I Like To Make Lists

Confession:
I'm a firstborn, Type A, relatively obsessive compulsive, slightly neurotic perfectionist. This makes you feel sad for my husband, doesn't it. And, you're probably wondering if you should ever come to visit me again. But, despite the fact that I might be tempted to sneak into your room to reorganize your suitcase and arrange your clothes according to color if you come to stay, I'm pretty harmless. And here's one of the reasons why: I channel a lot of my pent-up organizational angst into lists.

I love lists. I love post-it notes. I love labeling a list with the all caps header "TO DO." I love marking things off my list. Sometimes I even write things on my list that I've already done just so that I can mark them off. I realize this means that I need some sort of help. But, that's for another conversation. Right now, let's focus on the joys of LISTS, shall we?

Since it's Christmas (almost), and I like you, I thought I'd share a few of my lists with you. It's a season of giving after all, and so here's my gift to you:
A List of Lists!

Things that I've broken recently:
~The coffeepot. And then I spent four days living in fear of a glass shard finding its way into my foot or worse, Sam's sweet little foot. Luckily, only my foot fell victim to a wayward glass shard. Now, I have a pot-less coffee maker that I'm not sure what to do with.
~A glass. Now I have only three small juice glasses. And it's driving me crazy to not have an even number. I'm concerned that this makes me more similar to the main character on "Monk" than I feel comfortable with.
~My hair straightener. Well, that actually seemed to break on its own, but I blame myself for running it in to the ground these last three years. The good news is that it came back to life after twenty-four hours. I think it missed me.
~The toaster. OK, the toaster isn't really broken. It just has faulty wiring due to having its cord toasted on the eye of the stove. This wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't also recently toasted a large stove eye-shaped scar into the cutting board. Oops.

Stuff that makes me cry Every. Single. Time:
~The Folgers commercial where the older brother comes home after being gone to West Africa (obviously) for a really long time and his little sister sticks a bow on him and says "You're my present this year." SERIOUSLY? I'm tearing up a little right now.
~"The Velveteen Rabbit" movie. Specifically the part where the toy rabbit gets tossed into the fire (I was a little disturbed by this at first) but THEN turns into a real rabbit and hops away. *sniff*
~Any and every Hallmark commercial. Somebody at Hallmark is an emotion-manipulating genius.

Questions I answer 500 times a day:
~Whazzat? (asked approximately every two-four minutes from sun-up to sun-down)
~Who-zat?
~Wha'happen?
~Are you okay?
~Where go?
~Juice? Cracker?(just to clarify, these are more requests/demands than questions)

Other phrases I hear 500 times a day:
~Oh No.
~Oh Gosh.
~Oh Man.
~Mama (not so much a phrase,but a mantra that Sam likes to chant/repeat/shout/etc. It's a multi-usage word)
~Truck (although Sam's version substitutes an unfortunate "F" for the "Tr." It's a little disconcerting until you figure out what he's pointing at. We're currently working on this).

Things you can feel free to buy me for Christmas, if you feel so inclined:
~A Lexus. Because apparently, according to the commercials, buying someone a car is what really makes Christmas merry. Just make sure you don't forget the ginormous bow. It's key.
~An Ipad. Because somewhere along the way, I got totally brainwashed by all the brilliant marketing and now I can't stop thinking about all the ways my life would be better with one.
~A Cheese of the Month membership. Because how seriously awesome would this be?

Stuff I wonder:
~What really happened to Kim and Kris?
~Why did "Breaking Dawn" have to be divided into two parts? Wouldn't a four hour vampire/werewolf movie have been just as awesome/mind-numbing?
~Should I pick up knitting or crocheting? Is there really a difference?
~How much Nutella is too much Nutella?
~Is Bradley Cooper really the sexiest man alive?
~Does anyone know what Oprah's doing these days?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
~Does letting Sam watch television mean that he will end up going to community college and graduating when he's 32 only to get a job as a carhop at Sonic?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?

And lastly,
Stuff that makes me laugh (courtesy of Pinterest):
This:

This:

And This:



You're welcome.

Adulthooding

Every now and then I do something relatively inconsequential like paying a bill or stopping in at the bank and suddenly I'm hit with the startling awareness that I am an adult. It's a weird moment. It's like I just woke up from a dream I was having in the eighth grade only to discover that I wasn't thirteen anymore, but rather thirty-three AND as an added bonus, now have crow's feet, stretch marks and mildly high cholesterol. (Sidebar: This post may remind you slightly of the storyline of "Thirteen Going on Thirty." However, this version of that concept will not include the fairy dust that enabled Jennifer Garner's time-travel, but I may want to talk about Mark Ruffalo later, if that's OK with you.)

Anyway, I have these revelations about being a real, live adult on occasion when I force myself to eat broccoli, or call to make a doctor's appointment for Sam, or listen to talk radio on my way to the grocery store. I am a "big person" as my three-year-old self might refer to me now. Sometimes this is very surreal and I wonder how exactly I got to thirty-three from thirteen so fast.

To be clear, I have zero desire to be thirteen again. If I had a picture from those fashionable middle nineties available, I would scan a picture of myself for you and it would all be very clear why being thirty-three is much preferable to being thirteen. In fact, after observing the hairstyle I chose to rock approximately two decades (!) ago, you might decide to remove me from your speed dial. And I would support you in that decision.

I understand a little better now how my parents find themselves slightly confused as they prepare to turn the big six-oh. I'm pretty sure that it feels like yesterday that they were wearing their bell bottoms and listening to Creedence Clearwater with the windows rolled down and the 1970's blowing through their hair. Even I can remember them in their early thirties when I thought they were so old, and now I realize that I am, in fact, older than they were in my first memories of them. Considering that I had Sam roughly seven years later than my mother had me, I am somewhat concerned that I will arrive at Sam's graduation and people will spend an inordinate amount of time trying to determine if I am his mother or his grandmother.

I'm curious now at what point I officially crossed over the imaginary line between "I am an irresponsible youngster who should not be allowed to drive across state lines alone" to "I now make crucial life decisions and can be counted on to separate the white and the dark laundry." Was it when I got married? Or maybe when I got my first job? I'm leaning toward when I had a baby, but I think I'd crossed that line before then. It's hard to know and I'm not sure that it is a line as much as it is a wide, open desert that I am currently in the middle of fighting my way across. (note: This metaphor isn't meant to be understood. It's really just for dramatic effect).

All I know is that sometimes I can't believe I'm old enough to have named a child, or to have written a will, or to have worn a wedding band for almost five years. I can so vividly remember being an awkward teenager wondering when my life was going to start and now here I am, in the middle of what I used to dream about. I'm not trying to wax eloquent here, I'm just saying, it's more than a little surreal. And I'm guessing I'll feel the same when I'm turning sixty and using L'Oreal to color my grays and secretly considering Botox.

Life's short and that kind of unnerves me on occasion. It also makes me want to be sure that I take time to consider what part of the journey I'm on and to really enjoy this particular part without wishing for the past or waiting around for the future. Because, as far as all my research shows, this part probably won't be coming back around.

If I could hashtag here, which is totally ridiculous in a blog, it would look like this: #Samisonlylittleonce and #Bepresentnow

A Day in the Life

7:00am (or thereabouts) Wake up to the sound of someone who is wearing footed pajamas requesting his "mama" and "juice" and occasionally "Thomas" (the train, if you were wondering). There's also some serious conversation going on with the stuffed monkey on the table nearby.

7:01-8:51am Rush around the house trying to get everyone fed, lunches packed, people under two dressed. Spend a little time with Matt, Al, Ann and Natalie while Sam and I share a bowl of cheese grits. Begin the process of wondering what to make for supper.

9:00am Drop Sam off at Mother's Day Out and feel confusingly sad and happy about this arrangement at the same time. Wonder if anyone notices that I haven't taken a shower. Hm.

9:20am Rush back home to pick up forgotten coupons and grocery list. Also, decide a cookie at this point in the morning is not a bad idea.

9:49am Visit library in search of books for Sam about farm animals who build their own barns and children who love their mamas and pick up their toys.

10:12am Purchase hardware to secure bookshelves to wall. (also known as "preventing large bookcases from squashing small boys who like to scale furniture").

10:45am Drive over to "The Learning Express" store, where they sell fascinating toys for somewhat less than fascinating prices. However, a particular grandma has commissioned me to buy an early Christmas purchase for her grandson. I heave and ho my way out of the store with a prettily wrapped, rather heavy, toddler trampoline. Begin to wonder if this is such a good idea.

11:00am Find a Curious George dvd for $5 at Target and decide parents who have seen the Curious George dvd at home 27.5 times deserve new episodes. Pretty sure Sam will like them, too.

11:45am Purchase a kid's meal at Chic Fila. Listen to talk radio while consuming chicken nuggets, waffle fries and a miniature sweet tea. Wonder how many other people are listening to talk radio and drinking out of kiddie cups at the same time.

12:15-1:45pm Arrive back at the ranch where I wash the breakfast dishes, make the bed, consider redecorating the house, put chicken out to thaw as I continue to wonder what to make for dinner, put toys up, frame a picture, unwrap the farm puzzle I bought Sam, take a shower, check my email, fill up a sippy-cup and head out the door to pick up Sam.

2:00pm Pick up Sam and am informed that Sam only ate cookies for lunch. Serious nutritional party foul. Consider sneaking ham and cheese into the next batch of cookies I make. Subsequently decide that this is actually a very gross idea.

2:15pm Put Sam down for a nap. Spray his shirt with stain remover (he's not wearing it anymore in case you were concerned). Check People.com to see what famous people are doing on a Tuesday. Get to work editing a dissertation by someone who lives in South America (a little moonlighting). Surf the web looking at Christmas card options. Consider taking out a loan to print and send Christmas cards. Decide that Matt will not approve. Find a recipe for dinner! (huzzah) Go back to editing.

4:34pm Sam wakes up and dinner preparation begins. Spend the next two hours intermittently cooking, reading library books (to Sam) and providing tide-me-overs to the little guy who's watching Curious George sail the high seas on a pirate ship.

5:15pm The husband comes home from work. Hugs all around.

6:30pm Dinner is served and a gourmet meal of Ritz cracker cheesy chicken, green beans and boxed parmesan orzo is a hit. Immediately follow up this triumph with a cookie and then start cleaning up the mess I've made. Spend the next twenty minutes dreaming of a dishwasher.

7:15pm Sam rushes upstairs to begin the "process," also known as the "spend the next 35 minutes chasing a boy in a diaper around trying to bathe and clothe him whilst reading stories about trains and trucks and wild monkeys." Forty-five minutes later, the dishes are washed, the boy is asleep and the evening begins with fanfare and ice cream.

8:00pm Find a show on Hulu.com and wonder if the laundry in the dryer can wait until the morning to be folded. Decide that, in fact, folding is necessary and so I fold while we watch an episode of something riveting enough to fall asleep to by approximately 9:30.

9:45pm Wake up long enough to drag myself upstairs, brush my teeth, and then sleep until it's time to do it all over again.

3:45am Dream about an alien takeover masterminded by Kim Kardashian.

Sam and The Great Pumpkin Farm

Five days after discovering that Sam has strep throat, I'm sitting here at the kitchen table staring out at the orange/yellow/red leafed trees outside my window and feeling cabin feverish. Thankfully, Sam is coming out of his germy funk and feeling much more like his normal self (the self that loves to tear the house apart and climb the bookshelves when my back is turned). I'm glad that the little guy feels better but the sudden return of toddler energy reserves (saved up for the past five days) is enough to make me feel ten years older than the creases around my eyes actually say I am.

While my crazy little man sleeps a little longer (if I'm lucky), I thought I'd share a teensy bit about a trip we took to Guthrie's Pumpkin Farm just last weekend (as in 9.5 days ago). It's about an hour north of Chattanooga and is tucked away on a county road that winds its way through rural countryside. It's exactly what I dream about during the long, hot southern summers when I imagine taking the perfect fall day trip and the cozy cardigan I'll be wearing.

That particular Saturday morning, Matt wasn't really in the mood for a little trip up I-75, but those of us who stay at home all week keeping small people alive seriously needed to get out. So, after a tiny bit of argument, we semi-agreed on heading to Guthrie's. By the time we had wended our way through farmland and seen our fair share of cows and tractors, Matt acknowledged what a good idea this trip to the pumpkin farm was.

Indeed.

He even suggested that we make it a family tradition.

Score.

So, for your viewing pleasure, I've included a few shots of our time at the pumpkin farm. Just to give you a little idea of how much fun Sam had, imagine him in a little plaid shirt and jeans racing through a sunny field of pumpkins, greeting each pumpkin with a pointed finger and an exuberant shout of "PUNKIN!" And yes, it was as entertaining as it sounds.

Wish you could have been there.










And last but not least...

Point and Shoot

I'm not a very good photographer. Actually, being a bad taker of pictures is a family trait. We're all pretty much terrible at actually taking pictures and when we do, they don't win awards. Most of my childhood is documented by fuzzy, out of focus shots of me with the thumb or finger of the person behind the camera making an unexpected cameo. It's a curse I tried to escape by taking three photography classes in college, where I learned how to use a manual camera and even develop my own film (!). I was so sure that Hank, our go-teed (can this be a verb?) professor, would cure me of this obvious fault in my DNA. However, Hank's ability could only do so much.

The advent of the digital camera happened sometime in the 90's, but I didn't actually purchase my first one until about 6 years ago. I'm on my second digital camera and it's definitely done its part in remedying some of the earlier issues with my picture taking inability (i.e. one can see immediately in the viewing window that one's thumb made it into the shot and promptly have a re-do).

In addition to my digital camera, I have discovered the magic of photoshop, more specifically the magic of Picnik.com. Here's a few of the recent shots of Sam that have had some re-touching love. I'd like to think that I've come a long way from the disposable cameras my family swore by for the majority of the 80's and 90's.

::Sam just exiting the dryer, which he had just figured out how to crawl into. Don't worry, I was there for this whole adventure.



::Sam getting a haircut whilst enjoying a Blow Pop, which he enthusiastically called "Pop!"



::Sam eating a waffle in his Sunday morning best (we go to church in a barn, if you were wondering about my low standards for his church wardrobe).



::Sam hanging out at a permanent art installation in Coolidge Park in Chattanooga.



::Sam hearing about the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" from his very expressive "dey" (daddy).

Paranoid Activity

I have a few hobbies. The first I like to call laundry, the second involves making dinner and the third has something to do with worrying about what Sam has just picked up off the floor and put into his mouth.

In addition to these thrilling ways to spend my time, I've also ventured into the Art of Paranoia. It's also known as How to Worry About Things that Will Probably Never Happen.


Recently, there have a been a couple things to add to my list of things to be afraid of and I'm doing a sensational job of letting them control my fragile sense of security even as I type this sentence.

The Scorpion:

Maybe I've mentioned before that I'm afraid of spiders. And roaches. And while mice don't actually scare me, I'll still scream like a little girl if I cross paths with one. Matt didn't know the extent of my ridiculousness when it comes to spiders on that fateful day he asked me to be his wife. However, he learned pretty early on that ear-piercing screams (that's a small exaggeration) coming from any room of the house usually (i.e. always) means there's a spider (or it's evil counterpart, the roach). For the most part, he's patient with me, but on occasion I infer that these outbursts of mine regarding arachnids sort of get on his nerves. Not long into our marriage, he also discovered just exactly where I got this particular annoying behavior. It is, apparently, a part of my genetic code, passed directly down from my lovely, southern mama. Conveniently, Matt has my father to commiserate with on this subject, because he's about as big a fan as Matt is of wives' hysteria over small, eight-legged creatures.

Now that you've heard the backstory, I'll share with you my most recent, and perhaps most terrible, experience regarding things with too many legs. (I just emotionally shivered as I typed that). While perusing my vast and enviable wardrobe (i.e. jeans from 2004, a gray pantsuit, and a number of blouses from Target) the other afternoon, I noticed something that looked strangely unlike the normal things one might expect to see in one's closet. I moved in for a closer look and was immediately paralyzed by the sight of a SCORPION chilling on the "Thanks for Your Business" part of a dry cleaning hanger. I eeked out a distress call to Matt, which he mentally noted as sounding slightly more alarming than the normal spider situation. Quick to the rescue, he shooed me out of the room and took care of business. A few days later I noticed him describing to a friend just how big that scorpion was. He'd failed to mention that it was TWO (freaking) INCHES LONG. I have since determined that I may not ever recover from this. Ever.

The Burglar:

Just to clarify, we haven't had a burglar. Yet. But, some friends down the road had one yesterday who pilfered their jewelry, their camera and their silver platters. So, today I've been checking and rechecking and checking some more all the locks and deadbolts in our house. Any little sound outside finds me rushing to the window to confirm whether or not the boogeyman has arrived or, in fact, a chipmunk has just deposited a nut onto our porch. Needless to say, I'm a little jumpy. Luckily, I have a few remedies for this kind of nervousness and they involve baking cookies, watching Shaun the Sheep (with Sam, of course) and generous spoonfuls of Nutella.

So, I'm surviving this somewhat stressful day.

But, just barely.

Here's a couple of things that are helping me survive:

Happy Sam:


The Truth:
Don't worry because I am with you, don't be afraid because I am your God; I will make you strong and will help you. ~Isaiah 41:10

If I Were Your Therapist...

Here's what I'd suggest (and I wouldn't even charge you):

1. Always keep the pantry stocked with Nutella. (restock when jar is half-empty)

2. Marry someone whose last name has the same number of syllables as yours. (optional)

3. Skip the last two seasons of Gilmore Girls. (seasons 6 and 7 are totally unnecessary)

4. Don't straighten your hair on rainy days. (only leads to frustration)

5. Avoid skinny jeans unless you have legs like Gisele Bundchen. (note: if you have to think about it, you probably don't)

6. Burn any pair of culottes you may still have hanging in your closet from high school. (i'm talking to you, ACS alumni)

7. Call your friends instead of facebooking them. (they'll facebook you later to tell you how much they appreciated it)

8. Fill your toddler's juice cup with apple instead of grape juice. (your upholstered furniture will thank you)

9. Bake cookies at least once a week. (AT LEAST)

10. Assume that all Kevin Bacon movies will give you bad dreams. (avoid them)

11. Call your grandma more often. (she loves you)

12. Don't watch the news. (it's depressing)

13. Do watch The Office. (approximately 24 minutes of fun)

14. Stop comparing yourself. (you can't compete with photoshop and multiple pairs of Spanx)

15. Confess that you've read the whole Twilight series. (chances are, whoever you're talking to read them last summer. twice)

16. Use your crockpot more often. (it's handy)

17. Try not to obsess over the cheerios in the carpet. (they're only toddlers once)

18. Cancel Netflix. (save that $17 a month and watch Hulu for free)

19. Try a new recipe. (here's one: http://annies-eats.net/2011/03/08/weeknight-bolognese/)

20. Invite somebody over. (they probably know some jokes you haven't heard before)

A Little Lost in Translation

In approximately two months and eight days, my baby will turn TWO. I need to pause here for just a moment to hyperventilate...

Ok, I'm back. So, as I was saying, Sam is almost two years old, and while I realize this means that the black hole of parenting, also known as The Terrible Twos (said in an ominous voiceover that you'll just have to imagine), is about to descend, I cannot help but love this particular season of Sam.

The advent of full-on sentence creating has taken place in my little man's brain and I am in love with the crazy phrases I hear around the house all day. There's plenty I don't understand, but those little bits and pieces of baby conversation that sound vaguely like the English language are seriously the best.

For example, when I went to get Sam up yesterday morning, he looked at me from the edge of his crib and said, very seriously, "Is it Thomas?" (as in, the Train). I wish I knew why this question feels so imperative. He asks it all day long and I haven't devised a satisfactory answer as of yet.

We hear lots of "Where Dey Go?" when Matt has exited the building. (FYI: "dey" is Sam's word for "daddy.") What I'm really loving is when the beginning of a sentence is total gibberish and then ends with a very emphatic "choo choo" or "mama" or the ever popular "tunnel." We're slowly adding "Bob" into the mix now that Bob the Builder is on the scene.

For example, this would sound like, "Ee Yoo Ee Yoo Ee Yoo" (said in rapid succession) followed by "choo choo! or "Bob!"

I think about how much I'll miss this baby talk after it's evolved into full-blown conversations and I wonder if I'll remember all these sweet little phrases and words down the proverbial road. I really, really hope I will. It wears on me a little that so much of what is happening right now will be forgotten by my ever-shrinking brain as the years pass and my little man actually becomes a man.

I know now why mamas don't want their babies to grow up. Sometimes, I kind of wish mine didn't have to.

Sigh.

Observationing and Wordsmithery

Observationing: the art of noticing things; observation with flair; taking note of things without consequence and then writing about them in a public forum.

Wordsmithery: the act of creating words offhandedly with no regard for the rules of language and/or grammar. Example: observationing.

This morning as I headed out the door, unshowered and in somewhat unflattering jeans, I glanced back across the wide expanse of our 953 foot house and I noticed that it looked a bit like a small bomb had exploded or perhaps a compact helicopter had hovered for a few minutes over our den/kitchen/dining combination of a room. I couldn't help but wonder if someone dropping by would conclude that a small child lives here or if they had just stumbled upon a crime scene moments after the bad guy had made his exit. I hope people will just assume that someone small and high on life lives here. The alternative makes me feel stressed.

Earlier, while getting Sam ready this morning (i.e. wrestling him to the ground to get his pants on), I happened to notice the wooden desk (Target, circa 2004) in his room. It's where we keep his books and his piggy bank and a battery-operated dancing monkey. There's also a lamp and a noise machine with sound options like: tropical rainforest (a.k.a. dying parrot, which is what it really sounds like if we're being honest), spring rain, mountain stream, white noise, heartbeat (a la Telltale Heart) and a few others. We're in a bit of a spring rain rut right now, and I'm considering making the switch to mountain stream. Anyway, that's the top of the desk. Under the desk is a basket of toys, a small riding toy with a stuffed moose in its seat, a large frog named Leap and an obnoxious, battery-operated ball-throwing toy that Sam inexplicably loves. I say all this to tell you one thing. I used to sit at that desk when there was nothing on it but a computer, a lamp and a pen. Now I sit at the kitchen table when I feel the need to be quiet and write things down. Sometimes I miss that desk, and I can't help but wonder if it feels a little confused about its current situation.

(Maybe I should have warned you that this post was going to be more random than usual.)

Two days ago was Sunday and on Sundays my husband and I take ourselves and the little guy down to our lovely church in a barn on the back of the mountain. It's probably not what you're imagining, but it does have large barn doors and zero air conditioning along with the occasional dog wandering through the service. I love it and I'm not sure I can ever go back to the usual way of doing Sunday mornings in a perfectly climate-controlled church building that doesn't have twinkle lights strung up in the rafters. I noticed something this particular Sunday (prepare yourself to be disappointed by the fact that I am not about to reveal an uber-spiritual revelation that will make you wish you could come to my church instead of yours). I found myself observing that nearly every man I happened to vaguely notice was wearing a wrinkled sweater and something in my writer's heart loved the image in my mind of people digging into the back of their closets and drawers that morning to essentially welcome fall back into their wardrobe by slipping into sweaters that haven't seen the light of day for approximately seven months. There are no words to express how glad I am that Fall finally arrived. Good riddance, Summer. I might take this sentiment back if we have eight inches of snow in our front yard again this year. But, probably not.

(Just for the record, I did pay attention at church on Sunday despite what you may be assuming. I heard an excellent sermon on life calling and sang songs that I love and was happy to take communion with my church family. I just occasionally get distracted, and wrinkled sweaters - and their heralding of my favorite season - just happened to be the subject of my distractions this particular Sunday.)

Someone just woke up from his nap so, that's it for this edition of Observationing and Wordsmithery. Until next time, when I share about the nuances of my relationship with my Kitchenaid mixer and maybe ramble a bit about the laundry. I know you'll be sitting by the computer with great anticipation, and I don't blame you.

My Deep South Grandma

This weekend was a rather bittersweet one. We got to spend two whole days with my extended family in South GA (read: the land of gnats, sweet tea, and peanuts). It was 85 degrees there, while up on our mountain it was probably more like 68. But, we adjusted to that. My hair, however, did not. But, I digress. Back to the somewhat bitter part of this sweet weekend of aunts and uncles and cousins and sweet tea. I think this may warrant a new paragraph.

My eighty-five year old grandma Margie was placed in ICU on Thursday night and around 2:30am we almost lost her. The next day, the doctor on duty proclaimed her a "miracle" and commented that there must have been some serious praying going on (yep). As my parents were driving through the night to get there in time to say what they thought would be goodbye, I was having to bide my time up here on this mountain and found myself remembering all kinds of things about my grandma that I hadn't thought about in a while. The heavy weight of believing that I would probably never hear her gloriously southern voice again made my throat tight and my nose stuffy. I don't cry much, but Thursday night was a tearful one.

So, in honor of Marge, as my uncle affectionately calls her, I thought I'd mention a few things about my grandma that I find endearing and wonderful. Here goes:

My grandma is a whopping 4'11 and shrinking. But, what she doesn't have in height, she makes up for in being feisty. She's a serious (and I mean serious) Braves fan. She knows what Chipper Jones is having for breakfast on his off days. Grandma has lived in the same part of GA for 85 years, but she's been to every state in the Union (including the ones that aren't contiguous). She's also been to Europe. I find it incredible that a woman who didn't have indoor plumbing at different times in her life has seen more of the country/world than most of us who've moved 23 times.

My grandma has the best southern accent you've ever heard. She also has endearing ways of saying certain words, for instance, nauseating becomes noiseating. Grandma makes the sweetest tea you've ever tasted and on its second day in the fridge, you can use it for syrup on your pancakes. Yum. She can also cook up a "mess" of salmon (she'll pronounce the "l") patties, mashed potatoes, collard greens, hoecake, creamed corn, turkey dressing and giblet gravy. You'll have to loosen your belt after that one.

Grandma loves bacon and Hardee's and her "girls" who she goes to water aerobics with. If you've spent any time with her, you know that she's usually got a diet Dr. Pepper and a bag of Cheetos in her purse. She's extra-extraverted and loves being the center of attention, which works out well because she's got a quick sense of humor.

She sends a card at every birthday, the kind of card that has about four pages of very poetic, very Helen Steiner Rice, sentiments. But, they always feel personal and you know that she stood in the card section of Rite-Aid for about 20 minutes picking out the perfect card for you.

My grandma loves Jesus. She's at church every time the doors are open. She sings alto in the choir and loves her Pastor Dan. On Thursday night, when they thought she was almost gone, my aunts and uncles and my parents (who made it there in the middle of the night) all stood around her bed and sang "Amazing Grace." She sang too with the little bit of voice she had left and a tear running down her cheek. I'm sure she was starting to wonder what it was going to be like to see Jesus and maybe give my sweet grandaddy a long-awaited hug.

My grandma is my last grandparent. I'm thankful that at 33 I still have one of those. I could hardly hold it together last Saturday morning when I went to visit her at the hospital and realized an answer to prayer was happening when she gave me a hug and told me she loved me. I hadn't thought I'd hear that voice again on this earth. It was so incredibly good to hear it again.

She's still in the hospital, but she's getting more and more of her spirit (i.e. feisty) back. They're hoping she'll get to go home tomorrow. I'm wishing I was going to be there to see her walk back into that familiar house and maybe turn on the Braves game and settle into her chair with a new crossword puzzle.

I won't ever forget this past weekend and what it felt like to see and hear her again when I thought I'd lost her. I'm more than grateful for a little more time with my Braves-loving Margie.

That's Very Pinteresting

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm attempting to have a little time to myself, which in my normal reality is about as rare and possibly non-existent as a unicorn. Time to oneself is a little hard to come by when one has a small boy in their care in addition to living in a 950 square foot house. But, said small boy is snoozing in his room and said husband is watching football and will be snoozing before too many more [insert random football terminology here} have taken place.

I've been a little distracted lately and haven't made my way over here to my blog as often as I'd like to, despite its fancy new design. (Thanks to Carolyn V). If I were someone who didn't feel any moral compunction about lying, I would tell you that the aforementioned distractions have included visiting widows and orphans, adopting animals from the local shelter, cooking meals for the homeless, growing organic vegetables and reading my Bible late into the night. BUT, because I am, or try to be, an honest woman, I will tell the truth here and possibly give you reason to avoid me at Bi-Lo next time you see me. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but you can decide for yourself.

About a month ago, I discovered something. It was unassuming and even a little hard to figure out at first. But, it didn't take long before I had gotten the hang of it and every time I thought about it, while I was washing dishes or grocery shopping or putting Sam down for a nap, I felt a tiny twinge of excitement. Usually, I'd be sure to get the toys put up, the dishes washed, the laundry done, my emails checked, etc. before allowing myself to go there, but sometimes, the pull was too strong and the temptation too overwhelming. Before I knew it, with chores undone and phone calls unreturned, I would find myself, hours later, still pinning. Pinning, you ask? That's right. Pinning.

Perhaps you're unfamiliar with Pinterest. And maybe it's better that way. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you can visit my page here: http://pinterest.com/darar/ It's hard to explain the draw of Pinterest until you've experienced it yourself, but be forewarned, once you start pinning, there's no turning back, my friend.

Essentially, Pinterest is a catalog of images that you can select, or pin, to a page that collects all your personal favorites. In the magical world of Pinterest, you'll find photos of food, fashion, travel, home, art, etc. Basically, it's an online folder for stuff you like to look at, dream about, hope for, and possibly covet (but, that's another whole issue).

There's something fantastic about being able to peruse perfect bathrooms and comfortable living rooms and dreamy kitchens for hours upon hours. It's hard to pull myself away from the plethora of neurotically organized linen closets and pantrys (anyone know the plural of "pantry"?) and bookshelves. Who knew that you could organize all your books by color or label all your pantry items with chalkboard magnets? Pinterest is heaven for those of us with slightly organizationally compulsive natures.

I confessed to my husband this morning that I "love" Pinterest. He wasn't shocked, maybe just confused by this sudden admission. It's been added to my list of daily website visits, along with Facebook, Yahoo and embarrassingly enough, People.com (that was actually hard to confess.)

I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to have to deal with some coveting/discontentment/comparision/identity issues at some point and find that Pinterest may have a little (or a lot?) to do with these. But, for the moment, I can't tear myself away from all those lovely Mason Jar table settings, DIY birthday party favors and handmade skirts with secret pockets.

An intervention may be necessary before too long, but I'll worry about that later. Right now I have some pinning, I mean, laundry to do.

The Samster

Maybe you've found yourself casually wondering what Sam's up to these days. I thought you might have so I figured I'd update you on the little guy and the plethora of ways he's keeping us more than just a little busy lately. I find myself occasionally flipping (clicking?) through the pictures on my phone and being reminded of how very, very small he was mere months ago. And, now he's this energetic (i.e. like he had a Red Bull for breakfast) little person that on rainy, waterlogged days like this one, attempts to climb every piece of furniture, empty every kitchen drawer, and push every button I never knew I even had. BUT, despite all that, I am more than a little head over heels for this sweet boy and wouldn't trade a second (except for maybe that unfortunate diaper incident we had yesterday) with him for anything.

Here's a little of what he's been up to lately...

The Unexpected

This post has been simmering for a while and now that Sam is happily tucked away at Mother's Day Out, I have a little time to write a few things down. I really should be driving myself to the grocery store right now, but in the interest of sharing my life and facilitating a bit of procrastination, I think I'll do this instead.

I had a lot of ideas over the past couple months for what this post would eventually be called. "Bun in the Oven" was one thought, and then there was "Sam's a Big Brother!" which felt too obvious, and I briefly considered the Amish favorite "In the Family Way." None of those seemed to be as clever or as interesting as I needed them to be. Luckily, I held off and didn't write that post despite the fact that I was dying to so that I could atleast confess to someone how many Krystals I'd eaten in three days and all the hormonally-induced reasons why that calorie-laden tragedy had happened. But, instead, I waited.

And then something sad happened a couple weeks ago that we were not very prepared for. We're still wading through it and I have a feeling we may not ever completely be able to wrap our minds or hearts around what we've just experienced. Essentially, the baby we thought we'd be grafting into our lives come next spring isn't coming. And there really aren't any good or satisfying explanations as to why.

We've been pretty sad lately and to be honest, I've been a bit of a hormonal train wreck of sorts, but time passing has made things better and we continue to be reminded of how blessed we already are with the little family that we have. I think Sam has been hugged within an inch of his life these last couple weeks, as if he wasn't already the most hugged little boy to ever breathe. The weight of how intensely fragile and precious and fleeting life is has hit home and we are keenly aware of the MIRACLE it is to have even just one healthy child.

If I haven't talked to you lately and you're reading about this on a blog during your lunch break or between cleaning the bathroom and folding laundry, I hope you don't mind that I've just mass communicated something I would normally tell you in person over coffee or on the phone. It's been a strange thing to know how to tell anybody about what's happened and yet it's been hard not to shout it from the rooftops because it's all I can think about lately. I'll admit that blogging about something so personal seems a little inappropriate and even a bit crazy, but it's also a relief because I can say all the things I want to how I want to without having a minor breakdown on your shoulder, potentially in public, which I wouldn't like at all.

The upside of this is that the pregnancy hormones that make me someone who eats Krystals for breakfast and lives on the sofa 24/7, those have made their exit and left me feeling like a normal human being again. This experience has also made Matt and I that much more aware of our need for community and our desperate dependence on our Creator for pretty much everything. I think it's even made us more patient with the constancy of Thomas the Train in our living room and the occasional meltdowns our little guy has over not being allowed to play with scissors and other such household weapons.

We are so thankful for the encouragement and the prayers and the hope that we have been offered through the friends and community who have cared about us in the midst of this. I'm really hopeful that this part of our story will help Matt and I be better parents to Sam and better friends to others who are walking through a hard season like we're in right now.

And, after this is all over, I can't help but already hope toward the possibility of other babies in our family and that Sam will finally get to wear that Big Brother shirt he's got hanging in his closet.

Romans 8:28a- And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good.

Ode to the Red Couch

Once upon a time I owned a beautiful red couch. It was the first legitimate piece of new furniture I had ever owned and when it was shoved (and I do mean shoved) through the narrow door of my studio apartment for the first time, I was in love. With a couch. I read many a book, took many a nap, had many a late night conversation, watched many an episode of Felicity, ate more than my fair share of frozen dinners, and laughed and cried and daydreamed on that big red couch.

The red couch came with me when I moved into the apartment that would be Matt's and my first home. It fit just right into the new place and I loved evenings when Matt would be on one end reading a book and I on the other end reading my book while cookies baked in the oven or the tea pot whistled in the nearby kitchen. Early on in our marriage, we did have a small incident which involved a red pen being left out on the red couch...without it's top. This was a low moment in our marriage. It took a little while for me to get over the red pen situation. But, I turned the cushion to its other pristine side and went on with life.

A few years later, and a few places of residence later, we had a baby boy named Sam. Maybe I've mentioned him before. Anyhoo, during the first eleven months of his life, our couch was in storage as we lived with family during a major job hunt by the hub. So, the couch was spared from spit up, diaper leaks, bottle spills and the like. I'm sure it sighed with relief in its storage unit.

That brings us to today. Not much has happened in the way of disaster spills or major mishaps in the last nine months of Sam's co-existence with the red couch. There are a few grape juice stains, although rather faint considering the red fabric. And there are some other odd smudges that I think forensics would prove are yogurt and possibly peanut butter. But, other than those and a few raisins between the cushions, the red couch has been relatively unscathed by the Samster. Until today.

I've discovered (in a stroke of brilliance and possibly negligent parenting) that if I give Sam a sippy cup of juice and turn on Thomas the Train, I can take a shower and get ready without having the whole upstairs ransacked. This way I can get ready in roughly thirty-five minutes or less rather than two hours or more. And so, this morning, dreaming of all the outings we could take ourselves on if we got ready early and headed out, I gave Sam his juice, I turned on Thomas the Train, and I went to take a shower.

First mistake: I decided against putting Sam's shorts on this morning and let him just wear his t-shirt and diaper for a bit. I didn't think that would be a big deal and he might even like the extra mobility.

Second mistake: He'd already seen this particular Thomas the Train episode a few times and apparently, it wasn't really that stimulating anymore.

Third mistake: I gave Sam his third sippy cup of the morning as I headed off to the shower.

And so, as you may have guessed, I came back to find Sam wearing only a t-shirt. No diaper. Along with a big grin. I quickly scanned the room for any unpleasant items or "incidents." At first, I thought I'd caught him early enough and then...there it was. A big, wet puddle in the middle of my red couch. Essentially, Sam had taken off his diaper, settled into the comfy couch and just let it flow.

Siiiiiiiighhhhhhhh.

No mall, no library, no anything for us this morning. Just frantic re-diapering and then attempting to give my red couch back some of its dignity. Currently, the cushion covers are drying in the sun and later I'll do some steam cleaning. But, I don't think my red couch will ever be quite the same.

I suppose it could be worse. I could own a suede couch the color of sand. Or Sam could have done more than just a number one in this situation. So, I will just let it go and determine to never let Sam go without his shorts again. Ever.

Moral of the Story/To-Do list: Duct tape Sam's diapers on next time, cut him off at two sippy cups, and hunt down one of those plastic sofa covers my great grandma used on her couch back in 1978. Done.

Four Years and One Sam Later...

I just ate the last Magnum bar while clicking through the profile pictures album on my Facebook page. Before I go on, have you had a Magnum bar yet? If not, drop what you're doing and run (seriously, run) to the grocery to buy a box of these. I mean it. You'll thank me. Back to what I was saying about flipping through the past five years of my life recorded in digital images and stored on a social media site. It was a little like watching my life flash before my eyes AND at the same time seeing those same eyes acquire new wrinkles every twenty-five pictures. Sigh.

But, despite having been made more aware of my increasing age and wrinkles, I feel reassured somehow after having watched the last five years flash by in a series of candids. It's easy to forget the life that I've lived and the people that I love sometimes when I spend my days at home seeing only Sam and the occasional meter man/UPS man/Jehovah's witness. It's easy to forget that there have been a lot of good things and a lot of good friends that seem to fall through the cracks of my heart a little with each passing day of stay-at-home-mom-ness. This may sound like a complaint, but it's not, really. Just an observation.

In the last twenty minutes of perusing the massive online photo album of my life, I saw myself transformed from a single girl working with college students to a girl getting engaged to her dream man, to a girl walking down the aisle of her front yard and then living the married life here, there, and everywhere. And then there was that same girl putting on thirty pounds over ten months and then forty-one weeks later welcoming a baby boy named Sam who subsequently took over our lives and my Facebook profile pictures. And now here we are with a twenty-month old in a new city, in a new house with a new life. It's a little breathtaking looking back to see where we've been and the somewhat long and winding road to now.

And so, I'm reminiscing here at the kitchen table, thankful for a life full of Matt and Sam and friends and family who love me and whom I love. In the midst of that reminiscing, I'm reminded how these last five years of my life have been made so much lovelier by the man who surprised me with a proposal almost four and a half years ago in a Swedish castle one cold winter night. And then four years ago today, I married him on a hot, August evening at my parents' house with the people dearest to us looking on.

Happy Anniversary to my best friend and favorite human being.
You are a dream come true.

Mason Dixon meets a Yankee

So, I'm attempting to enter into a blogging/essay contest hosted by Real Simple on the subject of "Who Am I Most Surprised to Be Friends With?" This is my original essay, which I then had to pare down to 300 words for the contest. I had 178 extra words. Argh. Editing oneself is always difficult because we hold our own words so dear, which is something my journalism professor used to remind us of in class. Turns out, she was right. Who knew I would have trouble editing out the word "unmistakably" simply because I had written it. Anyhoo, here's my entry:


I grew up with a very imposing portrait of General Robert E. Lee gracing the wall of our family home. The General was something like a great-great-great uncle whom I had never met but knew a whole lot about. Our family's annual vacations almost always included some variation of a Civil War memorial/battlefield/museum. And, now, even as a slightly more cosmopolitan adult, I still vaguely believe that a southerner is able to feel the impact of crossing the Mason-Dixon line much like the family dog crossing the electric fence's boundary at the edge of the yard.

When I was barely nineteen, I watched the tall pine trees of my home state of Georgia disappear as the plane I had boarded slipped into the horizon, headed for Colorado and the camp I would be staffing for the next three months.

Soon after arriving in Manitou Springs, a quirky mountain town with a flair for the unusual, I was unpacking my bags in the "penthouse" of the old, un-air-conditioned hotel that housed students and staff. Before long I had been introduced to my roommate for the summer and, lo and behold, she was from Michigan. A real live Yankee. Her accent and mine could scarcely fit in the same small room together.

It didn't take long for me to realize that ours was to be a somewhat uncomfortable roommate situation. There was an icy tension in our 100 degree room at the top of the hotel. Eventually, I was traded like an unpopular baseball player and found myself a few floors down with another roommate, also from Michigan, but with a bit more love for those of us who said "y'all" and "fixin' to" with frequency.

Within a week or two, the most unlikely thing happened. My former roommate and I found ourselves working the same kitchen shift and couldn't keep ourselves from having a really good time. Before long, we were attached at the hip and the old tension that had pushed us apart seemed to have melted away like so much peach ice cream at a Sunday school picnic.

Our unspoken reconciliation did find us confessing to one another at some point that summer how at first, she had unfairly assumed I was a "redneck" and I had just as unfairly assumed she was a "rude yankee." We laughed at our foolishness and spent the rest of that summer with arms linked. We parted ways in September with tears, she to her cold northern state and I to my warm southern one.

Coming back to the South after having been gone for a while is much like being the returning prodigal son. This time, however, I had glimpsed a life outside the humid, peach-scented world I'd grown up in and it didn't take much to carry me back to Colorado two years later for another summer of camp.

Friends are Friends Forever: Part Deux

There are a few things about adulthood that I don't like. Some things on that list include some things you probably don't like either: wrinkle cream, cellulite, taxes, housework, antacids, etc. Ranking pretty high up there is the fact that making friends just isn't what it used to be. In a word, it's kind of HARD.

In the old days (as in, my youth), making friends included sleepovers, passing notes in class, dishing about the eighth grade boys (read: older men) we liked and sharing clothes. Fast forward ten years and making friends looked pretty much the same, only transportation was easier and fashion had improved. Essentially, friendship was simple. You hung out, doing somewhat unmemorable things for hours upon hours and before you knew it, you were best friends who finished each other's sentences and shared each other's closets.

Fast forward ten more years and marriage, husbands, babies, bills, etc. have filled up every square inch of your life so that there isn't much room for much else. You meet potential friends at church or at the park, but because there isn't time for essential friend-building experiences like random, late night Wal Mart runs followed by scattered, smothered and covered at Waffle House until 2 am or anything remotely close to the loads of empty time you used to be able to spend getting to know someone inside out, now it seems to require months and more likely years to really get to know someone and to be known by them at the level you hope for.

I've been thinking about this lately because it seems that so many women I talk to have similar feelings. Creating friendships that reach the depth that came so naturally before there were so many distractions can feel almost impossible now. Maybe it's not this way for men, but I find that it's almost always the case for the women I know.

Recently, I got to see two of my best friends together for the first time in over a year. I have to admit that it was bittersweet. It was so good to see friends who have known me long before Matt was ever in the picture and long before I was a thirty-something stay-at-home mom. I'd forgotten how affirming it is to spend time with friends who are so incredibly familiar and who know things about me that even I have forgotten.

But, driving away from that visit, I couldn't help but feel some sadness knowing that sort of reunion will probably be a rare occurrence. I also found myself wondering why it's so hard to forge friendships as dear as those anymore. I know it has so much to do with the time (or lack thereof) factor, and despite the desire and the need for deep friendships, it's just stinkin' hard to create those relationships in this present stage of life.

I'll admit to not being sure what the solution is here. I doubt it's more social media and it probably isn't going to be something easy like potluck dinners. But, there's got to be some way to enable friendships with the depth and the familiarity that we were created to experience with each other. Currently, I'm thinking a commune is the answer, but there's probably something that requires less moving and isn't so cult-ish.

Until I figure this out, I'm sure as heck glad I've got some girlfriends around the country who've known me long enough to expect my voicemail box to always be full, my hugs to possibly break their ribs, and my cookies to most likely contain nutmeg.

Here's to you, old friends. I wish you lived next door.



Side Note: If case you were wondering, here's what Sam's been doing lately...

I Want to Shoot the Sleeping Bunnies

It's Friday, one day after National Chocolate Day and I'm still celebrating with my trusty bag o' chocolate chips. Well, to be honest, I'm not really celebrating, I'm self-medicating. It's been one of those days and it's barely the afternoon. You know the kind of day (er, morning) I mean. I could sum it up for you but you really don't need me to because you've most likely had a similar morning if you have someone under the age of two in your house. OK, well, since I've got a little time, I'll fill you in on my day thus far and we can compare notes later.

For starters, the brain-numbing chorus of "Sleeping Bunnies" has been the background soundtrack in my head all morning, which I think registers as a twenty-five on the chocolate chip prescription scale. *wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies* That may or may not have just been a subtle cry for help.

To continue, there's been a lot of somewhat troubling snacking taking place this morning: i.e. fuzz from a q-tip (just to clarify, it was an unused q-tip), hair from my hairbrush, pages of children's books, stale Cheerios from the carpet, toilet paper (also, unused), rusted pieces of an old tag stapled under our fifty year old dining room table (why?), etc. You get the picture. You'd think I was keeping a very untidy house, but if you'll remember, I'm borderline obsessive compulsive, so our house is pretty neat by most standards. This means, as you may have surmised, that my sweet baby is having to be uber-creative in his acquisition of these unusual snack choices.

Moving on. This may in fact be the straw that eventually breaks the mama's back, whatever that may entail. Thomas the Train is considered the stuff of legend in our home and all things somehow come back around to this great beacon of railroading glory. We have toy trains that sound like Thomas and toy trains that can float in your bathtub and trains that can fit in your pocket for convenient portability on that quick trip to the Starbucks for a cup of sanity. We also have access to all sorts of Thomas footage on our streaming Netflix which means that at any given moment, someone is standing in front of the television pointing insistently while also repeating the two words that I hear in my deepest of deep sleeps: "CHOO CHOO." I estimate that I have heard those two words atleast 435 times this morning. It has almost pushed me to the edge. Luckily, naptime stepped in and saved us both.

Lastly, there is the insistence on doing every single thing that is NOT allowed rather than doing the plethora of things that ARE allowed. A list of what is allowed includes: playing with one's many, many toys; reading one's many, many books; eating the relatively nutritious snacks that have been set out for you; etc. A quick list of what is not allowed but is apparently loads more fun: climbing onto the toilet in order to reach daddy's razor, throwing mama's toiletries down the stairs just to see them bounce off of each step, eating the somewhat unclassifiable items one discovers mashed into the carpet, dumping out anything and everything that can be dumped out, turning over laundry baskets in order to stand on them and give dramatic oratories on "choo choos," attempting to skydive off the edge of the sofa into a small basket, digging through the bathroom wastebasket for treasures, ETC. And, this, my friends, is merely an abbreviated list of the limitless possibilities of "fun" as defined by Sam.

So, here I sit while the boy sleeps, typing this little post and wondering if I will survive the afternoon. It's possible I won't. But, if I do, it will only be by the grace of God and this bag of chocolate chips I have slowly but surely finished off.

Breaking News: Husband Escapes Wife's Obvious Trap

A recent conversation in the Rieger household before heading to a 4th of July cookout:

Me: I think this skirt is a little tighter than usual. Maybe I dried it too long. What do you think? (turning around to give husband a better view from which to give an "honest" opinion, while not actually wanting an honest opinion.)

Matt: (no comment)

Me: I think that maybe I've gained a few pounds in the last few weeks. Probably those enchiladas I made and then those chocolate chip cookies. And we've been traveling the last few weekends, eating out and stuff. (pause) Do you think I've gained a little?

Matt: (no comment, continues doing whatever it was he was doing without making eye contact)

Me: So, what do you think? I need a second opinion. Have I gained a few pounds?

Matt: I think I hear Sam waking up from his nap. I should go get him.

Me: Oh. Yeah. But, wait, I need to know if you think my skirt's too tight. And if you think I've gained a few pounds.

Matt: (heading upstairs) I'm going to go get Sam.

Me: Wait, does this mean you think I have gained a few pounds? Do you think I look fat?

Matt: (about to disappear upstairs) I can't hear you.

Me: So, what you're saying is that I HAVE gained a few pounds and I DO look fat in this skirt? Why didn't you tell me that I was gaining weight?!?

Matt: (laughing as he disappears upstairs, also shaking his head). Are you kidding me?

Me: (realizing that was probably a bit of an unrealistic expectation) Well, who else is going to tell me? I just needed to know.

Matt: (no longer within hearing distance)

Me: (changing skirts) What about this one? Does this one make me look fat?

Matt: (locking himself in the upstairs bathroom in self-defense)


Next week's edition of Breaking News: Husband Critiques Wife's Meatloaf and Lives to Tell About It.

Wednesday Confessions

I have approximately twelve or so minutes to write this post before the little person upstairs decides naptime is over. So, I thought I'd confess a few things on this Wednesday seeing how a blog is really just a modern diary for technologically hip adults. And, as everyone knows, diaries are for confessing.

Here goes.

(spoiler alert) Last evening, while being forced to watch the last installment of "Lonesome Dove," I cried a little when Augustus McCrae died. I also dreamed about cowboys and the open range all night.

I just ate strawberries with real (as in, I made it with whipping cream and confectioner's sugar in my Kitchenaid) whipped cream (in honor of Wimbledon, of course) AND then proceeded to eat Nutella from the jar. I estimate that I will need to run thirty-five miles to burn off those calories.

I read an article this morning on People.com about who in Hollywood has the best beach body and I am now determined to never wear a bathing suit in public, and perhaps not even in private, ever again.

My Jeep turned itself off earlier today for a minute while I was stopped behind a road work truck. I freaked out a little and then...called my dad. Apparently, thirty-three is not too old to call one's father when one gets a little scared. Luckily for Sam, who was en route to the park, it started right back up.

I am currently waiting for my husband to come home and take out the stinky trash (all the while knowing that I could just take it out myself).

I've been daydreaming lately about living somewhere above the Mason/Dixon line. I have yet to analyze this, but whatever the reason, I won't be mentioning this to my uber-southern mama.

I just spent the last hour watching the Nadal/Fish Wimbledon quarterfinal match when I probably should have been doing laundry/washing dishes/calling my grandmother/cleaning the bathroom/etc.

I've been perusing your Facebook photo albums this afternoon and living vicariously through your recent beach vacation.

I still have fourteen voicemails in my inbox leftover from April.

I added Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" to our Netflix queue. I think Matt may be unaware of this as of yet.

There are atleast 421 other things I should be doing right now.

Whew. I feel better already. However, I may regret this rash confessional later.

Awkward Dating: A Look Back

As I may have mentioned in earlier posts, being a stay-at-home mom includes the perk of having too much time to think (note: this is not real time that might enable one to go to the mall or read a book, rather it's the space in my head that's not being used during the Thomas the Train episodes I find myself watching with Sam and all the dishwashing I do while staring down at the drain).

A lot of this "free" time is spent pondering what to make for dinner. Some of it gets used up wondering where Sam has hidden the remote control. A very little of it is spent considering world peace. And the rest of it is spent daydreaming.

This post is the result of some mild reminiscing of my life before Matt, when date nights were rare (which is not so different than now, but I'm not blaming anyone) and frequently awkward. I thought I'd type up a quick synopsis of some of the more unusual of these evenings. I included the first date spent with my last first date (also known as Matt) as well as the one that concluded my dating life (also known as a proposal).

For your amusement, here are a list of my more noteworthy dates:

There was...

-The one that included an additional girl (who apologized to me in the ladies' room for being on my date).

-The one that included dinner, a drive back to my house, and my being dumped in my driveway.

-The one that very nearly included me being literally eaten by an alligator. (I cried a little on this one.)

-The one that included dinner and an animated movie in the theater (I thought I'd finished out my animated movie phase with "The Little Mermaid" in 1992).

-The one that found me sitting in the dark at an empty park watching a car full of possibly illegal immigrants surround me as I waited for my date to pick me up (this probably needs more explanation than I'm giving here).

-The one that included dinner and then an awkward family movie viewing.

-The one that included my date realizing he'd forgotten his wallet after ordering dinner and a rather pricey selection of beverages (for himself).

-The one that included my reading a list of expectations for the impending relationship which really should have ended with my being dumped right then and there. That came later.

-The blind date that included a swanky dessert and then a honky tonk bar until 2 am.

-The one that included Steve Earle.

-The half-date (as so described by my half-date) that included paparazzi.

-The one that was cut short so that my date could attend a party afterwards. Without me.

-Another blind date that included my (12 years my senior) date showing up in blinding-ly white tennis shoes.

-The one that included a "Potential Wife" interview.

-The one that included my date discovering that he had graduated from high school the year I got out of college. (This information seemed to throw him off his game considerably.)

-The one with the handsome computer enthusiast whom I may or may not have accidentally met on Myspace (feel free to judge).

-The one when my date was awkwardly vulnerable while I told jokes.

-The one with the actual genius who had lived in a commune of geniuses in
California. What?

-The one that included a European castle, an engagement ring, and reindeer for dinner.

Disclaimer: This post was written under the assumption that anyone I have ever dated doesn't read my blog. So, if you found yourself on this list, it probably wasn't you I was talking about.

How To Know if You Have an 18-Month Old: A Checklist of Sorts

1. Thomas the Train's theme song is the soundtrack of your dreams and occasionally your nightmares. ("They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight/shunting trucks and pulling freight..."). Does anyone even know what "shunting" means?

2. You frequently find old boogers on your sofa cushions (wiped there by someone attempting to climb up face-first.)

3. You have phone conversations punctuated by shouts of "no, No, NO!" throughout (usually regarding someone attempting to "use" your computer by banging a plastic truck on the keyboard).

4. You wonder if you will ever again be able to take a shower/change clothes/use the restroom without being observed by someone with a toy duck in one hand and a handful of cheerios in the other.

5. You think of a visit to the grocery store without your child as "getting out" and "time to yourself."

6. Your belief that you could never spank your sweet baby went out the window after the third incidence of a sippy cup full of grape juice pressed upside down into the carpet.

7. Pages of the magazine you just received in the mail have partial pages missing (which you discover later were actually eaten by your child/farm animal).

8. Things go missing with no explanation until you find them in your sock drawer along with an old piece of cheese.

9. You find a bottle of vitamins, a plastic Easter egg, and half a cookie stuffed in the side compartment of your vacuum cleaner, which explains why it hasn't been running as efficiently as it used to.

10. You discover that after a whole day of having your house ransacked, your energy depleted, and your patience worn thin as a Hollywood actress, that an end of the day, squeeze-the-air-out-of you, chokehold hug from your little guy makes up for it all.

More Sam Please

It's the middle of the afternoon and the Samster is asleep and I'm wishing I was asleep too but instead I'm trying to use this tiny little window of "free" time to check my email and maybe write a little here to keep my brain from atrophying (which seems to be a side-effect of stay at home parenting). I'm probably a little too tired to be responding to emails and definitely too tired to be attempting to blog. But, this is the time I've got and I feel the need to redeem myself after my mild ranting about nature and it's creepy, crawly progeny in yesterday's post. I may have overstepped there and I'm planning to make nice with the outdoors as soon as the temperature has lowered itself to less than 97 degrees fahrenheit.

Sam and I are a bit weary from a day of gawking at slinky jellyfish, toothy sharks and baby alligators behind thick glass walls. We were tourists in our own town this morning with Matt's mom and stepdad and cousins Nicholas and Braden at the Chattanooga Aquarium. It was a good time but something about winding our way through all those other visitors with strollers and motorized chairs and excited small people pressing themselves up against the glass of every exhibit was enough to make those of who stay at home by ourselves (and our non-talking small people) most of the time a wee bit tired. Sam was pushed beyond his limit of 2.5 hours past his naptime and was weaving and wobbling like a little sailor just off his recently harboured boat.

So, he and I made our way back up the mountain to get a nap in before we'd passed the point of no return (i.e. no nap = super grumpy baby monster). Heaving his nearly 25 pound little frame out of the warm car and feeling the dead weight of his sleeping self against my shoulder as I carried him into the house reminded me again of how much I adore this sweet fella. Sometimes I find myself stunned by the weight of my heart's affection for this boy who makes us a family instead of merely a couple. And, in light of these emotions, all the thoughts of my toy-full house and the mounds of laundry and the recently emerging self-will of a soon to be toddler all fade into the background and I think quietly to myself, there should be another one of these in my small house.

Perhaps one shouldn't admit this sort of thing out loud and especially not on a blog for crying out loud. And yet, despite my fears and hesitations about what may or may not happen, I can't help but acknowledge that one little person in our family is not enough. To be honest, lately I've wondered if that's such a brilliant idea considering my slight tendency to be neurotic, anxious and mildly particular (read: OCD). But, all those bents aside, something about it feels necessary, imperative and right.

I say all this with a hopeful heart and yet there's such a huge part of me that's afraid that it won't be possible for some reason without an explanation. It's hard not to hope for something without letting fear creep in from some corner or another.

For now, the thought of another little someone being crafted by the Creator to expand our family's borders is something I can't get out of my head. A little butterfly of excitement twinges in my middle when I let myself imagine who that someone might be. Despite my fears, the hope keeps pushing through and I can't help but wonder who may be around the next bend of our family's road.

Basically, to sum up, all those posts I've written over the last year about the crazy, laundry-heavy, mom-brain, memory-loss-inducing, food-on-the-wall, yoga pant-wearing angst of motherhood: it's all been worth it.