Dannon Oikos Yogurt & Healthy Eatin!

I wrote this post while participating in a blog tour conducted by Clever Girls on behalf of Dannon. I have been compensated for my time commitment to the program but my opinions are my own.

For more information and recipe ideas, visit www.oikosyogurt.com or www.Facebook.com/oikos. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.

So when I was offered the chance to be paid to eat, it was a prettty easy call there. And the fact that I already love thick creamy delicious yogurts, and that Greek yogurt has been my favorite for the last few years- I have one every other day for a snack or breakfast- and it was a perfect and natural partnership.

I have slowly and steadily been working on losing weight since Ever was born, and eating a Dannon Oikos yogurt with granola sprinkled on top is a perfect part of that plan; I'm 5'7 and I've come from 186 ( right before I had her ) to 145 in these nine months. I especially love this yogurt because it's incredibly creamy, and I'm a sucker for anything creamy. It's thick on the tongue and you feel like you actually ate something, not nibbled for the sake of sleek thighs. My kids also love this yogurt so buying a handful and sticking them in the fridge ensures that some snacks will be healthy and high in protein, and naturally encourage adding fruit like blueberries or strawberries.

• Dannon® Oikos® is created through an authentic Greek straining process which gives it a rich and creamy-thick texture.
• Dannon® Oikos® Plain and Fruit on the Bottom contains 0% fat, while the Dannon® Oikos® traditional blended varieties contains about 3% fat. Both are an excellent source of protein, twice that of most regular lowfat yogurts.

So this equals = filling, good for ya, and delicious.

The fruity flavors are all delicious but my favorites are Peach and Raspberry. I made my own parfait with the Raspberry Greek yogurt, chunks of banana, granola and a sprinkle of blueberry. Lola loved this too, and it's easy to eat on the go and in the car, which is how we often eat breakfast. I also like it after dinner sometimes when I want to eat something but don't want to stuff my face.

But my favoritest favorite of all is the Honey Dannon Oikos... soooooo good. Honey is always my favorite with Greek yogurts and this one is really good. Try it with banana. Try it with granola.

Winning! :)

Body Heat

The day is overhauled in heat. Humidity 87*- in San Diego. Temp. hovering @ 95. It is Friday. It is Saturday. It is all day and then when the sun begins to set, it lowers it's head and breaths like a giant, placid bull and : it is all night. The kids scatter. L. is mucking about, complaining. My shirt tag pricks the back of my neck over and over. Sweat trembles down around it. The baby slaps my breast while nursing and sweat flies. smack!smack! Beads of sweat form around her little lips and her forehead. Her reddish brown hair is wet against her forehead. Fans nod their heads in every room, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth like ballet lessons, back and forth and forth and the sound of their dance is a humming in the entire house. The dogs lay pressed against the tile and the walls, unmoving but the pant. Boys on skateboards outside scrape the ground. My husband moves around the house, holding the baby, leaning in toward me, and I am stoned on him and heat. I want to place the baby in her crib and tear his clothes off and spend an hour cleaning him of sweat and spend an hour bathing him in more. All day long we swing the children back and forth between us like workers over water and we keep our eyes on each other. At night, I slide the baby seal away from me, stuffed on breastmilk still milking from her mouth, and find my husband in the thick hot darkness. This is my marriage, I think to myself, his hand on my rib. I hear an echo of a woman who lost her husband after 35 years of marriage: ..and then, when he died... and I shudder. I move my face into my husband and restrain my mind. Across the stilled nighttime backyard a woman's voice rings out, high and trembling. The sky slinks into our room through the open window. We move together with the fans. Everything is completely normal and dramatically surreal and I am a lit match in the lighter fluid of his sweat. We are alone together and nothing else could compare.

Billie Joe Armstrong, Green Day

Ever Elizabeth Says Hello

la jolla, california august 2011

the gold is the body

the most important things begin to drown in car keys, keyboard keys, deadline, chore, planning, magazine, groom, eat, an impenetrable seizure of living; my life is my movement forward, toward. no! no without the body there is an aching void. voids fill quickly with refuse disguised as gold: the gold is the body, my baby's body, my children's limbs and cheeks and hair and awkward feet and toes. the smell of their ears.

every day must make room for touching. every day must make room for holding.

in the primate world, to leave a baby alone, it's tiny vulnerable body splayed on the ground, is for the dead.

our babies and children are meant to be pressed against us. we are meant to be pressed against them. this is the work of the living, to press our bodies into one another. this is the work of the living, to cleave.

Ever Elizabeth: in the hospital bed; a high rise crib surrounded by snaking tubes, wires, all springing from our tiny one month old baby as if she were an alien pod, providing priceless energy. she lay there, unnaturally still. i tested the siderail. waited for the nurse to leave. mr. curry watched. i found how to climb up up and in and curl next to our baby. a dance of careful, miniature movements: do not clip the wires. do not yank the wires. do not. my legs bent. my arms bent. the moment she first turned her head and rooted to nurse, weakly, i could not stop the tears. the nurses appeared, flushed, surprised, laughed. they let me. they let me, every night, and during the day, climb up up the crib castle and lay pressed into my baby, until she was removed from the wires and the tubes and we could take her home. laying next to her was the most healing and comforting thing that i did the entire hospital stay. letting me do so was the most human thing the staff did. i believe she healed more deeply- in her fearful little self- because i was next to her. i believe i healed more deeply.

with nighttime comes the deepest intimacy. human beings / nighttime / survival
this is our DNA. darkness is a precursor of intensity. to take the leaders of the tribe- strong, loving, protective- and pair them with the weakest - small, vulnerable, unsure- yes. i will hear the small snuffle noises. i will feel her rabbit baby breath on my neck. i will hear her whimper though a bad dream and feel the small smooth pebble of her heel press into my stomach- once, twice- until she is stilled, and at peace, having found me. i will wake with her pudges of finger ribboned through my hair. the heat of urine. the flexing of her hand against my breast as she nurses. the tiny chuckles like rain that wake me from my sleep in the early morning. the enormous eyes that find mine as the light breaks the windowpane and I can barely stand to meet her gaze for the love is so consuming and this life so short.

years from now i will reap the benefits.

i know this because we also have sons, and the one of seventeen- tonite i lay in bed with him, late, after all the other children were asleep, and we talked in the dark of his room. he turned his back to me and lay his leg over my leg. he told me secrets. talked about his dreams, his best friend. i lay my hand on his head, scratched lazily. i love you so much, mom, he said. i love you so much, son, i replied.

years from now, he will reap the benefits.

from the beginning of his life, he was held in human touch. his brain awoke to the world while his body was being cherished and protected and held by those who loved him most. in this way he learned, and she is learning, that bodies are portals to emotion. that love is action. that love is comfort. that love is safe and safety. that love is all things human- the embarrassing- gas, snores- and the adorable- giggles, hugs- and the mundane and human- open mouthed sleeps. That although the dark can be all consuming and our minds and hearts can go dark alongside the night, the body of one who loves us can be a shield against everything we are afraid of. we can find peace, and comfort, and shelter in one another.

no matter what the day has held ( the raging boss, the angry teacher, a failure, humiliation, insecurity, tears ) nighttime is a sanctuary for rejuvenation of the heart and body.

one day, when he falls in love, he will know how to find the soul in the touch, and how to treat the body of those we love. and when he holds his children,

they will reap.

sow.

this is what Charlie Sheen meant by 'winning'

Protecting Our Children From Sexual Abuse

i am suffocating here, in suburbia, and even that sentence- itself such a cliche, the 'burdened intellect' or the 'artist hushed by mediocracy' or just 'self indulgent author in a fit frenzy over the bland taste of suburbia'; it's all bullshit and still it's damn true- the feeling at least- the suffocation. The bland vanilla stick coat like pepto bismol poured deep into the gut, so to quiet and stop every last embarrassing burp, fart, grumble that indicates an individual body. An individual life.
i take the trade. i take the four children, my absolutes, and this place that comes with them, due to other biological parents and schools and grandparents; so we are stuck here, so? I can write. I can breathe. The neighborhoods are safe, for the most part. The worst threat is the child molesters that no one believes in, the ones married to your neighbor, or dating the grocer, or smiling at you from the school bus, those men and women ( but mostly men ) who are around and who have secrets so deep that the Pepto-B of suburbia is such! a perfection of disguise. I can think, off hand in this exact moment, of five people who were molested that I know, because I tend to have those kind of conversations with people eventually, and all of them were molested by either a parent, neighbor or some kind of trusted person with children- let's look: a homework tutor a block down, the dad, the step-dad, a father at a sleepover. Still people believe the chances are slim. The chances are slim that the child- yours- will ever let on. That's true. Children can be easily shamed by the all powerful adult. Remember that feeling? I do.
Would you like to see an idea of what happens from the Children's Molestation Research and Prevention Center? No of course not. But here it is:

An estimated one in 20 teenage boys and adult men sexually abuse children, and an estimated one teenage girl or adult woman in every 3,300 females molests children. Although that's well over five million people, most families mistakenly believe that as far as molesters go, there has never been one in their family, and what's more, there never will be. Add together the child victims, the adult survivors, and the abusers, and that's 15 out of every 100 Americans who have been either a molested child or a molester.

What are you thinking when you read that? I'm thinking, sure. This makes sense in my world. Growing up, I knew so many girls who had been molested or raped that to this day, I don't feel the slightest shock when any woman tells me she was abused as a child. No matter what the woman's accomplishments or successes, her dress or makeup or lack of, her carriage, her position in life or her voice as she tells me: I'm not surprised. That is fucked up. I'd like the world my daughters grow up in, at least starting here, in the U.S., to be a place where that news is saddening and surprising. One of my best friends was raped by a boy at a party. She was drunk and felt so guilty about the entire thing that she never, ever told her parents. Another high school friend was raped by four boys from the football team, at a party. She never told her mother. That same girl gave blow jobs our Junior year to any boy who asked, and ended up in a mental ward in our Senior year after trying to stab her mother.

You might be thinking Well where the hell did you grow up, Maggie?
Well here, here in middle to upper middle class suburbia, in very nice schools, with money. That's where. The same place where another friend of mine was raped by her stepfather on nights her mom went out for 'girls night'. And my friend M, from down the street was molested by her friend's father, at sleepovers, in the bed in the same room and right next to the bed where her friend slept. She never made a sound, or told anyone until she told me. She also was in the grips of a paralyzing and profound depression by our Junior year. One that mystified her sweet parents.

When the friend's parents divorced and the father moved out of state, my friend's depression began to lift, slowly.
And in my family? Ah. In my family. I cannot express to you how much I hope that each and every one of my children and each and every one of your children gets through their childhood and young adulthood without a sexual predator touching them or making them touch. I can tell you what I am doing to help that wish come true.

When my children are around five I begin to express to them that most of all in life TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS. This is something I repeat to my children throughout the year every year I am raising them. Lola just said to me the other day that she had a bad feeling in her stomach about a certain person, and chooses not to be around them. Instead of saying, ' Oh I'm sure Mr. X is perfectly nice, you silly! ' I said ' If that is how you feel, listen to that feeling, it's there for a reason. ' Oprah once said on a show about women being attacked that it greatly upset her how many women, right before being attacked, were most concerned about seeming 'rude'. We have to stop that. We have to be concerned about the real world, not some fantasy life where we say 'Sure mister, you can help me into my apartment with my groceries' and the guy does so and leaves with a smile and nod. I tell this to Lola. I tell her how girls feel like they have to be nice, but that the most important thing is to learn to trust yourself.

When my children are around five, I begin to speak to them about their sexual body, and how no adult or teenager or child should touch them on their vagina, penis, butt, OR - this is important- touch them in any way or on any place that simply makes them feel gross. If, I tell them, someone is touching you and you feel gross, don't you DARE feel bad. ( I really do say this. ) Be glad your body is so smart and telling you something important, and listen to it, and move away, get away from that person, and then tell Mommy or Daddy. Even if they just have their hand on your knee, if you feel gross about it, it's OK to move away, it's OK to say no or stop or just leave. If you need an excuse, say you feel sick to your stomach. I repeat this every year, going into the discussion a bit more with every year.
As they get older, I tell them what sexual predators are like: that they often make children feel guilty or scared in order to keep their secret. I tell them that even if they promise they won't tell, it's OK to tell. Even if the person says they are going to hurt their family, they are a liar, and it's OK to tell. I tell them that people that hurt children are always threatening to hurt their families if they tell, and I've never heard of one time where that happened. It's a lie, and it's meant to keep you quiet. And then I tell them the saddest thing to say. I say that sometimes people who molest children make them feel ashamed by saying that they asked the person to touch them, or that they liked it. And I explain that even if that was true, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, and it's always the adults responsibility to do the right thing no matter what a child does. And then I laugh like that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, that a child would be responsible for a sexual act with an adult, and I roll my eyes. Even though this sounds creepy, it works, because this is how kids think. They aren't all serious about it, they are mildly serious at most, because- hopefully- this is all ideas to them and not real life, and if you put it into their heads that the very idea of adults saying a kid is responsible is ridiculous, with a facial expression and a shake of the head, they will remember that.

After telling Dakota this I remember he said ' Yeah! An adult that would touch a kid like that would just lie lie lie to get what they want, and try to make the kid feel bad. A real adult wouldn't let a kid talk them into shooting their foot with a gun, or anything else stupid. ' Right. Right.
Along with the above discussion, I add on that it is not OK for anyone to touch them in a way that makes them feel uncomfortable, even if it's Grandparents, Uncles, Aunts, or even Mommy or Daddy. It doesn't matter who it is, I say, they don't own you, and it doesn't matter if they are grown up and you are a kid, don't let them make you feel bad, ever, for listening to your body. If a grown up tries to make you feel bad about taking care of yourself, then something is wrong with THEM, NOT YOU. I add that being 'nice' and being a 'good person' are two totally different things. I give them examples. I remember saying to Lola, If a man says hi to you and smiles and listens to you, that's nice, right? But that same man who is nice could later kick his dog. That's not good, is it? A good person isn't always nice, and a nice person isn't always good. The only way to judge people is to know them for a long time. That made perfect sense to her, and it still does. Dakota once told me that sometimes adults are very polite, but when no other adults are around they are mean to some kids. That's not a good person, Mom, even though he's smiling. Right son. We need to help our children learn that anyone can be charming or have manners, and that has nothing to do with if they are a safe person, or a good person.
After all this, I explain how awesome sexuality is, how wonderful it is to be a sexual person and how wonderful it is to be in love and to share your body with someone who loves you and who you love, and how this is part of how we express our spirits. I tell them that because sexuality is so precious to us, it has to be taken care of lovingly and thoughtfully, and that one day they will find it a wonderful part of their life. This is why, I say to them, I am telling you all this. Just like when we go camping and I tell you what to do if you get lost or hurt- not because I think it will happen, it probably won't- but because it's so important that you need to be prepared. I want you to be prepared.
Not scared.
My kids aren't scared, but they are pretty damned informed, and they love their bodies in an unselfconscious and joyful way that makes me so happy. And that is why I make the small, carefully thought out choices I do- like for the most part, no sleepovers until they are early teenagers, and no alone time with adults for the most part, unless we know them very well. Somehow these boundries have been very easy to keep up- when they have tutors, we hire them to come to the house. When they have lessons, they are group or at our house. Of course, this leaves room for things to happen, because life leaves room for things to happen. But I'm leaving that door cracked the bare minimum possible, and the light is on.

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I Miss You So Much, Lura

left to right, Aunt Elizabeth with David, Uncle Robert, Grandpa MD, Uncle Hugh, Grandma Elizabeth, Simon, Lura, Mom holding my baby Dakota

Lura

I miss you. Are you reading this? Do you let yourself think of me? Do you like me, or the idea of me? Do you remember how we used to go to that coffee shop in Pacific Beach; I would bring my journal and you a sketch pad. We'd sit and people watch and draw and write and talk and debate and both of us were carrying a sadness so profound in the presence of one another that it shook my hands. Like a coffee cup on a saucer. And still all those Friday nights, Mom watched Dakota, and we went. Why did we do that?

I went because I wanted to know you as a person. But I could not. I could only watch you. Your over-sized blue eyes and long thick lashes. Like Ever's. Your long, lean legs and arms, like Lola. Your small mouth. Your full cheeks. Your intellect a visible light.

I am not our past. I am not a ghost. I am just myself, an occasionally extremely neurotic, loving, devoted, hard working writer/mother/wife who likes organics, ice cream cake, music, movies, the opening to Rescue Me, Sylvia Plath and a moment of quiet in the bathroom. I also like soaps shaped like castles. I miss you.

I want to see you. I want to hold you. I would take being in the same room as you, or even on the same block. I would stand on one end of the street and you the other, and I would wave softly at you so as not to scare you away. I would sit down and cross my legs and wait to see if you would make your way to me. I would wait until you did, or until you left.

I miss you.

My daughters are sisters. Lola asks about you more often now. She's nine. She looks so much like you.

I love you

Maggie May

Flux De-Capitated

I keep thinking, OBSESSING, on what I can't write here.

It's really pissing me off.

I never thought this would happen, because apparently although I am a writer, like most people when it comes to my own self and life I can have a profound lack of imagination. For Example: It never occurred to me that my son's friend's girlfriend would find this blog, read about Mr. Curry and I having sex on the bathroom floor (which is something I'm tremendously proud and STOKED about, we are married with four kids, this should be trumpeted from the highest hills!! ) and text Dakota about it, sending him into a sneaky shame spiral which included threatening serious beat downs to anyone who EVER mention ANYTHING to him about his mom and sex again, EVER, and ' I don't give a shit if I GO TO JAIL MOM ' . OK then. Got that.

Also never occurred to me that so many people I work with and around would find and read this. Honestly, I thought they never would. I don't talk about writing at work, and the few times I have, it's been to the same two people in a small context in passing of which they have shown only polite interest. I underestimated social networking! hahaha! What a dummy.

After my sister in law started reading ( Hi beautiful girl! ) I was like, cool. I love her. But then it started that another relative, and another...and hey, I like our family. They are awesome. They are chill.. But.... I see them a lot. I have to look these people in the eye after I post quasi-artsy pictures of my husband and I during an intimate time of our life. And it's totally embarrassing.

This has been a problem for me since I started writing, long before anyone was even reading what I wrote. I think- and I'm probably wrong, because clearly I have a teeny tiny Kelsey Grammer sized grasp on what actually goes on- it's my main and most profound problem with writing. I mean, did John Updike think about HIS MOTHER when he was writing about Rabbit licking the pussy of his mistress and finding her soul meeting his during sex in a dirty hotel? I do. In the back of my brain, but it's there, and it keeps the work from being brilliant. Fuck. I hate writing that because it's so true and I'm not sure what to do about it.

At some point writers find that the company they keep is the exact kind of person who writes and or reads the kind of thing they themselves are writing- that is a kind of freedom, and that is not me. I haven't attempted enough publication to be at that point. If I ever finish my !#@&^** novel, I'll submit it. Then we'll see. Meanwhile, I hang with preschool teachers, family, old friends and my kids and husband. Not people who are reading Updike, Bellow, Didion- the authors I grew up on and the kind of writing I aspire for. Gritty, raw, intensely worded, naked, adult writing. My blog isn't always like that. This post is nothing like that. This post is me, talking out loud, not writing. Big difference.

So there are now a small handful of things I go to write about and feel muted, stumped, and sometimes, unsure if I should at all. I don't even know if I want to write about these things, it's just the fact that I have to even consider it that makes me sad. What if someone reads something about me that makes them think I shouldn't be teaching preschool, complains, and even if I don't get fired, I get humiliated? I don't know. But I hate it. Everything I write about is honest. But having things I can't write about is new for Flux Capacitor.

What is your writing like? Are there floating subjects you keep in a bubble that says DON'T EVEN GO THERE?

i love you, ever elizabeth

your fingers are my delight
petit eclairs
tiny pudges of delicate, careful grasping
oh, the look on your face when
you watch your fingers take hold of a thing
the concentration softening to pleasure
a strong satisfaction in your eye.
it is with great pride i learn you
and how you are greeting this world.
a strong spirit, but kind
like a deer.

- i facebooked:
look at my daughter! in her sleep
in the dark
she rolled over my ice cream wrapper
the wrinkle it made
her fingers find and clasp to her chest
those tiny hands moving slowly
like a conductor
creating the crinkle sound that is your favorite
and a small smile on your lips
as you slept
i could have cried with joy

you sit slumped like an old lady
head against my breast
nipple halfway in your mouth
forehead dripping in sweat
nursing carelessly and sloppily
your fat cheeks
a hydrangea red.

love
mommy

Talking To The Dead

@chowtobearetronaut.com

Following a well worn path, I think more about ghosts as I age; surgeries, illness, the deaths of my grandparents, of children of women I've known, sudden losses to agonizing to be borne, yet sometimes are.( I say sometime to acknowledge the fact that not everyone makes it after this kind of loss. No. Some are lost to drugs, some abandon their families physically, some emotionally, some unravel mentally, some kill themselves. When a person is told You are so strong to keep going and they reply What choice do I have? I think of the others. )

The first time someone I knew as an adult lost a child was five or so years ago, when a woman I'd known intimately through a private online Attachment Parenting group lost her oldest son, Jordan. He had been ill, that was all, just sick, the way everyone gets sick. Only something happened to his heart- it got very sick, and he went to bed and never woke up. His father found him the next morning. I will never forget Mr. Curry rushing into the bedroom and waking me, voice trembling, to tell me that her son had died. He was a beautiful, sweet boy with dark hair, tall, a religious and faithful boy who loved his big family and cars. Jordan.

When my Grandmother Elizabeth died, I was in the next room. My mother, my aunts, myself, Mr. Curry- I can't even remember who all was there, just that we all were, and that in the half hour before she died, when she had been voiceless and clouded, she sat bolt upright and asked in a worried voice What time is it? My mother told her. She lay back down, appeased, it seemed. I left the room, to breathe, and she died while I was in the hallway. I look at the trees and the sky and wonder, now and again, if she's anywhere, and if she is, could it be there? In the gem green palm of the leaf of her favorite tree?

Up on Saturday night, Ever sleeping in the bed, I watched a story on what I thought was about Loretta Lynn, the country singer, but turned out to actually be about her haunted house, a colonial built in the late 1800's that stood next to a church which was used for medical purposes during the Civil War. Loretta's own son died close to that house, her oldest boy rode his horse through the river and never made it to the other side. The children were interviewed about their various encounters with ghosts, and the daughter talked of a woman in white, 'expressionless', floating into her room, then taking two, three steps backward into her bathroom when the little girl called to her Nanny. These kinds of stories and interviews have been around since people have been talking, but I'm recently hearing them all around me.

Two weeks ago my preschool started collecting books for a sale one of the teachers is having to raise money for her class, and I snagged a few books to read and return. I read one of them that weekend, a book by a medium named John Edward. He talks about spirits, how they visit him, how they see their 'opening' like a door opening, when he talks to someone they loved, and they move toward that door and clamor for his attention. What they want most, he says, is to tell us it's OK. They don't want us to suffer or worry. They are all right. If your child died and you could talk to them on the other side, what else could you want to hear more? I'm OK, Mom.

This Wednesday on Channel 10 there is an interview and 'tests' with a well known psychic. I'm recording it, I'm watching it. These things are popping up all around me right now, and I'm keeping my eyes open. Do I believe in ghosts? I don't know. I am too aware of everything I don't know and don't understand to presume that I know there are or aren't ghosts. I know physics is amazing, and I know Albert Einstein said 'The more I study science, the more I believe in God.' Einstein's God wasn't a God of magic or spirit but a God of infinite Universal science spun as a great, incredible being that we cannot or do not comprehend. I know that black holes, quarks!, the miracle ( I believe it is ) of finding Pi in everything from the center of every single snowflake to every single eyeball, the traveling of light, the beginnings of life- all these things are amazing and mystifying and wondrous to me.

I wouldn't like to be bullshitted if my child died.

But I think the temptation to reach out, with any grain of hope- however miniscule or far fetched- to my child would be so great that I would try.

Would you?

This Momma Lost Her Baby.

Through a series of clicks I cannot remember, I came across a blog that knocked the breath out of me. A momma just like me, a momma who loves her babies one million infinity, just watched her little 7 month old baby girl Ruby die of liver failure. They were trying for a donor. There was nothing else they could do.

Life is incredibly resilient and breathtakingly fragile. Life goes on and yet it ends. Whatever it is I understand about life feels tiny and insignificant next to the death of someone's baby. It is in that kind of losing that I understand nothing and that in the same moment I understand nothing matters to be understood if I don't understand how to love. I will hold on to this post that I present to you here for as long as I can, print it out, keep it in a file, next to my desk, anywhere I can reach for it in moments of great stress or frustration and get perspective. That is what happened for me today. I think it will feel that way to you too. But this isn't about me. It's about this Momma and her baby. It is not her most recent post, so after you read this, maybe you can visit her most current entry and leave some words of love. Here is the post that moved me.

My heart is aching for her and the Daddy and the older sister. They are in my prayers.

dwell in the energy

These Things Are So Wonderful That They Are Illegal In 36 States, Including Hawaii

Michael from Badass Geek has his first short collection out on Kindle for Amazon, check it out here. Go Michael!!!

If you had cancer, could you feel like this? Think like this? Live like this? Oh I hope I would.

Etsy wish listing: Ever's poster, this pillow to make me smile every day, foxy for Mr. Curry, leggings for Lolawholovesleggins

I could get lost here and here

This book looks very compelling, I want to read it and maybe this weekend I might buy this or this

I'm using this list to help write my novel

And in an absolutely heartbreaking and beautiful post on a blog that touches on one of my deepest fears, the mother of two shares her husband's favorite pie recipe in the days after his sudden death of a heart attack.

Where's Waldo: Group Photo from Curry Family Reunion Picnic

can you spot us?

this is not a drill * this is my 1000th post * this is not a drill

for one thousand posts,

I've been telling you like it is for me. Over the last thousand posts, I've created an entire universe that did not exist before, a Flux Capacitor, and then vacuum sucked you all into it. yay me! ( tip top London Tipton ) and i'm so glad i did. when i started i was anxious, insecure and totally lost. Then i remembered- wait a minute! Writing is the one thing i've never waited around for someone else to show me how to do. Writing is the thing i taught myself. Writing is my enduring love. and so i just busted loose writing. Balls to the wall. I wrote an ode to the year that included portraits of my three- at the time- children for which I am grateful to have, to remember. I started all my regular posts: 'Crush On' series, image decor posts, random lists, Scenes From a Marriage and 101 Ways To Smile. I talked about the really bad, no good horrible days. On cold December days Mr. Curry and I mused over what we might name a daughter, if we were so lucky to have another. I reflected on a picture of myself at three years old. I've given advice. I've shared the agonizing experience of our miscarriage at 13 weeks. I shared my entire pregnancy with Ever with you all, to the final exciting days before she was born, where things were written on my stomach. I did photo posts on our children. Mr. Curry shared updates when Ever was hospitalized with RSV, and wrote me a secret totally sweet birthday love letter as a post.

I've formed online friendships that have completely enriched and improved my life, seen the most amazing and beautiful photos and artwork, read incredible writing and powerful daily memoirs by women and mothers, read through the backlogs of a blog to find the person had died, met sick children, met sick adults, been attacked verbally, been supported, been emailed, linked, thrown a virtual baby shower and given and receieved support. I am so grateful for the blogging community and so glad to be a part of it with my little time machine.

Love

Maggie May
Flux

Family Camping Trip to Green Valley Falls, San Diego, California

If you are really my friends, you won't ask about my outfit. And if you do, I won't explain anyway.

We camped over the weekend with the Grandparents Curry, their two children ( Mr. Curry and his sister, Kristi ) and their children's families. I hope so much that one day Mr. Curry and I will find ourselves camping with our four children and their beautiful families. Green Valley Falls is only about an hour and a half drive from home, but it's a world away from everything. It's pure gorgeousness. As soon as we hit the road up the mountain I felt my cells begin to relax. Ever fell asleep in the carseat, the kids didn't fight (much) and I stroked Lola's hair as she rested on my lap. Mr. Curry is the best driver I've ever driven with, so even twisty windy mountain roads don't make me (too) nervous.
We set up camp in the morning hours, ate a light meal and got ready for the hike to the falls. Here left to right is Grandpa Curry and below him Lola and Jacob, Ian and below him Dakota and Everkins, Andrew (the oldest of the boy cousins) Mr. Curry and Reef.
My beautiful boy. I love him with everything.
My silly beautiful babykins. I love her with everything.
Lola, Jacob and Reef climbed on the rocks like squirrels, chattering endlessly about whatever imaginary game they were playing, joking, falling and crying, being comforted and resuming play. When Reef fell Jacob ran over to announce He's not OK! He's crying about fallin down. Those boys are SO CUTE.
Dakota and ee hung out by the firepit while I got dressed and sunblocked Lola Moon. Dakota always gets huge grins out of his smallest sister.
Mr. Curry Bjorned Ever on our hike to the falls, standing against the magical backdrop of the Green Valley.
The Falls are a clustered, large area of successive drops of small waterfalls down breathtakingly beautiful rocks and growing plant life. The water was ice cold. One minute in and you began to go numb. It was so beautiful that I didn't care.
The Falls attract a large crowd over the summer. Mr. Curry has been going since childhood. He kissed a girl ( yo, Tabitha) on a large rock at the campground, and fell on the slippery rocks and cut his head open badly one year, leaving a scar and bald spot on the back of his head.
Ever and I inspect the beautiful water reeds.
Uncle Carl (Kristi's husband) takes the kids to one of the Falls.
Lola was so brave. I was SO proud of her. She didn't complain or fuss, just busted out into the ice water and walked all over very intimidating large rock formations. She walked to the top of a fall by herself while I peered at her through my fingers and sun.
Ever is a river fairy. Didn't you know?
At the edge there is a drop where you can jump into a deep pool of the ice water. Lots of people do. Including our boys.
Mr. Curry hangin with the family.
I love my girls so much...Lola was really blowing me away this day. So confident, strong, brave, playful- I am so proud of her.
I bought her new googles. She's rockin em.
The boys hanging by the jump. There were a bunch of teenage girls also hanging by the jump. The boys stayed when we went back to camp. :)
Ever peering at the world in the hammock with Mommy. We rocked back and forth and Ever was totally delighted. I felt as calm as I have in a loooong time.
My love.
Ever was hanging out in her playpen when Lola jumped in too.
Ever is a total Daddy's girl. I mean, you should SEE her face every single time she sees him. She smiles and squeals and says Da-Da and does the open and shut palming motion we've 'taught' her for 'picky up'.
Gee, think she likes the swinging hammock?
The boys being campers. The next morning, after waking up from a freeeeeezing night ( we weren't prepared for the highly unusual summer night cold temps- the kids we kept warm, but we froze ourselves) Mr. Curry, Ever and I drove to get a cup of coffee at the local shop. On the way there, I spotted a deer in the road and told Mr. Curry to watch out for it. We were so happy to see one! Then not a minute later, there was another deer, darting into the bushes and looking back at us. We were thrilled. But on the way back was the biggest gift of all: on the side of the road, foraging in a burnt and regrowing chunk of forest by the side of the road, was a herd of deer, including little baby dearling. The largest of the herd stopped and looked right at us for a long minute or two, assessing our intentions. They slowly hopped away, the littlest minding the grass until he noticed that everyone was gone- oh no!- and hop skipped away as fast as his little hooves let him to catch up with his herd. I know how he feels. xo

an irish-american insistence

Dear Mr. Curry,


let me tell you what i heard today:
a man left his wife with five young children-
an Orthodox Jewish man-

to have sex with this great looking broad.
the wife?- she waited years
just to have this schlep back.
i mean, damnit, she has FIVE KIDS.

i guess she figured,
how else will the lawn get mowed?
who else is going to want me?
it's hard out there. the world is cold.

and yesterday, i was informed
a woman i know had cheated
with the guy she knew from her daughter's
soccer team.

i suppose those extra innings
were really exciting.
then there was the other guy,
married, who i know would have slept with me.

if i'd have made a gesture, to let him know: yes.
and X's husband left her to have,
as he delicately put it
'sex with good looking girls before they don't want me anymore'

(i guess he didn't get the memo)
anyway, if you've watched Woody Allen at all
this is not surprising.
summation: lust, love, marry, crisis, cheat.
repeat.
we have love like i dreamed of
and never thought would happen...but then
have you seen Frieda?
of course- you don't get drunk and paint murals.

i know. i can hear you already.
and you are right- we aren't them.
but darling i'm a woman,
and inclined toward concern.

also, these factors must, like the Sabbath, be observed:
ee is eight months old, our oldest is sevengodamnteen,
those things we talked about, and the fact
that i'm extremely vain. like a peacock.
but also, to be fair to myself (hm)
i am the gatekeeper. i watch our marriage
and tend to it with love, keep it hot.
your part: pork me. a lot.
so you must chase me
like a fox chases the rabbit.
closely,
and with great intent.
i am never going to stop
expecting you to look at me
with that fire in your eye.
when we are eighty,
we'll have our own 'special underwear'.
the Mormons don't have a patent!
there is an entire soul that permeates
the skin, and we will never be done knowing each other.

so you married me, my man.
love me and gave me some beautiful babies.
give me your heart and your mind and fire!
but never forget to insist on desire.

that, and good alcohol.
i love you,

Mrs. Curry

ps
tonite was awesome.
pss
the other night was awesome too.
psss
i'm a lucky girl

I've *Still* Got a Crush On Arrested Development

Tobias Fünke: Okay, Lindsay, are you forgetting that I was a professional twice over - an analyst and a therapist. The world's first analrapist.

One of my top five favorite T.V. shows ever. Let's review some of the plethora of reasons.

Michael: (speaking to his son, George Michael, a 13 year old) I saw you today! What were you doing downtown? Why weren't you at school?

George Michael: That wasn't me.

Michael: Mmm yes, I'm sure it was you.

George Michael, No, Dad, you must have me confused with the famous singer George Michael.

Michael: (hand half in the air, mouth slightly open as if to reply) .....

Another reason:

Tobias, the nevernude. (and the world's first analrapist)

Then there's:

Portia Rossi.

And the one Dakota always imitates:

Gob, the magician who does illusions NOT MAGIC TRICKS
and always says, as the family stands around trying to figure out a problem
Why do I have to do everything for this family!
even though no one asked him to help
or wants him to
or is even listening

(that's the line Dakota always says, and it always makes me laugh. i LOVE my kid. <3 )

Let's not forget the hilarious jailed father, the egomaniac fucked up mother who adopts an Asian boy who doesn't speak English to help her get chores done, and then can't even figure out what she thinks is his name is actually him saying 'hello' so that the rest of the family end up saying hello back and forth with him about five times every time they see him

'Onwong!' ' Oh, onwong!' -boy looks puzzled and repeats 'Onwong!' Family looks puzzled and repeats 'Onwong!'
back and forth with him about five times

Mom visiting her youngest son in the hospital, speaking to her oldest son Michael (the incredibly hilarious straight man, Jason Bateman)
'I'll be back, I'm going downstairs to the bar.'
'Mom, they don't have a bar. We're in a HOSPITAL.'
'Well no wonder no one likes these goddamn places!'

Then there is the narration: so funny and mysteriously and incredibly SATISFYING that I'd like Ron Howard to narrate my life, please. This is my favorite narration, ever.

I could go on and on and on. I LOVE THIS SHOW.
So does Mr Curry. I don't think I could love a man who didn't get this show.

Read all about it here