Pies and musings

This past weekend I made my first Key Lime Pie. I don't want to claim any gourmet status from this. I went with the basic recipe thats all over the backs of boxes, lime juice bottles and sweetened condensed milk cans with a basic pre-made graham crust (I prefer gingersnap crust, but was short on time). But, I did make it my own by serving it with a fresh raspberry coulis made from frozen raspberries and grand marnier. Oh the sauce was as good as the pie! My husband is as much of a pie man as a cake man, but I lean more toward cakes. However, as we approach the southern summer humidity, perhaps I should tweak my recipe selection to include more pies. My mother has the best ice box pie I have ever had!

Ewan is now crawling along with Rowan. Rowan was an early crawler, and Ewan and early sitter but both are now sitting and crawling and a few weeks earlier than Lucas and Matilda did. I credit this to them having the larger playroom now which Lucas and Matilda didn't have... and the fact that "tummy time" isn't nearly as scary the second time around. Or, third and fourth time I should say.

A friend of mine was telling me a story about her mother than has quite effected me. I was telling her how often when people tell me things, I *want* to ask them to stop. For instance, if I know someone and think well of them, I really don't want to hear that five years ago they were a stripper or something. Plus, out of its original context, most past stories about people sound way worse than the circumstances may have been during that time the events occurred that became the source of the original tale. And besides, What does that have to do with them *now*. I guess alot of people relish being included in that sort of ugly gossip, but I don't. It usually makes me feel very sad for the persons past, and then worrying I will now judge them based upon their mistakes. Or repeat the story myself. Goodness knows we have all made mistakes and all of us surely have skeletons in our closets we would prefer to not have dragged out for company!

So my friend was telling me about her mother who passed away a few years ago. She said her mother didn't like hearing hurtful gossip and didn't like hearing what she described as "off color humor". She said when anyone would approach her and begin a conversation with "I heard the worst thing about _____!" her mom would step back, throw her hand up, and say "I don't want to hear it then." Or "I just heard this joke, its a little bit rude but..." her mom would interject "Then you might should share it with someone else".

This behavior was so shocking to me that I had to just sit on it for a week and think. WHY did this shock me? WHY does this sound so strange?

Because I was brought up to always be a polite listener and to not hurt other peoples feelings. I don't know how I became this way- I can't tell you if it was having a mother can be insensitive, or if it was from being told every single person was our "elder" who had earned our respect... all I know is that I have become an adult who listens to garbage they would rather not hear for the sake of avoiding conflict by asking the person to stop including me in their gossip.

And worse, I am involved in triangular communications all the time and those are so unhealthy. Do you know what this is? This is when person B and person C both have a dislike for person A. Person B calls Person C and tells them something Person A recently did. Now these two neither have perspective or unbiase toward A because they both dislike them. Person C engages in gossip and reaffirms the negative experience Person B had. Person B leaves the conversation with even more hostility than they began with toward Person A because they gossiped with a person who "dittos" their feelings.

Or, here is another example. Person B calls you and says "I think you should know what Person A has said, but its in confidence". Person C then hears something very ugly thats essentially hearsay but sworn to secrecy so they can neither confirm or deny the rumor about Person A. And when they are relating something Person A said about you, you are now burdened with the knowledge of a conversation that may have not been intended for you, and unable to confront Person A to ask. Then you grow to hate someone based on gossip you were asked to not confirm.

Its that last scenario thats make me want to pull my hair out. I really don't want to hear anything ugly being said about me, my husband, or my children. I don't want to hear ugly things that *might* be said about us regarding my decisions for our family. If Person A has a problem with me, they need to deal with me directly, and if they are just venting to Person B about me, I perfectly respect that and don't want to know!!!

What happened to discretion?

Both of the previous mentioned types of dysfunctional conversations rely on the third leg- person C- to function.

I initially thought I would just copy my friends mother and start throwing up my hand and asking that the information be relayed to someone else. I haven't been able to do this. Ugh. The lessons from my childhood on being a polite listener are ingrained too deeply.

My current idea has been to undermine the strength of the triangle by not being an active listener. Maybe I can't stop them by throwing up my hand, but perhaps if I become a person who it isn't fun to relay gossip to, it will still stop none the less. This process will be slower, but it may have the same result. And in the mean time I want to work on being more assertive. After all, the reason I don't want to throw my hand up and say "No, please don't tell me this" is because I worry I am hurting the other persons feelings. But, hearing this stuff hurts *my feelings*. Why should I sacrifice myself for the sake of GOSSIP?

Just something I am working on...

It is all hard

Twin Mother Haiku

Two souls in one womb
Three hearts beat together
One mother finds joy ~ Lizzie

I have been visiting twin blogs lately. About 30 in the past two weeks. I have found some delightful blogs- check out Katies Paper Haven in my links, she has time to raise twins and nurture her artistic talents, too! I was so impressed! I am glad to have found her.

I noticed a recurring theme in other twin blogs that just makes me uncomfortable. Not all of them mind you, but roughly half of them (if you are visiting my blog because I commented in your twin blog- I only commented on the blogs I LIKED, so yours isn't one I am venting about). And that is frequent vents about how much harder twin mothers have it than mothers of singletons. All sorts of little antidotes about singleton mommies who have time to diet, stay athletic, dress their babies in 'oh so cute' clothing, drive around in their small sports cars, show off their post pregnancy abs etc etc etc. Very snide remarks.

(I suppose you could take this one step further and mothers of high order multiples of quads and sextuplets could blog about twin moms and how they complain about how hard life is when they have less than half the newborns the mom of quads or sextuplets has.)

I have to say that I really can't tell that raising two sets of twins is any harder than other moms have it raising a larger family. I take that back- both my grandmothers had four daughters and spaced their birth order out far enough that their eldest daughters could help with the newest babies. That was savvy parenting, in my opinion! But in general, we seem to share the same challenges, joys, and lack of sleep and "me time".

Everyones parenting choices and the way they decide to build their families will have pros and cons. Everyone has luxuries and everyone has made concessions and sacrifices. Whenever I find myself leaning toward feeling jealousy of another mother, I try and put myself in their situation looking in on *me*. It is funny how from an outside perspective you can often see your own experiences anew. Reminds me of a friend of mine... when she learned I was having a second set of twins she said "Four babies and only having to be pregnant TWICE, oh wow are you lucky!". Before she said this I had been feeling overwhelmed and frightened. Hearing her naive perspective on pregnancy and childbirth made me laugh! She was right, I hate being pregnant! If I could have four healthy children but only endure pregnancy two times, I would choose twins.

Yesterday, when it was time for Lucas and Tilly to go down for their nap, we were walking down the hall together to wash our hands and faces. Both of them now exhibit a "happy run"- its the sweetest combination fast walk and skip. They look side to side the entire time, trying to see if there is anything they could grab in a hurry before nap. Lucas, in particular, keeps a pile of "sticks" he has collected from our front yard outside under the settee in the foyer. He often will stoop and try to grab one before jaunting toward the bathroom yelling "Stick! Stick!". I was watching them and it dawned on me how they have become the tiniest, sweetest, most charming people I know- my favorite people in the world. To be able to watch them blossom, to be able to experience their unique personalities and gifts...four very different children.

Its difficult for me to see such sweet dispositions and experience such joy and define my daily life as hard. I would prefer to say my life is rewarding.

Banana Cake and weekend outings alone

I wonder why I didn't order a large print of that one? Thats her "Franken-Tilly" look. She gives it all the time.

I awoke to a bowl of over ripened bananas on the kitchen counter. Where as other fruit over ripening is a sad frown upon our wastefulness, over ripe bananas mean only one thing. GRANDMAS BANANA CAKE! So, while all the babies were napping, I made a quick cake and now Lucas and Matilda are happily running around the playroom with their small slices clutched in sticky little hands. Its sort of like velcro- their fingers- only its flavored with jam and butter. :-)

Yesterday, I took a book to Starbucks and spent three hours reading. The book was "The Highland Fling Murders" by "Jessica Fletcher" (Donald Bain). Right now I depend upon reading to keep my 'little gray cells', as Poirot would say, from deterioration into baby wipe residue. I read every night from 9 until 10 p.m., then happily slumber until the entire baby routine begins around 7 a.m. the following morning. I haven't seen a television show in over a year that was geared toward anyone above the age of 3, I am completely behind on current events (for a brief moment over the weekend when I saw someone with a sports Jersey that said "OBAMA 08" I wondered if he played for the Atlanta Falcons before remembering the heated primary), I don't know a single song composer whose currently in the top 40 and have no clue whats playing at the box office. I am like a "time capsule" from 2006. People could interview me to find out what 2006 was like, since most everyone else has forgot it already. This isn't as bad as a friend of mine whose hairstyle is a time capsule from 1985. And the weird thing is she is too young to have actually worn that hair style in 1985, so its something she discovered years past the styles prime and adopted for herself anew.

But, I will not sacrifice my "me time" which for me is a murder mystery- favorites in the cozy theme- and a quiet corner. I have been reading Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, and Donald Bain of late. I found just such a comfy chair Saturday and spent three hours engrossed in a light fun book with a character I am attached to from television viewing (when I had that). I have been over my days of reading Vonnegut while in a state of perpetual mourning for years and rather enjoy being swept in something fun and only slightly spooky. Hey, if its not "Mrs. Wishy Washy" I consider it Pulitzer material.

So back to my comfy chair... apparently the comfy chairs in Starbucks are viewed as "couples only" chairs and no one would occupy the one next to me. Either that, or I smelled like baby formula. Not having to SHARE my corner meant I could completely curl up sideways in the chair and let my ankles drape over the arm of the opposite side. I had one entire alcove to myself. Every once in awhile a couple would walk over and stare at me for a moment, perhaps wondering how long I would be claiming ownership of the "comfy chair corner". I wanted to yell "Take your expensive coffee and get a room!". Hee, hee. Another young man sat beside me briefly with his laptop and kept eying me in a most conspicuous fashion and I suspect he wanted me to make eye contact so he could then ask how long I would be hoarding the mate to his comfy chair. Poor fella, I outlasted him, too. When his lunch companion arrived, he cocked his head toward me and rolled his eyes and said "Lets find a secluded corner" and they walked away discussing their upcoming power point lecture. Hmpfh! As if I would be insulted by his snide little stare and purposefully loud annoyment. On the contrary, it just made me appreciate my comfy chair all the more, so I sat my book on it and went and purchased a second over priced beverage to savour while staking my claim to it. I may ask if I can rent this chair every Sunday afternoon from 1 until 4 o'clock. What I drank was some sort of apple cider with caramel, whipped cream, and cinnamon that tasted like a warm apple pie and came in at 470 calories. *That* part, thank goodness, I didn't learn until at home or I may have suffered from an imagined sense of bloat at having downed it so quickly. Not knowing how sugary it was (in a caloric sense) just made the afternoon all the sweeter itself.

OK, Lucas and Tilly finished their cake and Matilda asked me if they could "Scribble". I am right here outside their playroom, so I can enjoy their company and catch up on my blog at the same time. I gave her several color safe markers and two sheets from their coloring book. And now the entire back wall of their playroom is decorated with multiple colors and I snapped a picture of her with a silly expression that says "Uh Oh!" that I will update this entry with sometime in the course of the week. :-) Lucas, on the other hand, now has two green feet.

Here is my grandmas cake, and a picture of my current favorite sleuth:

Maw Maw's Banana Cake

2/3 cup butter
1 1/2 cups sugar
2 eggs
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda ("sodie" as my grandma would say)
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup mashed bananas (we use FOUR)
1 teaspoon vanilla

As with all grandma cakes, there isn't any whipping the sugar and cream together, or sifting the flour. Just combine and pour into a 9 by 13 pan and bake it at 350 for about 25-30 minutes.

Bug races

(when do I find time to compose short stories???)


I don't guess there was a place alive as boring as Miss Nelson's Sundy school class.

First off, there was just three of us.

My brother, Billy, who is only 6 and its just not fair to a six year old little boy with an magination like Billy to give him Miss Nelson's class. I will splain that later. Then there's me and I am seven. And then there's Molly, and she is also seven but when push comes to shove she is the first to remind you that she was born in April not June so she is technically my senior and owed the respect that comes about with age. I think thats hogwash myself. She may be two months older but I was a preemie and s'possed to have been born 6 weeks earlier which would of made us almost twins.

Miss Nelson was a nice enough lady and 102 years old if she was a day. On count of only having three pupils in her Sundy school, she didn't work very hard on her lessons which is what made the class so trying on Billy and us. I guess we were lucky as the older classes all had hard lessons and some of the kids would pretend to have sore throats to miss them. But none of us had it as good as the nursery where they sang sweet songs like "Jesus loves me" and made crafts with popsicle sticks and glue and got a snack with juice. I loved the nursery and was sad when Billy and I had to graduate. I specially miss the snacks.

Miss Nelson started the same way every Sundy. She'd pull out her lesson book the church gave her and ask us to turn to page number something while she'd stare at her copy real hard like then change her mind and look up and say "What children your age need to know about is THE DEVIL!". She said this with a sternness in her eyes that used to scare us until we saw her look that same way at a church supper when the pastor got a second slice of cake before she and Mrs. Thompson had the first. He cut into line and everything which made for quite a scandal and all the ladies were unhappy and said so. Except for Mrs. Fuller who had made the cake and was flattered. I don't think the pastor ever did know he did something awful because he went and had a third slice.

But back to the devil. So Miss Nelson would lean forward and stare sternly at us and tell us that kids our age didn't hear enough about the devil anymore because parents didn't want to scare us and wanted us to know only about heaven but what we didn't know was that there was a devil and we would surely get to meet him real fast if we didn't mind our parents and behave like Jesus. Then she would cite some examples of devil behavior and tell us we should think about that and then she would look over at the clock and every single Sundy say the same xact thing. "OK, I am going to rest my eyes a bit before Sundy service while you children read your lesson and think about the things I have told you".

I told my daddy about her once and he said that it was a perfect example of the differences between baptists and methodists. Only I don't know what he meant and I am not sure which one Miss Nelson is.

And then she would fall asleep while she rested her eyes.

The first few times she did that we would just stare at one another and wonder when she would talk some more. But she never did. A long time would pass and then someone would come by and tap the door for us to go on upstairs for service and then she would say "Huh?" and rustle and jerk startled like and then rub her eyes and say "Time for prayer!" before headin up to church.

So while she was asleep we would play games. Sometimes the game was to see how many times we could count a certain word in the lesson book and whoever counted it the fastest and most right won. But this wasn't fair to Billy as he wasn't that good of a counter. Molly always won cause of being 6 weeks older than me. Even when she didn't win she said she did and there was no arguing with her as she would get loud and wake up Miss Nelson who would tell us more about the devil.

Then sometimes we had races. We raced bugs, frogs, and little cars when Billy had them in his pocket. I guess thats what I will tell you bout today.

The church basement was kinda damp after a rain and we would have these large bugs that were crunchy if you stepped on them. I am not sure what they are, but we called them "Water roaches" because they only came after a rain and they looked menacing like a roach would if he wasn't fraid of people.

We would catch a couple and then get up against the cement wall in a corner and put them down and then drawl a line with our lesson books about five feet away and wait and see whose water roach got there first. Billy was good at this game. He would always catch the fastest water roach because he wasn't scared to pick them straight up and he crunched the ones that tried to get away. I don't think I am a prissy girl like Molly is but I really don't like the sound of them crunching. And if you let Billy, he would just spend the rest of the class stomping them behind the old musty bookshelves just to see us squirm and make quiet faces. Its hard to squirm when you know it might wake up Miss Nelson. And you just couldn't let Billy's magination run wild like that because before too long he would be dancing and making faces to see how long we could hold our giggles in. Once he took his fingers and stood behind Miss Nelson making devil horns and Molly and I almost burst. My dad had popped in to tell us that we would be missing sermon cause my mom felt bad and saw Billy making fun of "poor ole Miss Nelson" and all the way home we got a speech on something called "reverence".

But I was talkin about the races.

It was one one of these races when Molly got herself all worked up. She was a "sight", my grandma would say. It had been a good rain the day before and Billy caught FIVE water roaches to race instead of only two or three. Molly never could get on her knees with us because she wore only good dresses to Sundy school on count of her being an only child. So she sat in a chair that she pulled to the corner.
Well, on this occasion one of the water roaches went crazy and climbed the leg of her chair and went right up one of Mollys better dresses that she said came from a "mail order catalog" which meant it was nicer than any of mine because mine came only from Sears which everyone has access to.

Molly just opened her mouth and screamed. She stood up in the chair with her fists clenched down by her sides and opened her mouth wide and screamed and screamed and her face turned as red as her hair and poor Miss Nelson fell out of her chair and took Molly by the arms and yelled "Whats a matter with you girl?" and shook her.

Molly was always one to think fast and she said "I got to thinkin about the devil and it gave me a fright, Miss Nelson". Molly could really pour on the syrup when she wanted to. This seemed to impress Miss Nelson and she patted Molly on the head real sweet and said it would be better for us if the Devil always gave us a fright and on that Sundy we got two lessons even before sermon started. After that she was partial to Molly and would ask Molly to sit beside her and acted as if she was the only person in the class who understood her lessons. I told my daddy about it one night and said that I was tempted to tell Miss Nelson that Molly had drawn a picture of her in the back of her lesson book with bug antenna on her head and wings but daddy asked me what Jesus would do which was his way of saying I better not.

And what made me mad about the whole incident is that it was the first Sundy that I was going to win a race and Billy crunched my bug before I could capture him for the next class.

The end.

Hello again!

I don't know how often I am going to be able to blog, but, I made my blog public again, and lets hope the previous novelty wore off and it can remain that way as I have missed sharing my pictures and family fun with my friends who do not have a blogger account to log in. Also, I must be a mild exhibitionist because its just not as much fun to blog from a closet. :-)

We had these professional portraits taken two weeks ago. Tilly and Lucas are now 20 months old, and Ewan and Rowan are 8 months. Having pictures taken with four *babies* is very hard. Tilly, for instance, is suspicious of people who try and make her laugh with Alien Teddy Bears and fans. Lucas wants to dance. Ewan is perfect and could sit and be photographed all day- if you are smiling at him, he loves you! And little Rowan is only photogenic until its time for a nap, and then he has little meltdowns and has to have his tiny thumb pried from his mouth.

Well- whats new? Tilly now talks in full sentences although they are sometimes silly and don't make much sense. Last night at dinner she said this "Dada Boogie banana look banana". Because Duane offered Lucas some banana on the table. She calls Lucas "Boogie".

Lucas knows his colors and is experimenting with pouting and whining. Ugh. THAT is very tedious. He has the face of an angel, yet he can snarl up his lips and furrow his brow and look like a troll- minus the purple hair. I have this horror now that its what *I* look like when I am angry since he and I have the same facial features and the propensity to make similar expressions. Its funny how your children can teach you about yourself as I now try to avoid furrowing when I am angry.

Ewan has been sitting since he was 5.5 months old, but has no desire to move. He likes to sit with some toys and a book and will entertain himself forever this way, looking up and smiling now and then for the effect of cuteness.

Rowan is crawling and all over the place but not really sitting exactly. He props himself up on his hip for balance and slowly is becoming more and more upright so thats his "sitting" I suppose. He also says "Mama", "Dada" and "Baba" and has since he was 6 months old, but he doesn't know what these objects are or that they necessarily have any special significance other than he is exercising his vocal cords.

The big twins consolidated their naps and take only one a day now, which means my formerly wonderful TWO 2 hour blocks each day while they were all sleeping at once now only consists of a one hour overlap between times one set goes down before the other set gets up. This I have not parted with in a ladylike fashion. For two weeks I protested and laid them all down at the same time as usual and insisted they all sleep or at least pretend to sleep. Lucas and Tilly would toss toys from their crib and jump up and down the first hour, then sleep half an hour then jump up and down some more and wake up grouchy and angry. But, I still did not immediately succumb to the loss of my precious 2 hour blocks of "me time"- which was used for exercising and a bath. Then, for the second nap time where I would get an ADDITIONAL two hour break to do laundry, Lucas and Matilda would have a party that would end with poopie diapers and paci tossing and screams of distress. Finally I decided to consolidate and Lucas and Tilly now take one 3 hour nap a day and wake up rested and happy and ready for their lunch. I no longer bathe. I just can't get it into the schedule. I normally collapse for an hour and sleep until I hear Ewan and Rowan waking up. If Duane gets home early I take a bath then, if not, I sleep in my own filth until time will afford it. :-P

Its time for everyone to get up- so more soon... I hope!

Freedom comes in a stroller!

This is what freedom looks like- a Berg design quad "runabout" stroller. It does not help us avoid attention when out (on the contrary this "bus" attracts it), but, it sure makes maneuvering with all four babies so much easier, and will allow me time outside the home with the kids on weekdays ALONE. Thing is so big it came with its own hitch to attach to the back of the vehicle. The only thing I didn't like was that the seats are hard plastic... we took apart the swing cushions (that alas, Lucas and Matilda have broken trying to pretend they are "babies" and climbing into) and used an extra car seat cushion, plus a high chair cushion to get them cozy.




Matilda has finally taken a liking to hair bows. Don't get me wrong- I still have to hold her down to clean her face and she still gets infuriated if we dare gesture toward her nose with a kleenex, but, after seeing me wear a matching hair bow she will wear hers, and more than that she enjoys how she looks in her hair bow and will go pose in front of her little fisher price vanity when wearing it. It matches the color of mac and cheese on her face. Ugh. Well, we will start small and work up, eh?



Took this silly picture of Lucas in the bathtub last week. Looks like a perfect candidate for a "Jones Soda" bottle, doesn't it? What a goofy little fella he is! He makes these goofy faces all the time.



I have been calling Rowan "Sinatra". I sure hope his eyes stay this shade of blue. Everyone remarks on his large blue eyes. His hair sticks straight up on his head and he sucks his thumb. But oh those big blues!



Ewan is such a ham. He just breaks into a big silly spit bubble smile anytime you speak to him.



I have more to add to this and will edit over the next couple days...

one singular sensation

I should be sleeping now.

Around 11:30 I began rousing from sleep. Often mothers of newborns will find that before waking you up, the infants cries will first penetrate your dreams. One moment you are in high school again with a friend you have forgotten, and the next asking your 11th grade guidance counselor who brought a crying infant to school. Tonight I was not even consciously aware of the content of my dream, just aware of a low moaning sound. I awoke and realized it wasn't from the baby monitor, and asked Duane what the sound was. He said he thought it was a dog barking. I rolled over onto my side to drift back to sleep and found the sound was interrupting my slumber further. We have four dogs and I am quite used to the random pattern of yapping dogs. Highs and lows, fast and sharp- whatever. This, however, was not random. One bark. A few seconds pass, and then one bark again. Exactly one long low bark every twenty seconds. I rolled to the other side. I could hear the sound more clearly now. Why aren't they putting that dog indoors? Not being able to sleep, I rolled onto my back and began to focus in on the sound and try to concentrate on what the dog was attempting to communicate. Cold? Pain? Anxiety? I asked Duane if the dog sounded like it was in pain. I envisioned a dog choking on a chain somewhere. A dog whose collar was cinched too tightly. An animal who was hungry and cold. And the dog continues to bark. Why won't he stop!!! I could no longer enjoy the comfort of my bedroom. I told Duane I had never heard an animal bark this way. Finally, I got up, I stood naked in our room and listened again. Aware of the rise and fall of my own chest and my breath distracting from the sound, I held my breath and really listened. Pain. I hear pain. I then dressed, took a flash light and went out of doors to investigate.

Outside in the brisk night air, I could hear all the sounds that had been muffled by our clapboard sided home. In the distance there were the haphazard random pattern of canines barking from all directions. The excited yapping I was accustomed to hearing. I listened for the injured dog. And there it was, back beyond our cul de sac and about a mile walking distance, the lone barker. When heard amongst his comrades, he no longer sounded pained, or isolated. I now wrapped my mind around a different image of the barker who had roused me from sleep- he was an older beagle wishing to participate in the conversation going on around him, and was exerting one long howl every few moments to alert the others to his existence. Satisfied that he was not ailing, and comforted by the voices of those around him, I listened a bit longer and then sighed and came back indoors eager to envelope myself back into my bed clothes and slumber again.

Only in the confines of our bedroom, even with the knowledge of this not being an ailing animal crying out for assistance, he still sounded horrid. Frustrated, I reached for ear plugs and decided that when I woke again in a few hours, I would remove them. I never sleep for long intervals when I use ear plugs- I know I can not rely on Duane to be alerted to infant cries as quickly as I can!

So, I stuffed in to ear plugs and rolled over to sleep. Snuggled down within the blankets and began to feel my body relax again. Only now there is total silence and I am struck by my own thoughts and without an animal or baby cry to interrupt me from them. I could "hear myself think". Again, I rolled over to my back and listened to the sounds around me- those words and feelings in my mind that I had been dodging.

My writing is sacred to me. I receive an email or a comment every so many entries suggesting I look into writing professionally. First, I read so many lovely blogs and do not believe that mine is better than those and indeed feel that probably many of them could be published. Second, I write first and foremost for myself. It is the latter that I wish to discuss.

In writing for myself, I do not have to concern myself with how my words will be received by others. I am an individual that in real life constantly worries over how *every little thing* I say is going to effect another person. I often feel that my conscience haunts me. When someone says something hurtful to me, I wince and will think pf a perfect reply, but maul it around over and over in my mind and obsess that having expressed this thought that the person would not like me any more. Worrying that my emotional state is robing me of the clarity of being rational. So, more often than not, others around me enjoy the benefit of expressing their opinions and I bite my tongue. Rather than trying to work on being more honest about my feelings, I have instead worked on surrounding myself with gentle souls who also do not express their feelings.

And when I do decide to express myself, those around me are shocked and surprised by my candor, often not recognizing that my words have been trapped for months in my mind tormenting me until that very moment.

I get no relief from this, having still the conscience to contend with at a later date.

Enter my writing. My writing gives me a therapeutic way to resolve my feelings. It also gives me a forum to express the positive things in my life which serve as a reminder to the inner demons that "Life is Good!".

I also write poetry and only a few know this and even fewer have read it.

And here, within my writing, I do not have to censor or concern myself with the conscience that protects those around me as well as limits my ability to work through problems. My writing is... me... naked. I do not hold back and I do not temper my words. I express myself at the most primal level- with enough metaphors and adjectives to fool you into believing me intellectual. I revel in the safety of being able to deal with my emotions and express myself in this medium, content that no one is being hurt and that I can arrive at a better emotional state through keyboard and be able to live happily in real life with the thought police.

My writing is emotionally honest where in person I am perhaps not.

Today my sil wrote me privately to tell me how my words have hurt her sister and herself. She said that it bothered her that I have not taken any responsibility for the pain my words have caused others. I do not believe she wrote this to me in anger.

And there it is. I am the beagle. When heard within the context of his other kindreds, his voice was poignant, expressive, and meaningful. One hound among many other gentle beasts enjoying the freedom of expressing himself. Yet, when found by accident alone from his fellow canines, his voice was pained and singular. Distracting and loud, with someone zeroing in on the sound out of context from its meaning and intent and interpreting it as they hear it.

And I personally feel like someone has been viewing me naked, and is now calling attention to my physical flaws. I feel completely vulnerable. I did not receive her email kindly when both my mother and Duane said it was well written and her trying to be nice to me. All I read was that she was judging my words and that she had also been to read my blog without my permission.

I feel as if something has been taken from me that I do not know how to get back and I am hurt.