Creative Thinking

 Creative thinking may mean simply the realization that there's no particular virtue in doing things the way they always have been done 
 Rudolf Flesch  

There are several ways of looking at a problematic situation.  Early on in my mothering career, I learned that I had a choice. I could either catastrophize the dilemma or consider it an interesting challenge. With limited funds, surrounded by lots of little people on a hobby farm, I had to discover innovative ways of coping. When I relaxed, often an unusual, creative or even funny solution popped into my head. I just needed to keep everything in perspective and listen to my own inner voice as well as the whispers of the Spirit. We are immersed in His Spirit. He is an integral part of every aspect of our lives. 

We simply must take the time to listen rather than over think and analyze. Ray Bradbury sums up how my kids solved their own problems, 

 Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things. 

Of course my family absorbed this attitude when they were still young. As part of a busy household, they often came up with their own solutions to problems before I could help them. Six-year old Joseph illustrates Bradbury's concept perfectly. His grade one teacher recounted this story to me. It seems that she asked her class this question,

"How would you open the garage door if there were no grown-ups around?

Everybody just stared blankly at her, except Joseph. He frantically waved his hand in the air and then excitedly blurted out,

"You just stand on a milk crate, push on the upper left-hand corner of the door with a hockey stick and push hard. The door comes up a bit, you jump off the crate and crawl in!!"
When my eighth child was born, everyone was thirteen and under. The mornings could be chaotic and Joseph was the main contributor to the mayhem. He was full of energy and good humour but would express it by running up and down the kitchen in between eating, brushing his teeth, gathering  reading books, exercise sheets and his lunch. Somehow with all this activity he never seemed to be able to get dressed.While holding newborn Anthony over my shoulder and awkwardly putting lunches together with a helper, I'd repeat over and over, as calmly as I could,
 "Joseph, please put your clothes on."                                                                     

Finally I came to my senses; there had to be an easier way to handle the morning Battle To Get Him Dressed.  Soon after, I spotted a crazy cartoon in a parenting magazine. On two single beds, side by side, a little boy and girl lay on top of the covers. They were fully dressed in formal clothes with socks and shoes, hair clips, flower basket beside the girl and beside the boy, wedding rings on a pillow. Their mother had prepared for the wedding the next day by getting the ring bearer and flower girl ready the night before.  It looked so ludicrous that I laughed every time this image came to mind the rest of the week.

Then I experienced what I call a suddenly and inspiration hit. The p.j.s  Joseph wore to bed were not all that different than the sweat suits he wore to school. Why on earth did I not dress him in one of his school sweatsuits right after his nightly bath? It was ingenious, I thought.

After the first  day though, I realised  that I had overlooked one vital article of clothing the night before. As usual, Joseph was running up and down the kitchen but this time I was yelling,

"Joseph, please  put your socks on."

DAY 9 Invisible Illness vs. Visible Illness

Picture these two separate scenes.

In the first vignette,  a smiling young woman with a cumbersome backpack, hobbles on crutches towards heavy doors leading to a lecture hall. Before she can even touch the handle, two young men sprint up to open the door as well as  politely offer to carry her bag till she is sitting comfortably at her desk.  She is an accepted part of the young men's social group. Her disability, although permanent, does not repulse the other students but elicits empathy.

 A diametrically opposed scene focuses on another young, pretty woman but she slouches with her head is down. As she struggles weakly with the same heavy doors, an impatient young man sighs, shakes his head at her and roughly yanks the door open . He steps quickly past her after glancing at her sideways because her hands are trembling, she refuses eye contact and appears to be anxious and ill at ease.

The first woman's physical disability is clearly understood by the male students; they confidently offer the kind of help that she needs. The second woman makes the young guy uncomfortable because it is obvious that she is  emotionally or mentally ill but he really does not exactly know why she is ill or how to help her.

 Mental illness has the power to marginalize people.

Physical illness gathers people together.

Some people in tremendous emotional pain, cut their arms, legs, etc. because physical pain takes their mind off mental pain and other people rush to help them.  

Clearly society in general needs information  before they change their prejudiced and fearful attitudes towards the mentally ill.

DAY 8-I surprise myself by what I write.

The prompt for today is:

Write about how you choose to write about others in your blog. (Friends, family, etc)

After reading a second prompt  in eight days  implying that all writers  choose  consciously what subjects and people  they want to write about,  for a moment I felt rattled.

Seriously, does every other writer logically  plan out their articles, essays, short stories and books with their left brain? I simply cannot function like that. When an episode or opinion has popped into my brain, I did not consciously choose to write about that topic or person. It was an eureka moment, that surprised me. I wonder,

"Where did that thought or memory come from? I haven't thought about him for years!"

Suddenly a story sprung to mind.  I have assimilated emotions, reflections, connected quotes and philosophy  and integrated it all with my faith. Initially my right brain takes over, creativity flows like a river of words and I can hardly type fast enough to keep up.  The entire process is largely subconscious.  I unwittingly combine spirit  of creativity with a gift to craft words together.  As writers in past centuries called it the muse. Left logical  brain editing follows afterwards. However, if  I  attempt to write the first draft with my logical left brain, the article  is stilted, stunted, boring and painful to read.

Hoping that I am not alone in this approach to writing, I have unearthed some powerful and some outrageously funny quotes on the subject of writing:

I do not plan my fiction any more than I normally plan woodland walks; I follow the path that seems most promising at any given point, not some itinerary decided before entry.”
― John Fowles

“There are three secrets to writing a novel. Unfortunately nobody knows what they are.”
― W. Somerset Maugham

Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning: I wanted to know what I was going to say. ~Sharon O'Brien”

is the overflow of emotion into action.”

― Brian Raif

So it seems that I am in good company. I must admit though,  I discovered that many other authors use an outline, plan and work hard at the chore of writing, yet  still managing  to create magic.

Pigs, Pigs, Those intelligent Pigs

Pigs seem to be popular these days, especially teacup pigs who are worth up to $2,500.00 each. However, our family loves real farm hogs because they are friendly, smart and crafty.

 

For twenty years we have raised meat birds, laying hens, four pigs , a calf and loved an old Arabian and a beautiful warm blooded show horse for years. Our family treasures hilariously memories of our animals but some of the most amusing and heartwarming stories are about our pigs.

When the local hog farmer drove over to deliver our four little piglets in the spring, he stayed for almost an hour enjoying their introduction to free range living. In fact, most of the family stood around their pasture, watching and laughing. The piglets literally leaped and twisted in the air in utter bliss as they emerge from the truck. Like most modern farmers, our neighbourhood supplier had an efficient, clean setup. This means that his hogs never breathed fresh air, saw the sun or touched  dirt or vegetation. As soon as the piglets settled down, they dove into the tall weeds, making pathways, connecting  little round flattened areas so they could sunbath, rest under a tree, make their way to the food, their mud bath and the low wooden shed with straw bedding. Our pigs were very clean and they loved to be sprayed with water from a hose; it helped sunburns as did a thick coating of mud. I don't know who had more fun-the kids holding the hose or the pigs.

Our lane is very long

Pigs are very intelligent. One cold fall day, Michael slowly coaxed four HUGE pigs in from the pasture. Rather than turn into the dark, strange barn, they rushed past my stunned husband and ran down our long lane. Instead of tearing down the lane after 200 lb. hogs,  Michael simply stayed put and yelled,
"Hey boys, come on back."
The pigs stopped in their tracks, turned around and  came running  straight home. Michael grabbed four apples, tossed them into the barn and his pets trotted right in.  Obviously pigs are trained with food.

 Pigs are not simply intelligent, they are down right crafty. One especially cold fall, we decided to bring our old laying hens (who we kept feeding, even though they were on pensions), into the same barn as the pigs. The

Brilliant. This pig turned his back on his prey.

pigs helped to keep this particular barn warm. The dim witted birds kept flying over the  six foot partition to hover near the warmer hogs. Our crafty omnivores actually turned their backs on their prey and pretended to ignore them. It was incredible watching  these pigs lure the unsuspecting birds into their trap.Everyday the skittish hens edged closer and closer to their new warm friends. The sly predators waited until one chicken left the flock and then they slowly backed their dinner into a corner. When the hen was encircled, the pigs turned in unison and pounced. It wasn't long before all 15 tough old birds disappeared.  I do mean disappeared because pigs eat everything. Imagine a pig chewing on a sinewy chicken leg with the chicken feet sticking out the side of his mouth! Pigs are pigs.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Everyone Remember the admonition, "Quit Eating like a Pig"? It takes on new meaning when you actually watch these creatures devour massive quantities of food. I t is a jaw dropping experience watching pigs dive into their food up to their eye balls. They relish feed soaked in jam soaked feed and day old stone ground, wholewheat bread. During our first year raising pigs our manure soaked garden grew giant vegetables and monster weeds. We fed the pigs a ton of broccoli, swiss chard, wheelbarrows of  freshly pulled weeds, 6 ft. corn stalks, corn cobs, damaged tomatoes, kitchen scrapes, baskets of bruised wild apples, pumpkins.....The neighbours still rave about the delicious ham with only a quarter inch of fat on it!

Although we treat our pigs like pets, we don't feel bad about eating them because they live happy free lives at our farm. I call our pork, chicken and beef  happy meat. I must admit though, there was one poignant moment, though, when three-year old Katie stared at the meat on her fork and asked,
"Is this Josie?"

pigs are very clean

I was standing behind her about to help someone else cut their meat and I waved my hands frantically and mouthed,
"Nooo!"
All the kids lied obediently and said  in unison,
"No, Katie, that's just a pork chop."
Katie smiled and started eating.

My Soapbox Issue: 11-13% of People are Undiagnosed

Quite by accident, we discovered why our 11 year old son could not read

10-13% of the population has Irlen Syndrome or SSS (Scotopic Sensitivity Syndrome) and are functionally illiterate, most are never diagnosed.

I was gathering books to return to friends one day when the book Reading by Colors by Carol Irlen caught my eye. As I was skimming through it, 11 year-old Anthony looked over my shoulder and said in a surprised voice, "Gee, those words look nice."
I turned to him and said, "What do you mean NICE?"
Anthony explained, "The words are flat with the page and they're not moving."
I sputtered, "What do you mean not moving?"
Anthony shrugged his shoulders and said, "You know, the letters aren't shaking and they're not high off the page."
I shook my head, "No, I don't know what you mean."
This particular page was grey with blue letters. I quickly turned the page to a white one with black letters. Anthony wrinkled his forehead and described what he saw when he looked at the printed page.
Everything clicked into place as I did research into Irlen Syndrome or SSS (Scotopic Sensitivity Syndrome); I realized that Anthony had every symptom. SSS is a learning disability that causes difficulties with reading as well as encoding and decoding verbal information. Unbelievably many eye specialists refuse to acknowledge Irlen syndrome, probably because a normal educator, teaching illiterate adults in California discovered the problem and the solution, not a scientist.
We struggled for years to teach our intelligent son how to read. It was sheer agony. Anthony couldn't sit still, he'd lose his place, forget what he had read 30 seconds after he had read it. After ten minutes of struggling, he would start rubbing his forehead, complain that his head hurt and he felt sick. This kid had perfect eyesight, was smart as a whip, especially in Math but he could barely read.
No one in the school system knew anything about this handicap. I finally a found a private screener in Ottawa, Adel Francis. She discovered that Anthony had not one but five different distortions, each one corrected with a different coloured lens. Within two hours of testing, after Adele had pointed out a few complicated words, Anthony read smoothly and flawlessly at a grade NINE level. We came to tears because we had pushed and badgered our son for years, when he just couldn't see the way most other people do.
We were appalled to learn that 11% to 13% of people have SSS. So much potential wasted, so many people frustrated, unfilled, feeling dumb with many ending up in jail.
Everything changed rapidly once Anthony started to wear his miracle lenses. The first night we read together after he started wearing his dark blue, grey glasses, Anthony moved the page close to his face and then back again. He then turned to me with a puzzled look on his face and asked, "Getting hasTWO t's in it??!"
One night after supper, when the younger children had left the table to play, my oldest daughter laughed and said,
"Hey, I just realized that we don't have to send Anthony away if we want to discuss an adult topic; we'll just take off his glass!"
We all laughed of course.
Then there was the time a friend tried to cut Anthony's hair. He couldn't seem to stop squirming. One of my daughter's, Rachel, suggested, "Why don't you try putting on his glasses?"
Anthony put them on and he sat as still as a stone statue.
"Oh my god, I don't believe it," my friend yelled, "Everyone come see this. Okay, Anthony, take your glasses off and then put them on when I tell you."
The difference was so dramatic and everyone's reaction was so funny that even Anthony started to laugh.

---

How did you decide what to share? I Don't; I Just Write.

Something has been set free within me recently and now I simply write, from my inner self. It was the decision to start blogging that opened this door to writing.

It took me years to finally decide to start writing again. I had taken a 30 year sabbatical since leaving university to raise 9 children  and I just couldn't seem to start.  Perhaps I could have started seven years ago when everyone was in school full time but realistically there was simply to much physical work involved in running a household for eleven people and helping with the farm animals and our large vegetable garden.

Instead of writing, I told stories. The Irish side rose to the surface as I entertained family and friends with the latest exploits of my kids and the farm. Their escapades really were legendary because some situations can only occur  with the combination of 9 kids and a hobby farm. I  told the hilariously true  stories of  our family in true Irish form, with wry wit and dramatic flourishes. As an oral story teller, I discovered that the tales rose up from deep within me because I had assimilated them and  made them my own. In fact, my creations were the products of my right brain; they were imaginative, intuitive and alive.  I did not know ahead of time exactly what I would say. I did not memorize a script with my logical left brain. No, the very act of speaking words aloud  was part of the creative process. The stories were alive, full of joy and humour and that spirit was infectious.

 For years,  my children  badgered me, “When are you going to start putting our stories down on paper?”
Acquaintances tentatively suggested,  “I really think you should start writing.”
Strangers at conferences challenged me, ”You are very articulate, you can think on your feet, have you  ever considered writing?”
Once four people approached me and said, “You are a natural. You are called to write. What is holding you back?

However, whenever I closeted myself in a room to sit down and write, I froze. I considered writing to be a solitary craft but looking at a blank screen or talking into thin air was a sterile exercise in futility for me. I could not translate the same creative energy that I experienced telling a story verbally to the keyboard. My intuitive, imaginative side stayed buried and my logical intellect wrote boring drivel.



Somehow I heard about the existence of blogs, blogging sites and  blogging directories and I snapped to attention.  Suddenly, I was thinking up a username,  a title for a blog,  looking at templates and design and layout. All these activities loosened up my creativity while I sat typing

It was like an invisible barrier slowly melted, allowing my imagination to bubble up in a stream of written words that felt just as exhilarating as my oral tradition. I was  excited to start sharing written stories with other people, people who would read them,  respond, comment and give me feed back on what I had written.  Within weeks, I was no longer an island but part of a community of other writers who had the very same insecurities and problems as I did.

I discovered my inner voice. Now when I sit down to write, I just the words flow and I am pleasantly surprised by the sheer joy of writing in freedom

A Conversation With My Doctor

After moving to the Ottawa  Valley with our first child, I became the patient  of a very feminist Doctor who was childless, although she did have tropical fish and a  parrot.
I was an enigma to her as she was to me. The waiting room was filled with well off, professional women needing gynaecological care and women in their late thirties or early forties pregnant with their first child. Then, I would walk through the door, at first pregnant with a toddler on my hip and by my last visit with three or four other children clustered around me. Even though I switched doctors to combine a family doctor/obstetrician, this woman went beyond the call of duty for all four births.

Enshrined on this doctor's desk and encased in glass waere birth control devices that glared at me every time I sat across from her.

After one visit, my obstetrician said, in a teasing tone, "Would you quit bringing your beautiful children to my office. Someone always wants a reversal (from tubal ligation) after you leave."

A similar comment about our kids came from a priest who said, "You and Michael are nice looking but you make absolutely beautiful babies!"

Pregnant with my fourth child, I came for a scheduled appointment even though labour had begun. I preferred to see her right away rather than wait for her at the hospital because I wanted to go home after visiting her office and put everything in order and arrange childcare.

Apparently babies are born faster, after a few pregnacies. I was not expecting my doctor's reaction, "This baby is coming soon. You don't have time to travel all the way home. Use the phone in the office, get a hold of your husband and get someone to meet him with the kids in the hospital parking lot and you go straight to admitting ahead of him."

I walked into the waiting room, called my brother-in-law and explained the situation, laughing at my self as I apologised to him. A contraction hit, I breathed through the pain and then gathered all the kids together and left her office for the hospital.

An hour later she bustled into the delivery room and announced, "Well you sure impressed my entire waiting room! Everyone thinks you are super woman."

Two hours later, standing with assistance and enduring long contractions that were turning my baby completely around,  I was anything but super woman. I wailed , "I thought you said this delivery was going to be fast!"

It didn't help that seven or eight student nurses, obstetrical residents and medical students stood in a half circle around me, watching a woman give birth without drugs or an epidural, to her fourth child. (I was not trying to be super mom, natural  birth was better for delivery because I could work with my body and therefore prevented tearing and stitches. I could sit cross-legged on the bed right after and feel wonderful and much lighter.)

My fifth birth was even faster.  On Christmas Eve we gave the kids baths in the afternoon, a tortiere was baking in the oven almost  ready for an early dinner and I had just laid out dresses, white tights, ribbons for the girls  and outfits for the boys to wear to church when the contractions started coming hard and fast. In fact I barely could get my boots on.  Michael drove very quickly to the hospital. When I stepped into admitting, the lights were dim, Christmas lights were shining on the tree and strung along the walls and two relaxed nurses were leaning against the counter.

 "So ", one of the nurses calmly asked, "Is this your first?"
" No", I gasped, "My fifth."
"Your Fifth?", her head jerked up and her eyes popped open. "Sandra, get the elevator right now and then grab a wheelchair. I'll phone obstetrics so they can get ready for her!!!"
Michael followed the parade carrying David who refused to stay with our baffled neighbour; Dad assumed he had time to take him back home.
 The obstetrical  nurse told him, You aren't going anywhere if you want to see this baby's birth. Give him to the desk clerk and tell her to give him crackers."  By the way, David thoroughly enjoyed his adoring fans out at the nurses' station. My dress was literally yanked over my head, my tights whipped off, the doctor ran in to the delivery room and Emily was born 45 minutes later.
 And my slightly baffled doctor STILL showed up within 20 minutes on Christmas Eve!!

The Weirdest Thing about My Health

You would think having nine children would turn you into a frazzled wreck with a figure like the Pillsbury Dough Boy and a brain gone to mush. Not necessarily.

People look at me, their eyebrows shoot up, their mouths drop open and they sputter, "YOU had 9 children??"

This is because I am 5' 1" and weigh 104 lbs.  I was pregnant or nursing for 17 years without a break. I have been pregnant 10 times and I am healthy and happy and I have my BBB back. (That would be my Before Babies Body). I did not diet.

My husband and I half-heartedly followed natural family planning but I am a rare case; I have conceived 5 DAYS before ovulation. As my wonderful doctor once said,

"Ah yes, there was a woman in New Zealand who conceived 5 days before ovulation about two years ago. "

Once again, my body did not follow the rules. I also deliver 3 weeks early because my babies would be 9-10 lbs. if I didn't. Although I am tiny, my deliveries were all natural with out drugs or ripping and tearing. After short labours, I feel great with little pain. My doctor was my defender. For example

Our family doctor, who was also my obstetrician, had warned us to come into town immediately with my first labour pains. My eighth child was going to be born quickly. Dr. H met me outside the hospital, helped me out of our old mini-bus, into a wheelchair and literally ran past admitting with a huge grin on his face yelling,

 “Sorry. No time to admit her. I’ll do the paperwork for her after the delivery. See you later!”

He was still chuckling in the elevator over the shocked expression on the admitting clerk’s face. We moved slowly out of the elevator onto the obstetrical floor and Dr. H peered around the corner to check the nursing station. My doctor sighed happily,

“Good. The head nurse is on coffee break and no one is in the natural birthing room. Olga is going to have a fit when she sees your stats on the board and that you are in here!”

He laughed loudly this time as we darted into the softly lit room. Michael walked in a little later, holding 18- month old Katie with her sun suit on backwards, straps crossed across her chest. A nurse turned to me and said,

“Let me guess. Daddy dressed her.”

I smiled weakly in between labour pains because the nurse barely had time to check my vital signs before Anthony was born. Michael had pulled the curtain around my bed partly closed to block Katie’s view of the labour and delivery. Since she refused the cookie bribe offered by a nurse outside at the station, Katie was still with Michael. As soon as Anthony was born, my husband whipped the curtain open and passed Katie to a nurse so he could cut his son’s umbilical cord.

I am a happy anomaly.

Thwarted Again

On the BRAT Diet, Mary was starving

"You, my dear, don't seem to stand a chance."
 Mary was two years old when some sort of bug attacked her digestive system with a vengeance. My doctor ordered the BRAT Diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, toast) to remedy the lingering diarrhoea problem.

Poor Mary! It seemed like she was stuck eating the BRAT diet forever.
She looked so pitiful at meal times as she eyed her siblings plates and the turned back dejectedly to look at her bowl of rice.
Claire, Mary's partner in work and play, understood her little sister's frustration with this imposed spartan diet; so she decided to do something about it. Quick witted as always, Claire chose to carry out her plan when I was safely out of the kitchen

My Daughter initiated Mission Impossible while I was in a darkened bedroom, nursing our baby to sleep. With the bedroom door open , my kid radar turned on, alert to any sounds that my children might make. I heard disturbing noises. Up I got, slowly and carefully, not wanting to wake up Katie. I changed her position so that I could rock her and I made my way to the door and tiptoed to the kitchen .
My eyes widened in despair as I took in the scene and I whispered as loudly as I could,

"

"No!"
What did I see?
The bread box was open, the peanut butter jar lid was off. Wiry three-year old Claire was squatting like a tiny elf up on top of the counter, spreading a thick layer of the stuff on whole-wheat, stone ground bread. Mary stood below on the floor, both arms out stretched with her tiny hands opening and closing frantically. She was starving and could hardly wait to get hold of real food. The sound of my voice startled both of them. Claire glanced up briefly and finished her assignment even quicker; Mary glanced over her shoulder and then stuffed the sandwich into her mouth, hardly chewing at all before she swallowed and lunged for another big bite.
And me?

I did not want a cranky baby on my hands and she was not quite ready to lay down, so I was helpless. Thus, with great strategy and timing, Claire and Mary pulled off Mission Impossible.
I phoned my doctor's wonderful nurse, after this disaster bewailing my misfortune and this major set back to my plan of attack on intestinal bugs. Olga laughed,
"You, my dear, don't seem to stand a chance."

Blogging About Health Issues: ME??

my children are still alive and in good health!

I am a relatively green, 57 year old blogger who has barely one toe in the  21st century and is basically a computer illiterate. Unwittingly, I have  just agreed to blog for 30 days in a row on health issues. As I sit down to type my first post, reality suddenly clashes with my impulsiveness. My mind is blank, I hold my breath but I have decided to jump into the unknown with a grin and a sense of challenge.

On the other hand, I have raised nine children and managed to keep them all alive on a lively hobby farm. It is a miracle. Do you have any idea what can happen on a hobby farm swarming with nine kids who generously share germs with each other?

 I wish that I had access to the incredible mounds of health information on the Internet that I am just discovering this year. Many nights in the wee hours before dawn, I frantically flipped through out of date childcare books, encyclopedias, condensed family books on symptoms, treatment and diseases, hoping to find relief for a whimpering sick child. Most of the time it was to no avail and I was forced to wait till the morning to speak with my doctor's nurse or someone in the hospital's emergency room who was not allowed to give me any real advice.



melanie jean juneau

In the thirty odd years since the birth of my first baby, suddenly it is easy to access libraries, scientific studies, to question doctors, nurses or even other mothers and to get answers in seconds. The internet has changed society even more than the arrival of the Guetinburg Printing Press at the end of the middle ages. Suddenly "commoners" have access to health information that was only avaiable to researchers or health professionals only a decade ago.

On the positive side health consumers are more knowledgable, ask better questions and feel empowered to ask for a second opinion rather than take their doctor's opinion as a pronouncement from God.

However, this new found freedom has caused problems as others jump to conclusions, argue with their health care provider or refuse his advice because they have read some obsure article written by a self-proclaimed health guru. Not all advice is wise or ased on fact. Students have even sabatoged Wickepedia, presenting fiction as fact, just for the fun of confusing the ordinary reader.So it is with excitment tempered with common sense that I start this journey and begin to write a Health Blog on my family site as well as posting on the official Health site of Facebook. I hope you enjoy these posts as much as I will.I will gear most of them to women, children and of course families.

 A friend , Elaine Plummer, a registered nurse who writes on health issues on BlogHer has agreed to save my ignorant middle aged brain  and keep me up to date..  ElaineR.N., as she calls herself, has kindly agreed to let me quote her massive collection of articles as well as  interview her. Thank-you Elaine
http://www.blogher.com/member/elainern 

.  



The Liebster Award: Even more revelations???

First, I must thank Patricia Needham for nominating me for  the Leibster Award. She has a delightful blog called Life is Only What You Make It  http://lifeisonlywhatyoumakeit.blogspot.ca/2012/10/liebster-award.htm

-Rules- 

 Each person must post 11 things about themselves.

- Answer the questions that the nominator set for you, plus create 11 questions for the people you've nominated to answer.
- Choose 11 people and link them in your post.
- Go to their page and tell them.
- No tag backs

First- 11 things about me.

 I have already disclosed 15 things about me in a post called "Letting my Readers Get to Know Me" - so this will be short and add more to this fascinating list of revelations.

1. The only snack food I could devour by the fist full is Smart food, white cheddar popcorn.

2. My husband calls me Myers (my maiden name) because no one else does.It is his special term of endearment and that as sweet as he can manage.

3. I do love four seasons and if is going  to be cold, then let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

4. I have seriously been gearing up to learn how to drive a car by driving the lawn tractor. My mishaps are legendary and Michael only knows half of them. I good literally write a book about my tragic-comic episodes.
5.My grandaughter is PERFECT and another daughter will soon be a mum. I must learn to drive

6.I am 5'1" and 104 lbs. but often feel taller than people who prove to be inches taller than me. Any one my height seems sooo much shorter than  me. A fatal  flaw???

7. Since I have read the Classics, good Literature or spiritual stuff my whole life, I am now  pleased to announce that I am reading Romance novels and loving them.

8.In our old house my bedroom was an awful  purple-pink for 16 years. Guess what colour it was in the new house? Yep. Unbelievably  the very same awful shade..exactly!! Someone did not like me. My kids completely redid the bedroom for an anniversary gift. It is now a pale blue with white trim.

9.It has taken me 40 years as a purposeful Christian to finally start grasping the first basic steps- God loves me and surrendering complete control to that  Love, not just in my head or my adult mind but in my sub-concious, pre-verbal self. I am very resistant to paradigm shifts.

9.I can only stand golf, hockey, baseball, football... with a book or crocheting.

10.I love cats

11. My floor is my children's ceiling.

Now Patricia has 11 questions for me.

11 questions from Patricia 1.If you had one wish what would it be? World peace 2. If you were on the daytime soap General Hospital who would you be?Why? Never watched it 3. Where do you see yourself in five years from now? A brilliant writer, painter? 4.If you were reincarnated what animal would you come back as? Why? A cat. Very loveable 5. What would you change in your life? Nothing 6. If you were a bug what would you be? A butterfly because they are beautiful and a symbol of freedom 7. What do you want to be known for after you are dead and gone? 8. Do you cook in the nude? AH- Are you kidding,?  9. If money didn't matter where would you live? Somewhere warm IF I could take my whole extended family with me- otherwise I would stay right here. 10. What is your favorite memory in life so far? Times when the Light, joy love of God has broken through to my heart 11. What would you do if you were a pink hairy troll? Try to make friends   My questions for my award picks   1. How did you pick the title for your blog? 2.What do you write about, what is your theme? 3. Any subjects taboo? 4.Why do you write, any benefits? 5. Where do you post, on any directories? 6. What tips would you give a new blogger? 7.Where do most of your referrals come from? pinterist,stmbleupon,etc. 8.How would you describe your personality? 9. What makes you laugh? 10.What makes you cry? 11. Any dreams for the future?     My bloggers of note who will pass on this award to the wonderful blogs that I missed. no obligation to answer everything or fill in everything. Feel comfortable just to be yourself.   Rum Punch Drunk  http://rumpunchdrunk.blogspot.ca/. Ana The Imp  http://anatheimp.blogspot.ca/ Helena Fortisma  Channeling Hippocrates  http://www.channelinghippocrates.com/ nothingprofound  http://mydailyaphorism.blogspot.ca/ Darin L. Hammond  http://www.blogcatalog.com/user/DarinLHammond ABrainlessNod  http://www.blogcatalog.com/user/ABrainlessNod yuni 2009http://bodypainanddepressio… mulledvive http://mulledvine.blogspot.ca/ AnnieA  http://angiealaniz.com/  Stuff and Nonsense http://www.joelklebanoff.co…

Fashion Sense? Snort-She Was BORN With It!

Claire is on the left

One evening as I tried to rush out of the house, Claire glanced up from her homework, scrutinized me up and down disapprovingly and asked, very slowly, “Are you going out?”

Tiny, adorable, clever and independent Claire was also strong-willed, high maintenance and high-strung. My fifth child, Claire was a beautiful little package of contradictions who gave me strife and hilarious joy, sometimes at the very same time. Most arguments were about clothes. Although her fashion sense has developed into a wonderful gift now that she is in her mid twenties, at three and four-years old this “gift” was a pain.
Claire changed her clothes often throughout the day, from the age of two. Watching one of the few videos of our family, one of my older daughters pointed at the screen and laughed,
“Look at Claire. That is the third time she has changed clothes during this video!”
Sure enough, the pip squeak had another outfit on.
Claire was always aware of what she was wearing as well as those around her, which often led to disagreements about what she could and could not wear. Although she was a mature, articulate, fashion conscious three-year old, I was still concerned that Claire was too young to start four-year old kindergarten. When she stomped into the house after the first morning, ranting about a little girl who had worn a “jean skirt with a matching jean jacket”, I realized that it was the school which was not quite ready for Claire!
Alas, Claire's attention soon turned to her busy mother. I sometimes pulled on stockings, brushed my hair and applied a touch of make-up once I had climbed into our huge 13 seat mini-bus. I barely had enough time to make sure my dress was clean and I had brushed my teeth before I hustled everyone out the door. This changed when my daughters were in their late teens because they organized an all out assault to bring me into the 21st century. They took me to a hair salon for a cut and dye make-over, plucked my eyebrows, bought me clothes and make-up and forced me to throw out decade old comfy clothes. Claire has been the most persistent fashion advisor, however.
One evening as I tried to rush out of the house, Claire looked up from her homework, looked me up and down disapprovingly and asked, very slowly,
“Are you going out?”
I answered in the affirmative.
Claire continued, “And you’re wearing that?”
I nodded slowly. I knew the direction that this conversation was headed.
“I don’t think so”, she added, “Remember the navy pants that Melissa bought you for Christmas and the top that Rachel gave you on Mother’s Day? That would look really sharp with my light blue scarf and my little black belt. Could you pleeeease try it on?”
I sighed and trudged back upstairs because it was easier just to comply. I must admit that she was right. Of course, once I came down, Claire had to jump up to adjust the belt and re-tie the scarf but as a result of listening to my daughter’s fashion advice, Michael, my husband, was pleasantly surprised.
Really though, Claire is an expert at changing outfits. She has been practicing since she was two-years old.

Blogging Opens The Door To Writing

Actually I can hardly believe that I feel free  enough today to stand up and boldly yell,
” I love writing and I want to help others  start writing by encouraging them to blog.”

It took me years to finally decide to start writing again. I had taken a 30 year sabbatical since leaving university to raise 9 children  and I just couldn't seem to start.  Perhaps I could have started seven years ago when everyone was in school full time but realistically there was simply to much physical work involved in running a household for eleven people and helping with the farm animals and our large vegetable garden.

there is a lot of work on a hobby farm with a family of 11

Instead of writing, I told stories. The Irish side rose to the surface as I entertained family and friends with the latest exploits of my kids and the farm. Their escapades really were legendary because some situations can only occur  with the combination of 9 kids and a hobby farm. I  told the hilariously true stories of  our family in true Irish form, with wry wit and dramatic flourishes. As an oral story teller, I discovered that the tales rose up from deep within me because I had assimilated them and  made them my own. In fact, my creations were the products of my right brain; they were imaginative, intuitive and alive.  I did not know ahead of time exactly what I would say. I did not memorize a script with my logical left brain. No, the very act of speaking words aloud  was part of the creative process. The stories were alive, full of joy and humour and that spirit was infectious.

my adult offspring encouraged me to start writing again.

 For years,  my children  badgered me, “When are you going to start putting our stories down on paper?”
Acquaintances tentatively suggested,  “I really think you should start writing.”
Strangers at conferences challenged me, ”You are very articulate, you can think on your feet, have you  ever considered writing?”
Once four people approached me and said, “You are a natural. You are called to write. What is holding you back?

I froze inside when I sat down in front of a computer

However, whenever I closeted myself in a room to sit down and write, I froze. I considered writing to be a solitary craft but looking at a blank screen or talking into thin air was a sterile exercise in futility for me. I could not translate the same creative energy that I experienced telling a story verbally to the keyboard. My intuitive, imaginative side stayed buried and my logical intellect wrote boring drivel.



Somehow I heard about the existence of blogs, blogging sites and  blogging directories and I snapped to attention.  Suddenly, I was thinking up a username,  a title for a blog,  looking at templates and design and layout. All these activities loosened up my creativity while I sat typing

It was like an invisible barrier slowly melted, allowing my imagination to bubble up in a stream of written words that felt just as exhilarating as my oral tradition. I was  excited to start sharing written stories with other people, people who would read them,  respond, comment and give me feed back on what I had written.  Within weeks, I was no longer an island but part of a community of other writers who had the very same insecurities and problems as I did.

It was spring time in my writer’s soul

At first I felt like I had just stepped off a spaceship into an alien world, I did not know how to do anything. Reading directions on line was useless, I couldn't understand half the words they used, never mind how to follow their directions. I still struggle with uploading, downloading, back linking….Why just right now I managed to delete this article twice, that’s right twice before the article was even finished. Still as I write, there is no save button or draft button. I have no idea why not, either! Worse comes to worse, I will leave to identical sites open on my toolbar in case one gets deleted a third time!

Early on I read that bloggers, on the whole,  are supportive and unselfishly helpful, rejoicing in each others success and offering free guidance . Well, I discovered that  this statement is true. So if you are tentatively  wondering if you will fit in, fear not. If a 57 year-old, computer illiterate, web dummy and green writer can learn while having loads of fun, you can too. Trust me.

the dawn of a new era in my life

Quit Trying to Dismember Me!

                                                   Being the youngest can be a trial

What happens when you live with five older sisters?

It was a beautiful fall day. The sun was already warm Although the school bus was not scheduled to pull up for another twenty minutes, six-year old Rebecca, my youngest child, already had her lunch packed in her schoolbag, the bag on her back and her shoes were even tied. In grade one, she was so excited, she could hardly wait to climb up the steps and sit with her friend on the big school bus. She started pulling the heavy kitchen door open, hoping to sneak outside for some free time before school. As the door open, I looked up.
Before I could comment, Sarah, one of her many older sisters, whipped around and remarked,
"Rebecca, did you try to do your own hair again? The part's crooked. Come over here and I'll fix it for you."

Rebecca sighed. She had barely taken a few steps towards Sarah when Claire bustled into the kitchen, stopped and looked her up and down. Claire closed her eyes and shook her head at her little sister,
"Mum couldn't have picked out those clothes for you to wear. The top doesn't match your sweater. You'll have to change polo shirts or keep that sweater buttoned up all day."

Rebecca started the slow, awkward process of doing up the buttons.

Hearing all the commotion, Mary yelled from the bathroom,

"Hey Rebecca, you forgot to brush your teeth again!"

My youngest daughter suddenly threw her arms up into the air and huffed out in exasperation,

"All right, all right everybody. Quit trying to dismember me."

Temper Tantrum?

babies are completely dependant on their caregiver

My first thought is to pity the child, not the mother.

As a mother of nine kids, people often ask me,

"How on earth did you manage without any help? "
If I had to divulge one secret that I was fortunate enough to discover early in my mothering career, it would be,
"Never let them get tired and never let them get hungry."

There is a universal image stuck in our brains of a screaming toddler throwing a tantrum on the floor of a grocery store. Even the best parent becomes a helpless victim in these situations because nobody is as miserable and disagreeable as a hungry and irritable baby, toddler, or small child.

When I see a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, my first thought is,

"That poor kid, not that poor mother."

To mothers of little children: Do you want well-behaved kids?

"Never let them get hungry and never let them get tired."

Trust me, ignoring bedtime, naps or snacks and meals either to shop, talk on the phone or visit a friend simply is NOT worth the aggravation of dealing with upset little people, afterwards. When I ignored the warning signs that my kids were reaching their limits of endurance, I created either a clingy, irritating wimp or a screaming monster.Then nothing I did or said seemed to help the situation.

I might have looked like a self-sacrificing mother but I was merely acting out of a sense of self-preservation when I put my kids needs first. No time for resentment because happy and satisfied kids were worth every sacrifice I made. The peace was worth any compromise.

One niece once told me that many people had given her advice when she became a new mother but the only thing she always remembered and practiced was,

"Never let them get tired and never let them get hungry."