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.

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.

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.

A Case of "Mom-Brain"

I think I may have the blogger's version of writers' block, which, come to think of it, might be the same thing as regular writer's block. Lately, I find myself thinking about how I want to be writing and yet, there's this big fat blank that comes to mind whenever I consider putting a few sentences together.

However, as you may have noted by now, despite a bit of writer's block, I am nonetheless determined to string a few words together and see what comes of it. If nothing else, atleast I'm attempting to write and that's worth a little bit, isn't it? And if not, perhaps I'll burn a few calories doing some really fast typing.

There's not much to report these days from the mountain that we're currently living on. At the moment, I'm baking a butternut squash, doing laundry and wondering how much longer I have before The Babe wakes up from his nap. It's a small world these days and thankfully, we've had a few visitors lately to keep me from fully succumbing to "stay at-home-mom-induced-cabin-fever." This disorder is coupled with what my friend Abigail calls "mom-brain." Or I think that's what she calls it. My "mom-brain" tends to forget anything and everything said to me within a 3 hour or less window. It also has the tendency to manifest itself in slightly alarming bouts of A.D.D., which could occasionally be mistaken for Tourrette's Syndrome.

What does this look like exactly? Well, if we were having a conversation, I might be able to finish one or maybe two sentences before checking to see what small object (ex. fuzz, old peanut, dead ladybug, etc.) Sam is pinching from the floor in order to put into his mouth. Half a sentence later, I will, mid-sentence mind you, note that your shoelace is untied. Another two sentences and I have forgotten what I initially started to tell you in the first place, but no matter, I've already moved on to another topic sparked by Sam's celebratory outburst at having just removed his shoe.

In light of my tendency toward A.D.D. these days, I will now change topics before you've fully been able to process the last paragraph you've just read.

For those of you wondering what the heck is going on since we moved to Chattanooga, I'll sum up for you:

-We've visited 3 churches in 3 weeks. Right now, the front-runner is the one with the most-efficient nursery. (priorities = Sam)
-We discovered the Greenlife (a.k.a. Whole Foods) here in Chattanooga. I had no idea I was moving to a city with a Whole Foods and I may have had a little trouble sleeping a night or two just knowing it was a mere 20-25 minutes away.
-I've only been to Target once in 3 weeks. Tragedy.
-Sam has 2.5 new teeth since we arrived.
-Sam has bitten me with said new teeth more times than I can count. Not sure how to break this unfortunate habit yet.
-The husband and I have both had new tires put on our car.
-I've done approximately 13 loads of laundry.
-We had a thunderstorm last night that sounded like a hurricane. Sam slept through the whole thing.

Hm. I'm boring myself just typing this list. Staying at home with a 10 month old is both a joy and a brain-sucker. I love Sam more than I have words for and I'm so grateful that I'm at home with him witnessing every baby step he makes towards being a little person. But, somedays it does feel like the U.S. could have been taken over by the Chinese and I might not know about it for 3 days.

Obviously, as noted earlier, we did just move to a new city where we A. aren't yet plugged in to a church/community and B. don't know many people and C. get lost (or uncertain of our whereabouts) on occasion. I realize that with transition comes some uncomfortable-ness and occasionally some loneliness and I know all of that can't be blamed on being a stay-at-home mom. Sorry, Sam.

But, now I'm left with the question of where this writers' block is coming from. Is it a product of being overwhelmed by transition and change? Is it the aforementioned reality of "mom-brain"? Or, could it be that perhaps I need another spoonful of Nutella to spark a few new ideas for blog-posting?

Well, while you ponder that, a load of laundry is waiting to be transferred from the washer to the dryer. Here's hoping I have more to say next time I post. If not, I'm planning on sharing a few pictures of Sam doing something adorable instead.

A Manifesto of Sorts

We've just gotten back from an afternoon at the pool which has only made me more aware that pale will never be cool. Nevertheless, sunscreen and I are on a first-name basis and at 32, I've given up on the dream of being tan.

Now that we're back in the land of air-conditioning, I'm still sitting in a wet bathing suit in our living room. (Try not to picture this). I don't normally sit around in my bathing suit, especially not when it's wet, but if I take the time to actually go change into normal, dry clothes, the babe will inevitably wake up and this tiny little window of time I have to write a bit will very quickly become a thing of the past.

Sam's snoozing in the next room, still in his carseat where he fell asleep on the way home. In the interest of dragging his nap out, I did a little driving around which also included some Sonic and a 64 cent cherry-limeade, a visit to Krystal and two mini-burgers, some talk radio and a call from Matt. Most of that was unnecessary information, but I feel like over-sharing today.

However, what I really want to address here in this post is something other than my random bathing suit-wearing afternoon visits to fast food restaurants. Instead, I feel like talking about how I have no response when someone casually asks me "So, what's been going on lately?" I usually pause and then look away, probably down at Sam, and then waste a little time by coughing unnecessarily while trying to drum up an answer. I mean, SURELY, I've done something interesting in the past 7 days that warrants sharing. But, after a little socially awkward silence, I come up with nothing. It's starting to make me wonder if I have Alzheimers or if I just genuinely have nothing going on.

But, I DO have stuff going on. It's just not the kind of stuff you talk about at parties or write about in your memoir. For starters, my days are usually ordered around Sam's naptime and bedtime. Everything in the schedule fits around those two things, come hell or high water, only a little less dramatic. Not to say that I'm not flexible, but if one of those two sleep events gets thrown off, it means lots of fussing (by Sam) and less sleep (for me). Those things together mean that I feel more stress, which means I eat more chocolate, which means I gain more weight, which means I get cranky, etc. So, as you can see, it's a slippery slope.

In addition to ordering things around Sam's sleep schedule, the rest of my time is devoted to laundry, cooking, running errands, occasional personal grooming (i.e. showers) and entertaining an almost 8 month old. I get lots done and I don't sit down much, but the only way you can really tell is that at the end of the day Sam is still alive and Matt has clothes to wear to work for tomorrow.

Basically, I'm pooped at the end of every day, but with not a lot to show for it. After all that energy spent, there are no works of art to be displayed, or film documentaries to wrap up, no music composed. I don't have a book to publish or even a magazine article to send to an editor. No awards are received, no time cards are punched. My portfolio and my resume have not benefited from the things I have accomplished. All in all, what I do each day goes largely unseen and the day after today I will do it all over again.

SIGH.

But, despite the lack of tangible expressions of my spent energy and the lack of an answer to "what's new with you?", I'm glad (and even proud) to be doing this thing called being a stay-at-home mom. No one sees these things I'm doing and Sam won't even remember all these days and weeks and months we've spent together.

But, I will.

I am logging hour after hour of memories of my little boy's life that I can never do over and never get back. And, no one else gets the privilege of doing this for him but me.

So, maybe I'm becoming a little dull at parties and I don't ever have much to update anybody on. OH WELL. I wouldn't trade these quiet, uneventful days with Sam for all the published books and all the jet-setting jobs and all the high fives in the world.

Now that I've written my stay-at-home mom manifesto, it's time to put on dry clothes and maybe even do some more laundry.