Tap, tap, tap

I'd like to say that I've always been skeptical about people who claim to have heard God speak to them.  It's more truthful to say that I have felt robbed that it didn't happen to me.

Really though, I suspect that it has.  Lots of times.  I just didn't know what I was listening for.  I guess my simple, simple mind expected (wanted?) something obvious, a la Jacob's dreams or burning bushes.  Well, so...  no.  Not so much.  God does not operate like Sara in that "MAAAAMAAAAA, COME HERE RIGHT NOOOOOW!" mode of communication.  He is more like my cat Pete, who sits quietly by my feet while I do the dishes, then talks to me while I put them away, then eventually gets caught up in my feet while I'm trying to cook dinner -- all in an effort to let me know that I really need to fill his water bowl.  Now, please.  

What it boils down to is the whack versus the tap.  The choice isn't as easy as you might think really.  The whack is painful, yes -- but hard to miss.  The tap?  Ugh, the listening and the patience and the faith.  It's just so hard.

The good news is that very slowly, over lots of time and many trials, I'm starting to learn to listen.  Sometimes it seems so very obvious, other times it takes me banging my head into a wall (again and again and again) to hear it.  And recently I've realized that there's no harm in asking for it.  Still no burning bushes, but you know -- He speaks up eventually.

Last week I was heading to work, dreading a conversation that I needed to have with my boss because it meant admitting that maybe obviously I had made a mistake.  And it was funny, because as I climbed into the car and turned the engine over the radio came on, and the voice I heard said "It's OK to change your mind."  That was it, then straight into a commercial.  I don't know...  God could have a lot flashier way to reassure me but let me tell you -- to me, that was Him.  Maybe that's corny?  I don't care.

Tap, tap, tap.

Today I heard Him again, this time via an essay I found in a magazine I heard about from my good friend Amy.  It's like it was written for me, in language and concepts and contexts that I not only understand but in which I'm immersed.  And the message?  Right on point, painfully so.  

Tap, tap, tap.

I'm starting to get used to the tap, tap, tap.  I'm here to tell you:  Although it's a hell of a lot more effort, I'll take a tap over a whack any day.  Those whacks, they smart.  A LOT.  And I've had my fair share of bruises lately.

Tap, tap, tap away.  I'll be listening.  Or at least trying.

Once upon a time...

...there was a beautiful princess.

Lately, every night when I'm rocking her Sara asks me to tell her a story "about da pawk."  It always features a beautiful princess (you'll never guess what her name is) and her Papa and her Mama.  The beautiful princess climbs and swings, slides and runs and jumps.  She has the best time ever, as you can imagine.

The story always ends with the princess coming home for supper, then taking her bath.  She and her mama rock and say prayers and then it's time for sleep.

Amazingly creative, I know.

Oh -- and so you don't think this is just a fairy tale, you can see here what I spied out the window this afternoon.

Lovely, yes?  I'd call that a beautiful princess to be sure.

Here's the veg

Huh?

That's what I said. But evidently it means something to someone in Hagen, Germany. And oddly enough if you type that phrase into Google, mine is the very first site to pop up.

Again -- huh?

Google Analytics... so fun. I'm not sure why I ever even started with it except I was curious to see if anyone besides Rob and a couple of gluttons for punishment friends ever read it. Now I know that, through the magic of search engines, I've been visited not only by these faithful few but also web surfers from California, New York, Michigan, Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, Georgia, Texas, Alabama, North Carolina, Arizona, and Vermont as well as an international crew representing the UK, Canada, India, and Germany. My favorite keyword search? "Diaper potty." An accurate assessment of my life to be sure -- at least if my blog posts are to be trusted.

Fascinating.

Oh, and a big shout out to Gas City, IN -- I seem to have a regular following there, as well.

The most humbling job on Earth, or why this vacation sucks already

This is my girl.  And this is how you will normally find her -- happy, talking, and on the move.

She challenges me every day.  EVERY day.  I have no idea how I should be parenting her but I hope against hope that keeping her alive and growing is good enough for now.

And then I opened the door after her nap and found her playing in her pack and play, licking some lozenges and shaking a bottle of prescription meds.  At least a dozen other miscellaneous pills were scattered around her feet.

I wanted to die.  Suddenly, what I'm doing is no longer good enough -- in fact, it's no where near close.

Thankfully God seems to have an override on maternal instincts, because while all I wanted to do was grab her and sob, and hide her away from the danger that had already come, what actually I did was get her to the hospital.  I tell her calmly that no, we're not going to the park, we're going to see a special doctor.  "I don't wanna see a special doctor.  I wanna go to the park."  I tell her that maybe we can go to the park tomorrow.  

It's not until the nurse in the emergency room asked me what she took that I found it hard to talk and the tears started to fall.  In truth I don't really believe that she took anything but that's not the point -- she could have, and that's the hard truth.  That's the proof that despite my best efforts, this day they just weren't good enough.

I saw the social worker at the nurses station.  We hadn't met yet -- we had an IV to put in first, and a catheter, and a trip to radiology too -- but I knew it was him and I knew why he was there.  Confirmation that I hadn't met the mark that day and that The System had to step in.  He was apologetic, but he had to do his job.  I understand.  But I'm used to being on the other side of the patient chart and I knew what was being written.  In a blink I was just another lousy parent.  Just another one that screwed it up, big time.

He was apologetic, but he had to do his job.  The protocol is the same for everyone.  He had to notify the State.  CPS would be here tomorrow.  He would do his best to get us home as soon as possible, but now we had to wait on them.

A night on the pediatric unit, the CPS investigation looming large over our heads, the monitors and IV hooked up to our daughter alarming over and over -- it was a long night for Rob and me.  The only comfort was knowing that Sara really was OK.  If she did indeed swallow anything there was no evidence found in her labs or behavior.  Sara was fine.  

We were not.

    

Sara's pediatrician came in first thing and assured us that, never mind this, we are good parents.  Our daughter, despite this mistake -- a terrible, scary MISTAKE -- is thriving.  She is smart, and strong, and now also so brave.  We're not bad.  We're human.  We're going to be OK -- she would help to make sure of it.

And we are OK, or will be.  As it turned out the investigator was a very nice, normal woman.  She was quick and kind, and made what is without a doubt the worst day in my mothering career as painless as she could.  And it's over.  We're home, together, healthy.  That's all that really matters.

This child, she challenges me.  EVERY day.  Her little tiny life is a force to be reckoned with and this job of being her mother...  it's hard.  And humbling.  And painful.  

Thank God it's mine.

April showers bring may flowers, and obviously June showers bring...

...babies!

My cousin Kristin is expecting her first baby later this month. They've decided to roll with it and wait until the wee one's grand arrival to find out if it's a girl or boy. So -- a yellow, green, and orange shower it would be! I think everyone enjoyed it and Kristin took home a lot of nice things for her new little bundle.

Oh -- and the surprise hit of the day? Lucky bamboo! Everybody loved it. Who knew?

Awesome

 

I am not at all upset with the very nice folks at The Flying Cupcake. I am upset with the nasty super cell that passed through Indianapolis last night and knocked out their power.

Two dozen jumbo cupcakes with yellow, orange and green sprinkles down the tubes. Cause you know, you can't make cupcakes -- or Madagascar vanilla frosting! -- without power.

Damn super cell...

Long morning already

Sara and I are staying at my sister's during demolition. We're sharing a room, so the days start early.

Today she had me up at 7:30 -- not all that bad, all things considered. Here is my experience thus far, a mere 45 minutes into the day.

I hear: "Mama, are you up? Are you all done sleeping? Are you all done sleeping? Mama? Hi Mama. You get up now? You put your pants on. Mama, I all poopie. I poopie Mama. I all poopie. I go potty. Mama, I need to go potty."

I see: Ink pen scribbles. All over her body. From her nose to her toes. I don't know exactly when or how she got the pen.

I feel: The world's heaviest, wettest diaper. But no poopie. I put her on the potty and throw away the wet diaper.

I hear: "MAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!! I ALL DONE GOING POOOOOTTTTTTYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!! MMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I see: Sara climbing up on the dining room table and helping herself to some 2-day-old doughnuts.

I feel: My heavy eyelids, begging me to get back into bed.

I hear: A string of beads clanking on the hardwood floors.

I hear: "Mama, may I have some cho-ma-milk?" "Ank you."

I see: Two sippy cups on the window sill, one blue & one orange.

I hear: "May I have the orange one? Anks."

I feel: Sara stepping on my toes.

I hear: More bead clanking.

I see: Sara holding the beads behind her, at the small of her back.

I hear: "I have a long long tail! Like a kitty!" (Seriously? Does a two-year-old say stuff like that??)

I feel: Exhausted already.

I hear: "MAMA I WANNA COLOR" (coming from another room)

I see: Sara rummaging through something to pull out a coloring book and a 96-pack of Crayolas my sister has bought. I set her up in her booster chair and breathe a sigh of relief that she is contained for 2 minutes.

I hear: The sound of 96 crayons hitting the table. And the first one being broken in half.

I feel: Like a schmuck. I should have known better.

I smell: Trouble. It's going to be a long, long day.

Gentlemen, start your demo!

Demolition is well underway. Thought I'd give you a little window into our world!

Credit where credit is due

Hey!  My very creative and talented friend Amy made this new blog header for me.  I love it!  It pretty much sums me up.  :)

Check out her website here.

Thanks Amy!

I know I'm 37 but I still sort of want one

These might be the cutest things I've ever seen.  Seriously.

My life as a Def Leppard hit

The walls are tumbling down. Literally. As I type this, I see the bare studs of the bedroom walls and feel the grit of plaster dust on the keyboard. Ah yes, it is grand.

I am not complaining for a minute, FYI.

Still, construction adds a whole new dimension to day-to-day living: Most rooms are an obstacle course. I routinely find building materials on my dining room table, kitchen counter, and bathroom vanity. And the dust? Well... it permeates.

In order to self-medicate my way through the process I have spent countless hours online Googling any number of household improvements. If you'd like an opinion on kitchen appliances, countertop options, or replacement windows just give me a buzz. I'm still reading up on whirlpool tubs and stamped concrete though, so if you'd like my take on those you're just going to have to wait.

Oh -- and on a completely unrelated note, my incredibly talented friend Elaine has posted some of my handiwork on her blog. Dig me! I'm creative! (And thanks, Elaine, for the very nice comments. You're not too shabby yourself.)

No news

I haven't really got a blessed thing to say, though I'm sure I'll spend a few hundred words here saying it. The father-in-law is coming Monday and I will admit to being mighty excited about the work that's going to get done after he arrives. Rob has finals tomorrow and I have to admit to being mighty excited about the work that's going to get done after he's finished with school.

Sara's great. She's taken to saying "Hey Mama! Guess what! It's ________ time!" You can fill in the blank with whatever she's jonesing for at the time: Dora, dinner, bath, snack, whatever. It's pretty funny. Isn't she a cutie? (I think so.)

I took today & tomorrow off from work -- simply because I can, which is a novelty for me. I spent the morning outside with Sara, drinking a lot of coffee, wandering the perimeter of the house thinking we should do this or that & trying to imagine how it's all going to look when it's done. Spent a fair amount of time pushing Sara on her "red one" (her red swing, not to be confused with Oscar's "green one" a couple houses down) and examining all varieties of rocks that she put on the bench next to me. We also fed the birds, which Sara very politely announced to the robin hopping along our front walk: "We go get you lunch now, OK bird?" I assume he gave her the all-clear because we filled up the feeder in short order.

It was a good day, with time spent outside & in, drawing pictures of Sara and Mam and Papa and Aunt Pants on the MagnaDoodle, lunch at MCL -- where she insisted on wearing her striped, newborn fleecy jester hat throughout the meal, thank you very much -- and a nice nap so Mama could clean the bathroom & get dinner ready. There was a nice rhythm to the day, not too busy, not to slow, just right.

Ah, for more of these. Someday. I know it will come.

For now, back to work. There's laundry to do and a bedroom to prepare for Rich. Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!

Pastoral symphony*

We three went to Traders Point Creamery this morning. Despite the grey skies, threat of rain, and slight nip in the air, it was just about the perfect morning -- in fact, that maybe why it was the perfect morning.

I know TPC isn't a new discovery, but for our family it was a first. There was some competition for parking spots, which didn't give me very high hopes, but in the end our trip there was just right. We did some initial scoping of the place and didn't bring a lot of cash so there wasn't a big temptation to buy a lot of stuff we wouldn't end up using. We did get some locally-roasted coffee and I bought a small loaf of cherry bread from a mighty precious old farmer... when I asked him which kind of bread was his favorite, he admitted that everything he brought was his favorite. How could I pass him up?

Next time we'll come better financed and prepared to try some of the locally-grown, organically-raised produce. I love the idea of this and am slowly making some steps toward incorporating these concepts into our buying habits. In fact, before I started this post I was Googling to find some sources for canning and freezing our own harvest for next year.

Sara was, of course, instantly in love with the place and spent a fair amount of time trying to catch and hug the chickens -- she wasn't succcessful, but this didn't seem to faze her. There were also a couple of cats roaming the grounds, with which she was instantly smitten. Not exactly "barn cats" and not exactly "house cats," they were freindly enough to be offended when we passed them by without the obligatory pat and possesive enough of the place to keep their eyes on us when we wandered out into the field. It was nice, since everyone else was in the barn at the market and we pretty much had the grounds to ourselves. And the occasional "cock-a-doodle-do" was really the icing on the cake.

It was one of those mornings I always imagine us having, the three of us together enjoying the fresh air and having enough time and space to let Sara have the independence she needs while Rob and I can spend a few minutes talking and walking and not worrying about her. There was an energy in the air, a mix of stormy weather and Saturday-morning anticipation that I find both invigorating and relaxing. We were in the city yet enjoying the pastoral setting, all at the same time. I'm not sure how it gets much better.

I love these accidental realizations of my imagination. They're so rare -- but I wonder how much more frequently they might occur if I just let life unfold rather than spending my time and energy trying to engineer "the ideal." It never works anyway. Good thing I've finally realized that, because it sure makes living a lot easier. It kind of give the concept of "going organic" a whole new meaning.


*The Pastoral Symphony is one of my favorite sections of "The Messiah." It's actually what was played (on a harp no less!) when I walked down the aisle at our wedding. If you're familiar with it, today was sort of a real-life expression of how I internalize the music: a simple melody gently carrying you forward to the next movement. Kind of makes me wonder what life's "next movement" will be.

Rock my world

I can honestly say that I've never been woken up by an earthquake. I'm sure my friends out west are laughing at us right now (much like we do when their interstate traffic comes to a halt after a light dusting of snow), but I'm here to tell you -- it's a little creepy. The bed was shaking, the walls were rumbling, the windows were rattling... my first thought was "what the hell is Rob doing now?!?," but then I realized he was just as confused as I was.

Here's the creepiest part: Riley is currently undergoing a fairly major addition to the hospital and, off and on all this week, we have felt the rhythmic vibrations of jackhammers or excavation or I don't know what. My desk vibrates, my coffee sloshes in it's cup... you get the idea. Just a few minutes ago we had what I assume is an aftershock. To be honest, it's kind of hard to tell the difference between the jackhammering and the earthquaking -- except that Rob just called me to ask how "construction" was going. And I have to say: Being in the basement of a six-floor hosptial during construction AND earthquake activity? Yeah, not so much.

I'm telling you, if our patients start speaking in tongues I'm out of here. Of course, it might be a little difficult to say if they're actually speaking in tongues or just here for therapy... So, scratch the tongues. But if I see swarms of locusts or floods or the dead rising from the grave? Then I'm out of here.

There's no place like home

My mom used to tell me how she frequenly felt like a second-class citizen when people would ask her what she "did" and she would tell them that she was a house wife. It was the seventies, you know, and she was supposed to be burning her bra and blazing career trails.

Well, whatever. Now it's thirty years later and I've got the career and the new promotion, and really what my soul is thirsty for is the life my mom led. I'm a house wife trapped in the professional world. Crazy, isn't it?

I don't think "house wife" is the right term anymore... I personally think that "home-making" is a much better descriptor, because that is what it's really all about. Now, my mom was no neatnik -- NOT EVEN CLOSE. And she didn't get me up every morning for a hot breakfast, or make sure all my clothes were ironed and laid out the night before. So what did she do? Well, she made our home. She shaped what was important to us (and not), created our traditions, and above all made sure we felt loved. And we did.

Before I get the certain responses that lots of women have careers and a fulfilling home life, let me just say that I understand that it's possible. At least to some degree, it's possible -- but it's really proving to be impossible for me. My attempts and creating the home life I want and the work life I require has left me falling short on every front. And let me tell you, that is a lousy place to be.

Hey, I know I have all sorts of pie-in-the-sky ideas about what being a home-maker would be like. A lot of it is romanticized nonsense but I also know it would really be the best gift I could give to Rob, Sara, and myself. The creativity that I love and that keeps me sane (designing, scrapbooking, stenciling, photography, writing, singing, gardening, cooking, painting -- walls, not canvases!) isn't marketable. I know that there are those whose talent is extraordinary, and mine isn't. And that's really OK with me. But my family would benefit from it, and I could have the joy of shaping our lives and creating our traditions and making sure they feel loved.

That is SO what I want to be about. It's still not popular, it doesn't move us up the socioeconomic totem pole, and some (perhaps reckless) pundits have even suggested that it's "dangerous." Well, whatever! I'm no more interested in burning my bra or blazing career trails than my mother was. In fact, that path seems to lead inevitably to failure for me and my family.

So here's hoping I can be a new kind of trail-blazer, back to where my mother came from. I really can't wait to get there.

So I was sobbing

CJ and Sharon are really doing it: They're tearing down the old lake cottage and building new. We are all really excited and can't wait until it's done. It will be year-round now, and will have lots of room for lots of people. They've been talking about it and planning for it for months now and we're all so looking forward to it. It will be great.

So I was a little surprised to find myself sobbing the other night as I looked through the pictures Sharon sent of the place now that they've cleared everything out for demolition. It's a sad little thing, tired and literally decaying from some 40 years of use. My dad built it -- almost everything, except the block, he did himself. It is small (funny how it never seemed all that small when I was a kid) and we outgrew it forever ago. There was no air conditioner, no washer or dryer, and for the longest time no phone. It smelled "lakey" and was definitely not immune to bugs. In the last few years, to be perfectly honest, it was a lot of work just to be there.

But oh my gosh -- I cried and cried as I looked at those pictures. She wasn't in the photos but I could see Mom standing behind the island in the kitchen, putting out food for whatever crowd happened to be there that day and filling newcomers in on the house rules: she would show you where everything was, but after that you were on your own -- and no wet bathing suits on the sofa! I could see Dad sitting at the picnic table reading the Sunday paper early in the morning before the boats started up and it was so quiet you could hear every squirrel on the roof and every woodpecker in the cove.

They were both so proud of the place and loved sharing it with everybody -- literally, everybody. It didn't matter if they had known you for 5 minutes or 50 years, you were welcome to enjoy everything the lake had to offer. Mom would keep you well fed and supplied with dry towels (and don't forget to hang them up, because she wasn't doing it for you!) and Dad would pull you behind the boat for an hour if that's what it took to get you up on skis. No screaming allowed and kids had to wear life jackets. That was about it. All you were asked to do was have a good time.

I can't tell you how many weeks, or more likely months, I spent down there with Mom. We all but lived there in the summer. I don't remember what all we did, but I remember I hated coming home. We practically had the whole lake to ourselves -- and I had Mom all to myself, too. Some of my best memories of her are from summers at the lake. I'd love to do that with Sara some day, too. (Some day.)

So yes, I was sobbing. I'm sure I will again. Part of me wants to go down there, one more time, just to say goodbye to the place: smell the lakey smell, stand behind the island and look out at the lake like Mom did, sit at the picnic table some quiet early morning like Dad and just listen and remember. But I won't. I don't need to -- I'm doing it right now. Kind of like everything else with Mom and Dad, the blessing and the curse is that I'll never get to see them again, but I meet with them all the time in my memory.

This time, no promises

Ah, the time has come again to consider my weight dilemma. Or crisis. Crisis is probably more accurate.

This time I'm having an incredibly hard time committing to anything. It's been a lifetime of enthusiastic commitment followed, at some point, by giving up and then gaining it all back (plus a little more for good measure). I really, truly, feel defeated and suspect that defeat is the one thing that is going to guarantee my failure.

Rock, meet hard place.

The thing is that I have more reason than ever to figure it all out. Every day I spend with Sara is confimation that life is SO worth living and living for a long, long time -- every day to the fullest. Cornball as it sounds I believe it. And yet I'm still left with my dilemma, and no amount of cold-hard logic or very real concern for my health seems to take an edge off the defeat.

So this time around I'm not fooling myself, not promising myself that I'm going to knock this off my to-do list like the laundry or paying bills. Chances are I'll never lose all the weight I need to lose -- but right now, I'd be happy with just some. Just something to make life a little easier, my step a little faster, my knees a little stronger, my hope a tiny bit brighter. I'm taking baby steps and the first one is just being aware. You skinnies out there probably never realized that some of us aren't even aware of what we're eating -- or maybe you don't have to be because you were blessed with good genes and a great metabolism. But for some of us it takes a real effort to think about what we're eating, what it's doing to us/for us, and why we're eating it.

And let me tell you, it IS an effort.

That's my goal right now. Being aware. Being present everytime I put something in my mouth and making a conscious decision about why I will - or won't - do it. It's hard. Maybe harder than weighing and measuring and keeping a food diary and coming off sugar. I don't know, because I've never really done it before.

Anyway that's where I am. I don't want you to question me the next time we have lunch together or take a mental inventory of what I'm eating. Really, you don't have to do anything except try to understand.

My quest to be aware has taken me back to my old friend, the Cooking Light website. This is what I made for dinner last night (along with some stuffing & tasty roasted asparagus) and by all accounts it was very very tasty. And for you cooks out there -- also SO fast & easy. No joke. I hope you like it!

Not sure what comes next, but I think awareness is going to keep me busy for awhile. Maybe Rob, Sara & I can make yesterday's afternoon walk a daily event. Not exactly a workout, but certainly better than sitting on my butt watching the Food Network. Ah, the irony...

We'll see. And I'll keep you posted.

Saturday morning sound bites

The beauty of most Saturdays is that Rob lets me sleep in. Usually that means I'm up at 7:30 or 8:00 (which he doesn't understand as "sleeping in"), but this morning I was up just before nine.

Last night we managed to get a sitter and go out for the evening. Feeling quite proud of ourselves we went to a relatively nice place for dinner (no trays, mascots, or waiters singing "Happy Birthday" in sight) and I ordered myself a Lemondrop. A nice idea in theory, until I woke up this morning at 6:30 with a pounding headache. Four Advil later and I was back in bed.

When I rolled out two and a half hours later the headache was mostly gone, just that whisper to remind you that you best not get cocky cause it could come back any minute. I sat on the edge of the bed to weigh my options: try to sleep it off entirely or push through and hope for the best?

That's when I heard Rob and Sara downstairs. And it went something like this:

S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara Hope NO! We do NOT touch knives! (unintelligible mumbling)"
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "A, B C, D, E, F, Geeeeeeeeeeeeee, H, I J, K, na na na na na na na...." (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara Hope NO!! Get away from the stove!"
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "(unintelligible happy sounds)"
R: "Ba-Boom! You're OK."
S: "(indiscriminate whine)" (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara Hope come back here."
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara, I have oranges!"
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "Mmmmmmmmmmmm....." (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara come HERE. Mama's sleeping."
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "Mama? I go SEE Mama." (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "No Sara, come BACK here!"

And so it went.

I opted to hang out upstairs for a few minutes to see which direction my headache was going to turn before I jumped into the fray. Rob just brought up some coffee and when I asked him how they were doing he said "Um, OK." That was when Sara started up the stairs to see what she was missing.

God love him, he told her I was still asleep. He's such a nice man.

As for me, I think I'll fish out a couple more Advil, take a nice hot shower & then give him some relief. But I have to say, I've been enjoying the show. Those two.... peas in a pod. How I wound up as the Mama Bear of this crew is a mystery to me.

My Book About Me: Volume II

I remember my mom giving me this book when I was a kid and now I wish I knew what had happened to it.


Somehow along the way I turned 37. Now, I don't feel old. I don't really think I'm old. But the 6-year-old in me that filled out her "My Book about Me, by ME, Myself" really thinks that this 37 year old woman is ancient -- and really ought to know who she is, thank you very much.


I hate sounding like a whiny middle-aged woman having an identity crisis. In fact just seeing those words on the screen makes me cringe. The truth is this isn't a new identity crisis -- I've always had it. Probably always will. But that doesn't mean I have to like it, right?

I am awed by people who seem to know, or at least eventually figure out, who they are. I don't mean what they do -- cause really, come on. But I have friends who are Writers and Artists and Photographers and Speech Pathologists and Mothers and that is who they are. They have true gifts and passions. It's not work to them (or not always). They really appear to love what they do and they do it well.


I don't get it.


I have heard the talk about "spiritual gifts" and let me tell you: evidently, I came to the party late cause I seem to have left empty-handed: Administration? Don't tell my boss, but not-so-much. Exhortation? I don't think I know what it means so that would be a no as well. Teaching? Um, I'm a card-carrying member of the "Never taught despite my education degree" club. Encouragement? No. Mercy? Uh, NO. Pastoring, evangelizing, prophseying? No, no, and no again.


Look, I'm not fishing for compliments here, I just really don't see it. And it doesn't have to be limited to spiritual gifts (though this seems a noble cause worth pursuing) -- I don't feel especially gifted in anything. "Jack of all trades, master of none." And maybe that's OK. Just feels less than overwhelming. You know?


So, I either haven't figured it out or haven't stumbled across it, I'm not sure which. Or maybe it just is what it is. But it seems like I always expect something better to come down the pike, but I inevitably make a wrong turn (or wrong decision) that keeps me from ME. I'm not unhappy, just a little bit lost. Waiting to figure out whatever It is that I am.


The six-year-old is getting impatient. I'm not sure what to tell her. Maybe I should go get another book and start from scratch, or better yet, Sara and I could do ours together.


Not a bad idea, really...

Wait, I just thought of something. I know a lot of words. Not like in a freaky-deaky Scrabble champion kind of way, but you know -- in that way where I feel compelled to use exactly the right word kind of way. That way that alienates people because they think you think you're superior to them.


Now that's a helpful skill. I'm sure I'll sleep better tonight.

ADDENDUM: My husband said he felt bad for me when he read this. He thinks I sound depressed. Rest assured, I don't feel bad about this or depressed. Anticipatory maybe, or confused or I don't know what. But not depressed.

Thursday night catechism

There's this CD that I put on for Sara every night. Scattered throughout are various "nature" sounds -- rain, water, birds, stuff like that. After a little section with birds chirping, I told Sara about how her Grandma really liked birds. She liked how colorful they were, and how they sang, and how they hopped around. She liked to feed them and watch them. And then Sara said "I feed birds." And I told her yes, that we could feed the birds too.

And then she asked, "Where Grandma?"


Now this is not new territory. When Dad died I told her that he had gone to heaven to live with God and Jesus and Grandma, and so we've talked lots of times about where Grandma and Grandpa live. So I asked her: "Where does Grandma live?"

And she said, "Heaben."


So I told her yes, Grandma lives in heaven with Grandpa and God and Jesus.


A couple of minutes pass and she said "Where God?"


Hmmm. What would that two-year-old mind make of this? "Well, God lives in heaven. But it's kind of tricky, because He's here, too. He's everywhere. He lives in our hearts and He's always with us. We can't see Him but if we listen we can hear Him, and we can feel Him too."


To which she said, "God in heaben."


"Yep, God's in heaven and here and everywhere."


There was this little pause, and I thought the conversation was over. But then I hear her little voice, and it's obvious she's been thinking about what I've said.


"Tricky."



Tricky, indeed.

LOL -- and I don't do that

So you have to go here and see this post. The video is funny and disturbing and mind-bending. The commentary is hilarious.

(FYI, the blogger is a friend of my sister's and his posts have had me LOLing more than once. LOLing -- I'm pretty sure that's not a word. But then again neither is LOL so there you go.

Anyway, he also happens to be a nice guy. He dutifully laughed at Sara during Easter dinner and felt free to give me some digs on my not-so-hot home-made hot-cross-buns. I respect that.)

on my mind these days...

...is this house going to be TOO big?

...why do you always end up getting the shaft at work?

...yeah, i really need to figure out how to get healthy

...oh, to have the time to craft all i wanted!

...the career: white-knuckling it til the end

...can't get enough of my girl/will someone come take her, please?

...wish i was a snappier blogger.

...sick and tired of feeling sick and tired

...i've really got to get to bed earlier...

(It worked, FYI)

Mike Spencer said...

How many conversations have started that way? I wonder....

Anyway, Mike Spencer once said that it might be helpful for me to write things down. This suggestion happened to be in relation to thoughts about my parent's deaths and how at times I just seem to relive certain moments that, quite honestly, I'd rather not relive. His thinking was that by writing these thoughts down I could sort of put them somewhere so I didn't have to keep processing them. At least that's how I interpreted what he said.

Well, I bought a little orange notebook to use for just that purpose. I now use it to take down dimensions and stock numbers of appliances that Rob and I think we might like for our new kitchen. I had good intentions about using it for the original purpose, but really it's perilously close to "journaling," and that's just not something I do.

Except then I realized that that's pretty much exactly what I do on this stupid blog.

Anyway, all of that to say that I had an experience this weekend that I need to put somewhere so I can stop reliving it in my head.

Most people know that I am not really a dog person. I don't dislike dogs -- in fact at times I kind of want a dog -- but I am not especially drawn to them. In particular I am not a fan of large dogs. OK: at the core of it, I'm afraid of them. Not big loopy goofy happy dogs like Labs but Big Dogs That Mean Business. I don't trust them. I know that, at the end of the day, they are animals. And even with the greatest cat in the world (mine of course), at the end of the day he is still an animal and you never know for sure what an animal will do.

So, now you know my thing about dogs -- and I'm sure you can imagine where this is going.

This weekend we went out to Philly for the memorial service of one of Rob's great-uncles. We stayed with the in-laws, as usual, as well as their akita. (An akita, in case you are unfamiliar with the breed, is a Big Dog That Means Business.) I am able to function reasonably well around the dog -- we aren't friends per se, but we co-exist. Sara, on the other hand, loves anything furry with a tail and has no fear whatsoever of the Big Dog and so I am terrified for her. The Big Dog is intrigued, perplexed, puzzled, probably somewhat annoyed by Sara but for the most part doesn't get much past sniffing her. A couple of times -- and always without provocation -- he growled at her and I flashed my Mommy armor, though every time I was reassured that it was nothing, he is just jealous of the attention he was losing to Sara, he was startled, etc. He needed to get used to her, come to think of her as family and then he would protect her.

And then it happened. I knew it would, could sense it coming. The Mama instinct in me could see it and feel it and was completely powerless to stop it. The Big Dog bit her. On the face. And there was blood.

It's funny because at the time I was probably the most composed person there. Sara, of course, was scared and wailing. Rob was furious. My mother-in-law was crying. I just wanted my daughter to be OK and, after a few minutes, she was. I consoled my mother-in-law, calmed my husband, and kept feeding Sara ice cubes and bacon. The dust settled. The dog went outside and will never have contact with Sara again.

It's done.

But it's not, because all night and all morning the only thing I see in my mind's eye is the Big Dog going after her again, only this time he doesn't stop. He's vicious, and Sara is bleeding but not crying, and I'm scared to death that it's gone too far.

I keep telling myself that it didn't happen that way and that now there is no chance that it ever will. But that doesn't stop my mind from going there, and the scars on her face just remind me over & over & over what could have been.

Here's hoping that this post puts the nightmare to rest.

Getting going

I'm having a hard time of it today.

Actually it started last night... I had to keep reminding myself that it was THURSDAY and yes indeed I did have one more day to go.

So this morning I was only sort of shocked when the alarm went off. And then this is what I had to leave behind when I came to work:




Seriously?? I could eat her up. It's not many girls, you know, who can pull off a sparkly pink boa with grizzly bear jammies. I'm just saying.

A million little kisses

Home today with the girl, who shared her cold with me last week and has now added pink eye to the mix. Magical.

I am mildly stressed about missing work... I don't want to lose the vacation day but this is motherhood and those are the sacrifices, right? I have been picking away at some work projects at home and plan to do some more after she goes to bed, so technically (I think) I can consider this a work day. It just feels weird.

Ah, work. It is ramping up. Each morning I walk in and wonder how on Earth I'm going to stay busy all day but I most definitely do. I've spent the last 6-7 years with a caseload, which ought to say it all. Now, no real caseload (except for the 1-2 mornings a week that I still do clinical work) but definitely a load. And a steep learning curve. And a lot of room for change which may or may not make me popular. I wish dad was here for some insight. I'd probably be annoyed by his unsolicited advice but the truth is I always wanted to hear it. Not that I always followed it, but I always wanted to hear it.

Dad. It will be a year this Sunday. The weather was very much like this, sans the sunshine. It seems like a lifetime ago. A lot has changed.

The home renovation project continues and I'm TOTALLY excited about this Friday, when we sit down and talk about the fun stuff with the architect. So many dreams tumbling around in this pea brain of mine and I can't wait to see them on paper. Is this actually going to happen? (Yes.)

I've rethought things and decided I want my craft room/studio in the attic. And I want it to feel like an attic -- a fully loaded, completely functional, super-cozy attic to be sure, but still an attic. The Mack Daddy of attics. I want to be able to curl up by one of the windows and read and maybe fall asleep. I want to put my Mom's Christmas formal on a dress form and make it the piece of art that I think it really might be. I want it to be my grown-up girl-fort. And I want it to be the place where I can sew, scrap, and craft my brains out. You too, if you want to come on up. There will be lots of room so come on over anytime.

And I might call it a studio. But I'll probably call it the attic. We'll see.

Our little bouncing bear continues to be the best thing that happened to either of us. She exhausts me and scares me and really pisses me off sometimes but she's fantastic and I really, truly know how blessed we are to have her. She is strong and healthy and smart and sweet and beautiful and I don't forget for a minute how lucky we were to hit the jackpot when she joined our little family.

I see her starting to push boundaries. This scares me (because I realize this is going to go on -- and escalate -- for years and years to come), but right now it's still pretty endearing. She does for things she knows she shouldn't and when you call her name she turns to you with this "What? Me? I'm sorry, was I not supposed to do that?" look on her face. It's cute the first 2-3 times. And she's also started the stalling game at nap/bedtime. My most favorite rendition is something I call "a million little kisses," because she kisses me everywhere: my cheeks, my chin, my neck, my ears, my eyes, my forehead, over & over & over. They're just these sweet, tiny, soft little kisses and they make me melt. I'm sure she knows it, and I'm sure she's working it. But I fall for it everytime.

Maybe Sara calls this game "Mama is a Sucker."

Sounds about right.

Blog surfing

I could explain how I wound up here, but why?

I love this woman. I think she is cute as a button, funny, and has mad crafting skills. Plus, she lives in Oregon. Hello! The Tillamook yogurt alone is almost enough to get me to move there...

Anyway. Is it weird to read the blog of a perfect stranger? Hmmmm. I'm wondering if I care...

No, no I don't.

So, Dad called today

OK, not really. But I think maybe he was on the line for a second.

I played a short round of phone tag with my brother today. He called the house, Rob couldn't get the phone. I called his cell, he didn't answer. About 30 seconds later the phone rings, and the caller ID says CJ's cell.

So, I answer it: "Hey."

And then, from the great beyond or above or his condo at Washington Park, I don't really know where, but I swear my dad answered me: "Yeah?"

I stopped cold. I actually had my mouth poised to say "Dad??" I think I actually did say "d." Then I snapped back to reality, realized it really couldn't be him, and remembered what the caller ID said.

CJ's cell.

I think it was a bunch of things: The creaky voice that sounded just like Dad's did at the end; the weather (I sat and watched weather like this for hours -- no, days -- when Dad was finally confined to bed); the growing similarities between my father & brother; the fact that 12 more days will mark one year since he died. And it's not like this is the first time something like this has happened... Rob tells me that there was one night, a few months afer Dad died, when he got home late from work & tripped coming up the stairs and I yelled out "Dad" in my sleep. (Middle of the night falls were quite common those last few months.) And I can't count how many mornings I've woken up, far too early, thinking that I needed to go make sure Dad is OK.

I don't know. I don't necessarily like it when these things happen. It really freaks me out for a minute, as you might imagine. But then there's that flash, that half a second, when it feels like he's still here. And that's not so bad, you know?

Still miss you Dad. Say hi to Mom for us, will you? (We miss her, too.)

Oh, and for the record... If I ever go to answer the phone and it says Dad's condo, I am SO not answering it.

Living the dream

I have this vivid memory: It was maybe six or seven years ago. Rob and I were dating but still a year or so away from getting engaged. It was a very cold, dark, post-Christmas morning and I was driving into work (a job I didn't espeically like)listening to Christmas carols on the radio, totally bitter about my career and completely resigned to my lot in life -- never married, no kids. I made peace with my fate on Fall Creek Parkway somewhere between Capitol and Senate.

It was not a good morning.

Fast forward to yesterday: It's a cold but sunny Saturday afternoon. My husband is at home and I've got my sweet girl in the minivan with me. We're on our way to the happiest places on Earth -- no, not Disney, but DSW, Memoiors, and Target. I've got XM Kids playing (an oh-so-welcome reprieve from Elmo, let me tell you) and Sara is be-bopping in the back seat, asking for "moh moo-gick?" when a commercial comes on.

I could not be happier.

The highlight of my day came when we were listening to Roger Day sing "Dream Big!" For those of you who aren't familiar with this preschool anthem, the chorus goes something like "you've got to sing loud, jump high, and dream big!"

And then Sara, without dropping a beat adds "and BOUNCE!"

Love. Love, love, love, love, love.

Richard tagged me...

... and now I feel all fluttery inside.

(Richard, for the record, is my most platonic of crushes. He and his wife are two of the best people I know -- they are smart and funny and make me think WAY outside my box, and I love them for it. But Richard? Well, he calls me "darlin" sometimes and I just go all weak in the knees. That Amy is one lucky girl!)

Anyway, he tagged me. Blog tag 123, to be exact.

I guess the game goes like this (and I lift this directly from his blog):

Pick up the nearest book of 123 pages or more
Find page 123
Find the first five sentences
Post the next three sentences
Tag five people

So, the nearest book for me is "Raising You Spirited Child" by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka. Here's my lines:

"Duane listened quietly to the group and then asked, 'How can I tell my son I'm glad he's sensitive when it makes me flinch inside? I am embarrassed by my sensitivity and my son's too. When I grew up, boys didn't cry and I cried over everything."

There's more, but I'll just have to leave you hanging.

And for my five? Now that's tough. I guess I'll go with Amy, Lisa,
Scott, NKP, and Jeff.

Hopefully their bedside reading is a little more exciting than mine...

Seriously?

So, I officially started my new full-time job last Monday.

I began an annoying but bearable cough Wednesday.

Thursday I had to leave early to come home and take care of Sara because Rob was so sick he had her (and I quote) "penned up in her room" and fending for herself.

Friday I was hacking, achy, shivering then sweating -- another day off work.

Up all night Saturday with a new upset stomach and an ever-increasing cough.

Today, add, um... "GI issues" to the mix.

Rob has only made mild improvements.

And did I mention our water heater died Friday night? That's fun, too.

Tomorrow marks week 2 of my long-anticipated new job and I'm not even sure I'll be there. I will have had as many days off as I worked.

AWESOME!

All the many hurdles

The word I used to describe today was "relentless." A year ago that would have meant something entirely different and altogether unpleasant. Not so much today (though, of course, I missed that last hurdle at the end of the day.)

Work today -- all week, really -- was non-stop. Literally: e-mail a report, check e-mails, send a fax, make some copies, return a phone call (this is the first 10 mintues), then haul it up to radiology for 3 hours of swallow study fun (or not in some cases). Follow that by a lunch meeting, another check of voice and e-mails and I'm right on time to get out the door when I realize I've missed a page. MD wants to talk (AWESOME). Can I walk the report up to him? Uh no, not really. Beg a co-worker to do it for me (so lucky to have fantastic colleagues) and race to be only 2 minutes late for the automotive relay with Rob.

Decide to finally tackle downtown and turn in some Schwab forms I've been hauling around for - and I'm not exaggerating - about 2 months. Circle for parking, circle for parking and... got one! And there's even 8 minutes left on the meter which is good, because I have not a single penny on me.

Beg the Schwab lady to let me use their rest room. (Oh yeah, I forgot that I haven't had a chance to pee today. Oh yeah.)

Huzzah! A guilt-inducing pain in the neck errand -- done!

Off to the grocery. Full cart. Lots of people in line. Only one lane open? Seriously? Seriously?

And another page. The Boss. I'm official! The new job starts Monday. (God I HOPE the new job really starts Monday...)

Tank up for the trek down to Hope tomorrow. $2.65 a gallon! A steal.

I'm off just in time to pick up Rob. Make a phone call and start reading "Raising Your Spirited Child" while I wait for him to leave his lab.

I am a machine today! Go me! I changed financial institutions, did the weekly grocery run, secured a new full-time position, tanked up the car, and started a new book -- in the the span of 2 hours! (Why is it I'm not this productive every day?)

We go get the Bear. She isn't really interested in her parents. We take her with us anyway.

Get home. The phone rings before I can set my stuff down. It's my sister. I'm sure I sound like a bitch but seriously -- not even two seconds to breathe? Rob immediately leaves for work. I put away the groceries & throw a Stouffers casserolle in the over. Sara is exhausted and this can only spell disaster. I hand her a box of yogurt covered raisins to try and buy some time. She thinks it's candy. I don't correct her.

I still have calls to make to iron out the details for tomorrow's events. Sara insists on talking RIGHT IN MY FACE WHILE I'M ON THE PHONE or smashing her finger or jumping on me... you get the idea. She is truly coming apart at the seams. I start to do so as well. I devolve into one of those mothers that you look at in horror as they (literally) drag their children along the ground and seem to only know how to say awful things in slightly demonic voices. I know I have gone too far when Sara starts to talk back to me that way, too.

Bath time. She plays rag doll when I pick her up. She is wet and naked. I drop her. This is great.

We pray and I ask her to forgive me for being so rotten. She hasn't got a clue but I feel a little better. Still, the damage is done. (Sigh) There goes Mother of the Year and we're only half way through January.

I really just want to get into bed. But it's trash night and I've got to make sure the Giant Percolator is ready to go tomorrow. You know, the Giant Percolator. Your mom had one too, in the 70s. It is probably Harvest Gold or Avacado Green. Ours is the gold version.

I go down to the basement. Spy the Giant Percolator box. Open it up. Grab the lid, grab the pot, grab the -- wait, what? No power cord. No, really? REALLY?? Why would there not be a power cord? Cause now, it's just a Giany Ugly Useless Urn. This is GREAT.

Briefly reconsider buying a few boxes of coffee-to-go from Starbucks, but remind myself that they'll never make it sitting 3 hours in a little cardboard box. And let me tell you folks, there ain't no Starbucks in Hope, Indiana.

Screw the trash. I go back to plan A and get in bed.

And here we are. My sweet husband, after a 14+ hour day with not a single break for rest or meals, has just gone out to our storage space to find our big coffee pot. God love him. His reserve of kindness and service just doesn't seem to run out.

Think I need to wait for him to come home before I go to sleep? Hmmmm. Let's find out.....

Quality time with Photo Editor

Sadly, I didn't even edit. But I DID finally get all the pics since Sara's birthday uploaded to my computer & snaps sent out to aunt, nana, & great-grandmother. You can get a whirlwind tour of Sara's last 4 months at her blog.

AAAAAAANNNN.... bed.

A few of Sara's proclamations today:
I need Cindy. I NEED Cindy.
My funny.
I NEEEEED JUUUUUUIIIIICCCCCEEEEEE!!!!!!!
Wight OFF. (Really she means on but anyway...)
Mama hands.
Moh peaches? Moh peaches. Peaches BWEEEEZ.
IneedsnackIneedshoesIneedwightoffElmo?
Yeah!
Go Moo!
Mee-voh, evuh evuh Amen!
I make cake. I make chicken. I make fwies. I make milk. Taste it?
Shoes on on?
I got me!

(She really does got me.)

In the books

I have mixed feelings about bringing 2007 to a close, though I spose it doesn't matter all that much -- it's coming to an end whether I have mixed feelings or not.

I've always been fairly melancholy about the New Year. Maybe if I was more of a "glass half full" kind of girl I'd see it as a fresh start, but I've usually approached it as some kind of loss. Well, I've had my fill of loss already this year. And at the risk of sounding cold or dismissive, I'd like to leave the loss behind and close the door on 2007. There is little for me to remember fondly about this year and so I'm looking forward to all the opportunities that 2008 might hold:

Big changes at work, with (hopefully!) a new job and new responsibilities, not to mention a new salary.

Bigger changes at home, with renovations and -- bonus! -- redecorating galore. Ooooh, and landscaping! I almost forgot the landscaping.

Watching Sara as she becomes bigger, smarter, sweeter, and stronger every day. She kills me, this one. This has to be what they mean when they say "love grows."

Exciting changes at the lake, with a new house to match my brother's new boardwalk. I envision many many happy days there with family and friends.

Another diet. Of course there will be another diet. Isn't there always?

Travel. Who knows when, who knows where -- but it's coming to be sure.

There are some things that I know I'll miss this year... no garden as the property is bound to be a construction zone, and probably not as much time at the lake since it's going to be underway as well. And of course my parents. Always my parents.

Yep, ready to close this book and pick up the next one. It's been a long time coming. Happy New Year everyone!

Ricochet round

Why is it that I can work with really sick kids every day and never shed a tear, but when I land on a TLC special about premature quintuplets I have to take such a big breath to stop the tears that Rob asks from the other room if I'm OK? Is it me, or is that just crazy?

--------------------------

We (yes, we) have managed to keep the house picked up for 24 hours. MONUMENTAL.

---------------------------

I don't know how many things I threw out today but I way overshot my 20-item goal.

---------------------------

Sara. Seriosly, what am I going to do about her?I mean I love her so I can't kill her but come on -- free falling from the coffee table onto the couch? Who could have predicted that? This is why she is not allowed to be in the living room by herself anymore.

---------------------------

Can't wait to see more of the pictures that Elaine took. CAN'T WAIT!!!

---------------------------

Mike Spencer seemed to make a point out of having me cry last week. Lots of talk about the holidays without my parents. Yeah, at times it will suck. I know it will. But I don't really want this to be My First Christmas As An Orphan. Really, and maybe I shouldn't disclose this admission of complete selfishness, but I am kind of making a point of enjoying this Christmas. Like, holiday music on the car since the week of Thanksgiving and trees and lights and cookies and "It's a Wonderful Life" popcorn nights. It's been so long since I've had a choice about whether or not to feel happy that I'm really opting in this year. Besides, my folks wouldn't want it any other way.

---------------------------

Need to finish Sara's stocking... I actually cut out all the pieces and pinned it together two years ago, before she was born: An angel with a red gown on a cream stocking with green trim and her name along the bottom. And then, well... all hell broke loose. Two years later and I can finally finish. Besides, when I started I didn't know what color to make her hair. Now I do. :)

---------------------------

Happy Holidays everybody!

Those apples -- they don't fall far, do they?

I seem to recall my Mom telling me that when I was a kid I really liked to color. On the walls. A lot. Truth be told, I have fuzzy recollections of my scrawlings on the wall going up the staricase, underneath the window in the dining room, maybe in a little hallway at the back of the house.

Best of all I have a rather vivid memory of going into my brother's room one morning, before he was awake. He must have been a freshman or sophomore in high school then, and he had this sort of awful red, white & blue wallpaper covered in soldiers that my grandmother had picked out for him when he was a kid. (To this day he still hates that wallpaper.) Anyway, I remember sneaking in there, crawling up on to his bed -- with him still in it, sound asleep -- and creating some of my finest work right there on the wall by his bed while he slept.

Everyone was so happy.

My mom, who really didn't get mad about much... well, she wasn't a great fan of my artistic inspiration. That I do remember well.

What's great about all of this is that Sara has discovered coloring on the walls too. Her first masterpiece? In my brother's old room. Too bad that wallpaper is long gone...

I mean, it MUST be hormones (or something)

Maybe it's the 90 minutes I've spent going through old pictures of family & friends, maybe it's the great conversation we had a church today that reminded me (yet again) that I am so damn lucky to have such a special community, or maybe it's just hormones.

I don't know, but something about this video left me in tears, longing for the pre-Bobby Brown/Dionne Warwick's Psychic Hotline days when big hair and bigger shoulder pads were style achievements, when Luther Vandross (poor Luther) could wear those rhinestone suits and somehow not look ridiculous, and when Stevie was, well... he's always just Stevie. I was so young then. So much has changed. I wouldn't trade any of it away, but sometimes I'd just like to go back to that mid-80s me and let myself know that time flies. Don't waste a minute of it -- it's gone in a blink.

Mee-voh

This is how Sara says "evil," and it is probably what saved me (her) tonight.

Well, evil itself didn't save us -- that would just be wrong, don't you think? Really it was the act of her saying it, in that adorably wrong way, that did it for me (her). Kind of like she says "Noh My-Kuh" for John Michael and "Tayes" for Hayes and "An-see PANTS" for Aunt Nancy, which my sister hates but I think is fantastic. It's just sweet, you know?

But really nothing else has been sweet lately. The Mama Well of Patience is running perilously close to dry these days. I am tired of fighting every time she needs her diaper changed, every time she needs to get out of the tub, and every time I need to clean up her tray. I am tired of her bolting for her room and crawling under her crib so I can't reach her. I am tired of wearing oatmeal, finding half-eaten and rotting apples rolling around under my seat in the car, and scraping purple crayon off her tongue for the 80-zillionth time. I am tired of getting drenched every time I give her a bath. I am tired of getting hit in the head because she hasn't got the communication skills to explain why the hell she's so mad.

I guess what I'm saying here is that I am tired.

Now, five years ago if I had come across a blog post like this one, written by some woman who was lucky enough to have found someone she wanted to marry (and married him), had a healthy, happy child, and a roof over her head to call her own -- well, I would have wanted to kill her. I mean, come on -- GET A GRIP ALREADY. It's life! It's motherhood! This is what you sign up for!

But still, I am tired.

And even when I think back to this time a year ago when things with Dad got impossibly hard and all I wanted was to be out from under it? Yes, I am quick to remind myself that this is certainly much better than that. This is what I was waiting for, right?

Yes. And even so -- I am tired.

Don't get me wrong. I love my daughter, and most of the time (OK, some of the time, usually) I love being her mother. I love watching her jump and march and gallop around, listening to her mimic everything she hears, seeing the lightbulb come on when she learns something new. I love seeing pieces of me, and Rob, and my mom in the way she moves or thinks or holds her mouth. I love all of that. And I am all too well aware of how very little time there really is to spend with her and I refuse (refuse!) to wish away a single second of it. What I wouldn't give for one more second with my mom. (Nothing. There is nothing I wouldn't give.)

But that doesn't mean I have to actually like every second. Or that I can't be tired. Right?

Deliver me from mee-voh, Lord. And if You could throw in an extra dose of patience that would be great.

Growing up at 36

Just finished updating my resume. Spent, I don't know... maybe 45 minutes or so, mostly on formatting but also on adding, deleting, general tweaking. It looks good, I think.

Then I realized that now is the time that I would show it to Dad, to get his opinion. I'd listen to some of it, discard a good deal of it -- he was so out of step, I assumed, and his government background seemed so foreign to my healthcare experience. Still, I always wanted to hear what he thought. (Read: I always wanted to hear his praise.)

I've decided I'm not going to run it past anybody this time around. Dad's gone; time to grow up. It's a strangely big deal to me.

To market (or, the other way around)

Seriously considering this.

Mind purge

Barium is really kinda hard to get out of your clothes.

I love having finished my filing. I mean really, I LOVE it.

But why are there still so many stacks on the desk? Hmmmm.

Rob is a hard person to shop for.

Strollers:Starbucks Orange Mochas::Blenders:Frozen Margaritas

I am really enjoying the Orange Mochas these days.

Good walking weather. Nice stroll through the Village yesterday. Actually, just a nice day in general yesterday.

Sometimes, when I look at Sara, I swear I am going to burst. I love her that much.

Sometimes, when I look at Sara, I swear I am going to go to prison, she drives me that crazy.

Mostly though, I love her.

I hate clutter.

There is so much clutter.

We have great neighbors. And I think Oscar is a great playmate for the Bear. Just the right speed.

I have my dishes back. Now I have to unpack them. (sigh)

Thrify Threads is sooo cleaning up with our house purge. I love it.

My love my friends (you know who you are -- and yes, I mean you).

So tired. Off to bed. Perhaps some Tylenol PM...

Dove (no, not the bar)

Although that does sound good right about now. Who am I kidding. When doesn't a Dove bar sound good.

But I digress. I realize I'm not hawking anything new here, but I just checked out the Dove campaignforrealbeauty website and I have to say, I'm impressed. There seem to be lots of resources there -- and most of them not even really "beauty" related, from what I can see. Check out their two short films, too. Scary. Makes me want to ban all forms of media from the house until Sara is about 40. Cause you know, I'm not going to let her even think about leaving til she's at least 40.

Only 40 minutes til this season's second episode of Ugly Betty. I can't wait!

I will no longer be ashamed

So help me, I love this show.

Parental nirvana (fleeting)

So, here is our typical lunchtime exchange:

Sara, are you ready to eat?
Sara gives me a wild-eyed look then makes a break for it. She is still convinced that I won't find her behind the chair, even though I saw her run there.
Sara, come on.
Still behind the chair
[Crossing the room] I'm not going to chase you.
Peeks but still isn't moving.
[Chasing her] Come here.
Keeps her back to the chair and edges to the other side.
[Still chasing her] Sara. Come HERE. I'm NOT chasing you.



So, you get the idea. Eventually she tires of this, begins squealing like some sort of "she-devil," as my sister likes to say, and makes for the dining room. Or the kitchen, or the bathroom, or somewhere. But at least she's not behind the chair anymore, right?

But then today, out of nowhere, It happened: Perfect Behavior.



Sara, are you ready to eat?
She stops what she is doing and looks at me. "Buckets."
[Bracing myself for the chase] No, you don't need your buckets.
She begins stacking all of her buckets, without a single one out of order. She then picks them up and puts them in the big bucket. The lid goes on too. This is all done quickly and quietly. What?!?
Good girl! Let's go eat.
"Beads." She picks up a string of snap-together beads and drops them into a basket. Then she picks up a recorder and puts it into another basket. It rolls out. She tries again. It rolls out again. "Help?"
[I stand slack-jawed. There is a pause before I realize that she has asked me to help her clean up one of her toys.] Help? Yes, yes! I'll help! Let's put it here. Good JOB Sara B! What a BIG GIRL!
She doesn't respond, as she is busy tidying up her overflowing basket of books. Only when she is done does she turn toward the dining room and joyfully cry "Eat!"


OK, so I have no idea what happened. It's like the girl crawled inside my brain, looked up "perfect child," and said to herself -- what the hey? I'll throw the old girl a bone.

After lunch we went upstairs to put on dry pants (hers, not mine). She made a beeline for her crib, which she crawled under and wouldn't vacate until I laid my head down on the changing table for a quick cat-nap. Then she promptly grabbed up every bink and held them behind her back until I pried them out of her sticky little hands. This was followed by loud, long, piercing wails of "BIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNK!!!" that only let up when I put her up on the table for the aforementioned diaper change, and were promptly replaced with kicking and screaming and body contortions that I can only fantasize about. A not-so-gentle reminder, I suppose, that her whims are indeed fleeting.

The ride goes on...

A love affair begins

I share this with a mix of excitement and apprehension:

I have discovered Mod Podge. And I am smitten.

It took me 36 years to get there, but I had my first Podge experience this weekend. I have a little work to do, for expert Podging takes both patience and practice, but I must say that I did an awfully nice job for a beginner. And what, pray tell, did I so lovingly glaze with this magical gluey goo?






Yes, my planner. Long-awaited, long-desired. I'm just too cheap to pay $50, $60, or $70+ for a planner that only sort of meets my needs. Yes, some are beautiful -- just not very helpful. Others are terrific for organizing -- but aesthetically left me wanting, well, something else entirely. And so after a few failed layouts, several fights with Excel, and way too many hours on my laptop, I came up with the perfect planner for me. (And maybe you, too.)

But then, it occurred to me, the fun wasn't over! I still got to make it as pretty as I wanted it to be! The paper! The embellishments! THE PODGE!

A labor of love, to be sure.

There are kinks to work out, processes to streamline, ideas to consider, and Podge to master, but I do believe this is not the last planner for me. Different sizes? Sure! Layouts? Why not?! Customizable? Of course!! I can hardly sleep, just thinking about it...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Rumor has it that, back in the day, my mom was a mad-Podgger. She Podged it all. My brother came over one day, shortly after I bought it but before I had worked up the nerve to open it, and said "what are you doing with that???" I told him, but all he could do was shake his head and mumble something about Mom, and decoupage, and anything that wasn't nailed down...

The tradition continues.

Week two: Ahh-Daaahn!

The second edition of Vegetarian Wednesday has been put to bed. Still no veggies before dinner but all in all a good day. And I made a ROCKING soup tonight. Freaky good. It was the full-fat version though, so it definitely needs to tweaking. (I know, I know -- it was 85 outside today. So sue me. I got excited by that cold snap last weekend and couldn't get soup off of my brain all week.)

I'm a little disappointed at how easy it has been to go meat-free. Maybe if I tried for two days a week I'd suffer more. Yeah, well. No need for suffering right now. But I'll keep it in mind.

For your viewing pleasure

Just a couple of the bear. (I love her so.)

(whistle.......) Ka-pow

So, yeah. I did it. It was all me, all my fault, no getting around it.

Sara's first F-bomb.

It flew out of my mouth after a series of unfortunate events -- not that this excuses anything. But the last straw was when I cracked my head - CRACKED IT HARD - on a dresser trying to retreive a diaper for my wet, wiggly, cranky baby. And that's when in happened: "Ah, f*@&." The saddest part is, I meant it. It really, really hurt.

A beat of time passed; I thought maybe, just maybe, I would skate through. Maybe, just this ONE TIME, she would miss something.

Not so much. Standing there naked and wet, looking at me with all seriousness she spoke the unspeakable.

"Ah... F*@&!."

That was a feel-good moment, let me tell you. My mother would be so proud.

Veg out!

My first Vegetarian Wednesday. I would say that I rock but really it wasn't that hard. Plus, I didn't eat an actual vegetable until about 7:00 tonight.

But still, this is noteworthy. I am, after all, the daughter of a farmboy who brought his love of all things meat and fried -- and preferably, fried meat -- into our lives forevermore.

Next week I'll shoot for vegetables before 5:00pm. Seems a doable goal, don't you think?

here's another

"dream big," by ryan shupe and the rubberband (no kidding). i wish sara would dream big right now... the kid really needs a nap.

it might take a minute to load, but you can check out the video here.



"dream big"

When you cry be sure to dry your eyes,
cause better days are sure to come.
And when you smile be sure to smile wide,
and don't let them know that they have won.
And when you walk, walk with pride,
don't show the hurt inside, because the pain will soon be gone.

Chorus
And when you dream, dream big,
As big as the ocean blue.
Cause when you dream it might come true.
So When you dream, dream big.

And when you laugh be sure to laugh out loud,
cause it will carry all your cares away.
And when you see, see the beauty
all around and in yourself, it will help you feel okay.
And when you pray, pray for strength
to help to carry on when the troubles come your way.

Chorus

And when you laugh be sure to laugh out loud,
'cause it will carry all your cares away.
And when you see, see the beauty
all around and in yourself, and it will help you feel okay.
And when you pray, pray for strength
to help to carry on when the troubles come your way.

Chorus 2x

india.arie

i have started collecting songs for sara. here is one of them. i think i'll post more from time to time. and no, india.arie is not my usual cup of tea. but then again i'm not usually one for tea to begin with. but i like it -- it makes my head bounce.

you can see an acoustic version here, via the vh1 website.


"There's Hope"

Back when I had a little
I thought that I needed a lot
A little was over rated,
but a lot was a little too complicated
You see-Zero didn't satisfy me
A million didn't make me happy
That's when I learned a lesson
That it's all about your perception
Hey-are you a pauper or a superstar
So you act, so you feel, so you are
It ain't about the size of your car
It's about the size of the faith in your heart

[Chorus:]
There's hope
It doesn't cost a thing to smile
You don't have to pay to laugh
You better thank God for that

Off in the back country of Brazil
I met a young brother that made me feel
That I could accomplish anything
You see just like me he wanted to sing
He had no windows and no doors
He lived a simple life and was extremely poor
On top of all of that he had no eye sight,
but that didn't keep him from seein' the light
He said, what's it like in the USA,
and all I did was complain
He said-livin' here is paradise
He taught me paradise is in your mind

You know that
There's hope
It doesn't cost a thing to smile
You don't have to pay to laugh
You better thank God for that