Because I Don't Want to Listen to Myself Type

A sign near our house lauded the "Bixby Coast."  Erm:   here's the Bixby Coast!

My delicious devilish child of the corn.

I apologize for the quiet around these parts lately.  I have been going through some cringe-worthy internal drama and geographical-related angst, which has occasionally threatened to send me off into the deep end  like it did during my (most recent) pregnancy.



And for eff's sake, I haven't wanted to sound whiny, because hello!  Roof!  Healthy kids!  Healthy me!  Healthy and wonderful husband!  Medical insurance!  Woo hoo! But I think I can say this factually:  caring for six kids without the (perhaps mythical) support system of many nearby family members can be hard.  And, for me, raising children in this strange, flat land is just never going to come naturally.  There are many days when I still struggle with the question:  why do people live here unless there is some provision mandating such residency in their well-slicked oil trust fund provisions?

Apres Corn Maze.  Yep, that's as good as I could do.

Informal dance recital:  Her Old Straw Hat

I have no answers.

Who is going to bottle the smell of fat milky baby neck ?

Sometimes it takes my breath away how effing lucky I am.

I just keep fervently praying:  dear God keep filling me up with joy, selflessness, bottomless love and salty margaritas because EECK I love these kids so much - I don't want my occasional existential sadness to muck the whole dang thing up.