Danger, Will Robinson!

Now that my earlier adrenaline rush has settled back to normal levels, I can calmly recount to you my mid-morning freak out, that is, if you're interested.

After a normal morning routine of diaper changing, breakfast for the men in my house, catching up with Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann, doing some laundry, diaper changing (did I mention that?), I had just leaned down to pick something up from the floor that had been tossed aside by a certain small person when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Within a split second, all my muscles had tensed up and I entered the Land of "No Reasoning Whatsoever." Outside, just beyond my car, there was a red Jeep Wrangler parked on the other side of our driveway. Aaaand, a man was sitting inside staring straight ahead, wearing a ball cap and what looked like some kind of barn jacket. I felt myself quickly sizing up the situation like I was on some sort of mountain version of a seriously dramatic crime show. Perhaps here is where I'll toss out the idea for Law & Order: Chattanooga, because obviously they need atleast one more spin off of L&O.

I hunched down and grabbed my phone. A quick phone call to the husband at work and all would be well. He'd come storming back home to confront this guy and then nimbly toss him off "our" property (we're renters). I waited calmly for him to answer and then launched into full "I am freaking out" mode. The husband did not, however, freak out. Nor did he offer to drive home. Rather, he suggested I hop in the car, drive by the man and roll down my window to politely ask what he was doing there. What?!?

And then, my friend Amy called, who was supposed to meet me for coffee down the mountain in just a bit. I filled her in on The Situation and told her I'd be at the bakery in 0.5 (aka 30) minutes. Unlike the husband, Amy was sympathetic to my plight. Let it be known that I will bring this up later when the aforementioned husband comes home tonight.

I quickly dressed Sam and I in our finest sweatsuit apparel and then, with beating heart and visions of villains dancing in my head, I bravely swung open the door.

Would he jump out of his Jeep and rush us? Would he grab Sam and make a run for it? Would he burn our house down with us in it? Would I have to fight him??? Luckily, I had done a few handstands in the den last night just to see if I could still do one and that little exercise made me confident that I was still limber enough to possibly wrestle this guy to the ground if it came to that.

And then he was getting out of his Jeep. (Insert suspenseful music here). I was rushing to our car to tuck Sam into his carseat so that my hands were free for fisticuffs. I glanced up to see this guy walking slightly toward us. I think he could tell that I wasn't going to be an easy target. He may have even been a little afraid of me (this is probably not true). But, then (DRAMATIC PAUSE) he said "Hi, Sam!" in a friendly voice. I stared at him awkwardly and then made even more awkward conversation while busily getting Sam buckled in and then hopping in myself.

Well, it turns out that my driveway interloper was, in fact, a foreman on the neverending construction project going on just past our front yard. He was overseeing his worker-men (an official term used by four-year olds everywhere) from the front seat of his Jeep (which, to be honest, still seems a little odd). Apparently, while my uber-extroverted mother in law was visiting yesterday, she had walked Sam down to meet the guys digging up our ditch and apparently made friends with this dude, thus his familiar greeting to my son.

All in all, it took about thirty minutes for my knees to stop shaking, but a latte and a Will-and-Kate-worthy scone (currant) from Niedlov's with Amy (who managed to look lovely even with semi-wet hair) was the perfect remedy for a minor nervous breakdown on my front stoop.

And so, all's well that end's well. But, seriously, all you worker-men out there need to drive something a teensy bit more official if you're going to hang out in my driveway. I'm not scared to fight you.

The Late, Late, Late Show

It's late (11:24 pm) and by some miracle, I'm still awake. Maybe 11:24 pm doesn't sound like late to you, but to this mom-with-a-tornado-for-a-child, it is waaaaaay past bedtime. So, you may be asking the question, why are you still up? Well, to be honest, I'm not sure. It could have something to do with the few (understatement) handfuls of chocolate chips I've recently consumed (hello, caffeinated sugar bomb). But, I think it has more to do with the fact that my time alone is rare, like Humpback Whale rare, and I'm trying to stretch it out as long as I can. So, now I'm up past my bedtime perusing websites that feature elaborate handmade pillows and framed fabric swatches with pithy sayings crocheted on them. Oh, and I'm also doing laundry, but that's nothing new (see blog sub-title). Basically, I'm wasting time. But, the important part here is that I'm wasting time all by my lonesome.

The husband is snoozing upstairs and I imagine the little guy is dreaming about cookies and The Backyardigans and endless sippy cup-fulls of Juicy Juice right about now. And so the house is quiet except for the sound of the dryer tossing around my last load of laundry for the night.

The house is mine for the moment and I find that I'm not even sure how to be this alone anymore. It used to be the norm most evenings (before the boys upstairs showed up) and now I find that I'm pretty unfamiliar with my own company. It's a curious thing to look into the mirror some mornings and realize that I don't know the person looking back at me as well as I used to.

Seven years of lovely/terrible singleness after college afforded me lots and lots of time to ponder my self, my personal dramas and heartaches, my plans and my hopes and the plethora of things under the category "my." And now, most everything about me revolves around none of those things anymore. And, in most ways, that's a really good thing. I've filled whole (seriously dramatic) journals about silly boys, detailing inevitable break-ups that I was nonetheless stunned by. I've spent hours and hours on the phone with friends dissecting relationships and pondering my particularly unique (and yet not so much) path through life ad nauseam.

I miss some of that time to myself, searching out the intricacies of what it meant to be me. But, now that I look back, I realize that a lot of time got wasted on stuff that really didn't matter a whole lot. I could have saved a significant number of trees if I'd volunteered at a soup kitchen instead of chronicling my little romances in dozens (and I mean dozens) of leather-bound journals. Twenty-something angst was quite the fodder for journals I hope I have the good sense to burn before I die.

Now that my life is summed up by laundry and cheerios, I have to admit that, despite its severe lack of personal introspection, it turns out that it's fulfilling in a way that all those years of near total self-focus never could be.

I could probably use a little more time to myself for things like taking a shower that lasts long enough to include shampooing AND conditioning or maybe reading the magazine I bought back in October. But, all in all, I think that the time I'm not spending on myself these days is better spent than any of those self-indulgent hours of journaling my personal dramas or staring out a window wondering when my life would start.

I may have digressed a little here. Obviously, alone time isn't always a slippery slope of narcissism. It's definitely a necessary part of healthy self-awareness, but I think God was on to something when He said "It is not good for man to be alone." I'm pretty sure He knew that community would be the place where we could be our best selves, rather than holing up with a journal (or an iPhone) somewhere.

Pause. I think I hear my bed calling me.

Well, if you made it this far, you may feel that you've just wasted some of your own precious time and I might agree with you. Late night blog posts are usually something I'd suggest you avoid. Now that I've done my share of rambling, I suppose it's time to hit the hay. Only seven more hours until the whirling dervish wakes up and demands a sippy cup. Sigh.

Goodnight, quiet house.