A great WordPress.com site

In a sleepy little prairie town back in 1914, Lillian Forbes Gunter, my grandmother, gave birth to twins.  On September 21st of that year, Donald Hugh Dean and Alma Aileen came into the world as two tiny, perfectly made, bundles of joy, their addition making the Gunters a family of nine.  In the years following their birth, two more children would join the family, creating a grand total of nine for my grandparents to raise.

Alma Aileen Gunter was my mother.  For almost 38 years, this amazing woman mothered me and my five brothers with every ounce of the love she held within her.  In addition to all the love she lavished on us, my mother taught us many valuable lessons of life; right from wrong, the Golden Rule, as well as basic, good old-fashioned morals.  When I look back at my childhood I realize there are some things that I view very differently now, in middle-age. than I did then. For one thing, I thought my mother was too old-fashioned in certain ways, which is understandable since she was from a whole different era.  Mom was just shy of 45 when she gave birth to her only daughter, me, which made us worlds apart in many ways.  Of course now I have a much greater appreciation for all mom’s lessons, her sound advice, and sometimes even the discipline she lovingly rendered.

I’m ashamed to confess this but there was a time when embarrassment of my mother, and father too, hovered over me.  The reason for those childish feelings stemmed from comments made by my friends and classmates.  “Are they your grandparents?”, or, “Wow, your parents are so old”, were just a few of the often mean-spirited remarks I heard growing up.  Words that stung, words that hurt, words I could never think of a comeback to.  Thank goodness I finally grew up, matured enough to move past such a silly reason for embarrassment, and to recognize how the age of my parents was inconsequential.  I am so thankful that the veil of childish notions parted so I could finally see my beautiful mom for the loving, kind and selfless woman she was, that I was blessed to know.  Even more than that, God blessed me with Alma Aileen Gunter Porter as my mother, my mentor, my best friend.

To some people, 38 years may seem like a long time, and in some ways I suppose it is, but for me and my mom, it was far too short.  It was not nearly enough mother-daughter time.  I miss my mom every day of my life, and on this very special day I just want to say, “Happy 100th Birthday mom (and Uncle Don), I wish you were here to celebrate with me.


What’s Bugging You?

Today I’m making time for a little bit of the things in life that bug me. Life is full of them; a driver on the road behind you, following too close, much too close; the crunching sound your husband makes when eating a stalk of celery; or the phantom family member who uses the last remnants of toilet paper then neglects to replace the roll.  These are just a few examples of something most of us are familiar with, otherwise known as, pet peeves.  For anyone not familiar with the term, a pet peeve can be described as, “a simple annoyance”, or, “a recurring source of irritation”, or even, “a specific dislike”.  Take your pick.

We all have at least one, or if you’re like me, you probably have a few pet peeves  The very thing that has the capacity to drive you over the brink of sanity may not bother anyone else in the least, it may have zero effect on them .  It is also entirely possible that YOU may be the source of another person’s annoyance, and be completely oblivious to this fact.

Apparently, the first usage of the term pet peeve appeared around 1919, although it may stem from a 14th century word, peevish, meaning “ornery”, or, “ill-tempered”.  As anyone who has or had one, pet peeves certainly have the potential for making us both ornery, and/or ill-tempered. It makes me wonder who invented those two little words, and what their first pet peeve was, what specific dislike compelled them to coin the term.

The list of these recurring sources of irritation is endless, and can come from anyone, anywhere, at anytime.  A spouse, our children, the boss, or a stranger, all have the ability to strike a chord of annoyance in us.  When I asked my husband what irks him, I was told that it is the drivers who neglect to use their turn signals AND certain members of our family, who shall remain anonymous, that don’t recycle properly, or in other words, we don’t recycle the way he does.  I can usually tell when hubby is annoyed by the look on his face plus the silence that ensues along with that look, and I know that I have been on the receiving end of his annoyance a time or two.  I decided to ask a few others about their pet peeves and received quite a list, starting with, a spouse who interrupts his wife when she’s speaking.  Some other answers were;  an employee who leaves the lid of the copier up after using, students who constantly tap their fingers or a pen on their desk, mothers who dislike their children eating with their mouth open, a friend who pops and smacks her gum, and shoppers who are annoyed by the shopping carts with wonky wheels.  Today on Facebook I noticed a post written by my nephew in regard to an eternal pet peeve he has, which is when able-bodied people take the elevator from the first to the second floor.  You never know what bugs someone else.

Pet peeves obviously come in all shapes and sizes, with their behaviours involving  anything from disrespect, to manners, to personal hygiene, to relationships and family issues.  They cover a broad spectrum.  Mothers have pet peeves with their children, which can include anything from whining to not being listened to.  Teachers have pet peeves with their students, like noise levels and repeated trips to the bathroom.  Bosses and employees may not like certain behaviours in each other, which could be such things as not brewing a fresh pot of coffee after grabbing the last cup, or perhaps spending too much time on their cell phones.

As for what bugs me, well, I’ve mentioned a few of my pet peeves in the opening paragraph, but I confess, I have more…flies crawling on my skin, people who talk over me, and waiting for someone who is late.  That last one is at the top of my pet peeve list, it drives me crazy!  Who knows, maybe some day, the things that make me ornery and ill-tempered now will cease and desist, or perhaps I’ll discover a whole new list of pet peeves.  So let me ask the question…What bugs you?

I knew it was coming, that day when the last of my four children would leave home. Those two little words, “empty nest”, adjective and noun, were just words I’d heard other people toss around for years.  Little did I imagine the speed at which those childhood years would careen by.  How many times, how many people, offered me that age-old advice when my babies were newly arrived -” Enjoy every moment with your children, they grow up in the blink of an eye”?  Let’s just say I heard those words a time or two.

During those early days of motherhood, sleep deprived and learning the fine art of multitasking, the thought of my babies all grown up did not exist.  When my first-born child left home, I wasn’t prepared, she was only 17, which created a plethora of worries.  Tears flowed, mine, but I still had three more children to mother, another teenager plus two toddlers.  No time to spend on moping or tears.  Between a husband, my children, ageing, ill parents and a fulltime job, busy was my middle name.  I don’t mean that I didn’t miss her, that was a given, but my hectic life carried on out of pure necessity.

By the time my second-born child felt the urge to spread his wings and fly away, the impact might have been easier than his sister’s departure, with the exception of one significant detail – he decided to go west, far west, to Alberta.  A whole new batch of concerns and worries settled into my gut, and yet I attempted to be a supportive mother, encouraging my son in his quest for independence.

After child number two left,  our house was down to four of us, my husband and our two youngest, who were in their first years of elementary school.  I can’t say our home was any quieter with one less body, maybe a little less loud music, no teenage drama, but we had our moments.  I can say that life was different with my two oldest children living elsewhere, but once again, we all adapted, our lives motored on.

The weeks, then months, and before we knew it, the years, sped ahead.  Child one moved back home, then child two reappeared at our door, both needing a roof over their head.  I had no problem with this, in fact, I was delighted to have my chicks back in the nest for however long they wanted, or needed, to stay.  As it turns out, once your kids have tasted even a morsel of independence, or experienced a place of their own, they aren’t thrilled about living under the parental roof again.  Both child one and child two stayed with us for several months then each found a way to move out and move on once again.  The next exit they made didn’t sting quite as much as the first time.  I was okay this time, I was getting better at letting my children go.  Life scurried on.

My two youngest children were growing up, much too quickly, but I would not allow myself to think about the future, as in, the day each of them would announce their plans to move out.  I still had lots of time before that day arrived.  Or so I thought.  But time has a way of sneaking up on us.  One day you’re taking your baby home from the hospital, swaddled, smelling like only a baby can smell, and the next, you’re shopping with them for dorm essentials.  Makes my head spin just thinking about it.

The next thing I knew, child three announced her plans for college, a one year program at Sheridan college in Oakville.  It wasn’t the choice I’d hoped for her to make once this day arrived.  For me, a school closer to home would have been preferable.  We all attempted to persuade her to stay closer to home, my husband, my two older children and I, but despite all the positives we pointed out, she was having none of it.  Suffice it to say, my daughter disagreed adamantly, stating that a big part of the college experience involved moving away from home, far away.  Alrighty then.  In the grand scheme of things, I assured myself that Oakville wasn’t too far away, a few hours in the car, a doable drive.

For some reason, although I’d been there done that with two kids already, my anxiety level sky-rocketed the closer we came to child three’s departure.  And then the day arrived.  We transported her to Sheridan, to the dorm room that would be her home for the next eight months.  Leaving my child in a strange new city tugged at my heart, but once again, acceptance was the only way for me to move on.

Back home, our household was extremely quiet with just the three of us, a scenario my youngest child seemed to adapt to and enjoy immensely right away.  And why not?  For the first time in his eighteen years all the parental attention would be focused solely on him.  For the next several months my son’s fantasy of being an only child would be realized.

Of my four children, number three showed the least evidence of homesickness.  My girl soaked up college life with all its many experiences like a sponge.  City life seemed to agree with her, it was her Utopia, and in no way did she possess the slightest desire to move back to our small town, Boringville, in her mind.  However, when the college year ended,  with no immediate plans for summer or for a return to college in the fall, child three was forced to move back home. It was made crystal clear by my daughter that moving back home would be temporary, only until she decided what she wanted to do with her life.  I welcomed her home, just like her older siblings before her.  Life settled back into a four member household, everyone doing their own thing, same old, same old, which made for a happy, content mama bear.

The next year sailed by.  My youngest child, my baby boy (which he hates to be called), graduated from grade twelve with honours.  After some contemplation about his future, and discussion with his father and I, our son decided to do a fifth year of high school.  Music to my ears!  I wasn’t ready to let my baby go, not just yet, but aside from my selfish-mom reasons, I felt relieved that he had come to that decision on his own.  So, one more year as a four member family at home.

The following months were spent reviewing universities, then selecting five to apply to, and finally, waiting for the acceptance letters to start pouring in.  That was phase one.  Reality started poking at me, the future was barreling toward me.  As my son’s excitement grew, my anxiety put me on notice of its arrival.  Still, I shared in his excitement, his moments of happiness.  With each notification of acceptance, from every school he’d applied to, pride in my son swelled.

With a school chosen, Ryerson, in downtown Toronto, child four appeared both relieved and excited to have made his decision, and I tried hard to display some excitement for him.  Secretly however, my inner turmoil escalated.  Another child in a huge city hours away.  My rampant imagination conjured all sorts of calamities which could befall a small town boy, on his own for the first time ever.  I realized that those kind of thoughts and visions had the potential to drive me to the brink of insanity.  As tough as it was I forced myself to steer my crazy thoughts in a different direction.

As the weeks passed, I found myself writing lists of all that needed to be done for my son’s upcoming exodus to university but my son is such a well-organized young man that those lists were on the short side.  What he did require from me were rides to the mall and Walmart to purchase an array of items he would need for his dorm room, packing everything from his clothes to an assortment of kitchen tools, and occasionally, some advice on living on his own.  Before I knew it, or wanted it, the day arrived.  With boxes, bins, bags and odds and ends loaded into the van, including my husband, daughter, and the somewhat nervous child number four, I set myself behind the wheel.  As we merged onto the ever busy highway 401 traffic headed to Toronto, to Ryerson university, I knew my life would never be quite the same…

My nest was now almost empty.

The Road To Nana-hood

When my oldest child, a daughter, reached her early twenties, I began teasing her about my desire to become a grandmother. Although it was meant to be lighthearted joking (honestly), my comments were met with a serious roll of the eyes coupled with intensely arched eyebrows, which in our house is better known as “the Devon look”. I chuckle as I write this because Devon’s infamous “look” first appeared in her toddler days. Believe me when I say that we have all been on the receiving end of this death glare a time or two ever since.

Time marched on, we all grew older,and my “desire to be a grandma” comments waned somewhat, especially after my friend heard me tease Devon one day. This friend, who is childless by choice, jumped in to offer her opinion, telling me to back off, that perhaps Devon would choose a different path from the one I had chosen, and whatever she decided would be right for her. That comment caught me off guard, I did not see it coming, but my friend was absolutely right. Whether Devon opted for motherhood or a life without children, was her choice, not mine  nor anyone else’s. It was time for me to cease and desist with my comments. Which I did.  But my daughter knows me well,  had always been aware of my love for babies, and children in general, so despite the clamp I’d placed over my mouth concerning this subject, I knew Devon would never forget.  From that point on it was a taboo topic of conversation.

More time passed, with boyfriends coming and going, some lasting longer than others for Devon. I could usually tell if she was serious about the candidates by whether she introduced them to us. Sometimes a name would be spoken, accompanied by a faint sparkle in her eye, hinting at the possibility of a new romance but then a deafening silence would ensue. Regardless of how nosy I wanted to be, I learned early on not to ask questions unless my child opened that door first.

And then along came the summer of 2010…when Devon met Bryan. Actually, they knew each other from their years at N.D.S.S, our local high school, as well as from Bryan dating one of Devon’s good friends during that time. Many years had passed since then but they struck up a conversation, and soon began spending time together.

Our family didn’t meet Bryan for a while, not sure why, but when we did it was instant likeability. From our first introduction Bryan seemed to fit perfectly into our family, which was great, but it wasn’t even the best part. What I could see written all over his face was pure, absolute love for my daughter, and not just in his facial expressions but also in his actions, as he treated Devon like a queen. What more could any mother hope for her child? It was more than enough for me.

Flash forward to June 29th, 2012, to a little chapel in Las Vegas, where Bryan and Devon uttered those two magical words…I do! Knowing how happy my girl was, that she was embarking on a whole new journey, one she would walk with Bryan, filled me with such joy, and was an answer to my prayers.

After they were married, perhaps a few months, the subject of children came up during a visit with Devon and Bryan, and believe it or not, it wasn’t me who initiated it.  It may have been my new son-in-law who started the conversation, telling us more about his son and daughter (from a previous marriage).  We had not met his kids yet but of course we wanted to know more about them, afterall, they were now our step-grandchildren, a part of our family.  And then the word “babies” was spoken.  Again, it wasn’t me.  Devon casually mentioned that although not right away, they were contemplating trying for a baby.  My daughter’s eyes seemed to focus on me, waiting for my reaction but I did not allow myself to show any crazy excitement, I simply smiled.

We all carried on with our lives, everyone busy with jobs, school, or the myriad other events or activities we were all involved in.  Devon and Bryan lived close by however we didn’t see them much.  Family birthdays, holidays, or other special events brought us together for a meal, a visit, a celebration.  It was around Christmas time when we heard the latest news, that Devon and Bryan would be starting testing (fertility) in the new year.   We also were informed that there could be some difficulties although no one appeared to be concerned.  My job was to pray for a positive outcome to this testing, and so my prayer journey began.

Over the next several months, Devon and Bryan proceeded with various tests and appointments, learning through each phase what it would involve to have a baby.  For them it would be more than the usual way.  And then more tests, more procedures.  Ups and downs.  Hope given, disappointments crushing.  Through it all, they supported each other, remained positive and kept going.  At times I wondered, if I were in their position, would I handle it as well?  Occasionally I shed a few tears for my daughter when I saw her at a low point, which spurred me on to pray more, pray harder.

In late November 2013, my prayers were answered, when Devon and Bryan dropped in and handed me a card, in a red envelope.  Sitting down at the kitchen table I opened it to discover a Christmas card, one that said, Nana and the rest of the words blurred before my misty eyes.  I bolted out of the chair, grabbed my girl and hugged her tight.  Then did the same to Bryan.  Of course the smiles on both their faces were priceless, grins from ear to ear.  Definitely a day etched in my mind forever.  That was merely the beginning.

A couple of weeks later, the now-pregnant couple announced that we could expect not one, but two grandchildren – twins!  No words could describe the excitement inside me.  And then, at the 16 week mark, Devon had an ultrasound to reveal the gender(s) of the babies.  Speculation abounded among all of us in the weeks leading up to the ultrasound.  Devon felt she was carrying two boys, Bryan thought one of each, same as me.  When the day arrived we all felt giddy with the anticipation of discovering whether we’d be buying pink or blue, or perhaps both.  The waiting was almost more than I could stand, but finally, the mom and dad to be strolled into our kitchen.  Both of them exhibited no hint, just handed me flowers wrapped in florist’s paper.  Devon smiled, instructing me to open it as then we would know.  What a cool idea for the big reveal.  My hands were trembling.  In my mind, during those seconds of frantic ripping, I envisioned one pink, one blue flower, girl and boy.  And then there they were…two perfect pink carnations.  I think I screamed, “two girls, you guys are having two girls?”.  Once again I jumped out of my chair, crying and hugging my daughter and then her husband.  Both Devon and Bryan said they were completely taken by surprise, they did not think they were having girls, but were incredibly happy.  What an amazing moment, one of the greatest of my life.  The high of that moment lasted for days, so did the silly smile on my face.

The weeks and months passed, with Devon’s belly expanding beautifully, and no problems, not even the dreaded morning sickness.  Excitement and anticipation increased with every appointment with the doctor, every ultrasound.  Family, friends, coworkers, everyone who knew Devon and Bryan had hoped and prayed for this experience for them for a long time.  Everyone marked August 6th on their calendars, Devon’s due date, however, her doctor cautioned that twins often arrive early.  Of course we wanted the babies to stay inside as long as possible to ensure they were a good weight, and healthy, so I prayed for Devon to continue to feel well, as she had throughout her pregnancy.  In fact, she made a comment one day, during her last month, that she wasn’t ready yet to not be pregnant, she was enjoying the experience to its fullest.

By mid-July Devon’s belly was enormous, and daily activities became difficult for her to do.  Finding a comfortable position was out of the question, there simply wasn’t one. The time was drawing near.  My phone, at this point, never left my side, it was glued to me, day and night.   On July 17th, while not in labour, Devon decided to take her OB’s offer to induce, she was ready not to be pregnant any longer.

Devon phoned to inform us they were heading to the hospital, what the plan was, and either she or Bryan would be in touch.  Now I could not contain my excitement, nor could I quell my slight anxiety, as this was my first-born child, and I knew the next hours would be intense for her.  Prayers were whispered for a safe, and not too lengthy labour and birth.  And then I waited, we all waited.

As it turned out, my granddaughters were in no hurry for their grand entrance.  Thursday came and went.  Then Friday, with minimal progress.  On Saturday a different tactic was implemented, which seemed to spur on labour, and by that evening the doctor broke Devon’s water.  It was a long night for my girl, and Bryan, in fact it had been a long few days, but at long last, two tiny miracles arrived to greet their mommy and daddy.

My phone rang at 7:30 a.m on Sunday July 20th, and I listened as my son-in-law proudly announced the arrival of his baby girls;  Natalie Porter Kellar arrived at 6:30 a.m and weighed 5lbs 13oz., and then at 6:51 Nora Stapley Kellar came into the world weighing 6lbs. 10oz.  Both babies were healthy and exercising their tiny lungs.  Devon was doing great, and in Bryan’s words, “Devon was a trooper, she did an amazing job”.   A prayer of thanksgiving filled my heart for the double blessing of Natalie and Nora.

From those early days of lighthearted teasing to the moment I became a Nana, seems like a long road, but then I remind myself that everything in life happens at the appointed time, the perfect time.



What’s In a Name?

As I sit here in front of my laptop I’m pondering where to begin this third blog entry, when it occurs to me how long it’s been since my last attempt at blogging. Let’s just say, it’s been a while due to a lengthy list of reasons, but also that I do believe I’m ready and quite willing to give this blogging thing another try.

Now that I’m here I ask myself what I should write about, where to begin. After writing my first two blog posts, I spent some time ruminating over possible topics for future contributions and discovered that my list of ideas had some substance to it. Great, lots to choose from but which idea gets the honour of being my comeback piece?

After some mindful moments, I decided to go with the one at the top of my list-the title of my blog and why I chose it. A good enough place to start, to usher myself back into the blogging world.

So, “MadeTyme4 A Little Bit Of Everything” is a rather lengthy title but it makes perfect sense to me, with the added benefit that it makes me smile each time I log onto my site. Okay, for those who may wonder what the deal is, what my title means or its relevance, I will explain.

Way back when I was searching for a clever username on a website I no longer remember, I started playing around with various combinations of letters and numbers when I jotted down my childrens’ names. It seems a bit silly now, to have spent so much time and energy on creating a username but that was a time when the novelty and excitement of computers and the internet kept me spending far too much time on. The end result was “madetyme4”, the first two letters of each of my childrens’ names; Matthew, Devon, Tyler, Megan, and since there are four of them, I tacked that number on at the end. I thought it was sort of clever, so I began using it and not only for that initial website but also for a password here and there.

Now you know the meaning behind the first part of my title, and as for the second half, “A Little Bit Of Everything”, perhaps it is self-explanatory.

When I decided to give blogging a go and discovered the need for a title for it, I drew a blank. I asked myself what I’d want to write about, or if I actually had anything to write about that people would want to read. That still, small voice inside of me suggested I would never know unless I gave it a try, urging me to jot down any topic or subject I knew anything about as well as everything I may have an interest in. So I did.

The fact is, I have a passion for researching, learning anything new and not only do I love variety in all things, but I have a need for it. This made me realize that I could not box myself into writing about one subject, or even a handful of topics. No, for me, I need to be free to write about anything that grabs my attention at any given time, hence, the second half of my title, “A Little Bit Of Everything”. In my case, the old phrase, “variety is the spice of life”, fits me perfectly, has always been true for me for as long as I can remember. Boredom sets in very quickly if I’m forced to do the same thing repeatedly, and with that boredom comes a grumpier, unhappier me, which no one wants to see. I’m sure that is part of the reason why certain jobs I’ve had in the past never lasted long – factory work, on an assembly line, being two of the worst. Maybe an idea for a future blog post could be “my all-time worst jobs”, which I’m sure would be a subject others might relate to.

For now, as I dip my big toe back into the unknown waters of blogging, I will keep it simple, but with every intention of coming back, writing more, much more. Until then, I will keep adding to my list of future posts. It’s so good to be back!

Recently I joined a writing group, my first one, and I am loving it.  For years I had toyed with the idea of finding such a group but something always stopped me.  The day I noticed the advertisement in our local paper with information about a weekly writing group, my attention was immediately captured.  This particular group sounded like a good fit for me, however, that old “something” still had its grip on me.  I definitely was interested, telling myself to set the paper aside just in case I decided to call the number listed for more information.  That was on Thursday.  On Friday morning I picked up the newspaper, grabbed my phone, and quickly punched in the numbers.  The woman I spoke to was the receptionist; the teacher of the writing group was not in that day but she would give her my number on Monday morning.  Over the course of the next few days I started to get cold feet again but when I got the phone call from the teacher on Monday evening, listened to her describe the writing group she had formed, I knew my answer would be yes, sign me up.


It has now been five weeks since I joined the writing group, five Tuesday mornings (although I had to miss one due to a relentless migraine headache), and I am absolutely loving it.  Perhaps one reason this class works so well for me is that we are a small group, only six of us, which provides a comfort level I seem to need.  That comfort level didn’t appear instantly, and there are still moments, mostly when I read my work aloud, that the old anxiety creeps back in.  Even those moments are beginning to wane as I get to know my writing mates better, a group of five women and one gentleman whom share the same love of writing that I do.


During our first class together, our instructor asked us to write a short piece on “why I write”, and be prepared to read it to the class when everyone was done.  I had no problem with this task, except for the part about reading it to the class.  My anxiety level rose slightly.  I’m sure my voice quivered as I read my work but I did it.  And now, I am going to share “why I write” here…


I write because I have a passion for it.  To me, nothing else compares.  From my earliest childhood days (the ones I remember), I have felt a powerful need to write, like an itch needing to be scratched.  Perhaps one reason for my absolute need to put words on a paper is because of the type of child I was, extremely shy.  It has always been so much easier for me to pick up a pen and let the words flow from my brain to my fingertips and then on to the paper.  That is the way God wired me I guess, to simply feel more at ease writing than speaking.

As those childhood years faded into oblivion and the teenage years arrived, I was directing my words into all sorts of interesting work; some mystical, magical stuff, some sad, deep and slightly dark stories or poems, whatever happened to snag my attention at the time. I continue to write today for some of the same reasons.  I write because, well…I can’t NOT write.


That sums it up more or less, for now.  By joining this writing group I feel a resurgence of excitement for my writing, eager to explore the plethora of ideas I’ve stored in the vault for years, anticipating the knowledge I will gain from my peers, my instructor, and all other avenues that may open for me, including this blog.  Never again will the fears that plagued me for so long get in my way of writing , this is it, that new chapter of my life I think I’ve been waiting for.


Wow, it’s hard to believe that I’m finally here, in the Blogging World that is, but for whatever reason, I chose this time to arrive.  And I have to tell you, I am both excited and slightly nervous.

As someone who has been writing for many years, you would think that blogging would have been at the top of my list when it made its first appearances, but something always held me back.  Fear?  Quite possibly.  Lack of time?  To some degree I suppose.  A combination of both anxiety (from the possibility of rejection or negativity from readers), and not enough hours in the day to devote to my writing, are the two contenders for reasons why I did not start blogging until now.

Ok, so now that I am here in Blog World, where do I begin?  My mind is overflowing with ideas, hence the title I’ve chosen; MadeTyme 4 A Little Bit of Everything.  I’m hoping that as I become more comfortable, and more knowledgeable about blogging, that the ideas I have will flow forth slightly easier than they are right now.

To start with, let me properly introduce myself…you already know my name, Wendy, and you are aware of the fact that I like to write, make that, love, to write, having been attracted to this craft since elementary school.  My titles in life include wife, mother, soon-to-be Nana to twin girls, sister, aunt, friend and writer.

My biggest and longest lasting fear in regard to writing is rejection, which I’m sure many fellow scribes share this feeling, or at least they have at some point in the history of their writing life.  At one time I wouldn’t even consider letting anyone read any of my work.  Times they have a changed.  I gained enough confidence several years ago to submit a few articles, a childrens’ story and a couple of poems, but they all returned to me, along with a rejection form letter.  Disappointment finally set in after my last attempt to submit my work and I lost any and all interest in writing for a couple of years.  Since then I believe that I have developed a somewhat thicker skin, harder shell, and I have regained the passion for writing that began to burn so long ago.

Where will I go from here, from my first attempt at blogging?  At this precise moment I am unsure, however, there will be more, lots more.  I hope to keep writing for many years to come.


MadeTyme 4 A Little Bit Of Everything

A great WordPress.com site

With Humour and Hope

The Only Way to Live

The WordPress.com Blog

The latest news on WordPress.com and the WordPress community.

Notes from Napanee

Viewing Retirement in the Rear View Mirror

The Daily Post

The Art and Craft of Blogging