"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.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
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.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
How to Make Fancy New Year's Resolutions
It's my third day in a row at home on a rainy day with a little boy and his cold. The mountain we live on is currently being engulfed by a cloud and so visibility is somewhat low (as in, I'm starting to feel like Sam and I are the only people left on the planet). There's been what looks like a hostile takeover of my living room floor by Thomas the Train and his minions and I'm wondering if it's time to introduce Sam to Barney. Obviously this means that the isolation is getting to me, which means it's time to sit down, drink some tea and ponder life with you, dear readers.
I just took my first shower of the last forty-eight hours and so I'm feeling a little more like a real person, which is nice. (However, my hair is still wet and I'm still wearing yoga pants, so don't be too proud of me.) I'm also spending some quality time with the banana bread I just baked, which I think has something to do with having dumped chocolate chips indiscriminately into the batter. Unfortunately, that removed any of the health benefits from making the low-fat version of Miss Daisy's Banana Bread recipe. Oh well.
I've been occasionally pondering the fact that it's two weeks past New Year's and I haven't made any resolutions. I'm thinking that the time to make any has likely past and if I make them now, they probably shouldn't count as new year's resolutions. They'd just be generic ones and that's not very motivating. To be honest, I did make a few vague resolutions, but their vagueness makes them slightly less like resolutions and more like wishful thinking. I'll list them for you here and you can decide:
1. Write a book.
2. Have a baby.
3. Clean out the refrigerator
4. Download the 124,347 pictures from my old computer to my new computer.
And there you have it. I am not a realistic resolution-er.
I must say, however, that in the past, I was very earnest in my resolution making. I can even remember one particular year coming across some parchment paper and my old calligraphy pens (a late middle school hobby) and deciding to write down my resolutions in a very official, very unnecessarily dramatic way. I'm sure I still have that fancily written list somewhere in my childhood room where other treasures such as the romance novel I wrote as a 14 year old (I also did the cover art, which I thought made my chances for publication that much more probable) are tucked away in my old desk for my grandchildren to come across years from now and publish and then become independently wealthy on the fantastic royalties.
I can't remember what that particular year's resolutions included, but I remember there being at least 10, which if we're being honest, is reaching a little. Really, three or four is about all one should commit to, don't you think? I'm absently wondering now where those are and need to make a note to hunt for them next time I'm back at my parents'. If I find them, I'll be sure to share them here as they're sure to inspire you and very probably put your less fancy new year's resolutions to shame.
In addition to taking occasional showers, pondering my lack of new year's resolutions and baking bread with an indecent amount of chocolate chips, I must also tell you that I've spent some quality time watching the show I cannot quit, The Bachelor. You may judge me now. (Pause) OK, now that you've judged, I have to confess, I enjoyed every single ridiculous minute of that show and am already looking forward to the next episode on Monday night. I can't decide what this says about me as a person and what exactly this means about my ability to make good decisions about how I spend my time. But, people, it's Ben. And, I want to see Ben find love. And make wine. And wear his cut-off shorts and shaggy hair while swirling said wine with his lady love on a windswept field in the romantic California wine country.
So, I also enjoy the drama, which is unexpected, because I loathe drama in real life. There's just something so entertaining about observing a weird little microcosm of society where twenty-five women hang out in a fabulously gaudy house in their fancy duds and spend their days mooning/pining/girlfighting over one lone, somewhat clueless man. It's fascinating and I love it. There. I said it. I love The Bachelor and I don't care who knows it.
In other news: Perhaps you're wondering what's going on with Sam since you last heard tell of him. Well, I've compiled a list of his goings on and such for you. And here you go:
-Sam recently had his first official haircut in an old-time barbershop with a number of eighty-year old observers/cheerleaders. It was lovely and a blow-pop was the key to the success of this milestone. Keep in mind that if you try this with your little one, the blow-pop will get a little hairy. It's just part of the deal.
-Sam received a number of large, very fun toys for Christmas. We left all of them somewhere else. Sam has no memory of ever receiving them, which is one of the lovely things about having a two-year old who lives very intensely in the moment.
-During the holidays, Sam got to go on the Polar Express train ride in Chattanooga. While riding inside the train, Sam looked around with a concerned look on his face and asked, "Where train go?" It was hard to explain that we were, in fact, inside of it.
-Sam likes to recite the names of Thomas the Train and his friends on occasion (or all the time). "Edward, Thomas, Gordon, James, Duncan, Percy, etc." He also likes to call for them, too, which is nice. Sometimes he'll shout, "Thomas!" up the stairs. Yet another example of how Thomas the Train is slowly taking over our lives.
Well, my hair is drying awkwardly and slowly but surely becoming something no one should have to witness, so I'd better go and spend the last few minutes of Sam's nap making myself look a little less like a stay-at-homeless mom. That was too much of a stretch, wasn't it. I blame Thomas. And the creepy fog outside my house. And the overdose of banana bread that just happened.
And, now, since you've made it this far, I'll share with you a rare shot of Sam and his stylist.
I just took my first shower of the last forty-eight hours and so I'm feeling a little more like a real person, which is nice. (However, my hair is still wet and I'm still wearing yoga pants, so don't be too proud of me.) I'm also spending some quality time with the banana bread I just baked, which I think has something to do with having dumped chocolate chips indiscriminately into the batter. Unfortunately, that removed any of the health benefits from making the low-fat version of Miss Daisy's Banana Bread recipe. Oh well.
I've been occasionally pondering the fact that it's two weeks past New Year's and I haven't made any resolutions. I'm thinking that the time to make any has likely past and if I make them now, they probably shouldn't count as new year's resolutions. They'd just be generic ones and that's not very motivating. To be honest, I did make a few vague resolutions, but their vagueness makes them slightly less like resolutions and more like wishful thinking. I'll list them for you here and you can decide:
1. Write a book.
2. Have a baby.
3. Clean out the refrigerator
4. Download the 124,347 pictures from my old computer to my new computer.
And there you have it. I am not a realistic resolution-er.
I must say, however, that in the past, I was very earnest in my resolution making. I can even remember one particular year coming across some parchment paper and my old calligraphy pens (a late middle school hobby) and deciding to write down my resolutions in a very official, very unnecessarily dramatic way. I'm sure I still have that fancily written list somewhere in my childhood room where other treasures such as the romance novel I wrote as a 14 year old (I also did the cover art, which I thought made my chances for publication that much more probable) are tucked away in my old desk for my grandchildren to come across years from now and publish and then become independently wealthy on the fantastic royalties.
I can't remember what that particular year's resolutions included, but I remember there being at least 10, which if we're being honest, is reaching a little. Really, three or four is about all one should commit to, don't you think? I'm absently wondering now where those are and need to make a note to hunt for them next time I'm back at my parents'. If I find them, I'll be sure to share them here as they're sure to inspire you and very probably put your less fancy new year's resolutions to shame.
In addition to taking occasional showers, pondering my lack of new year's resolutions and baking bread with an indecent amount of chocolate chips, I must also tell you that I've spent some quality time watching the show I cannot quit, The Bachelor. You may judge me now. (Pause) OK, now that you've judged, I have to confess, I enjoyed every single ridiculous minute of that show and am already looking forward to the next episode on Monday night. I can't decide what this says about me as a person and what exactly this means about my ability to make good decisions about how I spend my time. But, people, it's Ben. And, I want to see Ben find love. And make wine. And wear his cut-off shorts and shaggy hair while swirling said wine with his lady love on a windswept field in the romantic California wine country.
So, I also enjoy the drama, which is unexpected, because I loathe drama in real life. There's just something so entertaining about observing a weird little microcosm of society where twenty-five women hang out in a fabulously gaudy house in their fancy duds and spend their days mooning/pining/girlfighting over one lone, somewhat clueless man. It's fascinating and I love it. There. I said it. I love The Bachelor and I don't care who knows it.
In other news: Perhaps you're wondering what's going on with Sam since you last heard tell of him. Well, I've compiled a list of his goings on and such for you. And here you go:
-Sam recently had his first official haircut in an old-time barbershop with a number of eighty-year old observers/cheerleaders. It was lovely and a blow-pop was the key to the success of this milestone. Keep in mind that if you try this with your little one, the blow-pop will get a little hairy. It's just part of the deal.
-Sam received a number of large, very fun toys for Christmas. We left all of them somewhere else. Sam has no memory of ever receiving them, which is one of the lovely things about having a two-year old who lives very intensely in the moment.
-During the holidays, Sam got to go on the Polar Express train ride in Chattanooga. While riding inside the train, Sam looked around with a concerned look on his face and asked, "Where train go?" It was hard to explain that we were, in fact, inside of it.
-Sam likes to recite the names of Thomas the Train and his friends on occasion (or all the time). "Edward, Thomas, Gordon, James, Duncan, Percy, etc." He also likes to call for them, too, which is nice. Sometimes he'll shout, "Thomas!" up the stairs. Yet another example of how Thomas the Train is slowly taking over our lives.
Well, my hair is drying awkwardly and slowly but surely becoming something no one should have to witness, so I'd better go and spend the last few minutes of Sam's nap making myself look a little less like a stay-at-homeless mom. That was too much of a stretch, wasn't it. I blame Thomas. And the creepy fog outside my house. And the overdose of banana bread that just happened.
And, now, since you've made it this far, I'll share with you a rare shot of Sam and his stylist.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
I Like To Make Lists
Confession:
I'm a firstborn, Type A, relatively obsessive compulsive, slightly neurotic perfectionist. This makes you feel sad for my husband, doesn't it. And, you're probably wondering if you should ever come to visit me again. But, despite the fact that I might be tempted to sneak into your room to reorganize your suitcase and arrange your clothes according to color if you come to stay, I'm pretty harmless. And here's one of the reasons why: I channel a lot of my pent-up organizational angst into lists.
I love lists. I love post-it notes. I love labeling a list with the all caps header "TO DO." I love marking things off my list. Sometimes I even write things on my list that I've already done just so that I can mark them off. I realize this means that I need some sort of help. But, that's for another conversation. Right now, let's focus on the joys of LISTS, shall we?
Since it's Christmas (almost), and I like you, I thought I'd share a few of my lists with you. It's a season of giving after all, and so here's my gift to you:
A List of Lists!
Things that I've broken recently:
~The coffeepot. And then I spent four days living in fear of a glass shard finding its way into my foot or worse, Sam's sweet little foot. Luckily, only my foot fell victim to a wayward glass shard. Now, I have a pot-less coffee maker that I'm not sure what to do with.
~A glass. Now I have only three small juice glasses. And it's driving me crazy to not have an even number. I'm concerned that this makes me more similar to the main character on "Monk" than I feel comfortable with.
~My hair straightener. Well, that actually seemed to break on its own, but I blame myself for running it in to the ground these last three years. The good news is that it came back to life after twenty-four hours. I think it missed me.
~The toaster. OK, the toaster isn't really broken. It just has faulty wiring due to having its cord toasted on the eye of the stove. This wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't also recently toasted a large stove eye-shaped scar into the cutting board. Oops.
Stuff that makes me cry Every. Single. Time:
~The Folgers commercial where the older brother comes home after being gone to West Africa (obviously) for a really long time and his little sister sticks a bow on him and says "You're my present this year." SERIOUSLY? I'm tearing up a little right now.
~"The Velveteen Rabbit" movie. Specifically the part where the toy rabbit gets tossed into the fire (I was a little disturbed by this at first) but THEN turns into a real rabbit and hops away. *sniff*
~Any and every Hallmark commercial. Somebody at Hallmark is an emotion-manipulating genius.
Questions I answer 500 times a day:
~Whazzat? (asked approximately every two-four minutes from sun-up to sun-down)
~Who-zat?
~Wha'happen?
~Are you okay?
~Where go?
~Juice? Cracker?(just to clarify, these are more requests/demands than questions)
Other phrases I hear 500 times a day:
~Oh No.
~Oh Gosh.
~Oh Man.
~Mama (not so much a phrase,but a mantra that Sam likes to chant/repeat/shout/etc. It's a multi-usage word)
~Truck (although Sam's version substitutes an unfortunate "F" for the "Tr." It's a little disconcerting until you figure out what he's pointing at. We're currently working on this).
Things you can feel free to buy me for Christmas, if you feel so inclined:
~A Lexus. Because apparently, according to the commercials, buying someone a car is what really makes Christmas merry. Just make sure you don't forget the ginormous bow. It's key.
~An Ipad. Because somewhere along the way, I got totally brainwashed by all the brilliant marketing and now I can't stop thinking about all the ways my life would be better with one.
~A Cheese of the Month membership. Because how seriously awesome would this be?
Stuff I wonder:
~What really happened to Kim and Kris?
~Why did "Breaking Dawn" have to be divided into two parts? Wouldn't a four hour vampire/werewolf movie have been just as awesome/mind-numbing?
~Should I pick up knitting or crocheting? Is there really a difference?
~How much Nutella is too much Nutella?
~Is Bradley Cooper really the sexiest man alive?
~Does anyone know what Oprah's doing these days?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
~Does letting Sam watch television mean that he will end up going to community college and graduating when he's 32 only to get a job as a carhop at Sonic?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
And lastly,
Stuff that makes me laugh (courtesy of Pinterest):
This:
This:
And This:
You're welcome.
I'm a firstborn, Type A, relatively obsessive compulsive, slightly neurotic perfectionist. This makes you feel sad for my husband, doesn't it. And, you're probably wondering if you should ever come to visit me again. But, despite the fact that I might be tempted to sneak into your room to reorganize your suitcase and arrange your clothes according to color if you come to stay, I'm pretty harmless. And here's one of the reasons why: I channel a lot of my pent-up organizational angst into lists.
I love lists. I love post-it notes. I love labeling a list with the all caps header "TO DO." I love marking things off my list. Sometimes I even write things on my list that I've already done just so that I can mark them off. I realize this means that I need some sort of help. But, that's for another conversation. Right now, let's focus on the joys of LISTS, shall we?
Since it's Christmas (almost), and I like you, I thought I'd share a few of my lists with you. It's a season of giving after all, and so here's my gift to you:
A List of Lists!
Things that I've broken recently:
~The coffeepot. And then I spent four days living in fear of a glass shard finding its way into my foot or worse, Sam's sweet little foot. Luckily, only my foot fell victim to a wayward glass shard. Now, I have a pot-less coffee maker that I'm not sure what to do with.
~A glass. Now I have only three small juice glasses. And it's driving me crazy to not have an even number. I'm concerned that this makes me more similar to the main character on "Monk" than I feel comfortable with.
~My hair straightener. Well, that actually seemed to break on its own, but I blame myself for running it in to the ground these last three years. The good news is that it came back to life after twenty-four hours. I think it missed me.
~The toaster. OK, the toaster isn't really broken. It just has faulty wiring due to having its cord toasted on the eye of the stove. This wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't also recently toasted a large stove eye-shaped scar into the cutting board. Oops.
Stuff that makes me cry Every. Single. Time:
~The Folgers commercial where the older brother comes home after being gone to West Africa (obviously) for a really long time and his little sister sticks a bow on him and says "You're my present this year." SERIOUSLY? I'm tearing up a little right now.
~"The Velveteen Rabbit" movie. Specifically the part where the toy rabbit gets tossed into the fire (I was a little disturbed by this at first) but THEN turns into a real rabbit and hops away. *sniff*
~Any and every Hallmark commercial. Somebody at Hallmark is an emotion-manipulating genius.
Questions I answer 500 times a day:
~Whazzat? (asked approximately every two-four minutes from sun-up to sun-down)
~Who-zat?
~Wha'happen?
~Are you okay?
~Where go?
~Juice? Cracker?(just to clarify, these are more requests/demands than questions)
Other phrases I hear 500 times a day:
~Oh No.
~Oh Gosh.
~Oh Man.
~Mama (not so much a phrase,but a mantra that Sam likes to chant/repeat/shout/etc. It's a multi-usage word)
~Truck (although Sam's version substitutes an unfortunate "F" for the "Tr." It's a little disconcerting until you figure out what he's pointing at. We're currently working on this).
Things you can feel free to buy me for Christmas, if you feel so inclined:
~A Lexus. Because apparently, according to the commercials, buying someone a car is what really makes Christmas merry. Just make sure you don't forget the ginormous bow. It's key.
~An Ipad. Because somewhere along the way, I got totally brainwashed by all the brilliant marketing and now I can't stop thinking about all the ways my life would be better with one.
~A Cheese of the Month membership. Because how seriously awesome would this be?
Stuff I wonder:
~What really happened to Kim and Kris?
~Why did "Breaking Dawn" have to be divided into two parts? Wouldn't a four hour vampire/werewolf movie have been just as awesome/mind-numbing?
~Should I pick up knitting or crocheting? Is there really a difference?
~How much Nutella is too much Nutella?
~Is Bradley Cooper really the sexiest man alive?
~Does anyone know what Oprah's doing these days?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
~Does letting Sam watch television mean that he will end up going to community college and graduating when he's 32 only to get a job as a carhop at Sonic?
~Is being a stay at home mom causing my brain to slowly shut down?
And lastly,
Stuff that makes me laugh (courtesy of Pinterest):
This:
This:
And This:
You're welcome.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
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
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
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