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An Open Letter to All Mechanics from THIS Single Mom

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Hello. Hello.

Thank you in advance for your time. I do not speak mechanic, but I know you speak Single Mom, so please, let me go first.

I need you to understand two things: 1) I have no spare money, and 2) I have no spare time. I have multiple children at multiple ages in multiple schools and I work a full-time job, a part-time job, a full-time mom, and I try to have a semblance of a life outside of those things. This affects both my money and my time.

With that said: I have no spare money. I pull a small herd of imaginary rabbits our of a non-existent hat every month to do the barest of minimums. My grandmother referred to it as “robbing Peter to pay Paul”. I am often shifting and splitting and deferring fees and charges to make daily life possible. I buy everything on sale, I’ve been surviving on hand-me-downs for decades, and nothing I have is of my own design. My life is a patchwork, just like my car, and God ain’t through with us yet.

So, when it comes to the car, I need it to run. Smoothly. With heat and air. Car maintenance is hard for me. Do you know why? Because I have to prioritize and reprioritize—on-a-dime, every day. I have to manage the calendars of work, school, after-school, dinner, childcare, and my non-social life. Something always gets pushed and, in my world, it ends up being the car. I know, “if it was important”. But my car is my life. I cannot do anything without my car. I NEED MY CAR. Since I cannot add any hours to the day…you know the rest.

Can you come to fix the car, in the driveway, at night when I’m asleep and don’t necessarily need it? Probably best if you arrive with nachos, then I won’t have to ask to leave in the middle.  I can’t come to sit at your oily little shop with the very low chairs and weird bathroom. I cannot sit there for hours upon hours. I have no spare time. There’s a gaggle of old folks that have been here since dawn. They’re all at 2,501 miles and wanna make sure they get the oil changed posthaste!

I wrestle a bear every quarter to see if I have enough time to either a) get my hair cut, OR b) get a massage, OR c) get a pedicure. For me, it’s ONE of those things, once every three months, if I play my cards right, and Peter forgets to pay Paul.

I might have just enough dollars between my four prepaid debit cards to do the one thing that I knew had to be done on my car. I know there are other things. I KNOW THERE ARE OTHER THINGS THAT NEED TO BE ADDRESSED. But I need the one thing for that one amount or something similar for the same amount or less. Please, for the love of all things holy, don’t give me that “father knows best” look and then a dissertation about cars. I don’t know the last time any of it was done. Yes, it’s my car. Yes, I’m the only one who drives it. But I cannot answer your questions. Please just do the one thing.

Please don’t name parts. I don’t need to know. I’m sure I should know. I’m sure it would benefit me to know. You know what else would benefit me? Getting out of here 85 minutes ago with the oil changed. Do you want to know the names to the parts of the sewing machine? Or the ingredients in my chicken pot pie? Just gimme the damned thing already. I don’t wanna discuss it with you.


Can you just help me? Can’t we make a plan? I’ll fly by at 42mph every other 19th month and you can run some water over it or whatever other mechanic magic you do? I just cannot have another in-depth conversation with someone about how I’ve “got to do better” at this, that, or the other. I hear it from so many other places, on so many other levels. Can you please, just be nice to me?

I’m not saying to ignore safety or let me wander in the world with no brakes or no oil. But I can’t take that look of disgust and the down talk. Don’t belittle me or try to shame me. I know the car is in bad condition, but so am I. I’m not asking for things to be “free” or “free from cost”.

I’m asking for empathy and compassion when you speak to me.

I have always been told to be careful about mechanics and maybe that feeds into this as well. The same goes for having jewelry appraised or my grandmother’s Featherweight fixed. “Be careful who you trust with it”. I was told to go to a trusted mechanic. I went. He talked to me like I was an idiot. He rambled on and on about this and this and then this and this. I cannot deal with that at 5:07pm on a Thursday afternoon sir. You have used the time allotted to you. I gotta go, man!

I think there could be more grace extended to single moms for oil changes, flat tires, and other regular vehicle maintenance things. I’m not asking for things to be “free” or “free from cost”. I’m asking for honesty. It’s obvious I don’t know much about cars, but that shouldn’t be a signal to you to overcharge and abuse me. Honesty will get you a return customer.

Shame and disregard will get you an open letter.

I’m known to be an ostrich—and just bury my head in the sand about some things. And maybe that’s what I’m doing here. I do not know all the ins and outs about cars, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t need one and own one. I feel that car repair shops and single moms should be on some other plane of existence. No one needs as much help with their cars as single moms.

Can’t the Rotary Club dudes get together with the Elks fellas and use the parking lot of local shop to manage oil changes? Or “flat tire Friday” allowing you to have your tires looked at, aired up, and maybe plugged if needed. Just a full-service gas station for single moms. How would you know if she’s a single mom? LOOK AT HER CAR!

Food for thought.

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Unsatisfied Unconscious Overconsumers

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(Written in September of 2017)

Starbucks credited my online account with $10.00. Not randomly, mind you, but because I’d written an online review of my disappointing breakfast. I drink cold brew and eat petite vanilla scones as often as I can. I used to laugh and mock Bucks patrons; but the tables have turned and I’m a Bucks fan! Most of the time. This morning, my scones came sans their signature sweet vanilla bean icing. It made me sad. And for some reason there was a big ole smear of something chocolatey. I was disappointed, that’s not a lie. But was a complaint necessary?

I ate the scones, chocolate schmear and all. No love lost. But I felt compelled to complain, to tell them what they’d done wrong and why I was upset (upset? not really). I quickly received the auto “we will respond with real words from a live person as soon as we filter through the 1,479 other complaints that came through at the exact same cyber moment”. And shortly thereafter, I received the real words from the breathing person saying “blah blah here’s your money back”. They always add “I credited you, even though I know this wasn’t your reason for writing”.

You know as well as I do that complaints/advice/feedback are rampant. “Feedback” rules the internet. You can go anywhere and rate anything. Thumbs up, likes, ❤s, ⭐️s, 7,392 different individual emojis to choose from… the works. From over sharing your opinion about a scone to promoting your business or boasting about your kid’s accomplishments. We’ve been made to think our opinion matters. And that it matters a lot.

Why do we complain so much? Why couldn’t I have just chalked it up to humanness, human error, man-made pastries, a harried barista, a lazy pastry chef..? or any other of the list of reasons that a scone would be missing its frosting (they’re delicate). Yeah yeah, I know “constructive criticism” and “if I don’t tell them then how will they know”. But still I ask: what is the motivation behind our obsessive need to rank, rate, and comment on something/someone/some product? What really happens other than the soothing reverberating sounds of our own narcissism? Did the Bucks corporate complaint-taker really forward my words to the “store manager”? Would the lack of frosting be brought up in a meeting with the supplier? Or the barista? Or with anyone other than me and the girl who responded to me?

I ordered an adapter for my iPhone 7+ that allows me to listen while also charging the phone because as I am sure you are aware the latest iPhone skipped the standard been-on-every-phone-since-they-stopped-flipping-open-phone 3mm headphone jack in hopes to create a better water resistance model and promote their AirPods (for a solid $159). Why did I know that months before I got the phone? Because someone complained. They didn’t point it out or make it known, they COMPLAINED. They whined. They threw a tantrum and blared it out to the cyber-world (which is infinitely more expansive, complicated, and messier than the real world). Either way, I chose to get the phone anyway, and once I got it I remembered everything I’d read about the missing 3mm jack. It didn’t bother me until I tried to listen and charge. Then I was furious.

After a brief perusal of Amazon, I found an adapter I thought would be worthy. One of the factors required for me to purchase any online item is the QUANTITY of reviews, and the overall rating. But why? Why do I care if people review it? Because I want to know ahead of time if there are any problems. Sadly, I didn’t read anything about size of the plug and phone covers. The adapter I purchased does exactly what I need it to do: it allows me to listen and charge simultaneously. Except. Except I cannot use the adapter without taking my protective cover off. I KNOW, RIGHT!?! Why would I want to leave my brand new phone exposed? Because I want to charge the phone while listening. Why didn’t I just return it once I realized this issue? Because does anyone really return as much as they purchase?

There was a time when we as the consumer purchased things and if they didn’t fit, didn’t work as expected, or were faulty for any other reason, they were returned. Sometimes with the receipt, sometimes without (for the dreaded store credit). But now, who wants to return anything? I don’t even want to return toner cartridges that have a return postage sticker in the packaging. Why? I’m happy to sit down and write 150 words about a scone, or 75 about a phone charger adapter, but playing product Tetris and trying to shove items back into their original packaging and all that comes with is just a hassle. Why are we so happy to buy so much, but so lackadaisical about returning something that doesn’t meet our expectations? Shouldn’t the efforts of both be equal?

I believe that we don’t care to return it, because whether we wanted it or needed it wasn’t the reason we bought it. We bought it, ordered it, requested it, asked for it… we acquired it because we are consumers. Our chief concern is to simply obtain and horde. I think that’s how the idea of a “gift room” came about. Someone somewhere just bought too much and in hindsight said “oh, hey, I could give that away”. But honestly, it’s just an excuse to buy more things that are not needed or don’t fit, or aren’t the right color so we can “gift” them.

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Pain in My Migraine

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Do you get migraines? No, not “headaches”. Migraines? I do. I have had them for more than 30 years. The first set in while I was babysitting at the ripe age of twelve. I remember calling my grandmother to express my absolute paralyzation. I also remember being sensitive to light, to noise. Feeling nauseous. They’re pretty much the same these days. They have lasted more than two weeks on occasion.

The definition of a migraine is a full paragraph. There’s lots of “and”s, and “if this then that”. Merriam-Webster says:

“a condition marked by recurring moderate to severe headache with throbbing pain that usually lasts from four hours to three days, typically begins on one side of the head but may spread to both sides, is often accompanied by nausea, vomiting, and sensitivity to light or sound, and is sometimes preceded by an aura and is often followed by fatigue”

And, it is all of those things. My pain is generally present only on my left side. It is usually preceded by the nagging perpetual need to rub my neck, twist it, or bend it in some way that I can get relief. This is called an “aura”. As well, my left eye will sometimes twitch. If perceived and treated with medication, I have been able to ward off one or two incidences.

But  let me tell you about the miracle that is magnesium. After years of being seen by general practitioners, and absolutely denying the length and depth of my migraines, I was referred to Neurology. At my consultation, my doctor went over my entire migraine history. From the first migraine to the most recent. He wanted to know details about all of it. The appointment was more than an hour long, and though it seemed unnecessary to me at first, it turned out to be absolutely everything I needed.

I was prescribed over the counter magnesium tablets. “No more than 1,200mg per day” he said. I continued with a prescription preventative medication; to be taken prior to the onset of pain. I did not take a prescription to eliminate a migraine once it set in. I regret that decision right now, but more on that later. The magnesium has definitely helped to stave off the onset of the aura; which would lead to the pain. I can tell when I haven’t taken it, and I now have them in my medicine cabinet, purse, and my desk at work.

I also use an app called “Migraine Buddy” to monitor the specifics: frequency, length, strength, precursors, symptoms, and relief measures. I’ve been using it for years and have always been pleased with it. It assists when I have an appointment and have to recount my most recent aches and pains. They’ve added some new features over the years which make it indispensable.

Since then, I’ve had Botox injections in the base nerves of my neck that gives me such relief. As well, my providing Nurse Practitioner prescribed that I go to physical therapy. I thought it was a waste of time, prior to going. But on the very first visit, my physical therapist showed me the MANY ways that he could and would improve my migraine health. And he came through, by 1,000 percent.

The base of my neck feels that it is at constant odds with my entire skull. I am often twisting, turning, and tweaking my head and neck in the hopes of some relief. A small crack, creak, or popping that will signal that pressure has been released and I can claim six minutes of peace and comfort. I look for it constantly. It happens far less frequently. and for this reason, I was referred to Physical Therapy.

Physical therapy gave me the resources to heal myself. I was taught to stretch and strengthen the muscles along my neck, upper spine, and shoulders– and I eventually gained more mobility, ability, and less pain. Yes! Less. Pain. Less migraines. Less headaches. Less nausea. Less– just less. And I couldn’t be more pleased. But also, my part was to follow through with my homework. I needed a “foam roller”, TheraBands, and four-pound hand weights. I had to actually commit to doing MY PART, and promise to have my workstation ergonomically assessed and adjusted.

I’ve discovered a different brand and dosage of magnesium that is stellar to my preventative care routine. Followed by the blood pressure medication that has a “side effect” of lowering the strength and frequency of migraines. After that, the physical therapy and the focus on the muscles and tenseness that leads to migraines is more than enough to help me help myself.

If you suffer from migraines, I suggest these things (after you consult your medical professional): 1) take magnesium (500mg capsules, 1 each morning, and night), 2) use a preventative medication consistently(whether it’s an actual migraine preventative, or a medication that treats other symptoms, but can assist with the onset and prevention of migraines); and lastly 3) request physical therapy aimed at loosening the muscles in your neck, shoulders, and spine.

Sometimes the best medicine is to realize that what you’ve been doing and what you’ve “done all along” is likely not what you need anymore. It is always ok to ask for help, especially if you’re in pain. After too many years of brushing it off and “dealing with it” I got the exact brand of help that I needed.

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Dear, Mama

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Hello Darling,

I’d like to start by telling you that I think you are amazing, absolutely amazing. We have all been given the same size plate, but the biggest portion of your love and affection is given to your children. Without pause, you put their needs and wants above yours or anyone else’s. Your dedication to them is incomparable. God knew exactly what He was doing when He loaned you those little people to care for and nurture for Him.

There are going to be times, Mama, when you feel unsure. And there are going to be times when you don’t have a doubt in your mind. Not only is that part of parenting, but that’s also part of MOTHERing. But even during those times, you’re still amazing. Don’t minimize your parenting capabilities. You and your children are unique. Your style of caring, loving, guiding, and providing is a complicated algorithm that no one has the right to criticize. You keep doing what you’re doing!

As wonderful as every day can and will be, nothing in life is void of challenges. There will definitely be challenges. You will handle them with grace and tenacity. You will also handle them with stern words, a harsh tone, and a “bull in the China shop” mentality. Whatever you’re doing, and however you’re doing is EXACTLY perfect. If it’s what you need to do, want to do, think you should do– then do it.

I applaud you for taking a stand against disposable diapers and insisting on organic products. I celebrate you for breastfeeding your newborn and your toddler in public with no cover. I praise you for not allowing anyone near your child that has smoked a cigarette in the last decade. Whatever your choices may be, they are yours to make. You are an amazing mother. You are doing everything in your power to keep you and your baby alive, and that is wondrous.

Some days you will tackle the world and everything in it. To-do list, be damned! You woke up, got up, dressed up, and did everything you wanted to do. And the next day you don’t know if you ate, or showered, or if there’s anyone in the house besides you… and the baby. And that’s fine too. Every day is a new day. None of them are the same. And they don’t have to be. You don’t have to have a schedule. You don’t have to be in a club, in a group, in a chatroom, or a forum. You don’t have to share any of it. It’s your business.

I just want to reiterate that you are amazing. You don’t know me, but I was once thinking the same thoughts you’re thinking. When I was having those thoughts, I needed a letter like this. I needed all of the encouragement I could get because every second that I was alive, I was scared and doubting. I just knew I was doing it wrong. I knew we were doomed. There was hardly a time during any day that I felt certain, or right. But it all turned out better than I could have imagined.

Is it too soon to nurse? Did I nurse long enough? Is the swaddle too tight? Is he hot in there? I would want my feet out. I wonder if the baby wants to be swaddled but also wants his feet out? What was that noise? Was that from the baby? WHO’s IN HERE? I am so sleepy. I should sleep because the baby is asleep (like everyone says). Oh? He’s awake. Now I’ll never get any sleep! Is it too soon to nurse? Did I switch the laundry? We should go for a drive. Should I take the baby out in this weather? Is one sweater and two blankets enough? It’s 72 degrees outside. Will he be warm enough? Will he be hot? I should bring a change of clothes. Or two. I’ll bring two. Is he awake? Oh no, he fell back asleep. I should sleep. I’m hungry. Did I shower today? Or yesterday? OhMyGolfBalls!! Who is that in the mirror? Holy moly! When was the last time I showered? What was that noise? I’m hungry. Yawn. Zzzz!!

Heaven forbid the baby sneeze, cough, or have a fever! Lord love a duck. Release it all, Dear Mama. Try your best to go with the flow. When it’s time to eat, sleep, scream, or cry– you will. When the baby is hungry, or tired, or wet, or feverish, you’ll know, and you’ll know what to do. If you need help, tell someone. If you feel bogged down, overwhelmed, or deeply sad, tell someone. Trust yourself. You got this.

Tanisha Ware

Originally published on October 22, 2019 at SingleMomzRock

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God Provides

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As a working single mom, the ends don’t always meet. I have a full-time job, opened my own business as a virtual assistant, and volunteer with a local Christian single mom’s group. If I were dependent upon my income from my full-time job, I’d never make it. I think most parents are aware that child support cannot be depended on or used as a catch-all, because there are times when it can be delayed, or discontinued– without notice. As well, there are always unexpected situations that require money. They always require money. Thank the Lord, for His mercy and grace. Every month, my ends meet. Today, my cup overflows.

There is a Buddhist foundation that supplies a food pantry once a month. The announcement is made through our school district. I was intimidated at first, and felt a twinge of shame. I was convinced that others needed it more than me, but that’s not the point is it? Every month they service approximately 700 households with a healthy bounty of groceries. There is always something unexpected, like dragon fruit. Or fennel bulbs. But there is also a staple of pantry items that includes: white rice, pinto beans, dry pasta, and sauce. The most impressive part to me is that they always give fresh fruit and vegetables.

The first time we attended was about nearly two years ago. We went through the registration process and were seated in a high school auditorium. I was a little confused. But then we were welcomed with a song of love that was also translated into sign language. We were then advised that we could proceed to receive our donations. As we wound through the snake-like line, we began to see the bounty from which we would receive. All of the volunteers wore vests, and the majority of those handing out food items were teens or tweens. They were kind and spoke to everyone. I left there that day feeling so loved. They really gave from their heart and shared without expecting anything in return. They were courteous and helped elders and women take items to their cars. They all bowed and smiled and said thank you repeatedly.

Yesterday, we received goods from a separate and equally generous foundation. I believe they were also Buddhist. Let me explain how unprepared I was for what I would receive. I’ve been to food donations before, and I’ve always taken my own box-bags. There reusable bags, that fold up for storage and have a very sturdy bottom. Previously, all of our goods fit within two of those boxes. Yesterday, I used three and still had to ask for another box. I was completely overwhelmed by what was given to me. It filled in every gap within my cabinets and refrigerator. When I left, I sobbed a little. It’s just so amazing to be provided with $200+ dollars of food for my family.

Here is what we received yesterday: 12 fruity Cheerios and 8 rice Chex single serving boxes, 2kg of Masa, 6 organic Matcha Latte, 3 organic Roar electrolyte waters, 12 Kind bars, 2-10ct trail mix, 4 small bags Tostito rounds, 2 Kroger brand Wavy potato chips, 2 heads of romaine lettuce, 3 heads of iceberg lettuce, 2 large heads of cauliflower, 5 of the biggest carrots I’ve ever seen, no less than 18 gigantic apples, 2 fennel bulbs, approx 18 avocados, 24oz of pickles, 2 cans peeled tomatoes, 4-60 watt LED light bulbs, a 30-count jar of prenatal vitamins, a 5lb bag of frozen French fries, 3lb bag of white rice, 24 single serving whole grain frosted cereal, 8pk of Hansen’s sparkling lemon water, a dozen fresh roses. Oh, and two jars of “grains and fruit”. It seems like an overnight oats type thing. That’s nothin’ to shake a stick at.

At times, the single mom job is one that pulls from us every emotion, feeling, and strength. We make 4,278 decisions every day. Most of those decisions have to be weighed against the greater good and the long term health and wealth of the family. Our decisions affect us, our children, and their futures. At times, the sheer number of questions, answers, and decisions leads us to a place of hands-in-the-air ready to give up. It’s those days that we sob in the shower. Having to always make something from nothing is beyond nerve-racking. The decision to receive donations was hard, the first time. I have never thought it was hard since then. There’s nothing shameful about needing food, and there’s certainly nothing shameful about sharing and being generous. I am so grateful and we are beyond blessed.

Originally posted for Single Momz Rock

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Fair, Is A Concept

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I have three children. They are 12, and twin 5-year olds. We have recently entered the season of life called “that’s not fair”. It’s a terrible stage. It’s taxing, exhausting and I can sincerely state that I have said the words “because I said so”, more than any other mom in the history of fairness. At times, I can approach the situation as that teachable moment we all strive to find. At other times, it is surely the 74-ton straw that broke this camel’s back. How does a mother create and enforce a sense of fairness between children, siblings, and twins… when the only fairness they’ll ever see is the fairness they create?

Life isn’t fair. This is a fact that we all know, have shared, stated plainly, felt, and fell victim to. Whether it stemmed from our childhood, our collegiate career, or our workplace, we know what it feels like to stare into the complicated abyss that is fairness. A good friend of mine once explained that his sons fought over everything. What direction they were looking in, or the air they were breathing— was systematically the property of one child or the other. Looking in the same direction or breathing the same air was punishable by excessive whining, crying, and pointing by the injured party. But! When instructed to share a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; they became the ultimate teammates– nearly measuring the width of the sandwich to ensure that both sides received equality.

What is your earliest memory of fairness? Or lack thereof? Mine was access. Financial access, specifically. My childhood best friend was “well off” as my grandmother explained. And as the eldest of a prominent family, divorced in the early 80s, she was the first person I knew to experience the twos. Two houses, two sets of holidays, two parents vying for her attention and affections. She had two bedrooms, two tape players, two personal libraries. It was insane. No sensible parent should exert effort or finances to win their child’s affections, but the early 80s was not privy to this information. Estranged parents granted their children’s desires if for no reason than to ensure that their court ordered visitation was problem-free (for the most part).

As a child, growing up with my grandmother, this access hurt me. I felt slighted by the fact that I did not have the same access my friend had. I did not have two wallets to jump into. I had one home, one room, one set of everything. I never had the newest of anything. When I felt brave enough to breech this subject with my beloved guardian, she told me “well, sweetheart, life is not fair”. She went on to explain that while my friend had access to so many material things, no one could know her true heart’s desires. They were too busy trying to impress her and keep her; they didn’t have the time or energy to expend getting to know her, engaging her, supporting her. “Things don’t make a person happy; and life will only be fair if you make it that way”; my grandmother reminded me.

My contribution to the concept of worldwide fairness is to raise conscious, empathetic, loving children. Children that will reach out their hand to help another because it’s the right thing to do, not because they want something in return. My hope is that the environment that we call home is fair enough that they can see a difference between how I treat them and how others treat them. My desire is that when they look back on their childhood, on me, and on our home that their only reflections will be that of love. I know it’s not 100 percent realistic, but it’s a hope nonetheless.

Sometimes I buy one item, and request that they share. Most days we decide together on what I’ll make for dinner. Other times, I make their favorite meal items, all on the same day. I do what I can to show that the fairness comes from within. It is not for purchase, for leasing, or handed down. Fairness comes from doing what is right backed up with empathy and understanding. It’s sharing the fruits of your labor with someone, because you want them to know that joy. You want your fruit… to be their fair.

I want to teach my children that fairness is not about things, but the broader concept of just. It is my hope that they’ll see and know that a life guided by truth and reason will create an environment where justice and fairness can lead the way. Realizing that life is not fair; but choosing to commit to what is right is the only way I can model this behavior. I pray I’m doing it right.

Originally posted for Single Momz Rock

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Guava Jelly

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Today I started a side hustle. A factual profitable side hustle. I was not looking for said hustle, but I stumbled upon it just the same. And it’s working out quite nicely.

Do you remember my post about being a good neighbor? And not letting your fruit tree spawn only to leave the fruit untouched and let it fall to the ground in a stinky pile of leathery dried fruit and gnats?

My aunt’s neighbor didn’t read that post. They have a guava tree that hangs over the property line and drops full ripe yellow guava onto the driveway. Dozens of them. Are you familiar with guava? They are either yellow or green on the outside and they have either white or pink flesh. The seeds inside are small and hard. The skin is thin, malleable. Most people bite them the way you would an apricot or plum. And guavas stink. Like… stink.

The smell of guava could literally keep you away from them forever. But inside? The beauty in the brightness of opposing colors is phenomenal. And the taste is sweet but subtle. They’re a treat!

Anyway, I picked the guava. Once I got them home, I realized that I had somewhere around ten pounds worth. I decided to “do something” with them. Below is an image of my third haul.

To Pinterest I went. The most popular recipes call for “guava paste”, but there among the many captivating images of “guava cupcakes” and the most requested “pastelitos de guayaba”, I found guava jelly. I reviewed my cabinets for the necessities, had to make a trip to Walmart and then I set off to make jelly for the first time.

Wash fruit. Remove tops and bottoms. Quarter.

Cover fruit with water. Bring to a boil.

Drain the water. Purée the softened fruit. Pour through sieve to separate the seeds.

Return purée to pot. Add sugar, pectin, and lime juice. Bring to a boil.

Pour hot jelly into sterilized jars. Cover and seal by hand. Return full jars to pot filled with water. Bring water to a full boil with the full jars covered by the boiling water. Pop!

Once you hear the Pop! you can remove jars from the water and allow them to cool completely. Share.

I posted about my journey via my social media channels and it sparked quite a bit of interest. All of my tropical and islander friends inquired as to the exact day and time that the jelly would be complete and how quickly would it be available for pick up, drop off, or mailing. I was surprised. And quite honored.

Thus far, it’s met with rave reviews. I gave sizable jars to my benefactors, and a few small sample sizes to those closest to me. I’ve even received Zelle and PayPal payments. Rose was right (you were right, Rose), “all you need are some labels”. Well… here they are:

This could really turn into something awesome and sustainable. A few friends have extended their grasp and asked their friends and family for any surplus fruits. I would love to make more jellies and jams, and spreads and butters. I’ll keep you posted. 😉

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Exhausted End-of-the-Year Mom

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MAWM

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Under Control Mom

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I have $8 cash. My bank accounts are empty. Like less than $2 each, empty. My refrigerator is also empty. There’s a few things in there, but it’s far from where it should be, or where I’d like it to be. My gas tank is also empty. And I spent most of today ruminating in that emptiness, feeling defeated. But right now, at the end of this day my heart is so full.

My youngest is a sweaty sleeper. He protests going to bed as if he was being sentenced to walk the plank. But truth be told, he’s asleep within minutes of lights out. And he’s sweaty right after that. He’s a frequent pillow flipper and he often switches blankets according to the temperature in the house, the type of pajamas he’s wearing, and his mood. He just stirred from his sleep and I gave him a sip of water, flipped his pillow, and kissed his sweaty little forehead. “Are you ok?” I asked. He nodded yes.

I’ve checked on and tucked in the other two. My daughter (and middle child) is always last on the list to close her eyes. She’s a wild one. Sleeping in strange contorted positions and her mama-allotted stuffed friends lining the bed. My oldest is as tall as boys two years older than him. His arms and legs are long and act as weapons in the night. It’s like sleeping next to a daddy long leg spider. You’d swear there were multiple knees and elbows. But no, just two of each.

Isn’t it always when they’re sleeping that we admire them so? Little angels. But it’s not about my sleeping spawn that I’m sharing. The truth behind the title is that I am struggling. I am literally up to my ears in the stress of life, and I feel fine. I feel better than I have in a long time. I have doubt and worry and concern, but right this minute I have a warm safe home and my kids are sleeping soundly without a care in the world. I do have it under control.

Tomorrow will bring another day and a whole other round of unanswerable questions, and infinite scenarios. But I’m going to take a breath to enjoy this moment in time. I am going to mindfully revel in the fact that it could all fall apart so easily, but my duct taped faith is keeping it still and holding it together. Thank the Lord! 🙏🏽

My life and my home are chaotic. But that’s the nature of parenting. I don’t ever claim to have it all figured out, but I do know that there are really special moments tucked in around the chaos. And this is just one of those moments.

epiphanys, momming , , , , , 2 Comments

Nurturing A Woman

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I call my daughter LittleLady. Among an assortment of other nicknames including: LadyBug, Gidget, and GoGo. But she’s always been my LittleLady. I love to watch her navigate the world around her. She’s a fact-checker, list-keeper, and rule-enforcer. She is an actual factual Mini-Me (though she looks more like her father). I love her so completely. She’s beautiful, amazing, and absolutely terrifying. I can’t wait to see who she grows up to be.

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Margo was breech. She blocked the door, and ensured that between her and her twin brother, that she would be first. Even if it was only by two minutes. She ruled the womb, and she’s very much ruling the outside world. Her brother succumbs to her requests, demands, and brutality. He loves her and he always gives her what she wants. If he doesn’t hand it over, she’ll take it. At times I wonder if this is a good or bad quality? She knows what she wants, and she doesn’t wait for anyone to give her anything. On the same note, her love for her brother is incomparable. She’d take on a silver back gorilla for him. And she’d win.

Much like me, she is methodical. She keeps things in order. She has a naive compulsion about her that requires her to bring tidiness and neatness to her surrounding area.  She’s unable to close anything or put anything away without first verifying the correct order of the contents and returning the item to it’s rightful home. This is a great quality. She clearly got this from me.

She’s a no-nonsense gal. She has no time for your feelings, your small talk, or long answers full of adverbs or synonyms. She suffers “resting b*tch face”, in as sweet and innocently as a four year old girl can. For example: my mother was recently diagnosed with and began treatment for cancer. In the first hours after my being notified, I cried off and on. As we all sat upon the bed preparing to read, I cracked. My boys hugged me, and comforted me, and whispered “It’s ok mama”. But my daughter stared at me with that gorgeous STONE FACE and said “are you gonna read”? You can count on her to keep things on track.

She never forgets anything. She remembers when it happened, how it happened, where it happened, who was there, what they were wearing, what they said. She is the family journalist. I have email addresses established for all of  my kids and I write to them and send them pictures. I’ll give them the password when they are age appropriate and sufficiently responsible. I fear that she will respond to every email with her account of the events mentioned. I kinda look  forward to it. And I’m also scared.

I cannot explain why, but raising her seems infinitely more difficult and involved. Perhaps it’s because I’m a woman and I am raising a woman? Someone’s future wife and / or mother? I just know that outside of nearly passing out and vomiting when I was told “the first baby is a girl”, I felt shook. A sense of worry came over me that I know will never leave. All children are soft, sweet, and vulnerable. But my daughter seems infinitely so. I am realistic about the fact that this is somewhat unreasonable, but it’s how I feel.

Being a woman is hard work. I will not get into the mechanics and specifics of feminism in modern day America, or being a black woman in this here America, or having been a victim of a numerous amount of situations. Perhaps this is why having a daughter is so alarming. I feel like there won’t ever be enough time to tell her all of the things I want her to know and be cautious of.

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In 1998, Lenny Kravitz released the album “5”. The eleventh song is called “Little Girl’s Eyes”. It was always such a beautiful song to me. You could hear and feel the love and heartache he felt for his daughter. It would be fifteen years before I had my little girl and now that song has taken on a much more profound meaning. She’s petite and cute, with prefect curly hair and an affinity for pink and rainbows. She’s classic. Yet she’s unlike any girl you’ve ever known. And she knows all of that.

So beautiful and so wise
I can see the woman from within my child
When I look in my little girl’s eyes

 Margo watches me do just about everything. When I make breakfast, she approves (and protests) the menu. When I cook dinner, she’s my sous chef. When I bake, she’s my assistant. Whenever I spend more than three minutes looking in the mirror, she wants to know what’s going on. She surveys every thing with curiosity and seeks solid answers to her many questions. She demands prayer at meals and bedtime. I think she’s perfect.

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I pray I can be the kind of mother that she needs. And even more so, the one she wants. I hope that she’ll share with me and laugh with me — right through her teens (a mama can hope, can’t she?). I know there will be a day that she won’t need me to tell her not to put too much milk in her eggs, or too much flour on the counter when she rolls out her dough. But I hope that she’ll think about me and know how much I love her.

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