MWLM Blog

Shaken, Not Deterred

by Linda Sharp

As if the continuing reports out of Myanmar are not heartbreaking enough, with firm estimates of over 32,000 dead, tens of thousands still missing, and an aid response still hampered by the military junta...

Now we are faced with the staggering numbers coming in of dead (official number as of this morning: over 15,000), trapped (26,000 - very fluid number), and missing (14,000 - again, expected to rise dramatically) after Monday's 7.9 magnitude earthquake which rocked nearly all of China.

Happening at approximately 230pm, the results are devastating - think of where your entire family is at 230 in the afternoon:  kids at school, you and/or hubby at work, in the Walmart, friends at the Mall, grandma at the grocery store, post office - everyone going about their busy day.

Then imagine the earth deciding to throw a major hissy fit for long minutes, shaking everything to its core, pulling every structure from its foundation, burying alive you and everyone you love.

That's the part I cannot get away from in my mind.

The number of schools which have turned into tombs.  Office buildings, hospitals, factories, all crumbled like a child's Lincoln log creation.

This morning there are reports that 18,000 people remain trapped in one city alone.

ONE CITY ALONE.

Roads are blocked, the weather is hampering any attempt at dropping paratroopers into remote regions where the full impact is still not known, and the entire country is faced with a Where-do-we-even-begin scenario.

As a parent, my heart has been in a vise for the past 48 hours.  I picked my children up at their schools yesterday and imagined how I would feel if I arrived to find the buildings were piles of rubble and my daughters lay somewhere beneath - alive?  dead?  injured?  frightened?

I don't believe there is a higher purpose when events like this occur.  I no more believe God sends an earthquake to bury school children than He does a cyclone to destroy entire towns.  I don't believe He is behind babies being raped and killed, mothers turning their children into pole dancers, or drunk drivers taking out entire families on their way home from church.

I believe sh*t happens.  And it happens to good people, bad people, innocent people, God fearing people, Atheists, Buddhists, Boy Scouts, pedophiles, accountants, Red Cross workers, Mormons, Catholics, 7-11 workers, waiters, students, teachers, rapists, murderers, Shiites, Sunnis, Bulgarians, pandas, giraffes, dogs, cats, monkeys, you, and me.

And when it happens, whether it is Mother Nature's fury, another human being's insanity or bloodlust, bad circumstances, wrong place, wrong time, a hemmorage in the brain, or even slipping in a puddle and fatally hitting your head - THAT'S when I believe God steps in.

THAT'S when I believe His hand reaches out to catch those who tragedy has befallen, to cradle those whose bodies have let them down, to comfort and welcome those who never saw it coming.

I have to believe that.

Because right now there are tens of thousands of people, whose blood runs as red as mine, whose children are their entire worlds, who were sitting in classrooms like my daughters are at this very moment, whose lives will never be the same, whose deaths have yet to be discovered - who were simply living their lives.

And it is with all of them in mind that I kissed my children goodbye this morning, shaken, yes - but undeterred.

Life is about living.  In this moment.  Living fully, loving completely. 

Because as we have seen demonstrated over the past two weeks, there is no guarantee of another moment, another heartbeat, another breath.

So use this one wisely.

Don’t – Stop – No!

Mothers continually caution their young children by using these phrases-

Don’t touch that, it’s dirty. Stop staring it’s not polite. No talking to strangers.

Do your kids heed your loving protective warnings or do the little darlings just roll their eyes and simply tune you out? Thirty years later, I know the answer when I hear the echo of my own words used against me.

Today I’m flying into New York or if you’re a comic book fan, ‘Gotham City’. I hear that danger lurks around every corner. There are unspoken rules you must obey to survive. Information you must understand to arrive safely at your desired destination.

While I’m here, I want to live like a local. I want to be ‘one’ with the people. Watch out New York- Here I come!

My guide meets me at LaGuardia. He is a tall blue-eyed blond young man with a chiseled chin and a sparkling smile. I’m under his command. He will show me the ropes, the tricks of the trade. The Big Apple is his town. His name is Cory. (BTW- Cory is my son.)

Day One:

Walking quickly we head for the subway, the train, the metro, the rail, the underground transit system, I understand that we will be bonding with some nasty rats. (The rodent type, not the human kind.)

We follow the frantic swarm of people surging down several flights of stairs into the dark pits of Brooklyn. Feeling pressure from the pack of humans invading my personal space, I grab the handrail for support, praying my flip-flops do not slip on the crusty, strangely wet cement steps. Directly behind me I hear a deep scolding whisper in my ear. “Did you bring hand sanitizer? The rails are full of germs. Don’t touch anything.”

Oh, gross. Heeding my son’s warning, I root around in my purse for handy wipes, proceeding to scrub every finger on both hands.

Watching the rats scurry on the tracks below, beep-beep-beep rapid annoying honking bells start bouncing off the dirty subway tiles announcing the trains impending arrival.

What a nice surprise, fresh cool air blasts me as the doors whoosh open. Sitting down on the hard pre-formed orange bench, gripping my purse to my chest, I pause to take a good look around.

Our compartment is full although each passenger has an option to sit down. Students with open books are doing schoolwork; mothers are tending to fussy babies while rumpled old men feign sleep behind sunglasses. Oh but of course the ‘Suits’ are reading the NY Times. With all this diversity on the train, I notice one constant activity. Every person, young and old have iPods that main-line music to their heads. I glance over to my son for security and reassurance. With a scowling look, Cory mouths a firm silent warning. “Stop staring.”

Gawd, I was just being me. You know, maybe catch a stranger’s eye and smile. However, that seems impossible because everyone is engrossed in a solitary activity. Not one soul looks up, not even a mother. In fact, this large space is oddly void of human voices. How sad and lonely. I close my eyes letting my body relax to the swishing-swaying underground transit car until we reach our stop.

Screeching to a halt, single-minded people scamper out of the ‘L’ train. In a huddle, they tromp up several flights of stairs over the platform down two more flights to wait for the ‘G’ train. My legs are like jelly as we join a hoard of people on yet another damp dreary holding platform.

Beep-beep-beep-beep the ground begins to rumble. Silver cars flash and flip-flip-flip by, metal grinding to an ear-piercing stop.

Shuffling with the masses to enter the tram door a man cuts me off at the pass. I raise my hand waving him on and say, “Go ahead”. With my palm still up, I casually start to place it on his back to keep my balance as I follow the line-cutting stranger. Out of the blue, I hear a teeth gritting reprimand, “Mom! No touching.”

Jerking my hand down keeping my head low, I head for a seat. Plopping down, I smack into a young person. I touch her shoulder, looking her straight in the eye. With a furrowed brow I gently exclaim, “I’m sorry”.

Oh no, I just keep forgetting the rules! I know I deserve another scolding.

Scanning the crowd, I spot Cory leaning against the train door with his arms crossed, supervising. He smirks, shakes his head, rolling his eyes just before they close.

At this moment, thirty years later, I realize that Cory and I have come full circle. My son is now watching over me.

Pamela Vanden Bos, Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine Intern

I've Got To Be Careful.

There is a tree in our backyard. To me, it rains big leaves and sheds and takes up space, I fear that it is uprooting our brand new vinyl fence. It's not my friend.

But my kids climb that tree and get lost in it, in a Peter Pan/Tink kind of imaginary way. My six-year-old daughter climbs to the highest branch and sends the two-year-old in the house to tell my husband, "Oo-ee tuck! Oo-ee tuck!" (translation, "Zoe's stuck!"). My husband, wanting to yell at Zoe for disregarding her own safety, switches into hero mode as she wants him to do, runs to the tree outside, and guides her down the branches one by one until his strong-Daddy shoulders are within reach of her size 13 1/2 feet. She climbs onto Daddy, and all is well for my little girl.

To me, it's a tree. To my children, it's a chance for Dad to prove his heroism. So I've got to be careful.

There are two loads of laundry I commit to daily; one I wash, one I fold and put away. I complain about the laundry a lot; it never ends.  Even if you put in the time to wash every single item in every single hamper (which usually smells), a task that can drive one insane and set back the other household duties schedule, within ten minutes, maybe five, someone will toss in a dirty shirt or pair of wet socks into the hamper you worked so diligently to empty. It's not worth it.

But my kids exclaim, "My favorite pajamas are clean!  Thank you Mom!" I suppose they infer that as caretaking. It's a consistency they rely on (lest they go to school naked, how embarrassing). Undoubtedly a maternal chore taken for granted, but opening the closet door and finding clean hoodies on unexpected raindy days, or a baseball uniform folded and placed on a bedside chair before game time is more important than I realize.

To me, laundry is a task that keeps me from writing and dampers my spirit. To my children, the lemony scent of fabric softener now will be an aromatic footnote of security in their childhood later on. So I've got to be careful.

There are always messes in my kids rooms.  Toys thrown on every square inch of carpet, clothes on the floor, shoes keeping the closets from closing all the way. It drives me insane. I find myself closing the door to my kid's bedrooms rather than obligating myself to do the cleaning for them. I dread the stuffed animals pushed into corners, the half-finished drawings or crayons forgotten under beds.

But my kids sleep there. At night, when it is dark and I can't see the messes as I check on them, it's peaceful so that I nearly cry. My children place their trophies there, make forts there, and ponder their bad behavior there. My daughter sits on a stool from behind that bedroom window and checks to see which neighborhood kids are outside playing. My kids escape to those rooms where four walls and a window become whatever they need them to be.

To me, it's another room to tidy up before my husband gets home from work. To my kids, it's their first safety net and intellectual launch pad.  So I've got to be careful.

My mind is the gate to how I see my life, my children, my home. To me, it's another thing to regulate. To my family, it's a tone-setter for right now and coming very soon. So I've got to be careful.

~ Samantha Gianulis

Spoiled Rotten

Hello fellow Moms. I hope that you all had a wonderful Mother's Day weekend. I certainly did.  I was spoiled rotten.

My son made me a nestlike bowl out of popsicle sticks.  My daughters put their money together and got me a Body Shop basket including mango body wash, soap, body scrub and body lotion... it smells wonderful! My husband got me an alarm clock/AM-FM radio/ipod docking station to replace my radio/alarm clock that no longer tuned in to any radio stations and therefore woke me up with either a silent flashing screen (not very effective) or a most annoying buzzer that sent me flying to the ceiling with my heart in my throat every time it sounded (not a great way to start the day).

As if all of this was not enough, my husband gave me a break from breakfast duty Sunday morning.  While I took a relaxing shower, he prepared a nice pancake breakfast for all of us. I also got a break from supper duty on Saturday because we went to my parents' place for supper and lunch duty on Sunday because we went to my in-laws' place for lunch. So all in all, it was a great weekend.  My gang will have to work hard next year if they want to top it!

I hope that you were all pampered and spoiled as much... after all, we deserve our special day, right?

Lucie Bouchard Antoniazzi, Regular Columnist, All in a Mom-day's Work, www.luciebouchardantoniazzi.com

Happy Mother's Day

A woman, renewing her driver's license at the County Clerk 's office,
Was asked by the woman recorder to state her occupation

She hesitated, uncertain how to classify herself.   

'What I mean is, ' explained the recorder,   
'do you have a job or are you just a ...?'

'Of course I have a job,' snapped the woman.

'I'm a Mom.'

'We don't list 'Mom' as an occupation,

'housewife' covers it,'
Said the recorder emphatically.


I forgot all about her story until one day I found myself

In the same situation, this time at our own Town Hall.   
The Clerk was obviously a career woman, poised,
Efficient, and possessed of a high sounding title like,
'Official Interrogator' or 'Town Registrar.'

'What is your occupation?' she probed.

What made me say it?  I do not know.   
The words simply popped out.   
'I'm a Research Associate in the field of
Child Development and Human Relations.'

The clerk paused, ball-point pen frozen in midair and
Looked up as though she had not h eard right. & nbsp;

I repeated the title slowly emphasizing the most significant words..
Then I stared with wonder as my pronouncement was written,
In bold, black ink on the official questionnaire.

'Might I ask,' said the clerk with new interest,
'just what you do in your field?'

Coolly, without any trace of fluster in my voice,
I heard myself reply,
'I have a continuing program of research,
(what mother doesn't)
In the laboratory and in the field,
(normally I would have said indoors and out).   
I'm working for my Masters, (first the Lord and then the whole family)
And already have four credits (all daughters). 
Of course, the job is one of the most demanding in the humanities,
(any mother care to disagree? )
And I often work 14 hours a day, (24 is more like it).   
But the job is more challenging than most run-of-the-mill careers

And the rewards are more of a satisfaction rather than just money.'

There was an increasing note of respect in the clerk's voice as she
Completed the form, stood up, and personally ushered me to the door

As I drove into our driveway, buoyed up by my glamorous new career,
I was greeted by my lab assistants -- ages 13, 7, and 3. 
Upstairs I could hear our new experimental model,
(a 6 month old baby) in the child development program,
Testing out a new vocal pattern.   
I felt I had scored a beat on bureaucracy! 
And I had gone on the official records as someone more

Distinguished and indispensable to mankind than 'just another Mom.'   

   Motherhood!   

What a glorious career!   
Especially when there's a title on the door.
Does this make grandmothers
'Senior Research associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations'
And great grandmothers
Executive Senior Research Associates?'   
I think so!!!   
I also think it makes Aunts

Associate Research Assistants.
The Website

Veronica Hosking
Poetry Editor

A Love Throughout the Ages by Maureen Locher

May 10, 1941 – A very good day! Because, you see, on that day 67 years ago, a man named Franny and a woman named Ethy became one. At 10:00 in the morning this couple was united before God, family and friends, promising to love and honor “till death us do part.”

Groom’s brother and bride’s sister stood as witnesses for the happy couple. A wedding party of 12 tuxedos and evening gowns did not march down the aisle. But they had love.

After the rice was thrown (not birdseed, bubbles or butterflies), the newlyweds toured the town in a 1939 LaSalle borrowed from groom’s father. They did not rent a freakishly stretched stretch-limo. But they had love.

First stop was Tomei Photography Studio in Akron, Ohio where the local photographer snapped a few photos. They did not immortalize every conceivable moment of the day on video. But they had love.

Second stop: The Canteen for a wedding breakfast for 20 honored guests. Next came some rest (Now isn’t that a unique feature to include in one’s wedding day?) at the bride’s house where an afternoon reception of cake and punch afforded well-wishers the opportunity to convey congratulations to the groom and best wishes to the bride. And then the guests went home.

That evening the mother of the bride prepared an elegant wedding dinner for family. They did not catapult bride’s parents into enormous debt orchestrating a catered extravaganza complete with mind-numbing music blaring from bass-boosted speakers. But they had love.

The honeymooners then drove to Warren, Ohio where they spent their first night as husband and wife, followed by a cozy week of fishing in Canada. They did not sail the seven seas with total strangers. But they had love.

And for the past 67 years they have passed that love down to their children and their children’s children with more than enough left over for their great grandchildren. They did it right all those years ago remembering what mattered most, and they are still doing it right 67 years later.

Still holding hands, still laughing, still waking up next to each other, and still listening to Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy belt out, “Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life,” on those Victor 78s. What is their sweet mystery of life? Simply this: because they were never stingy with love, because they didn’t store it up for themselves, but lavishly broadcast it time after time, decade after decade, to any and all who crossed their paths, they still have love.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Pop!

I love you infinity,

Your darling daughter

Maureen is the very lucky daughter of this happy couple as well as MWLM's copy editor and regular columnist – Just Another Manic Momday. Click over to http://maureenlocher.blogspot.com/ to view a poetic tribute to her parents written for their 65th annniversary. What will she do for their 70th?!

School Rules

You can't play Red Rover at recess because someone might break their arm.

You can't run around the playground equipment.

You can't wear clogs, flip flops or any shoe that has no heel because you might get hurt.

You can't hold hands with your best friend. Something about "personal space?"

You can't talk in the restrooms.

You can't put your stuffed "buddy" down the slide.

These are just a few of the rules at my daughters' school. They have a great school. Their teachers really care about the students and it has a caring environment on the whole. But - rules such as the ones above, have bugged me for quite some time. I think they are what Beth Moore would call "rib issues." Meaning - there are bigger things to get upset and worry about. There are more critical issues to spend your attention on.

I just get so frustrated when my children truly want to be children - but can't because of "rules." Kids are going to play. Kids are going to get hurt. You can't come up with a rule for everything that could hurt your child. Because somewhere along the line, then you are robbing them of the freedom and joy of being a child.

I want my children to enjoy life. If they run on the playground in flip flops and twist their ankle - I think they will learn not to run in them. I don't think they should have to abandon wearing them altogether.

I think we should spend our time and energy (and rules) on more critical issues out there. Children hurting other children (rape, bullying, etc) is a great example of something that needs more attention. Someone put a chemical down a slide and a little child went down it and got burned. That's something that should rile us up to want to protect our children! There are many other issues that could use more of our focus as well --- but putting your stuffed animal down a slide? Does that really need a rule?

Something's twisted here, in my opinion. Something's skewed. And it just bothers me.

~ Dionna Sanchez (Keeping It Real Columnist)
Visit me at my other blog – http://emphasisonmoms.blogspot.com

A few words on the invention of Mother’s Day

As far as holidays go, I’d venture to say that most were created by a man.  On Christmas we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, a man.  Easter commemorates the rising of Jesus, again, a man.  The Fourth of July is an observation of a new government that was mostly, you guessed it, men.  And even Father’s Day, the day when we all treat dad like royalty?  Yep, pretty sure that some guy made up that one, too.

But if there were ever a holiday that was most certainly created by a man, it’d be Mother’s Day. 

Now, if you are a man and you are reading this, you are probably thinking to yourself, “oh yes, we men love our mothers and our wives, and we certainly want to celebrate the wonderful things they do for us and all that they mean to us, and of course we created the holiday as a day of honor.” 

And if you’re a woman reading this, you’re probably thinking, “gee, she’s on to something!  No woman in her right mind would create a holiday that would require so much work, stress, sweat, and overcooked scrambled eggs.”

Let me explain this to all of the men out there.  As far as mothers go, most of us have mothers of our own.  Not only our own mothers, but some of us even have mother-in-laws.  And grandmothers.  And for us lucky ones, multiple grandmothers.  And somewhere in our wedding vows when we were all too emotional to pay attention, we somehow promised that we would bear children, love our husbands, and take care of all holiday celebrations until death do us part.

So come the second Sunday in May, we are required by that vow to manage celebrating and honoring all of our mothers, on a day when most of us could use a break and a little honoring ourselves.

Still confused as to why most mothers think Mother’s Day should be wiped off our calendars and out of our card shop shelves?  Still don’t understand how no woman in her right mind would create such a complicated and distressing holiday?  I may best be able to convey it in anecdote.  Here is a characteristic Mother’s Day for a mother such as myself…

6:30 AM.  Get woken up by the baby.

7:30 AM.  Told to go back to sleep because the kids (ages 4 and 6 with mediocre culinary skills matched only by their father) are going to make breakfast in bed (ie. Scrambled eggs with bits of shell and toast with two pounds of butter.)  Open homemade cards.

8:00 AM.  Start the day by wrapping the gifts for all of the mothers in my life, bribing the kids with gum so that they’ll sign the card nicely (instead of writing POOP), and start preparing the Mother’s Day dinner that somehow I got conned into hosting at my house.

9:00 AM.  Bribe the kids with more gum to help me clean the house.  Have to wash the dishes from my breakfast in bed.  Call all of the grandmothers, give holiday wishes, and hope that I put their cards in the mail early enough.

1:00 PM.  Host a dinner party for one set of parents to celebrate that mother and the wonderful things she does and is.

3:30 PM. Drive an hour to visit my other mother, and celebrate her.

7:30 PM.  Arrive home, feed kids bed-time snacks, give baths, read books, sing lullabies, put to bed.

8:30 PM.  Clean kitchen from 1:00 PM dinner party.

10:00 PM.  Lay on the couch, re-read precious homemade cards, begin to dread Father’s Day, and fall fast asleep.

Happy Mother’s Day, girls!

-Karrie McAllister, webmaster etc.
www.KarrieMcAllister.com

A Look Back: Poetry and Mothering at 3 Months and 2 Years

Then and Now: Poetry and Mothering

We sit at the table, mother and daughter, markers spread out in no particular order. The paper is set out side by side, waiting for the colorful scribbles of lines and right angles and the occasional smiley-face drawn so precisely from a two-year-old mind. Looking at her, marker poised carefully with such concentration over the paper, I wonder how we, as artist and mother, merge the two separate selves so that they co-exist within ourselves?

No doubt, raising a young child is challenging. Everything, at one point or another, gets pushed aside for varying lengths of time. For me, it was my writing-all forms of it in the beginning-that got pushed aside to tend to the more pressing and urgent matters: changing that poopy diaper for the third time that day, feeding, bathing, reading the bedtime story, making sure nothing ended up in her mouth that shouldn’t have.

When my daughter was three months old, I wrote this:

Poetry and Mothering

I have been writing poetry since my early teens and journaling before that. It has saved my life, literally, in numerous ways, may times. It sounds clichéd (you know everybody says that), but so very true in my life. In struggling through and recovering from depression, writing was, and still is a way to regain my strength. These days, I am lucky if I get the daily journal entry in. Being a new mom of a three-month-old daughter, I try specifically to make the time for this. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I truly miss writing poetry. I have not written anything poetic since a little before I found out I was pregnant in November 2003. I feel rather naked without it. There is comfort in words. I don’t think it is so much rage or anger I feel as much as the pure frustration at not having the time, or more importantly, the energy to write now. I do know, though, that there will be a time again for poetry-to really write again. I try not to let the frustration take hold. I know this is temporary. Yet, in the moment, it is painfully raw. But then, I look at my beautiful daughter with her smiles and babbles and think how absolutely wonderful she is; what an amazing creation she is; that I created her. In having a child, I do not want my writing to be forgotten or put aside for so long that I begin to regret not pursuing it as I should have. Or-worst of all-aim my resentment against myself or my daughter. It is vital to me that the two selves-mother/writers- co-exist, grow, merge, to form a more complete being. I’m not quite sure how to go about this yet. But, that is one of life’s many challenges, is it not? Originally printed in Mama Says Newsletter

It has been nearly two years since I last wrote those words. Much has changed, as life inevitably does so. The differences between a three month old baby and a toddler are immense. Now there is negotiation involved about going to the park and a muffin afterward. At three months, that wasn’t even a flicker of thought in my mind. Indeed, it has been challenging for the two selves to co-exist. Not to mention the challenge alone of rearing a two year old, tantrums and all, as a single parent. There have also been many rewards. For the most part, the challenge has been met with open arms and a willing mind. Words have become unlocked from my near-stagnant mind and flow freely to the page. Almost as freely as my daughter’s need to scavenge for Cheerio’s.

I think this convergence comes mainly from the actual acceptance of motherhood into my life with all its twists and turns, joyous melodies and dark tunnels. I remember when writing had no time limits. Now it is naptimes and bedtimes, writing voraciously into the night. I am content with that-for now. April 15, 2006

5 Ways to Make Your House a Home ~ By Dionna Sanchez

Houses have atmospheres. They radiate the mood and character of the family who dwells there. You can tell as soon as you enter someone’s house if it feels warm, open, and inviting; or stiff and uncomfortable.

It doesn’t matter how perfect your furniture is or how clean you keep your carpet. Furnishings and belongings never make up for love!

So, here are 5 ways that you can make your house into that warm and loving home you desire.

1) Maintain an open door policy.
Make your house inviting to family and friends by letting them know they are welcome in your home. Encourage them to stop by to say hello or to visit with you for a few minutes. Let them know you value them as a part of your life. A closed home is a lonely home!

2) Fill your home with fresh aromas.
Let the aroma of compassion, kindness, gentleness, love, joy, patience, etc permeate through your walls. Homes need to be a haven, a place where people can feel secure to be themselves. Someone who smells these character qualities encompassing your home can’t help but hunger for more!

3) Hold a consistent family dinner hour.
Make sure your family sits together at the table for dinner each night (or at least regularly) so that you can share together, laugh, and bond. It doesn’t matter what else is going on in the world if you can all connect as one family unit each day.

4) Keep your home picked up – but let it be “lived in.”
It’s a great thing to be organized and to take pride in your home. In fact, your family will benefit from these traits. But it’s just as important to not let that organization run your life. If a home is so immaculate that everyone is afraid to relax, what good does that do anyone? A good reminder to help you keep your focus balanced is to think of what you would do if you opened your door to find Jesus there after He’d walked for miles on a dusty road. Would you allow Him to enter in His dirty sandals?

5) Slow down!
Fast-paced lives are the biggest thieves of family time these days. Friends are important but you need to make your family your priority not your social activities. Make time to create memories together in your home.

I want a home that has laughter, tears, quiet moments, social gatherings and more filling every corner with memories and legacies. I want my children to remember a home that was a refuge for them and somewhere that they could be themselves.

I want something “real” to be felt in my home. Don’t you?

~ Dionna Sanchez (Keeping It Real Columnist)

Visit me at http://emphasisonmoms.blogspot.com