You may have heard about the fabulous Type-A Mom conference (by Kelby Carr) that took place this last weekend in Asheville, North Carolina. You might also know about the many breakout sessions that not only consisted of some excellent speakers, but also addressed many concerns that we as bloggers have, but isn’t often voiced honestly (and we had some honesty). These sessions gave everyone a chance to ask important questions face-to-face with bloggers-in-the-know and make connections that may have otherwise stayed a mystery as we went about our busy lives.

You might have also heard rumors of the wonderful sponsors that supported the conference just as they do individual bloggers. Not to mention those that embedded themselves right there in the Town Hall Meeting to answer the questions of several hundred serious mommy bloggers.

Someone may have told you about the fashion show, the Walk Disney World reception, Boiron Mom Market, and the tee shirts we wore made of plastic water bottles by KikaPaprika. Creative Memories gave us an embellished slide show of the conference before the conference was even over. Oh, and the singing – did anyone tell you about the singin?!

In fact, Angela England wrote and performed Type-A Mom’s very own song with Sarah (@RealLifeSarah) accompanying her on guitar. If you did hear all of that, then you more than likely heard about the wonderful speaker dinners that gave us a chance to really get to know each other a delicious downtown dinner. There are dozens of other things an attending blogger could have told you about the Type-A Mom conference.

No one could have told you that many of us showed up with the concern that maybe we were frauds. We didn’t fit the definition of mommy blogger at all. We were political bloggers, weight control bloggers, gardening bloggers, business bloggers, fashion bloggers, writing bloggers, and news bloggers. Maybe we weren’t “mommy bloggers” because we didn’t blog about being a mommy or raising our families.

What you may not have heard about was how we laughed and joked and hugged… and ran through the rain to catch a bus. How we watched a fellow blogger be the last to climb the bus stairs because of the contractions in her baby belly. How we all smiled and appreciated the expectant moms who made it to the conference because we’ve all been there. Every last blogger at that conference was threaded together because of pregnant bellies.

What you may not have heard was how those of us questioning where we fit began to realize that being a mom colors everything we touch – including anything we blog about. Its what makes us passionate and compassionate. It allows us to be exuberant, furious, sad…and realistic.

What you may not have heard is that each one of us went to that conference under a single label and came back as an entire community.

I want to thank a most gracious woman, Margaret Roach, a garden writer after my own heart, and her own community at the The Sister Project for sponsoring me at this conference. Not only has The Sister Project opened my eyes to what I forgot I was, but also introduced me to sisters I had yet to meet, Mishelle Lane, Lisa Douglas, Sara Harmon, Amber Haines, Malia Carden, Corina Fiore, and Deb Rox. I’m honored to blog with the sisterhood.

Yes, folks have you ever seen anyone so excited about a pile of garbage? Next to our monster-door cold frame we have a respectable size compost pile going – a big “thank you” shout-out going to our rabbits.

I started this pile long before I gave any thought to containing it. It’s already beginning to mulch down beautifully, getting ready to fortify our garden this coming season.

Between the composting materials coming out of our kitchen, not to mention the rabbitry, the pile is creeping outward; becoming a threat to our blossoming cherry tree and largely obvious to our neighbors next door.

So, this weekend we’re having a bin-raising and building sides around our compost pile. As a direct result of our rabbits’ generosity, we’re going to do a little pay-back by actually fixing the rabbitry roof. Hey, they scratch our backs – we keep the rain off theirs.

If we’re lucky, some of our neighbors will see our little industrious asses hauling lumber, working away and ask us what we’re doing. At that point, I will attempt to hypnotize them with my riveting lecture on the virtues of composting and convince them to start one of their own.

It’s all a part of my personal quest to turn suburbia into little farms.

For everyone who thinks I’m bashing suburbia: I reserve the right to do so as I’m a suburbanite extraordinaire and damn proud of it. (I admit the lawn thing pinched). It’s all in my sinister plan to turn suburbia into little micro-farms.

(I didn’t write the piece below; it was sent to me by my sister-in-law, Cindy Lou Who, who received it in an email.)

GOD:

Frank, you know all about gardens and nature. What in the world is going on down there on the planet? What happened to the dandelions, violets, thistle and stuff I started eons ago?

I had a perfect no-maintenance garden plan. Those plants grow in any type of soil, withstand drought and multiply with abandon. The nectar from the long-lasting blossoms attracts butterflies, honeybees and flocks of songbirds. I expected to see a vast garden of colors by now. But, all I see are these green rectangles.

St. FRANCIS:

It’s the tribes that settled there, Lord. The Suburbanites. They started calling your flowers ‘weeds’ and went to great lengths to kill them and replace them with grass.

GOD:

Grass? But, it’s so boring. It’s not colorful. It doesn’t attract butterflies, birds and bees; only grubs and sod worms. It’s sensitive to temperatures. Do these Suburbanites really want all that grass growing there?

ST. FRANCIS:

Apparently so, Lord. They go to great pains to grow it and keep it green. They begin each spring by fertilizing grass and poisoning any other plant that crops up in the lawn.

GOD:

The spring rains and warm weather probably make grass grow really fast. That must make the Suburbanites happy.

ST. FRANCIS:

Apparently not, Lord. As soon as it grows a little, they cut it – sometimes twice a week.

GOD:

They cut it? Do they then bale it like hay?

ST. FRANCIS:

Not exactly, Lord. Most of them rake it up and put it in bags.

GOD:

They bag it? Why? Is it a cash crop? Do they sell it?

ST. FRANCIS:

No, Sir, just the opposite. They pay to throw it away.

GOD:

Now, let me get this straight. They fertilize grass so it will grow. And, when it does grow, they cut it off and pay to throw it away?

ST. FRANCIS:

Yes, Sir.

GOD:

These Suburbanites must be relieved in the summer when we cut back on the rain and turn up the heat. That surely slows the growth and saves them a lot of work.

ST. FRANCIS:

You aren’t going to believe this, Lord. When the grass stops growing so fast, they drag out hoses and pay more money to water it so they can continue to mow it and pay to get rid of it.

GOD:

What nonsense. At least they kept some of the trees. That was a sheer stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. The trees grow leaves in the spring to provide beauty and shade in the summer. In the autumn, they fall to the ground and form a natural blanket to keep moisture in the soil and protect the trees and bushes. It’s a natural cycle of life.

ST. FRANCIS:

You better sit down, Lord. The Suburbanites have drawn a new circle. As soon as the leaves fall, they rake them into great piles and pay to have them hauled away.

GOD:

No. What do they do to protect the shrub and tree roots in the winter to keep the soil moist and loose?

ST. FRANCIS:

After throwing away the leaves, they go out and buy something which they call mulch. They haul it home and spread it around in place of the leaves.

GOD:

And where do they get this mulch?

ST FRANCIS:

They cut down trees and grind them up to make the mulch.

GOD:

Enough! I don’t want to think about this anymore. St. Catherine, you’re in charge of the arts. What movie have you scheduled for us tonight?

ST. CATHERINE:

‘Dumb and Dumber’, Lord. It’s a story about….

GOD:

Never mind, I think I just heard the whole story from St Francis.

Photo by One Tree Hill Studios

There’s nothing like learning gardening skills at the knee of the uber-fabulous Mrs. Greenthumbs. There will never be another one like her – I’m okay with that.

“Most people tend to assume that the bees have no knowledge of the plant’s use of them and are only after the nectar. In other words, they are a bunch of unwitting stooges, slavishly servicing the carnal appetites of the flowers and getting no fun out of the experience at all. I don’t think so.

I have observed bees going from flower to flower in the garden, and they seem to be enjoying themselves enormously. I wouldn’t presume to know the thoughts and feelings of bees, but if I saw a bunch of teenagers sipping nectar, rolling around with their feet up in the air, covered with fragrant pollen, and then racing off to do it again and again, I would assume they are having a wonderful time and would probably call the police.”

~ Cassandra Danz/Mrs. Greenthumbs

If you didn’t have the pleasure of knowing her or reading her profound, completely serious, and scientific gardening books come see my review on the late, seriously great – Mrs. Greenthumbs.

I had chickens years ago when we lived on a small farm. Since the day I got them they were easy to care for, simple to feed, friendly to my kids. They were so easy, that we let our small son have a couple of his own to show at fair in his 4H project. We got great-tasting, farm-fresh eggs from those chickens plus manure for the compost pile to boot. I was surprised and impressed with how much we got in return for such little investment.

We’ve been back in the San Francisco Bay Area now for about 12 years and I’ve finally convinced my husband that a small flock of backyard chickens would be just as good of an investment here as in they were on the farm. In fact, maybe even more so. In the country, you always had the opportunity to eat fresh eggs, that were antibiotic-free, cruelty-free and basically, well…free. In the suburbs, you have to pay a small fortune to get cage-free chicken eggs; and even then, who knows if that actually means what it implies.

Much to my youngest daughter’s delight, this past April we let her choose three baby chicks from the local feed store. The guy put the three little fluff balls into a box where they were nearly swallowed up by shavings. She clapped as we drove home, “It’s like we have a real farm!”

This particular child wasn’t born by a long-shot when we lived in the country, so she was in heaven to be the first kid in her class to own chickens. And it’s not like we have a real farm – we sort of do have a real farm. A micro-farm in the middle of suburbia. On one side of our house we have a rabbitry complete with 5 rabbits in large cages and now we’ve added the hens, Penelope, Darla, and Churro. Like good farmers, we have a couple of working compost piles and a vegetable garden going on there, as well. We affectionately call this part of our yard “the barnyard”.

I’m not sure what the neighbors call it, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the word their using.