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.

Four Years and One Sam Later...

I just ate the last Magnum bar while clicking through the profile pictures album on my Facebook page. Before I go on, have you had a Magnum bar yet? If not, drop what you're doing and run (seriously, run) to the grocery to buy a box of these. I mean it. You'll thank me. Back to what I was saying about flipping through the past five years of my life recorded in digital images and stored on a social media site. It was a little like watching my life flash before my eyes AND at the same time seeing those same eyes acquire new wrinkles every twenty-five pictures. Sigh.

But, despite having been made more aware of my increasing age and wrinkles, I feel reassured somehow after having watched the last five years flash by in a series of candids. It's easy to forget the life that I've lived and the people that I love sometimes when I spend my days at home seeing only Sam and the occasional meter man/UPS man/Jehovah's witness. It's easy to forget that there have been a lot of good things and a lot of good friends that seem to fall through the cracks of my heart a little with each passing day of stay-at-home-mom-ness. This may sound like a complaint, but it's not, really. Just an observation.

In the last twenty minutes of perusing the massive online photo album of my life, I saw myself transformed from a single girl working with college students to a girl getting engaged to her dream man, to a girl walking down the aisle of her front yard and then living the married life here, there, and everywhere. And then there was that same girl putting on thirty pounds over ten months and then forty-one weeks later welcoming a baby boy named Sam who subsequently took over our lives and my Facebook profile pictures. And now here we are with a twenty-month old in a new city, in a new house with a new life. It's a little breathtaking looking back to see where we've been and the somewhat long and winding road to now.

And so, I'm reminiscing here at the kitchen table, thankful for a life full of Matt and Sam and friends and family who love me and whom I love. In the midst of that reminiscing, I'm reminded how these last five years of my life have been made so much lovelier by the man who surprised me with a proposal almost four and a half years ago in a Swedish castle one cold winter night. And then four years ago today, I married him on a hot, August evening at my parents' house with the people dearest to us looking on.

Happy Anniversary to my best friend and favorite human being.
You are a dream come true.

Mason Dixon meets a Yankee

So, I'm attempting to enter into a blogging/essay contest hosted by Real Simple on the subject of "Who Am I Most Surprised to Be Friends With?" This is my original essay, which I then had to pare down to 300 words for the contest. I had 178 extra words. Argh. Editing oneself is always difficult because we hold our own words so dear, which is something my journalism professor used to remind us of in class. Turns out, she was right. Who knew I would have trouble editing out the word "unmistakably" simply because I had written it. Anyhoo, here's my entry:


I grew up with a very imposing portrait of General Robert E. Lee gracing the wall of our family home. The General was something like a great-great-great uncle whom I had never met but knew a whole lot about. Our family's annual vacations almost always included some variation of a Civil War memorial/battlefield/museum. And, now, even as a slightly more cosmopolitan adult, I still vaguely believe that a southerner is able to feel the impact of crossing the Mason-Dixon line much like the family dog crossing the electric fence's boundary at the edge of the yard.

When I was barely nineteen, I watched the tall pine trees of my home state of Georgia disappear as the plane I had boarded slipped into the horizon, headed for Colorado and the camp I would be staffing for the next three months.

Soon after arriving in Manitou Springs, a quirky mountain town with a flair for the unusual, I was unpacking my bags in the "penthouse" of the old, un-air-conditioned hotel that housed students and staff. Before long I had been introduced to my roommate for the summer and, lo and behold, she was from Michigan. A real live Yankee. Her accent and mine could scarcely fit in the same small room together.

It didn't take long for me to realize that ours was to be a somewhat uncomfortable roommate situation. There was an icy tension in our 100 degree room at the top of the hotel. Eventually, I was traded like an unpopular baseball player and found myself a few floors down with another roommate, also from Michigan, but with a bit more love for those of us who said "y'all" and "fixin' to" with frequency.

Within a week or two, the most unlikely thing happened. My former roommate and I found ourselves working the same kitchen shift and couldn't keep ourselves from having a really good time. Before long, we were attached at the hip and the old tension that had pushed us apart seemed to have melted away like so much peach ice cream at a Sunday school picnic.

Our unspoken reconciliation did find us confessing to one another at some point that summer how at first, she had unfairly assumed I was a "redneck" and I had just as unfairly assumed she was a "rude yankee." We laughed at our foolishness and spent the rest of that summer with arms linked. We parted ways in September with tears, she to her cold northern state and I to my warm southern one.

Coming back to the South after having been gone for a while is much like being the returning prodigal son. This time, however, I had glimpsed a life outside the humid, peach-scented world I'd grown up in and it didn't take much to carry me back to Colorado two years later for another summer of camp.

Friends are Friends Forever: Part Deux

There are a few things about adulthood that I don't like. Some things on that list include some things you probably don't like either: wrinkle cream, cellulite, taxes, housework, antacids, etc. Ranking pretty high up there is the fact that making friends just isn't what it used to be. In a word, it's kind of HARD.

In the old days (as in, my youth), making friends included sleepovers, passing notes in class, dishing about the eighth grade boys (read: older men) we liked and sharing clothes. Fast forward ten years and making friends looked pretty much the same, only transportation was easier and fashion had improved. Essentially, friendship was simple. You hung out, doing somewhat unmemorable things for hours upon hours and before you knew it, you were best friends who finished each other's sentences and shared each other's closets.

Fast forward ten more years and marriage, husbands, babies, bills, etc. have filled up every square inch of your life so that there isn't much room for much else. You meet potential friends at church or at the park, but because there isn't time for essential friend-building experiences like random, late night Wal Mart runs followed by scattered, smothered and covered at Waffle House until 2 am or anything remotely close to the loads of empty time you used to be able to spend getting to know someone inside out, now it seems to require months and more likely years to really get to know someone and to be known by them at the level you hope for.

I've been thinking about this lately because it seems that so many women I talk to have similar feelings. Creating friendships that reach the depth that came so naturally before there were so many distractions can feel almost impossible now. Maybe it's not this way for men, but I find that it's almost always the case for the women I know.

Recently, I got to see two of my best friends together for the first time in over a year. I have to admit that it was bittersweet. It was so good to see friends who have known me long before Matt was ever in the picture and long before I was a thirty-something stay-at-home mom. I'd forgotten how affirming it is to spend time with friends who are so incredibly familiar and who know things about me that even I have forgotten.

But, driving away from that visit, I couldn't help but feel some sadness knowing that sort of reunion will probably be a rare occurrence. I also found myself wondering why it's so hard to forge friendships as dear as those anymore. I know it has so much to do with the time (or lack thereof) factor, and despite the desire and the need for deep friendships, it's just stinkin' hard to create those relationships in this present stage of life.

I'll admit to not being sure what the solution is here. I doubt it's more social media and it probably isn't going to be something easy like potluck dinners. But, there's got to be some way to enable friendships with the depth and the familiarity that we were created to experience with each other. Currently, I'm thinking a commune is the answer, but there's probably something that requires less moving and isn't so cult-ish.

Until I figure this out, I'm sure as heck glad I've got some girlfriends around the country who've known me long enough to expect my voicemail box to always be full, my hugs to possibly break their ribs, and my cookies to most likely contain nutmeg.

Here's to you, old friends. I wish you lived next door.



Side Note: If case you were wondering, here's what Sam's been doing lately...

I Want to Shoot the Sleeping Bunnies

It's Friday, one day after National Chocolate Day and I'm still celebrating with my trusty bag o' chocolate chips. Well, to be honest, I'm not really celebrating, I'm self-medicating. It's been one of those days and it's barely the afternoon. You know the kind of day (er, morning) I mean. I could sum it up for you but you really don't need me to because you've most likely had a similar morning if you have someone under the age of two in your house. OK, well, since I've got a little time, I'll fill you in on my day thus far and we can compare notes later.

For starters, the brain-numbing chorus of "Sleeping Bunnies" has been the background soundtrack in my head all morning, which I think registers as a twenty-five on the chocolate chip prescription scale. *wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies. wake up, wake up, wake up, sleeping bunnies* That may or may not have just been a subtle cry for help.

To continue, there's been a lot of somewhat troubling snacking taking place this morning: i.e. fuzz from a q-tip (just to clarify, it was an unused q-tip), hair from my hairbrush, pages of children's books, stale Cheerios from the carpet, toilet paper (also, unused), rusted pieces of an old tag stapled under our fifty year old dining room table (why?), etc. You get the picture. You'd think I was keeping a very untidy house, but if you'll remember, I'm borderline obsessive compulsive, so our house is pretty neat by most standards. This means, as you may have surmised, that my sweet baby is having to be uber-creative in his acquisition of these unusual snack choices.

Moving on. This may in fact be the straw that eventually breaks the mama's back, whatever that may entail. Thomas the Train is considered the stuff of legend in our home and all things somehow come back around to this great beacon of railroading glory. We have toy trains that sound like Thomas and toy trains that can float in your bathtub and trains that can fit in your pocket for convenient portability on that quick trip to the Starbucks for a cup of sanity. We also have access to all sorts of Thomas footage on our streaming Netflix which means that at any given moment, someone is standing in front of the television pointing insistently while also repeating the two words that I hear in my deepest of deep sleeps: "CHOO CHOO." I estimate that I have heard those two words atleast 435 times this morning. It has almost pushed me to the edge. Luckily, naptime stepped in and saved us both.

Lastly, there is the insistence on doing every single thing that is NOT allowed rather than doing the plethora of things that ARE allowed. A list of what is allowed includes: playing with one's many, many toys; reading one's many, many books; eating the relatively nutritious snacks that have been set out for you; etc. A quick list of what is not allowed but is apparently loads more fun: climbing onto the toilet in order to reach daddy's razor, throwing mama's toiletries down the stairs just to see them bounce off of each step, eating the somewhat unclassifiable items one discovers mashed into the carpet, dumping out anything and everything that can be dumped out, turning over laundry baskets in order to stand on them and give dramatic oratories on "choo choos," attempting to skydive off the edge of the sofa into a small basket, digging through the bathroom wastebasket for treasures, ETC. And, this, my friends, is merely an abbreviated list of the limitless possibilities of "fun" as defined by Sam.

So, here I sit while the boy sleeps, typing this little post and wondering if I will survive the afternoon. It's possible I won't. But, if I do, it will only be by the grace of God and this bag of chocolate chips I have slowly but surely finished off.

Breaking News: Husband Escapes Wife's Obvious Trap

A recent conversation in the Rieger household before heading to a 4th of July cookout:

Me: I think this skirt is a little tighter than usual. Maybe I dried it too long. What do you think? (turning around to give husband a better view from which to give an "honest" opinion, while not actually wanting an honest opinion.)

Matt: (no comment)

Me: I think that maybe I've gained a few pounds in the last few weeks. Probably those enchiladas I made and then those chocolate chip cookies. And we've been traveling the last few weekends, eating out and stuff. (pause) Do you think I've gained a little?

Matt: (no comment, continues doing whatever it was he was doing without making eye contact)

Me: So, what do you think? I need a second opinion. Have I gained a few pounds?

Matt: I think I hear Sam waking up from his nap. I should go get him.

Me: Oh. Yeah. But, wait, I need to know if you think my skirt's too tight. And if you think I've gained a few pounds.

Matt: (heading upstairs) I'm going to go get Sam.

Me: Wait, does this mean you think I have gained a few pounds? Do you think I look fat?

Matt: (about to disappear upstairs) I can't hear you.

Me: So, what you're saying is that I HAVE gained a few pounds and I DO look fat in this skirt? Why didn't you tell me that I was gaining weight?!?

Matt: (laughing as he disappears upstairs, also shaking his head). Are you kidding me?

Me: (realizing that was probably a bit of an unrealistic expectation) Well, who else is going to tell me? I just needed to know.

Matt: (no longer within hearing distance)

Me: (changing skirts) What about this one? Does this one make me look fat?

Matt: (locking himself in the upstairs bathroom in self-defense)


Next week's edition of Breaking News: Husband Critiques Wife's Meatloaf and Lives to Tell About It.

Wednesday Confessions

I have approximately twelve or so minutes to write this post before the little person upstairs decides naptime is over. So, I thought I'd confess a few things on this Wednesday seeing how a blog is really just a modern diary for technologically hip adults. And, as everyone knows, diaries are for confessing.

Here goes.

(spoiler alert) Last evening, while being forced to watch the last installment of "Lonesome Dove," I cried a little when Augustus McCrae died. I also dreamed about cowboys and the open range all night.

I just ate strawberries with real (as in, I made it with whipping cream and confectioner's sugar in my Kitchenaid) whipped cream (in honor of Wimbledon, of course) AND then proceeded to eat Nutella from the jar. I estimate that I will need to run thirty-five miles to burn off those calories.

I read an article this morning on People.com about who in Hollywood has the best beach body and I am now determined to never wear a bathing suit in public, and perhaps not even in private, ever again.

My Jeep turned itself off earlier today for a minute while I was stopped behind a road work truck. I freaked out a little and then...called my dad. Apparently, thirty-three is not too old to call one's father when one gets a little scared. Luckily for Sam, who was en route to the park, it started right back up.

I am currently waiting for my husband to come home and take out the stinky trash (all the while knowing that I could just take it out myself).

I've been daydreaming lately about living somewhere above the Mason/Dixon line. I have yet to analyze this, but whatever the reason, I won't be mentioning this to my uber-southern mama.

I just spent the last hour watching the Nadal/Fish Wimbledon quarterfinal match when I probably should have been doing laundry/washing dishes/calling my grandmother/cleaning the bathroom/etc.

I've been perusing your Facebook photo albums this afternoon and living vicariously through your recent beach vacation.

I still have fourteen voicemails in my inbox leftover from April.

I added Justin Bieber's "Never Say Never" to our Netflix queue. I think Matt may be unaware of this as of yet.

There are atleast 421 other things I should be doing right now.

Whew. I feel better already. However, I may regret this rash confessional later.