Keeping Communication Lines Open With Tiffin Talk

 

photo courtesy of pixabay.com

 

When it comes to raising children, there is one thing that parents find themselves struggling with most throughout the years. In part because children are constantly developing and changing as they go through the different phases of growing up, but also because parents have a hard time understanding and relating to their children at each level along the way. I’m talking about communication, people.

Throughout the first year of life, parents dedicate a lot of time and energy to encouraging their babies to be vocal. We covet their first incoherent sounds as if the angelic sounding babbles and coos are the Holy Grail of speech- in all of its splendor and glory. Diligently, we strive to turn them into coherent speech, coaxing our little ones to repeat after us as we recite silly little nursery rhymes in a higher octave than usual. When they do, we rejoice and celebrate their accomplishments, in the same manner, we would if they had just won the Nobel Peace Prize or a Golden Globe award.

Then parents spend the next 17 years shushing them, ignoring them, or punishing them for speaking too loudly, out of turn, or with carelessness. We show irritation when their stories go on and on and on without a concrete point. We get annoyed by the endless questions to which we have no good answers. Life becomes chaotic and we no longer take the time to give their voices our full attention. It is a complete contradiction to that first year of life when we hung on every sound our child made with excitement and anticipation.

By the time they head off to school, parents have sent so many mixed signals regarding communication, despite the reassurances that they can tell us anything, at any time, children begin to censor themselves. The lines of communication between parent and child begin to breakdown. Besides… why would kids want to talk to their parents about stuff now that they have friends/classmates who genuinely want to listen to all they have to say?

We can ask them about their day, what they learned, who they played with, and what special activities they participated in until we’re blue in the face, but they have no desire to sit down and spill the beans like they did when they were 3 and never stopped talking. Instead, we get the “Fine.”, “Okay.”, “I don’t know.”, “Why do you want to know?”, and shoulder shrugging grunts in response before they saunter to their rooms to turn on their various techy devices and ask for a snack. It’s easier to pull their teeth out then it is to get them to open up and talk freely about anything that isn’t of special interest to them.

 

photo courtesy of pixabay.com

 

Enter Tiffin Talk.

This simple, easy to use, and age-appropriate program gets kids talking to us again. And not about this Youtube video or that new video game or whatever other technology-induced madness they’re wrapped up in these days- which we’re sick of hearing about and part of the reason they believe we lost interest in what they have to say. Tiffin Talk gets our kids to talk about THEM – their personal thoughts and beliefs about various topics which divulge who they are as an individual and their place in this world while they revel in some one on one time with their parents. From this program, both parent and child will be able to better understand one another and relate to each other’s experiences, bringing everyone closer together while re-opening the withering lines of communication.

Sounds impossible, I know. But it works. I tried it with my own brood of hoodlums and was greatly surprised when it was successful in doing just what it says it will do. (post to come soon highlighting our personal experience using Tiffin Talk.)

So what and how does this program work exactly, you ask? It is simply a boxed set of what looks like your average, everyday Thank You cards that are divided into themes and separated by the number of weeks you’ve used the program. For example, our first month of cards were all about “Memories” and they were split into week 1, week 2, week 3, etc, and each week had cards labeled for Monday-Friday, giving you the weekend off.

 

a sample of what the Tiffin Talk program boxes and question cards look like

 

There are specific sets for every school-age group from kindergarten-high school so the questions are well-suited for each developmental stage. The older the child, the deeper the topics delve and more thought-provoking the questions are, challenging your child to use their brain without them realizing it. Just one card a day with one big question or a few smaller ones to answer that engages kids in a way our typical parental-need-to-know based questions do not- easy peasy. The best part is, no one will balk over sacrificing the five minutes it takes up. In fact, it may lead y’all to continue talking for even longer because your child WANTS to… and it’s not about the mindless technology hoopla that is pointless to us all!

Either way, those 5 minutes will be more productive and valuably spent by ‘turning the tech off and turning the talk on,’ than any other 5-minute window in which you have your child’s full attention. Guaranteed.

So, as a parent, if you really want to preserve the lines of communication with your child before it’s too late, Tiffin Talk is the way to go. Or the way to begin. Whichever doesn’t matter. The fact is, this is the most ingenious program for parent-child relationships that I have ever stumbled upon. The only one to make me eat my skepticism and want to tell the world about how awesomely wonderful it truly is. What are you waiting for now? Go over to their site now and see it for yourself! Tiffin Talk really does gets kids to turn the tech off and the talk on- with purpose and meaning!

 

photo courtesy of pixabay.com

 

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Having Girls, Becoming A Boy Mom

All I ever wanted to be when I grew up was a mother.

That is exactly what I told my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Lacy – I was going to grow up to be the mom of six kids; three of my own and three adopted.

So when the time came and I became pregnant with my first child, I didn’t care what the sex of my baby turned out to be. I was happy just to be having a baby.

He turned out to be a son.

PICTURE PERFECT FAMILY

Not even six months later, I got pregnant again. Since I had already bore a son, I thought it HAD to be a girl this time. Nothing else was a conceivable notion to be toyed with, even momentarily. A girl would make my little family picture perfect complete.

The first twenty weeks seemed to take forever to pass by, as I grew more and more excited by the day.

When the day of my ultrasound finally came, I was certain that everything in my future would be pink and purple, paisley and floral-patterned. Princesses, ballerinas, ribbons, and tulle would rule my world.

Having a little girl was all I could focus on; my heart was set on having a daughter.

To continue reading, click here…

This post was published on https://www.wisdom.ninja

5 Ways My Kids Fail (Miserably) At Getting Out Of School- UYW March

If you have school-aged kids, this will all make perfect sense. If you don’t, please take notes – this will be on the test one day, before you know it. Best prepare yourself for it, now…

At some point, even your most genius-level teacher’s pet will want a day off school. With four kids, I’ve seen many a tricks tried to get permission granted to skip class for the day. Here are five of the more humorous and creative attempts they have made in their efforts to skip out on the education they take for granted, and my counter-attack strategy for each.

1. Faker, Faker, Belly-Acher – Last night, you put a healthy, happy, giggling child to bed who was walking and talking with no issue. This morning, you have a kiddo walking like a constipated pregnant woman carrying triplets, ooohing and ahhhing with moans as they rub their invisible baby bump. Imaginatively, they have put to good use the fake burping talent your Sunday fun days have been spent supervising the rehearsal of. This sound is supposed to prove how nauseating they feel, scaring you into believing they could retch at any given moment. They won’t, though. Suggest to their sibling that you were planning to serve cupcakes for breakfast and watch your full of baloney child beeline for the table; as if the tummy troubles were merely a figment of your imagination, not their own. Miraculous powers those subliminal cupcakes have…

2.  Who You Gonna Call? Maybe The Ghostbusters.-  Whenever Halloween is in season, one of my kids are bound to try this one again. Like I am not going to remember all the prior years’ hilariously failed attempts. As always, someone’s costume will require face painting of some kind. Knowing my arts and craft skills are minimal, we must do a trial run beforehand so I can get an idea of how bad I’m going to screw up this All Hallows Eve affair. Sometimes, this also coincides with a costume party, trunk-or-treat event, or haunted house fiasco which keeps us out long past our routine bedtime. And sometimes, when that happens, I’m too worn out and angrivated to take the effort and make sure everyone is washed up completely. Next morning, whichever child will claim their abnormally pale skin is really a sign of their imminent death and need to avoid school, than their mother’s laziness. The only call-in I’m going you place is to the Ghostbusters – if my children are THAT pale, they’re likely already long since dead. And they’re NOT gonna haunt me, either. Really. I had no choice in the matter when they were living….

3. Calculated Accrued Sick Time- Yes. That means exactly what you think it means. My oldest child has kept record of his sibling’s taken sick days and believes in The Law Of Relative Fairness. Meaning: everyone should be allotted the same amount of time off, so based on however many days the kid who’s been sick most often has accrued to the day in question, the others should be able to use theirs as they wish. He has yet to realize what an unfair world this really is; what, with all the participation trophies they’ve gathered from everyone’s a winner activities thus far, it’s really a no-brainer to him. I have yet to accept this proposed theory, but he still keeps trying. When he does, I remind him of the Fall-Winter-Spring cleaning I had planned to undertake and how much of a help he will be since he’s not actually sick. By the time I am done divvying up the list, he’s dressed and ready to go.

4. Dazed and Confused: Elementary Edition- “But, Moooom! I didn’t know we had school today. I forgot. How am I supposed to remember these things? I didn’t know it was a school day. So I didn’t sleep good because I thought it was the weekend. And I’m so tired. And you don’t want me falling asleep at school, do you? If I had known, I would’ve stayed asleep the whole night. But I didn’t. I just can’t go today.” My dear child. Dear, dear child. I was not born yesterday. When you asked why you had to take that shower, the one you so loudly protested until my very last nerve almost frayed, I told you, “because, it’s a school night.” You would make a wonderfully bewildered actress on a soap opera one day, though. As frazzled and exhausted as you think you are on this morning, let’s just call today, “A Preview of Life As A Parent.” Then we can call it even for every morning the past eleven years, in which I have woken up feeling quite the same way; only wishing it had been a babysitting gig and you kids wouldn’t still be here, instead. Yet you still are, every damn day. Mommy loves you so much. Now go the fuck to school. Insert a ridiculously cheap bribe they can have after school, if they go, and, just like that *snap fingers*, my kid has fallen for the bait. Whiny kids usually just want attention and nothing says “you’re special” to little kids than a bribe they think is just for them.

5. Demonic Possession- Every so often, one of my children will wake up an aberration of their cheerful, silly, easy-going selves. This replica may look identical in physical traits, but their features are much darker. The pout is spiteful. The eyebrows deeply furrowed and the eyes narrowed into a glare of intense deviancy. Their body language is guarded, but engaged for combat. This evil twin is not budging from his refusal to get ready to go to school and there nothing short of an exorcism will change their minds. Time to pull out your omniscience – down the Super Mom cape and appeal to the Third Eye On The Back Of Our Head. I go about my business without engaging said child directly, yet I act so silly they can’t help but release the demon and summon my kiddo back to reality in a fit of giggles. Or else, I will put on my most ill-fitting bathing suit, pick up that evil child, and head for the car. They will reconsider quickly when they see I am dead serious about taking them to school in such manner. Works like a charm every time on my part-time demon spawn.

***Today’s post was a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All words must be used at least once and all the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.
I’m using:    humorous ~ pale ~ nauseating ~ accept ~ bewildered

They were submitted by: My Brain On Kids 

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:
Baking In A Tornado

The Bergham Chronicles 

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver                                     

Dinosaur Superhero Mommy

Southern Belle Charm

Not That Sarah Michelle

My Brain on Kids

Never Ever Give Up Hope

Someone Else’s Genius

Confessions of a part time working mom

Spatulas on Parade

Climaxed

 

By: Kristina Hammer, aka, The Angrivated Mom

NO Such Thing As The Perfect Toy, Husband Of Mine

Dear Hubby,

There is no such thing as the perfect toy. I need to get this through your stubborn head with Christmas coming at us quicker than the kids can spill something on a freshly washed floor.
There is NO such toy which not only will light up their faces brighter than Rudolph’s nose and keep them occupied and interested for minutes months years on end, but is durable enough to last for decades to come. A toy which becomes such a beloved favorite, they feel incomplete without it by their side. You can search high and low, research all the options across the world wide internet spaces, and ask for every non-parent’s input, and still! You won’t find it. It doesn’t exist, I promise you this.

Every year, our children will painstakingly craft their Christmas Lists full of magical items they’ve coveted all year long, entranced with every repetitively worn out commercial advertising such. And every year without fail, you will critique the children’s Christmas Lists with the scrutiny of Mr. Scrooge. Nothing will meet your arbitrary approval. Too cheap. Too boring. Too stupid. Too small. Too big. Not one item will meet your perfectionism criterion. You want to give them something conceivably unobtainable
which just doesn’t exist. I swear!

See, the thing is, my dearest husband, your perception of children and playthings is all askew. Romanticized even, if you will. Just as middle-aged women, like myself, still believe in the powerful magic of fairy tales and happily ever after’s, you readily believe in the essence of the movie trilogy, Toy Story. You revel in the implied happily ever after’s when the Toys-R-Us and Target commercials end. Advertisement is a farcical b!$@h! You, my love, fall for their spiel hook, line, and sinker. If you really sit back and take a long hard look at reality, you would see what I’m talking about. Sorry I’m not sorry for bursting your bubble.

Put your child in front of the television and play nothing but toy commercials over and over again. They will say they want almost everything regardless of gender, age range, capabilities, or skill level involved. The word “favorite” does not hold true to definition in the minds of children everywhere. It is merely an exclamation of love when referring to anything they seemingly like right then and there. And everything can change in the blink of an eye. No different than watching a butterfly or bumblebee in a wildflower field flit from flower to flower, testing each one with just a sip. They are sampling the nectar from all but stopping, though only momentarily still, to drink from a very select few. Yet there is nothing obviously special or different about any of those chosen blossoms which would determine which flowers will enamor the most attention from those sweet sampling insects.

Haven’t you paid any attention to what your children do all day, anyhow? I, mean, c’mon now… get with the program already! All those toys they already own, they were all expected to be “the one” at some point or another, as far as you were concerned. Sure, they were absolutely thrilled… ecstatic… over-the-moon… with joy when they received each one, but not one of them was coveted as you had hoped for. They will all be deemed the “favorite” in turn for a few hours, days, or weeks, most gone back to from time to time, some more often than others.

In the end, every last toy will lose the splendor it once held, lost in the bottom of the toy box as they move on to the next one. Like the real story hidden inside the fairy tale of cherished toys a child will never let go of that is Toy Story. That very well may happen with a lovey/blankie/stuffed something or another, but never with a plaything. For Pete’s sake, children don’t even limit items to use for entertainment purposes to the conventional toy definition- cardboard boxes, packing materials, empty bottles, string, the contents of the refrigerator, tampons, dirt, entire rolls of tape, toothpaste… Moms, you know exactly what I’m talking about here! Kids will play with anything; there are no limitations, boundaries, or protocol to follow in determining what can become a toy.

It seems to me, my love, in all this hoopla over the perfect toy, you have forgotten who and what the toy is for. Your child and Christmas is what the toy is all about. Not your own selfish need for unrealistic perfectionism… because there is no such thing as perfect when it comes to raising children, either, you know. The gift is about the experience you are creating for the recipient. It is about bringing light and happiness through the magic of giving from the heart into this otherwise thoughtless world. You aren’t giving from the heart if the gift must meet your own expectations instead of those of the one receiving it.

By: Kristina Hammer, aka, The Angrivated Mom

Don’t Tell Me To Go Hug My Kids Tight, Because I Don’t Want To

What I am about to say probably won’t sit well with some of you. Some of you will even feel the need to immediately point out all the circumstances in which this could make me the worst person to ever walk this planet. (Ha! How I wish I would at least get rich selling out on everyone’s hatred of me after this!) Let me clear the air before we take this any farther-

I know! I know there’s others who would give their last breath for the opportunity. I know there’s others who long to know what it feels like at all. I know this could potentially be the very last time. None of those facts is relevant to the happenstance I’m delving into here. So, nice try, but I won’t be guilted or beguiled into dismissing my own, very valid feelings. With that being said….
 
Sometimes, I DO NOT WANT TO GO HUG MY BABIES TIGHT! Please don’t offer me those advising thoughts of comfort when I’m venting to you about how I’ve just had a really, particularly horrible, bad mood rising, kind of day. One which warrants a warning badge and implosion eminent disclaimer. I’m sorry, I’m not sorry.

Those four adoring, precious, and utterly beautiful, beast-like wild creatures capable of demonic level possession behaviors over anything and everything trivial are the last things I want to go hug.

No matter how deep the love one has for their children is rooted, no matter how far across the great divide one’s love stretches, and, no matter how long, or how short, the love between a mother and a child has existed, it is perfectly normal, and incredibly healthy, to need time, alone. Time alone to refresh the mind, body, and spirit. Especially, if you are a real, true-to-the-definition-of, introvert like myself. When I cannot make the time to do what’s necessary for my remaining sanity to stay intact, it’s easy for the kids glued to my nerves with the extra strength maternal superglue secreted the moment the cord was cut, to push me to the brink of self-implosion.

Chances are, those devilish imps, at the very least, just maybe…… slightly….. possibly…. probably… Okay! Okay! They are most definitely responsible for this Dolores Claiborne meets Freddy Krueger state of mind which I have found myself in a time or two or three dozen, over the course of motherhood. Days like these make me want to run away; far, far away, deep into the hills where I shall find a dark cave and live in hermit-like reclusiveness with only me, myself, and I, to live out the end of my days in peace and quiet!

These Blue Moon kind of days usually start off on an angrivated note. Life bears down on me with the same force exhibited due to the gravitational pull on a constipated elephant.

The kids will be extraordinarily ornery, and ready to battle to their inevitable groundment at the slightest inkling a No is about to be dropped from my mouth like the atomic bomb.

The boys, ages ten and eleven, will be at each other’s throats all day long, yearning for a taste of the other’s blood. Every time I turn around, one of them will be kicking, smacking, poking, prodding, or throwing something at his otherwise best friend, just because, only to be greatly offended when his punching bag punches back. My girls, ages 3½ and 7, will be doing their own feminine version of the sibling assault, complete with eardrum shattering shrieks, slamming doors, fingernail gouging, and hair-pulling. Putting all four hoodlums together with the expectation for them to share the air they breathe and enough space their personal bubbles interlace is like crossing some weird space/time barrier and finding your house right smack dab in the middle of battle during the Revolutionary War. You really do not want to go there.

During the course of this no-good, horribly rotten, wish-it-never-happened day, the youngest child will throw melodramatic tantrums over everything, anything, and nothing. Even when everything goes her way. In between her fits of toddler blasphemy, she’ll sneakily empty the refrigerator of all of the condiments, hide my wallet and car keys deep in the linen closet, and dump the entire contents of my bookcase, though her own, overflowing with much more durable children’s books, sits right beside it, to use as a makeshift hopscotch path. Her brothers will, in turn, choose to go on strike against The Motherhood Force. Refusing to budge from their beds until I begin implementing punishment by disconnecting the Wi-Fi, confiscating all their gadgets and chargers, and handing over the list of Attitude Adjusting Activities. Completing the entire list is required in order to earn back the stripped privileges. Undeterred by the war line drawn in unison against the rules and responsibility I stand for, however, they will continue opposition against the other. Refusing to fight on the same front, they lose sight of the main target, going back to trying to obliterate themselves into tenebrous oblivion, as they do. Meanwhile, my oldest of daughters will be going about doing what she does best: pot-stirring. Every chance she gets, she sticks her nose in business which isn’t hers, adding in her two cents whether it was asked for, or, not. She’s a master in provocation and perception, already, though she’s only just entering the second grade. Well, so she believes. The Motherhood Force knows better.

There’s no doubt to anyone who knows me, my kids are my entire world. For goodness sakes, I’m a sahm without a village, outside of my internet tribe, for any sort of support. It’s just me and my kiddos, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty five days a year. The fact of the matter is, I may never have experienced this I do not want to go hug my babies tight feeling necessary in order to write this, if my husband’s job allowed him to be home with his family in the evenings or to wake up with us in the mornings, instead of just going to bed for his “night”. Unfortunately, our life doesn’t fit the basic square mold, so it’s no wonder, my perspective doesn’t fit in one, either. It’s never my intention to reach this point. The after effects will linger in my brain for a few days like the poison from a bee’s stinger. It happens, though, and I’m not going to deny it or sugar coat it.

It is in this place, where I am so extremely exhausted mentally, it’s a painstaking chore to muddle through the day on autopilot, in which I reach this point and there’s no going back.

This, I do not want to look at those wickedly nefarious children, let alone hug them tight for even a brief second point.

My children will more than likely reciprocate those same sentiments towards me, just as well. Go ask them yourself the next time we’re having one of these “needs a do-over days”. If you can make it through the barricades they’ve built in their doorways to block the entry of anyone over four and a half feet tall- because, they do not want to be hugged tightly, held near, wrapped in love, snuggled closely, or smothered with anyone else’s emotional state.

I can’t blame them, because neither do I!

By: Kristina Hammer, aka, The Angrivated Mom

The Pot Stirrer I Call Bean

Can I let you in on a little secret? Sssshh…. you can’t tell anyone. Mmmkay? They may judge me a little too harshly for speaking what has been unspoken for as long as humans have procreated more than one living offspring within their family unit. Though the subject of such secret hush hush is more pronounced in families with three or more offspring. We’re talking about that one super annoying child. The Pot Stirrer. We all have one, unless, of course, you have the perfect June Cleaver-in-charge family. And I certainly don’t. I’m as far from running a Cleaver household as it is from being renewed as the new hit tv show on primetime NBC.

I remember when I first found out I was pregnant with my third child, Bean. Everyone & their cousin’s mother’s twice-removed aunt wanted to share their stories of how great it was to have that extra playmate to help regulate the sharing between the older two, how loud with laughter their houses were filled with over the years, or the protection their older children exhibited over the youngest in various types of circumstances they got themselves into. There were cutsey stories about squabbles & skirmishes, tales of sibling rivalry coming into play with laughable outcomes, & comical replays of practical jokes gone awry. No one ever made mention of The Instigator in their tellings, there was no warning of any kind. In fact, after hearing all these fairy tales prior to Bean’s arrival, I naively believed that I was going to have this picture perfect trio of siblings that got along as well as the Brady Bunch kids, most of the time. Especially since the boys already shared a bond that’s comparable to the one uniquely shared between twins.

And then Bean arrived into this world. From day one, she drew attention directly onto her, like a magnet for prying eyes & nosy nitties. First, with the shoulder length cascade of wavy newborn hair that none of the seasoned nurses or even my OB-GYN, who had delivered me when I was born the very first year he was hired to run a practice through the hospital straight out of his residency, 26 years prior, had ever seen on a fresh from the womb baby before. Second, she was the tiniest full-term, perfectly healthy & fully developed baby on record at his practice, only weighing 4lbs 13oz after 37.6 weeks in the womb, accurately calculated to the nth degree by every test they could possibly perform- before & after her induced birth because they swore she couldn’t have been healthy, that there had to be something wrong. Her hair must’ve weighed at least the 13oz if you want a clear picture.

Bean has since grown into an average sized first grader, weighing in at 60lbs, standing 48.5 inches tall, but her personality has blown way out of proportion. And her inner magnet has kept up with her personality, not her physical growth. This child of mine, who thrives off the energy of others, is our family Pot Stirrer. Since she literally sucks the energy from those she’s surrounded by, she never lacks energy herself. This kid has no problems waking up at the buttcrack of dawn & outlasting any seasoned adult who doesn’t head to bed until after The Late, Late Show; typical of any Pot Stirrer, I’ve come to discover. They’re all like little mini-rock stars doped up on life & the reactions of the people in it, instead of cocaine & booze.

Also typical of every Pot Stirrer, & something Bean particularly excels at, is the ability to know everything & anything that’s going on within their territory. Not only know of, but remember every. single. ridiculous. detail of it all, word for ‘there’s no way in hell that I would EVER say that’ word.  They can manipulate every situation they face cunningly by perfectly timed recalls of every sin you’ve ever committed that could justify whatever it is they’re trying to accomplish. Bean’s quick to remind you of that one time she was feeling left out when her baby sister was born & you said you’d always make time for her when she wants you to stop washing dishes & cooking dinner while simultaneously helping her older brothers with their homework, just to tie a dumb string of beads that cannot wait even a moment longer, in her 6 year old reasoning.

Nothing gets past the Pot Stirrer either. Forget about the little white lies of convenience that you once used with such graceful ease & practicality when the first three kids were toddlers. Bean makes sure to stop me dead in my tracks whenever I try to pull one out of my bag with Stinx. Heaven forbid you ever promised once upon a time ago to buy a sucker on the way home from running boring errands but assumed that you were home free, because, she ended up getting a free cookie from the nice lady working at the party store when it comes time to her wanting a piece of cake before dinner five months later. Again, in her demented Pot Stirring way of justifying everything, the defense makes absolutely perfect sense. Which leads me to…

The dramatics. Oh! How I do not love the dramatics of a Pot Stirrer. Everything is a life or death situation. Everything is loud. Everything is frantic & panicked. There’s an accompaniment of complimentary body language as boisterous & flashy as she is loud. Her self-confidence is enviable by even me, her own mother. I wish I had felt as secure in my own skin & as free to speak my mind when I was her age, as she does, because the girl rocks everything from her head to her toes & will tell you it herself. Even her charm comes with perfectly scripted poses that brain wash you into believing she’s totally harmless & innocently sweet. She mastered the puppy eyed look before she could even walk.

Did I mention loud already? The girl has a set of lungs on her that would make an Olympic Swimmer jealous. She’s not hasty about letting those girly lungs of hers wail whenever the opportunity strikes. Any slight rolling of the eyes from her two older brothers warrants ear-piercing shrieks that can send any dog running for cover, howling in pain. Pot Stirrers have mastered the art of hitting the exact frequency of hysterics needed to cause an immediate visceral reaction, setting in panic at full-throttle. This is a carefully calculated move just to get you to react to their squeals & squawks faster than with any of the other children. It doesn’t matter if they only misplaced the blue crayon among the piles of coloring pages littering the bed & they want it at the kitchen table for another drawing project, there’s gonna be a cry that accurately nails the bullseye of a nerve target in the brain. The resulting chemical reaction sets off signal receptors alerting that our offspring’s life possibly could be in danger, and you run to them, but only because you know they will jump off the deep end & die elaborately in their delusions during an exaggerated fit over the loss of that forsaken blue crayon.

With all of these black belt-level mastery of Pot Stirring skills packed under her belt from the day she was born, it’s no wonder that Bean was destined to be our family Pot Stirrer. This kid is always in the right place at the right time to take on every situation in it’s entirety then spin a tale of ostentatious proportion that make her out to be the hero, the victim, the saver of the universe, great solver of the world’s problems, or the unlucky, innocent bystander to devilish shenanigans that were out of her control before the pressure to join in overwhelmed her. No matter what role in the happenings she played, every thirty seconds excitedly, she always reports back to me on every happening, because she just can’t resist sharing the details. Even if it will not only get herself, but others, in trouble. There’s no loyalty to anyone when she’s under the pressure of the gun- she’ll sell out anyone to save herself from any fate undesirable to her liking.

The absolute worst part of all about having a Pot Stirrer residing on premises, is the fact that they cannot ever seem to mind their own business. They have no concept of privacy. Or personal space. They will get right on up you at any given moment, like a monkey to a tree, & push your boundaries as far as they can without implosion. It’s as if your unwelcoming body language & verbal pleas to back off, are an indecipherable foreign code that means nothing to them, it’s beyond their comprehension. Bean is capable of being the most emphatic & sensitive sweetheart she wants to be, full of genuine compassion, but just as easily, she can turn up the self-centered brat needing to cause a ruckus for her own personal gain. And I wouldn’t want her any other way. We’re an angrivated bunch in this family & Bean’s a very special piece of the whole we are together, bringing in a sparkling, glimmering beam of light into our souls. Her Pot Stirring ways can strike a chord that’s hard on the hearing, but the resounding laughter that reverberates throughout the house after her antics are said & done, leave this angrivated household ringing with the most sweet, melodious harmony I’ve ever heard.