Harper House Rules

   I am annoyed. I admit it. Sometimes I can just scroll by, or read a blog and shrug it off in an objective way. Other times, something just gets my goat. The goat has been gotten. Ugh. Numerous people on my friends list have been sharing posts about how you can have a messy house and be a good mom. Of course you can. There is nothing wrong with that message. I completely understand the writer's perspective. I have seen numerous other blog posts and articles conveying this same message. "It's ok to have a messy house! You are a good Mom!" Of course you are.   There are two parts of these posts that irk me. First, the subtle suggestion in all of these articles that a messy house is more fun. That a messy house shows how much more awesome mom stuff you're doing, so you just don't have time for cleaning. That being messy means you are more warm, inviting or loving. If you are doing awesome mom stuff, are warm, inviting, loving or playing, it isn't because y

  I have a 5, almost 6 year old daughter now. She is bright, funny and often times, tempermental. She is sometimes like a teenager stuck in a tiny little body. Raising a girl is a different experience for sure. Being male or female comes with it's own set of baggage. It's own set of restrictions or expectations. Being aware of those things will help you get through life. It helps you at least understand what you are up against, and makes things easier to navigate at times.   At dinner, the other night, she was dropping hints. About food of all things. About being "almost done" and "it sure was good". It was code for "I'd like some more." It completely struck me as a teachable moment. Yes. For a 5 year old. Here is basically how the conversation went: Me- " Are you saying you are still hungry and would like more food?" Zo- "Yes."  Me-" Well, then just say you would like more. There is no reason to hint about

  I woke up today feeling empty. Just as empty as I was this same time last week. A week ago today, my precious Mamaw left this world. She slipped out of her old, disease stricken body like slipping off a Sunday dress. In the end, it was peaceful. After several weeks of instense pain, she was finally free. And although I am grateful she is no longer suffering, I am left with a feeling of emptiness I can barely put into words.   After the actual event, there was the process. The visitation, the funeral, the burial. And I walked away from all of that still feeling a void. Not just a void over our loss, but a void over what I felt was a failure on my part. That I didn’t stand and speak for her, that I didn’t represent her. That instead of her being personalized and people leaving the funeral feeling closer to her than when they came- there was a definitive gap in anyone really conveying the essence of her- a wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. Although I realize it is futile to feel