January 10th, 2013
This is not much of a post folks, it’s really just a few quick updates. First of all, I am adding a new section to The Know It All Mom site called The Know It All Yogini, chronicling my life as viewed from the yoga mat and my pending quest to complete yoga teacher training in the year 2013. Stay tuned. Yoga has a way of making me think differently…who knows what might come out! In the meantime, take a quick glance at http://theknowitallmom.com/just-breathe/ to read about some of my past yogic revelations.
Second, I am still accepting guest blog posts. If you have an article or an idea you’d like to publish, let’s chat. Contact me: email@example.com. I am nice. I want your stuff. I promise to be kind.
Finally, I would love your feedback. The Know It All Mom is being revamped, enhanced, updated, etc. Your suggestions are welcome. Let me know what you think.
August 31st, 2010
In the hazy remnants of the dark of night, in the final moments before dawn when even the birds have yet to open their eyes to sing the world awake, I jolt upright in bed. My husband is out-of-town and I’m alone, save for the two cats that slunk, with the stealth of cat burglars, to settle beside me during the night. They are disturbed by my sudden movement and, with haughty indignity and a disgusted chorus of “Meows”, they saunter away to rest without further disruption. I cannot. Something unsettling has been unearthed. Unacknowledged in the light of day, it was dredged from the shadows of my subconscious and presented to me in vivid, HD imagery, while I slept. Something difficult. Something inevitable. Something that my tense chest and weighted sighs indicate I would prefer remain concealed.
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August 17th, 2010
The call slithers towards me down the long corridor between where I sit and my daughter’s bedroom. It starts quietly, softly, a nighttime whisper hissed from the shadows of the retreating day.
Before I can respond, it comes again. “Mooommmmmmm…” A little louder this time.
I have just, not more than ten minutes ago, tucked my 12 year-old Little Miss in for the night and retreated to the sanctity of our living room. Enveloped by the golden hues of the streetlamp just outside our window, I’m ready to relax, a good book held in one hand, a soothing cup of Zen herbal tea in the other, and the companionable silence of my husband working on his lap top beside me while our two cats sleep the deep, deep sleep of lazy felines. Ah, the end of a long day.
But I know this call. I’ve heard it before. In the quiet, lonely darkness of her room her mind races. The challenges of twelve-year-old-life loom large when illuminated by moonlight and Little Miss needs to talk. It is confession time.
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May 26th, 2010
…or, Life Lessons from my 12 Year-Old
…or, Patience, Thy Name is Christie….NOT!
I am not a patient person. I know this about myself. Lately, I have been less patient than I care to admit. My husband is away every week; my work obligations are soaring; my Little Miss’ year-end school commitments and activities are peaking in a flurry of assignments, dress rehearsals, recitals and concerts; and a beloved family pet passed on after a sad week peppered with multiple trips to the vet. I am frazzled. Case in point: Me, at the end of last week, attempting to fulfill the school-day-mom routine I preform Monday through Friday, September through June, in order to get my Little Miss out the door on time.
It went like this:
Me: Please hurry.
LM: I’m hurrying.
5 minutes later…
Me: Are you ready? Are you hurrying?
LM: Yes Mom, I said I’m hurrying.
2 minutes later…
Me: Is your bed made? Have you finished breakfast? Where are your shoes? Are you watching the time? We only have 5 minutes!
LM: (With a heavy sigh for dramatic effect) No Mom. Not yet. On my feet. Yes. I know!
Me: (Not listening) You know you need to make your bed and we have to leave and you’re not hurrying!
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May 10th, 2010
I eat too many pistachios. This is the thought that repeats in my head as I stand at my kitchen counter, stomach rumbling, mouth salivating, hand immersed deep within my pistachio jar. Again: I eat too many pistachios. I look at the brimming handful of delectable, bright green nuts that I am attempting to extract through the narrow opening of the jar and swallow in anticipation, wondering if I will successfully convince myself that the mass encased within my fingers is equivalent to ten nuts, roughly, maybe eleven, close enough. Why ten? Didn’t you know? Ten is the maximum number of pistachios we are supposed to eat within a 24 hour period. I read this once in a book on diet and exercise, something related to Pilate’s if I’m not mistaken, and if I read it, it must be true.
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