A Little Bit of Sad with the Happy

So, I've been reading Jami Nato's blog (http://thenatos.blogspot.com/) and finding myself inspired to try a teensy bit harder to keep up with my own little blog. It's hard to focus on writing when one is always answering the calls of "Juice!" (a.k.a. "I'm thirsty.") and "Choo Choo, Mama!" (a.k.a. "I need to watch a train video RIGHT NOW OR I WILL EXPLODE"). But, here I am, typing away while the little one snoozes, the husband is at work and the huge cookie I'm baking for tonight bakes in the oven and makes my house smell the way heaven will most likely smell (fingers crossed).

It's Valentine's Day and I'm currently working on a little in-house dinner date for the hub (thus, the skillet cookie as big as my head). It's a dreary day outside, which means if you live on the mountain that I live on, you can't see further than roughly twenty feet ahead of you because of the pea soup fog and you essentially take your life into your hands if you decide to venture outside of the house. It's that foggy, people. Like, tie a rope to the door when you go check on the cows, otherwise you might not make it back.

I mentioned it's V Day, which means it's February 14th, which means it's about three weeks away from March 13th. And, as random as that date may sound to you, it's a date that I'm kind of wishing I could dart past so that I wouldn't have to think about what I would have been preparing for on that day if things had gone differently.

Why am I talking about this? Well, I was just hanging out at The Nato's blog (which I mentioned earlier) and I stumbled onto an old post about a baby they lost a couple years ago. Before I could steel myself against feelings/emotions/etc. (I'm kind of good at that, unfortunately), it was too late and my mascara was starting to run. I know it hasn't been that long since we had a miscarriage and I'm obviously justified in being sad, but still, it was last summer. And yet, I'm surprised when someone else's story of a lost baby makes my eyes smart and my heart hurt.

March 13th was supposed to find us adding another crazy little insomniac to our train-filled, toddler friendly, Curious George-loving house.

But, you know, as much as I wish, wish, wish that we were preparing ourselves for another baby takeover, I can't help believing that God knew exactly what we needed then and what we need now. This doesn't mean that I don't sense an empty spot in our family where that baby should have been, but knowing He's working things out for our good (and His glory) gives me hope.

I've also been thinking lately about how I really wanted to have a little girl before we found out that Sam was going to be the opposite of tutus and fairyland. In fact, he's turned out to be about as "all boy" as you could imagine and as the days and the months and the birthdays pass, I find that the thought of having anyone other than the train-obsessed little man we've got is completely impossible to compute. I wouldn't trade Sam for a hundred million little girls. He's that great.

Even as I ponder who that lost little one might have been and feel sad that I won't know them this side of eternity, I can't help but be filled to the brim with joy by the baby/boy/tornado that God has already given us. (I say this even as an hour and a half has passed since I put him down for a nap and as yet, no nap, just incessant jumping).

And now, because I'm awkward about sharing my feelings and not very good at knowing how to finish a post about those, here's a picture of me and Sam for your viewing pleasure:



Here's another:



Aaaaand, maybe one more:

How to Make Fancy New Year's Resolutions

It's my third day in a row at home on a rainy day with a little boy and his cold. The mountain we live on is currently being engulfed by a cloud and so visibility is somewhat low (as in, I'm starting to feel like Sam and I are the only people left on the planet). There's been what looks like a hostile takeover of my living room floor by Thomas the Train and his minions and I'm wondering if it's time to introduce Sam to Barney. Obviously this means that the isolation is getting to me, which means it's time to sit down, drink some tea and ponder life with you, dear readers.

I just took my first shower of the last forty-eight hours and so I'm feeling a little more like a real person, which is nice. (However, my hair is still wet and I'm still wearing yoga pants, so don't be too proud of me.) I'm also spending some quality time with the banana bread I just baked, which I think has something to do with having dumped chocolate chips indiscriminately into the batter. Unfortunately, that removed any of the health benefits from making the low-fat version of Miss Daisy's Banana Bread recipe. Oh well.

I've been occasionally pondering the fact that it's two weeks past New Year's and I haven't made any resolutions. I'm thinking that the time to make any has likely past and if I make them now, they probably shouldn't count as new year's resolutions. They'd just be generic ones and that's not very motivating. To be honest, I did make a few vague resolutions, but their vagueness makes them slightly less like resolutions and more like wishful thinking. I'll list them for you here and you can decide:

1. Write a book.
2. Have a baby.
3. Clean out the refrigerator
4. Download the 124,347 pictures from my old computer to my new computer.

And there you have it. I am not a realistic resolution-er.

I must say, however, that in the past, I was very earnest in my resolution making. I can even remember one particular year coming across some parchment paper and my old calligraphy pens (a late middle school hobby) and deciding to write down my resolutions in a very official, very unnecessarily dramatic way. I'm sure I still have that fancily written list somewhere in my childhood room where other treasures such as the romance novel I wrote as a 14 year old (I also did the cover art, which I thought made my chances for publication that much more probable) are tucked away in my old desk for my grandchildren to come across years from now and publish and then become independently wealthy on the fantastic royalties.

I can't remember what that particular year's resolutions included, but I remember there being at least 10, which if we're being honest, is reaching a little. Really, three or four is about all one should commit to, don't you think? I'm absently wondering now where those are and need to make a note to hunt for them next time I'm back at my parents'. If I find them, I'll be sure to share them here as they're sure to inspire you and very probably put your less fancy new year's resolutions to shame.

In addition to taking occasional showers, pondering my lack of new year's resolutions and baking bread with an indecent amount of chocolate chips, I must also tell you that I've spent some quality time watching the show I cannot quit, The Bachelor. You may judge me now. (Pause) OK, now that you've judged, I have to confess, I enjoyed every single ridiculous minute of that show and am already looking forward to the next episode on Monday night. I can't decide what this says about me as a person and what exactly this means about my ability to make good decisions about how I spend my time. But, people, it's Ben. And, I want to see Ben find love. And make wine. And wear his cut-off shorts and shaggy hair while swirling said wine with his lady love on a windswept field in the romantic California wine country.

So, I also enjoy the drama, which is unexpected, because I loathe drama in real life. There's just something so entertaining about observing a weird little microcosm of society where twenty-five women hang out in a fabulously gaudy house in their fancy duds and spend their days mooning/pining/girlfighting over one lone, somewhat clueless man. It's fascinating and I love it. There. I said it. I love The Bachelor and I don't care who knows it.

In other news: Perhaps you're wondering what's going on with Sam since you last heard tell of him. Well, I've compiled a list of his goings on and such for you. And here you go:

-Sam recently had his first official haircut in an old-time barbershop with a number of eighty-year old observers/cheerleaders. It was lovely and a blow-pop was the key to the success of this milestone. Keep in mind that if you try this with your little one, the blow-pop will get a little hairy. It's just part of the deal.

-Sam received a number of large, very fun toys for Christmas. We left all of them somewhere else. Sam has no memory of ever receiving them, which is one of the lovely things about having a two-year old who lives very intensely in the moment.

-During the holidays, Sam got to go on the Polar Express train ride in Chattanooga. While riding inside the train, Sam looked around with a concerned look on his face and asked, "Where train go?" It was hard to explain that we were, in fact, inside of it.

-Sam likes to recite the names of Thomas the Train and his friends on occasion (or all the time). "Edward, Thomas, Gordon, James, Duncan, Percy, etc." He also likes to call for them, too, which is nice. Sometimes he'll shout, "Thomas!" up the stairs. Yet another example of how Thomas the Train is slowly taking over our lives.

Well, my hair is drying awkwardly and slowly but surely becoming something no one should have to witness, so I'd better go and spend the last few minutes of Sam's nap making myself look a little less like a stay-at-homeless mom. That was too much of a stretch, wasn't it. I blame Thomas. And the creepy fog outside my house. And the overdose of banana bread that just happened.

And, now, since you've made it this far, I'll share with you a rare shot of Sam and his stylist.

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).

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

Miscommunication 101

It's Tuesday and I'm currently pondering Lady Gaga's ubiquitous pantlessness, envying Obama's visit to the UK and wondering if I am too old to be wearing the shorts I'm wearing right now. In other news, I thought I'd share a little about marital bliss here in the Rieger household these days. Translation: I thought I'd share a few thoughts on how to miscommunicate with your spouse.

Last night between episodes of Modern Family on Hulu, Matt and I had a conversation of sorts about how he enjoys staying home on Saturdays to watch Sam, allowing me to venture out into the wide, wide world for a couple hours by my lonesome. I said that I appreciated that and then added that I also enjoyed letting him stay at home with Sam while I ran errands (which occasionally includes the mall) on Saturdays because I know that he doesn't get to be at home as much as I do AND he doesn't really enjoy errands or the mall. And then something happened that I don't understand. Somehow we got a little testy with one another and weren't really sure why. I think it had something to do with both of us thinking the other was undermining our sacrifices or perhaps we thought the other was inflating their sacrifices on our behalf. Hm. I'm still not sure that we have fully sorted out our miscommunication. There were apologies made, but I think there's still some lingering mild confusion.

In light of this conversation, I've realized that I've been a little jealous of Matt's freedom to trot off to the office where no one needs him to change their diaper or reprimand them for grinding cheerios into the carpet on a regular basis. I've had to be reminded lately that he's not heading off to Oz or Candyland or Target everyday. He's going to a desk where he answers phones and stares at a computer screen and deals with customers who, on occasion, are not as reasonable as one might expect.

Similarly to my misconceptions of his daily adventures at work, I think that he might be a little (or a lot) under-aware of what a day in the life of a stay-at-home mom entails. Sure, he's watched Sam for a few hours without me, but there's nothing like a full ten hour day of todder-watching to make you dream of sitting at a desk from 9 to 5.

So, in light of a situation that's ripe for miscommunication, I give you this list of questions for husbands to help them gauge (and perchance revere) the stress level of a stay-at-home mom on any given day. Thanks to my friend Glenn for sharing this with me, and now with you:

Stay-At-Home vs. Working Parents
Questions to help spouses bridge the communication gap
By Heather Rigby | May 19, 2011
-www.babble.com-

When you decide to become a stay-at-home parent, you enter into a different realm — one ruled by illogical two-year-old dictators, school schedules, and choosing the correct color yogurt. As much as I can explain this to my husband, I don’t know that I’m getting through. Now I’ve done the next best thing: creating a list of questions that will help him and other office-bound parents gauge how (cough, cough) similar their days are to ours.

1.When you walked into work this morning and pleasantly greeted your co-worker Jim, was his first reaction to scream “NO! WANT JASON!" followed by an office supply being thrown at you?

2.Has a colleague ever climbed up on your lap while you were using your computer and slammed the keyboard with both fists until the up arrow no longer worked?

3.Do you have to lock yourself in the supply closet or bathroom on a regular basis in order to make phone calls?

4.Did you finish a complete thought at any time during the day?

5.When you went out to lunch with your fellow workers, did you have to pack a diaper/juice/extra outfit for them? Did you have to wipe their faces? Smile an apology and leave an extra tip for the waiter on their behalf?

6.When a co-worker needed you for something, did she sit at her desk with her head tilted back toward the ceiling and repeatedly scream “SEAN! SEEEEANNNN! SEAAAAAAN!” until you came to find him?

7.When you needed a specific colleague, did you search all over for him, only to finally find him giggling in the cabinet under the sink? Did you also find six pairs of your church shoes under there with him?

8.Have you had to come to an associate’s aid because she fell off her desk after trying to climb on top of it using a rolling chair?

9.When you reached for the report a co-worker was handing you, did he snatch them away at the last second and scream “MINE!” while shoving you backwards?

10.Does your colleague lift up her shirt and pick things out of her belly button every time she comes over to ask a question?

11.While you are using the restroom, do various co-workers come in the stall and ask you to settle a disagreement or open a packet of fruit snacks?

12.During a board meeting when everyone is present, do you notice a smell and then have to check all your colleagues’ pants to locate it? In fact, at ANY point in your day do you have to deal with another person's feces?

If the answer to most of these questions is no, it’s a safe bet to assume you’re in an office. That said, if your answer to most of these questions is yes, and you know you’re in an office, it’s safe to assume you might need a new job.

The Old Days (i.e. May): A Lost Post

I'm a little light-headed due to the inconsistent eating schedule/menu that is motherhood. So, I hope you'll pardon me if this post rambles and if I perchance wander down a rabbit trail. It's also possible that I could say something awkward and if so, pardon me.

It's another Monday and I'm still trying to figure out how to spend this day productively. It's 1:30 in the afternoon, which means I'm a little behind in the productive department. Sam's been asleep for approximately one hour. I'm hoping for one more. I realized today that these two or so hours a day that he naps find me feeling pressured to make them count. I mean, they're the only two hours of the day that kind of belong to me and only me. However, I'm also discovering that the pressure to accomplish something (i.e. read a book, write a book, catch up with a friend, learn something, wash 8 loads of laundry, write a manifesto, etc.)usually backfires on me and I end up doing something completely the opposite of productive. Like reading People magazine. Or painting my toenails. Or looking up unnecessary information on Wikipedia.

Sigh.

I love motherhood, but I find myself a little uncomfortable in it's confines and boundaries of sorts. And by uncomfortable, I just mean that it's against my nature to be at home for long periods of the day, to occasionally not have a real conversation for more than two days in a row, to accomplish so little in so much time. I feel myself straining against the time constraints of a small person's schedule. I'd also like to confess that I'm not very good at playing. I get bored with blocks and trains sometimes and wish that I was at Barnes and Noble. Isn't that terrible?

But, in light of all these ways that I am so obviously wrestling with the colorful realities of mothering, I want to do this. I want to do this with Sam and with any other little people God decides to entrust to us. It's so hard, but in the very same breath, so good.

Sam and I were reading Sandra Boynton's book Opposites this morning and when we got to the "short" and "tall" page, Sam pointed at the tall giraffe and said "towl," which if you don't have your baby translator handy, is "tall." He said it a couple more times until it sounded like "tow" and then as if a lightbulb had gone off in his little head, he pointed to his toe and said "toe." Seriously, people. He's a genius. He got a big squeeze for that accomplishment, which he quickly wrestled his way out of.

I love that kid. Things like that happen all day long and if I'm being honest with myself, I know that those moments are worth a billion trips to Barnes and Noble.

This Quiet Life

It's Thursday, which I just figured out this morning. I've been a day behind all week for some reason, so if I was supposed to meet you somewhere in the last 24 hours, this is why I wasn't there. Additionally, I'm also unsure as to what the actual date is today. But, what I do know is that it's naptime for the little guy and so I'm sitting by the kitchen window letting the spring air in, after a few days of having the house shut up for a brief stint of blackberry winter.

Maybe I should explain that I'm unaware of dates and times and such because I'm at home a lot, away from memos and newsflashes and watercooler conversations. In light of the somewhat hermit-ish season that I've entered into, I've found myself pondering this life at home that Sam and I spend together these days, how quiet it is (in a larger sense, not to mislead you into thinking that there aren't pots and pans being beaten with spoons at various times during the day). I don't realize how small our little world is until I turn on the television or rev up the computer and find that there are all sorts of things going on out there that I am completely out of touch with. Some days, this really bothers me. Today, however, I can't help but look around at the overturned trucks in the den and the errant cheerios under the table and think that this quiet life with Sam is good. Hard, but good.

While I was putting on my make-up yesterday, which I economically wore again today, Sam entertained himself by tossing various items into our bathtub. He also found time to unload a shelf, dump out a large container of blocks and sort through some envelopes I had tucked away, presumably out of his reach. I couldn't help but think that raising this little guy feels a bit like a three-ring circus going on around me at all times. I haven't decided yet if I'm the ringmaster, or if Sam is. It's moments like those when I can't help but shake my head and laugh. And then Sam laughs with me.

I think that I've spent more time complaining about this season that I'm in than being thankful for it. If my younger self could see me now, I would sit myself down and remind me how much I wanted to be here ten years ago, married and raising children at home. I would probably kick myself in the shins for my forgetfulness and ingratitude. I have exactly what I wanted all those years of singleness and still I pine for some of that somewhat lonely freedom I had in spades and didn't want at all.

So, this is me confessing to being a selfish woman whose dreams of having children are currently coming true in the little person of Sam. The mall and the movie theater and the restaurants without high chairs can wait until I'm fifty. This season belongs to Sam, and I want to embrace with joy all the trucks and sandboxes and stuffed farm animals it has to offer.

*If you could remind me of this next time I tell you about the tantrum he threw at the grocery store, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks.

The Edge of Crazy

Have I mentioned that I have a seventeen month old boy? My sweet little bundle of baby turned into a two foot whirlwind who has very nearly pushed me to the edge of crazy town. It's hard to explain this sort of crazy if you don't have a toddler of the male persuasion. I find that I can barely put into words the mind-numbing tiredness, the loss of memory, the inability to put more than three words into a sentence that I'm experiencing these days. Basically, my whole day is spent trying to keep this little person alive, which means saving him from self-destruction and death-defying acts about once every twelve minutes. I am severely underpaid.

Lately, Sam has learned some new things. Things like climbing up onto the sofa, climbing up into a chair, how to stand on unstable things like small coolers and plastic firetrucks, and how to open and shut heavy sliding doors. Grandparents have declared all of these things, among others, to be evidence of an obvious budding genius. I have other ideas about this, some might even call them concerns. Like, how long will it take for my son to figure out how to climb onto the roof? start the car? open an email account? thumb a ride? I can't help but worry that while my brain seems to be slowing down, his is developing at such a rate that by next month, he may be writing this blog for me or possibly building a bomb.

No one told me that having a seventeen month old could actually cause me to lose my mind. I understand a little better that old saying about people in difficult circumstances (i.e. banished to Siberia, kidnapped by pygmies, living undercover in the witness protection program, etc.) being "driven to drink." I've been driven to a bag of chocolate chips more times than I care to confess. (On Saturday I bought two more bags just for emergencies. It's Monday and I have one bag left.)

Some symptoms of my very possible loss of sanity: I frequently find myself to be on the edge of tears and laughter at the same time. I imagine going on vacation all by myself. I daydream about how much free time I'll have when I'm in my sixties. I constantly make the same to-do lists over and over and then subsequently lose those lists. I enjoy staring into space. ETC.

I do find a small measure of comfort in knowing that seventeen month olds become eighteen month olds and those eventually become two year olds and they go to school at some point and they all graduate one day and move out and start their own little families. I don't want to wish these days away but I am more than a little relieved that I won't always have a seventeen month old. In fact, my sanity depends on it.

This past weekend, just in time for Mothers' Day, I saw a card with J.D. Salinger's quote "Mothers are all slightly insane." I enjoyed the cleverness of his pithy little saying that was so obviously just J.D. being silly. And, then, after half a bag of chocolate chips and some serious wall-staring, I decided that J.D. was right. Only now I'm wondering if "slightly" really covers it.

And Then She Got Old...

It's Thursday afternoon and I've just consumed more than my fair share of Nutella Chocolate Chip Cookies (you can find that recipe here: vivagood.wordpress.com). And after this poor dietary choice (the quantity, not the quality), I found myself perusing People magazine's exhaustive list of 2011's "Hottest Twenty-Five Year Olds." This is the sort of thing that happens when Sam goes down for a nap and I am suddenly left alone for more than thirty seconds at a time. I usually spend approximately three minutes considering what sort of productive things I could do while Sam snoozes and then thirty minutes later I look up from People.com and wonder where the last half hour of my life went. I realize you're probably questioning my ability to make good decisions right now. And you should be.

Anyhoo, back to those twenty-five year old freaks of nature with their zero percent body fat and creamy complexions. I'm fine with them being so beautiful. Really, I am. I applaud them for their perfect genetic makeups, but I must admit that it irks me that they were awkward middle-schoolers (read: 14 years old) when I was busy graduating from college. You may be asking, Why does it even matter? Well, it doesn't. But, for the first time in my life I'm suddenly a bit skittish about an impending birthday and it's making me a teensy bit envious of all those twenty-somethings out there. I realize this means that I am jealous of a number. I want to be twenty-five again. Is that so wrong?

Hm. This is turning into a bit of an embarrassing confessional post here and I'm a little ashamed that it's come to this. I mean, I should leave the overly personal revelations to people who frequent Twitter, but, I currently need an outlet for my thirty-something angst and so, I apologize for any awkwardness you might be feeling for me right about now.

Thirty-three. It looms. It haunts my dreams. It laughs at me when I remember how I used to think that age was no big deal. Who cares that I'm thirty? It's no big thing. I still look twenty eight. Right? But, then along came THIRTY THREE with it's crows' feet and post baby stretch marks (I realize how TMI this is and I'll ask for forgiveness later). Thirty three is mid-thirties for crying out loud. MID-THIRTIES.

Sigh. Another bite of a cookie. Sighhhhhhh.

OK. I feel a little better. However, you probably don't. And so, as an apology for dumping on you like that, I'll leave you with this, a product of my thirties...

Ode to Florence Nightingale

A mere forty-eight hours ago, Matt called to let me know he was on his way home from work (early) and he didn't sound so hot. In fact, he sounded like he might be feeling a teensy bit nauseated. My heart began to beat a little faster, but I tried to stay calm. If you know me you know that, not only am I a bit OCD, I'm also a card-carrying, Purell-lovin', certified germophobe. So, you can imagine my concern when I hear that a potentially infectious disease might be making it's way to my house harbored by my dearly beloved husband.

Soon after the foreboding phone call, he came in and quickly ducked into the laundry room bathroom just inside the back door. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, the plague had just entered my house. (ominous music score here).

May I point out a couple of milestones before we go on? Firstly, I have never known my husband to (ahem) lose his lunch since we've been been together. Secondly, we're almost never sick at the same time, which has meant that someone has always been there to take care of the other or take care of the little guy. Thirdly, I haven't tossed my cookies since I was SEVEN YEARS OLD. You may not have known this because a. I don't usually discuss these things and b. I never say this out loud for fear that I'll jinx my good luck.

The husband was promptly sent to bed with the computer and a copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel (not only is he handsome, he's literary too). I proceeded to have a small freak out and then decided to lysol (yes, it's a verb) everything. I didn't make it far before I too was feeling a little odd. However, due to a long and colorful history of hypochondria, I dismissed the minor stomach cramps and pounding headache.

One hour later and I was desperately calling for back-up (i.e. mom/grandma/florence nightingale).

While waiting for said back-up, I laid on the couch while my husband languished upstairs and Sam went from standing in front of the Veggie Tales I'd managed to turn on and back over to the couch to pat my head (seriously, how sweet is that?).

And then, after poor Sam had been put to bed with only milk for dinner and still in his playclothes and Matt and I laid on either end of the couch watching a movie we were less than interested in, our very own personal superhero arrived bearing two flavors of powerade and some major get-well know how. Huzzah!

Despite the unfortunate catalyst for our little family slumber party, the last twenty-four hours have managed to be a pretty darn good time: John Wayne movies, fun times with Sam (who hasn't caught the plague yet and we're PRAYING that he doesn't), cookie-baking (only after all nausea had passed), chatting over hot tea, etc.

And so, it turns out that the very best medicine of all is a rescue visit from MOM (imagine this word bedazzled). It was almost worth the getting sick part...almost.

Now that mom/grandma/florence nightingale/superhero is on her way back to where she swooped in from, I'm off to make up for all those calories I lost over the past two days. Hello, half-full bag of chocolate chips. Let's reacquaint ourselves.

Wonder Woman Was My Hero

Wonder Woman was my hero when Trapper Keepers, Hypercolor clothing and Kirk Cameron were all the rage. I would sit in Mrs. Palmer's fluorescently lit classroom imagining myself being dramatically transformed into that perfectly (38-20-37 if you're wondering)-figured Amazon superhero complete with the Lasso of Truth and those classy yet indestructible bracelets on each wrist. This was a regular daydream during my elementary years when my rather plain little self stared very hard into the mirror every morning looking for a tiny glimmer of Lynda Carter's beauty hidden away in there somewhere.

Flash forward twenty-five years (give or take) and I'm a stay-at-home mom, doing mom things, wearing yoga pants instead of a flashy red, white and blue leotard and a crime-fighting tiara (bet you didn't know it doubled as a weapon). My life is pretty mundane and if we're being honest, it wouldn't be a stretch to say that it's not superhero material. In fact, not to be dramatic, but there are days when it's easy to feel like mom-world is a bit of a black hole, a place moms disappear into and are never heard from again.

In light of this disappearing act I feel like I'm performing on a regular basis, I find myself conjuring up ways to reappear. For instance: become a big movie star and turn that stardom into a seriously addictive reality television show. This idea has been shot down. The Wonder Woman daydream occasionally crosses my mind, but let's be honest, it's a little difficult to come by a good pair of indestructible bracelets. But, the truth is, I find myself honing in on one little old dream most of the time. And that dream is (dramatic drumroll here) writing The Great American Novel. Those of you who know me well may be aware of the romantic, period piece, evangelical dramas I wrote in my early years (i.e. 8th and 9th grade). So, this dream is obviously well-worn and yet I keep coming back to it year after year.

I read something intriguing about Howard Stern the other day in an article Focus on the Family's president had written and then emailed me (and 724,000 other people). Basically, the article discussed Howard Stern's recent admission of a serious, neurosis-level need for personal approval and affirmation from others. FoF's president Jim Daly's response to Howard Stern's confession was to quote the one and only Dr. Tim Keller from his book Counterfeit Gods:

The human heart’s desire for a particular valuable object (human affirmation) may be conquered, but its need to have some such object is unconquerable. How can we break our heart’s fixation on doing “some great thing” in order to heal ourselves of our sense of inadequacy, in order to give our lives meaning? Only when we see what Jesus, our great Suffering Servant, has done for us will we finally understand why God’s salvation does not require us to do “some great thing.” We don’t have to do it, because Jesus has.

I find myself in the same camp as Howard, desiring affirmation and, essentially, just really wanting to matter. Looking back, I see how daydreams of turning into Wonder Woman during a particularly bad hair day are pretty closely related to my big-girl dreams of writing a bestselling book at some point in my quiet little mom-life. Doing "some great thing" whether it's morphing into an Amazonian superhero and saving the world or giving the Twilight books lady a run for her money, is an empty hope that will never make me feel the way I want to feel.

Being a mom and getting to stay at home with Sam happens to be a dream that came true and I am totally confident that I am doing exactly the thing I was meant to do at this juncture in my life. However, the sense that the world is passing me by as I change those millions of diapers and do that endless pile of laundry is, at times, enough to make me despair a little. And so I daydream. I make plans. I plot how I'm going to do that "great thing" and somehow make everyone take notice. But, to be honest, deep down I know that no superhero skills or devastating beauty or mind-blowing wordsmithing is ever going to satisfy my need to matter or be approved of.

With brilliant simplicity, Tim Keller explains the deepest of truths and reminds me that it's not up to me to make sure that I matter, which is a really good thing because I'm not sure how to get my hands on a Lasso of Truth. Ebay's totally out and Amazon's charging more than I think they're worth.

Suburban Outlaw

So, perhaps you've been wondering what I'm up to lately on this mountain where we live. And, perhaps you've had other, more-relevant-to-your-life things on your mind. Well, regardless of your thinking of me or not thinking of me, here's a little of what we're doing these days.

Today included laundry (obviously), diaper changes (obviously) and a run-in with the law (less obvious). On my way to the post office to drop off a Netflix I happened to be the unlucky driver of the day who was awarded the blue light special. It was unexpected and I must say that when I pulled over, I wasn't really pulling over. I was merely parking at our local post office, minding my own business, and then there they were, rotating blue lights in my rearview mirror. Shoot. It's been about, oh, 11years since I've been pulled over for speeding. And that time, oddly enough, found me traveling at around the same speed I was going today, which was: 44. Part of me kind of wishes that if I'm going to get caught speeding, I could atleast be going somewhere above 65. Oh well. I don't aspire to be Steve McQueen.

Once I realized that there was an officer pulling in behind me, I turned to look back at Sam and wondered what the lasting impact of my 1 year old seeing his mother being interrogated (i.e. asked a few questions regarding speed limits and such) by the po-po would be. The officer made his way to my window and politely asked if I knew how fast I was going. I guessed 40. But, I was, in fact, going 44 speedy miles a hour. However, in a 25 mph zone, this is 1 mile away from "reckless driving," which obviously means I live on the edge of danger or obliviousness.

I glanced back to see what Sam was doing, hoping this little incident wasn't scarring him for life, imagining him remembering me later as a hardened criminal, a suburban outlaw who drove fast in school zones and texted while driving with her knees (this doesn't really happen). Instead, Sam had a big, toothy (all 8 of them) smile on his face and was waving excitedly at the officer at my window. This may have won me some points with the sergeant.

After handing over all the information pertaining to my right to drive, I was left to think about what I'd done. And then he was back from his patrol car, letting me know that I was off the hook, for today, that is. Sigh.of.relief. I think a combination of being new in town and Sam being so darn friendly gave me a getoutofjailfree card.

So, what I'm hoping now is that Sam doesn't remember this little incident when he's 16 and getting a license to drive. Odds are, he won't. But, it definitely makes you think when you find yourself on the wrong side of the law (exaggeration here) with your child watching in their carseat behind you. I can't help but wonder how much he's taking in of my bad behavior (eg: that cowboy word I said under my breath the other day when I pinched my finger in the drawer, the 5 cookies I had for lunch, the 2 hours of television we watched today instead of cleaning up the kitchen, etc.) and where that might show up later. Hm. Obviously, these aren't jail-worthy, but I can't help but think about what Sam might be learning from me when I'm not paying attention...

Well, that's about it. Other than my finishing off a jar of Nutella by myself and Sam having just discovered that being outside is way more fun than being inside, that's all the news we've got. Tune in next time for "Renegade Moms Who Run With Scissors" and other cautionary tales of mothers who speed in their spare time.