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A doozy!

Blogging is a little surreal.

I sit here at home (mostly) and write about what's going on in my life or what's on my mind. I don't always publish what I write, but do about half the time. 

And sometimes, the posts are humorous glimpses into my mind or life. And others, like my most recent post #Me Too, Too Many Times, the revelations are jaw-dropping and anything but humorous.

And then I go out in the world and encounter people who have taken time to read what I write (thank you!).

This is where it feels surreal. Because I haven't changed, just what you now know about me has changed. In the Me Too post, what I revealed happened many years ago and has been woven into the tapestry that is me. It was horrendous and horrible, but God has given me a resilience to move through those traumas wholly intact. I am also bolstered daily by my husband of nearly 30 years who holds me and listens to me and loves me. I thank God for John.

When you see me, remember that the person you see now is the same person you saw before you read the Me Too post. I am still that Pollyanna, 'the glass is half full' person. I still smile way more than I frown and I laugh way more than I cry. And the impossibility of my sunny disposition, in light of that past, I believe should inspire smiles not pity.

I apologize if the news of my past shocked you or was more than you needed to know. I did not share it lightly, only after prayer and reflection over many weeks. I felt compelled to share my story, in part, so you could put a face you knew (and loved?) to the #metoo movement.

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It's not a popularity contest, but ...

When an ass is so much more

  Body image. Body positivity.  Or about coming to an appreciation for a previously much maligned back end.  In junior high (that's middle school for all of you non boomers), I was given the nickname "big butt Bowen". It was a nickname that stung because I did indeed have a large ass. I tried to mask it, a difficult endeavor since the current fashion (and remember this is junior high when fitting in was paramount) was wearing hip hugger jeans with midriff tops and my disguise of choice were peasant blouses or dresses. That style choice earned an additional nickname, Mama Cass. For those of you that don't know who Mama Cass was, she was part of the Mamas and Papas and known for her beautiful voice but also for her large body.  All about Mama Cass I was cruelly nicknamed at a time when nicknames can really mess with a girl's psyche. And I spent a lifetime as that girl with the messed up psyche. I'm sure there are more than one of you out there that can relate. B

Peter Pan no more

                          It's time. Peter Pan had to grow up.  For nearly 18 months of his life, Matthew dressed in this costume. In this picture it's new, just out of the box. He picked the costume out of a catalog and when it arrived, two weeks prior to Halloween, he asked daily if today was the day he could finally wear his Peter Pan costume. He didn't like the hat and only wore it on Halloween, but the rest of the costume he wore daily! You read that correctly - DAILY. He wore it to Meijer (for those of you unfamiliar with Meijer, it's a cleaner, friendlier, more 'upscale' version of WalMart), to church, to play dates and preschool ... Heck, he was three and adorable and it worked for him!  (Yes you read that correctly, he even wore it to church on one or two occasions when it seemed arguing with a three year old about not wearing a costume to church was not a battle worth waging. He once mentioned the priests wore dresses . . . I don't think Joh

Cabin fever made me do it!

Like nearly ever person in West Michigan, I have a serious case of cabin fever.  I won't waste your time however, complaining about the two-hundred feet of snow that's fallen in the last two hours. I won't share about the twenty or thirty times I've had to shovel my walk today as gusts blew it right back in my face. And I certainly will not lament about the temperatures that hover around negative double digits making your nostrils freeze together within moments of stepping outside. To bore you with tales of how we have to shovel areas in our yard so that our large dog and can do his 'duty' because the snow is deeper than he is tall and dogs for whatever reason cannot poop in the same place twice, is not what I will share. You will not hear about how when I open the slider to let aforementioned dog outside, gusts of wind blow drifts of snow inside and require a shovel to once again close the door.  Nor will I share how some roads around here are drifted shut be