Sometimes I do okay at this parenting thing

F is having a full of beans, bouncing off the walls kind of day. Me - not so much.

So instead of letting the grumpy me out and defaulting to snapping, I explained to him that his energy levels were way up here (demonstrating with one hand up high), and my energy levels were down low (my other hand much lower). And I needed a bit of space so I could bring my energy levels up closer to his, so I wouldn’t be a grumpy mum (showed my lower hand coming up toward meeting the higher hand).

And it seems to have worked! He understands the concept! I’ve still needed to give him a couple of reminders while we’ve been running errands, but he’s been checking in to see where my “energy levels” are at, and asking me to let him know when they’ve come up a bit.

Yay for a parenting win!


beca never got bedtime stories growing up because her parents were too busy arguing or too caught up in themselves. so when beca’s sick and can’t fall asleep, chloe will lay down next to her and tell her a bed time story. at first, beca will rolls her eyes and scoff (because it’s kid’s stuff, right?), but by the end, beca is so engrossed in the story that chloe will end up telling beca two more stories before beca actually falls asleep. 


This one is the continuation of my shukita AU. Yes! Their spirits ( ah akira is alive) are connected with paintings, so if something happens to them it will affect their souls too. Some tragedy happend in this mansion and their souls are traped in there by some curse or something like that( i didn’t finished this history yet….) and if they break this spell they’ll be free and resume to their grown up forms… That’s it. That’s all what i did…yep

Sorry for my lack of good grammar…oh god

Title: Roses

Warnings: None

Request: I LOVE YOU YOU KNOW THAT…. Can I add another Freddie to the list? A happy fluffy one???? (I can wait you know that so do everyone else’s first :) ) LOVE YOU!!!!! @carey-pricemas

Note: So, I realized writing stories for other writers is super terrifying? Ahhh… Sorry it took so long to get out! I hope you liked it!

Links: My Master List  and My Current Requests

You draped your bag over your shoulder, grabbing your coffee and keys off the counter before heading out of your apartment. You pulled the door open, almost crushing the single peach colored rose that was lying on your doormat. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you bent down to pick it up. The last few days had been rough and knowing someone was taking time out of their day to brighten yours filled you with joy. Stepping back into your apartment, you pulled a glass out of the cupboard filling it with water and placing the rose inside before you locked the door behind you and headed to your car; ready to head to work.

As you walked down the stairs, mulling over who the rose could possibly be from. Realizing you had told your best friend the most about the trials of the past week, you brought up her contact, calling her as you reached the bottom floor of your apartment complex. “Hey!” you greeted; your call accepted on the first ring.

“Why are you calling me at this ungodly hour.” she groaned; you had clearly woken her up. “And why are you so happy to awake right now?”

“It’s 8:00?” you replied. “A lot of functioning people are awake by this time.”

“I’m not most people. What do you want? I promise I’ll be much more pleasant if you call me after 11:00.”

“Okay.” you chuckled. “I’ll let you go back to sleep, I just wanted to thank you for the flower.”

“What flower?” she grumbled.

“The flower that was on my doorstep just now?” you questioned.

“You’re my best friend and I wish I could say that I was responsible for bringing you flowers, but it wasn’t from me.”

“Then who was it from?” you wondered out loud, taking a sip of your coffee.

“A secret admirer? Babe, I don’t know. Call me later, I’ll help you play detective then.”

“Fine. Bye.” you laughed, dropping your phone back in your bag.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I got pulled over by a cop for the first time today. I got a $120 fine. I've never been so close to a panic attack in my entire life. Cops are very intimidating sometimes 😅

Oh my goodness! I have no idea what being pulled over’s like, but I definitely know what panic attacks are like. I hope you’re okay! 😂💙

fateanda38-blog  asked:

I've got a question about your writing process: How do you approach individual scenes? Do you know where it is going to end up before you put pen to paper? Do you use the Mamet formula of Character wants X, makes efforts to get X and is thwarted? Or do you just throw characters together and watch what happens?

I rarely ever think about discreet scenes as separate from a whole unless I’m doing some kind of scripting.  Comic book scripts, teleplays, and screenplays allow for that kind of compartmentalization, but I can’t remember ever looking at a single scene in a novel and conceiving it as anything other than the next bit of the story.  That said, I’ll try to give you an answer that isn’t deliberately coy.

Sometimes, yes, I have a good idea of what’s going to happen next.  That next may be a single line or a page or a scene of some kind.  But that’s not a prerequisite.  If I waited until I had a plan for what comes next I would never get any writing done.  More often than not I figure out what happens next by writing something, anything, after whatever it is I wrote a moment before.  I guess that would fit your third option, throwing characters together.  Honestly, it gets harder and harder to answer questions about how I write.  The more you do something, the craft you possess, the more you realize how little you know and understand about what you’re doing.  I can’t really differentiate any longer what it is I think I know in advance that I am going to write, and what happens on the page in the moment.  Increasingly, I don’t even see a difference between what happens when I am physically writing words and what happens when I’m doing chores around the house or playing with my daughter or dealing with tech support for a new printer or having a beer with friends or talking about the day with my wife.  It all feels like part of the same process these days.    

To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. “We swear it by ice and fire.”

The Idea: I’ll put a jar of candy on my desk because then when people stop by to chat they can take a piece of candy and won’t that be neat?

Actuality: *mindlessly munches on candy all day* Huh. So the jar’s almost empty and only like three people have stopped by so maaaaybe I should stop eating this candy. *eats the rest of the candy*

I have to write this Phenomenology of Blackness paper.

Seriously, I was having lunch with a colleague who said to me “I don’t read you as a black person,” while I was sitting there, being a black person. Now, this colleague was white, but I’ve had theother threeblack people in my department say the exact same thing. Hell, this was the mantra of my childhood: “you’re not like other black people,” and “I don’t see you as a black people,” or “you’re whiter than us,” or any other structuring of that argument.

I’d like to say that I perform whiteness to an extent, yet the materiality of my black body prevents me from being considered as a black person. To take the words of Sara Ahmed, there is a likeness to whiteness that is seen in my embodiment, but that likeness is seen only after the interaction with my black body. Hence, to whiteness, I am other than other black people, closer to whiteness. Which is generally how it goes: I’m read as white over the phone, through paper submissions, e-mails, etc, and people aresurprisedwhen they meet me that I’m black.

On the other end, the embodiment of whiteness through habit and language tends to mark me as other to blackness, despite the materiality of my body. That is, my behavior and embodiment are read as closer to whiteness, despite the materiality of my black body, and thus I am perceived as different from most of the black people who I’ve interacted with. I’d call this experience unique to me, but I have spoken with several other black people who experience this kind of thing in varying degrees.

So I’d posit that blackness is, in similar ways to whiteness in Sara Ahmed’s view, an uncompleted history that orients bodies against the white space of the world as defined and constructed by colonialism. Further, blackness has an aspect to it that is embodied, performed in such a way to affirm the material reality of a black body: without the performance, the body (despite its material) is read as something other.

I need to get James Major’s “Cool Pose” and re-read Merleau-Ponty, Husserl, and Fanon, but I think this is a path worth exploring.