Welcome to this edition of "How to Know if You're an Adult." Today, I thought we could chat about telltale signs of adulthood as evidenced by daydream material.
OK, so we're not going to be that formal about this. Really, I just want to talk about how I'm presently daydreaming about Whole Foods (i.e. a grocery store; an establishment that sells food; a land of fresh, non-pesticide laced produce and very, very, very expensive nuts). I'm also daydreaming about re-organizing my pantry.
That's right. I'm not daydreaming about exotic beach vacations or budget-free shopping trips to NYC or whatever else might be more acceptably interesting to daydream about. No, I spend my tiny little amount of free time daydreaming about where I wish I could buy my groceries AND how I could organize them in a more aesthetically pleasing manner once I bring them home.
My two year old lays in his crib and stares up at the ceiling daydreaming (probably) about being a mini-pirate or a Thomas the Train conductor or living it up in a bounce house or maybe finally being free to roam the neighborhood unhindered by his ever-vigilant parents who always seem to be saying, "No" and "Don't eat that."
I used to find myself lost in teenage daydreams about whether I would marry Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightly (today's Edward Cullen or Peeta Mallark), or traveling to Italy where Nutella is a breakfast food, or writing a young adult book series that would land me a brilliant interview with Matt Lauer, where he later invites me to spend the weekend with his family in the Hamptons.
Now, I dream of places that sell free-range chicken and organic produce and handmade cheese. What has happened to me?
Adulthood, that's what. It's also why I love the hardware store and having my car washed and watching BBC dramas. The cheap thrills just keep getting more mundane.
I also really love Cracker Barrel, eating dinner at 5:30, wearing fuzzy houseshoes and, just recently, crocheting. Help me.
Thirty-four is just around the corner and I'm currently considering celebrating in the chemical-free cleaning products aisle at Whole Foods.
Mid-thirties, here I come.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Abe Was Honest
"Whatever you are, be a good one." - Abraham Lincoln.
Really, who knows if Abe really said this or not. I've also read that he said this: "The problem with quotes on the internet is that it's very hard to verify their authenticity." Indeed.
AND, while you're questioning whether or not that's actually something he would've said if he could've said it, consider that Abe may actually still be alive according to Seth Grahame-Smith's recent book, "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter," which inexplicably intrigues me and simultaneously makes me nervous. (Sidenote: I realize that I left that book title un-italicized which honestly makes me sad in the grammar corner of my heart. BUT, if anyone can tell me why Blogger won't let me italicize when I press ctrl/I, I would be eternally grateful. End of sidenote).
Let's get back to Honest Abe's comment on being a good whatever because that's what we're really here to talk about. Sort of.
Last night Matt and I went to dinner at the Canyon Grill, a happy little restaurant at the end of this long ridge that we live on, which we also call a mountain. Dinner dates are rather few and far between in this little life of ours and so it always feels like a big deal when we get to go out together and I don't have to cook. For those of you who don't know (at least those of you who are of the male persuasion), a date is defined by most women in this way: no cooking, no dishes, high heels.
Anyhoo, on our date I found myself waxing "eloquent" (quotation marks here mean that I was actually not eloquent at all) on why I want to have another baby. Poor, long-suffering, charming Matt listened patiently. This is what he hears from me ad nauseam these days. I find myself going off on small rants about Snooki and the middle Kardashian and everybody else in Hollywood who are in the family way whilst poor little ole me is decidedly not. Again, poor Matt.
And so, back to Abe's quote about being good at being whatever. I explained to Matt that in this current season of life I feel like I only have the time/energy/capacity to be good at one thing and right now, that one thing is being a mom. It's what I do and most of who I am a lot of the time. And so, I explained to him, this is why I need another baby (obviously, or maybe not so obviously). I'm GOOD at this mothering thing. Let's all pause for a moment to be in shock over the fact that I just typed that "out loud."
Last week, I could have written you three blog posts and a short novel on how I was, in fact, not a good mother. However, a mere week later I'm feeling a bit more confident. It may have a teensy bit to do with a shifting of the perspective, thanks to a book I just read (i.e. "Bringing up Bebe" - please imagine italics here). You can read it and decide for yourself what you think of its implied admonition to American mothers to stop calling themselves "bad mothers" for not centering their whole universe around a small, 2.5 foot person. But, I digress.
I love Sam with my whole heart and I've committed myself to doing my darndest to give him a good, wholesome childhood that prepares him for whatever comes after. And, so, I find myself thinking, "I need another one of these little people to love on and then send off into the world to love on others."
Well, anyway, this was something of the argument I made to Matt over dinner, which in fact was a test-run for the argument I've been making to God when I try to convince Him to give us another little person. Lame, I know. Obviously, God doesn't need me to prepare a power-point presentation in order to win Him over to my side.
So, to sum up, I'm currently a mom. And, I think I'm a good one (most of the time). And, apparently, I also think this means God should give me another little person to raise. In closing, I probably need a therapist.
Back to Abe. I'm not totally sure where he fits into all this. Basically, I read that alleged "quote" of his about being a good whatever and it made me wonder what it is that I am that I should be good at. Thus, this rambling post.
OK, obviously, I don't have a point, so I'll just leave you with another list.
Things That Are Currently My Favorite:
Afternoon snack: Ghiradelli chocolate chips, dried cherries and walnuts - My friend Amanda's mom's stroke of genius.
Summer reading: "Under the Tuscan Sun" (again, imagine the italics)-So much better than the movie.
This tumblr: http://greeneyeddarlin.tumblr.com/
This blog: thenatos.blogspot.com
This website: Serena and Lily
This song: Katie Hertzig's "Lost and Found"
See you soon.
Really, who knows if Abe really said this or not. I've also read that he said this: "The problem with quotes on the internet is that it's very hard to verify their authenticity." Indeed.
AND, while you're questioning whether or not that's actually something he would've said if he could've said it, consider that Abe may actually still be alive according to Seth Grahame-Smith's recent book, "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter," which inexplicably intrigues me and simultaneously makes me nervous. (Sidenote: I realize that I left that book title un-italicized which honestly makes me sad in the grammar corner of my heart. BUT, if anyone can tell me why Blogger won't let me italicize when I press ctrl/I, I would be eternally grateful. End of sidenote).
Let's get back to Honest Abe's comment on being a good whatever because that's what we're really here to talk about. Sort of.
Last night Matt and I went to dinner at the Canyon Grill, a happy little restaurant at the end of this long ridge that we live on, which we also call a mountain. Dinner dates are rather few and far between in this little life of ours and so it always feels like a big deal when we get to go out together and I don't have to cook. For those of you who don't know (at least those of you who are of the male persuasion), a date is defined by most women in this way: no cooking, no dishes, high heels.
Anyhoo, on our date I found myself waxing "eloquent" (quotation marks here mean that I was actually not eloquent at all) on why I want to have another baby. Poor, long-suffering, charming Matt listened patiently. This is what he hears from me ad nauseam these days. I find myself going off on small rants about Snooki and the middle Kardashian and everybody else in Hollywood who are in the family way whilst poor little ole me is decidedly not. Again, poor Matt.
And so, back to Abe's quote about being good at being whatever. I explained to Matt that in this current season of life I feel like I only have the time/energy/capacity to be good at one thing and right now, that one thing is being a mom. It's what I do and most of who I am a lot of the time. And so, I explained to him, this is why I need another baby (obviously, or maybe not so obviously). I'm GOOD at this mothering thing. Let's all pause for a moment to be in shock over the fact that I just typed that "out loud."
Last week, I could have written you three blog posts and a short novel on how I was, in fact, not a good mother. However, a mere week later I'm feeling a bit more confident. It may have a teensy bit to do with a shifting of the perspective, thanks to a book I just read (i.e. "Bringing up Bebe" - please imagine italics here). You can read it and decide for yourself what you think of its implied admonition to American mothers to stop calling themselves "bad mothers" for not centering their whole universe around a small, 2.5 foot person. But, I digress.
I love Sam with my whole heart and I've committed myself to doing my darndest to give him a good, wholesome childhood that prepares him for whatever comes after. And, so, I find myself thinking, "I need another one of these little people to love on and then send off into the world to love on others."
Well, anyway, this was something of the argument I made to Matt over dinner, which in fact was a test-run for the argument I've been making to God when I try to convince Him to give us another little person. Lame, I know. Obviously, God doesn't need me to prepare a power-point presentation in order to win Him over to my side.
So, to sum up, I'm currently a mom. And, I think I'm a good one (most of the time). And, apparently, I also think this means God should give me another little person to raise. In closing, I probably need a therapist.
Back to Abe. I'm not totally sure where he fits into all this. Basically, I read that alleged "quote" of his about being a good whatever and it made me wonder what it is that I am that I should be good at. Thus, this rambling post.
OK, obviously, I don't have a point, so I'll just leave you with another list.
Things That Are Currently My Favorite:
Afternoon snack: Ghiradelli chocolate chips, dried cherries and walnuts - My friend Amanda's mom's stroke of genius.
Summer reading: "Under the Tuscan Sun" (again, imagine the italics)-So much better than the movie.
This tumblr: http://greeneyeddarlin.tumblr.com/
This blog: thenatos.blogspot.com
This website: Serena and Lily
This song: Katie Hertzig's "Lost and Found"
See you soon.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
A Little Bit of Good in Good-Bye
It's a blah Tuesday and I'm eating a PB&J whilst doing the laundry and deciding that the time has come to blog. The Samster is at his school for little people doing little people things, which I'm imagining includes snack time, nap time, play time and occasional episodes of mini-WWF with other little people. I'm sure it's a real good time over there.
Meanwhile, we just got back from a trip to my parents' in the Deep South where we met up with my dear friend Abigail and her sweet little fam, which now includes a teensy babe that Matt and I secretly wanted to steal (We kept this minor leaning toward baby abduction to ourselves, but I think they could tell).
Mostly, we spent the weekend wrangling people under three, but somehow we also managed to squeeze in actual conversations here and there, which was nice. Conversations are sort of like an extinct species of dinosaur in the land of parenthood (pardon the mixed metaphor). If you have small people in your charge, you understand this. Luckily, we had the Grandparents Extraordinaire to swoop in throughout the weekend and free us up for occasional chatting. And, we also had selfless husbands who kindly read books about Winnie the Pooh and watched Sesame Street with the young'uns so that Abigail and I could discuss whatever our little hearts desired (Downton Abbey, tea, trips to England, books, cardigans, etcetera, etcetera.)
But, while all this fun was happening, there was an undeniable, underlying current of sad, which I successfully kept at bay for most of the weekend. The very, very short summary for this bit of sad is that Abigail and her little family are moving to the other side of the world later this year and this weekend was essentially a bittersweet two-day goodbye.
And, so, I'm sad about this. I'm trying to see the positives here, people, but Skype and Facebook don't always cut it. Despite my slight preoccupation with social media, it doesn't even come close to being a worthy substitute to a real, live, face to face chat over tea with a friend like Abigail.
I held out until the end, but my mascara was destined to run there at the last as we hugged them out of the driveway.
For the record, I'm for missions. And I'm for people hearing about Jesus. Especially the ones who haven't ever heard about Him before. But, man, it's hard to watch a friend go knowing that three years will pass before we get to see each other again. OK, I realize that sounded really, really, REALLY selfish of me. This is shaping up to be one of those posts that might include over-sharing/confessions that I might regret later.
Abigail's husband is smart. He's also a smidge crazy. But, one thing he said as Abigail and I were tearfully goodbye-ing was this: "Christ is worth it." Even now, my eyes smart as I think about that. I know that this is true. I know it is. But, I needed to be reminded.
It's a hard thing, saying goodbye. I don't like it at all. But, in the midst of it, I can't help but be made that much more aware of how dear my friend is to me. And at the same time, I'm reminded that perhaps Jesus isn't as dear to me as He should be. This also makes me sad.
Goodbyes are clarifying, I think. They help us say what we always meant to say but never got around to. And they help us see people in the light that we should have been seeing them in all along. And maybe goodbyes can help us remember that this life is not all there is and that one day we get to stop saying these stinking goodbyes.
Here's to friendship and to people hearing about Jesus.
And here's to having the chance to send fun care packages to places where they've never seen episodes of Gilmore Girls or been obsessed with Target.
Note: No, despite what you may be wondering after viewing this picture, I am not going through a goth/librarian phase. I was just having a bad hair day and ran out of clean clothes that weren't black. And, yes, we are standing very, very close to one another.
Meanwhile, we just got back from a trip to my parents' in the Deep South where we met up with my dear friend Abigail and her sweet little fam, which now includes a teensy babe that Matt and I secretly wanted to steal (We kept this minor leaning toward baby abduction to ourselves, but I think they could tell).
Mostly, we spent the weekend wrangling people under three, but somehow we also managed to squeeze in actual conversations here and there, which was nice. Conversations are sort of like an extinct species of dinosaur in the land of parenthood (pardon the mixed metaphor). If you have small people in your charge, you understand this. Luckily, we had the Grandparents Extraordinaire to swoop in throughout the weekend and free us up for occasional chatting. And, we also had selfless husbands who kindly read books about Winnie the Pooh and watched Sesame Street with the young'uns so that Abigail and I could discuss whatever our little hearts desired (Downton Abbey, tea, trips to England, books, cardigans, etcetera, etcetera.)
But, while all this fun was happening, there was an undeniable, underlying current of sad, which I successfully kept at bay for most of the weekend. The very, very short summary for this bit of sad is that Abigail and her little family are moving to the other side of the world later this year and this weekend was essentially a bittersweet two-day goodbye.
And, so, I'm sad about this. I'm trying to see the positives here, people, but Skype and Facebook don't always cut it. Despite my slight preoccupation with social media, it doesn't even come close to being a worthy substitute to a real, live, face to face chat over tea with a friend like Abigail.
I held out until the end, but my mascara was destined to run there at the last as we hugged them out of the driveway.
For the record, I'm for missions. And I'm for people hearing about Jesus. Especially the ones who haven't ever heard about Him before. But, man, it's hard to watch a friend go knowing that three years will pass before we get to see each other again. OK, I realize that sounded really, really, REALLY selfish of me. This is shaping up to be one of those posts that might include over-sharing/confessions that I might regret later.
Abigail's husband is smart. He's also a smidge crazy. But, one thing he said as Abigail and I were tearfully goodbye-ing was this: "Christ is worth it." Even now, my eyes smart as I think about that. I know that this is true. I know it is. But, I needed to be reminded.
It's a hard thing, saying goodbye. I don't like it at all. But, in the midst of it, I can't help but be made that much more aware of how dear my friend is to me. And at the same time, I'm reminded that perhaps Jesus isn't as dear to me as He should be. This also makes me sad.
Goodbyes are clarifying, I think. They help us say what we always meant to say but never got around to. And they help us see people in the light that we should have been seeing them in all along. And maybe goodbyes can help us remember that this life is not all there is and that one day we get to stop saying these stinking goodbyes.
Here's to friendship and to people hearing about Jesus.
And here's to having the chance to send fun care packages to places where they've never seen episodes of Gilmore Girls or been obsessed with Target.
Note: No, despite what you may be wondering after viewing this picture, I am not going through a goth/librarian phase. I was just having a bad hair day and ran out of clean clothes that weren't black. And, yes, we are standing very, very close to one another.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Tall, Decaf, Skinny, Vanilla Complex
"Comparison is the thief of joy."
Have you seen this on Pinterest yet? Wait, you're not on Pinterest? Um, stop reading this right now and go sign up. Seriously. It'll suck the time out of your day like a ravenous black hole, but it's totally worth it. Or, you could spend that time doing something constructive like volunteering at a food pantry or reading your Bible or visiting lonely animals in a pet shelter. Whatever works for you.
Anyway, if you're not on Pinterest or you just haven't come across this quote yet, you're in luck because here it is:
"Comparison is the THIEF of JOY." (Thought you might need to hear that one more time. Because I did.)
I've noticed lately that I am a serial comparer. I don't mean to be. It just happens. And, I'm really, really good at it. I see something or someone and immediately I'm busy evaluating and ruminating and mulling and pondering and then I'm just hard core COMPARING before I even know what's happening.
Here's an example:
Scenario: I am in an unnamed coffeehouse where smalls are talls and I happen to be standing behind a woman who has obviously just completed a ten mile run and still looks pretty awesome in her spandex running capris, athletic top and flowing ponytail.
Thought Process: It smells like burnt coffee in here...Whoa...That woman is fit...Those pants are seriously tight...I bet she works out every day...AND I bet she drives an SUV with an "I heart running" sticker on the back...She just ordered a skinny latte with extra skinny...What?
Comparison: I have on three day old jeans...I haven't worked out in two years...My hair seems to be shorter on one side today...I haven't showered in 48 hours...What is that on my left shoulder?...Oh, right. Sam wiped his nose there...I wonder if anyone can tell that I'm wearing yesterday's make-up.
Blurgh.
I leave the coffeehouse with a $3 latte and a major complex.
Comparison steals joy.
I spend the next few hours trying to redeem myself by showering and other such nonsense. And, unsurprisingly, I still feel less than.
I do this with all sorts of things. There are no limits to the spectrum of ways that I can compare myself. It's the opposite of awesome.
But, do you know what helps sometimes? If I'm thinking clearly and have maybe had a teensy bit of time with my Bible at some point during the last few days, I remember to remember a few things.
I remember to be thankful. For the man who married me and the crazy little person we get to raise together. For the cozy 956 square feet we share and the family that loves us and our little boy. For the job Matt has and the church we go to and the friends we've made. I remember to be thankful for what we have and for what we do not have and this helps me. It definitely does not mean that I don't struggle with comparing what I have and don't have with other people's haves and don't haves. But, it helps.
Another thing I remember is that my story is my story, which means that it isn't like any one else's. All the things I have and don't have fit into it in just the right ways and help make it mine. It helps me to remember this. This doesn't mean that seeing someone's Facebook status of "Just had our fourth baby, moved into our new mansion and on our way to Hawaii for some R&R" doesn't send me spiraling into a vortex of comparison as I start to think that maybe their story actually is better than mine. But, it's not. Because my story is my story, which means it's being written specifically for me. And that helps.
So, I'm reminding myself today, that being thankful and remembering that my story is good brings joy. Skinny lattes, shiny SUVs, houses with four car garages, and large bank accounts do not. Neither does comparison. In fact, it steals it.
Comparison is the thief of joy. Have I mentioned that already? I think it's time to kick it in the shins.
Have you seen this on Pinterest yet? Wait, you're not on Pinterest? Um, stop reading this right now and go sign up. Seriously. It'll suck the time out of your day like a ravenous black hole, but it's totally worth it. Or, you could spend that time doing something constructive like volunteering at a food pantry or reading your Bible or visiting lonely animals in a pet shelter. Whatever works for you.
Anyway, if you're not on Pinterest or you just haven't come across this quote yet, you're in luck because here it is:
"Comparison is the THIEF of JOY." (Thought you might need to hear that one more time. Because I did.)
I've noticed lately that I am a serial comparer. I don't mean to be. It just happens. And, I'm really, really good at it. I see something or someone and immediately I'm busy evaluating and ruminating and mulling and pondering and then I'm just hard core COMPARING before I even know what's happening.
Here's an example:
Scenario: I am in an unnamed coffeehouse where smalls are talls and I happen to be standing behind a woman who has obviously just completed a ten mile run and still looks pretty awesome in her spandex running capris, athletic top and flowing ponytail.
Thought Process: It smells like burnt coffee in here...Whoa...That woman is fit...Those pants are seriously tight...I bet she works out every day...AND I bet she drives an SUV with an "I heart running" sticker on the back...She just ordered a skinny latte with extra skinny...What?
Comparison: I have on three day old jeans...I haven't worked out in two years...My hair seems to be shorter on one side today...I haven't showered in 48 hours...What is that on my left shoulder?...Oh, right. Sam wiped his nose there...I wonder if anyone can tell that I'm wearing yesterday's make-up.
Blurgh.
I leave the coffeehouse with a $3 latte and a major complex.
Comparison steals joy.
I spend the next few hours trying to redeem myself by showering and other such nonsense. And, unsurprisingly, I still feel less than.
I do this with all sorts of things. There are no limits to the spectrum of ways that I can compare myself. It's the opposite of awesome.
But, do you know what helps sometimes? If I'm thinking clearly and have maybe had a teensy bit of time with my Bible at some point during the last few days, I remember to remember a few things.
I remember to be thankful. For the man who married me and the crazy little person we get to raise together. For the cozy 956 square feet we share and the family that loves us and our little boy. For the job Matt has and the church we go to and the friends we've made. I remember to be thankful for what we have and for what we do not have and this helps me. It definitely does not mean that I don't struggle with comparing what I have and don't have with other people's haves and don't haves. But, it helps.
Another thing I remember is that my story is my story, which means that it isn't like any one else's. All the things I have and don't have fit into it in just the right ways and help make it mine. It helps me to remember this. This doesn't mean that seeing someone's Facebook status of "Just had our fourth baby, moved into our new mansion and on our way to Hawaii for some R&R" doesn't send me spiraling into a vortex of comparison as I start to think that maybe their story actually is better than mine. But, it's not. Because my story is my story, which means it's being written specifically for me. And that helps.
So, I'm reminding myself today, that being thankful and remembering that my story is good brings joy. Skinny lattes, shiny SUVs, houses with four car garages, and large bank accounts do not. Neither does comparison. In fact, it steals it.
Comparison is the thief of joy. Have I mentioned that already? I think it's time to kick it in the shins.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
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:
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:
Friday, February 10, 2012
Phone Conversation Fail
Dear Anyone Who Has Had A Phone Conversation With Me In the Past Seven Days,
Can I just send out a general apology for all the weirdness and distractedness and inability to complete a sentence or respond to you in a way that a normal person would when we last spoke? It's been one of those weeks that included a few calls (and one visit) to the pediatrician, visits to the pharmacy, missing out on Mother's Day Out gloriousness and a general haziness about everything else.
So, those of you who were unfortunate enough to have had a convo on the phone with me at some point, here's what was most likely happening while you and I were having said conversation:
Possibility Numero Uno: I answered your phone call with the only free finger I had as all others were being used to extricate large sections of my hair from Sam's yogurt-y fingers. Thus, the awkward hello you received had nothing to do with a lack of enthusiasm to hear from you. It was instead related to the fact that I was sort of regretting answering the phone during a semi-wrestling match with a small person who had somehow managed to be wearing the yogurt I'd just given him instead of eating it.
Possibility Numero Dos: During our conversation, I may have sounded distracted because same said small person was attempting to climb up my person in order to let me know that he was in the mood for "JUICE! JUICE! JUICE! PWEASE JUICE!" Apparently, juice was necessary in order for him to live.
Possibility Numero Tres: No, that was not me yelling "Baby Train!" or "Choo Choo, Mama!" or "Cracker!" into the phone while you were telling me about your current life situation. I promise I do not have Tourettes. I do happen to have a vociferous two-year old.
Possibility Numero Quatro: Were you wondering why I sounded a teensy bit annoyed when you told me that your grandma had sent you a handknit sweater in the mail for your birthday? I wasn't just being jealous, although I wish Meemaw had sent me one too. No, instead, it was actually because someone with nostril-sized fingers had just inserted one into my nose and then laughed about it like a crazy miniature hyena.
Possibility Numero Cinco: I didn't mean to get off the phone with you so quickly or let's be honest, so awkwardly, but, the truth is that if I hadn't, my whole house was on its way to being ransacked to the point of no return and my ability to have a conversation in the wake of a maelstorm of toddler proportions had just made its exit. Along with my sanity.
So, there you have it. If you didn't have a phone conversation with me this week, see above reasons for why that probably didn't happen.
I miss all you people out there who I used to talk to with regularity. One day, my friends, when the little one has learned that toilets are not receptacles for toys and tv remotes should not be used as hammers, I'll return to the world of "keeping in touch."
Until then, you can find me here. With yogurt in my hair and small fingers up my nose.
Can I just send out a general apology for all the weirdness and distractedness and inability to complete a sentence or respond to you in a way that a normal person would when we last spoke? It's been one of those weeks that included a few calls (and one visit) to the pediatrician, visits to the pharmacy, missing out on Mother's Day Out gloriousness and a general haziness about everything else.
So, those of you who were unfortunate enough to have had a convo on the phone with me at some point, here's what was most likely happening while you and I were having said conversation:
Possibility Numero Uno: I answered your phone call with the only free finger I had as all others were being used to extricate large sections of my hair from Sam's yogurt-y fingers. Thus, the awkward hello you received had nothing to do with a lack of enthusiasm to hear from you. It was instead related to the fact that I was sort of regretting answering the phone during a semi-wrestling match with a small person who had somehow managed to be wearing the yogurt I'd just given him instead of eating it.
Possibility Numero Dos: During our conversation, I may have sounded distracted because same said small person was attempting to climb up my person in order to let me know that he was in the mood for "JUICE! JUICE! JUICE! PWEASE JUICE!" Apparently, juice was necessary in order for him to live.
Possibility Numero Tres: No, that was not me yelling "Baby Train!" or "Choo Choo, Mama!" or "Cracker!" into the phone while you were telling me about your current life situation. I promise I do not have Tourettes. I do happen to have a vociferous two-year old.
Possibility Numero Quatro: Were you wondering why I sounded a teensy bit annoyed when you told me that your grandma had sent you a handknit sweater in the mail for your birthday? I wasn't just being jealous, although I wish Meemaw had sent me one too. No, instead, it was actually because someone with nostril-sized fingers had just inserted one into my nose and then laughed about it like a crazy miniature hyena.
Possibility Numero Cinco: I didn't mean to get off the phone with you so quickly or let's be honest, so awkwardly, but, the truth is that if I hadn't, my whole house was on its way to being ransacked to the point of no return and my ability to have a conversation in the wake of a maelstorm of toddler proportions had just made its exit. Along with my sanity.
So, there you have it. If you didn't have a phone conversation with me this week, see above reasons for why that probably didn't happen.
I miss all you people out there who I used to talk to with regularity. One day, my friends, when the little one has learned that toilets are not receptacles for toys and tv remotes should not be used as hammers, I'll return to the world of "keeping in touch."
Until then, you can find me here. With yogurt in my hair and small fingers up my nose.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
How Buying Organic Food Affects My Self Worth
I just opened my fridge to get more milk for the little guy; even if he had already imbibed twelve gallons of milk already, I would be physically unable to say no to the words "Pease, Mulk" in his ridiculously adorable little voice. I promise you wouldn't be able to either.
Anyway, as I reached in for the milk, I surveyed my semi-orderly fridge (we had company coming and I was somewhat influenced by the unnaturally neat fridges I'd observed on MTV's Cribs at some point in the past). As I glanced around for about 6.5 seconds, I felt myself feeling oddly affirmed by the choices I had made at the local Ingles the day before. Organic milk, organic yogurt, organic butter, organic apples, etc. I mean, despite some mistakes like the genetically-altered pancake syrup in the side door and maybe a box of pre-cooked bacon (this probably should not exist in the natural order of things), I had done a pretty good job of keeping my family hormone and high-fructose corn syrup free. Mental pat on the back. She shoots, she scores! Fist bumps all around. I felt like super-mom/wife/person for a minute there.
I bet you're assuming that I've been in the house too long (again) or perhaps have been sniffing the glue I used to re-attach the handle to my Crock Pot lid yesterday (which, oddly enough, fell on my head and broke the night before). Or, maybe you're just as guilty as I am about assessing your value as a producer and raiser of children by how organic your groceries are. It's hard not to let this happen. Every parenting magazine, mom website, mom blog, local CSA nutritional magazine that you see at the door of Whole Foods, they all say the same thing: If you don't buy organic, your children's brains won't develop to their full potential OR you could die from some unnamed toxin that was sprayed on your vegetables in some Latin American country before you innocently bought them in Bi-Lo's innocuous produce aisle.
It's hard being a mom. It gives you about 4,508 more reasons to be anxious throughout any given day. I've recently decided not to renew my subscription to Parents magazine (despite the low, low price of $7.99 a year) because their editors have apparently determined that good articles and fear-mongering are the same thing. I seriously cannot read another article about all the communicable diseases that are on their way to becoming resistant to antibiotics. OR, how many ways your child could be accidentally maimed and/or killed by unassuming objects in your own home. It's enough to make one give those 1950's mothers' popping Valium a nod of sympathetic understanding.
And so, I fight back. I babyproof my house and I buy organic. And, then I feel awesome. Sort of.
But, what's the deal with organic food's impact on my identity and sense of self? I'm a little surprised and maybe slightly humored by the things that affect the lens I see myself through now that I'm a mom. It's a little overwhelming at times navigating through the parenting process and wondering if some small thing will upset the whole apple cart (and find Sam getting his GED years later and making a career out of grocery-bagging).
Well, there you have it. I value myself based on my produce selection and I worry that Sam will lose an arm in some freak accident involving our vacuum cleaner. Who knew motherhood could create such neurosis? This, my friends, is what drives me to Nutella, which is basically a chocolate/hazelnut version of Valium. With more calories. But without those pesky side effects of rage and hysteria.
I think I could use a spoonful right now.
Anyway, as I reached in for the milk, I surveyed my semi-orderly fridge (we had company coming and I was somewhat influenced by the unnaturally neat fridges I'd observed on MTV's Cribs at some point in the past). As I glanced around for about 6.5 seconds, I felt myself feeling oddly affirmed by the choices I had made at the local Ingles the day before. Organic milk, organic yogurt, organic butter, organic apples, etc. I mean, despite some mistakes like the genetically-altered pancake syrup in the side door and maybe a box of pre-cooked bacon (this probably should not exist in the natural order of things), I had done a pretty good job of keeping my family hormone and high-fructose corn syrup free. Mental pat on the back. She shoots, she scores! Fist bumps all around. I felt like super-mom/wife/person for a minute there.
I bet you're assuming that I've been in the house too long (again) or perhaps have been sniffing the glue I used to re-attach the handle to my Crock Pot lid yesterday (which, oddly enough, fell on my head and broke the night before). Or, maybe you're just as guilty as I am about assessing your value as a producer and raiser of children by how organic your groceries are. It's hard not to let this happen. Every parenting magazine, mom website, mom blog, local CSA nutritional magazine that you see at the door of Whole Foods, they all say the same thing: If you don't buy organic, your children's brains won't develop to their full potential OR you could die from some unnamed toxin that was sprayed on your vegetables in some Latin American country before you innocently bought them in Bi-Lo's innocuous produce aisle.
It's hard being a mom. It gives you about 4,508 more reasons to be anxious throughout any given day. I've recently decided not to renew my subscription to Parents magazine (despite the low, low price of $7.99 a year) because their editors have apparently determined that good articles and fear-mongering are the same thing. I seriously cannot read another article about all the communicable diseases that are on their way to becoming resistant to antibiotics. OR, how many ways your child could be accidentally maimed and/or killed by unassuming objects in your own home. It's enough to make one give those 1950's mothers' popping Valium a nod of sympathetic understanding.
And so, I fight back. I babyproof my house and I buy organic. And, then I feel awesome. Sort of.
But, what's the deal with organic food's impact on my identity and sense of self? I'm a little surprised and maybe slightly humored by the things that affect the lens I see myself through now that I'm a mom. It's a little overwhelming at times navigating through the parenting process and wondering if some small thing will upset the whole apple cart (and find Sam getting his GED years later and making a career out of grocery-bagging).
Well, there you have it. I value myself based on my produce selection and I worry that Sam will lose an arm in some freak accident involving our vacuum cleaner. Who knew motherhood could create such neurosis? This, my friends, is what drives me to Nutella, which is basically a chocolate/hazelnut version of Valium. With more calories. But without those pesky side effects of rage and hysteria.
I think I could use a spoonful right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
