A Little Lost in Translation

In approximately two months and eight days, my baby will turn TWO. I need to pause here for just a moment to hyperventilate...

Ok, I'm back. So, as I was saying, Sam is almost two years old, and while I realize this means that the black hole of parenting, also known as The Terrible Twos (said in an ominous voiceover that you'll just have to imagine), is about to descend, I cannot help but love this particular season of Sam.

The advent of full-on sentence creating has taken place in my little man's brain and I am in love with the crazy phrases I hear around the house all day. There's plenty I don't understand, but those little bits and pieces of baby conversation that sound vaguely like the English language are seriously the best.

For example, when I went to get Sam up yesterday morning, he looked at me from the edge of his crib and said, very seriously, "Is it Thomas?" (as in, the Train). I wish I knew why this question feels so imperative. He asks it all day long and I haven't devised a satisfactory answer as of yet.

We hear lots of "Where Dey Go?" when Matt has exited the building. (FYI: "dey" is Sam's word for "daddy.") What I'm really loving is when the beginning of a sentence is total gibberish and then ends with a very emphatic "choo choo" or "mama" or the ever popular "tunnel." We're slowly adding "Bob" into the mix now that Bob the Builder is on the scene.

For example, this would sound like, "Ee Yoo Ee Yoo Ee Yoo" (said in rapid succession) followed by "choo choo! or "Bob!"

I think about how much I'll miss this baby talk after it's evolved into full-blown conversations and I wonder if I'll remember all these sweet little phrases and words down the proverbial road. I really, really hope I will. It wears on me a little that so much of what is happening right now will be forgotten by my ever-shrinking brain as the years pass and my little man actually becomes a man.

I know now why mamas don't want their babies to grow up. Sometimes, I kind of wish mine didn't have to.

Sigh.

Observationing and Wordsmithery

Observationing: the art of noticing things; observation with flair; taking note of things without consequence and then writing about them in a public forum.

Wordsmithery: the act of creating words offhandedly with no regard for the rules of language and/or grammar. Example: observationing.

This morning as I headed out the door, unshowered and in somewhat unflattering jeans, I glanced back across the wide expanse of our 953 foot house and I noticed that it looked a bit like a small bomb had exploded or perhaps a compact helicopter had hovered for a few minutes over our den/kitchen/dining combination of a room. I couldn't help but wonder if someone dropping by would conclude that a small child lives here or if they had just stumbled upon a crime scene moments after the bad guy had made his exit. I hope people will just assume that someone small and high on life lives here. The alternative makes me feel stressed.

Earlier, while getting Sam ready this morning (i.e. wrestling him to the ground to get his pants on), I happened to notice the wooden desk (Target, circa 2004) in his room. It's where we keep his books and his piggy bank and a battery-operated dancing monkey. There's also a lamp and a noise machine with sound options like: tropical rainforest (a.k.a. dying parrot, which is what it really sounds like if we're being honest), spring rain, mountain stream, white noise, heartbeat (a la Telltale Heart) and a few others. We're in a bit of a spring rain rut right now, and I'm considering making the switch to mountain stream. Anyway, that's the top of the desk. Under the desk is a basket of toys, a small riding toy with a stuffed moose in its seat, a large frog named Leap and an obnoxious, battery-operated ball-throwing toy that Sam inexplicably loves. I say all this to tell you one thing. I used to sit at that desk when there was nothing on it but a computer, a lamp and a pen. Now I sit at the kitchen table when I feel the need to be quiet and write things down. Sometimes I miss that desk, and I can't help but wonder if it feels a little confused about its current situation.

(Maybe I should have warned you that this post was going to be more random than usual.)

Two days ago was Sunday and on Sundays my husband and I take ourselves and the little guy down to our lovely church in a barn on the back of the mountain. It's probably not what you're imagining, but it does have large barn doors and zero air conditioning along with the occasional dog wandering through the service. I love it and I'm not sure I can ever go back to the usual way of doing Sunday mornings in a perfectly climate-controlled church building that doesn't have twinkle lights strung up in the rafters. I noticed something this particular Sunday (prepare yourself to be disappointed by the fact that I am not about to reveal an uber-spiritual revelation that will make you wish you could come to my church instead of yours). I found myself observing that nearly every man I happened to vaguely notice was wearing a wrinkled sweater and something in my writer's heart loved the image in my mind of people digging into the back of their closets and drawers that morning to essentially welcome fall back into their wardrobe by slipping into sweaters that haven't seen the light of day for approximately seven months. There are no words to express how glad I am that Fall finally arrived. Good riddance, Summer. I might take this sentiment back if we have eight inches of snow in our front yard again this year. But, probably not.

(Just for the record, I did pay attention at church on Sunday despite what you may be assuming. I heard an excellent sermon on life calling and sang songs that I love and was happy to take communion with my church family. I just occasionally get distracted, and wrinkled sweaters - and their heralding of my favorite season - just happened to be the subject of my distractions this particular Sunday.)

Someone just woke up from his nap so, that's it for this edition of Observationing and Wordsmithery. Until next time, when I share about the nuances of my relationship with my Kitchenaid mixer and maybe ramble a bit about the laundry. I know you'll be sitting by the computer with great anticipation, and I don't blame you.

My Deep South Grandma

This weekend was a rather bittersweet one. We got to spend two whole days with my extended family in South GA (read: the land of gnats, sweet tea, and peanuts). It was 85 degrees there, while up on our mountain it was probably more like 68. But, we adjusted to that. My hair, however, did not. But, I digress. Back to the somewhat bitter part of this sweet weekend of aunts and uncles and cousins and sweet tea. I think this may warrant a new paragraph.

My eighty-five year old grandma Margie was placed in ICU on Thursday night and around 2:30am we almost lost her. The next day, the doctor on duty proclaimed her a "miracle" and commented that there must have been some serious praying going on (yep). As my parents were driving through the night to get there in time to say what they thought would be goodbye, I was having to bide my time up here on this mountain and found myself remembering all kinds of things about my grandma that I hadn't thought about in a while. The heavy weight of believing that I would probably never hear her gloriously southern voice again made my throat tight and my nose stuffy. I don't cry much, but Thursday night was a tearful one.

So, in honor of Marge, as my uncle affectionately calls her, I thought I'd mention a few things about my grandma that I find endearing and wonderful. Here goes:

My grandma is a whopping 4'11 and shrinking. But, what she doesn't have in height, she makes up for in being feisty. She's a serious (and I mean serious) Braves fan. She knows what Chipper Jones is having for breakfast on his off days. Grandma has lived in the same part of GA for 85 years, but she's been to every state in the Union (including the ones that aren't contiguous). She's also been to Europe. I find it incredible that a woman who didn't have indoor plumbing at different times in her life has seen more of the country/world than most of us who've moved 23 times.

My grandma has the best southern accent you've ever heard. She also has endearing ways of saying certain words, for instance, nauseating becomes noiseating. Grandma makes the sweetest tea you've ever tasted and on its second day in the fridge, you can use it for syrup on your pancakes. Yum. She can also cook up a "mess" of salmon (she'll pronounce the "l") patties, mashed potatoes, collard greens, hoecake, creamed corn, turkey dressing and giblet gravy. You'll have to loosen your belt after that one.

Grandma loves bacon and Hardee's and her "girls" who she goes to water aerobics with. If you've spent any time with her, you know that she's usually got a diet Dr. Pepper and a bag of Cheetos in her purse. She's extra-extraverted and loves being the center of attention, which works out well because she's got a quick sense of humor.

She sends a card at every birthday, the kind of card that has about four pages of very poetic, very Helen Steiner Rice, sentiments. But, they always feel personal and you know that she stood in the card section of Rite-Aid for about 20 minutes picking out the perfect card for you.

My grandma loves Jesus. She's at church every time the doors are open. She sings alto in the choir and loves her Pastor Dan. On Thursday night, when they thought she was almost gone, my aunts and uncles and my parents (who made it there in the middle of the night) all stood around her bed and sang "Amazing Grace." She sang too with the little bit of voice she had left and a tear running down her cheek. I'm sure she was starting to wonder what it was going to be like to see Jesus and maybe give my sweet grandaddy a long-awaited hug.

My grandma is my last grandparent. I'm thankful that at 33 I still have one of those. I could hardly hold it together last Saturday morning when I went to visit her at the hospital and realized an answer to prayer was happening when she gave me a hug and told me she loved me. I hadn't thought I'd hear that voice again on this earth. It was so incredibly good to hear it again.

She's still in the hospital, but she's getting more and more of her spirit (i.e. feisty) back. They're hoping she'll get to go home tomorrow. I'm wishing I was going to be there to see her walk back into that familiar house and maybe turn on the Braves game and settle into her chair with a new crossword puzzle.

I won't ever forget this past weekend and what it felt like to see and hear her again when I thought I'd lost her. I'm more than grateful for a little more time with my Braves-loving Margie.

That's Very Pinteresting

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm attempting to have a little time to myself, which in my normal reality is about as rare and possibly non-existent as a unicorn. Time to oneself is a little hard to come by when one has a small boy in their care in addition to living in a 950 square foot house. But, said small boy is snoozing in his room and said husband is watching football and will be snoozing before too many more [insert random football terminology here} have taken place.

I've been a little distracted lately and haven't made my way over here to my blog as often as I'd like to, despite its fancy new design. (Thanks to Carolyn V). If I were someone who didn't feel any moral compunction about lying, I would tell you that the aforementioned distractions have included visiting widows and orphans, adopting animals from the local shelter, cooking meals for the homeless, growing organic vegetables and reading my Bible late into the night. BUT, because I am, or try to be, an honest woman, I will tell the truth here and possibly give you reason to avoid me at Bi-Lo next time you see me. Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but you can decide for yourself.

About a month ago, I discovered something. It was unassuming and even a little hard to figure out at first. But, it didn't take long before I had gotten the hang of it and every time I thought about it, while I was washing dishes or grocery shopping or putting Sam down for a nap, I felt a tiny twinge of excitement. Usually, I'd be sure to get the toys put up, the dishes washed, the laundry done, my emails checked, etc. before allowing myself to go there, but sometimes, the pull was too strong and the temptation too overwhelming. Before I knew it, with chores undone and phone calls unreturned, I would find myself, hours later, still pinning. Pinning, you ask? That's right. Pinning.

Perhaps you're unfamiliar with Pinterest. And maybe it's better that way. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you can visit my page here: http://pinterest.com/darar/ It's hard to explain the draw of Pinterest until you've experienced it yourself, but be forewarned, once you start pinning, there's no turning back, my friend.

Essentially, Pinterest is a catalog of images that you can select, or pin, to a page that collects all your personal favorites. In the magical world of Pinterest, you'll find photos of food, fashion, travel, home, art, etc. Basically, it's an online folder for stuff you like to look at, dream about, hope for, and possibly covet (but, that's another whole issue).

There's something fantastic about being able to peruse perfect bathrooms and comfortable living rooms and dreamy kitchens for hours upon hours. It's hard to pull myself away from the plethora of neurotically organized linen closets and pantrys (anyone know the plural of "pantry"?) and bookshelves. Who knew that you could organize all your books by color or label all your pantry items with chalkboard magnets? Pinterest is heaven for those of us with slightly organizationally compulsive natures.

I confessed to my husband this morning that I "love" Pinterest. He wasn't shocked, maybe just confused by this sudden admission. It's been added to my list of daily website visits, along with Facebook, Yahoo and embarrassingly enough, People.com (that was actually hard to confess.)

I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to have to deal with some coveting/discontentment/comparision/identity issues at some point and find that Pinterest may have a little (or a lot?) to do with these. But, for the moment, I can't tear myself away from all those lovely Mason Jar table settings, DIY birthday party favors and handmade skirts with secret pockets.

An intervention may be necessary before too long, but I'll worry about that later. Right now I have some pinning, I mean, laundry to do.

The Samster

Maybe you've found yourself casually wondering what Sam's up to these days. I thought you might have so I figured I'd update you on the little guy and the plethora of ways he's keeping us more than just a little busy lately. I find myself occasionally flipping (clicking?) through the pictures on my phone and being reminded of how very, very small he was mere months ago. And, now he's this energetic (i.e. like he had a Red Bull for breakfast) little person that on rainy, waterlogged days like this one, attempts to climb every piece of furniture, empty every kitchen drawer, and push every button I never knew I even had. BUT, despite all that, I am more than a little head over heels for this sweet boy and wouldn't trade a second (except for maybe that unfortunate diaper incident we had yesterday) with him for anything.

Here's a little of what he's been up to lately...

The Unexpected

This post has been simmering for a while and now that Sam is happily tucked away at Mother's Day Out, I have a little time to write a few things down. I really should be driving myself to the grocery store right now, but in the interest of sharing my life and facilitating a bit of procrastination, I think I'll do this instead.

I had a lot of ideas over the past couple months for what this post would eventually be called. "Bun in the Oven" was one thought, and then there was "Sam's a Big Brother!" which felt too obvious, and I briefly considered the Amish favorite "In the Family Way." None of those seemed to be as clever or as interesting as I needed them to be. Luckily, I held off and didn't write that post despite the fact that I was dying to so that I could atleast confess to someone how many Krystals I'd eaten in three days and all the hormonally-induced reasons why that calorie-laden tragedy had happened. But, instead, I waited.

And then something sad happened a couple weeks ago that we were not very prepared for. We're still wading through it and I have a feeling we may not ever completely be able to wrap our minds or hearts around what we've just experienced. Essentially, the baby we thought we'd be grafting into our lives come next spring isn't coming. And there really aren't any good or satisfying explanations as to why.

We've been pretty sad lately and to be honest, I've been a bit of a hormonal train wreck of sorts, but time passing has made things better and we continue to be reminded of how blessed we already are with the little family that we have. I think Sam has been hugged within an inch of his life these last couple weeks, as if he wasn't already the most hugged little boy to ever breathe. The weight of how intensely fragile and precious and fleeting life is has hit home and we are keenly aware of the MIRACLE it is to have even just one healthy child.

If I haven't talked to you lately and you're reading about this on a blog during your lunch break or between cleaning the bathroom and folding laundry, I hope you don't mind that I've just mass communicated something I would normally tell you in person over coffee or on the phone. It's been a strange thing to know how to tell anybody about what's happened and yet it's been hard not to shout it from the rooftops because it's all I can think about lately. I'll admit that blogging about something so personal seems a little inappropriate and even a bit crazy, but it's also a relief because I can say all the things I want to how I want to without having a minor breakdown on your shoulder, potentially in public, which I wouldn't like at all.

The upside of this is that the pregnancy hormones that make me someone who eats Krystals for breakfast and lives on the sofa 24/7, those have made their exit and left me feeling like a normal human being again. This experience has also made Matt and I that much more aware of our need for community and our desperate dependence on our Creator for pretty much everything. I think it's even made us more patient with the constancy of Thomas the Train in our living room and the occasional meltdowns our little guy has over not being allowed to play with scissors and other such household weapons.

We are so thankful for the encouragement and the prayers and the hope that we have been offered through the friends and community who have cared about us in the midst of this. I'm really hopeful that this part of our story will help Matt and I be better parents to Sam and better friends to others who are walking through a hard season like we're in right now.

And, after this is all over, I can't help but already hope toward the possibility of other babies in our family and that Sam will finally get to wear that Big Brother shirt he's got hanging in his closet.

Romans 8:28a- And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good.

Ode to the Red Couch

Once upon a time I owned a beautiful red couch. It was the first legitimate piece of new furniture I had ever owned and when it was shoved (and I do mean shoved) through the narrow door of my studio apartment for the first time, I was in love. With a couch. I read many a book, took many a nap, had many a late night conversation, watched many an episode of Felicity, ate more than my fair share of frozen dinners, and laughed and cried and daydreamed on that big red couch.

The red couch came with me when I moved into the apartment that would be Matt's and my first home. It fit just right into the new place and I loved evenings when Matt would be on one end reading a book and I on the other end reading my book while cookies baked in the oven or the tea pot whistled in the nearby kitchen. Early on in our marriage, we did have a small incident which involved a red pen being left out on the red couch...without it's top. This was a low moment in our marriage. It took a little while for me to get over the red pen situation. But, I turned the cushion to its other pristine side and went on with life.

A few years later, and a few places of residence later, we had a baby boy named Sam. Maybe I've mentioned him before. Anyhoo, during the first eleven months of his life, our couch was in storage as we lived with family during a major job hunt by the hub. So, the couch was spared from spit up, diaper leaks, bottle spills and the like. I'm sure it sighed with relief in its storage unit.

That brings us to today. Not much has happened in the way of disaster spills or major mishaps in the last nine months of Sam's co-existence with the red couch. There are a few grape juice stains, although rather faint considering the red fabric. And there are some other odd smudges that I think forensics would prove are yogurt and possibly peanut butter. But, other than those and a few raisins between the cushions, the red couch has been relatively unscathed by the Samster. Until today.

I've discovered (in a stroke of brilliance and possibly negligent parenting) that if I give Sam a sippy cup of juice and turn on Thomas the Train, I can take a shower and get ready without having the whole upstairs ransacked. This way I can get ready in roughly thirty-five minutes or less rather than two hours or more. And so, this morning, dreaming of all the outings we could take ourselves on if we got ready early and headed out, I gave Sam his juice, I turned on Thomas the Train, and I went to take a shower.

First mistake: I decided against putting Sam's shorts on this morning and let him just wear his t-shirt and diaper for a bit. I didn't think that would be a big deal and he might even like the extra mobility.

Second mistake: He'd already seen this particular Thomas the Train episode a few times and apparently, it wasn't really that stimulating anymore.

Third mistake: I gave Sam his third sippy cup of the morning as I headed off to the shower.

And so, as you may have guessed, I came back to find Sam wearing only a t-shirt. No diaper. Along with a big grin. I quickly scanned the room for any unpleasant items or "incidents." At first, I thought I'd caught him early enough and then...there it was. A big, wet puddle in the middle of my red couch. Essentially, Sam had taken off his diaper, settled into the comfy couch and just let it flow.

Siiiiiiiighhhhhhhh.

No mall, no library, no anything for us this morning. Just frantic re-diapering and then attempting to give my red couch back some of its dignity. Currently, the cushion covers are drying in the sun and later I'll do some steam cleaning. But, I don't think my red couch will ever be quite the same.

I suppose it could be worse. I could own a suede couch the color of sand. Or Sam could have done more than just a number one in this situation. So, I will just let it go and determine to never let Sam go without his shorts again. Ever.

Moral of the Story/To-Do list: Duct tape Sam's diapers on next time, cut him off at two sippy cups, and hunt down one of those plastic sofa covers my great grandma used on her couch back in 1978. Done.