What is Your Dream?

Hi. My name is Tamra and I’m a Dreamer.

<In unison> Hi Tamra.

No, you see, I’m an uber-dreamer—an idealist extraordinaire. An optimist! I see the world through rose-colored glasses and all that. My condition goes beyond the Dreamers Anonymous status. You know that whole “when-life-gives-you-lemons-make-lemonade” concept? Well, not only do I make lemonade, I make it pink (just because) and bottle the stuff and sell it with full conviction that I’ll be the next Donald Trump of lemonade. And (heaven forbid) if my lemon venture tanks, I’ll chalk it up to a learning experience that will somehow enhance my future endeavors.

For me, dreaming and optimism are synonymous. Not only is the glass half-full, it’s half-full of diet freaking Coke. What’s not optimistic and downright dreamy about that?!

I can’t help myself.

I have to look on the bright side of life. I have to see a positive and happy future for myself and those whom I love.

I have to be a dreamer.

It’s how I roll—me and Walt, that is.

Did I mention I just spent a day with my honey and kiddos at Disney World’s Magic Kingdom in Orlando, Florida? I wasn’t in the park more than fifteen minutes when I heard the magic words of Mr. Disney flood through the intercom system and resonate in my soul…

“If you can dream it, you can do it.”

Pretty sure I bowed my Mickey ears at that very moment and said a resounding, AMEN! (I knew I liked this guy, and not just because of my love for beautiful singing princesses and talking animals).

Walt was a dreamer—an optimist.

So am I.

But too often I’m confronted with a different mentality—one that is the polar opposite of every fiber of my being.

“I can’t.”

“I’m afraid.”

“What if I fail?”

“Why bother?”

“It’s too much work.”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

Now, to be honest, it’s not that I’ve never had one of these thoughts. I’m human. I have my moments of uncertainty and doubt. But at the end of the day, when I lay my head down, I have to dream (and folks, the dreaming I’m talking about happens before I fall asleep). I have to believe in myself and in my goals.

Because if I can’t believe in myself, who else will believe in me?

Dreams can come true. I’ve yet to fulfill so many of my dreams, but some have come to pass.

In my late twenties when I (only) had four kids (hee, hee) with the oldest just starting kindergarten, I had a dream of writing books for children…so I started writing.  I was fairly certain I’d be the next Dr. Seuss when I wrote the phonetic masterpiece, MAX THE CAT—a book for anyone desiring to master the short A vowel sound (Yup, I was teaching my kiddos to read). From there I composed OLLIE THE GOAT, and even illustrated my talking-animal magnum opus. I sent my “art” out into the world (Golden Books, if I remember correctly), and anxiously awaited the arrival of my publishing contract.

In the meantime I continued to write, and read, and write, and read about writing, and write some more. I took a correspondence course on writing for children and a college creative writing class. And I wrote, and wrote... Aside from my stellar annual Christmas newsletters (ask any relative), I wrote a breastfeeding newsletter for the county health department as part of my Lactation Specialist job, and even attempted to write a snail-mail parenting newsletter. This pre-internet idea tanked, but remember what I said about learning experiences?

Then we moved to Texas. By now I had five kids—can you say writing material? My work shifted to family-life pieces which I submitted to dozens of Southeast Texas and Houston area newspapers…and one editor wrote me back. Score! I had my first writing gig for the Fort Bend and Sugarland Sun Newspapers with my family life column, THE HOME FRONT. I was paid $20 a column and would surely be the next Erma Bombeck.

Over the next fifteen years my writing has evolved. One page at a time, I wrote my first young adult novel, which was published by a smaller regional publisher. I’ve since published eight novels for children and teens, most recently SHAYLA WITHERWOOD: A HALF-FAERIE TALE (my faerie “Harry Potter”) with this same publisher.

Am I the next Dr. Seuss or Erma Bombeck or dare I say, J.K. Rowling? Ummm…not so much. I actually hold down a fifty-hour-a-week, bakery manager job to pay my bills and feed my kids.

Am I still optimistic that someday I will make a living as a writer? Every day! Every. Single. Day.

Due to my work schedule and evolving family dynamics, at this phase of my life, my writing has shifted full-circle back to the family-life pieces and therefore, this blog. Oh, I still have stories to tell and novels in the works. But for now, this is what I’m driven to write. My muse is my family and life in general as a middle-aged mother of nine, and “newlywed” (of four years) to my first and forever love, Paco.

I am a dreamer, and my life is a dream.

How about you?

 

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Blogger, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son with her son, Preston Norton. She prefers her lemonade pink, her Coke diet, and her dreams in Technicolor!

Kate Middleton and Me

Last week, new mommy, Kate Middleton, and her precious bundle of royal joy were on the cover of every magazine on the planet. Oh, that lucky little George—he won life’s gene-pool lottery (thank you Grammy Diana), along with the “Brangelina” spawn and a few other fortunate folks.

Now, as handsome as my own “folks’ are (love you Mom and Dad), I’ve never been one who could look in the mirror and say, “Shazaaayam—I look good!” Like so many other females, in my reflection I tend to find a whole lot’a room for improvement. If I only had thicker hair, fuller lips, and thinner…everything! Is that too much to ask?

This isn’t exactly the healthiest thought process, but it’s what we do. It’s what I do. And it’s no bueno. Even my rational forty-something mind knows this, and yet I’ll still look at a model in a magazine, then glance down at my bottom half and think, for the love of fudge-covered Oreos, why wasn’t I born with legs extending to my armpits? Where is the justice?

I have more thoughts on gene-pool injustice, but for now, let’s shift our focus back to Mommy Kate…

So the other day, as I stood in the grocery store checkout line gazing at Kate’s radiant countenance on every magazine cover, something struck me as…well, pretty awesome! I happened to notice a part of me in Mommy Kate (and, no, I’m not referring to the fact that I’ve walked out of the hospital with babe in arms more than your average woman).

You see, Kate and I actually have one other thing in common—we have the same nose.

We do!

I swear!

I know what you’re thinking—so what.

Well, I’ll tell you what. You see, I’ve never actually looked at my nose as a particularly attractive asset. It starts out okay near the face. And the nostrils are proportionate, etc. But the dang thing ends in a ball. Yup—I have a little round ball at the end of my nose…and so does Kate…and my dad, and his mom, and just about every other sibling and Keller cousin I have, thankyougrandma! (Coincidentally, Grandma Keller was born in England. Can you say Cousin Kate? I can (not Middleton) but Keller, and she just had a baby with Kate Middleton’s nose as well)!

Now, the inner critic in me initially wanted to say, Why Kate’s nose? Why couldn’t I have Kate’s long glossy hair, or perfect white teeth, or at least her postpartum figure for crying-out-loud? But the nose it is, so the nose, I will take…and be happy about.

And isn’t that the key anyway—to be happy with our unique God-given characteristics? Some things we have some control over (our weight, for example, and I mention this only because four years ago I was able to lose 50 pounds and have kept it off for the most part—but that’s another blog for another day). Other things, however, are left up to life’s little game of gene-pool roulette. And if Grandma has a “distinct” nose, chances are, you will too.

And that’s okay—be happy with it! Because some day you’ll find it staring back at you and you’ll realize you’re looking at royalty! And no—I’m not talking about the future Queen of England.

I’m referring to you—a daughter of God.

The Daughter of a King.

Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Blogger, Bakery Manager, author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas Novel, The Lost Son with her son, Preston Norton. In college she was told more than once that she resembled Glenda the Good Witch...who is kinda-like royalty. If you enjoyed this post, purdy-please won't you share it? :)

First Love, Second Chance

It’s not often we get “do overs” in life…especially when it comes to relationships (and if it ended badly, we’d only dare to revisit it in our nightmares...toting a bazooka or some such weapon of mass destruction. Relax—I’m kidding, I’m kidding…kinda).

But some relationships simply end due to circumstance, without even the opportunity to grow. Such was the case in 1981 when I spent that unforgettable summer of my seventeenth year as an American foreign exchange student in the beautiful country of Peru.

This was when I met Paco.

He was this incredibly handsome, eighteen-year-old, soccer-playing hunk of Latin yum, and my adolescent heart did all kinds of craziness whenever he was near—and he was always near. Paco was best friends with my Peruvian “brother” Carlos, so every day after school, there he was, along with several other friends, ready for some fun.

Even though we were always together—hanging out on doorsteps or park benches, dancing salsa at parties, listening to music, watching videos, eating pizza in Mira Flores, piling into a friend’s VW bug to go anywhere and everywhere—we weren’t an official “couple”…yet.

But something inside of me was constantly drawn to him. Okay, sure, he was the only one out of the entire group of friends who spoke English—just another excuse, I suppose, to bring us together. He’d practice his English while I was finally able to express myself beyond two-word sentences and hand gestures. I lived for our moments together. He was not only my friend, but my confidant, my comedian, my shoulder to cry on, and my pillar of strength. Eventually, our status turned to “couple” on the night of August first, when on a park bench, we shared our first kiss.

One night, as my time in Peru grew to a close, we snuggled on a different park bench as Paco wiped away my tears of homesickness. “I think I understand how you feel,” he said in a soothing tone. “I could never leave my home and family. I love Peru and will never live anywhere else.” At that moment I knew our futures would be separate.

Or so I thought…

Twenty-eight years passed.

Two people grew in so many ways.

And God, in His wisdom, sees the big picture in everything. Sometimes, what once seemed impossible is now a minor hurdle just waiting to be crossed.

A name on a computer screen turned into a face, which brought back a flood of memories, which turned into a conversation, which brought back a flood of emotions, which turned into more conversations as two lonely hearts (a hemisphere apart) turned into a single beating unit.

Which brought about a do-over.

A first love.

A second chance.

 

Paco and I were married four years ago today. You can read a more detailed version of our story at www.mommygringa.blogspot.com or the Fairytale version HERE. Happy Anniversary, Honey. Thank you for being my Endless Love!


Tamra Torero is Wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Blogger, Bakery Manager, and author of Shayla Witherwood: a Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son with her son, Preston Norton. Her first love is Paco, but her second and third loves are diet Coke and Hershey's Special Dark Chocolate.

 

 

I Gave Birth to Julia Child

Okay, maybe not…yet, but give a mom credit for trying. You see, I have a simple philosophy in my sometimes not-so-simple life—kids should know how to feed themselves. And if they actually learn a few culinary skills in the process, boo-yeah—dinner is served, or as Julia would say, bon appétit!

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking Boeuf Bourguignon, Coq au Vin, or breaking any child-labor laws here. Sure, Julia was the American queen of French cuisine and I promise I’m not one of those over scheduling alpha-moms trying to churn out a clan of overachieving culinary minions. I’m just happy (especially during the summer months when they’re out of school), if my offspring can flip a piece of French toast or even a grilled cheese sandwich by themselves—some of the first dishes I teach my kiddos. We start with the basics and progress from there. If junior can make scrambled eggs—good. If he can make an omelet—even better.

Now, before I proceed any further, let me clarify a few things…starting with the fact that their dad and I actually do cook most of the meals at our house. I take care of dinner during the week, and my husband, Paco, does weekends (he’s somewhat of a “food whisperer.” Give the guy some seasonings and a slab of meat and he can make any ol’ food behave). But we both work during the week, so if these kids who know how to upload, download, inbox and outsmart any adult when it comes to all-things technical, can’t figure out how to cook something more than microwave popcorn, I’m afraid the zombie apocalypse is already upon us.

Think about it…

Secondly, I’m talking older kids here (although the little tykes are always eager to learn at our side). Currently, my house is populated with five kiddos ranging from 11 to 17…and they’re always hungry. We are in all phases of this momma’s self-feeding campaign at our house. Some are completely self-sufficient while others are a little more resistant.

One day, a certain child-who-shall-remain-unnamed tried to challenge me. “Mom, it’s your job to feed me!” said child with fists on hips.

“No, my dear” (okay, not sure I said the my dear part, but pretty sure it was past lunchtime, I was knee-deep in a huge project, previously mentioned “dear” had spent the day Facebooking and watching Netflix and we both were likely famished), “it’s my job to turn you into a responsible adult. There’s mac and cheese in the pantry or turkey slices in the fridge.”

All I have to say is hunger is a great motivator.

“My Dear” fixed the turkey sandwich and has yet to wither away in starvation.

This is all still a work in progress. Kids will forever be hungry and we have seven years till our two youngest graduate from high school. What are your thoughts when it comes to kids and food? I’d love to hear your ideas on this topic—especially kid-friendly recipes!

 

 

Tamra Torero is wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Blogger, Bakery Manager, and Author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son, with her oldest son, Preston Norton. She makes (and teaches how to make) a pretty mean French toast, loves the movie, Julie and Julia, and will love you even more if you share this post.

Anatomy of a Stepparent

I have nine kids—for reals. And the first question I hear when anyone learns this not-so-little tidbit of information is, “Are they all yours?”

I try not to wince when I hear this. Of course they’re all mine! my defensive heart screams. Do you think I’ve borrowed one for the day? I do realize, however, that people are simply curious as to the origin of our family when two of my daughters don’t look a whole lot like me (and I suppose the true giveaway is when they hear the older one speak with an accent).

But there is so much more binding this mother-daughter duo than the way we speak or common genes.
 
Her eyes are like her dad’s, a deep, dark chocolate—irresistible on all accounts, especially to the strings of my heart.
 
My eyes are true blue. You get what you see—an imperfect me. And these blue eyes see a child who needs me, imperfections and all. I’m fiercely loyal to those I love. On occasion, I might fight with them (that inevitable battle of the wills), but I will always fight for them. All of my children are a part of me—not a place they’re born into. The only entrance is through the heart.

Her skin is smooth and unblemished—easily bronzed by the sun’s rays yet sensitive to the world’s sometimes harsh realities.

My skin is freckled and fair and not so smooth anymore. Over the years, it’s been exposed to many of those harsh realities of life as well. It’s thicker now—the survivor of stings and scrapes. I don’t want her to experience these stings and scrapes—not yet. So my boundaries might feel overbearing to her. She might think I’m over-protective and it may be a long time before she understands. But remember—I’m fiercely loyal to those I love…and I love her. At the end of the day, this is one thing I know she knows.

Her hair is thick and dark and she complains that there’s nothing she can do with it. She has the most amazing curls that can wind around your finger like the grip of a newborn baby. Oh, how I wish she’d been a part of my life at that time. But that’s not our reality. Our memories are happening here and now…like when she gripped onto my hand during the scary part of that movie, or when she was nervous getting her blood work drawn.
 
My hair is blond, and thin, and getting thinner every day. If I could change anything about the physical me, this would be it—and she knows this. I always complain that there’s nothing I can do with my hair, and she always tells me that she loves my hair. I just think that she really loves me.

So many of our physical characteristics are different—our eye color, our skin tone, our hair… But these aren’t the ties that bind a family. I suppose you could boil it all down to the wise words of The Beatles—All You Need is Love. Our life might be far from perfect, but our hearts are one.


Tamra Torero is wife to Paco, Momma to nine, Grandma of two, Blogger, Bakery Manager, and Author of Shayla Witherwood: A Half-Faerie Tale and co-author of a Christmas novel, The Lost Son, with her oldest son, Preston Norton. She is perfect at the imperfections of stepparenting. Feel free to share this post if you've enjoyed it.