I’m not that Pinterest mom. I should be the mom who packs cute bento boxes full of healthy and fun lunches for my children. I’m a food blogger, for goodness sake! But I’m not that mom. I’m the mom who sends a peanut butter sandwich, some chips, a cookie, and sometimes a tube of yogurt (gasp!).
See, I’ve had kids in school for 6 years now, and I’ve probably spent hundreds of dollars on fruits and vegetables that have been thrown away. And now that I have all 3 kids in school, that’s a lot money in the trash can. I’d rather send my kids a lunch they will eat, and then focus on a healthy breakfast, dinner, and snacks.
I try to get creative sometimes, but I focus on what they like. I always pack a napkin with a smiley face or heart, a water bottle, and a cookie. Everyone needs a little dessert in the cafeteria!
Here are some of their favorite lunches that do not include sandwiches:
• peanut butter and crackers, strawberries, cheese cubes
• homemade lunchables: ham, cheese, crackers, grapes
• soup in a thermos with crackers, fruit on the side
• brown rice in a thermos, baby carrots on the side, ranch for dipping
• cheese tortelinni in a thermos
• Caesar salad (dressing and croutons on the side), crackers, fruit
• dry cereal (milk in a thermos), banana
• almonds, cheese cubes, yogurt, pretzels
Amy James, Our Everyday Dinners, is a wife, mother, home cook, amateur gardener, and MBA who blogs at Our Everyday Dinners. Our Everyday Dinners chronicles Amy’s success and struggles in the kitchen preparing healthy and delicious dinners for her family of 5, which includes her husband, John, and children, Kate, Abby, and Alex.
Our Everyday Dinners has been featured on iVillage, PBS, Dole.com, Tasty Kitchen, KNWA, Yummly, BlogHer, FoxNewsEdge, Parents Playground, Motherlode, Arkansas Women Bloggers, and numerous blogs.
My Daughters: The Future {Women’s History} Written by ARWB March 2012 Bloggger of the Month, Jennifer Janes, of Jennifer A. Janes
Earlier this month, I wrote about women in my past and present and my desire to pass this heritage on to my children. As I continued to ponder women’s history, I kept thinking about my daughters. Generations from now there will be others who will view my daughters as part of their history.
When I think of the future that way, it’s sobering. What am I doing today to make sure that my daughter’s impact the world for good, leaving a legacy we’ll all be proud of? My children are still young—only eight and six years old. They have plenty of time to make their marks on the world, but I can already catch glimpses of who they will become as I study who they are.
Both of my children are compassionate. They have chosen to sponsor a child through Compassion International and actively seek out ways to raise money to cover our monthly sponsorship costs. They help us recycle paper and cans because it helps the environment and because the money we receive goes into our sponsorship fund. They have sold candy, coloring book pages lovingly colored by them, and fruit punch and coffee at our garage sales to raise the sponsorship money.
In my older daughter I see a budding scientist. I could be wrong, but she seems destined for a career in science or medicine. She enjoys studying the human body and nature and loves animals and performing experiments. My younger daughter is an artist. She’s very creative, and I can definitely see her as a painter, graphic artist, or fashion designer.
I want to nurture these traits: the kindness and compassion, willingness to work hard for what they believe in, and creativity. I want to help them develop their uniqueness and pursue their talents and interests.
My goal is to help my daughters become who they are. Based on what I’m seeing now, I think they’ve got amazing contributions to make and will leave a positive mark on women’s history, regardless of how far-reaching their contributions are.
How are you mentoring the next generation of women? They’re the next chapter in the history books!
Jennifer lives in Southwest Arkansas with her husband and two daughters. She enjoys reading, writing, Bible study, and spending time with friends and family. She has enjoyed serving as Arkansas Women Bloggers’ “Miss March 2012” and is honored to have been chosen. To follow her story, visit:
Several months ago I noticed that the post theme for February was “Love Story”. I immediately started making plans to write a happy little post about my life in rural Arkansas and how much I love it. Then I was standing in my kitchen trying my best to perform the most routine of chores, and it hit me what I really love so much.
I grew up in a very structured household. You ate your food in the kitchen. You played with your toys in your bedroom. Holidays and other events were planned months in advanced. And you never ran through the house or spoke above a normal inside voice. I had great parents and a great childhood. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I married nearly seven years ago. The two of us lived in our little house with our Jack Russell Terrier, Chloe. It wasn’t structured, but it was quite and simple. The most excitement was cheering for our Texas Longhorns (sorry Razorback fans) during big games.
Our perfect angel, Arlington (Ting), was born in June of 2009 and our life was turned upside down. Suddenly there was crying at all times of the day. Bottles and toys littered every room of our house. Cheering for our favorite team was no longer possible because either we were being quite so she could sleep or watching Nick Jr so she would be happy.
Here we are, 2012. Ting is two and a half years old and we are expecting a little boy in April. Our calm Chloe has gone blind and is constantly bumping into everything and barking at every single sound around us. We both work full-time outside the home so toys, clothes, and who knows what else lies scattered around our small house (which seems to get smaller each day).
As I stood in my kitchen Sunday afternoon, the Super Bowl was on the TV. I was trying to watch the game, cook chicken, prepare brownies, and wash a few dishes and a load of laundry – all at the same time. Ting was running around wide open singing, dancing, throwing dolls everywhere. I was doing my best to not trip over Ting and her toys. Chloe was barking her head off at every little bump we made. Hubby came home from work and was trying to talk on the phone. It was TOTAL CHAOS.
That’s when I realized, it’s the chaos that I love so much! I cannot begin to imagine my life as a quiet and organized life, and honestly wouldn’t want it that way. I love my loud crazy house. I love my chaotic life. I can’t wait to add another child to the mix… it’s going to be so much fun!!
Karen lives in South Arkansas with her husband and daughter. She loves reading and cooking and anything that involves spending time with her family. Her blog, Ting’s Mom, chronicles her daily life as a mom and wife, as well as an occasional review of products her family can’t live without.
My Love Story {Love Story} Written by Erin Yarbery of Bideawee.
This story begins six months after we married when we found out we were expecting. We weren’t trying to get pregnant, but I didn’t believe in using artificial birth control and we didn’t know exactly how natural family planning worked. We were nervous, but happy.
Less than two weeks later, we miscarried. It was hard and painful in many ways, but we were young and had been told that miscarriage is incredibly common. We had hope that the next pregnancy would be better.
A year later, we became pregnant again and, within a couple of weeks, miscarried again. This miscarriage was both easier and harder. Physically we knew what to expect. Mentally and emotionally, we couldn’t understand it. We wanted to know why it happened again, but, where we live, a specialist will not see a patient until she’s had at least three miscarriages. Although friends and family offered love and support, we felt fairly alone.
Nine months later, at Christmastime, we had our third pregnancy. Although it was also a surprise, we were more excited about this pregnancy than the others. We felt certain that we would finally have a baby. We prayed. We visited our parish priest and asked for special blessings. Hub remodeled every closet in the house trying to make space. I tried different remedies to have a healthier pregnancy and had been taking prenatal vitamins for a long time. We did everything we could possibly do to remain positive. My doctor did everything he could do to help us. It lasted two weeks longer than the previous pregnancies, and it was, by far, the hardest loss.
Believe it or not, we picked up the familiar pieces and resolved to be happy anyway. We knew we needed to focus on our health for a while. We needed time to breathe and time for Hub to finish college. Thus, putting aside my personal beliefs and attempting to do what was best, I chose to use “the pill” for a little while.
Nevertheless, only a few months later, I endured a fourth pregnancy. I knew from the beginning that this pregnancy was different; something wasn’t right. I had immediately stopped using the pill when I realized I was pregnant, but it was already too late. Almost as quickly as I realized I was pregnant, I also realized I was having another miscarriage. I made an appointment with my doctor, who confirmed with blood tests that my levels were definitely dropping, so I went home and prepared for the inevitable physical pain.
This time, however, I endured the most painful sensations I’d ever felt. For several days, the pain would come and go with increasing intensity. I paced the floors at work gritting my teeth and bearing it until it subsided. I was too stubborn to take sick leave. Having done this before, I knew I would only feel depressed at home, so I continued working. I had discussed with Hub my suspicions of a tubal pregnancy, but, because the pain would always subside, we assumed it was just a miscarriage.
Finally, one afternoon as I browsed the local craft store, I found myself alone in an aisle, hunched over in pain and nearly in tears. I didn’t want to make a scene, but I knew something was wrong. I straightened up as much as I could and walked, like a zombie, to the truck. Somehow I managed to drive, while sobbing, back to the university where Hub was volunteering at a plant sale with the agriculture department. By the time I arrived, I knew I couldn’t walk a step further and I was embarrassed to be seen in such a state, so I called his cell phone and asked him to meet me in the parking lot. He knew immediately that my condition was serious – I rarely ever felt pain I couldn’t handle – so we headed to the doctor’s office.
A vaginal ultrasound showed that I was indeed having a tubal (or ectopic) pregnancy. My doctor was extremely surprised that I had been able to endure the pain for so long; apparently, nearly too long. I was in serious condition and was sent to the hospital for emergency surgery. The tube was removed.
It was an outpatient surgery so I recovered at home. As soon as I we walked in the door, Hub took control. He held my hair and cleaned up after me while I threw up; helped me roll out of bed every morning as my stomach was sore; laid me on the couch and turned on my favorite TV shows and movies; answered the phone when I couldn’t or didn’t want to; made breakfast, lunch and dinner; took care of the dog and the laundry and bought groceries. He took care of everything so I could wallow as long as I needed. He was my hero; my knight in shining armor.
Eventually, the pain weakened, my hormones went back to normal, and I returned to work. I dove back into life and slowly felt like me again. It was during this time that Hub finally showed his emotions.
He had remained so strong and brave throughout the process, never complaining. He had spoken about it freely and answered everyone’s questions without hesitation. Thus, when I saw him break down, I was shocked. I had not expected it. When I asked why he had waited so long to embrace his emotions, he said, “I had to be strong for you… until you felt better.”
So we cried together and held each other for a long time. It was his turn to hurt. This was when I realized I would never, ever have another friend like him; another man who would put his feelings totally aside to care for me in my time of need. I realized I was living my love story, in all its imperfections, with the man of my dreams. It meant more to me than any fairy tale ever could.
I am Erin from the blog, Bideawee. I’ve lived in Arkansas all my life and always dreamed of traveling the world. I have a bachelors degree in journalism and I’m happily married. We don’t have children yet, but we truly love our furbaby, Lakota. This is our journey.
Loving Laura {Love Story} Written by Julie Kohl of Eggs and Herbs
I think my first true love as a girl was for Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not necessarily the real Laura but the fictional Laura that lived in the pages of the Little House on the Prairie books. I romanticized the pioneer lifestyle and everything that was Laura. I found myself drawn to pioneer type activities (sewing, crafting, cooking) and loved going to museums where the “olden days” came alive within their walls. Old Sturbridge Village, Colonial Williamsburg and the Billings Farm and Museum, where my mom worked, all had amazing pioneer exhibits and were places I loved to visit.
I looked forward to stormy winter nights (I grew up in Vermont) when the power would go out and we were forced to live by candle light and warm ourselves by the fireplace.
I channelled my inner Laura every time my sister and I played “Indians” or “Cooking Rock” by the pond in our back woods.
I always had a penchant for things that were handmade, homemade and simple.
I have read every book written by Laura Ingalls Wilder, several times.
I have read many books written about Laura.
Laura was a sister, a friend, a confidant, a mentor and long before I understood that Laura was real, she was real to me.
How Many Times Can You Fall In Love Written by Ashley Smith of Sugar Britches
When I saw this month’s writing prompt, I immediately composed a post in my head regaling you with the story of how my husband and I came to be with each other. Then I remembered that I had already written that post a few years ago. And who hasn’t already heard everyone else’s love story? They met, they fell in love. They parted ways only to meet again. Or some other version of the same. It’s all romantic, a bit sappy, but original to each of us.
Instead I want to tell you about the last time I fell in love. See, I have kids. Three to be exact. If you are a mother in any way shape or form you know what I mean about loving your kids. It’s crazy love. Possessive love. Mother bear love. The kind that gives you superhuman strength. The kind that frightens you more than you thought anything ever could. I say this with all honesty and not a bit of snark (which is a hard thing for me) that I love my children more than I have ever loved anything or anyone on this earth. More than my husband. More than my parents. Way more than my first pet. Light-years more than my first “true love”. But like I said, it’s this last time that I fell that I want to discuss.
This last time, I fell hard. I mean cliff diving front flip belly buster into an ocean of snuggles, tantrums, and endless crashing waves of ecstasy and fear. My baby, I still call her my baby although she will be four whole years old this summer, my last child, my only girl. She stole my heart, every bit I had left after doling it out for the past 8 years and won’t let go.
Yes, yes…I know I have two other children. Rough and tumble boys who find farts hilarious and wrestling a part of their daily to-do list. I love them, it is obvious. They don’t want for attention anymore than any other child with siblings. But the fact remains that they are boys. Different in a way. I don’t get them. It was easier when they were babies and toddlers and the gender differences weren’t so pronounced. I’m guessing that is what daddies are for, besides the obvious reason of procreation. Because little boys need someone to connect with. Someone who gets them and why they are motivated to poke each other with sticks, lick unsanitary things, and never ever and I mean never stop moving. I love those boys, never mistake that.
While it was just the four of us for a short time, it didn’t feel complete. The last thing we needed was another mouth to feed, and I would never win an award for patience, but I felt compelled to try for just one more. And maybe, hopefully, wish on every single star that I would get a girl. Never in a million years did I think such an important wish would come true. It was granted, and she was a star gifted to me by the heavens and Mother Nature herself. We named her Stella, Greek for star. A perfect miniature incantation of myself. The blonde hair, green eyes, fierce expression all a perfect mimic. I was instantly in love. She was and is pure magic.
I have reveled in her for the past three years. Swooned over her absolute gorgeousness. Laughed myself silly alongside her baby and toddler giggles. Watched in awe as she navigates this life she was given.
The other night she tried to fly, which resulted in ER trip. She fought the CT scan as hard as she could until they made me leave the room. She was scared of the “bachine” and screamed over and over for me. I stood outside the door listening. At first she was hysterical, and when she realized that wasn’t working she began to reason with them using all her three year old knowledge of persuasiveness. “Can I please have my Mommy now?” ” I just really want my mommy.” Eventually she held still, the “bachine” did its thing, and the doctor brought her out to me. He commented that this must not be my first rodeo since I wasn’t beating down the door or crying myself. I laughed and jokingly told him my boys had broken me in well. What I didn’t say was that I was sick to my stomach, listening to my heart scream from the other room.
We lie in bed and snuggle every night. Every night that she doesn’t try to sleep with us. And yes, I am a complete sucker for her when she tells me that she wants to sleep with me because she loves me. Or because I am her precious mommy. Or because my bed is awesome and her’s is not. We cuddle, touch noses, sling arms around each other and I often whisper that she is my favorite. It is our secret. I tell her not to tell her brothers. That it is very important because not everyone understands. There is no love like the love between a mother and daughter.
Ashley Smith loves turquoise, antique white, thunderstorms, dark coffee, dark chocolate, and dark red wine, thrifting, crafting, writing, picture taking, child loving, messing with her husband, pretending to know what she is doing and blogging. Don’t forget blogging. Visit her at SugarBritches, her online home of three years where she chronicles her cooking, crafts, and kids. And also routinely drinks wine out of Mason jars.
Amy James, Our Everyday Dinners, is a wife, mother, home cook, amateur gardener, and MBA who blogs at Our Everyday Dinners. Our Everyday Dinners chronicles Amy’s success and struggles in the kitchen preparing healthy and delicious dinners for her family of 5, which includes her husband, John, and children, Kate, Abby, and Alex.
