I'm at that place where I want to get things done, but I only get gung-ho about a project long enough to fill up some corner, nook or cranny of my house with it while it waits, whiney and impatient, for me to come and complete it. I have aspiring fabric flower hair clips on the book shelf in the living room, would-be stuffed robot dolls (girly ones this time) in the corner of my dining room under a broken chair being held together with a scarf. Also under the chair are empty baby puff containers I plan to convert magically into the perfect christmas presents for the nieces and nephews on my list. Next to the chair are flattened cardboard boxes and brown paper bags. The boxes are destined to become frames for the children's art show next month, while the bags will be inverted (to hide the printing on them) and converted into gnarly, leafless trees to be used as table decorations at the Halloween party this weekend. Behind my living room chair are boxes and piles of supplies I use or may use for the weekly art class I teach kids at the local rec center. In the hall are the unsorted, too-small clothes that once belonged to The Boy, waiting to be properly stored, and a Costco-size package toilet paper wanting nothing more than to be put away. I really could keep on going, but if I don't finish this post now, it will probably find some new method of gathering virtual dust on my desktop.

It's not that I don't do anything but start projects. I did recently create a design for the Rainbow Fun Run for Her Nibs' school later this year. But I'm obsessive about graphic design. An intriguing design project always seems to usurp top spot on my priority list.

And I do other things, like read to my children. That brings a very different kind of satisfaction, and not one that cleans the crannies of my house. But I will commit now to finish something this week. I'm going to have to go with the paper bag trees, since that party is on Friday. And since that party is on Friday (and did I mention I'm in charge of the whole ward halloween party?) I'm not going to get too ambitious about any other projects just yet.

And now I've got some Molasses Cookies to make for FHE. That's productive and yummy!

The trouble with logic.

Once upon a time in a land pretty far away, I was a college student double majoring in philosophy and ceramics. When my marital status was entering a period of flux, I gladly downgraded my degrees. Philosophy dropped to a minor and my BFA in Ceramics was expedited to a BA in Visual Arts.

Best thing that could ever, and has ever, happened in my life.

But, I had just enough logic to be irritated. I can't stand it when TV 'journalists' misuse the phrase "begging the question."

My handsome husband passed on a handy little article explaining both the proper and improper uses for this phrase. It's from a little while back, but I will rest easier knowing I've made a small attempt to educate the general population on logic terminology. Plus the easy cracks on the Bush administration are always good fun.

Enjoy!

You Must Read This Post

And I don't mean this one that I'm writing right now ... unless you want to ... I mean this one:

Emily Orton: Motherhood -- What's in it for me?

(1 mom + 1 dad + 4 girls + 1 boy) x (4 homeschoolers + 1 toddler with Trisomy 21)

÷ (2 bedrooms + 1 bathroom) = Emily¹s life in New York City

Don't worry, I'll wait.








She's hit it right on the head, hasn't she? I never felt like my journals were private even when I was younger because I knew, someday, one of my children or grandchildren would be reading them. When I was a au pere in Belgium, my entire journal was written towards some unknown audience scouring my records for historical significance or insight into me as a person. I regret that part, but I do think that my children are making me more than I would ever be without them.


I know that I need to model the attitudes I want my children to have about themselves and others. Last year, I resolved to improve my self-esteem. I can proudly state that my self-critical remarks (mostly verbal, but non-verbal, too) have plummeted. I didn't expect to scratch that off my list after just one year, but I wouldn't have progressed this much  if I weren't motivated to become the kind of mother I want my daughter to have. With my son, I am developing a new level of patience and acceptance. Not just for him, but for myself and my daughter.


Thank you, Mrs. Orton. You inspire me.