It’s a Baby’s Life

You have made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb. Psalm 139:13

Because of many complications and surgeries after my tiny, premature baby boy was born, I could never get pregnant again. But, that’s okay. My son provided me with four grandkids, and two of those four have provided me with eight great-grandkids. AWESOME!

Leighton James is great grandbaby #8

Bookmarks: My Great-grandchildren

I was blessed with one child, a son who, due to an injury when he was a teen, the doctor said he probably wouldn’t father children. He has four children and six grandchildren. We are truly blessed!

I enjoy digital designs and I hope you enjoy my creations using photos of my great-grandchildren that I collected over the years. These kids are awesome!

Overwhelmed

Picture17

I should be doing laundry. I should be cleaning all that junk off the front porch. I should be pulling weeds, hosing down the driveway, picking up limbs, and watering my plants.

I should be doing a lot of things.

But, I’m retired and I don’t have to do anything around the house today. I’ll do it tomorrow. And if tomorrow doesn’t come, then I won’t have to worry about all that stuff I should be doing today.

Besides, heaven is looking better to me all the time. I’m tired of my house falling apart and bossing me around. It’s gotten way too big for its britches!

That’s why I’m sitting here with my door closed drinking coffee and doing what makes me forget about all the stuff I should be doing today . . . creating happy stuff.

Lots and lots of happy stuff!

Blood, Sweat, and Tears!

My writing has been on hold since hubby and I decided to wreck our house. Literally. Yep! Every square inch of it. We’re ripping up our old, nasty carpet and putting down new, vinyl plank flooring.

Piece of cake!

Well, for the pros who know what they’re doing with tons of experience and manpower to get the job done in just a few short days. Not so for two old timers with no experience no manpower and hardly a clue of what we’re doing or when we will ever get finished.

It was hardly our plan to wrestle this grizzly bear ourselves. But, due to people’s busy schedules and since we already had the planks piled in the den, we decided to give it our best shot. After all, we watched every how-to video for days. Even watched one showing a mom and her two small boys installing their floor.

We were pumped! We were empowered. We were ready to conquer the world!

We began on Monday, May 27, 2019. We’re not done. Not even close. But we’re not giving up in spite of the car wreck, the water damage, the many repairs, frustration, anger, and tears. We will see this through to the bloody end!

To see the beginning of our progress, check it out here: https://sandistatondigitaldesigns.com/2019/05/24/golden-years-where-are-you/

This is the progress we’ve made thus far:

Then the real fun began:

So, that’s what we’ve accomplished in four, long, frustrating, hair-raising, nail-biting, weeks. Not bad for two old people and a hand truck.

Stay tuned for more.

Lots more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Digital Art: Pocket Full of Happy


Sometimes our own little world is not very happy.
Bad stuff happens. Pets die. Friends disappoint us. Parents get old and sick and spend their remaining months or years in a nursing home.
Having battled depression most of my life, I like being around happy people and creating happy stuff. I hope my creations put a smile on your face. 

Free for your own personal use
Click on any picture to enlarge or begin slideshow

Deadly Addictions

I loved him. He was my brother. But there were times I wanted to kill him. Like when he was fourteen and burned down the vacant house up the street. When he broke into schools to steal pencils and erasers. When the cops came knocking on our door. When he made my mother cry. When he cussed me on the phone at three in the morning. When he stole from my husband. When he’d abandon his wife and kids for days. When his promises went up in smoke. When he shook his fist in my dad’s face and called him an old man; the same old man who bailed him out of trouble a million times over; the same old man that he never saw again after that. Didn’t even go to the funeral.

Drugs were his food. Alcohol was his water. Prison was his home.

Addicted to a life of thrills and chills, he was a living, breathing hurricane of total destruction in the lives he touched. Truth was a foreign language. Denial was a constant companion. Honesty was a devil in disguise.

Why? Why was he so bent on self-destruction? What was so enthralling about running from the cops or living in the woods or spinning tails that even the devil couldn’t believe? Why did he think he was so entitled to do whatever he pleased regardless of the cost to society, to his family, to himself?

Why didn’t he do something constructive with his art, his poetry, and writing? He was brilliant. He could have flown as high as an eagle but chose to wallow in the mud like a pig. Why?

I don’t know. I just know that while he was high on drugs and living a life of crime I was wishing I had a brother I could depend on. A brother I could talk to. A brother I could trust. I was wishing he would straighten up before it was too late. I was wishing he would remove the blindfolds and see how much I loved him.

A few days before Thanksgiving 2014 we had a screaming match over the phone. I hung up on him, wishing he was in front of me so I could smack him upside the head. A few days later he called back. As always, I accepted his apology. The day after Thanksgiving, he was found dead in his apartment.

He was sixty-three.

It still hurts. I still miss him. I still wish he had chosen a sensible life. And regardless of the things he had done, the people he had hurt, the destruction he caused, I loved him. I loved him then. I love him now. I’ll love him till I die. He was my little brother and now he’s gone.

So I sit here, barely able to see the screen through my tears, wishing I could hear his voice once more. Wishing I could tell him I’m praying for him once more. Wishing I could convince him to change his ways before it’s too late . . . once more. Now, I can only hope that he did.

I Want More of This and Less of That

I got a makeover today. I asked the makeup artist to make my eyes look bigger, my nose to look smaller, and my lips to look fuller.

Yeah, I’m just clowning around. But how many of us are never satisfied with our looks? As a kid, I used to sit for hours drawing before and after pictures of myself because I never liked what I saw in the mirror: freckles splattered all over my face, eyebrows and eyelashes you couldn’t see with the naked eye, and straight, stubborn red hair. And I was skinny. Like, Olive Oyl skinny. My clothes looked better on the coat hanger than they looked on me.

But, I wasn’t alone in my self-loathing world. My best friend was so self-conscious of her weight that it was like coaxing a mule to get her to poke her head out the door. Another friend hated her feet and nose and said they were the two ugliest body parts ever. And then there was the boob thing. They were either too big, too little, or non-existent. Guess where I fit in.

It’s a shame that many of us go through life feeling “less than” for whatever reason. Why do we do that? What is so awful about that body part we don’t like? So awful that we feel we belong in a zoo; or even worse, a freak show. So awful that many have spent thousands of dollars to fix only to end up broke and just as dissatisfied as ever.

Ken and Barbie didn’t help much. And neither did models and movie stars with their dazzling eyes, flawless skin, and perfect bodies. The unspoken message was and still is, what you see is what you should look like. And if you don’t, you might as well wear a bag over your head.

And we believe it!

I fell into that deep dark hole of believing that people didn’t like me because I was ugly. The truth is, I didn’t like myself because I believed I was ugly. I believed that from head to toe something was really wrong with me. I mean, really! Other girls my age had boobs. Why couldn’t I?

According to guys, boobs were way better than brains. I grew up with brothers, I know. They would laugh and tell me I was a pirates dream because I had a sunken chest. And they hid Playboy books under their mattresses and google-eyed every girl who bounced like a pair of basketballs when she walked.

So yeah. I got the message loud and clear. If you don’t have boobs you might as well be dead.

While laying in the sun one day, my bathing suit stuffed with toilet paper, I felt completely hopeless of ever looking like a real girl. But I believed in prayer. I even believed in miracles. So I prayed, “Lord. Please give me some boobs!”

Today, I’m so thankful God didn’t give me what I asked for. And I’m thankful that I learned to love myself as I am. If we can’t love and accept ourselves, how can we possibly love and accept others? If all we see when we look at someone is their physical appearance then we’re not seeing that person at all. There’s so much more to a book than its cover. You have to open it. You have to read it. Only then can you know and appreciate what it’s all about.

So I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care what color your skin is. I don’t care if you walk with a limp, stutter when you talk if you’re gay or straight or have tattoos and piercings from head to toe. I care about your heart. And I judge whether I want you as my friend by what’s in your heart.

It’s been a long, hard journey, this self-discovery thing. A journey that most of us have traveled. And until we can realize that there is no “perfect” in this world we’ll never end that torturous journey. We’ll never be happy with ourselves. We’ll never dig deep inside ourselves to see what really makes us tick. We’ll die wishing we could be like someone else.