BlogHer and a for sale sign

Denise put out a tweet about a post Shash (say it shushy and breathy like Posh) did regarding BlogHer. It was brilliant in its "Let's-have-a-little-fun-but-offer-some-pearls-at-the-same-time theme." I pledged to lift the idea and use it here.

The difference with the Primer About Amanda for BlogHer is I am not technically going to BlogHer. I went last year and had an experience I'll never forget. It wasn't like Mrs. Flinger's, but it was incredible. This year I am flying to Chicago, but have no pass to the conference, though I did diligently sign up for the waitlist. I'll be shacking up in the conference hotel with the sure-to-be-divine Mommentator and the I-bet-she'll-be-awesomely-fiery Texas Red , this is to say, I've never met either of them.

I'll also be hanging with Mrs. Flinger, I say hanging with, but hanging on may be more appropriate, because while Shash alluded to a certain emotional sitch that might flow through the conference, I've got my own. See, as I sit here, I am waiting for the For Sale Sign to go up in our yard. It isn't a bad thing, we want to sell our house, are looking forward to the next chapter and transitioning from a brilliant first home to a home that will fit our family of five.

We did this three years ago and it was hard. I was pregnant, we had a kitten, a toddler and a growing business. Then we got an offer. Our buyer died. It was heartbreaking, feeling angry and disappointed and then slapping ourselves because, my god, the poor man died out of nowhere.

I am nervous about the reaction to the For Sale Sign and I am anxious about what may happen. This is compounded by heading to BlogHer without a baby or a pass. It leaves me feeling naked, uncertain and compelled beyond my normal 150% determination, to accomplish something.

This is a bit long, let me get right to it.

My house is for sale.
I am traveling without my last nursing baby.
I am unsure of what's ahead.
I want desperately for it all to coalesce into something that provides more for my family.
I am terrified* and exhilarated** and hopeful***.

My name is Amanda, what's yours?



*I hate flying.
**I may actually make friends.
***I have, and will continue to, bust my ass for my family's gain.


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It's Not a Competition

Ok, this is an assignment.

No, wait, maybe it's more of a request...

A plea?

A bewildered shot in the dark maybe.


What do you do when people insist on competing?

This is not about my family, our best friends, our partners or our co-workers, so exhale and read on ;)

Seriously, what do you do when you find yourself in a situation wherein people are measuring themselves against you and foisting this bit of information or that on you so as to assert some sort of dominance?

Do you lavish praise? Reassure them through your words that the focus is on them, that they are in fact the most amazing people of all? Because honestly, it exhausts me, I have what I want, am where I want to be and wish everyone well.

I know the answer is you suck it up and deal, just wondering what you've done.

Independence Way

It was a glorious, if occasionally blustery, day spent celebrating the fourth of July with our Pownal pals.



I felt bad for the ponies as the Newfies effortlessly dwarfed them.



The sound system was creative and mobile.



The hammock and impossibly lush surroundings made the day seem magazine perfect.



The wind was straight from the Kansas to Oz opener.




Fin embodied the way we all felt about the day.




Thanks to Deb, Rui and Harold for delighting us once again!

Four-titude

Briar.

My first and, as it turns out, a veritable emotional echo. I'm not saying she is not her own person, but withering look and dramatic gasp alive, this child has my most annoying quirks. We are in what I can only believe is a preparatory stage, flexing muscles and building scar tissue to prepare us for what will surely be a lively number of years of push and pull and scream and gasp.

I am at once amazed and exasperated by her growing attitudes, whether it's the militant adherence to rules, the know-it-all snobbery or the desperate depth of emotion. I try to honor, acknowledge and accept each one, but I fear I may be becoming toxic for the "likes" and the sighs.

"Like, mah-um, I need to like, do it like, how I need it."

Just when I think I'll have to banish the use of the word she swoops in and wipes Fin's runny nose, hugs her sister unprompted or simply says, "I just love you so much." She is amazing. Tonight we stood in front of the computer and searched for answers.

What do snails eat?

Where do kangaroos sleep?

What state is Paris in?

She understood for the first time that the computer is not just my work, it can be a gateway. She could have stayed all night. Bedtime brought new questions and new aspirations:

Does being a mom hurt?

Can I be more than one thing?

Will we always be us even if stuff changes?

I know that many days I feel like I am suffering the attitude of four, but tonight I realized I am witnessing the fortitude of four.



Special thanks to Mike for the beautiful photo.





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So you know:

If you listen, there's wisdom in them thar kids:

Avery's take:

"But super heroes don't wear underwear!"

"You gotta pee first so the poop can go in different water."

Briar wisdom:

"He's not died, he just can't hear very well."

"I want to get married twice: once to dad and once to another somebody."

Finley smarts:

"No."

"Ai sayuh I doe-wanna!"

Seanisms:

"I am wary of being too perfect."

So you see, surrounded by this kind of brilliance, I am the best kind of super hero*.






*An underwear wearing superhero.

It does not go without saying

Three kids. Girls. As different as they are the same.

Investigating.



Commanding.



Wooing.



Together.



Every which way.



Feisty.



Flirtatious.



Daring.




Darling.



Wondering.



Wondrous.



I snap—



And snap—



And snap some more—



I never quite get it, never truly capture this perfect chaos that I am living,
but I do get it. I've been growing a life.







It is bittersweet bliss and I am grateful every day for it.






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Well hello there, Ken

I talk a big talk about how hard Barbie has it in our house. I was puttering around the house the other day and happened past the computer. I did a double take as at first glance it appeared that Ken was doing something very different than one might expect from a decidedly anatomically-incomplete Ken doll.