle in an effort to hide that I had just popped a squat and peed in public. Sure, it was cold. But it was better than the alternative.

For my next race, I was determined that this would not happen again. I made sure that I did not over-hydrate. I used the port-a-john (something that was against my religion before now) TWICE before my race.

At mile four, my legs started to feel very cold. The tops of my socks didn’t feel quite right. I reached down and touched the hem of my shorts. Really? Yes, really. While I ran. And again in the grass at the finish line.

Most people would not pay good money to pee in public. But I’m not most people. I’m a runner. When I should be sleeping, I run. When I should be cleaning my house, I run. When I should be at the chiropractor, I run. When I should be resting because of a cold or a headache, I run. I’m addicted. I’m obsessed. I cannot break my focus. And it’s simply not a problem.

Baker and the Keys

"Hi, this is Emily...Yes, I'm fine, but I'm going to be late...Why? Well, my child hid my car keys, and since we live in a bilingual household, where he speaks one language Dave and I speak another, he couldn't tell me where they were."

I made this frantic phone call to my school's assistant principal a couple of weeks ago. As a mother, I have learned many lessons that I had never before considered. Bathroom doors have to stay shut, or a pacifier might get flushed. Twenty one month olds believe that goldfish crackers, even the ones found under the dog bowl, are always fair game. It is a bad idea to tickle an infant when he doesn't have a diaper on. It is a bad idea to have an infant without a diaper on, period.

Add to that list; never, ever, ever place a purse within the reach of a toddler. To a toddler, a purse is a wonderland of new objects just awaiting exploration. By exploration, I mean shaking, eating, throwing, and, two Mondays ago, hiding.

I'm always running late. I'm certain that this is a genetic trait, because my mother is always running late as well. Try as I might, being on time is not in the cards for me, so the morning that I added the detective hat to my collection, it did not come as a shock that I was rushing around. I scooped Baker up from the floor where he had been playing, grabbed my purse from the chair, where I placed it the night before and rushed to the car.

After some convincing, I got my baby alligator strapped into his car seat, and I got into the driver's seat. As I do, every morning, I reached into my purse and fumbled around for my school keys and my car keys. School keys, check! Car keys...car keys?...car keys????

I glanced back at Baker, who was happily watching his dvd player (an awesome purchase for car trips and mornings with a cranky baby) and decided to run in to grab my keys.

"I must have left them on the desk by the front door," I said to myself. Yes, out loud. Yes, I talk to myself, out loud, frequently. And I answer myself, too. And sometimes I even tell myself to shut up.

Unfortunately, my keys were not on the desk. They were also not on the island. I decided I had to think like an Emily, which is not always easy. Naturally, I checked the refrigerator...by the milk...near the eggs...in the crisper. No luck. In the pantry? Washer? Dryer?

Mom of the year then remembered that Baker was still in the car (don't worry, the driver door was open, the garage was closed, and the car wasn't running because, well...duh). When I was racing back to the car I noticed something on the floor that should have been in my purse. It was my makeup bag. Ah ha! Baker took my keys! This was a bitter sweet realization. Sweet, because I knew what happened to them. Bitter, because now I really didn’t know where they were.

Unstrapping him from his car seat, I began interrogating my son in the most friendly voice that I could muster. "Baker, where are mommy's keys? Come help me find my keys."

Baker happily toddled back inside, as toddlers do. "Baker, where are my keys?" I asked again. It did not take long to realize that "keys" were not on Baker's word list, yet. He held out his pacifier and grunted with a slightly higher pitch at the end, as though asking, "This?"

"No, no, Baby. Keys. Where are my keys?"

"Ugh???" He held out the banana he clutched in his fist.

"No, keys."

"Ugh???" He held up his sippy cup that was tucked beneath his arm.

"Not the sippy, Baker. The keys? Do you know where mommy's keys are?" I asked, searching on my hands and knees for any place that Baker might have selected for this morning's adventure.

"BALL!" Baker screamed, holding up one of the many plastic rainbow balls scattered across our living room floor. I no longer live in an adult home. I live in an at-home version of Chuck E. Cheese's.

"Yep! That's a ball, but it's not my keys! Come help mommy find my keys."

Baker, at this point, was at a loss. Though he lacked the verbal communication, his face said, "Well, Mom, if you don't want a pacifier, sippy cup, or ball, then you’re on your own, lady!" He wandered around the room making his questioning grunt sound with his arms out to his side, palms up, mimicking the crazy lady who was crawling on the floor.

Baker picked up his hot wheels car and barked, "CAR!" signaling that he was so over hide-and-seek and was ready to move on.

"Well, yes, the keys are for the car, but...wait!" I crawled over to his Lightning McQueen race car, one of those large plastic toys with wheels that a child can sit on and ride across the floor. Lightning McQueen comes equipped with a "handy lift up seat compartment, perfect for storage." Perfect for storage, alright. I lifted the seat, expecting to find my keys. Instead, I saw a plastic pitcher that one might use for punch or juice. I say, might, because one might also use it to distract her child by placing plastic rainbow balls in it and shaking it around, which is why this pitcher was filled with such items.

I spoke again, but this time, it was not to myself or to Baker. "God PLEASE let me find my keys!"

I chucked the pitcher from the “handy compartment”, and when it landed, I heard a distinct jingle. I did not crawl over to where the pitcher landed. Nor did I walk. Instead, in dramatic desperation, I outstretched my entire body across the living room floor to empty the contents of the pitcher, which included a yellow ball, a purple ball, three goldfish crackers, a tampon (which I assume also came from my purse), and my KEYS!!!

Still sprawled on my stomach, turning to Baker, I held up my trophy and said, very clearly, "KEYS!"

And he laughed. He laughed at me with this knowing chuckle, as though he had known where the keys were all along. As though this was greatly entertaining and perfectly satisfying to him.

The story doesn't end there.

The next day, as we left...late again...I walked to the garage with Baker sitting on one forearm and my purse rested on the other, my keys perched on top. Something in my purse caught Baker's eye, and before I could look down to see what it was, my son had already snatched it up.

He dangled the item in front of my eyes, smiled a great big smile, and said, in what I am positive was a smart butt tone, "Keeeeeeeyyyysss???"

Yeah, Baker...thanks.

The Dave You Don’t Know – Winner of Last Week’s Poll

Valentine’s Day is coming up soon – a day where the romantics among us fawn over one another with gift expressions of heart shaped everything, stuffed animals, flowers, jewelry, and *hinttomylovinghusband* a pair of Toms.

There are also the cynics. I’d estimate that between now and Valentine’s day, I will hear no less than ten people comment on Valentine’s day being a scam of the greeting card industry, created to make single people feel (usually here they place some big word that nobody knows or some extreme hyperbole that nobody in their right mind would actually believe unless captivated by the spell of said cynic) so that they will feel like they have to find someone with whom to share this holiday and go out and spend more money.

Who cares? Really? Are we really so hip, now, that we are going to complain about a specific day set aside to celebrate love? Give me break!

So what does this have to do with the Dave that you don’t know? I’m getting there, but I have to rewind a bit.

You see, everyone knows (or thinks they know) a “Dave,” and I don’t mean a “Dave” in name (although everyone probably does know someone named Dave). Everyone knows someone who, on the outside, appears to be extremely reserved, shy, somewhat aloof, kind, etc. And that’s most people’s first impression…and second…and third…impression of my husband.

When I first saw Dave, in May of 2004 he was walking out of an interview for a position at what would be his third school of his teaching career. I was walking into an interview for what would be a position at my very first school. And although my boyfriend of five years was sitting in the parking lot waiting for me, I felt no shame in my mental observation that anyone with eyes could see that the man who just left that conference room was…well…HOT. In fact, by September, every woman in the school was googly-eyed over Dave, and he didn’t seem to notice.

We choose most of our friends, unless you fall victim to somebody, like me, who chose you. Yes, I’m one of those types. “You will be my friend, whether you want to be or not.” I believe those were my exact words in an instant message that I sent to Dave one day in September while our students were taking a test. Okay, so I am not Miss Manners. In fact, my mom made me take etiquette lessons when I was a kid. She jokes that she wants her money back. She once bought me a t-shirt that said “Charm School Drop Out.” I just didn’t care for the prissy side of life. I was friends with mostly guys, and by the time I hit adulthood, I could fire off some zingers that would make a sailor blush. It was how I knew to communicate with guys.

But when I did this around Dave, he didn’t laugh. He would give me this look that confused me. It wasn’t like he was offended, but more like during all of that seemingly “shy” time, he had really been observing. Like, he saw something inside of me that didn’t align with the abrasive personality that I learned to wear. Like he was disappointed. When I recognized that it was not discomfort but disappointment that I saw in his eyes, I finally realized that one of Dave’s character traits was not reservation as I had originally believed. It was observation. It was wisdom.

The relationship that made up a quarter of my life ended in February of 2005, one week before Valentine’s day. But it would take another year for me to catch a glimpse of yet another side of the real Dave.

I should note that February 2005 to April 2006 was a vivid mess. But that’s a story for another time…one that I may or may not ever put into writing. During that time, I was in a relationship that was about fourteen months too long. As I actively worked to unravel all that was good and meaningful in life, Dave watched, as observers do, and (I now know) patiently waited for the time to come when I would realize that I had not lost but hidden my own brain from myself.

The week of Valentine’s Day, 2006, Dave and I stood in the office of our school, standing across from one another at a desk intended for greeting visitors. Strewn across the desk was a bunch of rubber bracelets (think LiveStrong style) that with the words “Hug Me,” “Kiss Me,” “Be Mine,” “I Love You,” etc. scrawled across the bands.

“Thwap,” I felt the red bracelet thump my shoulder shortly after leaving Dave’s fingers, which were pointed like a gun the way that our students do when they shoot forbidden rubber bands at one another. Knowing that he had not read the bracelet, I glanced down, then looked at him and said in a snarky tone, “Aw, you need a hug?” and outstretched my arms.

Then, Dave surprised me. He looked down, fumbled through the bracelets, selected another, and shot it right at me, hitting me in the head. “Hey!” I shouted back, laughing at the precision of the shot. But being smacked in the head wasn’t what surprised me. I knew that Dave picked this band, on purpose. Remember, I was the one with a mouth that could make a sailor blush, but I was the one blushing when I read, “Kiss me.” I shot Dave a look. He smirked, and then he turned and walked out of the office, without a word. Did Dave just flirt with me? Yes! He did! And there was nothing aloof about that. I thought, before, that Dave maybe didn’t know what to say to a girl. As it turned out, Dave knew exactly what to say to a woman, and I knew how to talk to a boy…but not a man.

At the same time, my relationship was headed downhill faster than an Olympic skier on a double black diamond. About eight weeks later, in April, I ended things, and although I was very happy and relieved by my decision, I was absolutely terrified. I wanted to be the person that I knew that I was created to be. I didn’t know where to start, but I was unwilling to share that with anyone else.

The next day, at work, I checked my mailbox. The book that someone had placed inside of my mailbox was titled, “Fresh Faith.” On the inside cover, my friend, whom I had told had no choice as to whether or not he would be my friend a year and a half before, had written a note. He let me know that this book helped him to get through a tough time in his life. He hoped that I would enjoy it, and he was always there for me if I ever needed anything.

I must have read that note one hundred times that day, and a hundred more in the days to follow. In fact, writing about it makes me want to go back and read it again. I was moved by the warmth and kindness in that note. This was not the writing of someone who was reserved. In this note, Dave stepped out from behind the curtain, and what I saw was strength, courage, and wisdom. Even more amazing was my realization that God was not waiting for me to find a starting point to make my way back to Him. He was there all along, and He was using His children (this one happened to be HOT!) to reveal his plans for me. I even read the whole book, which is quite impressive for those of you who know how many books I start and never finish. (And I want to be a writer???)

It was not long after that that Dave and I started dating. From the first date, we both knew that we had found “the one.”

By August I was insisting to my friends, who were thoroughly confused as to how a loud mouth like me ended up with an introvert like Dave, that Dave is a total goof.

“Did you see the size of that chicken?” he would scream at the top of his lungs as he entered my apartment. What chicken?

“I went running tonight, and I saw four elephant-rhino-cracker-dogs,” he would begin during our dinner conversations. He would try to use an accent, but, like his father, every accent in Dave’s repertoire sounds like Sean Connery.

We were engaged from November of 2006 to June of 2007, when we married. This year, we will have been married for five years, and Dave still cracks me up. My favorite is when he takes an original song (Lady Gage – Bad Romance) and makes up the lyrics for his own song (I need some gloves, yeah, and I need them right now be-cuz my hands are froze) then sings them until they are stuck in BOTH of our heads and we can’t stand ourselves and must turn on the radio to listen to something, anything, to drown out the Dave Original.

Dave also dances like a gorilla, a trait that he has passed down to our son. When the two of them get going, I nearly pee myself laughing….which may have to do more with the fact that I have given birth than how funny it actually is. I also nearly pee myself running, sneezing, coughing…thinking.

The Dave that you think that you know also names cars on the highway, and refers to them by these names when he then talks to the cars. A car with an Arizona license plate, for example, might be referred to as, “My dessert friend, who thinks that the speed limit is 20,” whereas a car with I <3 my chocolate lab bumper sticker might be, “Lab Lover,” to whom he might instruct, “Okay, Lab Lover, stay in your own lane!” When all else fails, he names the car based on its color or make. This is especially efficient when he has a lot of cars that need instruction or motivation. Once a teacher…

The Dave that you think that you know is also extremely analytical, especially when it comes to television. Dave does not like when the puzzles in Wheel of Fortune are placed in ill-fitting categories. “Really? How is that People and Places!” And don’t even get him started on Conda, the bratty Red Team contestant on this season’s episodes of The Biggest Loser.

And all of this…I love. I love that my Dave is bold, strong, analytical, fiercely protective, kind, wise, ever so patient, random, funny, and that he is a Godly man. I love the love that he has for his family and for our precious child. I love that my son will grow up with an amazing example of what it means to be a man of God.

Cheesy as it may be…created by the greeting card industry and all…Valentine’s Day provided the very first outlet for the love of my life to show me a side of him that I never knew. And I will happily indulge in any holiday that is devoted to celebrating love.

Who knows…I may even buy a card!

This is My Blog

This is my blog. That’s my opening line? Hmmm…off to a poor start! Being a language arts teacher, I insist that my students begin their essays and narratives with what we, in class, call a “hook.” My hook, here, is weak.


As a child of the TAAS generation, and now a teacher who taught seven years of TAKS and now one year of STAAR, my mind goes to the holistic scoring approach (my teacher friends know what I mean), and I would probably give my paper a 2 completely based on my opening statement. In fact, if this was submitted by one of my students, I would immediately hand it back to him or her and demand that (s)he go sit down and apply the writing techniques that (s)he has been forced to endure in my class for going on five months.


But this isn’t my class, and I am not my student. This is my blog. Perhaps I should say that this is my attempt at a blog. I’ve never blogged, before, and I have never been one to remember to do this kind of thing on a daily basis. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve decided to take a daily vitamin, regularly, only to have a bottle of 40 vitamins last me for nearly three months. I’ve honestly never consistently followed anyone else’s blog. Sure, I’ve stumbled upon many blogs in my OCD Google quests to discover what some stranger believes about running, fashion, raising children, movies, and (last night) Peanut Butter Cheerios. I’ve also clicked on people’s blog links on Facebook, when they post that they have written something truly inspirational, but I have the attention span of a twenty month old (I know this, because I am currently raising one), and I almost never return to the same blog.

So why am I attempting to write a blog? I’ve been told by those who have read my writing that I should become a writer, and I feel like this might be a good outlet for me to gather some ideas about a good topic for a book. I must qualify this by saying that “those who have read my writing” generally have some sort of other connections to me. My mother would be one of these people. She is all of the time telling me that I should become a writer. My mother is the same person who came to my high school tennis tournaments and clapped and cheered for me no matter what I did, even if I executed each serve with precise trajectory directly into the net. This is partly because my mother knows very little about anything related to sports and mostly because my mother is, well, a mother!

The ease with which I could impress my mother was not limited to the tennis courts. When I drew an imaginative picture of a gumball factory within a gumball machine, where tiny men drove space-age floating gumballs through a complex assembly line in order to create a deliciously fruity treat, Mom said that I should become an artist. After I gave my first speech in middle school, Mom said that I should go into politics. I love making my mother beam with pride, but she’s my mother, and she’s an easy audience. So, I’m not so sure if her, “You should become a writer,” advice is an objective observation or if it is the utterance of a proud mommy.
Then there’s my husband. He tells me that I should become a writer, but he frequently follows that up with “…because I would be perfectly happy to become a stay-at-home-dad and let you rake in the dough.” In fact, when I told him that I wanted to begin this blog, he was very encouraging, stating that it was a wonderful idea, “and not just because Baker and I would love to spend our days on the golf course and at the lake fishing.”


I honestly like to write, but if I did write, I don’t know what I would write about. For me, writing has always been an intimate sort of thing. Maybe intimate isn’t the right word…vulnerable, perhaps? And having other people read my writing sometimes feels rather invasive. I don’t know why I feel this way. I mean, walk into any book store and the bookshelves are filled with hundreds and thousands of books written by real authors who clearly do not feel as though their very existence has been molested by the eyes and hands of total strangers who casually thumb through the pages of their minds and may or may not even think enough of the work to make a purchase.


When I think about other people’s blogs, I frequently see a theme. Hungry Girl blogs about food and recipes to help our fast food addicted society learn how to eat more apples and fewer potato chips. I’ve seen blogs about running, but I don’t know that anything interesting enough ever happens during my runs that I could write about it on a consistent basis. I once had a skunk chase me on an early morning run, and I once saw an armadillo digging a hole in the park on another early morning run. But that’s pretty much it. The whole story fits into one compound sentence, hardly worth blogging about. I’ve also read blogs about parenting and making cupcakes that look like reindeer with pretzels for antlers. These blogs tend to have the self-esteem boosting equivalent of reading a beauty magazine, for me, because my baking prowess stops at creating a cupcake that actually looks AND tastes like a cupcake. I don’t need to complicate matters even further by trying to make my food look like one of Santa’s beloved.
So for now, I guess there won’t necessarily be any theme to my blog, which makes me wonder if anyone will read it at all. But if you care to comment, perhaps you could give me some ideas to blog about?