You can read a lot about the dangers of exposing your kids to the Internet. Everyone from the mommy blogger to the childless blogger, and even the mainstream media, has weighed in on the blogging phenomenon known as Child Exploitation. And while I won’t pretend to have anything fresh or new to say on the subject, I’d like to tell you my story.

I think most mothers will tell you that they have an overriding goal for childrearing. It’s a self imposed standard used to measure your success or failure as a parent. You can identify this goal with statements like “I just want them to be healthy”, “No matter what, I want them to be happy”, “I want my kids to know what it means to give back”. It is these “I just want them to…” mottoes that govern nearly every decision we make for our kids.

Since before my first child was born, my personal parenting mantra has been “I want them to know that they are loved. By lots and lots of people.”

I believe that everything good - from a healthy self esteem to an appreciation for others - comes from a strong foundation of love. One that is bigger and broader than I can provide alone. And selfishly, I always wanted to know that if anything ever happened to me, my kids would at least know that there were still lots of people in the world who loved them.

That was easy when I lived in Parkersburg, Iowa.

We lived within 15 minutes of grandparents, uncles and cousins. They were surrounded by friends who loved like family. On any given holiday, they were overwhelmed with a sea of arms waiting to overwhelm them with hugs and a horde of kids ready to run wild beside them. You had only to look at the house stuffed to the breaking point for birthday parties to see that I was excelling at Providing A Happy Childhood 101.

And then we moved 1400 miles away from everything. And everyone.

I was terrified. The fears I had for myself and my life paled in comparison to the guilt I wrestled with over what I had done to my children.

I had taken them from their grandparents. I had ripped them from the security of their family. Despite all my talk about family and community and the importance of people who loved us, I took my kids from the Village that was happily helping me raise them.

And then the strangest thing happened.

We received our first house warming presents, not from neighbors or family, but via UPS ground delivery. Before we had time to put paint on the walls, AmyD sent each of the kids something special for their new rooms. Glittery pink accents for Emma, and Spiderman memorabilia for Devin - because she knew each of them as little people.

A few months later, Amy sent another box to the new house. This time it was stuffed with dresses and much needed winter clothes for Emma, who was ecstatic to learn that her friend Maggie (Amy’s daughter) had sent her presents. At only 2 and 3 years old, Maggie and Emma had already been giggling and pointing at each other over a web cam connection.

Then we hit our first holiday away from home.

Experts will tell you, the first is always the hardest. But I don’t think the experts anticipate that you will have a blogging buddy reach out to you and welcome you into their home. The experts don’t know about Deanna Banana and Lee, and how they laugh easily and immediately take on your children as if they’ve loved them since birth. Apparently the experts have never seen two families, both far from Home, gathered around one table and truly, truly grateful to be in exactly that place.

The media is right - it’s absolutely unbelievable what kids can get from the people on the Internet.

A surrogate uncle who loves them so fiercely that he has to be reminded at times that I do kind of know what I’m doing here thank you. A cute little babysitter who plays board games with them for hours and always promises that “they were good, really.” A woman who squeals when they lick her and teaches them how to make a McMansion Fort. A Kawol who promises he’ll be back, despite being woken up with the sun. And an entire family that made Emma forget that she was afraid of the water, and reminded Devin that there were kids Just Like Him out there.

Some people will tell you that what we do here with these blogs is strange.

They’ll tell you we’re an antisocial bunch, sitting behind our computer screens talking to a bunch of strangers. They may say that it’s dysfunctional or dangerous to share your lives, your families, and God forbid your children with a bunch of crazy Internet people.

But me and my family?

We’ll tell you… thank you.

Thank you for helping me raise children who will never sit in a corner at a party because they’re convinced they have enough friends.

Thank you for allowing me to show them that the world is absolutely full of good people.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you, for being part of our Village.

The only thing better than having a friend from home come to visit…

Is having a friend that you don’t have to clean your house for.

And seriously. I so totally didn’t.

She appreciates the pee puddles in the bathroom, yo.

If you follow me on Twitter, you already know.

Yesterday what is being estimated as an F-4 Tornado hit Parkersburg, Iowa. Our hometown.

Our town. The place where we grew up. The community where we know the neighbors and the businesses and the streets.

Or at least, we did. From what I’ve heard, even natives don’t know the streets now.

The school is gone, the middle ripped out leaving only a shell to stand as Command Center. The Kwik Star is gone. The restaurant is gone.

And the homes… gone. Jared’s mom and dad’s house. His brother and sister-in-law’s house. Gone. Literally. A pile of rubble standing where a home was yesterday morning.

The pictures. The china. The dining room table that was her grandmother’s.

Gone.

My family is safe. One of my best friend’s babies was taken to the ER last night, and that’s all that I know. The last count I heard was 5 dead, 15 injured.

Dead. Injured. Gone.

I can’t even tell you what an eerie feeling it is to hear about your Home being ripped apart, destroyed, from 1400 miles away. To frantically try to get someone on the phone. To watch your husband hold back tears as he listens to his mom cry “it’s gone. It’s all gone. Everything is gone.” To scour the web for reports, hoping for a picture or video or sound. Something to tie you to it. Something to connect you to the people who are hurting.

Your people. Lost. Torn. Broken. Clinging to one another in relief as they find people alive.

I know I should be grateful because my family is safe. I can still say I have pictures of my babies. My life is safe. Untouched.

And I am overwhelmed with guilt.

It is not enough for me to be safe. My community is hurting, it’s heart has been ripped out. I shouldn’t be OK. I shouldn’t be 1400 miles away. I shouldn’t only know of this devastation through reporters and grainy footage.

I need to know. I need to see. I need to hold them in my arms. I need to plow through the wreckage beside them.

Those are my people. That is my town.

Even from 1400 miles away.

Today is the day I’ve been waiting for… almost. Kind of.

Today, the last of The Company flies home.

And tomorrow I will revel in the fact that I have my house back. Tomorrow I will come home from work and eat what I want, without worrying about making a good impression. Tomorrow I will come home and flop my ass-that-has-grown-exponentially-in-the-last-month on my couch and watch whatever I want on TV, without worrying that I’m boring anyone else.

Tomorrow.

But today, I will be focusing on this:

My kids have an intense bond with their grandparents, particularly with my husband’s mom. It’s ironic and sometimes difficult to wrap my head around, because she is so different from the other person they have an intense bond with - me.

She’s quiet and reserved. Conservative to the core. And yet she has had a soul level link with these two wild children since the moment they came into this world.

My son, an observant 8 year old, understands that they are leaving and that they will once again be far away at their homes in Iowa. He knows that he can no longer enjoy sleep overs at grandmas or late night Monopoly games that his parents are usually too tired for. He’s not thrilled about it, but he’s adjusted - in large part, I think, because he’s been able to talk about it.

And then there is my daughter.

Read the rest of this page »

“And your middle name is Lynn?”

“Um, no, it’s Marie, actually…” I rechecked the official documents the DMV site had told me to bring. Surely I was still capable of getting my middle name right.

“Oh, yes, I see. Sorry, that was your marriage certificate. His middle name is Lynn,” the woman with heavy eyeliner behind the counter was trying to suppress a smile.

“Yeah, I know. It’s a girl’s name.”

She smiled silently and continued clacking on her keyboard. I read the signs on the pastel walls about wildlife preservation and drunk driving as she continued to verify the vital information I could confirm in my sleep.

“And your social?”

“Organ donor?”

I nodded, and moved in front of the blue makeshift photo screen that she was pointing at.

“Smile.”

I did.

“Put your chin down a little.”

I felt my face flush a little while quietly thanking her for her help. I suck at taking pictures.

“And will you be going back to Iowa?”

“Excuse me?”

I was paying attention now, and noticed a pair of blue handled kitchen shears in her left hand, my Iowa driver’s license in her right.

“Are you staying here? Or will you be going back to Iowa?”

“Do I have to decide that now? Right here? I don’t understand…” my voice trailed off as I felt my throat constrict. It seemed like she was asking me to seal off an emergency exit door.

“You live here, right? I just want to make sure.”

My confusion must have been evident on my face. I didn’t understand why were discussing whether or not I’d move back some day. I wasn’t sure. I mean, I didn’t think, but… I was just here to get my Florida ID…

“I surrendered this one,” she decided for me with a casual wave of her right hand. Snip. She cut the corner off my license.

Instinctively, I held out my hand, silently asking her to leave me with the disfigured ID card.

“Have a seat. They’ll call you with your new card in 3-5 minutes.”

I thanked her and went to find my own blue office chair.

Surrendered. That was it. I was, in some kind of official capacity, no longer an Iowa resident. I didn’t live there anymore. It wasn’t, according to the government, home.

And… that was OK. It was strange, I thought, because it was OK and yet monumental for me. It seemed like the final string had been cut with that corner. It was time to let go.

“Britt?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

I exchanged a $20 bill for my new ID. I walked out of the DMV casually, as if nothing had transpired here but some mundane civic business. When I got into my car, I pulled out the new piece of plastic and studied it for a minute before turning the key and heading back home.

Yep. It’s official.

I’m a Floridian.

YAY! Christmas Pictures!

Excuse me? What’s that?

What do you mean it’s been two weeks since Christmas? What is this jibber jabber about every other blogger in the world already having completed their “Christmas review”? What’s that you say? Looking at random pictures of someone else’s kids opening presents is like Blogger Kryptonite?

Phooey, I say. Phooey.

(I’ve had shit to do, back up off me.)

We told the kids Saturday night that they would be opening presents in the morning. The two boys of course immediately began jockeying for “we might as well just open them now”. But I insisted we would wait for morning, as I was hoping to create at least some of that Christmas Morning anticipation.

Sunday morning, long before the sun would come up, I was awaken by an 8 year old standing silently at my bedside, staring at me. (That shit never ceases to freak me out. Or wake me up, somehow.)

“Mom,” he whispered at the first sign of eyelid fluttering, “isn’t it time to open presents?”

I rolled over and kicked my husband, giving him the universal signal for “it’s time to get your ass out of bed”. He responded with a grunt and a groan and what sounded a lot like whimpering. I kicked him again and threw in an elbow to the back of the head for good measure.

“What… fuck… what time… pigs in a blanket… what’s wrong?”

“It’s time to open presents. Get up.”

“Oh my God it’s still DARK out. Buddy… go get some cereal… little bit… just give me a little….”

“Jared, get up. He wants to open presents. It’s Christmas morning!”

And just like that the spell was cast.

Jared rolled out of bed dragging Emma behind him, repeating much the same conversation with her that he’d just shared with me. We gathered up the cameras and the camcorders and the coffee as Devin staked out his “spot” in front of the tree. Jared turned on the Christmas music on the digital cable channel while I explained to Devin the difference between lots of two year old trinket gifts vs. less boxes but Holy Mary Mother Of God more expensive eight year old gifts.

We all gathered in the “formal” living room with the tree and the green and red wrapped packages and began sorting the stacks. The kids started out taking turns, until Devin’s patience grew thin with his sister’s painstakingly slow removal of the paper (because “it’s just paper Emma! Just rip it off so we can SEE!”)

When every gift was opened (including two surprise I Know We Weren’t Getting Each Other Anything gifts between Jared and I) and every Show Mommy What You Got picture taken, the kids scurried off to their respective corners to begin playing with their new treasures.

I ran to the phone and began making my annual round of Merry Christmas phone calls. Of course, it was about 7:30 in the morning back in Iowa - and the 23rd of December - but none of the grandparents on the other end seemed to mind participating in our fantasy.

Calendar be damned, we had Christmas. Our very first Christmas just the four of us in our new house, in our new home, way down here in Florida.

Oh, I was so smug.

“How do you like the weather up here?” “It’s awful! I can’t wait to get home!”

“Did I mention we were sweating in shorts and t-shirts last Friday?”

“Oh my, how do you people live like this?!”

“Oh it will be so nice to get back home to sandals and t-shirts.”

Yeah, I know. I’ve only lived in Florida 4 1/2 months. But apparently my blood really has thinned that quickly because I was fucking dying up there! (Where “there” equals “hell frozen over”.) I was so eager to get back to the warmth. I was so proud to be able to share my delight with anyone who would listen.

“Um, yeah, we don’t do cold down there” (Where “there” equals “fucking paradise”.)

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

I have been back in Florida for about 36 hours - 24 of which were warm and comfortable, soothing my poor chapped cheeks. The last 12? Fucking. Freezing.

No, really. The temperature here at this moment is 31 degrees. 31. That is below fucking freezing.

The morning news today was filled with “Severe Winter Weather Alerts” and “Cold Weather Safety Tips”. I was expecting a fucking corn price report during the crop break at any second. Oh. Wait. Not corn - but the oranges are in trouble! And quick - go cover your plants!

I had to turn on the motherfucking HEAT this morning! In my HOUSE!!

“Well, honey,” I told my husband this morning, “at least there is no snow. Remember a few weeks ago when I was whining about ‘if it’s going to be cold there should at least be snow’? I was full of shit. That crap is messy! Oh mah gawd I am glad to be done with that nonsense!”

Heh.

“We may even have snow flurries on parts of the coastline later today.”

That news guy fucking hates me. I can tell.

Dear Retard,

I’m sorry. You’re right. That was mean.

Dear Moron Men Of Central Florida Who Have Determined That 1-4 Is The Hot New Place To Pick Up Women,

Thanks for fucking up my salutation.

And also? Seriously?

What. The fuck?

What is in the reclaimed water you are sipping that has mutated your pin sized brain in such a way that you think that it is appropriate to hit on women ON THE FUCKING INTERSTATE?

Never in my life have I seen this bizarre phenomenon that only seems to affect Central Florida drivers. The honking, the hollering through rolled down windows, the cat calls across two lanes. Dude, it’s ridiculous. And honestly? A little fucking scary to a small town girl who is used to a friendly wave between strangers. And that thing you do where you pull right up beside my fucking car in rush hour traffic and then maintain my exact same speed so as to coast right. fucking. beside me? Do you not see the fucking traffic that is trying to get by you? Traffic is enough of a satanic pain in the ass without you clogging up the works with your roadway romantics.

And really. Seriously. I don’t get hit on in bars, for God’s sake. I have taken enough pictures of myself in the morning to know I am so not car accident worthy in the midst of the pre-dawn commute. Is it the cell phone up to my ear or the stereo cranked obscenely loud that does it for you, freak boy? Are you turned on by my impressive use of the turn signal?

But what I really want to know… what really, truly boggles the fucking mind…

WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY AND SANE DO YOU POSSIBLY HOPE TO ACCOMPLISH WITH THESE HIGHWAY SHENANIGANS?!?

Honestly. Please. Do you imagine that I will be so impressed with your rusted out shitbox that I’ll signal for you to follow me into the next rest stop? Does your redneck fantasy include me squealing with delight at the site of your cassette player on wheels and exclaiming “I was on my way to work, but fuck it! Let’s get it on!” just before I leap from my vehicle and sprawl out in your backseat? Are you hoping I’ll write my number on my the back of a grocery receipt and press it up against the window in hopes that you’ll call me later?

OK. That last one isn’t soooo far fetched. If I was on fucking CRACK!

Seriously.

Dudes.

Stop. Stop now. Or I will be forced to test how far my insurance company’s “bodily injury” limit will go.

Because we both know, I’m the only one in this scenario with good insurance.

Love & Kisses!

Miss Britt

(aka The Bitch In The Mustang Who Flips You Off Every Morning.)

Doesn’t “photo essay” sound so grown up?

ANYway, we celebrated a magnificent Thanksgiving with our friends Deanna and Lee. And while I could have been all sad that I was spending my first Thanksgiving without family, surrounded by a bunch of people who normally give thanks in October - I was too busy being overwhelmed by the fact that only 3 months since The Move, we were already lucky enough to have friends we could spend the Holidays with. Really, how cool is that?

That being said, I have no pictures of Thanksgiving because the Canadian bitch put me on camera duty with her camera, and then forgot to give me digital copies of the pictures. She says she forgot, but I know it’s because she hates it when I post pictures of her online. Chicken.

But rest assured, the rest of the weekend was well documented!

With Thanksgiving out of the way and Black Friday passed and sadly neglected, it was time to kick off Christmas! Yay!

.

We dragged it inside.

.

.

Fucking fake real trees are kind of a bitch to get standing up straight. (Edited because I’m retarded.  Not witty.)
.

Eventually, after taking the tree out of the stand, putting the tree back in the stand, taking it out, putting it in, cussing possibly at me, taking it out, sawing off limbs, and putting the tree back in the stand… we had a fairly straight tree.

We were ready to begin the decorating.

The boy, he is mine.

The girl… well, she’s at that age where everything she does melts my butter…

Eventually, we finished the tedious task of lighting and star topping and got the hell out of the way so that I could commence with the real decorating. My tree is the one thing I am anal retentive about. My tree matches. And is perfect. And wait til you see the -

Fuck.

My motherfuckingcocksuckingsonofabitching camera died!

I had to resort to using the video camera. Which sucks.

My beautiful, color coordinated, Martha Stewart Would Want To Have My Babies Tree, looks like something out of a 70’s horror film.

*sigh*

Lest you be concerned that I do not allow the children to enjoy the holidays and blah blah blah - they get their own tree. And they get to decorate it all by themselves with no fussing or nit picking from me.

After the trees were done, I finished putting out the rest of my measly Christmas array (and holy crap seriously this house needs way more decorations than the old one did!)

We have the Nativity Scene

And the stockings

And, of course, the wreath.

And that’s pretty much it. Except for a few outside lights.

It’s not much and I definitely want more. But between our very own Thanksgiving (two, actually, and I have pictures of the second one for later! I cooked! Yay!) and decking our very own holidays, I believe it’s official.

The holiday season has arrived.

Look! A Thanksgiving post! On Thanksgiving! With a creative title to boot!

(Who the hell says “to boot”?)

You know, I realize that a laundry list of “things I will thank the Gods Of Turkey for” is cliche and as overdone as the constant references to being sleepy from the tryptophan. I know.

But this year is different for me. Because this year I don’t have the comfort of lifelong traditions and knowing what comes next. Or the family to bitch about and joke about and laughingly reminisce with. This year Thanksgiving is kind of all fucked up for me… which makes me stop and think about what it’s supposed to be about.

And no, I don’t mean pilgrims. You only celebrate the pilgrims and the indians if you live in New England, I’m pretty sure. (Besides, peace and goodwill between the Americans and Anyone Else is sooo last term.)

What was I saying?

Oh yes! Thanksgiving! The Giving of Thanks!

*ahem* *cough* *clear* *ahem*

Ladies and Gentlepeople,

I would like to give thanks, first, to God (dude, I’ve seen the Award Shows, I know what I’m doing here.)

And not just for the babies and the earth and the naturally curly hair. I mean, thank you for that stuff too. And especially for the gift of Aveda to tame such hair while protecting said Earth and therefore positively affecting the babies (I’m sure). But also? Remember that time last summer when I found out my one House For Sale was in a flood zone? And I kind of told You we weren’t speaking anymore? Yeah. Heh. About that. Sooo… you really did kind of come through in the end and stuff. And I might not have ever mentioned it - so, um, thanks. And, uh, sorry about all that “and you make me look like a freaking FOOL for believing in you!” stuff.

Whew. Deepness.

NEXT, I’d like to offer up some Thanksgiving Love to my husband.

You know how I told you like a week before our anniversary trip that I wanted a divorce? Ah, good times, good times. Well, um, so - I’m sorry about all “that”. And seriously? You’ve really pulled through during all this “let’s turn our lives upside down and just move” stuff. So, um, thanks. For, y’know, refusing to let me blow our lives up back then. And being really amazingly awesome since the move (it’s OK, we won’t count that first month - that shit was tough). But really, in all seriousness, I cannot say enough how much your love and strength have amazed me. And quite literally saved me, more times than you’ll ever know.

*wipes away tears*

Jeeeeez.

Who else… who else…

Oh, of course you have to thank your Mom.

And mine, really, has been pretty fucking incredible over the last six months. She told me it was OK to leave. And she gets her happy ass up every morning at 6:30 to talk to me - so that it doesn’t really feel like I ever left. This is more impressive if you know how NOT a morning person she is. Really Mom, thank you. I know I make fun of you for being all hippie-airy-fairy and I don’t tell you enough how much You being You has made it easier for Me to be Me. So - thank you.

And then…. umm…

am I forgetting anyone?

*looks around the room*

*notices a few hands waving frantically*

*and possibly some huffing. and puffing. and outrage.*

Oh yes. Of course. Probably almost mostly, I have to thank you all.

I mean, you stood by me through all of it. You listened to me cry and scream and worry and doubt. You reminded me that I would be just fine, and you even offered advice when you could. You reminded me I was not alone.

And when family was miles and miles away, and couldn’t offer an actual hug or shoulder, or family tradition…

you invited me into yours.

Truly, I know how cheesy it is. But I can’t even imagine how I would have survived the last several months without the love and non-judgey support of my friends. Truly. My husband, though he has no idea how much, thanks you. My children - and not just because you send them presents - thank you.

And I, from the absolute bottom of my Turkey congested heart, thank you.