Danger, Will Robinson!

Now that my earlier adrenaline rush has settled back to normal levels, I can calmly recount to you my mid-morning freak out, that is, if you're interested.

After a normal morning routine of diaper changing, breakfast for the men in my house, catching up with Matt, Meredith, Al and Ann, doing some laundry, diaper changing (did I mention that?), I had just leaned down to pick something up from the floor that had been tossed aside by a certain small person when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Within a split second, all my muscles had tensed up and I entered the Land of "No Reasoning Whatsoever." Outside, just beyond my car, there was a red Jeep Wrangler parked on the other side of our driveway. Aaaand, a man was sitting inside staring straight ahead, wearing a ball cap and what looked like some kind of barn jacket. I felt myself quickly sizing up the situation like I was on some sort of mountain version of a seriously dramatic crime show. Perhaps here is where I'll toss out the idea for Law & Order: Chattanooga, because obviously they need atleast one more spin off of L&O.

I hunched down and grabbed my phone. A quick phone call to the husband at work and all would be well. He'd come storming back home to confront this guy and then nimbly toss him off "our" property (we're renters). I waited calmly for him to answer and then launched into full "I am freaking out" mode. The husband did not, however, freak out. Nor did he offer to drive home. Rather, he suggested I hop in the car, drive by the man and roll down my window to politely ask what he was doing there. What?!?

And then, my friend Amy called, who was supposed to meet me for coffee down the mountain in just a bit. I filled her in on The Situation and told her I'd be at the bakery in 0.5 (aka 30) minutes. Unlike the husband, Amy was sympathetic to my plight. Let it be known that I will bring this up later when the aforementioned husband comes home tonight.

I quickly dressed Sam and I in our finest sweatsuit apparel and then, with beating heart and visions of villains dancing in my head, I bravely swung open the door.

Would he jump out of his Jeep and rush us? Would he grab Sam and make a run for it? Would he burn our house down with us in it? Would I have to fight him??? Luckily, I had done a few handstands in the den last night just to see if I could still do one and that little exercise made me confident that I was still limber enough to possibly wrestle this guy to the ground if it came to that.

And then he was getting out of his Jeep. (Insert suspenseful music here). I was rushing to our car to tuck Sam into his carseat so that my hands were free for fisticuffs. I glanced up to see this guy walking slightly toward us. I think he could tell that I wasn't going to be an easy target. He may have even been a little afraid of me (this is probably not true). But, then (DRAMATIC PAUSE) he said "Hi, Sam!" in a friendly voice. I stared at him awkwardly and then made even more awkward conversation while busily getting Sam buckled in and then hopping in myself.

Well, it turns out that my driveway interloper was, in fact, a foreman on the neverending construction project going on just past our front yard. He was overseeing his worker-men (an official term used by four-year olds everywhere) from the front seat of his Jeep (which, to be honest, still seems a little odd). Apparently, while my uber-extroverted mother in law was visiting yesterday, she had walked Sam down to meet the guys digging up our ditch and apparently made friends with this dude, thus his familiar greeting to my son.

All in all, it took about thirty minutes for my knees to stop shaking, but a latte and a Will-and-Kate-worthy scone (currant) from Niedlov's with Amy (who managed to look lovely even with semi-wet hair) was the perfect remedy for a minor nervous breakdown on my front stoop.

And so, all's well that end's well. But, seriously, all you worker-men out there need to drive something a teensy bit more official if you're going to hang out in my driveway. I'm not scared to fight you.

The Late, Late, Late Show

It's late (11:24 pm) and by some miracle, I'm still awake. Maybe 11:24 pm doesn't sound like late to you, but to this mom-with-a-tornado-for-a-child, it is waaaaaay past bedtime. So, you may be asking the question, why are you still up? Well, to be honest, I'm not sure. It could have something to do with the few (understatement) handfuls of chocolate chips I've recently consumed (hello, caffeinated sugar bomb). But, I think it has more to do with the fact that my time alone is rare, like Humpback Whale rare, and I'm trying to stretch it out as long as I can. So, now I'm up past my bedtime perusing websites that feature elaborate handmade pillows and framed fabric swatches with pithy sayings crocheted on them. Oh, and I'm also doing laundry, but that's nothing new (see blog sub-title). Basically, I'm wasting time. But, the important part here is that I'm wasting time all by my lonesome.

The husband is snoozing upstairs and I imagine the little guy is dreaming about cookies and The Backyardigans and endless sippy cup-fulls of Juicy Juice right about now. And so the house is quiet except for the sound of the dryer tossing around my last load of laundry for the night.

The house is mine for the moment and I find that I'm not even sure how to be this alone anymore. It used to be the norm most evenings (before the boys upstairs showed up) and now I find that I'm pretty unfamiliar with my own company. It's a curious thing to look into the mirror some mornings and realize that I don't know the person looking back at me as well as I used to.

Seven years of lovely/terrible singleness after college afforded me lots and lots of time to ponder my self, my personal dramas and heartaches, my plans and my hopes and the plethora of things under the category "my." And now, most everything about me revolves around none of those things anymore. And, in most ways, that's a really good thing. I've filled whole (seriously dramatic) journals about silly boys, detailing inevitable break-ups that I was nonetheless stunned by. I've spent hours and hours on the phone with friends dissecting relationships and pondering my particularly unique (and yet not so much) path through life ad nauseam.

I miss some of that time to myself, searching out the intricacies of what it meant to be me. But, now that I look back, I realize that a lot of time got wasted on stuff that really didn't matter a whole lot. I could have saved a significant number of trees if I'd volunteered at a soup kitchen instead of chronicling my little romances in dozens (and I mean dozens) of leather-bound journals. Twenty-something angst was quite the fodder for journals I hope I have the good sense to burn before I die.

Now that my life is summed up by laundry and cheerios, I have to admit that, despite its severe lack of personal introspection, it turns out that it's fulfilling in a way that all those years of near total self-focus never could be.

I could probably use a little more time to myself for things like taking a shower that lasts long enough to include shampooing AND conditioning or maybe reading the magazine I bought back in October. But, all in all, I think that the time I'm not spending on myself these days is better spent than any of those self-indulgent hours of journaling my personal dramas or staring out a window wondering when my life would start.

I may have digressed a little here. Obviously, alone time isn't always a slippery slope of narcissism. It's definitely a necessary part of healthy self-awareness, but I think God was on to something when He said "It is not good for man to be alone." I'm pretty sure He knew that community would be the place where we could be our best selves, rather than holing up with a journal (or an iPhone) somewhere.

Pause. I think I hear my bed calling me.

Well, if you made it this far, you may feel that you've just wasted some of your own precious time and I might agree with you. Late night blog posts are usually something I'd suggest you avoid. Now that I've done my share of rambling, I suppose it's time to hit the hay. Only seven more hours until the whirling dervish wakes up and demands a sippy cup. Sigh.

Goodnight, quiet house.

And Then She Got Old...

It's Thursday afternoon and I've just consumed more than my fair share of Nutella Chocolate Chip Cookies (you can find that recipe here: vivagood.wordpress.com). And after this poor dietary choice (the quantity, not the quality), I found myself perusing People magazine's exhaustive list of 2011's "Hottest Twenty-Five Year Olds." This is the sort of thing that happens when Sam goes down for a nap and I am suddenly left alone for more than thirty seconds at a time. I usually spend approximately three minutes considering what sort of productive things I could do while Sam snoozes and then thirty minutes later I look up from People.com and wonder where the last half hour of my life went. I realize you're probably questioning my ability to make good decisions right now. And you should be.

Anyhoo, back to those twenty-five year old freaks of nature with their zero percent body fat and creamy complexions. I'm fine with them being so beautiful. Really, I am. I applaud them for their perfect genetic makeups, but I must admit that it irks me that they were awkward middle-schoolers (read: 14 years old) when I was busy graduating from college. You may be asking, Why does it even matter? Well, it doesn't. But, for the first time in my life I'm suddenly a bit skittish about an impending birthday and it's making me a teensy bit envious of all those twenty-somethings out there. I realize this means that I am jealous of a number. I want to be twenty-five again. Is that so wrong?

Hm. This is turning into a bit of an embarrassing confessional post here and I'm a little ashamed that it's come to this. I mean, I should leave the overly personal revelations to people who frequent Twitter, but, I currently need an outlet for my thirty-something angst and so, I apologize for any awkwardness you might be feeling for me right about now.

Thirty-three. It looms. It haunts my dreams. It laughs at me when I remember how I used to think that age was no big deal. Who cares that I'm thirty? It's no big thing. I still look twenty eight. Right? But, then along came THIRTY THREE with it's crows' feet and post baby stretch marks (I realize how TMI this is and I'll ask for forgiveness later). Thirty three is mid-thirties for crying out loud. MID-THIRTIES.

Sigh. Another bite of a cookie. Sighhhhhhh.

OK. I feel a little better. However, you probably don't. And so, as an apology for dumping on you like that, I'll leave you with this, a product of my thirties...

Ode to Florence Nightingale

A mere forty-eight hours ago, Matt called to let me know he was on his way home from work (early) and he didn't sound so hot. In fact, he sounded like he might be feeling a teensy bit nauseated. My heart began to beat a little faster, but I tried to stay calm. If you know me you know that, not only am I a bit OCD, I'm also a card-carrying, Purell-lovin', certified germophobe. So, you can imagine my concern when I hear that a potentially infectious disease might be making it's way to my house harbored by my dearly beloved husband.

Soon after the foreboding phone call, he came in and quickly ducked into the laundry room bathroom just inside the back door. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, the plague had just entered my house. (ominous music score here).

May I point out a couple of milestones before we go on? Firstly, I have never known my husband to (ahem) lose his lunch since we've been been together. Secondly, we're almost never sick at the same time, which has meant that someone has always been there to take care of the other or take care of the little guy. Thirdly, I haven't tossed my cookies since I was SEVEN YEARS OLD. You may not have known this because a. I don't usually discuss these things and b. I never say this out loud for fear that I'll jinx my good luck.

The husband was promptly sent to bed with the computer and a copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel (not only is he handsome, he's literary too). I proceeded to have a small freak out and then decided to lysol (yes, it's a verb) everything. I didn't make it far before I too was feeling a little odd. However, due to a long and colorful history of hypochondria, I dismissed the minor stomach cramps and pounding headache.

One hour later and I was desperately calling for back-up (i.e. mom/grandma/florence nightingale).

While waiting for said back-up, I laid on the couch while my husband languished upstairs and Sam went from standing in front of the Veggie Tales I'd managed to turn on and back over to the couch to pat my head (seriously, how sweet is that?).

And then, after poor Sam had been put to bed with only milk for dinner and still in his playclothes and Matt and I laid on either end of the couch watching a movie we were less than interested in, our very own personal superhero arrived bearing two flavors of powerade and some major get-well know how. Huzzah!

Despite the unfortunate catalyst for our little family slumber party, the last twenty-four hours have managed to be a pretty darn good time: John Wayne movies, fun times with Sam (who hasn't caught the plague yet and we're PRAYING that he doesn't), cookie-baking (only after all nausea had passed), chatting over hot tea, etc.

And so, it turns out that the very best medicine of all is a rescue visit from MOM (imagine this word bedazzled). It was almost worth the getting sick part...almost.

Now that mom/grandma/florence nightingale/superhero is on her way back to where she swooped in from, I'm off to make up for all those calories I lost over the past two days. Hello, half-full bag of chocolate chips. Let's reacquaint ourselves.

Wonder Woman Was My Hero

Wonder Woman was my hero when Trapper Keepers, Hypercolor clothing and Kirk Cameron were all the rage. I would sit in Mrs. Palmer's fluorescently lit classroom imagining myself being dramatically transformed into that perfectly (38-20-37 if you're wondering)-figured Amazon superhero complete with the Lasso of Truth and those classy yet indestructible bracelets on each wrist. This was a regular daydream during my elementary years when my rather plain little self stared very hard into the mirror every morning looking for a tiny glimmer of Lynda Carter's beauty hidden away in there somewhere.

Flash forward twenty-five years (give or take) and I'm a stay-at-home mom, doing mom things, wearing yoga pants instead of a flashy red, white and blue leotard and a crime-fighting tiara (bet you didn't know it doubled as a weapon). My life is pretty mundane and if we're being honest, it wouldn't be a stretch to say that it's not superhero material. In fact, not to be dramatic, but there are days when it's easy to feel like mom-world is a bit of a black hole, a place moms disappear into and are never heard from again.

In light of this disappearing act I feel like I'm performing on a regular basis, I find myself conjuring up ways to reappear. For instance: become a big movie star and turn that stardom into a seriously addictive reality television show. This idea has been shot down. The Wonder Woman daydream occasionally crosses my mind, but let's be honest, it's a little difficult to come by a good pair of indestructible bracelets. But, the truth is, I find myself honing in on one little old dream most of the time. And that dream is (dramatic drumroll here) writing The Great American Novel. Those of you who know me well may be aware of the romantic, period piece, evangelical dramas I wrote in my early years (i.e. 8th and 9th grade). So, this dream is obviously well-worn and yet I keep coming back to it year after year.

I read something intriguing about Howard Stern the other day in an article Focus on the Family's president had written and then emailed me (and 724,000 other people). Basically, the article discussed Howard Stern's recent admission of a serious, neurosis-level need for personal approval and affirmation from others. FoF's president Jim Daly's response to Howard Stern's confession was to quote the one and only Dr. Tim Keller from his book Counterfeit Gods:

The human heart’s desire for a particular valuable object (human affirmation) may be conquered, but its need to have some such object is unconquerable. How can we break our heart’s fixation on doing “some great thing” in order to heal ourselves of our sense of inadequacy, in order to give our lives meaning? Only when we see what Jesus, our great Suffering Servant, has done for us will we finally understand why God’s salvation does not require us to do “some great thing.” We don’t have to do it, because Jesus has.

I find myself in the same camp as Howard, desiring affirmation and, essentially, just really wanting to matter. Looking back, I see how daydreams of turning into Wonder Woman during a particularly bad hair day are pretty closely related to my big-girl dreams of writing a bestselling book at some point in my quiet little mom-life. Doing "some great thing" whether it's morphing into an Amazonian superhero and saving the world or giving the Twilight books lady a run for her money, is an empty hope that will never make me feel the way I want to feel.

Being a mom and getting to stay at home with Sam happens to be a dream that came true and I am totally confident that I am doing exactly the thing I was meant to do at this juncture in my life. However, the sense that the world is passing me by as I change those millions of diapers and do that endless pile of laundry is, at times, enough to make me despair a little. And so I daydream. I make plans. I plot how I'm going to do that "great thing" and somehow make everyone take notice. But, to be honest, deep down I know that no superhero skills or devastating beauty or mind-blowing wordsmithing is ever going to satisfy my need to matter or be approved of.

With brilliant simplicity, Tim Keller explains the deepest of truths and reminds me that it's not up to me to make sure that I matter, which is a really good thing because I'm not sure how to get my hands on a Lasso of Truth. Ebay's totally out and Amazon's charging more than I think they're worth.

Reading: A Love Story

I've got a few things on my mind today and since none of you are here to sit and chat with me about them, I thought I'd do a little blogging instead. Presently, Sam's in dreamland, laundry is in the wash which means the smell of Mountain Fresh Gain is in the air, and a batch of just-baked cookies is cooling on the counter. I bet you wish you were here. And, well, I wish you were because I could use the company, but then I'm still in my pajamas and haven't brushed my teeth yet, so, on second thought, it's probably better that you're not here.

Anyhoo, I'm currently pondering this blog post on The Monica Bird. The post is called "Date A Girl Who Reads":

http://themonicabird.com/post/3273155431/date-a-girl-who-reads-date-a-girl-who-spends-her

And now, I'm going to quote a little of it for you in case you don't make it over there to read it yourself...

I like this quote:

"It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does."

And this one:

"She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots."

And this one, too:

"Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads."

What a lovely way to describe those of us who wear corrective lenses because we've spent years with our eyes trained on small type under bedcovers with flashlights long past our bedtimes. I'm also a fan of the romanticizing of those of us who prefer the smell of old musty bookstores to espresso-scented Barnes and Nobles and feel our spines tingle when we stumble into hole-in-the-wall used bookstores and then subsequently lose ourselves there for hours upon hours.

So, I'm pondering these things and wishing that I had more time to read, wishing I was more disciplined about reading, and wishing I read what mattered rather than celebrity sightings, coupon blogs, and JCrew magazines (I realize these don't really classify as "reading"). I'm also lamenting the time I waste looking for deals online, checking email, and wandering around on Facebook when I could be using the very limited quiet time I have to read something that has real value.

I'm wondering how to get back to being a "girl who reads." The precious couple hours I have a day while Sam snoozes are so quickly swallowed up by the taking of showers (somewhat important), the picking up of toys (something of an effort of futility), the Facebook stalking (I just scrolled through all your vacation pictures from 2006). Seriously, I could be reading things that have weight and value and make me someone you want to chat with at parties. But, more than wanting a little intellectual stimulation and a few interesting ideas to bandy about at a dinner party, I want "the world and the worlds beyond it." I want the escape hatch that Narnia and Avonlea offer, the invitation to imagine and believe and wonder.

I've been settling for television and Facebook and magazines. I'd like to hope that I'll be "reciting Keats under my breath" in my old age rather than Michael Scott from "The Office."

Thanks, Monica Bird, whoever you are, for reminding me to read. I needed that.

Suburban Outlaw

So, perhaps you've been wondering what I'm up to lately on this mountain where we live. And, perhaps you've had other, more-relevant-to-your-life things on your mind. Well, regardless of your thinking of me or not thinking of me, here's a little of what we're doing these days.

Today included laundry (obviously), diaper changes (obviously) and a run-in with the law (less obvious). On my way to the post office to drop off a Netflix I happened to be the unlucky driver of the day who was awarded the blue light special. It was unexpected and I must say that when I pulled over, I wasn't really pulling over. I was merely parking at our local post office, minding my own business, and then there they were, rotating blue lights in my rearview mirror. Shoot. It's been about, oh, 11years since I've been pulled over for speeding. And that time, oddly enough, found me traveling at around the same speed I was going today, which was: 44. Part of me kind of wishes that if I'm going to get caught speeding, I could atleast be going somewhere above 65. Oh well. I don't aspire to be Steve McQueen.

Once I realized that there was an officer pulling in behind me, I turned to look back at Sam and wondered what the lasting impact of my 1 year old seeing his mother being interrogated (i.e. asked a few questions regarding speed limits and such) by the po-po would be. The officer made his way to my window and politely asked if I knew how fast I was going. I guessed 40. But, I was, in fact, going 44 speedy miles a hour. However, in a 25 mph zone, this is 1 mile away from "reckless driving," which obviously means I live on the edge of danger or obliviousness.

I glanced back to see what Sam was doing, hoping this little incident wasn't scarring him for life, imagining him remembering me later as a hardened criminal, a suburban outlaw who drove fast in school zones and texted while driving with her knees (this doesn't really happen). Instead, Sam had a big, toothy (all 8 of them) smile on his face and was waving excitedly at the officer at my window. This may have won me some points with the sergeant.

After handing over all the information pertaining to my right to drive, I was left to think about what I'd done. And then he was back from his patrol car, letting me know that I was off the hook, for today, that is. Sigh.of.relief. I think a combination of being new in town and Sam being so darn friendly gave me a getoutofjailfree card.

So, what I'm hoping now is that Sam doesn't remember this little incident when he's 16 and getting a license to drive. Odds are, he won't. But, it definitely makes you think when you find yourself on the wrong side of the law (exaggeration here) with your child watching in their carseat behind you. I can't help but wonder how much he's taking in of my bad behavior (eg: that cowboy word I said under my breath the other day when I pinched my finger in the drawer, the 5 cookies I had for lunch, the 2 hours of television we watched today instead of cleaning up the kitchen, etc.) and where that might show up later. Hm. Obviously, these aren't jail-worthy, but I can't help but think about what Sam might be learning from me when I'm not paying attention...

Well, that's about it. Other than my finishing off a jar of Nutella by myself and Sam having just discovered that being outside is way more fun than being inside, that's all the news we've got. Tune in next time for "Renegade Moms Who Run With Scissors" and other cautionary tales of mothers who speed in their spare time.