I have really wanted to go all out and start a blog for a while now. The main thing that has been keeping me from starting is what to call my blog. Silly I know, but to me, the name has to be good. I also believe that things come to you when they come to you. My blog arrived in my car on the way home from the plant nursery on New Garden Road in Greensboro, North Carolina.
As my mom and I were turning on to Friendly Avenue, I saw my old doctor's office. I rolled my eyes at a memory. Here is the dialogue between me and my mother.
"Remember Dr. (Blank), she was a Quack."
"Page! She was not, she really cared about us."
"Mom, she tried to cut a mole off Britt in the office and she jumped off the table and ran around the room." (We both start laughing.)
"OK, ok, she was a quack."
Just then Kenneth interrupts us, "Mommy? What's a Quack?" Then we both really die laughing, like the kind of laughing that makes you cry, or wet your pants, or both. My mom tells my son that a "Quack is someone who really doesn't know what they are talking about." That is when it hit me. I don't know what the hell I am talking about. I have three children I stay at home with everyday, and everyday I wing it. I am a quack; a big, fat, mommy quack. If you want to read a perfect, cute little mommy blog, go for it. I read them. I love them! I learn from them! But if you want to read about failures and mistakes and craziness, stick with me. Come and go if something makes you shudder. I am under construction, I usually am, but I will get it all going soon. So please, come and learn about how my children run my days as I try to take care of them , work, write, and keep the house from falling down. Oh, and everyday I attempt to keep my southern roots as I try to blend in in the north. Let's see how it goes, but remember, you might learn more from a trip to the duck farm with a bag of stale bread. Quack Quack Quack.