Adulthooding

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Day in the Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam and The Great Pumpkin Farm

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

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

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

Indeed.

He even suggested that we make it a family tradition.

Score.

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

Wish you could have been there.










And last but not least...

Point and Shoot

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

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

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

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



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



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



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



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

Paranoid Activity

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

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


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

The Scorpion:

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

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

The Burglar:

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

So, I'm surviving this somewhat stressful day.

But, just barely.

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

Happy Sam:


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

If I Were Your Therapist...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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