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Little Miss Momma

live

All The Little Things

July 22, 2010

Completing yesterday’s daily challenge {compile a gratitude list}, proved to be just what I needed.
My list went on and on and on…
Now, I had planned on sharing this list with you–but let’s face it, you aren’t really in any mood to read my four page list.
So, I decided to focus my gratitude list on
All The Little Things
that I am grateful for.
I am grateful that my Lil guy still likes to cuddle with his Momma.
Yes, I realize that I am breaking all the rules from every parenting book ever written–but there is nothing I cherish more than 4 to 6 am–when Baby W wakes up in his crib ready for Mommy to scoop him up and bring him into the big bed for cuddle time. 
I mean, how can I possibly be expected to follow the parenting book rules when the Lil guy looks this smooshy and cuddly when he sleeps?
I am grateful for small gestures of affection that I notice in complete strangers.  And there is nothing cuter than two “old{er} people” still being romantic.
{No, they don’t know that I am sneaking a picture of their steamy romantic cuteness}
  
I am grateful for moments when nature subtly reminds me of an important life lesson.
Take this snail, for example.
Against all odds, he made his way {slowly-but-surely} more than half up this slide.  And he’s still moving forward–uphill!
I am grateful for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with BBQ chips.
They are yummy and they make me happy–enough said.
I am grateful for a baby who is eager to learn.
Yes, my one year old is already reading. He is such a genius that he can even read books upside down!  {Side note: Dear readers, I hope we are bff now so that you can sense my sarcastic tones all on your own *wink*}
I am grateful for a baby who craves the yumminess that life has to offer!
I am grateful for all 10 of this pudgy little toes–because they won’t be pudgy forever.
And now for just a few of the BIG things I am grateful for:
I am grateful for my faith.
I am grateful for what I know to be true.
I am grateful for the men and women who sacrifice for our freedoms.
I am especially grateful for the strength of the families they leave back home.  I too often take for granted that I get to spend every waking second with my hubby.  So I am grateful to you ladies, at home, while your hubbies are far far away–making my home a safe place to live.  I admire your strength.
And to those Mommies–who do the impossible:
I am more grateful to you thank you’ll ever know.
I am grateful for forgiveness.
Both the ability to forgive,
and the opportunity to be forgiven.
 And most important, I am grateful for my happy, healthy family.
I am grateful that we support one another,
that we love unconditionally,
that we want the best for each other,
that we sacrifice for one another,
that we have faith in one another,
and that we are happy together.
Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.
– Robert Brault
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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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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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•
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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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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
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•
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
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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 🙏
littlemissmomma
littlemissmomma
•
Follow
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
View on Instagram |
1/4
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.
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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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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
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4/4
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