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Little Miss Momma

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Dear Target

June 23, 2010
Dear Target,

Forget Disneyland! 
For me, you are the happiest place on Earth.

I can honestly say that visiting you is the one errand I actually look forward to.
The moment I exit my car I am able to easily locate one of your extra large and ultra comfy shopping carts complete with straps that actually wrap around Baby W’s tummy–and some of your carts even come equipped with a cup holder for my large diet coke–every Momma’s dream come true!
 

Then, I enter your air conditioned happy place, and I am immediately overcome with the excitement of rummaging through your glorious $1 section. After stocking up on all the $1 items that I surely want need {Frisbee, stickers, lip gloss and a headband}, I notice that you have conveniently placed antibacterial hand and cart wipes for me to wipe the swine flu off my deluxe shopping cart–thank you for being so thoughtful.

I have now worked up an appetite and a thirst from my dollar section rummaging, so before I get-my-shopping-on, I head over to your surprisingly fabulous food court where I order the usual–a large diet coke and yummy breadsticks with marinara sauce.
Mmmm good!

Baby W and I are now ready to hit the aisles and do some damage on our American Express {because you are awesome and accept AMEX}. I head out to stock up on the necessities–diet cherry pepsi, diapers, wipes, baby food, etc {yes, diet cherry pepsi was first on the list}.

I look at Baby W enjoying the last bite of his breadstick and I think to myself, “maybe, just maybe he will let me try on some clothes today”. After all, his belly is full and I have been dying to see how that new Converse denim wrap dress looks on.

I decide I would be pushing my luck if I attempted to take him into your dressing room with me, so I pull the momma-with-a-crazy-baby clothes try on method.
Translation: I try on the dress over the clothes I am already wearing.

And you know what Target–you totally get it. Because you have so graciously placed full length mirrors throughout you entire clothes section to spare me the difficulty of schlepping my child and overflowing cart to the changing room; and I love you all the more for this.

So today, I slipped the adorable denim dress over my head and tied it around my waste, all the while admiring its perfect fit in your full length mirror. Meanwhile, Baby W has decided trying on clothes isn’t that much fun for him and he is ready to exit the cart–which he begins to attempt.

Unable to escape your very secure cart straps, Baby W goes into full-blown temper tantrum mode, and I mean full blown! Arms are flailing, screams are ringing, drool is flying, legs are going stiff, breath is being held , face is going red, and I am beyond embarrassed.
{photo of another recent tantrum}

You see, today I was “that mom”. The Mom I used to see in Target and shake my head because she couldn’t get control over her child{ren}. That Mom who loses her cool because she is in the Target tantrum spotlight. That Mom whose voice starts to quiver in anger as she gives some irrational order to her child in an failed attempt to regain control. That Mom you see holding her child two feet off the ground from his armpit. Well, I became “that mom”–and I like to refer to her as Mommy Dearest. And today Mommy Dearest just wanted to try on the new Converse denim wrap dress in peace–was that too much to ask?!

But nooooo, instead Mommy Dearest had to leave the happiest place on Earth prematurely with a kicking and screaming 11 month old tucked under her arm–without ever hitting the fabulous shoe section, the amazing home decor isles and the vortex that is the clearance rack.

So until next time Target…
i love you

Your loyal customer,

ashley

p.s. Did I mention that I was stopped at the register because apparently I was still wearing the super cute dress over my clothes. I bought it.
___________________________________________________________
Disclaimer: Target did not pay me or contact me to tell you how fabulous I think they are.  However, Target–you have my number *wink*.
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Ashley Stock

I'm Ashley. Sometimes I craft, occasionally I cook, everyday I write, and I'm always Momma. This is my blog. I keep it real while still seeing the rainbows and butterflies in all of life's lessons.

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  • Lexie Loo & Dylan Too
    June 23, 2010

    Oh, how I love Target. I hate when my kids cut my shopping trip short!
    Better luck next time. That dress is super cute!

    Reply
  • Lexie Loo & Dylan Too
    June 23, 2010

    Oh, how I love Target. I hate when my kids cut my shopping trip short!
    Better luck next time. That dress is super cute!

    Reply
  • Jennie
    February 4, 2011

    Do I work at Target? Why yes, I do. Do I LOVE it there? Ummm, yep!! Seriously it is suuuuch an awesome job for a starving student such as I. So if you're ever meandering around the Tarjayy in Folsom, Cali, I'll be in the clothes section folding shirts. 😉

    Reply
  • Mulberry bags
    August 15, 2011

    Awsome, thanks!!!!! Received sooner than I expected!!

    Reply
  • tory burch shoes
    August 24, 2011

    The item arrived fairly quickly. But the quality of the bag was mediocre.

    Reply
  • Blog Tips Part Two: The techy behind the scenes stuff - learn - Little Miss Momma
    September 23, 2012

    […] Sponsors:ETSY ETSY ETSY–the happiest place on earth {second to Target of course}! Etsy is the best place to find new sponsors for your blog. The first step, is finding […]

    Reply
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    September 21, 2018

    This is really amazing. Great information about blog.

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    February 14, 2020

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    April 4, 2020

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I'm Ashley. Sometimes blogger. Everyday oiler. Cozy homemaker. Milestones. Meltdowns. Life lessons of a momma-in-training.

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The Keeper of Lost Things by @ruthmariehogan This book was gifted to me over a year ago but I didn’t pick it up until last week, and I’m so sad i waited this long to read it. For me, this was a story that captures the lifetime impact of true love, sudden loss, and finding gratitude and purpose in our disappointment and grief so that we may continue to find (and give) joy in the life that remains for us to be lived. 

It’s so rare that a novel finds a way to capture the depths of grief without leaving me feeling down and depressed—but somehow, the author finds this perfect balance by sharing characters who made the brave decision to rise above their pain and continue spreading light and love into the world. I caught myself in tears, nodding my head, laughing out loud, and using my phone flashlight to finish “just one more chapter” well past bedtime. Told from the past and the present, this novel is a love story, a story of redemption, unlikely friendships, and a bit of mystery all in one.

Back Cover: Anthony Peardew is the Keeper of Lost Things. Once a celebrated author of short stories, now in his twilight years, Anthony has sought consolation from the long-ago loss of his fiancée by lovingly rescuing lost objects—the things others have dropped, misplaced, or accidently left behind. Realizing that he’s running out of time, he leaves his beautiful house and all the collected treasures to his unsuspecting assistant, Laura, the one person he trusts to fulfil his legacy and reunite his lost objects with their rightful owners. 

With an unforgettable cast of characters that includes a teenage girl with special powers, a handsome gardener, a fussy ghost, and an array of irresistible four-legged friends, The Keeper of Lost Things is a heartwarming read about second chances, endless possibilities and joyful discoveries.

📚 swipe and tell me which one to read next please 🙏
The Keeper of Lost Things by @ruthmariehogan This book was gifted to me over a year ago but I didn’t pick it up until last week, and I’m so sad i waited this long to read it. For me, this was a story that captures the lifetime impact of true love, sudden loss, and finding gratitude and purpose in our disappointment and grief so that we may continue to find (and give) joy in the life that remains for us to be lived. 

It’s so rare that a novel finds a way to capture the depths of grief without leaving me feeling down and depressed—but somehow, the author finds this perfect balance by sharing characters who made the brave decision to rise above their pain and continue spreading light and love into the world. I caught myself in tears, nodding my head, laughing out loud, and using my phone flashlight to finish “just one more chapter” well past bedtime. Told from the past and the present, this novel is a love story, a story of redemption, unlikely friendships, and a bit of mystery all in one.

Back Cover: Anthony Peardew is the Keeper of Lost Things. Once a celebrated author of short stories, now in his twilight years, Anthony has sought consolation from the long-ago loss of his fiancée by lovingly rescuing lost objects—the things others have dropped, misplaced, or accidently left behind. Realizing that he’s running out of time, he leaves his beautiful house and all the collected treasures to his unsuspecting assistant, Laura, the one person he trusts to fulfil his legacy and reunite his lost objects with their rightful owners. 

With an unforgettable cast of characters that includes a teenage girl with special powers, a handsome gardener, a fussy ghost, and an array of irresistible four-legged friends, The Keeper of Lost Things is a heartwarming read about second chances, endless possibilities and joyful discoveries.

📚 swipe and tell me which one to read next please 🙏
littlemissmomma
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The Keeper of Lost Things by @ruthmariehogan This book was gifted to me over a year ago but I didn’t pick it up until last week, and I’m so sad i waited this long to read it. For me, this was a story that captures the lifetime impact of true love, sudden loss, and finding gratitude and purpose in our disappointment and grief so that we may continue to find (and give) joy in the life that remains for us to be lived. It’s so rare that a novel finds a way to capture the depths of grief without leaving me feeling down and depressed—but somehow, the author finds this perfect balance by sharing characters who made the brave decision to rise above their pain and continue spreading light and love into the world. I caught myself in tears, nodding my head, laughing out loud, and using my phone flashlight to finish “just one more chapter” well past bedtime. Told from the past and the present, this novel is a love story, a story of redemption, unlikely friendships, and a bit of mystery all in one. Back Cover: Anthony Peardew is the Keeper of Lost Things. Once a celebrated author of short stories, now in his twilight years, Anthony has sought consolation from the long-ago loss of his fiancée by lovingly rescuing lost objects—the things others have dropped, misplaced, or accidently left behind. Realizing that he’s running out of time, he leaves his beautiful house and all the collected treasures to his unsuspecting assistant, Laura, the one person he trusts to fulfil his legacy and reunite his lost objects with their rightful owners.  With an unforgettable cast of characters that includes a teenage girl with special powers, a handsome gardener, a fussy ghost, and an array of irresistible four-legged friends, The Keeper of Lost Things is a heartwarming read about second chances, endless possibilities and joyful discoveries. 📚 swipe and tell me which one to read next please 🙏
5 days ago
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Summer Gratitude List (what are you grateful for)☀️ I’m grateful for the trees and the how suddenly the cool lake water grounds my soul back into my body. I’m grateful for the way Zuma nestles into the crook of my knees when we sleep and that Maverick still gets overjoyed by the smell of chicken dinos (from when Stevie would sneak him hers). I’m grateful for the Blue Jay visits (especially the one with extra fuzzy feathers and mohawk) and the rare swarm of dragon flies that interrupted our desert at sundown in the village. I’m grateful for the way the air smells up here, surprise thunderstorms, the sound of the breeze whistling through the pine trees and nighttime’s complete darkness so we can see the stars more brightly. I’m grateful for fresh water on my body and sun on my back. I’m grateful for still waters and heart shaped rocks. I’m grateful for his sideways smile, nightly food rubs and morning waffles. I’m grateful for washable rugs and freshly painted baseboards. I’m grateful for their courage and humor and dimpled smiles. I’m grateful for hope. I’m grateful for summer.
littlemissmomma
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Summer Gratitude List (what are you grateful for)☀️ I’m grateful for the trees and the how suddenly the cool lake water grounds my soul back into my body. I’m grateful for the way Zuma nestles into the crook of my knees when we sleep and that Maverick still gets overjoyed by the smell of chicken dinos (from when Stevie would sneak him hers). I’m grateful for the Blue Jay visits (especially the one with extra fuzzy feathers and mohawk) and the rare swarm of dragon flies that interrupted our desert at sundown in the village. I’m grateful for the way the air smells up here, surprise thunderstorms, the sound of the breeze whistling through the pine trees and nighttime’s complete darkness so we can see the stars more brightly. I’m grateful for fresh water on my body and sun on my back. I’m grateful for still waters and heart shaped rocks. I’m grateful for his sideways smile, nightly food rubs and morning waffles. I’m grateful for washable rugs and freshly painted baseboards. I’m grateful for their courage and humor and dimpled smiles. I’m grateful for hope. I’m grateful for summer.
1 week ago
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2/4
Always in motion. That’s me. It’s one of my greatest assets AND my fatal flaw. I get a lot done. I’m generally efficient. I’m task oriented. I work hard and get results, in my home and in my work. But I also burn out. Get cranky and impatient. Sacrifice self care. Break promises to myself. And fall into the dangerous trap of measuring my worth and value against how “productive” I am. Left unchecked, these tendencies quickly become a vicious cycle of extreme productivity followed by a sudden halt due to burnout with a side of self-loathing that I’m not doing, making, writing, working, organizing enough. Do I know that my inherent self-worth is NOT in fact measured by how productive I am? Yes, i most certainly do! But for so many years I didn’t, and I’ve learned it can take a long time to retrain your brain to pause, breathe and spend more time on “being” rather than “doing”. Today I set an alarm for myself, indicating it was time to shut down the “productivity” portion of my brain and step into the “being present and grateful” portion of my brain. FYI, it will take constant effort for several minutes for me to not try and find some way to turn my “being present” time into an opportunity to “be productive”—but I’m trying SO hard and I’m getting better, for myself and my family. Scheduling this time helps me keep this promise to myself. Just me?🙈 #enneagram3
littlemissmomma
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Always in motion. That’s me. It’s one of my greatest assets AND my fatal flaw. I get a lot done. I’m generally efficient. I’m task oriented. I work hard and get results, in my home and in my work. But I also burn out. Get cranky and impatient. Sacrifice self care. Break promises to myself. And fall into the dangerous trap of measuring my worth and value against how “productive” I am. Left unchecked, these tendencies quickly become a vicious cycle of extreme productivity followed by a sudden halt due to burnout with a side of self-loathing that I’m not doing, making, writing, working, organizing enough. Do I know that my inherent self-worth is NOT in fact measured by how productive I am? Yes, i most certainly do! But for so many years I didn’t, and I’ve learned it can take a long time to retrain your brain to pause, breathe and spend more time on “being” rather than “doing”. Today I set an alarm for myself, indicating it was time to shut down the “productivity” portion of my brain and step into the “being present and grateful” portion of my brain. FYI, it will take constant effort for several minutes for me to not try and find some way to turn my “being present” time into an opportunity to “be productive”—but I’m trying SO hard and I’m getting better, for myself and my family. Scheduling this time helps me keep this promise to myself. Just me?🙈 #enneagram3
1 week ago
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3/4
Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head.  I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort.  I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others.  I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. 

And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). 

I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug.  I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root.  Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction.

Do I realize how strange this sounds?  Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder?  Yes, I do.  But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. 

Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together.  Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head.  I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort.  I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others.  I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. 

And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). 

I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug.  I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root.  Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction.

Do I realize how strange this sounds?  Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder?  Yes, I do.  But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. 

Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together.  Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head.  I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort.  I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others.  I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. 

And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). 

I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug.  I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root.  Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction.

Do I realize how strange this sounds?  Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder?  Yes, I do.  But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. 

Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together.  Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
littlemissmomma
littlemissmomma
•
Follow
Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head. I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort. I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others. I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug. I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root. Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction. Do I realize how strange this sounds? Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder? Yes, I do. But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together. Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
2 weeks ago
View on Instagram |
4/4
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The Keeper of Lost Things by @ruthmariehogan This book was gifted to me over a year ago but I didn’t pick it up until last week, and I’m so sad i waited this long to read it. For me, this was a story that captures the lifetime impact of true love, sudden loss, and finding gratitude and purpose in our disappointment and grief so that we may continue to find (and give) joy in the life that remains for us to be lived. 

It’s so rare that a novel finds a way to capture the depths of grief without leaving me feeling down and depressed—but somehow, the author finds this perfect balance by sharing characters who made the brave decision to rise above their pain and continue spreading light and love into the world. I caught myself in tears, nodding my head, laughing out loud, and using my phone flashlight to finish “just one more chapter” well past bedtime. Told from the past and the present, this novel is a love story, a story of redemption, unlikely friendships, and a bit of mystery all in one.

Back Cover: Anthony Peardew is the Keeper of Lost Things. Once a celebrated author of short stories, now in his twilight years, Anthony has sought consolation from the long-ago loss of his fiancée by lovingly rescuing lost objects—the things others have dropped, misplaced, or accidently left behind. Realizing that he’s running out of time, he leaves his beautiful house and all the collected treasures to his unsuspecting assistant, Laura, the one person he trusts to fulfil his legacy and reunite his lost objects with their rightful owners. 

With an unforgettable cast of characters that includes a teenage girl with special powers, a handsome gardener, a fussy ghost, and an array of irresistible four-legged friends, The Keeper of Lost Things is a heartwarming read about second chances, endless possibilities and joyful discoveries.

📚 swipe and tell me which one to read next please 🙏
The Keeper of Lost Things by @ruthmariehogan This book was gifted to me over a year ago but I didn’t pick it up until last week, and I’m so sad i waited this long to read it. For me, this was a story that captures the lifetime impact of true love, sudden loss, and finding gratitude and purpose in our disappointment and grief so that we may continue to find (and give) joy in the life that remains for us to be lived. 

It’s so rare that a novel finds a way to capture the depths of grief without leaving me feeling down and depressed—but somehow, the author finds this perfect balance by sharing characters who made the brave decision to rise above their pain and continue spreading light and love into the world. I caught myself in tears, nodding my head, laughing out loud, and using my phone flashlight to finish “just one more chapter” well past bedtime. Told from the past and the present, this novel is a love story, a story of redemption, unlikely friendships, and a bit of mystery all in one.

Back Cover: Anthony Peardew is the Keeper of Lost Things. Once a celebrated author of short stories, now in his twilight years, Anthony has sought consolation from the long-ago loss of his fiancée by lovingly rescuing lost objects—the things others have dropped, misplaced, or accidently left behind. Realizing that he’s running out of time, he leaves his beautiful house and all the collected treasures to his unsuspecting assistant, Laura, the one person he trusts to fulfil his legacy and reunite his lost objects with their rightful owners. 

With an unforgettable cast of characters that includes a teenage girl with special powers, a handsome gardener, a fussy ghost, and an array of irresistible four-legged friends, The Keeper of Lost Things is a heartwarming read about second chances, endless possibilities and joyful discoveries.

📚 swipe and tell me which one to read next please 🙏
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The Keeper of Lost Things by @ruthmariehogan This book was gifted to me over a year ago but I didn’t pick it up until last week, and I’m so sad i waited this long to read it. For me, this was a story that captures the lifetime impact of true love, sudden loss, and finding gratitude and purpose in our disappointment and grief so that we may continue to find (and give) joy in the life that remains for us to be lived. It’s so rare that a novel finds a way to capture the depths of grief without leaving me feeling down and depressed—but somehow, the author finds this perfect balance by sharing characters who made the brave decision to rise above their pain and continue spreading light and love into the world. I caught myself in tears, nodding my head, laughing out loud, and using my phone flashlight to finish “just one more chapter” well past bedtime. Told from the past and the present, this novel is a love story, a story of redemption, unlikely friendships, and a bit of mystery all in one. Back Cover: Anthony Peardew is the Keeper of Lost Things. Once a celebrated author of short stories, now in his twilight years, Anthony has sought consolation from the long-ago loss of his fiancée by lovingly rescuing lost objects—the things others have dropped, misplaced, or accidently left behind. Realizing that he’s running out of time, he leaves his beautiful house and all the collected treasures to his unsuspecting assistant, Laura, the one person he trusts to fulfil his legacy and reunite his lost objects with their rightful owners.  With an unforgettable cast of characters that includes a teenage girl with special powers, a handsome gardener, a fussy ghost, and an array of irresistible four-legged friends, The Keeper of Lost Things is a heartwarming read about second chances, endless possibilities and joyful discoveries. 📚 swipe and tell me which one to read next please 🙏
5 days ago
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Summer Gratitude List (what are you grateful for)☀️ I’m grateful for the trees and the how suddenly the cool lake water grounds my soul back into my body. I’m grateful for the way Zuma nestles into the crook of my knees when we sleep and that Maverick still gets overjoyed by the smell of chicken dinos (from when Stevie would sneak him hers). I’m grateful for the Blue Jay visits (especially the one with extra fuzzy feathers and mohawk) and the rare swarm of dragon flies that interrupted our desert at sundown in the village. I’m grateful for the way the air smells up here, surprise thunderstorms, the sound of the breeze whistling through the pine trees and nighttime’s complete darkness so we can see the stars more brightly. I’m grateful for fresh water on my body and sun on my back. I’m grateful for still waters and heart shaped rocks. I’m grateful for his sideways smile, nightly food rubs and morning waffles. I’m grateful for washable rugs and freshly painted baseboards. I’m grateful for their courage and humor and dimpled smiles. I’m grateful for hope. I’m grateful for summer.
littlemissmomma
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Summer Gratitude List (what are you grateful for)☀️ I’m grateful for the trees and the how suddenly the cool lake water grounds my soul back into my body. I’m grateful for the way Zuma nestles into the crook of my knees when we sleep and that Maverick still gets overjoyed by the smell of chicken dinos (from when Stevie would sneak him hers). I’m grateful for the Blue Jay visits (especially the one with extra fuzzy feathers and mohawk) and the rare swarm of dragon flies that interrupted our desert at sundown in the village. I’m grateful for the way the air smells up here, surprise thunderstorms, the sound of the breeze whistling through the pine trees and nighttime’s complete darkness so we can see the stars more brightly. I’m grateful for fresh water on my body and sun on my back. I’m grateful for still waters and heart shaped rocks. I’m grateful for his sideways smile, nightly food rubs and morning waffles. I’m grateful for washable rugs and freshly painted baseboards. I’m grateful for their courage and humor and dimpled smiles. I’m grateful for hope. I’m grateful for summer.
1 week ago
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2/4
Always in motion. That’s me. It’s one of my greatest assets AND my fatal flaw. I get a lot done. I’m generally efficient. I’m task oriented. I work hard and get results, in my home and in my work. But I also burn out. Get cranky and impatient. Sacrifice self care. Break promises to myself. And fall into the dangerous trap of measuring my worth and value against how “productive” I am. Left unchecked, these tendencies quickly become a vicious cycle of extreme productivity followed by a sudden halt due to burnout with a side of self-loathing that I’m not doing, making, writing, working, organizing enough. Do I know that my inherent self-worth is NOT in fact measured by how productive I am? Yes, i most certainly do! But for so many years I didn’t, and I’ve learned it can take a long time to retrain your brain to pause, breathe and spend more time on “being” rather than “doing”. Today I set an alarm for myself, indicating it was time to shut down the “productivity” portion of my brain and step into the “being present and grateful” portion of my brain. FYI, it will take constant effort for several minutes for me to not try and find some way to turn my “being present” time into an opportunity to “be productive”—but I’m trying SO hard and I’m getting better, for myself and my family. Scheduling this time helps me keep this promise to myself. Just me?🙈 #enneagram3
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Always in motion. That’s me. It’s one of my greatest assets AND my fatal flaw. I get a lot done. I’m generally efficient. I’m task oriented. I work hard and get results, in my home and in my work. But I also burn out. Get cranky and impatient. Sacrifice self care. Break promises to myself. And fall into the dangerous trap of measuring my worth and value against how “productive” I am. Left unchecked, these tendencies quickly become a vicious cycle of extreme productivity followed by a sudden halt due to burnout with a side of self-loathing that I’m not doing, making, writing, working, organizing enough. Do I know that my inherent self-worth is NOT in fact measured by how productive I am? Yes, i most certainly do! But for so many years I didn’t, and I’ve learned it can take a long time to retrain your brain to pause, breathe and spend more time on “being” rather than “doing”. Today I set an alarm for myself, indicating it was time to shut down the “productivity” portion of my brain and step into the “being present and grateful” portion of my brain. FYI, it will take constant effort for several minutes for me to not try and find some way to turn my “being present” time into an opportunity to “be productive”—but I’m trying SO hard and I’m getting better, for myself and my family. Scheduling this time helps me keep this promise to myself. Just me?🙈 #enneagram3
1 week ago
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3/4
Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head.  I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort.  I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others.  I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. 

And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). 

I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug.  I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root.  Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction.

Do I realize how strange this sounds?  Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder?  Yes, I do.  But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. 

Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together.  Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head.  I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort.  I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others.  I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. 

And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). 

I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug.  I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root.  Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction.

Do I realize how strange this sounds?  Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder?  Yes, I do.  But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. 

Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together.  Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head.  I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort.  I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others.  I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. 

And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). 

I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug.  I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root.  Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction.

Do I realize how strange this sounds?  Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder?  Yes, I do.  But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. 

Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together.  Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
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Even now, as I carefully consider where to begin, my hands reach back to the familiar and preferred pulling spot just in front of the crown of my head. I carefully feel each hair between my index finger and thumb, noting the texture and sensitivity on my scalp before selecting the perfect one to pull–the hair that will bring me the greatest surge of momentary release and comfort. I prefer the coarse hairs, the awkward, thicker strands that stand out from the others. I’ll often search through several pieces before settling on one that feels just right. And that’s what I do tonight, as I sit down to write this blog post on the very topic of my ongoing battle with #trichotillomania (the irresistible urge to pull out hair from one’s scalp, eyebrows, lashes or other areas of the body, despite trying to stop). I find a hair that feels just right, wrap it in the grip I have perfected over 30 years, and I give it a gentle tug. I know even before looking at it, I’ve pulled it out by the root. Perfect. Getting the root means that this hair will last me at least another 1-2 minutes of satisfaction. Do I realize how strange this sounds? Do I cringe as I type the bizarre truths of my disorder? Yes, I do. But I share them anyway, because I spent far too many years of my life feeling alone in my pulling, filled with shame surrounding the secret urges to pull out my hair by the root, over and over again. And ultimately, this shame and secrecy has only led to more pulling. It would be decades before I learned that surrendering to the truth of my disorder actually gave me the most control over it. Perhaps then, this is where I open my story…with those early shame-filled moments when I recognized that my behavior made me different from others and the lies I told myself about what being “different” must have certainly meant about my value–that I was bad, broken, weak, unworthy and I needed to hide these tragic truths of my character behind posturing and performing the role of a kid who had it all together. Yes, I think this feels like the best place to begin (visit my blog for full story, link in profile). www.littlemissmomma.com
2 weeks ago
View on Instagram |
4/4
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