To Partake in Whole ahh the famous food porn post. Just to be clear, I love the women who called me out on this post and I love the term food porn . . . and I love dumplings.
July:
Took a break.
August: Compression, Expansion, Illumination a post about the darker days of my sister's recovery. Also, written after I found out I was pregnant again.
Readers, thank you so much for being here with me this year. I am grateful to you for your readership. I've got some new ideas for 2010 blogging, hopefully I will earn the honor of having you around for another one.
September did not skip on the romance.Chup and I were caught with matching fever blisters. And I was gifted the long dark night of first trimester morning sickness. They do say that romance leads to these sorts of things. We were warned.
October was ushered in by the Beelsey Hayride and Pumpkin Pick. It was on this fateful night The Chief informed us that he intended to be a tractor driver in his adult years. A personal goal he has stayed faithful to, I might add, as his first words included "cruck" a mixture of car, truck and tractor. You know what they say, "simplify simplify simplify!"
For some reason, November is always a slow month for photo-taking at our house. Please then, enjoy this picture of us in Times Square New York taken by an offering fellow-tourist with Chup's iPhone (aka our sister-wife). Only seconds before this was snapped by the kind stranger, Chup whispered down to me, "If he starts running off with my phone, I am giving The Chief to you and taking off after him." Chup is serious about his relationship with his iPhone (aka our sister wife) (did I already say that?)
What ho December? What have we here? It is the Kendrick family hovered around the piano at the Clark family Christmas party. Our son had just finished off a rousing wrestling match with his boy cousins which required us to take his outer clothes off. Nothing says Merry Christmas like a slam to the rib . . . Clark-boy style.
By-the-way, you might be intrigued to know that The Chief is now a happy owner of a white-and-orange cat. Perfect temperament with minor shedding. We'll be sure to properly introduce you soon enough.
Tomorrow I will be gathering up a short list of posts I wrote in 2009, the ones I am not too embarrassed to have typed. Then merciful enough, I will be done with my review of this great-and-last year of this decade.
In May we took our second voyage to see family in St. George. We spent most of our time in the hotel's over-sized bed and cousin's dreamy clubhouse pool. If vacations get better don't tell us, we love the desert.
In June Chup and I took a trip to London town. The night before we left, the notorious Jed Wells came over to Retro House and took family photos of us. This one is my favorite. Because who doesn't like a foot rub?
Also in June, I reunited with my brown hair. Landmark decision.
I took a blogging break in July. This photo sat on top of my blog for a month (for better or worse). I have never received more inquiries than these purple shoes--my inbox was spilling over (who knew?) You can read about them here.
It was the heat of August that tempted The Chief and I to take our show on the road. "The road" meaning the A/C- induced cool of our living room. But next year look for us in a town near you. We're the new Judds.
In February I hauled all of the furniture out of our front room in hopes of a spacial make-over. The children were leaving to go live with their parents and it was time to change things up.
"Spice." Jane called the transformation.
When I think about the children living with us I think about this photo. It represents the daily interaction of Chup and the children. There was always enough room on his lap, or shoulders.
The spice of a new living room was hardly comparable to the loss of spice we felt when the children left our home after six months.
But we survived.
March made me 32.
My favorite number.
It was April that delivered back our sunshine after three dreary months.
We found this Easter bunny hopping on our wet grass.
Just kidding, that's The Chief (with bunny ears we bought at the dollar store).
I once met a lady in Quebec who had been promised in a blessing that a year after her death the end of the world would come. The Lord would return and usher in the great and terrible day prophesied by biblical prophets. She even showed us the blessing, which had been written and recorded, as we sat eating tofu stew in her half-finished home.
It was Christmas time, eleven years ago.
The snow in northern Quebec was only as remarkable as the sub-freezing temperatures. As a missionary who spent many hours a day knocking on doors with frozen knuckles, I was terribly unprepared for this winter. I traded in my half-hearted trench coat for a double down black survival coat, and relented to adult-sized moon boots. No matter, I could not shake the feeling of being iced-over most of the time. Even with the warm gospel message in my heart.
"When I tell the missionaries about this blessing," said Soeur Tremblay speaking excitedly in English with her French-Canadian accent, "they say 'Oh Soeur Tremblay you must send us a Christmas card every year from now until you die.' Because then they will know when the Lord is going to return. You see."
So my companion and I added ourselves to page 5 of her Missionaries Who Want Christmas Cards list. As far as church doctrine indicated, no one knew the time of the second coming, but who would turn down a hint? Besides, I would love to find out how little Guy was doing or if his younger sister Giselle ever accomplished growing out her inevitable mullet. Keeping up with the Tremblays year-after-year in hopes of knowing when the world ended sounded like an adventurous some-day ending guessing game. Or at least an intriguing story to tell at missionary reunions.
"Only rule" she cheerfully sang in our ears, "is that I must hear back from you, or else no Christmas card the next year."
Deal.
Then when she went in the next room to answer her telephone I dumped my bowl of tofu soup back in the pot.
"What are you doing?" My companion looked at me with disgusted features on her face.
"I can't eat this soup." I said confidently back.
Soeur Tremblay was somewhere in her fifties, so barring an early death, I was trusting I'd have a lifetime to repent anyway. My mission ended in October. I was grateful to have escaped before feeling the wrath of another northern winter. Quebec was other-worldly, not like the rest of Canada, not quite Europe either. It was haunting and beautiful and curious. I would miss it.
That Christmas I received my first card from Soeur Tremblay. She was still alive, bouncing around her unfinished house--wooded walls bare to the studs--passionate about the gospel of Jesus Christ and doting on her two children.
She is alive! We've got at least another year before the end. I thought to myself, cleverly.
And I thought the same the next year when Soeur Tremblay's card arrived.
But that was the year I found myself divorcing after a nine month marriage. In the whirlwind of "what to do?" I sadly forgot to prove loyal on my side of the deal. I did not write the Tremblays back--a mistake I didn't realize until no card came the third year. With no return address to write to, I decided I'd join the ranks of the other oblivious saints who had nothing but scriptural signs and wonders to look towards. The end will come when it comes, there's no rushing it.
But every year at Christmas time I wonder about Soeur Tremblay. How she's holding up.
When in the depths of infertility I found solace in an online forum for other women who shared my situation. Every night before bed, I'd check to see who had written what and looked for any new topics. I remember reading emotional confessions of hope and despair--feelings I knew well. In those online rooms I found friends of support and ideas that helped shape my attitude about wanting nothing more than having a baby in my arms and an unresponsive body. I was buoyed up and validated. And that is how my testimony of forums was formed.
(That last sentence deserves an emmy.)
I am excited about having my own forum--sponsored by the Blog Frog and supported by online friends who visit and post topics for debate and discussion . . . on any subject really. It is a place for women, single-married-divorced-whatever, men who are brave enough to discuss with a community of women, mothers, grandmothers, students, angels, demons and pigs. I love a good battle of ethics with a batch of pigs.
To make things even more interesting, we recently we added several community leaders--bloggers who will be leading regularly on topics from motherhood to womanhood (and beyond!) Today I wanted to introduce these leaders to you and invite you all to meet us over there daily for a an exchange of stories, ideas and thoughts. You will want to meet these women and their brains too. Ahem, I give to you my Blog Frog Community Leaders:
I am a homemaker, wife and mother. My husband and I have three children (ages 7 1/2, 5 and 1). I am also a professor at Brigham Young University, where I teach Family Psychology. I grew up in Southern California, but now Provo, Utah is our home. Our family likes to play tennis and golf in the summer and ski together in the winter. I enjoy, cooking, good books, sushi, and I have recently discovered that I love to sew. I used to speak French, wish I could dance, and will almost always choose fruity over chocolate.
Jeannie Greenwald loves life at the beach. She relocated from Michigan to Florida nearly ten years ago and picked a home within walking distance of the beach as her consolation prize for moving away from family and friends there. She and her husband have three kids, ages 13, 12 and 8. Jeannie has a master's degree in psychology and works as an adoption social worker, part-time. Her own three children came to them from Korea and China, so she knows firsthand what it's like for parents who want to adopt. She writes home studies for prospective families, then does fun writing on the blog, replete with photos. Too many photos reside on her hard drive, and she never actually decide which 12,000 to delete. Jeannie loves gardening - and living in a place where she can garden year-round. Jeannie does not love cooking but has a daughter who actually enjoys the kitchen, so Jeannie does spend more time there than she would, if she had her way. She enjoys swimming - both lap swimming, and playing in the ocean or in Florida's springs - snorkeling, taking naps both on her couch or on the beach, reading good fiction, shopping, and talking on the phone with her sister. She loves exploring new places in Florida where both she and her kids can have a good time. Jeannie recently created a line of tee shirts for her local beach towns, and hopes to expand that business to other coastal communities. Jeannie spends way too much time online in general, so of course she's excited about interacting with everyone in the Cjane community.
i love Jesus. i love my good husband. i love our sweet son. i am blessed. i am thankful. i am waiting. i love making food, making music, making relationships, making stuff. i am enjoying the goodness of wifery and motherhood. and i want to remember it.
Deb Averett is a mom of a 2 year old going on 15 and lives in the Midwest. She loves blogging-- you can find her at at http://FreshNestDesign.com which is an interior design blog helping readers find their style and teaching them DIY tricks as well as sharing inspirational mood boards. She also helps businesses and bloggers get a handle on their marketing plans over at Toolulu {http://toolulu.com}-- which mixes social media with traditional marketing. She loves the simple things in life like fire flies and ice cream.
I grew up in New York (not the city) and currently happily reside in Provo, Utah. I'm a mom to six: five alive and one in Heaven, and a wife to a man who is passionate about education. I enjoy media (tv, radio, movies, and music), and have participated in two triathlons so far.
I'm a mom to three young kids (two girls aged 4 & 3) and a little boy (almost 1 1/2) and I'm married to my complete opposite! I'm a born-and-raised Los Angeles girl and Utah transplant and he's a hunting, fishing, mountain-y Utah boy who loves anything and everything to do with the Dallas Cowboys (ugh). And yet, somehow, it works! My biggest struggle at this stage in my life is figuring out how to balance it all. Besides mom & wife, I am a self-taught photographer by trade, work a part time job at night, often use the TV as a babysitter, try to be crafty, dream of writing someday, and have more projects in my head than time in the day to finish them. My photography blog is just that...pretty cut and dry. My personal blog is really a reflection of what's going on in our lives. Posts vary from observations at work, things my kids have done (or not done), gratitude, the joys of motherhood, family frustrations, crafts and tutorials and photos. It really is a hodge podge of lots of things...much like my everyday life!
And please meet me at the forum this afternoon (1:30 mst) for a live chat about whatever you feel like talking about. I might want to muse about the shrimp fritters I ate the other day. But you know, that is just me.
I meant to write last night but got caught up when I saw Leona Lewis was going to be on David Letterman.
Dear Leona,
I don't care what they say, I'm in love with you.
Love, c jane
Plus I had to watch the finale of So You Think You Can Dance even though I don't feel emotionally invested this season. I think it is because the choreography has been nothing to write home about.
Dear Home,
Nothing to write about.
Love, c jane
Nothing like say, season 4 when Chelsea and Mark danced to Bleeding Love by--who else?--Leona Lewis:
Anyway, as I was writing this post in the basement I forgot about the pot of milk I put on the stove for hot chocolate and it boiled over and burned mightily, filled the house with smoke and produced a smell of charcoal, urine and nightmare.
This why I usually post at night.
Dear Self,
Get ready for the slew of "safety comments: friendly reminders!" from your less absent minded friends.
Love, c jane
Really, I just wanted to say that I am going to be chatting live with anyone who wants to chat live with me tomorrow on my Blog Frog Community forum. It will start at 1:30mst and go for an hour. So, if you live in Australia I fully expect you to set your alarm and be there in the middle of the night. Don't let me down Australia.
We will also introduce my community leaders who will be leading thought -provoking discussions over there.
You can also see some great conversations already going on here:
I stopped writing about my sister Stephanie's recovery when she could write about it herself. I realized that there was a whole population of people who were only interested in the story and not so much about me and my self-important thoughts. (What? Why not?)
Some readers stayed around hoping to hear more anyway. Some sent me emails wondering why I wasn't writing about my sister anymore. I wrote back explaining that I couldn't tell her story. It wasn't my story. And truthfully, after six months of pouring my heart out on this blog, I was a little tired of the heaviness of it all. I lost a lot of readers I know, but it felt like a great weight had been lifted.
And Steph was strong enough to take it on.
Tonight I read Jaimee Rose's part two article about Stephanie's story in the Arizona Republic. It brought back so many of those feelings--mostly heart breaking. I know for many people on this planet this story was inspiring, but some days (the days Jaimee writes about in this article--in particular) this journey was nothing but painfully difficult. On every level possible.
In light of that, I want to write this: it wouldn't have been a victory if not for visions of hope, a faith in God and a glorious perspective of eternity.
And man, I love my sister.
Read the article here. Read more about our faith here.
There are nights where baby's bedtime is salvation. A bondage relieved, responsibility tossed into the crib with a bottle of rice milk. There are nights when eight o'clock (on the dot) could not come sooner.
But, there are nights when bedtime is a sweetly melancholic. Did the day have to end so fast? Wasn't just an hour ago when I opened the nursery door with a day full of tasks and business?
First, read books.
Then breakfast.
Pick up all the trucks and cars on the playroom floor.
In a moment of excitement, break the cowboy with the shooting rifle and swivel hips.
Help Daddy fix the cowboy with the shooting rifle and swivel hips.
Read the truck book.
Read it again.
And again.
Until it is time to switch the laundry loads.
(And so it goes . . .)
These are nights when I put the baby to bed with a lump in my throat. Slightly sad about our twelve hour separation through sleep. Him, off to a place we cannot go together.
And so, a prayer to thank Heavenly Father for a good day. A day including a frightening moment on Santa's lap, two cups of raisins and a brief trudge in the new snowfall. A mention to please bless my sleeping baby--until tomorrow's promise of more snow and always, more trucks.
So as yourbrain is telling you, this isn't a photograph.
But it is a digital portrait taken from a photograph (by Jess Smart Smiley) of Chup.
So I think it counts.
I don't always know why I blog, but I am suspicious that it has something to do with my husband. Sometimes I use it as a way to flirt with him, other times to tease him, but mostly always to try and impress him. He's the critical, poetic English Major writer in the relationship, I am just hanging around with my Behavioral Science degree. But as far as impressing him with writing goes, he doesn't hand it out easily. I have to work really hard.
Tonight he called me as he was boarding a plane to come home, "I liked your post today."
"Really?"
"I thought you had some playful phrasing in there."
Playful phrasing?
(Does that sound cheeky to you too?)
Either I really typed up something good, or my husband hasn't seen me in a week.
Last May my hair therapistAshlee looked me deep in the eyes for a serious talk at the salon.
"We need to talk." She said.
"Right now you are blond and your hair is getting longer by the month. If we keep bleaching and you keep growing it long, your hair will become unhealthy."
"Oh." I said as I stared back at my blond self in the mirror. This was serious.
"You have two choices," Ashlee compassionately explained, "either we go long and brown, or we take you short and blond."
There was hair blowing silence.
"I need to consult my husband." I mumbled, heavy against the weight of the decision at hair.
Now, if you are a woman who independently chooses her hairstyle based on no man's desiring then I salute you. I hope your spontaneous ability to cut and carry on makes for the best of hair adventures. I used to be you. I used to be. But now--golly darn it--I care about what my husband thinks of my hair. I've gone soft. I am 2% trophy wife.
Back at home Chup was hearing about the critical condition of my hair for the first time. After I verbally emoted paragraphs of pros and cons of each choice I offered the decision to his great male yearning. But his decision was easily made, not even one second of hesitation.
"Long and brown." He spouted rapidly while getting up to stretch.
I returned to Ashlee shortly thereafter.
"We are going long and brown." I quietly ordered.
"Long and brown it is." She responded.
And after a thick layering of caramel- colored goop and a long sit under the hair dryer, Ashlee transformed my blond locks back to the God-intended brunette of my teenage years (before I was introduced to the tantalization of Sun-In). Two hours later it was done.
When Chup came home from work that afternoon, I shyly waved my hand in his direction.
"Hi." I said looking down.
"I like it." He said looking up.
In the past six months of my brunette journey I've seen a personal trade off. Having long hair is as gratifying as having blond hair. I welcome any opportunity to flip it in all directions as a way to punctuate emotions. Sassy, silly, sexy--a flip of the hair can say so much. So much.
And yet,
sometimes
(between you and me)
I miss my blond.
Just a little.
Like today when I came across this photo while looking for a family picture for our Christmas card.
Hello Sunshine!
I know this post wasn't about saving the world or anything, but don't you find any write-up about my hair intriguing? Mmmmy hhhhhair. So for me, two thumbs up!
p.s. I will spare you the temptation to comment on which hair color you like better (I can feel your itch), instead do you mind meeting me at my forum where I am hosting a discussion on the false sense of celebrity blogging can create. My brunette hair and I would love to hear your take on it, so click here and look for my discussion called "Blogging: False Sense of Celebrity?"
Inquiring minds like to ask Chup and I how we feel about living so close to my family. I think for the most part we both relish in the benefits. Lots of help, lots of company, lots of cousins to entertain our son.
Today I'd like to blog about one downfall.
Our son, The Chief, believes he has two mothers. I am his task-oriented, disciplinarian mom, and Lucy is the fun mom. When Lucy is around I am barely mentioned in my son's behavior. As for her daughter Betsy, The Chief has come to the conclusion that her existence is to serve his need to poke, roll and body slam another human being. Lucy and Betsy make up my son's perfect team of excitement and thrill.
As far as The Chief understands, he is part of their family too. Immediate family.
Per proof, I show you outtakes from Chup's photoshoot with Andrew, Lucy and Betsy this last Saturday. The point was to capture life in Betsy's nursery for their annual family Christmas card. The challenge was to explain to our son why he wasn't included in their family photograph.
"This is Betsy's mommy and daddy." I explained to The Chief utilizing a mix of small talk and hand gestures. "You stay over here [on this side of the camera] with your mommy and daddy."
But he did not like this idea--as his sneaky tactics attest:
When I was about 16 years old I decided to start questioning my parents for procedures they forced upon me in the past (sounds about right, doesn't it?) Like for instance,the bowl cut:
Why Mom? Why?
(And why did you let baby Lucy spit up on my first grade class photo? I get no respect!)
But my mom has always held the same response, formed in her internal opinion-generating-office, "I just liked you better that way."
Which is a response I never understood until I birthed my own child who came out sprouting hobo hair. A cropping of hair molecules so defiant and wrong, it attracted its own sphere of sticky things and made me forever pick at it. In short, my son's hair made me look like a bad mother.
Exhibit A:
See that soft tuft in the back? You'd think it was charming until it reminded you of a wanton bird's nest with intentions of permanent residence. (Although I am sure this is just a phase of baby hair--a temporary fix until the real stuff grows in.)
I started noticing my adoration of The Chief's adorable face was often diminished by his directionless hair. When we put him in hats he became many times cuter (something I formerly thought not possible!) And cute is important at our house, I disclaim.
So on Saturday we put our son in the tub with lots of toys and I with my camera and Chup with his razor, buzzed away at the The Chief's feathers we once called hair.
Exhibit B:
About half way around we discovered that our son can indeed pull off the punk look, and considered stopping there.
Exhibit C:
But no, we'll wait for his turn at sixteen to decide that for himself. We carried on.
Exhibits D & E:
When all was shaved and sheared, I looked at my child and saw a small trace of my former nemesis--his overgrown baby hair--in short collections on his head. Here was my beautiful baby, I could see his face again because I wasn't getting caught up in in the confusion of his coif. Simplicity had returned.
Exhibit F:
I don't want to say I love him more now with his shorter hair, but I think I might. Even Chup remarked, "I think he is actually happier this way." This coming after The Chief discovered he likes us to rub his head, as you are want to do with any buzzed head offered in your direction. I actually think The Chief's hair was complicating our relationship because things are so much happier around here since the cut. I now get kissed seven times more daily with his open-mouth-I-want-to-devour-you style of affection. I mean, from The Chief (although if those kisses were from Chup I'd not complain) and his developing oedipal complex.
To my mother, I now understand. Mark this as the first Now I Get Why She Did That realizations to come. The bowl cut for her, is like the buzz cut for me. And if at age sixteen The Chief reads and asks, "Why the buzz cut Mom? Why?" I'll respond with a familiar phrasing:
This week I have decided to appease my family members who complain that my blog needs more photos and less words. More photos and less words. I can do that for a week. But only for a week because you have no idea how thoughts stack up in my head until they won't let me rest. Insomnia sets in like a zombie seeking salvation while I wander through this existence mentally constipated and thirsty for essay. But I will do anything for a week to celebrate the desires of loved ones. Anything for them.
(Although, are they really loved ones if they don't love my blog as is? I will ponder that in the midnights of this coming week.)
Good pancakes, after that brilliant paragraph above even I will miss my musings this week. Who comes up with that? Mentally constipated! Get over it!
Okay, so on to the photo.
Chup and I went to his company's work party on Friday night in Salt Lake City. It was festive and friendly. Shrimp and cocktails were served, but we had cranberry juice. I enjoy getting to know the people Chup spends his days with and their spouses/non-existent boyfriends (inside joke). We left as soon as the entertainment started, but only because I missed my baby. And because I was itching to get home and decorate the flocked Christmas tree we had purchased earlier. Though it is not my best talent, I love to get my hands on a naked tree. Tree, I said, a naked tree. Did you think I was going to say something else?
I also was killing for my pajamas.
So Chup took a photo of me as I unraveled mini white lights around the tree.
"Not a good time to be taking pictures of me." I informed my husband.
"Oh but look at this one." He said, handing me the camera.
"Oh my goodness." I said with a surprise. "I am pregnant."
In all the holiday cheer I had forgotten:
Hello Mama.
In the spirit of posting photos of myself on the internet, I decided to do a little post-production on this photo to make me look extra hot. I put a bow on my baby bump (thanks Photobucket holiday stickers!) to remind you all, it is a baby bump. Not Great Harvest Cinnamon Pull Apart Bread, even though I ate a loaf of it yesterday. By myself.
On Monday I went through the dungeonous atmosphere of the storage space to retrieve my Christmas boxes. It was a dirty job and one gladly done just once a year. I pulled out five boxes full of shiny things, mostly ornaments I've stolen from my mother's treasure chest of Christmas loot. She never knew (until right now).
The Chief was aiming to help. Aiming being inoperable because eighteen month olds don't help--they hurt, mostly. After combing through some boxes I assigned him the tricky task of taking out all the balls in the ornaments bin to test for durability. This involved tossing them over the railing and down the stairs to check if they would bounce or break upon contact with the kitchen floor. As you can imagine, he was just the man for the job. Brilliant at it really.
You should've seen my kitchen floor.
In my course of Christmas box discovery, I found four wreaths I crafted some years ago. Made out of ribbon and fake pearls, the objects are pricelessly pathetic. And something about their misshapen attempt to be jolly made me want to put them to use. The never-used guest room! I thought, on the top floor! A perfect place for pearl wreaths nobody will see. The best kind of inspiration is Christmas inspiration.
The guest room is a funny place. It is actually the master bedroom, laid with baby blue carpet from the decade I was born (I am guessing). I decided against my shacking up in there only because I wanted the room with a door to the backyard. And for the turquoise carpet. Turquoise over baby blue, if you ask me. And I know you will.
I decided on perching the wreaths on the great big windows in the guest room. Only, in doing so I had to unlock each window. When the wreaths were in place I thought about locking the window again, but had to answer the demands of that eighteen month old crash ornament test dummy. Cute dummy. Really cute dummy.
Later that afternoon, when The Chief had awoken from his nap pink cheeked and starry eyed he wandered into the guest room to view the wreaths. Somehow (this part is still under investigation) he slammed the door shut and locked himself inside the baby blue room. I heard the smack of the door and then my baby crying from within. I assured him I'd get him out as soon as possible. Shouldn't be too difficult, just a little finagling of the lock. But in trying everything plus a prayer, I couldn't get the door to budge. I used all sorts of tools and undid pens and safety pins and paper clips but I couldn't get the door lock to turn.
Then he started wailing and I sorta started to panic.
So I called Chup, who was in Minnesota. What is Chup going to do in Minnesota? So then I called my clever nephew Clark who said he'd be right down. I love having nephews with licenses and vehicles, just makes my life so much easier.
In that time, my nieces Claire and Jane showed up with their friend Katy to see what treats were on tap in my kitchen. They helped me talk to The Chief through the door, though he couldn't hear what we were saying because at this point he was hysterical.
Then Clark showed up, and he couldn't get the lock to unlock either.
The girls mentioned that they would "go ask the cop" who was doing "cross walk duty" across the street. And I thought about it for a moment and imaged a whole squad of Provo Police with a large log ramming the door open with a running start. Something inside of me knew we could handle this in house.
I went outside and got a ladder.
And I hoisted it up to the window in the guest room where The Chief was melting away in confusion.The windows were our only entry, the door was not going to open. If we could find away to unlock the windows . . . I thought while looking up at the ladder and the windows.
I had unlocked the windows. I had unlocked the windows! Just that morning!
So Clark climbed up the ladder, took off the screen, slid open the window and launched himself onto the bed.
The Chief was saved!
A simple desire to put up crappy craft decor in the guest room had changed the course of the afternoon. The inspiration no doubt came from a higher source making me believe--once again--in all sorts of angelic sources inspiring our smallest movements.
When The Chief was freed from his room, the girls gave him candy and made him feel like a brave detainee. Clark said after his break in, he found The Chief inside the suitcase we'd just emptied from our trip to NYC. Curled up and crying.
Sometime ago I threw out all my body lotion. Nothing was working for me and I was tired of trying to smell like something juiced up in a chemical production warehouse. I went to my nearest health foods store and bought myself a large jar of 100% coconut oil. White, slick with the natural smell of Polynesia. It was a dream come true for me, my skin glistened,
as I listened,
to compliments pouring in.
Not that I do things for straight up compliments but who doesn't?
It was also worry free, when The Chief inevitably discovered the jar and started to swallow the contents I knew it was perfectly safe--if not healthy--for his palm-full of coconut oil to slide down his digestive track.
Last week my Aunt Liz stopped by with a new solution called Basa Body. It is a product of the women of Kenya and coconut trees. Together, they make products rich in coconut oil. I was given a package of treats including Basa Body lotion, Basa Body stick and some truffle soaps. I am not usually a passionista of bathing products (mostly because I prefer cw's homemade soaps to just about anything) but I had a testimony of coconut oil. I knew my body would love this stuff.
As a side note, my Aunt Liz is one of my idols and whatever she does, I do unquestionably. She's one of those maverick women who'd you find in dusty saloons in an old western. Beautiful, strong, soft and clever. And some more beautiful, brave and raised a pack of five boys while keeping up her blond. I wish I had a photograph.
I really believe in Basa Body. The lotion has a creamy consistency which layers on my skin with a quick dissolve. I took the stick on my trip to NYC and used it as a facial moisturizer--the stick is compact for travel but powerful as a full day moisturizer. On Sunday I let The Chief wash up with one of the truffle soaps and rested easily when he started to eat the fine smelling bar. No chemicals, all natural treat in the tub. Just ask The Chief who eats anything with form and function (which doesn't exactly explain his obsession with Pirate's Booty). As a statement I say: I whole-heartedly blog about Basa Body today. Basa Body was created to help the mothers of Kenya be successful at providing for their children. The project was stimulated by my other amazing family, The Popes who are genuinely the most generous (and quirky) people around. Today, I join with my cousin Jayne and sister Stephanie in making the world more aware of Basa Body--its spirit and soul.
If you'd like to learn more about Basa Body go here. If you'd like to buy Basa Body for everyone on you Christmas list (what? Great idea! They are nicely priced) go here. If you'd like to read Jayne's testimonial go here, for Stephanie's go here.
Post-edit:
After some emails and comments, I feel I need to clarify that Basa is a family project that we are helping spread the word about today. I was given the product for free, but I will receive no other compensation for my blog post. Honestly, I love the product and I am happy to share the word. That is all.
