All kinds of new things this year!

Last year, I neglected this poor blog entirely too much. And I apologize. Every year I write goals for myself, not resolutions, attainable goals. One of this year's goals is to update this page more often and find some awesome content for y'all!

As for the changes and goals for this year? Last year, I attended quite a few conventions and book signings. While I still intend on doing a few, I only plan on doing one that is not local and that will be CIL-Con in Mattoon, IL.Otherwise, I'm going to stick closer to home this year. Why, you ask?

My husband and I have decided to become foster parents. I'd done it in the past, but my license expired about two or three years ago. We'll be going through the classes starting this spring. We've chosen to do elevated needs, which can also be considered special needs. Since I've raised my own special needs kids, as well as worked with both special needs adults and kids, we feel extremely comfortable and confident. While previously I'd chosen to work with the teens, this time, we're focusing on newborns through six years old. Because I still have two teens, I didn't want the risk of any accusations or hardships on my own kids.

The only thing making me nervous is making sure I have everything we need. A lot of these kids come with little to nothing. I already found a toddler car seat, but I still need an infant seat, a booster seat, a crib, and some varying sizes of clothing in case they come with nothing. I'm extremely excited, and extremely nervous.

As far as my professional career, I still plan on writing. I figure I wrote when I watched four toddler boys, I can write with little ones living here. I put out my sixth book on December 30th and plan on putting out at least three more books this year. At least, that's my goal. I also plan on becoming better at marketing myself. I'm excellent at marketing for anyone else; time to work for myself just as hard. So, having said that, I'll be including links to my books on this blog, as well as my website, www.clparks.net.

That's all I have for you today, but keep your eyes open for new posts on cooking, cleaning, and being a housewife. After all, that is my primary job and I'm damn proud of it.

The Death of My Daddy

The information I'd originally given was vague, and for many reasons. At first, we were working with limited information. On June 1, 2016 at around 9am I received a phone call from my step mom that there had been an accident in Kentucky and my daddy was dead. I kept screaming "you're lying. No he's not. I just talked to him three days ago. You're f*cking lying." And then I began to hyperventilate and collapsed on the kitchen floor. My first call was to my husband who rushed home from work. Then my mom, who called first my little sister, then my big brother on three way to break the news.

The only thing I could find online was a tractor trailer driver fell asleep at the wheel, hit a tree, and the truck caught on fire. Imagine the images that floated through my mind. But we knew better. My daddy didn't fall asleep behind the wheel. He'd been in a truck since he was 18, driving since he was 21. He knew when to pull over, when to sleep, when to rest. We knew he'd had his third heart attack and died behind the wheel.

And then more information began to come out:

This was found on Twitter. Later, they would post a story containing my daddy's name, Jack Howard, Jr, as well as the name of the passenger.

But, we still had to drive the five hours to Kentucky to see my daddy's body before he was cremated because there would be no funeral (per his wishes). My sister, brother, and I made the drive to Louisville, KY. My brother had to hold me up when we walked into the hallway to see that my worst fears had been confirmed. I had tried so hard to convince myself that it wasn't my daddy, just a mere case of mistaken identity.

We've finally learned the full details of that day. I've talked to the passenger, who is thankfully going to be okay in about six months. He'd been sleeping and felt the bump strip along the side of the road. He looked up to find my daddy slumped over the wheel. He jumped up to grab the wheel, but was too late. The semi crashed into a tree, the limbs going through the windshield. The passenger was unable to get out of his door or climb over my daddy, so he climbed through the broken windshield, rolled off the hood, and ran to the road in nothing but shorts and socks to try to get help. He said dozens of cars drove past before finally a truck driver and a pastor stopped. The truck at this point was smoking. They were able to pull my daddy from the truck, but he was already gone. The coroner confirmed that he was gone before the truck hit the tree. It was a massive heart attack. His third.

There are details I don't wish to share, mainly because I can't bring myself to type them, but I will share a few pictures. I do warn you, though, a couple may be disturbing.

My brother in law built this cross, my husband painted it, my sister and I attached the flowers, and my brother nailed it into the ground. This is something I feared would someday happen as I begged him to come off the road, even offering to let him live with us. But the stubborn ass refused to stop working.

The next few pics are of my daddy's truck. The first is what it looked like, and yes, that's a dead owl in the grill. He was always sending me strange pics and texts. He had a silly and strange sense of humor (gee, wonder where I get it):

When the truck began to smoke, they pulled my daddy at least five hundred feet away, so he wasn't inside the truck when this happened:

My brother, sister, and I dug through the dirt, the burned ground, the gas soaked mud in hopes of finding anything that we could connect to my daddy, something that he'd touched. I'm currently wearing a washer on a necklace that was part of the truck. I would give anything to have something that smelled like him, but the contents of the truck were burned.

We held a memorial for my daddy on June 12. My sister made a video for the memorial, a tribute to my daddy's life:

I still can't watch this video without bawling. I'm having a hard time believing he's gone. I keep telling myself he's just on the road, he just hasn't called back yet. But he won't. He'll never call back again. There will be no more silly text messages, no silly calls.

During this time, I felt more alone than I ever have. In the "older" days, people would gather around the bereaved, bring them food, etc. Instead, I received a few texts the day of, had two friends who checked on me regularly, but that was it. There were so many times I wanted to call someone and ask them to bring food, or even just vacuum the floor for me. I couldn't seem to make myself get up. My chest ached, my body felt full of lead. But I was too proud to reach out for help. When I needed my friends the most, there was no one there. If it weren't for my sister, brother, husband, mom, and best friend, I don't know if I could've made it through this with my sanity intact.

The next time someone close to you loses someone, don't offer condolences and remind them they can call you if they need you. Go to their house, show up with food, offer to straighten up, feed their pets, whatever. Send a cheap bouquet of flowers or a card to remind them they're not alone. I'll never again send a vague text, I'll never again tell someone to call me if they need me. I'm just going to show up at your house with a couple days worth of food and I might even wash your damn dishes!

Day 1 - 1950s Housewife Experiment Take 2

This morning started out fairly well. I got up, showered, did my hair and makeup and proceeded to make coffee and breakfast. Promptly after breakfast I got to work. Now, while most housewives of that time generally cleaned about 3 hours (their homes were also smaller than ours) they cleaned every day. Since I've let some of my household chores slide a little this cleaning is taking me all damn day. Did I mention I have three teenagers home from school today and tomorrow?

While I originally started out cleaning the basement to some fabulous Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett records, that eventually ended when the first child decided they wanted to watch TV. Okay, cool. Whatever.  I just proceeded to clean, and finally moved upstairs. Have you ever heard the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I think that title works perfectly for mothers. I seriously can not tell you how many times I cleaned the exact same mess, the exact same room, until I finally exploded. The oldest boy had the audacity to ask me why I was mad. I just glared at him, sweating rolling down my forehead, while he munched away on pizza and dropped crumbs all over the table I had just wiped down and the floor I had just swept.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. I broke my own rule at one point and popped onto Facebook to vent. Mothers who lived in that time assured me it was nothing new. However, my best friend's theory is that mothers were able to beat their kids back then. Either way, I can't see my grandma allowing my mom and uncles to constantly make a mess as she cleaned.

Now, on top of trying to be the perfect vintage housewife around three kids I'm also dealing with a now three-legged cat. She was originally a stray who appeared one day and refused to leave. I really didn't want twenty more barn cats so I had her spayed. Well, either some kind of a predator got a hold of her, or she got into the engine of a car and the car was started. Either way, this is Grace now.

*Grace the Wonder Cat has her own Facebook page if you'd like to keep up with her recovery.*

I don't know if you can tell by this pic but she has massive damage to her right hip and rear end, damage to the left side of her face, cuts along her back, and had her right front leg amputated. So, on top of dealing with my normal day to day life, and attempting to live life as close to the genuine 1950s housewife, I've had to play nurse to this little girl. In case you haven't guessed yet, she will now be an inside cat.

I've tried several times to download the pics I've taken through out the day, including pics of my homemade chicken and dumplings I made from my 1954 Betty Crocker's Good and Easy Cookbook.

Sorry for the horrible pic. Took it with my phone,

I had my doubts as not only was this my first attempt at making chicken and dumplings, but it was from an old cookbook. There were so few ingredients for the dumplings, yet they were delicious since they were boiled in the broth made from stewing the chicken.

Sorry I can't post a pic of the actual meal. Stupid laptop! When I figure out where I'm going wrong I'll post, I promise.

Now, on to the rest of the day...I'm freaking exhausted! I swear I'm limping and my back is so sore! The only time I sat today was to fold laundry. Other than that I was on the go non stop. Oh wait, that's not true. I had to sit while driving to find a police officer to unlock my daughter's handcuffs. Yes, you read that correctly. My darling daughter threw her key in a huff, and her brother didn't know that when he locked her wrists in those damn metal contraptions, We were able to get one wrist out with soapy water, but the other was way too tight.

So there's my first day in a nut shell. Not really a failure, but not exactly a success...not in my eyes anyway. My makeup is smeared, and my hair went crazy hours ago. Tomorrow I'm babysitting my nephews for a few hours so I'll just pretend I'm going to my bridge club or whatever they did with the other ladies back then.

Night, y'all. My poor booty needs rest!

1950s Housewife Experiment - Take 2

For those of you who have been following this blog for a while remember my first 1950s Housewife Experience. Well, guess what? I'm doing it again. This time you can find everything on my other blog, I'd Rather Be Blogging. I will be cross posting so nothing will be missed, and this blog will stay up as I plan on continuing with my housewife posts.

In the meantime, enjoy some fun, vintage commercials:

If I Could Do It All Again - An original essay by Christy Parks

If I Could Do It Again

By Christy Parks

Like every new mother I stressed, yelled, and complained. I couldn’t wait for the day when my kids could do more for themselves and give me a break. I couldn’t wait for the day when I no longer had to stay up until three in the morning to ensure the visit by Santa would remain secret. I couldn’t wait for the day when I no longer had to sneak into my kids’ rooms, tripping over toys, and slip money under their pillowcase in exchange for a blood stained tooth.

Now that my kids are in high school, edging toward adulthood, I can’t help but wonder where the time went. Sure, I wanted the time to fly a little faster, to get some time for myself, to allow at least one day when I could sleep past six am. I was a fool.

As I set about decorating for the holidays, shopping for the perfect gift, my heart is a little broken. No longer do I get to hunt up and down the toy aisles, searching for the coolest and noisiest toys possible. No longer do I get a child bundled up in foot pajamas climbing up onto my lap to watch Rudolph, Frosty, and Charlie Brown. Sure, my kids still enjoy hanging around me at times, but there are no more little hands slipped into mine when we cross the street, no more tear streaked faces over tiny scrapes and boo boos.

Where did the time go?

I didn’t get the same amount of time as others, as my children didn’t come into my life until they were four, five, and six years old. There are no baby pictures hanging on my walls, but there are memories everywhere. There are no memories of the first step or the first word, but there are memories of the first time my kids called me mom, the first time they said they loved me, and the first time I realized my heart was swollen with love for these three.

If I could do it all again I would slow down, listen to every tiny detail of their day, let them paint, color, and build as many mud pies as they could fit into a day. I would pull them onto my lap and watch lightening bugs flash in the summer night sky. If I could do it all again, I would sing more, read more books to them, and take more field trips to the zoo, Grant’s Farm, Purina Farms, and any and every museum I could find. If I could do it all again I would let them cook alongside me no matter how big of a mess they made, I would let them roll the dough, and I would let them decorate the cookies by themselves, even if the gingerbread man’s eyes didn’t match.

If I could do it all again I would enjoy every single second and would never wish for them to grow up a little faster.